by C. L. Werner
‘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.
