The Lost Sun (19 page)

I slam the butt of my spear into his nose.

The bone crunches and blood stains his lips and shirt. The crowd leaps back, and then in a sudden thrust they swarm forward.

“Soren!” It’s Astrid, calling as she runs with Baldur’s hand in hers. They sprint toward the Spark, which idles at the edge of the field with a girl behind the wheel. People grab at them, and Astrid punches at one. Baldur, the faster runner, pulls her along.

I sense the crowd around me, and I roar. My arms shake with the effort to hold on to myself, to not let go and destroy everything threatening my friend and my god. My yell is like a steam valve, releasing excess energy so I don’t explode, warning others to stay back. The iron star crunches against my ribs, pushing to be free. Never has it been so close!

There are some men and women not trapped in the wild mob, newly arrived or broken free somehow, and they hold their fellows back. But too much magic was raised in Astrid’s seething circle, letting loose all their fears and the anxiety and hope that here, now, here is Baldur the Beautiful—it is not enough.

They want him from us. From me. Their desperation pushes away the terror they should feel when faced with an armed berserker.

My breath is ragged, my mind spiraling away from rational thought, lifting high up into the air.

Astrid screams. I turn, weapons out, and see a man between her and Baldur, tearing them apart. But she grabs the man’s
hair and rips at it. Baldur helps, and they kick back the man and then another. The car doors are open. “Soren!” Astrid screams again. Baldur climbs into the car, dragging at Astrid, but she reaches out for me. I am far away, with half a generation of Lokiskin between us.

I see Vider through the car window, her hands on the wheel. I don’t know how she knew the car was ours, but I’m not surprised. “Go,” I say. She can’t hear me over the crowd, but she sees my mouth and nods.

The tires spin and the Spark jumps forward. The momentum slams shut the door behind Astrid.

Kicking up debris into the faces of the crowd rushing after, the Spark speeds up the hill of crushed grass and away. A handful of people straggle in its wake.

And I am alone with them.

The world holds still for a long moment, and then a wail lifts up to the sun.

It’s followed by mourning cries like the ones Astrid and I heard when Baldur failed to rise. Tears streak down a little girl’s cheeks.

With Baldur and Astrid gone, the bubble of seething energy dissipates.

But I cannot back down.

There’s Jon, the matria of Half-Serpent, touching his family, his soothing voice reaching out.

But inside me the iron star rushes faster and faster.

My vision wavers. I’m dizzy and wind-headed.

Astrid is gone.

Baldur is gone.

I lean on my spear. I’m a great, hulking, empty husk. Inside is only the fury, the empty night sky.

Voices murmur all around, some full of anger, others sorrowing. A laugh rings out, and then a new prayer: “The Laying of Loki,” a ribald song.

I have to get out of here. I can’t stay. I can’t. My hands are sweating; my face is flushed. The fever sticks my shirt to my spine, sweat pooling in the small of my back.

“Berserker.”

My eyes focus on a woman, my mother’s age, with her hand out. She isn’t smiling, but her brow wrinkles with concern. “Are you well, son of Odin?”

A laugh chokes me, and I stumble away from her.

Someone catches my arm, and I lash out, knocking the man off his feet. Though he was only trying to help.

My movements are stilted, my knees shaking. I tighten my fingers around my spear, and raise my sword. There are people backing away, scared now as they should have been then.

Good
.

I turn my back to them, and I look at the distant mountains.

I lift one foot, then the other. Toward the mountains. The iron star wants out. The rage pushes all my heat away, energy dripping down my skin in rivulets.

I am on fire. My bones tremble and my teeth ache. I can’t—I can’t stop it.

It’s coming.

The battle-rage is coming.

To the mountains. I run.

I open my mouth. And roar.

Feet on the earth, pounding.

Pounding.

The iron star breaks my skin.

ELEVEN

I WAKE COLD. And nauseated. My skin feels like wet clay, sliding slowly off my bones.

I’m on my back; the soft earth cushions my shoulders and hips. Father’s sword is a solid line between me and the ground, bruising my spine. Red pine trees tower thin and needle-like around me. The world is dark on the forest floor, but high overhead a circle of sky shines indigo. A single star peers back down at me from the third heaven, the home of wind.

My memory is a black blur. I hold my hands up, though they ache and my muscles are slow to work as a winter fire. Darkness stains my palms, and my breath catches in my throat—but it is only dirt. Not blood.

Thank you, Mother Frigg, that I didn’t hurt anyone
.

The evergreen smell of earth and snow hangs tingling in the air. My breath puffs out in pale wisps. I close my eyes again and ache as I wonder where Astrid is now, and Baldur. I move my lips in another silent prayer that they escaped north and
somehow are continuing the journey.
Let my sacrifice be worth it. Let them succeed even if it be without me
.

I expel a hard sigh, and am left with emptiness. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, all my muscles loose. My thoughts dispersing across the forest floor.

I went berserk.

The frenzy found me, and I am fully Odin’s now. No hope left that I might somehow beat it back, hold the rage steady. No hope that it might dissipate into nothing if I push it away for long enough. No hope that I can ask Odin to take it from me, because I’ve lost Baldur.

I am my father’s son, now and ever. The tattoo on my cheek is a true mark.

Nausea crawls up my throat; tears threaten to spill over. But I swallow them back, hold in the anguish because I am so used to holding everything inside.

At least I got away. At least I didn’t hurt anyone.

This time.

I don’t know what I’m going to do now. Hike as far as I can, perhaps find a road or a town where I can beg change for a phone call. Because I frenzied, they’ll take me in at the Hangadrottin, even without Pirro’s request. Assign me to a berserk band.

And maybe—maybe when she’s delivered Baldur, Astrid will visit me. I wish I could find them now, but I don’t know where I am, or where they are. I can’t see how I have any chance of catching up. They’re on their own, as I am.

I try to convince myself it’s better this way. Astrid is safer without me, now that I’ve lost my control.

Where is my spear? I turn my head and scan the ground for it. Nothing.

But someone leans against a tree several paces away. Just a shadow against a shadow.

I’m up instantly, on my hands and the balls of my feet, crouched to spring. I dig my fingers into the soft ground cover of old pine needles to keep balance as my head fills with clouds. “Who are you?” I demand, but my voice comes out low and yielding. I teeter and all around me the shadows of the forest scatter and dance. I blink. I breathe in the cold air, only wanting to sink down again and fall back to sleep. For a year. My thoughts are giant slugs creeping around inside my skull.

“You’re weak, Bearskin.”

The voice is a woman’s, and familiar.

I squint, trying to make out her features in the deep shadow. Something glitters near her eyes. “Who?”

Her sigh echoes through the trees like a gust of wind tossing needles across the ground. “Sit back; I don’t mean you any harm.” She sashays closer and I recognize her wine-colored lips and green-glitter eyes.

Glory. The hostess from the pub. A daughter of Loki.

I collapse back onto the ground, knees up, arms slack. I don’t have the energy to be surprised or angry or anything. Weariness is a long rope, pulling me into the ground.

“Now, Soren.” Glory the hostess sits in front of me, legs
crossed, and takes my hands in hers. Her skin is soft. I smell bubble gum. But she isn’t chewing anything.

“Glory,” I say.

“Good!” She squeezes my fingers. “But it isn’t my real name, you know.”

I shake my head. I don’t know.

Her eyes narrow, and suddenly the shadows suck closer to her face. She’s dark and dangerous, and her mouth seems to grin as big as the moon. Her teeth are sharp, fanged and yellow. She drops her jaw open and a great pink tongue lolls out.

I shove away, yelping.

A peal of laughter snakes around me, and Glory is Glory again: only a pretty girl in a low-cut blouse, tight black skirt, and spike-heeled boots she could not possibly have walked very far in.

My back presses into the rough trunk of a tree, Father’s sword poking my hip. I automatically take calming breaths, then notice my rage is not churning—it’s been spent. I’m too exhausted.

The realization drops the ground out from under me. I sway, feel my eyes roll back. I dig my fingers into the pine-needle ground and order myself to stay conscious. I bite my lip, use the pain to focus.

“Here, now,” Glory says. Her hands are on my face. “Rest, dumb beast. You’re going to pass out again. You need food and water, and really you need a good lay.”

I grunt, trying to edge away from her. Whatever she is.

“I’ve known many of your kind, Soren, and you’re all the
same. After raging, you need meat or water or alcohol or sex. Sometimes all of the above.”

Batting at her hands, I manage to hoarsely say, “Water.”

Her laugh now is a deeper chuckle. It rolls down my skin. “Very well.”

From nowhere there is a goblet in her hand. She puts the smooth edge to my mouth, and I smell perfect water. Cupping the goblet in both hands, I drink. The liquid is warmer than the air, soothing and peaceful and slightly honey-sweet. It tastes of flowers and springtime.

Long after the goblet should have been empty, I continue to drink.

The water fills me up, washes my nausea away. And I see more sharply, as if I slept for hours.

Glory sits next to me, also leaning against a tree. Her long legs are out and crossed at the ankle, her arms folded under her breasts, pushing them up toward the open neck of her shirt. I can see the edge of her lacy bra. I look away, down into the goblet, where three drops of water remain near the bottom. They glint with starlight.

“Give it here, boy.”

She holds out her hand and I see the figure-eight tattoo on her wrist. The World Snake. I hesitate as an idea blossoms, then give the cup over. I raise my eyes to hers and ask, “Does it bother you that his image is the symbol of Loki’s children?”

Her answer will tell me what I believe I already know.

Glory’s lips curl into a tricky smile. She sets the goblet
down and laces her fingers together. “I have more than enough notoriety without my true face being burned into the skin of every orphan across New Asgard.”

I am both surprised and not surprised. My throat is dry again.

Part of me wants to get onto my knees out of respect, but the rest of me remains too tired. And she’s flirted with me, teased me, offered me drink. I was never any danger to her, and I can’t imagine she’ll tear my face off now. Though there was the time in Alta California she supposedly broke a man’s neck for speaking ill of Tyr the Just. I say, “It is an honor, Fenris Wolf.”

Her tongue slides across the tips of her teeth as she grins. “Just Glory, son of Odin. The only ones I allow to call me by the name my father gave me are those who want to screw me or fight me. And you don’t. Alas.”

“Wh-what are you doing here?”

Glory stands, confident and balanced even as her spike heels sink an inch into the carpet of pine needles. “I’m getting you on your feet. Shoving you back on your way.” She thrusts down her hand.

Eyeing it, I wonder if she’s been following me for days, or if it was only last night she happened upon us.

“Come on, boy.” She wiggles her fingers. Her nails are polished with silver glitter.

I take her hand, but hold fast. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Are you helping?”

She curls her fingers so her nails cut into my hand.

I don’t move. “They say the world will end when Fenris Wolf devours the sun.”

“Yum, yum.” Her nails dig harder.

“I can’t lead you to him.”

“I
know
where he is,” she snaps. Then she leans down, loosening her grip on me but pushing her face close to mine. I smell bubble gum again, and a thicker scent like old buried metal. “I knew as he slept with you in that little motel last night. If I wanted to kill him I could have. If I wanted to eat him … well.” She tilts her head to the side and starlight glints off a thin ring of scar tissue encircling her neck. “I am quite bound, and won’t be swallowing anything larger than a grape.”

“Then why?”

“You are more stubborn than a rock goblin!” Glory lets go of my hand and throws hers up. “I want Baldur the Beautiful safely to the apple orchard, Soren Styrrson. I want him safe and I want my father released from the ever-watch the Alfather has set upon him.”