Destined (Desolation #3) (4 page)

“We serve the young mistress,” the Hound intoned. His voice sounded flat, and somehow less resonant than I thought it had been before when I last heard him speak in the accompaniment of Helena and Desi. Then I realized: I was used to hearing the Hounds speak in unison. Not once had I ever heard one of them speak alone. Nor had I ever seen one without the other. I craned my neck to locate his companion, but he was not in sight. Only this one Hound stood before me, his dark eyes fixed on my face.

“The young mistress?” I asked, when my thoughts singled in on what he had said.

“We serve the young mistress,” the Hound repeated.

“What about the grand mistress?” I asked. Helena had created the Hounds to be her own personal bodyguards. When Loki had overthrown and imprisoned her at the bottom of Ygdrasyll, she ordered the Hounds to stay with Loki’s daughter—the young mistress. Desi. Helena’s goal was to have them one day lead Desi to her prison, which was exactly what they did. 

The Hound clenched his jaw—a greater show of emotion than I’d ever seen from the creature. “We serve the young mistress,” he repeated.

li’Morl smoothed the front of his tunic and smiled ingratiatingly at me. “It seems he serves the young mistress. Does this mean something to you?”

“Where is your companion?” I asked the Hound, stepping past li’Morl, ignoring both his question and his person. I stopped when I stood close to the Hound, when I could look into his black eyes, and see the rise and fall of his chest.

The Hound fisted his hands—I noticed the tendons beneath his collarbone flex as he did. “He is no more,” he said at last.

“No more.” I shook my head sharply, trying to make sense of the Hound’s words—of his very presence here in the wheelhouse. The Hounds were created by Hel—truly glorified dogs. That one spoke to me, seemingly of his own volition, was a marvel.

The Hound met my gaze and nodded his head in the barest of movements.

“And yet you said “we”,” I pressed. “‘
We
serve the young mistress,’ you said.”

The Hound did not look away. “I . . . misspoke,” he said. “It is only I. Helonius no longer . . . exists.”

“What happened to him?” I asked before I could stop myself. I was vaguely aware of Odin joining us, the others shifting to make room for him. Everyone was as intent on the answers as I, but I didn’t let myself feel concern for any of them. Hope tingled in my belly, threatening to rise, to sweep me away on its promise of Desi-returned. I swallowed, forcing the hope down, forcing it to remain hidden away until I knew what the appearance of this Hound might mean.

“The grand mistress, she . . .” The Hound shuddered and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat. Moisture glistened under his eyes and along his neck. He raised his chin. “She bargained his life in a duel to the death with the pet of the king of the Svarts. Helonius fought valiantly, but in the end the zhaghmar creature overcame him and . . . and devoured him.”

The pain in the Hound’s eyes radiated in almost palpable waves. “The grand mistress laughed,” he added.

And I understood. Helonius had been his brother, his companion through what might have been centuries, eons even. And Helena had treated his life as though it meant nothing.

“We no longer serve the grand mistress, but the young mistress only,” the Hound intoned. He dropped his head to his chest for a moment before looking up again. “I mean,
I
serve the young mistress.”

I reached out and placed my hand on the Hound’s arm, giving a small squeeze. “I am sorry for your loss, friend.”

The Hound tipped his head forward in gratitude. 

“It seems you had little need for my translation services after all,” li’Morl said from behind me, his voice as cool as glass. 

“Yet, it seems your presence is still fortuitous.” Odin’s deep voice rumbled along the Bifrost. “Come. Let us return to Asgard. It would seem we have much to discuss regarding Helena and the Svarts.” Stepping past me, Odin addressed the Hound.

“Horonius.”

The Hound considered Odin for the space of two heartbeats. “You are the Great Gardian Odin?”

“I am.” Odin bowed his head in acknowledgement. He held his arm out, beckoning to Horonius. “Will you return with us and share what information you have on Helena and Desolation?”

“We—I—serve the young mistress. Yes, I will accompany you.”

Odin moved away then, and Horonius fell into step beside him. We returned to Asgard, a journey of mere moments that felt like an eternity to me as every footfall echoed the beating of my heart. Every beat, every step rang with my hope. Rang with the name of my beloved.

De-si.

De-si.

De-si.

In Odin’s palace, we joined him around a table while white-clad children served us fruit and drink, meats and cheeses. The children giggled when Heimdall glared at them as they tried to dodge him and avoid getting poked by one of his large fingers. He didn’t exactly fit at Odin’s table, though the enormous god had been a guest often enough to know how to accommodate himself—and how to tease the children.

Horonius refused to sit or take nourishment, electing instead to stand behind my right shoulder. I had to angle my body in order to keep him in my line of sight. Since our encounter on the Bridge he had refused to meet my gaze—or anyone else’s it seemed. li’Morl sat across the table, an amused smile on his face and a glint in his eye. When Odin asked Horonius to tell the story of how he came to be standing in Asgard, li’Morl leaned forward, his elbows propped on the table.

I schooled my features, striving to hide the turmoil in my mind and heart. My thoughts swirled through memories of Helheimer, of the soul eaters, of Knowles, of Loki’s throne room and his cronies. Memories of Desi, both terrible and glorious. Memories of when she glowed with golden light, memories of when she was mine.

Memories of the black-as-night tendrils that snaked across her skin and the look of death in her eyes when she was under the influence of Loki’s dark poison.

Memories of that terrible storm that swept across the battlefield on the day she cut Solomon’s Ring from her finger and broke Loki’s hold on her. 

Memories of the last moment I saw her.

And now Horonius stood at my shoulder, betraying Helena’s confidences, claiming allegiance to my love, offering me the first real hope I’d had in so long that Desi might yet live. That she still might come back to me.

For the hundredth time I pushed such speculations aside so I could concentrate on the conversation unfolding around me. It seemed Helena had been rousing the spirits of the inhabitants of both Muspelheim and Svartalheim, making wild promises that mostly involved gifting them each Midgard—a world they could not both possess and was certainly not hers to give.

“You say she coaxed the Svart king from his castle? I’ve not heard of him stepping beyond its walls since the attacks on his life several eons ago.” Odin leaned forward, his hands clasped before him.

“Yes, my Lord. Our mistress lured him with a contest he could not refuse—a battle of wit and strength. My brother and I are known throughout all the worlds for our bravery and single-mindedness in protecting our grand mistress.” 

“I have heard the claims, yes.” 

“The grand mistress chained me to a platform far above the arena—though had she only commanded me, I would not have strayed from my perch. Perhaps she saw a weakness in me even I did not know existed.” He allowed his eyes to rise from the tabletop but stopped short of reaching Odin’s face.

“I am sure she knew you would have rushed to your brother’s aide, had you been able,” Odin said in a soothing tone.

Horonius nodded once before continuing his story. “The grand mistress made a procession to the center of the arena, Helonius at her shoulder. She wore little clothing and made a great show of demonstrating for the eager crowd that she was unarmed.”

“And in the arena—there is no magic. Is that correct?” li’Morl asked.

“Yes, Lord.”

li’Morl’s eyes twinkled. “Fascinating.”

“Helonius is—was—a brave and fierce warrior. I felt certain he would prevail against any foe. But then . . . then the king of the Svarts ordered the great gate be opened. At first there was no sound, even the raucous crowd had quieted. For several long heartbeats I was sure the whole thing would end with laughter and perhaps a few drinks around the old king’s table. Not once did I consider that I had embraced my brother for the last time.”

Horonius bowed his head and took several deep breaths.

“Take your time, my son,” Odin said. 

A child appeared at Horonius’ elbow and held forward a tray on which sat a cup, its sides glistening with condensation. The Hound at last reached out and drew the cup to his lips, draining its contents in three gulps.

“My thanks,” he said quietly, placing the empty cup on the child’s tray. She smiled at him before dashing away.

“When finally a trumpeting sound was heard from the shadows of the open cage, the crowd erupted with shouts of delight. My brother stood; unmoving, unconcerned surely, while I craned my neck to see what creature so excited the crowd. I felt certain the grand mistress would not willingly put herself in harm’s way, so while I still felt unsure of what was going on I was unwilling to think that things could go badly.

“And of course Helonius was trained—created—to put the grand mistress’s life before his own, no matter the cost, no matter the circumstances. 

“When his weapons materialized in his hands and I saw his body stiffen, I strained to see what he saw—a creature unlike any I had ever laid eyes on—or dared even imagine.” Though his skin had taken on a greenish shade of gray and his hands flexed at his side, Horonius continued. “A zhaghmar appeared, lumbering from the shadows, raising its mammoth trunk, longer than a man, into the air and trumpeting with ear-splitting cries. 

“At first it moved slowly, its black eyes rolling to take in the crowd, even to take note of me, lashed to the column above it. It trumpeted again and I wished I could cover my ears with my hands as Helonius did. 

“And then the zhaghmar saw the grand mistress. He sniffed the air, pawed with his great clawed feet in the dirt. The mistress laughed and said, ‘Come to me, darling. Let’s take a look at you.’

“But the creature did not come gently as her tone might have invited. It shook its head, its wild black mane quivering in the strange silver-light of the Svartalheim sun. Helonius stepped in front of our mistress and crossed his weapons, the ankh and scepter, in front of his chest as he had been taught to do when we were boys in Pharaoh’s court. But . . .” His words caught in his throat and it took several coughs to clear it so he could continue.

“Helonius fought valiantly, but the top of his head only reached the creature’s belly. Enraged by the crowd’s taunting and the nearness of our mistress—a tempting treat for him, I’m sure—the zhaghmar made quick work of my brother. It wasn’t long before the creature’s scales gleamed with his blood.”

I glanced at the Hound, but saw his features set and his mouth in a hard line, revealing nothing of the turmoil that must have raged within. 

“The creature wrapped its trunk around the mistresses’ neck, but stopped when its master called an end. The king stood then, and clapped. Clapped! And my mistress joined him in his laughter. She laughed while my brother lay at her feet, his blood staining the dirt beneath her sandals.” Finally his voice revealed his venom and his eyes blazed with fury—he seemed powerless to stop now, the words the only thing holding a flood of emotion at bay.

“He died for her, believing her to be in mortal danger. Though truly, even if he had known it was not but a game, he would have served her however she asked. But in that moment—” He looked upward, allowing himself to peer directly into Odin’s eyes for the first time. “Lord, forgive me, but in that moment I vowed I would never again serve her. She did not even stoop to straighten his shendyt or grant him any form of dignity. She stepped on his back as she left the arena to resume her negotiations with the king.

“I hung on the column through the day, while the crowd screamed in morbid delight as the zhaghmar devoured Helonius, and watched my brother’s blood dry in the dirt. I was still fettered when the crowd disbursed at last and the zhaghmar was coaxed back into its cave.

“It was not until the next day that I was cut from the ropes and thrown into the chariot that carried my mistress to the Door Between Worlds. She said naught but that I should stand and take my place by her side. That she had need of my services. And I . . . I did as she commanded.”

“Then how is it you’re here?” I asked. My voice sounded foreign, out of place in the room that seemed to have been filled, shaped and molded by the Hound’s tragic tale. 

“It wasn’t until I saw her beginning the same negotiations with the king of Muspelheim, this time sacrificing a full half of her entourage—the strange rock-like creatures, the genii—to feed the Giants at the king’s table, that I understood she cared nothing for us. We were her children; we had served her for so long, doing exactly as she commanded for longer than I dare remember. Yet she is willing to sacrifice every one of us for the pleasure of those whose allegiance she wishes to secure.”