The Troll Solution (Were Witch Book 8)

by Renée Jaggér

  She swallowed and inhaled. Not only did the god’s task sound like it was going to be dangerous, but she found herself speculating whether Fenris knew she’d spent a day with Coyote while he was away. Training to fight him, if need be.

  “Bailey,” the wolf-father began, putting a hand on her shoulder, “Asgard, and by extension, the mortal realms, are again threatened by an invasion from one of the dark peripheral worlds and the beings who live there. In this case, the dark elves, who are perhaps more dangerous than the frost trolls were.”

  She squinted. “Dark elves? Never heard of those, aside from in fantasy games and shit.”

  “They are in the Norse legends associated with our pantheon,” he extrapolated. “I have reliable information that they are massing near the borderland between their world and that of the divine. If they succeed in breaching the barrier, as with the trolls, they will overthrow the gods and very likely move on to conquering and destroying Earth. We cannot allow that to happen.”

  The girl tightened the muscles along her jaw. “If that’s true, then yeah, we’ll need to do something about it.”

  Though his eyes were hidden beneath his hood, she felt Fenris looking at her pointedly. “Why would it not be true?” he asked.

  She felt a flicker of panic—had he finally begun to suspect her?—but suppressed it. “You said you had reliable information, but it sounds like you haven’t seen it with your own eyes yet, so there’s a chance it could be bullshit.”

  He smiled. “You’re savvy as well as powerful. Yes, there is a chance, but I doubt it.”

  She was relieved that he seemed to believe her, but she remained concerned about the mission.

  “The dark elves sensed Asgard’s vulnerability the same way the trolls did,” Fenris went on. “They are not to be taken lightly. Although smaller than trolls and lacking their great strength, they are deadly opponents—experts in swordsmanship and archery, with a savage and cruel streak. Also, they are skilled in certain dark and twisted magicks that have gone centuries or millennia unpracticed by much of the universe. Spells you may not have encountered. This will be no easy fight, Bailey, but difficult is not the same thing as impossible. We can prevail over them, and we will.”

  She nodded with a barely perceptible motion. “Yeah. I kinda thought I’d seen enough ‘dark and twisted magic,’ though. Not gonna lie, I’m nervous about what the hell else these guys might have.”

  “We shall see,” Fenris intoned. “Now, prepare yourself.”

  He closed his eyes, chanted in a low voice, and spread his hands to open another portal. This time, he stepped through first. Bailey hesitated for an instant, then followed him into the familiar disorienting coldness of astral travel.

  She emerged close behind the wolf-god in another landscape that was just as desolate as the canyonlands where the crones had gathered but unique.

  “Where are we?” she inquired. “A different part of the Other, or a whole different world?”

  Fenris adjusted his hood. “Another world entirely. A tumor that grew from Asgard, you might say.”

  For some reason, his phrasing it that way bothered her immensely.

  The land before them was dim and windswept, the landscape consisting mostly of rusty stone and gravel interspersed with weird twisted vines, petrified trees, and immense boulders eroded into bizarre shapes. Dark clouds hung close overhead.

  It was quiet. Nothing moved or made a sound except the dry, chilly breeze.

  She turned to the deity. “Are you sure this is the right place? It looks abandoned.”

  He set off at a steady pace, apparently having picked a direction at random. “I am sure,” he responded as she followed him. “And it is not abandoned, it’s meant to seem that way.”

  They continued through the dim wasteland, encountering no one, only a procession of boulders and the occasional cave mouth. Bailey wondered if they should investigate the caves, but for the time being, she had no choice but to trust Fenris’s judgment.

  “Hey,” she said to him in a low whisper. Although they appeared to be alone, something about the eerie silence of the place made it seem unwise to speak too loudly. “I haven’t noticed a damn thing. No offense, but either your informant didn’t know what he was talking about, or I’m missing something, and we’re walking right into a trap.”

  The wolf-god slowed his pace a tad to focus on speaking to her. “Rely on your shifter abilities, not your human perceptions or witch-magic, or even your abilities as a goddess. It is important that you don’t lose touch with the skills you possess as a wolf in humanoid form.”

  That made sense. Bailey shifted into wolf form, keeping herself the same size to preserve her clothing, and followed Fenris on all fours, pricking up her sensitive ears.

  As they trekked on, still there was nothing. She shot her companion a confused look.

  He tapped his nose.

  Feeling foolish, Bailey ignored the lack of information coming to her via sight or hearing. Instead, she sniffed the air and realized at once how careless she’d been.

  The scents of many bodies wafted on the breeze. It was subtle since their smell almost blended with that of the realm, but it was there. It shifted as the creatures moved around. Many were following the pair, and others were upwind, or off to the sides, probably watching.

  Fenris, she said with her mind, I can smell them now. A couple dozen or more.

  He smiled. Good. And yes, that is my conclusion also. This world of theirs is cold, harsh, and antiseptic. Virtually nothing lives here, which means that the dark elves, who are among the few creatures who do manage to survive, can easily be smelled, given the lack of interference from other biological organisms.

  They moved toward a circle of stones, and Bailey noticed the smells growing stronger. More of the beings—dark elves or whatever they were—were gathered nearby.

  The creatures who live here, Fenris went on, mostly exist underground. They have superb darkvision and have learned over the eons to move in near-total silence or to disguise their movements as the natural shifting of sediment or the noises of the wind, but nothing can fool the nose of a wolf.

  It was true, and briefly, the girl swelled with pride—pride, and a sense of camaraderie with the man, or god, who’d trained her and been with her through so much.

  But...

  There was no time for Bailey to contemplate the thought any further. Two dozen dark, lithe shapes leaped out at them as if from nowhere at all. Curved blades of metal the color of charcoal were in their hands.

  Shit, the werewitch mentally cursed, and she pounced on one in midair. She crashed into the elf, knocking him aside, and her teeth ripped out his throat before his sword could find its way between her ribs. Then she was in motion again.

  Before the next clash, she got a better look at their assailants, who were slender humanoids with skin of deep ash-purple and silvery hair. Their ears were long and pointed, their eyes dark and malevolent. The ones charging her held black scimitars, which they whipped about with impressive speed and control.

  Worse, though, a third of them had hung back to launch barbed arrows from black bows. Bailey bowled into the nearest swordsman and shoved him between her and an archer taking aim. Vicious satisfaction rose in her chest as the arrow penetrated the elf’s chest and he slumped to the ground.

  Fenris had shifted into his lupine form, much larger than hers, and stomped a swordsman to death before charging the bowmen. Three black arrows protruded from his shoulders, but he seemed not to notice them.

  Bailey was confident he could handle himself. She conjured a pair of shields around the sides of her body to protect it from arrows and blades alike, then pounced on a pair of elven fighters. The shield on her left side bowled one over, and her jaws sank into the lower leg of the other. Before he could bring his scimitar to bear on her head or neck, she stepped on his sword-arm and crushed his skull with her jaws.

  The battle proceeded for another minute or so. Bailey had to agree that th
e dark elves were vicious fighters, but ultimately they were no match for a pair of werewolf-deities. Twenty of them lay dead or dying, and the remaining four were in full retreat.

  As the girl prepared to celebrate, she noticed more dark forms emerging from the desert—many more. A hundred at minimum.

  Fenris’s psychic message came loud and clear, echoing her own thoughts. Run.

  The pair bounded away from the elves, who had formed a kind of moving crescent with the bulk directly behind them, but several closing in from the sides to flank them and cut off their flight. Fenris knocked aside any elves who came too close, and Bailey launched a couple of quick, flying attacks to slash and batter any archers who tried to shoot them.

  They stayed ahead of most of the attackers, but they couldn’t run forever.

  Fenris shifted back into human form in the blink of an eye and looked over his shoulder. “There!” he barked, indicating a yawning black cave mouth. He hurled a struggling elf into the air to crash into a boulder, then dashed toward the opening.

  Bailey was at his side in an instant, back on two legs herself, willing her clothes to repair the minor damage they’d taken. “Is it safe in there? If anything comes up from behind us while we’re still dealing with these guys...”

  “It’s our only chance,” the wolf-father growled, and he hurled an exploding fireball into the faces of three elves charging him. They sprawled, burning and dead, in different directions. Other warriors jumped over their corpses to attack.

  The girl conjured an ice wall, smaller than the one she’d made in the canyon of the crones but no less sturdy, which blocked the majority of the elves off from the cave. A few of them were able to work their way around the edges single-file, and she and Fenris made short work of them.

  After they’d killed another four, the elves hesitated. Bailey could half-hear their whispered conversation, though their strange, hissing language was unknown to her.

  Fenris, meanwhile, was inspecting the dark tunnel behind them. Its interior was oddly smooth, and it sloped downward out of sight. There was no evidence either for or against the prospect of further attacks from that direction.

  “Bailey,” the wolf-god began, “I suspect this cave may lead to the elves’ inner sanctum. There, I might be able to speak with their leader, King Gormyr, and reason with him, or at least trick him into a parlay until we can plan our next move.”

  She blinked. “Okay, that could work since you managed a truce with the trolls’ king, and he was probably a lot dumber than theirs is. What do I do? Come with you, or hold this passage?”

  She thought she could see the shadows of more elves about to sneak into the narrow passage between the ice and the rock, but it was hard to be sure.

  Fenris shook his head. “No need.” He raised a hand and the ice wall grew, extending at the ends to seal the cave’s mouth from the outside world. The elves had no way to get to them unless they gradually hacked through the frozen mass or knew of a back passage that intersected the tunnel.

  Bailey let her breath out. “Good deal, but that won’t hold forever. They seemed pretty determined to kill us.”

  “Yes, they ferociously defend their territory from any and all outsiders, but your work here is done. We’ve killed enough of the dark elves to make them wary of us and set an example of what will happen if Gormyr does not come to terms. I believe I can handle it from here on, and I’d say you could use a break.”

  He swiped a hand, and the cave was bathed in soft purple light as a portal opened before him. “This,” he pointed out, “leads back to your home in Greenhearth. You’d best get some rest and refresh yourself before you gallop back into that canyon to assist your friends. They’ll likely be fine without you for a time.”

  Bailey wondered if she could trust Fenris to deal with the situation, given all that he seemed to be guilty of. Then again, the elves had seen him kill their people. There was no way they could be collaborating on anything.

  “Okay,” she said, moving toward the shimmering gateway. “Call me if you need me, but I can’t promise I won’t be busy. So much shit going on in the universe lately.”

  Fenris took his first steps down into the tunnel. “There is,” he agreed.

  King Gormyr regarded Fenris with his usual expression of hostile and arrogant disdain, mingled with a sly curiosity.

  “Thus,” the wolf-god elaborated, “Bailey demonstrated that she has the necessary prowess. Since we were forced to slay several of your warriors in order to maintain the ruse, I assume the ones you sent were among the weaker and more incompetent, so we did not cull anyone of great importance.”

  “Yes,” Gormyr confirmed, fingering the pommel of his sword. “She managed to triumph over my lesser fighters, but what assurance have I that she’d be a match for the greatest of them?”

  Fenris smiled. “They did not pose much of a problem. Bailey would have had to work harder to kill the stronger ones, but her failure was extremely unlikely. Meaning no offense to their prowess, but she is a goddess, after all.”

  The elven king rubbed his smooth chin. “You speak sense, though I’d rather have her duel one of my master swordsmen to be sure. Still, you are confident that she can take your place during the opening salvo of Ragnarök?”

  “I am,” Fenris stated, standing at his full height, his jaw firmly set. “It will be a pity to lose the girl, and yet, as a mortal, she was destined to die regardless. Likely a dull and common death until I gave her the opportunity to sacrifice herself for something far greater, namely, the liberation of our universe from the rule of the Asgardian pantheon.”

  Gormyr’s eyes narrowed and seemed to look far beyond the face of his new partner. “Far more lives than hers have been sacrificed toward that goal across countless centuries. We have waited so long for this opportunity. Do not disappoint us, Fenris.”

  “I shall not.”

  Fenris walked an acceptable one pace behind the king’s elbow as the two ambled across the throne room toward the corridor that led to the dining hall. They were soon to attend a feast.

  The wolf-god spoke as they moved. “If all goes according to plan, I will survive the beginning of the End, and with my accumulated knowledge and experience of the workings of Asgard and the council with its two non-Asgardian deities, then, with my help, you shall triumph. The barriers that separate the divine realm from yours will fall, and the exiled peoples, the beasts, and the monsters of the universe shall have their revenge. You may plunder and destroy to your hearts’ content.”

  Gormyr let out a dry chuckle. “Such a splendid offer. I am tempted to refuse simply because it sounds too good to be true.”

  “It will be true,” Fenris insisted. “And when Asgard has fallen, you and your allies may move on to seek new territory in other realms, within the few and reasonable restrictions I will suggest. A new age is dawning, and we will rule it.”

  They came to the dining hall, a vaulted black chamber with a long table and chairs of polished stone and crystal. It was lit by flaming braziers, though the elves could see well enough that it was scarcely necessary. Mostly a formality.

  The king sat at the table’s head, Fenris at his right hand, with the elves’ chamberlains and top warriors and generals rounding out the other high-ranking positions. Various lieutenants and middle-manager types occupied the far end. Everyone rose briefly for the king, then re-seated themselves, waiting in silence until the first course was brought, at which point Gormyr would be expected to speak.

  For the moment, everyone tended to their private conversations, and Fenris spoke again to the monarch while the dark-elf aristocracy listened intently.

  “Soon,” rumbled the wolf-god, “I will speak to Jormungandr, the World Serpent. Though a simple and irrational creature, it is not immune to intelligent offers. More importantly, it may be the only creature powerful enough to destroy Thor once the battle begins. If I succeed, we will have nothing to fear from the warrior son of Odin.”

  “Good,” Gormyr re
plied. “We do not fear him, but the sooner he is disposed of, the more quickly we can turn to ravaging his allies and relatives.”

  A bevy of slaves appeared with the first course of the feast, the roasted meat of a large subterranean reptile creature, along with boiled mushrooms and a reddish-black wine made from strange berries that grew beneath the surface of the rust-colored domain.

  Once the table was full, King Gormyr stood with flagon in hand and proposed a toast—to their coming struggle, and to Fenris the Wolf-Father, who had proposed the plan and would lead them to victory. The other diners raised their glasses in turn and cheered, a savage note in their dry voices.

  One of the king’s generals looked at Fenris. “You have our support, renegade son of Asgard. See to your end of this bargain, and we will continue to support you until the end of time.”

  “Good,” said Fenris. Addressing the entire chamber, he added, “The time will soon be nigh to join with the frost trolls. Thanks to my efforts, you will find them amenable to our mutual cause. Whatever past differences you had with them are of no relevance now, for the army that shall overthrow the gods is rising to strike.”

  Again, they cheered.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bailey sat alone at her usual table in the diner half of the Bristling Elk. They had a special going on, two ham and cheese sliders for the price of one, so she’d bought four, along with a side salad for fiber and a glass of orange juice. She felt like she’d been eating too much junk lately and could stand more vitamins and plant matter.

  Not that she’d put on any weight, given how much exercise she’d been getting.

  Around the corner near the front entrance, she heard the doors open and heavy footsteps came in. One of the waitresses up there gasped audibly.

  Crap, Bailey thought, chewing and swallowing the food in her mouth as quickly as she could. Somehow my wolf-sense or whatever is tingling to indicate trouble. Might be those city assholes Coyote beat up, might be some of Roland’s fan club looking for him. Who knows?