Post by Mr. C on Jan 31, 2009 0:02:49 GMT -5
VI.
“Wielding Brandrwulf and fighting alongside the gods was his destiny.”
The fire in front of him burned fierce, the bright hues dancing and stretching out through the night’s darkness, fanning and swaying in the brisk breeze. He looked in to the yellows and reds, watching the flames burn away at the ashy logs it sat upon. That flame that roared affront Cross was one of many, warming the Vikings in their encampment. It was cold, very cold. Every warrior here was huddled in a tight circle around the fires, shivering under thick furs as they slept upon mattresses of snow. These men were used to cold. Where they live it was always quite chilly, and nights at sea were breezy and rough as well. But this cold, the cold of the land of Jotunheimr was worse. Jotunheimr was the land of the Frost-Giants, the giants and trolls that were many men high, outcasts of society and living on their own separate, yet frozen, branch of Yggradsil, the world-tree where all nine worlds existed. It was winter every month of the year here, just the way the Jotun preferred it.
A wolf howled loudly in the distance and Cross’ head snapped up from his trance. These men were his army, and he their shepherd, their master, their father. He had been staying up every night to watch them, and this night if it wasn’t for Fenrir’s cry, he would have fallen asleep on them all. Fenrir, one of the God Loki’s three children, was one of the beasts that would defeat the Gods in Ragnarok, the apocalyptic and inevitable end of the worlds. Cross sat alone, watching and guarding his army half-asleep in no more than his furred wrestling tights and boots, his skin blisteringly cold, while his mind was off on something else, completely ignoring the white-hot freezing sensation.
Why has this all been so easy? If this is truly a quest of gods, then why was reaching Jotunheimr so easy? They’d already crossed through miles upon miles of forest to reach these wondrously frozen mountains, and now they must merely survive a little snow and ice? These men, Cross included, lived in the cold, their hearts were ice, and they were not warm people, they lived in a climate and a lifestyle that commanded it. Inside and out, Cross realized he was no different than the Jotun that lived here. He was a cold person, and so were the men he commanded and cared for. He was the perfect instrument, a war machine. That’s why the voyage has been cake so far, he was perfect and would not, could not fail. The Gods chose him not because it was so tough of a challenge. Sure, it was tough, but not for “The Norse Hammer” Brett Cross.
It was easy to beat The Vindicator James Vincent; he’d done it countless times. Joe Dark, Christian Stephens, Sean England, they’d all fallen with ease. These were the preliminaries, and now the gods had chosen him to wield Brandrwulf in their favor. So far, it was a cake walk. And there was but one challenge left. The finals, the triple threat match-up. Chance Fusion vs. Sabora vs. Brett Cross, for number one contendership. That would be the mountain range, the three huge mountains before reaching the Jotunn’s lair, and brandishing Brandrwulf in the name of the Aesir, the gods of Asgaard. And then felling the Frost-Giant would be facing off against MdA. It was only a matter of time and getting there. The challenges, the obstacles, they always fell in to place. It was only a matter of time, as these Vikings had to wait for sunrise to head out again. It would be a death wish if they were to head out through the night in the pitch black, they would never see the paths. For as cold as Cross was, he was not stupid: and so they had to wait for morning.
“How’s guard duty goin’, ‘Ammer?” Came a grizzled voice from above as a large horn of frothing mead came in over Brett’s shoulder. Cross smiled and accepted the drink, downing it in just a few gulps. Glaeg sat down next to him, wrapped tight in furs but still chilled to the bone. He was not nearly as mentally strong as Cross, and he made no attempt to prove that he could be. Perhaps that’s why Cross liked him, he bowed to his will just as he’d like, and made him feel so much more powerful. It couldn’t just be friendship.
“’Tis going well, friend. Not long now ‘till the sun rises and we head out once more. The Jotun’s cave is just over them three mountains. If I ‘ave my way, we’ll be there in just two week’s time.”
“And you’re not scared one bit, are you ‘Ammer? It’s amazing, you feel no fear. Everything comes so easy for you, ‘Ammer. We’re on a death march through deathly cold Jottunheimr, to take on a Frost-Giant, and you’re not afraid.”
Glaeg’s voice hung with the words, it was a weird mixture of astonishment and sadness. Pride was everything to a Viking, and to say such a thing to another Viking would be done only on one’s death bed or to make up for some horrible wrong. It was the Viking way, but all the same Cross felt no embarrassment for the man, it was a kind gesture that he appreciated no matter what the customs were. Cross opened his mouth to reply, but then another wolf called out, this one far closer than the first.
“I’ll be right back, Glaeg. I think I’ve found us breakfast.”
“Do you need any help, ‘Ammer?”
“Nay, Glaeg.” Cross said as he stood and grabbed his hunting spear. It was the only weapon he’d need to take on the beast Fenrir, whose vast strength could only be contained by magic. As Cross headed out in to the wilderness, towards the call of the last wolf, the wind covered up Glaeg’s comment.
“Of course not...”
The sliver of the moon didn’t leave much light, and the mounds of dark snow clouds that kept weaving their way in front of it sure didn’t help keep the things lit, but when the snow did reflect its light down on to the scene, everything was illuminated quite ominously. Cross could not see far ahead of him, and the shadows around him were thick. In the darkness, Cross kept making out shapes, but when he blinked they disappeared. The smothering blackness was playing tricks on his mind. The cold breeze ran past him, ruffling his hair and beard, and when it calmed, a deep growling could be heard from his left.
Then, in a flash of red pain, rows of razor-sharp teeth drove in to his forearm from the top and bottom. The beast latched on tight and the shooting pain combined with the surprise attack startled Cross in to a fierce grunt of a yelp. Cross then growled in return, far deeper then the wolf had and swung his arm back, throwing the demon from aside and sprawling it with a crunch in to the trunk of a nearby tree. Brett turned back in to the fray, squinting in to the legions of black, looking for where the next growling, rabid hell spawn would come from, his heart pounding fast. Just as he turned, a second wolf ran up behind him, clawing up his back and nipping at his neck from behind. Cross made a quick turn-around, elbowing the poor creature viciously in its brittle ribs and sending it too, sprawled out to the way side. Two more wolves ran in from the front, and the weight of them jumping together upon him sent Cross on to his back, with both blood-thirsty heathens yelping and snapping at his face and throat. As they scratched and clawed their way closer, both creatures of black trying to tear off his face, to feed on the flesh of his throat, Cross let out a fierce yell and an explosion of strength, and rolled over on top of both beasts before planting his fist firm in to the head of the first.
The first beast’s snout crumpled under the force of the blow, collapsing like an accordion, with both of his eyes bloodshot and looking ready to burst. Brett Cross then pulled back his blood-stained fist and brought it down on the other, crunching it’s skull in below its ear, separating its jaw from the base of his head and smashing in all of its teeth. Cross stood slowly, weary and torn, and then turned, jutting the hunting spear out just in time to skewer the final beast from ear to eye. The growl turned to a yelp and the yelp cut off in to silence as The Norse Hammer yanked the spear back free of his prey all within the same fluid motion and all before the creature even hit the ground. Bloody white gunk from brain and eye alike clung to the tip of the spearhead. Using the rope affixed to the end of the hunting spear, to allow it to double for fishing on long trips at sea, The Norse Hammer gathered all of the beaten and mangled wolf pack and worked on fixing them all to the rope to bring them back to camp.
As he rounded up the kill, he realized that this week’s match-up with Chance Fusion is no different at all than the fight with the wolf pack. It was an unexpected quarrel, an unnecessary one, but one whose fruits will be reaped regardless. Chance and Cross had no reason to fight today; they are only going to fight again next week as well, in the Pure Title finals. But this week, they were going one-on-one in a brutal and vicious no-holds barred match-up. Knowing Chance, he would be relentless and fierce no matter when the match was. He’d stop at nothing to get this stupid, pointless victory. It’s not part of the quest, not what The Norse Hammer was after, but an obstacle none-the-less.
Chance would be an obstacle, that’s for sure. But, any obstacle can be overcome, especially Chance Fusion. In fact, he was the weaker half when they faced Honor n’ Vindication weeks ago. He was the one who lost the match for them. But, like the legions of these wolves, he keeps reoccurring for Brett. A weakling, but a warrior at heart, and a soul full of perseverance. With any luck, Cross could kill the man this week, and save him the trouble in the finals. He killed an entire wolf pack just now, so why not? Because in Cross’ mind, he’s a warrior. A relentless fighter; and one far more ruthless and driven than any wolf or man. This match, while pointless had its bounty to be had. Like the decimation of this wolf pack brings food to the Viking horde, killing Chance Fusion this week may make his job in the finals that much easier. In fact, he would try his damndest to kill Fusion come Monday. He was a war machine, a perfect instrument for the Gods. Cross finished the knot on the last wolf and slung his catch over his shoulder to head back to camp as the sun rose over the snowy white mountain tops.
The path was clear, and there was not far left to go for Cross and his Viking army.