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Kjede-Bryter * * * No one event comes of its own, with nothing before and nothing after--it has ever been a habit of the apes to insulate themselves, to hold themselves locked safe from all before or after them by either ignoring it or reducing it to a dry recital of facts. Kjede-Bryter deserves more than this. Apes did not measure the years at the time when Heimhalla fell, except to note that such a ruler or such a priest had been in charge for so many years. A dozen such I could give, and each would mean little--more to mark the ruler's time than to mark the betrayal of Heimhalla. In the days before the Garou seperated into tribes, Great Fenris came to lead the First pack. In time, each found a mate, yet Fenris found none worthy, and perfected his skills alone as the other tribes began among the humans they protected and travelled with them. It was in a furious battle with the Jotunn, those who served Jormangundr before it had created Spirals and fomori, that he saw the woman known as Sigun. She was as beautiful--more--than any human who walked upon the face of gaia, and yet bore a monstrous double-headed axe in battle as if it had no more weight than a switch. He was almost wounded in that battle, such was his entrancement, but recovered his wits and slew his foe. After the battle he ranged far over the distant lands in search of her again. How he found her, and won her hand and her love, is a story for another time. Fenris returned with the sons born him by Sigun, and the Sons of Fenris--a general name, applied to both son and daughter--grew in size and strength. And as time passed and each tribe began to wander, Great Fenris took his tribe to the frozen lands from whence Sigun hailed--to find her kingdom destroyed by the Jotunn. Great was the battle to destroy the kingdom of Utgard, and those few who survived were scattered. On the site of our greatest victory was founded the varthi of Heimhalla, where the tribe--the entire tribe--resided. The caern finally fell one night while Great Fenris and his children were in battle with the Jotunn. Loki, who was not allowed among the Fenrir because of his deciet--the man would make a ratkin look blunt and reliable--sought revenge, and corrupted Odin One-Eye against us, so that both sides may weaken in battle and he could rule. Through deciet, Loki False-Sayer weakened the varthi's defenses, and the forces of Wotan invaded. Sigun was the last to fall, surrounded by the dead and dying of the enemy, but all the kin of the Fenrir, mighty warriors in their own right, were raped and slaughtered by the invaders. Such was the bloodshed that day that the mountain collapsed in on itself, burying forever the varthi--its heart was never found even by the invaders--and hiding it forever. It was on this horrid night that the first of the Doomhammers wielded the Ironhammer which bears their name for the last time. His family escaped through a moonbridge and he sacrificed his life to save them, finally hurling the great hammer into the Bridge so that it would not fall into the hands of Jormangundr's servants. From there, it passed to the next Fenrir, and the next, and the next, in an unbroken line to the paw of my packmate, Volgar Doomhammer. That too, is a story for another time. More came of this--the blood-oath sworn against Wotan and his servants; how One-Eye turned to darker powers, raising the dead to fight again on his behalf; how the army of Aesir was destroyed and Wotan killed not once but twice, to return again. These are of importance, and these I will tell, but not this night. Chainbreaker's tale begins not in the Varthi of Heimhalla, but in a forge, where many weapons of might had been created--whether within the Bawn of this mightiest of Varthis or outside it, I do not know, although I suspect the latter. At the destruction of the Varthi Heimhalla, the spirit of this forge was bound to it--not by Rite or magic but its own oath. For centuries upon centuries this spirit--I will simply call it the Herald; in a way this is what it is, and names are powerful things; I would not bandy the power of my ally about like a flag to wave--waited, until it could be shown a hammer of the purest quality and craftsmanship. Andi-Binder was born to a pack of wolves in the protectorate of the Bloody Permafrost Varthi. I know not the year and care nothing for the numbers anyway, but he was barely through his Rite of Passage when his newfound pack ventured south to combat those of our tribe who had betrayed the ways and traditions of Great Fenris to join the little madman who was ravaging Europe. Heavy were our hearts in that war as brother battled fallen brother, but he did his duty as he was needed, discovering much about the spirits which had corrupted both Garou and common soldier. Even during his Rite of Passage he had bound one and cast the carved cage it was bound into into the Abyss so that it may never return, thus earning his deed-name. He lived such a life as most Garou can only aspire to--from great battles in the rain forests of the Amazon; to deeds among the spirits as he attempted to break through the Iron Curtain; to his aid to Gol-Gol Fangs-First himself, in gaining a Gift no Garou has possessed the power of in centuries; to his part in finding those of the Swords of Heimdall who attempted to escape the Purge. It was he who enticed a well-feared spirit of war into the Great-Klaive Gi av Vridd Dummy, and he who cared for it well until he found a suitable bearer. Twice did Andi-Binder join to pack, and twice did he see it collapse about him, his might enough to keep him alive but not his brothers- and sisters-in-arms. Thrice did he mate, and thrice did he see his mates die--one in the pains of childbirth and two by ape hunters. And time and time again did he join to battle, until those servants of Jormangundr foolish enough not to flee at his first-sight fed the soil with their life's-blood. But even these were not the greatest of his accomplishments, for his skill in speaking was well-known amidst every spirit of the Umbra, and it was due to Andi-Binder that the Bloody Permafrost Varthi retained a full complement of spirits while other places saw thiers drift away through poor health or lack of attention. New Rites came to the Fenrir through his genius; new ways in which to implore the aid of the spirits and even new Gifts by which our people could better protect their lands and lay low the followers of Jormangundr. Many things did Andi-Bindr see that none else did--none other had such mind to understand such visions, or such friendship to and loyalty from the spirits that they would send such spirits to him. And when he saw the hammer which was to become Kjede-Bryter, they sent him the scene-picture of what was to come, and of the part he could play in it, if he was willing. He was. Niklas Kohl, perhaps the greatest Klaive-forger which the Fenrir can claim, from a long and distinguished line of such, came one day to the Talking Junkyard Auvarthi. There, demanding neither money nor favor for reward, he set to work upon a task he volunteered to the Wyrmfoe of this place. This warrior of the Fenrir had dreamed often of an Ironhammer such as was traditional for the Fenrir to carry, but never had the temerity to imagine what he recieved. Niklas studied upon his topic well, before putting his skill to work. And before the hammer could be as complete as the kinfolk could make it, one thing was yet lacking--such a hammer must be quenched in the blood of a worthy foe--and so this Garou set forth to find one. He was given much credit for the accomplishments of his pack, and for a few of his own, and thus when he came to the Iron Ridge Varthi he found a hero's welcome. It was here that he saw something strange--the defenses of the sept were arranged with the heaviest protection not from the north, towards which the scab lay, but to the west, towards the flatlands and forests. What knowledge he had of tactics was insufficient to figure the why of this, and so he asked others, and they told him a disturbing tale, of apes who raced through the woods into the Bawn, too fast to kill more than a few of the horde that raided, only to grab a few handfuls of weeds and flee again. He watched such an attack, still confused, and gave chase all the way to the road. Several he struck down, for they were weak, yet those surviving lept onto a passing truck which slowed for them and then sped off. One of them had been captured, but this Garou, in his foolishness, learned nothing from the thing and killed it. But one idea was so obvious that it could not escape attention, and thus this Garou looked to see which plants were being gathered. Thus informed, he grabbed a sack from one of those killed, filled it with poison oak and kudzu, and proceeded from there to the mine, ten miles down the road, from whence the coal truck had come. The fool ape on guard let him pass, and to find the manager's office he simply found some ape and asked. The monkey, as afraid as any ape should be in the presence of Gaia's defenders, answered as quickly as he could--a good thing for him--and the warrior went. In the building where the manager oversaw the operations, everything was different than where the workers of the mine slaved--where they ate cold slop amongst flaked paint and rusted pipes, the office was decorated well, air-conditioned, with a nice desk and a secretary--a secretary with the biggest tits the warrior had seen since Greta Smites-with-a-Breast. Once again failing to gain the information which he needed, he took the War-form in front of the woman. She tried to scream, reached for the phone, and Morningstar put a hole through the desk where the phone used to be. With the woman thus occupied, he made his way through the door. The manner of his doing so was simply to slam a shoulder into it, and before the might of the Crinos it gave like matchsticks. And the inside of the office was decorated in the most disgusting style which apes can manage, a style later called "Screamin' Ultra-Modern TresChic." The warrior shuddered, but there were more important concerns--two apes in there, who had before been talking business. They didn't last long. The papers in that office were mostly useless. He grabbed those that may be of use and stuffed them into one of the ape's briefcases before leaving. The papers seemed to have been written hundreds of years ago, with terms like "a pox upon them"--apparently talking about Garou, which the paper called Lupines. Other portions were written in a language this ignorant one knew not, but the image of a serpent eating its own tail is nigh-universal, and those papers also ended up in the briefcase. When he left, the secretary was dead--and by the look of her, had been dead for years. How the leech could walk in the daylight was unknown to him, but it must have finally caught up with her, and after taking a bone which he still carries, he thought no more upon it. First he searched for the other leech--there had to be at least one, and in truth there was, but not in this place. Checking the walls and floors brought nothing, so he stepped out into air so thick and black with coal dust that he wouldn't have been seen from 10 feet away. The second building he checked was empty, and after checking this one as well for hiding leeches he left. The guard was just as foolish letting him out as the child had been letting him in, and soon the warrior was at the Iron Ridge Varthi, looking over the papers. The mark on one he brought to a Modi, an old Garou who had seen much in his years, and this fellow identified it as the mark of a tribe of leeches which lived in Shadow Lord lands, foul even to the reckoning of their own twisted kind. The warrior also learned of a place, which two packs of Garou had been sent to and not returned. More than a trifle foolishly, he went there, ahunt. Whatever laired there had marked its territory--an ape impaled upon a pole, left for any who passed that way to see. The area, strangely lifeless, had no other warning before the ground gave beneath his feet and dropped him into the arms of his ambusher... who seemed as surprised as he was. It never recovered. The remains were splattered among the floor and walls... and ceiling... of a tunnel, leading downwards, and the man followed it, a voice at the far end chanting in a language that drove his hackles up and another accompanying. It was only luck that the trap which he walked into was not enough to kill him, and when the smoke cleared, red-hot bits of stone rattling down the corridor, and he looked for something upon which to vent his frustration, an item presented itself. The thing stood there, scrawny beyond skeletal, malformed and twisted by the evil which had formed it--and as it changed, a circle of molten rock rose to surround it. It died with two swings of the flail Morningstar... and the cavern began to collapse. The warrior did not make it out in time, in fact, and spend the engire night digging himself out of the broken rock and dirt. It wasn't until later that he returned to find the molten circle of lava had frozen into a bowl, in which was pooled the foul creature's blood. With this blood returned, the Hammer was heated again, the final work done, and quenched in the blood of a powerful foe. Yet even such a beautiful tool as this was no more than a tool without the proper spirit to reside within it, and so this warrior set to find a Godi, a Garou far wiser than he, who lived within the Bloody Permafrost Varthi. Andi-bindr looked upon the hammer, and the spirits spoke to him, of the spirit who had chained itself to its forge, and set the young warrior in search of it. The journey was long and difficult; into the Ural Mountains of what is now the Ukraine, from whence Sigun had first come. The few signs of which the young warrior knew were enough to guide him, and when he saw the spirit of its forge, other spirits surrounding it to guard, he readied for battle. When he Reached across the Gauntlet to the Penumbra, the four descended upon him, but he saw their fear and realized that they did not wish to fight. He lost much advantage in battle for his hesitation, but rather than leap forward to engage the enemy, he stepped back and declare that he had not come for battle. To his relief, the guardians stopped also, and demanded of him why he had come--and he told them of his quest. Guardians and forge-spirit alike looked at the hammer, and both stood in awe of the flawless work. The hammer was acceptable... but was the wielder? The test had been set long before; the price of failure, his life. Before the spirit could join with the weapon, he had to be freed; the chain which held him to his forge broken. Many Garou had taken many hammers to this place, and failed the testing--but this warrior, with this hammer, was able to snap a link of the chain and to set the spirit free. The guards dispersed, their work in this place done, and it is my hope to see them again at my side come the Fimbul Winter. The spirit set up his forge for the last time, ice-cold flames of white flaring as the stone cracked and began to crumble. At his command, I cast the hammer Chainbreaker into the forge. White-hot heat and the cold of the Last Winter itself flared around the hammer and entered it, and when the forge tore itself apart under the strain, the spirit resided in the hammer. Still, its bonding was not complete, nor was it permanent. For this, the warrior needed to return to the Bloody Permafrost Varthi, and so he did Andi-Bindr awaited the warrior and Chainbreaker's return, and had prepared. Within the graves of Hallowed Heroes, those who had gone before in glory and honor and wisdom, spending their lives like coin to defeat the minions of Jormangundr, did he await and did he prepare, both among the spirits and within himself. The warrior gave unto him the hammer Chainbreaker--Kjede-Bryter in the language of the people Andr-Bindr called his, and the old Gode began to chant. Long and long he spoke, his voice never growing soft or slow or hoarse, and both Garou and spirits attended his words as he spoke of the times past and the times to come. It was the work of the spirits that allowed his final sacrifice, but the decision was his, joyfully made and cheerfully carried out--with one high note, his chant ended, and with one swift thrust of old but still-powerful arms, the spike atop Kjede-Bryter pierced the noble Gode's heart and spilt his life's-blood into the snow. The old one collapsed, his corpse donning the wolf-shirt to which he had been born, and the warrior howled his mourning and disbelief. Rather than cuffing him for his foolishness, the other Godi who had attended spoke to him, and told him of Andi-Bindr's plans, of his joy in carrying out the war against Jormangundr far beyond the span of his own years. The warrior offered his thanks, and returned home with his spirit-ally. On his trip he learned more, of the history of both spirits, and of the times to come. For Andi-bindr, perhaps the wisest of all Gode, has seen the signs--the spirits have spoken unto him what they have said to no one else; that the Fimbul Winter comes. Within a few turnings of the seasons, Ragnorak will arrive--the world will be rent, and we shall either stand and die or stand and strive and concquer. When the End Times come, Kjede-Bryter's aid will bring swift death to those who dare to call us enemy. * * * Told by Jublain "Hjarta-Villtnur" Wade; Dólg-Dvergr, Defeator of Ragnorak, Alpha of the Dogs of War, Child of Wolverine, Athro, Galliard, Get of Fenris Back | List of Tales | Next
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