The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (26 page)

"I thought Ragnarok was the end of time,"
I say, recalling what I have heard during my stay in Asgard. "Why
should he need allies for that?"

First light has just broken over Asgard. Our
steps carry us in the direction of Freya's place.

"Ragnarok is the last war," Baldr
corrects me. "It is both end and beginning. The present order
will be shattered, but some few shall survive to build the world
anew." He touches the fingers of one hand to his breast. "I
am to be among those few, and inherit my father's throne. To reign
over what, even Odinn knows not. But he does know that his every
decision may affect the outcome. And so he considers each one
carefully, that the Aesir might be strong when Ragnarok comes."

"But what if..." I probe, carefully,
"what if the visions granted by the Well are..."

"False?" Baldr snorts. "Whatever
it is you are to have done in that past life of yours, you sure are
eager  to see it proved untrue."

"It's not that," I protest. "Not
exactly. Ayessa and I... our visions differed. In my own, my crime
against her was not nearly so... 
heinous
... as it was in
hers."

Baldr's brow furrows. "I am keen to better
know that tale," he says. "You must promise to tell it to
me one day. As for your divergent visions..." He shrugs. "Are
the events of the past not ever colored by the  minds of those
who witness them? You are eager to see the old Thamoth absolved,
while she would make of him a beast."

"Ought not the Well's magic be able to find
a deeper truth, stripped of what the seeker might wish to see?"

Suddenly Baldr stops walking, turns to me and
frowns. "I see the direction of your thoughts, Thamoth.
Honestly, I cannot speak to the matter of whether old Mimir's pond
gives good oracles or bad. Mimir was of the Vanir, and my father slew
him, so perhaps it is his final revenge to make us think  our
doom distant, when in fact it lurks close. Still, I favor our
chances. The Aesir will not be easily vanquished. And should some
proof emerge that my father's visions are false, I have faith that he
will do what is needed."

"Unless—" I begin, but opt not
to finish. 
Unless, by then, it is too late.

As he is wont to do, Baldr again laughs.
"Thamoth, I know you have seen a world destroyed, but..."
He  claps my shoulder. "Cheer up, friend. If any world is
safe, it is the one you now inhabit."

With that, Baldr takes his leave of me.

"Two," I correct him in a voice too
low for him to hear as he walks away. "I have seen 
two 
worlds
destroyed."

Alone I complete the path to Freya's. Before I
can knock, her door opens and behind it stands Gaeira. On her
shoulder is the pack of hers that I bore through Jotunheim. She has
her ax and furs, and I gather immediately that she means to begin her
trek home to Vanaheim. That she has not left already  tells me
that I am to accompany her. Freya is absent, presumably having gone
to Folkvang to assemble her Valkyr. There are therefore no goodbyes
for me to make.

Gaeira and I leave the city by the side gate we
have previously used, freshly opened for the morning, and strike out
across the plain. We go on foot, Gaeira in the lead and I keeping up,
as before. One thing is different: she carries her own pack.
Strangely I miss the burden, but I do not ask for its return. If she
wished me to bear it for her, she would have flung it into my arms
the second Freya's door was opened.

We take an indirect route to Bifrost, and along
the way, I learn the reason: the visitors from Niflheim sit encamped
alongside the main path from city to bridge. Our route bypasses them,
and Gaeira pointedly spares not a glance for the towering form of
Thrym in the distance. A short while later, the guard tower is the
last thing we pass before the ground falls away under our feet and we
appear to tread upon nothing more substantial than rainbows. Mist
enfolds us, and Gaeira and I become inhabitants of our own silent
world. My companion never looks back, but I watch her when I grow
bored with the dance of shimmering lights around us. I stare at the
golden braid bisecting her cloak and at the notched ax which has
claimed the lives of eighty-seven mountain jotnar and five frost
jotnar in exchange for those of the two Vanir most dear to her.

I wonder whether she has any family left living.
Freya did not say. As we walk through formless void, with no sights
on which to focus, I try to focus on Gaeira's problems, which make my
own seem small by comparison. In the silence, I speak to her. I
relate to her what I have learned this night: of the Myriad's
incursion into Niflheim, and of Odinn's dispatch of Thor and Freya to
combat it. I tell her that I do not believe they will succeed, that
in spite of what Odinn believes, we soon shall be called upon to
fight against the obliteration of this world.

Gaeira proves as poor as ever at conversation,
and so I am left trying to direct my thoughts toward Crow or Iris or
Ares or whatever else I can think of that is not Ayessa. But my
current life has been short, the freshly awakened memories of my past
life are as nightmares, and Ayessa is omnipresent in  both. Even
as I try to occupy my mind with other things, my heart continues to
ache in constant reminder that she whom I feel should be my
everything counts me as nothing and nobody. I wish to be happy that
she has found for herself a place among the Aesir... that she has
found love. But I am not. I feel only bitterness and jealousy and,
afterward, shame toward myself for being so petty.

Would that Enyalios still held this body instead
of having surrendered it to a soul so unworthy.

Heimdall welcomes us warmly. It is twilight on
this side of the chasm, so we shall stay the night with him. In her
silent way that offends no one, by simply retiring to her room,
Gaeira refuses the offer to dine with Heimdall and his cadre of
warriors, but I am glad to accept. For a few hours at his table, I
am  able to forget who and what I might be. I drink mead and eat
of the delicate pink flesh of a fish as big as a man. Since my last
passage through his fortress, called Himinbjorg, Freya has scalded my
ears with the magic herbs that let me comprehend Heimdall's speech.
He and his men are glad to have a guest who has never heard their
stories before and so they regale me with tales of battle that may or
may not be exaggerated. It is hard for me to tell truth from fiction
when a few days ago an accurate description of a frost giant would
have struck me as far-fetched. But I care as little as they do what
is true and what is not in their stories; I simply enjoy the
distraction.

Because the delegation from Niflheim passed
through here on its way to Asgard, Heimdall and his men are aware
already of the Myriad's attack. Like Thor, they see the brewing
conflict as nothing more than a fresh opportunity for glory. I choose
not to dispel that notion. I shall not be one to rob others of their
high spirits, particularly when I am sharing in them.

During the banquet, I ask Heimdall to tell me of
Hel and Hodr. The first thing I learn from him of Hel is that I have
met her father, even if he wore a false face at the time: she is the
daughter of Loki, Odinn's shape-shifting blood brother. Loki sired
Hel, through guile, upon a giantess, Heimdall tells me, a coupling
which confuses me until I decide to assume that Loki can drastically
alter not only his appearance but also his size. When he saw that his
offspring was puny, the giantess's enraged mate threw the infant Hel
into a fire. But the giantess saved Hel and sneaked the half-dead
infant across the  border into Vanaheim by night, leaving her
there. She was found and cared for by Vanir who brought her to Freya,
who was able to restore Hel's health, but not her appearance. Loki
took responsibility for  raising her, and loved her in his harsh
way, but she has ever resented her father for having cursed her with
the burden of life.

Even before she came of age, Hel began
endeavoring to kill Loki by increasingly devious and magical means.
Her efforts always failed, only earning her Loki's pride, which
further infuriated her. By the time Hel came of age, her feuding with
Loki had nearly embroiled Asgard in more than one war, and Odinn
opted to keep the peace by casting her into exile. When next the
Aesir heard of her, years later, she was ruler of her own hall in
Niflheim, the wasteland inhabited by her kin the frost giants.

"And Hel's legions?" I ask of
Heimdall. "Are those Aesir who went with her into exile?"

"No," Heimdall answers darkly. "Her
golden guard are the slain, whose spirits she has learned to summon
back from the slumber of the otherworld. It is an army of the dead,
bound to her will by dark magic."

My borrowed blood runs as cold as must be the
air of Hel's own hall. Heimdall probably takes my momentary pallor
for nothing more than the typical unease of anyone hearing such a
thing, though it is more than that. I myself am a dead soul reborn.
How easily might I have awakened in icy Niflheim a thrall.

"How did Hodr come to dwell with her?"
I inquire.

"He was the youngest son of Odinn, admired
by all. The All-Father dispatched him one day as emissary bearing
some threat or other in response to one of Hel's many attempts to
meddle in Asgard's affairs. When Hodr was too long away, Baldr was
sent after him. He found Hodr not only alive  and well, but in
good spirits and acting as Hel's companion and consort. He had fallen
in love with her, or so he claimed. Baldr immediately suspected
trickery and convinced Hodr to return with him to Asgard. Hodr did so
reluctantly, for the purpose of explaining himself. Furious, the
All-Father commanded Freya and every sorcerer and witch among our
people to try to cure him of Hel's enchantment. Day after day they
tried, but Hodr's devotion to Hel never wavered, nor did his
determination to return to her side.

"Finally Hodr was sent before his mother,
Frigga. No man knows what words were shared between the two in
private, and none ever will, but Hodr emerged with his mother's
blessing on his love for Hel, and that was not a thing even the
All-Father could ignore. Set free, Hodr turned his back on Asgard and
flew straight back to Niflheim and the arms of Hel. He is still ever
welcome among the Aesir, and he returns from time to time to visit
his mother. Surely he is with her now."

The hour grows late. The number of Aesir in
Heimdall's hall dwindles as men set down their cups and retire.
Taking my own leave, I climb the stairs to the chamber adjacent to
Gaeira's in which I am to pass the night. Before opening my own door,
I knock on hers, and shortly she appears, fully dressed except for
armor and showing no sign of having been asleep. Why should she? I am
not tired, either, our day having been truncated by the crossing of
Bifrost.

"I should like to remain here to await
Thor's and Freya's passing," I tell her. "The Aesir have
been good to me. I find I cannot stand by and watch them commit a
grave mistake. It is foolishness for them to challenge the Myriad
with so few. Thor will never listen to me, but Freya might. Perhaps,
together, she and I might convince the All-Father—"

Suddenly my cheek is pressed against the cold
stone wall of the hallway, held there by Gaeira's palm. Her other
hand pins my right wrist behind my back. My good eye faces her,
allowing me to glimpse the look of iron on her face.

Yet again, without need for words, she has made
her meaning clear.

"Or..." I quickly concede, "perhaps
we should just continue on as planned."

Gaeira releases me. I am hardly pleased to give
in, but at the same time I know my thinking is wishful at best. My
efforts would be fruitless. Where the self-assured, battle-loving
Aesir are concerned, my voice may as well be the howling wind.

I go to my room, and Gaeira to hers. I rest, but
do not sleep. I do not get to witness Thor pass through with his army
of Einherjar or Freya with her Valkyriar as they journey to a battle
I feel certain they must lose. By the time day breaks over Heimdall's
fortress, Gaeira and I have already left.

Our route is different that the one by which we
came to Bifrost days ago when Gaeira led me to Asgard. We never
approach the great wall which I have since learned separates
Jotunheim from Vanaheim. The air never grows chill or the ground
frosty. Instead, the rugged hills give way to a green and pleasant
country that I have not yet laid eyes upon. It rather resembles the
land I glimpsed the Myriad invading in my vision from Mimir's Well.
But then, parts of Asgard also looked thus, and for all I  know,
so do several of the other realms that I have yet to visit.

This is Vanaheim, the realm of Gaeira's and
Freya's conquered people, the Vanir. In the first village we come
upon, the folk come out of their simple cottages to greet Gaeira. She
returns none of their friendly greetings, but as with everyone else I
have encountered, they are neither surprised nor offended by her
lapse in courtesy. They crowd around her with great exuberance,
particularly the children, clamoring to learn how many giants she has
killed. Gaeira cannot answer them, but she carries something which
can....

"Show us your ax!" a boy cries.

In no hurry, so that the action might not even
be a direct response to the request, Gaeira halts, removes her
long-handled ax from its sling on her back, stands it head down in
front of her and proceeds to pay no heed to the many villagers who
scramble closer to count the notches.

"Twelve hill!" the first youth to
finish cries out. "And a frosty!"

A cheer goes up, and the villagers offer
congratulations, which go ignored.

"Only three hill jotnar left," I hear
someone say, "and four more Frosties!"