Stormbringer (15 page)

One Gungnir, zero Lains. And Forseti lying to his mother because of…why, exactly? Sigmund didn't pretend to understand the ins and outs of Asgardian succession, but Nanna had implied Forseti would take the throne only if Baldr was proven dead. Except if Forseti knew Baldr
wasn't
dead, not exactly…

Fuck. Fuck this
Game of Thrones
bullshit. Sigmund was just about ready to find Lain and get the fuck outta here as fast as the latter's wings would take them.

And then Lain would be totally sleeping on the couch
forever
for not mentioning he had a
fucking wife and child.

Jesus Christ.

“—sit in his chair, but you cannot take his title,” Nanna was saying. “Nor will I allow you to pronounce him dead after so short an absence.”

“Mother…” Petulant childish pleading was the same in Ásgarðr as it was on Earth, Sigmund supposed.

“No,” Nanna said. “I am done discussing this.” She turned to Rígr. “Send a messenger to Hel. Tell her I will meet her on the morrow, outside the gates.”

Rígr's armor clanked as he shifted, obviously displeased. “My lady,” he said. “Hel has an army, I do not think—”

“If the
þing
frets over my safety, they are welcome to send warriors in my wake. But I will have no violence with Hel's people.”

Sigmund did not miss the way Rígr's eyes flicked, just briefly, toward Forseti. From her expression, Nanna didn't miss it, either.

Rígr bowed. “Yes, my lady.” Then he was gesturing to his brothers and moving from the hall.

“Come.” Sigmund felt a slim hand against his elbow, and when he looked over, Nanna was smiling conspiratorially in his direction. “The road from Hel is long, and you must be tired. Let us find you rooms and bring you food, and leave my son to clutch his toys and sulk in his father's wake.”

She winked, and Sigmund bit his lip to stop the smile. “Cool,” he said, not even bothering to look over his shoulder as Nanna led him from the hall.

Unusually for one of the gods, Thor was sparing in the number of children that he sired. He had three, all—despite some rumors to the contrary—mothered by his wife, Sif.

Magni, the middle child, was all too eager to follow in his father's footsteps. Besting
jötnar
as a toddler, with all the arrogance of a firstborn heir. Meanwhile Móði, Thor's youngest, grew soft and uncertain. No match for his brother in physical prowess, he instead turned to magic to make his mark on the world. Magic, it must be said, is a woman's art, but Móði's grandfather, Odin, was its master and so, too, was Móði able to learn with only a minimum of disapproving gossip.

Thor's eldest child, his daughter, Þrúðr, inherited her mother's hair. Sif's hair was not the hair she had been born with. Instead, it was a magic wig of sorts, rooted in her scalp and growing strands of purest gold. Literally gold. Unlike her mother, Þrúðr needed no wig, and rumor was her hair was even finer for it.

There are a few things it's important to know about golden hair. The first is that it is no small gift to care for. Gold is soft, and malleable, and managing an entire head's worth of it was a full-time job in brushing and in braiding.

The second thing about gold? It's heavy. Very, very heavy. Sif had never been quite as energetic and agile after the wig had been placed upon her head, and was plagued instead by aches in her head and neck everyone knew the source of, even if they never spoke it. Because magic items are curses as well as blessings, and Sif paid the cost of her beauty gladly.

Her daughter, however, had no such dilemma. Her hair was just as heavy—heavier, in fact, when it grew longer than her mother's—but Þrúðr had Thor's blood running in her veins. The strong blood of the strongest god, no more diluted in her than it was in her brothers. Þrúðr had no need to gain strength by fighting
jötunn,
like Magni did. Not when her every living moment was weighed down by her golden crown.

The
dvergar
had made Sif's hairpiece and they knew about Þrúðr's inheritance of it. Gold, it goes without saying, is a precious thing, and someone would could produce it without end the most valuable of resources. And so it was that one day a
dvergr
named Alvíss came to Ásgarðr's gates, demanding Þrúðr's hand in marriage. Sif, so the story goes, agreed to the match, knowing she had no right to make it. For only a father could give his daughter's hand, something Thor knew and the
dvergar
did not.

Alvíss was to learn, however, when Thor returned from hunting
jötnar
and demanded to know why squat unpleasant strangers were sitting at his door.

Alvíss attempted to explain the deal, and Thor attempted to annul it. Not deterred, Alvíss once again pleaded to be allowed to take Þrúðr—and her hair—for his own.

Lest any ever say the gods did not keep their word, Thor agreed to allow Alvíss to woo his daughter if the
dvergr
could prove his wisdom in a contest of riddles. Thor, while very skilled at killing
jötnar,
had never been considered an intellectual sort. Alvíss, knowing this, and thinking himself very clever, agreed to Thor's bargain.

And so Thor asked his questions, and Alvíss did not think them very difficult at all. First, Thor wished to know all the names given to the earth, and Alvíss listed the words used by mortals and gods and jötnar, by
álfar
and by
dvergar.
Then Thor repeated the question, this time asking the names of the sky. Alvíss answered. Third, Thor asked for the names of the moon. Again, Alvíss gave them, and though his lists were true, it did occur to him to wonder if Thor could tell the difference if they were not.

Still, Thor asked his questions: The names of the sun, the names of the clouds. The names of the wind and the calm, the sea and the fire, the forest, the night, the seed. By the time Thor got around to asking for all the names of beer, Alvíss was having trouble stifling his laughter. Thor's father, Odin, was known for his prowess with asking riddles, and perhaps Alvíss felt a little sorry for the Allfather's violent, thickheaded simpleton of a son. If Thor sought to trick Alvíss with lists of words, then he would be sorely mistaken! Alvíss being the sort with a tendency for the pedantic memorization of useless facts.

And so he listed off the names of beer, noticing how Thor's dull, coal-black eyes seemed to drift, his mind wandering to dream of mugs of ale for his own, perhaps, and Alvíss, who considered himself generous as well as wise, thought he would offer an entire barrel, when this was done and Þrúðr was his bride.

When Alvíss was done reciting names, Thor licked his lips and smiled, big and slow and lazy.

“My friend,” he said. “In one heart I have never found more ancient lore.”

“You are too kind, my lord,” said Alvíss, who saw no reason not to be gracious in his victory.

Within his smile, Thor's teeth were very white and very sharp, framed by a beard the color of fresh blood. “Perhaps you will not think so in a moment,” he said. “For I admit I have deceived you. Have allowed you to deceive yourself.”

“How so, my lord?” asked Alvíss, a strange feeling creeping up his spine.

“Your knowledge is so great, friend
dvergr,
” Thor said, “and so I bow before it. Before it, and before your eagerness to share it with me. So much so that you would forsake to check the progress of the very sun and moon and sky you name. For look, friend. We have spoken all night. And now it is the dawn.”

And, suddenly, Alvíss knew what the strange feeling was on his back: the gentle caress of the first rays of the sun. The sun that turned
dvergr
flesh to stone.

That day, Thor had a strange new statue for his hall. He placed it outside, near the river, as he watched his only daughter run free across the grass, laughing as the bright sun gleamed against her hair.

The final day's march was interminable, silent and strained and grim. They made Lain walk ahead, stumbling too fast over roots, with Magni riding the stallion on his heels. Þrúðr came behind on her mare, Móði's arms held loose about her waist.

As they rode, they did not see the wolf, nor the girl, nor hear the cries of bird or flight of beasts.

Valdís,
Lain had called the beast, and Þrúðr had seen the anguish in his eyes. Saw now the broken slump of his shoulders, even as he was forced to run on all fours to keep up with their pace.

Magni called cruel words as they ran, taunting Lain as he drove his horse to catch the edge of feathers beneath its hooves.

Þrúðr was starting to believe she did not know her brothers. Not truly, and maybe not either. Magni, full of hate and cruelty. And Móði, passive and vicious in his own cowardly way.

Yet maybe she was still worst of all. Perhaps, in her desire to be seen as strongest of the three, she had lost sight of her own weakness, and so doomed them all.

It was an awful ride, full of dark thoughts and darker shadows. And Þrúðr knew it was not over yet.

Sól's daughter was kissing the edges of the Tree when they broke free of the Myrkviðr's awful grasp. First, it had been roots, giving way to flagstones, then branches, thinning to show shafts of golden light. Finally, through the gnarled gray trunks, Þrúðr began to catch sight of their destination. A huge and jagged cliffside, rearing into a mountain capped with white, cut from the sharp-edged bones of great Ymir, the first
jötunn,
whose death had made the Realms.

When Magni slowed within the mountain's shadow, Þrúðr made her own breathing calm and forced white-knuckled fingers to uncurl from the cracked leather of her reins.

As they drew to a stop, Þrúðr heard the heavy thud as Lain fell against the ground. White-tattooed sides heaving as he cursed softly in the language of the mortals.

From behind, meanwhile, came a whistle. “Niðavellir,” said Móði, breath gusting across Þrúðr's cheek and awe writ plain across his words. “I've never seen it.”

“Nor I,” Þrúðr admitted, squinting upward against the dying light.

“It's a shithole.” Lain's voice was a vicious wheeze. “Don't let the snow-peaked bullshit fool you. Fucking
dvergar.
” He stumbled to his feet, leaving bloodied, hissing footprints in his wake.

“I would have thought you eager to show them the robustness of their handiwork.” Magni gestured to his lips.

Lain responded by extending a fist, middle finger raised.

They approached the mountain in silence, their horses' hooves clopping slowly against stone, Lain's own limp fading as the sun dipped and the mountain loomed. He said nothing more and, when Þrúðr glanced his way, seemed unfocused and lost in his expression. As if he were remembering something long ago and very far away. Something better than where they were, perhaps. Something with the warm skin of a loving wife, and the gentle laughter of his children.

As a child, Þrúðr had thought her uncle odd but nothing more. She'd giggled at his jokes and ridden on his back when he took the shape of beasts for her enjoyment, her own father laughing with riotous abandon.

As she'd grown older, she'd thought less of those moments and more of the whispers of her mothers. Half-heard accusations of cruelty and spite. Loki had turned, then, from an amusing, ill-mannered houseguest into something dark, something sinister and mean. A thing to fear…and to pity, also. Deranged and monstrous.

Now Þrúðr was not sure what she thought of the thing that moved beside her, tattered feathers ruffling in the breeze and shimmering in the dying light. A monster, perhaps, with curving horns and jagged claws. But Father's friend, also. Who had shorn the hair from Mother's head, then had repaid this petty malice with boons and treasures that men coveted to this day.

Maybe, Þrúðr thought, this was Loki's curse. To be such a fickle thing of indecision and of change. To destroy, and, in that destruction, to remake rubble into glory.

Niðavellir drew ever closer.

Around them, the trees thinned as they emerged from the Myrkviðr and stepped into the foothills of the mountain. Þrúðr felt relief wash over her like the cool flow of a stream and wondered, if she should turn, what pairs of strange eyes she would find watching them take their leave.

The path grew wider, more intricate. With rough-cut flagstones replaced by mosaics made from small, multicolored tiles laid out in flowing, abstracted patterns like rushing water. They began passing pillars, erected by the side of the road and topped with stone cages set aglow by some magics Þrúðr could not fathom.

These were
dvergar
lands. Not the wilderness of the forest nor the simple halls of
æsir.
The
dvergar
were craftsmen, masters of metal and stone and gems, and here, at the entrance to their kingdom, they showed their might. For ahead, where the path met the mountain, a huge entrance had been carved into the rock. The stern effigies of ancient
dvergar
kings, looking down on any who would think to walk into the dark.

“Halt, strangers. What business have you in the mountain?”

Þrúðr had seen
dvergar
before, once or twice when she was younger and they had sent caravans to Ásgarðr to ply crafts and trade their wares. The
dvergar
that stood before them now, stationed in squat turrets beside the road, were less like the ones she remembered. Still stout and broad, with wide frog mouths and bulging, too-big eyes. But these
dvergar
were dressed not in tunics but in gleaming metal armor, and beneath it their hides were rough and glittered with gemlike protrusions.

“Hail, friends,” Magni called. “I am Magni, son of Thor. This is my brother, Móði, and my sister, Þrúðr. We have come from Ásgarðr and have business with the smiths, Brokkr and Eitri.”

The
dvergar
shared glances, strange patterns of light rippling across their hides.

“What are they doing?” Þrúðr whispered.

It was Lain who answered, voice just as low. “Talking. The flashing lights are their language.”

“They're so beautiful. I've never seen…” She let the words hang, too caught up by the
dvergar
's shimmering skin.

“You've probably only seen them in the light,” Lain said. “The
lífskin
”—not quite the word he used, but the closest meaning Þrúðr could hear—“doesn't function too well unless it's dark.” He gestured around at the fast-fading day and the deep shadow that hung beneath the mountain.

The
dvergar
faded back to their stony gray, and the one on the left pointed to Lain and said, “You bring a
risi
with you.”

Magni shot a look to the beast in question, then scowled and turned forward once more. “The
jötunn
?” he said. “A captive and a slave. It will give you no trouble.”

The words prompted more lights from the
dvergar,
these ones bright yellows and reds that flashed with anger and alarm. Reacting to the word
slave,
judging by the timing.

“Niðavellir would make no quarrel with the
jötnar,
” the right-most
dvergr
said at last. “And know this, Magni, Son of Thor. The
risi
may be your captive, but the land beneath the mountains knows nobody as a slave.”

From her side, Þrúðr heard Lain make a startled little hiss. Perhaps a laugh, perhaps an intake of breath. He still wore his collar and a single rune-cut shackle—they'd found the other lying melted and twisted on the forest floor—but Þrúðr supposed they mattered little, given the pain Magni held within his palm.

“Fear not, friend.” Hearing Lain speak the true tongue was startling, his voice transformed from a rough grind into a subtle, flickering flame. “I owe these
æsir
debt for past transgression. In repatriation I am made Lady Þrúðr's bondsman, and I will work as such until I am repaid.”

Þrúðr blinked at the phrasing. Perhaps Lain was too used to the human tongue, for surely he hadn't meant—

“As you wish,
risi,
” came the reply from the turret. “In that case, Niðavellir bids you welcome.”

Magni called out thanks in response, spurring his horse forward. Þrúðr followed, pace slow as she craned her neck back and up to watch the enormous carved rock wall.

“Pretty epic, isn't it?” Lain was back to speaking the human tongue, limping slowly along beside. When Þrúðr looked down, he had something in his hand. Like a small white stick with a smoldering end. He kept putting the unlit end in his mouth, wincing, sighing, and breathing out long gusts of smoke. “If you give the
dvergar
nothing else, you can give them a truly stunning comprehension of their own inadequacy. Conniving fucking maggots.”

Þrúðr thought that was perhaps unnecessary, given the gate guards' concern over Lain's freedom and his welfare. Still, she didn't say as much. Let the
jötunn
hold whatever grudges he may.

Þrúðr had never been anywhere quite like Niðavellir.

From the entryway, they passed into a tunnel. Not the cramped and narrow passage she had imagined would wind into the mountain's heart, but rather an enormous carved archway. Set with more of the mosaics she'd seen outside, and lit by thousands of motes of blue-silver light that clung to the walls and drifted gently in the breeze.

More guards watched their passage, dark eyes peering out from alcoves and turrets, skin shimmering rainbows in the gloom.

“This is nothing like I had imagined,” she'd whispered, hand reaching up to try to catch a light upon her palm.

“Then perhaps you will not find sorrow here,” Móði said. “Perhaps you will not even miss the sun.”

His words were meant to comfort, Þrúðr knew. That didn't mean they didn't lash, nor take the sting from Lain's own incredulous guffaw.

Yet when the tunnel ended, not too long later, Þrúðr wondered if Móði might not speak the truth.

They passed through a huge set of heavy stone doors and into a cavern so enormous they may as well have been outside. Þrúðr couldn't see the walls of it, only a constellation of more glimmering lights, floating in the gloom like stars. The doors emerged at the top of a hill, a road winding down to where a small village sat nestled at the edge of a vast undersea lake. As with everything else, the waters of the lake rippled with light yet still it had no edge, seeming to extend on forever into the dark.

Þrúðr's breath caught from the beauty. Beside her, she felt Magni and Móði do the same.

Lain, who had trod these roads before, appeared unmoved.

“Sindri,” he said. “Niðavellir's border town.”

“It—I didn't—” Þrúðr managed. Towering above Sindri's buildings, she saw mushrooms the size of trees undulating in the strange underground breeze. The mushroom trees glowed, too. Everything glowed here, Þrúðr realized. Everything except them.

Lain, whose eyes and tattoos were also bright and whose feathers shimmered as if lit by fire, continued, “Sindri's mostly craftsmen and merchants. Anyone who makes a living dealing with the outside. Niðavellir proper is beyond the Skærasær, that big lake thing. Supposedly, there's another set of doors on the far side. If anyone tries to invade, they slam shut, and so does the mountain.”

“ ‘Supposedly'?” Magni asked.

Lain shrugged. “Never been across to check. Never fucking wanted to.”

Magni snorted, spurring his horse onward and down the path.

They saw no one as they approached, the strange light glimmering off slick, dark rocks and pulsing from the lichen and fungi that grew in place of grass and trees. Overhead, Þrúðr heard the sound of leathery wings flapping in the darkness, and she wondered what strange bats circled the void above.

The air around was damp and warmer than Þrúðr had expected, fresh and moving and scented of wet stone and clean earth. In the distance, she could hear the sound of the lake lapping against the shore and, farther beyond that, something not unlike the roar of oceans.

What a land this place was! Not the cramped, cold, dirty tunnels Þrúðr had expected—had hardened her heart against—but a waking dream of wonder. For the first time, Þrúðr saw herself, sailing on a ship across the endless glowing seas, climbing to the tops of the highest mushrooms, crawling through caverns and taming whatever unfathomable beasts lurked out there beneath the world.

Perhaps things were not so bad. Magni would have Mjölnir, and Þrúðr her adventures. It seemed a fair trade, and if she could return from time to time to Ásgarðr, then—

“Halt. Who goes there?”

Another guard. They'd reached the edge of Sindri, greeted by a low wall that marked the boundary of the town. A
dvergr
looked up at them from beside an archway, colors rippling across his stony skin.

“Magni, son of Thor,” Magni said. “My brother, Móði, and sister, Þrúðr.”

The
dvergr
fluttered shades of yellow and green, and Þrúðr did not miss the way it looked at Lain. “
Æsir
beneath the Mountain? What business have you in our town?”

“We seek audience with the smith, Brokkr. He has some things we wish to trade, and he will be satisfied with what we in turn have brought him.”

Þrúðr tried not to wince. Lain caught her eyes and rolled his, the gesture involving his whole head to make up for the blank orbs.

“Brokkr's hall overlooks the water,” the guard said. “If he will see you, you will find him.” He gestured, bidding them entry through the arch.

Sindri's streets were stretches of delicate mosaic, not used to the harsh clop of horses' hooves. The
dvergar
had their own beasts of burden, things like enormous lizards that watched with glowing eyes from in front of carts and inside stables. Their owners watched, too, rippling light as parents caught the hands of their children and ushered them behind fences and inside houses.