Runelight Page 3

  Still, to be peculiar was not against the law, they said, and the strangers were tolerated, if not liked, as long as they kept to themselves and caused no trouble.

  There had been a scally with them at first – a red-haired young man with a Ridings accent and a disrespectful manner – but thankfully his visit had been a brief one, and had not been repeated. Loki, who could no more refrain from causing trouble than he could from breathing, had lasted all of three weeks in Malbry before going back to Red Horse Hill on pain of dismemberment (Thor wouldn’t even have bothered to give him the warning, even though, as Maddy pointed out, he had just saved the Nine Worlds). Here he had remained, watching the valley from his subterranean stronghold and cataloguing the weird and uncanny things that sometimes emerged from the flanks of the Hill.

  Still, reflected the Thunderer crossly, there were worse things to deal with than Loki right now. Bad as he was, and undoubtedly crazy to the last drop of his demon blood, at least things happened when Loki was around. And Thor was bored; so terribly bored that he would have welcomed even the Trickster’s company.

  The cause of his present annoyance was sitting at her dressing-table mirror, combing her famous golden hair and getting ready for an argument.

  Thor watched her and wondered vaguely how a woman’s back was able to convey such a wide range of negative expressions. It wasn’t as if he had been in any way responsible for what had happened three years ago. You’d think she’d be grateful for some of it – her escape from the fortress, her release from torment, the embodiment of her Aspect into a living host – of sorts.

  But Bright-Haired Sif had been angry since the End of the World, and showed no sign of changing her mind.

  ‘You all right?’ said Thor at last.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Sif in a voice that suggested she was anything but.

  That’s the problem with women, thought Thor. They say one thing, and mean another.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

  ‘I said I’m fine.’ The comb tore at the fabled locks, releasing a fine dusting of dandruff onto the dressing table. All the gods had done what they could, but even in full Aspect – or what passed for it, with that broken runemark – Sif continued to share some of the imperfections of her host body.

  It could have been a lot worse. Apart from a few excess pounds and a tendency to grunt when provoked, Sif could have passed for human almost anywhere. True, there was little in her present Aspect to suggest that she had once been an immortal beauty; but neither was there any indication that it owed much of its existence to a pot-bellied sow called Fat Lizzy.

  Sif, however, was acutely aware, and took it out on everyone.

  It didn’t help that Thor had fared better. It’s true that he still bore a striking resemblance to Dorian Scattergood, the man into whose body he had been reborn; but his colouring and stature were those of the Thunderer, and Dorian’s mind was rarely in conflict with his. Sif had never ceased to begrudge him this, and, pulling out a rogue bristle from under her chin, she shot him a look of pure venom – wasted on Thor, as he happened to be looking the other way.

  Behind him, an arrangement of flowers suddenly turned brown and died, but since neither Thor nor Dorian had ever cared for such things, that too went unnoticed.

  Sif pulled in her stomach with her hands and looked at herself side-on in the mirror. For a moment her expression softened. ‘Notice anything different?’ she said.

  ‘Different?’ said the Thunderer. Such questions were always tricky, he knew – referring as they might to a new hat, or a different dress, or a fancy hairstyle, or any one of a thousand things that only a woman would care about.

  ‘Something about … the dress?’ prompted Sif.

  ‘Yes. It’s new,’ said Thor with relief. ‘Noticed something straight away.’

  ‘This is my oldest dress,’ said Sif, her eyes beginning to narrow again. ‘I haven’t worn it for ages. I haven’t been able to fit in it.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you should go on a diet, dear.’

  Sif gave a snort. ‘For gods’ sakes, Thor. Are you blind? I’ve lost fourteen pounds!’

  But Thor had apparently found something outside that demanded his full attention. The fact that it was six in the morning, pitch black, and already snowing heavily did nothing to endear him to Sif, whose chins were trembling furiously by now, and whose blue eyes burned like magnesium flares.

  ‘What are you gawping at out there?’ snapped the goddess of grace and plenty.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ said the Thunderer.

  Sif was about to make a scathing remark when she saw it too – a signature in the sky above Red Horse Hill, diffusing its light against the clouds in a pattern that both of them recognized.

  ‘That’s Loki,’ said Thor. ‘He’s in trouble.’

  ‘Ignore it,’ said Sif.

  Of course, she and the Trickster had never quite seen eye to eye; and though she accepted that Loki was not directly responsible for the transference of her Aspect into the body of a pot-bellied pig, it was true that he had taken a lot of unnecessary amusement from the situation. If he was in trouble, she thought, then he could get out of it on his own. Bright-Haired Sif had more pressing concerns.

  But now another signature emerged, this one dark red rather than violet. Both signatures were very bright, like fireworks in the turbulent sky.

  Thor frowned at them for a moment, then made for the door, pausing only to collect the heavy fur cloak that hung there. ‘I have to go, Sif. That’s my son.’

  Sif grunted. ‘What son?’

  ‘That’s right, rub it in,’ muttered Thor under his breath. ‘I mean, isn’t it bad enough that my wife’s a pig, without my son being a girl as well?’ He raised his voice. ‘I have to go. Something’s up. They’re using glam.’

  That meant a fight, as Thor well knew, and in a place like this, in the heart of the Uplands, there wasn’t really much else for a thunder god to do but be terribly bored – or get into a fight.

  In recent years the gods had done both, at first only fighting among themselves; but as time passed they had realized that there was a more serious foe to be reckoned with. Its name was Chaos, and it meant just that.

  Three years ago, on the shores of Dream, the gates of Netherworld had been breached for a period of exactly thirteen seconds. During that time, while Chaos raged, an unknown number of its inhabitants had crossed over from Damnation into Dream. Most were assumed to have perished there – Dream is hostile territory so close to its source – but some, the strongest, had clearly survived, surfacing occasionally into the minds of the Folk, and thence into the Middle Worlds.

  Fighting such creatures was Thor’s only sport. Not a thinker by temperament, he rather enjoyed being at war, and given that the Order had been completely eliminated, these beings from Chaos were now the only foe worthy of the name. Even without a complete runemark, and lacking Mjølnir, the hammer that had once made him almost invincible, the Thunderer was still a force to be reckoned with.

  He tried to hide his eagerness, but Sif was quick to notice the gleam in his eye and the way he didn’t quite meet her gaze as she said, in a deceptively silky tone: ‘So, you’re going, are you, dear?’

  He faked a sigh. ‘Well, it’s my job.’

  ‘Leaving me here alone?’ said Sif. ‘With all kinds of … creatures loose out there?’

  ‘Be reasonable,’ said the Thunderer. ‘Big, strapping lass like you, I’m sure you can look after yourself.’

  Later, Thor had to admit that the choice of words had been unfortunate. Like the cry that starts off the avalanche, it set off a reaction in his beloved, characterized firstly by certain sounds, then by a furious change in her colours, and finally by a fretful explosion of glam that melted the snow around the house to a distance of almost a quarter of a mile and vaporized a family of mice living under the skirting board.

  ‘Strapping?’ echoed Bright-Haired Sif. ‘Who in Hel’s name are you calling strapping?’

/>   There are times when even a thunder god knows when to beat a strategic retreat. Thor took one look over his shoulder, mumbled, ‘Uh – sorry, love. Must dash,’ and, hastily throwing on his cloak, escaped into the driving snow.

  ON THE TOP of Red Horse Hill, Loki was having a difficult time. The Hill was a marvellous stronghold, of course, but it had one major disadvantage. It hid one of the gateways to the Underworld, and the Faërie – goblins, demons, and sometimes worse – were drawn from a hundred miles around.

  Loki could usually cope with that. Being half demon himself, he had a certain sympathy for the goblins, his little cousins under the Hill. Being half god, he could usually cope with trolls and other nuisances, even in his present state, in human Aspect, with his runemark still reversed. But when it came to ephemera squeezing their way through the spaces between the Worlds and converging upon Red Horse Hill, Loki felt he’d had enough. He’d already saved the Worlds once. It wasn’t his job to save them again.

  Of course, the gate itself was a source of power. But unless he felt like playing King of the Hill to every stray demon that came his way, he was going to have to give up his position sooner or later. At least, this was what went through his mind as he stood in the Eye on Red Horse Hill, flinging runes at the monstrosity that reared above him.

  It had come out of nowhere, like the others. His mindbolts had barely slowed it down. Five feet over his head it hung, swaying sleepy-eyed above him with its fangs dripping venom into his face. He flung up an arm to protect himself and wondered what he’d ever done to deserve to be victimized in this way.

  Naturally he’d encountered monsters before, but this was something that had no place in the Middle Worlds; an ephemera, a thing of dreams, born from Dream and obeying only dream logic. It shouldn’t be there, Loki knew. And yet it was – and it wasn’t the first.

  It looked like a snake with a woman’s head, although Loki knew that it might just as easily have come to him as a giant wolf, or a clockwork clown, or a swarm of wasps, or any other form given it by the dreamer from whose dream the creature had been fledged.

  In this case a snake.

  He hated snakes.

  In his true Aspect, with glam intact, Loki could have dispatched the thing easily. Such things were still possible in Dream – and, of course, in Asgard. But this was no dream, Loki knew; and Asgard had fallen years ago, leaving the gods weakened and lost and stripped of most of their power.

  He shrank back as far from the thing as he could and reached for the crossbow at his belt. Over the years he’d become accustomed to carrying ordinary weapons, and this one had come in handy on several occasions. Not against ephemera, of course. Still, there’s always a first time, the Trickster thought, and levelled the weapon ready to fire.

  ‘What’s thisss?’ said the snake, looking amused.

  Loki tried for a confident grin. ‘This is Tyrfingr,’ he said. ‘The greatest crossbow of the Elder Age. What? You don’t think the gods would have left me here on my own with no protection, do you? Tyrfingr the Annihilator, they used to call it. Gift from the god of war himself. If I were you, I’d run for my life.’

  The snake gave an undulating shrug.

  ‘I’m warning you,’ said Loki. ‘One shot from this, and you’ll be fried calamari.’

  The ephemera spat a concentrated gobbet of venom that smashed the crossbow from Loki’s hand and burned a smoking hole in the ground. Droplets of venom showered him, and although he was wearing winter furs, the venom burned through his wolfskin gloves and scorched the tough leather of his winter coat right through to the skin.

  ‘Ouch! That was unnecessary!’

  ‘I know you, Trickssster,’ said the snake.

  Loki cursed and flung a handful of small, quick runes at the ephemera, spinning them through the air like knucklebones. He had little hope they would do the trick, however. Isa, ice, and Naudr, the Binder, might stay its approach for a while, but as for driving it away …

  With all his strength, Loki cast Hagall at the creature. It was a good hit, taking up much of Loki’s glam. But the mindbolt went straight through the ephemeral body, lighting up its internal organs in a sickly flare of colours as it passed.

  ‘Iss it my turn now?’ said the snake.

  ‘Who sent you?’ said Loki desperately. ‘Who dreamed you, and why come after me?’

  ‘I come when I am ss-summoned, Trickssster.’

  ‘Summoned? By whom?’

  The ephemera smiled and drew a little closer. Its face seemed vaguely familiar, though Loki couldn’t quite place it just then – the eyes a troubling golden-grey, the shapely mouth lined with a double row of fangs.

  ‘You did. You freed me. From the Black Fortresss.’

  ‘Oh. That.’ Loki sighed. Saving the gods had been the first genuinely selfless thing he’d done in over five hundred years, and it had brought him nothing but trouble. ‘That was a mistake,’ he said. ‘You see, there was this Serpent—’

  The ephemera flexed its jaws.

  Loki took a final step back and cast Yr like a shield between himself and the creature. ‘If I freed you from Netherworld,’ he said, ‘then doesn’t that make me your master, or something?’

  The snake gave him a pitying look and drew a little closer.

  Loki avoided its hypnotic gaze. The runes that had held it at bay were already failing. Loki could feel Naudr and Isa flexing against his will, and when they failed, Yr would follow.

  ‘Just tell me what you want from me.’

  ‘Come clossser, Trickssster, and I will.’

  ‘D’you know, I think I’d rather stay here.’

  There was powerful glam in the Horse’s Eye – a combination of ancient runes dating back to Ragnarók. Glam enough, even now, to keep Yr active for thirty seconds more – maybe even a minute or so. After that – there was nowhere to go. Retreat was wholly impossible. Loki was cornered. Even if he shifted to his wildfire Aspect, a creature that could move between Worlds would have no difficulty in tracking him into the Hill. His own glam was almost completely burned out; to leave the protection of the Horse’s Eye at this stage would amount to virtual suicide.

  He had no choice but to signal for help.

  Ós, the rune of the Æsir, crossed with Loki’s own rune, Kaen, and cast as hard as he could against the clouds, should leave the gods in no doubt that he was in peril. The question was: did anyone care? And if they did, would they make it in time?

  He addressed the snake. ‘Who dreamed you up? And for gods’ sakes, why pick on me?’

  ‘Don’t take it persssonally,’ said the snake. ‘Think of it as a compliment that you ss-still command the attention of Chaos-ss.’

  Now Isa was slipping; Naudr had dissolved. Only Yr still held it fast, and through the circle of his finger and thumb Loki could see the mindshield fading from its original colours to the thin gleam of a soap-bubble in the sun.

  He sent the signal again. Weaker this time, but he saw it flare, casting his signature colours against the snowbound sky.

  Droplets of the snake’s venom had penetrated the mindshield now, leaving little pockets in the snow where they had struck.

  ‘Why me?’ repeated Loki, summoning the dregs of his glam. ‘Since when did Chaos have a grudge against me?’

  The ephemera opened its jaws, releasing a powerful stench of venom and rotting flesh. Its fangs dripped like stalactites. It was smiling. ‘Ss-suffice it to ss-say, your time is done. You have no place in As-ssgard.’

  ‘Asgard? What about it? It fell. From rather a height, as I recall.’

  ‘Asgard will be rebuilt,’ said the snake.

  ‘You seem very sure of that,’ said Loki, glimpsing a spark of hope. A spark of runelight, to be precise, approaching fast in the swirling snow. The ephemera, like so many of its kind from the lands beyond Death, apparently had oracular powers, and Loki knew from experience that what an oracle craves above all things (even more than killing gods) is the chance to listen to itself talk.

 
‘So – you say Asgard’s going to be rebuilt?’ he said, keeping an eye on the failing mindshield.

  ‘Why should you care? You will have no hall there.’

  ‘Didn’t have a hall in the old one, either.’

  ‘Ss-serves you right for betraying Chaos-ss.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Loki, falling to one knee as Yr collapsed. ‘Is Chaos behind this, or isn’t it?’

  The ephemera smiled. A gentle smile – or would have been, but for those fangs. ‘Order built Asssgard. Chaosss will rebuild it. New runes, old ruins. Sssuch is the way of the Worldsss, Trickssster.’

  Loki flinched at the droplets of venom that landed on his head and shoulders. ‘Perhaps we can do a deal,’ he said.

  ‘What exactly are you offering?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. The goddess of desire, the sun and moon, the apples of youth – you know, the usual thing.’

  ‘You’re ss-scum, you know that. You’d ss-sell anyone to ss-save your ss-skin.’

  ‘I happen to rather value my skin. Anything wrong with that?’

  ‘Ssssss,’ said the ephemera, and struck.

  Loki had been expecting it and, with a sudden burst of energy, he launched himself out of the Horse’s Eye. Rolling, he tumbled fifty feet down the frozen side of Red Horse Hill, and came to a sharp halt against a fallen rock, once part of the castle long ago.

  The fall left him winded and gasping for breath; and now the ephemera, which had followed him down as smoothly and as quickly as a jet of spring water from the source, reared its half-familiar head and bared its glassy fangs for the kill.

  ‘I take it that’s a no …’ Loki said.

  But then, just as the creature struck, there came a blinding flash, followed by the double crunch of two missiles striking at serpent speed. A flare of runelight pinned the snake to the side of the hill, sending forks and runnels of fugitive glam writhing and scurrying across the snow.

  Hissing, the ephemera twisted and thrashed in protest as its body began to revert to the dreamstuff from which it had been woven.