Nothing can prepare one for war, thought Frikka as she surveyed the bloodied and mutilated bodies lying on the muddy, bloody ground of the courtyard, moaning in pain or unconscious. Some bore terrific bite wounds, and some had gaping, parallel wounds made by the claws of a beast of prey—one of the oolfa, the elite shape-changing warriors that now fought with the Dark Queen.
The thought of the tall, lanky bestial forms their enemies took during battle made Frikka’s stomach churn. There was only one way an Isir could harness such power—breaking the Ayn Loug—the ancient law of the Isir against consuming human flesh to increase one’s power.
She was sick of the war. Sick of seeing her people hurt at the hands of former friends who seemed to revel in the pain they wrought. Suel had become so…bloodthirsty since that day in Muspetlshaymr.
What was worse, neither set of leaders seemed interested in bringing the fighting to an end. Meuhlnir wouldn’t consider any plan that led to the deaths of Suel, Luka, or Vowli, no matter how evil their deeds. For her own part, Suel always pulled out her troops when they would overrun the rebels. It was as if the war were a mere lark for the queen, and she wished to sustain the fighting for as long as possible.
How far she’s fallen. Frikka shook her head. Her auguries hadn’t shown her an end to this miserable war—only more strife, more death, more pain. Endless insanity.
“Frikka!” shouted Veethar from the other side of the square of carnage. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, unable to muster a smile for her lover. “No, Veethar. I’m fine.” She turned her gaze back to the bodies of the thralls, karls, and lesser yarls that lay helter-skelter around the hall, bleeding, crying, dying. “This is…”
“Senseless,” said Veethar, striding over to stand next to her. “But, do not despair, my beauty. It is about to end.”
She flashed a quick smile his way. “You’re sweet, Veethar.”
“No, I mean it. Suel wants a palaver.”
Frikka raised her hands at the throng of casualties surrounding them, and let her hands fall. It seemed easier than speaking, easier than raising an argument—as if arguing with Veethar was a worthwhile pursuit to begin with, he only grunted and looked away if she disagreed with him. God of Silence, indeed.
“She’s tired.”
Frikka nodded. Her auguries had shown nothing of the sort, but again, Veethar wasn’t the one she had to convince. She turned on her heel, and, grabbing Veethar’s arm and pulling him along, went to find Meuhlnir.
As usual, he lounged in the great hall, sitting at the head table as if surrounded by feasting men and women. It irritated her, but she couldn’t say why. “Here you sit,” she said by way of a greeting. “Do you ever leave this hall?”
Meuhlnir inclined his head and stroked his beard, tearing his eyes away from the fire long enough to glance at her and nod to Veethar. “Might as well ask if Nithukkr leaves his mountain of stone.”
Frikka scoffed and shook her head. “Our men…all of us…we need a leader, Meuhlnir. We need a general who stands—”
Meuhlnir held up his hand. “Please, Frikka, no more of this.”
“But, Meuhlnir, don’t you see—”
Veethar put his hand on her arm and when she glanced at him, shook his head once. She fought to suppress a sigh and lost.
“I know what you will say, Frikka. You’ve said it all before, and, for what it’s worth, you are right. I should be out there…” He waved his hand at the door behind her. “I should be walking amongst the wounded, or helping Sif organize our forces. There are many things I should be doing, but since…ever since the day that…” His voice wound down like a wind-up toy at the end of its spring. He shook his head, eyes drifting to the fire once more.
He didn’t need to say more, she understood. She nodded in sympathy.
“There’s news,” said Veethar.
Meuhlnir’s gaze crawled away from the fire, across the floor, onto Veethar’s boot, and up the side of his body, lingering near his face, but not quite reaching it. “News? Another battle?”
Veethar nudged Frikka.
“He said Suel wants a palaver.”
Meuhlnir’s gaze snapped to her own. “Palaver?”
“It’s what he said.” She hooked her thumb at Veethar, and Meuhlnir’s gaze swam toward Veethar again.
“Details?” he asked.
Veethar shrugged. “The messenger came…a thrall on a beautiful horse…said Suel is tired of the war…wanted to know where we could meet, face-to-face.”
Meuhlnir swept to his feet, melancholy gone like mist on a bright morning. “Where is this thrall?”
Without a word, Veethar turned and strode out the door. Frikka shook her head and followed him, leaving Meuhlnir to follow or not.
The messenger’s youth shocked her. He was nothing but a boy atop a magnificent roan. His eyes darted everywhere, trying to see everything at once. His fear was palpable, and as she and Meuhlnir stepped out into the sun, the color ran from his face as if someone had unplugged a drain. Frikka smiled at him.
“Boy!” snapped Meuhlnir. “Give me your message.”
The boy’s gaze slithered to Veethar’s face, to Frikka, and back to Meuhlnir. “Yes, lord,” he said. “The Queen Suel summons you to a palaver, to discuss the end of this war. She commands you to name the place and time, and she will consider your request.”
Behind her, Meuhlnir tensed, and the air seemed to crackle with tension—or maybe it was static electricity. Frikka shook her head and stepped forward.
“Boy,” she said, almost a whisper.
The boy’s gaze snapped to her own.
“Tell Her Majesty the Queen that we will make ourselves available to her at her pleasure. Our only request is that we meet outside Suelhaym, for obvious reasons.”
The boy nodded once, swallowing hard. His hand holding the reins twitched, almost as if to question whether he could leave.
“Fair enough, Meuhlnir?” she asked, not taking her eyes off the boy.
As if it were an answer, Meuhlnir grunted and turned back into the building.
Frikka smiled up at the thrall. “Go on, boy. Back to the queen.”
The boy nodded once and swept the magnificent horse in a half-circle before giving him the spurs. The horse raced through the gates, leaving a swirl of dust in his wake.
“Could be a relative of yours, Veethar,” she said, hiding a grin.
Veethar grunted and put his hand on her shoulder.
The queen’s response came in less than an hour. She’d chosen a traveler’s inn, near to, but outside, the city of Suelhaym.
Meuhlnir gathered the yarls in the great hall for a Thing—a democratic convocation—to decide what to do. He stood in silence while they gathered, and when the last woman arrived, he cleared his throat and stepped up on a stool. “I will go to the palaver alone,” he announced.
“No, you won’t!” snapped Yowrnsaxa.
“I lead this rebellion, and I—”
“Oh, you lead us, do you?” asked Sif. She stood shoulder to shoulder with Yowrnsaxa, her face as fierce as her friend’s.
“It makes sense not to risk—”
“No,” said Veethar, a note of finality in his voice.
Meuhlnir turned to him. “Come now, Veethar. You know as well as I that—”
“How many fighting pairs should we take?” asked Yowrnsaxa, turning to the assembly.
“A trachkar’s worth?”
“Now, wait just a moment,” said Meuhlnir, but no one paid him any mind.
“50?” asked Sif. “Suel will bring more. Maybe some of those beasts, too.”
“Why not take her at her word?” The question came from the back of the room, and Frikka couldn’t pick out the speaker. That the rebellion contained spies was a given, but she’d never considered there might be a traitor among the yarls. The room was silent for a moment.
“Who spoke?” asked Meuhlnir.
No one answered, but the room erupted with the rustling of armor as men and women craned their necks to see.
“I’d say we need at least a hundred yarls—and make most of them vefari. Also, at least two hundred karls, and a full contingent of thrall support troops,” said Frikka into the silence.
“Six hundred? To a palaver?” asked Meuhlnir. “That seems—”
“Justified,” finished Yowrnsaxa. “We’ll keep them back. They will reveal themselves only in the event of trouble. Now, get off that stool and come stand with me.”
Meuhlnir glanced around the room, a long-suffering expression on his face, and the room erupted into laughter, the suspicions of the previous moment forgotten—or at least ignored.
With the familiar smile he’d worn almost constantly in better times, Meuhlnir shrugged and stepped off the stool. He walked over to Yowrnsaxa and kissed her cheek.
“You’re not as stupid as you look,” said Sif with a wide grin.
“Keep sweet talking me, and I’ll marry you, too,” said Meuhlnir.
Veethar laughed. It was a loud, braying laugh he reserved for those he knew best. Sif looked at him and winked.
“Those two would be the death of you,” Veethar choked out between guffaws. “You could never keep up.”
“When you are always out front, you never need to ‘keep up,’” said Meuhlnir, and the room erupted in laughter again. “What?” he asked. “What?”
Sif patted his arm and turned to the Thing. “Six hundred. Anyone object?” Meuhlnir opened his mouth. “Good! Let’s get going.” Sif swept out of the room, a small smile on her face.
The troop readied gear and mounted horses, standing in the field outside the fortress gates. Meuhlnir, Sif, and Yowrnsaxa were the last to arrive, and when they did, Sif rode to the front of the assembled troops. “Klyowthstirkidn,” she said, and when she spoke next, her voice carried to all those assembled, though she didn’t raise her voice to shout. “We go to speak with the queen. Hopefully, all is as it appears, but it may not be. This may be a trap, and there is no way to know, except to go.”
Voices rustled in the ranks of thralls standing in the back.
“Now, there is no cause to fear. We are taking a large number of fighters. You are the stick we carry in our hands as a warning, like a man carrying valuables through the dark night might carry a club to warn away harriers. You will stay back until we call for you—until we need you.”
Sif turned her horse and walked him to the road. “Be aware,” she called over her shoulder. “Be vigilant.” She spurred her horse into a gallop, and the troop followed, Meuhlnir with a bemused expression on his face.
They rode for half a day and reached the valley that held the inn by midafternoon and sat on a bluff looking down at the inn. It was nice enough, as inns went, and the valley gave every appearance of normality. Sif turned to Frikka, and said, “Well, what do you think?”
“What do I think?”
Sif frowned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You know what I mean.”
Frikka smiled, but she didn’t feel like smiling. She felt as she always felt when someone pressed her for an augury—uncomfortable and a little sick to her stomach. “I haven’t seen this,” she muttered.
“Well, then, we are on our own,” said Sif. “Who goes?”
Meuhlnir looked at Veethar, Frikka, Yowrnsaxa, and turned his gaze back to Sif. “I’ve already said I prefer to go alone, but—” He held up a hand to forestall Yowrnsaxa’s objections. “But, I bow to my wife’s wishes. I say we five go.”
Sif nodded. “How do we call the troop if we need them?”
Meuhlnir grinned, but his expression was cold, hard. “If they see lightning, they should come on the run.”
Sif conveyed orders to the leaders of the reserve forces and led the party of five down into the valley. What had looked like normalcy from the bluff, now looked like an utter lack of life—no one worked the fields, no travelers walked the roads, nothing. They approached the inn with only the sound of their footsteps breaking the silence. Sif pulled up in front of the inn, eyeing it with suspicion. “Where is everyone?” she hissed.
The door banged open, and thralls dressed for war poured out of the inn.
“It’s a trap,” snapped Sif. “Run!”
They wheeled their horses, but oolfa stood behind them, drooling bloody pus, fur bristling. Thralls kept pouring from the inn, surrounding the party.
“Finally,” said Suel in silky tones. “What’s that adage? Cut the head off the snake?” An oolfur growled and snapped its teeth, eyes blazing at Meuhlnir. “I know, dear one,” Suel said. “You can have him as soon as I’m done.”
Suel spoke from hiding, but Frikka closed her eyes and saw where she stood. Cut the head off the snake? She could end it; she could end the terror, the misery, the war. All she had to do was say one word in the Gamla Toonkumowl. Just one small word.
Frikka stared at the spot in the woods where Queen Suel hid. Say it! Say “tayia!” she raged at herself. She wanted to say it, she wanted the queen dead, and that one word, that one command in the Gamla Toonkumowl would end the queen’s life as surely as a dagger between the ribs. She opened her dry mouth, and drew breath, focusing her mind on Suel, on her essence.
“Yes,” hissed Meuhlnir. “Come, my brother, we have much to…talk about.” The oolfur snarled and took a step.
“No!” said Suel. “Not yet.”
Say it! Frikka screamed in her mind. Do it! She deserves no quarter, no mercy! Her lungs were full, the word was on her tongue, ready for breath to give it life, and still, she hesitated.
“I wanted to thank you,” said Suel. “To thank you for coming, for giving yourselves to me. Did you think I would entertain a palaver with a bunch of traitorous fools?”
Why can’t you say it? This wasn’t Suel—not the Suel she’d grown up with, not the pleasant, fair-minded queen she’d respected. This woman was an abomination, a mistake. She deserves nothing but death for what she’s done! Still, the breath remained trapped in her lungs.
“Sif, my childhood playmate, my friend!” Suel spat the words into the air as though they were venom aimed at Sif’s eyes. “I never expected you would betray me.”
“You betrayed me, Suel, along with the memory of your father.”
“Ha! Another fool. Your barbs have no point, Trohtninkar Tama.” Suel stomped her foot. “Even the sound of your former title makes me angry.”
End this! End it now! Frikka closed her eyes, blotting out the scene, the war, the queen. One word. One little word.
“Enough of this! Ehlteenk!” screamed Meuhlnir and lightning arced from the sky to the sound of crashing thunder.
Even through her closed eyelids, Frikka saw the brilliant blue bolt descend into the knot of thralls surrounding them. An oolfur snarled, another howled. Horses whinnied and jostled around her. Weapons rang as they were unsheathed. DO IT! she screamed in her mind.
“Kill them all!” snarled Suel.
Do it now! Say the word! Say it! But she couldn’t bring herself to utter the word that would drain the life from her one-time friend and queen. She couldn’t kill in cold blood.
“Frikka!” shouted Veethar.
Her eyes snapped open and pandemonium erupted around her. Thralls pressed forward with spears and shields, and the oolfa snarled and snapped behind them, working themselves up to charge. Meuhlnir stood in his stirrups, pointing his hammer at one of the oolfur—his brother, Luka, no doubt. Sif and Yowrnsaxa had their shields on their arms already, and their weapons in their other hands. Veethar sat on his horse at her side, his expression serene, but his eyes contained a little wildness, a little fear, a little excitement. As she watched, his lips moved, but whatever he said was too low for her to hear. His eyes changed from pale blue to blazing yellow, and he pointed at the forest.
Green growth exploded through the underbrush, trees sprouting and shooting skyward. The underbrush thickened, vines reaching and grasping at the queen’s forces hiding in the woods. Shrieks came from the deep woods, and Veethar’s face wrinkled in an ugly smile.
Frikka looked for Suel, but she was no longer hiding in the bushes—she’d stepped out into plain view. If Veethar can do his part… She raised her hand and pointed at Suel. She opened her mouth to speak the word, to kill her friend.
Suel’s eyes snapped to hers and blazed like twin suns. “No!” shouted Suel. “Thun!”
Frikka let the word loose, breathing life to it, caressing it with her tongue, a silly half-grin on her face. Nothing happened. No sound issued from her throat, no word of power fell from her tongue. Thun…silence.
She stared at Suel, fury burning in her heart, while lightning bolts danced around her. Horses screamed and lashed out with metal-clad hooves. Beside her, Veethar whispered to himself, pointing here and there, smiling as nature took vengeance on their attackers.
Suel still stared at Frikka, anger and hatred burning in her eyes. She lifted her hand and pointed at Frikka. “Kvul!”
Frikka’s nervous system lit up like she’d touched the sun. Agony ripped through her body in wave after wave of burning, tearing, breaking, smashing agony. She screamed, and her muscles convulsed all at once, throwing her to the ground at the horses’ feet.
“No!” shouted Veethar. He leapt from his horse, drawing his sword and standing over her as she writhed in the dirt.
A sound like the pounding surf rang in her ears, and she thought it was her own pulse. She tried to open her eyes, to see what was happening around her, to avoid being trampled by the horses at least, but the effort was too much amidst all the misery that had become her entire existence.
“Sif!” shouted Veethar.
“Frikka! Yowrnsaxa, get these horses away!” yelled Sif.
Frikka wanted to tell Sif to focus on the battle, to stop worrying about her, but then another billow of torment crashed over her, and the world outside her misery disappeared.