Cold Counsel

by Chris Sharp

  A violent rustling of the nest loosed a flutter of dried oak leaves. Slud took a third slurp of the crud and eyed the hot poker at his feet—if he had to fight, he would lead with that, and then go for the wood ax in the corner. More than once, she’d sprung at him with claws or a blade to teach him to always stay ready, and she’d proven time and again that she wasn’t afraid to give him a good scar if he let down his guard. From her darkened hovel he heard the tinkling of little bells, cut by another keening moan, though this time the voice was not his aunt’s, and it carried a lusty tone that raised the hackles on his neck.

  The fourth slurp emptied the ladle again and he dropped it back in the pot, taking up the poker instead. He jabbed the red-hot tip into the first fang hole in the top of his foot and breathed it in nice and slow. The lance of agony cut through the poison and drugs in his system, and he felt his body come alive. He exhaled with the second jab, and his attention moved back to the murk beyond the doorway where a faint golden light had begun to gather.

  He glanced down again to jab the third hole with another inhale, and this time, when he looked back to the door, a golden woman stepped to the light of the cook fire. Except in pictures drawn by her hand, Slud had never seen a woman outside of Agnes. The breath shot out of him in a gasp. She was naked and flawless—skin, hair, even her eyes shone gold. They bored into him with hunger and power.

  “What’re ya?” he muttered, stepping back and lifting the poker.

  She smiled with plump golden lips and took a step closer. Slud wasn’t sure if it was the roots kicking in, but when she moved, the firelight flickered across her skin and made it look like she was wreathed in flame. “I am Gullveig, the Golden Goddess. Kneel at my feet, and I will teach you the magick of the flesh.”

  Her words tickled across his mind and seemed to echo about the room. His knees started to buckle, but he jammed the hot poker into the fourth hole and found his footing again. For a moment, his head cleared, though his eyes couldn’t help but travel down her body.

  “Why resist that which you desire?” She slid toward him around the fire. “You have been strong for so long; surrender to your reward.”

  The room was awash in colors and light that Slud hadn’t noticed before. Now the shadows were radiant, and even the gloom of Agnes’s nest was no match for his true-seeing gaze. The walls, the ceiling, even the cramped air itself, were alive, breathing and expectant in that moment. The golden woman was the center of it all, the sun that the world revolved around. A spike of longing rose through Slud, and his knees started to shake as a cold sweat rolled down his brow.

  “Give me a brood to sprout from my belly, and I shall remind this world of a forgotten age when giants ruled,” Gullveig said. “Bow to me; drink of the Golden Goddess.”

  A tremble shot through Slud, threatening to pull him down. Instead, he set his wounded heel into the coals and cauterized the last bite in freeing pain. “Slud kneels fer none, witch! He’ll show dis worl’ what was lost hisself!” He swung the poker, and it connected with the side of her beautiful head.

  “Yes!” she hissed as a spurt of black blood sprang from her temple. Slud lost control, hitting her again and again, driving her to the earthen floor with brutal abandon. “Yes,” she choked out a last time as he rounded the pot and kicked her once perfect body into the fire.

  Gullveig flailed and screamed, and the pot went over with a clatter. The golden woman was instantly engulfed in flame as if she’d been made from pine needles and tinder. Sparks flew dangerously about the hovel, and a heavy black smoke rose up toward the hole in the ceiling—too thick to pass as a choking wave spilled back down into the room. Slud coughed and covered his eyes as he stumbled back to the wall with enough force to shake the hut. Through the smoke he thought he saw a golden mist rise up from the coal bed and drift back toward Agnes’s room. There were no other remnants of the witch, Gullveig, who’d been there only seconds before.

  Though he could not trust his ears, again he heard keening from the nest—this time, agony had replaced lusty joy. The rustling of the sticks resumed, and again the shadows seemed to sink in around the room and come to rest. Slud rubbed his eyes and spied the barrel before him. He fought his way through the smoke and dunked his head in the cold water. The jolt snapped him back to the moment as he remembered the wood ax in the corner. Agnes’s tests were rarely over when they seemed, and the heavier effects of the drugs in his system would soon set in.

  As he looked up this time, sloppily flinging water, it was his aunt’s familiar, withered form that came to the threshold. She gripped a wolf pelt around her wrinkled shoulders like she was ashamed to be seen, even frailer and more bent than she’d been before the coming of the Golden Goddess. She shivered violently, her voice almost too weak to hear.

  “Good, my boy . . . You’re ready.” She shrank back toward the darkness of her room. “But now you need to run, and your Aunt Agnes needs to rest.”

  TWO: The Beast and the Flame

  SLUD DIDN’T COME DOWN from the roots and mushrooms until well into the next morning’s light. After wandering far, he slipped back into himself now covered in a thick layer of mud, blood, and leaves. It was the first time he’d been outside the ass-crack of a valley he called home, and he wasn’t sure what to make of the crisp, moving air, or the birds of all sorts singing in the trees. A part of him wanted to sprint back to the miserable comforts of the hut, and another considered curling up by an oak tree and falling asleep for a week.

  Instead, he lurched downhill through the alien forest, unsure of his course, with a head that felt like it was filled with sand. A bone-deep fatigue had set in with the dawn, and his badly blistered heel screamed now with every limping step—raw and inflamed after a full night of feral running.

  He wasn’t certain which parts of the night’s odd sampling of images had been dreamt and which were real. The coppery taste in his mouth and the blood smears on his hands and chin added hard evidence that he hadn’t imagined the part in the wee hours when he’d gotten hungry and run down that stag. And he could still picture the golden woman before him, an image that would be forever seared in his mind, though he couldn’t fully grasp how she had come to be there, or what had occurred to drive her away.

  He had the vague notion that she’d offered herself to him, but he couldn’t reconcile the thought that he might have responded with violence rather than joyous acceptance. Perhaps Aunt Agnes’s foul potions had finally turned him lunatic once and for all?

  One thing was sure, he’d had enough. If he ever found his way home, he was going to eat all the food, pass out for a day, and then leave again for good, and there was nothing the old witch could do about it. For years she’d filled him with the tallest of tales—of the age when the giants warred with the gods. He was raised believing that the old myths were true. She spoke as if she’d seen those days herself, and then she’d spun his father’s death and the last stand of his people on the mountain into the thread. She’d waxed on about Slud one day reclaiming kingship over the high peaks, but never would she let him venture out of the valley to test his strength or mastery of metal. Slud’s entire life had been lived in isolation and ignorance. He didn’t know about becoming some king, but he was hungry to climb the mountain and kill whoever stood in his way nonetheless.

  Only after hours of stumbling through unfamiliar woods did he finally come to a stand of gnarled pines that he recognized. As a boy, he’d skewered a boar here with a sharp stick and a really good throw—back when the occasional game animal still ventured this far into the Iron Wood, before Agnes’s dark conjuring had driven them all away. From here, Agnes’s Hole, as he’d come to think of it, was only a moderate downslope walk, and already the mist and murk he was accustomed to gathered about the forest floor.

  The howl of a wolf stopped him fast, and he cocked his head to gauge its distance and direction. A wolf hadn’t come this close to the house in a long while. Then another howl answered, and another. By the time the blare of a hu
nting horn joined them, Slud was running again.

  AUNT AGNES STEPPED to the rock ledge outside the hut just as the first goblin rider crested the ridge above her. The gray mountain wolf it rode was far larger, fiercer, and smarter than the average lowland wolf, with a thick mane and a long snout locked in a rictus grin. Agnes smiled at the mystery of life, always traveling in cycles. For a time, she who had been Gullveig had carried a different name after the warlike folk of Asgard had thrice burned her at the stake: Angerboda, Mother of Wolves. These same beasts, now used as steeds by the goblins, were the distant descendants of her long-dead son.

  Two other riders carrying torches and spears sauntered into view. The goblins were clad in furs, and their wicked faces protruded from between the severed jaws of wolves that had not been broken into servitude. They were the far-traveled scouts of the Rock Wolf Clan, which had taken over much of the mountain once the Moon Blades and the Blood Claws had fallen. Until today, Agnes’s magick had kept this dark pocket of the Iron Wood hidden from their search, but now that her mask had been lifted all was falling into place.

  With a short string of whispers she could turn these wolves against their riders and watch as goblin throats were torn out, but Slud was finally ready, and Agnes had grown tired of this life. The leader slung his ram’s-horn trumpet over his shoulder and dug his bone-spurs into the wolf’s side. It jumped down from the ledge and stepped cautiously toward the house with a snarl.

  “This be Rock Wolf land, witch.” He unclasped his spear from the leather harness. “Yer name and business here?”

  “I am Agnes, and it is you who tread on my land,” she answered with a goading smirk. “Be off now, yes, or you and your clan will meet a most brutal end.”

  The goblins laughed and closed in.

  “Funny,” the leader said as he hurled his spear. It cleared the distance and buried itself in Agnes’s stomach before poking out the other side.

  She stumbled back but kept her footing.

  “Think that’s funny, witch? Ever felt a spear through yer belly before?”

  Agnes gasped. It was not, in fact, an unfamiliar sensation, though no more pleasant this time around. Still, she managed to catch her breath and give a taunting nod. “Actually, yes to both—”

  A second spear caught her in the shoulder before she could finish, and she felt her clavicle shatter as she dropped to her knees with an involuntary moan.

  The impish cackles of the goblins echoed about the heavy air. “Not bad, not bad,” observed the leader, before turning his yellow gaze on the third rider. “Come, Dingle, finish her good.” The third rider was only half the size of his companions, but he wound up with all he had and released with a high-pitched grunt. His spear flew high and wide, lodging itself in the dried peat of the hovel wall. The other goblins erupted in a barrage of laughter.

  “A filthy disgrace to the clan, Dingle! You’d better serve as wolf food,” spat the leader before he dismounted and stepped toward the rock-hewn stairs. He flashed chipped, yellowed teeth as he came before Agnes and gripped the end of his spear. “Where’s that funny now, witch?” He gave the spear a slow twist, and more of her black blood leaked to the stone. “One last joke, before you go?”

  Agnes let out a string of wet coughs; she could feel her innards tear with each hack. But with the fresh shock of pain she found her voice again. “Burn me when you’re through, or I’ll come back to haunt you, yes?”

  “Good idea.” The leader ripped the spear out and jammed it back in through her chest. Agnes slumped over in a heap. “You heard her, boys! Light it up and throw her on top!”

  The wolves yipped as the riders spurred them on. The torches moved from point to point around the hovel, finding the clumps of thatch and dried moss as the smoke started to billow. The goblin leader stepped over Agnes’s impaled body and ripped away her wolf-pelt door. He peered inside and saw nothing of interest. “Shithole,” he said, and tossed a bottle of oil into the still-smoldering cook fire. The house went up in an angry fireball, and the goblin leapt back down the steps with a singed back and a startled giggle.

  In seconds, the house was burning in earnest as the roof caught and the fire reached toward the canopy. The popping of every jug and jar within sent a new burst of fuel to the blaze, and the climbing flames flickered with a green tinge. The heat of it drove the goblins and wolves back as Agnes’s body started to smoke on the landing. But the goblin leader still wanted to retrieve his weapon. “Dingle, fetch our spears!”

  The smallest goblin frowned, but he could not refuse. He grumbled his way off his wolf and up the stairs, finding that he had to crouch low and cover his eyes as he got closer. Dingle tried not to whimper as he reached his hand out toward the spear’s shaft, feeling his knuckles cook and the hairs on his arm flake away.

  “Push me into the flame, yes,” Agnes whispered, sending the goblin stumbling back with a yelp.

  “Sh-sh-she’s alive!” he screamed, though his companions paid him no attention as usual. All had turned their gaze upslope. The wolves cocked their heads and swiveled their ears forward. Then Dingle heard it too—something large crashing through the forest. “Wh-wh-what’s that?”

  “Shut yer hole, fool,” snapped the leader as he drew his sword.

  A foul smell blew into the clearing on the back of a breeze, and the wolves started to growl and tucked their tails between their legs.

  “M-m-maybe we sh-sh-should get out of here?” Dingle suggested.

  “Dingle’s yella,” said the other goblin, trying to mask his own nervous jitters.

  The ground began to quiver with a series of recurring booms—like a boulder bouncing toward them, or maybe the rapid approach of an angry thunderstorm. Pine needles dropped from above in ever-greater numbers, and the leaves on the trees trembled.

  “Maybe Dingle’s right,” suggested the leader.

  They all went wide-eyed, and Dingle yelped as a massive, blood-soaked beast launched itself from the ridge and came down on the still-mounted goblin with a fist the size of an anvil. The goblin’s skull split open like a pumpkin, and the punch drove him down to shatter the wolf’s spine.

  Without pause, the beast landed and spun with outstretched claws, catching a second wolf in the face with enough force to rip its head half off and send its body flying across the clearing to smack against a tree with a wet thud. The goblin leader tried to run, but the beast was too fast, kicking him in the back with a lift that sent him somersaulting through the air to land with a crash in the fire.

  Dingle was weak, but quick, and by the time the beast had turned toward him, he’d already sprung onto his wolf’s back and dug a spur deep into its side. The wolf launched itself away just as the wind from another claw whipped across Dingle’s neck. Dingle did not stop his feverish ride until the wolf snapped a leg and collapsed in sight of the sprawling stronghold of the mighty Rock Wolf Clan half a day later.

  SLUD KNEW THAT letting the last goblin go was a bad idea, but he had nothing to throw and was in no shape to run down a wolf. He turned back to the inferno that had been his home and stepped to Agnes’s slumped, smoking body. The stairs burned the soles of his feet, and he could feel the hairs of his beard singeing as he stooped to pick her up, but her empty eyes flashed with life again. Her hand shot out to grab his wrist.

  “No. Toss me to the flame, boy.” Her voice was almost too feeble to hear beside the fire. “Time for old Agnes to burn away.”

  Slud nodded.

  “Go to the river when it’s done,” she said. “There’s a jar—hanging in the last tree. Drink it all. The final treatment.”

  “’N’ den?” he asked, picking a strand of gray hair from her face.

  Agnes’s back was blackened from the heat, and the slick of her blood began to bubble on the rock, but she smiled and reached up to touch Slud’s face. “Climb, boy. They were Rock Wolf Clan. They control the mountain.”

  Slud stood with her in his crisping arms.

  “Be strong, like I taught. Wi
ts and weapons . . . I’ll find you,” she said, before turning her expectant gaze to the fire.

  Slud had never seen so large a tower of flame before, and despite the torment both inside and out, he felt himself drawn closer, mesmerized by the beautiful dance. He tossed the only person he’d ever known into the blaze and forced himself not to follow, backing down the agonizing steps to safety. Agnes did not scream or make a sound as she curled into a ball and shrank away to nothing.

  Slud watched the house burn for the rest of the morning, and finally found a deep sleep sometime after that. When he woke that evening, he had to brace against a tree as he fought to stand. He had raw burns across much of his body that made his skin feel too tight around his frame, adding to the previous night’s abuse. He let go of the trunk to test his balance and immediately stumbled back to hug the rough bark. Gotta move. More of dem wolf boys’ll be comin’. With a deep breath, he dug a claw into the meat of his arm and found his footing again.

  The best he could do was to stagger along the path. When he went down, he tried to fall forward and roll for as long as his momentum would allow. He flopped over the waterfall ledge, and landed on his ass, which had until then been the only part of him not in pain. When he finally reached the river, the dark of night had settled, and a white haze encroached on the edges of his normally keen night vision.

  He slumped against the last tree and glanced up to the tightly capped jar hanging from the lowest branch above him—hung so that only he could reach it without climbing. His blood was pounding in his temples. He doubted he had the strength to stand, and he surely wasn’t prepared for another hard dose of mushrooms and madness.