I Bring the Fire Part V: Warriors

by C. Gockel

  “What business of ours is it that some of the dwarf Merchant Class wishes self-government?” Nari says. “It might be in Asgard’s interest. Without the arbitrary confiscation of their wares they might have more to trade with us.” He turns to the Einherjar and Valkyrie in the room. “The dwarves are the finest metalworkers in all the realms. Imagine more and better armor and weaponry—that is what you would have if the dwarf nobility weren’t having their precious metals turned into rings and silly ornaments.”

  Surprisingly, some of the Einherjar and Valkyrie look thoughtful … possibly because their numbers had been considerably thinned by the war with the Fire Giants.

  Odin stands from his seat and raps Gungnir on the floor. “We have treaties with the Red and Black Dwarf nobility. We cannot renege on those; it would be dishonorable.”

  Loki sees the Valkyrie and Einherjar nod among each other at the Allfather’s words. There is nothing worse than dishonor in their eyes.

  Beside Nari, Hisbernia raises her arms. “We would not be reneging on our treaties if we negotiated new treaties.”

  Murmurs rise up around the hall. Odin’s face remains impassive, but Loki feels the Allfather’s magic rising in the room.

  Nari holds up a hand for silence, and then Hisbernia continues. “We could offer the Dwarf nobility more apples—they’d grant their Merchant Class their autonomy for immortality.”

  More murmurs rise in the hall. And Odin raps Gungnir on the floor for silence. “We do not have a limitless supply of apples!”

  “But we could have more!” Hisbernia says. “I know, I work the orchards alongside my mother. And we need not give them to all the nobility; even offering it to the kings would be enough.”

  “And you would have such treasures be doled out to the Dwarf Nobility, well known for their avarice and sloth?” Odin says. “They don’t deserve it.”

  “And for that reason they do not deserve to rule over their Merchant Class!” Nari shouts. “We should not go to war over this!”

  A din rises up among the Einherjar and Valkyries as they argue the merits of war and buying off the Dwarves. To Loki’s surprise, some of them agree with his son. He hears shouts of, “The Red King and the Black King are worse than the Merchant Class—let them get fat on apples!” But from the foreign born mercenaries, a chant begins to rise, “War, war, war, war … ”

  Rapping Gungnir on the floor for silence, Odin bellows across the room. “The honor of the Red and Black King is not our concern. Our concern is our honor. Don’t you value that, Nari Lokison?”

  Angry eyes flick to Loki and back to Nari. Loki feels his face go hot, and bile rises in his throat. He is generally regarded as the court jester. Odin is using Nari’s kinship against him. Loki resists the urge to speak, but every candle in the room flares. People jump back from the table, more angry looks shoot in Loki’s direction … and Nari’s.

  Odin’s magic rises in the room in an ominous cloud and the candles snuff out. The Allfather’s voice rises. “It is no secret you do not thirst for battle, Nari Lokison. You speak noble-sounding words, but they are laced with magic!”

  Whispers rise around the room. A look of distress crosses Nari’s face, and Loki’s stomach ties in knots for his boy. Nari can no sooner strip the magical charm from the words than Loki can strip the skin from his body. It is Nari’s intrinsic magic, like Helen’s magic was to reveal truth.

  The Allfather raps his spear on the ground once more. “Admit it, you don’t wish to go war because you are a coward!”

  It is, as Loki would gleefully point out in more civilized circumstances, an ad hominem. But the accusation of cowardice is such an anathema to the crowd’s deepest held beliefs about themselves that it works. Shouts rise up from the Valkyrie and Einherjar, “Odin’s warriors are never cowards!” And the mercenaries continue to chant, “War, war, war!”

  Nari raises his hands, and his magic flows around him, making him for an instant glow like starlight, or reason, and truth … But his magic fades in the blink of the eye. Odin’s magic is everywhere, threading between the crowd. Magical creatures that they are, the crowd doesn’t see it or acknowledge it. That would take too much concentration—and admittance that they paid attention to such a womanly thing as magic.

  “How is it cowardly to suggest peace in a room full of warriors?” Nari demands. Loki only hears him because he’s staring right at him, willing himself to hear. He sees Sigyn step close to their son. Glancing to the side, Loki sees Valli raise his mug in a toast to war with a pair of Valkyries. He closes his eyes.

  When he opens them he sees Nari arguing with some Einherjar, Hisbernia by his side. Sigyn is staring at Odin. Rising from his seat, Loki goes to his wife. Putting his hand on the small of her back, he whispers, “It will be a short skirmish. Valli is brilliant in battle, and Nari has his scabbard. Our sons will return to us unharmed.” The first part is the truth. The second parts are a hope that Loki speaks aloud to reassure his wife and himself.

  Pulling away, Sigyn glares at him. “Don’t you understand, it’s not about that anymore!”

  “What is it about then?” Loki snaps, frustrated, frightened, and uncomprehending.

  Sigyn’s eyes slide to the Allfather, and then back to Loki. Shaking her head, she turns away.

  x x x x

  The image of Sigyn’s turned back dances at the forefront of Amy’s mind. She can feel the way Loki’s stomach turned to lead as Sigyn did ... Was that the beginning of the end? Or the first time Loki noticed how deep the cracks were?

  “He’s easy on the eyes, that’s for sure,” says Beatrice. She’s peering through the window on Steve’s door. Despite herself Amy looks.

  Nari is talking to Henry, his back to them. Loki’s son is wearing dark jeans and a gray v-neck sweater. Both fit him perfectly—or maybe he fits them perfectly. She draws back. The sort of guy who would have nothing to do with her, she’s not all that and ...

  Amy blinks. Her face flushes, and she’s suddenly struck by a memory of Loki sitting at Hoenir’s table, casually eating a rack of lamb. Loki was about seventeen. Waving a rib he said, “Hoenir, could you turn me into a woman?”

  Where he was sitting across the table, Hoenir spit out his tea.

  Propped up on the counter edge, Mimir said, “Errrr … Loki, what brings this on?”

  Loki bit a piece of meat from the bone, barely pausing to chew it before he swallowed it down. “It just seems like it’s so much easier for women to have sex.”

  Hoenir went bright red and started coughing.

  Loki continued. “If you’re a woman, all you need is the barest minimum of looks and hygiene and you can have sex with just about any man.”

  “Would you marry just about any woman?” Mimir said, raising an eyebrow.

  Loki drew back in his seat. “No.” Pointing a finger, he said, “Don’t be offensive, Mimir. We’re just talking about sex here.”

  Recovering from his coughing fit, Hoenir rolled his eyes.

  “And you’d have sex with anyone,” said Mimir with a sigh.

  “No …” Loki tapped his chin. “Well … almost. But I wouldn’t marry just anyone … ” He shrugged and feigned an air of indifference. “If I ever get married at all.”

  Amy feels her skin go hot. She’s flustered by Loki’s flippancy and shallowness, and then she blinks, remembering Anganboða. When he first laid eyes on her Loki thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But that isn’t why he fell in love with her. He loved her because she laughed at his jokes, but knew he was more than a fool; she saw through Baldur’s illusions, and she was smart and loved magic.

  Amy looks toward the nursing station where they first saw Sigyn. Sigyn is beautiful, but on Asgard her looks aren’t special. Loki loved her because she loved Helen, and for her strength of will—her willingness to stand up to him, stand up for him and his children, and her wisdom and perseverance.

  Amy takes a step back, memories flooding her mind. Loki wasn’t an outlier. Whe
n it came to love, men required a certain level of health, but beauty was subjective, and usually it wasn’t really what made men fall. A lot of times they just wanted to be with women who genuinely liked them.

  She squeezes Fenrir’s carrier tight. It’s a dizzying realization. She looks back to Nari. He is someone she’d generally qualify as out of her league. But she never really gave men she’d classified as out of her league a chance before, had she?

  She really isn’t all that, but she is clever, she is kind, and she does have perseverance, if not Sigyn’s indomitable will. So why didn’t Loki have the same love for her he did for Sigyn and Anganboða?

  “I’m back,” Nari says, and Amy lifts her head to see him buckling on his scabbard. He gives her a smile, and then his face flushes a little.

  Averting his eyes, he whispers some words, and the scabbard and the gun he wears slung over his back vanish. The magic detectors of the agents at the door beep once or twice and then go silent as the three step away. Amy looks back at them as they walk. They’re still not sure how Freyja is disabling the magic detectors. Killing the little microscopic organisms that power them? Covering up their sound and light with an illusion?

  “Dr. Lewis,” Nari says, snapping her from her musings. “You’re very knowledgeable about magic. It’s quite remarkable.”

  “Oh, thanks,” says Amy, feeling herself go warm. They pass the sign-in desk; there’s a waiting room there, and some elves sit reading magazines. They look up and nod as the three pass. Amy catches a thread of the news report playing on the television. “ ... two-hundred people dead, eighty-eight trolls in Chicago ... if it weren’t for the aid of Asgard the toll would have been much higher.”

  The warmth she’d felt a moment before turns to cold dread. Amy’s pace slackens. Her mouth feels dry and her eyes hot. She finds her breathing coming fast and ragged. There is a children’s museum on Navy Pier.

  Her grandmother takes her arm. “I’m glad they didn’t get you,” Beatrice says.

  On her other side, Nari says, “Yes. You’ve made humans magical.”

  In the carrier, Fenrir gives a little yip.

  Raising an eyebrow, Nari looks at the carrier and adds “ And other … things … magical too.”

  The elevator opens. Entering after Beatrice and Amy, Nari shakes his head. “It’s a feat I would have only thought possible of Hoenir ... maybe Odin.” She feels rather than sees his eyes on her. “But you managed it with only human science.”

  Not only, but Amy doesn’t feel like talking about it.

  Eighty-eight trolls and two hundred dead, Steve unconscious and still paralyzed. She looks up at the numbers above the door, her gut churning.

  “It’s the democratization of magic,” Nari says. “I can’t even put into words how exciting I find this.”

  Amy glances in Nari’s direction. He’s leaning toward her, lips slightly parted. He is interested in her—but Amy’s too wrung out by recent events to be really excited … even if he is the most gorgeous man she’s ever met.

  Clutching Fenrir’s carrier tighter, Amy looks back to the lights beside the door. Rocking on her feet, she silently wishes for the elevator doors to open.

  As if heeding her silent prayer, the doors open and some other visitors get in. Nari falls silent, but in the smooth metal of the walls, Amy sees him. His eyes remain on her.

  x x x x

  As soon as they’re outside Amy puts Fenrir on her leash and lets her out to sniff. Fenrir promptly relieves herself at the nearest tree. And then, tugging at the collar, Fenrir leads her down the block. Amy doesn’t protest. The street is lined on either side by cement planter boxes filled with hedges cut just below knee height, and thin, young trees. The pavement is dark and wet with a recent rain; the leaves of the plants are bright green. It’s kind of pretty. Fenrir gives a full body wag, stands on her hind legs, and waves her paws in the air. Amy follows the point of her dog’s nose down the block. Bohdi is standing on the corner, back to her, Valli beside him.

  Trailing alongside Amy and Beatrice, Nari huffs. “Who is this Bohdi?” Amy’s head whips in his direction so fast, her ponytail gets stuck in her mouth.

  Eyes wide, he holds up his hands. “Not that he didn’t fight valiantly yesterday, but I heard him say he’s not even a citizen. He shouldn’t be working for the FBI.”

  Pulling her ponytail away, she faces forward and grinds out, “He helped me bring magic to the people. You should like him.”

  “By his own admission, by being a thief,” says Nari. “Where does he come from? Where does he live?”

  Amy scowls. “I don’t know where he lives, and I don’t care.”

  Nari stands a little straighter at that. What is that in his eyes. Hopefulness?

  Amy turns away.

  Ahead of them Bohdi still has his back to them. He drops his arm to the side, flicking ash from a cigarette as he does.

  Beatrice tsks.

  Amy remembers Bohdi’s cry as Gabbar was ripped off of him. She can’t begrudge him the cigarette. Even from behind she can tell he’s staring in the direction of Navy Pier.

  Fenrir barks, and Bohdi and Valli turn around. Valli beams at his brother. Bohdi doesn’t smile or say a word; he just flicks some more ash and gives her a nod. He looks wiry and lean next to Loki’s son, but he’s nearly as tall.

  Still smiling, Valli throws up his arms. “Brother, what is the Chinese blessing? May you always live in interesting times?”

  Bohdi takes a drag on his cigarette and turns away, gaze following a helicopter heading toward the pier.

  Walking up to Valli, umbrella upraised, Beatrice says, “That’s a curse, dear.”

  Nari grins. “No, no, this is the best of times for us.” Amy feels his eyes on her, but doesn’t look.

  Valli comes over and slaps his brother on the shoulder at the same time Fenrir gives a yip and lunges in Bohdi’s direction. Bohdi turns, and looks at the little dog, but there’s an emptiness to his gaze, as though he isn’t really seeing her.

  Nari and Valli start chattering in Asgardian, musing together about the damage sustained by Odin’s forces.

  Leaning over to Beatrice, Amy whispers, “Just give me a moment with Bohdi, okay?”

  Beatrice’s lips make a tight line, but then she rolls her eyes and whispers, “Fine, I’ll handle these jokers.” Turning around she lifts her umbrella, jabs Valli in the ribs, and says something in Ukrainian, or maybe Russian. Valli and Nari answer in kind—magic, Amy realizes—and quickly dismisses it. Her eyes go to Bohdi. Sitting down on his heels, cigarette in his mouth, he reaches out to Fenrir. Fenrir lunges so hard on the leash, the dog flips backwards and falls over.

  With a gasp, Amy steps toward her little animal. But Fenrir’s already up and wiggling over to Bohdi. Clenching the cigarette in his teeth, he rubs Fenrir’s chest. From above his long black bangs are like a curtain over his eyes.

  “How are you doing?” Amy says, and then mentally kicks herself. If he feels anything like her, he feels like a large part of his insides have been taken up by a mass of lead.

  Not looking up, he says, “I’m still taking it all in.” Standing, he turns back toward Navy Pier. Amy looks with him. She hears the sound of helicopters, but no explosions. Last she heard there were tanks and trucks dumping cement at the gate—a crude, but very effective way to keep trolls out.

  She blinks and looks down at her feet. No other race in the Nine Realms could react so quickly or effectively ... She feels her heart rate quicken. Odin is going to have to act fast. And unless something big happens, he will.

  “How are you doing?” Bohdi asks, snapping her back to the present.

  “Steve isn’t better.” That’s not what she was thinking, but maybe it’s what she thinks he will judge her hardest on.

  “He’ll get better,” says Bohdi, like he might say, “the sun will set.”

  Amy looks down at her feet. She scuffs her shoe on the sidewalk. And what happens if Steve does get better? An epidemic of magic on
the human race. If it doesn’t kill them, it might save them ... But the recipients won’t have a choice in the matter.

  “Amy,” Bohdi says, “is it just me … or do Fenrir’s paws look bigger?”

  Amy looks down at her dog. Fenrir’s as still as a statue. One of her front paws is up, her nose is pointed toward one of the cement planter beds. Amy looks hard at Fenrir’s paws. Her jaw sags. “You know, I think they do look bigger.”

  Fenrir drops to a low crouch, nose still pointed at something in the planter.

  “What are you looking at?” Amy says. Drawing back on the leash, she leans over into the hedge and sees a half-eaten hot dog, crawling with ants and covered in mud.

  Bohdi leans over beside her. “Ugh, Fenrir!” Grimacing, he turns away.

  A movement low to the ground catches Amy’s eye. She holds up her hand for silence and hands Fenrir’s leash to Bohdi. “Keep her close,” she whispers. Crouching low, she watches as the leaves and branches bend and snap, as though an invisible something is passing beneath them. A very small something.

  In her pocket, Mr. Squeakers peeks out and gives a cheep. Amy skips through the hedge after her invisible quarry, her sneakers sinking into the mud with loud sloshes. She hears Beatrice say, “What are you doing?” and Nari say, “I sense magic.” But she’s too busy chasing the invisible something. It heads directly to the edge of the planter, and Amy launches herself through the air, lands on the pavement just beyond the something, spins, and drops to a crouch.