5

In animal guise they had tracked the Huntress, with Frey, Bragi, and Heimdall leading the chase. As the passageway broadened, Njörd’s sea eagle had joined them, flying low beneath the eaves, and now the four of them resumed their own Aspects, watching intently from their vantage point as the white wolf pursued its distant quarry.

Some distance behind them came Freyja and Idun, turning wondering eyes to the sky of Hel and to the little drama being enacted miles below across the plain.

“I told you Skadi was on our side,” said Njörd. “She followed him here; she led us right to him-”

“Did she?” Heimdall glanced at the parson, standing not a dozen feet away. “Then will someone explain to us why he’s here? And what about the Whisperer? If it was close, I’d have seen it by now.”

“It’s obvious,” said Njörd. “Loki has it.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Heimdall said. “If Odin and Loki are working together…”

“So they quarreled. He ran. That’s what he does. What does it matter?”

“I need to be sure.”

Heimdall turned on the parson, who had backed away. At his feet Adam Scattergood hid his eyes.

“You, fellow,” said Heimdall. “Where is the Whisperer?”

“Please don’t kill me,” pleaded Nat. “I don’t know anything about any Whisperer. I’m just a country parson; I don’t even have the Word anymore-”

And then the parson stopped and stared, and the Book of Words fell from his hand. He looked like a man having a stroke. His face paled; his eyes bulged; his mouth fell open, but no words came.

His wife was standing at the tunnel mouth. Her hair unpinned, her eyes bright, her plain face very calm.

“Ethel,” said Nat. “But I saw you die.”

Ethel smiled at her husband’s expression. She had expected to feel something when they finally met. Relief perhaps, or anger, fear, resentment. Instead she felt-what was that feeling?

“This is the Land of the Dead, Nat,” said Ethel with a mischievous smile. And now behind her Nat could see…surely that was Dorian Scattergood, and could that possibly be-a pig?

“I asked you a question, fellow,” said Heimdall. “Where is the Whisperer?”

But it was Ethelberta who replied, looking strangely dignified in spite of her ragged clothes and the dust on her face and the fact that she was standing next to a man holding a small black pig under one arm.

“The Whisperer is at the gate,” she said. “I speak as I must and cannot be silent.”

Heimdall gave her a sharp look. “What did you say?”

“This is the time that was foretold,” went on Ethel quietly. “The War of Nine Worlds, when Yggdrasil shall tremble to its roots and the Black Fortress shall be opened with a single Word. The dead shall rise to live again and the living have no place of refuge as Order and Chaos are finally made one, and the Nameless shall be named, and the formless have form, and a traitor be true, and a blind man lead you against ten thousand.”

By this time all eyes were on Ethelberta. Dorian thought how beautiful she was; how luminous and how calm.

“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.”

6

“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.