Primal Fury:Trial of the Berserker by Noël Traver

Author:Noël Traver [Traver, Noël]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-06-04T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

It got warmer the deeper Orsin pushed into herd territory. It was a gross violation of nature. Previously, the further North he had pressed, the darker and colder it got. Now, with the herd-blighted woodlands growing thicker and more frequent, he found himself alternating between freezing in the natural tundra wind, and beginning to sweat as he hauled his warrior’s bulk through the increasingly hot and humid patches of greenery that he carefully made his way through.

He hadn’t seen more of the arctic foxes yet, but he’d run across at least three different kinds of mutated caribou. Thankfully only one of them had been the kind that projected those strange living tendrils of rot, and that one was also a solo encounter. The other herd varieties of caribou he’d met had been in small herds, but not nearly so dangerous. They had been bulky, in one case, and emaciated in the other. The emaciated ones were mangy, and Orsin could clearly see their bones beneath their withered hides, but they were fast and their bones not nearly so brittle as you would expect.

The worst thing, though, was seeing so many more of his people infected with the herd taint. It wasn’t that many, compared to the infected beasts he encountered, but every one was unique in a way the lesser herd-beasts weren’t, and every one was a dagger straight into his heart. To be torn from the embrace of Weihlaris like that, to be stripped of honor and purpose, reduced to merely a shambling, rotting puppet-thing.

Orsin had faced three of his former kin, since leaving behind the grave of Sengetiid. None of them were so well preserved as his friend had been. It was as if some part of the spirit of the Fursja rejected the infection, and fought on, even once past the point of all hope.

The first had been a cruel fusion of Fursja warrior and GauVark. The torso, head and arms of a Fursja warrior and been merged onto the GauVark where the head and neck should have been. The battle had been long, and dangerous, and Orsin more than once was forced to use the trees around him to press his mobility advantage versus the corpulent beast that charged after him, roaring and squealing.

Fortunately, it was not so powerful as the one he had captured to tempt the baron, and the two halves did not work in perfect harmony. Orsin had lured it into charging full on between two massive trees where it had wedged itself, and, once stuck, chopped it to bits with Muinnajhr. It had been sweaty, bloody work and the rot had run thick across the tundra before he was finished.

The second was nothing more than bones, though strange herd-infected vines were wound through the ivory jumble and curled up inside the skull like some kind of grey brain-matter. The bones moved as the vines moved in response to Orsin’s approach, but no skeletal warrior arose.

He had split the bones down to

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