The Path of Ravens (Asgard vs. Aliens Book 1) (35 page)

Up and up the swarm rises, its shadow swelling
to cover our Host. From the frozen army, a great many  voices
rise at once in a ringing war cry: "ASGARD!" I add my
voice, as countless others add theirs, and the defiant cry sails up
on Medea's wind to combat the eerie, incessant shrieking of the
Myriad swarm.    We defenders stand fast, hands tight on
grips of blades as the screaming, life-devouring wave
crests—descends—and crashes into our ranks. There is no
front line, as there would be if we faced a foe which walked on legs.
All ranks of our Host, from front to rear, must fight equally from
the first instant.

I swing my blade, and it slices mottled flesh.
On the backswing, it cuts again. It does not stop cutting. Writhing
tentacles wrap about my body. I sever them, sometimes before,
sometimes after, their spikes or thorns or ridges pierce my skin. To
either side of me, a sword-length away, Aesir fighters likewise
battle for their lives and for mine, just as I strike in their
defense whenever I am able. The sky stands filled with monsters, and
we swing and swing at whatever is in reach while black ichor coats
us  head to foot. We may not stop slashing for a heartbeat, lest
all be lost.

But our army fights not only with blades. I have
fought unceasingly for long minutes when I feel a rush  of
intense heat on my neck. The swarm's shrieking momentarily subsides,
and the sky brightens a shade. The creatures above  my section
of the Great Host blacken and wither and fall from the sky, victims
to the sorceries of Hel and other enchanters of Asgard unknown to me.

The magic gives us our arms brief respite. Too
brief. It will be scant seconds before more Myriad fill the gap.
Before they come, I look all around at the other contingents of the
Great Host. First I scan the Vanir, but my eye fails to pick out
Gaeira. Beyond, towering above them, frost giants swing their massive
hammers at the swarm, batting Myriad from the air like bloodthirsty
birds, smashing them against the ground. I whip my head the other way
to see how fare the Valkyriar, but I can see only the swarm before
time runs out and I must return to the bloody harvest.

I kill and kill, and the flaccid, hideous
corpses pile up before me and all around me until I must climb up on
them to keep from being buried. Likewise do those few Aesir in sight
around me.

Some Aesir fighter screams, a sound that barely
pierces the Myriad's constant high-pitched wail. I spare a glance and
see the fighter rent in two. I know he is hardly the first to suffer
such a fate this day, and he will not be the last. The Myriad does
its best to visit the same fate upon me, and would in an instant if I
dared let my sword rest. But I do not, and after another furious
round of slaughter, the sorcerers of Asgard again cut down a swath of
beasts in front of me, granting me the gift of another short
reprieve. My arms burn and fall immediately to my sides, sword point
resting on a bloated carcass. Underneath me, a tentacle stirs. I find
and sever it.

I hear Baldr's voice from behind and thus know
he still stands. "Stand fast, my Aesir!" he exhorts.
"Victory is in sight!"

I see no such thing. Perhaps, in truth, neither
does he. I set my good eye down the ranks to my right, where the
Valkyriar are again embroiled, their short rest at an end, as mine
soon will be. I watch as a Valkyr is hoisted bodily from the ground
by a snaking limb coiled round her waist. She rises into the air,
sword dropping from her hand. Another Valkyr races after her,
swinging her sword at the creature as it sails off out of reach.

My blood freezes. The two figures are distant,
but I know them. Perhaps it is my lone eye that tells me, 
perhaps some other sense, but I know. The lifted Valkyr is Sigrid;
the chaser is Ayessa.

In a heartbeat, my choice is made. I know that
our Host's strength, as any army's, depends in great measure on the
ability of its members to know their places and to hold them. My
place is here in Baldr's contingent, where the Aesir to my right and
left and behind depend upon my sword.

Yet I cannot stay. The impulse overcomes all
else. No sooner have I identified Ayessa than I start running toward
her. I cover the distance quickly, running over piles of dead from
both sides, dodging three Myriad along the way rather than taking
precious time to strike at them.

At breakneck pace I race up a mountain of dead
creatures and throw myself into the air on a course for the beast
holding the eerily limp form of Sigrid. I collide with the thing and
grab for whatever purchase my free hand can find. It finds an eyelid,
wet with viscous slime, but I manage to hang on, just. I bring my
blade to bear and drive it home, straight into the eye, then yank it
free and stab again. A tentacle lashes my back, then clings to my
shoulder, pulling. I dig my fingers into the eyelid, resisting the
backward force upon me whilst I keep stabbing, stabbing, doing as
much damage as I can before my inevitable fall.

My fingers slip in slime and black ichor. My
grip fails, the tentacle wins, and I am launched backward into void.
Falling, I witness the beast releasing Sigrid, who tumbles down. The
creature flies a wild spiral, badly damaged, and hits the ground
among a hundred corpses of its kin.

I also land in a bed of dead flesh, but as I
hit, sharp pain shoots through the upper part of my right arm. I look
over to see it has been badly sliced by the sharp, bony horn
protruding from one of the dead creatures under me. Driven by
knowledge that seconds can make the difference between life and
death, I scramble and succeed in righting myself in the sea of gore.
I have just managed to hold onto my sword, but my right arm, where my
own red blood mingles with the black of the enemy's, is no longer
capable of wielding it. I shift the weapon to my left and raise it in
search of new threats.

A few Myriad descend, and I am ready for
them—but I am saved from fighting left-handed when from behind
me three Valkyriar appear and hack the things to pieces.

I let myself feel hope. The swarm must be
thinning, its numbers becoming depleted, for I can see the sky. I
look to where I saw Sigrid fall and there witness two Valkyriar, one
of them Ayessa, hauling Sigrid onto their shoulders and carrying her
away from the thickest part of the swarm.

Safe for the moment, I look up and down the
Great Host and glimpse scenes similar to the one around  me. Our
Host is regrouping and pressing forward. The Myriad no longer come at
us in a vast unbroken wave, but piecemeal, in smaller clouds. As I
watch, one such cloud is reduced to dust by a blast of magical force.
The battle is not yet over, but it is close.

Until it is done, I stand with the Valkyriar and
do my part, left-handed, to kill several more of the putrid things. I
persist until finally a Valkyr says to me, "You are hurt. Get
back. We have this."

The arm in question is numb and pouring blood
from a wide gash above the elbow. She is right. The swarm is all but
defeated. My presence is extraneous, and I gladly heed her advice.
With some difficulty, I lay my blade to rest in its scabbard, freeing
the hand to clutch my wound, and make my way toward the rear of the
Great Host, to the extent that there is a rear in the chaos of this
battle. Wounded are all around me, being tended by a few healers and
their fellows who are less seriously hurt. Most in this area are
Valkyriar. I search for two in particular.

I find them and go toward them. Sigrid lies on
the ground, head resting the lap of kneeling Ayessa, whose head hangs
low over that of her lover. I reach them and fall to my knees. Ayessa
spares me a swift glance which contains no malice, only pain. Her
eyes are damp. Sigrid's are shut, but her face is not a death-mask;
her chest yet heaves under the eagle blazon of her armor.

I sit there in silence with them while all
around us the shrieking of the swarm diminishes with each passing
minute, until finally it is subsumed by the low howl of Medea's wind.

A cheer goes up from the Great Host, a wordless
chorus of victory and celebration. It does not last long. Too many
have been lost. More are sure to follow, for this is but one battle.
Ask the Chrysioi, who also won battles at first, ultimately only to
be driven from their world.

On the other side of the chasm, the Alvar do not
cheer. Perhaps it is not in their nature. The carnage over there
looks no less severe than it does on this side.

"She can't feel her legs," Ayessa says
to me, a helpless whisper. "She can't feel her legs," she
repeats. "What does that mean?"

"She lives," I reassure her. "The
healers will help her. And if they cannot, I will carry her myself to
Freya at the gates of Niflheim."

It is no empty pledge, and Ayessa's look says
she knows it.

"I must go." Clutching my wounded
sword arm, I rise and move toward the Vanir contingent to learn
whether Gaeira has survived.

I have gone but a few unsteady steps before I
see her coming toward me. Hardly a strand of her blond hair is to be
seen through the film of black ichor that coats her, as it does every
one of us. Though greatly relieved, I manage, like her, not to smile.
I keep walking, considerably more slowly than she, until we meet, the
tips of our toes nearly touching. She does not embrace me, for that
is not her way, especially not in front of so many. For my part, I
presently must use my one good arm to staunch the flow of blood from
the other, and could scarcely embrace her if I tried. I lower my
head, and Gaeira angles hers so minutely that none but I might
perceive it, and our cheeks graze. This is the expression of our joy
in seeing each other alive, and for us, it is more than enough.

"Thamoth!"

I look over, knowing the voice, and catch sight
of its owner surmounting a hill of slaughtered Myriad. I hail Crow
and allow myself a brief smile. I have lost no one dear to me this
day. Later, when the dead are counted, I fear that I will be one of
very few for whom that is true.

While Crow is walking to me, someone cries out,
"Odinn!" Other voices join: "Odinn! Odinn!"

It is no mere battle cry or dedication of the
victory just won. The All-Father himself has come to stand in person
on the field of carnage. He holds in one hand a long, twisted, hollow
horn taken from I know  not what manner of beast. Covering its
smooth ivory surface are finely drawn symbols in a script I do not
know.

The Great Host, already in disarray, surges in a
wave toward Odinn. I am near where he has appeared,  and by
running I manage to gain a place at the edge of the respectful ring
of empty space that his army leaves around him. Gaeira slides in next
to me. Within moments, the crowd parts to let Baldr through into the
ring, and then Tyr. Odinn's third living son, Hodr, comes next, close
by Hel's side. Though his eyes are blinded, Hodr has fought the
Myriad and lived. Surely drained by her magical contribution to the
battle, Hel leans heavily on his shoulder.

Baldr is first to speak, addressing Odinn with a
question I do not understand. "Is this the only way?" he
asks sorrowfully.

"Aye," Odinn answers heavily, in his
low rumble of a voice. "A battle is won, but the war is not. Not
yet.    To assure Asgard's survival... we must free the
Serpent."

With the Great Host of Asgard I stand, ready for
battle. To my left and right are peerless Einherjar, mighty
Valkyriar, and every man and woman of the Aesir and Vanir capable of
wielding ax, spear, or sword. Leading us is Tyr, son of the
All-Father Odinn. Beside him are two of his brothers, shining Baldr
and blind Hodr, who insists he is able to fight thanks to enchanted
sight bestowed upon him by his lover, Hel. A fourth Odinnson, the
mightiest of them, Thor, has fallen, mourned by the sky itself. The
All-Father himself has gone in search of answers, and presently lies
entranced by Mimir's Well, deep within the tangled roots of
Yggdrasil.

Swelling our ranks are forces more accustomed to
challenging Odinn's rule than heeding it: towering frost giants and
the undead thralls of Hel. My own folk stand with the Host, too,
reborn souls doomed to wander between worlds. They are unaware that
they are led by an impostor wearing the face of their rightful
leader. Of all who were summoned this day, only the fighters of
Svartalfheim declined to take the field. The sons of Odinn have sworn
that once the threat is past, they shall be made to pay for 
their refusal.

If
 the threat passes, and if any
sons of Odinn survive it. If Odinn himself survives. Those things are
hardly certain. I have drunk of the Well of Mimir, and its waters
granted me four visions of the future. One thus far has come to pass.
Three remain, the worst of them.

Two lives have I lived, in two worlds. The
second brings me here, to a battle which may be the last this 
world ever knows.

Early on the third day after the assembly of the
Great Host, a wretched shrieking fills our ears. A green mist issues
from the chasm before us—and then is quickly dispelled by a
steady wind conjured by Medea. Next come a few of the vile creatures
which are named the Myriad because they are endless in  number
and form. They hover and watch, staying out of our weapons' reach.

And then, behind them, comes the swarm, rising
from below like a great wall of writhing, multicolored flesh. The
second of my four visions becomes real. Ragnarok is upon us.

***

When this day began, I did not possess a clear
sense-impression of how I, Thamoth, wearing other flesh, felt on
first looking seaward from a palace roof and seeing the sky eclipsed
by a great wave coming to engulf me. That memory was impressed upon
me by Mimir's Well and thus feels as a dream, once removed from true
experience.