The Reckoning of Asgard

by James Malcolm Elrick

She pushed herself to her knees and with one hand still on the ground, pushed herself to a standing pose, her plain dress only reaching her knees.

  Standing, she swayed as if drunk, unable to lift her chin off her chest, her arms dangling loosely at her sides.

  But when the hilt of knife was placed in her hand, her fingers instinctively gripped it. She rubbed her fingers against the hilt, her mind enjoying the sensation. Her tongue licked her lips, excitement bubbling inside because with a knife in her hand, her mind knew a fight was about to happen, and she craved the action, craved the dance.

  The roar of a bear echoed off the walls.

  She assumed a fighting crouch, her eyes barely able to focus, but able to focus enough.

  The bear stood on its hind legs as it roared again. The sound of its roar was like music to her ears as if it was the sweetest sound she had ever heard in her entire life.

  As her eyes focused, it was easily the largest bear Margret had ever seen, bigger than two full-grown male grizzlies. Its gaze fell on Margret, as it lowered its great bulk to the ground. Its shoulders shifted back and forth as if warming up for battle.

  With a snort, it charged.

  Margret did not move.

  Although she was not wearing her enchanted circlet, the liquid she had drunk enhanced all her senses as if she wore the circlet.

  Time slowed.

  A part of her mind knew the bear was still hurtling towards her while another part coolly assessed the situation.

  The bear swiped at Margret, razor-sharp claws the size of daggers, as she ducked at the last instant with a speed that would have shamed a starving panther. She passed underneath the bear’s arm and drove her knife as deep as she could into the bear’s armpit, trying to reach its heart.

  The momentum of the bear’s forward motion ripped the knife from Margret’s hand, as the bear skidded to a stop, its claws trying to dig into the tiled floor.

  The bear roared in pain.

  And the sound deafened Margret but she did nothing as she enjoyed the sensation.

  As fast it could, the bear reached around and with its mouth drew the blade out.

  With a flick of its head, the bear threw the blade across the room. Margret’s eyes tracked the blade as it flew through the air, blood spraying from it.

  The bear charged again.

  With one eye on the bear, Margret ran and leaped, caught the knife, and with one fluid motion, sliced across the bear’s throat, opening it with one pass.

  With an inhuman effort she twisted out of the path of the bear. Standing aside she watched impassively as the bear crashed to the ground.

  She bent her knees ready for the bear’s next charge, but it never came.

  Instead of fighting, the bear struggled to turn and face her. Blood gushed from its wounds. As it tried to stand, its knees buckled.

  Margret advanced. Blood dripped from her knife, leaving a trail on the ground.

  Now she stood beside the bear’s head, staring down at it as its life ebbed out in pulses.

  A voice not her own commanded: “Finish him.”

  She nodded and as she brought her knife close to the bear’s throat, the bear raised his head and made a sound.

  She stopped, startled, as she thought the bear had spoken.

  She knelt beside the bear’s head, unworried. She blinked and looked more closely at the bear and noticed on its skin under its fur was a pattern of blue tattoos.

  She strained to hear the voice of the bear as it struggled to form words.

  “Princess,” she whispered. “Did you say ‘princess’?”

  With one claw using its own blood the bear drew a rune on the ground. With the rune complete, the bear murmured a spell and he transformed.

  “Nas!” she cried, then wailed in anguish, tears streaming down her face.

  Nas lay motionless on the ground where the great bear had once been.

  Unseen hands grabbed her arms and lifted her off the ground as she sobbed uncontrollably.

  She was brought back to the chalk rune with the odd serpent-like person.

  In a flat monotone a voice said: “This one believes the transformation is complete.”

  Another voice said in the exact same indistinguishable monotone: “This one believes you are now an initiate of the assassins guild.”

  She glared at the people who surrounded her.

  All were strangers except one.

  Then, in a clear voice, she said one word to the assassins guild master: “You.”

  She straightened, wiped the tears from her face, and said: “Nas, he is dead. You made me kill him.”

  “We did nothing of the sort,” said the assassins guild master. Then, to his subordinates: “Leave us.”

  His assassins melted into the shadows and were gone.

  He continued: “When I first laid my eyes upon you, Margret, I knew you were an assassin, a killer. Just a few moments ago, you drank fermented ox blood mixed with the milk of the Beast, the Beast you see here before you. Let go of your past, your future belongs to this guild. Your brothers and sisters are all assassins. Embrace your new family.”

  She fought his words but as she did, she felt the magic of the demon—the Beast—taking over her mind, making her forget.

  “No,” she said weakly as she clung to her memories while they pulled away from her.

  The master hissed: “You killed your mentor. It is your fault. He tried to find you, to protect you. But all he found was death, death at your hand, his student, his friend. You may never return to your father, to your friends, to your country.”

  “No,” she whispered, her voice feeble as she felt the Beast inside her mind, shredding her memories and her identity.

  The master’s voice rose: “You are an assassin.” Then shouted: “An assassin! There is no turning back. You will train with us. You are the ultimate assassin. Everyone fears you. And you—you fear no one.”

  Her voice was just a faint whisper as she fought the words and fought the Beast’s milk, but she knew it was a losing battle. She embraced the master’s words and let her memories fade, knowing she would gain new memories, memories of being a trained killer—an assassin.

  Then a voice cut through the noise, a voice she recognized.

  Nas stood on unsteady legs. Using his blood as ink, he had drawn runes over his body.

  The master hissed to his subordinates: “Finish him.”

  Nas drew a deep breath, his chest raised proudly. With a look towards Margret of tenderness and fierce pride, he slammed his palm against the floor and screamed the words of a spell.

  Where his hand struck the ground, lightening burst forth blinding everyone. And the accompanying thunder was deafening.

  Nas, exhausted from the effort, collapsed.

  Margret shook her head as the effects of the Beast’s milk disappeared. She breathed deeply and felt old memories, happy memories, flood back. Her bloodshot eyes cleared, and she lifted her chin.

  She ran over and knelt beside Nas, kissing his forehead. “Your death will be avenged, old friend,” she murmured.

  And with knife in hand, she charged the assassins guild of Trondheim.

  CHAPTER 40

  A Rescue Party

  It was late afternoon, and Arastead stood in the basement of an abandoned building near the School. With him were Farling, Grum, Sihr, and the three were-beasts.

  He asked of Grum and Farling: “Did you find Nas?”

  They shook their heads.

  “And what of Mage?”

  Farling said: “He said it was up to us to rescue Margret.”

  Arastead nodded. Said: “You and Grum have your weapons. Sihr, you should stay out of the fighting. I do not know if Margret will need healing when we find her, and I want you uninjured.”

  Arastead, deep in thought, looked at the were-beasts. As it turned out, Mage had been able to make their potions much more quickly than he had expected. And so the were-beasts had drunk their new potions, and all had returned to the
ir full strength. Arastead noticed how much their muscles had filled out and how each looked much more like the animal with which they were associated.

  Arastead addressed the were-beasts: “And you three, you have been in the assassins guild before. Take the lead.”

  Liulfr grunted, flexing his muscles, obviously enjoying the effect the potion was having on him. Said: “Just do not fall behind, wizard, as we plan on making mincemeat of these assassins. We have not forgotten their insult from before. And we have not forgotten the bravery of the princess. We will rescue her.”

  “Fine,” said Arastead, wondering how out of control this attack would become. “Behind me.”

  Everyone held torches in one hand as they watched Arastead with bated breath. It was still a wonder for Farling and Grum to behold, but to the were-beasts, it was new. And their eyes went wide in amazement as Arastead spun his magic.

  First, he pointed at the dirt floor of the basement. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, and with the hand that bore the ring made in the dwarf forge from the pages of the book of Princore, made a fist and pointed it at the ground. And like the water well he had made for the goblins, the ground moved aside, creating a wide hole in the floor.

  After a few minutes, Arastead stopped and threw his torch in the wide hole. Everyone saw it was about 20 feet deep and about 10 feet wide. Arastead pointed his fist at one side of the hole and created a ladder of hand rungs.

  The were-beasts chuckled.

  “No need for the ladder,” said Liulfr as the were-beasts jumped in the hole. All landed effortlessly on the ground so far below.

  “Hurry,” said Liulfr looking up at everyone standing around the edge.

  Farling shook his head. “Show offs,” he muttered to Grum.

  Moments later, everyone was now at the bottom of the hole. Arastead pointed his fist first one direction, then moved it slightly to the side. “This should be the right direction,” he said.

  Where he pointed his fist, the ground disappeared and turned to bricks creating an arched passageway tall enough and wide enough for everyone to walk in easily, two abreast.

  The tunneling continued unabated at a steady slow walking pace.

  After what felt like an hour, Farling looked behind and noticed he could not see where they had started.

  Grum asked: “How much farther?”

  “I am not sure,” replied Farling, “but I would put on your Belt and Gloves of Strength.”

  “A good idea,” said Grum. “Here, hold my torch.”

  Farling shook his head. “Grum, do not bring the School down around our ears,” he said. “I am a bit worried about you and your war hammer being in the School’s basement. Try and avoid the pillars that support the upper levels.”

  “I will try,” said Grum. “But I cannot promise.”

  “I guess that will just have to be good enough,” said Farling. He grunted suddenly in surprise as he had stumbled by accident into Arastead. Farling had not noticed Arastead’s sudden stop.

  “Sorry,” whispered Farling to Arastead. Then: “Are we close?”

  “Hush,” was Arastead’s curt reply. He closed his eyes and held one hand against the dirt wall. He held it there for a few moments, his breathing steady.

  “Just a few more feet of earth,” began Arastead, “then we hit the basement foundation of the School. As we have been doing, I will create an archway out of the foundation material. Anyone in the basement should be surprised by the sudden appearance of the opening, and all of you should charge in, weapons drawn.”

  “But be silent,” he added. “I cannot tell if there is anyone in the basement, and so we should not raise the alarm as to our presence. Good, here goes.”

  And with a final effort, Arastead continued the tunnel archway for a few more feet. Farling watched as the foundation appeared, a solid wall of stones. In an instant, Arastead made an archway entrance out of the foundation.

  And everyone charged through.

  But after a few steps, all stopped.

  Farling looked around and his jaw dropped in shock and surprise.

  All he could see were people lying on the ground, pools of blood surrounding their bodies. In the middle of the room was a rune drawn in chalk in which another body lay, which looked slightly human and very reptilian.

  “What happened?” he asked. Everyone looked stunned and confused as they walked around the basement, inspecting the bodies.

  “Dead,” said Grum, “all dead. Nasty looking stab wounds, too.”

  Arastead asked: “Liulfr, what room is this?”

  “I do not know, but there is another room,” he replied. “Follow me.”

  But as they made their way to the hallway, Liulfr stiffened, held up a hand and whispered: “Someone approaches.”

  A woman entered the room wearing a plain dress. She was covered in blood, her hair matted, held in place by a circlet with a large pearl that lay on her forehead. In one hand was a knife. To Farling, she appeared every bit the image of an avenging Valkyrie.

  She noticed them and said: “I was afraid I was going to have to come and look for you, but here you are.”

  Farling sputtered, not believing his eyes: “Princess?”

  And as she nonchalantly twirled the knife in one hand, said: “You were expecting someone else?”

  “Not that,” interjected Arastead, “just that we expected we would need to rescue you, that is all.”

  “No rescuing required,” she said with a big smile. The contrast between her white teeth and blood-stained face was disconcerting. “I am a princess of Aarlund. I can handle myself.”

  “We noticed,” said Farling still shocked. “Did you leave us any assassins to kill?”

  “None,” she answered, “not even the master. After I killed all his subordinates, the old man and I fought. Once he realized I had gained the upper hand, he turned and fled. I followed, but he knows the hallways and rooms better than I. But I still found him. Exhausted, he was almost too easy a kill.”

  Grum said: “Well, I am sorry I missed the fight. I am sure it must have been a sight to see.”

  “Well, I do not remember much,” she said. “I must have gone berserk and so the fighting felt like a dream.”

  Of a sudden, the were-beasts went to one knee before her, their heads bowed.

  Liulfr spoke for the were-beasts, his eyes fixed on the floor: “We apologize for leaving you behind. You are the true brave one. You allowed us to escape.”

  “Rise, warriors,” she said. “I ask a favor of you. Nas lies there, dead. Carry his body as he deserves a proper burial.”

  Then she added: “We return on the morn, and clean this mess up. The School does not use this part of the building, and so the bodies will not be found.”

  And with that, the were-beasts gently lifted the druid’s body up, as Farling and Grum led the group back through the tunnel, the light from their torches allowing everyone to see the way.

  CHAPTER 41

  Margret and Astrid

  It had been several days since the funeral service for Nas.

  A funeral pyre had been built in the ruins of Freya’s temple in the woods of the Trillemarka forest. Druids as far as Aarlund had traveled to witness the event. Speeches were made, some touching, some boring, and in the end, Margret lit the pyre. As the flames engulfed the body, she shed no tears. She barely spoke with her father, King Cormac or the other Aarlund chieftains. Even the sight of the Aarlund brothers and their nephew had done nothing to shake her out of her grief.

  Margret still had not cried in those days since and now she sat with Queen Astrid in the queen’s room.

  Margret’s gaze was vacant, her food and drink untouched.

  Astrid rubbed her pregnant belly. The birth of her child, the prophesized Sorceress, was not far off.

  Astrid knew in moments like these often it was best not to break the silence, let the other person say the first words, as those words were the ones needed to be said. But as the minutes went by and M
argret remained stubbornly silent, Astrid abandoned her tactic.

  “You have changed,” said Astrid. She put a comforting hand on Margret’s.

  Margret blinked awkwardly and pulled her hand away, crossing her arms across her chest, hiding her hands. She refused to meet Astrid’s gaze.

  Astrid did not wait for Margret as she said: “Whatever happened in the assassins guild must have been terrible. I heard stories, but most were told to me by Frederick, and often he is not the best at telling a story. I find he tells the stories in his own words, even if those were not the words used. The were-beasts were able to escape because you provided an able rearguard. Then, when they returned, along with the blacksmiths and the Paupers Temple priest, they found all the assassins dead, including the master. And you were covered in blood. I take it Nas discovered you were in the assassins guild and so tried to rescue you?”

  Margret jerked her head up and her eyes locked momentarily with Astrid’s, then she dropped her gaze as before. Her hands fell in her lap where she stared at them.

  “What happened?” pressed Astrid, reaching over to try and hold one of Margret’s hands again.

  Abruptly, Margret stood and walked over to the fireplace and watched the flames. She spoke but it was as if her words were meant to be burned in the fire and then carried away in the smoke, never to be remembered.

  She said: “I was a child when Nas taught me to see visions in the flames of a fire. My mother had died years before and everyone had known she had the ability to see what was about to happen. Nas had told my father that I had demonstrated some of the same abilities and so my father had allowed Nas to teach me, to nurture my abilities, so that I was not afraid of them, confused by them. My father was afraid I would push my abilities away from me to the point where they would stop working.”

  “Nas was a patient teacher, and I, an eager student. But the flames showed me little and as much as I tried to do what Nas asked, I could only see so far ahead in time. And so I learned other skills: archery, sword, quarterstaff, taught by the Aarlund brothers. All skilled in their abilities, all excellent teachers. And, as a princess, I was also taught the finer aspects of the court, and so learned musical instruments, how to appreciate art, how to start and hold a conversation with practically anyone. I learned everything about how to be a proper lady of an Aarlund court.”