The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3)

by Deborah Davitt

  But as Freya and Tyr had pointed out, long ago, part of being an entity . . . a goddess, damn it all . . . was using her own judgment. Deciding where she was needed, and doing what she thought was right. Except that at the moment, she was taking two people off the lines. Nith could turn an entire battle’s course on his own. You should go back to the line with our frost-giant allies. They need to see us alongside them, Sigrun told him, putting a gauntleted hand to his scales. I can continue the search alone. It’s just a feeling, anyway . . . .

  No. Today, in this battle, we do not separate. Nith’s tone was implacable. In every pre-memory, I fall, because I have had to rush to defend you . . . and I fall alone. We have fought together for many years, my love, and as a perfect team for eight. You think that I would give up the one who defends and heals me? He snorted white frost, and the wind of their passage sent it back to coat her armor.

  You have a fair point, Sigrun acknowledged. Prophecy is a curse, Nith. Pre-memory suggests that things will happen, because you remember them happening. And that they are inevitable.

  There is another interpretation, he told her, swooping in low over the highway. I remember, because you remember me entering the Veil. I made it there, and thus, I did and will live. And thus, I may be able to change the events that led to it.

  Sigrun wished that she could rub at her temples, but her helmet got in the way. And for an instant, she thought she could grasp something . . . enormous. It was just a flash. So, because you and I are soul-bound now, and we loved each other, in the Veil . . . we have always been soul-bound. She was groping her way towards something past that, though. They already knew that part. But she couldn’t quite reach whatever the thought was, that eluded her. Something to do with Hecate, though. Did you love me at the start because we loved each other, now? Her head ached again as she stared down at the motorcars below. Or did we come to love each other over thirty years of working and fighting together?

  Yes. To both. It came to be because it happened the way it happened, and it also came to happen because we would be and always have been bound . . . now. The only thing that is not clear to me is why, in pre-memory, you and I are not bound. Unless we come to unbind each other in the next day or two . . . or perhaps it has to do with Prometheus’ mystery, the entity who has chosen to alter the course of events, somehow. In the end, it does not matter. All that matters is now.

  The flash of thoughts had only taken an instant, as Sigrun’s eyes remained fixed on the road below. Still, there was something behind that line of thought that she was missing, she realized. She just couldn’t take her attention away from her self-imposed task to grapple with it. If it was important, she’d have time to attend to it later.

  On the other side of the world, it was close to sunset, and Rig slid the Helsword into its scabbard, and then stared down at the fluidic metal that now comprised his right hand. He could feel through it, if distantly. It was cold to the touch, though as supple as normal skin and flesh . . . and it was capable of transmitting basic tactile sensations to him. Vestigial touch.

  In Valhalla, Dvalin had brought in both a valkyrie’s spear and a rifle, and set up two demonstrations that had curdled Rig’s blood. First, the dwarven rune-master had slashed at the hand with the spear with all his strength. Rig had flinched a little, and it had stung a bit, and left a scratch, but nothing more. Now, Dvalin had said, and lifted the rifle, squinting down its barrel with an unnerving degree of aptitude from someone who looked more likely to swing an axe or a hammer, Catch this.

  What? Visionweaver had blurted, and then Dvalin had pulled the trigger. His hand had snapped up of its own accord, and there had been a dull sensation of impact, as if he’d been aiming for a nail with a hammer, and missed. He’d sworn, and brought his new hand down gingerly, fully expecting to see a gaping hole in the metal.

  Instead, he found the bullet, malformed and very hot, sitting in the palm of his hand. There was an impact divot, already filling back in, as the metal turned liquidic, poured into position, and re-solidified. And what do you say to that? Dvalin said, with slight smugness.

  I say thank you, he’d replied, still staring down at his hand in shock. Though I hope I never have to request any more of your craftsmanship. He studied his hand. I’m surprised you do not make armor of this substance.

  It is experimental. I have been working on it for some time, in the expectation that Tyr would lose his hand, and in a fashion that he would be unable to recover from. As part of his essence would be devoured by Fenris. This is more than mere metal, Rig Silverhand. It is a product of Veil energies as well. I am glad that what the forge-master and I have devised will serve a purpose. As to armor . . . the gods armor themselves, in the main. It would require enormous resources to gift such armor to every god-born, and we would need to devise a way in which it would not function for other people. Dvalin grimaced. I have had other projects and priorities.

  He’d been taken from Valhalla to the Woods in the Veil, where his wife, Cinderrose, and his daughter, Evenmistral, were staying, along with almost all the younger members of their increasingly extended clan. Moltensoul’s children were there, as were all the younger siblings. To Rig’s surprise, he’d seen Shadowweaver and Cloudwalker there as well. The siren had looked hesitantly around herself as she cradled an egg the size of an ostrich’s in her hands. The power at the refugee center keeps cutting out, and the incubators there are all electric, she said, apologetically. I’ve been keeping it warm with seiðr weaves, but Brandr and I are going to the front lines . . . and I suspect it’s close to hatching.

  It? Lassair had approached, taking the egg out of Shadowweaver’s hands to coo over it, little flickers of flame rising to warm its shell in her fingers.

  Cloudwalker insists on calling it ‘she.’ Shadoweaver looked up at her tall husband. While she looked precisely the same here, as she did in the world, he appeared here, as he did on every Thunresdæg: in an old-fashioned chain shirt, with a helmet, greaves, and his hammer slung over his back.

  That’s because it is a girl. Cloudwalker’s voice was emphatic.

  ‘She’s going to be small, but a handful.’ ‘She’s going to be beautiful.’ ‘She’s going to have me wrapped around her fingers.’ I think you’re trying to will it into hatching as a girl.

  I know how to train valkyrie. I know how to train bear-warriors. A girl harpy, even a siren, shouldn’t be much different from a valkyrie. He shrugged. Have no idea how to raise a male harpy.

  She sighed. Not even other harpies know how to raise a male hatchling, no. We’ll . . . figure it out as we go along. Shadowweaver looked at Lassair. Just . . . look after her for us. Her. Him. It. Whichever. We’ll be back for her. She’d looked up in time to register Visionweaver’s presence, and she managed a faint, uncomfortable smile for him, shadings of violet echoing through her form. You look better than when I checked on you at the hospital, young one. The hand works well?

  Dvalin’s craftsmanship is amazing. You . . . looked in on me? Visionweaver was flummoxed.

  You are the son of my grandsire. By any reckoning, we are kin. Though I doubt you wish to own it. She shrugged.

  He didn’t know how to respond to that, so said instead, with a glance at the egg now sitting in Lassair’s lap, You two have been busy, then. Did Cloudwalker ply you with Sigrun’s apples?

  Cloudwalker’s blank stare held confusion. Apples? What do those have to do with anything?

  Visionweaver coughed a little, and heard Cinderrose laugh at him, low and rich, from across the glade. The siren sighed. We’ve been plighted for over three years now, and hand-fasted for over a year. While god-born other than those of fertility gods are not as . . . fecund, as normal humans . . . by now, I think any human would have quickened, or would have been asking questions of a physician.

  He’d given Vigdis and Inghean a kiss, and a promise to return as soon as he could. Then he’d left the Veil with Brandr and Reginleif, stifling his smile. It was his last urge to do so for some ti
me.

  There was now open combat within twenty miles of Jerusalem. Many of the southern neighborhoods had evacuated, and the defense shield Erida and Minori had created frequently flared as it repelled random rockets. No one knew how it would stand up to a concerted barrage. More troubling was the fact that many of the Persians were fighting their way here mostly in an effort to flee what was behind them. Rig knew that a mad godling had moved over the border last night—Maccis had passed a warning to Saraid, and Quetzalcoatl, the Morrigan, Amaterasu, and Sekhmet had been waiting, and had destroyed it. No earthquakes. No mutations. Nothing to suggest the creature had even lived. Amaterasu believed that the power that the three of them hadn’t absorbed, had gone into the ground and hadn’t touched the ley-lines. That unnerved Rig. Energy couldn’t be destroyed any more than matter could be.

  Rig met with Solinus in the Lindworm barracks in Little Gothia, which was one of the few southern neighborhoods that wasn’t evacuating. Considering that only about thirty to thirty-five percent of the neighborhood was human, and the rest were fenris, jotun, and nieten, any invading force that targeted this neighborhood was in for a fight. Rig knew that people in the tall apartment buildings were boiling water on illicit ley-powered stoves to dump out over balconies. That nieten snipers had picked out perches atop those same buildings. And that the jotun, like members of the Lindworms, had moved huge planters that held trees to block streets and create traps. All of which would only help if there was a ground assault. If the Persians had ornithopters and helicopters, to go with the Immortals Maccis had spotted . . . . “Are we ready?” Rig asked without preamble as he entered the compound, and looked at those assembled there to meet him.

  Solinus and Masako were already there, calm and steady. Athim, Erida’s son, and a finely-trained magus, was there, as well. Vidarr and Ima. Brandr and Reginleif, her dark wings folded in around her body. And a picked set of squads of fenris, jotun, centaurs, lindworms and riders, and nieten sorcerers. Seeing the lindworms gave Rig a pang; he couldn’t look at them squarely. Rodor had deserved a better from the first and only mission Rig had been able to fly with him.

  “Bodi and Jykke aren’t joining us?” he asked, clearing his throat and looking around for the pair.

  “The Eshmunazars already have one representative here,” Ima replied, quickly. “I didn’t want to ask for a second of their children, however skilled.”

  “Kanmi and Minori are on the eastern front,” Vidarr added. “Bodi and Jykke are at the shield generator center, guarding it.” The jotun paused, and glanced down, his eyes widening at the silver hand Rig had just lifted to shield his eyes from the setting sun. “I’d never thought to see a dwarf-made weapon, let alone a dwarf-made limb.”

  “Neither did I. I’m hoping not to wind up with any more bits replaced.” Rig’s tone was grim.

  “Inghean would appreciate that,” Solinus muttered, and shook his head. “All right. Today, Rig and I represent the JDF, and we’re pretending that we’re not Praetorians. We consider ourselves liaisons under your command, Vidarr.” He shrugged. “Take it away.”

  Vidarr nodded, and explained, crisply, “JDF is sending a larger body of troops to meet the Immortal strike force reported by Maccis Matrugena. JDF coming in from the north, head-to-head confrontation. We’ll be cutting in from the east, and we’re going to slice through their line, and do our best to cut the head of the strike force off from the body. Ideally, we’re hunting for their summoners.”

  “And if this d-doesn’t go ideally?” Brandr asked. “What then?”

  Vidarr grimaced. “Spin north and grind the column against the JDF forces. We’re also looking for Maccis Matrugena while we’re out there. You’ve all worked with him before. You know what to look for.”

  “Something that lands on the Persian in front of you in the body of a wolf, and then leaps away looking like a lindworm, or a lion, or whatever the gods sent him as an impulse today?” one of the centaurs offered, which got a few laughs along the line.

  “That’s him, yes,” Vidarr agreed. The jotun’s blue eyes looked surprisingly tired in his rough-hewn face. “Primi ordines Matrugena?” Solinus looked up at the words. “You and our technomancer consultant, Masako, will be with Scimar, for mobility. He’s requested the chance to work with you again.” The red lindworm stepped forwards, raising his head expectantly. Rig blinked, and turned to find Deo and Caranti standing off to the side, beside different lindworms, Caranti’s expression grim.

  “Primi ordines Lokison? Heolstor has requested the chance to work with you.”

  Rig’s head jerked up, and he eyed the dark-scaled lindworm with considerable agitation. “I have a bad track record keeping lindworms who are with me alive, Commander Lindgren—”

  “Nonsense,” Reginleif said, and her siren’s voice cut through the chatter all around him, ringing like a bell. “Rodor died a hero.”

  Caranti turned his face aside, sharply. Rig shook his head. Rodor saved my life, and the best I could do for him in turn was kill him, he thought, as he’d told Sigrun not long ago.

  Lorelei is correct, Heolstor said, quietly, moving to Rig’s side. It could not be helped. And it is not as if you walked out of there unscathed. Help me honor my brother’s memory. Fight with me, Rig of the silver hand. And let us find our other missing brother.

  Put that way, Rig didn’t have much of a choice. But he was relieved when Deo and Caranti came over and clasped wrists with him before they all settled into positions for the ride out. “Sorry I’ve been acting like a shit,” Caranti muttered, his blue eyes shadowed. “Rodor was . . . well, he was my best friend. Losing him felt like Deo had died.”

  He jerked his head at his twin, who grimaced now, as well. “It’s been bothering us both, that Scimar’s . . .”

  “. . . sort of picking Sol over Deo . . . .”

  “But it sort of makes sense, too. Lindworms grow up much faster than humans do—”

  “—so we have the impression that the first brood has sort of outgrown us.”

  Not outgrown, Heolstor told the twins gently. Different life-stages. We will match up again, in time.

  “It’s humiliating being told by someone who’s just nine years old, that you’re not mature enough.” Caranti admitted, cheerfully enough, and then reached out and clasped Rig’s wrist. He could barely sense it through the dwarf-wrought fluidic metal, but he could feel it. More clearly than he could sense the feathery fineness of Inghean’s hair, or the softness of Vigdis’ cheek. “I just . . . didn’t want to go into battle without clearing the air, Rig. I’m sorry Rodor’s gone. But I’m glad you’re alive.”

  Rig’s throat tightened. “Clearing the slate before we go get shot at?”

  “Better luck that way.” Caranti’s grin was a little forced, but there was genuine emotion behind it. A quick glance in othersight showed Rig layers of conflict in the younger man. Friendship, affection, brotherhood, all in blues. Violet grief, yellow anger, orange resentment; and an overriding gray haze that suggested that Caranti felt what many of them present did. A sense that the end was near.

  Rig just nodded, not having the words, and returned the wrist-clasp, tightly, before mounting up. The lindworms took to the air, but the harpies, in the main, remained in the trucks with the jotun and fenris, to rest their wings for actual combat, but Reginleif joined him on Heolstor’s back as they took off. Rig knew that Reginleif had debated telling Vidarr and Ima her original identity, and that Brandr had, pragmatically, told her that her need for atonement had to be balanced against the landsknechten’s ability to work together as a cohesive fighting force. “Tell them after we win,” had been his assessment, spoken in Rig’s hearing about a year ago.

  As they rose into the air, Rig had a good overhead view as Athim, former apprentice to Kanmi and Trennus, climbed into flatbed truck with a dozen nieten and jotun, and Brandr joined him, shifting his heavy hammer over his shoulder. Rig wondered what good the man thought a hammer would do on a battlefield involving tanks and guns
, but shrugged, mentally. Brandr had been fighting since before Rig was born, and Rig carried a sword, too, after all. Though he also carried a rifle and a sidearm, damn it.