UL- Wild Fury

His breath steamed, though Art knew not where the heat came from. It seemed to him that he was made of ice, with limbs frozen solid and a heart wrought of stone, like some mighty Jotun from the old songs. If only, then these damnable drifts might part before him and not drain his breath with every step. His thick furs were already soaked through with melted snow, and near frozen again in the bitter chill of the night. He gritted his teeth, shoulder past another tree as he pushed on, a scrawny, ragged figure in the night.

At least it was a clear night. He wondered if he could have made it so far had the snows been falling, or rain pouring. The rest would say that this alone would end him. Couldn’t be bothered to finished the job themselves.

“Cowards!” He spat the word hoarsely. It was true. Had always been true, even if he had been too blind to see it truly. Their axes were dull, their bellies were fat, little more than a gaggle of old men hiding near their fires, afraid of even the damn Blackfenn’s. Where were the heroes in the songs? Men fighting jotuns and slaying the mighty niddhogg, sailing against the weak picts and scotts and southerner’s with bloody gold and shorn skulls, victors of battles and wars that the foolish elders wouldn’t dare face.

He gripped the knife tighter, feeling the crude carvings of the hilt press into his palm. The blade was even sharper, shining Blackfenn iron work with an edge he could shave with. The scar on his cheek burned with the cold though, and he eyed a scraggly pine as he stumbled past it. It was likely sharp enough to saw with, get some wood and start a fire somewhere more sheltered, more protected.

“Coward!” Art ground his teeth and heaved, struggling to run in the soft snow. It crunched under his boots and he almost slipped, but he left the tree behind in the night and made more headway. That was what mattered, keeping moving, if he stopped he would only fall asleep, a horrid gentle death that left him meat for the scavengers. No, he had to keep going, keep movi-

Crunch.

The footstep was not his own, he knew that much, and that was enough.

“Come on then! COME AND STRIKE ME DOWN IF YOU’RE SO BRAVE!” Art roared, stumbling around with the carven knife held out in front of him. He should have stolen an axe. Bigger, heavier, better, and hiding his work be damned. This far it had done him no favours.  “Come on and die! I ain’t scared of you fools, you’re not real men!”

He was right in that. The shapes were too low and long for men; their four feet too soft on the snow, and the moonlight rendered them black and silver. It was full, he noted with a hint of unease, like some great eye watching as the wolves split and circled, panting steam as much as he did.

One snarled off to his left and he lunged, thrusting the knife out before him. The beast moved too, leaping to the side, and then yellow fangs closed with a snap on his thick furs. His arm caught it before it moved again, grabbed its neck even as it wriggled and snarled, throwing off his footing.

“DIE!” Art howled, his other hand burying the blade in its neck. A paw caught him in the chest and he rolled, holding on for dear life as the other wolves growled and darted in. “DIE!”

His knife showered warm blood as he wrenched it free, and pushed it back in, and again, and again. His foe howled in pain, shaking and lashing out, its jaws snapping beside his ear in a panic. Art stabbed that next, feeling the knife slice through flesh and skitter off bone before jaws clamped around his leg and he screamed high and sharp. His arm loosened and his quarry escaped as the other lupine fiend pulled him across reddening snow.

“NO, NOT THAT EASILY!” His voice sounded higher with pain and he thrashed, flailing furiously. They were all around, closer now, three or four he thought and booted the first’s nose with his other leg. It whined and released him, muzzle bloody. The knife caught another foreleg  as he swung wildly, leaving a trail of red through the air.

The wolf at his leg snarled and shook its head as though dazed, moonlight glimmering in its amber eyes and Art near froze as it tensed. His leg was screaming in icy pain, he doubted he could stand on it let alone charge at it again should it keep its distance. Instead the beast leapt on him, claws slashing through his furs and jaw swooping down, ready to tear his throat out.

Art got there first. He screamed wordlessly and thrust the blade upwards, through the shaggy black fur of the monsters ribs to draw out a fountain of blood. For a second it struggled as he forced the metal deeper, twisting all the while, then it went limp and toppled like a fallen tree.

“Wh-Which one of you next, scrawny pups!?” Art cried, struggling into a sitting position. His head felt funny, the pain was fading, the night seemed darker and hot sticky blood covered him like a sheet. “Come on then! COME AND GET SOME! I AIN’T SCARED!”

The wolves seemed fuzzier, like clouds creeping over the moon. One second they were there, the next they were gone and a mournful howl carried on the wind. Art snorted in disgust, and pushed up off the black carcass. He toppled as soon as he took a step for some reason, falling headfirst in the snow as it drank up the wolfs’ blood. For long moments, confusion reigned, he felt so numb and tired. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop. He wasn’t there yet.

*  *  *  *  *

The scent of honey and smoke filled his nose as he woke, even as the pain filled his mind. Art ground his teeth and clenched his hands, but the familiar hilt was gone and they were laced with scars and cuts. More covered his chest and he frowned as he shifted- his furs were gone, replaced by some heavy pelt of a blanket that stank of rot, though was dry and warm.

“Urgh, where in Hel am I?” Art scowled, letting his pale eyes adjust to the light. The details had returned, to his chagrin- what sort of death was a pack of howling mutts? Let alone ones that left him to bleed out in the snow, like the other cowards.

“In my hut boy, and don’t speak big names that blithely, I’ll not have you slip away after giving up my bed for two nights, my bleedin’ back don’t deal with the floor at all.” The voice was quiet and scratchy, coming from a white haired old crone by a fire in the centre. She was a tall twisted thing, with a hunchback and boney shoulders, and fingers like green worms that beat beans with a rock. Kunk, kunk, kunk.

“She can just try and take me, I ain’t afraid!” He snapped back, fingers searching for a dagger that wasn’t there.

“More fool you, more fool me. Should’ve cut your own throat if you were so hungry for death, save me sleepin’ down here.” Her eyes were small and shrewd amid webs of wrinkles

“No, I’m not dying soon, I’m not losing!”

“Not losing? A wolf almost slaughtered you, you’d be dead from it already if not for me, boy.”

“Four wolves! I scared the others off!” Art shouted, “And I’m not a boy, I’ve seen fourteen winters and I’m already more of a man than the rest of my village!”

“Aye? Four wolves and you frightened them off all by yourself did you?” Her voice dripped with doubt.

“Don’t mock me, old hag! I’m Art Ericson, I’ve killed men before, I never run!”

“Not with that leg you won’t. What were you doing out in the wilds in the dead of night anyway? Are you really so fool?”

“I was searching for…” Art frowned, taking in the hut again. It was rough but sturdy looking, one big round room with thick beams supporting layers of furs. Strange skulls and satchels hung from the ceiling, and clay pots stamped with an odd rune lined the fringes, “Are you the witch? The Crowmother?”

“Heard of me, eh? You make as bad a searcher as you do a warrior, boy, for it was me that found you.”

“But I’ve got you now! I want you to fix me. They said you could do that. You helped heal the Chief’s daughter, they said, and stopped old Berenger from dying when he got sick.”

“Fix? You came all that way and got so torn up just to get treated? Your mother dropped you on your head a few too many times, boy.”

“No, she died, she was too weak. The elders all say she made me weak too, and mad, but I’ve got more spirit than all of those old fat cowards put together!” He gritted his teeth and forced himself up despite the pain, “See, I ain’t scared of nothing, no pain or what folk say or beasts or anything!”

The hag spat in the fire, but her eyes seemed a little less hard, “Aye, got some spirit coming all this way, but what do you want? Why’d you leave and trek all the way up here?”

“Killed a Blackfenn man. The elders were mad, said I’d give them all a bad name, get them flogged or attacked. Thin blooded cowards sent me off with hounds on my heels! If they fought back we wouldn’t have to put up with those drunken wretches at all, we could slaughter them all and take the gold and the land back!” He felt something hot on his cheeks and shook, “I’ll do it myself but I need to be stronger! Even if I was just as strong as the rest, that’d do, I could fight them proper then no matter how many damn cowards there are!”

“The great warrior is too weak is he?”

“It’s not like that! Not for glory, but they’ve got to go, they’re just grinding us down bit by bit. It’s got to be them or us and I’m not going to let them win!” He slammed a fist down, “But… yes, I can’t do it like this, there’s too many and they don’t fight fair, all ganging up, picking on one man. Those wolves have more honour than scum like that.”

Her laugh was high and scratchy as nettles, “Hehehehehehe, the little pisspot wishes to grow up. Nothing more, you’re full of all this grandure, but you’re just sick of being the runt aren’t you? You haven’t even got it in you to be a man, not got a lick of wisdom.”

“Liar, I’d be a better man than any of them, I’ve no fear.”

“Then you’re dumber than a beast, even those wolves had their sense to run.” Her rock crushed the beans again. Kunk.

Art clenched his hand across the straw, “So? That doesn’t matter, I’ll keep fighting till I die and then after too, I swear, forever, I don’t give up until my foes lie bleeding in the snow!”

“Then why come up here instead of dying fighting? Leave me my bed? Don’t doubt  that all of us’d be far far happier that way.”

“Enough, shut up! Are you going to help me or not!?”

The Crowmother peered at him again, eyes cold and narrow, “No. You ain’t sick except in the head, and you’ve got years of growing to do. Been boys smaller than you that ended up tall and strong with a bit of time.”

Art breathed shallowly. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Be patient? Wait? What good was that? It would be too late by then, if you waited you just got old and fat and dull like the cowards! His jaw clenched before he grimaced and rose, wrapping himself in the thick pelt of the blanket. The bite on his leg screamed with agony, he almost toppled and grabbed ahold of a supporting beam for aid. His nostrils flared, what was the point in delaying? Fingers curled, wanting to hold on to the post, then with a spasm his muscles released and his arm dropped. Art swayed for a moment, stomach churning, then leaned and held the position.

“Can stand there, eh? Some weakling, getting up after a wolf bite,” Something like a smile revealed her teeth, sharp and few and yellow.

“There’s your bloody bed, you can quit mourning now, hag.”

“Oh, thank the frost,” She sighed and rose, her hunched and withered form easily taller than him as she shuffled across the room, “You’re not getting it back if your leg falls asleep, lad, but take a quick wander, get the blood flowing, drop those fantasies. World’s better when you accept it an’ work with it.”

“How?” He croaked, limping towards the heavy flap of the hut. How could a scant six steps stretch so far? “Still banished, ain’t I? Blackfenn’s still gonna grind the village down, still have to stop them…”

“Not while injured. It’s dead of night out there, snow’s coming down thick and fast. If you think I’m going to wander out there and bring you right back a second time, then you’re sorely mistaken, boy. Better wait it out, there’s peace in that, sitting enjoying the quiet.” The crone muttered, settling down on the rough mattress with a sigh and a series of cracks.

“You’re just like those cowards, all they would go on about was peace this and peace that and trying to live together.” He muttered, risking a glance outside. It was as the witch said, so cold the wind bit at him through the slither of an opening, and outside was thick with white flakes, turned silvery in the light of the full moon.

“Utterly hopeless. At least keep it closed if you’re freezing yourself to the death, these bones need a few more layers to make good outside.” Her thin eyes closed sleepily, and he nodded, letting the thick fur and hide cover seal them in the warmth once more.

Kunk!  

The heavy stone slammed into her temple as crushed beans flew across the room. His other arm went forward even as he toppled, pinning the hag by her wretched throat as he screamed, “YOU’LL DO YOUR MAGIC, WITCH!”

Dark blood flowed from the wound and suddenly the crone didn’t seem quite so feeble. She squirmed like a snake under his grip, her ancient fingers scratched at him and legs kicked wildly. Kunk! He slammed the stone down, smashing it against her skull like she had crushed the beans. Dark blood welled up among the bruising and breaking. Kunk!

“Ger’ off o’ me!” Her voice was ragged as his hand slipped, and her own sticklike arms threw him free, almost into the fire at the centre.

“Do it! Help me or I’ll kill you too!” Art screamed. The pain seemed gone now, or it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting up before the old woman, grabbing something else, destroying her.

She was quick though. Talons seemed to top her fingers as she rose and dove at him with a hiss, “Fine words from a guest! Do you have no honour, no fear, stupid pig head boy!?”

“I TOLD YOU I DON’T!” His hand burned as he grabbed the stick, but it burned her more as he stabbed forward, forcing the fiery log deep into her belly. She screamed, a high ethereal wail, but kept coming and then she was on top of him like some puppet of paper skin and iron bones. Her face filled his vision, twisted with pain and wordless outrage, then her wiry hands grasped his neck. Art lashed out, flailing wildly but the crone was too big and too heavy to push off, and his blows were mere panicked swipes, weakening with every breathless second.

Darkness seemed to well up again, that cold from before, seeking to pull him into a never ending sleep. His head stirred in confusion, how could this be happening? How weak was he to lose to an old woman, with her furious cold eyes. His thumbs found them, resistant for a second under his grip and then the crone realized what he was doing. She stretched, pushing him down, tightening her hold but then it was too late. His digits stabbed up and then her eyes squelched and broke with a gruesome pop, raining hot ichor down on his face.

She screamed again and toppled backwards, clawing at the ruined orbs in terror, “My… my eyes… aaargh… m…my…eyes….”

Art gasped for air and scrambled to his feet. The knife, his knife wasn’t far off and he tugged it out viciously and turned back to the screaming old woman. She could do nothing now, she flailed awkwardly at the sound but it was too wide and then too late. One hand grabbed her hair and tugged her head back, exposing the weathered old throat to the cold iron edge. “Feel that? Help me or I’ll kill you, Crowmother. One quick cut is all I need.”

She shuddered, face covered in blood, her eyes two wretched crushed holes stuffed with slime and gore, voice soft and fearful, “N-no… no, don’t, I…ah…I saved you…”

“I didn’t come looking for you to be saved, I came to find strength.”

“Fi… fine. I-I’ll help you,  I know something…” She whimpered, “A blessing, made with your body soaked i… in magic.”

Art nodded though the gesture was nothing to the blinded hag, “Do it and I’ll leave.”

“Y.. there’s a…a sack on the ceiling… beside the fox skull, big leather skin… full of blood. C-cut it so the blood covers you…” She instructed amid groans of pain before she dropped to the floor, released from his grasp. She was too weak and pained anyway now, and he needed to move to reach the bloated skin.

“This had better not be a trick, hag.” Art growled and poked it tentatively with the dagger. As she had said, a drop of crimson leaked out over the blade, and he nodded before slicing open the rest. A red waterfall like wine poured from it, filling the room with a stink like smoke, and covering the warrior. It stung his injuries, the blood was hot as if it had just been over the fire, and sticky too as it ebbed over his face, his arms, and wrapped around his legs, “I did it, now what?”

The woman didn’t answer. She merely stood on the other side of the fire, firm and still as ice. Her mouth opened, and then she began to sing. Art didn’t understand the words, he spoke but one tongue, but he could feel the power behind them, an ancient chant that thrummed in the air as if before a storm and seemed to set the hot blood writhing over his body. His cuts and injuries burned fierce with the stuff, but somehow he held still, heart beating fast in his chest. This was it. The witches magic, his power, amid these words and flames and blood. If she would only hurry up.

Sudden pain flared. Art blinked dimly, staring down at the white fang the crone had driven into his chest. The blood spiralled around it, patterns forming and dancing as it flowed, not downwards, but inwards with pain like a dozen knives.

“What have you done?”

“Given you the strength you want,” The Crowmother whispered, stepping back with a crooked grin.

“Wha- ARGH!” He fell as the pain grew. The fang seemed to worm its way deeper into his flesh, and the heavy pelt on his shoulders felt wet, sticking to his skin like a boiling rag. He gasped, chest heaving, and seeming to grow with every breath, deeper and thicker, ribs creaking all the while. His back cracked, lengthening a little, and he clenched his jaws as his muscles seized and thickened, burning with power. His back broadened, the skin seeming to threaten to rip, but instead the pelt was there, sticking, pulling, wrapping around him like a living thing.

“Course, you never wanted the strength of just men. You already have that. You wanted strength like a beast, like a monster.”

He was bigger. He could feel it, feel the bones lengthening as if reforged by some mad smith. His spine screamed as it grew, his muscles changed proportion, growing strong and fat and stretching his breeches tight. His neck pushed out, and his jaw grew longer and longer, the teeth sharper within, and the small nose was pulled along on top. Pots and furs were barrelled aside by his mass, and yet the fur seemed to move around him, covering his broad back in shaggy black hair and reaching down around his sides, over his arms and legs.

“It suit’s you. You won’t know any fear, or peace, or friends, just that reckless endless fury of yours until you fall.” She hissed from the other end of the hut, though that was feeling far smaller now.

Art snarled, feeling his body surge larger again, the deep black fur overtaking human tones. Almost too big to stand on two legs, his pelvis cracked and he felt a section of spine reach beyond that, wrapping itself in flesh and fur, then the pain swayed his attention again. His face was a face no longer, more long and broad, a great muzzle filled with fangs behind a dark nose. His eyes barely faced forwards, he could just about see the blind woman, taunting him, twisting his commands, cursing him.

Fingers thickened on heavy legs, their dexterity fading as dark pads swelled up and nails curled into hard claws. One set foot in the fire by accident and he snarled in pain as it crushed the flames into the ash. His feet were likewise morphed into paws, huge shaggy paws at the end of stout black legs, smashing pots and tearing the hut apart in his agony. The hair covered him now, an entire pelt stretching and growing as he grew, larger and stronger, a massive beast the shade of midnight with ivory fangs and monstrous paws.

A bear, some part of him said, though bigger than a horse, he filled the entire hut and felt his back scrape the beams of the roof. One paw tore the pallet of straw he had lain on apart, another broke the supporting pillars with just a furious turn. Where was the witch? Where was that coward?! Even as he whirled around he couldn’t see her, nor hear, and an attempt to shout for the hag only produced a roar from his bestial throat.

Of course. Bear’s couldn’t talk. She had done this, made him some stinking great animal instead of a man. His paw slammed down again and he roared in frustration, a ferocious bellow louder than a hunting horn. No answer came except a crack, and then the crude shelter finally gave way, showering him with beams, cloth, pelts, fur and half a mountain of snow. Perhaps the boy would have been injured by that, now it felt like little more than an inconvenience to bare it and push through, smashing the rest of the hut asunder as he emerged out into the night.

Snow fell all around, tiny white flakes that stirred on his breath, but his coat was too thick for the cold to bother him. Instead he felt hot. And angry. Where had the damn witch gone? He could smell her, he was sure of it. He could smell so much now; the blood, the smoke, the herbs and beans and fruit she had stowed in pots, that old rotting scent of the hag, and a wet furry scent. Him? No, not him, something else, close by, closing in.

There. His new eyes found them in the dark, the pack once more. Sent by the witch to harry him perhaps, or merely drawn by the commotion. The beast didn’t care, just threw himself forwards, barrelling over the snow like a dark avalanche of fur and muscle. The wolves snarled back, there were more of them now, little grey mutts smaller barely bigger than his head, but fast for all that.

They circled and pounced on him, paws scrambling over the black hill that was his back, teeth digging deep into his flesh. Like fleabites. The bear whirled around, paw swinging out to catch one with a scarred snout on the neck. It cracked like a broken toy and flew across the snow. The rest were warier, careful to stay out of range of his paws, they piled on his back as if to weigh him down, but they weren’t enough. He rose on two legs instead, and then toppled backwards, sending up a flurry of snow. A couple were too slow to escape, he felt them break under his weight and swatted at another, tearing a deep gouge down its side.

Another leapt on his belly, running up to fasten its jaws around his neck. Too weak, a collar of fat and muscle took the brunt, and then his forelegs grabbed the fiend between them and squeezed. Bones snapped and the wolf went still.

The last four were cowards. They ran, leaving the bear to smash and tear into the carcasses left behind. His breath steamed as he ate, cooked as if with some infernal rage within that the cold could do nothing to lessen. It only seemed to vex the beast more, like the pain deep in his chest, and the fury filling his mind. There was still more to destroy, it had been too long since he had fought, and there were cowards in the valley below who had blood still to spill for some reason or another.