Master of Miasma (The Valhalla Series)

by Poppet

  As if to distract me from the lecherous prick, Arghin takes my hand, pulling me into the center of the mats, “Okay Emma, this is easy. Anyone can do it. Just close your eyes and feel the air pressing in on you.”

  He stares pointedly, waiting for me to comply.

  Sighing, I close my eyes, trying to feel 'air'. Oddly I can feel the air. That's new.

  “Now inhale, focus on pulling that air around you, being its center of gravity.”

  Inhaling, it feels as if I have a heavy duvet I'm pulling over myself, it's a bit of an effort but I concentrate hard, yanking on it until it feels too weighty to hold.

  “Holy uskit'r,” exclaims Arghin, which pops my eyes open only to be standing in a cocoon of bright white fog.

  “Fuck,” I bitch. “No, I can't pull shadows in. This happened the other day too.”

  “It's fine, you're a rare white shadow. We get them every once in a while, but they usually belong to the wolf clan.”

  “Why the wolf clan?” I grumble, exhaling and waving my arms, trying to free myself from the mist.

  “Just release it,” orders Vigorn. “In your mind scatter it free.”

  The way Vigorn stares is obscene. Ribald bastard.

  But I do as he commands, feeling better when the vapor dissipates as strangely as it coalesced.

  “Wolf and Skadi have an interesting history,” winks Arghin. “We'll let Mac tell you that story.”

  Stepping away from me, he lifts a sword, the blade lighting up like a love crystal the second his hand touches the hilt. “When the gods embrace you, you'll get your own valhalla sword. This is mine. And this is why we have to teach you to fight with a sword, okay?”

  I nod, fascinated with the truth of the legend. It's awesome!

  Clearing his throat awkwardly, he beckons Vigorn closer, casting his sword back to the ground and adopting a sparring stance. “Emma, I will show you the move with Vigorn, and then you repeat it with me. Alright?”

  “Yes!” I snap, wishing this day was over already. When am I going to get Mac back?

  He takes me through the paces, until I can kick, punch, strike, block, throw, and vanish into mist when I'm attacked. That part rocks, but I'm exhausted.

  I hold up the timeout T, breathless and with a stitch in my side.

  He nods, “Okay, while you get your breath back I'll show you the weapons.” Looking to Vigorn he nods, “Thanks for your help. We'll meet up with you at lunch.”

  Oooh, they both look short tempered. Arghin is obviously PO'd with Vigorn's endless visual licking of my body, and Vigorn is pissed because he has to fuck off now. Up yours you ugly oaf.

  I watch as he saunters off the way you expect a drug dealer to coast down the street with a gun in his pocket and a hypodermic in the other.

  What a shifty character.

  I want Mac! Stat!

  Now I'm annoyed too.

  Chapter 19

  Emma:

  “When harii warriors spar, we call it leikr.” He lifts up the broadsword, explaining, “This is a mækir.”

  “A maker? It looks like a sword to me.”

  Arghin drops it so the point is next to his foot and sighs dramatically at me, “You're determined to be an outsider aren't you? Learn our words for things because in the heat of conflict you won't understand a shout of warning if the guy guarding your back is speaking the old dialect.”

  “Fine!” I snap, giving him my best 'crawl back into your hole and suffocate on your own stink' stare.

  Clearly moody, he points at the spear, “Geirr.”

  “Gee-er?”

  He nods, “Geirr is a spear.” Then he points at the arrows, “Oddr, are arrows. The shaft is gísil.”

  “Odir,” I repeat diligently. “Geezil.”

  He nods, flicking me an approving stare. Lifting the sword up he runs his finger along the sharp edge, “The blade of your sword is brandr.”

  “Brunder?” I repeat.

  He nods, “You get the bigger picture now as you see how root words have affected modern language. Somehow telling someone to meet their maker means a whole lot more when you understand a mækir is god's sword. We always laugh when we hear modern folk call someone an ass, because in our language it means a god.”

  With the channel of communication open, I query, “So what does T'ach'aa mean?”

  “In a word? Excelsior. Ever upward. It's a native phrase which means 'the very direction'.”

  “So why do they call you that?” I say.

  “Because we are the direction to the life wheel, the key to the rainbow path which leads directly to Wankan Tanka and the Happy Hunting Grounds.” He seems to diminish as he gives up his quest to teach me, choosing to sit down and continue, “Basically the Tinglit understand the spirit is separate to the body, they are not one. They call it xh'aséikw, which means the essence of life. It's the same thing the Chinese call chi. There is a greater force at work within us, and this aspect of life animates, but it continues long after death, to the Old Man, the Great Spirit, what we call the realm of Asgard because to us it's still as real as you and me.”

  “So why do you adopt their name?” I challenge.

  Arching bushy eyebrows into his mane of hair, he says, “They are matrilineal as a society. That is why we abhor the modern world because it's got the world upside down and fucked up. They remember Raven, Wolf, and Eagle, they keep truth even though dléit khaa have tried their damnedest to destroy all native folks and their historical legacies. They remember us, we honor them in return.”

  It's odd the weird shit that runs through my mind these days. Anima, it's the spirit within which drives the body, but when I break it up the way my mind just did, you get ani-mate anima-mate, which basically should mean soulmate. Maybe all this time we search for soulmates not realizing the body is the mate to the soul?

  The shadows thicken behind the screens at the sparring mats which distracts me while I attempt to discern if there's someone there or not. It's like deciphering smoke in a mist, pointless.

  Blinking, I look back at Arghin, “What is dléit khaa?”

  “White man.”

  “Oh,” I mumble, knowing by his expression he wanted to say white man - black heart.

  “They call Raven yehi. Wolf is goch, and Eagle is nehadi.”

  I throw my hands up in despair, “Dude, none of this is going to sink in. I will never remember all this shit.”

  “It could save your life.”

  Smirking, I lift up my wooden sword from when we sparred, “No, this is going to save my life.”

  He seems disgruntled as he stands, “Vigorn is waiting. Let's go eat. We'll continue training tomorrow.”

  Thank fuck for small mercies.

  “Alright!” I smile, dropping my sword where I stand and stomping over the thick matting to the edge, glancing back at the lurking shadows.

  Mac, is that you?

  It's automatic, I softly press a thumb into the valhalla triangle on my hand, smirking to myself when the shadow flicks with a brief twinkle of starlight when his eye reacts to the connection.

  *

  Sitting with Arghin and Vigorn at the end of the long feast table I stare unenthusiastically at the gray sludge served in a wooden bowl. It looks like wet ready mix concrete.

  The two of them don't hesitate, picking up their ladles and scooping up the dross like two growing boys. Following their example I pick up my spoon and poke about in the slurry, unable to find the will to try it.

  They're halfway through before Arghin notices my reluctance, “You not hungry?”

  “Nope,” I mumble, dropping the spoon the way one waves a flag of surrender – dramatically.

  “Did you even taste it?” asks Vigorn. He makes eating sound like a personal challenge.

  Staring moodily down the table I search the sea of unfamiliar faces, looking for the one I know and miss.

  Vigorn grips my hand, shoves my spoon handle in it, closes my fingers in an iron grip and spits in soft rage, “Eat!�
�

  “You can have it,” I snap, trying to get my hand back, straining my tired muscles.

  “Andi!” Vigorn yells so loud the low level ambient chatter stills and all faces swivel to my end of the feast table. Disapproval oozes my way while the minions wait for retribution to be delivered because I don't want to eat concrete.

  Goliath stomps our way, his body naked from the waist up, exposing shoulders as wide as most double beds, and a hairy chest that makes me even less inclined to consume muck.

  Thick legs as long as doorframes stop next to me, the gargantuan man leaning over me as if I'm not even here, accosting my sense of smell with spices and sweat, “Yes?”

  Vigorn points righteously at me, “New raven doesn't want her soppa. She insults the chef.”

  The silence is overwhelming me with trepidation and my pores are exploding with adrenalized heat. The man looks down at the people on my right, waving his hand in a 'scoot' manner, then plonks down right next to me the way a cat does with a field mouse.

  Tugging my bowl to front and center he dips the spoon in, grabs my head in the helmet of his hand, and shoves the spoon in my mouth hard enough to smash my teeth.

  Thatched hair which is angelically curly-blond has droplets of perspiration clinging to it, his eyes iceberg cold, both of his eyes with Odin pupils.

  Withdrawing the spoon he vices my jaw closed as easily as he'd squeeze a grapefruit, looking calmly at me when he says, “Swallow.”

  Fear has me by the throat and I try to swallow but end up choking, half of it going up my nose, burning my nasal cavity with something like allspice. It's peppery and brutal.

  He starts laughing as gray goop is expelled out my nose, my eyes watering, looking like I just snotted down my face.

  Grinning with amusement he releases me, lifting his apron and wiping my face like a toddler who has a drooling problem.

  Propping an elbow on the table, crunching up muscles the size of beach balls, he surveys me, “Was that so bad?”

  “Stuff you,” I mumble under my breath.

  “What is this child's name?” he asks Vigorn.

  “Emma.”

  Fucking traitor!

  Andi looks back my way, leering ominously over me, our noses so close I can smell the faint scent of cherry tobacco on his six o'clock shadow, “Emma, I do not serve poison. You will eat what the gods provide whether you want to or not. Understand?”

  I nod, once, my nape tight with tension.

  Pushing my bowl to me he nods at it, “Eat, I watch.”

  Glowering at Vigorn I lift the fucking spoon again and sip at the hot cement.

  Andi taps his finger in front of my bowl, “This is blåbärssoppa. It is a bilberry soup thickened with purple potatoes and spiced. So why do I serve this? You think it unappetizing? You think you prefer McDonalds?”

  Ten points to the bully for knowing what Mickey D's is.

  He turns to glare at the other diners, bellowing, “This is not your concern! Eat!”

  Everyone looks down and complies to the order. So, the Dominator has a reputation. He's probably done this to all of them at one point or another.

  Turning back to me he gives me a sly wink before glaring at Vigorn, “You too lombungr.”

  Vigorn immediately starts shoveling slop into his big mug again, unable to look away from my humiliating interaction the way assholes rubberneck car accidents.

  Dutifully spooning in the moldy looking porridge stuff, it doesn't taste as bad as it looks.

  “You need this because bilberry boosts your immune system, helps you cope with stress. You're growing at an exponential rate which is why you need as many carbs as you can fit in that tiny body, and the spices I use obliterate germs and viruses, bacteria and plague. It makes you strong, Raven. My job is to make sure this army is ready for anything, invincible in body and mind, I take my role seriously because your fates all lie in my hands. Understand? When you sit down at this table you eat what I serve.”

  I nod, too afraid to argue, half impressed he takes the science of food to such an extreme.

  “What is bilberry?” I finally ask, when he stops to stare at me like I'm a fascinating curiosity.

  “Blueberry you call it. Power food, super food, us Norse make soup with it. If it's good enough for Odin it's good enough for you, am I clear?”

  I nod again, harboring murderous thoughts toward Vigorn.

  Looking at the dregs in the bottom of my bowl I now understand why it's icky gray. Blueberry and purple potatoes would do that to any dish. It looks like shit.

  Slamming his palm down in front of me with such force it bounces my bowl and spatters all of us with soup roadkill, he snarls, “I see your thoughts, Emma.” He points to his luminous pupils, “Insult me again at your own peril.”

  Fuck!

  Nodding, I start humming mentally, nanananana – na naaaa na na na na na naaaaaa.

  Satisfied he's bullied me enough he stands, taking our empty bowls with him back to the kitchen.

  Vigorn smirks with charcoal bits stuck in his teeth making them look decomposed and gross, “Andi is a god. He was Odin's chef. You're one stupid dame.”

  “Why don't you go fuck yourself?” I snap, getting up from the table before I spit at him, marching back the way we came, ready to hide in my bedroom and have a quiet cry.

  The sense I'm being followed is making me paranoid and I turn as fast as I can, often, trying to catch the sneak out.

  Giving up I stomp to my room, flinging myself on my bed to exhale exasperation at the ceiling of my cavern.

  “What the fuck does lombungr mean?” I grumble at nothing.

  “Moron,” answers the shadow in the curve between the dresser and the wall.

  Pegging upright I stare at it, knowing that voice. “Where the hell were you?”

  “It is enforced, I must not be caught fraternizing with you until Kake says we may.”

  “But why!” I shout, fed up with this dictatorship.

  “Shhh elskling, they'll hear you. He'll grow bored soon and let us reconvene. But I'm watching, and I am happy with your progress.” The shadow inches closer, sitting on my bed as nothing more than a wisp of diaphanous darkness. Something glints in the dark smoke and nail clippers are dropped on my bedspread. “Cut your nails. You can't fight with long nails.”

  “Andi's a right prick,” I bitch to my ally.

  “I know Andhrímnir is intimidating, but he's one you can trust.”

  “Vigorn's an even bigger wanker!” I bemoan, plucking at the bedding with nervous agitation.

  The shadow appears to nod, “Be careful of that hrafnasueltir.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Directly translated it means raven starver, but it indicates coward.”

  “Tell me how to tell him to go fuck himself in your language.”

  “Just call him ormstunga bacraut and he'll get the message.”

  “Huh?” I smile now, despite myself.

  “It means serpent tongued asshole. He is. I've never liked him and he's clearly enjoying making you suffer in my absence.”

  “An asshole then?” I nod emphatically.

  “Oh yes, definitely bacraut.”

  “Hey, ohmigod, you know how everyone calls the Germans krauts, is that what it means? Asshole – bah craut?”

  He laughs, the shadow pressing a warm dark smudge over my lips to shush me, “I must go, but you make me smile stubborn elskling. You have found your fire.”

  My heart weeps a little when the dark bulk dissipates and I'm left alone again.

  Chapter 20

  Emma:

  I've had days and days alone with no one other than insipid Arghin and the bacraut Vigorn for company. I've stopped growing, I don't have to cut my hair and nails everyday, yet still I'm sequestered and kept away from Mac. I miss him so much it's become a throbbing entity of agony that constantly gnaws inside me and reminds me I am missing a vital component to my being.

  I fell hard and to be
left with men who lack his charisma, his style, his sultry voice, his grace, his fucking everything.... why? Stop punishing me!

  I've been subjected to dining with the clan, but they all seem reluctant to make friends. I guess this has something to do with me being the clan leader's grandson's favorite acquisition. It's a hands off policy.

  Glaring at the belated dark moon festivities with Odin's book in pride of place in the center of the chaos, I hate being here alone. This party insults me. They celebrate while I mourn.

  Thunder bass punches through the dark in endless booms of force. It's literally so violent it whallops the hair off my face in reverb wind. Air currents are in revolt, rising up, swelling, inflating, in epileptic seizures.

  The jötunn giants are already in the Odin induced worship trance, which turns the average harii into a Berserker. Volatile energy billows across the vaults of the cavern, lashing down vast wisps of stygian venom, inciting the throng who canter beneath the shadow steeds in ritualistic footwork.

  Giants become shadows, brume become blacker than volcanic glass, and I am utterly alone in a theater of nightmares.

  Turbulence whips the maelstrom around the chasm, now a far reaching abyss festering with peril, sending my senses into overdrive as I employ instinct to perceive patrons, trying my best to stay out of the way because they're frothing up caliginous flotsam and chaos in their ecstatic gyrating; it's primal, tribal, and eerie.

  Bass throbs my bones, vibrating my ribs and constricting my heartbeat. Humidity licks my skin, making me overheat in the room of frenzied shadows.

  Sweeping my gaze through licorice black hallucinations I search, wishing my pulse would stop hurting, shunting endless gorges of blood into every pump, gushing pressure with such fervor even my nipples are beating in time with my heart... with the Vital drum... driving a needled tattoo into the base of my skull.

  It makes me disjointed, as if my body is a separate entity to me, a cumbersome sack of organic waste weighting me down, shackling me with baggage which prevents flight.

  Subconscious panic is driving my feet in spurting dashes from shadow to shade as I cling to niches for sanctuary, grit sawing into my soles with such chaffing disharmony it feels sinister, a portent of hardship scarring more than my shoes.