Cursed Prince (Night Elves Trilogy Book 1)

by C. N. Crawford

  “Right,” said Ali. “Of course.”

  The white-haired draugr’s expression became deadly serious, “Only the oath-breakers. The vilest among us. They count as nothing. The wyrm’s metabolism is slow, but still, she must be fed.”

  I felt a chill crawl up my neck.

  The oath-breakers. The liars.

  That would be me.

  As we walked, the draugr kept clear of the water, sticking close to the dunes. We picked our way between the rusted cars and climbed over Yggdrasill’s tree roots.

  We’d just clambered up a particularly massive root, when the lank-haired draugr raised a rotting arm. “Welcome to our mead hall.”

  I looked around, confused. I didn’t see anything that resembled a mead hall. Just a massive root and a large pile of garbage.

  The draugr began walking toward the garbage pile. “This way.”

  I squinted. What I’d first taken as a random pile of trash appeared to be some sort of dwelling. It looked like something a desert island castaway might construct from whale skeletons. Pieces of tan fabric were strung between bleached bones. The walls were constructed of rusted metal.

  “What kinds of bones are those?” asked Ali.

  “Nidhogg’s children,” said the draugr. “The wyrm reproduces on her own, without a mate.”

  I stared at the bones. They were large, at least ten feet tall.

  “How big are Nidhogg’s children?” asked Ali.

  “Big.”

  “And you kill them?”

  “No, Nidhogg does. She’s not much into maternal care.”

  “You know a lot about her.”

  “Before I died,” the draugr leader said, “I was a professor of herpetology. Specialized in reptiles. Turns out that knowledge of snakes is a valued skill down here. When we found you, we were looking for wyrm eggs. But before we talk more of Nidhogg and her progeny, let me show you some hospitality.”

  Within the skeletal structure, the draugr led us through a corridor. Here, the rust-colored walls were old car parts, but the roof was covered in a translucent, plastic-like substance I didn’t recognize.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  The lank-haired corpse laughed. “Snakeskin. When Nidhogg sheds, we collect the skin as it washes up on the shore. Makes a nearly waterproof roofing material.”

  “And this is how we get to the wyrm?” asked Ali, looking uneasy.

  The draugr shrugged. “Well, not exactly. We just wanted to show off a bit. We don’t get many visitors.”

  Now, I was growing impatient, desperate to get to Loki’s wand. I could almost feel the magic from here, tingling over my skin. And I was starting to wonder if these draugr had any designs on eating Ali.

  We crossed through an arch of interlocking vertebrae and into the hall. A table constructed from a long piece of driftwood ran down the middle of the room. Above the table hung chandeliers made from the skulls of massive snakes, presumably also Nidhogg’s children.

  Soon, the draugr’s large mugs filled with red liquid—blood, by the smell of it. When all the stools were filled, their lank-haired leader stood.

  “A toast to our new companions!” he shouted.

  The draugr raised their mugs in a great gurgling cheer, then slammed them down.

  Ali stiffened.

  “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he said. “I promise no one will lay a finger on you. Especially now that we’ve drunk. Is that not right, my dead brothers and sisters?”

  “Where’s Nidhogg?” I asked, impatience roiling in my blood.

  The draugr sighed. “She lives in the sea.” He gestured in the direction of the sea. “Where the water is deepest.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a boat?” asked Ali.

  “I do, as it happens.”

  A plan began to form in my mind. “You said you sacrifice some of your kind to her?”

  He nodded cheerfully. “Yes, at night we push them into the sea. In the morning, they are nothing but gnawed bones.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  Chapter 48

  Ali

  The draugr leader led us along the beach again, and we walked silently under a sky that had turned dark.

  I shivered, but not from cold. The draugr unnerved me. Not breathing, their eyes unblinking, quiet as ghosts. Even though I’d seen them drink blood, and their leader had promised they wouldn’t harm me, their dead eyes followed my every step. They still hungered for my flesh; I was certain of it.

  They’d given Marroc a large rucksack, which he now wore slung over one shoulder. It bore the logo of an old human sports team—the New York Jets. It smelled terrible, but he refused to tell me what was inside of it.

  We kept away from the sea, walking high on the shoreline. Though they hadn’t specifically stated it, I assumed the draugr were worried Nidhogg might come lunging up from the red water and drag them into the depths.

  In front of me, smoke drifted off Marroc’s skin. His gaze was straight ahead.

  The dunes rose higher, and Yggdrasill’s roots became more numerous. The draugr became ever more vigilant, and the smoke thickened over Marroc’s shoulders. I called Skalei to me.

  “What is it?” I whispered to a gray-faced draugr walking next to me.

  “We are near the home of the—”

  The draugr never finished her sentence; we were interrupted by shrieking cries that sent a chill through my blood. I whirled, my knife ready. From the dunes, a mass of draugr charged toward us, screaming like banshees. Unlike our cohort in tattered clothes, these draugr wore slacks, leather shoes, and oxford shirts.

  “Oath-breakers!” one of our draugr friend shouted. “Keep away from her!” He spun to face me. “You need to hurry. We won’t feast on your flesh, but the oath-breakers will. The boat is just over there. We’ll hold them off.”

  He pointed at a Viking longboat with a single sail, the color of bone. Marroc and I broke into a run. My feet pounded the rocky ground as I sprinted toward it. We were almost at the boat—almost to the wooden dock that led out to it. By the sinuous twists of the dock’s wood, it looked like it was made out of Yggdrasill’s roots.

  Marroc reached it first, and I followed close behind him, climbing onto the roots. They stretched out into the red sea, fifty meters away.

  Marroc leapt onto the ship, and I followed. My lungs burned.

  “Help me cast off,” Marroc shouted. He pointed at a line in the front of the boat. The bow, I thought. I hustled over to the rope.

  But the sound of moans turned my head. Just behind us were two hungry draugr, rushing for us.

  I untied the rope and threw it onto the dock. “I’m clear,” I shouted, turning back to Marroc.

  He was at the other end of the boat, still working his way through the rope.

  A sinewy draugr wearing a barrister’s wig charged for me. Instinctively, I called Skalei. I threw the blade. The steel flashed in in the air, and I hit my mark. The dagger hit the corpse’s stomach with a thud. He fell into the bloody water.

  “Skalei,” I said, and the hilt returned to my palm.

  The second draugr was reaching for me, but my blade stopped him. It plunged into his neck, and he fell backward off the roots.

  Not terrible. But there were more draugr where those came from.

  I turned to see Marroc tossing the line onto the dock, and we were free.

  “Let’s go!” I shouted.

  Except… the boat wasn’t moving. There was no freaking wind here.

  I gripped the sides. “We need a motor. The oars and the sail won’t get us moving fast enough.”

  “Help push!” shouted Marroc, leaping onto the dock, and I figured out what his plan might be. Give it a strong shove, then leap in.

  I leapt over the side, mirroring Marroc’s position on the dock. I shoved with all my strength. Slowly, the boat began to move, and Marroc hoisted himself back up into the boat. Before I could join him, a bony hand started digging into my flesh.

  I whirled to f
ind a draugr bellowing in a British accent, “You have committed an offense against my person when you threw your knife into my stomach!”

  With my nerves sparking, I punched the draugr in the jaw so hard his neck bent back at a ninety-degree angle. He fell backward into the red sea.

  When I turned to look at Marroc, he stood at the edge of the boat, and it had drifted away from me. Dammit. Black smoke swirled around him like a maelstrom. His eyes glowed like embers.

  My stomach clenched. The boat was now nearly thirty feet from the dock. Safe from the draugr, but too far for me to jump to him. I was on my own.

  Then, from the bloody sea below me, a pair of sinewy draugr arms clutched at my elbow. The draugr in the barrister’s wig rose from the sea. “Maritime salvage law is clear. You have injured me; I am entitled to fair compensation in the form of your flesh.”

  “Skalei!” This time, I slashed at his neck so hard I nearly severed his head. “I can do this all day, bitch.”

  Problem was that he didn’t stay dead.

  I kicked him hard in the chest, and he sank under the surface once more. Then I reached for the vergr stone in my pocket and turned to Marroc.

  “Catch!” I shouted, tossing the crystal toward the boat.

  It sparkled in the dim light before landing gently in Marroc’s hands.

  “Fara!” I shouted.

  Chapter 49

  Marroc

  I was still holding Ali’s crystal when she teleported, so instead of reappearing next to me, she popped into existence with her feet at about shoulder level. She started to fall, but I caught her, wrapping my arms around her waist and legs.

  I stabilized the rocking boat with my feet and breathed in her scent. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  She pushed away from me, and I realized I’d been holding her tightly. Slowly, she slid down my body, standing in the boat. Her stomach grumbled, and the sound made my gut clench. I needed to get her out of here, back home as soon as possible.

  “I’ll get you home soon,” I promised. “Once we get the wand from Nidhogg.”

  I glanced around, thinking of the mission. While the boat was clear of the dock, it was simply drifting. If we didn’t get moving, the waves would push us back onto the beach.

  “We need to get this boat moving,” I said. “Have you ever sailed before?”

  Ali shook her head. “I grew up in a cave, remember?”

  “Not a problem. Before Ragnarok, I used to sail in Boston Harbor.”

  “That was a thousand years ago. You might be a bit rusty.”

  “It’s like riding a bike,” I said, turning to study the boat. Built like a traditional Viking longship, it had a single mast, wooden oarlocks along the side, and rows of oars. Both ends were pointed and carved in the shape of bird beaks. Rows of circular shields lined each side. It looked ready to ferry a Viking raiding party across the North Sea.

  There was only one thing that seemed out of place. The hull wasn’t built of wood. Instead, it appeared to be constructed from a plastic-like material.

  “What is this thing made of?” said Ali, as if reading my mind.

  I bent down to inspect the hull. It was rougher than I’d expected. As I ran my hand along the side, little pieces flaked off under my fingers. I blew out a long breath as I realized what the boat was.

  “This isn’t just any boat, Ali. This was Loki’s ship, the Naglfar.”

  Ali grimaced, pulling her hand quickly away from the hull. “The one that was built from the fingernails of the dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Ali hopped up onto one of the wooden seats, looking disturbed. “I’ve heard the story about how when a person dies, their fingernails keep growing. And that you should cut them, unless you want them to end up on the Naglfar… but I never thought it was real.”

  “I think that a lot of things we believe are legends have a foundation in truth.”

  Already, we’d drifted closer to the beach, and I sat down to grip a pair of oars.

  “I don’t want us to run aground,” I said. “I’m going to row a bit.”

  “I’ll help.” Ali sat in front of me, gripping another pair of oars. Her silver hair draped down her back, and I realized it was almost gleaming in the moonlight. We rowed in tandem, and I watched the muscles in her back move under her black shirt.

  All remained silent around us.

  Our oars cut into the sea like knives, and slowly, the boat began to move until it was picking up speed. I watched with a growing sense of relief as the dock grew small in the distance.

  Already, I could feel that we were closing in on Nidhogg’s domain, where the water was deepest.

  Chapter 50

  Ali

  I stole a glance behind me at Marroc, at his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, showing off his muscular forearms. White had not been the best choice for this journey, as the shirt was now streaked in mud.

  Wisps of smoke rose off his skin as he rowed. He gripped the oars tightly, and with each stroke, his shoulders squared. He might be dead, but he nevertheless exuded a powerful masculinity. His wood-smoke scent curled around me.

  “You can stop rowing if you like,” he said as he pulled on the oars in an even rhythm. “I’m not even remotely tired.”

  Right, of course. I’d forgotten how he was basically indefatigable. I put down my oars and turned to face him.

  Beneath us, the longboat cut through the waves. As he rowed, he studied me. In the darkness, his eyes were a deep indigo color, like sapphires held up against a night sky. Fiery runes gleamed on his chest, visible through the open collar of his shirt.

  “So, how are we going to find Nidhogg?” I asked.

  “Bait,” Marroc said as he prepared to take another stroke.

  I frowned. “With what?”

  “We’ll use that.” He nodded at the rucksack he’d been carrying since we left the hall. “And now that you mention it,” he continued, “can you open it for me?”

  I poked the bag with my foot instead. “Tell me what’s inside it.”

  “Well, I wanted a bull’s head, but they didn’t have one. This is something that washed up on the beach. The draugr leader thought it would work.”

  I poked the bag with my foot again but didn’t open it.

  “Look, you’re going to have to open it.” He pulled on the oars. “My hands are occupied.”

  Slowly I unzipped the bag. Inside were three human heads. Nausea rose in my throat. “Nope, no thanks. These are the bait?”

  Marroc let the boat coast again as he spoke. “Once, when Thor fought Nidhogg, he used the head of a bull tied to a rope to lure in the wyrm. Except we didn’t have a bull, so we have to use humans.”

  He reached into the bag and pulled out one of the heads, then grabbed the end of an unused rope lying on the floor of the boat, tied it tightly around the head, and tossed it over the side. It bobbed for a moment before sinking out of sight.

  I’d imagined that Nidhogg would come roaring up from the deep, hungry and vicious, ready to ravage our boat as soon as Marroc tossed in the “bait,” but instead, nothing had happened.

  A deep calm settled over the sea. Waves lapped quietly against the hull. There was no wind, and the dark sky stretched over us. I watched out the portside, while Marroc looked the other way.

  I leaned over the gunnel and stared into the water. Nothing moved in the depths. I could see only an impenetrable darkness, nearly as black as the sky above us.

  “I don’t think Nidhogg is here,” I said quietly.

  “I think you might be right, Ali. We should head for deeper water.”

  Once more, we were rowing, and a gentle breeze washed over us. Marroc jerked hard on the oars, and I tried to match his pace. Soon, he had the boat surging over the sea.

  My job now was to dangle the bait. On the list of things I’d wanted to do before I died, fishing with a human head in the world of the dead was pretty low.

  Then something
glimmered down deep, at the very edge of my eyesight. As I watched, it grew larger—a pale green glowing light. Then, next to it, another one blinked into existence.

  “Marroc?” I said in a sharp whisper. “There’s something down there.”

  Marroc stopped rowing. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I think it might be a pair of eyes—”

  But as I spoke, a third light blinked on, then another.

  “No,” I said. “Not eyes. Too many—”

  He leaned forward, shoulder brushing mine, and I felt the heat of his body as he crouched next to me. “Where is it?” he asked, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.

  I pointed into the water at the largest glowing light. “Do you see it?”

  Marroc started to shake his head, then he stopped. “Okay, I see it.”

  “There’s more than one.” The lights grew bigger and brighter as they rose out of the depths. “Do you know what they are?”

  I felt Marroc’s shoulder move as he shook his head. Then he whispered, “Ali,” as he wrapped an arm around my hips and pulled me away from the gunnel. “Look.”

  All around us, the sea glowed a pale green, lights floating under the waves. They appeared nearly stationary, drifting at the same speed as the longboat.

  “What are they?” I asked.

  “I think they might be jellyfish. Glowing ones.” He prepared another line of bait on the rope and tossed it into the sea.

  I was just pulling away when, suddenly, like a switch turning off, all the lights in the water went out. Behind me, Marroc stiffened.

  “What the Hel?” I whispered.

  The sea was pitch black, the sky just as dark. Looking toward the horizon, it was impossible to tell were one ended and the other began.

  “Can you see anything?” Marroc asked.

  “Not a thing. I’m not sure I ever experienced this before.”

  Then the bait line jerked so hard in my hand that I would have been pulled over the side and into the sea if Marroc hadn’t grabbed me tight around my waist. The whole boat listed hard to port, the gunnel nearly slipping under the water. We were going to get pulled into the water.