Joanne Harris - Runemarks

“Excuse me,” said Heimdall. “And you are…?”

“We’ve met,” she said.

Heimdall looked at her more closely. For a second he frowned at her colors, brighter by far than those of the Folk.

Then he turned accusingly to Idun. “What did you do to her?” he said.

“She was dying,” said Idun. “I brought her back.”

There was a rather ominous silence.

“Let me get this straight,” said Heimdall. “You brought her back.”

Idun nodded happily.

“You gave…one of the Folk…the food of the gods.”

Idun smiled.

“And you thought that was a good idea?”

“Why not?” said the Healer.

“Why not?” said Heimdall. “Listen, Idun. She came back from the dead. You’ve given her the gift of prophecy.” He gave the rock at his side a kick. “Gods,” he said. “That’s all we need. Another bloody oracle.”

“Sir, it’s too late,” protested Sugar-and-Sack as they stumbled across the featureless plain. “The Captain’s stone’s gone black, d’ye kennet, and that can only mean one thing…”

“You’re staying with me,” said the General. “For a start, I’ll need your eyes.”

“Me eyes?”

“Just take my arm-and keep going.”

In the darkness of World Below, Odin had almost welcomed blindness. But here, beneath the false gray sun of the Underworld, he knew that his advantage-such as it was-was at an end. Against the pallor of the desert he and Sugar stood out like two cockroaches on a cake-easy targets for an enemy. Blind, he could still sense that the Vanir were close, and their combined strength was such that even if he’d had the use of his eyes, he would have had little chance against the seven of them at once.

But the Vanir seemed disinclined to attack. Only the white wolf was in pursuit-and so close now that he could hear her panting. But with Sugar as his guide and a wall of broken rock only yards away, he was almost sure he could make it to some place of shelter, some place from which he might, with luck, strike first at the Huntress just as she shifted back into Aspect.

It was a long shot, but Odin took his chance and, feeling rock at the tip of his staff, he turned abruptly, wedged his back against the wall, and fired Hagall as hard as he could into the white wolf’s open jaws.

If Maddy had fired that bolt, it might have finished there and then. But it was not Maddy, and the mindbolt that would have taken out the Huntress’s throat just glanced harmlessly off her shoulder and lit a string of signature-sparks like crackers off the rock face.

Odin did not have to see the result to know that his blow had gone wide. Sugar squeaked in alarm and dived headfirst into a nest of rocks too small for anything much bigger than a rat to follow, and now Odin could sense her circling back, her colors flaring like ancient ice.

He reached for the runes but found them uncooperative. So much of his glam had already gone in the three days of his descent into the Underworld that there was less than a spark left now for the fight.

Skadi knew it and growled with amusement as she closed in for the kill. She had spent so much time in her wolf skin over the past few days that her true Aspect had begun to feel cumbersome and slow, and though she needed it at times (when she wanted to speak or cast runes), she’d always felt better in animal form. She growled again and crouched on her haunches for the leap that would guide her to her enemy’s throat.

It never came. Instead she felt a hand on her collar, smelled a not-quite-human scent, and was hauled backward, snarling, by six pairs of hands as Frey and Heimdall cast runes of constraint and Bragi played a farandole that bound her into helplessness. The struggle was short; snarling at her captors, the Huntress regained her natural form and faced them, white and red and spitting with rage, in her own Aspect.

“How dare you!” She might have matched them one-on-one, but against the six she could not triumph. “I had the right to this kill-”

“The right?” said Freyja. “To risk our lives for some pointless revenge? Listen, Skadi.” She handed her a cloak, which Skadi took sullenly. “We know what you did.”

“Then kill me,” said Skadi, “because I’m going to do it again the minute I get the chance.”

For a moment they stood face to face: the six Vanir and the Huntress, her fists clenched and blue eyes glaring, and lastly Odin, leaning on his staff.

Some distance behind them came the others: Ethel, Dorian, Adam, and Nat, with the Good Book clasped once more at his chest. It was a tense moment, the stillness broken only by a distant sluicing sound, and with it a vibration that pulled at their eardrums and sucked their teeth and seemed to come from everywhere, nowhere, and some other, impossible place in between.

“Listen,” said Odin. “Do you know that sound?”

Everyone turned to look at him.

Heimdall the Watchman knew it well. He’d heard it on the battlefield at Ragnarók, when the sky had been rent and the sun and moon swallowed by a darkness that had nothing to do with the absence of light.

Frey knew it: he’d heard it as he’d fallen, his sword broken and his glam reversed, into the ice.

Freyja knew it too and remembered a shadow like that of a blackbird ringed with fire-a crow, perhaps, or a carrion bird-and that where it fell, nothing remained.

Skadi knew it and shivered.

Njörd, who had fought from the shores of his own kingdom, had heard it as the river Dream broke its banks and the battle fleet of the dead sailed forth out of the Underworld.

Idun had heard it and wept.

Bragi too had heard it, though no songs or poems had been written that day. Fire and ice and a blackbird shadow; opposing forces so strong that between them the World Tree had groaned and swayed. Asgard, the Sky Citadel, the First World, had fallen, crushing continents. And out of Chaos demons had come, slithering between the Worlds in the wake of the blackbird shadow. And all that had taken place in the Middle Worlds, where the powers of Chaos are at their weakest. And they’d had armies then: warriors, heroes, Tunnel Folk, and men…

“I see an army poised for battle. I see a general standing alone. I see a traitor at the gate. I see a sacrifice.”

The voice was quiet but distinct, and the Vanir stared at Ethel Parson. Only Odin did not stare, but he stiffened at the sound of her voice.

“Who’s that?”

“I’m Ethel Parson, if it please you, sir, and they tell me I’m an oracle.”

For a moment Odin froze. Then a smile touched his harsh features.

“Ethel,” he said. “I should have known.”

There was a long pause. Then he spoke again, in a gentle voice, and took her hand between his own. “You felt different. You didn’t know why. You could see things you couldn’t before. And there was a feeling inside you, wasn’t there? A feeling that you had to be somewhere, but you didn’t know where…”

Ethel nodded silently. Odin didn’t see it, but he saw its reflection in her colors and smiled. “It itched,” he went on. “And then it took shape. Show me, Ethel. You know what I mean.”

Ethel looked surprised, and she colored a little. She hesitated-then with a firm gesture she pushed up her sleeve to show them the new runemark on her arm, glowing with a bright green light.

Nat’s mouth fell open in surprise. Dorian gasped, Adam stared, and even the Vanir were stunned into silence.

Only Odin seemed unsurprised, and he smiled as he traced the gleaming sign.

“Ethel, the Homeland,” he said. “Second rune of the New Script. I never thought to find it here-the food of the gods combined with the Word…” Slowly he shook his gray head. “If only there was more time,” he said. “But I need to talk with you alone.”