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

by Lentz, P. K.

  Except that, if I am honest, it does concern me, insofar as it encompasses the fate of one Vanir.

  I could express my doubts about the Well to Gaeira-but what exactly could she do about it? Most probably she would just drag me back in front of Freya or Odinn, forcing me to tell them myself.

  I suppose there is one other in Odinn's service to whom I might turn. But why should Ayessa believe anything I say?

  My thoughts will not stray far from her. No matter how hard I struggle to keep my mind on matters of concern to the Aesir, I sink back into the sea of my newly awakened memories. If that is what they really are, and not just illusions conjured up by the Well. Maybe there is no truth in them at all, or just a kernel. But they feel real to me. I built Wellspring with my own hands, though not the hands at which I presently stare while sitting on a couch in Freya's cottage. I sailed that ship beyond the horizon, returned to Atlantis, and used the same hands to slay Ozymondras the usurper in the moments before a great deluge swept me into the abyss of death.

  But I did not use those hands, I hope, to violate and abuse and terrorize my bride, my Wellspring. I did not use them to cast her into the deep ocean, to drown or be torn to pieces.

  I am not that man.

  Please do not let me be him.

  ***

  After hours spent alone, tormenting myself, three Aesir warriors come to the door of Freya's cottage. They are a welcome presence-as any presence would be to me now.

  "You are Thamoth?" they ask, without awaiting answer. "Come with us."

  "For what purpose?" I ask. But I am already binding my sandals, for I have no intention of refusing.

  "Odinn commands," they tell me.

  My mind has spent many hours turned inward. Now, as I follow the Aesir outside, I am glad to set it toward conjecture on the reason for my summons. The escorts did not object to my belting on my sword, which I find encouraging. I am not a prisoner, then, at least no more so than I have been since my arrival.

  Wordlessly, they walk me through the empty streets along a route I soon realize is taking us to the main gates of the city. The gates stand open and are teeming both on the ground and atop the walls with Aesir fighters, who appear to be... waiting. Almost to a man, their eyes are turned outward, over the plain on which the city sits.

  "Wait here," my escort tells me in a spot that fails to give me a view of whatever lies outside the open gate. I consider trying to maneuver for a better view but deem it better to do as told.

  Within a few minutes, another trio of Aesir emerges from a heavily shadowed street not far away. They escort another figure, and the instant I see firelight reflect off of a silver swooping eagle, I know not only what she is, a Valkyr, but which of them.

  It is Ayessa, and her escorts march her straight toward me. My mind races. Do I speak to her or honor her wish to be left alone?

  I know the answer to that already. I cannot remain silent.

  Delivering her to my position, the Aesir commence paying us no heed. Nor does Ayessa pay me any. She gives me her back, which pains me. I want to grab her shoulder and make her face me, but I resist the urge. It might be easier to speak to her thus anyway.

  Still, I must force the words out when I find them. "I'm glad you have found a place here," I say, rather less than sincerely. "I envy you. I cannot force you to talk to me, but there are words which should be spoken between us. I must know if the Well truly showed you what Sigrid told me it did, for I saw something different. The powers of this Well may not be as infallible as the Aesir think."

  Ayessa whirls to face me. I expect to see anger on her face, but it is surprise. "Sigrid? She spoke to you?"

  Her confusion puzzles me. Did I not tell her that already, just hours ago, in the alley?

  "Aye," I say-dejectedly, for I can hear, or imagine, in the way she speaks Sigrid's name confirmation that the two really are lovers.

  "You drank from the Well?" Ayessa asks next. Her tone is more deliberate.

  "Yes, but you know that. Just as you know that I spoke with Sigrid. I told you both things this very night."

  Ayessa's face further betrays what her questions have already told me. Although it makes no sense, she truly does not recall our previous encounter.

  She says unconvincingly, after some thought, "Yes... of course."

  "You said you would kill me if I spoke to you again. I see you have reconsidered." I feel fairly certain Ayessa will likewise fail to recall this detail of our earlier encounter. And given her pretense of seconds ago, I feel just as certain that she knows the reason.

  She takes her time in replying-and then is spared the necessity by our Aesir escorts.

  "Come," they order us.

  Ayessa is quicker than I to follow. While we walk toward the open gates, I wonder what could have made her forget our earlier encounter. She was dressed differently then than now, I recall, in her hunting clothes instead of Valkyr armor, and wore her hair unbraided, as it was in Hades. I am pondering the discrepancies when I get my first glimpse through the open gates and forget them for now.

  On the plain of Asgard sits Thrym. Even seated, at half his full height, the frost giant towers over the congregation around him, which includes the golden guard and many others who must be Aesir. A small number of figures stand atop a wooden scaffold, putting them on a level with Thrym's face. Even from a distance, I can identify white-bearded Odinn as one of those on the scaffold. Another, black cloaked and masked in gold, is the one I have decided is Hel.

  Ayessa and I are led toward this gathering. Since we are the sole representatives of our kind present in Asgard, it stands to reason that it is in this capacity that we have been summoned. Why, I can only guess. The escort brings us as far as the base of the staircase leading up the scaffold, our arrival at which takes me somewhat by surprise. I am barely watching my step, for I cannot keep my eye off the giant, who I realize, in lifting my gaze to his face, stares back at me.

  I put my eyes front and ascend the creaking stairs behind Ayessa. Reaching the top, I realize that not just the giant has been staring at us; all eyes are on us, including those of Odinn and masked Hel, whose vivid green irises show in the eyeholes of her intricate and lifeless golden mask. Likewise staring are Baldr and Freya, familiar faces that offer scant solace at present, along with grim, one-handed Tyr, and Hel's chariot driver, who stands closer by his mistress than one would expect.

  Lastly, if far from inconspicuously, there stands on the scaffold a huge man whose build reminds me of the Atlantean behemoth with whom I was reborn in the cave. He has long hair and a thick beard of fiery orange. A mantle of brown fur hangs from his broad shoulders, and at his waist is fastened a warhammer of such size as doubtless to require a wielder with arms as thick as his own. One look at his face makes it clear that he is yet another son of Odinn, for moreso than the two I have met, he is the very image of his father, looking as Odinn might have before his face grew lined and his hair white.

  This unknown son is the first to turn his gaze from me and Ayessa, locking it instead on Thrym. A faint sneer makes apparent his dislike for the giant.

  Beside me, Ayessa sinks to one knee, bows her head, crosses right arm over breast and intones reverently, "All-Father."

  The next voice raised is that of a woman, and its hissing, mocking quality puts me on edge, reminding of Medea.

  "So these are the folk who brought this bane upon us!" says golden-masked Hel. The mask leaves exposed her lower face, where the skin is smooth as ice and nearly as pale. Upon it, thin dark lips twist in disgust. "Why were they not destroyed, Odinn?" I note that I have heard no other but her address Odinn by name; all call him All-Father, or Father. Hel even dares impart the name with a venomous edge.

  "Calm yourself," Odinn says. "You'll not lose your precious halls, child." Whether or not she is literally his child, he would appear to hold some measure of tolerance for her naked impudence.

  Feeling bolder perhaps for having already faced Odinn's punishment once, I el
ect to show some impudence of my own.

  "Why have we been summoned?" I insist. Already I have declined to kneel.

  Ayessa rises, and I sense rather than see a flash of anger from her directed at me on Odinn's behalf.

  Odinn himself hardly seems perturbed. Raising a weathered hand, he points off the scaffold's edge in the direction of Thrym. In order to follow the gesture, I must step closer to the edge, and so I do. Ayessa follows me. At first, the seated Thrym's great blue body fills my sight, but as I aim my gaze further downward, past his stomach and belted loincloth, I see near his massive, folded leg, in the midst of the assembled golden guardsmen and Aesir, the burden which I earlier this night witnessed being borne over Bifrost. Its covering cloth has been removed, and it sits there, dead and green, with a thousand sightless eyes and a dozen barbed, flaccid tentacles.

  It is a creature of the Myriad.

  36. A Brother's Petition

  While Ayessa and I stand gaping, minds filling with the horror and hopelessness of the knowledge that our enemy has followed us and soon will steal what measure of sanctuary we have found, Baldr comes up behind us.

  "A great host of them appeared in Thrym's land of Niflheim," he says. "Where Hel also makes her home. Her forces and Thrym's exterminated the creatures, but at a cost terrible enough that they would not withstand another assault if it comes. And so they come seeking help from us Aesir, for whom they have precious little love."

  "Another wave will come," I tell Baldr blankly. My eye remains locked on the bloated corpse. "And another, and another, until nothing is left."

  "The Aesir are not your folk!" This derisive outburst comes from Tyr, whom I have not before heard speak. "You were weak, where we have power in abundance!"

  I manage to stop staring down at the dead Myriad and hearken to the assembled Aesir.

  "Indeed, we are strong, brother," concurs the red-haired son of Odinn whom I do not know. He speaks with calm assurance. "This beastly horde shall be driven back to whence it came." He pats the iron hammerhead at his hip. "Mjolnir and I shall see to that."

  Baldr speaks next. "Let us not be hasty in condemning as weak those who met with failure where the hosts of Niflheim only barely avoided it."

  "Hasty?" Tyr spits back. "If only we could make haste! We have watched these Interlopers for an age now, with no decision taken!"

  Hel hisses mockingly in support of Tyr's indictment, "Odinn the All-Seeing! He sees all but rarely acts!Why must we venture here at all? What good are your ravens if they warn you not of a coming invasion?"

  "You well know," Baldr counters, "were the birds to fly over Niflheim, you would happily bake them into pies and send back the beaks!"

  Hel smiles wickedly, conceding the truth of his accusation.

  "We lose sight of our purpose," Freya says forcefully. Having donned the armor I saw displayed in her home, she looks a fearsome sight. "I have summoned these two Atlanteans to tell us if they know of any means by which the Myriad might be defeated."

  "A fool's purpose," Tyr scoffs. "Had they such knowledge, they would yet dwell in their own world! Perhaps they might tell us what not to do!"

  "These two, since coming to us," Freya contradicts him, "have drunk of Mimir's Well and seen visions of this very threat."

  I look at Ayessa. I had no idea that she too had glimpsed such a future. But then, why shouldn't she have, and why should she have told me?

  "And you did not think to—" Hel begins.

  But Freya speaks over the queen, addressing her Valkyr subordinate. "Tell us, Essa, what Mimir's Well showed you of this enemy."

  I feel the question must be staged. Presumably, Odinn and Freya have questioned Ayessa as they did me about my experience of the Well, and must know already how she will answer. But the others present, presumably, have not heard.

  "I saw Mjolnir," Ayessa says to rapt silence. "Resting alone on the ice fields of Niflheim, its owner absent, the sky filled to all horizons with Myriad."

  She stops. Silence persists. The one who breaks it is the red-haired son, the wielder of the hammer called Mjolnir. "Bah!" he says. "There is doubtless some simple explanation for that. I shall give it upon returning victorious."

  The rest seem less certain than he, but hold their tongues for now.

  Freya looks to me. "And you, Thamoth. Tell us of your visions."

  The gazes of the Aesir and gigantic Thrym fall upon me. I meet a number of them in silence before speaking as bidden.

  "I saw the Myriad invading one of the eight realms. I know not which, but it was no land of ice or fire."

  I pause, unsure whether Freya wishes me to continue, sharing too my vision of Odinn's fall.

  "Let the vile creatures attack all eight realms," Mjolnir's owner boasts, "and let them be smashed!"

  Freya raises a hand for calm and says placatingly, "None question your worthiness as Asgard's champion, Thor. Nor do any truly believe our doom is at hand," she continues. "None of the many portents of Ragnarok have yet come to pass."

  Freya looks pointedly at me, and I know she bids me speak.

  "Mimir's Well also showed me a great serpent in flight," I say. "And—"

  Before I can continue, Freya interrupts—swiftly, and not by chance. Her look, and upraised palm tell me she would not have me speak of Odinn's fall. Nor, presumably, of the fact that the Well gave Ayessa and I divergent accounts of the same events.

  "A serpent," she repeats. "Can it be any other than Jormungand? It may be that the final portents are near, and that Ragnarok is closer than we think. Perhaps not. Yet it can do us no harm to be heedful of this danger."

  "Enough talk of visions!" Hel hisses—and I find myself in agreement with her. "For once, the great red oaf speaks sense. If Thor is so eager to cleanse our land of this plague, then let him! It is the one reason we traveled here!" She turns her golden mask and haunting eyes on me and points with a gloved hand. Only one hand is gloved; the other is bare, and as pale as her chin. "And when he's done, let him cleanse Jotunheim of these Interlopers, too, before they bring more misfortune upon us!"

  I do not respond. Not because I am wary of this Hel, which I would be a fool not to be, but because I have no desire to be drawn into their petty bickering. I know with whom the power rests on this platform and in all the eight realms. I sense that he, Odinn, who has not yet spoken, is saving the last word for himself, after he decides that his children and subjects have squabbled enough.

  As Hel finishes, her chariot driver sets a hand on her arm, urging calm but also showing his support for her. There is much affection in the touch, making me decide that he is her lover.

  "Father," the charioteer addresses Odinn—surprising me by revealing himself as yet another of the All-Father's children. "Please set down your decree. Send Thor with an army. Hel and I shall lead her legions, and Thrym his giants. No enemy can withstand such a host. In return, should the Myriad thereafter threaten another of the eight realms, we shall gladly lend our strength. Even Thrym." He turns to the giant. "Right, Thrym?"

  The giant-king purses his great blue lips in brief contemplation and nods, glacially.

  Hel's lover, whom I have just deemed on first impression to be rather unlike his brothers in being an earnest, unassuming man, puts himself before Odinn and sinks to one knee, lowering his eyes and crossing his breast, as Ayessa earlier did. "Let arguments be done, All-Father," he says. "Give answer now to the request of Hodr, your son. Speak with the voice that binds the eight realms to your bidding."

  By the sudden end to bickering, Hodr's petition would seem to be one that the Aesir are bound to honor. It is time for Odinn to declare his mind. All eyes turn to him, but my own single eye finds Freya. I feel she is the most anxious of all present, even if she hides it well. She is less certain, I think, than the rest of a future writ in stone which nothing, not even the Myriad, can alter. I hope, as must she, for the sake of everyone and everything that Freya is wrong and Thor is right.

  White-haired, battle-scarred Odin
n stands with eye unfocused in a darkly contemplative look. For a moment he is elsewhere, perhaps swimming in his visions of the future. Then his one eye slowly blinks, and he rejoins us, opening his deeply lined lips to speak.

  "Let it be done," he declares in his resonant voice. "Thor shall take an army and defend the wastes of Niflheim."

  I look to Freya to see her reaction, but she has none, or I have missed it. Of them all, only Hodr betrays his feelings, and he does so with a smile that is warm and full of relief. Rising, he nods to his father in gratitude and returns to Hel's side, clasping her bare hand in his.

  "Shall I accompany Thor, father?" Baldr asks.

  "Stay in Asgard, brother," Thor answers on the All-Father's behalf. "Niflheim is too chilly for you."

  Baldr twists his face in a sneer, but then smiles, as does Thor.

  "Thor shall go alone," Odinn says tersely. "With one hundred Einherjer."

  "A hundred only?" Hel blurts. "My losses were twice that many!"

  "One hundred," Odinn repeats. He turns and starts for the stairs. The audience is over.

  "Worry not. Every Einheri is worth ten of your men," Thor assures.

  "Twenty," dour-faced Tyr corrects him.

  "Aye, twenty," the other agrees.

  The unmasked portion of Hel's pale face shows annoyance. Hodr draws her to him, planting a kiss on her golden forehead. The love that I see between them is real, and it stirs feelings of petty jealousy within me. Hodr's love for Hel must burn intensely for him to have spurned the halls of Asgard to dwell instead in this frozen land called Niflheim. Suddenly I become over-conscious of Ayessa standing beside me. I desire to look at her, but lacking all peripheral vision on my left, I cannot put her within my sight inconspicuously.

  Thankfully, she provides me with an excuse to look.

  "All Father!" she calls out as Odinn is setting his foot on the first stair to descend.

  He pauses, but does not not turn. It must be bold for one of Ayessa's station to speak unbidden to the All-Father in a gathering such as this—bolder still after the gathering has concluded.