The Valkyrie (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 1)

by Deborah Davitt

  Pain. Searing pain. He looked down at his chest numbly as his gun fell from his hand, and he dropped to his knees, looking back up again, and catching a single pair of green-glowing eyes looking down on him from the darkness. The last coherent thought he had was This isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen . . . .

  ___________________

  Fifteen feet away, Sigrun could only watch, stunned, as the bullets fired by his own people passed through the smoke of the insubstantial alu-demons, taking Adam to the ground. She leaped forward in a rush of wind, dropping her spear to the ground beside him, dropping to her knees and rolling him over to yank the vest open. No. No, no, no, no. The material had taken a couple of the bullets, certainly, but it wasn’t designed to stop more than the bullets of a revolver. Blood—his white undershirt was a mass of it, and it was spurting from at least one center-of-mass wound, spraying her face. And Sigrun knew, with the same uncanny certainty that she’d known it, decades ago, when her mother had been in the hospital, that Adam ben Maor was about to die. It was a sense that all valkyrie had: they knew when a wound was mortal. It related to their earliest name: chooser of the dead. Later generations had embellished on this, and suggested that valkyries selected the worthiest of the fallen to pass to Valhalla. A comfort for a grieving widow, perhaps, in a culture that believed that death in battle was the highest honor that existed. A culture in which suicide was permissible, and not at all shameful—a culture in which death could redeem someone’s honor, much as it could in Roman and Nipponese culture.

  In truth, the valkyrie had chosen who was worthiest to live. They had healed on ancient battlefields, and sent the strongest and best back out into the fight. Valkyrie of Eir—the valkyrie, who had, like Heracles, left behind her mortality to become a goddess in her own right—could heal directly. Could even heal some diseases. Some valkyrie, like those sealed to Loki, couldn’t heal at all. But every one of them knew when the moment of death was at hand. And they all knew that they had choices to make in that moment.

  Sigrun knew that these wounds were mortal . . . for Adam. But maybe not for me. She had seconds to decide. She was still mostly blocked from the sky, and what was invisible and immaterial, she couldn’t fight. She was useless in this battle. But Adam . . . Adam was not. And outside of this battle . . . god-born were servants of the gods, and of humanity. So many people wasted their lives in tedium and monotony, and were so limited in scope, intelligence, and capability, that they might as well never have left the caves. But there were some who dared to dream. To reach for the stars. Adam was one such. And he meant far, far more to her than she’d ever wanted to admit. Admitting that she valued something was a sure path towards losing it. Her childhood and young adulthood had taught her that lesson.

  One second. Two. Feeling the heart spasm on the bullet that had nicked the aorta. Sigrun lifted her head and snapped at the Chaldean woman behind her, “Can you pull the bullets? Do you or your spirits have the magic to do it?”

  Trennus then, at her side. “If she doesn’t, I do—oh, gods.” He sounded horrified and shaken, however, as he finally got a look at the wound. “Sigrun, no. There’s nothing we can do. Taking the bullets out will just—”

  Sigrun raised her head and used the voice she never used on mortals. It was the voice of the law, the voice of Tyr, and it clanged back from the walls with echoes of iron and steel. “Pull the bullets now, Matrugena.” She spared a glance for the Chaldean envoy. “You. Defend us. They will return shortly.”

  She could see Trennus’ head snap back in the illumination from her own skin, and, wide-eyed, the Pict obeyed, kneeling and holding his hand over Adam’s body, so that the bullets snapped up and into his hand, as if drawn by magnetic force. As each one emerged, Adam’s body twitched and convulsed, and Sigrun could feel his life falter under her hand. “No, not today,” she told him, and put her hand on his chest now, feeling the heart twist under her palm. “Get on your feet, Adam ben Maor. There is work yet to be done.”

  And then she took the wounds. All of them, all at once, because doing them one at a time wouldn’t save him, and the pain of it might erode her will to go on. The bullet that had slammed into his right shoulder, the least grievous. The two in the right lung. The one to the belly. And the two to the sternum, including the one that had perforated the heart.

  Sigrun curled in on herself, feeling the balance of mortality sway and shift. I have chosen, she thought, distantly. I have chosen who will live, and who will die. I have chosen the worthy to live on. His tissues knitted. Hers frayed. God-born blood poured out of her chest, and Sigrun slipped to the ground, feeling . . . pain and peace, at the same time. A little regret. And a curious sense of amused sorrow. What will my sister say . . . to see all her futures . . . unwrought?

  And then her light went out.

  ___________________

  Trennus, watching, but unable to stop her, and not knowing what would happen if he tried to knock her away before the transference was complete—he could well end up with two incapacitated friends on his hands, rather than just one—also had his hands full. Sigrun’s light died, leaving them all in darkness, and Trennus snapped out, Saraid!

  I come!

  The stag once more materialized, a faint, dim golden glow around it. Scarcely more than a candle’s worth with which to wish away the dark. Trennus reached down with a numb, shell-shocked hand, and hauled Adam upright, even as the man began to cough, wrackingly, forcing curdled blood out of his chest. “Get up, ben Maor, there’s still more of them!”

  ___________________

  Adam sat up in a daze, not even knowing where he was. It hurt to breathe, and when he coughed, he could taste blood, thick and metallic-tasting, in his mouth, and he spat. “How—”

  “Sig’s down. I need you on your feet.” Trennus had stepped into command, and a good thing, too, for all Adam could do for an instant was stare down at Sigrun’s crumpled body. Trennus took off his shirt and wadded it up, pressing it against the wound in Sigrun’s chest, trying to slow the arterial bleeding. The only thing that could possibly be keeping her alive at this moment was the healing of the god-born. “Damn it, Adam! Use the time she’s giving us!”

  That got his attention, and Adam fumbled for his backup gun in his holster at his ankle, and looked for a target, even as Trennus demanded of Erida, the Chaldean envoy, “Have anything we can use?”

  “Light is not my specialty,” she admitted, tightly. “One spirit provides a shield against bullets. The second protects me from poison. My third was meant to protect me against magical attacks, and to attack other spirits, but it’s gone.” Her voice was tight.

  “Know any other Names?”

  “A few. My sorcery is all air-based. It will not affect these spirits much, if at all.”

  “Start invoking. I’ll provide the circle.” Adam saw lines slash themselves into existence through the tile floor.

  “Won’t the lines of the tile interfere?” the Chaldean asked, her tone neutral.

  “Not as wide as I’m making the circle’s own line,” Trennus replied, curtly.

  “Protective or binding?”

  “Binding. They can get in, but they can’t get back out.”

  “Excellent.” Adam glanced up just long enough to see the woman biting on her own fingers hard enough to draw blood, and then bringing her hand in a hard, downwards arc. “Akh,” she whispered. “Akh. Come and feed. I give you your preferred sustenance, and all I ask is light. Drive these creatures to us. AKH!”

  “Spirit’s not answering,” Trennus told Adam, tightly. “Either the bargain’s not enough, or it thinks the alu are too much to deal with.”

  Adam looked down at Sigrun’s body. She was dying, dying of wounds she’d taken from him. They needed to end this, so they could get her some proper medical attention. “The firebird?” Adam asked Trennus, his thoughts racing. “She helped heal you before. And she’s light.”

  “I can call her, but if I do, we’re putting every last one of the ci
vilians in there, back in the dark,” Trennus said, grimly.

  Harah. Adam stared down the hall. The two JDF soldiers at the far end of the hall, having stopped and stared in horror for a moment at having subjected someone to friendly fire, were under attack again. He could just barely make out the shapes that half-formed from billows of smoke, forcing them to turn to defend themselves, only to vanish, as another alu appeared directly behind them. Pack tactics. Like wolves who’d learned magic. “What in god’s name do I do, Tren?” he asked, as Erida started another invocation.

  “We need them back here, or dead. Both, preferably. Killing them right here in the circle would be best, but . . . .”

  Adam didn’t dare fire his pistol. The JDF soldiers didn’t deserve the return fire. Instead, he handed it to Trennus, who took it gingerly, as if he’d never held such a thing before in his life. “Fingers outside the trigger guard unless you mean to shoot.” He leaned over, ran a bloody hand over Sigrun’s hair, and felt one ragged breath warm his wrist. Then he picked up her spear, swallowed, and stepped out of the circle. “Hey!” he shouted. “You want blood? I’ve got plenty here for you!”

  The alu turned, laughing, but the mad sound had no effect on Adam. He should have been dead already. He was living on borrowed time, time Sigrun had given him, and he had to make that gift count. He had to save her life, the way she’d saved his. His sole focus was on the green eyes as they rushed towards him in a swirl of smoke, and he reacted before the demons materialized behind him, turning and slashing with the spear. It felt odd to use a weapon so primitive, but oddly satisfying as he slashed through a body that was invisible to his eyes . . . but was clearly there. Resistant. Tangible. A beast howled, and Adam spun again, working the spear in a figure-eight pattern, high and low, covering the maximum area possible, catching and nicking the creatures over and over as they tried to circle him. Tried to rush in and out of reality. Sometimes all he caught was smoke. Sometimes, the spear came away from a slash wet with black blood. He let pure combat instinct take over, keeping his eyes wide and unfocused, reacting on rhythm, feeling, motion. Let his subconscious tell him when a strike was coming, and drove the spear through an invisible throat . . . and then turned and administered a vicious side-kick to the crumbling body to direct it back towards the circle where Trennus and Erida awaited.

  ___________________

  “Got him!” Trennus shouted, leaving Sigrun long enough to reach over the edge of the circle and yank the alu into the circle, where he looked around wildly for a container, spotted a vending cart nearby that hadn’t been overturned, and forced the floor to rise and ripple, bringing the cart to him. He grabbed the first container he saw . . . . an untapped metal barrel filled with beer . . . and started the words of the binding, hissing them out as he crammed the demon’s essence into the container. The sides turned frosty as the energy exchange took effect . . . and then Trennus dropped back down to a crouch, once more trying to keep pressure on the wound in Sigrun’s chest. His shirt was soaked red already. Going to need to get Lassair in here . . . but can’t until the civilians are safe . . . .

  ___________________

  Adam ducked under another swipe of claws—catching them across his forehead, for his pains, but avoiding decapitation—and barely noticed it through the gray haze of adrenaline when Erida shouted out one last name. “Illa’zhi! Light of the dead!” . . . . but the blaze of fire that went up caught his eye, and the alu around him all howled, morphing back into full visibility and solidity as an efreet appeared in the middle of the summoners’ circle. A swirl of black smoke and living flame, twisting in on itself in a vortex.

  Adam stared, just for an instant. Oh, lord. Please, not this. Sure, it’s light, but they’re malefic. “What did you trade?” Adam shouted, slamming the butt of the spear into another alu muzzle.

  “A year of my life!” she shouted back. “Less, if we let it feed on them. Worth the trade.” Her dark eyes were like chips of black glass in her smooth face.

  Adam rolled out of the cringing circle of alu. “I wish it nothing more than a hearty meal!” he declared. “Good appetite!” Please. God. Don’t let it burn the building down.

  And then the efreet closed on the alu, and there was nothing more than screams and the smell of burning hair and flesh. Tendrils of fire lashed out of the whirlwind, scorching the tiles of the floor and charring the ceiling above, but Adam no longer cared. He limped back over to the others, realizing, belatedly, that he’d taken a handful of rakes and claws, and that he was, once again, bleeding. It didn’t matter. He dropped Sigrun’s spear, and dropped to his knees, checking her vitals with a bloody hand to her throat. Her heart was beating, but just barely. Terribly erratic, in fact, lurching in fits and starts under his fingers, and her breathing was shallow. The burns under the Pyramid of the Sun were bad enough, he thought, numbly. She didn’t have to take these. She chose them. What am I going to do if she dies because of me? He didn’t dare move her, not yet. Just cradled her limp hand in his, and looked up at the blaze of fire that was a damned efreet, one of his worst nightmares, that was burning their enemies alive . . . and felt nothing. Not fear, nor wonder. Just numbness.

  After a moment, he managed to remember why they were even here, and reached for the radio at his belt. “This is ben Maor,” he identified himself. “The efreet in the lobby is a friendly.” The words tasted odd in his mouth. “Lobby is secure. Start getting the civilians out into the parking lot. We’re going to need emergency medical teams. Repeat, get all the civilians out through the front lobby. And . . . “he paused, drawing a blank, and then found the words again, “get every person out there to turn on their car, particularly the headlights. Let’s get as much light out there as possible.” We don’t know if any of them are left alive. He stared into space for a moment, and then changed to the Praetorians-only channel. “Eshmunazar?”

  “I copy,” Kanmi’s voice came back, tight and clipped. “You want us to come to you?”

  “Yes. Front lobby. Chaldean dignitary is secure from her . . . ah . . .” Adam’s mind went blank again, as he stared down at Sigrun’s face.

  “Assassination attempt?” Kanmi offered, into the silence.

  “Yes,” Adam said, his tone limp. “That.” A curl of blackened ceiling plaster fell past his cheek, and he knelt. Picked Sigrun up—carefully, very, very carefully, not even trying for a fireman’s carry this time—and carried her to the door. I can’t let her be trampled by the people trying to escape. “Come to the main entrance. We’ll be outside, and can get you to the vehicles.”

  About a minute later, someone in the JDF managed to get the building’s emergency generator back online, and at least a few light panels over exits came back on. Adam looked at Erida. “Could you ask your . . . friend . . .” he indicated the towering pillar of fire and wind, which had spawned eyes to look down on them, “to go into the rest of the center and provide light? Not damaging the people inside, and not burning the building down?” It . . . paid to be specific with efreeti, from all the legends.

  Erida looked up at the vast creature. Adam could hear the words of the reply in his head, and this was not Lassair’s voice, which held the gentle, welcoming warmth of a hearthside seat in winter. This was a voice that roared inside of his mind, spoke of hunger and desire and consumption, with hisses and crackles. You summoned me to save your life, and instead, provided me a feast. I was in danger of almost owing you service, instead of you owing me life. I will do this . . . though it is a pity that the god-born woman is not fit to meet me in battle at the moment. It would be interesting to match strengths with her.

  “You can keep right on being curious about that,” Adam gritted out.

  The efreet laughed at him, and swirled into the main hall, where, yet again, people inside shrieked in terror . . . but it rose up and became a smaller, compacter whirlwind, its destruction contained. If only for the moment.

  This freed Lassair to swoop in from the main hall, and she landed on Sigrun’s chest
, pecking away Trennus’ shirt from the valkyrie’s body . . . and then chirruped at Trennus and Adam. I can slow the bleeding. The wounds are very deep, but she fights. My sister never stops fighting. Rueful admiration in the spirit’s voice. The day she does, the day her heart breaks, the world will be a colder and darker place for it.

  The next four to eight hours saw nothing but pandemonium at the convention center. Red and blue lights, flashing across the parking lot. High-powered search lights, attached to portable kerosene-powered generators, lighting the night as if it were day. Ambulances screaming away, carrying the civilian and military wounded. Fire trucks spewing chemical retardant foam at the roof of the convention center.

  Adam, Trennus, and Kanmi kept a firm eye on Livorus, Trennus and Kanmi getting him to the vehicles before the pair escorted him back to the governor’s mansion. The Chaldean envoy, Erida, wound up going with the Median one, Maranata, to the Median consulate . . . in spite of the Persian ambassador showing up on scene and demanding that they should all return with him to the safety of his embassy. Adam overheard part of that conversation as he was helping the paramedics load Sigrun into an ambulance, and watching the first-response workers haul the bodies of the other injured people from the convention hall. They’d set up a triage area, but the paramedics had taken one look at Sigrun’s wounds and moved her to the head of the line. She wouldn’t want that, a voice said at the back of Adam’s mind. Sigrun had steadily maintained that the other lictors should be given medical attention before her, because of her ability to heal. To gehenna with that, though. She’s got a wound in her heart. The only reason she’s still alive is her damned god-born healing. Adam could see the shock in the paramedics’ faces as they assessed her wounds. Even they know she should be dead.

  They closed the doors on her, and Adam was left, for the moment, to turn and look around the controlled chaos in the parking lot. The news media had arrived, and were putting up mobile broadcast antennae off to the side. He could see JDF personnel walking around with heavy weaponry, on guard. Dozens of gardia officers, putting up crime-scene tape, taking pictures, interviewing the survivors, most of whom had had blankets tossed over their shoulders. A paramedic waved Adam over to try to put bandages on his various claw marks, and offered him at least a change of shirt, boggling at the bullet holes and blood on his existing one. “How . . . ?” the woman began, in Hebrew.