Bloodsong Hel X 3

by C. Dean Andersson

  Could it be Bloodsong? he wondered hopefully. If she were that close to Nastrond now, his sorcerous senses could give him more information than before.

  He closed his eyes in concentration, seeking Bloodsong’s essence, picturing in his mind the ruined village. But he could detect no one at all in the ruins or near the tree where she had died.

  The sorcerer-king widened his search and sensed three presences somewhere beyond the village. Two were but unknown humans. A hint of magical energies clung to the third.

  The two I saw with her during the Hunt, and the Witch, he decided. But if so, where, then, was Bloodsong herself?

  He concentrated his search near the tree, then outward through the village again, but still detected no one’s presence.

  Might she be using a spectral cloak of some kind? he wondered. Or Dwarfish magic perhaps?

  One thing, however, was certain. Whomever the watcher in the village had sensed was soon going to die. If the intruder did turn out to be Bloodsong, he could retrieve the Hel-ring, and her corpse, later.

  * * *

  Sword in hand, Bloodsong walking quietly past the charred remains of the cottages, longhouses, and outbuildings which had once belonged to friends, slowly moving toward the hill and tree on the other side, searching for any tracks, any sign that men might be hiding in ambush. She approached one very special place, the home of the villager named Sifa, who had found her wounded and near death in the nearby hills after the escape. She had lived with Sifa until becoming Eirik’s mate.

  Suddenly she froze, thinking she had seen a movement within the ruins of Sifa’s home. But she heard nothing and saw no further movement. After several tense moments, she decided it must have been a trick of the moonlight spawned by her bittersweet memories. She moved forward again, cautiously watching the ruins of Sifa’s cottage until it had been left behind.

  When she reached the outskirts of the village and looked up at the tree, she hesitated and clenched her teeth against a feeling of foreboding. I am afraid, she suddenly realized, afraid to go nearer. Of all the reactions she had expected, fear was not one. After she had left Hel’s realm, visiting the site of her death had been something she had intended to do only after destroying Nidhug. Then, Guthrun by her side, she had thought to go there, to honor the dead of the village, her husband, her son, maybe even to rebuild the village and name it Eirik’s Vale in remembrance. But then the advantage of a Hel-horse’s speed had been lost, the others had joined her, and here she was, looking at the place where she had— Died! She thought.

  Yes, I died. I should be nothing but a rotting corpse. I am perhaps more akin to the dead now than the living. Her legs felt weak. She shivered. No! she cut off the thoughts. Guthrun is alive. I am alive. We shall be together, again, soon. And fear be damned, I am going to visit the graves of my husband and son!

  Bloodsong tightened her grip on her sword, took several deep breaths, and walked determinedly forward.

  I promised Huld I’d go back if I sensed danger, Bloodsong reminded herself, but this is not danger I sense, only my own weakness, my own fear.

  She could not see the graves clearly until nearly there, because they were covered by the shadow of the tree cast by the moonlight. But when she did draw near enough and saw what was there, her fear became tinged by a sick feeling, her thoughts whirling, emotions surging.

  “No,” she moaned, “please, no.”

  One of the oval graves bordered by small stones yawned darkly open, the larger of the two, the grave of her husband. And in the dark depths of Eirik’s grave she saw Runes, pulsing with purple light. “Corpse Runes.” She sobbed. She fell to her knees beside her husband’s grave. The Witch-lore in her mind told her what the Runes meant. The inhabitant of the grave had risen to obey the summons of a sorcerer. Nidhug has made of my Eirik a Death Slave!

  Weeping over Eirik’s grave, Bloodsong momentarily became oblivious to her surroundings.

  “Why do you cry, Freyadis?” a familiar voice asked nearby.

  Bloodsong threw herself to her feet, whirled around, sword ready, pulse pounding. Confusion washed through her. Hadn’t it been night a moment before? And hadn’t she been kneeling beside a grave? But, no, that couldn’t have been. Summer sunlight bathed the hill in golden rays. Above her the tree limbs were thick with leaves. The ground at her feet was carpeted in green while brightly colored wildflowers nodded in a warm breeze. And nearby stood a dear friend.

  “Why were you crying?” Sifa asked again, concern in her blue eyes. “Or were you? Perhaps I was wrong. It’s such a beautiful day, and you have no reason to be sad.”

  Bloodsong smiled and gently touched her swelling abdomen. Her first child was growing stronger day by day. “If it’s a son,” Bloodsong said, “and if he proves worthy, I want to call him Eirik.”

  Sifa laughed and took Bloodsong’s hand. The blond-haired woman went to her knees in the grass. “Sit with me awhile,” Sifa urged, pulling on Bloodsong’s hand. “Lie here in the grass with me for a moment. It’s so peaceful here. So very peaceful.”

  Bloodsong nodded and lowered herself to her knees. But then she suddenly felt reluctant to lie down. She frowned, feeling there was something important she had forgotten.

  Sifa stretched out on the grass. “Why do you hesitate, Freyadis? Lie down beside me. Rest. You’ve been working so hard lately, preparing for the birth of your first child. You deserve a rest here on the peaceful earth.”

  Earth, Bloodsong thought, suddenly chilled. Darkness within the earth. A grave.

  She shuddered, pulled her hand out of Sifa’s, began to stand.

  Sifa grabbed her hands and pulled harder. “Lie down, Freyadis,” her friend ordered harshly.

  “No, Sifa. Let go. I don’t feel well.”

  “Lie down and you’ll feel better.”

  “No.”

  Suddenly, with a snarl of bestial rage, Sifa reached up and grabbed Bloodsong’s arms in a steely grip and began trying to force her down and onto her back.

  Bloodsong fought back as the chill spread deeper within her and the sky darkened to night. The grass withered. Sifa changed, decayed, became a death-horror, tattered flesh clinging to bone, skeletal smile a grimace of hate, trying to force Bloodsong down into Eirik’s grave.

  If she succeeds, Bloodsong thought, the Corpse Runes will hold me there, eat away my flesh, maybe even make a Death Slave out of me!

  The Hel-warrior saw her sword on the ground to one side where she had dropped it during the hallucination. She threw herself to the side and managed to wrench the Death Slave off-balance, away from the grave. They fell together to the ground near her sword. She forced a knee up, thrust with all her strength. The Death Slave’s talon-like fingernails raked furrows on one side of her face as the thing lost its grip and was hurled away.

  Bloodsong grabbed her sword, scrambled to her feet. And charged the Death Slave before it could stand. She slashed downward, severing the thing’s head from its neck. Again and again she cut downward with the blade until the Death Slave’s severed skull was a hacked and shattered ruin. The remainder of its body ceased to writhe. Then it and the mutilated skull crumbled to dust and were gone.

  Bloodsong staggered back, feeling weak, the bleeding wounds the Death Slave had opened in her face throbbing with pain. She began to sweat, gasped for air, fought to retain her feet as the poison from the thing’s talons raced through her veins.

  Her vision blurred. The former scene of a summer’s day came into and out of existence in time with the hammering of her heart. Then the scene changed.

  She was naked and tied painfully tight to the tree, heard the screams of the villagers, the screams of her husband and son, saw Eirik and her infant child being tortured, saw them die. She saw Nidhug’s gloating face come near hers, looked down in horror at the corpse of her son tied to her breast, and heard Nidhug’s laughter as he rode away with his men, l
eaving her to die.

  Then the scene changed again. She was near death, was going to die, did die. But then she felt the rotting corpse of her son stir in her breast, saw the slain villagers and her husband stagger back to life. They approached her. She heard them murmur soothing words as they untied her. They urged her to join them, to rest, to lie down in the narrow bed of her grave, to know peace.

  Yes, she thought, I belong with you, with the dead.

  But then, so faintly she could barely hear, there was the sound of a child crying. She looked for the source, saw a ghostly image on its knees. Its face was buried in its hands. She forced her way through the clinging hands of the corpses, reached out, touched the child’s dark hair. It looked up at her. The face was familiar, so like her own.

  Guthrun! Her thoughts suddenly screamed, breaking the spell of the poison in her blood.

  The ghostly image of her daughter vanished, and so did the hallucinations of the dead. She stood alone beneath the tree, leaned against the trunk, breathed heavily, and slowly regained her strength. She looked down at the Corpse Runes pulsing in Eirik’s grave. Somewhere the living corpse and soul of her husband was being kept tormented in slavery to Nidhug.

  Her face a grim mask, Bloodsong raised her sword over the grave, gripping the hilt tightly, knuckles white, rage boiling within her, all grief momentarily burned away.

  “I will destroy him, Eirik,” she vowed, her voice harsh in the darkness, “and when he walks the Earth no more, the Corpse Runes in your grave will fade, leaving your soul free to be with the Gods.” And if you’re imprisoned in Nastrond, perhaps I will find your dust or bones and return them here, she thought.

  For a moment she wondered why Nidhug had not left Eirik’s undead corpse in the village in case she returned, instead of Sifa’s. Surely Eirik would have been even more likely to persuade her to lie down in the grave. But then she thought she knew the reason—so that even if she did manage to escape the trap and destroy the Death Slave, it would not be Eirik’s flesh and soul she freed, but Sifa’s, leaving Eirik still in torment, Nidhug’s slave.

  She glanced at the smaller grave of her son. At least he left you in peace, she thought gratefully, and you may now rest peacefully too, dear Sifa, she added, eyes brimming. Then she wiped at her eyes, turned, and began walking back toward her friends, watching carefully for other danger, her hatred for Nidhug blazing more fiercely than ever it had before.

  RIDERS RACED toward Bloodsong through the moonlight, three riders and one riderless mount. She removed her battle-helm and the Tarnkappe.

  “Bloodsong!” Huld cried. She reined to a halt and jumped to the ground. “There’s blood on her!”

  “Then there was a battle?” Valgerth asked, staying atop her mount, warily watching the surrounding ruins. Her bared sword gleamed in the moonlight.

  “Huld claimed that she saw something happening by the tree,” Thorfinn explained.

  “But we heard no swords striking or death cries,” Valgerth added.

  “Lie down,” Huld ordered. “I’m going to use my healing spell.”

  “No, Huld,” Bloodsong said. “They’re only flesh wounds, and it’s just my face. You must not waste your energy needlessly.”

  “What was it you fought?” Thorfinn asked, watching the ruins.

  .“A corpse,” Bloodsong answered, “of a friend from the past.”

  “Then there might be more.” Valgerth looked around.

  “No.” Bloodsong shook her head. “I think they would surely have already attacked if there were. And I’ve seen no sign of soldiers. My guess is that the thing that attacked me was all Nidhug thought he needed here. He was very nearly right. But now we should ride fast for the end of the valley,” Bloodsong said, mounting her steed. She replaced the Tarnkappe beneath her battle-helm and vanished from their sight. “Nidhug will probably have sensed the battle here and may already be planning new attacks.”

  * * *

  Nidhug had waited hopefully during the battle, sorcerous senses straining. But the Death Slave had failed. Afterward, however, for a short while, whatever had cloaked Bloodsong’s presence from him had been removed. So at least he now knew that she did indeed ride with the other three.

  She has too much luck or the Gods’ favor riding with her, Nidhug thought with a flicker of apprehension, remembering his nightmare. Or is it the hand of HeI herself aiding Bloodsong, giving her luck, sparing her again and again from certain defeat? Or perhaps he need look no further than Bloodsong’s own strength and determination to survive. She should have died many times, he remembered, while yet a slave in Nastrond, yet she had gone on to do the impossible, escape, others with her, and to become a cherished legend among his slaves. Even death had not kept her from finding a way to return and challenge his authority.

  She’s too dangerous, he suddenly decided. I dare not indulge my whim of prolonging her suffering, not any longer. She must be destroyed at once, and those with her. She is close enough now for energy spell to be used. Before dawn, she will be no more than a charred skeleton with a Hel-ring I can retrieve from its finger.

  Nidhug left his chamber and hurried down his demon-guarded stairway, pushing down memories of his nightmare, mastering the apprehension he had momentarily felt, determined to end Bloodsong’s threat before the rising of the sun.

  * * *

  The scuffling footsteps of Death Slaves awakened Jalna. The sounds stopped.

  “Blloodsssong’sss frrriennnd?” she heard.

  “Yes, Eirik.”

  “Folllowww ussss.”

  “I can’t. I can’t walk. Nidhug hurt me.”

  There was silence, then dried flesh creaked as Eirik bent toward her.

  She felt the cold touch of bony hands and arms slide beneath her, lift her into the air.

  Eirik began carrying her through the darkness. She did not struggle, knowing it would do no good, hoping that Eirik was somehow trying to help her again. Scuffling sounds behind them indicated that other Death Slaves were following.

  She felt rocky walls pressing close as Eirik bent slightly forward to avoid a low ceiling. Feeling herself slipping, she gripped his arms. Pieces of decaying flesh came loose in her hands. Repulsed, she relaxed her hold, fighting down nausea and horror.

  On and on they went, the other Death Slaves following. Then they emerged from the narrow tunnel and Eirik stopped.

  Jalna heard the others edge past and continue forward a short distance. The sounds of rocks tumbling to the ground began.

  “Eirik?” she said, “what are they doing?”

  “Lossst ourrr memoriesss whennn weee ... diiied. Youuu brrrought mmmine baaack ... wwwith Bllioodsssong’ss nammme. I ... wwwoke othersss. Onne of uss thinksss therrrre iss a wayyy ouuut ...”

  The sound of rocks hitting the floor continued on and on.

  * * *

  In the Cavern of the War Skull, Nidhug studied a yellowed scroll while four women chained to the Skull whimpered in fear. He looked up from the scroll.

  There was a slight danger to himself in what he intended to do, but he had decided to risk it. Should something go wrong, the four sacrifices were already in place to replenish his energies.

  He positioned his arms so that they formed the shape of a Rune and chanted a phrase related to that Rune over and over until satisfied, then used his arms to form another Rune, chanted a different phrase, repeated the process for another and yet another Rune until he had raised sufficient power to work an energy spell.

  The Skull grew brighter and the whimpering of the women louder as he concentrated his will and directed the energy he had collected to beyond the walls of Nastrond, across the countryside until it hovered unseen far above the moonlit valley through which Bloodsong and her companions now rode.

  The energy condensed into a tighter and tighter sphere of power, heating up, beginning to glow white-hot beneath its bl
ack exterior.

  The sorcerer-king grimaced with concentration as he willed the energy sphere to grow smaller and smaller, hotter and hotter. Soon, it would be hot enough, and he could release it in a violent blast of flesh-searing heat, causing the valley and anything within it to burst immediately into flames.

  Smaller and hotter the black sphere grew, invisible against the night sky above the valley.

  But something suddenly disturbed his concentration, sounds, screams, rocks falling.

  Apprehension flitted through the king’s consciousness, weakening his grip on the black energy sphere above the valley, Desperately he tried to regain control, to stop the premature release of the heat the sphere contained. He began to succeed, his control returning.

  Nidhug’s neck was suddenly gripped by bone-cold fingers, shattering his concentration.

  Above the valley the sphere’s energy burst outward too soon, partly as light above the valley, mostly as pain back to Nidhug.

  Nidhug’s screams joined those of the women on the Skull as the pain of the crushing hands around his throat combined with the returning energy to sear his consciousness.

  * * *

  Above the valley, light suddenly flashed, turning the night into day,

  Huld screamed in pain as her night eyes were seared by the sudden, intense brightness.

  The mounts of the four riders reared in fright.

  Bloodsong, Valgerth, and Thorfinn whipped their swords from their scabbards, expecting an attack.

  The Hel-warrior brought her horse under control and glanced up. The sky was again dark. No thunder rumbled. There were no clouds. Stars twinkled serenely. The moon hung majestically in the blackness.

  “Sorcery?” Bloodsong asked. “Huld?”

  “Probably,” Huld responded.