- "I am his hammer!’ the voice thundered. ‘I am his fist! I am the eye that judges and the wrath that punishes!"
- —The mighty Warrior Priest of Wisborg.
When the Empire town of Wisborg came under attack from the Norscan armies of Wulfrik, its defenders rushed to form a blockade against the barbarian hordes. Their training and discipline were not enough, however. Each northman had the experience of a life spent hunting and fighting in the icy wilds of Norsca behind him. Each of the marauders towered over the militiamen, bodies hardened by lives of ceaseless toil and endless war. When they brought their shields smashing against those of the southlings, it was the soldiers who were pushed back. When the soldiers tried to press back, the Northmen remained as fixed as a mountain.
There was another difference between the enemies. The southlings had been taught to shun and despise the wicked gods of the north, but they had also been taught to fear them. As the soldiers heard the marauders invoke the dread name of the Blood God, that fear returned to them. The northmen did not share the same feeling when they heard the southlings call upon their own god. To the Norscans, Sigmar and all the gods of the south weren’t even things to be shunned, simply mocked and jeered. They felt no fear when they heard the name of Sigmar.
That changed when a half-dozen Norscans were suddenly flung through the air. An instant later, four others were sent flying, scattered like leaves before a storm. A mighty voice shouted down the howls of the Marauders, drowning their fierce war cries. The northmen backed away, recoiling from the imposing figure who strode from the ranks of the soldiers. He was a tall man, garbed in heavy armour and white robes. In his steel gauntlets he held an immense warhammer gilt in gold and wreathed in a nimbus of blinding light. The man’s face was hard and severe, his bald pate branded with the symbol of a twin-tailed comet. Fires seemed to burn beneath the man’s flesh, and with every step he appeared to swell with power. One marauder, slower than the rest in retreating, was thrown through the air by a sweep of the warhammer. He landed in a battered mess, his shield dented into a concave disk that was embedded in his ribs. The Warrior Priest continued to bellow, calling out the name of Sigmar and vowing to scour Wisborg of the heathen and the heretic. The Norscan forces fell silent at the priest’s fury, cringing back like whipped dogs. From their cowed ranks, Wulfrik emerged.
The Chaos Champion stared at the priest with an air of unconcern, as though he had not just watched the Sigmarite swat a dozen of his warriors like flies. The priest glared coldly at Wulfrik as the champion took his measure, pacing slowly back and forth in the gap that had been created between the lines. Finally, Wulfrik stopped. He bared his fangs in a sardonic grin and gestured with his sword at the warrior priest’s forehead. Using his Gift of Tongues, he shouted an insult in perfect Reikspiel. The massive warrior spat on the ground and stared hard into the Warrior Priest’s eyes...
Wulfrik was flung through the air as the Warrior Priest’s hammer came crashing down into the flagstones beside him, missing the Chaos Champion by a hairsbreadth. Shards of rock tore the northman’s face sending blood trickling into his beard. He landed with a brutal impact against the shields of his own warriors, knocking several men to their backs as he smashed against them. He could feel the spikes on one man's shield bite into his back, gouging his armour and pricking the flesh beneath. Angrily, Wulfrik leapt back to his feet, stalking towards the grim armoured priest.
Upon hearing yet another insult from the Norscan, the priest lunged at Wulfrik, an inarticulate snarl of rage flying from his lips. The massive warhammer, its head smouldering with wisps of orange flame, came hurtling down with the fury of a thunderclap. Wulfrik sprang away from the mighty blow, rolling across the ground as the hammer pulverised the flagstones. Better prepared for the might of the priest’s hammer this time, Wulfrik was able to arrest his momentum before smashing into his own men. The Champion glared at the southling priest from above the rim of his shield. Every eye was now upon their fight, those of the invading northmen and those of the southling soldiers. To the victor of this contest would go Wisborg and all within its walls.
The warrior priest roared. Again, the hammer came swinging towards Wulfrik, its head now glowing like iron in a forge. This time the hammer struck Wulfrik’s shield, crumpling it like a sheet of tin. He was tossed through the air, smashing into the abandoned carts and stands of Wisborg's marketplace. Glass shattered and wood splintered as the armoured warrior ploughed through the stall. The Warrior Priest’s voice thundered across the ranks of the awed northmen, preaching the power of Sigmar. The marauders began to back away from the fearsome southling with the divine fury of his god burning in his eyes and blazing from his hammer. The Empire soldiers defending the square cheered, marching forwards to aid the priest in driving the invaders back to their ships.
Suddenly, the retreat of the northmen stopped. Marauders pointed with their axes, muttering excitedly as they watched something rise from the wreckage of the stalls. The Warrior Priest turned his head, his jaw clenching in anger as he saw his enemy regain his feet. Wulfrik wiped blood from his mouth and spat a broken fang into the street. The hero growled yet another insult in Reikspiel, kicking aside a splintered cart and marching towards the priest. With every step he took, more of the northmen began to beat their shields. By the time he was close enough to engage his foe, the tumult had risen to an almost deafening din. Wulfrik cast his dented shield at the priest’s feet, then drew a second sword from his belt. A blade in either hand, he closed upon his enemy.
The enraged priest sprang to the attack first. Gripping his hammer in both hands, he brought the heavy weapon hurtling downwards in an overhead strike, intending to drive Wulfrik’s head into the ground like a nail. The burning hammer looked like a bolt of sun-fire as it came crashing down. Again, the agile Chaos Champion avoided the Sigmarite’s furious assault. Goaded into a zealous fury, the warrior priest had forsaken craft and cunning, relying upon strength, power and conviction to maul his enemy. The hammer smashed into the ground, once more gouging a crater in the flagstones. Wulfrik was thrown from his feet by the tremulous impact, but this time he was not batted about the square by the resultant shock wave. The instant the priest’s hammer was in motion, Wulfrik struck out with one of his swords. He did not strike for his enemy, however, but drove the point of his blade deep between the cobblestones. Maintaining a fierce grip about the weapon, Wulfrik held his ground.
As the warrior priest rose from his vicious attack, Wulfrik was in motion. Using the sword as a fulcrum, the Norscan brought his entire body swinging around. His heavy boots smashed into the Sigmarite’s belly, knocking the wind out of him and throwing him to the ground. Immediately, Wulfrik sprang atop his foe, releasing his hold on the sword embedded in the flagstones and bringing the other smashing down. The priest cried out in agony as Wulfrik’s sword slashed his hand, forcing the hammer from his grip. The warhammer rolled away from the stunned priest, the divine glow winking out the instant it struck the ground. A wild cheer rose from the massed ranks of the northmen. Stunned silence was the only sound among the despairing line of soldiers...
Roaring and beating their shields, the marauders lunged across the square to face the soldiers once more. What missile fire continued to assail them was sporadic and hurried, causing few injuries. The fangs of the Norscan phalanx crashed against the shields of the southling line. At first, the line held, but soon it began to buckle as the axes of the exultant marauders cut down the frantic soldiers. Once the first wedge was driven into the line, it quickly fell, the routed soldiers fleeing down side-streets and alleys, trying to find any hole in which to hide from the rage of the northmen. In the market square, Wulfrik brought the hilt of his sword smashing down into the side of the Warrior Priest’s head, driving consciousness from him. The Champion rose from his vanquished foe and grinned triumphantly as he watched his warriors pursuing the retreating soldiers. The wails of southling townsfolk, the screams of southling women, rose from the streets as the marauders began to sack Wisborg...
His arms bound, Wisborg's Warrior Priest was hauled onto deck, battered by his ordeal but with his spirit unbroken. He glared at his captors and when his eyes fell upon Wulfrik, there was a gleam of raw hate in them. The Norscan was pleased to see his prisoner so defiant and filled with rage. He intended to use those qualities. Wulfrik stalked across the deck until he stood before the Warrior Priest. He met the man's hate with an arrogant sneer. He had decided that the Sigmarite would yet live.
The priest snarled back, making a powerful effort to raise his bound arms. Wulfrik laughed at the priest’s malignance. He reached up and took the bridle of a sleek riding horse his men had brought forward. The Warrior Priest was to deliver a message to the Emperor himself... he was to bring his armies and face the full might of Wulfrik's horde.
- The Warrior Priest was never directly referenced by name within C.L Werner's "Wulfrik" Novel.
- 1: Warhammer: Wulfrik (Novel) by C.L Werner'