Eye of Hel: Stories of the Nine Worlds (Ten Tears Chronicles - a dark fantasy action adventure Book 2)

by Alaric Longward

  ‘Do that, and I shall make life good for your friends here. Lex, for example.’

  ‘He is not—’

  ‘He is dead. He passed the gates this morning,’ she told me. ‘A pleasant fellow. Lost and troubled, but peaceful enough. When your sister dies, you can decide her fate here, sitting on my throne.’

  I balled my fist and looked down, trying to push back the rage. ‘I don’t want that. I’d—’

  ‘No, you do,’ she scoffed. ‘Stop lying to a goddess. There is darkness in you, Shannon. There is good and evil and every shade between. You are tempted to correct your past failures, to recover your honor that has been sullied, to pay back for your suffering. You are tempted to be a furious storm that washes your foes away. I think, and I do see into women’s hearts, that you no longer care to sacrifice everything for your sister.’ She shot up and came to me and put a finger into my heart and smiled terribly. I endured it.

  ‘I am not sure what I feel,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I still love her, despite this.’

  ‘No. You did everything for her. And what did she do, Shannon? Eh? What do you wish?’

  ‘I?’ I breathed softly. ‘I know not. Only to go back and slay my foes. To aid you, lady.’

  ‘That is terribly uncertain. Unworthy of my servant. Give me an oath. You wish to …’ she coaxed me.

  I gritted my teeth. ‘Go back. For the Horn. For revenge. I shall slay Almheir Bardagoon for his treachery, Danar Coinar for his greed, Euryale for her despicable crimes, and some others I dislike.’ She looked at me with her one eye, and I took a deep breath. ‘And I will send my sister here, as well. For revenge. For the Horn.’

  She grinned. ‘We shall share the revenge and celebrate the Horn, my servant. A fine oath. Better than most.’

  ‘Indeed, mistress,’ I said. ‘Yes, mistress. I wish to go back as you best think. I will bleed our foes.’

  ‘And so you shall. You will struggle to find a way out of this pact, Shannon, and you cannot cheat me. I think we will get along marvelously because of that. Yes. Now. It will cost you,’ she told me.

  ‘What will I be?’ I asked softly. ‘Not like Timmerion?’

  She hesitated. ‘Or like me?’

  I nodded. ‘I do not wish to—’

  She laughed crudely, bitter and mad. ‘Not rotten like me. Not rotten like him. Fine. You will be dead, Shannon. You are the Hand of Life and hear the call of ice and brilliant healing springs of Gjöll and her sister river, and you will remain the Hand, but not of Life. I will make you anew. You will not breathe, nor will you eat. You may, if you like, and you will have a taste, but it will give you no joy of fulfillment. You will dream awake if you wish and gain powers at the edges of the darkness, from the seeping recesses of hot fumes and slow fires and forgotten ice, the rot and the decay. Where Euryale has claimed the powers of a dragon, you will gain the powers of the night. They will be vast, but not vast enough to rebel, eh?’ she smiled. ‘You will not rot, as I said, and that should please your vanity,’ she said enviously. ‘You will be undead, a lich, a blood-drinker, a dead damned thing, and you will have powers over death and life. Thus shall I corrupt Frigg’s ward, and there shall not be another for a long time, for Hand of Life is not truly gone.’

  ‘A lich?’ I asked with a desperate voice. ‘Blood-drinker?’

  ‘I said you will stay pretty,’ she said with some spite. ‘What?’

  ‘Will I still be able to love?’ I wondered, and her one eye bulged.

  ‘Love?’

  ‘Love, lady,’ I whispered.

  ‘I give you powers you have not dreamt of, and you wonder about love?’ she asked softly. ‘Yes, you will love. How could you not? Even the dead love. But few will love a creature so terrible and powerful back. They will all fear you. Now, you accept?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  She grasped my hand. ‘You will remain pretty. But not all of you will look pristine.’ She touched my shoulder and grimaced. She was trembling with exertion as she mumbled, and I felt fierce pain, despite my near dead condition and howled, howled like a mad woman, the dead answering from outside, and to my horror I saw the stick men of Euryale skittering across my skin for my Bone Fetter.

  ‘I was healed of that!’

  She laughed. ‘Now you are not. But do not worry. I know her venom. It will be your weapon now. She once stole my Eye in this room; she bit me and escaped, and I have kept her poison. Use it on the ones you hate, Shannon. I will take the fetters away, though, and that will change you.’ She was holding a mighty spell, twisting it only as a goddess could, adding power over power and tweaking and countering all the resistance the Bone Fetters gave her. And I burned. I burned with pain and felt bottomless terror and saw the goddess-given Rot consume flesh around the Bone Fetter. The stick men ate and ate until I saw bone through the haze of deepest pain and then, with a yank, Hel ripped the fetters off, the delicate coils of silver gory with my blood and bits of flesh. She licked at it and smiled, and I could only stare at my skeletal arm in horror. She plucked her Eye from the bony hand, nodded at me and flicked her fingers, and so I truly died.

  Pain went away.

  And I was reborn. It was a peculiar feeling. All my memories were there, but old, strange. I looked around to see shadows, yearned to step into them, hide and stalk the darkness. I felt extreme emotions, both gentle and savage. And I could no longer hear the ice alone, but the roars of fire and ice equally, and somewhere deep inside all that I felt drawn to the mists and fumes of oblivion, the dead lands at the edges of ice and fire both, the corpse world of the spirits. I wondered at myself. I looked at my hand, a skeleton from fingers to the biceps, and the fingers answered my call. ‘Cold-Hand,’ I whispered. I felt no pain but dark energy burned inside me. I heard and smelled things I had not thought possible and saw the goddess glow with power and determination. I surged up from the floor and flexed my hands. I was fast as the wind, strong as a storm.

  ‘Cold-Hand, you are Shannon no longer. Nor are you a maa’dark. Nor human. You shall do my will until time takes you or a foe fiercer than you defeats you; so serve me well, and break the rules for me. Send me many of our enemies. Bring me the Horn, and your loved ones shall benefit. They will be mighty here in Helheim.’

  ‘I am currently married,’ I said, my voice like silky darkness, and I caught a look of my face in the mirror. I was pale, bone-white. My hair was lustrous red, and my eyes mirrored it. I was beauty and death combined. I looked perfect, save for my left arm and hand, which answered my call, the bones ugly white. ‘But that shall change presently, perhaps.’

  The goddess laughed happily. ‘Go. Get the Horn; we shall be free. Do what you will to get it. Rule, or do not rule, cause chaos and mayhem. You are the Hand of Hel now, my Scourge. And should you need it, here is something for you.’ She handed me a dark seed. ‘Do not drop it until you are surrounded by many enemies. It is an artifact, something I created after I lost my war to take the Nine Worlds. Its power is known to me alone, and it will change a course of battle.’

  ‘What shall it do?’ I asked.

  ‘It will win you a battle, I said,’ and she laughed. ‘Use it well. Euryale is a mighty creature, girl, she can kill you. She has the powers of the Dragon. But you are not weak now, no. Feel no remorse, or if you do, feel it after, not during the battle. Your humanity is still in you, but I think you can see what needs to be done now, and you will trust few because they will not trust you. Use your powers well, Shannon. Call for the dead, and they will answer you. Mostly.’

  ‘Yes, mistress,’ I said and watched her as she toyed with her brilliant Eye. Her hands were trembling. She was mumbling, and she placed the rotten thing in her face, and there it sunk into her rot. She backpedaled and sat down heavily. ‘The Nine are still there,’ she whispered. ‘And Odin, he is still around. And my father.’ She cried as she scourged the lands with the Eye, and I had a hunch the dead would wait for a long while before getting an audience with her.

  Then she remembered me.


  She got up, embraced me, and I found I could weep again though there was a sinister, wild anger lurking in my mind. She parted from me and grinned hideously. ‘Blow the Horn at the gates of Nifleheim in Aldheim, and you can enter this place again. Or die again. We will see once more, Shannon,’ she said and kissed me full on my lips. The world spun; I fell, and then I ended up in Himingborg.

  I was holding her dagger, Famine. I wore dark robes trimmed with yellow and silver.

  Himingborg was a battlefield.

  CHAPTER 24

  The war had advanced brutally. It was night; I found myself at the edge of the harbor, and the markets had all closed. I looked to the south, and there were fires in many places across the straits. The gates were ruins, and the Coinar and Daxamma armies had, after all, forced a route through the battle and ruins. There were boats scuttling across the straits, strange, brief conflict all over the city blocks, skirmishes and major battles, and I guessed the Daxamma and Coinar were not having an easy time breaching the Safiroon pride and overcoming the loyal soldiers. Fires raged in so many places, and even in my undead heart, I felt sorry for the innocent. Then I heard something terrible taking place on the other side of the Citadel of Glory. The fort was there, in front of me, and I walked that way. I made no sound as I glided in the dark, and I saw everything. I saw rats, people hiding, elves stalking each other. I braided a spell and covered myself with the night, shadows and darkness.

  That stopped me.

  I gazed at my hands, one made of bones, one flesh, and then I heard a voice. The dagger. I looked at it. It was gray and black, ancient, deadly.

  And it was alive. It was whispering to me. It spoke of spells, and I heard it. It showed me how to braid spells together, and I nearly did. It had showed me how to cover myself in the dark. I laughed dryly at the great gift of the goddess. Hand of Hel. The title felt appropriate. Sad, hopeless, dead, but appropriate. The shadows billowed around me, making me look like a bit of fog from the straits. I glided past a trio of Daxamma guards, who shivered in sudden fear, and I hesitated, for I felt a desire. A desire to see them … no, to feel their fear, a desire to hunt them in the darkness, to slay them mercilessly.

  To enjoy their blood.

  This is what Euryale must feel like, every day. Above mortals. I resisted the temptation and approached the Citadel. I gazed up the face of the walls, up where the old, natural rock stood and noticed that even the mighty fort was on fire in places.

  Something huge was taking place in the Temple indeed, inside the White Court. Screams of battle echoed, and I did not need my undead hearing to know it. There were tens of thousands of people and elves out there.

  And I sensed Euryale was there as well.

  Apparently, Almheir’s plan had worked, and he had entered the city. Hannae and Anja had likely helped him. The former could disguise them, the latter open anything.

  The gate of the Citadel was open, and I entered it. There were no guards, and I walked the length of the hallway, wondering at the marks of the war. I passed formerly ordered, fine rooms and now scorched hallways. I could smell bodies. I saw two elves sitting, looking shocked and unlike it had been with Able at first, I knew they were dead, ghosts and lost. They gazed up at me with hope, but I ignored them. They would go to Hel, eventually. It was not my charge to help them. I walked on and flexed my dead hand, not wishing to look down at it, but I did. The bone was not white, but shadows were playing on it, and there was dark writing, strange letters playing across the finger bones, twirling around the joints that were held together by magic. Rot? It was a weapon for me now. What had I become? A lich? I felt sorrow, horror, resentment, bloodlust, rage. I had my human heart, and it conflicted with my undead desires, and I tried not to laugh as I walked on for the gates to the Temple grounds. I walked and walked until I exited the Citadel’s sundered gates and witnessed a grand, terrible sight.

  Two armies were facing each other, and it was as bright as it would be in daytime, for the brilliant palace of Himingborg was on fire, looted, burnt and broken. The palace of the Safiroons was a ruin, the seven towers scorched dark, with silver plates glinting under the soot, and the sky was filled with dust and smoke. The Bardagoon troops and Safiroon loyal lords were still pouring from the ruined palace and the north. Before the burning palace, the flags of Almheir Bardagoon and the Regent were displayed proudly, as well as the lords of the north and Safiroons. The Regent was perched on a six-legged, armored horse. A thousand maa’dark were with him and besides him, tens of thousands of Bardagoon and Safiroon elves in dark armor and heavy helmets were spread in lines, and they had just herded the enemy out of the walls and the palace, and there had been a battle around the Temple.

  A vast horde of Coinar and Daxamma troops faced them across the Temple.

  There were perhaps sixty thousand enemies of the north, the black and silver of Coinar and yellow and black of the Daxamma, and the foes of the Regent were thrumming their shields with their spears. The northerners were outnumbered by two to one. I spied Danar in a new chariot. I saw what was probably Marxam Daxamma, a tall, gaunt elf with a bone-white horsehair helmet. He was sitting on a very long lizard. There was a tall elf in red armor, Asfalon, and hundreds of noble lords of Coinar, Daxamma, and a few confused Safiroon lords who were probably wondering where Talien Safiroon was.

  Thousands of maa’dark were grasping at spells, braiding them, holding them.

  Then there was silence.

  A group of people had appeared in the middle of the Temple. I breathed a curse as I saw them defying the combined armies of Aldheim. One was Cosia, her disguise gone.

  One was Dana.

  She was standing tall, full of power, and brave as a madwoman. She was staring at the last of the three, a hooded figure dancing around the doorway, dancing wildly, her lithe, beautiful body making impossibly agile steps and her hands, all four twirling with fine movements. She was full of dragon’s power and occasional arrows and spells scattered across an invisible barrier, and I saw she held the Charm Breaker, her laughter drifting to my ears from afar.

  Then Euryale stopped.

  She shed her garments, standing there nude, muscular, dangerous, beautiful, and fey. The elves were taking steps back in fear, for she was their terror, the eater of their loved ones, and there were a thousand legends of her depravations on their kin. Euryale flicked a hand towards Dana, and my sister handed over the Horn, silvery and fine, glinting in the dark.

  Shocked silence filled the White Court.

  ‘She has the Horn!’ I heard Danar Coinar scream. ‘Gjallarhorn!’

  ‘Stop her!’ Almheir yelled, his voice betraying fear.

  A hundred spells flew around wildly, ice and fire and lightning, some spattering on Euryale’s shield. Dana and Cosia huddled at her feet. Some spells ignited buildings as they fell away from Euryale, others struck down rows of combatants.

  Euryale laughed harshly, put the Horn against her twisted lips and blew it.

  Gjallarhorn blared mightily, so loud it was likely heard across the Nine Worlds. Yet, that day it was blasted by the door of Svartalfheim, and that door was again opened.

  A huge, dark gate billowed out of the ground, old as the oldest god. It stood up, tall as a house, and darkness beckoned beyond the black doorway. Everyone was staring at it, Almheir’s command to attack forgotten. Elves were silent and waiting, praying and holding their breaths.

  ‘Come!’ Euryale screamed. ‘Come forth!’

  Pipes blared in answer. They were thin, sonorous, strange as if coming from far away. The temple was shaking; the air thrumming with waves of wild, distant cheers.

  The doorway shimmered.

  Armies marched forth.

  Creatures not seen for thousands of years in Aldheim marched out of the gateway, the denizens of darkness, soldiers from the strange tribes of the Svartalfheim. They were armored in dark steel, holding bright weapons with wicked edges, and they had maa’dark of their own, wild-haired, elves of haunting beauty.
Amongst them were entirely dark and totally white-skinned elves and gray-skinned ones. They all had short dark hair and bright silvery eyes, and all were hauntingly beautiful. A huge standard was carried forth by a rugged, large dark elf. They would fight under what my dagger whispered to me was the Banner of the Night, the battle flag of the Scardark, the mighty city of the strange world. Many of its high lords had joined the invasion. Thousands poured out, creating a ring to face the two divided enemy armies. Spears by thousands were aimed at the invaders, but the dark elven hosts held the longer weapons aimed at the foe around them, and there were seemingly no end to them. Regiment after regiment poured through to take Himingborg, but there was no Cerunnos with his undead powers to stop them this time, and like it had been the last time, the elves were weakened by war across the breadth of the land. Soon, the dark elven troops gave way to others. Legions of Gorgons marched out and joined the ranks, their armor supple on lithe bodies, all holding spells. The females held shields, their snakes writhed strangely, red, yellow, orange and black, and they were all deadly, most all maa’dark.

  Then, Jotuns lumbered out.

  They were not fire giants like Thak, but ordinary ones. They were still tall and intelligent, powerful and armored with plate and chain, armed with huge swords and fierce axes, and groans of despair left the mouths of the elven hosts. And then, amidst the ever-increasing enemy army, Euryale shrieked with joy for a dark presence loomed in the portal, a woman her size, evil to her core. It was obvious to even the least wary elf or human in the field. We all felt it from afar. A guard of Gorgons flowed out first, holding up flags on cross poles, depicting a dark sun on dark field, the outline white and glaring.

  Then she came.

  It was Stheno, Lady of the Night, the creator of the Tenth World and with her, the sky filled with darkness, leaving us all in shadow, the torches fluttering furtively in the murk. The elven hosts took steps back, and their officers shouted for them to hold tight.

  Stheno flowed toward Euryale, and I saw they were very alike. Stheno’s eyes were glowing with deadly yellow light, and her fangs were sharp, and she wore a dark, flowing robe. Her face was strangely smooth and innocent, her snakes thick and numerous like Euryale’s, but only bone white. Both were aloof of the tens of thousands of their minions, being First Born, near gods. The two grasped each other while more and more elven infantry marched out.