Bloodsong Hel X 3

by C. Dean Andersson

  Very well, he decided, I will allow her to think I am contented to follow her plans, for now.

  He turned, walked back to the slab, and sat down beside Guthrun. I could heal you, Sister, he thought. Perhaps I should. You’re no fun unconscious.

  Smiling coldly, Lokith began to invoke a healing spell.

  * * *

  Bloodsong stood on the deck of Waveslasher, watching the shore of the mainland coming steadily closer. She again wore the doeskin clothing the woodcutter had given her. She had rejected Ulfhild’s suggestion that she be content, like the Berserker’s, with a breechclout. She was not certain the Berserker had been serious. Ulfhild had a sense of humor much like her own. She was certain, however, that Grimnir had been joking when he agreed with Ulfhild. Almost certain, anyway.

  She flexed her bandaged hands, grimaced at the stiffness and pain, thought of Huld. How I wish she were with me now, she thought, remembering the young Freya-Witch’s ability to magically heal wounds. Is she even still alive? I have but a few days to heal before we reach Eirik’s Vale. But I may well have to wield a sword even before then, bandages or not. Curse the Berserkers and their foolish tests of worthiness! And yet, were it not for them, she would not be returning with an army capable of challenging Thokk and Kovna. And were it not for her experience at the end of the gallows’ rope, she would not have touched Guthrun’s mind.

  “How long till we reach land?” she asked Grimnir as he came to stand beside her.

  “Magnus says before noon, which isn’t long to wait. I saw you moving your hands. The salve Ulfhild put on them will speed the healing.”

  “I hope they heal quickly enough.”

  “May Odin grant that they do,” Grimnir suggested.

  Bloodsong touched her bandaged throat. “Aye, Odin, perhaps.” She had examined the Runes burned into her flesh in the reflection of a polished sword blade. She thought of Huld again and wondered if a healing spell would make the Runes go away. Somehow, she doubted that Freya’s magic could banish the effects of Odin’s, but if Huld still lived, Bloodsong intended to find out.

  “I’ve been having dreams of Guthrun,” Bloodsong told Grimnir. “Not like the ones before the testing on the isle, but vivid images, as if I were glimpsing things that are happening to her without being able to make her aware of my presence. What I have seen makes me even more impatient to reach the castle and free her.”

  She flexed her bandaged hands again and cursed. “If only Huld were with me,” she said, then fell silent, watching their approach to the shore.

  * * *

  How long has it been? Huld numbly wondered as she forced herself forward again on bleeding knees, began searching yet another mound of the Dead, Has it been one day? Two? Three? Or only a few hours? How long since Thokk shut me in here? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. There are no weapons here. I can’t get free. She isn’t coming back. I’ m going to die here. My flesh will join all these other forgotten ones, decaying. That’s all I am now, flesh waiting to decay. Why even keep searching? Why not give in to sleep, stretch out on the floor, let the rats begin their feast.

  With a strangled sob Huld tried to push the thoughts of surrender away. She stopped searching and sobbed in the darkness. She wept for a long while, then slowly pulled herself back together, began searching again, suddenly felt stiff fabric.

  She probed through the folds of the cloth. Pain stabbed her. She jerked back with a cry, thinking of the sharp teeth of rats, pushed down her panic, and forced herself to reach into the cold fabric again.

  Metal! It is metal! Something with a sharp point but not a dagger, not a sword, not a weapon of any kind. It was too small for that, a convex, hollowed-out piece of metal with a straight pin attached. A brooch, she decided, carefully working it free of the fabric. A brooch used to fasten a cloak or other outer garment.

  It came free. She moved on her knees away from the mound of corpses, trying to decide whether to try opening her ankle manacles first or those on her wrists. It was easier to reach the locks on her ankles. Better perhaps to try opening them first, then to use the experience thus gained to open the manacles on her wrists, which would be much harder to maneuver into the proper position.

  She strained to reach the manacles on her ankles. She began to poke and prod the locks. Freya forbid that it should break, she thought, hoping it was made of bronze or silver and not soft gold. The pin slipped. She moved it until it caught again, applied gentle pressure.

  Her muscles began to ache from the strained position. She straightened to give them a moment’s relief, then reached down and back and began again, kept at it without success, refused to give up, straightened and relaxed a moment more, then tried again and again.

  There came a soft click. A lock opened. The manacle on her right ankle came free.

  Tears of relief filled her eyes. She tried to calm her excitement, to still her trembling fingers. She moved her freed feet to a more accessible position and began to work on the other ankle manacle, using what she had learned on the first one. After several failures there was another click.

  Laughing with victory, Huld got to her feet, stamped her feet, and kicked her freed legs to shake off the crawling things that covered her. Then she began trying to maneuver the pin into the locks on the wrist manacles behind her. She lost her grip on the brooch. It fell to the floor. She cursed, squatted down, and searched among the crawling things until she found it. Then she stood and started trying again, succeeded in reaching one lock, slowly and carefully used what she had already learned, patiently kept trying and trying until, there came another click.

  With a cry of triumph she tugged the waist chain’s lock around to the front, carefully worked on first the other wrist manacle and then the waist chain itself, until finally she was completely free of her bonds.

  She started to hurl the waist chain and attached manacles away, decided they might make good weapons if the need arose, kept them instead, gathered up the ankle chains from the floor, and slung them all over her shoulder.

  She invoked her night-vision spell. It had no effect.

  Her hopes sank. Perhaps a spell had been placed upon the chamber itself. Maybe she would still not be able to use Freya’s magic, even when free of the spell-chains.

  The spell-chains. Perhaps as long as they even touch my flesh will they inhibit my magic.

  Reluctantly she placed all of the chains on the floor, stepped away, tried the night-vision spell again. Her eyes flickered with yellow-gold light. She looked down at the brooch and laughed at what she saw. It was decorated with an image of the Goddess Freya. So, I am not the first who honored Freya to have been imprisoned here. Whomever you were who owned this brooch, my victory will honor you as well. Thokk probably let you keep this pin to mock you even in death, but it will lead to Freya’s victory instead, and Thokk’s destruction. I swear it by Freya and by my soul.

  She hurried to the door and intoned her spell to open locks. A blast of purple fire flared from the lock, struck her forehead, and hurled her back, stunning her.

  With a curse she realized that she would not be opening the lock with her magic, but perhaps with the pin on the brooch ...

  She inserted it into the lock, felt it catch, applied pressure.

  With a sudden snap the pin broke.

  Cursing, Huld started to throw the brooch away, then calmed herself and held onto it instead. No, she told herself, I must keep it always. She looked around the chamber. Might there be another way out? Thokk had said that the chamber was the deepest one in the castle. It might therefore conceal a secret escape route for its inhabitants.

  The chamber stretched away into a distant darkness even Huld’s night vision could not penetrate. She began to ‘search the nearer walls, satisfied herself that there was no way out there, She moved reluctantly into the darkness beyond, gagging, with the stench as the mounds of rotting bodies grew stead
ily higher, the rats more numerous, the floor thicker with crawling things, until they swarmed ankle-deep over her bare feet.

  Looking around, she found that she could no longer see the door. If Thokk does come for me and I am back here, she might not search, might really leave me here to die.

  A frantic need to return to the door possessed her, but she fought it down and kept moving, clutching tightly to the brooch as if Freya’s image might give her strength.

  Suddenly she stopped, listening intently. Something panted up ahead, a beast from the sound. She slowed her pace, moved cautiously forward, finally saw something crouched on all fours atop a mound of corpses. It was unidentifiable. It moved down the mound toward the floor, its movements at first like those of a serpent, then like a rat, a wolf, a mountain cat.

  Fear grew within her as it moved onto the floor and stalked forward toward her, sniffing the air. She could see now that its very form was shifting from moment to moment. Save for its burning purple eyes, it seemed no more than the shifting shadows of many beasts.

  Huld stood motionless, searching the spells she possessed, pushed down panic, then concentrated upon a spell to banish wild beasts. The creature stopped and listened to the lilting language of Freya she was chanting. Then it began to growl, to hiss, to howl, and started toward her again, moving faster and faster.

  She kept repeating the invocation, concentrating more and more of her energy upon making the spell work, giving it power, force, and strength.

  The creature slowed, screamed, gathered its wavering limbs beneath it, and leapt for her throat, but its form dissipated even as it jumped.

  A cold chill swept through her as the remains of the thing reached her. She hugged herself against the more-than-physical cold. She had won another victory. But had she still been in spell-chains, unable to invoke her own magic—

  She shuddered at the thought, then moved forward again, watching for any other danger that might lurk in the depths of the Chamber of Decay.

  The walls and ceiling began to lower, the mounds of corpses to decrease in size. Huld kept going, and soon saw no more corpses.

  The chamber became more and more tunnel-like until she was moving through a narrow passageway angling downward. Encouraged, she hurried forward. Crawling things no longer scuttled upon the floor. The air was steadily becoming cleaner and easier to breathe.

  The tunnel turned to the left. Rocks blocked the way. Huld cursed, then began straining to move them. Soon her hands were bleeding as she clawed at the stones, dislodging the smaller ones, slowly making a small passageway.

  She worked on and on, sweat streaming down her bare flesh in spite of the cold. Then a whisp of fresh air caressed her face. She revoked her night-vision spell and saw faint light coming through a tiny crack between two small rocks.

  She wrenched the rocks out, breathed deeply of cold, crisp air, basked in the meager light thus revealed, began working again, and finally had an opening just large enough.

  She worked her way into the opening, head first. She stood on the other side.

  She ran toward light, laughing, reached the end of the tunnel, looked out upon cloudy skies and snow-covered mountain peaks, and saw that the tunnel opening was itself on the side of a steep cliff, too far from the ground to jump. She would have to climb down.

  Perhaps there was once a rope here, she thought, to make climbing down easier. But I can make it. I have to. An icy breeze bathed her nakedness. I won’t last long after climbing down, though, not naked like this. And there was no place she could acquire clothes, except—

  The Chamber of Decay, she thought, sickened. I should have thought of it before starting to search, should have prepared for finding a way out. But there is no point in thinking about what I should have done. I must take each step now as it comes, and be wary of new danger. There’s no one to help me, not Norda, nor even Bloodsong.

  An emptiness nearly as great as the knowledge of Norda’s death fell upon Huld as she tried to imagine Bloodsong dead.

  Freya willing, she escaped, Huld told herself, but I can’t count on her to help me, even if she is still alive. When I have enough clothing to keep me from freezing outside, I will find a way to return and destroy Thokk, a way to free Guthrun and the others. But first I need that clothing. I must not make any mistakes. It’s all up to me now. I’m all alone.

  She looked down at the brooch in her hand and gazed at Freya’s image.

  Well, she added, in thought, perhaps not entirely alone. Freya, give me victory!

  Carefully keeping the brooch clasped tightly in her left hand, Huld turned and hurried back the way she had come.

  WAVESLASHER again rode the still waters of the inlet near Magnus’ home. The nine longships of the Berserkers rode there too, empty now. The more than two hundred warriors who had crewed them stood with weapons and shields ready, staring at the ruins of the farmstead.

  Magnus emerged from the smashed doorway of his longhouse carrying his wife’s body in his arms, tears streaking his bearded face.

  “She looks as if she’s been in the grave for a year,” Grimnir said to Bloodsong as Magnus came toward them, “as do the others,” he added with disgust, glancing at the other rotting bodies sprawled here and there on the ground.

  “Death Riders,” Bloodsong answered, her voice tight with rage. “Thokk must have sent them to find me. They followed my trail here somehow but either lost it at the water’s edge or were not able to cross the sea to the island.”

  “Perhaps,” Grimnir suggested, “because the land is Hel’s domain, but the sea is Aegir’s and Ran’s.”

  “Perhaps,” Bloodsong agreed. “But what I do know for certain is that what you see here is what I saw in Eirik’s Vale when my warriors tried to fight the Death Riders. Merely to touch your weapon to theirs is to die. We will help Magnus care for his dead, but quickly. The Death Riders are no doubt still searching for me. They may sense my return and come back.”

  When oval graves had been dug and filled, then outlined with stones and the burial ceremonies completed, Magnus turned to Bloodsong. “I’m coming with you,” he announced, “as are most of my crew.” We demand to be a part of your vengeance, for it’s also our vengeance now.”

  Bloodsong started to refuse, not wanting to see more die trying to fight the Death Riders. But she could not deny Magnus his deserved revenge. She nodded in agreement. “But if Death Riders approach, remember what I’ve told you. Do not attack them. Try to avoid all contact with them. We will let the Berserkers form a shield wall around us and fight the Death Riders. I just pray that Odin’s magic will protect them from the Death Riders’ death-touch.”

  Grimnir gave Freehoof’s reins to Bloodsong and she mounted. Their horses, which they had left at Magnus’s farmstead, had not been harmed by the Death Riders, nor had any of Magnus’ animals.

  Harbarth approached, Ulfhild by his side. “Are your legs injured as well as your hands?” he asked Bloodsong.

  “Harbarth and his people think it is a sign of weakness to ride horses,” Grimnir explained with a laugh as he mounted Bloodhoof.

  “It’s just as well,” Bloodsong answered. “I doubt that any horse would accept them.”

  Harbarth laughed. “Ride your stallions, then.” He grinned. “We will run slow enough for you to keep up.”

  “Harbarth,” Bloodsong said, becoming serious, “you’ve seen here what Death Riders can do. If you do not want to risk your people’s lives, I will understand. Even though I had told you about the Death Riders, actually seeing the aftermath of their attack may have given you second thoughts.”

  “It has not.”

  “If we die fighting them,” Ulfhild said with a shrug, “we die. Odin wills us to help you, Ropebreaker, and help you we shall.”

  Bloodsong and Grimnir guided their horses away from the farmstead. Magnus and most of the crew of Waveslasher followed on the
ir own horses. The Berserker army jogged along in no particular order.

  “Faster, Ropebreaker!” Ulfhild shouted, running alongside Freehoof. “This slow pace is insulting!”

  Bloodsong gave the Berserker woman a raised-eyebrow glance, then kicked Freehoof into a canter.

  “Better!” Ulfhild called, breaking into a long-strided lope, easily keeping up.

  “But how long can they keep up this pace?” Bloodsong asked Grimnir, turning toward him.

  “All day and night if Odin wills it!” Ulfhild shouted.

  Grimnir laughed. “Ears of a wolf,” he commented. “Speak softer, Bloodsong, if you don’t want Ulfhild to overhear.”

  “Excellent advice!” Harbarth shouted from even farther away.

  Ulfhild laughed.

  “May I ask you something, Wolf-ears?” Bloodsong called to Ulfhild. “I saw no children on the island.” Her thoughts had turned again to Guthrun.

  “You did not see them, but they no doubt saw you,” Ulfhild answered. “They were there, Runethroat. But not with us. At birth we leave them with the beasts. If they prove worthy and survive, they find their way back when old enough to wield sword and ax.”

  “But by then, how can you be certain which is yours?”

  Ulfhild and Harbarth laughed louder than ever.

  “By their scent,” Grimnir said.

  Bloodsong just shook her head and glanced skyward at the Sun. They had arrived at the farmstead near noon. Most of the afternoon had been spent burying the dead. Sunset was not far away, but she had no intention of stopping to make camp.

  “We must watch the sky closely during the daylight hours,” she said to Grimnir, certain that Ulfhild and Harbarth would also hear. “If clouds appear, we should start worrying about Death Riders. Their skeletal steeds cannot bear the touch of direct sunlight.”

  “And they themselves?” Grimnir wondered.