Bloodsong Hel X 3

by C. Dean Andersson

  She shrugged. “Hopefully, just to amuse himself. But—”

  “Sol.” Mani sighed heavily. “He does need our help. Please. Just one more time? You know this night is special.”

  It was the third anniversary of the death of their beloved teacher, the Hel-Witch, Thokk. The Witch’s castle, shunned by Thokk’s few surviving disciples, save Mani and Sol, was near the cave. Years before, at Hel’s direction, Thokk had taken an infant’s corpse to the castle. She had named him Lokith, used Witchcraft to grow him to young manhood, healed him, awakened him, and trained him to serve her Goddess. But both she and Lokith were killed when Lokith’s true mother, a former Hel-warrior, Bloodsong, had rescued her daughter, Guthrun, from Thokk. After the battle, Lokith’s corpse was spirited to Helheim and again given life, this time by Hel Herself. Thokk’s mutilated remains still lay upon the altar in the castle’s desecrated Chapel of Hel.

  “Lokith promised tonight would change our lives.” Mani reminded his sister. “He’s going to give us the special powers we need to avenge Thokk!”

  “We don’t know that for sure. It’s what you decided. I don’t trust his motives.”

  “Forget him, then. Thokk would be proud of us. Look at all we’ve accomplished without her help, after she died. I bet Mother Hel is proud of us, too. And what’s the alternative? Abandon everything we’ve learned since our search for magic began, after our mother was slain? It’d be crazy to throw away nine years of searching and studying and practicing. And our vows to avenge Thokk’s death? What of those? After we saw Bloodsong leaving the castle and found Thokk dead and—”

  “All right!” Sol stamped a foot.

  “We can’t break our vows of vengeance!”

  “I said, all right. Curse it all.”

  “Then you’ll do it? For me? But for yourself, too,” he quickly added.

  “Curse it all,” she repeated in a whisper, then louder, “I hope you’re right. I still think it’s a mistake.” Sol shook her head. “But let’s get it over.”

  “Yes! Thank you! I’d hug you but—”

  “It’d smear the Runes.”

  “Right.” He laughed.

  They finished consecrating their bodies with the required Runes, inscribed a Rune-circle in the dirt floor of the cave, annointed the circle with drops of their blood, and threw the proper mixtures of carefully nurtured and harvested herbs into the fire while intoning intensively rehearsed syllables to invoke Hel’s power. Then, from outside the circle they faced each other, bare feet well back from the circle’s magical boundary.

  They raised black-bladed Rune-knives.

  Sol cut Runes in the air with her blade.

  Mani cut answering Runes across the circle with his.

  She spoke three short Rune-chants.

  He answered in kind.

  Together they began moving around the circle, always staying opposite each other, cutting the air and chanting Runes over and over, concentrating their wills, their movements becoming more violent as their voices grew louder, until the air over the circle began shimmering with a purple glow.

  They stopped, waited, breathing heavily from their prolonged concentration and exertions.

  Within the purple glow a human skeleton materialized. Its bones glistened with a black, decaying ooze. A death-stench filled the air. Veins and organs and muscles appeared. Within the dripping rib cage a blood-drenched heart began to throb.

  The materialization continued until smooth, pale skin covered red, raw flesh and a tall, handsome young man not much older than Sol stood smiling at them from within the circle. Long blond hair framed his clean-shaven face. A jagged death-scar cut deeply into his neck.

  “Mani.” He nodded. He turned. Grinned. ”And Sol.”

  Sol felt a flash of anger as Lokith examined her nakedness. She resisted the urge to cover herself with her hands as she walked to the other side of the circle and stood beside her brother. She comforted herself with the knowledge that the magical barrier of the Rune-circle kept Lokith a prisoner within its confines.

  “Our Goddess is planning an attack,” Lokith said.

  “An attack?” Mani asked, surprised.

  “You both will have important parts to play. The warrior Bloodsong, her daughter Guthrun, and the Freya-Witch Huld, Thokk’s Bane, are to be captured alive and unharmed before the attack. The two of you will help me with their capture. But that is not the only surprise I have for you tonight.”

  Lokith moved to the edge of the Rune-circle. He paused a moment at the magical barrier, kept his eyes on Sol, then stepped across the boundary.

  Sol’s eyes widened with horror.

  Lokith laughed.

  Sol backed away.

  Lokith’s eyes began glowing with purple fire. His cruel smile bared sharp white teeth. He kept moving toward Sol.

  Sol’s bare back touched the cold stones of the cavern’s wall.

  Lokith’s burning gaze seared her mind, sapped her will. “You thought I could not cross the Rune-barrier, but you see now that I can. Are you pleased?”

  Mani shook off his shock. “Lord Lokith! I am pleased! So is she! We’re just—so surprised!”

  Lokith ignored him.

  “We need your help to revenge Thokk. Special powers. We’ve earned—“

  “Silence!” Lokith roared. He turned on Mani. “I care nothing about avenging Thokk. I am only sorry I did not kill her myself!”

  “What?” Mani asked. “But I thought—”

  With Lokith temporarily turned away from her, Sol struck at his back with her Rune-knife.

  Lokith turned fast as a shadow and grabbed her wrist. He squeezed.

  She cried out in pain and dropped the blade.

  At the sound of her cry, Mani rushed forward. “Let her go!” he grabbed Lokith’s arm.

  Lokith hurled Mani across the cavern.

  Mani crashed into the opposite wall and crumpled to the floor.

  “Mani!” Sol cried.

  Lokith caught Sol in his arms and drew her into a tight embrace.

  His flesh was icy against her warmth. He pulled her even tighter.

  She writhed in his grasp.

  “So passionate!” He laughed at her frantic struggles. He hissed an incantation.

  A ghostly skull wreathed in purple flames appeared around Sol’s head.

  She screamed as her nerves were seared.

  Mani heard her scream, struggled to stay conscious, tried to get to his feet, but fell back to the floor.

  The flaming skull around Sol’s head contracted as she continued to scream and writhe in Lokith’s embrace. Then the fiery skull passed beneath her skin and vanished from sight.

  Lokith spoke a Runic phrase.

  Her pain dulled to a throbbing ache.

  “You will notice that the Hel-flames did not burn your pretty face or hair,” he said to her. “Do as I command and the agony need never return. Disobey, and it shall. Disobey too long and the Hel-flames will eat away your flesh and brains from within.” He released her.

  Too weak to stand, she went to her knees and looked up at him.

  “You will better serve me, now that you must be completely obedient to my desires,” Lokith said, “all of them, my pretty Skull Slave. What a pleasant change from my corpse-whores in Helheim.”

  She sobbed brokenly.

  He turned to Mani. “And I mustn’t forget you.” He walked across the cavern. He reached Mani and hissed the Skull Slave incantation.

  A flaming skull engulfed Mani’s head. He began to scream.

  Sol saw her Rune-knife lying on the floor where she’d dropped it. She reached for it. Fiery agony exploded within her skull. Her screams joined Mani’s. Pain swept away all thoughts of reaching for the knife.

  When Mani’s suffering ended, so did hers. She saw her brother fall unconscious
, saw Lokith turn back toward her.

  “There are many ways you must serve me now, Slave. I shall begin teaching you some of those ways, tonight.”

  Sol moaned in horror.

  Lokith reached her.

  And it began.

  THE CLANGOR of steel striking steel cut through the crisp morning air. Sunlight sparkled on snow in the forest clearing and flashed on polished blades as two mailed warriors continued to battle, first one giving ground then the other, neither gaining an advantage for long. On and on they fought, sweat streaming down their faces from beneath steel battle-helms, until finally one drew back, lowered her sword, and laughed.

  Bloodsong sheathed her sword and embraced her opponent. “Excellent, Daughter! You’ve held your own against me this day!”

  Guthrun returned the hug and also laughed. “Or maybe you were holding back because it’s my birthday?”

  “No,” Bloodsong replied, taking off her battle-helm and tucking it under an arm, “I’m just getting old, like you. Fifteen!”

  “I feel older than fifteen, sometimes.” Guthrun’s expression darkened as she took off her own battle-helm and ran a gloved hand through her black hair.

  Bloodsong caught her daughter’s gaze, gripped her shoulder. “I know,” she nodded. “But this is not a day for gloom. Our friends have worked hard to prepare a birthday feast for you. We mustn’t let our memories and problems spoil it for them, or for you.”

  “I won’t,” Guthrun promised. A smile returned to her lips. “And I disagree about your getting old. You’ll never age.”

  “Then what are these silver strands doing in my black hair?” Bloodsong laughed.

  Guthrun was silent a moment, eyes flicking over her mother’s battle-scarred face, then she playfully tousled Bloodsong’s hair. “The surprise they’re planning for me is ready.”

  Bloodsong grinned. “Why did Huld try to surprise you, again? If anyone should know how hard it is to surprise a Witch, it’s another Witch.”

  Guthrun shrugged. “It’s just a game between us.”

  “But on your birthday? When you would most expect it?”

  Another shrug. “The obvious is easier to weave into a deception.”

  “Cursed Witches!” Bloodsong laughed, shaking her head. “Let’s go back, then. I’m starved!”

  * * *

  High walls made of pine-tree trunks, anchored deep in the ground, surrounded the encampment. A watchtower rose at each of the four corners of the walls, and the south wall, facing the distant edge of the forest, contained a gate that was the main entrance. Planking wide enough to walk upon around the inner sides of the wall allowed defenders to shoot arrows over the top in case of an attack. To the north of the encampment stretched a snow-covered plain. Within the protective walls were numerous dwellings, stables, shelters, storehouses, and a smithy. Several log-walled longhouses were under construction. Three had been completed. And inside the largest of the three, the final preparations for Guthrun’s birthday celebration were being rushed to a finish.

  Those who had completed their part in the preparations now sat waiting on benches that lined the walls. Upon one of the benches sat a slender woman in a yellow robe. Around’ her neck hung an amulet, once a brooch, bearing the image of the Goddess Freya. Beside her sat a red-bearded warrior, his scarred, rough-hewn face and massively muscled body a sharp contrast to her long blond hair and elfin features.

  “They make me uneasy, those two,” she told the warrior as she eyed a brother and sister who sat on the bench along the opposite wall. The sister looked up and saw her, smiled and nodded. “They are hiding secrets.”

  “Mani and Sol seem all right to me.”

  “Who’s the Witch here, Grimnir?”

  “You’re not the only one with instincts. A warrior must have them, too, or not survive for long. But why tell me about your suspicions? Tell Bloodsong.”

  “Freya’s Teats! They only arrived last night, and Bloodsong has been so busy getting ready for Guthrun’s celebration that I haven’t had a chance to speak with her. But I fully intend to catch her alone during the party and—”

  “Don’t spoil the day for her,” Grimnir warned. “Odin knows she’s had few enough times of laughter in her life.”

  “I’m not going to spoil anything. I love her, too, though not in the same way as you!” She laughed and playfully poked him in his ribs. “But you know it’s all our jobs to report anything suspicious at once, and—”

  “They’re coming!” a woman in mail shouted as she ran into the longhouse. Her large, dark eyes were filled with excitement. “Is everything ready, Valgerth?”

  “Yes, Jalna,” replied a woman with short, reddish-blond hair. “Take your place. And remember, everyone, not a sound until Guthrun enters, or you’ll spoil the surprise.”

  “As if Guthrun’s Witch-senses haven’t already given us away,” Grimnir mumbled.

  Huld frowned. “Maybe not. I tried a new spell.”

  Grimnir took a drink from a mug of ale. “I wager she knows. It’s her birthday!”

  “Maybe not,” the Freya-Witch repeated.

  The long, smoke-filled room grew quiet as they waited. Steam rose from freshly cooked food on the wooden tables. The people lining the walls all expectantly watched the closed door. Sensing the building tension, a shaggy-haired dog lying near the fireplace stopped scratching fleas and barked. Accusing eyes flashed at him from all sides. He lowered his head and did not bark again.

  The door opened and Guthrun stepped across the threshold. She jumped back slightly, surprise on her face as dozens of voices began shouting birthday wishes and crowding toward her.

  “Freya’s Teats! She knew!” Huld laughed.

  “She did?”

  “Yes, Grimnir, but she’s a good actress. Happy birthday, Guthrun!” Huld shouted, her voice lost among the others. “Goddess Freya give you joy!”

  * * *

  Atop one of the watchtowers at a corner of the north wall, a tall woman with a mane of long red hair paced restlessly back and forth, eyes narrowed in concentration as she again and again scanned the snow-covered plain beyond. She glanced around at the dark forest beyond the encampment to the south but saw nothing suspicious there, either.

  Ulfhild growled low in her throat and sniffed the air but could still find no physical cause for her growing unease, which only increased her agitation as she continued to pace, the hilt of her scabbarded sword held in a white-knuckled grip.

  The wooden ladder creaked as her relief climbed the last few rungs into the tower. The young warrior grinned at her nervously. The last thing he wanted was to anger her, or to be caught staring at her, because beneath the fur cloak Ulfhild left hanging open in disdain of the winter cold, save for a breechclout and sword belt she was naked.

  Her tanned skin rippled with muscles. Battle scars covered her hard flesh. But it was not her strength that made the young warrior and his friends uneasy around her. She was a Berserker who possessed the power to become a wolf.

  “Hurry or you’ll miss Guthrun’s feast,” the young man said, anxious for her to leave.

  “I smell ale on your breath, warrior,” she accused.

  “Only one mug.”

  “There’s danger coming. I can sense it. You’re scarcely more than a boy. I should have you replaced.”

  “My sword has tasted blood often enough,” he replied defensively, drawing himself up to his full height, which put his eyes on a level with Ulfhild’s chin.

  Ulfhild looked him up and down, then spat to one side, thinking that the only blood his sword had tasted was probably his own while sharpening the blade. “Watch carefully,” she ordered. “Sound the alarm if you see anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Of course.”

  Two hands closed like steel traps on his shoulders. He winced in pain.

  Ulfhild lowered her
face until it was nearly touching his.

  “Anything out of the ordinary,” she hissed.

  “Y-yes! Anything,” he stammered, face gone pale.

  Ulfhild released him with a growl, then turned and swiftly began descending the ladder. She dropped to the ground halfway down, landed easily with knees bent, then began striding away.

  The young warrior cursed at her beneath his breath, momentarily forgetting that her beastlike senses were many times more sensitive than his own.

  Ulfhild spun around, sword half drawn, and glared up at him to let him know she had heard the whispered curse.

  He quickly turned and began earnestly studying the open countryside.

  The Berserker allowed herself a brief smile, thinking that the young warrior would indeed watch carefully now, then a worried frown creased her forehead once more as she turned and strode toward the longhouse where Guthrun’s celebration had already begun. But the closer she drew to the longhouse, the more uneasy she became. She stopped and glanced at the south wall. In one of the south towers she saw a familiar face and decided to make a detour before going to the feast.

  The man in the tower was also a Berserker. He felt his leader’s eyes and turned to look down at her before she’d neared the base of the tower. “Hail, Ulfhild,” he said without shouting, knowing that she would hear. He raised a fist in salute. Like her, he, too, was naked, save for a breechclout and sword belt beneath his fur cloak.

  Ulfhild stopped and returned the salute. “I sense danger,” she said.

  “I sensed danger earlier,” he replied, “but no longer.”

  “Explain. “

  “After I stopped by to wish Guthrun well, I no longer felt uneasy. I decided I must have been sensing the excitement in the air, because of the celebration. They’ve fixed some blood-rare meat, especially for us Berserkers. It is delicious. Haven’t you been to the feast?”

  “I was headed there.”

  “Perhaps it will be the same for you, once you’ve been.”

  Ulfhild’s frown deepened. “Perhaps,” she replied, unconvinced. She headed back toward the longhouse.