02 - Wulfrik Read online

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  WULFRIK

  Heroes - 02

  C.L. Werner

  (An Undead Scan v1.0)

  WARHAMMER HEROES

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  Prologue

  The wintry sky was blemished by black stains that whirled and circled high overhead, their ugly squawks raining down upon the ears of the men below. The crows had gathered quickly, drawn by the smell of death in the air. A great murder of the scavenger birds had risen into the sky, betraying what the northmen had done to every eye within a hundred leagues.

  Wulfrik glared at the croaking birds and spat against the rocky earth. It was a small betrayal beside what had come before it. The Norscan ground his fangs together, imagining the many ways his revenge would unfold. There would be a reckoning, and not all the daemons of the Wastes would deny him.

  The northman turned his eyes from the heavens and stared back at the bleak terrain over which his enemies were even now stalking him. Tall, powerfully built even for the muscular breeds of Norsca, the skulls of his conquests dangling from the chains fastened to his armour, Wulfrik knew the mere sight of him was enough to strike terror into the hearts of lesser men. His bearded face pulled back in a grim smile that displayed his sharp fangs. He had taken his name from those fangs, teeth he had been born with and which belonged in the jaws of a wolf, not the mouth of a man.

  His instincts were those of a wolf, the savage unthinking rage of a cornered beast. Wulfrik’s foes were many and they had hunted him far across their bleak and sinister land. Warned by the circling crows or perhaps by treacherous magic, the elves had emerged from their watchtower to strike down the humans who had invaded their shores and defiled their sacred grove. The coastal fog that had cloaked the Seafang’s crew from observation during their landing was gone, banished by some caprice of the gods.

  The longship was his only hope for escape, anchored at the base of the towering cliffs that formed the shore of this eldritch land. The Seafang had borne Wulfrik and his warriors through the spectral sea between worlds to reach the strange land of the elves. It was the only chance he had to return to the realms of men.

  Wulfrik’s fist clenched tighter about the hilt of his sword. A Norscan did not fear death in the same way the weak southlings did. To die in battle was the greatest triumph most Norscans aspired to, a glorious death with blade in hand and his wounds to the fore. An end to make both gods and ancestors proud.

  It was that promise which drew men to his banner, which made warriors from across Norsca and beyond flock to his side. Wulfrik felt no guilt when such men fell, for he knew that in their deaths they found the glory they desired. This time, however, there was guilt in his breast, the sharp stab of shame in his heart. The men he had left behind, strewn across the landscape like so much carrion, they had not died the glorious death of warriors. They had been felled like dumb beasts, struck down by elven arrows, killed before they could even see the enemy.

  He had watched men die before in such cruel fashion, but always there had been reason for their deaths. This time, that reason was a lie—a lie that Wulfrik had insisted on believing. He had led them to this slaughter. The shame of their deaths was his. It was his punishment for trying to defy the will of the gods.

  Wulfrik reached a hand to his thigh, ripping from his flesh the barbed arrow that had struck his leg. He threw back his shaggy head, roaring in pain as the missile was torn free. Contemptuously he snapped the shaft and threw the pieces to the ground. Again he threw back his head and roared, but this time it was a cry of challenge, not pain. Let the filthy elves come! He would face them and show them a finish even their cold hearts would remember!

  A strong hand closed upon his shoulder. Like his namesake, Wulfrik spun about, snapping his fangs and striking out with his sword. A tall blond Norscan dodged back as the other warrior blindly lashed out at him, falling into a fighting crouch as he fell back. There was hate in the blond giant’s eyes as he met the furious gaze of Wulfrik, but it was tempered by the man’s own sense of shame.

  “We can’t make a stand here,” the huscarl said. “They will cut us down as they did the others.”

  Wulfrik sneered at the cowardly words of his comrade. Alone of his crew, the treacherous Broendulf had survived. “If it is a choice between arrows in my belly or a knife in my back, I charge the bowmen and damn their sires with my dying breath!”

  Broendulf’s face flushed crimson as the champion spoke. For an instant, he considered answering Wulfrik’s challenge. Among the Sarls, Broendulf had always been known for his sharp wits. They did not desert him now.

  “If we die here, who is left to avenge your crew?” Broendulf asked. He saw doubt flash through Wulfrik’s eyes. Emboldened, he pressed the point with words that were hateful to him even as they left his tongue. “If you die here, who is there to protect Hjordis from her father?”

  Wulfrik continued to glare at Broendulf. “After the traitor is dead, we will finish this thing between us,” he growled. “Hjordis is mine!”

  Broendulf answered the champion with a cold smile. “As you say, we will finish this thing between us. But not here.”

  An arrow sizzled through the chill morning air, passing so near to Wulfrik’s head that it disturbed his mane of crimson hair. The champion paused only long enough to spit in the direction of the unseen archer, then turned and began running across the barren ground, weaving from side to side in an effort to foil the aim of his enemies. Other arrows followed the first, rattling against the stones, striking sparks from the iron heels of the Norscans’ boots.

  Even with a half-dozen wounds peppering the champion’s body, it was an effort for Broendulf to match Wulfrik’s pace. However much he hated the man, Broendulf could not control the awe he felt in his presence. Wulfrik was truly a warrior who had been chosen by the gods; no simple mortal could match his endurance. He was like one of the bronze machine-beasts of the dawi zharr, untiring, indefatigable. Broendulf counted himself among the strongest warriors of all the Sarls, but beside Wulfrik, he felt as puny as a southling priest.

  The cries of their pursuers grew nearer now. It was difficult to tell from the strange, almost melodious tones of elven speech, but there seemed a trace of panic in their voices. Wulfrik allowed himself a grim smile. The elves were afraid the men were going to escape. He allowed himself to concentrate on the cries. Even the curse of the gods had its blessings. For Wulfrik, that blessing was the Gift of Tongues. By focussing his mind, he could understand the speech of any creature, no matter how strange. Often
he would use this eerie talent only to challenge his foes in words they could understand, but it had its other uses.

  As he listened to the cries of the elves, Wulfrik’s smile dropped. They were not afraid the men would escape. The elves were only afraid they would not be able to catch them alive. During the chase it seemed they had decided that the rest of the Norscans had died too swiftly. With Wulfrik and Broendulf, the elves intended to take their time.

  Humans were not the only creatures who had a concept of revenge.

  The cause for the elves’ concern thrust itself upon Wulfrik with such suddenness that he nearly pitched over the edge. The northman charged across the rocky grade, unheeding of its gradual rise, unaware of the jagged cut that had sheared away its side as cleanly as though by the Blood God’s axe. His feet teetering upon the crumbling lip of the cliff, he watched pebbles kicked up by his approach sail out into empty air. For an instant he stared into the dark waters of the sea, watching its waves smash against the breakers far below. Then Wulfrik regained his balance and steadied himself at the edge of the cliff.

  The craggy shoreline stretched away in either direction as far as Wulfrik’s keen gaze could see, rising from the blue sea like a great white wall. Mammoth rocks, curled and twisted by the ravages of brine and wind, leered from the depths, huddling about the feet of the cliffs like a mob of mongrel half-kin. Faintly, the northman could see the distant shores of barrier islands, their bleak stone shores little more than a black smear upon the horizon. Wulfrik scowled at the forbidding islands. If half the tales told in the sagas were true, there would be no respite from his enemies even if he could reach the forsaken spits of rock.

  Broendulf was beside him a moment later, gasping for breath and staring with horror at the angry sea below. “Where’s the ship?” he moaned, gesturing at the breakers with his axe.

  Wulfrik pointed to a jumble of shattered wreckage being pounded against the rocks. “It seems our anchorage wasn’t as secure as I thought,” he growled. Suddenly the champion’s eyes went wide with shock. “Mermedus’ rutting eel!” he exclaimed as he spotted the thing slithering across the ship’s broken hull.

  A long, lean coil of scaly flesh slowly crushed the planks of the longship beneath its bulk. Azure above and with a white belly below, the monstrous serpent blended almost perfectly with the waves that crashed against it, only the contrast between itself and the wreck in its grasp allowing the men on the cliff above to see it. Here, both Norscans knew, was the killer of their ship, the monster whose thoughtless act of destruction had obliterated the greatest longship ever built by mortal hands.

  More pointedly, the merwyrm had left them stranded, denied their only hope of escape from the trap they had been led into.

  “What do we do now?” Broendulf raged, smashing his fist against his side in impotent fury. Another arrow clattered off the stones near his feet.

  Wulfrik smiled coldly at the blond Sarl. “The dragon or the elves,” he told Broendulf. “The gods leave us small choice, but at least the serpent won’t make a game of killing us.”

  Wulfrik did not wait to see what effect, if any, his logic had upon the other Norscan. Clenching the blade of his sword between his fangs, the warrior flung himself over the side of the cliff.

  Chapter One

  Enormous, man-like, the huge tracks gouged the barren face of the snowfield, a black line fading into the howling gale. Pressed so deeply into the ice that bare rock shaded their depths, the prints made a clear trail even in the driving snow. It would take hours for the tracks to be covered. Long before then, Jokull would lead his captain to his prey.

  The Norscan hunter whipped the scaly, lash-like appendage that grew from his left shoulder against his beard, knocking frost from the thick black hair. Jokull shivered beneath the heavy furs he wore, casting anxious eyes at the land around him. For days they had climbed the jagged slopes until Jokull thought they must be at the roof of the world, and still he could see the grey shapes of even higher peaks looming behind the falling snow. Much higher and surely they would be crushed beneath the feet of the sun when the Blood God’s hunt chased it across the morning sky! The vision made the hunter tremble and place the little bone icon of the Skull Lord between his teeth. He could feel the iron staples fastened to the talisman stab into his gums, could taste the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. The gods of the north were angered when prayers did not come with offerings.

  Wailing like the frozen wraith of a Kislevite witch, the winds swirled and crashed around Jokull. Spitting the bone icon from his mouth, he could see the blood covering it freeze into icy mush as the talisman dangled around his neck. The men of Norsca were used to the brutality of winter and the savagery of the elements, but even an experienced woodsman like Jokull felt oppressed by the harshness of these snow-swept mountains. It was as sinister and hostile a place as anything the skalds sang of in the sagas.

  Jokull lifted his bow, the fingers of his right hand—the one that hadn’t been changed by the gods—rubbing the feathers fitted to the arrow nocked against the string. Black feathers, crow feathers, feathers hungry for the taste of meat. The hunter placed great faith in such feathers, trusting them to speed the arrow to its target. With such arrows he had brought down snow bears and ice tigers and more than a few men when the hunting season faded into the time of war. Now, however, the hunter’s faith in his weapon wavered.

  Surely no clean beast would dwell in such a blighted place. The cold was like a gnawing thing that chewed through fur and cloth and skin to seep down into the bones of a man. The wind was a howling torment more furious than the gales upon the Sea of Claws, driving the snow like a thousand daggers into the face of any bold enough to stand against its fury. The air was thin and poor, like the breath of a frozen grave. A man’s lungs gasped for it, gulping it down in desperate shudders but never drawing in enough to satisfy his body.

  No clean beast would live in such a place, Jokull decided. He cocked his head as he fancied he heard a deeper howl sound behind the wind. His skin crawled as he heard the sound repeated, even more distinctly, from the higher peaks. Again the cry came, this time from further ahead, a low, growling sound that slowly rose into a piercing shriek. There was an unmistakable note of threat in the cries, a threat that made Jokull glance back the way he had come. How far was it to the ship, he wondered, and could he reach it before the crying things decided he had ignored their warning?

  The hunter shook his head and spat a blob of blood into the snow. He could not deny the fear he felt but he did curse his foolishness. There was no going back. The way back was closed to him. It had been ever since he signed on to the crew of the Seafang and swore a life-oath to her captain. There was no retreat for the men of the Seafang, only victory or death. Their captain made sure of that.

  The thought made Jokull smile. However terrible the creatures of the mountains were, he would bet his beard that his captain was worse. Jokull had only believed half of the stories told about the captain of the Seafang when he joined her crew. Now he knew better. He had seen trolls butchered like sheep by his captain, watched as daemons cringed before him and begged for mercy. He had been there when the fleshless wight of Jarl Unfir rose from its cairn only to have its bony back broken across the captain’s knee.

  Wulfrik the Wanderer was a name spoken of in awed whispers, and with good reason.

  He looked back, willing his gaze through the falling snow. Beyond the flurry, he could see the grey figures of the crew marching in his steps. Even as a shadow veiled by snowfall, Jokull had no trouble picking out Wulfrik. There was an aura of almost palpable menace that exuded from the man, a sense of wrongness about him that compelled even as it horrified.

  The master of the Seafang stomped through the snow, emerging from the flurry to glower at Jokull. The hunter was a big man, but Wulfrik towered a full head above him. Heavy furs cloaked his ogrish frame, while a hairy cape cut from the scalp of a giant billowed about his shoulders. With every step, Jokull could hear the ratt
le of bones and chains rise from the champion as Wulfrik’s gruesome trophies clattered against the armour he wore beneath his furs.

  Jokull lowered his bow, a cold more piercing than the snowstorm running through him as he considered that Wulfrik might decide a readied weapon meant a challenge. The champion had a brutal way of answering challenges. Jokull would rather face Jarl Unfir again than cross blades with Wulfrik.

  The champion chuckled at Jokull’s unease, his laughter sounding more like a wolf worrying at a bone than the sort of sound a man should make. Wulfrik’s thick crimson beard parted, exposing his fearsome smile. Until he smiled, an observer might think Wulfrik’s body untouched by the gods, what the weak men of the south would call “uncorrupted”. But the instant he bared his teeth, the change was there for all to see. Wulfrik’s teeth weren’t teeth, but long sharp fangs, fangs of a beast, not a man. When he was drunk, Jokull had seen Wulfrik bite through iron with those fangs. One day, the champion swore, he would be strong enough to do the same to steel.

  “Why have we stopped, weasel-slayer?” The question, when it came, did not rise from the hulking Wulfrik, but from a tall blond Sarl standing just behind the champion. The Sarl was a contrast to Wulfrik, his chiselled features presenting a face that was more becoming than the champion’s fearsome countenance, yet still possessing formidable strength: Broendulf the Fair, one of the most renowned warriors in all the holdings of the Sarls.

  “I don’t like these tracks,” Jokull said, making a point to address his words to Wulfrik and not the surly Broendulf.

  “I don’t like anything that keeps me out in these Tchar-cursed mountains, but you don’t hear me complaining,” Broendulf snapped at the hunter.

  “Worried all this snow is going to scar those girly cheeks of yours!” laughed an ashen-haired reaver, his leathery skin darkened to the colour of ale and his right leg a mass of ivory-hued bones bound together with steel chain. A fleshless skull grinned where the reaver’s knee should have been. Bitten off by a kraken during a misadventure on the northern seas, Arngeirr’s leg had been replaced with the bones of the man who had caused the accident. Even without any skin on it, some said they could see the family resemblance when they looked at the skull of his father.