*Yesss,* the snake whispered in his mind. *I have been waiting long.*
Gavin took a step forward, all doubt and fear gone. He thrust out his right arm, palm up as if waiting for the sword to be placed in it. “I am ready,” he said. “May wrath temper fury and together bring retribution to the forces of Darkness.”
The great snake moved with impossible speed, its head descending towards him before he could even register the movement. The serpent struck, its wicked fangs sinking into his extended forearm. Gavin wanted to pull back, but was paralyzed by the sudden shock.
Pain more intense than anything he had ever felt coursed through his arm. The serpent’s fangs felt like curved icicles, slicing clear through his arm. The coldness in his arm grew, not numbing the pain, but increasing it with a burning sensation a hundred times more intense than when he had plunged into frozen water as a boy. He screamed, still unable to move. The snake began to glow with an inner, white light, like the glow of the icy walls, but infinitely brighter. Gavin was once again blinded by the light as the anguish reached a point of maddening intensity. At last he could no longer endure the agony and he dropped into welcome oblivion.
Gavin awoke—yet again—on the cold floor. His body hadn’t been leached of too much heat and as he opened his eyes he saw the flare was still burning brightly where he had dropped it. Very little time had passed during his vision, then. He got to his feet gingerly, expecting pain from his right arm, but there was none, only the quickly fading memory of the agony. He flexed his arm experimentally, but felt nothing except a slight twinge of pins and needles, either from the phantom pain or maybe just from how he had been lying.
He glanced over to the ice pedestal. The sword was gone.
He walked over to it and examined the space where it had been. There was still an empty slit in the ice where the blade had been, but where had the sword gone?
His arm twinged again and he absently rubbed at it as he looked around the circular room.
Nothing. There was no sword and no crevice or crack where it could have fallen. He knew that the vision had been real, the sword had undoubtedly chosen him—but where was it?
There was another wrinkle of sensation up and down his arm and he looked down at it, curious.
Gavin removed his gloves and undid the clasp holding his cloak in place, allowing it to fall to the ground. He took off his pouch and laid it on top of the cloak, then unfastened his coat and removed it as well. His shirt came next; he pulled the garment over his head and cast it on top of the pile. Then he examined his right arm.
A tattoo of a snake—the same silver color as the creature of his vision—ran the entire length of his arm. Its tail began just below his shoulder, curving down and around under his bicep. It continued, corkscrewing around his elbow and straightening out down most of the underside of his forearm. The head was settled on his wrist, the tip ending less than half an inch from his hand. Its eyes were closed slits, as if the serpent was sleeping. As he examined the length of his arm he was amazed at the detail; every scale was intricately reproduced, identical to the design of the hilt that had seen earlier. The dark silver even had a slight metallic sheen to it. He had never seen such a tattoo—and the artists of his tribe prided themselves on their body markings.
He was so transfixed that he did not hear the sound above him, but his inner sense suddenly screamed a warning and he threw himself to the side just as a figure crashed down where he had been standing.
The draugr. It must have tracked him to the cave, jumping down from an entrance far above the circular room, concealed by shadow. He watched as it rose, turning slowly, in no particular hurry. There was no place for Gavin to run; even if he could rush past the undead creature it would easily catch him in the winding tunnels.
He shifted into a defensive crouch, frantically trying to come up with options. He still had his hunting knife, but his other weapons had proved ineffective, he doubted the smaller blade would do any better. But still, he was a warrior of the Tribe of Fenrir, he would go out fighting. He slowly drew the long knife, holding it behind him, waiting for the monster to attack.
But the creature just stood there, completely still in a way only a dead thing could, its smoldering eyes daring him to make the first move. Staring at those eyes, Gavin had a flash of hope. Perhaps its eyes were not as impervious as its flesh. If he could bury his knife deep into its brain maybe he could at least weaken it.
Without hesitation, he whipped his arm forward and flung the blade at the undead monster. His aim was true, the throw perfect, the heavy knife spinning end over end straight toward the draugr’s head.
Without a hint of effort, the creature lifted its arm with inhuman speed and the weapon simply bounced off it. Gavin felt a chill that had nothing to do with his naked torso and steeled himself for the inevitable.
The draugr laughed.
There was nothing joyous or even human about the sound. Rather, it was a sick, wet sounding parody of real amusement. The corrupted laugh was full of scorn, mocking Gavin for his pitiful attempt. He was a child again, being derided by his peers and elders alike; scorned for his very existence. He was nothing; a cursed wretch, why did he even want to continue in a world that despised him so? Better to simply lie down and die.
The abomination laughed again and suddenly Gavin’s feelings of despair and defeat vanished.
Fury filled him instead. Anger flared through his body burning away both cold and fear. His vision darkened with rage and he was filled with a single desire: to destroy this abomination.
And the fury turned to wrath.
It was a part of him, giving him strength and burning away uncertainty. He rose from the crouch to stand to his full height, towering over the shorter creature. With a roar of defiance he lifted his right arm towards the draugr, palm upward.
Power flared within him. The silver snake on his arm began to glow softly and then suddenly rippled, writhing as if it were a living animal. The snake’s eyes flew open, the red jewel-like orbs aglow with inner light. In a blink the serpent uncoiled itself down the length of his arm, past his hand, toward the abomination. Just as the end of the tail crossed his upraised palm there was a quick flash of silvery light and the snake vanished.
In its place was the sword.
Although the sudden weight should have unbalanced him, it didn’t. His hand simply instinctually gripped the scaled handle; the weapon feeling like it had been made for him. The blade—a lighter color than the hilt, the color of true silver—was three inches wide and etched with swirls and rune-like designs along the entire length. It was nearly four feet long, a two-handed sword to an average-sized person, but with his size and strength it felt comfortable enough in one hand. Even though he had been trained on shorter, thicker blades, he felt as if had wielded this weapon all his life.
It felt like an extension of his body!
The entire metamorphosis had taken only a few seconds and now the draugr stood, no longer laughing, but staring at the blade with a look of surprise.
And growing fear. The creature sensed the power in the artifact. It looked from the sword to Gavin. Their eyes met. They both knew: here was a weapon that could indeed hurt it. Could kill it.
The creature let out roar echoing Gavin’s earlier cry and grew.
It grew!
As he watched the thing, its body rippled and expanded, the muscles of its dead arms growing to inhuman proportion, wicked claws sprouting from the tips of its fingers. Its legs did the same, further rending the remains of the tattered pants. Its feet lengthened and the toes curled into long claws that dug into the ice covering the cave floor. Its height also increased, six, seven, over nine feet; now it towered over Gavin, glaring down at him with those smoldering eyes in a head that now seemed ridiculously small on the massive body.
The draugr let out another bellow, this time a deep basso, so intense it shook the cave. Then the creature charged. Its monstrous growth spurt had done nothing to s
low it down and it covered the distance between itself and Gavin in a heartbeat, claws raised for a devastating strike.
Gavin simply sidestepped the attack. A detached part of him knew that the creature was just as fast as it had been earlier, if not faster. Yet to him it appeared to move with a clumsy, sluggish speed. He saw its movement, knew the angle of its attack and seemed to have all the time in the world to respond. He lifted the sword in an overhead arch and slashed the thing across the back as it rushed past. It managed to spin away from most of the blow, but a long line appeared running down its shoulder. The draugr howled as black putrid blood flowed from the wound.
The creature pivoted sharply and slashed at Gavin’s head, a blow that he easily parried with the silver sword, sending more drops of black blood flying.
Gavin thought of the berserker rages some of the Warriors called upon, sacrificing reason and awareness for a short time, for might and speed—much like his earlier failed attack. But now, while his strength and reaction time had indeed increased, he was still fully sane, and if anything, hyper-aware. He felt an almost trance-like calm, the cold wrath coursing through him more of a methodical calculation. He was still in full possession of his faculties; all the benefits of a rage, without the loss of control.
Interesting, he thought to himself, and idly stepped back from a kick the monster had delivered. He swung the sword again, this time biting deep into the creatures arm.
Too deeply. The creature screamed in pain and in the time it took him to extract the blade, the beast swung around, backhanding him with a powerful blow.
Gavin went flying, crashing into to the ice pedestal, adding to his collection of bruises. He had, luckily retained a hold on the sword. In truth, he wasn’t even sure if he could release it anymore than he could will his arm off. He brought the sword up defensively as he shook his head trying to clear it. Some of his hair had come out of its braid and he quickly pushed the white tangle out of his eyes, anticipating the draugr to charge.
It did, but not toward him. Instead it ran in the other direction, out of the circular chamber and into the tunnels beyond.
Gavin stared after it in disbelief. It was running? From him?
The detached part of his mind knew he should be flattered, but the cold wrath flared up, allowing no other emotion. The monster, the thing that had killed his people; this abomination that shouldn’t even exist was getting away.
It. Would. Not.
Power flared up within him again and his aches were forgotten. Pushing off from the pedestal, he raced off towards the draugr. He caught up with the creature as it was turning into a side tunnel, the creature running at full speed.
Gavin swept the silver sword in a horizontal arc and hamstrung the monster.
The creature screamed and fell forward, hard onto the ground. It thrashed desperately, still trying to get away. Gavin raised his sword and brought it down in a two-handed chop.
The creature stopped thrashing as its head rolled away from its body. The grotesque musculature shrunk as if deflated and the thing seemed to collapse in on itself until there was nothing left but a desiccated corpse; in all appearances decomposed for years.
Gavin stared down at the corpse, but as the wrath slowly ebbed away, so did his vision. He hadn’t even considered that the tunnels were unlit, but the sword had apparently enhanced his sight. Now he was left in darkness, the surge of power he had experienced replaced with weariness and ache. He started to sag against the wall of the cave, but the frigid stone reminded him that he was still shirtless.
Summoning all his remaining strength, Gavin trudged back toward the circular chamber, led by the dying light of the flare. As he regarded the magnificent weapon once more in the flickering light, the runes etched into the silver blade seemed to glow and the jeweled eyes to flash. Then the sword seemed to twist in his hand and curled back up his arm. Quicker than thought, the sword was merely a tattoo upon his arm once more.
Gavin stared at the glistening snake, until the room began to darken, as the flare sputtered. Quickly, he located his clothes and donned them. The room was completely dark by the time he had settled everything back into place, so he reached inside his pouch and retrieved his last flare. Lighting it, he found his hunting knife and sheathed it.
He headed out, feeling confident that he could find the way and that with the draugr’s death, the blizzard would have subsided.
The Warrior paused at the desiccated body in the outer corridor. The head of the draugr was looking up at him, its bulging eyes no longer glowed red, but were now the milky white of the dead. He started to walk on, and then reconsidered. Reaching down Gavin grasped the severed head by its stringy hair. He knew the Elders would view it a fitting trophy for the newest Warrior of the Fenrir Tribe.
But to Gavin, the real prize was the newfound confidence in himself, the mastery over his anger—and the sleeping snake upon his arm.
The End
Biography
Mark Campbell lives mostly in his head, which is most often located in Ohio, residing with Mark's wife Marie and their small menagerie of pets.
www.facebook.com/markcampbellauthor
www.twitter.com/author_mark
More short stories and novels by Mark
Snow Blind Page 5
