02 - Wulfrik

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

  Wulfrik dismissed the wretches from his mind. They had made their choice, now they would suffer for it. The gods favoured the bold. The best of his crew were still with him. They would be enough to sail the Seafang and voyage back to Norsca and vengeance.

  The hero studied the winded, panting warriors behind him. Almost every man had at least one elven arrow stuck in his flesh; only a half-dozen of the score who had managed to escape the forest looked unscathed. Every man cast frightened glances back into the trees.

  “They won’t stay in there long,” he snarled at his warriors. “As soon as they finish off the men we left behind, they’ll be howling at our heels!” Wulfrik turned and pointed his sword across the plains, towards the distant cliff on the horizon. “We won’t be safe until the Seafang is under our feet again and we are gone from this accursed land!”

  Tired, wounded, the northmen nevertheless jogged after Wulfrik as he set out over the prairie. At every step, each man expected to feel an arrow slam into his back. With nowhere to hide and only open ground between them and the sea, there was no question of eluding the elves when they emerged from the forest and began their pursuit. The only uncertainty was how long it would take their enemies to catch them.

  Resigned to their doom, the northmen loped through the grassy meadows. The landscape that had filled them with admiration only hours ago now seemed to them as bleak and unforgiving as the wastes of the Dark Lands, as pitiless as the Mountains of Mourn. There seemed no end to the rolling plains, the cliffs drawing no nearer no matter how strenuously they strived to reach them. The worst of the crew’s wounded fell as they ran, slumping wearily to the ground. No thought was given to helping them; each man had to save his strength for himself. The abandoned men did not curse their comrades, but instead turned their faces back to the copse and drew their axes. At least they would have steel in their fists when they entered the halls of their ancestors.

  Wulfrik ignored the pulsing pain in his arm as he ran, was deaf to the sound of injured men collapsing behind him. Only the cliff and the sea mattered now, reaching the Seafang and showing Zarnath that his trap had failed.

  The hero held up his arm, motioning his warriors to halt. Wulfrik glared across the meadows, watching as seven riders galloped towards the northmen, the sun glistening from their tall silvery helms and long lances. Elf knights, waiting to cut off the retreat of the men who had escaped from the grove! Wulfrik cursed. Caught in the open, the armoured cavalry would cut the marauders down as easily as the bowmen.

  “What do we do?” Tjorvi demanded, panic in his voice.

  Wulfrik gave the Graeling a contemptuous glance. “We hold our ground, unless you want to go back to the grove.”

  Before the northmen, the galloping knights lowered their lances. The ground shuddered as they spurred their powerful warhorses into a charge. The marauders could see the stern, merciless expressions on the faces of the elves. No quarter would be given. The knights would ride them down like animals.

  Wulfrik bared his fangs and braced himself for the attack. “Any man who fails to slay three knights is a mongrel unfit to lick the arse of a maggot!” he growled at his men.

  “Kill these bastards and prove to the gods your fathers weren’t southling thralls!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The elf knights gave voice to a weird exultation, a cry as melodious as a harp and biting as a whip. There was neither doubt nor hesitance in the riders as they bore down upon the northmen. Masters of saddle and blade, hardened by centuries of warfare, the knights had only contempt for the barbarians who stood before them. Many of the elves had been there when Erik Redaxe’s army had been slaughtered by the hosts of Cothique and Chrace. They remembered that battle now as they charged Wulfrik’s men, confident that these wounded, weary marauders would be easy prey.

  Several of the Sarl warriors were indeed trampled by the knights, their bodies torn and mangled by their lances. But the elves did not strike with impunity. The horde of Erik Redaxe had looked to their king for leadership and in that moment of need, he had failed them. Wulfrik was made of sterner stuff than the vanquished king.

  As the knights rode down his crew, Wulfrik sprang from the ground, his sword lashing out, the blade hacking into the arm of an elven rider. The bright, silvery ithilmar mail withstood the sharp edge of the hero’s sword, but the bone within was not so unyielding. The crushing impact of Wulfrik’s blow snapped the rider’s arm like a twig. The elf cried out in shock, his lance falling from a suddenly nerveless hand. Before the elf could recover from his surprise, Wulfrik’s other sword came flashing out at him. The left-hand blade glanced across the horn of the elf’s saddle, stabbing deep into the neck of the horse he rode.

  Wulfrik jumped back as the injured warhorse reared up, its hooves pawing the air, blood spurting from where the northman’s sword was buried in its neck. The knight struggled to recover control of his wounded steed. Almost he succeeded, such was his mastery over the beast, but before he could wheel the warhorse around, Njarvord rushed at him from the other side, smashing into the horse’s flank with his shoulder. The Baersonling’s berserk charge and the fury of his impact against the horse caused the animal to lose its footing.

  Whinnying in terror, beast and elf fell. The knight struggled to pull himself from beneath his thrashing steed, but before he could, Njarvord was upon him, driving his axe into the knight’s face. The sharp, patrician features of the knight lost their ethereal beauty as the axe’s spike stabbed over and again into his face.

  A second knight, seeing the destruction of his comrade, charged Njarvord. The Baersonling had only just turned away from his victim to face the sound of pounding hooves when the knight’s lance crunched through his ribs, exploding from his back in a welter of gore. Impaled upon the knight’s lance, the northman howled in pain, blood and froth bubbling from his mouth.

  The elf’s horse reared back, the man impaled upon the knight’s lance lifted into the air by the motion. The knight kicked out with his armoured boot to push Njarvord’s body from his weapon. The smack of a boot in his belly roused the Norscan, giving his mind something more than pain to consider. Njarvord glared at the elf, spitting blood at the haughty knight as he moved to kick the marauder a second time. Clenching his teeth, Njarvord closed one hand around the shaft of the lance. Screaming his agony, the warrior pulled his body down the lance, feeling his bones crack as he pressed the shaft deeper into his flesh. Angrily, Njarvord shook his head, struggling to defy the pain. Trembling with the effort, he raised his other arm, the cleaving edge of his axe gleaming in the sun.

  Horror crawled onto the elf’s face. In a thousand years, the elf knight had never seen such mindless, murderous determination. Panicked, he kicked his boot into Njarvord’s body, raking his thighs with his spurs. The warhorse reared again, its legs flailing at the impaled northman. Njarvord defied every effort to knock him loose. Shrieking a war cry that would have deafened the grim gods of the north, he forced his body another foot down the lance and brought his axe swinging around to cleave the elf asunder.

  Belatedly, the knight abandoned his lance, casting it and the man impaled upon it from his grasp. The move caused Njarvord’s axe to miss its target. Within reach of the elf, the marauder’s blow would have torn even an ithilmar breastplate. Instead, the strike crunched into the skull of the warhorse, splitting it down to the jaw. The beast dropped as though smashed flat by the fist of a giant, crashing to the ground, crushing the dying mass of its killer beneath its own bulk.

  The elf knight tried to squirm out of the saddle as his steed died beneath him. With an inhuman display of grace and agility, he lifted himself from the back of his warhorse and sprang to the ground. Instantly, his battle-hardened reflexes were in motion, an ithilmar blade flashing from its scabbard to parry the strike of a Norscan sword. However, even the elf’s reflexes were not enough to fend off Wulfrik’s second blade. The hero’s sword smashed into the knight’s back, just above the join between cuirass and mail skirt. T
he elf flopped to the earth, his spine severed. He tried to slash his blade across the champion’s belly as Wulfrik loomed over the wounded knight. The northman’s boot smashed down upon the elf’s hand, breaking every finger as he ground his heel savagely against the prisoned flesh. The elf’s cry of pain was silenced in a bloody gargle as Wulfrik stabbed the point of his sword into the knight’s neck.

  Wulfrik turned away from the dead elf, shaking the knight’s blood from his sword, his eyes hungry for enemies to slay. He found four knights galloping across the plains, heading away towards the grove. Behind them they left three of their number. Arngeirr had cut the legs out from under a warhorse, the kraken-tooth sword shearing clean through flesh and bone. The dismounted knight had been finished off by a blow from Broendulf’s sword.

  However, the knights had wreaked havoc with their charge just the same. In addition to Njarvord, seven northmen were lying dead in the grass. Only ten of the marauders were still standing with Wulfrik. He could almost read the thoughts of the elf riders. They had lost almost half their number, but they had destroyed half of the invaders with that charge. The price was high, but with their blood roused by the massacre of their wives, the elves might not care how many of their own fell to prevent the invaders from escaping.

  Wulfrik turned his head and snarled at his surviving crew. “Gather the bodies,” he snapped. “Build a barricade against their next charge.” He watched his men only long enough to make sure they were following his orders, then returned his attention to the knights. As he had predicted, they were wheeling about, making ready for another charge. Then, suddenly, they stopped. Wulfrik saw one of the knights turn and look behind him. Faintly he could hear the rider shout something. The hero’s keen eyes could see movement in the grass. It could be one of the wounded men the marauders had left behind trying to crawl his way to the cliff, but somehow he doubted it. When he saw the knights lean back in their saddles, adopting an almost relaxed posture, he was certain of it. There would be no charge now. The knights were afraid of trampling their own people as they crept through the tall grass.

  “Down!” Wulfrik snarled, diving behind the gory wreck of the horse that had crushed Njarvord. Not all of the other northmen were quick to understand the immediacy of their captain’s howl. Two Sarls struggling to move the corpse of Arngeirr’s horse, and a third Sarl trying to shift the body of an elf knight; these were caught in the open when the reason for Wulfrik’s warning manifested itself.

  Several hundred yards from where the northmen made their stand, bowmen suddenly rose from the grass. With lethal precision, the elves loosed a volley of arrows at the warriors, dozens of shafts falling upon the men in a murderous rain. The Sarls caught without cover shrieked as the arrows slammed into them, crumpling to the earth like broken toys.

  Wulfrik pressed his shoulder against the horse carcass he hid behind, forcing it up onto its side, using it like a shield against the incoming arrows. The morbid bulwark shuddered as it was struck again and again, but none of the missiles stabbed deep enough to strike the man himself. He risked a quick look past the rump of the warhorse, watching as the elves dropped back down into the grass.

  “More to starboard!” Arngeirr shouted. Frantically, the northmen shifted their grisly shields as a second band of archers rose from the tall grass and sent a volley at them. More screams sounded as one of the Sarls was hit, a shaft lodged in his hip. He flopped out from behind the pile of Norscan dead he had used for shelter, rolling across the ground in agony. A second arrow silenced him, smashing clean through his forehead.

  “Scum! Curseling swine!”

  Wulfrik felt steel press into his collar, felt blood gushing down his shoulder. He rolled onto his back, kicking out with his boot. A blade flashed before his eyes. He heard the sound of metal sinking into flesh as the blade hacked into the horse carcass. It had missed his neck by a hairsbreadth, but for the impact of his boot against the body of his assailant, it would have struck true.

  Tjorvi ripped his axe from the dead horse, at the same time slashing his knife at Wulfrik, the hero’s blood dripping from its steel. The Graeling’s face was livid with rage, the merciless fury of a man overwhelmed by fear. “We trusted you to lead us to glory!” Tjorvi hissed. “Instead you bring us only death!”

  The furious warrior lunged at Wulfrik. Wulfrik swatted aside Tjorvi’s axe, prepared to do the same with the man’s knife when his keen ears caught the whistle of arrows in the air. He tried to throw himself flat, but was too late to avoid all of the missiles hurtling down upon the northmen. Pain flashed through his body as an arrow slashed across the side of his head, gouging a deep furrow in his scalp. A second crunched into the meat of his leg, a third punched through his forearm.

  Shielded from the arrows by his foe, Tjorvi sprang at the stricken champion. His knife bit across Wulfrik’s hand, forcing him to drop one of his swords. His axe smacked against the hero’s chest, shattering one of the trophy skulls he wore, denting the steel of his breastplate.

  Snarling like a cornered wolf, the chieftain brought the pommel of his sword smashing into Tjorvi’s face. The raging warrior staggered back, spitting teeth from the pulped mash of a broken jaw. Wulfrik lunged after him, but fell as his injured leg collapsed beneath his weight. Tjorvi grinned through the ruin of his mouth as he saw his enemy’s weakness.

  Broendulf watched the crazed Graeling close upon Wulfrik once more. It would be easy to leave the hero to the killer. Viglundr and Sveinbjorn would not care who killed Wulfrik, just so long as he was no longer an obstacle to their plans. Broendulf would be able to return to Norsca and claim Hjordis for himself. There was no way to evoke the Seafang’s magic without Wulfrik, but a new thought entered the huscarl’s mind. Even without magic, the Seafang was still a ship, a ship that could still make the voyage across the Great Western Ocean.

  Broendulf had half-risen from his cover, intending to stop Tjorvi. Now he hesitated. He could have Hjordis and without any risk to himself. It was the sort of cruel scheme that would have made Viglundr proud. To Broendulf, however, it smacked too greatly of treachery. The example of Zarnath showed him the kind of man who practised such deceit. He loved Hjordis too much to win her through such craven ways. He would earn her love, not steal it.

  The huscarl began to leave his shelter for the second time when he found that Wulfrik didn’t need his help. Tjorvi had rushed the fallen hero, chopping his axe at his foe’s head. In the same instant, Wulfrik’s sword flashed out, cutting into Tjorvi’s calf. The sneaky Graeling reeled back, shrieking in pain. Before he could get away, Wulfrik reared up from the ground, pouncing on the murderous marauder.

  Wulfrik’s injured arm coiled about Tjorvi’s torso, spinning him around. The arm holding Tjorvi’s axe was pinned against the warrior’s side, but the hand with the knife slashed at the champion, slicing across his cheek. Wulfrik roared at the wiry betrayer, using his own anger to fight the pain throbbing through his ravaged body. Tjorvi refused to relent, frantic to free himself from the hero’s crushing grip. He clenched his legs together, pinning Wulfrik’s sword between them before the champion could wrench it free from his calf. Tjorvi’s knife slashed again at Wulfrik’s head, cutting his ear, all but sawing it from the side of his skull.

  Wulfrik’s eyes blazed hatefully at the back of Tjorvi’s head. He smiled cruelly as he crushed the Graeling closer to his body. “This time I use you as my shield,” he growled at the man.

  Tjorvi screamed as another volley of elf arrows came raining down upon the northmen. His body twisted and writhed in Wulfrik’s clutch as missile after missile slammed into it. When no more arrows struck the Graeling, Wulfrik tossed the arrow-riddled corpse aside and collapsed to the ground.

  “They’re moving!” Haukr shouted to his comrades when a new volley failed to manifest. “Trying to get in close!”

  “They mean to get prisoners,” Arngeirr cursed. The reaver clenched his fist about his sword. “Khorne grant the cowards come close enough to cut!”

&nb
sp; Broendulf carefully raised his head, staring out over the grassy plains. He couldn’t see any sign of the elves beyond the four knights who were still sitting atop their horses far back towards the copse. It didn’t mean they weren’t there, though. The huscarl had heard it said an elf could hide himself in an empty room with only dust and sunbeams for company.

  “We could make a break for it now,” Haukr suggested. The tattooed warrior grimaced when he made a quick count of his remaining comrades. Except for Arngeirr and Broendulf, he was alone. He had hoped for a few more bodies to stay between himself and the elf arrows.

  “Maybe the chief has some ideas,” Broendulf countered. Like Haukr, he had small appetite for an arrow in his back.

  The surviving marauders scrambled to the side of their fallen chief. Wulfrik bared his fangs at them, swinging his bloody sword as they approached. “Back, jackals!” the hero snarled, his eyes passing over each of them, lingering upon Broendulf. The huscarl felt a sense of guilt rush through him. Had Wulfrik seen him hesitate against Tjorvi?

  “We’ve sailed with you longer than that cur!” Arngeirr snapped, spitting on Tjorvi’s body. “Do we look eager to pick your bones?”

  Wulfrik glowered at his men. Again, Broendulf had the feeling the hero’s eyes lingered on him longer than the others. “No man knows another. Not that well.” He laid his sword across his lap. Turning to his injured arm, he seized the arrow lodged in his flesh, breaking the shaft with one twist of his hand.

  “Even if we did,” Haukr groaned, “we’d never be able to sail the Seafang without you.”

  Broendulf grinned despite himself. Haukr was making the same mistake he had, fixating upon the ship’s magic and forgetting that it was still a ship. He shook his head in disgust at himself. What did it matter if they could sail the ship? They would never make it back to the Seafang. Not with the elves waiting to stick them full of arrows!