Stormbringer (34 page)

Þrúðr is silent, shoulders hunched and eyes fixed on where her hands now wring beneath the table. Uni reaches out as if to offer comfort, then pulls back, unsure. Even Munin isn't smirking any longer. Inasmuch as a bird can smirk.

“You know it's true,” I say.

One long, drawn out moment. Then Þrúðr says, “Father…had a tattoo. Like yours. Like—like Magni's.” She takes a deep and shuddering breath and adds, “Like mine.”

“Yeah.” And the worst part? That tattoo, that blood link? That's what allowed Móði's binding spell to work. It broke when Magni's tattoo did the same. Good for me, bad for him. Irony all round.

Þrúðr is a smart girl. She can see where all this is headed. She asks, “Who knows this?”

I shrug. “Don't know, really. Me. Odin. Honestly, I'm not sure anyone else did. Not even your dad.” Ásgarðr's best-kept secret.

“And now all will know the truth. That…that the children of Thor are”—I can feel herself forcing the word—
“jötnar.”

“Well, not really.” And then all eyes turn to Sigmund. “I mean,” he adds, “you have
jötunn
ancestry, I guess. But you said it yourself, you're
ásynja.
Like, my parents are from all over the shop, but me? I'm an Aussie, mate.” He tries a grin. “It's about more than just your blood.”

Þrúðr nods, eyes downcast. She's had a long few days. One thousand years as a teenager followed by a crash course in adulthood. “Yet blood matters,” she says. “Else Odin would not have sought to hide it.”

Sigmund nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

I feel Þrúðr make her decision, muddied whirl of emotion snapping into one single bright point of clarity. “There will be no war,” she says. “And Mjölnir will return to Ásgarðr.” Before Valdís can protest, Þrúðr turns to her. “Valdís of Þrymheimr, to you I entrust Járngreipr. You and your people have seen the price my brother paid for wielding Mjölnir without the gauntlets' grasp. No others will try the same. The hammer is my father's, and I will have it. But it will no longer be used to shed the blood of
jötnar.
Will this be enough for peace?”

Valdís narrows her eyes. For a while, she says nothing, and Þrúðr, to her credit, doesn't shy from the baleful stare.

It's Valdís who backs down, snorting and looking away. “We shall see. I will take your message to Þrymheimr, tell our warriors to stay their claws.”

Þrúðr nods. “Thank you,” she says. “There has been too much bloodshed. I will not make the mistakes my father made.”

“Nor I,” says Valdís, looking everywhere but me.

I just grin, leaning back into the tiny, uncomfortable stone chair. Sigmund is a cool and solid presence at my side, Loki a proud beat within my chest.

Viva la future.

Not long after, we're riding out from beneath the mountain. Riding Sleipnir is only slightly less uncomfortable than riding a horse but, on the other hand, is significantly more fun than running. Besides, I have Sigmund's waist to wrap my arms around and his neck to nuzzle into, and, all in all, leaving is much more pleasant than our arrival.

Þrúðr rides beside us, on the horse she brought from Ásgarðr. Her brothers don't accompany us on the journey. Uni promised to take care of Magni in recompense for Tóki's betrayal, and Móði stayed to comfort his brother.

Eisa and Valdís, meanwhile, take both their army and Járngreipr—the true Járngreipr—back the Myrkviðr, to try to persuade the
þursar
to stay their collective hands.

Overhead, in the sky, Munin caws mirth into the breeze.

On the ground, we ride, soil churned by a thunder of hoof and claw.

Meanwhile, over the horizon, a bunch of idiots prepare themselves for war.

“How long till their arrival?”

Munin clicked its beak, hopping from foot to foot, exhaustion eating at its bones. Two days it'd been flying, ahead of the kids coming back from Sindri. It was a long trip, and Munin was about ready for a soft nest and a good nap, followed by a fresh corpse and a birdbath full of mead.

Forseti, however, wasn't coughing up any of it.

“A day,” Munin said. “Maybe less.” It hopped backward again as Forseti paced. The kid didn't look well. Sort of gaunt and pale. Haggard and washed out. And Munin would've sworn he was favoring a single eye.

Not to mention he was still holding Gungnir. Munin wondered if the kid even put it down to sleep.

Come to think of it, was Forseti even sleeping? Munin would've suggested a massage and a day off if it would've earned any response other than a glare and potential slap.

“And they have Mjölnir?” Forseti was giving that one-eyed stare again. The one that made Munin shiver. The one that should've died a long, long time ago.

“Yeah, see,” it started. “About the hammer…”

“Tell me!”

“Of course, of course.” Munin hopped back, definitely out of reach. “It's just…I've been flying a long time. Pretty tired, y'know? Hungry. If you could bring up a bit of meat, maybe it'd help with the memo—”

“No!” Forseti's fist slammed down on the table, hard enough to rattle cups and send Munin stumbling backward with a squark. “First you will speak.”

“Boy, enough.”

Forseti's head turned, a sneer curving over his lips. Munin, meanwhile, felt relief. And not all of it because Nanna was approaching, carrying a tray of offal and a bowl of water.

“Mother, get out. We have no time for your coddling.”

Nanna, to her eternal credit, shouldered past her son, placing the tray down in front of Munin.

“Please excuse Forseti's…inhospitality,” she said. “He has had a trying time of late. You have served Ásgarðr well. Some comforts are the least we can provide.”

Keeping Nanna between itself and Forseti, Munin obliged her on her offer, eyeing the stinking pile. Liver, lungs. Kidneys and a heart. All the good stuff.

It bowed, wings spread. “Thank you, ma'am.” Then hopped forward, beak plunging into flesh.

Nanna took a seat, patiently watching, back straight and arms folded. Forseti beside her, looking one sharp jolt from catching fire.

“The hammer,” he growled.

“Right, right.” Munin gulped down a piece of lung, blood smeared over its beak and claws. “It's coming back, don't worry about that. But the other stuff isn't.”

“What?” snapped Forseti, even as Nanna's eyes widened and she said, “Þrúðr?”

“Is fine. She's got the hammer.”

“What of Magni?” From Forseti.

“He's, uh…indisposed. Injured. The
dvergar
are looking after him.” Munin tore off another piece of meat, stomach a riot of growling. “Look, it's a long story. The short version is Þrúðr isn't married, she gave her dad's belt back to the
dvergar,
and the gloves to the
þursar.
”

“What!”

Yeah, Munin had been afraid of that reaction. Even the normally serene Nanna looked perturbed.

“There would've been war, otherwise,” it said.

“There is war now!” Forseti really did love slamming Gungnir down against the floor. The wood made a real solid
thwack
when he did it. Munin remembered that
thwack.
Odin had been a fan of it as well, once upon a time. “Armies on two fronts,” Forseti continued. “Duplicitous, cowardly beasts. Let them come. Ásgarðr will not fall.”

“Forseti!” Nanna half turned to her son, voice and eyebrows high.

“He's right,” Munin said. “Ásgarðr won't fall, at least not to Þrymheimr. Þrúðr gave them the gloves as a peace offering. No gloves, no one uses the hammer. No one uses the hammer, the
þursar
sleep easy in their nests at night.”

Nanna looked grim, but she was nodding. Forseti was livid.

“No! No no no no
no
!” being the gist of his reaction. “I sent that fool girl to buy our future, not barter it away on softhearted sentiment!”

Nanna pursed her lips, disdainful of the outburst. “It would seem she bartered it on peace.”

“She makes us weak before the Realms. Before the
þursar,
no less. She dishonors us and her father both.”

That did earn a scowl. “Boy, perhaps you—”

But Forseti wasn't listening to his mother. Instead, he rounded on Munin. “And Magni? Where was Magni? Why did he not stop this?”

Munin inched across the table, making sure the plate of offal was between it and Forseti. And that a window was in easy reach. Magni's…predicament was a no-go. Everyone had been pretty clear on that. Somewhere, between the threats and bribes, Munin had gotten the message. If Forseti was going to learn Ásgarðr's hottest secret, it would be from the people it affected. Not Munin. So:

“Like I said, he was hurt pretty bad trying to get the hammer back. I don't think he'll be stopping anyone from anything for a while.”

Even from the air, Munin had heard the mournful howling. Gossip was gossip, but there were limits.

Forseti was well past his, knuckles white against Gungnir's wood.

Nanna didn't fail to notice.

“I don't see why you fret so,” she said. “Mjölnir is returned and relations with Þrymheimr have improved.”

“Ásgarðr does not have ‘relations' with the
jötnar
!”

That outburst earned Forseti a dubious look from Munin and Nanna both.

Forseti noticed, his eyebrows colliding like angry lions bickering over a kill. “Do not think I am ignorant of your plans, Mother. Þrúðr's folly is not precedent for you to make the same mistake with Hel.”

“They wish peace, Forseti,” Nanna said. “Peace and freedom.”

“No! They wish to make mockery of everything Ásgarðr stands for, pervert everything we are. I will not allow it.”

Nanna stood, the scrape of her chair loud against the stone. “The decision is not yours,” she said. “You are not king, and if your father were here he—”

“Father is dead!”

Munin wasn't sure what stung the most: the words, or the slap Nanna delivered to her son as soon as he spoke them. Either way: ouch.

Munin hunkered down behind the offal plate, doing its best imitation of invisibility.

Forseti and Nanna, staring each other down, stiff and still but for where Munin could see the breath come as fast and heavy as if they'd just done dash at the Olympics.

It was Nanna who walked away first, silent and furious. Forseti making a disgusted noise once she was out of earshot, before storming off himself. Not in the same direction. Both seemed to have forgotten Munin's presence.

Munin, who looked at the plate in front of it and then to the window. The plate. The window. The plate, the door. Food, gossip.

In the end, gossip won out. With one last gulp of water and carrying a chunk of liver in its beak, Munin hopped up onto the windowsill and left the building.

The Wall was empty, Forseti had ensured it. No one was permitted to scale it, bar Ullr and Rígr. They would keep watch in place of simpering
einherjar
who had proven they could not be trusted.

Meanwhile, beneath the sunset, the writhing mass of Hel's army wailed on. And endless maelstrom of madness, set to the tune of skalds and grinding music. Ásgarðr's men were bred for war, not for this. This attrition of monsters, taunting Forseti's warriors with perverted visions of dead loved ones. With howls that promised peace even as their very presence withered the land around.

This thing could not be borne. Not with Forseti's mother brewing dissent from within. Not with Þrúðr showing weakness from without.

No rain had lashed on Ásgarðr's eaves since Mjölnir had been lost. Now, the hammer was returning and with it, Forseti felt the storm.

Men could not fight corruption with poetry and song, and Ásgarðr was corrupt indeed. Weak. They had forgotten their purpose. War and glory. Honor. Forseti felt it, all of it. Carved in the runes that marred Gungnir's surface, worn smooth by centuries of Odin's steady hand.

Grandfather had not been an honorable man. But he had been a necessary one, his deceptions keeping Ásgarðr strong against its foes. He, Forseti knew, would not stand by idle while monsters snarled before the gates. Nor would he sue for peace.

He would have war instead. Would show the quarrelsome Realms what price was had to disobey the gods.

As the sun lowered, Forseti heard the men below begin to file into their halls. To feast and sleep. To gossip. To whisper cowards' words.

Forseti would have them do a different thing. He would have them remember whence they came. To remind them of the men they had once been.

And so, alone atop the Wall, Forseti raised his arm.

And threw Gungnir across the Line.

We're barely out of the forest when we hear it.

“What is that?” Þrúðr catches it first, sitting up straighter on her horse, eyes squinting into the dawn.

“What's what?” I say. In my arms, Sigmund's head keeps dropping to my chest and jerking back. If I weren't holding on to him, he'd have fallen off miles ago. It's been a long couple of days.

“Shouting,” Þrúðr says. “In the distance. And…a horn?”

I tilt my head, trying to catch the sound.
Jötnar
don't have great hearing but, even still, I think I can just about make out what Þrúðr means.

“It's coming from Ásgarðr,” I say.

Þrúðr doesn't respond, just spurs her exhausted horse onward.

“Shit,” I say. Then, to Sleipnir, “Well. Feel up to a bit of a race?”

Stupid question, I know. An instant later Þrúðr is eating dust, and I have my arms full of a suddenly very awake and very startled Sigmund.

Sleipnir isn't a horse, but he's still the fastest thing in all the Realms. We make it to the Wall in no time.

And just as quickly wish we hadn't.

Chaos. Utter chaos.

“What the hell happened!” Sigmund yells, twisting to try to face me.

Sleipnir is still running, but it's getting difficult now that we've passed the Wall. In through the hole at the back, Sleipnir leaping the crumbling stone with ease.

The shouting gets closer with every step. Male voices, mostly, yelling in a mixture of Old Norse and English. Norwegian and Dutch. Some other things I don't recognize, syllables lost above the clash of swords and what are undeniably the roars of
jötnar.

Ásgarðr isn't a big place, and soon the collection of halls comes into view. Men stand on rooftops with arrows, run between doorways holding axes. On a balcony, a woman hacks at the talons of a
jötunn
that tries to use its sharp claws and stumpy wings to run up a building's wall. Beneath her is a zombie-on-zombie melee, as an endless tide of
nár
on
einheri
action.

Hel's army is attacking Ásgarðr.

“This shouldn't be happening!” Sigmund yells. Before I can respond, I've had to press him flat against Sleipnir's neck, the three of us lurching sideways to avoid a volley of arrows that rain down from above.

“Now they're shooting at us!”

Of course they are. Two
jötnar
running through Ásgarðr in the middle of a battle? What else did Sigmund think would happen?

It occurs to me, as Sleipnir clears a path with a well-placed foot to an
einheri
's face, that Sig is very, very susceptible to arrows. And axes. And swords. And maces, and…

Shit.

“We've got to get you out of here.”

Sleipnir darts through the gap between two buildings, leaping over a log pile just as another
jötunn
rears up with a roar.

Sleipnir returns it in kind, but I've had enough, pulling out my gun and firing it into the air with a “We're on your side you bloody idiot!”

The sound startles the
jötunn,
but it also draws the attention of two
einherjar,
who appear at the far end of the alley.

“Shit!”

I jump off Sleipnir's back. “Get him out of here,” I say. “Somewhere safe!” I'm not talking to Sigmund when I say it.

Sleipnir nods, but Sigmund says, “No! What about Wayne and Em? What about Hel?”

I don't have time to answer, given I'm busy dodging an ax. I duck low, then lash out with a fist into my attacker's stomach. It's not as effective as it could be, given he's wearing chain mail, and meanwhile his friend is headed Sigmund's way.

First guy raises his ax again with a comment along the lines of “Die,
jötunn
scum!” I ignore him, launching myself at his mate in a spear tackle that would get me red-carded, were anyone here to referee.

The second
einheri
goes down hard, grunting as something in his shoulder snaps under my weight. I hear Sigmund swear somewhere up above, and Sleipnir rears, and no sooner have I leaped up off the ground than the other
jötunn
comes leaping in, fangs bared to rip out his downed enemy's throat.

“Oh. Jesus.” Sigmund's trying not to retch.

“He'll be fine tomorrow,” I say. This is true, and it's the curse of Odin's chosen. To die over and over and over again, for all eternity. That's why Helheimr can never win this fight, and Hel would
know
that. So why start it?

One guy still standing. I'm halfway through a turn when I feel something heavy and wooden slam into my side. A shield, I think, but it's hard to tell because I'm too busy being dazed against a wall.

Vaguely, somewhere else, I hear, “Lain! Look out!” And there's a crash of steel, quickly replaced by a growl and a gust of wind. By the time I've pushed myself off the wall, our
jötunn
friend is struggling with the
einheri
on the ground, the haft of an ax between its jaws and a shield between its claws and tender flesh.

I still have my gun. I'm not a very good shot, but it's hard to miss with the muzzle pressed right against a skull.

“That's enough of that,” I say.

The
einheri
's eyes flick my way.

“I know you know what this is,” I say, meaning the gun. “I've seen guys carrying them.” The
dvergar
might be unclear on the ways of the modern world, but soldiers who die in battle bring their weapons with them. Doesn't matter if it's an ax or an assault rifle.

“Kill me,” the
einheri
snarls. “I will rise again. For Ásgarðr!”

The
jötunn
snarls and presses closer, but I motion for it to still. It does so, eyes flicking to me and saliva drooling from its bloodied jaws.

“Listen, you aggro piece of shit,” I tell my new
einheri
friend. “I lived in this crapheap longer than you've been dead, so don't you fucking ‘for Ásgarðr' me. Why did you attack Helheimr?”

“They attacked us! We defend our home.”

I hear the crunch of sneakers approaching, then Sigmund says, “They wouldn't do that. They weren't here for war.”

“Bah! An army of beasts and monsters, led by that soulless, shriveled ha—”

He's cut off by the butt of my gun slamming against his temple. “That's my fucking daughter, shitbrain.”

Through his pain and daze, I feel the exact moment when the guy figures out who I am. Mostly because he goes very, very still.

“Lain,” Sigmund says. “This isn't right.”

“No shit.”

“No, listen. Em and Wayne, they were…they were organizing a peaceful protest. Like, with music and banners and whatever.”

I glance up. “With Hel's people?”

Sigmund nods. “For equality. Y'know. Between the dead.”

And suddenly, I get it. Why Hel would drag her entire kingdom to the gates of Ásgarðr.

“Because she—because Baldr…” I can't finish the sentence.

Sigmund nods anyway. “Yeah. They have people out there, man. Family of the people in here. They wanna be together, y'know? They don't want this.”

“Then they should not attack our homes!” From the
einheri.

And then the
jötunn
lifts its mouth away from the ax haft and says, “You attacked us first! We were peaceful.”

The
einheri
startles to hear the words. “You lie!” I'm pretty sure he's never heard one of the
fíflmegir
talk before.

“Er, no actually,” says Sigmund. “That was true.”

The
jötunn
looks at me. “We all saw! Upon the Wall. A man stood and watched while we sang and ate. Then he threw a spear. And there was war.”

Sigmund says, “One spear?” He sounds incredulous. I wish I could share it. Oh how I do.

Instead, it feels like I've just been kicked in the gut.

One spear to start a war, one spear to prime them. One spear to bring them all and into bloodshed bind them.

“Fuck!”

I'm on my feet, gun vanished and forgotten.

“Fuck fuck
fuck
!”

“What?”

I turn to Sigmund, pointing with one claw. “I know what this is,” I say. “It isn't war. It's a con. Everyone's been fucking
had.
”

“Lain, what—?”

“We have to stop this.” I have to stop it. Fuck. How? “It's the spear,” I say. “It's the fucking spear.”

Sigmund's mind races, running backward down the threads of Wyrd until he arrives at “Gungnir?”

“Forseti took it from me,” I say. “Sig, that thing…It was Odin's. It
starts wars,
that's what it does.” A game. Or Odin's idea of one, anyway. Find two groups of people, throw Gungnir over their heads, then step back and watch the carnage.

And now the dead were pouring into Ásgarðr.

“Fuck! My friends are out there.”

“I know,” I say. “Take Sleipnir. Go find them.”

“We need to tell people what's happened.” Sigmund gives a sharp intake of breath. “I think…There were bands playing. Like, rock bands. There must be some sort of mic set up somewhere.”

“Perfect,” I say, already halfway down the alley. “Grab the girls and meet me there.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find the fucking evidence!” I call.

Then I've dropped to all fours, running as fast as I can out of Ásgarðr. As I go, I hear Sigmund behind me say, “You two! Um. Behave yourselves. No fighting!”

And I'm gone.

Getting through Ásgarðr isn't easy, especially when no one is sure whose side I'm on.

It's mostly the
einherjar
who give me problems, given how I don't look like one of theirs. But the
fíflmegir
know I'm not one of Hel's
jötnar,
either, and maybe some of them are so taken by Gungnir's bloodlust that they just don't really care.

I should never have brought that fucking spear back here. Fuck. What was I
thinking
? Not this, that's for sure. Not that Forseti Baldrsson would turn out to be just as mad as his father—just as mad as Loki, riding in Baldr's skin—and in almost exactly the same way.

That's the Wyrd in a nutshell, though. The same shit, over and over again.

Up ahead, the gates of Ásgarðr loom. The very closed gates of Ásgarðr. I have one moment to wonder how the
náir
are getting in when I hear a roar from overhead, and The Weather Girls' prediction finally comes true.

The
drekar,
right. Couple that with the dead's ability to shrug off long falls,
et voilà.
Instant airdrop, Viking style. Well, Viking zombie style. Whatever.

It rains men, and me, I'm busy darting through the downpour, dodging arrows as I go. I need to get out, past the Wall, except the gates are shut and I don't have time to argue with the group of guys clustered in their defense.

So. Time for a different tactic.

I open my wings. Sure, the pinions are still clipped, but that book Wayne gave me? About the evolution of flight in dinosaurs? Yeah, well. It had this theory. That flight evolved not by stupid lizards jumping down, but by even stupider ones running
up.
Incline running, it's called, and modern birds do it, too.

Modern birds, and foolish, wing-clipped
jötnar.

The Wall's maybe twenty feet and made of stone. Lots of places for claws to go. Especially considering I can get most of the way up by jumping. Dodging the arrows is going to be the awkward bit.

Three. Two. One.

Leap.

Eight feet on the jump, maybe nine. Two strokes of my wings, the airflow feeling weird and wrong. Lacking the lift I'm used to.

Not enough to get me airborne, but enough to keep me moving. To continue past when gravity takes over, working in tandem with claws that drive between stones and into mortar.

I haul myself up the length of my arm, trying not to flinch as an arrow hits just next to my biceps, ricocheting and falling to the ground below.

Another arm length, plus a beat of my wings and the push of my hind legs. One more and I'll be at the top. Fixing the claws of my left hand into the mortar, I reach out with my right.

Then pain.

An arrow, I think. In my left shoulder. The shock of it breaks my grip, and for one awful moment, I hang. Sixteen feet above the ground, more or less, and the fall won't kill me, but the guys with swords at the bottom will certainly try.

One beat of the wings. Two. A muttered word and the feel of wind at my back, pushing me against the stone.

My right hand finds the balustrade. Then one last push with my legs and I'm there. I'm over. Landing on top of the Wall in an awkward skid, injured arm curled against my chest.

I hit a pair of legs. Their owner shouts, which is all the warning I get before I feel a boot drive against my spine. That hurts, and I roll forward and struggle upright, arrow shaft clattering to the ground as my poison blood eats through wood and metal.

Kicking guy raises his rifle. He has buttons pinned to his fatigues and words written on his helmet. A yellow smiley face and peace sign for the former,
BOMB EVERYTHING
on the latter.

“Vietnam was a crock of shit!” I tell him, then kick him in the face.

It was. I remember it. Fucking waste of fucking everything. War always is.

The guy staggers, his gun firing rounds into the air. I don't wait to see the collateral, instead leap over the Wall and out into the fray.

Now, flying
down
? Flying down I can still do.

Outside of Ásgarðr is just as chaotic as the inside. Here it's a mad scramble of bodies, pushing up against the Wall, climbing over one another in huge pyramids to reach the top. People throw rocks and axes, or just smash against the stone itself. I have to bank sideways to avoid something burning. It explodes near the top of the Wall, raining hot shrapnel mostly down onto the side of the idiot who tossed it. I hear the roar of a
jötunn
and the screams of the
náir
as they suddenly find themselves more on fire than they'd ever really wanted.