Blood of the Isir Omnibus

by Erik Henry Vick

  Meuhlnir and his party were not part of the Isir contingent, which was comprised of thrall infantry with a few karls in support. Althyof wanted to get on with the battle—to fight the queen’s forces and crush them before reinforcements from the pass fell on them like wolves. He turned and danced toward the area where Meuhlnir had thought Queen Suel camped.

  They ranged across a small woodland, forded a stream, and came to another flat area. Arrayed on the other side was the main force of the queen’s troops. Svartalfar hovered around the edges, given a wide berth by the Isir troops. In the center of her lines, the queen had placed a knot of trolls—shock troops. Lined up in the center as they were, Althyof could not pull a few away from the troop as he had done back at the proo. That made the center dangerous, but the Svartalfar were no easy foe either, with something approaching runeskowlds of their own. Even so, the band of Tverkar and Alfar he led summed to almost the same number as the queen’s forces.

  He danced boldly into the flat space, singing at the top of his voice, dancing in time, and stayba runana with all his concentration, and his force followed without hesitation. The queen’s army advanced in unison—a well-drilled cadre of professional warriors—except for the trolls, who pelted forward to meet the charge, bellowing war cries and ignoring the directions of their Isir commanders.

  When the trolls were halfway across the field, Althyof began a measured retreat—if for no other reason than to see if the queen’s Isir forces would stop their charge and let him deal with the trolls alone. The ugly things slowed, but a current of power swept through them, and they began to contort and cry out in pain.

  Maybe the rebel Isir have joined us at last, he thought, then the trolls were on them, and he had no more time for idle thoughts. The trolls smashed into them with a combined guttural warcry that sounded like a monster storm roaring onto land from the sea. They swung huge wooden clubs two-handed in flat, vicious arcs that sent Tverkr and Alf alike flying if they were unlucky enough to be in the way.

  The trolls had no grasp of unit tactics and no ability to tap into the strenkir af krafti, but the threat they represented was significant nonetheless. A group of trolls the size of the one he faced could defeat a larger number of warriors without much effort—unless the warriors had support. Althyof led the runeskowlds into a new song, one that emphasized physical agility and speed instead of raw strength and endurance.

  He danced among the trolls, spinning, kicking, slashing with his daggers, screaming his trowba at the top of his voice, and his runeskowlds did the same. They were deep into the troll group, wreaking havoc, sowing confusion in the trolls at the line.

  A club whistled by Althyof’s head, just missing taking off the top of his skull. Althyof shouted two discordant phrases and the swinger of the club staggered back, clutching his chest, eyes wide. Althyof sprinted at him and, planting his foot on the troll’s knee, leapt up and slashed his throat, foul-smelling blue blood showering all over him as he did so.

  The warriors he led gave a cheer and pushed into the knot of trolls, silvery blades flashing in brutal arcs that bisected troll flesh, their blue-splattered blades sweeping on through the rest of their swing, flinging troll blood through the air.

  Althyof renewed his trowba, adding phrases to inspire panic and unreasonable fear. The trolls reacted, bellowing their terror. Some flung away their wood and stone weapons. Others fell to their knees, exposing their throats for a quick, clean death.

  A shrieking cry climbed into the air from outside the battle, and Althyof assumed it was the Isir engaging—trying to lend support to the floundering trolls. He continued fighting, singing, dancing, and casting the runes. He slashed about himself in time to his trowba, blue blood flying in his wake.

  There was a roaring in his ears as he did this, and at first, he thought it was his own pulse in his ears. But when the sound became louder than the surrounding battle, he started to pay attention. He used his runeskowld-trained ears to pick out individual sounds from the roar. They were guttural snarls, beastly growling, and roars.

  Althyof fought his way free of the trolls, coming out of the knot of swinging steel and pounding clubs just in time to see the band of Oolfhyethidn charge. They attacked as men would, but they were huge—three times the height of a Tverkr—and seemed to be a cross between a man and a wolf. They came on, slamming into the back of the trolls, rending troll flesh in their frenzy to get at the Tverkar and Alfar warriors.

  As if they had been waiting for a cue, Isir and Alfar poured out of the woods, swarming around the trolls to get at the flanks of the Oolfhyethidn. Thunder boomed, announcing the presence of Meuhlnir, and lightning crashed into the oolfa, stunning many of them. Althyof shouted five or six cacophonous phrases over the background of the other runeskowlds’ trowba, and the oolfa clapped their hands to their ears.

  With the addition of the rest of the rebel army, they made short work of the small force loyal to the queen, Oolfhyethidn or not. The queen and her leadership broke away from the battle, sprinting away to escape.

  Althyof wanted to pursue them, wanted it with every fiber of his being, but he was enmeshed in the battle with the troops the queen was abandoning to their fate.

  As the fight dragged on, fresh units of the queen’s forces charged out of the forest on her side of the field, but never en masse. No, they came one unit at a time, forty men here, twenty men there. They did nothing to affect the outcome of the battle, but they kept the rebel forces occupied, tied to the fighting so they couldn’t pursue Suel.

  Eighteen

  “Suel sacrificed her forces to keep us occupied, bound to that battlefield. They attacked piecemeal, never en masse, never with thought or plan, but they allowed her escape, though it broke her army for any practical purpose.”

  “How did they know where you would emerge from the preer?” I asked.

  Althyof jerked his chin toward the people riding in front of us. “She told her sister.”

  “Freya?”

  “She claims she didn’t mean for the counter-attack to happen, she just didn’t want her sister killed. She says the Black Bitch took advantage of her, pulled the locations of the preer from her with the strenkir af krafti.” Althyof leaned to the side and spat on the road. “And so, when we finally broke the gates of Suelhaym and won the city, the fools exiled her instead of pursuing and killing her. They said Freya’s action made it clear how most Isir felt about their former monarch.”

  “How many died in that last battle because of what Freya did?”

  Althyof shook his head. “Many, but they would have died one way or another.”

  “Because the Isir couldn’t bear to defeat her if it meant her death.”

  “Yes.” Althyof cleared his throat. “After all that, a man needs an ale. And you need to practice your runes. No kaltrar, mind. Practice the runes.”

  “Have you ever spoken of that day with Skowvithr?” I asked, darting a glance back at the Alf.

  “No. Why would I?”

  “Fyuhlnir was the son of Freyr.”

  “And?” There was a trace of impatience in Althyof’s voice.

  “So is Skowvithr.”

  Althyof sat back in his saddle, a sour expression on his face. “That is…”

  “Yeah. From what Freyr said, I don’t think they know what happened to Fyuhlnir, only that he never returned.”

  Althyof grimaced and shook his head. “I’ve already told the story once today.” He glanced at me and away. “Oh, very well.” He reined his horse to a stop and waited for the Alfar to catch him up.

  I kept riding, replaying the story Althyof had told me in my head. Of course, it was skewed by Althyof’s point of view, but even so…Freya had betrayed them. Granted she’d been trying to save her sister, but even so…

  Kuhntul kept warning me about a betrayer in our midst. But Freya? I rode on to the muted sound of Althyof’s voice telling Skowvithr how his brother had died.

  Nineteen

  When the road hooked toward
the small coastal towns north of Suelhaym, we left the relative comfort of Lottfowpnir’s caravan. We didn’t want to risk getting too close to any town and the possibility of drawing the attention of the Dark Queen’s lookouts.

  Veethar led us straight west, the Dragon Spine Mountains looming in front of us, getting bigger each day. I spent each morning’s ride with Althyof, learning to be a runeskowld. Jane spent every evening with the ladies, practicing her shield and axe skills. Sig was learning to vefa strenki under Meuhlnir’s watchful eye—and from anyone else who would spare him the time. Keri and Fretyi ate, grew like weeds, slept, and attacked my feet at every opportunity.

  We arrived at the foot of the mountains on the evening of the third day. By that time, I was exhausted, but thanks to the noxious brew Sif forced on me every morning, my joints didn’t feel that bad—relatively speaking. I was stiff, but I didn’t think I was any stiffer than I would have been after riding a horse all day while taking methotrexate. I needed less and less of her smelly ointment, and that was as good a measure of improvement as anything. The curse wasn’t gone—I still needed the enchanted cloak to avoid curling into a ball—but it was more manageable.

  “You want us to go through that?” Jane asked pointing at the cave.

  “Not tonight,” said Veethar.

  “But tomorrow? Will the horses go through there?”

  The cave was tall and wide, but I had no doubt it would narrow somewhere in the basement of the mountains.

  Veethar grunted and gave a short nod.

  I dismounted and took the pups out of the saddlebags that they were rapidly outgrowing. The second I put Fretyi down, the crazy pup ran in a tight circle, barking and snarling at his hind leg. Crazy. When I put Keri down, he tackled his brother, nipping and yipping, before jumping up and sprinting into the forest with Fretyi hot on his tail.

  “Those two,” laughed Mothi.

  “Those two remind me of you and Sig,” said Yowrnsaxa shoving past him with her iron stewpot heaped full of supplies for dinner.

  Sig did his best, but he couldn’t tackle Mothi the way Keri had tackled Fretyi. Not even the loud puppy-like yips helped. Mothi held his hand out, holding my boy away with a hand on his forehead.

  “I’m going to have a look around in there,” I said.

  “Don’t stay too long.” Meuhlnir glanced up at the sky, checking the position of the sun.

  “It’s okay, I’m not scared of the dark,” I said with a laugh.

  “As long as you know the dark isn’t scared of you either.”

  The floor of the cave was hard-packed clay—at least in the part of the cave visible in the sunlight streaming in through its entrance—while the walls and roof were cold grey stone. The sunlight filtered in thirty feet before darkness took over. It was ten degrees cooler in the darkened part of the cave and stepping forward into that morass of inky black suddenly seemed like the last thing I wanted to do.

  “Au noht,” I whispered, and the now-familiar sting and tightness wrapped my eyes. When the stinging faded, I could see again, despite the lack of light. The cave ran laser-straight into the mountain, but a hundred yards from the entrance, it became a man-made thing, the marks of picks and shovels visible on the walls. I shuddered as the memory of the abattoir-like cave Luka and Hel had used in New York came flooding back. That alone-in-the-dark hinky feeling ran chilled fingers up and down my spine, and if I hadn’t known it was impossible, I would have suspected Luka of staring at me from the dark reaches of the cave.

  I turned around and walked back toward the entrance, my pace increasing as the freak-out ran a little wild. I could see the gloaming settling on the forest outside and had no desire to be inside the cave when the light died.

  A heartbeat before I crossed back over the border between dusk and pitch black, something like a caress fluttered on the back of my neck. It didn’t feel like Jane caressing my neck though. It felt…greasy, dirty, wretched. I walked faster and whispered laughter slithered out of the darkness behind me.

  Meuhlnir was on his feet, staring at the cave entrance when I came outside. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, pretending nothing had happened. “But what did you mean when you said the dark wasn’t scared of me?”

  Veethar grunted from his place at the fire.

  “It’s not important,” said Meuhlnir, but he avoided my gaze.

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s no matter. We’ll discuss it tomorrow as we trek through the cave.”

  “Ha!” grunted Althyof. “There are lantvihtir in that cave, aren’t there?”

  Meuhlnir turned a baleful gaze on the Tverkr.

  “What’s a lanterntir?” asked Sig.

  “Lantvihtir,” said Althyof. “They are…spirits, I guess you could say, that are tied to a particular place, or a feature of the land.”

  “Ghosts?” asked Sig, sounding a bit uneasy.

  “Yes, I suppose,” said the Tverkr.

  Meuhlnir shook his head, glaring at Althyof. “They are mostly harmless, Sig,” he said.

  Althyof gave him a sly wink. “Don’t worry, Isir. I’ll protect you. We Tverkar learned how to deal with the lantvihtir a long time ago.”

  Meuhlnir threw up his hands and stalked out of camp. Sig watched him go, concern bubbling on his face. “Dad…” he said.

  “Don’t worry about it, Siggy.”

  “Come help me with tonight’s stew, little Piglet,” said Yowrnsaxa with a wink. “That way you get to taste it before anyone else.” Sig scampered over to her side, grinning, ghost stories already forgotten.

  I sat next to Althyof. “So, you disagree about the cave?”

  “Oh no,” he said. “I’m happy to be going back underground where all sane men should stay. And don’t worry about the lantvihtir. I can keep them at bay with a trowba.”

  “Them?”

  “Don’t worry,” he repeated.

  “You’re not very good at this.”

  “At what?” He quirked an eyebrow at me.

  “At reassuring people.”

  He laughed and tipped me a wink. “Is that what I was doing?”

  We ate our dinner with the normal amount of joking and teasing we’d all become accustomed to. Keri and Fretyi cleaned up the leftovers and lolled near the fire, logy and full. Their example seemed like a good one, so everyone turned in.

  In the morning, I noticed a cold wind blowing through the camp—the kind of wind that usually preceded a bad thunderstorm.

  “Storm brewing,” I said.

  “No,” said Veethar, jerking his chin toward the cave. “The wind comes from beneath the mountains.”

  Althyof hawked and spat. “That wind,” he said, jerking his thumb at the cave, “comes from the throats of the lantvihtir. They are waiting for us.”

  “What do we do?”

  The Tverkr shrugged. “I will sing a trowba, and they will not bother us. The rest of you stay together—as close together as you can. Someone must tend to the horses,” he said, looking at Veethar.

  Veethar nodded and walked to the high line where we’d tied the horses. He began speaking softly to the animals, touching their necks, patting their withers, and they seemed to pay close attention to his words. Even the two varkr pups sat with heads cocked and ears up.

  “Do we need weapons?” asked Jane, her eyes fearful and on only Sig.

  “Shouldn’t,” said Althyof. “Stay together. You will know if you start to stray too far from me.”

  We packed up our goods and equipment, tying what we could to our saddles and the pack horses. Yowtgayrr and Skowvithr came to stand by me when we were ready. “It would serve me best if you protect Sig.”

  “We are sworn to protect you, Hank. We will protect your family if the need arises.”

  “Listen, Sig is a kid. It might appear that he’s almost an adult, but things are different in Mithgarthr—kids don’t grow up as fast. If he gets into trouble, I’ll have to do what I can, and that means I’ll be a
t risk. You see? By protecting him instead of me, you will be protecting me.” They exchanged a glance, and Skowvithr glided over to stand with Sig. “Jane,” I said.

  She had her shield strapped to her left arm and what she called her “business axe” in her right. She came and stood to my left, looking pensive. “Should we make Sig come with us?”

  “It’s up to you. But if you think he’s less safe with Mothi, you’re mistaken. He killed a Svartalf by shoving his hand down the man’s throat.”

  “Yeah, you’ve told me that story about fifteen thousand times.”

  “Don’t worry, Supergirl, I’m sure I will mention it again. And don’t worry.”

  She flashed a quick smile at me and went back to fidgeting.

  “Bet you never expected to be using an axe and shield when you were back in one of those design meetings at work.”

  “I could’ve used the axe in some of those meetings,” she said. “‘We don’t own that piece of the application’…thwack!” She mimicked slamming an axe down and grinned a wicked grin.

  Althyof started to sing, his words creeping and crawling across the back of my neck like spiders. He motioned us tighter and nodded. He walked into the cave, with the rest of us close on his heels.

  With the sun at our backs, the patch of light extended far deeper into the cave than it had the night before, but even so, a chill wriggled down my spine at going back inside.

  We walked through the sunlight, peering ahead. When we reached the man-made part of the cave, Althyof’s tune changed, shifting toward some harmonic minor key that made my teeth want to jump right out of my mouth and becoming more strident—even creepier than it had been before. The darkness loomed closer, and along with it, a feeling of malevolence. I couldn’t see a thing, but I had the distinct impression that a number of…things…were surrounding the party—just outside the area of effect of Althyof’s trowba.