by Renée Jaggér
Bailey’s nostrils flared. “Well, you’re half right. Bring it on, and let’s see about the rest.”
Gormyr walked steadily forward and raised his sword in a slow, smooth motion, settling into a fighting stance, the blade in a high defensive guard. “Control of my army, you say?”
“Yes,” she shot back. “If I win, leadership over the dark elves passes to me.”
The monarch laughed drily. “If you win, Bailey, they will fall upon you and destroy you, sweeping you aside and battening the walls of Asgard until either they fall at last or the final elf dies. You cannot stop what’s been set in motion.”
She trembled in frustration. “Fight me! Quit talking.”
Behind and around her, the alfar who’d been chasing them had piled into the chamber and stood watching, tense and ready.
“As you wish,” Gormyr said. He looked slowly at Fenris, his face grim, and the two men locked eyes for the span of three heartbeats before the king turned his gaze back to the werewitch.
The alfar blade leapt from its wielder’s hand with such nimble speed that Bailey was shocked and only narrowly avoided taking its point in her eyes. She flung her head back, wheeling to the side and swinging her sword upward toward his hand and arm, but he’d already retracted it and was circling around toward her flank.
Bailey feinted a thrust and then slashed powerfully at Gormyr’s head while the elf leaned to the side, cutting toward the girl’s legs. She jumped twelve feet in the air, seeking to descend and cut her enemy in half from above, overpowering him with sheer force.
He responded by raising his hand and summoning a bolt of lightning from above her. She realized what he was doing at the last fraction of a second and took the bolt on her sword, absorbing the energy and striking toward him as she landed.
The king swept aside the lightning stroke with a mixture of water and arcane shield-matter, then his sword once again drove toward her throat.
Bailey’s mind worked like a machine, recalling and employing everything she’d learned about fencing and combat. Her arms and her sword were one, moving with a speed and efficiency of which she was proud. Yet it was scarcely enough to fight the tall monarch to a draw.
There came a brief lull, and Bailey deployed the secret weapon in her arsenal, the one she knew with near-certainty that Gormyr would not expect.
She visualized long tendrils of magic emerging from her to lock into the king’s chest and head, piercing him and opening a one-way channel between them. She started draining him of his power, as she’d done before to two goddesses. Since Gormyr was less than a deity, powerful though he was, she knew she could handle it.
The elven monarch did not appear to notice at first. He lunged at her again, and once more she blocked his strike. He was slower than he’d been before, if only minutely. When he wheeled around for a second slash, he faltered, and his eyes widened.
Bailey swept her blade toward his throat. He dodged it, but he’d grasped that something was wrong. He raised a hand to hurl a blast of magic at her, but the fireball that erupted from his fingers was weak, fading into smoke after only a few yards. Bailey blocked it with ease.
Still she siphoned his power, absorbing most of it into herself and letting the rest bleed into the ground, to be sponged back up by the fabric of the realm itself. A charge went through her like three cups of Russell’s coffee.
“No,” Gormyr rasped. “No!”
He charged at her, stopped to throw a knee-level kinetic shockwave, and then lashed out again. Bailey hadn’t expected a feint of this kind and the shockwave knocked her off balance, though not off her feet. The king’s sword sliced across her hip. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was painful, and blood ran down her leg.
She retaliated faster than he could. The tip of her sword moved under his sword arm and drew up, cutting armpit and pectoral and causing the alfar to lose full control of his weapon. Still his power seeped out.
The werewitch swung her sword again, striking the elven blade dead-on and shattering it. Another sweep of the longsword dug partway into the armor of his midsection, not cutting through it, but denting it inward and gouging the king’s abdomen.
Gormyr faltered, a tremor going through his lithe body, and fell to one knee, barely able to brace himself on his broken sword. His face was contorted in pain and shock, and still his latent magical potential flowed out of the space his body occupied into that of the goddess of Weres and witches.
Feet began to move in a rush, and shadows flickered. The quality of the air and light changed as vast numbers turned and ran. The dark elves abandoned the hall and its surrounding system of tunnels, knowing their king was beaten.
Bailey looked Gormyr in the eyes. “I’ll hold you to your bargain.”
He tried to laugh and coughed up a spot of blood. “I will be in no position to enforce it, will I? Hold them to it. If you can.”
The emptying of the chamber continued. Alfar fled, yelling and conversing in their sibilant voices, probably arguing whether to obey Bailey as their new leader or to regroup and mount a resistance against her later.
The girl held the point of her sword in front of the elven king’s chest, then, with a quick thrust, skewered him through the heart. His eyes squeezed shut as his facial muscles tightened and the breath rattled out of his lungs. Then he slumped over and was still.
Fenris, with a borderline sarcastic tone that was unusual for him, announced, “All hail Bailey Nordin, Queen of the Dark Elves. And we, her agents and ministers.”
Cheers, grunts, and shouts of “Yeah!” went around the cavern as her friends and supporters pumped fists in the air.
For her part, the girl breathed deeply, turning her mind to the power she’d absorbed. Gaining so much of it so quickly was always a difficult experience. It was like speeding up a winding road in a car. Exhilarating at first, but there came a moment when you realized you were going too fast, that things might slip out of control, and a nervous, twitchy incoherence threatened to overwhelm the mind.
But she’d dealt with it before, and after a minute or two, she was calm enough to turn to them and speak.
“It’s done,” she began. “I have no idea if the elves will fight now that he’s dead. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. They might splinter into different groups who can’t agree on anything if we’re lucky, but they’re scattering. We broke their will to fight; they ain’t gonna invade Earth anytime right away. I’ll call that good enough until further notice. Of course, we couldn’t have done this without each other. Thank you, all of you, for fighting so bravely.”
After another brief round of celebration, during which she and Roland locked eyes for a much-needed tender moment, Fenris stepped up and raised his arms.
“I must depart,” he told them, “to do further scouting and reconnaissance in other realms, where more trouble may be brewing. I will report back to you when I’ve learned enough. It would be better for the rest of you if you returned to Earth to rest and recover your strength. We may need it.”
The wolf-god opened another broad portal back to their realm, then stepped aside and opened a second one only big enough for one person. Bailey nodded to him, watching him leave. She contemplated dashing in after him before he could close it from the other end to discover what the hell he’d be up to next.
No, she ordered herself, not yet. Soon, the time will be right. But until then, patience.
Clenching and unclenching her fists, she followed her people through the large gateway, back to Oregon, back home.
Chapter Eight
The bloodstained forest seemed heavier with silence than usual as Fenris approached the shallow depression next to which his chess table had been set up. Carl was sitting there, waiting for his master. Their eyes met, and the wolf-god beckoned for him to stand.
The scion rose to his feet. “I have located Balder,” he stated. A charge of excitement went through him. He nearly trembled with a mixture of nervous energy and combative eagerness.
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“Good,” said Fenris. “Tell me everything so that we may decide what to do next.”
Carl’s dark eyes gleamed with triumph. “His arcane energy signature is coming from one of your hunters’ forests. I forget the name of it, pardon me. One of the more humanoid-friendly ones, with the paths and signs, But it’s under your purview. Balder is there and radiating strongly. I do believe he’s trying to attract attention to himself, probably in an effort to get the other Asgardians to find him and come to his aid.”
“Ah,” the wolf-god murmured, “I see. He is not dead yet, then.”
His apprentice’s face fell by a small margin, detecting the slight note of disappointment in his master’s tone.
“He is alive, my lord,” Carl went on, “but badly weakened. The accursed arrow is doing its work with slow but deliberate effectiveness. There is a chance he’ll be rescued. Shall I depart and finish him off? I’ve sensed nothing to indicate that there would be any witnesses nearby.”
Fenris rubbed his square, stubbled chin. “No. I will deal with him myself. He won’t pose much of a challenge in his current state, and I relish the opportunity to deliver the final blow. I’ve not hunted such prey for far too long.”
The scion’s eyes dimmed in obvious disappointment, but his only reply was, “Yes, wolf-father, as you wish. May I ask what’s been going on in the meantime?”
“All is well,” Fenris answered him. “We confronted the dark alfar, and Bailey has slain King Gormyr and absorbed his powers.” At this point, his barely-contained excitement was palpable. His eyes glimmered beneath his hood. “She is close, Carl, so terribly close to being a proper replacement for me. Furthermore, the elves are now under my command. Bereft of a leader, they will follow me before they follow Bailey, and at my insistence, will attack Asgard in secret, weakening the barrier between the realms. And then, at last, will come the surge which overthrows the divine realm’s tyranny once and for all.”
Carl chuckled. “Me being only half-divine, I never would have been allowed to reign alongside them. They deserve everything that’s coming to them.”
“Yes.” Fenris beckoned. “Come with me. Though I insist on delivering the coup de grace to Balder myself, I want you to be present and watch. Consider it your reward for having brought him to this pass.”
The scion beamed. “Why, thank you, good sir.”
Turning to the side, the wolf-god opened a portal to the realm his apprentice had mentioned. He knew the description, and by sending out his astral consciousness, he easily confirmed Carl’s words by picking up the energy signature of the Norse god of beauty. He placed the gateway near enough to Balder that they would find each other without delay, but Fenris and Carl would still have a moment or two to prepare.
Fenris stepped through, followed by the scion. They emerged into another forest, vastly different from the one they’d departed.
Here, groundcover was minimal, and dirt paths wound between the huge, thick, twisted old trees, many of which rose more than a hundred feet. Earth and bark were a rich, deep brown, and the leaves were as bright as emeralds. The sky was overcast though it was a light, almost silvery color, giving the whole place a vital yet somber atmosphere. In places where the trees weren’t as thick, grass or flowering bushes grew.
Signs were posted at the junctions of the various footpaths—low stone columns with symbols scratched into them, pointing out directions to one place or another, or giving indications to hunters about where their prey might be located.
The forest was well-stocked with game. Deer and hares frolicked and gamboled. Fenris felt a mild urge to shift and chase them down, more for the thrill of the hunt than for food as he seldom needed to eat.
But he was here on other business.
The throb of intensely concentrated divine energy within the realm was not difficult to locate. Mere seconds after it revealed itself, Fenris heard the sounds of his target, besides.
Feet stumbled in the irregular motions of a man losing his sense and coordination. Branches and leaves rustled, and Balder, not yet visible to the eye, spoke his challenge.
“Fenris!” the voice cried. It would once have been a clear, fair voice like the note of a well-honed trumpet, but now it was strained with anguish, emotion, and exhaustion. “Come forth! Face me, you bastard! This realm falls under your dominion. Show yourself!”
The tall man grinned within his hood, his teeth more like a wolf’s than a human’s. He sensed Carl’s satisfaction as well. Balder was badly frazzled, his self-control poor, his emotions raging. It would not be difficult to complete the task of removing him from the pantheon permanently.
The pair moved silently toward the growing noise, and the voice shouted again.
“I know, Fenris!” Heavy breathing, a soft whimper of pain. “I know your plans, you miserable traitor! You turned my students against me. You plotted the whole attack on the training grounds. And I know that you are behind all the unrest lately. You’re trying to bring about Ragnarök! Face me, damn you, and answer the charges!”
Fenris and Carl advanced a little farther, allowing themselves to make enough sound to be heard, and the former let his energy signature radiate strongly enough for another deity to sense.
They waited at the edge of a glade until Balder stumbled into it. Carl hung back, hiding behind a tree, while Fenris made no effort to conceal himself. Balder’s eyes were wild, his golden hair flying about his shoulders in tangled locks, and dried ichor stained his shoulder and arm.
The god of werewolves took a single slow, heavy step forward.
“Yes,” he rumbled, “I am responsible for all of that. I am guilty of every charge you’ve laid before me. Everything you’ve mentioned happened because I did it. All of it. No one else will know, of course, but I want you to know in these, your final minutes of existence. You were among the few gods who could pose a legitimate threat to me. But look at you now—wounded, weakened, growing desperate as you succumb to delirium. A shadow of your former self. I will kill you, Balder. You have no chance to save yourself at this point. I’ve already blocked off any route of escape you might take.”
He watched the strained, beautiful face of the injured god grow pale, the eyes bulging in horror as the truth of the wolf-father’s words sank in.
“With you dead, that leaves but two who could challenge me. Thor is one, but in truth, his chances are less than yours. I haven’t much fear of him. He will be dead soon, and whatever husk of him remains will join you in the abyss. That leaves only Tyr, and by the time the Lord of Justice realizes what is occurring, it will be too late. Goodbye, Balder.”
The lord of beauty and innocence produced his sword, the shining rapier blade coming up too slowly to intercept the hulking, towering monstrosity that suddenly bore down on him. A bellowing howl shook the leaves of the trees and the huge furry paw of the dark shape lashed out, its knuckles striking Balder’s torso and smashing him into a tree.
Balder shouted in pain and rage, summoning not only the reserves of strength he still possessed but drawing power and vitality from the earth around him. Though it was one of Fenris’ domains, the raw stuff of its existence was a kind of life-giving ether that any being of sufficient magical talent could use.
The two gods met each other next on equal footing. Fenris, his wolf form many times the mass of the human-sized Balder, was poised to smash the other into the ground, where his fanged and slavering jaws could complete the task.
But the blond god’s strength was far greater than his dimensions would suggest. With his left hand, he stayed the next blow from Fenris’ paw, while his right hand lashed out with the sword and drew blood from the dark-furred breast of the giant wolf.
Fenris growled thunderously and clenched his jaws on the blade, flinging it from his foe’s grasp and nearly snapping the bones of Balder’s arm.
The deity of innocence did not give up. His battle cry had taken on a strangled, desperate note, and tears streamed down his face as he tried to pummel t
he wolf-beast with his bare hands. Fenris drove him back against the same tree where he’d been flung seconds earlier and brought his head down to bite him in half.
Balder rolled aside and, springing to his feet with agonized effort, found himself face to face with his supposed apprentice.
“Carl,” he gasped, “help me. Fenris is a traitor. We must—”
“Oh,” the scion remarked as the lycanthropic monstrosity loomed across from him, “I’m well aware of that, Balder.” He smiled.
Carl’s foot plunged forward, striking Balder in the chest and driving him back into the grasping claws of the were-god. The look of horror and emotional pain on the blond god’s face had to be genuine, the scion realized. Whatever else he might have figured out, he’d been in the dark about Carl’s deception.
Balder tried to spin and stab upward into the massive wolf, but Fenris’ jaws came down on his neck, chest, and shoulder, biting deeply, while his claws held the man’s arms at bay. Balder screamed, and Fenris flung him aside to crumple against a mass of mossy roots.
The golden deity’s form became insubstantial, ghostly, like a cold mist dissipating in the morning sun. The runoff of his divine powers filled the air with a horizontal rain shower of yellow sparks, and what little remained of his body vanished in a flash of light, blue-white tinged with gold. The rushing, tinkling sounds made by his escaping energy subsided. Then nothing remained of him.
Carl burst out laughing, pumping a fist in the air. “Ha-ha! You did it, old man, you actually did it. Well, we did it, to some extent.”
Fenris drew himself up slowly, shifting back into the form of a tall, hooded man, his breaths long and deep. “Correct. Although you should not forget your place as my subordinate, Carl, your efforts were instrumental in all of this. And we are one step closer to Ragnarök. Rejoice! But not for long. We have preparations to make for the next step.”