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

by Deborah Davitt

  Martius 19, 1992 AC

  “You’re quite certain that it was Jormangand?” Sigrun’s stomach churned. Her tent in Germania was hardly the setting in which she’d have expected to entertain an efreet, a russalka, and a goddess, years ago. But here they were.

  He did not take the opportunity to introduce himself formally, but his Name rings about him through the very firmament. Yes. It was he. Zhi’s tone was grim.

  Sigrun took a seat on the field stool, and looked, soberly, at the others. “And he was already wounded . . . perhaps by a mad god that he didn’t manage to destroy? Or by the ley-energy leakage?” She was trying to fit the information in her head, but it was too monumental.

  If I had to guess, I would say that they have been periodically attacking him, like piranhas, taking a mouthful of flesh and darting away. He is too powerful for any one of them to do more than harass at the moment . . . but they are growing in size and strength. They are learning. Hecate sounded concerned. Amaterasu, within your friend, Truthsayer, reports that Hachiman was destroyed when two of the mad godlings attacked him in tandem. Apparently, together, they blotted out the sky. The goddess bowed her head. Sigrun had yet to see the face that was beneath that black hood, and doubted that she ever would. She also always had the uneasy feeling that the goddess was watching her, somehow, but usually dismissed that as egotism. They may have ruptured the line to damage Jormangand, weaken him. That, and they may be trying to feed on the ley-energy directly, though I cannot imagine that they could. We of the Veil cannot.

  Sigrun rubbed at her face. “I’ll tell my gods,” she said, feeling a little helpless. “The world-serpent was subject to Loki and to Hel, however. They were the only ones who could control him. The others have mostly left him alone, even as they have left Fenris alone, though he’s . . . bound, as I understand it . . . .” But not Nith. Nith has attached himself to me, for some reason. The thought passed through Sigrun’s head, chilling her. Should I have gone to Fenris? Attempted to . . . talk to him, the way I talk to Nith? What would I even say? ‘There are millions like you now, in the world today? Come join the rest of the pack?’ What do you say to a ten-mile long serpent made of magma and raw energy? Other than ‘Please don’t eat me.’ But she couldn’t escape the sensation that she had, somehow, forgotten a duty. “Jormangand would be a powerful ally. He’s capable of destroying mad godlings. But . . . . ”

  He is also sufficiently powerful that he might inadvertently destroy a portion of a continent while doing so, Zhi replied, dryly. I am no stranger to power. Anyone with sense looks for more, in order to protect themselves, and those who are bound to them.

  “I would disagree with that,” Sigrun retorted, her tone harsh.

  Of course you would, valkyrie. However, I think that where we will agree, is this: power without control is absolutely useless.

  The russalka, curled up in a corner, shook her head, vehemently. None of this matters. You said it yourself, valkyrie. The only ones who could control your world-serpent, are either dead, or vanished. Retrieve Loki and tell him to restrain the creature bound to him.

  Loki may not have the power to command the wyrm when and if he returns from the Veil, Hecate said, sharply. I have lost much. So has he.

  “Perhaps Rig? Nith recognizes who and what he is. Perhaps Jormangand might, as well.” Sigrun’s head spun.

  There is another option, beyond mere guessing, Hecate suggested.

  Sigrun’s head lifted, and she stared at the hooded head, trying to look past and into whatever eyes were shrouded by its shadows. “And that is?”

  Prometheus had foresight before Apollo of Delphi ever came forth from the Veil. There was a sneer in Hecate’s voice; the goddess felt nothing but contempt for the gods of Olympus, and it showed, regularly. He needs more information to make more accurate predictions, however. Perhaps he could meet with your sister, Stormborn. He might be able to glean something from her mad ramblings, and advise us all to a course of action.

  Sigrun shook her head, silently, and with emphasis. “She’s lived her life as the slave of prophecy, and it’s a curse that only spreads. It contaminates everyone it touches,” she said, biting off the words. “And she deserves what little peace she can find.”

  If it is the difference between destroying the mad godlings, and saving the world, and the peace of a madwoman, I would choose to disturb that peace. Would you not? Would she not?

  Sigrun exhaled. “You said that the mad godling . . . exploded. Became a hundred smaller creatures. Each capable of devouring life and energy.”

  Yes. Zhi’s humanoid form nodded, and the flame-like eyes gleamed. Each was much smaller. Much more capable of being devoured and resisted. I could hunt these smaller ones.

  The valkyrie shook her head. “Yes, but those are also . . . more mouths, all of which are capable of feeding,” she replied, and then sighed. “Very well. Let us speak with Prometheus, and see if he agrees that he should speak with Sophia. The more information I have to give my gods, the better.” She stood and pushed her tent flap open, looking east, towards Frankonovurd am Main.

  The city was the capital of the sub-province of Franconia, and had been populated largely by Franks until the past thirty years. A trickle of refugees from Gotaland and Cimbri and the northern sub-provinces of Germania itself had become torrent, and, in the last year, a general migration. Millions of people were coming south. Most were living out of motorcars, but some were on horseback or on foot, all following the roads south, towards the Alps. Roman news stations referred to this as the “most recent barbarian invasion,” with nervous titters from the news anchors, but the jokes didn’t amuse Sigrun. From where she stood, she could see hundreds of thousands of vehicles and tents and trailers, all ringing the city . . . and a steady stream of people and cars moving across the bridges of the Main.

  Northwest of the city was the ancient Roman bastion of Agrippinensium; it straddled the Rhein, and thus, was strategically important for maintaining the flow of supplies and troops to the North Sea, where she’d been fighting before her three-month ‘break’ in Judea. In her absence, things had only gotten worse. Everyone here will be irritated that I am leaving after only two days. But it cannot be helped. At least I am not here with the Legion.

  In the past five years, the grendels had managed to tame and train some of the lindworms, and the lindworms now flew into combat against normal mortals, dropping heavy rocks on them from above. Vidarr and Ima had asked Sigrun to look into finding them some eggs, if she could.

  Some of the grendels had even proven that insane did not mean stupid. They’d taken to ambushing supply convoys and taking the weapons, particularly the explosives. And there were literally millions more giants, pouring down from the north. Current estimates put three million of them in upper Germania and pushing into eastern Gaul, specifically, Belgae. Another three million had streamed eastward, into Raccia, forcing the people to retreat into Asia.

  Agrippinensium was, therefore, bleeding out its life. Half the skyscrapers were smoking ruins, and Thor himself had been on the ground, fighting there. She’d found herself hovering in the air over Thor and Brandr as the god and his grandson stood back-to-back, holding off hundreds of the giants in the city’s financial district, while human sharpshooters tried to find perches from which to fire their weapons safely. A high-velocity rifle round could break through a grendel’s heavy skull. That was something, at least.

  She’d caught sight of an ettin charging forwards to brain Brandr with an axe, and had pulled lightning down on it, at the same instant Thor swung his hammer, hewing the beast to the ground. She’d raced closer to the ground, even as Brandr threw himself to safety, and rolled back up to swing at another opponent. She’d caught the look of thanks, but Brandr never said two words anymore, when one might do. He’d never lost the stutter from the brain damage inflicted on him by Hel’s attack.

  Keep aloft, protect the human snipers! Thor had ordered. We have the ground under control!

 
She’d ascended, as he’d ordered. The snipers on their perches were fair game for the lindworms, who seemed to delight in finding a human up high, pulling them out of cover, and dropping them to their deaths. Sigrun had spotted a lindworm carrying a soldier. Hadn’t dared to hurl lightning—the man was still in contact with the creature—and raced to catch him as the lindworm dropped him screaming, from its claws. She hit him hard enough to break ribs, getting him onto her shoulder . . . and just past him, spotted another man falling to his death. She saw it almost in slow motion, and veered momentarily, trying to get there . . . but she didn’t have the speed or the trajectory. Instead, all she saw was the limp way his limbs convulsed when he hit the ground. Saw a lindworm race away, hissing as its wings tore at the air, and pulled lightning to it, sending it spinning into the face of a skyscraper, instead. Chooser of the dead, Sigrun thought, numbly, ducking in through the shattered window of a building and dropping the man she carried onto a debris-covered floor. Industrial-grade carpet. Office furniture, all overturned and some burned. Shattered spheres that had once been ley-based calculi. “Are you all right?”

  “No, valkyrie . . . but I can still fight.” The blond man still held his Hellene-made rifle, against the odds, and sank to the floor, wheezing a little.

  She’d taken the broken ribs from him, rune-light flaring briefly on her skin, and felt the ache inside. It had been, after all, her own doing. “Do so.” Then she’d taken back into the air, and started hitting every lindworm she saw with lightning. Clearing the air space. And she’d still had to dash to try to rescue other snipers.

  It had been ghastly, but little more than a reprise of previous horrors. And yet, she hadn’t seen other, older battles in her dreams that night, but this battle, over and over again. Trying to grasp a falling hand that was always just out of reach. And every time she looked down to see the face of the man she’d failed, the face looking back up at hers was always Adam’s.

  The fourth time it had happened, Sigrun had sat up in her sleeping bag, and dully tried to tally how many war zones in which she’d fought since 1970. Gotaland for three years. ’73 through ’80 had been Praetorian work, but ’80 through ’84, she’d been on the Persian front in the current Caspian Conflict, and ’87 through ’90, she’d had Praetorian duty alternating with work on the Persian front. Last year, she’d been in Gotaland until she’d received Sophia’s call, and had been sent back after her sister had stabilized. All told, she counted more than eleven of the last twenty-two years as spent in battle. This is what I was made for, she’d told herself, and had tried to go back to sleep.

  Now, Sigrun shook herself back to the present. She lowered her head, and spoke, silently. Father? Tyr, I have counsel for you, brought by Hecate, Zhi, and a russalka who ventured to the Arctic. They say that the cause of the volcanic activity there is Jormangand. Odin must be told of this. She paused, but there was no immediate answer. There often wasn’t; she was hardly her god’s only child. She could not conceive of what it must be like to have so many people continuously asking for attention, so she tried to make sure that if she appealed for his awareness, that it was at least for a good reason. Not an emergency case of the hiccups. Father, please. This is urgent. The mad godlings are targeting him. He managed to slay one, but it only spawned more of the creatures . . . he did not absorb enough of its essence.

  I hear your words, my daughter. Tyr’s voice was weary. I am manifested in Novo Trier at the moment. The last of the Iroquois gods has fallen, and the mad godlings are testing our defenses here. I will pass the knowledge to the others. Freya is closest, however. She may be the one sent to Jormangand. She has seiðr, as Loki did. Jormangand may respond to her, as he did to Loki. She may also be able to heal him.

  Sigrun hesitated. Freya had, arguably, manipulated her. The othersight, the ability to mend broken minds . . . both could be seen as extensions of her existing truthsense and healing. But the knowledge Freya had implanted, which Sigrun usually sought to ignore when it bubbled up . . . that was in the realm of seiðr. Sorcery. What Kanmi and Minori had spent decades mastering. It nagged at her, and she pushed it away, hard. It felt . . . presumptuous. Father, should I bring Rig to her? He is Loki’s son. He might be able to reach the world-serpent . . . perhaps even Fenris.

  Ask of him. Every option must be explored. As you must explore the options presented to you by Hecate.

  She did not question that he already had absorbed the knowledge from her, and bowed her head. As you command, my lord.

  The first step, naturally, was to get back to Judea. There were several problems in the Arctic. The shattered ley-line . . . that required a world-class ley-mage, if it could even be repaired at all. When she put the question to Trennus, eight hours later, she had the weary satisfaction of watching his eyes go wide in consternation. “Sig,” Trennus objected, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m not sure there’s anything that anyone could do. A ley-line is the macro version of a cosmic string, the way a solar system is the macro version of an atom. I think this may be something that the universe will have to balance on its own, naturally.”

  If a mad godling could break it, then certainly, someone else should be able to repair it, Hecate said sharply, as they all met in the grand drawing room of Erida’s manor. Sigrun always felt uncomfortable here. There were too many small, valuable things around, and she perpetually felt herself in peril of knocking them over.

  Trennus exhaled. “I can try,” he allowed. “I’m not sure even where to start, to be honest. But I can try.” He looked around. “Though I’d take it as a courtesy if you wouldn’t let Jormangand eat me while I’m trying to repair the line.”

  The next item that must be addressed, Hecate went on, succinctly, is the issue of better information. Finding out the probability of your success in the north, and whom would have the greatest probability of success in any endeavor to . . . gentle Jormangand’s disposition . . . would be most helpful. The hooded head swung towards Prometheus. What do you see so far, foresighted one?

  The titan, perched in one of the delicate antique chairs, shifted uneasily, and the chair creaked alarmingly under him. Sigrun could see both Zaya and Erida’s eyes dart towards him, in faint concern. I have rarely seen a clear choice in the whole of my existence, Prometheus admitted, slowly. I have always seen paths. Lines of probability, some clear and sharp and vivid—those are the more probable outcomes—and fainter, dimmer echoes that branch off those main paths. The better my understanding, the better my data, to use the modern term . . . the better my predictions. Zeus never quite grasped that I couldn’t tell him which of his descendants would rise up to kill him. Just that one, probably, would. Prometheus smiled faintly. Incidentally, that line of probability is, amazingly, still open. I would prefer not to mention that to him, however.

  That is hardly likely while you remain outside the Veil. Though if you returned there and renewed yourself, you would be the stronger for it. Hecate’s tone was sharp.

  Entering the Veil would allow the Olympians to become aware of me. I’d prefer it if Zeus remained unaware of my renewed existence. The titan’s expression became grim. I think he might have more creative things in mind for me than an eagle continuously tearing out my liver if he came across me again. No. This new world, with its rules about gods not entering into each other’s territory? I will happily continue to take refuge here in Judea, and will fight to protect its borders. But the Veil and Hellas are not good places for me, at the moment.

  “So what lines of probability do you see as helpful, regarding Jormangand?” Sigrun said, trying to get the conversation back on its tracks, as Erida gestured to Zaya, and the young woman stood to pour fresh tea for everyone.

  I do not know much about this world-serpent. Is it the Ouroboros of the Egyptians, the self-consuming line between order and chaos?

  Sigrun shook her head. “No. He was, according to prophecy,” the word tasted foul in her mouth, “destined to aid in the destruction of the world, on the side of Loki, aga
inst the rest of the gods of my people.” She shook her head. So much for prophecy. “He is one of Loki’s ‘children,’ and his mother is said to be Angrboda. A frost-giantess, a hrímþursar.” She shrugged. “No one has ever worshipped Angrboda, to my knowledge. As I understand it now, the hrímþursar, the original jotun, exist, though no mortal has seen them in thousands of years. It’s entirely possible that Jormangand is merely an affiliated, allied spirit, and owed Loki his homage, not his lineage.” She looked down. She might have been able to ask her gods for more information, but she hesitated to ask too much about the inner workings of the Aesir court. Tyr surely already understood her doubts about the ancient and no doubt metaphorical legends twined around him and the rest of the Aesir and Vanir. And he had always taught her that if a human was ready to ask the question, that that person was probably ready for an answer. And yet . . . these questions seemed presumptuous.

  Not enough information to crystallize my vision, I’m afraid. Would you allow me to touch your mind, Stormborn? It was courteously phrased. There are things that you know, that you may not even realize that you know, that would be of value. And we do not have time, I think, to play at Socrates’ beloved game of question and question and question.