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 riding, 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.
Whether Nidhug’s sorcery intervened or not, so much for Hel’s promises, she angrily thought, then wondered about the promise Hel had made to free Guthrun when Nidhug was defeated and the Skull had been returned.
She remembered her daughter’s courage with pride. Guthrun had stoically accepted Bloodsong’s mission, and though trembling with fear had not pleaded with her mother to stay.
With a curse, Bloodsong jerked her thoughts away from worry. It was too late to turn back. And it was six years too late to worry about whether Hel kept promises.
Hel laughs last, Bloodsong remembered again. “Not this time!” she vowed, and limped onward.
* * *
Morning sunlight streamed through the open doorway of an isolated, rough-hewn forest cottage. Within, a tall woman, her hair short-cut and reddish-blond, awoke, stretched beneath the furs, and shivered. Why was it so cursed cold?
She opened her pale blue eyes. Thorfinn, her mate, was not beside her. The door was open. And the wall peg where Thorfinn’s scabbarded sword usually hung was empty.
Instantly alert, Valgerth Holdasdottir vaulted from the bed and grabbed her sword from its wall peg, unsheathed the blade, hurried to the door, and cautiously looked out.
She saw no danger.
Snow glittered in the slanting morning sunlight. Booted footprints led away from the door and into the trees that marked the edge of the forest clearing.
Frowning, Valgerth closed and barred the door. The wooden chest near the bed was open. She looked inside. Thorfinn’s leather armor was missing. Hers was still there.
Placing her sword within easy reach, senses alert for danger, she hastily dressed in brown leather breeches, tunic, and boots, then donned her leather armor quickly and efficiently, as if the last six years had never been. Soon, wearing her sword-belt, iron-ribbed leather battle-helm, gloves, and heavy cloak, she grabbed her circular wooden shield by the iron grip on its underside, and with sword ready opened the door.
No danger still in sight, she stepped outside. A breeze whispered in the tall pines around the cottage. Somewhere, a bird sang. She sniffed the air. Nothing seemed amiss.
Frowning, she followed Thorfinn’s tracks in the snow, left the clearing, and soon saw him. He was sitting on a fallen tree. His shield leaned against the tree trunk at his feet. His battle-helm was beside him on the log. His dark hair was still rumpled from sleep. With one hand, he absently stroked his short-trimmed beard.
“Morning, Val.” Thorfinn turned his head and smiled at her. “Come, sit beside me.” He picked up his battle-helm and brushed snow from the fallen tree.
She cursed. “Skadi’s Bow! Is nothing wrong?”
“You slept deeply, for a change. So, I—”
“So you put on your armor, left me to freeze with the door open, and took a little stroll?” She slammed her sword into its scabbard. “You had another cursed dream. Yes? What was it this time?”
“Freyadis is alive.”
Valgerth stiffened. “Freyadis is dead.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “She was. But not now.”
“Don’t do this, Thorfinn. Dreams be cursed. She’s dead. Lost to me. Forever. Your vision six years ago, in her slaughtered village—”
“We never found her body.”
“No, but—”
“Just before dawn, I had another vision. It started as a dream but became much more. I saw her riding out of the north clad all in black. The steed she rode was thin and wasted, almost skeletal. And its eyes, Val. They burned with purple fire.”
“Hel’s work.”
“So it seems.”
“Freyadis died Hel-praying?”
“As you had hoped.”
“And feared.”
“She lives, Val.” He shrugged. “I know it.”
A grim smile curved Valgerth’s lips. “Freyadis, Freyadis, why did I waste years hurting and grieving for you? I should have trusted you not to let a little thing like Death stop you.”
“Sit with me, Val. Please?”
She walked forward and sat down beside him.
“You still look good in your armor.” He took her hand and winked at her.
She shook her head. “I had hoped never to wear it again, as we vowed, unless our lives were in danger, unless someone discovered who and where we were.”
“Or if Freyadis returned.”
“I will not completely believe she lives until I see her with my own eyes. Do you think your vision was of something that has already occurred, or something that soon will?”
“I felt the time was now. I saw what looked like the frozen northern wastes around her. So, if she rides south from the northern frontier, there’s only one likely road she can take until she is out of the mountains. Perhaps I will have other visions to guide us. Or perhaps the Gods will lead us to her. Your fate and hers were always linked and no doubt still are.” Thorfinn squeezed her hand.
“We don’t have enough silver to buy two horses.”
He chuckled. “Then we’ll steal them, or some silver. It won’t be the first time.”
Valgerth thought of the battle cry that she and the other slaves had screamed as they cut their way to freedom behind Freyadis Guthrun’s Daughter, the arena warrior known as Bloodsong. She pulled her sword from its scabbard and kissed the blade. “For Bloodsong and freedom,” she whispered as she gazed into Thorfinn’s brown eyes.
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Valgerth’s blade. “Bloodsong and freedom,” he solemnly repeated, then grinned and kissed her lips, too. “I may have missed adventuring, after all.”
“And the quiet forest life does not agree with me as much as I’d pretended.”
“Then let’s be to it!” He slipped on his battle-helm and grabbed his shield.