Dennis Schmidt - Twilight of the Gods - The First Name

TWILIGHT OF THE GODS: THE FIRST

NAME

By Dennis Schmidt

This book is dedicated to Freyja.

THE VIGRID

I

Two men lay just behind the crest of the ridge, hidden by the jumbled

rocks and twisted scrub that crowned it. One was dark and slender,

narrow of face, with an aquiline nose, thin harsh lips, and liquid black

eyes. His hair was the same midnight hue as the long robe that covered his

body.

The other was a complete contrast. His huge, muscular form was

covered with a filthy beige robe, that reached to just below his knees.

Blond hair, bleached almost white on top, hung past his shoulders in

several braids. A braided beard and mustache, equally blond, covered

most of his face. Two cold blue eyes stared from a light skinned face that

was peeling and sunburned. The nose was broken and twisted to the left.

Full, sensual lips, dry and badly cracked, could barely be seen in the midst

of his beard and mustache.

For long minutes the two lay there, unmoving except for their eyes,

which took in everything, cataloging, counting, and evaluating. Satisfied,

their eyes met in mutual agreement and slowly, cautiously, the men

lowered their heads and began to crawl backward down the slope. Once

certain they were well below the line of sight of those on the other side of

the ridge, they scuttled quickly to the bottom of a narrow ravine, where a

group of men awaited their return.

Surt’s black eyes sparkled in response to the greedy smile that curved

Borr’s lips. “This is what we’ve been waiting for, Skullcracker,” he

declared. His strange southern accent and soft deep voice were a murmur

barely discernible above the constant hot sigh of the west wind that

scoured the barren hills. “This one will make us all rich men.”

Borr nodded his blond head and grunted agreement. “Huh. Rich, yes,

but there’s something strange about this caravan. It’s not like the others

we’ve seen. Those guards, for instance, and that big wagon. And that one

who rides alone, that one in black. I couldn’t quite make out his face no

matter how hard I tried. Strange.”

“Strange indeed,” Surt responded. “Some of those who lead the beasts

wear the garb of far off Kara Khitai. The panniers on their animals look

heavy with treasure. In the days of the First Dark Empire such a thing was

not unusual. Now it’s rare for the Yellow Robes to journey to Muspellheim.

“The wagon is stranger yet. It’s painted with the designs and curtained

with the rich fabrics of dawn lit Prin. Who knows what fabulous wealth

lies within? Fabulous it must be, for those who guard it wear the livery

and badges of An, the eldest Son of Muspell. Their kind do not ordinarily

guard caravans. Whatever treasure the wagon carries must be bound for

An himself.

“Strangest indeed is the, black one who rides along. He’s a wizard, Borr,

and from the looks of him, a powerful one. The caravan is rich, my Aesir

friend. Rich beyond our wildest imaginings, and it’s also very well

guarded.”

Borr frowned. “A wizard, eh? Why a wizard to guard a caravan, even

one this big and rich?”

Surt shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked craftily at the Aesir. “Surely

the presence of a mere wizard doesn’t frighten you? Wizards can die,

Skullcracker, just like ordinary men.”

The blond man shook his head and growled. “I’ve not studied the Dark

Art as you have, Surt, but I fear neither it nor those who practice it. I meet

wizards and their foul evil the way I meet all enemies with cold steel in my

hand. There’s no room for fear in the heart of an Aesir warrior. Our fates

are rune carved by the Nornir at our births. There’s no escape. So no true

Aesir cowers at home in fear. We stride forth to meet our dooms with

singing hearts and blood drenched weapons.”

Surt nodded and smiled. Ah, my fine Aesir fool, he thought. I knew you

wouldn’t disappoint me. You and your pale haired friends are so big, so

brave, so stupid. Oh, yes, you fear nothing. So we’ll attack the caravan and

many of your men will die. Then, when the treasure’s won and your

followers acne few, when you think it’s over and you’re safe at last, then, in

the dark of the night, while you lie rolled in your blankets, dreaming of

luxury and wealth, I and my jackals will slit your, throats! Yes! And all the

treasure will be mine! All of it! All the gold and jewels that weigh down the

panniers the beasts carry! Plus whatever incredible wealth lies within the

wagon from Prin!

Yes! And one more thing. A shiver of expectation coursed through his

body. One more thing. One thing mote valuable than all the rest. He’d

caught only the briefest glimpse of it, but that had been enough. For years

he’d slaved in harsh apprenticeship to old Shubur. In all that time the

wizened little bastard had refused to teach him anything more powerful

than the most menial spells of the Kishpu sorcery. He’d had to steal

anything else and puzzle it out on his own, but if he could get possession of

the thing he’d just seen, he knew he could summon and control vast

power! His hands curled into grasping claws just thinking of how he would

clutch it. He lowered his head to hide the lustful light he knew burned in

hiss dark eyes.

Borr turned from Surt to look at the thirty men who stood in a silent,

waiting group. Most were Aesir, tall, thick, and blond, with wild, shaggy

hair like his own. The rest, ten in all, resembled Surt. Like their dark

leader, they were condemned criminals who’d somehow escaped the

wrath of the Sons of Muspell and now roamed the Great Route between

the Oasis of Kath and the Great Wall, preying on the caravans that

traveled it. A scruffy lot of murderers and thieves, they made Borr

uncomfortable. Not that he feared them. One’ Aesir was worth ten such in

a fight. It was just that they were skulking killers, throat slitters nuking a

foul living, rather than battleglad heroes seeking glory. No matter. They

were useful allies here in the Twisted Lands. They knew the territory, and

this was a big, well protected caravan. They were valuable extra blades.

Still, he reminded himself, it would never do to turn one’s back on them.

He knew the worth of his own men. Karldred, the best ax next to his

own in all of Asaheim; Nial, a swordsman without equal; Thidrandi,

Torhall, Ingvar, Haakon, Skirnir, Lodur, ail of them hardened Aesir

warriors one could stand back to back with against any odds. They knew

the wolf work, the raven’s game.

Borr grunted again and nodded. “I say we take them. How say the rest

of you?” Their grins and growls were answer enough. Borr smiled and

looked at Surt. “My, wolves are eager to pull down the prey, and begin the

blade feast.”

Surt’s eyes gleams darkly. “My friends are ready too. When, and where

shall wt strike?”

“Hmm. They’re well armed and alert. Ordinarily I’d think one of these

ravines would be the ideal spot, but not this time. They’d be ready, and the

odds are too close. Hmm, I wonder.” For a moment he was silent, his blue

eyes half closed as he calculated and planned.

“Surt, do you remember that spot on the Vigrid?”

The dark man frowned. “The salt flat? Where the two ravines parallel’

the trail?”

“Just so. What if we divided our men and put half in each ravine? When

they drew abreast, one half would attack. Once the first group had them

fully engaged, the second could launch a surprise attack from the rear.”

Surt nodded. “Yes. They’ll be less wary on the plain. We’ll surprise them

twice, once from the flank, once from behind.”

“If we move out now we’ll get to the Vigrid before them,” Borr said. “We

can travel all night and take up positions at dawn. They should reach us

late in the afternoon. The trail runs almost north south there, so we can

launch our first attack from the west to keep the sun in their eyes. That

will put the wind right in their faces too.”

He paused for a moment, looking speculatively at Surt. “Have you

magic to cloak our odor so their horses won’t smell us and give the alarm,

and to hide the second group from even their sharpest lookouts?” The

dark man smiled slightly and nodded twice. ‘”Good,” Borr grunted. “Then

you’ll be in the other ravine and lead the second attack.” He looked around

at the raiders, meeting nods of agreement. “All right, then. Let’s ride.

We’ve a long hot day and night ahead of us.”

“With great wealth waiting,” added Surt softly. They all chuckled grimly

in response.

The Vigrid had once been a shallow seabed. Now it was a vast plain of

dried; salty mud, its cracked, ravine riddled surface lifeless and deadly. A

full fifty miles wide and nearly as long, it shimmered in the heat of the

southern sun. Nothing moved or stirred anywhere, except the occasional

dust devils whipped up by the ever blowing west wind.

Haruum hated riding point. Out here in this endless flatness he felt

totally exposed, one man with emptiness all around him. He looked back

over his. shoulder at the caravan that stretched out behind him to

reassure himself that indeed it still followed; that he was rot, in fact, alone

in the midst of this stinking Vigrid. As he turned forward again, the low

afternoon sun glared in his eyes and momentarily blinded him. By the

Sons! he silently cursed. The damned thing was brighter now than it had

been at midday.

His vision cleared at the same instant the arrow took him in the throat.

With a gurgling cry of astonishment he flung his arms wide and pitched

from his horse.

The raiders poured from the ravine, howling with bloodlust. Amid a

clash of steel and a screaming of horses, they collided with the guards.

Borr was the first to draw blood, his one handed battle ax shattering first

the shield, then the skull of one of the defenders. With a shriek of victory

raised to Sigfod, God of Battle, he whirled his horse and launched himself

at another enemy. An arrow thudded home .in the luckless animal’s neck,

and it stumbled, going down on its knees and throwing Borr forward. He

dove, curled into a ball, and sprang upright even as he hit the ground.

Blocking a sword sweep from a mounted warrior with his shield, he

chapped at the man’s leg and neatly severed it just above the knee. Blood

sprayed out in a red fountain as the man tumbled backward off his horse.

Borr found himself covered with another’s gore. He howled triumph once

more and spun about, looking for other prey.

At that moment Surt, leading the second group of attackers, struck, and

suddenly everything was a whirling, slashing madness Borr turned just in

time to see two guards on foot rush at him, long battle spears in hand.

Quickly he thrust his one handed ax in his belt, dropped his shield, and

unslung his two-handed battle ax, Deathbringer, from his back. Brushing

aside one of the spears as though it were a mere stick, he drove the guard

to his knees with a mighty blow that split him from the top of his head to

the middle of his chest. The other nun struck out with his weapon, and

even though Borr twisted quickly to the side, the blade slashed his

shoulder. He stepped back, blocking a second thrust. Then with a roar and

a leap he was on the man, ax shattering spear first, chest second.

The battle raged on. Borr saw three men close on Ingvar and cut him

down. Lodur, kicked senseless by a horse, was skewered on a spear. Two of

Surt’s black cutthroats want down, one missing an arm, the other spilling

his life from a gaping wound in his stomach. More and more died as the

wolf work progressed.

Stepping back from the headless corpse of the man he had just felled,

Borr felt a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck. He looked up to

see strange dark clouds growing on the southern horizon. What in the

name of the gods? he wondered. Then it hit him. The wizard! Of course.

The bastard was summoning something to his aid. Perhaps some demon!

Before he could turn to search, Surt was by his side. His dark eyes were

wide with fear and pain. One arm hung limp, blood running down it in a

red stream. With his other hand he clutched at his side where another red

stain was growing, oozing through his fingers. “Skullcracker,” he gasped,

“the wizard’s summoning something! We’ve got to stop him!”

“Then use your damn magic, man!” Boa snarled angrily, looking for a

new enemy to kill.

“Not strong enough,” Surt panted, his face twisted with pain. “I’m

wounded. And he’s very powerful!”

The Aesir grinned wolfishly and spat on the ground. “Magic! Bah! Give

me cold steel any day!” He turned and bellowed to Skirnir, who stood

nearby. “Raven friend,” he called, pointing to where the wizard stood,

arms outstretched, hands clawlike, compelling, demanding. “The wizard!

To me!” Not waiting to see if Skirnir followed, not needing to, he sprinted

toward the black robed man.

Four guards saw them and rushed to intercept. Borr’s great ax swung

up from the ground, catching one in the crotch, tumbling his steaming

guts to the ground. Skirnir engaged the other two; his eyes blazing, bloody

foam flecking his lips as the battle madness came on him. Borr realized

the man was dying, but also knew he would probably take both guards

with him to the Hall of the Gods.

One last enemy stood between Borr and the wizard. The man was huge,

blacker even than Surt, with massive legs and arms like the branches of an

oak. He swung a sword nearly as long as Borr’s ax and handled it as

though it weighed nothing. Skullcracker smiled. Here was a warrior

indeed! This was the kind of fight the skalds sang of!

The swordsman swung from overhead, a powerful blow meant to split

Borr in two. The Aesir met the blade with the head of his ax. His own blow

went low, aiming at the knees of his opponent. The huge guard jumped

back lightly, his face split by a grin. “Well met, shaggy one,” he thundered.

“I am Jormungand, the Serpent, and I am your death!” His voice had the

same soft deep quality as Surt’s, but with a slight hissing overtone, as if

the man were indeed some kind of giant black serpent.

“My death’s not rune written on your sword, black one. I’m Borr

Skullcracker, and I’ll soon crack yours!” He swept his ax in a great arc,

directed at Jormungand’s ribs. The sword met the ax in a ringing shower

of speaks. Again the sword flew toward Borr, and again he blocked,

countering with a mighty blow at the head of his adversary. Sword and ax

clashed again.

As Borr slashed, parried, and countered, a dread began to grow in his

heart. This was no ordinary warrior. Under any circumstances he was a

fair match, but Borr bled from several wounds and felt the growing

exhaustion of no less than six previous battles. The giant Jormungand

seemed fresh and woundless. Plus there was the problem of the wizard. If

all Borr had had to do was fight the black giant, he was confident he could

eventually overcome the man. But every second he wasted in combat

brought whatever the wizard was summoning that much closer. He didn’t

have much time left, and he knew it.

Damn! he cursed silently. Jormungand blocks or avoids everything I

throw at him. The man’s a superb warrior! Skald material indeed! The

grim cloud that writhed toward them from the southern horizon was

closer now, and the black guard knew it. His smile widened slightly as he

stepped back from a swing of Deathbringer.

Only a long shot can win now, Borr realized. Well, then, cast it all on one

chance. It makes no difference anyway. What’s written in the runes is

written, and all a man’s striving cannot change it. With a silent prayer to

Sigfod he swept up the great ax as though to make another head attack.

Bringing it forward in a whistling arc, he let go of the haft as it reached

throat level. Jormungand, who had stepped back to avoid the blow, was

startled by the unexpected maneuver. He tried to block, but was not

successful. The ax struck him on the left side of his head, spraying gouts of

blood and flesh and sending his ear flying. He staggered and fell.

With a howl of victory Borr sprang forward over the sprawled body of

the guard. With his right hand he clawed his smaller ax from his belt. The

wizard was only a few yards off.

Suddenly Borr’s whole body was afire, beat seating him, his robe

bursting into flame. With a roar of anguish he rolled around on the

ground, putting out the blaze. The cursed wizard is Warded, he realized. I

can’t reach the unholy bastard! He glanced up at the cloud, now much

closer, and felt a sickness. It seemed something alive now, not just a mere

cloud. Something alive and blackly evil, twisting, writing, seeking, and

hungry.

Borr shivered and stood. He looked wildly around for any of his raiders.

All were still engaged. None had their bows to hand, having dropped them

after the first fusillade that had opened the battle. Bows were of no value

in close quarters, and the fighting was now hand to hand.

Cold steel could stop a wizard, he knew, and even a fire Ward could not

keep it out. The distance was overlong for a good throw. The man was no

fool. Yet Borr knew he had no choice. With a murmured plea to Sigfod to

carry his ax like the wind and let it create the raven feast, he pulled back

his arm and hurled.

The ax flew true and buried its blade in the chest of the wizard. The

black robed man staggered and went to one knee, dying, but not yet

finished. Borr pulled the long dagger from his belt and threw himself

forward. The Ward was still in place, but it had weakened. The heat

seared his flesh and he cursed, but his momentum carried him through.

His hair smoking, he sprinted for the wizard. Reaching the kneeling man,

whose arms were still outstretched, hands still summoning, demanding,

Borr slashed his throat with a sweep of his blade. The wizard slowly

toppled backward. As he hit the ground a great roll of thunder cracked

overhead, throwing Borr to his knees. Lightning ripped the sky, stabbing

the billowing black cloud that had almost reached them. Blinded and

deafened, Borr pitched forward onto his face as the world exploded

around him. .

By the time he came to, the sun was balanced on the horizon. Thidrandi

knelt over him, a waterskin in his hands. Borr felt thirst in a sudden wave.

Licking his dry, cracked lips, he raised himself on one elbow and drank.

Slowly, he came to a sitting position. Every part of his body hurt

horribly. The mingled smell of his own blood, sweat, and burnt hair was

enough to sicken trim. There were worse smells in the air. A disemboweled

man lay nearby, reeking of shit and half digested food. It was one of Surt’s.

He looked around. Five of his Aesir were still on their feet. Two of Surt’s

men were rifling the bodies of the dead for valuables. Every other form lay

still and unmoving. The stench of death was heavy.

Carefully noting the locations of all his aches and pains, he stood.. He

stepped to the dead wizard and picked up his knife. Black blood stained

the blade. Grabbing the haft of his one-handed ax, he pulled it free of the

man’s chest. It, too, was caked with black gouts of gore. He thrust both

into his belt and walked slowly over to where Jormungand lay, the left side

of his head a mass of drying blood. The great ax lay a few feet beyond him.

Borr picked it up and then, resting the head on the ground, he leaned

against the haft and stared down at the huge black guard. The skalds will

sing of you, Serpent; he promised silently. You were the best I ever fought.

I hope your gods feast you well, wherever you have gone.

Turning from Jormungand, his eyes fell on the great wagon that stood

silently in the midst of the carnage, the two horses that had pulled it dead

in their traces. He caught Thidrandi’s eye and pointed. Together, weapons

ready, they approached the wagon.

The others, seeing Borr’s destination, joined him. In a half circle they

finally stood and stared, wondering what great treasure lay within,

treasure for which they had spilled so much blood. The chests on the

horses had already yielded heavy chains and necklaces, arm and finger

rings of gold and silver, some plain, others encrusted with shimmering

jewels. One chest held nothing but jewels, several as large as a man’s fist.

With so much of value carried by mere beasts, what incredible wealth

must be within such a conveyance?

Borr set Deathbringer on the ground and .pulled his one-handed ax

from his belt. Weapon ready in his right hand, he stepped forward and

reached out with his left. Carefully his fingers gathered the rich cloth of

the wagon’s cover. With a sudden mighty pull he ripped it away.

None had known quite what to expect, but what met their eyes was

beyond the wildest imagining. The wagon held one thing, and one thing

only.

Seated in the center, wrapped in many hued veils; surrounded by

gold stitched pillows, was a woman. Only her eyes were visible behind the

veils, and they stared at Borr with a frightened but calculating light.

For a moment they all stood rooted to the spot in utter astonishment.

Then Borr broke the frozen tableau with a bellow of rage. His ax flashed in

a sudden arc, smashing into the floor of the wagon, almost splitting it in

two. “This,” he roared, clenching his fists and shouting at the darkening

sky, “this is what we played the raven’s game for! This is the great

treasure, guarded by so many lives, that we did the wolf-work for! By the

gods, I . . . .” His rage was so great, he couldn’t find words to express it.

He laughed, a great bellow that was anything but mirthful. “By damn,

then! If this is what I bled for, then this is what I’ll enjoy!” With a snarl he

stepped forward and grabbed the woman by the arm. He pulled her off the

wagon and began ripping the veils from her. The body he exposed brought

a murmur of awe from everyone. It was faultless. A light brown in color,

with high, firm, full breasts, a thin waist, and wide, sensual hips, it even

drew a grunt of surprise from Borr.

He threw the woman to the ground, his eyes meeting hers again. There

was no longer any fear there. Instead... instead Borr could swear he

detected a look of triumph in their dark depths. For the first time he

noticed the woman’s face, as naked now as her body. His breath caught in

his throat. She was unlike any woman he had ever seen, strange and

beautiful at the same time. Her eyes were black and almond shaped. Her

nose was thin and slightly arched. Her mouth, full and incredibly

sensuous.

Despite his battle weariness and the ache of strained muscles and fresh

wounds, the Aesir warrior found himself aroused. By the gods, he thought

hotly, this is a woman! He ripped the tattered, blood stained robe from his

body and fumbled with his belt, his hands unexpectedly clumsy with

eagerness. Dropping his breeches and stepping out of them, he untied his

breechclout with shaking fingers. Naked at last, he threw himself on her

with a deep growl of desire.

Her arms went around him, her fingernails digging into his back. Her

mouth rose hungrily to meet his in a deep and passionate kiss. Almost

losing control, he felt a fire growing in his loins. She gripped him tightly,

her body moving with his in a natural harmony he had never felt with

another woman. The fire and pressure grew rapidly, incredibly. Without

warning, long before he expected it, he arched in a mixture of ecstasy and

agony and poured himself into her in a sudden, burning flood. Instantly

she responded, moaning and thrashing in her own orgasm.

He paused for a moment, stunned and delighted. But before he could

withdraw and roll off, the woman began to move beneath him, expertly

bringing him back to life and rekindling his excitement. They moved

together again, more slowly now, each knowing the other better, each

trying to wring every drop of pleasure from every movement. Their cries

were simultaneous this time, as well as louder and more intense.

Borr found himself staring in wonder into those dark eyes, lighted as his

own were by the slowly dying fire of incredible pleasure. The Aesir heard

one of the men standing in the awed and silent circle murmur, “A treasure

indeed.” Before he knew quite what he was doing, Borr was on his feet,

legs spread, standing over the woman. “My treasure,” he growled hoarsely.

“By right of Warleader, I claim the woman as my first portion.” Several of

the others muttered, but they all stepped back. Borr glared around the

circle, daring anyone to challenge him. Their eyes dropped one by one.

Triumphant, the blond Aesir warrior looked down at his prize. She met his

gaze squarely, the light of victory unmistakable in her glance.

With a curse to cover his confusion, Borr stepped back and reached

down to retrieve his breechclout from the ground. He put it back on as the

rest of the raiders wordlessly watched. Not bothering with his breeches, he

thrust his dagger through the strip of leather that held the clout in place.

He picked up his small ax and looked around the circle. “Well,” he

Dennis Schmidt - Twilight of the Gods - The First Name

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