Slaves to Darkness 02 (The Blades of Chaos)

by Warhammer

  The pyre was a celebration of their lives, not a commiseration of their deaths. The flames and smoke would carry their spirits up to the gods in the north of the world, and there they would tell their tales and share their stories with the other great warriors of history.

  The honour was not only for those who had died so recently on this shore - the like of Lina Half-wolf, Snarri Gold-tooth and Kothi Silvercraft - but for the others who had given their lives for the glory of the tribe: Jarlen and his ship's crew who had been sunk by the bone giant of King Nephythys; Aelfir of the Long Axe who had been slain by the tomb guards of the undead city; Aethwine the Viper who had succumbed to fever on the journey back. All of them were remembered here, their names chanted over the timbers of the pyre by Jakob the night before, so that their spirits might find their way home.

  With a nod from Kurt, Bjordrin brought a pitch-soaked torch forward and hurled it onto the pyre. The logs caught alight quickly and the flames spread to the second pyre. The Norse raised their weapons and shields and gave a great shout into the sky, banging their weapons together, stamping and yelling to attract the attention of the gods. Kurt raised his own voice in a drawn-out bellow, his sword bursting into flames in imitation of the conflagration in front of him.

  For a long while they stood there, calling to the gods, yelling the praises of those who had died, until the flames reached high into the air and black smoke filled the fjord. Only then, when the signal fires to the gods could be seen for many miles, did they cease their clamouring, giving final nods of respect to the departed and filing away.

  Kurt galloped up beside Bjordrin as he climbed up the hilly side of the fjord to where the Sneirkin waited for their new masters.

  'We will have to push hard to reach home before winter catches us,' said Kurt, reining in his horse to a walk.

  'We will,' said Bjordrin. 'It reminds me of a long march almost two years ago.'

  'When a brash Sutenmjar, fresh to the eyes of the gods, walked alongside you,' said Kurt with a laugh. 'Yes, it will be as hard as that trek, perhaps harder. This time you return not only with a Chosen and his shaman, but with the wealth of a dead king!'

  'The star of the Fjaergard has risen in the sky since your coming,' said Bjordrin. 'I think perhaps I will talk to Hrolfgar when we return.'

  'About what?' asked Kurt.

  Bjordrin waved an arm to take in the line of Sneirkin filing slowly eastwards and the treasure-carts that rumbled along in their midst.

  'No longer the southern pup, I think.' said Bjordrin. 'I think now you have become the southern wolf.'

  'Kurt Sutenvulf,' said Kurt quietly. He laughed and leaned over to clap Bjordrin on the shoulder. 'I like it! Soon the Sutenvulf will return to the Lands of the Dead with a hundred ships and thousands of lusty bloodthirsty warriors. Let the old kings awake! Let them hear my name. Kurt Sutenvulf!'

  Ten days into the march, the Norse had made good progress. The last vestiges of summer were still clinging on and the weather had stayed fine for them, but Kurt knew that they were barely a fifth of the way to Fjaergard and the Norscan winter fell quickly and savagely.

  Here in the west of the land, the tribes were sparse and they had not encountered another soul since leaving Sneirkinhold. Four-legged dangers were scarce as well, scared by the number of men and women who were travelling. There had been many wolf tracks, the spoor of bears, and even signs of other, less natural, creatures. So far, the only trouble had been the treasure wagons.

  Laden with gold and gems, the carts were heavy and, though the teams pulling them were changed frequently, the mountainous terrain made it sometimes impossible for the column to continue without lightening the load to distribute amongst the Fjaergard and Sneirkin.

  This had led to problems of its own, as individuals from both tribes tried to appropriate the odd coin, cup or ring about their person, leading to fighting between the warriors. One of the Sneirkin had been killed in a brawl over a golden necklace.

  All the while, Kurt had the growing suspicion that there would be more fighting to be done before they were home. The presence of so much treasure would be too much of a lure for any Norseman they encountered, whether he was a solitary hunter, or a tribal chief like Gafnir.

  Another worry were the Sneirkin themselves. Though most of them seemed fatalistic about their new life, and some were even glad to be part of such an obviously powerful and rich tribe, there were those who were less content. Gafnir's brothers, Gerin and Gird, were particularly troublesome and never missed an opportunity to point out their displeasure at being slaves. They would always quieten when Kurt himself approached, but refused to obey anyone else and would not share the burden of pulling the treasure carts or carrying their own belongings.

  Though they had brought plenty of supplies from Sneirkinhold, Kurt knew that it would not last the thirty or more days still left on their journey. Soon they would have to send out hunting parties to kill deer, bear or woolly Norscan goats, and that would slow their progress even further. Not only that, but he would have to trust the Sneirkin hunters because only a few of his own men and women were skilled trackers and trappers.

  That night, he confronted Bjordrin with his worries as they were seated by the campfire. Jakob was curled up behind them, his furs bundled up to make a pillow on the rocky ground.

  'Free men work harder than slaves,' said Bjordrin.

  'But can I trust them not to try and take over?' said Kurt, using a long branch to poke at the fire.

  'Make Gerin and Gird your blood brothers.' said Bjordrin, pulling a stopper from an ale jug and swigging some of the contents. He passed the jug to Kurt. 'Make them part of the Fjaergard and they will share in our future glories.'

  'And our treasure.' said Jakob, sitting up, lips curled in a sneer. 'What was the point of defeating them if we're just going to give them the gold anyway?'

  'He has a point.' said Kurt, looking at Bjordrin and taking a draught of ale. The thick liquid warmed his throat against the chill night. 'And do you really think they will accept?'

  'They'll be Fjaergard, the treasure will still belong to the tribe.' Bjordrin said, tossing a handful of sticks onto the fire and looking out over the sleeping camp. 'We won't lose any of it at all.'

  Kurt passed back the ale and sat thinking for a moment.

  'We are bound to meet other tribes before we reach home.' he said. 'Do we have to fight them all, or buy them all off?'

  'If we take the Sneirkin as bondsmen, and Gird and Gerin become your kin, then other tribes are less of a threat.' Bjordrin said. 'It was only because there were so few of us that Gafnir tried to take some of the treasure.'

  'Yes, and I'm sure he wouldn't have let us simply walk away with the rest.' said Jakob. 'He might have let us leave, tradition demands that he cannot murder us when he has extended us hospitality. But once we left the village, he would have been after us like a hound. If you release the Sneirkin from bondage and make the brothers part of our tribe, Gerin and Gird will have to keep the others in line. It'll be in their own interest if nothing else.'

  Bjordrin nodded in agreement.

  'Tell me how I make them blood brothers.' said Kurt.

  The ceremony, like most Norse rituals, was short and to the point. The following night, before the evening's meal, Kurt gathered the Sneirkin together in front of the main fire. In his hand he held a branch, and he walked between the assembled Norse, touching it to each of them on the shoulder. After he had done this, he walked back to the fire. Raising the branch over his head, he snapped it in two and tossed the parts on to the fire.

  'Bondsmen no more.' said Kurt, seeing the smiles and happy nods of the Sneirkin. 'Of the Fjaergard you are now.'

  'Fjaergard.' the Norsemen chorused softly before turning away and readying themselves for the meal.

  Jakob led Kurt to Gird and Gerin as they sat with their closest comrades, sharpening their weapons. Without a word, Kurt held out his right hand and Jakob drew his knife across the palm. Spitting into
the blood that welled from the cut, Kurt extended his hand towards Gerin. The Norseman looked surprised for a moment and glanced at his older brother. Gird studied Kurt's face for a moment and then nodded. Standing, Gerin rubbed the sweat from his hands and extended his own hand for Jakob to slice. Spitting into his own blood, he grabbed Kurt's hand and the two of them stood there, their blood mingling, binding them as kin.

  Kurt repeated the ritual with Gird, and the old warrior smiled and slapped the Chosen on the shoulder.

  'You are a wise man, Sutenvulf.' Gird said. 'I am proud to become Fjaergard, and we will bring honour to the tribe and glory to your saga.'

  Gerin was less enthusiastic and turned away and sat with his warriors, his back to Kurt.

  'Do not mind him.' said Gird as Kurt's hand moved to his sword hilt. 'He and Gafnir were close. He missed our brother.'

  'And you do not?' said Jakob, sheathing his knife.

  'Of course, he is my brother.' said Gird. 'But he was also stupid and bragged too much. He said that the gods favoured him, and killed our uncle who was chieftain before him. I think that perhaps the gods did not agree. Our tribe has not fared well these last three years. A storm swept in this summer, from a clear sky, and sunk our ships at anchor. Then our mother, who was touched with the sight of the gods, died the next day. And now they send you to us, Sutenvulf. I know when the gods speak, and I listen. It is by their will that we are with you today.'

  'It is.' said Kurt. 'Next summer, you shall sail with me to a land where dead kings stir in their tombs, and the poorest man was buried with a chieftain's gold. We will empty their treasure chambers, destroy their soulless warriors and return in glory!'

  'That is good to hear.' said Gird with a short laugh. 'I feared my grandchildren would hear the saga of how great a fisherman I have become!'

  Another seven days of marching brought them over a high mountain pass and down into a long valley beyond. From their vantage point, Kurt could see the glistening waters of a fjord at the end of the valley, and a large town built along the coast. Several ships lay in the harbour. As he sat there astride his horse, his followers walking through the icy mud, he caught sight of Bjordrin and waved him over.

  'We'll not be walking for much longer, my friend,' said Kurt, pointing to the ships.

  'Once more the gods show their favour of Kurt Sutenvulf.' Bjordrin said with a smile. 'With a swift wind and the gods' will, we shall be in Fjaergardhold before ten more days and nights.'

  'If you can get the ships,' said Gerin, overhearing their conversation and breaking from the column. 'That is no small tribe there.'

  'I will find a way,' said Kurt, kicking his heels into the horse's flanks and trotting off.

  Gerin looked at Bjordrin with raised eyebrows.

  'Is he always this confident?' asked Gerin.

  'Why shouldn't he be?' said Bjordrin, heading off. Gerin fell into step beside him.

  'Is it true that you fought an army of warriors from their graves to take this treasure?' said Gerin.

  'Yes,' said Bjordrin with a scowl. 'We barely escaped at all.'

  'And you mean to return?' said Gerin, shaking his head with incredulity.

  'Yes,' Bjordrin said. 'There is more gold in that one dead city than in all the towns and villages of the coast that you could raid.'

  'What will we do with all of that wealth?' asked Gerin, scratching his head through his greying hair.

  'I don't know,' said Bjordrin. 'But I'm going to make sure I enjoy finding out.'

  Gerin nodded in appreciation, his thoughts wandering into fanciful dreams.

  An army awaited them on the approach to the port, spread out before its high stone walls. Horsemen carrying wickedly tipped spears cantered back and forth behind a long shieldwall, and archers skulked at the ends of the line, arrows knocked to their bowstrings. Warhounds snarled and howled on their chain leashes as their handlers fought to keep the beasts under control. Drums beat continuously and shining totems of iron and silver were hoisted above the line.

  Either side of Kurt, the Fjaergard, both old and new, spread out to face the enemy. They seemed pitifully few compared to the army arrayed against them. Behind the warriors, the older women and children took shelter with the treasure wagons. Around Kurt stood Jakob, Bjordrin, Gerin, Gird, and a few other of the most hardened warriors under his command. His horse stepping energetically to and fro, Kurt leaned down to talk to his companions.

  'Any suggestions?' he said, receiving a gasp from Jakob in reply.

  'You don't have a plan?' said the shaman holding his hands to his head in despair. 'I thought you had something in mind.'

  Kurt pursed his lips and shook his head.

  'I hoped something would occur to me,' he said. 'We'll have to do this the traditional way.'

  'Look,' said Gerin, gesturing towards the enemy line with his shield. A small group was walking forward, one of them bearing an enormous banner hung with chains and skulls. 'I think perhaps they mean to talk first.'

  'I told you something might happen.' said Kurt, his voice cheerful.

  Nudging his horse forward, he led the party across the open ground between the two forces. As they approached the other group, Kurt could see there were four of them. One warrior struggled forward under the weight of the standard, which Kurt could see was fashioned in the likeness of a gigantic rune. At its centre was a circle, and from this an arrow jutted out to the top-right. Another bar projected from the bottom-left, ending in a crescent pointing away from the circle.

  'The sign of Slearg.' said Jakob, nervously fumbling with the rune-stone pouch at his belt.

  Two of the others, twins it seemed, were dressed in robes of white fur, their long blond hair hung in gold-clasped braids over their shoulders. Their arms were bare and they wore jewel-studded armbands around their thick biceps. They each carried a staff tipped with the same symbol as the one on the banner. Kurt could feel the power emanating from the two shamans and glanced at Jakob. Jakob shook his head and avoided Kurt's gaze.

  'Wretch.' said Kurt, looking at the other band's leader.

  He was not much taller than the others, but was as broad as two men, his bare chest massively muscled, with shoulders like an ox. He was dressed in a black leather kilt, his feet bare, and from his flesh hung heavy golden chains that pulled at his skin. He carried a long, spiked mace in each hand, each as large as a man's head.

  'He is also a Chosen.' said Jakob, and the others groaned in dismay.

  'I know he is.' said Kurt, stopping ten paces from the other group and dismounting. It was all a matter of a short formality now. Two champions faced each other, there was no other way to resolve this except for single combat. Kurt was fatalistic about the turn of events. If the gods wished him to win, he would. If not, he would not know pain for long.

  'You should have a banner as well.' said Gerin, and Kurt looked at him.

  'Yes, I should.' said Kurt with a smile and a nod. 'I'll have some of the gold melted down when we get back.'

  Tossing the reins to Jakob, Kurt strode forwards. The other Chosen advanced as well, and their two parties trailed behind them except Jakob who hung back, holding on to the reins of Kurt's horse, looking ready to bolt in an instant. Bjordrin stood to Kurt's right and the two brothers, Gerin and Gird, to his left. They looked each other up and down.

  The two Chosen stood there for a long while, staring each other in the eye, searching for a sign of weakness.

  'Do you think you can take him?' said Bjordrin, leaning close to whisper to Kurt.

  'We'll know soon enough.' Kurt said, drawing his sword.

  'This will be settled quickly.' Kurt heard Gerin say.

  The enemy champion stepped forward and raised his twin maces above his head, the chains that pierced his flesh jangling loudly.

  'I am Narthur, marked by Slaneir, champion of Slangothold.' the other Chosen said, his voice a deep rumble. 'What is the meaning of you bringing this warhird to our lands?'

  'I am the Sutenvulf, favo
ured of all the gods, Chosen of the Fjaergard.' replied Kurt, raising his sword above his head in both hands. 'And I mean to take your ships.'

  'Kurt!' shouted Bjordrin, leaping between the two champions.

  Kurt turned his head to see Gird stepping towards him, his axe swept back for a blow, his brother leaping forward.

  Gird's axe swung down and Gerin stumbled, the dagger aimed for Kurt's back falling from his fingers as his brother's blade bit into his side. Bjordrin leaped forward with his own blade aimed at the traitor's neck, but Kurt intercepted the blow on his sword. Kurt looked down at Gerin, who lay in a spreading patch of his own blood, fingers grasping for the handle of his knife. Kurt's foot crushed the man's hand as the Chosen warrior leaned forward.

  'When we are done.' said Kurt, 'your death will be slow and painful. Each scream shall be a dedication to the gods, each blood drop an apology for your lack of belief in me.'

  The Chosen looked at Gird, eyes narrowed. Gird threw down his axe and held up his hand.

  'My brother is a liar and a coward.' said Gird. 'He told me he meant to murder you, but I did not agree. I refused to help him and tried to persuade him otherwise, I swear to the gods.'

  Kurt turned back to Narthur and shrugged.

  'I'm sorry for the interruption.' said Kurt with a look of exasperation. 'If you're ready, I can kill you now.'

  'Kill me?' laughed Narthur. 'Why would you want to kill me?' 'I need your ships so that we can get home.' said Kurt with a frown.

  Narthur laughed even louder, and turned to point at his army, indicating each of the banners in turn.

  'Jolnir of the Skaerlings.' he said. 'Gothir of the Bearsonlings. Undar of the Hathens.'

  'I have to kill all of you?' said Kurt, with an uncertain glance at the other champions waiting in the shield wall.

  Narthur was now laughing so much, Kurt was feeling a little ridiculous. The champion of the Slangot fought to control himself, and managed to reduce his mirth to an occasional snort. Tears ran down his reddened cheeks.

  'Where have you been?' said Narthur. 'We're gathering here to take on the southerners, and you come to pick a fight with us? You're a fool!'