The cold and the dark, p.4
The Cold And The Dark, page 4
I began to twist his legs, walking around until I could walk no further and his body was hyper-extended as far as it could go without breaking.
And then I broke him.
I heaved back on his legs and the ice of his skin split apart into shards. The thrill of battle was upon me, riding me like it once did the berserkers who worshiped me in killing and madness.
I did not see the third Jotnar until it struck me from behind.
The blow drove me to the ice and I spun to face my enemy, pushing off the ground. The frost giant towered above me, nearly as large as Ymir of old.
“You are not Odin.” His voice grated across my ears. “I know that half-blind fool.”
“You will recognize me when you look up from the grip of the grave.”
“You are a human in a metal body. You cannot stand against us.” His hand swept to the side. A half dozen more frost giants plodded their way toward us.
Odin's anger exploded and I wanted to lunge, to drive myself into the battle, but part of me knew he was right. I would not win this fight. I wasn't Odin, not truly. I was Arne inside a mighty Odin Mech. I was more than Arne. I was Odinson. I knew it, even though I couldn't define what that meant.
But the Arne part of me knew I was never meant to win.
That wasn't my mission. Not the reason for all the sacrifice.
Ragnhild.
Geir.
Me.
A trio of dark spots crossed the sky past the giant's head. My eye spun again, drawing the dots closer in my vision.
Three finger shaped missiles were arcing toward us.
ICBMs.
I didn't have to win.
I just had to fight.
Screaming from my iron mouth I pulled Gungnir into my hand and flung it at the frost giant. The plasma shaft launched forward. He dropped his arms to block it and the liquid fire cut right through them to blast its way deep into his chest. Steam boiled up, obscuring the frost giant's face. I pushed off the ice, leaping over the freeway beneath us, I was on him, hanging onto his chest with my iron legs and his neck with my arm. I locked my hand behind his head and rode him to the ground. Buildings fell to debris under our weight.
I did not care anymore.
The city was forfeit.
All that mattered was this moment.
Me on my enemy, his throat under my fingers.
Nannette safely away.
My war cry thundered from my chest, blasting into the face of my enemy. The sheen of ice he wore for skin became soft and slippery under my wrath, running rivulets down his cheeks to refreeze as icicles along his jaw that snapped against my iron and I squeezed harder, feeling frost giant skin crack and break as my hands tightened even more. His brothers gathered round and they pulled and pushed, trying to dislodge me but I would not be moved. I had my enemy at my mercy and my mercy was nonexistent.
I held him there even after he was dead, iron fingers locked knuckle-deep in ice.
Thunder sounded behind me, three quick bursts of it, and then atomic heat washed over me, driving away the cold forevermore.
Driving us all into the dark.
THE GIRL KING
Christina- Coronation Eve
I come upon her in the hallway, a twisty-turning corridor just past the kitchen.
I didn't expect her, not in that part of the keep, but I should have.
I should always expect to come upon her.
She haunts the place, lurking from shadow to shadow, always on the edge of any light, be it from sun or candle. She moves on feet clad in the finest silk slippers, the soles long worn away, leaving only the tattered uppers lying listless across the arches of bloodless, skeletal feet. A diaphanous wisp of a robe wraps her, adding to her mystery and her mysticism. It's pale, near translucent, like her. Her skin is ancient porcelain crackled through with spidery blue veins, and her dark Cimmerian eyes, once so lit with witchfire, have been cast in fathomless pools of shadow below a ridge of brow and over cheekbones honed by starvation to be sharp enough to slice.
She is the woman in white.
A spirit.
A ghost.
A haint.
This close, she smells of oils and perfume, scents imported to be rubbed into skin, costing hundreds of coins pressed into currency from confiscated gold.
Frankincense and myrrh mix with even more exotic scents such as lemongrass and coconut, brought across the land and the sea at a cost greater than the gold. No matter how sweet they are, all they bring to my mind is the cloying stench of a slaver's hold.
And just under the edge of it all, curling along the seams of scent, is the pervasive perfume of rotting flesh.
She's been to see my father again.
“Hello, Mother.”
She startles, jumping as if struck. Wild eyes go wide, looking at me over those razor cheekbones. My mother lunges forward, latching onto my arm. The ragged nails on her hands scrabble and snag on the chain-mail.
“Christina, you have returned!”
I do not correct her. I've been home two days already and spoke to her just this morning.
“You must go to your father's chambers,” she says.
It's a struggle to keep my lip from curling when I say, “I have already visited Father.”
“Now!” The word slips between her teeth in a hiss. “Do not delay.”
I lift her hand from my arm. “I will soon. We must talk about arrangements.”
Suddenly she is close, pressed against me, fingers knotting in the tabard I wear. She has always been a slip of a woman, a prize claimed by my father in some conquered province of some foreign land but fierce enough to claw her way to Queen. Even reduced by insanity, her fierceness shows in the vicious grip she has.
“Philemon is with your father,” she says.
I pull her hands free and turn in the direction of my father's chambers.
Gerwulf- The Salt Sea
He woke to the smell of tar and pitch and seawater.
It made his head ache like a blow from a warhammer. He crawled from his damp pallet, stooping to not strike his head. Alora stirred, making soft noises as he moved away, leaving her back exposed to the warm air. He pulled the moldy sailcloth sheet over her, patted her on the hip, and moved toward the stairs to the upper deck.
* * *
The sun beat down on his shoulders, making them sting, the skin tender, not made for the harsh gaze of hated star, its killing rays reflected and amplified by the sea-salted air. The breeze off the water cooled him some, but it filled his mouth with the taste of brine that even ale, what little they had, couldn't cut through.
He crossed the deck, moving to the rail beside the man standing there. Even on the boat, surrounded by his own people, Hrolfr wore his full complement of weapons including the twin swords taken from some nameless raider killed in an ambush.
Seeing his friend so armed made his finger drift to the small hawk-billed ax tucked through his belt, the only weapon he kept on his person at all times.
“Gerwulf,” Hrolfr said in greeting.
They both looked out at the sea.
“There are more of them,” Gerwulf said.
His friend nodded. “Every day they come, lashing to our boats.”
The boats of his people drifted nearby, connected by rope and chain and gangplanks for moving between ships. The ships, thick hulled craft designed for transporting the ore they once mined, now held his people. They lay on the sea, a handful of dozens, their massive sails hanging listless. Behind them were another hundred ships of various size and type, from sleek-sided spice ships to bulky pontoons covered in humanity, sloops and junks and catboats. There was even one large, leaky frigate with tattered sails that cast shadow over dozens of the smaller craft. A dozen languages blended together, rolling across the water on the sea wind to reach his ears as a babble.
He shook his aching head.
“They come because you are Gerwulf.”
“I didn't ask a question.”
“You didn't speak a question, brother,” Hrolfr said. “Don't insult me. As if I don't know the workings of your mind.”
“I am a displaced chieftain of a conquered people.” The words were bitter as the taste of salt in his mouth.
“We are not conquered.”
“Then we are exiled.”
“You are Gerwulf, the Fist of Reh.”
“Reh wasn't there when Gustavus sent his army, took our mines, and razed our homeland.”
“Reh allowed you to save your people and our ships.”
“Too many died.”
“Death comes.” Hrolfr shrugged. “We have dealt enough of it in defense of our mines.”
“Until Gustavus.”
“You cannot fight the storm or turn the inferno. You survive them.”
His head hurt. “Your loyalty is irritating.”
Hrolfr shrugged again, scratching under the edge of his beard.
“Reh's balls.” Gerwulf spat over the rail. “I am going to find something to eat.”
“There is no food left.”
Gerwulf looked out at the ships full of people tied to his ship.
People who would die, drinking seawater to stop the pangs of hunger. Some of them would eat sailcloth. Some would turn to cannibalism, reduced to mad animals, lower than rabid dogs.
His people.
He pictured them, once proud and stalwart, made callow by the grinding torment of starvation.
“Sound the trumpets. Call the people. Enough is enough.”
Hrolfr turned to do as ordered, not smiling until his face was hidden from his friend.
Gerwulf's head no longer hurt.
Christina- The Bone Church
“There are a lot of the sorry bastards.”
The whisper by my ear is familiar. I don't turn, keeping my eyes on the barbarian camp.
It spreads across the ground before the chapel, starting right from the massive timber doors and spilling toward where we crouch in the treeline. Fires roar, outlining men as they roughhouse and wrestle. I can see drinking horns being filled from a vat and tossed back in long draughts. Some men stumble as they move about. A few lie prone already, still fully dressed but snoring.
“If you are afraid, stay here and prepare the wine for my return.” I don't whisper, we are too far for them to hear us. Alaric knows this but he also knows how it affects me when he whispers close to my ear.
He grunts. “I fear no man.”
“Good thing I'm not a man.”
His teeth gleam in the moonlight, his smile that of a predator. “What are the odds against us?”
“Three to one at the least.”
“We've faced worse. Our men will prevail.”
“Our men?” He can't see my eyebrow arch in the darkness, but he knows me well enough to hear it in my tone.
“Your men, Highness.”
I lean, pressing against him all too briefly. “I was teasing, no need to call names.”
“I consider them my brothers. I am a good Sargent-at-arms.” He strives to sound hurt, but I hear the mocking in his tone.
“You are the finest there is, Alaric. Good enough even to stand beside me.”
He chuckles, low and deep. “That's only one of the places I like to be good enough for.”
“Don't get distracted.” I smile in the dark, keeping my lips tight so he won’t see.
“’Tis impossible.”
“Then don't be a distraction.”
“To the matter at hand,” he says solemnly. “Do you have a strategy?”
“They are barbarians who think they only face a group of nuns. If we wait until the moon wanes most of them will be drunk enough to sleep.”
“Drunk barbarians are still formidable.” His fingers find the thin scar along my cheek. His touch is soft as calloused finger pads trace the mark left by a near-miss slash to my throat from a drunken Vandal's blade.
Keep your mind on this.
“You worry too much.” I pull away and we slide down the ridge and move back to my men, who wait silently in the woods like the wolves they are.
* * *
The man bites my palm and I feel it through the leather of my glove, but I hold him down with my weight and drive my dagger into his throat. He bucks as his blood soaks into my pants, mingling with that of the other barbarians I slew before his turn came.
He goes still and I rise, shaking the pain out of my hand.
Looking over I find Alaric a few feet away, grinning like a fool.
Somewhere behind him, somewhere I cannot see, comes a cry and a curse and just like that our cover is destroyed.
I return Alaric's grin and haul my sword free. The time of skulking murder is over. We step over the corpses of our enemies and begin cutting a bloody harvest from the orchard of death.
* * *
I slash up, the notched edge of my sword snagging on the skin of the barbarian's chest before the tip splits his neck and his head flops back, the skull too heavy to stay upright. The barbarian corpse drops to its knees and tumbles forward. I step on its wide back and leap, using the momentum to take down a pair of heathens squared up on Alaric. I hit them hard, one going to the ground, the other stumbling away. Alaric thrusts his sword into the guts of the one who keeps his feet, the long, notched blade tearing out of the man's back. Alaric spins on his heel, shearing the sword up and out in a spray of gore.
The other one rolls as I kick him off his knees and lies on his back, holding up a battered shield to ward me off. My boot lashes out again, driving the steel rim of the shield into his teeth as I hack down and lay open his thigh to the bone, severing the artery nestled between thew and crotch.
Alaric laughs and I match it, the wild thrill of battle making my chest tight and the air taste like a lightning strike.
A warm red rain falls on us as we turn men into so much meat.
Christina- Coronation Eve
The door bangs against the wall as I kick it open.
Philemon, the snake, stops short.
In his hands is Kingmaker, my father's sword.
He pulls himself straight, looking down his nose at me. “What is the meaning of this?”
He dares to sound annoyed.
I step into the room, breathing through my mouth, not in my rage, but because of the cloying thickness to the air. Smoke from a hundred incense burners mixed with the fragrance of exotic oils and perfume make it hard to breathe.
That, and the bouquet of death and decay.
My father's corpse lies on the bed behind Philemon, his skin gone waxy and shining from the applications of the oils preserving him.
“You dare question me as you hold a stolen sword in your hands?”
His lip curls. “I have stolen nothing. As Chief Mage I claim only the Temple's property.”
“That sword belongs to this family, not the priesthood.”
“Not true,” he clucks. “The Temple bestows Sovereignty in the name of the gods.”
“I reject your gods, for the One True God.”
He laughs. “Your false religion will not sway the people. You cannot abandon the gods who hold this nation together-”
“I will hold this nation together! Like my father before me!” The words tear out of my throat, driven by white hot anger, “I will rule with justice, not an iron hand.”
“The barbarian horde camps outside the city!” he cries. “They do not fear your new god. They will invade and kill everyone here if you do not heed my words and pledge fealty to the Temple.”
“They are here because my father did as you advised and drove them from their land so you could steal the gold in their mines.” My cheeks burn and I don't know if it is from my fury or my shame at my hand in that. “You would have made them slaves if their warlord hadn't been quick to save his people.”
“They are a punishment for your blasphemy.”
“Give me that sword,” I step forward. “I will be made king with it tomorrow.”
“Your priestess-”
“She is a nun,” I snarl. “Not some bloody-handed pagan.”
“She has no authority to crown you as anything. The people will not stand the abandonment of our ways.”
“The people will follow a king who doesn't treat them like chattel at the behest of the Temple.”
“The people serve the Crown. The Crown serves the Priesthood.” He draws himself upright, trying to look imperious as he quotes his favorite holy verse. “The gods will strike you down.”
And then he raises Kingmaker, holding it as if to attack me.
I turn cold inside and my head clears to that soft peaceful place where murder happens.
“I am Christina, only daughter of Gustavus the Remorseless, raised by his hand, trained as if I were his only son. Believe-me-when-I-say,” My voice is flat, the hiss of an asp as I step forward. “I will take that sword and stick it up your ass.”
Kingmaker clatters on the stone at our feet.
Gerwulf- On The King's Road
“Is this a scouting party?” Alora's voice slid between them, shushed to a whisper so soft it didn't move even one blade of the grass in front of them.
“No,” Gerwulf said in the same hushed whisper.
“Why did Gustavus—” she spat on the ground at the name “—send such a small number against us?”
“They aren't against us. They come from Khutna Horah. Look at their armor and banners.” He pointed at the warriors on the crude road below the ridge they lay on. “They are dented and dirty from battle.” He shook his head. “They are not for us, they return to Gustavus's side.”
“They will discover us. We are too many to hide.”
