Trapped

vaulted bodily over it on the premise that I would draw no fire once I landed, shroud-wrapped, disguised from dead eyes.

I landed heavily but intact, drew stares but no fire. Identity concealed, purpose hidden, I joined the stream of dead forward through my own realm, an invader of my own home.

What a wonder Runeskald Mjotvangir had made! I marched unremarked in the midst of putrefaction, cold malice, and unknown intention. Past warrens and neighborhoods and then past mines and pockets of wealth, I followed the stream of dead ever downward. And then, after seemingly interminable hours of this journey, so far down I knew not where I was, the draugar before and behind me stopped and pressed themselves against the wall of the tunnel we traversed. I did likewise, waiting, breath heaving in a passage where no other breath heaved, until a giant of a dog rushed past: Hel’s own hound, named Garm, of yellow eyes and unmatched determination, nose following a trail I could not smell, doubtless made of malignance and the acrid trace of sulfur.

The dead, and I as well, continued after him, always coursing down, into the unlit depths where no dwarf had roamed for years. When the darkness became too much for my eyes to pierce, the shroud did me a service and lit my way, alarming none in the process.

After another hour of peregrination, I entered a vast chamber already full of draugar. There, high up on a ledge, glowed the resting form of Loki Firebreath, supine on the rocks, slumbering in peace, only his bare skin revealing a blue aura of simmering flames.

Garm sat beside him, stalwart sentinel, ever vigilant. The legions of Hel made no move to wake him but rather faced outward, ready to face any threat, and there they still wait at this very moment, protecting the sleep of Loki, Hel’s father, lord of mischief.

I hurried back to tell my king of this news, and grimly he sent word to Asgard of Hel’s doings in Nidavellir.

Her father found, Hel’s goal was accomplished, and the dead stopped flowing into Nidavellir, but still they wait silently far below our cities for Loki, robed in wrath, to waken again.

More than ten thousand draugar fell that day to dwarf weapons. Seven times seven hundred Shield Brothers fell defending their homes, their children left fatherless, their women widowed. And for what? For a selfish god’s nap in the deep! For a Druid’s foolish tongue! You see me here, beardless and braided, for the loss of an uncle and a nephew in that battle! Why should I not now, in justice draped, exact a measure of the blood shed for a careless word three months ago? My fallen family demands it, as do the families of all the dwarfs who died that day!

* * *

“You will not move,” Frigg said to Fjalar, her voice as cold as his was hot with rage. “Do not stir to shepherd violence here. These are your guests and mine.”

The dwarf looked apoplexed. “But my honor—”

“Will restrain itself for a while longer,” Frigg finished. “Odin has a plan that will pay your people properly and tax the Druid heavily.”

“What plan is that?” I asked.

“You already know it well. Now is the time,” Frigg said, “while Loki and Hel are occupied, while Garm is stationed elsewhere, to cripple their efforts to bring about Ragnarok. Hel’s realm is half empty. There you must go to slay Loki’s spawn, Fenris, Odin’s bane, devourer of gods.”

“You want me to go to Hel and kill Fenris?”

“Yes.”

“I thought he was supposed to be tied up on an island in the middle of a black lake.”

Frigg rolled her eyes and waved this away. “Snorri Sturluson made that up. He was bound in Hel and there he remains, tended by her minions.”

“I can’t get into Hel.” I knew the shift points to get to the planes of Nidavellir and Jötunheim—the first was in Iceland and the other in Siberia—but I’d never tracked down the shift point that would take me to the third root of Yggdrasil, which would lead me all the way down to the spring of Hvergelmir and the lower realms of the Norse.

“Untrue. None other than the goddess Freyja will lead you there. She is your guide and your surety of return.”

I snorted. “Forgive me, Frigg, but Freyja is no surety of my return. Not after what happened in Oslo six years ago. Say rather that you’re holding a shotgun to my head and Freyja will pull the trigger.”

“She besmirched the honor of the Æsir that day, but none more so than her own. This is her penance. Only by your safe return can she restore her good name.”

“And once I’m returned from Hel? Will she attack me then, her oath fulfilled?”

“No, of course not. But you are not going alone. In addition, good King Aurvang has already promised the services of the Black Axes.”

“The Black Axes!” Fjalar exclaimed. “How many of them?”

“All of them. You will lead an army to kill a single wolf.”

“He’s not an average wolf, and you know it,” I said. “What is Loki up to?”

“It is something akin to the Odinsleep,” Frigg said. “He is healing. He has not had a decent night’s rest in centuries. He is drained, and now he heals for an indeterminate time.”

“So he’ll be even stronger when he wakes?”

“Yes.”

“Will he still be batshit insane?”

“His sanity has always been doubtful. He once tied a rope to the beard of a nanny goat and the other end to his testicles just to make Skadi laugh. It was an extremely high-pitched tug-o’-war, and his idea of kindness. If you are wondering if he will be less likely to pursue malevolent impulses than in the past, my guess would be no.”

“Can Freyja get us into Hel without having to fight through legions of draugar?”

“Yes. You will take the path that the Æsir use.”

For a while, no one spoke. Eyes shifted around the table, measuring expressions, and wood popped and crackled in the hearth.

This was precisely the sort of thing that Odin had requested of me some years before. Since I had been directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of many of those tasked to fight in Ragnarok, I had to take on some of their responsibilities. Fenris had to be slain, and we would find no better opportunity than this, while he was still bound in Hel and many of her forces were absent.

“My hound stays here,” I said, “safe and unmolested.”

<No, I want to go with you!>

No. We are not arguing about this. I need you to be safe.

<But I’m always safe with you.>

You wouldn’t be in Hel.

“And your apprentice?” Frigg asked.

“She’s not my apprentice anymore. She is a full Druid and may make her own decisions,” I said. I turned to Granuaile and spoke softly: “You are not under any obligation to accompany me. You should remain here and do something heinous to your stepfather’s oil business. Take Oberon with you.”

Granuaile’s green eyes bored into mine. Her head shook minutely and she brought up her left hand to caress my beard. “Idiot. I’m going with you. My decision.”

“Okay.”

<Can I go if I call you an idiot and stroke your face with my paw?>

No.

Oberon whined. <This isn’t fair!>

One of us has to live through this. I always want you to be the one who lives.

<What if you don’t come back?>

Go down to Ouray and find someone there who likes big friendly dogs.

<They wouldn’t call me Oberon. They’d call me Max. You know how many big dogs are named Max? Like, all of them. Atticus, don’t go. Just send a poisoned box of doggie treats to this wolf and