The Troll Solution (Were Witch Book 8)

by Renée Jaggér

“I concur,” Roland told her. “Really, though, it’s only one person we’re fighting. There’s simply an unusually large number of her. It’s probably for the best that she’s barely recognizable anymore, since I used to know her, and, well...ugh. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Bailey decided to introduce herself to the witches. In addition to Mavis, who was from Portland, there was also Andrea from Tillamook, Oregon and Jen from Longview, Washington.

  Andrea followed up the round of introductions with, “We’ve heard of you, obviously. You live up to the hype.”

  “Thanks,” Bailey responded, “I kinda fell into it, as they say. A year ago, I never thought things would be the way they are.”

  Jen shrugged. “None of us did. Life isn’t boring, though. Have to say that much.”

  They all laughed at that, though there was a sardonic edge to it.

  Still, Bailey mused, it’s good to get acquainted with more people. I’m a goddess, but I can’t become too distant from the average folks on the ground, human, caster, shifter, or whatever.

  Before the conversation could continue, someone interjected, “Look!”

  Behind them, a man was hurrying up, having appeared from deeper in the canyon. It was one of the scouts with the advanced tech Velasquez had sent ahead to do recon earlier.

  They paused and waited for him, anxious and curious about whether he was okay and what he might have found. He looked fatigued and concerned, but he wasn’t injured, and the grim look of satisfaction on his face suggested he’d completed his mission by discovering something useful or important.

  Velasquez jogged up to greet him, making sure he wasn’t injured. He assured them he was fine, and he pulled up a small tablet screen that showed a digital light readout similar to the one on the main scanner the team was using.

  “Here,” the man began, “you can see the energy signatures of the crones, as well as the pulsating blobs representing those gelatinous node things. If we scan toward this grotto at the extreme far end of the canyon...”

  Bailey and Velasquez leaned closer, with other members of the group peering over their shoulders. It was obvious what the agent was about to explain. The screen showed another energy signature, greenish rather than blue, and much larger. It overlapped the various node-blobs, as well.

  “...we can see that this new thing seems to be sending out translucent waves, kinda like sonar pulses, to the other nodes. Given that it’s surrounded by several of them as well as a shit-ton of crones, well, I’d say it’s safe to assume that we’ve found our main target.”

  Roland tapped his lips. “Probably, yeah. I can’t think what purpose it would serve other than to anchor and empower the other anchors, so to speak. And if it is the mother of all nodes, then once we take it out, all the specters will get vaporized in one fell swoop.”

  They glanced around; the phantasmal crones were starting to close in on them again, their numbers increasing.

  Bailey smiled. “I like the sound of that. Nice and simple. Maybe not as easy as we’d like, but simple in the sense of, y’know, not being complicated. So, what do you say, Velasquez? One more big push?”

  The lead agents adjusted his sunglasses. “Affirmative. Everyone, get ready to move out.”

  Fenris stood on a shelf of steaming obsidian, looking down at the flowing sheets of red and orange lava that was speckled with charcoal where it was beginning to cool. In every direction was at least one active volcano, and the sky, naturally a sulfur yellow, was the color of ash or hot iron where the eruptions were closest.

  Here, too, was a section of the Other that was little traveled and almost unknown to most astral travelers. It was too harsh for anything to live here on a long-term basis. Fenris maintained a shield around himself in a broad sphere that produced a continuous shower of ice-cold water to buffer against the heat.

  Footsteps approached, and the hooded man turned to greet his apprentice.

  Carl took three more steps, then stopped and knelt. He, like his master, was shielded from the heat with a standard arcane barrier, though in his case, it was reinforced with cold wind rather than water. He was a youngish man, tall, athletic, and dark-skinned. His parentage was that of a changeling and a goddess, making him a scion.

  “Fenris,” he began, “I’m here. What news?”

  The wolf-father nodded to him. “You may rise, Carl. Things are proceeding as planned thus far. The girl does not seem to suspect anything, though of course, we must be prepared for the contingency that she does. The gods of the council seem to have been idle. More importantly, I’ve stirred up the frost trolls, the dark elves, and the rock giants. All have agreed to assault the boundaries of Asgard while we make our moves in their shadow.”

  The scion grinned in a restrained way, then allowed his face to return to neutrality. “That is excellent. Unfortunately, I have not been able to locate Balder. Though I’m nominally his apprentice, he hasn’t had much need of me lately, so I can’t say what he’s been up to. Do you think it’s possible that he’s spoken to Bailey?”

  “Perhaps,” Fenris admitted, his mouth a grim line across his jaw, “but let us not jump to conclusions. If he and Bailey have grown suspicious, that’s attention drawn away from you, is it not? As soon as he returns, you will have your opportunity.”

  Carl cracked his knuckles. “Yes, master. With him taken out, along with Freya and Loki, the council will be all but crippled.”

  The wolf-god stared into the smoldering sky. “It is imperative that the gods be crippled before Ragnarök begins. Too many of them still standing at the beginning of the End, and there is a chance we will fail. You must remove Balder, and soon. If at all possible, prior to the girl’s death.”

  The scion acknowledged the order with a low grunt. “Yes. When do we expect that to happen? I will miss her, honestly.”

  “Truth be told,” Fenris replied in a low voice, “so will I. In a better universe, she might not have needed to be sacrificed, but therein lies the heart of the issue. Her death will not be in vain. It will be the catalyst that leads us to greater things, a reality in which the stupid mistakes of Asgard will be no more. And she’s nearly ready. Not long now. I will keep you informed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carl paused to refresh his shield. The furnace-like heat was wearing it down, and he’d started to sweat. “What shall I do once Balder has been neutralized?”

  Fenris moved a step closer to his apprentice. “Rejoin me immediately. With the god of beauty out of the way, the two of us can confront Tyr and destroy him. That leaves only Thoth and Coyote on the council. They are not of the Norse pantheon, and there will be little they can do to stop us once our prophecies begin to come true.”

  “They’re savvy deities,” Carl pointed out, “but you may be right. The force of Ragnarök and what it represents ought to overwhelm any attempt at outside interference by them.”

  The wolf-father’s eyes flashed with satisfaction. “Good, you understand the workings of Fate. Then we can challenge Thor. I will ensure that he meets us near the primeval waters where the World Serpent Jormungandr dwells. The challenge issued between us will summon the Serpent, who is destined to kill Thor even if it dies in the battle. All that will be left is us.”

  Carl chuckled. “As you said not long ago, a better world.”

  “Yes, Carl. You will sit at my right hand on the thrones we build from Asgard’s rubble. We shall survive to rule over the unleashed hordes, running free in a world made clean again like a forest after a fire.”

  Fenris extended his hand, and the scion took it. “To the future.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The first wave of the gelatinous node-things had fallen. What they assumed was the true and central anchor of the horde wasn’t far off, but the battle still raged.

  Some of the crones were in a defensive retreat, spitting out magic as they tried to seek cover in cracks or holes in the walls of the canyon. Recalling Fenris’s earlier lesson about creating hovering wards that could maint
ain defensive effects for extended periods of time, Bailey conjured two that would protect her from heat and electricity.

  Then she coated them with reflective shields and sent them spinning into the tunnels where the crones had taken refuge, hurling blasts of fire and lightning. The deadly spells bounced off the spinning wards’ shields and filled the rocky hollows with a randomized spray of ricocheting destruction. Crone-specters were reduced to smoke by the dozen.

  Only a paltry number remained, and the Agency’s warriors neutralized them in the span of another minute—another skirmish won.

  Bailey, Roland, Velasquez, and the others advanced onto the scorched earth they’d cleared. None of theirs had died yet, but the seemingly endless numbers of adversaries and the increasing strain of prolonged, high-intensity combat were taking their toll. Three agents had suffered mild to moderate wounds, and nearly the entire mortal force was twitchy and fatigued.

  The werewitch and the wizard collaborated on a subtle healing spell that would help the injured recover more quickly and with less pain or potential fever.

  “After all,” Roland quipped, “I had a decent knack for this type of magic to begin with, and I became a near-expert after getting sent to the hospital, what, like, five times in two months? I forget.”

  Bailey patted his head. “Something like that, yeah.”

  The rear agents brought up more of the field-generator poles to keep the crones out of the new territory they’d claimed while they rested one last time.

  Velasquez waved his hand vaguely at the bend up ahead. “It has to be there. According to the scanners, we’re almost on top of the damn thing, but we can’t see it yet. One final blast fest and we ought to reach it. Only thing we don’t know is, will it be as easy to destroy as the rest of those things?”

  Roland shrugged. “I dunno. I’ve never seen anything like this. Most of my conjectures thus far have been mostly correct, but we’re in uncharted territory here. It might be no more than a big node, or it might be the spawn of Godzilla and Cthulhu and able to defend itself accordingly.”

  The lead agent frowned, but the wizard just put his arm around the shoulders of his girlfriend. “Fortunately...”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Bailey grumbled. “When in doubt, make the goddess fix everything. I’ll do my best, but I don’t know what the hell’s around that corner either. We’ll have to see.”

  As they settled in to catch their breath while the agents recharged their weapons and checked on the wounded, someone stepped out of thin air, without creating a visible portal. The werewitch was not shocked to see who it was, and everyone else returned to what they were doing once they glimpsed him.

  “Loki,” Bailey greeted him. “Welcome back. We’re getting there, but not quite done yet.”

  He glanced around. “So I have noticed. How are you doing? Holding up all right?”

  She recalled the old saying, “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” and decided there was no point in replying to the god of mischief and deceit with anything but the truth.

  “I’m tired,” she began. “This crap, all of it, is wearing me down, honestly. Everyone else is getting worn down too. We’ve had a couple injuries. Nothing serious, nobody dead, but still. We’ve taken out most of the targets, and we know where the last one is: right up ahead. I think we’re gonna win, but it’s been getting rougher.”

  Loki gave a slow nod. “Yes, that makes a certain amount of sense. I see you’re all wise enough to rest before the final push.”

  The girl grunted in acknowledgment, but a thought occurred to her. “Loki,” she asked, “I need you to be honest with me. In your, uh, professional opinion,” she swallowed, “am I strong enough to take on Fenris as is? If I had to challenge him right this minute, could I beat him?”

  The deity tapped a slender finger on his thin lips. “I am not sure. Gods cannot perfectly predict the future since elements of uncertainty always get in the way. However, you have a good chance. I’d say that if you continue on your current path, believe in yourself, and employ all you’ve learned and been trained in, Fenris would have a tremendously serious fight ahead of him. I can say no more beyond that.”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder—as his son had done, Bailey recalled—and looked at her with a rare expression of warmth and kindness.

  “You know,” he went on, “I think that just this one time, I will change my usual policy and tag along during the next phase of the operation—a slight bending of the rules, but nothing too serious. I cannot do anything direct or overt, but I can work around the edges of your activities and offer counsel. If you’ll welcome my doing so, that is.”

  Given the nature of the mischief-god, something about him still rubbed her the wrong way, yet Bailey had no reason to believe he intended anything other than to help her at present. She gave him a wan smile.

  “Yes, I will,” she stated. “And I’m pretty sure everyone else will be happy to have another super-powerful being on our side.”

  They spoke to Velasquez, Park, and Roland, informing them of the situation.

  The lead agent shrugged. “Okay, but it would be better if you worked with our battle plans rather than against them. Not that I mean to try to order a god around, but because we don’t have as many options as you do, it’s harder for us to adapt outside of the strategy and tactics we’ve planned and drilled in.”

  “Understood,” said Loki.

  Velasquez had Park break out another round of MREs as everyone sat down to eat. Someone handed a burrito-laden one to the dark-haired deity, who gawked at it, then sniffed it with mounting horror.

  Bailey tore open her own. “What’s the matter?”

  Loki stammered, “Is this intended to be food? Do mortals truly subsist on such...material?”

  Park snorted. “When we have to. Humans will put up with a lot of things to survive.”

  “Of course,” the trickster muttered. “It must be bothersome to have a finite lifespan and have to cherish the years so highly that putting up with low-quality sustenance is an acceptable state of affairs. Perhaps we ought to distribute ambrosia to your kind after all.”

  Bailey stared at him, not sure whether to snap at him for being so snobbish or burst out laughing. He was acting like a fussy little girl.

  Then it occurred to her. “You know, Coyote and Balder were both pretty big fans of regular mortal sandwiches. Cheesesteaks for Coyote, and a club with extra bacon for Balder. I’m partial to both, for that matter. This stuff isn’t quite as good, but it’s not impossible for a god to get enjoyment out of what humans eat. If you can’t enjoy it, well, toughen up.”

  Squirming in place as he forced down a mouthful, Loki’s only response was, “Speak for yourself.”

  Two men stood on a bleak cliff overlooking the dim vale below. One was broad-shouldered and wore a thick hooded coat, and the other was slender and dark-complected. Both were tall and looked formidable.

  “There,” Fenris said, gesturing to a castle at the far end of the valley. “We should not have any problems.”

  Carl smiled slightly. “Good. I’m not one to shy away from a challenge, but we’ve had plenty of those lately, and there are more to come. I’d say we deserve a day when things are easy for once.”

  The wolf-god led the way, and the pair descended a narrow path from the promontory while an icy wind whipped their clothes and hair.

  The world to which they’d come was composed of frigid, swampy tundra divided up by low and craggy mountain ranges of jagged shale. The moisture in the low-lying mossy areas often froze, though snow seemed nonexistent. Black clouds raced across the sky with a speed that would seem unnatural on Earth, and behind them, the sky was a dark greenish or teal color.

  Once they’d descended from the heights, the two found the winds less severe, though everything was still bitterly cold. Ice fog rose from semi-frozen pools here and there. They stuck to the solid parts of the earth and soon reached the castle, which was built into one of the foothills of the other moun
tain range on the valley’s far end.

  The structure was the same color as the hills, an ashy near-black, and it was carven with skeletal gargoyles. An inclined causeway led to the front gates. They opened when Fenris and Carl set foot on the stone path, and a guard or herald came out to greet them.

  The approaching figure looked like a man, but not a living one. His skin was grotesque with the pall of death. However, he did not appear actively decayed; his form had been preserved in a close likeness to that of the living, though his lips were drawn back from his teeth in an eerie rigor-mortis grin. He wore tattered robes of dark green and black.

  “You,” the dead man addressed them, in a hollow, raspy voice. “State your names and your business in our domain.”

  Fenris raised a hand, palm facing outwards. “I am Fenris the wolf-father; you know of me, despite us not having met. This is my apprentice Carl. We have come to speak to the council of the undead, the lords of the draugar.”

  The dead face contorted in a creaky expression of skeptical mistrust. “What do you wish to speak to them about, Fenris?”

  The tall god allowed a faint, nasty smile to suggest itself upon his face. “The prospect of overthrowing the gods of Asgard.”

  Understanding dawned on the face of the draug herald. “We have heard that there has been...unrest. Come with me, but do not presume to threaten us.”

  Carl smirked. “Of course not.” Fenris waved for him to be silent.

  The herald led them past the front gate and through the dim halls of the draugar’s mausoleum-like castle, lit with torches that burned with green flame. Other undead faces peered at them from shadowed crevices until finally, on a higher floor beyond a broad spiral staircase, they came to the council chamber.

  It would have been easy to mistake the room for a crypt since it was lined with dust and the corners were thick with cobwebs. Five monolithic square-edged stone chairs were arranged in a rough semicircle facing the doorway. In each sat a figure wearing robes similar to those of the herald, though both finer of cut and dustier from lack of activity. The five dead people, three men and two women, stared at the visitors.