by J. A. Pitts
I rolled up on my shoulder and looked at my calf. There was a marking of some sort there, like a T with the arms drooping down at a forty-five-degree angle. “No idea,” I whispered.
She got up, ran to the kitchen, and returned with an icepack. The coldness took the bite out of the pain, and the muscles began to unclench.
Soon I was lying on her couch, on my stomach, with my legs in her lap and my sweats pulled up to my knees.
She examined both calves, looking for further markings, but the marks on my left calf were the only ones.
“Looks like a brand,” she said, gingerly touching the tissue. “But it could be a tattoo of some sort.”
“I didn’t have anything done,” I said, feeling fairly vulnerable at that moment. “I swear.”
“These are too healed, sort of,” she said, scribbling on a piece of paper. “It looks as if they are coming through the skin, pushing outward, as it were. Here,” she handed me a notebook with five symbols.
“Symbols like on the sword,” I said, rolling over and slipping my feet to the floor. “This is too damn creepy.”
I pushed the pant leg back down over my calf and limped to the case, which now sat on her kitchen table. I opened it and pulled the sword out. Once my hand firmly grasped the pommel the light in the room dimmed and then brightened. Colors seemed to shift into a brighter shade and I felt invigorated, pain free.
“You okay?” Katie asked, standing.
I did feel a little woozy, drunk almost. “Light-headed.”
I held the blade under the light and turned it a bit to allow the runes to appear all along the blade. Sure enough, several looked like the ones on the paper, like the ones on my calf.
“You left this at the coffee shop,” she said, dropping the envelope on the table beside the case. “Melanie found it at Monkey Shines after you stormed out.”
I looked down at the envelope. Considered the contents and what they meant. “Thank you.” What else could I say? I’d been an ass.
“You know,” she said, sliding into a chair at the table, looking up at the blade as I turned it in the light. “There are three schools of magic in Norse mythology. Bardic singing. That’s my realm.” A shadow of a smile touched her lips.
I watched her face, looking for hints of mockery, but none came. She was being serious. “You think you’re magical?”
“You thought so at one time.” She shrugged. “It’s a matter of perspective. Do you feel motivated—charged up—when I sing during your practices with Stuart and Gunther?”
I thought about it, really considering it. I did feel invigorated, heady almost. “Yeah. I think it helps.”
She shrugged again. “Magic is a matter of perspective. If you believe, then you believe.”
Hard to argue with that.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the other two are illusion, which seems to include astral projection or out-of-body experiences, and runes.”
“Seriously?” I asked. “That’s pretty random.”
She shrugged. “Or so says the infinite Internet.”
I sat down beside her and placed the sword back in the case. When I turned to her, reached for her hands, she slipped them from the table and into her lap.
“Runes play a major component in Norse magic,” she said. “Something has marked you.”
“Definitely odd,” I said with a shrug.
“Odd?” she asked. “Sarah, does none of this faze you?”
I was too damn tired. Tired of being angry, and tired of trying to figure all this out. If there were runes magically appearing on my calf, and dwarves and giants . . . Maybe it was time to roll over, accept the madness, and move on to something I could affect.
“If you’d asked me about this just five days ago, I’d have laughed, thinking you were off on one of your fantasy trips.”
She stared at me, not smiling.
Pretty damn uncomfortable here, thank you very much. “Anyway . . . Things have started getting squirrelly ever since I re-forged the sword.”
“So, is it coincidence, magic, or just . . .” She yawned. “I don’t know what you think anymore, if I ever did.”
I’d royally fucked things up, that was obvious. I’d tried to touch her three times, and she’d avoided it since I got here. How was I supposed to fix this?
“I think we should look them up, see what their meaning is.” That’s the ticket. Change the subject. I ripped the page from the notebook, dropped it and the envelope inside the sword case, closed the lid and latched it. Time to roll the dice. “I’ll look them up after we’ve slept. I’m beat.”
Katie looked away. “Have you decided then?”
“About the dragon and the sword?”
She sighed. “I’m talking about you, Sarah. You need to accept who you are, how the world works.” She got up and paced across the room, her arms crossed and her hands grasping either arm. “Accept things for what they are.”
“Oh, I’m not selling the sword to Sawyer, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “He’s horrible. This dragon thing doesn’t jive with my headspace, but the runes sprouting on my leg are hard to argue with.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Sarah. Right now, I don’t care about dragons or dwarves, swords or runes. I want to know if you have made a decision about us. About what we mean to one another.” She paused. “I think until you come out, until you accept who you really are, and learn to forget what other people think about your sexuality, we can’t move forward. Until you can face yourself, this just can’t work.”
“But the runes . . . What about Rolph and the giants?”
“Sarah,” she said sadly, and I saw it in her face, heard it in her voice.
This was it. I started hearing the closing sequence of the Get Smart television show—all those walls and doors closing.
“I don’t think we can see each other anymore.”
And that was that. I could see it in her face. At that moment, a glacier stood between my heart and hers.
I don’t remember the alley, or getting to my car. I know I didn’t see Joe again, but the next clear moment I was driving up 167 and the oncoming headlights sparkled like diamonds through my tears.
Thirty-one
I DIDN’T GET OUT OF BED SUNDAY UNTIL WELL AFTER THREE. I don’t recall any dreams, but when I crawled to the shower, I felt like I’d been worked over with a sack of hammers.
I showered and paid special attention to the runes on my calf. They didn’t wash off, of course. They didn’t hurt anymore, either.
Dressed in a pair of white boxers and a wife-beater T-shirt, I sat at the kitchen table and fired up the laptop.
Sawyer’s offer sat underneath a pitcher of wilting daisies on one side of the table. I purposely ignored them, really.
The Interwebz proved to be pretty useful. I found several conflicting Web sites on runes, but when I cross-referenced it with Gram, I came up with tons on Norse mythology. There were several good pages on runes.
The ones on my leg were:
Thurisaz: Reactionary force. The focused energy of destruction and defense. Conflict and change. Oh, good—weapon, destruction, anger. Very obvious given the last few days.
Dagaz: Dawning awareness, clarity of morning as opposed to the confusion of night. Signals a personally driven change in direction.
This one was harder. I know I struggled against change. It’s something I work through all the time.
Kenaz: Fire of transformation. Fire of life. Power to create a new reality. Sexual love, passion.
Blacksmith . . . girlfriend . . .’nuff said.
Gebo: Gifts balanced. Sacrifice and generosity. All matters of relationships, business, personal, and partnerships.
I could put a twist on each of these, I’m sure, but again, pretty obvious given my current series of problems. Just hoped it meant I was going to work through the relationships in a positive fashion. Sacrifice is a scary thought.
Tiwaz: Honor and justice, leadership, analysis
and rationality. Knowing where one’s true strength lies. Willingness to self-sacrifice.
Goes with Gebo, but how does one gauge their own true strength? Did it deal with smithing? Or perhaps it’s the power to stand up to Frederick and his games. Pretty sure the relationship aspect didn’t play here—not with my track record.
And of course, each of them have an opposite, depending on which way the rune is presented during the reading. So, while my runes read positive when you started behind my knee and read down, when I looked at them in the mirror, they were reversed.
Interesting, regardless. I looked at the blade in its case, one flat side shining under my kitchen light. Runes ran down the entire fuller, except, of course, where the blade had been repaired. As it was, I could make out most of them. The sword hummed with power when I grasped it. I seriously considered what might change if I added new runes over the repairs.
I pushed my couch and coffee table into the kitchen area and moved the lamps into the bedroom along with the television. Once the room was empty, I took the sword from the case and began to run through several warm-up exercises with it. It felt good in my hand although the weight was all wrong. It didn’t feel natural like the hammers I preferred, but this sword knew me. I can’t explain it any other way. My arm suddenly felt thirty-three inches longer when I worked with that sword, an inorganic extension to the organic. It both thrilled and horrified me.
With breath heaving and sweat dripping, I danced around the room, cutting and slashing, letting the demons in my head suit as targets. After an hour I collapsed onto one of the kitchen chairs with an oiled cloth in one hand and a liter of water on the table in front of me. Rubbing the sword, concentrating on the places where I’d touched the blade, was cathartic. The sword glowed by the time I’d drunk all the water, and I put it back into the case with care.
This sword sang to me. Filled my head with the songs of victory, the glory of battle. But it could not hide the blood. Always the blood.
I closed the case, comforted in the snap of the latches, and turned out the kitchen lights. I didn’t even move the furniture back, just climbed over the couch, took a shower, and collapsed into bed, exhausted.
Thirty-two
QINDRA KNELT ON THE MAT ACROSS THE TABLE FROM FREDERick Sawyer; watched as he quietly poured two cups of tea and mused.
“It’s not a difficult question,” she prodded. “You are encroaching on Nidhogg’s interests, and she wants to know why.”
Frederick carefully set one of the cups in front of her, then placed a second in front of himself, ignoring the question. The Japanese waitress stood far enough back to not eavesdrop, but close enough to be of assistance if they asked. The teahouse had been his idea. A way to allow him to feel relaxed in what was essentially enemy territory.
He raised the china cup to his lips and sipped. Steam rose thick from the liquid, hot enough to scorch her own lips, yet Sawyer just smiled and nodded once to the server, who bowed deeply and turned away.
Patience was long Qindra’s best gift, learned at her mother’s knee as she served the dragons before her coming of age. There were many who tested her, and so far, they had all failed. Yet, this creature vexed her.
“It would seem,” she went on, “that you have knowledge of recent events . . .” She paused, worried about how much to reveal. “My mistress is uncomfortable at the moment.”
“She’s old,” Sawyer said quietly. “Perhaps she is tired, out of sorts.”
He watched her, looking for signs, worried glances, fidgeting . . . but she would not play into his game. “You know as well as I, Nidhogg remains the greatest of your kind.”
Sawyer barked out a laugh.
Qindra couldn’t help but react. Her head rocked back as if she’d been smacked.
“Greatest in this immature country, perhaps.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, inches from her folded hands. “There are those back in the homelands who would disagree.”
Old argument. She waved a hand between them, clearing the air of tension. “There are none who would dare challenge Nidhogg.” She paused, raising one eyebrow into her hairline, seeing if he would protest. “Unless you have taken leave of your senses. Maybe she feels you losing control, succumbing to the beast.”
This time, Sawyer reacted. He darted his head forward a breath, snapping his jaws with a clack, flame rising in his eyes.
“ ’Ware your tongue, witch.”
Qindra nodded once but did not break eye contact with him. Keep them off balance, and never show them fear. “Nidhogg requests what knowledge you have of recent events.”
The moment passed and Sawyer settled back, the fire smoldering in his eyes, a hint of the rage that could consume him. “I’m sure I know not of which you speak.”
Perhaps he was telling the truth. There was no sign of anything special, no hint of direct malice toward Nidhogg. Jean-Paul, now—that was a different subject. Sawyer hated Jean-Paul almost as much as Jean-Paul hated everyone.
“I am dabbling in a bit of a hobby, here.” He shrugged, dismissing any relevance. “If Nidhogg is desperate for the artistic talents or monetary options of my little movie adventure, I’m sure they would welcome other investors.”
Another probe, a foray to see her weaknesses. But they were halfhearted attempts, more social parrying than actual digging.
“Her holdings are more than adequate,” Qindra said, lifting her own cup. “It behooves a wise ruler to keep track of her allies.” She nodded in his direction. “And those forces that may be squabbling among the dogs for scraps.”
“If she looks for villains,” he offered, “she needs look no farther than her own offspring.”
Qindra let a smile touch her lips. “Jean-Paul is a nasty creature, full of hatred and the need for darkness.”
“You mean torturing prostitutes and drug addicts, I assume.”
Qindra sipped her tea. The liquid did not scald her, as she’d feared, but the bitterness of the tea was surprising.
She must have made a face of some sort, because Frederick slid a bowl of rice sweets to her. “This will cut the bitterness. It is an acquired taste.”
The sweet melted on Qindra’s tongue, a light sugary flavor that flattened the harshness of the tea, making the taste almost pleasant.
“There is something afoot,” she said. “I have felt something recently, some ripple in the fabric of things. I am not afraid to share with you my concern, as you have proven yourself honorable in past dealings.”
Frederick considered. She could see it in his face. Here was one with whom respect and deference went a long way. Quite unlike Jean-Paul and his distasteful need for power and pain.
“There is a sword,” he mused, twisting his teacup from side to side. “But it is as likely I felt the woman who held it as anything.”
She let him gather his thoughts, gave him room to explore the situation.
“She was quite thrilling,” he said finally. “There is power there—”
Qindra sat up straighter, alarmed at the implications suddenly.
Sawyer shook his head. “Individuals may exude power, untapped and never realized. I’m sure you have seen it yourself.”
“But the covenant,” Qindra said as a shudder ran through her. “If she is one of the fallen, one of those destined to return, you know what must be done.”
Sawyer laughed again, only this time it was pleasant, almost jovial. “You would fear a fairy tale? You, the shining star of your kind?”
Ah, flattery. He was most adept. Qindra nodded thanks, allowing him to continue.
“I have tasted the blood of the last of them, witch—long before your mother’s mother’s mother slid, mewling, into this world. You and your mistress need not fear.”
There had been rumors. Her mistress had never spoken plainly of it. Had one of the ancient ones been reborn within memory, one of the Æsir—those ancient gods who once ruled the seven worlds? Did he speak the truth? Had he actually discovered one and
slain him or her?
“Who?” she asked. “Which of the Æsir have you slain? Do not brag, it is beneath you.”
He tilted his head to the side, his nostrils flaring a bit as he remembered. “She was nearly insignificant, small near to nothingness.”
“A child then?” she asked, her stomach twisting. “You slew a child?”
The shrug reminded her how little his kind thought of her and hers. They had ruled her kind since before the rumors of civilization. Their complacency would be their downfall.
“She was a beautiful baby,” he carried on, lost in the memory. “Hair of the finest gold. Some say she would have rivaled the sun if she had grown to maturity.”
Sif, then, Qindra thought. Thor’s bride. How many others had been reborn in the centuries since the dragons had hunted them down, slain their thralls, broken their fabled rainbow bridge between Migard and the ancient lands of Asgard? Had any slipped through the dragons’ nets? And could this new threat be another of the ancient blood? “So which is it? Sword or woman?”
Sawyer shrugged. “This young woman is full of life—angry and passionate. I could feel the fire in her, see it coursing through her veins like molten steel. But she is daughter of man, not Æsir.”
“And this woman, with the fire of life? You think she is nothing to fear?”
“Fear? What an odd thought. Do we have any to fear among your people?” he asked. “You are the most powerful of your ilk, and I do not fear you.”
She knew it was true. He had no fear in him, only bravado and something else, a hint of compassion she did not think his kind capable of.
“The sword then, an artifact of power?”
He sipped his tea in silence, breathing slowly.
She began to relax, took another sweet and sipped her own tea. Perhaps it was Nidhogg’s age after all. She’d never known one of their kind as old.
“I think,” he said finally, “if this were some relic from the ancient past, we would have felt it before. The sword was whole and then broken. She reforged it to be used in a movie. If it were a weapon for my kind to fear, I’m sure we would have known about it before this.”
