by Warhammer
Shouting a ragged war cry, the marauder sprang forwards, ripping his axe from the earth. Furiously he brought the blade chopping down, seeking to bury it in Wulfrik’s chest. Contemptuously, Wulfrik side-stepped the attack, his powerful hands locking about the marauder’s arm. The champion’s grip tightened, then he wrenched the marauder’s arm around, breaking it at the elbow.
The surge of pain stunned the marauder. He tried to pull himself free of Wulfrik’s clutch, but the vengeful champion would not be denied. Baring his fangs, the fierce hero grappled with the crippled warrior. Clawing fingers sought the marauder’s face, gouging deep into his eye sockets, blood streaming down the man’s tortured visage. Wulfrik shifted his grip, seizing the sides of the man’s head. A single brutal twist and the marauder’s neck snapped. Wulfrik pushed the coward’s corpse away with revulsion.
‘Put those curs at Sigvatr’s feet and find something to burn,’ Wulfrik told his men.
‘Is that smart?’ Broendulf asked. ‘The dwarfs will see the smoke.’
Wulfrik glared at the huscarl. ‘Sigvatr will be paid the honours due to him if it brings every dwarf and goblin in this damned land upon our heads!’ The champion clenched his fist beneath the fair-faced Sarl’s chin. ‘I’m sure he won’t mind three dogs at his feet.’
Broendulf blanched at the hero’s threat. He had seen his captain take reckless chances before, but always from pride or ambition. He had never seen Wulfrik acting from grief before, never seen such blind fury take hold of the champion. It was something that chilled the huscarl’s bones.
Keeping their misgivings to themselves, the Norscans began gathering dead brush from the base of the cliff to fashion a bier for Sigvatr’s pyre.
The polluted banks of the River Ruin stretched before the weary eyes of the northmen. It had taken them days to recross the desert, hiding from the biggest of the hobgoblin patrols, fighting the smaller ones in order to steal the water and provisions they carried. Not a man among them did not bear some scar from their ordeal. They had dared the Dark Land to destroy them and it very nearly had.
Now, as they saw the foul river and the lonely ship anchored in its filthy morass, a thrill of triumph swept through the men. They had braved a deadly and hostile land, fought horrific foes, overcome overwhelming odds and emerged victorious. Great battles and worthy deeds to thrill the hearts of their kinsmen, to fill the songs of the skalds. Glory to honour their ancestors and earn the esteem of the gods themselves. The men who sailed upon the Seafang paid in blood and suffering for the right to be called heroes, but they knew nothing of worth came easy. As they marched towards the river, their minds turned to the welcome they would receive when they returned to Ormskaro, the feasts that would be held in their honour, the gifts King Viglundr and his jarls would bestow upon them, the lithe maidens eager to invite them into their bowers.
Around him, Wulfrik’s warriors laughed and boasted about what they would do when they returned to Norsca. Their captain did not share in their talk, his mind turned to a scorched patch of desert just beyond the walls of Dronangkul and the blackened bones he had left behind. The dwarfs, it turned out, had not investigated the smoke from Sigvatr’s pyre. Crafty and underhand, the dwarfs had stayed behind their walls, suspecting some subterfuge. They were content to wait for the reinforcements marching towards the stronghold before investigating the fire. Wulfrik had bet the dwarfs would display such caution when he ordered Sigvatr’s pyre lit.
Though gamble or not, Wulfrik would not have done differently. He would not have left Sigvatr’s body behind to be picked over by the hobgoblins and scavenged by their wolves. Death and damnation would have claimed him before he allowed such a miserable end for his friend’s bones.
Bitterly, Wulfrik swatted the skull of King Torgald tied to the hilt of his sword. If he had never made his drunken boasts after killing the king none of this would have come to pass. He would already be wed to Hjordis. He would be a great chief of the Sarls, ready to claim Viglundr’s throne when the king passed. And Sigvatr would still be alive.
Shouts of greeting sounded from the ship as Wulfrik and his surviving warriors drew near. Kaetill leapt down from the deck of the ship, sloshing through the polluted shallows to greet his captain.
‘Gods be praised!’ Kaetill yelled as he drew near the warriors. ‘We thought you were all dead!’
‘Others have made that mistake before,’ Wulfrik growled, stalking past Kaetill. He nodded towards the ship. ‘Is she ready to sail?’
Kaetill hurried after his captain. ‘Yes, we’ve kept her ready since you left. After the tales Stefnir told about the fire dwarfs, we wanted to be ready to leave in a hurry.’ He turned his eyes away and hung his head in shame. ‘We were going to follow the river south. It’s supposed to empty into some sort of sea down there.’
‘It is well for you that you had spine enough to stay,’ Wulfrik said. ‘No man steals my ship and brags about it later.’
‘We thought you were dead,’ Kaetill insisted, his voice turning defensive. He glanced about at the haggard warriors marching behind Wulfrik. ‘Aren’t we going to wait for the rest?’
‘There’s no one else coming,’ Broendulf told him. ‘Victory doesn’t come cheap,’ he added when he saw the shock on Kaetill’s face.
Wulfrik suddenly stopped on the bank of the river, staring up at the Seafang. Spinning around, he seized Kaetill by the throat. ‘Who told you we were dead?’ he demanded.
Kaetill’s trembling hand pointed back at the ship, his finger indicating the same figure Wulfrik had focussed on. ‘The… the shaman…’
Snarling, Wulfrik pushed Kaetill away. Lunging into the water, he trudged through the filth until he reached the Seafang. His fist tightened around the rim of a shield fastened to the hull, using it to lift himself out of the polluted river and onto the deck of his ship. Like his namesake, Wulfrik pounced upon the deck, fangs bared. Steel rasped against leather as he drew his swords. The Norscan crew backed away from their furious captain. Wulfrik didn’t even glance at them, his burning gaze fixed upon the short, white-bearded Kurgan standing beneath the mast.
‘Make peace with your gods, kin-eater,’ Wulfrik snarled at Zarnath.
The shaman raised his hand in a placating gesture, his face betraying no sign of alarm. ‘You survived,’ he said, surprise in his voice. ‘Few men could have.’
‘Few men did,’ Wulfrik spat, stalking towards the Kurgan. ‘Now you’ll join the others.’
Zarnath took a step back. The shaman pulled back his horsehair cape, displaying the charred wreck of his arm. ‘There was nothing to be gained by my staying. The dwarf sorcerer and his beast were too powerful for me. Tell me, would my death have helped you in any way?’
‘It will make me feel a lot better,’ Wulfrik said.
Worry appeared for the first time in the shaman’s eyes, spoiling the affected serenity of his face. He continued to back away from the vengeful champion. ‘You have captured the Smile of Sardiss,’ he said. ‘I can sense that the torc is in your possession. Now I can begin the ritual that will free you of your curse.’
‘No thanks. I can find another warlock to help me.’
A cold smile stretched across Zarnath’s face. The shaman stopped retreating from Wulfrik’s approach. ‘How long do you think that will take, great slayer? Five years? Ten? Will the gods wait while you try to cheat them, or will they demand further offerings? Perhaps so many that you will never have a chance to hunt for a sorcerer with the wisdom to help you.’
Doubt wormed through Wulfrik’s mind. The champion lowered his swords as indecision took hold of him. His thirst for revenge withered before the possibility that Zarnath was right. The shaman’s next words crushed the last embers of Wulfrik’s fury.
‘How long will Hjordis wait for you?’
Angrily, Wulfrik slammed his swords back into their sheaths. His fists clenched in impotent rage. ‘I’ll give you another chance, horse-cutter,’ Wulfrik hissed through clenched teeth. ‘But if you aband
on me in battle again, I’ll feed your flesh to the eels.’
Zarnath’s expression was again serene, a mocking gleam in the blue fires of his eyes. ‘Of course,’ the shaman said. ‘I would be a fool to play false with the great Wulfrik.’ He extended one of his withered hands towards the fuming hero.
Wulfrik shook his head, a cruel laugh whispering past his fangs. ‘I’ll keep the torc with me, Kurgan,’ he said. ‘It’ll make me feel better that way.’
Zarnath shrugged, backing away from the champion. He shifted his attention to the side of the ship, watching as Broendulf and the others clambered over the side. ‘I imagine we will be returning to Ormskaro,’ he said. ‘Preferably before the dwarfs come down on us for their own revenge.’ The shaman nodded at the desert sky. Far in the distance a great shape could be seen hovering, circling over the trail Wulfrik and his men had left behind. To his men, it was just an indistinct blur, but to Wulfrik’s keen gaze, the shape resembled a monstrous winged bull, a metallic gleam shining from its back. It didn’t take Zarnath to tell him the gleam was from the armour of a rider, nor that the winged bull was another of the dwarf’s sinister creatures.
‘To oars!’ Wulfrik bellowed at his men. He drew a knife from his belt, sliding the blade across his palm. ‘We sail for home!’ he shouted as he strode towards the figurehead, blood dripping from his clenched fist.
CHAPTER TEN
The realm between worlds slowly faded away, the ethereal fog surrounding the Seafang vanishing as the longship returned to the world of men. The grey, overcast skies of Norsca were a reassuring sight to the northmen after the fiery skies of the Dark Lands. Many of the men rushed to the sides of the ship, dipping their helms into the cold waters of the fjord, cleansing the muck from the River Ruin from their bodies.
Wulfrik stood at the prow of his ship, his hand resting upon the scaly forehead of the wooden dragon, the jewelled torc clenched in his other fist. He had risked much and lost much to secure the relic. The pain of losing Sigvatr was a scar that would be a long time in healing. He was determined that his friend’s sacrifice would not be in vain.
Gazing out across the icy waters of the fjord, Wulfrik could see the streets of Ormskaro climbing up the slope. He noted with perplexity the snow covering the roofs, the boats pulled up along the shore. He had experienced the hazards of voyaging into the border-realm before, never certain where or when the Seafang would return to the world of mortals.
The only constant was Ormskaro. Always he could lead the ship back to the one place he might call home. Sigvatr had once told him that the heart was a better compass to a man’s needs than his mind. Wulfrik felt the old warrior had been right. His love for Hjordis was stronger than the malicious trickery of the border-realm. It was a beacon that guided the Seafang unerringly through the daemon seas, bringing her safely home again.
Hjordis! How long had he been away? How much time had the border-realm stolen from him on this voyage? Was it only weeks they had been gone? Months? Years?
Wulfrik shuddered at the possibility. Viglundr would not have been idle in his absence. The king sought alliance with the Aeslings. Without the threat of Wulfrik’s fury to restrain him, Viglundr would have already married Hjordis off to the Aesling prince Sveinbjorn. Every day he was away from Norsca would have emboldened Viglundr, made the king wonder if the troublesome hero would ever return.
His fist tightened about the relic he held, the rubies digging into his fingers. He would not be cheated by the scheming old king! It was for Hjordis he had led the Sarls into battle against Torgald and brought down upon himself the curse of the gods! It was for Hjordis he had followed Zarnath’s lead and made the journey into the Dark Lands! It was for Hjordis he had led Sigvatr to his death! King or no, Viglundr would suffer if he tried to cheat him now!
Wulfrik’s nostrils flared as a rich, savoury smell was blown across the Seafang’s decks. It was the smell of roasting steer, the scent of boiling seal, the aroma of cooked mutton. There was a sound borne upon the wind, the distant bellow of horns, the clamour of drums.
‘There are banners flying from the tower!’ Jokull called down from his perch atop the Seafang’s mast. ‘I see the standards of Aeslings!’
The news brought a murmur of alarm among the crew. Their thoughts were of invasion and conquest. Wulfrik, however, knew better. ‘Do they fly alone, or with the banners of the Sarls?’ He felt pain flare through his heart when Jokull told him the flags of the Sarls were displayed beside those of the Aeslings. He glared at the distant slopes of the fjord, cursing Viglundr under his breath. Turning his back on Ormskaro, he marched along the ship’s deck, barking orders to his crew, commanding them to make ready the storm sails.
Wulfrik strode to where Zarnath sat with his back against the oaken kerling supporting the ship’s mast. The shaman looked up when he sensed the champion staring down at him. As soon as he did so, Wulfrik grabbed him by the front of his tunic, lifting him to his feet.
‘Whistle me up a wind with your magic, Kurgan,’ the champion growled. Zarnath tried to pull free of his clutch but Wulfrik only tightened his grip. ‘Wind, witch-man!’ he snarled. ‘Speed this ship back to Ormskaro or the eels feed well this night!’
Submissively, Zarnath nodded his head. He could feel the rage in Wulfrik’s grip, hear the fury in his voice, see the barely restrained violence in his eyes. No words would be enough to reason with the man. To even try would be to risk a sudden and brutal death.
The shaman walked to the stern of the ship, facing towards the mast where the northmen made fast the sturdy woollen storm sail. He could feel Wulfrik’s impatient eyes upon him. Zarnath shuddered under his horsehair cape. It was an effort to focus his thoughts upon his magic, even more of an effort to wait until the crew had secured the sail.
Zarnath’s arms spread wide, blue fire flaring from his eyes. Thunder rumbled through the darkened clouds, lightning flashed about the distant mountains. An icy shower rained down upon the Seafang’s decks. The shaman drew a deep breath, sucking the frigid air into his lungs. Those watching him thought his body must burst from the air being drawn into it, yet still the shaman persisted.
At last, Zarnath released the breath he had taken, expelling it in a gagging cough. As he did so, a great gale rushed down upon the longship. The storm sail snapped in the sudden wind, propelling the Seafang across the fjord like a loosened arrow. Some of the marauders clung to their benches, hiding their faces in fear. Others shouted and laughed, revelling in the speed of their vessel.
Wulfrik neither hid nor laughed. Standing again in the bow of the ship, his hand upon the dragon’s brow, the hero’s eyes fixed upon the stone tower rising above Ormskaro.
The great hall of Ormfell was filled with the laughter of a celebratory throng. Skalds played upon their whale-bone harps, singing of the great deeds of Ormnir and the kings of the Aeslings. Freeholders feasted upon platters of steaming meat borne through the hall by southling thralls. Drunken jarls shouted bold boasts about their great deeds, testing their strength against one another by splintering wooden shields with their fists.
Seated within the carved jaws of Shipcracker, King Viglundr nuzzled the neck of a semi-clad Graeling thrall, his body shaking with a lewd chuckle as he spilled Bretonnian wine across her breast. The Sarl king glanced aside at the ivory seat set beside his throne, scowling as he noted the miserable face his daughter wore. ‘This feast is to celebrate your betrothal,’ Viglundr told her. ‘Try to enjoy yourself.’
Hjordis glared back at her father. ‘I enjoyed myself the last time I was betrothed. You remember, Father, when you promised me to Wulfrik. He brought you the head of that animal Torgald…’
Viglundr dashed his drinking horn to the floor, kicking the slave-girl from his knee. ‘You’ll not speak of that again!’ the king warned, wagging his finger at the princess. ‘We have more to gain with the Aeslings as our friends than we ever could with them as enemies.’
‘You have more to gain,’ Hjordis said acidly. ‘What do
I gain? A husband I do not love, a scheming coward who lets others do his fighting for him?’ Her pretty face pulled back in a sneer. She turned her head and looked across the hall to where Sveinbjorn and his retainers were huddled around a wicker cage, wagering on the outcome of a fight between weasel and fox. The groom’s arm was wrapped about the waist of a buxom thrall, ignorant of the mead spilling from his drinking horn. ‘I can see why you favour him. You have so much in common.’
The king’s fingers seized Hjordis’s chin, digging cruelly into her soft skin, bending her neck back. Viglundr’s mouth curled in a sneer. ‘It is enough that I do favour Sveinbjorn!’ he hissed. ‘I am your king and you will obey me! I’ve indulged your insolence long enough. You will marry Sveinbjorn and cement my alliance with the Aeslings.’
Hjordis struggled free of her father’s clutch. ‘You would not dare this if Wulfrik were here,’ she hissed, fury in her eyes.
Viglundr leaned back and smiled condescendingly at his daughter. ‘He’s dead,’ the king declared, his voice devoid of sympathy. ‘Dead and rotting in whatever hell that Kurgan led him into.’ He snapped his fingers, waving a thrall to bring him more wine. ‘For six turns of the moons there has been no sign of him or his ship.’ Viglundr’s smile grew more genuine as he took a silver-capped horn from the slave. Tilting his head, he took a long swallow of wine. ‘Dead,’ he repeated, wiping the spillage from around his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Like all those who try to defy their gods and their kings!’
Beside him, Hjordis bowed her head, hiding her face as tears welled up in her eyes. For an instant, the king smiled, feeling a sense of satisfaction that he had finally broken the headstrong will of an unruly subject. The smile quickly faded as the concerned father stepped down from his throne and placed his arms around his sobbing daughter.
‘I want what is best for you and our people,’ Viglundr told her. ‘You must forget him. He isn’t coming back. In time you will warm to Sveinbjorn. He is a great chief among the Aeslings and will give you many fine sons.’ The king’s rough hands wiped away the tears on Hjordis’s cheeks. ‘In time you will forget about that vagabond reaver Wulfrik,’ he said, his voice soft with compassion.