He knew the Moloch’s victory. And he vowed he would live on, after the mortals fell.
For too long the witches ruled these lands, their power bound in their female offspring. The witches never bore a male child. Men never held the power of magic.
Unless, of course, they took other measures.
Belial would defeat the Queen, and her power would overshadow the world. Waermund could not stand against her. What wise man would fight the victory assured the shadow? And why should he hope, as the Queen hoped?
Fools alone hoped, and Waermund did not consider himself a fool.
He gazed into the goblet before him at the thick crimson liquid within. A carcass burned on the pyre before him at the altar he kept for all people, where he offered a sacred creature to the gods and to his true master, the Lord Belial in Eliudnir, in exchange for the power and magic he could not have by birth.
A “Coventer,” the witches once called people like him, one of the last of a dying breed, also called sorcerers or necromancers. But Waermund considered himself neither. By ingesting the blood of magic creatures, he became as a god.
The blaze nearly consumed the poor creature he placed upon the altar. The unicorn’s horn would survive the burning. And he would use the horn as his aid when the shadow came upon them.
Waermund swished the unicorn blood and peered into it. In the pale light of the night the blood seemed black. Not far away the Queen gave birth to a daughter, and new hope came to save them.
And the people called her Y Erianrod, the light of her people. No longer did the world dwell in the seasons, and instead it became consumed in the night and eternal winter.
In the hall beyond the altar room, the soft footfalls of the healers passed. But they would not come to him.
Waermund lifted the goblet and drank life-blood of the magical unicorn. And he waited for his master to come to him, to grant him the power he craved, so he might fulfill what needed to be done.
The child would die by the power of the shadow, and he would be rewarded.
In the distance a babe cried, for she sensed the evil spirit coming into Ull.
“Master,” a voice called behind him. Waermund jumped and wiped at the blood dripping on his chin.
Athellind, of the healers, stood framed in the torch light of the halls. “Master,” Athellind said. “The Queen awaits your blessing on the child who she birthed this hour.”
“I will perform the blessing in the morning.”
Athellind tried to peer into his mind, and yet she knew already what she sought. She sensed the demon in the shadows, in the depths of his eyes. And she watched, and waited. “Very well.” She walked toward the door.
“Athellind.”
The healer turned.
“Do not peer too much into the thoughts of men,” he warned, his voice low and cold. “For one never knows what one might find, buried in the deepest corners of another’s soul.”
Athellind nodded and left, glancing over her shoulder at the torch-lit door, determined to linger and wait for treachery to be unveiled.
*****
When the sound of the healer’s footsteps ceased, Waermund stood and began to walk.
“Fyr,” he said, his hand over the tip of the torch in his hand.
With a word the torch in his hand burst into blue flames. Not far behind him Athellind walked through the ancient passage beneath the White City, trying not to make a sound. She saw he led her to a long-forgotten door.
In the night he walked out into the demon’s winter. Athellind followed.
She slowed as they entered the forest. Wolves came out of the shadows to guide the priest. Werewolves, she thought, terrified and shaking, guiding him in the guiles of the Demon of the West.
Deep into the forest they went, past the places Athellind went before, the healer careful to remain behind, looking around for the wolves and the creatures conjured by the Dark Lord before his fall.
Here they lurked and waited. Tonight the war of Belial set upon them all, as the light came into their midst.
The forest grew deep in the longest hour of the night. Blankets of snow fell on the frozen world. She trudged through the snowdrifts, desperate to follow the one who she knew already betrayed them.
Her feet frozen, her body numb with cold, terror clutching her heart, and stifled by the fury rising in her blood, she walked.
When she knew all, she would warn the Queen.
A light grew before her, in a hollow where the trees grew thin and a circle formed in the wood. Athellind hid in the shadows and eavesdropped as the wolves circled the priest.
He drew a circle in the snow with a cruel dagger he drew from his cloak.
Athellind recognized it as a sign of the Coventer’s arts, for to gain such power, a creature who held magic, white or black, must die, and such things the Witch-Queen’s forbade.
She saw him drink from the goblet. And on the pyre before him a creature burned. Though he tried to hide the single horn on the alter, she saw the remains of the unicorn. He took its life, and drank its magical blood.
He called to the servants of evil, to the black magic and to the power of the demon, to guide him. The circle glowed.
The wind whipped, covering everything in a blanket of snow. The trees swayed in the wind, brought in heavy gusts by the power conjured. Above them the cold storm clouds boiled with fury, and Waermund called Belial into Sul. The wolves howled, their screams carried upon the wind.
Horror gripped Athellind’s heart at hearing the wolves howling around her. Would she be found? Did they watch her? Would they take her life, as Waermund took the life of the innocent unicorn to gain the power as he now possessed?
She must remain safe, for if they slaughtered her by the servants of Belial, no one could warn Beren of Waermund’s treachery.
As the wind roared and as lightning scorched the trees, casting shadows onto the snow, as the wolves howled and the snow swirled, Athellind hefted herself onto the lower branch of the tree, looking down onto the circle cast in the snow.
Silence came over them.
A scream broke the silence, and Athellind repressed her terror. The shadow of Belial poured from the boiling sky into the circle, taking form as she swirled around Waermund and her servants.
So you come to me, the shadow said. The Queen gave birth to a daughter.
The wolves bowed. Waermund stood his ground and looked into Belial’s face, showing no fear or loathing for the evil he called to him, for which he betrayed himself and his world.
“As you said,” the priest spoke. “The child who Beren called the light came into the White City beneath the mountains of the gods.”
When?
“Not long ago. I came here with all haste.”
Your sacrifice will not be in vain. I will rule the lands wrought for me by my father, and power will be yours, my faithful servant.
“Many thanks, my master.” He bowed low before the shadow of evil.
Return to the White City, and wait in the temple, she instructed. When my servants come, unlock the door for them to enter by stealth and surprise. And remain with them until the battle ends and the city burns. They will keep you safe.
She will kill him when her servants stand inside the city, Athellind knew. The treacherous one will indeed see his reward for his betrayal.
Athellind clung to the branch as the wind whirled around her. The cloud of shadow disappeared. The wolves walked with the priest, away from the city, to prepare for his return. Lest the Queen sense his unnatural magic, Athellind figured, as she descended from the tree, and wasted no time running through snow for the ancient door.
For precious little time remained.
*****
Breca ran from the sacred place as if his life depended on it, through the snow-covered forest, to the White City where the Witch Queen and the child of light lay.
The time to save them all dwindled fast.
The blizzard blew around him and wind froze his ski
n. His hair fell from his hood, blowing auburn strands in his eyes, but he did nothing to stop it. Sweat poured down his body, but he did not feel it or notice when it froze.
Ull shone like a beacon beneath the mountain of the gods, its walls gleaming white against the mountain. A baby screamed, but he could not hear it over the howl of the winds.
As the prophet said, evil came upon them all.
Deep in the forest, a shadow waited for her faithful servant to come to her. Soon in the White City a door would be opened and evil would enter. Far away, above the towers of Belial’s fortress, smoke billowed, and renewed cold swept through the lands of magic.
In the north, the centaurs read the signs in the heavens, in the dances of the gods they foretold the future, and saw what would come from the demon’s heart. In the forests the nymphs dreamed nightmares of the world falling around them, and the demon’s winter covered their deep roots. And in the fairy sidhes, Mab wept for the world above.
The path opened a little before the runner. Not far away lay the oak and iron gates. Torches gleamed on the city walls, as the tower guards paced and looked out. The snow fell in sheets.
It would not be long now, Breca thought. War came upon them, war they might not win, for the allies of mortal men all but abandoned them. The mortal world would fall if hope did not endure.
“Open the gates!” Breca screamed over the howl of the wind. “Open the gates!”
“Who goes there?” Raed called down, peering at the cloaked figure.
“Breca of the moorland. I must see the Queen.”
“How goes the war in the moorland, Breca, son of Aedh?” Raed studied the young man. He knew Aedh well. He watched Breca grow and saw innocence in him few possessed. And he knew Breca’s strength, to withstand the Dark Lord, and to endure her fury.
“Not well,” Breca said, sadness mingling with the panicked urgency. “When last I saw, villages burned, golems raped and killed, and my father prepared to leave the last charge against them. He who sent me north with news of our plight. But Hamald, who I met in the ancient place, gave me a more urgent message I must carry for my Queen.”
Raed nodded, and far below the guards acknowledged him. The gates creaked open. Raed descended the stairs as the runner came through and stopped, crouching and panting.
“Breca of the moorland,” Raed called as he drew nigh. “The Queen must rest. She just gave birth. Idle business should not concern her.”
“I must see her,” Breca told him, breathing deeper now, taking the water from the guard and breaking the ice growing on top to have a drink. “I do not call for her on idle business. I have word of the movement of the shadow.”
Raed stepped back. “Take him to Beren,” Raed snapped at the guards. “Go now.”
Two guards helped Breca up and led him away. Raed climbed the stairs and stared at the black mountains in the west, and at the demon rising from Eliudnir, a silent omen of war upon them.
*****
“Milady, a messenger comes from the sacred place.”
Beoreth stroked the hair of the young Queen and sighed. Such beauty she saw in the world when she helped birth children, such hope and such joy. She remembered the day twenty years before when she watched another child come, a child of evil. For many years she saw no light, no joy, and no beauty, and cold, darkness, and death alone.
For many years the land suffered, the people lived under the shadow of the demon haunting them. If Enyd ended Belial’s life so long ago, if she felt no compassion in her heart, this winter would not be.
The Queen sighed also, her thoughts not shadowed like Beoreth’s. She sighed from fatigue, from the labor of her daughter’s birth. Beren grew weary from the cold haunting her blood and her soul, the heart she shared with Miðgarðir, and with the demon, whose will brought winter upon them all.
“She rests,” Beoreth told the guard, watching as the child suckled.
“He comes on urgent business.” The guard stood immobile in the door.
“It cannot be as urgent as--”
“Send him in,” Beren instructed, interrupting her faithful friend. Beoreth felt the pulse of her patient and checked the baby's nursing, worrying all the time about the burden her Queen took upon herself, and passed to her daughter, so small and frail, so full of life.
The young man, tall and gangly, strode into the chamber. “I am Breca of the moorland,”
“Breca of the moorland.” Beren glanced into his cold and tired eyes. “My people tell me you come with urgency. What business could be so urgent it must come on this night of celebration?”
“My majesty.” Breca bowed before the woman he could not imagine wearing a crown. “Time grows short. A prophet rises in the sacred place, and he speaks of your daughter, of her life and safety, and the shadow lengthens in Óskópnir.”
Beren’s eyes blazed. “What prophet?”
“Headred, son of Hamald, your servant.” Breca saw her recognition of the boy.
“I will go.” Beren handed the sleeping babe to Beoreth, whose mouth opened to object at once. “Do not argue, my sister and friend.” Beren tried to mask her fear. “I must go, if not for myself for my daughter. Y Erianrod must live, even as others may fall.”
“As you wish.” Beoreth rocked the sleeping child in her arms.
“Take me at once to the child who sees visions,” Beren instructed Breca.
“Yes, milady,” and he led her from the chamber.
As they walked away, the child cried, and Beren prayed the gods would not abandon her. She felt the cold evil of her sister forged ever deeper into her soul, and the heart of her world.
*****
Breca ran again through the snowy woods as the snowstorm cleared above and the white mist of Niflheim, the primordial lands of the gods, fell upon the Sul and the cursed winter.
Beren’s white horse, girded with leather and gold, pushed through the snowdrifts behind Breca on a brown destrier, struggling to keep up as the runner seemed to pass through the snowdrifts. Beren noticed the spot of bright blood on her skirt. Her mind clouded as she realized she still bled. Her power weakened as her sister’s grew.
But much more blood would be shed if the light faded and the darkness won.
Why? my sister, Beren called upon her power to carry her thought to the towers of Eliudnir. Beyond the distant mountains the earth quaked, and the clouds boiled.
Beren saw Belial’s vision: Beren’s blood on the snow, Caer dead beside her, and the White City burning.
Beren shed a tear for the lands falling in visions before her.
Do not fear, the voice of the fairy Queen rang in her head, bringing light and warmth, so precious in the gloom and the cold growing ever stronger in her spirit. Time grows short now, Mab whispered from the fairy sidhes, but enough time remains for what must be done.
So be it, Beren thought, and followed the runner through the thick wood and the snow.
Before her, the stone of Woden ascended into the sky, placed there by men long ago to mark the spot where the god descended, where she and many others sent forth spells, guided by the power of the gods and their children in Miðgarðir possessed.
And there, she knew without seeing, the prophet she sought now stood. There a destiny would be forged.
In the night of the winter Beren, the Witch Queen of Sul, came to the sacred place.
*****
Glasheim, the sacred place of the gods, rose above the mist; stone benches where the gods held council in Miðgarðir and monuments wrought by men ascended into the skies to mark where the gods stood upon the world.
Beren remembered Glasheim to be a place of remembrance, beauty, and magic, hidden beneath the snow.
The boy wandered, his hair whipping about in the wind. Beren’s horse stopped among the stones as she stroked its neck. Hamald walked not far away, looking upon his son. What Headred foretold she did not know, but she knew the shadow of Belial came into Hamald’s heart, and Hamald feared what would come.
Exhausted, Beren stepped off the horse and trudged through the snow, the blood diminishing.
“What did he foretell?” Beren asked.
Hamald pointed to his son.
“The heavens open in the time of darkness,” Headred said, his voice light and his eyes clear in his pale, cold face as he foretold the future, as shown to him by Woden’s will. “The Queen gives birth to a daughter on this night in the mating of Cwen and Cerdic, a witch who bears the power and the magic of the gods. She will fight the evil one, the Dark Lord above all, Belial, demon of the wasteland of Óskópnir and her father's towers of Eliudnir. Woden and his kindred whisper of the coming of the one. For the world falls into evil’s sway, and the gods give hope to all.” He stopped.
Beren watched him. His words told her what already happened. But he also spoke of the darkness she knew all too well, as if an omen of what would come. Doubt gripped Beren’s heart.
“In her hand she holds the heart of a man,” the boy’s voice rang in the night, “and the magic of the gods. One she will forget, one will fall before her. Her past will be frozen in the land of cold, the land of winter where she will see her mortal heart, a man who will come. She will know him by this sign: he will come upon her blood, and it will be but a taste of what will come. In the lands of her birth she must choose her fate and the fate of her people.
“Her destiny the gods wove in the night of power. In her heart she will find her light, and her light will be the light of the people. Her past and she who came before her will be frozen in the forests of the north. She cannot fight, she cannot love, and she cannot face her destiny unless she lets those things touch her also, in the lands of magic she returns to.”
He spoke of the future, of not just his destiny, but the destiny of another. Long ago Beren promised her daughter to him, this boy who would bridge the gulf between the mortals and the magicks, a union to end the years of separation, a marriage Beren believed would save them all, and a pairing Belial would pay to end before it began.
He spoke of Caer’s light, the light of Miðgarðir and her people whose hope and love one day she would know. For the hearts of the witches would always be bound to the earth, to the lands of Miðgarðir their father Woden made.
The Ice Queen Page 6