The Terror of the Wolfhide Warrior.

[Char-Vell]

I
Feast

 

    The stag stumbled wearily through the chill, snow-swathed wood. He was once a majestic animal, a fine specimen of the great antlered beasts that wandered the forests of Pictland. But now his mighty head hung low, his emaciated body barely supported on trembling, spindly legs. Weakly he pushed his muzzle into the snow and gnawed at the scant grass and moss patching the stony earth. Finding little nourishment, the stag summoned its waning strength and raised his head, assuming a noble posture reminiscent of his former glory, and bellowed. He gazed upon the gray, skeletal forest, festooned with light snow. He was weak, weary, so very weary.

    So it was he felt nothing when the spear, cast from outside his line of sight, transfixed his heart.

    Famine and pestilence had spread their grim pinions over Pictland. A long harsh winter was followed by a short growing season, plagued by blight and hordes of insects. Now the early onset of yet another frigid winter blanketed all that lived in want and misery. The suffering was compounded by the invasion of Pictland by its traditional foes, invasive settlers from the kingdom of Aquilonia.
    Aquilonia had long coveted the resources of Pictland and looked upon its denizens as subhuman. King Numedides of Aquilonia sent a legion of Aquilonian regulars, augmented by levies from Gunderland and the Bossonian Marches along with a company of mercenaries made up of sellswords from across the Hyborian world.
This force surged through the Westermarck and across the Black River, thrusting deep into pictish territory.

    As it happened, General Leander, dismissing the Picts as rabble, overextended his forces horribly. Foundering and losing cohesion among the forests west of the Black River, the Aquilonian army was all but destroyed and Leander killed, his head taken to adorn the profane altars of the Picts. The invasion was thwarted and the chieftains proclaimed victory, but the double edged sword of war and famine had turned both Pictland and the Westermarck into a living hell of murder, deprivation and degradation.

Sigyn of the Aesir would have yelped with exultation when her spear felled the stag, but she had not the strength. She could only shamble from the thicket that concealed her. She approached her kill, tugging a copper bladed ax from the rawhide thong tied about her hips. She was little better off than the stag she felled. Normally cutting a robust and ample figure, deprivation had left her flesh stretched tightly over her corded muscles. She bore signs of ill-use. Yellowing bruises and scabby lacerations covered her body, and her long yellow mane was clotted with mud and dried blood.

    She was not well outfitted for the climate, clad only in a rude breechclout of bear hide, and a length of filthy linen wound about her torso. Her feet where wrapped in furs secured with rawhide thongs, and a ragged, patchy fur cloak was thrown about her shoulders. But she was not troubled by the cold overmuch; hunger was her most dire affliction. One of General Leander’s outlandish foreign mercenaries, she had been taken captive after being rendered senseless by a sling stone. She and her fellow captives were handed over to Gar-Haggoth, a devil-worshipping Pictish shaman. All save Sigyn where butchered in an orgiastic offering to Gullah, the profane God-ape exalted by Gar-Haggoth. Such was to have been the Aesir’s fate as well, but Gar-Haggoth sought to gratify his baser desires with her first. The result was Sigyn maiming the painted troglodyte in such a way that not only chilled his ardor, but precluded his producing an heir to carry on his foul legacy.

    For this offence, the witch-doctor ordained the green-eyed she-fiend be cast naked into a pit and starved until the next full moon, when she would be sacrificed to Gullah in a more elaborate and horrific fashion. But Sigyn proved craftier and more resilient than the Picts anticipated; for a fortnight she was sustained by the flesh and blood of the occasional vermin that found its way into her pit. All the while she feigned a profound lassitude, as though she were resigned to her fate.

At last she was extracted from the pit and taken to the Gar-Haggoth’s hut to be prepared for sacrifice. He sent away the braves who brought her, for the eldritch rites he would perform on the flaxen-haired witch were not to be observed by the uninitiated. She lay as though insensate as the witch-doctor began painting esoteric symbols on her body, symbols sacred to Gullah, Xultha, and The Goat of a Thousand Young. When the shaman moved to a position were he was at the most disadvantaged, the Aesir sprang to life, grappling the witch-doctor and tearing out his throat with her teeth ere he could raise an alarm. Hastily outfitting herself with what she found in the shamans hut, she crept stealthily out of the village and fled into the wilderness. Since then, she had trudged ever eastward, avoiding Pictish war-parties and subsisting on melted snow and the few rats and squirrels she could catch.

    Squatting beside the stag’s carcass, she sliced open the abdomen with the copper axe blade. Thrusting her hands into the steaming entrails, she obtained the stag’s liver. Dropping the axe, she drew the organ to her lips and tore into it with relish. Though she was ravenous, she ate slowly and deliberately, careful not to gorge in her weakened condition. So engrossed in her feast she was, she failed to see the wolf until it was nearly upon her.

    It was one of the great dire wolves that haunted the earth of old, standing as high as a man’s shoulder. Like all that dwelt in Pictland, the wolf was starving. This one was gaunt and its gray fur was dull and lifeless. Its teeth were bared but its snarl was silent. It closed in, any fear it may have felt of the Aesir was overshadowed by its hunger.

Sigyn silently cursed herself. Her spear was still wedged between the stags ribs, and her axe lay among its entrails. She would be forced to face the beast bare-handed. This would not have been as uneven a contest as it might seem, Sigyn was not one of the frail, mincing doxies so often produce by the more civilized regions. She was of that savage breed spawned in the frozen, polar wastes of Nordheim, where the men were less removed from apedom, and grew strong contending with one another, with the great beasts that to them were both predator and prey.

    But now her strength was at its lowest ebb. Consuming part of the elk liver revived her, but in her current state she felt she could not best the wolf. If she could distract it long enough to secure the axe or spear, there would be a chance. Hefting the remaining portion of the stag’s liver she tossed it toward the wolf so that it landed near him, but to his right, he would have to turn from her to eat it. The wolf snarled, eyeing the succulent liver. He was wary, but his hunger was great. Keeping his eyes on Sigyn, he slunk toward the liver. He sniffed at it briefly, and then fell to devouring it.

Sigyn snatched up her ax and tensed to leap upon the wolf, to embrace that primordial struggle for survival that all that lives must one day engage. But some whim caused her to check herself. Instead, she quickly hacked off one of the stag’s forelimbs and threw it to the wolf. The massive canine glanced at her for a moment, then drug the limb to it with a sweep of its great paw.

    Sigyn watched the wolf eat or a few heartbeats, then resumed her own animalistic feast.

    She did not recall falling asleep, or awakening. She simply snapped into full awareness, sitting with her back against the trunk of a great oak. Before her was the carcass of the stag, reduced to a skeleton. Beside it was a bundle composed of its hide, containing a small amount of its remaining meat and organs. Sigyn did not recall making this bundle, but she knew she must have.

    There was a layer of new snow over the bones, as well as the fur cloak that blanketed her. She judged a full day must have passed since she took the stag.

She was warm. A great furry mass pressed close beside her provided a source of heat. She cursed silently as fear knotted her stomach. She crawled away from the beast, seizing her spear from where it lay propped against the oak. She crouched, ready to thrust the spear into the wolf, but it did not move. It lay near the tree, unmoving, but eyeing her from squinted eyes.

    Rising, the Aesir crept over to the red stained bundle and picked it up. The great wolf rose, stretched, and spread its massive fanged jaws in a yawn. It then squatted on its haunches, regarding Sigyn in silence. Sigyn backed away until she was beyond the distance she thought the wolf could leap, and then turned into the wood. She glanced behind her. Among the trees, at a discreet distance, the great wolf kept pace.

    “To what end?” She wondered. It could have easily devoured her while she slumbered. Had she entered into some sort of bestial pact by sharing her kill? Sigyn had heard tales of a time when men and beasts lived as brothers and worshipped one god, and that some beasts remembered. Could this wolf be such a beast?

    She shrugged off these thoughts. It mattered not; She had much more ground to cover.

[Char-Vell]

II

Soldiers

    Aideen rushed down the narrow forest path in a mad panic. The stench of the smoldering remains of her home, her family, her life still clinging to her nostrils. It had not been an hour since a band of painted, naked Picts had erupted from the frosted wood and descended like locusts on her family’s homestead. The sight of her husband imploring her to flee just before his skull was split by a copper axe still burned in her mind’s eye.
    She stumbled on a tree root and sprawled face first on the ground. She forced herself to rise immediately, but just as quickly staggered to a nearby oak and slumped against its trunk. Her ragged breaths spewing ropes of steam into the chill air. She gripped her ribs as her agonized lungs fought to replenish themselves.
    Aideen was a compact, well-knit woman of middle years. The sandy color of her cropped hair and the grey of her eyes branding her a scion of the Gundermen who sought to settle in the Westermarck. She leaned against the tree for some minutes struggling to catch her breath. She gazed down at the bloody dagger she gripped in her right hand, and the blood that spattered her coarse tunic. At least one Pict paid a sanguine toll for spilling the blood of Gundermen.
    A thrush took to the air from the underbrush opposite to her, and her attention snapped to that area. She saw a quick flash of grey fur.
    “Wolves.” she thought “Or Picts of the Wolf tribe.”
    Terror banishing her exhaustion for the time, she raced once more along the trail.
    She had not gone far when she found herself in a clearing. It was occupied by two men sporting helms and hauberks of chain mail. They swung about and brandished swords at her sudden appearance. Aideen threw herself at thier feet.
    “Picts!” she wheezed. “Across the Black River. My husband… Help me!”
    “Damnation!” cursed the older of the two. He was a brutish hulk of a man, his pockmarked face partially covered by a sparse, sickly black beard. His dark, pig like eyes scanned the snow-clad wood from under beetling brows.
    “Do you see them, Brucius?” enquired the younger man, his voice fairly cracking with fear. He was a narrow faced lad with a jutting hawk nose. his long black hair spilled lankly from under his helm. He sweated profusely despite the cold. Brucius snarled at him.
    “Silence, Lucan, thou mincing cretin!”
    He then turned to Aideen who still struggled for breath below him.
    “How long ago? And from where? By Mitra woman, if you’ve brought those painted devils upon us I’ll…”
    “About an hour. Three leagues north of Fort Tuscelan.”
    Brucius scanned the tree line for several heartbeats, then abruptly snatched Aideen up by the collar of her tunic and dragged her to her feet.
    “Come! We move!”
    And move they did. Brucius marched the trio mercilessly through the wilderness at a brisk pace. Aideen might have found it odd that they seemed to move away from the Aquilonian occupied areas, and more on a southwesterly course. But she was in no state of mind to analyze their progress. Near nightfall Brucius called a halt to their march when they came upon two great boulders by the path. Here he and Lucan made a sort of shelter using the cleft between the boulders and branches they gathered. Brucius allowed no fire, so they huddled in the dark.
    Lucan gave Aideen a few strips of salted pork. This she accepted gratefully. Brucius did not eat, but sipped wine from a goatskin flask. The sky cleared and a gibbous moon illuminated the snow-clad wood bluely. Aideen shuddered as she felt the eyes of Brucius upon her. His repellent face was indistinct in the moonlight, but she could tell he was regarding her will ill intent, stroking his patchy beard thoughtfully. At length he spoke to her in a guttural hiss that he may have deemed a whisper.
    “You have enjoyed our protection and eaten our food, wench. Food is damn hard to come by lately to be sure. I feel it’s time you earned your keep.”
    His hand shot out and seized her ankle. Even as he dragged her to him he rose and loomed over her. Lucan protested.
    “Brucius! Surely you don’t mean to…”
    “Keep your mouth shut whelp!” barked Brucius. Then with a sly, cynical smirk he added; “but keep your eyes open, perhaps you will learn a thing or two, and want to have a turn yourself once I… Mitra!”
    Brucius leapt back, barely avoiding Aideen’s slashing dagger. He seized her wrist to arrest the swinging blade, and then dealt the Gunderwoman a strong buffet with his gauntleted fist. She fell back dazed.
    “Bitch!” he howled. “I might have been gentle with you, but now I’ll…”
    “You’d be better served by stifling your damned voice, dog!”
    Brucius and Lucan leapt to their feet and drew their swords at the voice emanating from the dark tree line. a woman’s voice, speaking in outrageously accented Aquilonian.
    “The Picts are concentrating north of here,” the voice continued. “but I’d wager there are still a few Panther or Otter braves making their way north to take part in harrying the settlers. Leave that woman be and we’ll work on making your little shelter more defensible.”
    The speaker stepped out of the shadow.
    “Mitra!” exclaimed Lucan. “Tis’ the Aesir.”
    Brucius scowled at the blonde giantess that strode silently toward their camp. She was gaunt, battered and filthy, but her green eyes were alert and the hand gripping her iron tipped spear was steady. Brucius sneered at the newcomer.
    “Aye the Aesir wench. Siggi or something wasn’t it? Mitra only knows why Korrubb’s Mercenaries allowed a long shanked harpy like you among their ranks. It couldn’t be for the obvious reasons, those squat Shemites would need a siege ladder to mount you!”
    The Aesir snorted and stifled a chuckle.
    “I have to admit, that was a keen jest! Aye, they are short bastards to be sure. It’s Sigyn. And I was allowed among their ranks more for knowing which end of a spear to stick a foe with, more for anything else. You are Brucius, and you Lucan. You were captains in Leander‘s Cavalry were you not? Does he live? Does he dare stage a counterattack?”
    “Leander’s headless corpse rots on the far side of the Black River!” hissed Brucius savagely. “Most of his army rots with him, the few of us who lived are scattered and fend for ourselves.”
    It was Sigyn’s turn to sneer.
    “By that you mean desert and flee, perhaps have your way with the local women?”
    “And what is it to you? I care not if some barbarian cow is affronted by how I take my pleasure! Now begone!”
    “Happily.” stated Sigyn flatly. “But that woman comes with me.”
    Brucius’ pockmarked face split into an obscene grin. The moonlight illuminated his unnervingly small, childlike teeth. He raised his blade and tensed as though he might lunge.
    “Come and take her, slut!”
    “Brucius have a care…” stammered Lucan.
    “Heed the lad, Brucius.” Quoth the Aesir as she raised her spear and adjusted her footing. “My arm is long, and this spear longer, I outreach you by a good rod.”
    Brucius would have none of it. The shame stoked within him by the Aesir’s words, fueled by the fortified wine he’d been guzzling, burst into a flame of hateful rage. He lunged, seeking to batter aside Sigyn’s spear and hack off her whore’s head. Nay! He would overpower her and humble her in the same manner he would humble the Gunderland trash that still lay insensate nearby.
    His drunken strategy was doomed to fail. Sigyn had been spearing Mammoth, Sabretooths, Vanir and Hyperboreans from girlhood, and this natural skill was honed by service among the spearmen of Koth. She lithely sidestepped Brucius’ attack and thrust her spear strongly under his breastbone. The crudely forged iron of the Pictish spear split the mail links and plunged into the soft flesh beneath, stilling Brucius’ heart ere he knew he was slain.
    Brucius vomited a fountain of blood as his corpse stood propped up by Sigyn’s spear. His sword dropped from nerveless fingers. At length Sigyn let go of the weapon and allowed the Aquilonian to fall. She stooped and picked up his sword.
    “Now that’s a fine yard of steel.” she observed. “I doubt he will begrudge me having it.”
    Lucan stared wild eyed, holding his own blade before him. Sweat poured off his brow and his slack lips were glossy with spittle. Sigyn stepped back and addressed him calmly.
    “See here Lucan. We need not be foes. I don’t…”
    Before she could finish Lucan shrieked in terror. His eyes fixed on something behind her. She turned. It was the great dire wolf that had been dogging her heels. It sidled up to her calmly. It eyed Lucan, but uttered no growl or made no move against him. Sigyn sought to calm the young Aquilonian.
    “Fear not, Lucan. This wolf is…”
    Sigyn’s reassurances were to no avail. Lucan whirled and fled like a madman into the darkened wood.
    Sigyn sighed as the watched him hurtle out of sight. The Picts would likely make short work of him. The wolf ambled over to the boulders and lay down. Aideen, slowly regaining her senses, moaned. The Aesir knelt by her side and began rubbing her hands. Aideen gazed at her dully for a moment then, fully aware, leapt away from her.
    “Mitra! What has happened? Who are you?”
    Sigyn remained kneeling and spoke softly.
    “I am Sigyn, from Asgard. I came upon your camp and saw that man attack you. I was forced to slay him.”
    Aideen regarded Brucius’ cooling body for a moment then spat at it. She then eyed Sigyn sternly.
    “Asgard? How came you be here?”
    “I was among the Shemite mercenaries serving General Leander in his campaign against the Picts. I was taken captive, and escaped. I’m trying to get back to Velitrium, or Tuscelan. Hell, at this point it looks like I’d be better off striking off for Zingara. But nay, I’ll take you back to your people; you have folks among the settlers, no?”
    Aideen’s face grew sharp.
    “Folks? My husband was brained by the Picts this very morn. We stood alone against them, for Numedides took our sons from us to serve in his damnable legions. Our daughter died in childbirth this autumn, and her baby soon after, both weakened by hunger and want. Aye and the baby’s father died a fortnight before her as he vainly sought game in the forest, a Pictish spear twisted in his guts. Now, alone in the world, I seek aid from the soldiers who are charged with defending we settlers, and they seek to rape me! Me! I’m old enough to be that lank haired boy’s mother! Mitra! A pox on Numedides, Leander and their ilk! Would the Picts be so keen to slay us were Numedides to leave them in peace? To hell with kings, generals and soldiers. And to hell with you! Men are bloodthirsty ravening beasts, that is to be expected! What sort of woman leaves her homeland to play at war in Conajohara?”
    Sigyn gazed at the wolf. It regarded her languidly and offered no advice. She shrugged and thrust a filthy finger at her own face.
    “This sort of woman, it would seem. I have no argument against what you have said, woman. But know this; Asgard is a frigid and dull place. I sought the opulence and luxury hinted at in the south. I have no trade to make my way, and I am not comely enough to be a whore. I had to slay men from an early age. Had I stayed in Asgard, I would still have to slay. Here, at least, I am paid for it.”
    Aideen made no reply, but began to tremble. Her tears glistened in the moonlight and left tracks through the filth caked on her face. Sigyn moved to comfort her, but she pushed the Aesir away.
    “No.” she croaked. “Leave me be.”
    “I will not. I will take you back to Velitrium or Tuscelan. Come, lie down and sleep. I will keep watch. The Wolf will warn us if anyone approaches.”
    Aideen squatted down in a heap between the boulders and sobbed quietly. Sigyn turned away and contended against the tears she felt burning her own eyes. She had engaged in many battles in her day. Brutal contests against enemies both natural and supernatural, enemies that sought her life. This she felt was her fate and it did not trouble her. Only rarely did the consider those who led peaceful, mundane lives, and the tragedies that violence visited upon them. This pained her.
    She stifled such thoughts and set about stripping Brucius of his arms and armor.

[Char-Vell]

III

Lucan

    Lucan’s mad flight ended when he could run no more. He leaned against a tree trunk and retched. Recovering, he doffed his helmet and mopped his face with his gloved hand. His sweat soaked mane steamed in the chill night air. He fearfully scanned the woods about him; the bare trees were illuminated by the gibbous moon and made a baffling pattern of light and dark vertical stripes. Lucan felt he was confined in some maddening prison cell. The wood had grown quiet. No sound came to his ears save for his own feet upon the dead, frosty leaves covering the forest floor.
    Movement caught his eye. A flash brighter than the trees but darker than the moonlit snow. Had he seen it? He gripped his sword and kept moving. But where? He was a cavalryman, not a woodsman. Was he blundering deeper into Pictish territory? He cursed his lot, and called upon Mitra for succor.
Again, he saw movement ahead of him. A shape loomed up a spearcast from were he stood.
    “Sweet Mitra!” he croaked.
    It was a bear. Not the smallish black bears trained to balance on balls in the menageries of Tarantia; this was a massive flat muzzled cave bear, the size of a draft horse. Rearing on its hind legs it bellowed and swiped the air with its great claws.
    Lucan turned to flee, but barring his retreat was another figure. Was it a wolf? Lucan perceived gray fur and long pointed ears. No, not a wolf, a man. A huge man who stood at least a head taller than any man Lucan had ever laid eyes on. He was naked save for a loincloth and leggings, both of wolves hide. About his head and shoulders hung the hide of an enormous wolf. The wolf skull was perched atop the man’s head. The hide was ill-preserved and much of the flesh had fallen away from the skull, leaving it a nightmare mockery of a living wolf. The eyes that peered out from under that hideous cowl were bulging orbs of ravenous lunacy. He reeked of blood and death. This man was no Pict, his flesh, hair and beard shone too palely in the moonlight. The wolf hide clad giant hefted a great war-axe and strode purposefully toward Lucan.
    Lucan was not a brave man, but he was not quite a coward either. He faced a giant lunatic; a great bear was at his back. Even if he could flee, how long before he blundered into the Picts? No. he would fight.
    Lucan lunged at this wolf hide warrior, thrusting at his unarmored belly. But the man brought his axe about with inhuman speed, smashing Lucan’s blade into the earth and snapping it in twain. With even more preternatural speed, the warrior seized Lucan by the throat and lifted him off the ground. Lucan kicked his attacker and struck at his iron thewed arms to no avail. Lucan gazed down into the eyes of the warrior. There was nothing. The warrior seemed to gaze through Lucan, beholding sights reserved only for the mad. Lucan’s vision faded. He felt the hot breath of the cave bear on the back of his neck. The hand about his throat tightened.
    Lucan knew no more.

[darklordbob]

Whelp, seems ol' Lucan exchanged one wolf for another. Bet he wished he'd stuck with the former.

[Char-Vell]

Aug 20, 2019 15:36:07 GMT -5 darklordbob said:

Whelp, seems ol' Lucan exchanged one wolf for another. Bet he wished he'd stuck with the former.

Lucan was just wound to tight for the Westermarck.

[zarono]

This is shaping up to be my favorite in the Sygin saga!

[Char-Vell]

Aug 23, 2019 6:35:00 GMT -5 zarono said:

This is shaping up to be my favorite in the Sygin saga!

Hopefully the rest of the tale doesn't let you down.

[Char-Vell]

[Char-Vell]

IV 

Lair 

    Aideen groggily woke from a nightmare of thrusting spears and starving ghosts to the smell of wood smoke and cooking meat. She snapped to full wakefulness and rolled into a pantherish crouch. She roped about, found her dagger, and brandished it menacingly.

    She found the Aesir crouched over a small campfire. She had upended Brucius’ helm over the coals and was using his poniard to stir its bubbling contents. She had donned The Aquilonian’s hauberk, and strapped his broadsword about her hips. Aideen noted with some disgust that while the Aesir had attempted to clean the hauberk, it was still clotted with gore. Sigyn noticed her discomfiture.

    “Aye, it’s smartly befouled.” she announced sheepishly. “I had hoped to salvage his tunic too, but in was unbearable. Nor could I wear his boots. He had remarkably tiny feet for such a big fellow.”

    “You robbed his corpse, then?”

    “Aye. Lucky I did too; the dog was hoarding a fist-sized bag of dried peas and a little salt. With the last few shreds of the venison I carried, and some snow, we have a kingly stew. There are only a few mouthfuls apiece, but it beats nothing.”

    Aideen scanned the forest suspiciously.

    “The fire. It will surely draw the Picts.”

    Sigyn shrugged.

    “If the Picts were about, they would have been drawn by the fracas last night. They must have more pressing matters afoot.”

    “Attacking the settlements east of the Black River no doubt!”

    “Possibly. We can do little about that at this point. Come eat.”

    Aideen sheathed her dagger and grudgingly sat down by the fire. Sigyn had a portion of the stew perched precariously on the blade of her poniard. She blew on it and tasted it carefully…

    “Not bad. You’ll have to use your own blade thusly; it’s too hot to put your fingers in.”

    Aideen followed Sigyn’s example. The stew was plain, but tasted like ambrosia to her famished tongue.

    The women consumed the meager contents of the helm in silence. When they had finished, Sigyn addressed the Gunderwoman.

    “Will you tell me your name?”

    “Aideen.”

    “Oh? That is nice. Sounds Cimmerian.”

    “Gunderland is not far from Cimmeria.”

    Aideen rose and stretched. Suddenly a thought occurred to her.

    “What became of that huge wolf?”

    “Back to the woods with his breakfast.”

    Aideen blanched in horror as her mind assimilated Sigyn’s statement.

     “Breakfast? Oh Mitra! Brucius!”

    “Begrudge not the wolf. Brucius should have led a more laudable life if he wished his corpse respected.”

    Aideen found no argument against this, so she changed the subject.

    “What next?”

    “We follow after Lucan; he is not a bad sort, only foolish. We might catch up to him before he does himself any mischief.”

    “He was headed toward the Black River.”

    “All the more reason to follow, I doubt he made it too far in the darkness.”

    Sigyn kicked the helm over the embers, then began gathering up their meager supplies.

    “Ymir! We have accumulated quite the armory! I’ve Brucius’ sword and dagger, you take the Pictish axe and spear.”

    Sigyn did not ask if Aideen was able to use the weapons, the denizens of Gunderland lived a life that mandated familiarity with arms,

    “Keep a sharp eye out for game or other food.” the Aesir continued. “Even if we reach a fort soon there’s no guarantee they’ll be supplied well enough to feed us.”

    They moved at a steady, if somewhat lethargic pace through the woods. They were remarkably quiet, but they both knew even the slightest sounds would be a cacophony to any nearby Picts. They had traveled perhaps a league when Sigyn spotted something peculiar on the ground ahead.

    “Behold! The leaves are disturbed here, and that’s a sword hilt or I’m a Kushite!”
 
    The Aesir knelt and picked up the broken sword.

    “Lucan’s I think. Did he fight someone?”

    “There are animal tracks about.” said Aideen. “Look there, and there. They look like bear, but… Mitra! They are huge!”

    “Aye. And those look to be man-tracks heading off northwest. Sunk deep as if carrying a burden.”

    “Think you someone carried off Lucan.”

    Sigyn shrugged and made no reply.

    “Let us turn east, Sigyn, and head for one of the forts. Lucan is beyond our help, and I would not face the bear that made those prints.”

    Sigyn scowled. She owed Lucan nothing, but they had fought under the same banner, it vexed her to leave the man to his fate without exhausting all possibilities, yet she had taken on responsibility to deliver Aideen to safety, and she was quite worse for wear herself.

    “Aye, you speak wisely Aideen. We will turn back.”

    Sigyn set them off in the direction she deemed to be eastward. They had not gone far when a sound from behind the trees before them brought them up short. There was a crackling of breaking twigs, a rustling of leaves, and a low breathy grunting. Sigyn’s eyes narrowed, she thought she made out hints of silvery gray fur in the narrow gaps.

    “Back” she whispered. “Slowly, make no sound.”

    The twain retreated several paces then turned when hay had moved a bowshot from whence they came, they paused once more. Listening they could hear a great bulk moving about the woods beyond.

    “Is it the bear?” Aideen stammered.

    “I think so. The damned thing is milling about right where we need to pass! We will give it a wide berth. That way I think.”

    Sigyn pointed. Aideen balked at the path she indicated.

    “That takes us back toward Black River, and the Picts!”

    “Can’t be helped. That way is clearer and gets us away from the bear quicker.”

    “We could kill it! We two could stalk and spear it. It would be easier than fighting Picts, and yield us meat to boot!”
    Sigyn shook her head.

    “Nay. We are not a match for it, with one spear between us and weakened by hunger. I hunted bear that size in Asgard and they proved an even match for six well-fed warriors. Besides, we have not seen a Pict for some time. We’ll bypass this bear and get back on course in no time.”

    Aideen relented, and they slipped quietly through the trees. They covered much ground quickly. There were no sounds of pursuit from the bear, nor did they encounter any Picts. Sigyn led them in a wide circle through the wilderness. At length she returned them to what she deemed to be the course back to Aquilonian territory. All seemed well, yet, as the day wore on, it seemed that their surroundings took on a strange, menacing aspect. The snow gradually disappeared; the trees and other foliage became subtly deformed. Sigyn felt unease rise within her, and an idea presented itself in her mind that she had somehow wandered into an area that was not entirely natural, she struggled to dismiss this feeling an effect of malnourishment, but it asserted itself with great force.

    Suddenly Aideen let out a short stifled yelp. Sigyn turned to see what had caused her outburst. Hanging from two trees were two hemp ropes, each strung with four human skulls as thought they were beads. These gruesome decorations framed a narrow, but well-worn trail. Sigyn, sword in hand, crept up to the trailhead and peered down the strangely shadowed path. She beheld a wide, irregular structure. Its base was a low wall of masonry, displaying advanced stonemasonry in the bottom layers, with primitive slipshod repairs above. The stonework ceased about waist height and gave way to a wall of interlaced timbers, sealed with mud. The roof was of sod, and a thin trail of smoke wafted from a rude pile of stones serving as a chimney. Roughly centered in this mismatched pile was a great stone trapezoidal archway, the like of which Sigyn had never seen this far north of Stygia or west of Turan. She was baffled to see such a structure in the wilds of Pictland. More skulls were stacked about this archway, and a strange sigil was scrawled in yellow pigment above it

    “That's a singular sight! Come look Aideen.”

    Aideen nervously approached. Gripping her spear. Looking upon the bizarre structure, she shuddered.

    “I like it not. Just looking upon it fills me with dread.”

    “Aye, it is unlovely, But that chimney indicates a warm fire, and… by Ymir! I think I see hanging meat drying beyond that door.”

    “Those who pile skulls about their door are not likely to welcome travelers.”

    “True. Still… “

    Aideen scowled at her barbaric companion.

    “Mitra! You intend to enter! Better to have faced the bear!”

    “That arch! Its presence here in the wilds is odd, no? Are you not curious?”

    “No. let us be off!

    “There is warmth and food within, are you not cold, and hungry?”

    “You know that I am, but this place, it bodes ill. Have you not had your fill of horror?

    Sigyn put on a reassuring air.

    “Not to worry, it’s probably the dwelling of some addled hermit, or some trapper’s haven. No doubt they will enjoy the company.”

    Aideen shook her head, but made no further protest. Sigyn jerked her tawny head toward the structure and crept toward it, Aideen following tentatively. As they drew closer, more details became apparent. The stones of the lower, more ancient part of the walls were covered with the weather-beaten remains of ancient carvings. Aideen found them merely repellent, but Sigyn who was more widely traveled found a nagging familiarity about them.

    “Above the door.” Aideen’s voice was a choking whisper. Unreasoning panic was creeping into her mind. “That symbol, what is it?”

    Sigyn suddenly found her tongue to dry to speak. The crudely painted symbol seemed to writhe upon the stone. Swallowing hard she answered.

    “I have seen that sign, or its like. Once in a ruined temple on an island lost in the waves of the Western ocean, and again in an underground catacomb in Zamora. I know not what it means, but it is ever near sorcery and darkness.”

    “All the more reason to begone!”

    “We are this close, let me just glance inside, if it looks ill we’ll be off.”

    As Sigyn slipped through the opening, Aideen remained outside, warily keeping a watch on the surrounding wood. The shadows were growing long as the afternoon waned, and the wood took on even more of an eldritch air. Again, the memory of her mate’s demise forced itself to the forefront of her mind, and she suppressed a sob. The urge to lie down and give up was strong. Cursing she gripped her spear even tighter. She would not yield to fate; it would have to kill her the hard way.

    Inside Sigyn found the interior of the structure was one large room. Crude oil lamps suspended from the ceiling by gut thongs provided unsettlingly flickering illumination. To her left cloth bundles, wooden chests, and a few barrels were piled up. To her right toward the back o f the chamber, was a rude clay oven, a large iron cauldron bubbled there and gave off the tempting aroma of stewing meat. Scattered about were weapons and pottery, and frameworks upon which were stretched tanning hides. But what piqued Sigyn’s interest the most was the wooden framework near the center of the room from which five objects hung. This was what she had spied from the trailhead. The Aesir licked her lips like a hungry wolf as she gazed upon the marbled, red flesh that hung from the timbers.

    “I knew it was meat!”

    She started to reach for the largest chunk when something about its shape gave her pause. Battle and bloodshed were among Sigyn’s earliest memories; she did not need to see the severed head at her feet to know what sort of meat hung in that strange hovel. When she did look at it, the face was instantly familiar.

    “Atali’s tits! Lucan!”

    A cold chill ran up Sigyn's spine, and the cold grip of panic tightened in her guts. she knew she had blundered obscenely by coming here.

    Outside, Aideen screamed.

[darklordbob]

Ruh roh.

[Char-Vell]

Sept 9, 2019 9:14:21 GMT -5 darklordbob said:

Ruh roh.

Indeed!

I had to step away from this one for a bit to churn out another quick project, but I'm back on it and should finish this one off soon.

[darklordbob]

Sept 13, 2019 7:34:42 GMT -5 Char-Vell said:

Indeed!

I had to step away from this one for a bit to churn out another quick project, but I'm back on it and should finish this one off soon.

Sweet. I look forward to future barbaric badassery.

[darklordbob]

Wait, another project? Does that mean the long awaited Sigyn pinup calendar is confirmed?

[Char-Vell]

Sept 15, 2019 15:38:04 GMT -5 darklordbob said:

Wait, another project? Does that mean the long awaited Sigyn pinup calendar is confirmed?

We're not quite ready for that yet.

I came up with a weird western for this collection:

/posts

[Char-Vell]

V

Wolfhide Warrior

    Sigyn ripped her sword from its scabbard and dashed out the doorway. She found Aideen, back against the wall, eyes wide with terror,holding the spear before her.

    To her right, a giant grey/brown bear crept out of the wood on all fours. It’s shoulders stood at the height of a tall man. It opened it’s short, toothy muzzle and uttered a low rumbling growl as it rose up on its hind legs to it’s full, godlike stature. To her left stalked a leering, hairy wildman. His massive frame draped in the poorly cured hides of wolves. He gripped a massive axe in his mallet like fists. His great height was exaggerated by the decaying wolf skull perched upon his shaggy head. From under bushy, beetling brows his wild eyes leered at the women with obscene hunger and infernal malevolence.

    “Ymir! The bastard has made a pet of it!” hissed Sigyn. “Get into the lair! I will slay the man first. If I am bested by the bear, you should be able to spear it as it tries to get at you through the door, the passage is too narrow to admit it’s bulk.”

    “No! I will fight at your side, barbarian! I would sooner join my man in death that suffer the horror my life has become any longer!’

    The Aesir seized Aideen by the collar of her tunic and hurled her bodily into the foetid interior of the lair.

    “Hold the door, Gunderman!” she shouted as she charged the fur clad warrior.

    The weakness and lethargy that plagued the starving Aesir was for the time banished by the furious battle-rage that was the hallmark of her race. The wolf hide clad warrior let out a strangely pitched, wheezing cry and swung his axe with an aim to split Sigyn’s skull, but she abruptly changed her course to avoid the blow, and dealt the giant a shrewd cut to the back of his thick, oak-like thigh. He let out another peculiar cry, screeching out what may have been the name of some deity, or just the gibberings of a madman. The Aesir retreated, setting for another attack like a coiled viper.

    The bear, baffled by this tawny-haired hellion that harried his master, had been slow to act. But now lurched toward the Aesir. The wolfhide warrior had reared the creature on man-flesh since it was a cub, thus it’s loyalty was clear. As it passed the warrior’s lair however, it felt a piercing agony in its side. Aideen, crouching near the doorway, had thrust her spear into the bear as it passed by. The flint point turned on the bear’s ribs, robbing the blow of it’s lethality, but it caused the ursine horror to turn and lunge at Aideen. As Sigyn had predicted, it was too bulky to pass through the door. It strove to force it;s way through, causing the ancient masonry to sag and threaten to collapse. All the while, Aideen harried the brute with spear thrusts.

    The bear pulled back and shook it’s bloodied head. Growling, it set itself for a mighty charge that would surely smash through the doorway and give it access to it’s puny tormentor. Before it could charge however, a shadow hurtled out of the wood. A grey-furred knot of corded sinew and dagger-like teeth leapt upon the bear’s great back and bit savagely into its throat. Aideen let out a shout of grim exaltation. Sigyn’s wolf had entered the fray.

    Wolfhide turned briefly to see what had befallen his monstrous pet, which prompted Sigyn to aim a furious slash at his neck. With preternatural speed he brought up his axe to parry the blow and counterattacked, driving the Aesir back toward the trees with a flurry of axe strokes. He attacked with great vigor, though blood poured from the deep wound in the leg that he dragged along like a dead thing.

    Sigyn’s sword arm was benumbed and weakening from fending off the giant's thunderous axe strokes. Found herself backed against a great tree trunk. Wolfhide’s bearded mouth split into a horrific rictus of darkly stained teeth as he swung his axe in a wide arc. Sigyn crouched down a split second before the blade would have struck her across the face, and Wolfhide’s axe buried itself to the haft in the tree trunk. Sigyn slashed again, catching the crazed wildman across the belly. She barked in savage delight as she felt her blade scrape across his spine. The cannibal reeled backward, catching his spilling entrails in his hands.

    Sigyn pressed forward to deliver the killing stroke. Wolfhide hissed defiantly. Slowly he drew out with his two hands the long crimson ropes of his entrails. Fixing Sigyn with his frigid, maniacal gaze, he brought the steaming viscera to his mouth and bit into it with horrid gusto. Sigyn shrieked inarticulately and brought down her sword, splitting the madman’s skull to the teeth. Wolfhide collapsed into a pile of spewing gore. Sigyn stood over the fallen monster, struggling to stand upright as her legs trembled and threatened to collapse. She studied the cloven visage, searching for some clue as to what sort of man she had fought.

    A choking cry from the lair drew her attention. Turning, she beheld Aideen, leaning against her spear overlooking another grisly scene.

    The great bear lay sprawled on its belly, great chunks of fur and flesh had been torn from it, and it’s ears had been torn away. It’s throat had been ripped out by the wolf’s fangs. It lay still, awash in it’s own blood.

    The wolf lay nearby, it’s sides spasming irregularly as it drew laboured breaths. The bear had exacted a grim payment for it’s life. Huge swaths of meat had been torn from the wolf by the bear’s slashing claws. From a ruin of pulped flesh and denuded bone, it’s eye, miraculously unscathed, gazed up at Sigyn. The wolf whimpered softly.

        Aideen sobbed. “He fought the bear, though he had no chance. I tried to slay the bear with my spear, but I could not. Not before the wolf was…” she paused and shuddered, fighting down the urge to weep. After a heartbeat she was able to finish. “It saved my life.”

    “And mine.” quoth Sigyn, “More than once.”

    The wolf whimpered once more and sought to rise, but it’s ruined legs were not up to the task. Abruptly Sigyn drove her sword into the wolf’s heart. It jerked spasmodically, and lay still. Sigyn squatted by the wolf with her face hidden in the crook of her arm. When at last she rose, her eyes were red and the filth staining her face was streaked with tears. She took the spear from Aideen and let it fall to the ground, then took the Gunderwoman’s hands in hers and looked her in the eyes. Her voice was steady.

    “It grows dark, we dare not travel further. We must camp here in yon lair.”

    Aideen shook her head fiercely.

    “No Sigyn, please…”

    Sigyn gripped her hands tighter.

    “Shush. Inside there is a warm oven and many barrels and bundles, loot taken from that madman’s victims no doubt. They may hold food and drink. If not, we can roast the bear. We will search the place thoroughly and I will remove anything… unsavory and burn it. I will burn the wolf and poor Lucan on this spot. That cretin yonder can rot were he fell.”

    Near midnight, Sigyn and Aideen lay huddled under a woolen blanket near the great clay oven. Fortune had been with them. Among Wolfhide’s loot they found barrels of salted pork, dried beans, and a most welcome keg of ale. The various bundles yielded silk and linen tunics and wool cloaks. There were no shoes or boots in the cache, but Sigyn found some leather with which to fashion rude sandals. There was also a small cask containing a goodly amount of gold and silver coins.

    Outside, the pyre of the wolf and Lucan still smoldered, kindled by dry wood gathered from the nearby forest as well as various unpleasant items removed from the lair. Though they were exhausted the women found sleep evading them. And they chattered quietly. Their discourse consisted of trivia of no great consequence until Aideen spoke gravely.

    “Sigyn, I would return to the cabin were my husband fell. I would bury him, if the Picts have left me aught to bury.”

    “What was his name?”

    “Genaidos.”

    “We shall go and bury Genaidos. Any Pict who would stand against us will taste steel. From there, whither?”

    “Tuscelan or Velitrium. I would enquire after my sons.”

    “And what are their names?”

    “Hesiod and Nikan.”
    
    “No doubt they are well.”

    Aideen sighed heavily.

    “I do not share your confidence. I fear the worst. Numidides hurls his legions against the Picts in the west, the Nemedians in the east. How can my lads hope to evade the ravening jaws of war.”

    Sigyn groped for Aideen’s hand under the blanket. Finding it she squeezed reassuringly.

    “Think back upon what you have survived these past few days. If Hesiod and Nikan are anything like their mother, I like their chances. I will see you to one of the forts, then to Gunderland if you like. There’s enough gold in yon cask for you to establish yourself comfortably.”

    “What will you do? Return to Asgard?”

    Sigyn snorted derisively.

    “Asgard? Nay! I have had my fill of cold and hardship! I think it time I visited balmy Asgalun or Khawarizm , or even far Kosala. Anywhere I can bake under a warm sun and grow fat on civilized delicacies. No more will I wield my sword and spill my blood in service of some ungrateful potentate. By Ymir, from this day Sigyn will be the sole beneficiary of her own labours!”

    For the first time in many days, Aideen of Gunderland laughed with genuine mirth.

The End.