Tale of the Wolf

Chapter 1 – Hot Blood and Frozen Hearts


Drunor Frostheart raised his ice cold blue gaze to the heavens and offered up a curse to Ymir as fat downy snowdrops started to land upon his face. They melted on contact for he was hot and sweated from the exertion of his climb to this vantage point, high above the sloping ridge that slanted downwards to form the western flank of Conall’s Valley. The storm came on suddenly, with no warning such as a drop in the temperature as was usual and soon he and his band were engulfed in a feathery whiteness which cut visibility down to just a few feet. All around he heard similar oaths uttered as his war band began to retreat from the ridgeline, seeking protection from the storm in the forest edge that stood to their rear and covered the entire reverse slope for as far as the eye could see, huge pine and everleaf standing as silent sentinels and hiding Ymir knows how many men, both allies and enemies alike. Resting both hands on the hilt of rough, hide scabbarded broadswords that hung at either side of his waist, and ignoring the hilt of the greatsword that hung on his back, Drunor let his heavy cloak flare out behind him, blown on snow laden gusts of icy wind. The cold did not affect him. The storm would be brief and was hardly worthy of the name at all as far as Drunor was concerned, as a child he had scoffed and laughed at stories of how lush, warm and fertile the lands of the weak blooded Southerners were. Since coming south Drunor had found the truth in those tales, winter had been and gone, seemingly in the blink of an eye and spring promised a renewal of the fighting that the worst of the mountain winter storms had put a stop to. Drunor thought it well that conflict would blaze again soon, for his men had seen little action in the last month and their blood boiled hot in their veins at the promise of glorious battle and the singing screams as they cleaved their foes bodies. Too much standing still, planning and warming themselves by campfires made for bored men and when his men became bored they would quickly find mischief to make, usually this meant hot words exchanged or a few fist fights and the occasional beating. At other times things could grow more serious and only yesterday he had put a man in the ground having been clubbed to death over the matter of a stolen axe, nodding to himself Drunor again thought it well that soon watered down Cimmerian blood would replace good hot Vanir blood on the blades of his men.

Scratching at his short but thick braided red beard, Drunor craned his neck and looked up at the massive, imposing figure looming beside him. It was not uncommon for Drunor to be looking up at his companions, for a Vanir he was considered unusually short despite his breadth of shoulder and rippling barrel chest. It was the combination of his size and fighting style that had earnt him the nickname Little Wolf, a name he despised and a name that had led him to bleed more than one fool for uttering it within his hearing. Height was important to the Vanir and it rankled Drunor that no matter how hard he fought, no matter how much blood was spilled he would always be forced to prove his worth and show that he was no runt of the pack, this made Drunor a cruel and harsh leader, amongst a cruel and harsh people. The figure beside him was no Vanir though, Hedïr would have been considered massive even by most other Ymirish giants that Drunor had met and his head and shoulders were almost lost to Drunors’ sight as eddies of snow gusted about and settled on the giants’ huge frame. Dressed in the furs of the giant polar bears and Yeti of Nordheim with a mighty bone club strapped to his back Hedïr was daunting enough to make all but the most insane Vanaheim berserker think twice about questioning him let alone pick a quarrel with him, Drunor had no doubt that the blood of Frost Giants flowed strongly in Hedïr’s veins. Hedïr was supposedly along to advise Drunor and aid in his small war bands incursions southward, as well act as an inspiration for his men to fight harder. Drunor knew that the truth of the matter was that Hedïr was there to see that Drunor himself followed orders, a fact which set Drunor’s teeth on edge and made him bite back a snarl. It was obvious to all who cared to observe that Torgvall neither trusted his skill nor his wit. Drunor’s band had not come with the first wave of invaders and they had only recently come to Conall’s as winter blustered itself out. Most of their fighting had been done much further north, beyond the northern entrance to the valley, amongst the stone built cairns and dusty tombs of generations of dead Cimmerians. Drunor would just have to prove his worth as was always his wont, but he did not think well of the implied insult to him and his men.

Drunor did not venture back to the security of the treeline along with the rest of his war band, instead he settled on his haunches and waited for the storm to die down and visibility to return. With a grunt of what may have been approval Hedïr settled into a crouch himself, even whilst squatting he still managed to tower over Drunor, his twilight eyes seemed to measure and weigh Drunor as he regarded the flame haired warrior. His nostrils flared widely as he inhaled deeply testing the air for a scent. “This will by the last squall for some time Little Wolf” rumbled the Ymir brute. Hedïr bared his teeth and it took Drunor a moment to realise it was meant as a smile. He’s taunting me thought Drunor in sudden realisation, with that comprehension came a feeling of apprehension, he may know and be trying to force my hand. Drunor’s features remained smooth, his turmoil unwritten on his face.
“Good,” he growled, returning Hedïr’s grin, “with luck and Ymir’s blessing we will spill blood and take ourselves some plunder afore my men do the Cimmerians work for them.” A brief look of disappointment flashed across Hedïr’s face, but the Ymir merely nodded in response before they settled in to wait out the storm.

The sun stood at it’s zenith by the time the storm had blown over, sunlight filtering weakly through the thick cloud cover, washed the floor of the valley and the landscape below in a pale light and long stretching shadows. On the southern horizon, at the very limit of his vision, Drunor could just make out the Great Palisade that surrounded the Cimmerian Clan Moragh settlement that straddled the valley floor, blocking the way to Broken Leg Glen and the Southern low lands. Much closer and almost directly below their current position atop the steep ridgeline, stood a small outpost village, complete with a palisade of its’ own. This was the last Cimmerian outpost before the Settlement and once it had been burnt and raised, the forward Vanir raiding parties would have an open road to the major settlement from which the Cimmerian war effort was being conducted. Pointing downhill towards the village, Drunor turned to Hedïr who lay besides him, both were pressed to the snow covered earth so as not to outline themselves against the sky and give away their position to those below. “It’ll be best done under cover of night, less awake, more surprise,” Drunor spat between his teeth, “by morn we could be half way up the ridge opposite, with none the wiser.” Hedïr shook his head in obvious disagreement,
“No, Hedïr has a better plan, one that holds much honour and one that will cover us in glory. Tonight we will skirt this flyspeck dung heap, we will move south with much stealth, hide in open beneath their very eyes. Tomorrow when they open gates, we will roar up and hack and cleave, their shock will paralyse them, tomorrow we will take their coward Chieftains’ head”. Drunor met the Ymir’s stare with a flat gaze of his own.
“I see.” Drunor growled blandly, Hedïr’s head was thrown back as his deep throated laugh rumbled like thunder,
“You fear to see Valhalla’s halls and Ymir’s Throne Little Wolf…” “Don’t call me that” “Your cowardice is terrible to behold, tomorrow your name and Clan will be the stuff of bards tales, for we will bathe in the blood of our foes, their limbs will turn to water in the face of our anger and fury. Tomorrow will bring blood, piss and thunder and you would turn from the hue and cry Little Wolf...” “Don’t call me that” “Tomorrow when their guards flee, their woman scream and their Chieftains’ head is stuck upon a pike, there will be wailing and laments at the strength and resolve of the Vanir Wolves who bleed them so unmercifully. We shall die with enemies piled high around us and for each Vanir who falls to a piss blood Cimmerian, ten of them shall join him upon the road to Valhalla to act as slaves and bring meat and mead within the Frost Lords icy Halls. Tomorrow when the sun rises Little Wolf…”

It seemed that Drunor went from lying flat to on his knees in almost the blink of an eye, huge sword seemingly singing in anticipation as it was wrenched from the scabbard strapped across his back. In one fluid motion Drunor plunged the honed blade through the back of Hedïr’s neck, crushing the Ymir’s windpipe. Rising to his feet and throwing his weight behind the blow he forced the weapon downwards sinking the blade into the earth in an attempt to pin the giant, but to no avail. With a monstrous, gurgling roar of outraged fury, Hedïr surged to his feet arms wind milling wildly, a blow caught Drunor square in his chest and lifted him from his feet sending him sailing through the air to land with a rush of exploded breath, on his back ten paces away. Hedïr turned towards Drunor, rage clear in his midnight eyes, he tried to speak but blood gushed from the terrible wound and out around the sword still stuck in his ruined throat. Advancing on the prone diminutive Vanir, the brutes’ hands were turned to bloody ribbons as they slipped and failed to gain purchase on the blade which was caught within him, gasping for air Drunor raised fingers to lips and let out a hoarse, shrill whistle. From the treeline flew a murder of black fletched wicked arrows, perhaps a dozen or more found their target, the enraged Ymir stumbled but did not slow, swatting at the shafts of arrows as if they were naught but flies. Seconds later and another flight streaked towards him, enough arrowheads finding their aim this time to bring the giant to a standstill. A roar erupted from the edge of the forest and a wave of Vanir charged Hedïr, axes chopping, swords slashing and maces pounding. Regaining his feet and turning his back upon the bloody butchery, Drunor roared “SAVE HIS HEAD!” and so it came to pass that Hedïr Stonefist son of Snowtop Peak fell to the Treachery of a Vanir Wolf, and Drunor thought it well. Walking away from the carnage to return to his vantage point over the valley below, Drunor turned a deaf ear to the hoots and hollers of his men and studied the vista below.

Drunor was joined in his contemplation by two towering Vanir. To his left stood Draygor, thick of arm, shoulder and, unusually for a Vanir, gut. Draygor looked to be all flab but beneath the fat were layers of muscle that gave him an almost super-human like strength. The Warbands’ Shaman had a ragged look about him, his flame red beard was tangled and ragged, as was his lank unwashed hair which he wore long in the back despite loosing most of it to baldness. Drunor glanced at Draygor upon his arrival and saw him morbidly picking and pulling at a scar that ran down one side of his face, narrowly missing his left eye. The wound was a fresh one, only a couple of months old, and the huge Shaman seemed unable to keep from prodding and poking the still livid scar, as if to reassure himself that his eye were still there. Puffing out his cheeks in mock exertion, Draygor fired a quick grin at Drunor before resting both hands on the pommel of his upturned, colossal battlehammer. To his right, less than a head shorter than Draygor stood the indomitable Kragnon. Unlike the weighty Shaman, there was not a spare inch of fat on the ferocious warrior’s frame, hard packed muscle and broad shoulders gave Kragnon the look of a blacksmith, that is, if blacksmiths never smiled and held a constant gleam in their eyes that spoke of unchecked violence. The dour berserker, clad in chain and plate with rough furs thrown over, had a veritable arsenal of weapons about his person. A two-handed greatsword almost as large as Drunor himself was slung across Kragnons’ back, swords and axes hung from his belt and daggers could be seen poking from boot tops as well as hanging from the bandoliers strapped across his chest. Kragnon was a lover of battle and was often to be found where the conflict burned brightest, indeed even now he could not help but look over his shoulders, envy shining in his eyes, as the rest of the lads got about their gory business. All three stood considering the outpost and the puzzle it posed for several minutes before Drunor cleared his throat and spoke in a soft growl so as not to be overheard by the men. “He meant for us to never see sun again” he snarled “we were supposed to throw our lives away, Hedïr was ordered to see us dead even if that meant death for himself.” Kragnon merely grunted as if punched in the stomach and reached up to stroke his beard in thought. Draygor cocked his head to one side, as he often did when listening to others speak, before issuing a deep, rolling laughter, Drunor raised an eyebrow quizzically,
“Draygor say that Ymir will piss on his cold grave Drunor, for Hedïr fail miserably. Draygor think Torgvall should thank us for sending the bungling fool off to Valhalla.” Drunor could not help but chuckle, Draygor had an odd pitch to his accent and often spoke disjointedly, a result of spending half a life alone meditating in the wilderness, but that did not detach from his often sharp wit and caustic humour. Pointing downwards Draygor continued, “Draygor asks, is he down there?” Drunor nodded in answer and the Shaman shrugged, “Then Draygor is content, Draygor will have lads build a fire and tonight Draygor will paint bodies and get drunk. Draygor thinks lads will be happy for a fight” The Shaman fetched a mighty slap of friendship to Drunor’s shoulder and sauntered off with his battlehammer thrown over one shoulder, whistling happily to himself and barking orders to some of the men.

Kragnon waited until Draygor was some way off before speaking up, “It means we will have to fight our way back north doesn’t it?” he asked,
“Aye”, Drunor agreed, “spilling Vanir blood seems ill when there are so many Southerners about ready to offer up their own. We shall have to move mainly by night and do our best to avoid notice, but there’s half the Vanir nation out there between us and our goal,” Drunor shrugged at the inevitability of the situation, “either way the honour of the Iceclaw Clan comes first and if I had to take the head of Torgvall himself to accomplish this task, I would.” Kragnon grunted in what Drunor chose to take as agreement.
“What about this?” Kragnon questioned, eyes intent on the outpost settlement, “how is it best done?” Drunor rubbed his hands together, part anticipation at the forthcoming bloodshed and part in the satisfaction of a well laid out plan.
“I’ll send Breirn out tonight with a few of the lads to sniff out the quickest, quietest way down there. Tomorrow we’ll sit on our hands till the moon rises and make our way down, this work will be best done at night” Kragnon sighed morosely, most likely at the thought of a day spent idling whilst there were foes in sight. Pointing downhill Drunor continued, “See how the west side of the village runs so close to this ridge, because it is so steep at that point, almost a cliff face, they think that flank safe. They have been sloppy and let the snow drift between palisade and cliff face, it forms a slope see?” Kragnon signaled his understanding as his War Chief laid out the rest of his plan, still eyeing up the natural ramp that the packed snow and ice had formed. It seemed madness to Kragnon that these Cimmerian half-men could be so foolish as to not see to their own defence, even in the midst of war.
“They guard their gates, but leave their door wide open! They know nothing of blood and thunder, by Ymir’s frosty beard we’ll cleave them in two and take their women folk for sport before they have even roused from their beds!” Drunor smiled fondly at his oldest and most faithful cohort, Kragnon was a stern, grim companion at times, but the prospect of bloodletting always set a fire under him. “And we are sure he is down there?”
“As sure as we can be Kragnon, Breirn may get a chance to answer that for us afore the reaving is done, but either way tomorrow night will see blood spilt.” To emphasise his point Drunor pulled his finger across his throat and bared his teeth in a wolfish grin.

That night as the mead and ale took Drunor, he danced, bare-chested about the fire that lay in the centre of the camp, to the sound of thumping drums. As he capered about the flames, tossing the head of Hedïr Stonefist back and forth like some obscene ball, Drunor thought it well that he and his band of Vanir wolves would live to see the birth of a new Vanir Empire, an Empire that would bring the fist of Ymir to the throat of all piss blood southerners. And Drunor thought it well that today he had put his first foot on the path that would lead to his Clan being at the centre of that Empire. And Drunor thought it very well that he and his lads had been born with hot blood and frozen hearts.










Chapter 2 –Wolves of Shadow


Drunor Frostheart raised his ice cold blue gaze to the heavens and offered up a curse to Ymir as he lost his footing and slipped on the loose shale surface of the steep incline he and his band were making their way down. Trees and cover were in short supply on the precipitous slope but the Vanir made the best of what sparse undergrowth did manage to grow there. Ghosting from shadow to shadow they went, with only the occasional muffled curse and creak of armour to break the silence, often only to be stifled by the strong wind that gusted about them. Pausing to catch his breath Drunor thought it well that the wind howled and the thick cloud cover overhead hid the pale moon, it concealed the lads from prying eyes as they made their dangerous descent. They had set out just as the first light of Mother Moon kissed the night sky. Breirn had scouted throughout the day and upon his return, just as dusk set in, he gave his account of the lay of the land. Of course the way down would not be easy and taking any of their mounts and pack animals an impossibility, but there was a way, that was all that mattered.

A foreign sound off to Drunor’s half right made him freeze instantly, raising a hand high above his head he signaled the rest of his band to follow his lead. Straining eyes and ears Drunor searched for the source of that sound and almost cried out in alarm when a tall, lean limbed figure seemed to appear right before his eyes. Unfurling from a slight dip in the earth, Breirn quickly joined his Warchief; his movements were fluid and graceful and spoke of a shadow within shadows. Putting his mouth close to Drunors’ ear he spoke softly so that his words would not carry, “We can get down here, from the tree just ahead,” he pointed it out and waited to be sure Drunor had identified it. Acknowledging Drunors nod before he continued, “We’ll have to go silent from here on in, I’ve rigged up a rope for the climb down. The Pissbloods’ are not as foolish as we could wish though, they have a sentry on that palisade right where we want to go over.” Shrugging, he spat and waved towards the way down again “One or two of us might make it down without him spotting us, but it’d take Ymir’s own luck for the whole band to get down unnoticed.” Spitting and shrugging once again he went silent, it was his duty to report what he saw, not to make decisions upon it. Easing himself forwards towards the tree Drunor peered about it and could just make out the palisade below them. The sentry was unmissable, he patrolled back and forth along the length of that section of palisade where the snow had drifted highest, white bursts of cloud drifting from his face as breathed. Growling under his breath Drunor, made a gesture with his right hand and moments later Kragnon joined Drunor, noiselessly crouching down besides him. Kragnon surveyed the scene, before leaning into Drunor.

“You and me Drunor eh?” more statement than question, Kragnon barely lingered a second, moments later an arsenal of loose weapons littered the ground before them. Kragnon made little jumps and swung his arms about, looking for all the world like a drug crazed Shemite, before coming to a standstill and raising an eyebrow at Drunor. Grinning at his cohort Drunor unstrapped his sword belt, depositing the two scabbards onto Kragnons’ prodigious pile.
“You’re as quite as a snow fox Kraggy” whispered Drunor, before copying his brutish friends’ movements. Once Kragnon was satisfied that neither of them would be caught out by the tell tale sound of armour scraping or the sound of loose straps flapping in the wind, they both discarded their thick fur cloaks and made their way to the tree. A thick length of coarse, knotted rope had been trussed tightly about the slender trunk, with the other end lost in the darkness, dangling down over the sheer cliff face. Drunor spat once into each palm before taking a firm grip on the braided cable and slowly lowering himself over the edge. The rope swung in the strong wind and no matter how he tried to control his descent, using legs and knees to push off from the face of the cliff, he could not stop himself from spinning first in one direction and then the other. Before long his hands began to burn like fire, his toughened, callused, swordsman’s palms offering him no protection from the burning sting of the rope. It seemed to Drunor that the difficult climb down that rope must have taken hours. Ribs creaked in protest at each jolt, still bruised from the blow he had taken the day before. Heart in mouth every time he mistimed a kick and crashed into the rock, sure that the sentry would cry arms and the reaving be spoiled, but by the time his booted feet touched hard packed snow, the few stars that he could make out hardly seemed to have danced across the firmament at all. Once down, Drunor wasted no time in securing the loose end of rope, first wrapping it about his waist and then giving it two sharp tugs to signal up to Kragnon that he could begin making his way down. With both ends of the rope secured, it proved to be a much easier descent for the imposing berserker and within the space of a few minutes the two Vanir warriors, both large and small, found themselves’ squatting in the gloom of a shadowy overhang.

From their position they could observe the sentry’s route with much more ease, his circuit was short and he overlooked the expanse between cliff face and palisade for almost its’ entirety. The climb down had put fire in their blood, but now the slow minutes of inactivity combined with the biting wind, began to bunch Drunors’ muscles into knots. Drunor knew if they dallied too long in these conditions cramps would set in making their task all the harder. “Only way for it Kraggy,” the stout Vanir whispered hoarsely, “is to crawl out across there one at a time.” Looking to the heavens and marking Mother Moon’s position, Drunor did not think it well. They would have to travel at almost a snail pace to avoid the Cimmerian rabbits’ notice and by the time both were in the shade of the thick, sharpened logs that formed the palisade, there would not be much of the blanketing darkness afforded by twilight left to them. Drunor thought that unless his guess was wilder than an Aesir whore he and his lads would still be in the outpost come dawn, it had been his hope that they could have been done before then, the more time to break away from the Southern bootscrapers under the cover of dark the better. With one last check to ensure his greatsword was secure on his back and was not about to clatter out of its scabbard, he slowly lowered himself into a prone position and edged himself out onto the drift.

Seconds seemed to drag into days and each slow precise movement made by Drunor burnt a fresh agony into his muscles. Before too long he was drenched, both by the effort of taking so much pain to inch towards his goal and from the snow that melted and seeped into his leathers and furs. Each time he was sure that the guard was not looking out over the drift he would raise himself up on elbows and toes and slide himself forwards, Drunor could not help but grin as he thought of himself as some strange, deformed snow worm. Occasionally the Gods cursed lookout would pause in his transit and peer out over the stakes, each time he did Drunor would freeze and strain his ears to catch the cry of alarm that would probably signal his death, it never came. As he finally reached the dubious safety of the palisade wall, Drunor looked up to the heavens and offered up thanks to Ymir, that these Cimmerians were as blind as they were soft. Quickly scanning his gaze backwards and forwards over the way he had just come, it took Drunor a few passes before he noticed a shadow moving in the opposite direction to those cast by the thick seething clouds. Snarling silently, Drunor promised himself to give Kragnon the rougher side of his tongue at the earliest chance. It seemed that the titanic Vanir had been unwilling to wait until Drunor had made it safely across the drift before setting off himself and by the rate of his progress Drunor could guess he’d set off as he himself were only about half way across. At least we’ll have more time thought Drunor, but the risk had been great. He settled into wait, stretching as much as he dared in an attempt to get his blood flowing hot through his body, cramped muscles unbunched and throbbed in protest. At one point the sentry stopped directly above where he lay in wait, and at just that moment Mother Moon broke from her prison and her silver fingers spread across the drift. Drunor felt his hackles rise, Kragnon lay just twenty paces off now, but was completely in the open, illuminated by her silver radiance. There was a hacking, growling sound from above, quickly followed by a large gob of phlegm that splattered into the snow besides Drunor, a pace to the left and Drunor would have been wearing, the apparently blind, guards’ spittle as ornament. Drunor released a breath he had not realised he was holding, as the soft scrape and tread of boots on wood started up again. No change Drunor thought Ymir be praised! It was some minutes before the clouds gusted in drowning them in darkness once again, allowing Kragnon to begin moving forward one more. Drunor thought it well that the Cimmerian above him had no concerns other than the icy wind that gusted, as evidenced by his constant muffled curses and groans.

Kragnons face was a mess by the time he sidled up next to the small Warchief, sweat had painted filthy runnels down his face, and snot had run down from his nose in steady streams, only to be soaked up by his beard and frozen in a horrific green mass. Drunor grinned at him wolfishly for he knew he himself must look alike to Kragnons’ eyes. They squatted there in silence for a short while to allow the sentry three more passes, before sliding along the thick wooden stakes to the far end of his circuit. Searching for where the snow drifted highest against the outposts’ walls, they hastily got themselves into position whilst the guard was as far away as his route would take him. Spreading his legs wide and bracing himself with arms outstretched against the sharpened stakes Kragnon was so large that he formed a human ladder and once Drunor had scaled him and was balanced precariously upon the huge Vanirs’ shoulders, he was within easy reaching distance of the top of the palisade. They waited once more, looking like some strange, frozen statue, the Cimmerian guards’ steps grew steadily louder and eventually they paused and boot heels scraped as he turned, directly above their position. As soon as they did Drunor was up and other, he almost seemed to flow as gripped the log edge and heaved himself up. Landing softly on the balls’ of his feet he slowly drew the large bastard sword from over his shoulder, taking care not to give away his presence with the tell tale scrape of blade on scabbard. Ghosting silently after the slow walking sentry, Drunor spared a quick glance down into the outpost, buildings were cramped against each other forming narrow, dark and thankfully empty streets. He could make out other guards pacing the walls, easy to make out due to the torches they held aloft, his prey held no torch like the others, yet another reason to give Ymir thanks, he thought as he closed in on his quarry.

Drunor winced as his boot crushed frozen ice under foot and he straightened swiftly. The guard spun on his heel, gauntleted fist darting for the sword that hung at his side, mouth opened to raise the cry of alarm, only for his body to fall limp and slide gently to the floor as his head flew from his shoulders, disappearing over the wall to land with a soft plop in the snow below. Blood fountained from the stump of the Cimmerians neck, showering Drunor in crimson and leaving its biting iron taste upon his tongue. Hastily throwing himself atop the corpse Drunor grasped all the limbs tightly in an effort to reduce the noise made by the thrashing body, it took only seconds and yet Drunor had seen men thrash for minutes once they had been decapitated in such a fashion. Once the whipping had subsided and the fools’ soul had departed, to await Drunors’ pleasure in Ymirs’ frosty halls, the diminutive reaver quickly took the robe from the corpse and threw it around himself, taking up the pacing where the guard had left off. Drunor left it to Kragnon below to signal the rest of the lads in, as suspicion may be aroused if the Pissbloods thought there was a section of their wall unmanned and besides it gave him more time to gauge the layout of the cramped streets below. The tight alleys’ were still free of traffic but Kragnon could here laughter, singing and a dire sounding, dirge like music coming from several buildings. One such building, sitting pretty much in the centre of the small village, was a long wooden affair and Drunor quickly identified it as the barracks for the outposts’ guardians. It took him three more passes of the sentries’ route before he could finally make out a steady stream of his Vanir wolves closing in on his position in single file. Still taking care to keep as silent as possible and still almost slipping from shadow to shadow, Drunor felt his heart swell with pride at the skill in which his reavers’ stalked their prey.

Two more passes and Drunor was joined by Kragnon, Draygor and Breirn atop the palisade wall, Draygor scarlet faced and panting hard from the exertion. Leaning in to whisper at Drunor, Breirn shook his head, shaggy auburn hair whipping in the wind, “By the Gods that took some doin’ Drunor, I never seen anyone out stalk me, but Ymir knows, I couldnae see yer at times” Strong praise indeed from the best scout Drunor had ever met. With hands on knees and still trying to catch his breath Draygor chuckled loudly, making no effort to hush his voice as the lads started to slip over the wall besides him,
“Ha! Draygor tells you, The only reason old Drunor knows he’s not the God of Pillage himself is because he pisses and shits!” he stood upright and clapped Drunor across the back “Ain’t that right Chief?” Drunor could not help but grin ruefully at the gigantic Shaman and he heard Breirn join in with Draygors laugh, Kragnon of course just scowled at their frivolity and headed off to join the lads milling in the street below, after handing Drunor back his swordbelt and cloak.

As his lads started splitting into their raiding gangs and listening to Kragnons’ whispered instruction Drunor thought it well that his men would now feel the blood rush hot in their veins as they faced their foes. And Drunor thought it well that Ymir had blessed this night along with Mother Moon to allow him and his band success. And Drunor thought it very well that he and his lads had been born as Vanir Wolves of Shadow.



Chapter 3 –Claws of Iron and Fangs of Steel


Drunor Frostheart raised his ice cold blue gaze to the heavens and offered up a curse to Ymir as he lost sight of his quarry once again. The blubbery Cimmerian mongrel reached the intersection ahead and darted around the corner of a building, moving spryly for one carrying such bulk. Three of his compatriots, with more the look of tradesmen than warriors, pounded down the street, their boots churning mud and slush as they charged towards Drunor, broadswords clutched in their thick hands. Drunor, balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, with a sword of his own in each fist, raised his face to the night sky once more and howled his rage and fury to the Gods. As the fist assailant closed in on him, a burly, sandy haired fellow with blunt features, Drunor himself was passed by two of his own screaming countrymen, Pétrav and Pâll. The three Vanir fell upon their opponents with glee. Placing one foot before the other Drunor advanced, swords flashing in deadly graceful arcs, the flat of Drunors left blade took the charging Cimmerian below his knee hamstringing him and sending him stumbling forwards onto the point of the right blade, Drunor wrenched his sword away, finishing the job and making short work of it. He could not help but howl his defiance and spite once more as the southern cur died at his feet, spitting out his life in the sludge and dirt. Struggling to regain his senses Drunor left the other two Vanir to their butchery, Pétrav had fully entered a berserk state and was actually foaming at the mouth as he hacked at the dismembered corpse laying in the street, a corpse that only moments before death had foolishly thought himself a match for their ice born ferocity.

Reaching the crossroads Drunor pressed himself against the side of the log hut and peered around the corner. The street was now empty but halfway down on the right hand side of the mud track that passed for a street, the Longhouse style barracks was still a roaring wall of flame. The street out side the Cimmerians’ billet was littered with corpses, some sprouting black fletched arrows like some strange fruit, others in various states of dismemberment. The charnel house fire gave of the acrid stink of burning human flesh, testament to the numbers of Southern rabbits that had roasted on the Vanir spit, those that had managed to either break through the heavy wooden doors or desperately hack their way through walls and floor had been savagely dealt with by the waiting Nordheimers’. Drunor thought it well that the screams from the barracks had now subsided, for although they did not bother him as such, they were a distraction and a blanket to the senses, hiding noises that may be the only warning before attack. This had been the Vanirs’ first point of attack, quietly but quickly in their small raiding gangs they had slunk from shadow to shadow through the small outpost, occasionally slowing to kill a patrolling guard or drunk villager on his way to the jakes until almost their full force was arrayed before the Barracks. From then on in it had been a simple case of wedging the large oak doors shut and setting the garrison building alight in several places to ensure the flames took and the blaze spread rapidly. Of course the inferno drew the remaining outposts’ defenders like a frost moth to a candle flame, but the Vanir had anticipated this and Kragnon had divided the lads to engage both those Cimmerians who tried to flee their fiery prison and those attempting their rescue. As the first engagement with the Cimmerian dogs began to fizzle out, Drunor had spotted his prey further down the street, the bulky Cimmerian had spotted him too and his normally florid red cheeks had taken on an ashen white hue. The Warchief had hastily issued commands, “Take only what is of need lads and fire the rest!” pausing by Kragnons’ side he’d continued, “Eastern gate, when the Star of the Great Bear begins to wane.” Sharing an arm clasp with the towering Vanir warrior, Drunor had begun his pursuit, bellowing behind him, “Pétrav and Pâll with me!”

Drunor at first had not believed that the chase would be a long one, the fat Cimmerian was surely not at the peak of physical condition and fear should serve to turn his legs to water, but the hunt had dragged on. Fate and Ymir cursed Crom conspired to keep him just out of Drunors’ grasp, it seemed that whichever way the coward fled he somehow managed to find some of his countrymen, stragglers from the core mêlée that raged close to the centre of the village, these last three would hopefully be the final obstacle between him and his quarry. This fat, bungling oaf was the reason Drunor had moved his band so far south, so fast and indeed was wholly responsible for this raid taking place in the first place. Tearing his eyes away from the conflagration, the last thing he needed was to ruin his night vision, Drunor bared his teeth in a wolfish grin as he spotted a door swinging shut further down the street. The cowards fear had finally driven him to hole up; indeed his panic had brought him almost a full circle, his flight circling the village before desperately seeking shelter. Keeping one eye on the target Drunor called for Pâll to attend him, knowing that Pétrav would be next to useless until his bloodlust subsided he forgot him for the moment. Marking the time by noting the position of the smoke obscured stars, Drunor did not think it well that the pursuit had lasted so long, for his remaining time was short. Once Pâll bundled up besides him Drunor told him, “Swiftly now Pâll, find Kragnon,” Drunor waved vaguely in the direction the sounds of battle issued from, “Tell him I want him to start pulling back to the eastern gate now, oh and Pâll,” the Vanir fighter turned back to face his Warchief, taking note of the stern light in Drunors’ ice blue eyes, “No dawdling, or its yer ears!” with a thump to the chest and a swift grin, he was off. Drunor liked to think he knew the nature of his pack well, and Drunor knew that if the threat had not been issued the chances were that this particular pup might just decide to think it well to dally whilst trying to dig out some loot or other rather than deliver his message. As Drunor slid down the side of buildings sticking to the shadows cast by them, towards the door he had seen slamming to, he could not help chuckling at the thought that his wolves were only half tame at best.

The building in which he was interested had a raised boardwalk out front to keep the Pissbloods’ boots clean from the mud filled, filthy pathways and Drunor cursed softly as the rough hewn planks creaked in protest as he stepped up onto them. Pausing he pushed his bronze helmeted head against the wall, listening out for sounds within the building, sounds that might indicate he had been heard. For a short while nothing and then a slight scuffing, as if someone were trying to shift their weight surreptitiously, a considerable weight at that. Padding on in soft soled fur wrapped boots, Drunor made his way along the boardwalk taking care not to alarm his prey, carefully testing his weight on each plank before putting his full weight upon it in an effort to cut down on any betraying creaks or squeals. Upon reaching the door Drunor proceeded cautiously, he knew that the Cimmerian dog would never dare to face him blade to blade, but could well be tempted to stick a dagger in his back were the opportunity afforded him.

Pushing lightly on the boards that formed the shabby, ill constructed leaf, the door swung noiselessly inwards. Inside the air was dank and musty with an unmistakable scent of body odour, the stark furnishings’ were all wooden and as poorly made as the shack they stood within. Taking a slow step forwards into the rank, stuffy workmen’s quarters, Drunors’ face was met by an iron clad gauntleted fist. The slight Vanir felt his nose smash and flatten against his cheeks as the splintering sound of bone accompanied his stumble backwards, unable to halt his retreat his boot heel caught the upstand of the boardwalk and both swords were dropped from shocked fingers as he landed sprawled in the dirt street. As he tried to catch his breath Drunor could feel and hear the blood bubbling from his ruined face, crushed nose and smashed mouth were at that moment the least of his concerns’ though. Bright stars danced in his vision as he sat up, spitting out a tooth from between mashed and bloodied lips, his eyes watered so much that he only vaguely saw the silhouette of his attacker leap at him from the walkway. Throwing himself backwards, Drunor tucked up his legs and let the weight and motion of his attacker do all the work, he tossed his metal clad assailant backwards over his head, sending him hurtling into the log walled building opposite with a crash loud enough to wake the dead. Staggering to his feet Drunor frantically cast about for some weapon with which to defend himself with, before realising there was no need, the armored assassin had landed in such a strange fashion that he looked like some outlandish contortionist, his neck twisted at a bizarre angle. Approaching the corpse Drunor delivered a swift kick to the inert body, toppling it over and revealing the face of his attacker, Golden hair and beard framed eyes as startling blue as Drunors’ own, eyes that now gazed unblinkingly. Both features and armour rang alarm gongs in Drunors’ mind. He spat out a mouthful of blood onto the corpse of one of the Vanirs’ fiercest foes and snarled betwixt mangled lips, “Goatfucking, Ymir cursed, Aesir bastard!”

A murderous savage rage of furious inspiration descended upon Drunor and a red mist drew down before his eyes, spinning adroitly on his heel he stalked back to the entrance of the tradesman’s shack, pausing only to swoop down and snatch up one of his itinerant blades from the dirt. Heedless of any other ambushers, indeed half hoping there were some lying in wait, Drunor stomped into the murky gloom of the hut. Immediately turning to his left he stamped through a narrow doorway and came face to face with the fat Cimmerian oaf who had evaded him for so long. The fool blubbered in fear at the sight of Drunor with his ruined visage and backed himself into the corner opposite the murderous Warchief. Crossing the small back room in three quick long strides, Drunor thrust down sharply with the sword in his right hand, stabbing through the cowards’ foot and punching through the rough cut planks below, pinning the appendage to the floor beneath it. The Cimmerian tried to scream out in pain but Drunors left hand snatched out grasping at his throat, cutting off all sound, leaning in close to the man Drunors’ dirty unkempt fingernails gouged deep furrows in the Pissbloods skin as he bucked about trying to gain his breath. “You foul Cimmerian dog! Do you forget your true master?” he tightened his grip and his victim whimpered as he continued in a deathly whisper, “Filthy Mongrel! Do not doubt that He will make you suffer eternal agony for your treachery and teach you to beg for his remorseless pity, you filthy son of a Southern bitch! Now tell me cur, where is that which you were given?” He released the terrified mans throat just long enough for him to explain between ragged gasps of air that that which Drunor sought was in a papyrus envelope, tucked safely inside his undershirt. Releasing his grip on his sword hilt Drunor tore and ripped the now weeping fools’ shirts open bearing his chest, reaching in and searching about with his free hand the Vanir warrior finally pulled out a thick snowy envelope. Frowning down at the unusual object, for it had not been what he was expecting, Drunor spat out another gobfull of iron tasting claret before tucking it away in his own furs. The trembling Cimmerian managed to hoarsely ask around Drunors’ stranglehold,
“He will let me serve still then? You will present me to him?” Drunor almost laughed out loud at the idiots futile hope, but the pain in his face added to what he now saw before him chased all joviality from him. Reaching once more into the mans’ shirt he grasped the medallion that hung around his neck pulling it out to examine it in more detail. Upon closer inspection Drunor was not surprised at all about the sudden sour smell of urine as the cur lost control of his bladder or the golden water that now mingled copiously with the thick clotted blood dripping through the floorboards. Drunor had seen the medallions like before, once before, around the neck of the Aesir goatfucker outside. Pushing his face into the Cimmerian Traitors’ and forcing him to meet his steely blue gaze, Drunor hoarsely growled,
“You would have lived dog…..if but for this!” Drunors’ grasp on the Cimmerians throat shifted, now he gripped hard at the soft windpipe, fingernails gouging once more. The traitor’s hands grasped at Drunors’ wrist desperate for release, but fear, blood loss and pain had left him weakened. With a vicious twist of his arm he tore out the windpipe, leaving a thrashing, gurgling, mewling carcass upon the floor. He waited for the death throws to subside before unsheathing his sword from the cadaver and tearing off the medallion as proof of his claim.

Adrenaline subsided and Drunor staggered into the Ymir blessed cool night. The icy wind that had so perturbed him earlier that night now soothed and offered cool balm to his ruined face. Looking to the heavens Drunor cursed as his sight had not yet returned well enough to mark the stars, no matter he thought, for the sound of his Vanir wolves howling battle cries would guide him to the safety of his pack. As he stumbled off of the walkway and into the street once more Drunor thought it well that the hardest portion of his given task was nearly complete, and Drunor thought it well that Ymir chose to blow his frosty breath upon his sons’ wounds and Drunor thought it very well that he and his lads had been born with claws of iron and fangs of steel.