“You ain’t no Viking, girl.”
She didn’t even flinch, those green eyes of hers flicking up to Arnóra’s face, a small smirk on her lips.
“Vikings would turn a girl like you into a slave,” Arnóra went on. “Maybe they already did with your ancestors. And now you’ve come back for vengeance. In the name of them . . . and the god Skuld.”
The girl chewed her food, her gaze locked with Arnóra’s.
No, this one wouldn’t back down. This one wouldn’t give up.
“Ain’t that true . . .” Arnóra whispered, “. . . Crow?”
* * *
The dwarf sat him down next to his workbench and, after removing the metal cuffs those bastard elves had placed on him, put a horn of mead in Stieg’s hands. “Name’s Báraldur.”
“I’m Stieg Engstrom.”
“Engstrom? Heard tales of that bloodline. Not a friendly lot.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
“That your woman?”
Stieg opened his mouth to reply, but it sort of hung there until he shook his head and said, “I have no fucking idea.”
“Yeah. Females get like that sometimes. Makes me miss the days my old Da told me about when they used to kowtow. But one of ’em picked up a sword during a battle and all that changed. Ain’t been right since. She a shieldmaiden, your girl?”
“Sort of.”
“And what are you?”
“A Viking, like you said.”
“A human—a living human—doesn’t make it this far without the powers only a god can give.” The dwarf sized him up. “You’re big enough to be a Giant Killer but if you were that, you’d still be in Jotunheim getting stomped on by giants. Your woman ain’t no Holde’s Maid and she don’t look like she ever fought no bear, so she ain’t Isa. If you were Claws, you’d still be among the Elves ’cause they got oceans aplenty. You ain’t smart enough to be a Protector—”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“—and not arrogant enough to be one of the Silent.”
The dwarf held up seven fingers. “There are always nine Clans, Viking. And with only two left that makes you a Raven. And that woman . . . alone in the kitchen with me wife . . . a Crow.”
“We’re not here to hurt anyone.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“It’s complicated.”
The dwarf pulled a chair over and sat in front of Stieg. “All right,” he said, “who fucked up and started Ragnarok again?”
* * *
“Nidhogg will suck the marrow from your leg bones while he talon-fucks what’s left of your corpse.”
Erin gawked at the She-dwarf. “That’s a lovely sentiment. Thank you.”
“Just warnin’ ya. You’re better off goin’ home.”
“I go home, everybody dies. So that’s currently not an option for me. I at least have to try.”
“So what do you need from me and mine?”
“Nothing, really. This is just where we ended up once we hit the bottom of those goddamn stairs.”
Arnóra chuckled. “Say what you like about them stairs, girl, but at least they tell me what I’m dealing with.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you know how many start down them stairs? Not as many as the ones who turn away. And the ones who do go down . . . they eventually go back up before they even get halfway. So the fact you made it this far, and you ain’t lookin’ for gold and magical weapons you can show off to your friends or try to rule the world with . . . says to me, you’ve got what me dear Ma called ‘determination.’ Not only important when making weapons but when surviving this group of worlds we all live in.” The She-dwarf slammed a large, wide blade on the table.
“What’s that?”
“The blade I was going to use to kill you when I realized you were a gods-damn Crow.”
“You know, we’re really quite nice. The Crows.”
“No, ya ain’t. But you are determined. And I like that. So I’ll help ya.”
“You will?”
“Yeah. I can get you food, weapons. For your travels. I won’t bother with clothes, though. We ain’t got nothing to fit you two. But at least enough food to get you where you need to go.”
“Wait.” Erin scratched her forehead. She suddenly had a headache. A very bad headache. “Enough food?”
“Yeah. Food to last you until you get to Nidhogg.”
“How long does that trip take from here?”
“We don’t usually travel that far. No one wants to go to Corpse Shore. It’s a disgusting place. So”—she glanced off, counting in her head, before announcing—“twenty-three days.”
Erin shot up out of her seat. “What? Fuck!”
* * *
They met in the middle of their dwarven hosts’ home. “Twenty-three days?” Erin snarled.
“I know,” Steig replied. Apparently they’d both gotten the bad news from their hosts at the same time. “I know!”
“What are we going to do?”
“Maybe we can get a message to them.”
“To do what?”
“Hold back on the challenge. To wait it out until we get home.”
“It won’t matter. In twenty-three days—or, in this case, eleven and a half days earth time—Gullveig will be back at full power. That happens, I won’t be able to get near her, no matter what weapon I’m fucking using. She’ll just think and be gone before I can get close.”
“Fuck.”
“Fuck!”
They began pacing around each other.
“So what do we do?” Stieg eventually asked. “What do we do?”
“I don’t know, but there’s gotta be something.”
He faced Erin. “I’ll call to Odin.”
“For what?”
“He can help.”
“He had his chance to help. Over and over. And you know what? He didn’t do shit! Why would that change now?”
“Call to Skuld then.” Before Erin could disagree, Stieg added, “Why don’t we call for both?”
“Now you’re just talking crazy.”
“Then what do we do?”
Erin paced away, stopped, faced him. “We go back.”
“What?”
“We’ve still got the Key. We open the doorway here, using the spell and runes that Inka showed me and we go back to our Clans. And we fight by their side. We die by their side.”
Stieg stopped and gazed at her before adding, “With honor.”
“With honor.”
They moved toward each other, meeting in the middle again. Right arms bent at the elbow, they clasped hands, committing to their decision.
It was the most profound moment Stieg had had until he heard Báraldur behind him sigh and mutter to his wife, “Good gods . . . Vikings.”
Still clasping Stieg’s hand, Erin looked at their hosts. “What does that mean?”
“You Vikings,” Arnóra explained. “It’s like you think you only have two options. Follow original plan or die in battle.”
“There’s another option?”
“Yeah.”
Erin pulled away from Stieg and faced Arnóra. “And you’re just telling us this now?”
“I didn’t have a chance before! You started cursing and stormed off to offer death as an option to your minigiant there.”
Erin took several steps toward Arnóra, but Stieg yanked her back. “We really don’t have time for you to flip out here,” he reminded Erin before focusing on Arnóra and Báraldur. “What can you do for us?”
“Not us. Torfinna. She runs the docks.”
“Wait. A boat can take us to Nidhogg?” Erin asked.
“Close enough.”
“And you’re just telling us this?”
“Again,” Arnóra yelled back, “you ranted and walked away! You didn’t give me time to tell you anything!”
CHAPTER FORTY
Arnóra and Báraldur led Erin and Stieg through the town of Jórunn. It was clear they were inside a moun
tain, but it didn’t feel like the walls were closing in or they were horribly trapped. Everything was so wide and expansive that Stieg felt comfortable. You know . . . except for the way everyone stared at them. And followed. While armed.
Every male and female dwarf carried a weapon. Nice ones, too. Deadly ones.
It was strange, though. The tallest barely reached Erin’s shoulders, but Stieg had no delusions that those who followed him and Erin were anything less than mighty warriors. They could use the weapons they made as well as any Viking.
Understanding this, he did nothing to unsettle the dwarves. He simply followed Arnóra and Báraldur and kept his gaze forward.
He wished he could say the same for Erin.
Because she just stopped right in the middle of the street, turned at the waist, and screamed out, “Hah!” with her hands thrown up. Like “jazz hands.”
And she did it for absolutely no reason that Stieg could see!
The dwarves behind them stepped back, not to move away so much as to ready themselves for battle. Weapons raised, bodies tense.
Snarling, Stieg snapped at Erin, “What is wrong with you?”
She couldn’t answer him, she was laughing too hard. So hard she had to lean against him to stay on her feet. One hand covering her mouth. Eventually tears flowed.
Slowly, the dwarves lowered their weapons and one She-dwarf in a chain mail dress leaned in, placing a soft hand on his forearm. “Poor, lass. She gone mad then?”
Stieg took a few seconds before answering. He wished he could say that what they were witnessing was days of stress coming out in human hysteria . . . but that would be a lie. Erin Amsel was Erin Amsel. There was no madness in her, just insanity, which might sound like the same thing, but to him it wasn’t.
“I’m sorry,” he lied. “She’s been under a lot of stress.”
“Poor wee thing. She does look half-starved. Don’t ya feed her, boy?”
“She’s actually well-fed. Where we come from, she’s considered curvy.”
“Ohhhh,” the dwarves said in unison, and the She-dwarf in the chainmail dress patted his shoulder. As if to say, “Good lad. Make her feel better.”
Stieg was feeling pretty good about himself until he realized that Erin was no longer laughing. She was just standing there . . . staring at him.
“What?”
“Curvy? Did you just call me curvy?”
“Yeah. I like curvy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m sensing by your cold-blooded stare and lack of words . . . I’ve done something wrong.”
* * *
Erin passed small houses and big dogs and a lot of forges.
Good Lord, how many carcinogens were released into the atmosphere from so many forges inside a cave?
“You’re not talking to me,” Stieg wisely noted.
“Nothing to say.”
“Really? Because I feel like you want to say something.”
“Nope.”
“This is the curvy thing, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
Arnóra and Báraldur stopped in front of a small house with the door open and the two gestured with their hands. Erin walked in, ducking to clear the doorway.
An old She-dwarf sat in a stuffed chair with her leg up on an ottoman and a pipe in her mouth. She glanced up and smiled around the pipe stem, gazing at Erin the same way Betty had when Erin had first met her.
“It’s the Crow,” the She-dwarf said, laughing a little.
“Have we met?” Erin asked, because the dwarf acted as if they had.
“Nah. Sit.”
Erin grabbed a sturdy wood chair, but the She-dwarf suddenly said, “Don’t try to put your big fat ass in that. Sit on the floor.”
Shocked, Erin’s back straightened and the old bitch burst out laughing.
“Just kidding, Crow.” She motioned to the stone walls of her house. “Sound travels ’round here. Even I know what curvy translates to where you come from. So sit your fat ass down. It’ll be fine. Nice thick chairs, they could even handle one of my big ol’ hogs.”
Erin sat down and resisted the urge to strangle the old bitch.
“You, too, Viking,” the She-dwarf yelled out the doorway.
Stieg had to bend at the waist to get into the house and he did end up sitting on the floor. It was the only way he fit in the place among all the books, the altar, and the three pigs. Big ones, too. At least two hundred pounds each.
The sight made Erin crave bacon.
“Name’s Torfinna.”
“Can you help us get to Corpse Shore?” Erin asked.
“For what?”
“Torfinna,” Arnóra said from the doorway. “Just help ’em. For me and Báraldur.”
The old She-dwarf puffed on her pipe. “If you want to get to Corpse Shore, Crow, then start walkin’.”
“We need to get there faster than that.”
She banged her pipe on the table beside her to clear it, then packed it with more tobacco. “Why? Because you think you and that sword can save your friends?”
Erin locked her gaze on the She-dwarf. “How do you know any of that?”
“Dock life. You learn things.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“And you better watch your tone.”
“How about,” Stieg cut in, “we all discuss this calmly. Especially,” he said close to Erin’s ear, “since we are seriously outnumbered.”
Erin briefly closed her eyes. Took a moment to get control. “Okay,” she finally said, feeling much calmer. “So, Torfinna, what can you tell us about the sword?”
“The sword might be able to do the job ya need. But you, fatty, wielding it, can’t.”
“See what you started?” Erin snarled at Stieg.
“I said curvy!”
“In LA, it’s the same goddamn thing.”
“We’re not in LA!”
“It’s about power, ya see,” Torfinna went on, ignoring Erin and Stieg. “And you, Crow, ain’t got enough for it.”
Erin looked at Stieg. “We’re gonna need to get that fire giant, aren’t we?”
“No. You combine that sword with Surtr and you will get Ragnarok.” Torfinna put the pipe in her mouth and lit it. Took a long drag, held it, then released it right into Erin’s face.
Erin gritted her teeth, but managed not to beat the old dwarf to death. She had to admit . . . her restraint made her proud.
“But you do need extra power,” the She-dwarf continued.
“Then I’ll get some. But first I need you to get us there.”
Relaxing back into her chair, Torfinna asked, “What have you got for me?”
“Got for you?”
“We’re dwarves, Crow. We bargain. What have you got to bargain with?”
Erin pulled one of the Vig-made blades from her holster and held it up.
Torfinna leaned in, studied it. “Nice work, but I have me own forge.”
“Of course you do.”
“Like the hand.”
“I need the hand.”
“A Carrion hand? What ya need that for?”
“To get home, so I can be unhelpful and fat apparently.” Stieg rammed his fist against the ground. “I said curvy!”
* * *
Desperate to end this—he could handle one Erin but not two, and he had two right now—Stieg asked, “What kind of things are you looking for, Torfinna?”
Please don’t say souls. Please don’t say souls.
“What about that thing around her neck?”
“Thing around her—”
Stieg remembered what the dark elves had given him and Erin to get through Svartalfheim.
“The necklace,” he prompted when Erin appeared confused by the request.
“Oh, yeah.” Erin pulled the chain over her head and held it up in front of Torfinna.
The old She-dwarf squinted, closing one eye.
“Yeah. All right.” She snatched the necklace from Erin’s hand.
�
��Come on then.” Torfinna tried to get up out of her chair but . . . yeah.
Stieg stood, slammed his head, ignored both females laughing at him, bent down, and grabbed Torfinna’s hands, helping her up.
“Thanks, Raven,” she said, still laughing. She walked past him and out of her house.
By the time he and Erin followed Torfinna back outside, only Arnóra and Báraldur remained.
Stieg faced the pair who’d helped them. “Thank you both.”
“You’re welcome, Raven,” Arnóra replied, grasping Stieg’s forearm with her hand as he grabbed hers. “And good luck to you.”
Báraldur reared back a bit when Erin held her arm out, like he was afraid she would stab him or something. When he realized that wasn’t it at all, he took hold of her forearm and smiled. “Good luck to you, Crow.”
Stieg and Erin followed after Torfinna, but he glanced back and noticed the pair were just standing there, watching them go, and appearing really . . . sad, which made what they had to do next seem kind of terrifying.
* * *
“Why does everyone in the Nine Worlds seem to hate the Crows?” Erin asked Torfinna.
Stieg threw up his hands and mouthed What the fuck?
“What?” Erin asked out loud. “It’s not like we don’t have time to get that question answered, considering how slow she’s moving.”
The dwarf stopped and faced Erin.
“What?” Erin asked again. “It’s true. But you’re old, so . . . you know.”
“They don’t tell you new Crows, do they?” Torfinna asked. Suddenly, Erin knew the old dwarf couldn’t care less about the insults, which was kind of annoying since she was trying to get back at the old woman for constantly calling her fatty. “Tell us what?”
Torfinna started off again, but as she walked, she talked. “The first Crows were all slaves. Very angry slaves. Skuld only picked from the angry. Back then, they could travel to whatever world they wanted to. The Nine Worlds were open to all. But the Crows didn’t just go to explore the new worlds open to them. They went in to steal and to slaughter”—she glanced at Erin over her shoulder—“everyone. They considered it practice. Training, I guess you’d say. They stole weapons from us. Pets from the giants that they turned into pit fighters. But the elves . . . they had special use for the elves—dark and light.
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