Warriors of the Chaos Wastes - C L Werner

by Warhammer

  Loud shouts sounded from the entrance of the hall. Viglundr turned to see what the commotion was, promising dire punishments for whichever drunken oafs had started the row. He began to shout for his bondsmen to break up the fight, then noticed that it was his guards at the heart of the disturbance. The king stared in shock as one of his warriors staggered back, his forehead split open. A second crashed to the floor, bleeding from a deep gash in his side.

  Colour drained from Viglundr’s face when he saw a furious figure stride past the battered guards. The armoured apparition’s eyes scoured the hall with an ire that would have frightened a dragon. Laughter and song died as the revellers became aware of the invader. Horrified gasps rippled around the room as the people of Ormskaro recognised a man their king told them was dead.

  The man returned his bloodied sword to its sheath. Angrily he reached over his head, seizing the garland of holly fastened to the archway above the door. With a savage jerk he ripped the garland and the iron nail fastening it from the stone. Contemptuously he threw it to the floor and crushed it beneath his feet as he marched past the stunned celebrants.

  ‘Wulfrik!’ Hjordis cried. Springing to her feet, she pulled away from her father and raced across the now-silent hall. She flung herself into the arms of the returned hero, pressing her lips against his.

  The champion forgot his anger for the moment, crushing his love against his chest, returning her kisses with unrestrained passion.

  ‘That is my bride you hold,’ a voice snarled.

  Wulfrik released Hjordis, turning towards the speaker. His lips pulled back in a feral snarl as for the first time he noticed Sveinbjorn. ‘Your bride?’ the champion growled. He pushed Hjordis behind him and raised his blood-stained sword. His eyes shifted from the Aesling prince, watching as Sveinbjorn’s hersirs began to draw axes from their belts, fanning out across the hall to surround Wulfrik. ‘You are a fool if you think to steal from me, born-of-pigs!’ the champion spat. He fixed each of the prowling hersirs with his smouldering gaze. ‘And I’ll send these other fools to attend you in hell if they are idiot enough to stand beside you!’

  The Aesling hersirs snarled in anger as they heard Wulfrik’s mocking contempt for them. Glaring at the hero, the lordlings spread across the hall, their attention riveted on the defiant hero. Sveinbjorn smirked as he watched his men surround Wulfrik.

  ‘The princess is mine, god-cursed vagabond!’ Sveinbjorn shouted. Slowly he drew his own axe from his belt. ‘You will beg me for mercy before I finish with you.’

  A loud clamour at the entrance of the great hall made Sveinbjorn glance away from Wulfrik. A nervous twinge came to the Aesling’s lip when he saw Broendulf standing in the entrance, banging his sword against the boss of a shield. Behind the huscarl was the rest of the Seafang’s crew, weapons clenched in their fists. Sveinbjorn’s hersirs were taken by surprise, muttering anxiously among themselves as they moved away from Wulfrik and slunk back to their prince’s side.

  ‘No stomach for a fair fight?’ Wulfrik scoffed, watching as the Aeslings retreated from the advance of his own men. Sveinbjorn’s bravado faltered as Wulfrik took a step towards him. ‘Let’s see how much stomach you have,’ the hero said, pointing his blade at the prince.

  ‘Enough!’ Viglundr’s outraged roar echoed through the hall. ‘Sveinbjorn is a guest of this court! You will answer if any hurt is done him!’

  ‘Calm yourself, old man,’ Wulfrik advised the fuming king. ‘I’ve won one war for you. I can win another just as easily.’

  Sveinbjorn backed away as the champion continued to advance. ‘I will not cross steel with a common scoundrel,’ the prince declared.

  ‘Then I’ll butcher you like the swine you are,’ Wulfrik grinned. ‘It makes no difference to me.’

  Viglundr stormed down from his throne, his face crimson with rage. The king shook his fists at Wulfrik. ‘I said Sveinbjorn is my guest! You will not touch him!’

  Wulfrik snarled at the king. ‘Do not think I’ll forgive your part in this treachery, dog-licker,’ the champion hissed. ‘When I am finished with Sveinbjorn…’ The hero’s words died on his lips as he felt soft fingers close over his own. When he looked into Hjordis’s eyes, he could see the entreaty written there. Whatever else he was, whatever he had tried to do, Viglundr was still her father.

  Slamming his sword back into its sheath, Wulfrik took Hjordis by the hand and led her from the hall. ‘Thank your daughter you still breathe, old man,’ he told Viglundr as he stalked away. ‘I suggest you bid your guests farewell. If I see an Aesling on the morrow, I’ll strike him down, be he swineherd or swine-born.’

  Caring nothing for the displeasure of the king or his court, Wulfrik carried Hjordis back to her chambers. His blood afire from the treachery of Viglundr, it was long into the night before fatigue quieted his passion and he sank down upon the bearskin blanket. Weariness gripped his body, but sleep refused to come to him. His mind dwelled upon the way Viglundr had tried to cheat him. Despite Hjordis, Wulfrik knew the king must pay for his trickery. Once the curse was lifted from him, once Hjordis was his, he would give the king a choice: renounce the crown or try to keep it. He hoped the old man would be stupid enough to try.

  Wulfrik flinched as fingers brushed against his cheek, running through his thick beard. He rolled onto his side, staring into the bright eyes of his beloved. His callused hand smoothed her tousled hair away from her face.

  ‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ Hjordis whispered.

  The man beside her laughed. ‘Peace, woman. I need my strength. I may yet have to kill your betrothed tomorrow.’

  The comment brought worry creeping onto the princess’s face. Her hand fell against Wulfrik’s chest, pressing against his heart. ‘You… you wouldn’t really have…’

  The hero’s eyes grew hard. ‘Viglundr tried to keep you from me,’ he said. ‘I’d kill anyone who dared try to come between us, be they king or devil.’ His fingers stroked the lobe of Hjordis’s tiny ear. ‘I have fame and glory enough for a hundred heroes, riches that would make a dragon content, but there’s only one thing in this world I want.’

  Hjordis drew away, leaning back among the pillows. ‘You were gone so very long,’ she repeated. ‘Every day when you were away, my father pressed me to marry Sveinbjorn. At first he tried to reason with me, then he tried to bribe me, then he pleaded. Finally he threatened. Every day he told me you would never be back, that the gods had taken their revenge. I tried to dismiss his words, tried to keep hope alive. But every day it died a little more inside me. Every day my father’s words crept a little closer to my heart…’

  ‘He’ll pay,’ Wulfrik promised.

  ‘He is still my father,’ Hjordis reminded him, fear in her voice.

  ‘And that is the only reason he is still alive,’ Wulfrik said. The warrior shook his head. ‘I know too well what it is to cling to hope when all others tell you there is none. It is a pain that cuts deeper than any sword, a wound that never heals.’ He smiled reassuringly at Hjordis. ‘Until that day when all the naysayers are proven wrong, when the hope you have held so long finally bears fruit.’

  The northman rolled across the bed, rummaging through the pile of cast-off armour lying heaped upon the floor. From the heap he lifted the jewelled torc, holding it out so that Hjordis could see the shimmer of the chained rubies.

  ‘This is what I was gone so long to win,’ Wulfrik told her. ‘Not the head of some southling baron or the heart of some beastkin warlord. This isn’t for the gods. This is for me. For us. The Kurgan knows a way to lift my curse. This necklace is the key he needs to work his magic.’

  Eyes wide with wonder, her face glowing with excitement, Hjordis reached for Wulfrik’s hand. Her fingers closed tight around the torc, as though to assure herself it was real. ‘Can this really set us free?’ she gasped, almost frightened to even think about such a thing.

  ‘The Kurgan says it will,’ Wulfrik assured her. ‘He knows what will happen to him if he is wrong.’
>
  Hjordis hugged the warrior, resting her head against his chest. ‘Then it is all over,’ she said. ‘At last, it is really all over.’

  ‘As soon as the shaman performs the ritual,’ Wulfrik nodded. ‘Then let Viglundr try to keep us apart.’

  The woman drew back in alarm. ‘He will try,’ she said. ‘His mind has set itself upon alliance with the Aeslings. It has become an obsession for him.’

  Wulfrik bared his fangs as he heard her warning. ‘I’ll let no man take you away from me,’ he said again. ‘If your father thinks I will stand aside and watch another man lay his hands on you…’ The warrior’s voice quivered with rage. ‘I am the only one who will have you.’

  ‘You must be careful,’ Hjordis advised, pressing her fingers against his lips. ‘There is nothing my father would not try to get his way.’

  ‘I’ve already killed one king,’ Wulfrik muttered. ‘Viglundr would be wise to remember that.’

  ‘For the Lord of the Winds, the last breath is given!’

  Wulfrik awoke with a start, the voice of his dream thundering through his mind. Again he had seen the apocalyptic vision of a southling town wreathed in fire, its streets littered with the dead. Again he had seen his own body, his chest rent open, his heart lying trampled in the gutter.

  Cautiously, he rose from the bed, careful not to disturb Hjordis. Quietly, Wulfrik drew on his armour and stole across the chamber. He did not look back, did not see the princess watching him, her eyes filled with concern.

  The hero slipped past the iron-banded door, out into the corridor. Alarm flashed across his face as he observed an armoured figure leaning against the wall, his hand closing about his sword. Recognition made him hesitate, his brow wrinkling in confusion as he found himself staring at Broendulf.

  ‘I thought it best if someone kept watch outside,’ Broendulf explained. ‘You seemed a bit too preoccupied to notice, but you made a few people angry at the feast.’

  ‘Did any of them try to pay a call while I was asleep?’ Wulfrik asked.

  ‘A few,’ Broendulf answered. ‘I told them you weren’t receiving.’

  For the first time Wulfrik noticed the red stains on Broendulf’s sword and armour. He nodded appreciatively. ‘Anyone I should know about?’

  ‘Zarnath, for one,’ Broendulf told him. ‘The Kurgan wants us to get a new crew together. He says he can’t perform the ritual here and needs the Seafang to take him to “a place of power”, whatever that means.’

  ‘Have Arngeirr begin recruiting men,’ Wulfrik said, cursing under his breath. ‘No time to bother about the Wolf Forest. Any warrior with a stout heart and a strong back will do – provided they aren’t Aeslings,’ he added. There was more he would have liked to say, but he would save it for when he saw the shaman. This close to being free from his curse he wouldn’t stand for any more of Zarnath’s surprises.

  ‘About the Wolf Forest,’ Broendulf said. ‘There was a messenger from Sveinbjorn. He says the prince will await you there, to settle for once who has the stronger claim on Hjordis.’

  Wulfrik smiled when Broendulf gave him the message. ‘Sveinbjorn is a bigger fool than I thought. Who does he think built the Wolf Forest? All he’s done is make certain I’ll kill him!’ The champion yawned and stretched his powerful arms. ‘First to see what’s left over from the feast,’ he said, clapping Broendulf on the shoulder. ‘Then off to settle with Sveinbjorn. Then to talk with Zarnath about this voyage he’s decided we need to make.’ He shook his head, cursing again. ‘A full morning all round.’

  Broendulf watched Wulfrik stalk off down the corridor, his very steps seeming to shake with anger. The huscarl considered that he would not have traded places with Sveinbjorn for all the sand in Araby.

  The door beside him suddenly creaked open, startling Broendulf. He spun around to find Hjordis, staring down the hall, watching until Wulfrik disappeared around the corner. Only then did she become aware of the fair-faced huscarl standing beside her. Colour rose to her cheeks and her hands tightened about the bearskin blanket she had wrapped around her body.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

  ‘I was standing guard at your door,’ Broendulf answered. ‘I wanted to be sure you were protected.’

  ‘I assure you I was,’ Hjordis said.

  ‘I wanted to be sure, just the same,’ the huscarl explained. ‘Wulfrik is a mighty warrior, but he forgets himself in battle. He’s reckless with the lives of others.’

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me about his prowess,’ the princess said, her voice sharp as a lash.

  ‘No good will come to you from him,’ Broendulf told her. ‘There’s a terrible doom hanging over his head. One he can’t escape.’

  ‘He will escape it,’ Hjordis said. ‘He will escape it because he is Wulfrik and neither men nor gods will stand in his way. Who are you to question what he can or can’t do? Some snippet of a bondsman cast out from my father’s service?’ Understanding suddenly came into the woman’s eyes and she retreated across the threshold of her room, keeping the half-open door between herself and Broendulf. ‘Is that it? Did he send you here to try and twist my mind against Wulfrik? What did he promise you for betraying your captain?’

  ‘There’s only one thing he could offer me,’ Broendulf said. ‘And he’s already promised that to someone else.’ The huscarl reached towards Hjordis. The princess drew back, slamming the door in his face.

  ‘Go away, Broendulf,’ Hjordis’s voice scolded him from behind the door. ‘If I told Wulfrik about this, he would kill you.’

  Broendulf put his hand against the closed door. ‘It might be better that way,’ he said, sadness in his voice.

  ‘Go away, Broendulf,’ Hjordis repeated. ‘I’ll forget what you’ve said, only go.’

  The dejected huscarl turned away from the door. He was under no illusion that he could ever claim Hjordis for his own. The pain of his unspoken love was what had driven him to abandon his post as captain of Viglundr’s guard. He had hoped he would find a worthy death joining the crew of the Seafang, that by helping to protect the man Hjordis loved he could somehow, in some strange way, earn her affection.

  Now he saw how foolish he had been. He had seen how Wulfrik’s curse had hurt Hjordis, but now he saw that even without his strange doom, the man could only bring her suffering. Her father would never allow them to know peace and Wulfrik was too proud to ever compromise. He was a warrior and would never be anything else.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Bloodfield was lost beneath a thick layer of snow when Wulfrik made his way to the training ground. How different it looked from the last time he had been here. The tables where the people of Ormskaro had feasted were all but buried beneath the snow. He could just see the carved headrest of King Viglundr’s seat poking through the crust. Somewhere under that white veil was where he had first been approached by Zarnath and heard the shaman’s claim that he could lift the curse.

  Sigvatr had been beside him then, counselling him against listening to the Kurgan. Had he known his old friend would die in capturing the treasure Zarnath needed, Wulfrik wondered if even his love for Hjordis would have been enough to drive him on. The hero nodded grimly to himself.

  Yes, he would have. There was nothing he would not give to free himself from his curse, to end the endless voyages that kept him from his love. Since the gods had visited their punishment upon him, he had been like a dead thing, existing but not truly alive, his heart yearning for the things his curse denied him. A chance to live again, that was worth any risk, any sacrifice.

  Wulfrik stared across the snow-covered plateau. He saw the raised platforms and the nest of poles that formed the Wolf Forest poking up through the snow. The deadly spikes were hidden, buried under the crust, but Wulfrik knew they would bite just as keenly unseen. The hero grimaced, a thrill of fear running down his spine. One last battle before Zarnath lifted the curse from him. It would suit the malignant humour of the gods to let him die now when he was so close
to escape. His spirit would be damned, a plaything for daemons to torment until the world’s ending when all was devoured by the Blood God’s hunger.

  The hero forced himself to forget such thoughts. Fear would give Sveinbjorn an advantage, perhaps the only one the Aesling needed. He had to concentrate on the fight before him, not the release he would soon obtain.

  Sveinbjorn and his hersirs were gathered at the far side of the Wolf Forest, almost twenty in number. The Aeslings had donned heavy cloaks against the cold, but Wulfrik knew they would be wearing armour beneath their furs. Sveinbjorn’s men had come dressed for battle this time. Wulfrik grinned fiercely. If it was battle the Aeslings wanted, battle they would have. He turned his head and glanced at the weathered warriors following behind him. He had brought nearly his entire crew with him to the Bloodfield. No more fearsome a body of men existed in Norsca than the bold reavers who sailed upon the Seafang; each of his warriors was worth two of Sveinbjorn’s. If the prince planned treachery, then he had brought too few to succeed.

  Of course, the Aesling had other resources available to him. Standing only a little distance from Sveinbjorn and his hersirs was Viglundr and a dozen of his jarls and bondsmen. Like the Aeslings, they had put on their armour, axes and swords hanging loose beneath their belts. More disturbing to Wulfrik was the sight of a wizened old Sarl clad in sharkskin vestments. His face framed by the open jaws of the shark-head hood, the elder stared at Wulfrik with the single amber eye that gleamed at the centre of his forehead. This was Rundulfr, Ormfell’s seer. Wulfrik felt his skin crawl as the mystic’s cyclopean eye studied him. Had he come to ensure the fight would be fought fairly and according to tradition, or had Viglundr brought the seer so that his magic might sway the outcome? Wulfrik found himself wishing he had brought Zarnath with him to counter whatever spells Rundulfr might evoke. The hero bared his fangs in a grim smile.