The city is burning. The city is dying. Amrath strides through it. Huge and terrible. A man not a man. God. Death. The houses fall in ruins. The ground gives way. At His glance, the flesh is ripped from our bones. The flames leap around Him. White. Green. Blue. Black.
I am burning. I lie in his fire. Death running, pouring, tearing over me.
White light. White fire.
Darkness.
End.
The city burns.
The walls are falling.
There is nothing left.
No life.
No living.
End.
End.
End.
Valkyrie Rain
A short story from the world of Paternus
Dyrk Ashton
We appeared in the sky. Released by Hugin, the Raven, to rain down upon our foe. For a moment, we hung there, our armor reflecting the sunlight, gleaming stars of war. We continued the song to victory we’d begun before the “slip” from our world to Midgard, the world of the humans, but our voices faded.
The Vigrid Plain lay beneath us, vast and wide as the eye could see. Horizon to horizon, it seethed with the largest armies this or any world had ever seen. Comprised of every foul creature we knew, and some we did not. Monsters, hideous and huge, men and beasts, gods and devils of every kind. The sons of Múspell, the multitude of Surtr, master of our enemy, against all the assembled forces of the All-father.
Light and darkness played a shifting patchwork upon the land. The frozen tundra quaked and cracked, spewing magma and steam. Fields burned with flames that reached the sky. Whirlwinds of stone and pestilence laid waste to thousands. Conjured storms struck lightning into the throngs. In the far distance, a bright, blinking flash produced a column of cloud that billowed at the top, a mushroom-shaped mountain of smoke.
The icy wind that raked me as we fell toward the field of battle affected me not. Dropping from this height caused me no qualm. But for a moment, I was daunted and awed. Though I was not afraid.
We’d fought numerous battles in that war. For two thousand years it had raged. But the enemy was cunning. They would appear from other worlds to slaughter, then vanish. They spread plague. They called to treat only to ambush and massacre without shame or honor. Now word had come that all of them had mustered.
Our allies were already fighting, we were told, but they were outnumbered. So, Odin had come for us. Heimdall had blown his horn. We gathered on the Bifrost Plain, eager, armored and armed.
Some had been calling this war the Second Holocaust. I did not know it then, but the battle we were about to join would be known as Ragnarök, and the Vigrid Plain upon which it was waged, Megiddo. This was Armageddon. And it already happened. I was there.
Some claimed it would be our end. The end of the world itself. So be it, I’d thought as I beat my sword against my shield. As we all did while the horn blew and the people chanted and the World Tree sang. If we were to perish, we’d take our adversaries with us. Every one of them, if we could. And it would be a glorious death worthy of story and verse.
I am Pruor, daughter of Sif, herself a daughter of Odin, the All-father. My father was Thor, son of Odin and the Vanir giantess Jörd. I know no fear. I was made for war. Bred for it. Trained since my earliest memory. All of us had been. Death was our reason for living. Bestowing it upon others and claiming it for ourselves in combat. We were the Aesir of Asgard. The elite force to which I belonged, the Valkyries—Freyja’s warriors. We were strong. We were proud. We were cruel. And we were coming.
Now we had arrived.
We overcame our initial shock and let go of each other’s hands, held to facilitate the transfer between words. We drew our weapons and cried the cry of the Valkyries.
We fell through a murky haze, the rumble and crash of battle growing louder below, then ripped free to see a gaping chasm beneath us. Enormous, with edges like jagged teeth, and deep beyond sight. This was what we’d been brought to. A trap. We watched, helpless as much of our host disappeared into the abyss and others scrabbled at the edges only to be driven in by the spears of forces waiting along either side of the gorge.
Freyja, armored in white, her golden cape spread like wings, called out ancient words, and we were pushed by a powerful wind. I was not diverted sufficiently, however, and continued to plummet toward the yawning maw of earth. My nearest sister-Valkyrie, Róta, spun in the air and kicked me in the chest with both feet. The force was just enough. I landed on my back at the lip—while she plunged into the rift without a sound. I’d never liked Róta. We were all conceited and mean, it’s true, but she’d been the worst agitator among us. I was stunned by her selflessness, but I shouldn’t have been. She was a Valkyrie. Just like me. She’d just thought more quickly than I had. I vowed not to let her sacrifice go to waste.
I rolled from the edge, striking with sword and shield, chopping legs from under feral men, vulgar Blues, and rival Firstborn as well. The remaining Valkyries had landed around me, some on their feet, others directly on the enemy, already killing with efficiency and speed. I leapt up as the chasm was closing, trapping all whom it had claimed.
Just before it slammed shut, trembling the earth, Sleipnir, Odin’s steed, came rocketing out on his great wings, Odin clinging to one back leg. We cheered as the All-father swung onto Sleipnir’s back. He roared in rage, eyes glaring red, and they flew off into the smoke and dust of battle.
We had been betrayed. And there was only one who would do such a thing. I cast my eyes about but saw none of the second force of Aesir, which contained Loki and was to be slipped at the same time as the rest of us. Of course, it was him. And somehow, he’d convinced Hugin to do his bidding and release us above this chasm. Most of our force was gone before our battle had even begun.
I worried the greatest of the Aesir had fallen, but then I caught sight of colossal Freyr, riding on the back of his brother, Gullinbursti the Boar. And there was Heimdall, and Týr, and I thanked Sun and Moon and the World Tree, for I saw Thor, my father, bash in the helmeted head of a giant with his mighty warhammer, Mjölnir, and by his side were my half-brothers, his sons Módi and Magni.
But the fell voice of Surtr fouled the air, and we were cut off from them by a strafing line of flame that trenched the ground between us, burning hot enough to melt the earth.
At the call of Freyja, we regrouped just as a flock of shrieking wampyr descended. We took up our bows in unison and fired in rapid succession. Not one arrow missed its mark. In moments, the wampyr were done, lifeless in the dirt or flopping in the throes of death. We shouldered our bows, retrieved our blades, and advanced in formation with tactics we’d drilled a thousand times and more. Our martial skills were second to none and our armor and arms had been forged by Völundr, also known as Dvalinn. They were nearly indestructible, capable of harming even the eldest of our foe. The wings on our helmets were as knives, and we had blades at our elbows, knees, and heels.
Mighty warriors fell before us. But they came in greater numbers, including enemy Firstborn, older and stronger than we were, with armor and blades of equal quality. My shield was shattered so I drew my dagger to accompany my sword. Our ranks were thinned, and those who remained were separated, reduced to melee fighting. It no longer became an attack on our part, but simply a matter of survival.
I recall being struck by a powerful wind as Jörmungandr, the Wyrm, appeared before me, crushing scores beneath his massive, snake-like bulk. Loki rode upon his neck, with Hugin perched at his shoulder. And behind them came the host of Niflheim, the ghoulish legions of Hel. Jörmungandr spat his venom over a force of our allies, melting the flesh from their bones, then crashed off through the multitude, seeking other of the Aesir.
I spied Hugin in flight and put an arrow through his breast. He tumbled and slipped away. I gave chase after Loki’s host the best I could but lost them in the mayhem and darkness.
As I battled on, I found fewer and fewer of those who fought for Odin. I know not when it happened,
but I found myself alone, blinded by smoke and fumes, and even for me, fatigue began to set in and my mind began to fog. But I am Aesir, and more, I am Valkyrie. I kept fighting. Kill after kill, climbing over heaps of bodies and, sometimes, out from under them. This was not war. This was chaos incarnate. And we were losing.
I lost all sense of time. I knew only fury and blood and my own heartbeat. Just my heartbeat and I, my training and the fight. Parry, thrust, parry, cut, roll from the steps of giants, leap from the slash of sword and scythe, parry, thrust and cut. I only saw what was in front of my face, comprehended only the present. No future, no past. Just killing. Just now. And now. And now.
I had no knowledge of what was happening on other fronts of the battle. I did not see my father fall after smashing the skull of Jörmungandr, or Heimdall slay Loki at the cost of his own life. I was not there when Freyr was felled by a single stroke of Surtr’s blade, when Týr and the demon-hound Garm took each other’s lives, or when Fenrir swallowed Odin whole, and Vidar, rash and bold to a fault, seized Fenrir’s jaw and tore his face apart.
I just fought on, alone in the fog and darkness. My sword lost, I killed with my hands, my teeth and my broken knife, shrieking in rage and madness.
How long this went on, I did not know, because the next thing I remembered was both my brothers, Módi and Magni, defending themselves from me with ruined shields and screaming to bring me to my senses. Only then did I see the sun rising through white mist and hear the sound of a horn of Asgard and the screech of the Falcon high on the air. The sounds of victory.
They led me through quagmires of gore, over piles of corpses, around dead and mountainous beasts of rotting flesh, to a high steppe where the survivors gathered. There Odin stood, his spear sizzling in his hands. He had not died, of course, regardless what the stories say.
Among those assembled were members of renowned pantheons from this and other worlds, all of whom I knew, at least by name. Even then they were legend. The oldest living of Firstborn, Odin’s children, fathered by him under different names and in a variety of guises throughout the history of the worlds. They were the brothers and sisters of the Vanir of Asgard, and like them, they came in all shapes and sizes of half-man and half-beast. Although they were covered in mud, offal, and blood, their armor shredded or lost, they were magnificent nonetheless. But there were so few left. Untold millions had died in that war. At least a million in the last battle alone. Most of the Firstborn were gone.
And of the hundred thousand Aesir who’d gathered on the Bifrost Plain, only twelve survived. Seven men and five women, including myself.
But humankind was saved and freedom had been secured. Surtr had fled through worlds untraceable, along with a small band of his followers. Others of the enemy had scattered. Most were destroyed.
I was hailed a heroine of the battle, told I’d saved the lives of countless humans and Firstborn alike, and even Freyja herself. Odin congratulated me and my Aesir kin, taking us by the shoulders, kissing our foreheads, and granting us the right to live and roam where we wished, even there on Midgard, among the humans. And so we did.
But over the millennia, we grew arrogant, querulous, petulant, and cruel. Even more than we’d always been. We stole the names of prominent Firstborn long dead, bickered amongst ourselves, and manipulated entire human populations with brutality and deceit. The elder Firstborn began to look down upon us. They called us the petit gods. But we did not care, possessed as we were by our own hubris. Then, four thousand years ago, Odin stripped us of our weapons and honor for the part we played in bringing about the Deluge. We were banished from Midgard, exiled to live out our days in Asgard, which had been rendered bereft of life other than Yggdrasil, the World Tree, by Loki’s hordes and profane sorcery during that final battle of the Second Holocaust.
Now we hide in the dark, beneath the roots of Yggdrasil. Surtr has returned and come to recruit us, murder us if we refuse. But we are not without honor, no matter what Odin and the others say. We denied Surtr our loyalty and sought refuge beneath the roots of the Tree.
We have ruled nations of men from high palaces, in Mesopotamia, in Helas before it was Helas, and in the most ancient Italia. We were the Wild Hunt, the Harii, the fighting Rudras and Rudranis, the fiercest of the Marutagana. We’ve been revered and feared by the proto-Celts and worshipped by primitive tribes who would become the Slavs. Deep in our hearts, however, we’ve always been Aesir of Asgard and Valkyries, the last of our kind.
But now we know humility, and we have learned the meaning of fear. Fear we will waste away here in the earth and die a pitiful death. No weapons in our hands, no enemy but darkness and disgrace. To simply fade without fame or glory, a whimper in the night.
But what do I see? The roots of Yggdrasil are parting, the sunlight of Asgard slicing the dusty air. Surtr and his followers are not there, but Odin himself. And up steps a short, stooped figure, the light limning her shape in a glimmering aura. A figure I would recognize in any form, place or time.
Freyja shakes her head, tut-tuts to herself as she looks upon our huddled and filthy bodies. She speaks in the old tongue, “There is a challenge before us, children. Perhaps greater than any before.” Her eyes pass from one to the other of the men, who bow their heads in deference and trepidation. She acknowledges them, “Aesir of Asgard.” Then she looks over the other women and, finally, her gaze rests on me. “And my Valkyries.”
Tears fill my eyes.
“Are you ready to fight?” she asks.
Love and pride swell my heart. I raise my head, as do the others. I can see they feel it, too. We are forgiven.
And, Hel yes, we are ready to fight.
Chattels
Stan Nicholls
For generations, the kingdom of Lyceria maintained an uneasy peace with its neighbours, not least the formidable Eagamar empire. But a dispute with the adjacent nation of Chessolm brought Lyceria’s fall. In laying siege to the city state, Lyceria rashly ignored a treaty between Chessolm and the empire, a pact that existed because the legendary Ranald Amentinus resided in the city. Amentinus was a holy man regarded by many, including the empire’s elite, as a messiah. There was even a widespread belief that he was an actual deity. During the battle, Amentinus died. Whether from deprivations due to the siege, or at the hands of a Lycerian warrior, as some said, no one really knew.
The empire’s response was savage. Lyceria was annexed and citizens remaining within its borders, however young or old, were massacred or enslaved. The survivors scattered. Stateless, branded outlaws, all other lands were barred from sheltering them. Lycerian became a byword for outcast, criminal, god killer.
The aftermath was a succession of wars. An incessant, merciless struggle between Eagamar and Lyceria’s descendants that drew in other states as alliances were forged and broken.
After decades of chaos, a group of disparate but like-minded individuals formed a union. They were healers, driven by the principle of mercy, and they called themselves the League of Resolve. The League offered aid to all, soldier or civilian, irrespective of allegiance. As its numbers grew, and its impartiality proved steadfast, the League earned a measure of grudging tolerance.
Deras Minshal, a Lycerian, is a League overseer with no great love of wars or military of any stripe. His brother, Goran, is a fighter in the Lycerian ranks, and their different outlook led to years of estrangement. Until Goran was brought into Deras’ field hospital suffering from terrible, disfiguring burns, which Goran swore were caused by a dragon despite the creatures being regarded as mythical. Cared for by Deras, but mostly by his aide, Velda Piran, Goran slowly mended, although forced to don a mask to hide his terribly scarred features. It was Velda who was instrumental in reconciling Deras and Goran, but tension still characterised their relationship. A situation made no easier as an incongruous romantic bond grew between warrior Goran and pacifist Velda.
When Velda was kidnapped by agents of the empire, the brothers had to work together to free her. In achieving
this, Deras violated his own ethical code and killed one of the abductors. But he did persuade Goran to spare another. Goran’s assertion that this constituted “Two miracles in one day” did little to assuage Deras’ guilt at taking a life.
Nor did knowing that one death was of little significance in a world where conflict and slaughter held sway.
They started to see bodies before they reached their destination.
Men, women, and children were scattered in their path, and on either side of the broad trail, sprawled in the grotesque postures of death. Parties were sent forward to check for any who might be wounded and to clear away the rest. They found none living.
‘Looks like they were cut down as they fled,’ Goran remarked, ‘and somebody made a thorough job of it.’ It was a straightforward assessment, apparently devoid of much in the way of empathy. Though given his leather mask, it was difficult to tell.
Deras merely nodded. He had seen many atrocities serving with the League and thought himself impervious to shock and outrage. Not for the first time, he was wrong.
Velda, riding alongside them, looked as distraught as Deras felt. She exchanged a glance with Goran, but whatever passed between them remained the secret province of lovers.
Apart from the trio on horseback, the convoy consisted of upward of a score of wagons, each sporting the League’s ensign; a triangle in a circle, green against a white background. And now, with corpses heaped ever higher on the road, they were crawling along.
‘I was a little surprised that you came with us today, brother,’ Deras remarked as they carefully navigated the carnage.
‘Why?’ Goran replied.
‘Shouldn’t you have rejoined your unit by now?’
‘Anybody’d think you wanted rid of me.’
‘It’s not that. It’s just—’
‘General Dunisten’s been charitable. He said I could stay with the League as long as I needed to.’
Art of War Page 34