Stormbringer

by Alis Franklin

  “Oi. Kid. Don’t shoot.”

  Forseti scowled. Munin spoke the mortals’ tongue. Forseti trusted nothing that did.

  A flutter of black feathers, and Munin was sitting on the Wall.

  “Begone,” Forseti told it. “Ásgarðr has no place for you.”

  “Yeah yeah.” Munin hopped, beak open in its rictus avian grin. “But you might wanna hear this, first.”

  “There is nothing you can tell me I would want to know.” Forseti turned, took one step, then another.

  “Þrymheimr is massing warriors in the forest.”

  Forseti stopped. Þrymheimr, stronghold of the þurs. A brooding, malevolent presence sat far too close to Ásgarðr’s wall. As a boy, Forseti had thought it only suffered so that it could breed monsters to sate Thor’s thirst for hunting. Prideful folly. When Mjölnir was returned, Forseti would see Þrymheimr the first to fall beneath its thunder.

  “You lie.”

  “Send your own scouts if you don’t believe me. I’m sure that’ll turn out just as well as the last lot did.”

  First Magni and Móði, then the thief Loki’s wife. Then Ullr and his men. There had, Forseti thought, been far too many people entering the forest as of late. And only the latter had returned. Minus their quarry and, in the case of the einherjar, their lives.

  And, suddenly, on the top of the Wall, overlooking the Myrkviðr, Forseti saw it. Hel’s plan, to keep Ásgarðr weak and soft, looking over its front, sapping the will from its men, fomenting dissent inside its walls.

  Meanwhile, the þursar prepared to attack them from behind.

  Forseti felt Gungnir’s rune-scarred wood, cold beneath his hands. He turned to Munin. “Where are Magni and Móði?”

  The bird hop-skipped backward. “Oi oi oi. Say please.”

  “Tell me! Now!” Forseti slammed Gungnir down on the stone of the Wall. “You were grandfather’s spy. I am his heir, his oaths bind you to me. You will obey me.”

  “I hate to break it to you, kid, but your father—”

  “Has been dead for a thousand years! You have no right to use his name.” Forseti spat the words, thick and heavy on his tongue. “Any promises his usurper made to you in his stead hold no weight. I, Forseti Baldrsson, command you now. And I command you to find Magni and Móði. Now more than ever must Mjölnir return to Ásgarðr’s halls. Convey this haste, then return to me with news of their arrival. Succeed for me in this, bird, and your betrayal of our blood will be forgiven. Now go!”

  Munin blinked, tilting its head. Something around its neck caught the light, five glinting stones; green, red, black, blue, white. Finally, it said, “Yeah. Sure. Let’s do that.” Then, in a rush of feathers, it was gone.

  Forseti did not watch it go. Instead, he strode to the front of the Wall, past the sullen einherjar, to where Rígr was taking watch.

  Rígr nodded at Forseti’s approach. “Little change,” he said, gesturing out across the wall. “Mad revelry, nothing more.”

  “It is a distraction!” Forseti snarled. “Hel plays us for fools, dividing us with discord and sentiment even as the þursar mass within the Myrkviðr.”

  Rígr inhaled sharply. He was watchman of the Wall, carrier of Heimdallr’s legacy, commanded with warning Ásgarðr of the approach of its foes. And this, he had not seen.

  “Are you . . . certain of this?”

  “No,” Forseti said. Better to put Rígr at ease over his failure, to offer a chance for redemption. “The source was . . . unreliable.”

  “I will confirm it at once. Though . . .” He hesitated. “The forest is thick. Enough that even my sight has difficulty.”

  “Do as you can.” Forseti put his free hand on Rígr’s shoulder. “Ásgarðr’s foes close about her. We must be ready.”

  Rígr glanced out over the mass of writhing náir. “They outnumber us. A hundred to one, perhaps.”

  Forseti scoffed. “Villains and old women. Cowards who died abed and in the hangman’s noose. A single of our einheri could take on a thousand.”

  “They may have to. And more besides.” Rígr’s expression fell, scowling and uncertain, teeth biting back his words.

  “Speak,” Forseti said. “Now is not the time for lies and whispers.”

  Rígr sighed. “The men . . . they will not fight the dead. Their wives and children.”

  Hel’s wicked plot. To keep soft the hearts of einherjar.

  “They will,” Forseti said, and he knew it to be true. War was coming. “When they see it is not their families they battle. Merely monsters that wear such skins. That desecrate memories, spreading corruption and dishonor.” The einherjar would learn, and soon. The proud honor of men prevailing as it ever did.

  “Very well.” Rígr turned, stepping away from his vigil at the Wall.

  Forseti remained, gazing out across the horde. So many, but not a brave soul among them. They had numbers, but Ásgarðr had courage, and it had the Wall, and it would not falter.

  Forseti’s grip tightened on Gungnir’s weathered haft.

  Ásgarðr would prevail. Forseti would ensure it.

  Chapter 24

  Getting back was easier than getting out, thanks to some fancy dvergar magitek Uni had brought along. They looked sort of like glowing poles, and the dvergar set them up in a ring around the group, themselves and the jötnar and the æsir and Sigmund standing inside.

  To say things were tense would be an understatement.

  Uni’s brother had surrendered quietly enough, though he had objected when Uni handed over the much-contested gauntlets to Þrúðr. The pair said some words, stiff and formal, and when they were done, Þrúðr was crying, though she wasn’t sad, exactly. Just . . . crying.

  “Annulment,” Lain had explained. He was sitting on one of the weird hexagonal columns of rock, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, looking damp and miserable. Which, good. He kind of deserved.

  At least it wasn’t raining anymore. Þrúðr had fixed that, lifting Mjölnir to the sky. Her brother—the one who wasn’t catatonic—had been horrified, and the þursar hadn’t been much better. But all Þrúðr had done was hold the hammer up, hands cupped just beneath the head. Then the rain had stopped, and the clouds had cleared, and Sigmund had been left squinting against the glare of sun on wet-dark stone, stinking of damp sheep.

  When Uni finished setting up his teleporting fence, everyone clustered around inside.

  “What about the Bleed?” it’d occurred to Sigmund to ask. Wedged in between Lain on one side and Valdís on the other, wet feathers tickling his nose.

  Lain shrugged, unlit cigarette dancing between the stitches in his lip like a sulky teen. “Mjölnir’s gone. It’ll close by itself.”

  “Yeah, but . . . the people?” Sigmund had never been to Bowral before. He suspected he wouldn’t be hurrying back.

  “Few fights, maybe.” Lain didn’t seem particularly concerned. Just tired, all tattered feathers and ashen skin. Even the glow of his tattoo seemed dull and faded out. “Bit of sledging on the pitch.”

  Sigmund didn’t like it. But there were a lot of things he wasn’t liking about today. This was not very close to the top of the list.

  Somewhere over the other side of the crowd, Uni hit a button, and Sigmund felt his stomach drop and his vision flare.

  When the world came back, everything was dark, and Sigmund was being held upright by Lain’s big, hot claws. In the distance, giant glowing mushrooms waved in the darkness.

  After that, it was all over bar the shouting.

  “But seriously did you even fucking have a plan?”

  Later. Uni—who’d turned out to be a pretty nice guy—had put the pair of them up in a room in his dad’s mansion. The rest of the þursar were outside, making camp. Þrúðr and Magni and Móði had vanished down a corridor shortly after they’d teleported in, and Sigmund hadn’t seen them since.

  He had taken a hot shower, because apparently the dvergar had the same indoor plumbing Ásgarðr did. His clothes were currently dryin
g in a small room sort of like a dry sauna that seemed designed for exactly that purpose.

  His phone hadn’t made it. Water had gotten into the case, turning it into a very expensive paperweight before they’d even gotten out of the Bleed. Sigmund had panicked for exactly half a second before realizing Lain probably shat new phones twice a day, so whatever.

  Lain, who was currently sitting on a low table with a towel over his chipped and healing horns, scowling. And Sigmund, standing not three feet away, whose own towel was wrapped around his waist.

  “Yes, I had a fucking plan.” Lain looked away, as conscious of the half truth as Sigmund was.

  “Really?” said Sigmund, who was in no mood to be lied to. Not even by halves. “Because it didn’t bloody look like it to me.”

  “Yeah, well, you weren’t—”

  “Arms dealing, Lain? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  Lain’s head snapped around, fangs pressing into his bottom lip in a sneer. “Hey. I did what I had to do.”

  “A guy lost his hands!” Thwack, plop. Just like that.

  “Jesus Christ, I didn’t make him use the fucking hammer!”

  “But you set it up so he’d have to!” Sigmund snapped. “Didn’t you? Forging the fake bloody gloves, getting a fucking army to follow you—”

  Lain was on his feet, looming. When Lain loomed, there was a lot to loom. “Hey! Tóki was supposed to get me out. That’s all. Not my fault he decided a fucking double-cross would be better.”

  “Are you—are you actually getting self-righteous over someone else being a backstabbing asshole? You?”

  “Fuck you!”

  It occurred to Sigmund, as every single fire in the room suddenly leaped and burnt blue, just for a second, that he’d never really seen Lain angry before. Not like this, anyway. Not at Sigmund. Or . . . at something Sigmund was saying

  Lain had magicked one of those cigarettes from thin air again, and this time he did light it. Sucking a long drag, blowing it out in a huff of noxious, greasy smoke as he stalked the length of the room, claws clicking against the stone.

  “They tortured me,” he snarled. “Chained up and dragged across the fucking realms. Through the dark. You say I set Magni up to lose his hands? Well, fine. I did it. I fucking admit it. You wanna know why I did that?” Lain spun, bearing down on Sigmund, pain and rage and anguish. “Because the runes were on his fucking palm. He would spit on it, like he was spitting on me, and it was like being in that fucking cave all over the fuck again! Every time they wanted something, and I wouldn’t do it . . .” Lain demonstrated, spitting into the hearth. “Over and over and over and what. Was I. Fucking. Supposed. To. Do?”

  “You’re supposed to stop being the bloody villain all the goddamn time!”

  Lain went still. Dead still, eyes bright and blank and wide, lips hard and thin and mauve.

  One second. Two seconds. Three.

  Then he turned away.

  “Fuck . . .”

  Sigmund grabbed his arm, feeling the hot lines of fresh scars beneath his fingers. “No! Just listen.”

  Lain’s arm was like corded steel. Sigmund felt the tremble in it. Sigmund could feel the tremble in the room, Lain’s anguish bleeding out from his skin and into the air. A firestorm of emotion, just beneath the surface.

  “Why?” Lain snapped. “What am I supposed to tell you, Sig? I am the fucking villain. I always have been.”

  “That’s bullshit and we both know it.” A second, then: “We all know it. It’s something you can be, but it’s not something you are.”

  “Every story needs one, Sig.”

  “Jesus Christ, that doesn’t mean it has to always be you!” Sigmund grabbed Lain, spinning him around. Lain allowed the motion, though he wouldn’t meet Sigmund’s eyes. “Villains . . . villains lose. They get hurt, and they die, and they lose. Don’t you get it? I just . . . I—”

  (love you, and don’t want to see you hurt)

  Easy words, in his head. Even if they choked on his tongue, banked up behind the hand Sigmund had thrown across his mouth.

  Lain sighed. “Sig . . .” he said. Then stopped, and the silence was long and cold and awful.

  “I’m sorry.” What else was there to say? “I just . . . I’m sorry.” That Lain had been hurt. That he’d hurt other people in return. “I wasn’t there,” Sigmund said eventually. “I shouldn’t . . .” he trailed off.

  “No,” Lain agreed. “You weren’t and you shouldn’t.” He rubbed his face with his free hand, fingers pressing hard against the soft, dark skin of his eye sockets. “But . . . but maybe I don’t always make the best decisions, either.” He dropped the hand, trying a thin smile.

  Sigmund returned it, one dark laugh escaping from his throat. “No,” he said. “Really?”

  Lain laughed, and Sigmund laughed. Then they were back to awkward silence. It wasn’t as if they’d never fought before, exactly. But . . .

  Sigmund wondered if it ever got easier.

  (“it does not”)

  “Sig?”

  When Sigmund looked up, Lain had shifted closer. His hand was raised, not quite touching Sigmund’s cheek, radiating heat like a candle flame.

  Sigmund leaned into it, and wasn’t burned.

  “I’m sorry I’m a fuckup.”

  “Don’t,” Sigmund said, shifting closer. Against hot skin and dry feathers. “I’m sorry I’m not . . . good. At dealing with . . . this stuff.” He tried not to think of Magni. Or Þrúðr. Or Tóki.

  Things had worked out. Sort of.

  “I thought about you,” Lain said. “A lot. When things were . . . not good. I’d imagine you bursting in to save me.”

  Sigmund had to laugh. This time, the sound felt almost real. Lain’s skin was warm against his own, the heartbeats beneath his ears fluttering out of time. Lain talked about his hearts like he had two: one black, one gold. Except Sigmund had always been able to count three beats beneath the bone.

  “It was kind of fun,” Sigmund confessed. “Riding in to save you like that.”

  “Well I enjoyed it.” Lain’s fingers caught the edge of Sigmund’s jaw, urging it upward. “And, you know, I haven’t yet showed my big. Strong. Savior the . . . appropriate gratitude.”

  It should’ve been hokey, and ridiculous, and it was. Except it was also Sigmund tilting his head back and parting his lips. It was Lain, leaning forward, and the warm, damp softness of the inside of his mouth.

  He was, Sigmund thought, very, very grateful.

  Also, Sigmund was wearing only a thin strip of medieval pseudo-towel, and absolutely nothing else.

  Lain, meanwhile, was wearing nothing but his feathers. Also technically a towel as well, but it was on his head and Sigmund figured that meant it didn’t count and, Jesus. Lain was so close and so warm and so much of the last few days had been so awful and then they’d had a full-on screaming fight and Sigmund really, really didn’t want to fight. Not while pressed flesh to flesh, damp fabric doing nothing to protect his dignity.

  “Sig . . .” Lain’s voice was a breath, nearly a whine. Sigmund was suddenly very aware of the fact he was a twenty-something virgin standing in the middle of a whirl of godly lust.

  Lain wanted to fuck him. It wasn’t even in question. Sigmund could smell it in the air and feel it in his bones. Soil and cinders and a thrumming beneath his skin. Because Lain was huge and old and powerful, and his emotions had shape and weight and texture. Gravity. An inexorable pull into the gyre of Lain’s insatiable wants.

  Right now, he wanted Sigmund.

  If the current location of the blood in Sigmund’s body was any indication, the feeling was mutual.

  Sigmund shifted, just a fraction. Until his hot and heavy cock was pressed up against a silk-steel thigh.

  Lain groaned, eyes shut and mouth open, lips curled up into a smile that, for one moment at least, was too grateful to be wicked. Sigmund buried his head against the soft flesh of a dark-skinned neck and shifted his hips, his own breath hitching as warm
coils began to lash outward beneath his skin.

  This wasn’t so hard. Not really.

  A hand, drifting down Sigmund’s side. Across the pudgy rolls of his waist, to the weird dimples of his hip bones.

  Then a claw, working its way beneath the towel. Just beneath the fold. Lain really did have very big claws, blunt and vicious, and he’d never, ever used them against Sigmund.

  Instead, he made a soft noise of inquiry, not quite a word, and Sigmund nodded, glad Lain couldn’t see his face. Not that there was much to hide from Lain’s Wyrdsight, but . . .

  But Lain tugged, and Sigmund’s towel fluttered to the floor.

  Then . . . they were naked. Both of them. Sigmund was used to Lain not wearing very much, but the reverse wasn’t true, Lain’s hands taking advantage of this new thing. Running up and down and over Sigmund’s skin, cupping the curve of his ass and carding through the hairs on his arms. All while Sigmund’s hips jerked, heavy cock leaving trails of shiny slick up Lain’s scarred thigh.

  Jesus. Sigmund sure hoped he was doing this right.

  Lain chucked. “There really aren’t many ways to do it wrong,” he said. “So long as we’re both having fun.”

  “A-are you?”

  Another laugh, Lain’s fingers squeezing Sigmund’s ass even as the other hand pushed him backward. “Fun is a word you could use, yes.”

  They didn’t have a bed, mostly because the dvergar were too short. Instead, they had a bunch of pillows and blankets and mattresses arranged in a nest on the floor.

  It occurred to Sigmund, as he was gently pushed down into it, that maybe it wasn’t the height thing at all. Maybe jötnar were supposed to sleep in nests. Maybe their hosts were just being polite.

  Maybe Lain was looming over him, knees on either side of Sigmund’s hips, the normally dark jut of Sigmund’s swollen dick pale against Lain’s even darker skin.

  Lain licked his lips. Hungry. Sigmund swallowed. The gesture was . . . It was . . .