“Jalna.” Valgerth nodded, understanding. The young warrior’s nighttime runs were not a secret.
“Your children?” Bloodsong asked.
“Safe in a barracks, though Thora wanted to come with me to fight,” Valgerth chuckled, “to fight with her wooden training sword. Imagine!”
Bloodsong nodded. “I’ve been brooding over Guthrun’s absence. Perhaps it’s best that she’s with Huld and Norda, though she would not shirk a battle, I’m certain, if a battle comes.”
“You think there may not be a battle?” asked the young warrior with whom Thorfinn had been talking.
Thorfinn and the two women looked at him. He rubbed his beardless chin and shrugged.
“Whoever is out there,” he continued, “probably hoped to take us by surprise. Now that they have not, maybe they will go away. Or there might not be any but a few, mightn’t there? Of course, I hope there is a battle,” he added, trying to sound brave.
Thorfinn gripped the youth’s shoulder. “Perhaps, Ole,” he said, “there won’t be, and perhaps there will, but if there is, just remember all I’ve taught you. And don’t worry about getting hurt or killed. If you do, you stand more of a chance of having that happen. Think about taking the lives of the enemy. Don’t think about saving your own.”
The young man named Ole walked away with Thorfinn along the rampart, still talking. Bloodsong and Valgerth stood looking out over the brightening landscape, saying nothing for a long while.
“When we defeated Nidhug,” Valgerth finally said, “we thought there would be nothing but peace. It hasn’t gone quite that way, has it, Freyadis?”
Bloodsong frowned at the name Valgerth had called her, the name by which Valgerth had known her when they were both slaves in Nastrond, before they had been trained as arena warriors and she had taken the battle name of Bloodsong.
“No, it hasn’t gone quite the way we’d hoped,” Bloodsong agreed, “but compared to Nidhug’s reign of terror?”
“Aye. Anything’s better than that. I wasn’t complaining. I have two fine children now, and—”
Bloodsong suddenly cursed, interrupting Valgerth. “If she hasn’t returned by now, she’s probably dead,” site said, thinking of Jalna.
“Or captured,” Valgerth suggested.
“For Jalna, better death, I think, than to again know captivity.”
* * *
When the last attacker had fallen, Jalna had begun to run back toward Eirik’s Vale. The men she had killed might have been a scouting patrol for a larger force. The village had to be warned. But in the distance she heard the alarm being sounded. She stopped. Someone heard the sounds of my fight, she realized, turned, and headed back into the forest. She left the trail to do some scouting.
Making as little sound as possible, stopping every few steps to listen and stare into the shadows, her sword and shield held ready, Jalna moved through the trees, all her survival instincts alert.
It was nearly dawn when she heard voices in the distance ahead—many voices—and the occasional nickering of horses.
She moved even more cautiously, kept to the shadows in the rapidly brightening forest, moving slowly and silently as Bloodsong had taught her.
Jalna circled to her right, placed a thicket between herself and the voices. She entered the thicket and moved carefully through it until she peered out the other side and saw hundreds of warriors.
She was chilled. It was more like an army than a raiding party. And then she saw a strongly built man with gray hair and beard sitting atop a massive black charger, giving orders.
Kovna! Jalna thought, recognizing the man who had once been the commanding general of King Nidhug’s army. She looked closer at Kovna’s men and saw that many wore remnants of soldiers’ uniforms. So intent was she on Kovna and his army that she did not at first see the others. But then she did see them, and her chill deepened.
Sitting astride gaunt white mares, protected from the brightening sky by the shadows of tall trees, shunned by Kovna’s men, nine warriors clad in black steel and leather faced a hooded figure in a black cloak who sat atop a black stallion. The nine were of the Dead, most little more than skeletons, silently watching and listening to the hooded one with the infinite patience of the grave.
Hel-warriors, Jalna realized, and shuddered, gripping her sword even tighter.
The hooded figure gestured to the brightening sky, made a negative gesture, as if to reassure the Hel-warriors, then turned the stallion to face the east and pushed back the hood, revealing the pale face of a beautiful woman whose long black hair hung in glistening coils.
The woman lifted her hands and closed her eyes, traced Runes in the air with her fingers, moved her lips soundlessly.
The light began to darken. Above the trees black clouds appeared, thickened rapidly, shutting out more and more light.
Jalna backed silently out of the thicket, forced herself to move slowly until beyond the sound of the voices, then began to run, desperate to tell Bloodsong what she had seen.
Behind her, the incantation to darken the sky complete, the Hel-Witch Thokk frowned and turned her head in the direction of the thicket where Jalna had hidden. “Kovna!” she shouted, “we have been seen! A spy was hiding in that thicket but a few moments past!”
Kovna’s head snapped around toward Thokk. “Then send some of your vile magic to slay the spy.”
“Fool! I must conserve my magical energies for the battle to come. Send some men. I sense that the spy was on foot and should be easily overtaken by mounted warriors.”
Kovna cursed beneath his breath, then nodded and shouted, “Tyrulf! Take some men. You heard what Thokk said.”
Tyrulf had been expecting it, had already mounted his horse and decided whom he would take. “Ragnar! Ketil! Harolf!” he called, then, ignoring their grumbling curses as they mounted their horses, the blond-bearded warrior kicked his steed into a gallop in the direction in which Jalna had gone. The three he had chosen soon followed behind.
“And the rest of you!” Kovna shouted. “Mount up! Pass the word! It is time to begin the attack!”
AS JALNA RAN on through the forest the light around her faded more and more, darkening until she was running through a twilight gloom. Then, behind her, she heard the sound of horses, turned with a curse, and prepared to fight. She looked around, saw two closely set trees, hurried to stand by them to reduce the effectiveness of the mounted warriors’ charge.
A warrior in mail and a steel battle-helm bore down upon her, followed in the distance by three more. The riders’ drawn blades glinted dully in the gloom.
The first warrior saw where she stood near the two trees, guessed her intent, reined up, slammed his sword into its scabbard, and jerked a short, mounted archer’s bow from its saddle thongs.
Jalna rushed forward before the warrior could nock an arrow, cut his horse’s legs from under him, sliced downward as he hit the ground and rolled, cursing, fumbling for his sword.
Her blade drew a thin line of blood along his cheek, but his quickness evaded the killing cut she had aimed at his neck. Then he was on his feet, sword drawn.
The other three were nearly to her now. She had to make quick work of the first one before they arrived.
“You!” the blond-bearded warrior suddenly cried. “I thought you dead!”
Jalna ignored what she assumed to be a clumsy trick and attacked.
“No!” the warrior said, backing away. “Wait! Look at me, woman!”
Jalna cut with her sword but he jumped back. “Jalna! Stop! It’s Tyrulf!” He blocked a cut, then another and another. “From Nidhug’s dungeons!” He kept backing away. “The guard who wanted to help you!”
Jalna stopped, fighting her battle instincts to finish the warrior. “Tyrulf?”
“Behind you!” Tyrulf shouted. He rushed forward and stood with his back to her, facing h
is three comrades. “Wait!” Tyrulf ordered.
The three reined up.
“We heard Kovna’s orders,” Ragnar growled. “What foolishness is this? Stand aside, Tyrulf. There will be plenty of wenches who do not wield swords after we have taken Eirik’s Vale.”
“I know this woman,” Tyrulf replied. “We will not harm her.”
“If he knows the spy, perhaps he is a traitor,” Ketil suggested.
Ragnar grunted. “Stand aside, Tyrulf. I’ve no desire to slay you, but I will if you—”
The hilt of Jalna’s dagger suddenly appeared in Ragnar’s neck, its blade deep within his flesh. Jalna rushed passed Tyrulf and cut at one of the horse’s legs. Harolf cursed as his horse went down. He leapt clear. But he was not as fast as Tyrulf had been, and Jalna’s downward stroke ended his cursing in a gasp of agony.
Ketil jerked his horse around, not willing to face both Tyrulf and the spy, galloped to a safe distance, turned, and jerked his bow from its saddle thongs. But Tyrulf had already retrieved his bow and nocked an arrow. Tyrulf’s bowstring twanged first. Ketil screamed and fell dead to the ground. His horse galloped away into the forest.
“Only one horse left,” Jalna said as she sheathed her sword and began to mount Ragnar’s steed. “I need it.”
Tyrulf’s hand clamped around her arm, pulled her back, spun her around. She jerked free and reached for her sword. He grabbed her wrists and held tight.
“No!” he said. “Listen!”
Toward them came the thunder of hundreds of horses. “Kovna’s army!” he said, “galloping to attack Eirik’s Vale. And hear that moaning sound? Hel-warriors!”
“That moaning,” Jalna shuddered, “the Hel-wind upon which Hel-horses tread.”
“Aye!”
“The fortifications—”
“Earthen walls will be no hindrance to the wind-treading Hel-horses. We must save ourselves, Jalna. There is nothing we can do to stop what is about to happen. Eirik’s Vale is doomed.”
Jalna again jerked free of Tyrulf’s grasp. “My place is by Bloodsong’s side,” she growled, and began to mount the horse once more.
Tyrulf jerked Jalna’s steel battle-helm from her head and brought it down against her skull.
Jalna sagged, stunned, fighting unconsciousness.
Tyrulf caught her with one arm and struck the horse. As the beast galloped away he lifted Jalna into his arms and began running toward a closely packed stand of trees.
Jalna moaned and began struggling in his arms as he reached his goal. She cursed weakly and fumbled for her sword. Tyrulf pushed her to the ground.
The thunder of the galloping army was nearly upon them. Tyrulf gripped her wrists behind her back with one hand and put his other hand over her mouth. She tried to bite him but was still too weak to break the skin.
“Curse it, woman! I’m trying to save you!”
Jalna only struggled harder, and again tried to bite his hand. Skirting the closely packed trees where Tyrulf and Jalna lay in hiding, Kovna’s army began to gallop past. Jalna stopped struggling, finally conscious enough to understand what was happening.
From where he lay, Tyrulf watched as his comrades of a short time before swept by. The enormity of what he had done suddenly struck him. Traitor, Harolf had called him, and traitor he was, except—
Lying next to him was the woman he had thought dead these seven years past, the woman whose memory had given him no peace, the beautiful, dark-haired, dark-eyed slave woman he had helped chain to the War Skull of Hel, she whom he had later helped consign to the dark chamber of Nidhug’s death slaves to die. Her final screams as that portal had closed had echoed in his mind and nightmares ever since, weighing him down, reminding him of his cowardice in not finding some way to help her, no matter the cost to himself. But what could he have done against the combined strength of his fellow warriors and Nidhug’s sorcery? Even if he had killed Jalna to give her a quick and clean death, Nidhug could have brought her back from the grave to torment anew.
The last of Kovna’s army thundered past. The rumbling of pounding hooves and the moaning of the Hel-wind faded into the distance. He released his hold on her wrists and mouth.
Jalna jumped to her feet. She reached for the hilt of her sword, swayed, and nearly fell, pain throbbing within her skull, making her vision swim.
Tyrulf steadied her. “You intended to slay me just now,” he said, easing her back to the ground. “I didn’t save you in the dungeon, but I have saved you from Kovna and Thokk. And your thanks is to try to draw your sword.”
“Thokk?” Jalna asked as she fought to clear her vision. “The Hel-Witch? So that’s who she was.”
She climbed back to her feet, her vision nearly clear, the pounding in her skull less severe. “Where’s my battle-helm?” she asked, looking around.
“I dropped it after using it to crack your skull.”
“And my shield?”
“With your helm. There wasn’t time to—”
“Hel’s Blood,” Jalna cursed. She began running toward Eirik’s Vale.
“Stop!” Tyrulf caught up and paced beside her. “Listen to me!”
Jalna kept running.
“Bloodsong’s daughter is Thokk’s captive.”
Jalna glanced at him and kept running.
“She and a young Witch were taken to Thokk’s castle a few days ago,” Tyrulf continued. “I helped capture them.”
“They were with Norda Greycloak. What of her? The Elder Witch?”
“Dead. We did not mean it to happen, but—”
“Guthrun and Huld. Captured. Norda. Dead. More reasons you should die!”
Tyrulf was silent a moment, struggling to match Jalna’s speed. “We two can’t save the village! Be reasonable! Stop!”
“Try again to stop me from reaching Bloodsong and I will kill you!” Jalna increased her speed.
Tyrulf fell behind, cursed, caught up, and again ran by her side.
‘‘THOSE CLOUDS.” Bloodsong stared at the dark shapes that had suddenly boiled into existence above the forest. They were rapidly spreading outward, dimming the light of the rising sun. “Sorcery!” She turned, shouted to the warriors on the ground below, “Bring Witch Gerda to me! Hurry!”
“Gerda’s Witchcraft has weakened in the past year,” Valgerth observed, “along with her health.”
“Do you know of another Witch in Eirik’s Vale? And how else can we fight sorcery but with magic?”
“I know, Freyadis,” Valgerth said, watching the growing black clouds. “If Huld and Norda were here—”
“They should be here,” Bloodsong growled. “Huld would have agreed to teach Guthrun here, but Norda’s cursed stubbornness prevailed.”
Two warriors helped a small, white-haired woman to mount the ramparts, carrying her most of the way up the stairs to speed her arrival.
“Most undignified,” Gerda Snowmeadow complained, patting her hair and green robe back into place when she’d been deposited before Bloodsong.
“Those clouds.” Bloodsong pointed. “They suddenly appeared over the forest and will soon cover the sky. It must be sorcery. Gerda, can you do anything to help?”
The elder peered upward at the spreading cloud and thrust out her tongue as if tasting the air. Suddenly she swayed on her feet, eyes tightly closed. Bloodsong and Valgerth caught her before she could fall, both surprised at how thin and frail she had become.
Gerda pushed them away, determined to stand on her own. “I’m all right now,” she said, panting, then frowned up at the boiling black clouds. “I was caught by surprise.” The last of the sky became covered, shrouding the land in a preternatural twilight.
“Hel-magic,” Gerda told them distastefully. “Strong. Sickening. Death-tainted.”
“Who is casting this spell, Gerda?” Bloodsong asked. “Can you help us? Can you
send away the clouds?”
“Since Nidhug’s passing,” Gerda answered, “I know of only one person who could wield such powerful Hel-magic. Thokk. I’m certain you’ve heard many Freya-Witches warning that something like this might occur, now that Hel has the War Skull back, which increased Her power.”
“Yes,” Bloodsong said. “We’ve all heard those warnings, but I have never apologized for having returned the War Skull to Hel, and I never shall. I would do it again for Guthrun’s sake. “
Gerda shook her head disapprovingly. “Hel-worshipers have been reappearing,” she said, staring accusingly at Bloodsong. “Some say they are being summoned by Thokk.”
Bloodsong glanced skyward. “Can you do anything to help us, Gerda? If you can’t, return to me barracks and safety.”
“I will try.” Gerda eyed the boiling black clouds. “But undoing the evil caused by returning the War Skull to Hel is more than a matter of dispersing clouds.”
Valgerth rolled her eyes. “Quit stalling, Witch.”
“I am not stalling.” Gerda gave Valgerth a frown. Then she closed her eyes. She spoke lilting syllables.
Bloodsong recognized the musical language she’d heard Huld and Norda use when invoking the aid of the Goddess Freya.
Gerda’s weather spell began to work. The clouds thinned above the fortress. A patch of blue sky appeared. Then Gerda screamed and staggered backward.
Valgerth and Bloodsong caught her, cried out with pain, and released their hold as the old woman’s body glowed with purple light.
Gerda writhed on the ground and screamed in agony. Her face became a skull. She screamed again and burst into purple flames. Within moments she was a pile of smoldering ashes. Overhead the clouds thickened once more, covering the patch of blue sky.
Bloodsong cursed, trying to conceal her fear as she looked at the warriors on the ramparts who had seen. “Witchcraft, be damned!” she cried to them. “Ready your weapons!”
“Are you all right?” Thorfinn asked, running up to them. The young warrior named Ole was close behind.
Bloodsong Hel X 3 Page 24
