Warhammer Fantasy [Wulfrik]

by C. L. Werner

  ‘I’ll stick that sea-rat’s head on a spike and leave it for the Crow God!’ Sveinbjorn’s furious voice echoed from the bare stone walls. ‘No man treats me like that and lives!’

  Viglundr shook his head as he watched the Aesling prince pace back and forth across the king’s council chamber. ‘That rug came from an Estalian castle. I’d thank you not to wear it out.’

  Sveinbjorn stopped pacing. He stared down at his feet, noting the blue cloth stretched across the floor. A scowl on his face, the prince advanced towards Viglundr’s throne. ‘Don’t think I have forgiven your part in this!’ the Aesling shouted.

  ‘What part would that be?’ Viglundr said, his voice thin and edged with menace. ‘Finding a man who could kill Torgald for you?’

  ‘Torgald’s dead,’ Sveinbjorn snapped. ‘Wulfrik’s done what we needed him to do. Now it’s time to be rid of the dog!’ The prince waved his arms, indicating the small chamber and its sparse adornments. ‘Look at you! Hiding away here while he prowls at will through your own palace! You’d think he was already king of the Sarls!’

  Anger flared in the icy depths of Viglundr’s eyes. ‘Wulfrik will never wear my crown,’ the king stated.

  Sveinbjorn set his hand upon the arm of Viglundr’s throne, leaning close to the king. ‘Then stop him!’ the prince demanded. ‘There will be no alliance between our tribes while that man draws breath!’

  ‘Have a care, Sveinbjorn,’ Viglundr warned his guest. The king brushed the Aesling’s hand from his throne as though swatting a troublesome insect. ‘I’ve removed one Aesling who threatened my plans.’

  Sveinbjorn walked away, shaking his finger at the king. ‘It’s not me who threatens this alliance. It’s Wulfrik.’

  ‘I will deal with him,’ Viglundr assured the prince.

  ‘How?’ Sveinbjorn demanded.

  ‘Not by picking a fight with him and then sending a Forsaken to cut him down,’ Viglundr said. ‘That man has killed giants and daemons. Do you really think any champion you could set against him would be his equal?’

  ‘Then what? Magic?’

  Viglundr shook his head. ‘I’ve tried to order my sorcerers to use their magic against him already. No matter what tortures I threatened them with, they refused. Rundulfr says that because of his curse, Wulfrik is inviolate. Any sorcerer who uses his magic to kill Wulfrik will inherit his curse. Even a seer doesn’t look forward to having his spirit ripped apart by the gods.’

  The king laughed as he saw Sveinbjorn slam his fist against the wall in frustration. ‘You aren’t half as clever as you imagine yourself,’ Viglundr chuckled. ‘We can’t challenge him openly and we can’t use magic.’ The king’s face spread in a cruel grin. ‘That still leaves murder.’

  Sveinbjorn sneered at the suggestion. ‘Even if we found one of our men brave enough, he’d never manage it. That Wulfrik is a daemon with eyes in the back of his head. He’d never let our killer get close enough.’

  Viglundr’s smile grew. ‘One of my men is ready to do the job and Wulfrik will let him close enough to do it. When one plots murder, one should choose an assassin the victim already trusts.’ He pointed at an iron-banded door set into the chamber’s outer wall. ‘Be good enough to admit our friend.’

  Sveinbjorn’s steps were uncertain as he moved across the room. He kept one hand on his axe when he reached forwards and unlatched the heavy door. The prince cursed and backed away from the doorway after he opened it, drawing his weapon from his belt.

  ‘You!’ the prince snarled, glaring at the man who strode into the room.

  ‘Control yourself!’ Viglundr ordered the Aesling. ‘This man is here by my command.’ The king rose from his throne and stepped forwards to greet the fair-faced huscarl.

  ‘Forgive Sveinbjorn,’ Viglundr said. ‘His pride is still stung by the slight dealt him by your captain. Come inside, Broendulf. We have much to discuss.’

  Broendulf bowed and entered the council chamber, closing the heavy door behind him. The huscarl kept his hand closed about the hilt of his own sword and a suspicious eye on the Aesling prince. ‘You wished to see me, sire?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Viglundr said, motioning for Broendulf to follow him across the room. The king set his arm across the warrior’s broad shoulder, at the same time directing a warning glance at Sveinbjorn, a gesture that went unnoticed by the huscarl. ‘There is much I would talk over with you.

  ‘Let us start by discussing my daughter…’

  Chapter Twelve

  Wulfrik’s lip curled back in distaste as he stared out across the deck of the Seafang. He could smell the fear rising from the men watching him. Many of them were little more than pups, their faces as smooth as an infant’s arse, their axes still carrying the stink of the forge upon them.

  ‘Was this the best you could find?’ Wulfrik grumbled.

  Beside him, Arngeirr winced and fingered the Estalian flask under his belt. ‘The gods were with me to find even these,’ he explained. ‘Viglundr spread word that you were dead. Most of the men who would have killed to join your crew went back to their homes. The king’s huscarls expelled the rest from Ormskaro so that they wouldn’t cause any trouble for him. I had to take whoever was left just to get enough men for the oars.’

  ‘These aren’t men,’ Wulfrik growled. ‘These are children.’

  ‘You have yourself to blame,’ Broendulf told his captain. He licked his lips nervously as he saw Wulfrik turn a scowl on him. After a moment, the huscarl decided to speak his mind despite the hero’s distemper. ‘After the way you treated Sveinbjorn, everyone in Ormskaro is afraid the Aeslings are going to attack. Every man with a family is staying behind to protect them.’

  Instead of shouting down Broendulf for his warning, Wulfrik just nodded his head. Sigvatr would have reprimanded him in similar fashion for causing his own troubles. Pride and temper were failings the old warrior had always warned him against, often telling him they were his worst enemies. His mind already sombre after his parting with Hjordis, the hero was more ready to admit his faults than at other times.

  ‘We’ll have to make do,’ he sighed, stroking his beard as he studied the keen, eager expressions his new crew wore. They might be afraid, but they were also excited. Wulfrik wondered how many of them had never been to sea before, how many of those young eyes had never gazed upon a strange shore.

  ‘There’s another way,’ Haukr said. ‘I’ve spent some time among the southlings. My father would trade furs in Erengrad when he grew too old for raiding. When a southling captain finds himself in need of a crew, he sends a few of his men to wait outside the taverns with stout clubs and big gunnysacks. A quick crack to the head of a lout already staggering from too much mead and the ship has a new crewman.’

  ‘I’ll not sail with any man too much a coward to do so willingly,’ snarled Njarvord.

  Haukr shot the hairy Baersonling a withering look. ‘You’re lucky you’ve never been bashed and stashed, the way you drink.’

  The huge warrior’s hand curled into a fist and he took a menacing step towards the tattooed reaver. Haukr drew a fat-bladed knife from his boot and backed away from Njarvord. ‘Come along, you stupid oaf,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll geld you like a sick mule.’

  Broendulf came between the two antagonists, separating them before they could fall upon each other. ‘Save it for the voyage back,’ he warned them. ‘We’ll need every man where we’re going.’

  The huscarl’s words had their desired effect. Still glaring at each other, the two warriors stalked off to bark orders at the new crew, setting them to re-arranging the supplies piled upon the deck, a chore that had more to do with the surliness of the men snapping orders than any practical purpose.

  Wulfrik listened to Broendulf’s words, feeling them twist in his gut like Haukr’s knife. His men trusted him to lead them into glory. It was why they left their homes and families behind, why they risked their lives fighting alongside him. They knew that he would lead them t
o victory, that by following him into battle they would find their own path to fame and a heroic death, earn their own places in the sagas.

  For the first time, Wulfrik questioned his right to exploit these brave warriors. It was one thing to ask them to die when he fought in the name of the gods. It was another to expect them to die to serve his own ends. True, he intended to reward every man who sailed with him when the curse was broken and he came into his own as king of the Sarls, but it still rested ill with him just the same. Many good men had been lost in the Dark Lands against the dwarfs. The new voyage promised to be no less dangerous.

  The hero closed his eyes, picturing again his meeting with Zarnath. His armour still covered in Fraener’s blood, Wulfrik had confronted the Kurgan shaman. Surprisingly, the warlock had been forthcoming about the ritual he intended to perform for Wulfrik. The Smile of Sardiss would need to be taken to a site of power. Zarnath would then use his power to draw powerful magics into the torc, giving it a certain polarity that would mask the champion from the sight of the gods. No more would he suffer the visions they sent to him in the night. No longer would he be doomed to wander the world, endlessly killing to appease their capricious whims. He would be free, and when he died the torc’s magic would continue to protect his spirit, allowing him to safely enter the halls of his ancestors.

  The shaman’s words had stirred the hope burning inside Wulfrik’s heart. Zarnath was confident his magic would do what he said it would do, showing no fear when the hero threatened a slow death if another nightmare came upon him after the ritual to empower the torc. Perhaps that was because the Kurgan expected even Wulfrik’s bold courage to falter when he was told where the torc needed to be taken. The site of power of which Zarnath spoke stood upon the haunted shores of Alfheim, though the shaman had called that sinister land by the strange name of Ulthuan.

  Alfheim. The very name was enough to turn a northman’s bones to butter. Generations past, the great Erik Redaxe led a fleet of dragonships to the misty shores of that ghostly land. Only a handful of warriors ever returned to tell the tale of that fleet’s destruction, of the terrible elf-folk and their powerful magic, of the mighty wyrms that swam the seas around Alfheim and the horrible dragons who flew through its skies. Erik Redaxe’s saga did not speak of glory and plunder, but death and ruin.

  Wulfrik had been a young boy when Erik Redaxe had led his fleet to destruction, and had listened to the skalds singing the king’s tale around the winter fire. The saga the king had made for himself was not one of heroic glory but a testament of tragedy and loss. All his other deeds, all the foes he had vanquished, all the battles he had won, these were forgotten in the reckoning of his life. All that was remembered now was the way he had died, crushed and broken by the sorcery of the elf-folk and their haunted island.

  Was that how he would be remembered? Broken by the magic of the elves, all of his victories forgotten, drowned beneath a final ignoble defeat?

  It was a thought to quail the stoutest heart. Better to end his days a twisted, mindless creature like Fraener.

  Still, Wulfrik refused to abandon the hope that had risen within him. His experience with Sveinbjorn had shown him he was running out of time. He couldn’t stave off Viglundr’s ambition forever. If he would make Hjordis his own, he had to be free of the curse, and quickly.

  A last chance for life. For that, Wulfrik was willing to risk anything, sacrifice anything, challenge anything. If his doom was to die upon the forbidden shores of Alfheim, then he would meet his fate with sword in hand.

  The hero turned and regarded the huddled shape of Zarnath sitting at the stern of the ship. The shaman had drawn a heavy seal-fur cape about his lean body, strange symbols stained into the soft fur, runes like none Wulfrik had seen before. The warlock sat with his legs folded beneath him, his hands resting palm-upwards upon his knees. His eyes were open, but there was a dull film over them, blocking out the blue light which normally glowed within them.

  Wulfrik repressed a shudder. Sorcerers were eerie enough at the best of times, but Zarnath had become even more so since his return to the Seafang. There was an aura of power about him that even Wulfrik could feel. Drawing too close to the shaman made his hair prickle along his arms and rise from the back of his neck. There was an icy chill surrounding the Kurgan and a smell like that of an electrical storm.

  Zarnath had warned he would need to prepare himself for the ritual, drawing tremendous powers within himself to ready his spirit for when they reached their destination. There was a practical purpose too, the shaman had said. The magic he was calling upon would shield them from the notice of the elves and their creatures, hiding the Seafang and all who sailed upon her from even the mightiest of elf magic.

  At least for a time.

  The shaman had cautioned that he must not be touched by anyone until after the ritual was completed. Even the briefest nudge would disrupt the power coursing through his body and undo all his preparations. If that happened, Zarnath warned, it would be years before he would be able to attempt the ritual again. Wulfrik had grimly promised the Kurgan that he would not be disturbed, telling his crew that the man who defiled the shaman would die in such a manner that it would sicken even the plague god, Nurgle.

  Wulfrik left Zarnath to his meditations. Let the shaman prepare himself in whatever way he needed. His life, as much as Wulfrik’s, depended upon the outcome of his ritual.

  The hero gazed back over the Seafang’s deck, then turned his eyes towards Ormskaro. A great crowd had gathered in the snowy streets to watch the famous ship set sail, but Wulfrik paid them scant notice, lifting his gaze instead to the tower of Ormfell. He could just make out the tiny shape waving at him from the roof of the tower, her golden hair rippling around her as the winter wind swept across the fortress.

  Wulfrik waved back, his doubts and fears crushed by the resurgence of hope. He would return to her in triumph this time. And not all the monstrous gods of the north would stop him.

  The little hut on the hill overlooking Ormskaro was silent as the Seafang slid into the icy fjord and made her way towards the sea. The steading of an old freeholder whose fortunes were so small that only a single thrall tilled his fields and a single wife warmed his bed, the small dwelling was seldom disturbed by the people in the town below. Isolated and accessible only by a narrow, treacherous cliffside path, the lonely farm was mostly forgotten by the outside world.

  It would be many weeks before anyone wondered about the old freeholder and his household, weeks more before anyone became curious enough to investigate. When they did, they would find the mangled bodies of the old man and his wife lying in their bed. The corpse of the thrall would be under a bench in the hut’s cellar, his neck torn through by a single monstrous bite.

  There would be no trace of the grisly little creature that had killed the hut’s inhabitants. As the Seafang sailed from Ormskaro, the gibbering imp was the only thing stirring within the hut, loping through the rooms, blood dripping from its fangs. Around and around it circled the building, snapping at rats and pouncing on mice when they dared to stir from their holes. The imp was tireless in its patrol of the hovel, never relenting in its vigilance.

  Only one thing caused it to pause in its routine. As it made the circuit of the hut, the imp would linger near the hearth, staring at a figure seated there in a wicker chair. The endless train of gibberish would fall silent and the imp would tilt its hideous, toad-like head, listening for any sound from the seated man. Eventually, it would decide there was no new command. Mad giggles and lunatic sounds would again spill from the daemon’s mouth as it resumed its march.

  Upon the chair, the man continued to stare into the cold hearth, his eyes open but unseeing. Except for the concentration gripping his face, he might have passed for one of the corpses scattered about the hut, but no dead thing had ever worn such a mask of malignant purpose.

  The mists parted. Once more, the Seafang returned to mortal seas. Her new crew had borne the hid
eous ordeal of entering the border-realm with the fierce stoicism of the Norscan tribes, only three of their number succumbing to the whispering wails of the daemons lurking in the fog. Their screams as they leapt into the fog and were devoured had done much to steel the courage of those they left behind. Nothing bolstered a man’s valour so much as the prospect of a hideous death should he show weakness.

  Wulfrik stared out over the prow of his ship. The shimmering mists girding the dragonship were soon replaced by a grey fog almost as thick. He felt ice tingle along his spine as his eyes struggled to pierce the veil. He recalled stories told about these shores, about tiny islands the elf-folk had cast upon the sea to confound those who would raid their shores. The Shifting Isles, they were called, immense magical rocks that were not anchored in position after the fashion of proper islands but moved about the northern shores of Alfheim with a will of their own. Many a Norscan raider, thinking himself a better warrior than Erik Redaxe, had tried to navigate the Shifting Isles, only to lose his ship when a barren rock suddenly reared up out of the fog where charts insisted there should be only open sea.

  Wulfrik dreaded a similar fate for the Seafang. To have braved so much and come so far only to wreck his ship upon some elf mage’s sorcerous trap would be a pathetic end to his hopes and dreams.

  ‘Sound the bottom,’ Wulfrik growled at Arngeirr. The one-legged reaver limped to the side of the longship, dropping a weighted line into the sea. ‘The rest of you be ready to push clear from any rocks.’ At Wulfrik’s command, the crew took up their oars, bracing them to thrust against any obstruction that rose up from the fog to threaten them.

  Wulfrik watched the fog swirl about his ship, almost wishing it would drag them back into the spectral border-realm. At least there he would have some idea of what he faced. The hero’s mind turned to other stories he had heard about Alfheim. The water around the forbidden island of the elf-folk was said to be infested with terrible monsters. Sailors claimed the spawning waters of the kraken were somewhere off the coast of Alfheim. Others spoke of the pale-skinned merwyrms, the great sea serpents whose coils had crushed the dragonships of Erik Redaxe. There were those who spoke of the megalodon, a shark so huge that it preyed upon whales. Still others whispered of the Black Leviathan, a sea beast so enormous it could swallow a longship with a single snap of its jaws.