Son of Thunder (Heavenly War Series) (17 page)

The huge tree dominated the landscape around them. Yggdrasill, the world tree, had one of its great roots here, by the well of Mimir. Green foliage now blocked out the blue sky. In the distance Meghan saw the great, gnarled tree root extending toward a small lake. The army marched out of its way to avoid it.

“The well of Mimir.” Sif pointed toward a grove of trees to their right. “The well of wisdom.”

Meghan was confused. “It sounds like something we could use right now. Why are we avoiding it?”

“The Norns extract a high price for a drink from that well. Jord’s grandfather, Odin, paid for a single drink with his left eye.”

Meghan thought about Jord’s grandfather, and his eye patch. She didn’t recall the story though. Why had Odin sacrificed an eye for wisdom?

“Was it worth it?”

Sif smiled. “He’s never said.”

Jord had called all the leaders together before they entered the great root. Meghan followed Sif, but was beginning to wonder why she was still included. Jord all but ignored her in these meetings. Sif kept saying it was just the pressure of leadership, but Meghan could see in his eyes that it was more. He was pushing her away, rejecting her.

She’d known it was coming, of course. Jord was a god. He was so far above her in so many ways. There could never have been a real relationship, despite what Thor said. They were from two different worlds. But she’d found comfort in his arms, and she just hadn’t expected what they would end so soon, or so abruptly.

But it wasn’t just the two of them alone together anymore. Jord led an army now, a vast army that included many women. Immortal women. The beautiful Aesir and Vanir, the elegant bright elves. How could they not catch his eye? Meghan knew she could never compete on that field, and she certainly did not expect Jord to settle for less . . . to settle for her.

She thought about Freyr’s offer to stay in Asgaard when this was all over. To be constantly reminded of these beautiful people. Gods who were everything she was not. No, she’d go home, if she could. Back to her mundane life, her job at the museum, and her small circle of friends.

Jord was every inch the leader—commanding, impressive, and incredibly sexy. She’d just have to be thankful for the time she’d had with him, and let him go. Something inside of her fought. She was being selfish wanting him. But it was so hard to just put him out of her mind.

Jord was talking to Sif. “I’ll need the goats.”

Sif nodded, still giving Jord the evil eye. “We can manage without them now. The loads are getting lighter as we go. But are you sure of this course? Ragnarok is false. Of what use is the horn?”

Jord’s eyes were intense as he looked beyond his mother, toward the grove of trees. “The Horn of Heimdall exists for some reason. And our path takes us right past the spot it rests. If it is not for the final battle, then why was it created?”

“The Norns can be tricky and dangerous.” There was concern in Sif’s eyes. “Be careful.”

Jord nodded. “I will. Freyr, Doldar, keep moving everyone forward. I will try to catch up to you at Urd, but if I am not there, keep moving the army ahead. Look for any opportunity to harass the enemy. If I am not back by the time Torvald and his troops return, follow him as you would me.”

Doldar came to attention. “Yes, Lord Thor.”

Jord retrieved the goats, and summoned the chariot. Meghan watched him ride off toward the lake, wondering what danger he was heading into. She hadn’t understood anything about that horn they were talking about, or why the lake was so dangerous. She couldn’t even remember who the Norns were, though she was sure she’d read about them at one point. Oh well, Sif would explain. She always did. Of all the gods, Meghan thought she would probably miss Sif the most. She’d really grown to love the woman.

The army of Thor entered the root of Yggdrasill through a large opening. The tunnel was wide, and the roadway flat. It made for easy going. No torches burned in the woody tunnel, and all were cautioned not to light fires of any kind. The world tree did not like fire, and had defenses of its own.

But no fires were needed to see in the tunnels. A warm glow surrounded them always. It was the life energy of the world tree, Sif said. It made the going easier, but it also meant it would be cold food on the march through. Meghan wondered how long it would take. She also wondered when Jord would rejoin them.

Meghan sighed. Even with his rejection of her, she still missed Jord. She could tell those around her missed him also, his leadership, his charm, his courage. Jord’s absence left a void.

Jord rode through the mist. As he neared the well of Mimir the fog lifted and before him stood three old women. They were the Norns, ancient weavers of the fate of men and gods alike. They were more dangerous than any foe he’d ever faced. He had expected them.

“A son of thunder graces us with his presence.” One of them motioned him forward. These three women were older than his grandfather, Odin. They guarded the wisdom of Mimir here at the well named for the old god, and with that wisdom they wove the fabric of fate.

“Why have you come, son of Thor?”

Jord dismounted the chariot and went to stand in front of them. Confidence would be his weapon of choice. He forced a smile.

“Don’t you know?”

The women chuckled. Jord had trouble telling them apart, they were so similar. The one in the center acted as spokeswoman. “The horn of Heimdall lies in waiting here, for the final battle of Ragnarok.”

Jord leveled his gaze on the speaker. “A battle that will never come. You wove that lie with the strands of fate, and kept it taut for over two thousand years.”

The woman sobered and nodded. “It kept the balance.”

Jord wanted to understand. “Why then, did you choose to cut that thread now?”

Light in the glade dimmed around him. The Norn’s voice became lower, more hushed. “All things must eventually come to pass. Now is the time of the great change. A new prophecy was needed.”

“My prophecy! Meghan’s prophecy!” Thunder rumbled in the skies above. Dark clouds rolled in from the west. Jord was shouting. He needed to get his emotions under control.

The Norn’s remained serene. “This is the twilight of the gods. Ragnarok is here, though not in the way it was prophesied.”

Jord tried to center himself–keep a cool head. He knew any answers would be cloaked in mystery. He had to phrase his questions carefully.

“Why now? After all these years?”

The Norn who spoke smiled smuggly, as if the answer should be obvious. “Now is the time.”

Jord abandoned that tract, knowing he would learn nothing from them.

“Then if now is the time, give me the horn.”

One of the Norns smiled at him. “There is wisdom here. More than I would expect from one who had not drunk from the well of Mimir.”

The Norn on the right spoke up. “Tell me boy, would you drink, and gain even more wisdom. Would you be like your grandfather? The coming war will require men of great wisdom, if the gods are to prevail.”

Jord laughed. “I have been long warned to beware what you offer. Odin himself cautioned me. So no, I’ll not accept your offer, thank you. The old ways die. I’ll not seek wisdom from any well, except the one within me.”

Jord remembered clearly the day his grandfather had taken him aside. The words he spoke and the pain Jord saw in the old god’s eye. It was as if his grandfather had known this day was coming. And maybe he had.

“A wise choice, Son of Thunder.” A voice boomed around him. Deep. Masculine. It startled the Norns. Wonder filled their eyes.

“The voice of Mimir himself!” The Norns began to shake with excitement . . . or fear. “It has not been heard in over three thousand years.”

Mimir, one of the old gods, died ages ago during the Aesir-Vanir war, at the dawn of time. But his wisdom was so great that even though his body died, his head lived on, to counsel the future. Into the hands of the Norns, the wisdom had been entrusted but, for the most part, they kept that wisdom to themselves.

“The old ways pass.” The voice of Mimir reverberated around him. “Even my wisdom fails and fades. Lead well, Jord, son of Thor, God of Thunder. Lead us into the new age. Many great battles stand before you. Raise your hammer and strike boldly, that in the end the worlds may know peace.”

One of the Norns cried out. “And what of us?”

“All things pass,” the voice of Mimir repeated. “Even the Fates meet their end in time. Your years of service are coming to an end. Yet, not for a while. Not for a while.”

The Norns turned back to Jord. “You have a boon you would ask of us. Ask, and we will grant it to you freely, if it is within our power.”

Jord nodded. They’d read his soul. He’d known they would. Did he dare? Did he dare not? Wasn’t this what had truly brought him here? The horn was only an excuse.

“There is a thread. One I would not see severed.”

The Norns nodded in unison. “The mortal girl.” The three women all closed their eyes. One smiled. One wept. But the third opened her eyes and spoke.

“That fate has passed beyond us, God of Thunder. It rests solely with her now. The woven strand cannot be undone. The mortal holds her fate in her own hands. Only she can undo it.”

“Or accept it,” the weeping Norn added.

Jord feared as much. Even the Norns themselves could be helpless in the face of a prophecy.

One of the women approached Jord. A golden ram’s horn rested in her hand and she handed it to him.

“Go now, Son of Thunder. The coming war races towards us and will be like none the nine worlds have ever seen. A game board has been placed, the pieces are in position, but the first move is yours.”

Jord took the horn of Heimdall, mounted the chariot, and raced away. The winds of war were at his back, the fate of the nine worlds had just been placed in his hands and he had a very sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Jord caught up with his army just as they exited the root of Yggdrasill by the well of Urd, the Well of fate. That was one well even he was not about to approach. The one fate he cared most about was out of his hands. The rest, he was about to start dealing with.

His father met him as he exited into the sunshine.

“We harassed them all the way up.” Thor was smiling. “I remembered the side tunnels down there well enough to hit them hard and run away when they least expected it. We must have killed over a hundred of the bastards.”

Thor’s voice lowered. “We only lost eight.”

Jord felt every loss now, but there was nothing for it.

Jord took his father aside. “Fenrir’s army will be moving through the Vidarrlands. The hills and thick forest will slow them down, especially the frost giants. It’s our chance to catch them. I have a plan.”

Meghan sat by Sif, listening to Jord laying out the plans for the coming battle.

“Torvald and Freyr, take your troops east, along the back of the Fjallen Hills. That should hide your movements. Get into position, but don’t engage until we have their attention.”

“The rest of you will be going with me. We’ll strike them from the west, right at the head of their supply train. If we can cut off their supplies, we can greatly weaken their forces, and hopefully slow their advance when they have to stop to forage.”

“You two.” Jord pointed to Sif and her. It was the first time he’d looked at her during the entire meeting. But his eyes were all business. “Get ready to move forward right after the battle to take on any supplies we can capture from them. With luck we may be able to even steal some of their oxen, to help pull our loads.”

The crew in the supply train pulled their carts by hand, for the most part, and was rapidly tiring, though the carts grew lighter as the army burned through their food and supplies.

Sif nodded. “We’ll do our part.”

Jord turned from them, back to the business of laying out the battle plans. Meghan lifted her eyes, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. Although the tunnels hadn’t been dark, she felt closed in during their time in the world tree. Now the sun and the open air felt good. This was the plane that contained Asgaard and Alfheim, Sif told her. The air was lighter and purer here.

As she looked up she noted the dark shape in one of the trees. A raven. Not that there was any way to tell, but Meghan wondered if this was the same raven she’d seen earlier in Jotunheim. Had the bird been following them?

Suddenly it spread its great wings and flew away. Something felt wrong, and Meghan wondered if she should say anything. Then she shook her head. Such silly thoughts. It was just a bird. And probably not even the same one.

Jord led the charge. Down the hill and into the ranks of the giants, dark elves, and ox carts that snaked their way on the old road below. Arrows flew, almost immediately, toward them from archers positioned on the carts, and a rank of giants formed up to face them. Jord thought the surprise of the attack would last longer, but by the time they hit the giant’s front lines, the great brutes were ready for them.

Mjolnir flew forward into the enemy’s forces, and Jord swung his sword, trying to tear apart the defenses as much as he could. Behind him people were falling. People were dying. His father was right. It didn’t get easier.

But he buried his sorrow, let it fuel his anger, and renewed his attack on the force in front of him. He used the flying chariot to glide over the giant’s ranks and started to pick off the archers on top of the carts. There seemed to be so many. If Fenrir had this many forces just to defend his supply carts, his army had to be huge. Did Jord even have a chance of slowing this massive force?

He swung around, bringing the line of carts in front of him, and threw Mjolnir again, willing the hammer to strike hard and long. The weapon flew from his hand, down the line of carts, knocking the dark elf archers from the roofs of seven of the supply wagons before it returned to his hand.

The sky, clear before the battle, now rolled with storm clouds, and Jord began to bend the elements to his will. Lightning lashed out from the clouds and from the hammer he held, striking giants left and right, as his army closed on them. He used the force of the wind to knock yet more archers from the tops of the carts. Rain, carefully concentrated on the road, turned the dust to mud. As oxen and cart wheels sank, the supply train slowed to a crawl.

Jord waited for his father to strike from the east. Where was he? Jord spotted a dark mass making its way toward them down the forested hillside. The underbrush moved, as the force thundered toward them, but when it broke from the undercover, it was not his father’s troops.

The wolves of the forest, some of them ridden by dark elves, thundered across the trail, toward the fighting. Farther beyond he saw the dust clouds of another battle, and a force, his father’s force, being pushed back away from them.

A trap, they’d stepped right into a trap. How could this have happened? Could Fenrir have found out about their attack?

Jord looked around wildly, searching for some way to pull victory from this pending disaster. More giants were making their way back from Fenrir’s main army, the wolves were tearing through his front lines, and the dark elf archers were picking off anyone who got close to the supply carts. How had everything gone so wrong, so fast?

Jord spotted Doldar in the thick of battle and made a swift landing by his lieutenant, crushing the giant Doldar was fighting with one swing of his hammer.

He shouted at Doldar over the din of battle. “Sound the retreat. It’s a trap.”

Jord concentrated, bringing up a wall of wind and rain. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed as he attempted to hold back the Giants, dark elves, and wolves while Doldar signaled the retreat. He hoped the elemental wall would be strong enough to give his front ranks at least a little time to disengage and flee the battle. He had to hold back the evil creatures that threatened to overwhelm them. This had been a mistake, his mistake. So many would be lost. How had it come to this? And what was happening to his father and the rest of his forces?

He’d failed them. His first great battle and he’d failed them—failed them all. This had been his plan. It should have worked. But somehow it had failed. How many would die in the retreat because of this foolish mistake?

Jord held on, digging deeper and deeper into himself. His will, the power of an immortal, he tapped it all and fed it into the elements, using the storm to fight. When he’d fought Surtr, he’d had the force of a storm already there to use. Now the force came from within him, to create the storm and command the elements. The effort became so much greater.

A frost giant came into his view, fighting against the howling winds. As it fought its way through the winds and hail towards him, the giant became the symbol of the enemy for Jord. His rage grew, as the giant trudged forward step by step. Around him the fury of the storm intensified, and as the giant reached him and raised his great club to strike, Jord unleashed everything he had. His power, and the power of Megingjörð, Járngreipr, and Mjolnir, fueled by his rage and fear, entered the tempest around him. The intensity of the storm grew.

For miles around they felt the tremors, and saw the turbulence, as the skies tore apart. The fury of the storm fell on the evil army of Fenrir. Lightning bolts like lances and hail like bullets fell on the evil creatures. They died by the hundreds.

But Jord didn’t see it. The darkness had already claimed him. The hammer, Mjolnir, slipped from cold hands. Megingjörð, its power expended, lost its grip and fell to the muddy ground. Jord had called too deeply on powers he’d never learned to control, and was now paying the price. Before the full fury of the storm hit, Jord lay in the mud unconscious.

As the storm calmed, a dark shape flew over the devastation. A great, black raven landed by the fallen god. Then in its place a shadow grew, and the shadow coalesced into a figure.

“Too much, Son of Thunder.” The figure laughed. “And then again, not enough. Not nearly enough.”