After finding the correct person, and making her displeasure known for about ten minutes, Sigrun wearily pushed herself back into the air, and found Vidarr and Ima’s quarters. Ima was curled up on their feather-filled pallet, in wolf form, and Vidarr had obviously been curled up with her when Sigrun arrived—the masses of wolf-fur on his bright clothing made that apparent. “I thought you were supposed to be staying in jotun form throughout the pregnancy,” Sigrun told Ima, taking a seat, where Vidarr indicated, on a bag filled with rushes on the ground that served as the room’s only chair. “And we have got to get you some furniture that you won’t break.”
I decided about a month ago that I no longer cared if the babies were born confused. I am carrying triplets, and each of them is currently the size of a human one -year-old. Ima’s tone held a slight mental snarl. Wolf-form is made for litters. There is more room in me this way. I can move without assistance. Otherwise, the doctors would have me confined to a hospital bed. She paused, and her head rose, sniffing. Why are you not in the hospital, Sigrun? You are wounded.
“It is of no moment,” she told Ima, relaxing at being able to speak her native tongue. “I heal. No sense in taking up their supplies on me.” She leaned her head back against the rush-filled bag behind her, and suppressed a groan. There wasn’t much of her body that didn’t ache. Should’ve used lightning on the whole damned flock of them, and been done with it. Except every time she fought lindworms, no matter the fact that they’d freely attack humans, she was haunted by the notion that they had to have come from somewhere. That they might once have been human, just like the fenris. Somehow, that meant that she had to fight them . . . fairly. Irrational though that sounded, even inside her own head. She closed her eyes, and then opened them again. “You’re due in Februarius, aren’t you?”
Technically.
“The doctors say that as big as the babies are—and we have no idea if this is normal or not, though all the other fenris and lycanthropic females seem to have the same issue,” Vidarr sounded rattled, “that they might want to try to induce labor. And there are something like a thousand females due all at the same time, thanks to the damnable estrus cycle.” This was a very real concern for him, and not just for Ima’s sake. The fenris and hveðungr females were a large portion of his small army, and they were effectively out of action for the moment.
Sigrun groaned. Closed her eyes. Lassair? she tried. She wasn’t wearing one of Trennus’ binding amulets. Truthfully, she wasn’t even sure if he needed them anymore. He was solidly soul-bound to both Lassair and Saraid now. Lassair, Saraid, can you hear me?
Are you taking my Name in vain, Stormborn? Amusement, in that distant voice.
You can hear me!
Yes, but is that all you really wanted to discuss?
No. I need you and Saraid up here to look at Ima. She is having triplets, in very short order. Can you come here?
Saraid’s gentle voice sounded tired as the forest-spirit chimed in, I can be there, but in an hour or so. I am assisting with some newly reclaimed fenris at the moment.
Lassair, at almost the same time, replied, It’s nearly nine post-meridian. The children are in bed. I can come to you. Your voice is strong enough for me to find, in spite of all the water in between.
Sigrun opened her eyes when there was a flash of flame, lighting the room, and Lassair appeared there. “It must be nice, traveling through the Veil,” Sigrun grumbled. “I have a twelve-hour flight ahead of me, with transfers in Rome.”
You should try it sometime, Stormborn.
“I cannot. I am mortal. I cannot cross into the Veil unassisted.”
I could take you. I’m almost sure I’ve worked out how to do that for an adult, and not just for an unborn . . . .
“No, thank you.” Sigrun tried to bury her unease. Trennus had described his first access to the raw Veil as a time of madness and loss of self.
Lassair grinned at her wickedly, and then turned back to Vidarr and Ima. So, what do we have here . . . She plopped down on the edge of the pallet, and Ima edged away, showing teeth. What’s the matter, Ima? Lassair sounded surprised at the reaction.
You did this to me. The wolf’s tone was a little sulky. To all of the fenris. You left us with an estrus cycle and a capacity for litters.
I couldn’t adjust the estrus cycle, not without totally restructuring your entire bodily hormone system. Trust me. You want to still be female, right? Besides, Saraid told me all of you enjoyed the estrus period. Didn’t you?
Ima bared her teeth a little more. At the moment, not the question to be asking me, Lassair.
Sigrun controlled her desire to laugh. As tired as she was, that wasn’t much of a problem. It came out as a muffled snort. “Lassair? I think the issue is not so much estrus. The issue is that humans—and the jotun are still humans—are not meant for multiple births being the norm. Every species of mammal there is, has twice as many, ah, breasts, as the normal average birth-count.” Sigrun grimaced. “So, you see, there is a problem here. If they are all compelled to have litters, that means that in order to keep so many infants fed, they may be forced to nurse in wolf form, and humanoid babies are not well adapted for that. They can’t lift their heads and worm their way to a—forgive me, Ima—teat.”
Yes, I see that. Lassair sounded concerned. I did the best I could at first, but yes, this is a problem. I’ll rebalance as many of the fenris as I can, but I cannot precisely do anything about it right now. She shifted, and put a hand on Ima’s furry belly. They are sleeping, Ima. Do you wish to have them now? They would be strong enough to survive. You are closer to your time than your doctors have thought.
“Now?” Vidarr said, sitting bolt upright on the pallet, where he’d gone back to lying, curled up behind Ima. “Like, right now?”
Of course right now. I do not wish to have to return in a month, except if Ima needs help nursing.
That provoked a growl. I will nurse my own young.
With three? You will need help. Lassair’s sunny smile only provoked more of a snarl from Ima, and Sigrun sighed internally. Sometimes Lassair, in spite of her wisdom in some matters, seemed to be ever-so-slightly tone-deaf. Shift back to jotun form. The infants’ heads will not pass easily through a wolf’s body.
Sigrun watched, tiredly, as Ima did precisely that, and Vidarr instantly wrapped her up in blankets, covering her form. Preserving her modesty, as best he could. “You at least have a bath tub, right?” Sigrun said, heaving herself upright.
“They’ve been good enough to give us half an old boiler from an abandoned building. We have to trade it around between jotun, however, if anyone wants to sit down to bathe.” Vidarr’s tone was ironic.
“Go get it. You and I will start filling it up, Lassair will heat the water. It should be far more comfortable for Ima. You have a crib . . . yes.” Sigrun spotted it in the corner. It was hand-made, and there were two human-sized crib mattresses in it, side-by-side, to accommodate the coming children. “Lassair is a wonderful midwife, by all accounts. This will be over before you know it, Ima.”
Yes. Remember when I transformed your body, and I realigned pain to pleasure? You will want to push. It will not hurt. It will be something your body encourages you to do. Better this way, by far, I assure you.
Ima’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my.”
“I should feel threatened by this, shouldn’t I?” Vidarr joked, though his face was pale as he tramped back into the room, carrying the boiler, and a length of hose, which he attached to the faucet in their shower enclosure and began to fill the tub, slowly.
“I will fetch buckets, and speed this along.” Sigrun headed for the door, only to find Vidarr gently but inexorably pushing her back to her rush-filled chair.
“You are still wounded. Rest. I think I can handle this much.”
So, five hours later, all three infants had been born, and Saraid had arrived to help with the process. Sigrun had mostly held one of Ima’s hands, while Vidarr held the other, his giant knuck
les turning white, and his eyes terribly haunted, probably by old, bad memories. Now, Sigrun took one of the infants, so there were arms available to hold it, while Lassair fussed and cooed over a second, handing it to Vidarr, and Ima, looking dazed, happy, and relieved, nursed the third. Two girls and a boy, a fine, healthy split. Sigrun looked down into the face the size of a human toddler, and examined the features carefully. Cloudy blue eyes, not a surprise. The wolf-like ears, and the tail that poked out of the yellow blanket that swaddled the child? Those were surprises. Lycanthropy breeds true.
Of course it does. It can’t just be a one-generational thing, Saraid informed her, quietly, stroking one infant’s face with a gentle hand. The wolves will always need interpreters. People who tie them back to humanity, and humanity to them.
Humanity, jotunity, whatever. Lassair’s tone was breezy.
Sigrun snorted. I don’t think that’s a word, Lassair. She hefted the heavy child up onto one shoulder, and shuddered a little at the thought of passing a twenty-pound infant out of her body. On the other hand, that’s probably not going to be a concern any time soon. “I’ll talk with some Judean and Hellene doctors I know,” Sigrun offered Ima and Vidarr. “Get them started on studying the issue of hormones for you. Chemical birth control should be something that the fenris females can choose to use, if they wish.” While chemical birth control had been invented in Nova Germania, the manufacturing plants were currently largely located in Hellas, Judea, and Nippon, with some in Qin and India.
“Some of us are . . . rather stuck this way, yes.” Ima sounded disheartened. “Decreasing the litter size would be a help.”
We’ll work on it, Saraid promised, now putting a hand on Ima’s head, and stroking the hair back from her face.
Sigrun handed over the infant to Saraid, and bade the dazed new parents congratulations. Feeling empty and exhausted, she left their barracks room, winding through halls that housed the jotun and fenris, acknowledging their greetings. She’d gotten to know many of them over the past eight months; the fenris always rushed to sniff her, excitedly, and the jotun knew her by name. There were too many of them for her to remember every name, but Sigrun tended to remember the ones with whom she’d fought. Larus, in particular, stood out to her. The fenris was smart enough, aware enough, that he was a strong candidate to be turned to a hveðungr by Saraid. He even remembered being a student in physics at the University of Jönköping, here in Gotaland, with plans to do graduate work in Athens or Judea. He fought as well as any of the rest of the fenris, but he clearly wanted, more than anything, to go back to work as a scientist. And yet, he had a deep-seated sense of pack loyalty. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a jotun. Sigrun and he had had several long conversations on the matter, and she sympathized. Why be something that you’re not, indeed, she’d told him. Be who you are, and be the best at it that you can be. Ima and Adam both speak of using calculi. To help fenris adapt into human society.
I like that thought, he’d told her, wagging his tail.
A hand came down on her shoulder as she passed through the halls, and Sigrun whirled, ready to fight . . . only to see Erikir there. She relaxed, smiling faintly up at him. “Well met, Sigrun. You’re looking tired. Heard about your little lindworm fight.”
“I can rest when I get home.” Home was about the only place where she could rest. No matter how exhausted she was, after fifteen years of being conditioned to listening to Adam’s deep, even breathing at night, she tended to stay awake much longer than she should when she couldn’t hear him. I thought when I was younger, I could sleep under any circumstances. Gunfire. Engine noise. Threat of attack. How ironic.
“You are doing your best to kill yourself with this constant traveling back and forth.” Erikir sounded sympathetic, though.
“It’s only a week every three or four months,” Sigrun defended, but she felt selfish even admitting to that. The other bear-warriors and valkyrie were on similar rotations if they had family, but Erikir didn’t have anyone to fly home to. And Brandr . . . she hadn’t seen him since the Day of Transition. She cleared her throat, trying to edge past the topic with some humor. “The worst part, really, is flying in the airplanes.”
“You never have gotten over that, have you?” Erikir chuckled at her. “Those of us who can’t fly on our own somehow manage to adapt.”
“Yes, yes, so I have been told. Many times.” Sigrun shrugged. “I will return. With birthing-gifts for Vidarr, Ima, and their new brood.” There. A better distraction.
“Oh, she had them? Outstanding. I will tap on their door and say congratulations, and then leave them in peace.” Erikir grinned, hugely. “First-born of all the jotun, and of all the hveðungr. It’s auspicious, and almost on the first day of the year, too. Should buoy everyone’s morale.”
“Perhaps,” Sigrun said, quietly.
“Even yours!” He slapped her shoulder. “It’s a new year, Sigrun. Time for hope. Time for renewal. Even up here, in the middle of the worst catastrophe humanity has ever seen, there is still hope. Think about it, eh? Go home. Rest. Kiss your husband.”
Sigrun smiled a little, in spite of her mood. Erikir had that effect on most people. She slipped out a side door, and looked up at the night sky. The clouds seemed to reflect her own exhaustion, hanging low and leaden, blocking the stars and the moon. It would be nice to see the sky properly, she thought. What would be even better, is if I didn’t have to get aboard a gods-be-damned airplane in the morning. I like flying. I hate airplanes. But, there are no other choices, and the airplane will get me there faster than I can fly there on my own . . . .
It might have been, Sigrun thought later, the strength of her longing to be home. It might have been the plaintive thought, of how much she loved to fly. Whatever the cause, as she looked up at the sky, a huge, dark shadow appeared there, and for an instant, all she could think was Lindworm attack!
She took a breath to shout a warning, even as the creature plunged into a dive, and she realized that its profile, so difficult to see against the low-hanging clouds, was bigger than any lindworm she’d ever seen. She could hear alarms being sounded all around the watch towers, and various jotun turned searchlights skywards to get a good look, and then began cranking anti-aircraft guns, borrowed from Judea and Chaldea, into position. She could see an intercept fighter, at the airfield down the road, being scrambled, its lights visible on the runway.
And then the massive wings caught the air, heavy down-strokes, braking the creature’s plunge, and he began to cruise overhead, leisurely, as the fenris howled challenges below . . . and Sigrun got a good look at the creature’s face, and the moonsilver eyes. “Stand down!” Sigrun shouted, trying to be heard through the fenris’ cries. “I said, stand down! It’s Niðhoggr! He’s a friend!” She rose into the air, letting her rune-light show, and moved neatly into position right at the dragon’s nose. Matched his course, speed, and bearing, backing away as he leisurely flapped towards her. “Waes hael,” she greeted him, formally. “Do you come bearing a message from Valhalla?”
A snort. Niðhoggr apparently didn’t like that notion, and shook his head slightly. “Do you come for a battle, then? We fought lindworms today. You would have enjoyed that, I think. They are pale shadows of you.” She frowned, that faint sense of unease and guilt worming its way back into her heart.
The dragon bared his teeth, and she had the impression of anger from him. “Yes, I know they could have been human once. But at the moment, they’re too dangerous in numbers to do much with besides destroy them.”
Niðhoggr snorted again, and snapped his head forwards, as if to catch at her with his diamond teeth. Sigrun shot backwards, keeping away, and the dragon dipped his head, almost cajolingly. “I think I am too tired to play, Niðhoggr. I apologize.”
She couldn’t even describe what happened next. Couldn’t visualize it. Niðhoggr found a burst of speed, leaped forward through the air, and rolled his huge bulk around, so that suddenly, he was under her. Twisted his head, on his lon
g neck, back to look at her, and then actually used his snout to push her down. Sigrun’s backside hit his scales—white-cold death seething under the hide—and she held on, reflexively, as the beast launched himself, in a sinuous streak, for the clouds. Sigrun forgot how tired she was, how much she hurt, as the breath was stolen from her, and she pressed her face against the scales to protect herself from the wind, laughing out loud in pure abandon. She thought they might be outpacing sound itself.
The Goddess Denied (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 2) Page 48