Stormbringer

by Alis Franklin

  “And mine, also.” Uni sounded strained, like the confession was being mined from him by pick axes.

  “Uni!” Þrúðr hissed, elbowing Uni in the side, still fuming at Valdís across the table.

  “No, Þrúðr. They . . . they should know. It is part of things.” He turned to Sigmund. “Your warriors have our village. We have children here, the old and those tasked with the care of both. Our own warriors deserted us, I assume you have seen this?” Sigmund nodded, and Uni continued, “They left just after Þrúðr’s brothers, not on the same transport. My brother was among them and yet I do not know wherefore they went. Tóki’s father tells me that, just before he left, Tóki spent all night working the forges. We do not know what he made, but we do know he was visited by your husband. A servant reported hearing a noise as they spoke. Like a crack of thunder, but from inside. I do not know what made it.”

  Sigmund scowled. “A ‘crack of thunder’?” From Lain? Lain did fire, not lightning. And fire didn’t tend to boom.

  “Yes,” Uni said. “Neither my brother nor your husband appeared harmed. Nor was there any indication of violence in the room where they had met. Nothing out of place.” Uni paused. Þrúðr’s fists were balled right enough to send her knuckles white. Sigmund could feel the punch line.

  And what Uni said was:

  “Nothing was out of place in the room, but for a single shield, removed from the wall and left upon the table. A single hole had been drilled through the center.”

  A sound like thunder, a single hole. Sigmund got a sinking feeling.

  “Tell me,” he said. “On the wall, where the shield should’ve been. There was a hole there, too. Right?”

  Uni nodded, crystalline brows folded into concern. “Yes. Through dvergr steel and stone. Solid.”

  Lain had slighted the craftsmanship of an entire species. Awesome.

  “And in the hole, there was a bit of metal?”—a nod from Uni—“and you’re thinking, What sort of magic can put such a tiny thing through such solid stuff?” Sigmund sighed, closing his eyes and feeding through his memory. “So, okay. One more question: If I say the words sulphur, charcoal, and saltpetre to you, what comes to mind?”

  Uni scowled. “I do not understand,” he said. “We have these things, but . . .” He trailed off.

  Sigmund opened his eyes, trying to ignore the stormy churn in his gut. “I think I know what Loki’s doing”—it had to be Loki, if only for the fact Lain couldn’t put a bullet through the broad side of the LB building, let alone dead center of a shield—“and, people, we are all so, so fucked.”

  Lain was fucking insane. Sigmund couldn’t think of any other explanation. Delirious with fear and pain, stuffed back into the Lokibox he’d spent so long trying to claw out of. The box Sigyn had died to keep him out of, rewriting a new story for them both that didn’t involve . . . this. Her husband getting dragged around in chains, beaten into making one shitty decision after another.

  It was, Sigmund knew, easy to fall back into old habits. And Lain had. Hard.

  Meanwhile, Sigmund was furious. At Lain, mostly. Fucking arms dealing. Fuck. Mjölnir to Ásgarðr and fucking gunpowder to the dvergr. The Tree was on the brink of war, and Lain was dragging it there, kicking and screaming and crying persecution all the way.

  He’d be crying more than that when Sigmund was done with him.

  (“will you rage next at fire for being hot?”)

  (fire is hot, that doesn’t mean we don’t put it out when it’s fucking burning everybody)

  Lain and Thor’s kids had left by boat. So had Uni’s brother, and so, not very long after, was Sigmund. Plus Sleipnir and Valdís and Eisa, plus their þursar army, plus Uni and Þrúðr. The latter had declared her intent to come with a raised chin and sharp defiance, as if expecting to be denied. Valdís growled a little, but that’d been the only objection.

  Then they were off, Brokkr eyeing them from the shore. He hadn’t wanted Uni to go, and the two dvergar had stood on the shore flashing lights at each other long enough for Sigmund to realize they’d been having a conversation. In the end, Uni had stepped onto the boat, but he’d also given Sigmund a very, very dirty look. Sigmund tried not to shift or feel queasy, failing quite miserably on both accounts, especially as the boat pushed off from the pier.

  Apparently, even underground lakes made Sigmund seasick.

  He sat down on the deck, closed his eyes, and tried not to throw up.

  The sea was big, and dark, and vast. And beautiful, too, in its own creepy, bioluminescent way. Sigmund forced his way through the nausea to take photographs for Em and Wayne. Maybe they could set part of their new game here? Or at least in some place that looked similar, an endless flowing black broken only by the reflections of glimmering stars and the occasional fin or eye from something vast and awful, hidden down below.

  Actually, if Em wanted to do something in space, that could totally work.

  They got to the shore sometime between Sigmund’s photography spree and the point whereby his nausea was truly making itself known. One minute they were on the water, the next the bottom of the boat was scraping against solid ground. They jumped out into the shallows, wading up onto a dark beach made of stone and shale. Then past that and up a tunnel, long and low and, Christ, Lain wasn’t exactly a fan of dark, underground places. Sigmund’s heart ached, but that was nothing new. He was still pissed off, but he loved Lain. Thinking about him being scared, and hurt, and alone was . . . not fun.

  Neither was trudging their way through some dark and slippery cave. Sleipnir had it worst; he was not designed for this sort of thing, particularly in the places where he ended up taller than the ceiling. Sigmund and Valdís and Eisa helped him, guiding him through small gaps and catching him when he stumbled, air snorting out between his teeth in what would’ve been a startled cry, if he’d had a voice.

  When the cave widened, Sigmund wasn’t the only one who sagged with relief.

  Nor was he the only one who was glad to see an electric light; if Sleipnir could’ve offered a brofist, Sigmund was sure he would’ve done so. As it was, they shared knowing glances, and for the first time in a while—maybe since he’d first seen Hel—something in Sigmund’s step felt lighter.

  He’d flown with a dragon, walked with the dead, bathed with the gods, galloped through an enchanted forest, been held prisoner by giants, and gone sailing with the dwarfs. Even so, nothing, nothing felt as good as stepping out of a fucking cave and seeing gum trees.

  Gum trees and a kangaroo, watching them from beneath a sky brighter and bluer and somehow wider than any other Sigmund had ever seen.

  Australia.

  He was home.

  Sure, he was trailing nearly two dozen giants, a goddess, and a dwarf, but he was—

  —reaching into his belt pouch, grabbing his fast-vibrating phone.

  A million messages. Mostly Facebook updates, but Sigmund nearly cried to see them. His phone! Truly civilization was here at last!

  A million messages, and one voicemail, number unknown. He dialed to check it, mindlessly following along behind the rest of the group, listening to the synthetic voice say, “You have. One. New. Voice message” in its on-off staccato drone.

  Then a beep. And Sigmund’s message played.

  It took people a while to realize he wasn’t following. Sigmund only noticed when Eisa shook him on the shoulder, calling his name.

  He startled, enough to drop his phone onto the grass, and he lunged after it, too-sweaty fingers leaving smears across the screen.

  (oh Jesus no oh Christ oh Jesus oh)

  It hadn’t been Lain’s voice, at least not one Sigmund recognized. Not Lain’s voice, not Lain’s number.

  But Sigmund had recognized the breathless way it managed to call out between its agony.

  “Sigga!”

  “—t’s wrong?”

  Sigmund looked up. Into Eisa’s wide green eyes. Eisa and Valdís and Sleipnir, all gathered around, worried for the wrong parent.


  Sigmund swallowed, throat suddenly like sandpaper. “I—I need to make a call” was all he managed.

  He got through on the second try.

  “What?”

  “M-Ms. Arin?”

  “Yes. Speak.”

  “T-this is Si-igmund. Sigmund Su-ussman, I—”

  “I know. I said speak. Why are you calling? Where is Hale?”

  Nicole Arin, VP of LB, Inc., and a god in her own right. Sigmund didn’t believe in prayer, but he did know how to name-drop to the switchboard, and he was really, really hoping Arin was . . . what he thought she was.

  “I-I need your help,” he said. “I’m in.” He looked around. “Actually, I don’t know where I—”

  “About a hundred and fifty kilometers southwest of Sydney.” Sigmund could practically feel the razors in Arin’s voice. Everything about Arin was razors, from her voice to her haircut to her suit. He liked her, but Jesus, she was scary.

  But if she knew where he was, that meant she could help. He hoped.

  “I need you to trace a call.” When he looked up, an entire ring of eyes watched him. Somewhere, in the background, tourists walked blithely around the grass, oblivious to the collection of monsters in their midst. “The last call to this phone,” Sigmund added. “I need to know where it was made from.”

  Silence on the end of the line, then:

  “Welby. Around sixty kilometers to the east. From the phone of one Eva Juric.”

  The name meat nothing, but at least Sigmund had a direction. And Arin, apparently, didn’t ask a lot of questions.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I just . . . I think La—Travis is in trouble.”

  A burst of static that, if Sigmund didn’t know better, he’d say was a sigh. “When is he not? Are we done?”

  “Yeah. Um. Thank you?”

  But the line had already gone dead.

  Sigmund put the phone back into his belt pouch, suddenly highly aware of just how itchy wool was under the Australian sun.

  “I know where we’re headed,” he said, scanning his eyes across the crowd. “We just. Um. We just need to, uh. To . . . get there?”

  Sixty kilometers. Jesus. That was a—what? Three-day walk? Sigmund had done twenty in one single miserable day back in high school. Said “fun run,” quote-unquote, had not only not been as advertised, but had left Sigmund wrecked for weeks afterward. Now he was supposed to do three times that, with an army following behind and Lain screaming in pain up ahead and—

  From behind, Sigmund heard the roar of an engine and the blare of a horn. Not a car horn. Something bigger.

  Sigmund jumped and turned. Behind him loomed an enormous tour bus in black and chrome, no makers badging bar a single skull on the front. Almost a horse, but not quite.

  “Well,” said Sigmund. “That solves that problem.”

  He decided not to look gift coaches in the mouth.

  Chapter 22

  In the end, it was always going to come down to this. A betrayal. Not mine, even. At least, not exactly.

  I feel the magic, thrumming down my horns and into my bones. Runes bending the Wyrd, folding space and time, air around us blurring, then solidifying. Turning from ionized gas into the four-foot-tall, armor-clad shapes of two score dvergar.

  No prizes for guessing who’s at the head.

  I’m not surprised by our sudden company, but Magni and Móði are. From the ground, Móði drops into a combat stance, hands raised and the edge of runes dancing on his tongue. From above, on the pillars, Magni goes to pick up Mjölnir.

  “I would not, if I were you.” From the throng of his army, Tóki steps forth.

  “Dvergr!” Móði never did quite get the notion of people preferring to be referred to by their names. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Step away from the hammer, little godling,” Tóki says. “It belongs to the dvergar, you will not have it.”

  Móði looks to me and he looks to Tóki. Then to the army, surrounding us on every side. His eyes go wide, and I feel the beginning edges of suspicion begin to fray.

  “We had a deal, dvergr.” Magni does not share his brother’s hesitation. “We have no quarrel with you, but you cannot have Mjölnir. Nor can you hope to defeat me when I wield it, no matter your numbers.” His gauntlets close around the haft, hefting it upward. All around us, lighting snakes across the heavens.

  Tóki’s rock-stiff lips crack into the grimace that passes for his smile. “Before you do this,” he says, “perhaps you should ask your ‘bondsman’ if he thinks it wise.”

  Magni’s eyes shift to me, taking in my relaxed stance and utter lack of surprise over our new company. “Jötunn,” he snarls. “If you have betrayed us—”

  “Oh fuck off!” I’ve had enough. Really, truly enough. “‘If I’ve betrayed you’? Of course I fucking have, you brainless piece of shit. Just who do you think I am?” Dragging me across the fucking Realms like a fucking pet. Beaten and chained and tortured.

  Magni roars, hefting his new prize. “Then your blood will be the first to spill!”

  “Come at me!” I snarl, every feather on my body fluffing out, pulled by the static charge Magni’s rage is building in Mjölnir’s metal. “Do it! It’s what you want, isn’t it? To spill the blood of jötnar? To have everyone think you worthy to pick up your father’s bloody banner?”

  Magni roars, arm raised, ready to loose the storm, when Móði says, “Brother, no! He goads you! Look to the dvergr instead. His hands, brother. Look at what he holds!”

  Magni hesitates, just enough. Just enough to take one look at Tóki.

  Tóki, who holds Járngreipr in his stumpy paws.

  Magni looks down at his own hands, to where his fingers are stuffed inside the exact same set of gauntlets. He hesitates.

  “What’s wrong, tough guy?” I snarl. “I’m still waiting for my smiting. Show me what a true son of Thor can do!”

  Móði, ever the clever brother, has turned to Tóki. “What betrayal is this?” he demands.

  “Your pet came to me,” Tóki says. “Offering wicked deals in exchange for its freedom. It would have me forge a new pair of gauntlets for Mjölnir’s wielding. False ones, ones not woven with the true runes of Járngreipr.” He gestures to the gloves in his hands. “The true gauntlets are with me. And you will not have them.”

  Móði’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open as he turns to me with “Why?”

  I don’t even deign him with an answer. If the self-righteous piece of shit can’t figure it out himself, then he doesn’t deserve to know.

  Instead, I pull the memory of a cigarette from nowhere, light it, and take a long and satisfying drag. My mind is thinking contracts and connections, steel and industry and the taste of home, when I hear Tóki say.

  “Now die, æsir thieves! For the honor of Niðavellir!”

  I stop. “Woah. Wait, Tóki. What are you doing?”

  Tóki snarls. “Silence, jötunn cur! You will die with them.”

  All of a sudden, the guys surrounding us are looking significantly more armed.

  “This wasn’t the deal, kid.”

  Tóki laughs. “I make no deals with oath-breaking scum like you. I am no fool like my uncle was. He sought to please Ásgarðr in his vanity and received nothing for his labor! For my father’s labor. Today, I redress this wrong. Take back some of what was once stolen from us, and take blood in payment for the rest.”

  Oh.

  Shit.

  “Brokkr made a fucking deal. It was fair, and he lost. Don’t fucking pin his vanity on me!”

  “Why would I need to? Father told me of the fly that broke his concentration on the forge. All know it to have been you, liar and cheat. There was no fair deal. Ásgarðr got what it always did, bleeding the Realms dry for its amusement. Because of your tricks, Mjölnir’s forging was imperfect. Now may you choke on the justice of your own demise! Kill them all! For Niðavellir.”

  Like I said: It was always going to come down to this. A betrayal. The o
nly thing ever really in question was whose it was gonna be.

  A thousand years ago, a fly bit at a dvergr as he worked the bellows of a forge. Because of this, the handle of the hammer he was forging was made too short. Because the handle was too short, it wasn’t enough to ground the lightning called by the runes forged into the hammer’s head. Anyone trying to do so would be fried. And because of that, a separate set of gloves were forged. To protect the hammer’s wielder.

  So. Here we are. In the place where, it turns out, irony is not just a descriptor of Mjölnir’s metal.

  As one, the dvergar howl, lunging forward with weapons raised. I take a step back, cigarette falling from my lips, winding up shoulder-to-shoulder with Móði, who growls, “See the price of your betrayal!”

  “Fuck you!” I snarl.

  Then the dvergar are upon us and there’s no more room for talking.

  Forty versus three. Skewed odds, but I’ve had worse.

  I also have a secret, and it’s time to fess up.

  A dvergr lunges at me with an ax and I roll sideways in a flash of feathers, leaving a line of flames in my wake. He steps around them, coming at me again even as ten of his fellows close in from all around. I have fractions of a second before they hit and, in the space between two breaths, I reach inside. Down beneath muscle and flesh and scars, to where a golden heart beats beneath the surface. Burning with the glory and the fury of the sun, and I crack it open and call it do—

  Pain explodes on the side of my head, the world going dark as I fly sideways from the impact, trailing streamers of noxious blood. When I hit the ground I roll, over and over, feeling things snap until I finally come to a stop by hitting something hard and armored that goes “Oof!”

  My head is still ringing. A morning star, maybe, my thick skull saved only by my horns.

  Of course, I need my horns to see and do magic. But hey. What use are either of those things on a battlefield?