by Ann Gimpel
“Are you saying that the sheer volume of dead left a vacuum?”
“Of sorts.” If I said much more, I’d have to own up to the many trips I’d made to Midgard after the Breaking. Far more than anyone suspected.
Maybe it was time.
Jarle was waiting, but patience was one of his long suits. He could wait for days and not bat an eye.
“We discount mortals,” I began as I thought how to say what I needed to in as few words as possible.
“Aye. That we do. So what?” Jarle countered.
“Human energy is mostly a source for good. I agree it’s negligible until there are a whole lot of them. Then it makes a difference. If only a few thousand of them had died…” I shrugged.
“But it was over a million, was it not?” Jarle asked.
I nodded. “Many times that number. The fabric of their society crumpled. Most of their buildings collapsed. Their big cities have become rubble heaps filled with rats and opportunistic thieves. The seas have risen, and they’re choked with rubbish. Nearly everything that lived in them is dead too.”
Jarle leaned close. “I have heard the Hunt flies almost every night, seeking spoils.”
I had heard the same, but I was reluctant to criticize Odin. He was our god, and if he was leading the Wild Hunt through Midgard with far greater frequency than in the past, he must have his reasons.
“There is a point to this,” Jarle pressed. “What is it?”
“I have perhaps spent more time in Midgard than you know about,” I said slowly as I tried to select the best path. Until now, I’d been closemouthed about my suspicions. Who would I have told? Not Odin. He was busy picking meat from Midgard’s bones.
Jarle’s gaze developed the shrewd aspect I associated with a thorny sword move. “And?”
“Two things. I am convinced Celtic magic was behind the Breaking.”
A sharp intake of breath told me the revelation startled Jarle. He was unflappable, so I gladly took the point I’d scored.
“Why are you so sure?” His hazel eyes bored into me. He might be short on magic, but he was long on common sense.
I don’t know why I’d expected he’d take my word for it, and a small part of me was hurt he didn’t trust my wizardry. I had absolute confidence in his warrior talents, but this wasn’t a tit-for-tat contest.
I raised my gaze and looked right into his eyes. I didn’t want any doubts about my veracity—or my interpretation of magical footprints. “Because I have traveled to Midgard a lot, perhaps a hundred times since the Breaking. Once the initial damage settled out, I hunted for clues. The wreckage was so pervasive, it took me time.”
Jarle curled his hand in a get-on-with-it motion. “Fine. So you’ve been haunting Midgard.”
I didn’t care for the word haunting, but it wasn’t worth quibbling over. “One day, I found something eerie and unusual,” I went on. “A definite splatter of Celtic magic. The Celts were long gone at that point, so their power should not have been there. Unless someone established a time-linked spell that would continue to wreak havoc with no one to sit on top of it. I looked deeper and found one Celt—a woman—residing with a bunch of witches. The magic was similar enough, it might have been hers.”
“A woman, eh?” A knowing smile curled the edges of Jarle’s harsh mouth.
“Yes, and she’s…amazing, but the magic wasn’t hers. A relative’s perhaps, but not hers. I cast a few seeking spells and found the spot where Celtic power broke the world. They’d obviously done their research because the place was where plates supporting Midgard’s surface had already partially separated.”
I took a breath before going on. “Someone summoned fire—normally the purview of our dragons—a whole lot of it. Once it was fully ignited, they fed it with air until the resulting explosion created shock waves that ran the length and breadth of Midgard.”
“I thought you said the spell was self-perpetuating,” Jarle muttered.
“After the initial blast, it was,” I clarified.
Jarle’s forehead crinkled into a mass of lines. “But why? What was in it for this mysterious Celtic god?”
I shrugged. “Never was able to figure out that part. I have shadowed the woman, and I’m convinced she’s as clueless as I am. She’s another mystery. She has power—an enormous amount—yet she lives a hardscrabble existence along with witches who don’t have a hundredth of her ability.”
“Maybe her kinsmen kicked her out of the pantheon,” Jarle suggested.
It had occurred to me, but I’d discarded it out of hand. I’d never heard of a banished Celtic god—except the Morrigan. Usually, they kept their squabbles in-house. “I don’t think so,” I said.
“Have you talked with Odin?”
I shook my head.
“Why not,” Jarle pressed.
“He’s there almost every night,” I mumbled. “Surely, he can figure things out for himself.”
A cunning expression flickered behind Jarle’s hazel eyes. “It’s the woman. You don’t want Odin’s eyes on her.”
I winced. “You know me far too well.”
“Surely, you’re not worried she’ll fall into his arms. Not when he’s leading the Hunt and appears as a half-rotted corpse to blend in with the other Riders.” When I didn’t answer, he kept talking. “Have you told anyone? Perhaps some of the other gods in Asgard?”
I shook my head again.
“Do you mind if I do?”
“Aye.” The reply shot off my tongue. “This discussion is private, and if you wish to maintain our friendship, it will remain so.”
“I see.” Jarle frowned. “All right. I shall honor your request. For now.”
I made a grab for his wrist. “If you ever decide to break that vow, you will tell me before you talk with anyone.”
“I can do that, but why?”
“By then, I may know more than I do right now. Things are scarcely static in Midgard. I’ve done what I can to undermine the fragments of Celtic power that are still pumping out chaos. Meanwhile, other problems have developed.”
“Like what?” On the heels of his question, I heard Jarle mutter he didn’t really want to know.
I told him anyway. “The current blend of magics has proven perfect for sorcery to flourish. All manner of wicked creatures have invaded Midgard, and they’re running wild. The balance point I mentioned earlier has become seriously skewed. If someone doesn’t take a stand and begin herding them back to the holes they crawled out of, Midgard will be lost. And then we’ll be down to eight worlds. Who knows how things will go without Midgard? It’s always been a neutralizing element.”
“Apparently, not anymore,” Jarle mumbled.
I wasn’t sure what to say next, so I opted for silence. I’d given my instructor a lot to chew on. He understood brute power. Standing solid like a tree and mowing through whatever rose against him. The intricacies of strategizing against a magical enemy weren’t exactly up his alley.
A miniature wind tunnel formed. I looked up in time to see one of the elder dragons, a massive fellow with tarnished golden scales heading right for us. To be on the safe side, I tossed a ward around Jarle and myself. The damned dragons were so big, they sometimes misjudged their trajectory. I’d had one land on me a time or two. It wasn’t pleasant.
I culled through my memory for the dragon’s name. They never forgot our names, and they took it as an insult if we didn’t greet them by name. Title too, if they had one.
Clouds of dust wafted high into the air as the dragon thumped down. Only a dragon’s perpetual heat could dry the wet earth on contact. Too late to see if Jarle remembered the dragon’s name.
I tried harder.
It took the beast a while to get its wings folded and lumber around so he faced us. His tail swung about, but slow enough Jarle and I were able to step over it.
At what felt like the last possible moment, the right neurons connected in my brain, and the dragon’s name was just there. Relief streamed through me. T
he beast obviously wanted to talk with us. He’d gone to a fair amount of trouble to drag his bulk out of the air. He’d be annoyed if we didn’t greet him warmly.
I hadn’t spent all that much time with the dragons who shared Vanaheim with us. They had a rather large colony at the base of the distant mountains. Not that they lived in Vanaheim, but it provided a gateway to their actual home on a world called Fire Mountain.
I’d been there once. Hot. Dry. Sandy. Ringed by active volcanoes. It was probably perfect for dragons, but I’d been pretty uncomfortable. Twin suns baked anyone who stood beneath them. Keeping my clothes on, I’d turned into a sweat-soaked mess—until my body ran out of liquid. Removing my garments would have been out of the question. Even magic wouldn’t have saved me from turning into a well-done roast.
The dragon, Nidhogg, had finally settled across from us. Jarle and I had risen to our feet to greet him properly. I bowed my head as a sign of deference.
“Welcome, Nidhogg, Elder Dragon,” I said. “Your presence humbles us. How may we serve you?” Next to me, I felt Jarle stiffen. He bowed to no one. Not man. Not dragon. He wasn’t red-hot about service, either.
“I am the Norse Dragon in addition to being one of the Elders.” The dragon towered above us. He must have stood nearly three meters. Up close like this, I could see how his scales fit against one another and feel heat pouring off him.
Should I congratulate him on what sounded like a promotion? Nah. Maybe he’d always carried that title and I just hadn’t known about it.
He turned his head and lazily directed a stream of fire at a pile of moss-covered rocks. Our world was wet enough, I wasn’t especially worried about spontaneous combustion.
“I heard your discussion about Midgard,” he rumbled, punctuating his words with smoke.
I waited. Nidhogg would get to the point eventually. He was one of twelve Elders. Exactly what that meant was shrouded in secrecy, but I assumed they were the first dragons, and that all others had come from them. Regardless, the beast sitting a meter away had enormous power. Magic sheeted from him, right along with heat.
What I wouldn’t give to have a hundredth of his ability. A thought hit me so hard I swayed on my feet. Dragons could put Midgard to rights. They could kill off the griffons and gnomes and trolls— I clamped down on my mental wanderings. Nidhogg was probably monitoring them. Jarle’s too, but I wouldn’t tell my old friend.
It would annoy the crap out of him. And make him wretchedly uncomfortable.
The dragon was looking at me. I made the mistake of looking back and got snared in his whirling eyes. At first I thought they were gold, like him, but they shaded to green and then silver. I suspected I wouldn’t be able to look away until he released me, but I didn’t test my theory.
Next to me, Jarle growled, “Stop that.”
He must have fallen into the dragon’s hypnotic eyes, absent magic to counteract their pull.
I felt a sharp rebound as the magical thread holding Jarle released. It wasn’t gentle. He staggered and might have fallen on his ass. I didn’t know because I couldn’t look at him.
“Ye shall depart,” the dragon suggested in a deceptively silky tone.
When I checked with magic a few moments later, Jarle was gone.
“Good.” Nidhogg dusted his talons together. They were long and sharp and bright red. “Ye are whom I wished to speak with.”
I started to ask why, but decided it was impertinent.
“Can ye hold secrets, Bjorn?”
I nodded and hoped to hell whatever secret he was about to entrust didn’t end up destroying me.
His eyes whirled faster, and I felt him drape magic around the two of us. Unlike my brand of power, his was uncomfortable. Rather like a vise had snapped me into its maw. I knew instinctively that fighting against the sensation would make it far worse.
“Above all, ye must not involve Odin,” Nidhogg said. “Can ye give me your blood bound oath?”
I held up one hand, and he bent toward me. One of those sharp talons slashed across my fingertip. He snaked his tongue out and licked drops of blood that welled. Something like a cage clicked shut in my mind. I couldn’t have told anyone anything about what Nidhogg wanted if I tried.
“What happens if I slip up?” My voice was thin, as if I hadn’t used it in eons.
“What do ye believe will happen, wizard?”
“I will die.”
“Excellent.” He puffed steam until it formed clouds around us. Only then did he let go of my hand.
“The Nine Worlds exist in a delicate balance. Midgard failing is not an option. If it continues on its current trajectory, all the other worlds in our circle will break down as well. Yggdrasil will perish.”
My throat went dry. I’d suspected we needed Midgard, but I’d assumed the other eight worlds could somehow limp along without it.
“We—I and other dragons—have tried to get Odin’s attention, but he is sunk in greed, plundering what he can from Midgard.” The steam turned to smoke and ash.
I coughed reflexively.
“The more time he spends with the Hunt,” Nidhogg went on, “the less amenable he is to hearing reason.”
“The damage to Midgard,” I croaked, “can it be undone?”
“Och, ye mean what the meddling Celtic bitch did? Mayhap. ’Tis gone on far longer than I would have liked.”
“What do you require of me?” The smoke had cleared, and it was easier to talk. Who was the Celt he’d referred to? Was it the woman masquerading as a witch?
“For now, exactly what ye’ve been doing. Spend time in Midgard. Ensure the carnage from the miscast magic doesna worsen.”
I wanted to protest such a task might be beyond my capabilities. Instead, I asked, “What if things slew sideways despite my best effort?”
“Call for me.”
“Why can’t you—?” I began and then stopped. He wasn’t some minor god, one I could request favors from. Pulling Midgard out of the hole it had sunk into was an enormous undertaking.
He bent and dropped a foreleg on my shoulder. “I erased your companion’s memories of me. It should ease your way since ye willna have to lie to him. Pay close attention to anything different within Midgard. No alteration is too insignificant to report.”
Something liquid dropped from one of his eyes. When it hit the ground, it had become a creamy moonstone with a deep golden center. I’d heard about dragons’ tears turning into gems, but I’d never found any lying about. I figured the dragons scooped up anything that smacked of hoard material.
“Keep the stone,” Nidhogg instructed. “Whatever ye think or do whilst holding it will find its way to me quickly.”
I opened my mouth to protest I hadn’t agreed to a total loss of my privacy, but he must have anticipated me. Rather than the slow, cumbersome set of movements he’d used to drop out of the sky, power jetted from his open mouth. It painted a glowing gateway. In a movement that seemed impossible given his bulk, he leapt through the portal.
It winked shut behind him, leaving me staring gape-mouthed. The moonstone bounded up from where it lay in the dirt and ended up in a pocket of my leather trousers where it pulsed warmly.
Feeling like I’d wakened from a particularly rough night, I stared around me bleary-eyed. Nothing had changed. Dragons still soared overhead. Flocks of sharp-beaked birds cawed. A pair of squirrels chased one another up a nearby tree.
Vanaheim might not have changed, but I had. I’d rather enjoyed my stealthy trips into Midgard. But that was before I’d been drafted as a spy. Jarle would have relished the role, but not me. I didn’t have a single drop of warrior’s blood in my entire makeup.
I shook myself from head to toe. The dragon wasn’t asking me to change stripes. The ancient beast was canny enough to have simply piggybacked onto who I already was. A curious wizard who’d always been fascinated by magic. To avoid running into anyone and having to stammer through an explanation of why I looked so out of sorts, I drew magic and telepor
ted to my abode.
Once its humble stone walls had closed around me, I started to prepare my evening meal. When I was barely midway through cooking up a pot of grain, the moonstone kicked up a fuss, vibrating like a live thing. I hadn’t exactly forgotten about it, but it was clearly reminding me I had work to do.
Apparently, cooking my supper wasn’t on the bill of fare. I dragged the stone out of my pocket. It was so hot, it singed my fingers. I tried to drop it on the table, but it clung to my hand.
“Fine,” I told it, feeling like a fool. Who the hell spoke to rocks? “I’m leaving. Right after I eat.”
That seemed to do it. The moonstone dove back into my pocket. I checked my rice dish. It wasn’t quite done, but I dug in anyway. I understood perfectly. I was eating on borrowed time.
The dragon’s talisman wouldn’t rest until I was back in Midgard. I cleared my mind of everything. Damn dragon had me right where he wanted me. My new goal was to be so good, so compliant, that someday my life would be my own again. If that didn’t work, I’d have to batter my way free.
Brave words from a wizard, but I refused to spend the rest of my life bowing and groveling and doing Nidhogg’s bidding.
Chapter Four, Rowan
I woke almost more weary than when I’d gone to bed. Of all things, I’d dreamed of dragons. Flights of them in gold and silver and red and blue and green. They were gorgeous, but they wanted something from me too. Toward the end, a blood-red female had chased me, wings spread and casting long shadows. I was pretty certain she had to be Dewi, the Celtic dragon goddess, but all she’d done was to paint long tracks of fire on either side of me.
It’s not a well-known fact, but you can die in dreams. Mortals can, anyway. I could be trapped in the dream world, though, and I couldn’t afford a lengthy absence. Not right now.
The witches needed me.
“Mrrooowwww.” The long, wailing squeal was followed by Mort, my black cat. He was linked to me in ways I’d never understood, but it allowed him to waltz right through my wards. He’d singled me out years ago when he was a skin-and-bones kitten. Like a bat coming in for the kill, he’d jumped on my shoulder, and that had been that. He’d been with me ever since. Mort stalked up my body and dropped a dead mouse on my chest, looking inordinately pleased with himself.