He wasn’t impressed. “How efficient of you, raising a new question while pretending to answer the first. Get on with it.”
“I was about to get on with it.” The usurper's dig didn’t help me to continue, it only served to make me more resentful toward him. “That was why they did it at first, but then Freyr came down and blessed me with power from the sacred tree. To them, I was a holy person, something I doubt blasphemous non-souls like you could understand.”
A hush fell over the svartalfar, and their master stared at me in shock. The look in his eyes slowly went from shock to anger. Trust me, if there was anything in the nine realms you don’t want to see, it was for a svartalf to get truly angry, because while normally they’re hideous, one can barely look at one when wrath overcomes them. When a human gets mad, their skin takes on a red tint; his simply grew paler and paler until one could see his bones through a translucent film. He bit his lip until blood came out, gold just as the alfar, but eerie as it glowed in the now dimming room.
“You’re the ‘king’s’ pet, then?” The sparkle from the blood made a daunting shadow of his face, and rendered his eyes into ruby orbs. That glare was all I could see now, the rest of the room had grown so dark all I could hear was the jeering of the horde discussing how I’d die. “That makes you worse than the tree alfar.”
Being only able to see that skull intimidated me, I refused to let him know I was even remotely frightened by scowling straight back at him. “It makes me no worse than them. I share their powers, no more no less.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He wiped a small bit of the blood onto his hand, revealing it had grown claws. “Back when the great ‘king’ gifted that tree to the incompetent jarl that once resided here, he took a stone from our sacred quarries and melded it into that tree to grant those who use it to peer into the past.” He paused a moment. “And yes, I know what ‘sacred’ means. That foolish Vanir needed his pawns to protect his ill-gotten present from us, those to whom the magic it grants truly belongs to.”
A lantern of green fire rose from the void that surrounded me, shedding a small amount of illumination on the hand that held it up and the svartalfar around it. “You must be punished for this animosity, not by us but by those who sheltered you.”
Those svartalfar I could just barely see through the shadows cast by their torches began to stomp the ground rhythmically and a few cries and chants were loosed from among them. The usurper jarl reached into a cavity in the throne and pulled out another vial. This one glowed just like all the other ones I had seen the svartalfar possess, but it was translucent. Until the jarl dripped some of his blood into the fluid, that was. After that, it took on the golden color of svartalf blood. He then broke it open by throwing it against Niale’s body, shouting “Trupinne!” as it shattered.
Before my very eyes, Niale’s body began to twitch, at first too subtle for the human eye to see, but growing more violent as ichorous rings swirled around each joint of his body. The stomping got louder and faster as the defiled remains rose to its feet in a fashion unnatural for something moving of its own power, but expected for an elaborate, stringed puppet.
He lifted his still-bloodied hand and the corpse swung its hand out to accept a sword. “At the instruction of the victimized party, of course,” he added with a grimace.
The puppet then shuffled toward me and I cowered back. Enchantments were what they’d done. It hardly seemed they summoned back Niale’s spirit, but I still had no heart to fend it off. It bore his face, and no matter how much of a blasphemy to him it really was or how unrecognizable the face was, striking it would have been striking Niale.
As I crept back, I ran into a sea of hands that shoved me right back into the ring. “Get back in there,” their owners cried. The push knocked me on my hands and knees, and before I could get back on my feet, the corpse puppet had leaned a foot upon me. It lifted its sword arm to deal a killing blow, but out of the corner of my eye I was able to see a solution to the matter. The usurper, the svartalf captain was manipulating the motions of the corpse through magic, meaning that with any hope, a backlash charm would break his grip. In order to do that, however, I needed to get closer to it. As such, I grabbed the puppet’s leg and threw it to the ground. Fortunately, the usurper lacked fine motor skills and coordination with the thrall and it crumpled to the ground.
The tables were turned now and I was crouched on top of the puppet. This advantage would only last for the moment before the svartalfar were upon me, knowing they’d lost. With only that moment to decide where to hit, I decided to aim it at the spine, with any hope that would carry over to the usurper’s. The silvery beam shot forth at the neck first, and tore through each joint in its back.
A shout of pain came from the jarl and everyone’s attention was directed toward him, even that of those who were about to lift me. His eyes had bulged to such a point I discovered that svartalfar really did have whites in their eyes and his hands were frozen in the air, spread out from his puppeteering. All fell silent as he spilled onto the floor. One could hear him breathing and see his torso expanding and contracting, but the rest of him didn’t so much as squirm.
Those svartalfar who had laid their hands on me slowly turned their heads toward me with a look of shock. Without hesitation, they planted me straight up and scuttled as far away as they could. All the others around me also had the same reaction, fighting for the privilege to be pressed against the wall. I blinked as I tried to understand what was going on. “Why do you all suddenly fear me?” I flicked my finger at half a dozen of them.
This caused a short gasp from among them and they all tried to shuttle to the side, treating the finger like it were Thor’s and the god was trying the throw them half across the world with it. We all stood there for a while, the cave creatures staring at me and me at them.
Slowly, one by one, they kneeled and bow before me, which only went to confuse me even more. “Why are you bowing to me? Aren’t I a blasphemy to you?”
“You have bested our dverv, making you our dverv. What you wish us to do, we will do,” was what they all tripped over themselves to say, at least, that was the gist of what I filtered out of that mess.
They absolutely amazed me and I shook my head to express that. “What kind of wretches are you?” I asked them. “You’re brave enough to war against the alfar, yet cowardly enough that you bow to those allied with them if one’s bested you? Wolves! That’s the only beast on this earth I can think of that’s as shallow as you. If I had a command for you all it would be is that—” I paused as I looked upon their heads, hung in shame and not even spiteful toward my not saying, “tree alf”. As it occurred to me, I could do great good with these wolves—great, retributive good.
“You apply whatever antidotes you have at your disposal to the aid of Alodia and Reokashothi, the other two prisoners, and nurse them back to health. Along with that, I want a troop of your finest brigands to bring me an Agrian named Solas. He’ll be in the lardiest, most blood-stained mansion in the town and be the most gaudily clad one living there. On top of all of that, I also want every last svartalf responsible for destroying the sacred tree to be executed.” Two-thirds of the svartalfar there then darted off, and the remaining few seemed anxious, as if I’d made a dreadful error.
“Very well then,” I grunted, “who among you raised a torch to the alfar’s sacred responsibility? Or are all of you guilty of such?” None of them stood up, but one of them was shoved out of the crowd to speak on their behalf, the warden who kept watch over me. “What is your name?” I asked, partly out of formality and half from merely wanting to know the answer to the question.
“Wichel, my dverv,” she whimpered, keeping her stare directed at the mosaic on the floor at all times.
I crossed my arms and went in for the ironic kill. “Very well, ‘darling,’ I suppose you wish to plead for your life?”
“Y-you misunderstand, my dverv. There has been none among our entire c
lan who have approached it.”
I raised my eyebrow.
“By the time we executed all of the tr-alfar, a giant of fire was already headed up to that place. We left the work to him.”
My heart sank into my stomach as Wichel explained it to me; all confidence and intimidation I had melted away. “Belay that order, then.” I trotted outside. “I shall go up there myself and don’t let anyone follow me,” I ordered. As soon as I completed the issue, I ran with the speed of ratatoskr, the squirrel that ever runs up and down the world-tree, up the mountain to that garden.
* * * *
Great crashes resonated from over my head. It wasn’t the noise one would expect from the flaming steel of a fire giant’s blade hacking through ancient timber, but more like metal were striking down upon metal. The wildfire had managed to claw its way this high, the charred stone all around me betrayed their path.
“Those fiends,” I cursed under my breath. “They can burn this entire forest, they can sell their souls to whatever gods they want to. But of all the things I will not allow them to do is sick a fire jotunn on anything as blessed as the Nooa tree.” That ancient tree came into view in the distance as the mountain stepped aside. My fears had been confirmed, the giant, Hognosht, had laid siege upon it.
I hastened myself to reach the remains of that divine garden. Nothing more than a few pillars of charcoal, a layer of ash that hadn’t been blown away, and the unburned but dormant remains of Freyr’s tree were left behind. I hid behind one of the ashen columns of former trees that littered the place to catch my breath. It didn’t seem to matter, however. I could have stood right at his feet and beat on a war drum and he still would have given the tree his undivided attention.
From my position behind the former tree, it was obvious he’d suffered several blows at the hands of Kaihar. A scrap of bloody cloth had been tied just above his kneecap and a sword wound was bleeding through, making it miraculous he could swing that sword of his as well as he was, let alone stand up. Balance was an incredibly important thing to consider when moving a sword, making it impressive he could use one when leaning on only one leg. Even if it was impressive, listing to the side still held consequences. Hognosht made all his swings from right to left never left to right, and though he didn’t strike from the other side, he had to hold onto the tree as he dragged the sword back.
I took note of this weakness for the inevitable battle. Not being able to make leftward swings was a significant vulnerability indeed. On top of that, I couldn’t help but notice how he’d failed to break even the bark of the tree. That gave me a good bit of courage right there. Sure, he might be strong, but strength wasn’t worth anything if you couldn't land so much as a scratch. I reached my hand behind me to grab my trusty shield, making sure I moved slowly as to not risk his attention. For a moment, I couldn’t find any shield, so I grabbed my shirt and tried to pull that. “Where’s my shield?” I thought to myself. The memory of the svartalfar flickered by me for a moment and reminded me of just where it was, likely hidden away in a svartalf armory.
After one last thud of iron against wood, Hognosht shifted around to face me. I gasped and curled myself closer behind the cindered tree. “How did he realize I was here?” I asked myself. It didn’t make any sense; I didn’t make a noise, I hadn’t even leaned against my hiding place. Perhaps he knew I was approaching and simply didn’t choose to pay attention to me until now.
Two thuds rang through the air then—one with the distinctly sharp clang of metal and the other with the control of someone plopping onto the ground. “What soil was this grown in to make it this strong?” Hognosht bellowed. I peered over the right side of the column to take a look. Hognosht had sat down and rested his blade on the earth as well. He held his left hand in his right and thumbed the palm. Evidently there was also a tourniquet on his hand. Come to think of it, there was also blood on the hilt of the sword and even some that had trickled and dried up on the blade…some of it golden in fact. “That warrior chose his blows well before I felled him. An honorable fight you gave me, alf. I shall burn incense in remembrance of you. My tribe will mourn for three weeks should I ever return to them.” Hognosht mused to himself as he tightened both pieces of cloth.
I supposed I already gave Kaihar over for dead, but deep down inside of me there was still a part of me that wanted to hope he escaped. That was dashed to pieces then and I marched into the open, regardless of my lack of weaponry. “If you killed him, then I’ll kill you.” Even as those words exited my mouth, I realized it might have been a better idea to have waited until the giant had returned to his labor. Now sitting down and leaning against a stout trunk, Hognosht could most certainly swing from many more directions than before and had the advantage of forcing the battle to come to him. Certainly, his sword might have been on the ground, but he would be able to grab it and cut me down before I could even get as far as where the sword rested now.
Hognosht tilted his head to look over at me. “You are that Shaloor I’ve been tasked with capturing.” He seemed unenthused when he said that.
“And the student of that alf you slew,” I shouted.
The giant gave a small growl as he eased himself up against the sacred tree. “And a fine warrior he was. He fought honorably, and I can understand why you wish to bring justice to it.” He lifted his good arm in a polite gesture. “Please, before the battle, rest and regain your bearings. I am winded from my—waylay, and you seem tired from your run up here and distressed by the loss of your master.”
I accepted the gesture graciously, knowing just how foolish it was to have charged him like I did unarmed. I needed as much opportunity as possible to think things through. As I sat down, Hognosht reached into his pouch and tossed me a large and lumpy sack. “A little something for us to snack on. If you do not mind, I would appreciate it if you could unfasten the knot.” He flexed his wounded hand. “Food is not good when drenched in blood. I am certain we can agree to that.”
I looked at the bag and tried to determine just what was inside of it. The bag was made of a coarse material, more the size of a sack, and lumpy. Hognosht’s sword worried me still. This might be just an attempt to get my guard down. “Do not worry, Shaloor lad, I promise not to raise my hand against you until you are ready.” His assurance didn’t help me very much, but I still untied the bag. Inside it were several loaves of bread and some trail rations. Hognosht then reached down and grabbed two loaves. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything really very palatable for either of us,” he said as he placed one of the loaves onto his lap, “but it is what the Agrians gave me and what we will have to settle for.”
I tore off a hunk of bread and put some of the trail ration on top of it. We both sat in the silence, him looking up at the sun and paying little mind of me and me unable to take my eyes off him. It was very strange to see him now glowing a burning white light, yet it was stranger that the eel tattoo was the only place that wasn’t lit up in such a fashion. “When I first saw that tattoo of yours, I thought you were a creature known as the Feljust,” I commented after having finished my loaf.
Hognosht glanced over at the marks on his skin. “I can certainly understand you thinking that. Back when I was in my home of Muspelheim, that wasn’t far from the truth.”
I was surprised by how nonchalantly he said that. “You mean to say its legend is so great it has reached Muspelheim?”
“I would actually say his legend is so great it has reached Mannheim.” Hognosht reclined and explained. “You see, I used to live deep beneath the ocean of my world. A place far different from yours, for mine is made of endless basalt and stone so hot it ran like water in its deepest reaches. I and my clan made our home in the caverns, and we had so many good times causing the melted stone to burst up through passages to Mannheim.” He pointed to the eel tattoo and said, “This was our mark of kinship.”
Rubbing his chin, he quieted down and mused to himself more than anything. “Yes, those were such pleasa
nt days. The way the earth would rumble through the thick of my chest, the songs we sung as earthen fire flew over our heads, the stories we’d tell.”
I was still surprised by his matter-of-fact tone, but I felt sickened as well. A story I’d grown up with had gone from being fiction to truth to half-truth in just a matter of months. For all of my life, the tale of Feljust stood as a story of caution, a reason to hate witches and avoid stealing. Now I was standing before one of many who could rightfully call himself Feljust, and he enjoyed the weight of that name. I readied myself to jump him for this, but also kept an anxious eye on his sword.
He took note of my hostility and coughed. “I suppose you wouldn’t consider the memory of your people’s ships and entire portions of islands sinking by fire to be that pleasant, though. I cannot lie that did enjoy it, but you can rest easy knowing I am living proof this has been brought to an end. The celebrations proved to be something that our halls could not take and they collapsed. Many of us, myself included, found themselves dragged into the waters of Mannheim and dredged into the nets of Ran.”
“So then, you’re the servant of Aegir I’ve been tracking down?”
The fire giant just glared at me, seeming to contemplate just how to respond to my remark. He didn’t seem quite angered, but the manner in which his body began to flicker and acquire streaks of red and yellow did indicate he wasn’t pleased with the thought. “I was his slave, lad, not his servant. No doubt you saw the scrap of net that obscured my pride.” He gestured almost delicately to the tattoo. “A brand of slavery that was put there by Aegir. How I loathed that knot of ropes. The magic within it was bound by the sea and left me frail. But I cannot say he was truly a bad master. He was still one of my kin, no matter how distant from me, and he even had the mercy to release me from his authority.”
That last musing of his struck me, resonated in my mind. Last month, when I first encountered Hognosht, Solas had spoken about there being two curses to break. “When Solas spoke of the curses of land and water then, he wasn’t referring to the curses of Feljust, but the curses of your slavery?”
Across the Kolgan Sea Page 16