“Is that a king’s throat you crush?” Sigvatr asked Wulfrik in a low voice.
The hero tore his eyes away from the distant tower. He stared down at his hands. So fiercely had they been gripping the neck of the figurehead that splinters of wood had pierced his flesh. Wulfrik scowled at the old warrior, uneasy that Sigvatr had read his mind so well.
“Have the men make port,” Wulfrik told his friend. “We will take on provisions, refit the Seafang and gather crew to replace those we lost in the mountains.”
“And what will you take from Ormskaro?” Sigvatr pressed, a note of caution behind his words.
Wulfrik turned his eyes back to the tower. This time it was sadness, not hate, that coloured his vision. “So long as the curse of the gods is upon me,” the champion said in a sullen whisper, “there is nothing I dare take from Ormskaro.”
Wulfrik turned and marched away, climbing down into the hold of the ship. Sigvatr watched his friend go, sympathy in his eyes.
“But you’ll still go see her,” the old warrior said in a quiet voice. “However much pain it causes you.”
The muddy streets of Ormskaro were teeming with people as Wulfrik made the long climb up to the king’s hill. Fur-clad trappers from the high mountains, the skins of beaver and fox dangling from the poles they carried; armoured bondsmen, their shields bearing the device of their lords; weathered fishermen, their skin burned to the consistency of leather; doe-eyed dairy maids, their arms grown strong from the milk jugs they carried; all of these and more passed the champion as he marched through the settlement. From the lowest house thrall to the richest huscarl, they were careful to step aside as the famed hero walked past. Even the sheep and swine that prowled the streets scurried from Wulfrik’s path, squealing with fright as the champion’s scent reached them.
Wulfrik gave no notice to the town around him. It was more unreal to him than the fog-wraiths that had tried to devour his crew. Since the gods had touched him and laid upon him their terrible curse, he had no part in the ways of men. Once he had marvelled at the delights Ormskaro had to offer and had thought it the greatest town in the land. Now those same delights mocked him and filled his heart with bitterness.
There was only one thing that could give him solace, if only for a few precious hours. He could leave the provisioning of the ship to Sigvatr and Arngeirr. Both had the wit and experience to know what would be needed before they set upon their next voyage. It would take time for those who would join his crew to gather; he could see to their trials on the morrow. For tonight, Wulfrik would try to forget voyages and battles, gods and curses.
For tonight, Wulfrik would try to remember what it was to be a man and not a hero.
Entry to the great hall of Ormfell was a privilege Wulfrik had earned after the Battle of a Thousand Skulls. As his fame spread, even the boldest huscarls would be loath to confront the terrible champion. Even so, Wulfrik noted a hesitancy on the part of the warriors as they opened the gates to him and conducted him into the tower. There was an uneasiness about the men that went beyond their awe of the hero. Stalking through the stone corridors of the tower, he found that even the king’s servants averted their eyes and hurried from his approach.
As he neared the great hall, Wulfrik found one man who did not turn away at his advance. Alone among his crew, the blond reaver Broendulf enjoyed the hospitality of the king. Before joining the Seafang’s crew, Broendulf had been captain of Viglundr’s household guard, a mighty huscarl in his own right. Wulfrik was not surprised to find that Broendulf had come to speak with his sovereign. What was surprising to him was the look of anxiety on the reaver’s face. Broendulf glanced about the corridor, looking to see that there was no one else present. Cautiously, he met with his captain.
“Be wary,” Broendulf warned in a low voice. “Viglundr is plotting something.”
Wulfrik favoured the fair-faced warrior with an amused look. “He knows better than to scheme against me,” he said. “Viglundr knows I saved his crown.” Wulfrik patted the skull tied to the hilt of his sword. “He won’t forget that.”
“It is not his memory but his ambition that should worry you,” Broendulf cautioned. “The tower is filled with Aeslings this night.”
“Aeslings?” Wulfrik repeated, only half believing what he’d heard. “Since when do the Sarls play host to their enemies?”
Broendulf’s face was twisted with contempt. “Few of us may question the mind of a king, whatever madness may grip it.”
Wulfrik bared his fangs as he stared down the corridor at the oaken doors of the great hall. He clapped his hand upon Broendulf’s shoulder. “That explains the cold looks of Viglundr’s huscarls. It must be an embarrassment for Viglundr to play host to both the Aeslings and the man who took their king’s head. I am indebted for your warning.”
“Perhaps it would be best to wait for Viglundr’s guests to leave,” Broendulf suggested.
Wulfrik snorted at the thought. “Perhaps Viglundr needs to be reminded who he owes his crown to. If I disturb his other guests, they are welcome to ask me to leave.” The gleam in the hero’s eyes made it clear how easy his removal from the tower would be.
“Someday you will seek a fight you will not walk away from,” Broendulf said, shaking his head.
“The Aesling isn’t born who could cross swords with me,” Wulfrik laughed. “My saga won’t end on some Aes axe. The gods aren’t so merciful.”
Hearing the melancholy in Wulfrik’s voice, Broendulf knew it was best if he left the champion to ponder his troubles alone. Wulfrik did not like others to see him when his sorrow came upon him.
Broendulf had only taken a few steps before he found himself restrained by Wulfrik’s clutching hand.
“Have you seen her?” Wulfrik said, eagerness in his voice.
The reaver was quiet, considering how he should answer his captain. Broendulf did not know if it was more cruel to let Wulfrik torture himself with his impossible hope. He knew too well the pain of a love that could never be. It was the reason he had joined the crew of the Seafang and the bond that joined his doom to that of the Wanderer.
Broendulf felt Wulfrik’s fingers tighten about his arm. He stared at the champion, then turned his eyes to the doors of the great hall. Wulfrik released his grip and marched quickly down the corridor.
Broendulf turned and walked away before Wulfrik reached the doors. However desperate the hero was, there was no chance for his cherished hope. The gods had seen to that. Even Viglundr understood that fact. But Broendulf knew it would take more than cold reason to make Wulfrik understand. He wasn’t sure if Wulfrik’s tenacity made him pity the man or envy him.
What he did know was if he had the champion’s strength, he wouldn’t let anything hold him back. Not the cruelty of the gods and not the schemes of King Viglundr.
The great hall of Ormfell was a vast chamber at the very centre of the fortress. Its stone walls were lost beneath the trophies which adorned them. The hides of strange beasts, the shields of fallen champions, the bloodied banners of vanquished armies, all of these surrounded the great hall, making of it a gallery of the Sarl people’s triumphs over their foes. The bones of a great behemoth, the monster named Morrgawr in the sagas and more commonly called Shipcracker, hung suspended from the timber ceiling fifty feet above the floor. The slaying of Shipcracker had been the deed which earned Ormnir the title of king and which had allowed Ormskaro to thrive and prosper. Many heroes had tried to end the behemoth’s rampage, but it had been Ormnir’s spear which had brought the beast to ruin.
In the middle of the hall, surrounded by bearskin rugs and rich carpets plundered from the cities of Araby, the throne of Ormfell dominated the room. Twelve feet high, carved from the jawbone of Shipcracker, the throne was inlaid from crest to foot with plates of gold and studs of sapphire and jade. The luxurious furs of ermine and ice tiger were heaped upon the royal seat and at its feet rested a stool of silver and silk.
Almost lost amid the finery of his throne wa
s King Viglundr himself. The king was a tall man, his long hair faded by age into a steely grey, his plaited beard adorned with golden combs and ruby beads. Though humbled by time, there was yet a powerful body beneath Viglundr’s royal robes. In his youth, he had earned his father’s favour by breaking the necks of his seven brothers with his bare hands. Years later, he had sent the old king to his barrow in the same way.
No coward, King Viglundr. His dislike for battle was a practical one, for he preferred to win by subtlety what others sought to take by the sword. It was said he bore the mark of the Raven God upon his heart, and few who became trapped within the coils of his plots doubted the Trickster’s touch.
Wulfrik had learned long ago to be careful in his dealings with Viglundr. It took a keen eye to pierce the mantle of deception he wore and discover the truth behind the mask.
As he boldly entered the great hall, Wulfrik noted the slight narrowing of the king’s eyes. No other sign of displeasure did Viglundr show, for his expression at once became amiable and excited. Wulfrik was reminded of a vulture waiting for a tiger to leave its kill so it could swoop down and glut itself.
“The mighty Wulfrik returns to us!” Viglundr announced, rising from his throne and extending his arms in welcome. “Word reached us that the Seafang was spotted in our waters. Happy is the news that your hunt was successful and you come back to us unharmed!”
Wulfrik could feel Viglundr studying him as the king spoke, as though checking to be certain the champion was indeed unharmed. Any sign of wound or weakness, and the king would be quick to exploit it.
“The Blood God has been given his prize,” Wulfrik announced. “The hunger of the gods has been sated.”
“At least for a time,” Viglundr added, a thin smile on his face as he sank back into his throne.
Wulfrik ignored the subtle reminder of his curse. He cast his eyes across the hall. It was more crowded than usual, and not because Viglundr had expanded the circle of bodyguards and sycophants that made up his court. There were a number of Aeslings present as well, pale-skinned marauders from the northern reaches of Norsca. Wulfrik found his gaze drawn momentarily to a black-haired Aes with gaunt features and jewelled rings about his fingers. There was no mistaking the hate in the dark Aesling’s eyes.
Quickly Wulfrik forgot all about the Aeslings. Looking past the dark-haired marauder, he saw a cluster of women conversing in hushed tones. They turned coy looks his way, then shyly whispered to one another. In the midst of the maids there was one who did not look away, a tall, lissom woman dressed in a flowing gown of wolfskin, her golden hair twisted into long coils that hung to her waist. Her youthful face flushed with colour as she caught Wulfrik’s attention, a twinkle shining in her lustrous azure eyes.
“Hjordis,” Wulfrik called to her, his voice almost catching in his throat. He started to walk towards her when the commanding voice of Viglundr made him turn back towards the throne.
“We have not dismissed you, Worldwalker,” the king said, disapproval in his tone. “We might believe you more interested in our daughter than your king.”
Rounding on the ruler of Ormskaro, Wulfrik let his hands drop to the hilts of his swords. “I call no man my king,” he told Viglundr. “Such was the reward of victory,” he reminded the rest of the court, his fingers tapping against the skull tied to one of the swords. He turned his eyes back to the princess. “Among other promises that were made.”
Viglundr at first turned pale at this brash reminder of his debts, then quickly composed himself. He waved aside the bodyguards who had started to close upon Wulfrik. Perhaps if the champion had been injured in his last voyage…
“We do not forget our debts,” Viglundr told Wulfrik. “Ormskaro, indeed all the tribes of the Sarls owe you much. But there is a limit to our indulgence.”
“Maybe I should have made war in the name of Torgald instead of Viglundr,” Wulfrik snarled, his fingers still tapping the skull dangling from his sword.
“Do all the Sarls speak such impertinence to their king?” shouted a voice from the crowd. Wulfrik turned his head, unsurprised to find it was the dark-haired Aesling who had spoken. “Among the Aeslings, we know the respect due a king!”
Fangs bared, Wulfrik grinned back at the marauder. His fingers closed around the tether binding the skull to his sword. Maliciously, he pulled it taut, holding the skull out for the Aesling to see. “I also know how to respect an Aesling king!” he taunted.
The words stabbed home like a dagger. Shrieking in rage, the dark-haired Aesling drew the sword from his belt. Before he could fling himself upon Wulfrik, his retainers grabbed hold of him and pulled him back.
“No, Prince Sveinbjorn!” they cried out, fear in their voices.
Sveinbjorn fought to free himself of their grasp. “I have heard the stories of your voyages, Wulfrik Whore-son!” the prince raged. “I call them what they are: lies! Draw your blade and meet your ancestors, sea-worm!”
Slowly, Wulfrik drew his sword from his belt. He glanced at the men holding Sveinbjorn back and laughed. “Whenever your nurse-maids will let you play.”
The last barb was too much for the retainers. One of them released the prince. Drawing his own axe, the warrior rushed at Wulfrik, a war cry howling from his lips. With the fury of a berserker, the marauder brought his weapon flashing at Wulfrik’s head.
Wulfrik twisted aside as the axe came hurtling down. Moving with the grace and speed of a panther, the champion swung his body around, side-stepping the Aesling’s charge. A blur of steel, a splash of crimson, and the Aesling toppled to the floor, his body folding back upon its spine where Wulfrik’s sword had slashed across his belly.
Sveinbjorn relented in his efforts to escape his retainers. His pale features turned a sickly colour and his tongue licked across suddenly dry lips. There was terror in his eyes as he saw Wulfrik stalk towards him.
“Enough!” Viglundr’s outraged roar thundered across the hall. He pointed a trembling finger at Wulfrik. “Whatever services you have performed for me in the past, barbarian, they will not excuse the murder of my guests!”
Wulfrik sneered at Sveinbjorn. “The Aeslings are welcome to collect their wergild anytime they have the stomach for it.”
The humiliated prince glared at Wulfrik, then ripped free of his retainers. Sheathing his sword, he marched from the hall. The other Aeslings quickly followed their prince in retreat.
“It seems I won’t have a chance to kill any more of your guests,” Wulfrik said, turning back to the throne.
Viglundr quivered with rage. “You forget your duty to me.”
“You forget yours to me,” Wulfrik answered, casting a sideways glance at Hjordis. “I was promised riches, rank, the privileges of a king…”
“All these you were given,” Viglundr snarled.
“And I was promised the hand of your daughter,” Wulfrik finished. “King Torgald is dead,” he announced, his fingers tapping on the skull. “But I have not been paid for the killing.”
Cruelty filled Viglundr’s expression as he leaned forwards from his throne. “It was not our boasting tongue that brought the curse of the gods upon you,” he reminded Wulfrik. His face softened into an expression of regret and pity, though there was still malignance in his eyes. “How can we give our daughter to a man such as you? Marked by the gods, cursed by them to wander the world to slay in their name? What manner of life would that be for a princess?” Viglundr smiled to see that his words brought the champion pain.
“You speak of our duty to you,” the king persisted. “But what of your duty to Hjordis? Should she stay here forever waiting for you, waiting for a man despised by the gods? Must she grow old and wither, husbandless, childless, because you were too proud to free her from an impossible promise?”
Wulfrik felt his chest tighten, a coldness that was worse than the ravages of the yhetee. “It is not pride that binds me to Hjordis,” he said.
Viglundr kept the triumph he felt from his face as he heard the champion’s
confession. “You cannot keep her,” he said. “If you do love our daughter, you must release her.
“Why would you force her to share your curse?”
The king’s last words echoed through Wulfrik’s brain like thunder. Viglundr was right, he had no reason to force Hjordis to share his curse. Doomed to wander the world, killing men and monsters in the name of the gods. That was not the life he would have Hjordis share. She was better here, in her father’s castle, surrounded by the riches of Ormskaro.
The image made Wulfrik sicken. However much he tried, he couldn’t let her go. He wouldn’t let her go.
The sound of footsteps in the hall behind him brought Wulfrik spinning around. His sword was already half from its sheath before he saw that his stealthy assailant was a shapely young princess with long blonde hair.
“I might have killed you,” Wulfrik growled, slamming the blade back into his belt.
Hjordis placed her soft hand on Wulfrik’s scarred, leathery fingers. “Am I so ghastly that I frighten the great Wulfrik?”
“You might have been an Aesling assassin,” Wulfrik told her.
The princess cocked her head and smiled at him. “Who says I’m not?” Her expression became serious, contemplative. “Prince Sveinbjorn is a handsome man and noble in his manners. A woman might do much worse than take such a man for a husband.”
Wulfrik snorted in amusement. “That sounds like your father talking.”
“Oh yes, most certainly,” Hjordis sighed. “He’s been urging me to marry that reptile for the last fortnight. Fear of you is the only thing that’s kept him from forcing me into it. Somehow he thinks you won’t burn down Ormskaro if the whole thing is my decision instead of his.”
Hjordis cried out as Wulfrik’s hands clamped around her arms. “I’d make all Norsca a smoking crater if you were taken away from me! I’d kill every damn Aesling that ever crawled out of its mother if they—”
“Be careful of your boasting,” Hjordis warned. She regretted her words when she saw the pain that sprang into Wulfrik’s eyes. She quickly diverted his thoughts, squirming in his grip.
[Heroes 02] - Wulfrik Page 4
