Stormbringer (17 page)

Most of all, however, Þrúðr had not forseen herself. In the bright light of Ásgarðr's sun, she had not seen herself, hand in clammy paw, with the thing she was taking for a husband. Settled deep within the shining dark, buried beneath a mountain, queen of sacrifice and void. It had, perhaps, been an easy thing to forget. An easy thing to put aside, to refuse to see, hidden as it was behind her brothers' quest. Behind Mjölnir. It had not been real to her, then. Her new life, trapped within the dark.

It was real now. Surrounded by
dvergar,
the taste of foreign meats upon her tongue and flashes of foreign speech flickering past her eyes.

Now it was real. Þrúðr had made her trade. And her life would never be the same.

After feasting, the men discussed business. A polite fiction, Þrúðr supposed, to hide their true purpose: negotiating her trade in marriage for Járngreipr and Megingjörð. She would be given to Uni, most likely, hence his awkward attempts to be kind to her at the dinner. Asking Þrúðr of her life in Ásgarðr, listening to her speak of weaving and of hunting. He was a good man, she thought. Gracious and thoughtful, son of a powerful
dvergr,
and, by all accounts, a skilled craftsman of his own. A good ally for Ásgarðr, well made in one of the most ancient of traditions.

A month, perhaps less, and Mjölnir would be in Magni's hand and the wealth of Niðavellir would be Ásgarðr's for the sharing. This had been Þrúðr's plan from the outset. Had she not, mere days ago, stood before Forseti and her brothers and pronounced it? Mocked Magni for his reluctance, even as she had taken her own heart and locked it away somewhere deeper and darker than the bottom of the Skærasær.

This was the truth of it. For Uni was a kind man, and he was a
dvergar,
and, were the decision Þrúðr and Þrúðr's alone, she would choose to marry neither.

And it was only then, cloistered inside the rooms she had been given—between silken pillows and heavy, gold-wrought walls that pressed down upon her with all the weight of obligation—that Þrúðr allowed herself to weep.

The tears came in racking sobs that bent her double, left her shivering with thoughts of Uni's cold and toadlike hands, with visions of an empty sunless dark. Of herself, grown pale from lack of sun and squat and bloated from the birthing of a whole pond of squirming tadpoles. Would her brothers remember her, in ten years or a hundred? Would they recall the sacrifice she made for Ásgarðr's sake, and would they seek to return into the dark once more to see her?

What would they discover when they did? Would they still look upon her too-wide, too-dark eyes and call her Sister? Or would their lips curl back into a sneer even as Magni raised Mjölnir in his hand and—

“You know, back on Miðgarðr, I run a merchant empire.”

Þrúðr froze. Breath heaving and snot running down her chin. She hurried to wipe the latter with her sleeve, looking up through her shining hair to where Lain was perched on a table across the far side of the room. Watching.

“W-what are y-you doi—?”

“I make, uh”—Lain gestured with his claws, miming a square shape in the air—“it's called a, uh…” And he said a word.

Þrúðr frowned, sniffing. “ ‘Number…oracle'?” Not quite, but close enough.

Lain shrugged. “I guess,” he said. “It's sort of a, uh. A magic box? It does things, um…” He scowled, then laughed. “You know, this is really hard to describe to someone whose frame of reference includes fire steels. Look, these things are important, anyway. Pretty much every mortal's got one. Most of them more than one. They use them to write sagas and speak to one another from the far corners of the world. To find the answers to every question they can think of asking.”

“I don't…don't understand.” Lain was in her room. Why was Lain in her room?

“I guess it doesn't matter much.” Lain was grinning, sharp white teeth bright against the darkness of his mouth. It wasn't the grin Þrúðr was used to, not from Lain. This one was…soft, almost. Fond. Kind.

Þrúðr bit her lip, tasting salt and snot. Her head pounded.

“The point,” Lain was saying, “is that this company? It's pretty fucking important. Pretty much every fuckin' mortal on the planet knows it. And it's me. My company, my brand, burned into a hundred million homes. Except all that? It's all a bit of a fuckin' lie, isn't it? Because me? I'm just the front man, the pretty face. I make nice speeches and look good for the cameras, and girls swoon over my picture and it's all bread and fuckin' circuses. Because you know who
really
runs the show?”

Lain paused, and Þrúðr obliged him by shaking her head.

“My
varaforseti,
Nicole Arin.” Then, when Þrúðr didn't react. “A woman. The most powerful empire in the fucking mortal fucking world, and it's a woman who calls the shots.”

“Is she your wife?” Þrúðr's mind raced, trying to reach the end of the path Lain cut before her. Because he was cruel, and he was cunning, and he never took action without a reason. There would be a lesson in his tale, Þrúðr knew. Even if she could not see it.

Lain laughed again at the suggestion. “No,” he said. “Nic's not…it's not like that. We work together, that's all. But, see. That's what the mortal world is like now. Not perfect, but a woman can run an empire, no husbands or sons or brothers required.”

Þrúðr nodded, sniffing again and turning her head away. Such things were not unheard of, but, “This is not the mortal realm. Their ways are not ours.”

“True,” Lain said. “But things have changed down there. With our old people, too. Nowadays, this? What's going on right here, with your brothers trading you away for some fucking
fashion accessories
?” Þrúðr tried not to wince. “They would find this
abhorrent.
You want to talk about
níðingr
and
útlagi
? What's going on here is—”

“Stop it!” Þrúðr's fists had curled into tight balls, resting against her thighs. “I care not for what the mortals do. They abandoned us! Sold us for gold and trinkets to the barbarians of the south. Our traditions are honorable. I am honorable. I am my father's daughter, and I protect my home in the way that I have been given. Gladly will I do this!” It was a lie, and Þrúðr knew it.

So did Lain, judging from his scornful, “Ri-ii-ii-ii-ight. That's why you're holed up here, bawling your eyes out.”

“Get out.” Þrúðr did look at Lain then. Put every grain of pain and hate and shame into her gaze. Every piece of loathing against this
beast,
who would come into their lives. Who would play such games with them. Suggest this quest, this trade, then have the gall to shame them for it. “Get out of my rooms or I will scream for my brother. I will have him cut open his palm and you will know just how much power an
ásynja
can wield!”

“That's my whole point!” Lain lurched to his feet, red-tipped claws outstretched. “You don't need Magni, that's bullshit. You're Þrúðr Þórsdóttir, and you're the eldest.
You
should be wielding Mjölnir, not that vicious, incompetent br—”

“Out!” Þrúðr was on her feet, too, rage burning through fear and sorrow. “Your lies have no meaning here, beast.”

Lain threw his hands up, feathers bristling even as he stepped backward. “They're not lies. Jesus. This is the twenty-first century, you can be your own hero, you don't need to hide behind the boys.”

Þrúðr stepped forward, eyes narrowing as a storm coalesced within her heart. “As your Nicole Arin does not hide behind you?”

Cruel words, maybe, and against a woman who had never done Þrúðr wrong. But she still couldn't help but feel satisfaction to see Lain's mouth drop open and blank eyes draw wide.

“Wh—? No. Wait. It's not—”

But Þrúðr was done listening. “I said get
out.
Take your honeyed lies and go.” Manipulative, hypocritical beast.

For a moment, Lain did nothing. Just stared, muscles in his jaw flexing as if he sought to speak. Standing, he towered over Þrúðr, horns brushing against the vaulted ceiling, but she stood resolute before him. She was Þrúðr Þórsdóttir, and no mere
jötunn
would defeat her. Not in combat, and certainly not in this battle of honor and of words.

In the end, Lain stepped back, openmouthed shock receding behind his jagged grin. He gave a mock bow, but Þrúðr wasn't fooled by the affectation. Not when she'd seen glimpses of the man beneath the monster.

She wondered if this was what Father had felt. Why he'd never feared Loki in the way some in Ásgarðr had. Not thanks to strength of body, but of character, of determination, and of heart. Lain feared those things, perhaps, and in a way he didn't fear force and pain. Lain, who was Loki. And Loki, who was a villain and a liar, but who could not corrupt those who did not allow themselves to be corrupted.

Or perhaps that was hubris. Þrúðr couldn't say.

She could say her rage had worked, however, as Lain backed carefully from her chambers. “I still think you deserve better than to be sold for something that should be yours to begin with,” he said as he receded. “But your dissent is noted. If you change your mind, you know where I'll be.”

Þrúðr merely turned her back and didn't deign him with a reply.

Ásgarðr was a total movie set.

Nanna had escorted Sigmund through the corridors of her hall, smiling patiently whenever his attention got caught on the carvings in the woodwork or the tapestries on the walls. Wolves and ravens featured prominently in the art, as well as stylized figured of men with spears, and winged beasts Sigmund realized were most likely
jötunn.
A whole history and culture of a whole…Well.
Alien
wasn't quite the right word, but Sigmund couldn't think of a better one, either. Because the
æsir
were definitely humanish, and Vikingish, but it was the
ish
that was fascinating. Sigmund was a geek. He loved video games and shitty fantasy novels with half-dressed women on the covers. He lived for the ish, and now, suddenly, here he was. Soaking in it.

Awesome.

It was while he'd been distracted by a particularly intricate shield that Nanna had asked, “Will there be others, do you think?”

“Huh?”

Sigmund, who was such a loser, hadn't been paying attention so hadn't quite managed to catch the meaning from the Godstongue. So Nanna repeated her question, gentle and patient and kind, and Sigmund said, “Oh…You mean, like, other
æsir
? Getting reincarnated or whatever?”

“Yes.”

“Um…”
Jesus.
“I…I don't know, really.” That was safe, right? Especially when Sigmund managed to bite his tongue before
I sure hope not
snuck out.

One tiny crease had appeared in Nanna's otherwise flawless brow, but Sigmund hadn't been sure if it was concern or worry or disbelief or maybe just flatulence, so he hadn't asked. Instead, he'd allowed himself to be taken through a set of heavy wooden doors, through an antechamber filled with flowers, and then through another set of doors and into a room. This room had more tapestries, and furs, and an ornately carved screen and a basket of golden apples Sigmund thought he probably shouldn't eat.

“You may stay here as long as you wish,” Nanna had said. “I'm sure your journey has been long. Rest. A servant will fetch you for the evening meal.”

“Oh. Right. Cool. Thanks.” Sigmund, god of losers.

Nanna had just smiled, turning to leave, before laying a hand on Sigmund's elbow and saying, “It is good to have you back.”

Then she'd gone before Sigmund could figure out how the hell he was expected to reply to that.

He'd decided not to worry about it, instead scoping out the room, running his hands over surfaces and peering under the covers of the bed. This was a legit-for-serious Viking godcastle. A lifetime of video games told Sigmund to expect to find mad loot somewhere, which led him to opening chests and baskets, and finding whole piles of jewelry and dresses before realizing he was in a room designed for an
ásynja.

Well…Nanna was nice. And she tried. He decided not to take it personally. Especially when he found the bathroom.

There was water. Running water.
Hot
running water that smelled slightly sulfurous, so maybe it was coming from a hot spring somewhere? That was kind of cool.

Sigmund was considering using the facilities when he heard a knock, and a small voice called out something in Old Norse.

“One sec!” Sigmund called in response. When he opened the door, two young boys were there, holding a huge trunk between them. Through a complicated series of interpretive mimes, Sigmund realized they wanted to swap their trunk for the one currently in the room. Which turned out to be an awesome plan, when Sigmund opened up his new possession to find it full of clothes.
Men's
clothes. Like pants and tunics and stuff.

Despite not speaking English, the boys

(pages? is this what a page is?)

were very insistent that Sigmund be fitted for boots and instructed on the correct way to buckle a belt. Then, when they seemed confident he wouldn't completely embarrass himself at dinner, they pushed him toward the bathroom.

He did draw the line at having them help him undress.

Still. That was, more or less, how Sigmund Sussman, twenty-first-century geek, ended up having a Viking bath and getting dressed up in clothes that would've made a cosplayer weep.

“Rad,” he said, taking a selfie with his phone. Sending it to Wayne and Em was a no-go on account of there being no phone service in Ásgarðr, and that realization made Sigmund think of Lain until his heart ached.

He wondered what Lain would say if he could see Sigmund all done up in wool and fur and gold brocade. Nanna had brought some pretty swaggy clothes. Clothes fit for a god, even.

Even the God of Losers had to look the part.

Sigmund was considering this—and wondering when dinner was—when he heard a familiar voice behind him say, “Very dapper, kid.”

Sigmund turned. There, perched on the back of a chair, next to Sigmund's pile of discarded clothes, was the biggest bloody raven in the Realms.

“What are you doing here?”

It wasn't that Sigmund felt murderous intent toward Munin, exactly. It was just that Munin had served Odin, then Baldr, and the first time Sigmund had met the thing was the first time in his life he'd actually been afraid of dying. Also of watching his only-just-boyfriend first get nearly stabbed, then turn into a monster. Then the
next
time Munin had shown its beak, it'd been to relay the news of Lain's capture and Sigmund's imminent showdown with Baldr. A showdown that ended on the floor of the Lokabrenna foyer, feeling the point of Gungnir slide through flesh and into
don't think of that now Jesus c'mon focus, man, what the fuck is the bird doing here be careful.

Point being, Munin's arrival never heralded good news.

Today, the bird just clicked its beak, shifting its weight from foot to foot. “What am
I
doing here? Kid, I live here. What're
you
doing here?”

Munin didn't speak, exactly, but the words were there all the same, scratching between Sigmund's ears, a cheap imitation of his own internal narrative.

“I'm here with Hel,” Sigmund said. There didn't seem to be any point in obfuscation. He wasn't convinced Munin could have missed the enormous zombie horde lurking outside the gates.

“Girl's got a takeover plan, last I heard.”

Sigmund scowled, reaching to grab his jeans from the chair, just to make Munin have to hop out of the way. “Yeah, well. You should hear harder next time. And not from me.”

Munin squawked. “Aw, c'mon. Where's your mercenary spirit? A secret for a secret, how about it?”

“You don't know anything I'd want to.” As soon as he said it, Sigmund knew it was a lie. Knew it, and felt his heart plummet from the knowing because, in the next moment, Munin said:

“I know where they've taken your boy.”

Sigmund's jaw clenched. “Liar.” Because it was true, he could
feel
it was true, except…

“Well. Maybe. But I can point you in the right direction. C'mon. What do you say?” Munin hopped from foot to foot, all glossy feathers and gaping beak. “I mean, that's why you're really here, isn't it? Chasin' your no-good, mange-winged bed-warmer?”

Sigmund felt his teeth grind, fingers clenching hard into denim. Finally, he said, “What do you want? Nothing about Hel.” Even if there wasn't anything to tell, not really, it was the principle of the thing. What kind of man would Sigmund be if he sold out his friends and his sort-of-stepdaughter to find his boyfriend?

Then: “How about a trinket? From Miðgarðr. Something shiny.” Ravens liked shiny, right?

Munin tilted its head. “What've you got?”

Shit. What did he have? He'd left his bag back in the Helcamp—Sigmund, Losers, God of—so he emptied out the pockets of his jeans instead. Munin wasn't interested in the phone, thank whomever, but it wasn't biting when Sigmund offered it coins, either.

“Something with value,” it said. Then Sigmund saw its beady eye glimmer. “Like that.”

Then Sigmund had a bird lunging at his hands with its beak and, yeah. About that, and Sigmund's mild ornithophobia, which, hah! He thought had maybe been cured thanks to hanging out with Lain, but no. No, it was still around, and trigged by having a
razor-sharp beak
spearing his way.

Some part of Sigmund's panicked brain realized Munin was going for his key ring.

“Uh-uh!” He curled his fist, clenching the keys inside. One for his dad's house, one for Lain's apartment. That was it, really. His car key was on its own chain, lying ignored on a table next to his phone and a pile of coins. His work pass was back in the apartment, because why would he have brought that to Ásgarðr, again?

(why would you've brought your car keys, doofus?)

“You want my house keys?” He held the fist out, just out of reach of Munin's beak. He hoped. “Tell me what happened to Lain.”

“Not the keys,” Munin said. “Don't care about the keys. The other thing?” It peered up at Sigmund, hopeful.

Sigmund almost,
almost,
fell for it. Almost opened his hand to take a look, before common sense kicked him in the balls and he instead said, “It's only keys.” A thought. “And the swipey thing for the apartment block.” A little plastic toggle. It made the elevator work and opened the garage door. Sigmund couldn't imagine it would be of much interest to a bird.

A thought confirmed a moment later when Munin said, “No. None of that crap. The bracelet. Your jewelry for your boy. A good trade, yeah?”

It took Sigmund a moment, blinking in his confusion, before he got it. “You mean the key ring?”

“Bracelet, ring. Whatever.”

It was neither, of course. What it was was a loop of thin wire rope, closed off by a little screw cap and threaded with five charms, one for each of the colors of mana in
Magic: The Gathering.

It was worthless but for the fact Em had made it for Sigmund a few years back. No reason other than her going through a DIY geekery phase and thinking Sigmund might like it. Which he did. Because it was cool and nerdy and made by his best bloody friend.

(“something of value,” right)

“Tell me what's happened to Lain, and I'll give you the key ring. You know I don't lie.”

A gift from Sigmund's bestie, and it meant something.

But Em would never pick an object over a person. Never. She was a lot of things, a lot of aggravating, callous, and occasionally downright vicious things…but she wasn't that.

Munin stared at Sigmund for another moment, first with one eye, then the other. Then it said, “Yeah. Sure. I saw your boy drive up to the gates. Forseti and two of Thor's brats nabbed him—”

“What do you mean ‘nabbed'?” A ball of ice, sitting just below Sigmund's gut. Ice and rage and fear.

(if they've hurt him…)

(“they've hurt him, it's in their nature. the only question is how will you respond?”)

As if in confirmation, Munin ruffled its feathers and said, “I mean ‘nabbed.' Whacked him over the head a few times and dragged him off.”

“Where?”

“Inside. I don't know what they did. Forseti don't like me hangin' 'round much. All I know is I saw Thor's kids drag him out again in chains just before you lot arrived. They headed out the back way, through the Myrkviðr.”

Viðr
meant
wood,
Sigmund did know that much. And he'd seen
Lord of the Rings.
He could guess the rest.

“Where would they be going?”

Munin cawed, puffing its breast out and arching its neck toward the ceiling. “You know, my neck is feeling awfully naked right now…”

Sigmund got the hint, unscrewing the key ring and throwing the keys down on the table.

“If you peck me…” he threatened, leaning forward.

“Don't choke and I won't peck.”

Sigmund did not choke, and Munin, as promised, didn't peck. For a moment, Sigmund thought the chain would be too small; Munin was a big bird with a big thick neck, but, as it turned out, that was a big thick neck made of ninety percent feathers.

“I don't know where they were going, no way I was gonna follow them into that fuckin' forest, right?”

“Why not?” Sigmund fumbled with the key chain's screw, trying not to catch any feathers between the steel.

“Because it's
þursar
country, isn't it? Those fuckin' things'd shoot me outta the sky and eat me for breakfast.”

“The
þursar
are a…they're a type of
jötunn,
right? What would Thor's kids be doing with the
jötunn
?” Sigmund still, very occasionally, pronounced it with a
J
instead of a
Y.
As well as used the wrong noun form.

Munin, tactfully, didn't mention either. Instead, when Sigmund had arranged the key-chain-slash-necklace and stepped back, it fluffed itself up and said, “Well. How do I look?”

“Here, let me show you.” Sigmund grabbed his phone, fumbling with the passcode to get to the camera app.

Munin, meanwhile, said, “I dunno, kid. I watched 'em as long as I could, but they vanished into the trees. I did hear your boy make some comment about”—Munin cocked its head; Sigmund wasn't sure if it was remembering or if it was distracted by the sight of itself on the phone's screen—“about ‘whoring for trinkets.' Damn, bird. You look
good.
”

Sigmund laughed, except, “Whoring
what
?”

“My guess?” Munin puffed and preened, turning back and forth to watch the key chain's little colored charms catch the light. Green, red, black, blue, and white, in that order. “My guess is he was talking about Þrúðr. That's Thor's girl. Guy had three kids, she's the eldest, plus two younger brothers. She was with them when they left and, kid, I tell you? She did
not
look like she wanted to be.”