Cursed Prince (Night Elves Trilogy Book 1)
Page 16
“What business is it of yours what I’ve done with my soul?” I asked. “That happened in Midgard. It’s none of your concern.”
The shade swept around me. “We have desires that extend beyond the walls that imprison us.” He turned from me, eyes fixed on Ali. “Night Elf, tell us why you’re here.”
Ali stood still as a statue. I couldn’t tell if she was afraid, or angry, or whether the shade had managed to fix her body in that position.
“I am here as Marroc’s—the lich’s—companion.”
Good. Ali wasn’t a puppet, and she knew better than to tell them too much.
“What have you to gain from such a vile union?” said the shade.
“The lich is helping me find Galin.” She held up her hand with the missing finger. “He has already helped me locate the sorcerer’s ring.”
Fear coursed through me like a sharpened blade, and the air seemed too thin. The shade’s pale eyes didn’t move.
“Galin is dead,” whispered the shade. “The lich is lying. Galin was—”
Panic crept up my throat. I had to stop this before they ruined everything.
“We are here to retrieve Loki’s wand,” I cut in.
But Ali was more focused on the shade. “Wait. What did you say about Galin?”
The shade had spun to face me, its eyes shining like stars. “You have come to steal the Levateinn?”
Good. That got his attention. I kept a pleasant expression on my face. “Yes.”
“Why?”
I arched an eyebrow. “To return my soul to my body, of course. And to bring myself back from the dead.”
I could tell by the tensing of Ali’s muscles that she was about to lose it. That she wanted to call Skalei and start stabbing. “Are you saying Galin is here in Hel?” she asked.
“Quiet, mortal,” said the shade.
All around us, the shades had gone completely still. They hung in the air limply, like black rags on a clothesline. Only their pale eyes moved, fixed on me, and they listened to every word. The lead shade turned back to me. “You can raise the dead?”
“Loki’s wand can transmute any form. It can change a fish to bird, a man to a woman, the old to the young. Of course, it can also transform the dead into the living.”
The shade looked to the throne, to Hela’s mummified form, and my heart sank as I realized my mistake. “What about a goddess?”
I felt the shade once again send ice into my veins, and my body went rigid.
He whooshed closer to me, eyes gleaming. “The entrance to the Shore of the Dead is within our realm. We will not allow you to travel to its bloody sands, to parley with the pale wyrm, if you don’t agree to our demands.”
“Hela is dead,” I stammered. “All the gods are dead. Ragnarok cannot be undone.”
“Everything can change. You just told us the wand can transmute any form,” said the shade. “Listen… do you hear her? Even in death, our queen calls to us. She asks to be woken, to once again rule over her domain. We are but her servants.”
“Your queen is dead. You are masters of your own destinies now.”
“False,” growled the shade. “We are prisoners in iron walls, forced to dwell in muck and darkness. Hela says she will free us. Our queen has not forsaken us, even in death.”
But this wasn’t possible. What they asked would destroy us all. “But that is not meant to be, I’m afraid. Ragnarok is known as the Twilight of the Gods. To raise one again would be a crime against Wyrd. Endless destruction would follow.”
“You will help us.” The shade moved close to me, and the chill of death surrounded me. “I saw how you looked at the Night Elf. If you do not raise our queen from her throne, your woman will remain within our walls forever. She will be ours to torment.”
Volcanic wrath poured through me, but I kept my mask of calm—the diplomatic expression of a prince—even as something like panic was rising in my mind. “May I remind you that you have no claim to the living. She has made you no sacrifice—”
I stopped right there as I realized what Modgud had required with her sword.
The shade’s eyes flickered. “Modgud gathered the mortal’s blood with the steel of her blade. She made a sacrifice to enter here.”
Ali looked like she wanted to murder everyone here, but she couldn’t.
“Skalei.” The blade was in her hand.
The shade spun, pale eyes blazing. “Do not challenge us,” it whispered savagely.
Fast as a viper, he lunged at Ali and pressed an inky palm to her chest. She fell to the floor immediately, her eyes rolling up into her skull. Her body began to twitch.
The shade was killing her. Shock ripped my mind apart.
“Stop!” I shouted. I wanted to threaten them—like I had with the guards for the last thousand years. I’ll drain your blood. I’ll rip out your throat.
None of that would work here.
The shade released Ali, turning again to me. “Have you changed your mind?”
I felt like someone had ripped out my lungs. There was no way I could actually help bring back the goddess of the dead, not when it would corrupt Wyrd and destroy the world. But there was absolutely no way I was going to let Ali die, to let the shades claim her soul. Right now, her chest was still rising and falling. I prayed she’d only have a terrible headache when she woke, that she’d still recover easily.
“Yes,” I said finally, “I will help you revive your goddess. On one condition.”
The shade’s eyes narrowed. “What is that?”
I pointed at Ali. “I’ll need her blood. Release her from your bondage.”
“No,” said the shade. “If we release her, what will prevent you from simply reneging on your offer?”
He might be dead, but he wasn’t stupid.
My mind raced as I frantically tried to piece together how to fix this. I wished I’d never brought her here. “I will take her place in Hel.”
“You are already dead.”
I pointed to Ali’s unconscious form. “She is only a Night Elf, while I am so much more than that. Once I have Levateinn in my possession, I’ll become a mortal god. I will be able to raise Hela and bring down the walls that surround your kingdom.”
Lies, of course.
I was worried I was laying it on a little thick, but all the shades watched intently, their eyes glowing with excitement. This was what they wanted, and their desire clouded their judgment.
I raised my palm to my mouth, biting into the skin so it broke. Then I squeezed it hard, and hot, steaming ichor dripped on the floor. “There is my oblation. When I succeed in securing Loki’s wand, my bondage will be complete. My soul will be yours until Hela is raised. Is that good enough?”
All the shades spoke in unison. “Yes.”
Chapter 46
Ali
I opened my eyes, and my head throbbed.
Marroc crouched over me, his blue eyes flickering. He looked worried. “Are you okay?”
I sat up, rubbing my temples. But the problem wasn’t my body. The problem was that I’d failed.
I felt like my ribs were hollowed out with sadness. So much for the North Star nonsense. All this time, I had thought that what I needed to do was kill Galin. That if the sorcerer was dead, the Night Elves would go free. Turned out, he was already dead, and my people were still stuck in the disease-ridden caves. Why had Marroc seemed so certain I needed to come here and get the ring? And why had the Shadow Lords sent me after it, for that matter?
The shades always told the truth, and they’d told me my mission had been a complete waste. That I’d failed.
The disappointment pierced me. “They said Galin is dead. That means there was no point to any of this. The whole purpose of getting the ring was so I could find him and kill him. I didn’t know how the ring would lead to him, but it seems it would never work anyway.”
The shades hovered around us, quiet but watching intently. It almost seemed as though they enjoyed my suffering, which made me
even angrier. Marroc leaned close and whispered in my ear. “I can bring him back to life, and he can tell you how to lift the curse himself.”
A chill rippled over my skin. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Once we steal Loki’s wand, I will be able to raise the dead—Galin included. And you will get what your heart has always desired, Ali.”
Now that he could speak, I could hear the sensual timbre of his voice, and the little hint of sharp steel underneath it. His physical beauty was distracting enough. But his voice? That was a whole new matter altogether.
“You always seem very certain of yourself,” I said. “Too certain.”
“I have had hundreds of years to think this over before I even met you,” he murmured. “The wand can raise the dead. Is that not the purpose of this mission? Raising the dead? Me included.”
I turned to the shades. “Is that true? Can he raise Galin?”
“The lich speaks truth,” said the shade softly. “If you help him, Galin can be raised. We can all get what we want.”
So, he was speaking the truth.
But I knew there was a lot he wasn’t telling me. Even if he now had the power of speech.
The shades kept close to us all the way from Hela’s tomb, leading us through mud and darkness, across fields of black muck shrouded in mist, until finally they stopped at a massive sinkhole.
It reminded me a bit of a children’s toy—the one with the plastic funnel and marbles that circle until they fall through the hole in the bottom. Only here, the marbles had been replaced by black sludge, and the hole at the bottom smelled of death.
A sinkhole we had to enter.
“The entrance to the Nastrand,” the lead shade whispered.
The specter immediately started downward, gliding over the path. We moved more slowly. The sides of the sinkhole were so slick and so steep that one slip would send us sliding all the way to the bottom.
We trod carefully, avoiding the heaviest streams of muck and keeping one hand on the slope above us at all times so we didn’t slip. When we reached the bottom, I stopped at the edge of the opening, but Marroc simply jumped in.
I peered over the edge into the darkness, and he called up to me. “You can toss me the crystal if you want,” he said, voice echoing. I still wasn’t used to the sound of him—a masculine voice, but one smooth as cream.
I chose to climb down the side instead.
When I reached the bottom, the shades led us into a labyrinthine sewer system full of dark side passages. Even I couldn’t see in here.
At last, we reached a set of thick iron doors that completely blocked the tunnel. Streaked with rust, they seemed to have been made by the same hand as the wall that encircled Helheim itself. It was hard to tell if they were designed to keep something in or out.
It was quiet except for the sound of dripping water. Marroc stood next to me, and the shades hovered around him.
“The Nastrand is on the other side,” said the lead shade. “This is where we leave you.”
As the shades slid back into the darkness, Marroc put his shoulder against the door. With a rusty groan, it creaked open.
Chapter 47
Marroc
I pushed open the doors to the Nastrand. Though few had ever visited the place, I knew from the stories what to expect. The Corpse Shore was a series of beaches that bordered an ocean of blood. It was where the worst of the dead were sent to suffer. And, most importantly, it was where the serpent Nidhogg swam.
So, I’d expected darkness and screams of agony, but instead, we were met by sunlight and a gentle breeze. Great dunes spread out until they reached a sparkling sea. The sun shone in a scarlet sky.
When I glanced at Ali, I saw the sun gleaming in her eyes. I’d been lying to her, again. But everything I did, I did for a reason.
My magic had told me that Wyrd decreed this path—that I must find the great wyrm, and I would get my soul back. And I had complete faith in fate to set me on the right course. It might seem insane, but fate had brought us to this terrible place. And spells for divining the true course of fate had never been wrong before.
“You see?” I pointed to the beach, and Ali’s silver gaze followed. “Nastrand, the Shore of the Dead. Where murderers, adulterers, and oath-breakers go after they die. Don’t say I never took you anywhere nice.”
She arched an eyebrow at me, seemingly surprised that I’d made a joke. Actually, it had surprised me, too. It wasn’t like I’d joked with anyone in the past thousand years. I’d just eaten them.
I stepped onto a path of white cobblestones, into the new realm. On either side rose enormous piles of red sand.
I’d only gone a few steps when I heard Ali say, “Oh.” She stood stock-still staring at the white cobblestones.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re walking on—skulls.”
I looked down. Sure enough, what had appeared to be white stone was actually bleached bone. “Ah. Now, look at that. And here I was, hoping we’d find a romantic setting by the Corpse Shore.”
She met my gaze. “Right. Nothing sexier than the bones of the dead.”
Was that a dig at me? Unnecessary. “I can tell you’re annoyed. Just because I dragged you into Helheim and it turned out you might be trapped here forever.”
“You convinced me to join you on a pointless mission to kill a dead man. Maybe you can raise him from the dead, but I’m not sure I trust your judgment at this point.”
“You got the ring you needed, didn’t you?”
Except she didn’t need it—not at all. Perhaps I should stop lying to her. When I got my soul back, I might feel bad about things, though I wasn’t entirely sure.
I could remember facts from my past. I could remember people and events. But my own life? That was as illusory as smoke. I had glimpses of memories, but no idea what kind of person I’d been. Any real facts I knew about my life before this had been told to me by the guards.
Only when I was close to Ali could I get glimpses of the past—the flashes of ravens I’d kept. But soon enough, I’d know it all.
I walked slowly along the bone-cobbled path as it wound between the dunes in the direction of the shore. A thin wind blew the sand off the tops of the dunes. Otherwise, it was deathly quiet. Between the dunes, I could see the winding and undulating roots of Yggdrasill. The cosmic tree drank its nourishment from the water in which Nidhogg swam.
Ali walked by my side, and we stopped when we reached the last dune. On the beach below us, a cluster of people swarmed. Instinctively, I crouched. Draugr.
“Get down,” I whispered sharply.
Ali knelt to me, hair shining like quicksilver. “Marroc?” Her gaze was behind me, body tense.
I spun, but it was too late. A second group of draugr had crept up behind us—gray skin and empty eyes. In front stood a large man with lank white hair.
“Don’t move—” I started.
The white-haired draugr raised a bony hand. “Do not,” said draugr slowly, “attack.”
They’d surrounded us now. I was on my feet, daggers out, steel flashing in the crimson sunlight.
“Tell us why you are here,” said the white-haired corpse, “and we will not hurt you.”
I hesitated. I’d never heard a draugr speak before. Usually, their consciousness was the first thing to go.
“Why should we trust you? The dead feast on the living.”
“We are not hungry.” The corpse raised his hand higher to point at the blood-red sea. “We have plenty to drink.”
“What are you doing here?” asked Ali.
“We are all murderers,” said the lank-haired corpse.
Next to him, a corpse dressed in rusty armor spoke. “I slew a man with a sword.”
Another dressed in a thick gray sweater and hiking boots added eagerly, “I killed my family with a hatchet.”
“I killed a man with my bare hands!” shouted a very large corpse dressed in a wrestling singlet and a bright blue luchador mask.
The corpses turned to stare at her, mouths hanging open.
“You ate his eyeballs?” said the white-haired corpse. His face had twisted into a look of disgust. “While he was still alive?”
The little corpse glared. “The sound of his chewing bothered me. Especially when he ate chicken wings.”
They all nodded, satisfied with this reasonable answer.
The lank-haired draugr edged closer. “Why are you here?”
Perhaps they could help. “We are here to find Nidhogg. Where do we find her?”
A low murmur rose among the draugr. “They come for the pale serpent!” shouted the white-haired corpse. “Our great foe, the night ravager, the bone breaker, the curse striker. We hate the wyrm.”
A bit dramatic.
The lank-haired corpse suddenly leaned forward. “Are you a friend of the wyrm?”
“No.”
“Then why do you want to see her?”
I sighed. “She has something I want. That’s all.”
“They wish to hurt the wyrm. I’m sure of it.” The white-haired draugr clapped excitedly. “We loathe her. We will help you. Follow us; we will take you to her.”
The draugr closed in behind Ali and me, and they motioned for us to walk toward the sea of blood. I kept close to Ali as they mumbled in their broken voices.
We walked along the shore. Apart from a dry breeze blowing in from the water, it was eerily quiet. The usual sounds of the sea were absent—no gulls called; no buoy bells tolled. Even the waves lapped soundlessly on the shore. Junk littered the sand: rusted cars, electronics parts, even bags of old potato chips.
Ali pointed at the water. “What happened to those corpses?”
I followed her finger and saw the pale, glowing bodies of the dead bobbing in the sea.
“They are fed to the wyrm,” said the white-haired draugr matter-of-factly. “The wyrm demands sacrifice.”