Bloodsong Hel X 3

by C. Dean Andersson

  “If you are attacked, you will need our swords to aid you,” Magnus responded.

  “Grimnir and I will approach them, alone,” Bloodsong said, “If they’ve reason to distrust outsiders now, two people approaching them in friendship will upset them less than many storming onto their beach.”

  “And two will fall the easier should they attack,” Magnus protested.

  “They won’t attack,” Bloodsong said. “Look at the way they stand, holding weapons but relaxed. They’re waiting, that’s all.”

  Soon Bloodsong and Grimnir were walking up the slope of the hill, carefully keeping their hands away from their weapons.

  “The one with the gray beard is Harbarth,” Grimnir whispered. “When last I was here, he was their leader. The flame-haired woman beside him is his mate, Ulfhild.”

  The gray-bearded man stepped forward as they neared.

  Bloodsong noted that Harbarth’s skin was crisscrossed with scars, recent ones atop those that had long since healed. Harbarth’s scars only slightly exceeded those of the other warriors waiting atop the hill, men and women alike.

  “They fight without armor,” Grimnir told her as if sensing her thoughts.

  Bloodsong nodded. Her eyes met Harbarth’s, then Ulfhild’s, who’s eye’s widened slightly as their gazes met. The Berserker woman nodded to Bloodsong and gave her a slight smile.

  “Hail, Harbarth! Ulfhild!” Grimnir said, raising his right hand, palm outward.

  “Grimnir,” Harbarth grunted. “I suspected it would be you.”

  “Suspected?”

  “‘I’ve been plagued by sleeplessness and visions for nearly a week.”

  “Odin wants us to help the warrior with you,” Ulfhild added, “if she proves worthy.”

  “Odin distrusts her,” Harbarth went on, “because she helped Hel regain the War Skull.”

  “That again.” Bloodsong stepped nearer, almost touching the massively muscled man. She stared into his eyes. “I did what was necessary for my daughter, and for revenge against Nidhug. I will not ask Odin’s forgiveness. He did nothing to stop my returning the War Skull, so he should not whine about it now.”

  Harbarth’s expression darkened. “This island is sacred to Odin. I will allow no ill to be said of him.”

  “Nor I of me,” Bloodsong responded.

  Harbarth frowned down at her a moment more, then he glanced at Grimnir and winked. “Steel in her soul, eh, Grimnir?”

  Grimnir laughed and clapped the leader on the arm. “Aye, Harbarth. Would I ride with any other?”

  “Would you ride any other,” Harbarth added, sweeping Bloodsong’s body with an appreciative glance.

  Grimnir’s smile faded as he saw Bloodsong’s expression.

  “Grimnir tells me I must survive whatever tests you set me. My daughter is a captive of the Hel-Witch, Thokk. Do not waste my time with jokes and male glances.”

  Ulfhild chuckled again.

  Bloodsong frowned at her.

  Ulfhild stepped forward and stood beside Bloodsong, facing her mate. “If he looks at you that way again, I will—”

  “You may begin the test at once,” Harbarth quickly said to Bloodsong. “But no others may set foot inland, not even you, Grimnir.”

  “You expect me to return to the ship while she—”

  “I require it,” Harbarth interrupted.

  “The island has been specially consecrated for the testing of this woman,” Ulfhild said.

  “My name is Bloodsong,” she growled.

  “We know your name, Sister,” Ulfhild answered.

  “I am not your sister.”

  “Yet. But you have many names, Nidhug’s Bane, Freyadis Guthrun’s Daughter, Warrior Witch of—”

  “Bloodsong will do.” Bloodsong raised an eyebrow.

  Ulfhild gave Bloodsong a wink.

  “Return to the ship, Grimnir,” Harbarth said. “We will come for you when it is over, either to celebrate with us or to carry her body away.”

  Grimnir’s eyes met Bloodsong’s.

  “It will be a celebration,” she promised him, reaching out to grip his shoulder, “but,” she turned to Harbarth, “a short one. Then we will sail. Have your visions also told you what it is I want from you? To fight Thokk’s sorcery? And the Death Riders of Hel?”

  “I knew that Hel-magic would be involved.”

  “And you agree? When I have survived your tests, you will return with us to battle Thokk?”

  “Odin wills it,” he answered.

  “If you survive,” Ulfhild added. “Many who appeared stronger than you have failed.”

  “Since Odin is Hel’s enemy,” Grimnir said, “perhaps you should help us whether or not Bloodsong undergoes your ordeals.”

  “Return to the ship, Grimnir,” Harbarth repeated, then motioned Bloodsong inland.

  Bloodsong gripped Grimnir’s shoulder again, then turned and walked away.

  * * *

  Harbarth on her left, Ulfhild her right, Bloodsong approached an ancient tree in the bottom of a small, bowl-shaped valley. Nothing grew in the barren valley and the tree’s branches were bare. The other Berserkers stood around the rim of the valley, looking down at the tree.

  “Odin hung on a tree for nine days and nights to acquire the secrets of the Runes,” Harbarth told her. “Our legends say that He hung upon this very tree.”

  “Other legends say otherwise, I’m sure,” Bloodsong replied, eyeing a long coil of rope placed on the ground near the tree. “I don’t have nine days. Whatever you do, make it quick.”

  Harbarth took one end of the rope and began forming a noose. “This test will last until sunset. It is now nearly noon. Will that be quick enough, impatient one? Quick enough to die?”

  “Or not to,” she corrected. “What must I do?”

  “Just survive.” Ulfhild shrugged her broad shoulders.

  As Harbarth formed the noose he intoned Runes.

  “You may not wear clothing during the test,” Ulfhild announced.

  “Considering your lack of clothes, I am not surprised.” Bloodsong began to undress.

  As Ulfhild watched, she said, “You have impressive battle-scars.”

  “As do you.” Bloodsong finished undressing just as Harbarth finished the noose. He placed the loop of splintery rope around Bloodsong’s neck but did not draw it tight.

  Ulfhild lifted Bloodsong’s long black hair outside the circle of splintery rope. “You would not want the discomfort of your hair being pulled.”

  “Or its cushioning the rope against my skin?”

  “Your hair is thick as a beast’s fur.” Ulfhild gently smoothed down the hair. “And black as a raven’s wing.”

  Bloodsong looked into the red-haired woman’s green eyes. Ulfhild’s height was a match for her own. She was not used to meeting another’s gaze, man or woman, without lowering hers. “From the scars that circle your throat, and all the others of your tribe, you know how this feels.”

  Ulfhild touched her own throat.

  “Did Harbarth hang you himself, as he is about to do me?” Bloodsong had noticed the man taking the other end of the rope and tossing it over a stout limb. “If you thought to distract me by messing with my hair, you failed.” Bloodsong reached up and took a firm, two-handed grip on the rope above the noose.

  Ulfhild shook her head. “No distraction was intended.”

  “Odin is not known for always speaking the truth, if His needs require cunning. Why should I believe a follower of His values truth?”

  “Did you just call me a liar?” Ulfhild laughed.

  Bloodsong smiled. “Are you one?”

  Harbarth pulled on the rope.

  Bloodsong’s feet left the ground. Until sunset, she told herself. All I need do is hold on until sunset.

  She swung back and fo
rth, aware that from the rim of the valley the tribe was watching. One of the tribe brought a spear to Harbarth.

  The leader lifted the spear’s head near Bloodsong’s face.

  She saw that its broad but sharply pointed tip was engraved with Runes.

  “Odin hung naked upon the tree,” Harbarth told her, “bleeding from nine spear wounds. He wounded himself, sacrificed himself to himself, but since you cannot do that, I will help.”

  Pain shot through her as the spear tip jabbed her left thigh. Blood oozed forth. Again and again the sharp point sank into her body. The wounds bled freely but were not deep enough to prove fatal. When, after the ninth wound she had not cried out. Harbarth nodded his approval.

  Bloodsong’s arm muscles were bunched rock-hard as she held on. Her skin glistened with sweat in the sunlight. Crimson trickles from the spear wounds streaked her flesh.

  “Learn you now, Hanged One,” Ulfhild said, intoning words ritualistically, “the secret name of our island, the sacred heritage of our people. And may Odin give victory, to your enemies and destroy you and all your kin if ever you speak of this knowledge to one who has not survived the

  Gallows Ordeal.”

  “In the Long Ago,” Harbarth intoned, “arose a warrior of our people to fight for our right to live free, unchained, uncollared, without masters, bending the knee to no one, not even the Gods.”

  “Bending the knee not even to Odin,” Ulfhild responded.

  “Not even to Odin,” solemnly repeated the others around the valley.

  “Our chains the warrior broke,” Harbarth continued, “our people freed, the lost knowledge of our heritage from Time’s Dawning restored.”

  “We are free women and men, the chosen of Odin.” Ulfhild spoke sternly, assuming the warrior’s part. “We will never again be enslaved. We will never again be treated like beasts!”

  “And in time,” Harbarth went on, “after many battles and many died in freedom’s winning, the warrior led our people to this island.”

  “And here we made our home,” Ulfhild said.

  “Home,” spoke the others as one.

  “Wolfraven,” whispered Ulfhild.

  “The warrior,” said the others.

  “Wolfraven,” Ulfhild repeated, louder.

  “Our home,” the others said.

  Harbarth handed the Rune-engraved spear to Ulfhild. She raised it to her lips, kissed the tapering spearhead still crimson with Bloodsong’s blood, then lifted it to Bloodsong’s lips.

  Bloodsong understood and kissed the offered spearhead.

  Ulfhild raised the spear high, “Wolfraven and Odin!” she shouted the Berserker’s battle cry.

  “Wolfraven and Odin!” shouted the others, raising their weapons skyward.

  All eyes turned upon Bloodsong. For several heartbeats there was silence, then Bloodsong guessed what was expected and shouted, “Wolfraven and Odin!”

  Smiles broke across the Berserkers’ faces. They relaxed and began to talk among themselves.

  “Welcome to the island of Wolfraven.” Ulfhild said to Bloodsong. “You’ve done well thus far. Odin willing, there’s a chance you’ll survive.”

  “Odin willing or not,” Bloodsong growled, clinging determinedly to the rope, “I will survive.”

  “Only one more thing needs now be done,” Harbarth said, “then we will leave you alone to face Odin and your fate.”

  Bloodsong watched as two Berserkers came down to the tree carrying between them an iron box out of which smoke arose. They dumped it beneath her, leaving a bed of red-hot coals.

  Seeing the look in her eyes, Harbarth laughed. “We do not mean to roast you. Herbs will be placed on the coals. The smoke that rises around you will help encourage visions of Odin.”

  “Whether I crave them or not?” she asked.

  “Why would you not?” Ulfhild grinned up at her. “I like her humor,” she said to Harbarth.

  “What humor?” Bloodsong asked. Then gave Ulfhild a wink.

  Ulfhild bellowed a laugh. “Survive, Swordsister. I like you.”

  “Prepare me a feast and a horn of your best mead,” Bloodsong growled. “I’ll be hungry and thirsty when this silly ritual is over.”

  Ulfhild’s expression darkened. “Or maybe I don’t like you. This is not a silly ritual. It is sacred.”

  The herbs were dumped onto the coals. Pungent blue smoke rose.

  Bloodsong’s eyes stung and watered. She coughed from the thick smoke being drawn into her lungs with each breath as she swung from the end of the rope, only the grip of her hands preventing the noose from tightening upon her neck.

  Through the thick vapors she caught glimpses of all the Berserkers leaving, Harbarth and Ulfhild included. Soon then, she hung in the barren valley alone.

  BLOODSONG HUNG alone in the small barren valley with none to see if she lived or died, her world reduced to her straining grip on the rope. Drops of blood and sweat fell from her glistening skin, hissing as they touched the hot coals below. The vapors from the herbs were beginning to make her vision swim. She concentrated on staying conscious and holding onto the rope.

  Until sunset, she reminded herself, no rules except surviving any way I can. Who says I even have to stay suspended here? Why not climb up the rope, hook a leg over the branch, and take this cursed noose from around my neck?

  She began climbing the rope, hand over hand. But suddenly she began sliding downward, unable to grip the rope as before. Too late she noticed that a short distance above the noose, the rope was coated with a colorless greasy substance that now also coated the palms of her hands.

  She struggled desperately to regain a firm hold, but not until her hands reached the coiled noose itself did she succeed in stopping.

  As she swayed at the end of the rope over the smoking coals, her palms began to burn. She gasped with pain. The burning grew steadily worse. Something in that cursed grease, she realized. Some sort of acid?

  The noose became slick with blood where she gripped it, crimson ooze coming from her burning palms. Her grip slipped farther down the noose, nearly to her neck. The muscles in her arms screamed with the strain. She knew that soon they would begin to cramp, become impossible to control, and when that happened, she would die.

  She twisted herself around to face the trunk of the tree, searching for a low branch around which she could wrap her legs by swinging toward it, but no such branch existed, and the trunk was too wide for her to hope to grip it between her thighs.

  Her blood-slicked grip slipped a fraction more. Fighting panic, she felt the noose tighten around her neck. She was losing the battle.

  “No!” she shouted, forced her trembling arm muscles to heave her upward a short way, risked all at a try to wind her left arm around the rope. It worked. The grip of her left hand became more secure and also allowed her to extend the grip of her right hand.

  Panting with the strain, Bloodsong determined to simply hang as she now was until sunset.

  As the afternoon wore slowly on, the herbs stopped smoking on the coals without having given her any visions of Odin. The burning in her palms gradually subsided, leaving the lesser pain of gripping the rope with raw-fleshed palms. Blood stopped flowing from her nine spear wounds. The coals themselves died beneath her, and an afternoon breeze cooled her sweat-dampened skin. With all her concentration focused upon holding the rope, she did not at first notice when the light began to dim, but finally it penetrated her consciousness that the sky had darkened. The sun had dipped below the rim of the valley.

  It’s nearly over! she thought excitedly. Whatever else they have planned will have to be an improvement over this stupid, deadly game.

  She began watching the rim of the valley expectantly as the rope twisted back and forth in the breeze. The sky continued to darken. Stars began to appear. It became too dark to see the valley’s rim, but sti
ll no one came to let her down.

  Bloodsong cursed, arms aching, hands growing more and more numb from relentlessly gripping the rope. Her left hand slipped. The noose tightened slightly more before she regained her hold.

  Where are they? her mind screamed. I made it until sunset! I won! Why don’t they come and let me down! Curse them all!

  The stars wheeled slowly across the heavens. The air cooled, chilling her nakedness. Far away she heard the rumble of thunder and soon began to notice the distant flash of lightning. The breeze picked up, shifting to the north, the direction from which the storm was approaching, became a gusting wind.

  It was now even harder to maintain her hold on the rope as the strengthening wind jerked her back and forth, spun her around, swung her in ever-increasing arcs.

  Bloodsong sobbed with the strain, cursed with rage. Where are they? she asked herself over and over again. The storm was swiftly rising. If it got much worse, if it began to rain and the rope became wet—

  It began to rain. Soon, hail joined the rain, beating against her bare flesh, battering her unprotected skin as the wind lashed her with violent, disorienting gusts.

  Her grip slipped. The noose tightened. With each new blast of wind the splintery circle of death cut deeper into her neck.

  Lightning flashed nearby. The air sizzled. The wind roared as if maddened beasts battled in the clouds. Suddenly, she felt new pain as something fluttered against her face, striking her again and again near her eyes.

  Another flash of lightning came and she saw two black-winged shapes with piercing eyes near her face, beaks darting toward her, trying to blind her.

  Ravens! she realized. Two ravens! And the storm, she thought, struggling against her ever-loosening grip and the steadily tightening noose. A storm like in the tales when Odin leads the Wild Hunt! And Odin is said to have two ravens.

  “Begone from me, Hugin!” she shouted hoarsely into the howling tempest. “Begone, Munin!” she cried, using the names she had once heard a Skald call Odin’s ravens. “Tell your One-Eyed Master that He cannot have my eyes or my soul this night! Begone!”