Battlestorm

by Susan Krinard

  She kissed him. A fierce joy took her, battering down the resistance in Dainn’s mind, and he answered in kind.

  The moment of union lasted the eternity of a heartbeat, and then Dainn broke free. The cable snapped back as if it had been severed by a well-honed blade, and Mist was in her own head again, alone in her body, bereft.

  Dainn backed away, his face wiped of all expression.

  “I will do what must be done,” he said.

  Mist struggled to find her voice. Her lips throbbed. “You stay here,” she stammered. “I’ll find a better place to hide you.”

  Touching his mouth as if it belonged to someone else, Dainn didn’t answer.

  28

  The camp was a madhouse when Mist went looking for Ryan. Odin’s Einherjar seemed to be everywhere—giving orders, speaking to large groups of mortal fighters, and generally dominating the space that had once belonged to Mist’s recruits. Multiple forges had been set up, every one producing mail and weapons suitable for Odin’s warriors. She didn’t see a single elf.

  She stopped the first Einherji she ran across. He was at least a full six inches taller than she was, with the same perfect Viking build Loki had assumed when he’d posed as her lover so long ago.

  “In a hurry, warrior?” she asked.

  He shot her a distracted glance. “Odin has said—” He did a double take. “Lady Mist.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Odin has given orders that we reorganize this camp and train the mortals to become a more efficient fighting force.”

  “The camp was already organized, and our people are already good fighters.”

  “Some, perhaps. But even they are not good enough to serve the All-father.”

  “So you’ve taken over without mentioning it to me?”

  He cocked an eye at her. “This is the will of the All-father. I am sure he has orders for you, as well.”

  Mist’s worry for Dainn and her grief over Danny and the mortal victims of Odin’s glorious debut had shortened her temper to the length of a burnt match stub. She thought about a certain spell that could turn the parking lot under the warrior’s feet to the temperature of a very hot frying pan.

  “I’m sure he does,” she said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “But last time I checked, he hadn’t relieved me of command here.”

  He flashed teeth as big as a horse’s. “I remember you now, Lady,” he said. “I believe you once served me a cup of mead in Valhalla.”

  He was actually smirking at her, reminding her of a time when Valkyrie were as much servants in Odin’s hall as they were battlefield riders who chose the honored dead to join Odin in Valhalla.

  “It’s far more likely that I dragged your body out of the blood and muck and gave you to Odin,” she said, “though gods know why I’d have chosen you.”

  The warrior’s jaw thrust out in a menacing frown. “Freya’s daughter,” he spat. “I do not even know why the All-father permitted you to live.”

  “Maybe it’s because I’m Freya’s daughter,” she said, lowering her voice to a husky growl. “I have certain skills.” She crooked a finger, inviting him to listen. “Have you ever lain with a Valkyrie?”

  His gaze fell to her mouth. “Many times.”

  “No complaints?”

  “I would be”—he thrust his groin at her—“honored to show you.”

  “I’m sure you would.” She turned on the glamour, contempt for him burning away all the other unpleasant emotions. “But you wouldn’t survive a night with me.”

  He stared. He licked his lips. His pupils shrank to pinpoints.

  “Maybe if you beg,” she said, “I’ll let you go without removing the pitiful organ you seem so proud of.”

  It amused her to see him grovel with his tongue hanging out, desperate just to kiss her hand. He was almost on his knees when she realized what she was doing.

  The dark side. The Freya side. The side that wanted the power to control people and steal their wills.

  And maybe even a little of the beast she’d collared with a few strands of her hair. Gods help her.

  “That’s enough,” she snapped, severing the spell. “If I see any of you shouting at my people or treating them as inferiors, I won’t wait to take it up with Odin.”

  He scrambled to his feet and hurried off without a backward glance.

  Furious at giving in to her vengeful impulses, Mist passed other Einherjar without looking at them and went on to the infirmary. Ryan wasn’t there, and he wasn’t in his usual place in the bunkhouse.

  Mist blamed herself for not finding a way to let him know what had happened with Gabi. The girl hadn’t returned to camp, and Mist could only hope that one of the regular patrols caught a glimpse of her. But she wasn’t holding her breath.

  Once she’d confirmed that no one else had seen Ryan for the past few hours, she bit the bullet and went on to Odin’s hall. The All-father was sitting on his throne, chin on fist, watching a TV someone had put up on the wall. News tickers skated across the bottom of the screen, updates on the investigation into the slaughter of fifteen people on Columbus Avenue, surrounded by piles of ash. The newscaster’s voice was high-pitched, conveying horror he was obviously fighting to hide. Images of the dead, faces blurred, filled the remainder of the screen, and reporters on the site, barred from the area by police tape and dozens of police cars and emergency vehicles, interviewed dazed witnesses.

  “There were all these … men with swords and stuff,” one man was saying, the reporter’s mike shoved in his pale face. “And a guy with an eye patch riding on a … Look, it sounds crazy, but I saw it. A big guy on a horse with—” He broke off and stared into the camera. “I can’t talk no more.” He shoved the mike away and rushed off.

  There were many others like him, clearly in a state of shock. Most of them covered their faces and refused to speak to the reporter. Others could barely form coherent sentences.

  “End it,” Odin said, leaning back with a faint smile.

  Anna pointed the remote at the TV and turned it off. She was dressed in a way Mist had never seen before: black leather pants; tall black boots; and a black, gray, and white urban camouflage shirt. A sword hung from her belt, and her dark hair had been pulled back into a short braid.

  “Mist,” Odin said, his smile vanishing. “Where is the child-slaying traitor?”

  It wasn’t quite the greeting Mist had expected, and it made clear just how little Odin was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  But you did betray him, she thought, more than once. And she felt no guilt whatsoever. At the moment, she saw not a wise god on his throne but a ruthless warrior on his eight-legged warhorse, striking with his spear as mortals fell all around him.

  But he had seen Loki with Dainn and Danny. She could ask him about what had really happened in the stable, the part that somehow hadn’t gotten out to the rest of the camp.

  Instinct told her to hold her peace.

  “Dainn?” she asked, frowning. “I thought he would have been executed by now.”

  “You never asked to see him,” Odin said. “Have you no interest in his fate, or that of the child?”

  He was testing her, and he wasn’t being subtle about it. She could only pray that the Alfr guards had kept their word to tell the story she’d arranged for them.

  “Why should I doubt the judgment of the All-father?” she asked, holding his gaze.

  “Indeed. Yet have you not defended the traitor on many occasions?”

  “I would not call it ‘defending,’ All-father. And that was before he killed his son.”

  “As a mindless beast.” Odin sipped from a large metal mug and extended it for Anna to fill from a bottle of Nogne Imperial Stout. “You know that he suffered my curse in Asgard with good reason.”

  “Yes.”

  “He has continued his evil works in Midgard. He prepared you for Freya’s return. He turned to Loki when he believed she had abandoned him. He betrayed you, and yet you pe
rmitted him to live even after you captured him.”

  “I thought he could provide us with—”

  “You knew that the boy had greater power than even I had guessed, yet you did not warn me.”

  “Where is his body, All-father?”

  “Indeed,” Odin said. “Where is it? Is the boy dead at all?”

  Mist started. “You saw his body. Why would you think he might still be alive?”

  “I told him,” Ryan said, emerging from behind Odin’s throne.

  Mist looked the young man over carefully. He seemed completely recovered from the trauma of his near-death; his expression was calm, even remote.

  But why in sweet Baldr’s name had he come to Odin, a god who hadn’t even acknowledged his presence when he’d nearly died at Loki’s hands?

  Of course he’d “met” Orn months ago at the loft, and Odin’s physical presence might have sparked a whole new raft of visions. But, like everyone else in camp, Ryan had to have heard that Dainn had been condemned to die. Even if Dainn hadn’t just saved Ryan’s life, the young man would never believe that Dainn was anything but innocent.

  Had he thought that if he volunteered his services to Odin and claimed that Danny was still alive in some inconceivable way, he’d be able to get the All-father to commute Dainn’s sentence?

  “You have to be together,” he’d said in the drug lab. “Many as one.” But what in Hel did that mean?

  “I’ve been worried about you, Ryan,” she said, trying to give herself time to think. “Are you all right?”

  Ryan touched his healed throat. “Fine,” he said, just an edge of roughness to his voice.

  “Why are you here?”

  “The boy is a spamadr,” Odin said, “as you well knew when he was Loki’s hostage, and failed to tell me.”

  “Has he predicted that you’ll win this war?” Mist asked, still watching Ryan’s face.

  The All-father was oblivious to her sarcasm. “That is a foregone conclusion. But he has already been useful to me. He predicted the trouble with Hel and informed me of it, and so I arrived in time to defeat her and win our first significant victory.”

  Victory? Mist thought. Ryan would have hoped to save lives by telling Odin what he’d “seen.” He couldn’t have realized how many mortals would die at the hands of the All-father and his allies.

  “I saw his paradise,” Ryan said, almost dreamily. “Grass and trees will grow where cities now stand.”

  Mist shivered, remembering Loki’s warnings.

  “I told you that you did well in the battle,” Odin said, dismissing Ryan with a wave of his hand. “But you behaved with great foolishness in facing Hel alone. Of course you could never have beaten her.”

  Mist sensed that she was treading on very thin ice. “No, All-father.”

  “I will not permit you to put yourself in such danger again.”

  He made the command seem like an act of generosity, even of affection. But he’d started out the interview with an accusation, and he’d robbed her of any authority she had in camp. He was no longer treating her like a trusted servant and confidante.

  There had to be a reason for his change of heart, and it wasn’t only suspicion over her “dealings” with Dainn. As carefully as she’d tried to conceal it, maybe he sensed her horror at what he had done in North Beach.

  Whatever his reason, she had to find a way to get back on his good side. She had to try to temper his nonchalant attitude toward “collateral” damage, or the next fight with Loki and his minions would be a massacre.

  “If I have displeased you,” Mist said, bowing deeply, “I beg your forgiveness. Grant me the honor of continuing to fight at your side.”

  “I will keep you at my side,” Odin said, “… here, when I return from battle. You will not be alone. The spamadr and Horja will bear you company.”

  Horja. Mist looked up at Anna. Her once-expressive face could have been carved from ice. There were subtle changes in her jaw and cheekbones, even in the color of her eyes.

  She’d shared the late Valkyrie’s memories for a very long time. Now, it seemed, those memories had become reality.

  If so, Anna might as well be dead. But had she wanted this, or had Odin forced it on her? How in Hel could she be saved, either way?

  “What of my other Sisters?” Mist asked with a calm she didn’t feel.

  “Rota and Hild will continue to supervise the mortals,” Odin said. “Olrun, Hrist, Skuld, and Regin will ride with me.”

  Because they were the ones he trusted, Mist thought. They were completely under his sway. “And the Einherjar?” she asked. “I was told that they are to assume the work of training the mortal fighters.”

  “So I have ordered.”

  “But my officers … Lord Konur, Captain Taylor…”

  “They can join the other warriors.” Odin took a deep swallow of his beer and wiped the drops from his mustache and beard with the back of his hand. “I will set you one task. The Alfar have seemed less than enthusiastic about serving me, though they have always been favored guests in Valhalla. Since you apparently have some influence with them, you will remind them that their purpose here has not changed. I will reward them with what Freya offered, and more.”

  By now, Mist thought, Odin must know that Konur was her father … though it was just as likely that he’d known all along and kept that knowledge from her. He might have good reason to distrust Freya’s former lover. But if he doubted the elves as he had come to doubt her …

  “Do you heed me, Valkyrie?” Odin said.

  Mist straightened. “Yes, All-father. I will speak to the Alfar.”

  “Be certain to make clear to them that I will not tolerate another failure such as the one that permitted the traitor to escape.”

  Mist exhaled very, very quietly. “The Alfar let him escape?” she asked.

  “He broke his chains and overpowered them, or so I am told.”

  “The Alfar hate him. They can’t be too happy with themselves right now.”

  “In my experience, the elves never allow disadvantageous circumstances to temper their arrogance.”

  Look in the mirror, Mist thought. But Odin was smiling now, and she remembered how benevolent he could be to those he favored.

  She decided to risk a direct question. “Now that you have Sleipnir’s power,” she said, “can we expect the other Aesir to arrive soon?”

  “Very soon.” Odin drained his cup and held it out for Anna-Horja to refill. “Have you learned anything more of the Gjallarhorn?”

  “My people have been working on it night and day. Do you want me to continue supervising them, or will you put the Einherjar in charge?”

  This time he didn’t miss the barb. “You may continue,” he said with a scowl, “but we must have the Horn before the final battle begins.” He stared into her eyes. “And now it is time for you to return the Cloak.”

  At first Mist didn’t know what he was talking about. Then she remembered the slight weight hanging from her neck, and covered the little pouch with her hand.

  “Can you resurrect Bryn now, All-father?” she asked.

  “After Loki is destroyed.” He looked away as if he had become bored with the conversation. “Give the pouch to Horja.”

  Her heart heavy with misgivings, Mist pulled the cord over her head. Anna-Horja descended from the dais and took it from her, barely meeting her gaze before she resumed her position.

  “You may go until I summon you again,” Odin said with a flick of his fingers.

  Mist hesitated. Her instincts still insisted that it would be a mistake to confront Odin about Loki’s presence in the stable. If he was determined to blame Dainn, he wasn’t likely to change his mind, and his trust in her would be further eroded. And if she couldn’t keep his trust, she wouldn’t be able to influence his behavior.

  She had to find the answers some other way. If she had to hunt Loki down and hold Kettlingr to his throat, by Mimir’s head she’d—

  The door swu
ng open, and an Einherji strode into the hall, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He spoke to Anna and quickly left. Anna bent to whisper in Odin’s ear. Odin raised his head and beckoned to Mist.

  “I do have one more task for you,” he said. “We have found the elf. Apparently he was seen wandering about in the camp, and gave himself up without a struggle.” Odin shook his head. “Perhaps there is still some faint spark of honor left in him. It seems only right that you, my most loyal Valkyrie, should end his life.”

  * * *

  Loki let the frenzy claim him again. He smashed every glass in his liquor cabinet. He ranted at his absent daughter. He cursed Odin with the foulest curses that had ever been pronounced among gods or men, drawing Merkstaves on the wall with the blood draining out of the scar on his hand.

  He had warned Dainn. He had warned Mist. But Dainn had trusted her, and she had trusted Odin.

  And now Danny was dead.

  They had been afraid to tell him, afraid he would kill the messenger. In fact, he had. But no thousands of deaths, Jotunar or mortal, could ever make up for the life taken from him.

  He fell onto the couch, breathless, permitting himself a short rest before he began again. They had said that the child had been slaughtered by a beast. Dainn’s beast.

  Loki believed it. Not that Dainn had done it with any awareness of his actions; when Loki had captured Dainn and the young seer Ryan, he had seen that Dainn had regained the means to mute the beast’s power without the use of the herb, just as he had gained the power to heal.

  No. Odin had cursed Dainn with the beast in Asgard; he had witnessed Danny’s power, and rekindled the curse to rid himself of father and son. Dainn, too, would die, the murderer of a child he had loved.

  Jumping up from the couch, Loki destroyed every stick of furniture in the room. Then he retired to the meeting room and remained very still until his heartbeat had resumed its usual rhythm and his breathing was almost normal.

  Someone knocked on the door, and Loki straightened in his chair. “Come in,” he said.

  Vali thumped into the room, took one look at Loki’s face, and stopped.