by C. Gockel
Amy looks to the other people in the room. Her eyes fall on Beatrice’s umbrella. She’d used it to stop her on the stairwell. Beatrice follows her eyes, but Hoenir answers her unspoken question. “It has one of the fragments of Gungnir in its shaft. It has some of Odin’s magic.”
And Odin’s magic is to preserve. Amy’s brow furrows. “But someone would have noticed.”
Beatrice raises her chin. “Someone did … Gerðr recognized it after I used it to save her when Skirnir tried to abduct her. She kept it to herself.” Beatrice shrugs. “And it’s been giving Brett’s and Bryant’s more sensitive magic detectors trouble for months.”
Amy’s mouth drops open. She remembers that—they always blamed their equipment.
“No one is suspicious of a grandma,” Beatrice says. Her jaw gets tight. “I’m sorry, Amy, but if you force me to use it on you, I will.”
Next to her, Daevas says, “I need your help to be whole. If you’re in Odin’s clutches, you can’t help me.”
Amy looks to Gem. The stoic little dwarf crosses her arms. “Marching into Asgard is a foolish idea.”
“It would be better to return to the Iron Wood,” says Bjorna. Cannonball gurgles.
Amy’s shoulders sag. No one agrees with her. Even Fenrir looks uncertain. The giant wolf is looking between Amy and Beatrice like she isn’t sure who she should be sitting next to.
There is nothing Amy can do. She may be the incarnation of one of the three most powerful forces in the universe, but she is helpless at the hands of her enemies … and much worse, her friends.
Chapter 33
The saplings in the apple orchard seem to have grown exponentially since the last time Bohdi was in Asgard. Beside him, Gerðr says, “The orchards never stretched this far before …”
Bohdi’s jaw gets hard. He was just worried about starting fires, but looking at the orchards, he wants to burn them. Odin uses the apples to bribe humans like the one that stranded them in Jotunheim.
“No fires, Patel,” Larson says, and Bohdi’s head jerks up.
“It will give away our position,” the lieutenant says. Bohdi takes a deep breath. Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts ... The balcony where he had lunch with Amy is within eyesight. He can just make out sunlight shining on the armor of the men guarding it. He doesn’t think of that tense lunch; instead, his mind wanders to the last time they’d been alone together, Amy’s hair draping over him like a curtain, his hands on her hips, the heat between them enough that even the snow …
“Patel!” Larson snaps.
Bohdi blinks. Stamping out a fire in the grass, the lieutenant scowls up at him.
Bohdi averts his gaze to a small cottage a few hundred meters away across an open field. He sees the door open, but no figures emerge. He squints and sees the grass bend and move in a wave toward the team. In his ear his radio crackles. Tapping it, he hears Sigyn’s voice. “He’s been taken to the tower.” A few seconds later, she and Valli seemingly appear out of thin air. “He’s in Asgard proper. It will be hard not to attract attention.”
Berry and Larson exchange glances, and then the warrant officer says softly, “Can you get us closer to it? If we can get a look at the place, it’ll be easier to formulate a plan.”
Sigyn nods. “There is a place just outside the city.”
“Lead us to it,” says Larson.
The team slips into a single-file line. Sigyn and Valli lead them through the orchards. The air is warm and smells like grass and sunlight; small insects flit around them but do not bite. Bohdi’s clothes are finally drying.
It’s a beautiful day … and so far everything in Asgard has gone beautifully. “This is all wrong,” Bohdi says.
Jung turns sharply to him and opens his mouth. No words come out. The man’s feet stop, and he just stares at Bohdi. Redman freezes midturn. An insect hovers silently in front of Bohdi’s nose—but its wings don’t move. Bohdi looks at his other teammates. They all appear to be frozen in place—even Sigyn, Gerðr, and Valli.
“Fuck!” Bohdi says. He should be afraid, he should be terrified, but he’s too annoyed.
“There is no need for obscenities,” a familiar voice says. Bohdi spins in the direction of the voice. As he does he sees sunlight reflecting on armor in the trees on every side. From the line of semi-invisible men comes the Allfather. He’s drawn Laevithin. It shimmers blue in his hand and even from a distance, Bohdi can feel it pulse with magic. Odin’s visor is up; beside him walks a man in full armor.
Odin gives him a tight smile. “Did you really think you could sneak through Asgard and not be noticed?” he asks. He snaps his fingers. An Einherjar comes forward, and Odin says, “Trace the path of Mr. Patel’s team back to the World Gate. I’ll see that it is closed later.”
The Einherjar motions some of the men toward him. As Bohdi watches, they easily follow the team’s path backward through the orchard.
Odin whispers something to the first man. It might be, “Resume looking for her, Heimdall,” but Bohdi’s not sure. The man who might be Heimdall raises his head, flips open his visor, and crosses his arms. He looks for all the world like he is scanning the sky for clouds.
Bohdi’s eyes drop to the M4 still in his hands. He considers taking a pot shot at the Allfather, just for the fun of it. He suspects it would be useless, but it would also probably annoy the old man, and that would be extremely satisfying. Taking a deep breath, he lowers the rifle instead. “You wanted to talk, Odin?”
Two ravens alight on Odin’s shoulders. The old man doesn’t break stride. “I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you, Mr. Patel?”
Bohdi narrows his eyes. “All I want is Steve back, and then I’ll leave.”
The ravens rawk and cackle. Odin snorts and draws to a stop a few feet away. “You are in no position to issue demands.”
“Really?” Bohdi says, feeling the edges of his vision go red. “I’ll burn down your orchard, Allfather.”
Odin huffs, “You could try.”
Bohdi snarls, imagines the grass at his feet catching fire, the molecules in the air itself jumping, electrons spinning faster and … nothing happens. He feels magic; but it’s like a well within him that he cannot draw on.
“I mute your power,” Odin says. He tips his head toward Heimdall beside him. “Heimdall here says you are a compassionate man; I think you can see how that could be a good thing.” Odin takes a step closer. “You bring death, destruction, and pain, Mr. Patel. But with my influence, you bring only mischief.”
His words roll over Bohdi like cool water over a burn, but then Bohdi takes a step back. He shakes his head, his lip curling. “No, you are bringing pain and destruction to your own people and mine.”
“We can do this the civilized way, Mr. Patel,” Odin says, drawing so close Bohdi could reach out and touch him.
A bitter laugh bubbles out of Bohdi. “Kidnapping my friend isn’t civilized.”
Odin’s nostrils flare. “You will obey me, or Steve Rogers will suffer.”
Those words cool Bohdi’s anger in a heartbeat. The adrenaline in his system seeps away.
Odin must read his expression because he says, “Good, you can see reason.”
Bohdi swallows. Maybe he should just offer to be an obedient minion, play along until Steve and then the team are safe, and then break the oath? He scowls. Amy had confided that she suspected the Einherjar’s oath had magical compulsion behind it; he can’t risk it.
There has to be a loophole. He looks to his team, frozen in place. His jaw drops. “You can’t control me,” he whispers.
“Mr. Patel, I can control you,” Odin drawls in a bored voice. “I could freeze you in time. If I so choose, I could stop your heart.”
“But you didn’t,” Bohdi says softly. He meets Odin’s single eye. “You don’t want to stop my heart—I’d die, and then you’d have to find me again. And you don’t want to freeze me in place because you want me to come willingly.” His eyes widen at the realization.
/> “Of course,” says Odin, through gritted teeth.
Bohdi smiles. “And I’ll give it to you!” He puts a hand to his heart. “If you let Steve and my friends go free.”
Odin’s single eye narrows. “In exchange for an oath, I’d be willing to compromise.”
Bohdi holds up a finger. “And … you’d leave Earth, and humans, magical and otherwise, alone.”
The Allfather’s jaw gets tight.
Bohdi’s M4 sags in his arms. In a way he’d hoped the Allfather would have accepted the bargain. “You’re too afraid of Earth to do that,” Bohdi says softly. He puts a hand to his head in frustration. “But don’t you see, you don’t have to be. You don’t have to rule humanity as an absolute monarch, you could be more powerful as our mentor …” Bohdi actually smiles in wonder, for a moment seeing it. “Your experience and magic, our technology and vitality—we could bring about a Golden Age the likes of which the Nine Realms have never known.” He spreads his hand. “No, not Nine Realms, it would be more! Humans are ready to go to the stars, and with magic we could, all of us!”
“Enough, Silvertongue! You’ve the delusions of a boy.”
At his words, Bohdi’s vision shatters like glass. His skin heats and his vision goes red. He roars at the Allfather, “And you have the fear of an old man!”
“Stop!” Odin says, raising Laevithin.
The sword pulses with blue light, and Bohdi’s muscles become rigid. He can’t blink or snarl.
Odin says brusquely, “You are only conscious at my whim. I own you now, Bohdi Patel.”
Bohdi can’t do anything. He stands a mute, angry, ineffectual statue. And then, a shadow spreads from behind Bohdi, and he hears the sound of splintering wood and a scream.
“Heimdall!” Odin barks. “What is it?”
Heimdall drops his eyes, and for a second, they meet Bohdi’s. His features remind Bohdi so much of the Norn Lache that Bohdi would say her name if he could. The guardian’s eyes shift to the air beyond Bohdi’s shoulder and grow wide.
“Fire Giants have entered the orchard, my lord.”
“How many?” says Odin.
“Sutr has widened the gate,” Heimdall whispers.
“How many?” Odin says.
“There are hundreds … they’re setting the orchards alight!”
“Show Mr. Patel all he has done!” barks Odin, and then he turns fast and delivers a few curt orders to his men. The circle of Einherjar breaks apart, leaving only a few behind. Odin vanishes completely, and as he does, Bohdi feels strength returning to his limbs. He hears his team members groan behind him.
Heimdall says, “Watch over the humans!”
The Einherjar come closer, swords raised. Before Bohdi can raise his rifle, Heimdall strides forward and grabs Bohdi by the collar. “Now you will see what you have done!” he says, forcefully spinning Bohdi around. Over Heimdall’s shoulder, he sees Larson’s eyes get wide, the lieutenant lifts his rifle … it will be useless. Gerðr puts a hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder, lifts her magic blocking cap, and smiles sweetly at the Einherjar behind Heimdall’s back.
Bohdi’s body thrums with heat and lust. Heimdall, blind to the goddess behind him, only growls. The Einherjar closest to Gerðr lower their weapons—as do most of the SEALs and Valli—but not Cruz, Sigyn, or Gerðr herself. And then the world is a blur ...
x x x x
The darkness seems to close in on Steve. The feeling of cotton in his ears intensifies, the taste of blood on his tongue becomes muted.
He may have a bit of concussion, because he feels dizzy. He lays down as gently as he can. His ribs ache, his knees burn, and his injured eye throbs. He can feel it weeping.
The clink of chains sounds mere feet away. But in that instant, Steve’s too tired to care what the Light Elf does to him. He feels a soft pressure on his face. The man says softly, “What have they done to you?” The stranger sighs. “But without my magic, I can’t fix your wounds.”
Steve’s eyes open and he sees the Light Elf hovering over him, his pity palpable. Steve can’t take it. He sits up with a snarl.
The elf skitters backward.
Steve shakes his head and barely mutters, “Sorry.”
He’s had enough. He was born without magic and he lived forty-some years without it just fine. What had Sigyn and Lewis said? Magic just made you more of what you already are, and he’s always been cunning, charming, and manipulative.
Meeting the Light Elf’s eyes, Steve gives him a gentle, benevolent smile. “Is the enemy of my enemy my friend?”
“I am not Odin’s enemy,” says the Light Elf, backing away.
The answer catches Steve off guard, but he doesn’t let it show. In a light, chiding voice, he says, “So, you want to stay here?”
The man sighs, shoulders slumping, and turns away. “No, but we have no magic. We cannot escape.”
Steve’s good eye narrows at the man’s back. The elf doesn’t believe Steve is a threat or an enemy. That’s good. But his sense of defeat isn’t going to be helpful.
“Yes, we can,” says Steve, even though he doesn’t know how. Clambering awkwardly to his feet, he winces at the pain in his ribs and knees. Gritting his teeth, he surveys the cell. It’s completely barren. There isn’t a toilet, a mattress, or even straw.
The Light Elf watches him warily. “They allow us to use a chamber pot mornings and evenings, if you’re curious.”
“Like dogs,” Steve says.
The Light Elf snorts. Steve walks over to the door and examines it. There is a keyhole that looks relatively primitive. Bohdi could probably pick it. There is a smaller door set into the door at the bottom—large enough for a chamber pot, but too small for Steve to fit through.
He tilts his head. “When they pass things through the door, the seal must break. Magic comes into the room … maybe we could create some sort of illusion in the hallway, make them think we escaped?” Not that Steve can do any of that—yet—but maybe the Light Elf can.
“What are you talking about?” the Light Elf says. “There is no seal, our magic doesn’t come back when they open the door. Magic is rolled back in this space. We’re helpless.”
Steve exhales, heaviness settling in his heart. He closes his eyes. He’d thought this magicless room worked the way Promethean wire lined rooms worked. But of course—there are more ways to thwart magic. The iron wood trees do so by devouring it. The waters in the Dark Elves’ lands warp it and make it unpredictable. He’d felt his magic leave him before they shut the door, hadn’t he?
The Light Elf sighs. “Humans, always full of impossible ideas.”
Steve’s eyes snap open. The sound of defeat in the Light Elf’s voice makes him even more determined to find a way. He has to stay calm and think—survey the situation completely. Leaning awkwardly with his bound wrists, he presses his ear against the door. Even without the help of magically-heightened senses he can hear moans from the hallway. Wincing at the pain in his knees, he considers the logistics. “The guards’ magic wands won’t work in here,” he says, thinking aloud.
“No, but their spears will,” says his companion.
Steve tilts his head, remembering Skinny Mage’s conversation with the guards. “They won’t use their spears on us; we are both too valuable.”
“So they’ll beat us with clubs,” says the Light Elf. “There are four men in the guard post at the end of the hall. At least a dozen are stationed below. More than a match for two unarmed men.”
Steve wills himself not to be dismayed by that intel. He grits his teeth. Where Bohdi goes, so does Chaos—and Bohdi has to be on his way here—that’s why he went to Niflheim, not to raise a Fire Giant army. Either way, Asgard is going to be in a fire storm soon. Steve has to be ready to escape when it comes … or at least to die. He will not be the source of emotional blackmail for a thousand years. “They’ll beat us with batons—but they don’t want us dead,” Steve says.
“Actually, I’m scheduled for execution by the Void to
morrow,” the Light Elf says with a wry smile.
For a moment, Steve feels a wave of panic. And then his brain starts working again. “Then you have all the more reason to want to escape,” he says.
Before the guy can get a word out, Steve says, “I have a plan.” Or at least he’s working on one.
“Why should I help you?” says the Light Elf, turning his head away.
Steve almost snaps, but then he takes in the man’s slumped shoulders and his bowed head. This man isn’t arguing for argument’s sake. He’s afraid to get his hopes up. Steve’s jaw gets hard, and then it clicks. “The Void is punishment for people who speak their minds.”
The man lifts his head.
“You didn’t agree with something your Queen and Odin decreed,” Steve says, going out on a limb. The elf sits up straighter.
Ah-ha. Steve plunges onward. “You spoke up in a way that was loud and public.”
The man rolls his eyes dismissively.
Steve’s heart rate speeds up. He’s a little off. “Or at least in a way that they considered dangerous.” He tilts his head. “You’re a person of some rank, so they won’t ’process’ you.” He jerks his head back toward the door. “Like they will the poor souls out there.” He tilts his head. “You get a clean death.”
The other man’s face becomes uncertain.
“You don’t deserve to die,” Steve says. “Not for doing what you thought was right.” Steve licks his lips nervously at that last statement. Even on Earth, the punishment for treason is death. He’d order whoever betrayed his team on Jotunheim executed. But this man … Steve tilts his head. “You didn’t hurt anyone.” He’s not a warrior. His stance, his sense of defeat, they say he hasn’t received a warrior’s training. His act of defiance didn’t bring anyone harm.
“How do you know?” the man whispers.
Steve chuckles. Leaning against a wall, he gives into the weariness in his limbs and sags to the ground. “Because I’m beaten and bruised, and you could have taken out all your frustrations on me or ignored me. Instead you bemoaned not being able to fix me.”
The man is silent for a moment. Then he says, “Lionel, my name is Lionel. I was the chief steward to my … the … Queen.”