Chapter 31

Hyldnir


X Genocide X

The story of Brunnhildar was a remarkable thing. Depending on who was telling it, the vrykul tale changed significantly so far as who saved whom, who slew whom, and the outcome. It was the only vrykul legend to have such split opinions; their bards, or skalds, boasted proudly of their accurate and consistent sagas. It helped too that, if in doubt, Ymirheim was available to consult the legendary figures in question – or, failing that, those whom lived in the time of the legend.

When it came to the legend of Brunnhildar, however, each skald would begin by spreading his or her hands and saying, "Haldjon alone knows the truth, but so it was said to me, and so I will say to you."

It would be futile to recount every variation, but the core of the legend maintained that Brunnhildar was a Hyldnir, named after the great Shield-Maiden that propagated the clan. It is another, partially related legend that those named after Hyld, such as Hilda, were destined for similar greatness.

As the saga goes, Brunnhildar slew, or her husband slew, a mighty red dragon in the attempt to rescue, or be rescued by, the man who would become that husband. Those two events are the most recognized and well-known parts of the Saga of Brunnhildar the Dragon Bane (or Sigurth the Dragon Bane), but the tale was much longer. There is a part where Brunnhildar burned her finger cooking the dragon meat (or Sigurth did, or she wiped a red drop from his cheek, or...), and in sucking the digit, she digested the magic dragonblood, which gave him or her the ability to speak to birds. And the birds were presently warning them that they were soon to be betrayed by...

Well, it was long tale, well-renowned, and totally open for fanciful interpretation and creativity. Some even speculated if Brunnhildar had even existed, or if the legend only went so far as the red dragon. Whatever the truth, the Hyldnir were very convinced that Brunnhildar and Sigurth survived to settle in Storm Peaks, in the Hyldnir settlement now called Brunnhildar Village in her honor. Each family there could trace itself back to the great Shield-Maiden, to her daughters Aslaug, or Ingund, or Guthrun.

If Brunnhildar truly had the twenty or more daughters that the modern Brunnhildar Hyldnir claimed was still speculated. Considering the long lifespan of vrykuls, it was not so far-fetched. The cold, Storm Peaks nights gave the lovers all the more reason to keep busy. At some point, Brunnhildar must have been Queen of the Vrykuls, because Princess Aslaug had her own legends that proved herself real.

What all of it surmounted to was that Brunnhildar Village was steeped in history and tradition. More so, it was history and tradition that they could make up on the fly; so long as it pertained to Brunnhildar, they were the experts, because it was their village.

It took Drekthac less than four hours to decide that Britta was the sanest one of the entire village. Britta the Blood Maid – the paragon of fucking sanity.

"We're going to Sifreldar," he settled finally, nearly spitting it out. "I don't care if they want my testicles for their stew; it's better than having my burning chest shaved because Brunnhildar the fucking Dragon Bane once shaved the chest hairs from Sigurth and cast a spell of luck and flaming fertility, which has nothing to do with the damned legends, which probably aren't bloody, horse-shitting accurate in the first godsdamn place."

"It was Sigurth's beard, and it gave Brunnhildar's daughters the strength of ten men," Britta corrected matter-of-factly.

"Hela help me," Drekthac groaned, collapsing into the vrykul chair. At least they had been given the respect Ymirjar were due, which pushed Drekthac's rank from boot scum to domestic inferior, and their words to him were polite if nothing else. Britta, however, was a celebrity; raised Ymirjar only a few decades before the Long Slumber, almost the entire village still knew her personally.

Noticing Drekthac's state, Britta saunter up and straddled Drekthac's lap. It was no wonder to her that the Dragon felt friction with the people of the Dragon Bane. She drew a knife and touched it to his neck, turning his head upwards so that he was looking in her eyes. Strange that he should fear the knife's touch; she was Ymirjar, her control of it perfect. And Helgrin was near in case Britta let her blood boil too hot.

"They are proud of their ancestry, brother. You would be too, if you were descended of one so great. You must be patient with them."

Drekthac, for his part, hardly noticed the weight of her in his armor. He was glad to hear her say "them" rather than "us," though he knew that to be Ymirjar was to shed away the clan of your birth. He was not glad, however, for the biting edge scraping against his beard. It wasn't that he worried she might slip; it's the cuts that weren't from slips that he remembered from her.

"I see you wear still the fertility charm theirs," he said judiciously, looking at the amulet she tied into her hair.

Still in Vrykul, she grinned and purred, "I was thinking you could take my pants off so we can see if it works."

For their stay here, the Hyldnir had given them an empty longhouse to share. Its previous owners died recently against the Skinless, so it was still furnished and the food was fresh. The val'kyr were outside, Helgrin with the wounded and Freydis scouting the Sons of Hodir. That left them alone for the time being.

The knife still playfully dragging around his neck was all the reminder Drekthac needed for his answer. "Hell fucking no." The nights could never be cold or lonely enough that he would choose to subjugate himself to that again. "And why would you want to risk a child right now, before we even...?"

His curt question trailed as his mind caught up. Vrykul pregnancy lasted two years, the babies came out walking, and the mothers were in fighting shape the same day. Apart from the chance of taking a sword through the womb, their situation had little impact on the choice. Not that he had any interest in fathering, much less a half-breed.

One of her hands flicked through her hair so that it settled behind her shoulders. Britta smiled when she saw the gesture catch his attention. "We may have left Ymirheim for this adventure, but I have not left behind my rights as Ymirjar, brother. Feasting. Fighting. Fucking."

Drekthac put on a frown to hide how his spine tingled pleasantly at her words. When speaking Vrykul, Britta could be quite sensuous. He replied, "Then see Helgrin."

"It is not Helgrin I want right now. Helgrin did not throw the nine realms over my world in a single night. Helgrin has not proven my equal. Helgrin has not pitched a fire in my loins. Remember that I was Hyldnir once. Being Ymirjar has taught me much about the differences of men, but that compares not to watching my best being overcome by one. You are a worthy man, Drekthac the Immortal. I might be in love you."

"Don't be absurd," Drekthac dismissed with a sniff.

"Or I just love having sex with you," she laughed. "That was the best night of my life."

Her words were like a soothing kiss over a small hurt. Except that the hurt was a knife wound dealt by her hand, with some internal hemorrhaging to top it off. "It was my second place worst."

"Don't lie at me not," Britta barked in her clumsy Common. Realizing it had the opposite effect, she switched back. "Don't lie to me. I saw that fire in your eyes when you finally subdued big, bad Britta. That was satisfaction."

"And I'd have been more satisfied if you didn't break my arm before then."

"Dislocated, not broken. And I set it for you myself." She said it like that meant something.

Drekthac thought over his next response, eventually throwing out the most immediate. Right now, Britta was all he had in this city of Hyldnir, and she was a fine cut above the rest. He slapped her big thighs and rubbed them but said, "I'm not a fucking masochist."

Maso-what? Britta assumed it had something to do with fucking, since he said so, and his hands were on her, which was another step forward. Teasingly, she challenged, "Don't pretend you've never been with a proper vrykul woman before."

"I've been in death duels with women less keen on harming me."

"Good!"

"How is that good?"

Drekthac was spared from whatever bizarre logic dictated Britta's sex life. The door banged open, emitting Freydis. The val'kyr took two steps and paused. "Apologies, Ymirjar. I should have knocked."

"No. You are in right time," Drekthac answered, still watching Britta's pale eyes. She was smirking at him, paying Freydis no mind.

Finally, Britta lifted her knife and tapped the flat against Drekthac's broad forehead. He didn't flinch, but then, Drekthac was Ymirjar. "I'm going to fuck you soon. It seems I must prove myself worthy like a southlander."

Never did Drekthac think he would be on the demure end of vrykul courtship – or whatever they called it. Idly, he wondered if that meant she would answer the challenge with a new pleasantness. More likely, she'd rape him at knife point. He sighed and turned to his wife.

"What news of the east?"

"The Sons of Hodir are the last standing power, but they have suffered the bad end of too many exchanges. They are ill-suited to combating the flying Skinless. Without relief, I suspect they will fall within the week."

"I don't think "fall" is the right word," Drekthac mused.

"The fury of the frost giants was a swift, powerful thing. Its raging cry has quieted with less voices to carry it, but the intensity remains. They are driving themselves to extinction. Indeed, they would not listen to my calls."

Silence followed her words. Briefly, Drekthac considered how they might act to save the dying species, how he could coerce them to take refuge in the Hyldnir villages, before letting the matter go. That was their right, to die on their own terms.

"They've given us a window in which to attack," he announced.

"You are still keen on using the Dragon Bane, brother?"

"Yes. Shave my chest bald if you have to, but with no King and not blowing the Horn of Balargarde Fortress, we must unite all vrykuls on other terms."

"So what are we waiting for?"

"Between the Valkyrion and Sifreldar is the bedding grounds of the Skinless harpies. A festering blight of gangrenous disease and retched depravity. We must cut out the infection."

Freydis followed them into the Vrykul tongue: "Well spoken, Owned Man, although the word is "breeding grounds." Will you and the Blood Maid be undertaking this alone?"

"Yes, we are more than enough, Owned Lady-"

A laugh from both women stopped him. At his look, Freydis explained, "It doesn't work that way. I can be freyja, husfreyja, or kona thin, but eiginfreyja-" A short chuckle. "Perfectly reasonable, eiginmathr, but it is not done. Don't just call me taken. Call me yours."

"Understood, my wife. We, Britta and I, will go alone. Helgrin will war call."

"And me?"

"To the Valkyrion. Because of the Fool King to the north, the pressure is little now. Call to your sisters, have them ready. The Hyldnir must unite."

"Praise Thorim! The time of action has finally come!" Britta left his lap, pacing over to find her bow. "The two of us against the whole matriarchy? The foodstuffs of stories. And harpy queens make for legendary slave-wives."

"A legend which ends in cock rot," Drekthac snorted. "I would bed not a witch even before the Skinless disease."

"Helgrin can clean them out."

Drekthac hummed and said nothing more. Still, a Skinless slave sounded like a mistake eager to bite him in the ass. He wasn't fond of how bitten his ass had already gotten in the last week alone. Following Britta's example, he stood to find his gear. Two cloaks went over his armor, then his swords were strapped to his back over them. Last was his helmet, which he tossed to Freydis, expecting her to bless his going.

The Spear-Wife that was his wife looked at the metal shell, especially over the small runes which would complete the powerful enchantment that made his armor legendary. Drekthac stopped before her, waiting. Freydis looked up – the blank face mask turned his way, at least – and she bent without any words, his helmet left hanging near her hips. Drekthac felt his expression light up just before her lips met his.

As good of a blessing as any, he supposed. Drekthac kissed her back, which she returned with passion, so he rose to her challenge. They continued until Drekthac was thrust back into the chair and Freydis' cloth top had been ripped away. The val'kyr made a low growl at as the hawk plate clattered away, knowing the article must be mended again, but the threatening sound only incited Drekthac further, reaping the rewards of her toplessness.

"Absolutely unfair," Britta cried from the side, only to see Drekthac returning an obscure hand gesture. "I'm not sitting on that finger, if that's what you're offering."

Freydis finally collected herself once more at Britta's voice. With a few futile breaths to reduce her pounding, non-existent heartrate, she separated her tongue and lips from Drekthac's and rested her mask against his forehead, feeling his breath touch her lips. She let his hands work on her for several long, precious seconds, then whispered in Vrykul, "Fight with the heart of kings, beloved Ymirjar. Take with you my spirit, my love, and my power, and show the Old World what we, and all our ancestors before us, have fought for."

Freydis beckoned forward her magic, drew the runes in her mind with just a touch of the amazing magic the Lich King had given her, and she let their lips touch again. The contact concluded her spell, forcing lightning bolts of power into his body to wrap around his heart and soul. Her blessing. Her love.

Drekthac gritted his teeth through the sensation, and he came out of it all the fiercer, until Freydis felt almost certain her bottoms were getting torn off too. Just barely, she slapped away his hands, and she stood from his lap so that Drekthac could fulfill the duties he'd been called for. She could feel Hilda inside her mind, brooding and watching – judging. She ignored the presence.

Freydis loved her untitled queen, but some privacy was not too hard a thing to ask, please.

"Let's go," Drekthac said, making first for the vrykul-sized door. Britta followed with her stalking grace and a sullen expression.

XxX

Drekthac did not know what matriarchy they descended upon. The Coldwind, Frostfeather, Icefury – something along there. Once, they had been Northrend harpies. That in itself was telling. They were bigger, meaner, with claws adapted to shredding iron armor or vrykul flesh. They thrived before the Hyldnir had awoken from the Long Slumber, finding meals from the proto-drakes, the jormungar, and other fierce game. With the return of the frost vrykuls, they continued to thrive, even right between their villages.

That had been before the arrival of the Skinless. As the black plague swept through the continent, the crux in their very heartland, the greedy, hungering scavengers must have struck an easy bargain. There was no trace of any infighting or matriarchies that preferred the natural way of slaughtering and pillaging. It was also apparent that the vicious Northrend harpies were equally able in the old god's eyes, for the Sightless among them were legion.

Ten seconds were all Drekthac had to consider if assaulting the nests was a good idea. He left Britta on Coralhide, dismounting where snow became Skinblight, and he drew his swords with slow rasps. Before them, he estimated at least a hundred harpies to have noticed him, blended against the blackened blight. Gurgling cries mixed with raspy shrieks and marked their departure from avian humanoids. Even more black shapes peeled into sight.

Yeah. Maybe not his best idea.

"Let the Dragon feast, brother!" Britta hollered, excited and proud, and the first blood was hers with two vrykul arrows punching into a harpy like spears.

The first witch was upon him then, and Drkethac had no more time to think – which was just as well, since he was done with thinking. He and Britta, they were ill-suited for that practice anyways.

The first few swings went as hoped, taking the harpies as they came, but the raiders knew their work well enough, and the direction split around him, their claws aimed at the joints of his armor. Too many of them were coming at once, while his rage was slow in simmering up. The acid blood began to splash around him, some onto his armor, and Drekthac felt frustrated in barely fifteen seconds since the fighting started.

Britta and Coralhide were, no doubt, being useful elsewhere. Britta especially wished to focus on the magic users of the harpies, since that was Drekthac's weakness and gave her sport. That left him with only the talons and teeth. And tentacles.

"Fuck!" he shouted uselessly, finding the squirming appendage buried in the joint between shoulder and breast. His left arm locked up, so he used the other to severe the limb and try to take three she-beasts in a single strike. He managed to claim one, but the others darted back with laughing caws. Scowling, he ripped out the organic spear and let Freydis' gift work its magic on healing him. His rage grew.

The harpies were toying with him, striking at his back and escaping with their ugly laughter. One swung her dark arm, and her feathers flung out and impaled along his armor like they were steel darts. He hadn't even known they could do that. The next volley was deflected by his blade flat, but it was another annoyance, at least until he lunged for the witch and cleaved her and two others in a mighty heave.

His satisfied smirk lasted for two seconds. Then six other harpies repeated the same technique, and he felt like a ridiculous pincushion even deflecting some.

More and more harpies were surrounding him, taunting and laughing, and Drekthac caught a glimpse of Coralhide mid-roar as he slammed into a ball of ten fiends. Drekthac managed a few more lucky strikes, cut the legs from those confident enough to attack, and he rolled away as those same confident few gladly splashed their blood back at him.

Drekthac ended in a kneel, and he was pleased to feel that he was sufficiently angry. The metaphysical rage within him was splashing past his human limit, so he gladly turned and rose and swung in one motion, using a chunk of that rage. His frail human limbs slammed against their braces as he moved faster than they wanted, but his sword was steady, and the harpies swooping for his back were like frozen statues as he cut through their middles, stepped forward – metal braces hissing – and swung again to claim those that were behind.

Fifteen harpies fell to the snow, too stunned to even cry out in pain. Drekthac retreated a step to fall into a ready stance, exhaling. To his surprise, the braces felt as oiled and sturdy as before. Whatever Sin had done in crafting these, it certainly worked on increasing their durability. He felt a dark flame burning at his tendons and muscles and knew the val'kyr blessing was working.

Perhaps this wasn't so bad an idea after all.

Shouting, he took the initiative and jumped right back into their depths. The harpies came, his rage came, his steel came, and then they separated once more to a dozen more dead and him just a bit worse than before. His right shoulderplate was loose, and deep rends went down the right side of his helmet. Between Freydis' gift and Helgrin, Drekthac didn't worry about the state of his body, but if the enchantments over his armor fell...

One sword blocked a simultaneous attack of harpy talon and steel feathers, and the right sword swung up to fatally reprimand the choice to get so close. His rage was simmering at human limits, but he withstood from accessing it. He wanted it to grow, to use his enchantment and go far beyond those limits. He wanted to bring the beast into this fray.

After all, his enchantment worked two effects: the first, to eliminate the limits of rage; the other, to proportionally tie his rage into his physical ability. The more it grew, the stronger he was – even without tapping into it. The drawback, of course, being the frailty of even his strengthened human body and the mental strain of psychologically harboring a rage beyond human capacity.

Drekthac thought he did a pretty decent job of the latter. His vision began to flicker red, and every thing which moved seemed to be an enemy for his swords, but Britta was a distance away, so that was perfectly true. He hacked and cut at everything around him, growing faster and stronger, and the harpies soon began to retreat from him, passing frightened caws that only fueled the beast along.

When his rage was twice the amount of his real capacity, control began to slip. Rational thought fell before instinct. The physical state of his body escaped notice. Faster, harder, meaner. Drekthac jumped, struck, attacked those around him. None were permitted to escape. Red was all he could see.

The harpies, for their part, managed to disable him. It took ten Sightless to pierce him with those self-molded tentacles, wrapping through his body in a bondage that would have made Drekthac sick to his stomach if he could have seen or felt it. But he didn't see, and he couldn't feel. For a brief moment, the beast found its body motionless, its hunger stifled, and that made it very, very angry.

It was some time later that Drekthac finally came back to his senses. It was a struggle, and his focus was mostly on controlling the demon which seemed hellbent on slaughtering everything until the body failed, but his old training won out enough that he could spare some attention on his surroundings.

The first thing he noticed was Britta, with an expression that was deadly serious. Her pale blue eyes were fixed on his, teeth showing just a crack in a look he knew to be her using all her concentration on a fight. Then he realized that fight was with him, that his sword was broken and melted, but the bubbled, jagged steel was still pining for Britta's chest against her steady knife parry.

The huntress was the last figure standing among a literal field of corpses. It took effort to tear his eyes from hers, to see Skinless fallen. A spark of gold caught his attention, revealing his other sword – mostly whole, but black-caked and similarly melted. It was impaled center of the largest harpy present, presumably the matriarch herself.

"Brother?" Britta asked shortly.

Drekthac felt that his features were twisted in a snarl, so he worked at relaxing it. The pressure between his sword arm and hers was constant and unwavering, but that suited them fine, so he let that be an outlet for his rage while Drekthac desperately sought to control himself.

An itch along his chest led him to look down, where no less than six arrows had pierced him. They were vrykul bolts and stuck deep. Seeing them finally brought the pain, and Drekthac grunted and found his teeth gritting again. His mouth hurt, and it was a pain unlike any before – hot like spicy, except the spice was a punch in the jaw. He spat, saw black, and realized that somewhere along the way he had used his fucking teeth to bite through one of the harpies. The acid blood was in his mouth, and it hurt with all the stupidity such an action entitled.

"Brother?" Britta asked again in the same tone.

His left hand was a mess. He couldn't find his fingers among the black-caked metal and flesh, but he hoped they were there. It was a pride thing that he still had ten digits. Helgrin could help if the worst had happened.

With one final breath, he fought down the last of his rage and disengaged from the knife. "Where is your armor?" he asked. It hurt to flop his tongue around, which at least meant it hadn't melted away. He still had his teeth too.

A topless Britta shrugged and passed a weak gesture towards Coralhide, whom watched them warily from the cliffs of the harpy nests. "I was excited, you were excited. I thought we'd celebrate." She shrugged again. "You were more excited." She slipped her knife back into a sheath at her hip.

"Halfwit," he remarked. His right hand rubbed his jaw, which – predictably – hurt, especially where the blood runoff had spilled over his lips and chin. It had burned trails through his beard, which meant he'd have to shave it again, and that pleased him even less. "A pair of halfwits, us."

Looking up, he found Helgrin, and he beckoned her down for some healing. It erased most of his ails, though his teeth still felt funny when his tongue touched them. His left gauntlet came off, where they found four out of five fingers broken and mangled. Helgrin fixed that too.

"Was that all harpies?" he asked.

"Yes."

Looking around, Drekthac saw more bodies than he cared to count. Many had arrows in them. Even more were just broken pieces, none of which he remembered being responsible for. He looked at the matriarch again, where his sword was still impaled, as Helgrin worked at ripping the arrows and quills from his body.

Britta followed his gaze, then snorted and crossed her arms before her bared chest. "I had her captured, and then you just jumped over and skewed her right through. Jerk."

He offered no comment on that, but it reminded him of losing control. The first time that had ever happened, he had had no allies as strong as Britta able to hold him off. He came back in a field of corpses, just like this, full of allies and enemies both. He hoped that they had died against the enemy along the way, but he couldn't know, and he didn't inspect their bodies for the telltale wounds his swords would leave.

"How long-" his voice jerked as Helgrin broke a rib. Britta had barbed arrows; they didn't come out cleanly. After the val'kyr healed it, he asked again, "How long did I attack you?"

She shook her head. Drekthac asked again. Britta shrugged and uncrossed her arms. "About a minute." He could see a dark line around her right arm, the kind he'd seen a hundred times in Ymirheim. Reattachment. He had cut off her arm, and sometime during the fight, Britta had managed to escape enough for Helgrin to reattach it so she could keep fighting.

Britta may have been young for a Ymirjar, but she was still undeniably Ymirjar. A minute against him, lost in the rage? Despite himself, his limbs began to shake. He hid it in a wince, and moved to sit down on a patch clear of Skinblight or acidic blood.

"I'm sorry, Britta."

The huntress shrugged again, but she managed a smirk. "You're a monster, Baelin Drekthac. Luckily, I took a couple of your chest hairs earlier, and as a descendent of the great Brunnhildar, I cast the spell to give me a champion's strength. When we go back home, I will tell our brothers and sisters the story of how Britta the Blood Maid fought off the Dragon, losing her arm and her armor but still punched six holes in his chest and lived."

He managed a weak laugh and nodded. "Godsdamn, Britta."

The Ymirjar woman offered her large hand to him. Drekthac took a moment to appreciate her breasts before accepting it, and she hauled him to his feet in a single heave. "Let's hurry to the Valkyrion. A day like this has earned a long night of celebrating." Rolling her shoulders – and smirking when that caught his eyes – she added, "That means I'm going to fuck you, in case you've forgotten."

He hadn't. Shaking his head, Drekthac barked, "No godsdamn knives this time."

Britta, for her part, looked to her right arm and touched the dark ring. It would vanish in a couple of days, but it was a stark reminder until then. "No knives. That sounds good right now."

Drekthac saw the look. "Don't make me feel bad. If I had beat you, then Helgrin was here. It was just like at home."

"No, no. Do not mistake me. It was a good fight." But she shrugged. "I'm thinking we got the sport out of it here. Now, let's just share some pleasure."

It was everything Drekthac had wished of Britta the Blood Maid, yet actually hearing it from her, it struck him as wrong. He held his tongue and turned to whistle down Coralhide.

Two hundred and fifty harpies, brother, Britta thought to herself. To watch you kill them without slowing, then turn those blades on me, when I came to you as a sister. Can you understand what that's like, brother? Can you understand, Drekthac? He turned back as the drake landed among the corpses, hissing fire. Britta looked at Drekthac's face, at his eyes. She mentally nodded. Yes, you understand. It has happened before, and there was no Helgrin to rescue your comrades.

She glanced at her val'kyr. Her friend said nothing, and her eyes were hidden behind the face mask. She, with Britta, had challenged the raging Drekthac.

After ripping free his second sword, the man in question mentioned, "If you want still the queen, Helgrin can recover her."

Britta smirked and shook her head. "No, let her die. I found her tentacles interesting, but the way she used them, I don't think I'd find any pleasure." She was rewarded by watching his face change to disgust, and she laughed.

XxX

Once their trio reached the Valkyrion, Drekthac was pleasantly surprised to hear Britta be the first to loudly curse, "Hela take the hot winds! Return tomorrow, so that we may celebrate while our spirits are still high, val'kyr!"

Hilda raised an eyebrow, a small peak of silver above her blindfold, while hovering next to Freydis. "Have I placed a bur on your tongue, Ymirjar?"

"No, but you are quite eager to put one on Drek's, and I have other plans for that tongue tonight!"

Hearing that, Drekthac decided he now owed Britta two. He added his own voice. "Why are you here, Hilda?"

"Drekthac the Immortal," she greeted, bowing to him even in the air. "The stronghold we built is a mere three miles north of here, against the other side of this mountain. When Freydis came, I thought to lend my aid in your endeav-"

"Nei," Britta barked. Reaching past Drekthac, she grabbed the reins and guided Coralhide down. Hilda opened her mouth. "Nei. Nei." They dropped down, approaching the ground. With one hand, Britta pointed back at the val'kyr and, without looking, demanded again, "Nei!"

Drekthac tried to withhold his chuckle as Britta landed them and dismounted. He took her offered hand and slid down, very carefully not looking back, where Hilda might see his smirk. The frost vrykul did the looking for him, turning to firmly holler, "Tomorrow!"

Then she was prowling forward, tugging him along, until she found a trio of armed Hyldnir in discussion. "Longhouse. Where?"

The women turned, surprised at the tone. They recognized Ymirjar on sight, however, and one quickly spoke the way to house they could occupy. Britta led, Drekthac laughed.

"And do we eat?" he asked finally, once the abandoned longhouse came into sight.

"Helgrin!" she called.

"Yes, Ymirjar?" The val'kyr had followed them.

"My brother and I are not eating tonight, nor sleeping."

"Yes, Ymirjar."

The runes were cast. Drekthac felt his stomach settle, and any tiredness left his bones in a sizzle of vrykul fire. Satisfied, the authoritative Ymirjar woman nodded and banged open the longhouse door. A few vrykul spells later, the candles and torches were lit – Drekthac hadn't known Britta could cast runes – and the door was slammed shut behind them. She threw the latch for good measure.

Alone now, Drekthac turned back to her and addressed, "Britta."

"Ja?"

"I married Freydis, but today, you are the best." He wasn't sure he conveyed that right, but the smile Britta gave him said it wasn't entirely lost either.

Back against the door, she said, "I love Helgrin. She is my handmaiden, my friend, my mentor, my elder, my lesser. Without Helgrin, I am less a Ymirjar. This is truth. But Helgrin is Val'kyr, not Ymirjar, and she, like Freydis, submits to Hilda. I am Ymirjar. I do not submit to Hilda."

"No, you don't submit." He had some ambiguously held memories of how far that trait went. No submission, not on a bed, and not when Drekthac was consumed in supernatural rage. She wouldn't even submit to consensual sex when she had flaming invited him for it.

He snorted out loud. Alright, so apart from a few days worth of aches, perhaps that night had actually been a bit fun.

"If you're laughing at my tits, I will break your jaw and push an arrow through your eye," Britta warned.

Drekthac realized she was topless again, and her quiver was very much within reach. He began to follow suit, starting by discarding his swords. "Just memories. I am okay with a little sport tonight. I owe you big."

"Little. Big. You need to learn more adjectives, brother."

There were several replies lined up for that, but so far, Britta nearly exclusively spoke in sultry Vrykul for him – rather than her "fooking hooman" boorish Common – so he held his tongue and nodded, admitting that he did need more. It wasn't like adjectives had difficult declensions either, not like those bloody verbs.

"So I snubbed the legendary Hilda, and I trampled over proud Hyldnir at behest of a male. Have I sufficiently proven my desires, by way of the southlanders?"

Drekthac snorted another laugh, this time at her. If that had been a show for his sake, she had succeeded marvelously. "I am not some southlander ox to be impressed by loud actions. You had already proved your worth in Valhalas, sister." He paused, then added, "But any women which snubbeds Hilda gets a free night."

It was her turn to snort, which she did as she sauntered towards him. "It is an ill world where the only man able to bed Hilda is also the quickest to refuse doing so. But here we are, so perhaps it is not so ill."

"You may only break my body and scar my flesh on a shared night. That is better against the witching of Hilda."

Smiling, Britta took his hand and tugged him aside, towards the ramp which fed to the raised bed. Drekthac thought to kiss her, but the towering frost vrykul refused, nimbly dodging the approach while still pulling his hand. Atop the ramp, she urged him onto the bed first, standing in all her blue skin for his eyes when she didn't immediately follow him.

"Sister?" he asked in Common, because it might as well have been the same word.

Shrugging her strong shoulders, Britta announced, "I don't much like this marching around the snow, against demon and spawn, with fears that the End Times have come. I'll fight, because I have to, but it is in defiance to the traditions that led me to Valhalas. I was promised a paradise, brother, where I can fight and laugh and die and live without fear or ailment. Helgrin makes that still possible, but it is a weak illusion.

"I am not bothered that you attacked me today. I have fought alongside berserkers before. But sometime then I was reminded that we did not clash as kin in the battlegrounds, and I felt fear, brother – fear that the paradise I had won was being taken from me. I cannot well explain it, for I am not familiar with fear. But for right now, I would like... Hmm. We have much to do, brother, and we will make a great saga of it. This I know. But tonight, I would like to be reminded that our paradise is not lost.

"No knives, no fight. For now, let us celebrate that which is our right. Do you understand what I am asking?"

Drekthac said nothing. He understood; everything had changed the day they the Ymirjar watched Olgin of the Hammer be pulled apart like he was a fly on a pin. That was not a Ymirjar death. There was no val'kyr resurrection waiting at its end, nor even a Valhal beyond. It was ruthless and cold, and it was somehow more terrible than the things Drekthac had seen Thane Byjron the Thirster do in the Valhalas before his.

Britta was not speaking through that perspective. Perhaps she hadn't been there to see that destruction – the eradication of a Ymirjar, in each meaning of the word – but it echoed the same realizations Drekthac had then. The Ymirjar paradise was lost. Yes, Drekthac could draw the parallels.

What he said though was, "Britta, get your big, blue ass on this bed."

And Britta, who found submission to be an abstract concept, and earned her right to think that way, challenged, "Make me."

XxX

Drekthac felt certain that they napped somewhere between dawn and sunrise, but it was hard to judge for how long. A few minutes, or an hour, and then they both roused together, rested and wanting, and they continued with new energy. At one point, Drekthac faintly recalled staggering outside with her, naked and fucking cold, as they hollered for Helgrin to find them a second wind. The val'kyr obeyed without comment, though it must have been around three or four in the morning. Then they jumped back inside, where Britta thought she'd warm him up and keep the neighboring Hyldnir awake for awhile longer.

Late morning, a pair of glowing Ymirjar left the longhouse after a much needed bath. Their feet had yet to even leave the wood landing when they mutually stopped, seeing the trio of waiting val'kyr hovering at their ready. Drekthac and Britta looked at Hilda, whom had returned her armored face mask, then looked to each other.

"It would be excessive," Drekthac admitted.

Britta shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know that word."

Together, they turned half circle and walked back into the longhouse, slamming shut the door and lock. Only a few seconds later, there was shuffling and banging, with a loud, "Ah hah!" from Britta, and then the sounds changed pace back to the same rhythms of the rest of the morning.

Hilda, when Freydis turned to face her, had a tight-lipped expression that marked her annoyance. "I think that was on purpose."

"Baelin finds you as necessary as Hela herself, and he likes you as much," Freydis explained. "Albeit, attacking the memory of his slain wife... That was a poor decision on your part."

"I helped him in moving on," Hilda dismissed. The following silence was filled with sounds from within the longhouse, until Hilda asked, "What was her name? The only woman Baelin ever allowed himself to love."

"I've never asked. Unlike you, I am content with him telling me when he is ready or else not at all. But it is unfair and wrong to say that Baelin hasn't loved since. He loves me. He simply cannot afford to admit so, even to himself."

Hilda kept her face smooth in face of the barbed comment. It seemed many were eager to align against her on Drekthac's behalf. "You are so sure of this, val'kyr?"

Freydis huffed a laugh. The question reminded her of a short little spitfire of a human and the conversation then. "Are we small ones to believe love is only real when it is spoken? Or are we vrykuls to know it from something more substantial?"

"Hn."

The sounds within rose and fell, as Ymirjar did as Ymirjar did. They began to approach crescendo, louder and fiercer, and all at once it stopped. Freydis turned slightly at it, but she eased herself when she heard a low murmur fill the void. Britta's laugh followed. Then Drekthac made a pained shout, there was a meaty smack, and Britta laughed again. There was a gasp and thumping around, as though a fight took place within, and then the latch was thrown aside so the door could groan open.

Two grinning faces peered through the crack. Bearded Drekthac stood shirtless with a blanket around his hips, and his dark eyes were brightened by mirth. Britta was leaning sideways, showing only her torso, but that was enough to see she had covered her chest with Drekthac's shoulder armor, poorly filling the plates like cups of a brassier. She was squirming in place, trying not to laugh, as Drekthac beckoned with his shoulder and elbow. His free hand was behind the door, probably the cause of Britta's fit.

"Freydis, come inside."

"Oi, Helgrin."

Freydis felt her cheeks flex, but she was proud that she didn't quite smile. Thrusting her polearm into the snow, she acquiesced, "Of course, Ymirjar," at nearly the same time Helgrin did. She didn't shoot a look at Hilda as they followed the Ymirjar inside the longhouse. The door was slammed and latched again.

Outside and alone now, Hilda finally frowned. Aloud, she fumed, "THAT was certainly on purpose."

An hour shy of the Northrend noon, the door opened once more. Drekthac and a disheveled Britta stumbled out on legs like cavalrymen after a day's ride. They were dressed and armored, but it appeared almost as an afterthought, like they might stagger back inside on a hair's breath.

"Next time, no Freydis!" Britta was in mid-demand of saying, a pretty scowl on her face.

"Next time, only Freydis," Drekthac said with a laugh. He was limping. "Oh, Light. I need a healing."

The val'kyr in question came out on her feet, seeming to find her proud strut more suiting than flight. Though her face mask was on, her arrogant smile and stance gave her the look of the tournament champion. Her wings stretched wide once she was through the entry, full and bright, more brilliant than the clean snow around them.

Last was Helgrin, hovering low and bopping languidly. She might have even looked professionally detached in the wake, except for the sudden looks she was sending to Britta, to Drekthac, and to Freydis, like she was seeing them for the first time. At Drekthac's request, the runes of healing came around him.

There's going to be a "next time," Hilda recognized, but she kept her face carefully blank.

"All right," Drekthac said after thanking Helgrin. "The hard part is over. Let us finish the rest."

Britta laughed like that was the funniest thing in the north, while even Helgrin and Freydis smirked. Hilda didn't find it humorous at all.

"Then shall we continue onward, Ymirjar?" Hilda asked sweetly. And because she could, she laced a psychic reminder of their night together in it, to compare with whatever they'd just done.

Drekthac twitched, feeling the impression. He was still glowing when he faced her, even smiling. "Ah, Hilda. A pleasure, as always."

"And you are mine, Drekthac the Immortal." She even managed to keep it from sounding sarcastic. A breath was taken. "I wish to aid your endeavors."

"Among things of other, yes," he said, nodding. "I am glad you may help. You lived here recently, true?"

"Barely a year ago. I still hold a high voice among the Valkyrion and all the Hyldnir." Had it been so recent that she was still living, the most promising of her kinswomen? Time passed strangely since the Long Slumber.

"Good. I welcome you with us, Hilda." He even sounded sincere. Hilda had a small hope that meant he had worked the fire out of his blood regarding her. "Freydis, the Hyldnir are ready?"

"Yes."

"Then let us go to Sifreldar with them, then north."

XxX

The Fool King's advance was found and plotted around. An inaccurate census put the Hyldnir near 10,000, with 7,000 active warmaidens. There were about 500 men found, most of which were slaves, some were breeding stock, and fewest were husbands. Drekthac said nothing about them and cared as much. The ice-bred women were proud as they discussed their travel times – twelve hours to reach the Foot Steppes, two days to the mechagnome library directly across from Ulduar. For non-Ymirjar, Drekthac allowed himself to be impressed.

Apparently there was a non-Hyldnir clan of frost vrykuls three days to the northeast that still held their own, but there was neither the time nor reason to seek them out.

The problem was found when the Hyldnir scryers found that the Foot Steppes was nothing but a spawning pool of Skinless. The numbers were denser, bigger, and meaner than the harpies Britta and Drekthac had cleared, and neither felt up for a repeat performance. The Hyldnir answered that they were fine to test their spears alongside Ymirjar, and so the course was charted so that they'd pierce right through that cistern en route to the Fool King and Ulduar.

Hilda spelled word to Thorim and the Fool King, who responded positively. According to the former, the Hyldnir were not the only faction to reinforce their armies lately. Drekthac said nothing, but he was glad to hear it. The vrykuls may have been the titans' soldiers during the Ordering, but their numbers were fewer, organically bred, and without the direct blessings of the Pantheon. Hired help from the small races of Azeroth could make a large difference.

The topic of factory-birthed vrykuls brought a second problem.

"Not a-fucking-gain!" Drekthac growled, in Common, the only one present to use it. Hyldnir glanced over, but they did not directly tell the male to keep his mouth shut while the women were plotting.

A large part of that reluctance might have to do with the current scrying vision, which showed rank upon rank of black-fleshed vrykuls. Legions of them. What Loken had started, over a year ago, Ghat'Nothos had gladly continued. But instead of the ironfolk which imitated the freemen vrykuls, these were clearly Skinless. A new curse of flesh or a design impressed within the Forge of Wills, Drekthac didn't care to know.

The Engine of the Makers must be destroyed while they passed through, Drekthac concluded. He conveyed this in Vrykul.

Hilda did not disagree, but she frowned. "I would rather re-appropriate it for proto-vrykuls again. We simply don't breed swift enough for a prolonged campaign."

"Could we even trust the machine now?" he asked.

"I won't know until we have created some. I can test them for the curse once I have one before me." She noticed Drekthac's look and shrugged. "Many of us were alive at the time that the curse of flesh took the vrykul, which birthed the frail, weak race you descended from, human. We the Hyldnir, among others, developed spells to find the flaw and eliminate those who carried it."

"Weak and frail, that's us." Drekthac snorted, and Britta chuckled. The Azotha – the abandoned vrykuls afflicted by the curse of flesh – were a great deal hardier than modern humans, on top of that.

He thought about the issue, but Britta spoke first: "So you hope to fight through untold legions of dark vrykuls, so that we may have the option to make our own untold legions to replace those we lost along the way, without knowing if those proto-vrykuls are the enemy." Nicely summarized.

Hilda shrugged. "The small ones once seized the Forge of Wills from Loken, despite his endless legions of iron. I see no reason why Ymirjar would do less."

"Point," said Drekthac. Britta sniffed but nodded.

Several Hyldnir offered to accompany them, but Drekthac and Britta refused. Hilda was right; this was work for the Ymirjar. Too much lied at stake for anything less.

"If there is a Singing Blade," Drekthac started, and he didn't finish.

Britta and Hilda said nothing, staring at the map and the scrying field. The concern was real. Not even Drekthac could think of which Ymirjar he could take with him against those monsters. The Fool King, the Madman, and Thomas, maybe. They had their own battles already.

Hilda's finely runed face mask turned his way. With uncharacteristic bluntness, she repeated, "Bond the val'kyr."

For once, Drekthac didn't refuse. Several Hyldnir were questioning what that meant, which Hilda must have hated, and that must have been why she said it so plainly, where the wrong ears could hear. It was that important. Drekthac recognized it, and he did not disagree with it.

He found his mouth moving slowly, asking, "What would happen?"

"You would win."

"Thorim did not win." Sudden murmurs went unnoticed around them. Drekthac and Hilda only had attention for each other.

The eyeless mask continued staring. "You would win." Louder murmurs.

"Hilda, this means more than your games."

"It does."

"I cannot risk-"

"You risk nothing. The val'kyr risk everything. This we know." The audacity of a val'kyr speaking over a Ymirjar was just a drop in a bucket.

"Why not Thodin then?"

Hilda shrugged one shoulder. "It was going to be Thodin. Then you came along."

Drekthac chewed his lip and tugged his ruined beard and paced. None of it helped him reach a decision, but he had the eye of everyone present. "Freydis?" he asked.

His wife nodded. "You know my thoughts."

He did. "Britta?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" she replied kindly.

Drekthac nodded. That helped him too. Finally he looked back to the spider val'kyr. "Hilda, I don't know if I can break tradition more. I came to repair that."

"Traditions are ideas we had after banishing the Old World. If we win, we can have that luxury again," she said.

All so they could see if the Forge of Wills could help them or not...! Drekthac frowned and wished he had something to kill. In lack, he finally settled, "First, we must find a team to raid the Halls of Stone. Then we can decide."

Hilda took in a breath and sighed. Drekthac did not miss her undead state and the futility of that action. "Yes, Ymirjar," she agreed.

"But we have a plan," he continued, marching back to the map. He was the smallest one here, but that no longer bothered him. "And Hilda, you are staying with me. You requested of me before, and I said I must ask with Freydis. We have spoken, and now I accept your request. You know, yes?"

The lead val'kyr allowed a smile and nodded. "I remember, and I am glad, my liege."

Drekthac smiled back, already feeling the mistake in his bones. "Britta?"

"Ja?"

"Are you coming still with me?"

Her arms crossed like she was offended. "My saga is not done until I have founded Britta Village." Several Hyldnir, those not still troubled by Hilda's request, laughed at that. Drekthac assumed they were Brunnhildar Hyldnir.

Glancing at the Hyldnir, Drekthac snorted and prepared to leave. "Then let us go. They need no Ymirjar guidance here. Fight strong, warmaidens." He started walking.

Behind, Britta sputtered, "Don't tell me what to- ack. Bah! Fooking hooman!" He was gone. With a shrug for her former sisters, she grinned and admitted, "Some men we can follow. But if he isn't Sigurth or Ymirjar, just castrate him, you know?" Her head shook, and she began to follow. "Fooking...!" The val'kyr were close behind.

The Hyldnir watched them go, stunned. A few seconds after Britta was outside the door, there was a pained male shout, and Britta's voice yelled, "Turn your back on me again! I challenge you! Do it, pig!"

And a human voice: "You shot me?!"

"And I'm going to shoot you again! I'll eat your fucking heart!"

The Hyldnir looked to each other. None of them said anything for a long while.