She dropped her shield, thrust her sword into the snow, grasped the dagger by its blade, and threw. Before the dagger struck she had followed it with her war ax.
The two soldiers at the bottom of the slope cried out in pain and surprise as they fell to the ground dying, one with a dagger in his neck, the other with an ax buried in his back. By the time the other soldiers had turned to see what had happened, Bloodsong was down the slope and racing toward them.
Her sword sheared through one soldier’s neck, and her return stroke felled another before their swords were in their hands.
The remaining three spread out, cursing. The soldier near the cage ran forward to join them.
Four soldiers with drawn swords now surrounded her and were beyond the reach of her blade. From the corner of her eye she saw Huld emerge from the trees and move toward the cage. She saw one of the soldier’s eyes flick toward the cage, saw his mouth open to tell the others.
She rushed him, blocked a stroke with her shield, parried a stroke with her blade, slammed her shield into an opponent’s sword arm, thrust into his momentarily exposed throat, whirled to parry another blade, and suddenly felt pain dig into her left arm as a sword sheared through mail to the bone.
Her shield fell from nerveless fingers as she took a step back, parrying strokes from the three remaining blades while blood spurted from her wounded arm.
Fighting to ignore the pain, she gave ground, back and back, hard-pressed to fend off the trio of flashing swords. Her back touched the trunk of a pine.
She cursed but kept fighting, nearly getting through one of the three’s guard, recovering barely in time to parry the stroke of another.
Pain dug into her left shoulder. Blood streamed anew from the already wounded arm. A shallow cut sliced her right thigh.
She slipped through one soldier’s guard to slice his sword arm. He shifted the sword to his other hand and kept fighting. She jerked her head to one side. The blade meant to behead her slammed into the trunk of the pine and stuck there for a fatal moment as Bloodsong’s sword pierced a soldier’s throat. But before she could withdraw her blade, another cut arced down toward her head.
She twisted sideways. The blade glanced from her steel battle-helm, stunning her. She kept her sword raised, fighting to remain conscious, to clear her vision, managed to parry a deadly stroke, felt pain in her right shoulder, feared she couldn’t fend off their blades much longer, set her teeth, and kept fighting as her vision cleared slightly, parrying, thrusting, feinting, determined to slay the two remaining swordsmen.
She twisted her sword through a complex feint, parry, thrust. One of the soldiers screamed and collapsed into the bloodstained snow. But suddenly the remaining soldier delivered a two-handed hammer blow to her blade, sending it flying from her grip.
With a laugh of triumph he raised his sword for the death stroke. Bloodsong’s eyes flicked to her fallen sword. She kicked out at his knees, threw herself past him, hit the ground, rolled, came up on her feet, again holding her sword in her hand.
Another hammer blow drove her to her knees as she parried the stroke. She thrust into his right leg, parried another stroke, rose back to her feet, drove him back one step, two—
Suddenly an arrow sprouted from the soldier’s neck. He dropped his sword, surprise and pain on his face, reached up to touch the embedded shaft, fell forward, dead in the snow.
Bloodsong looked around, saw the archer. She laughed and began running forward, ignoring her bleeding wounds.
The archer opened her arms. The two women embraced. “I always told you I admired your skill with a bow,” Bloodsong said.
“And I yours with a blade, Freyadis,” Valgerth answered, tears welling in her eyes.
HULD WANTED to use her healing spell to heal all of Bloodsong’s wounds. Bloodsong agreed only to let her heal the serious ones that would hamper her battle skills.
When she was done, Huld’s vision swam, her energies drained by the spell. Bloodsong helped her to stretch out on her cloak on the snowy ground. Huld saw the concern in Bloodsong’s eyes.
“I’ll be all right,” the Witch said.
“You need food, as do I,” Bloodsong replied.
“As do we,” Thorfinn added, eyeing the discarded food the soldiers had been eating. “I’ll bring some to you.”
“I will help,” Valgerth said, and went with him.
“Huld,” Bloodsong said, sitting on the snow beside her, “thank you for helping and for using your energy to heal some of my wounds.”
“You were right.”
“About?”
“Good thing there weren’t nine.” She smiled. “You’ve known those two for a long time?” She was already feeling slightly better, her depleted energies returning.
“Valgerth was a slave with me in Nastrond. She was chosen to be an arena warrior to punish her, just as I had been. I trained her to use sword and ax. She already knew how to wield a bow and taught me something of its use. When I led our escape, Valgerth was one of the few to survive. After the escape, everyone scattered so that no one would know where another had gone, in case of capture and questioning. But Valgerth and I broke that rule and visited each other from time to time.”
“And Thorfinn?”
“She met him later, just as I met a man called Eirik in the village that accepted me. Thorfinn knew the basics of weapons handling, but Valgerth taught him the techniques of an arena warrior. They fell in love and evidently still feel that way. I am glad she has found the years of happiness that—” Her voice trailed away.
“That what?” Huld prompted. “That you did not?” she asked gently.
Bloodsong looked at her angrily, then her expression softened. She looked down at the snow, then back at Huld.
“I knew happiness, Huld, for a year or two, in that village, with Eirik. And then, briefly, with my son. But Nidhug’s sorcery led him to me.” Her face became a grim mask. Her fists were clenched, eyes suddenly brimming. “That monster killed them all. And, as you already guessed, me.”
Huld was silent, but she reached out and squeezed Bloodsong’s hand.
Bloodsong rose to her feet. “Can you stand?” She extended an arm for Huld to grasp.
Huld accepted the offered arm, got to her feet.
Bloodsong turned to go help Valgerth and Thorfinn, but then saw that they stood not three paces away, holding wineskins and food in their arms.
“How much did you hear?” Bloodsong asked, holding Valgerth’s gaze.
“Everything,” Valgerth answered.
“And now you will turn from me in disgust? So be it. You are free and owe me no debts.”
“Freyadis,” Valgerth quietly said, stepping forward and touching her friend’s arm. “We already knew, or guessed, that you had, well, died. We came to the village after it had happened. We saw what Nidhug had done, found empty ropes tied around that tree. We buried Eirik and your son with honor, for you.”
New tears stung Bloodsong’s eyes. “My thanks, for that.”
“And while we were there, I had one of my cursed visions,” Thorfinn told her. “I saw what had happened to you and told Valgerth that you were dead. She refused to accept it, though, until years had gone by.”
“Then, yesterday morning,” Valgerth continued, “Odin gave Thorfinn another vision, but in this one he saw you alive, clad in black, riding from the north. So,” Valgerth smiled, “we set out to find you.”
“But why?” Bloodsong asked, watching both their faces. “You were safe and, I assume, happy. So why—”
“Why!” Valgerth laughed. “You haven’t changed, Freyadis. Why? Because, other than Thorfinn, you have been my only true friend. That’s why, of course!”
“You’re wrong, Valgerth. Not about me being your friend. I am honored to still be that. But I have changed.”
“We all change, perhaps,”
Valgerth admitted, “but not in the ways that matter between friends, even if you did die ... Hel-praying?”
“Aye. A woman’s voice in my mind promised to resurrect me after my death so that I could seek revenge upon Nidhug, if only I would die Hel-praying. The whisperer claimed to be Hel Herself. I thought it sounded more like my dead mother and thought I was having a dying hallucination. So, I refused to play along. But then the voice in my head sweetened the bargain.” She looked at Huld. “Huld knows some of the rest, but not all. I was carrying my second child, you see, and I could feel it dying within me as I died. But the voice claiming to be Hel promised that She would allow the child to live and be born in Helheim after life had been restored to my flesh, if only I would die Hel-praying and serve Her.
“Still I refused. I never again intended to be anyone’s slave, whether Nidhug’s or Hel’s. So, She went even further. She promised that I could raise my child for six years in Helheim before embarking upon a task She would set me. And once that task was finished, She promised She would free me from all obligations to Her and return my child to live with me on the green Earth. I thought still I had gone mad, but at last I accepted. And I was not mad! I awoke in the ice-shrouded halls of Helheim, bore a daughter, and named her Guthrun.”
“A daughter,” Valgerth said, squeezing Bloodsong’s hand. “And with your mother’s name.”
“I’m proud of her, Val. I wish you could see her.”
“I can hardly wait, Freyadis! And as soon as we help you do this task Hel set you—”
“You are not going to ride with me. I won’t allow it.”
“Skadi’s Bow!” Valgerth exclaimed. “Of course we are going to help you.”
“You owe me no debts.”
“Except that if not for you, I would have ended my life as a slave.”
“You owe me no debts,” Bloodsong repeated, looking down.
No one spoke for a moment, then Thorfinn touched Valgerth’s shoulder. “Let’s deal with this food that we’ve found,” he suggested.
“An excellent idea,” Huld agreed.
Valgerth nodded. “Freyadis?”
Bloodsong looked up, eyes streaming. “Garm’s Bottom! Do you need my permission to eat?”
Valgerth and the others laughed. ”You swear by the fearsome Hound of Hel’s bottom, now, Freyadis?” Valgerth asked, still laughing.
Huld rolled her eyes. “And she has the nerve to chide me for swearing by Freya’s Teats!”
They all laughed again, and this time Bloodsong, too.
* * *
A stream of curses poured from Nidhug’s lips. He had sensed more soldiers dying by Bloodsong’s hand.
He still sat near the window in his sleeping chamber, scrolls spread before him on the table. He glanced at them, selected one, rolled it up.
The king stood. A wave of weakness suddenly rushed through him, nearly making him fail. The stench of something dead arose around him. His heart fluttered irregularly. In the afternoon sunlight filtering through his window, he saw that his hands had begun to revert to those of a withered corpse, and without looking, he knew his face was again taking on the aspect of a skull.
So soon? he thought as he slumped back into the chair. Why so soon this time? He’d only just performed the youth spell that dawn.
Fear and panic gripped him. It shouldn’t have happened so soon. Perhaps it was because of the Hel-warrior. Yes, that had to be it. He had expended extra energy using his sorcery because of Bloodsong, and that had made the age-sickness return unusually rapidly. His fear receded slightly, now that he thought he understood. He sat a moment longer, thinking, then pulled his black silk hood from a pocket in his robe and slipped it over his head to hide the skullish horror of his face. Another pocket yielded his black leather gloves. He pulled them onto his skeletal hands.
He slowly rose, unsteadily, from the chair, walked from the room, and carefully, his legs trembling from the strain, made his way down the tower stairs.
“AND SO WE could not afford to buy horses and tried to steal them instead.” Thorfinn was explaining how they came to be inside the slave cage.
“But it had been years since either of us had stolen anything, and our skills were not as they’d once been.” Valgerth shrugged.
“In short, we got caught.” Thorfinn grinned, taking another bite of dried meat, followed by a long pull on the wineskin. “But the captain knew we weren’t just horse thieves. He recognized Valgerth as an escaped slave. He’d often watched her fight in the arena, he said.”
“Just my luck, eh, Freyadis? The only soldier in Nastrond who watched my face as I fought.”
Bloodsong laughed.
“What do you mean, he watched your face?” Huld looked puzzled.
“They made us fight naked, Huld.” Bloodsong watched for the young woman’s reaction.
Huld blushed. “Oh!”
Bloodsong slapped her on the back and laughed. “I could teach you.”
“No thanks!”
Thorfinn went on. “And of course that cur who recognized Valgerth planned to be first to amuse himself with her. Thank Odin you came along when you did.”
“I doubt that Odin or any of his allies helped,” Bloodsong replied. “If any of the Gods helped us meet, it was probably kind Hel.”
“Kind?” Valgerth asked.
“She has some unusual ideas about Hel,” Huld remarked.
“Well,” Thorfinn shrugged, “you know Her better than we do, right?”
“Aye,” Bloodsong agreed, giving Thorfinn a wink. “Huld,” she looked at the young Witch, “you will especially love knowing that Hel claims to be more than just a Goddess of the Dead.”
Huld looked at Thorfinn. “Hel tells lies.”
Thorfinn nodded. “Every tale I have ever heard says She was born half dead and half alive, a monster from the start, the spawn of Loki the Trickster and the foul Giantess named Anguish Boding. She is the sister to both the Fenris Wolf and the Midgarth Serpent. Odin banished Hel to the Land of Mists when—”
“Yes, Thorfinn,” Bloodsong interrupted. “We’ve all heard those tales. But—”
“The old tales were written by Hel’s enemies,” Huld remarked, “according to what She told Bloodsong. But everyone knows that Hel always has the last laugh on those who trust Her—” Huld’s voice trailed away as Bloodsong’s expression darkened. “Freya’s Teats!” Huld swore. “I’m sorry, Bloodsong.” Her expression showed her anguish. “I didn’t mean Her promise to you about Guthrun. Of course Hel does keep promises, if they are made to Hel-warriors.”
“Yes” Bloodsong quietly said. “Of course.”
“And if She doesn’t, we’ll cursed well make Her!” Valgerth added.
Bloodsong smiled at her old friend. “Attack Helheim itself, eh?”
“I intend to meet your daughter, no matter what it takes!”
Bloodsong gripped Valgerth’s shoulder. “And so you shall.”
“But does Hel at least agree that Odin banished Her to Helheim?” Thorfinn asked.
“Only after Freya made him,” Huld said.
“Freya?” Thorfinn looked at Huld.
Huld hooked a thumb at Bloodsong. “That’s what I heard.”
Bloodsong nodded. “Yes. Hel claims it was Freya. And yes, Odin banished Her to Helheim, but She did not go willingly. There were years of fierce battles, Hel claims. She was a child at the time but had many supporters, because of Her mother.”
Thorfinn shook his head. “Anguish Boding had supporters?”
Bloodsong nodded. “Aye, for I was told that Anguish Boding was a name invented by enemies. Her mother was in fact an ancient and powerful Jotun Goddess of both life and death named Bertha, so when Hel was born, She showed both aspects of Bertha in Her appearance, and Her mother thought Her beautiful. It was not until Odin kidnapped Hel and imprisoned Her in
Asgard that the reaction of the Aesir and Vanir made Hel think of Her half-alive, half-dead appearance as ugly.”
“Odin is the villain, see?” Huld commented. “And Freya.”
“But after Odin succeeded in confining the child Hel to Helheim, She either found or was given, or conjured from Elsewhere, She never said for certain which, a Deathgate, as She called it, because it appears to be a massive human skull made of crystal, known as—”
“Hel’s War Skull,” Huld finished. “Nidhug’s got it now, right, Bloodsong?”
“That thing he tortured us on?” Valgerth suppressed a shudder.
“You, too?” Huld asked.
“Most attractive women took their turn screaming on the Skull,” Bloodsong replied. “And in our younger days, we both qualified, eh, Val?”
Valgerth laughed.
“You both still do,” mentioned Thorfinn.
“But how can you laugh about such a thing?” Huld looked truly astonished. “Fighting naked is a joke? Being tortured on a giant skull is a joke?”
“No,” Valgerth answered. “They were horrors. That’s why they are so funny now!” She winked at Bloodsong and Bloodsong winked back.
Huld just shook her head.
“It’s because we survived them, Huld,” Bloodsong explained, patting the Witch’s shoulder.
“I guess it would be hard to laugh if you hadn’t.” Huld gave a shrug.
“That’s the idea!” Valgerth agreed. “But please, Freyadis, you were explaining about Hel’s getting the Skull?”
“Yes. The War Skull’s power allowed Hel, though the Caretaker of the Dead, to appear as a wholly living Goddess, stunningly beautiful, so that she could openly help birth the souls in Her care into new bodies. She had done that, as had Her mother, Bertha, all along, but few knew or remembered, once they had been reborn. Her great beauty, however, which consisted merely of extending Her beauteous living half to both sides, began attracting souls that would otherwise have gone to Odin, Freya, or some other of Odin’s allies, and that got Odin’s attention. He went to see Her, was attracted and tried to seduce Her, was rejected, and stole the War Skull. Hel reverted to Her half-living, half-dead appearance. Stories linking Her to fear and evil were invented to further turn souls away from Her.”
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