The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (32 page)

I continue my search of the Valkyriar, finish,
and repeat it without success in locating Freya.

There are two more figures whom I recognize: Hel
and Hodr, clinging to one another in the back of the  band's
only chariot. Hodr does not drive it; another does, for both of
Hodr's eyes are covered by a blood-stained bandage. Baldr races to
the chariot's side, grabs his brother and embraces him. Words pass
between the two that I cannot hear, and then with Baldr's aid,
blinded Hodr steps down from the  chariot.

Two fighters unknown to me, an Einheri and
Valkyr, approach Baldr and briefly kneel before him. Gathering that
they are those to whom leadership of their respective forces has
fallen in the absence of Thor and Freya, I move closer to ensure I am
privy to any report they give. In so doing, I learn what transpired.

The Asgardian force was barely in Niflheim an
hour before the swarm appeared, a great green cloud on the horizon.
Hel conjured a persistent wind at the Asgardian's backs which
succeeded in thinning the mist, improving the fighters' ability to
see their hideous, airborne foe. Following Ayessa's and my advice,
they held in close formation, aided by tethers made by Freya, not of
mere rope like ours were in Hades, but of an enchanted light.

At first the Asgardians, their frost giant
allies, and the thralls of Hel fared well in stemming the deadly
tide. But, as ever, the Myriad were too many. The defenders began to
break and withdraw. In an effort to rally them, Thor broke formation
and drove straight into the thickest part of the swarm, where he was
overwhelmed before any but his brother Hodr could decide to follow.
Hodr fell under a barrage of  arrow-like quills expelled from
the bloated flesh of one of the creatures and was only saved by means
of Hel's magic, which carried him back to safety. Of the many
missiles which struck him, one pierced each eye, depriving him of
sight.

Thus began a fighting retreat in which a great
many more were lost. The withdrawal reached the gates of Niflheim,
through which the force had marched but a few hours earlier. There,
in a guard tower built by and for frost giants, Freya and Hel
combined their powers to create a barrier through which the swarm
could not pass into neighboring Jotunheim. One of the two, Hel or
Freya, must remain there at all times to maintain the enchantment.

That is where Freya is now. I am greatly pleased
to learn that she yet lives-though doubtless not so pleased as all of
the Aesir who have loved her dearly for so long, or as Gaeira, her
fellow Vanir, whose joy finds no outward expression.

The defeated Einherjar and Valkyriar enter
Heimdall's hall for a well-earned rest which they cannot enjoy. For
us, meanwhile, Gaeira and Baldr and I and our six escorts, it is the
time for leaving. We ride on into Jotunheim. Night comes before we
reach Neolympus, and so we make camp near the very spot where I first
came upon Gaeira battling two hill giants. We eat and drink from what
we brought with us, and then we sleep. I want to sleep with Gaeira's
warmth at my side, but must settle for lying on the opposite side of
the fire from her.

Come dawn, it is my turn to guide us. We descend
into the valley and thence to the foot of the mountain on the slopes
of which sits Neolympus. We are halfway up the only approach when we
spot figures ahead.

"Hold!" One of them shouts. "Identify
yourselves!"

I know the voice. It forces a smile my to lips,
which have not known one since Gaeira's farm.

"It is Thamoth!" I cry back. "I
have met the folk of this world and return with their prince as
emissary!"

"Thamoth?" Crow's voice comes back,
hesitantly. Seconds later, he careens down the path toward us, 
stopping just short of our position in a clatter of pebbles. Other
Atlanteans whose faces I know well come up behind him.

"Thamoth?" There is an odd skepticism
in Crow's voice. "Is it 
truly 
you?"

I chuckle. "Who else would I be?"

Then I remember the spy sent into their midst,
the one whom I am oath-bound not to betray to them.

"I know not," Crow replies, with no
trace of humor. "Answer a question to which only the real
Thamoth would know the answer."

What causes him to suspect me so? Has Loki's
deception been uncovered already?

"Ask," I say. As I stare too hard at
Crow's face, into his dark eyes, a strange feeling creeps over me
which I do not think bears any relation to the topic at hand. 
I
knew him...

He thinks a moment and asks, "Who gave me
my name, where, and why?"

I would smile, but that strange other feeling
persists. Distractedly, I answer: "Ayessa, in the cave in Hades,
because you wouldn't stop cawing."

"Hmm," Crow comes back, showing that
he is yet unconvinced.

"Ask another if you must," I say. "But
we haven't all day. The Myriad have come."

"The Myriad?" Crow intones with
horror. "No, it cannot be."

"It is, Crow. The natives of this world
mass to fight it. They would have Neolympus stand... with..." I
trail off because suddenly I know the reason for the strange feeling
that seeing Crow has caused in me.

Slowly, I begin to laugh.

"What?" Crow demands, as though his
suspicions have been renewed. "What is it?"

"I know who you are," I tell him, and
I laugh some more.

"Of course you do."

"No, not that. I mean before. In Atlantis.
As sure as I am Thamoth, I know the name of the soul that animates
your dead flesh. Do you wish to know it? Or would you keep being just
Crow?"

"I... don't know," Crow answers. "How
did you know me? Were we friends?"

My next laugh is sharp. "No," I say.
"No, we were not friends at all. We were bitter foes, and in the
last seconds that our city stood, I slew you."

"Does that mean-"

"No, Crow," I reassure him, knowing
what he fears. "I won't judge you by your acts in a forgotten
life, as I have no wish to be judged by mine. Whether we remember or
forget our last lives, what you said to me in these mountains was
both wise and true: this is a fresh start. In this world, in this
life, we can be whomever and whatever we like. No matter what has
come before, you are my friend, Crow."

He is silent for a moment, staring, measuring.
Finally his face cracks in a smile I find I have greatly missed.
"No," he says. "Not friends, Thamoth. Brothers."

He hurries toward me, throwing open his arms. I
walk forward on the path to meet him, and in the space between our
two parties, Asgardian and Neolympian, I embrace as brother the man,
the uncle, whom in another life I battled to the death for my right
to inherit the throne of a doomed city.

I embrace Ozymondros.

Word spreads quickly. Within minutes of our
entrance through the gates of Neolympus, the city's entire population
is out to lay eyes on us. One of the first I see is Kairos, who
laughs and throws his arms around me.

"I knew I had not seen the last of you,"
he says. "Wait." He backs away to arm's length. "It is
really you?"

"It is," Crow answers for me.

"Then welcome back, friend," Kairos
says.

"It is good to see you, as well," I
tell him truthfully.

I spot Iris, difficult to miss with her
iridescent hair, she who was the first to have shown me, in Hades,
that the Chrysioi are capable of warmth. She does not race up to me,
but the look she gives, and which I return, displays as well as any
embrace her pleasure at seeing me.

Unanimously, the crowd wishes to know the
identities of the strangers I have brought. Crow cuts a path for us,
assuring them, "Your questions will be answered, but Ares must
be first to know!"

As we walk toward the columned building which is
the seat of his rule over Neolympus, I catch sight of  Ares
standing in front of it, waiting. Behind him, at his shoulder,
chilling me, stands Medea, all black curls and blood-red cloak.
Flanking them is a pair of spear-bearing Spartioi. I do not relish
meeting with Ares and putting to him Odinn's offer—in truth, an
ultimatum—and I relish even less the prospect  of putting
it to him with the witch present.

We draw up to the steps on which Ares, Medea and
the sown men stand. Ares smiles the thin smile of his that I have
never liked. His sharp eyes gleam. The rest, unsurprisingly, do not
smile.

"Lord Ares," Crow says, addressing the
Chrysioi ruler as the Chrysioi do—as I never did when I was
leader of the Atlanteans. "Thamoth has returned. I tested him,
and he satisfied me that he is no impostor. The men with him—and
woman—"

Ares raises a palm. "Proper introductions
may be made inside, in privacy. Come." He beckons to us. "Crow,
I thank you. You may attend to other business."

"Lord Ares," Crow protests, "this
concerns Atlanteans as much as Chrysioi. Might I not—

"Thank you, Crow," Ares repeats.
"Please do not test my patience."

Crow tenses, and I see his inner struggle over
whether or not to yield. As his brother and an Atlantean, I would see
him fight back. But in my second unwanted posting as ambassador, I am
also present as representative of Asgard. If there are things that
Ares feels he cannot say in front of Crow, I would have them said.

I am pondering how I might ask Crow to stand
down, even though I haven't that right, when he makes  the
choice himself by turning wordlessly and walking off. Watching him
go, Ares smiles triumphantly, which I find odd. I also take note then
of something else slightly odd: a bulk and glint of gold at the
collar of Ares' tunic tells me that underneath it he wears the Aegis,
the enchanted breastplate formerly worn by his slumbering sister
Athena. While living in Neolympus I never saw him don it, although it
would make some sense to do so now, when meeting armed strangers.

"Come inside, won't you?" Ares says,
gesturing into the columned building which is his smaller but more
ornate equivalent of Odinn's palace in Asgard. I let Baldr ascend the
steps in front of me, and I share a glance with Gaeira as we fall in
behind him. As is her habit, Gaeira's look conveys nothing. As is my
habit, I find her look immensely comforting nonetheless.

Our combined party enters the great hall. As we
walk its length, our steps echoing, Baldr and the Aesir  look
about them, taking in with curiosity, admiration, or antipathy—for
Asgardian tastes are much plainer—the murals which cover every
inch of the interior walls. If they stopped to examine them, they
would see that the paintings show the Myriad's conquest of Olympus,
Ocean, and Hades. I know the artists, those three sad, beautiful
Chrysioi women called Muses whose six sisters did not survive the
destruction.

We reach the space in front of Ares' throne and
stop there while Ares surmounts the few steps and takes his seat in
an overly casual manner. Silent Medea assumes a position by his arm,
the two Spartoi having stayed behind at the entrance.

"Ares," I address him, "these men
of Asgard can comprehend your words, but you will not know theirs 
until a simple rite is performed. We have brought herbs—"

Elbow propped on the arm of his throne, Ares
waves a dismissive hand at me. "What could these insipid
creatures possibly have to say to make that worth my time?"

Immediately I am taken aback by the words and
the manner in which they are spoken. They do not sound like Ares.

"Let me hazard a guess," Ares goes on,
straightening his back to lift his head higher. "They have come
to demand that I, the great, magnificent, virile Ares, lord of all I
survey, submit to grovel before some ancient, decrepit, feeble,
one-eyed—"

Baldr voices it, the speaker's true name, a
heartbeat before I can: "
Loki
."

The face of Ares cracks into a wide grin. My
mind scrambles to come to grips with the clear evidence before me:
Loki, the shapeshifter, blood brother of Odinn, has assumed the
identity of Ares and thereby the leadership of Neolympus.

A great many questions compete for rule of my
tongue. Whilst they battle, Baldr speaks. "Was this part of
Odinn's plan?"

Ares-Loki scoffs. "When Odinn sent me here,
as anywhere, his plan was to let me make my own plans. Either that or
he just never learns, which is equally possible."

I find my voice. "Where is the real Ares?"

"Dead, of course," Loki answers
simply. The declaration strikes me squarely in the chest, winding me.
"Do you know that that fool owned armor which makes one
invincible but for some ridiculous reason did not wear it every hour
of every day?"

I look to Medea, who seems decidedly
unsurprised. "Why do you just stand there?" I demand of
her.

"She has no choice in the matter,"
Loki answers for her. "Show him, dear."

Medea's hand emerges from her red cloak, grips
one of the garment's pleats and raises it to reveal her 
sandaled foot. I am not sure precisely what I am intended to see, but
I do note a fine golden string tied  about her ankle. For all I
know, she has worn it always. She lets her cloak fall.

"So long as she wears the string, she is
bound to his will," Baldr explains.

Loki smiles. "And naturally, her first
command is not to remove it or allow it to be removed."

Since first meeting her, it has been my habit
not to look long, if at all, into Medea's eyes, for their look chills
me. But I look into them now, and although they are as hard and as
dark as ever, I see something new in them: a flame of anger fueled by
humiliation.

"You cannot long hope to fool all of
Neolympus," I say angrily, knowing that with my anger I blur the
lines of my loyalty. "If no one else, then at least Ares' wife
must see through your deception. Or do you  have a string for
her, as well?"