by Warhammer
‘So passes the next king of Ormskaro,’ Wulfrik said. ‘We will take his body back to the halls of his fathers and let them know of the passing of Sveinbjorn Snakebelly.
‘And then there will be war.’
Silence reigned in the darkened halls of Ormfell. Whispers of war were on the wind, rumours of rebellion among the jarls and thanes. No more did the walls of the tower echo with the laughter of midnight feasts, the song of harper and skald. A pall had descended upon Ormskaro, the darkest it had known since the death of King Torgald.
Viglundr sat alone in his empty council chamber, sullenly drinking a goblet of Bretonnian wine. With his most trusted jarls breaking faith with him, forming alliances among themselves to crown a new king, Viglundr was suspicious of his own huscarls. He would not end his days because of a twilight visitation and a cup of molten lead poured down his ear. If the Sarls wanted a new king, then they would fight the old one to do it.
Viglundr sloshed the wine around in his cup, staring sourly at the rich red liquid. Jackals! Vultures! The upstart chieftains thought Ormskaro was weak, thought this was their chance to slake their own ambitions. They knew many of Viglundr’s warriors had sailed away with Sveinbjorn and Wulfrik.
They would learn! When the fleet returned, its holds stuffed with treasure, Viglundr would be the wealthiest king in Norsca. He would hire armies to put down the rebellious chiefs, he would have sorcerers wither their lands and trolls devour their herds! Their children would be cast in chains and sold to the Kurgans! He would make of them an example that would horrify…
A shadow fell upon Viglundr’s throne, stirring the king from his thoughts. He looked up in fright, his hand reaching for the sword at his side. All thought of fight vanished when he saw something fall to the floor at his feet. Viglundr gazed in open-mouthed horror at the decapitated head of Sveinbjorn, the features battered and swollen by poison.
‘I brought your son-in-law back to you,’ Wulfrik told the king as he stepped out from the shadows. ‘Somebody put a snake in his belly.’
Viglundr continued to stare into Sveinbjorn’s cold features. ‘What have you done?’ the king gasped.
Wulfrik took another step towards the throne, an icy smile on his scarred face. ‘He had some idea of stealing my ship as well as my woman. I had some ideas of my own about that. I left the rest of the ships in the Empire to fare as they will. If the gods are kind, a few of them might make it back to Ormskaro in a year.’
The king reeled at Wulfrik’s words, staggering back, collapsing against the foot of his throne, his sword clattering to the floor. Sveinbjorn dead meant war with the Aeslings, and just when his own chieftains were giving him trouble. Loss of the fleet would bring those tribes that had sent ships on the voyage seeking wergild for them, at a time when Viglundr would need every ounce of silver to hire mercenaries.
‘They’re saying Sveinbjorn took control of the Seafang and it was he who cut the chains and abandoned the fleet. They say he even betrayed them to the southlings,’ Wulfrik said. ‘Of course, they say that only after my crew had told them that was what happened. The Aeslings will, of course, insist the treachery was your idea.’
Viglundr raised a trembling hand to his forehead. ‘You have brought ruin to Ormskaro,’ he croaked. ‘The tribes will descend upon my city like vengeful wolves.’
‘It will be amusing to see who comes for your blood first,’ agreed Wulfrik.
Viglundr lifted himself to his feet, supporting his shivering body by leaning against the side of his throne. ‘You have made your point,’ he told the hero. ‘Everything I hold I owe to your sword. You defeated King Torgald. You made everything possible. I accept that. I was wrong to try to cheat you.’
‘I fought one war for you,’ Wulfrik said, turning to walk away. ‘That was when I didn’t know better.’
‘Wait!’ pleaded the king. ‘You can’t forget Hjordis! If my city suffers, then she will suffer! Help me, and she is yours!’
Wulfrik’s eyes were empty, like those of a dead thing, when he turned and stared back at Viglundr. ‘Pray to the gods, king,’ the hero said. ‘You have nothing left to offer me.’
The marauder didn’t tarry to listen to Viglundr’s increasingly desperate cries. The king was already a dead man, but before he went slinking into the halls of his ancestors, he would see everything he had built, that his fathers had built, come crashing down. Ormskaro would burn. It would make such a bonfire as to blind the gods themselves.
A one-eyed raven circled the Seafang as Wulfrik’s longship slipped through the fjord of Ormskaro for the last time. The crew sat with sombre faces upon their benches, not a man among them daring to make a sound.
In the bow of the ship, Wulfrik stood, his hair whipping about him in the wind. He held a bundle of bloodied silk in his hands, his face raised to the sky, his keen eyes peering at the dark clouds, trying to see the visages of his gods. The champion’s eyes were devoid of warmth, as icy as when he had last gazed upon Viglundr.
Slowly, he reached into the makeshift bundle, lifting from within a gory strip of flesh.
‘To Khorne, the face I would have kissed,’ Wulfrik called out, his solemn words rolling across the waves. He flung the tatter of soft pale skin into the sea and reached into the bundle for another offering.
‘To Slaanesh, the heart I would have cherished. To Nurgle the belly I would have filled with sons and daughters.’
As he made each offering, Wulfrik cast another ghastly prize into the sea. Finally the bag was empty. Slowly, reluctantly, the chieftain removed a lock of golden hair from his belt. He stared sadly at it for a time, then cast it into the sea to join the other offerings.
‘To Tzeentch, the last hope of love,’ he said, feeling the bitter pain of his loss pulsing through his body.
Wulfrik stared out across the sea, watching the horizon where dark clouds met darker waters. He could feel the might of his gods. Everything he had suffered would have come to him even without the curse. Viglundr would still have stolen Hjordis from him, gifting her to that Aesling pig Sveinbjorn. His love would still have been betrayed and defiled, the stink of another man on her flesh, the taste of another man on her lips.
What he had thought a curse had in fact been a blessing. Because of the curse, he had been given the tools to destroy his betrayers. Without the power of the Seafang he would never have been able to tempt and trap wily schemers like Viglundr and Sveinbjorn. Without the fame and glory of being the Worldwalker, he would never have gained the loyalty of men like Njarvord and Arngeirr, Jokull and Skafhogg. Without the lies of Zarnath, the pieces would never have come together.
The gods had helped him, now Wulfrik would serve them. There would be no more attempts to escape his doom. He would sail the Great Western Ocean and the fog between worlds and he would strike down the sacrifices demanded of him by the gods.
Overhead, the raven cawed, gradually turning in its flight, soaring back towards the icy mountains of Norsca.
Its work was done.
The gods had their champion now and for all eternity.
PALACE OF THE PLAGUE LORD
CHAPTER ONE
Pain. It was more than a word, more than a sensation. It was existence itself, the entirety of Einarr’s world: day upon day, night upon night of red, searing pain. There were moments of brief respite, when even the Norscan’s formidable endurance would break beneath the unremitting torment. At such times, his awareness faded into black, merciful nothingness, fleeing before the kiss of flame and lash. But there was no lasting retreat from his tormentors.
Whether his stupor lasted an hour or a day, Einarr could not tell, but always they were there to drag him back into his agonised flesh, to begin his torture anew. A weaker man might have cried out to the gods, begging them for deliverance or death. Einarr was not such a man. Pain was the price of failure and weakness; the terrible gods of the north had no pity for that which was weak. Better to die with the pride and honour befitting a warrior of the Baersonlings and de
ny his tormentors the victory of seeing him crawl.
Einarr should have died in the ambush, found a death worthy of a Norscan on the battlefield, his axe red and his enemies scattered about his feet, but such an end had not been the capricious whim of the gods. Instead he had been rendered insensible by a strike against his skull and fallen alive into the hands of his foe. It was as ignoble a doom as any son of Vinnskor could dread. To fall into the hands of the Aeslings was more terrible still.
Through the red fog of his misery, memory came flooding back into the reaver’s troubled mind…
The chill half-light of the afternoon cast long shadows across the forest path. The long days of summer were gone and the icy lands of Norsca were now falling under the frozen darkness of winter. The sun was nothing more than a fiery glow smouldering just beneath the horizon. Even in midday, the stars stood bright in the darkling sky, lending their distant brilliance to the half-hearted struggle against the unyielding twilight.
The sighing wind and the drip of melting snow surrounded the winding hunters’ trail. Only in the hours of midday were the sun’s rays powerful enough to warm the land even slightly above freezing. The morning frost and the evening snow splashed from the white-shrouded branches of the tall pines while the trees themselves groaned and cracked as the frozen sap within them started to thaw.
All but the hardiest, most savage of birds and beasts abandoned the forests and mountains of Norsca when winter unsheathed its frozen claws, hiding within their burrows and lairs or retreating into the warmer environs of Kislev and the south. The pine forests were all but stripped of life, only the hungry wolf and the stubborn musk ox still braving the snow-swept terrain.
But it was neither wolf nor ox that prowled along the forest path. Tall, hulking shapes, their powerful frames wrapped in furs and encased in armour of leather and bronze, marched beneath the frozen trees. The flash of steel gleamed from the axes clenched in their brawny fists and upon the weather-beaten face beneath each iron helm was chiselled a scowl of ferocious hate and livid rage. The pale eyes of the Norscans only partially focused upon their snowy surroundings, the minds behind them filled with visions of blood and slaughter and revenge.
Clad in a white wolfskin coat, the foremost of the grizzled reavers was a wiry greybeard, his years written in the scars that pitted his leathery face. The old hunter carried a heavy iron-tipped boar spear in his gloved hands, the weapon following his gaze as he studied the tree line. He paused his cautious steps and held up a fist. Behind him, the Norscan warriors also came to a halt, sullenly staring into the trees, trying to see for themselves whatever sign their guide had discovered.
The old hunter turned slowly and jogged back toward the warriors. One of the hulking reavers strode forward to meet him. He was an immense, bear-like man, a giant, standing a full head above the warriors around him, massive shoulders and deep barrel chest straining against the heavy leather hauberk that covered his torso. Thick ropes of muscle bulged beneath the furs wrapped about his powerful limbs, a broad-bladed sword gripped in one of his paw-like hands. From his massively corded neck rose a head almost lost within the shaggy pale hair that covered it. Bone charms and talismans were braided into the warrior’s blond mane, swaying with his every motion. The warrior’s face was almost as leathery as that of the hunter, the grey scar of an old wound running across the broad, low brow. Pale eyes shone from the recesses of the reaver’s face, colder than the frozen world around them.
‘What is it, Svanr? What shadows make you jump this time?’ the warrior demanded.
‘Shadows indeed!’ spat Svanr. ‘How many winters have your eyes seen, Einarr son of Sigdan? Can they tell you how long the frost has lain unbroken or when the wolf last walked this path?’
Einarr nodded, understanding the wisdom in the hunter’s words. A good war leader was marked not simply by his own strengths but by his ability to recognise the strengths of those he led. If Svanr felt that caution was more important than speed, then Einarr was wise enough to bow to the old hunter’s greater experience. It still frustrated him, however, and he could not keep his emotions from his tongue. ‘The men are impatient to sink their steel into Aesling flesh,’ Einarr said. ‘We must make the scum pay a dear price for stealing our cattle and butchering our freeholders and thralls! There will be no rest until we have collected our wergild from the Aeslings – one way or another!’
Svanr shook his head. ‘We are in Aesling territory now,’ the hunter said. He stabbed a fur-covered finger in a vaguely north-east direction. ‘Skraevold lies only a half day from this forest. For all the strength and courage of our warriors, against the entire village it will be the victory of the Aeslings not the Baersonlings that the skalds will sing.’
Einarr nodded, clapping his massive hand against the hunter’s shoulder. ‘Then we shall need to trust your knowledge of these passes to catch these raiders before they can reach Skraevold. Lead us to them, Svanr. Our steel hungers!’
The war leader’s oath had barely been spoken when a sharp cry echoed through the forest. One of Einarr’s warriors had dropped to his knees, a heavy spear stuck in his chest. None of the reavers moved to help their stricken comrade, instead turning to face the tree line from which the spear had been thrown. A roaring, howling mob of savage figures erupted from the foliage.
‘The Aes!’ Einarr hissed as he turned towards the attackers. The vanguard of the marauders had already crashed against the Baersonling warriors, slashing at them with double-headed axes and battering them with massive iron flails. The Aeslings bore the same imposing Norscan physique as their foes, but where the hair and beards of the Baersonlings was pale and gold, that of the Aeslings was dark and crimson. The faces of the snarling attackers were hideously scarred, the runes of the Blood Lord carved into each man’s cheek and forehead. The marauders wore heavier armour than the Baersonlings and their arms were covered in bands of steel and bronze. From the belts of many swung the severed heads of those the raiders had slain, offerings they would take back to Skraevold and their gruesome god-beast.
The sight of the heads incensed the Baersonlings, and their momentary surprise was forgotten as a fresh surge of rage energised them. The warriors met the frenzied assault of the raiders with their own brutal fury. War howls echoed across the frozen landscape, punctuated by the shrieks of the maimed and the dying. As Einarr sprinted into the fray, he saw one Aesling pitch into the snow, his neck slashed open by the edge of a warrior’s sword. The stricken marauder’s blood sprayed across the snow, painting it bright red for a dozen feet and more. Even so, the mortally wounded Aesling tried to regain his feet, tried to return to the battle even as his life jetted from his cleft neck.
One Aesling, his teeth as wicked and sharp as those of any wolf, brought the ball of his flail smashing into the skull of a warrior, striking with such awful violence that his blow cracked the man’s skull and his iron helm. Einarr focused on the fanged marauder, sprinting towards him. The marauder turned from his dying victim and locked eyes with the onrushing war leader, swinging his gory weapon in anticipation.
As Einarr approached, the raider swung his flail at the warrior, trying to smash his weapon against the warrior’s head. Einarr’s sword intercepted the flail, swatting it aside, the heavy chain wrapping around the blade. Before the Aesling could react, Einarr twisted his sword arm, pulling the marauder forward and almost tearing the weapon from his powerful grip. Without breaking his charge, Einarr drove his shoulder full force into the raider, staggering him. The flail was torn free of the marauder’s grip as he was driven back and Einarr was swift in pressing his advantage. With the flail’s chain still wrapped around it, he brought the edge of his sword smashing into his foe’s face, cleaving his nose and severing his jaw.
Bloody froth erupted from the raider’s face as he spat broken teeth and torn tissue into the snow. With a second slash of his sword, Einarr tore a jagged line across the Aesling’s armour, twisted bronze scales clattering onto the ground. Before Einarr could t
ry again, the raider’s massive fist cracked against the side of his head, almost knocking him to his knees. Einarr responded by smashing his forehead into the marauder’s already ruined face. He could feel the broken bones cutting into his own skin, but was rewarded by the raider’s agonised howl.
Einarr’s head was still ringing from the marauder’s blow, yet beyond the clamour pounding inside his skull, above even the clamour of the battle raging all around him, he thought he could hear the mournful report of a horn. As the marauder he was fighting wiped blood from his eyes and drew a small hand axe from his belt, Einarr risked a look at the battlefield around him. Of the twenty who had left Vinnskor, only three had fallen to the Aeslings, taking six of the foe with them. Einarr felt his chest swell with triumph, but as he looked beyond the swirling melee, he saw something that put the lie to his hopes for vengeance and victory. One of the marauders had broken away from the combat and was blowing into the long, curved ram’s horn he carried. And the note was answered, unless the blow he had taken had left his senses completely shaken. For the first time, cold dread began to tug at the corners of Einarr’s mind.
The Aesling charged back towards Einarr and there was no more time to turn his fears into thought. Einarr slashed low as the raider chopped at him with his axe, this time his strike cracking against the armour the man wore over his knee. The reinforced leather prevented the strike from cutting the raider’s flesh, but did not completely lessen the force of the blow. The marauder pitched into the earth as his knee popped out of joint and his leg gave way beneath him. Einarr was on the Aesling in an instant, pouncing on him with the ferocity of a sabretusk. The warrior pounded the hilt of his sword into the Aesling’s head even as the warrior lifted his axe to defend himself. The marauder slumped beneath the first strike, but struggled to rise once more. Einarr brought the hilt crashing down a second time, then a third. When he struck for the fourth time, there was a sickening crunch and the Aesling became still, the fires of rage fading from his now unfocused eyes.