02 - Wulfrik

by C. L. Werner - (ebook by Undead)

  Caring nothing for the displeasure of the king or his court, Wulfrik carried Hjordis back to her chambers. His blood afire from the treachery of Viglundr, it was long into the night before fatigue quieted his passion and he sank down upon the bearskin blanket. Weariness gripped his body, but sleep refused to come to him. His mind dwelled upon the way Viglundr had tried to cheat him. Despite Hjordis, Wulfrik knew the king must pay for his trickery. Once the curse was lifted from him, once Hjordis was his, he would give the king a choice: renounce the crown or try to keep it. He hoped the old man would be stupid enough to try.

  Wulfrik flinched as fingers brushed against his cheek, running through his thick beard. He rolled onto his side, staring into the bright eyes of his beloved. His callused hand smoothed her tousled hair away from her face.

  “You’ve been gone a long time,” Hjordis whispered.

  The man beside her laughed. “Peace, woman. I need my strength. I may yet have to kill your betrothed tomorrow.”

  The comment brought worry creeping onto the princess’ face. Her hand fell against Wulfrik’s chest, pressing against his heart. “You… you wouldn’t really have…”

  The hero’s eyes grew hard. “Viglundr tried to keep you from me,” he said. “I’d kill anyone who dared try to come between us, be they king or devil.” His fingers stroked the lobe of Hjordis’ tiny ear. “I have fame and glory enough for a hundred heroes, riches that would make a dragon content, but there’s only one thing in this world I want.”

  Hjordis drew away, leaning back among the pillows. “You were gone so very long,” she repeated. “Every day when you were away, my father pressed me to marry Sveinbjorn. At first he tried to reason with me, then he tried to bribe me, then he pleaded. Finally he threatened. Every day he told me you would never be back, that the gods had taken their revenge. I tried to dismiss his words, tried to keep hope alive. But every day it died a little more inside me. Every day my father’s words crept a little closer to my heart…”

  “He’ll pay,” Wulfrik promised.

  “He is still my father,” Hjordis reminded him, fear in her voice.

  “And that is the only reason he is still alive,” Wulfrik said. The warrior shook his head. “I know too well what it is to cling to hope when all others tell you there is none. It is a pain that cuts deeper than any sword, a wound that never heals.” He smiled reassuringly at Hjordis. “Until that day when all the naysayers are proven wrong, when the hope you have held so long finally bears fruit.”

  The northman rolled across the bed, rummaging through the pile of cast-off armour lying heaped upon the floor. From the heap he lifted the jewelled torc, holding it out so that Hjordis could see the shimmer of the chained rubies.

  “This is what I was gone so long to win,” Wulfrik told her. “Not the head of some southling baron or the heart of some beastkin warlord. This isn’t for the gods. This is for me. For us. The Kurgan knows a way to lift my curse. This necklace is the key he needs to work his magic.”

  Eyes wide with wonder, her face glowing with excitement, Hjordis reached for Wulfrik’s hand. Her fingers closed tight around the torc, as though to assure herself it was real. “Can this really set us free?” she gasped, almost frightened to even think about such a thing.

  “The Kurgan says it will,” Wulfrik assured her. “He knows what will happen to him if he is wrong.”

  Hjordis hugged the warrior, resting her head against his chest. “Then it is all over,” she said. “At last, it is really all over.”

  “As soon as the shaman performs the ritual,” Wulfrik nodded. “Then let Viglundr try to keep us apart.”

  The woman drew back in alarm. “He will try,” she said. “His mind has set itself upon alliance with the Aeslings. It has become an obsession for him.”

  Wulfrik bared his fangs as he heard her warning. “I’ll let no man take you away from me,” he said again. “If your father thinks I will stand aside and watch another man lay his hands on you…” The warrior’s voice quivered with rage. “I am the only one who will have you.”

  “You must be careful,” Hjordis advised, pressing her fingers against his lips. “There is nothing my father would not try to get his way.”

  “I’ve already killed one king,” Wulfrik muttered. “Viglundr would be wise to remember that.”

  “For the Lord of the Winds, the last breath is given!”

  Wulfrik awoke with a start, the voice of his dream thundering through his mind. Again he had seen the apocalyptic vision of a southling town wreathed in fire, its streets littered with the dead. Again he had seen his own body, his chest rent open, his heart lying trampled in the gutter.

  Cautiously, he rose from the bed, careful not to disturb Hjordis. Quietly, Wulfrik drew on his armour and stole across the chamber. He did not look back, did not see the princess watching him, her eyes filled with concern.

  The hero slipped past the iron-banded door, out into the corridor. Alarm flashed across his face as he observed an armoured figure leaning against the wall, his hand closing about his sword. Recognition made him hesitate, his brow wrinkling in confusion as he found himself staring at Broendulf.

  “I thought it best if someone kept watch outside,” Broendulf explained. “You seemed a bit too preoccupied to notice, but you made a few people angry at the feast.”

  “Did any of them try to pay a call while I was asleep?” Wulfrik asked.

  “A few,” Broendulf answered. “I told them you weren’t receiving.”

  For the first time Wulfrik noticed the red stains on Broendulf’s sword and armour. He nodded appreciatively. “Anyone I should know about?”

  “Zarnath, for one,” Broendulf told him. “The Kurgan wants us to get a new crew together. He says he can’t perform the ritual here and needs the Seafang to take him to ‘a place of power’, whatever that means.”

  “Have Arngeirr begin recruiting men,” Wulfrik said, cursing under his breath. “No time to bother about the Wolf Forest. Any warrior with a stout heart and a strong back will do—provided they aren’t Aeslings,” he added. There was more he would have liked to say, but he would save it for when he saw the shaman. This close to being free from his curse he wouldn’t stand for any more of Zarnath’s surprises.

  “About the Wolf Forest,” Broendulf said. “There was a messenger from Sveinbjorn. He says the prince will await you there, to settle for once who has the stronger claim on Hjordis.”

  Wulfrik smiled when Broendulf gave him the message. “Sveinbjorn is a bigger fool than I thought. Who does he think built the Wolf Forest? All he’s done is make certain I’ll kill him!” The champion yawned and stretched his powerful arms. “First to see what’s left over from the feast,” he said, clapping Broendulf on the shoulder. “Then off to settle with Sveinbjorn. Then to talk with Zarnath about this voyage he’s decided we need to make.” He shook his head, cursing again. “A full morning all round.”

  Broendulf watched Wulfrik stalk off down the corridor, his very steps seeming to shake with anger. The huscarl considered that he would not have traded places with Sveinbjorn for all the sand in Araby.

  The door beside him suddenly creaked open, startling Broendulf. He spun around to find Hjordis, staring down the hall, watching until Wulfrik disappeared around the corner. Only then did she become aware of the fair-faced huscarl standing beside her. Colour rose to her cheeks and her hands tightened about the bearskin blanket she had wrapped around her body.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I was standing guard at your door,” Broendulf answered. “I wanted to be sure you were protected.”

  “I assure you I was,” Hjordis said.

  “I wanted to be sure, just the same,” the huscarl explained. “Wulfrik is a mighty warrior, but he forgets himself in battle. He’s reckless with the lives of others.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me about his prowess,” the princess said, her voice sharp as a lash.

  “No good will come to you from him,”
Broendulf told her. “There’s a terrible doom hanging over his head. One he can’t escape.”

  “He will escape it,” Hjordis said. “He will escape it because he is Wulfrik and neither men nor gods will stand in his way. Who are you to question what he can or can’t do? Some snippet of a bondsman cast out from my father’s service?” Understanding suddenly came into the woman’s eyes and she retreated across the threshold of her room, keeping the half-open door between herself and Broendulf. “Is that it? Did he send you here to try and twist my mind against Wulfrik? What did he promise you for betraying your captain?”

  “There’s only one thing he could offer me,” Broendulf said. “And he’s already promised that to someone else.” The huscarl reached towards Hjordis. The princess drew back, slamming the door in his face.

  “Go away, Broendulf,” Hjordis’ voice scolded him from behind the door. “If I told Wulfrik about this, he would kill you.”

  Broendulf put his hand against the closed door. “It might be better that way,” he said, sadness in his voice.

  “Go away, Broendulf,” Hjordis repeated. “I’ll forget what you’ve said, only go.”

  The dejected huscarl turned away from the door. He was under no illusion that he could ever claim Hjordis for his own. The pain of his unspoken love was what had driven him to abandon his post as captain of Viglundr’s guard. He had hoped he would find a worthy death joining the crew of the Seafang, that by helping to protect the man Hjordis loved he could somehow, in some strange way, earn her affection.

  Now he saw how foolish he had been. He had seen how Wulfrik’s curse had hurt Hjordis, but now he saw that even without his strange doom, the man could only bring her suffering. Her father would never allow them to know peace and Wulfrik was too proud to ever compromise. He was a warrior and would never be anything else.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Bloodfield was lost beneath a thick layer of snow when Wulfrik made his way to the training ground. How different it looked from the last time he had been here. The tables where the people of Ormskaro had feasted were all but buried beneath the snow. He could just see the carved headrest of King Viglundr’s seat poking through the crust. Somewhere under that white veil was where he had first been approached by Zarnath and heard the shaman’s claim that he could lift the curse.

  Sigvatr had been beside him then, counselling him against listening to the Kurgan. Had he known his old friend would die in capturing the treasure Zarnath needed, Wulfrik wondered if even his love for Hjordis would have been enough to drive him on. The hero nodded grimly to himself.

  Yes, he would have. There was nothing he would not give to free himself from his curse, to end the endless voyages that kept him from his love. Since the gods had visited their punishment upon him, he had been like a dead thing, existing but not truly alive, his heart yearning for the things his curse denied him. A chance to live again, that was worth any risk, any sacrifice.

  Wulfrik stared across the snow-covered plateau. He saw the raised platforms and the nest of poles that formed the Wolf Forest poking up through the snow. The deadly spikes were hidden, buried under the crust, but Wulfrik knew they would bite just as keenly unseen. The hero grimaced, a thrill of fear running down his spine. One last battle before Zarnath lifted the curse from him. It would suit the malignant humour of the gods to let him die now when he was so close to escape. His spirit would be damned, a plaything for daemons to torment until the world’s ending when all was devoured by the Blood God’s hunger.

  The hero forced himself to forget such thoughts. Fear would give Sveinbjorn an advantage, perhaps the only one the Aesling needed. He had to concentrate on the fight before him, not the release he would soon obtain.

  Sveinbjorn and his hersirs were gathered at the far side of the Wolf Forest, almost twenty in number. The Aeslings had donned heavy cloaks against the cold, but Wulfrik knew they would be wearing armour beneath their furs. Sveinbjorn’s men had come dressed for battle this time. Wulfrik grinned fiercely. If it was battle the Aeslings wanted, battle they would have. He turned his head and glanced at the weathered warriors following behind him. He had brought nearly his entire crew with him to the Bloodfield. No more fearsome a body of men existed in Norsca than the bold reavers who sailed upon the Seafang; each of his warriors was worth two of Sveinbjorn’s. If the prince planned treachery, then he had brought too few to succeed.

  Of course, the Aesling had other resources available to him. Standing only a little distance from Sveinbjorn and his hersirs was Viglundr and a dozen of his jarls and bondsmen. Like the Aeslings, they had put on their armour, axes and swords hanging loose beneath their belts. More disturbing to Wulfrik was the sight of a wizened old Sarl clad in sharkskin vestments. His face framed by the open jaws of the shark-head hood, the elder stared at Wulfrik with the single amber eye that gleamed at the centre of his forehead. This was Rundulfr, Ormfell’s seer. Wulfrik felt his skin crawl as the mystic’s cyclopean eye studied him. Had he come to ensure the fight would be fought fairly and according to tradition, or had Viglundr brought the seer so that his magic might sway the outcome? Wulfrik found himself wishing he had brought Zarnath with him to counter whatever spells Rundulfr might evoke. The hero bared his fangs in a grim smile.

  Of course that was assuming the shaman would stay on his side. It occurred to Wulfrik that just as he believed another warlock could discover the secret of the torc, so too Zarnath might take the chance that he could master the Seafang without Wulfrik’s help.

  Wulfrik shook his head. He had to trust the Kurgan a little longer. But he would keep one eye on the shaman just the same.

  “So the wife-stealer comes!” Sveinbjorn’s voice called out as Wulfrik approached the gathered Aeslings. “I had thought you might,” the prince waved his hand through the air, “get back on your boat and just sail away again.”

  “There are men who still need killing here in Ormskaro,” Wulfrik said. “And Hjordis isn’t your wife yet, Aes. Nor will she ever be.” The hero drew his sword from its sheath, laughing when he saw the way Sveinbjorn’s eyes were drawn to the skull tied to the hilt. King Torgald had been reckoned a great warrior among the Aeslings. Seeing his skull among Wulfrik’s trophies was a reminder to Sveinbjorn of the champion’s skill in battle.

  “You’ve agreed to settle this in the Wolf Forest,” Viglundr warned. As the king spoke, his warriors took a step forwards, their axes ready in their hands. “I will hear no more of this bickering.”

  Wulfrik shrugged and turned cold eyes upon the Sarl king. “It matters not where I kill this vermin,” he said. “Only that his stink is gone from Ormskaro!” Contemptuously, he turned away from the bristling Aeslings and walked towards the icy ladder leading up to the Wolf Forest.

  Haukr hurried after his captain, a heavy southling shield in his hand. He started to hand it to Wulfrik, but the champion brushed him aside. Mockery in his voice, Wulfrik turned from the base of the ladder and addressed Sveinbjorn. “Give the shield to the prince,” he said. “I won’t need it. I doubt I’ll even need my sword. The clumsy worm will probably fall onto the stakes before he takes his second step off the ladder.”

  Laughing at the fuming prince, Wulfrik scrambled up the icy ladder with the nimbleness of a monkey. He was soon upon the narrow platform, staring out across the snow-covered posts. For a man used to climbing into the rigging of a rolling ship upon a stormy sea, the Wolf Forest held no terror. He wondered if Sveinbjorn could boast the same resolve.

  Wulfrik turned his head and stared down at the Aesling prince. “Come along, killer of mice, or has the blood in your veins already turned to water?”

  Sveinbjorn glared up at the jeering hero, but made no move towards the other side of the battleground. A sneer curled the prince’s lip. “Me, a prince, lower myself to brawl with some simple sea raider?” he scoffed. “You really are as stupid as you look!”

  Wulfrik bared his fangs, glowering down at the prince. “What cowardly trickery is this?”

  “
No trickery,” Viglundr answered. “Sveinbjorn has challenged you, but has chosen a champion to represent him in battle.”

  Wulfrik’s eyes narrowed with hate as he realised the deception which had been worked against him. He shifted his gaze from the smirking prince to the far side of the Wolf Forest. The platform shuddered as a huge figure mounted the ladder.

  “I would have sent a dog,” Sveinbjorn laughed, “but I could find none mangy enough to face you.”

  Wulfrik’s hand tightened about the hilt of his sword. He would make the duplicitous prince eat those words when he crammed the skull of his champion down his throat!

  Across the battleground, the Aesling champion finished his climb. Even Wulfrik had seldom seen a more formidable man. His stature was enormous, almost troll-like. His bare arms were so swollen with muscle that they couldn’t even hang cleanly against his sides but instead bulged out from his body. A breastplate of blackened steel stretched across his broad chest, its surface pitted and scarred from past battles. A skirt of chainmail hung from his waist, dried human ears fastened to it by hooks. Strips of scaly hide were wrapped about his legs, the tough blue hides of butchered dragon-folk. Iron boots fitted with curved claws encased his feet, sides and soles adorned with sharp spikes so that the warrior could maintain his footing even upon the most treacherous ground. About his head, the fighter wore an ornate helm of bronze, its curled horns twisting upwards from its crown. From the visor of the helm, Wulfrik could see two glowing green eyes watching him hungrily.

  Feeling an unaccountable sense of dread, Wulfrik drew the other sword sheathed at his hip and stepped out upon the snow-covered posts. A blade in either hand, he cautiously walked out into the Wolf Forest.

  He had only taken a few steps when the eyes of Sveinbjorn’s champion changed from green to red. A metallic howl rasped through the steel mask of the Aesling’s helm as the huge fighter threw back his head and roared at the winter sky. Then the warrior was dashing across the posts, charging towards Wulfrik with reckless disregard for balance and footing. All that seemed to matter to the fearless champion was closing with his enemy.