Sheila’s conscience was made of weaker stuff, however. She called Bella in tears two days later and confessed. A week later, Vincent moved in with his mother.
“I guess I should have listened to you, Danny,” Vincent muttered.
In retrospect, Daniel was much better at giving advice than taking it. Maybe it was always easier to fix other people’s problems than cleaning up one’s own life. Vincent had long ago given up on trying to talk his brother into walking the straight and narrow. His words never seemed to sink in.
I guess I should have kept trying, but how was I to know you were going to shoot a cop?
The talk show came back on. Vincent left it muted. He knew the real reason he hated Leah’s—no Boden’s—plan was because he didn’t want to have to face Daniel again. What if Daniel’s friends were waiting for him to fall asleep? What if the Project Valhalla agents couldn’t protect him?
What if Daniel knows what I tried to do to him?
Vincent let out a long yawn. He couldn’t stay awake forever. Cursing out loud, he turned off the TV and the lamp, flooding the unfamiliar room with darkness.
OK, let’s get this over with.
He closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep.
***
Eyes closed, Valenthor heard a rustle in the underbrush and felt a shadow fall upon him. He rolled onto his side, wrapped his legs around whoever had sneaked up on him, and twisted. The would-be assailant came crashing to the ground. Valenthor threw himself onto the enemy, trapping the opponent between his body and the forest floor.
Trapping her against his body…
Destiny’s startlingly green eyes stared wildly into his. Her breath was hot on his neck. Her soft, pink lips opened in surprise, but no words came out.
Valenthor scrambled off of her and extended a hand to help her up. “Pray forgive me. I knew not it was you.”
The elf, who looked shaken but no worse for her fall, accepted his hand. She gasped, however, once she got to her feet. “What has happened to your head?”
At the question, he became aware of the rhythmic bursts of pain surging through his skull. Valenthor carefully traced the large, sticky knob protruding from just above his right ear and considered his surroundings. Above him, the crooked boughs of ancient trees creaked menacingly. The sparse vegetation below glinted with frost.
Locke’s mask stared up at him from several paces away.
Daniel!
Something shifted in Vincent’s mind, like a switch being flipped. He felt his own consciousness come flooding in, burying Valenthor’s perceptions beneath a sudden rush of stark awareness.
A simple spectator of The Dream no more, Vincent said, “Locke jumped me. He’s been working with the giants all along.” He was reminding himself as much as updating the elf.
Destiny exclaimed something in her native tongue that sounded far from friendly. Coming closer to him, she said, “Be still, Valenthor. I will call upon the Ancestors to tend your wound.”
Dream or no dream, the pain sure feels real.
Vincent regarded her suspiciously but then bent down so that she could reach his head. He winced when she touched the spot where Locke’s staff had made contact. Strange, silky syllables spilled out of her mouth. Vincent drew in a deep breath when the throbbing faded and was replaced by a faint warm sensation.
“Thanks,” he said. “If that works for hangovers too, you’re my new favorite drinking buddy.”
Destiny stared blankly at him.
“Look, I don’t know about elves, but when humans drink too much…um…ale, they tend to regret it the next day,” he explained.
She folded her hands and said, “It is my hope that you will not again become a slave to your sorrows once your quest is over.”
My quest…
“And which quest might that be? Freeing the soul of a girl who looks like Clementine from a curse? Saving a bunch of elves from extinction?” He walked over to where Valenthor had dropped his hammer before tackling Locke and picked it up. “The only thing I care about now is finding my brother…finding Locke.”
Destiny frowned, and worry lines formed like cracks across her flawless skin. “I confess I know not how to track the rogue. Moreover, we depended upon Locke’s magic to lead us to the Jötunn army.”
“Are you trying to tell me that after all of this, you can’t take me where I need to go?” Vincent demanded.
The elf wilted under his glare. “I shall pray to the Ancestors for guidance.”
“Fuck that! I don’t have time for any more goose chases, Destiny!” He studied her face intently. “Or is there somebody else in there? Suzanne, maybe?”
“I do not understand,” the elf said, tears welling up in her eyes. “Mayhap the bump on your head has addled your thoughts.”
After several more seconds of staring into her wide, innocent eyes, he said, “No, you’re just a mindless puppet, and Daniel is pulling your strings.” Vincent looked up at the sky and shouted, “How about a little help, Boden? I found my way back to The Dream. Now what?”
Silence.
“What about you, Daniel, are you and your friends around here somewhere? Do we really have to bother with all of this Valenthor bullshit?”
Destiny started to cry, and Vincent sighed.
I guess I don’t have a choice. The only way to keep moving forward is to go along with it.
“I’m sorry, Destiny. That was out of line.” He wandered over to the Locke’s mask and scooped it up. Clearing his throat, he said, “I vow that Locke shall not have the last laugh. As the gods are my witness, we will find a way to defeat him.”
Destiny’s face veritably burst with excitement. “You possess his mask!”
“So? I mean, how does that help us?” he asked.
“The mask is a personal artifact belonging to the man we seek,” she said. “With a blessing from the Ancestors, the mask will lead us to its owner.”
Vincent chuckled but stopped short of rolling his eyes.
Nice touch, Suzanne…or Daniel…or whoever.
In the most stoic tone he could muster, Vincent proclaimed, “Locke has a considerable head start. We had best get moving.”
Chapter 31
Vincent heard the battle before he saw it—the savage clang of weapon against armor, the bestial screams of the dying.
Wait a second, how did we get here? We only just started walking!
He followed Destiny to the last line of trees and peered out at the open plain. Beside him, the elf stifled a cry and clasped onto his arm. He knew the gentlemanly thing to do would be to comfort her, but he couldn’t wrench his eyes away from the carnage.
Metal-clad knights carrying shields and swords traded blows with creatures that resembled men in shape, if not size. The Jötunn towered over the men, striking the knights down with clubs, spears, and in some cases their bare hands. They wore ragged animal hides that left much of their hairy skin exposed. Their frenzied assault mangled steel, pulverized bone, and sent human warriors flying around the battlefield.
Although Vincent was confident that, only seconds ago, he and Destiny had been alone in the woods where Daniel jumped him, he also had a hazy memory of a long hike. It was as though time had fast-forwarded through the uneventful portion of their trek and resumed its natural speed at the first sign of action.
I guess regular dreams jump around a lot too. So do books, for that matter.
But even though Vincent knew Valenthor’s world was just a figment of someone’s imagination, he couldn’t shake the visceral effect the sights and sounds of the battle had on him. In the clearing ahead, a handful of knights fought back-to-back against forty giants, the least of which stood a good four feet taller than the largest knight. The spray of blood, the lifeless stares of the fallen were all too real.
Vincent swallowed the bad taste building at the back of his mouth.
“We must help them,” Destiny announced.
“Must we?” Vincent asked. “Unless Locke is in that
mess…and I sure as hell don’t see him…I think we’re better off avoiding them.”
She immediately released his arm. Her solemn—no, sanctimonious—tone matched her expression perfectly. “Your kinsmen face certain death at the hands of those vile beasts. We must intercede, Valenthor, because it is the right thing to do.”
“Kinsmen? Have you forgotten that it was knights who arrested us when we first met? And if memory serves, Locke and I were forced to kill a few of them during our escape,” Vincent said.
Destiny crossed her arms. In one hand, Locke’s mask glowed with a faint blue light. “I will take you no further unless you intercede.”
This doesn’t even make any sense. Why does she give a damn about the knights?
Vincent sighed and hefted the hammer up so that the wooden haft rested against the hollow of his shoulder. “I guess it wouldn’t be a very good story if we scurried away, huh?”
“I will pray for your protection,” she said solemnly.
“That’s it? You’re going to pray?” he asked, incredulous. “Can’t you throw some fireballs or something?”
She shook her head. “Such destructive incantations are sent from the Dark Ones, not the Ancestors.”
“Fine, whatever,” Vincent muttered. He considered his only weapon. In the comic books, Thor’s hammer shot lightning. But Valenthor was no god. He was a washed-up warrior who fought his demons at the bottom of a cup.
We never would have escaped from the village if Locke hadn’t shown up.
If Daniel hadn’t interfered…
“You won’t let the giants kill Valenthor now, will you, little brother?” he mumbled. “I’m the Chosen One after all.”
He thought he heard Destiny gasp, but when he looked at her, her eyes were closed, and her mouth formed words heard only by her gods.
Fuck it.
Vincent raised the hammer above his head and charged toward the fight. If worse came to worst—if he died in battle—he figured he’d just wake up back in the hotel room. He might lose his chance to find Daniel, but maybe, just maybe, The Dream would end.
He slammed the hammer into the spine of the nearest giant. It pitched forward, falling to its knees with a roar. Vincent immediately barreled into the next one, falling into the rhythm that had carried Valenthor through many battles. His feet performed a strange yet familiar dance. His muscles reacted without his conscious direction.
In a matter of seconds, he was covered in blood, shouting with every swing of the hammer. Dodging, striking, shoving—he slowly cleaved a path to the struggling knights. When they saw him, the knights fought harder, forcing the giants to fall back or risk getting skewered.
Vincent felt the tide of the battle turn in the men’s favor. He saw it in the faces of the remaining Jötunn, which watched him—watched the Chosen One—warily. He let out a heartfelt laugh that was more Valenthor’s than his.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a knight crumple to the ground. Before the giant could raise its club for a second strike, Vincent leaped over the fallen knight and drove his shoulder into the creature’s flank.
The giant staggered back and spat out what Vincent could only assume were curses. It swiped at Vincent’s head with the gnarled weapon. Vincent dropped into a low crouch. The wind from the club’s arc ruffled his hair. He thrust the hammer forward and heard a sickening crunch as the metal head smashed the giant’s groin.
Before Vincent could turn back to the injured knight, two more giants closed in on him. One of them swung an ax, a crude tool with a stone blade, grazing Vincent’s back. He felt no pain.
After completing a series of complex maneuvers that sent the ax wielder and its companion crashing to the ground, Vincent turned to confront the next foe, but there were none. Bodies of men and giants alike lay strewn about the field. Only Vincent and two of the knights were left standing. The cold breeze carried the metallic tang of blood.
Someone grunted behind him, and Vincent spun around, ready to bash another giant’s brains in. However, the voice belonged to a third knight, who climbed unsteadily to his feet and removed a badly dented helmet.
Sir Angus regarded him grimly. “Valenthor of the Three Rivers, you are an unexpected savior, to be sure.”
“Small world,” Vincent managed to say between gulps of air.
The two men locked stares, and for a moment Vincent feared the knight would pick up where they had left off after the jailbreak. But then Sir Angus wiped the flat of his sword’s blade on a dead giant’s shirt and sheathed his weapon.
“Thee and thy ally in the mask slew my men,” Sir Angus said. “What little honor I possess precludes me from taking thy life, as thou hast saved ours today. Let the gods judge thee for thy sins, for I cannot.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vincent asked.
The knight’s visage twisted into a scornful smile. “Whilst my brothers-in-arms and I hunted for thee and the fugitive elf, the Jötunn ravaged the town. That which we were duty-bound to protect was burned to the ground. Those whom we had sworn to defend were slaughtered.”
Sir Angus retrieved his shield from the where it lay half-concealed under a dead giant. “Henceforth, my remaining cohorts and I are dedicated to ridding the world of as many Jötunn as the gods allow so that we might atone for our failure before we too partake of our final rest.”
“You’re on a suicide mission,” Vincent stated.
Sir Angus did not appear to hear him. Looking past Vincent, eyes narrowed, the knight said, “Lo! Here approaches the self-same she-elf who instigated this chain of tragedies.”
Sir Angus’s two men muttered to each other as Destiny tiptoed through the corpses. “Valenthor! Ancestors be praised!” she sang, but her breath caught in her throat. “You are wounded!”
Even as the words left her lips, Vincent felt a burning down the length of his back. The muscles in his arms and legs began to throb, and his lungs burned with every ragged breath. The sight of his blood-soaked hands made his head spin and his stomach lurch. He wanted to drop the heavy hammer and sit for a moment, but a guttural voice from nearby caused even the stalwart Sir Angus to start.
Vincent couldn’t muster the strength to raise his hammer. Sir Angus pulled his sword from its scabbard and leveled the tip at the throat of a giant that lay on its side.
The Jötunn was in bad shape. Blood stained most of its ugly face a brownish red. A tiny stub was all that remained of one ear. The giant’s sinewy body was riddled with gashes and contusions. Its tattered leather jerkin, bearing the silhouette of a howling wolf, was soaked with dark blood and pungent sweat.
“What say thee, knave?” Sir Angus demanded, pressing the point of his blade against the giant’s neck.
The giant ignored the weapon, ignored the knight entirely, and stared daggers at Destiny.
“I think he hates elves even more than you do,” Vincent said.
“Where is thine army?” Sir Angus shouted at the giant.
Still glaring at Destiny, the giant croaked out another sentence—nonsense to Vincent, Sir Angus, and the other two knights. But Destiny must have understood because she moaned softly and closed her eyes.
“You speak giant?” Vincent asked her.
She gave a quick nod. “Our tongues share a common root, as do our people.”
How convenient.
“What did it say?” Vincent asked.
Destiny wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. “He declares the damnation of the Fay is nigh. Two days hence, the Jötunn will plunge all of the nations into eternal darkness.”
“And if worse comes to worst, we’ll both have front-row seats for the end of the world.” Daniel’s words.
“Command the beast to reveal the position of the Jötunn war camp,” Sir Angus ordered.
Destiny looked to Vincent, who shrugged. When at last she spoke, she formed her words slowly, carefully. A grimace accompanied the harsh sounds, as though each syllable left a bad taste in her mouth.
The gi
ant’s terse reply needed no translation.
“Answer yon she-elf, else I shall hew thee in twain!” Sir Angus shouted. The tip of his blade drew a trickle of blood from the beast’s neck.
“Ask him about Locke,” Vincent said suddenly.
She did. The giant, clutching at a gaping hole in its belly, deigned not to reply.
Vincent looked away. “OK, ask if it knows anything about a woman who talks with two voices…I think she commands the Jötunn,” Vincent said.
No sooner had Destiny translated Vincent’s question, than the Jötunn’s yellow-stained eyes bulged. Vincent swore he heard the giant say “hell,” but he didn’t recognize any of the other words. The giant’s voice, eerily quiet, made Vincent shiver.
Destiny, fair-skinned at the best of times, managed to grow even whiter as she translated. “Death’s daughter walks among the mortals.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “Valenthor, the Final Battle truly draws near!”
Sir Angus sneered. “’Tis naught but a fairytale to frighten brats.”
“Nay,” the elf said, “a prophecy that must be fulfilled.”
“It matters not,” Sir Angus said. “We venture whithersoever the Jötunn venture. Force the fiend to divulge where the Final Battle will be waged.”
Destiny shook her head. “I know where we must go.”
“Well?” Vincent pressed.
She was trembling now. “To Yggdrasil, the holiest of temples.”
“Can you take us there?” Vincent asked.
Destiny hesitated, then whispered, “Yes.”
Without warning, Sir Angus lunged forward, sliding his sword into the helpless giant’s neck. A fountain of blood spewed from the wound. The creature died with a gurgling wheeze.
When Vincent was certain he wasn’t going to throw up, he rounded on the knight. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Stay thy pity, Valenthor.” Sir Angus returned his blade to its sheath. “Anger will serve thee far better in what we face ahead.”
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