The glowing walls harbored unidentifiable plants and, within and upon them, crawling things. The warming air was rich with exotic perfumes.
“How can they live without light?” Tyrulf wondered, studying the plants as he walked.
“They seem to produce their own light,” Jalna said. “The green glow is coming, at least in part, from them.”
Tyrulf looked closer and saw that she was right.
The warm, moist tunnel turned to the left. A dark opening yawned ahead. Cold air wafted from it, bringing gooseflesh to their bare skin.
Jalna looked closely at the walls, the dirt floor, the root encrusted ceiling, and was not surprised to find no other opening but the dark one directly ahead. She walked to the edge of the portal and stopped, hugging herself against the cold. The dirt beneath her bare feet was now deeply chilled.
“Perhaps,” Tyrulf suggested, “Freya would not begrudge us some of these glowing plants to light our way?”
Jalna nodded, bent to start pulling up the glowing flowers, and suddenly stopped. “Wait!” she commanded.
“Why?”
“We must risk the dark. Remember what the woman said about Freya championing Life? I think it would be unwise to kill anything here, even a plant.”
Tyrulf studied the dark opening. “Before we enter, perhaps you might reconsider my proposal to make love?”
“You need a bath.”
He chuckled. “You are lucky I can control my urges.”
“You are the lucky one, else I be forced to defend my honor.” She laughed. “Freya’s power is affecting you here, making your lust stronger than usual.”
“Or maybe it’s just that you are so gloriously naked.”
“Tyrulf. Ignore it.”
“And then I’ll stop breathing, too, just for good measure.”
“We can’t afford distractions.” Jalna glanced down at him and gave a quick smile. “And from what I see, you are very distracted.”
“But is it just me? You don’t also feel—”
“Of course I do!” She looked back at the dark opening.
“Really?”
“I’m going to enter.”
“That’s what I had in mind, but a different—”
“Stop it. I meant it about distractions.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be as close as I dare to be, like this, behind you.”
She slowly stepped into the opening. “Ah!”
“What?”
“Something grabbed my ankle!”
Tyrulf saw her suddenly jerked into the darkness.
“Jalna!” He rushed forward, groping for her in the dark. The ground opened up beneath him. He plummeted downward in total darkness. As he fell, he drew cold air into his lungs and shouted Jalna’s name. There was no response. He shouted her name again, expecting at any moment to smash into rocks at the bottom. Instead, he was next surrounded by a thick, warm liquid that glowed with a ghostly blue light. Serpentine shapes slithered past, ignoring him. He tried to swim through the clinging warmth, made but little progress, felt his lungs starving for air.
Determinedly, he swam in the direction he hoped was upward, finally could hold out no longer, sucked warm liquid into his lungs, and found himself lying on a sandy beach, waves rolling in, bright yellow sunlight warming him from out of a clear blue sky. Of Jalna there was no sign.
* * *
Kicking and fighting, Jalna was dragged over rocky ground into a vast cavern. She recognized the Cavern of the War Skull where she had been tortured. She told herself that it was a trick, could not be real, because that place of horror had been destroyed. But she kept fighting anyway to get free of the black-cloaked and hooded ones who were dragging her closer to the towering War Skull. A man with the face of a corpse stood to one side, holding a torturous Venom Wand with which to sear and blacken her flesh.
They threw her at the feet of the corpse-faced man. For an instant, fear paralyzed her as all her worst nightmares battered her consciousness, then, with a cry of outrage she sprang to her feet in a crouch, kicked out, jabbed her foot deep into the corpse-faced man’s abdomen, grabbed away the Venom Wand he held, whirled and swung it at the hooded ones.
The wand struck the nearest. With a scream, he burst into purple flames and fell writhing to the ground. Jalna sidestepped the rush of another hooded man, sent him sprawling, thrust with the wand, and found herself engulfed in icy water.
She clawed her way to the surface, breathed in huge gulps of air, saw a sun-drenched beach nearby and Tyrulf standing there waiting. She swam for the shore, cursing Witches and magic and all the tricks that went with them. And what was that about? she wondered. Conquering my greatest fear? Proving that I really have changed? Really am strong and free? Proving to whom? To Freya? Or to myself?
She came dripping from the water still cursing.
Tyrulf rushed forward and met her waist deep.
“What happened to you?” He resisted an urge to embrace her, afraid how she might react.
“Just a short side trip to visit an old friend.” She looked up at the Sun, relishing the warmth. “I want out of this cursed cold water!”
They splashed to the beach.
“Old friend?” he asked.
“I don’t think I’ll have those nightmares again.”
“I am glad. But why not?”
She embraced him and held him close, relishing his warmth.
He hugged her tightly.
She pushed him back. “Your distraction is back,” she grinned.
“And I’ve had a bath!”
She pointed at an earthen mound up the beach. “It seems a twin of the one we entered.”
At the top stood three figures, hooded in black robes. “Do you suppose we should go there next?” he asked. “I’m joking.”
She took his hand and looked into his eyes.
They walked side by side, hand in hand toward the mound, reached it, and hurried up the pathway to the top. The black-robed ones were no longer there.
“Curse magic and magic-workers,” Tyrulf complained.
“Aye.” Jalna released his hand and walked to a ring of blood-red flowers near the trunk of the tree. “Even these are the same. Perhaps if we—”
The ground erupted beneath her. Skeletal arms emerged on all sides. Bony-fingered hands clawed at her legs, tried to pull her down into the Earth.
She fought to get free, but boney talons dug deeply into her flesh and held her fast.
Tyrulf grabbed her arms and pulled back to free her, but the ground gave way beneath them and both fell into darkness as talons raked both their legs.
They cursed and struggled and screamed in rage and pain, felt blood pumping from torn veins and arteries, kept struggling, felt weaker by the moment as blood and life ebbed from them.
But then they no longer felt skeletal hands clutching at them, but each other’s hands instead, stroking, caressing, beckoning emotions of passion into flames within them. They panted with their need for each other. Their bodies demanded fulfillment. They clung to each other in hungry embraces, speaking each other’s name over and over like a chant as they made frenzied love in the womb of the Earth.
When their passion was spent, they lay sweating in each other’s arms. They slowly became aware that their surroundings had changed, again.
In the distance a towering portal glowed with yellow-gold light.
Tyrulf gently stroked Jalna’s sweat-soaked hair. “Sorry for the distraction.”
She kissed him. “Freya’s doing? Or ours?”
“Both? Maybe?” He kissed her back.
“Those skeletons, tearing at us, reminded me so much of—” her voice trailed away.
Tyrulf understood, remembered the Death Slaves with whom Nidhug had entombed Jalna. He held her close for a moment more, then stood and gave her
his hand.
She took it and rose. She nodded at the golden portal. “Looks inviting.”
Together they walked to the towering entranceway. When they reached it, they found that through the opening they could see nothing but the light.
“And what will happen when we step across this threshold?” Jalna wondered aloud, then leaned close to him and slid an arm around his waist. “Let’s not be separated this time.”
They stepped into the golden light and found themselves surrounded by nine fierce-eyed women in golden armor, gleaming swords and gilt-edged, falcon-embossed shields held ready. One of them tossed two swords and two shields to the golden floor at Jalna’s and Tyrulf’s feet.
“Valkyries?” Tyrulf whispered.
“More cursed Witch-tricks.”
The warrior women advanced, surrounded them.
“But obviously part of these silly tests.” She picked up a sword and shield.
“Silly, aye.” Tyrulf picked up the other sword and shield. “Except for the last one.”
“Bloodsong and freedom!” Jalna screamed and attacked, Tyrulf by her side.
The nine women fought with weapon skills worthy of Goddesses, their speed and timing and precision awing Jalna even as she fought to defeat them.
On and on the battle raged, sweat streaming from Jalna’s and Tyrulf’s naked bodies, mingling with streaks of blood seeping from various minor wounds. Then at last Jalna saw an opening, blocked a cut with her shield, and thrust into a warrior’s throat. But no blood came from the gaping wound, and the woman simply laughed, raised her sword in salute, then stepped back out of the fight.
Jalna and Tyrulf wearily fought on, beginning to tire, while the eight women who remained were still as strong and fast as when the battle had begun. Then suddenly a Valkyrie’s sword cut deeply into Jalna’s left thigh. She cursed at the pain and kept fighting but almost immediately received another serious cut to her side.
Tyrulf was faring little better, now bleeding from several deep wounds, his strength fading fast as more and more blood left his veins. He cursed with frustration, feeling as helpless as he had when unable to help Jalna escape her torture. Anger boiled through him, bringing a last reserve of strength from somewhere deep inside.
“Bloodsong and freedom!” he yelled as he directed a series of slashing cuts at the Valkyries before him, broke through one’s guard and landed a savage cut downward through her collarbone, halfway to her breasts.
She smiled and saluted him then stepped back from the fight, her bloodless, ghastly wound healing, the flesh closing.
Then suddenly the rest of the warriors stepped back, too, saluting Jalna and Tyrulf with swords and smiles.
A rumbling sound filled the golden air. Jalna and Tyrulf stood sweating and panting, holding their swords and shields ready, expecting some new trick, blood pouring from their wounds.
The nine warriors vanished. In their place a sphere of yellow-gold light began to glow as the rumbling increased in volume to a roar.
Silence descended, and within the glowing sphere appeared a woman in a chariot drawn by two savage mountain cats. She was naked and breathtakingly beautiful, though little could be seen of her face, the glow too bright near her head to long suffer a direct gaze. Around her neck blazed a necklace of fiery jewels.
Tyrulf felt an overwhelming mingling of fear and sexual desire building within him, making his heart hammer faster in his chest.
Beside him, Jalna felt the same.
Their wounds healed. Their strength returned. Within moments they were uninjured and feeling stronger than before the fight.
Their swords and shields vanished. Through the glow, they dimly glimpsed the woman smile, nod to them, and raise a golden spear in salute.
A rumbling flash of golden light engulfed them, and when, cursing and rubbing at their eyes, they were again able to see, they found themselves back atop the first mound, their horses calmly nibbling grass at the base, their clothing and weapons lying nearby. Of the three women there was no sign. Thunder crashed overhead, and a gust of wind blew cold rain onto their naked bodies.
“Freya,” Tyrulf whispered, shaken, awed by the Goddess he had seen within the golden glow,
“Aye,” Jalna replied, also whispering, also awed. Then she cursed. “Garm’s Bottom!” She stamped a foot in frustration, “Was it all for nothing? I thought we would undergo some severe test and then either die or find the aid we sought. But here we stand empty-handed, with nothing to show for our trouble! Nothing!”
Tyrulf shrugged. “Perhaps we will have better luck atop the mountain, if we can reach the summit. I mean, when. But I can’t; say that I entirely regret the journey we made together into the mound, certain parts of it, at least.”
Jalna frowned at him, then her expression softened. She shook her head, reached out, and gently touched his face. “I won’t forget, either.”
“I never thought I’d say this to you, Jalna,” he said, smiling, “but can we get dressed now? It’s cursed cold.”
Jalna laughed and bent to her clothing. When both had dressed, they reached for their weapons, but gave cries of surprise when they touched their scabbarded swords,
“My sword feels as if warmed in a fire!” Tyrulf exclaimed.
“Mine too.” Jalna cautiously drew her blade. The once smooth blade was now engraved with Runes, and the polished steel shined with more light than it received. She slammed the sword back into the scabbard with a curse.
“Mine is like yours,” Tyrulf said, sheathing his sword too. “Perhaps we have received Freya’s aid, after all?”
“I care little for the ways of Witches,” Jalna growled, “whether they owe allegiance to Freya or to Hel. No one is going to explain what happened here today. We’re going to be left with questions. And if those Runes on our swords are meant to help us defeat Thokk, perhaps allow us to slay Death Riders, we will probably not know for certain until the moment of truth when we put them to the test.”
“Perhaps, just because we’re out of the mound, the testing may not be over,” Tyrulf suggested. “Perhaps each time we draw these blades, the testing will continue.”
“A cheerful thought. And perhaps we could spend the rest of our lives thinking of other possibilities,” Jalna complained. “Cursed Witches,” she grumbled, and started off down the trail toward the horses. “I’m for the mountain.”
“Aye,” Tyrulf agreed as they walked together down the path.
BLOODSONG STUDIED the rocky coastline of the island ahead. Squawking seabirds swooped low over a short stretch of sandy beach. On each side of the beach sheer cliffs jutted skyward. The crashing of waves against the rocks grew more thunderous as they neared the isle.
“I once heard a Skald sing a tale of Odin and Thor,” she said to Grimnir, who stood by her side watching their approach to the island. “Odin and Thor were trading insults,” she went on, “and Odin accused Thor of a shameful act in killing women on some island. But Thor responded that those women were more she-wolves than humans, and that they had attacked his ship with iron clubs. He called them the Brides of the Berserkers.”
“I would say that the Skald had been to the isle we approach,” Grimnir commented. “But I doubt that we’ll be attacked. They will recognize Waveslasher and know us for friends. Some of our crew stayed with them.”
“They preferred she-wolves to ordinary women, I suppose,” she suggested, “like your friend Magnus?”
“And like myself,” Grimnir agreed. He grinned when Bloodsong stiffened, slightly. “That’s why I love you.”
Bloodsong glanced sideways at him and smiled faintly.
Grimnir laughed, slid a hand around her shoulders, and squeezed her against him. “Are you concerned about the tests the Berserkers will set you?”
“What good would that do? My concern is to acquire aid and free Guthrun. I have not thought
much about what sort of ordeals they will require me to survive. Personal combat with the leader perhaps? What did you have to do, Grimnir?”
Grimnir looked into her eyes. “Before we were allowed to leave the island that time, we all took a vow not to reveal its existence unless in need of aid that only Odin’s Berserkers could give. And there was a second vow as well, never to reveal the sacred ordeals we underwent to prove ourselves worthy. I cannot break that vow. Not even for you.”
“I understand. The nature of the ordeal doesn’t really matter, anyway, I must, of course, find a way to survive whatever test they set me.
“Aye.” Grimnir nodded, and squeezed her against him again. “That you must. If you do not, and it was I who brought you here—”
“You could always take up with some other she-wolf,” she replied, “since the island is full of them.”
“My concern for you is real,” Grimnir said quietly, He drew back his hand from her shoulder and fell into silent thought, staring with a frown at the approaching beach.
Bloodsong reached over and touched his hand. “I will survive,” she promised.
He nodded, but did not take his eyes from the island.
* * *
Before they touched land, men and women appeared on the low hill overlooking the beach, but none moved downslope to greet them. All held weapons. All the men were bearded, all the women’s long-haired, unshorn tresses blowing freely in the sea wind. Men and women alike wore breechclouts and nothing else. Their exposed flesh was hard-muscled and deeply tanned.
“Something’s wrong, Grimnir,” Magnus said as they prepared to leave the ship.
“Aye. They should have swarmed onto the beach to welcome us. Something must have happened since last we were here. Perhaps other ships have visited and made them distrustful of outsiders, though what they would have to fear, I can’t imagine.”
“But this is Waveslasher!” Magnus complained. “Surely they recognize her and know we are friends!”
“I think perhaps you and your crew should stay aboard until I find out what’s going on,” Grimnir suggested.
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