“Do you really think I love that!” Hjordis sobbed, pointing a finger at Sveinbjorn. “It was you, is you! Only you! When I thought you were dead, I went out of my mind with grief. I wept for you from dawn until the dying of the night.”
Wulfrik’s face curled back in a sneer. “Yes, I’m sure. Just lying in here with Sveinbjorn weeping and rutting and weeping, sniffing about his legs like a bitch in heat!”
“No!” shrieked the princess, colour rising into her cheeks. “It wasn’t like that! When they thought you were gone, when the Kurgan swore you were dead, my father demanded I marry Sveinbjorn! I wanted no part of him! I wanted only you!”
“Seems you’ve had more than a part of him,” Wulfrik snarled.
“My father forced me into it!” Hjordis cried. She turned her back to Wulfrik, displaying the scarred flesh across her shoulders and sides, the marks of a whip.
In an instant, Wulfrik felt a surge of compassion rise within him. Almost he went to take her in his arms. The smell of Sveinbjorn’s scent on her held him back. The memory of Sigvatr lying dead in the Dark Lands flashed through his mind. “Men have died in shame for a lie,” Wulfrik told her. “You don’t know the meaning of suffering.”
Wulfrik swung around, the sword flashing from its sheath. He pounced on Sveinbjorn as the prince made a scramble for the door, crushing the Aesling to the floor. Wulfrik buried his knee in the man’s back, wrapped his fingers in the prince’s hair and savagely pulled his head back. The steel of Wulfrik’s sword rested against Sveinbjorn’s neck. The skull of King Torgald seemed to grin at its son’s predicament.
“Don’t kill him!”
The shout came from King Viglundr. The old Sarl led a score of warriors, an equal mix of huscarls and hersirs, across the shattered threshold. Wulfrik simply smiled back at the king and his entourage, baring his fangs in a vicious snarl.
“I was going to pay a call on you,” Wulfrik said. He pulled back on Sveinbjorn’s hair, forcing a cry from the prince. “Once I was finished here.”
Viglundr’s face was white with terror. “Don’t kill him, Wulfrik!” the king pleaded. “It will mean war with the Aeslings! You can name your price! Your weight in gold! The best warriors in my house! I’ll even give you Hjordis!”
Wulfrik cast a sideways glance at the princess, his eyes like chips of ice as he gazed on her. “Damaged goods,” the marauder said. “I didn’t come here to bargain like a beggar.” Angrily, Wulfrik released Sveinbjorn, kicking the prince away from him. While Sveinbjorn scrambled across the floor to the safety of Viglundr’s bodyguard, Wulfrik dipped his hand into his belt, removing a small leather pouch.
“I came here to make a proposition,” he told Viglundr. Haughtily, Wulfrik dashed the pouch to the floor, spilling its contents across the room. The men around the king gasped in amazement as they saw a fortune in sparkling gemstones dancing before their eyes. Wulfrik had taken it from Tjorvi after killing the murderous Graeling. The gems had been plucked from the dresses of the massacred elf-wives, but there was no way for the men scrambling to gather them up to know that.
“Treasure from the southlings,” Wulfrik boasted. “Rubies, sapphires and diamonds! A fortune for any man willing to reach out his hand and take it!”
Viglundr stared in awe as one of his huscarls poured gems into the king’s outstretched hand. He shook his head in disbelief. “The southlings have no such wealth,” Viglundr said. “Many times have I raided their towns and cities. Never have I seen stones such as these!”
“You call me liar, Viglundr?” Wulfrik growled, menace in his voice. “Of course you never saw wealth such as this! Where have you raided? Along the coast, sacking places plundered dry by generations of Norscans. The real treasure lies far from the sea, deep in the heart of the Empire!”
“And the great Wulfrik has sailed to such places,” scoffed Sveinbjorn. “He has fought his way past the fortresses of Marienburg and the fleets of the southlings with only a single longship!”
“No, Aesling,” Wulfrik said. “There is no need to squander the strength of my warriors so far from the treasure. Not with a ship such as the Seafang, which can sail upon the seas of the gods and come out again where I will.”
The statement brought excited murmurs from the assembled warriors. They had all heard of the Seafang’s magic from the longship’s crew, though the ship’s captain had been careful to keep the exact manner of the magic a secret. They knew Wulfrik spoke true about sailing seas beyond the mortal world.
“What do you propose?” Viglundr asked.
“I need a bigger ship to haul away the plunder I intend to capture,” Wulfrik said. “You will build me a new hull, a new Seafang. It will be the greatest ship in all Norsca, forty benches and no less.”
“You would need to cut down the Trolltree to find timber to lay down such a keel,” Viglundr grumbled.
“Then set men to hunting the Trolltree,” Wulfrik ordered. “Surely there are some among the Sarls with spine enough for such a quest. If not, lend me the men and I will hunt down the beast.”
“It would take fifty warriors to kill the Trolltree,” sneered Sveinbjorn. “And you’d have to set fire to it, making its timber worthless for building a ship.”
Viglundr rubbed his fingers across the gems in his hand. “I’ll send a hundred warriors then, and they’ll not set fire to the monster or I’ll feed their children to the eels.”
The king’s eyes narrowed, fairly glowing with avarice. “It will take more than a handful of gems to pay for the risk I put my warriors in. You must agree to the wergild for those the Trolltree slays.”
“Any ship and any man who wishes may sail with the Seafang,” Wulfrik told the king. “I will lead them to the richest southling settlements and they may plunder them until their holds are filled with such wealth as to make even the gods envious!”
Sveinbjorn could see from Viglundr’s expression that Wulfrik’s words had won the king over. Seething with hate, the prince tore a sword from the clutch of a hersir and rounded on the hero. “This is a trick!” the Aesling shouted. “He is playing us for fools! What does a man cursed by the gods care for gold?”
Viglundr stared from the gems in his hand back to Wulfrik. “Sveinbjorn raises a point,” the king said. “What does a man cursed by the gods need wealth for?”
Wulfrik’s voice became a low hiss, dripping with a hate far deeper than Sveinbjorn’s. “I was betrayed by Zarnath. The Kurgan left me to die in Alfheim after using lies and trickery to lead me there. He has returned to his people. I will need warriors and ships to find him. To get them, I need gold.”
Viglundr nodded. There was no fakery in the hate he heard in Wulfrik’s voice or the murder burning in his eyes. However much reason he had to feel betrayed by Viglundr and Sveinbjorn, he wanted Zarnath’s blood even more. “I will help you,” the king decided. “I will send my warriors to fell the Trolltree. I will set my shipwrights to building this new Seafang. I will send out word and gather the best ships and crews among the Sarls and the Aeslings.” The king smiled and gestured at Wulfrik’s many wounds. “I will send the best vitki in Ormskaro to tend your injuries.” A crafty look came across Viglundr’s face. “In return, I want the dragon’s share of the treasure and your oath that you will renounce your claim upon Hjordis and never again darken Ormskaro with your presence.”
“By the Axe of Kharnath and the wings of Tchar,” Wulfrik said, spitting on the floor to cement his oath. He heard the woman standing behind him gasp in disbelief as he spoke the words. “Remember, Viglundr, I am the only one who can command the Seafang’s magic. I wouldn’t suggest any treachery. At least not until the treasure is safely back in Ormskaro.”
“Of course not,” Viglundr agreed. “You will be as safe as my own daughter until your return.” The king motioned for his warriors to withdraw from the room. Sveinbjorn advanced towards Hjordis but halted when he found Wulfrik standing in his way.
“Where are you going, Aesling?”
Sveinbjorn�
��s face went crimson with fury. “I go to fetch my wife!” he roared. Before the prince could raise his sword, Wulfrik’s blade smashed across his fingers, striking with the flat of the weapon. Sveinbjorn barked out in pain, the sword clattering to the floor.
“Now you have a matching pair,” Wulfrik told the prince, gesturing at the broken fingers of his other hand. “I’ll send the vitki to visit you after he looks after my hurts.”
“My wife, damn you!” Sveinbjorn snarled.
Wulfrik glanced back at Hjordis. He could see the anxious appeal in her eyes. “Find some she-goat to warm your sleep,” Wulfrik told the prince. “I keep Hjordis with me. Viglundr said I would be as safe as his own daughter. If she is with me, then whatever misfortune might overtake me will happen to her first.”
Sveinbjorn did not mistake the threat in Wulfrik’s voice. Scowling, but subdued, the Aesling prince stalked from the room. The hero watched him go, laughing at the man’s back.
“I’ve watched ratkin retreat with more dignity,” he laughed. Wulfrik turned as he heard Hjordis come up behind him. He felt a sting of pain as he saw the anguish on the woman’s face, the fright in her eyes.
“He will try to kill you, whatever my father says,” Hjordis warned. She could feel Wulfrik wince as she laid her hands on his shoulders. “Don’t trust them. Either of them.”
“I am not such a fool,” Wulfrik said. He shrugged from beneath Hjordis’ hands.
“Is my touch so unpleasant?” the princess asked, her voice quivering with despair.
Wulfrik stared at her, part of him wanting to seize her in his arms. The smell of Sveinbjorn on her skin drew him away. “There is a time for love,” the marauder said. “In the midst of my enemies, under their own roof, I can’t afford any distraction. No matter how pleasant.”
Tears streamed down Hjordis’ face. “You don’t mean that,” she said. “You don’t want me. You think I’m some kind of unclean thing.”
Frowning, Wulfrik turned to the bed, piling some of the furs on the floor. “You need your sleep,” he advised. “I’ll stay on the floor and wait for the vitki. Or Sveinbjorn’s killers, if they come first,” he added, patting the bare steel of his sword.
“Tell me you still love me,” Hjordis demanded, her jaw set, her eyes imploring. “Tell me there is still hope for us.”
Wulfrik took her hands in his and stared hard into her eyes. “I will tell you this. Those who have betrayed us will pay for it.” He bared his fangs, his eyes looking not upon Hjordis or the room around them, but focussed instead upon a distant town deep within the Empire. “All of them will pay,” Wulfrik snarled.
From a high cliff, Wulfrik and Viglundr watched as the Sarl woodsmen made ready their trap. It had taken many weeks for hunters to find the tracks of the Trolltree and a week more to find an ideal place to confront the monster. Once, the sagas said, there were many creatures like the Trolltree lurking in the deep forests of Norsca. They made war against the first men, slaughtering them without mercy when they sought timber to build their homes and their ships. In despair, the men cried out to the gods and mighty Tchar brought to them the gift of fire with which to make war against the treeblood. With fire and axe the Norscans scoured the treeblood from the land and claimed the forests for their own. The few treeblood who survived had retreated into the oldest, most impenetrable of the forests, there to brood upon the victory of man and allow the memory to turn them mad with the thirst of revenge.
Some of the greatest heroes of the sagas had earned their names felling these monstrous survivors, using their wooden bones to build their mead halls. Over time, tales of the treeblood dwindled. Now, it was said, the Trolltree was the last. Last because it was the mightiest and most monstrous of its kind. Many bold warriors had dared enter the Trolltree’s forest only to be discovered months later, their innards strewn through the branches. Any man who trespassed into the Trolltree’s domain courted death; any man who took timber from the haunted wood threatened to bring doom to his entire village, for the Trolltree would stir from its forest to avenge a fallen tree.
Wulfrik grinned as he watched the Sarls at work. There was a deeper purpose moving them than simple obedience to their king. They had lived their lives in fear of the Trolltree, and some of them had seen their villages devastated by the monster. There was a feeling of retribution that burned in each woodsman’s breast as he laboured, a thirst for vengeance that Wulfrik could empathise with. It was only right that the seeds of his own revenge should grow from that of other men.
The plan was Wulfrik’s, adapted from the tactics used by the Hung nomads when they hunted mammoths. The game Wulfrik intended to bring down was bigger than any mammoth, but so too was the scale of the trap. No, the hero was confident they would be able to bring down their quarry. The question was, could they make it stay down?
Sveinbjorn claimed it was a fool’s errand, doomed to fail. He’d kept his Aeslings with him in Ormskaro. It was a mistake on the prince’s part. Whether motivated from genuine fear or resentment of Wulfrik, Sveinbjorn had upset the Sarls by taking no hand in the hunt. They would remember the arrogant disdain with which Sveinbjorn had dismissed their vendetta. When the Trolltree fell, they would remember it was Wulfrik, not Sveinbjorn who brought them their triumph.
The Sarls would never accept Sveinbjorn as their king now. Wulfrik knew that, even if the Aesling prince was too proud and bitter to see it for himself. Since Wulfrik’s return, Hjordis had been quite vocal in decrying Sveinbjorn as a weakling who had won her unfairly. The very legitimacy of the prince’s claim on her had come into question, and opinion already favoured the hero Wulfrik over the usurper Sveinbjorn.
Viglundr was the real enigma. Wulfrik was certain the cunning old king knew what was going on, yet he made no move to stop it. Thoughts of rich treasures had clouded the king’s judgement. Or perhaps he felt secure enough in his own position to undo whatever damage Hjordis and Wulfrik caused Sveinbjorn. After all, Sveinbjorn had stayed behind while the Sarls hunted the Trolltree. Viglundr had not.
A cold smile worked onto Wulfrik’s face as he glanced at Viglundr. The old king would bide his time. He would wait until the riches Wulfrik had promised him were safely in Ormskaro before he made his move. When that time came, Viglundr would learn he was too late. And then Wulfrik would take from the treacherous old king everything he possessed.
The cry of a shrike echoed from the clearing below. Wulfrik waved down to the hunter who had made the cry. The trap was complete. Now it was time to set the bait. The hero raised both fists over his head. In answer to the gesture, dozens of Sarls drew axes and rushed a stand of saplings growing along the southern edge of the clearing. Ruthlessly, they hacked away at the trees, sending slivers of wood dancing in every direction. Other northmen gathered the chunks of wood, dropping them into cauldrons of boiling water. Soon the pungent aroma of sap was thick about the clearing.
For hours the woodsmen attacked the saplings, laying into the trees with as much violence and noise as they could. The smell of sap continued to thicken, hugging the ground as a faint breeze sent it crawling into the forest. From the cliff, Wulfrik and Viglundr listened to the northmen work, their eyes never leaving the deep woods.
Wulfrik saw the first sign that their trap had worked. A faint movement of the distant treetops was the first warning. Only the hero’s animal-keen eyes saw the motion, but soon other scouts became aware that something gigantic was making its way through the forest. The sound of ponderous footfalls and snapping branches increased, becoming audible to the woodsmen in the clearing. Fear was in their faces as they scrambled for cover, but not a man among them cried out. Afraid though they were, none of them wanted to be remembered as the man who warned the Trolltree.
Branches continued to snap and creak until it seemed the entire forest was in motion. There was no mistaking the wild, frantic motion of the trees now, as though a mighty gale swept through them. The ground rumbled from the impact of tremendous feet, booming like a titan’s drum.
It was no imagination but an eerie reality that the trees at the edge of the clearing parted, leaning away to allow the monster to emerge from the forest. The beast crawled forwards on all fours like some great and terrible hound. Its immense body was covered in bark, split and cracked and hoary with age. When it was clear of the trees, the beast lurched upwards, standing upon its hind legs in crude semblance of a man, though a man built of wood rather than flesh. A gash-like mouth, with jagged splinters for teeth and yellow moss for gums, yawned from the middle of the thing’s torso. Great pits which burned with something like marsh-fire served it as eyes. Immense arms studded with thorn-like branches dangled from what passed for its shoulders, each hand ending in a crooked finger of timber and a hooked talon of gnarled wood.
There was no need for Wulfrik to stare down at the Trolltree. The wooden monster stood one hundred and fifty feet, even without anything that might be called a head rising from its broad shoulders. Even the tallest tree in its forest was a dwarf compared to the giant treeblood. Only by crawling through the forest had the ancient monster managed to hide itself.
Now it had no interest in hiding. Wulfrik felt the hair rise on his neck as the Trolltree’s glowing eyes passed across him, as he felt the creature’s primordial hate sear into him. There was wisdom in that gaze, timeless and inhuman, but it was a wisdom that had become rotten with loneliness and hate.
The Trolltree swung away from its silent contemplation of Wulfrik, glaring down at the fallen saplings and the boiling cauldrons. Though the monster’s gash-like mouth did not move, a great groan sighed up from the treeman, an anguished cry of pain and mourning.
Wulfrik expected the Trolltree to be drawn to the fallen trees. Instead the monster swung back towards him, its fiery eyes narrowed to smouldering embers. Slowly, clumsily, it raised one of its immense arms.
“Look out!” Wulfrik roared, pushing Viglundr away. The king scrambled through the rocks as the Trolltree’s clawed hand came crashing down. The talons dug deep into the cliff, shearing several feet from its face as the treeman pulled its arm back.
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