The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (27 page)

"Why didn't you just stay and finish it?"

The asker of that question surely does not
expect an answer, and he gets none as Gaeira restores her ax and
resumes her even stride. Eventually, the villagers walking in a
cluster around us turn their attention to me.

"Who are you?" is naturally their
first question.

"Thamoth," I tell them.

"You are from Asgard?"

"No. Originally a place called Atlantis."

"Where is that?"

"It is gone now. Very few of us are left."

But a stranger's life evidently does not much
interest these Vanir. They want me to talk about my companion, who
will not speak for herself. Gaeira, apparently, is a hero of sorts in
these parts, a fact which fails to surprise me in the least.

"Were you with her on the hunt?" I am
asked by a small boy. Most of those still with us are children, the
adults having headed back to work.

"Part of it," I answer.

This excites them. Of the many simultaneous
questions hurled at me, the one which I most clearly discern and
elect to answer is, "Did you see her kill the frosty?"

"Aye."

"What was it like?"

As I answer, I am keenly aware of Gaeira walking
within easy earshot ahead of me. "I have seen nothing like it,"
I tell them. "It was magnificent."

The children proceed to re-enact the fight with
imaginary swords, each delivering death blows to their  own
unseen giant. Unlike Gaeira, these young warriors fight loudly.

It occurs as we walk that if I can get a word
in, I might ask questions of them. This world is new to me and my
most frequent companion is silent; I would do well to treat every
encounter with speaking folk as an opportunity to learn. And I have
been wondering something which I neglected to ask Heimdall.

I pick one of the less rambunctious boys and ask
him, "Why are there frost giants in Jotunheim? I was told their
realm is Niflheim."

It might be a stupid question, but the boy gives
no sign of thinking so. "Hill jotnar are dumb," he seems
glad to explain. "Frosties built the frontier wall for them and
stay there to guard it. That's why it's so cold near the border. They
use magic to make it more like their home."

In between the battle roars of the mock fights
around us, some of which are in danger of becoming a touch too real,
I manage to carry on my conversation. "Gaeira goes over the wall
to hunt jotnar. Do giants not do likewise to the Vanir?"

The boy shakes his head. "They lost their
last war with the All-Father, like they always do. In the truce, 
twelve Vanir got the right to hunt jotun in revenge. If they got
caught, the giants could do with them whatever they wished—no
consequences. That's what happened to seven, including the only other
girl besides Gaeira. Four others finished their oaths. Gaeira is the
only one left still hunting, because her oath was the biggest. No one
else but her swore ninety and nine!"

"That's because she's better than all of
them!" a girl pipes in, swinging a stick. "And I'll be just
like her one day!"

"You should shut your mouth like her!"
a boy taunts—and narrowly avoids the swift reprisal of a stick
upside his face.

A mother calls out from somewhere behind us.
Small heads whip round to look, and in an instant the cloud of
children around me dissipates as they run off home. I have let Gaeira
get more than her customary distance ahead of me and so must run
myself briefly to catch up.

***

We walk for hours across country filled with
farms and pastures, the houses of which remain always small black
shapes in the distance, none proving to be our destination. Finally
we set our course for one of them, drawing nearer and nearer. When we
get close enough to see and be seen by its occupants, two figures
emerge and begin moving towards us. I know then that we have reached
her home. Gaeira does not speed her pace. I cannot see her face, only
her braid of dirty gold, but I know the expression upon it is
unchanged; it would not tell me, if I saw it, whether homecoming is
for her a sweet or a bitter thing, a happy return to what remains or
a sad reminder of what was lost.

The two figures are a man and a woman, both
quite old. The man has dark spots on his bald pate, and  the
woman's long hair is the color of ash. He is tall and thin, she short
and full of figure. I know that Gaiera's father is dead, so this
cannot be him. By his age, he might be her grandfather. The woman is
also, I think, too old to be her mother, if Gaeira's mother is alive,
which I do not know.

We reach each other. The man stops, looking at
us both, but mostly at Gaeira. A faint smile appears on his thin
face. Tears of joy stream down the old woman's cheeks as she she runs
straight into Gaeira, throwing stout arms around her midsection and
pressing plump cheek to the breastplate of Gaeira's armor.

In receiving the embrace, Gaeira remains a
statue. At least, she does at first; after a half a minute, her stony
arms bend, rising just enough to touch the woman's ribs on either
side in a bare return. Then her arms fall again, and the woman
releases her, wiping tears with the collar of her plain dress.

The man is first to speak. "Welcome home,
child," he says warmly. "You have brought us a guest."
He looks at me, as does the woman, taking a break from smiling
tearfully at my companion. "Who might he be?"

"Thamoth," I answer with a bow.
"Gaiera has been a kind and patient guide. I am honored to visit
her home."

"You have not the look of Aesir or Vanir,"
he remarks, not unkindly. "From whence do you hail?"

"My city was called Atlantis," I say.
"It is not in your eight realms."

While we converse, Gaeira resumes walking in the
direction of the farmhouse. Casting me a smile, the woman sets off
after her.

"Not in the eight realms?" the man
says in puzzlement. "Midgard, then?"

I shake my head. "I do not understand."

"Midgard," he repeats. "The lost
land, the ninth realm. Is your city there? Did you find a way across
the  sea?"

I search the memories that Mimir's Well granted
me of my prior life but find no occurrence of the term 
Midgard
.
I tell him as much.

He shrugs. "Then you must tell me of your
home, wherever it is." He sets a hand on my shoulder, urging me
on toward the house. "I am Afi. I oversaw this farm for Gaeira's
father, and now I do the same for her. That is Dalla, my wife, who
was Gaeira's nurse from the night the girl was born. We hold Gaeira
as dear as though she were our own child. We are glad to have her
back. And glad to have you, too, as our guest, Thamoth of Atlantis.
Welcome."

Afi and Dalla are perfect hosts. They feed me,
offer every comfort, answer my questions and ask questions of their
own about me, and listen intently to the answers. I am given a room
on the second floor of the main house, Afi and Dalla making their
residence in a separate, smaller dwelling. On learning that the room
assigned to me was that of Gaira's late brother, I protest the
placement, obligating Afi to take great pains in assuring me that it
is fine. In the end, it is one of Gaeira's subtle looks, hardly
different from the one she wears perpetually, which convinces me to
relent and accept the arrangement.

That night, Dalla unwraps my gouged eye, cleans
it and applies some medicines and a fresh dressing. I sleep well, and
come the dawn I venture outside and pressure Afi to task me with me
some farm work. Reluctantly, he does. Gaeira has already risen and is
also at work, though not near to me. Thus I  see little of her
until we convene for a midday meal, at which an invisible observer
might take me for the family member and silent Gaeira the stranger.

While we eat, I ask Afi about the place he
mentioned, Midgard.

“An age ago,” Afi tells me, “beyond
the memories of anyone but perhaps the All-Father and the most
ancient jotnar, there was across the great Sea a ninth realm called
Midgard, whose people were fierce and savage. Well, I should say that
Midgard still 
does 
lies across the Sea, since it is
not likely to have moved. But the Sea can no longer be crossed, for
Odinn, in his youth, banished a serpent into its depths and bound it
by magic. It is why we call the sea the 'Serpent's Sea'. There the
serpent has remained, growing ever larger while dreaming of taking
its vengeance on Odinn and devouring the vessels of any fool enough
to try to cross the Sea in either direction.”

“
Jormungand
,” I whisper. In
my mind's eye, I see the fang-filled maw, the splashing venom, the
cloud-breaking wings of my Well-given vision...

Afi confirms it. “Aye, that is the
serpent's name. The Aesir believe that when the final battle comes,
their Ragnarok, it shall fly free and join the hosts of Niflheim and
Muspelheim in storming Asgard.” He shrugs. “And maybe
that is true. I reckon I shall be long dead by then. But what of you?
If you did not come across the Sea, then where did you come from?”

I give Afi a brief account of my awakening in
Hades, our battle with the Myriad and flight into Jotunheim. I tell
him that I have since learned that I was prince of a city called
Atlantis in the final days before it was laid low by a deluge. When I
am done, Dalla chuckles and takes to addressing me teasingly as
'Highness.' Afi asks me to tell him more sometime, but for now, our
meal is done and it is time to return to work. I attempt to do just
that but am stopped by a tap on the shoulder from behind on my blind
left side. I turn to find the point of Gaeira's sword in my face. She
grips in her free hand a second sword—mine—and she hands
it to me hilt-first. The moment I accept it, she attacks.

Her attack is deliberately slow. Were it
otherwise, I would be dead.

She steps back and takes to circling. Her next
attempt will not be as gentle. I do not entertain for more than a
second the idea that I might have offended her somehow. I understand
that she but intends for us to spar. For what reason or whose
benefit, I am uncertain.

As soon as I take a ready pose, she advances and
attacks me from my blind side. I barely parry. Had she not held back,
my head likely would have been severed. Backpedaling, I make ready
again, and understanding comes.

I must practice at fighting one-eyed.

We train for hours. Sometimes Afi watches us,
laughing once when I end up in the dust. Then he is gone, back to
work. I do not notice his comings and goings, for all my attention is
needed to defend against Gaeira's strokes, almost every one of which
comes from the black void on my left. My neck soon grows stiff from
the constant whipping round of my head in that direction. She holds
back, I can tell, but even still, she matches the description I gave
her back in the village. She is magnificent, and more than once I
falter in our fight because I am too much in awe of her ability.

Late in our second hour of practice, when I know
I cannot sustain much longer the exertion—my opponent showing
no signs of slowing—I throw down my too-heavy sword, smiling in
defeat, and lower myself into an unarmed fighting stance. Gaeira
tosses her sword aside, accepting the challenge.    She
lands the first blow, an open-palmed slap to my left cheek. It is
followed by three more of the same, while I lay not a finger on her.

Had I not spent so much time with her, I doubt I
would have spotted the glint her eye. I am not quite certain what it
is. Not satisfaction, exactly, but... I believe her to be enjoying
herself. I also know, in the  same way, that it would embarrass
her if I were to point that out. Knowing that takes some of the sting
from her blows, such that by the sixth or eighth time she hits me in
the face, I am laughing.

Soon after, I get serious. I finally block one,
and a few more. Before another hour is up, I decide I have had all I
can take of lessons for the day, however much I enjoy the tutor's
company. By way of ending the session, I duck under one of Gaeira's
swings and throw my full weight at her with the intent of bringing
her bodily to the ground. We have not yet practiced grappling, and it
is not my intention to start.

I do not precisely know what my intention is,
only that it is neither violent nor educative.

My intentions cease to matter when Gaeira
slithers from my grasp and uses my own momentum to throw me onto my
back. I find myself lying staring up at her, sun gilding her mussed
hair.

I laugh and tell her without shame, “Enough!”

I wonder for a few moments whether she will
allow me to quit. Then her hand extends and opens, offering me aid in
rising, which I accept. Her hand is warm and strong and smaller than
mine.

As soon as I am on my feet, the instructor takes
her hand back, picks up her sword and walks away.

The next two days follow the same pattern. We
rise early, work separately harvesting fruit and hauling  water,
breaking hard soil with metal tools and performing various other
tasks about which I lack knowledge in two languages. Fortunately, my
ignorance proves no barrier to doing what needs to be done. Near
midday, we take a meal that Dalla has prepared, and afterward Gaeira
and I swing swords and fists at each other. We grapple a little, with
Gaeira forever ending up on top of me with her sharp knee digging
into the small of my back.

During our third of our sessions, I grab her
long braid and yank it rather harder than intended. Her hands break
the impact of her resulting headlong fall, but Gaeira's face
nevertheless lands a patch of the farm's soft red clay. As she lifts
her muddied face to look at me, I hope to see no anger in her
eyes—but anger there 
is
, and it is well-founded. I
open my mouth to apologize but decide against speaking. I rarely ever
speak to her. There is ample communication between us without the
need for one-sided words.