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 ornitophobia, 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, more or less, 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 with 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, true to its word, 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.”
Sigmund felt his lip curl, distaste churning in his gut for a pair of assholes he’d never met.
(“this is the true face of Ásgarðr, boy”)
“I have to go after them.”
“Run through the þursar-infested forest? Yeah. Good luck, kid.”
“I’m not worried about the þursar.” Which was true. Sigmund wasn’t worried, mostly because Sigyn wasn’t. She’d never been afraid of the jötnar. Not the one in her bed nor the ones she’d birthed nor those who’d embraced her and called her family. It was the æsir Sigyn distrusted, not the things with feathers and horns they murdered and called monster.
“You might not be worried about them,” Munin said, “but you’ll be worried about the einherjar on the Wall. It’s guarded. You won’t get through without them noticing. And they won’t let you out. Make no mistake, kid. Nanna’s a sweet girl, but she ain’t in charge here. And you’re not a free man, if you get my meaning.”
And, quite belatedly, it occurred to Sigmund what he was. Not a guest, but a hostage. To use against Hel, should she try to make move against Forseti.
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“It sucks, kid, it’s true.”
“I’m not . . . I’m not good at this stuff.”
“Yeah, I figured. Hence you got me.” Munin hopped backward, away from the camera and onto the table. There, it paced, back and forth in its awkward, swaggering way. “Look. You’re a straight guy—pardon my pun—”
“Fuck off.”
“—and there ain’t no point lying to you anyway. So I’ll give you this one for free: The boss? Whoever he was, he broke the old oaths, and I owe him for it. This is payback. You got one favor, kid. Make it count.”
Sigmund huffed, running one hand underneath his glas
ses, pressing against his eyelids until pixelated, two-bit fractals exploded black and red within the darkness.
(one favor . . . right.)
One thing a bird could do. Sigmund needed to get out of Ásgarðr, to follow Lain without being followed himself. And what did he have to do it, exactly? Himself? One asshole raven?
A whole army of undead, plus their queen.
Plus his friends.
Sigmund opened his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s what I need you to do.” And he gave Munin an idea.
When he was done, the bird cocked its head. “That all? Remember, this is all you get.”
“It’s all.” Em and Wayne would figure out the rest. Sigmund hoped.
“Eh. You’re the boss, Boss.” Munin opened its wings, flapping and launching itself toward the window.
It didn’t leave, though, instead alighting on the sill and asking, “Hey, kid? One last question.”
“Yeah?”
“A little brings solace, and too much destroys. I warm hearts and crumble empires. Men use me to illuminate, and to conceal. What am I?”
Sigmund blinked. Riddles? Well, he supposed it was fitting, so . . . “A lie,” he said. That was easy.
Except Munin cawed something that might’ve been a surprised laugh. “Fire,” it said. “But I guess your answer works, too. My advice? Before you go, check the stables. There’s something there you need to see.”
Then, in a burst of fluttering black, it was gone.
Sigmund stared at nothing for a while, caught between an inferno and a glacier, trying not to think and not to feel, lest he end up doing too much of either.
Lain was in trouble, that much seemed pretty obvious. What else could Sigmund do but ride
(walk)
valiantly to the rescue? He’d done it before, under the harsh white fluorescents next to the elevators in the—
(“no, do not dwell. not now. simply do”)
Slowly, Sigmund exhaled.
Then he collected his phone and his wallet and his keys, tucked them into the pouch on his new belt, folded his old clothes, and waited for a sign.
Munin, meanwhile, was true to its word.
Hel’s army was a bloated mass in black and bone, squatting like a pustule just outside Ásgarðr’s gates. The land around was blighted by its presence, rotted and twisted from the same oozing corruption that had seen Odin banish Hel in the first place.
Loki had never really gotten over that, the sentimental son of a wildfire. But what else was Ol’ One Eye supposed to do? Let beasts run amok in Ásgarðr? Devouring livestock and blighting the fields? All because his pet catamite couldn’t keep his fucking legs fucking closed?
Bah. Jötnar. Go figure.
Munin circled lower, close enough to hear the shouts of the náir down below, the ones who’d noticed its approach. It wasn’t after the dead, though, instead scouring across the army until it found a shock of pink amid the gray.
The boy goddess’s friends, the Shaker and the Screamer. Munin remembered them from the old days, valkyrja girls. Kin, in a birds-of-a-feather sort of way, but that didn’t mean they’d ever had much time for Odin’s thoughts and mind.
Munin was hoping the old truces held, at least a little, as he landed on edge of a dark-wooded carriage.
“Knock knock.”
The girls looked up, blinking and startled, glancing around to try to figure out who was speaking.
“Me,” Munin said. “The bird. Remember me?”
“You!” The Screamer caught on first. Em, Munin thought she called herself now. Whatever the name, she didn’t seem too pleased by Munin’s arrival.
“Is that—?” The Shaker, Wayne, dressed in eye-blinding pink from head to toe.
“Munin,” Em said, scowling. Her eyes flicked down to Munin’s neck. “And Sigmund’s key chain. Talk, bird. Or I get one of the Helbeasts to eat you.”
“Calm down, girl. Your friend and I did a trade. I told him something he wanted to know, he gave me this.”
“Really?” She didn’t sound convinced. Munin didn’t really care.
“Whatever. Look, I told the kid I’d do him a favor. For keeping me amused. This is that.”
The girls exchanged glances. “We’re listening,” Em said.
“Kid’s kind of in a bit of a bind in Ásgarðr right now, see? He’s being looked after, don’t you worry about that. But he needs to get out. Tonight. And Forseti’s gang? They ain’t gonna let him without a fight.”
Wayne caught on straight away. “What does he need us to do?” They were loyal, Munin would give them that. Ravens always were, so long as the carrion was fresh and the secrets were shiny.
“A distraction,” Munin said.
“What kind of distraction?”
“Kid didn’t say. I guess he figured you’d work it out. Y’know. Given the enormous fuckin’ army of dead guys at your back.”
“We’re not—” Wayne started, but Em cut her off.
“Yeah. Yeah, we got it. Thanks for the message. Now fuck off.”
“Charming.” But Munin was airborne, if only to stay away from Em’s shooing arms.
As it rose above the girls, Munin heard Wayne say, “Em, what . . . we can’t, y’know . . .”
“I know,” Em replied. “We’re not going to. But don’t worry. I’ve got a better idea.”
If Munin had lips, it would’ve grinned. Because that’d been the problem, hadn’t it? Ever since the boss’d . . . whatever the boss had done, things in Ásgarðr had been kinda, well. Boring.
Just Forseti, puffed up and preening on the throne, and Nanna, playing regent and proclaiming her husband’s not-dead-ness to anyone pitying enough to listen.
Not very exciting, either way.
But this? Hel’s army and Loki’s wife? Whatever this was, it was gonna be great.
And Munin, with a bird’s-eye view of the whole fucking meltdown.
Down below, weathered, ash-gray faces turned up to stare as a raven wheeled overhead, cawing its pleasure into the sky.
And so, slowly, war began to brew at Ásgarðr’s door.
Chapter 12
Safe to say, by the time I’m chased out of Þrúðr’s chambers, I’m not the happiest fucking camper in the mountain.
Fucking æsir. Fucking holier-than-thou, hypocritical sacks of—
Was Þrúðr right? About Nic? Because, fuck. Nic. Nic is great. She is LB, literally, but Travis is the face of the company and . . . and maybe it shouldn’t be like that? I mean, this is the twenty-first fuckin’ century right? Nic can do the bread and circuses stuff just as well as I can. She deserves to do it and—
And, fuck. This really isn’t the time to be thinking about succession plans. Not those ones, anyway.
While Þrúðr is cloistered in her room, bawling her eyes out over a bullshit “choice” she shouldn’t ever have had to make, her brothers are in with Brokkr, negotiating her price. Hers and mine, truth be told, because the oath-breaking sonsofbitches (sorry not sorry, Sif) do intend to leave me here as dowry.
Uni, Þrúðr’s husband-to-be, at least seems to not be an awful piece of shit, which is something he’s got that his father doesn’t. Even still, Þrúðr doesn’t deserve to be sold to anyone, let alone a dvergar, and yours truly deserves it even less.
Fortunately, yours truly has a plan. Of course he does, right?
Because Uni is a nice guy, but he’s not the only one sitting at the table. Brokkr is the elder brother, but he’s not the master smith. That honor goes to Eitri. Brokkr is the sales team, and he’s good and he’s smooth, but he’s nothing without his brother. And this is where the family politics gets fun, because Uni, the poor bastard, has a cousin.
And Uni’s set to get the girl and inherit the empire, but his cousin? His cousin is ambitious, not to mention has his father’s talent at the forge.
I’m sure everyone can see where this is going.
Where I’m going is to visit my new BFF, Tóki.
Tóki has been e
xcluded from the negotiations going on in the great hall, for which I’m sure he bristles with resentment. I was watching him at dinner, while Magni and Móði were busy courting Brokkr and Uni was trying to comfort Þrúðr. Tóki is bigger than his cousin, and has the hard and stony skin of a dvergr smith. This is sort of the dvergr equivalent of a tan, and obtained in the same way. Except where humans get melanomas, the dvergar turn to stone. Literal, solid stone. Still breathing and conscious, but unable to move, thanks to their hardened skin. I think it can be reversed, but in the same way fifth-degree burns can be “reversed.” Most dvergar who get into that state don’t make it and end up as particularly unattractive garden ornaments.
And then there are the dvergar smiths, who wrap themselves in light, gauzy cloth and spend one day every month or so baking themselves just hard enough to handle molten-hot iron with bare hands, but, they hope, not hard enough that they can no longer eat, breathe, move, and/or speak.
They hope.
Tóki is a terrifying thing. Or would be, if he weren’t four feet tall. He’s broad, though, with a skin that glistens like sharp-edged obsidian. His “suntan” takes the bioluminescence away, too, and to a dvergr, that’s almost like being mute.
Smiths are important to the dvergar. They make wonders and bring trade with the outside world. But damned if they aren’t as feared as they are necessary.
Tóki lives in chambers adjacent to the family forge. Posh things, for the dvergar, but everything down beneath the mountain is heavy and hard-edged. Geometric and sharp, traced in gold and brass and granite. Glass, too, a rare substance in Ásgarðr; here it’s all over the damn place. Including in one of the walls in Toki’s chambers. The front of a huge aquarium of black and inky water, lit by flashes from the sort of horrific cave fish I don’t want to spend too much time observing.
I observe the room’s other occupant instead.
“You should not have come here, jötunn. You are not welcome.”
Tóki stares at me from across the far side of the chamber. He’s wearing a leather apron and pants and not much else, his regard as dark and heavy as a black hole.
“Tssch.” I find myself a large stone bench and perch atop it, signaling my disinclination to leave. “People say that to me a lot. But they rarely follow through.”
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