The Beast of the North (39 page)

‘I don’t have it.’ She laughed.

‘Take me to the gauntlet or I’ll pluck your legs off,’ I said sweetly and perhaps even meant it.

‘You will take the gauntlet and do what with it?’ she said dubiously. ‘Dagnar is too far gone for you to reverse that. You cannot get into the Tower, even.’

‘I am a shape shifter,’ I said. ‘All Jotuns are. I can fly,’ I told her with a growl, and she nodded reluctantly. ‘With that gauntlet, I can kill them. Father told me it would help me.’

She considered it, struggling with her emotions. Her face softened, then hardened, and finally she shook her head. ‘I won’t,’ she said with manic intensity. ‘Not after you slept with her.’

I thrust her out of the window, and she fell with a shriek. I hesitated, wondering if I knew what I was doing. Then I jumped after her. My form blurred and changed. It was strange, going from one into another, from a giant into a bird, and all my senses thrust out the old fears. I knew what to do and how, and I glided down as a huge, dark raven, flapping my wings, feeling the wind ruffle my feathers. It felt so natural. It was draining, but not unlike running. The feeling of flight was wonderful for all the few seconds it lasted though unfamiliar enough for me to make a very ungraceful landing. Shaduril was picking herself up; her leg bent unnaturally. I changed back, taking deep breaths. ‘See? No tower is blocked to me.’

‘You might have a point,’ she hissed and sat back, looking at her twisted leg with incredulity. ‘That hurt, Maskan. It will take time for the bones to mend. Not sure why you would think I fear to fall, though. My turn!’ Then she took a deep breath and channeled a spell that surrounded her with a fiery, multicolored ball of flame. She rolled towards the doors, hopped up, and half walked and half ran that way. I collected the one familiar spell I knew, braiding the ice and the wind, in a certain, delicate way. I let the spell go after collecting as much of it as I could, and it burned in my veins. The result was far stronger than the one I had used previously. I flew back on my rump, but the ice tore at the castle wall, the ground, and the flowers. It ripped through to pockmark the rock itself with savage strength. I did not see what happened to Shaduril, but a shriek could be heard as the undead thing flew forward by the force of the spell. There were bits of clothing swirling in the air, and then the fiery shield around her dissipated as she rolled across the gateway to crash into a wall. She turned on the ground, and I felt her releasing something. Indeed, a fiery wall grew under me. I shot forward, but the flames followed me. She was cackling, not the beautiful thing any longer, but a hideously twisted thing of death bent on unreasonable revenge. She cast another wall, boxing me inside walls of fire and I cursed, as I did not know spells that were more useful. My calf was burnt; it hurt terribly, even inside the dverg-made wondrous armor.

She shrieked and the fires were cut off.

Sand had cut off her hand at the wrist. She stared at the limb in horror, and I grew to my twelve feet and rushed forward to grab her. I pinned her with my hand. She shook her head in brief terror but swallowed bravely. ‘Ann. I’ll see her again.’

‘I’ll spare your damned undead life,’ I told her, ‘if you give me what is mine. We shall wait for the keys.’

She sneered at me. ‘There are no keys. As you said, she wanted you to face me,’ she spat. ‘She is out there, looking at this tragedy, enjoying every moment.’ I resisted the urge to look at the darkness, but she was probably right. ‘The door. Go to Ann or go on living in here until she dies. Lith.’

She looked down, weighing her options, holding her hand, thoroughly a miserable thing. Finally, she decided she was not ready to yet. She pointed her stump of an arm towards the banner of the Blacktowers, hanging faded and forlorn over the fire pit. ‘Pull it.’

Sand cocked his head that way, walked past torn tables and crushed chairs. He stopped before the fire pit and squinted up towards the roof. Then he reached out and pulled the banner. A loud click was heard. The end of the fire pit fell; darkness opened up below the trapdoor and dust billowed out. Sand took a tentative step that way. ‘What is down there?’

Shaduril smiled under my fist and eyed the darkness. ‘Balan’s temple. His treasure room. His workshop. Mir’s shrine. But it is guarded.’

‘Guarded?’ I asked her. ‘Since you are not the guardian, what is? Do you know?’

‘Oh no.’ She grinned. ‘Only that it is quite dangerous. I don’t know what it is, to be honest.’

‘Fine, as you are going first,’ I told her and carried her down. She struggled, cursed and then went quiet. We reached the downstairs where darkness reigned. I shuffled and took a man-sized form, but my grip on her was just as strong as it had been. She did not struggle, but I sensed she was regaining her will to fight. I sensed, more than saw a doorway down and dragged Shaduril to an edge of a dark, musty room. Sand was near, his eyes glowing. He looked down to what I thought was just a more shaded spot in the wall, but what was a stairway down. ‘See anything?’

‘Nothing alive,’ he told me and grinned. ‘Nor dead. A room with tables, something massive in the middle. A statue?’

‘A statue with a function,’ Shaduril said with a small grin. ‘It guards the gauntlet. Balan’s thing.’

‘It has the gauntlet?’ I asked her.

‘Guards it. It’s not alive, but not dead either. Nor undead. It’s magical,’ she told me smugly and then shrugged as if ashamed of her wish to see me fail. ‘There will be weapons of your kind there. Their armor as well. I brought them after we took them from your brothers. There is a hole we bring our offerings to Hel. Perhaps such a weapon can help? Your father’s sword is with Taram. Larkgrin is with Balan, but there are others.’

‘Can you light up the room?’ I asked her.

‘Never had to, before,’ she said dubiously. ‘But yes. That will have repercussions.’

‘Balan’s craft?’ I chuckled. ‘I’ll break it.’

‘Not easily,’ she said softly. ‘Good luck, then.’

She channeled her powers, and globes of light slid around her, thrust down to the floor and ceilings and illuminated the room, and some floated down for the statue. ‘Keep an eye on her,’ I told Sand.

‘I will,’ he said and placed a leg on Shaduril’s hurt leg, so she fell on her face, cursing at the indignity. ‘Silence,’ Sand said with a grunt. ‘That looks dangerous.’

It did.

Down in the circular room, there was a shrine. The shrine was made of dark stone, and it was actually a statue. It sat on its haunches; an erect and dangerous looking thing of eight arms, snake-like tail and a bust of a female. In its hands, there were eight swords, and its face was that of an innocent girl. ‘Hel?’

Shaduril shrugged. ‘I hear the goddess rarely leaves the Spire of Rot. Balan, Father, of course, used his imagination. I imagine she looks much less dangerous in reality.’

The thing looked up, empty eyes full of careless brutality.

‘Shit, oh damn,’ Sand whispered. ‘I can wait up here for sure.’

I stood up and Stirred the Cauldron, trying to find the one familiar spell I knew. The thing below got up to ten feet height, the swords at its sides, glinting evilly. The innocent looking face did not so much as twitch with emotion as the magical thing moved for the broad staircase I was standing on.

‘Do it, for Hel’s sakes,’ Shaduril spat. ‘Cast spells at it!’

‘You are safe from it, are you not?’ I asked, terrified to death by the thing. ‘Can you make it sit down?’

‘Mother and Father alone are allowed to come here,’ she told me as Sand blanched and dragged her back to the tunnel leading to the castle. ‘It will cut us to ribbons,’ she hissed as she went.

‘We will wait here,’ Sand yelled.

The woman faced thing reached the stairs and loped up them, wordlessly, soundlessly. I gathered my bravery and released the spell of ice and winds at its face. The spell tore at the dark stone but did nothing more than make it topple onto a knee. I kept calling more and more of the windy power, wondered at the ancient ice flows and fiery fires as I did, and nearly forgot the urgent need to keep the spell going. I struggled with the weaves but managed to intensify the spell. The thing was crawling up; the wind was grinding at the stone, creating a haphazard storm of papers and debris in the room below. The noise was terrible, and I felt drained, tired beyond anything I had previously experienced. My arms were drooping, but I pushed more of the wind and ice at the thing. It was still crawling up the steps, the swords clanking on the stone and soon, very soon, it would lunge at me. My eyes sought the room beyond the thing. I saw the mound where the creature had been sitting. Beyond it, there was a huge table, what was probably Balan’s seat, chisels and hammers, jewels, and strange tools he used to craft and tinker with the many beautiful artifacts.

I also saw my wind had scoured the mound’s surface, and there was a brass handle on a wooden trapdoor.

I sobbed with the effort, weaved more of the ice at the thing; it got up to its knees, the stony face rimmed with ice, pockmarked by the ferocity of my spell, and it lifted a sword, a long, tapering thing. I prayed and jumped down towards it. I changed into a raven again, and it felt so very natural. It was as natural as breathing, and I passed the thing’s sword by a feather’s breadth. I fluttered down for the trapdoor, changed to myself again, but human-sized, landed heavily, and ripped at the trapdoor savagely.

It flew open.

I jumped down and heard stony scratching above me. The statue was fast and was already scaling the mound. I felt, rather than saw a sword reaching after me as I fell down a set of stone stairs. One of the glowing lights followed me down, and I cursed as I ran into a door frame. I dodged inside and looked around.

It was a treasury.

The room was heaped full of Blacktower treasure. Like a pitiful husk of a human, Balan and Mir had hoarded there all their former memories. There were portraits of their children, silver and gold busts of their ancestors, wooden toys, and their happier memories. All this was heaped at the end of the room. The middle of the room held another statue of a masked woman, the real figure of Hel, the actual shrine, I suspected. The ground around it was laden with other more recent sentimental trophies, and on the roof, there was a hole where they deposited such loot, indeed. There were skulls, rotting and mutilated. Many were formerly Jotuns, others just those of men, their foes. Weapons of their enemies were there also, some tall as a horse, swords and axes made for my people. I saw armor there as well and then I had no more time to think.

I heard steps behind me.

I turned to look that way and saw a large shadow crawl down the tunnel.

I rushed forward and fell on some ancient tapestry. I nearly cut my face on a rusted ax blade and dashed for the Hel’s statue. The magical guardian entered the room, spotted me, and began to walk for me remorselessly.

‘Shit,’ I cursed and sobbed, and groped for the base of the statue. I reached for a long, two-handed sword of intricate make from a pile next to me, and knew it had belonged to the Red Brother. It was stuck, and I pulled at it until it came out. It felt perfect in my hand, the blade keener and less thick than that of an ordinary sword. It would not break, never quickly. I turned to fight and to die. The statue came for me relentlessly, crushing skulls and bones, and the weapons went up, then down as the thing tried to slay me. Fours swords punched for me, and I fell back, avoiding them. The rest slashed down, and I rolled away as a shower of old silver coins flew high up to the air. I rushed at the thing, swiped the blade across to block its next attack. There were clangs and sparks as the massive sword intercepted three of hers. As I went forward, I grew in size to match the thing and instinctively crushed it in a hug. The sweet female face turned to look at me in the eye. ‘Stone hearted bitch of Balan,’ I spat. It rewarded me by dropping its swords and crushing me right back. It was stone, I was flesh under the armor, and so I howled. I grabbed its face, wheezing in pain and tried to twist it aside. The snake-like tail curled around my knee, nearly breaking it, and I fell on my back. I attempted to think, to talk, to beg and to threaten it, and then I decided I would die silently rather than beg. I twisted at the magical stone, it did not give in, and the thing groped for one of the swords. It pushed me across the debris of weapons and bones and treasure, squeezed hard, and the sword got up with deadly intent. I managed to block the hand, and if the thing could have shown frustration, I was sure it would have. I managed to keep the sword from piercing me and hoped my ribs would not crack. The thing changed tactics. It stopped squeezing, apparently having no patience, and picked me up. I could not regain my balance due to the tail squeezing my knee and thigh, and it pushed me to the statue of Hel’s lap, holding me still with several hands. The sword thrust for my throat.

I shrunk in size to a man, slithered away from her, her grip, and the tail, and heard the blade sinking into the Hel’s statue, splitting it with a grating noise.

I groped around in the legs of the thing, and cursed, for I was nearly finished, hurting, and tired and had no hope.

The statue of Hel fell in two pieces around us.

And there, amidst the rubble, was a thing they had hidden so very well.

It was gray-white, near a plaster-colored leather glove.
Was that it?
I thought, and decided it was my only chance. The statue’s many hands grabbed at me; I rushed forward, tore off a gauntlet and smashed my bare hand on the glove. It glowed briefly and changed into strange, cool metal, studded with yellow gems, segmented to make it supple, and then it was all black, old as time, and it slithered over my hand, covering it.