The Legend of the Five and the Choosers of the Slain

Chapter 6 - The Blood of Skogul

The air was thick with the smell of corpses, a smell the Valkyrie were used to. However, this was the odor not of the freshly-deceased, but of the long dead and rotten. Reginleif’s golden helm shone in the moonlight as she prodded one body gently with the bottom of her sandal. She then leaned over and inspected the face. Meanwhile, Rynnhilda simply kicked one over with her heavy plate armored boot. All of the bodies were not only torn and mangled, but also months rotten, and burned black in several places.

            “The undead,” said Reginleif.

            “They must have ambushed them in the night,” Rynnhilda added.

            Skogul’s gentler sister, Skegjol, was present with them, accompanying Reginleif. She recognized the marks of her sister’s twin blades and pointed out her tracks, leading away down the valley. Accompanying Rynnhilda was Sigdrifa, the ice-blond and ice-cold Valkryie of Odin, with her long, shimmering spear. As usual, Sigdrifa merely followed them like a shadow, saying nothing.

            “They moved this way,” said Skegjol, following the tracks.

            The others followed her, until suddenly she stopped, holding out a hand as if feeling of the air. Reginlief walked up beside her and did likewise.

            “What is it?” Rynnhilda asked, approaching.

            Then she felt it. There was an invisible wall of force, clearly magical, separating them from the entrance to Darkcliff Gorge. Running along the ground was a long row of runes, which also made its way up the cliff face on either side. The area around the wall was cold and felt strangely…

            “Dead,” said Reginlief. “This area feels dead. It seems to suck the very life right out of me. My spirit feels heavier…”

            Sigdrifa crouched down next to the runes and traced them with her finger. “This is very dark magic, clearly drawn by the necromancers. It has power over spirits and souls, binding them to the earth.”

            Skegjol frowned. “But how could it affect the Valkyrie?”

            “We are spirits too,” answered the Valkyrie of Ice, “of a sort. We are luminous beings, immortal, not of the flesh…”

            “How will the magic affect them?” Rynnhilda asked, in a military tone. She wanted the facts, not long explanations.

            “It will drag them to the earth, weigh them down, darken them, slowly sapping their power, until…”

            “They become mortal?” the Valkyrie Queen prompted.

            Sigdrifa shook her head. “In a sense, but not precisely. A spirit can never truly die; they are immortal in every sense of the word. However, they can be weakened… weakened enough, perhaps, for the necromancers to trap them, enslave them… or…”

            “Or kill them again?” Rynnhilda prompted once more. “What happens then?”

            Sigdrifa took a deep breath, then let it back out in a wisp of frosty breath. “No one knows. Not even the gods, mayhap. They disappear from all sight. Sometimes they return, decades, centuries, even millennia later… sometimes, never.”

            Reginleif nodded. “Dissipation… the utter vanishing of a spirit. I did not know the necromancers were capable of such power… to dissipate a Valkyrie.”

            “They might not be able to. It’s only speculation.”

            “But we should expect the worst,” Rynnhilda cautioned. “Even gods can be killed in this manner by mere mortals. It has been known to happen.”

            “Then we have to get to them quickly,” Skegjol said with concern. “We must warn our sisters!”

            “Remain calm, Skegjol,” Rynnhilda ordered. “We cannot panic. In all forms of conflict, cool heads always prevail. Do you know any way we can reach them, Sigdrifa?”

            Sigdrifa shook her head. “Most of what I know of this, I learned from Roata. She was close to a necromancer herself.”

            “Well, we won’t do any good standing around here,” Rynnhilda said. “Let’s get moving and look for a way around.”

            Chief Gutrender came out of the cave holding high the severed head of Chief Bloodtracker, though perhaps “severed” is not the best word, as the head had been ripped from its shoulders by Gutrender’s bare hands, along with the entire spinal cord, which could still be seen dangling from the neck. The yellow sun shone over the blood-drenched canyon as Gutrender proudly displayed his grizzly trophy to the mob of crazed savages still fighting in Darkcliff Gorge.

“Look, my people!” he exclaimed, foaming spittle flying from his snaggletoothed maw. “Gaze upon the head of the lord of our enemies, and know that the battle is now won! THE ORC-MEN RULE DARKCLIFF GORGE!”

But despite their great chieftain’s admirable victory, the barbarians who heard him were so absorbed in combat that they hardly heeded him. One young orc-men was so offended by the thought of stopping the fight that he rushed straight for Gutrender. The older chieftain simply lifted his foot and landed a single, well-placed kick in the younger orc-man’s face, snapping his neck and killing him instantly.

            “Any MORE want to try to take Chief Gutrender, new leader of the Tribe of Dark Cliffs? BOW TO ME OR DIE!”

            This had considerably more effect upon the masses, who immediately dropped their weapons and fell to their knees. Soon half the canyon was gathered around the huge orc-man. The other half, however, still had taken no notice, and was busy cutting itself to pieces. Gutrender paid them little mind.

            “Listen, my people!” the great half-orc shouted. “This battle was no accident! This fight between our people was caused by some traitor, wanting to destroy us from the inside! Send him forward! Flush out the betrayer! BRING ME HIS HEAD!”

            From his perch in a cave high on the cliff, overlooking the battle, Bommlech Hellaxe grunted as he heard this proclamation. He tossed away the last bone from the meat he’d stolen from the tribe’s storerooms, and then he walked back into the cave. Apparently he’d worn out yet another welcome.

            The Valkyrie advanced cautiously, keeping a close formation. Thruda, Skogul, and Kara led the way, as the tip of the spear. Behind them stood the four hunters that had joined the group, looking nervously about, their various weapons at the ready. In the rear of the line, as much to keep an eye on the hunters as to protect the group’s flank, came Gondul, Roata, and Myst.

            Kara and the other lead Valkyrie slowed their pace as they were presented with a choice: Just ahead lay Darkcliff Gorge, the sides of it riddled with the holes in which dwelled the savage Darkcliff barbarians. On the side of the valley to their right, the battle was still going on, although slowing in pace. On the side to their left, a half-orc chieftain was rallying his forces, who suddenly dropped their weapons and bowed.

            “We can’t advance through the center,” Kara said, “or they may choose to attack us from both sides.”

            “We should cut our way through the right,” Thruda put in. “The ones still fighting there are leaderless and tired; any who attack us can be easily dispatched.”

            Kara nodded her agreement, and they began making their way in that direction. “Skogul, have you no input? You said you’ve been here before.”

“Oh, you could say that,” said the red-haired Valkyrie, who was suddenly looking less enthusiastic than usual. “I was here a long time ago though, and nothing I know would honestly be much use right now. Unless that orc-man chieftain decides to attack us, that is.”

“What do you know about him?” Kara asked.

Skogul remained silent for a moment before replying, “I’ll tell you if it becomes important.”

Kara let this slide, as the warring barbarians ahead now were now beginning to notice the advancing warrior women. Many paused, staring in confusion; others ignored them, continuing the fight; and still others took to fleeing into their caves or to the opposite side of the canyon. Those who paused slowly began to retreat as well. The path was clearing way before them.

            “Bah!” Thruda huffed. “It looks like we won’t get to…”

            Her words were cut off by a terribly outcry that echoed through the canyon all around them. They turned to see the group that had gathered around the orc-man chieftain suddenly being scattered by an enraged beast-man… an enormous wereboar, nearly twice the size of a human. This would have been a fantastic distraction… except that the horde of barbarians that were now fleeing from the beast were heading straight toward the Valkyrie.

            Kara, Thruda, and Skogul moved toward the side of the group to defend the others against the rushing mob. Gondul hefted her shield and moved up to join them. Behind them, the last two Valkyrie stood on either side of the row of four hunters as they readied their ranged attacks. Slobby lifted his short cane in one hand like a cudgel and untied the club from his belt with his opposite hand.

            “Brace yourselves!” Thruda bellowed.

            The first few approaching barbarians suddenly stopped, shielding their eyes from the holy light of the warrior-women before them. Unfortunately, their fellows behind them continued the mad rush, and a few of them even rammed themselves directly onto the spears of Gondul and Kara. Those who did not felt the sting of Skogul’s blades and the crushing impact of Thruda’s heavy mace. One of them, who managed to slip around to the side, ran directly into Slobby, and was promptly smashed into a pulp by the old man’s club and shillelagh. Still others never made it into the line, as they were shot down by Myst and the other three hunters.

            Then came the stronger foes, including gigantic new orc-man chief. Gutrender came in under Kara’s spear and grabbed the end of it with both hands, thrusting it back toward her and knocking her to the ground. When Thruda came in to attack his exposed side, another orc-man slipped in between them and covered him, deflecting her mace with his own spiked club.

            Last came Piggy. The great wereboar had already eviscerated three of the barbarians, but his rage was not yet sated. Though the pig inside him demanded that he retreat and enjoy the meat of his kills, the man inside him still yearned for revenge and headed toward Chief Gutrender.

            “Gutrender!” shouted a woman’s voice.

            The half-orc, still wrestling with Kara for her spear, looked up to see Skogul bearing down on him… but instead of attacking him, she swept past him and sliced into the gut of the wereboar that was about to take off his head. The hulking lycanthrope squealed, as Skogul would later recall, “like a stuck pig.” Suddenly the human half of his mind consented to the demands of the pig half, and he fled, heading back toward the opposite side of the valley, where he lifted one of the corpses over his sweaty, hairy shoulder before running off with it into the now-empty caves.

            “Call off your forces, Gutrender,” Skogul shouted to the orc-man she had just saved, “and I will call off my sisters!”

Kara, who was just reaching to draw her sword, paused as the chieftain nodded quickly and shouted, “Stop da attack! Stop fighting! Stop!”

“Cease fire, sisters, and you hunters there!” Skogul shouted.

After a few seconds, the valley was silent.

“What,” said Thruda, “in the name of Loki was that all about, Skogul?”

“I’m just making things easier for us!” Skogul shouted back.

“Skogul?!” Gutrender suddenly roared. “Is it you?”

Kara blinked. “This is too much… You know each other?”

Skogul blew out a sigh and sheathed one of her swords. “We were kids together.”

“What?!”

Skogul put her hand on her hip. “Look, I said I’d been to Darkcliff Gorge before! It just turns out I was born here. My sister Skegjol and I were Darkcliffs!”

Chief Gutrender was attempting to regain his composure. “Why do you return, exiled one?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Skogul spat. “You tried to kill my sister and me when we made our escape to the Tribe of the Wolf. Just be glad I’m willing to make peace with you so that we can pass, instead of gutting you where you stand!”

“Um, yes,” said the orc-man, who was still squinting at the blinding aura the Valkyrie presented to evil creatures, “you may go in peace.”

No further words were exchanged between the two. Although the rest of the Valkyrie and the four hunters continued to look astonished and confused, they said nothing, taking advantage of the situation to quietly gather and proceed through the valley. Soon they were well away from the tribe-lands of the Darkcliffs, proceeding to quieter though even darker regions of the winding gorge. Then they began to talk again.

“Actually,” said Kara at length, “I’m surprised you didn’t gut that orc-man on the spot. I mean, he did try to kill you and your sister, and he was about to be killed by that wereboar…”

“He was of my tribe,” Skogul answered.

“Your tribe? How could you feel any empathy with those monsters?”

Myst looked up at the sky, which was slightly overcast, with only a few spots of silvery light visible behind the gloom. “For some, the bond of tribe is as strong as that of blood.”

Skogul looked undecided. She clearly was having some internal conflict about all this. Her eyes wandered, and she fidgeted with the hilts of her sheathed swords. Skogul was a woman of the present, and digging up these old bones of the past was getting to her. Clearly, the influence of the Necromancers’ dark magic that pervaded the valley was also having an affect on her, for she felt more a part of this world than she had ever felt since her death nearly forty years ago. All of this, however, she was reluctant to impart to the others.

“I just couldn’t seem to think of the entire tribe being wiped out,” she said after a long moment. “I hate the thrice-damned savages and everything about them, but… I just couldn’t take part in destroying them.”

Myst put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I understand. No matter how much you deny it, part of you still thinks of it as home.”

Skogul drew away from her touch and stared at the ground. “No! I just don’t think we should interfere in the mortal world, that’s all. We have no business wiping out an entire barbarian tribe.”

Myst shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with showing your feelings once in a while, Skogul…”

“Myst…” Skogul said with a sigh, “ever understanding, ever condescending.”

These words seemed to wound the fairer Valkyrie, though she quickly tried to hide it. Then they were suddenly interrupted by Roderick. The Valkyrie had almost forgotten about the presence of the hunters, and now their voices visibly irritated them. They turned to regard the man as he spoke.

“This is all very touching,” he said, “but clearly you ladies are not telling my friends and I the whole truth about yourselves.”

“It is nothing that need concern you,” Skogul spat, in a rage.

Roderick started slightly, but quickly attempted to regain his composure. “I think it is! We are clearly headed to the same destination, so…”

Roata, who had not said a word for quite some time now, suddenly spoke up. “Oh, just tell them, sisters. Unless you suddenly have the good sense to abandon them or kill them, you will have to reveal this to them eventually.”

Thruda shook her head. “Then we’ll abandon them. It’s up to you, hunters, but if you insist on knowing our business then we will part ways.”

Roderick’s mouth opened and closed. “Fine, continue on.”

The Valkyrie nodded and walked on in silence, leaving the four hunters to follow far behind. Roderick drudged along with his hands hooked in his belt, staring at the chainmail-clad backs of the women ahead of him.

“Roddy,” Van Pelt put in, “mayhap you should forget your infatuation with that hulking female there and let us move on alone. They’re obviously unstable and could kill us at any moment. Besides, you know what they say about women like that. She’s probably not even interested in men… or else she uses them as slaves.”

A thoughtful smile came over Roderick’s lips. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

“Oh, gods…” muttered Farmer.

“I’m hungry,” noted Slobby.

Piggy could smell his own blood as he stumbled through the forest, blind with pain and hunger and rage. The trees were shadowy here near the edge of Darkcliff Gorge, as if the evil of that place spread to the forest above and around it as well. The woods were strangely silent as well. All that the wereboar could hear was the sound of his own painful breathing and limping through the underbrush.

Then, far off, echoed a terrifying sound that rooted Piggy to the spot: two short yet chilling wolf howls, far off in the distance.

Or were they far off? thought the human side of Piggy’s fractured brain. It echoes much here in these woods.

Either way, he knew he had to find something to eat. A wolf would not be a bad meal, provided the pack was small enough for him to fight off alone, as he had done once before in the past. Despite his wounds and loss of blood, he still felt strong enough to give thought to this possibility. But then the scent of fruit caught his nostrils, and his legs carried him in that direction.

Soon he saw it: a pulpy, dark yellow-green fruit smashed beneath a short tree right in the middle of the woods. Something had clearly shaken the fruit loose, for it was not yet quite ripe. Still, Piggy was not about to question a free meal. He moved in the direction of the tree. As he did so, he heard a very slight sound off to his right, and snapped his head in that direction. For a brief second, he thought he saw a glint of silver, and then it was gone, as if by magic.

            Shaking off the sight as perhaps a bird or even a lost ghostly spirit that was nonetheless harmless, Piggy’s massive hooves took a few more shuffling steps toward the tree, his nostril snorting with pleasure as the fruit’s aroma came to him. Personally, he would have preferred the smell and taste of human flesh, perhaps a tender female, but the fruit would have to do.

            Then came the rustling again, from the left this time. His eyes darted toward the noise and briefly saw what distinctly struck him as reddish brown fur.

            He promptly turned and ran. To his surprise, he did not hear anything giving chase, but this was not enough to slow him. He continued charging on, crashing through branches and even crushing small trees before him, until he suddenly stumbled into a small gully. As he crashed down into the dark ferns and stagnant water, he looked up at the sloping walls on three sides of him. They were steep and composed of loose dirt; he was trapped.

            The fruit had been the bait, but running away from it had been the trap!

            Piggy scrambled to his feet and turned. As he had expected, there behind him, closing off the only exit through which he had just passed, stood the predators.

            There were two of them: huge, hulking wolf-men who appeared far more wolf than man. Their heads were those of wolves, as were their legs and tails, but their torsos and arms looked humanoid, despite their large, clawed hands. Most werewolves that Piggy had seen looked like disheveled monsters: filthy and desperate, savage and wild. But these had an almost noble air about them, standing tall and looking down at him in an almost pitying manner.

            The larger of them was silvery-white, clearly the one Piggy had caught sight of originally. How the beast had hidden from him was a mystery: surely a creature of such snowy color would stand out in the forest? Yet somehow he had not. A few strips of cloth and braids with beads and feathers hung in the creature’s fur, like remnants of a lost human. The second member of the group was smaller yet almost more intimidating. Judging by the shape of its humanoid body, it was clearly female, with bright reddish fur, turning to brown in places. Piggy thought he could see a knife strapped to her lower leg, and long red hair hung down her back.

This second one took a step forward, but the Whitewolf snapped at her and gave a low growl. The Redwolf returned the growl, yet still she backed away. Piggy could feel his fear growing. Why did the creatures not eat him now and be done with it? What were they waiting for? Did they want him to fight back, so he would give them a bit more sport? If so, maybe he should just curl up in the corner. Or were there others still approaching, and he should try to fight his way out right now?

His second guess turned out to be correct, as he heard a howl above and behind him. He whirled to see a third werewolf looming above him, even taller than all the others, though his shoulders appeared slightly thinner. Not a trace of human clothing could be seen on its body, but the hair under its chin hung down a bit longer than normal, giving the impression of a beard. The edges of its fur also appeared to be graying slightly.

As he looked up, the Brownwolf dropped on all fours, and its ears laid back. Piggy felt his hair stand on end.

Then he heard a snarl behind him, and the first of the werewolves pounced. Piggy whirled to see a flash of reddish fur and gleaming white teeth headed for his throat. It was the last thing he ever saw.