Bloodsong Hel X 3

by C. Dean Andersson

  “And I am sorry that my husband’s spare clothing is not finer,” his wife added, eyeing the loose-fitting breeches and long-sleeved tunic of soft brown doeskin that Bloodsong now wore. “If you would but wait here a short while, I could take some tucks, make them fit you more snugly.”

  “Thank you, Agetha,” Bloodsong said, “but we are probably being followed and must keep moving. Besides,” she added as she mounted Oakstorm, “they are much finer clothes than those I wore, or rather didn’t wear, when I arrived.”

  Standing beside Bloodsong, Grimnir said, “That’s a matter of opinion.” He grinned.

  “Men would prefer us never to dress at all,” Agetha replied, giving the red-bearded warrior a scathing glance.

  Grimnir laughed. “Aye,” he agreed, “that we would.” He winked at Agetha, then jerked the bejeweled dagger he carried out of its sheath and offered it hilt first to the woodcutter. “Payment.”

  Ghunthar refused with a negative shake of his head, folding his arms on his chest.

  Grimnir threw the dagger. It thunked into the door of the woodcutter’s cottage. The two children ran to the door and examined it curiously.

  “Remove the jewels and melt the hilt down for the gold, lest you be taken for the one who killed its former owner,” Grimnir warned.

  “I do not want you or your family harmed, Ghunthar,” Bloodsong said, “We have done all we can to disguise our trail, but our tracks may still lead Kovna to your door. Best you go into the forest and watch until our pursuers, if there are any, pass by. How long that will be, I don’t know.”

  “Thor protect you,” Ghunthar said, making the Hammer-sign again.

  “And Freya give you victory,” Agetha added.

  Bloodsong raised a fist in salute, then wheeled Oakstorm around and led the way from the clearing.

  When they were out of sight of the cottage and had reached the forest trail once more, Tyrulf called a halt and dismounted. “I will ride the woodcutter’s steed,” he announced, offering his stallion’s reins to Bloodsong. “Freehoof is yours.”

  “No, Tyrulf,” Bloodsong responded.

  “Better you should escape than I, should there be a chase,” Tyrulf insisted. “Besides,” he added with a grin, glancing at Jalna, “I must do all I can to impress Jalna with my bravery and loyalty. Dismount, Bloodsong. Take the stallion Grimnir meant for you. Or do you value the woodcutter’s gift more than Grimnir’s?”

  Grimnir bellowed a laugh.

  Bloodsong hesitated, then dismounted, took Freehoof’s reins, and patted the beast’s neck. “My thanks, Tyrulf, and again to you, Grimnir.” She mounted Freehoof and set off down the trail at a canter, Grimnir beside her, Tyrulf and Jalna riding behind.

  * * *

  “The solution is simple,” Grimnir said later as they rode along. “We need an army.”

  Bloodsong shook her head. “I had a small army at Eirik’s Vale. No one would follow me now. Bands of warriors are no longer mine to lead.”

  “Yet I follow you,” Grimnir pointed out.

  “And I,” Jalna added.

  Tyrulf raised his hand. “Me, too.”

  “You are following Jalna,” Bloodsong countered.

  “Can you blame me?” He grinned at Jalna.

  Jalna rolled her eyes. “It was the Death Riders! Our warriors were well trained. We could have beaten Kovna. But those cursed dead things—”

  “Even Kovna hated them.” Tyrulf cut in. “And no love of working with Thokk. But when she approached him with her plan, he went along.”

  Bloodsong remembered the battle, her friends and comrades becoming rotted corpses before touching the ground. “I would not let an army follow me now.”

  “Not even for your daughter’s sake?” Grimnir asked.

  “I must save Guthrun, but I can risk no one but myself against Thokk.”

  Jalna barked a laugh. “Valgerth told me how you tried to get her to turn back, all the way to Nastrond, because of Nidhug’s sorcery. She did not turn back then, and I won’t now.”

  “Nor I,” Grimnir added.

  “And I’m not letting Jalna out of my sight,” Tyrulf said.

  “There were only four of you against Nidhug,” Jalna commented.

  “Four?” Tyrulf asked.

  “The Freya-Witch, Huld, was the fourth,” Jalna answered.

  “And the Goddess Hel was the fifth,” Bloodsong added. “Plus you were the sixth.”

  “You were helping from inside Nastrond?” Tyrulf asked Jalna.

  Jalna nodded. “With Hel’s help.”

  “Hel?”

  “Yes, Tyrulf. She helped me survive Nidhug’s torture and trick him. And a magic ring Hel gave Bloodsong allowed her to wield limited Witchcraft against Nidhug’s sorcery.”

  “Then we need a way to fight magic again,” Tyrulf decided.

  “Maybe the next woodcutter’s wife will be a Witch.” Grimnir laughed.

  “It would do no good if she were,” Bloodsong said, ignoring his attempt at humor. “Thokk’s magic killed a Witch in Eirik’s Vale, Gerda Snowmeadow, who tried to disperse the clouds before the attack. And the most powerful Freya-Witch I knew was Norda Greycloak, who obviously could not protect my daughter against Thokk. Even if Huld were here, I am sure she could do little to aid us, though she would try to the death. Thokk’s power has evidently grown since I returned the War Skull to Hel, The powers of the Goddess that helped me defeat Nidhug are now arrayed against me.”

  “Then what we need,” Jalna responded, “is the aid of a God or Goddess, powers as strong or stronger than those Hel has given Thokk.”

  “An excellent suggestion, Jalna,” Bloodsong answered, “but I know of nothing to give me hope of obtaining such aid. Prayers in sacred groves might strengthen our resolve, if it needed strengthening, but that is hardly enough to—”

  “The army about which I spoke has Odin’s magic in them,” Grimnir interrupted. “We may not be able to obtain a God’s or Goddess’s help directly, but indirectly is another matter.”

  “All warriors who hope to see Valhalla after death have Odin’s magic in them,” Tyrulf said, “sort of, I guess, or Freya’s, if they prefer Folkvang.”

  “Yes,” Grimnir agreed, “but these are not ordinary warriors, Tyrulf. I am talking about an army of true Berserkers. Shapeshifters.”

  No one spoke.

  “I’m not lying,” Grimnir growled.

  “I once saw a Berserker imbued with Odin’s blood-fury kill several men after he himself should have been dead from his wounds,” Tyrulf said, “and he was not a shape-shifter. Berserkers of any kind are deadly enemies but also powerful allies.”

  “Is it possible that a Berserker might be able to slay a Death Rider even after being death-touched?” Jalna wondered.

  “I do not know,” Grimnir answered.

  “An army of shape-shifting Berserkers, Grimnir?” Tyrulf asked. “Not even in the old tales have I heard of such a thing. I’m not saying you are lying,” he quickly added, “only that I’ve never before heard of this army. How is it that you—”

  “What I said before still stands,” Bloodsong cut in. “I won’t ask anyone, not even a Berserker, shape-shifter or not, to fight against Thokk’s magic and the Death Riders.”

  “Then I will ask them,” Grimnir said. “They owe me a favor or two.”

  “What dealings have you had with shape-shifters?” Jalna asked. She had been intrigued by the red-bearded warrior ever since he’d first wandered into Eirik’s Vale during a blizzard and gained an invitation to Bloodsong’s bed before the spring thaw. No man had done that since the death of Bloodsong’s husband many years before. But Grimnir never stayed long during the warm months of the year, sometimes did not even return during the winter. If Bloodsong knew what he did during his absences, she had never told anyone, not even her own daughter, whom
Jalna had tactfully questioned upon the subject one time.

  “But if the Berserkers are going to fight for your purposes, Bloodsong,” Grimnir continued, ignoring Jalna’s question, “they will have to be assured of your worthiness. And they won’t approve of your having worked for one of Odin’s enemies in returning the War Skull to Hel. You may not survive their test.”

  Bloodsong looked thoughtfully at Grimnir. “Did you survive it Grimnir?”

  Grimnir slowly nodded. “Yes, but only barely,” he answered, his eyes haunted by the memory, “and I had not aided Hel. They may make your ordeal even more severe. Perhaps I should not have mentioned this at all,” he went on. “If something should happen to you, if you should die because of my mentioning the Berserkers—”

  “I am sure I could survive their test,” Bloodsong said, “if I agreed to ask for their help. For Guthrun’s sake I would have to survive it. But I have not agreed to ask for their aid.”

  “You won’t have to ask them,” Grimnir replied. “I told you. I will.”

  “Nor will I allow you to ask them for me.”

  “You won’t allow me? Curse it, woman! I have vowed to help free Guthrun and take revenge on the destroyers of Eirik’s Vale. Do you think I make oaths lightly? I will do whatever I have to do, whether you want me to or not, to fulfill my vow, and I have decided that only with the Berserkers aid can I—”

  “And I have decided that—” Bloodsong began, then stopped. “Listen to us, arguing. If Kovna doesn’t catch us or Thokk’s sorcery slay us, we’ll argue each other to death.”

  Grimnir grinned. “It’s settled, then. We’ll seek the Berserkers’ help.”

  “I have not agreed! But I will think about it,” Bloodsong promised, and started doing just that.

  THE SUN STOOD at mid-day when Bloodsong and her companions emerged from the forest. The road stretched away across a rolling grassland. Lost in thought, Bloodsong had said nothing since mid-morning.

  “Here,” Grimnir said, offering Bloodsong some bread and cheese the woodcutter’s wife had given them. “You must be starved after all the thinking you’ve been doing.”

  Bloodsong took the food. “I haven’t given up thinking of another way.”

  “Of course not,” Grimnir replied, and bit into a thick hunk of yellow cheese, then winked at her as he chewed.

  Bloodsong finished the bread and cheese, accepted a water skin Grimnir passed to her, drank long and deep, and passed it back to him. She ran a hand through her long black hair, grimaced slightly as her shoulder muscles, strained by her bondage to the tree, ached with her movements.·

  She smoothed her hair behind her shoulders, took a thong from her saddle, used it to tie the raven tresses back out of her way. I should simply take my sword and hack my hair off short, she told herself. I’ve been meaning to for years, and this might be a good time. She’d worn her hair short when she’d been an arena warrior in Nidhug’s slave pens, but after her escape she’d let it grow, at first hoping to disguise herself, later because Eirik had preferred it that way. Would Grimnir mind it short? she wondered, then cursed herself for such trivial concerns. All that mattered was finding a way to free Guthrun.

  “How long will it take to reach the Berserkers?” she asked.

  “Less than a week.”

  “And double that to return with them,” she noted, “if they agree to help, which means leaving Guthrun in that Hel-Witch’s castle for nearly two weeks or more. It’s unacceptable. There must be a quicker way.”

  “If you attack unprepared,” Grimnir said, “your death would leave Guthrun without any hope of help.”

  Bloodsong cursed with frustration.

  “I have thought of something that might be helpful,” Tyrulf suddenly said from behind, “and it is only a three-day ride to the west, if the story I once heard is true. I’ve not been there myself, only heard a warrior talk of it. He claimed that he was born near there.”

  “Tell us,” Bloodsong replied.

  “There is a large earthen mound at the foot of a mountain. Both mound and mountain are said to be places of magic. The people who live nearby don’t go there except to worship and never speak of the place to outsiders.”

  “Then why did that warrior tell you?” Jalna asked skeptically.

  “You still think I might be plotting a trap?” Tyrulf replied, watching Jalna’s eyes.

  She looked away and shrugged.

  “Please continue, Tyrulf,” Bloodsong said.

  “The man who told me was drunk,” Tyrulf said to Jalna, ignoring Bloodsong. “He would not have told me otherwise.”

  Jalna shrugged again but did not look back at him.

  “Hodur’s Eyes,” Tyrulf cursed. “I was told that the mound is charged with Freya’s magic, and the mountain with Thor’s. At the summit of Thor’s Mountain is said to live the Keeper of the Lightning’s Blood, and within Freya’s Mound is buried a golden nugget, a tear from Freya’s eyes that turned to gold upon touching the Earth.”

  “I have seen the Berserkers with my own eyes, talked with them, lived with them,” Grimnir pointed out. “We would be fools to put all our trust in a drunken warrior’s story.”

  “We might also be fools to place all our hope in the Berserkers,” Tyrulf answered.

  “Is there any reason why all four of us need seek the Berserkers?” Bloodsong asked Grimnir.

  “None,” he replied. “Should they decide to help us, it will be only because of you and your surviving their test.”

  “I won’t leave you, Bloodsong,” Jalna insisted.

  “According to the tale I was told,” Tyrulf said, “men are not able to approach Freya’s Mound. Only a female can obtain whatever magic is there.”

  “He could just be making that up!” Jalna exclaimed. “He could be lying, inventing the whole tale, to split us up.”

  Tyrulf shook his head. “Curse it, Jalna. I deserted Kovna’s army, killed men I’d known for years, risked my life to save Bloodsong, am willing to do so again, and to fight by your side to the death. W4y must you persist in mistrusting me, in fearing me?”

  “I do not fear you.”

  “Jalna,” Bloodsong said, reining to a stop and turning Freehoof to face the young warrior, “if there’s a chance of finding something to the west to help free Guthrun—”

  “I will of course go,” Jalna quickly said, holding Bloodsong’s gaze, “for you and for Guthrun.”

  Bloodsong gripped Jalna’s shoulder. “I trust Tyrulf. Perhaps you will learn to do so, too.”

  “Freya has cursed me with feelings for you, woman,” Tyrulf told Jalna. “The Gods know such things do not always make sense.”

  “I have no feelings for you.”

  “Of course not.” Grimnir chuckled. “That is why you pretend to dislike him.”

  “I have not said I disliked him,” Jalna snapped at Grimnir.

  “Jalna’s feelings or lack of them are her affair, Grimnir,” Tyrulf growled.

  Grimnir looked from Tyrulf to Jalna and started to reply then thought better of it.

  Bloodsong turned Freehoof and headed down the road again.

  “Take the fork to the right at the next crossroad,” Grimnir said to Bloodsong a short time later. “Then, when we reach Sword River, those two can cross it and head west to their goal while we follow the river road southward to the coast.”

  “Coast?”

  “The Berserkers live on an island.”

  “Do you know how to handle a boat?”

  “We’ll be using a longship. And, yes, of course. Don’t you?”

  “I never had to learn.”

  “Have you ever even seen the sea?”

  Bloodsong shook her head negatively.

  Grimnir reached over and clasped Bloodsong’s hand. “We’ll free her,” he promised. “I have never broken a vow. And Guthrun i
s a strong young woman. She has a warrior’s soul, like her mother. That Hel-Witch is the one who should beware.”

  Bloodsong glanced into his eyes and saw concern for her there. “I will be all right, Grimnir,” she assured him. “It’s just that there’s this need in me to do something more, to do something quicker, now, not weeks from now.”

  “We’ll free her,” he promised again.

  Bloodsong nodded, watching the road ahead, fighting to stay calm and to keep her thoughts clear in spite of the impatience churning within her.

  * * *

  Huld heard heavy footsteps growing louder, felt the air growing colder, fought her chains, panic rising within her as she remembered Thokk’s suggestion that the Jotun might come to torture her.

  A key clicked in the lock. The door opened. Torchlight streamed into the chamber. A blast of freezing air lashed her bare skin.

  Huld drew a sharp breath. She shivered.

  The Jotun stood in the doorway, torch in hand, staring at her, smiling. He entered, put the torch in a wall bracket.

  Huld saw a bundle of objects under his left arm. He dropped the bundle on the floor at her feet. Metal and leather gleamed in the torchlight. Her eyes widened at the sight of the knives, spikes, clamps, and whips. Her thoughts raced as she tried desperately to think of some way to avoid what was about to happen to her. “Thokk said the one who died was your friend. I did not kill him.”

  “It does not matter.” He walked back and looked down at her from his giant’s height. “You are responsible.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is to me.”

  “If Thokk had not brought me here and told your friend to do what he was doing, he would still be alive.”

  Vafthrudnir reached selected a whip from the pile. The end of the tough leather strap had three ugly iron barbs attached. “Thokk used this very whip on me. So! I know exactly how much damage it can do, how much pain it can give.”