Stormbringer

by Alis Franklin

  I say nothing, just gesture toward the hammer, grin pulling the stitches tight across my lips.

  With one final glare, Magni ascends the “steps.” Reaches out . . .

  “Oh. One last thing.”

  He turns, growling. “I said no tricks, beast!”

  “Not a trick, exactly,” I say, waving a hand and leaving sparks of flame in the ion-charged air. “And it’s not mine. It’s just, well. The mortals . . . you have to understand, it’s been a long time since your father walked among them.”

  “Get to the point.”

  I roll my eyes. “They have some . . . quaint beliefs, nowadays. About Mjölnir.”

  Magni looks at the hammer, then at me. “No,” he says, flatly. “I will not listen to your lies. Never again.”

  I shrug. “Well. Don’t say I didn’t try warning you.”

  Móði looks at me, then at Magni, hesitation oozing out of him like blue-green bile. “Brother, perhaps we should—”

  “Silence.” Magni’s done with this, done with me. “Mjölnir is mine.”

  I tilt my head toward Móði. “I’m sure he meant to say ‘ours.’ The prophecy does specify it goes to both of you, after all.”

  Móði closes his eyes, expression pained. “Do not do this, please,” he says, voice hushed beneath the storm. “Have we not suffered enough of your schemes?”

  For a moment, all I can do is stare, lip curled in incredulity. Móði returns the expression with an open, guileless innocence. Behind us, atop a basalt pillar, Magni’s gauntleted fist closes around Mjölnir’s haft.

  Lightning flashes, thunder roars.

  And, all around us, an army descends into the Bleed.

  Chapter 20

  “What are they doing?”

  This morning, Forseti stood atop the Wall, staring out over the writhing black morass of Hel’s army. So many damned and rotting souls, thieves and cowards, oath breakers and murderers. Dancing mad dances beneath the scythe-clawed talons of nightmares made flesh, chaos-spawned get of Loki, folly of Odin, betrayer of Ásgarðr.

  Fingers curling tight around Gungnir’s haft, Forseti swore he would not make his grandfather’s mistakes. Whatever the cost.

  The einheri beside him huffed, rubbing a hand across his clean-shaven chin. One of Ásgarðr’s newer warriors, dressed in strange and flimsy greens. He’d introduced himself as Private Johns, and Forseti did not know if this was a name or a title. Modern mortals could be . . . confusing.

  “Well,” Private said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were protesting.”

  Over the Wall, a thousand voices chanted, sound carried on the wind. The words spoken in the mortal’s modern tongue, saying:

  One. Two. Three. Four. Release our boys from Odin’s war.

  Over and over, and Forseti scowled.

  “‘Protesting’?”

  “Right,” said Private. “Saw it when I got deployed.”

  Private, Forseti knew, was killed within the Caliph’s lands. He did not know why the Saxons would provoke war with such a great power, so far to the east.

  “I . . . do not understand.” Forseti bit down anger that he would show ignorance in front of a lowly einheri. “What is ‘protesting’?”

  If Private sensed his Lord’s annoyance, he did not show it. “Right, right. Sorry,” he said. “Protesting is, uh. It’s when people don’t like something—something the government does, usually—they get together and”—he gestures out across the Wall—“protest. Shout and yell. Make banners.”

  There were certainly many banners, of both the new kind and the old. Forseti could not read the text written in the modern tongue, but the runes he saw were, for the most part, names. Declarations of love and devotion. Pleas to come home.

  “The mortals do this?” he asked. Then, when Private nodded: “Why do they not petition the þing directly?”

  Private laughed. “This is petitioning the ‘thing.’”—Forseti tried not to wince at the mangled word—“I mean, unless there’s an election on, there’s not many better ways to do it.”

  Mortal governance was a strange thing, but Forseti believed he understood. Hel was wicked and deceitful, silver-tongued like her father. Of course she would try this coward’s way.

  Heart hard and lips thin, Forseti left the Wall. He had seen enough. And so, he decreed, had the einherjar who lined its length. He scattered them with a command, posting Ullr and Rígr to keep more from congregating. For a time, at least.

  So much trouble, brewing at Ásgarðr’s gates. First the . . . business with the thing that wore father’s skin, then “Loki,” then Hel. Forseti could not believe them not related, or the actions of mere happenstance. Someone had planned this, planned war and destruction against Ásgarðr and all its people. Planned to break open this would-be golden age.

  And, with Father gone, who was left to defend the realm other than his only son?

  “Forseti. Stop, I would speak with you.”

  Only three steps into his hall. Forseti tried not to wince. “No, mother. I have other matters to—”

  But Nanna was not dissuaded. When was she ever?

  “Enough.” She planted herself in Forseti’s path, chin raised and eyes narrowed. “You cannot avoid me, boy.”

  Forseti tried to sidestep. “We have nothing to say. My decision is final, you will not—”

  “You will not deny me.” Mother stamped her foot against the stone, petulant and childish. “Gather the þing, Forseti. I would speak before it.”

  “No.” What more was there to say? Mother’s stubbornness could not change the law. “Women have no place before parliament. You know this.” He pushed past, not daring to meet his mother’s eyes.

  “Women may not,” she snapped. “But Queens—”

  “Mother, stop.” But it was Forseti who did. Back turned to Nanna, hand raised to rub across his eyes. “Please. Let this be.”

  “I will not!” Nanna’s voice was as cold as ice and just as brittle. “You know what sits outside our gates. I have spoken with Hel and heard her claims. She has cause, Forseti.”

  “No!” He turned, butt of Gungnir slamming against the stones. “I will not hear this.”

  “You will!” Mother, stubborn to a fault. “Or would you have me break my oath?”

  “You should not have given oaths you knew you could not honor!” Rage, rising in his gut. Better that, Forseti thought, than despair. “This is your dishonor, not mine.”

  For a moment—one long, endless moment—Forseti stared his mother down. In the end, it was she who turned aside.

  “You are my son.” Her voice was low now. Low and as endless and cold as the twisting halls of Helheimr. “Given charge of Ásgarðr’s law. Hel’s claim is just. If you will not hear it—”

  “Hel is a deceitful íviðja witch!” Forseti snapped. “Ásgarðr does not make treaties with such monsters. We never have. Why can you not see this?”

  “Hel is a Queen. As am I. We deal as equals.”

  “Then do so in the spaces women have,” Forseti countered. “Law and politics are the realm of men. You have no dominion there. That is law.”

  In that moment, Nanna pulled back as if slapped. She stepped away, once. Then twice. “That,” she said, “is your law. Not mine.” And she turned.

  “Mother . . .” But what more was there to say? The law was law. Forseti could no more change it than he could move the Realms on the Tree.

  Nanna turned, only slightly. Not looking her son in the eye as she said, “Ásgarðr will hear Hel’s claim. If you say my place is not before the þing then so be it. I will use my spaces, the space of home and hearth.”

  Forseti sighed. Let Mother gossip all she liked, around loom and cooking fire. “Very well,” he said. “This is your right, and I will not interfere.”

  “No,” Nanna said, the curve of a smile on her lips. “You will not.”

  Forseti watched her go, fingers caught on Gungnir’s wood.

  The inevitable happened that e
vening. From its place in the sky above, Munin saw it all.

  The Screamer was cunning, waiting until dusk to bring out the big guns. A young girl with an acoustic guitar, plus a shaggy-haired boy clutching a keyboard. Together, they wove the forbidden galdr, the mansöngr.

  Also known as love songs.

  Most of the lyrics were in English, and it took a little while for the trick to catch on among the náir. Munin watched the gossip spread, from the newest dead to the very eldest, women hiding giggles in their hangaroc, men shuffling awkwardly, not daring to make eye contact. The new dead, meanwhile, passed out candles. Lighting them and holding them aloft, swaying in a sea of stars as the sun descended beneath the Tree.

  Three songs. Elton John, Crowded House, Nick Cave; Munin circling low and humming along. At the end, the Screamer came back out, thanking the band. Then she said:

  “Ladies and ghouls, up next I’ve got something special for you and something even better for one lucky guy behind the Wall. So please put your claws together and give a big welcome to Winflæd, here to dedicate a special message to her trapped beau.”

  The crowd knew what to do, roaring and cheering, as the Screamer guided an anxious woman to the front of the stage. Round and fair, and glancing between the Screamer and the strange black spike of the microphone.

  Eventually, she leaned forward and began to speak. In Old English. Munin was rusty as hell, but it knew enough to catch the sentiment. Winflæd missed her husband, Hræiðarr. Twenty winters they’d been married, with four children between them. Then, one day, Hræiðarr had gone west. And had never returned.

  “I waited,” Winflæd said, voice trembling and uncertain. Breathy over the dead hush of the crowd. “For twelve more seasons. Our son, Kolbæin, said I should find another in your stead. There were suitors. I refused them, Hræiðarr. How could I take another, after you? Twelve seasons, cold winters, and—and I thought, when it was done, that we could meet again. I searched for you, my love. All these years, I—”

  And then:

  “Winflæd!”

  It was bound to happen, sooner or later.

  There, on the Wall. A man, fighting to get to the front. Hræiðarr, calling his wife’s name.

  Winflæd gasped, the sound a sharp burst of static into the mic. “Hræiðarr?”

  “Winflæd! My love!”

  Then Winflæd was surging forward, the crash of the mic booming as she knocked it over in her haste. The Screamer intercepted her, a hairsbreadth from the Line.

  On the Wall, Munin saw Ullr raise his bow.

  The Screamer was holding Winflæd back, the latter’s howls and sobs echoing loud enough without the artificial amplification. On the Wall, a handful of einherjar were returning the favor for Hræiðarr.

  “That’s my wife!” Munin heard him roar. “Let me go to her!”

  “No one is to pass the Wall!” That was Ullr, voice equal parts fear and panic, arrow wavering between the two spouses.

  Behind the Line, the dead split apart like a sea, bowing as Hel herself moved to the front. When she reached Winflæd, she said nothing. Just put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, Winflæd falling still with the touch.

  Still, but not silent, voice crying for her husband. Joy and heartbreak, all in one.

  And the Screamer, watching from two paces back, pink Shaker at her side. This, Munin thought, was what she’d been waiting for.

  And, really. There was only ever one way it was gonna go.

  With one final roar, Hræiðarr broke free of his companions, leaping onto the battlements of the Wall.

  Then right down over the side. ’Cause what was a twenty-foot drop to a dead guy, really?

  He ran. Right for his crying wife. One stride, two, five.

  Just before the Line, Ullr loosed his arrow.

  By the sixth stride, Hræiðarr was dead. Again. One black-feathered shaft sticking up from the back of his fool skull.

  If grief really could bring down stone, then Winflæd’s howl would’ve done it, right then and there.

  Then nothing but sobs, muffled against the brocade of Hel’s robe. Folded into the arms of Death herself.

  Not a single other thing moved. No howls of outrage, no recycled ’60s chants. Just silence, and thousands of glassy eyes, fixed against the gates of Ásgarðr.

  When they opened, two score men filed out. If they expected a fight, they didn’t get one. The disapproval of the dishonored dead was weight enough.

  They collected Hræiðarr’s body. He’d be better by morning, everyone knew that. Locked up in a cell somewhere, Munin would bet. Lest he get any more ideas. Lest anyone else get any of the same.

  Meanwhile, Winflæd wept.

  Chapter 21

  “He did what?”

  From across the table, Þrúðr’s eyes were cold, hard chips of stone.

  Sigmund, meanwhile, was getting sore fingers from rubbing at his own.

  “This mess is Loki’s. It was he who wove this wicked plot.”

  Meaning Loki—meaning Lain—had been the one who’d suggested trading Þrúðr to the dvergar. For a belt and some fucking gloves.

  “I’m going to kill him.” Immortal god or not, Sigmund was going to do it. Again. A spear through the other heart, this time.

  “He is a beast.”

  Þrúðr was not sympathetic to Sigmund’s plight. Not that he could blame her.

  The five of them were assembled around a table. Þrúðr and Uni on one side, Sigmund, Valdís, and Eisa on the other. Everyone else was somewhere outside, under orders of cease-fire.

  “He’s not . . . not that bad, really.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but Sigmund could see how Þrúðr may have had a different perspective.

  What she knew—what she’d shared—was this:

  Several days ago, Rígr had sighted a strange beast approaching Ásgarðr from the ruined Bifröst. On closer examination, said beast had turned out to be a jötunn. And not just any jötunn, but Loki, betrayer of the gods and harbinger of Rangarøkkr. Harbinger, and suspiciously not a victim of, prophecy or no prophecy.

  He’d been carrying a spear Rígr had identified as Gungnir, last seen in the possession of Ásgarðr’s missing ruler, Baldr. Somehow—Þrúðr had been a little unclear on the details—Loki had been captured and, rather than be executed for unspecified-but-not-exactly-trumped-up crimes against Ásgarðr, he’d agreed to lead Thor’s sons, Magni and Móði, to the location of their father’s missing hammer, Mjölnir. Except, in order to wield it, they’d need to bump up their iLvl with some rad epix.

  Hence the trade; Þrúðr for the drops. By her story, she’d known the trick “Loki” was trying to pull, and had told her brothers to play along. Which they’d done beautifully, hence she was here and they weren’t. And neither was Loki. Lain. Whoever.

  “Jesus.” Sigmund pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, scrubbing his eyes until the inside of his eyelids exploded into a mad swirl of black and red pixels. “We have to stop them.”

  “No.” Sigmund couldn’t see Þrúðr through his eyelids, but he didn’t have to. Her voice was enough. “Mjölnir is father’s legacy. It will return to us.”

  Sigmund opened his eyes. Þrúðr looked just as stony as he’d been expecting. Stonier than her “husband,” even, and he was at least partially made of literal rock.

  “Don’t you get it?” he said. “Why do you think the jötnar sent an army out this way? It wasn’t for Lain; they don’t even like him all that much. We came to stop you guys getting your hands on Mjölnir. Because if we don’t succeed? There’s going to be war. With Ásgarðr. The jötnar would rather burn that place to the ground than see Mjölnir brought back.”

  Þrúðr stared, silent and haughty. She was really just a kid, Sigmund thought. Barely older than Eisa.

  Eventually, she said, “Ridiculous. If those beasts want pretense for war then—”

  Valdís growled. Actually growled, standing and leaning forward over the table, teeth bared. “Watch your tongue, ásynja!”<
br />
  “Um, maybe this isn’t—”

  But Valdís wasn’t listening. “You call us beasts, yet we live where we live and do you no harm.”

  “Hah!” It wasn’t so much a laugh as a piece of punctuation. “Son of a liar, your people have made trouble enough.”

  “Ásgarðr makes war upon us, always.” Valdís’s feathers bristled, her claws scratching white grooves into stone. “Your father”—she spat the word—“worst among them. Thor the Thunderer, with eyes like dead black coal and beard soaked in our children’s blood.”

  “Enough!” The scrape of Þrúðr’s chair was very loud as she stood. Tiny compared to Valdís’s hulking shape, but not less ferocious for it. “My father was a good man!”

  “Your father was a monster! Murderer and oath breaker who slaughtered our people by the hundreds.”

  “And your father helped him!”

  Valdís roared, fists slamming down hard enough on the table to crack it, just a little. Sigmund, meanwhile, was frantically trying to communicate peace to the equally startled Uni.

  “Þrúðr,” Uni said. “I think—”

  Þrúðr turned to him. “What? You think what? That we should treaty with these monsters? Who raid your homes and terrify your children? Striking when you are weak, cowards that they are.”

  Another roar from Valdís, and Sigmund winced, putting a hand on her arm. Beneath the feathers, he could feel muscles clenched as hard as steel, and when Valdís turned to glare his way, her eyes burned. Like, literally glowing, just a little.

  Sigmund made an expression that tried to convey I know they’re being assholes, but you can eat them later. Valdís must’ve gotten the message—at least something of the message—because she slumped back on her haunches a moment later. Still looming over the dvergr-sized table, feathers bristling.

  Þrúðr and Uni were also busy hissing at each other in hushed whispers, Uni’s skin a riot of oscillating color. Sigmund let them have them a moment before saying, “Look. This is getting us nowhere. Myrkviðr will launch an assault on Ásgarðr if they think the alternative is letting the hammer come home. I’m pretty sure no one in this room wants that. In order to stop things going to shit, we need to find Lain and Þrúðr’s brothers.”