The others nodded. Odin rubbed at his empty eye socket. What do you propose?
The lands north of the Alps are largely clear of your worshippers, but for a few holdout positions. We have killed a few mad ones there before, but the ley-lines have been repaired . . . and are holding. Few humans would be affected. And we have bait at our disposal. Pluto glanced at Prometheus and Amaterasu, then back to Odin and Freya. You wished to see Hades executed for facilitating the human attack on Cimbri-on-the-Caestus. His presence in the Veil was, for many years, my surety. Part of the accursed bargain between us and the gods of the Hellenes. But my affiliation with him has tainted me. And justice demands retribution for his actions. Pluto paused. Let justice serve a dual purpose. Let his death become a beacon that will summon some of the godlings to a battle at a time and place of our choosing.
Everyone looked at Prometheus. The titan grimaced. Hades is not as powerful as you are, yourself, lord of Tartarus. I see a sixty-four percent chance of summoning some of the remaining godlings. Powerful ones, perhaps. I see a strong probability of one of the original entities arriving, with two to three weaker scavengers. But his is not a pyre that will set the world alight. As to the stability of Germania . . . there’s a seventy-one percent chance that it will remain stable, assuming all of my information on the ley-lines there is up to date. Which means, obviously, a twenty-nine percent chance that the lines will resonate, and badly, anyway.
Trennus, at the far end of the table, shook his head unhappily. It is a substantial risk, and you may not get all of the godlings to come to your trap.
If this does not work, the remainder will undoubtedly come to Burgundoi and Rome soon. There are small mad ones sniffing at the Judean border, but Burgundoi and Rome are richer prizes. Tyr’s voice was clipped and precise. Armies of ghul are marching up from the ruins of Nimes towards our last bastion in any event. We will need to prepare for the city’s defense.
I grant you leave to use what is left of our lands in Europa for this, Odin said, after a surge of soft voices between all the Valhallan gods had let them render him their counsel.
Who will stand, and where? Juno asked, holding her daughter Aeva to her shoulder. The infant goddess looked around the table with startlingly wise eyes, but had said nothing, as yet. This is an alliance. Who will stand with us, to try to lure the godlings to the Alps?
Vesta, Venus, and Minerva raised their hands. After a moment, Mercury did, as well. We might as well all hang together, as separately, the son of Maia said, sardonically. As the humans say.
Amaterasu raised her hand. Baldur and Thor raised theirs, and Sekhmet and Quetzalcoatl raised theirs, as well. Eleven gods would stand north of the Alps. I will fall back to Judea, if things do not go as planned, Quetzalcoatl said, the expression behind his half-mask grim. That is where the bulk of my loyal surviving people are, who are not currently camped around Tongeran and in the Taino islands. Yes, I will move them away if I can. That last was directed at Taranis and the Morrigan, the last of the once-multitudinous Gallic pantheon, as they sat, slumped, at the table.
Sigrun wanted to tell Quetzalcoatl, You had better survive, old friend, but the usual sense of cognitive dissonance stayed the words. Ehecatl was in there. But so, too, was Quetzalcoatl, who had been ancient before she was born. She didn’t have the right to address him as a comrade in arms. She settled for nodding, keeping her mouth shut.
Odin lifted a finger. Freya is needed in Mamaquilla’s realm. But I trust that she will stand at Burgundoi, when the time comes. Thor, you and Baldur, as well. Who else will stand with me?
Thor, Freya, and Baldur, raised their hands, as did Njord, Sif, Freyr, Heimdall, and Loki. Sigrun raised her own, and Nith raised a paw, and Fenris lifted his head and howled. Odin shook his head. No, Fenris. It would be an honor to fight with you by our sides. But someone must protect Valhalla. I am entrusting this duty to you. When the hour of the final battle comes . . . you will guard those who look to us. Young Ciele. Dvalin and the dwarves. All those too weak to fight, must have a protector. And that will be you.
This is not because you fear I will betray you? Fenris asked, sharply.
No, Tyr told him, and crossed to the great hearth. Trust is the strongest binding of all. I offer you my hand. Take it, if you will. We trust that you will keep all of those who look to us safe. And that you will keep them here, in our halls, far from the mad ones, if we fail and fall.
There were no last-minute flashes of brilliance. No one had ideas for how to change their tactics to ensure victory. There was no victory, Sigrun understood, to be had. Other than survival. She looked at Trennus as they were all leaving. Maccis is making his way home?
Slowly. Every Persian patrol he sees, shoots at him. They’re desperate for fresh meat. He tried to den up during the day, and take lindworm form to fly at night, but their mobile radar installations have fine-tuned their settings, and can detect him. He tells Saraid that he’s stumbled onto whole encampments of Persians who’ve been turned into ghul by godlings, as well. Trennus grimaced. I could open the Veil to reach him, but the physical Wood is under attack. These moments for these meetings here and in Valhalla . . . are all I can spare.
She understood that all too well. She hadn’t been back to the Judea house since her sister’s funeral. I’m making time to see Rig. If I go to the southern desert to find Maccis—
Don’t, Trennus said, sharply. You’ll wind up fighting godlings there, alone, but for Nith. And you’ll make yourself a target for the Persians. You have other battles to fight, and my son is a very capable young man. He’ll call to us if he needs us. Till then, let him fight his own battles.
A ghost of a smile touched Sigrun’s face then, and she put a hand to her old friend’s shoulder. Every man’s a hero in his own way.
She checked in on Rig, as promised. The young man had been sent home from the hospital. There were too few beds, and he was recovering with the speed of the god-born, assisted by Fritti and Inghean’s healing powers. Nith peered in through one of the windows at them, as Sigrun found Rig in the living room. He’d already set up a practice dummy, and was using a wooden sword in his left hand, awkwardly. Trying to transfer fifteen years of knowledge and muscle memory from one side of his body, to the other. “You fought well,” Sigrun told him, quietly. “Livorus would have been proud to know his sword was used so well.”
Rig’s gray eyes never left his target, and he leaped forwards, chopping at the dummy. No finesse, and the sword fell from his hand. He swore under his breath. “I had to kill Rodor,” he said, bitterly. “He begged me to. To prevent himself from being destroyed by that fucking thing. He’d just saved my life, and the only thing I could do was take his.” He slashed at the target, and the sword almost slipped from his hand. “And now every time I try to go to sleep, I’m haunted by the damned dreams that tell me he wasn’t supposed to die like this. That he and I should have been friends. For years. And that somehow, I wasted an opportunity to know him.” His lips turned down. “Also, Caranti is furious with me and Sol about it . . . .”
“He came to the hospital while you were in the ICU. Scimar and Heolstor have calmed down. Caranti’s problem is youth.” Sigrun advanced into the room, and helped him settle the wooden sword more firmly into his grip. “He’s been in combat for two years, but he’s still only eighteen. Young men always think that they know better than everyone around them. And that they would have done so much better, had they been there.”
Rig looked at her, his eyes shadowed. “He’s a more experienced rider.”
Sigrun put a hand lightly on his shoulder. “And what would Caranti have done there, in your place? Changed form at the mad godling? Can he carry Livorus’ sword, imbued with Hel’s essence, or weave illusion around himself and others?” She paused. “You were the right person in the right place, and so was Rodor.” Her throat felt tight.
“The tales of Ragnarok always did say that the end would be heralded by brother turning on brother.” Rig shook his head.
“Well, I’ve managed to kill a friend, someone who dreams tell me should have been a brother. And I’ve got two of my brother-in-laws pretty pissed at me right now.”
Sigrun snorted. “Those same tales also called for the breaking of all kin-ties. Siblings committing incest, and so on. I can’t say that I’ve seen that.”
“Give it time.” His voice was cynical.
She met his eyes. “You did the right thing, Rig. The alternative was allowing Rodor to become possessed. What little of his mind remained after that, would have screamed inside of its body until it was destroyed. And if one godling can manage to take an avatar . . . what is to say that they all cannot learn? Many of them can break off pieces of themselves to raise ghul.” She looked away. “You remain on the injured list, Rig. You should let yourself recover.”
Rig turned and looked at her directly. “I should wait here, for the grendel to come, or the Persians, or the godlings, and be unable to defend my family?”
Sigrun shook her head. “No.” She cleared her throat. “Take Inghean and Vigdis. And go to the Woods in the Veil. Or Valhalla. Go where you and they will be safe, and where you can heal.” Her throat ached. She’d always been very fond of Fritti’s son. “I’ve spoken with Dvalin, the rune-master of Valhalla. He says that the dwarves would be happy to build you a new hand. One of titanium alloy, if you would like.”
Rig froze. “I . . . couldn’t. I’ve never asked for special consideration . .” he paused, and looked up at Nith’s eye, peering in through the window, and added, “Even when I was a stupid child in school, I just wanted to make better illusions. Not a bodyguard or a servant.”
What the dwarves offer you is a gift, Nith said, suddenly. It will allow you to fight once more, as you are accustomed. You can accept it with grace, and fight at our side. Or you can teach yourself to fight one-handed, and rejoin the fight in a year or two. It is your choice, Loki’s son. The gift is not a fetter.
Rig snorted. “Well . . . when you put it that way . . . .” He looked down at the twisting scar tissue knotted around the end of his arm. “I don’t have a year or two to waste, do I?”
“No,” Sigrun told him, quietly.
He gave her a incisive glance. “Why didn’t my father make these arrangements? Why you?”
“Loki walked in on me as I was speaking with Dvalin about this. He said you would be more likely to accept such a gift from me, than from a father who was not there for you, when you were a child.” Sigrun didn’t smile. “Come, Rig. It’s time.”
Rig’s lips pulled down. “The old legends did say that valkyrie escort fallen warriors to Valhalla.”
You haven’t fallen, Rig Lokison. You’ve slipped. But you’re standing. And now, we will need some padding for Inghean and Vigdis for our trip. We don’t want them to freeze to Nith, do we?
What seemed like hours later, she stood in the great forge of Valhalla, surrounded by molten lava flows, watching Vigdis’ eyes go wide as Dvalin and the forge-master conferred over the measurements of Rig’s wrist. Are you sure that you do not want a lovely golden ring to go with our fine craftsmanship? the forge-master asked. Mortals always seem to want rings.
That’s all right, Rig told him, sitting with his arm on the massive main anvil, and looking around the great bridge of blackened rock that it stood upon, above the molten stone. I hardly need a ring for a hand I do not have.
Can I have a ring? Vigdis asked, in spite of Inghean’s attempts to hush her. Aliya down the street has a ring. It’s made of Bakelite, and it has a horse on it. But I don’t like horses much. I’d much rather have one that looks like Rodor. I liked him a lot. Her lips pulled down.
Perhaps something with sapphire, for your friend’s color? Dvalin offered, calmly.
Perhaps later, Rig told them, a little wild-eyed. When Vigdis is older and less apt to lose things.
I do not lose things!
Little one, two days ago, you looked for your comb for an hour. I was home. I watched you.
I would ensure that she could not lose it, even if she tried, Visionweaver. Dvalin’s smile was faint, but sincere.
While you’re here, Vigdis, Sigrun intervened, Dvalin can teach you. I know that Reginleif and Brandr have been helping you learn about being a valkyrie. I regret not having been able to train you, as I did your father. But you should find the flying and illusion lessons enjoyable.
Sigrun caught Inghean’s grateful glance, and, as the forge-master began to fit the silver hand onto Rig’s arm, she slipped out of the forge. Loki caught her just outside, as she leaned against a wall, trying to cool down. Thank you for convincing him. He might have come to terms with me, but beyond the sword, steeped in my daughter’s essence, I doubt he would accept anything else from my hands.
He might surprise you.
Loki grinned. Mortals do. That is their chief delight. You, for instance, daughter. He raised his eyebrows. You surprise me, every day. For instance, when I informed you that the curse I’d placed on you was now in abeyance, I could see no response in you, save perhaps, old regret. Even with Reginleif, my other daughter, now readying herself to bring a nestling into the world, you remain . . . indifferent. A pause. And I regret seeing the life in you die.
Sigrun straightened, wiping the sweat of the forge from her face. It hardly matters now, she told Loki, with a shrug. You were right, though I cursed you, long ago. With a child to be concerned about, I would have resisted leaving Judea even more than I did, with just Adam. I would have been unable to move freely across the world at need. And since the curse was intended to last until the world’s end . . . . She regarded him steadily, and was startled to see Loki lower his eyes.
You connected the thoughts.
I did, æðeling. Sigrun lowered her head. If the world is to end shortly, I see no great need to conceive a child that will never see the face of its father. Nor will even likely be born. Her expression felt frozen. And I strongly doubt that he who has been my husband is currently capable of the necessary actions to bring such a child into existence. Sigrun knew she’d kept Adam as healthy for his age as possible. And a man in his seventies could be perfectly capable of impregnating a woman. But while Sigrun still loved Adam, there were too many barriers and too much anger between them now. And though it pained her deeply to admit it, she felt no desire for him now. She loved him. Respected him. And would care for him till the day he died. But physical desire had died somewhere in and around trying to keep that recalcitrant human body functioning.
To her surprise, Loki put a hand on her shoulder, lifting her chin with the other. Required her to meet his gaze, and the silver annulus around his gray eyes glowed in the dim light filtering in from the forge. Who gives us hope, when all hope seems lost, Naglfar? he asked, quietly.
Why do you always call me that? I do not in any way resemble a boat made of nails. Sigrun had wearied of riddles and games. Naglfar was the name of the ship that was meant to carry the survivors of Ragnarok. Do you mean I will be rescuing someone, soon?
To her astonishment, Loki leaned down, and brushed her forehead with a kiss. You will save all those whom you can. Go. Return to your mortal home. Make a last attempt to save your husband from himself. Say farewell to your friends. And then you must depart. Duty calls.
It always does. Sigrun walked away, her legs unsteady under her.
She visited Kanmi and Minori, where they were fighting alongside Zhi and Erida in the southern war zone. Kanmi had just caught a young Persian trying to sneak past the lines, running for the food supplies, and had stopped him with a blast of wind pressure, like a wall. “Why should you, who have plenty, begrudge us a mouthful, who have nothing!” the adolescent shouted.
I don’t begrudge anyone the right to live. But your rights only extend so far, before they encroach on mine. You can do whatever you want, so long as it only affects you. But when it affects me, I have the right to stop you. Kanmi stared at the boy, levelly, as the squirming youth tried to bring a gun around, and fired on him. Kanmi held
up a finger, and the bullets stopped, in mid-air, and then dropped to the ground. The kinetic energy of their movement was stolen, and redirected, making the gun heat in the boy’s hands, and fall to the ground with a clatter, beside the bullets. Now, I might choose to offer you a meal. But I won’t be compelled. Kanmi swung around as Sigrun and Nith landed beside him, and the boy’s eyes widened until the whites showed all the way around. “Sigrun!” Kanmi called, as the erstwhile valkyrie dropped to the ground. “What brings you down here?”
“Goodbyes, mostly. Just in case.” The words felt like a lie. Too calm. Too casual. There was no just in case about this. She knew the end was near. She could feel that the whole world was death-touched. A valkyrie always knew.
Sigrun offered her hand for a wrist-clasp, as Kanmi flicked his prisoner a glance, and wrapped the boy up in bonds of pure force. You’ve only changed in the best ways, Esh.
Is this going to be maudlin? His dark eyebrows rose.
Probably. You know where I’m going.
The last defenses. Kanmi grinned humorlessly as he clasped her wrist, ignoring the cold of her armor. Before the next last, and the one after that, until we’re all living in caves, and I’m forced to bring up an entire generation of young mages with only the books I have stowed in the Library in the Veil. His expression tightened. I won’t let there be a dark age, Sigrun. Sooner or later, the mad ones will be defeated. He paused. You’ve spoken with Trennus?
The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3) Page 150
