The Queen of the Draugr: Stories of the Nine Worlds (Thief of Midgard - a dark fantasy action adventure Book 2)

by Alaric Longward

  They got up, and Shaduril pulled me around, trembling. She opened her mouth, but went quiet, shaking her head forlornly. “What?” I asked her.

  “It was nothing,” she said. “I worry, that is all. I always worry.” She gave my arm a painful squeeze and dragged me along. She pushed past the waitress, who set to cleaning the table, and spoke almost tiredly, “I’m happy you chose this course of action on your own. Saved me the trouble.”

  ***

  The man passed the room. He disappeared from sight, as Balissa and I stood on a balcony with our draugr friends. Flight was a miraculous skill, but we still had to get in, and the mansion was well guarded. We were swathed in dark robes, armored under, and we sneaked glances inside. Sand and Shaduril were excited, their movements fast and inhuman as they waited impatiently.

  They enjoyed the thrill of the coming kill.

  The guard passed, apparently in argument with himself.

  I nodded at the others, and pushed at the door.

  Locked.

  I growled softly, and pushed harder. The door creaked open.

  Loudly.

  I dodged back out of sight, and we waited, holding our breaths. A shadow flickered in the light from the corridor beyond the room, as the guard’s frame blocked it. There was silence, muttered curses, and then soft steps, as the man approached the open balcony door. He did so with little care for silence or subtlety, and probably thought the door had been left unlocked, and regretted having to alter the rhythm of his dull march up and down the corridor. He reached the door, his bearded face poking out for a sniff of night air. He turned his head, and met Sand’s eyes in the night. He squinted, stammered, and died.

  A sword visited his skull, and Balissa grasped the weapon from his nerveless hands. She took his weight as he fell, and tossed the armored corpse with a savage grunt. The body disappeared into the shrubs and rocks, hitting the bottom to the delight of nocturnal beasts.

  I stepped in, and went forward. The room was richly furnished, a master bedroom with a golden brown, thick carpet, and littered with long desks, chairs and couches. It was comfortable, possibly a room of a man, since there were armor and weapons scattered around some of the desks, many so heavy Hilan could never use them.

  It also became clear the guard had not been talking to himself.

  A man sat up in a chair.

  He was handsome, even when astonished. He was a guard, who was slacking off in his duty, and had allowed himself to enjoy the comfort of the well-stuffed chair. He had been half napping.

  “Who in the name of the gods are you? Ran? Is it you?” he stammered, still trying to fathom if it was his friend standing before him, after all, and got to his feet.

  I moved.

  My hand went around his throat, and all the noise that came out were but sad wheezes as the man’s fist pummeled my face. I growled away the stab of pain, and squeezed with my jotun’s strength. The neck snapped, and the man pissed himself as he died in my hand. I swallowed away the guilt, and pushed the conflicting emotions of shame and relief away. I walked to the doorway, as my friends followed me silently. I poked my head out of the room, and below on the bottom floor, I saw my target.

  Hilan sat on a delicate chair before a fireplace. Her face was pale, serious, and her hands clutched the armrests ferociously, nervously, as if she was trying to rub her sweaty palms to the wood. She was breathing harshly, and I swore I could hear her sobbing. Around her, stood ten guards in plate and chain, shields held loosely. Two men, one pale, thin and unassuming, the other one large and hulking, with a face as if carved from a bit of red rock, stared at a figure in a robe. Sand was frowning over my shoulder, but Shaduril pulled him back to the shadow.

  Balissa leaned close. “What’s going on?” she whispered so softly I could barely hear her. And yet, it seemed too loud.

  The figures below were apparently not saying anything. If the robed one was speaking, then it was doing so very quietly. The hands were gloved in heavy leathers, dusty, as if filthy from a trip, and the dark robe was glittering with specks of dirt.

  Hilan nodded, and got up. She took reluctant steps forward and bowed. She bowed deep, went to her knees, and kissed the figure’s robe hem.

  “What in the name of rotten eggs of the red rooster…” Balissa was whispering. “Regent of the city bowing to someone? Baduhanna?”

  “Too tall,” I whispered back. The figure in dark raised her up to her feet, and handed Hilan a thick, sealed scroll, which she took gingerly. The robed one moved to the side, and pushed at a book. There was a hissing noise, and then a yawning doorway in the wall next to the case, and she vanished into the blackness. Hilan turned, handed the scroll to the thin man, embraced the two I thought were the younger Helstroms, and turned to walk to the darkness.

  She vanished.

  The men spoke softly, and the thinner one nodded up the stairs. The guards led the way, and they walked on. The tall one was opening up a leather tube with strings, speaking urgently. “I’ll send it with Kita. She’s fast and strong, and can pass the Blight fast. She has been trained to take the Grimwing Pass.”

  “I wish,” the thinner one said pettily, “that mother would tell me more. I know she is defender of Dagnar now, but you are not telling me much. Who was that she met?”

  The large man laughed brutally. “You just keep trying to please mother, Ikar. She’ll give you something important to do. Trust her. She is doing all she can for Dagnar. And now, we have to get this message going.”

  “Yes, brother,” Ikar said as he followed him. “I’m sure she’ll share her plans with me one day, but it is hard to be patient.”

  “Try.”

  Message. They were sending a message over the mountains. East? North?”

  Shaduril pulled me. “I can find them in the dark. Wherever the Regent and that figure are going, I can track them, and find them. You go and get that message. Take Sand and Balissa, and then come after me. Do not fail. I think it’s really important.”

  I hesitated again, clutched my sword, and nodded. She wavered, shook her head, and leaned to kiss me. It was a cold, unsettling kiss, and though she was dead, there was emotion and passion in it. She pulled away, and I shook my head clear as she faded from sight down the corridor, her magical earring twinkling.

  The men were climbing stairs across from us now, and then took another stairway leading to the top. We snuck after them, flitted in the shadows, and Sand was almost unseen, as he slithered along the walls and ceiling, his death born affinity with assassination and stealth magic apparent. He made his way after the enemy, all of whom were now climbing a ladder. They were grunting with the effort, the wood was creaking, and one by one they receded from view upstairs, where they likely held birds to carry such messages.

  Balissa shook her head. “We must hurry.”

  I agreed, as we reached the ladder. Sand and Balissa looked at me, and I said nothing. I smiled at them thankfully, and rushed up the ladder. On top, men were turning. The large son of Hilan was there, ax in his hand, his men behind their shields, their eyes glinting. I hesitated, trying to find the youngest son of my nemesis, but then, I head Balissa yell, “Ware!”

  There was a sharp, thrumming sound.

  Then there was a scream of horrible pain, the sound of rending plate, and Balissa rammed into me, and then fell down. Her face was distorted from pain; she was clutching at a ballista bolt’s head that peeked from her belly armor. The spear was six feet tall, and had ripped through her back, and that ballista had been reserved for me, I thought. I dodged and fell down, as arrows fell around us, one striking my pauldron with a sharp rattle.

  I saw a mass of men in the roof, lifting bows, reloading the ballista, and then Sand’s spell of dark enveloped them, and left them screaming.

  “His head, take it!” yelled the burly Helstrom. “Do not fear the cretin!”

  They charged me. All ten rushed, and the son of Hilan led them.

  Sand was fighting amidst the archers, slaying ef
ficiently, and relishing each kill by the hissing sound of his voice.

  I charged the enemy head on. The two-hander sang in the air as the blade swiped through shield, armor, meat, and bone, slaying many. Strikes rang against my armor, but I grew to twelve feet, my sword grew with me, and again, the blade came down. I roared my anger at the tiny men, splitting the living into many pieces of dying and dead, and kicked at men’s broken corpses so hard they flew out to the city. Some archers had fled Sand, who chased them, appearing in their midst, his sword ripping open guts and throats with cruelly aimed stabs. He jumped on a fleeing youngster, landed on his back, pulled the boy’s head so his throat was exposed and then sawed the blade across the flesh, his fingers in the wound. The draugr enjoyed the gruesome twitching of his pray.

  I chased the shield bearing Helstrom soldiers. I saw the leader, backing off grimly, and yelled at him. “Your house and mine, Helstrom, we have a feud,” I said, as I rammed the huge sword into a guard man’s belly, ripping him in two.

  “Your feud,” the Helstrom sneered, “is soon over. As is the life in this stinking city.”

  I saw movement.

  The youngest boy of Hilan released a white bird. It was huge, and it took to the air, trailing a long tube. The boy ran, jumping down into the pit we had emerged from, yelling in pain, but the burly son of Helstrom charged me. His axe came at me, and I parried with ease, laughing at him cruelly, as I slapped his blade away. The man came back with a dagger, charging low and drew blood from my knee, and I pushed him back powerfully. The man flew several feet and tried to grasp as spear as he struggled to get up.

  I braided together a spell of ice. I added mists of Gjöll, cold of the frigid river, and freezing winds of the Filing Void subtly to the spell, braided it all just right, as the Black Grip instructed me, and let go with the spell.

  The man’s face went lax.

  Red ice poured out of his mouth, his ears, and then, his eyes, as he fell apart on the roof. I rushed to Balissa’s side, and she was gasping in terrible pain. She grasped me. “I’ll go and get Baduhanna. She can heal me. I’ll tell her the Regent is scheming with the enemy. That agent of the foe must be stopped, but we have to get that message. Shaduril is right. There is something important in it. Ymir’s frosty ass, this hurts!” She was breathing harshly.

  “You are—”

  “Badly hurt,” she agreed thickly. “Let Shaduril deal with Hilan. Go and get the scroll.”

  I hesitated as Balissa changed. She turned into bleeding six-foot lizard and slithered for the roof’s edge, unsteady and horribly hurt. The ballista bolt fell away as she moved. I looked down at the trap door, and then to the sky and Sand appeared, bloody head to toe. He shrugged and nodded to the bird, a spec now, flying east. “Take after it. And take me with you.”

  I sighed, prayed Balissa would survive, and that Shaduril would not be in too much of a danger, and changed into a dark, huge eagle. I launched myself to the air with a powerful beating of my wings, grasped Sand in my talon, and sped in the winds of the night to find out what evil Hilan had planned.

  They had waited for me on the roof.

  Something was wrong, but I had a mission.

  CHAPTER 6

  I flew over the small citadel of the Hawk’s Talon, which was not far from Dagnar. Its battlements looked almost abandoned, save for some younger warriors who held it. The trails down to the beaches looked worn by rains, and only scalable in few places. That was the rugged beach called the Crow’s Hook. I ignored the fortress, and fluttered after the white bird. I flew after it, until I spotted the huge snake-like road heading east, the Iron Way. It wound its way past pastures, hills, towns, and forests. The land of Red Midgard was a small one, but filled with fine fields and riches of the Blight, the great mountains. The road followed the coast, until it reached the Grimwing Pass through the southern hook of the Blight. That offshoot of the Blight mountain range separated Fiirant from Alantia, the two major counties of Red Midgard. We flew after the bird, Sand silent in my claws, and I cursed to myself, since his weight made it nearly impossible to catch up with the bird. We flew past Dansar’s Grave, the fortress guarding the western end of the pass. It was massive, with round towers, squat and evil looking brutes, and I was to guard it under Hilan?

  Not likely, after this night.

  I had better find out what that message contained.

  We flew for hours along the pass, dodging the crags which occasionally rose high in the midst of the rough road of the pass. There were small valleys with villages, taverns with smoke rising. Then, increasingly, there were fires dotting the roads, since there were many refugees marching for the west, where security was an illusion.

  In the horizon, past a small fort I took to be Hillhold at the end of the pass, I could see specks of light, villages, and houses burning far in the distance. I saw them, because an eagle sees far, and I was sure Sand couldn’t even see the white bird I was still trying to gain on. Perhaps the distance was getting shorter, perhaps not.

  The nearer to Alantia we flew, the more I saw, even in the dark. The ethereal glow of fires and the gray pillars of smoke rose far to the sky, as the Hammer Legions marched relentlessly forward, following the Iron Way west, ranging inland, hugging the coasts, herding and trapping people where they had not fled already. Their fleet supplied them with more men and gear, and things were looking good for them, at least until they could reach Hillhold where Red Midgard would fight. Ban’s knights would be there, and they would hold it for days. I decided Baduhanna was indeed late, though. The nobles and the dverger would have to fight through the legions.

  I flapped my wings, gliding when I could, instinctively learning new tricks of the wonderful skill. I fluttered after the bird, now veering towards the coast. “Where is it going?” Sand asked, noticing the change in direction.

  I couldn’t answer, but I knew. There was a town by the beach, far from us, but we were getting closer. It was a large one, nearly a city, and the bird was aiming for a high, squat tower. The coast we were passing was still uncontested, but the city, still miles and miles away, was burning in places.

  It had been taken recently.

  It was crawling with enemy troops.

  A Hammer Legion, with a standard of Blue and White axes, was holding it, and looting.

  “Look,” Sand said, and he was pointing a finger down at the rocky beach.

  On the water line, there was a village. There were bonfires burning. There were bells ringing, and people packing carts. Streams of people were rushing up a path for northwest, and dogs were barking and running around, confused by what was a general rout.

  Some, larger ones, hunting hounds were down at the pebbly beach, uneasily howling and barking at the sea.

  Then I noticed what Sand’s eyes had spotted.

  The dogs were barking at a fast, mastless galley. It was a red painted one, adorned by a flag of Whale and Spear, the flag of Betus Coin, one of the sea-faring nations of the Verdant Lands. A throng of Hammer Legionnaires was standing on the bow, their round shields and spears glinting in the light of a torch. An officer, with a high helmet, horsehair flying, was screaming at the rowers to pull for their lives, and they did, yelling madly. The Captain of the ship was on the after deck, cursing, apparently helplessly hoping the ship would not hit hidden rocks under the surface. It was a smaller scout ship, and out to capture the town, and to make slaves and loot.

  There were several families, bereft of menfolk, rushing out of the houses, looking on in horror, as the enemy bore on them.

  I circled the galley.

  “We cannot intervene!” Sand yelled. “The message. We need it. Remember?”

  I hesitated, and kept circling the ship. I could see, far away, the bird landing in the tower of the city. I knew where to seek the message. And perhaps we could get some answers before.

  “Maskan!” Sand growled with a warning, as the wind buffeted us. He sensed I’d not be sensible. Below us, the rovers screamed together, as the galley
surged forward. There was a child standing by the beach, crying bitterly.

  I let out a high-pitched squeak.

  “Shit,” Sand said, and then I dove.

  The deck approached quickly, so quickly. A man turned to look up, his eyes squinting.

  I let go of Sand, and he fell amidst the rowers in the left rowing pit. I flapped my wings manically, trying to veer aside as the deck suddenly seemed to reach for me, and I changed. I fell hard onto the deck, then rolled over two men, through a low door, and into a cabin, coming to rest amidst a wreckage of a table and chairs. I struggled with my footing. Then I fell against the wall, as the ship rocked. Outside, men were shrieking warnings on the deck. Sand was causing terrible chaos, and for some reason, I seemed to have escaped notice, no matter my hard landing. I spied a thin beam of fire rushing out of the rover’s pit, a man gasping as he climbed up, his head burning.

  The galley veered to the side, as the rowers lost rhythm on Sand’s side. The legionnaires were toppling on the deck, looking around in confusion.

  “Attackers! Kill them! Fast now!” the Captain yelled hysterically. “Take no prisoners,” he added needlessly. I sensed someone was moving near me, and saw a thin, leather clad man with a whip, circling to get to my back. The whip slapped at me, entwined around my neck, and he yanked, hoping to pull me into a wicked scimitar. I laughed at his expression. I didn’t budge. I snarled, and grasped the whip. His eyes bulged with terror as I drew the two-handed sword of the dead Black Brother, Bjornag, and yanked him into it so hard he folded over the cross-guard and my fist.

  A group of enemy soldiers were swarming down the rowers’ pit, their wide helmets and chain rattling. The galley was swaying in the waves, its left side facing the beach, and waves were not favorable for any activity involving balance. A sound of battle rose from the pit, a man was screaming in pain, and then there was a sort of an icy explosion, and Sand screaming a challenge. A group of ten legionnaires held spears towards the rowers’ pit, thrusting down, encouraging each other. Three rowers scrambled up, and one, his mouth sprouting odd darkness, was obviously dying. A spearman fell forward, a sword in his belly.