Chapter 77
After being dragged across the realm, across the crudely built, rickety bridge over the chasm, Gerrie walked with firm steps towards the looming Vanaheim castle.
She used to stare at its tall turrets in awe, wondering what was in those thick columns. She’d later found out that they housed the dungeons. Turrets were easier to guard and harder to escape from than underground or ground-level dungeons.
Each of the attached spindles was completely cut off from the rest of the castle, their staircases blocked by guards.
Their guards marched them into the castle courtyard, where Gerrie had expected to be greeted by the king and queen. She did see them, but instead of being alive like she’d hoped, they swung from nooses in the middle of the square, a symbol painted in blood on their chests.
The Othala rune. A symbol for home, for ancestry.
It was a mockery of a rune the Vanir held so dear.
She wished that was the most disturbing sight, but upon further inspection, she was quite disappointed.
Fresh wooden posts lined the stone walls, their platforms built of logs and kindling. Gerrie stared at the burned ashes of more platforms beneath with the new ones.
Even more horrifying were the Vanir strung up on the posts, awaiting their execution.
Since she could not speak around her gag, she tried to catch Noren’s and Viggo’s attention, but they were staring at the posts as well, disgust on their faces. Perhaps Noren had been right—this was not a great plan, but she could not have foreseen this.
Her magic was not of Sight, and besides, she had refused Solveig’s offer to loosen her power. She’d used the last of her Summoning Stone.
Gerrie could do nothing for the poor souls who awaited their gruesome fate.
Up the familiar stairs to the front entrance of the castle were guards dressed in black and grey, the emblem of Hel on their chests. Gerrie thought she was prepared, but when they were marched to the throne room only to see Ragnvald seated upon the sacred seat, her rage knew no bounds.
Quick as lightning, she launched herself at her guards, knocking one of them into the two that held Noren’s and Viggo’s ropes. She spun her unbound feet around, relishing the sound of bone cracking as her foot connected with a face.
Viggo and Noren followed her lead, using her attack as a distraction to dislodge themselves from their guards and join her in the fight.
More guards came at them with all manner of weapons, but they were no match for her training.
As Solveig’s lead shieldmaiden, sworn to protect her at all costs, she had trained relentlessly to ensure she never failed. Letting Solveig get captured was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do.
If anything, she was grateful Ragnvald was here and not in Hel so Solveig and Westley could complete their mission.
Gerrie gripped the sharp end of a sword and used it like a club, feeling the blade dig into her palms as the hilt connected with her attacker’s head. Ragnvald laughed and clapped, clearly enjoying the sight of his prized prisoners fighting a losing battle.
Soon there were too many even for Gerrie, especially without her magic. They were all lucky she didn’t have access to her special blend.
Soon, she would get her revenge.
She, Noren, and Viggo were eventually overpowered, all three of them breathing heavily, still resisting the hands that held their arms back. Her knees cracked on the ground as she was forced to kneel. When they would not stop struggling, they were pushed onto their stomachs.
“My, my.” Ragnvald’s drawling voice came from where he lounged on the stolen throne. “What passion we have today! What fun!”
Gerrie strained her neck to catch the cold gleam in his eyes. She spat through her gag. All the humour in Ragnvald’s face vanished faster than a blink.
“Careful, witch, or you will find yourself strung up beside your people!” he bellowed.
The room unanimously flinched at the unhinged sound of their pretender king. He straightened his cloak and sank gracefully onto his stolen throne.
“Now, what shall we do with you? A witch and two traitors.” His eyes gleamed again as he turned to Noren and Viggo. He pinned them with a stare so full of darkness, Gerrie was surprised shadows didn’t escape his person.
“You know,” he said, leaning back into the throne, releasing them from his venomous gaze, “you missed the best part when you ran away from Idavoll.” Noren and Viggo bristled at his choice of words.
“That throne is wonderfully more extravagant than this one. It welcomed me, and the people bowed to their new king.”
Noren and Viggo stopped struggling to exchange horrific looks. Even Gerrie couldn’t hide her surprise.
The Idavoll throne had been imbued with magic so only the rightful ruler may sit upon it and live.
It was sacred—the gods had blessed it themselves, or so the legends told.
If the throne did not acknowledge one upon it as the rightful ruler, that person would burn to ash where they sat.
North had sat and lived right before the intrusion.
If Ragnvald was telling the truth and the throne did indeed accept him, Gerrie could think of only two reasons.
The first being he held magic so dark and powerful that he was able to override the blessing of the gods. The second, there was truth to his claim—he was the rightful ruler of this and the other realms.
Hel, Midgard, Jotunheim, Idavoll, and now Vanaheim.
Gerrie prayed that Solveig was succeeding in her mission. She would have to in order for Gerrie to complete her final assignment.
With half the world conquered, they needed a miracle to get themselves out of this mess. They needed magic.
Magic untainted by the darkness within Ragnvald.
“It is true what they say,” Ragnvald said, interrupting Gerrie’s thoughts. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and wearing five is getting quite heavy.”
Gerrie scoffed. Ragnvald signalled to her guards to remove her gag so she could speak, though he did not allow her to move from her prone position on the floor.
“If the crowns are too heavy, you could always give them back,” she suggested.
Ragnvald gave her a predatory grin. “Or I could enlist help in carrying them. A shieldmaiden, perhaps?”
“No thank you,” Gerrie said, trying not to gag.
“Of course not. I would never stoop so low. I have no need for a partner.”
“You did once. You fathered the late king of Idavoll—though you don’t seem too upset by his death.” Viggo shot her a warning look, but Ragnvald’s smile deepened.
“That son of mine was weak. He took after his mother, and yes it was a shame I had to lower myself to accept anyone but a goddess into my bed to create an heir. Pity she had to die after the birth.” There was not a single ounce of sincerity.
“You think a goddess would lower herself to your level?” Gerrie said with a laugh.
Ragnvald stood, darkness swirling in his eyes. “You dare speak to me in this manner? I will show you how lowly you are, witch.” He spat and gestured to the guards to replace her gag and lift her to stand. They dragged Gerrie out of the hall, following Ragnvald’s billowing cloak.
In the courtyard, the Vanir and Fae made a path for him, parting and bowing. Not out of respect, only fear.
He stalked up to a fresh post, and she gritted her teeth against the rough grip of the guards lifting her to the platform. To secure her, they wound ropes and chains of iron up the length of her body. When the ropes burned, the chains would remain and she could not attempt to escape.
She held in a smile. They’d made a mistake.
Her guards stepped down, revealing Ragnvald standing in front of her. He kept his back to the crowd, like he was not at all scared of being attacked from behind. He was right—the fear of his rule ran too deep, but Gerrie did not blame the people.
She blamed the male in front of her and the gods who’d given him power.
“Let this be a lesson to you all,” Ragnvald called, never taking his eyes off Gerrie. “Anyone who disrespects me will not get a second chance. Anyone found in service of Solveig Tordottir, the Asgardian queens, and the false heirs of the Idavoll throne will meet a similar fate.”
When he smiled, she grinned right back, surprising him. In her last moments here, she would have the pleasure of seeing fear in Ragnvald’s eyes.
He conjured a black flame in his hand, and it slowly transformed into a brilliant red and orange. Without hesitation, the pretender king threw the ball of fire at her feet, igniting the pile with a flash.
Heat rose to meet her, smoke curling its tendrils around her post as flames devoured the supply of wood. Flames licked over her feet first and she urged the fire on, needing it to climb high enough to . . . There it was.
The ropes that wrapped around her body burned and soon the flames would reach her hands. Hands that were bound only by ropes, not chains.
She endured the fire as it ate her skin next, never taking her eyes off Ragnvald. His grin of pleasure at her suffering only made her plan more delicious.
A grin that faded when she didn’t give him the reaction he’d so clearly been aiming for.
The ropes on her wrists sparked, searing her skin as they burned, and soon the threads turned to ash, freeing her. She didn’t have time to heal the scalded flesh, but she glared right at Ragnvald as she brought her hands forward.
He stared, his look of satisfaction turning to confusion and then finally, finally morphing into fear as Gerrie let her true self shine for just a moment.
She knew her eyes turned gold as her vision glowed, seeing the souls of those around her. Ragnvald’s was so black, it was rotten to its very core. His fear entered all her senses, and she raised her hands, taking satisfaction in seeing him flinch back a step.
Gerrie downed the golden contents of the first vial, trying to find Viggo and Noren. They may not be friends, but at the very least, they deserved a non-verbal apology for her trickery.
But only Ragnvald filled her vision. Her body reacted to the potion, humming with energy, and in one moment, Ragnvald’s fear turned to outrage as she blinked out of existence.