Thor laughed. “You ever see Odin dressed up as a one-eyed Santa Claus, little one?”
Freyr clapped Thor on the shoulder. “Everyone’s here.”
They walked together toward the Yggdrasil. Sally felt self-conscious walking between living gods—especially Thor, who dwarfed her by a full foot. Freyr again offered her his arm, then cleared his throat and made a face at Thor. The big god obligingly offered her his arm as well. Tentatively, Sally rested her hand inside Thor’s elbow.
Despite his efforts of friendliness, Thor made her especially nervous. She couldn’t be sure when his innate, blustering nature would take over. She’d already seen him erupt in a fury over a few bent nails and unleash a storm of cursing at an unsuspecting delivery driver when the pizza Thor ordered arrived without extra anchovies.
She looked up anxiously at Thor as they walked, and he flashed her a genuine smile. On her other side, Freyr tightened his reassuring grip on her arm. Even on such a solemn occasion, Sally breathed more easily and felt her footsteps lighten. Six weeks ago, had she ever thought she’d have such divine escorts?
Sally inhaled the sweet fragrance of Frigga’s herbed incense as they approached the Tree. Dressed in blue jeans and with ceremonial furs draped over their shoulders, the assembled clan—including the Norns, down from Seattle—formed an oval at the base of the Yggdrasil. They surrounded a stone altar decorated with fall flowers and red and gold leaves. Atop the altar sat a ceramic bowl of smoking incense and a stone urn.
Bragi’s ashes.
Sally stopped short. Thor and Freyr stepped away from her to pull on their own furs and take their places with their kin. The surrounding circle of survivors—Vikings, Valkyries, and Berserkers who had lived through the infamous bulldozer battle on this same ground—parted to let Thor and Freyr through. Sally offered a polite nod to Rod as he stepped up to stand beside her.
Once the dust settled, the survivors had a hell of a story for the authorities, media outlets, and worried family and friends. Minutes before police helicopters zoomed overhead and a National Guard battalion arrived on the scene, Heimdall concocted a tale they’d all stuck to—that a peaceful, though unsanctioned and illegal, Portland State pep rally and camp-out in the Pierce National Forest had turned violent when a madman fogged the site with a hallucinogenic mist that incited mindless brutality.
Then Heimdall convinced his fellow forest rangers that this lunatic was an environmental extremist so opposed to human presence in nature that he bulldozed the entire stand of White Oaks in protest. Anyone who pried for more details was met with speculation that the destructive maniac had fancied himself the Moon Dog of old Norse legend, and maybe he’d drugged all those kids to start some kind of survivalist, moon-worshipping cult.
As for the Vikings walking off the football field in the middle of play, Tariq had raved to every media outlet that would listen about how proud he was of the PSU students who had staged such a brilliant protest of global warming and artificial turf.
None of the rangers pressed Heimdall about who had driven all the bulldozers to the site, nor how a single White Oak had grown so quickly to such a massive size. And Heimdall had quietly pushed through the paperwork for Odin and Frigga to purchase the ravaged land, with the vanquished Berserker Rita fronting the money in an effort to make amends.
Sally gazed up at the World Tree’s thick limbs. Had it truly been Ragnarok? She’d heard the heated debates around Frigga’s hearth while she recuperated at the Lodge, but there hadn’t been a consensus. Thor, his appetite for war whetted after centuries of trying to live more placidly, remained convinced that another, larger battle was on the horizon. Freya argued for peace. The Norns were a nuisance and of little help.
Sally watched the three fortune-telling sisters as they clustered together on the opposite side of the circle. She wondered what they’d seen of her in their visions, and what they might be able to tell her about her role as the legendary Rune Witch. She scanned the faces of the others—gods and mortals alike, though Loki was conspicuously absent—and still worried what they must think of her after everything that happened.
Frigga stepped to the altar and lifted the stone urn in her hands.
“We do not have a defined ritual for moments like this,” she announced. “Ever since Iduna first brought her apples of immortality to Odin’s court, we have seldom lost one of our own. Now my son, Bragi, rests in the Halls of Valhalla, alongside the brave warriors who fell in the Battle of the White Oak.” Frigga’s voice broke, and she clutched her son’s urn to her chest.
“Each of us marks this passing in our own way,” she continued. “We have regaled each other with stories of his bravery, and laughed over tales of his clumsiness. And we have wept.”
Frigga shifted the heavy urn in her hands. “Our kinsman was not the only one to fall. In honoring Bragi—our son, brother, cousin, and friend—we pay tribute to all those whose blood is forever bound to this earth. The Battle of the White Oak will be remembered for a hundred generations to come.”
In a hip-to-toe leg cast, Ted balanced on crutches between Tariq and Bonnie. He lowered his head in memory of the Valkyries who didn’t make it off the battlefield. Thor walked over to Ted and shook his hand, then bent his head to whisper words of comfort to the grieving warrior.
“Bragi was the Bard of the Gods.” Frigga turned her face to the afternoon sun. “His poems and songs live on over celebratory meals and bonfires, just as his memory will live in our hearts.”
Frigga lifted the urn over her head. “Bragi!”
“Bragi!” The assembly shouted back.
Sally glanced across the circle at Heimdall, who stood next to a still bewildered-looking Maggie. Sally gave them a little wave.
Freya carried a ritual battle axe toward the Yggdrasil. Frigga fell into step beside her, and they stopped a few feet from the massive trunk.
Frigga held the urn out toward the Tree. “The ashes of one who spilled his blood for your protection. Accept them, in honor of his sacrifice.”
Freya raised her axe and struck the Tree, hacking deep into its bark. After several more strikes, she’d carved a sizable alcove into the trunk. She stepped aside as Frigga moved forward to place the urn inside the fresh cleft, her fingers lingering on the vessel before she closed her eyes and drew away.
Within seconds, new bark grew over the wound, sealing Bragi’s remains inside the Yggdrasil.
“Sally Dahl,” Frigga called out.
Sally stepped forward. She hadn’t expected to be a participant in the ceremony. Even after the warmth and respect Frigga and the others had shown her since the battle, she still worried that she might be in for a serious rebuke—Rune Witch or not.
“Sally Dahl, in recognition of your service in helping to bring down the Moon Dog and to safeguard the White Oak Yggdrasil and in honor of your considerable power and position as the Rune Witch,” Frigga paused to hold out a deerskin pouch, “we present you with the Yggdrasil Runes.”
Frigga placed the pouch in Sally’s trembling palms, then laid her own hands over Sally’s fingers and gave a gentle squeeze.
Her breath coming in excited spasms, Sally loosened the drawstring and gazed down at the rounds of wood that shifted inside the bag. She could feel the sting of tears in her eyes as she looked up at Frigga.
“The Moon Dog’s runes have been destroyed. They were an abomination, made of stolen wood and blood. These runes have been crafted for you, with honor and purpose. The Yggdrasil volunteered this wood to Heimdall, and Freya carved the glyphs.”
“Thank you.” Sally’s throat tightened as she looked around the gathered assembly. She was a little afraid she might pass out. "I’ll still need your help, trying to figure all of this out. How to do it right, I mean.”
Freya grasped Sally by the shoulders. “You are the Rune Witch, bringing life to a new tradition. We will entrust you with our Old Ways, in hopes that you will carry them into this new world.”
Sally clutched the runes to
her chest.
Frigga sniffed hard and then pushed a smile onto her face. “All right. Who wants roasted lamb and mead?”
A cheer arose from the assembled mourners, and both gods and mortals headed back to their vehicles for the drive to Odin’s Lodge on Mt. Hood. Heimdall walked hand-in-hand with Maggie, and Sally hurried forward to catch up to them.
“Heimdall?”
The guardian of the gods turned toward her with a slightly exasperated smile. Sally nodded toward Maggie. “We haven’t been formally introduced.”
Heimdall’s cheeks flushed pink, which Sally didn't completely understand. “Maggie, this is Sally Dahl. The Rune Witch.”
Sally reached out to grasp Maggie’s hand.
“And this is Maggie Bendreg,” Heimdall continued. “My, umm, my—”
“Girlfriend.” Maggie elbowed Heimdall in the ribs.
“Well, don’t you two look cozy?” Saga said as she walked up to her brother and draped an arm over Maggie’s shoulders. Thor strode by with an amused grunt.
“I’ve, umm, heard a lot about you,” Maggie told Sally.
“Yeah?” Sally looked hopefully at Heimdall, who conveniently glanced away at the frame of the new Lodge building.
“I’ve heard a lot about, well, pretty much everything lately . . .” Maggie’s voice trailed off. Sally smiled at her in sympathy.
“Hanging out with Viking gods isn’t so bad.” Rod stepped up next to Sally. “Once you get used to the smell.”
Heimdall shot the handyman a hard look, then his expression softened and he chuckled. “I guess so.”
“Sally, will you ride with us to the Lodge?” Maggie asked.
“Sure!” Sally nodded enthusiastically. She walked with Heimdall and Maggie as they headed for the cars, with Saga and Rod trailing close behind.
“Now that we’ve narrowly averted a cosmic apocalypse and saved the world, have you given any thought to where you want to go on that vacation my brother promised you?” Saga called to Maggie.
Heimdall sighed. “Apparently, we’re going to Norway.”
“Excellent choice.” Saga poked her brother in the ribs. “Take Sally, too. The Rune Witch needs to see.”
Sally kept her head down and her pace steady, biting her lip against a new rush of tingling excitement. She glanced back at the Yggdrasil for a moment, then kept walking.
Wait!
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PREVIEW: Elements of Magic
Rune Witch, Volume 2
Loki stared at the note, reading it again for what felt like the hundredth time:
We have awakened. As your kin, we require your assistance. The control of Midgard hangs in the balance. For the love of Niflheim, alert no others to this communication.
Loki’s hands shook. He looked again at the bottom of the hand-written text, printed in neat calligraphy. The note was signed simply, “An Olde Friend.” Not a threat. Not a ransom note. The stylized block lettering could have been rendered by any of several dozen “olde friends.”
In the shaky aftermath of the Battle of the White Oak and Managarm’s failed attempt to take possession of the Yggdrasil—plus Bragi’s death in battle, and Fenrir’s escape into the wild—Loki wasn’t entirely sure whom he could count among his friends anymore.
But other than Odin and his clan at the Lodge, what other kin did Loki have in North America? Had other gods arrived in the New World?
Loki sighed and leaned against the railing of the 11:43 p.m. ferry to Staten Island. He stared at Lady Liberty, illuminated against the darkness as wind churned the dark water of the New York Bay and whipped through his black-and-gray mane.
Dangerous to cross water at night, even if these modern humans thought they’d worked out the kinks in navigation with their computers. To be on the safe side, Loki steered clear of the bridge, the engine room, and any other part of the vessel that might be important to the ferry not sinking or running aground.
The random release of his chaotic magick was more problematic than ever. There had been a temporary stabilization after the defeat of Managarm the previous October. The others had even felt their power surge again, but it proved fleeting. Now Loki’s accidental entropy was increasingly uncontrollable and destructive.
He’d abandoned his secluded mountain cottage in Joseph, Oregon, when he realized the freak—but frequent—rock falls that endangered his neighbors, blocked roads, and brought down power lines all coincided with the nagging new pain in his left knee.
He’d journeyed up the road to Pendleton, where residents were both delighted and terrified by the electrical storm that struck overnight when Loki had a fit of insomnia in the Motel 6 just outside of town. There were no injuries, though a lightning strike destroyed an elderly farmer’s garden shed—rumored to be a hothouse for non-medicinal hallucinogenic plants—and St. Bartholomew’s Lutheran Church nearly burned to the ground when its steeple was hit.
Loki fared no better in Portland. He’d been banned from the Lodge after Odin’s brand new, tricked-out super grill iced over in the middle of a family barbecue—exactly six-and-a-half minutes after Loki stepped onto the property.
And the previous week, he’d tagged along with Thor to Home Depot to pick up a cordless drill and a table saw, but they never made it inside the store. As soon as they pulled into the parking lot, the building’s sliding glass doors sealed shut, trapping customers, salespeople, and twenty-three senior ladies attending a gardening workshop.
Loki hitchhiked cross-country to get to New York City for this midnight meeting, catching rides with amiable truckers and partying college students starting their summer break. Flying had always been out of the question but even Loki’s standby, Amtrak, was no longer an option after three trains in a row lost electricity, communications, and pretty much all mechanical ability within minutes of his stepping aboard.
Now he was getting migraine headaches, sometimes two or three in a week. His hair was going gray, fast. Some mornings the ache in his bones was so deep it was a wonder he was able to pull himself out of bed.
Loki was almost grateful for the mysterious summons. The short note got him away from Oregon and the widening swath of destruction he invariably left behind. This “olde friend” had drawn Loki’s attention away from the fact that he was in the midst of full-on deterioration.
The ferry slowed as it approached the Staten Island platform. Loki folded the note along deeply worn creases and slipped it into the pocket of his leather jacket. Steadying himself, he climbed over the railing and leapt down to the worn concrete dock. No sense taking the chance that his presence might interfere with the ferry’s docking procedures.
He started toward the monument.
“Ridiculous bloody nuisance,” Loki cursed as the toe of his heavy boot caught a crack in the pavement and nearly pitched him onto his face. He regained his footing, angrily tucked his long hair behind his ear, and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He wasn’t sure what day it was—still late May, or June?—but even in early summer, he couldn’t shake the chill in his bones.
“The Staten Island Memorial. Sure,” Loki muttered. A giant pair of stone, wing-like postcards loomed ahead, curving upward as if to take flight.
“Midnight at the next freaking New Moon.” He spat on the pavement and pounded forward, making good time. Whoever he might find waiting for him, Loki would be sure to give them a good talking to about the unnecessary air of melodrama and intrigue.
Loki came to a halt several hundred feet in front of the illuminated memor
ial. Plenty of lights were on and security cameras were running, but the area was deserted of tourists and mourners. He was early. His eyes flickered over the carved silhouettes of the September 11 victims as he weighed his options.
He could circle the perimeter and get a feel for the terrain before the appointed meeting. He could hike to higher ground and wait for his mysterious friend to arrive.
Or Loki could cool his heels. He had come this far. This anonymous compatriot would have to come to him.
Loki craned his neck upward to get a look at the night sky—one of the last pleasures left to Old Ones like himself who yearned for some connection to a wilder, more heroic age. Within seconds, he felt dizzy. His vision began to tunnel and darken.
Loki bent forward and rested his hands on his knees. He breathed in slowly and deliberately through his mouth, waiting out the golden stars that streaked past his head as his vision cleared.
Heavy footsteps approached and stopped within a few feet of him, but Loki couldn’t look up just yet. He raised a hand toward the owner of the massive boots planted within his sight. “Just give me a minute.”
A strong hand dug painfully into his shoulder and yanked him upward. “You are late.”
Blinking back nausea, Loki found himself face-to-chest with an imposing and unrelentingly solid man clad in dark wool.
“Actually, I believe I’m on time.” Loki’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. If not for the strong hand gripping his jacket, he wasn’t sure he would be able to stand on his own. “Early even.”
Slowly—so as not to induce a sudden fit of vomiting all over the snug black sweater worn by this mountain of a man who might or might not be a friend—Loki trailed his gaze upward, over the massive chest and the broad shoulders, past the thick neck and the hard, stubbly jaw. He blinked and missed the full, slightly snarled lips and the prominent nose, but he opened his eyes again in time to meet the hard, ice-blue stare of someone he’d not seen, literally, in centuries.
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