The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (24 page)

I still do not know Gaeira's purpose. To behold
an enemy, I suppose, and nurse the hatred that ever simmers under the
heavy iron lid of her discipline. The fire of it shows nowhere on her
cool exterior except in blue eyes which burn with an icy fire of
their own, and in her knuckles, which are frost-white on the reins.

When the procession completes its crossing,
reaching the guard tower on the shore of Asgard, frozen Gaeira
finally shifts, turning her horse. She looks drained. Both of her
vows, I think, those of revenge and of silence, take a heavy toll on
her. She kicks her mount to a gallop and sets off on a return course 
which will not cause us to cross paths with the odd, ominous
procession on its way to Odinn's city. I follow her. We return our
mounts to the stables, climb the ladder lowered for us by the
sentries, and reenter the city. Gaeira leads me back to Freya's
cottage where she opens the door and stands waiting for me to enter.
I gather that she intends to leave me here.

Stubbornly, I remain outside. "I'll stay
with you."

She flicks a glance inside. Request denied. I
know better than to bother asking where she will go. Odinn mused,
perhaps idly, that he might send me with her to Vanaheim, but for all
I know, she will return there now, leaving me behind.

With resignation, I step over the threshold and
turn to say something—a final thank you, perhaps—but
before I can, the door is firmly shut. I stand there briefly, feeling
regret that I have let her go. A second later I open the door again
with the vague, stupid idea of following her, still barefoot, whether
she permits it or not. But she is gone, one with the shadows of the
empty street.

I find solitude unpleasant. Since I drank from
Mimir's Well, my thoughts do not make good company. Around others, I
can be Thamoth the Neolympian, but the second I am alone I become
Prince Thamoth of Atlantis. At best, he is a failure as prince and
husband. At worst, he is a monster capable of unspeakable acts. I
cannot imagine doing such things as Sigrid told me I did to Ayessa in
our other life. But in the quiet darkness, my imagination floods with
visions of those very crimes. At first I reject them utterly, for
they cannot be me... yet the more I see them, the more I doubt.

I cannot know with any certainty who or what I
was, or what I was capable of. My only source of hope lies in knowing
that what Sigrid told me comes second-hand. Third-hand, rather,
considering that Ayessa's knowledge, like mine, comes from some pool
watched over by a withered old skull. If in fact it did show her one
version of events and me another entirely, then its accuracy is in
doubt, to say the least.

Perhaps this Well is full of shit.

I am loath to tell Odinn that his vision of the
future, the one which makes him certain of the Aesir's safety, could
be flawed. But they should be warned. Perhaps I could approach Freya
alone.

But then, the fate of the Aesir is not my
concern. Except...

Except that, if I am honest, it does concern me,
insofar as it encompasses the fate of one Vanir.

I could express my doubts about the Well to
Gaeira-but what exactly could she do about it? Most probably she
would just drag me back in front of Freya or Odinn, forcing me to
tell them myself.

I suppose there is one other in Odinn's service
to whom I might turn. But why should Ayessa believe anything I say?

My thoughts will not stray far from her. No
matter how hard I struggle to keep my mind on matters of concern to
the Aesir, I sink back into the sea of my newly awakened memories. If
that is what they really are, and not just illusions conjured up by
the Well. Maybe there is no truth in them at all, or just a kernel.
But they feel real to me. I built 
Wellspring 
with my
own hands, though not the hands at which I presently stare while
sitting on a couch in Freya's cottage. I sailed that ship beyond the
horizon, returned to Atlantis, and used the same hands to slay
Ozymondras the usurper in the moments before a great deluge swept me
into the abyss of death.

But I did not use those hands, I hope, to
violate and abuse and terrorize my bride, my Wellspring. I did not
use them to cast her into the deep ocean, to drown or be torn to
pieces.

I am not that man.

Please do not let me be him.

***

After hours spent alone, tormenting myself,
three Aesir warriors come to the door of Freya's cottage. They are a
welcome presence-as any presence would be to me now.

"You are Thamoth?" they ask, without
awaiting answer. "Come with us."

"For what purpose?" I ask. But I am
already binding my sandals, for I have no intention of refusing.

"Odinn commands," they tell me.

My mind has spent many hours turned inward. Now,
as I follow the Aesir outside, I am glad to set it toward conjecture
on the reason for my summons. The escorts did not object to my
belting on my sword, which I find encouraging. I am not a prisoner,
then, at least no more so than I have been since my arrival.

Wordlessly, they walk me through the empty
streets along a route I soon realize is taking us to the main gates
of the city. The gates stand open and are teeming both on the ground
and atop the walls with Aesir fighters, who appear to be... waiting.
Almost to a man, their eyes are turned outward, over the plain on
which the city sits.

"Wait here," my escort tells me in a
spot that fails to give me a view of whatever lies outside the open
gate. I consider trying to maneuver for a better view but deem it
better to do as told.

Within a few minutes, another trio of Aesir
emerges from a heavily shadowed street not far away. They escort
another figure, and the instant I see firelight reflect off of a
silver swooping eagle, I know not only what she is, a Valkyr, but
which of them.

It is Ayessa, and her escorts march her straight
toward me. My mind races. Do I speak to her or honor her wish to be
left alone?

I know the answer to that already. I cannot
remain silent.

Delivering her to my position, the Aesir
commence paying us no heed. Nor does Ayessa pay me any. She gives me
her back, which pains me. I want to grab her shoulder and make her
face me, but I resist the urge. It might be easier to speak to her
thus anyway.

Still, I must force the words out when I find
them. "I'm glad you have found a place here," I say, rather
less than sincerely. "I envy you. I cannot force you to talk to
me, but there are words which should be spoken between us. I must
know if the Well truly showed you what Sigrid told me it did, for I
saw something different. The powers of this Well may not be as
infallible as the Aesir think."

Ayessa whirls to face me. I expect to see anger
on her face, but it is surprise. "Sigrid? She spoke to you?"

Her confusion puzzles me. Did I not tell her
that already, just hours ago, in the alley?

"Aye," I say-dejectedly, for I can
hear, or imagine, in the way she speaks Sigrid's name confirmation
that the two really are lovers.

"You drank from the Well?" Ayessa asks
next. Her tone is more deliberate.

"Yes, but you know that. Just as you know
that I spoke with Sigrid. I told you both things this very night."

Ayessa's face further betrays what her questions
have already told me. Although it makes no sense, she truly does not
recall our previous encounter.

She says unconvincingly, after some thought,
"Yes... of course."

"You said you would kill me if I spoke to
you again. I see you have reconsidered." I feel fairly certain
Ayessa will likewise fail to recall this detail of our earlier
encounter. And given her pretense of seconds  ago, I feel just
as certain that she knows the reason.

She takes her time in replying-and then is
spared the necessity by our Aesir escorts.

"Come," they order us.

Ayessa is quicker than I to follow. While we
walk toward the open gates, I wonder what could have made her forget
our earlier encounter. She was dressed differently then than now, I
recall, in her hunting clothes instead of Valkyr armor, and wore her
hair unbraided, as it was in Hades. I am pondering the discrepancies
when I get my first glimpse through the open gates and forget them
for now.

On the plain of Asgard sits Thrym. Even seated,
at half his full height, the frost giant towers over the congregation
around him, which includes the golden guard and many others who must
be Aesir. A small number of figures stand atop a wooden scaffold,
putting them on a level with Thrym's face. Even from a distance, I
can identify white-bearded Odinn as one of those on the scaffold.
Another, black cloaked and masked in gold, is the one I have decided
is Hel.

Ayessa and I are led toward this gathering.
Since we are the sole representatives of our kind present in 
Asgard, it stands to reason that it is in this capacity that we have
been summoned. Why, I can only guess. The escort brings us as far as
the base of the staircase leading up the scaffold, our arrival at
which takes me somewhat by surprise. I am barely watching my step,
for I cannot keep my eye off the giant, who I realize, in lifting my
gaze to his face, stares back at me.

I put my eyes front and ascend the creaking
stairs behind Ayessa. Reaching the top, I realize that not just the
giant has been staring at us; all eyes are on us, including those of
Odinn and masked Hel, whose vivid green irises show in the eyeholes
of her intricate and lifeless golden mask. Likewise staring are Baldr
and Freya, familiar faces that offer scant solace at present, along
with grim, one-handed Tyr, and Hel's chariot driver, who stands
closer by his mistress than one would expect.

Lastly, if far from inconspicuously, there
stands on the scaffold a huge man whose build reminds me of the
Atlantean behemoth with whom I was reborn in the cave. He has long
hair and a thick beard of fiery orange. A mantle of brown fur hangs
from his broad shoulders, and at his waist is fastened a warhammer of
such size as doubtless to require a wielder with arms as thick as his
own. One look at his face makes it clear that he is yet another son
of Odinn, for moreso than the two I have met, he is the very image of
his father, looking as Odinn might have before his face grew lined
and his hair white.

This unknown son is the first to turn his gaze
from me and Ayessa, locking it instead on Thrym. A faint sneer makes
apparent his dislike for the giant.

Beside me, Ayessa sinks to one knee, bows her
head, crosses right arm over breast and intones reverently,
"All-Father."

The next voice raised is that of a woman, and
its hissing, mocking quality puts me on edge, reminding of Medea.

"So these are the folk who brought this
bane upon us!" says golden-masked Hel. The mask leaves exposed
her lower face, where the skin is smooth as ice and nearly as pale.
Upon it, thin dark lips twist in disgust. "Why were they not
destroyed, Odinn?" I note that I have heard no other but her
address Odinn by name; all call him All-Father, or Father. Hel even
dares impart the name with a venomous edge.

"Calm yourself," Odinn says. "You'll
not lose your precious halls, child." Whether or not she is
literally his child, he would appear to hold some measure of
tolerance for her naked impudence.

Feeling bolder perhaps for having already faced
Odinn's punishment once, I elect to show some impudence of my own.

"Why have we been summoned?" I insist.
Already I have declined to kneel.

Ayessa rises, and I sense rather than see a
flash of anger from her directed at me on Odinn's behalf.

Odinn himself hardly seems perturbed. Raising a
weathered hand, he points off the scaffold's edge in the direction of
Thrym. In order to follow the gesture, I must step closer to the
edge, and so I do. Ayessa follows me. At first, the seated Thrym's
great blue body fills my sight, but as I aim my gaze further
downward, past his stomach and belted loincloth, I see near his
massive, folded leg, in the midst of the assembled golden guardsmen
and Aesir, the burden which I earlier this night witnessed being
borne over Bifrost. Its covering cloth has been removed, and it sits
there, dead and green, with a thousand sightless eyes and a dozen
barbed, flaccid tentacles.

It is a creature of the Myriad.

While Ayessa and I stand gaping, minds filling
with the horror and hopelessness of the knowledge that  our
enemy has followed us and soon will steal what measure of sanctuary
we have found, Baldr comes up behind us.

"A great host of them appeared in Thrym's
land of Niflheim," he says. "Where Hel also makes her home.
Her forces and Thrym's exterminated the creatures, but at a cost
terrible enough that they would not withstand another assault if it
comes. And so they come seeking help from us Aesir, for whom they
have precious little love."

"Another wave will come," I tell Baldr
blankly. My eye remains locked on the bloated corpse. "And
another, and another, until nothing is left."

"The Aesir are not your folk!" This
derisive outburst comes from Tyr, whom I have not before heard speak.
"You were weak, where we have power in abundance!"

I manage to stop staring down at the dead Myriad
and hearken to the assembled Aesir.

"Indeed, we are strong, brother,"
concurs the red-haired son of Odinn whom I do not know. He speaks 
with calm assurance. "This beastly horde shall be driven back to
whence it came." He pats the iron hammerhead at his hip.
"Mjolnir and I shall see to that."

Baldr speaks next. "Let us not be hasty in
condemning as weak those who met with failure where the hosts of
Niflheim only barely avoided it."

"
Hasty?
" Tyr spits back. "If
only we could make haste! We have watched these Interlopers for an
age now, with no decision taken!"