Battlestorm Read online

  While his other warriors continued to sweep the building and the air echoed with cries of shock, pain, and triumph, Orn flew ahead of Hrothgar to the stairs and glided up to the second floor. Ten frost giants stood fast in front of a heavy steel door, teeth bared and ready to fight.

  They were clearly the most skilled and competent of Loki’s resident Jotunar, for they quickly filled the room with a violent storm of ice-like chips of jagged glass, temporarily blinding the Einherjar. But the warriors forged ahead, shields raised, swords and axes swinging.

  Orn found a perch, allowed his men to herd the Jotunar away from the door, and plucked a few black feathers from his breast. He held them suspended in the frigid air, blasted them into minute particles, and blew the ensuing cloud at the door.

  Loki’s Runes—the invisible staves he had used to ward the door against anyone but himself—sprang to life, outlined by the black powder. Orn struggled to speak the Runes aloud; the spell was complex, and not meant for a bird’s throat to reproduce.

  Still, in the end, the door gave way. It opened half an inch, groaning like the dying Jotunar. Of the ten giants, only two were still on their feet, and only three Einherjar remained, one too badly injured to fight.

  “Hrothgar!” Orn said.

  The warrior stepped away from the Jotunn he had just dispatched, put his shoulder to the door, and pushed it open wide enough for Orn to fly through.

  There was a short corridor with several other doors just beyond. Orn settled on Hrothgar’s shoulder and directed him to each of the doors in turn, feeling for the spell that would safeguard Loki’s stolen prize.

  Only the third door responded to his seeking. The inside of the room was neat and spare, equipped with a bed, chest, chairs, toys, and other items suitable to a young child. The child himself was not there.

  But there were drawings pinned to the walls: crude images of Loki, Dainn, a dark-skinned woman, and Loki’s children Jormungandr, Fenrir, and Sleipnir.

  And of Odin himself.

  “He must be hidden elsewhere,” Hrothgar said, circling the room. “Would you have us search?”

  “There is something else,” Orn said. He half-hopped, half-flew from the rocking chair to the chest of drawers to the headboard of the bed, knowing he was close. Very close.

  “Here,” he said, pecking at the mattress. “Move the bed.”

  Hrothgar obeyed, pushing the bed against one of the walls. Beneath was a section of the carpet that covered most of the concrete floor. Hrothgar flipped it aside to reveal a cool, seemingly unbroken surface.

  Orn knew it was not as it appeared. There was more than merely a Rune-ward here. He felt a flutter in his chest, as if his body had grown but his heart had remained the size of a bird’s.

  “Touch it,” Orn commanded.

  Hrothgar laid his palms on the floor. Orn hopped back at the smell of burning flesh, and Hrothgar cursed as he snapped his hands away from the concrete.

  Fire-magic. Orn paced around the telltale spot. He did not have to see the Runes to know that the spell was powerful, and must have drained much of Loki’s strength to cast.

  Orn knew he could counter the magic at some cost to himself, and rely on the power he would gain from touching the Treasures to replenish what he had expended.

  But there was another danger: if he had put so much effort into guarding the objects, Loki might have added a trigger to the spell, one that would alert him to any attempt to take the Treasures.

  Tapping his beak gently on the concrete, Orn felt a jolt of pain at the base of his rump. He’d lost three tail feathers to one of Loki’s frost giants when Loki had attempted to kidnap Anna and he had gone to her aid. At the time, he had lacked sufficient awareness to understand the significance of what Laufeyson had done.

  The feathers had grown back, but if Loki had kept the originals and devised a way to use them …

  Hrothgar’s cell phone vibrated. “Our men at the Fairmont have intercepted Jotunar with the Valkyrie Regin and Skuld,” he said to Orn when the communication was finished. “They were returning here. There’s also been fighting between Loki’s people and Freya’s. We couldn’t get many details without revealing ourselves.”

  “Who won the fight?” Orn asked.

  “Unclear. The Jotunn we caught could tell us little, but we do not believe anyone was killed.”

  Then, Orn thought, it was possible that Loki would return to his mansion rather than seek out Sleipnir as he had planned.

  “Leave me,” he said to Hrothgar. “Let no one enter.”

  The Einherji hesitated, but a hard look from Orn sent him out the door. Orn shivered, shaking his feathers from crest to the tips of his tail feathers.

  He had not used the Seidr for soul-travel since he had awakened; it was the most difficult work of all, save for shape-shifting, and he had not been prepared to leave himself so vulnerable before he had attained the greater part of his power. He was not complete, his soul not yet what it would become.

  But he couldn’t risk attempting to open the hidden cache by physical means. Preparing his mind as best he could, he began to pace around the warded place, turning his body in an awkward dance as he traced out Rune-staves with his feet. He let his thoughts grow dim, his senses become dulled to the world around him.

  When his soul began to detach from his body, he sank down where he was and felt his muscles relax, wings and legs and neck going limp as if he had flung himself against some immovable barrier.

  He knew immediately what that barrier was: the scattered ashes of his stolen tail feathers, just under the floor. A great sickness rolled over him, and for a moment his soul was in real danger. He fought with every counter-spell he knew, and at last the effects of the ashes began to wane.

  His soul circled the cache as his body had done before, under his control once more, and slipped through the floor as if the concrete were a pool of still water. He found the objects within a case of ash wood, every portion of its surface inscribed with interlocking Rune-staves and dusted over with the ash. His control weakened again, and he almost lost his grip on the narrow cord that held his soul to his raven shape. After a long moment, during which he hung between life and death, he discovered the smallest break in the design and entered the case.

  Mjollnir and Megingjord were laid out with care on the velvet lining, each one tied with spell-bound cord. Orn had no need to break the bindings. His soul touched Mjollnir, mingling with the wood and metal, drawing upon the spirit that dwelled within it. He moved quickly to Megingjord, repeating the act, and swiftly withdrew, rejoining his body with a painful jolt.

  He felt the new power immediately, though it did not come without more pain. He staggered, unable to raise his wings, as the two new fragments rattled around inside him like sharp-edged puzzle pieces seeking their proper positions in the design.

  A figure appeared before him, blurred by his cloudy vision. The boy stared down at him, ginger hair unkempt, dark eyes wide with surprise and fear.

  “You,” he said.

  Orn tested his wings again. Soon, he would no longer need them. “Do you know me?” he asked the child in a voice nearly as clear and deep as the All-father’s.

  “You broke Papa.”

  “I have defeated Loki many times, child, but I have not yet broken him. That will come soon enough.”

  “You want to take everything,” the boy whispered.

  “I take what is mine.” Orn cocked his head toward the closed door. “Come with me now,” he said, “and I will permit your father to live.”

  “No.” All at once the boy’s eyes were full of purpose and adult understanding. “You know what he is. You’re afraid.”

  “Of Loki?” Orn laughed as the door began to open very slowly behind Danny. “He was never anything but a coward and weakling.”

  “You will never get Sleipnir,” the boy said.

  The door burst open, and two Einherjar ran in, Hrothgar in the lead. With a well-coordinated burst of speed, Danny dodged
the Einherji and raised his hands.

  The room filled with darkness. Hrothgar fell and did not get up again. Pale, half-formed shapes resolved out of the dank mist, figures with empty eyes and faces sculpted by sorrow, suffering, and resignation.

  A woman emerged from among them, her body black on one side and white on the other, alternately beautiful and hideous. She smiled at Orn and held out her hands.

  “Will you not join us?” she asked in a voice almost as lovely as Freya’s. “Odin’s son Baldr awaits you. Will you not enter Niflheim and be my honored guest?”

  Orn fluttered away in disgust and horror. It was not possible that Loki had raised his daughter from the Underworld. But the boy …

  “You are nothing but illusion,” he said, seeking the child in the darkness. “Boy, end this game, or I will—”

  Hel and her unwilling tenants vanished, Danny along with them. Orn took wing and circled the room in a flurry of rage while the other Einherji looked on in stupid bewilderment.

  “The boy has fled,” Orn said, his voice briefly descending into a croak again. “Release the mortal servants. I will finish.”

  Staring about him as if he expected Hel to reappear and carry him off to Niflheim, the Einherji bowed and left the room. Orn banked his anger and stared at Hrothgar’s body.

  The manner of his dying was unclear, but he was very clearly gone. Like all Einherjar, he should rise again after death. But when Hel or her minions chose to kill …

  Orn refused to admit to such a disaster. The fragments from Mjollnir and Megingjord had been seamlessly absorbed into his soul. He felt a new strength, long anticipated, and knew his wait would soon come to an end. Once he had laid the spell to convince Loki that those who had killed his men and invaded his home had been sent by Freya, he need have no concern that he would be exposed before he was ready.

  Now he must claim the most important piece of the puzzle. Then only one Treasure would remain, and when his men found it, the Horn would herald his victory.

  * * *

  Mist spun onto the Nimitz Freeway, nearly skinning her knee on the asphalt. Once she reached Milpitas and began hitting regular intersections, she whispered hasty Rune-spells to halt traffic and change signals in her favor, praying all the while that she wasn’t too late.

  The stable was concealed among warehouses along Fremont Boulevard, bordered to the west by the marshy land along Coyote Creek and various sloughs that led to the bay. It was well past nine p.m., and even in the dim light Mist could see the shimmer of magic rising like fog above the building—Alfar and Jotunn, distorted Rune-staves pushing back and forth at each other like two equally matched armies. Over it all hung a ward like an invisible dome, concealing what lay beneath from mortal eyes.

  As Mist pulled into the parking lot and skidded around the corner of the warehouse to the back lot, she saw the real fighting in progress. There were far more Jotunar than Alfar, but no sign of Loki.

  The elves had split into two groups, one guarding the stable and the other aggressively fighting the giants. The parking lot was slick with ice, and several Alfar were down with frigid spears piercing their chests. Others had drawn their magic from the marshland to the west—some calling up the waters, others the sodden earth and its resident animals, still others the rails, marsh sparrows, and yellowthroats. Shrews and mice and even foxes swarmed onto the asphalt, scrabbling for purchase on the bodies of frost giants who had donned mantles of ice, while birds dived at their heads. Mud rolled up and over the man-made surface and lapped at the Jotunar’s heels, temporarily holding them in place.

  Mist roared into the midst of the fight, dismounted, and looked for Freya.

  “Mist!”

  She turned around in time to snatch Kettlingr out of the air. Bryn met her gaze for an instant and spun to catch a looming Jotunn in the belly with a thrust of her own sword.

  “You were slow in coming,” Freya said behind her, drowning the smell of salt water and rotting vegetation in the scent of primroses as she sent a pair of small frost giants reeling away with a shot of “anti-glamour.”

  A weak shot, Mist thought, looking for another opening where her sword would do the most good. She wasn’t sure about the efficacy of her own magic after the energy she’d expended at the garage, but she could tell from a single glance at Freya’s haggard face that the Lady hadn’t completely recovered after all.

  “Why didn’t you tell Konur they were attacking?” she asked.

  “I did not know until we arrived,” Freya said. Her voice was hoarse.

  “Then why did you—” Mist parried the sweep of a frost-sword, snapping it in two and hacking into the Jotunn swordsman’s arm. “Why did you come?”

  “We received warning that an attempt might be made.” Freya made a face that Mist assumed was meant to be a smile, luring another Jotunn close before thrusting a needle-fine dagger into his heart.

  “Who warned you?”

  “Your seer. But not well enough.”

  Seer. Ryan?

  She didn’t have time to consider what Freya’s words might mean, or explain her theory about Loki’s trick with Danny. She glanced toward the door of the stable warehouse, where several elves were desperately trying to prevent the entrance of four Jotunar armed with ice-maces, axes, and their enormous strength.

  Mist ran to join them. One of the Alfar looked up just as a Jotunn crushed his chest with an ice-mailed fist.

  Swinging Kettlingr high, Mist brought it down on the Jotunn’s shoulder, crushing bone and driving him to his knees. She finished the job by removing his head, but her moment of victory was not to last.

  A great, pale gray horse burst out of the door, silver hooves lashing, white teeth snapping at any Jotunn within reach. Steam erupted from his flared nostrils, and his eyes were wild. All eight of Sleipnir’s legs were in constant motion as he danced around those who sought to take him, kicking and striking forward and back.

  An instant later a huge dark form leaped out behind Sleipnir, claws scrabbling on the ice and great head swinging with a flash of bared teeth. It moved so fast that Mist couldn’t see more than a long muzzle, black fur, and flattened ears. With a swipe of a huge paw, it sent another of the Alfar flying, leaving only two to stand against the Jotunar surrounding Sleipnir.

  Mist was unable to move. The beast. Somehow it had escaped Konur, made its way here …

  “Daughter!”

  She snapped out of her horror to find Freya facing two frost giants, struggling and obviously failing to use her glamour on them. Sleipnir and the beast were circling each other, the horse shrilling anger and threat, the beast grinning and growling.

  One of the frost giants, of the smaller and swifter breed, darted in with a rope to bind the horse as he plunged and bucked and squealed at his black-furred enemy. The remaining Alfar barely held off the other Jotunar. When Sleipnir reared on his four hind legs and tried to fling himself skyward, the beast leaped after him, closed its jaws around the horse’s fetlocks, and pulled him down again.

  Mist ran toward the Jotunar confronting Freya, yelling out a battle cry as Rune-staves danced on the edge of her sword. She felt herself begin to touch the ancient magic, knowing only that she had to protect her mother and get back to Sleipnir in time to save him from the beast.

  The world telescoped around her as she felt the wind begin to howl, the earth to shake under her boots, the lightning gather to strike the ground where the Jotunar stood. She began to lose herself to the magic, surrendering to that primal self she had never been able to name.

  And Freya was there, strengthening her and drawing on her magic at the same time.

  The asphalt exploded under the Jotunar’s feet, and when it was over only shards of bone and ice remained. Freya was unharmed, though no glimmer of a protective ward lay between her and the crater where the frost giants had stood.

  “Sleipnir!” she called.

  Mist spun around. The Jotunn with the rope had managed to throw a loop over Sleipnir’s neck,
and despite the horse’s natural strength, the binding held. Dizziness and blinding pain gripped Mist’s skull like a rock-Jotunn’s hand. She staggered, half-aware of her enemies falling, Sleipnir wrenching free of the frost giant’s hold. And the beast about to leap on the horse’s broad back.

  Strike! A voice in her head commanded. Let it go!

  She almost did. She almost lost herself to the magic, but something drew her back from the brink. Her vision cleared, and she saw Sleipnir leaping skyward, all eight legs moving in concert as if he were galloping over a battlefield with Odin astride his back.

  But it wasn’t Odin riding him, but the beast, clinging with sharp nails and powerful legs, teeth entangled in the horse’s thick mane. For the first time, Mist could see it clearly.

  Not Dainn. Mist let out her breath in a rush and reached for the ancient power, but it had fled beyond her reach. The remaining Jotunar were fleeing, their work obviously done, leaving the dead in their wake.

  Dead that included five of the nine Alfar who had been set to watch Sleipnir, and a dozen Jotunar.

  Mist was exhausted from both the physical fighting and the magic, but she was able to call up the Rune-spell of the forge and turn the frost giants’ bodies to ash.

  With the Alfar it was more difficult. Mist watched the surviving elves gather around their own fallen in a circle of privacy and respect. She knew better than to interfere. In Alfheim, they would return one who had died to their own pristine earth, enhancing and accelerating the natural process of decomposition. But here, amid the workings and technology of mortals, they must either give the Alfar to the polluted marsh or carry them back to the elves’ camp to dispose of the bodies there.

  Worst of all, it seemed that they had died in vain. Sleipnir was gone. Odin’s mount might throw off his “captor” at any time … if the rider hadn’t been a magical creature itself.