Sons of Ymir

by Alaric Longward

“Heimdr,” he answered.

  I saw movement below, far below. I shook my head. “Go back, Heimdr. And be ready for anything. Hel and I are both about to wager our lives away. Aid Asra, if I do not come back.”

  He nodded and grinned. Then, he left.

  I changed into a huge panther and made my way silently down the tunnel.

  It took a long time to travel. Beneath the ground, the air turned thin, and breathing was hard. It could have been the poison coursing in my veins, or just the fact we were deep, and perhaps the land was close to the root of Yggdrasill, and odd.

  To think Lok was close, was thrilling.

  And still, he wasn’t my god. I had another.

  The steps went on and on. A musky odor invaded my nostrils.

  Beneath, somewhere fairly close, I heard Rhean’s hissing voice. “Hurry. Here?”

  “Yes,” I heard my father saying.

  I hesitated, closed my eyes, and concentrated.

  He had failed. He had failed to please Bolthorn, he had failed Hel, he had failed even the paltry kingdom he had built.

  And still, he was my father.

  I slunk forward softly, never alerting my foe to my whereabouts, and then, finally arrived at the bottom. I came to a huge room with a dark pool of water, and more water was dripping down from the ceiling.

  The room was so huge, I couldn’t see its edges. I could see thousands of doorways and tunnels leading off.

  It was bewildering.

  Thousands. Gods only knew how far they took one. There were so many, in so many levels, you could spend years and years there, trying to get anywhere.

  Across from me, beyond the pool, I saw my father, dead, rotting, kneeling before an open white stone doorway.

  “There?” asked a voice I knew and loved. I saw Rhean, stumbling from behind my father’s kneeling body, and looking down. Her chest was open, and ice was pouring out of it. She looked terribly weak, hopelessly cold, and it was an irony the dead could die of ice. The ice was dripping from her lips, and I saw her throat had a wound, where diamond like icicle was forcing its way through.

  Next to Rhean, stood the cloaked figure.

  Rhean hesitated and turned. Her eyes pierced the dark.

  She looked at me.

  Morag, my father, did as well.

  Then, I realized I didn’t see Mother.

  Eyes glowed next to me.

  I was grabbed by my neck, something struck me hard, and I rolled in the floor as the rotten Mellina Tenginell, Queen of Red Midgard, dead two decades before and nearly a skeleton, walked for me. In her hand, there was a battle ax, which her skeletal hands, skin hanging amidst fatty remains, raised as she walked for me.

  Rhean eyed me, almost with disdain, and spoke to Morag. “Help her kill your son.”

  “You promised me not to resurrect him,” Morag said with almost despairing voice.

  “You are a soft draugr, Morag,” she said, and tossed him a huge sword. “I suppose jotuns do not make good slaves. Here. Use it. I found this in the snow when I fled Nallist. It belonged to—”

  “Bjornag, and then him,” Morag said, getting up. “Wait. Mellina.”

  The skeleton, long hair filthy and lank, hesitated. She turned her eye sockets to Morag.

  Morag took a step forward. Then, he stopped.

  They both hesitated.

  Rhean looked at them with disdain and pulled the robed figure to her as she addressed Morag. “Morag. Your son there will one day find your gold. All of it. You have hidden it well, but he looks like he might indeed find it.”

  Morag’s eyes flashed with suspicion and resentment.

  “And he married,” she said with pained smile. “A Ymirson.”

  “You didn’t?” Morag said. “You didn’t marry one of the dog-spawned bitches? Not Asra?”

  “I have not, yet ,” I answered. “But I will, Father. It is not I who failed in life. It was you, and the Sons. I will—”

  “You will marry one?” he said, fanatical madness burning in his rotten face. “You traitor .”

  Morag approached me fast, the sword high. Mellina did as well.

  I braided together a spell and threw it at Morag. Stone-dotted, icy hands grasped Morag’s legs. He roared and kept struggling, breaking one. The other one held him.

  I turned away from him and parried Mother’s ax. I pushed her back.

  Morag was roaring as the spell hand kept clawing at his skin and flesh, and he fell heavily on his face.

  Mother hacked at me again, fast, then again, but I parried hard and tore the ax off her hand. She growled and burrowed into me, and we fell in a heap, rolling to the water. Her breath stank of rot, her claws raked my sides, her fangs sought my throat, and I fought her, weak with the poison. I spat blood, and she grinned. She placed her claws on my throat, snarling above me.

  “Mother,” I gasped.

  She stopped. She shook her head and was breathing hard.

  Morag pushed her aside, limping. “My gold? You shall shame our family! Filthy Ymirsons. You shall not marry one of them. You’ll marry Hel.”

  “The night they took you from me. I remember it,” Mellina was saying. “My boy.”

  Morag didn’t hear her. I kicked at him, got up, parried the sword, and pushed up. Morag kept coming, his sword humming.

  I parried again.

  I hesitated, and he kicked my shield so hard, I went to my knee and spat blood as my belly bled. The cursed poison was about to kill me.

  I tried to get up. I was too late.

  Expertly, the sword was coming for my throat.

  An ax was coming down as well, flashing in a huge arc, and it sunk into Morag’s head. The king fell like a stone.

  I got up and saw Mellina looking down at Morag. She looked at me, her eyes burning with resentment. “I couldn’t … They want you dead. Please, son. I must…”

  She began pulling the ax off the skull, and I hardened my heart and struck down.

  The mass of my weapon cut into her thin neck, severing it from her shoulders

  I turned and saw Rhean and the cloaked figure were gone.

  I walked forward, spitting blood. I looked down and saw my belly was bleeding badly. The poison was moving fast.

  ***

  Below, rushing forward and down, I saw Rhean. Then, I lost them and hurried forward. Soon, I saw them again. Rhean was leaning on simple stone doorway.

  I felt the magic of the Black Grip on the wall. Morag had sealed not only Lok’s chamber beyond, but this one.

  I saw a discarded robe, and Anja.

  She was leaning on a stone doorway. She was smiling and then shaking, frowning. “It is a long ago. I remember.”

  “Anja,” I said. She turned to look at me. Her throat had a ragged wound, and her eyes were red. She was confused, and afraid.

  “Dana. Shannon,” she said. “They are inside.”

  “Fast,” Rhean said. “We have no time.” She was holding her chest, looking up as I came down.

  Anja was shaking her head. “I obey, but I hate you as well. I shall not weep when you are gone.”

  “Open it up, fool. Vampires do not weep,” Rhean gasped. “Let us see if the gamble is worth it.”

  I didn’t stop her. She still had the skill. She touched the stone, and it opened with a shudder. Dust billowed into my face, and I saw Rhean pushing Anja inside.

  I leaned on the doorway and looked around.

  Inside, there were stalactites and pools of green water. There was a simple closed doorway at the end, one with scratches, and marks of struggle. I felt Black Grip’s power on it as well. Old, scorched rock walls marked a magical battle and damaged floor spoke of spells of power. On the side, was a slender, yellow skull.

  There were three stone statues in the room.

  There were no horns, no daggers, and no Medusa. Certainly, there was no Hand of Hel.

  I laughed, and Rhean looked at me with fury. Then, she stumbled around the statues, examining them.

  One, was of a wa
rrior.

  It was a greatly detailed statue of a huge, seven-foot man, kneeling and holding his ax. His face was a mask of pain, his arm was up, and his mouth open. Rhean was walking around him, her fingers running through the surface. I looked at the pair to the side. One wore ragged armor and torn skirts and was half naked. Her hair had been hugely long and her face beautiful as it looked up as if welcoming death. One, the last one, held the hand of the other girl. She had a look of relief on her face.

  “Dana and Shannon, I assume,” I said. “Mouth of Lok, and Hand of Hel. And no Famine and no Horn.”

  Anja was shaking her head. “She is Dana,” she said, and pointed at the one with a look of relief. “I hated her. I hated her for so long and then trusted her. The other one was the Hand of Hel.”

  We watched the half-naked statue. I smiled. “Well. I suppose she was alive when that was done to her by Medusa. What now, Rhean?”

  She shook her head and held it. “Hand of Hel told her, and she told us to open it up. It was her duty, our duty, and there is nothing? Nothing!”

  Her eyes went to a part of the wall, not far. There, a very weak outline of white on gray door.

  “We shall see Lok, at least,” she hissed. “Hel wanted him dead. I’ll roast him in his chains and spit on his face, if he cannot be slain. Anja, open it up.”

  Anja looked at me, with a brief, begging expression on her face. She stepped forward and walked that way. She lifted her hand to touch it.

  I stepped after her and axed her down. She fell, her skull cloven, and a smile was on her face.

  Rhean leaned on the wall, exhausted, tired, and disappointed. “There is nothing here.”

  I shrugged. My eyes went to the pool of water.

  Then, I felt something moving behind me, and I closed my eyes. “Euryale,” I said. “Are you not disappointed?”

  I heard her hissing and laughing. “Nay. I am not. Lok’s murder was Shannon’s duty. Hel be damned. My duty was to release her. That duty is over,” said a relieved, melodic, hypnotic voice of a First Born monster. I looked back briefly. Behind me, on the ceiling, slithered the gorgon Euryale, her eyes hurtful, dreadful, even in the darkness of a hooded cloak. She was naked under it, the horrible, black wounds visible on her otherwise perfect, black body. She jumped down and walked around the chamber, her face still masked by a hooded cloak, her black body moving with grace. She put a hand on Shannon’s cheek. She was chuckling. “I would have spent the eternity trying to open the doorway. I would have killed all of Midgard and made slaves of the corpses, and I would have had them dig out the mountain and the root. I would have, because that was Shannon’s order. I could not ignore it. I worked hard to get here. I fought the Sons, Morag, and raised more and more draugr, and hid my plans under so many layers. Dome was a wonderful discovery. Balic, a suitable fool. We would have tried until ages passed, Maskan, to get here. And now? Nothing. There is nothing. There is only my Shannon, a creation of my poor sister Stheno, and mine.” She kissed the lips and smiled. “Medusa brought her back to life. Her eyes would not have turned this one to stone otherwise. She must have liked her. I wish I knew how she escaped here. It seems impossible.”

  Rhean spat ice, and Euryale was shaken from her nostalgia.

  She put a hand on Dana’s head and looked around the room. “No Horn. No Famine. The dagger is back with Hel. The Horn? Perhaps never here, perhaps in Dana’s pocket. I cannot undo stone-death. Medusa could, with her sweet blood. Her blood was always the most potent to heal, while mine, to kill.” She glanced my way. I looked away from those eyes. “You will join them, jotun. You will not be as monumental, but you will join them. I am free to rule my own destiny.” She shook her head at the sight of Rhean, who sat down, ice pouring from her ears and mouth. “I shall take Midgard and make it my plaything. Hel be damned.” She spoke to me as she leaned down on Rhean. “Poor thing. I shall have to find a new captain.” She took her by the neck and concentrated on a spell.

  Rhean’s mouth fell open, ice and darkness rolling out of it.

  I felt terrible sorrow, anger, and a need to avenge her, and stepped forward.

  I hacked my ax down at her.

  She danced under the ax, a dark saber appearing in her hand. A fiery whip of many tails rolled out of one of her hands, and a shield of fire came to being.

  She pulled down her hood, and the dark, terrible creature turned to face me.

  I shut my eyes and hacked down again.

  The shield took my ax. The whip tore to my ankle, and she pulled me down.

  I howled, for the foot was torn off. I tried to hack at her, and my shield was torn from my hands, and my left hand with it. I felt her pulling me up. Her hand was on my face, and she was trying to open my eye.

  I struggled, and she hissed.

  Her saber was in her hand and then pushing to my belly, very slowly.

  I hacked my ax on her with a final effort, and she roared as it split her side, drawing some black blood. She called for a spell, and I felt vines slithering up from the ground and tethering me in a place.

  They fell away. Lisar’s pendant saved me.

  She stood over me and stepped on the ax.

  She pressed the saber under my chin.

  At that moment, something climbed up from the pool of water.

  I opened my eyes and looked between Euryale’s legs.

  It was Medusa, dressed in a shredded and old cloak, her hood low over her face, and a threadbare skirt barely covered her. She looked like a powerful fighter, a bit like Nima, and had only a pair of arms. Her snakes, red and angry, were slithering around her head. Dripping wet, her muscles gleaming, she pulled out two long swords, both sharp and ancient. She looked at the abomination of Euryale, snarled, her eyes gleamed painfully in the shadows, and then, she attacked, her swords swinging. Euryale turned, yelling with surprise. She dodged under the blades that were moving fast, so very fast. Euryale’s fiery shield moved rapidly to block the next attack, and her whip slapped at Medusa, who hacked through the spell, severing the spell. Euryale was swarmed by swords, but she pushed Medusa back, and stabbed her dark saber at Medusa, who again parried skillfully.

  They took a stock of each other.

  “Sister,” Euryale laughed. “Oh, to see you here! I so hoped to see you here! I prayed for the Horn and you, but not for the Hand of Hel or her dagger. It feels I have been granted my wishes!”

  Medusa circled her. “Your greed, your evil, caused all this. Hel’s War, our break-up.”

  “You chose not to follow our lead,” Euryale said sadly. “You joined Hel out of spite. Little sister, what good did abandoning us do you?”

  Medusa laughed bitterly. “Coming from a thing of death, a slave and a miserable miscreant, that is rich, indeed. There is nothing more to say.”

  I bled, the pain in my belly made me see dark spots, my hand and leg were on fire, and still, I admired the battle.

  Medusa was so very fast. She moved like a lightning and herded Euryale around.

  And still, the undead loved the battle. She parried with the fiery shield, and her saber stabbed forward a few times and always nearly wounded Medusa.

  Then, dodging the saber, Medusa dropped a sword and reached out to grasp a snake.

  The snake hissed and bit down at her hand, but she yanked Euryale forward and for her sword that was coming up to meet her.

  Euryale roared and bashed the fiery shield at the sword, and sparks flew as they crashed together. Euryale pushed hard Medusa, threw her back, and roared as she rolled with her against the wall, their blades striking stone. The shield was gone. Euryale placed a hand on Medusa’s chest and braided together a spell. A spell of black fire tore down, and Medusa slapped Euryale away, her skin burning fiercely. She hissed, and both got up. She rushed the undead monster, her clothing on fire.

  Euryale tripped.

  Medusa’s blade stabbed down for Euryale, but the off-balance monster grasped the blade, losing her fingers. Howling, she pushed the sword away and th
rew Medusa back, the saber stabbing at her. It pierced Medusa’s side, and Euryale’s snakes entwined themselves around hers, and the snakes were furiously biting at each other. The saber was pushing, pulling, ripping at Medusa’s flesh. Medusa screamed with rage, pushed back, fought, and hacked down, only to have her sword blocked. Euryale was too strong, and she too weak, perhaps due to her long imprisonment. Euryale threw her to the floor and crashed over her. Struggling like wrestlers, Euryale kept her pinned with the saber and her arms and smiled down at her sister. She braided together a spell of darkness and pressed it on Medusa’s mouth.

  She writhed with pain, dark fog pouring out of her mouth, nostrils, and eyes.

  Euryale laughed, kept her down, smiled, and sunk her teeth on her right side. Medusa screamed and visibly weakened.

  I got up to my knees and dragged myself forward. The undead thing, still biting down, was laughing softly, her mouth full of flesh.

  I got up to my knees and hacked my ax on Euryale’s skull.

  She fell away, surprised, but I grasped a snake and pulled her over me. I rolled, and I fell over her, hacking again. The ax tore to her face, deep to the skull, just when the eyes burned into mine. She stiffened under me, and fell still.

  I fell over her, weeping.

  I felt little and saw nothing. I touched my eyes and found stone. I felt my belly opening from her poisons, my guts flowing, and felt death close.

  Then, I felt someone turning me. I felt the taste of sweet mead and then of blood on my lips. I fell into a fitful slumber that was full of dreams and nightmares. I felt pain all over my body, I felt bone and flesh knitting, I felt even hunger cured.

  I sat up and looked up at the hooded face of Medusa.

  She was looking at me, a sword in her hand, a hand on my face. She had no wounds, and she had covered her eyes. “How do you feel?” she asked.

  I grasped her hand gently and shook my head. “Alive. Better.”

  “You are Morag’s son,” she whispered. “Kin to those I commanded, though ever at odds with each other. You came here an enemy of those abominations?”

  “I did,” I said, and shook my head, holding my face. I could see. I had a foot. Hand. I looked to the side where my shield and hand were. The hand with missing digits was mine.