Sons of Ymir

by Alaric Longward

  I flexed the one I had now. It was perfect.

  I watched Rhean.

  I groaned. I still felt terrible sorrow.

  She looked at the dead vampire and smiled. “That, I cannot heal. It is not a disease.” She poked Euryale with one of her swords. She was covered with a cloak, her snakes still. “Great evil, she was. There are many kinds of evil in the Nine Worlds, and the Filling Void. Hers was the honorless kind. She and my sister, both deserved to die, a million times over. For fighting her, you deserved my blood. It is a cure to those who deserve a second chance. I don’t willingly share it.”

  She showed me the right side of her beautiful body and smiled. “One side heals, the other side kills. You have been blessed.”

  I nodded. I looked at Dana, Shannon, and the last warrior. “You spared them?”

  She sighed. “I raised Shannon after Dana killed her. She came back, healed of Hel. And still, Morag’s magic is strong. They had no way to survive. They hoped for a long while Anja, whom Morag stole out of here,” she said and looked at the dead Anja, “would come and open it up. They hoped Morag would have a change of heart. It was not going to happen. So, yes, I helped them. It was a loathsome thing to do, for I loved them well. One sister tried to save another. Shannon had tried to recover the Nine, Dana followed her. The warrior, a loyal brute. I liked talking with them before I spared them a sad, hungry death. I waited after, slept, and fought boredom. I resisted the urge to put a drop of my blood on their mouths and to bring them back, even for a while.”

  “And now?” I asked, picking up my ax, and shield.

  She smiled. “And now, I must decide if I shall bring them back at all.” She shook her head, her deadly eyes gleaming inside the hood. She touched Shannon’s face. “She, a sad creature, who found peace, finally. She is a powerful human, able to heal. Frigg’s blessing is strong on her.” She smiled as she held Dana’s hand. “And this one? Afraid, for so long. Lok as a companion, Lok’s curse chasing her across time and space, and then, she finally found her bravery. They do deserve to be brought back. Even Anja there. Perhaps, one day.” She lifted something to my eyes. “The fate of this must first be decided.”

  It was the Gjallarhorn.

  Silvery chain hung from it and spread across the floor, gleaming. Silvery and golden, the dragon on top of the mighty artifact looked like it was alive.

  “What say you, jotun,” she wondered. “Are there anyone else, other than I, who might blow it?”

  I shook my head. “Baduhanna is dead. Your sisters and Hand of Hel are gone. Unless someone received a boon from a god, none.”

  She nodded. “And how is Midgard?”

  I shrugged. “War. It is torn by your sister’s abominations.”

  “And if I restore the gods?” she wondered. “If I bring them back? It seems my oath to return the Eye of Hel is finished. I owe Hel nothing. But do I owe the gods anything?”

  “There are a hundred thousand draugr—” I began.

  “I care not,” she said simply. “Draugr are draugr. They take what they can, and they can be mastered by brave men and women. Let them fight for Midgard. I care about this.”

  She lifted a stone dagger.

  Famine.

  It was a dark, long, and deadly looking stone dagger that had a disquieting aura.

  “When,” I said softly, “the Hand of Hel fell here, the first one, it was recalled to Hel.”

  “Aye,” she said. “So, Hel seems to think something might still pick up the mantle of being her Hand. A new Hand of Hel? I doubt there is anyone, but still, it is here. It was here for twenty years. Morag’s spell might have hampered Hel’s ability to recall it, but certainly she could, now. I do worry about it. Perhaps I shall hunt here for a bit. I shall think deep, if I will let the Aesir and the Vanir back to their precious worlds. I must seek their good deeds and weigh them against the evil they do, as they pretend to balance chaos with law. I will ponder their fate, and the fate of these friends of mine as well. I must not be hasty.”

  She touched Shannon’s mouth and hesitated. “A drop of blood, few more. It would do it. But for now? Show me the keep.”

  I nodded. “Your people and Morag’s are all gathered by the gate to Nifleheim. Up in the great hall.”

  “A hall? They built a fort here?” she said, smiling. “I have been there before, on that gate,” she said softly. “Wait. We travel. It is exhausting, but I want to see the world again! I wish to taste mead and feast.”

  “A feast is set up, lady,” I said. “A fine feast.”

  Her hands glowed, and she smiled with unchecked happiness, free at last. A gate glowed and opened before her. It was white, silvery, and beautiful, and she pulled me along as she stepped in it. I turned and grasped a body, pulling it with me, as I followed her. I was disoriented for a moment, and then, I could focus.

  I dropped the corpse.

  We were in the bloody hall, where ice was melting fast, and bodies filled the room. She looked back at me, smiling. “A feast? Looks like the feast is over, though it seemed to be a lively one. And you brought your own dinner?” she asked, and eyed the corpse. “Will you make the introductions?”

  I bowed. “I thought you knew most of them.”

  She turned and observed the group around her. “I do. Most of them.”

  There, standing around the hall and the ruins of the ancient gate, stood Thrum and hundreds of his dverger, and my jotuns, only thirty now. The draugr had tried to get in, sending hundreds of against the main hall. A steaming mess of horrible battle-dead littered the doorway.

  Urac was by those doors, looking on with worry.

  Medusa smiled and looked at the creatures she had once known. She smiled brightly like a star in the sky and lifted her hands high. “I salute you, companions in arms. Free, finally! I am free, and you are as well. I know not what trouble you have faced, but it is time for us to stand together. We are free of oaths, free of prison, and free to have an adventure.”

  I nodded.

  Thrum whistled.

  Four ballistae fired. Steel javelins shot out at her, pierced her, and threw her on her back. The javelins had chain secured in them, and the chains were tied to pillars, and she looked in horror at her wounds as she thrashed her way up.

  “What is this?” she roared.

  Many jotuns lifted axes and charged.

  She whirled in surprise, saw the axes high above her, and ripped off her cowl. The terrible, fierce eyes smote down two of ours, then four more, creating a macabre gallery of statues. Her swords whipped around and butchered two more.

  Dverger pulled at the chains, and she fell, cursing.

  The dverger lifted their crossbows and fired.

  She howled and fell on her back as dozens of bolts struck her. A jotun leaped forward. Ax smote her, then another, and the sharp weapons drew blood.

  A heaving mass of jotuns descended on her, axes coming down brutally hard.

  One turned to stone, another howled and fell as swords stabbed, and one stumbled away, his face snake bitten. I walked past the jotuns with Asra. The jotuns struggled to keep her down, and then, three fell into a stony curse, howling briefly with their eyes gone, then their bodies were statues that showed all the signs of terrible agony in death.

  She moved, got stopped by the chains, and cast a spell. She was terribly hurt, wounded all over her body, but she released a spell at Thrum’s dverger, a forked lightning which carved a way through a group holding one chain. They were torn to pieces, and she ripped the chain free. She gazed at a party of dverger holding the other chain and killed half, the fools who had watched her. She tore that chain free as well. Jotuns pressed her, and she hacked up and down.

  I saw the desperation in her eyes.

  She moved fast and summoned a gate, snarling, her snakes snapping, swords swirling at the enemy that was close, their axes and blood raining down around her.

  She turned to jump to the gate.

  I moved fast and bashed the powerful Grinl
ark down. It struck her skull.

  She went down heavily, her skull crushed.

  The remaining jotuns took steps back, led by Heimdr. Asra stepped forward from the side, and Thrum, holding his ax circled her.

  Medusa looked up at me as I kicked her swords away. Her eyes were losing their potency, and I managed to look at her.

  “Why?” she asked. “Jotuns, chaos, betrayal, but you seemed—”

  “Because I am tired of being a man,” I said tiredly. “I am tired of being a victim of old, evil bastards, and greedy nobles. I am no longer a lost jotun in Midgard, fighting for men, for scraps, and against my own kin. I am tired of dreaming of the return of the gods, and instead, I found my own. I made a pact with my own god. For victory in battle, I’d give a grand sacrifice. Alas, lady, you are the only sacrifice worth giving. I shall give Bolthorn you, and I shall be granted a place in his table, a jotun more powerful than most First Born. My kin failed in Midgard, and forgot to pay our own god their due. They forgot to serve him, and to be what we were born to be. Conquerors, not rulers. I will not fail. I am … free. Like you were, just now.” I lifted the Grinlark and bashed it down.

  She died.

  I held my head. If a god can laugh, Bolthorn was laughing. I felt his mirth, the sullen beast amused, hopeful, and happy. He was full of cruel happiness, and at that moment, on the moment of my deceitful victory, his spirit reached out to me. I felt Black Grip changing. I felt it twisting around my hand and fusing to my flesh. I smelled the burning meat, the terrible hot iron becoming part of my bones. It didn’t hurt.

  It felt glorious.

  And for once, and for all time, until Bolthorn would raise another to take my place, long after my death, I became one with the ancient ones, a Son of Ymir, a true son of the great god, his blood, his chosen champion. I was full of power, I saw the magical flows of the Filling Void like never and knew all the spells of our kin, all the past of our old family.

  I got up, crashing to the roof, twenty-foot-tall, and I grasped the Horn from Medusa’s belt. It grew to accommodate me.

  I lifted it to my lips. And I blew it.

  A sound rang out. It was an odd one, seemingly coming from a thousand such horns. It rang out with clear notes, it rang out bravely, it rang like a horn of conquest, and it was just that, indeed.

  The air before us shimmered.

  Snow and wind blew in the room, scattering letters, goblets, and clothing.

  I hesitated and closed my eyes.

  Bolthorn. I have delivered, I thought. “Thank you.”

  And he answered. And you have, Morag of Ymir, Son of Ymir, Champion of Jotuns. You shall carry your father’s name, which he kept even after pretending to be a human. You shall return home. You shall bring me the Horn, and you shall lead the armies of Nifleheim against the Nine Worlds. We shall make war, we shall gather tribute, we will take land, and the way things were, once, shall return. Gods be damned. Hel was right. But let it be us, and not them, whom the worlds shall bow down to. Come, Morag of Ymir. Finish your business. You shall be back, one day, to steal Midgard for us.

  I looked at the troops gathered there.

  Thrum nodded and marched his thousand through the gate. They shimmered and disappeared. I nodded at Heimdr, who marched his twelve remaining jotuns over Medusa.

  I watched them go and turned to Urac, shrinking in size. I wondered at the gauntlet, part of me, and all the secrets it harbored. I noticed he was kneeling before me, and I shook my head to clear it.

  Champion of Ymir.

  I took a flask. I kneeled next to Medusa and opened a wound on her side. I squeezed out her blood, several drops of it, twenty and more.

  Then, I showed it to Urac.

  “Tell Nima,” I said. “that I am sorry I gave her war and left her facing draugr and civil war. It is best for me to see those who will one day oppose us, fight each other. Tell her she can bow before me and surrender her lands, and I shall one day aid her, perhaps. Tell the others what you will.” I gave him the scroll filled with names. “Tell her, that her father conspired to topple her new throne. Tell her she should kill all these men, to stay safe. For some reason, I think she can, and will.”

  He took the scroll.

  “I will, King Morag, tell her all this, and the others? I shall them what I will. Will you not raise your family?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “They failed. And I shall not be challenged.”

  He smiled. “Of course. No challenges.” He looked tricky.

  I smiled. “Oh, you think there might be a challenge, after all? If you bring back Dana and Shannon, and that Anja,” I told him, “tell them only death waits them beyond this point. The Horn is ours now. Jotun-treasure, Urac, and not theirs.”

  “How will we defeat the draugr?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Use swords and bravery. Bring back the mighty kings and clever queens to fight the dead. Find a ruler, if you can. I doubt you can. As I said, it is best for us that our foes fight amongst themselves.”

  He looked down. “And if I bring back Baduhanna and Medusa?”

  I smiled. “I will kill Baduhanna again. Medusa’s corpse comes with me.”

  I watched a heap of bodies, and the one I had brought with me. Urac pointed at one covered corpse at the edge of the room.

  I walked to it and kneeled next to Sand. I smiled and poured a drop of Medusa’s blood into his mouth. He began glowing softly, the terrible wounds slowly regenerating into healthy skin. I shook my head. “Not even jotun-gods can do that. A true miracle. My queen?” Asra stepped out and looking with simmering hate the corpse I had brought with me from the depths, grasped Sand, and carried him through.

  Urac was frowning. “Why her ?”

  I sat next to Rhean. “Because I love her. I cannot help it. I will love Aras in one way, and her with my heart. I hope she enjoys Nifleheim, our trek to Bolthorn, and her position as a queen of jotun-kin. Do not worry. There will be many queens.” I winked. “I think she will dislike me now, and she’ll be so unhappy, that I might fall out of love with her.”

  I poured a drop to her mouth as well, lifted her over my shoulder, and grasped Medusa by her snakes. I handed the blood to Urac, and he took it with a bow. “They will,” he said, “come after you. Jotun-treasure. I know the word. It means a contested treasure.”

  I laughed as I went for the gate, dragging Medusa behind. The bolts embedded in her flesh were snapping as I walked. “Let them come, then. The era of the jotuns is back. The Horn is ours. The Nine will be as well. I am happy to leave Midgard. I love nothing here.”

  Urac laughed. “Lok the trickster bless you, lord. I wish you the best of luck, Morag of Ymir. If Nima is pregnant, you will one day, perhaps, love something in Midgard.”

  He walked for the stairs that led down to Mara’s Brow.

  I cursed Nima, I cursed Rhean, and then, I stepped through the gate. There, after a moment, a breath away, really, I faced my army and a landscape of timeless ice. Far, far in the north, waited Bolthorn, who would rule the Nine with his sisters and brothers, and I, one of them, their Champion.

  I put down Rhean, and noticed she was breathing. So was Sand, looking roguish and a perfect fool again.

  Then, I put down Medusa, pulled a drop of blood from her side and placed it on her lips. They were bringing fetters for her, and before that, I searched her bag and belt.

  I dug out Famine. It was evil, and terrible, and had been waiting for a new carrier, someone with promise. It had, perhaps, waited for Euryale.

  It suddenly disappeared in my hands. It was with Hel.

  Euryale had died. The dagger was no longer in Midgard. Hel gave up.

  Then I remembered Euryale had bitten Medusa in the side. The right side.

  I frowned, and looked at the gate, and wondered how contested the Horn would be.

  - The final book, Helheim, shall finish both the Ten Tears Chronicles, and the Thief of Midgard series by December 2018 -

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