"You wretched worm!" came the insult from the chieftain of the Purple Rock tribe, "Your foolishness cost us the prize and lives of many good Norse warriors! I should have you gutted and left to freeze on top of a mountain!"
Spittle flew from the chieftain's frothing mouth and landed on Brand's face, where it froze almost instantly. The beaten young warrior turned his head away and tried to pull himself out of his restraints. The heavy iron chains held tight, the cold metal biting into his bare skin.
"I told you already, Ragnar, it was Yrsa who threw me down the cliff and lost the spoils for us", Brand protested, his broken lip bleeding more on every word he uttered. "Silence, you bastard!" Ragnar shouted, "How dare you insult my brother, who is not only the leader of my housecarls, but also the best warrior in the village!"
Brand could already see the pointlessness of him trying to talk his way out. "The let me decide which one is right by drawing our blades against one another. The Dark Gods shall decide who is wrong and who is right."
Ragnar flashed a sadistic smile. "The shaman has already asked the Great Changer, and he says the gods are against you, Brand. You are already banished and sentenced to die on this rock and be eaten by the ice bears. Farewell, fool."
After saying that Ragnar and his housecarls turned around and vanished back through the blizzard they had come through, leaving Brand chained on the rune-carved Betrayer's Rock to wait for his demise. Truly his death couldn't be far now. Either the subzero temperature or some wandering ice bear - or worse - would end his days without him having a say about it.
It didn't take long until coldness started to seep through his limbs and up his body. Shaking violently, he felt his blood and sweat freeze and pierce his skin, his toes and fingers getting frostbitten and his heart pumping in a frantic rhythm. Brand tried to move his limbs as much as he could to stay warm, but to no avail. He tried to pull his chains once again, but it only caused him more pain.
In his mind Brand cursed Ragnar and his arrogant bastard brother Yrsa. Those two had set him up, there was no question about it. Since Brand's father had been the last Chieftain before the brothers and their mushroom-addicted pet shaman killed him and rose to power, Brand was seen as a threat. They had succeeded in their plan, no question about it. If there was something the brothers could do well, it was scheming. The patron god of the Purple Rock tribe, the Great Changer, must be proud of it's puppets right now.
Brand cursed the Great Changer as well. Their god was not a god of true warriors, but a god of tricksters and mystical rituals with no sense of what so ever. For an honest warrior like Brand, worshiping something like that seemed ridiculous.
He cursed his tribe and village, who followed the brothers like a pack of stray dogs, obeying their every command, offering their children as sacrifices and their women as wives for the brothers. They were all blind. The brothers promised glory and riches, but in reality offered nothing, but took everything they could. They were brigands more than leaders.
Brand felt his muscles spasm from the cold. He had forgotten all about it for a while, but now he felt twice as horrible than before. His head was spinning; either from cold or from his feeling of hopelessness after being betrayed like this. As his mind started to go blank, he actually felt hot for a while. How ironic to die of cold and still feel so hot. He had seen others become mad as they were about to succumb to the freezing wilderness, remove their clothes and run off, never to be seen again. As he closed his eyes he felt a sudden pain go through him.
Fight!
Brand opened his eyes again. Perhaps Yrsa or Ragnar had returned to challenge him to a duel and make sure that he'd perish, rather sooner than later. However there was nobody to be seen. "It must be my mind playing tricks with me", Brand thought. Again he closed his eyes.
FIGHT!
Now he clearly heard it. A raw voice, filled with rage and power. For a moment the world was tinted with red, as if the snowflakes were drops of blood and his vision a red haze of battle.
"Please, help me!" Brand called, "Save me from this peril, I beg you!"
The winds settled for a second. Then the voice echoed again.
"What can you give me to pay for your life?"
Brand felt sickened. His ears were bleeding and his veins were filled with fire. Every fiber of his body tried to resist the presence of whoever was speaking.
"I give you my life and all my possessions", Brand shouted back. A deep, rumbling laughter that made Brand's head dizzy with nausea echoed through the air.
"I already have your life in my hands, and I need no gold nor furs", the voice answered.
"Then you can have my sons and daughters! Do as you please with them!"
The voice was getting angrier. "I need no children to serve me."
Brand though for a while. The voice clearly wanted something else. Something only Brand could give him.
"I give you an entire village to be sacrificed for your honor, I give you a river of blood and a heaps of bodies. I will give you whatever you ask!"
The voice roared with pleasure.
"Then I will demand one more thing."
"Whatever you want, my lord!" Brand shouted back.
"BRING ME A MOUNTAIN OF SKULLS!"
Suddenly Brand felt his bindings melt and fall off of him, the hot metal inflicting no harm on him. He collapsed, his numb body having lost all it's strength. As he fell he could feel a burning sensation on his chest. The cold snow embraced him, but the burning kept intensifying. As he was lying there, paralyzed by the pain and cold, he heard another voice. A deep growl and the soft thumps of paws. Through the blizzard Brand could barely see the silhouette of an ice bear. It had probably been lured by the scent of Brand's blood.
Brand knew he had to stand up. Lying there would mean a sure and rather meaningless death. Even though his muscles were hardly functioning, he forced himself to rise to his knees with the sheer force of his will. The giant bear saw him move and stopped to watch him. It was less than a dozen yards away from him now. With great effort Brand pulled himself up, using the rock that had been his site of imprisonment until a moment ago. The bear would attack soon, he knew it. It knew he was weak and wounded, and most likely wasn't expecting much of resistance. Brand picked up a sharp piece of the molten chains. The metal had cooled in the snow, leaving a jagged and short piece of metal no longer than his fingers. At least it had a pointed tip, although Brand was more than unsure of it's capability to pierce the thick skin of the beast.
The bear didn't wait for long. It roared and charged him, it's massive bulk moving frighteningly fast for a creature of that size. Brand tightened his grip on his improvised weapon and dived under the charging predator. He had time for only one hit, and then the creature would be on top of him, it's massive maw and sharp claws ripping him apart in seconds.
He stabbed, half-blinded and with the desperation of a cornered animal. But his strike was empowered with new strength. The fire of vengeance burned within him. His will to see his enemies driven before him giving him the extra bit of motivation to fight for his life. He felt his weapon pierce the skin of the bear and he was rewarded with a gush of blood that covered him. He had slashed at the creature's artery, mostly out of experience, but to think his strike had found it's mark was more luck than skill.
The creature yelped and it's hind legs gave in. Realizing his peril, Brand quickly scrambled away from the bear's reach. As he rolled from under the creature, it fell down and did not move, it's lifeless body steaming as more and more of it's lifeblood gushed from the wound of it's neck.
Lying in the snow again, Brand could feel the coldness again. It didn't feel as bad as it had before, but he knew that he needed to get away from the blizzard. The closest refuge he knew was a few miles away, so it was totally out of question. The only things he could even see were the rock and the carcass. Seeing as he had no other choice, he took up his weapon once again and crawled towards the bear. With great effort he cut open the bear's stomach, his weapon ill-suited for cutting doubling the difficulty of the task. After the bear was gutted he crawled inside the bear, fighting against the nausea as he slipped through the slimy innards of his unusual haven. With all that had happened, his body gave in and he felt himself fall asleep in no time.
Brand woke up suddenly, alerted by voices outside his slowly chilling shelter. Through the body and snow the voices were nothing but mumbling sounds, but the rhythm gave away that the sounds were indeed human speech. Brand searched for his weapon in the dark, his fingers finding it somewhere between the innards. He crawled out, slowly digging through the piled snow. He made a small hole in the snow, allowing him to see what was happening outside.
There were two men standing outside, looking quite bewildered and discussing frantically. He didn't hear their words, but Brand guessed they were talking about him. Their clothing and weapons betrayed their position as Ragnar's housecarls. It seemed that Ragnar, or Yrsa, had sent them to see if Brand was still alive.
His wrath reawakened and he felt strength returning to his blood-soaked arms. Shouting fiercely, he fell upon his enemies, all covered in bear blood, moving swiftly as an attacking snake. The housecarls were certainly not expecting him, and were completely taken by surprise. The first of the two fell before he could even drawn his blade, Brand's weapon lodged deep within his eye socket. Not pausing for a second, Brand quickly took the sword of his fallen enemy and swung it at his enemy's neck. The other man had had the time to draw his axe and raise his shield, easily blocking Brand's blow and quickly following with his own blow, aimed at the top of Brand's skull. Without armour the attack was easy to dodge, and as Brand stepped aside, he swung his sword at the shaft of the ax. He was rewarded with a loud crack of wood as the ax blade fell to the ground, leaving the housecarl standing there with a confused look on his face. A quick kick on his shield sent him flying backwards. Before the housecarl could rise, Brand was already on him, decapitating him with a thrust of his wide blade. New snow was mixed with fresh blood and the fight was over.
Brand gazed around him, making sure there weren't any other enemies in the vicinity. As everything seemed to be peaceful, he quickly stripped the first housecarl and took his clothes. When he was putting his shirt he noticed a strange scarring on his chest. He washed the blood away with snow and was shocked by the realization. On his chest was a scarring like a brand, expanding from shoulder to shoulder and down to his abdomen. It's colouring was blood-red, not unlike the colour of a fresh cut from a blade. The mark was hard to recognize from his point of view, but soon he understood that on his chest was the mark of Khorne, and that he had been saved by the Blood God last night.
Feeling the cold wind bite his skin like an angry wolf he put the rest of his clothes off. Finally he took the blade he had used, as well as the piece of metal from his bindings and placed the heads of his slain enemies on the Betrayer's Rock. Without him saying a thing they lit on fire and vanished to thin air. Brand turned around and began his travel towards the Purple Rock tribe's village. A score was to be settled, and he had promised his new patron a village to be sacrificed in his honour, and he would deliver those sacrifices to lord Khorne.
The Saga of Skalarbrand and Frostblood Brethren
The Saga of Skalarbrand and Frostblood Brethren
Idleness is the pathway to damnation.
Re: The Saga of Skalarbrand and Frostblood Brethren
Painoin "lähetä" talletamisen sijaan. Täysi, editoitu kappale tulee myöhemmin.
Idleness is the pathway to damnation.
Re: The Saga of Skalarbrand and Frostblood Brethren
The night had already fallen when Brand saw the dim lights of his village. A palisade wall made of twisted wood that grew around these parts of the world protected the people inside from the predators of the Wastes that sometimes wandered south. The walls were frozen solid, so the only way in or out was through the front gate. The gate itself was always guarded by at least two men, who were always on watchful for the nightly predators.
Brand thought about his options. He could try to climb the slippery walls and infiltrate the village, killing everyone in their beds and then taking his time with his revenge.
That plan had two major flaws. First, he most likely wouldn't be able to climb the wall with no rope or spiked boots. Second, he was quite sure it most likely wouldn't please his patron god.
He sighed and watched the mist of his breath float away. It seemed there was no option, then. He stood up, hid his sword under his stolen cloak and walked towards the gate. It didn't take long for the guards to notice him.
"Halt! Who goes there?" came the question. Brand could almost feel their eyes on him. Just as he was about to answer, the guard smiled. "Grundolf, you're back! And in one piece it seems."
The gates creacked a bit and slowly opened before Brand. The guard on the gate, Halgar, if Brand wasn't mistaken, turned around and came down from his vantage point. Brand lowered his head and pulled his fur-lined hood to cover his face better. Without uttering a word, he stepped inside the gates. As soon as he had passed them, they closed behind him and were barred.
Halgar approached him with stretched arms, welcoming him back. "Welcome back, friend! Did you leave Golthar dig a shallow grave for the traitor's corpse?" the guard asked. Brand gritted his teeth. It seemed that he had already been made a traitor in the eyes of his people. It had taken a whole day for him to become the most hated man of their tribe. Brand could already feel the hatred inside him grow stronger.
Brand's lack of response seemed to make Halgar hesitate. "Grundolf, what's wrong?" he asked. The situation seemed to be too good to pass. Slowly Brand raised his head and removed his hood. Halgar and the other two guards that had joined him gasped. "You!" was the only thing Halgar could say before he fell, his throat slashed open by Brand's quickly drawn blade.
With a grim determination, Brand stepped, stabbing the second guard who was trying to skewer Brand with his spear. He fell almost as swiftly as Halgar had, his both lungs pierced by an accurately aimed stab between his ribs. The last guard turned and tried to run away. His escape was cut short when Brand took up the spear his second victim had dropped, throwing it at the guard's unprotected back. The guard fell screaming. Brand cursed. He had aimed higher, but his arm was still slightly weakened by his chilling imprisonment. Now the death screams of the dying man would wake up the entire village.
Brand pulled his sword free from his victim. He approached the screaming guard, his face not betraying a single emotion. A fast strike and the screams were silenced. Decapitation seemed to make things quieter, Brand amused. There was no time, however. He a shield that had belonged to one of the fallen. He quickly ran to the first hut on his path and landed a mighty kick on it. The door fell, unsurprisingly, and Brand quickly entered the dark house. He heard frantic speech in the next room and went there.
There stood an armed man with with his family. Two of his oldest sons were also carrying blades, the man's wife carrying a Southlander lantern. The wife was hiding the rest of her children behind her. The man shouted and charged, his sons following him. None of them were real warriors, Brand noticed. His blade made quick work of them, leaving each of the corpses cleanly decapitated and lying on the ground.
The woman said something, but Brand didn't understand it. It might've been a plea to leave them be, but a red mist had filled Brand's mind. He didn't care for the whimpering woman or her children. He had a debt to pay.
Soon after Brand emerged from the hut carrying six decapitated heads in total. He threw the heads on ground in front of the hut and entered the next. The half-dressed family there put up little resistance, and soon Brand carried out several heads, which he left in front of their hut. He then continued his methodical extermination of the village. He never left a hut until he had made sure there were no one hiding inside, each time leaving his offering to Khorne in front of each house or hut. Sometimes he turned a corner only to face half a dozen men. In his rage and bloodlust he was unstoppable, however, and the streets ran crimson behind him. He had emptied a dozen or so houses when he finally saw what he was looking for. The Chieftain's mead hall.
In front of the mead hall a dozen housecarls stood in a neat line, their shields raised and their weapons drawn. Leading them was Yrsa.
"It seems you're more devious than you look, boy." Yrsa said with a mocking grin on his face. "What did you offer those two to set you free? Oh it doesn't matter. Now I'll get to enjoy sending your soul to the mighty Tzeentch myself."
Brand spat on the ground before him. "You can try, traitor, but you are not a true warrior, play-thing of the Trickster God. I shall cut your body to ribbons and offer your head to the brazen throne of my God."
Yrsa shot him a furious glance. "So you really are a traitor through and through. I'll sacrifice YOUR head to the Great Changer." Yrsa signaled his men, who slowly started to approach Brand. Twelve warriors at the same time was something Brand knew he wasn't equipped to do. Yrsa grinned widely. He had sheathed his sword and watched from behind his men as the air grew thick with the anticipation of violence.
Closing his eyes, Brand offered a single prayer to lord Khorne and charged. The housecarls did not anticipate this, which allowed Brand to land the first blow. He kicked the shield of Harold, who had the Third seat in the Chieftains table. Harold took a step back to regain his balance, but his shield was still lowered. With a quick horizontal strike, Brand quickly decapitated his foe. The others fell upon him as they saw one of their own fall.
Brand jumped back and deflected several blows with his sword and shield. He had to keep moving to avoid getting surrounded and slain like a wild deer. Every time he had the opportunity he'd try to land a blow on one of his foes, but they were almost as skilled as Brand, and many of them had seen several more winters than he had.
Once again furious, Brand looked above the housecarls and shouted: "Yrsa, I see this is the best you can do! Clearly you are not a true warrior, but a wimp who leads from behind. No wonder your god does not bless you."
Brand hoped his insult had at least some truth in it. The all too obvious lack of Daemonic gifts was the topic of many whispered arguments against the brothers, when they still hadn't weeded out the opposition.
Yrsa quickly unsheathed his sword. "If you are in such a hurry to die, then step forth, boy!" he shouted and pointed his sword towards Brand. "We'll see who is more blessed, Brand Half-wit!"
Brand smiled. He lowered his shield and sword and walked past the other housecarls. He stopped and watched his enemy straight into his eyes. Yrsa seemed to be boiling with fury. Apparently Brand's insult had been about the most severe thing he could say. That made Brand smile even more.
Brand dropped his shield and sheathed his sword. He then started to untie the knots that held his fur coat. Yrsa watched with mild interest as Brand dropped his jacket and then took his stolen shirt off. Brand smiled a wicked smile as he saw Yrsa get red from anger as he saw the Mark of Khorne on Brand's chest.
Yrsa screamed once, a hate-filled wail that pierced the night like a cold steel, and charged. Brand had barely enough time to draw his blade to parry. The two of them swung their swords at each other, Yrsa blocking each of Brand's slashes with his shield, whereas Brand, who fought without his shield, had to dodge and evade his opponent's attacks. Brand could easily see why the villagers called Yrsa the best warrior within a hundred leagues. Yrsas technique was almost flawless. He was constantly feinting, changing direction of his blow or stopping it altogether and hitting Brand with his shield instead.
Soon Brand's skin was filled with several small cuts and bruises. He could easily match the older warrior in speed, but not in skill or experience. Brand knew that if the fight would take much longer he'd run out of strength and Yrsa would claim his head. The soil was just slightly covered with snow, but there wasn't anything Brand could trip Yrsa with. It was then when Brand got the most desperate idea in his entire life.
He leaped backwards and raised his blade. Before Yrsa could react, Brand stabbed himself through his left arm. Warm blood gushed from his wound and in a few seconds the ground under him was wet with blood. Brand could feel his fingers go numb as the coldness froze his blood in seconds.
Yrsa laughed. "Did you get sloppy with your blade or did you finally decide to give up and die like a coward? I'll be gentle with you and end this now", he chuckled. Then he took a fighting stance and leaped towards Brand. Brand had anticipated this. He stepped closer to Yrsa and stopped his horizontal strike aimed at Brand's head with his left arm, which barely work well enough to do it. Yrsa's body was still in motion and Brand directed Yrsa towards the peculiarly flat, frozen puddle of blood. Yrsa yelped as he lost his balance. Brand didn't take long to quickly put all his strength to a final strike, which separated Yrsas head and left shoulder from the rest of his body.
Brand didn't have time to stay and fight the rest of the housecarls or to celebrate his victory. He quickly sprinted towards the Chieftains hut and opened the door. He could hear the last eleven housecarls pursue him, but he stepped inside and barred the door behind him. Brand had only one chance to survive this. The Purple Rock tribe had a tradition, which commanded that if the Chieftain would be slain, his remaining housecarls, if any survived, were oath-bound to take their own lives.
Brand quickly entered the main hall, where he could see Ragnar and his servant boys and girls attend him. Ragnar had never been a warrior, his best weapon being his mind. Ragnar heard someone enter and glanced towards the door Brand was standing at. He immediately went pale and let out a panicked shout. The children followed his gaze and saw Brand standing there, all bloodied, holding a blood-dripping sword and watching them with a murderous glare.
Ragnar picked up his axe one of the children around him was carrying and held it clumsily above his head. "If you come any closer, I'll kill you!", he shouted. Brand laughed menacingly. "As if you could do that, old man. Your brother thought the same, and now his blood colours my blade."
With a startled realization Ragnar looked the blade Brand was carrying. Startled, he screamed: "Please, I'll do anything if you let me live! I'll leave this village and let you be the chieftain."
Brand spat on the straw floor. "I'll be damned if I let you live, Ragnar. I'll take your head to the Throne of Skulls myself if I have to."
Suddenly Brand noticed how Ragnars expression changed. "Alright, if it must be so, then it must be so. You want an honorable duel, right?"
Brand nodded hesitantly.
"If you want a duel, I'll use my right as a chieftain to nominate a champion to defend me." Ragnar said with a wicked grin on his face. Brand felt hesitant, but the red mist had returned and didn't care anymore. "Very well, name your champion. If he loses, I'm taking his head and yours."
Ragnar's smiled widened. "Very well, then I'll nominate my champion to be Elgir Brandsson." Brand watched in horror, as his youngest son took a hesitant step forward. Brand hadn't noticed him before, since he had been standing behind Ragnar's throne. Brand looked back at Ragnar. "You cannot do this."
"Oh, but I just did. You didn't specify who was eligible. Elgir Brandsson is my pick." Ragnar chuckled. "Before you start, we better get some witnesses for this fight."
He turned and shouted: "Bring the prisoners."
Two tribesmen entered. They were dragging with them four other people, who Brand easily recognised as the rest of his family, his wife, elder son and two daughters. Ragnar looked like he thought himself to be victorious. "Now, Brand, let's see how you take your revenge."
Brand watched helplessly as his son took the blade he was offered. Elgir had barely seen more than nine winters, and now Ragnar had honour-bound Brand to kill his own son. The mist was gone now, and the sword in Brand's hand was shaking visibly.
"What's the matter, Brand? Aren't you going to take your revenge after all?" Ragnar mocked. Then he looked Elgir viciously. "Kill your father and I'll let you and your family free."
Elgir clearly hesitated, but then raised his sword. "I'll do this so that they can't hurt us anymore, dad. You betrayed the tribe and we had to suffer." He then swung his sword. Brand easily parried it. As the blades collided Brand could feel the red mist slowly return.
"No, Elgir, don't!" Brand shouted, but Elgir slashed clumsily again. Again Brand parried it with his blade. His vision turned even more red. "Please, Elgir, you are hurting yourself!" Brand pleaded, but Elgir kept flailing his sword at Brand. Brand's hand seemed to work on its own, parrying each blow. With every metallic clash of blades his world turned ever more redder. The blood-thirsty murderer inside him was returning. Then after their swords met again he felt how he lost control.
Brand quickly dived in, slashing at Elgir's legs. A high-pitched scream filled the hall as Elgir fell down, holding the stump of his leg. The beast inside him quickly claimed another skull for the Skull Throne.
With the efficiency of a killer, he threw his blade at Ragnar, impaling him through his chest. Color fled from Ragnar's face as he slowly realized what had happened. Somewhere on the background a woman was screaming, but Brand did not care. He marched to Ragnar, where he was still barely standing. He wrapped his hands around Ragnar's neck and... everything went red.
...
Brand stretched his legs. He could feel the fur covers of his bed tickle against his bare skin. He turned around to his wife, but noticed she had already gotten up. Grunting slightly he stood up and got dressed. He stepped outside of his hut and entered the completely empty village outside. Thinking it quite strange, returned inside and retrieved his sword and shield. He then started to search for his wife and children. Snowflakes were falling from the sky, and everything had been covered in several inches of snow.
He circled around for a while, but didn't see a soul. Everything was silent, except for the sound of falling snowflakes and his footsteps. As he turned around to the village square he was met with a terrifying sight.
A pile of skulls, numbering hundred or more, was standing in the middle of the square. The bodies of the villagers were piled a bit further in a heap. As Brand stepped forward he slipped on something. As he stood up he noticed the ground beneath him was frozen solid and tinted red. Frantically he wiped away more snow only to find out that the entire square had been flooded with it.
Then a sudden realization startled him. "No!", he cried and ran to where the bodies where. He tried to look for any signs of his wife and children, but was soon interrupted by a cold, snarling voice behind him.
"Your family is not there, Brand", said the beastial voice.
Brand turned around and found himself stare at the eyes of three blood-red creatures. Their skin was steaming in the cold air and their skin was drenched in fresh blood. One of the creatures held a brass chain in its hand, and to it were chained four humans Brand instantly recognized. "Let my family go, daemon!" Brand pleaded.
A sadistic chuckle erupted from the Bloodletter's throat. "It seems you have forgotten your pact with Lord Khorne, mortal. A pile of skulls, a heap of bodies, a river of blood and every soul in this village."
Brand had no idea what the daemon was talking about. "Please, you must be mistaken. This village does not worship the Blood God. Let them go, I beg you." he pleaded.
The daemon snorted. "It seems you have forgotten, Brand. Perhaps this will refresh your memory", it said, and put it's scorching hand on Brand's chest. Brand's fur coat peeled off and Brand suddenly found himself staring at a Mark of Khorne drawn on his chest. Then the walls on his memories broke and he fell on his knees. He had hunted every single soul in the village and offered their skulls for his patron. But even in his rage he had spared the rest of his family.
Brand stood up. On his face he had an emotionless expression of grim determination. He unsheathed his sword, which was covered in brownish dried blood. Without emotion he turned to his family.
"A debt must be paid. Lord Khorne demands it."
With tears rolling down his eyes he raised his blade. Soon the skull pile was a tad bit higher.
The Bloodletters growled, seemingly pleased.
"Lord Khorne is pleased. Don't rest too easy, for your debt isn't fully paid yet. The sorcerer, Malthar, escaped before you entered the village. He took a horse and rode south. You cannot catch him, but when the time comes, his skull will join the rest", the Daemon said.
Then the monstrous trio turned. "Oh, and one thing, Lord Khorne sent you his blessing. It's in the chieftain's hall."
Then they vanished, leaving behind them only the smell of blood and brimstone.
Without wasting more of his time, Brand walked to Ragnar's former hall. In the throne room he found a red suit of armour, etched with brass. On the armour's shoulders a furry cloak was hung. Brand realized it was a fur cloak made of ice bear fur, probably the same one he had killed himself. Along with the armour a brass-etched axe and a large, metal shield were laid on a nearby table. All of them carried the symbol of Khorne. Slowly Brand took of his clothes and put his new armour on, one piece at a time. At first the armour had seemed too big for him, but as more and more steel covered his flesh, he noticed that the armour fit perfectly. It seemed Brand had also grown in size.
As he grabbed put on his helmet a familiar, roaring sound echoed in his ears.
"Go now, my servant, and do my bidding. From this day on, you shall be known as Skalarbrand."
Skalarbrand took his axe and shield and stepped outside, where the snowflakes were slowly covering everything.
Brand thought about his options. He could try to climb the slippery walls and infiltrate the village, killing everyone in their beds and then taking his time with his revenge.
That plan had two major flaws. First, he most likely wouldn't be able to climb the wall with no rope or spiked boots. Second, he was quite sure it most likely wouldn't please his patron god.
He sighed and watched the mist of his breath float away. It seemed there was no option, then. He stood up, hid his sword under his stolen cloak and walked towards the gate. It didn't take long for the guards to notice him.
"Halt! Who goes there?" came the question. Brand could almost feel their eyes on him. Just as he was about to answer, the guard smiled. "Grundolf, you're back! And in one piece it seems."
The gates creacked a bit and slowly opened before Brand. The guard on the gate, Halgar, if Brand wasn't mistaken, turned around and came down from his vantage point. Brand lowered his head and pulled his fur-lined hood to cover his face better. Without uttering a word, he stepped inside the gates. As soon as he had passed them, they closed behind him and were barred.
Halgar approached him with stretched arms, welcoming him back. "Welcome back, friend! Did you leave Golthar dig a shallow grave for the traitor's corpse?" the guard asked. Brand gritted his teeth. It seemed that he had already been made a traitor in the eyes of his people. It had taken a whole day for him to become the most hated man of their tribe. Brand could already feel the hatred inside him grow stronger.
Brand's lack of response seemed to make Halgar hesitate. "Grundolf, what's wrong?" he asked. The situation seemed to be too good to pass. Slowly Brand raised his head and removed his hood. Halgar and the other two guards that had joined him gasped. "You!" was the only thing Halgar could say before he fell, his throat slashed open by Brand's quickly drawn blade.
With a grim determination, Brand stepped, stabbing the second guard who was trying to skewer Brand with his spear. He fell almost as swiftly as Halgar had, his both lungs pierced by an accurately aimed stab between his ribs. The last guard turned and tried to run away. His escape was cut short when Brand took up the spear his second victim had dropped, throwing it at the guard's unprotected back. The guard fell screaming. Brand cursed. He had aimed higher, but his arm was still slightly weakened by his chilling imprisonment. Now the death screams of the dying man would wake up the entire village.
Brand pulled his sword free from his victim. He approached the screaming guard, his face not betraying a single emotion. A fast strike and the screams were silenced. Decapitation seemed to make things quieter, Brand amused. There was no time, however. He a shield that had belonged to one of the fallen. He quickly ran to the first hut on his path and landed a mighty kick on it. The door fell, unsurprisingly, and Brand quickly entered the dark house. He heard frantic speech in the next room and went there.
There stood an armed man with with his family. Two of his oldest sons were also carrying blades, the man's wife carrying a Southlander lantern. The wife was hiding the rest of her children behind her. The man shouted and charged, his sons following him. None of them were real warriors, Brand noticed. His blade made quick work of them, leaving each of the corpses cleanly decapitated and lying on the ground.
The woman said something, but Brand didn't understand it. It might've been a plea to leave them be, but a red mist had filled Brand's mind. He didn't care for the whimpering woman or her children. He had a debt to pay.
Soon after Brand emerged from the hut carrying six decapitated heads in total. He threw the heads on ground in front of the hut and entered the next. The half-dressed family there put up little resistance, and soon Brand carried out several heads, which he left in front of their hut. He then continued his methodical extermination of the village. He never left a hut until he had made sure there were no one hiding inside, each time leaving his offering to Khorne in front of each house or hut. Sometimes he turned a corner only to face half a dozen men. In his rage and bloodlust he was unstoppable, however, and the streets ran crimson behind him. He had emptied a dozen or so houses when he finally saw what he was looking for. The Chieftain's mead hall.
In front of the mead hall a dozen housecarls stood in a neat line, their shields raised and their weapons drawn. Leading them was Yrsa.
"It seems you're more devious than you look, boy." Yrsa said with a mocking grin on his face. "What did you offer those two to set you free? Oh it doesn't matter. Now I'll get to enjoy sending your soul to the mighty Tzeentch myself."
Brand spat on the ground before him. "You can try, traitor, but you are not a true warrior, play-thing of the Trickster God. I shall cut your body to ribbons and offer your head to the brazen throne of my God."
Yrsa shot him a furious glance. "So you really are a traitor through and through. I'll sacrifice YOUR head to the Great Changer." Yrsa signaled his men, who slowly started to approach Brand. Twelve warriors at the same time was something Brand knew he wasn't equipped to do. Yrsa grinned widely. He had sheathed his sword and watched from behind his men as the air grew thick with the anticipation of violence.
Closing his eyes, Brand offered a single prayer to lord Khorne and charged. The housecarls did not anticipate this, which allowed Brand to land the first blow. He kicked the shield of Harold, who had the Third seat in the Chieftains table. Harold took a step back to regain his balance, but his shield was still lowered. With a quick horizontal strike, Brand quickly decapitated his foe. The others fell upon him as they saw one of their own fall.
Brand jumped back and deflected several blows with his sword and shield. He had to keep moving to avoid getting surrounded and slain like a wild deer. Every time he had the opportunity he'd try to land a blow on one of his foes, but they were almost as skilled as Brand, and many of them had seen several more winters than he had.
Once again furious, Brand looked above the housecarls and shouted: "Yrsa, I see this is the best you can do! Clearly you are not a true warrior, but a wimp who leads from behind. No wonder your god does not bless you."
Brand hoped his insult had at least some truth in it. The all too obvious lack of Daemonic gifts was the topic of many whispered arguments against the brothers, when they still hadn't weeded out the opposition.
Yrsa quickly unsheathed his sword. "If you are in such a hurry to die, then step forth, boy!" he shouted and pointed his sword towards Brand. "We'll see who is more blessed, Brand Half-wit!"
Brand smiled. He lowered his shield and sword and walked past the other housecarls. He stopped and watched his enemy straight into his eyes. Yrsa seemed to be boiling with fury. Apparently Brand's insult had been about the most severe thing he could say. That made Brand smile even more.
Brand dropped his shield and sheathed his sword. He then started to untie the knots that held his fur coat. Yrsa watched with mild interest as Brand dropped his jacket and then took his stolen shirt off. Brand smiled a wicked smile as he saw Yrsa get red from anger as he saw the Mark of Khorne on Brand's chest.
Yrsa screamed once, a hate-filled wail that pierced the night like a cold steel, and charged. Brand had barely enough time to draw his blade to parry. The two of them swung their swords at each other, Yrsa blocking each of Brand's slashes with his shield, whereas Brand, who fought without his shield, had to dodge and evade his opponent's attacks. Brand could easily see why the villagers called Yrsa the best warrior within a hundred leagues. Yrsas technique was almost flawless. He was constantly feinting, changing direction of his blow or stopping it altogether and hitting Brand with his shield instead.
Soon Brand's skin was filled with several small cuts and bruises. He could easily match the older warrior in speed, but not in skill or experience. Brand knew that if the fight would take much longer he'd run out of strength and Yrsa would claim his head. The soil was just slightly covered with snow, but there wasn't anything Brand could trip Yrsa with. It was then when Brand got the most desperate idea in his entire life.
He leaped backwards and raised his blade. Before Yrsa could react, Brand stabbed himself through his left arm. Warm blood gushed from his wound and in a few seconds the ground under him was wet with blood. Brand could feel his fingers go numb as the coldness froze his blood in seconds.
Yrsa laughed. "Did you get sloppy with your blade or did you finally decide to give up and die like a coward? I'll be gentle with you and end this now", he chuckled. Then he took a fighting stance and leaped towards Brand. Brand had anticipated this. He stepped closer to Yrsa and stopped his horizontal strike aimed at Brand's head with his left arm, which barely work well enough to do it. Yrsa's body was still in motion and Brand directed Yrsa towards the peculiarly flat, frozen puddle of blood. Yrsa yelped as he lost his balance. Brand didn't take long to quickly put all his strength to a final strike, which separated Yrsas head and left shoulder from the rest of his body.
Brand didn't have time to stay and fight the rest of the housecarls or to celebrate his victory. He quickly sprinted towards the Chieftains hut and opened the door. He could hear the last eleven housecarls pursue him, but he stepped inside and barred the door behind him. Brand had only one chance to survive this. The Purple Rock tribe had a tradition, which commanded that if the Chieftain would be slain, his remaining housecarls, if any survived, were oath-bound to take their own lives.
Brand quickly entered the main hall, where he could see Ragnar and his servant boys and girls attend him. Ragnar had never been a warrior, his best weapon being his mind. Ragnar heard someone enter and glanced towards the door Brand was standing at. He immediately went pale and let out a panicked shout. The children followed his gaze and saw Brand standing there, all bloodied, holding a blood-dripping sword and watching them with a murderous glare.
Ragnar picked up his axe one of the children around him was carrying and held it clumsily above his head. "If you come any closer, I'll kill you!", he shouted. Brand laughed menacingly. "As if you could do that, old man. Your brother thought the same, and now his blood colours my blade."
With a startled realization Ragnar looked the blade Brand was carrying. Startled, he screamed: "Please, I'll do anything if you let me live! I'll leave this village and let you be the chieftain."
Brand spat on the straw floor. "I'll be damned if I let you live, Ragnar. I'll take your head to the Throne of Skulls myself if I have to."
Suddenly Brand noticed how Ragnars expression changed. "Alright, if it must be so, then it must be so. You want an honorable duel, right?"
Brand nodded hesitantly.
"If you want a duel, I'll use my right as a chieftain to nominate a champion to defend me." Ragnar said with a wicked grin on his face. Brand felt hesitant, but the red mist had returned and didn't care anymore. "Very well, name your champion. If he loses, I'm taking his head and yours."
Ragnar's smiled widened. "Very well, then I'll nominate my champion to be Elgir Brandsson." Brand watched in horror, as his youngest son took a hesitant step forward. Brand hadn't noticed him before, since he had been standing behind Ragnar's throne. Brand looked back at Ragnar. "You cannot do this."
"Oh, but I just did. You didn't specify who was eligible. Elgir Brandsson is my pick." Ragnar chuckled. "Before you start, we better get some witnesses for this fight."
He turned and shouted: "Bring the prisoners."
Two tribesmen entered. They were dragging with them four other people, who Brand easily recognised as the rest of his family, his wife, elder son and two daughters. Ragnar looked like he thought himself to be victorious. "Now, Brand, let's see how you take your revenge."
Brand watched helplessly as his son took the blade he was offered. Elgir had barely seen more than nine winters, and now Ragnar had honour-bound Brand to kill his own son. The mist was gone now, and the sword in Brand's hand was shaking visibly.
"What's the matter, Brand? Aren't you going to take your revenge after all?" Ragnar mocked. Then he looked Elgir viciously. "Kill your father and I'll let you and your family free."
Elgir clearly hesitated, but then raised his sword. "I'll do this so that they can't hurt us anymore, dad. You betrayed the tribe and we had to suffer." He then swung his sword. Brand easily parried it. As the blades collided Brand could feel the red mist slowly return.
"No, Elgir, don't!" Brand shouted, but Elgir slashed clumsily again. Again Brand parried it with his blade. His vision turned even more red. "Please, Elgir, you are hurting yourself!" Brand pleaded, but Elgir kept flailing his sword at Brand. Brand's hand seemed to work on its own, parrying each blow. With every metallic clash of blades his world turned ever more redder. The blood-thirsty murderer inside him was returning. Then after their swords met again he felt how he lost control.
Brand quickly dived in, slashing at Elgir's legs. A high-pitched scream filled the hall as Elgir fell down, holding the stump of his leg. The beast inside him quickly claimed another skull for the Skull Throne.
With the efficiency of a killer, he threw his blade at Ragnar, impaling him through his chest. Color fled from Ragnar's face as he slowly realized what had happened. Somewhere on the background a woman was screaming, but Brand did not care. He marched to Ragnar, where he was still barely standing. He wrapped his hands around Ragnar's neck and... everything went red.
...
Brand stretched his legs. He could feel the fur covers of his bed tickle against his bare skin. He turned around to his wife, but noticed she had already gotten up. Grunting slightly he stood up and got dressed. He stepped outside of his hut and entered the completely empty village outside. Thinking it quite strange, returned inside and retrieved his sword and shield. He then started to search for his wife and children. Snowflakes were falling from the sky, and everything had been covered in several inches of snow.
He circled around for a while, but didn't see a soul. Everything was silent, except for the sound of falling snowflakes and his footsteps. As he turned around to the village square he was met with a terrifying sight.
A pile of skulls, numbering hundred or more, was standing in the middle of the square. The bodies of the villagers were piled a bit further in a heap. As Brand stepped forward he slipped on something. As he stood up he noticed the ground beneath him was frozen solid and tinted red. Frantically he wiped away more snow only to find out that the entire square had been flooded with it.
Then a sudden realization startled him. "No!", he cried and ran to where the bodies where. He tried to look for any signs of his wife and children, but was soon interrupted by a cold, snarling voice behind him.
"Your family is not there, Brand", said the beastial voice.
Brand turned around and found himself stare at the eyes of three blood-red creatures. Their skin was steaming in the cold air and their skin was drenched in fresh blood. One of the creatures held a brass chain in its hand, and to it were chained four humans Brand instantly recognized. "Let my family go, daemon!" Brand pleaded.
A sadistic chuckle erupted from the Bloodletter's throat. "It seems you have forgotten your pact with Lord Khorne, mortal. A pile of skulls, a heap of bodies, a river of blood and every soul in this village."
Brand had no idea what the daemon was talking about. "Please, you must be mistaken. This village does not worship the Blood God. Let them go, I beg you." he pleaded.
The daemon snorted. "It seems you have forgotten, Brand. Perhaps this will refresh your memory", it said, and put it's scorching hand on Brand's chest. Brand's fur coat peeled off and Brand suddenly found himself staring at a Mark of Khorne drawn on his chest. Then the walls on his memories broke and he fell on his knees. He had hunted every single soul in the village and offered their skulls for his patron. But even in his rage he had spared the rest of his family.
Brand stood up. On his face he had an emotionless expression of grim determination. He unsheathed his sword, which was covered in brownish dried blood. Without emotion he turned to his family.
"A debt must be paid. Lord Khorne demands it."
With tears rolling down his eyes he raised his blade. Soon the skull pile was a tad bit higher.
The Bloodletters growled, seemingly pleased.
"Lord Khorne is pleased. Don't rest too easy, for your debt isn't fully paid yet. The sorcerer, Malthar, escaped before you entered the village. He took a horse and rode south. You cannot catch him, but when the time comes, his skull will join the rest", the Daemon said.
Then the monstrous trio turned. "Oh, and one thing, Lord Khorne sent you his blessing. It's in the chieftain's hall."
Then they vanished, leaving behind them only the smell of blood and brimstone.
Without wasting more of his time, Brand walked to Ragnar's former hall. In the throne room he found a red suit of armour, etched with brass. On the armour's shoulders a furry cloak was hung. Brand realized it was a fur cloak made of ice bear fur, probably the same one he had killed himself. Along with the armour a brass-etched axe and a large, metal shield were laid on a nearby table. All of them carried the symbol of Khorne. Slowly Brand took of his clothes and put his new armour on, one piece at a time. At first the armour had seemed too big for him, but as more and more steel covered his flesh, he noticed that the armour fit perfectly. It seemed Brand had also grown in size.
As he grabbed put on his helmet a familiar, roaring sound echoed in his ears.
"Go now, my servant, and do my bidding. From this day on, you shall be known as Skalarbrand."
Skalarbrand took his axe and shield and stepped outside, where the snowflakes were slowly covering everything.
Idleness is the pathway to damnation.