Runemarks (41 page)

1

The shadow that reared over the Ninth World—the blackbird shadow with feathers of fire—was beyond anything seen since Ragnarók.

It was Surt, the Destroyer, in full Aspect, and whatever fell beneath the shadow of his wing vanished as if it had never been, leaving only Chaos in its place, a Chaos full of stars that grew and swelled as the Worlds receded.

Little was left of the Black Fortress as, piece by piece, it reverted to its raw material of glamours, ephemera, and dream. Fragments still floated in the void—here a piece of city wall, there a rock, a ditch, a bend in a river—blown like snowflakes on the dark wind.

It was on one of these fragments that the Æsir had settled to make their final stand, an outcrop of some rocky something overlooking the Underworld, with Thor, in Aspect, mindbolts in hand, and T
ýr with his gauntlet raised to strike; Frigg watching the scene unfolding in Hel; Loki crouching in the shelter of the rock; and Sif, who was no warrior, holding a running commentary on when, exactly how, and how soon they were all about to die.

“It’s all
your
fault,” she said, pointing at Loki, who, ignoring her, was picking off passing demons with a series of small, quick cantrips that sliced through the air like shrapnel.

“Your fault,” repeated Sif, “and now you’re dead, and everything’s going to Pan-daemonium—and what in the Worlds are you grinning at
now
…?”

But Loki wasn’t listening. Instead he allowed his mind to run—he found that shooting at demons sharpened his concentration—turning over the events of past days until he understood, albeit too late, how cleverly he had been manipulated.

Frigg’s words had brought it home to him: how it had used him from the start, how he had been sent to his death on a fool’s errand while the Whisperer made its bargain with Hel, how it had tricked her into serving its purpose, how Hel’s betrayal had opened the rift in Chaos, and how the Whisperer stood now, at the head of an army, poised, not to do battle, as Odin supposed, but to unleash that Chaos into the Worlds and watch as they fell, one by one…

He realized he’d underestimated the Whisperer’s ambition. He’d thought that it was simply out for revenge, that once its debt was settled with Odin, then perhaps it would be satisfied. Now he knew better. It wanted its turn; it wanted the power of Order and Chaos, to be the One and Only God…

He pegged
Kaen
at a cloud of ephemera and saw it disperse like a swarm of bees. Desperation had restored his sense of humor, and in the minutes he had left, Whisperer or not, he was determined to go out in flames. Fire runes shot from his fingertips; his eyes gleamed and his face, though bearing the marks of exhaustion, was alight with pleasure. He supposed it was the Chaos in his blood, but to his own surprise Loki found he was having more fun than he had in five hundred years.

Behind him Thor and T
ýr stood back to back, each one covering the other as they struck mindbolts at the blackbird shadow. It kept coming. Behind it came silence, the spinning space between the stars, the unimaginable emptiness of World Beyond.

Inch by inch, it glided closer. Clouds of ephemera fizzled and died in its wake. Demons—some as huge as oliphants—were sucked like seeds into its maw, and still it came, unstoppable, oblivious. It was almost upon them now; Netherworld had fallen, and only the shores of the river remained. On came Surt; the shadow clipped the edge of the rock upon which the Æsir had made their stand…

Then, suddenly, even as the rock began to disintegrate beneath them—

Everything stopped. A silence fell. Netherworld froze at the moment of its unmaking, and Odin and the Nameless began to move closer, barely at first, circling each other almost imperceptibly, like dancers in some long, slow ceremony.

Maddy, whose heart had leaped at the sight of her old friend, took a step forward, but Balder put a hand on her arm.

“Leave him,” he said in a quiet voice. “Interfere, and you risk both your lives.”

She knew he was right—this was Odin’s battle, not hers—but she could not help but feel a little hurt that her old friend had not even acknowledged her. Was he angry? Didn’t he care? Or had she simply served her purpose, to be put aside like so many before?

The two warriors were closing now, Odin looking tired and drab next to the dazzling form of the Nameless. The staff in its hands crackled with runes; Odin’s mindsword gleamed kingfisher blue.

Behind them, ten thousand voices of the Order began to recite from the Book of Invocations.

I name you Odin, son of Bór…

“You’ve lost,” said the Nameless. “Your time is done. Out with the old gods. In with the new.”

Odin smiled. “The new?” he said. “There’s nothing new about this, old friend. This is the way the Worlds turn. Even betrayal serves one side or another. And even Chaos has its rules.”

“Not this time,” said the Nameless. “This time
I
will set the rules.”

“The rules are already set. You serve them, whether you like it or not.”

The Whisperer hissed. “I’ll serve no one. Not Order. Not Chaos. And if everything else has to fall, then so be it. I’ll rule alone. Nothing but Me throughout the worlds: all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful Me.”

“I can see Wise Mimir has lost none of his wisdom,” mocked Odin.

In fact, he had rarely felt less like laughing. The strength of the Nameless was even greater than he had anticipated; its glam was like the heart of a star, and although its Aspect was still only half formed, he knew that it was already lethal.

Behind him the army of the Order intoned:

I name you Grim and Gan-glari,

Herian, Hialmberi,

Thekk, and Third, and Thunn, and Unn.

Every name weakened him further; he lashed out at the figure dimly glimpsed through his truesight, but his mindsword struck nothing but air. Behind him, in the ranks, a single man fell. Another stepped forward to take his place.

In its turn, the Nameless struck. The runestaff only brushed Odin’s wrist—but it burned like hot iron and the force of it sent him sprawling, half stunned, across the sand.

I name you Bolverk,

I name you Grimnir,

I name you Blindi,

I name you Svidri…

Odin stood up, rubbing his wrist. “You’ve grown stronger,” he remarked calmly, transferring his mindsword to his uninjured hand.

“I wish I could say the same of you,” said the Nameless.

Odin feinted, parried, struck. The sword in his hand sped like a dart, but a flick from the runestaff was enough to divert it, and the weapon flipped harmlessly away, cleaving the ground where it fell and leaving a crater six feet deep.

I name you Omi, Just-as-High,

I name you Harbard, Hropta-T
ý
r…

Once more the runestaff flashed; Odin dodged, but the Nameless was faster. The tip of the staff just grazed his knee, and One-Eye fell, rolled, casting
ýr
one-handed as he did, so when the runestaff struck again—at the head this time—it glanced away as Odin cast
T
ý
r
at his attacker.

In the ranks of Examiners another man fell, vanishing like a puff of smoke into the desert air. But still the Nameless stood unscathed, stronger than ever and with a smile of triumph across its harsh features.

Odin struck out again with the strength of despair. In the crowd another Examiner fell, but the Nameless struck back with snakelike speed, this time catching him squarely on the shoulder.

I name you Sann and Sanngetal,

Svidur, Svidri, Skilfing—

It was a weak spot, barely healed from the crossbow bolt, and he went down heavily under the blow. He rolled out of range, casting
T
ý
r
left-handed as he pushed himself back onto his feet.

T
ý
r
hit the Nameless squarely between the eyes.

Odin staggered back to see the result.

In the ranks, a knot of Examiners vanished like smoke, and the rest closed in to take their place. Odin did not see it; instead he saw the bolt pass right through the airy form of the Nameless, dispersing its glam harmlessly on the dead air.

The Nameless gave its dry laugh.

The river Dream swelled and rose.

Grimly Odin drew his mindsword again.

2

On the far side of the battlefield the Vanir heard the Nameless speak. Every syllable was relayed to them as ten thousand voices spoke the words:

I name you Odin, son of Bór…

It was beginning, Heimdall thought. Eight against the multitude…

He took a step closer to the line of men. This time no eye followed him. Every man’s gaze was fixed on the same point; their backs were turned; he sensed the depth of their concentration. A dry wind blew, charged with dust, but no man so much as shielded his eyes, and from the widening gyre in the crow-colored clouds came a heightened glare the color of fresh blood.

He’d sworn to Odin that he would not follow. It rankled, but an oath was an oath. Still, he thought, no oath had been sworn concerning the dead men standing so passively, apparently lost in thought, watching the fight by the riverside.

He could sense the power of that canticle and knew that for Odin each word was a blow. If he could break their Communion, he thought—stop that damned chanting, at least for a moment…

He drew a mindbolt from the rune
Hagall
and shot it into the nearest column.

Nothing happened; no man fell.

Frey joined him, mindsword in hand, but the Reaper’s blade was no more effective than Heimdall’s weapon; it passed through the line as if through smoke.

He called Skadi, then Njörd, but neither mindwhip nor trident had any effect, nor had fire runes, ice runes, or runes of victory. The ears of the dead were impervious even to Bragi’s most potent music, the eyes of the dead were blind to Freyja’s most seductive glamours; and still they continued to chant the secret names of the Allfather:

Ialk and Herteit,

Vakr and Varmatýr—

Bileyg and Gaut…

And in the general consternation and the assault of the Word it was as many as twelve verses later that the Vanir realized that the parson and his prentice—not to mention the farmer, the woman, and the potbellied pig—were missing.

3

The battle, he knew, was nearly done. Time after time Odin had struck; he was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but no damage had come to the Whisperer. Instead his blows had cleared a narrow swathe among the silent troops of the Order—but for every man that fell, another stepped in to take his place, and the ghastly Communion went unbroken. One-Eye fought on like a cornered rat—but in his heart he was coming to believe that the creature was invincible.

Now, at last, the General was reaching the end. Every name, every canticle cut deeper than the last. His glam was burned out, his right arm useless, his mindsword worn right down to a nub. He’d struck the Nameless a hundred times, but not once had he dealt it so much as a scratch.

If anything, it had gained strength as they fought, its Aspect taking shape around it so that, even blind, Odin could almost see the face now beneath the hermit’s cowl, the shape of the mouth, the intelligence behind its eyes. And its colors—surely he knew that rust red trail, flaring at the edges toward bright orange…

But it was not yet the Word made
flesh.
This Aspect, he knew, might wield power here, in the Land of the Dead, but to conquer the Worlds, it needed bone and muscle and living flesh…

A life for a life.

His
flesh. His bone.

I name you Wotan, Vili, and Ve…

“Is this what you wanted, Mimir, old friend? I wish you joy of it,” he said. “For myself, I’m beginning to tire of this body.”

The Nameless gave a dry laugh. “Oh no,” it said. “Your body wouldn’t do for Me. Oh no. Not at all. It might have been all right a hundred years ago, but it’s far too damaged to be of any use to Me now. No, this, my friend, is for fun—and because I hate to see an old score go unsettled.”

It raised its staff to strike again and Odin rolled sharply out of the way, ignoring the pain in his wounded shoulder.

“So whom did you have in mind?” he said. “This is the Land of the Dead, in case you hadn’t noticed—”

And then it suddenly came to him.

A life for a life.

Without a body (or even a head), the thing could never leave the Underworld, and if it wished to conquer Worlds…

A life for a life.

Maddy’s
life.

And now he saw the Nameless’s plan, and he struck out in rage and desperation at the thing that danced just out of reach. He fell to one knee—

The Nameless parried his blow with ease.

“So that’s what you wanted all along,” gasped Odin as he struck out again. “To be reborn into living flesh—to rebuild Asgard and to rule it yourself. To become Modi—to steal her glam and make it your own—to fulfill the prophecy you had to make…”

“At last,” said the Nameless. “You always were slow. Well, old friend, you know what they say.
Never trust an oracle.
”

And now they had come to the final verse. Thirty-three verses were written under the name of Odin Allfather in the Book of Invocations; ten thousand voices recited the final couplet.

I name you Warrior, One-Eye, and Wanderer.

Thus are you named, and thus are you…

And now, at last, the General fell, defeated, onto the bone gray sand.