Chapter 3
It had taken him three days and two nights, resting on drifting ice bergs or simply floating in the restless sea, but Byorik had finally done it. He had reached the edge of the Sky Warrior’s legendary domain. Before him, reaching into the grey sky was a wall of sheer ice. It must have been two hundred feet or more; an impassible mass of iron hard ice and rock. The waves crashed into its immobile form with a thunderous noise. Though the sea was strong, the ice of Asaheim was stronger. Byorik took one last look at the immensity of his next challenge, said a quick prayer to Accalia, and swam. He still held his axe, his most trusted companion, hoping it would continue to hold true. As he swam towards the cliff of ice he let the waves carry him higher and higher. Finally an enormous wave lifted him out of the water and tossed him high into the air. Byorik sailed forward, his axe raised high and a great below upon his lips. He drove his axe deep into the ice and heard it crack as if he had sundered stone. He hung there for a moment, his left hand gripping the haft of his axe. He looked up and saw the sheer cliff, and saw no end to it. He shrugged and found a rock jutting from the ice to place his crippled hand on. Once he was secured he worked his axe free of the ice and drove it higher this time. He hoisted himself up and found another hand hold. He climbed in this way, higher, and higher, and higher; never ceasing his relentless advance.
The ice sapped the warmth from his body even as it burned with exertion. Byorik paid no heed to the cold or the burning. He kept the image of Accalia, staring at him with lifeless eyes at the feet of her killer, in his mind; letting the rage it filled him with banish all ties to his mortal flesh and blood. He was no longer a man, he was vengeance incarnate; an entity with one purpose, fueled by hate, hindered only by mercy.
As the wind blew harder and harder, and still Byorik climbed, he began to chant in the ancient Fenrisian tongue. He sung, loud and harsh; his song was carried on the air, high above him, high into the clouds. As he sang, each breath came harder to him, his lungs filled with ice. With each powerful swing of his axe, his muscles grew weaker and his bones ached.
Amidst the harsh bark of his song and the howling wind, Byorik began to hear the whisper of something. At first it was quiet, barely noticeable. But soon it became a clear and powerful voice. The voice spoke to him in his mind. It held the same authority and power that the Sky Warrior’s had.
“Do not falter young warrior. Your higher task lies yet before you. You will have your vengeance; do not falter…so close to the beginning of it all.” The voice said solemnly. “Do not falter son of Fenris.” The voice whispered and disappeared.
The voice gave Byorik renewed vigor to his mind and to his body. With one final swing of his axe, he hauled his body over the edge. He lie there in the snow for several moments, breathing heavily, willing his limbs to move. They would not obey his commands. His eyes starred through the swirling snow. He could just make out the peak of the world, silhouetted against the golden sun. He reached for it but he grasped nothing but the chill air.
“I am sorry sister, I have failed you.” He rasped.
His eyes began to close; the darkness came to claim him. As the darkness enveloped his vision a solitary form strode forth from the shadows. It knelt beside Byorik and lifted him gently into its adamantine arms. There was a sudden flash of blinding light and then all was darkness.
The darkness began to fade; its hold on Byorik’s mind weakening as his vision began to clear. A blinding light shone in his face, making his eyes water. Around him, Byorik could make out three dark forms. They seemed at first to be colossal statues, but as his vision sharpened he saw them for what they were—the gods themselves! They stared down at him with red, lidless eyes that seemed to penetrate deep into Byorik’s soul. For an instant he was fearful, but then he remembered his reason for being there and began to struggle against whatever bonds held him. The rage he felt was trapped in his unmoving body; no restraints held him, he simply could not move. He let out a howl of anger at his captors, who stood as immobile as ever, clearly unfazed by his rage.
“This one has spirit.” The figure to his right said. It was a voice of timeless wisdom, as old as Fenris herself. Though it held a hint of what might have been considered humor—at least by their standards.
“Aye Eldgrim, but has he brains to match?” the figure to Byorik’s left growled disapprovingly. “Only a fool would brave the journey to Asaheim. He is also a cripple.”
“Always quick to judge Kodran,” Eldgrim sighed. “He is the first mortal to even attempt such a journey. No small feat.”
The three figures continued to stare down at Byorik; Byorik continued his hopeless struggle against his immobile body, using every curse in the Fenrisian tongue he knew. As always, the Sky Warriors seemed unfazed and continued to speak as if he weren’t there at all.
“Bran, what is your view of the mortal?” Kodran asked the third figure who stood opposite Byorik.
Bran did not answer at once. He cocked his head ever so slightly and seemed to be delving deeper and deeper into Byorik’s soul. When he finally spoke, Byorik couldn’t help but feel he’d heard the voice before.
“I have watched this one for some time. He holds great potential yet no means to utilize it. He is, as Eldgrim said, the only mortal to reach Asaheim without our intervention.” Bran pondered for a few moments. “I see no harm in letting him live; though the choice is ultimately yours Wolf Priest.”
“That it is,” Kodran bent so his head was mere inches from Byorik’s. Kodran’s helm bore the likeness of a wolf skull and the eyes that bore down upon Byorik looked hungry. “Listen carefully mortal, for your life hangs upon your next few words. I would as soon let you die in the ice where Bran found you. However, he and Eldgrim believe you to have some part to play in events to come.” He paused, never removing the unblinking, red eyes from Byorik’s face. “Thus I put your fate in your own hands; this is a gift rarely given on Fenris, as you well know. You may live, and claim vengeance upon those responsible for you pack mate’s death, or you may die, here and now.”
Byorik wasted no time in responding. He spat blood upon the wolf faced warrior, “I’d rather die than bend my neck to you false gods!”
Kodran moved with blinding speed; unsheathing a blade at his hip even before Byorik had finished his insult. Byorik’s life was only spared by the hand of Bran, who raised his axe to fend off a mighty blow. The room echoed, not with the clang of steel, but with peals of thunder as the two weapons struck each other.
Kodran turned on Bran in an instant, his blade raised for another strike. Bran raised his axe in kind, and circled around to put himself between Kodran and Byorik.
“You forget your place Bran!” Kodran growled.
“Sometimes it is necessary for one to forget, that another may remember.” Bran said calmly. “You were mortal once Kodran, we all were. But it seems the power of the gods can muddle even the sharpest of minds.” Bran still held his axe high and Kodran was still ready to strike. Eldgrim stood by in silence, seemingly amused by the confrontation. Byorik remained silent; his hot Fenrisian blood instantly cooled by Kodran’s anger.
“I am all too familiar with the mortals.” Kodran shot back. “I’ve selected the sturdiest of their pitiful ranks and turned them into true warriors, you being amongst them! This one has not been selected by myself nor any of the other priests. He has refused the offer of life and chosen death!” Kodran stabbed with his sword, aiming just below Bran’s right arm, trying to skewer Byorik’s heart.
Bran brought his axe down on the flat of the blade and pinned it to the floor. Kodran was unfazed and used his left fist to strike at Bran’s helm. The blow connected, Bran stumbled, and the sound of adamantium on adamantium reverberated loudly. His blade free, Kodran swung it over his head and brought it down at Byorik’s chest. Byorik closed his eyes and waited for death. He waited for far longer than he should have and opened his eyes. Bran stood between them, Kodran’s blade buried deep within the right pauldron of his armor.
“Enough!” Eldgrim finally said. “You are sons of Russ, save your anger for the true enemy, where it is needed.”
Kodran grunted haughtily as he drew his sword from Bran’s armor. Bran stood and inspected the wound. Satisfied it could be repaired; he retrieved his axe and approached Byorik. He placed his gauntleted hands on his helm and removed it with a slight hssss. Bran had an impressive face. From the long flowing beard the color of fresh gore, to his sharp bestial eyes that never strayed from their target. As he smiled, Byorik could see his canines were fangs, though the smile seemed friendly enough.
“Byorik, I have watched your progress for some time now. I truly regret the death of your sister. But mere revenge is not your purpose, and it would be a shame to die for one, when you could live to save thousands.” Bran’s eyes showed him that there was truth to his words. But Byorik’s rage still burned inside him.
“I will not bow to you!” he shouted once more.
“Then do not,” Bran said, “I ask you to stand by us, as an equal! Take the name Vlka Fenryka as your own and bring glory to your name and the name of your sister! Do not wallow in self-pity and despair; such things do not become a son of Fenris.” Bran’s voice reverberated off the unseen walls, echoing ominously in the darkness.
“Or die dishonorably here and now, on your back, with a broken body.” Kodran sneered.
Byorik fell silent and allowed for the first time in many days for his rage to die down. His cool logic was having trouble keeping his fiery rage in check. Just like Fenris, two states, constantly fighting for control, neither able to hold on forever in the end. His sister would not have respected him if he died in such a cowardly manner, on his back, at the mercy of the gods who so cruelly took her life. At the very least, he owed her a valiant death, axe in hand, and the red gore hot on his face. He owed her that.
“Very well.” He finally hissed.
The final echoes of his malice died away and Kodran grunted in amusement. He disappeared into the darkness without another word, his hulking form silently blending into its depths.
“He likes you.” Eldgrim said in amusement.
Byorik did not find it as humorous as the rune priest and ignored the comment. Instead he stared intently at Bran, who still stood close by, his axe in hand, staring at the spot where Kodran had vanished. After several moments he looked away.
“I will see to his safety Eldgrim.” He said. “I’m sure you have runes to cast and fates to unravel.”
Eldgrim chuckled at Bran’s words. It was a deep rumbling sound, like an avalanche. “That I do. And this particular pup has no doubt given me more to unravel.” Eldgrim left the two of them.
Bran and Byorik remained silent for some time; Byorik thinking about the consequences of what he had said, and what the future might hold for him. Though he would not admit it to the hulking figure beside him, and especially not to himself, he was intrigued by the possibilities of the future. Finally Bran looked down at Byorik. His eyes had become colder; somehow they had lost some of the fire Byorik had seen before.
“You will be sustained by the servitors that preside over the initiates. Your body will remain useless to you until the first of the augmentations begin.” Bran’s voice had an edge to it now. Weather his anger was directed at him or Kodran, Byorik didn’t know. “Sleep if you can young warrior, for in the morning your life ends and begins anew.”
Bran turned and stepped into the shadows just as Kodran and Eldgrim had done. Byorik was left alone, surrounded by darkness, consumed by a world he could not begin to understand. Just then, something sailed through the darkness and landed on Byorik’s chest. Straining his eyes he could just make out what it was—there, bathed in the dim orange light was his sister’s necklace.