Mist Page 2

  “I’m here.” Mist clasped Bryn’s hand gently in her own unwounded one and smoothed the dark hair away from the Valkyrie’s forehead. “Did we win?”

  “Yes. Because of your courage.”

  Bryn tried to shake her head. “I failed. The cloak . . .” She gasped, and Mist lifted Bryn into her arms.

  “I failed, venninne min, not you.”

  Fresh blood bubbled over Bryn’s lips. “Take the cloak. Swear you will . . . guard the Treasures. Keep them safe, as we were meant to. They will . . .” Bryn sighed and closed her eyes. “Swear.”

  Mist swore. Denying Bryn’s unwavering faith was beyond her power. When she had finished, Bryn released her hold on life, as surely gone as if she had lived no longer than an ordinary woman.

  Mist bowed her head. There would be no one to carry this warrior to Valhalla. If some other afterworld existed, it would be a cold one where valor and pride and loyalty had no meaning.

  The sun was sinking below the trees, and Mist knew she had no time to commit Bryn’s body to the fire. Carefully she untied the cloak and slid it free from beneath Bryn’s shoulders, her injured hand aching in the cold. She brushed stained snow from the feathers, draped the cloak over one arm, and selected a fallen twig lying nearby, sketching Runes of protection in the bloody snow to ward scavengers from Bryn’s body. The raven circled overhead, watching for a chance at a fresh feast, but even it could not pierce the wards.

  As the Rune-staves slowly lost their shapes beneath the steady snowfall, Mist chanted a second spell. The cloak seemed to fold in on itself, growing smaller and smaller until it was nothing but a bundle of feathers. Gently Mist tucked the bundle into its silken pouch and hung the sturdy cord around her neck.

  Yanking Gungnir free from the German’s chest, Mist cleaned it and returned it to its sheath. She had just retrieved one of the Schmeissers when she heard the gunfire. Without stopping for her skis, she ran back through the woods, leaping like a stag through the deep snow and jumping onto the broken trail as soon as she reached it. Her vision adjusted to the dark as easily as a cat’s, but in that moment she wished she were blind.

  The utter silence warned her before she found the trail’s end. She saw Mrs. Dworsky first, lying facedown in an uneven circle of bloodblackened snow. The others were scattered like seeds carelessly tossed from a giant’s hand, sprinkled with a dusting of white like fresh earth from a spade.

  Mist picked her way from body to body, searching for signs of life. None had survived. But Rebekka was not among the bodies, nor was Geir, or Horja.

  Without hope Mist continued on, her heart pumping steadily, her breath moving in and out as if her body insisted on living long after her mind had lost the will. Someone croaked her name. She stopped and looked at the figures hunched together in the lee of a stunted pine.

  The first thing she saw was Geir’s face, pinched with pain and grief. Rebekka crouched huddled in his arms, her head cradled in the hollow of his shoulder. Horja lay on her side, one broken half of Thor’s staff still clutched in her right hand. She, too, was alive.

  The last of Mist’s strength drained from her body. She forced herself to continue until she’d reached the pine and fell to her knees. The bodies of two German soldiers lay a few meters apart a dozen paces away. The ones that hadn’t been with the others Bryn had told her about. The ones she’d forgotten.

  “There was an ambush,” Geir whispered. He stared through Mist, his eyes reflecting the horrors of massacre. “We couldn’t . . .”

  “Rebekka?”

  “All right.” Frozen tears glittered on Geir’s cheeks. “But the rest . . .”

  Horja tried to push herself up. The piece of carved wood she held fell from her fingers. “It snapped,” she said with a strange, almost childlike bewilderment. “Where is Bryn?”

  Mist swallowed and shook her head. Horja fell back with moan of despair.

  “Why?” she cried. “How could this happen?”

  They stared at Mist, man and Valkyrie, as if she held the answers. And she knew. She knew why this had happened, why the divine Treasures had failed, why they had suffered defeat at such a terrible cost of lives entrusted to their care.

  Pride. Her pride, in believing she and Horja and Bryn could be more than mere guardians, that they could intervene in the fate of men, that they could wield the Aesir’s weapons with impunity. Her bitterness, insisting that they owed nothing to gods who were dead and gone, who had imprisoned them with a hopeless duty.

  Bryn and Horja had warned her. She hadn’t listened. But it was all the others, not she, who paid the price.

  She crawled closer to Geir and touched Rebekka’s shoulder. The girl flinched and turned her head, one eye visible above the scarf wrapped around her nose and mouth.

  “Rebekka, I—”

  “You left us!” Rebekka said, her voice rising in a wail. “You ran away!”

  Mist let her hand fall. It didn’t matter whether or not she had done what Rebekka accused her of. She was still to blame. She met Geir’s haunted eyes.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He nodded, his gaze sliding away. “I couldn’t stop them. I shouldn’t be alive.”

  Echoing anguish roughened Horja’s voice. “I wasn’t strong enough to protect the mortals. Forgive me.”

  Mist sucked in a frozen breath. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes. But Gridarvol . . .”

  “Take the pieces. Perhaps someday . . .”

  It can be repaired. But she knew it wouldn’t be. No one lived who could do it.

  Somehow she shaped the ravaged fragments of her thoughts into a semblance of order. “The most important thing now is to get Rebekka across the border,” she said, looking at Geir. “Can you do that?”

  Geir searched her eyes. “You aren’t coming.”

  It wasn’t a question. He knew her too well. “I left Bryn and four dead Germans on the other side of the wood,” she said. “I’ll watch for pursuit. When I’m sure you’re safe, I’ll look after her . . .” She closed her eyes. “Her body, and these people’s as well.”

  Geir shook his head slowly, like a man waking from a dream indistinguishable from reality. Horja got to her knees and rose, waving away Mist’s offer of help. She stumbled toward the nearest body.

  “Mist—” Geir began.

  “Listen to me. This is where we must part. We—” Her heart contracted until she couldn’t feel it anymore. “We will not see each other again.”

  His voice rose. “You aren’t to blame. I—”

  “I brought this down on us.” She cut him off before he could speak again. “Don’t ask me to explain.”

  “You think I don’t know?” he shouted. Rebekka whimpered, and he lowered his voice again. “You and Horja and Bryn. You’re not like the rest of us.”

  “No. I should have been wiser.” She willed him to understand. “We couldn’t stay together. I could never give you what you want.”

  “You know nothing of what I want!”

  “I want you to live, all three of you. You’ll have to care for Rebekka now.” She began to shiver. “I’ll find where you’ve taken her and send money. Promise me you will see to it.”

  Geir said nothing for a long time. She saw him gathering protests, arguments, denials . . . watched his beloved features contort with anger and grief and unspoken pleas, settling at last into acceptance.

  “Where will you go?” he asked.

  She wanted to fight. She wanted to kill every last German in Norway with her bare hands.

  But she was cursed. She could never again risk bringing that curse down upon those who were ready to sacrifice everything for freedom.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “You survive. Build this country again when the enemy is gone. Make a new world, Geir. Find someone like you, someone . . .”

  He reached out and grabbed her hand. “There will never be anyone else.”

  Horja returned, carrying both halves of Thor’s staff in her arms. �
�The snow has stopped,” she said. “We should cross while it’s still dark.”

  Mist eased her hand from Geir’s grip. “I’ll cover your tracks,” she said, “and make sure no one is following.” She removed both the raven pendant and the leather pouch from around her neck.

  “This is for you, Rebekka,” she said, holding out the pendant. “It will always protect you.”

  The girl stared at the crude, carved image and the Rune- staves carved on the flat stone. She met Mist’s gaze without anger or fear.

  “How can it protect me?” she whispered.

  “Because it once belonged to someone very powerful, and all his strength is in it. Now you will have that strength too, in your heart.”

  Slowly Rebekka took the pendant, and Mist helped her pull it on beneath her hood. She sketched an invisible Bind-Rune on Rebekka’s forehead and got up to face Horja.

  “I have something for you as well,” she said, offering the pouch to her Sister. “Bryn would want you to keep this safe.”

  “For what?” Horja asked. She thrust out her hands, showing Mist the splintered ends of what was meant to be forever unbroken. “You were right. There are no gods to reclaim them. The Aesir have forsaken us.”

  “Bryn had faith,” Mist said. “Keep that faith for her, Horja. And if you ever meet the other Sisters, let them keep the faith as well.”

  Horja bowed her head, and Mist settled the cord around her Sister’s neck. Then she turned back to Geir.

  “Live long, min kjæreste. I will not forget you.”

  Holding Rebekka tight, Geir got to his feet. Tears leaked into the sun-etched creases that framed his eyes. “Farvel, elskede min. Until we meet again.”

  Mist pulled her hood low over her face and stood unmoving until he had followed Horja out of her sight. The raven—or another like it—croaked in a pine somewhere to the east. She listened for a moment, counting her breaths, and then set out after the others. They wouldn’t see her, but she would be sure they’d made it before she left them for good.

  Long before dawn, Geir, Rebekka, and Horja were safely across the border, and Mist was on her way back to lay Bryn to rest.

  The Valkyrie’s world had ended. When Geir and Rebekka and Rebekka’s children and grandchildren were gone, the Valkyrie might finally be permitted to join the Aesir in oblivion.

  —an ax age, a sword age

  —shields are riven—

  a wind age, a wolf age—

  before the world goes

  headlong.

  No man will have

  mercy on another.

  — Prose Edda

  Snorri Sturluson

  Translated by Ursula Dronke

  1

  San Francisco, present day

  The sword sliced the air inches from Mist’s face. She swung her own spatha to intercept the blow, bracing herself and catching her opponent’s blade in mid-stroke. Metal clanged on metal with glorious, discordant music. Her adversary bore down hard for several seconds, his furious gaze fixed on hers, and abruptly disengaged.

  “One of these days,” Eric said, his face breaking out in a grin, “I’m going to beat you.”

  Mist lowered her sword and caught her breath. Perspiration trickled from her hairline over her forehead, soaking the fine blond hairs that had come loose from her braid, and her body ached pleasantly from the workout. She grinned back at Eric, who sheathed his sword and reached for the towel draped across the bench against the wall.

  “You’re good,” she said. “Almost as good as I am.”

  He grimaced and scrubbed the towel across his face. “I outweigh you by eighty pounds,” he said. “I don’t want to think about what you could do to me if you were my size.”

  Size had nothing to do with it, though Mist hadn’t yet found a way to tell Eric why he’d never be able to beat her. She’d even thought once or twice of letting him win, male pride being such a fragile thing, but instinct was too strong.

  Mist sheathed her sword and ran her thumb over the engraving etched into the hilt. She had no right to pride of any kind. She’d lost that right long ago, as she’d lost her honor and the only man she had ever loved.

  And yet Eric had unexpectedly roused her from the despair of one who waits for redemption that will never come. Like Geir, he wasn’t afraid of a woman who shared his strength. He’d taught her to laugh again. And when she looked into Eric’s face— the face of a true warrior of the Norse, broad and handsome and fearless—she knew he was safe. Safe because he would never demand more than she could give. Safe from her mistakes.

  But there would be no more mistakes. She had made sure of that.

  “I’m headed for the shower,” Eric said, catching her glance and giving her a sly look in return. He padded toward her, remarkably graceful and light on his feet, his bare chest streaked with sweat. He lifted a loose tendril of her hair, rolling it between his fingers. “Care to join me? I’ll wash your back if you’ll wash mine.”

  His meaning couldn’t be clearer, and she was eager enough to join him in bed after his long absence. But she dodged aside when he bent to kiss her.

  “I’m really tired tonight,” she said, smiling to take the sting out of her rejection. “Long day at the forge. I promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”

  Eric frowned and rubbed his thumb along the edge of her jaw. “You okay? You’ve seemed a little preoccupied ever since I came back.”

  She covered his hand with hers. “It’s nothing. I missed you, that’s all.”

  “Have you?” He nuzzled her neck. “Show me.”

  “Soon. I promise.”

  Eric let her go and winked. “My sword is always at your service, m’lady.” He strode toward the door that connected the gym to the loft’s ground-floor living space, throwing another wink over his shoulder, and Mist was left alone in the echoing silence of the gym.

  Her wrist was aching again. The red tattoo encircling it—still as bright as the day she’d had it done—seemed to squirm on her skin, an endless chase of wolves and ravens, the animal symbols of Odin All-father.

  You used your wrist too much today, she told herself. But that didn’t account for this strange restlessness, which even Eric had noticed in spite of her best efforts to hide it.

  With a sigh Mist returned the sword to the rack at the opposite end of the gym and followed Eric into the long hall, pausing at the door to the master bedroom. She could hear Eric singing in the shower.

  Not in the mood to wait for her turn—and another invitation to bed— Mist threw on her leather jacket, pulled on her gloves, and went out to the garage. The temperature had fallen thirty degrees since the warmest part of the day, and the cold seemed to crackle in the late December air. Even the tart, briny scent of the Bay a third of a mile to the east seemed subdued by the frigid weather.

  Her Volvo was ancient and often unreliable. It usually rumbled and complained like the great hound Garm whenever she needed it to operate smoothly, refusing to respond to even her most coaxing spells . . . such as they were. Tonight the car leaped to life almost immediately; it almost seemed to Mist as if it, too, felt her restlessness.

  Dogpatch was far from quiet even at this time of night, in spite of the unseasonable cold; the Muni light-rail ran right down the center of Third Street, and the whole neighborhood, once an industrial area packed with warehouses, was becoming fashionable, with young professionals who frequented the growing number of clubs, restaurants, and galleries. Colored lights festooned the old houses and shops, and someone had set a decorated Christmas tree on the roof of the recording studio across the street.

  Without really thinking about her destination, Mist turned north on Third Street and left on Sixteenth Street toward Golden Gate Park on the other side of the city. It didn’t surprise her that she’d ended up here; it had the closest thing to woods as anywhere in San Francisco, and it made a nice change from the tiny, half- dead scrap of lawn behind her loft.

  She parked along Lincoln Way, got out of
the car, and entered the park from Nineteenth Avenue. It was near midnight, and the park would officially be closed to visitors in a few minutes, but Mist had no trouble finding an unobtrusive way in. The only other people in the park were the homeless and vagrants who spent their nights huddled in tattered blankets under the bushes. There would be no Christmas for them.

  Christmas. Yule, as it had been known before the coming of the White Christ. The solstice had never really been more than an excuse for celebration, an end to the darkness and the coming of a new year. If this bizarre, unseasonable winter ever ended.

  A few gentle snowflakes drifted down to melt on Mist’s hair as she walked along Martin Luther King, Jr. Drive and headed toward Stow Lake. There was a breathless quality to the frigid air. Dense fog began to settle over the nearest trees, turning the park into a ghostly realm of indistinct shapes and ominous silence.

  Fog. Mist stopped, lifting her head to smell the air. Fog like this came in the summer, when warm Pacific winds blew over the colder waters along the coast.

  A sudden chill nipped at Mist’s hands and face. Strange weather or not, there was nothing natural about the icy vapor that stretched probing fingers along the ground at her feet, slithering and hissing like the serpent Nidhogg bent on devouring everything in its path.

  Disbelief shook Mist with jaws of iron. She knew the smell of the vapor and what it had portended when the Last Battle began.

  But it wasn’t possible. The Jotunar, the frost giants, were as extinct as the great sloths or mastodons that had once roamed the North American plains.

  Mist encircled her left wrist with her right hand, trying to soothe the unnatural, burning agony beneath the glove. She wasn’t going crazy. There was a perfectly logical explanation for the hallucination. This was the old, rejected world’s final attempt to hold her bound in the chains of guilt and self- contempt and loneliness, to abandoned oaths and a way of life she had discarded years ago like ash-soiled rags.