Book Nine. Dream

1

The shadow that reared over the Ninth World-the blackbird shadow with feathers of fire-was beyond anything seen since Ragnarók.

It was Surt, the Destroyer, in full Aspect, and whatever fell beneath the shadow of his wing vanished as if it had never been, leaving only Chaos in its place, a Chaos full of stars that grew and swelled as the Worlds receded.

Little was left of the Black Fortress as, piece by piece, it reverted to its raw material of glamours, ephemera, and dream. Fragments still floated in the void-here a piece of city wall, there a rock, a ditch, a bend in a river-blown like snowflakes on the dark wind.

It was on one of these fragments that the Æsir had settled to make their final stand, an outcrop of some rocky something overlooking the Underworld, with Thor, in Aspect, mindbolts in hand, and T ýr with his gauntlet raised to strike; Frigg watching the scene unfolding in Hel; Loki crouching in the shelter of the rock; and Sif, who was no warrior, holding a running commentary on when, exactly how, and how soon they were all about to die.

“It’s all your fault,” she said, pointing at Loki, who, ignoring her, was picking off passing demons with a series of small, quick cantrips that sliced through the air like shrapnel.

“Your fault,” repeated Sif, “and now you’re dead, and everything’s going to Pan-daemonium-and what in the Worlds are you grinning at now…?”

But Loki wasn’t listening. Instead he allowed his mind to run-he found that shooting at demons sharpened his concentration-turning over the events of past days until he understood, albeit too late, how cleverly he had been manipulated.

Frigg’s words had brought it home to him: how it had used him from the start, how he had been sent to his death on a fool’s errand while the Whisperer made its bargain with Hel, how it had tricked her into serving its purpose, how Hel’s betrayal had opened the rift in Chaos, and how the Whisperer stood now, at the head of an army, poised, not to do battle, as Odin supposed, but to unleash that Chaos into the Worlds and watch as they fell, one by one…

He realized he’d underestimated the Whisperer’s ambition. He’d thought that it was simply out for revenge, that once its debt was settled with Odin, then perhaps it would be satisfied. Now he knew better. It wanted its turn; it wanted the power of Order and Chaos, to be the One and Only God…

He pegged Kaen at a cloud of ephemera and saw it disperse like a swarm of bees. Desperation had restored his sense of humor, and in the minutes he had left, Whisperer or not, he was determined to go out in flames. Fire runes shot from his fingertips; his eyes gleamed and his face, though bearing the marks of exhaustion, was alight with pleasure. He supposed it was the Chaos in his blood, but to his own surprise Loki found he was having more fun than he had in five hundred years.

Behind him Thor and T ýr stood back to back, each one covering the other as they struck mindbolts at the blackbird shadow. It kept coming. Behind it came silence, the spinning space between the stars, the unimaginable emptiness of World Beyond.

Inch by inch, it glided closer. Clouds of ephemera fizzled and died in its wake. Demons-some as huge as oliphants-were sucked like seeds into its maw, and still it came, unstoppable, oblivious. It was almost upon them now; Netherworld had fallen, and only the shores of the river remained. On came Surt; the shadow clipped the edge of the rock upon which the Æsir had made their stand…

Then, suddenly, even as the rock began to disintegrate beneath them-

Everything stopped. A silence fell. Netherworld froze at the moment of its unmaking, and Odin and the Nameless began to move closer, barely at first, circling each other almost imperceptibly, like dancers in some long, slow ceremony.

Maddy, whose heart had leaped at the sight of her old friend, took a step forward, but Balder put a hand on her arm.

“Leave him,” he said in a quiet voice. “Interfere, and you risk both your lives.”

She knew he was right-this was Odin’s battle, not hers-but she could not help but feel a little hurt that her old friend had not even acknowledged her. Was he angry? Didn’t he care? Or had she simply served her purpose, to be put aside like so many before?

The two warriors were closing now, Odin looking tired and drab next to the dazzling form of the Nameless. The staff in its hands crackled with runes; Odin’s mindsword gleamed kingfisher blue.

Behind them, ten thousand voices of the Order began to recite from the Book of Invocations.

I name you Odin, son of Bór…

“You’ve lost,” said the Nameless. “Your time is done. Out with the old gods. In with the new.”

Odin smiled. “The new?” he said. “There’s nothing new about this, old friend. This is the way the Worlds turn. Even betrayal serves one side or another. And even Chaos has its rules.”

“Not this time,” said the Nameless. “This time I will set the rules.”

“The rules are already set. You serve them, whether you like it or not.”

The Whisperer hissed. “I’ll serve no one. Not Order. Not Chaos. And if everything else has to fall, then so be it. I’ll rule alone. Nothing but Me throughout the worlds: all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful Me.”

“I can see Wise Mimir has lost none of his wisdom,” mocked Odin.

In fact, he had rarely felt less like laughing. The strength of the Nameless was even greater than he had anticipated; its glam was like the heart of a star, and although its Aspect was still only half formed, he knew that it was already lethal.

Behind him the army of the Order intoned:

I name you Grim and Gan-glari,

Herian, Hialmberi,

Thekk, and Third, and Thunn, and Unn.

Every name weakened him further; he lashed out at the figure dimly glimpsed through his truesight, but his mindsword struck nothing but air. Behind him, in the ranks, a single man fell. Another stepped forward to take his place.

In its turn, the Nameless struck. The runestaff only brushed Odin’s wrist-but it burned like hot iron and the force of it sent him sprawling, half stunned, across the sand.

I name you Bolverk,

I name you Grimnir,

I name you Blindi,

I name you Svidri…

Odin stood up, rubbing his wrist. “You’ve grown stronger,” he remarked calmly, transferring his mindsword to his uninjured hand.

“I wish I could say the same of you,” said the Nameless.

Odin feinted, parried, struck. The sword in his hand sped like a dart, but a flick from the runestaff was enough to divert it, and the weapon flipped harmlessly away, cleaving the ground where it fell and leaving a crater six feet deep.

I name you Omi, Just-as-High,

I name you Harbard, Hropta-Týr…

Once more the runestaff flashed; Odin dodged, but the Nameless was faster. The tip of the staff just grazed his knee, and One-Eye fell, rolled, casting ýr one-handed as he did, so when the runestaff struck again-at the head this time-it glanced away as Odin cast T ýr at his attacker.

In the ranks of Examiners another man fell, vanishing like a puff of smoke into the desert air. But still the Nameless stood unscathed, stronger than ever and with a smile of triumph across its harsh features.

Odin struck out again with the strength of despair. In the crowd another Examiner fell, but the Nameless struck back with snakelike speed, this time catching him squarely on the shoulder.