Tyrr Gunnarson was seventeen years old and he was going insane.
From the age of thirteen had been one of the most able fighters in his clan, his father's voice swelled with pride when he spoke of his eldest child. The Shaman had declared him to be blessed by the Allfather and the ancestors.
Now they glanced sideways at him when he walked by, muttering about curses, evil spirits and all manner of things.
It had begun in the previous cycle of the moon; a raiding party from the Greyclaw tribe had attacked the camp. Tyrr had been repairing snowshoes, a necessity on the ice-bound world of Fenris, when the flaming torches had flown from the cowardly bastard's hiding places.
Not bothering to find a weapon, Tyrr had charged headlong at the group of fifteen raiders. The furs they had needed to stay warm while hiding weighed them down and they couldn't react fast enough as the young man barreled into their midst, breaking a neck in a heartbeat, wrestling another's flint halberd from him and laying waste to the others until he was joined by his comrades.
It was as he kicked in the skull of the last one, the blood thirstily drunk by the snow, that he saw a sight that had made even his boiling blood turn to ice; a shadowy figure, too tall and broad to be a man, with glowing eyes watching from a stand of pine trees across from the little battlefield.
He had turned to Karl and pointed at the monstrosity, but Karl saw nothing and when Tyrr looked again there was nothing but freezing wind and evening shadows.
Perhaps my mistake was insisting it was real…
His friends had thought he was playing tricks, but that was not like him. When he brought up the apparition at evening meals for several days after, people stopped sitting near him if they could help it, some narrowed their eyes when he joined their group.
…..
The second time he'd seen it, he and one of his more loyal friends, Hegg, had been hunting elk. Springing the trap, the pair drove a large stag into some trees, where the beast's three-metre antler span eventually prevented it from passing between the snow covered trunks. As he pulled his spear from their quarry's neck, a red glow between the trees caught his attention.
Those eyes again!
He shouted to Hegg and took off towards the thing. But once again it was nowhere to be seen after he looked away for a split second to find his footing while sprinting through the trees.
His friend dragged him back to the elk to strip the carcass and when they got to the camp Hegg blabbed to his sister about Tyrr's 'ghost'.
Word got around and now very few of his hunting group wanted much to do with him, only speaking with him for the minimum amount of time and only when the had to. Girls who had blushed when the dashing young warrior spoke or smiled to them now resolutely looked at anything else but him. Older men spat after saying his name and grumbled about bad luck. All of his achievements, fighting prowess, intelligence, tracking skills and even his luck with women were seen as evidence of… something bad anyway.
Still, the name Gunnarson made everyone think twice about trying to kill him or exile him for now, Gunnar Skjaldson was chief of the Stone Wolves tribe. Just like an alpha wolf, pissing him off was a great way to wind up minus some body parts.
But when the hunting party he was attached to re-joined the rest of the tribe in a few weeks someone would tell his father what had gone on and then he'd no doubt be given to the Shamans with bound hands and tested for magick or wytchery or something.
He really hoped he wasn't a wytch. He'd heard tell of them. Some were insane and killed folk with fire from their eyes and lightening from their fingers. Or is it the other way around? Others weren't bad, but their curse made them go mad in fights and explode their foes and then themselves. No matter what they did, all the stories about them ended with them killing themselves or being taken away by the Sky-Warriors.
Sky-Warriors…
The Bards said the Sky-Warriors served the Allfather. Soaring across the stars in metal boats to fight his enemies. They chose their members from the finest warriors on Fenris. They described them as twice the height of a man, some said their armour was grey, others said it was yellow. Still others said they fought naked and had the teeth of wolves.
Tyrr wanted to believe the Sky-Warriors were watching him. But it seemed a little more likely he was going mad with wytchery.
Hegg said his Great-uncle had become a Sky-Warrior, All the kids had laughed at him until one feast-day a Bard told the tale of a Stone Wolves victory over the Snowstriders. After the battle, a Stone Wolf lay dying after being pierced through the gut by a spear. Single-handedly killing the enemy Chief and his retinue at the cost of his own life. As his comrades gathered round him a massive figure had appeared, pushed them aside and claimed his body. Carrying him off as the dumbstruck men watched, too scared to follow. A Shaman had confirmed it was a relative of Hegg's.
Life on Fenris was tough, but Fenrisians were supposed to be tougher; he had been fighting, killing, winning for nearly half of his life, and all of a sudden it was turning him mad?
…
As the weeks wore on and they made their way back to meet the rest of the tribe for the summer, Tyrr found himself on forward scouting duties more often. Though he was alone and out ahead of the group, he didn't have to carry any of the meat, furs and other provisions they'd need to survive the upheaval of the short Fenrisian summer. That was nice.
Other than a minor run-in with a ice fiend, which had scarpered when Tyrr put out one of its eyes with a jab from his spear, the trip back to the valley where they were linking up with all the other hunting groups was uneventful. He hadn't had any more odd visions and he kept his mouth shut about the other ones. Some people had calmed down and he got less vindictive stares at mealtimes now.
The girls still wont warm my sleeping roll though… Fuck.
That was Tyrr's last carnal thought in a while, for as he summited the ridge the smell of smoke wafted into his nostrils from the valley. Not the smoke from his father's Aett, though, the smoke from a cookfire didn't smell like this… there was woodsmoke, yes, but also burning fur and leather, burning flesh…
He covered the last fifty metres in a sprint and the sight in the valley below greeted him like a slap in the face.
Several groupings of tents were ablaze around the valley, their owners dead or fighting for their lives against what Tyrr could plainly see were superior numbers. His father's longhouse, made from the leather of a small Kraken said to have been slain by his Grandfather, was burning fiercely too.
Searching the battlefield desperately, Tyrr spied his father's banner close to the longhouse; the crunching of iron and stone weaponry was audible as Gunnar Skjaldson and his band of fighters stood back-to-back, surrounded on three sides by enemies and on the other by burning tents.
He recognised their foe's banner too; a curved grey paw on a crudely dyed red background, Greyclaws.
Knowing he had no time to spare, Tyrr turned around, back the way he'd come. Another man was not far behind him; if the forward scout saw trouble he could yell back at that one, who would warn the main party.
Tyrr summoned all the power he could into his lungs.
"GREYCLAAAWS!"
Fortunately the runner got the message and immediately charged back to the hunting party about three kilometres behind them.
...
Tyrr shrugged off his mammoth and elk skin cloak and hefted his spear. His Iron axe was on his belt and his long knife was in his boot. He unslung a leather and wood shield from across his shoulders, slipping his hand into the woven grip.
There was glory to be won this day.
Bellowing a wordless challenge to any who dared face him, Tyrr Gunnarson hurtled down the slope towards the fray. His spear was lost, embedded in the side of a Greyclaw who had been locked in a wrestling match with a woman Tyrr recognised as his friend Annika's cousin. Not bothering to stop and retrieve it he charged onwards to where the banners of Greyclaw and Stone Wolf were almost touching, there he'd find his father and some enemies worthy of his skill.
He leapt clear over a burning tent and his knees collided with the back of a Greyclaw rushing to the same fight he was aiming for. Slamming the man into the ice and dirt Tyrr rolled to his feet, barely losing momentum and burying his axe in the forehead of a surprised looking warrior.
He howled in the man's face as blood erupted from his skull, kicking the corpse away from him to free the axe. The main event was metres away now; thirty or so Greyclaw cowards were grappling with maybe twelve Stone Wolves, Tyrr's father at the front, laying into his enemies with a massive sword carved from Kraken beak, also his Grandfathers.
Tyrr rushed at the side of the melee, taking a man by surprise, it wasn't particularly honourable to kill a man by surprise attack but neither was outnumbering your enemy by more than double, so Tyrr wasn't too bothered. He roared at the Greyclaws and backed off slightly.
Three of them noticed their friend's demise and rounded on Tyrr.
"So you troll-spawn think you have the balls to face me?!" He challenged. "I'm gonna cut off your heads and make your sisters bear my children!"
The three men lunged for him, but they were tired from nearly an hour of constant battle and Tyrr was fresh. He backpedalled quickly and one of the men overbalanced as his spear thrust through the air where Tyrr's head had been, expecting to encounter flesh he leaned forward too far. Tyrr's shield batted the spearpoint upwards, simultaneously taking care of the other pair's weapons as he swung his axe into the spearman's armpit.
Following through quickly he ended up behind his enemies, the spearman fell too his knees in a panic, trying to staunch his escaping lifeblood as it spurted out from his severed artery.
Tyrr swung his axe nonchalantly in his hand, spraying blood at the remaining pair, who warily advanced, one with a large warhammer, the other a long knife and shield.
"Come to me cowards! You need lessons in fighting?" His taunting covered his true purpose, while he talked, they wouldn't notice him prepare to strike…
As the one with the warhammer drew back to swing, Tyrr leapt forward like lightening, kicking the man in the chest. Combined with the backward momentum from swinging the warhammer the kick sent him to the ground and Tyrr immediately used the break to lay into into his companion.
Hooking his axe on the top of his opponent's shield Tyrr tore it from his grasp, at the same time he swung with his own shield, using it to snag the man's knife and leaving him defenceless as the axe came around once more and bit into his neck.
Blood spurted up Tyrr's arm as he struck again, determined to remove the man's head from his shoulders. On the forth blow he succeeded. Turning to show it to the world he narrowly avoided being brained by a warhmmer.
"You again my old mate!" He laughed and threw the bloody head at the man.
The only reply was another swing from the hammer, Tyrr skipped over a body on the ground. The hammer was deadly if it hit, but painfully slow to wield.
The man swung his hammer back around his leg, meaning to rush forward with an upward swing, even if caught on his shield it would shatter Tyrr's arm.
Praying to the spirits Tyrr sprang towards his foe, bringing his foot down on the man's hands as he started swinging, breaking his grip. The hammer thudded into the snow as Tyrr broke his opponents nose with a headbutt.
He rammed his axe into the man's chest, needing two hands to tear it free. "Die slow…" Tyrr spat, leaping over him and rushing back to his father's banner.
Coming from behind the burning tents the Greyclaws had pushed the Stone Wolf fighters against Tyrr ran through the burning frames and burst out beside Harald, one of the younger warriors in his father's trust.
The odds were more even now, the Stone Wolves hadn't lost many, and with the three Tyrr had taken care of it was now ten against fifteen. An uneasy stalemate was in the making, the Greyclaws had no momentum and facing a fierce foe with their backs against a (burning) wall and shields protecting all sides the fight had ground down to prodding each other's shields with spears and trading insults.
"Give it up, dogs! You cannot win here!" Called a large man who seemed to be leading the Greyclaws.
Tyrr saw more Greyclaws running to join the fight, having succeeded in battering down resistance elsewhere.
Gunnar bellowed back. "Fine words, if you're a man who's too scared to fight!"
Tyrr elbowed his way through the group to his father's side, whispering in his ear. "Father, we will be reinforced by my hunting party in a short time, but they'll tear us apart before that as soon as they have the numbers… allow me to challenge this bastard to give us time!"
And add to my conquests in battle…
Gunnar did not take his eyes off his foes, but grinned. "Joakim! You swine! Let us end this like men, pick someone to fight in single combat against my chosen man and let that be the end of this!"
The Greyclaw leader grinned back at Gunnar. He muttered to his men, who backed off the Stone Wolf group.
Minutes later, Tyrr was grinning too, this would be a glorious fight for sure… His opponent was at least a head higher than he, and looked like one of his ancestors might be a Troll. His shield was light coloured wood and he held a short handled spear at his side.
Rolling his axe in his hand he took up a defensive stance, crouching low with his shield tight into his shoulder. Hopefully his opponent would think his size could overpower Tyrr and crush him before he could attack. He probably could too, Tyrr was counting on it.
With a roar the huge man barreled toward his opponent, who crouched lower to the ground, stupid bastard probably thought he could take it! He leapt forward over the last metre or so, aiming to plant a foot on the shield and batter this kid onto the ground where he could dispose of him easily.
Tyrr moved like fluid and slid out from under the huge man at the last possible moment, causing him to land heavily and stumble. He managed to swipe his axe across the man's back and opened up a gash above his kidney.
Spinning round, the men cautiously faced off. A few thrusts of the spear were easily blocked by Tyrr's shield, a couple of axe blows were dodged or caught by his opponent.
More Stone Wolves and Greyclaws joined the ring of observers, their own battles called off to watch the gladiatorial spectacle. Both warriors savoured the attention, whoever won here would surely have a saga started about them by the bards within the day!
Tyrr made another probing attack, but his foe saw it coming and pushed him back with the weight of his shoulder behind his shield. Tyrr stumbled back, desperately fending off spear thrusts. Finally getting his footing he managed to push back and the two warriors faced off again.
"Stone Wolf? Stone pup more like!" Laughed the giant.
Tyrr couldn't think of a decent comeback and stayed silent, bouncing on his toes. Greyclaws in the circle of watchers cheered.
The big Greyclaw charged him again, Tyrr faked dodging to the left, then leapt right. Unfortunately his opponent had better reactions than Tyrr had given him credit for and for his arrogance was clipped by the edge of the man's shield, sending him crashing to the ground. He rolled away as a thrust which would have skewered his heart whistled toward him, caught another strike on his shield and lashed out with his axe. He missed on his first swing but as he brought it back the blunt side of the head hit the side of the man's knee.
As his foe pitched to the side, momentarily forgetting Tyrr and concentrating on staying upright, Tyrr scrambled to his feet. He swung his axe at his enemy's head, but met his shield instead. Keeping his forward momentum going, Tyrr barged into him and they fell in a tangle of limbs and weaponry.
To his relief Tyrr managed to stay on top, there was a funny feeling in his side but he ignored it as he brought his axe up, meaning to take the man's head while his shield was trapped between their bodies.
His axe wouldn't move, it had gotten stuck in the side of the shield...
At a loss for only a split second, Tyrr abandoned the axe and instead punched the man in the face, blooded flowed from his nose and Tyrr saw the bastard's eyes tear over in the uncontrollable reaction to having your nose burst.
He felt a jerk in his side again and realised why the man wasn't defending his face; his spear was thrust through Tyrr's chest. Some of the blood on his face was his own, flowing out his mouth.
For some reason he couldn't quite fathom Tyrr didnt particularly care. He knew how to end this. His opponent was grinning at him now, thinking he'd accepted his fate. Instead of giving up, Tyrr buried his face in the man's throat, finding the adam's apple with his teeth and biting down as hard as he could.
Tyrr held on for dear life as the man started thrashing, trying to shake the insane fucker biting his windpipe off him. This was a mistake, the shaking caused Tyrr's teeth to saw into his trachea. hot liquid filled the young warrior's mouth and he screwed his eyes shut.
After what seemed like half an hour, Tyrr felt hands rolling him over. He recognised his father's worried voice and smelled a funny, plantlike smell that he believed he'd smelt in the Shaman's tent once.
He coughed and tried to speak. "Wharrr... Stone pup..."
"Yes, you did it son, it's alright."
Tyrr's heart swelled with pride, he'd won!
The Shaman's voice overrode his father's. "I'm afraid this is not alright, son of Skjald, his wound is beyond my skill to heal. The spearhead is lodged in his lung and there is no way to repair this insult to his body... his soul will no doubt join your father's in the feasting hall of the gods soon."
Tyrr tried to protest this verdict, Death could go fuck a kraken, Tyrr Gunnarson had things he wanted to do! The only sound he could muster was a wracking cough and he felt blood spill onto his chin again.
Suddenly shouts erupted from all around him, the shadow the Shaman was casting disappeared from Tyrr's fading sight. He struggled to turn his head to see what was going on but couldn't.
A shadow fell upon him again, but this one was bigger, clad in what looked like black iron with two red eyes and the skull of a wolf for a head.
Tyrr gurgled a laugh, Death. That's who must have been shadowing him these past weeks. The large shape regarded his wound for a moment before speaking in a language he couldn't quite understand, it sounded a little like his native Juvjk but with a lot of sounds he couldn't place.
Death picked him up. The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was his father roaring something about Sky-Warriors...