They met few travellers on the road, which itself was little more than a trail cutting through the woods. Most preferred to journey on water, on the rivers or along the coast. This suited Halfdan fine. Being surrounded by forest pleased him, and other travellers could be a cause for trouble. He knew that the closer they came to Odinsvi, the more traffic they would encounter; but for now, he enjoyed the solitude. He did not even mind Sif humming two paces behind him.
A week after they set out, as they came around a bend in the road, they suddenly saw a small band of men, four in number; they sat to the side of the road, eating provisions. The circumstances made Halfdan wonder if they had purposely taken this position by the bend, preventing him from espying them from afar; he certainly would have steered into the forest if he had noticed them first, given they all carried weapons, and more than one had scars. Now it was too late.
One of them, a bow slung across his shoulder and a seax by his belt, got up with a smile. “Gods’ peace to you, fellow travellers. On your way to Odinsvi with your daughter?”
“He’s not my father,” Sif scoffed; a look from Halfdan silenced her.
“She’s not your thrall either, given her temper,” the warrior laughed. “But that’s your business.”
“It is.” Halfdan looked from the short sword in the man’s belt to the yellow tint in his eyes. Even without tasting his blood, the berserker felt certain he stood in front of an ulfheein. Likewise, he guessed that the other man knew him to be a warrior of the bear. “We’ll be on our way.” With a firm grip on Sif’s shoulder, he began walking. The small band followed them with their eyes and various expressions, but made no moves; soon, the two travellers had left them behind, out of sight.
*
“With strangers, you don’t speak,” Halfdan commanded her. “You never know their intentions.”
“What do you think their intentions were?”
“Kill me and sell you on the slave market by Odinsvi.”
Sif gasped, and without looking, he knew her eyes to be wide. “They’d do that? Kill someone they just met?”
“The rest of them, I take to be farmers tired of working the fields or some other such story. But the man leading them, he was ulfheein.”
Quietly, Sif tried to pronounce the word. “What’s that?” she asked.
Halfdan was not in the mood for lengthy explanations, but a skáld was meant to be curious, and if she were to awaken that gift, he might play a part in helping that along. “You know berserkers are warriors of the bear.”
“Yes?”
“An ulfheein is a warrior of the wolf. I don’t know their gifts or rituals, but I’ve met some. They are more common in the northern realm – I suspect he came from there as well,” Halfdan considered. “Regardless, they are dangerous.”
“Like you?”
“Yes,” the berserker granted. “Well, on his own, he’d be no match for me. But with a pack behind him – even one made of feckless farmers – who knows what his gift offers him?”
“But you said they wanted to kill you and – why didn’t they?”
“It wasn’t worth it for them, risking death for one slave. You don’t start a fight with a berserker unless you’re certain to win, and win quickly. We don’t tire, child, and any injury we receive, it only makes us fight harder.” Halfdan exhaled. “Enough for now. Walk in silence.”
*
Although they entered more settled lands, they still rarely met others; most travelled in the same direction, going to Odinsvi for midsummer, and so they only met other wanderers if they happened to overtake them.
A few days after the encounter with the ulfheein, they spotted a cart ahead of them on the road. This did not arouse any concern; raiders did not bother travelling with a slow-moving cart. Rather, this was a peddler of some sort. As they slowly approached, their pace slightly faster than the wagon, Halfdan furthermore saw children seated in the back on top of furs.
They likewise noticed the tall berserker and his companion, giving word to the driver, who halted the cart and stood up, turning around to face them; shortly after, Halfdan and Sif had caught up.
“Gods’ peace,” the peddler told them while his children stared; his wife, next to him on the seat, looked apprehensive. “Travelling to Odinsvi?”
“That is where the road leads,” Halfdan muttered.
“You are welcome to join us. Your child can ride in the cart, and we don’t mind sharing food.”
The reasons for the offer were plain; a warrior like Halfdan provided safety on the road. It amused him that if he had been alone, probably his very presence would have caused panic, making the peddler drive his ox forward with whipping; yet a man travelling with his daughter inspired trust.
As for the offer, Halfdan saw no reason to accept personally, but Sif’s legs were small, they had been on the road for days, and they barely travelled faster than the cart. With an acknowledging grunt, Halfdan grabbed the girl by the waist and placed her in the back. “Let’s be off, then.”
*
Thanks to long summer days, they could continue until late before it was time to make camp. Sif had made friends with the other children in the easy manner that disappeared with age, and Halfdan had no qualms about leaving her with the peddler’s family for a little while. “I’ll check our surroundings,” he told her. “Back in a few moments.” She nodded, her attention already back on the games she had going with her new companions. Shaking his head a little, Halfdan released his axe from its strap on his back and walked into the surrounding forest.
It was quiet; animals rarely made noise to begin with, and most had gone to sleep for the night. Those predators now afoot hunted quietly; not even with [Keen of Sense] at second rank could he expect to hear an owl. The skill did help him distinguish the tracks he saw in the waning light. In less than half an hour, the sun would be beneath the horizon, but for now, enough illumination persisted to show Halfdan a trail; branches disturbed, and a bush stepped on.
Not much, but enough to put him ill at ease. Axe in hand, he turned back towards the campsite chosen by the peddler’s family. He should have told them not to make a fire; while they might be hungry for a warm meal, attracting attention was foolhardy. They were still many miles from Odinsvi and anyone enforcing the king’s peace on the roads.
As he approached, he saw the campsite lying dark; the family were experienced travellers, after all, and they knew better, it seemed. Perhaps his concerns were for naught. Relaxing his shoulders, Halfdan walked closer, his axe lowered.
An arrow flew from ahead to strike him in the chest, piercing his leather to bite flesh.
With a snarl born of pain and anger, Halfdan threw himself to the ground, taking cover behind the cart. Grunting, he pulled out the arrow and let [Mend Your Wounds] get to work. “Sif! Stay down and out of sight!” Gods give that she has the good sense to do exactly that and nothing else.
Halfdan had no doubt this was the ulfheein and his band. The furs in the wagon and the promise of several slaves had proven too much; they had gotten into position and only waited for the berserker to return that they could strike the first blow against him.
Fury welled up in Halfdan, but it was too soon. He faced a pack led by a wolf warrior, and they had their methods for hunting. He needed his head clear to outthink them.
Another arrow struck the cart; crouched behind it, Halfdan was not in danger of being hit. Instead, it was meant to keep him trapped. The archer did that while the others would be circling in to attack from another direction.
Lying flat on the ground, Halfdan looked below the cart and saw the feet of his attackers, moving to outflank him. Despite the awkward angle, he struck his axe, swinging underneath the bottom of the wagon to tear an ankle open. With a scream, one of the brigands fell. Another sprinted forward and around the cart to stab his spear down at Halfdan.
Against a warrior possessing [Wielder of Weapons] and [Swifter Than Them], these peasants stood no chance. Halfdan rolled away, getting close enough to draw his knife and plant it in his attacker’s foot. Much like the other, he screamed and fell to the ground, where Halfdan’s blade met his throat, silencing him.
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The ulfheein had been with three followers. Given the bite of his axe, Halfdan knew the fellow with the injured ankle was not walking anywhere, and blood loss would claim him eventually. That left one more besides the wolf himself.
The ulfheein had the bow, most likely, and he was on the opposite side of the cart. Another arrow came, same purpose as before. Charging him would yield nothing; like a boar, Halfdan would simply run blindly into danger. An arrow to the chest would not stop him, but one that struck the eye was a different matter.
But first to kill the last follower. Wolves were far more dangerous in a pack; isolated, the ulfheein would pose no challenge to the berserker. But where was he?
A child’s shrieking alerted Halfdan. Daring a look around the cart, he saw the sought-after scoundrel holding a dagger to her throat. In a split moment, he realised it was not Sif, but one of the peddler’s children; all the same, it told him where his enemy was.
“Come out and drop the axe!” the bastard demanded.
Halfdan obliged, but only because he had picked up the spear instead from his fallen enemy. He threw it like a javelin, and it struck the man in his mouth, piercing his skull until the tip protruded from the back of his head.
Another arrow, grazing Halfdan’s cheek. A bow was likely not the primary weapon of the ulfheein, or he would have aimed better; though this meant he was more dangerous in close combat. Rolling back behind the cart, Halfdan picked up his axe again. Time to finish this.
The angle of the arrows told him where to find his enemy; crossing the open campsite invited more feathered assaults, but the surrounding forest would provide cover. Leaping to his feet, Halfdan sprinted to reach the undergrowth.
Now came the moment where they circled to find each other, both considering themselves the predator. The trees made the bow less useful, but the wolf warrior had his seax; similarly, the forest limited Halfdan’s space to swing his axe, but a berserker’s rage was a weapon of its own.
[Keen of Sense] alerted him to movement, and he raised his axe; too late did he realise the feint. It was another arrow, not aimed at him, but simply to distract him. From the other side, the ulfheein came leaping forward.
Quickly evading, Halfdan stepped back to gain distance. The bow absent from the fight meant his axe had the longer reach. He placed his thumb against the arrow wound from earlier on his chest and pressed against it, undoing some of the work from [Mend Your Wounds]. Instead, as agony radiated from the injury, he channelled it through [Pain into Power] and felt strength course through him. With a crazed expression, the berserker gave in to his rage and began swinging his axe.
The ulfheein had skills of his own; he evaded the swings with ease, being faster than the berserker. His blade ready, he dodged below the axe head and stepped close enough to thrust the seax into Halfdan’s stomach.
All he accomplished was adding further pain to Halfdan’s fury. The berserker grabbed his enemy’s wrist, preventing him from pulling out his sword or escaping. Letting go of his axe, Halfdan’s other hand grabbed the ulfheein around the throat and began to squeeze. He did not stop until he felt the windpipe become crushed under his grip. Only once the wolf warrior ceased squirming did Halfdan release him, and he sank to the forest floor.
Whipping his head around, the berserker looked in every direction, but he saw no other enemies; realising the fight was over, a host of sensations crowded him. A rush of power from slaying the ulfheein – a worthy opponent unlike the farmers turned highwaymen – together with a wave of fatigue as the rage abandoned him, which also meant his pain was no longer suppressed.
Placing his back against a tree, Halfdan allowed himself to sink down to a seated position. With troubled breathing, he closed his eyes to summon his tree. He had three Seeds of Power available to him, and while he favoured keeping them in store for desperate situations, he also needed to be battle-ready.
He looked at [Keen of Sense], which was at second rank. [Mend Your Wounds] grew as a leaf from that and could not go higher than the branch it sat upon, but it was only at first rank; tasting blood in his mouth, he placed a Seed into his healing ability and watched it sprout.
He did not feel any particular effect; [Mend Your Wounds] was already on the task, but healing this way was slow work, whether the skill was at first or second rank. Still, he was alive, and he would live.
*
Once the pain had subsided and movement no longer sent waves of suffering through him, Halfdan dared to get on his feet. He looked at his slain enemy. Curious, he ran a finger through the man’s blood and had a taste.
[Ulfheein. Part of the Pack, Stronger than One]
At the lowest rank, that was all [Taste Your Foe] would tell him. It suggested what he already assumed; the wolf warrior fought as part of a pack. No doubt a whole band of these ulfheenar would be formidable. With only farmers at his side, not so much.
As for the body itself, it was a gift for the carrion eaters. Might as well see if he has something for me too, Halfdan thought. His pockets contained a few silver coins of southern origin, but nothing else. His clothing was bloody and ruined; not that it would have fit Halfdan anyway. He took the short sword along with the belt and got up to make his way back to the others.
*
Seeing a warrior emerge from the dark trees caused several screams at the campsite. Halfdan ignored the sound to look at each of them present; he saw only the offspring of the peddler, and his heart began to beat. “Child?” he asked.
A blanket was tossed aside, letting Sif emerge. “I kept hidden, like you said!”
Perhaps there is hope for her yet. She did not seem disturbed by the blood and dead bodies; the only expression on her face as she looked at him was a request for approval. Awkwardly, Halfdan patted her on the head before he untied the plundered sword from its belt, tossing the weapon before the feet of the peddler. “Learn to swing that, and maybe you can defend your family next time.”
“We are in your debt, Master Halfdan,” the trader admitted. Ignoring the seax, he stepped closer and widened his eyes. “You are wounded! Hurry,” he added with a look towards his wife, “find the poultices!”
She had been comforting her daughter, the one threatened by the brigand, but she quickly complied. Halfdan was not sure what it would make a difference; [Mend Your Wounds] would be sufficient, given time. But perhaps the wife had some skill in making tinctures and concoctions.
Looking at the belt still in his hand, Halfdan said, “if you have some leather strips, I’ll take those.”
If the request bewildered the peddler, he did not argue, but simply began rummaging through his belongings.
Sif, on the other hand, felt no need to restrain her curiosity. “What do you need that for?”
“You’ll see.” Another onslaught of fatigue struck Halfdan, and he amended his plans. “Tomorrow,” he added, lowering himself to sit on the ground. “It’ll wait until tomorrow.”
He stayed awake long enough to remove his leather tunic; after, he lay down to let the wife apply her poultice to his wound, and before she was done, he was fast asleep.
*
Judging by the light, dawn had arrived hours ago. Usually, Halfdan rose in the morning as the sun did, but given last night, his body had demanded more sleep, it seemed. The peddler greeted him warmly; his wife and children kept their distance, though the latter still stared.
“Master Halfdan, good to see you hale.”
He grunted as his only reply until he noticed someone missing. “Where is she?”
“Your daughter is fetching water from the brook, good master.”
“Good morning!” Sif’s voice reached him as she came through the undergrowth, carrying a bucket. “Thirsty?”
Halfdan growled in confirmation and drank greedily. “You, master trader.” He had not bothered to learn the man’s name. “Harness your ox. We should not tarry.”
“Of course, Master Halfdan.”
“And you, girl. Go back to the brook.”
“Why? We don’t need more water, do we?”
He gave her a look. “Did I say to fetch water? No, you’re going to collect stones. Small, flat and round.”
“Like the kind you’d use to skip?”
Possibly. Nobody had ever taught Halfdan how to skip stones. “No bigger than your palm. Be off with you.”
She did as commanded. Meanwhile, Halfdan took out the ulfheein’s belt, the leather strips from the peddler, and his knife. He cut the belt into smaller pieces and made holes, through which he tied the strips.
Rising to his feet, he swung his contraption over his head a few times, ignoring the looks from his travelling companions. Satisfied with his work, he went to the brook.
He found Sif at her appointed task. Seeing him approach, she held out her hand, which held three pebbles. “Are these good?”
“They’ll do.” Halfdan picked one and placed it in the pouch of his homemade weapon and began slinging it. A moment later, he released it, and the projectile flew across the brook to hit a branch.
He smiled, satisfied; although his specialty lay with axes, [Wielder of Weapons] gave him an intuitive understanding of how to work the sling.
Sif did not have that advantage; she would have to practise. “This is yours. So you can defend yourself.” He handed over the weapon to her, which she accepted with a look of surprised joy.
“This is mine? How does it work?”
He placed the strings in her one hand and a stone in the pouch. “You swing it and release one end to send the rock flying. Try.”
She immediately began slinging, only to strike Halfdan standing next to her. “Sorry.”
“Collect more stones and then join us.”
Halfdan left the young girl already swinging her sling again while he went to see if the ox was harnessed yet. Odinsvi awaited them.
