I . . . sense nothing. The spirit sounded confused.
“What is it, Ima?” Vidarr whispered.
Ima snarled and darted out of the cover of the invisibility sphere and her jaws snapped closed on empty air. Vidarr leaped after her, and surged forward, seeming to tackle . . . something. A muffled shout of pain, a scuffle, and Vidarr rolled back to his feet, with the snow-draped figure of what appeared to be an . . . invisible woman in his arms, holding her in a lock, his massive arms wound under her arms and threaded up behind her neck. The outline of her form was made visible solely by the snow clinging to her clothing, her face was a mystery . . . and, with the giant standing, the woman’s snow-covered boots reached no further than the tops of his thighs. Ima reared up on her hind legs, bracing one paw against the woman’s shoulder, and breathed out in a white cloud, turning the invisible face into a hoarfrost mask, and rendering each short tuft of hair clearly visible.
Brandr, Erikir, and Sigrun all chorused, at the same moment, “Reginleif?”
You can fool our eyes and our ears, but not the nose of a wolf, Adam thought, even as the errant valkyrie shimmered into visibility, and, looking around blindly, snapped at them all, “Brandr! Erikir, you idiots. Have this creature drop me at once!”
Adam had never seen Reginleif before. He knew that Sigrun admired her and respected her as someone who had trained something in the order of seven generations of god-born. What Sigrun hadn’t conveyed was the incredible force of personality in the smaller woman’s voice and face. Brandr hesitated for an instant, and then stepped out of sound and light deadening to call to Vidarr, “She’s a friend, an ally—”
“No,” Sigrun said, sharply, stepping forwards now, herself. “She’s been missing for weeks, and disappeared just after falsifying records at the Odinhall.” Sigrun’s expression was cold and fierce suddenly, as if all the uncertainty she’d expressed while helping Lassair with the jotun was now gone, in sight of one of her quarries. “She has been involved with Potentia ad Populum, which may include Lagunov, the woman who recruited you, Vidarr. Do not release her. No matter what you think you see or hear or feel, keep your hands on her at all times.”
Erikir threw up his hands, and stepped out of the bubble, following Sigrun. “She could have been infiltrating the group!” the younger bear-warrior defended their mutual mentor. “Don’t you think you should hear her defense before you judge, Sigrun? Or are people no longer permitted to maintain their innocence around you?”
Kanmi swore in his native tongue. “Ben Maor? Get these idiots back inside the invisibility sphere. I can’t expand it to reach them.”
Sigrun had already reached that conclusion, however, shoving Erikir back into the circle and beckoning Vidarr and Ima back into the safety of the illusion. Adam could see Reginleif’s eyes widen, and then narrow, in almost a craftsman’s appreciation as she turned her head, with difficulty, to study the illuminated inner walls of Kanmi’s sphere. “I will certainly allow Reginleif the opportunity to plead her case,” Sigrun answered, in Latin, biting off the ends of her words. “Of course, the first thing I would like to know is this: Was yours the hand that turned the searchlight on Brandr and Erikir as they circled around to meet us?”
“Of course not,” Reginleif snapped in response, just as a dozen guards rounded the southern end of the main building, heading to investigate the collapsed guard towers, undoubtedly.
“Lie,” Sigrun said, her eyes intent, and her teeth suddenly bared. “Were you the Fennish shaman who spoke to us in town, Kylliki Nurmi?”
“No! You foolish daughter of Tyr, do you think that this is the time or the place—”
“Lie again,” Sigrun shot back, her eyes glittering.
“Esh, make sure you’ve got that silence going,” Adam muttered. “Everyone else, let’s fall back to the north.” Answers or no, they needed to get out of range of those approaching guards.
And that was when a blue-green ribbon of light formed in the sky, like the aurora borealis that Adam had only seem pictured in books before . . . except that the light clearly streamed directly down to their bubble of invisibility. Reginleif had her eyes locked on that plume of heaven-born light, and Adam realized, with a shock, that it was hers. Her variant on a signal flare. Without a word, he stepped forward, and slammed the butt of his rifle into her jaw, as hard as he could, and as her head snapped back, the light faded, at least for a moment. “Run,” he snapped, and suited action to words, turning to head north.
Shots being fired into the empty air, where they’d just been. Shields flaring into life around Kanmi and Minori, Lassair rushing forward and slipping into and through Trennus. Adam always did his best not to look directly at Tren when Lassair was shielding him; when Saraid did it, Trennus looked vaguely bestial—antlers, hooves, shaggy, with leaves strewn in his hair, and a nimbus of pale green light that enshrouded him. When Lassair did the same thing, Trennus was usually too bright to look at. Impossible to aim at, and yet, he suddenly had all of Lassair’s unearthly beauty, and it was downright unnerving. Adam, for his part, hoped his Judean-manufactured bullet-proof vest was up to the task, and kept moving.
Skidding to the right, back around the edge of the main building. The northern tower was still intact, and the guards were sweeping the vicinity with their search lights, guns at the ready. Pinned, Adam thought, shook his head, and raised his weapon, firing directly on the guards above. Saw two of the three fall out of the tower, limply, and the third staggered at the impact of the bullets, and sagged down, out of sight. “Clear,” Adam said, shortly. “Into the woods. We can circle back around, get with our jotun allies—”
“Jotun allies?” Reginleif scoffed, spitting blood from her battered lips. “You cannot ally with monsters. You don’t know what they are. Brandr, hear me! They eat the flesh of humans! You cannot ally with such beasts!”
Brandr twitched, and Adam could see the flash of doubt that passed through his expression. “I know what they’re given to eat!” Brandr shouted at her. “I have heard it from this one’s lips.” He gestured at Vidarr, who still held Reginleif off the ground. “Now, be silent! I don’t have time to hear you right now, though you are one of my oldest living friends!”
Adam started to move north, but Sigrun held up a hand, urgently, for a halt. “What?” Adam asked her, dropping to a crouch once more.
Her face tipped upwards, and she pointed, silently, at the sky. His eyes tracked along her finger, and, though clouds covered over the stars, and the gray light of dawn was very faint indeed, he thought he could see movement. “Lindworm?” he asked. “Close?”
Sigrun shook her head, slowly. “No,” his wife said. “That’s not a lindworm.”
The guards, who had just rounded the corner, spreading out in a search pattern, seemed to become aware of the dark shadow in the sky overhead at the same time. They all froze in place, and then began to scatter and run, shouting to one another in Gothic. “Drache! Drache! Wyrm!”
“Dragon?” Trennus asked, sounding distinctly uneasy.
“Not just a dragon,” Sigrun said, quietly. “Níðhoggr. The son of Hel, and her mount.”
Adam’s eyes went wide as the creature descended. Easily the size of a small passenger jet, the dragon seemed to be made of equal parts liquid metal and night. Pale eyes as large as Adam’s own head blazed white fire, illuminating the face and a set of jaws armed with teeth that glittered coldly in the light of the dragon’s eyes, and the creature came in for a landing, not on the roof of the apparently abandoned building, but on the ground beside them, flaring back barbed wings, and raising that savage head to roar, loudly, in challenge. Clawed feet tore at the frozen ground, and Adam looked up at the creature in numb awe. Not beautiful. Sublime. That which is not merely pretty, but awe-inspiring. Terrifying. Breathtaking. It was like . . . looking at Sigrun or Lassair, and comparing them with almost every other woman he’d ever met.
The creature leaned down its massive head, longer than even Vidarr was tall, and snuffled
at Sigrun, the nostrils widening perceptibly. And then made a sort of rumbling sound, low in its chest.
That is quite enough of that. The voice that wasn’t a voice made Adam feel as if his brain was about to liquefy and pour out of his ears. He looked up, and realized, belatedly, that the dragon, indeed, had a rider, as a . . . woman? . . . slid off the creature’s back. And when she descended to the ground, Adam felt, once more, the indefinable sense of power and presence he now associated with gods. Entities. Whatever. Except that in this goddess’ presence, his very soul felt flayed. Her face was covered by a half-mask, and blood seeped out from under it, in rivulets, clearly visible in the light of Kanmi’s spell.
Hel—for so it must have been—turned her cold countenance towards Vidarr. Release my father’s servant, beast.
Vidarr shook for an instant, and, just for a moment, his eyes slid past Hel, towards Sigrun. Adam watched it happen. Saw the jotun swallow, and then reply, his low voice weaker than it normally was, “With respect, my lady . . . I will not release my prisoner until the valkyrie tells me I can. Because I doubt absolutely everything I see right now. There’s been too much illusion, and too many lies.”
Hel hissed, a sound that felt like an icicle passing through Adam’s eardrum and directly into his brain. Foolish mortal creature. Do you not know death when you look upon it?
Vidarr’s massive body trembled like a leaf in the wind. “I know what you appear to be. But I also know that my prisoner can make me think I see anything. Aside from which . . .” The giant swallowed, “Where have the gods been in all this, that they have permitted what has been done to me? To all my brethren? If you are what you appear to be . . . then I demand justice.”
You presume to demand anything? Hel’s laughter crawled through Adam’s brain like frozen worms. All he could think, in a dazed way, was that this creature made Supay, in Tawantinsuyu, look like a child’s puppet, a crude figure carved from clay. This entity was death and terror, incarnate.
“He dares to demand the right of every one of our people,” Sigrun said, suddenly. Hel’s baleful stare turned towards her, and Vidarr’s knees almost buckled, for an instant. “He demands an accounting. And so do I.”
Hel raised a taloned hand, and cold light radiated out from between her fingers. Insolent child of Tyr. Capering around in your borrowed glory, like a raven in a peacock’s feathers. Do you dare to challenge me?
There was a gentle cough from behind Adam. Polite. Almost discreet. Adam spun and looked up. Very far up.
The creature behind him didn’t wear armor, any more than Tyr had in the Odinhall, other than on Adam and Sigrun’s wedding day. He wore, in actuality, a finely-woven cloak, with an intricate golden clasp in the form of Jormangand, the Gothic world-serpent. White shirt, leather pants, knee-high boots. His hair was dark, and fell to his waist, loose, and in one hand, he carried, not a sword, but a distaff. An oddly unnoticeable face; Adam, even though he stared at him, couldn’t have described him, even a minute later, but for the eyes. The eyes were a cold, clear silver, as penetrating as Sigrun’s, but they glowed, faintly, around the rims of the irises, like the gleam of the sun eclipsed by the moon. Let there be no talk of challenges, the god said, and his voice was nothing like Hel’s. It whispered and rustled and made a place for itself in Adam’s consciousness. At least, not at the moment. You have all traveled such a long way to speak with me. The least I can offer you is my hospitality. Come inside, do. He paused, and looked at each of them, in turn. To Vidarr, the god offered a faint smile, and an approving nod. I thought you had steel in you. You are . . . everything I had hoped you would become. He looked down at Ima, frowned, as if puzzled, and actually knelt to study her, lifting her head with the distaff in his hand. This? This is not what I intended. A keen, cold glance at Reginleif. It seems we have much to discuss, daughter. And finally, a glance at Sigrun. Ah, Tyr’s child. Another long conversation.
“A very short one,” Sigrun managed, her voice thin. “I have come to—”
Demand an accounting. I know. Come inside, all of you. There is no reason for you all to stand in the cold. Enjoy my hospitality, or at least, the hospitality of my humble hosts. Irony sifted through the words.
Adam watched as the creature who had silenced Hel disappeared back through the wall of the building. “And that was . . . ?”
Sigrun’s tone was bleak. “Loki. The master of illusion, seiðr, trickery, and deception. Believe half of what you hear, and nothing of what you see. And we may yet live to see another day.”
In spite of Sigrun’s words, Adam felt a niggle of doubt. There had been . . far more humanity in Loki’s mien, than in Hel’s words and demeanor. But would that not be the best trick of all? he thought.
Chapter 7: Sundering
Occasionally, I’m interviewed for far-viewer or the newspapers in Rome or Judea. When I’m interviewed for Latin-language news, the questions almost always revolve around Propraetor Livorus’ current diplomatic efforts, or, less often, my recollections of events in Nahautl, Judea, Tawantinsuyu, or Fennmark. I try to avoid the latter. As a lictor, I should never be bigger than the job, or be more prominent than my protectee. Unfortunately, some of the events that we have found ourselves involved with, have left an indelible mark on the public consciousness. Large-scale disasters are easier to understand for the average person, when they have a face to associate them with, and for better or worse, Propraetor Livorus was in Nahautl and Tawantinsuyu for two major earthquakes, and in Judea for a series of spirit-based terror attacks.
Now, when I’m interviewed for Hebraic sources, the questions are almost never about my job. Rather, they usually ask how I manage to maintain my identity as a Judean, when I’m married to a god-born of Valhalla, serve Rome, spend most of my day speaking and thinking in Latin, and have, indeed, spent over twenty years of my life entirely outside of Judea. I generally state that my relationship with our god is not really anyone’s business but my own, but I note that I observe the major holidays. I keep kosher, as best I can. I pray.
Now, what some of the more intrepid interviewers have edged towards asking, but rarely manage to come right out and say, is this: Agent ben Maor, you’ve been in the presence of the gods of unbelievers. How does that affect your faith? Doesn’t seeing miracles from them, when you see none from your own god, strain it? Doesn’t being around magic and the power of other gods put your soul in danger?
The answers to those questions will, undeniably, differ from one person to the next. And my answers won’t do you any good, because, well, you’re not me. But let me put it this way. While I have felt the undeniable, terrifying, and awesome presence of the gods of other peoples, they were not my god. They are no less real for not being mine, than I am less real for being Judean and not Roman. And while, when I sit in a synagogue or in the Temple here in Jerusalem, I do not feel a presence that resonates through the floor and rattles my teeth . . . I still believe that our god is in the world. That is what belief is for. I’m a rational man. I accept that there is an evolutionary record that shows more than what my ancestors were capable of understanding. I accept that the universe is a bigger, wilder, and stranger place in the light of science that can split the atom, than when iron was the hot new technology, instead of that passé bronze.
But there are things that science cannot answer, and each person must find for himself or herself an answer that fits them. We all wonder what happens when we die, and science cannot answer that. We all wonder what the meaning of life is. And each of us must determine that for ourselves.
An interviewer would probably press me now. Mr. ben Maor, you still haven’t explained how it is that you know your soul is in no danger? That your faith is still true? And it’s true. I haven’t. You can’t prove faith. It’s not a matter of numbers. But if you’d accept some external proofs? Those ‘foreign gods’ I have been exposed to, have told me, to my face, that they can barely perceive me. That I am subject to someone else. Bound to someone else. I am not, like an atheist or
an agnostic, ‘fair game.’ If I am bound by my covenant, if I am subject to someone, then there must be someone to whom I am subject. That is a powerfully reassuring thing to me. Though there are those out there who would certainly tell me that accepting the word of a foreign god on the matter detracts from the purity of my belief.
And to that, there is no reply, save that my answer is not your answer, and yours is not mine.
—Adam ben Maor, “Faith vs. Religion: Personal Knowledge or Social Construct?” Interview in Hebraic Studies Today, Iunius 17, 1971 AC.
______________________
Aprilis 27, 1970 AC
Sigrun kept her eyes wide, unfocused, trying to see everything at once, as they circled around and entered the main building. She couldn’t track every detail. But she could try to be aware of . . . discontinuities. Disconnects. For example, before they entered what had seemed to be a dilapidated building, Niðhoggr had launched himself up and landed on the roof overhead. Now that they were inside, his weight made the ceiling beams creak alarmingly, and pieces of plaster showered down on all of them. That seemed real. But it meant that the roof was nowhere near as ruined as it had looked from the outside, else it could not have borne the dragon’s enormous weight. She glanced upwards, and saw a handful of cracks spidering out from various places in the ceiling, mostly around the mounting brackets for the overhead lights . . . all of which turned on, abruptly. Ley-powered and steady. Not a flicker in them. Sigrun glanced around again, looking for clues, as they advanced further into the old building.
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