Mythos (21 page)

Fenris relaxed and grinned his wolfy grin. “At the back of this room is a half door that leads to the cable chase. Follow that to the ladder.”

He quickly outlined our route to an out-of-the-way faerie ring, and just as quickly we set out to follow his directions.

 

 

“Damn it, I hate this!” Melchior threw his tea mug down on the marble floor of the York Miniature transept. “It’s so unfair.”

The mug shattered, and hot tea and bits of ceramic sprayed in a wide arc across the stones just inside the cathedral’s front door. He’d come from sitting with Ahllan, and I couldn’t blame him. She’d gotten visibly worse in the time we were tracking down Melchior, seeming to sink into herself.

“Not,” she’d said, “that that’s Loki’s fault, much reason though I have to despise him. No, this is age and obsolescence. I have felt it breathing down my neck for too long to mistake it for anything else.”

Melchior kicked one of the larger bits of mug away. “I should have protected her.”

“From what?” I asked quietly. “From Loki? Considering his place in the local pantheon, you have to admit he fights a bit above your weight class. Besides, don’t you believe Ahllan when she says the problem is age? Do you think you can protect her from that?”

“I should have protected her from Shara,” he said.

“What! You just lost me there, buddy.”

“Well, the Shara clone, really,” said Melchior. “If it hadn’t sent her here, she’d never have even met Loki. And there’s the chaos issue, too.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You remember that Ahllan said we could digest the local version of chaos, but that it might not be the healthiest of diets?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I think it’s worse than that. When I was unconscious and my system needed power, it automatically shifted to a chaos tap. When I woke up, it was the first thing I shut down. The stuff is really harsh and corrosive—I suspect that’s a big part of why she’s aged so much since she came here. Just existing in this pantheoverse is killing her. Damn the clone.”

I decided not to point out that old age didn’t care where you lived—not only would it have been beside the point, but coming from a near-ageless demi-immortal like me, it would have been a bit of a kick in the teeth.

Instead, I said, “Shara’s clone didn’t mean her harm. Quite the contrary, she was trying to protect Ahllan from the Fates.”

“Intentions don’t matter,” said Melchior. “Results do. An awful lot of evil has been done by people who thought they were doing good. Probably a lot more than by people who thought they were doing evil.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. He was right, of course, but I didn’t think it was that simple. Intentions might not mean as much as results, but they did mean something. And there had to be some room in there for methods. I was saved from having to make a response by the advent of Tisiphone.

“This is all my fault,” she growled. “That poor old troll. I should have heard Loki and stopped him.”

“What is this?” I asked, glancing from her to Melchior and back again. “National Assume Undeserved Guilt Day?”

Tisiphone laughed, a harsh, bitter sound—self-mocking. “I suppose you’re right. I just hate not being able to do anything. I wasn’t made to sit idly by; I was made to hunt down problems and kill them.” She leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I’m going to go outside and break things.”

A pang of guilt struck me as she started to walk away—apparently it was catching.

“Uhm, since you’re in a bad mood anyway . . .”

She stopped and turned back to give me a hard look. “Spit it out.”

I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out the silver hairs Melchior had found earlier, the ones that seemed to be spun from ice.

“What’s that?” asked Tisiphone.

“Hair.” I offered them to her. “Melchior found it near the big bloodstain outside.”

Tisiphone took it. Brought it to her nose. Sniffed. Exploded.

I staggered back as a wave of killing heat rolled over me. Tisiphone’s wings and hair merged into one great tower of flame that threatened to reach the ceiling of the cathedral some forty feet above our heads. The fires that burned at the tips of her breasts and the juncture of her legs flared, too—something I had never seen—giving her the appearance almost of wearing a bikini of fire. It was somehow simultaneously ludicrous and terrifying.

“How dare she!” screamed Tisiphone. “How dare she!”

Turning away from us, Tisiphone flapped her wings. The tips of them just brushed the thick wooden doors of the cathedral. As the wood of the doors flash-burned, the difference in temperature between the inner and outer surfaces became too great, and they burst asunder. Tisiphone stalked out through the smoking ruins, whistling the trigger that grew her back to full size as she hit the steps.

“I think she took that very well,” said Melchior. “What do you suppose she knows now that we don’t?”

“I guess we’ll have to ask her,” I replied.

“I’d really rather not,” said Melchior, as the sounds of something large and durable being torn apart drifted in through the door.

“I certainly wasn’t thinking about doing it
now
, but I do think we need to find out.”

A horrendous shriek, as of shredding metal, sounded from outside, followed by several “blams.”

“The caretaker’s car?” I asked.

Melchior nodded. “Probably. Roof and tires, I think. Yeah, maybe now would be a bad time.”

A creaking sound was followed by an enormous crash, then . . . silence. Absolute and total silence. Seconds ticked past with no fresh noise.

“I don’t like that,” I said, “not one little bit.”

“Me either,” agreed Melchior. “Do you want to go and look?”

“Nope. You?”

He shook his head. “But I think we’d better . . . in a few minutes.”

I started toward the door, then stopped as a shadow fell across the front of the miniature cathedral. A moment later a large face peered in through the door. A raven’s face.

“Why, hello in there,” said a raspy voice. “Mr. Munin, come see what I’ve found.”

“What is it, Mr. Hugin?” A second face appeared. “Ahh. I spy with my little eye something beginning with J.”

“Is it a jailbreaker by any chance, Mr. Munin?”

“It is indeed, Mr. Hugin. However did you guess?”

They gave me a bigger cell this time, though one with a much smaller window. For some reason neither that nor the fact that I had plenty of company raised my spirits all that much. Some of that had to do with the current state of said company. Melchior spent most of his time pacing and loudly worrying about Ahllan, who had been left behind. And Tisiphone remained unconscious from whatever the ravens had done to her. On the plus side, the enforced rest seemed to be finishing the job of healing the wounds she’d taken in her encounter with Hati—even here, she healed insanely fast.

I brushed her cheek again, but she didn’t move. I leaped to my feet and stalked over to the door. We had to get out of here. I smashed both hands into the wood, just about falling on my face as the door opened just ahead of my blow. As I staggered out into the hall I heard Melchior cry out behind me. The slamming of the door cut him off, leaving me alone with the ravens.

“We want a word with you,” said Hugin. “If you are so inclined, that is.”

“Not that we wouldn’t really appreciate it if you’d resist,” said Munin.

“It would make things ever so much more entertaining,” agreed Hugin.

“What do you say?” asked Munin.

I shrugged. “Lead the way.”

“Pity,” said Hugin.

“Later,” said Munin.

Both ravens cackled then as they slipped into place, one behind me, the other in front.

They led me to a small room just down the hall—the cell I’d been in earlier, actually. My sword cane, Occam, lay on the table, naked and pointing toward the door. Its heavy wooden sheath sat beside it, along with my .45.

Hugin stepped around to the far side of the table and changed shape, becoming a slender man, dark-eyed and pale-skinned, all in black mail. He had raven’s feathers on his head rather than hair, and fine down was visible on his wrist as he stretched out his hand to take up the sword.

“Nice blade.” Hugin made a couple of quick cuts, and ended with Occam pointing at my left eye. His expression was calm and mild, almost pleasant, as was his tone.

“Sit,” said Munin from behind me.

Hugin gestured to a hard wooden stool with the sword, returning the point to its aim at my eye afterward. I sat, glancing over my shoulder as I did so to find Munin similarly transformed and similarly mild-looking.

“Odin really should have killed you,” said Munin.

“I’ve already had this conversation,” I replied. “If Odin wanted me dead, he’d have done me in on the spot. We all know that. Can we move on to the real point? Whatever it is you want from me?”

Without changing his expression or moving anything but his sword arm, Hugin dropped the tip of Occam and neatly thrust it into my chest. His movement was simultaneously so calm and so quick that I barely had time to brace myself emotionally. The tip, sharper than any needle and harder than diamond, punched right through my jacket and its Kevlar lining to find the flesh beneath.

I felt the edges grate on bone as the blade slid between two of my ribs. The pain was breathtaking, and I’d have jerked away if Munin hadn’t prevented me. Biting my tongue to suppress a scream, I glanced down at the place where the sword entered my chest. It was directly in line with my heart.

“We are in no mood for a smart mouth and wanton defiance,” said Munin, still sounding incredibly casual. “We’re not, in fact, in the mood for anything besides complete cooperation.”

Hugin nodded and jiggled the sword ever so slightly—the pain sent a red flash across my vision. “The tip of this blade is approximately a half inch from your heart. It did not need to stop there. It
does
not need to stop there. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth, “I do.” In fact, I understood something more, something they manifestly did not.

“Good,” said Munin. “If you can keep that in the forefront of your mind while we continue our discussion, you may survive the hour.”

“Or,” said Hugin, “then again, you may not. You see, we think Odin has made a mistake in regard to you.”

“A grave mistake,” agreed Munin, leaning down to whisper in my ear from behind. “He thinks that because he can’t see you through his blind eye, his future eye, that he must take great care in how he handles you.”

“Care works for me,” I said. “Care might work better for you, too.”
Care in choice of weapons, for example,
I added mentally as I began to gather my power.

Hugin continued Munin’s thought as though I hadn’t spoken. “Odin believes that no matter how he chooses to deal with you, it could affect all that has been foretold. That anything he does to you might make Ragnarok come sooner.”

“Or worse,” said Munin, “make its effects more severe. Perhaps prevent the rebirth that is supposed to follow.”

“Disinherit his son Vidar and the other gods who are to come after,” said Hugin.

“But we don’t see it that way,” said Munin, switching to my other ear. “We don’t see it that way at all.”

“The way we see it is very different,” said Hugin, pressing the sword a fraction of an inch deeper into my chest. “We think the reason you don’t appear in Odin’s future eye is that you don’t
have
a future.”

“And you were thinking you might hurry things along.” I forced myself to speak as though I were unhurt and unconcerned while simultaneously reaching for the Raven.

The chaos rose inside me. My moment had almost arrived.

“How very perceptive of you,” said Munin.

“Surprisingly so,” agreed Hugin, tensing his arm to thrust the blade home.

I closed my eyes and tapped the inner chaos. I wasn’t sure exactly how this was going to go—huge mistake, glorious triumph, or the Raven’s usual half dozen from each column. Assuming, of course, that the thrust didn’t simply kill me.

Behind me the slightly open door was wrenched wide and a deep, angry voice said, “What do you think you’re doing?” I opened my eyes again as a big, dark-haired god stormed up to Hugin. “This man is Odin’s prisoner and must be treated honorably.”

“If you insist it, Tyr,” said Munin, from behind me.

“I do.” For the first time I noticed that the newcomer was missing his right hand.

“Very well,” said Hugin, flashing me a look that clearly said this wasn’t over.

Ever so slowly and deliberately he started to pull the sword free of my chest. I braced myself for its final withdrawal. As the blade slid free, a number of things happened all at once. First and most welcome was the coming of the shadow of the Raven, though I doubt any of the others saw it. The huge flare of chaos that blasted forth from the deep wound in my chest and sprayed full in the faces of Hugin and Tyr was probably quite distracting.