Bloodsong Hel X 3

by C. Dean Andersson

  “Joke.”

  “You can joke? After what you just suffered?” Admiration was plain in his voice.

  “You would prefer tears? Look there.” Beyond the base of the hill, men approached with torches. “Kovna is returning.”

  “Why? We thought you’d be left alone, at least until dawn.”

  “Your dagger!” Bloodsong demanded, fumbling at his scabbard with fingers still half numb.

  He gave her his dagger, his thoughts racing. Kovna and his men were nearly to the base of the hill. Within moments they would be able to see that Bloodsong was free. He counted seven men with Kovna. Perhaps, with surprise on my side, he thought, but he knew that all the odds were against it.

  “Hide the dagger,” he whispered.

  “I’ll stand as if my hands are still tied. Can you catch that low branch and pull yourself up?”

  He understood. “Of course.”

  Bloodsong shakily managed to regain her feet as Tyrulf pulled himself into the tree. Now, if only that guard doesn’t mention seeing me, he thought.

  “Tyrulf?” Kovna called, starting up the slope.

  Tyrulf cursed under his breath, saw that Bloodsong had raised her arms above her head as if still bound. The dagger was hidden behind her crossed arms. It’s not going to work, he thought, and as soon as the fighting starts, Jalna will join the battle, no matter the odds. I’ll have saved her life for only one day. Gods! She’ll probably think that this is a trick of mine and try to kill me first!

  Kovna stopped several steps away from Bloodsong, the torchlight revealing that she was free. The shock on his face changed to fury. “Traitor!” he shouted. “Find Tyrulf! He has cut her free!”

  A body hurtled downward from above and crashed into Kovna. Tyrulf rolled and came to his feet with his sword in his hand, gutted a surprised warrior, and chopped the legs from under another with his return stroke. His blade came up and parried a stroke from Kovna, who had regained his feet.

  Bloodsong staggered forward, dropped the dagger, picked up a slain warrior’s sword, and cursed with frustration as her tingling fingers closed awkwardly around the hilt. Holding the blade with both hands, she swung at Kovna’s neck while his attention was still on Tyrulf. But she was unable to properly control the angle of the stroke and hit his steel battle-helm instead.

  Kovna reeled and slumped earthward.

  Bloodsong and Tyrulf both started to aim killing strokes at the fallen leader but were forced to parry the blades of other warriors instead.

  Tyrulf thrust into a man’s throat and whirled to parry another’s stroke.

  Bloodsong clumsily parried stroke after stroke, aware that she would have already been slain had they not been trying to take her alive once more. But now the guards from the base of the hill had joined the fight, and others, half drunk on plundered wine, were coming from the camp.

  Bloodsong’s arms were grabbed from behind. She kicked back, trying to reach the man’s instep, failed, and felt her arms wrenched up until pain coursed through her. But suddenly a familiar voice behind her screamed, “Bloodsong and freedom!” Warm blood spurted onto her back as her arms were released.

  “Bloodsong and freedom!” Jalna screamed again, her sword flashing in the torchlight as she blocked cuts with her shield. Another warrior cried out and fell to her blade, a crimson fountain shooting from his ruined neck.

  Bloodsong parried another stroke and noticed with relief that with each moment more control returned to her muscles, more accuracy to her feints and thrusts. But she also noticed that more and more warriors were joining the fray.

  “To the tree!” she shouted, feinted to the right, dipped low, thrust upward, and jerked her blade free as a warrior screamed and fell at her feet.

  Bloodsong, Jalna, and Tyrulf backed up the slope to the highest ground available, fending off blades from all sides until they had the tree at their backs. Her battle skills now nearly completely returned, Bloodsong fought on, not allowing herself to think of the hopelessness of the battle, thinking only of the next kill.

  A bellow like that of a wild beast ripped through the clangor of battle. At the base of the hill men screamed. In the flickering torchlight Bloodsong saw a bearded warrior standing heads taller than most of Kovna’s men cutting his way up the hill toward the tree.

  “Grimnir!” Bloodsong shouted.

  The massive warrior reached them. “I will hold the scum here!” Grimnir shouted. “Run down to the forest and to the left!”

  Bloodsong, Jalna, and Tyrulf continued to fight.

  “Run, curse you! Find Bloodhoof! I can hold off these drunken louts!”

  Bloodsong hesitated a moment more, killed one more man. “I will mount Bloodhoof and return for you!” she cried.

  “I’m staying with him!” Tyrulf announced.

  “Jalna!” Bloodsong cried. “Help me reach the forest!”

  Jalna and Bloodsong cut free of the last warriors blocking their way and ran downslope for the forest. “Bloodhoof!” Bloodsong shouted as she ran, calling the name of Grimnir’s stallion, wondering if he would come to the sound of her voice. Sometimes he would not.

  Tyrulf and Grimnir backed down the slope, killing as they went, A blade sliced a shallow cut in Tyrulf’s left leg. He cursed, crashed through the warrior’s defense, and killed him. Beside him, Grimnir, he noticed, was killing twice as many as he, fighting with nearly a Berserker’s frenzy against which Kovna’s half-drunk men were all but helpless.

  Some of Kovna’s warriors started to circle around, meaning to follow Bloodsong. Grimnir and Tyrulf cut them off, kept backing toward the forest, side by side, until suddenly there came from behind the thunder of hooves.

  Tyrulf whirled, saw Bloodsong mounted atop a massive black charger, raised sword gleaming in the torchlight.

  Bloodhoof crashed into Kovna’s men, trampling and slaying with his flashing hooves as Bloodsong’s sword slashed downward again and again, spilling brains from split skulls.

  Kovna’s men broke and ran.

  Grimnir bellowed a laugh.

  “Now you run,” Bloodsong commanded, and waited until the two men were well out of sight in the darkness, then wheeled the stallion around and galloped in their wake.

  THE MOON WAS breaking the horizon. In the meager light Bloodsong reined her galloping stallion to a halt. She looked back toward Kovna’s camp. There were no indications of anyone following. She wondered how badly she had wounded Kovna and hoped it proved fatal. His injury and the damage they had inflicted in the escape must at least have been serious enough to delay pursuit.

  Other thoughts rushed upon Bloodsong. The horrors of the day returned, the screams of the villagers and her warriors, seeing all that she had worked to rebuild destroyed, being tied to the tree, learning Guthrun was Thokk’s captive and that her son’s corpse was being made into—what?

  Bloodsong stopped the thoughts. She had to concentrate on finding a way to free Guthrun and the others. Nothing else mattered, for now.

  “Bloodsong!” Jalna called.

  Bloodsong saw the young warrior hurrying toward her through the dim moonlight. She jumped to the ground. Her bare feet came down on sharp rocks. She cursed. Wished for boots. Armor. Her own weapons. She glanced back, still detected no pursuit.

  Behind Jalna, Tyrulf and Grimnir hurried from amongst the trees. Grimnir led two horses. “They were to have been surprises,” he quickly explained, “for you and Guthrun. Bloodhoof is their father. I’ve named them Freehoof and Frosthoof. Freehoof is yours.” He placed the black horse’s reins in Bloodsong’s hands.

  “Grimnir! Such gifts! Guthrun will love Frosthoof’s white mane and tail, so unusual!”

  “In daylight, there are other white markings you will see.”

  “And Freehoof could be Bloodhoof’s twin.” She patted Freehoof’s neck. “They are magnificent!”

 
Grimnir grunted. “So are you.”

  Bloodsong hooked an arm around his neck and gave him a quick kiss. “My thanks. Truly.”

  He hugged her to him and kissed her back.

  She pulled away. “Guthrun is a captive in Thokk’s castle. Huld too. Valgerth and Thorfinn were also taken alive.”

  “Their children?”

  “With them.”

  Grimnir reached up, jerked a bundle from behind Freehoof’s saddle, unrolled a cloak, and placed the soft fabric around Bloodsong’s shoulders. “Another gift,” he explained. “The color is hard to judge in the weak moonlight, but it’s green, for Huld. However, not that I object to the view, but you need it more right now.”

  She gave him another quick kiss. She turned to the man beside Jalna. “What is your name, warrior?”

  Tyrulf cleared his throat. “Tyrulf.”

  “My thanks for your aid.”

  “He is one of Kovna’s men,” Jalna added.

  “Was!” he corrected her.

  “What changed your allegiance?” Bloodsong asked, suspicious.

  “Jalna,” Tyrulf answered. “Thokk detected someone watching our camp. I was sent to catch and kill the spy. It was Jalna. I helped her kill the men with me instead.”

  “He recognized me from Nastrond,” Jalna explained.

  “You were friends there?” Bloodsong asked. “A soldier and a slave?”

  “No! He helped chain me to the War Skull to be tortured.”

  “I did not want to.”

  “But you did it, anyway.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “And I had no clothes.”

  “I tried not to look!”

  “Ha!” Jalna responded.

  “I wanted to help you.”

  “But you did not.”

  “I could not.”

  Jalna was silent a moment before saying, “I know.”

  “Good. Because if there had been a way—”

  “I said I know!”

  Both then fell silent.

  Bloodsong decided that she would watch him closely, and if he acted suspiciously, she would deal with it then. For now, other matters concerned her more.

  “I will ride on Bloodhoof with you,” she said to Grimnir, “until we can get another horse.”

  Soon, with Jalna riding Freehoof and Tyrulf on Frosthoof, they rode north through the trees as the moon rose higher and its light grew stronger.

  “Kovna,” Bloodsong said as they rode. “I injured him, but—”

  “I saw blood oozing from beneath his helmet,” Tyrulf noted. “Odin willing, he will die.”

  “Aye,” Bloodsong agreed.

  “But with me gone,” he continued, “a man called Styrki, if he survived the battles, is next in the line of command. He is loyal because Kovna saved his life years ago. So, he will send men after us, though perhaps not until dawn. If Kovna is as badly wounded as I hope, however, Styrki won’t lead them himself. He will stay by Kovna’s side to protect and help him.

  Bloodsong nodded. “We must be clever about the way we travel, to confuse any who follow as much as possible.”

  “There is a stream ahead that we can backtrack down for a ways,” Grimnir suggested, “to interrupt our tracks.”

  “And I could set a trap or two, here and there,” Tyrulf offered. “After a couple, our followers will go slower, careful to look for more.”

  “And I will help you set those traps,” Jalna said, “to make certain you do not leave secret messages to betray us.”

  “Curse your suspicions!” Tyrulf complained. “But I will welcome your presence, and help, anyway.”

  “I think he likes her,” Grimnir whispered to Bloodsong. With her arms tight around his waist, she gave him a squeeze.

  “As we ride,” she said to them all, “I am going to think about how to free my daughter. The rest of you do the same. There must be a way, and we are going to find it.”

  * * *

  Guthrun stopped running. She retraced her steps, saw the Jotun carry Huld away. She followed, picked up the red cloth where the Jotun had dropped it. Huld will need it when I rescue her, she told herself, summoning determination.

  The Frost Giant entered a dark archway. Guthrun edged closer and peeked through. There were no torches burning there. He must see in the dark! She realized. Huld had promised to teach her the night-vision spell, soon. Not soon enough, curse it, she thought. And if I take a torch, he’ll know and recapture me. But I’ll be back for you, Huld, Guthrun vowed, then turned and ran back the way she had come.

  She ascended higher into the castle of Thokk and became more uneasy as, the higher she went, the whispers in the shadows overhead became more numerous and the sounds from behind the doors louder.

  In one corridor, the dull monotony of the bare walls, empty halls and stairs was interrupted by a long, dark shape lying close to one wall. Guthrun slowed, suspicious. Was it alive? Something like she’d seen in the room, ready to strike at her when she neared? But she had to keep going.

  She crept closer, closer—

  “Impossible,” she whispered to herself when she was close enough. “A sword?”

  Carefully she touched the hilt. It did not move and stayed a sword, not a big one, more like a very large dagger, its double edged, sharply pointed blade rusted and dull, but a sword!

  Whatever leather had once wrapped the hilt had rotted away. She gripped the bare shank and lifted the weapon. She blew a layer of dust off of it. She wondered who had dropped it in what forgotten battle, to wait through years, centuries, for her to find it.

  She lifted the slender old blade toward her lips to kiss it and say her mother’s battle cry, but she hesitated, thinking of tricks and poisons, perhaps supplied by Thokk to catch some fool trying to escape. “Bloodsong and Freedom,” she whispered without the customary kiss and lowered the blade, careful to keep the edge from her body, just in case.

  Guthrun started up the next flight of stairs, sword in her right hand, the red cloth bundled under her left arm. Her thoughts returned to the Frost Giant.

  Old tales said that the Jotun race was older than the race of Aesir Gods to which Odin and Thor belonged. Legends claimed that at the Beginning of Time, ice and fire met in the yawning Abyss of Chaos called Ginnungagap and gave rise to an Ice Giant called Ymir. The ice and fire also produced a gigantic cow named Audhumla, whose milk nourished Ymir. One day, while licking salt off an ice block, Audhumla’s tongue uncovered first the head and then the body of the God Buri and soon freed Him from the ice.

  Descendants of Buri and Ymir waged war upon each other, a war which lasted until Buri’s son Borr married a giantess named Bestla, daughter of the giant named Bolthorn, meaning the Thorn of Evil. Bestla gave birth to the Gods Odin, Vili, and Ve, who at last put an end to the war by slaying Ymir himself.

  The blood gushing from Ymir’s death wounds produced a vast flood in which all of his race perished, save for the Jotun named Bergelmir and his mate, who escaped in a boat and from whom more Frost Giants were eventually born.

  Using Ymir’s corpse, the victorious Gods then created the Earth, which they called Midgarth, the Middle Garden. Ymir’s eyebrows became Midgarth’s ramparts, his blood and sweat the surrounding ocean, his bones the mountains and hills, his flat teeth the cliffs, his curly hair the trees and vegetation, the inside of his skull the vaulted sky overhead, his brains the fleecy clouds. Or so the old tales said.

  Guthrun frowned at the memories. Old tales were one thing, a living Jotun another.

  Thinking of Huld in the Frost Giant’s clutches, she considered turning back, but then she cursed at her frustration and headed up another stairway. Huld’s best hope lay in finding a weapon with which to fight the Jotun and a means of escape for both of them. That it might not be possible to either slay him or escape also loomed in Guthrun�
�s mind, but she pushed the frightening notion aside. Such thoughts would only weaken her.

  She had been ascending through the below-ground levels of the castle until now, but finally she reached the above-ground levels. She mounted another level where she saw thick-walled windows. Snow had sifted through the tall, narrow openings onto the window ledges. She went to the nearest, leaned into the opening without touching the snowy ledge, and looked out.

  She studied the castle’s empty, snow-covered courtyard. The light outside had grown stronger as the sun rose, but the sky was heavily overcast. An iron-gray blanket of clouds kept the day as gloomy as deep twilight.

  Guthrun eyed the tall, closed gateway cut into the outer wall of the courtyard. Ice-encrusted iron spikes, angled downward to prevent their being used for climbing, covered the thick wooden gate. Similar spikes covered the courtyard’s walls. No stairways led upward along those walls, and atop them, instead of battlements, were more of the jagged iron spikes. Everything about the courtyard spoke of a desire to keep the inhabitants in, as well as invaders out.

  Bloodsong’s daughter continued to study the courtyard with impatience and frustration, seeing no way out unless she could single-handedly draw back the massive bolt that locked the gate and push open the thick, heavy door. No, it would take the muscles of a Jotun to open the gate. She could never hope to do it alone. Her only hope was to free Huld and pray that the Freya-Witch’s spell to open locks would work on the gateway as well. But to free Huld might well mean confronting the Jotun again, and if she were not careful, she could end up a prisoner herself once more.

  The cold outside air clutched at Guthrun through her thin sleeping shift. The crimson-veined black stones chilled her bare feet. She drew back from the window and wrapped the red cloth around her. It did not provide much warmth.

  Above ground, she noticed that the sounds behind the doors had grown even louder and the whispers overhead clearer, though all in a strange, guttural tongue. She half-expected whatever made the noises to emerge at any moment, and she took some comfort from holding the sword she had found. But if those who made the sounds resembled the dead thing she had earlier seen when with Huld, would an old sword have much effect? Or on the Jotun? Guthrun looked at the weapon. She shrugged. Better than nothing, she decided.