Iron Axe (34 page)

They stayed like that for a long time, with Ranadar and Kalessa standing guard, while the fires died down all around the forest, and warriors and citizens alike from both sides found refuge in the lake.

At last, Danr and Aisa parted. The Axe lay on the beach, still glowing like a demon. Kalessa eyed it speculatively.

“Don't,” Aisa said.

“What do we do now?” Ranadar said. His voice was flat. “Everything's destroyed. My
Talashka
is dead.”

New sorrow speared Danr's heart. Gingerly he picked up the Axe. The power rushed through him, but this time he was ready for it, and he was able to hold it in, though it was like checking a team of unhappy stallions. The Axe demanded to be used.

“Twist us, Ranadar,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Where?” the elf asked. “There's so much energy about, I could probably send us halfway across the world.”

“Anywhere you want. Just go.”

Shrugging as if nothing mattered to him anymore, Ranadar drew patterns in the air with his fingers, the way Bund had drawn them with her stick. He clearly wasn't as skilled as his parents, for it took him longer. The fires were dying down now, but a small aftershock rumbled through the ground as a reminder of the previous earthquake, and the Fae and Stane in the lake looked at one another in fear.

“Ready,” Ranadar said, and nausea overtook Danr. There was the usual
wrench
,
and the four of them were standing in the low, sandy cave with the tree root ceiling. No, not the
four of them. Five. Queen Vesha of the Stane was there as well, looking entirely confused. Water streamed from her mail shirt, and she gripped a long sword with runes etched on it. Her head touched the ceiling.

Death sat in her rocking chair, knitting needles clicking in her lap. The candles still burned on the table next to her, the heavy door in the cave wall remained firmly shut, and the thin thread still made a chain around her neck.

Ranadar looked about in bewilderment. “This isn't where—”

“I pulled you here, dear,” Death said. “You know who I am.”

The elven prince noticed her for the first time and paled. So did Kalessa, who knelt. Vesha's face also went white, and she dropped her sword. Aisa moved over to them to make hurried explanations while Danr approached Death's chair. His mouth was dry.

“I have it,” he said simply.

“So I see.” Death rocked faster and her fingers were tense around the needles. Her lips were tight. “What do you intend to do with it?”

For once, Danr felt no compulsion to answer. It was probably because his actions spoke for him. Danr raised the Axe. Death stopped her breath.

“Wait!” Vesha flung herself in front of him. Her eyes were wild. “You can't! You have no idea what we sacrificed for this.”

Danr looked at her. “I know exactly what you sacrificed. What
everyone
sacrificed. This is a wrong.”

“The death of our people is a wrong.” Vesha was trying to draw herself up in the cavern, but the ceiling was too low. “The Fae—”

“Paid a heavy price for what they did,” Danr finished for her. “The Stane paid, too. You're only afraid of what she'll do.”

“Yes,” Death whispered.

“Aren't we all?” Vesha's low voice had a quaver in it. “You don't know what'll happen if you free her.”

“Yes,” Death whispered again.

Danr hesitated, but only for a moment. “But we
do
know what'll happen if I leave her. And that's worse.”

The Axe left a glowing trail as he swung it through the air, and the blade met the thin thread with an earsplitting screech. A cold shock bolted up his arms and shoulder. Darkness and light exploded in all directions. The earth rocked. Dust and small rocks filtered down from the ceiling.

“Yesssss.” Death rose from her chair, leaving her knitting behind. She stretched, and the sound of her joints popping was the sound of suns exploding before they went out. Her presence filled the chamber, pressing everyone back with a force Danr couldn't name, and her voice became rich and deep, like stones rubbing together. “Step aside, little ones. I want a parade.”

Danr and everyone else stepped hurriedly back. Vesha pressed herself against the back wall, clearly wishing she were somewhere, anywhere, else, but where, Danr wondered, could she hide from Death?

From nowhere appeared a stream of
draugr
, thousands of them: elves, sprites, fairies, trolls, giants, dwarves, humans, orcs, and even merfolk. They paraded past Danr and Death, leaping, hopping, storming for the door, and somehow the cavern was large enough to fit them all, even the giants. Joy lit every face.
“Released! Released!”
they cried in a thousand gleeful voices, and their happiness leaked into Danr's eyes and brought little tears.
“Released!”

With a deep clatter and an absolutely appropriate groan of hinges, Death dragged the wooden door open, and the
draugr
flowed through it, neither hesitating nor pausing before they crossed the threshold into the darkness beyond.

A familiar figure separated from the stream. Grandmother Bund paused at the door. Danr's heart lightened, and he couldn't help smiling. The pain was gone from her face, and her body was straight. She waved her stick at them. A simple joy filled Danr, and he ducked his head.

Good for you,
she mouthed. Then she turned and strode through the door with the other spirits.

Danr caught sight of White Halli in the crowd and his breath caught. The Fae must have killed him during the battle at the lake. Halli paused. The other
draugr
rushed around him. Halli's eyes met Danr's for just a moment. Danr held a cold breath heavy with guilt. Then Halli saluted Danr with a wry grin.

“Released,”
he said, and the word carried more meaning than ever before. Danr let the breath out, long and shuddering. The guilt, every last particle, went with it, and he felt weak and shaky inside.

Halli turned and stepped through the door. For a moment, Danr thought he caught a glimpse of a little boy on the other side, reaching out his arms for his papa. Danr wiped at his eyes for what must have been the fortieth time that week. Aisa squeezed his hand.

The last
draugr
slid through the doorway, though the door itself remained open. Nothing was visible beyond the lintel. Danr was enormously curious about what might lie beyond it, but not curious enough to actually ask for a look. Death gave a world of a sigh, picked up her knitting, and took up her chair again.

“Thank you,” she said in her new rich voice. “You have restored balance.”

Danr didn't know what to say to that, so he simply nodded.

“But,” Death continued, her needles moving and clicking
without fail, “your actions have, in their turn, created imbalance.”

Danr tensed, and his hands tightened around the Axe. “What do you mean, lady?”

“I mean, child, that no one in history has ever performed such a service for the Nine or the Three or me. You created a debt, and it must be repaid.”

“Oh.” None of this seemed quite real to Danr, and he felt completely at sea about it. Only Aisa beside him kept him from floundering completely. “There isn't any need for—”

“Shush. I'll decide that. Aisa, come forth.”

Aisa shot Danr a look and came forward. Danr started to come with her, but she waved him back with a small gesture. She was literally facing Death, and without flinching. After all the events of the day so far, Danr hadn't thought he could be impressed again, but he was wrong.

“You've vanquished your elven hunger, I see,” said Death.

“Yes, lady,” Aisa said, her head held high, and Danr felt a flash of pride for her.

“Still, the elves stole something else from you, something no agency on Erda can restore. Fortunately I am not of Erda.”

Aisa said, “I don't understand, lady.”

“They took your fertility, dear.” Death tapped her chest, and Aisa staggered. “From death comes life. Be restored!”

A tiny moment arrived. It hung in the air like summer mist, then finally passed. Aisa regained her balance. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Kalessa, come forward.”

Looking a little startled, Kalessa obeyed. “Lady, I didn't—”

“Do much here, I know. Your contributions have been rewarded with that sword you carry. But know this, girl: your deeds will not die with you. The bards will tell your
stories long after you have passed through my door. Be renowned!”

Kalessa flushed. “I . . . thank you, lady.”

“Hamzu, Truth-Teller, Trollboy, Danr, come forward.”

“Lady,” Danr began, “I can't think what you might give—”

“My son?”

Danr turned, and he was no longer in a cave, but on a hillside just above Alfgeir's farm, the place where he and his mother came to escape the daily drudgery of the farm. The day was cloudy, so he felt no headache, the leaves were green, and the grass was soft beneath his feet.

Halldora, his mother, stood next to him on the hill. She was young and vital, her long black hair sleek and glossy, her face unlined by fear or worry or sickness, though he topped her by more than a head. She wore a simple blue dress he remembered as one of her favorites, and she smelled of flour and wood smoke.

“Mother?” His throat thickened and his entire body shook. “Mother!”

“Danr!” She threw her arms around him, and he realized he was no longer holding the Axe, but he didn't care.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Where are we?”

She pulled him down to sit beside her on the hill with the callused hands he remembered, the hands that had soothed him when he was afraid or hurt, the hands that had long ago fallen still and cold. “We have only a moment, my Danr. We mustn't waste it.”

“I've missed you so much.” He was trying not to cry, and feeling stupid about it. “Every day, I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” She put an arm around him, barely able to reach, and her touch returned him to childhood and happier days. “But we'll see each other again, and I have things to say.”

He knuckled his eyes. “Then tell me.”

“I'm sorry, my Danr. So very sorry.”

That took him by surprise. “Sorry? For what?”

“For all the mistakes I made. For leaving you the way I did. For not telling you about your father. And for making you think you were a monster.”

“You didn't make me think I was a monster, Mother.” He turned to face her so he could study her face, etch it into his memory before it was taken away again. “Never that.”

“I did. Because of me, you thought there was an evil creature inside you, one you needed to deny. But it was the world that needed to change, not you. I'm so sorry. Always know, my darling boy, that I'm proud of you and everything you've ever done.”

He touched her face, feeling adult now. “You don't need to be sorry, Mother. I'm not.”

“I will try,” she said with the little laugh he knew so well.

“How did you become a truth-teller?” he asked suddenly.

“Kech was stuck in a loveless arranged marriage because he was prince,” she said quietly. “We met on the mountain and fell in love. When I became pregnant with you, we journeyed to see the Three, in order to ask if the world would ever accept a troll who loved a human. The answer was a harsh one—it would happen, but not while either of us lived. And they knocked out my splinters. Your father was appalled and terrified, and he went back to his wife. I was left with you and the truth.” She rose to her knees and kissed his cheek. “But I wouldn't change a thing. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. Never forget that, my son. Never.”

“I won't,” he said, “I—”

And then Danr was back in the cave, clutching the Iron Axe to his chest. The hillside and his mother were both gone.

“I trust that is reward enough?” Death said from her chair.

“What happened?” Aisa asked. “You're pale.”

“Thank you, lady,” Danr whispered. “Just . . . thank you.”

Death nodded. “Be well.”

“You should have this,” he added quickly, and held out the Axe to her. “We can't keep it.”

Vesha made a small sound but didn't move from her spot at the back of the cavern.

Death took it from him. “Are you sure? You put it together, you sacrificed your friend for it, and you have to live with the deaths it caused. You earned the right to wield it.”

“No,” Danr said firmly. “It must never appear in the world again.”

“As you wish.” She set the Axe on the table beside the candles. It vanished, but also didn't vanish. Somehow it was there and not there at once, untouchable until the end of time. “And now, Ranadar, step forward.”

“Me?” Ranadar came hesitantly toward her. “But I didn't do anything.”

“Without your willingness to turn traitor, Danr and his friends would never have freed me,” Death replied amiably. “This must be rewarded. And there's another one I owe.”

“I don't understand,” Ranadar said.

Death set her knitting aside, picked up one of the candles, and waved it at a shadow near the door. The shadow faded, revealing Talfi.

Danr's heart jerked, and he grabbed Aisa's hand. It was cold.

“Talashka!”
Ranadar ran toward him, but when he tried to touch Talfi, his hands went through him.

“Release!”
said Talfi.

“He's not alive, dear,” Death said.

“Then you know what I want,” Ranadar said. “What
he
would want.”

“The dead can't return to life. It's just not possible.”

“Except Talfi—” Aisa began.

“Talfi died long ago. The power of the Axe only kept his body going. Even I can't bring him back. Unless . . .”

Hope flickered in Danr's chest, and he kept his breath close. A similar hope blossomed in Ranadar's eyes. “Unless what?”