The Goddess Denied (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 2)

by Deborah Davitt

  “What have I accomplished?” Reginleif rasped, and laughed, taking another step backwards. “Potentia ad Populum,” she said, more loudly, and sent a look over to Lagunov and Jaatinen, who’d steadily backed away from the tableaux in front of them, until they, like all the other humans in the room, shielded by illusion or not, had their backs to the walls. “Power to the people. You’ve compared yourself to Prometheus, Father. He brought the fires of the gods to mankind. What have you brought, but suffering? These technomancers had the right idea, and you agreed with me, in part. Give the power of the gods to more humans. Make them god-touched, but on a wider scale than the other gods had ever dared to do. The jotun. The fenris. The lindworms. But what you didn’t see, Father, and what you didn’t see, Auntie dearest, is that the power of the gods should be in every hand. I’m going to be Prometheus. I’m going to bring fire to mankind.”

  Adam cleared his throat. “The power of the gods already is in every hand,” he said, and drew Caliburn from its concealed-carry holster at his back. “And we’ve had fire for quite some time, thank you. If you hadn’t noticed, we’ve also split the atom.” The words weren’t quite bravado. He was trying to redirect attention. Trying to get Reginleif to . . . step back from whatever cliff from which she seemed poised to hurl herself.

  Aim the gun at Hel, Sigrun urged Adam, silently. Not Loki. Loki’s caught in a trap of his own making. His intentions were . . . as noble as they could be. Humanity corrupted his schemes. Oh, gods, what fools we mortals are.

  Hel hissed at Reginleif who backed away another step. Drew a long knife from a sheath at her waist. I am here, my father is weakened, and his power will be mine. You are nothing more than food for my wyrm. When Ragnarok comes, and all else is gone, what else but death shall remain? Not you, Reginleif. Not the Aesir and the Vanir, who have looked down their noses at me and mine for centuries untold. Not my father. There will only be me.

  Then you’ll rule a world devoid of all life, Loki warned.

  Hel laughed. What need I with the living? I am death.

  The goddess raised a hand, and white fire lanced out from it, tearing the ceiling. Sigrun threw an arm over her head, as chunks of plaster and tile flew down from overhead, followed by a fresh spill of white snow. Storm-gray sky overhead, sullen and dark as lead. Wind screamed down into the building, and Loki dropped to the floor, his chains loosed from the roof . . . but he was still connected by the copper wires to the machines. Niðhoggr. Come to me. Destroy all who oppose me. Begin with Reginleif, my pet. Tear her apart and leave her entrails scattered over a quarter of a mile, for the crows to peck.

  Moon-white eyes appeared, peering down into the facility. The vast shadow of his curving wings blotted out the sky.

  “I may well be food for worms today, but if I die? I die binding you, you bitch. Look down.” Reginleif said, and reversed her knife. Drove it into her own belly, angling up for the heart. Blood poured out of her, and she sank to her knees. “Blood . . . binds . . .”

  Sigrun’s eyes flicked back across the room, to where Hel stood, on the same poured-stone surface as Loki. Runes and trenches for wires, everywhere. Channels for blood, in a circle, around Hel’s feet, blood pouring from Reginleif. Reginleif, who was already bound to Hel by kinship and by blood-oath. It won’t work that way, Sigrun thought, numbly. Human sacrifice empowers the god or spirit, like Trennus empowered Lassair. Reginleif won’t bind Hel. She’ll . . . become a conduit.

  At the same instant as her own realization, Loki’s voice, like a whip crack in her mind. Stop her! Even if she does not empower Hel, she could, while still barely living, draw Hel’s power to her, if Hel is killed while they are bound by the sacrifice.

  Sigrun had already launched herself through the air and slammed into Reginleif’s toppling form. She had no idea why Loki feared Hel dying at the moment, until, across the room, Lagunov issued sharp orders in Raccian, and all of the humans in the room dropped their illusion cloaks, and opened fire, directly on Hel herself. The bullets bounced off the goddess’ form, and the Praetorians and Vidarr and Ima all dove for the ground, covering their heads, while Sigrun slapped away Reginleif’s blood-sticky hands as the other valkyrie fought to hold her off. “Let me die! Let me die!”

  “You missed the heart, or you’d already be dead,” Sigrun snapped back. She already knew that Reginleif wasn’t death-struck, just weakened, and wrenched the knife free, throwing it at the nearest gunman with a flick of her wrist.

  Reginleif clutched at her wrists, weakly, trying to keep Sigrun’s hands away from the bleeding wound. “No, no, no, let me avenge Joris, let my death have meaning—”

  “Believe me when I say the last thing I want is to heal you,” Sigrun snapped, and gave up fighting. She didn’t need to touch the wound. All she really needed was skin-contact. “Shut up and live. I won’t let you become Hel, Regin. And I won’t let you empower her, either.”

  She took the wound into herself. Sickening, agonizing pain, and Sigrun bit down her own scream as her tissues tore and parted. Abdominal wall, esophagus, nicking the outer lining of the heart. Worse, in its way, than the shots to Adam that she’d healed years ago in Judea. And, naturally, the rune-born light that surrounded her when she healed Reginleif made her a target, as the various sorcerers understood what she was doing. That she was trying to prevent them from capturing Hel’s essence in the binding circle. Fools, it took symbols of solid gold and massive technomantic constructs with the gods of Tawantinsuyu. What makes you think you’re going to bind her unwillingly with blood alone . . . the only reason Loki is bound, is because he agreed to be . . . Sigrun thought, dizzily, sagging forward, feeling low-muzzle velocity bullets slam into her arms and shoulders, and bounce off the rune-marked skin. Whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. The mantra of her younger years.

  Reginleif pulled away from her, the other valkyrie’s face stunned. Rage. Grief. Denial. Betrayal. And then one booted foot came up and slammed into Sigrun’s face, breaking her nose. “Bitch!” Reginleif shouted, and Sigrun tumbled over backwards, one hand clutching her belly, and one hand clutching her face.

  She could feel the fires within her, trying to knit her tissues back together, and heard Hel’s command of End this. End this now, Niðhoggr! Kill Tyr’s meddling child. But leave Reginleif for me. Hel’s tone turned even more contemptuous. You long for death? You would bind me? I will give you an eternity in which to contemplate your arrogance and your presumption.

  Sigrun looked up at the ceiling overhead and saw white hoarfrost breath blast down, but it wasn’t directed at her. A few curling wisps danced along her skin, and she looked at them, dreamily, lost in a haze of pain and distance, othersight still overlaying most of her regular vision. Niðhoggr, you’re beautiful, she thought. No, you’re sublime. He was, too. His entire nervous system was one enormous fretwork of cold white light, his spirit blazed like a fire, trapped inside the black diamond-metal of his body. Illuminated from within, in othersight, he was translucent, and yet wholly solid at the same time. “You do not have to kill, if you do not wish to,” Sigrun whispered, letting her head sink to the side. You have as much choice as any other being. You are free, you are beautiful, you are untamed. She coughed, spat blood, feeling it tear up from somewhere deep inside of her, as bullets continued to fly overhead.

  Nothing really left, besides Niðhoggr’s eyes as he stared down at her, and leaped into the building. A sudden, up-close view of diamond claws she’d seen once before, in the Odinhall. A vast, dark shadow, over her body, and Niðhoggr lowered his head down into the building as well, to roar at the humans within, and lay down another blast with his deathfrost breath. Flickers, as Sigrun passed in and out of consciousness. Vague awareness of Reginleif and Hel fighting, or at least, Reginleif trying to fight, and Hel mocking her. Trapping her.

  I said end the valkyrie, not to huddle over her like a clutch of eggs! Obey me, foolish creature! Kill her! Kill her now!

  Don’t, Sigrun thought, trying to hold to her con
sciousness. Don’t kill. Your choice. You are . . . free . . . .

  A hiss from Hel. Sigrun turned her head to look at the masked goddess, her vision skewing, as Niðhoggr snuffled at her. A warm, black tongue the size of a lavatory carpet emerged and licked the side of her face, and Sigrun groaned.

  Enough! Hel’s voice felt like liquid nitrogen on the inside of Sigrun’s skull. Die, thieving valkyrie!

  Something hit Sigrun. It was cold and dark, and she felt as if every cell in her body was trying to rupture at once. Needles of ice, digging down into her consciousness, slicing down every nerve. Blackness began to beckon, but something in her resisted. Awakened. Reached out, and embraced the cold, swallowed it whole. It . . . almost felt good. Is this what being drunk feels like? Sigrun wondered. I thought the good part happened before the ‘every part of your body trying to kill you for being stupid’ part.

  Her last sight, before unconsciousness took her, at least for the moment, was of the dark shadow above her turning its head. The moonfire eyes focusing on something or someone off to her left. And then the beast surged away, and blackness took her.

  Chaos. Adam had been in probably a few too many battles by this point in his life, but never one in which his people had been surrounded on two sides by about a hundred people with guns and magic, without cover of any sort. This is usually the point where it’s necessary to surrender, was his first, numb thought, as Sigrun had leaped to knock Reginleif over, and the various illusion-covered guards and sorcerers dropped cover to open fire on Hel. A white blast of what was probably liquefied air, emerging from the dragon’s mouth, as it ducked its head into the building, and exhaled over the various guards currently firing on its mistress.

  Everyone grabbed for the ground, and Adam twisted his head, beginning to snap out orders. “Esh! Min! Get some shields up. Matru, pull the floor up, get us some cover—” He got a solid look at Sigrun yanking the knife out of Reginleif’s chest, and grappling with the woman. No. God, no. You’re not going to heal her, are you? “Sig! No! That’s right in the heart—”

  Sigrun sagged, clutching at her belly and chest, white rune-fire blossoming out of her. Adam started to belly-crawl forwards, trying to get to her, while the sorcerers and ley-mage got them some defenses, aware of Erikir and Brandr crawling forwards, too. Saw Reginleif scramble backwards, the look of betrayal and anger on the woman’s face, and then the boot slam into the face of her savior. Bitch! Adam thought, and his hand came up, reflexively, the god-touched weapon in his hand, and he aimed, center-mass, for Reginleif’s chest.

  They’d nicknamed the weapon Caliburn, and Kanmi had, echoing Inti’s name for its effects, dubbed the perfectly ordinary bullets that it converted into plasma the tears of the sun. A searingly white blast shot out of the muzzle, moving so fast the eye couldn’t track it, but expanding outwards in a sphere from its tightly-contracted point of origin. By the time it reached a target, it was usually the size of an orange, and a cloud of highly-charged super-heated particles. Reginleif had twisted, at the last moment, and as such the plasma blast missed her chest, to Adam’s chagrin. She still reeled away, clutching an arm that was burned for a solid three inches along the humerus. “God damn her,” Adam said, and it was not a casual oath at all.

  The blast continued past her, and forty feet beyond, hitting a molten sulfur battery, causing the damned thing to explode on impact, sending streams of super-heated acid everywhere for about twenty feet. The valkyrie leaped away from the explosion, and a dozen copies of her suddenly occupied the air, while Hel screamed for her dragon to descend and kill Sigrun. Adam aimed for the beast, as it leaped into the building, his finger aching to pull the trigger. But something stayed him. The memory of Sigrun’s awed, slightly shy expression, as she’d blurted out the tale of playing tag with the behemoth in the Odinhall. Taking a chance on your instincts, Sig. Don’t you hurt her, don’t you hurt her, I’ll kill you, and I don’t care if you’re the size of a damned mountain or not . . . .

  Blurs all around him. Kanmi and Minori, taking cover behind the wall of solid rock that Trennus had raised at the center of the room, and now each of them taking turns destroying the molten sulfur batteries. “Like old times!” Kanmi shouted. “Except this time, we’re rescuing the entity, right, ben Maor?”

  A series of howls from outside, and the western door of the building burst inwards on its hinges as a vast, glowing white wolf hit the barrier with its full weight. Saraid, Adam realized, dimly, as the spirit entered the fray, wearing the form of a giant wolf, and leading a stream of fenris into the chamber. Screams of terror from beyond Trennus’ wall, and yelps of pain as bullets and magic struck wolf-flesh. Snarls. Shots. More roars, from the south, as the jotun joined the battle, and Vidarr and Ima leaped Trennus’ wall, running to the south, right into the scrum, now that the withering hail of bullets coming in their direction had slowed. Crunch of flesh meeting flesh.

  No time to look over the wall and evaluate the success as Trennus wrapped stone around this enemy, as Min poured liquefied air over the top of that one, or as Kanmi sundered a molten sulfur battery right on top of a group of soldiers. Smell of ionization in the air, crackle of electricity as a technomancer on the other side of the wall sent blue-white energy arcing into . . . someone. Wretched howl of a wolf in agony, and then, just more chaos.

  Tunnel vision was a danger, but he had no time to do anything more than trust the others on his team to do their jobs. Adam focused solely on what was right in front of him. On the fact that Brandr and Erikir were both moving up to a crouch, and he followed suit. Reginleif and her illusionary clones soaring through the air, each of them armed with a spear, warily ready to fend off a paw or tail-swipe from the dragon, and Adam had no idea which of them was real. He wasn’t about to waste another bullet on the valkyrie. And now that he’d had a second or two to think, it was probably a good thing that he’d missed, anyway. Killing her here, while she wished to be killed, might bind Hel here. But it also might do what had happened in Tawantinsuyu, when he’d killed Inti. It might loose power, and not bind it. He split his attention, thus, between the dragon, and Hel, and firing plasma bursts at the equipment binding Loki, watching as, behind the entire scene, the god managed to rise to his feet. Tore the chains off his wrists, and then reached behind him to start pulling the copper wires free from his spine. It looked . . . agonizing.

  Regin swooping in, trying to bait Hel. Trying to draw the goddess’ attack, but Hel was evidently all too aware, now, of what would happen if Reginleif died. Hel just laughed and hooked a hand out in a little gesture, and every one of Regin’s seemingly solid clones paused in mid-air, frozen. Now that your wings have been clipped, it is time to peel away all your masks. The clones vanished, leaving only one Reginleif left, and even the illusions over her poor, scarred form melted away, too. There you are, my ugly little cygnet. Time to put you into the Veil, where you’ll have eternity in which to learn respect . . . and regret your presumption.

  Brandr snarling under his breath, “She might have been wrong. She might be a traitor. But no one deserves that.” And then the bear-warrior charged Hel. Adam had to admire the courage, the loyalty, but swore mentally as Brandr’s path promptly blocked any shot he had on the goddess. “Erikir, get Reginleif out of here,” Adam snapped. “We can’t kill her, and she can kill any of us with impunity. Tackle her if you have to.”

  “Do my best,” Erikir said, grimly. “She’s fast.” He moved in, and deflected one vicious spear-strike from Reginleif with his sword, taking a second strike across his forearm, and then knocking the spear aside and getting in on the valkyrie, wrapping his arms around her in a bear-hug and charging for the wall behind her—right past Loki, in fact.

  Brandr had gotten one strike in on Hel. One. His hammer slammed into her back, with a dull thud, and the goddess spun and caught the bear-warrior by the throat with one slender, taloned hand. You think that we would give to a mere god-born, a weapon capable of defeating one of us? How foolish.

  At
the same moment that Regin’s back slammed into the wall behind Loki, with Erikir propelling her with all the force of his body, Brandr flailed, Tried to hit Hel once more with his hammer, but it slipped from his fingers as his body arched. His legs dangled and kicked, and Adam’s eyes widened as blood began to seep out of every pore, red bathing his entire body. Trickling down his boots, splattering on the ground. Hel let him fall, like so much trash, and Brandr rolled to his back, body spasming, and Adam could see rivulets of blood pouring from the man’s eyes, nose, mouth, and ears, in addition to the blood weeping from his pores.

  Adam had thought he was inured to almost every conceivable horror. This was like watching a body emulsify and push itself out through a strainer. The worst parts of hemorrhagic fever, compacted into seconds. Even worse, in a way, was the fact that Brandr was still alive. Still fighting it. Time slowed, in the face of that kind of horror, a sick kind of numbness coming over him. Behind Brandr, Adam could just make out Reginleif’s face, staring past Erikir’s arm at Brandr. The scarred, hideous countenance couldn’t entirely conceal the shock in the valkyrie’s eyes at the sight of the bear-warrior’s agony.

  The Judean man raised his head as he heard, distantly, Hel berate Niðhoggr for not having killed Sigrun yet, as the dragon crouched, almost protectively, over the valkyrie’s fallen form. And then the death goddess hissed, and raised a hand . . . to do to Sigrun precisely what she’d just done to Brandr.