The End
About the Author
Eryn Blackwell writes erotic tales of feisty women, sexy alpha males, and, sometimes, dastardly villains. Her tales can be historical, paranormal, or contemporary suspense.
Legendary Choice
by Sherri L. King
What do you do when the Norse pantheon asks you to fight in the battle to end all battles? It’s not easy to decide when they send the sexiest demigod in existence to persuade you and even he doesn’t know what you should do. Just go with the flow, it’s not the end of the world. Right?
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Eve Vaughn, who has been a faithful friend and constant source of inspiration through the years. Thanks also to Mandy Roth, who has given me the biggest mind-boner of my career to date with her endless knowledge, expertise and cheerleading during this project. Wow, Mandy…wow.
Oceans of love to the wonderful group of people who came together, worked tirelessly and stayed so positive while putting together the Taming the Alpha boxed set. A more fabulous group of peers would be rare to find—I’m lucky to have been a part of this. Hugs to you all.
I love you D. Thank you for putting up with me, ‘cause no one else would. I know I wouldn’t get me coffee at four in the morning or soft, fuzzy socks fresh from the dryer. You trump any fictional hero, hubby, and I’m glad you’re mine.
Chapter One
Fornalutx, Mallorca Spain
The motorcycle engine cut off with a last, low growl, casting the graveyard into silence as he dismounted and surveyed the area. All was silent and still. It was with the witching hour, the perfect time for the kind of business he was set upon.
There is good reason for people to fear this hour in these shadowy places.
The burial ground was hundreds of years old, but native-born citizens were still interred here upon their deaths, following in the tradition of their culture. It was a mix of old and new, just like the old peasant huts and modern condos standing side by side in the valley below.
Rig wasn’t interested in the new section of the cemetery tonight. It was a very specific, and ancient mausoleum that drew him. Buried within its vaults were the earthly remains of a man who had, in life, been a remarkably prolific killer.
Rig had discovered through much trial and error that killers were the perfect recruits for the particular task at hand.
He strolled over the well-manicured grounds, listening to the sounds of the growing things underfoot, careful not to disturb a single blade of grass or sprig of moss. Every sense was alive, but none so much as his hearing. The cypress trees and the warm coastal winds, they spoke to him. Telling stories of their long history of the graveyard and the many inhabitants within.
It was easy enough, with their guidance, to find a path to the crypt. The door was locked, but he needed no key. No door could bar him from entry when the wind was a steadfast ally. A small breeze sighed through the lock and moved the mechanisms inside. There was a clicking sound and Rig pushed the door open, stepping through.
Shortly thereafter a pile of broken stones lay strewn about. The desiccated, bundle of rags and bones he’d pulled free of the sealed tomb was settled on the granite floor. Now all Rig had to do was wait for his call.
Hermod’s voice snapped him out of a fit of boredom sometime later.
She is chosen.
In this musty crypt of stone that voice was spookier than it might otherwise have been.
Watchman. She is chosen.
Rig’s heavy lidded eyes surveyed the empty darkness surrounding him. “What does that mean?” The question echoed off the cold stones. He was sick to death of having to pry every bit of information out of Hermod. He loved to speak in riddles and half-truths. It pissed Rig off to no end, but he’d accepted long ago that the gods’ Messenger loved playing his little games. Being an errand boy must get pretty boring at times.
Rig sighed. “Speak clearly. C’mon Hermod, we haven’t got all night. Don’t you have a…” He faltered. “Uh, a feast or hunt or whatever to attend?” What did the gods do lately when they weren’t badgering him, he wondered.
Daughter of a high king, she of the mightiest courage. By your instruction, she will lead the charge to usher in the Einherjar. Hermod’s voice was now curt and bitterly cold. Apparently Rig had overstepped his bounds trying to rush the deity along.
But Rig couldn’t care less about Hermod’s change in mood. The clues in the cryptic words were easy enough for him to spot and this was not at all what he’d been expecting from tonight’s meeting. He sat back on his heels, raw adrenaline surging through him.
The charge of the Einherjar was at hand. Were things coming to a head so soon then? He’d hoped for more time. Perhaps a few more millennia. Worse, the gods wanted him to find and instruct the one who would—
The bones at his feet rattled then fell silent.
A vibration moved the air of the crypt, not a breeze or wind, but a quake through the particles of the atmosphere that would have gone unnoticed by anyone save Rig. Their time here had grown short. He had to have answers now. As many as Hermod could provide.
“Are you going to tell me where she is, who she is, or do I have to guess? Because I gotta tell you, I’m not exactly eager to find this princess considering what comes after.”
This is no game, Watchman. Rig’s eardrums rattled, Hermod’s voice rising to a volume that would have shattered the mind of any other man. You will seek her. The quest will be difficult, but not impossible. She will make herself known to you by the colors she wears. Sunlight will be her cloak and armor. Golden roses, her crown. You will recognize her marks—the shield upon her back, Odin’s raven, and the scars she bears are those of a warrior. Through strife and through war she has walked. Through fire and through ice she has been tempered. Words will be her first weapons, sharp spears, and her eyes will see that which is hidden.
“Blah, blah, blah. But where do I look for her?” That pulsing rhythm in the air was getting more noticeable. Something was coming that had nothing to do with the now rapidly disintegrating body on the floor.
Use your keen eyes, Watchman. That is why you were gifted with them.
Oh fuck you, Hermod. Rig didn’t say the words aloud, though he longed to. The skeleton was making an awful, brittle sound. The unmistakable odor of corpse dust was wafting up from the long dead man. They had seconds left, if that before all hell broke loose. “Anything more you might want to add?”
Water from the Well of Urd, you will have need of it. By the banks of the Danube you will obtain all that you need. Do not fail us.
The old corpse exploded into a cloud of murky dust that soon filled the mausoleum, forcing Rig to retreat back out into the open night air.
“Great.” Rig yelled up at the night sky, riddled with stars that mocked him with their constant aloofness. “Thanks for that.” He wiped his face clean of debris. “You’ve been helpful up there. Thanks for making it so easy down here, guys!”
With a sneer of disgust at both Hermod and himself for that little tantrum, he reached into a pocket and removed its contents. Rig bent his knee and struck a match off the heel of a custom fitted, engineer boot. All black leather but for the polished silver buckles that winked up at him as the match flared, the boots had more purpose than to look damn good—they were designed to hold a number of weapons in clever little hidden places.
The flame on the match head danced orange in the night. Rig lit a kretek with it—a cigarette he’d carefully hand rolled earlier that day. It was a special blend of sacred herbs mixed with cloves for flavor. He took a long, slow drag, fighting the urge to wince against the burn in his lungs.
He exhaled a bit of smoke around a polysyllabic word. From a language long dead, it was a powerful invocation with the haunting melody of some ancient, pagan music. For a moment the gray smoke flared a bright violet and in the swirling tendrils a shape began to form.
More smoke left his lips in a stream that drew a fuzzy portrait
of a woman’s face upon the air. There was nothing about the image that might set the woman apart from any other despite slim hopes to the contrary. The features were too thin and lacking in detail.
Rigs eyes fell closed, allowing the herbs’ intense heat to fuel a deeper vision. Behind shuttered lids he saw the lines of her face draw together and solidify. The muscles in his body relaxed, allowing for a sight that went far beyond this plane. Color darted across the horizon of the vision. Desperate, he seized it.
Every nerve in his body jumped, innervated and alive.
A vision roared into vivid detail.
At the head of a great battle was a woman clad in soft, butterscotch leather from head to toe. A black tattoo peeked out behind the shorn sleeves of her shirt, as if wings were laid upon her shoulders, protecting her. She wielded a spear of golden light that was blinding to look upon, its tip bleeding—gushing—red. Behind her was the swell and break of men at battle. Flocking in the air were hordes of women on great white steeds, their armor glinting in the light of the fires of the war down below. The mounted Valkyries kept the men in formation behind their Valkyrie Queen and the battle raged as far as the eye could see.
A wave of blood swelled from the ground, an ocean in the midst of the battle. The Valkyrie Queen turned to look at Rig…and the vision faded away.
Rig swore harshly. Reality came back with a rush of chill air, the coastal breeze no longer a murmuring comfort.
The ground surged beneath his feet. He slid sideways several inches as if a rug had been pulled out from under him. The wind blew up wildly and moaned punishingly. It came from every direction, pressed on him from all sides. He curled his lips around the dangling cigarette and managed to save it from falling despite the ruckus.
As he’d feared, the voice of Hermod had been overheard. This was not an unusual occurrence in Rig’s line of work, but it might prove bothersome tonight. The graveyard was not some remote and forgotten ruin. Humans frequented these tombs—this unwanted visitor had to be sent along its way.
The cypress trees groaned, protesting the unnatural intrusion into their domain as the soil all about Rig blackened and began to seep like a festering wound. Crawling things beneath the soil fled. Birds took flight, cawing in panic.
Throwing back a long fold of the ebony canvas coat he wore, Rig gripped the hilt of a fourteen inch ivory baton secured by a belt around his waist.
Etched runes hidden on its enchanted surface glowed, flashing a kaleidoscope of color in each mark as the relic came to life. A curved, two foot blade, sharp and flashing silver blinked into existence, revealing the baton for what it was in truth—the hilt of a deadly sword.
The trees quieted at once—their pain held at bay by the presence of Hofund, the sacred blade of the god Heimdallr.
A familiar dance of ecstasy raced up Rig’s arm, from the blade to the center of his soul. The power of the gods filled him. He grew drunk on the rush but swiftly reigned in the Berserker lust that called to him from the depths of that mad storm.
He hefted the sword in a strong hand. Moonlight glinted on its perfect edge before the silver orb hurried behind a cloud, casting the land below into darkness.
Even the heavens would not bear witness to the chaos it had drawn forth.
“Cowards,” Rig muttered, the cigarette bouncing with each syllable.
Without warning the land fell still and an eerie silence descended. It was unexpected after so much noise and rage.
“Why are you so shy, now?” Rig taunted.
He searched the deepest shadows of the graveyard, eyes seeing everything. He could hear every nuance of the world around him. The insects moving through the air. Grass growing up through the soil. The world turning as the malevolent spirit baited him.
Night and darkness embraced him while Hofund’s strength infused him, hardened him against any possible weakness.
His black clad legs ate up the distance from the old part of the cemetery to the new. There was a quiver in the air ahead, a smell like burning hair. A shriek rent the air, a sound so revolting even the dead shivered in their resting places.
Rig’s lips stretched tight in a smile, teeth bared. He rushed the entity, head down, sprinting. Unleashing the power in his blood, the birthright of the gods, he moved with a power and speed that was unmatched.
Everything that rested beneath the surface of his mortal flesh released in an explosion of precise and controlled violence—the closest he would allow himself to the Berserker spirit inside Hofund that called for union.
The opponent took solid form and swelled, screaming all the while, growing to a massive size. It manifested as a creature neither humanoid nor monster, holding nothing more than a nebulous shape covered in green and orange lichen. Rig was not fooled. Neither its mass nor its shape was its true form. He gave a mighty leap into the air and speared the crown of the creature with the blade, slicing it diagonally as he descended.
When his feet landed on solid earth, Rig slid the blade free. Drawing on the last burning embers from his cigarette, he spat the butt out and in a strong, sure voice, spoke the incantation that would draw the enemy out once and for all.
The spell infused smoke came out in a bright crimson stream, swirling around the entity, transforming, binding it in burning, wispy chains. The creature shrank in size. It changed shape and took its final form, that of a small, bent creature with dark scales and wide, incandescent eyes.
“A Mare.” Rig was nonplussed, a rare experience to say the least. He’d expected a human spirit or Black Demon, but a lowly Mare attacking one such as him was unusual and foolhardy. “What business have you here?”
The creature spat needles at him that fell short of their mark. The black gums in the creature’s hideous mouth immediately grew a new set of teeth, which it spat at him again. Rig dodged them a second time. This could get tiresome fast. Mares were Dark Elves and had many such tricks at their disposal, none fatal so much as bothersome to someone as skilled as himself.
It would be an easy thing for Rig to keep the beastie at bay until dawn—the Mare would die in the first rays of morning light. But Rig wanted to be gone from this place long before then, so he was inclined to end this meeting quickly.
“Tell me your business and I’ll send you home alive,” he said. He meant it too. Rig saw no point in lying to the creature. “Why have you followed me to a meeting of the Aesir? You know your kind is unwelcome near any of the House of Odin.”
The Mare cackled and the ground again began to quake. All around them tombstones tilted inward toward them. From beneath the ground an oozing fungus bubbled, filling the air with a foul odor.
Rig’s temper boiled.
“The House of Odin falls, Watchman.” The Mare’s low speech was garbled and difficult to understand. “All houses will fall. Chaos comes. The Serpent rises from the deep. The Wolf’s prison weakens.”
Madness and terror swam in the creature’s eyes. “It cannot be stopped.”
“Why did you follow me?” Rig demanded.
“There is no escaping the horror to come!” The crimson chains holding the Mare dimmed and it used what little strength it had left to propel itself forward. With a shrieking cry, the creature impaled itself on the glinting tip of Hofund.
Rig jerked back, the Mare’s body falling to the soggy ground. The corpse deflated much the same as an old mushroom would, gasses escaping in sickly colors of yellow and brown. The corpse ended as a shriveled husk the size of a half dollar, unrecognizable as anything other than a piece of organic refuse.
What the hell? Rig gaped at the Mare’s lifeless form.
The hilt of Hofund grew fiery hot. It had fed well upon the diseased soul of the Mare. Now it shared that feeding with Rig.
An atmospheric discharge, manifesting in a glorious dance of flashing runes the colors of the rainbow, raced from the tip of the sword to the hilt. Pleasure and agony raced through Rig, taking over each sense until he groaned and fell to one knee, shaking.
&n
bsp; The ecstasy that filled him was better than any sex he’d ever known. The satiation greater than any meal he’d ever consumed. Bliss swam through Rig, enrapturing him completely. Every inch of flesh was rock hard, an orgasm so close his loins ached.
If ever he found a woman that made him feel half as good as this, he’d chain her to his side and never let her go.
The hand grasping the sword hilt was on fire. Just when he thought he could not withstand anymore of the assault, the flashing light dimmed. The blade shrank and cooled, until it slept once more. Once again it took on the innocent looking form of an ivory baton.
The night lay still but for Rig’s labored breathing. The moon peeked out warily from behind its veil of clouds.
Rig peeled his hand away from the hilt and looked at the fresh, new scars branded into the skin. He would have to draw more nulling runes around it, marks to match the others that dotted his arms. They might look like deliberate adornments to curious eyes, but they were in fact powerful spells to ward off Hofund’s Berserker Curse.
The danger of Hofund’s power was that it was so addictive. Rig fought the urge to go on a rampant killing spree every time he drew the blade out of its deep slumber, just to obtain the pleasure of the power it shared with him after each kill. It was a battle of willpower. A battle that grew harder and harder to win.
Rig sat back on his heels and surveyed the land around him. Much of the destruction had disappeared with the death of the Mare; most of the dark elf’s nightmare powers were comprised of pure illusion. But some damage remained—in the earth and trees and creatures beneath the surface.
Rising on unsteady legs he secured the sleeping sword in its belt, pausing to reassure the trees he passed that they were now safe from further threats.
Rig pulled a splinter of bone from a pocket in his coat.
The bone had a history that stretched back almost as long and twisted as Hofund’s.
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