Chapter 8
8
In the blackness, Cyran grabbed what he hoped was Shalendra and pulled her slight form to him. His body recognized the perfection of her form against his—as if she were made for him. His arm snaked around her narrow shoulders, and he pulled her closer.
“I hear Castien’s panic. Do you have a hold on him?”
Shalendra’s soft chuckle warmed his insides. “Yes. I have a death grip on his arm, but he doesn’t like the total darkness. Can’t say I do much either.”
“Spending a significant amount of time in the Dwarven dungeons, I would expect a reaction like that, although, for a dwarf, it's unusual.” Narrowing his gaze, he studied the darkness in front of them and realized the dark surroundings had lightened.
A ghostly white mist filled the expanse, and pale shades of reds, purples, and blues seeped into view, threading like ore veins through the light. The black backdrop brightened the colors, and he had to squint against the continuing brilliance as they sped through what he now recognized as a space nebula.
“Look at that one! It’s so dramatic.” Shalendra's voice filled with excitement. He followed the end of her finger to a gorgeous teal light emanating from two irregularly shaped concentric circles surrounding a darker red center. The softer shades of teal nestled between the objects gave the effect of a giant eye.
“You’re seeing the death of a star.” Cyran pointed to the smaller red dot at the center of the mass. “There’s what’s left of the planet.”
“If the star is red, why is everything teal around it?” Castien's voice was tight, and his gaze fixated on the scene.
“The red space around the planet is warm dust expelled in an explosion. Gaseous winds and dust are cast out into space, and the farther we are from the planet, the color changes from the radiation and the freezing temperatures. I’m just guessing, though. I am not well-educated on space.”
He glanced down, and his breath caught in his lungs. The kaleidoscope of colors played across her face, bathing her in their ethereal glow, was breathtaking.
He had thought her beautiful, but with starlight shimmering over her black hair, giving it a sheen of blue, not unlike the iridescence of a raven’s feathers. His breath caught in his lungs.
She was magnificent.
“I have always wanted to travel through space. I've met several of Freyja’s Night Witches who have had the experience. This is even better than they described.”
“Why aren’t we dead, frozen peoplesicles?” Castien shivered. The jerk was strong enough that Cyran felt it move through Shalendra.
“Peoplesicles? Really?” Cyran asked as she laughed.
“Well, we are all different beings, so I couldn’t say dwarfsicles, godsicles, or elfsicles, so I kept it simple.”
“You and Ailuin will get along well.”
“They will, won’t they? I’ve thought that often,” Shalendra agreed. “Castien, we are all three the same race. Our DNA shows us to be elves…well, I have a bit of Norse god in me, but I am wholly elf in my heart. To answer your question, Freyja’s breath keeps us warm—and very much alive. Her seidr, her magic, is strong. Sometimes, I wonder if it's stronger than even óeinn’s.”
Cyran pulled his gaze from her beautiful face. Staring into the universe, an unfamiliar peacefulness settled behind his ribs, nestling around his heart.
The anger and constant drive for revenge against his stepfather and whoever he had conspired with faded for the first time since the Great War, which almost destroyed the Elven world.
They flew past a molten-red planet with ribbons of white gas clouds spiraling around its round form. Next appeared a swirling blue orb that, even with Freyja’s spell, the frozen gases skittered through him. A hard shiver moved through Shalendra and jostled his injured side, although compared to past wounds, it felt like a mere scratch, so he wasn’t worried.
He pulled her closer to him, trying to keep her warm as their path seemed to change, veering them toward a bright pink planet. At the last moment, they changed direction again, zooming past an icy blue giant.
Even though they were not close, the heat blasting from the planet's surface was hot enough to take his breath away. Glancing down, he patted several areas where tendrils of gray smoke spiraled from his pants and shirt.
As they sped away from the burning planet, his eyes readjusted to the darkness, barely making out the speck in the distance. Squinting, the speck grew into a small gray dot.
Speeding toward it, the planet grew into a massive ball, dwarfing all the other plants they had passed. Drawing closer still, he made out dark shapes scattered about the surface, the objects reminding him of rocks.
“Shouldn’t we be slowing down if this is where Freyja wanted us to go?” Castien’s worry was evident in the trembling of his voice. “I mean…”
They dropped onto the rocky ground, their upper bodies teetering as they fought for balance. With his arm still around Shalendra, Cyran steadied her as she held on to Castien, who wasn’t so lucky as he fell forward, his splayed hands on the ground in front of him, his butt in the air. Biting back a chuckle, Cyran’s gaze moved around the empty expanse. “Where do you think we are?”
Something tugged on his arm, and he glanced down to find Shalendra’s other arm outstretched, her finger pointing to something in front of them.
Following her finger, his gaze landed on a blue door tucked into a niche in the mountainside. The large brass knob seemed out of place somehow, not that there should have been a door in the mountain either.
He rubbed his forehead and wiped away beads of sweat. “I’m getting a headache. So, maybe this is a portal door, and when we open it, it will lead us to where we need to be?”
Shalendra and Castien both shrugged.
She scowled at the door. “From how Aleksandra and Lilyann talk, I assumed Freyja would send us to where she wanted us to be. This doesn’t make sense. What do we do—open the door and step through?” Her scowl turned to worry. “We have no idea what we would be walking into.”
Cyran clenched his jaw in frustration, but they had no choice. If this was where the goddess wanted them to be, they would have to go through that door, regardless of the consequences. “Freyja isn’t a vengeful goddess, nor would she send those she cares for into peril.”
His gaze held hers. “You mean the world to her. She would protect you with everything she has. I am certain we will be fine.” He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
Castien nodded, suddenly gripping the brass knob. In one swift motion, he flung open the door and stepped inside the darkened interior.
“I didn’t mean to open it without caution,” Cyran griped when a bloodcurdling scream sounded from the interior. A strange blue glow lit up the space, showing them a small room and Castien standing still in the middle of it.
“Castien!” Shalendra's hands flew to her head, her fingers digging into her temples as if in pain.
Cyran leaped forward and jumped through the doorway, conjuring his sword as he had done a million times. He reached Castien and faced a familiar group of creatures, their ghostly arms raised over their cowled heads. A bluish-white light pulsed from their fingertips and cast an eerie glow over their long robes, which seemed to flutter in an invisible breeze as they held the young dwarf in place.
Cyran glanced at Castien’s face. His heart stuttered. The dwarf was as pale as death; his green eyes bleached to pale silver, and his lips were a frozen shade of blue.
“Stop!” He needed to break the draugar’s trance. His gaze touched each gaunt face, recognizing no one until the last man. Turning, he stepped in close to the creature he met helping Bernard Marchand and Freyja’s young assistant, Alva, in Washington, D.C. The draugar had been held in bondage, told to destroy them, but in the end, joining together had broken the spell holding them captive.
“Banayl! You know me—we worked together in Washington when you were freed. Stop whatever you are doing to him!” He caught the slight twitch in the draugr’s expression, but nothing else happened.
Shalendra raced into the room and pushed between Banayl and the draugr, who was standing to his right. “Castien!” Cyran saw her intent but wasn’t fast enough to stop her as she grabbed the dwarf’s arm.
She stared at his gray face in horror, then glared at the draugar. “Shame on all of you! Release him at once. My father gave your friends a place to live and train, and this is how he is repaid? Do I need to summon Alva?”
At the Huldra’s name, ten pairs of eyes snapped open, and they stared down at her. The draugr beside Banayl inched his arm down, the icy-blue glow fading from his fingers. The creature’s gaze jerked to Cyran, then returned his unnerving stare to Shalendra.
“You remind me of someone. Who are you, and how can you interfere in our magic?” The draugr's airy voice grated on Cyran's nerves as if the creature smoked too many cigarettes while alive.
Shalendra frowned. “I did not interfere. I just demanded that you stop hurting him. Castien has done nothing to you. We were sent here by Freyja.” Cyran stilled when a white light sparked deep in the creature’s black eyes.
“Your name?” the draugr asked.
Shalendra squared her shoulders, and Cyran could not help but admire the slight rise of her chin as she returned the creature’s black stare. “Yours first.”
The draugr’s lips twitched, but he answered her demand. “In life, I was called Daqar.”
“Thank you. I am Shalendra Elasalor, and the dwarf you tried to kill is my friend, Castien Bloodminer. I want you to reverse the spell and heal him now.”
Cyran laid a hand on Shalendra’s arm, slightly squeezing it. They were not in the position to make requests, much less demands. They needed to tread carefully with the draugar. He was grateful, however, that a snarling group of werewolves were not breathing down their necks, too, since most of the groups sent out by Alva had equal numbers of both creatures.
Banayl stepped forward to stand beside Daqar, his gaze on Cyran. “I remember you, but why are you here?”
Human qualities morphed back onto the faces of the draugar. Banayl’s hawklike features and blond hair reminded Cyran of the Vikings from long ago. He raised one brow. “Where’s here exactly?”
“We are near Buchenwald—under Grosser Ettersburg, to be exact.”
Cyran scowled, not liking their location at all. It was too close to where he and the twins had been during the war. Buchwald was where he had discovered his stepfather trying to steal prisoners for experimentation. Thank the gods, he had stopped him before he succeeded.
“So, Freyja did send us through a portal. Why are you here? I don’t remember hearing of draugar joining in on the fight between the Allies and Axis—the latter being Germany and those countries fighting with them.”
Banayl shrugged. “That’s because we were not there. We were released from our tombs after the Midgardian war was over. The rest of our group was here, though. I believe Himmler created them—the werewolves.”
Cyran nodded. “Before Lamruil became co-regent of Alfheimr, he infiltrated the German lines and worked under Himmler to deflect and stop the experiments. Even with magic and an incredible talent for spying, he could not discover the location of the document containing the Dark Fae’s spell, and Himmler succeeded in using it to create the Ironclaws. Lamruil still hasn’t forgiven himself. Knowing him, he never will—at least, not until he makes it right for the brave men caught in the Dark Fae’s trap.”
“You have werewolves here?” Shalendra took a tentative step forward. “Where are they?”
Banayl and Daqar turned their unnerving gazes on her, but she held her ground, and Cyran felt another quick stab of pride. She may be young, but she had a backbone. Her parents would be so proud of her. That led to another thought. Why wouldn’t Freyja let her go home, if only for a short visit, to see her parents and let them know she was all right? It was definitely a question to be asked.
“The group is out scouting the area to pick up any magical traces left behind,” Daqar answered.
Shalendra’s gaze narrowed as she glanced between the two. “Now that you aren't glowing and a bit less frightening, you two resemble one another. Are you related?”
One side of Banayl’s generous mouth rose. “You are observant, young elf. Yes, Daqar is my cousin by blood, my brother by choice, and my leader by right—until Himra returns, if he does. He is with a few of the werewolves. We have been waiting for them to return from a reconnaissance mission, but they are late…very late. When not channeling power, we almost return to how we were in life…almost. Unfortunately, we are dead, so some things will never be as they were.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you become a draugar? My father told me a person is cursed. Is that correct?”
“In a way,” Banayl explained. “Some believe we are all evil men who were nothing more than murderers, thieves, or worse. While the original draugr fit that description, few of us do now. I can speak only for myself, but I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, trying to aid someone who turned out to be quite mad—mentally wrong. I got in the way of the god controlling him, and here I am.”
“Curses always have countercurses. Have you tried to learn what will reverse this one?”
Cyran glanced sideways at her, wondering where she was going with her questions. Since their appearance in the battle with Bernard and Alva, many people have tried to reverse the curse, to no avail. Why didn't she know that?
“Many have tried and failed.” Daqar’s green gaze hardened, reminding Cyran of a many-faceted emerald. “Why have you no knowledge of what your people have tried, she-elf?”
Shalendra’s slender eyebrow rose. “While I am an elf and a female. I have a name, so please call me Shalendra. You wouldn’t like being called just draugr, would you?”
“I have been named worse.”
She grimaced. “Great, you’re a comedian. I grew up in Midgard, lived with émilien—my father, and rarely left France. Most of the time, Freyja, her twin brother Freyr, Idunn, and sometimes would visit us, but I have never been to Alfheimr or been around my people.”
Daqar tilted his head to one side. “Forgive me then for my assumption. Many have tried to find a countercurse in the last few years, but all have failed.” He threw a glance at his friends. “It isn't so bad once you acclimate to the power surges and anger. If one tries, a semblance of peace can be achieved.”
The dark-skinned draugr scoffed. “Only a sainted monk could conquer the fury surging through us as we channel our magic. Even then, it's next to impossible.”
Shalendra’s green gaze stared at him. “And what is your name, sir?”
The man’s black gaze turned to her. “I am Ukris. I am Nubian and lived in ancient times, even before the Egyptians came to power.”
She smiled. “Nice to meet you, Ukris. My father took me to visit the Nubian pyramids. They are excavating them right now, trying to discover an entombed pharaoh. None has been found yet, but there is always hope. Just like I have hope for you and the other draugar. While our lives change, we must adapt if what was is no longer possible, wouldn’t you agree?”
With a glance at Ukris, Banayl trained his green gaze on Shalendra. “You are wise for one so young. Please forgive us if we come across as rude, like in Ukris’s case. After living like this for thousands of years, you can understand how difficult it is for us to have hope again.”
Shalendra nodded, and one long curl feathered across her cheek. Cyran's gaze followed her long fingers as they tucked the strand behind her slightly pointed ear. “I, more than most, understand. My father was the first werewolf to be created by the Dark Fae and, until recently, was cursed to live in that form. My mother’s love for him was the counterspell, although he can still return to his wolf form as needed. Even when life is bleakest, no one except you can take away hope.”
Daqar glanced at Banayl before turning his gaze back to Shalendra. “Your father treated us with kindness and respect, more than we are usually shown.”
“He treated us like people and not monsters,” Ukris muttered.
“True. He understands our plight,” Daqar agreed. “You, Shalendra Elasalor, are much like your father. We would be honored to aid you, should you have need.”
“Thank you, Daqar. My father is amazing, isn’t he? You should meet my mother…well, maybe not. She can be quite intimidating until you get to know her.”
Cyran raised one brow. “Intimidating is not the word I would have chosen to describe Hel. Scary, yes.” She gave him a sideways glare, which made him grin.
“Hel? As in Niflheimr’s queen? That Hel?” Ukris asked with an awe-filled tone.
Cyran met the draugar’s gaze and nodded. “Yep. That Hel.”
“I have heard many stories about her,” Benayl said. “Because of those stories, I never want to meet her—even though she is your mother. Now, I am even more impressed with émilien.”
“Daqar, will you please restore Castien? He did nothing to deserve whatever you did to him. He is my friend, and I can’t bear to see him like this any longer.”
“My cousin and I have only been able to save one other whom we tried to reverse, but if you are fine with the consequences, we will try.”
Shalendra hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. Cyran stepped closer and laid his hand on her arm. Pulling his gaze away, he met Daqar’s pale green eyes. “What if this does not work? What will happen to Castien?”
“He will become a shade—neither dead nor alive. A ghost, if you will.”
Shalendra’s body trembled under his hand. Reaching out, he drew her closer and wrapped one arm around her narrow shoulders. Glancing down, he placed a finger under her chin and lifted her face. “What do you want to do? We can leave him here until we can alert Freyja or Idunn. I’m sure one of them will figure out what to do.”
“There is another,” she whispered, turning back to Castien. “If you will let me join the two of you, I want to try to heal him now.”
Banayl nodded and held out his hand to her. Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his and her other in Daqar’s. Cyran’s pride for her increased even more. Not many would do what she just did. All who hear the stories about draugar know that to touch them meant they, too, were tainted somehow. Maybe, he hoped, that shame was something they could stop. He could not stand the thought of anything happening to her.
The three positioned themselves around the dwarf. With linked hands, the two draugar loosened the tight hold on their powers. With each second, their humanity receded and, in its place, stole the fearsome wraiths. Their black cloaks and long white hair moved with an invisible wind as their faces again turned gaunt. Their soulless eyes filled him with dread, so he fixed his gaze on Shalendra’s bowed head. She had a rare ethereal beauty. The sensation filling his heart terrified him.
The cousins lifted their swords, the points touching above Castien’s head. Their magic flared, the light blue tendrils coating their blades like flames. The moment Shalendra's head raised, the color changed, turning into a brilliant ice blue, and he had to shade his eyes to catch a glimpse of her.
Bathed in the draugar’s magic, she nodded at each, then stared into Castien’s unseeing eyes.
“Castien!” In response to her loud demand, his head jerked back, and he let out a bloodcurdling scream.