Runemarks

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 yr 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 ?sir 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 Bor…

“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-Tyr…

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 yr one-handed as he did, so when the runestaff struck again-at the head this time-it glanced away as Odin cast T yr 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.

I name you Sann and Sanngetal,

Svidur, Svidri, Skilfing-

It was a weak spot, barely healed from the crossbow bolt, and he went down heavily under the blow. He rolled out of range, casting Tyr left-handed as he pushed himself back onto his feet.

T yr hit the Nameless squarely between the eyes.

Odin staggered back to see the result.

In the ranks, a knot of Examiners vanished like smoke, and the rest closed in to take their place. Odin did not see it; instead he saw the bolt pass right through the airy form of the Nameless, dispersing its glam harmlessly on the dead air.

The Nameless gave its dry laugh.

The river Dream swelled and rose.

Grimly Odin drew his mindsword again.

2

On the far side of the battlefield the Vanir heard the Nameless speak. Every syllable was relayed to them as ten thousand voices spoke the words:

I name you Odin, son of Bor…

It was beginning, Heimdall thought. Eight against the multitude…

He took a step closer to the line of men. This time no eye followed him. Every man’s gaze was fixed on the same point; their backs were turned; he sensed the depth of their concentration. A dry wind blew, charged with dust, but no man so much as shielded his eyes, and from the widening gyre in the crow-colored clouds came a heightened glare the color of fresh blood.

He’d sworn to Odin that he would not follow. It rankled, but an oath was an oath. Still, he thought, no oath had been sworn concerning the dead men standing so passively, apparently lost in thought, watching the fight by the riverside.

He could sense the power of that canticle and knew that for Odin each word was a blow. If he could break their Communion, he thought-stop that damned chanting, at least for a moment…

He drew a mindbolt from the rune Hagall and shot it into the nearest column.

Nothing happened; no man fell.

Frey joined him, mindsword in hand, but the Reaper’s blade was no more effective than Heimdall’s weapon; it passed through the line as if through smoke.

He called Skadi, then Njord, but neither mindwhip nor trident had any effect, nor had fire runes, ice runes, or runes of victory. The ears of the dead were impervious even to Bragi’s most potent music, the eyes of the dead were blind to Freyja’s most seductive glamours; and still they continued to chant the secret names of the Allfather:

Ialk and Herteit,

Vakr and Varmatyr-

Bileyg and Gaut…

And in the general consternation and the assault of the Word it was as many as twelve verses later that the Vanir realized that the parson and his prentice-not to mention the farmer, the woman, and the potbellied pig-were missing.