Wulf the Eternal Warrior
Chapter 5: Wulf and the Northern God

The young Wulf was running, running for his life! A group of Pictish warriors, the semi-brutish savages to the south of his native Germania had picked up his trail, and had been tracking him for hours.

The youth, Wulf, had left his homeland in the young prime of his manhood. The gloomy, largely silent and taciturn nature of his people never appealed to him, and he had already had several forays northwards into the neighboring kingdom of the Aesir and fighting alongside the fierce blond haired men of that tribe and their hereditary enemies the Vanir, with their tousled red manes and beards. Their warlike natures were much like that of his Germanic homeland, but their wont to swill ale and laugh in the face of battle was much more to his liking!

But now, on his first foray into the south lands, he had been unfortunate enough to encounter this band of warriors, returning to their overgrown woodlands of a territory from their own raid into the richer southern kingdoms. And, he was running out of options!

The Picts were uncannily good trackers, as good perhaps as the youth Wulf himself, and that was saying a great deal. Probably 20 years or so at this point in time, he had already been named about the council fires by the elders, and killed many a man in battle.

A flint tipped arrow splintered on the rocks beside him as he ran, and Wulf knew his pursuers were getting closer. He ducked into a ravine to his left, and sprinted down the corridor of rocks that girdled it. He was trapped! He was in what was like a large natural bowl of stone, and ice and snow covered wide swaths of the walls- before he could scale the wall, the Picts would be upon him! He turned at bay, a grim snarl on his face, his blue eyes slitted. He drew his broad sword, and waited.

It was not long, and the first of the Picts arrived in the three sided valley. Shrieking in triumph, the short, heavily muscled painted savage hurled himself on the youthful barbarian. Before he could shout again, however, the Germanian’s broadsword transfixed the smaller man through the chest, and the blade protruded through his back for it’s whole length. Before Wulf could withdraw the blade completely, the rest of the Picts arrived. Screaming in rage, and seeing the death of their comrade who appeared to be a Pict of some standing due to the wolf painting on his broad breast and his single eagle’s feather, they attacked.

One went down with a poniard in his vitals, and the next received that same blade back-handed across his throat. A third threw himself on Wulf, and found himself …lifted… and then slammed into the frozen earth, where he writhed momentarily with a broken back, and then lay still.

Panting, the youth stood back, both weapons at his sides, ready to sell his life dearly, but knowing there could be but one outcome…

A mighty figure, a giant, sat upon a golden throne, in a vast wooden hall, with a blazing fireplace loaded with whole trees. He gestured to a page:

“Summon the Lord Thor, my son, to me”.

He spoke in a low, loud rumble; like the sound of an approaching glacier in the frozen northern seas. The page, a comely youth with long golden hair and warm winter furs on his body, ran from the hall with alacrity.

The mighty figure who had spoken was the very chief God of of the Northernmost peoples, the mighty Grimnir himself! He seemed unconquerable writ large- huge in size, mighty beyond words in musculature, he appeared a veritable force of nature. But his brow above his black eye patch over his one missing eye, was wrinkled with anger...

Thor came into the chamber, the page by his side. Not as large as Grimnir, he was much younger, and almost as powerfully built. He had yellow locks to his shoulders, and carried a

large hammer. But his locks appeared to be artfully curled, and a whiff of perfume followed him as he entered.

“Yes, my Lord. I was preparing to dine with some of my vassals, when this dog here-“ he spurned the accompanying page with his large hand, knocking him to the floor “told me you required my presence. Tell me he lied, and I will crush him to a bloody pulp here and ...”

“ENOUGH!” Boomed Grimnir. “I summon you, but you should have come on your own! Know you not my son, your half brother has been killed by a mortal? And a mortal not of our own, but one of my fellow gods Woden’s brood?? A cursed man of Germania, named Wulf has killed my son Heimdall, in some hill brawl in Vanaheim. And you are still here, supping at your ample board, while Heimdall lies dead, and unavenged?”

Thor looked somewhat abashed, but then regained his former casual manner.

“Oh father, I did not think it such a large matter, since he was merely part god...”

He meant to go on, but Grimnir rose wrathfully, and spread his mighty arms wide:

“Go ye NOW to avenge thy brother, and kill this Wulf who

worships the cowardly Woden on his lonely mountain! You have

been overmuch full of yourself for too long, and too remiss in

your many duties- so GO! Bring me the Germanian’s heart to

roast on my board! He is in the Pictish wilderness just south

of Germania- use the hammer I gave you as your birthright to

carry you to him, and go at once!!”

The wrath of the one-eyed Grimnir was terrible to behold, and Thor sped from the hall, pale and chastened. He knew he had to carry out this order, but he resented it. Why should one as powerful and mighty as he have to deal with a hill country-bred commoner? He would do it, but he wouldn’t like the time away from his board, his hall, and his wives and comforts! This Wulf would PAY for this, he thought with irritation...

As the shrieking Picts swarmed into the valley, hell-lights glimmering in their eyes, their flint spears and axes ready to fling-

A swarm of arrows, upon one loud command in the Roman tongue, flew down from the cliff wall on the side, and mowed them down like ripe corn!

Another group of warriors, probably twice the number of Picts, had come upon them from the South, as they were running down their prey, Wulf, and were oblivious to all else with the blood lust upon them. This group of Roman frontiersman from the south had been heading north looking for new lands to conquer from the savage Picts, and arrived just in time to spot them attacking a lone Germanian. The Picts were universally hated by their neighbors as utter savages, and to see them attacking another man who was not a Pict was enough to elicit the desire to stop them.

Again came a volley- “Shoot Knaves!” shouted a voice from the entry to the valley, and with the sound another flight of metal tipped arrows shot down and through the breasts and limbs of the hapless Picts. Fully half of those warriors were down, some dead and some wounded, and in the next flight fell even more, howling in their rage and pain.

Constantius was the name of the leader of the Romans who had voiced the command, and now he strode into the valley, sword out and ready, with a good two score of men behind him, and another score on the cliff above. He was a lean, rangy, fur, leather, and plate-mail clad fellow, with dark hair and grey eyes, and an air of command. He signaled once again to the archers on the cliff, and still more of the painted devils fell.

Meanwhile, Wulf had not sat idle, but had advanced on the Picts, slaying one with his sword as the first volley of arrows came upon them, and then two more after the second flight.

At this point, Constantius’ men set about slaying the remaining Picts, and finishing off the wounded. “No good Pict but a dead Pict” was a common saying among the Romans, and they proved they believed it by their actions this day.

Constantius approached Wulf, who stood panting, bleeding from a score of flesh wounds, and cleaning his sword, which was clotted with Pictish blood.

“HO, thou art a hearty fighter indeed! I witnessed the first of the attack of the Picts upon you, and knew you were worthy of life! My name is Constantius, of faraway Rome, and we are scouting for new lands, and perhaps such plunder as these Pictish jackals could afford- would you join my band of rogues?”

Wulf smiled grimly, and raised his half-cleaned sword in salute, shaking back his long reddish hair. “My thanks, lord! I was heading south, for just such opportunity as this- but, any direction is all right for a while. As long as the fighting is good, the ale is wet, and the plunder is rich, then there life is good for me!”

And at that moment...

There was a blinding flash of light, and Contantius, Wulf, and all the men stopped and stared- there, on the floor of the valley, stood a heavily muscled man, holding a huge hammer in his knotted fist. He had a helmet of blinding gold and a golden shield that half blinded the men- and then he threw that hammer!

With a sound like thunder, the hammer struck two of Constantius’ men, eviscerating them and cutting a huge crevasse into the earth, throwing shards of rock upwards with a sound very like the growl of some huge beast, boring its way into the ground. Then, with a loud cry of summons from the god-like figure against the cliff, the hammer flew back into his upraised hand!

“I know he who is called Wulf is among you! Come forward, you murdering dog of my half brother Heimdall, or I will slay you all!”

With which saying he shook his hammer violently, and looked about for his quarry. For this, indeed, was Thor, come to take vengeance upon his father Grimnir’s order. He assumed that Wulf would be quivering in terror at his display of god-like might, and was prepared to ferret him out, and then play with the barbarian as a cat might play with a mouse. He shook back his long golden hair, and smiled at the thought. There was an overconfidence in the god born out of long dominance over all men, and a superciliousness that was not only arrogant, but offensive even to the other gods.

But he did not know Conan! Born in a gloomier region even than the Norslanders dazzling ice and snow, a child of Woden in Germania, the somber wraths and equally blazing fury of his homeland was in his blood. An insult, from man OR god, was something he could not bear, and so…

He charged! This was the last thing that any man there in the valley would have expected- the other men were so cowed and amazed they were awestruck, and the god himself was so enjoying the feeling of superiority and of an entitlement he felt… he felt…so superior and so much better than any man of earth, and he enjoyed it- he enjoyed their awe, but mostly- he enjoyed hurting them! Rather like a large, pampered golden house cat toying with small mice…

A red mist in front of his vision, the Germanian leapt forward like a tiger, his right hand outstretched in front of him like a huge talon! It was a span of some yards between him and the golden god, but he covered it in a blaze of ferocious speed. Thor started back, startled that any should challenge him- who ever would dare?- and raised his magical hammer, behind which he had hidden so many times, preparing to throw. A smile appeared on his lips, and he thought this would be a good story anyway…

The smile disappeared as that muscular fist of Wulf closed upon his upraised wrist, and the barbarian’s other hand gripped about his throat!

Wulf was gasping with fury, and squeezing the god’s throat. Feeling the strength in that hand startled the god; he was beginning to feel something like real fear for the first time! He attempted to throw his hammer, to crush this useless human into a pulp, but his arm was still frozen in that uncanny grip of steel!

For long moments they stood thus, each exerting such forces from their mighty thews that could have split boulders or unearthed trees, but although their tendons and muscles stood out in bold relief, neither moved overmuch at all. But the left hand of the Germanian was squeezing relentlessly the throat of Thor, while his right hand held immobile the hammer-wielding hand of the god. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

All at once, the god of the North dropped his golden shield, and grasped at the hand choking him in panic! He scratched at it, and tried to push it away- all to no avail. He seemed to be in a desperate state- he could not speak, his airways were closing in. Suddenly, he eyes wide and bewildered with fear, he croaked:

“Home… to Aesgard!”

And with that, the hammer of the gods that he held pulled upwards, towards the sky! Wulf was lifted bodily too, and finally let go from about a man’s height above the ground, landing like a cat, growling with unsated blood lust.

And the god, born aloft by his enchanted hammer, disappeared ignobly from the field, escaping to his icy homeland by his magic, unavenged.

From far above, in the direction of Wulf’s gloomy home in Germania, came the deep, ringing laughter of Woden!

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