Amaterasu shook her head. Not unexpected. They are hunger incarnate. And you have partaken of their essence before.
Never so much at one time. I do not trust myself around humans at this moment. I understand now what the efreet meant, when he said he did not trust himself with his family. Nith shook himself, from his head to the tip of his tail, which shook Sigrun with him.
Odin regarded the dragon somberly. Hel put much of her personal power into you, the lord of Valhalla said, unexpectedly. Dagon and Jormangand put all of their power into their bodies to protect themselves. But Hel looked at the enemies that we were fighting, centuries ago. Roman legions, trained, organized, and present on the battlefields in the tens of thousands. So she made you. Shaped you into a weapon. You have had little faith to sustain you, over the centuries. Only fear.
Of that, I am aware, my lord. Nith’s body was a coiled spring.
I was not finished speaking, Odin’s voice was laced with authority, and Sigrun winced, glancing up uneasily at the snow and ice overhanging the ledges around them. My point was, she used her power to give you that body. Dagon and Jormangand wasted all of their own on their forms, and could not take themselves into the Veil physically. You? You can. You have more power than your mother dreamed of, when she made you. Your body is her left-handed gift. But your mind and your will are your own. Use them.
Nith’s head swung up, and Sigrun blinked. She’d been on the receiving end of lectures like that, and was grateful not to be the target for once. Yes, my lord, Nith responded.
And you, daughter? Tyr asked. You have partaken of the mad ones’ essence before. How fare you now?
I would be grateful for the opportunity to purge myself of it in the Veil, she answered, her head reeling. That would leave me in better condition to deal with . . . other issues. Delicate phrasing.
At least we have proven the utility of the alliance, Amaterasu said, sheathing her sword. The smaller godlings turned and fled, and only a small amount of the largest one’s power bled into the rock.
In the Veil, the frost-giants scrambled out of the courtyard as Niðhoggr came in for a landing. The pazuzu, on gate duty, spun to see Stormborn slip off the dragon’s side. Do you need to hunt? she asked the god-beast.
No. I do not need to feed. This hunger is an illusion. I will control it. It will not control me. It is no part of me, but an enemy to be defeated. His wings, however, mantled, and his head snapped from side to side, as if looking for threats as the frost-giants pulled back from him, cautiously. And were I to hunt in the Veil, you would be alone here. No. Not while we hunt other prey.
The pazuzu considered this very interesting information. The dragon was the one who had bound him, forcibly, to the whey-faced bitch’s service. The dragon’s power, he could respect. It was impossible to respect her, with her mortal compunctions and frailties. If the dragon could be gotten out of the way, a whole world of possibilities opened up. On the other hand . . . the mortal realm didn’t seem a good hunting ground at the moment. Humans had too much magic. Too much power. And these mad godlings would devour anything they saw. But given the right opening . . . he’d take advantage of it. Disrupt the balance of power over his head, seek an opening. Enlarge his own power, at the expense of the alliances around him.
The pazuzu was an expert on poisons. Sometimes, poisons were of the mind. He considered speaking to the russalka or one of the frost-giant retainers. A few whispers of how the dragon looked apt to turn on the lady of the castle, perhaps? No, that wouldn’t do. The strain, the concern. Ah, yes. He had it. He’d address the whey-faced bitch himself. He’d tell her that her retainer, the dragon, yearned for her embrace. And that the dragon was considering killing her mortal husband, whom she so cherished. In the mood in which the dragon now appeared to be? The mortal child of the northern gods would surely believe him.
Worked the right way? She’d banish the dragon, and that would leave her . . . quite defenseless. She’d need an escort out in the mortal realm. And when her back was turned? He could devour her. Yes, it was a good plan. He just needed to wait until they were separated. Perhaps when she went to her bedchamber.
Stormborn found her empty chamber in the tower, and formed a pail out of cloud, and dropped to her knees on the soft floor, before doing her best to try to vomit. Unfortunately, her roiling nausea was not physical. No matter how the muscles of her body strained, no matter how her stomach lurched, nothing came up, though she was bathed in sweat after several churning efforts. The fever-heat continued, but the tearing sensations shifted, as if the tiger had gotten his claws into her bowels instead. To whom do the gods pray, Sigrun Stormborn wondered, after another fruitless spasm, when they feel ill enough to wish for an end to suffering?
The wall of her tower shuddered, and she dimly realized that Nith must have slammed into it with his shoulder. Stormborn closed her eyes, and tried, futilely, to reach into herself and digest the power. There were no shortcuts for this, however. All she could do was endure.
There was a heavy tap at her door, and she lifted her head. Who is it?
Gunnlodi, a melodic voice replied, and the door cracked open. Gunnlodi had once been one of Odin’s paramours, and was a hrímþursar female, as beautiful as Skadi herself had been, pale as moonlight on winter snow. She’d once given Odin some of her gift for songs and poetry, apparently. I thought I might sing to you and to Malice-Striker, while you are unwell. As I have often done before.
Sigrun lifted her head from her makeshift bucket. I . . . don’t recall any such occasions . . . .
Ah, of course. Forgive me. Pre-memory is ever with us. The giantess smiled faintly, baring just the tips of her canines, and took a seat beside Sigrun, resting one frost-white hand on her brow. The cold touch was welcome.
A distraction might be a happy thing. Sigrun hesitated. I’ll go to him in the courtyard, if you would join us. She smiled, and then a fresh wave of nausea hit her. I don’t suppose you know any sagas that don’t end in the death of the hero?
Oh, you want something modern. Gunnlodi sniffed. I thought I might sing of the first Sigrun.
Anything but that, please. Stormborn was relieved to hear Gunnlodi chuckle.
The pazuzu is in the hall, incidentally. He wishes to speak with you. Gunnlodi’s expression suggested that there was pondscum that should sooner have access to Sigrun for an audience.
Stormborn sighed. Send him in. She managed to get up off her knees, which wasn’t an ideal position to be receiving an underling, and an unwilling one, at that.
The pazuzu still towered over her. Its mouth clicked and chittered like an insect’s, but its eyes were those of an eagle, regarding her with a sort of alien distance. She could see its scorpion-like tail lashing behind it as it loomed in her door, and her eyes tracked down to one of its pincher-like hands . . . a claw of which had once been embedded in one of her ankles. Yes? Stormborn asked, pulling herself up, and armoring herself, not in black mail, but in distance. You are settling in well here? The others treat you well, I trust?
It is of no moment. The rough, rasping voice sounded like the slap of sand against a window, propelled by a desert wind. I was concerned for you, mistress. The dragon . . . he is fighting the demons of his own soul. Hard to discern any expression on a face with such alien features. The mouthparts showed no quirks or grimaces. The eagle-like eyes were blank. He hungers for more than food, mistress.
You’re here to tell me that he desires the soul of a young child, lightly braised in a wine sauce?
The laughter coiled through the room. Hardly that.
Sigrun waved it aside. We both just ingested the essence of a mad godling. It is toxic. It causes hunger, and consumption is no cure.
The creature’s chittering laugh was chilly. What he hungers for, is obvious to anyone with eyes. He hungers for you.
The surge of anger was cold and immediate, and Sigrun took one step towards the creature, as the pazuzu raised its claws. Oh, not to devour. Not at first. That’s never how
these things go. No, he wants your . . . kindness. Your favor. And once that kind of thought occurs . . . it’s very hard to put it away again, isn’t it? The words began to sink into her consciousness, oily and inky. He has yet to act on it, but right now, he’d do anything. Kill anyone, who got in the way of that. What’s one more or less mortal in a world so cluttered with them?
Stop now, Stormborn told the pazuzu, her back straightening further. You dare insinuate this? You accuse someone who has been nothing but faithful, loyal, and true?
Someone must look out for you, mistress. Is that not my task? To guard you? The servile tone was a parody of itself, as the avian eyes gleamed in the low light. Perhaps now, I guard you from yourself. Perhaps you want the dragon to kill your mortal lover. That would free you, and you would not even have to feel guilt for it—
A lie edged even with fragments of a truth cuts more deeply than just a lie alone. And a lie, edged so, and twisted like a corkscrew, could worm its way into a heart, and tear portions of it out. Stormborn wavered for a moment, looking into her own soul, doubting herself. She knew that she’d been celibate for close to seven years. She knew that parts of her that were still mortal yearned for touch, for affection. And that such impulses, when stifled in one direction, inevitably sought other outlets.
And then she raised her head, the fine tracery of rune-marks suddenly blazing to life on her skin. There is no universe in which Malice-Striker would do such a thing, or in which I would wish him to do so. Truthsense caught at her, and she realized, suddenly, what the creature was trying to do. You employ divide and conquer tactics? Here?
The wall behind the pazuzu split open, and with a lance of raw seiðr, Sigrun blasted him from the top of her tower, leaping out to follow him down, calling her spear to her hand. The pazuzu caught at the air with his wings, breaking his fall, but the power of the devourer inside of her snarled, and Sigrun wanted nothing more at the moment than to tear the creature apart, limb from limb. A cloud boiled up from the ground, forming a giant hand and arm that caught the pazuzu in a remorseless grasp, and she broke off her plummeting arc only to sweep her spear down across the creature’s mandible, shearing off the biting plates. No words. No defiance. No flyting. He didn’t deserve any of that. Sigrun brought the spear back up and around, and aimed directly for the creature’s heart as it struggled, futilely, in the cloud’s grip.
Sigrun, my lady, no! Nith’s tail slapped the spear aside, and she hissed between her teeth. The mad one you have swallowed is urging you to kill. To devour. If you do so, you will have lost honor, for killing one enfiefed to you. An ally. And in the Veil, he will only rise again, with the memory of your betrayal fresh in his mind.
In the Veil, but perhaps not in this domain. Her words were chill, bitten off between her teeth. And at the moment, I would kill him and spit his spirit out, untasted, Stormborn averred, her internal fires lighting the entire courtyard. He has accused you of wishing to murder Steelsoul for your own profit. And insinuated that I would welcome it.
A moment of cold silence, as the various hrímþursar flooded into the courtyard. And then Niðhoggr stated, flatly, I told Steelsoul that if he should ever wish to leave this life without pain, and without compromising his god’s injunction against self-slaughter, that I would be willing to assist him. The dragon’s head, on his long neck, was now within inches of the pazuzu’s head. I am very hungry, Stormborn.
If I cannot kill him while digesting a mad godling, then you certainly may not, either. She shook her head sharply, trying to clear her thoughts. A lie was not enough to warrant execution. No matter how much that lie had hurt. And yet, on the other hand, the lie had announced the creature’s continued enmity. You told me never to leave an enemy at my back. What am I to do with this one? Imprison him until we’re clear-headed enough to execute him?
I had decided to try mercy on you, Niðhoggr snarled at the pazuzu. That is not a mistake that will be repeated. The glinting moonsilver eyes turned towards her. Hrímþursar! The frost-giants straightened at the power in the dragon’s voice. Guard him. Ensure that he does not escape. And since it was my decision to offer him mercy, and my honor that has been impugned, I will deal with him in the mortal realm. I doubt he has enough power that his death will summon a godling.
The hrímþursar guards took the struggling pazuzu away, though the creature called back, mockingly, There must be some truth in my words, for them to have angered you so! Think on that! Know the truth when you hear it, or continue in your own hypocrisy!
A little while later, Gunnlodi took her harp up to Sigrun’s chamber, and played and sang for Sigrun, and for Niðhoggr, who shrank his form down to a more suitable size, And Sigrun tried not to think. Once she began to second-guess herself about the pazuzu’s insinuations, she would never be able to stop.
The music lulled her, and she was finally able to sleep. And once they had both managed to move beyond the pain and discomfort and need to devour, they and four hrímþursar guards took the pazuzu into the far north of the mortal realm, outside of Valhalla.
The ancient demon of the desert winds, on being released from the grip of the frost-giants, tried to leap into the air to escape. Tried to flee to the Veil—but Sigrun had him caught, firmly, in a seiðr weave, to prevent him from doing just that. “You swore an oath,” she said, quietly. “You swore, by your own Name, to serve me loyally and well, when we could have destroyed you. We freed you, and gave you that choice. You have betrayed that oath.” She looked up, her face and eyes pitiless as the wind that cut into her skin at the moment.
You know my words to be true, you northern whore.
Niðhoggr’s head snapped forwards and he caught the pazuzu out of the air. Diamond fangs clamped down, driving through the creature’s armor and body, and the pazuzu screamed. Blood poured onto the white snow, and steam rose from it, tugged at by the rising wind. Nith shook his head like a shark or a wolf, letting the weight of the body, the motion, and the savage edges of his teeth do the work. The howls were horrifying, and Sigrun looked down and away. My way would have been faster, she said, as Nith dropped the mangled corpse to the ground, where it curled in on itself, becoming a pile of sand, which the wind immediately scattered.
That one had already been given all the mercy to which he was entitled.
Possibly true.
The dragon looked at the frost-giants. I thank you, kinsmen, for standing guard, and bearing witness.
And then they were off again, and flying once more for Judea, where Sigrun planned to spend several weeks being loud and visible on the eastern and southern borders.
And tried not to think at all, as they flew.
“It’s good to have you back,” Solinus told Maccis, soberly, at the landsknechten barracks outside of Jerusalem. The elder brother perched on a wall above the training enclosure, where lindworms and their prospective riders were jockeying for position above soft, shifting sands.
Maccis sat beside him on the wooden wall, his legs dangling. Fresh scars decorated the younger brother’s face, mute testimony to his recent activities. Only twenty-three, Maccis had been fighting since he was seventeen. Six years of non-stop combat had taken their toll on the young man. Solinus rarely heard Maccis use two words where one would do, and he wasn’t sure his younger brother still had a sense of humor. Maccis was too young to have seen as much as he had. And now, he just nodded, watching the lindworms and riders below. “Thanks.”
“I trust it’s good to be back?” Solinus asked.
Maccis considered that, and nodded. “Vidarr and Ima took me off the front lines after that skirmish with the Immortals to the south.” His eyes remained distant, and he said nothing more.
Solinus had heard about it from Vidarr, who’d been on the ground with Maccis. Two hundred Immortals, two thousand standard Persian troops, a thousand ghul, and fifty battle-mages, pushing north to try to get into Judea. Cutting right through the new farms. Four hundred jotun, four hundred fenris, twelve hundred nieten, and two thousand
JDF, with Kanmi and Minori and Bodi on hand for technomancy. We defeated them, but we lost a thousand men, doing it.
According to Vidarr, Maccis had taken a detachment of fenris, flanked the Immortal charge, and gone straight for the magi. No djinn, no efreeti, at least. Summoning was getting to be almost impossible as a battle tactic these days. Few spirits would answer. But magi who were sorcerers, or who could control the godling-spawned ghul were still damned effective. Maccis had a reputation for killing them. Mageslayer was apparently his squad-name. He’d strike from stealth, if he had the option, and whatever a magus threw at him, Maccis shaped himself to withstand, and then just kept going until he’d killed his target. Throw heat at him, and he’d grow scales. Throw cold at him, he’d grow fur. Entomb him in earth, and he’d literally worm himself up, breathing through his skin, until he emerged once more, and shifted into a ball of claws and teeth.
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