“You wanted to know how Wulfrik controls the ship,” Sigvatr said from where he stood beside the champion. “First he must see the quality of your blood. It’s that, or we throw you over the side right now.”
His face pulled into a sour expression, his hands still clutched tightly about his staff, Zarnath relented and approached the champion. Sigvatr grabbed the Kurgan’s left hand, pulling it free from the staff. Before the shaman could pull back, Wulfrik brought the edge of the knife slashing across his palm. Zarnath gasped in alarm, wrenching his injured hand from the champion.
“Now let the ship taste your blood,” Wulfrik said, pointing at the carved figurehead. “Let the Seafang know what kind of man sails upon her.”
For a moment, Zarnath hesitated, his eyes burning like cobalt fires. He glared at Wulfrik and Sigvatr, searching their faces for any hint of duplicity. The sound of steel being drawn behind him alerted him to the uneasiness of the crew. A normal man displaying fear wouldn’t have disturbed them, but they were uneasy when that man was a shaman with magical powers they didn’t understand. They would react quickly and brutally if Zarnath made a wrong move now.
“You can still choose the sea,” said Wulfrik. “It is a long swim back to Ormskaro, but even a Kurgan should be able to manage it.”
Zarnath scowled at the jest, but Wulfrik’s taunt eased his mind somewhat. Timidly the shaman strode to the wooden dragon. A last suspicious look at Wulfrik, and he slapped his bleeding hand down upon the dragon’s snout. He let his palm rest there for only an instant, then hurriedly backed away. Wulfrik and the older members of his crew watched the figurehead carefully as it absorbed the shaman’s blood.
“Bind your hand, outlander,” Wulfrik said. “I won’t need any more of your blood. At least not today.”
Wulfrik nodded his head to Sigvatr. The old warrior began barking orders at the crew, repeating the ritual Zarnath had just undergone. Zarnath watched the process as he bound a strip of leather across his bleeding palm. It did not take the shaman long to deduce the sort of rite he had undergone.
“Blood magic,” Zarnath hissed under his breath, a shudder passing through him. He glowered at Wulfrik. “It is a blood ritual,” he repeated.
Wulfrik kept his eyes on the crewmen as they slowly stepped to the figurehead and clapped their hands onto its snarling face. “I know that it is magic that can only be evoked through blood,” he answered. “You wanted the secret of the Seafang’s power, there it is.”
Zarnath studied the warriors as they marched to the wooden dragon and came away again. “But nothing is happening. It is doing nothing with their blood. I would be able to sense it if the ship was drawing power from them.”
“It is well for them that it is so,” Wulfrik said. “If the ship showed interest in any man’s blood, I would gut him like a dog. No ship can serve two captains. That is even more true for the Seafang than any other.”
The shaman nodded in understanding. “That is how you evoke the Seafang’s power. The ship responds to your blood, but only your blood. Perhaps because you are the one who killed Baga Yar.”
“Maybe,” agreed Wulfrik with a shrug. “I only know that I can send the ship through the veil between worlds and bring her out again wherever I command her to go. I do not know it is only my blood the ship wants. Hence this test at the start of each voyage.”
“But it might be tied to your blood alone,” Zarnath mused.
Wulfrik bared his fangs at the Kurgan. “You think you have made a poor bargain, sorcerer? Agreed to help me only so you can win a ship you can never use?”
Zarnath backed away from the champion’s threat, his hands closing reflexively about his jewelled staff. “No, no!” protested the shaman. “Our compact remains. I will help you break your curse. After the Seafang is mine, there will be time enough to unlock the secrets of her enchantments.”
“My men will be watching you, Zarnath,” Wulfrik growled, unmoved by the Kurgan’s assurances of loyalty. He nodded his head to the longship’s mast. Perched in the rigging, his bow resting in his lap, his eyes fixed on the shaman, was the hunter Jokull. “The first sign of treachery, and they will kill you. Whatever magic you call, one of them will kill you. Unless I do it first.”
Wulfrik let the threat linger in the air, holding Zarnath’s eerie gaze this time. The shaman needed no further proof of the conviction behind his murderous oath.
“Where are we sailing to?” Wulfrik asked the shaman.
Zarnath smiled nervously, grateful for the change in subject. “The relic I require is a torc crafted from ruby. It is called the Smile of Sardiss, an ancient artefact of the Hung warlock-kings. For centuries it has fallen through the fingers of many owners, but for the last hundred years it has been worn by the dwarf lord Khorakk.”
Wulfrik lifted his hand, silencing the shaman. “I need to know only one thing, Kurgan: where this ship must sail.”
Zarnath bit his lip at the brash interruption, colour rising to his face. “Khorakk rules in a place called Dronangkul, a stronghold of the dwarf folk…”
The champion waited to hear no more. He brought his dagger slicing across his raised hand, then clenched his fist until beads of blood dripped through his fingers. With firm steps, he marched to the figurehead, slapping his hand upon the dragon’s snout. Grey smoke began to billow from the wooden jaws, quickly expanding into a thick fog which completely engulfed the ship.
“This relic had better be where you say it is, sorcerer,” Wulfrik warned as he bound his hand with a strip of cloth. “As you will soon see, there are worse seas where a man can be thrown overboard.”
The river upon which the Seafang found herself when she emerged from the fog was a stagnant, lifeless thing. Red water sloshed against the hull like warm syrup, clinging to the wood with tar-like streamers of muck. A filthy smell, like hot copper mixed with burning skin, assailed the noses of the northmen. The banks of the sluggish river were littered with jagged piles of slag, slimy bones and puddles of yellow filth.
Wulfrik pinched his nose against the stench and gazed out across the shores of the river. To the south as far as the eye could see was a vast marshland, its brambles and weeds twisted by the polluted waters of the river. To the north was a barren land of sand and rock. He turned about, seizing Zarnath by the front of his robe.
“What trickery is this?” the champion snarled. “I have seen the halls of the dwarf lords, made war against their thanes and taken from them both glory and gold! This stinking wasteland!” He glared at the tainted river dirtying his ship with its loathsome touch. “No dwarf would live in such a place!”
“But they do,” insisted Zarnath, trying to free himself of Wulfrik’s choking hands. “This is the River Ruin. To the north is the Desolation of Azgorh, where dwell the dawi zharr.”
“The fire dwarfs?” The question came from Stefnir, a hulking axeman who had lost one eye and half of his face to a troll’s acid. Stefnir was one of the few Aeslings among the Seafang’s crew. “My people have had dealings with them. We trade skins and slaves to them in exchange for armour and weapons. They are a hard, cruel people and devious in their ways.”
Wulfrik laughed at the implied warning. “We were hardly going to ask them for the torc,” he said as he released Zarnath. The hero nodded thoughtfully as the shaman massaged his bruised neck. “This dwarf who has the torc…”
“Khorakk,” the shaman said.
“Khorakk. This place he lives in…”
“Dronangkul,” Zarnath supplied the name. “It means something like ‘fortress of iron’ in the dwarf tongue.”
Wulfrik let his fangs show as he glared at the shaman. “I don’t want to know what it means, just where it is.”
The shaman studied the bleak landscape to the north. He could see some stunted hills in the distance. After a moment of consideration, he pointed his staff at the nearest of the hills. “There,” he said.
“I don’t see anything,” Wulfrik told him.
“Their fortress w
ill be behind the hills,” Zarnath assured the champion. “Even the dwarfs would have little stomach for the river’s stink. The hills would provide them shelter from any wind bearing the smell to them.”
“That I can believe,” Wulfrik said, clenching his nose tight again. He turned and bellowed at Sigvatr. “Half the men stay with the ship. The rest go with me inland.”
“I’ll leave ten of the new men on the ship,” Sigvatr said. “Kaetill can be in command until we get back.”
“We?” Wulfrik asked, raising an eyebrow.
Sigvatr smiled at his captain. “I’ve killed a lot of things in my time, but never a fire dwarf. I don’t want you bragging about how tough they are without seeing them for myself.” The old warrior’s smile darkened and he darted a glance at Zarnath. “You should take him along too.”
The shaman glared daggers at Sigvatr. “I brought you here,” Zarnath argued. “Getting the torc is your business.”
Wulfrik growled at the short Kurgan. “I’m hardly going to leave my ship in the hands of a sorcerer who has already told me he wants it for himself. No, Zarnath, you brought me here and now you’re going to stay right by my side. That way anything that happens to me, happens to you first.”
The Desolation of Azgorh lived up to its grisly name: a barren landscape of bleached sand and windswept rock, even the few patches of cactus which sprouted from the blasted earth were withered and sickly. The sun blazed down from a cloudless sky, a fiery tyrant that was impossible to reconcile with the feeble light of the northern day. After the cold of Norsca and the freezing ravages they were subjected to in the Mountains of Mourn, the crew of the Seafang was ill-prepared for the infernal heat. Their skin burned, their faces darkening to a blistered red. This was no such land as any of them had seen before. It was a place damned by mortal and god alike, a blighted hell with neither mercy nor pity for those foolish enough to enter it.
Several times, Wulfrik considered slitting Zarnath’s throat and heading back for the ship. Only the hope the shaman had given him held him back. He had come this far. There would be time enough to settle with Zarnath after the curse was broken.
Jokull came dashing back through the ranks of Norscan warriors. The hunter, as usual, had been scouting ahead of the main group, studying the lay of the land. His excited manner made it clear he’d found something. Any hopes that he’d spotted the dwarf stronghold were dashed by his first words. “We’re not alone,” Jokull said. “I found a few tracks in the dirt. Paw prints. Big ones,” he added for emphasis.
“Even the Hound of Khorne would find poor feeding here,” Broendulf argued, overhearing the hunter’s report.
“Look for yourself, then,” Jokull snarled back. “Unless years of being pampered in Ormskaro have addled your eyes as well as your wits.”
Other warriors joined the argument, siding with Jokull or Broendulf as the mood took them. The speed and vehemence with which they entered the fight was evidence of how much the barren desert was preying upon their nerves. Wulfrik let them vent their anxiety. If it looked like someone might get killed, he’d put a stop to it.
Turning away from the arguing warriors, Wulfrik gazed across the windswept, rocky cliffs. They were weird, barren things, formed into towering hoodoos, soaring archways and flattened mesas. The dark shadows playing across the sides of the eccentric rock formations indicated unseen gullies and ravines cutting between them. Wulfrik could imagine the rat’s nest of dry canyons and caves worming their way between the eroded hills. It occurred to him that they might use the gullies to cross the wasteland unseen. If he had any definite idea where the dwarf stronghold was, he might risk getting lost among the rock pillars and barren hills in order to maintain the element of surprise.
As he looked across the weird cliffs, Wulfrik saw that the element of surprise was already lost. He saw the source of the tracks Jokull had found. Spread out across the span of one of the arches were three dark shapes. Eyes less sharp than those of the champion might have missed them, unable to tell them apart from the rock. To Wulfrik, however, they were clear enough: three great wolves, beasts the size of a pony. Each wolf had a rider upon its back. At such distance it was impossible to tell what sort of creatures they were, but Wulfrik knew goblins would often use huge wolves as steeds. If not for the stench of the river, he might have been able to pick their scent from the wind, though it was just as possible the goblins, or the animals they rode, were canny enough to keep downwind of their prey.
“Jokull is right,” Wulfrik’s stern growl silenced his arguing men. “We’re not alone.” The hero indicated the distant shapes observing them from the cliff. It was only when the riders moved, perhaps made uneasy by the attention they were getting, that any of the Norscans spotted the watchers.
“Who are they?” Sigvatr wondered aloud.
“Scavenging goblins,” Njarvord spat. “Only their slinking kind go around riding on the backs of curs!”
“Then we’d best make sure they don’t get a whiff of you,” Haukr snickered. “They might smell that dog you were spending your gold on in Ormskaro.”
Njarvord balled his fist and made for the tattooed seaman. “Ilga’s twice the wench your mother is, you ship-rat!”
Haukr drew a curved fishing knife from his sleeve, arresting the big Baersonling’s advance. “I said she was,” he chuckled. “My mother would have settled for silver to warm your bed.”
Sigvatr pressed between the two warriors, pushing them apart. “Enough!” he snarled at them. “The smell of blood might be just the thing they need to bring them down on us.”
“I doubt it,” Arngeirr said. The one-legged reaver took a swallow of kvas from the Estalian brandy flask he carried. Wiping his stinging lips, he elaborated on his thought. “Any tribe of goblins living here can’t be doing too well. Goblins have little stomach for a fight unless they have numbers on their side. These lice might follow us, but only to see if we drop anything. They won’t attack.”
Wulfrik considered the one-legged reaver’s words, then shook his head. “We won’t count on that,” he told his men. “Keep your shields ready and a hand near your blades. If they do decide to attack us, they’ll try to weaken us with arrows first. Form a shield wall if they do. Force the little rats to come in close.”
“We should also watch for them to come from behind.” The suggestion came from Tjorvi, the sneaky Graeling who had proven his cunning during the trials of the Wolf Forest. “There’s no place better to stab a man than where he isn’t looking,” he explained when he felt the eyes of the other Norscans on him.
The attack came during the night. Wulfrik had seen their watchers a few times throughout the day, observing the Norscans from the high cliffs. He suspected there was an even bigger company of riders sticking to the gullies between the rocks. The lack of overt aggression might have eased another man into a sense of security. He could imagine some foolish southling being lulled into believing the riders were content simply to watch, that they offered no real menace.
Wulfrik knew better. He had fought the horse-nomads of the Hung and knew the treacherous fighting style of that faithless folk. The riders following them were only waiting for that moment when they would be at their most vulnerable. The attack would come during the night, when the Norscans made camp.
There was nothing he could do to curb the rise of the moons, but Wulfrik did his best to upset the plans of their enemies by ordering a forced march through the night. If the riders were timid, this unexpected change might be enough to send them slinking back to their lair.
In a way, the champion was pleased to find his enemies weren’t complete cowards.
With the moon of Mannslieb only half-full and its companion just an ugly splotch of sickly light upon the horizon, darkness held the Norscans in its black grip. Wulfrik snarled down any effort to light torches. He was more concerned about the light ruining the night vision of his men than the extra speed they could muster if they could see where they were going. He kept Jokull ahead of the
column, hoping that the wily hunter could find some sign of their foes.
Even with such precautions, when the attack came, it came without warning. The silence of the night was suddenly broken by the thunderous howling of wolves from the darkness before them. It was the concentrated roar of an entire pack, a sound almost deafening in its fury. The cries of the beasts completely masked whatever noise the iron-headed arrows made as they came shooting out of the night. The first the Norscans were aware of the assault was when several men in the front ranks cried out in alarm.
Heavy armour and the poor archery of their foes protected Wulfrik’s men from the first volley. The poorly crafted arrows failed to pierce the chain hauberks and heavy hide armour of his warriors; only two were injured in the barrage. The Norscans left them where they fell, closing together and linking their shields to defend against a second volley.
Arrows clattered against the shield wall for several minutes. As the howling of the wolves faded, thin voices could be heard arguing in the darkness. They were strange, whispery voices, their words more like a nail scratching against a piece of pig iron than any human speech. Wulfrik could understand them, one benefit of the curse he’d brought upon himself.
The ambushers were arguing about what to do now that their volley of arrows had failed to terrify the humans and send them running. One gruff-voiced attacker was demanding that his comrades mount their wolves and break the shield wall with a concentrated charge. Wulfrik smiled as the chieftain tried to evade the accusation he wouldn’t be leading the charge by claiming he had to stay behind and make sure everything went according to plan. The argument persisted until there was a sharp cry and the most vocal voice raised against the chieftain was silenced.
“Whatever they do,” Wulfrik warned his warriors, “we hold our ground. Tjorvi! Jokull! Keep your eyes on the rear! This scum wants to push us back. I have a feeling that means they have friends waiting for us back there!”
[Heroes 02] - Wulfrik Page 7
