The Beast of the North (2 page)

A
war was waged in the elven world of Aldheim, the Jewel of the Nine Worlds.

A slip of a girl, Shannon, fought a magical duel in the midst of a terrible battle. She fought her former mistress, and she was losing. It was no wonder she was being overmatched, for she was a human, and her former mistress was of the First Born; not a god, but a monster of the ancient world. In her desperation, she did what she had vowed not to do. She released a complicated, dark spell of a forlorn, mad goddess, Hel, the goddess whose war had sundered the gods from their prized Nine Worlds thousands of years before. The spell cast by the girl was Hel’s last attempt at gaining control of the worlds of the Aesir and the Vanir. It was a perilous spell of unknown results, but it was the girl’s only hope, and so she cast the spell and the worlds suffered.

And Hel smiled on her bed of rot.

The spell changed the ancient world of Aldheim profoundly, but it was a spell that would alter the fate of all of the Nine Worlds; for Hel had a long memory, and she was always seeking vengeance and her lost eye, hating the gods for their freedoms and her sorrow and many losses. While the spell and its consequences were immediately evident to the denizens of Aldheim, the spell wrought changes both unseen and physical to the unwary, seemingly safe lands far from Aldheim.

In one of these worlds, in Midgard, the home of men, that day had been unusually bright and warm across the realms. The gods had been gone for thousands of years, men ruled, and there was war, and there was peace in Midgard. Death and birth marked that day and night as any other day. The night that followed was a beautiful one with a sky full of stars. They glittered like a thousand diamonds hanging across the velvety curtains of space. The Three Sisters—the pale moons of Midgard—trekked the sky lazily. Millions of people slept soundly; lovers lay curled up in each other’s arms, babies were more or less content in their sleep. People were leaving taverns, drunk and happy, and life was unremarkably predictable.

A thick, ominous darkness shot across the sky from the west.

The night guards of the Midgard’s many realms screamed warnings; bells tolled as a peculiar, strange storm front seemed to materialize from the thick, dark air. Midgard’s humans were used to seeing all kinds of weather, but the dark, devastating storm rushing from the grand Callidorean Ocean was vast and terrifying, driving waves and storm winds before it. Ships sunk with all hands, towns were swallowed by waves, walls crumbled, and fires broke out as people fled to the higher grounds. Hel’s spell danced across Midgard. Stone cracked. Flesh burned. Thousands died. Whole kingdoms were gone, and others changed forever.

Then, the storm abated. The strange darkness vanished as if it had never been, and it was called the Cataclysm ever after.

Something had changed, in Aldheim, in all the Nine Worlds and even in Midgard. Twenty years later, some of it would be clear.

Listen.

‘There are no noble houses here in the shadows. But that does not mean there are no lords in the dark.’

Shaduril to Valkai.

A
lrik, the rogue, was choking to death.

His back was arched in hopeless panic and excruciating pain, and his face was a reddish mask of horror. His mouth was hanging open, and he was growling like a feral wolf. His tongue was flapping on his chin as he was wheezing for breath. Then he wet himself. That indignity was not lost to most of the crowd as his legs began kicking around in the air, seeking something tangible to save his life. There was nothing. He was being executed. He was dying very slowly and with no mercy.

‘Bastard,’ Sand breathed. ‘She is a rotten piece of gristle, isn’t she?’ He nodded at the woman in charge of the execution.

I nodded in full agreement. The fat executioner was called the Harlot, and she was a brutal, fat woman who got rich off her former husband’s profession; one she had perfected. Now she was squinting up at the victim, her face critical as if she was sorely disappointed by the gruesome death and the ineptitude of the principal actor hanging from the thick rope.

‘She should pull on his legs,’ I said softly and supported my rough faced friend, Sand, who had been shoved hard in the thick crowd. It was an apt name for the wide boy of seventeen.
He was much like the hung man was
, I thought,
blond, rough, and tough.
Many young men in the north looked like Sand, for the north bred men of dour, harsh disposition, and perhaps it was the long winter that made it so. The people of the north were strong of limb, tough as bark, and many if not all had some marks of the northern suffering chiseled on their faces. The cold months were harsh, very harsh, and many died of hunger, illness, and pirates and thieves, no matter their wealth. I gazed around at the crowd. The large group of rogues and the poor, stinking, and starving people were the usual specimens of the northern dregs.
Family. They were that. Of sorts,
I thought. Most were thieves, swindlers, smugglers, and just petty criminals. Everyone would be a savage fighter if the need arose, and it did, occasionally. All were sullenly watching the execution. The worst people of the land were helpless and angry as one of theirs passed away slowly. They were used to such sights. The Butcher, Lord Captain Crec Helstrom commanded many such executions, and rumors said few lowborn even met an Elder Judge. Some of the onlookers would hang for crimes they had not yet committed, as many were poor and desperate. And as it should be, the guilty and the unlucky would pay if they got caught. Alrik had.

But he was dying too slowly. Unnecessarily slowly. And he had not seen a judge either. That’s what everyone said.

Finally, the suffering of the man, the terrible indignity of the piss-sodden, choking death made some people mutter out loud. One such person was louder than the rest, and she broke the unnatural silence. ‘Odin curses the filthy fat bitch,’ a woman yelled from the back of the crowd. At that, an official looking man sitting on a slender horse grunted at the Brother Knights. Two huge, armored men obeyed and turned their heads towards the sound, and so did their gigantic dark horses. They guided their beasts forward and hefted their weapons. That silenced the crowd. They were Brothers, of King Morag Danegell’s house and his bodyguards. There were perhaps ten of them all together though only the two attended the execution. All were darkly armored in magnificent, rare plate and chain, and even their horses wore chain mail to match their master’s somber, deadly looks. All wore individually crafted helmets, and none had names. These two were White and Black Brothers, and horsehair of appropriate color was hanging from their helmets. Both were deadly bastards with wide shields hanging on the flanks of their horses. The official looking man guided his horse away from them while glowering at the crowd under his open faced helmet, pulling at dark hair that wind blew over his mouth.

‘Who called for a god?’ the White Brother yelled, his voice muffled by the dark steel helmet, white horsehair twirling aggressively as he turned his head from side to side. In his hand coiled a whip with sharpened bits of steel.

‘There are no gods, you curs,’ the Black Brother echoed his comrade surprisingly gently. Despite the calm, cold voice, there was clear danger lurking behind the menacing mask. His spear was tall and wide bladed with a glittering tip, and that weapon drew looks. ‘There are only kings, as has been decreed by the High King of the southern land and his subject, our King Morag Danegell as well,’ he added. That prompted a small ripple of complaints from the crowd.

Gods and kings,
I thought.
All trouble.

Sand agreed. He leaned on me. ‘We are not supposed to talk about gods, and we should all press our foreheads to the mud for kings, but they can’t explain the temples, eh?’

‘No,’ I agreed. There were temples, gates if you like, dormant now, scattered across the lands. We had myths, legends, of war between goddess Hel and Odin, our supposed creator. The elders whispered of the battles that shattered us from the other eight worlds well over two thousand years past, but the king Danegell had lately passed laws to ban worship of the gods as requested by the High King. ‘They cannot force the starving and the wretched to forget the gods, Sand. Nope.’

Sand spat into the dust, braving the attentions of the hulking Brothers. ‘I say the gods gave the kings their crowns and let them govern for them. And that temple by the Tower,’ Sand nodded up the tall hill of Five Rings, the Dagger Hill, ‘is a gate to another world. It is. The High King Balic of Malignborg and our fawning bastard Danegell and the One Eyed priests of the High King can hump themselves.’

‘The High King,’ I agreed, trying to calm my friend down as the knights were apparently looking for troublemakers, ‘of course wants to set himself on top of the gods. Who wouldn’t? Who is there to punish him? There are no gods in Midgard to rip his head off.’ It was true. The High King ruled the most beautiful and fertile continent of the Middle Midgard, the Verdant Lands, the great heart of the world by the might of his armies, but also by his newly declared legacy. He claimed he was the god. ‘There are temples erected in the south, I hear, to him,’ I added. It was a rumor only, but possibly true. What was certain is that our king was attempting to force the religion of the High King to us all.

Sand shook his head as the hanging man was twitching like a bass on a hook. ‘Ann said it was not always so. Twenty years? That’s how long this mad cult of One Man has spread around from the south. Like a disease in a filthy whorehouse, it spreads quickly. Soon the One Eyed priests will begin to appear here in the north as well. Perhaps they are here already? Hidden. Listening. Ann thinks so; Father believes her.’

Ann was Sand’s sister. She would know such details, as she was clearly the smartest of all of us. It was evident as a knob on a forehead. Around us, many people were cursing the Brother Knights for their words and the kings for their mad greed. I sighed. While the kings were trying to oust the memories of the gods, I had a hunch our king was in a very disadvantaged situation. ‘We have the Fringe Kingdoms here in the North, Sand,’ I said. ‘Fringe. That says it all. Poor if severe. I think our king bows to the High King and embraces his laws, but he does it to survive. So do the many other smaller lands all across the continents. I’m sure it is lip service to his madness, and King Magor Danegell won’t let the High King hump our ass. Our king is not looking for trouble with the High King, so he makes concessions, but we can still believe. Silently.’

‘It won’t end well if they tell us to forget our past,’ a strange man noted over my shoulder.

I pushed him away and leaned on Sand. ‘The gods are a touchy subject. The Brothers,’ I nodded at the knights who had relaxed just slightly, ‘are doing their damned duty, and we keep praying to the gods, no matter what. Odin made us; we lost them, and now we endure tyranny and fear of the south, but northern men will not bend a knee if there is threat to our freedoms.’ Sand did not look convinced and chortled a bit.

‘Fine speech. You should be a general,’ he said with a mocking bow. I pushed him, but he mimicked me with a sonorous voice. ‘The city of Dagnar and Red Midgard will go on, and we will stand fast.’ I was about to push him over when everyone went quiet. The hanged man had apparently died, for the Harlot was walking for a body that was no longer moving, but then, to our growing anger, he began wheezing pitifully once more.

‘Odin!’ we heard him gasp.

‘Silence the blaspheming bastard!’ Black yelled, and the Harlot took a stick and slapped it across the hung man’s face, drawing blood and ripping the skin. She did it efficiently, with little emotion, but the crowd was fuming now.

Blasphemy.

We all blasphemed, indeed.

It was impossible to forget the gods. The stories spoke of them, of the wondrous magic they wielded, the miracles they performed. There were powers, the legends said, mysteries one could see, the eternal flames of Muspelheim and ancient ice rivers of Nifleheim mixing in the Filling Void and some few could tap into those powers, to call forth magic of life and death. We all knew these legends. Gods had magic, some other races as well. No humans did, but then, the belief in gods, magic and other races, the Nine Worlds even? All blasphemy. High King Balic Barm Bellic of Malingborg, claimed he was the god. And now they beat a dying man for uttering a word. A name.

It was too much.

An old, terribly wrinkled and ugly man was shuffling at the back of the crowd, his blond and gray beard foamed with ale. He yelled out. ‘Oi! Isn’t the old Magor Danegell a heretic then? His shield bears the words! And he is breaking the alliance of the North as well!’ Men and women yelled encouragements to the man from the crowd, and Black turned to look for the old man, who disappeared into the thick of the pressing flesh. I nodded. There were unsettling rumors our king, the king of the northern peninsula of rough land called the Red Midgard looked to make war on our allies in the north, especially with Falgrin and Ygrin. They said the king was plotting for power from the Rose Throne in the Red Tower of the Temple, high up on Dagnar’s top. They claimed he was covetously gazing north from the Pearl Terrace, high above the city, staring at our allies, the Fringe Kingdoms. And he did have the words “Sword of the Goddess,” in his shield, indeed. They were there on the shields of the Brothers as well, ancient words of the old house, and everyone in the crowd saw them. Magor had not changed that in the past years even if he had passed laws for the High King’s cult to be revered above any others, and the old beliefs to be put down. ‘Hypocrites!’ the old man yelled from out of sight.

‘Lies!’ the Black Brother yelled back, his surprisingly gentle voice carrying easily through the murmurings. ‘Your king is the rock of the north and is not plotting to make war on allies and brothers. This festering cesspit of gossip had better not believe the lies of those who would give us away to chaos. We are allied with the north. While we owe fealty to the south, to the High King Balic, who is our king’s sovereign, King Morag guards our land and the innocent. When has he failed to do so? A thief is hanging here today, and you blame the king for his punishment for this man’s crimes? And—’

A young, toothless man spat and screamed. ‘The High King is the king to our king, but still a tyrant! We all know that! We have heard the stories! Hammer Legions are leveling cities that defied Balic! If the High King wants us to bow to a mere man, then why cannot we just forsake him?’

A woman yelled. ‘Why do you not let us call to our gods? Why is our king taking our old ways? We have little more than our beliefs!’

It seemed everyone had forgotten the hanging man.

The White Brother scowled and pointed a finger at the Harlot, apparently telling her to hurry it up. She did not, but turned her back rebelliously and scowled at her victim.

I cared not for religion
, I decided,
nor for the politics.

There was a movement of the crowd, a subtle, very tiny movement, almost unthreatening, and yet, somewhat so as the people took a step closer to the Brothers and the rank of troops behind them. The White Brother whistled, the soldiers snapped to attention at a barked order of the Black, their round shields rattled, a hundred tall, tapering spear points rested on top of the shields, aimed at the crowd. A skull and sword symbol was painted on their pauldrons and shields. The red-caped, conical helmeted men looked nervous but steady. Silence reigned. The two dangerous Brothers glowered at the barely cowed crowd. The hanging man kept dying, very slowly, and I decided his plight was more important than the gods and the kings, and unconfirmed rumors.

The gods were gone, and suffering remained. The north was cruel and harsh, and men should pay for their crimes, but the display we were witnessing served no purpose. It seemed to me it was only the Lord of the Harbor, Master of Trade, the sleek, silent and helmeted man sitting on his horse, a noble of one of the ten houses, who enjoyed the gory sight of a gruesome death the Lord Captain Crec Helstrom of Red Midgard had commanded for that morning. Lord Helstrom commanded the Guards of Dagnar, the Mad Watch, and its armored chain mail members held the tall spears, still aimed at the crowd, but the Lord of the Harbor was always present to collect the possessions of the condemned for the state. There was nothing he could do with Alrik, though. He had nothing. Instead, the Lord of the Harbor was now humming softly as he gazed at the proceedings, a nasty specimen to be sure, and I cursed myself for not remembering his name.

Poor Alrik
, I thought. The bastard had been seen sneaking out of a high noble house in the Third Ring. A known member of a criminal gang, they gave him no quarter. But this death was wrong.