The Ice Queen
By R. Boardman Wright
Copyright 2011 Richard Boardman Wright
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Girl and the Prophets
Chapter 2: The Walk of the Fairies
Chapter 3: Wolfsbane
Chapter 4: Prophecies of the Light
Chapter 5: A Hidden Past
Chapter 6: Visions and Symbols
Chapter 7: Goodbye to the Haven
Chapter 8: The Road to the Door
Chapter 9: Nymphs, Wolves, Fairies, and Golems
Chapter 10: The Door Under the Mountain
Chapter 11: The Council
Chapter 12: Many Meetings
Chapter 13: The White City
Chapter 14: The Castle of the Sun
Chapter 15: The Healing of Headred
Chapter 16: Eliudnir Unleashed
Chapter 17: The First Blood
Chapter 18: The White Gate Closes
Chapter 19: The Gathering Dark
Chapter 20: The Last Battle
Chapter 21: The Road South
Epilogue: The Golden Age
Every land, every people, every world, remember a tale, told or sung from the depths of time.
I walk among the silver palaces, amidst the golden glades beneath the mortal world, within the realm of my kindred, and I remember the legends and myths I saw in so many ages of the world.
E elphame miðgarðir esari natham.
I watch Miðgarðir from Elphame below.
Long ago, in times of myths and magic and legends, a shadow grew, a darkness so terrible, so evil, it covered the earth in eternal winter. None could stand against it, none but the light. When hope became lost a woman bore a child who would save her people.
My tale begins in the forests of the Miðgarðir, before the memory of the race of men who now walk the earth. In the lands of winter, in an earthen home in the deepest parts of the wilderness, a little girl lived with the wise woman whom she called her grandmother. Long ago, her grandmother told her, the wolves took her parents’ lives.
But how do I begin to tell this tale of truth? Ah yes, it comes to me now, a beginning worthy of this history I now lay down for you.
You see, once there was a legend…
*****
Six years of winter passed by for Beoreth in the small earthen home where she lived, six years of fear she would be discovered, and all would be lost. The hovel lay at the edges of the kingdom of Sul, one land of Miðgarðir, in the ancient tongue meaning middle-world, encompassing all between the gods in heaven and the fires of Muspellheim, the land of souls below. Deep within Fensalir’s haven, Beoreth lived far from Ull, the White City, where once dwelled the Witch Queen of Sul. Beoreth knew Ull well, and once called the city home. Fensalir, the safe haven in the wilderness of the kingdom of Sul, resonated as a glimmer of hope in the bitter winter. The path of light began in the havens. The long road wound through the lands of magic. At its end, in the distant northern mountains where the top of Mount Kern ascended to the skies, the White City rose.
Beoreth’s heart ached to think of Ull, of all she left behind. No word came since the fateful night six years before, a night Beren, Witch Queen of Sul, gave Beoreth a task to save their world, and raise her daughter far from the Demon Lord plaguing these lands.
Caer, the girl she called her granddaughter, played with simple wooden toys on the earth floor by the fire. Beoreth stood at the wooden table nearby, crushing herbs to help the rheumatism plagued her limbs, her apron swaying over her ample middle.
Beoreth took the steeping water from the fire and began to brew the tea. Flaming auburn hair drawn into a simple braid flowed down Caer’s back. When the sun or the firelight struck it, one could almost see the fire flickering within the small child’s soul.
Caer wore a blue gown of simple homespun, woven by Beoreth, the woman she called her grandmother, who raised her in her parents’ stead. How little Caer knew. How much she could not know, not now, not yet.
Not until the time came when she would rise and fight the darkness.
Beoreth looked out the small window at the Black Mountains in the west, and the clouds boiling and raging beyond them, over Eliudnir, the towers of the Demon Lord. Her aging eyes scanned the Myrkviðr Forest to the west of Sul as she searched those places every night for six years; every night she feared the shadow would come for the child.
Caer’s hands stopped playing with the toy; she stood, bored and listless, half walking and half swaying to the table where Beoreth mixed her draught. There she laid her elbows on the table, staring at her caretaker as though she would bore a hole in her.
“Grandmother,” Caer drawled, her tone long-suffering, in a way only a little girl could, a tone which melted even the hardest of hearts, “tell me a story.”
Beoreth sighed, and knowing she would not say no, continued to mix as she spoke.
“The gods made races to rule the world. They made men first, the mortal children of the gods. Legend tells they came from the dust of the earth, and awoke upon it in the ancient days.
“The fairies--” Beoreth smiled as the child’s face lit with the name of the fair folk who dwelled beneath the mounds no more than a day away. “Fairies of the fair hair, beautiful face, and pleasing form, dwell in immortality in the silver palaces in golden glades beyond the realm of mortal men. Their brethren are the prophets who foretell the future, for the prophets are mortal and wise, born also of gods and men. Born of both men and gods, the fairies chose immortality removed from Miðgarðir above in Elphame, lands beneath the earth the gods gave men, while their brethren the prophets chose a mortal life.”
Beoreth watched the bowl, crushing the herbs into dust, “The nymphs, whose life comes from the spirits of the trees and waters where they dwell, are long-lived, and little by little suffer the ravages of time afflicting all other creatures. The centaurs, who gaze at the stars and foretell their meanings, live in their cave cities of the far north, and on rare occasion interfere with the affairs of the other races.”
While Beoreth continued her tale, Caer’s tiny hands and feet latched onto the wood and with unexpected strength hefted her weight onto its top. When she finished her elbows fell onto the table again, and propped her head between her hands to listen more. At long last, Caer seated herself on a stool, under Beoreth’s watchful gaze.
“But the gods yet needed to finish their creation. The myths tell among all the races not one did they find fit to rule the lands the gods loved so, and the earth became dark with sorrow. In this time the mortal King Gunner married the beautiful mortal Veleda, who bore him a daughter, Dana. The god Heimdall took as his wife Veleda; Mab and Aske their children. Heimdall and Veleda committed so grievous an adulterous offense the gods forbid their children to rule or to walk in heaven with the gods. With Oberon, son of Finn and Eleya, Mab became immortal and the mother of all fairies. Aske chose mortality, and became the father of all prophets.
“When all the hope of the gods failed, Woden, Lord of the gods, walked in the ancient forests of Miðgarðir. There he heard a voice with the beauty of a singing bird, and he found its owner Dana, the mortal maiden. In the glades of the forests he loved her, and she bore to him a daughter.”
Caer’s head lay on her arms on the table, and Beoreth smiled as she paused. The child would sleep, and just as well, for these places could grow dull, and life could become listless. Sleep became their sole escape.
“The heavens raged, but the words of the god Heimdall calmed them. The daughter of Woden would grow with the power of gods and the knowledge of men; for the child would not be cursed as the fairies and the prophets, his children with his mortal wife
Valeda. The children of Heimdall, born of a mortal woman, chose to live as mortals, or to be immortal and banished beneath Miðgarðir in the sidhes, and so became born the prophets and the fairies, mortal and immortal, one to tell the future and die, one to bear the gifts of magic far from their cousins, and to come into Miðgarðir yet never to dwell there, never to spread their wings and fly.
“But not so with Woden’s daughter. She would hold the power of magic. At last a human would rule as the gods saw fit, for always would her line bear the blood of the gods. Though in the entirety of the kingdom of men no man could be found worthy to rule for the gods, one woman would rule the destiny of all.”
Caer’s eyes closed, and though not sleeping, soon she would. Just as well, Beoreth considered as she continued to mix the herbs.
Beoreth wiped her hands on her apron and sighed. Six long years she feared, and the enemies of the light never came into the safe haven. One of the few places left in Sul Belial could not touch, the gods and the Witch Queen Beren wove their magic in Fensalir, and so Beoreth and Caer remained safe.
The fear passed, and the sun warmed the wise woman’s face.
Outside the world remained cold, hidden deep in the winter. Tonight they would see snow again, and ice as well; she felt it in her bones. She took a sip of tea, and spewed it out.
“Old fool,” she cursed, realizing she added too much ginger root and not enough kanjika root to the witches’ hazel and clarified butter. And to make matters worse, she looked at the stored roots and saw she needed more witches’ hazel to make the brew again.
“Caer,” she called. Caer lifted her head, her eyes swimming with sleep. “Come and robe yourself. We must gather roots.”
“Yes, grandmother,” Caer obeyed.
Beoreth watched as the girl wrapped herself in the fur Beoreth bartered for in the nearby village. Fear heralded the birth of this small girl, and yet innocence shone within Caer, a light in her eyes against the thickest dark.
Beoreth took her own shawl and concentrated on the path to the village, where she knew old man Hroth grew herbs in an indoor garden. Amused by the idea, she laughed. A greenhouse, he called it.
“Come, grandmother,” Caer called, bounding out of the house.
Beoreth sighed and followed.
*****
Night fell as Caer and Beoreth made their way home from Hroth’s greenhouse, the basket Beoreth carried half-full with medicinal roots and herbs grown in a greenhouse in the midst of winter.
Caer breathed in the cold air and sighed in gladness, thanking the gods as her grandmother taught her.
The young girl questioned on rare occasions the things her grandmother told her. Kindness and gentleness defined Beoreth. Caer felt the weight and responsibility for her, as if she could sense the presence of Beoreth at all times.
In her heart, she knew the stories already and knew their truth. She never questioned the legends of the gods or the creatures.
But to her core she felt no truth for the story of her parents that Beoreth told her. This story she questioned many times.
Caer’s mother and father, Beoreth said, lived not far away. One night the wolves came, hungry and dying, into Fensalir. Evil took Caer’s parents away, but not her. Baby Caer stayed with Beoreth on the fateful night, sick with fever.
Her grandmother said winter held the cold emanating from the demon of Eliudnir’s heart.
Caer danced between the trees, careful not to laugh lest Beoreth find her playing. Her grandmother searched for barks, picking and plucking what they needed for potions.
Caer looked around but did not see her grandmother any longer.
“Grandmother?” she called, wondering if she should go back home and wait..
“Grandmother—?” She turned, hearing footsteps.
Before her a centaur appeared from a cluster of trees and stopped. His animal half blended with the human half, a single creature born of two, tall and regal as though he galloped out of her wildest dreams. Caer gasped and stumbled back, falling to the snow with a soft crunch.
“Are you lost, young human?” The centaur thundered, neighing as he spoke.
“No, I—I lost my grandmother.” She pulled herself up, her eyes wide and never leaving him, impressed by the sheer size of the creature.
“You should find her.” He smiled down at her.
Caer nodded.
“You have never seen one of my kind?” His laugh boomed like his voice.
“No, Mister Centaur,” she said in earnest. “Grandmother says your people live in the north, far away from Fensalir. She says you fight the Dark Lord, just like us.”
“No one,” he said, in a low growl and appearing menacing, “fights the heir of the Dark Lord. No one stands against her; no one can.” He smiled again in the forced way of his people. “Where are my manners? I am Cahros, son of Cheron.”
“I’m Caer.” She smiled again.
“Caer, such a beautiful name for a beautiful mortal girl. Caer of the mortal realm, we do fight the darkness. We guard all of you from it, you most of all.
Caer cocked her head, “Why me?”
“You are a child and children are special. We cherish all children.”
Caer giggled at the lavish way the centaur spoke.
“Caer?” Beoreth called in the distance.
“My grandmother.” She turned to answer. “Coming, Grandmother, you’ll not believe who I have found!” Caer turned back to Cahros, and her face fell.
The centaur disappeared.
In his place she saw a small red bird, its wing wounded. It looks broken, she thought as Beoreth came up behind her.
“What have you found, my child?” Beoreth sighed at the wounded bird. It never failed to amaze her. Always Caer would find creatures wounded and ailing, creatures she wanted to help. Beoreth knew it to be her secret nature.
“Come, child.” She clutched the bag of herbs in her withered hand. “We will brew a potion and heal the songbird when we return home.”
Beoreth’s heart skipped when the bird squawked. Tiny pinpricks of light spun around it. The bird lifted off and flew away, healed by the will of the child before her.
Caer turned to her, stunned and joyful. “Look, grandmother,” Caer said, giddy and waving her hands, dancing in the snow. “Hand magic.”
Beoreth shook her head and wondered how long it would be before the secret she kept would be revealed and the girl would know the truth, and the lies, of the life she lived.
Time, it seemed, would be her answer.
*****
Night fell on Fensalir. In the snug home she always knew, Caer slipped into dreams.
Snow crunched beneath her feet in Ull, the city of her birth. The sun moved high in the sky, and the winter wonderland glittered.
Smoke rose from huts buried in the woods. What birds remained in the cold winter sang from shivering beaks atop ice-encrusted trees. In the distance, near the mountains to the north, a beacon of light shone on her face.
A doe pranced the thick woods and stopped to look at her before ripping bark off of a tree. It stared at her for a moment, and…
It bowed.
The doe stood and cocked its head. Follow me, the deer seemed to whisper, the thought hanging in its eyes.
Caer walked, entranced, through the snow after the doe, into a nearby thicket, along an ancient path. Caer pushed past frozen brambles, the thorns of dead rose bushes tearing at her skin.
Caer yelped and sucked on a bleeding wrist, not noticing the vines at her feet. She tripped, and with a gasp fell face first into the snowy thicket. Caer looked up at the deer.
Just as swift as she appeared, the doe ran from her, into the dark woods.
A woman stepped into the clearing and looked at her, in hope and in recognition, her hair, once flaming red, now white, the color of the winter, streaked with faint lines of what once was.
The woman’s eyes glistened with tears, her face young and full, her skin pale beneath the
white furs and the robes surrounding her, her lips red as blood, her eyes blue and deep as the oceans. And those eyes cried tears of ice that fell and shattered.
She looks just like me, Caer thought. Caer always imagined her mother looked like this woman.
“Are you ready to return to me, my daughter?” the woman asked through her tears.
Caer shut her eyes and rubbed them. She knew the voice and the face of this woman were more than just reflections. A memory flashed in the child’s mind, of a baby’s cry and a mother’s tears. They met before: she was sure of it.
When she opened her eyes, the woman disappeared, and the dream around her changed again.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the treetops of the woods. Caer stood in a circle of trees on which torches hung around Vingólf, the silent vigil. An altar engraved with the words of the goddess, used for prayer, meditation, and magic, lay beneath one of the torches.
A thick sheet of ice spread across the ground, and within it lay frozen the woman she just met. In dreams she stood here before; there the Ice Queen became her constant companion, a woman whose body remained untouched as the lands around her became as cold as the ice in her tomb.
A man stood nearby, gazing up at the heavens, a man she also knew in her dreams. He was a boy in her dreams who played with her in the frozen forests. One day he would become this man, tall and strong.
His hair grew longer, she mused. Emotions stirred within her. Waves of chestnut hair fell onto his broad, strong shoulders. Tall and with shadowy eyes, the man bore a semblance not of fear but of fury. As he prophesied aloud, his voice carried on the wind, his voice the voice of the man he would be and the boyhood left behind.
The fiery illumination of the torches faded, and the power of the altar and of the man disappeared. Ripped from this dream and into another, she saw and felt the shadows of the great western wastelands of Óskópnir.
The jagged rocks, the hopelessness and despair, the fire and the pain of the western wasteland beneath the boiling black clouds of the demon flew by as Caer floated to the place where the Dark Lord waited.
The souls of wicked men littered the ground, one of the few lights in this place of darkness. Golems moved in silence, the offspring of evil, made and bound in Óskópnir until evil controlled all lands.
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