The Goddess Embraced (The Saga of Edda-Earth Book 3)

by Deborah Davitt

  And, sure enough, it lashed out at the closest creature in fury at Freya’s words. At Sigrun, who’d just gotten within range of the creature’s extended maw. The valkyrie dodged in air, impossibly light. Rig swallowed hard and flicked his illusion in the other direction, and was both delighted and amazed as Jormangand actually followed his creation, and not the valkyrie herself. But Nith snarled. You must carry your mate now, Saraid.

  I hear! Saraid’s encompassing armor around Trennus dissolved even as Nith released the human, and then a huge white bird appeared, latching onto him with her claws and slowing his descent. Rig had one instant to see the whites appear all the way around Trennus’ eyes, and then Nith roared a challenge and arrowed directly for Jormangand.

  “It’s an illusion, Nith!” Rig shouted, clutching the leather straps, feeling them creak. “She’s all right!” He was able to follow her flight, because he had his invisibility firmly on her. He knew that she now hovered inches from a body whose heat made the air around it shimmer like a mirage in the desert.

  Then my flight will add to his belief in your illusion, Loki’s son! Nith looped up, and then stooped in a steep arc, his jaws falling open. Precise angle and aim, to avoid any back-blast, and he clearly waited until Jormangand once more belched fire at him . . . and met it with deathfrost. The streak of Jormangand’s fire and melted rock met cold so intense it reduced the air itself to liquid, and in the middle, the melted rock solidified. Fell, like the shattered remnants of a meteorite, to the ice below.

  And then Jormangand jerked, and his enormous head tipped down. His fires died for a moment, and an odd noise, almost a whuffle, escaped him. One of the bleeding rents in his side had knitted itself together . . . and Rig could see a limp form now falling away from him. Niðhoggr hissed and dove, this time skimming so close to the world-serpent’s body that it looked like they were skating along the surface of a cliff as they raced down towards the ice below. Heat radiated out from that form, almost blistering Rig’s face as he turned away, and the air itself felt as if he were trapped inside a blast furnace, once more stealing away his breath.

  Enormous claws caught Sigrun’s limp body and Nith swung away again, hissing up at the much-larger beast. Since last we met, uncle, Dagon and Hel herself have fallen beneath my claws and teeth. It would be wise of you to listen, instead of reacting in mere blind anger and malice.

  Go. If Niðhoggr’s voice held the scrape of tectonic plates as they shouldered past one another, Jormangand’s was the sound of lava belching into a snowfield. The sound of hissing steam rising into the air above the black ropes and coils of molten earth, as it cooled. Tend to the ruined earth. Hunt the mad ones, as I do. The voice remained wary. But know that I will hunt them wherever and whenever I choose, for there is none here who may command me. I do not recognize you, man-thing that claims to be the son of my father. I smell his scent on you, his touch. But I smell more of his power in the one who called herself Stormborn than in you. Though I do not know this goddess. She reeks of both Tyr and Loki, and other, fouler creatures. Jormangand began to sink down now, pulling himself under the rocks and ice and sea one more. Go to your business, Freya of the Vanir. I will not accept your aid, for though it comes with honeyed words, I know you and yours of old. You and Odin banished me to the cold and the dark and bade me sleep until the world’s end, and Loki allowed it. You could have sent me back to the Veil.

  Though Rig was almost overpowered with awe, he could hear the aggrieved, sullen edge in the ponderous words. And yet, Freya hovered in the air nearby, calm and regretful. No. We could not. You and Dagon-that-was were much alike in that. You consolidated all of your power into your form here, in this realm, for there were few who would worship you. You could not move this massive body into the Veil, this accretion of mortal substance. There are few gods who could or would carry so much material there. If you returned to the Veil, shedding this form, and then attempted to come back to this mortal realm, your new-manifested form would be weak and small in comparison. You wished for us to preserve this form for you, massive as it is, and we told you that we would not. Loki refused to do so, too. We did not understand why. Freya’s tone was sad. We thought that he kept you here as his weapon. But while that may have been the case, in part . . . it is also possible that he knew that this body was too powerful. And that to return it to you would have required either a substantial portion of his power, or the sacrifice of lives. So we bade you sleep. Where you could harm none, and where none, we thought, would meddle with you.

  Jormangand hissed once more and sank beneath the ice, and Nith came in for a landing on a chunk the size of a small island. It remained free-floating, and thus sank a little under the dragon’s weight, but it would, assuming Jormangand left the area, freeze back into its place soon enough. Rig peered down over the dragon’s shoulder. “Is she . . . ?”

  No. She is not dead. But she is burned, and badly. I must take her to a place of healing, and quickly. Time is unforgiving in this mortal realm.

  “Can’t Freya—?”

  Freya is needed to hunt the mad godlings here. You must go with her and the others. I will return with Stormborn as soon as I may.

  Rig slipped and skidded down the dragon’s scales, and landed on the ice, barely keeping his feet under him as he did. The massive haunches beside him tensed, and then the dragon was gone, in a flicker of black-silver. Rig exhaled, staring around himself; he’d caught a whiff of charred flesh when he landed, turning his stomach. He’d smelled that on too many battlefields. Too many destroyed neighborhoods, when an efreet had been loosed and rockets launched into the houses to feed the fire-spirit. Come on, Aunt Sig. You heal like no one else. And this was just . . . putting a bandage on the serpent’s wound. It’s not like you were fighting Baal-Samem again.

  He looked around, feeling lost and a little unsure. The thrill of being included, at working at the same level as his elders . . . had very rapidly palled. Trennus scrambled up the icy slope towards him, and blew into his hands, as Saraid padded beside him in her fenris shape now. “You’ll be fine, Rig,” his father-in-law told him, kindly. “When we faced off with Tlaloc, however accidentally, Adam and I were both younger than you are now. You’ve got the right experience. And you were there for Baal-Hamon and Baal-Samem. You’ll do just fine.”

  That meant a lot, but it was also chilling. They’d been younger than he was, when they’d become godslayers. “I’m an infiltrator,” Rig said, after a moment, evenly. “I get in behind enemy lines and do the kind of work most people don’t want to think about when it comes to war.” His expression tightened for a moment. Blowing up enemy supply and ammunition dumps was clean, at least. Finding their advance scouts and making sure they couldn’t report back? Dirtier, but necessary. Leaving one of the enemy alive with disinformation, and hoping the bait was taken? The ethics got grayer and grayer, as time went on. “I’ll try to stay out of the way, Uncle Tren. You all needed me here for my connection to Loki, and even that didn’t do much of anything at all. All I really have is illusion. Not sure what that’ll do against a mad god. Or if I can conceal you from its senses, the way I can fool some spirits’ Veil senses.”

  “The same thing it does against every other enemy. Confuses them, misdirects them, and, if we’re lucky, keeps us alive, and gives everyone else a chance to fight and kill them.” Trennus put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re with Zhi, I think, till Nith gets back.”

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  “I didn’t get a good look.” Trennus sounded worried. “Sari?”

  Very bad burns. At least as bad as Tlaloc’s flames. She has survived such before, however. Saraid sounded concerned. It took three days, the last time. But my sister is stronger now.

  Trennus grimaced, his expression taut as he turned and looked at Saraid. Something passed between them that Rig didn’t quite understand . . . and then Jormangand’s words returned to him, and he reeled as understanding coalesced. He called Aunt Sig a goddess. And said she had
more of my father’s power in her, than I did. His mind was numb to wonder at the moment, however, and his reaction was therefore muted. Something . . . something to ask her about, assuming I survive the next couple of hours. And assuming she’s all right. “So tell me,” Rig said, as Zhi and Freya both flew down from the sky. “Exactly how do we, well, hunt mad gods?”

  With great care, Zhi replied. These ones are weakened. Scattered and divided. Jormangand consumed some of the essence of the one that attacked him yesterday. The rest fled. They may fight and consume one another and grow stronger. We must defeat them while they remain weak. The efreet was definite about that. I found it . . . uncomfortable to consume one, but I was able to retreat to the Veil. I did not know that Jormangand could not. There are, perhaps, reasons why he is . . . intractable at the moment. The efreet’s pillar of smoke pulsed with flame for a moment. Their essence is chaos. It affected my mind, for a time. I was . . . angry and erratic.

  However could you tell the difference? Saraid’s tone was dry.

  I did not trust myself around my family. They began to look like prey. That is how I knew. Zhi’s tone was fierce, and Saraid dipped her head in apology.

  Rig shuddered. “What do you want me to do?”

  Match my essence and appearance, as you did Stormborn’s. Duplicate me, and send my double ahead of us, while masking our true location. And then we will hunt, Loki’s son. And divide that which we kill. There might have been a feral snarl somewhere in the clouds. It was decidedly hard to tell. Zhi scooped Rig up into the air, as lightly as if he were a child, and off they went. He tucked to the back of his head one thought: Flying on a dragon felt entirely safer and more stable than being carried by an efreet.

  At first, all Stormborn knew was blackness. When she came back to herself, all there was, was pain. Too much to cry out at, or weep for. She huddled in on herself, and the fires inside of her began to rise up to knit flesh and bone once more, and she shook, dimly aware that someone carried her through long, empty hallways. Cradled like an infant, though her head lolled. A door opened, and there was a pause as light flared in the room, and she raised her arms to cover her eyes, pure animal reflex. Another pause, swaying as whoever was carrying her turned a little, and then she was deposited, very gently, on something soft. The pain as the blackened areas of skin cracked and split open was nauseating, and the room spun. Wavered around the edges. And yet, the peaceful blackness didn’t come back, though she wished that it would. “Where—” Her lips could barely move. They, too, cracked and began bleeding.

  Don’t use your body. Use your mind.

  . . . Niðhoggr? Where . . . ? It was hard to focus.

  Your realm in the Veil.

  Not mine. Yours. Yours by right of inheritance from Hel. Dizzy thoughts.

  Something stroked her hair, or what remained of her hair, gently. It might have been a hand. It was more likely the savagely barbed tip of Niðhoggr’s tail. She was my progenitor. In a sense, I was her heir, yes. I did kill her, and yes, to the victor go the spoils. I think it fair to say that we two may have divided the power she loosed when she died. Close your eyes. I will try to take some of the heat away from your flesh. The fire yet cooks you.

  She tried to twist away, tried to protest that ice was never the recommended course of treatment for burns . . . and yet, the fine frost that now drifted down to touch her skin felt wonderfully soothing, like the most blessed balm in existence. The pain lessened, and she was able to hold still as her body continued to knit.

  Eyeblinks or hours later, the thought arose from deep in her subconscious, with a jolt of panic: The others . . . they will need you! You must return to them! Zhi could handle himself. Worldwalker and Saraid could, as well. Freya, undoubtedly. But Visionweaver . . . . Hiddenstar would never forgive her if something happened to Visionweaver on her watch. Stormborn tried to sit up, and felt something push her back down again, gently.

  Visionweaver is a capable warrior. He has fought for seven years now. He must learn what he has within himself, and in what better company might he do so? Faint amusement in Nith’s voice now. And we are in the Veil. Duration does not exist here, save by the will of those who have the understanding and the power to create it. We have infinite time here. Enough to allow you to heal, S . . . my friend. And you will return only minutes after we left, I assure you.

  Her mind couldn’t grasp it at the moment. There was too much pain. But she had his assurance that her actions hadn’t defeated them before they even began. That they could return in time to fight. Stormborn nodded, relaxed, and let her head fall back against whatever wonderful softness lay behind her, and tried to retreat from the pain into darkness once more.

  After what felt like an eternity of huddling in pain without medication or magical relief beyond the dragon’s frost-breath, she was able to open her eyes and look around, and found that she was on the floor of what looked like an empty bedroom in the castle she’d imagined for Niðhoggr. The floor was, at least, made of clouds, which explained the comfort. And the dragon himself—reduced in size to that of a lindworm, and sprawled on the floor beside her, keeping watch with his lambent moonsilver eyes. You are better?

  Somewhat. She needed to start moving as the old, dead skin sloughed off, to ensure that the new skin didn’t grow in too tightly, and she was suddenly aware that she was ravenously hungry. Her body had used its reserves to build new muscle and other tissues. She looked down at her left hand, the fingers of which had previously melted together when she’d touched the great beast, and had been seared down to the bone, and swallowed, hard. Taking even one wound from Jormangand had been . . . horrific. But her fingers now looked smooth and unmarked, as the new pink skin emerged. You are going to berate me, aren’t you?

  The thought had occurred. However, I also thought, as I was keeping watch, that I might ask you this first: did you try using seiðr to heal Jormangand, first, at least?

  The valkyrie swallowed. I did, she said, quietly. My understanding of it was . . . lacking. Which left me only with my normal healing. She looked down. We needed to gain his trust, she added, a little defensively, and then realized that she was thirsty. Terribly so. And she had no idea if she’d been wise enough to put a well in the damned castle.

  Silence from the dragon, and Stormborn, though not new to interrogations, fidgeted under his stare. I thought that he might smell enough of . . . Loki . . . on me, to allow me to get closer. I did not anticipate Rig’s intervention. I would have stopped further away, but it looked as if the illusion had given me an opening that I might not have had, otherwise. And I . . . thought I might be able to use seiðr to heal him, at first. Instead of what I have always done. She closed her eyes. As I said, my understanding was lacking. He grew more and more agitated, and I took a chance.

  At least you did not approach him intending to take the wound from the start. In the future, you must share your plans with me. I am not bound to you, in the same fashion that she bound me. I do not know all your thoughts. Communication between allies is key, is it not? The long tail lashed.

  The valkyrie tried to nod, and winced in pain as a piece of skin on her neck ripped, and then flaked away. I am sorry.

  Also, I ask one more thing. Why did you go in? Why did you not let Freya heal him?

  She hesitated. I am used to going first into battle, and others backing me up, knowing that I will take the brunt of an enemy’s attention, and that their role is to use their magic and their weapons from a distance to destroy it, while I . . . occupy it. She looked away.

  You will agree that from now on, that is my role. No compromise in his voice. Enduring pain and inflicting damage is what I am meant to do. You rarely wear armor, and I am covered in it. A bullet that could erase a vital organ from your body might nick one of my scales, and nothing more. I have seen you take too many wounds, when you should have allowed me to take the brunt of the attack, so that you could formulate a better attack of your own. Allow me to play my role.

  The denial di
ed before she could give it even mental voice, as she remembered the kraken, fought with Niðhoggr and Truthsayer at her side. Various lindworm nests in Gotaland. Even, arguably, the wound she’d taken from Reginleif in the battle against Hel. And today, too, though this was again a matter of healing. I have not adapted my tactics to having you by my side, she agreed, slowly. I always felt it presumptuous to think that you would . . . always be there. So there was no reason to change.

  Niðhoggr snorted. There is need, now.

  Understood. She paused. You will, in turn, allow me to heal you.

  Once you practice with seiðr, yes. It would do us very little good for me to take the wounds for you, and then for you to take them from me. There is a Roman mercantile expression that would apply.

  Cutting out the middleman?

  Precisely so. Niðhoggr regarded her intently. Now. To repeat: Why did you not let Freya heal him?

  She shifted in place, feeling more of her skin fleck away. Freya’s words agitated Jormangand. He would not have permitted her to heal him. Not without . . . being forced. We did not want to fight him. And it was better that I should take the risk, than her. She is queen of the Aesir.