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

by Alaric Longward

  “Still, King,” the Captain said. “You’ll piss yourself, if you don’t stop struggling.

  I panted, and calmed myself, and decided to die with dignity. “Take the head, Hel’s cursed fiend.”

  “Yes,” he said, with a chuckle, eyes glowing with anticipation. A figure walked up, and I saw Aten-Sur standing there, holding his horned helmet under his arm.

  “Wait,” he told the Captain, who turned in fury, until he saw the mighty King before him. “Keep the head intact. Just ram the rod into his heart.”

  “Lord?” the draugr Captain asked, the disappointment clear on his face. “Lord, Balic—”

  “Told you to kill him,” Aten-Sur yelled.

  “I had decided—”

  “Undo the decision,” the King said, with an impatient snarl. “This is not your usual victim, Captain. We need this one. It will spare us from attacking that shit-hole of Tower, if he walks in as one of us.”

  The draugr Captain went silent, turned away from Aten-Sur, and visibly forced the bloody yearning from his single-minded thoughts.

  Some dverger showed on the door, but fell dead, as the battle went on, and all hope flew away, as the rod came to rest over my chest. “Fast,” a draugr holding my leg said, eyeing the battle warily.

  The King grinned down at me. “Tell Mir hello for me. You have moment before Balic raises you. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” said a cold female voice, and the King’s eyes popped open as large saucers as he whirled.

  His body exploded with arcane blue fire. He fell on his knees, then his side, as fires danced over him, and across the area in a whirlwind of fiery death. The flame seemed alive, a thing of fierce wings, and the legionnaires scattered, terrified. The Captain moved fast, his rod up, but screamed, his chest, then skull, on fire. The flame surges from draugr to draugr, slaying with no mercy.

  Aten-Sur got up, in fire, and called for a sphere of protection. The flame sizzled around him, making a popping, crackling noise, as the King focused his gaze on a figure in the shadows. His hair was smoking, the fire rolled in a furious battle around him, but the powerful draugr Lord attacked. He braided together vicious, rippling spell, and the figure in the shadows was thrown against the wall. The ground bubbled, as if something was clawing its way out of the ground. Aten-Sur was cackling gleefully, and I saw stony arms grasping at the figure, who fell back, rolling away.

  I grabbed the sword, and surged up, slicing down.

  Aten-Sur saw me coming, let go of the spell, and fell aside under the sword’s swing. The blade cut air, he came at me with an icy, magical blade, cutting the air before my face. The swords met, Aten-Sur hissed and lashed at my legs, but the blade fell apart, as a fiery missile struck his back. He fell forward, howling. I jumped aside, and my sword flashed down.

  Half of his head rolled free.

  I was panting, looking around for trouble, when Narag appeared out of the door, a wound on his scalp. I whirled to face the figure who had saved me. It was walking for me, tottering out of the shadows, a ragged wound on the leg.

  She had used spells. The wound didn’t bleed. “Oh! That was splendid! Absolutely splendid! Finally that one is gone. Finally!”

  It was Shaduril.

  Her hair was like pale honey around her face, the petite body full of unnatural energy, and I gasped, as she came to me. “We must go. Balic’s about to go through the wall. They are hoping to rush the gate.”

  “You?” I asked her. “Mir had you. Now—”

  She smiled as she touched my cheek. “Mir died, love. You got her. She told me to obey her, and when she fell, I no longer have to. I felt it, when she passed. I saw her corpse below, after you left. I was away checking on the doorways out of the city, and could have wept for joy!” She frowned at my wounds. “You look terrible, just horrid. But, sort of like a king should. And you forget; I know the Old City as well as the dverger. Maybe better. I sneaked after you,” she explained. “Mir had me, and I am sorry, but I am free now. I’m happy I saved you.”

  “If Balic—”

  “I will have to avoid Balic, love, and the rest of them,” she said gently, as she pulled me towards Narag. “Lucky thing Aten-Sur didn’t command me. He might have been able to. Rush. You need to rush. Because you have to get to the Fifth Tier. Balic’s going to force his way over the gate. He’s not here, but where you fought, by the main road and the gate. He made a good guess you’d come after him, didn’t he? I couldn’t see you fall here.”

  “Thank you.” I said, nervously.

  Somewhere, near the main gate, there was a horrible, grinding sound, and I knew Balic’s terrible artifact was at work. The sound seemed to go on forever, the ground was shaking, buildings swooning, and I was sure Ragga had just died.

  She moved me to the doorway. “Sand’s with the enemy,” I told her.

  “I know,” she answered, and pushed me inside the house. “He was too loyal to you. Loved you like a brother. And he was stupid to risk so much. He has fallen away from us. I am free from them for now, thanks to Mir’s death, but he is not. Balic is his new master.”

  “Balissa?”

  She shook her head. “No, haven’t seen her.”

  Inside, there were some twenty live dverger, and most were wounded. The floor was littered with hacked draugr, and fallen dverger. The cost to defeat the Guard had been a terrible one.

  Narag looked oddly subdued, looking up at Shaduril, who ignored the lot. He coughed. “We failed you, King.”

  “I failed myself,” I answered. “We have to rush back. They broke through.”

  “What of her?” Narag asked. “She is one of them.”

  “She is also one of us,” I answered in her defense.

  She passed us, caressing my cheek. “I will go to the Tower, and guard Illastria. I will stay out of your way,” she told me. “I still haven’t forgotten you.”

  “Good thing that,” I said, staring at her. Outside, we could hear the Hammer legionnaires inching closer, speaking softly. An arrow struck the doorway.

  “She’s not coming with us,” Narag said resolutely. “One command from some dry-faced, death-sucking bastard, and she’ll turn the lot of us into mold. No. Remember your pal, Sand? No.”

  “She is—”

  “I go on my own. I see you later,” she said, and disappeared to the Old City. I let her go.

  “Lord,” Narag began. “If we forget the fact the corpse seems to have a craving for you, and just plain think of her as a corpse, which she is, you should not let her run free. Clamp her in irons, if you must keep the creature alive. And—”

  Far, we could hear the Hammer legionnaires screaming in triumph. I hauled Narag with me. “Forget this, for now. Get me to the gates of the First Tier.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said tiredly, as we moved off after Shaduril. “Though I cannot take us directly there. There’s a huge detour around the Old City. But, I can get us close to the first wall, though not the safe side. Is that good enough for you?”

  “It will have to do,” I snarled, as arrows shredded the doorway. Some struck the room, taking a dverg gasping to Hel. We rushed down the stairway, and the arsonist got up, trembling with fear.

  I stopped before him, he smiled at me with worry, and I looked up the stairs. Legionnaires were advancing cautiously.

  “Lord?” he asked, with a tremble.

  “You killed people before,” I told him, forcing the words out.

  “I’m a murderer,” he admitted. “It is true.”

  “Here is the judgment,” I told him. “It might be better than hanging, and you might live.”

  I rammed my fist into his belly, and left him there, drawing desperate breaths. Narag hurried me on, as we ran below the ground, leaving a squad of dverger as a narrow junction to keep the probing Hammer legionnaires at arm’s length. There were angry shouts, surprised oaths, pained curses, and then, the familiar noises of the dying men.

  “Why?” Narag asked me.

  “He will tell them we
intend to defend the Tower of the Temple,” I answered, feeling dead inside, fighting the urge to go back for him.

  He snorted. “He’ll spill his guts. Perhaps for real. Shitty thing to do, my king, and gods only know if it is of any use. Perhaps you’ll learn faster than Morag did, after all. And I’m a bit sorry for it. Come, fast!” We ran on, panting, took a left at a major junction, and Narag encouraged me and a handful of fighters with him. Above, in the street, a terrible, screaming horde was relentlessly fighting its way to chase our surprised, battered fighters. Narag’s face betrayed his worry, as he led us on, and past the route we had used previously.

  Finally, after minutes of frantic running, dreading the sounds of the rapidly moving battle above, he pushed me to a stone stairway, and led us to the top. He burst through a thickly carpeted floor, cursing and sputtering, as he pushed the massively cumbersome thing aside. The rest followed him, and we, like a family of rats, peeked out of the doorway and windows. So close, we felt we might touch them, hundreds of stunned survivors were being bloodily herded for the last Tier. They fought, shield to shield, when a shield was available, and fought the fresh soldiers of Malignborg.

  Narag looked at the throng of Hammer legionnaires, pushing, bashing, roaring in their victory, as they killed and died, enveloping our hideout. Hundred and more of the enemy pushed past. To my relief, I saw Ragga amidst the survivors, but we were stuck, in terrible danger.

  Narag cursed as well. “We were too late. And too bad for the people. They’ll never make it to the gate. And if they do, they will not get through. And our idiot brethren are looking to join them. I should have stayed with them.”

  “What?”

  I peeked through the doorway, moved Narag aside, and stretched my neck to glimpse at the gate to the Fifth Tier, that was open. The wall and the gate was manned by the dverger, who were firing ballista, and catapults, moving down tens of legionnaires, as they pressed in the side streets. Two hundred were standing in ranks before the gate, chanting ferociously, observing the retreat, and possibly trying to commit a suicide by hoping to save the people. All across the city, the horns were blowing with the finality of an ending world, summoning the damned to the last stand.

  Narag put a hand on my chest and held me there, as hundreds and hundreds more of the enemy passed the house, leaving a trail of maimed humans behind, theirs and ours. “We cannot take them,” he said unhappily. “Not ever, and especially not without our mages.” He looked down to the hole. “And I think there are Hammers down there now as well. Getting lost, I hope, but still there, being a damned nuisance.”

  “Is there a way up to the gate from here? You said there is a roundabout way.”

  “Takes too long,” he cursed. “Far too long. Told you. It is a long way to trot, and it’s pretty hopeless, isn’t it? We’ll come up in there, and run into butchery. They will push right to the gates, and over, and inside, if the bastard dverg in command don’t abandon the people to die. And I doubt they will. Our kind are as stubborn as the dead.” He turned me around. “Perhaps we should execute the plan now? We might be able to, even with so few.”

  “And leave everyone out there to die?” I roared, and he slammed me to a wall, eyeing the doorway. He stayed there, until I felt like I was suffocating.

  We all waited for the door to burst open, but after long uncertain moments, it stayed closed. They hadn’t heard me.

  He nodded, relief shining on his face, and snarled at me. “Listen, King. You did a noble thing back there, fought stupidly, but killed the bastards in the end. Two draugr kings. They will sing of it, if the monkey loving draugr sing songs of their fallen enemies. You did a shitty thing with that human, but even that made sense. It’s what kings do. Be noble when you can, and a pile of dirt is the reward, if you try to please everyone. The survivors, and there will always be some, will be praising you to the heavens and above, and they’ll think even your turds are holy relics. But, we cannot get up there!”

  I tried to move him off me, but it was like a child swatting at a bear. I was hissing, fighting madly, while the rest of the dverger were calmly waiting for the scene to end.

  “We don’t have magic to make it there!” he said, one eye bulging madly. “Give us a miracle, Lord, or let us do what we must do. Pull out a mighty artifact out of your pocket, and if you have none, we must go, and do what we planned to do. It will be hard, with so few of us, but we can still try.”

  I shook my head. “We cannot—”

  I froze.

  “What?” he asked staring at me with an odd expression.

  “Artifacts in my pouch!” I said, as I grasped the bag on my belt. Narag, frowning, stepped away. I tipped the bag open, and stared at the collection of jewelry and statues like a starving man would stare at a loaf of bread. I rifled through them.

  Narag snorted uncertainly. “Dressing up for a funeral? That blue ring looks mighty good for a dead king.”

  “They are magical,” I cursed, trying to decide what to do with them.

  Narag squinted. “Magical? Artifacts? Yes, they are. I can smell it in them. My cousin used to make such in the Deep Well, back in Svartalfheim.”

  “Yes,” I muttered. “Such things. Made by a draugr, Balan Blacktower. Some come from Hel’s Army.”

  “Great.” He smiled. “No more dangerous than charging out there naked. What do they do?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea. But, I think this situation puts such concerns to shame.”

  He stared at the items, and then took a long shuddering breath. “A jotun should probably know better. They might do anything. I’ve seen an enchanted mace level a village. The idiot who stole it had no idea it contained a rampant spirit.”

  I muttered, as I picked up some of the rings. “Feel free to leave, if I only blow myself up. If I do, execute the damned plan. In fact, just leave now. Wait below, and keep an eye on me before you go and execute the plan.”

  “And now, you are calling us cowards,” Narag muttered, and rubbed his face. “Here. Pass me the rings.”

  “Pass you the rings?” I asked, confused. “No.”

  “I’m expendable, you fool,” he said, and grasped a handful of the rings from my palm. I protested, tried to grab them back, and he slapped my fingers.

  “You have to learn how to respect a jotun,” I murmured.

  He laughed. “We’ve got plenty of them in Svartalfheim, King. Granted, most are not frost giants, but the ordinary rabble from Jotunheimr, but still. Good for skull breaking, and to make a nice meaty soup, that’s all. But, I’ll take note of your esteemed background, if you ever get your heritage back. Here.” He picked a golden one, and placed it in his finger. He closed his eyes, and spoke. “Nothing.”

  The voice came from the side.

  We all turned to look at him. He was standing there, and yet another one was behind us, and, to our discomfort, the screams of Hammer legionnaires attacking something outside the house, meant he was there as well.

  He pulled it off, and he stood before me again. “Useful.”

  “Yes,” I said, horrified by the upset enemy, and grasped the ring from his hand, and pocketed it. “What else?”

  “Oh, now you are eager?” Narag chuckled. He rifled around ten rings, and picked a silver one. “So am I, actually.”

  He shrunk to a size of a mouse. His troops were chortling gruffly, as he changed back to his own size. “Wouldn’t recommend that one in a drunken feast. Can also get uncomfortable with a cat around. Or a rat.”

  I grasped that one back as well, and tried to protest his mad experimentation. He had seemingly forgotten all his reservations, and was gleefully eager to risk death.

  I peeked through the doorway to see what the enemy was doing.

  I noticed Dagnar troops had reached the gates. There were some five hundred of them alive, and the dverger were hacking down furiously at Malingborg’s companies. To my despair, I saw the enemy General cheering his troops, while the ballistae struck down his guards. His life seeme
d charmed; he seemed determined to be made into a hero. Some of his men had nearly breached to the gate.

  Then, one of Hammer legionnaire opened our door.

  We stared at each other in shock. There was a look on his face which suggested he had stumbled on a lord taking a shit. One of the dverger hacked him in the face, and he fell on his back. There were surprised shouts and a sharp order. I closed the door.

  “Shit. We have to leave,” one of the dverger said. “Right now.”

  I growled. “To the either side of the doorway. Hack them down. Keep it up. Pretend they are trunks on their way to be made into logs.”

  Narag nodded to give my order some authority, and the dverger obeyed. The door opened. A tall man appeared on the door with a spear, but one dverg yanked him inside, and hacked him in the neck. Another appeared, roaring in battle rage, but wheezed his life away, impaled by a spear. The door was closed again.

  Narag took another ring. “Let this be a weapon.”

  It was a simple, white ring. He slipped it on.

  And turned to dust.

  He simply ceased to be.

  The ring fell to the ground around his heaped armor. The other rings scattered all around his remains. The dverger looked at him, then away, concentrating on the killing, and offered no words of rage or anguish. One, a white faced one, pushed me. “Hirag. That’s me. I’m next.” He reached for the rings.

  “No,” I said. “I’ll take them.” I picked up the white one, and pocketed it carefully. And then, I ran my hand across the others.

  Hirag shrugged. “I meant I’m in charge. I’m not suicidal. We must go, King. We’ll go down and execute the plan.”

  One more, I thought, and picked up a white gem encrusted ring of thick gold. “I’ll try this one.”

  “No, King, I—”