The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1)

by Lentz, P. K.

  Mysterious task complete, she leads me to a secluded spot in the rugged foothills around the river, where I gather we shall settle for the night. Her first act on sitting down is to take out her small knife and cut a fresh notch in her ax handle. The new notch joins the four up near the head which stand apart from the rest, informing me of what they must represent.

  Evidently, she has previously killed four silver-blue behemoths like the one she felled today by the wall.

  Why?! my tongue burns to ask her. Knowing there is no point, I am left to guess. She took no trophies and so probably does not hunt for sport or glory. Yet she keeps careful record. The giants I have seen her attack seem to have been targets of chance, so she is not an assassin. Is this a mission on which she has been sent? But why should she be sent alone, apart from the obvious reason that she would appear to require no help.

  Resting my back on a smooth rock, I expel breath and thought and shut my eyes. I am glad that this day has left me weary, for otherwise sleep might elude me here in the middle of an unknown land, surely on the cusp of yet greater unknowns. Held tightly in one palm while I succumb to sleep is Ayessa's necklace.

  I begin to wonder if when I do find Ayessa, she will be as unknown to me as everything else I have seen since leaving Neolympus.

  The next morning, we retrace the prior evening's path to the riverbank. In the exact spot where yesterday the slayer drew a shape and lined it with nuts, there stands an empty boat, its outline matching exactly the one she drew. I touch the hull and the two oars that sit inside it and have no choice but to believe that by some manner of magic, the slayer has created this vessel for us.

  The Spartioi spring to mind. Sown men. Here is a sown ship.

  The slayer takes up a position on one side of the hull, ready to slide it into the water. Tossing in our equipment, I join her, and a few minutes later we paddle downriver, she in front and me behind. With a strong current pushing us, the voyage is not strenuous. The land to left and right is rugged, with row on row of endless mountains lining the distance. The climate grows warmer, the slopes greener. The perpetual curtain of gray clouds finally breaks, and this morning, for the very first time in my new life, I see the sun. I stop paddling and stare into it. Realizing the mistake of that, I shut my eyes and bathe in its warmth. After a short while, I put my oar back in the water and resume doing my part before the slayer can show any sign of impatience, which, in fairness, she does not.

  The river bears us onward until from behind one of the nondescript foothills ahead of us, a mist-wreathed fortress rises. It is built of white stone and comprises two squat, square towers behind a crenelated wall. Behind it, a rainbow arcs from misty ground to pale sky. By the rushing sound that swells to a roar, the mist is caused by the river ahead of us spilling over the edge of a cliff.

  The slayer steers us toward the bank nearest the fortress. It is while we are jumping from the boat to shore that I first spy dark figures atop the fortress wall, and my heart leaps. These men are of our own size! The slayer's folk? Perhaps they will not all be mutes...

  I dare not think it, but cannot help myself. Perhaps Ayessa is right here, inside those walls.

  For the walk to the fortress, for reasons only known to her, the slayer carries her own pack. As we near the structure, a set of modestly sized-double doors is thrown open, and a long-haired, bearded man dressed in a tailored long-sleeve tunic, breeches, and a fur-lined cloak emerges, grinning broadly, arms thrown wide.

  He booms a few words. Alas, I comprehend none of them, even if I sense that a certain one that stands out prominently among them is my silent companion's name.

  Gaeira.

  21. Heimdall

  The slayer halts a few paces away from the man who has come to greet us. In lieu of the embrace that would seem to be warranted by the breadth of the smile he directs at the slayer, he claps his hands. His smile, his greetings, are not met in kind, not even faintly. One would scarcely guess that the slayer—Gaeira?—knew this man, though clearly she must.

  Lending to that impression, he comes closer to inspect the notches on her ax-handle. She turns it obligingly for him, and he looks impressed by what he sees. He is a friend, then, or something like it. Someone whom the slayer does the favor of not killing, at any rate. I had never seriously thought that her silence might be directed at me alone, but now that is proved. Our host seems to expect and accept her behavior.

  His attention turns to me, and his look is an easy, friendly one. He speaks more words that are incomprehensible, but question-like in tone. Since the slayer will not introduce me, I realize I must do so myself.

  "Thamoth," I say with palm to chest. After a pause, I explain in words which I doubt will be understood, "I do not speak your tongue."

  The man smiles anew. He could not be more different from she who has brought me here, and that greatly pleases me. Though we lack a common tongue, this man might at least make the attempt to communicate.

  He speaks again, a few words to me, then a few to (or rather, in the direction of) the slayer, and then he laughs lightheartedly. He puts hand to chest, as I did. "Heimdall."

  "Heimdall," I repeat. "I am honored to stand in your hall."

  He nods cordially, as though he has understood. Might he have?

  I next cast my eyes at the slayer, and Heimdall catches my thought. His dark eyes are sharp.

  "Gaeira," he confirms.

  After six days spent in close company, at last I have a name for the giant-slayer: Gaeira. It has a sharp sound to it that suits her well.

  Heimdall leads us through the fortress gates and into a courtyard where we draw looks of mild interest from a dozen or so armed warriors who do not appear particularly alert to any dangers. As we walk, he speaks amiably, addressing I know not which of us, the ignorant or the mute.

  Regardless of what language is spoken by these people, I must make an effort to gain information. When Heimdall stops talking briefly and pauses to hold open a heavy door in the base of one of the fortress's two square towers, I remove Ayessa's tooth-necklace from my pack and hold it up for him.

  "I seek a woman named Ayessa," I pronounce clearly. "This belonged to her."

  Heimdall's brows lift, and his sharp eyes go briefly to the slayer, Gaeira. He sets a hand on my shoulder and speaks a string of words which he must know are lost on me. But their tone is... what? Reassuring?

  "You've seen her?" I say, less patiently than perhaps is politic. "Please, if you know something, you must find a way—"

  Smiling, Heimdall raises an open palm: Wait. There is enough promise in the gesture that elect to heed it, for now.

  The door into the square tower reveals stairs which we cannot climb quickly enough for my liking. They bring us to a large chamber in which a hearth fire burns. The floors are spread with furs, the walls hung with simple but well-spun tapestries. The room is unoccupied but for a portly, gray-haired woman whom I fail to notice until Heimdall addresses her and she shifts, having apparently been asleep until now in a chair near the hearth. Pushing to her feet, she walks off with a waddling gait through a far door. Heimdall turns to me and speaks a few more words. Evidently, I make better conversation than Gaeira; at least some answering sounds issue from my mouth, even if he fails to understand them.

  In his present string of syllables, two words are prominent. The name Ayessa is one.

  "Asgard?" I repeat the other uncomprehendingly.

  He smiles. I have understood something. "Asgard," he says. "Ayessa." He points away from me and upward, as if to indicate some point in the distance, outside this chamber. "Asgard."

  "Asgard..." I echo. Then, excitedly, "Asgard is a place. And... Ayessa is there?"

  Nodding, Heimdall beams, and I laugh. I wish to embrace him, but manage to refrain. Likewise I manage to to crumple to the stone floor in abject relief.

  As the old woman returns with a tray of drink, my eyes fall on Gaeira, standing there, watching us without interest. Could she not have communicated to m
e in six days what Heimdall has in as many minutes? Surely she must have known the answer.

  "Did Ayessa pass through here?" I ask of Heimdall. "Is she safe?"

  Heimdall smiles and nods, and I realize the mistake I have made. If we are to surmount the barrier of language which separates us, I must ask but one question at a time.

  "Is Ayessa safe?" I ask, deciding this the more important question.

  Again Heimdall nods, and a new thought gives me pause.

  "Do you... understand me?"

  A playful gleam lights smiling Heimdall's keen eye, as once more he nods the affirmative. I glance at Gaeira. "And does she?"

  Another affirmative.

  I glare at her profile, anger flaring. All along, she could have helped me...

  I ask of Heimdall next, almost knowing what his answer will be, "Who brought Ayessa here?"

  He answers first with a movement of his eyes, and then with his tongue: "Gaeira." His smile vanishes. He understands.

  I level a look of rage at her. I know the slayer showed great indulgence by bringing me here, and I know she is more dangerous than any number of giants, but how easily she might have found a way to ease my uncertainty days ago instead of leaving me to wonder. Staring blankly in another direction, Gaeira does not witness the acid look I give her, unless it falls in her peripheral vision.

  I let it linger, willing her to turn. I want her to know, but suddenly Heimdall is in front of me, hand on my shoulder, his body blocking the slayer from my sight. He puts a cup of amber liquid in my hand and in a low voice speaks words that are alien to me, all save one, Gaeira. He is excusing her, I gather, and at the same time warning me against expressing my wrath.

  It is likely wise counsel. Even were it not, he is my host. My anger recedes. I have received joyous news: Ayessa lives and is safe. Still, I find I cannot look at Gaeira without feeling a simmering resentment.

  "I wish to go to Asgard," I tell Heimdall. "Will someone take me there?"

  His dark eyes sparkle. His hand leaves my shoulder and once more he answers my question by looking at Gaeira.

  I loose a sigh. It is fortunate, then, that she did not receive my ill-considered glare, or at least I rather hope now that she did not. It seems I am to stare at her swaying golden braid from behind for at least a short while longer.

  We have come far already this day, and I understand without being told that our departure from Heimdall's fortress must wait for morning. For the few hours which follow, I manage to put worry aside, mostly. Our evening meal, taken at long tables among bearded warriors, is better tasting and more varied than any I have had in recent memory. Gaiera joins us for that affair in the fortress's great hall, sitting unfestively on Heimdall's right while I occupy the spot to his left. She eats with precise movements, showing no sign of enjoyment, and then retires to her assigned quarters, leaving me to a tour of the fortress given by its master.

  However limited is our ability to communicate, I find myself liking Heimdall and enjoying his company. Compared to Neolympus, his fortress is not at all ornate. All straight lines, square edges and plain, undecorated stone, it is absent of greenery and surely was built with a preference for function over form.

  What impresses most by far is the sight which lies just behind the fortress, where the river spills into a yawning chasm. White mist billows from its depths, and from that mist springs the rainbow I spied earlier shooting skyward in a gentle curve.

  Under the rainbow lies a bridge. Made of ice, or crystal, its surface is perfectly smooth and broad enough for ten men to walk abreast. Arrow-straight, it pushes out impossibly, with no evident support, into the void and across the chasm, where it vanishes into swirling mist.

  Heimdall points at this vista and says, meaningfully, "Asgard."

  "Over the bridge?" I ask, and he confirms it. I stare into the mist, which I see now is not plain white but as iridescent as Iris's hair, laden with minute, darting rainbows. I stare as if I might somehow spot Ayessa on the other side looking back.

  Heimdall seizes back my attention.

  "Jotunheim" he says, gesturing in the direction of his fortress behind us. I manage to grasp that he refers not to the structure but the land in which it stands, the land from which Gaeira and I have just come, the land of giants. Jotunheim.

  The lesson is not done. Heimdall next sets palm to breast and repeats his name, this time following it with the descriptor, "Aesir." Gesturing at the fortress, he says, "Gaeira, Vanir." Lastly, he extends both hands toward me and says, "Thamoth..." By his quizzical look, I know it is a question.

  I comprehend, and I am glad to answer—even if I am not sure until it passes my lips what answer I will give. Am I a man of Neolympus, or—

  "Thamoth," I say of myself. "Atlantean."

  Heimdall smiles. I wonder whether he has heard of my kind. I rather think not.

  The yellow sun sets over the peaks, the rainbow fades, and I retire to my guest quarters for the night, hoping that tomorrow will see me over the bridge into Asgard. I do not long lie awake dwelling on the possibilities, for it is my first night in a long while spent in a proper bed with a roof above my head. The rushing water outside my window carries me swiftly into restful slumber.

  22. Asgard

  Come morning, under rainbows that flit like bright birds through the mist, Gaeira joins me at the threshold of the crystal bridge for our crossing into Asgard. Like myself, she has used our stay in Heimdall's fortress to freshen herself. The sheen of grime is gone from her skin and hair, and her golden braid has been rewoven. She gives me no greeting, naturally, but I have come to suspect that her looks are not entirely devoid of expression. It is not affection with which she regards me, not even close, but there is at minimum some... lack of contempt?

  Heimdall is present to see us off. He embraces me warmly, and upon separation gives me a reassuring look, accompanied by alien words spoken in tones to match. I cannot know what he means and must not make assumptions, but it leaves me still more eager to cross the bridge and learn what awaits me in Asgard. His farewell to Gaeira consists of a smile, a bow, and words warmly spoken. Returning none of these, the slayer sets forth across the bridge, and I hasten to follow.

  Within ten paces, the shimmering mist envelops us. Looking down over the edge of the smooth, near-transparent crystal surface of the span, I catch infrequent glimpses of the dark chasm yawning under us. I hear a sharp sound—familiar, but long absent from my ears. A raven's call. I look up and see the black bird knife through the mist, passing us in the same direction in which we are headed.

  Lacking wings, we progress somewhat slower. The crossing takes us what seems an age, but in truth must be less than two hours. The first sign that we are nearing the far side are dots of light which flicker slightly. The mist thins, and I see that they are torches. Behind them stands a white, cylindrical tower. The sky is dark, which I find strange given that we left Heimdall's with first light. But I have seen stranger things and so find little cause to dwell on this.

  The sky glitters with thousands of pinpricks of light. They are stars, I know from my other life. It is hard not to stare into them and feel lost and small. But I drag my sight down to the torchlit ground in front of us, at the tower's base, where a pair of bearded warriors stands sentry. They eye us from under burnished helms, offering neither challenge nor greeting. I follow Gaeira's lead in walking straight past them as if I belong in this place, which may or may not be Asgard.

  Beyond the guard tower, a path winds into low hills that glow sliver-blue in the copious starlight. Before long, a brighter, warmer glow appears on the horizon, and it is toward this that the path leads us. A little further, cresting a hill overlooking a vast plain, I see that the glow comes from a walled city that is vastly larger than Neolympus. It sprawls across the center of the darkened plain, an ancient tangle of streets, sloping roofs and stout towers encompassed by a thick, meandering wall dotted with guardhouses on which gleaming braziers burn.

  I pause at the
top of the hill, taking in the sight while Gaeira strides on, taking no note of my absence. After a few seconds, I race down the hill after her to begin crossing the plain on which the city sits. As with the bridge, this crossing seems to take an age, perhaps because my mind swirls with the prospect that my search for Ayessa is soon to end in success.

  Vaguely I realize that, irrespective of my purpose in coming here, and whether I wish it or not, I will be an ambassador for Neolympus. But at the moment I can spare little thought for that role. It is for Ayessa that my heart beats to bursting by the time we draw up on the tall, broad gates. Warriors standing atop the flanking towers hail us with friendly words unknown to me and wasted on Gaeira. With a wooden moan, the gates swing wide, and we enter.

  In front of us stretches a torch-lit street of hard-packed earth, lined on either side with white-walled dwellings. Lights flicker in the windows of some, but most are dark. Outside, no one is abroad. Clearly knowing her destination, my guide strides ahead of me, following the main road or a while before turning and turning again until we face a cluster of taller, more imposing and more ancient-looking buildings. Among them is a small stone cottage, where Gaeira stops to pound on a humble wooden door on which hangs a bronze disc painted with a red sigil. After a few minutes of patient waiting, dim light pours out from the space under the door, and it opens inward.

  A woman stands within, red-gold hair falling unbound to her waist. Fair of skin and fine-featured, she bears at least a passing resemblance to Gaeira. Barefoot, she is dressed in a thin, flowing, unadorned gown of white, almost certainly bedclothes. If she has been roused from sleep, she does not seem in the least aggrieved by the disturbance. On the contrary, a gentle smile spreads on her lips as she looks upon my guide.