by Warhammer
Einarr stared into the woman’s sharp, comely face, finding himself drawn once more into her dark, alluring gaze. ‘You are a witch then?’
The woman laughed and shook her head. ‘I am no seer,’ she said, and Einarr imagined there was a suggestive note about her tone. ‘But I called to them just the same.’ She turned her head toward the murder of crows still pecking and scratching at the cooling body of the beastlord. She pursed her lips and again Einarr heard the strange, trilling note echo across the clearing. He could see the woman’s tongue as it trembled between her lips. It was long and thin, fluted like that of a bird, as black as the feathers of the crows. When they heard her call to them, the birds rose from their gruesome meal, cawing and croaking as they withdrew back into the trees.
‘She is touched by the gods,’ Urda whispered, though Einarr could see as much for himself. The woman nodded her head, but when she spoke, her words were again directed to Einarr.
‘Since the cradle, I have been able to speak with the creatures of the sky,’ she said. ‘I can talk with them as easily as I talk to you. They tell me where to hunt and where to shun. There is much wisdom they can give, if only one can listen to them.’
‘They did not seem to give you very good advice this day,’ Urda observed. ‘If Einarr had followed my advice, you’d be warming the bellies of the beast-kin.’
‘I was guided by a tale told to me by a falcon,’ the woman told Urda. She turned her eyes back on Einarr, stepping toward the warrior. ‘He told me that a great jarl with a steel hand had risen in the north, that great glory would fall upon me if I sought him out and pledged my oath to him. I travelled far from the lands of the Sarls to seek this champion, the one with the mark of Tchar written upon his flesh.’ The woman reached out, closing her slender hand around Einarr’s, her fingers caressing the metal symbol branded into his skin.
‘I have spent many weeks trying to find you,’ the huntress said. She smiled as she looked away from Einarr’s hand and into the warrior’s eyes. ‘Instead, it is you who have found me.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
For long weeks, the small warband navigated the cold, desolate forests of the north, slowly making their way through the narrow ravines that wound between the craggy slopes of the mountains. Bleak and inhospitable, they saw few traces of either man or beast upon the land. Even in the ever strengthening clutch of winter, it was an unsettling sensation, to be the only things moving beneath the sunless sky.
Only twice, in all those weeks, had they seen any sign of habitation. Once, the berserker Orgrim, ranging far ahead of the group as was his habit, had caught the scent of several men drifting back to him on the wind. With his keen senses, the renegade claimed the smell was that of Aeslings, probably a party of trappers or hunters braving the icy forests in hopes of putting meat on their tribe’s tables. Orgrim had described with bloodthirsty enthusiasm the ease with which they could track down the Aeslings and spill their lives onto the snow. Einarr felt the same urge for action, to sink his sword into Aesling flesh and reclaim some of the wergild the northerners owed his vanquished people. He was dissuaded only by the council of Urda. The old witch warned Einarr that, though they saw little trace of them, the settlements of the Aeslings were all around them. If even a single warrior escaped the slaughter that Einarr contemplated, he might bring the entire Aesling nation down upon them. Was Einarr truly willing to risk the reward Tchar had promised him simply to glut his lust for revenge?
The other evidence that they were still very much in the lands of the Aeslings had been discovered by Birna, the pale-haired Sarl huntress they had rescued from the beastmen. Like Orgrim, there was a heavy dose of wanderlust in her heart and she would often range ahead of Einarr and the others, prowling among the trees to find the easiest path. Einarr found himself admiring the skill with which she vanished into the woods, her steps so soft and careful they scarcely marred the snow beneath her feet. After she was freed and had recovered her armour and gear from the paws of her dead captors, Birna had presented a much different figure. Gone was the alabaster-skinned snow goddess that had stood over the dripping corpse of the beastlord calling the crows away from their feast. Instead, Birna’s shapely form disappeared into leather tunic and breeches, over which she wore a skirt of chain and a heavy cloak of sabretusk hide. A fat-bladed sword with a whale tooth hilt and an ivory-bound bow completed her lethal appearance, the multitude of feathers she strung through her hair adding a savage, feral quality to the effect. Despite the pain the loss of Asta had caused him, Einarr could not help the quickening of his pulse whenever the striking Birna came near him.
Late one evening, as Einarr and the others prepared to make camp, Birna had stalked back from one of her forays into the forest. Ahead, she reported, was an entire Aesling village. The track they had been following for the past two days would take them right into the settlement. It was a small village, little more than a hamlet and when Vallac pressed her about what she thought their chances might be, Birna had simply shrugged her shoulders, claiming that every victory was at the whim of the gods. Einarr had felt again the drive towards revenge, to stain the earth with Aesling blood and raze the little village the way Vinnskor had been razed. Animal-like growls of agreement came from Orgrim, a bestial light glowing in his eyes as he contemplated the slaughter he would visit upon his hated kinsmen. Even Vallac seemed eager, reverting to the calculating Kurgan raider, having decided that the small village would make easy pickings for the warband. Again, it was the council of the old witch Urda that stayed Einarr’s hand. There were many days between them and the Frozen Sea, the borderland of Aesling territory and Norsca itself. Would they throw that away now, simply to indulge in a massacre unworthy of mighty warriors?
‘It is the blessing and favour of mighty Tchar that awaits us beyond the Frozen Sea,’ Urda said. ‘What glory can exceed the praise of a god?’
Still farther into the icy north they travelled, entering lands that were naught but myth in the sagas of the Baersonlings. Einarr could almost feel the breath of the gods washing against his skin with his every step. The trees they journeyed under became increasingly twisted and gnarled, their branches scrabbling at the sky like reedy arms. Einarr saw what looked like a white-furred fox peek at them from behind a clump of snowy rocks, its eyes dangling from thick fleshy stalks, its mane a nest of wiry quills. Even the black veil of night was changing, the eerie light of the aurora shimmering and dancing against the northern horizon.
There was more, something less tangible than foxes and trees, something nebulous and unseen. Einarr could feel it, like cobwebs rubbing against his soul, like a cold flame slithering through his blood. He knew it was the power of the gods, the power that tested everything it touched and destroyed all that was not strong enough to endure it. Even for a mighty Norse warrior, it was an unsettling thing to know that such forces were touching him with invisible fingers, probing his body and testing his worth. He could see that his companions shared his uneasiness, pausing frequently in their steps to scratch at the eerie sensation crawling across their skin, watching the twisted trees and flickering sky with a wide-eyed stare that was more fear than caution. Only the Kurgan, Vallac, seemed unaffected by the strange atmosphere of these hinterlands. If anything, Vallac seemed more casual and steady than Einarr had ever seen him. He was reminded again that the Kurgans came from a land much different than Norsca, but Einarr could not comprehend a people who found basking in the power of the gods a thing of comfort.
At last, the twisted forests gave way to jagged slopes of grey rock where only the hardiest shrubs managed to eke out a miserable existence. The slopes shot rapidly downward until at last they terminated in a sheer drop of several hundred feet, the cliffs so sharp that Einarr could easily credit Urda’s muttered words that they had been cut from the mountains by the axe of Kharnath himself. Below the cliffs and stretching out to the northern horizon, its icy expanse shining blue beneath the flickering witch-light of the aurora was a sight that chilled the
marrow in Einarr’s bones: the Frozen Sea, a dread fable to those reavers and sea dogs that prowled the Sea of Claws and the warmer waters of the south. It was exactly as it had been named, a vast ocean frozen into a world of ice. To a seaman like Einarr, there was something almost unholy about the sight, the rolling waves of the sea turned into a thing as lifeless and still as solid stone. He felt incredibly small and feeble as he looked down at the unmoving waves of ice, appreciating in a way that he never had the awesome power of the gods. They had done this to the mightiest force Einarr had ever known – the sea itself. They had crushed and killed it and left its frozen body for all to see.
What was a man beside such raw, limitless power? How could any man hope to prevail before the omnipotent might of such a force? A man was nothing! A man was less than nothing and all his dreams and thoughts less than the babble of an infant! A man was a fool to think he was anything more, to have the audacity to think his deeds, his hopes, were things of consequence!
Einarr shook his head, trying to clear the sombre thoughts from his mind. He felt Birna’s hand fall upon his shoulder and found himself staring into her compelling eyes. Einarr could feel himself being drawn once more into the depths of her eyes, pulled down into whatever secret world existed behind the pretty features of the huntress.
‘If that is where you will lead us,’ Birna said. ‘That is where we shall follow, Einarr Steelfist.’ The words were spoken in a voice that seemed wary, almost timid, the tone almost feeling betrayed by what had been said. Einarr drew himself out from Birna’s compelling gaze, looking across at his other companions. Urda was staring at the Frozen Sea, her old body shivering beneath its heavy cloak, the talismans fastened to her staff rattling as her arm trembled.
Orgrim was crouched down upon the ground, his head hung low, looking for all the world like a hound chastised by its master. Einarr watched the berserker turning his head from side to side, staring up and down the sides of the jagged slope, staring in any direction except that which would lead his gaze across the Frozen Sea. Even Vallac appeared intimidated, the Kurgan scratching at his chin as he cast a worried look past the side of the cliff. Einarr could appreciate the thoughts he was certain were rolling through the minds of his comrades. It was one thing to consider a place and call it the Frozen Sea, it was another to stand before such an awesome sight and know that it stood in your path.
Somehow seeing the doubt and fear in the faces of his followers strengthened Einarr’s own resolve. There would be no turning back. They would find the stronghold of Skoroth and reclaim the treasure that had been stolen from Tchar. Einarr would earn the reward Tchar had promised him. He would save Asta and his people. Not even the Frozen Sea would stop him.
Einarr turned his back to the vast expanse of ice, staring hard at his companions. ‘We will need to find a way down the cliffs,’ he said, refusing to acknowledge the fear he saw in his comrades. He did not allow the others time to consider or question his decision, instead striding off along the cliffs, following them eastward. He did not look back as he heard first one, then all of his companions following after him. Somehow he knew they would follow. Of all the fears that might be plaguing their minds, he knew none was greater than the shame of being left behind.
‘Aeslings,’ Orgrim’s throaty growl rumbled in Einarr’s ear. The warrior nodded as Orgrim spoke. They had followed the curve of the cliffs for days before at last finding a break in the natural wall, a spot where it would perhaps be possible to climb down to the surface of the ice sea. However, as they grew closer, Orgrim had grown ever more anxious, warning that the smell of men was in the wind. Not long after, Birna had spotted the encampment.
Crouched behind a snow bank, Einarr and the others observed the strange camp. Nuzzled in a deep fissure cut from the side of the slope, it was almost invisible until the observer was almost on top of it. The builders of the camp had clearly appreciated their concealed location, choosing to forego any sort of perimeter wall in the interest of maintaining that concealment. Instead, the builders had situated a pair of watchtowers, ramshackle structures of timber and ox-hide, to either side of the fissure’s mouth. Beyond these, Einarr could see a pair of long, low buildings, their thatch roofs covered in snow. Beyond these was what appeared to be a smithy, its massive stone forge belching black smoke into the night. Beyond the smithy was the wall of the cliff, pitted and scarred, its face bisected by wooden scaffolds and stone ramp ways. Einarr could see tiny figures pounding away at the cliff, what looked to be chains dangling from their limbs. While he watched, a small cluster of the workers pushed an ox-cart filled to the brim with ore down one of the ramps and toward the smithy. A short, dark figure detached itself from the forge and stomped forward to shout orders and abuse at the men pushing the cart. Einarr could not tell if the sinister apparition were man or daemon, but there was no mistaking the armoured warriors who stood to either side of the imp. Orgrim was right again, the strange quarry was being operated by Aeslings.
‘We should go around.’ Einarr turned his head as Urda hissed her advice to him. The old witch shook her clawed hand to the west, away from the quarry and the jagged tear in the cliff face that snaked its way to the surface of the Frozen Sea.
‘For once I agree with the witch,’ Vallac said, though the Kurgan took no pride in his words. ‘I have counted at least a dozen warriors in that camp, if they drive their slaves into our swords, then they have four times that number. Too much sword work for the five of us, I fear.’
‘They are weaklings!’ Orgrim snapped, and it seemed to Einarr that the berserker’s teeth were longer and sharper than he remembered them. If the touch of the gods was affecting him, however, the renegade’s bloodlust remained. ‘Let these cringing vermin hang behind if they will, it will only mean more heads for Einarr and Orgrim to claim!’
Einarr clapped the woodsman on the back. Orgrim was an enigma to him in many ways, but in one aspect he was as firm as though carved from stone. Einarr could always count on Orgrim’s eager support if there was killing to be done, no matter the odds. He looked away from the feral eyes of the berserker and turned to face Birna.
‘What is your opinion?’ Einarr asked. The huntress was quiet a moment, then pulled her bow from the quiver on her back.
‘We have marched along these cliffs for three days and seen no other way down to the sea,’ she said. ‘It would be foolish to think we would find another passage any sooner.’ She stared hard at Urda, her stern expression causing the witch to scowl. ‘Even if they were my kinfolk, I would say they stand in our way.’ She fixed her attention back on Einarr. ‘You have asked me, and I say we fight.’
Einarr nodded, drawing his axe from the loop on his belt. ‘Then it is decided,’ he said. ‘If Tchar is truly guiding me, then he has led us here. I cannot believe he did so merely so that we might slink away from it in fear.
‘We fight!’
The glow from the forge and the flickering torches fastened to the scaffolding made the encampment stand out in vivid contrast to the black night all around it. It gave Einarr an increased sense of security as he crept through the gloom towards the watchtowers. The night vision of anyone within the camp would be compromised by the light from their fires, greatly reducing any chance that the Aeslings would sound an alarm. At least, not before it was already too late.
Einarr kept his body low as he crawled across the snow, his white cloak masking his movements. Only the sentries in the towers presented a real threat of discovery; in their wisdom the Aeslings had ensured no torches burned atop the towers to ruin the night sight of their guards. The sentinels would need to be eliminated before Orgrim and Vallac could work their way to the structure Einarr had decided must be the barracks for the Aesling warriors. Birna would see to the sentries, using her keen sight and skill with the bow to cut down the Aeslings before they even knew they were under attack.
The greatest danger Einarr had taken upon himself. He would work his way to the smithy and confront the dark forgemaster t
hey had seen and those Aeslings he kept near him. While observing the camp and making their plans, they had discovered another obstacle lurking in the smithy. As the slaves unloaded the ore from their cart, an immense shape had risen from behind the forge, gathering the rocks and loading them into a massive wheel-driven grinder. The creature had then used its own mammoth size and strength to pulverise the stone and separate it from the ore. The bulk of the thing had given all of Einarr’s companions pause. It was far beyond that of even the largest man Einarr had ever seen. It could only be an ogre, such were its colossal proportions. Although Einarr did not relish the task, he knew defeating such a beast was something he would need to do himself if he were to maintain the respect and obedience of his companions.
Einarr crawled into position and froze, keeping his eyes locked upon the left tower. He could just make out the black silhouette of the sentry, bundled in his heavy furs in a futile attempt to ward off the chill of the winter night. He watched and waited as the sentinel silently paced the small perimeter of the elevated platform, his movements regular and precise. Einarr smiled. It was a common trap for a sentry to slip into, the drudgery of his duties. The mind and senses were dulled by the tedium of a long watch, rendering the guard ever less wary. The Aesling would enter the halls of his ancestors without ever knowing what had sent him there.
Einarr did not hear the arrow as it sped through the night. The first he was aware of it was when the shaft suddenly sprouted from the sentry’s throat. The Aesling gasped a gurgling cry as he choked on his own blood, trying to shout a cry of warning to the camp. The effort was beyond his fading strength, and the Aesling toppled as he stumbled towards the ladder, which descended from the platform. The dying marauder hurtled down the steps, crashing to the ground with a dull thud, his head crooked in an unnatural pose. Einarr waited a few breaths longer to assure himself that the guard was well and truly dead. Even a broken neck was nothing but an inconvenience to some that had been touched by the gods. The sentry did not rise, however, and Einarr shifted his attention to the encampment itself. There was no sign that any of the Aeslings had noticed the demise of their guard and while he watched, he could see Orgrim and Vallac creeping their way toward the barracks. For them to be advancing meant Birna had eliminated the other sentry without incident. The Kurgan and the renegade were to watch for Einarr’s signal once he was near the smithy, but Einarr wondered if Orgrim would be able to control his feral rage long enough. He reasoned it was best not to depend on the berserker’s self control. Einarr rose from the ground and sprinted into the encampment, using the shadows when he could but above all trying to move at speed. If he could catch the Aeslings at the smithy unawares, he might be able to strike down their giant before the beast had a chance to defend itself.