The monster form convulsed. The coils gave up their grip, rolling and twisting in paroxysms of agony, the giant mouth spewing venom as it tore at the tail impaled by the spear. The Galdramerr stood her ground, her light shielding all who stood with her, while Caz rampaged around his stricken foe, stabbing the seaxe between the rippling scales. No pain. No fear. Kill! Kill! Kill!
He threw the blade, thudding into the delicate skin at the edge of one of the eyes. He hurled the shield, spinning in a great arc to thump out the light of the other. The Shape-Changer raged his downfall, trapped in his reptile form by the power of the spear. With a blood-curdling shriek, the body tore away from the tail.
Haldor Vídarsson roared, ‘Claim the spear, Heartbiter! It must not enter the Hel Realms, save in your hand alone!’
Caz leapt between the coils, dodging the monster’s last maddened efforts to crush him. The spear, incandescent and flaring, yielded to his hand. Yelling in triumph, he charged for the kill. For the final time the serpent rose up before him, cruel and cold in defeat. ‘You are denied your victory!’
The illusory form exploded. A rain of oily black matter was scattered far over the battlefield. The order went down the lines. ‘Take cover! Take cover!’
Caz ripped off his helmet, screaming his frustration and stabbing the spear at the stinking mush of the tail dissolving into the earth. Only Haldor Vídarsson could hold him back. ‘Stay your hand, Heartbiter. He has served the purpose for which he was summoned. You are proved worthy to stand before the Tree.’
‘But I didn’t kill him! I could have killed him! I should have killed him!’
‘His life is not yours to take.’ The great warrior sniffed the air. ‘The night is passing. Take your prize, Heartbiter. The High One summons us to the Tree.’
The medic lay rigid with shock between Valkyrjan’s hooves. Caz took him in an iron grasp, pulling him, moaning and struggling, to his feet. He smacked him around the head, barking, ‘Pull yourself together! You are chosen and honoured. Be grateful!’
The man came to attention, the blank oriental eyes snapping into focus, glaring at the blood-encrusted warrior who promptly threw him over the Galdramerr’s back and leapt up before him. Haldor Vídarsson strode beside them, bearing the dreaming body of the young soldier from the field.
‘Where’s your mare?’ cried Caz.
‘You sent her to the Void, my friend!’ The rasping voice was grim. ‘You were the victor in a mighty encounter and I am your bondsman until the hand that shamed me remounts me.’
The Son of Vídar the Silent turned and raised his spear. Above the noise of gunfire and the screaming of the wounded – those who would live and forgo the Way of the Chosen – the horsemen acknowledged their leader. One word, with one mighty voice, and this time Caz heard it clearly.
Sigr!
Victory!
They gathered, a great company, hoisting their red shields under their blazing banners. The drums rolled.
‘Who are the Chosen?’ roared Haldor Vídarsson.
The voices rang out, noble and fierce. ‘We are the Chosen!’
‘Who hunts this night?’
‘We hunt!’
‘Who sacrifices?’
‘We sacrifice!’
The Sons of Skuld formed rank. The Galdramerr ran free before them. Above the clouds in the Shadowed World, striker-fighters unleashed their deadly payload onto the mountainside. A shock wave of earth and dust erupted high into the atmosphere and blasted down the slopes. It was then Caz heard the music of hunting horns and the baying of giant, shadow hounds, and the howling of wolves.
CHAPTER 94
Rank upon rank of horsemen appeared through the glittering dust clouds. The flash and flare and noise of gunfire faded into the eternal brilliance of the countless stars. The warrior hordes were once more let loose out of Valhall, mounted on grey mares and flanked by wolves. Hounds ran before them. Above them, ravens soared on silent wings as they rode the star-ways to the Tree, the source of all life where the light of every atom of matter and the utter darkness of the void are held in perfect balance. While this universe exists, the Tree will exist, until the day comes when all matter is used up and the light is spent and the cosmos will rest in silence.
The Galdramerr outran the wind and time, leading her chosen across the heavens. Yet time marked them for this one night when mortals may cross the threshold and few are permitted to return. The unresting light and power of the Tree, fed by the fearsome energy of a thousand exploding suns, is far greater than haunting dream and pallid vision can ever express. Caz felt the clinging, fearful hands let go their grip at his waist while the man behind him gasped in wonder.
The song of the warriors drew them onward, and the bellowing of the mighty stallion, and the scream of Gungnir, the Spear that Never Stops in its Thrust. The faithful and the worthy were summoned to sacrifice and Caz searched among the passing ranks for any sign of Freyja and Sir Jonas. He sought them out among the mares plucked from field and stable, and in the blooded faces of those who were chained and marked for the Tree.
They were there before him. Seven great ravens had tracked Sir Jonas and Freyja into Thunderslea, shape-shifting into the flawless manifestation of the most precious dream of the old man’s youth and manhood. The Valkyrs, Battle Maidens, the Choosers of the Slain, raven-cloaked and mounted on their Galdramerar, were riding with him on every side. If these greatest of the servants of the God have ever been mortal, it is long forgotten. They are answerable entirely to his will, except that the Norns, the Fate-Spinners, have long decreed that the choosing among the slain in battle should be theirs alone. Only by the choice of the Valkyrs may the brave cross the ice bridge and feast at the tables in mighty Valhall – save on this one night of every year when the sun stands still and winter casts its hoary cloak over the Shadowed World. It is then that the warrior host have the choosing of those who would sit among them, and the God allows their decision.
Another of the Valkyrs sat astride her mighty mare in a blaze of frosted starlight at the foot of the old tree. She threw back her hood while Sir Jonas cowered before her. The only one of the eight who was black-haired and black-eyed, no sword girt her waist. She bore no spear and carried no axe at her back. The will of the God wielded the power of the runes in her hands and at her brow, and shaped the words that rang in the old man’s heart.
‘The slightest wish carries the greatest consequences.’
Sir Jonas dismounted and fell to his knees in the snow. He offered his grandfather’s sword, submitting to her haunting, piercing gaze that laid bare the aeons of his own and his ancestor’s desires and dreams imprinted on every particle of his being. He prayed she would not find him wanting, that she would perceive the selflessness of his intention and the purity of his principle and purpose, as his illustrious family had long upheld.
The Valkyr withdrew her gaze. Her tone was commanding, clear and resonant, admitting no denial. ‘You are summoned to sacrifice before the Host. Mount your mare and ride swiftly. The High One awaits us at the Tree.’
Once more Freyja dared the spinning vortex, where only the brave and the high-hearted may ride. Once more she paced the eternal brilliance where worlds collide and mesh. Confident and proud, Sir Jonas drove her on, matching pace for pace with the Galdramerar. At last he had been singled out. His long years of service and devotion had been recognised, and the chanter would sing the tale of his triumph through the ages in every hall and humble cottage. His faithful mare bore him, sacrificing the last of her strength to bring him into the light of the Tree and to the Place of Judgement – hallowed, puissant and terrible beyond the imagining of those who have yet to cross the abyss.
‘Freyja!’ Caz shouted, despairing for her. ‘Freyja!’
She hung her head, oblivious, waiting for death. She had been badly wounded and cruelly ridden but she had kept her honour.
Gleefully Sir Jonas recognised the greatest of the Galdramerar and, by the sound of his voice alone, the warrior
on her back. His helm and shield were gone, his cloak rent and tattered, the wound on his face laid bare to the bone, but he carried himself with a battle-won assurance that belied his mortal blood.
The fanatical light of great purpose burned in the old man’s single eye. He was the favoured of the Battle Maidens. He was their chosen and the Runes of the Deathless were within his grasp. He had only to make the offering before the God. The words of the High One resonated within his heartbeat, vibrating to the very core of his essence. ‘Who sacrifices?’
Agonised, he fell forward in the saddle, clutching at his pain-lacerated chest and pointing his sword at Valkyrjan and Caz.
‘I sacrifice!’ he screamed. ‘I sacrifice this son of our chosen bloodlines and the mare that bears him!’ His voice rang out. ‘They are the best and the finest of our generations! I sacrifice for the Runes!’
A murmur of dissent rose among the ranks. A wave of anger stirred among the Sons of Skuld. The Haggard Man drew his sword, shouting, ‘Treachery! The Void take the treacherous!’
The multitudes took up the chant. ‘The Void! The Void!’
Aghast, Sir Jonas protested. ‘I am no traitor! I am a true servant of the High One and his mighty host! I’m not a traitor.’
The colossal berserker raised his axe. The force of the blow smacked the old man from his mount. He lay bruised but unbroken. His blood would not stain the Place of Judgement before the Tree.
The Galdramerar gathered around Freyja, upholding her while the host debated and another mortal made his voice heard, roaring above the clamour. ‘Challenge!’
The Valkyr’s black eyes flashed. She sent her Galdramerr charging proudly along the lines. ‘Who challenges?’
Caz held up the blazing spear. ‘I challenge! I challenge for the mare! She is not for the Void! She is not for the Tree!’
The Valkyr answered. ‘You are mortal. You have not crossed the abyss. You have not tasted the Bite of the Spear. You have no claim. There is no challenge.’
‘But I am Heartbiter! I am Rune-Winner with red hands. I am undefeated against the spawn of giants and the father of monsters!’ He threw down his prize. ‘I challenge! I claim the mare. I sacrifice.’
‘Worthy! Worthy!’ thundered the host. ‘Sacrifice! Sacrifice!’
The man who had passed, melting in bitter flame, beyond the mortal life and was marked by the spear, stood up. The blood of his ancestors boiled in his veins. He bowed to Caz. ‘I am honoured.’
He knelt before Valkyrjan, bending his head to accept the chain, and stood proud and fearless before the Tree. A mare stood with him, stamping her feet and tossing her head, eager to run. A great bough caught them up. Huge rats scampered among the branches. Ravens hovered, waiting.
The drums rolled. Wolves howled. The red shields were raised up, rune-bearing and blazing. The sacrificed spread his arms. Gungnir, the greatest of all spears, fashioned by dwarves – Ivaldi’s sons – and given to the God, was hurled, screaming, into the heart of the chosen and his mare with him. Ravens and rats tore into the last of their fragile remains.
The Valkyr spoke once more. ‘And what of the faint-heart whom none will mark?’
‘His life is his own but the mare is not for the Bite of the Spear!’ cried Caz. ‘I have sworn to protect her and she has the blessing of the great one who bears me and to whom we are both pledged.’
Haldor Vídarsson strode forward. ‘As I am pledged and those who ride with me.’ He threw down the body of the blonde soldier. ‘I sacrifice this night!’
‘And I too sacrifice!’ cried the Haggard Man, throwing down the woman. ‘Let all witness those who are worthy for the Tree and the Spear.’
‘Worthy! Worthy!’ The song filled the ranks.
The berserker hauled the young soldier and the woman, unprotesting, to their feet. They were bound with chains, each taking courage from the other. Two grey mares, fiery steeds and swift, stood with them at the foot of the Tree. Twice more the great boughs caught up the chains. Twice more the shields were raised, the rune blazed and Gungnir sang. Twice more the chosen abandoned the flesh to ride the ice bridge where the wide doors of Valhall were opened to them and the feasting and their great joy began.
The Valkyr spoke. ‘None may challenge the will of the High One. None may challenge the might of Gungnir.’
‘Then let my weapon be turned against me and the Void take me if I fail in the attempt!’ cried Caz.
The Valkyrs deliberated. They had been summoned to contest the will of the Norns while the destiny of Geirr, the second of the Runes of the Deathless, hung in the balance. The God’s appointed, the Son of Laufey, had been released from his bonds only to fail in his task. The Trickster was a mighty fly caught in the Fate-Spinner’s mightier web. Once more he thrashed in his chains, thirsting for revenge, but his craving would not be satisfied this time.
Of the two mortals, the craven had been judged and would be condemned. The valour of the other was undoubted. His prowess in arms was proven. Víg, the first of the great runes, burned at the head of the spear he wielded. But his courage was the rash boldness born of youth and ignorance. The Void would not take him when he failed. His was a tiny flame that would be utterly extinguished when they, the Battle Maidens, drove him into the blast of the inferno.
The Sons of Skuld pressed forward, raising their shields and gathering around their mortal brother.
‘Worthy!’ they shouted. ‘He is worthy!’
The ranks echoed their claim. ‘Worthy! Worthy!’
Only the God could overrule the will of the host at the Place of Judgement, but the gaze of his great eye was veiled.
The Valkyr decreed the mortal’s doom. ‘The Fires of Múspell shall be the reward for his daring.’
Silently, the ranks pulled back. Caz stood alone before Valkyrjan, the greatest of the Galdramerar. She put her forehead to his. There would be no second chance. His fate was his own. The Spear that Blazed must fly so truly that the Spear that Never Stops in its Thrust should be wielded to counter the fatal blow to the All-Seeing Eye.
He stood at the Place of Judgement, hefting the flaming weapon against the other, the greater, that was utterly without light within the shade of the God. He had no time for awe, no time for fear, for reflection or regret. If this is my death, let it be done.
He cried out in a great voice. ‘I challenge Gungnir to prove the will of the High One in this matter!’
The Spear that Blazed left his hand. Blinding, white star-fire curled into the depths of that which is greater than shadow. The time-shattering explosion that followed told him that once again he had hit target.
CHAPTER 95
The cold air filling his lungs made Caz gasp as Kyri raced across the clearing, calling urgently. The stars were fading fast. Dawn was very near. The figure waiting by the fire came running towards them, shouting, ‘I thought you were lost!’
Caz threw himself down beside the inert body lying in the snow under the old tree. Freyja’s eyes were closed. The spear was thrown down beside her. He tore off his cloak and threw it over her cold limbs, pummelling her ribs to force the faintest flicker of what remained of her life essence back into her heart.
Alan knelt beside them. In the grey morning light he saw Caz’s grotesquely swollen cheek, the livid purple bruising around his neck, the blood-blackened fingernails, the deep indentations on his forearms where the ring mail had been squeezed into living flesh.
‘What can I do?’ he asked.
‘Give me your cloak and fetch me some warm water. Quickly! We can’t lose her!’
Kyri stood over her, whickering, breathing into her nostrils and her ears. Caz put his forehead to hers.
Come back Freyja. It’s all done and you’re home now. You’re safe.
He worked frantically, rubbing her ears and trickling the warmed spring water over her lips. She lay unresponsive.
‘Come back to me, Freyja!’ he cried, grief-stricken. ‘You’re not meant to die! It’s finished and we’re home! Come
back! Please come back!’
He knelt over her, cradling her head, desperate to detect any sign of life. Of all the pain he had suffered during this long winter night, the agony of losing her was the worst and the most cruel.
‘Freyja!’ he wept, despairing. ‘Don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me! They can’t take you too! They can’t!’
She was lost and alone in a dark place where he could not reach her – but the Norns had willed she be returned to life. Her heart responded… one tiny pulse and then another… until she drew a deep breath and opened her eyes, looking up at Kyri.
Tears of relief poured down Caz’s cheeks. He sensed the warmth of life flowing back into her and the strong pulsing of her strength and courage returning. She raised her head, thrashing weakly with her legs, trying to stand up.
‘Steady now, good girl,’ he said. ‘Let us help you.’
He put his arms around her neck, bracing himself. Kyri bent her head, pushing under Freyja’s shoulder, and together they hauled her, staggering, to her feet. She rested her head on Kyri’s withers, breathing hard with the effort, while Caz held handfuls of the bright, healing water to her lips. She wetted her tongue and whickered for more.
The fate of the Master of the Guardians was forgotten until they heard a deep groan and saw Sir Jonas kneeling in the middle of the clearing. Alan ran to help him, reeling with horror when he saw the still smoking chains wrapped around the old man’s body crumble and evaporate into dust. The burn marks were seared into the flesh around his neck and where the skin showed through the burned and ruined breastplate and clothing. His grandfather’s sword lay broken beneath him.
‘I am judged and condemned,’ Sir Jonas gasped. ‘The Battle Maidens rejected me. I am to know every weakness, every degradation of body and torment of mind. Every moment of all my days must count as an age in my dying in the straw.’ The blue eye was bloodshot and terrified. ‘I have failed. I was not worthy. There was no blazing rune for me, no spear. The shields were black, Mister Alan! They were black!’
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