The First Stage: Assembly
Chapter 1
Champion of the Underhalls
X Underdog X
It seemed like half of Jotunheim crammed into the Underhalls for this. The commotion was outrageous, shaking the halls and filling the air with warm musk from the sea of bodies. The Whelp was going to kill Gardjon. The Whelp finally overstepped his limits and would die this night. The outcome was hotly debated by all tongues, and the excitement showed on every face, in every action – from the large-scale fist brawls to wild orgies with the chained whores and female spectators both. Even the vargul filled the overlooks.
Freydis was there in the crowd, grounded and standing beside Leyanna. She would keep the nymph safe while Drekthac fought, and in the case he lost, she promised to spirit the Leyanna to safety. Other val'kyr were there too, flying around the cavernous ceiling to spectate and watch this battle – between the Small Dragon and Gardjon.
Drekthac's opponent had more prestige than he expected. For years Gardjon had been champion of the Underhalls and twice a Valhalas contestant who slew all the competitors he had faced against – even when faced with a team like the Rockeater Twins. With the power and respect he had acquired, Gardjon had built himself as a sort of political power for the underground. Leading host of the Underhalls tournaments, scores of slaves, a few wives. All the women chained up were his property, freely given to the crowds. He scored coin by selling the better whores to takers for private enclaves and rooms – or to just fuck as they watched the fights.
But while Gardjon was many things, he had never won Valhalas. He was not of the Ymirjar. That wasn't to say he couldn't have won if he entered as a competitor, but... Well, Drekthac clung to the notion that he was just another Jotunheim warrior.
Drekthac stood alone in the pits, surrounded by the chaos. He watched the hosts filter in to their seats, all but Gardjon himself, and waited with only the steady pulse of his blood as company. At the end of this night, Gardjon would be dead – his head staked outside Drekthac's door – and that chapter would be closed. He could feel the animal inside stirring restlessly.
Normally Drekthac would have stripped down for the fighting, but he doubted a blood match would be held in subligaculum. He expected Gardjon in full armor, but to add to the insult, he kept only his drake-skin clothing and bracers, without weapons. He was an Underhalls champion, and he would fight as an Underhalls champion.
From the corners of the cavern, drums began to sound. Deep, echoing beats, and at the sound, the crowds roared with excitement. Drekthac inclined his head, looking for where Gardjon might make his appearance. Everything was focused solely on his match now. Heads began to turn to the hosts' balcony, so he followed their gaze.
Gardjon entered as a mountain of a vrykul. Thick, heavy slabs of muscle covered his giant body, and over it all was a full raiment of thorny armor, including a helm where even the eyes were two black sockets. He carried the armor like it was cloth too, without hindrance. On his back was a massive double axe, nearly twice as long as Drekthac was tall with a wingspan of almost six feet. That weapon was a body cleaver. Drekthac's arms already ached at just the thought of parrying its weight.
Standing at the edge of the balcony, Gardjon stared at Drekthac with a mocking smirk. Bellowing over the crowd, he announced, "It seems the human doesn't understand a blood match. Someone loan him a knife so that he survives at least the first strike!"
There was laughter, but Drekthac waved the crowds back as they quieted down. "Keep it, for now. I will fight this in the Underhalls manner. Drop the weapons in at the usual call."
"You think pride will preserve you in a blood match? Hah!" Gardjon jumped from the balcony and crashed into the stone of the pits, his sturdy legs absorbing the landing well. He towered over Drekthac at their equal footing. "Unarmed. Unarmored. That is not bravery; it is foolishness. I see you humans don't understand the difference. I'll take pleasure in gutting you for it."
Drekthac let out an exaggerated sigh. "I do wish there were three more of you here, so that you would kill each other as you flail about with that tree you've been lugging like a slave. At least you'll give me a laugh when you fall on your ass for missing."
"Smug Whelp," Gardjon hissed. He reached over his head with both hands, grabbed the axe, and swung it down to split the stone floor in massive cleave. Drekthac barely raised an eyebrow as the crack passed between his legs. "You have no idea how I longed for this day."
"I could say the same," Drekthac mentioned. Fucking hell, that weapon. It better be as slow as I hope, with its size. "Call the match, hosts! Let this be over with!" As one of them stood, Drekthac noticed something black drip from Gardjon's axe. Poison.
Fuck.
The start was hollered. In an instant, Gardjon ripped his weapon up from the ground and turned it for a sweeping strike that would cut Drethac right through the middle. Far, far too fast for its size, even for a vrykul, and he knew then that one of the runes would be lightness for the holder – a damn expensive enchantment, but not entirely unexpected.
Drekthac dropped under the blade as it passed, feeling the torrent of air displacement sending him into a brief roll, then sprang up close to the vrykul, where the blade couldn't easily reach. Gardjon went for a haft strike, but keeping nimble, Drekthac grabbed the wood and swung around it like it was a pole, then shoved both boots into the side of a knee. The leg fell open as the joint strained, but it didn't snap as Drekthac had hoped. While Gardjon was still off balance though, he decided to open with his favorite vrykul take-down.
With the planted leg that bore all the weight, Drekthac grabbed it at the knee with both hands and tugged with everything he had. Gardjon barely managed to switch his weight to the bent leg in time, having seen the move a dozen times before as host, and kicked Drekthac back with the caught leg. When Drekthac tried jumping forward again, Gardjon swung his axe back in one hand. He barely got outside of its immense range in time.
The crowds roared. There were too many voices and sounds to pick out their words, but the general consensus was excitement that Drekthac hadn't been felled already. The usual Underhalls crowd, those that watched his fights, was drowned out by the rest of Jotunheim who had come with curiosity. Everyone knew the Whelp was strong enough to fight vrykul, was the champion of the Underhalls, but he impressed little.
With a bellow of his own, Drekthac dove in, slipping by Gardjon's quick chops. Using the wide top of the vrykul's boot as a step, he lunged up the massive frame, but with Gardjon's step back, he missed the spike he intended for leverage and cut into the palm of his hand with it. Growling, he planted his foot on the flat stomach armor and kicked the rest of the way up.
Gods damn Gardjon was big. His knee smashed under the chin of helmet, hoping to clock him good in the weak spot, yet pain exploded from the knee as it crashed with the metal and his momentum was stopped, falling backwards now. Anxious of impaling himself on one of the armor's spikes, Drekthac kicked off a hulking shoulder to push himself further away. He landed awkwardly, but nothing snapped.
Looking up, he watched Gardjon finally recover from his stumble, just as the massive plate helmet hit the ground with an echoing clang. All the sounds of battle seemed amplified, while the roaring crowds a dull buzz. Sweat prickled everywhere along his skin, breathing a light pant, as Drekthac met Gardjon's eyes and glare.
His cut hand itched annoyingly, and briefly Drekthac checked the crowd. Absolutely thrilled with the fight. The call for weapons would be some time in coming. Clenching the aching hand, he refused to look at it, for the tell-tale angry red marking or black drops of poison. He spat into the palm, then sprinted back.
His head felt strangely light, but he reassured himself it was only the adrenaline. Poison wouldn't work that fast.
The charge was halted as Gardjon swept his weapon back and forth. The axe had all the weight, all the integrity of its size, yet it moved like a hollow toy. Drekthac stayed cautious, glaring not at it but into Gardjon's blue eyes. The Dragon would not fall easily, nor would he be cowed, no matter his position.
Then Drekthac stepped back, dropping his stance to spread his hands out at his sides. He immediately drew the attention of the crowds. With a smirk, he shouted, "What is the matter, Gardjon the Feeble? Is the Whelp too much for you, even without armor? Without weapons? Imagine when the call comes!"
The audacity sent the crowd howling, and Gardjon's eyes burned with a rage so intense it was nearly tangible. Drekthac felt the muscles in his left arm trying to twitch, but he wasn't concerned by the delay.
"Like a cockroach, you seem to fit between my boot!" Gardjon roared, jumping forward with his axe for a wide swing. Drekthac lost his confident poise as he jumped away, settling back into a wary stance. "You remind me of a monkey, always hopping away. Tiny too!"
Drekthac had another hope for Gardjon, to help his chance of success. While he had a long history as a great warrior and champion, Gardjon had turned to the civilian life by hosting the tournaments. Unless he took to private training, he carried his armor and little else around for years, while Drekthac continued fighting in the Underhalls on a weekly basis – and each tournament was a long serious of exhausting fights with little rest.
Endurance. That should be Drekthac's one advantage over Gardjon. He just needed to stay alive long enough.
At the next engagement, Drekthac saw during his approach the way Gardjon heaved back his axe, as if he meant to... With wild eyes, Drekthac dropped low as he could, letting drake-skin armor scrape along the stone, as Gardjon threw his axe sideways. It spun in lethargic, lofty circles around, also getting lower with each second since it left Gardjon's hands, until the blade sliced only a few inches over Drekthac's head as the axe passed over him.
While the Whelp was sliding still, Gardjon ripped a vrykul dagger from his waist and lunged forward for an impaling blow. The poisons coating the blade would finish the job if the blade didn't, yet as he swung it low and forward, the human recovered also swinging forward. The dagger met Gardjon's helmet with a loud and awkward clang – barely snatched from the ground – and his dagger scraped around the smooth part to lock against a spike.
The parry held long enough for them to hear the immense crash of the axe crashing into the pit wall, breaking the stones and sending the bricks spilling into the arena. The axe itself fell atop the pile, but neither warrior was looking for it. With furious war cries, they broke apart to quick strikes, dagger beat back by helmet, until after one exchange, Gardjon snapped a quick kick. Drekthac heaved an exhale as he was flung far back. Only the drake-skin saved his ribs from shattering, though he lost the ability to breath in a sudden rush.
Gardjon pressed forward, eager for Drekthac's blood. When the vrykul was close enough, Drekthac, still gasping for breath, chucked the steel helmet at his head. The hulking man flinched as it bounced from his forward, halting the rush and giving Drekthac the time to attack. Too late did Gardjon see the movement, allowing Drekthac to kicked against the joint of the left knee once again.
There was a pop, a shifting movement felt under Drekthac's boot as the actual noise was overcome by the crowd. While Gardjon was still buckling though, there was a quick swipe of the dagger, and hot pain flared from Drekthac's chest as it bit across the skin. Enraged, Drekthac threw his shoulder against the wounded knee, sending the vrykul sideways, then jumped around behind him and threw himself at the soft spot behind the good knee pushing until the whole mountain came crashing down to the stones.
It was a race against time now, as the poison was sure to set in now. The dagger's coating would be more potent and deadly than armor spikes as precaution of Gardjon accidentally pricking himself in combat. Fortunately, with the fall of the man, there were roars as people called for weapons to be dropped in. Drekthac heard them clanging in as he heaved for breath, watching Gardjon scrambling to get back up.
Fucking armor. Drekthac found himself a handaxe and hefted it up, but he knew that Gardjon's armor would be the main issue. The legs were only protected at the front, but cutting through vrykul flesh, even with his strength, was was like hewing trees. Only a well-placed blow with appropriate power would have any effect, and this fight had shown little such opportunities.
Gardjon was finally standing now, and he threw aside his dagger angrily. With gleaming eyes, he peered at Drekthac, then limped over to his axe, easily taking it from the wall. There was a scheme in those eyes, Drekthac saw. Some pleasurable and confident though, and it worried him. Sure, the ruined knee wouldn't bother much as the armored vrykul wasn't relying on mobility, but...
The poison burned hot trails through his blood now. Drekthac's pulse began to accelerate despite himself.
At the first step towards Gardjon, with the vrykul making his way over at a more sedate pace, the Drekthac thought the axe felt significantly lighter than it should. His first suspicion was the poison altering his perception, but as he held it forward, he noticed the axe was missing its whole head. His eyes went wide, then narrowed as Gardjon laughed during his final steps from Drekthac.
A fucking stick was in his hands!
With a curse, Drekthac rolled aside from the first swing of the recovered axe, then stepped back cautiously, forcing Gardjon to approach on that hurt leg. It wasn't even heavy enough to hurt if he threw it, and certainly not enough to stop that axe, even on a parry with the shaft. "Hela take you, Gardjon!"
"I'd say you were soon to meet her, but humans don't have the honor!" Gardjon mocked. One of the spikes from the helm seemed to have pierced his forehead, causing blood to run down his face.
In spite, Drekthac threw the thick stick at the vrykul, then made a sprint for the other weapons. He turned desperate as his muscles started to convulse, the culprit he assumed to be the poison, then made quick study of the weapons on the grounds. Some were already broken, just from the landing, but at least a few still held integrity. He snatched up a speak, quickly running his eye down its entire length for flaws, and felt a surge of triumph at a wholesome weapon.
With the leg, Gardjon was slow to meet him, allowing him the precious time – the poison made the gift bittersweet. Turning, Drekthac prepared to engage his opponent again. The entire torso, arms, and front of his legs were armored. That left the head, neck (no matter how impossible with their heights), and behind his legs. Gods, Drekthac wanted to shove the whole spear up Gardjon's ass.
He made forward fast as his body would allow without a spasm. Gardjon readied a swing. With a room-shaking bellow, Gardjon swung first in a simple side swipe. Drekthac let it pass before him, then dove in. Gardjon sent the weapon back quickly, and just barely did Drekthac manage to catch the wood against his spear in a parry.
Damn it.
He recalled why that was a bad idea as it took him from his feet entirely and sent him all the way to the far wall, where he crashed into the stone and bounced off harshly to the floor. His head exploded with pain and a loud ringing, and all the strength he possessed slipped out all at once. Idly, the hardened warrior felt the spear slip from motionless fingers.
Gardjon.
Gardjon.
Gardjon.
The crowd took up the cry, cheering for their favorite combatant. Idly, Drekthac thought it was a little early for the victory chant, but as he laid there unmoving, he felt it was clear why. It wasn't right though. That was the wrong name. Every fiber of his being reminded him that it was the wrong name. His pride, his honor, criticized it, then chastise him for letting it happen.
With a groan, Drekthac found his rage again. That was the first step, letting the white hot fury fill his being again, and with it, his strength and conscious returned. He pushed himself to his knees and shook his aching head, then grabbed the spear and stood to his feet. Gardjon had the biggest shit-eating gloat on his face with his approach.
A vrykul spear was damn long. Already twelve yards tip to end, and thick enough that it took both hands to wrap around it fully. The point was a good foot of long, narrow steel, tied by a frayed cord to the wood it was fitted to. It was his one chance of beating the sack of shit he was faced against. Gods be praised that this was only a blood match and not a tournament with another opponent just after.
Settling into a cautious stance with three fourths of the length held outward, Drekthac recalled the name he had been given his first day standing as champion in this tournament. The Underhalls Champion, a human who beat both vrykul and Valhalas vargul. Little, but fierce as a dragon. Whelp, some cried, while Freydis announced for all to hear:
"Behold the Small Dragon! Victorious of his trial for freedom! A human stands among you today, a champion of the Underhalls!"
And the crowds had gone wild, just for him. His name on every tongue. So fuck Gardjon. Fuck the hope on endurance. Fuck the poison that was blurring his vision. Fuck the armor, the immense size, the overwhelming strength. Fuck the enchanted house-cleaving axe. Fuck the chant and the people. He needed one good strike to end this. He knew how to fight vrykul better than Gardjon could fight humans.
"Gods damn, look at the Whelp!"
"He's attacking!"
Drekthac heard their cries and cheers as he ran forward. His body felt strangely light and his attention very narrow. Gardjon was ready, grinning broadly. Again though, Drekthac proved too nimble for the overhead cleave, slipping around as it split stone, but then he dropped into a cautious roll before a follow-up. Gardjon growled as Drekthac passed between his legs.
In a solid kneel, Drekthac already had the weapon repositioned for the perfect strike. He devoted all of his strength into the spear thrust, aimed not at the ass as he hoped but the good leg. He'd completely disable the giant. His strike was true and hit the unprotected flesh just behind the knee and with his strength would penetrate leather and knee, and likely the kneecap and even armor too.
But Drekthac watched as the point hit but bent sideways. The cord holding the metal to the shaft snapped and unraveled in slow motion as his thrust pushed more force against the vrykul. The metal left the joint and skewed to the side, eventually falling off entirely, until it was just the wooden shaft being shoved into the vulnerable spot.
Another sabotaged weapon. A wooden pole was all he had, to fight this armored monster. Gods damn.
The blow still took Gardjon's leg from him, and with his ruined knee, the giant fell. The poison had begun the strength-sapping phase, but shaking off the blackness from his sight, Drekthac threw aside his spear and jumped upon Gardjon's back.
In an honest pit fight, the battle would have been Drekthac's. Without the poison, even this one would have, or if Drekthac had come with his own solid weapons... But the Dragon didn't believe in lamenting the conditions of a fight. He wanted, needed, to beat Gardjon in the most humiliating way possible, while holding true to the honor of the Underhalls.
The Alliance did not understand such ways of pride and glory. Drekthac would rather be undone by hubris than live forever through a complacent, careful life. The vrykul understood such ways though, glorified and lived it, and by the gods, Drekthac had never felt so alive as with them.
The first kick to Gardjon's unarmored head rattled the vrykul, and he grunted loudly. Drekthac's next attempt was gouging out both eyes with his fingers, but he barely managed to squeeze them through the right eye, feeling the pop and warm ooze spilling over him, while Gardjon wildly shook his head to save his left. Barely a second later, a hand seized Drekthac by the waist and hurled him into the stone wall again.
Finding himself near the weapons again, Drekthac took up a sword and shield, hoping that someone among the crowds had thrown down their own weapon rather than rely on the hosts'. Shaking with adrenaline and muscle twitches from the poison, Drekthac banged the hilt against the shield in a beat, to keep from falling stationary enough to be overcome by the poison.
Before Gardjon stood again though, Drekthac noticed a subtle movement from his wrist and head. It looked like Gardjon had slipped something from a sleeve and ate or drank it. What could...? The vrykul looked up with furious eyes – both of them, with the right bloody and stained but whole again. He stood again without a limp.
A gods damn healing potion. Drekthac surprised himself by almost letting defeat sweep through him. Instead, his rage grew, and he flung himself against Gardjon again, while the man was still fumbling for his axe. Gardjon stepped back and barely blocked the first strike, roaring at the sudden burst of shrapnel as Drekthac's sword shattered at the strike. He tried to follow through with an attack, but Drekthac struck again, with the shield, and he broke the wooden circle against Gardjon's right gauntlet.
Despite the armor and the flimsy medium, Gardjon paused as his whole hand went numb at the attack. Plate warped into each other, locking the joints to where he could barely uncurl his fingers if he tried. Looking back for his puny opponent, Gardjon found Drekthac with just the spear point in his hand, and the human jumped upon Gardjon's leg in a mad fury. Even with his disgust for the small race, Gardjon found a great respect for the Whelp.
All the more reason to kill him.
Drekthac tried sticking the metal into Gardjon's neck, but an elbow nearly took him off. The hand that came to rip him away found the blade point buried in its palm, while Drekthac's own hand oozed red from its grip over a sharp blade. Unthinking of the pain, he yanked the blade out and curved it up into Drekthac's neck again. Barely, Gardjon craned away to get the dagger stuck in his back instead, just above the armor line. He roared as Drekthac jumped away.
The crowds renewed roaring and excitement was barely noticed as ambiance. Drekthac found new weapons and broke them against Gardjon's knee as the man was still reaching up to try and pull the blade out. The armor restricted Gardjon arms too much, and the man found his knee nearly dislocated for the effort.
But as Drekthac broke weapon and after weapon against Gardjon, to little avail, he found that no true weapon remained among those dropped in, while the crowd cheered the name "Ironhide" for Gardjon, thinking him that great. With some of the last apparently wholesome weapons, Drekthac found them broke again even though he got fragments stuck in Gardjon's leg, but at the same time the poison dagger Gardjon had returned to finally scored him in the stomach.
The first slash of it had been difficult enough to see through, but this cut went through the muscle, and Drekthac stumbled back with a cry, knowing that would be his downfall here. The crowd was a maddened beast at the hit, knowing it as well.
At nearly ten yards in front of Gardjon, Drekthac fell to his knees, hand over wound. The poison was quick, his muscles unresponsive, while his vision flickered with terrible unreliability. He fought the urge to give in to the blackness, but all he could see was Gardjon, face a bloodied mess, grinning victoriously.
Drekthac couldn't see a way out this time. An echo of memory twitched forward, bringing with it Freydis voice as if she were right beside him again. "Have you ever had that feeling when you think you're going to die?"
"Get out of my head, Freydis," Drekthac mumbled at it.
"And when you realize, you feel that sinking from your stomach to the floor. Your hands won't stop their shaking, and you feel you just can't go on."
Drekthac groaned, remembering the conversation very well, and knowing the harsh criticism coming from it. He needed to focus, to... to find a way to continue, but the poison was powerful, and the a hallucination rose from it, breathing to life an image of him and Freydis before his eyes.
There he was, a man of broad shoulders and almost orcish sized muscles. So confident in his strength, so full of pride, with thick lips that found a gloating smile to be their natural state. His eyes were dark and hair bronze, and his cheeks sported his usual stubble. He'd considered long, braided hair like the vrykul, but he always found that a bother and so kept it short, where its natural waviness kept it from appearing windblown.
Red drake-skin vest and pants were his favorite, both durable and suiting, and skinned from his own kill of a proto-drake. The top was held shut by several ties down the front, and his thick, hairy arms were crossed before it, bared up to his melon-like shoulders. That image said to his val'kyr friend, "Of course I have. For one reason or another, I've always been seen out alive though."
"Not always, you won't. Not always," the giant undead spirit told him pensively. More directly, she said, "But you are a fighter though. I will tell you this once, Baelin the Dragon: far too often I've seen warriors die on their knees. Those that stand once more though, those that even though they were clearly defeated, stood once more – to die on their feet, if nothing else – they do not die easy. There is strength in just standing, a strength that lives forever. That is what we look for as Arbiters. The next time you find yourself so, stand once more and see if you can't see yourself out alive."
The cocky Drekthac turned confused, thoughtful, while the kneeling Drekthac cursed at the image. Fucking glowy-ass bitch, to lord over him at this moment. Stand, she wants. He'll fucking stand then.
With his fading, gray-cast vision, Drekthac saw Gardjon once again, now closer. Ah, that rage within him. It was the only thinking keeping the poison at bay, only thing keeping him alive. He reveled in it, in bloodlust, in all the wonders and glory of battle. He doubted he'd long keep up with a vrykul's strength without it.
Him and Gardjon were all that existed in Drekthac's world at this point, with even the hallucination vanishing. While the distance between them closed, he found his hand resting upon something solid, that wasn't the ground. Drekthac kept himself tense, calm despite himself. He was familiar with poison. He would explode himself into movement, throw the last of himself in it, and the world would clear up briefly for it. Everything would come down to that moment. He needed to win in it.
The crowds thought him defeated already, Gardjon himself too. Overconfidence. The watching val'kyr waited patiently, though they would assume this to be the end as well. It was. In the crowd would be Freydis, watching with a neutral expression this moment. She suspected, perhaps hoped, that memory would take him in this moment. She would not be disappointed. Beside her would be Leyanna, biting her fingernails with worry, he guessed. Darling nymph, that girl. She did not belong here, in this crowd, with him, or near anything vrykul.
Gardjon took the final step, and the giant readied himself for the finishing strike. Two daggers in hand, axe sheathed on his back. Gardjon had been so careful in keeping Drekthac from getting that axe, from getting a real weapon. He was afraid of Drekthac, knew he'd lose if the Dragon had himself some fangs. He forgot all about the fire though, the fool.
Like the beast he took the name of, Drekthac roared. His hand grasped the wood shaft of the broken spear, and he threw himself up with full exertion, pushing every ounce of his strength into a spear thrust angled upward. He could see into Gardjon's clean eye the way the pupil dilated, whole face scrunching with surprise and a flinch, but too late he moved, too slow with the armor, and the splintered spear point gouged itself into the vrykul's throat.
This is the Underhalls, darlin'. There is no honor here.
Shoving the spear deeper, still screaming in rage and fury, Drekthac left it planted in his throat and scooped up the fallen helmet with his left hand. With a step, he swung it up into Gardjon's groin with a hallow clang. Though the vrykul had a plate cup, the blow was hard enough to dent the helmet and leave his hand numb enough that he dropped the helmet. Gurgling, Gardjon stumbled forward a few steps past Drekthac.
Nostrils flaring with agonized and furious breaths, Gardjon dropped his knives and worked the spear from his neck. He was gasping when it came free, blood spurting once over the pit's stone wall, but nothing vital had been hit. Drekthac could see Gardjon shaking in his rage now, and after discarding the shaft, he reached up for his axe and slowly lifted it free.
Drekthac's own body was a wild frenzy of sensations. He wore no armor with enchantments to keep him well or make him stronger. When Gardjon turned to him though, murder on his face, Drekthac felt ready enough. Unless the giant had another healing potion, he could still win.
When Drkethac took his first step forward though, hand back to covering the slash on his stomach, something slammed down in front of him. He blinked stupidly at the wooden pole upright in front of him, with wispy blue energy still peeling off it, and he touched it with his free hand.
Enchanted power flooded through his hand to his body. His wounds lost their ache, the poison its power, and his muscles abruptly felt ready to go a dozen more rounds than they just had. It was a polearm, he realized, thrown in from the crowds as a late weapon. He grasped it and pried the blade from the stone, eyes wide at the gift.
The blade, hooked at the end and a hand's width just before the shaft, was familiar. His lip turned up, and he held the weapon with the blood slicked hand too. Giving it a twirl, Drekthac found himself laughing, to the astonishment of the crowd. The bruised and batter Whelp, bleeding from several cuts and obviously poisoned, would behave so confidently, at just one more weapon?
Gardjon was lumbering towards him with the massive axe, but Drekthac wasn't cowed. He met the weapon in a parry and held his ground, still grinning viciously. When Gardjon went for a shove, Drekthac let go and watched Gardjon fall out of balance, then jumped aside and swept out his legs with a solid hit. Before the vrykul had even fallen, Drekthac was leaping up, blade angled downward, and he impaled him through the armored stomach.
Roars and screams around them drowned out Gardjon's own bellow. A fist swatted Drekthac off, polearm ripping out, but Drekthac, in his delirious madness, was unphased, and he drove forward even with the axe already sweeping his way. He rolled under the first swing, then jumped the second as Gardjon tried standing again, then jumped upon the spiked chest with his boots first and slammed the blade into the breastplate. Only a large rend was scored in the armor, but a steadier blow punctured it slightly.
"You're dead, Gardjon!" Drekthac roared. With wide, desperate eyes, Gardjon threw him off again, into the wall, where Drekthac almost found himself knocked out for good. But he kept ahold of the polearm, fed by its enchantments, and with blood oozing down his front, he stood up once again, lips etched in their bloody smile.
Gardjon planted the axe as a crutch to stand again. His mistake. Drekthac knocked aside the support, nearly sending Gardjon flat on his back again, then managed a solid thump against the unprotected head. The eyes crossed as he fell stunned. Not one for theatrics, Drekthac stood with one boot on Gardjon's chest, stomped the other beside his dazed, searching head, and angled the blade just before the bleeding neck.
He roared with all the excitement, adrenaline, and rage he could as he plunged it deep into the neck, ripping through the skin despite its gifted enchantments from Gardjon's armor, through the muscle and bone, and out the back. He yanked back and thrust it in again, relishing the spray of blood. Still roaring, he struck and struck, until Gardjon's eyes and mouth no longer moved, then set upon hacking the whole head away from the body.
The head was thrust up by the grey hair, mouth agape and eyes rolled up. Drekthac stumbled as he held it, but he saw the crowds roaring around him. Men smacked the arms of each other, gesturing at him in heated argument. Others cheered for him, taking up the consuming mantra of his name.
Dragon.
Dragon.
Dragon.
Those not native to the Underhalls looked confused at first, used to mocking "Whelp," but still amazed from the victory, they quickly fell into it. The vargul, from their overlooked, beat their spears against the floor to it, while the val'kyr high above watched him with complete stillness and silence. The immense size of this crowd made the cheer nearly overwhelming, and Drekthac blinked with surprise for another second.
Then, gripping the polearm tight as the last source of strength for him, he steadied his feet and roared once again. He roared his triumph, his life, his passion, his rage. The sound rose over the crowds, echoing off the walls, and the crowds bellowed back, excited. The Dragon's victory roar.
The rest of Drekthac's strength seemed to disappear into the roar, and it trailed off to him nearly collapsing to the stone floor. His breathing was ragged as he used the polearm as a crutch, Gardjon's head hanging at his side. Looking down to his poisoned wounds, he found blood spilled over his vest and dripping down his pants. He blinked at the amount, wondering if it was all his.
The next blink, he was on the ground, groaning at the impact. Merciful fuck, he had nothing left. He couldn't stand anymore. Not even the sight of the bedwarmers up there, some with skirts hiked up, could bring him any satisfaction. Too exhausted, too weak.
Time began to distort and his vision cloud again – not from the poison this time. As he sat there blankly, debating on whether to fight it off or give in, he noticed something bright filling his vision. He blinked up at the extended hand, wondering if an angel had come to guide his spirit to the meadhalls of the heavens. He knew that face though.
He accepted the hand. Warmth flooded through his body, burning away his pain and exhaustion, even as the strong hand lifted him back to his feet. The poison dispersed from him, and he looked down to notice his wounds clotting. Remembering both hands had been occupied, he saw he still gripped Gardjon's head tightly, but in her left hand was the bloody polearm he had used.
"Hey, Freydis, let's fuck tonight, eh?" he mumbled absently as she supported him. The crowd's renewed roaring drowned out his followup: "After we send the kid off."
The val'kyr kept herself stoic, just barely. He saw her lips twitch at the comment, but then she thrust his hand up and bellowed, "Behold the Dragon! Slayer of Gardjon!" He thrust the head up again, allowing himself to revel in pride now that his life wasn't in danger. Oh, now those bedwarmers were looking rather nice. And that one even shaved!
With a nod at Freydis, Drekthac let go of her hand. He spat on Gardjon's corpse before turning to the stairs out of the pit. The flash-healing that Freydis had done to him sustained him well. He shouted with the men in the crowd as he saw them, remaining upright at the beats to his shoulder, accepting ale as it came.
Some of those he knew came up wish gold cupped between there hands, boasting of their winnings off him in the betting pool. One thrust a handful of coins at him, then socked him in the face. Drekthac fell against the crowd, blinking at the assailant, while the man yelled at him for such risky, reckless behavior as to come unarmed and unarmored. Then they laughed and clasped hands.
Two women grouped up on either side of him and lifted him well off the ground to plant a kiss on both cheeks at the same time. Husky promises were whispered into his ears then, but as he listened with a pleased smile, he watched a blue shape push her way through the crowd. The vrykul let her pass, unwilling to touch one of the Dragon's women.
When he was on the ground again, Leyanna rushed forward for an awkward hug. Drekthac laughed with merriment as he let her, listening her try to blab her worry for him over the sound of the crowd. He noticed her shrink to better suit his height though, from nymph to elf, and while the vrykul commented at it, he lifted her whole body up and sat her on his broad right shoulder. The crowds cheered, while Leyanna squirmed and grasped at his head for balance.
His wounds reopened during it all, but that was expected when passing this crowd. Keeping Leyanna on his shoulder, Drekthac looked back through the crowd of towering vrykul. Freydis had rejoined her sisters, speaking solemnly with them.
Drekthac caught the eye of a vrykul sporting a thick leather apron and several cleavers at his waist. The man nodded his respect, while Drekthac roared, "I'm feasting tonight! Two boars!" The butcher's hands fell to his waist and chest puffed up as he laughed before returning, "I'll bring them prepared, Whelp! A prize for you!"
The crowd around them cheered and promised other feasting foods. These were the usual Underhalls dwellers, those that knew Drekthac as more than the human who lived in Jotunheim. Looking to the edges, he found other familiar faces with the slave girls, cheering as they went. The vrykul that had come for Gardjon though were engaged in heated discussion, throwing their arms towards Drekthac and spitting at each other.
Drekthac almost found himself looking for a post-duel brawl to join in before remembering his wounds and Leyanna still on his shoulder. With a few more boasts and words with the attendants, Drekthac raised an acknowledging fist towards the vargul – who beat their chests once in return – then left back to the surface. Normally he would prefer to remain in the heated crowds, but so long as Leyanna was still with him, he cut his time with them short.
XxX
"He does look pretty out there, doesn't he?" Drekthac mentioned warmly, staring towards his door. He finally had his favorite mounted head ornament outside in the shape of Gardjon's dripping mug. "Damned bastard," he snorted, turning back to his table. Freydis was seated there, and Leyanna stood in her nymph form at one side. Foods of all kinds covered the whole length, given freely from those who enjoyed his victory.
"Your recklessness remains on every tongue," Freydis mentioned, joining him in grabbing food. "The Arbiters do not approve of your attempted boasts, only to survive in such pitiful conditions. Some question if it is you that won... or luck."
"Bah," Drekthac dismissed, tearing right into the boar first. "All I needed was one good weapon to beat him." He peered over at her, swallowed, and admitted, "Thank you for that."
"In a blood match, now matter your words or preparations, how you walk into it is how you agree to fight your opponent. Outside weapons, armor, companions – all that is interference and cheating. I did not lend you my weapon because Gardjon had the others broken or because Gardjon agreed that your weapons would come at the call of the crowds. I threw it to you only when it was clear that victory was yours, to quicken the end."
Leyanna pipped in, holding an ear of corn in her hands, "You had me worried sick, you ogre-man, as Freydis told me what was happening. I didn't know you were supposed to be armed and armored until the... bastard came stomping through, and she told me how you were poisoned, and how your weapons were sabotaged, and the potion he took, and how you sat defeated near the end. I begged her to help you, but she said she couldn't, not until you proved yourself able to win without it."
Pointing the corn at him, she had a frown as she said, "Empty-headed buffoon, getting off on your own pride."
Drekthac looked down at his hands, seeing the new scars along his palms. From holding just the blades of weapons in trying to kill Gardjon, and the puckered welt where he'd stabbed himself on the poisoned armor. Leyanna had helped heal him after getting back home, as well as she could. Snorting, he said, "I didn't win that to hear a bunch of women nag about me. Stuff your faces and be hearty, wenches." He smiled to take the edge away.
After draining her mug of ale, Freydis smashed the goblet down with a pleased sigh. "One thing I miss in the Val'kyr Halls are the strong drinks. Everyone seems to think we're above drinking, now that it isn't necessary for us."
Leyanna tilted her head, curious. "So you can still feel it, even though you are... like you are?"
"Yes, we can, child," Freydis told her, smiling under her face mask. "The Lich King converted us from living bodies, not raised dead. Unlike the usual ghosts out there, we are something a bit more... substantial."
Leyanna nodded, intrigued. "So... besides the looks, is there anything else different about you with the transformation?" Drekthac watched on, having never asked these questions himself.
"Power," Freydis muttered, quieter. "Rapturous power that the Lich King gave me, over both life and death. As a Hyldnir at the Valkyrion, we forsook the Hyldsmeet to vie for the Lich King's favor and earn the right to be given this transformation, and I succeeded." She drank again, leaving a solemn silence, until she smiled to break it. "There is the good though, that I no longer must sleep, eat, or drink. Also, I do not have to deal with the biannual cycle anymore."
"The vrykul are biannual?" Leyanna asked, changing the subject. Despite her kind words and personality, the undead were an abomination to the nature girls. "Mine runs annually, only in the spring, but if I take the kaldorei shape for any length of time, I notice it comes much more often. What about you, Drek? How often does the human woman's cycle come?"
"Monthly," Drekthac grumbled around his mug.
Leyanna and Freydis both gave exaggerated grimaces before Freydis laughed, "I don't blame you for being so eager to leave them." Leyanna giggled behind a hand at it. Drekthac waved them away, trying to move the conversation back onto topic of combat and glory.
Together they drank and laughed, feasting into the night. Their merriment lasted until Freydis finally insisted after Valhalas. Drekthac knew it was coming, but he first took another drink before attempting his reply.
"The last Valhalas, I sat watching in the crowds, if you remember. The team was three, the huntsman and his wife, along with his big, grey-haired brother. I thought they would win. I actually saw the love between the couple as they fought, a vrykul couple, working as a whole to keep each other safe and kill everyone that stood against them. I admired them, grew the vrykul respect for their skill and power. The huntress showed grace I'd never expect from a vrykul."
He drank again, while the two women stared at him. Freydis had retreated to her usual stoicism, while Leyanna frowned, suspecting by his tone the ending.
He picked it up again with eyes facing his mug: "It was the Thane... Thane Byjron the Thirster. That was how Geirrvif introduced him. She did not speak of his other names, or how he acquired that title. His insatiable thirst for blood. He was the second to last challenge before the three would be victorious.
"I watched... as first the brother had his head ripped from his body. Not by weapon, but between Byjron's two hands, and he drank the blood spurt like the lowest whore does an orgasm. That duel axe wielding barbarian lost so quickly, so suddenly. I had never seen such... No, but the couple. The younger brother had his legs cut off at the knees, then both his hands. And his woman, screaming, with her bow broken between her fists..."
He looked up with hard eyes. "He was made to watch as the Thane dragged his woman to the center of the pit, watched him break all her limbs, and he raped her, as we in the crowds cheered on. And when he was done, do you remember what he did, Freydis?"
"Go... goddess," Leyanna whimpered, hand before her mouth and eyes wide.
"Indeed I do, Dragon." Her voice was entirely without emotion.
"He pulled from her her entrails and made her wear them, as she still howled out. The Tanner, the crowd cried out, as Byjron dragged the sobbing woman to her husband and began to peel her skin from the muscle, letting him see every detail of it. And he gagged the man with her skin, let him taste her blood as he shed tears. And when it was over, Freydis, that was when the crowds were truly pleased, weren't they? The Puzzlebox."
"Byjron is a monster even among vrykul, Baelin," Freydis said softly. "The crowd comes for blood and death, for the greatest battle pit of all the vrykul, and he gives them everything they want."
"There was no honor in their deaths. No glory in it. Even as Valhalas competitors, those great warriors lost every morsel of their pride and respect by their end. And the crowds cheered at it. I remembering watching it all from the crowds, and I felt... fear, Freydis, fear at the complete destruction of everything a warrior builds up in his life. And not just their deaths, but watching Byjron fight... at the time, I did not know enough of fighting vrykul to understand how I could possibly beat such a monster."
He noticed Leyanna was crying silently, with trails of tears running from her eyes. It surprised him, for her couldn't understand why, until remembering the soft hearts of nymphs. The savagery Byjron had committed was not a new thing to him – in the small race underground gladiatorial arenas, similar events took place.
Quietly, the one that urged him into the maws of a such a tournament asked, "And do you now understand how to end such a monster, Dragon?"
Drekthac finished his mug and let it fall to the table. Meeting her eyeless stare, he said, "Yes, I do, and I am no longer afraid. But even with my armor and my weapons, it will be a hard victory."
From the side, Leyanna's whimpering voice cut in, "F-fuck that. Fuck that, Drek. Why the hell would you enter that tournament? Goddess, why?"
"Because Baelin Drekthac possesses the soul of a Ymirjar, but he may not pass the Gates of Ymirheim," Freydis answered solemnly, without looking away from Drekthac.
"And why the hell is it so important he passes those gates, huh? What the- the fuck is so important in Ymirheim?" The poor nymph was so worked up, cheeks red and curses awkwardly passing her tongue but with meaning. Freydis did not have an answer for her, frost vrykul that she was.
Drekthac understood her frustration though, knew why she didn't comprehend. Softly, he answered, "Glory... Glory, honor, respect, brotherhood. To pass through those gates is to enter legends; the pinnacle of everything that gives all of our violence and savagery meaning, Leyanna, that makes us something more than sadistic killers."
The fierce tension bled out of Leyanna, realizing that was one of his essential differences that he explained before. In a small voice, she asked, "Why not find meaning elsewhere? In growing a forest, in saving the little critters from reckless predators – or in your terms, protect the innocent from the savage? Why must you be the savage?"
"Because this human has the soul of one greater than even these vrykul: a true Ymirjar." Leyanna shot a glare at Freydis, and the undead woman returned the look without expression. Drekthac blew out a sigh, knowing there was nothing he could say.
Standing from his place at head of the table, he mentioned, "I think it's time I let you go, Leyanna. Back into the frozen wilds."
The Chill Nymph clenched her fists and trembled once. Slowly though, she slumped with defeat, nodding to herself. "You're right, Drekthac. I was wrong about you."
"Come on now, lass. Out with you. What food should we wrap for the trip? How much water do you need? It's time you were free of us."
XxX
"It was the right decision, removing her from your life," Freydis commented upon Drekthac's return. "She would have made you soft, not through a change in your nature, but with hounding thoughts of every action that defied hers."
"We don't talk about her anymore," was the firm reply as Drekthac threw off his cloak onto one of his storage crates. Seeing his dining table empty, he raised an eyebrow. "Did you clean up for me?"
"Mention it to anyone, and your head will join Gardjon's." Ah, the vrykul woman.
Hiding his smile, he said, "I'm surprised you stayed though. The mead couldn't have been that good."
"I still await your answer. Shall I sponsor you in Valhalas?"
She sat in the chair at the far wall, fitted for her size. Her polearm was resting against the wall at her side. At the question though, Drekthac dragged over his shortened human chair from the table to in front of her and sat down. He hadn't had a good smoke in a long while. During moments like this, he missed the old pipe of tobacco.
If he entered the tournament, he would be locked into three paths. To win access to Ymirheim and take his place among the Ymirjar; to die in shame, forever banished in undeath to the Underhalls, where gods bless the one that slays him in a final glorious combat at the Underhalls tournament; or the third, to quit between rounds, not shamed, and honored for participating – but never allowed to compete again.
"I beat Gardjon, after years of sitting dulled his ability, but tell me again, Freydis... do you think I can win?"
The val'kyr gained a regal bearing where she sat. The lifted chin, her straightened spine, the whiteness of her body... With slow, deliberate meaning, she said, "Victory will not come easy, Dragon, even for you, but you have my vow that if you possess the same spirit there that you do down in the Underhalls, you will win it all."
Hell, it might even be fun. "Alright then, darlin', I'll compete. I'm going to need full healing between rounds from you, and an honest smithy to keep my gear up. If someone's got a dagger pinning for me, I want to hear about it from you first, then dealt with."
A proud smile graced her face. "You will have what you need, but you must remember that this is not the Underhalls that bred you, where honor does not exist until only one is standing. Valhalas is a battle pit fought in honor first, then show. Those are rules you must abide to."
"Byjron-"
"Thane Byjron will never be Ymirjar. He knows this and does not care. He fights for show and cruelty, to satisfy his pleasures, and has been a blight upon this tournament since his awakening. He craves a challenge, and I expect you to shove your cock down his throat and choke him to death when you face him."
Drekthac barked a laugh, grabbing a goblet and filling it from the cask. "His time will come. But speaking of cocks, what say you to that bed yonder? I'm a godsdamn champion tonight, and I need to end it in a champion's way."
Freydis smiled again, this one different from before, but she shook her head and stood, grabbing her polearm from the wall. "You must first win Valhalas to receive a val'kyr." The way she purred the word, receive, sent pleasant shivers down his spine. He knew though that the val'kyr only served the Ymirjar. "I'll be waiting for you though, for the day you stand before the Val'kyr Halls. Baelin Drekthac."
She began to head for the door, now that her business with him was done. The brilliant wings of hers trailed her body, and he watched a white feather fall free and vanish from sight before it could hit the floor. As she passed him though, he stood from his chair, carelessly slapping her ass with a sharp crack between steps.
Hardly a second later something crashed into the back of his head, sending him reeling forward with a deep laugh. Stumbling into her chair, Drekthac held his head and watched her continue leaving unabated with a grin. Before she had the door open though, he sobered and leaned back, staring at her with his mind buzzing.
"Freydis," he called out. She stopped and turned, only her mouth visible under that face mask. "You told Leyanna the good of your... ascension. What is the bad?"
After a few seconds, the val'kyr sighed. She turned to face him and leaned her back against his door. "The price of ascension... I gave up my physical body for one of spirit. I am tied to this plane by duty now... By will, that of my master that sleeps on his Frozen Throne. I may never leave here, except to death's infinite void."
Drekthac's hand slowly lowered from his head as his eyes went wide. "He made you a slave, bound tighter than any collar."
He noticed the pop of her knuckles from her grip over her polearm, but she gave a single, curt nod. "We in the Val'kyr Halls continue to perform our duties, to raise Ymirjar champions and serve them, and I do not regret this existence. It is only the idea of shackles over my soul that I rail against."
Brow furrowing, Drekthac asked, "Is there anything that can be done about it?"
His one friend stared at him, that strong-jawed mouth firm but without expression. Without visible eyes, it was difficult to understand her emotions or thoughts. Finally, she admitted, "There may be a way, but first you must win Valhalas before we ever discuss it."
"Sex, answers, Ymirjar – you are going to bribe me into doing something stupid." Drekthac sighed, rubbing his forehead once. The rough bumps along his palms reminded him of the new scars. He pushed himself out of the chair. "I'll walk you out."
XxX
Once Freydis had departed, Drekthac proceeded to Jotunheim's southern hall. Some hours had passed since his victory, between the feast and getting Leyanna distant enough, but the night was far from over. While still walking, to his right he noticed a pyre burning. It reminded him of Gardjon – that could have been the dead man – but in a village of this size, and on this night, more than one death was to be expected.
He noticed two small humanoid shapes get thrown into the flame, followed by a woman that walked in freely. Whoever the man was, he had been rich.
Puffing out a breath into the icy air, Drekthac turned away, spotting the bright hall as he drew near. The wide entry lacked a door, letting out the firelight, music, and buzz within, but in passing the threshold, he was glad to see the musky heat remained well trapped between so many bodies. His entrance was easily spotted – standing at half the height of the average male – and several bellowed greetings at him. The noise caught the attention of the rest, and Drekthac found the women at the far wall looking up with sudden interest.
One of them was who he came to see.
"Bretha!" Drekthac shouted merrily, already forgetting the dark conversations of before.
"The name is Angild, Whelp," the brunette huffed, crossing her arms before impressive chest as he approached
"And you don't know my name either, wench," Drekthac remarked, smiling as her eyes flashed dangerously. Her lip tugged in amusement. "You're looking boring here anyways. Join me at the fire, and I'll see what drinks they've got for the night's champion."
"Oh, bored already of your blue horse meat?" Angild asked hotly, even as she followed him immediately. She wore a tight leather bodice and no cloak, along with a looser skirt, dark as her hair, that hung just above her knees. Her boots were black, though everything was washed orange in the firelight and shadows.
"They break before I'm through, unlike a good, thick vrykul." He thumped her rear with his palm, like a stone under cloth. The benches around the fire were of course entirely occupied, but with a grunt, Drekthac seized a man in the middle of dawdling his own catch and clean threw him off the bench, to slide across the stone floor stupidly.
With a furious roar, the man scrambled to his feet, searching for his assailant, but he found Drekthac waiting patiently at his seat. The vrykul hesitated, and knowing he couldn't win a brawl, laughed good-naturedly and pointed at Drekthac. With a smile and a nod, Drekthac took a seat and shooed the woman towards the man, though his submission to the Dragon would cost him of her.
Angild sat herself beside him, letting his arm encircle her back, while Drekthac circled his hand up and shouted, "Get me some mead, before I need to find it!"
Unlike the Underhalls, it was improper for the men to take brazenly their women in the public hall, so Drekthac kept his touches and affections tame with the night's catch. They sang and drank and cheered, until the day's events finally caught up to Drekthac, even past his healing. Pulling his head from between Angild's clothed breasts, he tilted back his mug to drink the last of his vrykul-sized mug, then smashed it against the ground as the crowd and Angild cheered for him.
"Come on, you pretty hag, I'm takin' you home," Drekthac growled throatily to her, burying his hand into her brown locks and taking her lips. Bright blue eyes blinked at the gesture before she smiled against him, and they stood up to another cheer. Drekthac turned her to the door and gave her rump another slap, flashing a lewd grin and a parting to his drinking celebrators.
Back at his house, Drekthac divested the bedwarmer of her clothes and tossed her naked body on his large bed. She made a pleased sound at the show of strength, rising up to her knees to watch with eager eyes as he stripped himself. He in turn stared at her, fully exposed for him now.
A healthy, meaty frame, with big, fat breasts hanging on her chest. His eye roved the big and dark areola, already stiffened into firm points, then down the smooth stomach to her dark curled womanhood. Clearly she had prepared herself this night, smelling clean and with the dark shadow around her eyes down perfectly. She had trimmed down her bush enough for him to make out the small protruding labia from her puffy netherlips.
Some nymphae, he noticed approvingly.
Once the last of his clothing was off, Angild's eager expression waned as she studied him. Without insult, she commented, "So humans are... proportionate."
Unphased, Drekthac continued his approach to her. "There's a reason ill rumor hasn't spread about my sexual exploits, darlin'. That's just where you satisfy the champion. I've got other ways to set you off." Her eyebrows rose as her eyes regained an intrigued spark. "Now lie back."
XxX
A feminine cry pierced the icy, howling air of the night. It's source was Leyanna, panting in rage and frustration with her fist still planted against the icy boulder. As she drew her hand back after the punch, tears spilled from her eyes – but they weren't at the pain now throbbing at her knuckles, dripping crimson blood into the snow at her hooves. She thought of Drekthac, her human captor that had set her free, and his persistence after his bloody lifestyle.
Sniveling once, she cradled her injured hand and continued walking. Her violent explosion surprised her though. She knew better than to attack inanimate things as a vent for frustration, yet there she was, with her knuckles bleeding at the mistake. That damn man, look at the influence he had spread over her.
With a sigh, she remembered their final words, as they stood several miles away from Jotunheim. Her own bloody request. "If you must fight that tournament, Drek, promise me one thing. Promise me you will make that thane pay for what he did."
He had turned cold and displeased, clearly at her advocating violence. But he forgot that nymphs were forest protectors, and they too fought and killed when it was necessary. Such a monster did not deserve to live. Still, the human had bowed his head and made his promise. She had an image of a great dragon tearing apart a vrykul with its fangs, mauling it around, and knew this man would do no less to Byjron.
Alone now, Leyanna continued south, away from Drekthac, with tears still falling. She knew she needed to forget that man, that the chapter was closed and she had gotten out very lucky, but for that brief time, she had lived there with him and been made a part of that life. She would even like to call him her friend, violent and barbaric as he was. He had never treated her wrong.
And now he couldn't be expelled from her thoughts. She remembered drinking with him, cursing with him, and his endless references to beds and mating. Baelin Drekthac. He was going to fight a deadly tournament at the word of some undead Scourge woman, maybe die a horrible death at some thane's hand, and she wouldn't be there to even see his fate. She hated this.
Her sisters would be of no help either. They would encourage her to a snowball fight, to prance about and babble about furry critters and butterflies. All fun and innocence, blinded to the violent world around them until it was shoved into their faces. They would not care about Drekthac or his fate. "Damn it..."
More tears flowed then as she realized her change. She would be shunned for cursing too. Leyanna was no longer eager to return to her sisters. Was that even her place anymore? Where would she rather be? Back with Drekthac? With terrible vividness, she recalled standing beside Freydis in the Underhalls, surrounded by dirty vrykul doing dirty things with women and men, her ears throbbing with pain at the noise and feeling the ground rumbles from their motions. The musky, rancid smells, the scary looks in their eyes. That tightness in her chest as she could not see Drekthac fighting below, but listening quietly for every detail Freydis mentioned to her.
Is that what she would ever want to return to?
Her feet slowed to a stop. Standing in the snow, Leyanna's body trembled and her fists tightened. She needed a hug right now. She debated throwing herself against a nearby boulder and crying herself to sleep, but the old helpless act disgusted her. Instead, she asked herself:
"What do I do?"
But even as the words left her lips, her eyes picked up something moving in the snow around her. Creeping through the shadows. Drekthac had promised the vrykul hunting parties would still be at Jotunheim, celebrating. Quietly, she reached back and withdrew a spear from the pack roped to her horse body. Drekthac had found one a good size for her, for protection on the journey.
There was a high pitched, raspy chuckle, and the shape peeled itself from the shadow to drag itself forward. Catching sight of it in the moonlight now, Leyanna's eyes went wide and her mouth opened for a silent gasp of horror.
AN: And thus, the first real chapter of the story. Here is where pacing really needs to start counting.
