Stormbringer (14 page)

Maybe he just had a thing against assholeish blond Vikings. Rígr certainly looked like he could've been churned out of the same factory that'd spawned Baldr, even if he wasn't quite as broad or as tall, and his hair was a bit less shiny and bright.

Karl, meanwhile, was redheaded and freckled, and reminded Sigmund in no small part of Lain (he decided to keep this observation to himself). Then Þræll, who was dark and rough and slightly nervous, as if he expected to be kicked or thrown out at any moment.

“You must be careful of the dead,” he'd said, thick-fingered hands pulling open Ásgarðr's the heavy doors. “Their Lady most of all.”

“She's, uh. She's kinda my stepdaughter,” Sigmund said. “I mean…I guess? I don't think she—” He stopped, realizing he wasn't quite sure how to end that sentence. After a moment, he decided on “She cares a lot about her people.”

This earned a scoff from Rígr, but Þræll merely nodded, gesturing for Sigmund to pass through the gate.

He did as instructed, throwing one last wave back to where Em and Wayne were watching from the far side of the blight. It occurred to him to wonder if he should be leaving them alone with Hel. He didn't think she meant them any harm, but…

Shit. Who was he kidding? It was Em and Wayne. Sigmund was more likely the one to get himself in trouble, walking into a nest of potentially hostile gods.

No one attacked him when the door closed, which Sigmund took to be a good sign. Instead, Karl said, “It's different from what you remember, eh?”

Sigmund looked around, blinking, and wondered how he was supposed to answer that, exactly. “Um…”

“We lost much during Ragnarøkkr,” Karl added, thumping a fist against the carved wood of the gate. “But rebuilding? Ah, that's half the fun of it!” He grinned, and so did Sigmund.

“I don't, ah. I don't really remember much about, um. About before,” he said.

“You have too much mortal in you, boy. Or should I say girl?”

“Boy.” Sigmund tried not to wince.

“Right, right. Boy. Hah.” Karl seemed to think about this as they walked. “Is it a curse, then?” he asked.

“Er…not really?” Sigmund tried. “I mean, I just…Sigyn died. And then…there was me.”

“And Loki?”

Sigmund's heart skipped a beat, conscious of the look Rígr was giving. Cold and hard. Bitter.

Suddenly, it occurred to Sigmund that Sigyn had, kinda sorta maybe, killed his new friend's dad. Meanwhile,
they
all thought Loki had done it.

Shit. Fuck. Shitty shit fuck.

“Loki's, uh. Dead, right?” Sigmund tried. There was enough truth in the not quite question that his head only ached a little. Shit. Stupid fucking inability to lie bullshit.

“Mmm,” said Rígr, looking away. “We can only hope.”

(shit)

Sigmund spent the next few minutes too busy trying to keep his panic under control to pay attention to where Rígr and Co. were taking him. Along a path of some description, and by the time he'd calmed down enough to look up again, they were passing through a bunch of buildings assembled around a well. The architecture was mostly wood, fresh-carved with scrolling knots and dragons, and something about the proportions seemed too large in some strange, off-kilter way. Like someone had gotten regular buildings and just scaled them up for people three or four times normal size. Which was weird, because it wasn't like the
æsir
were unnaturally tall.

There were other people around, mostly men, dressed in Viking sort of clothes. When Sigmund started seeing scars—an ax wound here, an arrow hole there—he realized he must've been looking at the
einherjar.
They weren't much like Hel's people. Too dour and too serious. Sigmund would've expected things to be reversed, would've expected the dishonored dead to be the grim and lurching zombies.

Maybe he had a lot to learn about the dead. Maybe this is what Hel had meant when she'd said things needed to change.

Rígr and his brothers took Sigmund toward an even bigger big building, sitting on a hill and looking out over the others. It was multiple stories and had balconies, as well as a lot more stone in its construction, and while it didn't say “castle,” exactly—it didn't have quite enough battlements for that—it did certainly look like the place to find the Very Important People.

Two
einherjar
opened the doors when Rígr approached, bowing to the
æsir
and giving Sigmund the side-eye. He did his best to look gormless and unarmed as he stepped over the threshold of the hall.

Inside was a room: an enormous cavernous space, all stone and carved wood and huge fire pit running down the center.

“This is nice,” Sigmund tried, earning a grin from Karl and a grunt from Rígr.

At the far end of the hall, on a raised platform, was a large carved chair that could have only been a throne. And sitting on the throne was—

Sigmund's first reaction was to think
Baldr,
and for a moment his heart leaped. Because there was a man in the chair and his hair was shining blond and he was gripping what was undeniably Gungnir in his hand. And in that second, Sigmund had just enough time to think,
Maybe this will work out after all,
and imagined himself punching Lain playfully for the deception, and—

And the guy wasn't Baldr.

Sigmund blinked, squinting to get a better look through glasses he should've replaced a good six months ago.

The guy wasn't Baldr. He looked a
lot
like Baldr—and not just in the “vaguely familiar” way that Rígr did, but an actual played-by-the-same-actor way—but he wasn't.

And he had Gungnir.

And Sigmund's heart felt like ice within his chest.

“The legions of Hel are at our gates and yet you bring me mortals,” not-Baldr-guy said, not to Sigmund. What had Gaps said about Baldr's son? Sigmund struggled to come up with a name.

(“Forseti, lord of law and judgment”)

Okay. That worked. Also: law and judgment, ouch.

Rígr bowed, Karl bowed deeper, and Þræll was practically on the ground. Sigmund waved and said, “Um. Hi?” and tried not to feel like a fucking idiot.

No way he was bowing, though. Not until he'd seen Lain and figured out what was going on.

“This is Sigmund Gregor.” Rígr paused, shot one glance at Sigmund and added, “Sweet man of God.”

Sigmund blinked. It was difficult, listening to the Godstongue, and some of the phrasing and idioms—

(Sigmund Gregor Sussman de Deus)

Shit. Because it was just a name, wasn't it? Except they were words, too, and meant things, and Sigmund had to bite his lip to stop from laughing. He'd never thought of that before.

Forseti scowled, and for a moment Sigmund was back on the edge of a mist-wreathed lake, wet jeans clinging to his legs and mud caked beneath his nails.

“And why have you come to us, Sigmund of God? Why have you brought Hel's armies to our door?”

(Sigmund of God, bloody hell…)

“Um,” Sigmund said. “It was really more the other way around? Hel brought me here, I mean. To, um. To argue her case, I guess?”

Forseti's fingers drummed on Gungnir's haft. “And why would the gods hear your pleas, mortal?”

“Well, yeah. Um. About that.” Sigmund tired not to fidget, failed, and added, “ 'Cause, like. I'm pretty sure you know why you're gonna hear me out. I think you knew it the second I walked in here.”

When Forseti's eyes flicked down, just briefly, Sigmund knew he'd guessed right. “And why would the words of Loki's woman carry any weight within these halls?”

“Hey!” Sigmund stepped forward, hand raised and pointing. “Fuck you, and fuck Loki.” Sorry Lain, but: “I'm a goddess in my own right.”

“You were mortal,” Forseti said. “Brought unto us by marriage to one who does not share our blood.”

Sigmund felt something inside him give. It sounded like a tooth, piercing through flesh, like the crack of stone against a skull, like a thousand years in hell and the end of the world itself, all rolled into one.

“Yeah, well,” he said. “I'm still mortal now. And I'm still a bloody
ásynja
whether you like it or not. I have a right to be here. And so does Hel, because your dad? Baldr? She died to him, in combat. And she's got two
valkyrjur
”—not too bad on the accent, he didn't think—“out there who'll vouch for her as
einheri.
” Ditto. “That means you need to let her in as well.”

“Even if what you say is true, the
einherjar
are taken from the ranks of men, not banished
íviðjur
witches.” Forseti sprawled backward in his throne, free hand coming up to stroke his short-cut beard as he studied Sigmund. “If you have walked with Death you know what rot she carries in her wake. Would you have me bring this into Ásgarðr?”

Sigmund thought of Hel, delicately drinking tea in Wayne's comic shop, paint peeling from the walls as, all around her, brightly colored superheroes degenerated into scenes of madness.

He sighed. “Look, I dunno. Just…maybe you should talk to her? Work something out?”

He tried to keep his voice light, but even that earned him a scowl and a “You would presume to tell me what I ‘should' do? Boy, you are as insolent as your vile husband. And I am just as likely to take your council.”

Shit. Shit shit shit. It occurred to Sigmund he really wasn't good at this, whatever this was. Negotiations? Walking up to the NPC and choosing the right dialogue options except, oops. The Really Real World, even this part of it, still wasn't produced by BioWare. Being eloquent wasn't as easy as picking the right thing from the menu and hoping he'd stacked enough points in Persuasion.

Sigmund was about to come up with a retort—something awesome and witty like “yeah, well…whatever”—when someone else beat him to it.

“You may not, but I will.”

A woman's voice, and Sigmund turned. When he did, his first thought was:

(nope, nothing like Bubbe)

Nanna was both instantly recognizable and, well. A goddess. Tall and strong and proud, with clear pale skin and bright blond hair (Sigmund was starting to sense a theme on that one). Definitely older than her son, but in a Cate Blanchett Hollywood sort of way.

Fucking perfect golden Baldr and his perfect golden fucking family. And Sigmund, who was such a schlub he was still in the same pair of jeans he'd been wearing this time last week. And it wasn't like Lain didn't have a cleaner at the apartment.

Fuck.

Forseti scowled. “Mother. This does not concern you.”

“All affairs of my husband's concern me,” Nanna said, gliding across the floor in a cascade of wool and gold and velvet. “While he is absent, I am regent.”

And what Sigmund thought was:

(oh. shit)

And what Forseti said was “Mother…” And he looked away.

(he knows! motherfucker fucking
knows
! and he's got Lain's fucking spear and)

And Nanna was coming to a halt in front of Sigmund, staring
through
him with blue eyes so pale as to be almost silver. Then she bowed, just slightly, reaching out to take Sigmund's hands in her own. “I recognize you, Sigyn,
ásynja
of victory and compassion. And I welcome you back into your home. No matter the mortal shape you wear, our doors for you are open.”

Oh Jesus fuck she was really
nice
! Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck—

“Um. Thanks?” Sigmund swallowed and tried not to be a total loser. “I mean, it's been a while, and I don't—I don't really remember much. I mean, listen to me. I don't even speak the bloody language anymore.” He winced at the swearing. “Um. Sorry.”

But Nanna just smiled, letting Sigmund's hands drop from hers. Because, fuck. She was beautiful, and kind, and gracious, and a
fucking queen,
and Sigmund was—

(la la la la they can read minds la la think other things la la nothing to see here just nervous about being in Asgard nothing to do with La—pink elephants pink elephants pink elephants!)

Was it just Sigmund, or was Nanna's smile looking a little…strained?

Shit.

From the throne, Forseti said, “Mother. Perhaps you would like to show…‘Sigyn' around Ásgarðr. Much has happened in the time since ‘she' was away.”

(oi I heard those air quotes, you jackass! fuck you)

Nanna, to her credit, sniffed slightly and turned a truly parental stare on her son. “Don't be vulgar, boy,” she said. “Sigyn—”

“Um. Sig
mund,
actually.”

Nanna didn't even blink. “Sigmund has come to us as emissary from the Queen of Hel. The very same Hel who showed your father and I great hospitality when we stayed within her realm. The least we can do is hear her words.”

Forseti sneered. Like, with an actual curled lip and everything. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Ásgarðr makes no deals with
jötnar.
”

Nanna wasn't moved. “And when you are Allfather, boy, then you may make such decisions for yourself. For now, I must hold true to your father's wishes. And his wish was for change, for Ásgarðr to cast aside old hatreds and—”

“Faðir minn var vitstola!”
The crack of Gungnir coming down against the flagstones was very, very loud. Nanna flinched, Forseti fumed, and Sigmund wondered what the hell was so damning Forseti wasn't going to say it in Godstongue in front of Sigmund.

Yeah, he was a loser. Not a fucking idiot.

Forseti was still ranting and Nanna's expression had gone hard, and—

(“he says Baldr was mad, that his time in Hel broke him and that Nanna is too soft to see it”)

Forseti
knew.
Sigmund kept coming back to that. He knew…maybe not exactly what had happened to Baldr and to Loki, to the Ragnarøkkr, but he sure as hell suspected. And he had Gungnir, the very same spear that had, only the other day, been stashed inside the coat cupboard next to Lain's front door.