Stormbringer (29 page)

“He did
what
?”

From across the table, Þrúðr's eyes were cold, hard chips of stone.

Sigmund, meanwhile, was getting sore fingers from rubbing at his own.

“This mess is Loki's. It was he who wove this wicked plot.”

Meaning Loki—meaning
Lain
—had been the one who'd suggested trading Þrúðr to the
dvergar.
For a belt and some fucking gloves.

“I'm going to kill him.” Immortal god or not, Sigmund was going to do it. Again. A spear through the other heart, this time.

“He is a beast.”

Þrúðr was not sympathetic to Sigmund's plight. Not that he could blame her.

The five of them were assembled around a table. Þrúðr and Uni on one side, Sigmund, Valdís, and Eisa on the other. Everyone else was somewhere outside, under orders of cease-fire.

“He's not…not
that
bad, really.” It wasn't a lie, exactly, but Sigmund could see how Þrúðr may have had a different perspective.

What she knew—what she'd shared—was this:

Several days ago, Rígr had sighted a strange beast approaching Ásgarðr from the ruined Bifröst. On closer examination, said beast had turned out to be a
jötunn.
And not just any
jötunn,
but Loki, betrayer of the gods and harbinger of Rangarøkkr. Harbinger, and suspiciously not a victim of, prophecy or no prophecy.

He'd been carrying a spear Rígr had identified as Gungnir, last seen in the possession of Ásgarðr's missing ruler, Baldr. Somehow—Þrúðr had been a little unclear on the details—Loki had been captured and, rather than be executed for unspecified-but-not-exactly-trumped-up crimes against Ásgarðr, he'd agreed to lead Thor's sons, Magni and Móði, to the location of their father's missing hammer, Mjölnir. Except, in order to wield it, they'd need to bump up their iLvl with some rad epix.

Hence the trade; Þrúðr for the drops. By her story, she'd known the trick “Loki” was trying to pull, and had told her brothers to play along. Which they'd done beautifully, hence she was here and they weren't. And neither was Loki. Lain. Whoever.

“Jesus.” Sigmund pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, scrubbing his eyes until the inside of his eyelids exploded into a mad swirl of black and red pixels. “We have to stop them.”

“No.” Sigmund couldn't see Þrúðr through his eyelids, but he didn't have to. Her voice was enough. “Mjölnir is Father's legacy. It will return to us.”

Sigmund opened his eyes. Þrúðr looked just as stony as he'd been expecting. Stonier than her “husband,” even, and he was at least partially made of literal rock.

“Don't you get it?” he said. “Why do you think the
jötnar
sent an army out this way? It wasn't for Lain; they don't even like him all that much. We came to stop you guys getting your hands on Mjölnir. Because if we don't succeed? There's going to be war. With Ásgarðr. The
jötnar
would rather burn that place to the ground than see Mjölnir brought back.”

Þrúðr stared, silent and haughty. She was really just a kid, Sigmund thought. Barely older than Eisa.

Eventually, she said, “Ridiculous. If those beasts want pretense for war then—”

Valdís growled. Actually growled, standing and leaning forward over the table, teeth bared. “Watch your tongue,
ásynja
!”

“Um, maybe this isn't—”

But Valdís wasn't listening. “You call us beasts, yet we live where we live and do you no harm.”

“Hah!” It wasn't so much a laugh as a piece of punctuation. “Son of a liar, your people have made trouble enough.”

“Ásgarðr makes war upon us, always.” Valdís's feathers bristled, her claws scratching white grooves into stone. “Your father”—she spat the word—“worst among them. Thor the Thunderer, with eyes like dead black coal and beard soaked in our children's blood.”

“Enough!” The scrape of Þrúðr's chair was very loud as she stood. Tiny compared to Valdís's hulking shape, but not less ferocious for it. “My father was a good man!”

“Your father was a monster! Murderer and oath breaker who slaughtered our people by the hundreds.”

“And
your
father helped him!”

Valdís roared, fists slamming down hard enough on the table to crack it, just a little. Sigmund, meanwhile, was frantically trying to communicate peace to the equally startled Uni.

“Þrúðr,” Uni said. “I think—”

Þrúðr turned to him. “What? You think what? That we should treaty with these monsters? Who raid your homes and terrify your children? Striking when you are weak, cowards that they are.”

Another roar from Valdís, and Sigmund winced, putting a hand on her arm. Beneath the feathers, he could feel muscles clenched as hard as steel, and when Valdís turned to glare his way, her eyes
burned.
Like, literally glowing, just a little.

Sigmund made an expression that tried to convey
I know they're being assholes, but you can eat them later.
Valdís must've gotten the message—at least something of the message—because she slumped back on her haunches a moment later. Still looming over the
dvergr
-sized table, feathers bristling.

Þrúðr and Uni were also busy hissing at each other in hushed whispers, Uni's skin a riot of oscillating color. Sigmund let them have them a moment before saying, “Look. This is getting us nowhere. Myrkviðr will launch an assault on Ásgarðr if they think the alternative is letting the hammer come home. I'm pretty sure no one in this room wants that. In order to stop things going to shit, we need to find Lain and Þrúðr's brothers.”

“And mine, also.” Uni sounded strained, like the confession was being mined from him by pickaxes.

“Uni!” Þrúðr hissed, elbowing Uni in the side, still fuming at Valdís across the table.

“No, Þrúðr. They…they should know. It is part of things.” He turned to Sigmund. “Your warriors have our village. We have children here, the old and those tasked with the care of both. Our own warriors deserted us, I assume you have seen this?” Sigmund nodded, and Uni continued, “They left just after Þrúðr's brothers, not on the same transport. My brother was among them and yet I do not know wherefore they went. Tóki's father tells me that, just before he left, Tóki spent all night working the forges. We do not know what he made, but we do know he was visited by your husband. A servant reported hearing a noise as they spoke. Like a crack of thunder, but from inside. I do not know what made it.”

Sigmund scowled. “A ‘crack of thunder'?” From Lain? Lain did fire, not lightning. And fire didn't tend to boom.

“Yes,” Uni said. “Neither my brother nor your husband appeared harmed. Nor was there any indication of violence in the room where they had met. Nothing out of place.” Uni paused. Þrúðr's fists were balled right enough to send her knuckles white. Sigmund could feel the punch line.

And what Uni said was:

“Nothing was out of place in the room, but for a single shield, removed from the wall and left upon the table. A single hole had been drilled through the center.”

A sound like thunder, a single hole. Sigmund got a sinking feeling.

“Tell me,” he said. “On the wall, where the shield should've been. There was a hole there, too. Right?”

Uni nodded, crystalline brows folded into concern. “Yes. Through
dvergr
steel and stone. Solid.”

Lain had slighted the craftsmanship of an entire species. Awesome.

“And in the hole, there was a bit of metal?”—a nod from Uni—“and you're thinking,
What sort of magic can put such a tiny thing through such solid stuff?
” Sigmund sighed, closing his eyes and feeding through his memory. “So, okay. One more question: If I say the words
sulphur, charcoal,
and
saltpetre
to you, what comes to mind?”

Uni scowled. “I do not understand,” he said. “We have these things, but…” He trailed off.

Sigmund opened his eyes, trying to ignore the stormy churn in his gut. “I think I know what Loki's doing”—it had to be Loki, if only for the fact Lain couldn't put a bullet through the broad side of the LB building, let alone dead center of a shield—“and, people, we are all so, so fucked.”

Lain was fucking insane. Sigmund couldn't think of any other explanation. Delirious with fear and pain, stuffed back into the Lokibox he'd spent so long trying to claw out of. The box Sigyn had
died
to keep him out of, rewriting a new story for them both that didn't involve…this. Her husband getting dragged around in chains, beaten into making one shitty decision after another.

It was, Sigmund knew, easy to fall back into old habits. And Lain had. Hard.

Meanwhile, Sigmund was furious. At Lain, mostly. Fucking arms dealing. Fuck. Mjölnir to Ásgarðr and fucking gunpowder to the
dvergr.
The Tree was on the brink of war, and Lain was dragging it there, kicking and screaming and crying persecution all the way.

He'd be crying more than that when Sigmund was done with him.

(“will you rage next at fire for being hot?”)

(fire is hot, that doesn't mean we don't put it out when it's fucking burning everybody)

Lain and Thor's kids had left by boat. So had Uni's brother, and so, not very long after, was Sigmund. Plus Sleipnir and Valdís and Eisa, plus their
þursar
army, plus Uni and Þrúðr. The latter had declared her intent to come with a raised chin and sharp defiance, as if expecting to be denied. Valdís growled a little, but that'd been the only objection.

Then they were off, Brokkr eyeing them from the shore. He hadn't wanted Uni to go, and the two
dvergar
had stood on the shore flashing lights at each other long enough for Sigmund to realize they'd been having a conversation. In the end, Uni had stepped onto the boat, but he'd also given Sigmund a very, very dirty look. Sigmund tried not to shift or feel queasy, failing quite miserably on both accounts, especially as the boat pushed off from the pier.

Apparently, even underground lakes made Sigmund seasick.

He sat down on the deck, closed his eyes, and tried not to throw up.

The sea was big, and dark, and vast. And beautiful, too, in its own creepy, bioluminescent way. Sigmund forced his way through the nausea to take photographs for Em and Wayne. Maybe they could set part of their new game here? Or at least in some place that looked similar, an endless flowing black broken only by the reflections of glimmering stars and the occasional fin or eye from something vast and awful, hidden down below.

Actually, if Em wanted to do something in space, that could totally work.

They got to the shore sometime between Sigmund's photography spree and the point whereby his nausea was truly making itself known. One minute they were on the water, the next the bottom of the boat was scraping against solid ground. They jumped out into the shallows, wading up onto a dark beach made of stone and shale. Then past that and up a tunnel, long and low and, yeah. Lain wasn't exactly a fan of dark, underground places. Sigmund's heart ached, but that was nothing new. He was still pissed off, but he loved Lain. Thinking about him being scared, and hurt, and alone was…not fun.

Neither was trudging their way through some dark and slippery cave. Sleipnir had it worst; he was not designed for this sort of thing, particularly in the places where he ended up taller than the ceiling. Sigmund and Valdís and Eisa helped him, guiding him through small gaps and catching him when he stumbled, air snorting out between his teeth in what would've been a startled cry, if he'd had a voice.

When the cave widened, Sigmund wasn't the only one who sagged with relief.

Nor was he the only one who was glad to see an electric light; if Sleipnir could've offered a brofist, Sigmund was sure he would've done so. As it was, they shared knowing glances, and for the first time in a while—maybe since he'd first seen Hel—something in Sigmund's step felt lighter.

He'd flown with a dragon, walked with the dead, bathed with the gods, galloped through an enchanted forest, been held prisoner by giants, and gone sailing with the dwarves. Even so, nothing,
nothing
felt as good as stepping out of a fucking cave and seeing gum trees.

Gum trees and a kangaroo, watching them from beneath a sky brighter and bluer and somehow
wider
than any other Sigmund had ever seen.

Australia.

He was home.

Sure, he was trailing nearly two dozen giants, a goddess, and a dwarf, but he was—

—reaching into his belt pouch, grabbing his fast-vibrating phone.

A million messages. Mostly Facebook updates, but Sigmund nearly cried to see them. His phone! Truly civilization was here at last!

A million messages, and one voicemail, number unknown. He dialed to check it, mindlessly following along behind the rest of the group, listening to the synthetic voice say, “You have. One. New. Voice message” in its on-off staccato drone.

Then a beep. And Sigmund's message played.

It took people a while to realize he wasn't following. Sigmund only noticed when Eisa shook him on the shoulder, calling his name.

He startled, enough to drop his phone onto the grass, and he lunged after it, too-sweaty fingers leaving smears across the screen.

(oh Jesus no oh Christ oh Jesus oh)

It hadn't been Lain's voice, at least not one Sigmund recognized. Not Lain's voice, not Lain's number.

But Sigmund had recognized the breathless way it managed to call out between its agony.

“Sigga!”

“—t's wrong?”

Sigmund looked up. Into Eisa's wide green eyes. Eisa and Valdís and Sleipnir, all gathered around, worried for the wrong parent.