Ulfrik

My Friend The Peacock asked me to write this for him. Introducing a certain villain for his future use...
Also look at Drakarson by the Dame Rauda Redjay, at the following web-address... http://rothas-writing.livejournal.com/14046.html#cutid1

Anyway, this be the intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz.
And warnings of Graphic Violence, bad language, sexual references and Alcohol...


(Note. Recent Events are leading to Retconning most of the Accidental Vikingr tales set AFTER Outremer. This falls amongst those. Furthermore, to move more into keeping with the setting, certain character names are being changed. Sir Jared shall be referred to as Jehan, and Sir Javier [Where he appears] as Iuliano. Sorry...)




The clip-clop of hooves seemed loud in his ears, and the tramp of leather-shod feet. The smell of charred pork was heavy in the air, as was the harsh, acrid taint of smoke. Not the clean scent of woodsmoke, but the tainted stench of the fire out of control, the fire the devoured all that would burn. They had come for the tax, the Norman Knight, and his escort from the local garrison, but the village would pay no tax this year. Indeed, from the look of the thing the village would pay no tax again, ever. The sound of retching came from some of his companions, but somehow, the warrior called Jehan, son of a Serjeant and a Dane, and Grandson of a Scot, held his gorge.
His shield was heavy on his arm, and his heart heavy in his chest. But his axe was light in his hand, and silently he thanked the old gods for his stout gambeson. Though he had yet to be properly blooded, he was the match of any of his fellows on the practice field, and yearned to wreak vengeance on those who had wrought this. The Knight called an order "Fan out. Search for survivors. Have Care, they might still be near.", and the half-dozen garrison troopers with him did so. As they did, those who had the stomach for it examined the scene. It was a fishing village, but a small one, without even a dock, the boats simply being hauled up the strand. But there, was a mark in the sand, not yet washed away by the tide, of a shallow keel. As they searched the village, being careful of the piles of still smoldering thatch and half charred beams, they saw bodies, many bodies. Men, women, and children, even livestock, the reavers had made no distinction. Many of the bodies had been mutilated, and few of the female corpses were clothed.
Worse was to come. As they drew near to the Church, a stout building of dressed stone, they found two men staked to the ground before it, lying on their stomachs. Their backs had been split open, the ribs cracked on either side of the spine, and the lungs pulled out and draped to the sides. The tattered remnants of clothing, and the crucifix on one of them, marked them as the Village Headman, and the Priest. Men whispered 'Mother of God' and 'Jesu Christo' and 'God in Heaven'. The knight, and the young trooper, Jehan, simply looked over the bodies, the words Blood-Eagle running through their heads. That nigh clinched it. Vikingr. But, there was something strange about the dead, and when the young trooper investigated closer, he found, in the bloody cavity that had once held each man's lungs, a wooden disc, larger than a silver coin, carved with a rampant wolf on one side, and a swooping dragon on the other.
Leaving the dead, they went to investigate the church. Its doors of heavy, iron banded oak hung ajar, battered open with a makeshift ram. Why the Vikingr had done that, rather than simply build pyres under the eaves, as they tended to was a mystery. It would not remain so for long. As the knight and his men entered the building, they saw, hanging from the rafters, nine men. Each had been hanged, and impaled in the side with a spear. Whilst most of the garrison troopers, and even the Knight thought it a crude insult to the Christ, Jehan knew the truth. His Danish mother had taught him the old ways. He knew it was a sacrifice to Wodin, King of the Gods. But, he kept his mouth shut.
Hope fleeing, they continued their search. There were no survivors, and none of the enemy slain. Either the villagers had made no defense, or the reavers had carried off their dead. But, a glint of metal attracted the eye of the young trooper. There, one of the corpses, pinned to the ground by a spear, gripped something in her hand. Closer examination proved it to be a necklace or pendant. Examining it, he could make out the plain, Iron hammer, Mjollnir, emblem of Thor. Common enough. But on either side of it were discs of antler carved with runes. Futhark runes. He could read Futhark. Both meanings of Futhark. Beyond those, the leather thong was ringed with fangs from a wolf. But he ignored those, concentrating on the Runes. Uruz for strength, Laguz for energy, Fehu for success. Or Ulf, the Norse for Wolf. And then, on the other disk, Raidho for travel, Isuz for concentration, and Kenaz, the Torch. or Rik. Prince. UlfRik. The Wolfprince. He knew who was responsible now, but it was a secret he would keep. He would not always be a lowly garrison trooper. Already, his name was being bandied about for Serjeant rank, and it was not impossible for him to rise even higher. He would remember what he had seen here, as the troop moved on. He would remember, and one day, he would avenge the brutality.
As time passed, the young warrior grew in skill and ability. He was blooded against brigands, and the welsh, and against the occasional norse raid. Several more times, he, in the course of his duties, came across the work of this Ulfrik, but never once came to grips with him. He would examine the corpses of the slain, mutilated, tortured, raped. He would study the ruins Ulfrik tended to leave in his wake, imprinting everything in his mind. And at nights, when none would watch, he would burn the tokens that Ulfrik left on his kills, with prayers and offerings to the gods that one day, he could have a hand in the reckoning. And then came the day that he, now leading a small patrol, trusted, a man of rank, albeit low, came across another such raided village. But this one was different. It seemed that although the bodies of Ulfrik's men had never been found, they had been taking a toll. For he had but two men left. And three men, skilled as they are, cannot slaughter an entire village. There were survivors.
And bodies of Ulfrik's men. They had come in peace, they had said, to trade, they had claimed. And so they had drawn near. And as soon as they were in the village square, they had struck. None of the few survivors were uninjured, but they had taken their toll. Ulfrik was alone now, his last two followers slain. One, the Smith had slain with a sledgehammer to the side of the head, even as his kill felled him with a sword to the gut. The other had died at the hands of a farmer, who had struck him down with a pitchfork. And through it all, Ulfrik had done naught but laugh. There was no foaming at the mouth, his speech, even in the battle, had been clear and concise. He was no berserker, not given to battle fury. He just lusted after causing pain as some do after ale, or gold, or a beautiful woman. But in the end, that lust for pain had let those who tried to escape do so. For he had contented himself with those who could not flee. The not-so-young-now trooper found another token, left in a young woman's slit throat, and took an oath, again, to avenge the fallen. And he swore the oath by, silently, by Draugadrottin, Lord of the Dead, and by Odr the Frenzy, and by Tyr, One-Handed God of Bravery, and by Thor, Lord of Thunders and Master of War.
But, alas, twas not to be, for upon returning to the keep, when he argued to be sent right back out after Ulfrik, he was denied. When, some few weeks later, word came that a notorious outlaw had been sighted nearby, the young Serjeant made certain to draw the short straw, for operating alone, beyond the reach of authority, perhaps he could come across the one he sought, and fulfill his oath. Of course, things were to happen differently to what he expected.