Valkyrie's Conquest

by Sharon Ashwood

  “One moment.” Tyra held the little girl, bewitched by the contrast between her sword-calloused hands and the baby’s tiny fingers. Nestled in the soft woolen blanket, the child was barely an armful. It was hard to imagine everyone, even the mighty Thor, had started out so small. The thought made her heart flutter oddly.

  The ritual itself was over and the house of the goddess Freya was crowded with women. They stood in groups or reclined on cushions, drinking honeyed wine and nibbling on nuts and fruit as they gossiped. Their hostess was everything the Valkyries were not. She was curved and womanly, a beauty skilled in the rites of pleasure and fertility. Her home was beautiful and welcoming, even if there were a few too many cats.

  “Tyra?” This time Sigrid’s voice was tinged with impatience.

  Knowing argument was pointless, Tyra passed the baby over to its mother. The woman—one of Freya’s favorite handmaidens—bowed her thanks to the Valkyries and retreated, leaving the two warrior women alone at the fringe of the crowd. The ceremony was over, the baby blessed, and their duty done.

  Tyra rubbed her arms, which felt cold and empty without the soft little bundle. Although Odin encouraged the Valkyries to attend such celebrations, it was only to cement their role in Asgard’s society. Their duties would never allow them to have children of their own. As creatures without souls, motherhood was nothing they should have desired, anyhow.

  Yet Tyra’s gaze followed the baby as it was passed around the group. Restless, she turned away, knowing she did not fit with these women chattering about milk teeth and swaddling clothes. Home and family were not her domain, and yet today they tugged at her in unreasonable ways. She had felt this ache ever since she had gathered that last soul, as if the waves of emotion brought on by touching it had never entirely faded.

  Or had it been meeting the dragon? Bron’s dark, towering presence flashed through her memory like lightning, bringing a tingle to her flesh that was both heat and chill. He was tall and broad, fit for wielding a battle ax or broadsword, but he moved with grace and speed. Dragons were creatures of flight, and those hard muscles were honed to lean perfection. She had wanted to touch every line and ridge of him, as if memorizing his form was the most important task in the universe. His children would be strong, and the act of creating them…

  Tyra shook herself, suddenly needing air to cool the flush rising to her skin. Holding babies in the house of a love goddess was clearly a bad idea.

  Sigrid had drifted away to inspect the food. That was just as well, since Tyra wanted a moment to gather her wits. With a quick goodbye to her hostess and the new mother, Tyra left. Pride kept her pace even, but the urge to flee the domestic atmosphere was a spear point poking her back.

  She had barely gone a hundred paces before Sigrid came running after her. “What is the matter with you?” Sigrid asked.

  Tyra cast her sister a sidelong glance. Like all their kind, Sigrid was fair-haired and blue-eyed, but she was taller by a hand span. If the Valkyries had been allowed to ride to war instead of reaping the dead, demons would have fallen before Sigrid’s black sword like wheat at harvest. But that would never happen because they no more rode to war than they had families.

  “Why can’t we join Father’s battles?” Tyra blurted out. It was a good question, and she didn’t want to talk about babies or dragons. “We are excellent fighters! You are like Thor on the practice field.”

  Sigrid raised her eyebrows. “I’d need a beard and breath that smells like stale beer before I’m anything like Thor.”

  “I am serious! You are his equal with a blade. Why does Father forbid us to fight?” She had long wondered, but Odin had no time for questions from the youngest of his daughters. Frustration raked at her. “You are the firstborn. Has he ever told you?”

  They walked side by side through the meadows of Asgard, their soft boots rustling the grass. Asgard was the home of the gods, mountainous and starkly beautiful. Before them stretched a long valley beneath an azure sky, the air sharp with the snows of distant peaks.

  Sigrid didn’t answer for a long time, but when she did her voice was firm. “Our father says it is not our place to question him.”

  “Is that all? That is not a reason.”

  Sigrid shrugged. “I have my thoughts. The gods and their magic are fading. Humans no longer worship us.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Father likes things the way they are. We do nothing for our own personal glory. Our work is all about his army and nothing more.”

  “But why does that matter to Father? What harm is there if someone sings of our triumphs or names their sword Sigrid?”

  Sigrid folded her arms. “The Valkyries love no men except our father. Indeed, we do nothing unless it is in his name. I don’t think Father is about to let his devoted warrior maidens go. We are the last remnant of the old days, when being a god mattered.”

  “But we could help him fight demons!”

  “And someday we may have to.” Sigrid stopped walking and put her hand on Tyra’s shoulder. “But wait for him to give the command. He cannot stand disobedience.”

  “I know that,” Tyra said defensively.

  “You are his favorite. You’ve not seen that side of him,” Sigrid replied. “He punishes rebellion with a person’s greatest fear. Blindness. Hunger. The hot fangs of wolves. Whatever it is, Odin will use that terror to make an example of anyone who crosses him.”

  Tyra had heard the tales, but hadn’t wanted to believe them. Defiance flared in her heart. It lasted a mere breath, but it left an ashy resentment in its wake. She’d never felt such a thing before. She put a hand over her stomach where the sick feeling lay. Something definitely had gone wrong when she’d collected Macdonald’s soul.

  Unbidden, her mind darted away to Bron once more—which was pure madness. She was as forbidden to want him as she was to fight, even if she was a warrior and a woman. She was a reaper for her father’s army, nothing more.

  Sigrid was watching her with a cool, speculative gaze. Tyra clenched her hand and tried to look normal. Now was the moment to speak up about these newfound feelings, but her tongue wouldn’t form the words. They were hers, and she had an irrational need to protect them from Sigrid’s ice-blue eyes—or Odin’s wrath.

  Tyra swallowed. “If there is no chance that Father will change his mind about riding to battle, then there is nothing more to say.”

  “No,” said Sigrid. “There isn’t.”

  The words slammed the topic shut. Tyra cleared her throat. “Then I have duties to attend to. I need to collect my assignment for tonight.” Without another word, she struck out across the meadow alone, leaving Sigrid where she stood.

  Her path took her to the foot of a great tree that stood alone in the sea of waving grass. The branches reached so high there seemed to be no top. A huge cleft at the base formed a sort of cave, where a small fire burned even though it was the middle of the day. The tree-cave was actually a tiny house. Three old crones sat inside: one weaving, one spinning and one measuring and cutting the threads. They were the Norns, the three Fates who wove the future. They were also the ones who told the Valkyries which souls to reap.

  The old women didn’t look up from their work as Tyra paused outside their dwelling. A tapestry lined the walls of the tiny home. One end hung unfinished, a mass of threads waiting on the loom to weave the future. The other end, the past, was so long that the fabric lay in piles along the floor—millions upon millions of threads begun and ended long before even the gods had been born. Though Tyra had seen the weaving many times, she could not help feeling awe.

  Tyra fell to one knee, bowing her head low. “Greetings, honored mothers, I have come to receive my orders.”

  As she waited, an image of a place formed in her mind. A dark alley. A door. Darkness. Without any effort on her part, Tyra knew when and where to wait for her next charge. “I shall obey.”

  “If one thread goes unattended, others may tangle in unexpected ways.” The words
came from inside her head, but she couldn’t tell which of the Norns had addressed her. None of the three crones so much as looked her way.

  “I understand,” Tyra was deeply startled. The Norns almost never spoke directly to her. “I shall always do what is asked and keep the weaving pure.”

  The same dry whisper replied inside her mind. “Indeed? The demons have their own dark threads in the tapestry. Their pattern has changed and become unpredictable. They make choices that alter the weave. That is within your power, also.”

  Tyra heard the ring of truth in the words, but was unsure how to answer. Despite her conversation with Sigrid about riding to battle, changing the weave of Fate sounded far beyond a mere Valkyrie. “I am not so important. I change nothing”

  There was a long pause before the next words. “Even a child can open a door. There is no telling what might walk through.”

  “I am not a fool.”

  “I hope not. Your thread anchors whatever picture comes next.”

  Uncertainty swirled as if it were about to drag her down. The Norns had power even Odin feared. Could they somehow read the uncharacteristic emotions that had taken root in Tyra’s heart? Her whole body went cold, but she felt a touch of anger, too. She wasn’t ready to give up this new side of herself.

  Still, she knew the right words. “I serve and obey.”

  “Is that all?” The voice was bland. Somehow that was worse than if it had been dripping with scorn.

  Tyra swallowed down foreboding. “What more would you have of me?”

  “What you give the future is always your choice, Tyra of the Valkyries. There is no more truth than that. Now go and do your duty. Decide what that means.”

  Chapter Three

  Bron shouldered his way through the Friday night crowd. Bright light splashed from store windows, painting the passersby in garish brilliance. Giggling girls roved in packs, looking up from their smart phones to ogle him as he stalked by. Cars with thumping stereos slowed, the drivers plainly curious. Bron was taller than most humans, clearly something more than human, but few had any idea what he was.

  Rebellion had freed the dragons from their controlling queen’s wrath. Still, his kind was rare and few left the isolation of their mountain home. Always more adventurous, Bron had seized the opportunity to explore the outside world. The mountains weren’t enough for him—he needed a whole world to test his wits and endurance. He loved what he found, loved learning the human way of speaking, their dress and customs and, most of all, their fierce independence. After a lifetime of rules, Bron was finally free and meant to stay that way.

  Nevertheless, a demon invasion roused his interest. Just what was going on? Hellspawn were serious business, and Bron’s newfound freedom allowed him to indulge his curiosity. He’d played it cool when the Valkyrie had told him to mind his own business, but he was done taking orders—even from gorgeous women with swords and wings.

  Although he might entertain requests. Memories of those long, long legs—enticingly bare beneath her leather tunic—made his fingers itch with an urge to explore. There was nothing fragile about Tyra, but there was plenty that was fine. Skin pale and smooth as white satin. Hair like ripe wheat. Pride that matched even a dragon’s. He had to love a woman who dared to hold him at swordpoint. Now that he’d found her, he would seek her out again and see what other surprises she had in store. But first, he would investigate her story of demons.

  Determination made him pick up his pace. He turned off the teeming road and began winding his way through smaller streets, finding dead ends and alleyways that grew less welcoming with every block. He was moving on pure instinct, selecting his path simply by what streets felt the most wrong.

  He reached a long, narrow passage between two old tenement buildings streaked with soot. It was deserted, his echoing footfalls making it seem emptier still. Iron balconies framed the windows above, their scrollwork long dissolved to rusty stumps. Something drew Bron’s eye up to the gaping socket of a broken window—perhaps movement or a flicker of light—and a prickle ran down his arms, signaling the presence of magic. He pulled a blade from his boot and backed away to get a better view.

  A crack zigzagged from the bottom of the window, following a path between the bricks all the way to the ground. Bron backed even farther away, wanting to give whatever was happening plenty of room. Reddish light trickled through the crack like molten rubies, shedding a scarlet glow on the pavement. Even though the color was hot, the air turned so cold Bron could see the mist of his breath—and then he knew. Demon stink putrefied the frigid air. Dread snaked through his bones, winding with horrible familiarity.

  These were the forces of the darkest realms.

  The red crack widened, drawing open like the curtains of a stage until it yawned over half the building’s side. Beyond was a storm of swirling red and darkness. Cold air billowed out in a reeking mist, frosting the bricks wherever it touched. Bron fingered his knife and wished for a broadsword.

  And then the demons came pouring through the gap in the wall. The first were long-limbed, stick-like things, dark and hard-shelled with slashing claws and long jaws filled with jagged teeth. They moved with the quick, darting moves of insects. Others were gelatinous, flowing like green-tinged snakes. These were lesser demons, but in this number they could destroy half the city.

  By the Flame! Bron froze with alarm, willing himself invisible in the shadows. He was no coward but against an army of fiends, even a dragon needed a plan.

  High above, the clouds parted before the moon. The shifting brilliance penetrated even through the tunnel-like streets of the city. Bron glanced up and his breath stopped. A phantom host streamed from the sky like a beam of roiling moonlight. The riders were insubstantial as ghosts, and yet solid and deadly as steel.

  Leading the charge was Odin Allfather, brandishing a spear from the back of his eight-legged horse. Behind him came armor-clad warriors, some with rich cloaks and the fair hair of Odin’s people, and many more who were clearly the souls of fallen mortals. Like the great city itself, this second group varied—men and women, light and dark, some in ancient garb and others in modern fatigues. But they all wore the same grim expression as they spied the demon swarm.

  The two forces fell upon each other. A blaze of light shot into the sky, bright silver and ghastly red colliding. A ragged shriek rang from the bricks as the Allfather struck one of the insect-like demons through its belly. Then the scene exploded into chaos, demons and warriors tearing into each other with primal force. With a start of surprise, Bron recognized Macdonald lashing out with a wicked-looking blade. The man’s vague, disoriented expression had been replaced with one of intense purpose.

  A sword flew from the hand of a warrior, spinning until it came to rest at Bron’s feet. He picked it up, feeling as if the night itself had sent him a gift. The grip was still warm from the pressure of someone else’s hand. He fit his own palm over it, liking the weight of the long, double-edged weapon. Bron’s breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding with dread and excitement. Every instinct screamed to fight. The hair along his arms rose even as he searched for the right point to leap into the battle, to find the opening where he could do the most good. He had seen war often in the troll-haunted mountains, but nothing like this battle between demon and god.

  * * *

  As reapers of the fallen, Valkyries were always the last to join any battle. So it was that Tyra had a moment to spot her dragon where he stood poised to leap into the fray. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a cool voice.

  Bron wheeled with a snarl, but she stood firm. It took a moment for his eyes to show recognition. He was clearly far gone in battle fever, ferocity radiating from his body like heat from a forge. Her skin prickled, instinctive fear of fire making her draw back. She licked her lips, feeling suddenly parched. Like a troubling dream, she remembered the ache of wanting this fierce creature. Now desire rushed back with doubled ferocity, proving it was all too real.

&nb
sp; At what point had these impossible hungers become simple fact? The moment I saw him. The moment I knew what yearning for him was like. Once that fire had caught, it had refused to go out. But I am terrified of fire.

  Too late. Now Tyra lived with that heat in her core, and Bron was watching her as if he could see that fluttering glow and relished that he was the cause of it. Pride alone kept her composure intact.

  “You watch, but you do not fight,” she said.

  “Not yet,” he answered in that low, rough voice. It wound around her like a caress.

  Their exchange took only seconds, but it was enough for the battle to turn. The demons wheeled, streaking down the narrow alleyway in a desperate bid to escape the wrath of the Allfather’s forces. They passed in a crush of stink and trailing claws, Odin’s army chasing after the horde in a roar of battle cries and flashing swords. The hard shells of the insect demons opened to reveal black-veined wings, and the oozing snakes transformed to hideous birds of prey. The demons rose into the skies like a dark and winding tentacle, but the god and his ghostly heroes followed, harrying them into the gray haze of the city lights.

  Tyra and Bron stood for a long moment, craning their necks to follow the spectacle. She’d seen it all a thousand times, but Bron’s fists were knotted, the sword raised as if he meant to thrust it into the sky.

  “You quiver like a dog straining at its leash,” she said. “Why hold back?”

  He let out a long breath, lowering the blade slowly. “I came here with a question. It’s been answered. The war is real.”

  “And?”

  “The Allfather seems to have it in hand for tonight.” He narrowed his eyes, his attention now fully on her. His amber eyes held as much heat as the sun. “Right now I’m more curious about you. You’re not fighting, either.”