Bloodsong Hel X 3

by C. Dean Andersson

  “Yngvar and I are going to protect the supply horses and guard Lokith while the rest of you fight Hel,” Thora broke in. “That’s what we have decided, or rather what Mother and Father said we must do. I think I could do more good with a sword by my mother’s side, but—”

  “We discussed sending the children back, Freyadis,” Valgerth said, “when we met the others from the encampment. But you can see that they came with us, and now that we are nearly to our goal, there will be no turning back for me or any of my family.”

  “Aye, Bloodsong,” Thorfinn agreed. “If not for our helping you return the War Skull to Hel and the subsequent breaking of Nidhug’s sorcery, Val would never have been able to have had children at all. We cannot run away from our responsibility to help fight this battle, any more than you can. I believe it is our Orlog, too, and that of our children, born from your victory over Nidhug.”

  “Perhaps it’s the Orlog of us all to fight Hel,” Ulfhild broke in. “We may all have had ancestors in that ancient battle.

  “Ulfhild could be right, Bloodsong,” Huld said. “Looked at a certain way, your very name and our battle cry proclaims it. Orlog sings in the blood, passed down through our ancestors and stretching back to Time’s Dawning. And finding and following our Orlog, learning to sing the song of the blood, no matter how unpleasant that song may at times seem, can sometimes free the mind and soul and flesh.”

  “Blood-song and freedom, indeed!” Ulfhild laughed.

  “But regardless of whether or not all that is true,” said Jalna, “we waited for more than two years in the encampment for Hel and Lokith to attack, waited to turn them back with our lives if need be. And just because the enemy is now running away, my sword will cut their backsides as easily as their bellies.”

  “None of us are turning back, Bloodsong,” Huld told her.

  “I’m not surprised,” Bloodsong replied, “and I thank you for it, just as I thanked you when you helped me fight Nidhug and later Thokk. You didn’t listen to reason then, and I did not expect you to listen to reason now.”

  “Blame yourself.” Jalna grinned. “We follow your example.”

  “Good point, Jalna,” Huld agreed.

  Bloodsong shook her head. “I still want you to pass the word to the other riders. Any who wish to turn back may do so. I will pass the word to the beasts, myself.”

  On through the night rode Bloodsong’s army of humans and beasts, and as Huld had predicted, not a single one turned back.

  IN THE DISTANCE ahead, in the predawn light Bloodsong and her army were now close enough to see their enemy. A death-stench tainted the frigid air.

  “They have stopped and turned to face us,” Huld said.

  “Aye.” Bloodsong raised a fist. “Hold here!” she shouted, just as behind her, to her right, spears of crimson-gold light suddenly jabbed above the horizon.

  “Sunna has risen.” Guthrun pointed.

  “The Yellow Sow still burns,” Huld added reverently, using a popular kenning for sunrise. “But this far north, I fear Sunna’s Heart will hold little warmth for us today. And those cursed Hel-clouds will soon rob us even of that.”

  As predicted, a moment later the black clouds of the Hel-march lowered to block the struggling rays of the newly risen Sun. The frozen landscape was cast into a twilight gloom punctuated by the funereal purple glow of the pulsing War Skull of Hel.

  The massive, towering crystalline Skull $loomed in the midst of Hel’s forces, held above the ice and snow by swirling masses of Hel’s shadow-winds. Flashing blue energy discharges snaked over its surface at random intervals. Its deep, thundering, throbbing moan punished eardrums and intimidated souls.

  Bloodsong noted that the Skull’s size, though much larger than it had been in Nidhug’s cavern, was still a great deal smaller than she’d seen in her ancient visions within Frigga’s Crag, evidence that although Hel had regained some of Her old power when Bloodsong returned the Skull, She was still less powerful than when Odin had stolen the Skull from Her.

  “Is there anything else you would tell us before the battle starts, Huld?” Bloodsong asked Freya’s High Priestess. “Or you, Daughter?” she asked Guthrun.

  “I have no more advice or information than we’ve already discussed,” Huld replied.

  “Nor I,” Guthrun added.

  Jalna looked at the terrifying forces of Hel and said, “Curse it all, then! Let’s finish it!”

  “Aye,” agreed Tyrulf, “finish it! So that you can get back to thinking about important things.” He winked at Jalna.

  She frowned at him. “What’s more important than—” she stopped herself. “That was a joke.”

  “No,” he solemnly shook his head.

  “And so was that, yes?”

  “Yes.” He smiled.

  “And what, exactly, would you consider more important than an epic battle to save the world from the forces of Hel?”

  He winked at her again.

  She laughed. “That’s all you ever think about.”

  “Since the first time I saw you.”

  She shook her head, then shrugged her shoulders, grinned, and winked back. “Don’t let any of them kill you, please,” she said, motioning at the Hel-army. “I’d miss your jokes.”

  Tyrulf roared a laugh.

  One of the other warriors from the encampment had not heard the exchange but did hear the laugh. She drew her sword, pointed it at Hel’s waiting forces, and also roared a laugh. Another warrior followed her lead, then another and another, until all were pointing and laughing at the massed forces of Hel.

  “Look what you started!” Jalna shouted at Tyrulf, struggling to be heard over the laughter.

  “What we started, you mean!” he shouted back.

  Bloodsong smiled. “Right now, laughing at Hel is the right thing to do. Let’s have the last laugh this time, instead of Hel’s having it.”

  “Aye,” agreed Guthrun. “Nothing could better show who fights Hel this day. Laughter is a trait of the Living that the Dead do not share.”

  “Laughter is powerful Life-Magic.” Huld nodded her head. She pointed at the waiting Hel-army with her Runestaff. “They make not a sound.”

  In the forefront, ranks of Death Riders waited to meet Bloodsong’s attack. Purple Hel-fire blazed in the sockets of their skulls. Behind them were massed Hel-warriors. Behind the Hel-warriors, near the War Skull, less human warriors coiled, scuttled, and flitted like decaying shadows.

  Of Hel Herself, there was no sign.

  “I still can’t find anything of value for us in Lokith’s mind,” Guthrun told Bloodsong. “He’s empty of thoughts. I don’t understand. It’s as if he were truly dead.”

  “And are you still feeling well, Daughter?” Bloodsong asked with concern.

  “Yes, Mother. I don’t see Hel among Her army. Perhaps She’s fled back to Helheim ahead of them, leaving them to protect Her retreat. The way I’m feeling says that She has. If She were near, surely the pull on my soul would be horribly strong by now.”

  “I agree,” Huld said. “I don’t sense Her presence.”

  “But She could just be waiting for us to attack,” Bloodsong said. “After we do, She might reappear. She did not take the War Skull with Her.”

  Ulfhild, still in human form, growled with impatience for the battle to begin. “Hel or no Hel, there’s nothing we can do now but attack!”

  Bloodsong smiled grimly. “Aye, Ulfhild. You are right. It is time to begin. I will transform and lead the Werebeasts. If we can get to the War Skull and destroy it quickly enough, Hel’s power will be broken, and She won’t be able to appear and attack us, if those are Her plans.”

  Bloodsong dismounted, went first to Valgerth, then to Jalna, Thorfinn, and Tyrulf, gripping their hands, wishing them victory. Then she looked up at Guthrun.

  Guthrun jumped to the ground and e
mbraced her mother.

  “When we have finished here today, Daughter,” she said, “perhaps you will be free of the Hel-magic in your soul. Odin and Freya give you victory,” she whispered as she held Guthrun tightly, then quickly kissed her, turned, and, without a backward glance, hurried to where Veinslicer stood waiting near the front of the Werebeast army. Hail the Horde! Bloodsong said to the beasts, raising a fist in salute.

  Bloodsong and freedom! Came back their massed thoughts.

  “Odin and Freya give you victory, too, Mother,” Guthrun said, wiping at tears as she watched Bloodsong, “and grant that we both live to share other embraces after today.”

  Ulfhild heard, gripped Guthrun’s shoulder reassuringly, then followed Bloodsong.

  Bloodsong stripped off her clothing and transformed to her beastform. Beside her, Ulfhild shape-shifted into her beastform, too. The few other surviving Berserkers from the encampment, following Ulfhild, were already in their beastforms, the women in powerful wolf-forms like Ulfhild, the men wearing the forms of massive, hulking bears.

  When Bloodsong and Ulfhild were ready, Bloodsong looked back once more at the assembled army of beasts and humans, turned back to face the army of Hel, and then, with a howl of battle lust, began to run straight at the ranks of waiting Death Riders, Ulfhild on one side, Veinslicer on the other, dozens of howling, black-furred Werebeasts and Berserkers in beastform following closely behind.

  The warriors from the encampment did not follow. Until a path through the Death Riders was cleared, they who were unprotected from the death-touch could but impatiently wait and watch.

  Guthrun, and now Huld, too, had magic to protect them from the death-touch, but were waiting along with the warriors, conserving their magical energies to better wield their Witchcraft when the time came to attempt the War Skull’s destruction.

  The Death Riders silently kicked their skeletal steeds into a gallop upon the moaning shadow-winds of HeI.

  The slaughter began.

  Howls of agony and the high, keening screams of Death Riders soon became mixed with the Werebeasts’ and Berserkers’ howls of battle-lust.

  Bloodsong leapt high, twisted in midair to avoid the slicing cut of a Death Rider’s black sword, fastened her stiletto fangs in his withered throat, and slashed with her claws as she pulled him to the ground.

  Nearby, Ulfhild did much the same, her eyes blazing with Berserker fury, taking minor wounds without flinching as she slashed and tore and howled with battle-joy.

  Veinslicer fought near Bloodsong, destroying Death Riders with the ingrained battle-skill of her kind. Then, lost in his blood-fury, Fleshripper made the mistake of taking on two Death Riders at once, and although neither corpse-warrior survived the encounter, neither did Fleshripper, who died atop their maggot-oozing armor with a black bladed sword through his heart.

  On and on through the ranks of Death Riders the Werebeasts advanced by fang and claw, smashing and rending and howling while the Death Riders fought silently from atop their Hel-horses.

  As the human warriors from the encampment awaited a pathway to the Hel-warriors, many wondered if among the ranks of black-clad warriors they would find old comrades who had died Hel-praying.

  Far behind the waiting warriors, Thora and Yngvar sat atop their mounts near the supply horses, Thora holding a sword, Yngvar clutching a long-bladed knife.

  Lokith remained bound to a tethered horse nearby, still under Guthrun’s and Huld’s spells of unconsciousness.

  Jalna had asked Bloodsong for permission to execute Lokith, but Guthrun had insisted that she’d asked first. Bloodsong had made it clear, however, that hers was the first right to his death, but that with him now a mindless, empty shell, slowly dying from weakness and blood-hunger, she had no desire to end his suffering too quickly. But as Bloodsong led the battle deeper and deeper into the ranks of Death Riders, and while Thora’s and Yngvar’s attention was riveted on the battle, Lokith’s eyes suddenly opened and began to burn with steadily brightening Hel-fire. And then, one by one, the ropes that bound him to the horse fell away.

  Two Death Riders came at Bloodsong together, their black swords arcing downward on either side. Bloodsong leapt high. The blades clanged together where she’d just been, purple sparks flying. At the highest point of her leap she reached out with her razor claws and tore through both their throats. Howling a victory cry, she landed in a crouch and leapt forward to attack another.

  Woundeater tore through a Death Rider’s throat, clung to the back of the rearing Hel-horse for a moment, then leapt from it to another, repeated his death-bite, and leapt to a third horse, soon sending that horse’s skeletal rider also writhing and disintegrating to the ground.

  Razorclaw ripped through a Hel-horse’s legs, leaped on the un-horsed Death Rider as she toppled from her saddle, and tore out her throat.

  On and on Bloodsong and Ulfhild and the Werebeasts and Berserkers fought, and then suddenly they broke through the Death Riders ranks!

  As planned, half remained behind to slay more corpse-warriors and keep open a path for the warriors from the encampment as Bloodsong led the other half toward the waiting Hel-warriors and the War Skull beyond.

  The Hel-warriors were even less able to stop the Werebeasts and Berserkers than the Death Riders.

  A way through the Death Riders to the Hel-warriors now clear, the warriors from the encampment kicked their horses into a gallop. Valgerth, Thorfinn, Jalna, and Tyrulf were in the lead shouting “Bloodsong and freedom!” to the boiling black skies. Guthrun and Huld followed close behind, Guthrun with drawn sword, Huld with her Rune-staff, the brass knob of which was already glowing with a charge of Freya-magic.

  The Hel-warriors gave way before the ravening Werebeasts and Berserkers. Bloodsong broke through to the inhuman things that were the War Skull’s last defense.

  A thick-bodied, coiling thing with a vaguely human face struck at her with venom-dripping fangs. She threw herself to one side and evaded the creature’s death-bite, then fastened her fangs upon its outstretched neck before it could pull back for a second strike. It thrashed and writhed as her fangs sank deeply into its icy, bitter-tasting flesh, but no matter how it struggled, it could not dislodge her as she held on with powerful jaws, her claws ripping away long strips of its flesh, digging deeper and deeper through veins spurting brown blood-slime onto her fur, until at last its struggles ceased and it lay still.

  Nearby, Ulfhild was struggled with a horse-size, scuttling thing, its body a scorpion’s, it’s whipping arms the tentacles of a sea beast.

  Veinslicer confronted a flitting black shadow with burning red eyes. She howled in pain as its shadow-blade sliced at her right leg. The leg was suddenly all but numb. She backed away, confused by the thing’s wavering, decaying, insubstantial darkness, then suddenly remembered hearing mention of such a creature and how to fight it before her other battle with Hel. She leapt high, twisted in midair, came down behind the shadow-thing, and struck at its back. It screamed in agony as her fangs sank deep and her ripping claws tore through the nerve cords to its brain. Like swirling smoke, the thing vanished. Veinslicer howled her victory cry and, limping on her numbed leg, attacked a monstrous dog-thing from whose befanged, drooling mouth came hollow human laughter.

  Screaming her battle cry, Jalna reached the ranks of Hel-warriors. Controlling and guiding her war-stallion with her knees, she blocked a cut with her shield, parried a blow with her sword, used her shield to push aside the warrior’s blade, and sliced into his exposed throat just above his black mail.

  Hot blood spurted into her face. She quickly wiped at her eyes and twisted in her saddle just in time to block another cut.

  Beside Jalna, Tyrulf killed a Hel-warrior, then another, received a cut on his thigh but ignored the minor wound as he parried, blocked, feinted, and struck another mortal blow.

  Valgerth and Thorfinn, side by side, killed with p
racticed skill and experience, seeing and sensing dangers in time to counter them, using warrior tricks Valgerth had learned as an arena warrior in Nastrond.

  Seeing that she had no sword, a Hel-warrior made the mistake of attacking Huld. A yellow-gold fire-beam from her Runestaff sent him blazing and screaming to the snow.

  Conserving her magical energies, Guthrun fought with sword and shield, often finding herself hard-pressed by the greater strength of the Hel-warriors but winning victories time and again by using all the swift and deadly skills and tricks her mother had taught her.

  Near Thora and Yngvar, Lokith slipped to the ground from the back of the horse to which he had been tied. Purple Hel-fire blazed in his eyes. A grin twisted his lips.

  Thora heard a movement behind and jerked her head around.

  Stunned with surprise to see Lokith free, an instant later she reined her horse around to attack Lokith.

  Yngvar saw, resisted an instinct to run, cursed down his fear, and hurled his knife.

  The long-bladed knife struck Lokith in the arm, but he ignored it as if it were not there.

  Thora reached Lokith and from atop her horse cut at him with her sword.

  He did not attempt to avoid the blade. It sliced deep into his neck. A deep wound gaped, but no blood sprayed forth. Instead, through the widely gaping wound his body appeared to have become an empty shell filled with purple light and swirling black shadows.

  Lokith gestured with one hand.

  An unseen force threw Thora from her horse and onto the snow then held her there.

  Lokith reached down and took her sword from her paralyzed fingers, placed the point against her throat.