I've been working on a little bit of fan fiction over the past few months and I thought that the blog would be a perfect venue to introduce it to the public. The story so far involves the tale, or saga, as it will one day become, of a young Fenrisian named Byorik. I hope to turn this into a full fledged book at some point. Maybe not published but at least finished. So I'll be posting the first few chapters here and if I get a positive response from all of you I'll gladly post more. So please leave any comments that you feel could improve the work. I will read all of them and do my best to apply what has been said. I thank you for your time and imput.
-- Furthast
Chapter 1
The winds were fierce that night; though the winds were always fierce on Fenris, just like everything else. It was the fierce and unpredictable nature of the world that made those who lived there what they were. Despite her ferocity, the tribes of Fenris loved their world. She was harsh and uncompromising, capable of no pity or remorse; yet she made them strong— those who survived at least. Survival was always the lofty aspirations of the tribesmen who endured Fenris’s brutally cold winters, harsh seas, and blistering summers. Survival was always fought hard for, and always slipping from the grasps of the weak.
Byorik shifted slightly as another gust of icy wind threatened to tear his wolf skin from his shoulders. He brought it closer to his body, shivering slightly. This slight act of weakness was not missed by his father, nor his older brother. The two older men stood close by, weathering the cold like true Fenrisians. They were bear chested; their chorded muscles gleaming proudly in the firelight. Byorik turned his gaze from his disappointed father and brother, and turned it back to the funeral pyre. Upon it, his sister Accalia rested. Tears streamed down Byorik’s face; sorrow for the loss of the only person who had shown him any kindness in his harsh world.
Accalia was strong like the others, but she possessed something much rarer than strength—she possessed compassion. It was this compassion that had saved Byorik’s life from being ended even as it began. He had been born with a deformed right hand, a death sentence to anyone on the unforgiving tundra. Before his father struck the fatal blow Accalia stayed his hand; insisting that the boy could be useful still. His father allowed him to live, though he regretted the decision as the boy grew up to be a “weakling”.
Accalia had remained as Byorik’s protector all his life. She never let on to her father or other brother, but it was her subtle gestures of compassion that kept Byorik alive. When he turned five, the traditional age to begin training with a blade, he was refused by his father. “I’ll have no dealings with that lame handed weakling!” his father bellowed at Accalia when she had insisted that he be trained.
Accalia proved once again that she had something special in her icy Fenrisian heart. Late at night she would take Byorik into the ice fields and train him herself. She was hard on Byorik, cursing at him when he made a mistake and often leaving painful gashes on his body with her sword. Byorik took the berating and wounds stoically. Though the words stung and the wounds were deep, he knew his sister cared for him.
Byorik thought he would have his protector forever. But the ways of fate are cruel, no more so than on the icy fields of Fenris. On his twentieth birthday, Byorik’s life changed forever.
The Trive of the Bloodied Fist was one of the dominant tribes of Fenris. Their warriors were the fiercest and the toughest. None could match them in combat. Such prowess was partly due to the particular type of game they hunted. They hunted the traditional beasts of the tundra: wolves, mastodons, even the occasional yeti, but the most prized kill was ork. Long ago a meteor carrying hundreds of the bests crashed into the planet. The green beasts that came from that meteor were fierce and violent even by Fenrisian standards. From that day on, the tribesmen of the Bloodied Fist vowed to hunt every last ork to extinction, to prove that they were the masters of Fenris.
It was on one of these hunts that Byorik lost his dearest and only friend. He was crouched beside his sister; they were hidden behind a large snowy berm, waiting for the other tribesmen to sound the attack. In her hand Accalia held her sword and in the other a wooden shield. Byorik grasped his axe in his left hand, his right was useless. They had been tracking a band of fifty orks for three days across the open wastes of the tundra. The orks had finally picked a spot to rest that was perfect for an ambush. The green skins had set up their camp under a frozen over hang that was bordered by a deep river on one side and an even deeper crevice on the other.
Byorik shivered slightly, as he always did in the cold. He looked to his sister and saw her smiling at him. “You frightened little brother?” she jeered at him.
“N-no sister, just c-cold,” Byorik answered ashamed of his weakness.
“Well once we get that green skin blood a-flowing you’ll warm up.” Accalia patted him on the back. “Now ready yourself, the attack will begin any moment.” She said with a gleeful expression on her face. There was nothing Accalia loved more than fighting, swinging a sword, or yelling a fierce battle cry.
They waited anxiously for several moments before a great thunderous cry came from all around them. Byorik and Accalia burst from hiding and joined the forty other warriors of the Bloodied Fist as they descended upon the unsuspecting orks. Accalia was one of the first to join battle with the beasts; she stepped gracefully through their disorderly ranks, cleaving, bashing, and stabbing. Wherever she strode mutilated corpses fell in her wake.
By the time Byorik had joined the battle it was full chaos. Men howled ancestral war cries and orks returned their challenges in kind. All of Byorik’s anxiety had disappeared. It was replaced by cold calculated swipes of his axe. He fought his way closer and closer to his sister; his need to be at her side greater than any foe that tried to stand before him.
A large ork holding an even larger club blocked his path. The green beast laughed at its newest victim and swung its club with both hands, over its head. Byorik dodged to the left and swung his axe at the ork’s knees. The blade bit deep but the ork seemed unfazed by the wound. It whirled around, bellowing a challenge and took another swing at Byorik.
This one nearly crushed his skull, but missed as he slid under the swing, on his back. He found himself between the ork’s legs and took a mighty swing at the beast’s groin. The ork howled in pain and keeled over. Byorik quickly stood and before the creature could regain its footing, buried his axe in its brain. He let out a cry of triumph and turned to find his sister. His face fell as he saw her disappear under a tide of green.
“No!” he cried, and fought desperately to reach her.
Before he had taken more than a few steps, a blinding flash of deep blue erupted from the center of the mob. A moment later a shockwave sent all around it sprawling to the cold ice. Byorik looked up to see his sister rising into the air, some kind of blue flame engulfing her body. She did not seem in pain, nor was she struggling against the force that held her. The blue flames grew brighter and higher, and still Accalia remained motionless in its center. Soon, whispers began to enter his mind; horrible, hateful, malicious whispers.
Orks fled as fast as they could and Byorik’s fellow tribesmen followed in kind. Soon, he knelt alone, only the fear for his sister keeping him from following his kinsmen. The whispers grew louder and more violent in his mind, and yet he remained where he was, captivated, fearful, and able to do nothing.
Just as the whispers were beginning to tear at his mind, another pillar of light came from the sky. This one was bright orange and was accompanied by a thunderous crash as something large struck the ice beside Accalia. The large object opened, and from within emerged a creature Byorik thought he would never live to behold. It was a Sky Warrior; the legendary gods who dwelt in the clouds upon the forbidden land known as Asaheim. The god strode forth from its vessel and drew from its side a glittering sword. It paid Byorik no heed as it approached his sister. The Sky Warrior reached Accalia, still engulfed in blue flames. It raised its sword, now surrounded in a field of ice blue lightning. It then plunged its sword into Accalia’s chest and she fell to the ice, dead.
“No!” Byorik yelled, suddenly finding he could move once more. He threw down his axe and ran for the warrior who stood motionless, Accalia’s body at its feet. Byorik descended upon the god with a fury he had ever known before. He beat the warrior’s grey armor until his fists were bloodied and his hands broken. The warrior stood motionless as a statue.
“Damn the gods! Damn you! I will have my vengeance!” Byorik shouted as he fell to the ice, unable to continue his rampage.
It was then that the warrior moved. It knelt down; still towering over Byorik’s hunched form, and placed one armored finger at his heart. “Do not forget this young warrior, for in the end, it is all we have.” The voice came out metallic and strange, but Byorik felt authority in those words.
The Sky Warrior stood and took several paces back from Byorik and his sister. It gave Byorik one final nod and then vanished in a flash of light. Moments later its vessel also vanished. Byorik remained motionless for some time. He let the chill wind whip at his face and did not feel its sting. He let the cold of the ice sink into his bones but he still felt nothing. Not until the sun began to descend below the icy mountains did he finally stand, pick up the limp body of Accalia, and start the long trek home.
Chapter 2
Byorik watched as the final remains of his sister’s body burned away to ash and remained out in the cold long after the others had departed the funeral ceremony. He watched the last of the embers die and the final wisps of smoke ascend to the heavens.
The next morning the tribe of The Bloodied Fist went about its business as if nothing had happened. Accalia’s death was just one of hundreds. Frenrisians could not afford to mourn over much for the loss of their kin. Fenris did not allow such weakness, especially in the winter months. Byorik went about his duties, paying little heed to them. He cared little if he angered his father. He was quite used to pain by now.
As he worked, Byorik formed a plan in his mind. A suicide plan that none, not even the bravest of all the warriors in all the tribes, had ever dreamed of. The following night he would set out for the realm of the gods, the fabled and forbidden land of Asaheim, and he would exact his vengeance upon the Sky Warriors.
As night fell and the tribesmen retreated to their warm furs, Byorik remained in the cold. He had prepared all that he would need: his axe, his furs, food enough for the journey, and his sister’s wolf tooth necklace. All he required was a map to lead him to Asaheim. Byorik knew that acquiring such a thing would be dangerous. For only the shaman of the tribe was permitted to see such things. Resigned to his task, no matter the danger, he silently entered the shaman’s tent.
The old man was sleeping soundly. Byorik cautiously stepped over him and made his way to a chest that contained all of the shaman’s mystical artifacts. The chest wasn’t locked so he quietly opened the lid. The old iron hinges shrieked in protest. Byorik froze and looked over his shoulder. The shaman was still sound asleep. He turned back to the chest and opened it.
Inside there were many artifacts: old bones, pieces of cloth and animal hide, weapons, scrolls, and hundreds of rune carvings. Byorik shifted through the contents until he found what he was looking for, a small scroll with a very rare and treasured marking on its old parchment; the symbol of the Sky Warriors, the wolf that stalks between the stars.
Byorik slid the scroll into his furs and silently crept out into the cold night once more. He breathed deeply; letting the icy bite of Fenris fill his lungs. This was the beginning of the end, this he knew without a doubt. He would either die on the journey to the forbidden land or at the hands of the gods themselves. With a final sigh, Byorik shouldered his pack and set off into the darkness. As he passed the final hut in his village he took one final look at the only world he had ever known. He felt no sorrow in his heart; for it was not truly a home without Accalia. The wind howled and tore at his cloak, like the hungry wolf eager for its next meal. Byorik turned and began his long trek into the wild. He never looked back.
Byorik had been traveling for days; following the obscure directions and mystic references of the scroll he had taken. The landscape of Fenris was ever changing; this made finding his way very difficult. In one day a canyon of ice could become a raging river, or an ice field a lake. The only constant and true guide he had was his knowledge that Asaheim lied due north of his village. This journey took him through the coldest and most desolate lands of Fenris, populated by her most fearsome beasts.
On his sixth day Byorik came upon the den of a snow yeti. The entrance to its den was a nearly vertical tunnel, dug from the ice that descended nearly twenty feet into the ground. Byorik put as much distance between him and the den as he could. He had only heard stories of the strength possessed by yetis, and had no desire to confirm them.
Game that he could hunt became increasingly scarce as he journeyed closer to the sea and his goal. He was forced to subsist on what he’d brought with him and what small creatures he could find. At night, with no shelter to speak of, Byorik would dig a small hole in the ice with his axe and cover as much of his body as he could in his furs. He would stay awake for hours, listening for any sign of beasts in the darkness. As he lay awake, he would often stare into the heavens, at the bright stars that recounted the epic sagas of the Sky Warriors. He would clutch his sister’s necklace tight and once again vow to exact justice upon the cruel gods.
As the days wore on, Byorik increased his pace, rarely ceasing in his relentless trudging across the frozen wastes. He even ran through the night, letting the stars guide his way and the moon light his path. As he ran, a calm determination enveloped him, keeping him warm as Fenris blew her icy breath in his face, keeping his aching legs moving despite their screams of protest, and keeping his gaze always on the horizon, never once did his eyes stray from the distant line of golden sunlight.
He was one with Fenris; her strength was his, her energy flowed through his veins, he feared neither beast nor the cold gripping death of the landscape. For the first time in his life, Byorik was not uncertain of the future. He knew his future, deep within his bones; every beat of his heart only renewed his faith in what he sought. It was as if the wild spirit of Fenris was pushing him onwards. Soon the driving winds that tore at his face turned, and blew ever fiercer at his back. And when his legs were taxed over much, he would run on all fours like one of the great wolves of the ice.
In the distance he could hear the wolves howl; sharing their joy for the hunt, he would answer them in kind, bellowing his displeasure to the heavens so that the Sky Warriors could not hope but to hear it. Byorik did not know how far Asaheim was from his village, and the scroll gave no indication. It only gave him the direction to travel and the landmarks to seek; which was why he was surprised when he heard the roar of the sea and smelled salt on the air after only ten cycles of the sun and the moon. The knowledge that he was almost to his goal renewed his vigor and he made for the sea with as much speed as his sturdy form and powerful muscles would allow.
He reached the sea just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. He stood on the edge of a cliff of sheer ice. Thirty feet below him, the sea writhed and churned, like a feral dog or restless child. The dark waters foamed as the waves crashed into the cliff, seemingly trying to drag it down into the dark depths. Byorik looked across the horizon; in the distance, visible only as a shadowy spire in the midst of a violent sea was Asaheim. His eyes narrowed and he allowed all the hatred he possessed for the Sky Warriors to well up inside him. He let it infuse his muscles with a burning fire; let it turn into a powerful itch at the base of his skull. For this part of his journey he would need much more than Fenrisian strength. He would require hate to keep him warm in the icy waters, sorrow to numb him from the pain, and vengeance to take the first step.
Byorik took several steps from the edge of the cliff. He shed his furs, his boots, his pack, his gloves; everything save for his axe and his sister’s necklace. He gripped his axe tightly in his left hand and breathed deeply. “I will not fail you sister. If my life is worth something, let it be to avenge yours.” Then he ran, his naked feet digging deep into the snow, he leapt, his chorded muscles tensing, he plunged, deep into the dark, frigged depths of the sea. He fought the sea like he fought everything else, with all his heart and soul. He clawed at it like a feral beast and it clove before him. He burst into the air and let it fill his lungs. Setting his eyes to the horizon, to that shadowy spire shrouded by clouds and mystery, and he swam.
The sea would not see him pass without a fight. It writhed and churned around him; violently throwing him about like a piece of driftwood. But all Fenrisians were taught the ways of the sea, and Byorik was no exception. He moved his body with the flow of the sea, knowing to fight such a mighty foe head on would mean death. He fought the sea for many hours; and just as he thought he could fight its limitless power no more, the waves shrank away, the howling winds died into a soft sea breeze, and the fierceness of Fenris was tamed for a short while.
In the distance the sun was rising once more. It appeared as a golden halo atop the shadowy spire of Asaheim. Its light shone down clearer than Byorik had ever seen; it cut through the dark storm clouds and sent golden shafts of light to sparkle off the calm water. Byorik felt the warmth on his face and allowed himself the slightest of respites to enjoy the heat and the beauty of the sea. However, he was soon making for the distant spire once more, carving a sparkling gold wake in the water.