Stormbringer

by Alis Franklin

  Em kept telling her to relax, but Em’s hands were shaking, too, even as her fingers flew over the screen of her tablet. Typing plots and themes and narrative. Wayne tried a few sketches, which ended mostly in erasings and nearly snapped her pencil in half in relief when she heard someone approach, clear their throat, and say in heavily accented English, “I heard there was a gig on?”

  Five guys, death-gray faces hidden beneath heavy black-and-white greasepaint. They were all carrying cases of various kinds, and were dressed in a lot of black leather and spikes.

  Six years ago, the tour bus of the Norwegian black metal band Sulphur Dawn had taken a wrong turn off a mountain road, earning everyone on board—the entire band, their road crew, and all their gear—a brief and exciting tour of a cliff face, then a one-way ticket to Hel’s dark realm.

  Strange grave goods, Hel had said. In this case, it meant electric guitars and drum kits and amplifiers that worked, even without a power socket to plug them into.

  There were more out there, Wayne was sure of it. But Sulphur Dawn had turned up first, and they had all the kit.

  Which is why Em looked up from her tablet, grinned, and asked, “Do you guys take requests?”

  Far above, Munin drifted in wide, lazy circles, watching the activity down below.

  The dead had cleared an area just outside the gates of Ásgarðr, wide and square, and were setting up equipment. Big black boxes Munin realized were speakers, plus a drum kit, and a bunch of guys walking around with guitars.

  So Hel was hosting a rock concert? Not what Munin had been expecting, but he had to give the fat valkyrja points for imagination.

  It was definitely her idea, too; she was the one giving the directions, telling people where to set up and where to face, and where to build the huge bonfires to ensure the band would be visible from the Wall.

  The band was definitely visible from the Wall. Munin, who’d circled over Woodstock and Super Bowl halftime shows alike, knew what it was looking at. The old einherjar on guard duty didn’t. Munin watched them point and confer among themselves, then eventually send for what turned out to be a guy in modern-looking combat fatigues. He was carrying an assault rifle, so Munin didn’t dare get too close, but from the gestures, it looked like he was explaining the score to the old timers.

  And then, from the stage, came the unmistakable squeal of a microphone, amps turned up to 11. Then the fat valkyrja’s voice, living up to her name as her words echoed out across the Realm.

  And what she said was:

  “Goo-oo-oo-oo-ood eveni-ii-ii-ing Helheimr! Hey, this is not a test. This is rock and roll. Time to rock it, from Ásgarðr to Ginnungagap. Is that me, or does that sound like a Norwegian death-metal band?

  “Vituð ér enn eða hvat? Vituð ér enn eða hvat? Why don’t you ask Hel what she thinks about that? Hey, is it a little too late for being that loud? Hey, too late. Speaking of late, so’s our band, Sulphur Dawn. Straight off a mountain and into your ears. They were late, now they’re back and so. Are. We!”

  And then, with a flourish and a bow, the guitars went:

  Dun! Dun-na nun! Dun-na nun! Ne-na-na nuh-nu-nah-nu.

  And the show was on.

  Sigmund was eating dinner when the news came in, delivered by a breathless guy in chain mail who blurted out something in Old Norse faster than Sigmund could think to listen to it.

  Whatever it’d been, it had Forseti on his feet, followed by all the men and half the women. Even Nanna, seated to Sigmund’s right, looked concerned.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Hel’s army,” Nanna said, scowling at staring at the door. “There is commotion at the wall.”

  And Sigmund’s mind thought:

  (this is it, thanks Em, thanks Wayne . . . and Munin)

  And his mouth said:

  “What kind of commotion?”

  “Screaming,” Nanna said. Except she said it over her shoulder, because she’d stood as well, and was joining the men in hurrying out of the hall.

  Sigmund followed, or at least made a show of it, since slipping away in the stampede would seem to be less suspicious than not going at all.

  Besides, he was kind of curious as to what his friends had planned.

  He got his answer a few moments later, mouth still tasting of mead and roast boar as he stepped out behind the others, only to find the stillness blown wide by what were undeniably guitars and almost certainly a gravelly, accented voice roaring its love of dark colors and non-acceptance of dying quietly.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  Oh Jesus, Em and Wayne—no, just Em, it had to have been Em’s idea . . . Em had found a band and was hosting a rock concert. The music was definitely live, because that was not Brian Johnson growling over the airwaves. There was gravel, and guitars, but it all sounded a bit more . . . European. So a cover band and, judging by what Sigmund knew of the people gathered outside the gates, if he were placing bets, it would be on a bunch of Scandinavian guys in heavy makeup.

  A band. A fucking metal band, playing a gig on the grass outside of Ásgarðr’s gates.

  Everyone was going to watch. Sigmund could see them, streaming out of buildings, carrying torches and lanterns, heading up to the walls.

  A part of Sigmund—a big part—wanted to join them. To go watch a bunch of dead metalheads belt out AC/DC into the dark. Except he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t, because this was his distraction, the thing he’d asked Em and Wayne to do.

  His way out of Ásgarðr.

  Slipping away in the chaos was easy; everyone too busy with the music to worry about one single nobody. Munin had said to go to the stables first, and while Sigmund didn’t exactly trust the bird, he did trust its desire and ability to make a nuisance of itself.

  Of course, it would’ve helped if it’d given some instruction on where the stables were. Or, indeed, which stables Sigmund should be searching.

  In the end, he ducked around behind the hall he’d just come out of. The place was nearly the size of an office building, so the “ducking” took a while. Still, Sigmund was relieved to find a sort of single-story protrusion emerging from the rear. Half open, and facing into an area fenced by rough wood that could, if squinted at in the dark, possibly be a paddock.

  Fortunately, it was dusk, and Sigmund needed new glasses.

  He headed toward the building, rewarded halfway by the wafting stink of horse shit and rotting hay.

  “Hello?” he called, poking his head through the doorway. Then, because duh: “Heil?”

  Gods, that was probably the wrong fucking word. Stupid fucking declined fucking everythings.

  Fortunately, it seemed the only people around to criticize Sigmund’s grammar were horses, judging from the smell and the anxious-sounding nickering. Which was totally a word, right? Like, a horse word? Jesus. Sigmund had grown up in the fucking city. What was he even doing here? Other than frightening the animals even more than they already were.

  They were definitely frightened. Sigmund wasn’t an expert on horses, but he could tell that much by their pinned-back ears and rolling eyes. They looked toward him when he entered, some throwing themselves against the walls of their pens. Stalls. Whatever. Throwing themselves toward Sigmund, away from the shadows at far end of the stable.

  “Oh crap,” Sigmund said, and walked forward.

  He got two steps before he remembered he had his phone—thank fucking Christ—and he pulled it out, turning on the flash and pointing the beam into the darkness.

  Down the far end of the stable, something moved.

  Moved, and clanked.

  “H-hello?” Sigmund took a step forward. “Um. I come in peace?”

  Something that might have been a snort? Or maybe a growl. Sigmund was hoping for a snort.

  There was definitely a chain. Running from one side of the stable into the far stall. Big and heavy and metal. Sigmund wondered if there were others.

  He stepped forward, light first, and—

  “Fuck!”
/>   —stumbled backward as a huge dark shape reared into his vision. Something that’d been sitting down in the stall, and was now . . . not doing that. Was rearing, or trying to rear, as much as its chains would let it. Around its neck and on its legs, bolting it to the ceiling and floor and walls.

  “Woah! Woah, there!”

  The beast opened it jaws. When it did, Sigmund saw rows and rows and rows of teeth, moving inside its purple-black mouth.

  It was a horse. Sort of.

  It was a horse in the same way Lain was a human, meaning it had four legs and a long face and looked vaguely like it might allow someone to ride it, assuming it wasn’t feeling hungry. Its skin was black and its feathers were the dappled gray of a rain-soaked sky, and when it moved, it looked like some sort of mad, three-dimensional Picasso painting. From the cubist period (thanks, Wayne), when everyone was trying to jam as much time and motion as possible into a single static image.

  Even still, there were only four legs beneath the chaos. Not eight.

  “Sleipnir!”

  Somewhere inside, Sigmund felt his past self’s heart shatter.

  Then, suddenly, Sigmund was surging forward, his hands not his own, his voice babbling something in words he didn’t understand, tears streaming down his cheeks partly with anguish but mostly out of rage. Rage that someone, anyone, could do this to their beautiful, gentle stepson. Could cage him like a beast, chained and forgotten alongside animals and how dare they, murderers and oath breakers and hypocrites, how dare they lay hands on Sigyn’s family when she—

  “Woah. Woah, okay. It’s okay.” Sigmund breathed, big, calming breaths. In. Out. In. Working buckles and latches. Out. The chains not even locked, because why would they be? In. For a horse. Out. Who didn’t even have fingers and—

  “There! There, you’re free.”

  Sigmund took a step back as Sleipnir reared and stretched and flexed. Then nearly bowled Sigmund over with a headbutt, though more from enthusiasm than aggression. Sigmund hoped.

  “Woah, um. Hey. It’s okay. It’s cool, you’re free.” And, it seemed, Sigmund owned Munin a favor. Or at least a whole bucketful of shiny trinkets.

  Then, because Sigmund was and forever would be a loser, he said, “I’m Sigmund.” And stuck out his hand.

  Sleipnir stared.

  Sigmund wondered, if he wished hard enough, if he could slither down into the dirt and die.

  “Ri-ii-ii-ight,” he said instead, when that plan didn’t seem to be worked. “Um. I guess you probably know that, huh?”

  This earned him a huff, a ripple of feathers like a passing storm cloud, and the stamp of something halfway between a horse’s hoof and an emu’s foot.

  “Um.” Sigmund bit his lip, conscious of the need for haste, even as the wailing of guitars faded from AC/DC into something he didn’t recognize. “Sorry if this is rude, but, can you, like, talk?”

  The shake of a head the size of Sigmund’s entire torso.

  “But you can understand me, right?”

  A nod.

  “Okay.” That made things a lot clearer. And also sadder, although Sigmund was trying not to think too much about that right now. “Okay, so. I’m kind trying to find, er, your mum? I guess? My Lain. Last seen being dragged out the back of Asgard in chains. Um. I guess I’m kinda the rescue party? Or . . . something. Except, like, I don’t really know this place very well and, um, well, I was kind of thinking maybe—wha—? Oh.”

  This last as Sleipnir shouldered his way gently past Sigmund, standing in the aisle of the stable. Over his shoulder, he flicked Sigmund a look that was undeniably Get on.

  Except, oh man. How fucking embarrassing, because:

  “I, uh. I kind of don’t know how to ride a ho—er. Well, anything, really.” Except a bicycle, but that wasn’t helpful.

  Sleipnir really was quite expressive for an, um. For whatever he was. A jötunn.

  Sigmund shrugged and winced and tried not to die of shame, getting halfway through an apology before he heard the heavy thud of a large body hitting the rushes.

  Sleipnir was sitting, legs folded underneath like a cat, wings slightly open. His tail—long and feathered, just like his mum’s—flicked impatiently.

  “Right,” said Sigmund. “Um . . .”

  He climbed on. Which was mostly an awkward sort of straddling of Sleipnir’s back, one of Sigmund’s shoes planted on either side of the lightly feathered flanks. Sigmund was just wondering whether he should sit or squat or what when Sleipnir stood, a terrifying and crotch-grabbingly awkward experience for a least a second or so, as Sigmund’s feet left the ground.

  A moment later, he was sitting on a hor—er, a quadrupedal-and-mute-yet-sentient jötunn. Who was kind of his . . . stepson? Or something? And was also gripping onto Sigmund’s thighs with his wings, which was good, because he started walking a moment later.

  “Woargh! Um . . . wow. Jeeze, okay . . .”

  Sigmund had never been on a horse before. The experience was . . . weird. Not like riding a bicycle, or driving a car, because Sleipnir was very definitely alive—Sigmund could feel muscle and skin shift in time with Sleipnir’s breath—and very definitely had his own ideas about where he wanted to go. For a moment Sigmund panicked, wondering how the hell he was supposed to, like, change direction without reins, before realizing he could probably just, like, ask? Or something. If that became an issue.

  Gods, he was going to fall off. They hadn’t even reached the doors to the stable and still every step sent a jolt up Sigmund’s spine and his legs ached from gripping Sleipnir’s sides and—

  (“you’re too rigid, boy. you make it difficult for him to carry you. straighten your spine, flow with his movements. he does not wish you to fall, so relax”)

  Sigmund felt his body move in time with the thoughts, changing from a stiff, terrified hunch into something tall and smooth and sure. Move with Sleipnir’s steps, right. Up and down and up and down and it wasn’t too bad, right? He could do this.

  (“hold his mane if you must, though try not to pull”)

  Sigmund’s fingers wove into shifting gray feathers, clutching the stiff quills at the base. Stay straight. Flow. Relax. Don’t pull. Up and down and up and down and okay. They were outside.

  It was dark, everything cast in rich navy and glimmering silver from the yawning gape of the moon and spilled glitter of the un-stars. On the wind, he could hear the scream of guitars and the growling edge of words, this time singing about dark mists and riding flaming chariots to Valhalla, which, hah. Cute.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone around, Sleipnir’s not-quite-hooves silent as they moved among buildings and over grass. Fist at a walk, then moving up into a trot that had Sigmund clutching and lurching again until he forced himself back into movement and posture. Ride with Sleipnir, not against him, no need for force or direction.

  From a walk to a trot to a canter, Sigmund getting used to the speed. And Sleipnir getting used to carrying Sigmund at speed, too, from the feel of it. Keeping his back straight and steady even as his feet blurred into a dull susurration in the grass.

  It was kind of fun, actually. The wind on Sigmund’s cheeks and the feathers between his fingers. Slipping through Ásgarðr in the dark of night, off to save Lain from whatever stupid thing he’d gotten himself into. Very Disney film, especially with the sentient horselike sidekick to provide comic relief.

  Sigmund wondered what sort of sense of humor someone who’d been treated like an animal for most of his life would have. Then he didn’t, because those thoughts were pain and rage and just not useful. Not right now.

  Instead, Sigmund looked forward, through the darkness, to where he could just about make out a long, low gash of black he realized must’ve been the Wall. A long gash with a single flickering yellow light, pacing along its length.

  “Shit,” he whispered, hoping Sleipnir could hear. “There’s someone on the wall. Heading, uh, left. Our left.”

  One guard. That wasn’t too bad, right?

&
nbsp; It occurred to Sigmund it was dark, he was dressed in Viking clothes, and he was riding. Maybe it was enough of a disguise. He hoped.

  Especially when, a moment later, the little light stopped, turned, and began heading back the other direction along the Wall. Toward the same place Sleipnir was aiming.

  There was a hole there, Sigmund realized. Not a gate, just a part of wall that was incomplete, large stone blocks left scattered and overrun with grass beside a snag-toothed rift. It would be an obvious place to break through the barrier but also, Sigmund thought, an obvious place to guard.

  He really hoped there was only one guy on duty. And that said guy wasn’t too keen on shooting arrows.

  Sleipnir sped up. Sigmund was getting better at riding, he really was, but Sleipnir was going fast now. Very fast. So fast the wall ahead was getting close enough for Sigmund to see the moonlight glinting off the edges of its individual blocks. Then close enough for him to lose sight of the torchlight behind the battlement.

  Sleipnir jumped over some of the discarded stones, which was terrifying and had Sigmund biting back yelps, fingers white-knuckled in Sleipnir’s mane and eternally grateful for the strong wings that gripped against his thighs.

  In the next moment, they were out of Ásgarðr.

  Sigmund’s heart was racing, ears aching as they listened for the sound of shouts or the twang! and hiss of arrows, aiming for his heart.

  Neither happened. Whoever the guy on the wall was, either he didn’t see them go or didn’t care that they had. Just another æsir brat, slipping off in dead of night.

  Sleipnir didn’t slow down until he stopped, all but devouring the ground beneath his claws. Sigmund didn’t complain, just held on and enjoyed the ride, which happened approximately between the point of them being out of firing range of the Wall and when the chaotic jumble of footfalls finally fell silent.

  “Oh. Wow,” said Sigmund, when the world was still again. Then the ache in his legs and ass asserted itself, and he was sliding sideways.