Bloodsong Hel X 3 Page 4

“Then why—”

  “You are a Witch? A real Witch?” a child’s voice interrupted.

  Bloodsong and the young woman looked down. The children from the crossroad stared up.

  “Yes, I am a Witch,” the teenager said proudly. “My name is Huld. I have studied with wise Norda Greycloak, and I have—”

  “My name is Sol. This is Mani, my brother,” the girl said. “Will you help our mother?”

  “She wouldn’t help us.” Mani pointed an accusing finger at Bloodsong.

  Bloodsong met Huld’s gaze and nodded. “I met them in the crossroad north of here. Soldiers killed their mother. They thought a Witch could bring her back to life. I explained that it wasn’t possible, not in the way they wanted, but they wouldn’t believe me. Maybe they’ll believe you.”

  “It is possible!” Mani insisted.

  “I suspected Witchcraft when that sudden wind sprang up before the battle,” Huld said, watching Bloodsong. “Why didn’t you use magic to open the lock?”

  “Aren’t you going to help us?” Sol asked, tugging at the Witch’s cloak.

  Huld knelt before the children. “Good Freya-Witches, like me, can wake the Dead, but only for a short while for divination. Your mother is gone. Accept it. Even Norda Greycloak herself could not do what you want.”

  Tears glistening in their eyes, both children looked pleadingly back at Bloodsong.

  “The ravens will bother your mother no longer. I buried her near the crossroad, just within the trees. She is at peace, Hel willing.”

  “Hel?” the Witch hissed.

  The boy began to cry.

  Huld pulled them both into her arms. “Forget cursed Hel. Freya has taken your mother to a beautiful life at Folkvang, I’ll wager.”

  Bloodsong walked to the other freed prisoners. “Will you take care of those two children? You heard what happened to their mother. Their father is dead, too. They have no one.”

  “We’re grateful for your help,” the woman said. “My husband and I would like to help those children, but—”

  “But we have trouble feeding ourselves and our own child,” the man finished.

  “If I could give you silver to pay for keeping them, would you take care of them?”

  “Of course,” the woman said as her husband nodded in agreement.

  “Then you shall have the silver.” Bloodsong limped away and searched the soldiers she had slain. When she returned, she gave the couple the silver she had found. She lit a second torch for them to carry. “Horses will make your journey easier.”

  “No,” the man said. “If other soldiers discover we’ve taken the horses, our lives will be forfeit.”

  Bloodsong nodded. “Treat these children kindly, or you will answer to me.” She turned to the children. “Go with these good people, children.”

  As one, brother and sister looked at Huld.

  Huld nodded. “Do it. Go with them. And may Freya watch over you.”

  The small group huddled together and walked away.

  Huld turned to Bloodsong. “Why didn’t you use magic to open the lock?”

  “I knew of no such spell.”

  Huld glanced at Bloodsong’s left hand. The bright silver half of the Hel-ring glinted in the torchlight. “You wear a ring of power set with the face of Hel. You have no right to call yourself a Witch. Your powers come from Hel, from that ring, not from within you. You are nothing but a slave of Hel.” She spat onto the snow at Bloodsong’s feet.

  Fury flashed in Bloodsong’s eyes. “I have no wish to be a Witch,” she growled. “I am a warrior. This ring is no more than a weapon to me. And I am no one’s slave. Spit in my direction again and we’ll see how well you hurl insults with your head separated from your neck.”

  “I do not fear you, Hel-slime.”

  Bloodsong’s anger flared molten. With great effort she turned away, wondering at the young Witch’s hostility. She lifted the blazing torch and then, cursing beneath her breath, began limping toward the nearest horse to examine it.

  “You must not be much of a warrior, either,” Huld taunted, “or you wouldn’t have injured your leg in the battle.”

  Bloodsong turned. “Are you tired of life, Witch? I’ve no wish to spill your blood.”

  “It is you who should worry about dying, Hel-slave. You ruined my plans. All I allowed myself to suffer at the soldiers’ hands was for nothing. Nothing! My wrath may yet strike you down!”

  “I care nothing for any plans you may have had, and I certainly don’t fear a child like you, Witch or not. Begone,” she finished with a wave of her hand, then turned and limped on toward the horse, a powerful gray stallion. She took hold of his bridle. The beast shied at the flaming torch. She stroked his neck and calmed him.

  She carefully examined the beast, liked what she saw, and led him toward the spot where she had left the Hel-horse saddle and bridle.

  As Huld watched the warrior, she felt her anger slowly fade. She hadn’t counted on this interruption of her plans, but new plans were already forming in her mind. She thought about the Hel-ring, about the Hel-Runes she had seen on the warrior’s shield, about the warrior’s black garb, the warrior’s face. What she was thinking surely could not be true. But if it were?

  Bloodsong removed the stallion’s saddle and bridle and started to replace them with those from the Hel-horse. She heard a sound behind her and spun around, half drawing her sword.

  Huld flinched back. “I mean you no harm.”

  “I told you, begone!”

  “I’m no good at following orders.”

  Bloodsong shrugged and sheathed her sword. “Nor I.” She turned back to the horse.

  “There is something I wish to know,” Huld said, coming nearer. “You are a warrior.”

  Bloodsong grunted as she hefted the Hel-horse saddle onto the stallion’s back.

  “And from your ring I suppose that you ride in Hel’s name.”

  Bloodsong did not respond.

  “You are, that is, you must be, a Hel-warrior?”

  Bloodsong turned to look at the Witch. “Hel-warrior? Some believe Hel-warriors to be no more than legends that never existed at all.”

  “You are a Hel-warrior. Admit it.”

  “If I were, why should I admit it to you?”

  “Because I could help you, if you were a Hel-warrior. My plan, the one you ruined, was to get into Nastrond without Nidhug learning that I was a Witch. They put the Witches and wizards they capture in black spell-chains. Yet if I could have gotten into Nidhug’s dungeons without being put in spell-chains, I could have used my Witchcraft to free myself inside and—” Her voice trailed away.

  “And?” Bloodsong wondered again why Nidhug sought to make captives of magic workers.

  “I’ve told you enough.”

  Bloodsong remembered the children mentioning Norda Greycloak and Huld telling the children she had studied Witchcraft with Norda Greycloak. “Did you really think you could free Norda Greycloak all by yourself?”

  “Admit you are a Hel-warrior.”

  “You still haven’t told me how you could help me, if I were one.”

  “Your leg is injured. You could fight better if it were healed. I could heal it for you, for a price.”

  “And that price would be?”

  “Let me ride with you to Nastrond.”

  “If I were a Hel-warrior, and if I were going to Nastrond, I would be less handicapped with an injured ankle than with you in tow.”

  “It’s your ankle? Not your leg? That’s even easier to heal, though the price would still be the same,” Huld said. “Don’t you see? We could be allies. My Witchcraft could aid you.”

  “If I were a Hel-warrior, and if you still want to get into Nastrond undetected, I would be the last person you should be near. Nidhug can sense a Hel-warrior’s approach, or so
the stories I’ve heard say. Were I a Hel-warrior, he might already have sensed my existence, for the tales say his sorcery makes it possible for him to know when one of his soldiers dies.” She picked up the torch and extinguished it in the snow.

  “And you have slain many of his soldiers,” Huld said. “Why would you do such a thing, if you were a Hel-warrior trying to avoid detection? You wouldn’t.”

  “No,” Bloodsong agreed, climbing into the saddle.

  “Except they were tracking you, and with your injured ankle you couldn’t outrun them. Your only choice was to surrender or fight, yes?”

  “Goodbye, Witch. Good luck.” Bloodsong urged the stallion around Huld, started down the forest trail to the south, and swiftly left the young Witch behind in the darkness.

  She hadn’t gone far when she heard a horse approaching rapidly from behind. She quickly guided her stallion off the road into the trees and drew her sword.

  Moments later, the rider thundered past. The rider’s eyes flickered with yellow-gold light.

  With a curse, Bloodsong guided her stallion onto the road. “Behind you, Witch!”

  Huld reined to a halt then trotted her horse back to Bloodsong. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No.”

  “Will you slay me to stop me?”

  “What I do must be done alone.”

  “Why? Hel-warriors have always ridden against Nidhug alone, the tales say. Maybe that’s why they’ve all been defeated.”

  Bloodsong wondered if Huld’s presence might be useful after all. Any Witchcraft Nidhug’s sorcery detected might be attributed to Huld, keeping Bloodsong’s Witch-powers a secret longer than might otherwise be possible.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Your eyes glow,” Bloodsong said. “A spell to see in the dark?”

  “Yes. You know of no such spell? Perhaps I can teach you.”

  “I do not wish to learn. I have trained my battle skills to be deadly in darkness.”

  “Then let’s ride. Nastrond awaits.”

  “I may not be riding to Nastrond.”

  “Where else would a Hel-warrior ride?”

  “I haven’t said that I was a—”

  “I’m not some idiot you can fool. I thought earlier that you looked familiar. Now I’m certain of it. Many years ago, when I was a child, a traveling storyteller passed my parents’ hut. We fed him and gave him a warm place to sleep, and in exchange, one long winter’s night, as a blizzard howled outside, we listened to his tales of the slave revolt that had recently taken place. He told stories and sang ballads that he claimed were created by slaves in Nastrond, songs forbidden by King Nidhug but that were smuggled out and spread by such as he. And they were all about an arena warrior named Bloodsong, she who had led the revolt. And he showed us a drawing he had made of her. You’re famous, Hel-warrior. The picture he drew was of you!”

  Bloodsong sighed. “You’re not the first to tell me that I resemble the one called Bloodsong.”

  “No doubt, since that is who you are. You will not trick me with your half-truths. The storyteller who drew your picture had but one eye, like Odin himself. Perhaps it was Odin in one of his human disguises. Perhaps Odin knew that someday I would meet you and wanted me to recognize you, to help you defeat Nidhug.”

  “l doubt Odin would help one who serves Hel.”

  “Who can know Odin’s motives?”

  “Or want to.” Bloodsong glanced down the road. “I tire of these games, Witch. I am losing valuable time.”

  “You’re the one playing games, Hel-warrior, not me. I’m on my way to Nastrond. Are you coming?”

  Bloodsong stared into Huld’s glowing eyes for a long moment, then cursed. “I care little for Witchcraft or Witches, but it is not my way to kill one who is not a warrior. I’d rather have you riding beside me than behind me.”

  “My offer to heal your ankle still stands. Climb down and remove your boot. The healing spell drains me greatly, and I’ll be exhausted afterward. But my strength will soon return, if I am not otherwise taxed.”

  Bloodsong considered the offer a moment, dismounted, sat on the snow, and pulled off her boot.

  “There’s no need to keep hold of your sword. Sheath it,” Huld said as she knelt by Bloodsong’s side.

  “I do not trust you, Witch. If you try any tricks, your life will be forfeit.”

  “Freya’s Teats,” Huld cursed as she reached out and gently touched Bloodsong’s swollen ankle. “This will hurt a little. Don’t slay me when the pain begins. Scream all you want.”

  The Witch’s fingers were cool at first, then began to grow warm, until soon they were burning hot. Bloodsong’s ankle felt as if gripped in red-hot pinchers. Sweat streamed down her face. She strained to keep from crying out. “Damn you, Witch!” she growled, knuckles white where she gripped the hilt of her sword.

  Yellow-gold light burst forth in searing flashes from beneath Huld’s hands. Each flash sent agony through Bloodsong’s body. Huld’s face was a mask of pain, too, sweat streaming, eyes closed, lips mouthing silent words. With a hoarse cry, Huld jerked away her hands. The pain left Bloodsong’s ankle. She cautiously touched it. The flesh was smooth, cool, and unswollen.

  Gasping for breath, Huld slumped sideways.

  Bloodsong caught her and eased her down.

  “Don’t touch me!” Huld pulled away. “And don’t try riding off without me. We have an agreement. I’ll soon be able to ride.”

  “See that you are.” Bloodsong stood and tested her ankle. She walked a few paces. There was no pain. She sheathed her sword, sat down beside Huld, brushed snow off her foot, and pulled her boot back on.

  “My thanks, Witch.”

  “Huld. My name is Huld. And your name is Bloodsong.”

  “My name is Freyadis Guthrun’s Daughter. Bloodsong was the name of a slave.”

  “A slave who freed herself and others. But Freyadis is a good name, too. Not as good as Bloodsong, for a warrior, though.”

  Bloodsong grunted. “Perhaps. Huld, why risk riding with me? Why not begin your plan again? Let soldiers recapture you and—”

  “No,” Huld said, cutting her off. “I did not know what they would do, the soldiers, to me. I didn’t know they would—”

  Bloodsong reached out in the darkness and gripped Huld’s shoulder.

  Huld jerked away.

  “I meant but to comfort you. I know about soldiers.”

  “I do not need the comfort of someone who rides for Hel. Freya is my Goddess.”

  “But Freya, like Hel, cares for the dead, does she not?” Bloodsong asked. “The old lore says Odin gives Freya half of those brought from the battlefield by his Valkyries, half of those who died bravely in battle.”

  “Odin gives Freya nothing. Freya takes. And She gets first pick.”

  “As you wish. I care even less for theology than I do for Witches. Serve whom you will. I serve myself. But my needs, for the moment, match those of the Goddess of the Forgotten Dead.”

  “Later stories I heard said Bloodsong was recaptured and that she herself died. Hel has been known to play tricks with the dead. Is that ghostly skull that hovers around your face not that of your Mistress?”

  “You see a skull? All the time?” Bloodsong was unable to conceal her shock.

  “Yes. I did not see it at first. But my suspicions prompted me to look in a special way.”

  “I’m alive, Witch,” Bloodsong growled, rising to her feet, “which is more than either of us will be if we don’t keep moving. There may be more soldiers in the area. Rest from healing my ankle as we ride. I will help you into your saddle.”

  Huld staggered to her feet. “I don’t need your help.”

  Bloodsong watched Huld grit her teeth with effort as she slowly pulled herself into her saddle. She approved of Huld’s stubbornness and coura
ge, thinking that the young woman might have made a good warrior, if not ruined by magic. Then she mounted her stallion and, side by side with the Witch, rode down the narrow forest trail, heading south.

  JALNA AUDSDAUGHTER sat upon a cold stone bench, knees together, hands tightly clasped in her lap, fighting to control her fear. Beside her, an older woman fidgeted nervously.

  Jalna glanced at the guards, both clad in the black leather uniforms of Nidhug’s soldiers. She caught the younger one watching her again and pulled her cloak tighter around herself. The air was chill, but the young guard’s gaze was not, and she was naked beneath the cloak.

  They had awakened her in the dead of night, stripped her, given her the dirty cloak, taken her to the dungeons then further down. The deeper they went, the colder grew the air and the more uneven the stone stairs. In places, narrow, rough-hewn wooden ramps substituted for crumbled stairways.

  A single torch illuminated the small, dank room they eventually reached. A spider-web shrouded the rusted torch-bracket. A large spider hung motionless in the web.

  The older guard had wanted to gag and bind the two prisoners. The younger had insisted they be left unfettered. Jalna had thought for a moment the men would come to blows over the argument, and she’d considered trying to escape if they had, but to where?

  There were two exits, the locked, wooden door through which they had come and a dark opening in the opposite wall through which, she assumed, they eventually meant to take her.

  Jalna shivered. They had not even allowed her sandals, and the dirty stone floor was icy beneath her bare feet.

  There were persistent rumors amongst the slaves that King Nidhug sacrificed victims to monstrous Gods worse than Hel and Her brothers. Was it true? Was that to be her fate?

  She fought panic. She prayed. Skadi! Enemy of Hel and Great Goddess of the Hunt! Give me strength and clear thoughts!

  A memory came to her. As a child, before being taken to Nastrond, she often won games by doing the unexpected. The same impulse came to her now as she stared at the dark opening. Attempting escape, however, might mean punishment worse than the reason she was in the chamber, maybe even death. But if she was to be sacrificed and killed anyway—