Battlestorm

by Susan Krinard

  We will survive.

  Sleipnir was docile when Mist looped a piece of rope around his neck and led him from the building, but he refused to go anywhere near Odin. Mist was careful to keep herself and the horse between the All-father and Dainn.

  For now, it was the best protection she could give him.

  * * *

  At noon the next day, Dainn was confined in his cell, Ryan was resting in the infirmary, and Sleipnir was housed in a makeshift stall in one of the warehouses—with Danny, because the Steed was unmanageable in his absence. Mist had finally informed Rota and Hild about Danny and his origins, hoping for their acceptance. Fortunately, they’d both dealt with the revelation very well, and promised to help keep an eye on him.

  Meanwhile, Odin—still invisible to most of the camp, Alfar and humans alike—brooded in Mist’s confiscated bedroom while carpenters, electricians, and roofers swarmed to remodel the small warehouse he had chosen as his “hall.”

  The sun had managed to squeeze out from among the clouds, but Mist knew it wouldn’t last. The weather was an omen, just as it had been last year and for the better part of this one, with temperatures more fit for Siberia than San Francisco.

  Ironically, it almost felt like spring when Mist and Captain Taylor made a complete tour of the camp, trying to quiet the rumors circulating among the recruits who hadn’t directly observed the previous night’s massacre by Hel and her minions. Mist took more time with the survivors, of whom there were few enough. There wasn’t much she could do to help them.

  “You can’t do everything,” Taylor reminded her as he pushed a cup of strong coffee into her hands. “There are hundreds of recruits. You can’t see every one of them in person.”

  Mist knew he was right, but his advice wasn’t of much comfort. The image of Hel’s victims wouldn’t leave her mind, and she was haunted by the idea that every one of them had gone to the goddess of death, swelling her ranks by nearly four dozen more “tenants.”

  The last thing she wanted to do now was send more of her people into Hel’s waiting arms. Still, she knew that Taylor and the other instructors were doing everything they could to keep that from happening. Troops were drilling constantly, more and more of them every day as Taylor and his lieutenants tested and passed new recruits. Some were already fighters … soldiers from wars as recent as Afghanistan and as far back as Vietnam. Good men and women, the captain said.

  But they were in the minority. Most of the newcomers needed at least several weeks of training before they’d be ready for battle, and some would never be ready at all. Mist had quietly disregarded Odin’s instructions and sent the weakest away.

  And that wasn’t the only area where she found herself in conflict with Odin’s wishes. While Odin’s Einherjar guarded Sleipnir and Dainn, Mist had her own people watching the watchers. Odin didn’t attempt to interrogate Dainn or Danny, however, and he didn’t approach Sleipnir.

  That left Mist with a little time to think once her rounds were finished. She knew better than to try to see Dainn when Odin’s warriors were observing every move he made in his cell, so she had no way of finding out what had been going on in his mind when he’d healed Ryan, or why Danny had become ill immediately afterward. And Ryan wasn’t in any shape to elaborate on his most recent “prophecy.”

  Only one other person might understand the things that were bothering her, and she didn’t particularly want to see him. But he was an elf like Dainn, and so, at the end of the day, she went to find Konur.

  He was inspecting his Alfar troops, calling out quiet commands as they practiced their hand-to-hand combat and knife-work. Mist had learned enough about elves to know that they detested war in all its forms, fought only with magic when they were compelled to make war, and considered the use of weapons to be barbaric. But they’d learned to set aside their scruples quickly enough when they’d faced Loki’s Jotunar, and realized that their use of magic was heavily restricted in the cities of Men.

  Konur was already waiting for her before she got within shouting range, dark shadows under his eyes and deep lines bracketing his mouth.

  “How may I serve you, Lady Mist?” he asked with a respectful bow.

  “Why all the formality, Lord Konur?” she asked. “Don’t you want me to call you ‘Dad’?”

  Konur averted his eyes. “I have made many mistakes—”

  “I’m not here to hold your feet to the fire again,” Mist said wearily. “I understand why you didn’t tell me that I had two fathers, or that Freya created me to be her champion and then decided I’d make a good permanent residence. I know why you felt you had to stay out of the business between me and Freya for the sake of the other Alfar. If you’d taken sides, it could have provoked a conflict among your followers, and you were smart to realize that wouldn’t help me.”

  “There were many who believed that Freya commanded our absolute loyalty,” Konur said. “But I can assure you that it was no pleasure to know that my own child might be fighting for her life.”

  “At least you had ‘faith’ in me,” Mist said, trying without success to swallow her lingering bitterness.

  “Yes,” Konur said, “for more reasons than you can imagine.” He signaled for one of his lieutenants to take over and gestured for Mist to walk with him. “Let us go to my tent. There is still much I would tell you, if you will hear me.”

  “Actually, I was coming to you for advice.”

  “I am gratified.”

  “You’re the one most likely to be able to answer my questions about Dainn.”

  “Ah. I still know far less about him than—”

  “It’s not anything personal.” They reached his tent, and Konur lifted the flap for Mist to enter. “It has to do with several things that happened when we found Sleipnir.”

  “I have heard rumors,” Konur said. He offered her wine, which she declined. “Even the Einherjar have been known to speak unwisely.”

  Mist was willing to bet that they hadn’t gossiped about Odin’s failure to claim Sleipnir. Like several of the officers in camp, Konur knew about Odin and his warriors, but even he wasn’t aware of the soul-bits-in-the-Treasures business, and Mist hadn’t been authorized to tell him.

  Then again, she hadn’t been authorized to do a lot of things.

  “Did they mention that Loki slit Ryan’s throat, and Dainn healed him?” she asked.

  “Something to that effect.” Konur gestured toward one of the two camp chairs and took the other. “I did not realize this was among his current skills.”

  His voice was dry, and Mist felt her anger rise. “It’s not the first time he’s healed Ryan,” she said sharply. “Only last time, the beast was involved. Now…” She lowered her voice. “It came from somewhere else. He used spells I’ve never heard before.”

  “Elven spells?” Konur asked, his eyes alert.

  “That’s what I don’t know. I’m not sure that even Dainn understood what he was saying at the time. He used a language I’m not familiar with, and it called up some powerful magic.”

  “Can you remember any of this language?”

  “I’ll try.” She closed her eyes. “Tell me if any of this sounds familiar.”

  She repeated what she remembered of the words, and Konur reared back in astonishment.

  “That is what he said?” he asked.

  “That’s what I heard, though I’m sure I got a lot of it wrong.” She leaned toward Konur. “What is it?”

  “A very ancient language,” he said.

  “I figured as much. Ancient Elvish?”

  “Older.” He rested his chin on his interlaced hands and frowned down at the carpet of grass that covered the broken asphalt. “Older than the coming of the first Runes. So old, in fact, that it is not even taught to our children, though a few survive who remember having learned some small part of it.”

  “But not you?”

  Konur shook his head.

  “Then why would Dainn know it?”

  Konur looked up. �
�Dainn came to the Aesir’s Homeworld from some other realm, and said he had been wandering for many years. We all assumed that he was one of the eldermost of Alfar, though not an Elder according to our customs.”

  “I know,” Mist said, remembering all too clearly what Loki had told her. “But it isn’t normal for your Elders to speak this forgotten language?”

  “Not even among themselves.”

  “Then what are you getting at, Konur? Are you saying he’s older than all the other Alfar?”

  “I do not know.” Konur rose and moved with agitated steps around the tent. “You say that he did not know what he was doing when he spoke these words?”

  “That’s how it seemed to me.”

  “Then asking him about it may do no good. I only wonder if it is true what some in Asgard said, that he had lost part of his memory.”

  Mist remembered when Dainn had admitted to her that he’d come to Asgard with no memory of where he’d originated. She was rapidly wading into waters well out of her depth. “I’m more concerned about what it means now,” she said. “I’m afraid that Dainn is changing, and I don’t know how or why.”

  “I am sorry,” Konur said, obviously sincere in his regret. “I wish I could tell you more. The All-father is among the most ancient of beings, born soon after the creation of the world. It is possible that he may understand what I do not.”

  And I’m not about to share this with Odin, Mist thought.

  “Thank you,” Mist said, getting to her feet. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “Wait,” Konur said, stepping smoothly between her and the tent flap. “I would speak to you of the Eitr. It is important that you understand what it means now that you possess the power to wield it.”

  Mist stiffened. “How do you know about that?”

  “I did not realize that you had access to a more ancient magic when we Alfar first arrived, but it became more and more apparent as I continued to observe you. After what happened when you found Sleipnir, there can be no doubt of it.” He cleared his throat. “When you told me what Dainn had said about your having two fathers, there was much more that I should have told you. Please, sit.”

  “I can hear what you have to say standing right here,” she said, though her legs felt more than a little wobbly.

  Konur, too, remained standing. “You know that both Loki and Freya had some access to the Eitr in Asgard, though it was not widely known at the time.”

  “I was told, yes.”

  “Freya occasionally spoke of it when she and I … when we knew each other in Asgard. I learned of Svardkell’s part in Freya’s scheme before the Dispersal, but I came to realize that he understood much more than I ever did. Freya’s ability to control the Eitr, no matter how tenuous, led her to attempt something she had never done before, that none of the gods had ever considered.”

  “Let me guess,” Mist said. “Blending magical genetics with the abilities of a Jotunn and an elf.”

  “No,” Konur said softly. “It was not so simple. Svardkell and I were not your only fathers.”

  “What?”

  “There were five.”

  Mist laughed and kept laughing until she realized that Konur was serious. She remembered what Odin had said: “I was aware that Freya attempted a spell at your conception that would give you the magic of all the races.” At the time, she hadn’t known what he meant.

  Now Konur had given her an explanation. One she could barely accept.

  “Do I get to know who these fathers are?” she asked when she could speak again.

  “One male of each race,” Konur said, turning away so that she couldn’t see his face. “Elf, Jotunn, dwarf, mortal, and god.”

  Mist wished she’d taken Konur’s advice and sat down. Instead, she grabbed one of the tent poles and hung on. “Did she seduce them all at once, or one after another?”

  “I knew nothing of the others, until I met Svardkell and we put certain facts together.”

  Mist swallowed. “Where are they?” she asked. “Who are they?”

  “We of the Alfar’s and Aesir’s Shadow-Realms have never made contact with the Dwarven realm. We can only assume it exists in Ginnungagap, beyond our reach.”

  “And the god?”

  “I do not know. The mortal, of course, would have died long ago.” He sighed. “I did not intend to wait until after Freya’s death to tell you.”

  Mist shrugged. “What’s done is done. I suppose I’ll find out who the god was once Odin brings the Aesir to Midgard. Or maybe not. I don’t really care as long as it’s not Thor. I never liked him. Baldr would have been a nice father, if he hadn’t—” She broke off. “Loki’s piss. Odin knows that Freya had plans for me in Asgard. I never found out if he knew I had more than one. But this…”

  “Perhaps it would be better to wait before broaching the subject with him. He carries the fate of the world on his shoulders.”

  Yes, Mist thought, he carried that burden, and she’d been glad for it. In Asgard, he had been all that was noble and wise. But he was also ruthless, capable of great cruelty and harsh judgment.

  “Odin is and always was a tyrant,” Loki had said, “and he will give no more thought to the lives of your mortals than he would to a hill of ants.”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” Mist said, feeling light-headed. “I must be doing something very wrong.”

  Konur turned back to her and held out his arms. She fell into them, letting herself be weak for a few ragged breaths, and then pulled away.

  “Thanks for being honest,” she said. “I still don’t understand, but at least I have a better idea of why I still haven’t figured out who or what the Hel I am.”

  “There are answers, if you will but be patient.”

  “I can’t begin to tell you how tired I am of being pa—”

  “Mist.” He gazed at her very seriously, and she knew he was about to say something important. “Remember this. We Alfar serve Odin as we once served Freya, but we serve you even above him.”

  Mist slipped from the tent before she lost all self-control, her heart clenched into a knot and hot anger pumping through her veins. She didn’t want to be patient. In fact, at the moment what she wanted to do most was bang a few Jotunn skulls together, and to Hel with the consequences.

  Without consulting Odin, she spoke with Vixen, the head of her spy network. The woman had been receiving an unusual number of tips about Loki’s illegal operations from someone who didn’t want to take credit for the information.

  “It might be someone from the enemy camp,” Vixen admitted, “but so far all the tips have been good, and we’ve shut down a number of sex trafficking rings and drug labs.”

  “That’s good,” Mist said, “because tonight we’re taking out another one.”

  Once she’d chosen the target, Mist put out a call for fighters. She made clear that this was only an unofficial strike, a chance to test the waters following Loki’s flight from the crack house.

  She had more volunteers than she could handle, including nearly a dozen Alfar. She chose four of them and six mortals, experienced soldiers she wouldn’t need to worry about as she would the newer recruits. Tennessee and Vixen were among them.

  They reached the drug lab just after sunset. It was a professional operation, run by a powerful gang under the supervision of a Jotunn boss and three lesser frost giants. Mist and her fighters made it to the steps of the false storefront before the lookouts knew they were under attack.

  Elves and mortal warriors fought beside Mist as she drove the guards through the door and into a room filled to the brim with lab equipment, chemicals, and stacks of clear packages. Someone inside had come up with the brilliant idea of tossing handfuls of the white powder into the air, but Mist’s mortals had come prepared with masks, and the Alfar were unaffected.

  The thuggish mortals who stood guard over the frightened workers put up a strong defense while the Jotunar prepared to attack, but the gang members still weren’t comp
letely accustomed to using bladed weapons instead of their usual semiautomatics. When the Jotunar finally joined in the fight, wielding clubs and axes as well as ice-magic, Mist countered with forge-magic to warp the metal tables, twist the rebar inside the walls, and turned the floor under the enemies’ feet to hot slurry. She froze half of the chemistry equipment with her Jotunn magic while the Alfar danced around their opponents, bobbing and feinting and striking with fists, feet, and knives wherever they could. The mortal fighters, carrying heavier blades and axes, moved in where the elves left an opening.

  It was nasty work, but Mist wasn’t remotely interested in taking prisoners. Two of her mortal troops had fallen by the time they had taken out the Jotunar. At that point the room was like a meat locker, with frost coating every surface and the Jotunn bodies frozen to the walls with their own blood.

  Mist paused to sing a protective spell over her fallen warriors, a Rune-chant she hoped would preserve their souls from being claimed by Hel. Afterward, they found the lab workers huddled in a room in the back. All of them wore cheap surgical face masks, eyes wide above the white fabric. Their brown skin was coated with the powder, and some were coughing.

  “Surely these are not criminals,” one of the elf-women said.

  “She’s right,” Vixen said. “They’re the victims here.”

  Mist stared at the cowering workers. Like so many of the poor and the recent immigrants, they had been exploited by men who had been emboldened by the mayor’s cuts to legitimate law enforcement and his lax handling of organized crime. Some of these people were here because they couldn’t get better jobs, even at minimum wage, and city officials and politicians certainly weren’t trying to do anything about it.

  Because this is exactly the way Loki wants it, Mist thought. Desperate people pushed to their limits. Another move in his game of chaos.

  “It’s all right,” she said in Spanish. “We’re not here to hurt you. You’re free to leave.” She repeated the words in Tagalog and Cantonese. Some of the workers edged toward the back door, others remained hunched against the wall, too beaten down to expect anything but abuse.