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Dark Powers (Chapter 3)
🕑 Added 2023-07-19 12:10:28 +0000 UTCI'm quite proud of this chapter. I know some people might not like or find his 'relationship' with chaos believable, but there's plenty examples of people using it while maintaining free will. Fabius Bile in 40k is a good example, as is Malekith in fantasy.
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On the camp outskirts uncovered bodies lay lined up. Björn led Radomír, lighting the way with a greasy torch.
“Here we are, take a look, see if there’s any familiar faces.”
He chuckled, gesturing at the corpses.
“Never paid so much for a pile of dead.”
Radomír glanced strangely at him before motioning with his chin. The chieftain caught his meaning and the two drew closer, moving left to right.
The youth’s eyes flickered, spotting two familiar faces. People he knew, but not family.
The second-to-last drew a look of grief from him, lips thinning and face paling. A lifetime’s experience stopped him from bursting into tears.
It was his mother.
Björn looked over his shoulder, scratching his beard.
“A beauty, even in death. Slit her wrists, by the looks of it.”
He bent down, about to take her arm, but Radomír stopped him.
“Don’t touch her.”
The chieftain froze, his gaze flitting to the boy’s face. The deathly look was one he knew well.
He sighed, straightening.
“We’ll bury her, a proper funeral-…”
Radomír ignored him, lifting her ice-cold body. Without another word, he walked into the woods.
Björn expression flickered. He didn’t follow the boy, clenching his teeth and speaking toward his back.
“You’re one of us now, lad. We’ll help you catch ‘em. The Silver Wolves are a group of bastards, but we don’t think well of schemers. Snorri and his lot’s days are numbered.”
Letting Radomír go was a gamble, but if it paid off and the boy returned… The chieftain’s eyes flashed, remembering Halfdan’s death.
The boy was a monster. As a man, what kind of strength would he possess? Getting in his good graces wasn’t a bad idea.
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After burying his mother, Radomír did return. With no leads, tracking his father and sister was a pipe-dream.
The Silver Wolves’ connections were useful, and their situation dire. With a dozen men and the same in fresh recruits, the other tribes would swallow them whole.
As the saying went, ‘a friend in need was a friend indeed’.
Björn bent over backwards for him, having heard of Radomír prowess from Halfdan, then seeing it with his own eyes. He treated the youth like his own son.
In the following months, the small band killed their way from one northern tribe to the next. Radomír’s power was on full display, spearheading the assaults. He was no leader, undesiring of Björn’s position, but his presence none-the-less roused the men’s spirits.
Months turned into years, yet the search remained fruitless. Some of Knut’s warband survived, so went the rumors. However, how many or where they fled was a mystery.
The Silver Wolves’ ranks swelled, taking battle-captives and defectors. Their reputation spread, as did Radomír’s. He was an up-and-coming champion, though a singular battle changed that perception.
A shaman-turned-sorcerer challenged Björn for the Silver Wolves’ leadership. Radomír, wanting to test his skills, fought in the aging, crippled chieftain’s stead.
Tribes gathered from near and far, looking forward to the upstart-pup being put in his place. There was much feasting and drinking during the lead-up, with betting on the final victor.
Excepting the Silver Wolves, knowing their champion’s outrageous strength, none anticipated the outcome.
The duel began with the sound of a horn, the sorcerer hurling fire and shadow at his opponent. Few and feared as his ilk were, the barbarians watched the spectacle with dry throats and cold spines.
Never mind one boy, under such powerful magics, a hundred men would be reduced to ash and dust!
Radomír emerged from the conflagration, his clothes tattered and charred. However, not one hair on his head was singed, nor was there a single blemish on his pale skin.
The spectators were struck dumb, but the battle only started. Fast as a flashing shadow, the Silver Wolves’ champion closed the gap, his sword rising and falling like lightning.
The sorcerer roared in shock, his lips and hands moving to weave his next spell. A protective barrier flickered around him, but he was too slow.
Blood spurted, limbs flying into the air. Both arms were severed, one under the wrist and the other above the elbow.
Radomír’s sword flowed like quicksilver, an upward-sweeping movement separating the sorcerer’s head from his body. It briefly joined his limbs in the air before all three splattered bloodily on the ground.
That day, Radomír, son of Knut faded into history. Güdbrand, ‘the sword of the gods’ took his place.
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‘Güdbrand’ sat on a stone, his sword across his knees. Around him were near a hundred corpses, still warm and bleeding.
Time continued its march, and he was now a young man approaching twenty summers.
He stared at the blue sky and lazily drifting clouds. One hand absentmindedly traced the scar on his bare, muscled chest. It was silvery, smooth and in the shape of an eight-pointed star.
He long since realized where he found himself, and knew what the symbol represented. However, trying everything he could, getting rid of it proved impossible.
If the layer of skin was peeled, it simply regrew, scar included. Magical means didn’t work either. It was extremely mysterious, but not malignant or intrusive—not by itself, at least.
Years of study revealed its simple purpose: it was the Dark Gods’ way of saying ‘we know where you are, who you are’. He couldn’t erase their knowledge of him, nor could he isolate himself from their gaze.
Even if he discovered some method, a troublesome fact remained—he already received his first Blessing. On the eve of his victory over that sorcerer, when he first received the title ‘Güdbrand’, a trickle of burning blood infused his veins.
He remembered the pain and overwhelming power, trying to channel the raging, crimson storm. If it wasn’t for fifteen years’ experience sculpting flesh and bone, he would’ve melted into a puddle of goo.
Of the burning blood, he spilled all he could, but some slid down his metaphorical gullet. There was no choice—like pinching someone’s nose while shoving a pipe down their throat.
He feared the chaotic power would ruin his finely crafted body, but it was surprisingly malleable and accommodating. It wasn’t a personal bestowal by the Blood God—at least he sensed no Evil gaze.
Regardless of the process’ workings, he was already a vessel for the Ruinous Powers. He could no more purify himself and survive than draining all one’s blood to cure poison.
Sitting among his fallen enemies, he almost didn’t notice the footsteps behind him.
“Our chieftain calls you, Güdbrand.”
The arrival’s tone was filled with respect, even a little fearful.
Turning his head, the fiery-haired youth saw a tall man, covered in hair. He was Sten, one of the Silver Wolves’ first ‘recruits’, and one of the few remaining ones.
Gripping his sheathed sword, the young champion stood. The northerners knew him as Güdbrand and by no other name. He already carried a few, so what was one more?
Besides, he preferred keeping his birth name out of these people’s mouths.
“Lead the way.”
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Entering Björn’s tent, aromatic smoke and strong-smelling drink assaulted his nose.
The Silver Wolves’ chieftain, having more salt and less pepper in his hair, reclined comfortably. A pretty girl, young enough to be his granddaughter, straddled his lap.
“Ah, you’re here at last. Those dogs didn’t trouble you?”
He grinned wolfishly, eating meat-cuts out of the girl’s sticky, glistening hands.
Güdbrand met his eyes indifferently. He was long used to the northmen’s vices. This much was hardly worth mentioning.
“No.”
Björn nodded in satisfaction.
“And Merkelson is dead?”
The youth shrugged, feeling no need to state the obvious.
The chieftain snorted, puffs of smoke exiting his mouth and nose.
“You don’t seem to care much. The old bear didn’t say anything useful, I suspect.”
Güdbrand looked evenly at Björn. For the past six years, he chased the traitorous Iron Bears. Despite their name, the tribe and its leader were cowardly, fleeing all the faster when news of his strength spread.
Unfortunately, they knew little about Knut and his sister’s fate. Neither torture nor promises of survival changed that.
Following the cliché plots of those convoluted dramas, Björn would be responsible. However, conducting his own investigations, the red-haired youth found the man was simply an opportunist.
Silence reigned inside the tent. Suddenly, Björn grabbed the girl, hoisting her to her feet.
“Get out.”
Lowering her head, she nodded, gathered her things and stepped outside. From beginning to end, she didn’t meet Güdbrand’s eyes.
The chieftain sighed, dragging on his pipe before coughing a few times.
“What will you do now?”
Björn didn’t get this far by being stupid—he knew his ‘champion’ only remained out of convenience. He wasn’t loyal to the Silver Wolves, nor could he be forced to stay. If his quest ended, he would leave.
Güdbrand’s expression turned thoughtful.
“I’m not sure, but I won’t stay long.”
The chieftain sighed, habitually scratching his beard. His gaze went to the tent’s roof, pensive.
“You never accepted me adopting you, so perhaps I’m wasting my breath. Whatever, keeping quiet or talking, the outcome’s the same.”
He grunted, staring at Güdbrand from under bushy, white eyebrows.
“I’m sick, old injuries laying me low. I won’t live long.”
He brought a rag to his mouth, coughing once. There was a tearing sound from his chest, the coarse fabric turning bloody.
The red-haired youth’s expression flickered. Björn wasn’t a good man, nor did he have any love for his ‘adopted sons’. If it wasn’t for Güdbrand’s extraordinary strength, he’d receive the chieftain’s indifference like the rest.
However, for all his flaws, Björn was honest. Though he bent over backwards to satisfy his favored son’s every want, he didn’t worship Güdbrand—the young champion particularly disliked the tribe’s fanaticism toward him.
He exhaled slowly.
“How long do you have?”
Björn slowly pondered the question.
“About ten years.”
“…”
Güdbrand’s lips twitched.
“Ten years, you call that ‘not living long’?”
The chieftain kept a straight face before bursting into laughter. It only lasted a moment before coughs wracked his body, not the least bit faked.
He wiped his mouth, bloodying the rag further.
“What can I say, I’m not easy to kill.”
He looked into Güdbrand’s amber eyes, speaking carefully.
“I gave you everything you wanted, I can’t offer anything more. Just stay until that brat’s coming-of-age is all I ask.”
The young man knew Björn referred to his blood-son, a kid he had shortly after Güdbrand’s joining. He was five this year—fifteen after ten summers.
It was a tremendous request, but he didn’t refuse outright. If Björn tried plying him with power, wealth or women, there would be no chance. But an honest, straight-forward request—he was weak to those.
The chieftain smiled.
“It’s a lot to ask, but if the deal isn’t to your liking, I can sweeten the pot.”
He observed Güdbrand’s curious expression, chuckled, then eyed his bloodstained clothes.
“A warm bath, a change of clothes and a bowl of something hot.”
The youth’s face turned surprised, then he shook his head, smiling. For him, it was a rare show of emotion.
“Fine, you have yourself a deal.”
Björn clapped his hands, laughed, then extended his arm, clasping wrists with Güdbrand.
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