But our mind is full of confusion already. Hundreds of spectators are watching Nikolaj’s memories, both real and false, and find them irrelevant anyway.
The Craven lifts her head and buffers us from the heart-knotting magic. We cry into the wind, ‘Muninn it is! Mistress of Memory!’
And then our celebrations die out; tangled in thorns and buried in snow, far away from the sword, we catch sight of a green cloak and a mass of golden hair.
‘Down there!’ we scream, and Munnin obeys, tucking in her wings and plunging us down into the Maze, smashing through its walls, coming to a halt a hairsbreadth away from our nephew.
We pop through the air and land by his side, clawing at the snow and pulling his frozen body into our arms. ‘We didn’t teach you to cultivate such a bad habit of dying!’ we cry. ‘Theo!’
We shake him, sending heat through our hands to warm his core, to melt the ice from his eyelids, from where his breath has frozen to his face. ‘My boy, what has the world done to you? It’s okay, we’ll make it right.’
We carry him back to Muninn, securing him against our chest as we glide over the Maze, dipping down for our Craven to dislodge Freyr’s sword in her beak. We have the feeling she can only succeed because of the Gatekeeper on her back.
As we leave the Utgard Fortress behind, we realise that retuning to Alfheim isn’t an option. If Theo woke there to discover his beloved missing, the shock would kill him instantly. No, let us follow the Iving and let Muninn lead us home to Asgard.
The descendants of Thor shouldn’t fight the coming battle alone. The Clemensens have suffered long enough. If they cannot heal Theo and equip him to fight, they deserve oblivion.
Interlude
Freyr
I have witnessed tsunamis, storms that gouged out the sides of mountains, droughts that spanned decades as desperate souls danced for rain. But it has always been the simple things that move me: a bride, desperate to conceive a child, whispering a prayer to me and my sister; a mother kissing her son goodbye as he heads towards war and certain death; a soldier risking his safe position to rescue a wounded comrade.
A father, hardened by grief, welcoming his daughter back from the Underworld.
Rosalia’s hair whips in the wind as she runs through Malik’s camp, her arms flying apart as she glides into Michele’s embrace. He picks her up about her waist, almost stepping into the fading sunlight, and swings her side to side as if she were still a little girl.
‘Papa!’
Michele’s hard features melt, and blood is shed from stony eyes. The tears of a Dark Elf. I glance at Lorenzo. He has shed tears for me also – he forgets a god’s hearing is as keen as his own. He smiles and kisses my temple.
‘My darling, Rose,’ Michele cries. Elspeth is staring at the girl. At first, she does not see Menelaus staggering into the clearing, hair as wild as Highland heather. She does not see her son as he steps into the light of the Elvish hearth-fire.
Lorenzo leaps the distance between us and Theo’s cousin, flinging his arms around him. ‘’Ere, Professor, I think blood-stained chainmail suits you better than tweed.’
Menelaus smiles lamely and shrugs him off, his eyes trained on Elspeth’s face. ‘Is that my mother?’ he whispers, just as she spots him.
I can feel her heart stopping as surely as Lorenzo must hear it. Elspeth catches her sob in her hand, the other clutching her stomach. The sight of her abandoned child winds her. I watch her fall to her knees as Menelaus skirts the hearth-fire and swoops down to the ground, running his fingers through her long, red hair and kissing her lightly freckled forehead. ‘It’s okay, Mum. It’s okay.’
‘I abandoned you,’ she gasps as if it’s a revelation to her. ‘I left you.’
‘And you were abandoned also,’ he says. ‘Ava showed me. Ava showed me everything. I forgive you, Mum.’
She gazes up at him, the sunset catching her hair and her earthen-green irises.
And then the side of the volcano splits open, fiery veins cracking the surface as a river of fury sets the Forest of Dreams aflame and tumbles its rocks into the sea.
My people are screaming. They all fear the yoke inside the egg. None more so than me.
‘My Lord, what should we do?’ Malik looms above me, a machete in each hand. Those crude weapons won’t save him from Surt. My Lord. That’s right. Raphael would have shied away from such conflict but I don’t have that luxury; a throne always comes with a cost. I face Malik and he flinches. Does he comprehend my uncertainty?
He turns aside as a hand lays on his shoulder. Menelaus. ‘Gather your warriors,’ he says, ‘and tell the leaders of the remaining clans to meet in the Royal Forest.’
Malik stares blankly, as do I. How does the dhampir know what he’s talking about? His aura speaks of wisdom and understanding, a fleck of Ava’s rainbow lodged within him. ‘Hurry,’ he snaps, ‘and Freyr, take Lorenzo and find Aurelia. She must make a bridge wide enough to bear the weight of Alfheim to her shores. Anyone who remains here will be swimming in fire before the night is over.’
He swivels, his tattered cape whipping around his legs as he returns to his parents and his sister.
‘My Lord, should we obey?’ Malik asks.
‘Trust me,’ Lorenzo interjects, returning from the treetops, where he’d been stationed to get a better view of the destruction, ‘you don’t want to piss off the Minotaur.’
‘Sayen, Tiriaq, with me,’ Malik shouts. He relays Menelaus’s instructions and they disperse to address and organise their people.
‘So,’ Lorenzo says, ‘Cravens can fly through fire and volcanic ash, right?’
I gaze at the great bird who is wheeling and screeching in the sky. ‘Perhaps.’ As the Craven comes near, I grab Lorenzo and take flight with him in my grasp. We reach Odin’s beast just before my strength fails.
The sea is a smouldering cauldron. Below us, my people scatter like ants, crawling up the mountain into the Royal Forest, out of instinct rather than direction; they expect me to be there.
Instead, I hunker down on the Craven’s back, Lorenzo’s body shielding mine as I sing my directions, the bird taking us as high above the clouds as we dare, breaking through the ash and burning heat as we plunge through it. The Fae Isles appear as jagged rock in the distance.
‘Are you okay?’ Lorenzo asks, sitting up. His arms and face are singed. Why is he asking after my welfare, then?
‘I am. Lorenzo, you’re burned.’
‘It’s a good job that dökkálfars are quick to heal and difficult to kill.’ His skin repairs as we speak. His teeth bite the soft part of my neck. I don’t fight him – he’ll need every drop if we are to survive this.
Aurelia’s amber wings expand above the royal palace. This time our meeting is no dance with dolphins and clouds. We fly together towards the royal courtyard and land in the shadow of the palace.
‘We were once at war,’ I say, as soon as my feet hit the ground, ‘but now the time has come for the Fae to save my people and all the inhabitants of Alfheim. We must bridge the gap between our nations once and for all.’
Aurelia steps forward and sweeps me up before releasing me back to Lorenzo. ‘Anything for Raphael,’ she says. ‘And who, may I ask, is going to save us once the Elves descend upon my little islands?’
I pause. ‘I believe you must keep your faith in the Clemensens. They will come for us.’
What must it look like to the Elves, banding in groups on my mountain, as they witness the bridges of frozen mist arch from the Fae Isles and build towards them? Like a spider’s web freezing under winter’s breath? Lorenzo and I run across the broadest strand and, despite my terror, I cannot resist brushing my fingers against its high walls, a lattice of icicles which promises to lead me to my people.
The Fae Horn blows out from the very top of the palace, as it did at the very beginning and the very end of the Elven-Fae War. This time, it’s a warning – a call. The moment our bridge touches the mountain side, we charge into the centre of
the gathering.
‘Go!’ I shout, and my cry is deafening to Lorenzo; he huddles against the boom exploding from my chest as I rise into the sky, so that every last Elf and forest creature can hear my voice and feel my urgency. ‘Go to Aurelia! She is our ally and our saviour!’ The sound waves ripple over Alfheim.
The volcano gurgles again, spitting Surt’s hatred into the atmosphere. We are running out of time. I can only hope that Nikolaj has found his nephew as I watch the Iepen leave their treetop homes, carrying children on their backs, the chieftains of the other clans taking the first unsure steps onto Aurelia’s bridges.
Lorenzo gets up from the grass and rubs his ears. ‘Are you quite done?’ he asks as those who came to the mountain rush past him onto the bridge. ‘I think if Surt was asleep before, he’s wide awake now.’
I shudder.
‘Raph…Freyr, I’m sorry. Please don’t be afraid.’
I float to his side. ‘What have I to be afraid of? My destined demise? Perhaps I could welcome it after all these eons if it didn’t signify the destruction of the Nine Realms themselves.’
He grips my arms. ‘How can you say that? Perhaps you would welcome it? What about me; don’t I deserve to have you a little longer?’
I have wounded him again. But he’s still so young, how could he understand, how could his mind touch the pain of Freyja’s loss in my soul? ‘Surt has other ideas than to let me enjoy your love. I hurt him long ago, and to split me apart from you – the one who means most to me – would be his greatest joy.’
The fangs that once so disturbed me flash in Lorenzo’s violent smile. His grey eyes take on the red hue of the volcano. ‘Over my dead body,’ he hisses. ‘Now, let’s make use of Theo’s coven, and this time, they’re going to keep the creatures of the Underworld where they bloody well belong.’
Interlude
Loki
Loki held Hel’s tattered corpse in his arms, her blue lips smeared red. It had been a while since he’d felt anything other than rage and bitterness – now he could add grief to that list.
‘My sweet girl,’ he whispered. It seemed moments ago she was that infant who’d crept into his bed, complaining of nightmares because of the webs forever spinning in her mind – past, present, future, all the same to her.
Death and life were an expression of the same thing too. Loki understood that, and once the Gatekeeper and the Midgard Serpent soaked the Nine Realms in a river of their blood, there’d be no one to stop him from eradicating the illusion of duality that poisoned everyone’s minds. Couldn’t they see, he was doing it for them? Couldn’t they accept that only he could do what no one else would?
Well then, he should practise what he preached. He let Hel go, placed his hands upon her body, and absorbed her into his soul. Her flesh melted away, the Vital Essence that he once bore as she was created inside of him returning to its source. Death and life. The same thing.
He stood up and stared at her weaving room, now empty of its Prime Spinner. Come, little weaver, by killing you they have spun their own nooses. Can you feel that? The weight of the veil is lifting from my shoulders. Let us visit Surt. He will enjoy partaking in some of our rage.
Loki stood in the cross-channels that met before the dwarves’ gateway to Muspelheim, the cracks wrought in the keystone proof of the dhampir’s successful return from the fire-land.
‘Father, we cannot find the Dwarf Princess. We did, however, discover Nidhug’s corpse at the boundary to Niflheim.’ Narvi spoke to him from the burnt garden, unwilling to step into the water. How had he raised a coward as well as an idiot?
‘So you return empty-handed,’ Loki spat. ‘No matter. I’ll destroy the gateway myself, with a little help from your sister.’
‘I thought you said Hel was dead.’
‘She is. But I am god of death and entropy and I can command her Essence at will. By that old cretin, Odin, do I have to explain everything to you?’
Narvi grunted. Vali was probably still hunting for the princess; out of the two, he alone had inherited Loki’s stubbornness.
Loki climbed up to the arch and laid his palms on the first stone, letting his rage and resentment curl around him, generating the power he required like a Midgardian turbine, his daughter’s Essence threading it into a weapon worthy of his name.
The stone crumbled away, a blast of orange light leaking through. Stone by stone, he tore at the gateway, dismantling Freyr’s ancient magic, laughing as the wards crumbled into the wind. As the keystone crashed to the ground, the resulting boom levelled the palace. Narvi screamed as he flew backwards a second before it turned to rubble. Loki watched in mute awe as the blast continued across the city, the buildings collapsing like dominoes, while he alone stood at the gaping mouth of Muspelheim.
He whistled as he strode onto the volcano and peered over the ledge.
Surt lifted his fiery head from deep inside, pausing from his attempt to burrow through to the volcano’s inversion, which lead like an artery into the heart of Alfheim.
Loki held up his hands. ‘I come in peace!’ he shouted. ‘To you, anyway. Before the night has passed, you’ll be shoving burning coals down Freyr’s elegant little throat.’
Surt swivelled his diamond eyes in Loki’s direction, his voice singeing his ears. ‘Witches resealing the barrier,’ he hissed. ‘I can smell Freyr like humans breathe air.’
Surt roared, kneeling down and ripping a heavy-duty, barbed – and glowing – arrow from his smouldering foot. He snapped it and tossed it in the air for Loki to catch.
‘Sarrow quality,’ Loki shouted down, ‘infused by witchcraft.’
I recognise the flavour, Father. Hel’s voice. My Lamia fight against us. Traitors.
Usually, he would relish the fight. He pictured it in his mind’s eye: he and Surt would smash holes while Freyr and his little beasties plastered over the gaps, forcing them back. Eventually, they’d swat a few flies and make it through.
Today he was impatient. He veered into the sky, spreading out his arms and building a circular momentum in the air, before diving head first into the molten core of the volcano. The Gatekeeper had done him a favour by banishing him to the burning lake of Hades – he no longer minded the blisters. He no longer feared the pain.
III
Gods Of Fire
Theo | Espen | Lorenzo | Menelaus | Ava
45
Excerpt
Oath of the Golden Knives
And though we inject the poison into our veins,
We fight, knowing our trespasses are forgiven,
We’ll use their own magic against them,
And smile as they die by stolen power.
Do not fight Him, do not forsake Him,
After the end comes, the faithful are reborn.
Oath of Aten via His Magnificent Representative, Akhenaten.
The blood of my children become the blood of my veins,
The strength of their cries for glory, the lungs in my chest.
Those who take up arms against the enemy,
Will rise again to sit on thrones made from Pneuma bones.
46
Dead Shore
‘Theodore, now isn’t the time to sleep.’
My mind was locked together like interlinking fingers. Who was that? So familiar…
‘Your Highness, perhaps his parents—’
‘They are on their way, Nikolaj.’
Uncle...
Their conversation lost meaning but the soft murmurs picked me up on a wave and carried me into the deep. Uncle, I’m so cold.
Suddenly, I hit the shore, tossed onto the burning sand. I squinted in the daylight at the Grecian-sandalled feet in front of my face, and pushed myself up, taking in the pale legs that belonged to the goddess before me. Her toga was made of falcon feathers, a silver corkscrew separating a strand of her hair. ‘Freyja?’ I sputtered. ‘I thought you were dead?’
The goddess reached down. I took her hand. ‘I am everywhere and nowhere,’ she said,
cryptic. ‘Energy cannot be killed, only transformed.’
‘The Nine Realms won’t be the same without you,’ I said, unable to bury the guilt that I had harboured since Akhen had tricked me, a mistake that had caused her demise. ‘It’s my fault.’
‘Hush, Gatekeeper. There’s no time for blame. Another will ascend to take my place if the Fates deem it so. But first you must win.’
‘How?’
Freyja turned and walked towards a patch of palm trees. I joined her as she sat in the shade. ‘I have failed already,’ I said. ‘Freyr’s sword…’
She smiled. ‘Gatekeeper, you learned a valuable lesson in Utgard-Loki’s maze.’ I waited for her to elucidate. ‘You learned that love is the ultimate affirmation of life.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘To tear yourself away from your other half is to weaken yourself. This is the sacred truth all twins share.’ She smiled sadly. ‘There’s a reason that you and Ava were bonded together, long before you both set foot upon Earth. To break that bond is to choose death, and your death means…well, you know what it means.’
‘It felt so real, Freyja. Every thought, every choice. I have lived my life twice over and found this one wanting.’
A coconut landed, splat, between us. She picked it up. ‘And how would such an innocent, happy child, who knew no pain, have been prepared for Akhen’s hatred, for the destruction promised by the Midgard Serpent?’
‘You’re saying my suffering was necessary, so I’d be ready to fight?’
She shrugged.
Wrath of Aten Page 24