02 - Wulfrik

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

  Wulfrik braced himself for his enemy’s assault. Watching the Aesling leap from post to post, he felt his fear swell. There was something wrong, something hideously unnatural about the warrior, an abnormality that made even a Norscan’s skin crawl. As the Aesling closed with him, Wulfrik could see runes burning along the blackened steel of the massive double-headed axe the warrior bore, letters carved in the slithery letters of the Dark Tongue, the language of daemons and sorcerers.

  The hulking berserker did not hesitate when he reached Wulfrik, but with an animal snarl he brought his axe chopping down. Wulfrik blocked the murderous blow, catching the descending blade between his crossed swords. The Aesling’s strength was that of a titan; Wulfrik could feel the impact of the axe crashing against his blades like a tremor coursing down his arms. His knees were bent by the force of the blow, his entire body straining under the berserker’s brawn.

  The Aesling’s glowing eyes burned in the shadows of his helmet, insane mutterings crawling from behind the steel mask. Flickers of fire danced from the runes set into the berserker’s axe, the air turning to steam around the weapon. A chorus of voices clawed at Wulfrik’s brain, whispers of madness that fanned the fires of fear growing in his gut. He could feel himself falling into a black abyss, a realm of terror from which there would be no escape.

  The Aesling’s great strength continued to bear down on Wulfrik. The hero’s legs began to buckle; his body began to tremble with the strain of keeping the butchering edge of the axe from cleaving into his chest. He could feel the berserker’s daemon-axe chewing into the edge of his sword, biting into the tempered steel. Inch by inch, second by second, Wulfrik knew he was being overwhelmed by Sveinbjorn’s champion.

  Through Wulfrik’s mind flashed the image of a triumphant Sveinbjorn bearing Hjordis to his chambers, lust etched upon the prince’s smirking features. He could see old Viglundr rubbing his hands together, chortling greedily over the union of Aesling and Sarl. He could hear the gods laughing at him, mocking his failure as they claimed his damned spirit.

  Wulfrik’s lips curled back in a snarl. Crimson fury flared through his mind, burning away the whispering daemon-voices. Strength born from rage thundered through his limbs. With a roar, he pressed up against the berserker’s axe, his entire body lunging upwards, throwing every ounce of strength in his flesh against the Aesling’s steel.

  The effort sent the berserker stumbling back, his arms flailing as he struggled to keep hold of his axe. Wulfrik staggered after him, each wobbling step threatening to send him toppling into the snow-covered stakes below. Before the Aesling could recover, Wulfrik’s sword flashed out, cleaving through bone and sinew in a scarlet blur. A pained shriek rippled across the Wolf Forest as Wulfrik cut the berserker’s hand from his wrist, the severed appendage still locked about the heft of his daemon-axe.

  Far from being overcome with pain, the berserker seemed to take strength from his injury. One-handed he brought the massive axe swinging around, slashing it like some monstrous scythe at Wulfrik’s head. The hero ducked beneath the murderous sweep of the blade. Before the crouching fighter could draw a breath, the huge axe was swinging back, much lower on its return than it had been before.

  Daringly, Wulfrik leapt over the bladed steel. His body trembled as his feet came slamming back down upon the tops of the posts. For a hideous moment, he teetered at the brink of destruction, fighting to recover his balance.

  The berserker brought his axe chopping down once more, trying to take advantage of his compromised foe. At the last instant, Wulfrik spun away from the double-axe, shifting his weight towards the left and forcing both of his feet onto the same post.

  The axe slammed into the post Wulfrik had been standing on, cleaving deep into the wood. The Aesling struggled to rip the axe free, forgetting for the moment the foe who had so narrowly escaped him.

  Wulfrik did not give the berserker time to realise his mistake. Shifting his footing, the hero brought both of his swords slashing into the Aesling’s outstretched arm. He felt bone split beneath the blow, saw blood fountain from the hideous wounds. The half-freed axe tumbled from the berserker’s weakened grip, burying itself in the snow below.

  The Aesling reeled back, blood gushing from his arm. Maddened sounds shuddered from the berserker’s helm, his spiked boots clawing at the posts as he staggered away.

  Wulfrik surged after the wounded berserker. With the loss of the daemon-axe, the dread that had gripped him was evaporating, the gibbering voices in his mind falling silent. “After I kill you, I’m going to geld your prince,” Wulfrik hissed at the Aesling.

  It was the tone of arrogant confidence in the hero’s voice rather than his words that made the berserker cock his armoured head and stare at him with something approaching curiosity. A garbled voice rumbled from beneath the Aesling’s helm.

  “Fraener… kill… cut… tear… slaughter,” the Aesling’s slobbering words hissed.

  Wulfrik hung back as he heard the berserker’s voice. Fraener had been a great war-chief of the Aeslings, a man who had borne the favour of the gods upon his flesh. He had led his raiders deep into the Wastes, preying upon the Kurgan tribes and looting the ancient dolmens of the beastkin. Surely this crazed mongrel could not be the same man?

  The Aesling glared at Wulfrik. He slapped his bleeding arm across his chest. “Fraener… Fraener…” he repeated. Each time he recited his name, the berserker’s voice grew more distinct, more violent. At the same time, his bleeding arm pulsed, swelling and bubbling like boiled porridge.

  “Fraener!” the Aesling shrieked in a final scream of primal fury. His bubbling arm split open, the flesh peeling back to expose a wet, dripping claw like the leg of a mammoth spider. Bony spikes rippled along the length of the bloody limb, twitching and throbbing in tandem with the Aesling’s breath.

  Wulfrik stared in horror at the cackling mutant. If this was Fraener, then the gods had abandoned him somewhere along the way, casting him aside like a broken toy. From a mighty Chosen, marked by the gods with their favour, his mind and body had degenerated into a creature of madness, a debased Forsaken. What trickery had Sveinbjorn used to bring this creature from whatever lonely cave he had hidden himself in, what promises had he made that could stir the mind of a savage maniac?

  The Forsaken loped towards Wulfrik, slashing the glistening claw at the hero’s neck. Wulfrik dodged aside, growling in pain as he felt the spikes along the dripping limb slash across his cheek. Vengefully, he brought one of his swords slashing across the mutated arm. A filthy brown vapour jetted from the resulting wound, spraying across his face, blinding his eyes.

  Unable to see, Wulfrik swung blindly at his foe, trying to direct his attacks at the Forsaken’s foul smell. He grinned as he felt one of his blades drive home, sinking into the Aesling’s body with a meaty crunch. The next instant, the hero’s body was flung through the air, thrown by the powerful impact of the mutant’s claw against his chest.

  Wulfrik clenched his teeth, expecting any moment to feel the lethal touch of stakes being driven through his flesh. When his body landed, it was with such force that the breath was driven from his lungs. Despite the crushing impact against his chest, he could feel his limbs dangling in the air. Against all odds, he had slammed into one of the posts. Before he could slip off, Wulfrik wrapped his arms and legs about the narrow pole.

  There was a red tint to his vision now, but at least some measure of sight had returned to his eyes. Wulfrik struggled to pull himself up onto the post. One of his swords had been knocked from his grip by the violent landing. The other he held so tightly that he could feel his fingers stabbing into his palm. However much it hindered his climb, he would not let the sword go. Unlike the Forsaken, he could not grow a new weapon when he lost his.

  Insane muttering and the gory stink of a butchered dog warned Wulfrik of his enemy’s approach. Leaping nimbly from post to post, the Forsaken stalked towards him, the spider-like claw quivering eagerly at the mutant’s every step. Wulfrik could
hear Sveinbjorn and the Aesling hersirs shouting encouragement to the monster, goading him to destroy their enemy.

  Despite the cold fear dripping from his brow, Wulfrik forced himself to wait, to bide his time as the Forsaken drew ever closer. From the corner of his eye, he could see the mutant rear back, raising his ghastly arm to deliver the killing blow. The insane mutterings bubbling from the Aesling’s helm took on a giggling quality, the imbecilic glee of an idiot child.

  Roaring, Wulfrik twisted his body around the post he clung to, spinning so that he faced the Forsaken head-on. The hero’s sword licked out like the tongue of a dragon, slashing through the mutant’s leg, shearing through the Aesling’s ankle. Wulfrik’s enemy bleated in alarm, the bleeding stump of his leg waving wildly in the air. Then the mutant toppled, his unbalanced body hurtling down into the stakes beneath the posts. A sickening crunch shuddered through Wulfrik’s ears as the Forsaken’s bulk impaled itself.

  Wulfrik smiled as he started to pull himself up from where he dangled over the side of the post, revelling in the dejected curses he heard rising from Sveinbjorn’s men. The prince had arranged a cunning trap for his hated rival. Now he would suffer the price for its failure.

  The tone of the Aeslings abruptly changed, curses rising into robust cheers. Instantly, Wulfrik forced his tired arms into a frantic effort, using them to anchor his body against the top of the post. At the same time he kicked out with his legs, swinging them upwards, trying to reach the top of the post closest to him. His boots scraped across the icy wood, then his momentum brought him falling back again. Bending his knees, Wulfrik pressed his feet against the pole and kicked out again. Something strong lashed at his boots as he dangled above the stakes, something that tried to coil around his ankle.

  Wulfrik’s feet caught on the second pass. His body hanging between the two posts, he risked a glance at the ground below. A sickening sight greeted him. The body of the Forsaken was transfixed upon a half-dozen stakes, the force of his impact driving them through his armour. A green stain was spreading into the snow all around the Aesling, the heat of the ichor causing the snow to sizzle. From the mutant’s wounds, long ropey tendrils waved, whipping about in an idiot frenzy. A jagged rent in the Forsaken’s armour exposed a toothy maw slobbering and snapping beneath where the man’s ribs should have been. A barbed tongue shot out from the ghastly mouth, slicing across the pole supporting Wulfrik’s hands, scouring the wood with a deep scar.

  The hero turned away from the horrible creature beneath him. Bracing his legs, locking his feet about the sides of the pole they rested on, Wulfrik summoned every scrap of vigour in his powerful arms. He flung his body away from the post, using his legs to help pull himself upright. The Forsaken’s barbed tongue flashed out at him again. This time it sheared completely through the post, cutting it clean through and knocking it to the ground. Wulfrik grimaced as he realised how near he had come to following his refuge into destruction.

  Crouching upon the top of the pole, feeling it sway and shiver beneath his weight, Wulfrik gazed out across the Wolf Forest. He was almost at the middle of the battlefield, equally distant from either platform. If he made for the platform the Aesling had used to enter the field, he would be able to avoid coming within striking range of the mutant’s tongue and the flailing tendrils spilling from his torn flesh. He could escape the monster without any danger.

  The hero glared over at the jeering Sveinbjorn and bared his fangs. He wouldn’t give the prince the satisfaction of seeing him run.

  Wulfrik stared back down at the monstrosity impaled upon the stakes. The Forsaken was struggling to pull himself free, his tendrils coiling around the poles around him, using them as leverage to lift his bulk off the spikes. In a few minutes, the mutant would be free.

  Wulfrik had no intention of allowing the Aesling the time he needed. Howling a fierce war cry, closing both hands about the hilt of his sword, the hero leapt from his precarious perch in a savage leap. His boots slammed into the Forsaken’s struggling body, thrusting the mutant back upon the stakes, causing more blood and filth to spill across the snow. The Aesling lifted his head, angry croaking echoing from his helm as his glowing eyes gazed upon the man standing upon his chest.

  Raising his sword high, Wulfrik brought the blade flashing down, cleaving through the Forsaken’s horned helm, hewing through the skull beneath. The twisted body under his feet trembled and thrashed, then fell still.

  Wulfrik wiped the Forsaken’s filthy blood from his face. Carefully he stepped away from the dead mutant, picking a path through the stakes under the Wolf Forest. Grimly he tore a strip of fur from his cape and began to wipe the monster’s gore from the edge of his blade. He wanted his sword keen when he drove it through Sveinbjorn’s belly.

  The Aesling prince was not gloating now. Fear was in his eyes as he retreated behind the armoured ranks of his hersirs. Their axes rested uneasily in the lordlings’ hands. Not a man among them had not seen Fraener’s monstrous ability in battle many times before. They regarded the prospect of facing a man powerful enough to kill the Forsaken in single combat as nothing short of suicide. Bonded to fight for the Aesling prince, none of them was eager to die for him.

  Viglundr’s Sarls marched between the Aeslings and the advancing Wulfrik. The old king stepped out from between his guards, making placating gestures to the infuriated hero.

  “You have proven the worth of your claim upon my daughter,” Viglundr said. “Sveinbjorn’s champion is vanquished. There is no need for more bloodshed.”

  Wulfrik spat into the snow at Viglundr’s feet. “The hell there isn’t,” he snarled, his eyes locked upon Sveinbjorn’s pale features.

  “You’ve won, Wulfrik!” Viglundr told him. “Hjordis is yours!”

  “She already was,” Wulfrik corrected him. “Given to me by your promise. Out of my way, snake-tongue!” he barked at the king. “I already have half a mind to kill you alongside this Aesling scum. Don’t tempt me more!”

  “It will mean war,” Viglundr said. “The Aeslings will avenge their prince!”

  “They will try,” Wulfrik said. The hero strode past Viglundr, a terrible light shining in his eyes. The king’s warriors stepped nervously from his path. The crew of the Seafang watched their captain prowl across the snow, uncertain if he would welcome their help against the Aeslings or curse them for interfering.

  Viglundr hastened after the hero. “Ormskaro cannot stand against the Aeslings,” he hissed in a frightened whisper. “Even without Torgald and his warriors, they are too strong.”

  “For you,” Wulfrik sneered, his eyes never leaving Sveinbjorn. “Not for me. I’ve fought one war with these mongrels. I’ll fight another just as happily.”

  “There’s no need,” Viglundr persisted. “No reason to force them to battle.”

  Wulfrik turned his head and stared into the king’s face, snorting with contempt at the fear and desperation he saw written across Viglundr’s features. “A wolf without teeth shouldn’t lead a pack,” he said. “Maybe I will kill you when I finish with Sveinbjorn after all.”

  “And who would protect my daughter then?” Viglundr asked, his voice dripping with spite.

  Wulfrik brandished his sword in the king’s face. “You dare—”

  “I am told you must sail away,” Viglundr interrupted him. “One last voyage before the Kurgan’s magic sets you free. How long will you be gone? How long will the gods keep you from Ormskaro after you cheat them? A day? A week? More? And who will keep the Aeslings from tearing down this place when you are gone?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Wulfrik lowered his sword. He smiled coldly at Viglundr. “Your words are as poisonous as ever,” he said.

  “They are only the truth, and you know it.”

  The hero gnashed his fangs together, his entire body trembling with rage. Viglundr was right. There was no way to be certain when he would return, no way to protect Hjordis while he was gone. He did not know what strange land Zarnath would need them to sail for in order t
o work his magic, but he would wager it was no such place as he would take his bride.

  He had to be free of his curse. Only then could he defend Hjordis and the kingdom he would wrest from Viglundr’s cheating fingers. Until then, he had to set aside his hate. Set it aside, but not forget it.

  “Thank the king of the Sarls for your life,” Wulfrik growled to Sveinbjorn behind his guard of hersirs. The hero thrust his sword back into its scabbard and turned his back on the Aeslings. “Don’t be here when I set sail,” he advised as he walked away. “Or I may decide Torgald’s head is lonely.”

  Wulfrik marched towards his crew, his voice lifting into a bellow. “Find Zarnath!” he ordered. “Bring that Kurgan toad-licker to me!” There were questions he would ask the shaman, questions the mystic would answer, or Wulfrik would flay every inch of skin from the man’s hide.

  “I’ll stick that sea-rat’s head on a spike and leave it for the Crow God!” Sveinbjorn’s furious voice echoed from the bare stone walls. “No man treats me like that and lives!”

  Viglundr shook his head as he watched the Aesling prince pace back and forth across the king’s council chamber. “That rug came from an Estalian castle. I’d thank you not to wear it out.”

  Sveinbjorn stopped pacing. He stared down at his feet, noting the blue cloth stretched across the floor. A scowl on his face, the prince advanced towards Viglundr’s throne. “Don’t think I have forgiven your part in this!” the Aesling shouted.

  “What part would that be?” Viglundr said, his voice thin and edged with menace. “Finding a man who could kill Torgald for you?”

  “Torgald’s dead,” Sveinbjorn snapped. “Wulfrik’s done what we needed him to do. Now it’s time to be rid of the dog!” The prince waved his arms, indicating the small chamber and its sparse adornments. “Look at you! Hiding away here while he prowls at will through your own palace! You’d think he was already king of the Sarls!”