Second Night

by Gabriel J Klein

  ‘Hold your position!’ yelled Caz, but it was already too late.

  The main body of the pack had surged between them, forcing the old man and the mare into the tunnel.

  Alan shook the blood out his eyes. ‘I’ll get after them! Leave it to me!’

  ‘I’ll be right behind you!’ shouted Caz. ‘They mustn’t get to the tree! Don’t let them get to the tree!’

  Sword in one hand, the axe in the other, Alan hacked into the hounds retreating towards the tunnel. The others scattered, falling to the spear. Only one made it through, scrambling over the bodies and barging its full weight into Alan’s back. He staggered and fell, cracking his unprotected head on a rock and crumpling unconscious into the snow.

  Caz saw him fall. He heard Sir Jonas shouting, but Valkyrjan did not go after them. She stood fast, long familiar with the approach of an old enemy whose fate she had foreseen and would not hinder. For once Caz bitterly regretted the lack of a bridle to help him as he begged her desperately to go on. ‘Please, Kyri! Freyja can’t do this alone! We’ve got to help her! We’ve got to save her!’

  The Galdramerr ignored him. She reared, calling her challenge, deep and menacing. The crystal light blazed around her. The spear glowed white hot in Caz’s hand. Bryn stood at the top of the slope. She was still the elegant, powerful presence that he always remembered. He screamed out to her, ‘Help us, Bryn! They’ve taken Freyja! We’ve got to get to the tree before it’s too late!’

  She snorted, pawing the ground and tossing her head before she turned and galloped back along the track to disappear into the labyrinth. Valkyrjan raced after her. Confused and dismayed, Caz shouted, ‘No, Kyri, no! We must go back! We’ll lose Freyja!’ But he was powerless to stop her.

  She bore him swiftly in pursuit of his beloved mare, too swift for him to get his bearings in the maze of pathways, while the other was abandoned to face the ordeal of World Tree alone. The great hedges loomed over them. He heard a distant horn-call and the baying of hounds, and he wept in frustration and despair for Freyja. ‘Don’t do this, Kyri! Don’t do this!’

  Bryn was waiting for them at the end of a long, winding path that stopped hard up against the hedge. Unperturbed by the power and the authority of the Galdramerr, she answered the challenge… prancing… defiant. Valkyrjan raced straight for her. The mares collided. The jarring impact almost unseated Caz as they reared and locked together in ferocious combat. The spear blazed. Still Caz hesitated to use it.

  The moment of indecision cost him dearly. What he had imagined was Bryn’s head rose up and snaked around him, the long white neck coiling in a deathly grip around his waist and rib cage to crush the air out of his lungs. The head looked down at him. He recognised the eyes and the voice – the mocking, never to be forgotten voice of the torturer, who was well practised and confident in his art of delaying death without mercy until the final anguished breath. ‘We await you, Heartbiter.’

  The apparition vanished. The spear flamed and guttered and went out. Caz felt it growing rapidly cold in his hand. The white light around them dimmed to a faint luminescence. Too late he understood.

  ‘Stinking Shape-Changer! Get back here and fight! Stinking, miserable coward!’ he yelled into the silent and empty night. ‘Freyja! Freyja!’

  He sent Kyri galloping madly back the way he thought they had come. Every path finished in a dead end. He pulled up distraught, beside himself with anger and fear for Freyja, unable to find the way out, unable to return to Thunderslea. ‘They’ve gone! Just like last time! They’ve taken Freyja and the old man and left us behind!’

  Had they taken Alan too? ‘Hey, Al!’ he shouted. ‘Al, can you hear me? Where are you?’

  There was no reply. A long, almost straight path opened in front of them. He urged Kyri forward, at first heartened and then despairing once more when the path turned a corner and ended in front of a towering and seemingly impenetrable hedge. But Valkyrjan did not hold back. Before he could check her, she had pushed forward, forcing her way into the mass of densely packed branches and huge, spiny leaves. Barbed spikes beat at his helmet as he tried to protect his face. Giant thorns tore at his hands and ripped his cloak. Then he heard quite clearly the sound of water falling over rocks.

  ‘We’re at the spring! We can get to the tree! This night’s not over yet! Fight, Freyja, fight! Be strong! I’ll be there for you!’

  The dreadful burning at the side of his head brought Alan quickly back into consciousness. Someone had been calling his name. He sat up. His sword was bent and notched. He put a tentative hand to his ear. It was still in place and icy cold to the touch. He got to his feet and limped back to the entrance of the tunnel. The blizzard was ending as abruptly as it had begun. The trampled snow was covered with the unmistakeable staining of freshly spilled blood. He knew he must have killed at least a dozen of the hounds and maimed many more, but there were no bodies and no severed limbs to be found.

  The silence was complete in the forest. He wondered if he was deaf, and then he heard a branch cracking and crashing down under the weight of the newly fallen snow. Frantically he searched around for the axe and found it almost buried under a heap of broken branches and shattered rock at the foot of the bank. He pulled it out and ran through the tunnel.

  Thunderslea slept under a pristine white blanket, save for a single set of iron-shod hoof prints leading straight for the old tree. Alan leaned on the axe, looking up into the hazy, star-glimmered sky.

  ‘Good hunting, boy,’ he whispered. ‘Would that I were with you.’

  CHAPTER 91

  Valkyrjan burst through the hedge into a wind-racked landscape of barren rock and stone under a clear, starlit sky. A vast, pyramid-shaped mountain lifted up its majestic bulk at the end of the deep valley before them. A stream bubbled in a series of pools and waterfalls alongside a raised causeway of gigantic stones stretching to the foot of a flight of steps carved up the sheer side of the mountain, where the tiny figure of a single horseman galloped his grey mare towards the white-clad heights.

  The spear burst into flame. The horseman turned. He raised his hand and started back down the stairway. Running on a rush of wild exhilaration, Caz sent his Galdramerr racing along the causeway to meet him.

  We’ve made the transition! We’ll find you, Freyja! We’re on our way!

  A silvery fish was splashing upstream, leaping from pool to pool just ahead of them. It cleared the lip of rock at the head of a torrent of cascading water and sunk out of sight in a deep sink-hole as they drew level. Caz glimpsed glittering eyes in the dark water. He raised the flaming spear.

  ‘Come on, Shape-Changer!’ he shouted. ‘Come out and fight, you miserable coward!’

  A high-pitched whining vibrated his eardrums to bursting. He looked up and saw a huge insect, covered in spiky black hair, hovering on scaled wings over his head. Its long, scabbed proboscis whipped against his face, tearing open the skin on his left cheek. He held the spear high, spinning great arcs of flame while he stabbed with the seaxe at the evil creature. The whining intensified. The effect on his ears was agonising as the proboscis lashed at the broken flesh hanging on his cheek, tasting the fresh, bright blood.

  The horseman had reached the bottom of the steps. He fired arrow after arrow in quick succession at the dancing insect, but none found their mark. Caz failed to hear the humming of the bow and the whistle of arrows clattering on stones, until one streaked past his face, missing the insect by the breadth of a single hair. For less than one crucial breath, he lowered the spear and the insect darted under his guard, driving its proboscis deep into the open wound. He felt the poison bubbling under his skin. His ears began to bleed, but the pain only served to spur him on to greater ferocity. Red mist floated before his eyes. The weapon in his hand glowed white-hot. The rune ignited and he threw the spear.

  The speed of his reaction distracted the malevolent mind bent on his destruction. The insect drew up its dangling legs and darted sideways, but not fast enough. One wing dissolved
with a great hissing and spattering and stink of burning tissue, before the weapon thudded into the stone in the middle of the causeway. The maddened creature tumbled out of the air and crashed into the stream. Icy waters dragged it to the lip of the falls and threw it down on the rocks below.

  Caz grasped the flaming shaft and yanked the spear free of the cracked and blackened stone. The horseman pulled up in front of them. He bowed low to the Galdramerr and raised his spear in salute.

  ‘Heartbiter, the Son of Vídar sends his greeting!’ he cried. ‘Your name is sung in the Hall.’

  There was something sharply familiar about the voice. Caz recognised the man’s lean face. ‘You were the Haggard Man at the Tree!’

  The horseman bowed again. ‘That is a worthy title. It is my honour to be pledged to the great one that bears you, as I am honoured to name you brother. We are both Sons of Skuld.’

  ‘But I saw you sacrificed,’ said Caz wonderingly. ‘I saw you and the mare die.’

  ‘You saw us chosen,’ replied the Haggard Man proudly. ‘You saw us found worthy to hunt with those whom the Master leads over the great abyss against the day of our last riding, when we will answer his summoning to stand against the giants on the plain.’ He gestured to Caz’s bloodied and swollen cheek. ‘Have a care. You are already marked.’

  The wound was throbbing. Caz nodded. ‘I burned a shape-changer with a nasty bite.’

  The Haggard Man scanned the desolate country around them. The sense of hidden menace was palpable. He leapt down from his mare and collected his spent arrows. ‘You ride with mortal blood in your veins, my friend, and you will be sought out. Your enemy is a mighty opponent. Only the spear may hope to hinder him. Let us go swiftly.’

  Caz held him back. ‘Have you seen the old man and the mare that crossed with me? We were separated and I am pledged to protect the mare.’

  The Haggard Man shook his head. ‘Treachery crossed the threshold before you, but do not be disheartened. All paths lead to the Tree and there they will come to be judged. We must ride.’

  They reached the snowy summit of the mountain and looked down into a giant crater encircled by the jagged peaks of distant mountains white against the skyline. It was filled with smoke and flashes of artillery fire and the intermittent pounding of heavy guns.

  ‘There is battle this night,’ said the Haggard Man. ‘We contend with the black-fanged servitors of the Mist Realms for the souls of the slain. Victory will honour many with the Bite of the Spear. The High One awaits us at the Tree.’

  CHAPTER 92

  The battle was raging. Both sides were taking heavy losses. The terrain was littered with the broken bodies of the dead and wounded. The rebel forces had secured the caves and the upper slopes on one side of the crater. The allied troops were under fire along a wide line stretching across the centre of the disputed area. Reinforcements were pouring out of the helicopters landing in the valley behind them.

  Another battle raged over the dead. Unseen, the Sons of Skuld grappled the giant, black-fanged serpents rising out of the bloodied earth to claim the souls of the brave. Into the caves and over the field the horsemen raced their grey mares, fighting singly and two or three together with spear and sword and axe, to wrest the bodies of the fallen out of the black mouths feasting on the sweet, mortal meat laid out for the prize. The chosen were thrown over the backs of the mares and born away. A few, the craven, were cast aside.

  The horsemen raised a mighty shout as the light of the Galdramerr blazed on to the battlefield. A hundred strong, armed with bows and swords, galloped to escort her as she bore Caz untouched through a ferocious firestorm of bullets and rocket fire. The heady scent of mortal blood and fear thrilled his senses. The spear seethed white-hot in his hand. We are hunters!

  Between the lines, a reconnaissance unit was cut off from the allied forces and taking heavy fire as their enemy crept down the slope towards them. The wounded were laid under what was left of the walls of an isolated farmhouse, guarded by a tall, powerfully built young soldier with cropped blond hair, while the medic worked desperately to save them. The soldier threw his last grenade and drew his pistol, shouting to the medic to defend himself. They stood at bay, unaware of how they were dwarfed by the warriors fighting off the servants of Hel’s dark realm rising at their backs.

  Valkyrjan stormed into the thick of the fray, the Haggard Man and his gallant mare close behind her. The horsemen circled, firing their arrows at the heaving mass erupting out of the earth around them. Caz hurled the spear into the black mouth gaping at the feet of Haldor Vídarsson. His trusted lieutenant, the hideously mutilated berserker, swung his mighty axe at his side. The mouth shrieked. The giant head disintegrated. A cold, bitter stench filled the air. More monstrous reptiles rose in its place. The Sons of Skuld formed rank. Jets screamed overhead. Firebombs exploded across the upper slopes. Mouths opened. Faces contorted. Bodies burned. The horsemen charged into the flames.

  A helicopter flew in low and fast, taking advantage of the lull in the fighting to evacuate the wounded. The woman pilot shouted, urging them to hurry. The soldier picked up a man with shattered legs. The medic took another who was bleeding from a dangerous head wound. They laid the men on the deck and went back for the others. Dug in behind a rock half way up the slope above them, a gunner took aim. The helicopter prepared to lift off. The missile locked on and fired. The warhead hit target.

  Haldor Vídarsson ran his sword through the body of the soldier materialising out of the inferno into the crystal light, throwing him over his shoulder and slicing through the tongue of the serpent that had been set to claim him. The spear blazed. The serpent fell. Mighty hooves stamped and shredded the quivering carcass. The Haggard Man marked the pilot. The woman’s black eyes opened as he dragged her onto his mare. One by one the bodies of the fallen troops appeared and were marked and born away.

  The body of the medic came last into the light. He had fought through raging heat and melting flame, lost between fragile life and certain death, until his seared lungs failed and he passed forever from the Shadowed World. Caz hastened to claim him – but the spear grew deathly cold in his hand. Blistering ice welded his fingers to the shaft. The smoking rune glowed pale, spectral blue.

  Valkyrjan called out in a great voice above the din of battle. Their escort closed ranks with swords drawn. A black mist rose up around them. A foul reek filled their nostrils. A cavernous mouth opened around the medic’s body. Caz threw himself down from his Galdramerr and pulled his prize clear of the darting, flickering tongue.

  Fighting at his side, the Son of Vídar rasped, ‘Mark him, Heartbiter! You must be the first to claim! The enemy approaches!’

  Caz thrust the spear through the man’s shoulder. New life spluttered into the inert form as Valkyrjan stood over him. Wary of the Galdramerr, Hel’s creatures snatched in vain at the terrified man’s head and legs, and were hurled, powerless, to their ruin.

  A monstrous, scaled head, with grotesquely familiar eyes and fangs that dripped black venom, broke free from the shattered earth. The enemy appeared in mighty form before the mortal it had so long pursued in vision and in dreams lurking between worlds – the mortal with a deadly spear that had already made its mark. Black bubbling poison frothed from a wound on the serpent’s neck. The forked tongue flickered madly, savouring the intoxicating human scent.

  In the caves, the rebels had regrouped and were launching a storm of rockets and mortar shells onto the advancing allied lines. Caz raised his shield. The spear burned blue. He stood poised, utterly alert and still within the firestorm, waiting for the monstrous reptile to make the first move. Inside that fearsome illusion there was form and matter that the spear could maim. And kill!

  CHAPTER 93

  The Shape-Changer regarded his prey. He had misjudged this lesser being, this Son of the Fate-Spinners, the favoured of the devious Witch-Wives. They had decreed the first of the mighty Runes of the Deathless into his keeping, but the God willed that he would be denie
d the others. Their chosen would lose his life. He would feel the splintering of every bone, the rupturing of every vital organ. He would endure the exquisite agony and embrace the utter annihilation that is the mortal lot alone – and they would watch him die.

  The barbed tongue lashed around Caz’s head. Acid poison dripped, biting through his wooden shield. The spear blazed. He parried the blow, feinted sideways and lunged the spear at the monster’s neck, aiming at the gaping wound. But this reptile form did not kill by venom alone. The gigantic tail sprayed a numbing narcotic before the coils crushed the helpless prey.

  His senses reeling, Caz was powerless to resist as the serpent coiled around him. The pressure was excruciating. He lost all feeling in his legs. The old wound on his hand split open. Blood poured from his mouth, his nose, his ears and from under his finger nails. The rings of his mail coat penetrated deep into his skin and lacerated his bowels. His ribs were cracking. His arms were weakening. He was losing his grip on the spear. The Galdramerr called out, but the flailing, stinking tail held back the horsemen who would help him. The Haggard Man set his last arrow to his bow and fired. It clattered harmless against the monster’s scaled hide.

  A human voice yelled, ‘Incoming!’ as rocket fire burst across the arena of this famed combat, the tale of which would be sung in the Hall through the ages, and yet was nothing more than a ruined and empty place in the eyes of the denizens of the Shadowed World – Caz’s world. He remembered Freyja. The spooks won’t do to her what they did to Bryn! And not this spook either! Stinging, raging blood surged through his battered veins. He saw the shot out of the corner of his eye. No pain. No fear. Kill! Maim! Destroy! Kill! Maim! Destroy! He let out one savage shout, ‘Freyja!’ and hurled the screaming spear.