Valkyrie Slumbering (6 page)

The midday sun shines upon us from a cloudless sky. I’ve long since tucked my fur cloak into my saddlebags. Though it is a comfortable silence filled only with the clop of our horses’ hooves upon the ground, I grow weary of it. There are things I want to know, things I must know.

“So what is it that takes a man like you into such a dangerous contest?” I ask.

Grím’s lips turn up, eyes sparkling. “A man like me?”

Reaching across the distance between our plodding horses, I kick his leg lightly. “You know what I mean. You asked me the same, turnabout is fair play.”

He slowly licks his lips. My eyes follow the sight of his tongue as if drawn like lightning to a storm. “Is that what this is, play?”

I make a sound close to a moan. “Some of it, yes. But I’m serious, I want to know why a good man like you is throwing in with bad men.”

The playfulness drains from him and he casts his gaze forward. “I’m not throwing in with them. Like you, I’m hunting one of them.”

Desperate as I am to know, I wait for him to continue when he’s ready. Several moments pass.

“Me mother was murdered just because she is Sidhe, Alfhiem. Me father died tryin’ to protect her. I wasn’t there to help them,” he says in a thick voice.

I reach across the distance between us and touch his arm, just below the blue tattoo. “I’m so sorry Grím. We’ll get these men, I swear it.” The ferocity of my voice makes him look over at me.

“Thank ye,” he says softly.

 “What does he look like, this man you’re hunting?” I ask.

Darkness clouds Grím’s eyes. “I have no idea. I only know his name—it was me ma’s dying word. Steinn.”

Bumps rise all along my body, making me wish I still had my cloak on. For a moment my tongue is immobile. My fingers clench into a fist filled with my horse’s mane.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Grím asks, eyes studying me with an intensity that shakes me from my stupor.

“That’s the name of the man I’m hunting, the one who murdered my father,” I manage to say.

Grím sucks in a sharp breath. “What do you know about him?” he asks.

Bitterness coats my tongue. I have to swallow before I can answer. “He was my father’s best friend. They sailed together as young men. He is harsh and unforgiving of those different from himself. Though he remained my father’s friend throughout my childhood, he never accepted my mother.” I pause, forcing down the lump that has risen in my throat.

“One night he showed up on our doorstep, reeking of ale. He forced his way in, attacked my mother. Together she and I overcame him, made him leave.” The words catch in my throat. After all these years, it’s still almost too painful to speak of.

With a touch of the reins, Grím guides his horse closer and reaches over to take my hand. The callused feel of his palm against mine lends me strength.

“When my father came home and heard what happened, he went out after Steinn. He found him and his friends trying to rape a woman. He stopped them, killed all but Steinn and another, but he was mortally wounded. By the time he stumbled home, he had lost too much blood. He died the next morning,” I finish with a shuddering breath.

Grím squeezes my hand. “And ye’ve been huntin’ him since,” he says.

I look down at my horse’s neck and untangle my fingers from her mane. “No. I was only fourteen. I took up the sword and learned to fight, then four years later, I began hunting him. I’ve been on his trail for two years now.”

Two very long years. My eyes are drawn to the horizon where dark clouds are spilling over to fill the sky. We’re headed straight for a storm. The irony is not lost on me.

“Do ye think it could be the same man?” Grím asks.

“How could it not? The motive is the same and our island is not all that big,” I say. I would know. By a combination of sailing and trekking, I’ve been around and across the land twice over in two years’ time.

In the distance, thunder sounds. The mare’s head perks up and her back grows tense. Clouds have spilled out across the entire horizon now and have spread out to each side of us. Blades of sunlight pierce through here and there in an attempt to reclaim the sky, but it is a losing battle. The clean scent of rain weighs down the air.

Eyes on the sky, I wait, but no lightning follows. Not good.

“Looks as though we better find shelter soon,” Grím says.

I point to our left where tall hills rise out of the landscape. “Shall we ride for those hills?”

Taking up the reins and straightening in the saddle, Grím nods. With a squeeze of my legs, I urge the mare into a canter. Grím’s stallion squeals as he rears, then plunges ahead of us. The sky darkens with each hoof beat, the clouds swallowing sunbeam after sunbeam as they race toward us. Fat drops of rain splatter on the back of my hands. It seems foolish to run toward the storm but we have little choice. Nothing but open fields of green stretch out everywhere else.

Thunder booms, rolling across the sky, increasing in volume as it comes. Only a hoof beat later it sounds again, louder, closer. At the third boom, my mare squeals and thrusts her neck into the wind as she speeds up. Horses abreast, Grím and I charge into the gray sheet of rain that separates us from the hills.

In moments, I’m soaked to the skin, clothing molding against me. Through the silver streams I can barely see more than twenty feet of the landscape ahead. Pulling back on the reins, I slow the mare to a speed that will be less likely to break our necks should we fall.

Overhead, the thunder takes up the rhythm of an erratic war-drum. I taste copper on the back of my tongue. The hills brighten for a moment as lightning cuts a jagged line across the sky. During the flash, I see a structure nestled in the hills not far ahead. Knowing he won’t hear me over the pounding rain and crashing thunder, I catch Grím’s eyes and point. He nods, and we steer our horses in the direction of the structure.

An acrid scent fills the air and lightning flashes again, this time directly overhead. The rain increases with a vengeance at the next crash of thunder. Before the sound can even fade, lightning slashes a bluish-white trail through the dark clouds. As it does, it reveals something massive and silvery undulating across the sky.

Impossible.

I shake my head and force myself to focus on the field before me. I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Surely that’s the only explanation.

Just ahead, the clouds part as if swept aside and from them emerges a tail ending in a forked shape that’s bigger than my head. Rain glistens across scales that skim the sky no more than ten feet above us.

“It can’t be.” The wind swallows my protest.

Movement to the left draws my attention. A silver wing the size of a Viking ship sail flaps just on the other side of Grím.

“Grím, watch out!” I scream so loud it feels as though something tears in my throat.

His head whips in that direction. He ducks low as the impossibly huge wing whips toward him. It skims just over the top of his back then pulls up into the clouds. The texture was leathery, like that of a bat. Yet I know of no bat, either in this world, or any of the nine, that reaches such a size. It can only be one thing.

Another flash turns the landscape white, revealing a crumbled ruin of white rock ahead. The structure we had glimpsed from afar is only a small part of an expanse of ruins that cover half the hillside. From the crumbled walls, arches, and bits of towers that remain, it’s clear it used to be a castle.

Gripping the reins tight, I steer the mare toward the closest intact structure. She plunges toward it with renewed vigor. In the increasing darkness and endless streams of rain, I’ve lost sight of Grím. My heart plummets into my stomach as my eyes scan about for him.

Scales fill the sky above me, looking like the belly of a gigantic silver fish. Save that fish don’t have clawed feet the size of a horse’s flanks. Claws as big as daggers reach for me. I duck low as I can and urge my mare faster. She dodges right. Claws snag at my hair but don’t find purchase.

The mare leaps over a half crumbled wall and suddenly we’re galloping down a hallway. A loud clatter sounds behind us, followed by another set of hooves pounding on cobblestones. I glance back. Grím is leaning over the neck of his stallion, galloping up behind us.

It takes me a moment to realize the rain is no longer falling upon me. A roof spans high overhead. I slow the mare to a trot. We enter a round chamber that must be at least twenty feet across, the base of a tower maybe. The sight of the intact walls and ceiling nearly draw a sob of relief from me. Outside an arched window, lightning flashes, thunder booms, and rain roars down. I’m not sure if the raging storm means Thor and Odin are upset the otherworldly beast didn’t kill us, or that it’s after us in the first place.

Slowing her down to a walk, I guide my horse over to a wall and bring her to a halt. Her head hangs in exhaustion and her sides heave with each breath. I pat and scratch her sopping wet neck and relax in the saddle, hoping the change in my energy will soothe her.

The sound of the storm masks Grím’s approach as he walks the stallion around us. He gives the room a cursory glance, then dismounts and bends to inspect his horse’s right front leg. The room is too dark to see much. Despite the dull roar of the storm, I’m afraid to speak.

Eventually, Grím puts the horse’s leg down, straightens, and pats him on the neck. As he starts to remove the saddle, I dismount and care for my own horse. Already her eyes have stopped darting about and her muscles have begun to relax. I envy her for there is no way I can relax so easily.

Once my horse is settled, I walk to Grím’s side. Our eyes catch. There is a wildness in his blue depths, a mixture of exhilaration and fear that set my heart to pounding again. With light touches, I lift his arms, turn his hands over, check every bit of him for injuries. Only when I’m convinced that he’s unscathed do I let out my breath.

When I finish, I find him smiling at me, eyes drinking me in. The curve of his lips make me smile in return. Deliciously rough, callused hands cup my face, pull me to him. His lips are so soft, the kiss almost reverent. It frightens and excites me at the same time. Before it can deepen, I draw back.

I gesture toward the two windows in the room with a thrust of my chin. He nods and we part, each going to a window. For several heartbeats I watch the liquid darkness, searching. Nothing but rain flashes in the sky, though honestly there is so much of it coming down that it could obscure Odin himself.

Thunder sounds again but it’s quieter than before. Moments pass before lightning flashes. It’s farther away. I watch for a few moments longer, just to be sure. Convinced the creature has moved on, I turn back to find Grím crouching before a fireplace. He is stacking bits of wood from a bin beside the hearth into the opening.

Avoiding crumbled rock and bits of rotting furniture that give off an earthy scent, I creep over to him. I lean my head close to his.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” I whisper.

His hand shakes as he reaches up to tuck a lock of wet hair behind my ear.

“Aye, better than freezin’. That thing is gone,” he says.

I know he’s right. Though it’s summer, the nights here are still closer to freezing than is comfortable with sopping wet clothes. And with the excitement of the flight fading, I’m starting to shiver.

“Was that really a
níðhöggr
?” I ask, speaking its name in the old tongue.

“I think so. The real question is why is a nidhogg here? And more importantly, did Loki send it?”

For that I have no answer, at least for most of it. 

“Being on the same plane as Earth, I can almost see how creatures from Vanaheim, Midgard, or Jotunheim could somehow get here. But nidhoggs are from Niflheimr, not even on the same plane. How can this be?” I ask, voice barely a whisper.

Grím shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

Of the nine worlds, three are on the earthly planes, three on the upper planes, and three on the lower planes. My mother always taught me that it takes magic to travel from one world to another and even more powerful magic to cross planes.

The idea that Loki himself could have sent such a creature here sends a chill shuddering through me. He would be powerful enough to do such a thing.

Grím rises and walks over to the horses. After checking on them, he gathers both of our packs and returns to the fireplace. The drumming of the rain outside is soon accompanied by the rasp of flint and steel as he works on the fire. Soon after flames are leaping at the wood.

Unfurling a bedroll, Grím gives me a thoughtful look. “Before ye met me, had ye ever seen a creature from one of the other worlds?” he asks, voice scarcely more than a whisper.

I lean to help him spread out the blankets. Thanks to our treated saddlebags, they are dry for the most part. The question catches me off guard and it’s a moment before I can answer.

“No. But what could that mean?”

He shakes his head. From within his pack he pulls out a fur cloak and wraps it around me. It’s blessedly dry, unlike me.   

“I don’t know. All I know right now is that we need to get warm and dry,” he says.

Orange firelight frames his kneeling figure, revealing the lines of worry on his face.

The distance between us is suddenly too much. We reach for one another at the same time. His arms wrap tight around me and his lips crash into mine with a fierceness that drives away the cold.