Dead Embers (5 page)

Sigrun's cheeks darkened with shock.

"As if that wasn't bad enough, he ran at me with his
sword. I panicked, thought he meant to kill me and just flew straight up into
the air."

"So he used a different method to teach you how to
fly," Sigrun said, almost to herself, her brow furrowing.

"Yeah, I'd say trying to kill someone is a pretty
different method of teaching flying techniques."

Sigrun sniffed, and if I read the signs in her face right,
Fen was in deep trouble. Good. It never failed to amaze me how a centuries-old
werewolf who could rip a person apart with his bare hands could be put into his
place by a slip of a Valkyrie like Sigrun.

I looked away and smiled, pitying the General of the Ulfr
when Sigrun found him today.

The brisk air prodded my aching flesh, cooling and
tightening my sore muscles. Boy, was I glad when we entered the Bathhouse. I
never got tired of the gold-veined marble pools, the ornate carvings, the sheer
size and beauty of the bathing area. Or the amazing healing properties of the
water.

We soaked in its heat, silent, contemplating our own private
concerns. Sigrun's disapproval had got me thinking. I'd made my decision on
where to go from here. A jab of temptation urged me to confide in my friend,
but my common sense answered with a firm
no way
. Sigrun wouldn't
approve.

Now her eyes were closed, a happy smile on her face as she
soaked in the warm waters. I studied my friend for a moment and sighed. I'd
been tempted to tell her what my intentions were. But it didn't matter what she
would think or say. I'd already made up my mind. With my training for Fen's
scout team starting soon, I'd be too busy to do much else. But there was still
one obligation I had to fulfill first.

I had to see Aidan. See him up close and personal. Which
meant only one thing.

I was going to Hel.

I decided the only person I needed to tell about my trip to
Hel would be the All-Father himself. To be honest, I suspected I'd need his
permission before I set foot in Hel's realm anyway. Finding a time when old
One-Eye was alone in the Great Hall would be the trickiest part.

In the end it wasn't tricky at all. Sigrun popped her head
into my room to let me know I'd be alone at dinner. "I will be part of a
scout team making a short trip to Midgard," she explained, before
disappearing with a quick wave. I grabbed the opportunity and headed off to
Odin's Hall.

Thankfully, the cavernous space was empty, but this hall was
never deserted for very long at all. Odin paced the floor in front of his
throne, one of his ravens balancing on his shoulder as he walked. I strode up
to him, throwing a hurried glance around the hall to be certain we were totally
alone.

I bowed my head and waited.

"Speak, Valkyrie Brynhildr." His single grey eye
scrutinized me.

So I told him. And then I braced myself, watching his
expression as he scanned my face. Would he forbid me? Or try to talk me out of
it?

Whatever you do, please don't say no. I'm going, that's
that.

I exhaled only when Odin nodded, his golden helmet
reflecting the hall's many torchlights. "You will need a guide." He
snapped his fingers. A rustle of wings brought the sudden weight of his raven
to my shoulder. "Hugin will keep you out of trouble."

I frowned, eying the bird with mixed feelings. He'd better
be more helpful than the last time Odin loaned him to me.

Minutes later I traveled the Rainbow of the Gods again with
Hugin as my companion. The Bifrost still managed to be as disconcerting as
ever. A mini-tornado swirled in my stomach, accompanied by a whirling in my
head. For Asgard's main transportation system, the Bifrost scored a big fat
zero for in-transit comfort.

My feet touched solid ground, and it took me a while to
reorient myself. Tall trees and icy, stagnant air welcomed me to Hel. I'd
expected Helheim to be hot, like Muspelheim, as both realms were technically
part of the underworld. Shows how much I really knew.

I shivered, convulsion after convulsion rippling through me
as I inspected the dark forest. Shadows clung to everything, and I stepped
forward, needing to move to get some warmth into my limbs.

My feet trod a path of shattered stones that covered raw,
black soil; the stones clattered underfoot like a chorus of chattering teeth.
Ominous sounds that sent strange chills down my back. Dark trees loomed over
me, limbs creaking eerily in the still air. Every tree stood stripped of its
leaves, blackened, bark-bare and as bleak as the low sky above us. The hairs on
the back of my neck prickled, and I was sure the trees reached out to grab hold
of me. I blinked, then laughed at myself.
Scaredy-cat
. Shivering harder,
I struggled to process this strange, bone-penetrating cold. Not a breeze
stirred the icy air; no wind drifted past to shift the cold around.

I glared at Hugin.

Thanks for not telling me to bring warmer clothing,
Blackbird.

What more could I expect from a birdbrain? The bundle of
feathers probably had no idea how debilitating the cold was to me. And knowing
him, he'd just say he didn't tell me because I hadn't asked. I huffed in
silence.

The strange cold seeped into my skin, soaking into my bones.
My breath emerged warm from my lungs but didn't mist in front of my face. Bare
ground crunched beneath the soles of my sandals.

The odd, odorless quality of the air raised a prickle of
goose bumps on my arms. The place smelled like nothing. No musty odor of dried
wood, no smell of ice on the wind, promising a snowfall or a frost. I took a
deep, and loud, breath. And frowned. Maybe my nose needed fixing.

Hugin shifted, then tightened his grip on my shoulder.
"
In Hel, one cannot smell
."

"Huh? You mean you lose the ability to smell odors? Or
is it that nothing generates an odor in this dead place?"

"
Either. Both
," came the enigmatic reply.

I clicked my tongue, disgusted with the bird's convoluted
confusions. I didn't think I could get used to the bird's cryptic guidance at
all. I walked on, hurrying down the path through the blackened trees, feeling
as though a thousand dark eyes stared from the shadows as I went.

The sky hovered above, a dull, ashen grey, offering not a
hint of the time of day. No pale moon shone, no vibrant stars sparkled. No
clouds danced dull and lusterless.

"Strange place for Freya to live," I said to the
bird, pondering how the glowing beauty of Freya would fit in here.

"
Goddess Freya resides in this place, where the
goddess Hel is queen, and though Freya may not belong, she has a purpose to
fulfill here in Helheim.
"

I frowned at the words of Odin's oh-so-wise raven.
Yeah,
well, let's hope she's fulfilling her purpose and finding Aidan a cure.

The path curved, and the sounds of a battle up ahead pierced
my ears. Metal clashed and clanged, ringing in my ears without an echo. The
racket of the fight rang high and sharp, yet hollow, as if the air absorbed not
only the natural odors but also the timbre of sound.

"What are they up to?" The question stuttered
through my chattering teeth.

Just ahead of us, the trees parted to reveal a field in
which two regiments of mismatched soldiers charged and fought a fierce but
strangely bloodless battle. All around, the clang and clatter of sword on sword
spiked my senses, a needle to my awareness.

Right in front of me, one man's sword sliced into his
opponent's flesh, then dislodged with a rapid jerk, coming free without a drop
of blood marring its gleaming surface. I gasped, shock trickling through my
veins, yet still mesmerized by the horror. My gaze remained on the soldiers,
absorbing detail after detail.

A French legionnaire fought beside a Templar, whose white
robes flared as he moved, back and forth within the dance of the battle. The
red cross on his chest shone in the bleak light. A Spartan screamed, charging
his opponents; his red cloak billowed behind him as he clashed with a
kilt-bound Scot, their cries drowning each other out in a cacophony of
spiritless battle.

The color of red screamed out. In the cross and the kilt, in
the cloak, in the flag tied to a Roman's spear. But all it did was underline
the absence of blood.

"Hugin, what's going on here?" I hissed, annoyed
that the bird hadn't bothered to answer my question.

He cocked his head, his glassy eyeball seeking
clarification. "
Do you not see them fighting, Brynhildr?
"

"The blood, Hugin," I replied, raising an eyebrow.

"
There is none
," he answered.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm very well aware of the absence
of blood, Blackbird!" My annoyance drew Aidan's pet name for the feathered
pest to my lips. "Why is there no blood?"

"
Blood is life, Brynhildr. Where there is no life,
there cannot be blood
," he answered, unperturbed.

I muttered a reluctant
thank you
and stared at the
battle again. They were all dead. I shook my head.

"Why?"

I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud until Hugin answered me.
"
They are doomed to replay their battles. It is their love of
pillaging, of taking lives, that has brought them to the arms of Hel. This is
their punishment, an eternity of battle to sate the needs of even the most
ardent of soldiers
."

I loved and hated the way the bird spoke. But at least this
time he'd actually told me something significant about the realm of Hel. The
dead who belonged here were destined for eternal punishment. Eternal strife. I
studied the men who fought tirelessly on the field. They reminded me of
something. Blank, staring eyes. Emaciated limbs. Grey, papery skin.

"Zombies."

"
In your world that would be a suitable description,
but here in Hel these men can do nothing else but fight each other. They cannot
break free and attack at random. But yes, they are similar to your zombies.
They are the dead, revived to live a life of death, forever
."

I swallowed, thinking again of Aidan and his future. I had
to get him out of this awful place.

"Come on, Hugin, which way to Freya?" I just
wanted to get the hell out of Hel.

The bird flapped ahead and I followed, shivering, trudging
along for what seemed like forever. I felt no thirst, no hunger and no fatigue.
Only the biting cold.

"Hugin." I called him down. "Why am I not
hungry? It's been ages since we last ate. We've been walking for hours
now."

"
In the world of the Dead, only the Dead shall
suffer at the hands of fate. The living shall remain immune to the touch of
Death
."

I nodded, thankful for the information. Hugin was a regular
chatterbox today, at least compared to the last time he'd been my guide. On our
mission to find Brisingamen for Freya, Hugin had been painfully reticent, only
providing information when I asked a direct question, and sometimes not even
then. It was bad enough that Aidan couldn't hear him speak, and worse when the
darned bird actually declined to answer our questions. He'd pissed me off
pretty royally last time around. So much so that, on more than one occasion,
I'd had to quell the urge to wring his feathery little neck.

The raven launched off my shoulder, rising high into the
bleak sky. Guess he didn't plan on answering any further questions, then. I
didn't see anyone else jumping up and down to offer to guide me around this
dead world.

So I followed in silence.

The cold snuck beneath my cloak, and I pulled it closer. My
wings fluttered at my back, reminding me I could fly, that I could really just
take off and fly with Hugin. But I figured I'd stick to the ground for the
moment. I'd tested my sore muscles that morning, and they were still stiff and
unforgiving. The bruises on my skin shone yellow and purple, and no amount of
salve or soaking in hot pools was able to ease their vicious color. At least
they didn't hurt as bad as they looked.

I stared up at the dark speck that was my feathered guide,
then shook my head. No way in Hel was I going to risk making a fool of myself
again in front of Hugin. No way.

Hugin certainly knew where he was going. Not five minutes
had gone by when he descended toward me in a wide curve, landing smoothly on a
blackened branch of a dark, shadowed tree nearby. He turned his head slowly,
peering down the path, and I knew we were almost there.

On the hill ahead of us sat a longhouse, the polished wood
out of sync with the dead black of the trees we'd just passed. Could such an
unglamorous structure be Freya's Hel-house?

A few moments later, drawing closer, I was sure.

Two large statues flanked the doorway, each guarding the
entrance, a fierce expression on their beautiful stone faces. The wings drew my
attention: raised and curving outward, at once threatening and welcoming.

Valkyries.

I shoved the door open, a rush of welcome warmth bathing my
skin and hair in loving greeting, soothing the ache in my bones. Inside, the
large room looked a lot like Valhalla, with its huge beams and spiraling carved
pillars holding up a monstrous roof. Dozens of empty tables lined either side
of the hall, and a clear pathway ran down the center all the way to a raised
dais. The lighter wood of the floor and the tables complimented the warm red of
the pillars and rafters.

The room resonated warmth. But where were the occupants of
this hall? And where was Freya? I swallowed my curiosity and walked to the
empty dais.

"Ah, welcome to my humble home, Brynhildr."

The voice floated around me, twisting its way hypnotically
into my mind. The intoxicating warmth of love and fealty swelled within me,
forced there by the magical allure of the voice, but I fought down the
enchantment. I blinked, glad I was able to hold off the thrall of this powerful
goddess.