Trapped

Granuaile petted Oberon and complimented him on his singing voice, while I rose from the ground, brushed myself off, and sighed. “You’re right. It’s wishful thinking on my part. But I still think we should make the poison. I’ll put it on Fragarach’s blade. You can put it on your throwing knives if you get a chance to use them. Maybe we should get you a bowie knife or something while we’re at it. Your staff won’t be able to do much damage to him.”

“It’ll get me close to him,” she said, referring to the invisibility spell.

“True. But you still can’t do it all by yourself. His hearing and sense of smell will be excellent. We’ll need to provide a distraction for you if you’re going to sneak up on him.”

“An army should prove sufficiently distracting, shouldn’t it?”

“Let’s hope.”

“Let’s also hope this goes better than the last time you tried using poison.”

“Definitely.” She was alluding to an unfortunate encounter with skinwalkers in Arizona.

We ran errands after bidding farewell to Oberon. We grabbed some gloves and some bags and shifted to a forest in Germany with plenty of wolfsbane—also known as monkshood and myriad other names. There were species of it in the United States—even in Colorado near our cabin—but this species contained the most concentrated poison.

After a trip to one of those giant retailers that sells luxury camping gear and slippers lined with sheepskin, along with more practical wares, we each had two knives of sufficient size to earn the notice of a wolf like Fenris. We returned to our cabin in Colorado to distill the poison and prepare our blades. Oberon was out hunting for his dinner, so we left him to it and enjoyed a shower together, which included auxiliary exercises that occurred to us along the way. Afterward, I decided I had endured the beard long enough. It had been something of a necessity during Granuaile’s training and even more so during her binding, but now I should be able to keep myself trimmed on a regular basis, so it was back to the goatee.

It was near midnight in Sweden after that. We decided to dress in black to pretend to be Celtic ninjas. Comfy black jeans and black long-sleeved shirts, even black gloves. We both had our iron amulets tucked underneath our shirts. Strapped to our thighs on either side were newly poisoned knives; I had also poisoned Fragarach.

“Ready?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Should we take some bottled water or something?”

“I don’t think so. Frigg made no mention of such preparation. It should be a quick operation. We’ll mooch off the dwarfs if we have to.”

“What if they won’t give us any?”

“Then we’ll steal from the dwarfs if we have to.”

“Gods, Atticus. I’m in charge of logistics from now on.”

“That reminds me. We’re going somewhere cold. Let me show you this binding the Morrigan taught me to raise your core temperature. You can hang out in the snow in jeans and a T-shirt and not get all shivery.”

“Sweet!”

We shifted to the northern shore of Vänern Lake, or rather close by it. We were underneath the canopy of an evergreen forest, facing south, where the smell of the lake wafted to us on the night air. A minute’s walk toward the shore revealed a large fire with silhouetted figures nearby. Casting night vision, we saw many more waiting on the beach in the darkness, armed and helmeted figures, all dwarfs. There was an army, all right—but only the one fire, presumably serving as a signal.

I startled as I turned my head. Right next to me, painted so black I hadn’t seen it in the dark, was a strange, massive vehicle bristling with weapons. It wasn’t of human manufacture. I had almost run into it; thankfully, no one was inside to train one of its many weapons on me.

I crouched down at the edge of the trees and cast camouflage. I couldn’t see Granuaile, so she had probably already cast her own camouflage or else her invisibility spell.

“Do you see Freyja?” I whispered. Her voice answered from my left.

“I don’t know what she looks like.”

“She’ll be the tall one in this crowd.”

“Ah. Yes, she’s near the fire but not directly next to it. A few ranks back. Standing in a chariot.”

I scanned near the fire until I found her. “Okay. Let’s sneak up and hail her. If she betrays us, we take her hostage, go back to the trees, and shift away. Stay invisible until we know it’s safe.”

“Got it.”

I wished I could cast Coyote’s spell that he called “clever stalking,” which would muffle our footfalls, but we had to simply move as quietly as possible through the crunchy sand, depending on wind and conversation and the clank of armor to disguise our passage.

The Black Axes were impressively armed—I mean, their arms were bloody huge. Their shoulders and biceps were larger than those of most bodybuilders, with enough hair on them to earn Perun’s respect. Those arms hung out from broad golden breastplates, sans armor, allowing maximum freedom when they took a swing at anything. The Black Axes didn’t have shields but rather skaldic armor; their breastplates and helmets bore runes on them that most likely made them bulletproof. Instead of a shield, they carried a sort of parrying axe in the left hand, with a small hooked blade at the top and a guard to cover their fingers. The axe in the right hand had a large black scything blade, also inlaid with telltale skaldic sigils. My money was on armor piercing. It was an army of Fragarachs.

Aside from the skaldic golden design of their breastplates and helmets, the Black Axes covered the rest of their bodies with black lamellar armor. Here, they said, shoot your guns and arrows at the shiny protected parts. Ignore all the rest of us that you can’t see clearly anyway. It was a heavy mobile infantry designed to run at night.

A few of the Black Axes had beards spilling out from underneath their helmets onto their breastplates, but the majority of them did not. That meant their hair was probably braided as well, and they would be no fans of ours if Fjalar had spread word of my role in sending Loki to Nidavellir.

Granuaile and I were able to sidle up to Freyja only half detected. We made occasional noises that caused a few curious helmets to turn in our direction, but they never saw us and dismissed the noise as made by another dwarf behind us.

The Black Axes were packed pretty tightly around Freyja and her chariot, and we could get no closer than two ranks away. It would make taking her hostage problematic if she wanted us seized. Having no choice, I hailed her. Heads whipped around toward my voice, and grips tightened on axe handles.

“Where are you?” the goddess demanded. Firelight flashed off the long blond braid that fell down to her waist. She was beautiful, though a bit mannish in the jaw. She was proud and had reason to be. She had killed more frost giants than any of the Æsir on the day I invaded Asgard.

“First, do I have your word of honor that you mean us no harm?” I asked. “Frigg assured me that you do not, but I would rather hear it from your own lips.”

“On my honor, I mean you no harm,” Freyja said. “Wishing is another matter.”

“Good enough,” I said, and dissolved my camouflage. “I neither mean nor wish you harm.”

Once Freyja had located me, her eyes searched beyond my back. “Were you not to bring another Druid?”

“She is here. She’ll reveal herself when she feels safe.”

“The two of you are to ride along in my chariot. The Black Axes are to follow in their own conveyance. Are you ready?”

“Aye.”

Freyja dropped her eyes to an especially hulkalicious dwarf next to her chariot. “Axemaster, we’ll see you at the Spring of Hvergelmir.”

“Aye, lady.” He bellowed orders, and these were rebellowed up and down the beach. The horde of dwarfs moved toward the trees, where their looming gunships waited. As the space cleared around Freyja, Granuaile revealed herself and nodded.

“Lady Freyja, it is my honor to meet you. I am Granuaile.”

Freyja did not return the honor, but she did nod back. “Join me. We follow the root of Yggdrasil to the Spring of Hvergelmir. There we will see the gates and walls of Hel. Some of the Black Axes will assault one end of the wall, drawing attention, and our party will fly over the other, sparsely defended end to find Fenris.”

We climbed into her chariot, and I experienced a moment’s disorientation before I remembered that it wasn’t pulled by horses or oxen or any other beast of burden but rather by a few gray domestic house cats. Freyja made an odd purring noise and we lurched forward, jerking at first but then smoothing out as we left the ground and ascended, flying briefly over water before banking around and flying back toward the forest. We skimmed above trees that looked like green pipe cleaners, then reached a wee pond and dove straight for it. I knew what was going to happen, but Granuaile didn’t. Her fingers clutched the edge of the chariot and she said, “Um,” but made no other sound.

That water, it turned out, wasn’t very wet. It was a portal to the Norse plane. I recognized it because there was a large fir with roots in the pond, just like the pond in Russia that led to the spring at Jötunheim. We didn’t have to splash through it: The air pressure just changed, our ears popped, and we were following the root of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, down to Niflheim. It was clear for a time, then we plunged into the mists for which the plane is named.

The journey made me miss Ratatosk. Though Oberon might have disagreed—his nature bent to dislike squirrels as a rule—I thought Ratatosk had been a splendid creature and wholly undeserving of the death he found at the hands of the Norns. His death had been my fault, of course. I was beginning to think I’d never balance the scales I’d tipped twelve years ago.

The root of Yggdrasil disappeared into dark, bubbling waters ringed by an epic stone wall with eleven different arches for egress, from whence eleven rivers flowed. One of them, Gjöll, flowed near the gates of Hel and must be crossed. But now that the dwarfs had crafted flying machines, there would be no bargaining with a bridge keeper. Even the massive wall was no obstacle, but Freyja wished to preserve the fiction that it was. Once the dwarven gunships landed on the banks of Gjöll, half of them split off and went to bombard the walls of Hel, hoping to draw fighters to the walls and distract those inside from our true purpose.

As they flew off with Freyja’s blessing, I took the opportunity to look around at the alien landscape of Niflheim. I sort of wished Freyja had a digital camera on her so Granuaile and I could pose like tourists on top of the stone wall encircling the spring. We’d point east with huge smiles on our faces, and then the caption would read, Nidhogg is over there!

In Niflheim, even under weak starlight filtered through mists, there are blues and hints of soft pinks reflected in the ice. They hint at comfort and reflections of a brighter world; they whisper of the fires raging in their primordial opposite, Muspellheim. In certain light and with a little imagination, great crags of ice could be mistaken for those old red-white-and-blue bomb pops sold from the backs of square white trucks.

Once we circled up into the sky and headed for Hel, above the mists, I saw distant purple crags with black hash marks sparsely distributed about them, lonesome trees howling of their isolation in the chill winds. Still, even with that icy anguish for a backdrop, the swirling mists offered colors and hopes that something inside them might not be so cold. All that ended once we sailed over the wall into Hel.

In Hel, there are no blues or any other suggestions that somewhere there might be a sun or an ice cream man. The color palette is confined to that of a Gustave Doré engraving, grays and blacks and subtle shadings of these rendered in harrowing crosshatches and highlighted with sudden, glaring areas of nothingness, like splotches of vitiligo sent to haunt the dead with memories of what real light did to the eyes. The clear air is redolent of dishwater and mildew, and the mist is formed from the moist, clammy exhalations of snuffed dreams and hopeless sighs, which collect in the lungs like clotted cream.

Freyja drove us into the mists at some predetermined point, but I saw nothing to indicate that this stretch of sickly mist was a waypoint of some kind. It was, to me, an unkind plunge into air that felt like spiderwebs and snot.

Behind us, the black dwarven ships followed, eerily silent, running on compressed rage, I suppose, or some other inventive fuel.

Granuaile started to choke and cough a whole second before I did. The mists crawled up our noses and into our lungs and settled about our brachia like wet snow. We both looked at Freyja, who appeared undisturbed—but also appeared to be holding her breath. I guess she just “forgot” to suggest that we do the same. I turned around, letting my back serve as a breaker through the mist, and was able to take a couple of clear breaths that way, enough to hold for a while. Granuaile followed my example.

I was tempted to “accidentally” jostle Freyja and cause her to expel her breath, but I decided to let her have her petty revenge. I had killed her twin brother, after all; this was a small fraction of the grief I deserved.

Until we landed on the icy rocks of Hel, we didn’t get clear of the mist. It hung over us at a low ceiling of ten feet, depressing the horizon and swirling slowly like dead leaves in a current. Nothing moved nearby. Behind us, the dwarf gunships landed single file, forming a wall in the process. Their guns all swiveled to face behind us.

“It would be no use turning all those guns on Fenris, would it?” Granuaile asked.

“Hel loves her beastly brother,” Freyja practically snarled, yanking a spear out of a slot in her chariot. “She surrounded him with a kinetic ward long ago. Not arrows nor bullets nor Odin’s spear can reach him now. We have to kill him up close.”