Black Ice

by Susan Krinard

  She grinned at Mist over the Jotunn and then looked up into the giant’s eyes. Abruptly he fell to his knees, and one of the male Alfar plunged another narrow blade into his neck.

  Mist felt the battle fever fade from her mind and looked around. Two score Jotunar were scattered over the ice, many dead but with only the smallest wounds on their bodies—as if they, like the Jotunn the elf-woman had killed, had simply knelt and allowed themselves to be destroyed.

  But there were a dozen desperate battles still being fought, mortals injured or dead, Bryn and Rota trying to protect them as they fought for their own lives. The Alfar were valiant, but they were vastly outnumbered by the Jotunar who survived.

  Flexing her aching hand on Kettlingr’s grip, Mist drew a deep breath and imagined the carnage necessary to win this fight. She could not be everywhere, and none of her Sisters had any magic of real worth in a battle. The Alfar were hamstrung by the asphalt and concrete and steel all around them, and by their lack of true connection to this world … the connection Dainn had developed over centuries of living in Midgard. Many of them would die, and so would most of the new mortal allies and Einherjar.

  The ancient magic was at the tip of Mist’s fingers. She had felt it come to her at the portal like an eager hound, taking her hand gently in its powerful jaws and showing her how easy it was to kill. She had used the magic only briefly then, but she had not known that a bridge to the Jotunn Shadow-Realm had been opened in San Francisco.

  Now, as her rage and desperation grew, the hound took her hand again and clamped its teeth into her flesh, drawing blood, filling her with rage and the knowledge of what she was.

  Freya’s daughter. Half-Jotunn. And more than either.

  “Yes,” the elf-woman said, gliding on silent feet to stand at Mist’s side. “I feel it in you, Valkyrie.” She, like Mist, swept the battlefield with her gaze. “Our people are failing. We cannot win without your help.” Dark elven eyes met Mist’s. “If you have the means, I beg you to make use of it now.”

  Mist didn’t pause to wonder how the elf had sensed her power, or knew that it could bring victory. She pushed all distractions from her mind, set Kettlingr gently on a dry patch of asphalt, and opened herself to the world, to the elements, to sun and air and flame and earth. She felt the frigid wind off the bay and pulled it to her with hands bathed in the very essence of magic, drew heat from the silent factories and warehouses and other buildings around them, blinding light from the cloud-wreathed sun, ice from the surface of the ground on every side.

  “Yes,” a gentle voice said, only half-heard. “Take it in. Let it fill you. Discard everything that can distract you from what must be.”

  Drifting into a dream, Mist absorbed it all into herself, fed it with fear for her allies and hatred for her enemies.

  And the indisputable knowledge that at last she would become what she was meant to be.

  “Let go.”

  Mist did. She spun the wind between her hands until it formed a weapon of whirling air like a tornado condensed to the width of a throwing spear, and added heat that burst into flame as it touched the whirlwind. A simple thought, and the wind-spear split into a dozen copies of itself, and then two dozen, each exactly like the next. Each capable of killing a Jotunn with one blow, unerringly finding its mark.

  All she had to do now was let them fly.

  The world went dark, blinding her. She held the spears frozen in midair. An unfamiliar weight pressed against her mind. She pushed it back, and suddenly there was only warmth, bathing her very being in gentle breezes and honey and the scent of primroses.

  “Freya,” Mist whispered.

  “Yes,” her mother whispered. “Join me. Fight with me. Let go.”

  The portal appeared unstable, shimmering in and out of focus as if it was about to close at last. Dainn squeezed through the opening and crouched unnoticed in the center of Lefty O’Doul Bridge as the fight raged at the east end of the short span. All around them, a dark skin of ice covered the ground as far as he could see.

  There was no sign of Loki, Danny, or the elf who had taken him. He saw nothing of Sleipnir and Hild, who had pursued elf and boy. All was chaos, blood, and battle, mortals Dainn didn’t recognize standing with Alfar and Valkyrie against dozens of well-armed Jotunar, far more than Loki had brought from Ginnungagap before the bridges had closed. It was a storm that no ordinary mortal could see but that the soul of Midgard must feel down to its very heart.

  And there was an eye to the storm. Mist stood in the center with narrow, sharp-tipped spears of wind and flame hovering above her upraised hands. Her hair had slipped free of its braid and whipped about her face in spite of the strange stillness that surrounded her.

  The ancient magic. It sang loudly enough to deafen any but mortal ears, yet none of the Alfar seemed to notice. Only the woman who stood beside Mist …

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Dainn raced across the bridge and plunged in among clashing weapons and struggling bodies, dodging those already fallen on the ice. He shouted, his voice lost among the cries and groans.

  But Mist heard. She turned and looked in his direction, tilting her head as if she were blind. The woman beside her leaned close, whispering in her ear. The wind-spears rose as one and separated to form a halo around both women, pointing outward. One spear was aimed directly at Dainn.

  “Mist!” Dainn cried, sliding to one knee.

  Freya turned and smiled at him. The spear hurtled toward him, unstoppable. Dainn closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, knowing he could not succeed. The battle seemed to stop, every weapon stilled, every voice silenced.

  Hot wind blasted his hair away from his face as the spear dissolved mere inches from hitting its mark. He opened his eyes. Mist had collapsed, but Bryn was already with her, shouting for help.

  She had stopped Freya. The Lady’s elven face was a mask, coldly beautiful, revealing nothing of her rage. But when she looked at Dainn again, he knew she would kill him without hesitation, even if she were forced to do it before her daughter’s very eyes.

  And if she killed him, he could never save Danny. Never warn Mist that what had nearly happened on this strange field of battle would happen again.

  Where is the boy? he asked, sending his thoughts to the goddess he had betrayed.

  Only desperation had driven him to hope she would hear and answer, but it seemed that desperation was enough.

  Loki’s child? she asked, reaching out with her glamour to bind his will. He is dead.

  Dainn knew it would be easy for her to lie, even within his mind. But the shock choked him, stole the strength from his limbs, the breath from his lungs. She could take him now without the slightest effort.

  Danny.

  “Get up.”

  Dainn lifted his head. An elf-lord stood over him, hand extended. Freya’s nascent spell shattered.

  “Those who took the boy were not mine,” the Alfr said. “And they never returned here.”

  Grasping the strong, slender hand, Dainn scrambled to his feet. Freya still stared at him, waiting for him to put himself in her power again. He would never reach Mist’s side, not without magic or beast to aid him.

  “Tell her,” he begged the elf-lord. “Tell her that Freya cannot be trusted.”

  “I will do what I can.” The Alfr glanced over his shoulder. “Go!”

  Dainn turned and ran, his feet finding purchase on the treacherous ice. He heard the battle resume behind him, certain now that it would be won by the allies. Freya would make it happen, though she would lose any second chance at Mist in order to achieve victory.

  But she would have been too careful to let Mist sense what she had almost done to her daughter. She would make every effort to appear the loving mother come at last to save Midgard. She would either convince Mist that Dainn was dead or poison the Valkyrie against him, whispering lies and half-truths—yes, and some truths as well—to convince her daughter that he had never been anything but a traitor. Not only to Mist
and Freya, but to all Midgard as well.

  Mist would fight the poison, but Dainn could not wait to see if she succeeded. The elf-lord had given him fresh hope. If the Alfar kidnapper had never returned to Freya, there was still a chance …

  “If you are looking for the boy,” a voice said as Dainn cleared the outer edge of the battle, “you will find him with Lord Loki. He is eager to discuss his son’s future with you.”

  Freya gazed at her daughter with the greatest sympathy, her legendary hair black instead of gold, her eyes deepest blue rather than azure.

  But, Mist thought, she still wore face and body worthy of a goddess … a body that Freya had apparently “borrowed” from one of the Alfar just before she had returned to Midgard with a handful of the allies she had promised.

  The lingering shock of—her mother’s sudden appearance did nothing for Mist’s grim mood as she and the goddess walked among the injured and dead, Jotunn and Alfr and mortal, scattered over the ice that glazed the asphalt and the steel of Lefty O’Doul bridge. Frozen blue and red blood smeared the transparent layer, rapidly vanishing under a thickening quilt of snow.

  “We are fortunate that so few were lost,” Freya murmured. “I am sorry that certain difficulties delayed my return.”

  Mist clenched her fists, reminding herself that Freya was partially responsible for that bitter victory. Not that Mist didn’t loathe her mother’s primary method of fighting, which depended heavily on the glamour Freya wielded so proficiently. Glamour that shocked Jotunar into lustful insensibility so that they could easily be dispatched by her elven followers.

  It was all too easy to forget that Freya had once been a goddess of battle, the reason she had claimed half the dead the Valkyrie brought from mortal battlefields to Asgard.

  But she had abandoned that martial aspect long before Mist had come to Valhalla. Or so Mist had believed. Now she was having difficulty imagining that there could have been anything good in her joining with Freya when they’d fought Loki “together” in his apartment. So much of her memory of that night remained a blank, and somehow Dainn had never gotten around to filling it in for her.

  Dainn.

  Mist stopped, letting Freya walk ahead of her. Though she and Freya had exchanged no more than a few sentences since the fighting had ended, the Lady hadn’t once mentioned the elf. She had described the position of the bridge she had opened on the steppes, and it would have been close to the place where Mist had left him.

  Could Freya have passed him without seeing him? If she had, then why hadn’t she inquired about him even once since she and the Alfar had burst through the portal?

  In spite of the way she had treated Dainn—and Mist was convinced that she’d treated him very badly indeed—he’d still been her envoy to Midgard, and to her daughter. She wouldn’t simply abandon him and then pretend he didn’t exist.

  Mist glanced over her shoulder at Lefty O’Doul Bridge. The portal seemed to be closed, or as good as. She hadn’t even noticed it happening. She’d have to find a way of opening it again, and not only for Dainn’s sake. Hild and Sleipnir were still on the other side, along with Danny; Mist hoped he’d found his way back to Hild, and that they’d stayed well away from the portal until the battle was over.

  At least she knew that Loki, in his usual heroic fashion, hadn’t gone anywhere near it. She had to assume that all of them were safe, and that Dainn was holding the beast in check until she could get back to him.

  She could never forget the look on Dainn’s face when he realized what he’d nearly done to the very child he’d been trying to protect. He would take the knife she’d left and run it through his own heart before he’d risk it again.

  Don’t think about it, she told herself. Not yet.Forcing her leaden feet to move again, she went to visit the new mortal “recruits”—men and women she had met only in the course of the battle—silently huddled together with dazed, bloody faces. Guilt seized her by the throat, cutting off her breath as she caught sight of Rota moving among the injured, her round face unusually grim and her fashionable clothes torn and blotched with vomit and blood.

  Several of the more ambulatory Einherjar were helping her and one of the other recruits bind wounds and offer comfort as best they could. No ambulances would arrive, sirens wailing, to carry the casualties to proper beds, and Eir—left back at the factory with Anna, Gabi, and a handful of guards—could be of little help in her present condition.

  But even amid so much suffering, Mist found that she could still feel worse than she already did. Bryn, tears streaming over her cheeks, knelt beside Bunny’s body where it had been laid beside three of the other Einherjar and gently kissed eyelids. She lingered for a moment, and then moved on to Fatty and Roadkill … equally silent, equally lost.

  Mist swayed, struck by sudden weakness that reminded her of the moment just after Freya’s arrival. It had been as if the ancient magic had suddenly become too much for her, and when she’d come back to herself she’d felt drained of strength, barely capable of staying on her feet.

  “Daughter,” Freya said, suddenly beside Mist again with arms extended to offer support. “Are you not well?” Not well? Mist thought, straightening without the Lady’s help. Look around you, Mother.

  “Of course,” Freya said. “Your distress naturally weakens you.” She laid her long-fingered, delicate hand on Mist’s torn sleeve. The touch was a caress, filled with affection and warmth, the kind that might pass between a real mother and daughter.

  Mist wasn’t buying it. Her bitterness wouldn’t let her.

  “This is not the reunion I would have hoped for,” Freya said, compassion throbbing in her golden voice. “How I wish I could have returned more quickly.”

  Mist had a vague memory of Freya explaining what had been doing since she’d disappeared, why the bridge had opened on the steppes instead of in San Francisco—something about Mist’s presence there anchoring the Midgardian end of it—and how she’d come to be wearing an elven body instead of the one she had intended to build for herself. None of the reasons seemed to matter now.

  “I know the weight you have carried upon your shoulders,” Freya said when Mist remained silent. “I can only say that I hope to make amends for our estrangement in the past.”

  “You’re the goddess,” Mist said, holding still so that Freya wouldn’t tighten her grip. “I wouldn’t think you’d have to make amends for anything.”

  Freya smiled. “You have all the spirit I could ever have desired. And the skill, the ability to lead others beyond what I expected.”

  “Is that ability necessary now that you’re here to pick up the reins?” “Oh, my child. You know I am not here to take your place. You are brave, and your abilities are great. When we work as one, Loki cannot stand.”

  She sounds like Loki herself, Mist thought. Except Loki wouldn’t try to compliment her before claiming that victory was already in his pocket.

  “Won’t we need the other Aesir to make sure of that?” Mist asked.

  “It will be all right,” Freya said, her hand slipping from Mist’s shoulder. She smiled, and such light and love flowed out from her that she caught every eye capable of sight and turned each snowflake to crystalline gold. Hearts were eased, and hope blew across the battlefield like a soft spring breeze. Even the ice under the Lady’s feet seemed to glow from within, as if whole fields of primroses might break through to burst into bloom beneath her soft elven boots.

  Though she resisted the pull of her mother’s magic, Mist found a little of her guilt and sorrow beginning to ease. Freya was right. In the end, everything would work out. They would win.

  Without thinking, Mist turned toward Lefty O’Doul and the portal, feeling oddly light on her feet. Her boots barely touched the ice.

  “Mist,” Freya called after her. “Where are you going?”

  “I have to get the others,” she said without stopping.

  Suddenly Freya was beside her. “You may leave that up to my Alfar. They will make certa
in that no danger remains on the other side.”

  “What danger?” Mist asked. “All the Jotunar are dead.” She continued to the very threshold of the portal. It had widened again, and the aperture was just big enough for her to climb through.

  “Stop!” Freya called after her. “You will hear me, Daughter.” Mist turned, trying to make sense of Freya’s sudden anger. “I need to go before it’s too late,” she said slowly.

  “Lady,” a musical male voice said from behind Freya, “if you will permit me, I will see to it.”

  “No,” Mist said, suddenly seeing herself as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, struggling to reach the Emerald City while the Wicked Witch’s poppies dragged her down into sleep.

  “Go to your people,” Freya said. “I will deal with Dainn.”

  “But he needs my help. And Da—” She stopped herself before she could finish speaking Danny’s name, though she didn’t understand her hesitation. Or why Freya stared at her with such loathing in her eyes.

  “Harald will see to it,” the Lady said coldly. Mist stared at the elf. “Do you know who he is?”

  “The Lady has explained,” Harald said with a bow. Before Mist could speak again, the elf approached the portal. It had begun to shrink again, the margin darker and more rigid than before.

  Mist grabbed Harald’s arm. “He won’t trust anyone but me, she said, pushing him aside.

  “Daughter.”

  The poppies twisted around Mist’s ankles, binding her to icy asphalt where no flower could grow. The Lady sighed.

  “I saw Dainn,” she said. “You must not go to him.”

  “Why not?” Mist asked, wondering how slender flower stems could be so strong.

  “The elf you knew is dead.”

  Somehow, the flowers held Mist on her feet. “No,” she said. “I would…”

  “There is nothing left of what he was.” She approached Mist slowly, holding out her arms. “He has gone beyond the reach of sanity or any cure.”