The Chosen of Anthros (6 page)

Huginn nodded and turned her gaze back up to the window.

“Did you come alone?” the voice said from out of the darkness of the Fey Forest. The woods were silent that night. The sky covered with clouds, but still her heightened sight allowed her to see the form of the man approaching the edge of the forest through the field of snow.

Behind the shadowed figure, off in the distance the glow of New Landanten called to her like a welcoming beacon.
Soon,
she thought. What it would be like to walk those streets again. But this time when her bare feet brushed the frozen cobbles, it wouldn’t be as a dark elf. Oh no, this time she would be so much more. This time she would
rule!

“Who would be following me?” the man asked. He stayed within the shadows. Even though that other presence within Daniken told her who he was, she let him skulk in the shadows. It suited him. People like him belonged to the shadows.

Darklings!
She seethed. They were the cause of all of this and she would see every last one of those plague bearers dead, no matter if they claimed to work in the light. It made her frosted skin crawl to think she had to work so close with them.

But not much longer,
the other voice in her head told her.
Soon you will be free from them, and they will
pay
for what they’ve done to my home.

“Many people,” Daniken said, mentally brushing the angry voice in her head aside.

“Believe me, no one suspects me,” he said. His shadowy form leaned against a tree.

“So be it,” she waved a frosty hand at him.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

Daniken ignored him.

“Something is happening in New Landanten,” she told him.

The man shrugged. “The harbingers came back tonight with a couple new recruits, and a harbinger of darkness is being kept under close observation.”

“Not that,” she shook her head. “Some power is rising in New Landanten. Soon the dark elves will hold the power there.”

“As I suspected,” the man told her. His voice was low, but she could still hear him.

“Will you be ready to act when the time comes?”

“You mean when Charissa finally does away with Garth?”

Daniken frowned, even though he couldn’t see it. “I really hope you’re alone, for your sake.”

The man straightened at the dangerous glint in her voice.

“Yes. When things come to pass, I will be ready to act,” the man bowed his head.

That’s better. Learn your place, human.

Several quiet moments passed as Daniken watched shadows of people passing before braziers through the elven city. Lights shown out of tall buildings, people still fast at work while others played.

“And when will you be returning?” he wondered.

“Soon enough,” Daniken told him. “Soon enough.”

“I know of what you seek, All Father,” Surt said. The one-eyed boy could barely see the fire giant through the towering flames that surrounded them. The heat in Muspelheim was enough to make him sweat, if a god could sweat.

His bare feet took him closer to the central chamber within the Forge; the place that created all the fires of Muspelheim. It was said if something couldn’t be crafted in Muspelheim, there was nowhere in all of the Void that it could be made.

“It is no small task,” Surt told him. The fiery red giant turned from his anvil and looked at the Child God. Surt was like a towering pillar of glowing red embers. Seemingly made of rock, fissures blazed like lava along the length of his body. His lips were black, and parted in a hideous smile when he saw the uncertainty in the All Father’s eye.

“Skuld gave you the sight,” Surt said. It wasn’t a question. “She told me that you knew what had happened when you gave birth to Boran. And now you need the help of the fire-etins to clean up your cosmic mess.”

The All Father glanced to the left where a pool of wyrd stood by the anvil. Where most forges had a bucket of water to cool their crafting, Muspelheim had a bucket of wyrd, fed directly from the Well of Wyrding. It was that way the Norn were able to communicate with this fiery realm.

“Why should I help you?” Surt asked him.

The All Father shook his head and glanced up at the giant, who was still appraising him with coal black eyes. “Us fire-etins that you’ve deemed demons. Why should we help you at all?”

“Because it would help you in doing so,” the All Father said.

“And how is that?” Surt asked, crossing his gigantic arms over his chest and leaning against his anvil. As he rested the flames around Muspelheim seemed to calm as well.

“I fear if I don’t correct my mistake, the end will come upon us sooner than we want,” the All Father said.

“Ragnarok,” Surt whispered. The giant shivered. There was little that could make a fire-etin cold.

“When the Void goes dark. The light of the Waking Eye goes black. The Sleeping Eye closes forever,” the All Father said.

“And the winter of the frost giants freeze the lands of Muspelheim, plunging the Forge into winter as all lands are feeling,” Surt said. His eyes were miles away, as if he was seeing what his realm would look like once Ragnarok came. “Already the frost giants are besieging the nine worlds. The warmth of my Forge isn’t reaching as far as it should.”

“Helvegr,” the All Father whispered.

“The path to Hel. The path to death. When the birth golems will rise up and take over all the nine worlds.” Surt came back to himself. “All of this you’ve brought upon us because of your desire to be rid of the darklings?”

“To be rid of the darklings is to be rid of Ragnarok, to be free of Helvegr.”

“You know it is nothing you can stop,” Surt told him.

The All Father shook his head. “I can’t stop it, but I can delay it.”

“And in so doing you’ve sped it up.”

“But you can help me. You can insure that the fires of your Forge burn bright for eons to come.”

“All I need to do is make you a weapon,” Surt nodded. “And what is this weapon?”

“You know full well what this weapon is,” the All Father said.

“Under one condition,” Surt stepped away from the anvil. “Once you’ve used it for your purpose, it comes back to Muspelheim.”

“Why?” the All Father asked.

“And still you don’t trust the fire-etin.” Surt rumbled out a laugh. “Hilda is closer to us than she is to any other world. It is here that she will strike first.”

“You’re wrong,” the All Father said. “Anthros will lead Ragnarok.”

“He may lead it, but he won’t be fighting alone. When Hilda comes, we need protection from her. I will only make this weapon for you if you return it when you’re done.”

“And why not just make yourself another one?” the All Father asked.

“Because, this is the only time I have a god here before me, willing to give up their blood to make such a weapon,” Surt told him.

The All Father nodded.

For thirteen days and nights the All Father hung upside down from the basalt ceiling, blood dribbling from self-inflicted wounds while Surt toiled away beneath him. The fires of the Forge worked the iron, the waters of the Well of Wyrding tempered the metal.

When finally the All Father was lowered back to the ground of Muspelheim the spear was whole.

“What has gotten into you, All Father?” Surt asked. “Isn’t there any other way to correct what you’ve done?”

The All Father was silent for a time as he stared at the cruel looking hooked spear in his hand. Finally he spoke.

“I’m divided, Surt,” he whispered.

Surt crossed his arms over his chest and waited for the All Father to continue.

“I’ve been chosen,” he said, looking up at Surt. “I’ve been chosen by Anthros to confront him at the end of time.”

“When did this happen?” Surt asked.

“The moment I created Boran. The creation has done something to me,” the All Father said. “I can feel Anthros just as plain as I can feel my own heart beating. He comes to me in my dreams. A lovely albino man with eyes as clear as Elivigar.”

“But you will defeat him at Ragnarok,” Surt said with certainty. “You will destroy him when it really matters.”

The All Father smirked and hefted the spear. “Let’s hope prophecy is wrong or all might fail.”

“Abbie!” the pounding on the door sounded again.

“Open it!” Leona cried.

“I can’t, the handle is too hot!” Rorick called back.

“Abagail, open up!” Leona yelled.

Abagail coughed through the thick air and sat up in bed. For a moment she couldn’t remember where she was or how she’d gotten there. The memory of the dream was still clouding too much of her thoughts.

For that matter, the smoke filling up the bedroom didn’t seem out of place either because of her previous vision of Muspelheim. But as she came more to herself she felt the heat that was steadily increasing around her.

Abagail shrieked and jumped off the bed. The coverings were smoking, smoldering beneath her hand.

The plague was crawling up her arm, wreathing her shoulder.

“Stop!” Abagail cried, fear gripping her.

“Where is she?” a voice called from down the hall.

“In here!” Leona said.

The door shattered inward and a dark figure filled the entrance.

Darkling!
Abagail thought for one panicked moment, and her hand flared with fire. She pointed her palm but suddenly a strange force gripped her hand, almost like a hand tightening around her wrist. It choked off the flow of wyrd just as certainly as a fist would strangle the breath from her.

The dark figure slipped into the room and from out of the thickness of the smoke, Rowan materialized. She carried something in her hand. A collar of some sort. Rowan wasted no time in latching the iron collar around Abagail’s neck, careful to avoid the tendrils of plague slithering up the younger woman’s neck toward her jaw.

As soon as the collar was in place, Abagail felt the advancement of the plague stop. In a huff of air, she sighed out in relief. She sank into a chair on the other side of the wall, staring at the offending, smoking bed.

“Dear All Father, what happened here?” Rowan asked. “Was this you?” She glanced at Abagail, and then down to her shadowy hand. Rowan frowned when she saw how far up her right side the shadow plague had traveled.

“I had a dream,” Abagail said. “When I woke up the covers were smoking and Leo and Rorick were trying to get in, but couldn’t.”

“What were you dreaming about? Muspelheim?” Rowan said. It sounded like a joke.

Abagail just stared at Rowan.

The harbinger’s face sobered and she nodded once as if she understood. Rowan scowled at the bed as if to show it her disapproval.

“What does it mean?” Abagail asked.

“It means we are going to have to air out this room and keep that collar on you until you can get yourself under control,” Rowan said. “Preferably sooner than later.”

“But how am I ever going to do that?” Abagail asked.

“Everyone learns it in their own way. All the rest of us can do is assist and make it easier.”

“What if I can’t?” Abagail asked Rowan, her hazel eyes meeting her mentor’s watery blue ones.

“I think you know the answer to that question,” Rowan told her.

There were so many questions floating through Abagail’s mind just then, but they were all about her dream. All questions she didn’t think anyone in all of the nine worlds could answer. She nodded instead.