by Matt Larkin
Hermod woke, lying on the temple floor, beneath the still howling vortex. The winds had reduced his clothes to tatters and even now continued yanking on them. With a groan, he pushed himself up onto his arms.
How much time had he lost?
He crawled forward, until he reached a stone overhang that shielded him from the storm, then sat against the wall, head in his hand, willing the pounding in his temples to stop. For a time, he remained like that, resting.
But he had no supplies, and lingering here wouldn’t do a damn thing to help his situation. Finally, he rose and made his way through a narrow passage that would never have accommodated a dragon.
This passage eventually led outside.
The temple remained the same, but now grasslands surrounded it on all sides. Howling winds roared overhead, though those held Hermod’s attention for a mere moment.
A dragon lay coiled around the pyramid staring hard at him.
At his exit from the temple, the dragon lifted its head, then the rest of its body, hovering in the air. Brilliant plumage covered it, a rainbow of vibrant colors, each feather shifting with the air currents swirling overhead. The dragon had no legs but an enormously long reptilian mouth with jutting fangs—more lizard-like than snake-like. It had opalescent eyes that seemed to glow with inner heat, and large spurs that jutted from the back of its head. Despite its bulk—easily two hundred feet long, if not more—it moved through the air with such grace it seemed one with the winds.
His gut demanded he flee. Break into a dead run and keep running until he hit the jungle. Somewhere to hide. Anywhere to hide.
Utter madness. A creature like that would snap down and catch him without even having to move, much less use its obvious ability to fly.
Hermod forced the panic from his face.
Well, he tried to force it from his face. “Great Quetzalcoatl! I …” Shit. He should have thought about this before he got here. “I greet you!”
The feathered serpent lowered its head, bringing it closer to Hermod. A head bigger than his entire body. This thing could swallow him without chewing. Actually, the way it looked at him, maybe it was considering just that.
“I … er …” Hermod paused. Cleared his throat. “Forgive me for intruding. I needed to cross into Anlang.” And until just now, the Astral Roil had seemed the more terrifying means of doing so. His bladder seemed to think he ought to reevaluate.
“Why?” The dragon’s voice boomed, carried on the wind, and resounded across the meadow as if it came from all sides. It sent Hermod’s flesh trembling.
The truth? If he told the truth, the serpent might well eat him. But part of the truth …
“I seek a means of overcoming Hel, who has breached the Mortal Realm. To fight her … I need power from the Otherworlds.”
“The sirins will tear you apart.”
Again, the bombarding force of the serpent’s words overwhelmed Hermod, left him wanting to bow down and grovel and beg for mercy. As for sirins … perhaps the vaettir native to this world?
Hermod swallowed. “How might I earn their favor … and yours?”
“They live for food and song and revelry that might not be to the liking of a mortal. As for myself, I want … naught.”
Hermod cocked his head. Olwen had said Quetzalcoatl would require a tribute or sacrifice. Why would he allow a mortal to pass and not a liosalf? “You truly do not require aught of me?”
“No.” The word boomed, carried along the wind, leaving Hermod trembling.
Well, he couldn’t afford to pass up such a boon. Hermod backed away from the feathered serpent, half expecting the creature to lunge forward and swallow him whole. But the dragon just soared along the air currents around the temple, turning about its abode without further apparent interest in Hermod.
He made his way from the meadow, and up, over a hill that eventually rose to a crag, casting a final look at the feathered serpent. Beautiful and terrible. And Hermod would definitely seek an alternative route back to the Mortal Realm.
The wind whipped over him, just shy of a gale, enough to slow his progress. The scattered trees before the crag all bent in wild angles, twisted, stubborn things that refused to break in this perpetual storm. Somewhere ahead—horrifically close, in fact—thunder rumbled, the sound leaving his ears ringing.
The storms in this world seemed almost on the ground. Hermod needed a better view, so he kept climbing the crag.
The sun was up, though hidden behind clouds, and constant biting winds kept any warmth from reaching him. Had he realized the chill, he might have brought warmer clothes. On Alfheim, the blazing sun meant he …
Atop the crag, Hermod faltered, gaping. The storms were not closer to the land here.
The land was up among the storms. Beyond the crag, the ground dropped away, with a rumbling storm cloud beneath him. He was on a flying island. Across from him, half hidden by the clouds, other floating islands passed in and out of view.
Another gale swept over him, sending him stumbling closer to the edge.
Hermod dropped to one knee to steady himself. “Fuck me.”
Finding it hard to swallow, he turned about—staying on the damn ground—and took in the rest of his island. It was large, maybe a few miles across, though he couldn’t make out the entirety because a storm-encircled mountain rose off in the distance. Even so, the island seemed tiny next to the endless sky in all directions.
The World of Storm was composed of flying islands.
“Keuthos,” he grated. “Wraith.”
A pressure shifted around inside his skull, as if a worm burrowed through his brain. The wraith finally waking from the torpor that had settled upon it in the World of Sun.
“Keuthos.”
Yes …
What madness was this place?
You would have me … answer self-apparent questions … to belittle your own … already limited wits …
Shit. Slowly, Hermod crawled back from the crag’s edge, and down to the relative safety of the weather-beaten hilltop below it. Safety that assumed these islands would not suddenly plummet into the void below.
Not since the dawn of time …
The wraith had told him he’d find the seal on a mountain in this world. Assuming it was even on this same island, he saw only one real mountain here. One where lightning crackled around a peak he could not even make out for the clouds engulfing it.
The storm … is not the only concern …
“What else?”
Harpies …
Hermod rubbed his beard. Part of him wanted to collapse. To surrender, give up and return to Midgard. Surely Odin would have need of him. Maybe his quest for vengeance against Hel was vanity, and doomed. But … Odin would have need of him. If Hermod could take any action that might begin to break Hel’s power, the king’s chances of overcoming her would increase.
Knowing Odin, the king might well send Hermod straight back out here to complete the mission if he turned back now. Hermod groaned. No. He’d see Hel pay for what she’d done, and he’d find a way to help Odin. The king had chosen Hermod, above all others, as his apprentice. Not his own sons, nor his trusted companions, but Hermod. Because Hermod alone carried the blood of a valkyrie.
With a groan, he skidded his way down the rocky hillside and back to the grasslands below. “What are harpies?”
Sirins … Alkonosts … Bird-creatures …
Quetzalcoatl had claimed sirins lived for song and feasting. Might Hermod propitiate them with the same song that had pleased the liosalfar.
Doubtful … It would take music … or singing talent beyond your ability …
Huh. Good to know what the wraith really thought of Hermod’s singing.
Dreading what lay ahead, he made his way toward the mountain.
No trees grew on the mountainside. It was all cold stone, worn smooth by the constant wind and—at the moment—slashing rains. The rocks had broken at irregular angles, though, leaving jagged points scattered along the
slope.
Hermod made his climb slowly.
Every so often, a howling gale would sweep over him with such force it could have sucked him up and sent him flying, had he not clung to the rocks and held himself flat.
That howl served as Hermod’s only warning to seek a safe perch.
Once, when the wind seemed especially vexed, it had torn a chunk of rock clean off the mountain—a great slab, almost as large as Hermod, that had broken from a jutting point and hurtled away on the swirling torrent.
All he could do was lean in against the mountain and rely on his pneuma to keep him holding on. Keuthos offered sporadic directions, nudging him left or right.
Now, he looked up, trying to gauge the distance to the summit. He could not. He’d passed inside the rumbling storm cloud. A blast of lightning in front of him seared his eyes and left hazy spots of white flitting about his vision. In that momentary flash of light, though, he could have sworn he saw a woman up there. A naked woman with the wings and legs of a bird, watching him intently.
A sirin?
Grimacing, Hermod shifted the angle of his climb. Maybe he could not avoid the vaettr, but he’d at least try to do so.
Slowly, he continued his ascent, until he spotted a cave in the mountainside. A shallow hollow, perhaps, but it would offer some shelter.
There is no shelter from this storm … But this place … I know this place … We are nigh to our ambition …
Well, the wraith didn’t have to worry about being bodily hurled off the mountain by a sudden gale. Hermod drew his pneuma and scrambled up, until he could pass the threshold.
Of course, even if Hermod found and destroyed the seal, he’d still have to find a way back from this world.
Finally, he reached the hollow, and—gaining his feet—stumbled inside.
Just beyond the threshold, two of those women sat in a crouch, their legs ending in bird-like talons, while great wings jutted from behind their shoulders. He could not well judge whether either was the one he’d spotted from below. Both were naked, with a hungry look on their faces, though he could not say—perhaps for the best, honestly—what they hungered for.
The one on the left began to hum, the sound sweet and, somehow, carried on the wind rather than drowned out by it. Indeed, when she started to sing, all other sound drifted away, and Hermod could do naught save stare in rapture at the woman. Her voice massaged his weary muscles and drew him to his knees, a lover’s caress over his mind, promising peace. After centuries of struggle and pain, Hermod might—finally—be freed from all worries. Through the song, he could at last find himself reunited with those he had lost so many years before.
Do not listen …
The sound became bliss. A promise.
All love could meld into one great love. The utter joy of allowing consciousness to melt away. Of allowing himself to cease.
You will lose yourself …
A faint voice spoke in his mind, almost buried beneath the all-encompassing melody that soothed his weary soul. A little more, and even that flicker would cease. Hermod swayed in time, smiling, for the first time he could remember, smiling at the total joy of allowing thought to fade.
Allow me to take control of your body …
Why … why would he do such a thing?
You are nigh lost … mortal … They will consume all you are …
Yes. But it didn’t matter. Indeed, it was relief.
Do you truly wish to forget your daughter …?
A tiny lance of ice shot through his brain. A discordant note that ruptured the song and left Hermod struggling to shake himself free.
Give me control …
Yes. Sif. If the wraith was his only chance … her only chance … then let Keuthos free.
A tightness coiled around his chest and squeezed all air from his lungs. A terrible cold seeped into his limbs, as if his entire body was falling into deathchill. He could see himself moving, but couldn’t feel it, even as he stood and drew Dainsleif.
The other harpy cocked her head to the side, seeming bemused. Hermod lunged at the singer, ramming the runeblade straight through her throat. Her exploding blood was hot as flame against his icy skin.
Hissing, he spun on the remaining harpy. The creature shrieked, her face a mask of rage, avian and feral, her hands like claws. She launched herself at him and he swung, hacking off an arm. The harpy faltered, gaping at the bleeding stump of her elbow. She brought her wings up to shield herself. Reflex, maybe.
A bad one.
Dainsleif sheared through wing as easily as flesh, taking half her left wing off in a single swipe. Still hissing—it was not his voice—he drove forward, running the runeblade through her gut. He caught the stump of her elbow and pulled it to his lips, feasting on her pneuma through her hot blood.
Coppery, sickening warmth dribbled down his throat. More and more.
No! Enough! Release me!
Still, Keuthos had the dying harpy, was sucking out her life. Feasting upon it and growing stronger.
We had an accord! You cannot have my body without my permission.
He had given it.
Temporarily!
Snarling, he dropped the harpy, and she tumbled to the ground.
The ease of the pressure around his chest only served to remind Hermod how tight it had squeezed. Now, as if a serpent’s coils released, he stumbled to his knees, gasping for breath. A freezing cold presence seeped from his mind, threatening to split his skull in two with the pain of it. He pitched over sideways, clutching his head, unable to get his breath or even form a thought.
Maybe he’d lain on the cold rock of the cavern a few moments. It felt longer. The howling wind outside filled his ears and magnified the pounding headache the wraith’s withdrawal had left him with.
Finally, he pushed himself up onto his elbows.
The two women lay in pools of blood, reeking of ruptured bowels.
Not women …
Sirins. Harpies. Whatever.
Groaning, Hermod rose to his knees.
This is it … Beyond here lies the seal …
A chill wracked him as he gained his feet. He pushed on, to the back of the cave, some thirty feet deep. There, carved into the sloping ceiling, stood a massive rune circle similar to the last, glowing faintly blue. Similar? Perhaps identical. He could not focus on the individual runes overlong. They seemed to shift and squirm in his mind, as if the harder he tried to understand them, the more mind-rending they would become.
Reaching up over his head, he drove Dainsleif into the rock surface. Slowly, he drew the blade across the circle, until the glow vanished and his ears popped. Then he cut across it once more. Rock dust sprayed into his eyes.
Was it done?
Yes …
Fine. Now Hermod would return to Midgard.
You must destroy the seal in Muspelheim …
He would. But first, he needed to see the king. It had been fool pride—and rage—that had driven him to undertake this mission without informing Odin. Now, he must find his king and reveal that Hel was free because of him. Aught else was shirking his responsibility.
Fool …
Yes. Hermod was a fool, many times over.
But he could at least try to do better.
36
His lungs did not work.
He lay upon a cold stone floor, face down. And he could not breathe.
His body convulsed, desperate for air. Unable to catch up to the lurching around in time, perhaps. When was he?
When?
Of a sudden, his lungs opened, sucking down a breath that sent pain exploding through Odin’s entire body. He felt rent inside out, torn apart by the tides that had brought him here. To wherever and whenever …
He tried to rise, but consciousness slipped from him, and his face slammed back down onto the stone floor.
Laughter woke him. Giggling, in fact.
Mundilfari pranced around him, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. “Oh! Oh, he’s awake.
Waking is good. Almost as good as dreaming. They say dreams bridge the gap between revelation and madness. Did you know that? Who says it? Well, someone said it, I’m fair certain!” He giggled again.
Now, Odin was bound by chains, in the middle of some cell of stone, perhaps beneath the mountains of Vanaheim. The Vanir had old cells down here, after all.
Groaning, he struggled to his knees.
“They didn’t recognize you!” Mundilfari cooed. “Can you believe that? A second time a random old man appears where he shouldn’t be—in Sessrumnir, no less—and no one recognized you. How absurd. As if they shouldn’t know a man, just because a thousand years or so had passed. Oh! Oh, but I recognized you, old man. I remembered how you slipped from a closed room with no means of egress. Not this time, no, no, no, no.” He waved his finger in denial.
“I see you’ve gone quite mad, now.”
“Mad!” The Vanr lunged at him, seized his tunic, and hefted Odin up to his feet. “Not. Yet. No. Ah … no. But you never told me quite where to find the Well. Oh, I made the wall. I killed Mimir. I made myself king, but you haven’t held up your end of the bargain.”
“We didn’t make any bargain to—”
Mundilfari shook him. “Hmmm, hmmm. No. That’s the trouble. The rub of it. We are … powerless, aren’t we? Caught in causal loops. They know it. Oh, they know! Maybe they made the loops, who can say! Maybe they just … uh … what? Hmm. Enforce them!” He snapped his finger. “Because if time … time is … uh.” He banged his fist against his head. “Time … exists. Oracles, prophets, they might see the future. That means there is a future. That means … means … the Well! I have to find the Well!”
Odin balked, seriously tempted to kick the madman in the stones and try to break the chains. They didn’t look like orichalcum, which meant the Mad Vanr still didn’t imagine just what Odin was capable of.
“Causal loops,” Mundilfari repeated. “Does the Well create them, or is it created by them? A physical manifestation of the timeline in the most obvious of mediums. Water is liminal, is transitory, is fluid and yet incompressible. A well … Everything … everything is a paradox … Existence itself is a paradox. But … but … Redeemability seems to be the key.” He shrugged that away. “Why send me to make the wall?”
