Viking Lost

by Derek Nelsen

  Her throne was massive and beautiful. It was made of small, intricate repeating patterns—soul rings inlaid with gemstones of every kind—circles of gold and silver woven with a rainbow.

  After her necklace, the bedazzled throne was a testament to how many people of means gave their souls to this woman. When she sat on it, magnificent as it was, Kiara could only see Hella’s eyes. The beautiful emeralds had withered in deference to whites that looked like polished pearls.

  Two maidens appeared from the shadows to seat Tor and Runa across from each other, next to Hella. Tor pulled his chair away from the lady, and the ledge, before he sat. Runa’s face was drained, like she needed to rest. The maidens sat Kiara next to Tor. Then, as if seating a troll’s head was a perfectly normal thing to do, plopped Svikar right on the table next to Runa.

  Runa emptied her cup.

  “That’s what she needed. I told you I’d take you to someone who could help.” Svikar smiled a cautious, toothy grin. “Are you sure you want me here, mum?”

  Hella ignored the troll. Runa refilled her cup, fumbling the pitcher and spilling some of the red liquid on the table. Svikar extended his forked tongue and licked at the pool like a dog cleaning an empty plate.

  After Tor took a sip and quickly put it down again, Kiara sniffed her cup. Foreign and strong, it burned her nose. The drink clung to the sides, red and thick as blood. She put it down without taking a sip. “Do you have any water?”

  “Is my wife going to be alright, lady?” asked Tor.

  “She’s definitely stronger, but only a shell of her former self. Wouldn’t you say, Svikar?” Hella smiled.

  The troll looked up from shining the table with his tongue. “Yes, mum. I think she needed a drink. Just a bit o’ the thirst is all. I’m a little thirsty myself.”

  The lady looked at Svikar as if what he wanted was about as interesting as his bathing advice.

  Done waiting for assistance, the troll’s tongue slid up and over the edge of his cup like a serpent, and he managed to tilt it to where it cradled awkwardly between his long nose and quivering lower lip. Somehow, he managed to get most of the red liquid to spill down his face and into his mouth.

  Between Runa and Svikar, it was hard to tell who was more responsible for wetting the table.

  “I can see you all are famished.” Hella snapped her fingers, then put her hand on Tor’s thigh as she leaned toward Kiara. “You are a pretty little thing, aren’t you, girl?” She tilted her head back to look her over like a prized pig. “Well, you could be if you did something with yourself.”

  Kiara reflexively pushed her hair behind her ear. “Do you want me to bless the food, ma’am?” Kiara lowered her eyes and waited.

  The troll slowed his awkward attempt at drinking to raise a confused eyebrow at their hostess.

  “Are you praying now?” asked Hella.

  “No, ma’am. I was just—”

  “Let me be clear, little girl.” Hella turned a ghostly white. “When you sit at my table, the only being you will give thanks to will be me.”

  Tor lifted the lady’s hand from his leg and reached across the table.

  “Runa, how are you feeling? Better?”

  Runa shook his hand away and continued to empty another cup.

  Kiara put her ring to her lips and began to breathe a silent prayer.

  Hella rolled her eyes, then sharply slapped her hand on the table.

  Kiara almost fell back in her chair.

  Plates clanked as three different, uglier girls brought the food and refilled the cups. One held a heavy tray as the others dished out what appeared to be mutton with stewed vines mixed with onions and something else Kiara didn’t recognize.

  Hella aggressively waved her hand at Kiara. “Keep going. It’s been so long since I’ve heard those sour notes. I’m actually feeling nostalgic.”

  I wasn’t doing it for you. Kiara dropped her ring back in her shirt. She looked down at her plate and pulled a long, black hair from atop the meat. She was so hungry she wasn’t sure she cared. She reached out to tug on one of the girl’s apron strings to get her attention.

  “Can I get some water, please?” She nearly choked when a tail slipped out from under the girl’s dress. Before the girl tucked it away again, Kiara had seen every coarse, brown hair and doubted she’d ever forget its black, tufted tip.

  That broke whatever was left of the enchantment. Kiara dropped the black tail hair back where she found it and pushed the plate away. She’d be better off starving.

  “That’s not mutton.” Tor pushed his plate away after tasting the first bite. “Lady,”—he wiped his tongue on his sleeve—“I need you to help my wife. Look at her.”

  Runa continued to guzzle the draft, as if her thirst had no end, and Svikar obliviously lapped up the drink he’d spilt on the table to wash down whatever his tongue had managed to drag off his plate.

  “We’re here for your help, not—whatever this is.”

  Hella put her hand on Tor’s arm and smiled. “I like you, Viking.”

  “I’m not a Viking.” Tor pulled his arm away. “And that is my wife.”

  “I’m sorry. Did my touching your husband offend you, Runa?” the lady mocked.

  Runa was too busy stealing Tor’s cup to notice.

  “I’m sorry to you, too, Tor.” She put her hand back on his arm and smiled again. “I guess I didn’t understand. Are you not Tor, son of Ove?” Hella turned a mocking grin. “And you brought Runa to me because she wanted me specifically—not Freyja. And you love her because she is a wonderful wife and mother to your two boys—Toren and Erik.”

  Maybe she was a goddess, thought Kiara. No. Maybe a witch—or a demon.

  Tor looked like he’d been called out for trying to teach a butcher how to sharpen a knife.

  Hella wasn’t done. “And you aren’t at all interested in me.” As she ran her fingers through his thick hair, he looked lost, but he didn’t pull away. Her voice sharpened. “You did not lose a daughter to a troll.”

  Both Tor and Hella turned their attention to Svikar. The troll’s tongue caught halfway out of his mouth while inhaling a piece of stewed vine.

  “You didn’t stand by while that saint of a woman blamed your son all these years—an eight-year-old boy, for not doing a good enough job of taking care of her child!”

  Tor started to stand up to leave, but Hella pushed him back down in his chair like he was a little child.

  “I will give you a choice then, Tor,” Hella whispered in his ear, then licked his cheek. “You said you were just a farmer, yet you carry a sword. Well, use it. Sacrifice the Christian to me, and I’ll save your wife.”

  Kiara’s fingers tightened around her soul as the room went silent. Her pounding heart racked in her chest. All this way, and now she was going to die.

  She had to escape. Tor would catch her if she went for the gate. Hella and a curtain of blood vines were between her and the ledge—beyond them, the abyss.

  For the first time since they filled the cups, Runa stopped drinking. Even the troll stopped gorging himself. Stares criss-crossed the table.

  When Hella let go of Tor’s shoulder, he bolted to his feet, knocking his chair over as he backed away from the table and the throne, his sword drawn.

  “Well?” Hella sat down, looked at her plate, and pushed it away in disgust. “Runa or Kiara? It’s your decision.”

  Then her cold pearl eyes cut like knives toward the gate. It swung open, and two dwarfs clunked across the room.

  Kiara drew her cup close. It was all she had.

  Both were short, about as tall as her shoulders. She thought about Erik’s stories. Did dwarfs like humans? She doubted it mattered.

  The first dwarf was thin. His shirt was white and pressed, and his boots were dainty. They looked new, clean, and shined to a gloss with thick soles and tall heels that added two unearned inches.

  The one who followed was thicker, harder, redder, and hairier than the first. His shirt was not white, not
anymore, anyway. His boots had metal toes, heavy and thick with dust. He carried a hammer, and it clunked against the floor as he landed it at Hella’s feet. He used it as a prop to lower himself, bones cracking, to one knee.

  What chance would a hammer stand against a sword?

  The former stood up straight, trying to be tall in his own way, and he brushed his strawberry-blond beard with his thick fingers. A gold tooth centered with a yellow jewel glimmered with its unfortunate color choice. Kiara was reminded it had been a while since she’d cleaned her teeth.

  He placed a furry, orange sack on the table in front of Hella. Bile rose in Kiara’s throat. The fur looked like it came from a cat.

  The dwarf swelled with pride as Hella peered into the sack, showing off another ugly gold tooth just under the first, this one emblazoned with a very red ruby.

  If this was what Kiara could expect from dwarfs, Tor would be scraping their gold teeth from the bottom of his boots while Icebreaker cleaved her in two.

  That was it. She was going to die today.

  Sacrifice to the Goddess

  “Rotinn, you little maggot! You dare barge into my—” Hella stopped, took a deep breath, and let her face return to its unnaturally cool pallor. “No. Actually, I could use a little adoration right now.” She smirked at Tor. “Pay attention, Viking—this dwarf is about to show you something you can do to make me happy.”

  The young dwarf stuck out his white-shirted belly and rocked back and forth on his tall heels. The elder stayed low and kept still.

  Hella’s eyes sparkled as she poured the contents of the sack onto the table. Her lips pursed as her thin fingers pushed one, two, then three rings back toward the dwarf.

  “Nice jewelry, eh lady?”

  Hella’s palms scattered the gold- and silver-coated souls around the table where she sat. “Did you bring nothing for me, Rotinn?” she asked glumly.

  He looked at the rings, his left eye twitching. Then he smiled, picked up a gold one inlaid with a gold coin, and shined it against his jacket. With a thick, calloused finger, he pushed it back toward the lady. “Did you not see this one, lady? It’s as fine as half the rings I’ve ever brought you.”

  She picked it up and smiled. Then shoved it in his face—nearly knocking him off his treacherously high heels. “Whose likeness is carved into this coin, Rotinn?”

  “It’s Freyja, mum. But it is finely made—for the work of a man, anyway. Many a dwarf would be proud to have made that one—many of these, in fact.”

  “Let me see your hammer, Slegge,” she demanded.

  The rougher, older dwarf looked at Rotinn, unsure.

  “Well? Give her your hammer,” said Rotinn.

  With a calloused hand, an “Umph,” and a crack of his knees, he leaned on the hilt of his hammer and pushed himself to his feet. The little brick of a dwarf removed his long, knitted cap and used it to wipe fresh sweat and stale soot from his face and balding head. Then he crossed his arms in front of his belly, his hat and hammer hanging from thick hands, his heavy shoulders rolled slightly forward.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Put it right here on the table.”

  “Come on, then. You heard her. Chop, chop! Put it on the table!” Rotinn squawked.

  Slegge eased the heavy sledge down on its iron head with both hands firmly on the handle. The room cringed when the table shook under the power of it.

  “Rotinn,” said Hella, “you’re the second living soul today to bring me a ring bearing the picture of Freyja as tribute.” She sneered at Runa, a mere shell. “Does your ring have a likeness of that angel, too, Slegge?”

  “N-n-no.” His long, bushy brow climbed high on his crinkled forehead.

  “I want to see it.”

  “Ma’am?”

  She took the dwarf’s hand in hers and smiled. “Please show me your ring. I want to look at it.”

  She guided his hand to the hammer’s base. Slegge’s eyes drooped as his fingers gave a quick twist to loosen the thick, golden collar before lifting it up off the handle. He stared at it as if seeing it for the first time, or perhaps the last. Hella used her forearms to clear a space in front of her, leaving a lonely hole amid the array of silver and gold. The dwarf pushed his ring toward the center. The lady’s eyes tilted and urged him on, and he gave it another nudge.

  “Now this is beautiful.” Hella examined the soul, picking it up as easily as if it were a common arm ring. “The details are exquisite.” And they were. Tor remembered the stories of dwarfs being able to work magic at the forge. And Slegge’s ring was steeped in it. Both white and yellow gold seemed to swim along the surface of the ring to play at forming dwarfish words and runes. Hella smiled at the old dwarf. “This is your best work, Slegge?”

  “I think so.” Her eyes pierced his. Then he stood up straight. “Yes. I’ve worked it over and over again my whole life. I can’t do better with what I know. Well,” he looked at it hard, “perhaps a few things.” He lifted his hand as if to take it back, but she just drew it closer.

  Tor remembered that feeling. When he gave up his ring, he knew he’d made a bad trade, like everything he thought he wanted seemed hollow. He knew the yearning to get it back. He looked around the table, hoping to find another piece of that weed to calm his nerves. No luck.

  “You can have these.” Hella pushed the gold and silver rings toward Slegge. “This is the one I want.”

  “Lady...” The older dwarf took a step forward but stopped when Hella’s eyes turned to flame. “Ma’am, there’s ten feet here, maybe twelve. My ring’ll get you an inch.”

  Rotinn looked worried. “Mum, without his ring my father’s hammer is all but useless to you.”

  “To me, Rotinn? You mean to you, don’t you?” With eyes as callous as Slegge’s hands, she stared at the white-shirted pretender. “Let me see your ring, Rotinn.”

  “Mum?”

  Hella put Slegge’s ring down on the table and held out her hand. Rotinn pulled a gem-encrusted ring from his hollow chest. It hung on a thick, gold-weaved necklace. “Very colorful. And big. I can hardly see your ring at all in there.” She took Rotinn’s wrist and ran her nails to the charm. His hands looked supple and smooth. “Is this your work, Rotinn?”

  He scratched the floor with the heel of his boot. “I designed it.” then he stood up straight. “I’m too busy managing our mines and bartering for rings to work the hammer or the forge.”

  “I’m sure your father is thrilled.”

  Rotinn’s frown hid those bejeweled and tinseled teeth of his. “My father would have me break stone all my life.” The dainty dwarf caught the glare of the elder and softened his tone. “No, ma’am. My father dressed my ring for me.”

  “You are skilled with the hammer, Slegge.” She nodded to the red dwarf. Slegge took his eyes off his son.

  “Lady.” Slegge leaned forward but stopped short of reaching for his ring. “We did not mean to offend you.” He bowed his head, then picked up a handful of the rings she’d rejected. “These can still help you extend your reach. I can add these at the bottom of your necklace if you’d like—where the images of Freyja will melt back into the world by the fires of Svartalfheim’s forge—you’ll never see them again.”

  Even Tor was sweating from watching her give them a silent stare.

  “There might even be fifteen feet here, ya think? You’ll never see them. Maybe eighteen, eh boy?”

  “If you want my father’s ring.”—Rotinn turned his shoulder to shrug off the elder’s hand—“it’s yours, of course, lady.”

  Slegge’s wild red eyebrows bent hard as he glared at his son.

  “Why, thank you, Rotinn.” Hella smiled, and the air grew warm again.

  The fancy dwarf sighed, lowered his eyes, and tried to withdraw his outstretched hand along with his gaudy ring—but she tightened her grip on his wrist.

  “Eeeahhh!” The dainty dwarf winced.

  “But I like yours, too, Rotinn,” she whined. “It’s tiny and garish, but charming�
�like you. You know, your father does have magnificent skill with the hammer and forge. You should show him more respect. He’s a credit to all dwarfs.”

  Slegge snatched at his ring, but the lady’s supple hand was quick as a serpent, and she locked her grip around his thick forearm.

  Tor jumped back from the table and started making his way toward Runa.

  “Aaagh!” Slegge grabbed his hammer and swung it to break Hella’s arm. Her soft, pearl skin spiraled into a mass of wild, ice-blue vines that caught its iron head like a fisher’s net.

  With a snap, the hammer came back at Slegge, hitting him in the chest. He barreled backward, knocking Svikar off the table before cracking his bald head against the stone floor.

  Tor grabbed Runa’s arm and jerked her away from the table. She cradled her cup as if it were a baby. Tor looked inside. It was empty.

  An icy tremor ran up Tor’s spine.

  Everything had shifted, as if a veil had been torn away. The throne and the table stayed the same, but they were no longer under the stars. They were inside a great stone hall—and the simple gate was gone. Tor looked down to make sure he was, in truth, still holding Ice Breaker and not some prop of a magic trick.

  Still there. His heart started beating again. There had to be a door along that back wall. The only other way out was the wall of vines behind Hella’s throne. Could that be an illusion, too? But before the thought passed, the terror of the abyss took his breath away. We’ve got to find that door.

  Hella wasn’t finished with the dwarf. Each finger of the hand that held Rotinn lengthened, becoming its own blue, spindly vine. One tied up his wrist before snaking its way to his throat. The others slithered down the table to slip on some of the gold and silver rings, until they looked like the fingers of some rich widow. Before retracting back into a hand, she dribbled the rejected rings down into Rotinn’s shirt and wrapped him up tight.

  Tor dragged the half-conscious Runa away from the table as the white-shirted dwarf struggled to breathe.