Goblin King

by Kara Barbieri

  “Janneke,” she said. “Can I borrow your axe?”

  I eyed the iron warily—it may not have hurt me anymore, not like back when I held it in my hand to light up a flame to kill the draugr during the Hunt—but I still had an almost superstitious bad feeling in my gut when I was around it.

  I lifted my axe out of its holster and handed it to her. She wasted no time hammering the back of the stake into the earth with the blunt, back side of the axe until it was grounded into the bank of the raging river. The land screamed out noiselessly at the painful intrusion, and a sharp bolt of pain went through my side as if someone had hammered the stake into me instead of the ground. Despite it staying the same on the surface, I could see behind my eyelids, almost like a second scene, the ground writhing and thrashing beneath us, trying to expel the foreign object inside of it. Blood leaked out of the land as it cried out in pain. I offered a silent apology, though I doubted the land cared as we forced poisoned iron into the ground.

  When she was done, she tied a rope to the end of the iron stake—something else that came out of her pack—and tied it tightly around the stake, making sure it wouldn’t slip off.

  “All right, I’ll be right back.” She rolled up the leathers again, this time with my axe and the rope inside it as well as the stake, and tucked it under one arm. I frowned. Was she going to do what I thought she would? Surely even she wasn’t that bold.

  “Wait, Diaval—” Rosamund said in horror as the she-goblin plunged into the icy water. For a moment, she was thrashed by the current, bobbing up and down, being thrown left and right by the torrents of water and ice. She went under as an ice floe hit her, and despite the pain of the running water, all three male goblins and I stepped forward, peering into the churning darkness.

  It was quiet for a long, painful moment, and I gripped Soren’s hand, squeezing it as my heart raced for my friend. But as I was starting to truly fear she’d drowned, Diaval burst out of the water on the other side, breathing deep in the cold air. She pulled herself out of the river by her arms, crawling low with her belly until she was all the way onto the opposite bank. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding and relaxed my grip on Soren’s hand. He gazed at the redness, the mark of strength from my grip, in surprise.

  She immediately went back to work, pulling out the leather bindings again and hammering the iron stake into the opposite side of the bank. Then she pulled the rope taut, so it was visibly hanging over the torrents of water and ice before she tied it to the other stake in the same way she had the first.

  “I know I’m not one to talk,” Seppo said, “but that’s unnatural. She’s not even bothered at all.”

  “Magic,” Rose replied, “really messes with people.”

  “Remind me never to piss off Diaval in the future, will you?” Soren asked.

  “I’ll try my best but … you do have a very special skill when it comes to pissing people off,” Rose said.

  Soren turned to look at the two men, then back at me. “If I ever piss her off, are you going to protect me, Janneke?”

  He had that stupid smirk on his face as if he already knew the answer. Which, he might’ve. “Whatever she does to you, you’ll probably deserve.”

  “Oi!” Diaval yelled from across the river. “We can play ‘house’ later! Get in the bloody water!” The three goblins cringed.

  “I’m going to put this out there,” Soren said, “but I really hate this idea.”

  “It’s either this or having to fight the giant wolf that guards the other gate of Hel!” Diaval shouted from across the river. “You don’t want to fight the wolf, believe me!”

  “I’m with Soren,” Rosamund said. “I kinda prefer taking my chances with the giant wolf.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” Seppo grinned, eyeing the river like any other challenge.

  “Honey,” Rose said, “I think what you call a sense of adventure is what most people would call ‘poking a dragon with a stick to see what it does when it wakes up’ or ‘jumping down a random chasm to see where it leads after hearing a strange noise from it.’ So, believe me when I say that I love you, but your idea of an adventure is pretty much suicide.” He crossed his arms. “That being said, where you go, I go.”

  I looked over at Soren, who was staring transfixed at the water. “Do you see the faces?”

  “Faces?” I asked. “What faces?”

  Soren shook his head. “It’s the ice floes playing with my head. Don’t worry about it. Let’s get this over with. Single file, everyone. Can everyone here at least swim?”

  “Well, obviously you know the answer for me and Seppo,” I said.

  Soren rolled his eyes.

  “I can swim,” Rosamund said. “I’m not going to be winning any competitions any time soon, but I can swim.”

  Soren nodded and approached the head of the line, where the stake was firmly planted into the ground. He glanced uneasily at the metal before taking a step from the solid riverbank to the muddy mix of the two and then right into the water. He gasped as the water quickly rose up to meet his chest, and for a terrifying moment, his lack of breath suffocated me in my own lungs, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. But as quick as it hit, he shook it off and continued, holding tightly onto the rope Diaval planted for us and using it to maneuver his way through the cold water and icy floes.

  He gasped, spluttering in the icy water as he pulled himself forward one strong tug at a time. When he was halfway across, Diaval signaled for Rosamund to go in, then Seppo. Both had similar reactions to the cold and the veins stood against their skin as if they were going to pop. Every one of them, even Seppo, was having a hard time not morphing into their true forms, which would include claws and sharp teeth that would undoubtedly shred the rope to bits.

  My heart rose into my throat as Soren lost his footing and was thrusted underneath a sheet of ice. I could barely make out his shadow under the water, twisting and turning as he tried to find a way to break through to the surface again. His body was wrapped around the rope like it was his lifeline, which, to be fair, it was. I stood anchored in my spot, knowing I had to wait for Diaval’s say, but all that changed when I got a good look at the thing in the water. Made from the river foam and broken chunks of ice was a face, a hand, a body. Person or creature, I didn’t know, but their fingers were like claws pulling on Soren to keep him down and underneath the ice. He struggled to get a breath and fight off the creatures, and both Rose and Seppo were too far away and too busy fighting the icy current themselves to be of any help.

  So that left me. Diaval shouted something at me—a warning or a word of concern—I wasn’t entirely sure what was said because her words were wind in my ears. There was only one thing important here, one thing that mattered, and it was Soren. Soren. Soren. Soren.

  All that mattered was Soren.

  Pale hands grabbed him and pulled him under, and he was yanked free of his grip on the rope.

  I plunged into the icy water.

  11

  SISTER SPIRITS

  WHEN I FIRST was dragged into the southern part of the Permafrost, I thought I’d never feel a cold like it again. When I traveled with Soren to the High North where he lived, though I was still unconscious half the time, I once again thought I would never experience a cold worse than that. But plunging into the icy river proved how wrong I was.

  The cold stole the breath straight from my lungs, and I broke the surface, gasping for air as my chest tightened and my instincts told me to thrash and panic. But now was not the time to panic. Rose’s and Seppo’s struggle in the water I could feel if I reached out with my power, but it was Soren’s that was the most severe. Whatever creature or monster or thing that had its claws in him was desperate not to let him go until he drowned and stayed underneath the water forever.

  All the blades in the world couldn’t help him in the rapid, icy current, and my own weapons were useless as well. Still, I couldn’t, wouldn’t, let that thing have Soren, and so wit
h another gasp of icy air, I thanked my lucky stars that I’d been taught how to swim so well all those years ago and plunged my head back under, forcing my eyes to remain open despite the sting.

  I’d had my share of salt water in my eyes before, growing up so close to the coast, but I’d never had it like this. It burned like salt water but also gave the distinct feel of river water, the taste of lake water. Was this the river where all bodies of water came from? I didn’t have time to ponder that thought because despite the current pushing me farther and farther away—or trying to, at least—I dug my hands into the stony muck of the ground to pull myself forward. Unable to shriek as rocks and sharp edges ripped at my fingers and dug into my fingernails, I pulled myself forward to the thing attacking Soren, not entirely sure what I was going to do, but knowing I was going to cause it a world of pain.

  Somewhat surprised that I could easily touch the creature, I yanked it away from Soren and watched as Soren broke to the surface, hopefully getting in breaths of blessed air. I was ready to unleash the fury of the nine worlds onto the thing until I got sight of its face, and time stilled, despite the swirling, chaotic water and ice around us.

  She was young, and the wounds in her body wept blue blood as she shrieked in pain. Her anguish radiated through me like it was my own, and flashes of memory that didn’t belong to me forced themselves into my head as she spoke to me without words.

  The men who’d come to her home, normal men, human men, who’d ended up burning it all down, taking the women and children to a fate worse than death. Walking dead-eyed with the others, a bundle of cloth heavy in her arms. She cradled it close to her chest and her eyes softened when she looked down upon it. Then they hardened as she stopped in her tracks and another woman bumped into her. She dug at the swaddling with her hands and exposed the babe fully to the cold air, hoping to rouse it, but it was already dead and cold. No, not “it.” He. I knew, rather than saw. He. Her son. Too innocent and fragile to endure the grueling conditions of this walk of captives. Too young to even have a chance at life the moment the village burned down.

  She wailed and flung herself to the ground with the body of her child, pulling out her hair in grief. There was no charcoal to blacken her face, nor were there any knives to mar her skin so the world would know her pain, but she still had her hair.

  It was a death ritual, to make yourself ugly or harm yourself because a loved one had passed on. It was meant to show how strongly one grieved for their dead loved one, slashing cheeks and nonlethal parts of one’s arms and body, smearing mud and thick red paint that took weeks to wash off.

  It assured the dead they’d be mourned, and this young woman couldn’t even do that. Another man from the raiding village yanked her up and shoved her forward, tossing the small corpse of the baby behind. The woman cried out, and she was met with a slap in the face and forced to keep moving as her precious child dwindled farther and farther away.

  I reached out and gripped the woman in the water. Because underneath her silvery appearance, burning white hair, and wraithlike eyes, her true face appeared—a young woman with pale skin and a small nose with a soft bridge, rich brown eyes, yellow hair that fell like feathers around her face. Her claws passed through me like wind through leaves as I took hold of her forearm and reentered the memory with her.

  The men camped at the top of a cliff and harsh winds blew. The captive women and children huddled closely together to share their warmth despite the lack of adequate clothing and blankets. Every so often, a child would stir and cry before being shushed by its mother or someone would hide a cough knowing any sign of weakness could get them killed. The survivors all came together as one.

  Except for the woman with the brown eyes who sat to the very edge of the group and toward the craggy rocks. She stood in one fluid motion then and stepped forward, again and again, one more step, just one more, until the other women were calling for her, and some of the men were screaming in a language she didn’t know nor would ever learn. But none of them ran after her, none of them stopped as she stood at the top of the wind-battered cliff and calmly unlaced her boots. They were pretty, made of doeskin, and the beadwork was impeccable. Nothing I could recognize, but then again, who knew how far back in history this was?

  She stood straight with the self-assurance of a lady who knew exactly what she was doing and had already steeled herself for it a long time ago. Clarity swept over her pained features as she stared over the water below, watching it crash against the rocks, and the white foam swirled into faces that called her down.

  She stepped out of her boots, wincing at the pain in her sore, aching feet, and stood on the cliff face a moment longer, head raised to take in one last breath of salty, ocean-borne wind before she calmly stepped off the cliff and to her death.

  We locked eyes again, the spirit and I, and suddenly I knew. Not sure how, not sure why, but I knew that she was no monster or creature or thing attacking Soren for the sake of it. Not for the revel of the kill or the glory of the hunt or even for hunger. She was a mother reaching for a boy whose skin had turned blue-gray in death, whose lips became the color of frost, whose blond hair was so fine that if he’d actually been a goblin, it could’ve been white as snow.

  She was reaching for what she thought was her son.

  Underwater, I could shed no tears, but I didn’t let go of my grip on her even as she fought and called out under the water to what she thought was hers. Instead, I reached out with my mind to that one shimmering place that always evaded me, and I called to it, and for the first time, a call came back.

  Go through to your dwelling, sister spirit. A voice that was mine but also not mine spoke beneath the water. Do not linger in the river. There is peace on the other side. I took the spirit’s clawed hand and pressed it against my chest, against the wounds I’d received a hundred years ago, and I watched in amazement as those clawed hands transformed back into the hands of a human woman’s. You will be with him on the other side of the river, sister spirit. I know this, for I have crossed this river many times over. The voice that was me but was not me continued. Do not let your sorrow drown you anymore. Do not let the cold water freeze your heart from feeling. Cross the river, sister spirit, and emerge from the other side into the glory of your dwelling.

  The wraith breathed out a sigh in the water as she transformed back into a woman and then shrank until she was a silvery wisp floating high and away from the torrents of the icy water.

  I had a moment of pure peace fill me when I closed my eyes and smiled before realizing I was still in the frigid rapids and needed to cross to the other side myself. I came up to the top again and took a gulp of air, grabbing at the rope. Soren rushed forward from where he was pacing and grabbed the hook of my tunic and pulled me until I was on the muddy bank of the river, then the brown, dry grass of the other side.

  Coughing and spluttering, he thumped on my back hard with one fist as water exited my lungs and was expelled onto the grass below me. I continued to gulp at the air like a beached fish in between choked vomits of water, until I could take a deep breath again, and with trembling muscles, I collapsed into his arms.

  We lay there, a desperately breathing mess, as the world beneath us slowly began to warm us again. Steam rose from the ground where our bodies lay, and I had no energy to think anything of it other than huh, neat. Soren and I buried ourselves in each other until our heaving chests slowed, and we began to come back to the world. Weakly raising my head, I saw Rose and Seppo in a similar embrace while Diaval sat off to the side, rolling her eyes at all of us. But for someone who scoffed at personal relationships, she had sounded particularly worried when I jumped in after Soren.

  “That thing tried to kill me,” Soren breathed. “It almost did. I couldn’t—the water—the ice—it was like nothing I’d ever imagined. What did you do to it, Janneke?”

  “I’m interested too.” Rosamund sat up. “I swore I heard something shrieking, but I couldn’t get anywhere near whatever it was. I fa
iled as a guard member.”

  Seppo rubbed his boyfriend’s back. “There, there, now, you’ll have to be a disappointment like the rest of us.”

  Only Diaval didn’t inquire about my “fight” with the thing in the water. Instead, she had a sly smile slowly spreading on her elfin face. “You finally did it, Janneke.”

  “I did,” I agreed. “What did I do, exactly?” I did definitely get the feeling I’d accomplished something major as the stag but wasn’t entirely sure what that thing was in the first place.

  “You reached into a liminal space and pulled something back from it. The memories of the spirit in the water. You let them play out and then let the spirit pass on to the afterlife.”

  “Did you know that would happen, Diaval?” Soren asked, a slight growl coloring his tone.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Soren,” Diaval said. “I knew that crossing was dangerous, and I made that very clear. I also knew, as should you all know, that Gjall does harbor spirits of water-based death if they cannot fully pass on but aren’t wicked enough for the Naglafar. I wouldn’t have made you cross this way if there were an easier or safer way to do it.”

  Soren made a noise in the back of his throat but didn’t comment further, laying his head back down against the warm ground. It was nice after the freezing water and part of me wished it would swallow me up and wrap me tightly in its embrace. My gaze flickered to the others. Usually things in the Permafrost were not pleasantly warm unless you were in immediate danger, and I had no reason to believe that Helheim didn’t work the same way. But even Diaval was relaxing slowly from her swim.