by Lentz, P. K.
Around me, Atlanteans speak in voices filled with awe: "It's her, the giant-killer!" "I want to fight her." "I want to do other things." "Go ask her-she'll chop down your tiny tree!"
I take a lesson from Gaeira and ignore them. Stepping over the bodies of my still sleeping brethren, I walk to where my companions await me. When I reach them, Baldr swats my arm. "Why was I not invited?"
"Next time," I assure him.
I delay looking at Gaeira, for I feel embarrassed in her eyes to have behaved in this manner, showing none of the discipline she demands of herself. When I meet her gaze, I do not hide my shame. The look she returns is a subtle one, as ever, but it tells me, I think, that she is not offended.
"Did you lose something?" Baldr asks me. In answer to my quizzical look, he taps his left eye, which in turn sends my hand the same spot on my own face, where I feel only a sunken socket. I spin and look around the barracks. I could not bear to leave behind my patch, my gift from Dalla.
Crow comes to my aid. He goes to one of our sleeping brothers and rolls him over in his bed to reveal my patch over his eye. Crow removes it, with the sleeper none the wiser, walks it to me and places it in my palm, which he then clasps.
"I suppose you must leave now," he says. "But we shall meet again in this Great Host and kill many more ugly sacks of snot together."
"I would prefer to meet under other circumstances. Absent... snot."
"Then we will simply have to kill them all, so they can't come back," Crow answers. "And when that is done, we will raise our cups, all of us, together-Aesir, Vanir, Chrysioi, Atlantean."
All present apart from Gaeira show their approval. When we have gathered our few belongings, a crowd of Neolympians walks our delegation to the gates. Among them is Loki, wearing a smug look on his stolen face. I do not look at him, lest my anger get the better of me.
I do manage to share a look with Hephaestus, who nods: the deed is done. Athena has been moved to safety, and a rightful ruler awaits to one day take Loki's place-before or after I kill him. I care not which.
"Loki told us much about the Chrysioi," Baldr says as we descend the winding mountain trail on foot. "For example, these sown men. Did you know they spring fully formed from seeds planted in the soil and serve whomever plants them?"
I suspected from the Spartoi's name and behavior that they were not people, as such, but the whole truth was unknown to me. Rather than admit my ignorance, I say nothing.
"Fortunately for Loki, they are none too clever. They were fooled by his disguise." Baldr pats his pack. "I have two seeds with me, here. And something else, too. Do you know of ambrosia?"
"Yes," I say. "It is a fruit with magical properties which the Chrysioi consumed in their home world."
"Aye," Baldr says. "You were led to believe that the trees planted here withered in the climate of Jotunheim, no?"
I look at Baldr to find him smiling.
"There is a secret grove in the valley where it thrives," he goes on. "The Chrysioi possess the fruit in abundance and keep it from you Atlanteans. Loki has sent some with me. We Aesir are strong and long-lived naturally, but mayhaps this fruit can benefit us anyway."
I take a few moments to absorb the discovery that not just Ares but all the Chrysioi have been lying to me. To all of my kind.
"Are you not worried that I will tell the Atlanteans?" I ask Baldr.
His bright eyes give a sharp look. "Why should I think that? You are my father's man now. Besides, the time might come when we wish for the Atlanteans to know."
I nod and look away, but privately I seethe at how easily Baldr talks of manipulating my people in whatever way best suits the Aesir. Whichever masters we choose, it seems, we Atlanteans are doomed to be of a lesser class. Perhaps one day it will be in our power to choose to have no masters.
It is well that Odinn cannot see into my heart. He would think me disloyal. But I am not. Even as I dream of killing Loki and protecting my folk from injustice, I will do my utmost not to break the oath I have taken to him. Gaeira, after all, does not break her vows, and I would not have her become even more assured of her superiority to me than already she is.
At the foot of the mountain we reclaim our horses, whom some Atlanteans were good enough to feed and water during the night. Mounting them, we ride for Vanaheim to join the Great Host of Asgard.
51. The Gathering of the Great Host
By day's end we reach Gaeira's home, from which Afi and Dalla have stubbornly refused to remove themselves—a decision in which, it turns out, they are joined by the bulk of the Vanir. Although we come unannounced, scarcely an hour passes before Dalla has laid a feast before our party which we eat with relish. Gaeira's late father's room is assigned to Baldr, who is a prince, after all, second only to Odinn in the degree to which his presence honors those who receive him. I am ready to bed down on the benches of the house's main hall, along with the six Aesir warriors of our party, when Dalla approaches me, looking irritated.
She drags me to one side and says in a low voice, "I believe you're in the wrong room, Highness."
"I deserve separate quarters no more than these other men," I argue. I should have learned by now not to argue with Dalla.
She groans. "'Separate,' he says! Are you not headed into battle? Possibly the last battle, if ears do not deceive."
Understanding causes me embarrassment. "Yes..." I manage to agree.
"Then get up there, you hapless idiot. Do I need to tell you everything?"
I look at Dalla, but cannot maintain that, and so I glance about at the Aesir settling to bed. At least two stare back at me smirking, having overheard, or at least hazarding a good guess as to what I am being told. I meet their looks and laugh. There is no question of what choice to make. It is both my desire and what any of them would do in my place.
"Thank you, Dalla," I mutter, and I head for the stairs.
I knock on Gaeira's door and wait a moment for the inevitable lack of answer before pushing it open. She stands within, clad in a clean linen nightdress—an advantage of overnighting in her own home—regarding me with none of the affection some evidence would indicate that she feels for me. I could cross the space between us in two long strides, take her in my arms and let our mouths melt together, as they have done before. I could do what, presumably, Dalla had in mind, on what is perhaps our final night together.
I could do those things, but my mouth, it seems, has other plans.
"I will kill Loki," it blurts.
Gaeira regards me impassively for a moment. Then it is she who crosses the space between us, calmly, to stand directly in front of me. She draws back her right hand with palm open as if to strike. It hangs there briefly—and then she lets fly, only to stop just short of my cheek.
I stand fast without flinching. Anger barely registers in Gaeira's features, but it is clear enough to me. Yet I do not think her ire stems from my intent to kill the blood-brother of our lord so much as my having burdened her with knowledge of it. By telling her, I force her to choose between her loyalty to Odinn, whom she has served all her life, and her fondness for an Interloper she dragged in from the wilderness mere days ago. That she cannot tell Odinn herself, on account of her vow, only complicates her position.
"I am sorry," I say. "I should not have—"
She draws back again for a slap, and this time it connects. My cheek stings. I have earned it.
I draw breath to begin explaining myself. "What Loki did—"
She strikes me again on the same cheek. Now it burns. I rub it. "Stop that!" I say. "I understand. I will say no more."
Only rarely is there any call for words between us. Now is not one of those times.
I step closer, erasing all but a whisper of the space between us. I raise a hand and set it on her hip, over the warm linen of her nightdress. She does not retreat as I lean in to kiss her, rather angles her head to receive it. She takes me in her arms and melts into me, and in silence, on this night before Ragnarok, we do as Dalla intended
.
When morning comes, we bid farewell to Afi and Dalla and set off for the fissure from which the invasion is certain to come. We are the first Asgardians to arrive. Thankfully, we see no swarm. As the morning wears on, an army of Alvar begins to appear across the chasm in Alfheim. Then, at last, as evening sets in, the horizon behind us fills with warriors by the thousand, the arriving Great Host blanketing hill and plain: Einherjar, Valkyriar, Vanir, and others for whom I have no names as yet. Then come bands of towering frost giants bearing hammers and axes the size of houses, and their cousins the hill jotnar, the smallest of whom still dwarf the largest of men.
Gaeira stares at the contingent of giants, and I can feel her longing to make of them notches on the handle of her ax. Four more 'frosties,' as a Vanir child called them, and three more hill giants, just seven more kills out of ninety-nine, and her vow of revenge, the most ambitious undertaken by any Vanir, would be discharged.
Then I could hear her voice.
But those seven notches may as well be a thousand, for all that they lie within reach. The jotnar are our allies now in this time when every living creature of the eight realms must stand shoulder to shoulder against an enemy which would destroy us all. The All-Father has decreed it, and Gaeira will not defy his will.
All stand together now, but if all do not fall together, then maybe... I am not one to hope for war, but I hope that Baldr is right. I hope, for Geaira's sake and my own, that one day Aesir and jotnar will again be enemies.
But today... for today and tomorrow and as long as it may take to ensure our mutual survival, we stand as one.
As the various contingents take their places, I cannot help but go among the Valkyriar to seek out Ayessa. She is with Sigrid, her lover, who glares acidly at me.
"Think of me what you will," I say calmly to the one I once called my wellspring. "I don't believe I was a monster in the last world, but I know I made you a poor husband. I bear the shame of that. Yet our past lives, our past selves, are gone now. We are not those beings. We are whatever this new world makes of us. I wish you well, the both of you, in this life and whatever may come after."
I do await reply, whether venomous or conciliatory, but only turn and leave them. Should we meet our ends here, those will serve well enough as the final words between us.
Night falls. The next day breaks, and the Great Host grows greater. A caravan of dvergar arrives from the caverns of Nidavellir, bringing wagon-loads of fine weaponry and great war engines capable of hurling stones and other missiles over great distances. Hel comes with what is left of her legions of thralls, souls like mine raised to fill empty shells of flesh. Next, and last, comes the contingent from Neolympus, led by the false Ares, whose face I cannot bear to look upon.
I quickly find Crow and seize him by the arm. As with Ayessa, I feel the need to set things right with him before Ragnarok comes.
"There is something I must tell you, brother," I say to him. "Better yet, I will show you, before you discover it yourself. I hope that once you have seen, you will wish to remain my brother."
I lead him through the ranks of the Great Host to the Valkyriar contingent, where yet again I seek out Ayessa. I say nothing, only lead Crow near to her and wait until he sees.
For a moment, he stares. He lets out a sharp laugh. "Ayessa? Can it really be you?"
Ayessa stares back at him, eyes narrowing. It is an odd look—and I know what it signifies, for days ago I gave Crow a similar one.
"You..." she says. "You—You are...you were..."
"Yes, yes," Crow says. "I was this Ozy... Ozy-something."
"Ozymondros," I remind him.
"So you've drunk from this magic water, too?" Crow asks Ayessa. "I suppose I was your enemy, as I was Thamoth's."
Slowly, thoughtfully, Ayessa shakes her head. "No, Crow. You rid our city of a tyrant." She flicks the quickest of glances in my direction. "His father. But then... it could be that you were also a tyrant." She spares me a longer look now, and it is one filled with doubt. She admits, "According to my vision, anyway. I am unsure of what to believe."
Her doubt heartens me, for I know that she speaks not only of Ozymondros.
"Well, if I am no enemy, why the delay?" Crow says. "Come, embrace me!"
Ayessa's mouth cracks in the faintest of smiles as she grants his request. Crow laughs aloud and is still smiling when he releases all but her hand and turns to me.
"Why should such a happy sight cause me to reject you, Thamoth?"
"Because I lied to you when I visited Neolympus," I confess. "I had seen her and spoken to her, but could not tell you."
Crow lifts a brow, frowns... and scoffs. "You have told me now. I trust there will be other things you must keep from me, now that you are Odinn's man. That is as it must be. It need not come between us."
He extends his arm and I clasp it. Yet, as grateful as I am for his forgiveness, I cannot feel relief. I do keep other secrets from him, the greatest of which—that Ares is Loki—gnaws at me from within, nearly rendering me unable to look him in the eye.
"Will we three fight side-by-side?" he asks. "As once we did?"
I smile, glad for the change of subject. "Alas, no. Ayessa... She goes by Essa now... fights with the Valkyriar, you with the Neolympians. And I shall be among Baldr's guard."
"A shame," Crow sighs.
"We will meet again for that drink when it is over," I assure him. He nods, although we both know that no one can or will hold me to that promise.
52. The First Battle of Ragnarok
With the Great Host of Asgard I stand, ready for battle. To my left and right are peerless Einherjar, mighty Valkyriar, and every man and woman of the Aesir and Vanir capable of wielding ax, spear, or sword. Leading us is Tyr, son of the All-Father Odinn. Beside him are two of his brothers, shining Baldr and blind Hodr, who insists he is able to fight thanks to enchanted sight bestowed upon him by his lover, Hel. A fourth Odinnson, the mightiest of them, Thor, has fallen, mourned by the sky itself. The All-Father himself has gone in search of answers, and presently lies entranced by Mimir's Well, deep within the tangled roots of Yggdrasil.
Swelling our ranks are forces more accustomed to challenging Odinn's rule than heeding it: towering frost giants and the undead thralls of Hel. My own folk stand with the Host, too, reborn souls doomed to wander between worlds. They are unaware that they are led by an impostor wearing the face of their rightful leader. Of all who were summoned this day, only the fighters of Svartalfheim declined to take the field. The sons of Odinn have sworn that once the threat is past, they shall be made to pay for their refusal.
If the threat passes, and if any sons of Odinn survive it. If Odinn himself survives. Those things are hardly certain. I have drunk of the Well of Mimir, and its waters granted me four visions of the future. One thus far has come to pass. Three remain, the worst of them.
Two lives have I lived, in two worlds. The second brings me here, to a battle which may be the last this world ever knows.
Early on the third day after the assembly of the Great Host, a wretched shrieking fills our ears. A green mist issues from the chasm before us—and then is quickly dispelled by a steady wind conjured by Medea. Next come a few of the vile creatures which are named the Myriad because they are endless in number and form. They hover and watch, staying out of our weapons' reach.
And then, behind them, comes the swarm, rising from below like a great wall of writhing, multicolored flesh. The second of my four visions becomes real. Ragnarok is upon us.
***
When this day began, I did not possess a clear sense-impression of how I, Thamoth, wearing other flesh, felt on first looking seaward from a palace roof and seeing the sky eclipsed by a great wave coming to engulf me. That memory was impressed upon me by Mimir's Well and thus feels as a dream, once removed from true experience.
Now, gazing up at another great wave made not of water but of monsters, I recall the terror, the helplessness, the despair, the sense of inexorable doom,
for I feel it afresh.
One cannot battle the sea and win. One cannot even try. It is just as possible that one cannot battle the Myriad and win.
But we will try.
For a few moments, looking at the swarm, its shriek filling my ears, I stand paralyzed, I and every other man and woman of the Great Host. The last time I faced this enemy, it came cloaked in green mist. Now, thanks to Medea's gale, it stands exposed, a nightmare deluge of a thousand colors, a million eyes, a million mouths and ten times a million limbs and teeth.
Up and up the swarm rises, its shadow swelling to cover our Host. From the frozen army, a great many voices rise at once in a ringing war cry: "ASGARD!" I add my voice, as countless others add theirs, and the defiant cry sails up on Medea's wind to combat the eerie, incessant shrieking of the Myriad swarm. We defenders stand fast, hands tight on grips of blades as the screaming, life-devouring wave crests—descends—and crashes into our ranks. There is no front line, as there would be if we faced a foe which walked on legs. All ranks of our Host, from front to rear, must fight equally from the first instant.
I swing my blade, and it slices mottled flesh. On the backswing, it cuts again. It does not stop cutting. Writhing tentacles wrap about my body. I sever them, sometimes before, sometimes after, their spikes or thorns or ridges pierce my skin. To either side of me, a sword-length away, Aesir fighters likewise battle for their lives and for mine, just as I strike in their defense whenever I am able. The sky stands filled with monsters, and we swing and swing at whatever is in reach while black ichor coats us head to foot. We may not stop slashing for a heartbeat, lest all be lost.
But our army fights not only with blades. I have fought unceasingly for long minutes when I feel a rush of intense heat on my neck. The swarm's shrieking momentarily subsides, and the sky brightens a shade. The creatures above my section of the Great Host blacken and wither and fall from the sky, victims to the sorceries of Hel and other enchanters of Asgard unknown to me.
The magic gives us our arms brief respite. Too brief. It will be scant seconds before more Myriad fill the gap. Before they come, I look all around at the other contingents of the Great Host. First I scan the Vanir, but my eye fails to pick out Gaeira. Beyond, towering above them, frost giants swing their massive hammers at the swarm, batting Myriad from the air like bloodthirsty birds, smashing them against the ground. I whip my head the other way to see how fare the Valkyriar, but I can see only the swarm before time runs out and I must return to the bloody harvest.