Primal fury trial of the.., p.1
Primal Fury:Trial of the Berserker, page 1
Primal Fury: Trial Of the Berserker (Book 1)
Copyright © 2023 Noël Traver. All rights reserved.
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Cover Illustration: Taekseo (@Taekseo_art) on Twitter
Cover Design: MiblArt
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Chapter 1
The hammers of the forge rang out in a steady beat beneath the thrum of the chanting shamans, a sound that shivered through flesh and rooted itself deep in Orsin’s bones. He nodded unconsciously along with the rhythm as he made sweeping and decisive lines with the stick of charcoal clutched delicately in his paw.
He’d learned the hard way that if he held too tightly to the stylus, his claws would chip it or his grip would pulverise it to dust, and while his fur was already black and the charcoal dust hardly visible, the smiths would growl at him for wasting another writing implement, and Orsin dared not risk their wrath, not when he was so close to needing the forge to craft his weapon for the Trial.
“What are you doing still working on that? An axe is an axe. Sharp on one end and a solid grip on the other. Done. What more could you need?”
Orsin bared his fangs in a broad grin in spite of himself. The voice belonged to Torben, his foster-brother and best friend. Orsin turned to watch the other Fursja approach, the heat of the forge—even here at the very edge of it, practically in the street—beating at his back even as the sharp and frosty chill of the winter air bit at his face. Or tried too. Orsin’s fur was thick, and he hardly noticed the cold within the city walls.
Torben stepped into the light of the forge, the fire adding a russet overtone to the rich brown of his fur. Not that Torben needed any help looking good. He was an impressive specimen, rising a full pawspan above Orsin’s own five-and-a-half meters of height, and his sapphire eyes were always sparkling with good humour or mischief.
“I need a weapon I can rely on for the upcoming Trial, not just some weak stick of wood with a spit-honed edge on the other end.”
“Are we talking about your weapon or are we talking about your weapon?” Torben leered at Orsin and waggled his brows suggestively. “One of those is definitely regularly spit-honed.”
Orsin laughed. He couldn’t help it. Torben was outrageous.
“You should spend more time worrying about your own weapon,” Orsin said when he’d recovered. 1
“Oh, I do. I really really do,” Torben assured him with yet another shit-eating grin.
“Seriously! Your smithing could use some work, and if you’re not careful it won’t be you swinging your massive weapon around, it’ll be some Herd beast using you as a sheath.”
Torben’s eyes flickered, and he grimaced. With the Trial looming, even Torben’s boundless good humour ebbed a bit. Soon they would be facing life-and-death struggle against their people’s greatest enemy, alone. It was a sobering thing, even if it offered an untold chance at glory and honor.
But not even the harsh realities awaiting them could keep Torben’s confidence down for long.
“Bah! What are the Herd against the might of a Fursja warrior? We may not be berserkers yet, but we’re more than a match for anything the herd can throw at us!” Torben boasted.
“Even a Herd Prince? Or a Queen?” Orsin teased, knowing how much the idea of the Herd Queen unsettled Torben.
His friend quickly made a sign to ward off evil and changed the subject.
“Come one! The Opening Ceremonies are about to start. We’ll miss them if we don’t hurry.”
Orsin squinted up at the sky. It was so hard to tell the time in this season. Everything was so grey.
“That late already?”
“We’ll both be late if we don’t hurry,” Torben said, turning to move away. “As in mudor will kill us for missing Warlord Ursahre’s speech!”
The she-Fursja who had whelped him and taken in Torben as her own after his parents died was a force to be reckoned with. There was no way Orsin was risking her wrath. Better a whole host of the Herd and him without a weapon!
Orsin stowed his design and followed Torben away from the forge and into the streets of Velegard. The massive ursine forms of his fellow Fursja sailed through the streets, their towering forms moving through the seasonal gloom like ships sailing ponderously through the fog. At this time of year, the tundra that made up most of Svanhalor’s terrain was hardening with the oncoming winter and fading sunlight, but the residual warmth seeped into the air and sent thick banks of fog drifting across the chilly expanse of the land.
The city was a sprawling thing, curving and knotting streets coiling about one another, stone longhouses set out in long rows, regular market squares scattered throughout like the pieces of a child’s game. The two Fursja moved though it with the ease of long practice, however. This was their home, and they knew it well.
“This way,” Orsin said. “It’ll be faster if we take the shortcut past Old Bale-Eye’s place.”
“Is it actually faster or do we just move more quickly because we don’t want the old bear catching us anywhere near his place after we got in trouble nicking his crutch when we were just cubs?” Torben grinned and strode through the fog, trying to outpace his friend.
Orsin just snorted and increased his own pace.
They made it through the alley without incident, passed three market squares, then turned to walk along the Plaza of Weihlaris, pausing just long enough to mutter a quick prayer to the God of the Fursja, of battle and unyielding fury.
The center of Velegard rose around them as they passed the plaza and moved deeper into the city. The buildings were larger, older, and more impressive, rising high above the tall stone longhouses of the outer districts. The towering keep that was the heart of the city was clearly visible, built ages ago by their ancestors as a refuge from the predations of the Herd, then a bulwark of the fight to drive the abominations back, and now a memorial to that time of ancient glory.
More and more Fursja surged around them, drawn to the heart of things for the Opening Ceremonies. Cubs ran growling and roaring with excitement as their parents chased after them. Enterprising vendors had set up temporary stalls selling dried fish on slim skewers and deep tankards of warming ale and small flasks of stronger spirits. The svagringe, a large, circular stadium that warriors of the Fursja often used to stage training and mock battles to prepare themselves to face their hereditary enemies, was just ahead.
“Mudor and Vador should have a space saved for us,” Torben said, quickly pushing through the crowd and into svagringe.
Orsin followed him, craning his neck to search for their parents.
“There!” Torben pointed. “About a third of the way up the second section over.”
The two of them pushed through the crowd, climbing the massive stone terraces until they reached the space their parents had set aside for them.
“Sit, sit!” Their vador gestured at them. “You’ve already missed the entrance of the warriors.”
“The skalds are about to begin,” their mudor added. “Listen well! You never know what bit of lore might come in handy for your Trial!” She softened her words with a small smile, however.
Practical as ever. Orsin and Torben settled onto the cold stone, their fur protecting them from the deep bite of it. As they did so, the skalds—the wise storytellers, the poets and historians of the Fursja—began to sway in their formation, their regalia moving with them. Antlers and fangs, feathers and animal skins, the totems of the natural world which symbolised the Fursja connection to nature and the pure purpose of the divine war against the herd, were their hallmarks.Then, as one, they began to chant.
It began, as it always did, with the legend of how the world came to be, and the hand that Weihlaris took in shaping everything. Then came the legend of the Herd, how greedy humans from the Kingdom of Herkalbosch came to these lands under guise of trade, but in reality sought a hidden power that could make them invincible. Instead, they found and released the herd, allowing the abominations to sweep over the land, shattering the Fursja nations of old and driving them back until, under the guidance of Weihlaris, the berserkers were able to shatter that advance and buy time for the creation of the legendary wall, Vaeggdor, behind which the Herd remained penned to this day.
Then came the sagas, which differed year to year. The skalds chose tales of mighty warriors and berserkers of the past, tales which the auguries suggested might be helpful for the hopeful cohort attempting the Trial to hear.
When the skalds began the Saga of Brunnerjorn, though, the whole svagringe shifted. This was not a tale often told. It was a tragic one, as it recorded the last known band of Fursja berserkers to encounter the Herd Queen. Only a single, frost-maddened survivor returned to bear that tale.
“That is an ill-om
en,” Orsin’s mudor muttered.
“Superstition!” their vador scoffed.
Then the skalds finished their tale and the audience shifted, excitement growing once more. The ceremonies neared their end and the celebrations were just around the corner. All that remained were the words of encouragement from the Fursja leader.
Warlord Ursahre strode into the center of the svagringe, the assembled warriors parting monthly before him like flesh before a razor-sharp sword. With him came an honor-guard of berserkers, proudly bearing the scars of battle and the marks Weihlaris himself had placed upon their bodies as proof of their might and valour. Orsin spotted the hulking grey form of Bernhardt One-Eye, so-called because of the single eye that remained after the berserker ripped apart a herd baron with his bare paws. That act, and the fact that he had completed his Trial alone, with no weapon aside from his own massive form, has earned him the red mark of Weihlaris upon his forehead. Next to him marched Uigbiorn the Canny, whose white form moved with a sleek power. He had completed his Trial without carrying any supplies with him. All that he used, he found and gathered on his own. That tale was clear to see in the berserker mark Uigbiorn displayed on his shoulder. And these were not the only worthy berserkers to march past.
A parade of mighty Fursja went past, the elite of their people. There was something dense about these berserkers, a weight to their presence, and an electric aura of danger flowed out from them like an unbridled river. Though none exemplified this so well as their leader.
Even for a Fursja, Ursahre was massive, and mighty, towering well over six meters. His ice-white fur was split with rivers of scars, the accumulated glory of decades of battle, and his berserker’s mark glowed purple through the gloaming. Ursahre had slain hundreds of Herd beasts single-handedly as part of his Trial, including no less than three Barons of the Herd, and his mark reflected that glory and the favour of Weihlaris himself who had bestowed it.
“Fursja of Velegard! Blessed of Weihlaris! Warriors all! Welcome!” Ursahre bellowed, his voice a roar like an oncoming tidal wave, easily filling the svagringe.
The assembled Fursja cheered and roared back in approval of their leader. The warlord began slowly pacing in a circle, turning to take in every angle of the ringed structure around him. Torchlight glinted off the edge of Valaharion, the warlord’s massive double-bladed glaive. The svagringe creaked as the assembled Fursja shifted to the edge of their seats.
“The time has come once more for those of our young who are ready, who are daring, who thirst to prove their might, to embark upon the sacred Trial!” He roared and the stadium roared in response, with several of the assembled warriors beating their shields, or the breast of their armour, or even the surface upon which they sat.
Then all the noise ceased in a single moment as Ursahre held up a clenched paw.
“The year grows dark. The herd grows restless. The candidates shall thin the Herd and win themselves glory and honor, prove themselves to be mighty additions to this great nation. For we are the Fursja! The chosen people of Weihlaris!”
Orsin listened as Warlord Ursahre launched into his speech. It was the same one he gave every year at this time, but every time he heard it the words never failed to stir his blood. To his right, Torben watched with rapt attention, hero-worship in his eyes. To his left, his mudor and vador listened with coiled and controlled intensity. They had heard the speech many more times, heard the ones given by Ursahre’s predecessor even, when they were cubs. And still they were caught up in it all, in the purpose given to the Fursja, to guard the world from the predations of the Herd.
And soon he would cross the wall and take up arms in that battle, the centuries-long war for the survival of the world itself. The same one that Warlord Ursahre was describing now, in brutal and bloody and glorious terms. If Orsin was strong enough, if he was worthy, he would return with many trophies and receive a mark from the hand of Weihlaris himself, perhaps even one that might rival that borne by Warlord Ursahre! This was the dream of many of his cohort, who faced their Trial this year. This was their purpose! The thing they had been born to do. Protect the world and win glory in the doing.
Orsin’s dreams of glory were shattered by a roar from the crowd all around him. Ursahre had reached the climax of his speech and the blood of several thousand Fursja was beating as if driven by a single heart and a single purpose.
“The Herd will be destroyed! Glory to the Fursja! Glory to Weihlaris!” Warlord Ursahre roared.
The svagringe roared back in approval.
“Now let the celebrations begin!”
Chapter 2
The world around Orsin was a bleary roar. Fursja were mighty in battle, but they were just as skilled in celebration and song. Skaldic apprentices were chanting, and drums pounded throughout the arctic night. Torches flared, driving back the gloom, and great bonfires burned casting warmths and dancing light across the many squares and plazas they had been kindled within.
But the fires were not the only thing to drive back the chill. Great casks and butts of ale abounded, brewed from the thin and sour wheat that managed to survive in the harsh tundra. Rarer but more potent were the prized ice wines and the three-honey mead brewed by the Weihlaran monks of the Order of the Lattice and Vine.
The three-honey mead was so strong a single sip was enough to get a berserker roaring drunk, and to knock out a regular Fursja. Torben and Orsin had been trying to get their paws on a few sips of that mead all evening, to no avail.
Grunin, their mudor, was settled at a nearby table, smiling as she watched her husband, Ljorn, making a fool of himself dancing around the fire. Ljorn, unlike his sons, had managed to snag a sip of three-honey mead, and was a mighty enough warrior that it didn’t fell him in the drinking.
It did impair his judgement a bit, though, as evidenced by the merry laughter that followed his antics.
Orsin, however, had more pressing concerns than his father’s drinking escapades. Torben had more than his fair share of ale and was prowling around the fire, boasting in front of the other young Fursja about the might of his weapon. Bright Bijask, always competing with Torben for the largest laugh drunkenly egged the warrior on while next to him solemn Sengetiid just shook his head at their antics. And several young Fursja maids giggled at them all.
“Yes, your weapon sounds mighty indeed,” Higrun said, eyes dancing in the firelight.
“If indeed it is as mighty as you say it is,” Mathajara, her friend, teased.
Bijask snorted. Sengetiid simply took a long pull from his tankard. Orsin knew better than to try and wade into the verbal conflict.
Higrun and Mathjara were of an age with Orsin. The four of them had grown up together, but they’d grown in different ways the last few winters. Higrun and Mathjara had risen and broadened, filling out and blossoming into fresh and vibrant sprigs of she-Fursjahood. Torben fancied Higrun. He’d always liked her, but recently that like had taken a whole new dimension.
Too bad for Torben that Mathjara, Higrun’s best friend, thought he was an idiot.
“That’s true,’ Higrun agreed with her friend. “So often in tales monsters are made much bigger than they were in reality.”
“Yes! Remember the head of the ljindwurm Dathorr brought in last year after his Trial?” Mathjara laughed gaily. “You’d think the thing was too big to fit in the city gates, yet when we went to see it on the Field of Glory afterward, tch—” Mathjara made a dismissive sound, “—it was hardly bigger than my hand! Nothing at all to brag about.”
“Hjarsurung is nothing to laugh at!” Torben was in the blustery stage of drunk. “He is the mighty hammer that strikes with the force of two blows for every swing!”
The she-Fursja in front of him giggled.
Orsin wanted to laugh as well, but it was bad luck to name your weapon before you forged it.
Of course, that probably depended on which weapon Torben was bragging about.
Orsin waded in before his friend could blow any chance he might still have with Higrun or Mathjara.
“Torben! You owe me another round!”
His friend didn’t, but Orsin was willing to bet that he wouldn’t remember that, and if there was anything Torben liked more than flirting and bragging about himself, it was drinking.
