Master of Miasma (The Valhalla Series)

by Poppet

Plummeting in a death drop I can barely breathe for the stagnant seconds it takes for the disaster to wane. The fissure flattens and we slide to a muddy halt in a grove claimed by shimmering moonbreath. I feel scalped from the acceleration which snagged my hair on our adrenalizing fall into another dimension of adversity.

  Water laps lasciviously over pebbles and moss, slicing up the darkness a hundred yards away with satin eels of Luna's sprinkle of solace. It twinkles the darkness with a glimmer of hope, the cadence of the wind softly fluting down here instead of raging in stampeding temper.

  The maelstrom and conflict hasn't reached this hollow yet.

  Mac stares up, his hold on me tight with restraint, communicating we remain absolutely still with his body language. Like gargoyles on a mausoleum we're stuck together with invisible frostbite, stiffened by cryogenic alchemy. I daren't breathe as I follow his gaze to the nemesis surfing the sky.

  Nefarious darkness drifts its necrophilial breath across the moon, nullifying the luminary's ambiance with the mephitis of subterfuge. The vestal veneer is veiled and we're plunged into twenty layers of deeper shade. The supernatural smoke skims lower to the ground than the cumulous creations floating icebergs across a midnight heaven. Clouds clustered with moonlight start to bleed over with the stain of menstrual hemorrhage, casting a crimson pall over the entire forest. It desecrates the hallowed night with a diabolical brush, the filthy miscreants distorting the crisp beams with hellacious billows of bloodlust.

  Looking away from the scudding phenomenon obscuring our only visibility, I track their flight through the lacy canopy of boughs starkly black against the paler savagery mocking the night sky.

  Puffy white clouds which lazily meandered astral ships to meet the dawn are entirely entombed as the nocturnal velvet scorches to a black so malefic I close my eyes, hiding the power glistening in their depths from scouts sniffing out harii from their shadowed shields.

  I'm almost praying I don't suddenly burst into my own unique brand of camouflage. I suppress my alarm and surrender to the guardianship of the man congealing my blood and bruising my skin with his grip. Incrementally turning my head I hide my face in his shoulder, watching proceedings with my peripheral vision, paranoid that I'm his achilles heel who will end up betraying our position and slaying my soul's partner.

  He covertly siphons shadows over us, scavenging sooty atmosphere so dense it's like standing in the fallout of volcanic ash wet with grief.

  Shhh, murmurs in my mind while he injects a thick confusion into my head with a steady crackle of darklight. I vaguely recall reading that they call the static noise in outer space, darklight. It fills the void with frequencies the way Mac is doing to me now.

  It's peaceful, a respite in the carnage we left behind and the doom breathing down our napes. Chills continue to crucify me even though my mind is in stasis.

  In an incubator of cocoon-like insulation I inhale, exhale, endlessly, leaving my mind to slide aimlessly while slowing my heart-rate down to a comatose level. The wait is excruciating and interminable. Time ceases to exist in the vacuum of paralysis seizing our fealty.

  Tendrils of mist skirt the lagoon before dispersing away to higher ground. We wait another protracted epoch of terror before Macala slowly exhales his tension, his indomitable bulk daring to soften in the lowering of defenses.

  In sheer relief he hugs me tight, crushing me in a straitjacket of pain because the muscles lining my neck to my shoulder-blades have seized in agony from the harrowing wait, so still and anxious.

  Wincing involuntarily, sound is too loud in the silence palling the planet.

  “Come,” he murmurs, so low it's a transmitted thought more than a spoken command.

  Drawn up off my numbed ass he folds me in his warmth with an arm around me, leading me into gossamer moonlight, straight to a slope of moss. The closer we get I can see it's a shelter, utterly disguised amid the greenery of the woodland's camouflage. He opens the tall door that looks like decomposing log smeared in dabs of lichen and carefully placed bark, leading me into a quaint shelter, deep and sound, and warm.

  There is a giant's bed at the rear, adorned on either side with love crystals which emit a welcome glow, refueling my soul with much desired mercy.

  A table stands aft with two chairs, a couch, and a mandolin. There is even an unlit hearth waiting for kindling.

  “What is this?” I whisper, amazed.

  “Harii always have a contingency plan. I prepared, I knew this was coming I just didn't know exactly when. Through there,” he points to a black hollow to the right of the bed, “is a bathroom, and wardrobe. We have enough clothing and food to last us some time. We have to be careful for a few weeks but after that we need to scout the catacombs for life. We all have an escape plan, hopefully everyone evacuated unscathed. We'll reconvene at new moon at a predetermined location.”

  “But clothes for me? How–”

  “I knew elskling,” he taps the temple next to his left eye.

  The Book of Shadows constantly updates itself with past, present and future, that is reinforced with Odinic foresight and revelations solidified by the concurring infallible oracle - he knew. And thanks to Kake he couldn't forewarn or tell me. No wonder he couldn't stay away with disaster peering over his shoulder, constantly egging him to seek me out and torment himself in the process.

  A wonderful blessing floats behind the closed front door of his lair, the first tweet of daybreak's imminent presence. Knowing soon light will purge us of stealthy shadows I flatten my lungs in a heavy expulsion of air, shrugging off my muddied jacket and dropping my bag of stones. My legs feel bruised from running with rocks in my pockets and I empty the stash onto the floor next to the bag.

  Dropping to his haunches he copies me, unbuckling a sword and contraption, offloading his backpack, standing again with four thundereggs in his hand. I admire him as he walks away, placing one either side of the bed as lethal back up, then to the sideboard of the tiny dining space where he plucks two tulips from their sconces.

  Sitting down at the table he cracks a thunderegg as if about to make a lightning omelet, pouring luminous liquid into the smoky-quartz glass. He repeats the process with the other tulip. Beckoning me over he offers me one, “Drink this. It will accelerate your metamorphosis and give you the strength of Odin.”

  I look dubiously into the hibernating plasma. He slugs his back, expelling a vicious 'gaaah'.

  God!

  Nervous as all hell I mirror him, my head exploding with brilliant lights, my ears thundering while a pyre forges buttresses all the way to my stomach.

  “Bleaugh!” Rippling with repulsion I need a chaser!

  He's grinning at me, his eyes two brilliant suns lighting up the humble home due to his libation, and I react just in time to catch my half of a læraðr apple.

  I don't need an invitation and ravenously bite into the succulent sweetness, chomping juices which are the antidote to an egg of Thor's power.

  Slumping into the chair opposite him I stare at the savior almost ready for apotheosis. He's already a god to me even if he is only half human. He appraises me openly, desire registering in his backlit eyes while he chews, devouring his in a tenth of the time it will take me. “You didn't falter. I'm so proud of you, Em.”

  I shrug, nibbling fruit, secretly pleased.

  “There's no point in freaking out, let's huddle up, get a good night's sleep, and deal with the fallout in the morrow,” he says.

  And with that he peels off his layers, dropping the sludge encrusted reinforcements on the floor next to his chair, stripping off his tee, unlacing combat boots, and then standing, undoing the button holding his modesty together, dropping his trousers without any embarrassment he pads away from me, flicking back a thick duvet and slinking between the covers with legs belonging on Mt Olympus.

  I think I'm in awe of his legs. They're phenomenal.

  What the hell, destiny is nigh and I'm ready to inhale it and get high. Leaving half an apple core on the tab
le, I stand. After gingerly disrobing I stroll over soft woven matting to 'my side'. I smile indulgently at having a 'side', and scoot into place, now apprehensive.

  He hinges a hatch open in the roof to our left, exposing a slither of ventilation and an eye on the world beyond. Staring out at the heavenly view of sky and naught else I beam when he rearranges me close, snuggling me against him with a possessive reassurance that states without words that whatever we need to experience it can wait to be discovered tomorrow. Right now it's time to sleep in the safety of our nook, in the luxury of each other's skin and trust.

  He's strong and safe, his arm locked over my side, and I stare out the hatch as I savor the forbidden. In the preconscious of dawn the phoenix rises again, born anew to burn out the nightmares of the eventide with illumination tinged in sherry-hued tears. Twilight creeps a fresh morning over the realms of constellations, running pastel streaks of morning kisses in time for the dew baptism ritual.

  With the mayhem of the witching hours behind us I cuddle in, closing my eyes to exhausted relaxation, smiling, hoping no one finds us for a long long time.

  What I do not know is I've been duped, there's no way a warrior sleeps during his watch, and as soon as I nod off I'm abandoned while the harii raven turns into his avatar form and escapes out the hatch to keep guard.

  Chapter 22

  Emma:

  Slowly surfacing I seep deeper into the warm huddle, cuddling soft linen close, the air stroking my nose is briskly cold and I wriggle to absorb Mac's heat before we have to get up.

  I worm a few inches before twisting to look with grainy eyes, discovering I'm alone.

  Well that just sucks.

  The comfort of the insulating divan is a haven I'm reluctant to abandon, but now that I'm awake nature is calling. Sighing, I roll, cringing when my warm foot hits the cool floor. The woven matting looks like it belongs in some eco-friendly magazine and does diffuse some of the cold, but not enough of it for my liking.

  Padding to the bathroom I pause at the wardrobe, selecting a roomy hoodie in matte black, pulling it on while strolling to the en-suite.

  Now that it's daylight I notice it has a skylight. Nothing more than a bunch of tubes lined with reflective metal to pipe the light into the small space and ending in orb shaped glass.

  How did he do this? Do they teach super amazing fort building skills to the harii, or has he had years to get this ready?

  Probably years, and is a perfectionist with an obsessive eye for detail. The tub is pink quartz like the one in his quarters at the catacombs, the shower attachment planted in the dun wall high up, the faucets rudimentary levers of conical shell.

  Nice touch. He has a flair for aesthetics. Lifting the stone quartz toilet lid I have a tinkle, wondering where he is.

  Every time I go to the bathroom I now think of him asking me if I washed my hands. He's nothing if not diligent. Finishing up I tell the toilet to flush, amazed when it does. How is it powered? I have so many questions and never enough time to excavate all the answers.

  Moving to the matching basin I swivel the shell, opening a clear stream of water, picking up the unused bar of soap and lathering. It smells so good I pause to inhale the delicate scent of the foam. It looks like it's made from coffee it's so dark, but it smells incredible. Since joining the raven clan I've learned so much about the basics. Our shampoo is concocted from processed soapwort, which is a foot tall roaming evergreen ground cover with mallow pink flowers. It has no scent but foams brilliantly. Gudmund told me they use coconut and olive oil to make it foamy and thick, which he called saponification. Apparently nature made natural soaps and they contain the foaming cleaning agent called saponin.

  Looking up I drop the soap with a loud clatter, inhaling dramatically, the world tilting in a rush of adrenaline induced vertigo.

  What the fuck?

  Leaning close to the mirror I examine my eyes. My left is almost yellow, but not quite. The outer rim is the shade of well polished cherrywood. Gobsmacked I look at my eyes, the right eye no longer gray but now almost brown. My Odin eye looks like someone brushed gold leaf across my iris, it looks feline. My beautiful irises are gone. I have heterochromia like all the other ravens.

  Why the hell are mine so eerie?

  A throat clearing suggestively breaks my paralysis and I snap guiltily to face Mac filling the threshold.

  “What's up, elskling?”

  “Why?” I snap, jumpy for no logical reason.

  “The water is still running. If you've finished you should switch it off.”

  Right!

  Flustered, I rinse the soap suds off my hands, replacing the bar on the scalloped holder, and switch off the flow. “What soap is this? It smells fabulous,” I mumble, making small talk while I gather myself.

  “Fig. The color comes from the green husk of a walnut. It's nature's own antibacterial source before it became a trend. It stains your fingers brown-yellow when you peel walnuts, but it's that which is the active part of a walnut that protects it from infestation of every kind. We use it as our field soap on cuts and grazes. I thought it prudent for us to have a supply of it here.”

  Smelling my freshly washed hands after toweling dry, I inhale the scent appreciatively. “Fig? Really?”

  I think I dig Asgard's deluxe savon.

  He grins, walking closer, dwarfing the room, “Fig leaves are good for more than just covering Adam's dick in paintings.”

  It's so candid I burst out laughing.

  Holding his arm up he hooks me under his 'wing', cuddling me close and kissing the top of my head, “Dress warmly, it's crisp outdoors. I'll put some coffee on.”

  Savoring the affection I loathe it when he withdraws, leaving me alone with the wardrobes. Opening the rustic doors I peer inside, amazed at the selection he has for me. He even has underwear, and it's sexy stuff too. I have a sneaky suspicion someone's been snooping in my old underwear drawers back in the catacombs. He has my taste nailed.

  Blushing to myself I start to dress, my mouth watering as the aroma of fresh coffee grounds hits my alcove.

  Ready to face the world wearing tucked in cargo pants, a lined button up shirt, and Ugg type pull on boots, I walk toward the kitchen.

  He points to a steaming cup of black coffee, “There's yours. Give me two minutes to put breakfast together.”

  Marriage material for sure. How the heck did I end up with my butt in the butter?

  Smirking to myself I take my hairbrush and coffee to the front door, stepping through the open portal and inhaling crisp morning stillness.

  A thin layer of rime litters the ground, announcing winter is definitely here with its sprinkling of crystalized sparkles coating the ground to catch the morning sun like diamond dust.

  Sipping my coffee, thawing through, it's odd how content I am. Everything has changed and I should be alarmed, but I'm not. I'm serene in this place, satisfied in a heart-deep cosseted way. It doesn't feel like the end but an exciting new beginning. Macala has a reassuring efficiency, he's capable, he's deft and confident in all he does and despite all we've been through not once has he derailed. He has resolution and purpose to his every decision and action, and it's enormously comforting. He makes me feel safe. His lead is easy to follow.

  “Em...?” calls out to me and I turn back, sated in my soul, my body now warm and lethargic. I raise my eyebrows in silent question as I swallow down bitter brew, “Breakfast is served m'lady,” he smiles, doing a short bow like a serf.

  Smiling as soon as I'm able, I sit in the chair he's pulled out for me, in view of the early dawn outside, the air refreshing now that I'm coherent and awake.

  Mac joins me at our Riviera table fashioned from soured maple so pale it's geisha. I stare at the delicious smorgasbord.

  Macala is slicing a block of tofu looking stuff.

  “What is it?” I query, famished and tempted by the aromas.

  He points the knife at the block, “Geitost.” Then indicating the rest with a sweep of his im
plement he identifies, “We can't cook for a few days because it's a dead location giveaway. In case there are scouts still lurking we're going to have to eat raw foods for a while. We have roasted hazelnuts, rye crackers, cloudberry confit, bilberry and lingonberry leather, and dried apricots.”

  “What is it that smells so damn good?” I demand, looking at the selection with greed.

  “This,” he slices off another slither of the block and hands it to me, “It's cheese.”

  Sampling it with a careful nibble my taste buds orgasm at the flavor of caramel. “That can't be cheese, it tastes like milky toffee. Yetoast you said?”

  He nods, “Yes, geitost is a fudge goat's cheese. It's stirred while cooked at a high heat to caramelize the sugars in the milk. And people think the Norse live on pickled fish, if they only knew how much they miss by stereotyping.”

  “Yet-oast,” I mumble appreciatively, devouring my morsel by sucking its sweetness.

  “It can be made with cow's milk but we're staunch traditionalists,” he winks.

  “Mmm, but everyone knows the Nordic countries like their cheese. Heck Switzerland and Holland are downright famous for it.”

  “We aren't all the same liebling,” he teases, wrinkling his face and deliberately adopting German to confuse the issue.

  “The Visigoths and Vikings dominated half the world at one point, sweetling. I know what I'm talking about. It surely isn't coincidence,” I mumble argumentatively, stealing another slice of fudgey-cheese.

  “Nothing is coincidence,” he says, with such an edge I have a frisson slipping down my spine at the implications.

  He's referring to us.

  Dipping his focus before exposing his naked eye, he explains, “What we have here is basically a warrior's field meal. Modern armies get those T-Rats of hideous freeze-dried goodness, well this is the valhalla version, protein and carbs we can store for years and take anywhere. Some mature cheese can last thirty-six months in cool conditions, and we love to live in cold climates as we don't feel the temperatures. This stuff is too good to keep though, it's always the first to be consumed.”