Black Ice Page 4

  Loki rose and snatched it from her hand.

  “Here,” Danny had said. A word meant to present a gift, or something else entirely?

  After a final examination of Danny’s expressionless face, Loki left the room, warded the doors with great care, and took the elevator to his office. Pushing all other thoughts aside, he picked up the phone.

  His orders were simple and clear. It didn’t matter if they made no sense to his Jotunar, or if he were jumping at shadows. He wouldn’t make the kind of mistakes his enemies clearly expected of him.

  He had no idea exactly what Danny’s drawing meant. Perhaps it was merely another image stolen from Loki’s thoughts.

  But if Danny had just given him a warning, he planned to be very well prepared.

  The Jotunar were everywhere.

  Mist sat on the back of Bryn’s bike and jerked her head toward the deserted gourmet ice cream shop at the corner of Twentieth and Third. “See that guy in the khakis and light jacket?” she asked. “Frost giant. Only a Jotunn would be standing outside eating an ice cream cone in this kind of weather.”

  Her Sister chuckled, though there was little humor in the sound. “I guess they haven’t got their disguises down just yet.”

  “They’ve certainly had time to work on it, though it takes some magical energy to maintain the more human form and not revert to their usual size. Not that there aren’t a few seven-feet-tall humans here and there.” Her gaze swept the street. “There’s always a sort of … smell about them, and sometimes an aura of cold that feels different from the surrounding air. Can you pick out the others?”

  Narrowing her eyes, Bryn frowned in concentration. “That guy in the business suit who’s let three streetcars go by without boarding any of them.”

  “Good catch,” Mist said. “Sometimes they seem to forget we’re watching them, too. Loki’s arrogance seems to rub off on them.”

  “Wouldn’t that be dangerous? I’m sure he’s not a very forgiving boss if they screw up.”

  “He’s not. But—”

  “There!” Bryn said, pointing north. “Oh, shit.” She snapped her hand back. “I think he made me.”

  A man in a construction worker’s hardhat and jeans was striding away from them, head down against the wind. He didn’t look back.

  “It’s okay,” Mist said. “Loki’s spies may make themselves scarce for a while, but they’ll be back soon enough.”

  Bryn flexed her gloved hand. “What I wouldn’t give for a good fight right now.”

  Mist couldn’t have agreed more. She wished she could go straight back to Laufeyson and kill him, wished she could create a spell powerful enough to gather and transport all her Sisters to San Francisco before the day was done.

  “I know,” she said wearily. “But since we wouldn’t be stupid enough to fight Loki and his frost giants where mortals can watch, neither will he. No one wants the authorities to get involved in a rash of swordfights, let alone magical contests.”

  “Too bad we can’t just grab a couple of Jotunar and ask them what Loki’s doing right now.”

  “Too risky,” Mist said. She sighed and scooted off the bike. “Bryn, we have to talk about what happened with Rick and Dainn.”

  “Now?” Bryn asked, staring after the fleeing Jotunn.

  “When we get back to the loft,” Mist said. “There are a few more things I have to explain to you. You can—”

  Her next words were lost to a gasp as a large man crashed into her, bearing her to the ground. She pushed at him, struggling to escape the huge hands attempting to crush her trachea.

  Bryn was on top of the Jotunn a moment later, but the giant fought like a rabid animal, slamming Mist’s head against the asphalt and throwing Bryn from his back as if she were the little brown wren she so deceptively resembled.

  Without thinking, Mist raised a ward around them, temporarily hiding her, the Jotunn, and Bryn from mortal sight. It was a mistake to waste her magical energy; she knew in less than ten seconds that she wasn’t going to be able to rely on her physical battle skills to defeat the Jotunn. The tattoo around her wrist clamped down like a fiery manacle. The wolves and ravens, endlessly chasing each other over her skin, seemed to twist together into one writhing creature.

  Something was wrong. Wrong that the frost giant had attacked her in the first place, wrong that he was openly trying to kill her where mortals could witness it. And he was trying. In a minute or two, he might even succeed.

  Struggling to keep the Jotunn from choking the life of her, she began to gather her magic.

  “Have you nothing more to say for yourself, Faith-breaker?”

  Odin stared down at Dainn from his great throne, the two wolves Geri and Freki at his feet, his ravens Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory, perched on the back of the chair, ever watching. The judges sat to either side in a semicircle of smaller thrones, the twelve who had decided Dainn’s fate: four of the Aesir and Vanir, four of the Alfar, and four of those Jotunar allied with the gods.

  Dainn was alone. Only two of the Aesir revealed any regret or doubts about his sentence: Bragi, bard of the gods, and Freya, whose beautiful eyes were filled with sorrow. Not one of Dainn’s people, judges or observers, had spoken for him.

  “I have told you all I can,” Dainn said softly.

  Settling back, Odin gestured with his right hand. “Thor,” he said.

  His son, tall and broad-shouldered, his flame-colored beard framing his broad face like a copper gorget, strode forward from his place just behind Odin’s throne. In his magic glove he clutched Mjollnir, the great Hammer, and around his waist Megingjord, the Belt of Power, made him appear larger and more imposing than he already was.

  The room was silent as the Giant-slayer stopped before Dainn, his small eyes bright with contempt. With one swing of Mjollnir he could crush every bone in Dainn’s body, and Dainn wondered if that was to be the manner of his death. It would be a relatively merciful one.

  He glanced one last time at Eyfrith, High Lord of the Alfar. The elf’s expression was blank, as if he stood in Alfheim among the tall trees and had nothing to do with the judgment at all. The other three elves gazed in any direction that did not include their former brother.

  “You will take him to Mount Ornoradet and destroy him there,” Odin said, “and then return to the battle lines.”

  Because, Dainn thought, it was the gods’ and Alfar’s destiny to fight, even though that fight would ultimately be hopeless. The Last Battle, the end of all things until the rising of the new world, was about to begin.

  Because Dainn had failed.

  Thor grabbed Dainn’s arm, nearly snapping bone. Dainn didn’t react. He had been judged a traitor, but he would not give any of the gods and giants and elves in this hall the satisfaction of witnessing his pain.

  “Stop.”

  Freya rose from her chair, flowing out of it like honey from a jar, all soft limbs and diaphanous robes. She turned to Odin, bowing her head.

  “All-father,” she said, “I ask mercy.”

  Peering down at her from his one good eye, Odin rested his elbow on his knee. “Mercy?” he asked. “What have you done, Lady?”

  Her smile lit the hall more brightly than any thousand torches could ever do. “Not I,” she said. “I ask mercy for this elf, who attempted to warn us of Loki’s plot even when he knew it would mean his death.”

  “After he betrayed us,” Thor snarled.

  “Because he had hoped to prevent Ragnarok,” she said.

  They all fell silent again, thinking, Dainn knew, of the coming of Surtr and the Homeworlds engulfed in flame, as prophecy foretold.

  “We have heard the evidence,” Eyfrith said.

  “Yes,” Freya said. “And this elf came to give his own account, when he might have tried to escape.”

  “He would not have succeeded,” Thor said, twisting Dainn’s arm with such force that he could barely suppress a grunt of pain.

  “But he can do no harm now.” She looked at D
ainn. “Will you fight and regain your honor?”

  “Fight against Loki?” Thor said with a short laugh. “Even if the All-father would permit it, the traitor would be useless to us. Laufeyson has stolen his manhood, and his magic has deserted him. There is nothing left but a traitor’s soul.”

  “Then let him fight alone,” Freya said. She climbed to Odin’s throne and whispered in his ear. The ravens flapped their wings, half rising from their perches. The wolves growled and bristled.

  Odin was silent long after Freya had retreated to her chair and adjusted her gowns over her round thighs and naked breasts. Thor turned to face his father, a defiant thrust to his jaw, and nearly pulled Dainn’s shoulder out of its socket.

  “Father,” he said. “You cannot allow—”

  “Silence,” Odin said. He looked slowly around the room, at the other Aesir and Vanir, the Alfar and the giants.

  “There is one thing an elf fears more than death,” The All-father said, his gaze resting on Eyfrith, “and that is to lose his reason.”

  “Reason?” Thor repeated in disbelief. He forced Dainn to his knees. “He has none left to take.” He knocked Dainn over and pressed down on Dainn’s back with his boot. “I can make a cripple of him before I—”

  He broke off as Odin rose ponderously to his feet. “He shall live,” the All-father said, “but not as an Alfr.” He stared down at Dainn. “Of all the elves, you were the exemplar. You could never be shaken, Faith-breaker. Your mind was as lucid as the clearest pool, never sullied by any flaw but pride. And still you cling to what is left of it.” He held out his arm, and Huginn flew to perch on his shoulder. “This is my judgment. I trust it will satisfy you, Lady.”

  Closing his eyes, Dainn lay very still. He didn’t know what was to come, but it would be terrible. Terrible enough to make him long for death.

  “I curse you.” Odin’s voice came from somewhere above him. “I curse you to become that which you and all Alfar most fear. And that you shall be until the fire consumes us all.”

  With a hoarse cry, Huginn dived onto Dainn’s back and stabbed the base of his neck with a beak like the blade of an ax. Agonizing pain engulfed Dainn’s body, acid burning its way outward from the wound through the center of his chest, down to his fingertips and toes and up to the crown of his head. Something stirred in his soul, a darkness that had no bottom, no limit. And with it came rage. Blinding, mind-destroying rage.

  Thor stepped back, his expression frozen in astonishment. Dainn scrambled to his feet. He was strong now—stronger than he had been moments before, stronger than any elf. He saw the horror on Eyfrith’s face, on the faces of the other Alfar.

  They saw what he could only feel.

  With a snarl he wheeled and raced for the door. Golden mirrors hung in the outer hall, framed with horses and wolves and serpents entwined and racing endlessly around the glass.

  The face reflected in the glass was almost his own. But such a wild and savage visage had never belonged to an Alfar.

  Nothing like true thought passed through his mind then. He loped out of the hall like Managarmr chasing the moon and raced across the gardens and through the neat woodlands of Asgard, past the Einherjar guarding the borders of the Aesir’s Homeworld and over the bridge to Jotunheim, seeking his betrayer.

  He slipped easily past Loki’s guards and found their commander lying on a couch heaped with furs, speaking with one of his Jotunn generals. The Slanderer sat up as he saw Dainn. A dozen conflicting expressions swept over his sly, handsome face one after the other.

  “Dainn!” he said. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

  The Jotunar guards advanced on Dainn, but Loki waved them away. The giants, bristling with armor crudely hammered out of vast plates of iron, lumbered out of the tent.

  “Now,” Loki said, watching Dainn warily. “You look quite out of sorts, my love. Was Odin less than appreciative of your message?”

  Loki knew where he’d gone, of course. He would have expected Dainn to approach the Aesir once he learned how he had been deceived, how he had been used to advance Loki’s cause.

  But Loki would not have expected Dainn to return. Or to look and behave as he did now.

  An animal. A savage. A killer.

  “Have they sent you with a message?” Loki inquired, feigning indifference. “An offer of truce, perhaps? Surely not of surrender, as sensible as that would be.”

  “No message,” Dainn said, struggling to keep his voice even. Composed. Normal. He started toward the couch. Loki stiffened, and Dainn could feel him gathering defensive magic, ready to strike out at a moment’s notice.

  “They rejected me,” Dainn said. “Odin cursed me as a traitor. They would not heed my warning.”

  “A pity,” Loki said. “But nothing has changed as far as I’m concerned. Don’t think I hold you responsible for turning on me. I could have expected no less of my honorable elf.”

  “Honorable,” Dainn croaked.

  “Whatever you think I may have done, it is for the good of the Homeworlds,” Loki said, throwing all his persuasive charm into the lie. “I will put an end to Ragnarok, just as you wished. There will be no more war when I have control.” He held out his hand. “Join me, Dainn. Remain at my side. I will value you as they do not and never can. You will have a place of honor in the world I create.”

  As if he were still dazed by the Aesir’s repudiation, Dainn crossed the remaining distance to the couch and stumbled against it. Loki laid his hand on Dainn’s cheek.

  “I am still what you loved,” he said softly. “Only this body has changed.” He rolled onto his back and pulled Dainn down with him. Dainn shuddered, still holding his rage in check. A moment longer. And another, as many as it took to feel Loki relax and sigh and tangle his fingers in Dainn’s hair.

  Faster than Thor’s lightning, Dainn struck. His fingers closed around Loki’s neck. Instantly Loki was fighting back, searing Dainn’s hands with ice and then fire, blackening Dainn’s flesh.

  Dainn never lost his grip. He closed his eyes and found the creature inside him, unleashed the darkness, sent it hurtling into Loki’s mind.

  “No!” Loki’s voice cried, soundless, into Dainn’s own mind. “You can’t do this!”

  “Can I not?” Dainn asked, tightening his grip. The beast inside him reveled in Loki’s terror, his pain, the way Laufeyson’s will began to crumble, his soul to shatter. “You stripped me of everything I had. I gave you what you wanted, and you rendered me harmless. I am helpless no longer.”

  Loki’s mouth sagged open as the beast’s attack began to have its effect, clawing through Loki’s brain, shredding his thoughts. The black maw opened wide, like that of Fenrir about to swallow the All-father. Jaws closed, teeth pierced, and sentience pumped from the wounds like blood from an artery.

  “Dainn,” Loki’s voice came again, weak, dying. “If you kill me…”

  An image sprang into Dainn’s mind, one the beast could not understand. But it made Dainn stop, loosening his hands, and Loki surged up beneath him, his breath sawing in his lungs as he tried a final, desperate counterattack.

  It wasn’t enough to stop the beast. But it forced Dainn to see beyond the red haze of the thing’s Helish vision.

  See what he could not bear to accept. And as Loki struck, gathering every thread of cold in the air to form a rope capable of strangling even the creature Dainn had become, the world exploded. Dainn was hurled to the floor by some force that seemed to come from inside and outside himself at the same time, a force that jolted the earth beneath him and wailed with a thousand despairing voices. It ripped Dainn in two, gutting him from heart to groin, and he screamed.

  Bare footsteps raced toward him, and a thin hand touched Dainn’s arm, searing down to the bone.

  “Dainn!” it said. “Are you okay?”

  Lunging up, Dainn struck at the blurred shape above him. The hand caught his wrist in a desperate attempt to stop his attack. Dainn knew he could have broken the hold and reduced the fig
ure to shreds of flesh and muscle and bone, but he stopped. Breathed. Remembered.

  Loki’s pavilion had vanished. He was in Midgard, in Mist’s loft, lying on his bed. And it was Freya, real or illusion, who had called him traitor only a few hours ago.

  “You’re okay now,” Ryan said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It was just a nightmare.”

  “What did you see?” Dainn asked hoarsely.

  “Nothing. I mean, no visions or anything. I just heard more yelling.” He touched Dainn’s sweat-soaked hair almost tenderly. “Is there something you want me to—”

  “Did I hurt you again?”

  Ryan flinched. “No. You were dreaming.”

  Dainn pushed Ryan’s hand aside, swung his legs over the side of the bed and fought off a wave of dizziness.

  “Where is Mist?” he asked.

  “She went to show Bryn the Jotunar spies,” Ryan said. “I couldn’t slee—” Suddenly his gaze turned inward, and his face went white. “Mist … something’s happening. She needs—”

  Dainn was already moving. “Go upstairs and stay with Gabi,” he said, heading for the hall.

  “Dainn!” Ryan called after him.

  Ignoring his state of near-undress, Dainn ran barefoot to the kitchen door.

  4

  The fire gathered in Mist’s chest—fire, ice, stone, wind, all the elements that made up the ancient magic she had used so recently against Loki.

  She drove it back and tried to concentrate on the Rune-magic she knew she had some hope of controlling. She slammed the Jotunn’s snarling face with brands forged of Rune-steel, burning into his flesh. He hardly reacted, but she had the smallest chance to roll out from under him. She tried to get to her feet, fell to one knee, and heard Bryn shout a warning as the Jotunn attacked again, this time with a blast of bitter cold that Mist only evaded with a hastily conjured shield made of heavy billets that held together just long enough to turn the blast aside.

  Her forge-magic wasn’t working.