by Ali Cross
© 2012 Ali Cross
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This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
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Published by Novel Ninjutsu, P.O. Box 871, West Jordan, UT 84084
Edited by Jen Hendricks
Cover Art by Dustin Hansen
Cover Design by Dale Pease
Author’s Site: www.alicross.com
Other books by Ali Cross
BECOME
(book one of Desolation)
DESOLATE
(book two of Desolation)
This story has always been for you—
for the person who never thought they were good enough,
that there was no coming back from hell.
It’s never too late to choose, so no matter what happens,
don’t lose hope—you might just discover who you are destined to become.
For at least a century I hang in the dark. My body turns to stone beneath the cold and endless expanse of space. But I can see. And my mind can think.
I do a lot of both.
I spend the first forever screaming until my voice is raw—a totally pointless exercise considering no one can hear me. I spend the next forever trying to wrench my wrists free of the shackles that bind me to Ygdrasyll—another wasted effort.
And then I try to convince the strange, rock-like creatures that live around me to set me free, but they only stare with dark, viscous eyes. Occasionally they bare their teeth and screech, but the sound is muted, almost absent—something for which I am glad. I don’t think I want to hear their cries.
They seem to dare each other to get close to me. To touch my fingers. My hair. I close my eyes and imagine myself somewhere else. Anywhere else.
At first, I wish for Asgard, for Michael’s embrace, for the perfect place, all sunshine and warmth—the exact opposite of my fate. Then I wish for what I had before all this began—my rooms in Father’s fortress of Hell. The constant sameness I hated with a passion would seem like heaven. Now I wish to be anything, anywhere, but here.
And yet, moment after moment, for years, centuries, eons—here is where I am.
I imagined a shadow worn into the white stone path beneath my feet, from the constant pounding as I trudge along this same route. Every hour, for forever.
First to Heimdall. Then to Fahria. Then to Odin.
Heimdall. Fahria. Odin.
Always it was the same.
I stopped in front of the wheelhouse and breathed deeply. My gaze traveled the height of the column beside me, upward to the lintel above my head. There is a frieze carved there—a depiction of Heimdall, arms outstretched, stars alighting on his fingertips, the nine worlds rotating around him.
Gripping the hilt of the sword that rests at my hip, I stepped across the threshold and into the great god’s domain. In the middle of the deepest black of space, the wheelhouse shone like a beacon, the columns that mark the corners of its octagonal shape a potential doorway to the other eight worlds.
Heimdall stood across from me. Before him a portal glowed with all the colors of light—from where I stood it looked like a prism imbued with the golden glow of a sun. For Heimdall, it was a window into a world. It was knowledge.
I opened my mouth to speak, but his deep voice rumbled through the wheelhouse before I found my own voice.
“There is nothing.” I saw him in profile, saw his downcast eyes, felt his regret. But he didn’t look at me. The conversation was over. He knew I would be back and we would repeat what had become a sort of ritual for us both.
In the time immediately following Desi’s disappearance, I traveled to all the worlds—all save for Helheimer, to which I was forbidden entry. In every kingdom it was the same. Desi could not be found. I bowed my head, fighting the shame that clawed at my insides. If only . . .
As I turned on my heels to leave, my eyes rose to the lintel again. Heimdall is the greatest of us all. His power allows us to exist, allows the worlds to keep their orbit, allows Gardians to travel to Midgard.
And yet, even he could not help me.
Odin had not allowed me go to Helheimer. But now, as I marched to Valhalla, I doubted his wisdom, his warning. He foresaw that Hell would claim me, remake me in its image once more—and that I, as Gardian and Demon, both—would once again strive to bring Loki’s damnation to Midgard. But now I thought, if I could save Desi it would be worth it. She wouldn’t allow me to destroy Earth, I felt sure of it. I knew it would cause her pain—endless, torrential pain—but if she lived, if she was well and whole . . . Once she discovered the price I had paid to rescue her, she would never forgive me—never forgive herself. But did I have a choice?
Directly across from the Bridge rose the gold-and-white-stone steps of Valhalla, the warriors’ eternal rest—though no warrior actually rests there. As I approached I could hear the ring of steel on steel. A large, golden door barred the way. Figures in relief on the door’s surface shifted and changed, replaying the great warriors’ victories. Beyond the door, I heard voices rising with laughter, with friendly taunts that invited the sparring to greater intensity.
I raised my fist to knock, for none could enter without the invitation of a Valkyrie, the guardian warriors, but the door opened before my fist landed on its surface.
Fahria stood there, ever dressed for war. Her wheat-colored hair coiled at her neck, her golden winged helmet resting in the crook of her gauntleted arm. She smiled sadly, but said nothing. Her eyes said it all.
I clenched my jaw and tightened the grip on my sword hilt.
Her eyes flicked to my weapon, then back to my face, her expression softening. “Would you like to fight?”
Not, “There is no news.” Not, “We have discovered nothing.”
Instead, “Come.”
For a moment I hesitated—I hadn’t yet spoken with Odin for . . . long enough that there could have been news. He might have heard something.
“Come,” Fahria insisted, stepping forward and taking my elbow in her hand. She led me into the great hall, past the groups that sparred around us and all the way to the far wall that opened into a glorious semi-circular courtyard where roses grew among the trees and sunlight filtered down in gentle fingers. Above the peak of the circular retaining wall that defined the courtyard, Desi’s spear, the Spear of Destiny, rotated within a force field of shining light. I tried not to look at it, tried not to remember Desi’s fierce beauty when she spun the weapon in her hands.
Fahria let go of my arm and placed her helm on her head, the golden nose guard slipping down between her eyes, casting her face in shadow. I was ill-prepared for this fight—she wore armor while I wore a kilt, a tunic, my sword. And then I thought, I have my sword. What need have I for more?
No sooner had I thought this than my blade was in my hands, the hilt a comfort in my grasp, and we had begun the slow dance of battle.
She was brilliant. Her armor reflected the light of the sun and several times it blinded me, distracting me and giving her openings I couldn’t afford to give. Already my thighs an
d upper arms stung where she struck me with the flat of her blade. But I was not without my cunning. A lock of her hair fell to the stone as proof.
Fahria laughed when she saw that, where any other woman would be furious. She held up her hand and bent to retrieve my reward. She held it out to me, encouraging a smile and attaining it. “Well fought, my friend.”
I bowed my head and closed her fingers around the lock of hair on her palm. “Give it to Longinus with my apologies.”
“Apologies?” Her full lips climbed into a half-smile, her eyes still lost to me beneath her helm. She seemed to hold her breath—probably waiting to see how much of their relationship I’d guessed. Their love for one another was as obvious as the sun on a cloudless day to everyone but themselves.
“That he must endure his days without the pleasure of your company.”
She laughed, a warm sound that softened her usual stern demeanor—it was not hard to see how any man, but particularly Longinus, would be drawn by such a complex and remarkable woman. Fahria put her hand on my shoulder and I knew it was time to go. I paused for a moment, feeling myself slip again into what had become my fate. My sorrow fell upon my back like an old and tattered cape.
Fahria walked with me to the doors, neither of us speaking, both of us remembering. It reminded me that there are myriad ways one can mourn. For Fahria, losing Desi meant losing a part of her own family—Desi’s mother had been more than sister-Valkyrie, more than queen. Mahria had been Fahria’s sister—with Desi’s death, Fahria had no one left to claim as kin.
But Desi is not dead.
I swallowed and raised my chin. I felt my gaze harden, focused on the one thing that mattered most—finding Desi.
“I can sense your restlessness.” Fahria stopped before the golden doors, blocking my exit. “I know what you intend to do.” By the set of her jaw, the fire that sparked in her eyes, she truly did know. “You can’t go.”
I glared at her. “No one can stop me.”
“Heimdall can. And you know he will.”
I adjusted my belt, the hang of the scabbard at my waist, before looking back at Fahria. “I will find a way.”
Fahria’s gaze did not waver from mine. I could sense her weighing her argument, considering how best to sway me. “Assuming you found her—and she actually wants to leave—” I opened my mouth to protest, but Fahria held up her hand, stopping me, “you know what will happen.”
“I know I am not as strong as Desi. My return to Helheimer would awaken the Demon inside me and the evil of Loki’s poison would lay claim to me once more.”
“And Desi would be called upon to kill you. You would do that to her?”
This time I didn’t need to consider my answer. “Yes.” I’d sacrifice her view of me, even her view of herself, it meant she was alive and safe.
Fahria’s lovely face grew dark with disapproval, but I ignored her and stared on the door behind her. She pulled open the right door, and I opened the other, so we both stood in the threshold side by side. And so it was we saw Heimdall striding toward us, his footsteps thundering into Asgard, lightning flashing in his dark eyes.
The gigantic god strode to Odin’s hall, which stood adjacent to Valhalla. He glowered when he saw us and motioned for us to follow. We had to run to do so. As Fahria and I approached the entryway, a pair of youths, clad in white togas with golden spears at their sides and golden leafed circlets on their heads, lowered their eyes as they held the doors open for us.
We slowed our pace, unwilling to disturb Odin’s hall with our noise, yet anxious to reach Heimdall and learn what news had drawn the great god out of his wheelhouse. We could no longer see him, but the boys lining the hall tipped their spears in unison to indicate the way in which we should go. We passed them in silence, the only sound the footfalls of our sandals on the tiled floor, and the occasional clink of Fahria’s sword as it bounced against her armored kilt.
We were directed to the courtyard behind Odin’s great reception hall. Heimdall’s face looked even more fierce than usual, his irises swirling like restless clouds in a moody sky. When Fahria and I stepped over the threshold, Odin raised his arm in an arc over his head, erecting a shimmering dome of privacy.
“Tell us; what is your news, my friend?”
I flexed my fingers around my sword, foreknowledge filling my mind with a sense of doom. I both feared and hoped for news of Desi. Please let her be well. Let her live.
Heimdall glared at each of us and I felt nothing of the friendship we shared—though we were the best of friends. The man who stood before me now was a god, his status lifting him above our bond for the moment.
“The Muspellarians are mobilizing.”
At first none of us responded. His words fell like bombs on my mind and it took me several seconds to process their meaning. Muspellarians—the giants of the fire world Muspelheim. The giants prophesied to play an integral role in the Ragnarok—the great war to end all wars, the end of everything as we know it.
“Does Garin lead them?” Odin’s words were smooth, measured, as if he took great care to avoid revealing his emotions.
Heimdall shook his head sharply. “I cannot tell but . . . I think not. There has been much travel the past weeks, Svarts and Giants, but when I turn my eye to them, they retreat to their worlds. I fear there is some greater force at work, a leader beyond Garin’s capacity to rouse the other worlds.”
“Who do you think leads them? What could be the meaning behind this?” I’d taken a step forward, my blood rushing, urging me into action. A battle would be a welcome distraction. Odin leveled a dark look in my direction while the corner of Heimdall’s lips twitched minutely upward. “My apologies.” I bowed my head and inwardly berated myself.
Odin placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it gently. “You are my general, Michael. In matters of war you have no need to stand on formality.” He looked to Heimdall. “This seems to be beyond Loki’s reach—have you seen any indication of his involvement?”
Heimdall’s mouth resumed its natural frown. “No. I have had my eye on Loki and he remains in Helheimer, playing his usual games.” He glanced at me and for a moment his eyes softened. “I’m sorry my friend, but we must consider . . .” He held my gaze until understanding dawned and I swallowed against the growing dryness in my throat.
“I fear it may be Desolation who is at the heart of this turn of events.”
“Desolation,” Odin said, his eyebrows drawing downward in displeasure. “What indication do you have that she is involved?”
“I have none. Only . . .” Heimdall glanced my way again, then angled his body so he stood slightly before me, and I could not see his face. And he could not see mine. “The source of this new threat, this new leader, is unknown to me. And while I have not been able to locate Desolation, it is still my belief that she lives.”
Heimdall had been the only one to encourage my hope that Desi had not been killed by the strange black tornado that swept across the battlefield eight months ago. He claimed to have a sense for her spirit, said he could still feel her—alive, somewhere. Though the where seemed to be the question no one could answer. He could not find her in Helheimer, could not find her on Midgard, nor on any of the other worlds. She seemed to have disappeared, vanished from all of the nine worlds.
I believed she still lived—when I did not fear she’d been claimed by a soul-eater. If she had been taken by one of the ancient, ravenous creatures, there would be no trace of her. No spirit. No body. No soul. Nothing to hold my love like a sacred vessel.
Odin cleared his throat but did not address Heimdall’s statement about Desi. He believed Loki had killed his daughter as punishment for her betrayal, for her constant desire to leave him. Loki had never cared for anything he could not control, and when Desi cut her own finger off in an effort to separate herself from the evil of Solomon’s Ring—even with the poison of hellfire racing through her veins—she’d proven once and for all that she was not his tool, not a weapon in his
hand.
Desi was herself, something Loki had not predicted but Odin had hoped for. Desi had been a free spirit of the truest kind. Is, I told myself. Because she lives. Somewhere, somehow, my beloved lives.
“We must investigate the war preparations on Muspelheim.” Odin’s smooth voice shifted from introspective to commanding, its deep resonance striking a gong in my heart. “Fahria, you and a small contingency—an honor guard, no more—will go to King Garin. Ascertain what his plans are, and remind him of our oath of peace.”
Fahria bowed her head and thumped her fist to her chest plate, her gauntlet causing the metal to ring out like a hammer on an anvil.
Odin rested his gaze on me, considering. “My son. Fahria could use you at her side, but I understand you have not yet completed the mission you have claimed for yourself.”
My mission. To find and save Desi.
To find and save a girl even Odin himself believed no longer existed.
I fought the temptation to glance at Heimdall, or even Fahria. Fought to stay focused on the here and now, on Odin, on the question at hand. Could I set aside my search for Desi in order to help my sister warriors assess a possible threat?
“Yes.” My voice sounded only slightly less firm than I intended.
Odin nodded. “Very well then. You have my permission to leave immediately.”
As he moved, his royal blue robe, adorned with tiny sparkling diamonds, swirled out behind him. It reminded me of the falling night. Of stars in an azure sky. He raised his arm to drop the privacy dome.
“There is one more thing,” Heimdall said in his dark, gravelly voice. Odin dropped his arm as all of us turned surprised expressions upon the giant but he refused to acknowledge us. “There is a . . .” He clenched his right fist, the tendons and muscles in his forearm flexing like taught ropes beneath his skin. He seemed to make the decision to move forward, because he released his fist and looked up, meeting Odin’s eyes with his usual ferocity.
