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  An Introduction to

  Bloodsong! HELx3

  by C. Dean Andersson

  Bloodsong! HELx3 collects my Hel Trilogy, three novels about the warrior Bloodsong: Warrior Witch of Hel, Death Riders of Hel, and Werebeasts of Hel.

  I enhanced the novels for HELx3. I wrote new and expanded scenes. I dug deeper into the characters’ motivations and relationships. I employed more extensive Viking lore.

  My ancestors connect me to the Viking Age of Scandinavia. Research anchors Bloodsong’s saga in the history of Northern Europe. Viking values of family, honor, and heroism drive Bloodsong’s life. Defiance of tyranny inspires Bloodsong’s battle cry: “Bloodsong and Freedom!”

  The HELx3 cover painting is the work of master fantasy artist Boris Vallejo, as is the art for the Warner/Questar originals and the Hawk Books editions. The vivid wraparound covers for Bloodsong’s Russian hardbacks are by Ilya Voronin.

  Readers around the world have cheered Bloodsong’s victories. After the founder of the Swedish Viking Metal band Bathory, Quorthon, read Bloodsong’s adventures, he dedicated his epic song and only music video, “One Rode to Asa Bay,” to me.

  To all of Bloodsong’s friends and fans worldwide, I give my thanks and a promise: “Bloodsong Lives!”

  A new Bloodsong novel has begun:

  Valkyries of Hel

  C. Dean Andersson

  2013

  Hel! prayed the dying Witch. Sweet Goddess! Help me!

  In a vaulted cavern beneath Castle Nastrond, a young Hel-Witch named Halta Ingasdaughter hung naked in chains. She was attached to a monstrous Skull that rose above the rocky floor several times a human’s height.

  The Skull pulsed with purple radiation. A throbbing moan accompanied each glowing pulsation. Sporadic discharges of energy streaked like hissing blue serpents upon its polished surface. During the brief intervals when the Skull did not glow, it reflected flickering orange light from the cavern’s guttering torches. The cold, damp air stank of death.

  At the base of the Skull, King Nidhug Ormulfsson stood in gold-trimmed purple robes studying magical glyphs in a mold-stained scroll. Save for holes cut for his eyes, a black hood completely covered his head and face. Before him, other scrolls were strewn upon a worm-riddled wooden table.

  Nidhug studied his captive. He sought signs that his spell was working.

  Halta’s wrists and ankles were clamped in manacles engraved with sorcerous Runes. Chains anchored her wrists to the edges of the Skull’s eye sockets and her ankles to the corners of its mouth. The magic-imbued manacles and gleaming black spell-chains prevented Halta from using her Witchcraft to get free. Held in an X, she formed a living Gebo Rune, significant in spells for giving or stealing life-energy.

  In spite of the Skull’s icy surface and the cavern’s cold air, Halta’s pale skin glistened with the sweat of pain and fear. Her long blond hair clung wetly to her bare flesh. Through blue eyes blurred by constant tears, she saw Nidhug looking up at her. Hatred flared. She defiantly glared back. “Hel curse you!” she hissed.

  “Garm’s Blood, Witch,” he responded, “She already has.”

  From previous experiments, he could tell that the spell was failing again. His attempt to use a Witch’s magical energy to recharge the Skull to full power was still missing some important element, but what?

  The Skull was a Deathgate, a conduit to the shaping power of the formless Gray that veiled Life from Death. Legends claimed each of the Nine Worlds had its own Deathgate, but the Skull below Nastrond did not belong in the world of Humans. The Skull upon which Halta hung was called the War Skull of Hel. It belonged in Helheim with the Forgotten Dead.

  An old tale claimed the God Odin postponed His Doom by stealing the Goddess Hel’s Deathgate and thereby the strength She drew from it. An alternate theology claimed Odin stole Hel’s Deathgate to increase His own power, but He cast the Skull into the Earth, hidden from all, when Hel’s Mother, Angrboda, and Father, Loki, avenged Odin’s wrong against Hel with a plot that killed Baldur, Odin’s Son.

  Away from its rightful home in Helheim, the conduit Hel’s Deathgate provided to the Gray began to close and its magic to weaken, but so slowly that at first the effect was negligible. With the passing centuries, however, the weakening had become more noticeable and was accelerating.

  Nidhug was determined to find a way to reopen the Deathgate and restore its magical potency. His very life, unnaturally extended by sorcery, depended upon the Skull’s power.

  With a spasm of pain, Halta felt more of her life force pulled into the Skull. Sensing death drawing near, in her thoughts she again prayed for help to her Goddess and tried to shift her consciousness beyond the physical world. But the spell-chains with which Nidhug had bound her thwarted her efforts. She could not pierce the Gray Veil, and she feared physical death might not end her torment. Rumors said Nidhug had power over the dead. He might enslave her soul.

  In desperation, Halta tried harder. Help me, Goddess! She fought through her pain and growing weakness to concentrate her thoughts.

  Something nudged her occult consciousness and pushed toward her from the Other Side.

  The Gray Veil between the worlds thinned.

  Halta’s inner-vision beheld an enthroned queen.

  Relief poured through her. Hail, Queen Hel!

  Half of the queen’s pale face was beautiful and alive. The other half was dark with disfiguring decay.

  Daughter of Inga, keep my visit secret. Nidhug wards this place against me. Your prayers helped me break through. But let him continue to believe I am completely banned.

  Your will be done.

  I cannot save your life. His protections are too strong. But we can use your death against him. Receive now a vision, and describe for him what you see.

  Halta gave herself over to Hel and was drawn into a trance. She saw a black-clad warrior upon a skeletal steed. The beast’s hooves trod a sorcerous spell-wind, never touching the ground. A shield bore Runes sacred to Hel.

  In disgust, Nidhug threw down the scroll he had been studying. He again looked up at the Witch and noted the change in her expression, saw her blankly staring eyes.

  A vision! he thought. The cursed Witch is having a dying vision!

  “Yes!” she cried raggedly, chest heaving with the effort to keep breathing. “Come, warrior of Hel, revenge me! Destroy Nidhug!”

  A Hel-warrior? Nidhug thought. Again? After all these years?

  Halta’s expression changed from hope to horror. “No! Don’t let Nidhug win again!” She thrashed in her chains and screamed.

  Her screams echoed about the cavern. The sorcerer intoned an incantation to penetrate her thoughts. Her screams faded to silence as he broke through—too late. Halta was dead. But not beyond his reach!

  He intoned a necromantic incantation, traced Runes of power in the air, and commanded the corpse to speak.

  The Witch remained silent.

  Her soul resists my power? Nidhug was chilled. Did she have help, from—

  Panic rising, Nidhug hurried through an incantation to look for signs of Hel, but he found no trace of the Goddess he so feared and concluded his protections were still intact.

  “By whatever counter-spell your soul escaped me, it matters little,” he said to the dead woman. “The conclusion of your vision did not please you,” He chuckled softly, “because you saw me triumph again!”

  Satisfied that the Witch’s vision portended him no harm, Nidhug strode from the Cavern of the Skull, leaving the cooling corpse to hang.

  * * *

  In Helheim,
her spirit safe, Halta’s ghost stood before Hel’s golden throne. Halta met Hel’s gaze. My thanks, Goddess.

  Hel responded, And mine to you. Nidhug thinks your vision foretold his victory. He will be less concerned than he should when he detects the new warrior I send. He may delay reacting, just a little. Hel shrugged. And that might help, a little. But in truth, even I do not know the outcome. This time, however, my warrior is—different.

  Different, Goddess? The vision did not reveal his face.

  Hel raised Her withered left hand, little more than bones, and pointed. Beyond that crowd of ghosts, see the two who yet have flesh?

  Yes, Halta hesitated, but—

  The child and the kneeling woman embracing her looked back at Halta. The woman pulled the child protectively closer.

  Goddess? Is your warrior that child’s—mother?

  Aye. The purple fire in Hel’s eyes flickered brighter. No one is more dangerous than a parent fighting for their child.

  THE SKY WAS a black abyss infested with stars. The vast emptiness of the frozen wastes stretched away on all sides. All was silent. Nothing moved. Nothing lived. Then—

  Out of the north came a rider on a gaunt white horse. Save for the moaning of an icy wind that swirled about them, neither rider nor mount made a sound.

  The white mare was emaciated, almost skeletal. Embers of purple fire smoldered in her eyes as she flitted southward with preternatural speed upon the wind, never touching the ground.

  The rider was a warrior. Her name was Bloodsong.

  Bloodsong wore a hooded cloak of shaggy black fur. It whipped and billowed soundlessly in the sorcerous shadow-wind. Her tall, warrior-hard body was clothed in black leather breeches, tunic, boots, and gloves. A close-fitting, black steel battle-helm covered her flowing dark hair. Black steel mail protected her torso and muscular arms. A black leather belt girded her narrow waist. A sheathed throwing knife hung on the right of her belt. A straight, double-edged sword, war ax, long-bow, and arrows in a quiver hung from her saddle. So did a round shield.

  The shield was made of black, iron-reinforced wood. Upon it were emblazoned three crimson Runes, Hagalaz, Ehwaz, and Laguz. Their initial letters spelled HEL. Their mundane meanings were Hail, Horse, and Lake.

  ‘Hail killed the Horse by the Lake! Remember!’ was an old charm for awakening memories, an appeal to Hel, She to Whom Nothing is Hidden.

  Six years before, shortly after arriving In Helheim, Bloodsong had awakened from a dream with the Hel-charm repeating in her head. She had dreamed of a battle between humans and monsters in which she’d been a warrior named Bloodsong, then as now, and a leader whose followers had also shouted, Bloodsong and freedom! But neither she nor those who followed her in the dream were human. The army she’d led were monsters, and so was she.

  Now, unbidden as she rode south, the dream returned to her mind. She drove the distracting memory away, but it soon returned, accompanied by ghostly voices that cried out her name.

  Images joined the voices. The monsters from her nightmare flashed through her mind. A growing certainty crept over her that the creatures were trapped below the ice, struggling to awaken. Bloodsong! Free us! Bloodsong and freedom!

  “Enough!” Bloodsong growled.

  The voices and images stopped.

  Her dream was a memory, but the hallucinations concerned her. Could King Nidhug’s sorcery reach that far north? She had not expected magical attacks so soon.

  Shortly before leaving Helheim, the Goddess had given Bloodsong a black leather spell-pouch containing Hel-charms and potions. The pouch now hung from Bloodsong’s belt on her left. Hel had also placed a Hel-ring on the first, black-gloved finger of Bloodsong’s left hand. The ring was a grinning skull, the right half smoothly gleaming silver, the left half pitted and tarnished black. Hel had then implanted Witch-lore in Bloodsong’s mind and assured her that, if needed, the lore would tell her how to use the ring and the contents of the pouch.

  The thought of using magic repulsed Bloodsong. She felt that edged steel and physical prowess were honorable weapons, but Witchcraft and magic were not. Now, however, she wondered if her need to counter Nidhug’s sorcery with magic had already arisen.

  If the voices or images come again, she told herself, I must explore the magical weapons Hel forced upon me. Why didn’t She give them to me earlier, so that I could have practiced? Did She fear the Hel-magic might corrupt me into betraying Her, as She claims Nidhug did long ago? But She must also know that while She holds Guthrun, I would never risk Her anger.

  Bloodsong remembered Guthrun surrounded by ghosts, bravely fighting tears and fear, head held high. “I am so proud of you,” Bloodsong had said, holding Guthrun close one last time. “Be strong! We will be together again.”

  “I love you, Mother,” Guthrun had sobbed, holding on tightly.

  “And by my love for you, Daughter, I swear I will not fail!”

  * * *

  When the sky paled with the coming dawn, Bloodsong took note of the rapidly brightening sky and watched the cloud-free horizon with growing concern. Finally, a snow-shrouded forest came into view. Modgud’s Bones! she cursed in her thoughts. The trees are too far!

  Maddened with terror of the coming dawn, the Hel-horse sped faster.

  Crimson spears of sunlight jabbed over the horizon.

  The night-spell broke.

  The moaning shadow-wind died.

  The Hel-horse screamed in pain, touched the ground, and stumbled.

  Bloodsong leapt clear as the mare went down. She slammed into the hard-packed snow. Her left ankle twisted beneath her. She cried out in pain, got to her feet, and limped, cursing, toward her fallen mount.

  The horse’s skin had dissolved. Exposed entrails squirmed with maggots and steamed in the destructive sunlight. Bones appeared.

  Following instructions Hel had given her, Bloodsong jerked her war ax free of its saddle thong and used the weapon to splinter the disintegrating skull. She quickly knelt, chose three small fragments of bone from the splintered skull, and slipped them into the protective darkness of the spell-pouch before they could turn to dust.

  The pieces of bone safe, she limped away from the decaying Hel-horse. She stopped when the stench was less overpowering.

  “Hel take you back, then,” Bloodsong said, watching the rapid dissolution of her mount. Soon, a black leather saddle and bridle lay empty upon the snow.

  She hung her ax from her belt by its wrist thong and limped back to the saddle. She knelt and freed her shield and sword from their saddle thongs, then drew the double-edged, black steel blade from its scabbard and satisfied herself it had not been damaged when the Hel-horse fell.

  The silver skull that formed the Hel-sword’s pommel gleamed in the morning sunlight, matching the gleam of the untarnished half of her Hel-ring. The Hel-runes cut into the base of the blade seemed to writhe with even darker shadows.

  Looking at the blade reminded Bloodsong of gazing into the black gorge cut by the dark waters of the River Gioll that formed the border of Helheim. The grinning skulls of pommel and ring seemed to mock her. Hel laughs last, she thought, recalling an old saying. She sheathed the sword.

  She saw that her wooden bow had been broken in the Hel-horse’s fall. She discarded it and the quiver of arrows, strapped her shield and sword across her back so that the sword’s hilt protruded over her right shoulder. She tied the bridle to the saddle and hefted the saddle onto her left shoulder.

  She limped toward the distant forest. Her ankle burned with pain, but she had to keep moving, had to reach the crossroad on the frontier before dark. Only at a crossroad at sunset could another Hel-horse be conjured from the three splinters of bone in her spell pouch. The added weight of the Hel-horse saddle made the pain in her ankle worse, but she could not leave the saddle behind. The spells with which it was imbued tamed and controlled a Hel-horse for ridi
ng, and a Hel-horse’s wind-treading speed would give her the best chance of avoiding capture.

  Hel had told her there were spells that could conjure black clouds to cover the Sun, allowing a Hel-horse to be ridden during the day, but the limited magic Bloodsong could wield was not strong enough. Also, delaying detection for as long as possible was essential, and the spell would have immediately attracted Nidhug’s attention.

  As she limped toward the forest, she thought about the things she had learned about Nidhug from HeI, and of all the pain he had caused her and her loved ones.

  Many centuries before, when Nidhug had been one of many Hel-warriors questing for Hel’s stolen War Skull, he had been Hel’s favorite. Together they had even shared love. But when, after years of searching, Nidhug found the War Skull within a subterranean cavern, instead of using the Skull’s power to summon Hel from Helheim as he had sworn to do, he turned traitor, used the sorcerous power of the Skull to unnaturally prolong his life, and established a kingdom of terror.

  Furious, Hel had sent many Hel-warriors against him, but by using sorcery powered by the Skull and his warrior’s skills, he had defeated them all.

  Two hundred years had now passed since a Hel-warrior had dared ride against him. But Bloodsong had dared. It was a chance at life for her and her daughter, and for revenge.

  She kept moving toward the forest, teeth clenched against the pain in her left ankle, hoping Nidhug’s sorcery had not already detected her presence beyond the borders of Hel’s realm. Hel had said the Hel-horse spell alone would not attract his attention, but Bloodsong kept alert. Deadly traps might have been set. Sorcerous attacks could be in motion. His sorcery might even have been responsible not just for her earlier hallucinations but for slowing the Hel-horse and causing her to twist her ankle. She did not know.

  She cursed under her breath at the pain. Hel had promised that the Hel-horse would reach the forest before sunrise, where the protective shadows of the trees would have caused the night-spell to have ended with less violence.