Warriors of the Chaos Wastes - C L Werner

by Warhammer

  ‘Perhaps you have already succeeded,’ Agnarr said. The seer turned and shook his staff at the imprisoned daemon until it was quiet. Then he unerringly picked his way to a mouldy pillow with tattered bits of lace clinging to it – some gift he’d received from another seafaring reaver long ago.

  ‘Who could have called upon you the eye of the gods, if it was not you yourself?’ the seer continued.

  ‘That isn’t the life I want!’ Wulfrik snarled.

  Agnarr fixed his sightless eyes upon Wulfrik. ‘It is the life you have made for yourself. Few men would be resourceful enough to outwit the gods. Few would have been strong enough to survive their challenges. The name of Wulfrik has spread to all the steads of Norsca, his fame has been recorded in the sagas.’

  ‘To hell with fame and glory!’ Wulfrik smashed his fist against the floor. ‘I want my life back!’

  ‘Why?’ Agnarr asked, genuine bewilderment in his voice. ‘You have achieved what mighty lords squander armies and slaughter nations to win for themselves. The gods gaze down upon you! Your flesh bears the mark of their favour! You have been gifted to serve them as few mortals may ever hope!’

  Wulfrik bared his fangs at the blind man. ‘The last prophet who told me this curse was a gift spent a long time dying,’ he warned.

  ‘And how long will you take to die?’ Agnarr’s question lashed out at the hero. ‘How long will you fight against the will of the gods, and to what end? To marry some wench, sire a clutch of offspring.’ The seer chuckled darkly. ‘Perhaps steal her father’s throne? Bah! What are women and offspring and thrones? Dust and less than dust!’ He wagged one of his withered fingers at Wulfrik. ‘The gifts of the gods, these are the rewards a man keeps forever. The rewards of love and greed and ambition, these rot with a man in his grave.’

  ‘I want them just the same,’ Wulfrik growled. ‘I did not seek this curse…’

  Agnarr nodded his head. ‘Yet it found you just the same. Sometimes the feet walk a path the head does not know.’

  Wulfrik rose from the pile of wolf-skins. ‘I did not come here to be told to accept my doom.’

  Agnarr waved his hands at the champion, motioning for him to sit down. ‘You came so that I might interpret your vision.’

  ‘Seldom has one come upon me so soon after a voyage,’ Wulfrik said. He made no effort to hide the anxiety he felt. ‘Is… is this… how they are… to be… now?’ The thought was horrible to him, that he would sail the world for the rest of his days, moving from one hunt to another, without rest or respite.

  ‘I cannot say,’ the seer admitted with a shake of his head. ‘I can only try to discern the will of the gods from your vision.’

  ‘I saw myself among the dead,’ Wulfrik shuddered. It was not the idea of death that frightened him, but the awful fate that would await him in the world beyond.

  ‘Through our lives, we are all of us many men,’ Agnarr told him. ‘Sometimes the gods conspire to destroy one of these selves without killing the body. When that happens, a new self arises to command the flesh.’ The seer tapped his bony chest. ‘Sometimes it is in a man’s power to destroy his self on his own.

  ‘For the rest of your vision, I can say little,’ the seer said. ‘The signs are clear enough. The offering the gods have chosen is to be offered to Great Tchar, the Raven God. That you will find the sacrifice in the lands of the southlings is obvious too.’

  ‘But who?’ Wulfrik demanded. ‘Where? The Empire of the southlings is a vast land to stalk nameless prey.’

  Agnarr lifted his hands to his eyes, rubbing at the corners of their sockets. ‘I do not know. There is something wrong. Before your visions have been as clear to me as if I had had them myself. This time is different. It is like trying to peer through a thick fog. Shapes and shadows are there, but more I cannot see. But a place once seen, why must it have a name to be found?’

  Wulfrik scowled at the seer’s inability to tell him more. Irritably, he snapped a gold band from around his arm and tossed it onto the floor beside Agnarr’s feet. ‘I always come here looking for answers, but I always leave with more questions than I came with.’

  ‘That is because you do not like the answers you are given,’ Agnarr scolded him. ‘The gods answer every prayer, but few are wise enough to understand when the answer is “no”. You might ponder that.’

  ‘I’d rather find a barrel of mead and a plateful of roast horse,’ the champion confessed.

  ‘Then I wish you good appetite,’ Agnarr said. ‘Remember your dream, and listen to it. Otherwise I fear we shall not speak again.’

  Wulfrik had been shoving aside the tangles of dried eels and withered herbs on his way from the seer’s hut. Now he froze, a chill running down his spine. He spun about, tearing his way through the maze of oddments. ‘What did you say, ghost-caller? What do you mean?’

  ‘More questions when you’ve been given answers,’ Agnarr’s croaking voice laughed.

  Wulfrik fought his way towards the voice, anger swelling up inside him. Savagely he tore strings of sea shells and eagle eyes from the ceiling. Then the hair rose on his arms as his hand connected with the bony curve of the shack’s outer wall. He was certain he had retraced his path exactly, yet he’d reached the far side of the shack without passing through the opening at the centre. He turned about, still able to see the blue light of the fire.

  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 enemy, 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 v
ertigo 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.