by Warhammer
The warrior turned away from the growling beast, keeping one eye on it as he stared desperately at the snow. They had landed in some sort of clearing, almost barren of foliage. Except for where their fall had marred it, the snow stood unbroken all around them. A massive black stone was the only feature of the clearing and as Einarr looked at it he saw its sides were far too smooth to offer him a handhold. He dismissed the idea anyway – anywhere he could climb, the ice-tiger could much better. No, his only hope was to find some sort of weapon.
From the corner of his eye, Einarr saw the sabretusk swing its head back in his direction. It hiss-snarled at him, coiling its body as it gathered its strength. Einarr turned back towards the cat. If he would die, he would die like his father, with his wounds to the fore. At least he could spare that much disgrace from settling upon his ancestors. The ice-tiger growled as it read Einarr’s challenge. Something glittering in the snow caught Einarr’s eye. Still watching as the sabretusk prepared to charge, Einarr crouched and pulled it from the pristine ground. How it had fallen so far into the clearing, Einarr did not know. All he did know was that with the blade in his hands once more, he again had a chance.
The cat did not wait for Einarr to rise from his crouch. With a teeth-rattling roar, it bounded towards him, its lean muscular frame hurtling through the air. From his crouch, Einarr lashed out at the hurtling cat, the thin edge of his blade raised to ward off the immense mass of the predator. Einarr was knocked onto his back as the ice-tiger crashed against him, every bone in his body quivering from the force of the impact. Yet as he rolled onto his side, Einarr saw that his own strike had been more telling than that of the sabretusk.
The brute shivered in the midst of a patch of scarlet snow, its forepaw severed by Einarr’s blade. The warrior stared respectfully at the wounded predator, knowing how near it had come to finishing him. Despite the pain wracking his body, Einarr forced himself to his feet. A lingering death of sickness and injury was no fitting end for such a formidable beast. It was Einarr’s obligation to give the ice-tiger a death befitting its ancestor-spirits. The cat scowled at him as he stalked toward it, but when it tried to swipe at him, it merely spilled itself onto the ground. The ice-tiger had lost its balance and with it, its defence. Einarr was careful to strike true as he thrust his weapon into the beast’s neck.
Einarr stepped away from the dead sabretusk, slumping into the snow. He was not certain how much time he had lost fighting the cat, but it was time he could ill afford. The Aeslings would be looking for him now, setting their hounds on his trail. He had even less time to indulge in the luxury of rest. He had seen men fall into the snow after a battle and never rise again, their bodies unmarked by any weapon save the icy clutch of the land itself. He would not be one of those men, his spirit condemned to slumber in the ice until the cracking of the world. Against the protests of his battered, bleeding body, Einarr forced himself back up. There was a long way yet to go before he could rest in the warm halls of Vinnskor.
Standing, Einarr found his eyes draw to the massive black stone that rose from the midst of the clearing. He wondered for a moment what it was. It seemed to have letters carved into it, though the wind and ice had all but obliterated them. Was it the marker of some tomb? Had it been placed here to commemorate some long forgotten battle? Einarr considered that it might even be one of the enormous monoliths the Kurgan people raised to honour the gods. Whatever it was, Einarr had no time for its riddles. He turned to leave its enigma behind him, but as he did so he noticed the big black bird perched on its top, its beaked head staring down at the slain sabretusk. Einarr felt a surge of disgust rise within him as he regarded the scavenger.
‘Find other bones to pick!’ the warrior roared, hurling a snowball at the bird. The missile smacked against the side of the rock just beneath its talons. The bird fluttered its wings in protest, glaring down at him. ‘I did not kill that beast just to fill your greedy belly!’ Einarr threw another snowball, this time hitting the black bird. It screeched angrily at him. ‘Get you gone and earn your own way!’ The third snowball exploded against the bird’s breast, coating it in white. It was the final straw for the animal and it lifted into the air, screeching its wrath as it flapped slowly into the night.
Einarr scowled at the scavenger bird until it was lost to sight, then made his way toward the trees. He still had a long distance to cover before the feeble light of day again smouldered on the horizon.
The orange ember of the sun again glowed beneath the horizon, starting the day in the Aesling village of Skraevold. The warriors of the tribe had been assembled many hours before, since the discovery of Alfkaell and the escape of the Baersonling captive. Many of the marauders fumed at the inactivity their jarl had forced upon them, eager to begin the hunt and cut down this blasphemer who dared murder their seer. But Kolsveinn would not be swayed. He had risen to be leader of his people not only by his great strength and the favour of the Blood God, but also by knowing his people, by understanding what moved their hearts. Yes, he could have unleashed his tribe, sent the dogs to track down this man, and for a time that would have satisfied them. But soon some minor misfortune would plague the village. A child might get lost in the woods or an ox might be taken by wolves. When that happened, the people would remember that Kolsveinn had promised the Baerson to Kharnath and that they had killed him before he could be sacrificed, for Kolsveinn knew none of his warriors had the discipline to take the man alive, not after he had slain the seer. Then Kolsveinn would be blamed for bringing the curse of the Blood God upon the village and it would be his blood they would think to give to Kharnath to appease his anger.
No, it was better to do it this way.
Kolsveinn turned his tattooed head towards the hulking Aeslings standing beside the gate that led into the pit. He nodded and the men threw back the iron-banded timbers. A dozen marauders rushed forward, pushing a long log down into the pit, then scrambled away, retreating to where their kinsmen were. Only Kolsveinn stood his ground, holding a long bronze spear, upon the tip of which had been tied the clothing they had stripped from Einarr. The jarl stared into the pit, watching the darkness for any sign of motion. The first he was aware of it was when the sound of claws and fangs splintering the sides of the log reached his ears. Long moments later, a huge shape pulled itself from the pit, bringing with it such a stench of blood and death that even Kolsveinn felt the urge to gag. The hulk heaved itself forward, sliding across the ground on its riot of limbs. Some of the watching Aeslings screamed, wailing like children, forgetting that they were veteran reavers, the victors of countless battles.
Kolsveinn looked into what he thought were the thing’s eyes and thrust the spear towards it. A limb slimy with blood coiled itself around the weapon, tearing it free from his grasp. The snake-like member pulled the weapon back towards the heaving bulk. A snuffling sound slobbered its way from the creature’s body as it inspected the clothing.
‘We would offer that one to Khorne!’ Kolsveinn shouted, using the Kurgan name for the Blood God. It was the only name that could control the god-beast of the pit, and as the abomination heard it, a whining chorus howled from its hideous shape. ‘He has fled from us, thinking to cheat the Skull Lord! You must find him! You must offer him to Khorne!’
The abomination heaved itself forward, then threw back what Kolsveinn thought might once have been its head. The howl that erupted from it caused blood to trickle from the ears of all who heard it. The echoes of that howl were still rattling the timbers of Skraevold when the oozing horror slobbered across the muddy streets, following the scent of its prey.
Kolsveinn watched it go, almost pitying the foolish Baerson the doom he had brought upon himself. The rest of the village had already hidden themselves, for it took strength to gaze upon the god-beast of Skraevold, a strength that only the mightiest possessed.
The jarl prided himself that he was the only one who watched the god-beast leave. He did not see the large black eagle perched above the kennels, its feat
hers still stained with snow.
CHAPTER THREE
The dim flicker of dawn cast its light over the village of Vinnskor. The stone-edged lanes of the village began to fill with people – farmers and herdsmen trudging their way into the fields to tend the tough, shaggy cattle the Aeslings had failed to slaughter or stampede during their brutal raid; women slogging their way through the snow towards the mountain stream that wound its way past the village, heavy hammers to crack the ice held in their arms, ox-hide skins to steal water from the stream slung over their backs; scrawny thralls, their wasted frames barely covered by mangy scraps of cloth and fur, dejectedly marching towards the forest to fell timber for the fires of their masters. Above all the activity prowled the massive warriors of the village, their axes held at the ready, their intense gaze watching the horizon for any warning of the marauders’ return. With the destruction of the revenge party that the Baersonlings had sent into the north, the people of Vinnskor knew the Aeslings would be back.
Asta climbed the short earthen steps and emerged from the gloom of her longhouse into the greater gloom of the morning. She sighed as she watched Emla’s children racing about the small garth outside her neighbour’s home, watching with a tinge of envy as Thorwald, Emla’s husband, supervised a pair of thralls as they tended the thatching of their home’s roof. She had been so proud to wed a mighty warrior like Einarr, a man who had raided the southlands many times, who had brought the names of many fallen enemies to honour the gods of the Baersonlings. She and Einarr had planned to have children soon, sons who would become even greater than their father.
But Einarr was gone, lost with the others who had gone to avenge the Aesling raids on their pastures and farms. The two who had escaped the Aesling ambush claimed that all the others who had been with them had been slain. Jarl Tulkir had believed the wretches on that matter, but found their stories of their own prowess in the doomed battle insulting and infuriating. He’d ordered the men stripped and when no wounds could be found upon them, not even the faintest scratch to attest to the veracity of their lies, Tulkir had the naked men tied to a gallows and doused with water. Left wet and bare to the elements, by the next day the two were frozen so solid that even the ravens could not make a meal of them. That had been almost two weeks ago and Asta felt the weight of her loss grow with each day. She should have been content with a man like Thorwald, one who did not seek glory and fortune but was simply satisfied with merely providing for his own.
Asta turned away from her consideration of Emla’s home. She smoothed the front of her woollen hanggerrok, and adjusted the balance of the water skins resting over her shoulder. Einarr was gone and she had to accept it. She had to force herself to live on without him, to rebuild the rest of her life. She was still a striking woman, her figure shapely, her long pale hair possessing an exotic quality she knew many of the men in Vinnskor found fascinating. She would need to think about finding a new husband, a new warrior to watch over her and give her strong children. Yes, she would need to think about it, but she would not think about it today.
As the woman passed from the narrow lanes of the village and into the snowy fields beyond, she saw the armoured figure of Rafn standing watch over the women getting water from the stream. He smiled as he saw her, an excited twinkle shining in his eyes. Rafn had always admired her, and now that Einarr was gone the warrior saw an opportunity to expound his unfulfilled affection. The blond-headed sentinel strode towards Asta as she approached, meeting her well before the stream. Asta tried not to meet Rafn’s eager gaze and continued to walk towards the stream. She might need to take another husband, but she was in no mind to have the issue pressed upon her so soon after Einarr’s death.
Unfortunately, Rafn was no more mind reader than he was mannered. The big warrior kept pace with her, idly swinging his axe as he walked, a juvenile habit that Asta found irritating.
‘I asked the gods if they would send you to get water today,’ Rafn said, his timid tone at odds with his scarred, bearded face. ‘They must be pleased with me, for here you are.’
‘You shouldn’t bother the gods with such petty things,’ Asta warned him, not breaking stride, keeping her eyes fixed on the stream ahead. ‘They may become angry.’ She shivered as she said the words, for the anger of the gods was not something to be considered lightly. The legends of the Baersonlings were filled with horrible tales of that which befell those who had aroused the ire of the Dark Gods.
Rafn caught her by the arm, turning Asta around and forcing her to look at him. ‘I never bother the gods about things that are not important,’ he said, tightening his grip on her shoulder. ‘But you are right, Asta, a man should not trouble the gods over something he can take for himself.’ Rafn’s bearded face leaned down towards Asta’s. She tried to pull away, but the warrior’s grip on her was too strong.
A scream suddenly rose into the dark morning sky from behind them. Soon other women were joining the first voice, shrieking as they fled away from the stream. Rafn pushed Asta behind him, holding his axe at the ready. The other women of Vinnskor were already rushing past them, racing back to the village. Several pointed behind them as they ran. Rafn looked in the direction they pointed. Emerging from the trees he could see a large man, his hulking form covered in furs. He moved with a halting, weary step, shuffling towards the now deserted stream.
‘Go back and rouse the bondsmen!’ Rafn snarled. ‘Tell them the Aeslings are here!’ Rafn clenched his fists tight around the heft of his axe and moved to sprint toward the strange figure. Asta grabbed Rafn, restraining him as he started to run off. The warrior pulled away, glaring at her in disbelief.
‘Let me be, wench, or that Aesling scum will have both our skulls!’ Rafn shouted. Asta didn’t even seem to notice his words, watching instead the fur-covered man stagger towards the stream. There was something familiar about him, something that seemed to call out to her. As the man dropped beside the stream a sharp cry rose from Asta’s throat and she ran past Rafn towards the fallen man. Rafn cursed and tried to intercept her, but the bulky warrior found himself unable to match her speed.
Asta stopped at the bank of the stream, looking across its icy surface at the stranger. He raised his head weakly and Asta felt her heart tremble with shock as she saw the familiar face. Instantly she was dashing across the frozen stream, ignoring Rafn’s desperate shouts. Asta knelt beside the man, turning him onto his back and cradling his shaggy head in her lap.
‘Blood of the dragons, woman!’ Rafn roared, raising his axe. ‘Get out of there and let me finish that Aesling bastard!’
Asta glared defiantly at Rafn. ‘Get you gone, Rafn son of Oflati!’ she ordered, an imperious tone in her voice. ‘Fetch the vitki and tell the people of Vinnskor!’ She stared back into the face of the exhausted, scruffy man beside her. Pride filled her voice as she spoke again, the pride born of the devotion and love that bound her to this man.
‘Tell them, Rafn! Tell them that Einarr Sigdansson has returned to them!’
‘He is too stubborn to die,’ Spjall, the silver-bearded vitki of Vinnskor pronounced as he rose from administering the pungent poultice to Einarr’s wounds. The warrior smiled at the medicine man from the nest of thick furs that covered his bed.
‘Too stubborn to die before I see Skraevold burning,’ Einarr replied. He looked around the small inner room of his long house, making certain that all within saw he meant what he said.
Spjall chuckled and patted the warrior’s shoulder. ‘For now think about rest and sleep. You’ve endured much, it would be a terrible jest to survive what you have and then die in your own bed. Rest, plunder and revenge can wait for another day.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Einarr, but his words were not intended for Spjall. ‘Revenge can wait for another day. So long as it does not wait too long.’
The other men in the room bristled at the obvious challenge in Einarr’s words. Bondsmen all, to have a mere warrior and reaver speak to them in such a fashion would have had them reaching for t
heir blades were it not for the presence of their jarl in the room. Even so, Dreng and Oflati, two of the oldest of the bondsmen, looked like they might do so anyway. Only a stern look from Tulkir stayed their hands.
‘We have heard your words about the ways of Skraevold,’ Tulkir said. ‘We have heard you tell us how their village stands…’
‘Particularly the kennels,’ scoffed Oflati, stroking his be-ringed beard, ‘where their people dwell and work.
We have heard you say where the village is strong and where it is weak.’ Tulkir nodded his crowned head as he spoke. There was a stern expression on his face as he looked at Einarr. ‘What you say makes my sword eager to taste Aesling blood, for it would be an easy thing to strike the dogs down. But what you say also fills me with great fear. I, who have raided the southlands on twenty and ten voyages, who have walked the lands of the Vargs and the Graelings, who have seen the jungles of the dragonfolk, I know fear because of your words.’
Einarr glowered at his jarl, the colour rising in his face. After all he had suffered, after all of the comrades he had seen butchered by the Aeslings, after his miraculous escape from right beneath the noses of his captors, now it would all come to nothing because his jarl was afraid. ‘Then let one of your bondsmen lead your people to triumph and glory, Tulkir, or step aside and let a man more worthy of the name bear the title of jarl.’
The insolent words brought snarls of outrage to the faces of the assembled bondsmen and even Asta gave a gasp of horror that her husband had spoken so. Tulkir merely continued to stare at the wounded Einarr.
‘It is you who make me afraid, Einarr, son of Sigdan,’ the jarl said, stabbing his finger at the man. ‘You have dared the wrath of the gods by striking down a seer! No man may defy the gods and live! Ever has it been so. You are cursed, Einarr, by your own hand you are cursed.’