The valkyries shadow, p.2
The Valkyrie's Shadow, page 2
“I’m here to see the king,” Sigrid called out, her voice bouncing with Hestur’s stride. Maybe the note of fear in her voice would make her seem like less of a threat. “I’ve been sent from Vanaheim to discuss an urgent matter.”
Laughter rose around her, making Hestur leap forward in fear. Sigrid nearly toppled out of the saddle, and she wrapped her hands in Hestur’s mane to stay on.
“Shh, it’s okay,” she murmured, struggling to sound calm for his sake. But her breath quickened, and the hair on her arms and neck stood up.
A scrape of metal rang out. Then a loud clatter.
Sigrid tensed up as Hestur sprang into a canter. Her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage, just as desperate to escape whoever surrounded them. When Hestur pulled to go faster, Sigrid let him.
He erupted into a gallop.
She kept a firm hold on the reins and focused on the curves of the path. Without a long range of visibility, they could gallop straight over a cliff before she had a chance to react.
His hooves pounded over the stone, filling her ears.
Her breaths were sharp and cold.
This is a bad idea.
She should call the valkyries off. It wasn’t too late to abandon this whole—
Around the next curve, the path abruptly ended at a towering stone wall.
Sigrid leaned back, her arms straining as she reined Hestur to a hard stop. “Whoa!”
He jerked to a halt, rearing in fright at what lay before them.
Sigrid regained her balance, gasping for breath. Better a wall than a cliff.
The relief was short-lived, and a new layer of fear coated her insides when the light surrounding them expanded, pushing back the night and forming a larger oval that placed her at the center. Like she’d been thrust into a fighting arena in front of an audience she couldn’t see.
Except…
In the newly revealed area to her right, sitting on top of an earthy dais, was a huge throne made of gnarled black tree roots. The wood twisted and snaked, rising to twice her height and just as wide.
A Night Elf sat upon it, clad head to toe in leather and chainmail. His bear skull mask had long canines curving toward each other, and it was paired with huge deer antlers and a deadly looking iron crown. Calm poise radiated from him, unlike any of the others she’d met before.
Sigrid’s heart pounded at the eerie sight of him, but she still nudged Hestur to move closer. Please, let the valkyries be circling above me.
When they stopped at the edge of the dais, she dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Greetings, Svartalf King.”
The king raised a hand.
Sigrid almost raised her own hand, thinking it was a greeting of sorts, but it wasn’t.
A group of elves in smaller antlered deer masks materialized out of the darkness and flanked the throne. At another signal, two came forward to meet her.
Hestur tried to back away.
“It’s okay.” She nudged him to stand still, though her heart raced faster.
His ears turned back to listen to her.
As much as she wanted to tell them not to come any closer, she had to be passive and agreeable. General Eira had been very clear about this.
One of the elves grabbed Hestur’s reins. The other flung open her saddle bag.
Her heart jumped. “Hey!”
Hestur tossed his head and backed up, picking up on her tone. The elf at his head held tight, yanking the reins so Sigrid’s hands jerked forward.
The elf at her side grabbed the torch out of her bag, wrenched the spear from the quiver on her back, and stepped away.
They’d known she would come prepared with fire. Of course they would. Why did she think they would let her walk in without searching her for weapons? More importantly, what in the nine worlds had she been thinking when she agreed to this?
The elf dipped his chin, giving the spear a long look. Three black stones were embedded in his mask’s forehead, almost like a crown. “She’s all clear.”
The other elf let go of the reins, and they both backed off.
She held back her surprise. Did he not realize it was a valkyrie spear? If he were smart, he would’ve snapped it.
I still have a weapon.
Once the elves returned to their posts beside the gnarled throne, the Svartalf King spoke.
“Why have you come?” His deep voice was muffled beneath his mask.
Sigrid squared her shoulders, trying to let the saddle’s height give her confidence. “I’ve been sent with a message from Vanaheim,” she said, skirting the real answer.
The king tapped his fingers on the throne’s armrests, his silence unsettling. The muted tap, tap, tap of leather on wood filled the still air. “I would have expected valkyries. Who are you?”
“Sigrid.”
“Sigrid who?”
She paused. She’d spent her whole life without a surname, learning a fortnight ago that she was a Helenadottir—daughter of a lost valkyrie princess, of a royal who was now the queen of Helheim. Offering this name would do her no favors.
“Just…Sigrid,” she said.
The king leaned back in his throne, which creaked and groaned beneath him. He moved slowly, with more dignity and grace than the horde of Night Elves she had the displeasure of meeting before.
“I see.” Amusement constricted his voice. “Does King Óleifr think so low of me that he couldn’t send more than an orphaned peasant girl?”
Words like these had been thrown at her as an insult enough times that they had no impact. She pressed her lips together, hoping it came off as a smile. “I’ve come to kindly request the return of Ratatosk.”
There was a subtle, almost imperceptible shift. If she hadn’t been waiting for a reaction, she would have missed it. But the Svartalf King and those flanking him grew still, like a herd spotting a predator.
“We have no business with Ratatosk,” the Svartalf King said, unmoving.
She held back a smirk at the non-answer. “King Óleifr has reason to believe he’s here.”
The reason, of course, was that Fisk had flat-out told Sigrid the Svartalf King put a bounty on Ratatosk—but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
The king’s sigh hissed inside his mask. “The way Vanaheim leans on the Eye of Hnitbjorg for knowledge is exhausting. You people have nothing but that lump of rock to give you status.”
Sigrid narrowed her eyes. First, he’d assumed wrong—the Eye was not how they knew Svartalfheim had taken Ratatosk. Second, Vanaheim’s status came from all kinds of magic and a noble line of Vanir gods, not just prophetic knowledge offered by the Eye. But the king wouldn’t take kindly to being argued or corrected. Especially not by a peasant girl.
“Ratatosk’s disappearance threatens the cosmic balance, Your Majesty,” Sigrid said, a chill settling over her the longer she stood in this sunless world. “The spring isn’t meant to be controlled by anyone but him.”
The Svartalf King crossed one leg over the other, his leather and chainmail creaking in the silence. His antlers scraped against the tall throne, the sound filling the dead quiet. “Yggdrasil grows and changes, as does any tree.” He waved a gloved hand. “Leaves grow, fruits ripen, and everything must ultimately fall back to the ground. Unfortunately, the rotten fruits of the world tree have far-reaching consequences. We have to do our part to nourish its trunk.”
She furrowed her brow. Did he just call Vanaheim a rotten fruit?
“Your Majesty, if Ratatosk can’t ferry anyone along its branches, then the gods and valkyries can’t do their part to nourish its trunk. Everyone will be stuck in their own…um, fruit.” She was losing the metaphor. “You’re preventing anyone from traveling,” she finished bluntly.
“This does not sound like my problem to worry about.”
A wave of hot anger flooded through Sigrid. How could he be so indifferent? “But traveling between worlds is dangerous and sometimes impossible without Ratatosk! This restricts Vanaheim from sending the valkyries to places that need them.”
“You seem to be under the delusion that everyone cares where the valkyries go,” the Svartalf King said, unmistakable mockery in his words.
“Of course they should care!” Sigrid exclaimed. How dare he suggest that the valkyries weren’t revered. In Jotunheim, the seniors were risking their lives right now to help calm civil unrest. “Our job is to keep the worlds safe. If a war breaks out, we’ll help stop it. If there’s a natural disaster, we’ll send aid—”
“We? Our job?” The king leaned forward. “Am I to understand that you consider yourself to be a valkyrie?”
Sigrid clenched her jaw. Never mind the slip-up, the taunt stung.
At her silence, the Svartalf King laughed, his voice booming. He shifted, becoming more animated. “We find ourselves in the presence of one of King Óleifr’s fine valkyries. Where are your wings, orphan girl?”
The elves flanking him laughed, a muffled sound through their deer masks.
Hestur tossed his head, maybe in response to her fingers tightening over the reins. He snorted, no doubt as uneasy as she was in this strange, cold world.
She rested a soothing hand on his neck, clenching her teeth against a shiver. Her gloves couldn’t keep her fingers warm anymore. Her helmet felt like ice atop her head. “Your Majesty, Yggdrasil might crumble without Ratatosk to ferry anyone along the spring.”
“Don’t fret over Ratatosk, valkyrie girl. He’s safe and comfortable among the worms. We have even given him light so he can feel more at home.” He waved her away. “Trot back to Óleifr and tell him that.”
Among the worms? That sounded like he was dead. But if he was safe and comfortable…
Underground.
Triumph surged through Sigrid. They had him imprisoned in a place where they could safely cast light. General Eira had suspected an underground prison. With her knowledge of Vanaheim’s complicated history with Svartalfheim, she’d shared a few hunches as to where he could be. Her first guess had been the right one.
“I can’t leave without him,” Sigrid said, leaving no doubt that she meant it. But how were they supposed to search for him?
She scanned the guards, searching for a weakness, an escape, anything. The Night Elf who’d taken her spear took a few steps back, propping it against the wall behind the throne and resting a hand on his sword.
The fool had just made it even more accessible to her.
“Then I’m afraid we’re at an impasse.” The king heaved a sigh and rose from his gnarled throne, still moving in that slow, dignified way. His antlers curved impressively high, the tops cast into shadow. She could trace her gaze along each canine tooth, perfect except for one, which had a broken and jagged tip. “Unless you have something to offer me, it’s time for you to leave.”
What did that mean? Was he asking for a gift or a bribe?
No, these elves could make treasures as great as Thor’s hammer. No material offer would please the Svartalf King—except maybe magic, and Vanaheim would never give that to a world as low as Svartalfheim.
There would be no reasoning with him, either, which meant they would have to use force.
Before she could think of a plan, the king spoke.
“Best of luck in the night,” he said, his tone mocking. “Goodbye, just Sigrid.” He swiped an arm as if slamming a door.
The deer-masked elves flanking him stepped forward, their swords raised like they expected Sigrid to charge.
Sigrid’s heart jumped, and Hestur snorted, tensing. To either side, the walls of darkness advanced like a set of jaws moving to swallow them.
She wouldn’t be able to find her way out in pitch dark!
You evil, rotten, heartless…
“Fine.” Sigrid lifted her chin, letting defiance smother her fear. “You wanted to know where my wings are? Let me introduce you.”
She whistled, and on cue, a blaze of fire opened the sky like lightning.
The king’s mask jerked up toward the danger, and he let out a rage-filled cry. The others screamed, stepping back.
Sigrid’s last glimpse of the king before the darkness swallowed everything was of him stumbling backward, pointing up at the V formation of winged mares.
“Valkyries!” he roared.
Chapter Three
Fighting Among
the Worms
A waterfall of icy-cold darkness engulfed Sigrid and Hestur. It grabbed her like a thousand hands, smothering her, making it hard to stay in the saddle. She sucked in a breath of freezing air, spots popping in her vision in the sudden absence of light.
“Shoot them!” The king’s roar filled the impenetrable night, disorienting.
Overhead, the twenty-one junior valkyries cut the darkness with torches in hand—and Sigrid’s senses sharpened. The outlines of winged mares and riders barreled toward her in the sky, shouts and screams filled her ears, and Hestur’s energy rose beneath her as he readied himself for a fight.
In the midst of darkness, anger at the arrogant king rose over Sigrid’s panic.
“Down here! They have Ratatosk!” She opened her hand to summon her spear from where the elf had left it, ready to defend herself. She couldn’t see the enemy, but she could hear them, and so could Hestur. When the spear clapped into her palm, she stayed quiet, letting his superior hearing do the work.
Hestur tensed, responding to movements she couldn’t detect. Suddenly, he spun and kicked with both hind legs, nearly unseating her. There was a yelp when the hit connected and a clatter as bodies collided.
“Good job, bud—”
Hestur’s neck thrust out like someone had yanked on the reins, pitching her forward in the saddle.
Sigrid held onto his mane just in time as he reared. Several shouts echoed from the darkness along with the sound of feet scrambling back.
When his hooves touched down, Sigrid took a chance and threw the spear toward the commotion.
“Oof!”
Satisfaction surged through her at the thump of a body hitting the ground.
She summoned the weapon back. The spear’s golden hilt glinted as light passed over it, and she looked up to see the V formation of valkyries swoop low. Their torches illuminated their surroundings.
Sigrid looked around wildly, straining to see what was happening, and her heart dropped into her stomach. Light flickered over what must have been a hundred advancing Night Elves, all in armor and masks. Had guards been stationed beyond the veil? Of course they had. They might not have been expecting this attack, but their mistrust of outsiders was undeniable.
The guards moved like the elves she’d seen before, insubstantial shadows flitting across the ground like illusions.
She sucked in a breath and gripped the reins tighter.
We have to find the prison before they kill us all.
“Sigrid, catch!” Edith shouted.
The shadow of a torch fell from the sky.
“Yes,” Sigrid said under her breath, nudging Hestur toward it. As he sprang forward, she sheathed the spear across her back and stretched out a hand to catch the torch. “Edith, he’s underground! General Eira was right.”
“On it!” she called back.
With a trembling hand, Sigrid flipped the torch and swiped it down the flint rod on her saddle. It erupted to life with a whoosh.
The fire lacerated the darkness like a spear opening a wound, its light pouring outward. It illuminated a set of antlers at Hestur’s shoulder and a sword raised high.
With a gasp, she jabbed the flame toward the elf.
Though he was safely clothed, the ingrained fear of fire sent him stumbling backward with a yelp. She seized the weakness, swiping the torch like a sword to keep him back. It left an orange trail as it flew, illuminating more shadows advancing behind him.
With the other hand, Sigrid guided Hestur around and nudged him, desperate to get away from this horde.
“Go!”
He spun on his haunches and sprang into a gallop, taking her away from their attackers. If the illuminated path that guided her into Svartalfheim had left them with limited visibility, the torch had even less. But it was better than nothing. And with the valkyries flying by, torches in hand, at least she knew where to go.
Sigrid met up with a group of four valkyries, among them Ylva, who flew low along a dirt road, their mares’ white tails whipping behind them. The girls expertly managed their spears, torches, and mares all at once, carrying a weapon in each hand and using their legs and voice commands to control their mounts. Sigrid did the same on Hestur, using one hand to light the ground so he wouldn’t trip and the other to launch her spear at oncoming shadows.
“Any ideas where the prison is, Ylva?”
“A few others are searching the old keep over there,” Ylva said, though Sigrid couldn’t see where she pointed. “There’s also a fortified tower up here we need to check.”
Though Night Elves couldn’t match the speed of a winged mare or Hestur, the flitting shadows multiplied, coming out of the darkness on all sides.
Cold dread trickled through her veins. Was I a fool for not bringing Sleipnir?
For the first time since leaving Vanaheim, her answer wavered. It was absurd that she’d chosen to ride her ordinary gelding instead of the eight-legged stallion trained for battle by Odin.
Peter, her big brother in all but blood, had gawked at her when she saddled up Hestur. “But Sleipnir was raised and trained for this! Hestur is—”
“First, I ride better on Hestur,” Sigrid had snapped, cutting him off before he could insult her beloved gelding. “Second, if I take Sleipnir with me, it won’t be a secret anymore that I kept him.”
“You can’t keep him a secret forever.”
“I can and I will. No one needs to know Odin’s steed is romping around Vanaheim.”
