I bite back my grin and say instead, “Am I walking, then?”
“The fourth mount is yours,” Forseti says. “This journey is not mine to make. You will bring Magni and Móði to where they need to go and perform for them any task they do desire. You know the consequences if you do not.”
“Yeah yeah, more things for the email to Safe Work Australia, I got it.” As we approach the woman, I give a grin. “Þrúðr,” I say.
She huffs, refusing to meet my eye.
Þrúðr, Thor’s eldest and only daughter. She takes after her mother more than she does her father, fine-skinned and long-limbed, curvy in sought-after places, with rich red lips and hair of shimmering gold. Literally shimmering gold, because divine genetics are strange things.
She’s also, currently, stiff-backed, with her chin held high and red rings around her eyes, and I’m not the only one whose gaze she refuses to meet.
We mount up. My horse ends up being a cantankerous stallion more suited to hauling logs than carrying riders. There’s nothing below my waist that’s remotely suited to a saddle, so I spend some time fixing tack as appropriate. While I do so, Magni leers at me from atop his own mount and says:
“We couldn’t find you a gelding. So you’ll have to control your lusts yourself.”
I don’t even bother looking up. After the first hundred years the taunt gets kinda old. Besides, right now? It might even be useful.
“Fortunately for me,” I say, “Odin isn’t here to whore me out to buy his trinkets. And I doubt I have the right”—and here I glance at Þrúðr—“virtues to be worried you’ll be interested in the same.”
Þrúðr’s fingers tighten against her horse’s reins, her neck going a delightful, angry red. She still won’t look at me or at her brothers, for all Móði keeps trying to catch her eye.
Meanwhile, Magni’s busy growling in my direction, holding up his tattooed palm in threat. “Have care how you speak, níðingr. Your shame is yours and yours alone.”
I shrug, dumping the unbuckled saddle on the ground and swinging myself up onto my horse. I hope I remember how to ride. Bareback, even. In handcuffs. Jesus, but it’s been a while, and never in these metaphorical lack of shoes.
The horse rolls its eyes and stomps, unsure of what strange new thing is sitting on its back. I try to arrange myself in such a way that I won’t gut it with my claws or choke it on the chain Magni has attached to his own saddle. It’s awkward and ungainly and stupid, and Magni laughs at my efforts, tugging on the leash as soon as I’m settled, lurching me forward and causing my already nervous horse to buck and roll its eyes.
“Woah, there, Gluestick,” I say, trying to both calm it and ignore Magni in the same action.
From my left, I hear Móði say, “Brother, enough.” Magni mutters something under his breath, but the chain goes slack.
The next time I think to notice, I catch Þrúðr regarding me with large, mournful eyes.
There’s no parade as we ride out of Ásgarðr. No cheering crowds or saluting einherjar or maidens throwing flowers at our feet. Instead, it’s just us and the horses, slinking out one of Ásgarðr’s back roads. Even Forseti gives up watching our exit after we round the first corner.
“Not much of a send-off, is it? Man, last time I went off chasing Mjölnir, it was with your dad. I think every last living thing in Ásgarðr was there to watch us go. ’Course, that could’ve been ’cause your old man was dressed up like Freyja at the time. Such a pretty dress. The veil really compliment—”
“Silence!” Magni holds up his hand in threat. I sigh dramatically.
“You kids didn’t inherit his sense of humor, that’s for sure.”
“He was taken from us far too soon,” Móði says, shooting a glare my way. “Someone made sure of that.”
As if the Ragnarøkkr was my fucking fault! Well. Whatever. Arguing that one’s been a lost cause for centuries, no need to flog a captured jötunn any more than he’s already been.
Instead, this captured jötunn decides to enjoy the sunshine. The fresh air and cool breeze. Distant laughter and the gentle sound of rustling leaves. Even with all of that, there’s an almost eerie silence lurking in the gaps. Because, for all its beauty, Ásgarðr is a tiny country town. An exclusive seven-star resort located on its very own private island, away from cars and trains and planes and even the eternal hum of bare electric lines. Beautiful, but desolate, too. A hollow void beneath a veneer of lush green and dappled gold.
I’m not used to this, not anymore. Not after nearly a century spent lurking at the heart of a human metropolis, a gyre pulling thousands of souls into its depths. Pandemonium is concrete and steel and smog, the endless narrative of three hundred thousand mortal lives, of dreams whispered down wires of copper and of glass. That’s my home, now, the messy chaos of Travis Hale, of Lokabrenna. Not the wilds and silence of Ásgarðr.
Maybe the mortals are right. Maybe you really can’t go home.
Somewhere, overhead, a single raven watches from the sky. Down here, on the ground, Gluestick twitches as the tips of my own clipped wings ghost against his flank.
We ride until sunset.
Time moves differently here, in the Outyards. Directed more by the ebb and flow of narrative than by the steady heartbeat of reality.
Still. It’s a long ride, and by the time Sól’s daughter kisses the horizon, my back aches and my ass itches from Gluestick’s coat. Because, yeah. I’m kinda allergic to horses, go figure. Through clothes and tack it’s not so bad, but a day’s worth of skin and feather leaves me miserable, cursing Forseti and Magni and Móði and whichever one it was who took shears to my wings.
Maybe next time I’ll cut their fucking toes off, see how they like being hobbled. Assholes.
We make camp by the side of the road, next to a huge runestone that marks the border between Ásgarðr and the lands beyond. Ahead, the road becomes rougher, blurred by grass and bramble. Tomorrow we’ll hit the Myrkviðr, which is—as its more pop-culture familiar name of Murkwood suggests—a great big dirty, scary forest. This is þurs country, sort of the rural redneck versions of the jötnar. That doesn’t mean they’ll appreciate me passing through their lands, and they’ll like Magni and Móði even less.
Þrúðr they’ll probably just want to marry. Whether that’s a problem or not is up for her to decide, I guess.
Magni and Móði assemble a fire ; Þrúðr rummages in her saddlebags for food. I stand around and lament the good ol’ days, traveling in Thor’s chariot by day and feasting on his fresh-slaughtered goats by night. I wonder what happened to those regenerating goats? Probably eaten by Jörmungandr, just like their owner.
“Oi, jötunn!”
“Lain,” I say, turning to where Magni is crouched in front of the unlit fire. “My name’s Lain.”
“Jötunn,” he repeats. “Light this.” A gesture toward the haphazard pile of sticks.
I echo it with my own gesture, rattling my manacles and lifting my chin to expose my collar. “With what, exactly?”
“Brother, he is—”
But Magni has no time for the reason of his soft-spoken sibling. Instead, he scoffs and rolls his eyes, reaching into pocket in his tunic and throwing something at my feet. A small loop of metal, and it’s been so long since I’ve seen one, it takes me a few moments to recognize it as a fire steel.
Jesus H. Christ, why was everything in the tenth century so fucking difficult? Where’s a fucking Zippo lighter when you fucking need one?
I don’t bend down to pick up the device. I don’t even look at it, instead just raise a brow.
“Light your own fucking fire,” I say. Somewhere to the side, I can feel Þrúðr and Móði hold their breath.
Magni stands. He’s not quite taller than me, but he’s closer than any æsir should be. “Light. The. Fire,” he says.
“Brother, perhaps—” Þrúðr starts, but a raised hand makes her fall silent.
“Do not forget your place, jötunn,” Magni growls. �
�Níðingr and útlagi. You will do as you are commanded.”
I roll my eyes, turning back to fiddle with Gluestick’s bridle. “I’m ‘commanded’ to help you retrieve your daddy’s lost property, which I’m doing. And lighting a fire won’t help with the name calling.” I tug on Gluestick’s reins, leading it toward the runestone. We’re not the first to use this as a camp, and some kind soul has drilled an enormous iron ring into the rock.
I get about three feet before I hear a clink of metal, which turns out to be my only warning as I’m jerked backward by my own leash so violently I end up sprawled across the grass.
Both Þrúðr and Móði cry for their brother to stop, and Gluestick bucks and whinnies, but Magni ignores them all. A moment later, I’m hauled to my feet by a fist wrapped through my collar.
“Do not tempt me, níðingr,” he says. “Obey, and I will be merciful.”
Not two paces behind their brother, Magni’s siblings clutch each other, eyes wide. The sight of it pulls the stitches in my lips and sends a grin crawling across my face.
“Mate,” I say, “how about you lick my feathery jötunn cloaca instead, huh?”
Magni doesn’t know the word, but after a moment he processes the sentiment.
He lets me go with a shove that sends me stumbling. The last thing I hear is the sound of him spitting. Then things get hazy for a while.
In the end, the fire does get lit. And moral victory never felt so painful.
I spend the rest of the night sulking behind the runestone, with the horses. Tied to the same iron ring, in fact. My nose itches, I have a rash, and my throat is dry and scratchy from the screaming.
All in all, I’ve had better days.
It’s almost worth it to hear the cold silence Magni’s siblings give him in return. There’s a dynamic there I can use. Þrúðr, the eldest, but a daughter, limited in power. Magni, the middle child aching to fill his father’s enormous boots. And Móði, youngest and heir to nothing. So many cracks just waiting for a set of clever fingers to prise them all apart.
In the meantime, however, I’m itchy, bored, and hungry. I rest my back on the rock and close my eyes, wishing I had my phone or a book or Sigmund with me to pass the time. Hell, even that stack of financial reports I’ve been avoiding for a few weeks would be an improvement, and in the end I combine these tangents into a nice scenario involving Sigmund blowing me covertly under the desk while I present the latest P&L statements to the board.
As night falls, the Thunderbrats work out a watch schedule. We’re still technically in Ásgarðr, but I guess they’re worried about yours truly more than raids from across the border, which is why I don’t bother mentioning I don’t sleep.
Þrúðr offers to take first watch. Magni flat-out laughs at her for the suggestion, giving her the equivalent of Viking teasing over beauty sleep. She doesn’t speak again after that, just lies stiff and silent and furious on her blankets while Magni’s snores begin rumbling in yet another piss-poor attempt to emulate his father.
It’s not long after that I hear footsteps approaching through the grass.
“Lo—Lain?” Móði corrects the name as he approaches, and I open my eyes and fix him with their dimly glowing poison.
Móði’s holding a half-chewed loaf of bread and a blackened haunch of rabbit. He’s within grabbing distance, were that a thing I’d want to try.
“Food,” Móði adds when I say nothing. “For you. I . . .” He stops, visibly straightening himself and forcing the next words out with stronger voice. “We have a long ride ahead tomorrow. You must eat.”
I say nothing. Jesus, I’m hungry. But not enough to beg for scraps from Ásgarðr’s table. I’ll eat one of the horses in the night if I have to. Magni’s, probably.
Móði falters at my silence, just a little, and he puts the food down on the grass not too far from where I sit. “I will leave this here,” he says. “Eat.” The he turns to go.
I start counting down inside my head: One . . . Two . . . Thre—
Móði turns. “Lain,” he says. “Magni is . . . he is a good man, with much to live up to. But he has a temper. Do not provoke him and things will be easier for you. Do you understand?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
This time, I do my own countdown. Then:
“Good cop, bad cop.”
Móði turns. “What?”
I gesture, between the two of us. “Good cop, bad cop. That’s what the humans call this, in their sagas. You got two guys—the cops—and a prisoner. One cop is angry, aggressive. Maybe beats the prisoner around a little. Prisoner gets scared, feels desperate, whatever. Then Good Cop comes in, offers sympathy, kindness. Food.” One pointed look. “The prisoner cracks, babbles to the good cop in return for protection against the bad. Bingo, the cops get what they want. Problem solved. It’s called psychology.”
“‘Sálfræði’?” Móði tries out the word. Or the equivalent that he hears.
“Right,” I say. “And, see, here’s the thing. You can try all the Good Cop bullshit you want, but it’s not gonna work. You wanna fuckin’ know why?”
“Why?” Móði’s gentle façade is peeling back. Beneath it, he’s getting angry. Angry and scared, the stink leaking out of him like piss, all yellow and acid.
I lean forward, tilt my head down and my eyes up. “Because you wrote the fucking runes. Magni holds the whip, but you’re the one who cut the leather. Don’t think I’m gonna forget that just because you bring me some stale motherfucking bread. And don’t think I’m gonna forget you’ve turned your own sister into a whore for—”
“Enough!”
Móði’s voice isn’t loud, exactly, but he does back it up with a gesture that sends my head flying backward, cracking against the runestone hard enough to bleed.
“Enough!” Móði hisses again. “You were father’s friend once, and I have argued mercy for you on that account. Do not make me regret my kindness.”
When I laugh, blood dribbles from my lips. “And how fucking proud he’d be of both of you right now.”
Móði’s jaw works back and forth, teeth grinding. “Well,” he says after a moment. “Father was far from perfect. And never much renowned for his wisdom.” Then he’s gone, and that’s that.
Or, well. Not exactly. Because, just beyond the runestone, a second set of ears are listening, and by the Wyrdsight’s strange synesthesia I see a tiny shard of pain and sorrow chip away and into hope.
Chapter 6
Sigmund never did manage to figure out the logistics of their flight, not really. Because the Earth was round, and huge, and hung in the vast black void of space. Not to mention Sigmund had been on airplanes before and he knew—empirically knew—that everything above the clouds was cold and bright and empty.
It certainly wasn’t full of leaves. Or branches. Or . . . was that a herd of deer?
“Where the bloody hell are we?” he asked, hands gripping the edge of the gondola window as he peered out beyond Hrímgrímnir’s feathers.
“Passing between the boughs of the World Tree,” Hel replied.
“Oh. Right.”
The drop below was . . . long. Oddly, Sigmund wasn’t frightened of it. Yeah, falling would suck, but a dragon wasn’t an airplane. It was alive, and thinking, and it would catch them if they fell.
Maybe. Probably.
“Dooder, this is so cool,” Wayne was telling Em. “I’m filming it for you.” She was leaning halfway out of the gondola, phone held with both hands, trying to keep the camera steady as she pointed it alternately at their surroundings and the enormous dragon above them. “Oh!” she said, as if an idea had suddenly occurred. “I can upload this to YouTube!” She pulled herself back inside the gondola, eyes bright with excitement and phone pointed straight at Hel. “I can, right?”
Hel tilted her head, and Sigmund felt a stiffness in her. “You . . . Tube?”
But Wayne just said, “Oh! Right, duh, Wayne!” Then smacked her palm against her forehead, and proceeded to spend
the next fifteen minutes introducing Hel to modern technology.
Hel ended up with Wayne’s Flame in her hands, turning it over and over. Her sleeves made the touchscreen useless, so Sigmund helped with the button pressing.
“And this is . . . Father’s magic?” she asked.
“I guess,” said Sigmund. “I mean, he owns the company. Other people make the phones.”
“He just gives them the endless litany of uninspired product names.” Em still had her eyes closed, but she may have been peeking under her lashes. Just a little.
“So much has happened in Midgard,” Hel said, voice quiet and thoughtful. “The dead tell stories and bring strange grave goods. But the Realms have stayed separate for many years. When they turned from our worship, Odin outlawed travel among the humans, and was merciless with enforcing his decree.”
“Why?” Wayne asked. “That seems . . . counterproductive?”
Em scoffed. “To punish the puny mortals for their pride,” she said, voice exaggerated and arms miming divine wrath vigorously enough that Wayne had to dodge out of the way.
Hel just gave one of her cheek-twitching un-smiles. “Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps it was fear of Ragnarøkkr. If the humans told no more stories of our deeds, then his plots for the end could be no more disrupted.”
No more disrupted than Hel and Sigyn already had, Sigmund didn’t say. Instead, he looked back out the window. Far down below, the edge of the world curved like a too-close horizon, an endless waterfall plummeting into the void.
“Well,” Wayne was saying, “Odin’s dead and Ragnarok’s over. So you should come and visit Midgard more often.”
Hel looked at the phone in her hand once more, then returned it to Wayne. “Perhaps I shall,” she said.
The edge of the world was beautiful, if both scientifically nonsensical and difficult to talk near, what with the constant roaring crash of water dropping off into nowhere. Sigmund got his head and his glasses soaked from sticking them out of the gondola, trying to peer up underneath the world-plate. Hrímgrímnir’s presence turned the water to sleet and Sigmund was shivering by the time he pulled himself back inside. Frozen, but satisfied after catching a glimpse of the immense tangle of branches that made up Miðgarðr’s underside. Real fantasy special-effects stuff, but running on its own kind of illogical logic. A physical metaphor for the solar system, described by people without telescopes or complex mathematics or even basic literacy, for the most part. The models may have changed over the years, but the poetry was beautiful, whether it was song or numbers.
Stormbringer Page 8
