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

by Alaric Longward

  I slipped the ring on my finger. Nothing happened. And then, my hand felt heavier.

  Bigger.

  Much bigger, in fact.

  I raised the hand to my face, and noticed it had turned into stone. The fingers worked, flexed perfectly, and the hand tingled with magic.

  “Useful,” Hirag grunted. “If you wish to break nuts. We have to go.”

  I stared at the hand, then at my other hand, where Sorrowspinner was embedded, and I chuckled. The dverger stared at me, as if I had finally gone crazy. I turned to grab my sword, as four enemy soldiers burst through the doorway, frantically killing one of the dverger with savage chops of their hammers, but two fell to arrows, two to spear points, and so, we had another moment.

  I took the ring off of my finger.

  I saw my hand turn back to its original size, into the flesh I knew so well.

  I hesitated, and placed the ring into my other hand, where I had only four fingers and the Sorrowspinner. I noticed nothing at first, but then the flesh darkened, bulged, and grew in size, hardening into stone.

  The ring which caused the bizarre effect adjusted, but Sorrowspinner’s evil hoop stretched.

  The magical ring, designed to slay if one tried to removed it, tried to do just that. I felt heat, then deadly magic, but the ring found no flesh, no veins, no living thing, only rock. It stretched, for ludicrously long time. I began to fear it would survive even the magic of the stone, and then the band broke. The thing fell off, like a discarded bit of cheap waste iron.

  The dverger stared at me with stupefaction.

  I felt the Filling Void, and the great power.

  I sensed the waves of eternal, terrible fire rivers from Muspelheim, washing down in a million, trickling fiery avalanches into the darkness of the Filling Void. There, too, was the ice of my home, the eternal ice mounds, rolling forever down the nine rivers, the mightiest of them the Gjöll, spewing the ancient waters down to the eternal emptiness, where all life was born, where the fire and the ice mixed. I felt the magic which had been granted me by my birthright, the legacy of the nobles of the Ymirtoes, the incredible shape changing abilities of my heritage, the icy powers of the creators, and there, in that desperate room, I was a jotun once again.

  I laughed, as the dverger killed man after a man trying to reach the house, losing two more themselves, and then Hirag kicked my rear. He had collected the other treasures, and frowned at me. “Well,” he said. “Now, we take note of your orders, King. But, you are still just one jotun, Lord. There are a thousands of enemies out there. You cannot go out—”

  I shrugged. “I’m tired of being afraid.”

  I changed. I grew in size, as I stepped forward and bent out of the doorway, breaking it as I went. I grew to twelve feet, into the thickness of an ancient tree, glittering with the armor, the horrible two-handed sword of Bjornag high above me. I roared at the face of the hundreds of the shocked enemy, stepped on many, kicked an officer into a heap of dying meat, and jumped in the midst of company of men. The sword swiped through a dozen foes, nine feet of killing metal eating lives, breaking them with ease of a snapping twig, scattering them and their weapons across the street.

  They were backing off in horror, in surprise, and I didn’t let them go. I stepped on a golden-crested officer, slammed my fist on a face of a charging, ax wielding man, and stumbled to swipe the sword at a thick company of Hammer legionnaires, charging for me with horrified eyes. Hits rained on my armor, and I laughed at them spitefully. I jumped, and stomped on them, hacked, killed with brutal strength, raged with roaring shouts, and broke their bones into splinters.

  I spied the dverger at the gate of the First Tier, fighting viciously with the elite unit of the enemy, trying to save the citizens still. Hirag and the others were easing out of the ruined doorway of the house, sneaking along the side, while the enemy was busy with me. Between the gate and us, there was that charmed general of the legions, sitting on a hissing lizard, deep within a division of his men. The man was screaming, trying to turn his troops around, sitting under Malingborg’s own standard. I ran that way, crushing my way over his men, smashed into a wall of spears, some of which penetrated into my hips and legs. I broke through them as well, leaving gasping foes behind. A thick, near thousand, strong enemy contingent formed around the great standard of Malignborg. Arrows and javelins rattled against my pauldrons and gauntlets. My helmet shuddered with hits, a dverg died near, as Hirag led his few survivors to flank me. The remaining defenders, led by Ragga and the dverger at the gate, smashed with fury at the back of the enemy formation, and stones and ballista bolts ripped into the horrified, surprised enemy.

  The spears thrust at me as I charged. Someone screamed a challenge from the side, sitting on a black horse. I kicked them both through a wall, roaring. Hundreds of the spears leveled at me, slashing, poking. I heard the dverger cursing me for an idiot.

  I stopped. I controlled the rage of a jotun, and gathered a spell instead.

  I braided it together, and despite the lack of Black Grip, the half sentient gauntlet of my kin, I knew some spells well enough without it. I had one very useful. I twisted together a spell full of the icy vapors of Gjöll, added the bitter winds and melted frost of the tumbling rivers of ice, built it all intricately together, and let it go at the enemy. I poured my heart into it, all my power, trembling with the flow, and it washed over the enemy troop.

  A bitterly cold wind ripped across the enemy formation. Hundreds fell on their backs. Spears and armor rattled as they did. A hail of ice struck their armor, tore at the cobblestones, ripped plaster off the walls. Buildings crashed and cracked. Stones flew in the wind, and flesh and armor ripped across the street to hit the wall and the gates, falling over the dverger and Ragga’s troops.

  The General’s charms had run out. He howled, slumped on the horse which fell on its knees, and both their flesh sailed away in the wind. Hundreds of the enemy soldiers, tight packed, fell into icy bits, some lucky ones crawling breathlessly across the street. The standard was still aloft, held by a totally frozen champion of the legions. Some men of Dagnar fell, died as the spell’s final powers slapped over them, but not many.

  “Come on, your highness,” Hirag said, kicking my shin. “We have to go!”

  The dverger made their cumbersome way across the frozen street, and killed the enemy as they went. I turned to look down the street, where the enemy legions had paused for a moment. Thousands milled there, staring in shock at the carnage, and a victory turned into horror.

  There, also, was Balic.

  His head was shaking with anger. He ripped off the conical helmet, tore off a horn in his anger. The gorgeous face was frozen in an incredulous, upset look of utter rage, the creature disappointed beyond human understanding.

  I snarled, and called for the powers of fire.

  I backed off, and raised a fiery wall across the street, and heaped more and more fire on it. Some of the probing enemy burned, screaming, but soon, a thick, wet fog conquered the fires, and Balic rode through, his spear held high. I was backing off, as the King of the Draugr approached. His eyes went up to the last Tier, where our troops now had passed the gates. I knew he cursed the lost time, the opportunity for a fine victory, and he hated with draugr’s passion all those who had failed him. He pointed a finger my way. I called for fire again, and it burned up at him, twirling, twisting in the air, and flashed through his new horse, melting even bones. It died without so much as a neigh.

  Balic fell, glowing with protective energy, and raised himself up, and kept walking, his finger pointed, spear held high. “You are a piss-sodden bastard, and no longer shall you thwart me, Maskan. By now, you should serve us. Mir failed us. Aten-Sur failed. But, I will not. I’ve never failed.”

  “Try,” I snarled. “You’ll not see your Queen released.”

  “You’ll not leave the city to stop me,” he roared, and released a bolt of lightning at me. It looked odd, as it glimmered in the night, bright as a star, and then, th
e spell barely missed me. Its power struck the air near so hard it felt like a solid maul-strike across my armor. Despite missing, it burned my face, and I howled as I fell away.

  I turned to face Balic, and felt another such spell coming. I called for my powers, and changed. I became a fleet, gigantic wolf, and fell on fleet paws, as I loped away from the terrible enemy as another such spell ripped a hole in a building, collapsing the whole thing into a smoky heap.

  “Your father, Maskan! Your mother. I sent them away. And I’ll carry the Black Grip north, boy! The Queen will be released!” he mocked me, as I fled. “Escape, boy, and know despair! Fly away, and know you cannot save Midgard! Go, and hide in the Tower or fly away, and leave them to their bloody fates! Soon! I’ll come up there very soon!”

  I rushed to the gate, then loped through it, as it closed behind the last stragglers, and I changed to my jotun-sized form. I stood weakly, twelve feet of inhuman misery, as my face felt crisp as freshly baked bread, and I was nicked and scratched and slashed all over my body. I took hold of the wall, and Ragga slapped my leg, looking up at me. I realized there were still several thousand Dagnar’s warriors alive on the walls of the Fifth Tier.

  And they were all cheering their general, wounded and weeping as I was.

  I changed to my own size, and crushed Ragga with a hug. I saw Quiss, running for me, and she joined the hug, her eyes teary. She touched my reddened face, stroked my cheek, with the burned skin, and wondered at the wounds and scrapes. I spied Illastria and Shaduril at the gate to the Temple of the Tower. They were looking at Quiss and me, and I felt uneasy under Shaduril’s gaze, even if she waved at me with joy. She was happy. She hadn’t been that happy for a long time. Shaduril finally spoke to Illastria, who followed her to the Tower.

  Ragga nodded that way. “She said she saved you. I have her guarded, but—“

  “Let her be, for now,” I said softly.

  “We’ll watch her,” he said and let go of us.

  I pushed Quiss aside, swallowing my happiness at seeing her, as men mocked the enemy at the gates, shot down steel and stone at the invaders, throwing the chaotic mob back, at least that one time.

  I climbed up to the walls with Quiss and Ragga. Across the city, the assault for the Fifth Tier stalled, and we had bought some time to regroup. When the enemy retreated, the people were mocking Balic, who sat there on yet another horse. He showed me the black stone, and I knew it would soon destroy us.

  I searched for Hirag and spoke to him. “Now, we can leave.”

  He grinned viciously. “Yes, my king. Let’s make sure they won’t.”

  “Make sure you fetch Ikar Helstrom,” I told him. “He must be unharmed. Treat him as a prisoner.” I pondered the situation. “And do not let him see Shaduril.”

  He frowned, and gave orders.

  I had a pyre to prepare.

  CHAPTER 23

  Hour passed. Officers circulated amongst the remaining fighters, preparing them for what was about to come. The dverger were mostly gone from the walls, and indeed, from the last Tier, and I eagerly awaited their return. Some fifty stood on the wall, and the rest had to prepare for the final part of my plan. I walked the wall, which wasn’t so long in this part of the city, and watched as men lit fires in the Tower of the Temple.

  With any luck, the enemy would think that was where we were preparing to defend ourselves.

  With more luck, the poor bastard I had left behind would have told Balic this was exactly what I had planned to do anyway. I was nodding to myself, telling myself I had done well, made the decisions which got the least number of people killed, made choices that mattered, and knew I’d not be the same man who entered the city, if I survived.

  The stoic Northerners were standing on the walls, in the courtyard, most looking at my frantic pacing. They watched me come down, walk across the courtyards, and past the Singing Garden. They would know the next moments would decide their future. Many were prepared to die for the city. Many had lost loved ones on the walls. And yet, they had been told they would survive. Not all, I was sure, were willing to see the light on what I was planning.

  I’d lead the remaining four thousand away, if I only could.

  “Why?” asked an older man softly, as I passed him sitting on a bench. His eyes were teary, the streaks of sorrow running down bloodied face. “We fought well. Did we not fight well enough, lord? Was it not a proper scrap, and didn’t we gut armies who had never been gutted? Don’t we deserve the city?”

  I turned, sighed, and placed a hand on his shoulder. I used to feel like an awkward fool, not days past, when I acted like a leader, but that night had stomped awkwardness and shyness to the cracks of the city’s bloody ruins. I felt I could speak with confidence even to the old man, who had lost his son in the battle. “You fought worthy of men and women of Red Midgard, and it will be remembered far in the future. But, there are too many of them.” I stroked his cheek. “There always was. It was always so.”

  “We have you, Lord,” he said, his eyes teary and gray. “And, if there were too many, why didn’t you lead us out with the children and the elderly?” Some people were nodding at his words, gazing at me darkly.

  “There are, and were, too many,” I told him gruffly. “And it was never about defeating them at the walls. It was about luring them all up here to the top of the hill, bleeding, hurting them. It was about wearing them down to tears. They are all out there, every last one of them, and Balic’s sparing none from this bloody last task. And we will hurt them so badly, they won’t take to the field again.”

  He looked confused. “How, my king? They said we are leaving.”

  I grinned at him. “Just wait and see. It is my home as well. I’ve walked the streets since I was a toddler, lost from my father. I walked the alleys with friends, got into trouble, fell in love here, harbored its secrets, ate and drank what you ate and drank, believed in what you believed, and the city raised me. It will serve us again in the future. The Hill’s not going anywhere, my friend. It’s still here, after.”

  He nodded, and a beautiful young woman, crimson to her armpits by the blood of our enemies cheered me, as I walked off. They all turned to follow me. Quiss was by the Mad Watch barracks, chatting with people, preparing them with the skill of a natural born leader, and slowly, very slowly, most people were gathering by the barracks. Not all did. Some stalked the walls, holding torches with the fifty dverger, others stayed behind in the tower, where men were assembling the ballistae of the dverger. They were all volunteers.

  The waiting was unbearable.

  Thousands of faces were staring at me. Ragga was in their front, with the surviving Mad Watchmen, and the few Atenites who had guarded Quiss all that night.

  Then, finally, the doorway opened, and Hirag tugged at my armor. He leaned closer, as I kneeled. “There were some hundred Hammer legionnaires tottering about down there. Not any longer. It’s all good news. The gate is nearly empty. A cavalry squadron is down at the main gate, guarding their supplies, and some field hospitals have been erected in the Bad Man’s. The tent city outside is held by a company. But, that’s all. They are preparing all their men. Some twelve thousand are left, and Balic’s sparing none.”

  I leaned close to him. “And your preparations?”

  He grinned devilishly, his bone-white face gleaming. “All is good, my lord. It’s all going well. We have been ready with that part of the plan before the battle began. They will execute it when we are ready. I sent a hundred of mine all over. “

  “The wounded?” I asked. There were thousands.

  “We moved hundreds below, and the Tower is packed with them,” he said thinly. “Many will try to follow us, and perhaps they will be safe for a while, but we cannot carry them all. They’d slow us down. I know you think we should save everyone—”

  “We are far from saving everyone,” I snarled, and walked back to the gates of the barracks. Four thousand people got to their feet, sensing the impending change in our future. They w
ere tired to the bone, haggard, thirsty, and starving, and many would die of their wounds. I stood before them.

  I raised my hands. I grew slightly in size, so they could all see me.

  The looks of horror and distrust at the sight of a jotun had been mostly replaced by grins of fierce approval. “Hear me,” I spoke. “We have a war to fight still. What we did here this night was just a beginning. We have an army to save, the damned fool nobles, the idiot goddess, and ultimately, our own legions up in the North. Whole of Fiirant and Alantia must do what you did this night. They all must raise up and fight. So that’s why I won’t let you die here this night. We have things to do before we can rest. Plenty of things.”

  “What of the wounded?” asked a man.

  “They will be safe below,” Ragga yelled. “As safe as they can be! We cannot take them.”

  Silent faces stared ahead, swallowing the terrible news we’d try to leave. It was a bitter bread to chew on, especially since we were leaving people behind. Others, few, looked relieved. Mothers, fathers, likely.

  I spoke on. “We did what we set out to do. And what is that? We made sure these legions won’t fight again. They won’t, if we succeed in one final thing. And, with luck, even Balic will fall. We must make sure the ‘One Man’ is an unmoving corpse we can all spit on. And to do that …” I said so most could hear me, “we have to abandon Dagnar.”

  Sullen silence.

  I pointed a finger to the barracks. “We’ll use the Old City. We have been lucky to own it. We have used it well this day. We’ll make this place their grave. Imagine, how they are drooling down there, ready to loot and enslave and pillage, to slay the rest of us, and the King wants to raise his shitty banner atop the tower. Imagine how they are smiling, hoping for a swift final battle. They won’t get it. We will do them a horrible service. They won’t smile when they take finally Dagnar. No. And we’ll see the city shine again, and we shall build it over their skeletons. There will be streets called ‘Minotaur’s Head’ and ‘The Headless Horse,’ and your children will play on those streets. You will smile, as they do. You will all be nobles in that city. Let the King of Dagnar be Balic the First, and the Last, and we shall mock him after.”