That would have been the end of his journey. The end of Brynhildr, who relied on him to awaken her from a magical sleep. Eventually, the basilisk continued across the room and out the door Sigurd had come through. He waited another few minutes, until the sound of its heavy tail dragging across the floor could no longer be heard, then eased out from his hiding place.
It left a stench behind reminiscent of rotting meat, a foul odor that permeated the entire chamber long after its absence. It took everything Sigurd had not to gag. His heart raced in his chest, and the metallic taste of fear flooded his mouth. The stink watered his eyes and thickened the air.
Back home, such a beast in a sacred mausoleum would have been seen as nothing less than blasphemy.
Gods. Nothing he’d ever heard about the royal crypts implied they kept such a beast. No, it had to be some other wicked thing sent by the Liangese, a way to keep anyone suspicious of Brynhildr’s death from rousing her.
At that moment, the voice of the goddess whispered through his thoughts, accompanied by a cool draft that vanquished the lingering smell.
You will be tested twice more on your journey to Brynhildr.
Freya’s aid had brought him thus far, and and he knew not to expect divine intervention again. Swallowing thickly, Sigurd moved from the chamber and into the corridor again. He retraced his steps down the path, checking each room along the way for signs of Bryn. Each chamber featured another deceased royal from Gunnar’s long line. He found a room dedicated to infants, wall after wall of names and blessings to the gods. In addition to the dozens of walled tombs, were many standing alone. He paused by one and read the top, most recent name.
His heart stopped.
Dag, beloved son of Gunnar and Brynhildr.
Then he counted the number of tombs beneath it in the obsidian spire, reading each name and committing them to his memory. These were Brynhildr’s little children, the unfortunate souls who never took their first breaths of air.
Something about that tightened his throat. He considered the lies, the centuries of hatred against magic-users, and part of him understood why Bryn could have loathed mages so deeply.
“May you rest in peace and love,” he whispered, touching the top of the glossy obelisk. Then he left the chamber. As he did, the fine hairs on his nape rose sharply, and his arms tingled.
Sigurd knew something was coming long before the air whistled with the distinct sound of a projectile piercing the air. He spun to the side and drew his sword in one flawless motion. Shadows cast by the torchlight showed him the basilisk’s position suspended from the ceiling, its bulky body dangling above him.
The beast stabbed with its tail again, deflected by a mighty swing of Sigurd’s sword—of a sword passed down Brynhildr’s family line. Unable to face it, he relied on a combination of intuition, reflexes, and following the monster’s shadows. It lunged for him, and he swung again. His sword bounced off the tough hide with a clang, as if he’d struck a metal plate instead of a living animal.
It dropped to the ground from where it had clung to the ceiling. With the danger on his level, he didn’t dare to keep his eyes open a second longer. As it moved right before him, heat and its foul breath washed over his face. The magical pins-and-needles tingling across his skin told him if he looked, if he dared to open his eyes, that would be the end of him.
It struck again. Fighting with tooth and tail as he moved on the defensive, more determined to ward it off than anything. Each swing only rebounded off a tough scale. He smelled the astringent, sharp notes of venom on its breath, along with the foulness of whatever it had last dined upon. Back and forth they fought, his sword insufficient for slicing through its impenetrable hide.
Then its tail hit him from behind and sent him stumbling as hot blood from one of its many spurs oozed down his back. Seconds passed before indescribable agony followed, like acid bubbled from the wound.
Another point in the creature’s favor. It had sight of both eyes, a tail, and its deadly mouth.
Bryn is counting on you. Your sister is counting on you. Everything is at stake.
Sigurd wasn’t sure if the voice in his head was his own internal voice of reason, or another, but whomever it was, they were right. He fended off the next blow by luck, but the creature toyed with him yet again in a sinister game, poking him from one side, prodding from another. Death by a thousand little wounds. It hissed a sound he imagined was laughter then cut him again. His knee buckled from the agony rippling through his thigh.
Then again, to the stomach, just shy of the depth needed to disembowel him. Fire was in his blood. He both wanted to slay the monster, and to die if only it would put an end to it.
Can’t die. Bryn needs you.
Overcoming the pain, Sigurd ducked to the side and relied on his memory of the corridor until cool air from the right one side told him he’d found the opening to the next tomb. And not far from that, there was a statue of a shield-bearing woman, a former high queen of Ridaeron. Sigurd reached out with his right foot until he felt the base of her statue.
The creature advanced, toying with him as a feline did a mouse. It had the upper hand, and it had to know it. It feinted a few times, hissing and snapping at him, either teasing or testing his defenses. The moment it stopped, Sigurd’s entire body tensed.
It was going to come in for the kill.
He waited, near-deafened by the sound of his own thundering pulse, until the moment the scales slid on the ground. It darted toward him, but he spun aside and, with a mighty thrust, plunged his sword where he anticipated the head to be.
This time, he hit something tender and soft, and he detected tissue yielding around the blade. He thrust with his weight and all of his strength behind the next blow, driving it deeper. The creature jerked, but it was also trapped, part of it impaled by the weapon. It shrieked an awful, ear-piercing wail that he felt down to his bones, and the tongue brushed his wrist. He’d stabbed it in the open mouth.
When he pulled the sword free, warm blood splashed over him and soaked into his shirt. For a moment, he feared its stone gaze too much to verify whether it had perished from his single thrust. Trembling from the adrenaline pounding through his veins, he felt his way down the monstrous body until he felt the spines behind the head, until he located its face and both soft, round eyes.
And then he pried out each one with his bare hands to be safe.
Chapter 8
Not once in all of Bryn’s life did she ever imagine she would walk the halls of Valhalla alongside the goddess Frigga. She followed the Queen of Asgard, still in awe of every new discovery. Yet, anger simmered behind the wonder. Everything she’d grown up to believe—the beliefs of her people—had been a lie perpetuated by the crown.
“Was magic always believed to be evil?” she blurted when she could no longer stand the silence.
Frigga stopped and turned to look at her. “Would you call Freya evil?”
“No!” she whispered, aghast.
The elder goddess’s smile was gentle. “The Ridaeron people have always had an inherent resistance to magic, which some took to mean that magic was…unnatural, but it was not the taboo it has since become.”
“We had mages?”
“You had gifted individuals. Midwives and healers with a soothing touch, sages who influenced the weather to guarantee a good harvest, fearsome warriors who could call up the mountain snows.”