The Fires of Muspelheim

by Travis Simmons

  “Come on!” He yelled, pulling her to the stairs. They raced up the stairs and crashed to the floor of the upstairs landing as bolt after silvery bolt tore through the stairs after them.

  “What do we do?” Leona asked.

  “Do you still have Daniken’s scepter?”

  She nodded.

  “Use it, and make sure the hammer is safe,” Skye ordered. He crawled up to his knees and peaked through the window at the top of the stairs. Apparently he was happy with what he didn’t see because he sighed and stood, pushing the window up.

  “Close it after me,” he said. Skye closed his eyes and Leona watched his skin glow, brighten, and then vanish in a torrent of golden light. He zipped out of the window, but he didn’t make it far before a silver bolt of light struck the golden ball, and Skye plummeted out of the sky. When he smashed into the ground, he was once more physical.

  Leona climbed to the window, but a volley of silver light kept her from sticking her head out and seeing if Skye was okay.

  “You idiots,” the same female said. “We need her alive!”

  Leona dashed to her room and threw open the door to the closet. The moon scepter she’d taken from Daniken was wrapped in a green cloak. She pulled a corner of the cloak back to make sure it was charged. A silver gleam answered her.

  Not fully charged, but good enough. She kept the scepter wrapped so the glow wouldn’t be seen, but open enough that her skin could still connect with the weapon and command the wyrd. She loosened the cloak around the tip so she could fire the scepter. Leona crept to the window. The elves were in back of the house, so there wasn’t anyone to see her slip the window open. She waited. Before long she saw the glow of silver coming from the right side of the house. She pointed where she expected the elf to appear, and when he was in sight, she launched her own silver bolt at him.

  The weapon discharged, and the beautiful gleaming light sliced the top of his head off.

  The elf stopped in mid stride and toppled forward, blood and gore painting the snow around him in crimson.

  Leona ducked back into the window as a slew of silver light connected with the house around her window. They weren’t trying to hit her, but they wanted her to think they would. She could probably duck her head back out and take out another, but she didn’t want to chance it.

  She crawled across the floor and back to the closet where the hammer lay on the floor. Leona secured it to the belt at her waist, and then walked hunched over to Abagail’s room. As she hoped, one of the windows there was shattered.

  She slipped up beside it, peaked outside, and aimed at another elf.

  Her scepter blasted a hole through the female elf’s chest. She fell in a twisted heap to the ground.

  “Enough!” the woman yelled. “Take her out if you need to. We will gather her blood here and use it back at the city.”

  Feet thudded up the stairs, but they never reached the door.

  The night was lit with golden light as ball after ball of amber wyrd streaked out of the sky and alighted on the ground. The orbs barely had time to melt into the figures of light elves before their sun scepters were laying waste to the dark elves.

  Only a few dark elves were able to discharge their scepters into the gathering of light elves before they were killed. It wasn’t much, but the dark elves had taken some of the light elves with them.

  In a matter of minutes, it was done.

  “Leona?” A voice called from outside.

  She peaked out the window to see a tall, elegant elf standing amidst the fallen bodies of dark elves and light elves alike. Her scepter clasped in her hands emitted a soft yellow light. When the woman spotted her, she smiled.

  “Thank the All Father you’re alright. I’m Olice,” she introduced herself. “May we come in?”

  “Skye is out back. He’s hurt,” Leona said. She wanted to tell them she thought he might be dead, but the words lodged in her throat, refusing to be voiced.

  Olice motioned to two of the light elves, and they dashed around behind the house to gather him. “May we come in?” Olice asked.

  “Yes,” Leona said.

  The way down the stairs was difficult. Holes had been blasted straight through some of the steps, and Leona had to take extra-large steps so she could skip boards that were now too dangerous to walk on.

  The downstairs was nearly unrecognizable. Glass, wood, and parts of the ceiling lay scattered all over the floor. The couch and the dining room table lay in tattered heaps on the floor. Even the wall that separated the bathroom from the rest of the house was peppered with holes.

  Footsteps on the stairs outside drew Leona’s attention to the front door. A female elf carried Skye through the door. Her golden hair was piled on her head in intricate braids. Her tunic was long and white, her trousers black and nearly as silken as her shirt.

  The elf cast around the room, looking for a place to set Skye down when she noticed a section of clean counter.

  Olice came through after the elf that carried in Skye. She helped get him settled on the counter, and started checking him over.

  “Will he be okay?” Leona asked.

  Olice frowned. “He’s alive, if that’s what you’re asking. I think he will be fine, we just need to do some work on him.”

  Leona watched her work for a moment, but her nerves were too tense. She couldn’t just stand there and watch. She headed for the door, but the elf that carried Skye in blocked her way. The elf crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head no.

  “I just need some fresh air,” she said.

  “Libby, let her go, but stay with her and don’t let her leave the porch or our guard,” Olice said.

  Leona stepped outside and leaned against the railing. She looked up at the dark sky and took a deep breath. The clouds covered the light of the moon and the stars. Leona wished more than anything that she could see that light right then.

  Abbie, I wish you were here, Leona thought. Tears blurred her vision. She dashed them away with her palm.

  “How did you know I was in danger?” Leona asked Libby.

  “Olice has been following Lucida for a while now,” one of the male elves spoke. “You’re one of the only new harbingers, so we kept our eyes on you.”

  “With our leader, Garth, getting sick, we figured it would only be a matter of time before—” Libby started, but one of the other female elves in attendance cut her off.

  “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the sky.

  Hundreds of streamers of darkness blazed across the gray night sky.

  “Darklings,” Libby breathed.

  “Harbingers of darkness,” Leona whispered.

  “How?” Abagail asked. “Elyse and Dylan aren’t darklings!”

  “Are you sure?” Elyse/Hilda asked. “How can you be so positive that they aren’t?”

  “They didn’t have the plague,” Abagail told her.

  “But certainly you’re aware that not all harbingers carry the shadow plague, aren’t you?” Hilda stepped forward.

  Abagail took a step back, closer to the portal. Gorjugan in Dylan’s body took a step to the right. Abagail tried keeping him in her sight as well as Hilda.

  “They were evil?” Abagail asked.

  “What’s evil?” Hilda spread her hands wide. “To us, don’t you think the gods who cast us out of the Ever After are evil?”

  There was a twinge inside of Abagail. She felt the words sting her. She wouldn’t baulk before this darkling, no matter how she wanted her to. She hefted the spear in her hand.

  “But why did you teach me to control my wyrd?” Abagail wondered. “That doesn’t seem beneficial to you.”

  “You’re under the impression that we are against you,” Hilda said. She smiled.

  “Aren’t you?” Abagail asked.

  “Why would we be? We never did anything to the gods, but they threw us out of the Ever After,” Hilda said.

  “Then why are you trying to get the spear and free Anthros?” Abagail
asked.

  “Why was Anthros locked up in the first place?” Hilda spread her hands wide.

  “You’re trying to confuse me,” Abagail said.

  “Wasn’t it the All Father who tried to do away with all darklings, despite knowing that there always had to be a balance?” Hilda asked, stepping to the left.

  Abagail reached for her wyrd, and the wyrd responded. Her mind and the wyrd fused together and she pulled it over herself like it was a mantle of protection. She pushed out, and a shield wobbled in place around her.

  “Getting better with that wyrd,” Hilda said. “If it wasn’t for us evil darklings, you’d never know how to use that wyrd. Can we really be that bad?”

  Abagail shook her head. She was aware of Gorjugan rounding behind her.

  “Who attacked first?” Hilda asked. “We were thrown out of the Ever After by your very hands, All Father. You created Boran to try to get rid of all the shadow in the Void. Each of these times you directly attacked us. Now all we want is to come home, and you won’t even allow that.”

  Abagail didn’t know what to say. Her hand loosened on the spear.

  “If you hadn’t thrown us into the poisoned depths of Elivigar, we would never even contracted the shadow plague in the first place. We wouldn’t have been darklings at all!”

  Abagail shook her head. “You’re the bad ones. You were thrown out because you were turning bad.”

  “Just give me the spear,” Hilda said, reaching a hand out for the weapon. “We don’t have to use it. We can just keep it as a negotiating piece. Hafaress has the hammer, you have the spear. Don’t you think we could come to some sort of agreement?”

  “No,” Abagail said. “There’s no agreeing with darklings.”

  Hilda frowned.

  Abagail sensed Dylan closing in from behind.

  “You do plenty of attacking on your own. You infected my sister, the shadow plague infected me, and the darkling tide consumes Agaranth now.”

  Hilda held up her hands to forestall her argument.

  “The darkling tide wouldn’t be able to advance if it wasn’t for your creation of Boran,” Hilda said. “And I didn’t infect you that was your father.”

  Abagail’s eyebrows knitted together. “What?”

  “You didn’t really think you could have caught the shadow plague from bees through a protective suit, did you?” Hilda folded her hands before her.

  The sound of fighting seemed to stretch away. There on the hilltop there was only herself and Hilda. There was no battle raging below of fire-etin and deadlings.

  “He placed the dust of a dead bee inside the suit. When you put it on you were infected,” Hilda said. She let a small smile spread across her face. “We had nothing to do with that.”

  “You’re lying,” Abagail said. “Olik may be many things, but he’d never infect me.”

  “Olik is many things, among which is a trickster.”

  “Why would he do that?” Abagail asked.

  “Who knows why a trickster does anything they do?” Hilda shrugged.

  “No, Anthros did this to me. You’re trying to poison my mind with your words!”

  Strong arms wrapped around her. Gorjugan’s grip constricted around her chest, binding her arms to her sides. Hilda darted forward, her eyes intent on the spear. When she came within range, Abagail kicked out with both legs.

  She connected with Hilda’s chest. She could feel the breastplate give way. Her feet sunk into Hilda’s chest cavity. It was enough force to push Abagail and Gorjugan backwards, throwing them off balance. When they fell, Abagail lurched to the left, holding tight to the spear.

  Gorjugan couldn’t keep hold of her. Abagail tumbled to the side. She slammed into the basalt flooring. She stumbled to her feet as Gorjugan charged at her. She spun, the spear held back against her arm. As her spin came full circle, Abagail lanced out with the spear, slashing a jagged gash across Gorjugan’s throat. The wound flashed silver, chasing away all life from Dylan’s eyes.

  The body fell motionless to the ground.

  Hilda hobbled forward, her chest concave where Abagail’s feet had gone through her.

  “The spear,” she seethed. She held out a hand, now gnarled and knobby. “Give it to me!”

  Her black hair shot through with streaks of white. As Abagail watched her hair faded. The left side crumbled, the hair falling from her scalp like leaves in the fall. Her skin withered, wrinkled like old parchment put to flame. Cataracts bloomed in her left eye even as the orb shriveled in her socket.

  Hilda stumbled forward, her physical appearance taking on her natural underworldly appearance.

  “Never,” Abagail said. She darted for the portal.

  Dead hands grabbed her, pulling her back. She tugged away from Hilda, smashing the side of her dead face with the spear. She stabbed, slashing a gash through the dead side of her head.

  Hilda only laughed. “You can’t kill what’s already dead!”

  Abagail yanked. With all of her might, she threw herself at the portal. The blue light within flowed over her like static in the winter. Hilda came with her.

  She slammed into the frozen ground on the other side, in Agaranth.

  Abagail rolled away, lashing out with the spear, but there was nothing there for her to attack. There was no trace of Hilda.

  “Get that portal down, now!” a familiar voice ordered.

  A purple glow plummeted out of the sky and landed on Abagail’s chest. It was Daphne, her purple wings iridescent in the coming twilight. She bent low, her voice like bells to Abagail’s ears. Abagail couldn’t understand the pixie, but she sounded happy.

  “Abagail,” Celeste said, kneeling beside her. “I’m very happy to see you well.”

  Abagail struggled to sit up. She caught the last bit of the collapsing of the portal. The blue light winked out of existence and the harbingers who’d conjured it stepped back. More people rushed forward and started pulling the wooden frame of the portal apart.

  “Where is she?” Abagail asked.

  “Who?” Celeste wondered.

  “Hilda, she had ahold of me,” Abagail told her.

  “We saw the struggle through the portal. She grabbed you but never came through with you.” Celeste smiled at her. “You’re safe. Marggie here will see to your comfort.”

  An old lady came to her side and ran a wrinkled, brown spotted hand over her hair. She smiled at Abagail and Abagail couldn’t help smile back. Her face was kind and Abagail wondered if this was what grandmothers were like. She wore orange and red. Abagail knew her immediately as a fire-etin. She was one of the ones who came through. She was a harbinger.

  “Come dear,” she said, her voice strong. “Let’s get you settled. Tomorrow we head for Haven.”

  The God Slayer hung from Abagail’s hand, trailing a path through the snow behind her. Marggie hobbled ahead of her, leaning her weight heavily on a crutch made from a tree branch. Periodically the grandmotherly lady would look back at Abagail and smile when she saw the younger girl was keeping up.

  “Not much further,” Marggie said.

  The cave that Marggie led her to was bigger than any cave Abagail had ever seen. Stalactite hung from the ceiling, their crystalline surfaces shinning back the flames of the numerous fires that burned all around the cave.

  Clusters of fire-etin dwarves in clothing of orange and red huddled around the fires, warming their hands. There were other dwarves, not nearly as elegant looking as the fire-etin. These other dwarves must have been from Agaranth. They had long beards and weather worn faces. Their clothing was made of furs and wool. They walked around the inside of the cave, layering cloaks over the backs of the new arrivals from Muspelheim.

  “Just here,” Marggie said. They weren’t that far into the cave, but the farthest recesses were occupied by the fire-etin. Most of them were gathered around fires, trying to keep warm in a colder climate than they were used to. But there were other fire-etin that stood outside, staring up into the infinite space o
f the sky.

  It dawned on Abagail then that they’d never truly seen the sky.

  How strange it must be to live your entire life inside of buildings inside of a cave, she thought.

  Marggie helped Abagail to lay back against the wall of the cave. Abagail crossed her hands over the God Slayer where it lay on her lap, and rested her head against the wall. She didn’t mean to fall asleep, but soon enough she was dozing to the song Marggie was humming.

  In the morning when she woke, the God Slayer was gone.

  Rorick panted to breathe as his weary feet carried him up the last leg of the mountain and to the heart of Haven. The memory of Deborah’s guts spilling, steaming and putrid, all over the ground weighed heavily on him.

  She was a darkling, he told himself. But it didn’t matter. She had still been a human. And she’d smelled like a human. The thought nearly made him gag. When he’d gone hunting with his father, and they gutted their kill, Rorick was always able to smell the meat. It wasn’t exactly the same smell the meat had when it was cooking, but there was a hint of that among the other, dead smells of their game.

  All he could think about was the smell of Deborah, and that’s how human meat smelled.

  Rorick bent into the bushes and lost the contents of his stomach into the snow. The smell of his puke made him gag. He vomited again.

  When he thought his stomach could handle it, Rorick pushed to a stand. He cursed the rapid movement when his stomach lurched again, but at least there was nothing behind this lurch.

  Camilla is dead, he thought. It couldn’t be true. Deborah was a darkling. They were known to be prolific liars. Something told him she’d been truthful. He turned toward the stairs that led to the upper level. The thought of Camilla fighting the dark elf and what might have come to her hurried his feet. Rorick dashed up the stairs, and tore across levels until he was at the top level of Haven, gasping for air, and facing the alley where he and Camilla had seen the elf and the darkling meet so many times before.

  He’d been in such a rush to get there, but now he couldn’t make his feet work. He was rooted to the spot. The end of the alley was too shadowed for him to see what lingered at the back.