The Ice Queen

  Inside, the healers worked. Down the hall from where Caer lay asleep and Headred sat awoke, a baby cried for his mother’s milk. Another man lay feverish from poisoned herbs, sleeping lost and alone. He awakened for a moment when Caer shone her light the night before.

  Mab brought Girth there, before sending one of the maidens outside to awaken Yidrith. Now she sat beside Headred, listening to his complaints. Beoreth warned him not to run off and told him he would leave soon enough.

  Headred grew tired of lying in bed for days on end and wished to cast his circle and seek visions.

  Athellind leaned over Caer and felt her aura as she listened to Mab and the stranger who spoke in hushed voices.

  “Y Erianrod sleeps in evil dreams,” Mab explained to Girth. “’Twas to save him she made this sacrifice.”

  Athellind grunted, and Mab turned to her. Never missed a beat, thought Athellind.

  “The good healer would have me tell you the daughter of the Queen will be well and lies in sleep,” Mab said, smiling at Athellind. “The power of Lord Belial breaks here.”

  “’Tis not so in the camp,” Girth said.

  Headred glanced at him as Mab watched the western window. Athellind moved to the other side of the bed and listened, gleaning information from their whispers.

  “War comes upon us on swift wings,” Mab said. “None can stand against it but the light.”

  Silence fell over the chamber as they felt the power of the fairy’s words.

  “What happened?” Headred asked.

  Girth sighed. “Envoys of Belial convinced some of the race of men to join her. Some welcomed her emissaries, and they held council against the other races. When some of the men joined the enemy, men shed at Glasheim. The men who betrayed us flew from there, but Gavial believes they will return and attack.”

  “First blood,” Mab murmured. “Before the final battle, red rivers will flow through the lands.”

  “Be grateful, my mother, for no blood of our numbers was spilled, but rather the blood of those who betrayed us. Gavial killed Freotheric for his treachery.”

  Headred’s head snapped as he turned to the fairy. “I would not have thought Gavial would have stood against the dark. Not after the council.”

  “He would not stand with the demon,” Yidrith interrupted, striding into the room. “He loves the power he holds, but he loves the people he rules as well. And at his age he knows more than most Kings of mortals what the power of the demon did to these lands.”

  “The war begins?” Athellind asked, forgetting her eavesdroping without being noticed.

  All eyes turned to her, and she flushed a little.

  “No,” Mab said. “But soon the war will come, and the battle will be met, and we are powerless to stop either here.”

  “What do you suggest?” Headred asked, anger rising.

  Mab laid a comforting hand on his. “We must go back and gather the people. If a battle must be fought, we must do all we can to ensure victory.”

  “Where the emissaries of Belial are,” Girth said, “her army cannot be far behind.”

  Wolves already lurked in the forest and grew stronger as winter endured. But golems never dared enter Sul after the Queen’s sacrifice death.

  “The city remains safe,” Yidrith said. “The men have gathered, and the enemies of Belial will have to fight and sacrifice many of their legions, if they hope to gain this place.”

  “Doubt it, my son,” Mab whispered so Athellind could not hear. “She builds great machines of war, machines to obliterate all they are unleashed against. Some of them could tear down stones.”

  “How do you know this, my mother?”

  Mab’s eyes grew dark. “In my dreams I walked in the shadows and saw what would be. Ull may burn before this ends. But hope remains in Caer.”

  *****

  Caer heard voices as she saw the past and the future in her dreams. Athellind tended to her as the others talked. Caer felt trapped behind a veil of dreams, unable to break free.

  And so she listened to what she could, watching the clouds gather, clouds of evil and omens covering the earth, and listened to the screams as blood ran in rivers.

  War will come… Mab said in a voice like a whisper. Caer listened to the screams of death in her dreams. We are powerless to stop…

  What do you suggest…? Headred’s voice trailed off.

  The sky blazed with lightning both white and black, scorching the ground and freezing it. Belial appeared within the circle of stones, throwing her head back and laughing.

  We must go back…

  …do all we can…

  And the world changed, no longer night but day, no longer winter but the end of summer.

  Caer stood in the once-dead gardens of Idalir, alive and blooming in the heat of summer’s end. She heard laughter and followed it, touching blooms of colors she would never have believed possible. And she stopped, feeling faint, as she saw the scene before her.

  A child of the damned played, young and free, her black hair flowing in the cool breeze, watched by a woman who looked so like Beoreth that Caer knew she must be her mother.

  Belial walked on the earth for two years, but she grew more than other children. Already she walked and talked, learned to read and write; already Belial’s face bore the stamp of Moloch’s.

  Berwyn feared the child. None of Enyd lingered there, nothing at all. Not like Belial’s sister, Beren, tall and beautiful, with flaming red hair and deep blue eyes, the image of Enyd. Belial’s skin remained cold, pale, dead, her eyes circles of coal in fields of milk, her hair ebony.

  Berwyn promised Enyd she would keep the child and raise her in the good of the witches. And this she vowed to do, even as she detested it.

  Belial fingered a rose bud, blooming even as a slight chill began to grip the air. Berwyn could hear Beren singing a lullaby from inside the castle. She sang of the love of Cerdic and Cwen, and her words floated down to the gardens.

  Belial made a face, not at all attractive on the face of a child so strange, but what could Berwyn do? She couldn’t make the child’s face beautiful—her care remained the child’s upbringing.

  A bird landed near Belial, and the girl’s face turned into something resembling delight. Perhaps she should not lose hope, Berwyn decided. Perhaps the girl did have good in her after all.

  Belial touched the bird. It wilted and fell dead beneath the withered rose bush.

  “No!” Berwyn shouted.

  Belial cackled, reveling in the death and darkness she made.

  City remains safe… the enemies of darkness will have to fight… Yidrith’s voice said from the sky.

  Builds great machines of war to conquer and destroy… Mab whispered.

  How do you know this…

  Ull will burn before this ends…

  Hope remains in Caer…

  *****

  Caer awoke.

  Athellind started as Caer’s eyes opened as if she blinked for these last hours. Caer winced at the pain charging through her temples.

  “Peace, healer,” Mab said, “the light dawns.”

  “Caer.” Headred pushed himself up from the bed, intending to go to her.

  Athellind moved like the fury of the wind, pushing him down. “No you don’t, my boy. You’ll get up when I say, and not a moment sooner.”

  “Aye.” He cursed as she turned her back.

  “I’ve two good ears, boy. I heard you.”

  Mab glanced from the healer to her charges in wonder at the strange ways of their race and thanked the gods for mercy.

  “Caer, did you listen?” Mab asked.

  “Course she didn’t,” Athellind said with no small amount of irritation. “My patient slept.”

  “I heard some.” Caer, stretching, felt as if she woke up from a long nap. “The war comes upon us.”

  “Aye,” Yidrith said. Caer choked as Athellind poured a mint smelling liquid into her mouth. It tingled as she swallowed. But it refreshed her. br />
  Mab’s deep eyes bore into her. “What says the child of Beren?”

  Caer looked back. “We must return to Glasheim. All who stand with Caer will come to Ull.”

  “The battle already will have begun,” Girth said, wondering if she grew mad.

  Caer stared back unafraid. “Blood cannot be spilled on the stones of gods, not the blood of battle. ’Tis a bad omen.”

  “Y Erianrod gives her orders,” Mab said to Girth and Yidrith. “Make ready what we will need.”

  Girth walked out. Yidrith lingered, pondering Caer’s actions. At a pointed glance from Mab, he departed.

  Athellind left, but before she did she shot a warning look at Headred. He stared back at her, a look of innocence gracing his face. Mab followed the healer, leaving them alone.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Because I could not fight without my heart.”

  He stood and crossed to her. He gazed down at her for a moment before leaning down and taking her lips to his own.

  “I do not know what may happen now,” Caer said. “But know my heart and my love are for you, even if Belial’s will overshadows the earth.”

  He smiled and tiptoed back to bed just as Athellind returned. She glanced at him before carrying the tray of broth and herbal tea to Caer.

  “I saw you,” she said with her back to him, and Caer laughed.

  *****

  Gehrdon and Elric gazed west at the Black Mountains, their faces grave and set, watching the torches of the fallen men as they gleamed at the edge of the forest. Whista’s wild hair blew in the breeze. The wolves howled and golems pounded their spears on the ground.

  The fairy’s brown cloak blew in the wind. The centaur stamped her feet in frustration, in indignation at the treachery and fall of men.

  “So it begins,” Elric said. “It will end in blood and death.”

  Gehrdon knew the truth in what he said.

  “The enemy approaches.” His fairy eyes saw what she could not, a tiny black speck moving toward them over the snow.

  “I will go for Gavial and Sestina. Widsith, Lord of the Water Spirits, and the nymphs must know.”

  Gehrdon reared and her hooves met the snow, beating a path to the others. She did not have to run far. Her mother approached with Gavial, her face grave.

  “An emissary of the enemy approaches,” Gehrdon told them, out of breath from her mad charge.

  Sestina nodded and followed, Gavial trudging through the drifts behind them. When they returned, the creature in the coal cloak stood not far from Elric, a withered hand peeking from beneath his sleeve.

  His eyes cast a light beneath the hood of his cloak, as if a specter. They might be ghosts, Gehrdon thought, for few knew the many legions and devices the demon conjured. And by the sounds of their voices, it seemed possible this creature and the other emissaries could be demons themselves.

  “End this,” he hissed, driving icy chills through the other races.

  Elric looked at him, his gaze impassive.

  “We do not end what we did not begin,” Sestina said.

  The specter turned to her, and she felt the full weight of his cold and shadow. “Do the centaurs agree with the lying fairies? They will betray you; the centaurs will keep the mountains, and the fairies will keep the sidhes for themselves. They will destroy the mortal world they cannot have.”

  “You speak of your master,” Sestina retorted and watched in satisfaction as the wraith screeched at the skies.

  He turned his attention to Gavial. “All will not be lost for you, my son. Those who claim to be your kindred betray their kingdom and the race of men. For the gods said they gave the earth to men?”

  Gavial sneered in response, not deigning to answer.

  “If you serve the cursed witch,” the wraith advised, “you damn Miðgarðir and yourself.”

  “I am damned,” Gavial, moved to speak, said in defiance. “We are all damned.”

  “The nymphs grow weak,” the wraith hissed at Whista. “Their roots and their hearts rot with age. Soon they will serve Belial, true Queen of these lands. Will you turn against them as well?”

  The emissary tried to manufacture sense out of chaos, Gehrdon realized. He tried to deceive and cheat when he could not convince by logic.

  “Go back,” Elric said. “Go back to your master; go back to those who serve your master, and tell them their blood will mark this place if they come for battle!”

  The wraith screeched again, and for a moment appeared to want to attack them. But he turned and glided away, his thin dark shroud blowing around him.

  Caer came to the city in sorrow and pain, bearing a dying burden. Though she raced like the wind from the city, much like she raced as a baby, it would not be to save a single life this time. It would be to keep death from touching them again.

  The woods spread out before them. Caer galloped beside Mab. Girth, Yidrith, and Headred rode behind them, swords and minds ready for the coming battle. The magic inside Caer grew; waves of heat and power spilled from her fingertips, glistening on her skin and shining in her eyes. It reared inside her, almost too much to handle without the anger she harbored earlier to control it.

  Caer could not imagine good Queens and witches using their power in rage alone. Deep inside she began to feel a foundation of strength she never knew before.

  Caer pondered her recent dream of the demon as a child. After the vision, Caer knew Belial never knew good. No virtue remained within her from the moment she of her conception. Caer could not understand why Enyd would not use her power to end the life in her womb and stop Belial’s evil before it began.

  Whether by a mothers love for her child, or by the child who possessed her from the womb, Enyd doomed the world to a second evil.

  Ia thelemareth tihood shimeth thalai.

  I feel the darkness grow in power… Mab’s voice said in her mind.

  Caer perceived it too, the waves of cold fury as Lord Belial rode from Eliudnir through the Niðafjöll Mountains. Belial’s servants waited in the woods. The Dark Army’s presence desecrated Glasheim. She sensed Belial reach for her, to strike at her with winter.

  The Dark Lord would not touch her now, not before the battle began.

  Shamathai garathinai dovultiman withsis denopenai.

  The gates of the dark towers have opened.

  Caer rode ever faster, her own wind blowing the snow from the path.

  She will unleash her shadow on the world again, Mab continued. Her shadow will consume the world. You feel this.

  She did know this, and she did feel it. She saw in visions what would now come, and the stakes at which the gods set victory. There could be one Queen alone, one witch who ruled Sul. If Caer lost, Belial would rule.

  The time comes upon us for the first blood of war…

  Caer glanced at the fairy beside her. No wolves or golems would block their path this day. But time stood against them as they raced on. The emissary of Belial, a spirit of the rotted trees, returned to the men and told them the answer of those who served Caer.

  Blood will be spilled in the council of the gods…

  In Glasheim, the armies gathered. The men who betrayed Caer and men who remained loyal faced each other. The golems and the centaurs, the wolves and the fairies, the wraiths and the nymphs girded themselves for war.

  If the shadow cannot be stopped…

  Caer nodded and sped on, unwilling to give up hope. Caer would wage her own war, against Belial, the demon who shared her heritage, who hastened on another path as the armies battled.

  Belial began this war. The reckoning drew upon them, when she would face Caer.

  *****

  The wintry world shone in the pale sunlight. It seemed like a shadow passed over the sun. Those who served the old ways told others Woden wept for the Miðgarðir.

  But the Lord of gods wept not for the winter but for the desecration to come.

  On the plains of Niðavellir, below the tor of Glashei
m, where the circle of standing stones commemorated the council of the gods, the armies of Belial and Caer gathered to wage a battle and set the course of a war.

  None could stop the blood from falling on the snow; none could stop the evil from happening there today.

  Elric looked out with the fairies’ archers towards the ebony tents of Dark Army’s camp. The army of loyal mortals stood in line, waiting, facing some who they once considered their allies. The line of the traitor’s army seemed small, but determination lingered on their grizzled faces. The shadow moved behind their eyes, and crawled in their skin. Elric could feel the evil now living in them.

  Golems, the evil minions of Moloch, now under the command of Moloch’s daughter, came into Sul for the first time since the last war, wearing black armor and large helmets, their skin grey and dead. Wolves gathered, their howls rising into the skies, grey fur shining and red eyes gleaming, hungry for flesh. Wraiths, the trees whose hearts and roots rotted, and whose spirits grew foul in old age, stood among them; corrupted to Belial’s will by her vengeful whispering.

  The ranks of the races assembled. The shield bearers of the four races stood before them, three hundred strong. Elric and the spearmen stood behind. And behind them stood the human swordsmen, and the centaur archers.

  They set the board, the players waited, ready. Elric waited for the Dark Army to make the first move.

  “Huma,” Gehrdon called. He donned a human’s helmet and clutched a small sword. She wanted to laugh and to feel pride, because he wanted to help them fight. But she could not bear her own sadness if Huma fell. Gehrdon watched over her beloved brother while she watched over Caer.

  “My brother, you will not need those.”

  He stared at her, disappointed. “I want to fight.”

  “Not today, brave centaur, for another battle awaits you.” She motioned to Beoreth and Eadwine, standing not far off.

  He appeared even more crestfallen than before, not wanting guard duty.

  “Do not look so.” She patted his hairy shoulder. “I need you to protect Beoreth and Eadwine, for they cannot fight. Take them to safety, to Vingólf, and follow the path into the woods. If we fail, go as far as you can and do not stop until you find a village of men.”

  He nodded. Her heart clenched as he trotted off, still clutching his sword.