The Ice Queen

  Not far away, Gehrdon screamed and leapt toward her lover falling with a golem’s poisoned arrow embedded in her leg.

  The armies of Ull began to fall.

  “For Miðgarðir,” she said to Fenrir.

  The wolf laughed. Foolish fairy. He leapt.

  Gavial pushed King Grislere back. The traitorous Lord sent a ringing blow against Gavial’s sword. Surrounded by the enemy, Gavial knew this became a battle they would not win.

  Closer to the gates, Fenrir leapt on Mab. The archers on Idalir’s walls unleashed a new wave of arrows to no avail.

  “Wha--” Grislere, blocking a blow from Gavial, glanced over Gavial’s. Gavial looked around and saw a dark cloud descending from the mountain.

  So it ends like this, Gavial thought. A fool’s hope they put in Caer, and a fool’s hope failed them all.

  He swung with the strength of a man half his age, and yelled at the top of his lungs, knocking Grislere away. Gavial looked again and found himself surrounded by a flock of birds, pecking at the Dark Army, clawing at their eyes.

  Arrows streamed from the golem’s bows. Hundreds of birds fell. Hundreds more surrounded them. Every second more of the city burned. The enemy advanced fast through its streets, covered in carnage.

  It ends now, Gavial thought, and raised his sword. “Men to me!” he shouted. The remaining warriors rushed to his side. Before them, a line of golems and wolves advanced. The wolves, bloodlust in their eyes, bared their teeth, while the faces of the golems remained unmoved.

  Gavial, slashing and whirling, led the charge into the army of the enemy, knowing his death would come soon. It would be glorious and earn him a seat in the hall of Woden.

  A fiery missile hit the castle wall high above the fighting. A piece of rock cascaded down, crashing into Gavial’s helm, sending him sprawling. He embraced the darkness.

  “The trees!” Sestina shouted, as the void engulfed Gavial’s mind.

  Sestina looked down from the highest part of the city, past the carnage of the battle. Lit by the glowing fires, the trees of the forests sprang to life, a thousand nymphs rushing from them.

  Some attacked the machines of war the golems used to destroy the walls of the ancient city, while many more rushed through the gates, overrunning the golems who poured in. Still, the nymphs seemed few compared to the army of Belial.

  Sestina refused to think of her son and daughter, or of anyone else she cared about in the battle. She watched so many fall this night. The glow of the flames reflected in her eyes, and fury seethed.

  She lowered her sword. A hundred archers let loose their rage into the golems below.

  “Anath novem,” Mab screamed. Electricity hurled Fenrir off her. Blood seeped onto her dress from the gash on her neck. Fenrir growled.

  Mab took the moment to take in the battlefield. The streets grew littered with the dead and dying of both sides. She sighed in relief as Gehrdon pushed the golems away and began to fight again, the arrow pushed out through her leg. Cahros’ chest rose and fell as Elric’s men rescued him.

  Hearing a growl, Mab turned to fight again.

  *****

  New snow atop old snow and ice made the ancient path running beside the mountain slick, marred by the footsteps of the man who ran along it and Caer who walked before him. The Ice Queen floated beside him.

  Headred ran with the speed and fury of the winds toward Glasheim. He must reach her, the woman he loved, born of love and of the promise and hope of the world. Even as he raced toward her, the demon attacked her again.

  Lightning lanced out of the sky far away, and the thunder responded. The battle met. Caer faced Belial.

  He knew what she faced, for he saw it in visions. He watched Belial’s anger lance from the skies. He watched the demon’s sword, forged by her father, pierce Caer’s heart, and her blood pour onto the clean snow.

  There the hope of the people ended.

  Even as he ran, visions ensnared his mind. He watched the girl he once met in the forests of the southern wilderness, a girl who saw him in her dreams as he saw her.

  He saw at that time the flame flickering inside her, as the light flickered in her mother. He felt the light when he went to Vingólf, and the Ice Queen’s spirit came to him.

  As a child he knew the girl to be the Ice Queen’s daughter.

  He did not see it before, as he grew into a man. His heart yearned for one woman, who walked with him in dreams, young and beautiful, dwelling far from him, where he could not touch her, hold her, and tell her of his love. Even Yidrith doubted she would return, but the hope Headred clung to sustained him through the long years without her.

  Yet at last Headred found her.

  Hurry to the place where she waits…

  The Ice Queen raced beside him, the glimmer of her mothers in her eyes. Closer and closer he came to where Caer battled Belial.

  But still she seemed far away.

  *****

  Belial looked at Caer, who came from the line of their mothers, and for the first time in her life, she felt doubt.

  The Y Erianrod would not be the easy prey she anticipated. The power of the witches shining from her, illuminating the evil the demon’s heart conjured.

  Around her Belial perceived the shadows begin to quake and crumble to dust.

  “No!” she shouted, sending black lightning flying. The streaks exploded before the lady of light, shoving her backward into the snow, her head cracking on a rock.

  Caer’s head throbbed from the demon’s attack. Blood seeped into her mouth. She found power there, power of blood spilled and life not lost. Hope, it seemed, still remained.

  Caer witnessed the cold rage in the demon’s eyes, and the demon saw the white hot fury in Caer’s. Lightning struck the ground again, but Caer remained unmoved. Far off the wolves began to quiver.

  “No good remains in your heart, Belial? No love remains in you?”

  Do not listen to her. An echo of Moloch’s dark voice penetrated Belial’s mind as she wavered. Do not trust a witch. Kill her now, while you have the chance.

  Belial unleashed her fury. The lightning and the thunder grew thick. “I’ll watch you die, witch!” she screamed, as the lightning struck the ground at her feet, leaving a smoldering ruin of snow and the earth, and a gleam beneath it.

  Fury lashed in the winds, carrying Caer off her feet. She smashed into the stone behind her, the stone bench of Cerdic and Cwen.

  Caer felt the power of the gods in the stone, coursing in the earth beneath. Even now the gods hold sway, she thought. Even now the end did not seem sure.

  She drew strength from the gods, felt their power seep into her blood. Belial’s shrieks ripped through the night, sending the winds gusting and the snow swirling. Belial screamed in despair as Caer lashed out and sent her sprawling.

  Both women fell to the ground, gasping.

  “Kashnateth,” Belial gasped. A smoky haze surrounded the ground before her, as a sword, long and curved, shimmered into existence.

  The dead hand of the Dark Lord reached for the sword she conjured.

  As Headred ran, the plains of Niðavellir spread before him, beginning with the stone circle at Glasheim. He saw Belial rise, illuminated by Caer’s light. Caer pushed herself from the ground, Belial’s sword glittering above her.

  Before Headred, four guardian wolves growled as their fur bristled. They waited for Belial’s victory.

  Headred did not think; he acted. He ripped his sword from its sheath.

  Beside him, Beren sighed. The savior of their people at last comes among them.

  The wolves jumped at Headred, howling, teeth bared and mouths foaming.

  His sword slashed, sending them to the ground, blood pouring onto the snow.

  “You cannot pass,” the lone remaining wolf said an instant, before its head went spinning and its body falling. Headred wrenched his sword from the wolf. The metal snapped against a bone and broke.

  Headred screamed and ran.

  A
vision gripped him, and his sight spun.

  Belial whirled at Headred’s yell, her sword faltering.

  “Fool,” she yelled and lashed out at him, jets of flame flying from her hand.

  “Bæc æfnan,” Caer screamed and sent the demon flying. Headred saw Hünjjuerad, lying forgotten in the snow where Caer fell. He picked up the sword and raced towards Belial.

  “Wyrdan þeostru…” Caer began to issue a curse at Belial.

  “Acwela…” Belial shouted as she stood and whirled. The cold steel of Hünjjuerad pierced her dead flesh and shattered. Blood poured from her stone heart, where the shards of the sword lingered.

  Belial, Dark Lord of the earth, fell defeated.

  Fire seemed to encircle the whirling, raging clouds, spreading ever outward into Miðgarðir. The clouds dissipated as the long night ended. The sun peeked through as the Dark Army gazed on in terror.

  Lightning poked the war machines, setting them aflame, and thunderous explosions ripped through the night. The people cheered as the demon’s powder exploded in the enemy camps and sent the golems, wolves, and men into chaos. Those who escaped alive scattered into the woods.

  Belial sank to the ground and screeched as the life faded from her, black blood seeping into the ground, burning the snow and the ground, boiling on the stones. Another scream cut through the air as Headred fell beside her.

  “No!” Caer cried, crawling to Headred , kneeling beside him. He grew cold, sleep and fever caressing his mind, drawing him into death.

  “F--ool,” Belial laughed, choking on her own blood. “I will be gone, but your victory will be empty. Nothing can save a man who touches death. I may die, but so will he.”

  As Belial crumbled into dust, Caer cradled Headred’s head and wept.

  And so the world changed.

  Y Erianrod, awaited since her birth in Ull twenty years before, the gods at long last revealed, and the winter and the shadows of the demon Belial faded away.

  In the western wasteland, beyond the shadow of the Black Mountains, Eliudnir, fortress of Lord Belial and her father, crumbled to dust, the memory of the towers power diminished in the defeat of their masters.

  Hunting parties sought out to destroy the last of the golems and wolves in the forests, and Caer returned to Ull, scarred from the final battle. The women and children who fled the city before the final battle returned. Joyful women reunited with husbands and sons, while mothers wailed over the corpses of sons killed.

  But Caer’s victory tasted as bitter as defeat, for though she fulfilled her destiny, and the winter at last ended, devastation lingered from the long winter. Headred laid in the house of the healers, his soul hidden in shadows and darkness, the final vengeance of the fallen demon, death drawing ever closer to him.

  And as the wounds of Miðgarðir healed, Caer’s heart bled in pain and sorrow, and she diminished.

  *****

  Grislere’s gleaming eyes scanned the woods. Somewhere behind his men followed, their grizzled faces cunning, searching with their former king for the haven Gheris led them to. The servants of Belial alone could protect them upon her defeat. For her they betrayed Caer.

  “It isss not far,” Gheris, who led him, hissed. “Not far now…”

  Ahead of them, wolves howled. The golems grunted as they marched toward the wastelands of Óskópnir, seeking refuge from the vengeance of their enemies. Storms seemed to have come upon the land again, for the sky clouded and no stars or moon shone down.

  “Come, come,” the wraith urged. “Our friendsss are expecting you…”

  Grislere felt his anger at the witch growing. His heart grew as rotten as the wraith’s, thinking of the betrayal of Gavial. But Grislere and his people would live, and they would know the life the others would not know. Grislere would be king again, in a new land.

  One day the witches would pass into legend, but Grislere and his descendants would endure.

  “We are here,” Gheris announced.

  They came to the Niðafjöll Mountains, stopping before a mountain marred by a single opening.

  “Where are your friends?” Grislere asked. His people murmured in confusion behind him.

  “They approach,” Gheris said and disappeared in a wisp of acrid smoke.

  From within the chasm came a rumbling. The men quieted. They could see into the near-abyss, if they held their torches aloft. Thousands of figures marched through the mountain. Rocks cascaded, and Grislere glanced up when he heard the growl of a wolf. The wolves, once their allies, descended toward them, teeth bared.

  Grislere realized the trap, as the first of the wolves jumped him, sending blood flying onto a nearby tree. Grislere drew his dagger and sliced at the wolf. The wolf smiled in satisfaction as fear gripped the man who betrayed the one person in the world who could save him, and abandoned all he believed in. Grislere thought no more.

  No one heard the screams of the treacherous men, now betrayed by the servants of Belial.

  *****

  Mab and the fairies rode from the city to Glasheim, and back again. Caer rode with them, a shell of a person. Elric carried Headred. Mab alone lingered at the sacred spot, to collect the shards of Hünjjuerad and pray to the gods for Headred.

  They rode into Ull, past the battlements and the guard towers, the gates and the people, carried by the fury of the winds and their urgent plight. The healers’ house rose before them. Athellind opened the door and waited in silence.

  Caer stroked Headred’s face.

  “My lady,” Mab said.

  Caer forced her own voice to work as her heart broke into the light of a thousand stars. Elric carried Headred’s feverish form.

  “The darkness wreaked her final vengeance upon him.” Caer insisted, pleading to the healer, her blue eyes seeming to pierce the healer’s clothes, her skin, and her mind.

  “We must work now,” Athellind turned to the other healers, motioning to Elric and Girth. “Follow me.”

  Elric and Girth carried Headred, through the ancient stone walls to a chamber. They laid him on the bed. Athellind felt his light fading.

  “Here you will find rest,” she said, and with her outstretched hand summoned another experienced healer equal to Athellind in knowledge.

  The other healer fled in search of herbs. Headred’s breathing became shallow again. He lay on the soft bed, his face pale, his leather jerkin soaked in blood.

  “You should rest now, child,” Athellind told Caer.

  Mab took her arm to lead her away.

  “No.” Caer resisted.

  “His body does not die, but his mind passes,” Athellind shrugged, looking from Headred to Mab. “I can do little for him but heal his body. Already his mind begins to pass into the shadow of death.”

  Mab and Athellind left Caer and began to wait to see if Headred would live or die.

  Days and nights seemed to pass for Caer with no end or beginning. She drifted in and out of sleep, alone. Headred slept down the hall in dreams like her own, fighting Belial as she did in her imaginings.

  Athellind looked after her and sighed, her heart weeping for the girl. Three days and two nights passed since Hünjjuerad vanquished the demon’s shadow.

  Caer remembered when they brought Headred to the healing house before, Headred who again lay in dark dreams. Caer remembered in her fatigue now, and she tried again to cast the circle and step in. But this time she found no way to help him.

  When she came out, she wept and laid down to rest. Afterward she neither ate nor drank, always sleeping and crying in the small bed.

  Athellind knew there hope fled Headred.

  Caer heard Mab’s sad and peaceful song.

  “Dia soaf ben yen, dia soaf ben yen,” Mab sang as she walked through the halls. “Spria hetan, entar y iles.”

  The battle is ended; the battle is ended. The warmth of spring, the winter breaks.

  A tear slipped down Caer’s cheek. She found no absolution in the words. Caer should lay in darkness now, not Head
red who did nothing to deserve this fate.

  “Dia soaf ben yen, dia soaf ben yen. Arlen hireth, bachai sides.”

  The battle is ended; the battle is ended. The war is over, and blood is spilled.

  The gods let him fall to Belial. They never saw fit to interfere with the evil they cast into Óskópnir. And by miracles of fate she fought Lord Belial.

  “Dia soaf ben yen, dia soaf ben yen.”

  Now an innocent would perish for Belial’s evil to be vanquished.

  The battle is ended; the battle is ended.

  Caer iormeita. Caer, come to me.

  Caer turned to see the door open, though no one stood there. She walked outside, feeling the true warmth of the sun on her skin, for the first time in her life. But the sun gave no comfort in the world, even in the thaw.

  She felt no emotion as she walked, nothing as the people pieced together the walls and ruined buildings, shattered by Belial’s army. All she passed saw the blankness in her eyes, as if her mind fled.

  Two fairy horses waited at the gates, with Mab atop her white steed, and the Firesong ready for Caer.

  “Ride with me, my daughter.”

  Caer stared at her.

  “Hope remains for him. Belial no longer holds power in Miðgarðir. We ride to Glasheim, and there we will pray.”

  Caer nodded and hoisted herself up.

  She remembered the first time she sat on a horse.

  Headred picked her up and set her before him. And neither her own welling power nor the power of the horse could compare to the power Headred possessed over her. He rode to follow her heart, to follow her call, for she held the same power over him.

  Glasheim called to her now.

  Caer looked around at the land beyond the city gates. The thaw began; the spring came. The trees once sagging under the weight of ice came alive, tall and strong, blowing in the warm breeze.

  The horses skidded in the sludge of mud and melted snow. Grass sprouted beneath it. The sun shone, and still Caer felt nothing in her heart, a heart growing colder every moment.

  “Miðgarðir begins again to breathe,” Mab said, waving her hand.

  Something strange grew out of the ground, a green and red plant, unlike anything Caer saw before.

  “’Tis a rose, my daughter. A flower, sprouting from its rosebush where once winter covered all.”