Stormbringer: Book 2 of the Wyrd

Ten

The final day's march was interminable, silent and strained and grim. They made Lain walk ahead, stumbling too fast over roots, with Magni riding the stallion on his heels. Þrúðr came behind on her mare, Móði's arms held loose about her waist.

As they rode, they did not see the wolf, nor the girl, nor hear the cries of bird or flight of beasts.

Valdís, Lain had called the beast, and Þrúðr had seen the anguish in his eyes. Saw now the broken slump of his shoulders, even as he was forced to run on all fours to keep up with their pace.

Magni called cruel words as they ran, taunting Lain as he drove his horse to catch the edge of feathers beneath its hooves.

Þrúðr was starting to believe she did not know her brothers. Not truly, and maybe not either. Magni, full of hate and cruelty. And Móði, passive and vicious in his own cowardly way.

Yet maybe she was still worst of all. Perhaps, in her desire to be seen as strongest of the three, she had lost sight of her own weakness, and so doomed them all.

It was an awful ride, full of dark thoughts and darker shadows. And Þrúðr knew it was not over yet.

* * *

Sól's daughter was kissing the edges of the Tree when they broke free of the Myrkviðr's awful grasp. First, it had been roots, giving way to flagstones, then branches, thinning to show shafts of golden light. Finally, through the gnarled gray trunks, Þrúðr began to catch sight of their destination. A huge and jagged cliffside, rearing into a mountain capped with white, cut from the sharp-edged bones of great Ymir, the first jötunn, whose death had made the Realms.

When Magni slowed within the mountain's shadow, Þrúðr made her own breathing calm and forced white-knuckled fingers to uncurl from the cracked leather of her reins.

As they drew to a stop, Þrúðr heard the heavy thud as Lain fell against the ground. White-tattooed sides heaving as he cursed softly in the language of the mortals.

From behind, meanwhile, came a whistle. "Niðavellir," said Móði, breath gusting across Þrúðr's cheek and awe writ plain across his words. "I've never seen it."

"Nor I," Þrúðr admitted, squinting upward against the dying light.

"It's a shithole." Lain's voice was a vicious wheeze. "Don't let the snow-peaked bullshit fool you. Fucking dvergar." He stumbled to his feet, leaving bloodied, hissing footprints in his wake.

"I would have thought you eager to show them the robustness of their handiwork." Magni gestured to his lips.

Lain responded by extending a fist, middle finger raised.

They approached the mountain in silence, their horses' hooves clopping slowly against stone, Lain's own limp fading as the sun dipped and the mountain loomed. He said nothing more and, when Þrúðr glanced his way, seemed unfocused and lost in his expression. As if he were remembering something long ago and very far away. Something better than where they were, perhaps. Something with the warm skin of a loving wife, and the gentle laughter of his children.

As a child, Þrúðr had thought her uncle odd but nothing more. She'd giggled at his jokes and ridden on his back when he took the shape of beasts for her enjoyment, her own father laughing with riotous abandon.

As she'd grown older, she'd thought less of those moments and more of the whispers of her mother. Half-heard accusations of cruelty and spite. Loki had turned, then, from an amusing, ill-mannered houseguest into something dark, something sinister and mean. A thing to fear . . . and to pity, also. Deranged and monstrous.