Inferno Volume 2 - Guy Haley
Page 33
Wulfrik waved his sword at the monster, daring it to attack. The mocking challenge did not need to be shrieked in the howling speech of the yhetee. Slapping its chest with its good claw, the goaded greyback rushed the Norscan.
Again, the beast proved itself more than a simple animal. Only a few feet from Wulfrik, it paused in its charge to dig its foot into the snow. This time when the monster kicked out at the man, a white sheet of snow flew into his face, blinding him!
The instincts of a hundred battles made Wulfrik dive away rather than try to wipe the ice from his eyes as another man might. The marauder hurled himself from the path of the onrushing greyback, throwing himself into the snow. Even so, the yhetee’s claw slashed near enough to him to catch the heavy cape he wore. The icy claws of the greyback cut through the giant-scalp as though it were cheesecloth, the tangled tatters dangling from its talons like a knight’s pennant.
Wulfrik rose to meet the yhetee’s next charge. Shielding his eyes from another shower of snow, he was able to dodge the claw as it came whistling at his head. Rolling low, he brought his blade raking across the greyback’s ankle, cleaving its foot from its leg.
Shrieking, the greyback crashed into the snow. Wulfrik did not give it a chance to rise. Screaming a war cry only a little less savage than the howls of the yhetee, he leapt upon the struggling beast. Steel crunched through bone, stabbing through the yhetee’s horned skull to impale the primitive brain within. The greyback made one furious effort to fling the champion off its back. Then it uttered a mewing whimper and its body collapsed back into the snow.
Wulfrik wrenched his sword free from the greyback’s head. One foot planted upon the gory mess, he raised his bloodied weapon high and shouted into the night.
‘Skulls for the Skull Throne!’
The death of their leader put the remaining yhetee into a full rout. The beasts fled back into the high peaks, their wailing cries piteous and mournful as they withdrew into their icy refuges.
For the men who stood victorious, it was enough that the monsters were gone. In the aftermath of battle, they gathered about their master and watched him perform a sombre ritual.
The head of the greyback was cut from its body and cleaned of flesh. Once prepared, Wulfrik took possession of it. The champion was silent as death as he carried the trophy towards a raging fire Sigvatr had coaxed into life with whale oil and cloth stripped from the dead. Bowing to each of the eight points of the flame, Wulfrik held the inhuman skull above the fire.
‘Glory and horror to the Blood God, whose Rage shall devour the world! An offering to honour my debt!’
Wulfrik dropped the skull into the fire. Instead of smouldering like a normal bone, the skull cracked and crumbled, disintegrating into a fine red mist. The stench of boiling blood rose from the crimson smoke. Wulfrik turned away from the flames, wiping his hand in the snow.
‘It is done?’ Sigvatr asked the champion when he returned from making his offering.
‘It is done,’ Wulfrik told the grizzled warrior. ‘The hunger of the Blood God is appeased. At least for a time.’
‘The gods have mighty hungers,’ Sigvatr said.
‘They are gluttons,’ Wulfrik corrected him, casting a spiteful look at the flames. ‘Will they ever have enough?’
Sigvatr shook his head in sympathy. It was an old sorrow Wulfrik expressed, a sorrow that had been with him ever since that terrible night after the Battle of a Thousand Skulls. ‘Many men would envy the favour the gods have shown you,’ he said. Wulfrik followed the old man’s gaze to where his warriors were encamped.
‘Most men are fools,’ Wulfrik snarled, storming away from his friend. The thought that any man would look at what the gods had done to him as some kind of blessing was one that made his blood boil. He knew it was what made men so eager to join his crew. He couldn’t understand how anyone could be so blind.
Jokull came running from the camp, a great mass of fur held in his arms. The hunter bowed as he approached Wulfrik. Smiling, he held out the heavy mass of fur to the champion. ‘I saw the beast ruin your cape, war-chief,’ Jokull said. ‘I thought it only fitting that it should provide you with another.’
Wulfrik took the heavy fur from the hunter. It must have taken some nerve for the man to steal back to the battlefield and skin the greyback. The champion could admire that kind of valour, but he felt only contempt for anyone who thought he could bribe his favour with presents. Wulfrik’s boot kicked into Jokull’s knee, spilling the hunter into the snow.
‘When I desire new raiment, I’ll ask for it,’ the champion growled. He didn’t look down as he marched past the fallen hunter. The man would either learn his place or he would over-reach himself. Wulfrik hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He could tell just from the feel of it that the cloak Jokull had made was a good one.
Conversation faded as Wulfrik stalked back into camp. The champion let his steely gaze sweep across the gathered marauders. They had spent a day resting and recovering from the battle. They should be grateful for their captain’s indulgence.
‘Kill the wounded, gather the names of the dead,’ Wulfrik told his crew. ‘We march to the Seafang. It is time we put these mountains behind us.’
The champion turned away, marching back down the mountain, following the path they had climbed when they had made their ascent. The meaning was not lost upon the Norscans. Without Wulfrik, none of them would ever leave these mountains, and Wulfrik would brook neither argument nor delay.
The screams of the Norscan wounded did not linger long.
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