Em called it Operation Hearts and Minds. She hadn’t given any more detail than that, just grinning a sly and dimpled grin, enthusiasm practically oozing between her teeth.
Sigmund was in trouble, and he needed their help. No surprises there, which was why they were currently standing outside of Hel’s tent.
The word didn’t really do it justice. Marquee would probably have been better, or maybe yurt. Wayne had never been clear on what a yurt was, exactly, but Hel’s current office would’ve been Wayne’s first guess: a sort of round, felt-covered building, mostly black, and decorated by a variety of skulls and glossy feathers that looked to have been shed by the Lady herself.
It also had two enormous Helbeasts curled around the outside, guarding.
The Helbeasts were really, really cool. Wayne had an entire sketchbook full of the ones she’d seen, no two of which were exactly alike. They all had horns, and feathers, and tails, and four limbs and two wings, but inside those constraints was nothing but variation. The smallest Helbeasts being the size of large dogs, the largest being, well.
The largest were the drekar.
Em had made that connection. Wayne had asked her, not long before Munin arrived, flicking through her sketchbooks and noting similarities until she’d said, “Hey, dooder. The Helbeasts and the dragons—?”
“They’re jötunn— jötnar,” Em had said, not looking up from her tablet even as she’d corrected her own noun form.
“Aaah.” Suddenly, what Sigyn had said—had used Sigmund to say—about Loki’s horse boyfriend made a whole bunch of sense.
Point being: Helbeasts. Wicked cool.
The one to the left of Hel’s yurt was ice-themed, with blue-gray skin and copiously fluffy long white feathers. The one on the left was sleeker, with much more of its black skin exposed beneath iridescent green plumage. Both looked up when Wayne and Em approached the Helyurt, and Wayne gave them a smile and a wave.
“Um, hey,” she said. “Can we talk with Hel for a moment?”
The white Helbeast huffed, gesturing with its head.
Like the drekar, the Helbeasts didn’t seem to speak human-comprehensible languages. But they understood them well enough.
“Thanks!” Wayne gave both Hel’s guards a little wave before stepping forward to poke her head inside the yurt’s flap. “Um. Hello?”
The inside of the yurt was dark, Ásgarðr’s sun blotted out by furs and black wool. The only illumination came from little lamps hanging from the ceiling, burning with some kind of eerie, blue-green magelight.
“Honored sisters, enter.”
Hel herself was sitting on a mat in the center of a pile of cushions. She’d been kneeling when Wayne looked in, head bowed and hands folded into a purposeful position, like in prayer or meditation. If Wayne had to guess, she would’ve said it was something magic, given the charge in the air and the taste of copper behind her tongue.
Both sensations faded as Hel’s attention shifted outward. Wayne entered the yurt, Em trailing along behind, and Hel gestured to the cushions at her side.
“Come, sit. I trust things outside are to your liking?”
Hel was wicked cool, and awesome, and kind. But she also had a bit of a stiffness about her, something overly cautious and formal. Wayne was used to it, because Em gave off the same vibe sometimes. It was the aura, Wayne thought, of someone who hadn’t grown up with very many friends. The shield of someone who knew they weren’t always an easy person to like.
It was work, having friends like that. Wayne knew that one firsthand, particularly if Em was having one of her off weeks.
It was work, but it was worth it. Because Wayne had been popular, back in school, and had had a lot of easy friends because of it. All of whom she would’ve traded, in hindsight, for one single Em, and none of whom she could imagine taking to have a sit-down chat with a goddess of death in the middle of an undead horde.
Wayne’s childhood friends were good people, and she still chatted to most of them on Facebook, on and off. But none of them were Em, and none of them were Sigmund.
“Everything is so-oo-oo-oo cool!” Wayne said, with appropriate squee and shaking. She threw herself down onto the cushions next to Hel, like they were old besties. Hel . . . well, it wasn’t like Wayne could tell under the veil, but Hel looked like she might have blinked, hand half rising to her mouth and cute little wings unfolding like a started bird. She covered the reaction quickly, but Wayne saw it.
Then immediately pretended she hadn’t, instead launching into an entirely honest babble about the things she’d seen outside, her sketchbook full of awesome, the cool people she’d met, and, like, basically everything, because holy shit. She was in the middle of an undead army, with, like, real zombies and dragons and everything, and for a girl whose original AIM handle had been xXSoGothBornBlackXx, back in the day, that was like the coolest thing ever.
Em had settled down on Hel’s other side, half listening to Wayne’s chatter, half lost in whatever plot had brought them to Hel’s tent in the first place.
Wayne had a brief flash of guilt at that, the idea they’d come only because they wanted something. Before, outside, they’d maybe kind of supposed Hel would be busy. Doing, like, whatever it was Queens of the Dead did. Inside, though, Hel looked . . .
Well. She looked sort of lonely.
Maybe Em sensed that, too, which is why she was letting Wayne talk. Because Em was awkward and she was abrasive, but she could be perceptive, too. Empathic. She didn’t always give a shit what people were feeling, but she almost always knew.
Em liked Hel. Wayne could tell that, as well.
Eventually, when Hel had settled—reclining back against the cushions rather than sitting up, ramrod straight—Em said:
“I admit we came here to ask a favor, not just rant enthusiastically at you until the Tree withers into dust.”
Hel’s face twitched in the way Wayne—with her background in muscles and anatomy, thanks to art school—knew meant she was smiling. “This is about the raven,” she said.
“Yeah. How—?”
Hel tilted her head, apologetic. “What my people see, I see.”
“Oh,” said Em. “Right. That makes sense. Anyway, so point being we need a distraction. For Sigmund. And . . . look, don’t take this the wrong way or anything”—never a good start to a conversation, and Wayne winced—“but did you know Sigmund wouldn’t be allowed out of Asgard once he got in?”
Hel stiffened, just a little, and her sleeves twitched in a way that almost looked like she was drumming her fingers beneath the fabric. Finally, she said, “The æsir have too much pretense at honor to harm one of their own. Besides, Stepmother was always . . . adept at feigning innocence to her foes.”
It wasn’t quite an answer, but Em nodded. “Well,” she said, “I admire your faith, but Sigmund isn’t Sigyn.” It wasn’t quite an admonishment.
Nor was Hel’s dipped head and, “I understand,” quite an apology.
“Good. ’Cause, like, that’s the reason I’m gonna need to borrow some of your people. Sigmund needs a distraction, a big one—”
“I will not go to war against the Wall. Not yet.”
“I know.” Hel’s voice had been as sharp and brittle as obsidian, but Em didn’t even seem to register the tone. She wasn’t even looking at Hel, her eyes ignored as her mind watched something unfold inside. “War is passé, anyhow,” Em continued. “We’re gonna do something better. Something big. And it’ll help Sigmund, but it’ll help you, too. I just need to borrow some of your guys to make it happen.”
Hel’s dark tongue flicked out to run across her teeth. After a moment, she said, “What is it you require?”
So Em told her, grin a slash of bone the entire time. When she was done speaking, Wayne’s brows were even higher than the pencil line, and she had to admit Em was kinda, well. She was kinda devious.
Hel agreed, teeth sharp and white beneath her veil.
“Make it so, sisters of the dead,” she said. “And let us show Ásgarðr the true power of what they stand beneath.”
----------------------------------------
The thing about the enormous, monstrous, undead army was that it couldn’t win. Not in a straight-up fight. They might’ve outnumbered Ásgarðr’s people a hundred to one, but Wayne had seen this story before—in movies and book and video games—and she knew, categorically knew, that no matter how many people Hel brought to the front, she’d never win an all-out war.
Because they weren’t on Miðgarðr anymore, Toto, and here the mathematics didn’t matter. Here, it was about the story. And the story was that all it took was one single guy—and it was always, always a guy—and a white guy to boot, Wayne hadn’t failed to notice—one single guy with one single magical MacGuffin, doing one single brave, stupid thing, to bring the entire horde to its knees.
The Horde never won. They were the overwhelming odds, the monsters, the dark Other who had to be defeated by the superior honor and friendship and bleeding bloody hearts of the Forces of Good.
And the Horde might’ve had the coolest costumes and the coolest dragons on their side, but that was only so they looked much more impressive when they fell.
And fall they would, to some blond-haired, dick-swinging asshole holding a shining sword.
Em explained all this to Hel, in her usual acerbic tone, and maybe Wayne saw Hel’s shoulders fall, just a little. She’d tried so hard. Setting up Baldr, plotting a way into Ásgarðr that wouldn’t end in bloodshed, wouldn’t end in the destruction of her people. But she still couldn’t be The Good Guy, because she was still Wyrdborn, still trapped in her own story.
This was something Sigmund had whispered, one night over voice chat when it’d just been the three of them on the line.
“It’s why Sigyn had to be mortal again,” he’d said. “Gods can’t change the Wyrd, not really. But we can.”
That had been a while ago, but Em, it seemed, hadn’t forgotten the lesson.
“We need to change the narrative,” she’d told Hel, inside the cozy darkness of the maybe-yurt. “And the new narrative is that this isn’t an army. It’s a deconstruction.”
Hel had tilted her head. “And this . . . you believe this will succeed?”
Wayne, who’d caught on already, grinned. “Hearts and minds,” she’d said, sharing a brofist with Em.
Ten minutes later, they’d walked out of the yurt wearing shiny new pendants made from Hel’s own feathers. Symbols that they were doing her will and were to be obeyed by anyone loyal to Helheimr.
Once outside, Em had explained what she needed to the nearest nár, who’d been confused by the request, but had nonetheless gone out to spread the word.
And the game was on.
----------------------------------------
Even without cell phones, word traveled fast in a crowd full of large things that could fly. Wayne’s anxiety had set in along with nighttime; she was all-too-conscious of Sigmund and of Hel and, well, everything. All of it riding on them and their crazy, modern-day plan.
Em kept telling her to relax, but Em’s hands were shaking, too, even as her fingers flew over the screen of her tablet. Typing plots and themes and narrative. Wayne tried a few sketches, which ended mostly in erasings, and nearly snapped her pencil in half in relief when she heard someone approach, clear their throat, and say in heavily accented English, “I heard there was a gig on?”
Five guys, death-gray faces hidden beneath heavy black-and-white greasepaint. They were all carrying cases of various kinds, and were dressed in a lot of black leather and spikes.
Six years ago, the tour bus of the Norwegian black metal band Sulphur Dawn had taken a wrong turn off a mountain road, earning everyone on board—the entire band, their road crew, and all their gear—a brief and exciting tour of a cliff face, then a one-way ticket to Hel’s dark realm.
Strange grave goods, Hel had said. In this case, it meant electric guitars and drum kits and amplifiers that worked, even without a power socket to plug them into.
There were more out there, Wayne was sure of it. But Sulphur Dawn had turned up first, and they had all the kit.
Which is why Em looked up from her tablet, grinned, and asked, “Do you guys take requests?”
----------------------------------------
Far above, Munin drifted in wide, lazy circles, watching the activity down below.
The dead had cleared an area just outside the gates of Ásgarðr, wide and square, and were setting up equipment. Big black boxes Munin realized were speakers, plus a drum kit, and a bunch of guys walking around with guitars.
So Hel was hosting a rock concert? Not what Munin had been expecting, but he had to give the fat valkyrja points for imagination.
It was definitely her idea, too; she was the one giving the directions, telling people where to set up and where to face, and where to build the huge bonfires to ensure the band would be visible from the Wall.
The band was definitely visible from the Wall. Munin, who’d circled over Woodstock and Super Bowl halftime shows alike, knew what it was looking at. The old einherjar on guard duty didn’t. Munin watched them point and confer among themselves, then eventually send for what turned out to be a guy in modern-looking combat fatigues. He was carrying an assault rifle, so Munin didn’t dare get too close, but from the gestures, it looked like he was explaining the score to the old timers.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
And then, from the stage, came the unmistakable squeal of a microphone, amps turned up to 11. Then the fat valkyrja’s voice, living up to her name as her words echoed out across the realm.
And what she said was:
“Goo-oo-oo-oo-ood eveni-ii-ii-ing Helheimr! Hey, this is not a test. This is rock and roll. Time to rock it, from Ásgarðr to Ginnungagap. Is that me, or does that sound like a Norwegian death-metal band?
“Vituð ér enn eða hvat? Vituð ér enn eða hvat? Why don’t you ask Hel what she thinks about that? Hey, is it a little too late for being that loud? Hey, too late. Speaking of late, so’s our band, Sulphur Dawn. Straight off a mountain and into your ears. They were late, now they’re back and so. Are. We!”
And then, with a flourish and a bow, the guitars went:
Dun! Dun-na nun! Dun-na nun! Ne-na-na nuh-nu-nah-nu.
And the show was on.
----------------------------------------
Sigmund was eating dinner when the news came in, delivered by a breathless guy in chain mail who blurted out something in Old Norse faster than Sigmund could think to listen to it.
Whatever it’d been, it had Forseti on his feet, followed by all the men and half the women. Even Nanna, seated to Sigmund’s right, looked concerned.
“What’s going on?”
“Hel’s army,” Nanna said, scowling at staring at the door. “There is commotion at the wall.”
And Sigmund’s mind thought:
(this is it, thanks Em, thanks Wayne . . . and Munin)
And his mouth said:
“What kind of commotion?”
“Screaming,” Nanna said. Except she said it over her shoulder, because she’d stood as well, and was joining the men in hurrying out of the hall.
Sigmund followed, or at least made a show of it, since slipping away in the stampede would seem to be less suspicious than not going at all.
Besides, he was kind of curious as to what his friends had planned.
He got his answer a few moments later, mouth still tasting of mead and roast boar as he stepped out behind the others, only to find the stillness blown wide by what were undeniably guitars and almost certainly a gravelly, accented voice roaring:
“—loose from the noose that’s kept me hanging about. I keep looking at the sky cause it’s gettin’ me high. Forget the hearse cause I’ll never die—”
“Oh. My. God.”
Oh Jesus, Em and Wayne—no, just Em, it had to have been Em’s idea . . . Em had found a band and was hosting a rock concert. The music was definitely live, because that was not Brian Johnson growling over the airwaves. There was gravel, and guitars, but it all sounded a bit more . . . European. So a cover band and, judging by what Sigmund knew of the people gathered outside the gates, if he were placing bets, it would be on a bunch of Scandinavian guys in heavy makeup.
A band. A fucking metal band, playing a gig on the grass outside of Ásgarðr’s gates.
Everyone was going to watch. Sigmund could see them, streaming out of buildings, carrying torches and lanterns, heading up to the walls.
A part of Sigmund—a big part—wanted to join them. To go watch a bunch of dead metalheads belt out AC/DC into the dark. Except he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t, because this was his distraction, the thing he’d asked Em and Wayne to do.
His way out of Ásgarðr.
Slipping away in the chaos was easy; everyone too busy with the music to worry about one single nobody. Munin had said to go to the stables first, and while Sigmund didn’t exactly trust the bird, he did trust its desire and ability to make a nuisance of itself.
Of course, it would’ve helped if it’d given some instruction on where the stables were. Or, indeed, which stables Sigmund should be searching.
In the end, he ducked around behind the hall he’d just come out of. The place was nearly the size of an office building, so the “ducking” took a while. Still, Sigmund was relieved to find a sort of single-story protrusion emerging from the rear. Half open, and facing into an area fenced by rough wood that could, if squinted at in the dark, possibly be a paddock.
Fortunately, it was dusk, and Sigmund needed new glasses.
He headed toward the building, rewarded halfway by the wafting stink of horse shit and rotting hay.
“Hello?” he called, poking his head through the doorway. Then, because duh: “Heil?”
Gods, that was probably the wrong fucking word. Stupid fucking declined fucking everythings.
Fortunately, it seemed the only people around to criticize Sigmund’s grammar were horses, judging from the smell and the anxious-sounding nickering. Which was totally a word, right? Like, a horse word? Sigmund had grown up in the fucking city. What was he even doing here? Other than frightening the animals even more than they already were.
They were definitely frightened. Sigmund wasn’t an expert on horses, but he could tell that much by their pinned-back ears and rolling eyes. They looked toward him when he entered, some throwing themselves against the walls of their pens. Stalls. Whatever. Throwing themselves toward Sigmund, away from the shadows at far end of the stable.
“Oh crap,” Sigmund said, and walked forward.
He got two steps before he remembered he had his phone—thank fucking Christ—and he pulled it out, turning on the flash and pointing the beam into the darkness.
Down the far end of the stable, something moved.
Moved, and clanked.
“H-hello?” Sigmund took a step forward. “Um. I come in peace?”
Something that might have been a snort? Or maybe a growl. Sigmund was hoping for a snort.
There was definitely a chain. Running from one side of the stable into the far stall. Big and heavy and metal. Sigmund wondered if there were others.
He stepped forward, light first, and—
“Fuck!”
—stumbled backward as a huge dark shape reared into his vision. Something that’d been sitting down in the stall, and was now . . . not doing that. Was rearing, or trying to rear, as much as its chains would let it. Around its neck and on its legs, bolting it to the ceiling and floor and walls.
“Whoa! Whoa there!”
The beast opened it jaws. When it did, Sigmund saw rows and rows and rows of teeth, moving inside its purple-black mouth.
It was a horse. Sort of.
It was a horse in the same way Lain was a human, meaning it had four legs and a long face and looked vaguely like it might allow someone to ride it, assuming it wasn’t feeling hungry. Its skin was black and its feathers were the dappled gray of a rain-soaked sky, and when it moved, it looked like some sort of mad, three-dimensional Picasso painting. From the cubist period (thanks, Wayne), when everyone was trying to jam as much time and motion as possible into a single static image.
Even still, there were only four legs beneath the chaos. Not eight.
“Sleipnir!”
Somewhere inside, Sigmund felt his past self’s heart shatter.
Then, suddenly, Sigmund was surging forward, his hands not his own, his voice babbling something in words he didn’t understand, tears streaming down his cheeks partly with anguish but mostly out of rage. Rage that someone, anyone, could do this to their beautiful, gentle stepson. Could cage him like a beast, chained and forgotten alongside animals and how dare they, murderers and oath breakers and hypocrites, how dare they lay hands on Sigyn’s family when she—
“Whoa. Whoa, okay. It’s okay.” Sigmund breathed, big, calming breaths. In. Out. In. Working buckles and latches. Out. The chains not even locked, because why would they be? In. For a horse. Out. Who didn’t even have fingers and—
“There! There, you’re free.”
Sigmund took a step back as Sleipnir reared and stretched and flexed. Then nearly bowled Sigmund over with a headbutt, though more from enthusiasm than aggression. Sigmund hoped.
“Whoa, um. Hey. It’s okay. It’s cool, you’re free.” And, it seemed, Sigmund owned Munin a favor. Or at least a whole bucketful of shiny trinkets.
Then, because Sigmund was and forever would be a loser, he said, “I’m Sigmund.” And stuck out his hand.
Sleipnir stared.
Sigmund wondered, if he wished hard enough, if he could slither down into the dirt and die.
“Ri-ii-ii-ight,” he said instead, when that plan didn’t seem to be working. “Um. I guess you probably know that, huh?”
This earned him a huff, a ripple of feathers like a passing storm cloud, and the stamp of something halfway between a horse’s hoof and an emu’s foot.
“Um.” Sigmund bit his lip, conscious of the need for haste, even as the wailing of guitars faded from AC/DC into something he didn’t recognize. “Sorry if this is rude, but, can you, like, talk?”
The shake of a head the size of Sigmund’s entire torso.
“But you can understand me, right?”
A nod.
“Okay.” That made things a lot clearer. And also sadder, although Sigmund was trying not to think too much about that right now. “Okay, so. I’m kind trying to find, er, your mum? I guess? My Lain. Last seen being dragged out the back of Asgard in chains. Um. I guess I’m kinda the rescue party? Or . . . something. Except, like, I don’t really know this place very well and, um, well, I was kind of thinking maybe— wha—? Oh.”
This last as Sleipnir shouldered his way gently past Sigmund, standing in the aisle of the stable. Over his shoulder, he flicked Sigmund a look that was undeniably Get on.
Except, oh man. How fucking embarrassing, because:
“I, uh. I kind of don’t know how to ride a ho— er. Well, anything, really.” Except a bicycle, but that wasn’t helpful.
Sleipnir really was quite expressive for an, um. For whatever he was. A jötunn.
Sigmund shrugged and winced and tried not to die of shame, getting halfway through an apology before he heard the heavy thud of a large body hitting the rushes.
Sleipnir was sitting, legs folded underneath like a cat, wings slightly open. His tail—long and feathered, just like his mum’s—flicked impatiently.
“Right,” said Sigmund. “Um . . .”
He climbed on. Which was mostly an awkward sort of straddling of Sleipnir’s back, one of Sigmund’s shoes planted on either side of the lightly feathered flanks. Sigmund was just wondering whether he should sit or squat or what when Sleipnir stood, a terrifying and crotch-grabbingly awkward experience for a least a second or so, as Sigmund’s feet left the ground.
A moment later, he was sitting on a hor— er, a quadrupedal-and-mute-yet-sentient jötunn. Who was kind of his . . . stepson? Or something? And was also gripping onto Sigmund’s thighs with his wings, which was good, because he started walking a moment later.
“Woargh! Um . . . wow. Jeez, okay . . .”
Sigmund had never been on a horse before. The experience was . . . weird. Not like riding a bicycle, or driving a car, because Sleipnir was very definitely alive—Sigmund could feel muscle and skin shift in time with Sleipnir’s breath—and very definitely had his own ideas about where he wanted to go. For a moment Sigmund panicked, wondering how the hell he was supposed to change direction without reins, before realizing he could probably just, like, ask? Or something. If that became an issue.
Gods, he was going to fall off. They hadn’t even reached the doors to the stable and still every step sent a jolt up Sigmund’s spine and his legs ached from gripping Sleipnir’s sides and—
(“you’re too rigid, boy. you make it difficult for him to carry you. straighten your spine, flow with his movements. he does not wish you to fall, so relax”)
Sigmund felt his body move in time with the thoughts, changing from a stiff, terrified hunch into something tall and smooth and sure. Move with Sleipnir’s steps, right. Up and down and up and down and it wasn’t too bad, right? He could do this.
(“hold his mane if you must, though try not to pull”)
Sigmund’s fingers wove into shifting gray feathers, clutching the stiff quills at the base. Stay straight. Flow. Relax. Don’t pull. Up and down and up and down and okay. They were outside.
It was dark, everything cast in rich navy and glimmering silver from the yawning gape of the moon and spilled glitter of the un-stars. On the wind, he could hear the scream of guitars and the growling edge of words, this time singing about dark mists and riding flaming chariots to Valhalla, which, hah. Cute.
There didn’t seem to be anyone around, Sleipnir’s not-quite-hooves silent as they moved among buildings and over grass. Fist at a walk, then moving up into a trot that had Sigmund clutching and lurching again until he forced himself back into movement and posture. Ride with Sleipnir, not against him, no need for force or direction.
From a walk to a trot to a canter, Sigmund getting used to the speed. And Sleipnir getting used to carrying Sigmund at speed, too, from the feel of it. Keeping his back straight and steady even as his feet blurred into a dull susurration in the grass.
It was kind of fun, actually. The wind on Sigmund’s cheeks and the feathers between his fingers. Slipping through Ásgarðr in the dark of night, off to save Lain from whatever stupid thing he’d gotten himself into. Very Disney film, especially with the sentient horselike sidekick to provide comic relief.
Sigmund wondered what sort of sense of humor someone who’d been treated like an animal for most of his life would have. Then he didn’t, because those thoughts were pain and rage and just not useful. Not right now.
Instead, Sigmund looked forward, through the darkness, to where he could just about make out a long, low gash of black he realized must’ve been the Wall. A long gash with a single flickering yellow light, pacing along its length.
“Shit,” he whispered, hoping Sleipnir could hear. “There’s someone on the Wall. Heading, uh, left. Our left.”
One guard. That wasn’t too bad, right?
It occurred to Sigmund it was dark, he was dressed in Viking clothes, and he was riding. Maybe it was enough of a disguise. He hoped.
Especially when, a moment later, the little light stopped, turned, and began heading back the other direction along the Wall. Toward the same place Sleipnir was aiming.
There was a hole there, Sigmund realized. Not a gate, just a part of wall that was incomplete, large stone blocks left scattered and overrun with grass beside a snag-toothed rift. It would be an obvious place to break through the barrier but also, Sigmund thought, an obvious place to guard.
He really hoped there was only one guy on duty. And that said guy wasn’t too keen on shooting arrows.
Sleipnir sped up. Sigmund was getting better at riding, he really was, but Sleipnir was going fast now. Very fast. So fast the Wall ahead was getting close enough for Sigmund to see the moonlight glinting off the edges of its individual blocks. Then close enough for him to lose sight of the torchlight behind the battlement.
Sleipnir jumped over some of the discarded stones, which was terrifying and had Sigmund biting back yelps, fingers white-knuckled in Sleipnir’s mane and eternally grateful for the strong wings that gripped against his thighs.
In the next moment, they were out of Ásgarðr.
Sigmund’s heart was racing, ears aching as they listened for the sound of shouts or the twang! and hiss of arrows, aiming for his heart.
Neither happened. Whoever the guy on the Wall was, either he didn’t see them go or didn’t care that they had. Just another æsir brat, slipping off in dead of night.
----------------------------------------
Sleipnir didn’t slow down until he stopped, all but devouring the ground beneath his claws. Sigmund didn’t complain, just held on and enjoyed the ride, which happened approximately between the point of them being out of firing range of the Wall and when the chaotic jumble of footfalls finally fell silent.
“Oh. Wow,” said Sigmund, when the world was still again. Then the ache in his legs and ass asserted itself, and he was sliding sideways.
He didn’t quite fall off. Not with Sleipnir half trying to hold on, half trying to lower Sigmund to the ground. It wasn’t the most graceful dismount in the equestrian world, ending in a dull thump with Sigmund lying on his back, staring at the stars, and being regarded by a long dark face filled with far too many teeth.
“Where are we?” Sigmund asked, not bothering to get up. Actually, he wasn’t sure he could. His legs felt like he’d just spent the last twenty minutes doing squats without a wall.
Another thought occurred:
“I didn’t bring any, like. Camping stuff?”
This earned him a snort, and a stamp of Sleipnir’s foot.
Sigmund tried sitting upright, and got mostly there. The ache made him groan, then look around self-consciously, just in case anyone else happened to be listening.
No one else was listening. Sigmund couldn’t hear the bass and drums of the band anymore, Ásgarðr not even a dull glow lurking in the distance.
He pulled out his phone, thumbed on the light, and took a look around.
“Someone’s been here.”
They’d come to a stop beneath a huge carved menhir. A rusting iron ring had been drilled into the side of the rock, and not too far from where Sigmund had fallen were the dark ashes of a campfire.
Standing up sucked majorly a lot, but Sigmund managed it, half stumbling, half limping over to the old campfire. It was . . . an old campfire. Dead and cold and black, but that was about all Sigmund was getting. It was still mostly arranged in a pile of fine ash and dark coal, and it didn’t look like it’d been there a long time, but it wasn’t as if Sigmund was an expert.
So maybe the grass was a little flatter in one area and maybe the ground looked a bit torn up in another. Sigmund paced the area with his light, trying to figure out what he was looking for even as he was looking for it.
Sleipnir did the same, nose down in the weeds like a bloodhound. Lain had never exhibited a particularly strong sense of smell that Sigmund had noticed, but maybe Sleipnir was a different sort of jötunn. Or at least half a different sort. Maybe he got his senses from his dad, not his mum.
And then, as Sigmund paced the menhir, light passing across the runes and dragons carved into its surface, he found what he was looking for.
“Hey. Hey, look.”
Sleipnir trotted closer at Sigmund’s voice. His big feathered head loomed over Sigmund’s shoulder, the edges of his horns ghosting Sigmund’s hair. Sigmund had a sudden urge to reach up and stroke the underside of Sleipnir’s neck. His thoughts but not his thoughts. And maybe the gesture would be affectionate and motherly and maybe it would just be weird and awkward, so in the end all Sigmund did was point at the surface of the stone and say, “There.”
It was the LB logo. Crude and out of proportion, but still unmistakable; three upright pillars, the middle slightly shorter, each with a hole near the top.
The design was etched a few millimeters into the stone, even as it looked like it’d been painted by a thick finger. Sigmund swallowed, feeling a little ill when he noticed the dull green sheen of what definitely wasn’t paint still clinging to the rock.
One LB logo, drawn in caustic blood at roughly sitting height. Sigmund was starting to get the idea.
When he checked the grass around the base, he found one single long feather that glimmered like flame under the harsh white glow of his phone’s flash.
“Lain was here.”
Sleipnir huffed, stamping in agreement.
The logo wasn’t on the side of the menhir facing the campfire. Maybe Sigmund shouldn’t read too much into things, but . . .
“Where would they’ve gone? I mean . . . can you follow them?”
Another snort, then Sleipnir was trotting away, half glancing at Sigmund over his shoulder as he did. Sigmund got the message, moving (with a groan) to follow, until he heard Sleipnir’s footsteps turn from the gentle shish-shish of someone moving through grass and into something harder.
A path, leading out of Ásgarðr. The menhir positioned beside it. Sigmund hadn’t noticed it in the dark, and didn’t think Sleipnir had been following it anyway.
He looked up. Far off in the distance, beyond a thick and tangled forest, the dark shapes of mountains loomed beneath the stars.