Ásgarðr was a total movie set.

Nanna had escorted Sigmund through the corridors of her hall, smiling patiently whenever his attention got caught on the carvings in the woodwork or the tapestries on the walls. Wolves and ravens featured prominently in the art, as well as stylized figured of men with spears, and winged beasts Sigmund realized were most likely jötunn. A whole history and culture of a whole . . . Well. Alien wasn’t quite the right word, but Sigmund couldn’t think of a better one, either. Because the æsir were definitely humanish, and Vikingish, but it was the ish that was fascinating. Sigmund was a geek. He loved video games and shitty fantasy novels with half-dressed women on the covers. He lived for the ish, and now, suddenly, here he was. Soaking in it.

Awesome.

It was while he’d been distracted by a particularly intricate shield that Nanna had asked, “Will there be others, do you think?”

“Huh?”

Sigmund, who was such a loser, hadn’t been paying attention so hadn’t quite managed to catch the meaning from the Godstongue. So Nanna repeated her question, gentle and patient and kind, and Sigmund said, “Oh . . . You mean, like, other æsir? Getting reincarnated or whatever?”

“Yes.”

“Um . . .” Jesus. “I . . . I don’t know, really.” That was safe, right? Especially when Sigmund managed to bite his tongue before I sure hope not snuck out.

One tiny crease had appeared in Nanna’s otherwise flawless brow, but Sigmund hadn’t been sure if it was concern or worry or disbelief or maybe just flatulence, so he hadn’t asked. Instead, he’d allowed himself to be taken through a set of heavy wooden doors, through an antechamber filled with flowers, and then through another set of doors and into a room. This room had more tapestries, and furs, and an ornately carved screen and a basket of golden apples Sigmund thought he probably shouldn’t eat.

“You may stay here as long as you wish,” Nanna had said. “I’m sure your journey has been long. Rest. A servant will fetch you for the evening meal.”

“Oh. Right. Cool. Thanks.” Sigmund, god of losers.

Nanna had just smiled, turning to leave, before laying a hand on Sigmund’s elbow and saying, “It is good to have you back.”

Then she’d gone before Sigmund could figure out how the hell he was expected to reply to that.

He’d decided not to worry about it, instead scoping out the room, running his hands over surfaces and peering under the covers of the bed. This was a legit-for-serious Viking godcastle. A lifetime of video games told Sigmund to expect to find mad loot somewhere, which led him to opening chests and baskets, and finding whole piles of jewelry and dresses before realizing he was in a room designed for an ásynja.

Well . . . Nanna was nice. And she tried. He decided not to take it personally. Especially when he found the bathroom.

There was water. Running water. Hot running water that smelled slightly sulfurous, so maybe it was coming from a hot spring somewhere? That was kind of cool.

Sigmund was considering using the facilities when he heard a knock, and a small voice called out something in Old Norse.

“One sec!” Sigmund called in response. When he opened the door, two young boys were there, holding a huge trunk between them. Through a complicated series of interpretive mimes, Sigmund realized they wanted to swap their trunk for the one currently in the room. Which turned out to be an awesome plan, when Sigmund opened up his new possession to find it full of clothes. Men’s clothes. Like pants and tunics and stuff.

Despite not speaking English, the boys

(pages? is this what a page is?)

were very insistent that Sigmund be fitted for boots and instructed on the correct way to buckle a belt. Then, when they seemed confident he wouldn’t completely embarrass himself at dinner, they pushed him toward the bathroom.

He did draw the line at having them help him undress.

Still. That was, more or less, how Sigmund Sussman, twenty-first-century geek, ended up having a Viking bath and getting dressed up in clothes that would’ve made a cosplayer weep.

“Rad,” he said, taking a selfie with his phone. Sending it to Wayne and Em was a no-go on account of there being no phone service in Ásgarðr, and that realization made Sigmund think of Lain until his heart ached.

He wondered what Lain would say if he could see Sigmund all done up in wool and fur and gold brocade. Nanna had brought some pretty swaggy clothes. Clothes fit for a god, even.

Even the God of Losers had to look the part.

Sigmund was considering this—and wondering when dinner was—when he heard a familiar voice behind him say, “Very dapper, kid.”

Sigmund turned. There, perched on the back of a chair, next to Sigmund’s pile of discarded clothes, was the biggest bloody raven in the Realms.

“What are you doing here?”

It wasn’t that Sigmund felt murderous intent toward Munin, exactly. It was just that Munin had served Odin, then Baldr, and the first time Sigmund had met the thing was the first time in his life he’d actually been afraid of dying. Also of watching his only-just-boyfriend first get nearly stabbed, then turn into a monster. Then the next time Munin had shown its beak, it’d been to relay the news of Lain’s capture and Sigmund’s imminent showdown with Baldr. A showdown that ended on the floor of the Lokabrenna foyer, feeling the point of Gungnir slide through flesh and into don’t think of that now Jesus c’mon focus, man, what the fuck is the bird doing here be careful.

Point being, Munin’s arrival never heralded good news.

Today, the bird just clicked its beak, shifting its weight from foot to foot. “What am I doing here? Kid, I live here. What’re you doing here?”

Munin didn’t speak, exactly, but the words were there all the same, scratching between Sigmund’s ears, a cheap imitation of his own internal narrative.

“I’m here with Hel,” Sigmund said. There didn’t seem to be any point in obfuscation. He wasn’t convinced Munin could have missed the enormous zombie horde lurking outside the gates.

“Girl’s got a takeover plan, last I heard.”

Sigmund scowled, reaching to grab his jeans from the chair, just to make Munin have to hop out of the way. “Yeah, well. You should hear harder next time. And not from me.”

Munin squawked. “Aw, c’mon. Where’s your mercenary spirit? A secret for a secret, how about it?”

“You don’t know anything I’d want to.” As soon as he said it, Sigmund knew it was a lie. Knew it, and felt his heart plummet from the knowing because, in the next moment, Munin said:

“I know where they’ve taken your boy.”

Sigmund’s jaw clenched. “Liar.” Because it was true, he could feel it was true, except . . .

“Well. Maybe. But I can point you in the right direction. C’mon. What do you say?” Munin hopped from foot to foot, all glossy feathers and gaping beak. “I mean, that’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? Chasin’ your no-good, mange-winged bed-warmer?”

Sigmund felt his teeth grind, fingers clenching hard into denim. Finally, he said, “What do you want? Nothing about Hel.” Even if there wasn’t anything to tell, not really, it was the principle of the thing. What kind of man would Sigmund be if he sold out his friends and his sort-of-stepdaughter to find his boyfriend?

Then: “How about a trinket? From Miðgarðr. Something shiny.” Ravens liked shiny, right?

Munin tilted its head. “What’ve you got?”

Shit. What did he have? He’d left his bag back in the Helcamp—Sigmund, Losers, God of—so he emptied out the pockets of his jeans instead. Munin wasn’t interested in the phone, thank whomever, but it wasn’t biting when Sigmund offered it coins, either.

“Something with value,” it said. Then Sigmund saw its beady eye glimmer. “Like that.”

Then Sigmund had a bird lunging at his hands with its beak and, yeah. About that, and Sigmund’s mild ornithophobia, which, hah! He thought had maybe been cured thanks to hanging out with Lain, but no. No, it was still around, and trigged by having a razor-sharp beak spearing his way.

Some part of Sigmund’s panicked brain realized Munin was going for his key ring.

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“Uh-uh!” He curled his fist, clenching the keys inside. One for his dad’s house, one for Lain’s apartment. That was it, really. His car key was on its own chain, lying ignored on a table next to his phone and a pile of coins. His work pass was back in the apartment, because why would he have brought that to Ásgarðr, again?

(why would you’ve brought your car keys, doofus?)

“You want my house keys?” He held the fist out, just out of reach of Munin’s beak. He hoped. “Tell me what happened to Lain.”

“Not the keys,” Munin said. “Don’t care about the keys. The other thing?” It peered up at Sigmund, hopeful.

Sigmund almost, almost, fell for it. Almost opened his hand to take a look, before common sense kicked him in the balls and he instead said, “It’s only keys.” A thought. “And the swipey thing for the apartment block.” A little plastic toggle. It made the elevator work and opened the garage door. Sigmund couldn’t imagine it would be of much interest to a bird.

A thought confirmed a moment later when Munin said, “No. None of that crap. The bracelet. Your jewelry for your boy. A good trade, yeah?”

It took Sigmund a moment, blinking in his confusion, before he got it. “You mean the key ring?”

“Bracelet, ring. Whatever.”

It was neither, of course. What it was was a loop of thin wire rope, closed off by a little screw cap and threaded with five charms, one for each of the colors of mana in Magic: The Gathering.

It was worthless but for the fact Em had made it for Sigmund a few years back. No reason other than her going through a DIY geekery phase and thinking Sigmund might like it. Which he did. Because it was cool and nerdy and made by his best bloody friend.

(“something of value,” right)

“Tell me what’s happened to Lain, and I’ll give you the key ring. You know I don’t lie.”

A gift from Sigmund’s bestie, and it meant something.

But Em would never pick an object over a person. Never. She was a lot of things, a lot of aggravating, callous, and occasionally downright vicious things . . . but she wasn’t that.

Munin stared at Sigmund for another moment, first with one eye, then the other. Then it said, “Yeah. Sure. I saw your boy drive up to the gates. Forseti and two of Thor’s brats nabbed him—”

“What do you mean ‘nabbed’?” A ball of ice, sitting just below Sigmund’s gut. Ice and rage and fear.

(if they’ve hurt him . . . )

(“they’ve hurt him, it’s in their nature. the only question is how will you respond?”)

As if in confirmation, Munin ruffled its feathers and said, “I mean ‘nabbed.’ Whacked him over the head a few times and dragged him off.”

“Where?”

“Inside. I don’t know what they did. Forseti don’t like me hangin’ ’round much. All I know is I saw Thor’s kids drag him out again in chains just before you lot arrived. They headed out the back way, through the Myrkviðr.”

Viðr meant wood, Sigmund did know that much. And he’d seen Lord of the Rings. He could guess the rest.

“Where would they be going?”

Munin cawed, puffing its breast out and arching its neck toward the ceiling. “You know, my neck is feeling awfully naked right now . . .”

Sigmund got the hint, unscrewing the key ring and throwing the keys down on the table.

“If you peck me . . .” he threatened, leaning forward.

“Don’t choke and I won’t peck.”

Sigmund did not choke, and Munin, as promised, didn’t peck. For a moment, Sigmund thought the chain would be too small; Munin was a big bird with a big thick neck, but, as it turned out, that was a big thick neck made of ninety percent feathers.

“I don’t know where they were going, no way I was gonna follow them into that fuckin’ forest, right?”

“Why not?” Sigmund fumbled with the key chain’s screw, trying not to catch any feathers between the steel.

“Because it’s þursar country, isn’t it? Those fuckin’ things’d shoot me outta the sky and eat me for breakfast.”

“The þursar are a . . . they’re a type of jötunn, right? What would Thor’s kids be doing with the jötunn?” Sigmund still, very occasionally, pronounced it with a J instead of a Y. As well as used the wrong noun form.

Munin, tactfully, didn’t mention either. Instead, when Sigmund had arranged the key-chain-slash-necklace and stepped back, it fluffed itself up and said, “Well. How do I look?”

“Here, let me show you.” Sigmund grabbed his phone, fumbling with the passcode to get to the camera app.

Munin, meanwhile, said, “I dunno, kid. I watched ’em as long as I could, but they vanished into the trees. I did hear your boy make some comment about”—Munin cocked its head; Sigmund wasn’t sure if it was remembering or if it was distracted by the sight of itself on the phone’s screen—“about ‘whoring for trinkets.’ Damn, bird. You look good.”

Sigmund laughed, except, “Whoring what?”

“My guess?” Munin puffed and preened, turning back and forth to watch the key chain’s little colored charms catch the light. Green, red, black, blue, and white, in that order. “My guess is he was talking about Þrúðr. That’s Thor’s girl. Guy had three kids, she’s the eldest, plus two younger brothers. She was with them when they left and, kid, I tell you? She did not look like she wanted to be.”

Sigmund felt his lip curl, distaste churning in his gut for a pair of assholes he’d never met.

(“this is the true face of Ásgarðr, boy”)

“I have to go after them.”

“Run through the þursar-infested forest? Yeah. Good luck.”

“I’m not worried about the þursar.” Which was true. Sigmund wasn’t worried, mostly because Sigyn wasn’t. She’d never been afraid of the jötnar. Not the one in her bed nor the ones she’d birthed nor those who’d embraced her and called her family. It was the æsir Sigyn distrusted, not the things with feathers and horns they murdered and called monster.

“You might not be worried about them,” Munin said, “but you’ll be worried about the einherjar on the Wall. It’s guarded. You won’t get through without them noticing. And they won’t let you out. Make no mistake, kid. Nanna’s a sweet girl, but she ain’t in charge here. And you’re not a free man, if you get my meaning.”

And, quite belatedly, it occurred to Sigmund what he was. Not a guest, but a hostage. To use against Hel, should she try to make move against Forseti.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“It sucks, kid, it’s true.”

“I’m not . . . I’m not good at this stuff.”

“Yeah, I figured. Hence you got me.” Munin hopped backward, away from the camera and onto the table. There, it paced back and forth in its awkward, swaggering way. “Look. You’re a straight guy—pardon my pun—”

“Fuck off.”

“—and there ain’t no point lying to you anyway. So I’ll give you this one for free: The boss? Whoever he was, he broke the old oaths, and I owe him for it. This is payback. You got one favor, kid. Make it count.”

Sigmund huffed, running one hand underneath his glasses, pressing against his eyelids until pixelated, two-bit fractals exploded black and red within the darkness.

(one favor . . . right)

One thing a bird could do. Sigmund needed to get out of Ásgarðr, to follow Lain without being followed himself. And what did he have to do it, exactly? Himself? One asshole raven?

A whole army of undead, plus their queen.

Plus his friends.

Sigmund opened his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s what I need you to do.” And he gave Munin an idea.

When he was done, the bird cocked its head. “That all? Remember, this is all you get.”

“It’s all.” Em and Wayne would figure out the rest. Sigmund hoped.

“Eh. You’re the boss, Boss.” Munin opened its wings, flapping and launching itself toward the window.

It didn’t leave, though, instead alighting on the sill and asking, “Hey, kid? One last question.”

“Yeah?”

“A little brings solace, and too much destroys. I warm hearts and crumble empires. Men use me to illuminate, and to conceal. What am I?”

Sigmund blinked. Riddles? Well, he supposed it was fitting, so . . . “A lie,” he said. That was easy.

Except Munin cawed something that might’ve been a surprised laugh. “Fire,” it said. “But I guess your answer works, too. My advice? Before you go, check the stables. There’s something there you need to see.”

Then, in a burst of fluttering black, it was gone.

Sigmund stared at nothing for a while, caught between an inferno and a glacier, trying not to think and not to feel, lest he end up doing too much of either.

Lain was in trouble, that much seemed pretty obvious. What else could Sigmund do but ride

(walk)

valiantly to the rescue? He’d done it before, under the harsh white fluorescents next to the elevators in the—

(“no, do not dwell. not now. simply do”)

Slowly, Sigmund exhaled.

Then he collected his phone and his wallet and his keys, tucked them into the pouch on his new belt, folded his old clothes, and waited for a sign.

----------------------------------------

Munin, meanwhile, was true to its word.

Hel’s army was a bloated mass in black and bone, squatting like a pustule just outside Ásgarðr’s gates. The land around was blighted by its presence, rotted and twisted from the same oozing corruption that had seen Odin banish Hel in the first place.

Loki had never really gotten over that, the sentimental son of a wildfire. But what else was Ol’ One Eye supposed to do? Let beasts run amok in Ásgarðr? Devouring livestock and blighting the fields? All because his pet catamite couldn’t keep his fucking legs fucking closed?

Bah. Jötnar. Go figure.

Munin circled lower, close enough to hear the shouts of the náir down below, the ones who’d noticed its approach. It wasn’t after the dead, though, instead scouring across the army until it found a shock of pink amid the gray.

The boy goddess’s friends, the Shaker and the Screamer. Munin remembered them from the old days, valkyrja girls. Kin, in a birds-of-a-feather sort of way, but that didn’t mean they’d ever had much time for Odin’s thoughts and mind.

Munin was hoping the old truces held, at least a little, as he landed on edge of a dark-wooded carriage.

“Knock knock.”

The girls looked up, blinking and startled, glancing around to try to figure out who was speaking.

“Me,” Munin said. “The bird. Remember me?”

“You!” The Screamer caught on first. Em, Munin thought she called herself now. Whatever the name, she didn’t seem too pleased by Munin’s arrival.

“Is that—?” The Shaker, Wayne, dressed in eye-blinding pink from head to toe.

“Munin,” Em said, scowling. Her eyes flicked down to Munin’s neck. “And Sigmund’s key chain. Talk, bird. Or I get one of the Helbeasts to eat you.”

“Calm down, girl. Your friend and I did a trade. I told him something he wanted to know, he gave me this.”

“Really?” She didn’t sound convinced. Munin didn’t really care.

“Whatever. Look, I told the kid I’d do him a favor. For keeping me amused. This is that.”

The girls exchanged glances. “We’re listening,” Em said.

“Kid’s kind of in a bit of a bind in Ásgarðr right now, see? He’s being looked after, don’t you worry about that. But he needs to get out. Tonight. And Forseti’s gang? They ain’t gonna let him without a fight.”

Wayne caught on straightaway. “What does he need us to do?” They were loyal, Munin would give them that. Ravens always were, so long as the carrion was fresh and the secrets were shiny.

“A distraction,” Munin said.

“What kind of distraction?”

“Kid didn’t say. I guess he figured you’d work it out. Y’know. Given the enormous fuckin’ army of dead guys at your back.”

“We’re not—” Wayne started, but Em cut her off.

“Yeah. Yeah, we got it. Thanks for the message. Now fuck off.”

“Charming.” But Munin was airborne, if only to stay away from Em’s shooing arms.

As it rose above the girls, Munin heard Wayne say, “Em, what . . . we can’t, y’know . . .”

“I know,” Em replied. “We’re not going to. But don’t worry. I’ve got a better idea.”

If Munin had lips, it would’ve grinned. Because that’d been the problem, hadn’t it? Ever since the boss’d . . . whatever the boss had done, things in Ásgarðr had been kinda, well. Boring.

Just Forseti, puffed up and preening on the throne, and Nanna, playing regent and proclaiming her husband’s not-dead-ness to anyone pitying enough to listen.

Not very exciting, either way.

But this? Hel’s army and Loki’s wife? Whatever this was, it was gonna be great.

And Munin, with a bird’s-eye view of the whole fucking meltdown.

Down below, weathered, ash-gray faces turned up to stare as a raven wheeled overhead, cawing its pleasure into the sky.

And so, slowly, war began to brew at Ásgarðr’s door.