by Derek Nelsen
The rest of the lady remained unaltered, petite and beautiful. Ignoring Rotinn’s struggle, she gently rolled his jewel-encrusted ring between her other hand’s pretty, perfect fingers.
“You really have been a greedy little dwarf, haven’t you, Rotinn? Whoever takes your place may be less refined on the outside, but not as filthy on the inside. I promise you that.” Her arm of vines pulled him close, swinging the dwarf around as easily as she might a cup of wine. “Maybe he will be a she, actually.” Rotinn’s eyes were bulging out of their sockets—out of fear or pressure, it was impossible to tell. “Whoever they are, they will know better than to offer me the seconds after picking the best of the rings for themselves.”
“Mmmmmph! Mmmmph!” Rotinn couldn’t manage a word. Her fingers were squeezing his chest and head like he’d fallen into a nest of serpents.
As Rotinn’s father came to, he used Svikar’s sideways head for balance as he worked his way back to his feet.
“Rotinn, I’m going to have your ring added to my necklace, right here, near my heart, where I can admire it.” Her pearl-like eye turned to a prism of colors when she tried to look through the tasteless trinket. “All will be reminded of how Rotinn the coward offered me his father’s soul. How will the story end, though? Will it be that Slegge used his hammer to add his thieving son’s ring to Hella’s necklace?” She swung Rotinn into his father, slapping the old dwarf back into the wall. “Or that Slegge died trying to avenge his little boot-licking disappointment.”
“Hold this for me, will you dear? I’ll send some friends for it later.” Hella stuffed Rotinn’s ring down his throat with two of her grotesquely long fingers. “You’ll be famous, Rotinn.” She spoke tenderly to the fancy dwarf, as he coughed and gagged and gasped for air. She winked at Slegge. “Isn’t that what all mortals want? Man and dwarf alike?”
With a flick of her tentacles, Hella tossed the dainty dwarf out into the curtain of thick vines. They came alive before he could pass through, which seemed like mercy, until they began fighting over him. There was a gold and silver splash as they ripped off his pressed white shirt with cutting barbs, spilling the rings Hella had hidden inside. After stripping him of his pride, and some of his skin, the weeds rolled him down like a broken yo-yo that would not be coming back.
Tor thought about the stories—how Hel was the spawn of Loki. Even the gods feared her, so much that Odin condemned her to Hel, a place where she would rule over a portion of the dead—the souls of the unclaimed.
Hella arose from her throne and walked to the curtain, grabbed one of the vines, and cut it free with a swipe of a finger. She winced a smile as she squeezed it, seeming to enjoy the sensation of tiny barbs piercing her hand. The vine’s dry husk drank what dripped from the bottom of her grip. The taste of her brought it to life, and like a pet, the rest slithered up from the pit and coiled up at her feet.
She sifted through the remaining soul rings, picked one, and slipped it over the end of her new slithery pet, like she was putting a collar on an eel. Drawing up from the coil at the lady’s feet, the vine slithered through the soul and twisted itself into the form of a tall, skinny man.
Hella gave it a squeeze. “Gather the rest. After we’re done here, I want you to find Rotinn the thief and bring me his soul.” She handed the draugr the bag the dwarf used to deliver the rings. A makeshift tongue came out of its mouth and licked at the orange tabby fur. Then it ingested it. It looked like a cat got stuck in a bird cage.
The tall figure bowed and made its way to the table. While rifling through empty vessels looking for traces of firewater, its free hand began its work, uncoiling like a worm and sniffing out the rings scattered on the table.
Each time the vine slipped through another ring, a new draugr would form, drawing vine from the one before it. This went on and on until all the rings were gone. The forming of the draugar from this single weed was like a continuous line drawing, where the artist never lifted pen from paper.
What made the assembly most amazing was that each draugr maintained their own bodily form, never giving more vine than they were taking.
Soon there were six men and four women. Three of each were short like dwarfs, the rest taller like men. The last one to form rolled up into shape of a woman, then immediately collapsed to her knees as if crying. It must have been a reflex, a reaction from what she had been in life, because it had no lungs, no real mouth, and was incapable of crying out, or even shedding a tear.
She crawled over to Hella as if begging. The lady bent down as if she might be empathizing with the creature, then with a swipe she cut off what would have been the draugr’s head and threw the vine on the floor near Svikar.
The troll stabbed the weed with his tongue and chewed it like tobacco.
The headless vine did not die, it just snaked more vine through the chain of draugr until she had built another headpiece. The desperate looking draugr slapped the stone floor with her new face and crawled toward the edge of the pit. She rubbed the part of the vine anchoring her to the rest against the ledge until she cut herself free. Like a teary woman, with her hands over her face, the draugr stepped off the ledge and disappeared into the darkness.
Other than that suicide, which seemed temporary at best, the only free-will common among the group was that each spent time rummaging the table, pretending to search for rings that were long gone while really looking for any drink that might still be at the bottom of the overturned cups they could use to wet their dry, barky tongues.
Tor thought about Runa emptying cup after cup. Even now, as he watched this harrowing procession unfold, he couldn’t help but salivate as he watched Svikar chew his blood weed.
Glimpses of the old stories came flooding back, and Tor remembered a few things about Hel. Her food was served on a dish called Hunger, and the curtains she dressed her rooms with were called Glimmering Misfortune.
Runa
Runa watched as the vines did their work, feeling jealous as the draugar took their turns ravaging the table in search of firewater. She held her empty cup close, repeatedly turning it up against her parched lips.
So thirsty.
“Kiara was right, Runa,” whispered Tor. “This woman is no goddess. She’s a demon!”
The moment the dwarfs started causing trouble, Tor pulled Runa away from the table. She expected his hand would be warm, but it wasn’t. His firm grip gave her no comfort. Indifferent to his purposes, Runa felt empty and confused as her husband felt his way along the wall, looking for the door like a blind mouse. She knew where it was.
It stood out to her, the way all the cracks in the wall did, the way the hanging vines were so different from the ones wearing soul rings, and the way the drink stood out from the table or the floor. She couldn’t see these things, but she could feel them.
They were hollow, frustrating feelings, like lost memories hanging just beyond recollection. She clung to them, though, because everything else was slipping into a sort of gray—imperceptible to old and new senses alike. She felt like she was sleepwalking and lost, on the cusp of finding that wonderful dream again, damned to seek but never find.
Every good thing she could sense this way—the lady, the rings, the firewater. Fresh blood glowed brightest, then the soft earth, which seemed to call her like a warm blanket on a cold morning. But her husband was not as clear.
He, the troll, and the girl were blending more and more with the rock walls. Had it not been for the odd pressure she could feel from every beat of their pulsing hearts, they may have been completely lost to her.
I’m freezing.
Runa hated to be cold, above all else, but it was the one sensation that not only remained but was growing in intensity. Out of habit, she pulled her wrap tightly over her shoulders, but winter clothes brought her no more warmth than her husband’s touch. Her own skin was just another useless layer, a cloak of cold flesh.
She stepped toward the fire before shying away. It sent spikes of fear into her belly. She began t
o pity the vines that burned to light the place. Now the cold was the only feeling she knew—and she knew no remedy.
So hungry. So thirsty. “Hella wants my ring,” she muttered. “She’s coming for them all.”
“Well, she’s not getting them.” Tor shoved the tip of his sword into a crack in the wall and began to pry, a full two stones away from the hidden door.
Her husband’s lack of competence would normally have shaken her, but she felt nothing for him now, nothing for anybody, except her own intensifying thirst.
She lifted the ring up from her chest but could no longer feel its texture. Why is it so heavy? She could no longer see its expensive gold covering. She no longer cared about the valuable gold coin she’d taken from her family.
Death’s toll.
Everyone knew that’s what they were, but in the village no one had the guts to call them that,—not out loud, at least.
How worthless money seemed in a place like this. The lady had just rejected more gold than Runa could ever have offered. But the ring, the thing she had covered and ignored—that seemed important. She felt the urge to protect it.
With the tip of her finger, as easily as Hella had cut the vine, Runa sliced through the leather thong that held it around her neck. Then she put her ring into her mouth and swallowed it. This did not seem odd to her. Tor didn’t notice. He was too busy scratching at every crack in the stone wall, looking for an opening he’d already passed twice.
The chaos faded, and the room grew quiet. Runa only knew her own thoughts. She felt alone. Lost.
So dark. So empty. Trapped.
She clung to her husband, cutting his arm, trying to hold on to anything to keep from slipping.
She barely heard Tor howl in pain as her nails dug in, scraping down the length of his arm, then only echoes of him calling her name, yelling at her to come back to him.
She didn’t feel his angry tears fall onto her face. She didn’t feel her legs give way as her body crumpled into a heap on the floor. She wanted to talk to him one last time. She wanted to say she was scared. She wanted to tell him she loved him—once. She tried to hang on.
Weight of the Soul
“Get the hammer,” Svikar yelled to Kiara. “You don’t want to see what happens if that vine gets into me!”
Tor couldn’t leave. Even if he found the door, Hella was the only chance Runa had. He saw Kiara cowering on her chair and thought about the lady’s offer.
Kill the girl. Save my wife.
When he was twenty, he would’ve cut her in half on a bet—but not now. There had to be another way.
He broke out in a sweat as he lifted Runa off the floor and approached Hella, knowing this might be the end of them both. On his way, he did them all a favor and kicked Svikar away from the draugr. He deserved the boot after leading them to this demon. Besides, he was right. Nobody wanted to see what would happen if the vines got to a troll. Tor laid Runa on the table in front of Hella, trying to ignore the vines and the draugr and the girl he would not kill.
“Can you save her?”
“You will be her final sacrifice. Do you know that, Viking?”
The blood raged in his veins. “Enough of your games, woman. This is my wife. Help her!” He was angry that they were there. Angry she was dying. Angry at his own helplessness.
“I have authority over the dead—but I can’t give life. Nor can I take it.” Hella leaned forward on her throne. “I think God enjoys his ironies.”
“You can’t just let her die.”
Tor glanced toward Kiara. She looked scared—of the draugr, of the lady, and of him.
Hella continued her rant. “If I healed your wife, what would she do to ensure her soul wouldn’t be back in ten-twenty years? If it’s just about timing, why not just get it over with?” Hella wasn’t really asking. “Death is a devourer, a wolf that preys on all mortal souls. It culls the unfortunate and the weak, and I thank God for it. It’s the only justice I get. Ask this one, Viking. She understands.” She pointed to Kiara, as if to tempt him again to strike her down. “That girl knows how unjust the Lord can be.”
“I tell you again, I am not a Viking.” Tor unsheathed his sword. “Show me your power and heal my wife or show me your weakness, witch.”
Hella just laughed. “Mankind is all alike. You kill, you steal, you lust, and when you grow too old and weak to do those things, you have the gall to count it morality. Well, you cannot erase your past. You will always be Viking, still guilty of murder and still a pillaging thief. No matter what you think you’ve done right, it could never outweigh everything you’ve done wrong. You, above all, deserve to be here.”
Maybe she’s just so used to talking to plants that she doesn’t know when to shut up.
Her pale hand slipped back into icey blue vines, the way a lady might slip on glove. Then Hella took Runa by the ankle.
“No!” Tor sliced down onto the tentacle, but the lady pulled back—dropping Runa hard on the floor.
“Tor?” Hella feigned surprise at the attack. “I didn’t do this to Runa. Her soul brought her here. She deserves to be here. Maybe we all do? So says the God in Heaven, and his angels that protect his sheep.
“There are others that could have claimed her if she was worthy of their attention. What about my beautiful Lucifer? Is there nothing he could have done for her?” The light dimmed in the hall, and the smell of death fouled the air. “Maybe she’d have preferred Freyja or Odin? Believe me, the lost souls of Folkvangr and Valhalla gnash their teeth, just as they do in Hel. If you really believe there’s glory in death, then let her go, for my army will be as prepared for Ragnarok as Odin’s, I promise.”
Tor lunged to grab Runa’s arm, but Hel snatched her up again. “How much innocent blood does it take to pay for one’s soul? Apparently more than your wife offered.” She slung Runa’s limp body like a pointer as she pretended to search the hall. Runa’s sacrifices may have bought her favors in your world, but ‘the gods’ must not have noticed.” She smiled smugly. “So, she’s mine now.”
Tor let Ice Breaker sing. With all his might he cut and slashed. His only care was to stay clear of his still dangling wife.
But Hella slipped and slithered, too fast for his assault. Her arms broke out into blue vines, snapped around his wrist, and twisted, until the tip of the sword hit the floor.
Blood from new wounds dripped onto his blade. The lady smiled. “I like you, Tor. You’re almost as handsome as Baldr. And you are fearless. Everyone I see is so frightened. Stay with me, and I’ll make you a prince here, the leader of my army. The smell of death left the air, the stone hall dissolved again, and the twinkling lights shined like stars on a clear night.
She was a demon and a liar.
Tor touched Runa’s face, then stroked her hair. She was ice-cold. He thought back on their failed marriage, on their daughter—and his sons. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He had failed her. How had it all gone so wrong so fast? As he felt a lifetime of regret trickle down his cheeks, he looked for the gate.
“You said you can’t kill? Then I’ll see you when I’m dead.” Tor lifted the body of his wife off the table and started making his way toward the gate. His wife was dead, and he was lost. He didn’t have a plan. Just figured he’d try walking away and get Runa out of there—or die trying.
When Runa’s body shifted, he nearly dropped her.
“Runa! Are you there?” He started walking faster.
The sky darkened and turned. The light dimmed, and the gate faded to stone.
“Oh, beloved,” laughed Hella, “you speak as if your strength gives you power, as if you saying something gives it meaning. Death gave Runa to me, and now Runa’s going to give you to me, too.”
When Tor got to the wall, he gently laid Runa on the ground. “No, no, no!” He wiped his face and scratched harder between the stones. He’d never felt so helpless.
“Get away from it,” said Svikar from his crooked angle against the wall. “That ain’t your wife
no more.”
Hella's Defense
“This hurts. My prince is leaving me for another woman.” Hella turned her cold attention to Kiara. “But none, my dear, must feel as betrayed as you.” She started laughing hysterically as she pulled at her fine gold- and silver-plated necklace. “What did you do for God to send you here?”
Tears blurred Kiara’s vision. With a chair and a cup as her only defense, she was surrounded by a string of walking weeds, Hella—who was some kind of angry demon and possibly insane—and a Viking who was scratching at stones with a sword he might use on her next.
“Did he send you here to hurt me?” The white woman slinked around the table toward Kiara. The draugar parted and dropped their empty cups and pitchers in deference as she passed.
Kiara looked hopefully toward Slegge, but the dwarf still looked unsteady, and his hammer was still on the table.
Hella pushed her closer and closer to the ledge and the draugar. When she neared the curtain of vines, she felt the warmth of the rising air.
Kiara tried to push the throne aside to keep her distance from the curtain, but it wouldn’t budge. It was a glimmering chair fashioned of souls—even Tor couldn’t have moved that.
She held her breath. She was going to have to try to squeeze in between the throne and its deadly backdrop. But on the other side of the seat were the draugar. She was caught. She looked beyond the curtain and down into the abyss.
No chance.
She thought of the heeled dwarf hanging there, like a bloody marionette. She had to try. Kiara led with her left leg. Putting her chest right up against the chair she pulled herself closer, when her foot bumped something. She froze and slowly drew it back, praying she hadn’t just kicked a vine.
Why hadn’t she noticed it before? A chain passed through a fist-sized hole in the center of the chair, around shoulder high, down past the curtain, and into the abyss.