Trapped

Chapter 27

I understand the attraction of forgiving gods. There are times, like this one, during which I wish for nothing so much as forgiveness for my trespasses, and if I could truly feel such forgiveness, I would cling to the source of it like a newborn to his mother’s breast. But Odin doesn’t forgive. Nor do the Tuatha Dé Danann. The attitude of both parties is to make whatever restitution is possible and, in the words of my old archdruid, “stop looking at the entire world as a hole to put your cock in.”

There was no pardon in the face of Frigg either, who amongst the Norse was most likely to offer succor to those who sought it. Her eyes were cold. She would never say to me, “Go now, you are forgiven.”

To seek absolution from humanity would be to seek my own folly. One may speak of forgiveness here, and another may actually mean it there, but legions remain who would condemn a starving man to amputation for pinching a crust of bread. We are petty creatures who seek to aggrandize ourselves by feasting on the dignity of our fellows.

There was nothing to be done; weeping would not mend it, nor would raging. I could only strive to live so that my merit outweighed my discredit. To pay for the lives of nearly five thousand dwarfs slain by my careless words, I had to kill the biggest, baddest wolf in all the world’s stories.

Fenris wouldn’t fall for a bowl of poisoned kibble. He’d probably turn up his nose at a poisoned steak too; he was too smart to be tricked. Had Týr not been willing to sacrifice his arm, he never would have allowed himself to be bound by Gleipnir, the masterwork of Fjalar’s ancestors, the unbreakable dwarven fetter made of six impossible things. Fenris was a wolf that could reason and speak like a man—like an Old Norse man, anyway. He’d trust nothing from the hand of the Norse anymore. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t poison him.

“Give us time to prepare?” I said to Frigg. “Where and when shall we meet Freyja and the Black Axes?”

“On the very tip of the peninsula southeast of Skoghall in Sweden. Östra Takene. You know it?”

“North end of Vänern Lake?”

“Precisely. Say, midnight, Swedish time. Will that be sufficient for your purposes?”

“I think so.”

“Then Freyja will see you there.” Frigg rose, and, belatedly, so did the rest of us. Oberon recognized that our visit was finished.

Fjalar glowered at me from underneath his impressive brows, but the effect was ruined by his comically bald chin. Frigg nodded to us and we thanked her and Fjalar for their hospitality. The dwarf growled at us, which I supposed was the best I could expect from him right then.

I think he’d rather put us in his next recipe.

We showed ourselves out of the foreman’s manse and walked up the hill to our own cabin.

“So we’re going to Hel, eh? How do we prepare for that?”

“We’re going to yet another sporting goods store—one here in the States, preferably without dark elves or vampires inside, where we can get ourselves some bows and arrows. Then we’re going to cook us up a big heaping batch of poison.”

“Let me guess: wolfsbane?”

“Yep. Why should we wear rubber gloves?”

“Because the aconite in the leaves will seep through our skin.”

“Ogma was right,” I said. “You are well trained.” I was expecting a well-deserved punch on the arm, but Granuaile instead sank down and swept my feet out from under me and dropped me on my back. She kept walking and spoke over her shoulder.

“Trained by the best,” she said. I was about to declare that I loved her when she added, “It’s not going to work.”

“What isn’t?”

She stopped and turned around, waiting for me to get up. “Picking him off safely from a distance using poisoned arrows.”

“Why not?”

“Because somebody else would have done it by now if it were that easy. Freyja could go down there by herself with a sniper rifle and put a bullet in his brain if it were that easy. Odin could have used his spear. A hobbit could have chucked a rock at him with such accuracy and velocity that it beggars belief.”

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.”

Granuaile’s green eyes found mine. She smirked and put up her fist. I bumped it.

“So where is he?” I said.

Freyja pointed with her spear into the mist in front of us. “That way. Not far.”

“Why can’t we see anything?”

“The mist is like that. Though you think you can see the horizon, you can’t. Your functional visibility is less than twenty yards.”

“Great. Can he hear and smell us now?”

“Most likely.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“Yes. Go that way and kill him.”

I waited patiently for more detail.

“Preferably,” she added, “before Hel finds out we’re inside the walls and sends everything she has against the Black Axes. Once they start firing, it’s going to draw a horde. Some of them will get through and over the ships, and then our army of five thousand won’t stand a chance against her hundreds of thousands.”

Freyja’s sentence was punctuated by a shuddering hiss, followed by more all along the wall of gunships.

“What kind of guns are those?” Granuaile asked.

“Circular-saw launchers,” Freyja said, grinning at us for the first time. “Aimed at the neck, but they take off arms and legs too. Don’t you love the dwarfs?”

“They’re charming, yes,” Granuaile said.

“Let us go,” Freyja said. “Time escapes us. I’ll speak to Fenris and front him. You attack from the flanks. Beware: He is very fast and can change his size.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“He is a son of Loki Shape-shifter, giant-born. Like Hel and Jörmungandr, he can grow or shrink as he sees fit.”

“Lovely. So if we run across a wolf puppy, don’t believe it.”

“Precisely.”

I cast camouflage on myself and drew Fragarach, plus the knife hanging out on my right thigh. I carried that in my left hand, and once I used it I would have another waiting on my left thigh. Granuaile held her staff in her left hand and spoke the words for invisibility as she drew a large knife in her right. She disappeared from view.

“I’ll take the left and Granuaile will flank right,” I said.

“Forward, then,” Freyja said.

I padded into the mist on bare rock and checked my connection to the earth. As in Asgard, the magic was still there but strained and weak, like getting only a single bar of wireless signal. If I needed a surge of power, I’d have to draw it from my bear charm. I quietly boosted my strength and speed as I walked, knowing I’d need both against a monster like Fenris.

Behind us, the sounds of the gunships swelled as they brought heavier firepower online. There must be a whole lot of draugar coming our way. Hel was not a master strategist, but she didn’t need to be with the type and number of soldiers she had at her disposal. When your army is truly disposable, there are no letters to write home to loved ones, no veterans’ benefits to pay, no logistics to worry about, then there’s no need to be clever in battle. Just drown your opponent in bodies. Freyja was right: We had no time to be cute. We had to finish quickly if we wanted to get out of there.

I failed to find him after twenty yards. Nor did I find him in the next twenty. But I heard Freyja’s voice call out to my right and behind me shortly afterward and a rumbling reply directly to my right. I turned but saw nothing in the thrice-damned mist. Still I moved toward the husky voice.

“Freyja, is it? I have heard from my sister that you lost your brother some time ago. Such a shame. I forgot to send my condolences, did I not? Please accept them now.”

Freyja told Fenris what he could do with his condolences. The wry chuckle fell from above. I looked up and to my right again, following the noise, and spied two massive legs stretching up into the mist. Poking out beyond them was half a snout—the nose and open maw of Fenris. Clearly he had decided to confront us in the Economy Size. Much larger than Garm, who was a monster at six feet at the shoulders, Fenris was at least twice that, maybe more. With jaws that size, he could handle us like large Milk-Bones, except we would be much more squishy. Quietly and quickly as I could, I minced my steps to the left in search of his rear legs. Freyja kept talking to distract him—that was excellent work. Still, he sensed us.

“Who do you bring with you?” he rumbled. “I smell others.”

“There are dwarfs fighting the draugar behind us,” the goddess replied. “Slaying them all, I imagine.”

“I rather doubt it,” Fenris said after a couple of loud sniffles. “This isn’t the stench of dwarfs. This is something else. Humans. Living ones. Where are they?”

Granuaile had beaten me to the rear legs, for at that moment Fenris yelped and the muzzle disappeared from the ceiling as he whipped around to snap at something painful on his left side. His right rear leg shot forward for balance, planting itself right in front of me. There was a red ribbon tied around it, which I recognized as the fabled Gleipnir, so I swung Fragarach with all my enhanced might just above it, hoping to hobble the beast and turn his attention my way. It worked! Sort of.

Fragarach cut cleanly through his entire leg, amputating it with one strike, but I had now freed him. Instead of turning around to his right, where he could no longer rest any weight, he kept turning left and down, circling around so that his giant tail caught me smack in the chest and sent me flying backward. I dropped Fragarach and the knife and stretched my hands beneath me to make sure my head didn’t hit the rocks first. It didn’t, but it wasn’t a happy landing either. My left hand took the brunt of it and I sprained my wrist. I also banged my elbow hard enough to make me cry out; it was a taste of what Bacchus must have felt under Granuaile’s staff. My left arm would be useless for the near future; sprains don’t mend themselves in seconds, even magically assisted. My tailbone would no doubt give me a bit of pain later on as well. For now it was a dull ache underneath the adrenaline.

My ears pounded with the sound of cannon fire and the howls of a giant wolf, but I longed to hear something from Granuaile, anything that meant she was still alive. I hadn’t heard her since we moved forward.

I clambered to my feet and retrieved Fragarach from where it lay, then looked up to see Freyja charging a much-reduced wolf, as he was still spinning counterclockwise, snapping at something … invisible. Granuaile lived! I charged too, though a bit awkwardly without the free use of my left arm.

Unlike Granuaile, Freyja was fully visible and making noise. She obviously wanted to get the wolf’s attention, and she managed to—but not the way she would have liked, perhaps. As I charged, she leapt at him, spear cocked in her hand. She thrust it at his head as he lunged at her, letting Granuaile go for the moment. He saw the spear and shrank, twisting his head at the same time, so that her thrust overshot her target and grazed along the side of his head. Fenris caught Freyja’s legs between his jaws, she screamed, and he tossed her away into the mist so that he could return his attention to the invisible demon pestering his left side. Granuaile was probably chucking all of her throwing knives into his ribs and driving him crazy. He lunged around to his left, snapping at something he couldn’t see, but thankfully his teeth sank into nothingness. I made my own leap at Fenris—which he didn’t see coming—but he was still shrinking in an effort to spin around faster to catch Granuaile, and he shrank faster than I expected. I’d put quite a bit of force behind my jump, and now I was going to overshoot him entirely. I swiped at his head and just scratched the top of it between his ears, doing no lasting damage beyond whatever the poison could do to him. Thus far, despite having been wounded repeatedly with poisoned blades, he’d shown no ill effects.

My scratch secured his attention, however. His jaws whooshed closed, with an audible clap of jowls and teeth, where my legs had been a split second before. I landed safely if a bit unsteadily on the other side of him, and he barked in frustration before speaking.

“Who strikes? Who hides like a coward from my eyes? Show yourself!”

Yeah, right. I had made sure Granuaile was of my mind on this matter: When in a fight for your life, you never, ever fight fairly. Honor and sportsmanship are wonderful in games that don’t matter, but it’s the honorable guys who always die in real battles. “When there’s blood involved,” I’d told her, “you always use every advantage you have to make sure it’s theirs that spills and not yours. If you want to feel guilty about taking unfair advantage afterward, you go ahead and feel that shit. But live to feel it.”

In this situation, though, showing myself might make Granuaile safer. It might give her another free shot to finish Fenris for good. Blood was still squirting out of his leg, and I could see now that he had several throwing knives lodged in his bleeding skin, plus a larger one stuck in his left leg. Between that wound and his missing right leg, he wouldn’t be making any astounding leaps my way. It could work out.

I dissolved my camouflage and whistled at him. “Here, boy. Nice doggie.”

His eyes flashed at me and his lips peeled back into a snarl.

“Who are you?” the wolf growled. “Some new god?”

He spoke in Old Norse, so I replied in kind. “Not quite. I’m the guy who kills gods when they piss me off. Freyr, for example.”

Fenris flinched as if I’d slapped him.

“You killed Freyr? And you come here with Freyja?”

“You’re the blood price, see? How’s that leg, by the way?”

“About the same as Freyja’s, I imagine.” He did his best to lunge at me with just his front legs and his jacked-up rear left, but it was an awkward move and bereft of speed. Using her second large knife, Granuaile employed the wolf’s momentum to open up his right side. Fenris yelped and tried to pivot right, but that put weight on his bleeding stump, and he yowled louder as he lost his balance and crashed down onto his leaking guts.

I cast camouflage again and sprinted at him, thinking of little else besides a prayer to the Morrigan that Granuaile wasn’t trapped underneath him. Even though Fenris had shrunk significantly, he was still bigger than Garm. If Granuaile’s head was underneath all that weight, she wouldn’t be able to breathe.

Fenris struggled to get up but flailed messily instead. Without his back leg to lift him, he couldn’t stand again, and his wounds were finally taking their toll. He realized it was over as his eyes searched for me.

“You have my curse upon you, godslayer,” he said between bared teeth. “You and all your—”

I hacked through the back of his neck and cut through his spine. “Shut up,” I said.

Wiping Fragarach hastily against the wolf’s fur, I called for Granuaile. She appeared on the other side of the great wolf’s neck, grinning at me. Her left arm was a sleeve of blood.

“Made you nervous, didn’t I?”

My shoulders slumped in relief. “A bit, yes.”

“Nice kill shot.”

“Thanks. What’s all that?” I chucked my chin at her arm.

“He got a tooth or two into me at one point. It’s all good. No rabies.”

An especially loud explosion from the vicinity of the dwarf ships reminded us that we needed to get out of there.

“Did you see where Freyja landed?” I asked.

“No. Too busy running for my life.”

“I think she flew off that way,” I said, pointing vaguely behind me.

We jogged together in the direction I thought she’d flown, keeping about ten yards between us. I was giving some panicked thought to how we’d get out of Hel without Freyja’s help if she turned up dead. I was reasonably sure I could use the root of Yggdrasil to shift back to that nice wee pond in Sweden, but getting past the walls and gates of Hel was another matter entirely. I doubted the dwarfs would give us a ride over the wall if we told them one of their favorite goddesses was a chew toy, and I was positive the cats would listen to no one but Freyja.

Granuaile found her first.

“Atticus, she’s here! Bad shape, though.”

Freyja’s spear was lying some distance from her awkward form. Her legs were twisted at odd angles and sheathed in red.

“Okay, you stimulate skin repair, and only that, hear me? No adrenaline. I’ll stop the bleeding.”

We laid on hands and got to work. The wounds Fenris had made would have killed her from blood loss had we arrived much later. She’d already lost consciousness, and soon her brain would be starved entirely for oxygen. She needed a transfusion, but she wouldn’t get it here.

“Gods, what a mess,” Granuaile said. “Wish we could put some of it back in.”

“You and every field surgeon who ever lived.”

Freyja’s right leg and right arm both had breaks, probably from the way she landed. She most likely had a concussion as well, though I thankfully saw no blood pooling underneath her head. I couldn’t set her bones here.

“We’ll have to carry her to the chariot,” I said. “Think we can do it invisibly?”

Granuaile nodded. “Once the spell is cast, skin contact with the staff is all you need. We could support her under either shoulder, hold the staff across the back of our necks with our outside hands, and sort of drag her that way.”

“Make it so.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

I took a few more seconds to stabilize Freyja’s circulation, then we hefted her up between us as planned. Before we had taken three steps, we heard an anguished cry erupt near the body of Fenris. We recognized the gravelly source of it and hurried: That was Hel’s voice. If she’d burst through the Black Axes, there was no telling what kind of reception awaited us.

Hel’s unseen wailing continued as we dragged Freyja closer to the sounds of fighting, and it was difficult not to cringe at the noises Hel made. Half her throat was dead and rotting, after all, so normal cries were impossible for her. The addition of tears, mucus, and genuine emotion on her part made it unbearably animal.

Thinking of the stages of grief, I wondered if Odin had counted on what would happen when Hel reached rage. Could this be the trigger for Ragnarok, right here? Or would she stay her hand until Loki wakened from his sleep?

Knowing I was caught between Hel herself and Hel’s army, every step seemed unnecessarily long. I wanted to be in the chariot and flying already—but who knew if Freyja’s flying kitties were still alive at this point?

The mist brought us nothing but the sounds of battle, dwarfs dying and draugar falling for the final time. When the combatants finally hove into view, I knew I never wanted to face off against one of the Black Axes.

Hel must have pushed through the lines on an unstoppable wave of draugar, but most of these now littered the rocks ahead, and the remaining few were falling in hand-to-hand combat with the dwarfs. The axemen were closing the breach one swing at a time, toppling heads and sometimes even torsos with their blades, such was the force generated by their muscles. My earlier supposition that their blades were armor-piercing was borne out before my eyes; I saw a dwarf’s axe cut through the steel-plate helmet of one undead soldier with no more resistance than that of wet cardboard.

A cluster of them facing outward drew my attention: They were guarding Freyja’s chariot.

“There’s our ride home,” I said to Granuaile. “You see it?”

“Yep.” The ground between the chariot and us was clear of draugar, except for the remaining pieces of them.

“If we suddenly appear amongst them, they’ll cut us down without thinking. Drop the enchantment now and I’ll hail them.”

“Done.”

I shouted in Old Norse and hoped that Hel wouldn’t hear it over the sounds of war and her own sorrow. “Black Axes! To me! To Freyja! Defend the goddess!” A dozen wee warriors swarmed around us and escorted us to the chariot.

“Is she alive?” a gruff voice asked.

“Aye, but barely. The wolf is dead.”

“We figured Hel wouldn’t make that noise if he lived.”

“Right you are. It’s time to run.”

“I’ll tell the axemaster,” the dwarf said, seeing us safely into the chariot. “Don’t wait for us. Go!”

He made it sound so simple. But when I looked over the front of the chariot, the cats’ eyes staring back at me did not seem anxious to leave.

“Hey, cats,” I said. “Let’s go. Let’s boogie. Come on.” I pointed up at the ceiling of mist. “Back over the wall. Let’s do this.” They stared at me. One began to lick his nether region. “Giddy-up!” I cried. “Heaahh! Move ’em out! Shoo!” This earned me more stares and more licking but no movement. “Go, damn it!”

“Atticus, that’s not going to work,” Granuaile said.

“Yeah? Well, you try it.”

Granuaile faced Freyja forward so the cats could see her face. “Listen,” she said. “Freyja is hurt.” The cats took sudden interest. Their eyes, indifferent before, were now clearly focused on Granuaile and Freyja. “Your mistress needs help. We need to leave now. Over the wall, back the way we came. Take us to Frigg. Take us to Frigg, and I’ll buy you some tuna.”

At least, I think she said tuna. Her words were drowned out by a roar from Hel, who appeared in her half-hot, half-rot form to demand an explanation, her hair touching the ceiling of snotlike mist. Though she was twenty yards away, we could already smell her. “Who killed him?” she wanted to know, the great knife Famine clutched in her skeletal left hand. “Was it Freyja?”

The chariot jerked and we lifted off the ground; Freyja’s cats were suddenly anxious to escape.

“Nope. That was me!” I shouted.

Hel’s eyes focused and then narrowed in recognition. “You! You’re supposed to be dead!”

“You should have learned from the mistakes of the Æsir,” I said. “Never fuck with a Druid!”

I shouldn’t have said that.

As we rose into the clouds of mist, all sounds of battle and rage below muffled by its close stickiness, Hel’s giant right hand followed us in and closed on the open back of the chariot, halting our progress in midair. Granuaile and I yelped, and the cats protested with a noise primarily composed of vowels.

Freyja’s kitties were powerful, and thanks to them Hel couldn’t drag us back down, but neither could we escape. Hel’s right hand was on the “hot” side, and thus it looked lovely and cultured and gave no hint that it belonged to something hideous. Granuaile slapped at her thighs, searching for a knife, but she had thrown them all at Fenris and slammed her bowie knife into his leg. I handed her mine.

She snatched it, cocked it over her shoulder, and threw it directly into the back of that giant lovely hand—not hard enough to pin it to the chariot floor, but hard enough to stick in there. A bellow from below and we shot skyward as the hand disappeared. I think the cats were in a hurry, because we didn’t seem to spend so long in the snot this time. More likely Freyja had taken us through it a bit slower than necessary.

“You poisoned that blade, right?” Granuaile asked.

“Yep. We can always hope. I doubt it will take her out, though.”

I held much more hope that the Black Axes would make it out okay; I’d had no time to assess the state of their forces. I rather feared that the dwarfs in Nidavellir would have to bear a counterattack now. It would be better if Hel were somewhat cowed by this affair and rediscovered caution.

“Hey, Granuaile,” I said once we got clear of the mist and were sailing back to the wall. “Will you ask the cats to keep the portal to Midgard open for the dwarfs?”

“Sure. I don’t know if that’s something they can do, but I’ll try.”

“Thanks. I’d hate to think we were stranding all the dwarfs in Niflheim.”

Red hair streaming behind her in the cold wind, Granuaile asked our transportation to keep the door open for the dwarfs. I distinctly heard a meow in reply.

“Oberon was right about you,” I said. “You really are a cat person.”