The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (15 page)

I dare not think it, but cannot help myself.
Perhaps Ayessa is right here, inside those walls.

For the walk to the fortress, for reasons only
known to her, the slayer carries her own pack. As we near  the
structure, a set of modestly sized-double doors is thrown open, and a
long-haired, bearded man dressed in a tailored long-sleeve tunic,
breeches, and a fur-lined cloak emerges, grinning broadly, arms
thrown wide.

He booms a few words. Alas, I comprehend none of
them, even if I sense that a certain one that stands  out
prominently among them is my silent companion's name.

Gaeira
.

The slayer halts a few paces  away from the
man who has come to greet us. In lieu of the embrace that  would
seem to be warranted by the breadth of the smile he directs at the
slayer, he claps his hands. His smile, his greetings, are not met in
kind, not even faintly. One would scarcely guess that the
slayer—Gaeira?—knew this man, though clearly she must.

Lending to that impression, he comes closer to
inspect the notches on her ax-handle. She turns it obligingly for
him, and he looks impressed by what he sees. He is a friend, then, or
something like it. Someone whom the slayer does the favor of not
killing, at any rate. I had never seriously thought that her silence
might be directed at me alone, but now that is proved. Our host seems
to expect and accept her behavior.

His attention turns to me, and his look is an
easy, friendly one. He speaks more words that are incomprehensible,
but question-like in tone. Since the slayer will not introduce me, I
realize I must do so myself.

"Thamoth," I say with palm to chest.
After a pause, I explain in words which I doubt will be understood,
"I do not speak your tongue."

The man smiles anew. He could not be more
different from she who has brought me here, and that greatly pleases
me. Though we lack a common tongue, this man might at least make the
attempt to communicate.

He speaks again, a few words to me, then a few
to (or rather, in the direction of) the slayer, and then he laughs
lightheartedly. He puts hand to chest, as I did. "Heimdall."

"Heimdall," I repeat. "I am
honored to stand in your hall."

He nods cordially, as though he has understood.
Might he have?

I next cast my eyes at the slayer, and Heimdall
catches my thought. His dark eyes are sharp.

"Gaeira," he confirms.

After six days spent in close company, at last I
have a name for the giant-slayer: 
Gaeira
. It has a sharp
sound to it that suits her well.

Heimdall leads us through the fortress gates and
into a courtyard where we draw looks of mild interest from a dozen or
so armed warriors who do not appear particularly alert to any
dangers. As we  walk, he speaks amiably, addressing I know not
which of us, the ignorant or the mute.

Regardless of what language is spoken by these
people, I must make an effort to gain information. When Heimdall
stops talking briefly and pauses to hold open a heavy door in the
base of one of the fortress's two square towers, I remove Ayessa's
tooth-necklace from my pack and hold it up for him.

"I seek a woman named Ayessa," I
pronounce clearly. "This belonged to her."

Heimdall's brows lift, and his sharp eyes go
briefly to the slayer, Gaeira. He sets a hand on my shoulder and
speaks a string of words which he must know are lost on me. But their
tone is... what? Reassuring?

"You've seen her?" I say, less
patiently than perhaps is politic. "Please, if you know
something, you must find a way—"

Smiling, Heimdall raises an open palm: 
Wait
.
There is enough promise in the gesture that elect to heed it, for
now.

The door into the square tower reveals stairs
which we cannot climb quickly enough for my liking. They bring us to
a large chamber in which a hearth fire burns. The floors are spread
with furs, the walls hung with simple but well-spun tapestries. The
room is unoccupied but for a portly, gray-haired woman whom I fail to
notice until Heimdall addresses her and she shifts, having apparently
been asleep until now in a chair near the hearth. Pushing to her
feet, she walks off with a waddling gait through a far door. Heimdall
turns to me and speaks a few more words. Evidently, I make better
conversation than Gaeira; at least some answering sounds issue from
my mouth, even if he fails to understand them.

In his present string of syllables, two words
are prominent. The name Ayessa is one.

"Asgard?" I repeat the other
uncomprehendingly.

He smiles. I have understood something.
"Asgard," he says. "Ayessa." He points away from
me and upward, as if to indicate some point in the distance, outside
this chamber. "Asgard."

"Asgard..." I echo. Then, excitedly,
"Asgard is a place. And... 
Ayessa is there?
"

Nodding, Heimdall beams, and I laugh. I wish to
embrace him, but manage to refrain. Likewise I manage to to crumple
to the stone floor in abject relief.

As the old woman returns with a tray of drink,
my eyes fall on Gaeira, standing there, watching us without interest.
Could she not have communicated to me in six days what Heimdall has
in as many minutes? Surely she must have known the answer.

"Did Ayessa pass through here?" I ask
of Heimdall. "Is she safe?"

Heimdall smiles and nods, and I realize the
mistake I have made. If we are to surmount the barrier of language
which separates us, I must ask but one question at a time.

"Is Ayessa safe?" I ask, deciding this
the more important question.

Again Heimdall nods, and a new thought gives me
pause.

"Do you... understand me?"

A playful gleam lights smiling Heimdall's keen
eye, as once more he nods the affirmative. I glance at Gaeira. "And
does she?"

Another affirmative.

I glare at her profile, anger flaring. All
along, she could have helped me...

I ask of Heimdall next, almost knowing what his
answer will be, "Who brought Ayessa here?"

He answers first with a movement of his eyes,
and then with his tongue: "Gaeira." His smile vanishes. He
understands.

I level a look of rage at her. I know the slayer
showed great indulgence by bringing me here, and I know she is more
dangerous than any number of giants, but how easily she might have
found a way to ease my uncertainty days ago instead of leaving me to
wonder. Staring blankly in another direction, Gaeira does not witness
the acid look I give her, unless it falls in her peripheral vision.

I let it linger, willing her to turn. I want her
to know, but suddenly Heimdall is in front of me, hand on my
shoulder, his body blocking the slayer from my sight. He puts a cup
of amber liquid in my hand and in a low voice speaks words that are
alien to me, all save one, 
Gaeira
. He is excusing her, I
gather, and at the same time warning me against expressing my wrath.

It is likely wise counsel. Even were it not, he
is my host. My anger recedes. I have received joyous news: Ayessa
lives and is safe. Still, I find I cannot look at Gaeira without
feeling a simmering resentment.

"I wish to go to Asgard," I tell
Heimdall. "Will someone take me there?"

His dark eyes sparkle. His hand leaves my
shoulder and once more he answers my question by looking at Gaeira.

I loose a sigh. It is fortunate, then, that she
did not receive my ill-considered glare, or at least I rather hope
now that she did not. It seems I am to stare at her swaying golden
braid from behind for at least a short while longer.

We have come far already this day, and I
understand without being told that our departure from Heimdall's
fortress must wait for morning. For the few hours which follow, I
manage to put worry aside, mostly. Our evening meal, taken at long
tables among bearded warriors, is better tasting and more varied than
any I have had in recent memory. Gaiera joins us for that affair in
the fortress's great hall, sitting unfestively on Heimdall's right
while I occupy the spot to his left. She eats with precise movements,
showing no sign of enjoyment, and then retires to her assigned
quarters, leaving me to a tour of the fortress given by its master.

However limited is our ability to communicate, I
find myself liking Heimdall and enjoying his company. Compared to
Neolympus, his fortress is not at all ornate. All straight lines,
square edges and plain, undecorated stone, it is absent of greenery
and surely was built with a preference for function over form.

What impresses most by far is the sight which
lies just behind the fortress, where the river spills into a yawning
chasm. White mist billows from its depths, and from that mist springs
the rainbow I spied earlier shooting skyward in a gentle curve.

Under the rainbow lies a bridge. Made of ice, or
crystal, its surface is perfectly smooth and broad enough for ten men
to walk abreast. Arrow-straight, it pushes out impossibly, with no
evident support, into the void and across the chasm, where it
vanishes into swirling mist.

Heimdall points at this vista and says,
meaningfully, "
Asgard
."

"Over the bridge?" I ask, and he
confirms it. I stare into the mist, which I see now is not plain
white but  as iridescent as Iris's hair, laden with minute,
darting rainbows. I stare as if I might somehow spot Ayessa on the
other side looking back.

Heimdall seizes back my attention.

"Jotunheim" he says, gesturing in the
direction of his fortress behind us. I manage to grasp that he refers
not to the structure but the land in which it stands, the land from
which Gaeira and I have just come, the land of giants. 
Jotunheim
.

The lesson is not done. Heimdall next sets palm
to breast and repeats his name, this time following it with the
descriptor, "
Aesir
." Gesturing at the fortress, he
says, "Gaeira, 
Vanir
." Lastly, he extends both
hands toward me and says, "Thamoth..." By his quizzical
look, I know it is a question.

I comprehend, and I am glad to answer—even
if I am not sure until it passes my lips what answer I will 
give. Am I a man of Neolympus, or—

"Thamoth," I say of myself.
"
Atlantean
."

Heimdall smiles. I wonder whether he has heard
of my kind. I rather think not.

The yellow sun sets over the peaks, the rainbow
fades, and I retire to my guest quarters for the night, hoping that
tomorrow will see me over the bridge into Asgard. I do not long lie
awake dwelling on the possibilities, for it is my first night in a
long while spent in a proper bed with a roof above my head. The
rushing water outside my window carries me swiftly into restful
slumber.

Come morning, under rainbows that flit like
bright birds through the mist, Gaeira joins me at the threshold of
the crystal bridge for our crossing into Asgard. Like myself, she has
used our stay in Heimdall's fortress to freshen herself. The sheen of
grime is gone from her skin and hair, and her golden braid has been
rewoven. She gives me no greeting, naturally, but I have come to
suspect that her looks are not entirely devoid of expression. It is
not affection with which she regards me, not even close, but there is
at minimum some... lack of contempt?

Heimdall is present to see us off. He embraces
me warmly, and upon separation gives me a reassuring  look,
accompanied by alien words spoken in tones to match. I cannot know
what he means and must not make assumptions, but it leaves me still
more eager to cross the bridge and learn what awaits me in Asgard.
His farewell to Gaeira consists of a smile, a bow, and words warmly
spoken. Returning none  of these, the slayer sets forth across
the bridge, and I hasten to follow.

Within ten paces, the shimmering mist envelops
us. Looking down over the edge of the smooth, near-transparent
crystal surface of the span, I catch infrequent glimpses of the dark
chasm yawning under us. I hear a sharp sound—familiar, but long
absent from my ears. A raven's call. I look up and see the black bird
knife through the mist, passing us in the same direction in which we
are headed.

Lacking wings, we progress somewhat slower. The
crossing takes us what seems an age, but in truth must be less than
two hours. The first sign that we are nearing the far side are dots
of light which flicker slightly. The mist thins, and I see that they
are torches. Behind them stands a white, cylindrical tower. The sky
is dark, which I find strange given that we left Heimdall's with
first light. But I have seen stranger things and so find little cause
to dwell on this.

The sky glitters with thousands of pinpricks of
light. They are 
stars
, I know from my other life. It is
hard not to stare into them and feel lost and small. But I drag my
sight down to the torchlit ground in front of us, at the tower's
base, where a pair of bearded warriors stands sentry. They eye us
from under burnished helms, offering neither challenge nor greeting.
I follow Gaeira's lead in walking straight past them as if I belong
in this place, which may or may not be Asgard.

Beyond the guard tower, a path winds into low
hills that glow sliver-blue in the copious starlight. Before long, a
brighter, warmer glow appears on the horizon, and it is toward this
that the path leads us. A little further, cresting a hill overlooking
a vast plain, I see that the glow comes from a walled city that is
vastly larger than Neolympus. It sprawls across the center of the
darkened plain, an ancient tangle of streets, sloping roofs and stout
towers encompassed by a thick, meandering wall dotted with
guardhouses on which gleaming braziers burn.

I pause at the top of the hill, taking in the
sight while Gaeira strides on, taking no note of my absence. After a
few seconds, I race down the hill after her to begin crossing the
plain on which the city sits. As with the bridge, this crossing seems
to take an age, perhaps because my mind swirls with the prospect that
my search for Ayessa is soon to end in success.