The Queen of the Draugr: Stories of the Nine Worlds (Thief of Midgard - a dark fantasy action adventure Book 2)

by Alaric Longward

  The General had rolled into the river, and was lying there face down and under the water. He wasn’t moving. I splashed over, pulled at the man, and saw Sand was shaking his head with a frown.

  The man was dead, drowned.

  I got up and kicked the corpse so hard its ribs broke. I turned around and stalked for the gown, and pulled it on. It was ripped, torn, and spent, but of good quality. I adjusted it over my breasts, and it felt strange, everything did, but I tried to force myself to accept the strangeness.

  Sand was dressing in the clothes of the aide who had been washing the girl. He had been larger than most men, but was almost right for Sand. “How will you take him?” he asked me, while pulling on boots. “He’s a draugr king. And you know what that means.”

  “That he will die, if I squeeze his skull in,” I stated.

  “It means he likely has met foes that try to surprise him,” Sand said as he got up, smoothing the tunic and holding the sword. “It means he might figure out you are not what you try to look like.”

  “It means,” I growled, “we have to fight hard. But, I need that message.”

  “It means,” Sand insisted, “I cannot easily help you.”

  I nodded. The creature might have sway over Sand, who was recently raised, and of low rank. “I know what it means,” I said. “So he will have to die fast. I’ll not question him or chat with him. I’ll surprise him, crush his head in so fast he won’t know what happened, and then I’ll steal all his plans and correspondence. I’m sure he has the message there as well.”

  “Or his scribes do,” Sand said.

  “Have to try something, Sand. You wait outside. If things go wrong, try to help. Surprise him. You are good at that.”

  He was nodding. “And if he has power over me, if things go utterly shit wrong, kill me fast.”

  I hesitated, and he shrugged, nodding towards the camp. He smiled lecherously. “Just don’t let him hump you. You look pretty enough, you know.”

  “I might flirt a bit,” I said, while batting my eyes at him.

  “Just make sure he doesn’t survive if,” Sand laughed. “Let’s go. Baduhanna’s waiting. She’ll be jealous.”

  We moved off. I tried to walk like a girl, did a terrible job at it, and kept my face down, hoping nobody would notice anything strange. A guard asked for the passphrase, Sand gave it. We approached the troops, who were drowsily eating of talking. Many were napping already near their kit. Some veterans slept with hands on their sword and hammer hilts. Sand growled for me to hurry up, and pushed me along. We slowly navigated the camp of enemy soldiers, and one reached out to slap my rump, and I hoped the ass would not feel wrong, but no, the bastard was smiling lecherously. “Enjoy the King, girl!” another shouted. “He’s been humping us for a week, eh? Perhaps he’ll be happier tomorrow!”

  He wouldn’t be, I thought.

  Sand shoved me forward.

  Then, finally, we approached the tent.

  There were no guards, nothing at all waiting for us. A brazier was burning lazily. I looked inside the tent’s leathery flap, where lights shone eerily. I heard movement, saw a shadow passing the light, and readied myself. I looked for spells in the Black Grip, and it gave me one, a spell of stabbing ice, and I grasped and braided it together skillfully. I held on to it and looked at Sand who nodded.

  He turned on his heels, and walked behind the tent, and I went inside.

  There, the King was sitting. He sat on his seat, a simple, unelaborate chair, and had his feet on a desk of light wood. His impressive white hair and cruel face were drawn as he pondered some issue that had been written on a paper he was examining. His eyes didn’t move to me, and I stepped in, holding the spell in my head, trying to look scared, frightened, about to be abused by a high lord. The man snapped his finger, and pointed at the ground next to him.

  I took a step, another.

  He raised his eyes at me.

  And then, he smiled. “Welcome, King of Dagnar.”

  I reacted, but too slowly. I let the spell go. Icy dagger stabbed at the king, but shattered against the chair, splintering it in dozen pieces. I heard movement behind me, and saw a figure, then felt a spell being released, and darkness filed the tent. It billowed out of the sides, out from under the edges. I charged where I had seen him. I roared with battle rage, and pummeled forward, fast as a jotun.

  It took but a fraction of a second.

  There was a light in the murk I was charging into.

  There was a boom, a flash, and I felt burning pain across my chest and crashed to the ground, far to the side. The armor was smoking, a pauldron had been ripped off, and the gorget was wet with my blood. I dodged to my feet, the sword in my hand as I rolled through the tent. I got up in the darkest part of the murk, ripped my weapon around, and it struck something.

  Men fell dead.

  Soldiers had been silently charging me with a net. More moved in for me, and I roared and struck again. They fell in pieces as the blade claimed their lives. An officer died, flying to the darkness, headless. But there were more. Men swarmed me. I howled, as hammers rained down on my back, knee, then one clipped my head.

  “Alive!” the King yelled nearby.

  Alive? Never.

  I grew to my full height, stretched the tent’s ceiling, and let the enemy sprawling. I then fell forward as a raging, huge bear, much the way Father had when he had fallen. I clawed at the squirming enemy beneath, furrowed armor, flesh, and saw a shadow moving at the edge of the tent. I charged over some spears, snapping the blades, and went for the shadow. There, I smelled the enemy. I smelled Aten-Sur, and he smelled like the dead, and soon would truly be one.

  A terrible gust of icy wind slapped at me.

  The wind was filled with particles of ice, and part of the tent, along with everything inside it, included corpses flew to the darkness. The spell was much like mine had been on the ship, and I was immediately and terribly hurt. The spell was stabbing cold, and then it was mixed with odd, noxious fume, and I roared as I still charged against the wind, taking slow steps forward, my eyes closed.

  The cold ripped to my fur and flesh.

  The noxious stench was even deadlier.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  I made a desperate lunge forward. I ripped my claws at a figure before me, barely hit it, though armor and flesh was torn. The darkness dissipated, and the noble man, his eyes burning with the intensity of the dead, laughed as he looked at his bloodless wounds. I rose to my rear legs. I tried to smother him under me, but one of my legs was half fleshless, and I fell before him. I felt people around me, the net was thrown over me, and hammers slammed down. I howled, and felt I was bleeding from head.

  I tried to throw them off.

  I changed into a man-sized figure. The enemy was falling away with surprise. I was hoping to take my eagle form, but I was too slow, and a boot struck my face so hard I swooned and fell before Aten-Sur.

  I heard him speaking. “Send the Regent a letter in Dagnar,” said the King. “The trap worked, and we have it,” he murmured. I felt the Black Grip being torn from my hand. “And we him,” Aten-Sur added. “We are back on the right track.”

  I passed out.

  BOOK 2: THE CHAINS OF ATEN

  “And what shall I do with the Giant-King of Red Midgard?”

  Quiss Atenguard to Maskan

  CHAPTER 8

  Aten-Sur’s voice echoed in the hold. “Wake him up.”

  The rocking motion and splash of oars indicated I had been moved onto a ship.

  A bucket of ice-cold water splashed over my face. I coughed, swallowing some of it.

  I reluctantly opened my eyes, and saw two figures standing nearby. Light was shining behind them, probably from an oil lamp, obscuring their features. I also found myself half naked. I had been chained with huge fetters of steel, and there were locks on both my wrists. The end of the chain was loped over an iron ring in the wall. I had hard time to sit up on the slippery deck, and then the ship rocked
, and I struck my head on the hull. I dragged myself up in my torn pants, barefoot, aching all over from the punishment I had received at the hands of the man—draugr—who had just spoken. My leg wasn’t as bad off as it had been while I had been a bear, but it was red and raw.

  A rhythmic drumbeat echoed in the ship. The sea splashed across the deck above, sprinkling us with more freezing salt water, but it also made the two shadows reel. They took a step or two closer, and I could see them. It was day, and some light found its way to the hold.

  Aten-Sur wiped some of the liquid from his regal face and leaned on a large, pot-bellied man. The man looked like the Captain of the ship, and he was scowling at me mightily, as if I was blight on his vessel.

  “I’ll rip your guts out and wash the deck with them,” I growled. “I’ll play with your heart.”

  The King chuckled. “Stretch your skin and mold your bones, my giant friend. Do it, my king,” Aten-Sur murmured, “and you’ll break your heart.”

  I tried.

  I growled and tried to shrink into a wolf, and slip the bonds.

  I couldn’t.

  I fell on my fours, looking at my hands. I rocked back and forth, felt an odd pain, knowing I should be able to perform the miracle of transformation and barely think about it, but something was wrong. I repeatedly told my body to change, but nothing happened. I cursed the smug bastard standing before me.

  Aten-Sur had an amused look on his face. He whispered, “Try calling for your magic, instead.”

  I did.

  I tried to reach for the magnificent rivers of freezing Gjöll and its sisters.

  It wasn’t there. It was missing. I felt the emptiness where I had previously felt and seen the greatest power, and so I sobbed and held my face.

  It felt akin to losing one’s soul.

  “Cry, my king, cry,” Aten-Sur said with a pleased smile. “We never saw a jotun weep, or even a king,” Aten-Sur laughed, mocking me cruelly. “I’ve not wept in ten years.”

  I blinked away the tears, gazed at my captor, and he tapped at his finger. There was nothing there.

  Then I looked at mine.

  Sorrowspinner.

  I twisted away from the terrible thing, but, of course, couldn’t.

  The cursed ring of House Talien was again draped on my finger. The black, engraved band, with the blue stone, held me prisoner in my human form once more. Lith had cut it off after they had hung me, and then she had managed to bring me back to life. One could not tear the ring off, because it would magically kill one, should one try. I didn’t know exactly how, but I was sure the death would not be easy.

  I could not help staring at the thing.

  I had worn it all though my life, tricked by Mir all the way to the terrible day when I had been learnt of my true nature, just before they infiltrated Father’s house with my unwitting help. In vengeance, I had used it to expose the draugr to Dagnar, tricking Gal Talien, a greedy draugr and Master of Coin, into wearing it. All his magic had been blocked, and his exposed undead state had begun the uprising in Dagnar.

  And what had happened to the ring after?

  I had forgotten it. I had lost it in the battle, and there it was, cursing my hand again. The enemy had found it, and now it held me.

  I was no stronger than a human, and perhaps I could, if I tried, change my face and its features alone, as I had been able before, my power limited so. When I fought, I could, sometimes, be very powerful. But I’d be nothing like I had been. Nothing like the draugr that opposed me.

  I gazed at the King. How had he gotten it? Had Hilan recovered it? Possibly. Perhaps she had sent it to Aten-Sur in that very message I had chased.

  It had been a trap.

  Aten-Sur turned to the Captain. “Leave for a moment.” He waited until the man left, and walked forward, stopping before me. He let the illusion of a living man disappear, and the draugr knelt before me. His throat had been cut in the past. The wound was white-yellow slash of rot and nauseating fat, and dry skin. Shaduril was apparently able to regenerate her limbs, but the wounds in the flesh stayed, and this one’s death had been gruesome.

  I nodded at the wound. “Work of your King Balic, Aten-Sur?” I asked him spitefully.

  He nodded. “The One Man, Balic Barn Bellic, blessed me with murder. He blessed most of the family as well, and has waged many wars as he hunted down some of his own kings in the past. Why deny it? He murdered me.” He leaned closer. “But, he also made me again.”

  “A walking, rotting sack of bones, soon to fall in dust and infamy,” I said, with bravado I didn’t truly feel, as I was half naked and shackled in his ships hold.

  He wasn’t impressed, his dead eyes squinting as he stared at me. “You are just a sack of living skin and flesh, a mere frightened human. Nothing more. You might be able to change your face, but I don’t care if you choose to look like a lizard. The trouble you caused is over.”

  I thumbed the ring, fighting the urge to risk all and rip it off. “How did you get this ring?” I asked, dreading the thing. It was like a smear of shit in your finger, making you anxious to wipe your hands, except you couldn’t.

  He tilted his head to the side, like an owl, as he considered my question. His face was gray and dry, his eyes sunken, and I wanted to shove him away.

  “You ask a lot of questions. But, considering you were a king of jotuns, a mighty caster of spells, a shape changer, and the noblest blood of the land, here and in Nifleheim, I suppose you should know why you have been reduced to the position of a prisoner. A king should respect another that much, eh?”

  I snorted. The enemy was the only one who considered me a king.

  “As you guessed, I was waiting for you.” He smiled, his teeth rotten.

  I banged my hands on the floor. “It seems your lapdog Helstrom bitch is every bit the traitor as her husband.”

  He chuckled at my impotent rage. “No, she genuinely hoped to be the Queen of Red Midgard. That changed only this week. Now, she obeys us. She will get a position, a fine one, though, of course, Crec Helstrom will be her ruler after the war. But, gods and their oracles alone know who will rule in Dagnar. Balic’s promised it to many. Lisar Vittar, to me, to Crec. One will get it, though that one shall rule over mere bone yards of the North. We are but One Eyed Priests of Balic, and none of our wishes matter. He can change his mind like wind changes direction.”

  He seemed saddened by the fact.

  “Would you prefer to escape him?” I asked hopefully.

  He smiled. “You know of the draugr. We might rebel, we have our own wishes and desires, but once given a direct command, it is impossible to resist. This Lith tried, and got far, hoping to be elevated by Balic, hoping to supplant Mir, but she failed. Mir’s fault. She should have given her daughters clear commands not to cross her. She didn’t. I won’t try to resist Balic. No, we will do what Balic asks, and plot against each other when it is possible. The North is already dead.”

  “Not if I can help it,” I whispered.

  “You cannot,” he chuckled. “You’ll have your part to play yet, I hear. I think you will first see Baduhanna falling, and then, later, take part in what Balic has planned.”

  “You mean they won’t kill me?” I asked him, my head suddenly aching. A wound was bleeding on the back of my head; I felt the blood trickling down my neck.

  “No, I’m not saying that,” he whispered and pulled my head down, touching a wound on the back of my head, and chortling like a demented fool as he wiped blood of it. “You shall die indeed.” I struggled, but to no avail. He grasped my neck, muttering something, and I stayed still, sure he’d rip me apart. He clearly desired to slay me, had been told not to, but the struggle was real nonetheless. He reluctantly let go of me, banging my head on the wall. “Later,” he said. “As requested.”

  Later? They’d kill me later.

  And Sand.

  Was Sand dead, finally?

  “Ask your questions,” Aten-Sur said thickly. “As for the day, it is the s
ame day we fought still, though very late. Lifegiver is going down soon. Your Baduhanna is marshaling her forces in Dagnar, and we are preparing as well.”

  “Did you take my armor? My sword and gauntlet?” I asked him, and saw how he was licking his fingers and my blood off them. I shuddered with disgust and fear.

  He nodded. “We took it all. Jotun’s gear is always welcome.” He smiled. “You’ll get some back later, perhaps.”.

  “What exactly do you plan to do with me?” I asked him, though the obvious answer was to kill me very publicly in Aten.

  He indicated over his shoulder. “Well, you are going to see your high king, Balic.” A wave splashed on the ship’s side, and a part of it washed down the stairs, wetting us. I spat salty water, and realized I was thirsty as a dog. The draugr saw that, and snapped his fingers, as he shrouded himself in his human disguise. I heard steps. “Water for this one!” Aten-Sur yelled.

  They didn’t want the subjects to see them as they are, I thought. Else the ‘miracle’ of One Man might not seem so desirable.

  Aten-Sur was no exception. The potbellied captain brought forth a gourd of water, stopped next to me, and he poured it carelessly into my mouth. It was no ale, nor mead, but a drink worthy of the gods, nonetheless. I maliciously didn’t wait for the Captain to leave as I spoke on. “And why would Balic wish to meet a king he has tried to murder for a while now? Just for a petty vengeance? You and the rest of the dead ones wish to make me howl?”

  The Captain went away, eyeing Aten-Sur, who scowled as the man disappeared.

  He chortled at me. “One has to be careful with you. And why do you sound like making you howl is something that might be beneath Balic? Is petty vengeance undesirable to any king? We all enjoy it. We breathe the humiliation of our foes, of course we do!” He smiled mysteriously. “But no. There is more. He will raise you to fight for him as well.” He rubbed his face while thinking. “He wants you in his army. You shall be a One Eyed Priest. A very uncomfortable situation for me. You will probably plot to vanquish me at some point. Cannot be remedied now.”