Wulfrik (Warriors of the Chaos Wastes Book 1) by C L Werner

Author:C L Werner [Werner, C L]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2010-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The Bloodfield was lost beneath a thick layer of snow when Wulfrik made his way to the training ground. How different it looked from the last time he had been here. The tables where the people of Ormskaro had feasted were all but buried beneath the snow. He could just see the carved headrest of King Viglundr’s seat poking through the crust. Somewhere under that white veil was where he had first been approached by Zarnath and heard the shaman’s claim that he could lift the curse.

Sigvatr had been beside him then, counselling him against listening to the Kurgan. Had he known his old friend would die in capturing the treasure Zarnath needed, Wulfrik wondered if even his love for Hjordis would have been enough to drive him on. The hero nodded grimly to himself.

Yes, he would have. There was nothing he would not give to free himself from his curse, to end the endless voyages that kept him from his love. Since the gods had visited their punishment upon him, he had been like a dead thing, existing but not truly alive, his heart yearning for the things his curse denied him. A chance to live again, that was worth any risk, any sacrifice.

Wulfrik stared across the snow-covered plateau. He saw the raised platforms and the nest of poles that formed the Wolf Forest poking up through the snow. The deadly spikes were hidden, buried under the crust, but Wulfrik knew they would bite just as keenly unseen. The hero grimaced, a thrill of fear running down his spine. One last battle before Zarnath lifted the curse from him. It would suit the malignant humour of the gods to let him die now when he was so close to escape. His spirit would be damned, a plaything for daemons to torment until the world’s ending when all was devoured by the Blood God’s hunger.

The hero forced himself to forget such thoughts. Fear would give Sveinbjorn an advantage, perhaps the only one the Aesling needed. He had to concentrate on the fight before him, not the release he would soon obtain.

Sveinbjorn and his hersirs were gathered at the far side of the Wolf Forest, almost twenty in number. The Aeslings had donned heavy cloaks against the cold, but Wulfrik knew they would be wearing armour beneath their furs. Sveinbjorn’s men had come dressed for battle this time. Wulfrik grinned fiercely. If it was battle the Aeslings wanted, battle they would have. He turned his head and glanced at the weathered warriors following behind him. He had brought nearly his entire crew with him to the Bloodfield. No more fearsome a body of men existed in Norsca than the bold reavers who sailed upon the Seafang; each of his warriors was worth two of Sveinbjorn’s. If the prince planned treachery, then he had brought too few to succeed.

Of course, the Aesling had other resources available to him. Standing only a little distance from Sveinbjorn and his hersirs was Viglundr and a dozen of his jarls and bondsmen.

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