The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1)

by Lentz, P. K.

  Half a minute later, I forget that question when, drawn perhaps by a glint of sunlight on the slayer's floating hair, the mother giant looks upriver. She squints briefly and then looses a string of guttural words. Her mate lifts his head to follow her outstretched arm and then, dropping an empty pot in the stream, he reaches for his massive, broad-headed ax. There is no question now that they know of the danger at hand. While the giantess drags her child up the bank, to safety, the big male wades deeper, a fierce snarl twisting his already ugly face.

  I cannot be certain whether the slayer, being submerged, is aware she has been spotted. It is fortunate for her, after all, that she tied my sword into its scabbard, for had she not I might presently be drawing it and charging to her aid. Even were I to save her life, I am sure I would regret it afterward, for I sense that the slayer's fury would be great if I were to steal one of her notches. If she didn't harm me outright in punishment, she might well abandon me, and I cannot stand the thought of that. Although I know not yet what she represents to me, I know she is vitally important. She gives real reason for hope in finding Ayessa where before there was but vague feeling.

  And so I stay in hiding and put my faith in this stranger whose ax handle bears the marks of a great many victories. More than a few of her attempted kills must have gone awry, it stands to reason, leaving marks inscribed on her flesh, although I have seen no scars. Yet here she is, alive to slay another day. I have just seen her defeat two full-grown male giants, a more ambitious undertaking than the present one.

  She and the giant are thirty feet apart by now, and closing on one another. If her eyes are open, and I know they must be, she cannot fail to see the thick legs thrusting against the current, kicking up clouds of river mud. Even with her ears submerged, she must hear the grunts of encouragement coming from its mate on the bank.

  When ten feet separate them, the slayer explodes from the stream, ax in one hand, sword in the other, water streaming from long hair and armor plates. No war cry escapes her tightly closed lips; a violent splashing is the only sound she makes. The giant, by contrast, fills the mountainside with a great bellow which seems to echo off the roof of gray cloud as the two meet.

  Waist deep in flowing water, the slayer moves more slowly than she did on dry land, but only just. The first sweep of the giant's great ax, already a clumsy weapon, barely catches his attacker's trailing braid, trimming perhaps a few hairs. Twisting low, the slayer brings both of her weapons to bear, sword and ax, near simultaneously, one forehand, the other back. The sword's point grazes fur, but the long handled ax bites deep under the giant's arm. He howls. She yanks it free, and red blood spills from the wound. She is out of the way a second before the giant's ax slices empty water in the very spot where she had been standing.

  My eyes flick to movement on the far bank, where I see the giantess raise a boulder, a favored weapon of her race. Her child, too, stoops as if to find some projectile. I want to cry out warning, but the slayer's admonition, no less clear for being wordless, keeps my teeth as firmly clenched as my fists.

  The slayer and giant trade blows. She lands several while he only misses—a good thing, for one hit would doubtless finish her. The boulder sails from the shore. It misses its target by a fraction, but the force of its impact on the water puts the slayer off balance. She falls to one side and slips underwater, leaving only the blade of her ax visible. The giant brings his ax down on the spot where she must be, and inwardly I cringe, expecting to see red clouds stain the current.

  Instead, seconds later, she bursts from the stream, thrusting upward with her sword and piercing the giant's forearm. He cries out, but the wound does him little harm, judging by the force with which he next brings down his ax. Again he slices water, missing his tormentor by inches.

  The droplets have not yet settled when the next projectile from the bank lands, a man-sized tree trunk hurled by the boy-giant. The slayer is too late seeing it come, and it strikes her in the upper left quadrant of her back. She vanishes under the surface, while trunk bobs up and floats away and the father giant scans the stream in search of her, ax hoisted in two hands, poised for a final blow.

  He will not get the chance. The slayer springs up behind the giant's broad back and buries her sword hilt-deep along its spine. At the same time, she swings her ax in a wide arc which plants the head squarely in the giant's neck. It screams, great ax splashing into the stream, and on the shore the giant's mate and child shriek. The slayer tugs both blades free, and the massive, fur-clad body slips into the muddy water to be borne away by the slow current.

  I watch with jaw agape, exhilaration stealing my every other breath. For she is magnificent.

  The dead giant's kin, surely to their eventual sorrow, do not seem content with merely howling in protest. Even as I urge them silently to change their minds and flee, both charge into the water weaponless. I pity them, for they stand no chance against this beautiful, graceful bane of giantkind. I hold out hope, briefly, that she will show mercy.

  She does not. In a few effortless moves, the slayer makes corpses of mother and child. They drift along behind their mate and father, trailing sinuous red ribbons of blood. Emerging from my hiding place, I meet the slayer as she climbs up the muddy bank. She is sopping wet and moves sluggishly, looking tired. She is flesh and blood, after all, and not a vengeful apparition. On dry ground, she sinks to her knees, lets her sword fall and plants the butt of her ax handle in the needles. With a left arm that moves stiffly—for that shoulder was where the tree struck her—she draws her small knife and starts cutting a notch in the wood.

  One only; the female and the child do not count in her tally.

  Reclaiming her sword, she drags herself upright and treats me to the usual opaque look. She scans the ground then looks at me again, expectantly.

  Understanding dawns: I have lapsed in my duty. Racing back to where I have left our packs, I retrieve them, and meet her as she is moving away from the scene of her kill, to resume my place behind her.

  17. Attendant

  Later in the day, the slayer stops at a rocky place that is not quite a cave but rather just a secluded spot sheltered on three sides by rock walls and open to the sky by only a crevice. There is still some daylight left by which we might travel, but this is an ideal spot to hide and rest, a spot I rather suspect she has used before, given how easily she finds it.

  Shedding her ax and sword-belt, the slayer sits down heavily. I follow her lead in unburdening myself. As I do, she raises one leg and aims its booted foot at me. I but stare. The leg stays aloft, her gaze on me, and after a few seconds I grasp her meaning. I cannot help but scoff, good-naturedly, of course, as I go to her, kneel, and comply with the silent request, tugging her boot until it slides off. She offers the other, and I repeat the process. The boots are wet, so I lay them out on a rock in the sliver of light that spills into our shelter from above, for what good it will do.

  She next begins unstrapping her various armor plates. Not knowing what she wears underneath or how much she intends to remove, I turn my back. Her ax leans against a rock in my line of sight.

  Such trust she affords me, a stranger. I could kill her right now with her own weapon. More likely, I could attempt it and be slaughtered.

  Perhaps it is not so much trust as assurance of her own superiority.

  Since I have no interest in killing her anyway, I instead look more closely at the ax handle and its tally of dead giants. Starting at the bottom, the carved notches climb their way up in clusters of nine. Today's three were added to the tenth cluster, yielding a total of eighty-seven. Up higher, near the head and separated from the rest by a long gap, there are four more cut marks. If I thought there was any chance she might answer, I might ask her why those few are set apart.

  Risking a backward glance, I find that the slayer has finished shedding her armor plates and is reaching over her shoulder with one hand as if to scratch her back. I wonder, half-seriously, since I seem to have become her manservant, i
f I should offer to help. Then I realize that she is not reaching to scratch at all, but to grab a handful of tunic in order to tug the wet garment off over her head. Quickly, I turn away.

  A sopping wet ball of linen hits me in the neck and falls to the rock with a slap. Her tunic. After wringing it, I lay it out beside her boots, such that with luck it will become slightly dryer by morning. It would be better hung outside on a tree, but that would give away our presence here, which I must assume is something we do not wish.

  Wet leggings hit me next. I wring those and lay them out for her. Then I stand, facing away from the slayer, and wait. For what, I shortly become uncertain. Since she does not speak, we cannot communicate except visually, and that cannot be accomplished with my back turned. Instead of waiting for her to throw a rock, I turn around again to find her wrapped in a brown cloak she has taken from her pack. Underneath her, presumably separating her bare backside from soil and cold stone, I see the edges of my own cloak. It had been in my pack, which now sits open, its contents spilled.

  Her blue eyes are on me, giving nothing away. I meet the gaze steadily. After several beats, one arm emerges from her cloak and drags her pack closer to her. Rummaging inside, she extracts a small pouch. She slides her cloak down on her left side, exposing bare shoulder and upper arm. Three fingers of her right hand slip into the pouch and emerge covered in a gray paste which she proceeds to rub on the back of the exposed shoulder opposite.

  She cannot reach the entire injured area. As we both realize that, she extends the pouch toward me, and I move closer to accept. I dip my fingers in, as she did, and kneel behind her. She tilts her head so her damp braid falls to one side, and I behold her injury: a large expanse of purple and brown that starts near her collarbone and extends down beneath the cloak. I begin spreading the cool, grainy paste gently over her skin, which is warm and smooth by contrast. She lets the cloak fall further, exposing more purple and the gentle bumps of her ribs. I take more paste and continue. Once the whole injury is covered, I hand her back the pouch and take a seat in front of her. She wastes no time with gratitude. Restoring her cloak, she digs into her pack again and produces a small, wrapped parcel which she opens. Inside are strips of dried meat. She throws me one, which I just fail to catch and must subsequently retrieve from the dust.

  "Thank you," I say. Even not knowing a word of the Chrysioi language, she will understand that. Not that I expect so much as a nod in return.

  She fulfills expectation, chewing and regarding me as if I were a bird that has fluttered down and perched on the rocks of her camp. Or even less: I am the rock itself, which just happens to have a slightly unusual shape.

  I am no rock. Rocks have endless patience. I do not. I have desires, and the greatest of them at present is to find Ayessa.

  I realize suddenly that I have been remiss in not having mentioned Ayessa's name to her. The sound of a name, if the hearer has heard it before, should know no language barrier

  "I seek a woman named Ayessa," I say without prelude. If the slayer has no use for conversation of any kind, what use has she for preludes?

  For emphasis, I repeat the name. Its sound causes a knot in my chest. I try to read the slayer's answering stare, knowing that the slightest tick in her features might be all I get, but there is nothing there to read. Her look is no different than the one she always gives. I am a source of intermittent sound and motion to her, no more.

  "I thought as much." Not wanting her to sense my frustration, I add, "Thank you for allowing me to accompany you. Perhaps you can lead me to someone who can help."

  She continues to look at me with pointed disinterest until I am the one who must turn away. I stare at some rocks. It has been days since I have spoken as much as I just have. There is a sort of release in it, and I find I want to continue. It is not hard to find words with which to exercise my voice, even if the exercise is futile.

  "I know you have a tongue," I say. "So why is it that you cannot speak? Or do you only choose not to?" I shrug and smile. "I'd say you just don't like me, but you must, a little, to give me the privilege of carrying your pack."

  She shows no reaction. I want to speak more, but feel foolish. To keep my mouth busy for a while, I shove the remainder the dried meat into it, while my hands find brief occupation in removing my sword belt. Unlike the slayer, I have no armor, since it is not our practice in Neolympus to wear it when leaving the city; we favor speed, stealth, and avoidance, not confrontation, in dealing with the giants. I wear only a short-sleeved tunic of a length to cover my legs to mid-thigh, and now that I have stopped exerting myself, I begin to feel the air's chill. The remedy for that, my cloak, presently lies underneath the slayer, a place from which I am not inclined to make an effort to retrieve it.

  I take her water-skin for a pillow, and while I am still twisting and turning in search of a few feet of rocky ground that does not dig into some part of me or another, the slayer lies down, shuts her eyes, and does not reopen them.

  The sky is barely tinged pink with the first whisper of evening, but I am exhausted of body and mind. I shut my own eyes, still my swirling thoughts, and succumb to sleep.

  18. Frostfall

  I awaken to a rain of small, hard objects on my face and lurch upright to find the slayer standing a few feet from me, dressed and ready with ax perched on shoulder. The hard rain was of dirt and pebbles. It is not yet light, but there is enough blue glow to see the slayer's hard face, which conceals the amusement she must surely feel. What other reason could there be to wake me in such a way?

  She is too important to risk offending, so I do not complain. I am impressed, but not surprised, by the fact that she has managed to rise and fully ready herself without waking me. Her ability to move without the slightest sound is uncanny.

  She turns and starts climbing the rocks. Shaking sleep from my eyes, I scramble up and survey our camp to find that she has left her pack and water-skin for me to carry. I grab them, and my own gear, and follow her.

  We trek for three more days, through valleys and across mountainsides. On just one of the days do we come across giants, but there are six of them, and to my relief the slayer declines to take on such odds. The air grows colder, the trees farther between, the soil frost-encrusted. One night, flakes of frost fall from the sky. I have never seen such a thing in my present life, and neither do I sense that it was anything familiar to me in the previous. But then, on the scale of things I have seen in the two hundred-odd days of this existence that are without precedent, this ranks fairly low. The foremost position in that category is held by the Myriad, and I rather hope that nothing I see will ever be so horrible as to unseat it.

  The slayer does not so much as blink at the falling frost, so it must be nothing novel to her. But then, one might think I would be novel to her, yet she treats me with indifference, so it is hard to tell. Novel or not, the frostfall does make me dread the night to come. Even though she has not "borrowed" my cloak from me since that first night when she lacked dry clothes, the nighttime cold here is sharper and bitterer than at Neolympus.

  Before night comes, the slayer leads me with a sense of purpose to what seems at first an unremarkable spot on a frost-covered mountainside. But when she levers a few rocks aside with her ax handle, a little hollow is revealed which turns out to contain a second pack. From it she retrieves a long coil of rope, gloves of oiled hide, and a hooded mantle of gray fur. These can only be her own belongings stashed here on a previous passage. A good sign, I decide, for if she has passed here before of late, then it would seem likely she is now on a return path to her home, a place I am eager to reach.

  Unfortunately, it seems less likely that on that her previous passage, she foresaw returning with a tagalong in need of extra cold-weather gear.

  I have barely had time to think this thought when the slayer tosses the mantle at me. I want to keep it, of course, but say politely instead, "It's yours."

  I should know better by now than to protest. She is already walking
away, slipping on the tight gloves which would not come close to fitting me anyway. And so I throw the mantle over my shoulders, hoist her gear, and make to follow.

  As I throw the pack over my shoulder, I glimpse a shape on the ground and swiftly conclude that some small item has fallen from the second pack, the near-empty one now carried by the slayer, likely as the mantle and gloves were removed. I stoop to pick it up in cold fingertips.

  My blood freezes, and I cry out a sharp, formless syllable.

  The slayer halts and looks back. Running to her, I hold out by its thin leather thong the decorated tooth which I remember well despite having seen it only once, around Ayessa's neck in Hades, moments before the swarm hit us.

  I scream at the slayer, daring her not to answer or to pretend incomprehension, "This is hers! Ayessa's! Where did you get it?! Where?! Tell me!"

  She does not move, does not blink. I stop a few feet from her, clutching the tooth tightly in bloodless fingertips, eyes filled with rage. I wish to appear crazed, and I am.

  "Tell me now!"

  When my display fails to crack the slayer's mask of disinterest, I am forced to take the next step and lay hands on her.

  "Where is she?!" I lunge to grab her by the shoulders, but my hands only brush armor as she easily, silently, evades my grasp. I round on her and make another attempt.

  The slayer ducks. The ax falls from her shoulder and sweeps up in a telegraphed blow which I realize, even in my frantic state, is intended only to ward me off. It fails; I am beyond reason. I grab the weapon's haft and try to jerk it from her hand, but it may as well be a part of her. The effort wins me a stinging backhand across the jaw, which drives me back, yet I keep my grip on her weapon, pulling her with me.

  All this time, the slayer's look is impassive, which enrages me still more.