Runemarks (34 page)

“That’s not just any snake,” said Loki. “Maddy, allow me to introduce Jormungand. Otherwise known in polite circles as the World Serpent, Thor’s Bane, or the Dragon at Yggdrasil’s Root. My son.”

9

Far away in World’s End, in a secure chamber of the Universal City, an earnest discussion was under way. The Council of Twelve had been in debate for a number of hours now, following the disquieting news from the distant Uplands.

As a result of this disturbing information, the Council had been convened with a haste that seemed to many unseemly. In normal circumstances there would have been several pre-Council discussion meetings, a week of prayer and fasting, a lengthy meditation on the Elementary, Intermediary, and Advanced States of Bliss, and, finally, a gathering of elders armed with the Word, from whose learned ranks would be chosen the twelve members who would invoke the Nameless.

This present gathering had been assembled in a matter of days, which, in the opinion of its spokesman, Magister Emeritus Number 369 (a tiny octogenarian in scarlet robes, whose giant throne of office dwarfed him to the size of a small monkey), showed a rashness of purpose that was both dangerous and undignified.

However, the others had not agreed, and as a result there had been as little ceremony as possible as the twelve members—all high-ranking officials of the Order—had been chosen by lot for the privilege of Communion.

Among them were the Magister Emeritus himself; his colleague Magister 73838, a mere Junior at seventy-five; and a number of other Magisters of varying seniority, including the Order’s oldest member, Magister Number 23.

All had fasted, prayed, and purged; all had spoken the relevant canticles and meditated deeply on the Word. Now, at last, they were gathered in the Council Chamber, a large auditorium at the center of the Universal City, where a dozen rows of empty pews encircled a single large conference table of heavy carved oak.

Like many of the Order’s most secret ceremonies, Communion with the Nameless was not an especially interesting spectacle. Anyone watching would have found it dull in the extreme—just twelve old men in red robes sitting around a table with the Good Book on a reading stand in the center. Several of them looked asleep; it might have been a dull seminar, with the reader slumped over his lectern in the dusty afternoon sun.

Even the Word, uttered an hour later by every man at the table simultaneously, might not have been easily detectable to a spectator. It came as a shiver in the air, as if a small child had skimmed a stone across the reflection of the Worlds, causing a series of widening ripples that went all the way to the far side.

Magister Number 23 felt it first. He was the most senior member of the Council of Twelve, a man as dry and shrunken as a winter apple who, it was rumored, could trace his parentage right back to the childhood of the Order.

O Nameless,
he said, and a tremor went through the members at the table as each man—all of whom had experienced Communion at least two dozen times in their lives—struggled with the same sensation that had so nearly broken Elias Rede.

Of course, these men were Elders of the Order. That made a difference; and yet even Magister 23 felt the burden heavy on his shoulders as the chill presence of the Nameless filled his mind.

I HEAR YOU,
said a Voice that resonated through every mind in the Council of Twelve and sent a shiver up the spine of every Magister, Examiner, or scrub in the Order itself.

Magister Number 23 felt the weight of that Voice like a mountain upon him. At the back of his mind he seemed to glimpse the far distant shore of the Nameless’s domain, a place where Perfect Order ruled supreme and perfect bliss was served out to such of the faithful who could endure it.

The Magister wondered whether he
could
endure it. Even after his long meditations he feared his mind was all Chaos, and the fear he had so assiduously hidden during all his career as a Magister bobbed to the surface like a rotten cork.

O Nameless,
he thought.
Forgive my doubts. And forgive this delay in contacting You on a matter that concerns You closely. One colleague has already died—we sensed it in Communion—

There was irritation in the Voice.
What, did you think to gain immortality in My service?

Forgive me
, said the Magister.
But our colleague had taken a prisoner. A man he was sure was a general of the enemy—Odin himself, whom we had thought long dead. But our colleague was killed before this man could be Interrogated, and we have not yet managed to identify the enemy’s associates, although we believe that one of them may be his half brother, Loki—

I know this,
interrupted the Voice.
I presume that you have not entered Communion with Me simply to give Me information I already possess. How does it proceed?

O Nameless,
said the Magister.
A development has occurred.

A development?

There was a pause that lifted the hairs on the Magister’s neck. Then, hesitantly, he began to explain. How a parson of the Folk had acquired the Word in Communion with Elias Rede; how they had formed an alliance with the Faërie and were even now in pursuit of their enemy as he worked his way toward Netherworld—

But it’s all right,
added the Magister hastily.
Our agent has it under control. The enemy will be stopped in time. He will—

Be silent!

Another pause, during which all twelve members of the Council felt their thoughts being rifled by a presence immeasurably superior and entirely without compassion. Elsewhere in World’s End the ripples were felt: heads ached, stomachs griped, eyes crossed, and a sensation of icy rage swept through every member of the Order as its Founder searched—with increasing urgency—for the information It sought.

Half-seen images flickered through their minds—images that might be visions, prophecies, or dreams: a woman in wolf skin, a woman with two faces, a Hill that led to Netherworld, a girl…

I see him not. It is unclear. The Lands of Chaos cloud My sight—

The images stopped. Then came a moment of eerie calm…

I see him. Yes. And—

Now came another of those tantalizing images—

—a symbol written in dark red. They sensed it as a glyph of power, but even Magister 23 hesitated to identify it. The Nameless, however, was quick to react.

In a moment a sudden terrible blast tore through the minds of the Council of Twelve. Eleven of them collapsed outright; Magister 23 suffered a massive stroke and died on the spot, Magisters 73838 and 369 suffered permanent brain damage, and all the Council members developed gushing nosebleeds.

Trickery!
hissed the Nameless.
Trickery, incompetence, and lies!

Throughout the Order, people collapsed; heads ached and elderly Magisters lost bowel control as the Voice of the Nameless vented Its displeasure in full. Then It seemed to calm a little. Its fury ebbed from homicidal rage to a glacial lull.

Magister Number 262—the one member of the Council of Twelve who had remained conscious—pressed both hands to his spouting nose.
What is it, O Nameless?
he thought desperately.
What does it mean?

There was a long, ominous silence. Then the Voice in his mind dropped to a purr.

It matters not,
the Nameless said.
I have planned for this too.

Once more the Magister shivered as the Nameless shuffled minds throughout the Order as if they were nothing more to It than a pack of cards. Images flickered into his mind, too many to identify: faces familiar and unfamiliar, landscapes from nightmare.

When it was over, the Voice spoke again, and this time It addressed the Magister by his true name.

Fortune Goodchild,
It said, and every man in the Order heard his own true name spoken and shivered.
Too long have you sat in comfort and complacency here in your fortress of World’s End. Too long have you nursed your little empire, forgetting who
really
rules the world. Now is the time to prove your loyalty. The Seer-folk have shown themselves at last. I knew they would; I feel their presence. The battleground is chosen, the lines drawn. We march today.

Today?
whispered the Magister.

Do you have some criticism of My strategy, Fortune Goodchild?
said the Nameless.

No, no,
said Fortune hastily.
Of course not, O Nameless. It’s simply—ah—it’s a month’s hard march to the valley of the Strond. By the time we get there—

We’re not going to the valley of the Strond.

Then where do we march?
said the Magister, thinking,
Oh, you fool, you had to ask.

The Nameless caught his thought, and for a second Fortune Goodchild cringed under the weight of Its terrible amusement.

Where else?
It said.
To Netherworld.

10

“Your son?” said Maddy. “Gods, Loki, is there anyone here you’re
not
related to?”

Loki gave a sigh. “You know, I was once…involved…with a demon called Angrboda. She was a changeling, a child of Chaos, and she liked to experiment. The results were sometimes—
exotic,
that’s all.”

The giant snake flexed its jaws. It smelled worse than anything Maddy had ever encountered before: a leaden stench of venom, oil, and charnel house. Its eyes were like pockets of tar, its body as thick as a man’s.

Legend had it that the World Serpent was once so large that only the One Sea could contain it and that it had grown to encircle the Middle World, moving down toward Yggdrasil to feed upon its roots. In fact, it was smaller, but it was still the largest snake that Maddy had ever seen, and there was a disquieting intelligence in those evil eyes.

“It looks as if it understands,” she said.

“Well, of course he understands,” said Loki. “You don’t think they’d leave a
stupid
creature to guard me, do you?”

“To guard you?” said Maddy. “Do you mean when you were a prisoner here?”

“Quick, aren’t you?” said Loki irritably. “We’ve got forty-eight minutes left,” he said, reading from the deathwatch Hel had given him, “and if I have to go through every little detail a dozen times—”

“All right, I’m sorry,” said Maddy. “It’s just that—if it’s your
son,
then why—?”

“That’s just their idea of humor,” said Loki. “To have me tormented by my own son—not that I was much of a father, I’m afraid—”

Once more the World Serpent flexed its jaws.

“Oh, do shut up,” Loki told it. “I’m back here now.” He turned to Maddy. “His coils go all the way down to the river Dream,” he said, indicating the snake’s long body. “Haven’t you ever dreamed of snakes? Yes? That was Jormungand, or some Aspect of him, slithering through the dreamworld into your mind. That’s how with his help I reached the river and made my escape, in my fiery Aspect, into Dream and from there, at last, into living flesh.”

“The snake doesn’t seem too pleased about it,” said Maddy.

“Yes. Well. I…” Loki looked embarrassed. “I believe he’s annoyed because—well—I promised I’d free him when I made my escape.”

“Free him?” said Maddy. “But I thought you said
he
was guarding
you.
”

“That’s the clever bit,” said Loki. “Remember, all this is a
fortress of dreams.
Nothing in Netherworld has a definite shape; everything you see comes from the minds that are imprisoned here. That includes our friend…” Loki indicated the World Serpent. “Now, you and I both know that I’m not fond of snakes. And this being Netherworld, and nightmares being more or less coin of the realm, what could be more natural than to appoint a snake—and not just any snake, but
the World Serpent
—as my guard? And so, in a way,
I
brought him here—or at least I summoned this Aspect of him. And until I free it—back into the
real
world—then he’s just another prisoner. Here forever. Just like the rest of them.”

As he spoke, the snake gave a louder hiss, and droplets of venom clouded the air.

“Oh, stop it,” said Loki. “I mean, did you
really
think I was going to let you loose after what happened last time? Last time,” he told Maddy, “not only did he change the tides of the One Sea, flood the Middle World, swallow the Thunderer, hammer and all, but by the time they got him under control, the whole Nine Worlds were full of his wormholes, with the armies of Chaos passing through like mice through a piece of Ridings cheese…” He leveled his devastating smile at the World Serpent. “Still, Jormungand, old son,” he said brightly. “Or can I call you Jorgi for short? I like Jorgi. It sounds cheerful and unthreatening. Friendly, even. What do you say?”

Across the dizzy space that separated them, the World Serpent spat a stream of venom that missed Loki but took a chunk out of the rock wall.

Loki gave Maddy a nervous grin. “He’s fine.”

“Look,” said Maddy. “Fascinating though this tour of your relatives may be, I thought we were here to rescue my father…”

“And so we are, with Jorgi’s help.”

Maddy looked at the giant snake as it circled, still chained to its rock. “You thought
that
would help us?”

“He helped me. If we can get Thor into Dream—”

“Dream?” said Maddy in surprise. “But
I
thought—”

“Well, he can’t escape through Hel,” he said. “You’d need a body for that, of course, and as far as I know, we don’t have a spare.”

“Oh.” For a moment Maddy was at a loss. She’d focused so strongly on the idea of rescue that such practicalities had never occurred to her.

Loki knew it; had counted on it, in fact, in his dealings with the Whisperer. Thor freed into Dream was one thing, but Thor re-embodied and out for revenge—
that
he could definitely do without. Still, first things first, he told himself. It was a long way out of Netherworld, and even Dream was not without risk.

He gave Jormungand his cheeriest smile. “Better late than never,” he said.

The creature gave a silent hiss.

“But you can’t free it,” protested Maddy. “Quite apart from the damage it could do, ripping holes between the Worlds, won’t it rip
you
apart the moment you—”

“Thanks for that,” said Loki dryly. Even in Aspect, his face was pale. “Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind. But with”—he glanced at the deathwatch around his neck—“forty-three minutes left to go, I’m running short of good ideas. As for damage, I’m hoping that can work to our benefit.”

“How?”

“Well, for a start, we could use a diversion. Netherworld isn’t going to sit quiet forever, you know, and as soon as it senses the disruption we’ve caused, it’s going to send something—some
one
—to investigate. I’m hoping that by the time that happens, Jorgi here will have covered our tracks. If I’m right, it should at least buy us a little time.”

“I see,” said Maddy. “And if you’re not?”

“If I’m not,” he said, “it shouldn’t trouble either of us for long. Now take my hand.”

Maddy took it and felt his fingers clamp down on hers. There was a brief sensation of
sidestepping
—

“Don’t let go,” Loki warned. “You’re not going to want to be around when Jorgi gets loose.”

On the circling rock the World Serpent writhed and tore at its chains. The stench of its venom redoubled; the air was mulled with its secretions.

And then, quite suddenly, the chains weren’t there.

It was almost comic. For a second Jormungand struggled against thin air, its jaws arcing into nothingness, its leaden coils slipping into the pit…and then its eyes fixed on Loki. It opened its jaws, seemed to stiffen—and then it struck.

It struck repeatedly, knocking slabs from the rock wall as big as oliphants to drop and circle into the gulf. The air swam with venom, crackled with electricity. In seconds the ledge on which they had been standing was nothing but a nubbin of rock overlooking the void. Nothing else was left alive. Nothing could have survived that strike; nothing remained but the World Serpent in the dark, deserted cell.