Valkyrie had been living in solitude, apart from each other; none knew what had become of the other nine guardians, or why any of them had survived when Asgard, the realm of the gods, was no more.
“There must have been a reason,” Bryn had said. “The All-father would not have entrusted the Treasures to us if he knew no one would return to claim them.”
But Mist had only laughed. “Odin was blind,” she said, “and now he is gone. He condemned us for nothing. We could have died honorably instead of holding to a meaningless oath. Now we have the chance to fight again.”
Bryn and Horja had been shocked at her casual sacrilege. Horja, who guarded Gridarvol, Thor’s unbreakable staff, had joined Bryn in protest.
But Mist hadn’t listened. With the staff, Horja could not only fight but clear paths through the deepest snow. Freya’s cloak would give Bryn an invaluable edge in spotting enemies. Gungnir, Odin’s spear, would find its mark when all other weapons failed. The gods would never return to punish Mist or her Sisters.
Now, as if to prove Mist right, Bryn recovered, spread her wings, and cried out again before darting toward the fringe of woods that ran parallel to the trail. Mist knew there was no more time to waste.
“Hold on tight, Rebekka,” she said, pushing off on her skis and falling into the steady rhythm she could maintain for days without rest. Snow drove into her face and stung her eyes, but she didn’t slow until she was in sight of the other refugees.
Aaron Fischer, who had taken up the rear, turned awkwardly to face her.
“Rebekka!” he said, the word catching on the wind. “Where have you been?”
“She’s all right,” Mist said. She reached behind her and swung the child to the ground, setting her on her feet. “Rebekka, you must stay with your uncle.” She met Fischer’s shrouded gaze. “Can you carry her? I must go back.”
Fischer grunted agreement, and Mist lifted Rebekka onto her uncle’s shoulders. The girl glanced back mournfully as Fischer lowered his head and set off again, too weary to ask where Mist was going, or why.
Jumping up onto the snowbank, Mist raced alongside and ahead of the straggling line of refugees, her skis driving through the soft upper layer of new-fallen snow to find the harder pack beneath. A raven circled overhead— the symbol of Odin’s two avian advisors, Thought and Memory—scenting the violence soon to come.
Within minutes she had caught up to Geir, who was closely following Horja and using his skis to flatten the snow in her wake.
He saw her and half turned without slowing. “Mist?” he said.
She signaled for him to stop, jumped back onto the trail, and bent her head close to his. Her breath melted the rime crusting his ginger brows and the week’s worth of beard on his chin. His hazel eyes were little more than slits nested in a web of creases, and his face was haggard with worry. He had never looked more beautiful to her.
“Germans,” she said. “I’m going to help Bryn deal with them.”
Geir put his hand on her arm; even through layers of gloves, coat, and sweater, she could feel his warmth.
“How many?” he asked.
She grinned, making sure he could see her expression. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “You know I can handle them.”
And he did. At first he’d been skeptical that any woman, however brave or skilled with weapons, could keep up with trained Re sis tance fighters. She’d proven him wrong on their first mission, and when Horja and Bryn had joined them he had supported their participation wholeheartedly.
Of course, he didn’t know what they were. But he’d never questioned her, and she had seen the pride in his eyes. Pride, and something she had never thought to see in any man’s face.
She began to believe he might one day accept what she was, that they might remain together, even though she would not seem to age at all over his entire lifetime. It was a hope she nurtured like a fragile flame in the icy darkness.
Geir searched her eyes, his fingers squeezing her sleeve. There was no question that he had to remain with Horja; if the Germans broke through and attacked the refugees, he would be needed here.
“Take care,” he said, and seized her head between his hands. They kissed, a rush of heat that brought the blood surging like the giant Surtr’s fire through Mist’s veins.
“Are we stopping?” Mrs. Dworsky said, catching up to them. Her voice was thin, but there was no complaint in it. “Is it time to rest?”
Geir broke away to face her. “Not yet,” he said. “We must keep moving a little while longer.”
Mist didn’t stay to hear Mrs. Dworsky’s reply. She leaped onto the snowbank and raced back the way she had come. As she neared the woods she stopped, planted her poles, and unslung the Sten gun from over her shoulder. She pulled off her gloves, checked her Nagant revolver and made sure Kettlingr was within easy reach. To the eye of the refugees and the enemy, the blade was no more than a knife any woodsman might carry, but with the right spells it became the sword she had kept at her side since her coming to Midgard.
Shrugging off her pack, she removed Gungnir from its cloth wrappings and secured it to her belt. Like Kettlingr, the Spear’s true shape was masked by spells only Mist knew. Its grip hummed against her skin as if it were calling for the blood it had been denied so long ago.
In all her time with the Resis tance, Mist had never wielded Odin’s spear. The others had made use of their divine weapons, as she herself had urged, but she had never found the need to draw Gungnir or chant the Runes.
The thought filled her with a strange foreboding that shamed her. She had laughed at Bryn’s worries, and now she laughed at her own. If today was to be the day, she would use Gungnir without hesitation. It was a tool, nothing more.
Bryn emerged from the trees, naked save for the feathered cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Her legs sank deep into the snow with every step.
“Where?” Mist asked as the brown-haired Valkyrie joined her.
“Close.” Bryn’s labored breaths shaped streamers of condensation that came far too quickly. “Horja is still with the others?”
Mist nodded, searching Bryn’s eyes. “Are you all right?”
Bryn cut the air with her hand, dismissing Mist’s question. “We must hurry. There are six of them, and they are coming fast.”
“Can you fly again?” Mist asked.
Bryn’s hesitation was brief. “I will do what must be done.”
Without another word she turned back for the trees, Mist on her heels. Bryn’s clothing, pack, and weapons hung on a low branch just inside the border of the wood. She ignored them and ran on, threading her way among the stands of birch, maple, and pine. By the time Mist reached the other side, Bryn was gone.
But the enemy was very much present. Most of their kind were loud and clumsy, blundering through the snow like blind, pregnant cattle. Their dark uniforms were foul, ugly streaks of filth in the purity of the wilderness.
These men were different. There were four, not six, but they were alert and watchful, crouched low and constantly scanning the land around them. They were expecting a fight. They might even be worthy opponents.
Mist removed her skis, knelt behind a thick screen of young birches, and waited for Bryn to reappear. The falcon burst from cover to Mist’s right and winged skyward, calling out to catch the Germans’ attention.
Aiming the Sten gun, Mist raked the soldiers with a spray of bullets. Two of the men fell flat on their bellies. A third collapsed in a halo of blood. The fourth remained standing, returning fire with calm precision.
For the first time since she had joined the Resis tance, Mist felt the sting of a bullet slice through her clothes and bite into her flesh. The shock of it knocked her off her feet. She rolled onto her stomach and pulled the trigger again.
The gun jammed. She tossed it aside and yanked her Nagant from its holster. Her first shot missed the marksman, who dropped and continued to fire. The other two men opened up on Mist, pinning her to the ground.
