Stormbringer (25 page)

In the distance, I see the city lights. Still too far, and I cut across paddocks and through scrubland, over dried-up dams and the heads of anxious roos and cattle, my wings beating in time to the thunder of my claws.

They might be clipped, and I can't use them to get airborne. But I can leap and I can glide, and each beat of their mangled feathers still pushes me forward, flames flickering along their edges and sparks disappearing into the night.

I am what I have always been: wind and flame made flesh. And, tonight, I
fly.

The M31 comes first, two wide scars of bitumen, cut into a gully, separated by a swath of grass. It's early, road trains and utes sharing the strip, the early morning trade of those whose professions never sleep.

I leap from one half of the cutting, just enough wing left to glide into the middle, then a second leap and I'm over, veering east, following pine-green signs with big white letters that proclaim the presence of rural towns.

It's here, running through scrub again, that my tattoos begin to itch.

Magni and Móði are awake.

The runes carved into my arms are healing, or trying to, but the mud is caked and bloody. Enough to scar, I hope. Enough to hold the jerry-built magic:
alu
for protection,
sól
as a shield. Too difficult to carve a complex incantation into your own biceps. I hope it's enough. Enough that I can keep running, even as I feel the agony build behind.

I vault over a high fence painted that awful green. Behind it, highway and scrub give way to wide streets and low-slung houses, still sleepy in the predawn haze.

I need a phone. It's five a.m. in a country town; where the fuck would a phone fucking be? Twenty-first fucking century and everyone has a cell phone, thanks to me, except for fucking me. Fuck.

I keep running. Past the suburbs, a town emerges, front yards giving way to parking lots and the squat, ugly barns of stores selling furniture and tires. Nothing is open. Not the Woolworth's, not the Subway. I'm on the main drag—the old highway, long since bypassed—and my tattoos are burning and my wards are healing and I
need to find a fucking phone.
One call. One call is all I'll need, then fuck Magni and fuck Móði because I'm an Australian fucking citizen under the law and they can't
do
this to me. Kidnapping and torture. Fuck that shit. Fuck them and their hammer and fuck Forseti, too. Fuck every last oxygen-thieving one of them, they should've burned up in the fucking fires of Ragnarøkkr to save the rest of us from their self-righteous fucking presence.

Fuck.

And then, up ahead, I see a jogger.

A woman in black Lycra, keeping an awkward pace behind a dog, telltale red cord from a Pyre Flame's headphones dangling from her ears.

Fuck, I hope it's a Flame. Not one of our music players. Fuck.

I take a human skin. Another woman, slight and red-haired. Skin shifted, the jogger notices me, gets halfway through a smile and a nod, mutual recognition for a fellow traveler on the hard and heavy road of daily fitness.

Then her eyes go wide.

I can't hide the tattoos. That's part of their charm. I can't hide the tattoos, and I can't hide the blood, either.

The woman slows. Her dog begins to growl.

There are a lot of ways this could go. The way it does involves me slamming into the woman, sending us both crashing to the grass. She yelps, startled, drops the dog's leash even as it turns and lunges, teeth bared, ready to protect its master.

It'll die if it bites me. So I don't let it, fingers closing around the slick glass of the poor woman's Flame. There's a moment of resistance as the headphones tear free from her ears, and for a second all I hear is a single snatch of song,

(slow down and try to tell the truth)

and then I'm gone, dog's jaws snapping onto air.

One phone call, that's all I need. One call and I can bring down every fucking cop Travis can buy onto Magni and Móði's fucking heads. They might be gods, but this is my world, and I can be back in Panda before they've even figured out how to find me.

Then just try to let them come.

I run down a side street, past an RSL, and back into the suburbs, my fingers fumbling with the touchscreen.

No passcode, thank fucking me.

There are, I think, two people I could call and one person I will. Ten numbers, and I fumble on the typing, unfamiliar fingers shaking with the agony that's slicing through my new-formed skin.

Shifting bodies was a stupid move. Too much power, pulled from one place to another. Out of the hastily scrawled wards and into a “disguise” my pursuers will see through as easily as sunlight scatters clouds.

On the sixth digit, something changes. The low hum of agony from Móði's curse becomes a torrent, a fresh branding as vicious as the first time I felt it.

And old words, echoing in my head:

“Spit will be pain. Blood, agony.”

And agony it is, shattering the remains of my own pitiful runes, sending my knees to the grass and blood pouring from my mouth as I bite my tongue against the scream.

Ten digits. On the ground, muscles locked and limbs twitching, I hit Call.

The last thing I hear, before the world fades mercifully to blank, is:

“Um. Hi. This is Sigmund's phone. I…guess I'm not here to answer it right now. But if you leave your name and number after the beep, I'll get back to you!”

And then nothing.

There were a lot of
þursar
in the forest. A lot. Like, a whole army's worth, Sigmund following along behind Skinnhúfa, stumbling over roots and running into branches the whole way.

When they got to the camp, Skinnhúfa barked at Sigmund to stay put, left six huge
jötnar
to guard him, then vanished off into the crowd. Valdís followed, Eisa and Sleipnir stayed behind.

It occurred to Sigmund, as he sat himself down beneath the watchful gaze of his excessive detachment of guards, that he was a prisoner. Again. He'd never been a prisoner before all of this. The closest he'd ever gotten was detention once at school for calling out his year-seven comp sci teacher, Mr. Hennessey. That'd been a long time ago, and sort of how he'd become friends with Em. They'd gotten back an assignment, Em's had been marked wrong in a way Sigmund's hadn't, for more or less the same answer. Em had tried to argue her case before the class. Mr. Hennessey had told her she was wrong, and Sigmund had
known
the guy'd been lying about it. So he'd said so, and wound up in detention.

The net result of that had been Em's mum had made Mr. Hennessey apologize to Em for being an asshole, care of a quick word to the principal about equality in STEM fields. Sigmund's dad, meanwhile, had sighed and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses, then had launched into a lecture about appropriate times and places to speak truth to power.

Sigmund had been a lot more careful about calling out liars after that. Em, meanwhile, had dropped out of comp sci until uni, and she'd never forgotten what Sigmund had done. Nearly a decade later, and Em was organizing rock concerts for an undead horde and Sigmund was being eyed off like dinner by a bunch of scowling
jötnar.

Life. Go figure.

“There, um. There's a lot of people here,” he said at one point.

Eisa looked up, eyes as sharp as her arrows. “War is coming,” she said. “Hel sends her armies to Ásgarðr's door. When the time comes, we will be ready.”

“I, uh. I don't think she really wants war.”

Eisa narrowed her eyes, looking at Sigmund as if she could strip him raw with gaze alone. “Nor do we,” she lied, grinning her father's grin.

It wasn't that Sigmund was unused to being stared at with open hostility. After all, he'd been followed around in department stores by sneering middle-aged white women since he'd been a child. But those women had mostly just been worried he was going to steal things. They'd never looked at him with the violent hunger he found himself regarded with now.

It wasn't that eating him would make the
þursar
cannibals or anything, what with them being a different species. And Lain did say
jötunn
meant
eater,
and that name had to have come from somewhere.

Sigmund closed his eyes and tried not to think about it.

He was still trying not to think about it, in fact, when he heard heavy footsteps approach, coming to a standstill just in front of him.

“Get up, boy. The Hersir has seen reason.”

When Sigmund opened his eyes, he saw Valdís looming overhead.

“Um,” he tried. “That's nice?” He scrambled to his feet, trying not to groan as the aches of the last few days made themselves known.

Valdís huffed. “Hm,” she said. “Perhaps. There is great hunger for blood among the
þursar,
a desire to finish what was left undone at Ragnarøkkr.”

“You mean war.” Sigmund tried not to think about every way he ached. “Against the
æsir.
”

“The mortals have forgotten their gods,” Valdís replied. “There is no reason Ásgarðr should retain its primacy upon the Tree.”

“I won't help you fight Asgard.” No matter how much of a jerk Forseti was, Sigmund wasn't going to be party to war. He hoped.

“You will,” Valdís said, and that was definitely a grin. “But perhaps in another way. I have convinced Hersir Skinnhúfa to send warriors to retrieve Father.”

“Lain? Why?” Except Sigmund knew the answer as soon as he'd asked. Valdís confirmed it a moment later with:

“Ásgarðr cannot be allowed to possess Mjölnir. If Father is the only one who knows of its location, then we cannot allow the
æsir
to possess him, either.”

“And you need me as bait, don't you?” Sigmund asked. “For Lain?”

“Father's loyalties can be…complex.” Valdís sounded apologetic. Almost.

“So…what?” Sigmund felt something ball up inside him. Something like anger, but heavy and sour. “You're gonna hold a knife to my throat and demand he choose sides?”

Valdís was silent for a moment, feathers shifting across her shoulders.

“Let's hope it does not come to such extremes,” she finally said.

When they left, they took a bunch of
þursar
with them. Maybe twenty or so, in various shapes and sizes, some running on all fours, some riding others, all dark-feathered, through either dye or nature.

Eisa, skin rubbed with soot and swathed in indigo robes, swung up onto her sister's back as soon as she was in reach. Sigmund did the same with Sleipnir, after an encouraging nudge that nearly sent him stumbling.

Then they were off, variously running and galloping and loping out of the camp. All around them, Sigmund saw
þursar
polishing armor and sharpening blades.

Hel on one side, Myrkviðr on the other. Sigmund had seen Ásgarðr, had wandered around inside the walls, seen the tired looks on the faces of the
einherjar
and the crumbling façades of the Halls. It'd been a great realm, once, but that greatness had faded. And, like any fallen empire, its enemies were circling.

When they finally broke through the trees, it was out beneath a silver moon so big and bright and low Sigmund had to shield his eyes from it after the forest's gloom.

Up ahead, a huge towering outline was shadowed against the stars. A mountain. Like, a real and proper mountain. Not the rounded, low things Sigmund was used to back home, in Australia, worn down by a billion years of wind and rain.

This mountain stood alone, rearing high enough into the sky that snow collected on its peak, and Sigmund must've been staring, because Valdís drew up beside him and Eisa said, “Niðavellir, home of the
dvergar.
” Her voice was hushed, dark cloak drawn tight around her shoulders.

“We saw Father dragged inside,” Valdís said, rumbling voice low enough for Sigmund to feel it rather than hear. “He has not emerged.”

“You think he gave Mjölnir to the dwar—er,
dvergar
?” Sigmund didn't buy that for one second. Lain
loathed
dwarves, whatever fancy word they were described with. To the point where Em had had Stern Words over not bringing his weird myth-age bigotry to the
DnD
table, lest it come down to a choice between having the party Cleric quit and allowing Lain to stay. Later, Lain had ranted all evening about Em “just not getting” what “jealous, vicious maggots” the
dvergar
really were, until Sigmund had finally pointed out that, first, that was kinda a bit fucking racist, and, second, they'd been talking about someone's character in a game of
Dungeons and Dragons,
not an actual bloody dwarf.

Lain had muttered something like “Looks the same to me,” but he'd been much better behaved the next time the group had gotten together.

Point being, Lain really fucking hated the
dvergar.
Sigmund couldn't imagine him giving them anything of actual value voluntarily, even if it was to keep it out of the hands of someone else.

The group camped down in a hollow some distance from the mountain, sending Eisa and another one of the smaller
þursar
off to scout. While they waited, Sigmund ate a quick and not-at-all-terrible meal of spiced jerky and a soft, sweet bread with Valdís and Sleipnir. The other
þursar
murmured among themselves, and eventually Valdís said, “Tell me about Father?”

Sigmund looked up. “Um, well.” He bit his lip. “Honestly? Your dad, I don't really know that well. Um. It's a little complicated, but Lain…Lain is to your dad like I am to Sigyn.”

Valdís nodded and looked away. “I…see.”

She looked so bleak at the news, and it took Sigmund a moment to realize he'd just, in effect, told her her dad was dead. So he added, “I've spoken to him once or twice. I think he really misses you. All of you.”

A pause, then Valdís said: “He was not always the most attentive father. I would wait for him to come home. Days or weeks. Too long spent away. But when he was home…When he was home, we were family.”

Sigmund nodded, gnawing his jerky in silence, at a loss for what to say. Honestly, Loki scared him a little. Sigmund felt him, every now and again, coiled beneath Lain's skin like a festering black serpent, vicious and angry. But, for all his faults, Sigyn loved him. And her memories of him—while far from perfect—were tender and kind, on his side, not just hers.

Loki, Sigmund thought, was a devoted father and loving husband. The problem was those weren't the only things that he could be.

Sigmund was dozing when Eisa returned, a small, dark ghost slipping through the camp.

“—thing is wrong,” Sigmund heard her hiss, as he blinked himself awake. “Inside Sindri. There are no guards within the hall, nor in the streets.”

Valdís's feathers rose at the news, and she shared glances with one of the other
þurs.
“Dead?” she asked.

“We saw no bodies,” came the reply. “Nor signs of war or struggle. Half the town is simply vanished. We reached well inside before we turned around.”

Valdís scowled, feathers shimmering beneath the moon. She conferred with the others, Sigmund forgotten in the moment. From what he could gather, there was a town just inside the mountain—Sindri, a sort of border post between the
dvergar
and the outside world—and it was all but abandoned. As if half the population had just picked up in the middle of the night and left.

“Then Niðavellir is weak,” said one of the
þurs
whose name Sigmund didn't know. Beneath dark leather and smeared ash, she had skin like a ghost-gum and feathers the frosty blue-green of a conifer. “And we should strike.”

“We're here for Father,” Valdís snapped. “Not to make war with the
dvergar.
”

“If they aid Ásgarðr in its quest, then they make war on us.” A statement met with a lot of grim nodding.

Valdís growled, low enough that maybe only Sigmund heard it. “Then we move swiftly,” she said. “Like the owl in darkness.”

Sigmund had never been on a, well. On a raid before. At least, not for real. Like, outside a game or whatever. He wouldn't have said he'd been keen to be taken on one now, only that his options were limited by his company, and it wasn't like he was expected to do very much. Just ride low against Sleipnir's back and follow up the rear of the main force.

The
þursar
were fast and, when they needed to be, they were quiet. Leaping down a winding stairwell and into the center of a collection of low, box-shaped buildings covered in geometric designs of wrought metal. The town might have been emptied, but it wasn't empty, and the front of the force got halfway into what seemed a town square when the cavern was filled with a sound like pounding stones, and arrows began to fly.

The
þursar,
however, had come prepared, each carrying several rectangular crystals, like sticks of butter carved from quartz. Sunstones, Eisa called them, and when the
þursar
threw them against the flagstones and buildings they exploded into brightness just like their namesake. The
dvergar
's reaction was instant, shrieking and retreating from the light.

Eisa had explained the effects, too. Sigmund tried not to think about it. He had his own sunstone, gripped in his hand, just in case. But the plan was for him to stay back from the main group and—

Movement. Somewhere just beyond the square. The
dvergar
glowed, and Sigmund saw it, the flash of light as someone darted from the back of the biggest building, the one set at the edge of the strange, glowing lake. Running along the shore toward a tall tower that looked…

It looked an awful lot like a lighthouse. Or a watchtower.

“Shit! By the water, we have to—!”

But Sleipnir had seen the figure, too, and was already lunging forward, legs a blur against the stone. Sigmund lay close across his neck, holding tight, arrows shooting over his head close enough for him to feel the wind.

All around, shouting and explosions turned the world into a chaotic mass of postproduction. Still Sleipnir pushed forward, through the square and past the large house, feet skidding up a shower of black shale as he made a sharp turn on the water's edge.

Up ahead, the fleeing
dvergr
heard their approach, half turning and doubling his pace, a mad sprint for the base of the watchtower. There was a door there, much smaller than Sleipnir, maybe even too small for Sigmund. If the
dvergr
got inside…

Beneath him, Sigmund felt strong muscles coil, then Sleipnir lunged forward, wings opening and beating once, twice against the air, enough lift to send them sailing straight over the
dvergr
's head, blocking his path to the watchtower door.

“Oh, no you don't!”

The
dvergr
's big dark eyes went very round and, in the strange blue light of the glowing water, Sigmund had a brief impression of a salamander crossed with the minerals counter at an
Australian Geographic
store. Then the
dvergr
was stumbling, trying to stop and turn and not slam into Sleipnir, ending up skidding along the ground on his ass instead. Sigmund leaped to the ground himself, and Sleipnir reared, and when big, hooflike claws descended it was with one planted heavily on top of the
dvergr
's chest.