The Ice Queen

  “He seemed to be better,” the healer explained as they hurried. “Better, but not enough, it seems. His body grows cold, his mind and strength weak. The demon takes too much from him.”

  They entered the room where Athellind bent over him. “We can do nothing more for him.” She stood, her eyes brimming with tears. “Tonight he will pass into shadow.”

  Caer stared at her as if she killed a unicorn in front of her.

  “Child, we can do nothing,” Athellind said. “His body grows too weak, and no one can fight Belial once she touches them.”

  “Leave me with him.” Caer waited, but neither of the healers moved. “Now!” she commanded, as a Queen.

  The healers bowed their heads and obeyed.

  Caer crossed to the bed and touched Headred’s face. She jerked her hand back from the sudden rush of cold, as if death took him. Caer cried, unable to bear it.

  Caer took his hand and laced their fingers together. She laid her head on his chest and drew herself on top of him. “Do not leave me, Headred, my love, you are my light, my light.”

  He did not move, and his breath rattled in his chest.

  “Do you remember?” she sobbed. “We lost our way on the road to the door, and we stood in the cave as the others slept?”

  He did not answer.

  “You held me, for warmth and for love, as you told me of Cwen and Cerdic, the lovers of the gods?” She wept as his breath rattled on, and his skin grew colder.

  “Woden and Frigg, Lord and Lady of radiance, hear my call!” she cried. The winds outside howled and spun, and the guards and warriors who walked and watched in the streets grew fearful.

  “Use whatever power you have given me to heal him. Spare his life.”

  Athellind pushed the door open, breathless from running back down the hall, alerted by the other healers of strange happenings in Headred’s chamber. Something felt amiss in the city. Magic returned again; she felt it in her blood. She watched as Caer slumped onto Headred’s chest and felt the magic grow.

  “By the gods,” she whispered and covered her eyes.

  Where the light came from no one knew, but some said the stars themselves burned as bright as a thousand suns. In the Eliudnir, Belial screamed and shut herself in, and in the council of Glasheim they saw a flash. Above the city the sky glowed as if the day came.

  Athellind rushed to Headred as the light faded. He stood at the door of the hereafter; now color and warmth returned to him.

  Caer slumped, cold and dying, above him.

  “Take her to the bed there,” Athellind instructed the healers who rushed in.

  “What happened here?” Mab asked, from the doorway. The fairy Queen’s wings fluttered in full health, no longer exhausted. The healers turned to face her.

  “I do not know,” Athellind replied. “She healed him of Belial’s evil touch, but now Caer ails.” Athellind laid an aged hand on Mab’s shoulder. “Can you help her?”

  “I do not yet have the strength left in me to do what you ask,” Mab sighed. “I did not think she would sacrifice all to save him, and for her foolishness she may damn us all.”

  Athellind shook her head. “Don’t you turn to such thoughts, Mab,” she said to the fairy Queen, who seemed taken with surprise at the healer’s indignation. “I’ve heard the people of this city say too many times of the good Queen and her daughter. She’ll live, and she’ll face Belial.”

  “I hope to the gods you are not mistaken.” Mab turned and left, praying the healer would be right. Or doom would come upon them all.

  *****

  By dawn, the people spoke of the night’s events. They said Y Erianrod awoke, and her power made the stars shine. And as word spread it grew.

  Throughout Ull, people told the tale of how Caer returned to them, and through her power the dead resurrected, and the evil of night faded away. And as rumor ran rampant, the people lined the streets before the house waiting to be healed by her.

  Inside, Mab watched Caer sleep. She improved, the warmth returning to her skin.

  Caer’s power, Mab thought, was greater than she could have imagined. Caer’s power overcame her, and she could not control it.

  Athellind bent over Headred. “He will awaken soon enough.”

  “Soon enough or now,” Headred answered, his voice scratchy.

  Mab sighed, as Athellind poured water down his throat.

  “I am parched, woman,” he said, with no small amount of irritation. “Do not drown me so soon after I have cheated death. If I possessed the strength I would shove the glass down your throat.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Athellind said and left them alone.

  “Do you remember what happened, my child?” Mab asked.

  He looked at her. “I do. I saw clouds boiling above me, and heard the demon whispering to me. I could not resist; I grew too weak. She drew me to her, to Eliudnir.”

  “Did she succeed in breaking you?” Mab asked. She seemed concerned they just healed the one who could destroy them.

  “No,” he whispered. “Because all of the sudden I stood with my love, and brilliant sunlight surrounded us. She kissed me, and I felt joy and warmth and strength within me. And I slept without dreams until I awoke.”

  “Strange omens indeed,” Mab whispered and fell silent.

  “Y Erianrod guarded against the Mór-Ríogain.” Headred said.

  Mab smiled and peered at Caer, unconscious in the other bed.

  “Will she awaken?” Headred asked. She looked as bad as he felt.

  “Great is the power the gods gave her,” Athellind interjected, returning with broth. “Eat this, child or I’ll shove it down your throat as well as the tea.”

  “She’ll drive me mad,” he said to Mab and began to sip the broth in submission.

  “Indeed, I see her power,” Mab told Athellind. “She too went through the shadows, so her love might find peace.”

  And as Headred gazed upon her and remembered her sacrifice, he listened to Caer’s shallow breath as she slept in dreams of warmth and peace.

  *****

  Sable clouds boiled above Eliudnir; lightning streaked as the rivers of fire poured through the wastelands.

  In the courtyard behind the closed gates, the golems worked, building according to Belial’s instructions: massive machines of war they would take with them, machines to bring the lands of winter to its knees; machines to tear down the walls of Ull and leave a smoldering ruin of blood and flame.

  Belial oversaw Waermund as he mixed the thin, grey powder. His hand shook with nervous anxiety as he combined the ingredients in a giant, stone basin. It looked like ash and soot; Waermund did not know how this powder could bring down the stone walls of Ull.

  “What does this do again?” Waermund’s question hung in the air.

  “Just be careful,” Belial snapped and watched more.

  The powder settled. Belial glanced up. “Watch.” She lit a long stick with a torch. Her hand moved towards the powder-filled wood box. “Stand back, fool of a man.”

  Belial lit a line of cloth at the box’s top, and they stepped away as Belial tossed the box from the tower window.

  The sound it made deafened Waermund. The blast turned a nearby section of the fortress wall into a smoldering ruin, ashes and dust flying up as wooden sticks burned on it.

  “Good.” She seemed pleased. “Very good.”

  “More will be needed,” he reminded her.

  She nodded, her dead skin sagging. He almost cringed but held back his disgust for fear of his life. But she knew, he thought. She always knew.

  For now she just stood as he went back to where he mixed the powder. Such a simple thing, such a little thing.

  Yet how could dust be made into a war machine? Waermund wondered.

  Lord Belial explained it not to be just any powder. Many golems and wolves died to bring the charcoal, and other components, to dig it from deep within the mountains. Worth the cost, she thought, the powder’s fire still gleaming in
her eyes, worth the death of her servants to possess the weapon her enemy did not.

  Waermund cringed as footsteps sounded outside.

  “Gorga,” Belial acknowledged the golem lieutenant as he stepped into the room.

  Small slits, unseen if one did not know where to look, quivered below the forehead of his horned face, containing his eyes, opened on rare occasions in near darkness and covered in blood. His cold grey skin mimicked hers, his eyes red, and his pointed, yellow teeth gleaming in the light of the towers. “The machines,” he growled, glowering at Waermund and swinging his club. “The machines are ready, my Queen.”

  He sacrificed so much by joining her. Waermund wondered as he mixed more powder. How many times would he pay; how many of her servants paid more? He wished he never betrayed Beren.

  “You will be rewarded for this,” she promised Waermund, leaning close and bringing her stench of death and decay. “Make this ready, for we will leave soon and make war.”

  “Come, my Queen, and inspect our work.” Gorga led her off.

  Waermund glanced out the window at the Black Mountains and wished again he never betrayed the lands or the people of Sul.

  But hope fled him now. For war would now be made on the lands of Sul, with his help.

  The golems’ feet stamped in the wastelands. Thousands of them moved about their tasks below the battlements of the towers. The army of Óskópnir, within the fortress of Eliudnir, waited for Lord Belial to come, and for the gates to open.

  The War of Darkness endured in the time of winter, and the final battle now came upon them.

  Night fell when Belial arrived at the battlements. She gazed at her army. Golems, shrouded in iron armor, rode the demon-bred horses of Eliudnir and traveled on foot, carrying with them the doom of men. Wolves stood on their hind legs, claws and teeth their weapons, with glowing red eyes beaming from beneath their helmets.

  The rain ceased, though storm clouds still swirled above. Waermund glanced at Belial, who nodded. The warriors before the towers readied their whips to force draft horses into drawing open the vast gates, so long closed.

  Ull would fall, the people would bleed and die, and Belial, at long last, would be Queen of the lands given to her by her father before her birth, lands forever destined to be winter, in eternal damnation.

  If Caer lived it would not happen.

  So Y Erianrod must die. But how could such a miracle happen if the gods protected Caer?

  Belial stretched to her full height upon the battlements. The gates remained closed. As she scryed on Ull in the frozen pool on the ground, she saw the great machinations of war. Belial stood at the tower’s heights, her minions watching her, wrath and fury in her eyes.

  Belial believed Moloch’s power would not let any touch her. By Caer’s death Belial would change the earth.

  The Lord Belial, in a hooded riding robe, her eyes glowing red in the dead skin of her face, descended the stairs to the courtyard. She seemed carried by the wind, each tread resounding as though she already sealed the doom of Miðgarðir.

  “So we have come to this place,” Belial hissed to the army. “Before us lies the vile child, Y Erianrod, taken from the Queen’s own blood, who stands against my power and my will. She and the four races would keep you here, yet you follow me, for you believe your place will be to fill the earth with your children.”

  The army stood quiet before her. The wind blew off her hood, and her black hair streamed down her back. Waermund saw the jet ovals of her eyes and her soul, the evil he served and the horror surrounding all she touched.

  “We have brought doom upon many in my name,” Belial said, her voice rising, accompanied by the thunder overhead. “Your forefathers fled when Moloch fell, and yet you returned here, seeking shelter, and the power you believe awaits you.”

  Belial stood unmoved by the golems’ stamping of approval and the joyous howl of the wolves. She raised her hands. They quieted. She came closer to them. Victory so close to them now, so much within their grasp as they waited for Belial to strike.

  “A fool Caer the daughter of Beren must be,” Belial said, haughty laughter spilling from her. “She thinks her power could save the lands of magic or the peasants from the coming death. Nay, fool of a woman, her doom my father wrote long ago, but I shall endure.”

  Belial’s eyes showed malice and fury for Caer in an instant, scorching all they looked upon and leaving the army shaken in fear of her gaze. Above them, the storm clouds grew.

  “You do not know yet who I am, for I have not yet unleashed my power upon the world!” Thunder clapped, shaking the earth in cadence with her words. “Run now, my greatest servants; run through Sul and wreak havoc upon all you see! Show no mercy toward our enemies, for your Lord Belial will show no mercy to you! Show the races I will slay all the servants of witches where they stand!

  “Burn the hides of the centaurs, the fairies, the trees and men. Eat the flesh you crave from the children and the mothers and the younglings of the four races. Tear down the trees and burn their roots. Vanquish the fairies with your axe and spear. In my name, destroy them all!”

  No one in the army said a word, though her eyes foretold fury and wrath for the races of men and Caer, their leader. The evil will inside her filled with fury, until Belial felt she could take no more from it. With its power it lashed out and struck the gates.

  The golems and wolves saw fire thrown in the air. The river of fire flowing through the land burned and scorched the soft tissue of those who worked readying the great war machines for transport. Eyes fearful, they turned to the gates, awaiting the battle, as Belial faced the enemy who tormented her for so long.

  “I am Belial, daughter of your Lord and father Moloch, bearer of the gifts of the witches and of the dark powers, servant of my father’s will upon the Earth,” she said in a voice like thunder, drawing her sword and raising it. “I am the one sent into the earth, of whom the prophecies laid down long ago. I am the shadow come into Miðgarðir, to drive back the day and bring forth the eternal night and winter.”

  Belial swung herself on her jet-black horse, its eyes shimmering with blood, snorting as she turned it to the open gates and began to ride past the army.

  “Go now, my children,” Belial boomed, as the storm raged. “In sunlight you are destroyed, and light no longer dwells in Sul. Go now from this place and spread my shadow over all the earth!”

  Her army needed no more prodding. They sped forth through the open gates, toward Sul where the battle awaited them, following their Lord Belial as she rode for the distant mountains.

  Belial moved in the storm she created. Long ago driven from Sul, her kingdom by birthright, now she returned the Dark Lord of Miðgarðir. Now she returned, dressed in robes of simple ebony under a mantle of grey.

  Cold snow began to fall upon the wastelands, and the storms spread over Sul.

  “Gods help us,” Waermund said, standing alone in the towers of Eliudnir. None here saw more than he of her evil and her power.

  “Why do you not deliver us?” he shouted to the skies, the few golems and wolves who remained gazing up at him. “For I am weary, and Belial took much from me.”

  No answer came as Belial and her army sped to the Niðafjöll Mountains and the lands of winter. The black hand of Belial moved to war against the peoples of Miðgarðir.

  *****

  From Glasheim, a rider rode fast upon a fairy horse to warn Caer.

  The horse gleamed white. The rider did not think; he rode. Salvation must be brought to the races at Glasheim now, or the demon would forge this harsh winter into an eternal, unchangeable fate.

  Girth could see the beacon of Ull shining through the trees. In the forest wolves howled, and the sun hid behind thunderstorms. Woden, it appeared, could not or would not, drive back the power of Belial.

  The Dark Army came on swift wings.

  Girth knew this day would come, for he fought in the first Dark War beside his father. He stood on the battlefield and wat
ched wolves, golems and Moloch cut down the people, destroying and pillaging. He saw Oberon struck down.

  The second Dark War came to an end, more than twenty years after it began.

  It began when the Lord Belial rose from the ashes of her father, when she gathered his evil to her and his servants to her command. The wolves flourished in the wasted lands beyond the Black Mountains, and there evil consumed all.

  Belial fired the first shot of the second war, sending an ambush to kill the mortal King. Wounded and dying, Gareth called out, and Beren heard. And in Idalir, Beren waited.

  For hope would come into Miðgarðir, and she would bear a daughter of power.

  The white horse kicked the snow remaining in the deep trench Caer forged. He saw her great fury, her strong will, and her heart desperate to save the one she loved, so she might save them all.

  The trees seemed to bend to the will of the rider, bowing before the immortal gracing the path between them, whispering in the winds, so the path looked like a hall of trees, stretching before Girth.

  The path widened, and the city loomed, tall and powerful, the first and last refuge of mortals.

  He did not stop; he did not rest; and he did not wait. He flung out his hand. The gates flew open. And inside the city, Mab waited.

  He stopped inside of the White Gates.

  Girth stepped down from the horse and looked at his mother.

  She, tall and sad, beautiful in the way of their people, stared back at him. A single tear slid down her cheek. “It begins.” She knew.

  “Yes, my mother. The men--”

  “Not here, my son. We will go where we can talk with friends.” She led him through the city, to the house where Caer slept, to where she waited and the destiny of the people hid.

  *****

  The dawn broke on Ull, spilling light on the ashen walls and the turrets, the tower guard and the stone statues of the gods guarding the gates, the visages of the ancient gods in stone alcoves, bearing sword and axe against the enemies of witches and men.

  The healing house gleamed. People passed by, and children played in the streets before the ancient doors of the house, and on the stone steps of the nearby temple.