[Heroes 02] - Wulfrik

by C. L. Werner - (ebook by Undead)

  Again Wulfrik bulled his way across the shack. He would find Agnarr and get straight answers from him if he had to choke them out of the seer!

  This time when he crossed the hovel, Wulfrik found himself blinking in the sunlight, the sounds of the smithy and the smells of the warehouse welcoming him back into the mortal world.

  A great crowd was already gathered when Wulfrik made his way to the Bloodfield. A training ground for Ormskaro’s warriors and a place where Sarl youths would prove their manhood in fierce contests, the large plateau overlooking the sea was no stranger to the sounds of combat and the smell of blood. One corner of the plateau, however, was different. It was not devoted to the warriors of Ormskaro or the Sarl tribe. It was a place of death and slaughter that went far beyond the trials of youths and the training of warriors.

  It was called the Wolf Forest, and it served one man. That man was Wulfrik and it was in this place he would choose the warriors fit to join his crew.

  Whenever Wulfrik returned to Ormskaro it would mark the beginning of a festival for the Sarls. There would be grand feasts and much dancing and singing. But the highlight of the festival would not be in the mead halls but in the Wolf Forest. Here, every freeholder, bondsman and huscarl in the town would gather to watch as the fiercest warriors in Norsca did battle that they might join the crew of the Seafang and earn the glory of following Wulfrik on his voyages.

  For months the warriors would come. Great hairy Baersonlings and crafty Skaelings, twisted Vargs and dour Graelings, all would make their way to Ormskaro to test their strength and prove themselves mightier than their foes. They would gather and they would wait, waiting for this day, the day when they would enter the Wolf Forest.

  Wulfrik took his seat at a long table set a few yards from the forest. He set down the platter of grilled walrus he had carried with him onto the plateau, then slid the barrel of mead tucked under his arm next to it. He smiled at Sigvatr as the old warrior nodded, clearly impressed by the combined display of balance and strength.

  “I’d like to see you do that again after you empty the barrel,” Sigvatr quipped.

  “Only if you watch to see I don’t walk off the cliff,” Wulfrik said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the sheer drop that marked the seaward side of the plateau. He glanced across the crowd that had gathered to watch the testing. It seemed to him that most of Ormskaro had surrounded the Wolf Forest. Even Viglundr was in attendance, surrounded by his huscarls and Aesling guests. Wulfrik made a point of waving at Sveinbjorn. The Aesling prince grew pale and sank into his heavy bearskin cloak.

  “A good turnout,” Sigvatr commented. “A lot of the crew even showed up to watch. Though Haukr probably did so just to make wagers on who will win.”

  Wulfrik slammed his fist into the barrel of mead, smashing open its top. “Don’t be glum, grey-beard. If they’re all here then it will be easier getting them back on the ship when we leave.”

  The remark made Sigvatr look twice at his captain. “So soon? We only made port yesterday.”

  Wulfrik took his silver drinking horn and dunked it into the mead. “Maybe I should tell the gods to wait then,” he grumbled, taking a long drink.

  “You’ve had another dream?”

  The champion grimaced, spitting the liquid from his mouth. “It tastes bad enough without your chirping,” he complained. “Of course I’ve had another dream!” Wulfrik stared back at King Viglundr’s table, this time locking eyes with Hjordis instead of Sveinbjorn. He gave the princess a lewd wink and chuckled when he saw colour rush into her cheeks. “I’ve as much longing to stay here a few weeks as any of the crew.”

  “They won’t like it,” Sigvatr said. “Kaetill’s holed up in a longhouse with all five of Jarl Svanir’s daughters and Njarvord is down in one of the mead halls trying to outdrink three steelmongers from Kraka Drang.”

  “Kaetill better hope we find him before Svanir,” Wulfrik said. “As for Njarvord, the sea air will help clear his head after those dwarfs put him under the table.” He looked back to Viglundr’s table. Anger flashed through him as he saw Sveinbjorn leaning across the table to speak to Hjordis. Wulfrik’s hand clenched into a fist, crumpling his drinking horn.

  “How many jackals have come this time?” Wulfrik growled at Sigvatr.

  “Almost a hundred,” Sigvatr told his captain. “We only need twenty-three.”

  Wulfrik wiped up the mead that had splashed onto him when he ruined his silver horn. “We’ll take thirty,” he decided, sucking the mead from his fingers. “But we’ll go through them all today.”

  Once again there was surprise in Sigvatr’s expression. “We usually give them a day to recover before matching them again.”

  Wulfrik directed a black look in the direction of the king’s table. “If they want to share my glory, then they don’t need a rest.” The champion tore a strip of meat from his platter and gestured at the Wolf Forest. “Send the first set in,” he ordered.

  Sigvatr stood and unrolled the vellum scroll he carried. He glanced down the list of names, selecting two at random. “Tjorvi Tjorvisson of the Graelings and Garek Spearbreaker of the Sarls!” he shouted.

  As soon as Sigvatr spoke, the noise of the crowd faded to a quiet murmur. The two warriors whose names had been called stepped forwards, their friends banging swords against shields in applause as they stalked towards the Wolf Forest. Gamblers scurried about making last-minute wagers and giving new odds now that the opponents were known.

  Both warriors hesitated as they approached the Wolf Forest, their minds turning to the stories they had heard about the death and carnage the place had seen. They were bold men, however, and quickly overcame their misgivings. One of them would be victorious, one of them would not. Such was the way it should be. Drawing their axes from their belts, slipping their arms through the loops of their shields, the two northmen grabbed the ladders set at either end of the arena. They climbed to the narrow platforms set twenty feet above the plateau and gazed across at their foe.

  Between them stretched the Wolf Forest, a maze of round wooden posts sunk into the plateau. The top of each post was just wide enough to accommodate a man’s foot and spaced far enough apart that a man could step from one to another. The process wasn’t an easy one, however, for the posts weren’t sunk to a uniform depth, each varying slightly from the others. Beneath the posts, stretching all along the length of the Wolf Forest, the ground was littered with sharp wooden stakes. The Crow God’s Teeth, the stakes had been called, for they were smeared with dung and offal to ensure a lingering death to any who felt their bite. A man who fell from the posts would have nowhere to go except onto the stakes.

  The warriors stared at each other, then took their first trembling steps out onto the posts. As soon as their feet left the platforms, a raucous roar erupted from the crowd. Instantly the warriors raised their shields, trying to protect themselves from the barrage of stones, vegetables, fish bones and broken pottery that flew at them. The friends of each warrior attacked his opponent with concentrated volleys of rubbish while the gamblers directed their ire against whomever they had wagered against.

  Under the assault, the two northmen struggled to keep their footing. At the same time, each tried to move forwards, to come to blows with his enemy. The roar of the crowd grew more intense as the men closed the distance, and the barrage became limited only to the odd stone and crab shell as the warriors came within reach of one another. Bracing their feet as best they could, the two fighters chopped at each other with their axes, now turning their shields to the effort of warding off the attack of their opponent.

  Tjorvi, a scarred youth with tattoos covering his bald head, drove his axe at Garek’s knee only to have the iron rim of the Sarl’s shield intercept. The Graeling was almost overbalanced as his axe was driven down, teetering for a terrible moment as he leaned out over the stakes.

  Garek was a brawny whaler with metal rings studding his arms and a bronze crescent piercing his nose. He tried to exploit his enem
y, slashing the edge of his heavy axe across Tjorvi’s back, trying to drag him off the posts.

  Tjorvi cried out in pain as the axe tore through his armour and bit into his flesh. The Graeling stumbled to his left, only narrowly catching his footing. Garek pursued his enemy, chopping at him even as he tried to regain his balance. Tjorvi blocked the blow with his shield. There was a violent crunch as Garek’s axe hacked into Tjorvi’s shield, splintering it.

  Tjorvi snarled at his attacker, flinging his arm wide. Garek’s trapped axe shifted with the shield and the Sarl’s eyes went wide with alarm as he realised his predicament. Hastily, he brought his own shield down to intercept Tjorvi’s attack.

  Instead of lashing out with his axe, however, Tjorvi threw all of his weight into his shield. Garek, instinctively maintaining his grip on his axe, shifted to the right. It was a delicate matter of balance and momentum that allowed Tjorvi to overcome his foe. With a practised move, the young Graeling slipped his arm out from the loops of his shield. The sudden loss of Tjorvi’s weight arresting the shield’s motion caused Garek’s shifting body to overbalance.

  The Sarl shrieked as he realised his mistake. He released his trapped axe an instant too late to save himself. Like a clam dropped from the beak of a gull, Garek fell from the posts and slammed into the waiting stakes below.

  “A nasty trick,” Sigvatr observed as the triumphant Tjorvi descended from the Wolf Forest. “I think he deliberately used a weak shield to trap his enemy’s axe.”

  Wulfrik picked a strip of meat from between his teeth and shrugged. “A feeble trick if his enemy had had a flail. We’ll see how he fares the next time out.” The champion returned his attention to his mead, trying to capture what he could with his crumpled drinking horn. So fixated was he on his labour that he didn’t hear Sigvatr call out the next two combatants.

  He also failed to notice the approach of the Kurgan until he was standing right beside him.

  The Kurgan was a short, sparsely built man, his skin possessing the dusky hue common among those who dwell in the northern Wastes. His stringy hair was frosty white and his beard was braided into a long coil that made it seem some tenacious serpent had bitten his chin and refused to let go. He wore a simple leather hauberk and mammoth-fur leggings, and about his body he wore a heavy horsehair cape.

  All of this Wulfrik noticed in a glance, for as soon as he began to study the stranger, his eyes were transfixed by those of the Kurgan. The man’s eyes were a deep, piercing blue and glowed like foxfire with an inner light. Looking into those eyes was like staring into an ocean abyss or gazing upon the limitless expanse of the night sky. Wulfrik felt a wave of vertigo grip him and quickly closed his eyes.

  “You are Wulfrik Worldwalker,” the Kurgan said, inclining his head towards the champion.

  “It doesn’t take a sorcerer to know that,” Wulfrik said, rubbing his eyes. “The lowest thrall in Ormskaro could have pointed me out for you.”

  The stranger laughed, the sound somehow reminding Wulfrik of breaking glass. “Of course, of course,” he said. “The fame of Wulfrik is known to us even in the far north.” The Kurgan stepped closer to the champion, leaning on a tall staff fashioned from silver and studded with polished agates. At the head of the staff was a fist-sized orb of sapphire, an exact match for the eerie eyes of its owner.

  “I am Zarnath of the Tokmars,” the stranger introduced himself, slapping his chest with his hand. “I have come to offer a service to the great Wulfrik.”

  “Then you may add your name to my list.” There was more than annoyance in Sigvatr’s tone as he regarded Zarnath. “Though I think few will risk their silver on your chances of success.”

  Zarnath stared up at the combat raging atop the Wolf Forest. His thin features became twisted with repugnance. “I am a shaman, the voice of the gods. You would subject me to such indignity?”

  “A shaman worthy of joining my crew would have little to fear from the Wolf Forest,” Wulfrik said.

  The shaman smiled at Wulfrik. “I do not wish to join your crew,” he corrected the hero. “I said I have come to offer a service to you.”

  “What manner of service?” Sigvatr demanded, his eyes narrow with suspicion.

  Zarnath did not even favour the old warrior with a glance but kept his attention fixed upon Wulfrik. “I can break the curse that binds you,” the shaman said.

  At once Wulfrik leapt to his feet, his powerful hands closing upon the Kurgan’s shoulders in a fierce grip. “You dare mock me?” he roared.

  The shaman’s expression remained placid. “I did not journey across the Wastes simply for a jest,” he said. He waited until Wulfrik removed his hands before continuing.

  “As I said, your fame has spread even to the campfires of the Tokmars. We have heard of the feats of the mighty Wulfrik, doomed to wander the world forever, fighting to prove himself to the gods.”

  “You said you could break the curse,” Wulfrik reminded the shaman in a threatening growl.

  Zarnath smiled at him. “Indeed, such knowledge is known to me. It is within my power to break the doom the gods have placed upon you.”

  “Then do so,” Wulfrik snarled impatiently. He did not believe the Kurgan’s claims, but he could not quell the stirrings of hope rising within him.

  The shaman spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “It is not so easy. There are things I must have to perform the ritual that will free you. Things, I fear, only you can provide me.”

  “He’s trying to play you for a fool,” Sigvatr warned Wulfrik. “He wants you to steal some treasure for him and then he’ll be gone like a lamb in a wolf’s den.”

  “I could have found thieves among my own people,” Zarnath said, fixing his eerie gaze on Sigvatr. Despite his stubborn effort, the old warrior could not help but turn away. A slight smile pulled at Zarnath’s face as he won the contest of wills. “But to seize the artefacts I must have to free Wulfrik from his doom will require a great hero.”

  “And if you do not mean to run off with these artefacts, what price is it you expect to earn?” Sigvatr persisted.

  Zarnath stood straight, his eyes hooded as he announced the reward he would have from Wulfrik for ending the curse. “I want the Seafang,” he told the warriors.

  Sigvatr sputtered in outrage, his hand closing about the Tilean poniard thrust beneath his belt. He would have lunged at the Kurgan for making such an outrageous claim but for the hand Wulfrik pressed against him.

  “You demand a high price,” Wulfrik growled at the shaman. “There is no ship in the world as fine as the Seafang. The magic bound into her is the mightiest I have ever seen. It would cause me great pain to part with her.”

  “Would your curse cause you any less pain?” Zarnath objected. “Free from the curse of the gods, you would not need the Seafang’s magic as you do now. There would be no more hunts to the hinterlands of the world whenever the gods demanded it. You would be released from that claim upon you.”

  “Very well,” Wulfrik told the Kurgan. The very immensity of the price Zarnath demanded gave the champion cause to believe he could do what he claimed to do. “You end my curse and the Seafang is yours.”

  Sigvatr gasped in shock. “Wulfrik! Do not provoke the gods further by trying to cheat them!”

  Wulfrik rounded on his friend, fury burning in his eyes. “I will do what I must to free myself from this curse!” he growled. “If that means cheating the gods, then that is what I will do!”

  “The Kurgan is playing you for a fool,” insisted Sigvatr. “At least confer with Agnarr about this. See what one of our own seers has to say about it. Don’t blindly accept the word of an outlander shaman!”

  Still fuming, Wulfrik settled back into his seat. He had to admit that Sigvatr was right. It wasn’t smart to provoke the gods without good reason. He would speak with Agnarr about Zarnath’s claim.

  “My condolences,” Zarnath said, his voice humble. The shaman bowed to the two warriors. “Gathered here to watch your contest, you have not
heard. The seer Agnarr is dead. The imp he kept broke free of its cage and turned upon him. When his neighbours found him, the daemon had chewed his face right down to the bone.

  “All it left of him were his eyes.”

  Three days after the trials of the Wolf Forest, the Seafang sailed. A great crowd gathered to watch the longship leave. But no eyes watched her departure more keenly than those studying her from atop the now-deserted plateau of the Bloodfield.

  King Viglundr smiled as the ship sailed down the fjord and at last was lost to sight. Still smiling, he turned to the Aesling prince standing at his side.

  “I will begin preparations for the wedding,” Viglundr told the prince.

  Chapter Four

  The Seafang had just slipped out of sight of Ormskaro when Wulfrik called Zarnath to him. The hero didn’t care to exhibit the manner in which his ship made its unnatural voyages lest such powerful magic frighten the Sarls and deny him a safe port on his return. Or lest such a display would excite the desire of some watching sorcerer to claim the Seafang for his own. Such an ambition had drawn a Kurgan shaman across half the northern Wastes. Wulfrik knew there would be others much nearer to home who would be no less interested in his ship.

  The secret of the Seafang was his alone. No one else knew how to bind it to his will and bring it safely through the realm of the gods. Wulfrik intended to keep it that way.

  “Hold out your hand, Kurgan,” Wulfrik told Zarnath as he joined the champion at the prow of the ship. “I need a bit of your blood.” The hero drew a steel dagger from his belt.

  Zarnath stared hard at Wulfrik, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. He started to back away, but found his retreat cut off by the brawny figures of Broendulf and Kaetill. The shaman’s hands clenched tight about his staff, his head turning from side to side like a trapped beast.