02 - Wulfrik Read online

  Anger roared through Wulfrik’s body. What hope did he have? The only hope, the hope of breaking the curse that kept from him all that he desired! Other gods had inflicted the curse upon him; he would not let another deny him his only chance of escaping his doom.

  “Dark Father of the fire dwarfs!” Wulfrik bellowed at the fiery phantom. “I am Wulfrik, and I will cut your burning eyes from your face! Your children are greedy maggots and your lands are not fit for an ox to shit in! I defy you, you burned-out gargoyle! Here stands a man, and he dares you to stand in his way if you have the—”

  Sigvatr pulled at Wulfrik’s leg, trying to drag his friend back to the ground. He could not understand the words the champion was shouting, for they were uttered in the same harsh speech as that which the voice of thunder had spoken, but he could tell from the tone the sort of things the hero was saying. Nothing, beast or man, could fail to rise to Wulfrik’s challenges when they were made. Now, his friend’s despair and pride had caused him to challenge a god!

  The other northmen were equally aware of what their leader was doing and their horror was no less than that of Sigvatr. Two men rose to their feet and sprinted across the desert in pure terror. Njarvord bowed his head and commended his spirit to his ancestors. Haukr pulled a knife from his boot and began to crawl towards Wulfrik, murderous determination in his eyes.

  After the apparition spoke, a great wailing sound rose from Dronangkul, the sound of thousands of voices moaning in fear. It was a frightening sound in its own right. The Norscans knew the voices came from the slaves of the dwarfs. Anything that could make an orc cry out in terror was something a man would do well to fear.

  Wulfrik relented in his blasphemous calls. At first, his warriors thought that even the champion had been struck dumb with fear. Then they thought that the Dark Father had answered his challenge, striking the hero’s mind with madness.

  Wulfrik threw back his head and laughed, laughed until it seemed his voice must crack. The champion spat into the dust as he watched the fiery head fade from the night sky. More frightened for his friend than before, Sigvatr tugged at Wulfrik’s leg. The hero kicked at him, forcing him to let go.

  “Sheep,” Wulfrik growled, staring angrily at his men. “You should all go back to your mothers and leave the fighting to those worthy of calling themselves warriors!” He gestured angrily at the ziggurat and the empty sky above it. “Do you think that was their god? Are you all such fools? It was a trick! Some foolishness these devils have concocted to frighten orcs and goblins! And you vermin are no better,” he added with a snarl.

  The champion’s insults made the northmen feel ashamed, as he knew the hard words would. Shame would make them forget fear. From shame would grow anger, anger against those who had tricked them. Wulfrik wanted that anger, for he would use it to slaughter his way to Khorakk’s throat.

  He did not bother to tell his warriors why he knew the vision was a lie. Wulfrik did not think they would be reassured if he told them he knew the head was some kind of trick only because the god did not answer his challenge.

  Zarnath lifted himself off the ground, brushing the dirt from his clothes. “Yes, it was a trick,” he said, tapping his forehead with a long finger. “I would know if it was a real sending from the gods. The vision was false, a trick and a lie! The dwarfs have devil-lamps upon the ziggurat they point into the sky to create the semblance of their god and a great bronze horn through which they create his voice.”

  “That information might have been nice to know before I soiled myself,” Stefnir snarled. For a moment, the Aesling looked ready to attack the shaman, but the Kurgan’s eyes were glowing again and such an overt reminder of his sorcery made the warrior think twice.

  “What if Broendulf doesn’t know it’s a trick?” Sigvatr wondered aloud. “If they don’t free the slaves, we won’t have our diversion.”

  Wulfrik continued to glare at the ziggurat. “Then we won’t have our diversion,” he hissed through clenched fangs.

  Chapter Six

  Broendulf drove his sword through the chest of a snarling hobgoblin, then pushed the squirming carcass off the blade with his foot. As soon as the corpse was free, he spun around and blocked the hooked dagger of another hobgoblin. The slinking cowards had an almost preternatural ability to creep up on a man from behind, as the huscarl’s scarred armour could attest. The would-be backstabber bared its yellowed teeth at the warrior and tried to sink a second dagger into Broendulf’s belly.

  The Norscan grabbed the hobgoblin’s wrist before the blade could reach him. He strained with his enemy for a moment, then caught a sudden motion from the corner of his eye. Snarling at the knife-wielding greenskin, Broendulf twisted his body to the side. Without warning, he released the hobgoblin’s wrist. The creature yelped in surprise as it suddenly lurched forwards. The dagger sank up to the hilt in the gut of a second hobgoblin, the monster Broendulf had spotted trying to circle around and brain him from behind with an iron club. While the fratricidal hobgoblin stared in surprise at its dying comrade, the northman smashed his knee into its back. The hobgoblin spilled to the ground, cracking its jaw against the helm of the greenskin it had killed. Before the stunned creature could rise, Broendulf split its skull.

  Around him, the fight was starting to peter out. The hobgoblins, used to bullying half-starved slaves restrained by chains, didn’t have the stomach for a real fight. They would swarm over the northmen, then desert their comrades when the fighting went bad. A half-dozen of the monsters were on the ground already, with several more sneaking off into the rocks to lick their wounds. The rest wouldn’t last much longer.

  Vargr, a stout Sarl axeman, lopped the arm off one of the hobgoblins fighting him, laughing like a madman as dark blood sprayed across his face. The grim sight was too much for the other two hobgoblins opposing him. Almost falling over each other, the greenskins fled. Vargr shook his axe at them and charged in pursuit.

  Broendulf started to run after the northman, but some premonition of danger made him delay. The hobgoblins were running back towards the basalt block. He could see the dwarf slave master standing at the base of the rock, the wide-mouthed gun raised to his shoulder. The huscarl shouted a warning to Vargr.

  The warning came too late. Again there sounded the crack and boom of the dwarf’s weapon. This time, however, the burst of shrapnel found a much closer target. The two hobgoblins and the man chasing them were knocked off their feet, hurled back as though smashed by a giant’s fist. Their bodies crashed to the ground in tatters, their flesh shredded by the mass of shot fired by the blunderbuss.

  The dwarf laughed heartily at the gory spectacle, then pulled the powder horn from his belt. His eyes narrowed with disgust when he saw how few of his hobgoblins were still in the fight. Cursing, he threw down his blunderbuss and turned to flee before the vengeful Norscans could catch him.

  An arrow whistled out from the rocks and stabbed through the slave master’s knee as he turned. The dwarf crashed to the ground, grabbing his leg in pain. He shouted for his hobgoblins to help him, but most of the wretches had already fled.

  Ripping a curved scimitar from his belt, the dwarf lunged at the first northman he saw. The slave master’s crippled knee gave out as he put weight on it and he fell, the outflung scimitar scraping against his enemy’s leg.

  Arngeirr chuckled gruesomely, tapping the morbid length of carved bone attached to his hip. “You’re too late,” he told the dwarf. “There’s nothing there.” Still chuckling, he brought the razored edge of his blade shearing through the dwarf’s back. The kraken-tooth sword bit clean through armour, flesh and bone.

  The sight of the slave master’s body being cut in half was too much for the few hobgoblins still lurking about. Throwing down their weapons, the craven creatures dashed for the bridges, shrieking an alarm to the watchtowers.

  “We don’t have much time,” Broendulf warned Arngeirr as he ran to the reaver’s side. The huscarl dropped down beside the slave master, searching the dwarf’
s body for anything that looked like a key.

  “Even if you find one, there’s no place to put it,” Arngeirr said. He gestured at the basalt block with his sword. The heavy chains were bolted into a weird, box-like mechanism with a complicated arrangement of levers. On his voyages, Arngeirr had once seen a puzzle box a Hung raider had stolen from a Cathayan trader. The device fastened to the chains looked even more complex.

  Broendulf smashed his fist into the dead slave master’s face. “Crow God rot all these damn dwarfs!” he snarled in frustration. “We don’t have time to play games!” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the chains. “Think you can cut through those?”

  Arngeirr thrust the point of his sword into the ground. He spat into his palm and rubbed his hands together, moistening them before taking up his blade again. “Just watch me.”

  The kraken-tooth blade struck the heavy chains just above the devilish puzzle lock. Two of them snapped under the blow. Broendulf cried out in triumph. Arngeirr braced his feet and aimed another blow at the chains.

  Across the slave pit, the orcs and goblins watched the northmen in silence. Terror of the fiery god of the dwarfs was still stamped upon their brutish faces. Many of them glanced anxiously up at the ziggurat, as though expecting the head of Hashut to blaze up into life again and smite the little men attacking the chains.

  “They don’t exactly seem grateful,” Jokull commented, joining the other northmen. The hunter held his bow at the ready, but it was towards the bridges that he kept the weapon aimed. The thin, whispery voices of hobgoblins could be faintly heard. It would only be a matter of time before the creatures gathered enough reinforcements to dare a return to the pit.

  “Aye,” Broendulf cursed. “The dwarfs have whipped all the fight out of them.”

  More chains snapped as Arngeirr continued to chop at them. The men could hear them rattle as they fell slack. In the more distant parts of the slave pit, they could hear thick, guttural voices shouting. The packed mob of greenskins shifted, moving with the mindless surge of a herd of sheep. Through the press of goblins and orcs, several huge brutes swaggered.

  “Looks like a few of them don’t think so,” Jokull said as the monsters approached the basalt block. They were not unlike the orcs, big apish creatures with muscular builds, short legs and long arms. Only a stump of a neck supported their thick-skulled heads, massive jaws jutting out from their inhuman faces. There was a gleam of murderous intelligence in the beady eyes of the huge brutes, something that set them apart from the frightened herd of slaves as much as their leathery black skin.

  The black orcs stared at the men who had freed them. For a tense moment, the Norscans thought the monsters would attack. As Jokull had said, gratitude wasn’t exactly something greenskins were known for. The dark-skinned beasts grunted to each other in their savage tongue. Broendulf wished Wulfrik had come with them, if only to understand what the orcs were saying.

  One of the black orcs stomped towards Arngeirr. Before the one-legged northman could react, the orc planted a huge hand against his chest and shoved him away from the basalt block. The reaver half-raised his sword to defend himself as he staggered back. The black orc grinned back at him, almost daring him to attack. A sharp bark from one of the other black orcs made the brute desist. Sullenly, the monster turned to the block. Its powerful hands closed upon those chains Arngeirr had not broken.

  Broendulf watched in amazement as the black orc snapped the iron chain with its bare hands. The brute didn’t even pause to draw in breath after it broke the chain, but instead leaned over a second and repeated the process.

  A shadow loomed over Broendulf. The huscarl turned his head to find the biggest of the black orcs standing over him. The monster’s eyes stared into his own, an unmistakable challenge in the orc’s gaze. Broendulf swallowed his pride and backed away from the brute. It wasn’t fear but practicality that made the northman retreat. They were in the pit to free these beasts, not fight them.

  The black orc snorted in amusement as it watched Broendulf retreat. Then the brute turned away, staring out over the mass of huddled slaves. The orc’s brutal voice rose in a furious bellow as it hurled abuse at the cowed greenskins. Other black orcs moved among the mob, cracking skulls and kicking shins, providing physical reinforcement for the words of the new warboss.

  “He’ll have them worked up into a frenzy in no time,” Arngeirr said, taking a swallow of kvas from his flask. The reaver glanced towards the bridges. There was no mistaking the sound of armed bodies rushing down the wooden platforms. “And none too soon.”

  Broendulf nodded. “We’d better get back to the fissure,” he told the other northmen. “It’s a long climb and this isn’t our fight.” He observed the way the slaves were quickly forgetting their fear and roaring their war cries as the black orcs encouraged their thirst for carnage and vengeance. The dwarfs would have a hard time putting down this uprising, even with their toxic lakes and watchtowers.

  As the thought came to him, Broendulf winced as a bright light shone down into the pit. The first beam was quickly followed by others. The dwarfs had turned their daemon-eyes upon the slave pit. Fully illuminated by the beams, the huscarl was staggered by the sheer numbers of greenskins packed into the slave pens. So were the dwarfs in the stronghold. Only a moment after the lights shone down into the pit, a metallic shriek wailed throughout Dronangkul as the dwarfs sounded the alarm.

  “Come on,” Broendulf ordered, ducking behind the basalt block to avoid the searching beams of the daemon-eyes. “We’ve done what we came to do.

  “The rest is up to Wulfrik.”

  The shrieking alarm was what Wulfrik had been waiting for. Waiting outside the walls, the northmen had seen the lights on the towers concentrate down into the pit, and they had heard the savage war cry of the slaves. But it was the alarm the champion had wanted to hear. Now he could see dwarf sentries rushing along the battlements, leaving their posts to reinforce the lower gates along the causeway. If they were still upon the heights overlooking Dronangkul, he was certain they would see ranks of dwarf warriors marching from the ziggurat to put down the revolt. Even if they would have preferred to leave the chore to the hobgoblins, the dwarfs had sent too many of their minions out into the desert looking for Wulfrik and his warriors. The dwarfs would be compelled to do their own fighting this time. And in so doing they would leave their outpost ripe for an assault.

  Wulfrik counted out the minutes, judging how long it would take the dwarfs to mobilise and march down into the pit. He would allow for their short legs and heavy armour, give them extra time to open the causeway gates and close them again behind the warriors. The longer he gave the dwarfs to descend into the pit, the longer he would have to reach the ziggurat before they could react to his attack.

  A sword in each hand, Wulfrik turned to his men. “Die well,” he told them, “because the gods are watching.” He shifted his gaze to Zarnath, his fangs bared. “Your magic had better be all you claim it is, Kurgan,” he growled.

  Wulfrik ignored the shaman’s reassurances. Facing the stronghold once more, the champion threw himself forwards, sprinting towards the walls. Not all of the dwarfs would be gone from the walls, and even if they were, once the gates came down the entire stronghold would know it was under attack. The champion intended to be inside the ziggurat by the time the dwarfs could organise their defences.

  Two hundred yards, then a hundred, then fifty. The black walls of Dronangkul drew closer and closer with every heartbeat. Wulfrik could hear his men panting as they ran beside him. There were no war cries, no shouts of battle and fury. That would come later.

  The dwarfs noticed the men rushing at them from the black of night when the Norscans were only twenty yards from the walls. Wulfrik saw the sentries above the gates reel back in shock as they spotted them. One of the dwarfs lifted a bronze horn to his lips, blowing a solemn note to alert the rest of the stronghold. The others hefted blunderbusses and aimed at the men converging on their position.


  Before the dwarfs could fire, the gate was rocked by a tremendous blast of blue fire the size of an ox-cart. Hurtling down from the night sky, the burning sphere smashed into the metal gates with the force of a rockslide. The entire wall seemed to rise up from its foundations then slam back down against the earth. The dwarfs were knocked off their feet, several screaming as they fell from the battlements to smash their skulls upon the ground below.

  Smoke billowed from the gates, metal bubbling where Zarnath’s spell had smashed into them. The basalt walls were cracked, great chips crumbling from the ravaged stone. Yet the sturdy architecture of the fire dwarfs was as robust as that of their western kin. The barrier held, defying Wulfrik to breach them.

  From the heavens, a second ball of fire coalesced, even bigger than the first. It left a trail of shimmering blue flame as it shrieked out of the darkness. This time when the fire slammed into the walls, they did not simply jump, they buckled. Immense blocks of stone were thrown high into the sky, and screaming dwarfs were tossed through the air like autumn leaves. The great gates of Dronangkul collapsed, slamming against the ground as they were ripped from their foundations, crushing the dwarfs who had rushed to reinforce them with iron beams.

  Now Wulfrik did raise his voice in an exultant war cry, a roar of primal, savage abandon that was taken up by each of his warriors. For the moment, the desperate odds he challenged were forgotten, and even the hope of breaking his curse was absent from the hero’s thoughts. There was only the thrill of battle, the lust for blood and triumph. Wulfrik leapt through the shattered gateway, smashing his boot into the face of a trapped dwarf trying to crawl out from under the fallen gates, thrusting his sword through the chest of a stunned guard who stumbled into his path.

  “Khorakk!” Wulfrik howled, his voice echoing through the cramped alleyways of the dwarf settlement. A bearded guard wielding a great axe charged at him, then sank to the earth as Wulfrik’s sword removed his arm at the shoulder. “Khorakk!” the champion roared again.