Stormbringer

by Alis Franklin

  Then Móði: “But Loki—”

  My head is wrenched back farther, claws and tail thrashing against the ground. “Hah! Is going nowhere,” Magni says. “And is not half so fine a prize. Nor so useful without injury.”

  There’s a sound behind their words, something like the drum of hooves. But it’s vague, far away and getting farther. Past the echo in my skull and the agony in my bones and the taste of blood and leather on my tongue.

  Out of time and out of options, I grasp the fire, cinders curling between my claws. Too slow, and Magni sees it. “No tricks,” he snarls, wrenching backward on the hammer, folding me nearly in half, broken spine and all.

  The fire dies. Somewhere, someone—not me, not Magni or Móði or Forseti—screams.

  Then I hear:

  “—t’s this? It looks like—”

  Then nothing.

  The níð of Hveðrungr and Ginnarr made flesh, Forseti said. Those are old names. Very old. One is mine—is Loki’s—but the other belongs to Odin. It’s not one of his nicer titles.

  Things fade in slowly. A dull throb in my back and jaw and wing. The feel of stone beneath my skin. The weight of chains around my neck and wrists.

  Darkness. The dank smell of forgotten places beneath the earth.

  For a while, I scream, waiting for pain, begging for Sigyn. Seventy years, and suddenly it feels like nothing. A dream between breaths, the darkness behind the blink of milk-blind eyes. I need cool hands and a warm smile, skin and hair that flickers between dark and light. Flesh that feels firm and curved one moment, soft and hairy the next.

  But here and now, in the darkness, I am alone.

  Bones knit, wounds heal. It’s dark, I’m chained. But this is a cell, not a cave, and no snake curls within the shadows.

  Eventually, even the screaming stops.

  I have no idea how much time’s passed since I was brought here. Honestly, I don’t even know where “here” is.

  Shit.

  Sitting upright, I inspect the damage. Nothing still broken, but my jaw is bruised and aching, my throat feels like sandpaper and shards of glass, and my claws are worn down to nubs from scratching jagged runes into the stone. The same three shapes, over and over again: sól, íss, kaun. Sun, ice, pain. S, I, G.

  Bones knit, wounds heal. But bruises and hangnails linger for weeks. So do cut feathers. Which is great, because not only am I missing a good chunk out of my “hair,” but some asshole’s clipped my wings. Both sides, nearly down to the skin, and the little quills left over itch something fierce. If Forseti was gonna be a jerk about it, I wish he’d just pinioned me. At least a lost joint would’ve grown back by now.

  Probably.

  Oh, and, to add insult to noninjury? I can’t put my wings away. They’re huge and heavy and awkward, and I can’t get rid of them any more than I can slip into Lain or something even more useful, like a fly.

  It’s the shackles. Some blooded rune work in the iron that traps my skin and damps my flame.

  So. No magic, check. Collar, check. Manacles, check. Heavy iron chain threaded through both and bolted to the floor, check. Featureless stone room with one door and no windows, check.

  “Hmm . . .”

  I’m not totally out of options. I have one left, and I’m contemplating it—studying the chains, looking for locks and weak points—when I hear footsteps outside the cell.

  I stand, or try to. There’d be enough slack to allow it, assuming the standee wasn’t jötunn and thus a good foot taller than this cell was designed to hold. As it is, I end up sort of hunched over—feral and monstrous—which is a dramatic pose I can work with.

  I hear a key turn in the door’s lock. One ominous creak later, Forseti steps through the opening.

  He’s holding Gungnir. Shit.

  For a moment, we eye each other in silence. In the end, I’m not the one who cracks.

  “You have a blood-debt, jötunn,” Forseti says. “To me, to my mother, and to all of Ásagrðr. For the murder of my father and the usurpation of his throne.” He looks at me, expecting a reaction. Denials, excuses. I have enough to fill the great ship Naglfar, but I bite my tongue instead and Forseti continues, “After Ragnarøkkr, we knew it was not Baldr who returned from Hel’s embrace. Whatever Odin had hoped to gain by this deception, my father is long dead. Mother mourns, but I am lord of justice, and I will see it done.”

  Justice, right. As if a tenth-century barbarian even knows the meaning of the word. Forseti and his ilk can poison every field in Ásgarðr with my blood and it still won’t change or fix a single thing.

  “You are to be put to death,” Forseti says, confirming this. “I would say Höðr deserves the right, in repatriation of his own.” Technically, that first time, it hadn’t been Loki’s hand that slew Baldr. He’d tricked the guy’s brother into it, and the poor rube had paid the price.

  Blood for blood, over and over and over again.

  Except Forseti is holding the spear, and sometimes blood is paid in gold, too.

  Forseti knows that as well as I do, and he holds the weapon out. “You know what this is.” It’s not a question. “After Ragnarøkkr, many of our greatest treasures vanished from the dead hands of those who once held them close. Long have we searched for the thief who took them. And now we have him, yes?”

  When I grin, stitches pull against dark lips. “What Loki giveth, he can also taketh away.” I paid for those things, in blood and cunning. If Ásgarðr wants them back, they owe me.

  Forseti doesn’t see it the same way. “We want Mjölnir,” he says. “In exchange, instead of death, you will be declared útlagi and exiled.”

  The word means out-law, and its interpretation is literal. When a killing is no longer murder, exclusion from the law may as well be its own death sentence.

  So I scoff. “And the next time one of Thor’s brats feels like hunting jötnar, I guess that leaves me first on the big game scorecard. Death now or death later. You’ve gotta bring more to the table than that.”

  Forseti scowls. “You are in no position to bargain.”

  “Right, right,” I say. “That’s why you’re not standing in my cell right now doing just that. Stress-induced hallucination. My therapist tells me to avoid situations that trigger the ol’ cleithrophobia.” I raise my hands, indicating the shackles, since I’m deliberately speaking English, not Ancient Viking God, and I’m pretty sure Forseti’s not down with the term.

  Gods can understand human languages, more or less. But it’s the less where idiom and jargon lies.

  Forseti doesn’t quite snarl, but his next words have a lot of teeth behind them all the same. “Do not leave Midgarðr and we will not chase you,” he says.

  “Make it non-entry into this shitheap realm instead and you’ve got yourself a deal.” At Forseti’s narrowed glare I add, “I’ve got family. Visiting would be nice.”

  “Ásgarðr, Vanaheimr, and Álfheimr,” he counters. “If the draugar and the þursar will have you, we will not save them from their folly.”

  I grin, teeth sharp and bright in the dark. Better zombies and monsters than puffed-up, self-righteous wankers. “Deal,” I say. “I take you to the hammer, you let me go, and we all pretend like none of this ever happened. Simple.” As if it was ever that easy. I see the way Forseti’s fingers clench around Gungnir’s haft, see the lust glinting in his eye. I know that look from the kid’s grandfather. That look craves power, whatever form it takes. Odin’s poison was secrets, and he doomed all of Ásgarðr chasing them.

  Forseti nods, just once, the controlled gesture of someone who doesn’t trust himself to react with something more honest. “Agreed,” he said. “I will return.” And he turns to go.

  The room isn’t very large. Forseti takes one step, then two. Then:

  “Hey, mate.”

  Forseti half turns, one hand on the doorframe, the other on Gungnir. “No tricks, beast,” he says.

  “Too late for that,” I say, slumping against the wall and sliding my back dow
n the stone until I’m sitting on the ground. “But not in the way you’re thinking.”

  “Speak. Quickly.”

  “I can lead you to Mjölnir, no problem. ’Cause you’re right. I took it, I hid it, and I can get it back.” I steeple my fingers, blind eyes peering over the top in the gloom. “But even if you can get to it, you’ve still gotta lift the damn thing. And even if you can lift it, you’ve still gotta wield it.”

  Forseti turns back to face me, eyes narrowed and lips thin. “Magni is Thor’s heir. He is every bit his father’s equal.”

  “Doubt it,” I say, on both counts. Thor’s got three kids, Magni is the middle child. And from what I’ve seen so far, the brat’s got miles to go before he lives up to the family name. “But lucky he doesn’t have to, assuming he’s got the right kit. Mjölnir wasn’t the only thing I took from Thor’s chewed-up corpse.”

  It takes Forseti a moment, but he remembers. “Megingjörð and Járngreipr.”

  I nod. Thor’s magic belt and gauntlets, respectively. “I’m not gonna stop you or Magni or whoever the hell else from trying to wield Mjölnir without them. But I’m not gonna stand too close while it happens, either.”

  “Then you will take us to these things, too.”

  I shrug, chains clinking as I do. “Sure,” I say, enjoying Forseti’s suspicion at the acquiescence. “But it’s still not gonna help you, unless you’re on friendly terms with the dvergar.”

  This was the trick, also known as the insurance policy. The hammer I hid, but the things someone would need to wield it? Those I gave away. To exactly the sorts of assholes who’ll be the least likely to give them back.

  “I’m sure”—Forseti’s expression twists into something unpleasant—“negotiating with the dvergar will not inconvenience you greatly.”

  “I can steal your shit back for you, if that’s what you’re implying,” I say, setting up the bait. “I mean, that’s what your grandfather would’ve done.”

  That gets a reaction, Forseti taking a half step forward, hands clenching around Gungnir. “You accuse me of dishonor.”

  “Uh, duh?” I roll my eyes. “You’re blackmailing a thief into taking something that doesn’t belong to you, from people who’ve done nothing to you, on pain of death if he doesn’t. But make whatever excuses you need to sleep at night, see if I care.”

  Forseti sneers, pretty face crumpling like the discarded paper from an unwrapped present. “If the dvegar hold that which is Ásgarðr’s by right, they will return it.”

  “Look,” I say, “Megingjörð and Járngreipr are big deals, we both know that. They’re symbols. Ásgarðr can get them back by force or by guile, easy. But if you’re doing the whole holier-than-thou honor bullshit, then a fair trade is your only option. Plus, it’s something Odin would never have stooped to. What better way to send a message that there’s been a change of management?”

  It’s easy. So. Fucking. Easy. Because just who does Forseti think he is? Some trumped-up little provincial asshole, wanting to play at the grown-ups’ table. He can talk about honor and níð and justice all he wants, but me? I’m CEO, bitch. Five of these meetings before lunchtime is a lazy morning, back where I’m from.

  Forseti caves, because of course he does, so filled with the ache to forge his own legacy, away from his father’s bright light and his grandfather’s shadow. It’s not like I’ve got zero sympathy for the kid; he’s kinda sorta nearly my son, after all, even if he’d never claim it.

  Forseti takes half a step forward, head tilted. “You have a plan,” he says.

  “Of course,” I reply, waving one rough-nailed claw. “It won’t even cost you that much in trade, and may work out even sweeter in the long run.”

  “Name it.”

  I say one single word: Þrúðr.

  For a while, Forseti says nothing. He knows what that word means, what I’m implying with it. He pretends to think it over, to weigh the costs. But he’s already made up his mind. Men like him always do.

  “I will have words with Magni,” he says. “And we will see.”

  My jaw aches and my wings itch, and I know I’ve got him. Hook, line, and sinker.

  “You do that,” I say, leaning back into the shadow.

  Chapter 4

  Wayne made the tea. Some concoction of chili and cinnamon and ginger, because she was an incorrigible beverage hipster who kept an alchemist’s lab of equipment next to the cash register.

  Sigmund considered the wisdom of consuming anything found inside a Helbleed, but didn’t want to say as much in front of the lady herself. It seemed rude.

  “You know of my death at Father’s hands.” Speaking of, Hel was standing, straight and proud, between a shelf of crumbling Tintin and a display of oozing plastic Daleks.

  “Uh, yeah . . . kinda? He mentioned some stuff.” Honestly, between Loki and Baldr and Lain and gods only knew who else, the whole Helbleed/Ragnarøkkr thing had been bloody confusing.

  Hel “sipped” her tea, which mostly involved delicately pouring it onto her tongue, what with the lack of lips and all. She was pretty good at it, especially given the huge sleeves that covered her hands like the world’s most ill-fitting pair of gloves.

  “We met in battle,” she said. “While he wore the crown of Ásgarðr. It was an honorable death.”

  “Are you . . . er . . .”

  Another shift that may have been a smile. “Yes,” Hel said. “I am now as my subjects are.”

  Dead, in other words. “Oh. Right, um . . . my condolences?”

  “But you died a warrior’s death.” Em was sitting up on the counter, eyes fixed on Hel like a fangirl at a photo op. “That means you aren’t like your subjects at all, right?”

  “Em!” hissed Wayne, shooting a pointed look. But if the question was rude, Hel didn’t mention it. Instead, she nodded.

  “Correct.”

  “And that’s why you want our help.” Em was leaning forward, grinning and eager. Hungry, in some way Sigmund had never seen before. “Because we’re valkyries. Were valkyries, whatever. And you need an escort. To Valhalla.”

  “Valhöll was destroyed,” Hel said. “Brimir and Gimlé replace it, to the same end. As one slain in battle, as einheri, I have right of place. And I will claim it. For myself, and for my people.”

  “What happens to Hel happens to Hel?”

  Because Hel was a woman, but it was also a place: both the ruler and the land. And what happened to the Queen . . .

  “You want equality for the dead.” It wasn’t a question, and it occurred to Sigmund that Hel really was her father’s daughter. She’d used him, set him up on this longest of cons.

  A flash of memory, bubbling to the surface: of Hel and Sigyn, heads close and murmuring in hushed voices. Making conspiracies, rewriting the Ragnarøkkr and everything that came after.

  Here, in the now, Hel nodded, the motion punctuated by the chiming of gold baubles hanging from her horns and the fringes of her veil. “Ragnarøkkr is done, and Ásgarðr no longer needs its army. Even the dead deserve their peace, deserve to be reunited with family split from them by circumstance and the hubris of fallen gods.”

  Dad goes a-Viking, falls to Saxons in a raid. Boom, one-way ticket to Valhöll, to die endlessly in a hellish celestial Blackwater. Mum, meanwhile, spends the next fifteen years looking after the kids, coughs herself into an early grave, and wakes up in Hel’s cold lands. No kids, no spouse. It was cruel, when Sigmund thought of it like that.

  He wondered why no one else ever seemed to. No one except for Hel, that was.

  “So, like. What do you need from us?” Wayne was leaning over the counter, tea forgotten and eyes as bright as Em’s. Whatever Hel’s plan, they’d already signed on. The only things left were the details.

  “An escort, as you say,” Hel replied. “To the gates of Ásgarðr.” She turned to Sigmund. “And an escort inside.”

  He blinked. “Me?”

  “Odin is dead.” Hel, Sigmund thought, did not sound mournful for thi
s fact. “And it is possible his successors may not honor his oaths to the valkyrjur. But you are ásynja. By right, they cannot deny you entry to the realm.”

  “Sigyn was the goddess,” Sigmund pointed out. “Not me.”

  “Dude!” Em snapped. Even Wayne looked disappointed. It wasn’t like Sigmund wanted to be the wet blanket on the cool plan to bring social justice to the dead, but . . . Well. He also didn’t want to be the reason it failed, if some Asgardian gate guard took one look at his claim to divinity and laughed him off the Bifröst.

  Hel tilted her head, the exposed sinew around her back teeth flexing in that maybe-smile. “You, bearer of father’s burden, who bought victory with the blood of Ásgarðr’s king? Forgive me, but all will know you. If they make pretense not to it is that alone: pretense. Do not allow them such disrespect.”

  “Oh,” said Sigmund, feeling small and foolish. Hel meant it kindly (probably), but as far as Sigmund could tell, she was still describing Sigyn, not him.

  “Well, we’re in,” came Em’s voice, while Sigmund was still busy studying the rips in his jeans. “C’mon, bro. We need you, too.”

  “I’m in,” Sigmund told his knees. “Of course I’m in. Always.” He looked up and gave Em his best smile, trying not to feel the worms crawling in his gut or the creeping decay flaking in the corners of his vision.

  “Awesome,” Em said, offering a brofist.

  Sigmund returned it, earning a cheer of, “Woot! Adventure time!” from Wayne as he did.

  His friends believed in him. So, apparently, did the goddess of death. When he turned back to look at her, Hel was regarding him, head tilted slightly to the side. Gravity shifting the fabric of her veil, leaving one thin sliver of smooth, soft, pale-skinned cheek exposed.

  Sigmund looked away, trying not to feel like a creep or a perv.

  “So,” he said instead. “Um . . . when do we leave?”

  Hel gave them the afternoon, vanishing from the shop in a cloud of dust and black feathers, leaving the three of them blinking and standing in among a group of guys discussing who would win a fight between Batwoman and Power Girl.