02 - Wulfrik

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

  That changed when a half-dozen Norscans were suddenly flung through the air. An instant later, four others were sent flying, scattered like leaves before a storm. A mighty voice, the same voice that had rallied the southlings before, shouted down the howls of the marauders, drowning their fierce war cries.

  “I am his hammer!” the voice thundered. “I am his fist! I am the eye that judges and the wrath that punishes!”

  The northmen backed away, recoiling from the imposing figure who strode from the ranks of the soldiers. He was a tall man, garbed in heavy armour and white robes. In his steel gauntlets he held an immense warhammer gilt in gold and wreathed in a nimbus of blinding light. The man’s face was hard and severe, his bald pate branded with the symbol of a twin-tailed comet. Fires seemed to burn beneath the man’s flesh, and with every step he appeared to swell with power. One marauder, slower than the rest in retreating, was thrown through the air by a sweep of the warhammer. He landed in a battered mess, his shield dented into a concave disk that was embedded in his ribs.

  “By the might of Sigmar!” the warrior priest bellowed. “I shall scour this place of the heathen, the heretic and the witch-folk!”

  The marauders fell silent at the priest’s fury, cringing back like whipped dogs. From their cowed ranks, Wulfrik emerged.

  The hero stared at the priest with an air of unconcern, as though he had not just watched the Sigmarite swat a dozen of his warriors like flies. The priest glared coldly at Wulfrik as the champion took his measure, pacing slowly back and forth in the gap that had been created between the lines.

  Finally, Wulfrik stopped. He bared his fangs in a sardonic grin and gestured with his sword at the warrior priest’s forehead.

  “In Norsca,” Wulfrik said, his words spoken in precise Reikspiel, “we call that sign the Serpent’s Tongue.” He spat on the ground and stared hard into the priest’s eyes. “Those who wear that symbol are the lowest perverts in the cult of Slaanesh.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wulfrik was flung through the air as the warrior priest’s hammer came crashing down into the flagstones beside him, missing the hero by a hairsbreadth. Shards of rock tore the northman’s face sending blood trickling into his beard. He landed with a brutal impact against the shields of his own warriors, knocking several men to their backs as he smashed against them. He could feel the spikes on one hersir’s shield bite into his back, gouging his armour and pricking the flesh beneath. Angrily, Wulfrik leapt back to his feet, stalking towards the grim armoured priest.

  “My father had a hammer like that,” Wulfrik sneered at the priest. “Maybe he took it from your father after he got tired of listening to him beg for mercy…”

  The priest lunged at Wulfrik, an inarticulate snarl of rage flying from his lips. The massive warhammer, its head smouldering with wisps of orange flame, came hurtling down with the fury of a thunderclap. Wulfrik sprang away from the mighty blow, rolling across the ground as the hammer pulverised the flagstones.

  Better prepared for the might of the priest’s hammer this time, Wulfrik was able to arrest his momentum before smashing into his own men. The hero glared at the southling priest from above the rim of his shield. Every eye was now upon their fight, those of the invading northmen and those of the southling soldiers. To the victor of this contest would go Wisborg and all within its walls.

  “We used that hammer to club swine,” Wulfrik said. “It wasn’t fit for killing men…”

  “Heathen filth! Still your blasphemies!” the warrior priest roared. Again, the hammer came swinging towards Wulfrik, its head now glowing like iron in a forge. This time the hammer struck Wulfrik’s shield, crumpling it like a sheet of tin. The marauder was tossed through the air, smashing into the abandoned carts and stands of the marketplace. Glass shattered and wood splintered as the armoured warrior ploughed through the stall.

  “So are the proudest of the ungodly smote down by the wrath of Sigmar!” the warrior priest’s voice thundered across the ranks of the awed northmen. The marauders began to back away from this fearsome southling with the divine fury of his god burning in his eyes and blazing from his hammer. The soldiers defending the square cheered, marching forwards to aid the priest in driving the invaders back to their ships.

  Suddenly, the retreat of the northmen stopped. Marauders pointed with their axes, muttering excitedly as they watched something rise from the wreckage of the stalls. The warrior priest turned his head, his jaw clenching in anger as he saw his enemy regain his feet.

  Wulfrik wiped blood from his mouth and spat a broken fang into the street. “My mother spanks harder than that,” the hero growled, kicking aside a splintered cart and marching towards the priest. With every step he took, more of the northmen began to beat their shields. By the time he was close enough to engage his foe, the tumult had risen to an almost deafening din.

  Wulfrik cast the dented shield at the priest’s feet, then drew the second sword from his belt. A blade in either hand, he closed upon his enemy.

  The enraged priest sprang to the attack first. Gripping his hammer in both hands, he brought the heavy weapon hurtling downwards in an overhead strike, intending to drive Wulfrik’s head into the ground like a nail. The burning hammer looked like a bolt of sun-fire as it came crashing down.

  Again, the agile hero avoided the Sigmarite’s furious assault. Goaded into a zealous fury, the warrior priest had forsaken craft and cunning, relying upon strength, power and conviction to maul his enemy.

  The hammer smashed into the ground, once more gouging a crater in the flagstones. Wulfrik was thrown from his feet by the tremulous impact, but this time he was not batted about the square by the resultant shock wave. The instant the priest’s hammer was in motion, Wulfrik struck out with one of his swords. He did not strike for his enemy, however, but drove the point of his blade deep between the cobblestones. Maintaining a fierce grip about the weapon, Wulfrik held his ground.

  As the warrior priest rose from his vicious attack, Wulfrik was in motion. Using the sword as a fulcrum, the hero brought his entire body swinging around. His heavy boots smashed into the Sigmarite’s belly, knocking the wind out of him and throwing him to the ground. Immediately, Wulfrik sprang atop his foe, releasing his hold on the sword embedded in the flagstones and bringing the other smashing down.

  The priest cried out in agony as Wulfrik’s sword slashed his hand, forcing the hammer from his grip. The warhammer rolled away from the stunned priest, the divine glow winking out the instant it struck the ground. A wild cheer rose from the massed ranks of the northmen. Stunned silence was the only sound among the despairing line of soldiers.

  Roaring and beating their shields, the marauders lunged across the square to face the soldiers once more. What missile fire continued to assail them was sporadic and hurried, causing few injuries. The fangs of the Norscan phalanx crashed against the shields of the southling line. At first, the line held, but soon it began to buckle as the axes of the exultant marauders cut down the frantic soldiers. Once the first wedge was driven into the line, it quickly fell, the routed soldiers fleeing down side-streets and alleys, trying to find any hole in which to hide from the rage of the northmen.

  In the market square, Wulfrik brought the hilt of his sword smashing down into the side of the priest’s head, driving consciousness from him. The hero rose from his vanquished foe and grinned triumphantly as he watched his warriors pursuing the retreating soldiers. The wails of southling townsfolk, the screams of southling women, rose from the streets as the marauders began to sack Wisborg.

  “Strike me with your daemon’s hammer?” a sharp voice snarled. Wulfrik caught a jagged harpoon as it was being thrust at the unconscious priest. With a twist of his powerful hand, the hero snapped the heft of the weapon.

  The harpoon wielder staggered back. Blood streaked his face, but not enough to hide the features of Sveinbjorn, prince of the Aeslings. He glared at Wulfrik, his entire body trembling with outrage. “No man strikes an Aesling in battle and l
ives!” the prince spat.

  Wulfrik returned the prince’s furious stare with a cold look. “This one does,” the hero said, pointing his blade at the prostrate priest.

  Sveinbjorn smiled as he heard Wulfrik’s words. He glanced from side to side as a group of Aesling hersirs slowly closed around the hero. The prince straightened up, puffing out his chest in an arrogant display of authority. “I say he dies.”

  “This one is mine,” Wulfrik snarled back. “Take him from me… if you can.”

  Sveinbjorn’s grin grew wider. He motioned for his warriors to finish encircling Wulfrik. More than he wanted the priest’s blood, he wanted the hero’s head.

  The prince’s smile died when he felt a blade against his throat. He looked nervously aside and saw the imposing figure of Jarl Tostig of the Graelings beside him. The sword against his throat was that of the jarl. Other Graelings and warriors from several other tribes were closing upon Sveinbjorn’s hersirs.

  “Wulfrik is the only one who can command the Seafang,” Tostig told Sveinbjorn. “Kill him and you strand us here, far from the sea and deep in enemy lands.”

  “I will not be denied!” Sveinbjorn growled. “If he will not give me the southling, then I demand wergild!”

  “You may have the finest steed in this town,” Wulfrik laughed. “Then you will just need someone to teach you how to ride.”

  Sveinbjorn glared at the champion, but knew Tostig and the others would kill him if he didn’t accept the jibe. Besides, the jarl was right. Wulfrik was their only sure way back to Norsca. Once they were safely back in the fjord of Ormskaro, then would be the time to settle with the hero and make him answer for all of his insults.

  “I’ll go look for my horse,” Sveinbjorn said, his voice like a whip. He motioned for his hersirs to back down. Pausing only to glower at Wulfrik, the prince led his men down one of the darkened streets of Wisborg.

  Wulfrik watched the prince slink away. Sveinbjorn was at a disadvantage. Wulfrik knew when the prince would strike at him. The prince could not say the same.

  The hero turned to watch the stream of northmen pouring through the broken gates to ravage the town. He held up his fist, calling out as he recognised men from the Seafang’s crew among the warriors. “Helreginn!” he barked out, drawing the attention of a huge warrior encased in black armour. The hulking Norscan approached his captain, the eyes behind the sockets of his skull-faced helm glancing down at the priest’s body.

  “A rare prize,” Wulfrik told the warrior. “I’m trusting you to keep it for me.”

  Helreginn nodded his head, his armoured hands running across the heft of his axe. “Alive?” the warrior’s metallic voice rattled from behind the steel teeth of his mask.

  “So long as he is fit to ride a horse, make what sport you will with him,” Wulfrik said.

  Helreginn nodded again. He removed a strip of dried eelskin from his belt and knelt beside the fallen priest, binding his hands together.

  Wulfrik turned away from Helreginn and his prisoner. The hero’s eyes drank in the sight of his conquest, watching the blood pooling about the dead soldiers, seeing flames lick up into the night as the northmen put Wisborg to the torch. Screams echoed from every quarter, the shrieks of the vanquished and the war cries of the conquerors. Above the stench of fire and flame, Wulfrik could pick out the bitter tang of blood and death. But it was another scent that caused the hero to leave the square, sprinting down one of the narrow side-streets.

  He passed marauders looting shops and plundering homes, warriors cutting down ragged knots of militiamen, warhounds worrying mangled bodies with savage fangs. He saw a raven-haired southling woman flailing in the clutch of a brawny Aesling, helpless to stop him swinging her babe by its ankle and spattering its brains against the cobblestone street. He watched as a feral Baersonling, his body twisted into a shaggy thing more bear than man, gorged himself upon the gutted husk of an ox in the shattered window of a clothier’s shop. He observed a pair of Sarl reavers lumbering down the street, burdened by the still-smoking bulk of an iron stove.

  There was no fight left in Wisborg. The town was broken. Those who could would flee.

  Wulfrik hastened his pace, following the faint scent that drew him after it. He had to find Zarnath before the wizard could escape. He knew that after coming so close, he might never get another chance at his betrayer.

  The wizard’s scent led Wulfrik to the very heart of Wisborg. Organised resistance in the town to the northmen had collapsed, and those southlings the hero encountered as he made his way through the chaotic streets were either too frightened to pose any danger to him or too dead to pose a threat to anyone ever again. The greater hazards were the fires his jubilant men were setting. The flames spread quickly through the town, entire blocks becoming raging infernos in a matter of minutes. There was small chance of restraining the marauders, however. Their blood afire from the thrill of battle, their brains swimming in the beer and wine they found in the shops and homes they ransacked, little short of a personal appearance by the Skulltaker would bring discipline back to the raiders.

  Wulfrik found that the wizard’s smell was thickest about the castle rising from the centre of the town. Ancient seat of the Krugers, the town had been built around the fortification until at last growing large and prosperous enough to warrant its own walls. What few defenders Wisborg had left were clustered inside the castle, firing guns and loosing arrows from its battlements. A large force of northmen howled outside the walls, making efforts to assail it with ladders and grapples. So far, the efforts of the soldiers had been enough to drive off these attacks.

  A more formidable assault was being planned, however. Wulfrik found Skafhogg and several men from the Seafang’s crew stealing to the castle gates, employing a shield wall to protect them from missile fire. The hideous helmsman had a devious mind as crooked as his body. Clearly Skafhogg remembered the destruction on the town walls when the seers used their magic to ignite the cannon and its ammunition. The northmen had captured another battery somewhere in the town. Unfamiliar with the weapon itself, they had an idea about how to use the gunpowder to bring down the gate.

  The southlings on the walls cried out in horror when they realised what Skafhogg was doing. They began to hurl stones down upon the Norscans, trying to drive them away from the gate. The northmen threw lewd remarks back at the soldiers, refusing to be driven from their labour.

  When the last barrel was placed, the northmen scrambled away from the gate, taking refuge in the shattered windows of the townhouses facing the keep. One of the crewmen, a one-eyed Skaeling named Lopt, strode boldly towards the brick causeway before the gate. Bullets and arrows glanced from Lopt’s steel armour, each piece marked in blood with the skull-rune. The Skaeling ignored the soldiers firing at him. Coldly he raised his leathery hand to his breast, tapping it against his heart. Then he stretched his hand towards the barrels. A ghastly mouth opened in his palm and from between its fangs jetted a stream of molten fire. The liquid flame crashed about the barrels, igniting the blackpowder. An instant later, all of Wisborg was rocked by a tremendous explosion.

  The castle was lost in a cloud of dust and smoke. Even before the echoes of the explosion subsided, Wulfrik was charging at the place where the gate had stood, leaping across the great crater the explosion had ripped from the ground when it blew the gatehouse to smithereens. All around him he could hear the war whoops and bloodthirsty howls of his warriors as they rushed to invade this last bastion of defiance. A stunned soldier, banging his hand against his helm in an effort to clear his ringing ears, staggered out of the smoke towards Wulfrik. The hero cut him down before he was even aware of the northman’s presence. A second soldier, vainly trying to arm a crossbow broken in the explosion, at least had time to scream before the hero’s blade took his life.

  Marauders streamed through the broken wall, springing to stairways and ladders to reach the stunned defenders on the ramparts. Those northmen more concerned with loot than battle raced for
the keep itself and whatever wealth Baron Kruger had bled from his township. Wulfrik saw a grotesquely obese woman dressed in a rich purple gown and with her breast covered in glittering necklaces come stumbling from the keep. She was screaming at the marauders, begging them to take her jewels and spare her life. A Sarl axeman silenced her wails, making it clear the northmen would have both.

  “Should have known you’d join us here, Wulfrik,” Skafhogg said as he came loping through the smoke and saw his captain. “Where do you think the southlings have hidden their treasure?”

  Wulfrik smiled at his helmsman and gestured with his bloody sword at the keep. “Be sure to tap the walls and rip open anything that sounds hollow,” he advised. He caught the snaggletoothed warrior’s arm before he could move. “Make sure the best gets aboard the Seafang.”

  “Wulfrik?” a haggard voice coughed. The hero turned from his helmsman, looking about the courtyard until his eyes settled upon a ragged figure imprisoned in a set of wooden stocks. The prisoner had been a large, powerful man once, but hot irons had torn his muscles, pincers had removed his eyes and hammers had broken his teeth. Still, there was something familiar about the prisoner.

  Wulfrik approached the prisoner, studying his tortured frame. No one would think Broendulf fair again.

  “Wulfrik?” the captive called, seeming to sense the hero’s nearness despite the hollow pits where his eyes should be.

  The hero kept his silence, thinking instead upon the pact he had made with Broendulf. Like all his other dreams, it was a hollow mockery of what it should be. Something that was not worth the winning.

  “By the blood of Kharnath!” Broendulf cried. “Let me die with a blade in my hand!”

  Wulfrik glanced over at Skafhogg, then back at Broendulf. Savagely, he drove the point of his sword into the captive’s brain. “Call to your own gods, southling,” Wulfrik spat. “Those of the north will not hear you.”