THE KING, silken hood in place, led two soldiers into the cavern. Jalna saw that one was Tyrulf! Their eyes met. Lingered. She was certain she saw relief in his eyes. But Tyrulf then looked away. At the king. And she saw anger tighten the lines of his face.
“Unchain her,” Nidhug ordered, “then bring her. She has admirers waiting.”
When her iron collar had been removed, Tyrulf started to pick her up.
“Not you,” Nidhug said to Tyrulf, then pointed to the other soldier. “You.” Then back to Tyrulf, “You were too gentle with her, before. You did not think I noticed? You also whispered to her. Yes, I noticed that, too.” Then he laughed. “Be a good soldier now, or I’ll force you to beat her!”
Jalna heard the exchange as the other soldier was picking her up. Tyrulf was in trouble for wanting to help her. “Thank you!” she exclaimed loudly, “my king! I did not want that lout touching me again. The things he whispered to me were vile!” And she glared at Tyrulf. “Pig!” She spit at him.
Tyrulf looked shocked for a second then made himself look angry, too. He raised a hand as if to strike her.
“Enough!” Nidhug broke in. “Strike her at your peril.”
Tyrulf clenched his fist and touched his chest in salute as he bowed his head to the king.
Nidhug strode from the cavern. Tyrulf followed behind the soldier who carried Jalna.
The king stopped in the darkness of the tunnel and concentrated his willpower. He hissed an incantation. The glowing purple image of a rough-hewn portal appeared in the solid rock wall of the passageway. The rock within the outline vanished, leaving an opening edged in pulsing purple light.
“This is where my Death Slaves dwell,” Nidhug said to Jalna, “men who displeased me greatly while alive. Consider this your reward for being so helpful and obedient to your king.”
Jalna stared wide-eyed from the king to the open portal. An overpowering death-stench wafted out of the revealed chamber in waves of stagnant, ice-cold air. She glimpsed a shambling shape within the chamber as it edged closer to the portal. The stone floor of the chamber was alive with tiny crawling things.
“Tell me, slave,” Nidhug said, relishing the terror he saw growing in Jalna’s eyes, “have you been lonely in the cavern? My Death Slaves are lonely too.”
The thing within the chamber came near enough to the glowing portal for her to see it clearly. She almost screamed but stopped herself, unwilling to give Nidhug the satisfaction.
”Put her in,” Nidhug ordered.
Jalna tried to be impassive, but as the guard neared the thing that was waiting for her, she began to struggle. “You don’t need to do this! I will cooperate!” she lied.
The guard hesitated, staring at the horror within the chamber.
“Put her in!” Nidhug growled.
Tightening his hold on the woman now writhing in his arms, the guard quickly stepped within the portal, edged past the Death Slave, bent down, and placed Jalna on the filth-encrusted floor. He hurried from the chamber, gagging from the stench.
Jalna looked up at the Death Slave. Panic swept away the remaining dregs of her courage. She began to frantically pull herself toward the opening.
“I will let you and your new best friends get acquainted, slave.” Nidhug laughed.
She heard the laugh. She stopped trying to get away. She made herself smile at the Death Slave. “Hello, lover,” she whispered, loud enough for Nidhug to hear.
Nidhug stopped laughing. “Don’t expect me to return for you, slave,” he snapped, “not for a very long time, if at all.”
The Death Slave bent toward Jalna. Particles of its crumbling flesh broke free and sifted down around her while its muscles creaked like dried leather. It grasped her wrists in bone-cold fingers and began dragging her further into the chamber.
She heard the scuffling tread of other Death Slaves coming to meet them. She vowed not to scream and to find a way to endure. She fought for each breath, gagging at the stench as she was dragged deeper into the chamber.
Behind her, Nidhug hissed an incantation. The solid wall returned to seal the opening. Darkness engulfed the chamber.
I’ve helped Bloodsong, she reminded herself, struggling in the Death Slave’s grip, holding back her screams. Bloodsong will avenge me and destroy Nidhug. For Bloodsong and freedom! she thought, repeating the legendary battle cry over and over in her mind while straining to keep her terror from releasing her screams.
Her wrists were released. She felt the crawling things on the floor tickling her flesh but did not try to brush them away. It would have done no good. She heard the Death Slaves crowding around her in the darkness. It became even harder to breathe. Then she heard the creaking of dead, dried muscles and guessed they were bending toward her. She felt bony fingers touch her, scratch her, clutch at her.
Jalna cursed, fought, gasped, whimpered, but still held back her screams. Then the Death Slaves began to seek the satisfaction of their lust for warm flesh, and she could no longer hold her horror inside.
“Bloodsong and freedom!” she cried aloud with the last of her self-control, and then mindlessly began to scream.
* * *
Nidhug smiled beneath his hood when he psychically knew Jalna had started screaming. Then he turned his thoughts elsewhere.
Emerging from the passageway into the outer chamber, he ascended the stairs without a backward glance, leaving the two guards to take up their posts behind him.
As the king passed through the portal at the top of the stairs and out of sight, Tyrulf cursed, then sat down on the stone bench. He breathed deeply several times, trying to calm his shaken nerves and push down his seething anger.
“What’s wrong with you, Tyrulf?” the other soldier asked in a harsh whisper, glancing fearfully at the top of the stairs, afraid Nidhug might reappear.
Tyrulf removed his battle-helm, leaned back against the wall. “Nothing. Forget it. I’m fine.”
“Get control of yourself, man! Do you want to become one of those things yourself? A Death Slave? Resume your post!”
“Gods!” Tyrulf suddenly cried, slamming a clenched fist down against the stone bench. “No woman should have to suffer so, or men to become like those in the chamber!”
“Then why don’t you just ask the king to free the woman and to let the Death Slaves be truly dead? I’m sure he would do anything you wanted, if you merely explained how you felt.”
Tyrulf glanced angrily up and shook his head. “She was so beautiful. She said her name was Jalna. I wanted so to help her.”
“Return to your post, fool! Or we’ll both suffer.”
Tyrulf nodded. “Aye.” He rubbed his eyes, ran a hand through his blond hair, placed his battle-helm back on his head, and stood. Then he returned to his place on one side of the entrance, trying to forget what he’d seen in the chamber and trying to forget Jalna, but doubting that he ever could.
* * *
Nidhug strode into his throne room. He ignored the bowing nobles scattered about the vaulted chamber. The black marble walls, inlaid with golden runes of power, glittered richly in the flickering light of the torches lining the walls as he made his way to his black marble throne. Its highly polished outer surface was carved with scenes of death and horror. He sat upon its thick purple cushions and gazed over the bowing nobles as he reached beyond Nastrond’s walls with his powers, trying to sense something of the approaching Hel-warrior. He frowned, concentrated harder, but could still detect nothing.
No Flesh Demon or awakened predator had returned with Bloodsong. He dared not assume her dead. But what, other than her death, could explain his inability to sense her presence beyond Nastrond?
He knew that she had been approaching the mountains.
Dvalin’s Burrow passed beneath those mountains. If she had entered the Dwarfs’ domain, their magic would shield her from his senses. But surely even Bloodsong would not dare walk among Dvalin’s Folk, unless—
Yes, he decided, it was just possible that the Dwarfs might see her as an ally, allow her to pass through the Burrow, perhaps even try to aid her in some way. He would have to be on guard for that possibility, though in a confrontation he was certain Dwarfish magic could not prevail against his sorcery.
The sorcerer-king rasped an order. “Bring Kovna!”
One of the three messengers waiting near the throne bowed low and hurried off to find the commander of Nidhug’s army.
While he waited for General Kovna, Nidhug leaned back in his throne and willed himself to relax. Though he had enjoyed questioning the slave woman, the time she had cost him and his failure to make her tell him Bloodsong’s true plans had tensed him with a deep anger. He thought about her screaming beneath the decaying bodies of his Death Slaves and chuckled softly. Those near the throne wondered at the sound but made no outward indication that they had heard.
A noble cautiously approached the throne and bowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but at an impatient wave of Nidhug’s black-gloved hand, the noble thought better of it and backed silently away from the throne.
At last General Kovna entered the throne room, approached the king, and bowed curtly. The general had been in Nidhug’s service for nearly three decades, starting as a lowly foot soldier and gradually working his way upward through the ranks, mercilessly destroying anyone who got in the way of his ambition. It was no secret to Nidhug that Kovna lusted for the throne itself.
The tall, massively built soldier, his dark hair graying, scarred face weathered like leather, stood waiting, his smoldering blue eyes gazing disrespectfully directly into Nidhug’s.
When Bloodsong has been destroyed, I must rid myself of this man, Nidhug thought.
“General Kovna,” Nidhug said, “you are to send out men along all roads to the north. They are to search for a swordswoman dressed in black. The pommel of her sword will consist of a silver skull. On her left hand will rest a silver ring, also in the image of a Skull. And look for a shield with the Runes of Hel upon it, Hagalaz, Ehwaz, and Laguz. There may be others with her. Her companions are to be captured alive, if possible, but may be slain if necessary. The swordswoman herself is also to be taken alive, if possible, then brought to me, but if she, too, is slain, her corpse is to be returned here, as is the ring she wears. When you have sent your men forth, assemble the rest of the army in an encampment on the plain outside of Nastrond to await my further orders.”
General Kovna hesitated, frowning. “Black-clad, silver skulls, and Hel Runes, your Highness?”
“Aye. What you are thinking is true. Hel-warriors do exist, and it is a Hel-warrior your men are to find. Her name is Bloodsong.”
A murmur of surprise ran through the nobles in the throne room. The general’s expression showed that he, too, was surprised.
“Bloodsong?” Kovna remembered Bloodsong tied naked to a tree to die.
“You thought she was dead.” Nidhug nodded his head. “Nevertheless, she is riding toward Nastrond. You have your orders. Tell your men her name. Many will remember her arena days and thus not underestimate her sword skill. And tell them no greater honor can befall a soldier in my service than the capturing or slaying of a Hel-warrior. Whosoever captures or slays her may name his reward, though the reward will be greater if she yet lives when delivered to my dungeons.”
General Kovna hesitated a moment longer, saluted with a slight bow, then turned and strode from the chamber, wondering if the Hel-warrior might in some way be used to help him usurp Nidhug’s throne.
* * *
Only moments after Jalna had begun to scream, the Death Slaves had drawn back, leaving her untouched. Now she lay sobbing, naked on the filthy stone floor, expecting her torment to continue. There came the creaking of dead flesh as a Death Slave bent toward her again. She screamed and struggled as bone-cold hands and arms slid beneath her and lifted her into the air:
Struggling helplessly in the Death Slave’s arms, Jalna was carried through the darkness a short distance, then placed on the floor next to a wall.
She pressed herself against the wall, pulled herself along it, and immediately discovered another wall. The Death Slave had placed her in a corner of the chamber.
The one who had carried her did not leave but remained silent in the darkness. When he did not touch her again, she wondered why.
The sound, when it came, startled and confused her. It was a dry, rasping sound, like dried wood scraping against stone. Silence returned for a moment, then the sound came again and yet again, and she realized that it must be the Death Slave trying to speak.
As the Death Slave repeated the sound over and over again, it slowly became more intelligible.
“Bloodsong?” Jalna hesitantly asked.
“Yesss,” the death slave rasped, “annnd ... meee ...”
“Bloodsong and ... you?”
“Bothhh deaaad ... killled ...” the creature continued, struggling for every syllable. “Nidhuuug killled usss ... annnd ourrr ... sssonnn ...”
No. Don’t let it be him, Jalna begged in her thoughts.
“Haaate Nidhuuug ...”
“Eirik?” Jalna whispered. “Are you ... Eirik?”
“Meee!” the death slave cried. “Wannnt to killl Nidhuuug forrr ... killling Bllloodsssong, ouuur sssonn, annnd meee ...”
Jalna felt like crying as Bloodsong’s memories of Eirik mingled with her own feelings, but she held back her tears. She understood now why her torment had stopped. She had cried Bloodsong’s name, had cried the slaves’ battle cry, and this Death Slave, who claimed to be Bloodsong’s murdered love, had heard and taken her to a safe corner of the chamber. That had to be it, she decided, but from Bloodsong’s memories she knew that Eirik had not seen Bloodsong die, for he had been slain himself first. Jalna also knew that because Bloodsong had not seen Eirik’s soul in Hel’s domain, she had been comforted by the assumption that Eirik was dwelling with the Gods. The knowledge that Nidhug had made a Death Slave of Eirik would be horrible for Bloodsong.
She must never find out, Jalna decided. But perhaps it would comfort Eirik to know that Bloodsong was alive. He need not know that she was now a Hel-warrior, nor that she had died and spent six years in Hel’s domain.
“Eirik,” Jalna quietly said, “Bloodsong is alive.”
There was a long silence, then, “Alllive? Blllodsssong isss alllive?”
“Yes. “
The Death Slave made a sound like a dry sob. “Alllive ...”
The dry, sobbing sound came again: “Howww lllong ... sssince I diiied?”
“Six years.”
After another long silence, the Death Slave said, “I llloved herrr sssso ...”
Again silence descended, until Jalna heard new sounds and realized with tears seeping from her eyes that the Death Slave who called himself Eirik had begun to cry. But is it really him? Really Eirik? She suddenly wondered. Might this be another of Nidhug’s tricks? Another attempt to wrest Bloodsong’s nonexistent plans from her? He knew that because Jalna held Bloodsong’s memories, a meeting with a Death Slave who called himself Eirik would horrify and hurt her terribly.
Tears stopped flowing from Jalna’s eyes. Even if the Death Slave had once been a man named Eirik, she must not forget that this was now a creature of Nidhug’s sorcery. Should Nidhug so will it, the Death Slave would no doubt strip the flesh from her bones without hesitation.
She listened to the creature sobbing in the darkness, and hate burned anew in her heart. You must destroy Nidhug, Bloodsong, she thought, clenching her fists in impotent rage. You must find a way to destroy him. So much evil must not go unpunished!
After a little while longer the Death Slave stopped weeping. She heard it stand and move away into the darkness. Would the others come for her again now? Had the one who called himself Eirik forgotten what had happened? Or would he remember her and their conversation and come to her aid again, should the others renew their attack? Or might the Death Slave merely have completed what Nidhug had ordered him to do and gone back to a state of mindless, living death?
She kept straining to catch the first hint that the things were approaching. From time to time, she brushed crawling things from the bare flesh of her thighs and upper body. Then, remembering that she was only able to feel things above her knees, she brushed frantically at her numb lower legs and sent several previously unfelt things scuttling away.
She fought fear, panic, helpless repulsion, and used her hatred to anchor her sanity.
Bloodsong and freedom! she thought, all alone in the dark. Bloodsong and freedom!