by Matt Larkin
“Stop!” she screamed. “Stop, I’m only for the strongest! I belong only to the strongest male!”
At that, the troll did pause. So he did understand her.
One of the ones behind whooped and bellowed.
“Him?” Sigyn called, pointing at that troll. “Are you the best?”
The troll howled like a wolf and closed the distance to her in three strides. It reached for her, as if to yank her right out from underneath its fellow. Instead, the first troll spun and punched the challenger in the face. Sigyn scrambled backward as the two collapsed into a wrestling heap. The third troll watched her a moment, glancing at the fight.
Sigyn motioned him toward the others. Still it hesitated.
The Hel-cursed monstrosities thought with their stones. Sigyn gave over any attempt to cover herself with her rent dress, even pulled it away to reveal a breast, and winked at the troll. At that, the thing flew into a frenzy, leaping atop the others and pounding both fists down onto them.
Sigyn snatched her bow as she rose, then ran for the next valley, weaving in and out of the trees. Too much to hope the three trolls would kill each other. She had to put distance between them. With their great strides, she couldn’t outrun them, but maybe she could lose them.
Ahead, the trees cleared in a circuitous route through the valley. Only a river would cause a break like that. Sigyn rushed down to its frozen banks, then gingerly stepped out onto the ice. It creaked beneath her weight.
Fall through that ice and she was a dead woman. She backed away and looked to the trees. She could climb one, but they might still smell her. Even if they couldn’t climb the tree—and she wasn’t sure about that—the trolls could probably knock the damned thing down.
Another bellow erupted from behind her.
“Hel take you,” Sigyn cursed, and glanced back to see the third troll rushing toward her. One tusk had been broken, one eye bruised shut. It loped along the ground, using its arms like legs.
Sigyn looked back to the river, then to the troll. Freezing to death would still be better. She took off at a dead sprint across the ice. It groaned with each step she took. Faster. Faster!
Her foot slipped out from under her, and she skidded, then fell. Her shoulder slammed into the ice, sending jolts of lightning along her limbs. The ice cracked and began to spiderweb where she’d impacted it. Grunting against the pain, Sigyn crawled along the river, toward the opposite bank. More and more cracks spread beneath her.
Fuck!
She collapsed into the snow on the other side and rolled over to see the troll hesitating on the riverbank. Stupid as the beasts were, it must still realize what the cracks in the ice meant. It couldn’t follow.
Sigyn rose. Was she safe? Maybe. At least until the troll found another place to cross and came hunting her again.
How long would she have? Long enough to get away? Maybe not. Nor could she take the chance—she needed to keep on Loki’s trail.
Sigyn nocked an arrow to her bow. Focus. She let everything blur around her, focused only on the vulnerable flesh of the troll’s throat. She loosed. The troll raised an arm to block the arrow and it clattered off the rocky protrusions on its forearm.
“I’m going to kill you,” Sigyn whispered.
The troll began to howl. Had it heard her? Deep down, part of it was still a man. Men could be easily tempted.
“Come on! Come and get me!”
It howled again. Damned thing would bring a whole horde down on her. She had to silence the monster.
“You want to plow my trench? Come get it!” she shouted.
The troll leapt up and down and beat its chest. Sigyn almost laughed. Would have, if its display wasn’t likely echoing across half this country.
“Fine,” she mumbled. “You need some enticement, fine.” She pushed her dress off both shoulders and let it fall, standing naked in the chill mist. “You know you want this!”
With a final bellow, the troll charged forward. Not three steps onto the river the ice shattered, pitching it into the frozen waters. The troll flailed, waving its arms and only serving to smash the ice it tried to climb up on.
Sigyn grabbed an arrow and moved to the edge of the river. “Hope you like the sight. It’s the last you’ll ever see.”
She nocked the arrow, letting everything else slow, fall away. Her enhanced senses had one incredible side effect—her archery would now have put Agilaz to shame. She loosed, the shaft burying itself in the troll’s eye. The monster disappeared beneath the river.
Sigyn paused just long enough to pull her dress back on.
16
Few among mankind understood the truth about trolls. Few knew most of the monsters had been men, once, before the mist changed them. Gudrun knew more than she cared to. Some trolls, of course, were spawned by troll-wives, born as a new race, one cursed. But the mists took those weak of heart and filled them up. It was not meant to be breathed by the living, for the mist saturated the realm of the dead. When a living man breathed it in long enough, it had unnatural effects, changing them, evoking primal instincts long buried. They became beasts that knew naught but eating, fucking, and killing.
Except now, Odin had changed all that, having given a troll an apple of Yggdrasil. Long had the Niflungar sought the most guarded prizes of the Vanir. And Odin, in a fool’s attempt to save his doomed brother, had given an apple to a man already lost to the mists. The so-called Troll King had spread his influence outward from the Jarnvid, taking all the lands the Aesir had now vacated. They didn’t know, Gudrun assumed, that most of Aujum now fell under the sway of Odin’s brother. And indeed, beyond, where Ve had begun uniting the trolls throughout the mountains. They could pass beneath the peaks, relying on ancient dvergar tunnels where available, or digging their own burrows when necessary, hidden from sunlight and moving faster than men could hope to.
And under the leadership of a troll with the power of gods, with some remaining semblance of human wit, they had swept across Midgard. Taken thousands of troll-wives as if they thought to outbreed mankind. Several petty kingdoms in Hunaland and Bjarmaland too began to fall before Ve’s hordes and, if left unchecked, perhaps they would soon challenge the great empires of the South Realms. Ironic, that in his own way, Odin had taken great strides toward the annihilation of the lands of men.
Her father’s ravens kept the Niflungar informed as to the actions of the Troll King and his brethren, enough to know he was a danger if not curtailed, or a weapon if properly controlled. Never in history had a troll held so much power. One day, Odin would look back and see every human kingdom in Midgard fallen to the Troll King. The men who did not become trolls would become their food. The women—slaves to their lust, raped unto to death, or worse, until they conceived their troll spawn. Such a birthing, oft as not, tore the woman to pieces, and left the trolls to feed her corpse to the newborn. Trolls were born of Hel, and they looked, and acted, the part.
Gudrun stepped gingerly into the cave-turned-troll-burrow. Not that she feared the trolls, so much as the troll droppings. Hel would protect her. In some primal way, trolls knew the mists of Hel had given them rise, and they knew to tread with care around the Children of the Mist.
Jagged roots sprouted from the cave ceiling, turning the place into a warped mirror of the Jarnvid itself. The trolls’ power, no doubt, unconsciously shaping the land to match the twisted torments of their own existence.
Countless trolls watched her, a few looking up from fucking human women like dogs as she passed. Gudrun sympathized with the troll-wives, but she could do naught for them. And yet … Almost unbidden, ice coalesced in her palm, summoned up from the snow maiden bound to her. Before she could think better of it, Gudrun flung the chill like a bolt at one of the trolls. The creature dropped his woman and wailed, fleeing into the darkness.
Gudrun ground her teeth.
She deluded herself if she thought she did any service for the woman other than a moment’s reprieve. The greater mercy would have been to k
ill the woman herself. She had done no good, but calling on such power had raised a chill in her heart. The Mist spirit she’d bound coiled just a little tighter about her insides like an ethereal tapeworm.
A fool’s move.
Besides which, if she sought help from these trolls, she could not deny them their prizes. And though every troll she passed looked on her with undisguised lust, none made a move on her.
Yes. Keep your mortal wives. Gudrun was no maid to be carried away—she was a princess of the Niflungar, and even these trolls could feel it. The power of Mist was deep in her soul. These sick creatures were born of it, but they were not the essence of Mist.
Gudrun cursed the trolls and cursed Grimhild and cursed herself for not being strong enough to do more. Instead, she jerked her torch in front of her, sending trolls clambering away from the flame. Like aught else born of Mist, they feared flame and daylight. As, in truth, did any Niflung.
Beyond, trolls feasted. Bile burned her throat as she realized one was gnawing on a human femur. Rather than dwell on it, she pushed past the sight, feigning indifference so as not to let the creatures see her disgust.
Deeper and deeper she stalked into the burrow, until her single torch seemed scant illumination against the prevailing darkness.
Odin had fled, deep beneath the mountains in tunnels not so unlike these. She had hardly believed the reports her draugar had made, that Odin had chanced the river Ylgr. In truth, she wondered how he even knew of the river. Had that Vanr witch told him?
His gambit might well have cost him many of his people, but it had allowed him to get far ahead of her, bypassing Hunaland and passing into Valland. A land where the Niflungar had little influence, thanks to the strange religion of the locals. Now she could no longer corner him in the mountains. Now she needed allies if she was to hem Odin in once again. And she must do so—if she let Grimhild reach him, Odin was lost to her. She had no reason to care about the deaths of the other Aesir, but Odin she could not lose.
And what better ally than the fallen brother of the man himself?
The Troll King reclined upon a throne that seemed to erupt from the ground, roots grown out in the wrong direction. Outward-facing thorns jutted from the throne’s arms and base, no doubt responsible for the countless shallow scrapes covering the naked women who sat beneath the throne. Gudrun forced herself not to meet their hollow gazes. These women were already lost. Too long in the mist, too long serving the lust of the trolls, their bodies and minds and very souls broken by the torment …
And she would not look upon the one on the left … By Hel, the girl couldn’t be more than fifteen winters. Her eyes still pled, still begged for a savior that would never come. Gudrun could not be that savior. Despite the sudden shortness of breath in her chest, she forced her gaze to remain locked on that of the Troll King, hunkering in the shadows against the back of his throne.
“Your brother has fled beyond these mountains, beneath them,” Gudrun said.
Though the Troll King shifted on his throne, naught more than a shallow grunt escaped him. Gudrun loathed using such savage beasts to her ends, but Grimhild had insisted, demanding Gudrun turn to the trolls, who might know the deep routes beneath the mountains. Gudrun doubted Odin’s quest against the Vanir would have succeeded and, given a little patience, she could have easily shown up in time to save him from his own arrogance.
But now she had to deal with trolls. And maybe Ve could head off his brother, leave him desperate enough he would turn back to her. Except that the Troll King was no longer Ve.
“If you move quickly, you can still reach them. Take the old roads, the hidden paths the dvergar once dug through these mountains.”
A rumble like a rockslide bubbled out from the Troll King. “You … do not give … orders. This is my … kingdom.”
Gudrun didn’t think she’d ever heard a troll speak, at least not more than an inarticulate word or two.
“Do you know who I am, troll?”
The Troll King chuckled again. “You bitch … who will mouth … my rod. Get on your knees.” He shifted forward enough to reveal his erection. “Or first I let … horde plow your … trench?”
Gudrun set her jaw. She could not afford to let them see her fear. She had to slow her heart. These disgusting beasts were, after all, beasts, driven by naught but primal lust. And primal fear. And they ought to fear her.
Rather than fall back as the troll might have expected, Gudrun took a step forward. “Irpa aid me,” she whispered under her breath. The wraith’s glyph on Gudrun’s arm warmed as she called it. It was there, bound to her service through her greatest sorcery. Gudrun did not call on the ghost often—it would invariably enact a toll, and its hatred exceeded even that of the snow maiden—but sometimes a point must be made.
Almost as one all the trolls paused, looking around. They felt it. A change in the air, though for certain they didn’t understand what it meant. Gudrun let her eyes shift to see the Penumbra. Numerous shades drifted about the burrow, most probably victims of the trolls, others perhaps lost souls.
But one was different.
Black, even against the oppressive vision surrounding her. A shadow, moving in the night, trailing wisps of a tattered shroud behind her. Irpa passed dangerously close to one of Ve’s trolls. The troll didn’t have the Sight, but he felt it and backed away toward the wall.
Others began trying to edge out of the Troll King’s chamber. So quick to abandon their leader when faced with such a horror. The wraith at last settled on one of the empty-eyed girls at Ve’s feet. She had been so hollowed out by the abuse, perhaps there was naught left inside. And that meant Irpa had ample room to take control.
The possessed girl rose, shoulders straight, any hint of timidity gone. “You want my mouth?” the wraith asked. Its voice was low, like a whisper on the wind, but it echoed through the cavern, and Gudrun could have sworn a troll whimpered. “You want my mouth?”
With uncanny speed, the girl lunged forward and grabbed Ve’s rapidly dwindling erection with one hand. From the sudden squeal, Gudrun imagined Irpa must have crushed it. Her other hand settled on Ve’s throat and she straddled him, her mouth nearly touching his. Through her Sight, Gudrun saw the wisps of vapors seep out of the Troll King and into Irpa. He shuddered and trembled as the wraith fed upon bits and pieces of his soul.
The glyph on Gudrun’s arm burned. The wraith drew strength from her, the will, the permission to feed. As Irpa grew in strength, Gudrun’s control would weaken. There was always a price.
Gudrun’s chest tightened. Her lungs weren’t working. She clutched the golden bracelet she wore on her forearm. A talisman … replete with … energy to draw on …
“Enough,” Gudrun said, trying not to gasp the word.
Irpa lingered over the Troll King, her will straining against Gudrun’s for just an instant, before she released him and backed away. The pressure eased on Gudrun’s chest, releasing her lungs, yet Irpa’s hold on her had tightened a hair more. If not for the talisman, it would have been worse.
“You may be a king here,” Gudrun said, still trying to keep her voice steady, “but there are always powers greater. Believe me when I tell you, you would much rather have me as an ally than a foe. Go after Odin. Now.”
The Troll King rubbed his chest with one hand, shielding his bruised genitals with the other. Both likely felt the icy chill of the grave.
“We will … make for … the Aesir,” Ve said, his voice now reminding her more of bouncing pebbles than a landslide.
Gudrun took another step toward him. “And as your ally, you will grant me a gift.” Gudrun pointed to the girl at Ve’s feet, the one troll-wife here still alive enough to shake with real terror.
Ve looked toward the girl and gnashed his tusks. “Why?”
“Maybe I want her mouth. If you prefer, I can leave the wraith in your other woman. I’m certain she can see to all your needs, my king.”
The Troll King’s rumble now reminded her of an angr
y snow bear. He nearly leapt to his feet as he shoved the girl toward Gudrun. “Take … both!”
The girl sprawled at her feet, then Gudrun pulled her up by the shoulders.
“We … remember … this.”
“I certainly hope so. Irpa, leave the vessel.”
The possessed woman collapsed in a heap as the wraith fled her body and retreated back into the Astral Realm. Guiding the girl by the arm, Gudrun walked from the burrow, trying desperately to keep her steps slow and deliberate, despite the sickening pounding of her heart.
Hel, the trolls would remember her little display. Cowing others with terror might have bought her service—it would not buy her true allies. But that sick beast had thought to treat her as his whore. Her, a princess of the Niflungar, a priestess of Hel.
And as a woman willing to use terror as a weapon, did that now transform Gudrun into Grimhild’s daughter in more than blood? The thought alone left her dizzy. She could not let herself vomit in front of the girl, much less the trolls.
Outside the burrow, Gudrun fell back against the mountainside, hugging herself with her free hand to still the trembling as her pent-up tension finally released itself.
Naked and shivering, the girl watched her, eyes wide.
Gudrun stripped off her fur cloak and wrapped it around the girl. She could do naught for her feet, sadly. Poor thing would likely have frostbite so bad she might lose a few toes, but it was a far better fate than letting those trolls hollow her out. How many troll babies could they plant inside her until the flower wilted and her body gave out? Gudrun didn’t think she wanted to know the answer, though she’d heard many troll-wives didn’t survive even the first birth. Most probably wound up in troll bellies.
“What’s your name, girl?”
The girl’s mouth opened, but only a whimper came out.
Gudrun shook herself, then pulled the girl into an embrace. “It will be all right,” she whispered. “You are under my protection now.”