Memories hurtled on. Men captured Bloodsong and, to punish her, tortured him, though but an infant, to death while making her watch. After that, he remembered nothing but the darkness and vast loneliness of the forgotten dead until finally, again there was sensation, and again there was light.
The darkly beautiful face of the Hel-Witch, Thokk, replaced Bloodsong’s in Lokith’s mind as she worked to heal his infant corpse, making it grow into the undecayed flesh of a young man, teaching him the secrets of HeI, grooming him for a glorious destiny of conquest in Hel’s name. But then Bloodsong had come, rescued Guthrun, destroyed his plans, destroyed his very flesh.
With a ragged curse Lokith kicked Bloodsong in her side. The force of the blow rolled her onto her stomach. He looked down at her, panting with hatred, fighting to bring his raging emotions under control. “It’s your fault I’ve suffered so,” he hissed at Bloodsong, “and by what’s left of my soul, you are going to pay!”
He struggled to regain his inner calm.
All is going as planned, he told himself, soothing his thoughts. I have subdued Bloodsong and Guthrun. I need only think now of my own needs and amusements, and that is precisely what I intend to do.
Moments later Torg and his helpers returned with the ropes and chains. “Suspend these three from the beams by their ankles,” Lokith ordered, “then bind the rest of the prisoners too.”
“There won’t be enough rope,” Torg complained.
‘Then I will use my sorcery to obtain more!” Lokith shouted angrily. “Obey my orders! Suspend these three at once!”
Saluting sharply, silently cursing the fear Lokith inspired in their hearts, Torg, Dakk, and Sven hurried to obey.
BLOODSONG OPENED her eyes, fought to stay conscious, forced her blurred vision to focus, and slowly realized that she was suspended upside down inside the longhouse.
She cursed and pulled at her wrists, bound behind her. She felt the bite of steel manacles and heard the clanking of chains, then saw that Guthrun hung a short distance away and, beyond her, Huld. Bloodsong jerked at her chains, rage boiling within her. The violent movement caused her to spin and swing at the end of the rope. She fought to subdue her rage and clear her thoughts.
In the flickering torchlight, she saw the longhouse strewn with unconscious people, Grimnir, Valgerth, JaIna, and others who had followed her north to prepare for and await new attacks from Helheim.
Bloodsong gave another violent yank on her chains. Lokith, she reasoned, it has to be Lokith, returned from the Dead, just as Guthrun predicted. In spite of all my precautions, in spite of Huld’s and Guthrun’s magical traps and Ulfhild’s Berserker patrols, he has ridden forth from Helheim, and by using Sol and Mani, he has captured us as easily as if we were helpless infants in our cribs. I have to get free! She fought down another wave of seething rage. There has to be a way to get free!
Her abdominal muscles bunched into ridges as she pulled her upper body parallel to the floor and examined the bindings on her ankles. She saw that she hung by a single strand of thick rope and that the knots holding her ankles together were well tied and drawn tight. Her feet were already numb.
She let herself hang straight down once more and started struggling against the bindings on her ankles. Her body was soon glistening with sweat from her exertions as she twisted and strained at her ankle bindings. Finally, she pulled her torso parallel to the floor again. The only change in the ropes was that blood from ankle skin rubbed raw now seeped from beneath them.
She cursed and hung straight down once again, reluctantly thinking of another possible way to win freedom. Since her ordeal on Berserkers’ Isle two years before, she had only transformed to beastform one time, and that time involuntarily, when a desperate battle was about to be lost. She had resisted Ulfhild’s urgings that she transform often and practice with the weapons her beastform possessed. She had hoped never to have to transform again, unless confronted by otherwise hopeless odds. Well, she thought, the odds could hardly be more hopeless than now. Could her beastform break her bonds?
She began trying to remember what she’d tried so hard to forget, the way it had felt that day, the pain lancing through her from the Runes burned into her throat as the beast pushed through to manifestation. Breathing deeply, concentrating her will, she called to the beast within her, felt it begin to stir, to grope its way upward from the dark corners of her mind and soul. Fear shot through her, fear of losing her humanity, of becoming the berserking beast she had become on that day years before.
Bloodsong pushed down her fear, coaxed the beast closer to the surface of her consciousness, and felt pain begin to throb in her throat, the Rune-scars there beginning to burn.
Then suddenly there was a flash of pain from her wrists, and the beast was retreating back into the darkness.
Bloodsong cursed, glanced over at Guthrun, and now saw that the chains with which her daughter’s hands were bound were black and shiny. Spell-chains, Bloodsong realized, and she cursed once more, knowing that she could not change to beastform while those magic-imbued chains bound her wrists.
The door opened. She twisted her head around. Outside the longhouse she saw it was nearly dark.
Lokith entered, followed by Mani and Sol and the nine Death Riders. Several Hel-warriors also entered before the door was closed. A nauseating death-stench engulfed Bloodsong as the Death Riders followed Lokith nearer.
“Awake, Mother?” Lokith asked as he reached her, He ran a gloved hand down her bare thigh, grinning at her expression, then gave her a violent twisting shove so that she swung back and forth and spun helplessly before him. “The Odin-magic with which you were infected on Berserkers’ Isle must be strong indeed for you to have awakened before I desired.”
He gave her another shove, then laughed and walked toward Guthrun. He removed his gloves and began moving his hands over his sister’s flesh. “Has Guthrun told you about the interesting times we shared in Thokk’s castle, Mother?” he asked. “Guthrun did not enjoy them as did I, but perhaps I can teach her to feel otherwise this time.”
Bloodsong fought the dizziness spawned by her spinning and kept her eyes open, saw with each spin how Lokith was touching her daughter. She willed herself to resist the urge to shout curses and warnings for him to leave Guthrun alone, knowing that helpless threats would only feed his twisted amusements.
Lokith hissed a word of power. Guthrun opened her eyes and groaned at the pain throbbing in her temples. Then she became aware of her predicament and cursed. “Take your hands from me, Hel-slime,” she ordered, fighting memories of terror and pain.
“You have grown well, Sister.” He grinned at her, “We shall have even more interesting times than those you remember.” Giving Guthrun a violent shove, he left her swinging and spinning and advanced on Huld.
He hissed the awakening word of power. Huld slowly opened her eyes and moaned. Lokith grabbed a handful of her long blond hair and jerked her head upward. Huld cried out with the pain, trying to clear her vision and understand what was happening.
“Yours was the hand that actually murdered Thokk,” Lokith said, bending down toward her face, “but I will take revenge for her, Freya-slut. In time, you will crawl to me, begging for death, knowing that even in death you will not find escape, but instead an eternity of darkness and horror in Hel’s realm.”
“Thokk could not break me nor make me betray Freya, and neither shall you, Hel-slave,” Huld vowed.
“I do so enjoy challenges.” Lokith laughed, then released Huld’s hair and turned to the Hel-warrior, Torg Bloodear. “Stop their ridiculous spinning,” he ordered, motioning to Bloodsong and Guthrun. “I want them to have a good view of what happens next.”
As Torg and others hurried to obey, Lokith walked to Grimnir’s unconscious form. He prodded the red-bearded warrior with his boot, then turned back to face the three suspended women that the Hel-warriors were now holding
steady.
“You thought to stop me by staying here on the northern frontier, Mother. Guthrun told you I was not truly dead and that I would return leading Hel’s forces in conquest. So you set yourself and your army to watch and wait. I easily found and destroyed the magical traps Guthrun and Huld had placed far to the north. The early warnings of my approach that you had hoped to have from those traps obviously failed, as did the patrols of Berserkers that the Death Riders and my sorcery easily killed.
“And you had not counted on two Hel-servants still existing after you slaughtered all of Hel’s followers in Thokk’s castle. But Mani and Sol, who were being taught by Thokk, were away while Guthrun was Thokk’s guest. I have been continuing their instruction, knowing from their thoughts that you had once befriended them and might therefore be susceptible to trickery involving them. They kept looking for a Witch, you see, after you and Huld refused to help them, and in time, after again finding themselves alone when their surrogate parents died, they heard about Thokk and traveled to her castle. She did not turn them away.”
He glanced back down at Grimnir, “The Freya-slut just accused me of being Hel’s slave. I am not. Sol and Mani, however, are my slaves, Skull Slaves, to be exact.”
Lokith saw Guthrun stiffen. “Ah, my sister knows what that means, even if you, Mother, do not. But rather than try to explain, let me demonstrate on this man you now call your mate.”
“What do you want me to do?” Bloodsong asked, desperate to protect the man she had grown to love. “I admit defeat, temporarily, at least. I obviously have lost this battle. There is no need to harm Grimnir, nor anyone else. Take your revenge out on me instead.”
Lokith ignored her, went onto one knee, reached out, and touched Grimnir’s face.
“What do you want me to do, curse you!” Bloodsong shouted, struggling in the grip of two Hel-warriors.
“Just watch, Mother. Nothing more.” He intoned the Skull Slave incantation. A spectral skull wreathed in purple flames encased Grimnir’s head. His eyes opened, and a grimace of agony distorted his face. The skull began to contract. A hoarse cry bellowed from Grimnir’s throat as the pain grew even worse. Then the skull passed beneath his skin and vanished. Lokith spoke a word of power, and Grimnir lapsed back into unconsciousness.
“You see?” Lokith laughed, standing to face Bloodsong again. “That,” he pointed down at Grimnir, “is a Skull Slave. If he disobeys my will in the slightest, the pain will return. If he continues to disobey long enough, Hel-flames will eat away his flesh and brains from within.”
“Release him from the spell,” Bloodsong demanded, her voice unsteady, shaken by what she had seen. “I will cooperate with you, for now. Just release him. You’ve proven your power to me.”
“I will not release him. Everyone in the encampment, except you three, shall soon be Skull Slaves. Perhaps, in time, even you shall be so honored. But first?” Lokith drew a dagger from a sheath on his belt and walked toward Bloodsong.
Bloodsong jerked against her bonds.
“Hold her steady. I wouldn’t want her injured too seriously, too soon.”
The blade came down toward her throat.
IN THE NIGHT-DARKENED yard outside the longhouse, two Hel-warriors walked over the snow, one holding a jug of ale, the other a torch.
“Stop worrying, Rork,” the taller of the two said, taking another swallow of ale. “Lokith is too busy amusing himself inside to discover us having a good time. Garm’s Blood, man, we deserve some fun on our first night out of Helheim. Look at the stars! How I’ve longed to be under open sky again, instead of in Hel’s black caverns.”
“Aye,” Rork agreed, “but if Lokith should find us with that ale, Magnus—”
“He won’t,” Magnus assured him, “and neither will he discover what we have planned for the Berserker woman. He doesn’t really care what happens to anyone but those three inside. He left her lying out here in the snow to freeze, didn’t he? But she’ll still be alive, Rork. Her kind doesn’t feel the cold like we do. It’s the beast-blood in them,” he concluded, took another swig of ale, then passed the jug to his friend. “You saw her, too. She’s a woman to end all women. Even with her being unconscious, think of the memories we’ll have!”
“But she’s a shape-shifter,” Rork complained, handing back the jug. “I don’t mind telling you, that frightens me.”
“If you’re a little afraid, so what? It’ll only add spice to your memories.” Magnus laughed with anticipation. “Now where is she? She was lying here, wasn’t she?”
“It couldn’t have been here. She can’t have moved by herself.”
“Unless she had help. Curse it. Someone else must have had the same idea as me. Hold the torch low, Rork. Maybe we can track them and still get in on some of the fun.”
“There’re no signs of her being dragged through the snow. They must have carried her.”
“And the yard is so trampled that we’ll never be able to—” His voice broke off with a strangled sob.
In the space of a heartbeat, Rork saw blood pouring from a gaping wound in Magnus’s throat, saw his friend’s body begin to fall, reached for his sword, and opened his mouth to yell for help, felt a sword hack deep into his neck. He tried to scream then but only succeeded in making a bubbling wheeze as his life gushed crimson onto the snow.
* * *
Lokith raised crimson-stained lips from the small wound he had cut in Bloodsong’s neck.
“You’re next, dear Sister,” he said, walking toward Guthrun. “Your blood once brought me renewed life, and in combination with your mother’s, it shall now complete my healing.”
Guthrun struggled wildly in the grip of Hel-warriors. Hanging suspended without leverage of any kind, her struggles were soon subdued. “Tired of blood drinking, Brother?” she asked through gritted teeth as he bent down toward her throat with his dagger. “Tired of having to renew your strength each night with another victim’s blood? Yes, I have guessed your predicament, Vampire-filth!”
“Not a true Vampire, Sister. And in a moment I will be as I was, before my dear mother nearly hacked my head from my shoulders in Thokk’s castle. Ironic, don’t you think? It’s your birthday, but you’re giving me a gift!”
He touched her throat with the sharp blade, drew back, smiled coldly, then lightly touched the point to her belly just below the navel instead. Her abdominal muscles tensed beneath her bare skin.
“The blood doesn’t have to come from your neck,” he mused. “It could come from here, or even here?” he suggested, tracing the mound of her left breast. “Do you have a preference, Sister?”
Guthrun said nothing.
“Today’s not really your birthday, you know,” Lokith went on, letting the dagger travel slowly over the back of her right thigh. “Bloodsong could not have known the exact day you were born in Helheim, because when she awakened to new life there, she had no way of knowing how much time had passed since her death. Your birthday, like so much of your life, is a fiction, Sister.” He returned the dagger to her throat.
“The exact day of my birthday is not important, Maggot-spawn,” Guthrun growled. “What’s important is that friends and loved ones care enough to celebrate it at all. How many birthday feasts have you had in Helheim, Corpse-filth?”
The lines of Lokith’s face tightened. Anger glinted deep in his eyes. He slowly increased the pressure on the blade against Guthrun’s neck. “You know, Sister, it might be fun to drain you dry, to watch you slowly bleed to death. Then, just before your last shuddering breath, I could use my powers to heal you. We could do that over and over again. Yes, I think watching you hanging there, bleeding to death, would give me a great deal of pleasure—”
The door to the longhouse burst open. “We’re under attack!” a Hel-warrior cried. “Warriors are trapped in a burning longhouse, and others are being slain by a Berserker!”
Sol and
Mani glanced guiltily at each other upon hearing the news, but Lokith did not notice as confusion swept through him, then rage.
Could it be Ulfhild? Bloodsong wondered, excitement building within her.
Lokith reached out with his sorcerous senses, found Ulfhild’s mind, and at once understood how he’d been tricked. He cursed and headed for the door at a run, drawing his sword. “Death Riders, with me!” he ordered. “The rest of you stay here and guard the prisoners.”
The living corpses of the Death Riders sped like silent shadows toward the, door, drawing black-bladed swords as they went. Lokith let them go out ahead of him in case the Berserker had somehow arranged another trick, but no ambush was waiting, and so he hurried out into the yard, intending to use his sorcery to slay the Berserker quickly. But then his eyes fell on the burning longhouse and he heard the screams of his men trapped inside. If he didn’t use sorcery to quell the blaze, he would lose many warriors.
“Find and slay the Berserker,” he ordered his Death Riders.
He reached out again with his sorcery and probed Ulfhild’s thoughts. “She’s headed for the gateway, trying to escape, and she’s changed to her beastform!”
The Death Riders started toward the gate, purple Hel-fire flaring in their skull-sockets.
“Axel Ironhand!” Lokith shouted. The leader of the Death Riders sped back to his side. “Stand guard here by the door in case the Berserker is trying to trick us again. She might try to get to her friends.”
Axel raised a skeletal arm in salute and set himself squarely before the door.
Lokith ran toward the burning longhouse and prepared to use his sorcery to save the warriors inside.
From the longhouse roof above Axel Ironhand, a dark shape hurtled downward and crashed into him. The slavering jaws of a beast ripped through his throat even as razor-tipped talons tore his putrefying torso to pieces. Turning from the Death Rider, the beast threw itself against the door and rushed inside the longhouse as Axel’s undead flesh spasmed upon the snow and became truly dead. Moments later, his black mail and leather encased only a nauseating ooze of maggot-ridden filth.
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