Throne of Scars (20 page)

“Ittisana and Thak were speaking of the mating preferences of the gorgons,” I muttered. “That they respect …” I went silent. “I’m to surprise her, then. And I will know when.”

She nodded. “And you shall, if we are lucky. There are traditions, Ulrich,” she said. “Traditions she will respect. She’ll be vulnerable, trust me. And all you have to do is to be brutal.”

“I’m not—”

She pushed me against the wall so hard I heard my bones creaking. She pointed up the well. “Up there, man, are my sisters,” she said. “Eris, the Queen of Dark Water, a general of Stheno sits in her castle. There, we shall challenge her in a way she will not expect. Stop pretending you won’t do it. This is your only chance.”

“I see,” I said, hoping she’d not break my neck. “And now,” I said desperately drawing breaths, “I’ll kill your mother, and never know if you will help me on to an even more desperate mission?”

“Right,” she said. “But I will. I
have
to.”

She meant it. She looked compelled to do so, and for some reason, I believed her. I nodded heavily.

She let go of me. “Thank you. Be calm. Wait. There will be traditions and an opportunity. Do you remember why we trained you? What the reason was?”

I nodded again, hating the manipulative lie-spinner enough to want to kick her away from me. “Euryale wanted to find Shannon, the Hand of Life. She wanted to gain the Horn from the undead Regent. The rest of us? We were to feed the dragon, the magical beast who needs to consume other magical beings for its power. And since his power gave Euryale her strength, she needed to keep feeding it.”

She smiled, like a wolf would to a meal. “Indeed. We fed most of you to it. But there were some we didn’t.” I was quiet as she pushed me. “What was the reason Bilac gave you?”

“You trained us as weapons,” I murmured. “You taught us to kill with simple spells, and gave us not much in way of defense. But we would not have been a match for the elves. Save in one crucial way.”

“We kept some of the very best for our own uses,” she said. “Only some. You, the few rare humans could Kiss the Night. You could surprise anyone in Aldheim. At least once. And you will do that for me against Eris.”

“How will she be vulnerable? What traditions did you mention—”

“Shut up. You’ll see,” she said. “All you have to do is obey. Obey and fight and Shannon shall be given her chance to defeat Aldheim.”

“I’m giving her the chance to gain the Horn,” I said darkly. “Not to make more war.”

“The Horn,” she snickered, “the Horn. Perhaps, you fool.”

I shook my shoulders, trying to find the energy to fight again. “Let us go, then.”

“Come,” she said and pushed me for the chain that was moving down.

I looked up to the top, hoping to find another solution, but she was right. There were none.
Die now, or die later. What man would not die later? And perhaps I’d find a way to spare Eris, if she didn’t deserve death.
“What is up there?”

She nodded curtly. “Dark Waters, of course. The Deep Waters, some call them. It’s a sea, or a lake, but deep as any bottomless hole and as dark as the soul of a dragon. Rivers run from it, ships row on them and it is our home. There is the Half Torn, the fortress you saw that keeps it safe. There is the ring of walls, and the thousand villages. And then there is the Scale Mount, the silver hill where our queens sit. It is a castle, carved of silver, obviously. The sisters are a powerful force. We are not Scardark, but few fight like we do. That’s why we are free of the svartalfs, and not like the orcs of the Below. I’ll make us the rulers of vast lands.”

“How will a human male be able to walk the land?” I asked, afraid to go out and face the multitudes that would be waiting for me.

She ticked a finger on her tooth. “Well, you will be fine. We don’t have slaves in the cities. Humans are rare, yes. But that’s the meat of the trap we are setting for Eris, isn’t it?”

“How will I be fine?” I asked her with growing fury. “Out with it already.”

She spoke with a thin smile. “We live for a long time,” she said. “As long as the elves, even longer than the svartalfs. But we do not grow out of eggs.”

I blinked. “What are you saying?” Ittisana and Thak had indeed been mentioning consorts and marriages, and I had a queasy feeling I knew what she was about.

I was right.

“We choose our companions from the other races,” she said wickedly. “Like spiders, we choose a mate, and we keep them like pets, or until we find ourselves pregnant. We do that, and then we let go of them. There are thousands of such elves and svartalfs in the city. Thousands, my dear Ulrich. And some humans as well, not many, but some. Jotuns, even. Svartalfheim is the home of many races.”

I stammered, hoping I had misheard. The vile female would pretend to be my … companion? 
No, I would pretend to be her concubine.
“You are making a joke?” I asked.

She shook her head. “If I did, you wouldn’t understand our humor, Ulrich. You will pretend, and then later, you will understand the tradition part. Be ready.”

“I don’t like the sound—”

She chuckled. “You don’t
have
to like it. But let’s worry about that in a bit. Mother’s guards are a formidable lot. She cannot be killed by blade. Only magic, and if she sees an attack coming, her defenses are formidable. You will see an opportunity, trust me. And she won’t know you are a magical weapon. Let us begin. I’ll give you what you will need.” She grasped the chain and pulled me to her, as she would her lover. I felt revulsion and hate wriggle through my spine. “Your accursed Shannon’s future hinges on this. Perhaps even the future of the Nine Worlds. Do what you must, Ulrich.”

I sighed, and felt worn out, thin, stretched, tired. My chest throbbed and I felt sick. And I had no choice, at least right then and there. “I’ll come,” I said.

Cosia smiled wickedly. “Good. Let us meet Mother, then. She has asked to see me, finally.”

I
soaked in water, though this time the water was clean and warm. I was enjoying the comforts of a sort of a pool bricked into one of the lakes. There were pale lights under the surface. A soap-like block was floating near, and I hunted it gleefully like a child would. I rubbed it on me, and cursed, as I touched my chest. A stabbing pain lanced from the top of my head to my toes, and it took a while to regain my senses. Then I kept washing, hoping to forget what the wound would imply.

It would kill me, unless I found healing.

I pushed the thought away, but soon, I would not be able to do so.

Two lithe gorgons waited on the shore while I frolicked in the water. We were near the walls of Scale Mount, a bulky castle of silver on the side of the cavern. A sturdy wall with murderous towers blocked it from the rest of the city. I shook my head at the castle. It was squat, surprisingly small, and yet, dazzling. Magical lights lit it. They were brilliant, some moving slowly around it, lighting the surface smoothly. It had been carved straight into a gigantic vein of silver, and I could only gawk at it. You could buy a country in the Tenth with but a single level of it. Every detail of it glittered. How they kept it so bright and untarnished was a mystery. Mother’s jewelry had required constant scrubbing, but not so Scale Mount.
Perhaps they had their slaves, no, concubines scrub it clean, when they were not needed for mating
, I thought. I snorted and felt the tightness of fear in my belly.

Eris awaited. And even if Cosia had described her as weak, and perhaps less cruel than most gorgons I had seen, I doubted she was soft as a ball of mud.

I’d face Eris the Old soon, and the traditions Cosia had mentioned made me squirm with terror. I had not killed anyone yet.
Or even tried to
, I reminded myself. “Shit and bother,” I cursed. I was exactly where I didn’t want to be in the quest. Dirtying my soul.

I looked across the huge lakes, or sea, whatever one called it, trying to calm myself. The dark water stretched around me, and its surface was constantly being disturbed by ships with thick rows of oars. Some disappeared behind a sea wall, miles and miles away. Others waited before a dark entrance on a far rock wall. I thought there were fortresses carved to the sides of the entrance, with chains stretched between them, perhaps to guard a river.

I didn’t hate the homeland of Cosia.

It was surprising. It was … pleasant.

The Scale Mount was a looming, impressive bastion of power, but the multitudes of round and square homes of the Dark Water stretched left and right, their shapes subtly intermingling like a host of calm frogs sitting by a pond. Their color was always light, and everything melded well together. All the villages ran along the shores and the hilly bits of land, some even jutting over the water. Some gorgons lived in giant stalactites, few in sprawling, round-roofed castles. The gentle lights, the warm air and abundance of water, often magically lit from below with blue, yellow, and white spells made the Dark Waters look splendid, a place to remember. It was very different from what I had imagined it would be, when it had been mentioned for the first time in Euryale’s tower.

I gazed at the gorgons. They were not like Cosia and Bilac. More like Ittisana.

I had seen plenty in the battle. I had seen dozens in Euryale’s tower. Were they not all evil to their core? One of the sisters of Cosia was laughing at a joke, a tingling, high-pitched sound that left one smiling. Surely nothing that laughed like that was fully evil. Perhaps the only evil I really knew were the dead? And perhaps even they were so only because they were spawned by a mad goddess like Hel. I admired the gorgons. They were all beautiful, at least in body, some gorgeously tattooed. I had not seen any of their young, but they would have to be somewhere out there.

One of the two gorgons whistled and waved her hand. “Time to go, human.”

Time to go and kill a queen,
I cursed and nodded at them. Time to kill someone I didn’t know or even wish to know. Time to dance to Cosia’s tune once again. I hated it and only with supreme effort managed to raise myself from the comforting water.

The true queen of Svartalfheim was Stheno, but this one, Eris, would decide my fate that day. And that of Cosia.
To kill her or not?

I didn’t know.

I climbed out of the pool, and the two gorgons tittered, murmuring something to each other. Both had silver spears and shields, fine swords and half hidden daggers, and wore a longer than usual chain mail. It touched the ground, though it left one of their thighs bare. Their round rears swayed enticingly under the chainmail and I rubbed such thoughts out of my mind. The two were similar, I thought. So were their builds, lithe and short. Siblings, no doubt. They had snakes longer than most, orange and yellow. What their poison would do to a man, I had no idea. I had no wish to find out. They looked impatient as they turned to see what was keeping me. I rushed, uncomfortable in my nakedness. Their dark eyes coaxed me, and one pointed at a small, round house near the wall. I nodded, passed them by, and made my way there. I cursed them under my breath as they laughed softy, and wondered if they found my naked body repulsive or attractive.

“Pasty lizard,” one muttered too loudly, which made the other one slap her shoulder and I had my answer.

Inside, there was a svartalf. He waved me over and I obeyed. The house was meant for bathers. The air was warmer than outside; the floor was heated. He stared at me, flinched as he saw the wound on my chest. After a moment, he pointed me towards the side, where there was a heaped pile of clothing, weapons, and armor. He followed me as I walked and stayed at an arm’s length. He measured me with his eyes and nodded. “It should fit.”

I nodded in thanks, though unsure what I was supposed to do with all of it. “I’ve not much experience with such gear.”

“Start with some clothes,” he said mirthfully. “Cover up before the ladies steal you away.”

“They called me a pasty lizard,” I grumbled as I rifled through the pile.

“Gorgons have a rough sense of humor,” he chortled. “They like to challenge the male, not charm him. There,” he pointed at a sleeve.

I pulled out a black tunic and a loin cloth and began dressing. The clothes were warm, and the quality gave me odd comfort and confidence. The tunic touched my chest, and I flinched, but bit my lip and kept dressing. The svartalf stood by, grunting when I picked up pants, clicked his tongue as I nearly fell while pulling them on. Finally, he pushed a pair of dark boots my way. I pulled them on as well, and they fit like a second skin. “Like a damned lord,” I muttered. “They know how to live here.”

“And how to die,” the svartalf said with a thin smile. “Armor.”

There was a dark chain mail. I hesitated as I poked it. It looked uncomfortable. It was probably heavy and cumbersome, gleaming like snake’s scales. To be honest, I didn’t miss the one they had stripped off me after Cosia captured me. The svartalf stepped forward, and lifted it with ease. “Well-made thing. Don’t worry, my human friend. I would know.
I
made it. I’m the best armorer of the Serpent Style. The crafters guild, see? Mistress Cosia wanted you to look splendid, and I’ve done my best. My best is usually very good, you poor soul.”

I held the armor, trying to figure out a way to draw it on. There were no clasps or anything resembling an opening.  “I don’t know what I should—”

“Here,” he said. He pointed to a bench, I sat down and he pulled the armor up, stood over me, and let it fall over my head. I felt smothered and nearly started to run around in panic, but he pushed me back down. The chain clinked and settled around me like snake’s scales, and I marveled at its light weight. “Thank gods. It … looks …
kingly
.”

“Thank
me
,” he chortled. “Not the gods. Yes, it looks splendid. It comes off just like any tunic, and all you need to do is to pour it over your head to dress it back on. Sort of dive into it, eh?”

“Thank you indeed.” I looked at the sword.

He grabbed it and nodded at my chest. “The chain’s not perfectly comfortable with that terrible wound. Are they going to heal it?”

I shrugged. “I had companions. I had … hoped they might. Now? I don’t know. I’ve not felt well,” I said. “It’s painful at times.”

He nodded and poked my chest, making me flinch. “That’s going to kill you in a bit. Something unnatural about it.”

“It’s an infected wound, that’s all,” I argued. “From a sword.” I wasn’t sure of that, of course. Kiera had been both sorry and not sorry for it.

He shook his head carefully. “There’s an evil spirit in there. A curse. A spell or some unnatural filth coursing through your blood, my boy, devouring you. Did you meet something powerful that you pissed off the past week or so?”

I opened my mouth and shook my head weakly.
Not a natural wound? A curse? Kiara cursed me? Why?
I swallowed my rage and kept staring ahead, feeling angered and itchy under my skin.
Shannon? Kiera?
Was this an insurance? So I’d obey?
Was it something like the Rot?

The svartalf looked at my inner fight with a raised eyebrow. “I’m not sure what you are struggling with boy, but you are on an epic journey. They’ll do a mighty battle in the Vastness soon, but your battle starts this night. Do as you are told, and perhaps that thing won’t kill you. Or they, whoever they are. There’s something about that wound that whispers of a great power to me. But that’s just me. I can sometimes glimpse great spells. Or evil ones. Like that wound.”

“Oh, I’ll do as they say,” I muttered. “They all want something and I’ll deliver. I take your advice. And one day, I’ll do what I want.”

“Good, I wish you the best of luck,” he said happily and clapped the chain mail with the sword. “The armor will keep you alive in battle, if you are lucky. Not even Aldheimers make the like. Also, it makes you stealthy. We have a need of stealth in the tunnels, and so my craft, creation of lesser artifacts of Gift is useful in the dark. You will notice you are very hard to see in this one if you fight in the shadows.”

“You know of artifacts?” I asked him.

He nodded. “Studied with a dverg once. A prisoner he was. My father bought him off the gorgons. The snake-haired females hold a virtual monopoly on slave trading in Svartalfheim. They trade the very best in rare dverger and jotuns and such. We didn’t put this dverg to the pits, though. He taught—”

“Pits?”

He looked confused. “Yes, the pits. Fighting pits. We celebrate everything with a battle. Elven and svartalf hearts, my friend, were crafted from that of Odin, and Odin is a lover of war. There are no slaves in Svartalfheim, not for manual labor at least. The ones who are captured will be sold to the bidders who set up the battles. With the war, there has been a great demand for ritual battles to celebrate losses and victories and upcoming battles” He smiled crookedly. “Because of the war, there is a great supply of such fodder as well.”

Odin the lover of war. Shit, and he is supposed to save the Nine?

He shrugged and took out a belt, a dark, simple thing. “The grander the cause, the greater the battle in a Pit. Scardark has the best Pits, of course, but we do well in the other cities. Alas,” he said wistfully, “my father was King of Illar, and a rival took his throne. Here I am, a crafter in exile. Could be worse.” He gave me a look I didn’t enjoy.

Could be worse, like I had it.
“Is this expensive?” I wondered.

“It is,” he said. “It’s coin or favor I charge. I suspect Cosia, the daughter of Eris can pay for it, though. If not, I’m rich enough. I’ll survive.”

“Thank you,” I said gratefully. “I have … had an artifact. I called it Iron Trial.”

“Oh,” he chuckled. “A
Trial
? A trial for you, yes? A powerful thing?”

“Yes,” I said, and leaned forward, whispering. “It was always a strange and dangerous thing. I feared it. Then, suddenly it grew in power. There was a battle, and I was almost crushed under its will. It nearly consumed me. I had no clue what happened, and—”

He smiled. “The armor and swords and spears we make in the Serpent Style are simple artifacts. Few of us are skilled in the minor enchantments of the Gift and while useful, they are minor. They are simple things, all small and insignificant in the great game of crafting powerful artifacts.” He leaned forward as well. “Then there are the ancient pieces. Imagine an era when the gods were young and merry, and the dverger were born. The powers of magic ran in their blood. They knew the lands of power, and were familiar with the mighty rivers themselves. They were young as the gods were, unwise, and foolish, and let loose their imaginations. Thousands and thousands of mighty things they created, the ancient smiths of the deep forges. Some of them, the very best, could see deeper into the flows of Nifleheim’s rivers, and the roaring inferno of Muspelheim. They could pluck and braid and weave spells into the finest things you can imagine. And some, the dark-hearted dverger? They say they found a way to bind a soul inside artifacts. Some of the mighty weapons have a spirit, living thing you have to share the tool with.”

I nodded. I could very well imagine the Iron Trial was such a thing.

He slapped his knee. “Many a mortal would give their life in pursuit of such a thing. Then, finding it, they are disappointed. They won’t be like the gods. The artifacts are just as mighty as their wielder. So they say. If you are a maa’dark of simple powers, your blood thin like miser’s wine, you will not have great use of it. On the other hand, if your blood is running with the power of the ancient beings, or you are an arch mage of fame, then such a thing might wound even the gods themselves.”