OGNW 5 (GOW/WHFB)

Valkia was a stubborn girl, and she clung to life with the desperation of a man who sought water in the desert.

Kratos stood outside a partially crumbled building. The building was one of the few that actually stood tall. What he had mistaken for a ramshackle village at first had revealed itself to be a village that was just hastily built. There were tents aplenty, and the few wooden structures that stood tall seemed hastily constructed and had been built to be torn down just as easily. They were nomads.

The only structure in the building that had a stronger build, made more of actual stone than just wood, was the central hall, and seemed to predate the people that lived in it. The original village healer had been killed in the attack, as well as their residing Vitki. The sorcerer was killed by the Chaos Champion. All they were left with was the man that Valkia had risked her life to protect, the healer's apprentice. Her foolhardy decision to dive into the attack suddenly made sense. If the healer died, then every other person, every injured and hurt member of the village, was bound to follow shortly.

The villagers walked past and by him with bowed heads and whispers of "Champion." He ignored them as he instead waited for the news. In the meantime, Mimir sought to distract him from his thoughts.

“Did you see her thrust, brother? It was perfect. Someone seems to have taken note of you.”

“She was lucky.” Lucky her blow had struck true and had forced the Chaos Spawn to recoil for a second. If not, she would’ve been dead if the full length of the appendage had pierced through her.

“Aye, that she was. But point a warrior who can say he had never been lucky in battle, and I would show you a liar. I dare say, luck is even a skill on its own.”

Kratos simply grunted in reply, but he could not bring himself to say no or disagree. Mimir spoke true. Sometimes it was just luck. A well-aimed blow might just glance off a soldier’s helm at the perfect angle to leave the attacker open to a counterstrike.

A hasty spear throw that would travel like it rode the very air to bury itself into an opponent, past his shield, and into his unarmored chest. An arrow fired at an awkward angle that somehow managed to find the tiniest gap in the slit of a helmet to pierce an enemy.

Kratos had seen it all. On the battlefield, luck was as important as strength of arms and skill. An unlucky warrior did not live long.

“What do you think about the folks we rescued, brother? They seem a tad odd… I feel—” Mimir’s voice was cut short by the entrance to the building opening and the man stepping out with a heavy sigh. Then he bumped into an ashen, unmoving pillar and was forced to a stop. His confused eyes trailed up till they met Kratos's placid amber orbs. Then the man yelled in fright and fell back onto his ass.

“Ha! I can’t believe that just happened. Turn me around, brother. I need to imprint the look on his face into my brain.”

Kratos reached for Mimir’s harness as the decapitated god chortled beside him. Then he focused on the man, who had his hand holding his chest tightly. While his original scream had drawn some attention, it was a brief thing. The curious folks had simply gone back to the rebuilding efforts once they saw Kratos was involved.

“The girl, Valkia. How is she?” Kratos asked with a grunt as he reached out a hand towards the man. Mimir translated his words to the man, who stared at the muscled limb, then the talking horned head, and back to the outstretched hand before muttering words of gratitude as Kratos pulled him up. Then he gave a sigh as he dusted himself off, speaking in the same motion.

“She’ll live, for now. I’ve patched her up as best as I can. Unfortunately, that’s all I can do, a patch. She needs more than stitches, herbs, and hot water. There’s a corruption settling in. A corruption forming due to the influence of the great Chaos Spawn. She will need more than mundane medicine. She would need a Vitki.”

The man peered up at him strangely, but Kratos shook his head at the unasked question. “I’m no sorcerer.”

The healer gave a shrug. “I didn’t think you were one. Unlike most, I’ve worked with the Vitki, and while your skin seems like a sure sign of a mark, I’ve never seen a Vitki dare fight a Chaos Spawn like that, less so of the more uncommon variant, a Great Chaos Spawn.”

These were unknown terms, but Kratos ignored them, knowing that Mimir was already cataloging them and ready to make inquiries later. For now, he had other things to focus on. “So we need a Vitki then. Where shall we find one?”

“I’m afraid I’m not sure. Our head Vitki left with the Warband on the raid, alongside most of his students. The two that remained behind for our spiritual well-being were some of the earliest killed during the attack by the Chaos Champion.”

Kratos allowed the uselessness of the answer to linger as his brows folded. He did not have time for this. To search futilely for an unknown sorcerer with unknown powers. Atreus was out there, and while he knew his son could take care of himself, as a father, he worried.

“So there is nothing to be done…” He gave out a grunt. The child would die, because for all the skill and strength in Kratos's limbs, he was no healer.

“That would be a bad idea… for me in particular, considering I’m the reason she is in the state that she is.” The healer confessed with a wince.

“You see, Valkia here is the only daughter of the tribe chief. She is a child that has been heavily favored and trained. Most of the tribe went raiding, led by the tribe chief. We’re a nomadic tribe, you see. Now, if and when the chief returns, I would be the first one on the chopping block and we cannot risk waiting for the chief's return with the head Vitki, for I fear she would not live that long.” The healer finished with a worried look on his face as he glanced back to where he had left the girl.

A weak grip found its way around his wrist, forcing his amber eyes to drift down to the owner, an older woman. Her body hunched over from age, her skin placid and dotted with pocks. Her brown hair greying already, while the rest of her face was faced toward the ground, like she was scared to look him in the eye.

She said something before letting go of his arm and walking off, disappearing into the throng of people walking about.

“Mimir?”

There was surprising silence from his beheaded companion. Mimir looked… distracted. His Bifrost eyes trailing as he followed the old crone.

“Mimir,” Kratos called again, with the slightest bit of firmness to his tone.

“Ah, you called, brother?”

“Not for the first time. What is wrong?”

Mimir thought over his words before replying. “The crone had some insight into our search for a Vitki. She says there is one further south, not too far from the Forbidden Citadel. The Vitki resides beneath a hill somewhere there. She said we would know it if we see it.”

Kratos’s eyes narrowed. “I see. We have a location, yet you do not seem happy.”

“It is not the location that bothers me, brother, despite the ominous name that area bears. Nay, my worries are about the herald of such a message. I can’t say for certain. I’m still getting used to how the magic in this world works, the rules, the sight. My eyes help quite handily, but I still fear I might be missing some context to what I see.”

Kratos understood his worries and reassured him. “Speak to me, brother. What is the problem?”

“I fear the crone has been bewitched, her body puppeted for the sole purpose of passing us this information.”

“A trap?”

If Mimir could shrug, the horned god would’ve by now, that was not in doubt. Instead, he let out a sigh before perking back up. “Aye, that is my worry. But I trust you, brother. If it’s a trap, I doubt they have an idea of the caliber of… man that you are.”

Kratos ignored the boasting and instead focused on the apprentice healer who had stood and watched them with a confused expression on their face as they spoke in old Norse. Kratos looked back at him with a furrowed brow before his eyes turned to the building that held the child.

Valkia Merrocdottir.

She was a brave girl, one whom he had looked down on unconsciously. Mimir had been right. Hers was not just the arrogance of youth. She had weathered that blow because she knew it was a better fate for her to lose her life than for them to lose the healer. Kratos came to a decision.

“Tell the child that we shall head for the Vitki. But first, we shall need appropriate clothing and transportation.”

“Aye. I knew you were not going to give up on the girl. She has the touch of destiny upon her. Some things that are Neverborn stare intently at her. Fate itself looks like it’s being fulfilled, even if it is not in the way it was originally supposed to be. Curious. Quite curious.”

Kratos ignored Mimir’s prattling with practiced ease as he unhooked the horned head from his hips and passed it on to the surprised healer before walking off. Mimir could talk someone else's ears off. He was going to look into scrounging appropriate wear. He had grown tired of snow and stones getting stuck between his toes.

The frigid weather had no hold upon him, yet that did not mean he enjoyed facing the brunt of winter bare-skinned. First, he would get an actual pair of boots, then clothes, and finally, he’d journey into the snow in search of the sorceress that would heal the child. After that, he would resume his search for his own son.

x

The night bled red.

Wulfrik stood ankle deep in steaming entrails, his axe slick with the clotted ruins of the chieftain he had just torn open. The man's head hung from Wulfrik's belt and like a fruit too ripe to bear its own weight, It leaked brain and blood in the same breath. The cracked skull like an eggshell sent more bits of pink-grey pulp flying with every sway of his stride.

He blinked black eyes unconsciously, the memories of the past day coming to him slowly. Slower than usual. There were gruttal sounds all around him. Grunts and howls, the tearing sound of meat leaving bone, as well as barking laughter.

All around him, his warband feasted. However their diet was a bit more screamy than regular food for they feasted on the flesh of their enemies and foes.

Some men bit into the limbs of their fallen kin in the mad carnage. Others raised bone-drums, and flayed torsos stretched like wet leather into banners, and beat them in the background. A fire pit roasted a priest of Taal, still mewling, his god long deaf to his agony. A girl was pinned on a stake beside him, her eyes already gone, lips muttering praise to any god who would answer. None would. Not here.

Not in the camp of the God's cursed wanderer. The curse was still fresh, still settling in. He still had a twisted relationship with it. His inability to settle somewhere for more than a few days before the feeling struck him. The result of his blasphemous boast. The price for his hubris.

Above, the sky churned. Lightning forked sideways across the stars. And all of a sudden, Wulfrik felt it again.

The voice.

That stupid, annoying voice. It did not have the grace to come as speech, but as a boiling in the bones. It was as if his marrow was rebelling against his flesh. His whistle shaped tongue rolled backward into his throat, his jaw convulsing as blood trickled from his nose.

His eyes bulged as he was forced to drop to his knees and watch as smoke poured from his mouth, a thick gaseous substance that writhed like eels of ash and hatred. If his warband saw his convulsions, they did not care to pay it more than a glance before they refocused once more on feasting, fucking, and torturing whoever was unfortunate enough to be close by.

His visions seized him. And his head wrenched back in agony as he saw it. He saw a man.

Wreathed in snow, fire, and ash. Muscles like stone, voice like grinding shields. Skin pale as a tomb frozen corpse, marked with a blood-red stripe that burned. The ashes that made his skin cried. They spoke of sacrifice unwillingly given. They spoke of murder and kin-slaying. They cried forth a name.

Kratos.

Wulfrik could smell him. Death followed him like a lover. Sin clung to him for past misdeeds. And rage, so much rage, barely suppressed, but Wulfrik understood it. The kind of fury that tore gods from their thrones and beat them bloody against temple stones. The kind of rage that made one challenge a god. The kind of rage that turned one onto the path of godhood.

He watched the ashen-clad man fight. A dozen men flung aside like broken dolls, axes shattering against his skin. Skulls crushed beneath bare feet. A great Chaos Spawn charging him. A tarnished black-and-gold axe decapitating a horned, bronze-skinned man.

The vision ended with the ash-skinned bald man turning to look directly into Wulfrik's burning eyes, through time, distance, and realm. The man said nothing. His amber eyes said everything.

Wulfrik awoke with a scream so loud his warriors dropped their meat and clutched their bleeding ears. The very earth cracked beneath him. His eyes blazed like coals, and his voice was not his own when he spoke.

“I hunt the god-killer. I bring his skull to the Blood Father! Blood for the Blood God, skull for the Skull Throne!”

A/N: In comes one of my favourite Norscan's.