by Bec McMaster
Glamor.
Rurik needed her.
But she suddenly realized that the danger was right here, right now. And if she didn’t pull herself together and defend herself, then there would be nobody to keep Rurik anchored to the mortal realm.
She spun around, calling lightning to her fingertips as she turned on the elf. Ishtar flinched away from it.
But the bastard grappled with Andromeda, and to wield her magic would be to hurt the Zilittu queen too.
“Andromeda.” Draco drew his sword with a steely rasp, and Freyja suddenly realized that the five of them were trapped in some sort of translucent bubble. She could see dreki and alfar fighting all around them; she could even hear the distant clash of swords, as if the fighting was miles away.
But nobody burst into this little circle on the ground.
They moved around it as if not even aware of it.
Damn it. She was trapped in a side pocket of reality with only Draco, Andromeda, and Ishtar for company.
And her husband was dying on the other side.
Draco’s voice held a strange lilt to it as he stepped forward. “If you hurt one hair on my queen’s head, then I will make you beg for the relief of death.”
The elf grabbed a fistful of the Zilittu queen’s hair and sniffed it with a vicious smile. “Stay right where you are.”
His voice cut through them all, and Freyja’s feet glued themselves to the ground. What on earth?
Fury etched itself on Draco’s face, and he held one hand toward Andromeda. The impotent look of rage in his eyes was frightening.
“Let her go!” Freyja cried, drawing the knife at her side.
The creature grabbed Andromeda harder and put the knife to her throat. “Oh, no, a royal decree. Whatever shall I do, Your Highness?” His voice changed, softened, slid over her skin like silk. “Put the knife down, little queen, and get on your hands and knees and crawl toward me.”
And then he laughed.
Freyja’s hand tightened around the hilt of the blade. She could sense his voice slithering over her skin, seeking a way inside her head.
No. If she gave in, she would crawl, and then he’d bury that knife in her heart. Her other hand splayed over her lower abdomen. It wasn’t just her life he toyed with, though she hadn’t even had the chance to tell Rurik the truth. She’d wanted to wait for a moment where he wasn’t so worried about his mother’s scheme.
She’d wanted it to be a moment they could enjoy.
I will not let this bastard kill my child.
I will not let him harm my husband.
Freyja took her first step toward him, her hand curling around her knife as she gave a shiver and shed the compulsion to crawl. “Put your own knife on the floor and kiss my boots, and I might just let you live.”
Tyndyr stared at her, his eyes widening. “How did you—”
And then his gaze shifted to hers, and his jaw dropped open, a wild light filling his eyes.
“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” the creature said with a laugh, and then its features blurred, and the perfection dripped from his face.
Freyja hesitated. The alfar warrior was still blond and homicidally good-looking, but there was something wild and savage about him, and his eyes, his eyes were just like hers—
“Stop it,” said a voice to her left.
The elf stiffened, his glee souring a little before a strange light came into his eyes. “Oh, now this is perfect.”
Freyja’s heart kicked into her throat. “Ishtar,” she whispered as her sister-in-law walked slowly toward them, Chaos energy turning her eyes a violent green. “No! Don’t get too close!”
But Ishtar kept walking.
“You lied to me,” Ishtar whispered, a single tear sliding down her face. “You said you were my friend, and that if I opened the portal for you, you’d go home. I wanted to help you, because that is what friends do, and you lied to me.”
Tyndyr held his hands out. “What can I say? This is war, Princess. And war is brutal and bloody. But we can still be friends.” He moved toward her. “I do want to go home. And you’re going to open another portal for me, now that your bitch mother is useless to me.”
If he got his hands on Ishtar—
“Princess,” Draco warned. He fought against invisible chains. “Stay away from him.”
Freyja hurled her whip of lightning at him.
Light exploded in front of her. Tyndyr burned as white-hot as phosphorus for a second, and Ishtar screamed as he waved the lightning away from him.
It all happened at once.
Heat rolled over her. Light. Freyja waved it apart, catching sight of the elf in the midst of that burning supernova. The shining ones, her mother had called them. And though the light revealed Draco on his knees and screaming with his hands over his eyes, and Andromeda clutching at her own face, it glanced off Freyja as though it reflected from a mirror.
She drew the knife at her hip and lunged forward, driving it into the elf’s shoulder. They were plunged into a darkness so absolute it seemed as though night had swallowed the sun, until she blinked and realized it was only the absence of light after such brightness.
The elf snarled and kicked Andromeda forward into Draco’s arms. He moved faster than Freyja could imagine, grabbing her wrist and hauling her into his arms.
The stink of burned metal singed her nostrils.
Freyja yanked herself back, slightly off-balance, and then she cracked her forehead into the bastard’s nose.
He staggered back, clutching at his face as blood spurted between his fingers. But he didn’t let go of her.
Agony suddenly lanced through her.
She clutched at her chest, staggering forward, the knife dropping from nerveless fingers.
What was happening to her?
Had she been… shot?
No. Not her. Her heart. Her soul.
“Rurik,” she whispered.
Something was happening to him.
And then there was a knife to her throat, and the game was over. “Dying, little one,” said a dangerous voice right in her ear. “Your filthy wretch of a king is dying. But you won’t die. I won’t let you. No, you’re going to be the greatest gift of all. I know a certain alfar king who would love to get his hands on you.”
“No!” She had to get to her mate.
“Open the portal,” he told Ishtar, hauling Freyja back against his chest. “Or I will kill her.”
And then his knife slid between the valley of Freyja’s breasts and locked, point- first on her heart.
Freyja clutched at his hand, meeting Ishtar’s gaze. If he took her to Álfheimr, then this war would be won before even a blow had been delivered, for Rurik would tear the world apart before he let her go.
If he survived.
“Don’t do it,” she warned. “Don’t listen to him. Get out of here. Go to Rurik. He’ll protect you.”
“No!” Ishtar blurted, one hand outstretched. “Don’t hurt her.”
“I won’t ask you again,” the elf sneered. “Open the portal to Álfheimr or I’ll kill her.”
“He’s not going to kill me!” she cried desperately. “He wants to gift me to his king!”
“Her head will be a gift, if I cannot give her myself.”
Ishtar drew herself up straight, magic starting to glow in her eyes. “I have your word that neither of us will be harmed?”
Tyndyr laughed again. “I give you my word, Princess. Neither of you shall be harmed within the halls of Álfheimr. I will lay my life down on that fact. Now open the portal.”
“Ishtar, don’t believe him!”
But there was a firm resolve in Ishtar’s eyes. “We go to Álfheimr.”
And then her voice whispered in Freyja’s mind, “Trust me, Freyja. I Saw this. It has to happen like this. It’s the only way to beat them.”
Magic streamed past her.
A kaleidoscope of colors.
Freyja tried to scream, but as the portal sprang to
life around her, she realized the truth: No one could hear her. No one could see her.
In front of her, a woman who looked like her knelt by Rurik’s side, tears streaming down her face as Sirius tried to heal him.
It was so real, she almost believed it herself.
“Rurik!” she tried to scream, as the portal enveloped the pair of them.
The last thing she saw was her husband suddenly jerk into a sitting position, his eyes locked upon her, before the world collapsed in upon her and everything went dark.
There had been no sign of the alfar, but the second the arrow struck the king, shimmering veils rippled everywhere and then dozens of elves—hundreds—suddenly appeared.
Right in their midst.
Solveig fell into a defensive stance, her gaze raking the top of the mountain. Steel clashed nearby, but it was to Marduk that her shocked gaze went.
Freyja screamed, her knees going out from under her.
Sirius caught her, but the king slowly toppled like a felled oak into Marduk’s arms. Their eyes met over the top of the king’s body, and she could almost feel Marduk’s horror.
“No,” he whispered, grasping the shaft of the arrow in Rurik’s chest.
“Heal him!” Solveig screamed, reaching over her shoulder and drawing the sword that was sheathed down her spine. “I’ll keep them off your back.” Then she turned and bellowed, “The king is down! To me! To me! Protect the king!”
Stepping back, she used her body to protect Marduk and Rurik. An arrow hissed toward her, and she slapped it from the air, lifting her sword again.
Someone bumped into her right shoulder, and she saw another figure emerge to her left.
Haakon to one side of her, his face grim as he held his blade low. Bryn on the other side, her Valkyrie blade igniting into flames as she drew it. And over the top of all it, Solveig could hear the booming laugh of the giant axe man.
“And here I thought I was going to miss the fighting!” Tormund sounded utterly delighted.
“You’re an idiot,” Haakon snapped. “Keep your mind on the battle.”
“You’re just jealous because I’ve got a shiny new axe which hasn’t been blooded yet,” Tormund shot back. “I’ll bet you your weight in gold that I kill more of these mincing little pricks than you do.”
“Done,” Haakon said, stepping forward and engaging a pair of alfar that came at him.
“And if I win,” Bryn yelled, stepping forward to slam her boot into an alfar shield. “Then I want a crown. A legendary crown.”
“Where am I going to get a crown from?” Tormund demanded.
“I’ve been listening to some tales of trolls,” the former Valkyrie replied. “There’s an ancient Viking graveyard to the south of us….”
“If there are draugr there, then you can get your own crown,” Tormund replied.
Bryn clucked like a chicken.
Solveig shook her head. The foolishness was spreading. She lunged forward as one of the alfar appeared out of nowhere. Steel rang on steel, and then she went to one knee, below his next strike, and brought her blade across his midriff.
The elf gave a startled cry, swinging off-balance.
Solveig stood and kicked him in the chest, spilling entrails out of him everywhere.
“That’s three!” panted the big Norseman.
Solveig waved a hand as two elves sprinted toward her, unleashing a torrent of Air. She flung them off the top of the mountain, listening to their screams as they hurtled to their deaths.
It was a moment of respite in the middle of battle. She fell back. “Marduk?”
“Got the arrow… out.” He knelt by his brother’s side, hands pressing desperately over the king’s chest.
Sirius knelt by the king’s head, his fingers pressed against Rurik’s temples even as Freyja clutched his hand.
“If anyone can heal him,” Marduk whispered to the queen, “then it will be Sirius.”
There was no emotion on Freyja’s face. Merely blankness. It was as if she hadn’t heard him.
The Blackfrost’s lips thinned, as if he heard them but didn’t dare divert his attention long enough to comment. A single glance at the wound told Solveig everything she needed to know
This would be close.
And then Rurik sat upright, trying desperately to grab something.
Solveig followed his gaze. Draco lifted himself off Andromeda, having thrown himself over her as a dreki shield.
And right in the center of a clear patch of grass was an elf on his knees, screaming his rage to the sky.
“No!” The elf yelled, shaking a fist at the sky. “Come back, you bitch! You were supposed to take me with you!”
Solveig drew up short. What the hell?
And then she recognized the sulky pout of his mouth.
“You,” she whispered, her blade straightening.
Tyndyr.
He looked at her as if he heard her. The grief on his face vanished, and he pushed to his feet slowly, as if he shook off his loss. “I’ll slake my rage on you, you filthy dreki bitch.”
The world seemed to narrow.
The fight around them vanished, until all Solveig could hear was metal clashing on metal in the distance.
“Stay here,” she told Marduk. “This bastard’s mine.”
A pair of Zilittu warriors rushed at Tyndyr. Flashes of steel blurred the air, their blades meeting some form of resistance, but it wasn’t until the tall blond warrior suddenly appeared behind one of the dreki that she knew what was happening. He drove his sword through the Zilittu’s back, and then threw the dying dreki into his companion. They both went down, and the elf stepped forward and drove his blade through the other’s eye.
The dreki died with a scream.
Fast. Almost impossibly fast.
And using glamor to cover his tracks.
“Now it’s just you and me,” she told the elvish general.
Tyndyr shot her a contemptuous smile as he used his fingers to flick dreki blood from his sword. “Consider it my pleasure to end your life, little wyrm.”
Solveig sneered at him. “You’re not the first male to try. And you won’t be the last. Maybe I’ll make a pretty crown with your finger bones.”
He whirled toward her, and she moved to meet the blow—except her sword swept right through him, plunging her off balance. The image in front of her suddenly dissolved like mist.
A boot slammed between her shoulder blades from behind.
Solveig crashed into the ground.
She rolled to the left, coming up with her sword in hand, just as Tyndyr stabbed his blade into the ground where she’d been only seconds earlier.
He swept past her in a blur that defied her vision and then spun, his cloak flaring out behind him. With a mocking bow, he tossed his sword from left to right hand and gave it a little flourish.
“You filthy wyrms have forgotten how to fight.”
Solveig scrambled to get to her feet, her nostrils flaring. He’d somehow… glamored her. What she’d thought was her opponent was mere illusion.
Which meant he was more dangerous than she’d imagined.
Right. Solveig straightened. She couldn’t rely on her vision. The eyes could be fooled. The ears could be fooled. But no magical creature had ever been able to fool the nose.
Tyndyr stalked her in a steady circle, and Solveig crossed one foot over the other, echoing him. A hint of scent told her he was not where he looked to be.
A sword came out of nowhere, and Solveig did her best to meet it. The edge of the blade rippled back into nothingness, and then he appeared out of nowhere. “You’re learning. Not fast enough though.”
Tyndyr smiled. And then suddenly there were six of him, all circling her.
One swung his sword in a loose-wristed circle. Another beckoned her forward with two fingers. And three of them laughed, even as the last one crouched low.
The complexity of his glamor made her swallow.
But she’d been training f
or this moment from birth.
She was smaller, leaner, technically weaker than most dreki males, but if she’d ever had a hope of holding her own, her mother had explained, then she would have to be better than they were.
“Close your eyes, Solveig,” whispered her mother’s voice. “And sense my attack. Don’t see it, read it in every fiber of air that sweeps past you.”
Solveig closed her eyes and stepped into a defensive stance.
Air was her strength. She opened herself up to her powers, and suddenly she was a gust of breeze in the world, feeling every little current sweep over her skin. And as those currents touched her, she could feel what they were saying.
Left.
He was to the left of her.
A sword whined, and Solveig brought her own up to meet it. Steel shrieked on not-steel—or whatever the hell that metal was. Solveig followed up with a boot to Tyndyr’s chest and heard his gasp of shock as he staggered back.
He was used to wielding illusions and trickery to win his fights. But technically, his sword work wasn’t as good as hers. And after centuries of relying on his illusions, he’d forgotten what it truly meant to wage battle.
Solveig lunged forward, their blades clashing again. He recovered quickly, and she twisted as she sensed a second attack, moving as if she was the air itself. Again and again and again.
Blood sprayed hotly across her face as the tip of her sword cut through his shoulder as if his flesh was made of butter. Solveig opened her eyes, no longer relying on them, and saw fear flicker in his odd-colored eyes as he clapped a hand to his arm.
Suddenly, a half dozen images coalesced over him and then settled into one.
“Iron hurts, doesn’t it?” She crouched low. “It affects your magic. Not so easy to play games when you’re bleeding.”
“You bitch.” Mottled color spread across his cheeks, and then he attacked with a viciousness that surprised her.
But the air told her he wasn’t in front of her anymore.
She lunged forward, sweeping her blade through the glamored form of him, pretending to fall for his feint. The trick was not overextending. A slight twist of the wrist, and then she captured the hilt with her other hand and stabbed it backwards, beneath her right arm.
A hard weight drove onto the sword from behind, a gush of breath wetting the back of her neck.