The Beast of the North

by Alaric Longward

  My gauntlet came up with a solution.

  I called a spell, one of ice and icy rocks, of frigid waters and vapors, and Taram fell forward on his face. A grasping pair of cold hands held onto him, and then more as I gave it a good, last push, released the spell, and he was held in a powerful vice of many hands. I shifted, taking my gigantic form and shuddered with fatigue. There were savage wounds in my face, and one tooth was loose. I stepped on him, placed my foot on his back, and pushed, his bones cracking. He howled, giggled, and addressed me, lisping strangely. ‘Well, worm. It was different from what we used to share in Crimson Apex, this fight. Lith betrayed us?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And Shaduril will outlive you. Both of them will.’

  ‘I should have taken Ann when she lived. Much more sensible than these two. Well, I guess I’ll get my chance in a bit. She is already there, and I would have company in Helheim.’ He laughed. ‘But she was a prude, and I hope Hel’s land has cured her of that.’

  ‘She’ll hurt you for her sisters in Helheim,’ I said with murderous rage. ‘I doubt you will enjoy her company. And the girls here? They’ll laugh over the remains of your miserable corpse. Think about that, you shit, as I see how deep I can smear you into the cracks.’

  ‘Maskan—’ he began, but Lith interrupted me.

  ‘Go and take out Balan,’ she said with an ice-cold voice. ‘Leave him to me. You promised.’

  ‘Why would I?’ I laughed. ‘He killed my father.’

  ‘He is broken, Maskan,’ she said slowly. ‘We need to know more about Mir’s plans. And then I will slay him. If she is not here, we will have to prepare for her. He might know more.’

  ‘I know! I know it all! Spare me!’ Taram howled as I cracked a rib.

  I considered him. He shook his head and let go of his disguise spell. His skin was white and yellow with old wounds, leaving dry flesh hanging out in places. He had lost the fight, but he was still dangerous. I bent down and took one of his arms in my hand. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Spare him! For now!’ Lith said, and I grinned.

  ‘Here,’ I told him and tore his arm off. I handed it to him as he looked in shock at the thing. Outside, bells were tolling.

  ‘I’ll take him to the guards, and then I’ll join you,’ Lith said, smiling at Taram.

  I shrugged and stepped away. ‘Fine.’

  She hesitated as she came closer. ‘You going to survive, love?’

  ‘Wounds, you treacherous bitch, love,’ I told her with a grimace. ‘Nothing serious, I suppose. Perhaps not,’ I said and felt my face was badly wounded.

  ‘Makes you look handsome,’ she purred, and I pushed her away and picked up Father’s sword.

  ‘None of that, now,’ I told her, and she nodded, hesitant, chasing away that obsession. Then she was staring at Taram, who was spitting strange mucus from his dry lips.

  ‘Go,’ she told me and concentrated on Taram. She walked around him, thrust her short spear through his leg and began pulling him towards the doorway. He howled; Lith giggled, and I left. I stumbled across the hall, drew breath, and prepared to fight Balan. I walked up a staircase, met nobody, passed gilded couches in small alcoves of the higher tower, and made my slow way towards a doorway. It was a wide, silver thing at the end of a hallway, illuminated by Lifegiver’s brilliant light. I spat as pain twisted my side, and I pushed over to the door.

  I kicked it in, and it flew open with a bang.

  Inside, the heart of Dagnar.

  It was a huge circular room with dozens of doorways leading out of it. The walls were adorned with well-crafted tiles, inscribed with silver runes. Heavy arches supported the high, blood-red ceiling. A road of yellow bricks led to the opposite side of the huge chamber, and any visitor walking the path would at all times be thinking about the king on the throne, and he would be flanked by a row of courtiers and guards. The throne itself was a simple thing. It was large and dark red, and it had a simple back of the well-grained wood. It was made of rosewood and rumored to have been the seat of Odin in the ancient times.

  The vast chamber was empty.

  There were torches burning on sconces, casting light to the chamber, but it felt dead. I shifted to a wolf, fell forward, and sniffed the air. I walked around carefully, eyeing the Rose Throne, the shadows, and the rooms beyond and around the perimeter. The kitchens were not far; I smelled spicy soup had been prepared there a day or so ago. I also sensed there were corpses in the other rooms, but they were different from the draugr. They were truly dead. Only one dead was standing, I decided, as I thought I had found Balan.

  There was someone beyond the throne.

  I loped there, spied window frames made of twisted dark iron flowers. The glass panes were crystal glass, yellow and white. Beyond the beautiful windows, a figure stood. I spied a door, a simple one and thought I saw Balan standing on the Pearl Terrace. I walked that way; wary of the many tricks Balan might have up his sleeve. He was a crafter, a maker of miracles, and I had carried his tools to my father. So many dead.

  I stepped behind the draugr lord but stopped to look out over the town, to the mountains and the sea. The sight was unbelievable. The terrace itself was simple, broad and barbarically adorned with crude iron and rough wood, yet the wonderful sight gave the terrace its name. The Arrow Straits spread out to the south and the east, glittering as if a thousand tiny pearls were bobbling across its surface. The many cascading waterfalls, the Hard Pass, and its lake land were things of wondrous beauty, and I could see why my father had prayed there, each morning for the gods. I momentarily even forgot Balan.

  But not for long, as the Lord of the Blacktowers turned. His hand was gone, of course, and yet the dead thing raised it to ward me off. Then he realized his mistake and frowned, shrugged and put the stub down. He was not grasping at power, only standing there, and he let his human face disappear. He looked drawn, yellowed; his skin stretched and rotted, and his lips were curled back into thin flaps of skin. He leaned back tiredly and wiped lank hair from his eyes. ‘Well, if you wish to kill me and send me on my way, do it. If you wish to talk before the nastiness, you should do something about your shape. ‘And so I changed. Tear Drinker was under Balan’s chin, and he did not flinch. He grinned. ‘Well. We fooled you well, didn’t we?’

  ‘You manipulated a child, but I suppose that is accurate,’ I spat. ‘You stole a baby from his family because you wanted to kill his father. You waited and crafted your spells and cast your web over an innocent, surrounded him with a fake family, pushed him over to hate his own, then struck when both Father and I were vulnerable. You did it for the throne. And here you are. But it is over now.’

  ‘My quest is over,’ he said softly. ‘Mir made me a draugr lord, and I obey her. I was offered a lifetime of crafting wondrous things, but I am tired. What would be greater than Larkgrin, ever? I was driven to seek the seat of the king. So often, I saw him sitting here, dealing with Red Midgard, and I admit it, I envied him. And his queen. I was but the keeper of the secrets, an official of no name and no admirers. I wanted the seat. And now I have sat there. It was nothing. The dead watched me; I ordered them to bow, and they did, and I felt nothing. I am bored. Tired. And hate my family. They were always unkind, quarrelsome, conniving and scheming bitches. Save for Ann. She was so sad, all the time. I am happy she got out. And now it is over.’

  ‘You failed in taking Dagnar,’ I told him, prodding him with my sword. ‘Utterly. And I will stop Mir from taking our army to fight the northerners. Mir will not benefit from your madness. No matter what you are planning, you will fail. I’ll stop the pretender king.’

  ‘The king?’ he chuckled. ‘I suppose you guess Crec will lose the army.’

  I spat. ‘They won’t get into battle. I’ll stop them. And the weather will not kill the army before I warn them. They are hardy men, no matter if it is winter,’ I spat. ‘Crec will never come back here. Everyone has seen what you are. The armies will mutiny when I get to them, and I will make sure Ygrin knows what—�
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  ‘Die,’ he laughed dryly. ‘The armies will disappear. Ygrin won't kill our men. Neither will winter. For the High King is out there.’

  ‘What?’ I asked him, trying to understand what he was saying. ‘The High King?’

  ‘Yes, the High King Balic,’ he confirmed. ‘The Hammer Legions are coming. At least thirty thousand veterans. Six to seven legions. Almost half the troops of the Verdant Lands. They will land in Red Midgard, and they will rip our armies apart one by one. Crec and Mir will make sure they won’t fail. And as for Dagnar?’ He laughed. ‘We have it. But we really want more.’

  ‘What do you want, you undead filth?’ I asked.

  ‘Didn’t you ask Lith?’ he growled.

  ‘Yes,’ I grimaced. ‘She lied, of course.’

  He smiled sadly. ‘Lith’s rebellion. Like she always wanted what Shaduril had, she wants what her mother and father have. There is something else hidden in those tunnels below the city. And when you kill me, she will lead them. She will rule the city. Though there will not be a city left.’

  A drum rolled.

  It was a dull sound, odd and ominous and disquieting blasts of a blaring horn; an ululating, disconcerting, strange sound that chilled all who heard it into silence, followed it.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I was supposed to rule Dagnar,’ he said ruefully. ‘Lith will. She is a One Eyed Priest, Maskan. We all are. We all serve the High King. That mask? It’s the mask of a southern priest.’

  ‘The High King?’ I asked him. ‘Does he know what you are?’

  ‘Mir is the draugr queen,’ he laughed dryly. ‘He, the High King is the draugr king. I lost my wife to him the night we died. They planned this together across the continents. You don’t understand, Maskan. Blacktowers do not want to rule this land. We want to destroy it. And we do so at the command of the king. The High King. He seeks to topple the one subject of his that could lead a rebellion. Magic using Jotuns. Later he will destroy everyone one by one.’

  ‘You bastards. What was that blare?’ I asked him as the sword pricked his face. ‘The troops that have not yet shown their faces?’

  ‘That is an army. Not all the legions will land in the north. We smuggled some here, little by little, and after the Old City was cleared, it was an ideal place to hide them. That gauntlet,’ he nodded at the fabulous armor, ‘will give you spells and powers to fight the army that is descending from Valkai’s dungeon, but it wont last. I was to oversee the destruction. Lith wants the honor. She is making a bid for me and Mir in his eyes.’ I heard commotion far down. I walked next to Balan and looked down to the city.

  It was in a fire.

  The army Mir had created of the dead was a paltry joke in comparison to the Hammer Legion raging all across Dagnar. They were emerging from the recesses of the Old City. They climbed all over the place, free to reign terror now that the Danegells were truly gone, and the army had marched out. They were the men I had seen changing in the months leading up to the Yule feast. There were foreign black and red standards marching in the haze of the harbor, the Fourth Ring, the Third Ring and even the Second Ring. The gates had fallen, and I saw pockets of Mad Watch running about, fighting as they did, dying as Hammers of the High King struck at them ferociously. They were powerful, and savage men in black, wide helmets and long chain mail and cuirasses, their shins and arms covered in leather. They howled in their shield walls, crushed all resistance, pounced on the mortally surprised populace, and marched forward. Always up the hill. They were taking the rest of the gates, the harbor, but thousands were streaming through the streets for the Temple.

  ‘It is useless, Maskan. There are nearly four thousand of them. You never saw but a few of them. Fly away; find a new life for yourself. Your relatives are gone,’ he said as he saw me looking down and followed my gaze. There down at the Tower’s gate, Valkai’s men had taken it. A man, a draugr was leaning on its side, hurt and battered, his face gone. Taram. Sand was there, next to confused looking Illastria. And Lith was there as well. Balan snorted. ‘Just do not trust the dead. I see you hurt Taram? And gave him to Lith? She wants him as well. Cannot let go. Now she truly has him!’

  ‘I will not trust anyone ever again,’ I told him coldly.

  He sighed. ‘Yes, you will. Now, Lith will rule for a while. They will tell Mir I died in battle as you attacked us, but she hopes to take as much power for herself as possible. She will blame it all on you if the High King or Mir might ask why I died. They will get power as the dead only really care about the results. Lies are in our nature.’ He chuckled sadly. ‘You made a mistake, again.’

  I grasped his neck and bent his face down to the gate. There, some two to three hundred Mad Watch soldiers stood by my horse in front of the Tower. They were likely the only band of organized soldiers available to the city. They faced the four hundred enemy undead, survivors of Balan and the men who had served our cause. Valkai was growling, and they thickened into a column at the gateway, determined to hold it. And they would. I saw Lith gesturing at my poor friend Sand, ordering him to step away to help Taram and to guide Illastria to her, and he did, though reluctantly. The Mad Watch looked on, shuddering with indecision. ‘Look below.’

  ‘Hah,’ Balan said. ‘Less than three hundred soldiers? What good will that do? Is that Sand? Your last relative. So to speak.’ He squinted.

  ‘That is Sand,’ I told him.

  ‘Lith’s now.’ He chuckled. ‘I could go down there and order them to step down. Will you spare me if I do? It won’t matter due to the Legions, but perhaps you want to see Lith executed before you die?’

  I watched as the Blacktower men chanted in a thick column of bristling shields and spears, some of the dead anxiously looking back towards the Sun Court. I saw the Hammer Legion marching resolutely through the gates of the First Ring, slaying men and women, even children as they went, streaming right and left, the majority, several thousand coming from the Temple. ‘Sand is not family. He is a friend. My best friend. But I do have a family. A sister.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ he asked softly, eyeing me with undead intensity.

  ‘She is my family,’ I pointed at the warhorse. ‘I did not trust Lith. And as for your offer? No, thank you. I don’t need or trust you. I’ll do my own executing.’

  ‘What? A horse?’

  ‘That down there is the one who you called the Black Brother. But it is not a brother at all, but a sister.’

  The horse changed, and a giant emerged. The saddle fell to the bloody ground, broken. It was she, a sister, the Black Sister, in fact. She was an ice Jotun like I was; one of the great warriors in the lost armies of Hel’s war, the last Jotun in Midgard, in addition to me, of course. I looked at her gleaming, tall armor; the dverg-made magical armor of a giant; a tall spear, as tall as the gates. She laughed so harshly it rang in our ears. The giantess’s name was Balissa Danegell, and she had answered the call of my gauntlet, enraged, and alone out in the mountains. None had been suspicious when I demanded to be seated on the beast in the Tenginell stables that I claimed was known to be Black Brother’s. The deception had to be perfect, and the dead love such perfect deceptions, and they never doubted they had been fooled. It had been perfect, for me.

  Valkai stared at her in shocked anger, hissing at Lith. Taram disappeared into the shadows, and Sand pulled Illastria out of the gate and far from the bristling band of undead blocking it. Lith pointed her spear at Balissa, shaking her head, giving commands. I felt Balissa draw in an enormous amount of power, weave and fold the icy winds and frigid ice of our homelands, and then she blew the enemy a kiss as she released the spell. And then she quickly cast something after, which was a scorching hot wind.

  It was a powerful, terrible combination of spells.

  A horrific gust of wind whipped through the enemy ranks. It was a spell like mine, but it was her specialty. The cold wind tore off gobble stones, grass, mortar from the walls. Then it hit the thickly packed enemy troop. It froze some; the following scorc
hing hot wind burned others, and the mix of two opposite powers was not unlike a hammer blow on a roach. Bones broke; faces froze, flattened, necks were severed, limbs ripped off, and what remained, burned. Hundreds of spears rattled together as a significant chunk of the enemy column practically flew out of the gates, frozen and burning. Balissa tottered, near exhausted, and then walked forward to kick at the remaining, dazed enemy who were running, fearless undead or not. She picked up stragglers and smashed them, brutally speared some, and finally casually closed the gates. She looked up and frowned.

  I waved at her, and she nodded back at me, stiffly. She blamed me for the loss of my father and our brothers. But I was all she had.