Blood of the Isir Omnibus

by Erik Henry Vick

  “But—‍”

  “She gives them a target and, afterward, lets them do what they want. It’s much simpler than what I do. She doesn’t bind their wills at all; she gives them suggestions that are almost what they wanted to do in the first place. It’s a subtle change, like telling a child that they want to eat cake instead of pie.”

  “Or cake and pie, instead of cake alone,” said Sig.

  “Shaddap, you,” I growled at him, and he smiled.

  “But, didn’t they have to travel to us? Didn’t they give up on hunting things they could eat to chase us down the coast this afternoon?”

  “Of course, they did.”

  “So…”

  “Think it through. She convinced one sea dragon, and probably one that was already in the area, to attack the ship. We did battle; it sent out a call to its pod for help. It said, in effect, these people are hurting me, come avenge me. The pod came, and the Dark Queen only had to convince them to stick around until we left and shadow us up the coast.”

  “And this is their pie? Following us all day when they know they can’t get to us?”

  “Revenge is their pie. She tells them that if they follow us, eventually there will be an opportunity to take vengeance.”

  “And they are dumb enough to believe that they will sprout legs if they swim far enough north?” asked Jane in a groggy voice.

  “They aren’t dumb at all,” said Althyof. “They—‍”

  “They are dumb,” insisted Jane. She shuffled out of camp.

  “But she doesn’t understand—‍”

  “Later,” I said and followed Jane into the darkness. She heard me coming and stopped so I could catch up without killing myself in the underbrush.

  “You don’t have to follow me. To…to coddle me!” she hissed when I was close enough.

  “I’m not coddling you, Jane. I know what it’s like—‍”

  “You know what it’s like to be shot at by your husband?” she snapped.

  “Did I… Did I hit you? When I was shooting at the dragon?”

  “Well, I hope you weren’t shooting at me. Not that time, at least. And no, you didn’t hit me, but I felt the bullet go past my side. Do you know what that feels like, Hank?”

  “You know I do, Jane. And you know I didn’t shoot at you. I shot in front of you because I couldn’t get your attention any other way, and Sig was behind you. Yowtgayrr already had him—‍”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “I’m only saying I didn’t mean to hit you, ever, but I had to distract that damn sea snake, or it would have gotten you or Sig, and ring or no ring, I don’t think you would survive a dragon’s bite.”

  She stood there, fuming but not talking, close to tears. It wasn’t about the shooting. She knew how proficient I was with my pistols, and that Kunknir had been enchanted for accuracy. It was about killing the dragon—about Jane killing the dragon.

  “Hon, I know you didn’t want to kill it. You never wanted to kill anything, but the choice was—‍”

  “Between Sig and the stupid sea dragon,” she said with tears in her voice.

  “Yes,” I said and waited.

  “Oh, Hank, I don’t want to kill things with…by… I didn’t even think about it! But I did it…I just did it! I…I…I—‍”

  “Had to, to save the life of your son. Jane, you had no choice, and it would be no different if a man attacked Sig, and you had a pistol. You’d have shot him—protected Siggy—only to feel bad about it like you are now.” She took a step closer and burst into tears, so I held her while she cried.

  “I don’t like it,” she said after a while.

  “Don’t like what, Jane?”

  “I don’t like being…”

  “An action hero? Too late, Supergirl.” That earned a chuckle. “You know I love you, no matter what you do.”

  “Even if I make you eat burnt kale?”

  “Well, let’s not get all crazy here. I mean, burnt kale?”

  “You’ll eat it and like it, Mister!” She was still crying a little, but she chuckled deep in her throat.

  “Better now?” I whispered.

  “Not better but getting better.”

  “Good, because all this coddling you was starting to cramp my style.”

  “If you weren’t already broken, I’d hit you right now.”

  “Why do you think I’d risk talking to you like that? You know if you punch me you’ll have to take care of me all the more.”

  “Who says I’m taking care of you now? I only need you healthy until we get back home, and then I’ll collect the life insurance and move to Tahiti.” She stepped back, wiping her eyes.

  “Toledo, maybe.”

  “Toledo, Spain.”

  “They wouldn’t take you. Your accent is horrible.”

  “If you have finished making a fool out of yourself, Hank, let’s go back and see what’s in the cook pot. Besides, my legs are shaking, and my head feels like Althyof’s face looks.”

  I draped my arm over her shoulder, and she snuggled against me. “What do you suppose the miraculous Yowrnsaxa has in store for us tonight?”

  “It doesn’t smell anything like kale.”

  “Thank God!”

  We walked back into camp, and the Isir all did their thing of pretending nothing had happened. A moment later, Yowtgayrr and Skowvithr also came into camp, one on each side of us. Jane glanced up at me, and a blush crept up her neck. I gave her a squeeze and mouthed the word “Elves”, and she grinned. Of Althyof, there was no sign.

  We sat on the logs Mothi had dragged close to the fire. He and Sig were locked in a conversation that involved a lot of hand gestures and funny faces. “He’s a big kid,” whispered Jane.

  “Not around Svartalfar,” I said, remembering the damage he’d done to his own hands while shoving them down the throat of a Svartalf that had attacked Veethar’s compound.

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Mothi likes Sig, and will entertain him, but when push comes to shove, he’s no child.”

  “Are you hungry, Jane?” asked Yowrnsaxa from across the fire. The Isir woman was bent over the pot, inhaling the scent, and stirring its contents with a long-handled wooden spoon. She peeked at Jane, and her eyes darted away again.

  “Starved, and whatever is in that pot smells like heaven.”

  Veethar grunted his agreement.

  “Eat double tonight, dear,” said Sif without looking at her. “I will be watching.”

  Frikka came and sat on the other side of Jane. She didn’t look at her, but she took Jane’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “You know of the troubles the Black Queen has caused here.”

  “Yes,” murmured Jane.

  “Did you know we fought a war to get free of her?”

  Jane nodded. Around the campfire, silence descended as everyone turned to listen, even Mothi and Sig.

  “During that war, we fought our friends, our families,” said Frikka in a quiet, restrained voice. “We did…many things.”

  “Frikka, it’s okay. I’m—‍”

  “She caused so much pain—even in the getting rid of her. I made my first kill in that war, but I should have killed sooner than I did.”

  Yowrnsaxa passed out bowls of steaming roasted vegetables in a thick beef broth. She paused next to Frikka and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed, and then turned back to her task.

  “Before the war, we all thought we were hardened skyuldur vidnukonur—shield maidens. The men believed their duties as vuthuhr trohtninkar—the Queen’s Guard—prepared them, but, nothing can prepare one for war…”

  Five

  Nothing can prepare one for war, thought Frikka as she surveyed the bloodied and mutilated bodies lying on the muddy, bloody ground of the courtyard, moaning in pain or unconscious. Some bore terrific bite wounds, and some had gaping, parallel wounds made by the claws of a beast of prey—one of the oolfa, the elite shape-changing warriors that now fought with the Dark Queen
.

  The thought of the tall, lanky bestial forms their enemies took during battle made Frikka’s stomach churn. There was only one way an Isir could harness such power—breaking the Ayn Loug—the ancient law of the Isir against consuming human flesh to increase one’s power.

  She was sick of the war. Sick of seeing her people hurt at the hands of former friends who seemed to revel in the pain they wrought. Suel had become so…bloodthirsty since that day in Muspetlshaymr.

  What was worse, neither set of leaders seemed interested in bringing the fighting to an end. Meuhlnir wouldn’t consider any plan that led to the deaths of Suel, Luka, or Vowli, no matter how evil their deeds. For her own part, Suel always pulled out her troops when they would overrun the rebels. It was as if the war were a mere lark for the queen, and she wished to sustain the fighting for as long as possible.

  How far she’s fallen. Frikka shook her head. Her auguries hadn’t shown her an end to this miserable war—only more strife, more death, more pain. Endless insanity.

  “Frikka!” shouted Veethar from the other side of the square of carnage. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, unable to muster a smile for her lover. “No, Veethar. I’m fine.” She turned her gaze back to the bodies of the thralls, karls, and lesser yarls that lay helter-skelter around the hall, bleeding, crying, dying. “This is…”

  “Senseless,” said Veethar, striding over to stand next to her. “But, do not despair, my beauty. It is about to end.”

  She flashed a quick smile his way. “You’re sweet, Veethar.”

  “No, I mean it. Suel wants a palaver.”

  Frikka raised her hands at the throng of casualties surrounding them, and let her hands fall. It seemed easier than speaking, easier than raising an argument—as if arguing with Veethar was a worthwhile pursuit to begin with, he only grunted and looked away if she disagreed with him. God of Silence, indeed.

  “She’s tired.”

  Frikka nodded. Her auguries had shown nothing of the sort, but again, Veethar wasn’t the one she had to convince. She turned on her heel, and, grabbing Veethar’s arm and pulling him along, went to find Meuhlnir.

  As usual, he lounged in the great hall, sitting at the head table as if surrounded by feasting men and women. It irritated her, but she couldn’t say why. “Here you sit,” she said by way of a greeting. “Do you ever leave this hall?”

  Meuhlnir inclined his head and stroked his beard, tearing his eyes away from the fire long enough to glance at her and nod to Veethar. “Might as well ask if Nithukkr leaves his mountain of stone.”

  Frikka scoffed and shook her head. “Our men…all of us…we need a leader, Meuhlnir. We need a general who stands—‍”

  Meuhlnir held up his hand. “Please, Frikka, no more of this.”

  “But, Meuhlnir, don’t you see—‍”

  Veethar put his hand on her arm and when she glanced at him, shook his head once. She fought to suppress a sigh and lost.

  “I know what you will say, Frikka. You’ve said it all before, and, for what it’s worth, you are right. I should be out there…” He waved his hand at the door behind her. “I should be walking amongst the wounded, or helping Sif organize our forces. There are many things I should be doing, but since…ever since the day that…” His voice wound down like a wind-up toy at the end of its spring. He shook his head, eyes drifting to the fire once more.

  He didn’t need to say more, she understood. She nodded in sympathy.

  “There’s news,” said Veethar.

  Meuhlnir’s gaze crawled away from the fire, across the floor, onto Veethar’s boot, and up the side of his body, lingering near his face, but not quite reaching it. “News? Another battle?”

  Veethar nudged Frikka.

  “He said Suel wants a palaver.”

  Meuhlnir’s gaze snapped to her own. “Palaver?”

  “It’s what he said.” She hooked her thumb at Veethar, and Meuhlnir’s gaze swam toward Veethar again.

  “Details?” he asked.

  Veethar shrugged. “The messenger came…a thrall on a beautiful horse…said Suel is tired of the war…wanted to know where we could meet, face-to-face.”

  Meuhlnir swept to his feet, melancholy gone like mist on a bright morning. “Where is this thrall?”

  Without a word, Veethar turned and strode out the door. Frikka shook her head and followed him, leaving Meuhlnir to follow or not.

  The messenger’s youth shocked her. He was nothing but a boy atop a magnificent roan. His eyes darted everywhere, trying to see everything at once. His fear was palpable, and as she and Meuhlnir stepped out into the sun, the color ran from his face as if someone had unplugged a drain. Frikka smiled at him.

  “Boy!” snapped Meuhlnir. “Give me your message.”

  The boy’s gaze slithered to Veethar’s face, to Frikka, and back to Meuhlnir. “Yes, lord,” he said. “The Queen Suel summons you to a palaver, to discuss the end of this war. She commands you to name the place and time, and she will consider your request.”

  Behind her, Meuhlnir tensed, and the air seemed to crackle with tension—or maybe it was static electricity. Frikka shook her head and stepped forward.

  “Boy,” she said, almost a whisper.

  The boy’s gaze snapped to her own.

  “Tell Her Majesty the Queen that we will make ourselves available to her at her pleasure. Our only request is that we meet outside Suelhaym, for obvious reasons.”

  The boy nodded once, swallowing hard. His hand holding the reins twitched, almost as if to question whether he could leave.

  “Fair enough, Meuhlnir?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the boy.

  As if it were an answer, Meuhlnir grunted and turned back into the building.

  Frikka smiled up at the thrall. “Go on, boy. Back to the queen.”

  The boy nodded once and swept the magnificent horse in a half-circle before giving him the spurs. The horse raced through the gates, leaving a swirl of dust in his wake.

  “Could be a relative of yours, Veethar,” she said, hiding a grin.

  Veethar grunted and put his hand on her shoulder.

  The queen’s response came in less than an hour. She’d chosen a traveler’s inn, near to, but outside, the city of Suelhaym.

  Meuhlnir gathered the yarls in the great hall for a Thing—a democratic convocation—to decide what to do. He stood in silence while they gathered, and when the last woman arrived, he cleared his throat and stepped up on a stool. “I will go to the palaver alone,” he announced.

  “No, you won’t!” snapped Yowrnsaxa.

  “I lead this rebellion, and I—‍”

  “Oh, you lead us, do you?” asked Sif. She stood shoulder to shoulder with Yowrnsaxa, her face as fierce as her friend’s.

  “It makes sense not to risk—‍”

  “No,” said Veethar, a note of finality in his voice.

  Meuhlnir turned to him. “Come now, Veethar. You know as well as I that—‍”

  “How many fighting pairs should we take?” asked Yowrnsaxa, turning to the assembly.

  “A trachkar’s worth?”

  “Now, wait just a moment,” said Meuhlnir, but no one paid him any mind.

  “50?” asked Sif. “Suel will bring more. Maybe some of those beasts, too.”

  “Why not take her at her word?” The question came from the back of the room, and Frikka couldn’t pick out the speaker. That the rebellion contained spies was a given, but she’d never considered there might be a traitor among the yarls. The room was silent for a moment.

  “Who spoke?” asked Meuhlnir.

  No one answered, but the room erupted with the rustling of armor as men and women craned their necks to see.

  “I’d say we need at least a hundred yarls—and make most of them vefari. Also, at least two hundred karls, and a full contingent of thrall support troops,” said Frikka into the silence.

  “Six hundred? To a palaver?” asked Meuhlnir. “That seems—‍”

  �
�Justified,” finished Yowrnsaxa. “We’ll keep them back. They will reveal themselves only in the event of trouble. Now, get off that stool and come stand with me.”

  Meuhlnir glanced around the room, a long-suffering expression on his face, and the room erupted into laughter, the suspicions of the previous moment forgotten—or at least ignored.

  With the familiar smile he’d worn almost constantly in better times, Meuhlnir shrugged and stepped off the stool. He walked over to Yowrnsaxa and kissed her cheek.

  “You’re not as stupid as you look,” said Sif with a wide grin.

  “Keep sweet talking me, and I’ll marry you, too,” said Meuhlnir.

  Veethar laughed. It was a loud, braying laugh he reserved for those he knew best. Sif looked at him and winked.

  “Those two would be the death of you,” Veethar choked out between guffaws. “You could never keep up.”

  “When you are always out front, you never need to ‘keep up,’” said Meuhlnir, and the room erupted in laughter again. “What?” he asked. “What?”

  Sif patted his arm and turned to the Thing. “Six hundred. Anyone object?” Meuhlnir opened his mouth. “Good! Let’s get going.” Sif swept out of the room, a small smile on her face.

  The troop readied gear and mounted horses, standing in the field outside the fortress gates. Meuhlnir, Sif, and Yowrnsaxa were the last to arrive, and when they did, Sif rode to the front of the assembled troops. “Klyowthstirkidn,” she said, and when she spoke next, her voice carried to all those assembled, though she didn’t raise her voice to shout. “We go to speak with the queen. Hopefully, all is as it appears, but it may not be. This may be a trap, and there is no way to know, except to go.”

  Voices rustled in the ranks of thralls standing in the back.

  “Now, there is no cause to fear. We are taking a large number of fighters. You are the stick we carry in our hands as a warning, like a man carrying valuables through the dark night might carry a club to warn away harriers. You will stay back until we call for you—until we need you.”

  Sif turned her horse and walked him to the road. “Be aware,” she called over her shoulder. “Be vigilant.” She spurred her horse into a gallop, and the troop followed, Meuhlnir with a bemused expression on his face.