The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (18 page)

I half expect Gaeira to speak. Odinn is, after
all, supreme lord of her conquered tribe, and besides that, he
radiates authority. But her vow of silence, it seems, yields not even
to a lord.

Freya answers for her. “The man is called
Thamoth, All-Father. He ventured from the Interlopers' city in search
of the woman, Essa, who came before him.”

Odin smiles, adding new creases to his
well-creased face. His gray eyes fix briefly on me before returning
to Freya. “To steal her back?” he asks. “Will a
Valkyr quit your fold to return to quaint life among the Jotnar?”

Freya does not bother to answer a question
obviously posed in jest. To them it may be a laughing matter. To me,
it is not.

“I believe he came in good faith,
All-Father,” Freya says. “He poses no danger and should
be granted the freedom of Asgard for as long as—”

“Yes, yes,” Odinn accedes
impatiently. “Let him enjoy civilization for a while. Yet until
I have decided the fate of his folk, of course, he must not return to
Jotunheim, on pain of death.” For the first time, Odinn's
single eye lingers on me. His craggy, ancient brow, bristling with
white hair, furrows. “Perhaps  he has something to say for
himself. Do you, pup?”

If I did, it is lost now. But I must find some
words. I only hope that the fate of “my folk” does not
rest upon whatever they turn out to be.

“I assure you, All-Father,” I find
myself saying, “that when they learn of the Aesir, my people
will have no interest in warring with you. We desire only peaceful—”

Odinn's laughter peals off the white walls. “I
should hope they have no interest in war, pup! You misunderstand. If
I thought that you Interlopers had any hope of doing us harm, I would
have exterminated you the moment my ravens whispered of your arrival.
Your so-called 
city
 only remains standing on account
of its insignificance. I merely am not yet certain whether there
might be something to gain by bringing some of your number into my
service. This sorceress of yours, for one. To have torn a hole
between worlds, she must be quite powerful. Even if she cannot hope
to match the enchantress at whose side you presently stand.”

Freya bows her head in meek acceptance of the
compliment.

“Still,” the one-eyed All-Father
resumes. “Freya herself came from a tribe which it fell upon me
to vanquish before embracing as kin those who remained. As for you
Interlopers, it but remains to be seen whether I shall go to the
trouble of vanquishing you before accepting your vows of fealty. What
say you, pup? Would this leader of yours, this Ares, submit to my
rule, absent force of arms?”

I rather think not, but I would not be so
foolish as to say so. “I am not empowered to speak for him,”
I say instead.

Odinn scoffs. “I ask for your opinion, no
more. You must have one. Or are you a dullard?”

Perhaps I am. Given how little I know of myself,
it is not outside the realm of possibility. But I am quick 
enough, at least, to produce an answer I hope will suffice.

“Ares is practical,” I say. “If
his choice is between yielding and dooming us all, I have confidence
he will spare us destruction.”

A satisfied “Hmmph,” emerges from
within Odinn's great beard. “We shall see, we shall see. But
what of you, pup? Thamoth, is it? The last of your kind to come
before me suffered a void she sought to fill with the waters of
Mimir. Are you likewise afflicted?”

“Freya has told me of your Well,” I
say too eagerly. “I, too, would drink from it and see a void
filled.”

“She must also have told you that none may
partake without paying a price. It is never a light one. How dearly
are you prepared to pay?”

“When I hear the price, I will know.”

Odin's one eye gazes appraisingly at me down his
large, bent nose. “When I have better kenned you, I will give
it. Perhaps I will demand your service, as I did of your kinswoman.
For now, the freedom of Asgard is yours, under the watch of she who
brought you. By slinking back to Vanaheim, Gaeira escaped
responsibility for the last Interloper she brought us. This time, she
will do her part.”

I throw a glance at the slayer, who reacts not a
bit to Odinn's decree.

“Now, all of you, begone from—”

“Father...” The interjection comes
from the younger, fair-haired figure in the shining armor standing at
Odinn's right. “Would it be so terrible if a guest in Asgard
were actually to feel welcome one day?”

Odinn treats the younger man to a frosty glare
and throaty growl. Ignoring it, the latter addresses me.

“Welcome, Thamoth,” he says. “Since
my father neglected to introduce us, I am Baldr.” He gestures
casually at the somber, dark haired figure on Odinn's other side.
“That is my half-brother Tyr. If the fair Vanir maid will
surrender the privilege, it would be my pleasure to show you the
sights of Asgard.”

Baldr looks expectantly at me. He has put me in
an awkward spot. To give one answer I risk offending Baldr; the
other, Odinn. With a knowing smirk, Freya intercedes on my behalf,
answering my silent plea and earning yet more of my gratitude.

“Prince Baldr,” she says brightly,
“your offer is most gracious. If the All-Father wills it”—she
looks pointedly at Odinn—“it is one I cannot imagine our
guest would decline.”

Odinn snarls, in indifference more than anger,
waggles thick fingers, and turns to stalk off in the direction of
some heavy yellow curtains on one side of the hall which evidently
conceal an exit. His son Tyr departs after him without ever having
parted his thin, bloodless lips to speak, though he does study us all
carefully with narrowed eyes before taking his leave.

Unburdened of her duty as my custodian, Gaeira
is next to depart, retreating the way we came after a look of her own
which suffices to excuse her while conveying nothing of her mood or
thoughts.

Baldr steps forward smiling and lays a hand on
my arm in brotherly fashion. I find myself taking an instant liking
to him. In manner if not appearance, he reminds me of Kairos. Maybe
now that Ayessa has spurned me, I am overly receptive to any slight
reminder of my home.

“Worry not, Thamoth,” Baldr says
congenially. “Heed mine and Freya's counsels during your stay
in Asgard, and all will be well.”

“I am grateful,” I say to Baldr
uncertainly. I want to trust him.

“Heed my counsel foremost,” Freya
says with a trace of a smile, which Baldr reciprocates. “That
is, if you favor wisdom over rash action.”

“I have found that a measure of each
serves well,” Baldr counters. “It keeps life interesting,
at any rate. Will you accompany us on our tour, Lady Freya, or leave
our guest at the mercy of rash counsel?”

“I shall take my leave, Prince Baldr,”
Freya says, “trusting in you not to lead our friend to ruin
quite yet.”

I can see in her eyes and hear in her tone that
the warning is not entirely unserious. Without further word, the
sorceress lays a hand lightly upon my neck, plants an even lighter
kiss on my cheek and exits.

“Come now, friend,” Baldr says when
she is gone. “I will show you all of Asgard that is worth
seeing.”

Baldr guides me on the meandering route out of
the city. I find myself at ease in his presence. As we pass certain
sites, he is reminded of tales from his own past or that of the
Aesir, and he tells them to me. It becomes clear that Baldr likes to
talk. Fortunately, he is good at it, and not unpleasant to listen to.

Before long, we exit the walled city by means of
a smaller gate than the one by which I entered with Gaeira. Just past
the gate is a flat, open structure the air around which is permeated
by a distasteful odor. While Baldr greets and jokes with a man there,
I spy through the structure's open wall a largish animal I have not
before laid eyes on in this life. It is a horse, my hidden memory
tells me, and I realize  at the same time that Baldr intends for
us to ride upon the beasts' backs. I warn him I am no horseman, but
he laughs and tells me not to worry. 

 Before we mount, he offers some brief
instruction which, as it turns out, suffices to keep me firmly
astride the creature and moving in the desired direction, if barely.
For a while, I am more concerned with the challenge of riding than
with seeing the sights of Asgard that are ostensibly the purpose of
our sojourn. But thanks to a patient guide, who slows his pace
considerably for my benefit, eventually  I am able to push my
gaze out past the horse's mane and the ground moving under its
hooves.

By then we have crossed the huge plain on which
sits the city of Asgard and entered a wood of sorts, the trees of
which tower high above us. Their red trunks are branchless except for
far up, where they sprout broad leaves. The forest floor is carpeted
with them, each larger than my head.

As we ride at an ever-steadier pace, Baldr tells
me of the various peoples who inhabit the eight realms  that
comprise his world. In addition to the Aesir, Vanir, and two breeds
of giant of which I am aware, there are the graceful, magic-wielding
Alfar; their forest-dwelling cousins the Svartalfar; the diminutive,
tunnel-dwelling Dvergar, who craft the finest weapons; and a third
type of jotnar, fire giants, the most formidable and thankfully
smallest in number. Each tribe or race dwells in its own realm, which
apart from conquered Vanaheim is ruled independently, though all
recognize Odinn, to greater or lesser degree, as overlord.

Baldr has never heard mention of places called
Hades, Olympus, Ocean, or Atlantis.

“Would that I had tales to share of my
land,” I lament to Baldr. I explain to him of my awakening in
the  borrowed body of a fallen Chrysioi, a people who hail from
another world altogether than the one in which my soul originated.

“You came to Asgard looking for the
Interloper woman who became a Valkyr,” Baldr says. “Has
the reunion yet occurred?”

“Yes...” I answer tentatively.

It is but one word, but Baldr evidently hears in
it much more. “Hmmh. She was not glad to see you, was she.”

“She...” I start, and struggle for
words. “I would as soon not speak of it.”

“Oh, come now,” Baldr urges
sympathetically. “Not to brag, but I have considerable
experience with the softer sex. None of them Atlantiar, mind you, but
in the end, they are all of a kind, are they not? You might find I
can be of help. Do not be bashful. There are none present but us.”

I am not quick to answer, but a moment's
consideration lets me see the wisdom in accepting his offer.  
 I have little use for his experience of women, but he is
Asgardian, and a prince no less. I have everything to gain by
befriending him. If in the process he surrenders useful advice, all
the better.

“A drink from Mimir's Well convinced her
that I did her some wrong in our past life,” I admit. “Might
the Well's visions be untrue?”

Balder smiles wryly. “Untrue? I have never
known it to be so. Troublesome, yes, and frequently not to the
seeker's liking. But then, I imagine she is the first to have drunk
whose flesh and spirit were, how to say it, not of one kind. You will
be the second.”

“Once Odinn sets his price,” I say
forlornly. “And if it is not too steep.”

Baldr gives me a strange, sidelong look. “Is
any price too steep for what you seek?”

I have already given the matter some thought and
pause now to give it more. “None that spring to mind.”

Baldr smiles. Again, I find his look strange. He
looks away and says nothing.

“Tell me of the Valkyriar,” I ask
him.

“A band of women warriors under Freya's
command,” Baldr answers almost dismissively. “The only
force more feared in the eight realms is Odinn's own Einherjar.”
His interest lies elsewhere. “I wonder what it is you did to
wrong her.”

I have no answer to that, and no speculations I
wish to speak aloud. Such heavy thoughts dampen my  mood and
still my tongue as we ride on. I let the distance between my horse
and Baldr's grow, and he makes no move to close it.

It is then that we come upon a sight unlike any
other.

From a distance, at first, I mistake it for a
vast, curved wall stretching up into a low-hanging mist, but as we
draw nearer, passing under an odd, bark-sheathed archway, I recognize
the thing for what it is: an impossibly huge tree. The archway is but
one of its roots, thrusting up from the ground. Yet more exposed
roots turn the ground ahead of us into a wild sea of dark, unmoving
waves, some of which are taller than man or horse. High up in the
hanging mist, twisted branches spring from the great tree's trunk
that are themselves the size of normal trees, each leaf at least as
broad as a man's two outstretched arms.

“The World Tree,” Baldr announces.
“Yggdrasil. Its trunk exists in each of the eight realms, and
its roots extend into the timeless void from which it sprang.”
As I gawk wide-mouthed, he halts his horse and leaps down from its
back. “Come,” he enjoins, “there are sights to be
seen which we may reach only on foot.”

It takes a few moments for Baldr's words to
penetrate my awe. When they do, I slide down awkwardly and must
ignore a numbness in my backside whilst my legs readjust to having
firm ground under them. I walk forward, following Baldr past and
underneath magnificently large exposed roots that grow steadily
greater in size as we near the trunk. It is impossible to tell how
distant is the trunk, for any attempt by the eyes to measure it or
determine its limit in any direction ends in confusion and dizziness.

I have given up trying when a figure springs up
from behind a massive, serpentine root to stand perched atop it. The
sight startles Baldr, but I myself am too awed to be startled. A ray
of the sparse light which filters down through the mist and
man-dwarfing leaves glints on golden hair.