02 - Wulfrik

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

  “My magic will hide us from them,” Zarnath stated. “You need not fear any beast of the Great Western Ocean. Nor need you fear the Shifting Isles.” The shaman lifted one of his arms, waving his hand through the air. In response to his gesture, the fog rolled back, parting as though cut by a blade. As the veil drifted back, the men aboard the ship muttered in awe. Beyond the fog were mighty cliffs, white-capped waves crashing about their rocky base. For hundreds of feet, like a grey wall, the cliffs towered above the sea.

  “Behold! The cliffs of Cothique!” Zarnath exclaimed proudly. He smiled as he turned to Wulfrik. “Atop that wall lies the land of Ulthuan and the site of power that will set you free.”

  Wulfrik studied the menacing cliffs. “You will have earned your price, warlock,” he told Zarnath. “No coward could call himself master of the Seafang. No coward would venture to a place such as this.”

  “But first we must break the curse,” Zarnath reminded the hero.

  Wulfrik’s hand tightened about the jewelled torc, reassuring himself that it was still safe. “Indeed, Kurgan,” Wulfrik said. “Let us finish this.” Turning away from the prow, the Seafang’s captain bellowed at her crew. “Set oars, men! Before another sun rises, I will feel the soil of Alfheim beneath my boots or I will hear the cries of the valkyries in my ears as they bear my crew to their ancestors!”

  The Seafang sat at anchor beside the sheer face of the grey cliffs. Arngeirr had suggested trying to find a less imposing spot to make their ascent, a sentiment echoed by others of the crew. Zarnath, however, had cautioned against roving too far. The elves had many settlements along the coast of Cothique and each sported its own complement of sleek warships. The shaman’s magic could hide them from the notice of the elves, but there was no sense in tempting fate recklessly.

  Staring up at the fearsome cliff, Wulfrik was sorely tempted to give in to his grumbling crew. It was only Zarnath’s insistence that the site of power they needed to reach was near the top of the cliff which hardened the champion’s resolve. More than the risk of elven warships, it was the threat of delay that set his mind to making the dangerous climb. How much time they had already lost travelling into the border-realm, how much more they would lose on the voyage back were questions that tormented him; he would not add to his lost days any more than he could help.

  “Jokull.” Wulfrik beckoned the wiry hunter down from his perch atop the mast. The northman hastily scrambled down to the deck, joining his captain at the prow. Wulfrik turned his eyes from the cliff, then stared at Jokull. His jaw set, his decision made, the champion handed a thick coil of rope to the hunter.

  Jokull studied the cliff, his eyes roving across the jagged stone. He glanced over at Arngeirr, gesturing for the reaver to hand him his flask of kvas. Gasping from the fiery liquor, the hunter thrust the flask back into Arngeirr’s hands, his face flushed with the warm rush of alcohol through his body. Slipping the coil of rope over his shoulder, Jokull climbed onto the Seafang’s gunwale. Bracing his feet, the hunter leapt at the cliff beside the ship. The tentacle which served him for an arm whipped about, slithering into a gap in the stone, catching fast in the crevice.

  Supported by the hold his tentacle-arm had secured, Jokull began to scale the cliff face, inching his way towards the plateau above. The men on the deck of the Seafang watched his gradual progress with admiration. Even for the mountain-climbing Norscans, Jokull’s feat was impressive.

  Hours passed before Jokull reached the top of the cliff. The hunter waved down to his comrades on the ship far below. Soon the rope was cascading over the side, dropping down like some immense vine. Njarvord leaned over the Seafang’s gunwale to fish the end of the line from the sea. Savagely he pulled at the rope, testing its strength. Whatever Jokull had found to anchor it to above held firm. Satisfied, the hairy Baersonling handed the rope over to Wulfrik.

  “Twenty men with the ship,” Wulfrik told his crew. “The rest with me. Kaetill is in charge until I return.” The hero tightened his grip on the rope and moved towards the Seafang’s gunwale. A sudden thought made him turn around, his eyes fixing on Zarnath’s robed figure. Grimly, Wulfrik held the rope towards the shaman. “You first, sorcerer,” he said. “I’d hate to leave you behind.”

  Zarnath’s lip curled back in sardonic amusement. The Kurgan made no move to take the rope from Wulfrik. Instead, he strode to the side of the longship. With surprising agility, he leapt onto the gunwale, and from there he flung himself at the cliff. The northmen watched in amazement as the shaman latched onto the sheer cliff face. Like some immense lizard, he scurried up the rocks, seeming to glide over them with only the briefest contact of his hands against the stone.

  “We should have had him take the rope up,” observed Haukr, his voice low with awed respect. If any of the men had forgotten the shaman’s magic, they were witnessing a stark reminder of it now.

  “I don’t think I’d trust him to tie it,” Wulfrik said. Fangs gleamed as his face twisted into a snarl. “And I damn well think I don’t want him up there while I’m climbing.”

  Without another word, Wulfrik jumped over the side of his ship, his armoured body splashing through the sea until his momentum brought him swinging against the face of the cliff. Setting his boots against the rock, wrapping the heavy rope through his arms, the northman began the arduous climb to the top.

  Broendulf used a bill-hook to retrieve the end of the rope from the sea. He watched Wulfrik scaling up the cliff for a moment, then turned to the rest of the crew. “Come along, you dogs!” he barked. “We need to beat the Kurgan before he decides to cut the rope!”

  Cursing all sorcerers and outlanders, the northmen followed their captain. They couldn’t keep the fear from their eyes as they glanced at Zarnath’s lizard-crawl, watching the shaman draw steadily closer to the top. It was a hopeless race, but the stoic Norscans were determined to run it anyway. Dying because of treachery was better than living because of cowardice.

  With all eyes upon the cliff and the men struggling up its face, no one was left to watch the sea, or to observe something stirring beneath the waves.

  It was a good land, Wulfrik decided as he cast his gaze across the rolling plains of Alfheim. Everything was green and vibrant, even when winter gripped Norsca in its icy claws. The hero wasn’t sure if it was some caprice of latitude that made the island flourish or the powerful magics of the elf-folk that kept the ravages of snow and frost from their shores. It didn’t matter. It was enough to see with his own eyes this enchanted realm. For a moment, he could even forget the grim purpose that had brought him here.

  The plains stretched away in a great prairie of swaying grass, the green sea broken only by occasional islands of darker hue, isolated stands of trees, great ashes and oaks taller and mightier than any tree Wulfrik had ever seen. Wild flowers of every colour and description added to the beauty of the plains. The northmen could see a stream cutting through the landscape, its waters so clear and pure that they might have been made of glass.

  Crowding close upon the prairie were a range of mountains equalled only by those upon which the Norscans had hunted the dread yhetee. The mighty Annulii Mountains, their slopes lush with thick forests of pine, their peaks shrouded in cloud. A nimbus of light, pulsating and crackling with aethyric energies, shimmered about the heights of the mountains. Wulfrik was reminded of the aurora which could be seen glowing in the northern skies of his homeland, an eerie manifestation of the raw power of his gods.

  Wulfrik turned his face from the mountains and the eerie display of magical energies coruscating about their peaks. The sudden reminder of his gods made him question what he was trying to do. He could almost hear Sigvatr’s voice cautioning him against defying his curse and in doing so challenging the gods. Seeing the northern aurora repeated here in the land of the elf-folk made him think of something Agnarr had once told him. The eyes of the gods were everywhere, always watching. It was never a question of if the gods could see a man’s deeds, but whether they would choose
to see.

  Would the gods choose to see him now, stealing through the plains of Alfheim, searching for the place that would allow him to escape his curse? Was it nothing but some cruel game with which the gods were amusing themselves? In the moment of triumph, as he reached his hand out to seize his destiny, would the gods snatch it from him like a cruel father wresting a toy from a child’s hand? Had he come so far only to fail?

  The hero looked aside, hiding the doubt he felt within as he stared into the faces of his warriors. He could see the fear there, the anxiety running through their hearts. All of them had heard the saga of Erik Redaxe and the terrible doom that had claimed his fleet. They knew how terrible the elf-folk were to invaders and that from their wrath there could be little chance of escape.

  Yet still they followed him, these sons of Norsca. Sarls and Baersonlings, Vargs and Graelings, Aeslings and Bjornlings, whatever their tribe, they followed him. They trusted Wulfrik to lead them to glory, to victories that would be worthy of the sagas. Even here, in the supernatural realm of the elf-folk, pride and courage would not make them hide their faces. They would face their doom and spit in the eye of death even as it reached out its bony claws to claim them. Wulfrik admired their acceptance of fate, but he would not share it. He would cheat his own doom and if he had to use these men to do so, then so it would be.

  “Where is this place you must cast your spell?” Wulfrik asked Zarnath as he turned his back to the mountains.

  The shaman didn’t appear to hear Wulfrik at first, his eyes instead roving across the landscape, seemingly overwhelmed by the peaceful beauty of the prairie. When the hulking champion took a step towards him, however, Zarnath was instantly alert, springing back, his hands clutching the seal-fur cloak tight about him.

  “Your touch will profane me!” the shaman warned, his voice raised into a shriek. “The ritual won’t work if you defile me!”

  “The ritual will work,” Wulfrik said. “Or you’ll never be master of the Seafang. Indeed, your bones will probably remain here for the elf-folk to bury.”

  Zarnath scowled at the threat, but held his peace. He knew how dangerously thin Wulfrik’s temper had grown the nearer they came to the end of his quest. The hero was becoming more suspicious and paranoid with each passing breath. There had been a moment, atop the cliff, when he had thought Wulfrik would try to seize him and throw him into the sea, convinced the shaman had intended to cut the rope when he reached the top.

  The shaman turned his scowl into a smile, trying to reassure Wulfrik. He pointed a thin hand towards one of the clusters of trees dotting the plains. “There,” Zarnath said. “I can sense the power I need to draw upon coming from among that copse.”

  Wulfrik glanced at the stand of trees, then back at the shaman. The copse looked like any other bunch of trees scattered across the landscape. “You are certain?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

  Before the Kurgan could answer, Jokull’s voice was raised in alarm. The hunter gestured with his hand at something off to the left of Wulfrik and his men. Every warrior turned his eye towards whatever Jokull had spotted. It took only a moment to recognise riders galloping across the meadows. Even from such a distance, the northmen could see the lean, powerful build of the horses and the knights who rode upon them. Sunlight glimmered off the sharp points of their lances, reflected from the polished plates of silvered helms and armour. Following their progress, the men could see a structure towards which the knights were advancing. It was a tall, slender building crafted from some strange yellow-hued marble. It didn’t seem to rise from the ground so much as flow from it, every contour of its delicate architecture crafted to blend into the aesthetics of the plains.

  “Elf-folk,” Njarvord grumbled, fingering his axe. The other warriors muttered fearfully and drew their own weapons.

  “They go to report to their kings,” Broendulf said. “We must return to the Seafang before they can bring an army against us.”

  Wulfrik turned on the frightened huscarl. “Any man who tries to go back to the sea will get a taste of my steel.” Sheepishly, the fair-faced huscarl lowered his head.

  “There is no need for fear,” Zarnath insisted. “My magic hides us from their eyes. If it were not so, they would have caught us upon the cliffs and shot us full of arrows before we ever set foot in Ulthuan.”

  “The warlock’s spells protect us,” muttered Tjorvi. “I feel safer already.”

  “Safe or not,” Wulfrik snarled, “no man leaves here until we have done what we came here to do.” The hero drew both swords from his belt, brandishing them over his head to emphasise his point.

  “Lead the way, sorcerer,” Wulfrik told Zarnath.

  Bowing his head, the shaman led the warriors across the plains towards the dark copse and their captain’s doom.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Raised voices greeted the northmen as they crept into the shadows of the copse. Standing among the trees, Wulfrik could not decide if they were natural growth or had been planted in some complex pattern by the elf-folk long ago. There was something unnatural about the trees, a deformity about them that made his flesh crawl. Not the sort of corruption as had afflicted Fraener, but a more subtle kind of change, a sorcerous enhancement that had altered the trees from root to branch. It wasn’t the change that upset Wulfrik’s sensibilities, but the way the magic had been so seamlessly blended into the trees. A man could feel the alteration, but he could not see it.

  The voices were no less strange to the ears of the Norscans. They were sombre and piercing, with a musical quality to them that made the men recall tales of sirens and harpies who could lure a longship to wreck itself with only the power of their song. Nothing human ever spoke in such melodious tones, even the little songbirds the Arabyans kept never sang with such beauty.

  Wulfrik grew tense, certain that for all the melody within them, the voices were some kind of alarm, that whatever power lurked within the copse was aware of the invaders and was warning the elf-folk of their presence.

  Zarnath tried to calm the hero and his warriors. “Those are the voices of the elves,” the shaman told them. “It is they who are singing, thanking the land for keeping them safe from their enemies—both element and man.”

  “They should sing louder,” Njarvord growled, a bloodthirsty gleam in his eye. It had been far too long since the Baersonling had killed something.

  The shaman chuckled at the remark. “Even if they did, my magic would hide us from them.” For an instant, a troubled expression flickered across the Kurgan’s face, a look which was equal parts doubt and guilt. Zarnath quickly composed himself. “We must press on,” he told Wulfrik. “The very heart of the grove. The magic will be at its most powerful there. Strong enough to break even a curse from the gods.”

  Wulfrik smiled. “If this works, warlock, I shall give you a dozen ships like the Seafang and a thousand men to crew them! You shall be acclaimed the mightiest sorcerer in all Norsca!”

  Zarnath bowed his head in acknowledgement of the honour Wulfrik paid him. “We must hurry then, to claim our due.”

  The marauders marched through the glade. There was no question now that the trees grew in a pattern, forming a great spiral that wound itself tighter and tighter as it drew towards the centre. The voices grew louder as the men pressed deeper into the copse, the sense of magic becoming so strong that the breath of the warriors turned to frost. Closer and closer the Norscans approached the centre, Zarnath’s voice snapping at them like a whip when the oppressive feeling of the glade caused them to hesitate. Wulfrik echoed the shaman’s orders, urging his men on.

  Soon there will be an end to it, Wulfrik thought, and the curse will be behind me. Then I will take my place as king of the Sarls with Hjordis beside me and after me my son will become High King of all Norsca.

  Jokull hissed a warning from his place at the head of the column, motioning for the northmen to halt their march. Scurrying back through the ranks of warriors, the hunter made his report to Wulfrik. “Th
e path opens into a clearing ahead. A great stone stands at its centre, not unlike the dolmens reared by the Kurgan tribes,” he added, casting a suspicious glance at Zarnath.

  “A menhir,” explained the shaman. “Erected by the elves to mark the lines of magic flowing through Ulthuan and help channel their energies back into the vortex.”

  The hunter shrugged at Zarnath’s explanation. “Whatever it is, you can see it glowing with light wherever the shadow of a tree falls upon it. The entire surface of the thing is etched with strange runes…”

  Wulfrik seized the hunter by his tunic, lifting him from the ground. “You try to frighten us with stories of glowing rocks!” he snarled, his fangs bared.

  “No! No!” Jokull protested. “There are people surrounding the stone! Elf-folk!”

  Wulfrik released the hunter. “How many? How are they armed?”

  “Thirty or forty,” the hunter answered after a moment of consideration. “I saw no armour and no weapons. They seemed to me to be women, she-elves.”

  A greedy laugh rumbled up from Haukr’s tattooed face and he clapped his hands together. “Elf wenches! Those should be worth twice their weight in silver if we get them back to Ormskaro alive!”

  “They’d swallow their own tongues before sailing with you, Haukr,” said Arngeirr.

  Haukr scowled at the one-legged reaver’s advice. “Some sort of bit would be in order then,” he said, rubbing his chin as he considered the idea.

  Zarnath saw the way Haukr’s avaricious proposal was taking hold of the northmen. They sailed with Wulfrik to share in his glory, but none of them was an altruist. A bit of plunder, even living plunder, was a welcome bonus.

  The shaman’s eyes narrowed with contempt. He turned to Wulfrik, but when he spoke his voice was loud enough for all the marauders to hear. “You must take no chances with these elves! They are witches, harnessing their magic through the menhir! Allow them a moment’s breath and they will cast a spell on you!”