Second Night (54 page)

The wound was throbbing. Caz nodded. ‘I burned a shape-changer with a nasty bite.'

The Haggard Man scanned the desolate country around them. The sense of hidden menace was palpable. He leapt down from his mare and collected his spent arrows. ‘You ride with mortal blood in your veins, my friend, and you will be sought out. Your enemy is a mighty opponent. Only the spear may hope to hinder him. Let us go swiftly.'

Caz held him back. ‘Have you seen the old man and the mare that crossed with me? We were separated and I am pledged to protect the mare.'

The Haggard Man shook his head. ‘Treachery crossed the threshold before you, but do not be disheartened. All paths lead to the Tree and there they will come to be judged. We must ride.'

They reached the snowy summit of the mountain and looked down into a giant crater encircled by the jagged peaks of distant mountains white against the skyline. It was filled with smoke and flashes of artillery fire and the intermittent pounding of heavy guns.

‘There is battle this night,' said the Haggard Man. ‘We contend with the black-fanged servitors of the Mist Realms for the souls of the slain. Victory will honour many with the Bite of the Spear. The High One awaits us at the Tree.'

CHAPTER 92

The battle was raging. Both sides were taking heavy losses. The terrain was littered with the broken bodies of the dead and wounded. The rebel forces had secured the caves and the upper slopes on one side of the crater. The allied troops were under fire along a wide line stretching across the centre of the disputed area. Reinforcements were pouring out of the helicopters landing in the valley behind them.

Another battle raged over the dead. Unseen, the Sons of Skuld grappled the giant, black-fanged serpents rising out of the bloodied earth to claim the souls of the brave. Into the caves and over the field the horsemen raced their grey mares, fighting singly and two or three together with spear and sword and axe, to wrest the bodies of the fallen out of the black mouths feasting on the sweet, mortal meat laid out for the prize. The chosen were thrown over the backs of the mares and born away. A few, the craven, were cast aside.

The horsemen raised a mighty shout as the light of the Galdramerr blazed on to the battlefield. A hundred strong, armed with bows and swords, galloped to escort her as she bore Caz untouched through a ferocious firestorm of bullets and rocket fire. The heady scent of mortal blood and fear thrilled his senses. The spear seethed white-hot in his hand.
We are hunters!

Between the lines, a reconnaissance unit was cut off from the allied forces and taking heavy fire as their enemy crept down the slope towards them. The wounded were laid under what was left of the walls of an isolated farmhouse, guarded by a tall, powerfully built young soldier with cropped blond hair, while the medic worked desperately to save them. The soldier threw his last grenade and drew his pistol, shouting to the medic to defend himself. They stood at bay, unaware of how they were dwarfed by the warriors fighting off the servants of Hel's dark realm rising at their backs.

Valkyrjan stormed into the thick of the fray, the Haggard Man and his gallant mare close behind her. The horsemen circled, firing their arrows at the heaving mass erupting out of the earth around them. Caz hurled the spear into the black mouth gaping at the feet of Haldor Vídarsson. His trusted lieutenant, the hideously mutilated berserker, swung his mighty axe at his side. The mouth shrieked. The giant head disintegrated. A cold, bitter stench filled the air. More monstrous reptiles rose in its place. The Sons of Skuld formed rank. Jets screamed overhead. Firebombs exploded across the upper slopes. Mouths opened. Faces contorted. Bodies burned. The horsemen charged into the flames.

A helicopter flew in low and fast, taking advantage of the lull in the fighting to evacuate the wounded. The woman pilot shouted, urging them to hurry. The soldier picked up a man with shattered legs. The medic took another who was bleeding from a dangerous head wound. They laid the men on the deck and went back for the others. Dug in behind a rock half way up the slope above them, a gunner took aim. The helicopter prepared to lift off. The missile locked on and fired. The warhead hit target.

Haldor Vídarsson ran his sword through the body of the soldier materialising out of the inferno into the crystal light, throwing him over his shoulder and slicing through the tongue of the serpent that had been set to claim him. The spear blazed. The serpent fell. Mighty hooves stamped and shredded the quivering carcass. The Haggard Man marked the pilot. The woman's black eyes opened as he dragged her onto his mare. One by one the bodies of the fallen troops appeared and were marked and born away.

The body of the medic came last into the light. He had fought through raging heat and melting flame, lost between fragile life and certain death, until his seared lungs failed and he passed forever from the Shadowed World. Caz hastened to claim him – but the spear grew deathly cold in his hand. Blistering ice welded his fingers to the shaft. The smoking rune glowed pale, spectral blue.

Valkyrjan called out in a great voice above the din of battle. Their escort closed ranks with swords drawn. A black mist rose up around them. A foul reek filled their nostrils. A cavernous mouth opened around the medic's body. Caz threw himself down from his Galdramerr and pulled his prize clear of the darting, flickering tongue.

Fighting at his side, the Son of Vídar rasped, ‘Mark him, Heartbiter! You must be the first to claim! The enemy approaches!'

Caz thrust the spear through the man's shoulder. New life spluttered into the inert form as Valkyrjan stood over him. Wary of the Galdramerr, Hel's creatures snatched in vain at the terrified man's head and legs, and were hurled, powerless, to their ruin.

A monstrous, scaled head, with grotesquely familiar eyes and fangs that dripped black venom, broke free from the shattered earth. The enemy appeared in mighty form before the mortal it had so long pursued in vision and in dreams lurking between worlds – the mortal with a deadly spear that had already made its mark. Black bubbling poison frothed from a wound on the serpent's neck. The forked tongue flickered madly, savouring the intoxicating human scent.

In the caves, the rebels had regrouped and were launching a storm of rockets and mortar shells onto the advancing allied lines. Caz raised his shield. The spear burned blue. He stood poised, utterly alert and still within the firestorm, waiting for the monstrous reptile to make the first move. Inside that fearsome illusion there was form and matter that the spear could maim.
And kill!

CHAPTER 93

The Shape-Changer regarded his prey. He had misjudged this lesser being, this Son of the Fate-Spinners, the favoured of the devious Witch-Wives. They had decreed the first of the mighty Runes of the Deathless into his keeping, but the God willed that he would be denied the others. Their chosen would lose his life. He would feel the splintering of every bone, the rupturing of every vital organ. He would endure the exquisite agony and embrace the utter annihilation that is the mortal lot alone – and they would watch him die.

The barbed tongue lashed around Caz's head. Acid poison dripped, biting through his wooden shield. The spear blazed. He parried the blow, feinted sideways and lunged the spear at the monster's neck, aiming at the gaping wound. But this reptile form did not kill by venom alone. The gigantic tail sprayed a numbing narcotic before the coils crushed the helpless prey.

His senses reeling, Caz was powerless to resist as the serpent coiled around him. The pressure was excruciating. He lost all feeling in his legs. The old wound on his hand split open. Blood poured from his mouth, his nose, his ears and from under his finger nails. The rings of his mail coat penetrated deep into his skin and lacerated his bowels. His ribs were cracking. His arms were weakening. He was losing his grip on the spear. The Galdramerr called out, but the flailing, stinking tail held back the horsemen who would help him. The Haggard Man set his last arrow to his bow and fired. It clattered harmless against the monster's scaled hide.

A human voice yelled, ‘Incoming!' as rocket fire burst across the arena of this famed combat, the tale of which would be sung in the Hall through the ages, and yet was nothing more than a ruined and empty place in the eyes of the denizens of the Shadowed World – Caz's world. He remembered Freyja.
The spooks won't do to her what they did to Bryn! And not this spook either!
Stinging, raging blood surged through his battered veins. He saw the shot out of the corner of his eye.
No pain. No fear. Kill! Maim! Destroy! Kill! Maim! Destroy!
He let out one savage shout, ‘Freyja!' and hurled the screaming spear.

The monster form convulsed. The coils gave up their grip, rolling and twisting in paroxysms of agony, the giant mouth spewing venom as it tore at the tail impaled by the spear. The Galdramerr stood her ground, her light shielding all who stood with her, while Caz rampaged around his stricken foe, stabbing the seaxe between the rippling scales.
No pain. No fear. Kill! Kill! Kill!

He threw the blade, thudding into the delicate skin at the edge of one of the eyes. He hurled the shield, spinning in a great arc to thump out the light of the other. The Shape-Changer raged his downfall, trapped in his reptile form by the power of the spear. With a blood-curdling shriek, the body tore away from the tail.

Haldor Vídarsson roared, ‘Claim the spear, Heartbiter! It must not enter the Hel Realms, save in your hand alone!'

Caz leapt between the coils, dodging the monster's last maddened efforts to crush him. The spear, incandescent and flaring, yielded to his hand. Yelling in triumph, he charged for the kill. For the final time the serpent rose up before him, cruel and cold in defeat. ‘You are denied your victory!'

The illusory form exploded. A rain of oily black matter was scattered far over the battlefield. The order went down the lines. ‘Take cover! Take cover!'

Caz ripped off his helmet, screaming his frustration and stabbing the spear at the stinking mush of the tail dissolving into the earth. Only Haldor Vídarsson could hold him back. ‘Stay your hand, Heartbiter. He has served the purpose for which he was summoned. You are proved worthy to stand before the Tree.'

‘But I didn't kill him! I could have killed him! I should have killed him!'

‘His life is not yours to take.' The great warrior sniffed the air. ‘The night is passing. Take your prize, Heartbiter. The High One summons us to the Tree.'

The medic lay rigid with shock between Valkyrjan's hooves. Caz took him in an iron grasp, pulling him, moaning and struggling, to his feet. He smacked him around the head, barking, ‘Pull yourself together! You are chosen and honoured. Be grateful!'

The man came to attention, the blank oriental eyes snapping into focus, glaring at the blood-encrusted warrior who promptly threw him over the Galdramerr's back and leapt up before him. Haldor Vídarsson strode beside them, bearing the dreaming body of the young soldier from the field.

‘Where's your mare?' cried Caz.

‘You sent her to the Void, my friend!' The rasping voice was grim. ‘You were the victor in a mighty encounter and I am your bondsman until the hand that shamed me remounts me.'

The Son of Vídar the Silent turned and raised his spear. Above the noise of gunfire and the screaming of the wounded – those who would live and forgo the Way of the Chosen – the horsemen acknowledged their leader. One word, with one mighty voice, and this time Caz heard it clearly.

Sigr!

Victory!

They gathered, a great company, hoisting their red shields under their blazing banners. The drums rolled.

‘Who are the Chosen?' roared Haldor Vídarsson.

The voices rang out, noble and fierce. ‘We are the Chosen!'

‘Who hunts this night?'

‘We hunt!'

‘Who sacrifices?'

‘We sacrifice!'

The Sons of Skuld formed rank. The Galdramerr ran free before them. Above the clouds in the Shadowed World, striker-fighters unleashed their deadly payload onto the mountainside. A shock wave of earth and dust erupted high into the atmosphere and blasted down the slopes. It was then Caz heard the music of hunting horns and the baying of giant, shadow hounds, and the howling of wolves.

CHAPTER 94

Rank upon rank of horsemen appeared through the glittering dust clouds. The flash and flare and noise of gunfire faded into the eternal brilliance of the countless stars. The warrior hordes were once more let loose out of Valhall, mounted on grey mares and flanked by wolves. Hounds ran before them. Above them, ravens soared on silent wings as they rode the star-ways to the Tree, the source of all life where the light of every atom of matter and the utter darkness of the void are held in perfect balance. While this universe exists, the Tree will exist, until the day comes when all matter is used up and the light is spent and the cosmos will rest in silence.

The Galdramerr outran the wind and time, leading her chosen across the heavens. Yet time marked them for this one night when mortals may cross the threshold and few are permitted to return. The unresting light and power of the Tree, fed by the fearsome energy of a thousand exploding suns, is far greater than haunting dream and pallid vision can ever express. Caz felt the clinging, fearful hands let go their grip at his waist while the man behind him gasped in wonder.

The song of the warriors drew them onward, and the bellowing of the mighty stallion, and the scream of Gungnir, the Spear that Never Stops in its Thrust. The faithful and the worthy were summoned to sacrifice and Caz searched among the passing ranks for any sign of Freyja and Sir Jonas. He sought them out among the mares plucked from field and stable, and in the blooded faces of those who were chained and marked for the Tree.

They were there before him. Seven great ravens had tracked Sir Jonas and Freyja into Thunderslea, shape-shifting into the flawless manifestation of the most precious dream of the old man's youth and manhood. The Valkyrs, Battle Maidens, the Choosers of the Slain, raven-cloaked and mounted on their Galdramerar, were riding with him on every side. If these greatest of the servants of the God have ever been mortal, it is long forgotten. They are answerable entirely to his will, except that the Norns, the Fate-Spinners, have long decreed that the choosing among the slain in battle should be theirs alone. Only by the choice of the Valkyrs may the brave cross the ice bridge and feast at the tables in mighty Valhall – save on this one night of every year when the sun stands still and winter casts its hoary cloak over the Shadowed World. It is then that the warrior host have the choosing of those who would sit among them, and the God allows their decision.