Battlestorm

by Susan Krinard

  “Not even her body?”

  The image of Freya-Bryn lying on the warehouse floor was forever burned into Mist’s mind.

  I destroyed her. Nothing is left. Nothing.

  “Did you see one?” she snapped. She exhaled slowly and dropped her hand from her face. “I’m sorry. Whatever I felt about my mother, I never thought something like this could happen.”

  “You are most fortunate that you did not follow her into this darkness,” Konur said. There was no grief in his voice, only calm acceptance. “The Aesir and Vanir are not mortal, but they can be killed. Bryn…”

  “I’m afraid her body is lost,” Mist said. She touched the pouch again. “If her soul is still in here, maybe we can bring it back in a body that no longer has a mind of its own.”

  “As long as the essence of her spirit is safe, we can but hope.” He rose. “We will speak more of this later,” he said. “You may feel recovered now, but the shock will not have passed so quickly.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Mist said. She met his gaze. “What do you feel about Freya being gone? You had a past together, didn’t you?”

  At first she thought she’d overstepped. He stared at her, a grim set to his mouth. “We all respond to such tragedies in our own ways,” he said, rising. “Rest now. I will be drilling my Alfar away from camp, so do not be alarmed if I am absent for a few days.”

  Almost as soon as he was gone, Mist began to weep again. When she finally slept, her dreams were crowded images of violence, and she felt herself being literally torn apart, Freya tugging on one arm and some invisible force pulling the other. Then she fell, endlessly, screaming with Freya’s voice. Calling for Dainn, who only watched with his most expressionless face.

  Dense darkness closed in around her again with the surreal terror of a nightmare, and suddenly Freya was alive within her mind, her eyes glittering with malice to equal Loki’s. She extended her hands as she had when they had joined, but they were covered in blood.

  You know, she said, laughing at Mist’s anguish. You cannot live without the force I gave you the power to wield. You must be whole, or you will end. And all you fight for ends with you.

  “Why did you betray me?” Mist cried. “Why did you hate me?”

  Because you were to be mine in all things—my weapon, my champion, my other self, the one to wield the power even I could not. You overcame my will. But hear this, Daughter. No matter how far you run, you will always carry me within you.

  20

  When Mist woke again, it was gone. The grief, the guilt, the horror over what she had done. Her body surged with new energy, driving her out of bed, compelling her to ignore the healer on duty, who drew back in shock when Mist all but pushed him aside.

  She showered, put on clean clothes, and called to convene a council meeting within the hour. When she walked out of the loft at noon, her mind was already racing with ideas.

  Her “advisors” were waiting for her in the smaller meeting room across the street from her loft. Roadkill and Vixen were nursing beers, while the Alfar, excluding the absent Konur, sat quietly in meditative poses. They all rose when she walked in.

  “Brooding, my friends?” she asked, laughing at their expressions.

  Rick stared at her. “What the hell has been happening?” he asked. “You’ve been sick ever since you got back from trying to find Sleipnir. We heard you were in some kind of coma.”

  “I’m fine now,” Mist said. “Unfortunately, we were unable to locate Sleipnir, and Freya has left us to carry out work only she can do.”

  Glances were exchanged around the table—some troubled, some relieved, others unreadable.

  “Where did Freya go?” Rota asked, her round face drawn with worry.

  “Were you offended that we didn’t include you in our discussion, Sister?” Mist asked lightly.

  “We thought you were dying,” Hild said.

  Mist found herself becoming annoyed. “Do I look as if I am dying?” She lifted her hands and felt the World Tree reaching down with branches of energy, winding about her arms and sending fresh power into her body. “We have made new plans, and now we can proceed.”

  “You’ve already proceeded without us,” Rick said. “What’s the point of being in your council if you don’t bother to—”

  Mist moved the floor under the mortal’s chair, and he jumped out of it just before it toppled. Everyone stared, and then slowly returned their attention to Mist.

  “I make the decisions,” Mist said, staring at each of the Valkyrie, mortals, and Alfar in turn. “Sit down, Rick.”

  Eyes wide with confusion, Rick righted the chair and resumed his seat.

  “I shall tell you where Freya has gone,” Mist said, moving to the head of the table. “She has discovered the means to stabilize the bridges to Ginnungagap so that their function is no longer so erratic. She has returned to the Shadow-Realms to make another attempt to bring the Aesir to Midgard.”

  This time, there was a little hope on some of the faces turned toward Mist. A pinprick of guilt prodded her heart and was quickly gone.

  “Where’s Bryn?” Hild asked.

  Mist had forgotten about Bryn entirely, and the question only increased her irritation. “Bryn is also on assignment,” she said, “which will remain confidential. In her absence, you, Rick, and Captain Taylor will divide responsibility for the mortals under her command. Unless, of course, you choose to sit in a corner and sulk like a child denied his piece of the birthday cake.”

  Shaking his head with a quick jerk, Rick clamped his jaws together. Perhaps, Mist thought, she was being too harsh, though it was difficult to forget the inferiority of these short-lived, fragile creatures.

  “You will all be given new commands and assignments,” she said. “Prepare to work harder than you ever have before. It is my task to summon a true army of mortals to join in our fight, which I shall begin immediately.”

  Rota raised her hand. “How can you keep attending Freya’s social events and gather an army at the same time?”

  “There will be no need for more ‘social events,’” Mist said. “We have waited long enough. We are taking the war to Loki.”

  * * *

  Over the next few days, the mortals came singly, in their dozens, and their hundreds. Mist cast her net of glamour wide, and the magic poured forth like the waters of some ancient flood sweeping over the city.

  Most of those who arrived were neither dazed nor bewildered by the compulsion that had brought them to the ever-expanding camp. They already understood why they were there, and the new administrative staff Mist had already appointed to prep the newcomers had little difficulty in organizing and transporting them to the various buildings in the area that Mist had purchased as additional dormitories.

  Just as she had intended, a significant majority of the new recruits were physically and psychologically capable of fighting and even killing for their world, and Mist’s officers—including Captain Taylor, Hild, and the bikers Rick and Tennessee—quickly assigned each prospective fighter to a squad for training in the use of bladed weapons and the skill of Jotunn-killing. Medical personnel were sent to the Alfar healers, and those with essential administrative skills to Roadkill. Since Anna had apparently hidden herself away, Mist appointed a new manager for her expanded IT team.

  On the fourth day, she called another meeting to hear reports from the council. Konur was still absent, a fact that might once have troubled her but now merely annoyed her, since she had easily been able to put lesser Alfar lords in his place. Captain Taylor was clearly exhausted, as were Rick and the other bikers.

  But Mist was unable to suppress her satisfaction. Everything was proceeding exactly as she had planned.

  “You have all done very well,” she said, beaming at each of the familiar faces with impartial benevolence. “I will continue to expect daily reports, but you and your lieutenants will deal with any but the most significant problems. I expect our new recruits to conform to the discipline neces
sary to build our army. We must be one body to overcome Loki.”

  It was Rick who stood first, bracing his hands on the meeting room table. “You’re talking about human beings here, Mist,” he said, his rough voice almost a whisper. “They may understand more or less what they’re getting into, but they didn’t come as one organized group ready to work together. We’ve handled some fights already. There’re gonna be more.”

  “Then stop them,” Mist said. “I have given you the authority.”

  “And what about the ones who obviously aren’t going to work out?” Rota asked. “The first couple of days, you had us send you the recruits who were obviously not going to be much help to us, so you could blank out their memories. More of them are coming all the time, and the troublemakers tend to show their true colors when we start teaching them how to fight. What do we do with the psychopaths who just like to kill?”

  “If they kill Loki’s allies, what do their reasons matter?”

  A stunned silence fell over the room. Mist laughed. “Come, now. You surely exaggerate the numbers of these deviants. If you can’t handle them, send them to me. But see that you send only the worst. I don’t have time to deal with every little problem.”

  Vixen rose to stand beside Rick, who seemed frozen in place. “My God,” she said. “You sound like Freya.”

  “And how well did you know the Lady?” Mist snapped. “How often did you speak to her?” She swept her gaze around the table. “I see that I shall have to be frank with you. Freya will be working entirely in the Shadow-Realms from now on. She will not be returning.”

  “What the fuck,” Tennessee growled.

  Mist stared at him, and he sank deeper into his seat. “There is no cause for concern,” she said. “I am her daughter, and she taught me what I needed to know. I told you we would take the war to Loki, and I will deal with his more powerful allies in my own way. And make clear to any others who might join him that they will face painful consequences if they choose incorrectly.”

  “How?” Vixen asked. “You plan to assassinate them or something?”

  Mist didn’t answer. Rick sat down heavily. Someone cursed.

  “The corruption of the government will be exposed,” she continued. “We will hunt out the Jotunar and the gangs that support them. We will shatter the foundations of the edifice the Slanderer has built, and when the final battle comes, we will watch it crush him as it falls.”

  “You talk as if this will be easy,” Rick said. “Even with hundreds more fighters … thousands…”

  “And Alfar,” Mist said. “As soon as things are more settled with the new recruits, I will open the bridge to Alfheim’s Shadow-Realm.”

  “But I thought Freya was the one who was supposed to—”

  Mist silenced the mortal with a sweep of her hand and faced the nearest wall. It was so easy, so natural to call on the ancient magic now, not only to control the elements, but also to touch the Void. The surface shimmered and an aperture opened in the wall, expanding from the center as if it were a sheet of paper touched by a match, the first tiny scorch mark burning rapidly outward.

  Framed by the aperture, the Void—Ginnungagap—roiled in shades of black and gray like a storm-tossed sea.

  “This is what Freya and I have done,” she said, setting aside her reluctance to share any credit with her late mother. “It only remains to see if Freya has completed her task and made the Aesir ready.”

  “Let’s hope they’re ready,” Captain Taylor muttered, speaking for the first time.

  Mist smiled at him with remote affection. “I have every confidence. Again, I must rely on all of you, and those you appoint, to carry out our other preparations without question or doubt.”

  “What about Sleipnir?” he asked.

  “I assure you that we will soon have him safely back with us.” She rose from her chair. “Are there any more questions?”

  No one spoke. One by one the council members drifted away.

  Mist was pleased. Such meetings were still necessary, but soon she could concentrate on her real work. The work only a goddess could accomplish.

  She strode out of the building. Sunlight had cut through the cloud cover, and Mist basked in its warmth as she surveyed the camp. Mortals scurried about, some already organized in marching columns, others intent upon business of a less martial nature. Useful tools, flawed though they might be.

  A few noticed her and turned, instinctively recognizing her though she had met only a handful in person. She would walk among them later, in the cool of evening, and remind them whom they followed and why they had come to sacrifice their freedom and their lives.

  “Not all of them are here willingly,” Captain Taylor said, coming up behind her. “Not the way they should be.”

  She glanced at him. “What is will?” she asked. “They understand enough.”

  “Understanding doesn’t protect them from death.”

  “Neither does ignoring the peril their world faces,” she said. “If a few were compelled, it is a small enough price for mortalkind to pay.”

  “Isn’t that the kind of logic Loki would use?”

  “Loki desires chaos. I will give them—”

  She caught her breath, and the sunlight winked out. The world darkened.

  I will give them a benevolent ruler, and Midgard will finally be at peace. No war, no violence …

  No freedom.

  “Mist?”

  She focused on his voice, hanging on to it like a mountain climber clings to the crumbling edge of a cliff. “Taylor?” she said.

  “I’m here.” His broad hand clamped on her arm. “What has happened to you?”

  The question cleared her mind like a thunderclap. She shook him off.

  “Captain Taylor,” she said, “I would suggest that you reexamine your priorities, or you shall be of no further use to me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, straightening to rigid attention.

  His formality softened her heart. “This is no time for allies to quarrel,” she said.

  He gazed at her, his brown eyes bewildered. “No,” he murmured. “This isn’t right.”

  “Do not presume to question me again. Go.”

  The captain gave her a stiff salute and stalked away. Mist frowned, some vestige of foreign emotion passing through her mind. She dismissed it.

  In the end, Taylor was no different from the others. He would obey. If he did not, she would make a necessary example of him.

  But not until she had made very clear that treachery would be punished. For the sake of the world she loved.

  * * *

  “Make yourself ready. She wants to see you.”

  Dainn sat up. He didn’t recognize the elf who had spoken; at first his guards had been of Konur’s band, not friendly but not openly hostile.

  That had changed when the new mortals had begun to arrive. Dainn had listened intently to the few conversations held within his earshot. Konur and his Alfar had apparently been assigned elsewhere—though Dainn had his doubts that Mist had been involved in that “reassignment”—and he’d had no word of Ryan, let alone of Sleipnir and Danny. There was new activity in the camp, a buzz of excitement, the overwhelming sense that something had changed.

  Mist, they said, had changed.

  Scrambling to his feet, Dainn lost all awareness of his filthy clothes, the stench of his unwashed body, the misery of thirst, and the humiliation of the spell that still kept him silent. His limbs were heavy as the guard stood aside and she swept into the room.

  She was different. He saw it in her bearing, the lift of her head, her eyes, the cruelty in her smile. There was no doubt in her, no uncertainty of power or purpose.

  “So,” she said. She glanced around the room, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “In the absence of a permanent visit to Niflheim, this seems almost a fitting prison for a traitor of your considerable merit.”

  The words, the cadence of her voice, even the sentiment were not Mist’s. She might have dec
eived every other elf or mortal in the camp. Even Mist’s father, if she had seen him. Perhaps even Ryan.

  But she could not deceive him.

  Freya had finally succeeded. Konur had not protected his daughter, and Ryan hadn’t warned her. That which Dainn had feared for so long had finally come to pass.

  This was no longer Mist pretending to be Freya, as at the reception, but Freya within Mist’s body. Not daring, yet, to reveal her true self, because it was still possible that she had not learned to wield Mist’s power well enough to control any who might object to the murder of her daughter.

  A great roaring filled Dainn’s head, unimaginable grief, the agony of loss. But he didn’t let her see it. She had to believe that he, too, had fallen for her trick.

  She would be his means of leaving this cell and searching for Danny. Nothing else held any meaning for him. Or ever would.

  “No words of greeting?” Freya asked. “Oh, but of course. You can’t speak.”

  He touched his throat, letting his eyes plead for him. “Mis—” he whispered.

  “Konur should not have lied to me about placing this spell upon you,” she said, “but he did me a service. I have no desire to hear your excuses.”

  Then why are you here?

  Freya flinched, and he realized that he had projected the thought. They had communicated that way a hundred times when Freya was still confined to the Void and he had acted as the Lady’s voice in Midgard.

  But it had not happened since her arrival on Earth. And he could not let it happen again.

  “Unfortunately,” she said, as if she had not heard him, “I must question you before I decide your fate. I may find it in my heart to end it painlessly if you tell me all you know of Loki’s plans.” She gestured with her forefinger, and Dainn felt the spell released, his throat open again. He coughed, spitting blood into his palm.

  “I can … tell you very little,” he rasped.

  “You went to Loki of your own free will.”

  He sat up on his knees. “I did it to … protect you. The beast had no power then. My magic was gone. I didn’t believe I could be turned against you and your allies.”