Primal fury trial of the.., p.9
Primal Fury:Trial of the Berserker, page 9
This wasn’t working. He needed a different approach. Orsin panted, looking around him at the terrain.
He couldn’t charge the thing because of the very muck he had used to trap it. And he couldn’t reach it simply keeping to the boulders. The GauVark was too good at flinging mud. That wasn’t something Orsin had accounted for. Even then, there was no guarantee it would keep its head near enough to one of the boulders to give Orsin a good shot at it.
Whatever he was going to do, however, he needed to do quick. The GauVark was within range of Orsin’s safe footing now, but that could easily change if the dumb thing tried charging off in another direction, rolling away like a big, sentient boulder all its own.
Actually, that gave him an idea. It was reckless, and dangerous, but Orsin didn’t have anything else to lose, so why not make the attempt. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, after all.
Orsin growled and leapt onto the GauVark’s back. As soon as it felt his weight upon it, the beast went berserk, bellowing and trying to buck wildly to unseat the unwelcome Fursja pest.
The mud grasped tightly to the GauVark’s legs, however. It was too mired to buck and pull itself free. The most it could do was shiver its back and try to shake Orsin off. And that was nowhere near enough to stymie a full-blood Fursja warrior.
Orsin growled and sank his claws deep into the GauVark’s hide, pulling himself up along its spinal ridge until its head was within range. There was no doubt a massive, dense shield of bone supporting those horns and protecting the thing’s brain, but Orsin was a Fursja warrior and his strength was not to be under-estimated! He hauled back and began to slam the flat of his axe-blade against the back of the GauVark’s skull, ringing it like a bell until the beast’s eyes rolled up in the back of its head and unconsciousness claimed it.
Fuck. The roar of victory that almost leapt from Orsin’s throat strangled itself mid-celebration as the GauVark, no longer fighting the mud, quickly began to sink.
Orsin groaned. If he didn’t act quickly all his efforts would be for nothing! The GauVark could easily drown in all this mud and leave Orsin without anything to show for all his effort.
He grunted and leapt off the GauVark’s back, wading through the mud to seize the thing by the horns and haul its head up and out of the muck.
This was going to be a long afternoon.
Chapter 14
Orsin growled as the chill from the tundra beneath him seeped upward into his aching muscles. He had foraged for as much food as he could find since dragging that stupid GauVark free from the marsh, and gobbled down every bit of natural remedy and stimulant his skill had allowed him to find. It had been a meagre collection, but it had kept him going.
The GauVark was hobbled in a small depression between two rises. Orsin had to carefully hamstring the beast’s back legs to keep it from charging off. Unable to move effectively anymore, the beast squealed in rage and pain, dragging itself around and leaving furrows in its wake. Orsin had treated the wounds to make sure it wouldn’t bleed out. Now, all he could do was wait, to see if the baron would arrive and take this tempting piece of bait.
Orsin had taken great care in choosing the terrain. It was far enough from any herd-blighted greenery, the hollow was small, and the rises were well positioned to funnel any incoming herd beasts the baron might have with it into small groups. Too well did Orsin remember the baron healing by consuming lesser herd beasts. He was going to make sure that was a minimal advantage this time.
He also had two carefully planned escape routes, in case things did not go to plan. Orsin was confident he had the skill and the strength to take down this baron, but he wasn’t an idiot. A smart warrior knew when to withdraw to return and fight another day.
And there would be many, many more days ahead of Orsin, and the herd would deeply regret that fact. He would fill all of them with blood and ichor, until either he died or the last of the herd taint was forever cleansed from the world. By Weihlaris, he swore it!
The GauVark squealed again and Orsin tensed, his paw tightening on the haft of his axe. Had a herd beast appeared? Was it the baron?
He relaxed after a moment of scanning the nearby terrain. Nothing that he could sense was present. The GauVark was just in pain and angry.
Not that Orsin could blame it.
Wait. Was that a flicker of movement along the rise across from him? Orsin squinted but the grey twilight of the tundra and time of year made vision one of his less reliable senses. The wind was perpendicular to him, neither betraying his location nor carrying any potential scent warning to him.
He watched, but he didn’t see anything. Maybe it was a false alarm. Maybe it was a scout for the baron. If Orsin was lucky, time would tell.
Orsin waited. His mind occasionally wandered, but he patiently brought it back, time and again, to the task at hand. He had trained for this. War was long periods of boredom interspersed with brief flashes of action, blood, and glory. No Fursja made it this far without being equipped to deal with the waiting that was key to any successful combat encounter. This was no different.
So Orsin was well prepared when things finally did change. A flicker of movement appeared on the rise across from him once more. This time, however, he was able to see what it was.
First, one arctic fox appeared. Then another and another, in twos and threes. They circled the ridge, looking down at the wounded prey in the hollow, bait in the trap. Then there was a sharp yip from behind them and the pack flowed down and into the hollow, pinning and harassing the GauVark in place on one side.
Orsin’s heart leapt within his chest, going from a steady tense drumbeat of anticipation to a Andrea line-filled flurry of activity. He knew that yip! That was the sound of the baron.
His prey had arrived.
The baron flowed over the rise across from him, white fur almost indistinguishable from the frosty tundra terrain. It moved carefully up behind the GauVark, creeping in unseen as the pack of arctic foxes in front of the wounded beast kept its attention pinned forward. Orsin could practically see the herd beast salivating at the thought of such an easy kill—or infection, whatever the baron intended to do with this prey.
Orsin shifted his weight, preparing to move. He had two choices: he could either charge the small pack of foxes and try to kill as many of them in a surprise attack as he could, limiting the baron’s ability to heal, or direct a killing blow at the baron from the outset. If he managed to land it quickly enough and well enough, the baron would never get a chance to heal itself, because it would already be dead. And even if he failed, hopefully the baron would be so wounded that simply recovering from that first blow would destroy all of the support pack it had with it.
Of course if Orsin missed, or miscalculated, he would be facing not only the baron but also that pack of foxes. That was not a situation he relished facing again, even though this was terrain of his choosing.
Still, he was a warrior of Weihlaris! His was the path of glory, the path of the bold. He would gamble his life on the chance that it would net him the head of the baron and an excellent story to regale Torben with when they both returned home after the Trial.
Orsin’s paw tightened on Muinnajhr’s haft. The baron’s attention was almost wholly on the GauVark. As soon as it commited itself to an attack, Orsin would move. It would be his best chance at catching the baron completely by surprise and his best chance at landing that hoped-for deadly blow.
The baron paused, sniffing loudly. Orsin held himself perfectly still as the herd noble below cast its gaze suspiciously at the rises to either side of it. He had been careful to cover his scent, but who knew what strange senses the herd abominations could bring to bear? If he was unlucky, his whole ambush could be ruined right here.
But the baron, after a quick examination of the surrounding terrain, turned its full attention back to the GauVark. The target was too tempting, perhaps, and greed overwhelmed good sense, even in abominations. Or the scent of the GauVark, as pungent as it was, overwhelmed the delicate senses of the herd baron. Orsin knew it had made his eyes water more than once.
The baron crept closer, And then closer still. It moved, lithe as a cat, intent on stalking its prey. There was no mockery here. None of that strange voice or any hint of it playing with its food. The GauVark commanded that much respect from it, at least.
Orsin would be insulted if it didn’t so perfectly suit his purposes.
The baron moved in quick bursts, and Orsin rose, keeping low to the ground, and shifted position to behind another small clump of boulders. The arctic fox pack was far away, and too busy keeping the GauVark in place to notice him, and the baron likewise was too intent on its prey.
Orsin saw his moment and seized it. The baron was gathered to pounce, and the Fursja warrior rose from concealment and threw himself headlong down the side of the rise, using gravity to propel his momentum to even greater heights. He would need every edge he could muster.
He was quiet as he ran. No battle cry this time. No glorious shout to Weihlaris. Sometimes a warrior needed to strike in silence.
And strike he did!
Orsin aimed for the spine. Speeding almost too quickly for his feet to keep up, Orsin reached the end of the rise and used the last little bit of terrain advantage to launch his bulk upward, raising in his axe overhead as he did so. The Fursja warrior arced through the air, a furry missile of death, the combined momentum of his charge all poured into that leap, and that leap focused entirely on the torsion of muscles as he brought his axe down on his target.
Shin gin steel bite’s deep into tainted white flesh. Orsin’s axe buried itself almost to the hilt into the baron’s spine. The abomination loosed a scream that made Orsin’s ears bleed and he nearly lost hold of his axe, only keeping his grip through sheer bloody-mindedness.
Answering yips rose up in a furious chorus, as the pack darted towards Orsin and the baron. In their hurry, however, many of the pack forgot that the GauVark was still a threat. Tusks and horns flashed and several small white bodies went flying, trailing red blood and green-black ichor.
The baron screamed again, this time in rage. It was no rage on behalf of its pack, but every death was a bit of healing the monster lost the ability to realise. Still, as soon as the nearest fox was in range, it snapped it up and gulped it down, the flesh on its back immediately beginning to knit back together.
Orsin swore and tore his axe free, moments before it was sealed up irrevocably in the baron’s back by the twisting, morphing flesh. He leapt down to the ground and set the blade to whirling around him. He sliced into every small fox form that he could, dancing away from the baron as he did so.
The herd abomination mostly ignored him, focused intently on healing what might have otherwise been a mortal wound. Orsin grinned. That would be a costly mistake!
He struck at the baron’s hamstrings, slicing neatly through them, though the flesh twisted back into health almost immediately. The wounds were too superficial to last, though had they lasted they would have been devastating.
Orsin needed to strike deeper.
The baron twisted away from his next attack. And the next. But then another fox came within grasping distance of the thing’s mouth and the baron couldn’t resist turning to snap it up.
Orsin surged into the opening, burying his axe deep between the baron’s ribs. White fur immediately turned black with ichor as the wound spat. A deep, bubbling yowl burst from the baron’s mouth. Orsin must have sliced into a lung with that blow!
The baron was no simple beast, however. It’s flesh continued to heal and the deep well of hatred and infection that beat in place of its heart turned to focus fully on Orsin. Fangs snapped and tails whipped, driving the warrior back and back.
Orsin danced out of the way, the terrain boxing him in as much as it had the baron, and he had to be careful not to come too close to the GauVark. That beast was likewise still alive and would happily gut him if he came too near.
Then it happened. Stone turned beneath his heel and Orsin’s momentum turned from a graceful dance of evasion and death to a rough tumble to the ground. His wrist slammed against a protruding rock and his axe went spinning from his grip. Orsin rolled and scrambled, his leg flaring in pain from what was probably a torn muscle.
His prey advanced on him, thick, rattling breaths raking their way from his lungs.
“Little Fu-fu-fursja,” the baron spat, blood frothing at the corners of its mouth. “I am coming for you. I am coming to add you to my collection. Oh yesss…”
Orsin scrambled backward, legs weak as water beneath him, unable to support his weight. His paws grasped desperately for his axe, but all he found was cold, frozen tundra. He was weaponless!
The baron lunged!
Chapter 15
Orsin twisted his body into a desperate roundhouse, bringing his clenched fist around with all the force he could muster and slamming the baron’s snout away from him. The massive arctic fox-lord’s eyes rolled and it shook its head as if trying to clear it. It was only a moment of distraction.
But a moment was all Orsin needed.
The Fursja warrior levered himself to his feet, eyes scanning the ground until they landed upon his weapon. Before the baron could recover enough to snap at him with its deadly jaws, Orsin flung himself bodily in the direction of his weapon, his paw closing around the haft moments before he tucked into a roll and narrowly evaded the snapping fangs behind him. He felt the hot breath of his foe on his fur and rolled up into a defensive position, Muinnajhr cocked behind him, ready to whip it around and bury it between the eyes of the baron at the first opportunity.
The baron stared at him, just out of reach, eyes glittering with hatred.
“The little Fu-fu-Fursja has fangs.” It said. “Deep biting fangs. Truly, a worthy addition to the collection.” It lolled its tongue at him, clearly laughing in the way of the arctic foxes.
It was a chilling and unnatural sight. Something about the usurpation of something so natural by something so unnatural just made Orsin’s blood boil. But the herd beasts didn’t seem to notice the reaction it provoked. It continued speaking.
“And you will be mine one day, little Fu-fu-Fursja. I will—“
Orsin had had enough of this thing’s aberrant speech. With a roar he flung himself once more into battle. His axe spoke for him, lashing out and forcing the baron to fall back or lose its head.
Literally.
The baron growled and snapped at him, but the herd beast was moving more slowly. Not all of its injuries were healed, and there were no more little foxes nearby to help fuel the abomination’s recovery. It was running low on resources and there were only so many tricks even a baron of the herd had access to.
Orsin pressed the attack. If he was going to kill the thing, now was his best chance, while it was already injured and far enough away from its home territory that it had neither the advantage of knowing the terrain nor of calling more of its kin to die and fuel the fires of its resurrection.
A tail slap nearly sent his axe spinning from his grip again but Orsin growled and managed to keep hold of his weapon. He spun the blade around him, turning the momentum of the herd beast’s attack to his own advantage and slicing deep into the thing’s tail, nearly severing it. Orsin blinked. That blow should have severed it. Those tails weren’t so thick and strong that they should resist his axe. And the hide of the baron hadn’t been that tough when he drove his axe into the thing’s ribs earlier.
The baron yowled in rage and pain and immediately leapt back, away from Orsin. Even as he watched the thing’s muscles waned and withered a bit as the beast channeled its remaining life energy to heal its tail. The wound vanished entirely in a flash.
Orsin’s eyes glinted. What about the tails was so valuable? They had to be vital for the baron to dedicate itself in order to preserve one of them.
The Fursja warrior resolved to take another shot at one of the tails at the first opportunity. Any weakness he could exploit, he would.
But Orsin didn’t get the chance. The baron stared at him, hate flowing from its eyes, but it did not throw itself back into the fray. When Orsin advanced, it retreated.
“Little Fu-fu-Fursja has fangs. Hateful fangs.” The Baron growled. “I shall claim the fang for myself when the little Fu-fu-Fursja is collected. But not, I think, today. No. Not today. But soon.”
The thing suddenly laughed, a wild, insane sound that set the fur at the back of Orsin’s neck to rise. There was nothing of sanity as the Fursja knew it in that noise. It was a truly alien thing.
Then the baron turned and dashed away.
His prey was fleeing!
Orsin cursed and leapt into pursuit, his legs powering him up the rise over which the baron had already vanished. He crested the top and easily sighted the fleeing form off the baron dashing off across the tundra. It was headed back to its home territory, to that copse of herd-blighted trees!
He threw himself into the chase. If the baron made it back there, it would have no trouble at all healing. And there was no way it would fall for Orsin’s bait tactic twice. He needed to finish this now!
So began a long and gruelling chase. The baron dashed ahead and Orsin followed. While the herd beast had the advantage in speed and knowledge of the terrain, it was wounded and in worse health than Orsin.
If nothing else, Orsin knew he was capable of fighting a baron toe-to-toe and prevailing. Not that it would count if he couldn’t part the thing’s head from its neck, but Orsin was confident that if he could just catch up to the thing he’d be able to do precisely that.
