Bloodsong Hel X 3

by C. Dean Andersson

  Huld just kept laughing.

  * * *

  “Your eyes?” Bloodsong asked some time later.

  “Steadily better,” Huld answered, squinting. “Still somewhat blurred. I hope they clear for our first view of Nastrond. I’ve never seen it.”

  “Then they’d better clear soon,” Bloodsong noted. “We will soon be atop a hill from which it can be seen. Then less than an afternoon’s journey would put us at the gate, if Nidhug allowed us to ride unhindered across the plain,” she added, “which is rather unlikely, wouldn’t you say?”

  Huld shrugged. “Who knows what a sorcerer thinks? Certainly not an innocent Witch like me.”

  Bloodsong laughed, feeling excitement building within her. When they crested the hill from which Nastrond could be seen, Bloodsong called a halt. “Can you see it, Huld?”

  “There’s something dark, a dark shape far in the distance, like a small mountain or something. Is that it?”

  “Yes,” Bloodsong replied. “I’d never thought of it as a small mountain before, but you’re right, with all its towers and steeply slanting roofs, all angling upward toward the central tower where Nidhug has his private chambers.”

  “And is that water sparkling in front of it?” Huld asked. “A lake?”

  Thorfinn laughed.

  “That sparkling is a sea of sorts,” Valgerth told her. “A sea of men.”

  “Soldiers, Huld,” Bloodsong explained. “The sun is glinting off their armor and weapons.”

  “Oh,” was all the Witch said.

  “Nidhug must think you a formidable enemy indeed,” Thorfinn noted, “to have assembled what must be nearly his entire army.”

  “He must know you two are with me,” Bloodsong replied.

  Thorfinn laughed again.

  “We will find a place to hide until dark,” Bloodsong said, “in case other patrols are in the area. Maybe by then your vision will have cleared, Huld. It would aid us greatly if your yellow-fire eyes could guide us again.”

  “I’ve been wondering if I could teach you.”

  “To see in the dark using Freya’s magic?” Bloodsong shook her head. “Have you forgotten I can only do what Hel and this ring allow?”

  “No. But I had to learn it. So could you.”

  “How long did it take you?”

  “A week. Or two. Okay. Stupid idea. Forget it.”

  Bloodsong squeezed Huld’s shoulder. “It was a good suggestion, if there was time.”

  “Hel should have included it in your abilities, curse Her!”

  Bloodsong shrugged then looked toward Nastrond. The final struggle was about to begin. Guthrun, she thought, I’ve nearly reached my goal, our goal. I won’t fail you, daughter. We will have vengeance and freedom.

  Something bright suddenly caught her eye overhead. She grabbed for the hilt of her sword, expecting another sorcerous attack, and started to draw her blade but stopped when she saw what hovered in the sky, long blond hair blazing in the wind, silver armor flashing in the sunlight, blue eyes burning into hers, spear pointed earthward toward her. Then, suddenly, there was only blue sky overhead once more.

  She glanced at the others. No one had seen the Valkyrie but her, and because she was invisible in the Tarnkappe, no one had seen her reach for her sword.

  There was a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She knew that according to the old tales, seeing a Valkyrie could mean only one thing. The one who saw the Valkyrie was to die in battle before another day had passed.

  Her mind, so long accustomed to accepting the possibility of death in battle, suddenly rebelled. Her desire to live, to raise Guthrun to womanhood flooded her. The hopes and dreams nurtured through the six years in Hel’s realm cried out against their destruction, against the negation of death. Fear entered her heart. If she turned back, she might live, but Guthrun would never be released. If she went onward, she was to die, though Guthrun might be released if she accomplished her mission before being slain. Either way, she would never see her daughter again. Hel laughs last, she remembered once more. Then her fear retreated. The decision was a simple one, after all. Guthrun will know freedom, no matter the price, she vowed, looking skyward to where she had seen the Valkyrie, even if that price is my life. Nothing has changed. I knew I might not survive this mission. Of course I died once, Hel praying, then lived again, but would Hel restore me a second time? She needed me to fight for the Skull, but If I die returning the Skull to Her and She frees Guthrun, She will have what She wants and not need a warrior again.

  The Hel-warrior looked back toward Nastrond. For all I know that Valkyrie was only a vision sent by Nidhug to weaken my resolve. To Hel with it all! To Hel with cursed Valkyries, too! I’m going to live!

  * * *

  Nidhug looked out his tower window at the sea of flickering torches and camp fires of his soldiers on the plain around Nastrond. Overhead, the sky was black. To better conceal his trap, he had conjured thick clouds to cover the moon and stars.

  He had struggled to regain control of his emotions after the shocking revelation from the slave, but horror remained beneath the surface of his mind and heart, threatening to escape with each breath.

  How could it be her? He wondered yet again, fighting tears and terror. After all this time? Lost to me? Why now? But he feared he knew the answer. Someone had to have told the slave those words from his past.

  Hel! The Goddess he most feared must somehow be responsible.

  Hel must have penetrated his weakening defenses.

  Hel must have also helped the slave survive the torture and lie to him.

  Because Hel knew who the slave once had been!

  Hel knew all souls who had ever been in Her care.

  Yes, Hel had somehow manipulated Fate and placed the slave in Nastrond years ago. How many other souls from his past now also lived as slaves, soldiers, or nobles in Nastrond with their own secret traps for him as yet unsprung?

  Now, at a crucial moment, he was distracted as never before, and keeping his emotions in check was requiring extra energy, depleting his youth spell at a faster pace.

  In spite of his efforts to suppress them, threatening memories from centuries agone forced themselves upon him, memories from before Hel, before the War Skull, thrusting him momentarily back to a simple woodsman’s cottage in a forest and into the arms of a woman he had lived with there. A woman he had truly loved. A woman soldiers had taken from him and killed, setting him on a path of hatred and revenge.

  Cold tears trickled down his skullish face. “I love you,” he said, repeating the phrase she had said but in his current tongue. But then the beloved face from his past became a mask of terror and pain, blistering, burning, the face of the slave he had mercilessly tortured, and at whose suffering he had laughed!

  What a monster I have become! he thought. What a—

  “No!” he shouted aloud. “You won’t win, Hel! You won’t laugh last over my corpse! I don’t care who she used to be! Do you hear me? I will still torture her for my pleasure! Turn her into a living corpse! Make her suffer as no one has ever suffered! I will destroy her just to spit in Your eye! I don’t care if she was my beloved Nella! Do you hear? I don’t care!”

  He slumped down on his bed. He fought waves of weakness that poured through him. He struggled to gain back his tenuous control.

  Later, calmed, taking slow and disciplined steps, breathing at an artificially measured pace, he returned to the window and looked out once more.

  Near dawn that morning, he had sensed the deaths of the soldiers camped near the valley’s end. Then, throughout the day, he had monitored the approach of Bloodsong’s companions as they came ever nearer to Nastrond. And now he had sensed them coming still closer through the darkness. Though he could not yet sense Bloodsong, he hardly cared. Her fate was sealed. Before the night was through, she would either be dead or his
helpless prisoner.

  Nidhug looked out a moment longer, then slowly left the room, pulling on his hood, anxious to put an end to what Bloodsong had started with her rebellion years before. Yes. He would that night finally and completely crush her defiance.

  It was time to spring the final trap.

  * * *

  “There are guards everywhere around the perimeter of the camp,” Huld whispered in the darkness. “If we get much closer, someone is certain to see my bright night eyes.”

  “Then it’s time,” Bloodsong said, invisible beneath the Tarnkappe. She dismounted. “May your Gods and Goddesses be with you.”

  “And with you, Bloodsong,” Thorfinn said.

  “I wish I could see you, before we part,” Valgerth said, “in case—”

  “You can see me when it’s over,” Bloodsong cut in, “and my daughter as well.”

  “May I touch your hand, at least?” Valgerth asked, reaching down in the direction of Bloodsong’s voice. There was silence for a moment, then she felt her hand gripped by strong fingers. She squeezed back, let go, straightened in her saddle.

  “May Freya’s Teeth tear the throats of your enemies,” Huld said earnestly. “Please be careful.” She also reached down, felt her hand squeezed then released.

  They heard Bloodsong walk away into the darkness. Then Huld led Bloodsong’s horse away from the encampment, Valgerth and Thorfinn riding behind.

  * * *

  Shield gripped in her left hand, sword in her right, Bloodsong walked forward until she saw a sentry outlined against torchlight from the camp. She angled away from him, walking slowly and quietly.

  The torches that marked the boundary of the encampment were half a bow-shot from the guard. Bloodsong reached them and edged into the camp itself, careful to make as little sound as possible.

  Men stood here and there around camp fires, talking, gambling, cursing, laughing. She kept going, unseen by any, unsensed, she hoped, by Nidhug.

  But something was wrong. There were simply not enough men, not for the size of the camp. And even the men who were laughing and gambling were dressed in mail and leather armor, weapons at their sides. Many held bows, quivers of arrows strapped to their backs. And the more she listened, the more their curses and laughter seemed forced, as if they were but pretending.

  She thought she understood and was not surprised. They had discussed the possibility of a trap before parting. Bloodsong stopped and looked back. Her friends were no doubt headed into a trap. Perhaps Nidhug had sent half his army circling around after dark to form a ring through which nothing could escape. That would also explain the way the thick cloud cover had appeared, cloaking the moon, concealing the trap—Nidhug’s sorcery.

  I could not reach them in time to help them, she told herself. And Huld’s night vision will give them some warning.

  Bloodsong reluctantly turned toward Nastrond again and resumed walking, forcing herself to concentrate on what was before her instead of what might lie behind.

  She reached the other side of the camp and kept going. She came to the stone bridge that spanned the mist-filled chasm and saw that the drawbridge was down and the gate open.

  As if I were being invited inside, the Hel-warrior thought as she slowly advanced across the bridge. Has he sensed my presence? Am I walking into a trap, too? Does the Tarnkappe not shield me from his senses after all? But then, with his army arrayed before the gate, or even part of his army, why should he even need to raise the drawbridge and close the gate?

  Tightening her grip on her sword, Bloodsong crossed the drawbridge and entered the fortress.

  * * *

  “Stop!” Huld whispered urgently, reining to a halt.

  “What is it?” Thorfinn asked, also whispering.

  “Soldiers,” she answered.

  “In which direction?” Valgerth asked.

  “Take your pick.” Huld tried to keep the fear from her voice. “They’re in every direction, moving back toward the camp.”

  “Closing a trap,” Thorfinn growled. “They must have gone around after the clouds covered the moon.”

  “It seems there will be killing for us to do this night,” Valgerth noted.

  “Aye,” Thorfinn agreed.

  Huld watched the soldiers coming closer, searching for some gap in the circle of men but finding none.

  Beside her, Valgerth and Thorfinn made ready their weapons.

  BLOODSONG STOOD within the courtyard of Nastrond. She looked left and right and saw no soldiers. She glanced up and back, saw only the normal number of sentries standing watch on the parapets near the gate. She looked down at the ground, confirmed that she still cast no shadow in the torchlight, meaning that the Tarnkappe’s magic was still working within Nastrond’s walls.

  Across the empty courtyard, the main doorway into the palace stood open, a soldier standing at attention on each side. Torchlight glinted off the intricately carven gold of the massive, towering doors.

  She studied the palace itself, the age-pitted walls, the tall, narrow windows far above, the looming towers and steeply slanting roofs. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Everything was as she remembered. Memories from her slave years crowded in on her, pain, humiliation, hatred, and her vows of vengeance.

  Walking slowly, her boots barely making a sound, the invisible Hel-warrior made her way to the right, away from the invitingly open entrance. She kept going until she came to the stables. She slipped inside, waiting, tensed in the darkness until she was certain no soldiers were hiding there. She made her way to a door used by the slaves who tended the horses and tried to open it but could not.

  The locked door reassured her. Had it been left open, suspicion would have forced her to find another way inside.

  She moved through the stables, noting the absence of horses, counting support beams in the darkness. When she came to the seventh one, she turned to her left and felt her way along, memories guiding her.

  Bloodsong bent down and felt along a slight crack in the wood of a manger. She pried loose a thin piece of metal that she had once had another slave who worked in the smithy shape into a likeness of the key to the locked door.

  Before becoming an arena warrior, Bloodsong had devised many plans for escape. The counterfeit key had been but one such plan, never used.

  Returning to the door, she slipped the crude key into the lock, slowly turned it, felt it catch and start to bend. She removed it, bent it straight again, slipped it back in the lock, moved it carefully, turned it gently, and a soft click came from the lock. She slowly opened the door enough to peer through. The little-used corridor leading into the palace was empty. Bloodsong stepped through the door into the palace itself and felt the sense of oppression she remembered from her slave years, the feeling of being crushed emotionally and mentally by the ancient evil permeating the walls.

  She fought off the feelings, moved silently along the corridor, hesitated at the first bend, peered around into the next hallway, still saw no one, moved onward, passed the torch burning there, and then suddenly stopped. Before her on the floor stretched her shadow. The Dwarfish magic was being overpowered by Nidhug’s, now that, she’d stepped within the palace itself. If Nidhug had been unable to sense her before, now he surely could. Her only ally now would be speed and what surprise she might still muster.

  Bloodsong hurried forward to an arched portal. Looking around into one of the palace’s main corridors, she still saw no one.

  She ran into the corridor and turned to the right, sprinting for the stairway that led down into Nastrond’s lower levels, to the dungeons, and eventually to the Cavern of the War Skull in which she, Valgerth, and countless others had entertained the king with their screams.

  At the top of the stairs she stopped, heard the footsteps of many men coming up the stairs from below.

  Her head snapped around. Warriors were entering the
main corridor behind her.

  She headed down the stairs, engaged the first warrior coming up, and quickly slipped through his guard with a slicing blow that sent a fountain of blood pumping from his neck.

  She kicked out, caught the next soldier in his chest, sent him toppling backward to collide with the next soldier and the one behind him.

  Behind her, the warriors from the corridor started down the stairs.

  She kept going down, kicked again and again, keeping the warriors falling backward, more and more of them caught in the colliding reaction, tumbling down and down the narrow stairway, crying out their pain, cursing, struggling helplessly to regain their balance.

  At the bottom Bloodsong leapt over the mass of groaning, cursing soldiers, and ran hard for the next stairway. She headed down it two steps at a time, hearing pursuers close behind.

  A spear cut the air near her head and clattered to the uneven stairs. A sharp pain shot through the back of her left arm. She ignored the dagger embedded there and kept going down, reached the dungeon level, raced down a corridor lined with locked cells, came to another stairway, hurtled down it, thinking of the War Skull, of touching it and shouting the incantation to summon the Goddess Hel.

  Bloodsong hurried down the last crumbling steps and make-shift wooden ramps, reached the bottom and saw a small doorway ahead which she remembered all too well from her tortures. She was nearly to her goal!

  Out of the doorway emerged a warrior, then another and more. Behind her, downward came the warriors from above.

  She hurled her shield at the feet of a descending soldier. As he stumbled and fell, and those close behind him as well, she aimed her Hel-ring at the guards coming up from below, concentrated, and shouted the incantation for Hel-fire.

  Her face became that of a skull once again as a blazing ray of purple fire shot outward, searing the approaching warriors. They screamed in agony and burst into flames. The Hel-fire spell had drained precious energy, but her way was now clear. But the pursuing warriors from above finally reached her.