He glanced at Sigyn’s profile. She seemed quite unaware of his plan; her eyes were closed, her earnest face a study in concentration. What would she do if he left her? he thought. She couldn’t shift to bird form …
Come on, Loki told himself. Now is definitely not the time to find out you’ve got a conscience.
He brought the rune Tyr in closer. The Wedlock began to glow. It burned; and still he held the rune, thinking: Sorry, Sig. I have to go. I’m really not the marrying kind—
Just then there came a terrific lurch from the fading Bridge. Loki was knocked off-balance and fell. That’s it, he thought. I’m out of here …
But as he was about to shift, he felt Sigyn’s hand take hold of his, and she dragged him forward into a dream of a place that was like the cave by the Sleepers, except that he wasn’t a prisoner there, and two little boys played at his feet – two little boys with red hair …
The dream-Sigyn smiled at Loki. It wasn’t quite a comforting smile – it was rather too maternal for that – but it was kind, nevertheless.
‘Where are we?’ said Loki.
‘Home,’ she said.
‘Home? Where?’
‘Asgard, of course,’ she said with a smile. ‘Remember? Your hall in Asgard?’
‘I don’t get a hall in Asgard,’ said Loki. ‘Remember? The Oracle told me.’
Sigyn laughed. ‘So share mine. There’s plenty of room for two.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Loki. ‘I mean, that’s very generous, but actually, I don’t really need—’
‘Everyone needs someone,’ she said. ‘Everyone – even someone like you – needs a place to come home to.’
Loki’s keenness to escape was suspended by curiosity. ‘What?’ he said. ‘You’d take me in? After everything I’ve done? I mean, I’m hardly the faithful spouse …’
‘Of course I would,’ said Sigyn.
‘You must be crazy,’ Loki said.
‘So I’m crazy,’ said Sigyn. ‘Who cares? Now dream!’
Why not? thought Loki, and closed his eyes …
And stepped into the shadowcloud.
Around him, the gods were doing the same. Frey dreamed of banqueting halls; Freyja of mirrors and jewellery; Heimdall of horizons and hills; and Ethel of Balder, her long-lost son, with perfect, loving clarity.
Skadi dreamed of a hall of ice; Njörd dreamed of a hall in the Sea; Idun dreamed of orchards and gardens; Bragi dreamed of music.
And Perth and Sleipnir dreamed of walls – walls as thick as a man was tall; battlements; ramparts; bulwarks and buttresses; drawbridges and parapets and towers.
They had only seconds now, but time works differently in Dream, and seconds was all they needed – as long as the black bird shadow held back. Surt must have sensed the urgency. The beating of wings grew louder. A wing-tip grazed the Bridge …
Now only Tyr and the demon wolves stood between Asgard and Chaos. Fenris, Skull and Big H were poised on the last piece of parapet, ready to strike as the black bird broke through. No dreamers, but seasoned Devourers, the three now entered into their own, jaws snapping, eyes wild, fangs bared at the shadowcloud. Every second was valuable; every second might mean the chance to snatch a victory even as the Rainbow Bridge dissolved into air—
‘NOW!’ came Perth’s voice from above. ‘Give it everything you’ve got!’
Brave-Hearted Tyr, whose powers had never run to flying even at the best of times, felt himself begin to fall. His Aspect was failing. His glamorous arm flickered and started to fade. Below him – far below – World’s End: a chequerboard of light and shade.
Beside him, the Fenris Wolf gave him an appraising look. His grey-gold eyes were shining. ‘Think you can ride on my back, noob?’
Sugar looked down. ‘Where to?’ he said.
Fenris jerked his head at the cloud.
‘Dude,’ said Skull. ‘We don’t stand a chance.’
‘That’s Surt,’ said Big H. ‘Surt, man. The Destroyer …’
Fenris showed his teeth. ‘Yeah. I say we go in there and kick his ass.’
Skull and Big H exchanged looks. Beneath them, the Bridge was nothing but air.
Sugar swallowed. ‘Sounds like a plan.’ He grabbed hold of Fenny’s mane with both hands.
Fenny gave an approving growl. ‘The noob says we have a plan. Are you with me, boys?’ Then he opened his jaws and leaped, howling, at the oncoming cloud just as the tip of the Destroyer’s wing came down like a blade over Bif-rost.
PUCKER-LIPS, A-PUCKER-LIPS, ALL fall down, said the words of the ancient rock-a-bye. And that was what started to happen, of course, as the last of the Bridge disappeared, tumbling Sun Shield and dreamers into the empty, merciless sky.
At the same time the shadowcloud gave a seismic shudder, spitting the Vanir into the air like seeds into a hurricane. Loki shifted to bird form and shot off over Asgard, carrying Sigyn between his claws as a golden acorn. The Vanir scattered, some stunned by the blast, some swept aside by the turbulence. Chaos had finally understood the danger their dreams represented, and had slammed its doors against them with all the force it could summon.
Maddy gave a moan of dismay and looked up at the Cradle. No longer ephemeral, it shone like a glacier in the sun, rising glamorous from the clouds in a thousand glassy turrets and spires. It was by far the most wonderful thing that she had ever seen or dreamed: a city in the Firmament, all ringed about with northlights. But still it wasn’t finished, she sensed, as Jormungand moved in and out of Dream, so that if she stopped to save her friends, the whole delicate, intricate structure might dissolve just like the Rainbow Bridge, leaving nothing to cling to but vapours and clouds.
She looked up to where Perth and Sleipnir stood on the city’s battlements. The General’s Aspect was very dim, his glam burned down to nothing at all. Through the rune Bjarkán she could see that he was barely conscious. Nan too was at a halt; Dream is a devourer of glam, and the energy required to build had already taken most of hers. Maddy’s own glam was down to a spark; but she had come late to the battle and, with luck, a little remained. Enough for just one more attempt – one last, desperate flight of fancy …
Time! I need more time! she thought. A second, even a second more …
She saw the black bird shadow rise. Sugar was riding Fenris. She gave a cry as the shadow fell, and Sugar glanced at her, his golden eyes alight, his hand extended towards the shadowcloud. His glamorous arm reappeared as soon as it touched the fabric of Dream, and for a second – maybe less – his Aspect was that of Brave-Hearted Tyr, his signature flaring a brilliant red, mounted on a demon wolf with fur that crackled with runelight.
Fenris opened his jaws wide. The Devourer faced the Destroyer. For a second the shadow faltered, and Maddy plunged once more into Dream …
She felt the tip of the black bird’s wing graze her shoulder as she passed. There was no pain, but her arm went numb and her glam dipped like a dying flame. She ignored it and reached for the final time into the seething heart of Dream.
And now at last Maddy dreamed of her friends. She dreamed of the Seer-folk and Firefolk; of the Trickster with his crooked smile, the Watchman and the Thunderer, the Seeress and the General, the Healer and the Poet, the Huntress and the Man of the Sea. She dreamed of Bright-Haired Sif, of Frey and Freyja, of Crazy Nan Fey – and especially of Brave-Hearted Tyr, who had once been Sugar-and-Sack, a cowardly goblin from Red Horse Hill, and who had fearlessly given his all to earn her that last precious second of time.
Spurring Jorgi out of the cloud, she felt the bird shadow come down again, so close that it clipped her left heel. Numbness engulfed her; but Maddy sped on, trying not to think of her friends plummeting through the air to their deaths; summoning Aesk, the Lightning Ash, with every flicker of glam she had left.
But instead of the flare of runelight there came the dry click of a breaking twig as Aesk, the Ash, guttered and died.
The rune had failed.
It was over.
M
addy stared at the mark on her palm. She knew its shape better than anything; she’d had it since the day she was born. A rusty runemark – a blemish, they’d said – that had given her the power of gods.
But now it had changed, and in her fatigue and confusion it took her an instant to understand why it looked so strange and unfamiliar –
It was reversed.
‘No, please,’ Maddy said, in sudden comprehension. ‘Not now we’re so close …’
And now she saw a black bird’s wing emerging from the seething shadowcloud. Surt, the Destroyer, in Aspect, was entering the Middle Worlds …
‘No!’ said Maddy once again, and spurred Jormungand at the cloud. No matter that, with her rune reversed, she didn’t have any hope of success. All she could think of was: If I don’t try something, at least, then Sugar will have died in vain …
The thing that was not really a bird sensed her approach and halted. It had no feelings of pleasure or pain – in fact that ancient intelligence had no feelings at all of the kind that Maddy could have identified – but it did possess a cold curiosity, even a kind of humour.
Scrutinizing the girl and the snake, it concluded that they posed no threat, and began to move forward once again, summoning its vast resources to annihilate the last of those who sought to resist it.
Now Maddy lifted her right palm with its rusty, faded mark. Aesk, reversed, gave out barely a glow. She climbed off Jorgi’s back and gave him one last whispered instruction. Then, with her left hand, she summoned Bjarkán, and stepped into the mouth of Chaos.
FROM THE BATTLEMENTS of the Sky Citadel the General looked on helplessly. Hugin and Munin wheeled frantically around his head; Sleipnir was tethered close by. They had come so very close, he thought. They had almost won the war. But now it was over. The Cradle would fall. Surely nothing could save them now …
And then he saw something far below; a gleam from out of the darkness. World’s End was mostly in shadow now, its spires and turrets fallen. But still there remained that point of light, so dim that he might have imagined it – a single speck of brightness, like a mote against the dark.
Maggie Rede, thought the General. That glam could belong to no one else. His mind, always on the alert for anything that might be useful to him, began to consider the girl’s potential. Above him, his Mind and Spirit, looking increasingly agitated, gave harsh cries of encouragement.
So – Maggie was alive, he thought. What of it? Well, she still had glam. But for her to use it on his behalf – that was surely too much to expect. Unless …
Perth’s undamaged eye widened.
Of course!
He turned to look at Sleipnir. The Red Horse stood on the battlements, his weirdly elongated legs spanning most of the hectic sky.
Perth gave a little smile and turned to address his ravens. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘You know what to do …’
And so, at the speed of Dream, the Horse whose Rider is Carnage shook his mane of runelight and plummeted down towards World’s End.
ALL THIS HAPPENED so much faster than the time it takes to tell. But time is not always objective. A second can stretch for minutes – for hours – depending on the circumstances.
Dreamtime is one of these; so are moments of pain; and so, as the Thunderer now realized, is the interval between falling from a great height and the inevitable moment of impact – for it seemed to him that he had been falling for half an eternity, rather than the six seconds or so that had actually passed since Bif-rost went down.
World’s End hurtled towards him now with the speed of Jormungand crashing through Dream. It made him feel slightly nauseous, and he closed his eyes – which were watering from the icy wind – and tried not to count the seconds.
One. Two. Three. Four …
Surely the ground couldn’t be far.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight …
Thor opened a cautious eye. Then another. Jolly, who had shifted to his inanimate Aspect as soon as they had begun to fall, reverted to his goblin self and looked around in puzzlement.
‘Oy – what’s goin’ on ’ere?’
Thor blinked. He was flying. Below him was Jorgi, his Aspect now that of a black sky-dragon, undulating through the air like heavily greased lightning. He had already picked up the rest of the Æsir, who clung to his spiny back and mane with varying expressions of unease; for the present the Serpent was on their side, but his motives had never been clear to them.
Above, a red-and-purple bird, eccentric both in proportion and design, fluttered and tumbled along in his wake. The Serpent’s flight had generated a great deal of turbulence, but this was nothing compared to the shadowcloud now descending over Asgard. It filled the sky, spanned horizons, leaving only the narrowest band of light between itself and the battlements of the Sky Citadel.
Chaos must still be uncertain, thought the Thunderer as he sped through the sky towards Asgard. As well it might: they could have won. Even now, set one foot on Asgard’s completed battlements, and his Aspect, as well as those of his friends, would be instantly restored. But as yet Asgard wasn’t complete, and all of them were out of glam. They’d lost Tyr in the shadowcloud; the Fenris Wolf had fallen. The Sun Shield was lost; the General spent. Even Nan was out of dreams. And as for Maddy …
He sought her now, frantically, without success. Her signature streaked the darkening sky, vanishing into the shadowcloud.
Thor’s heart gave a desperate lurch as he realized what Maddy had done. She must have known that Jormungand needed time to get away, so she had sent him after the Æsir while she remained to hold back the cloud.
For a moment the Thunderer was torn between grief and a choking pride. He’d never wanted a daughter; had hardly bothered to hide his dismay when Modi, his long-lost son and heir, had turned out to be Maddy instead; and he’d felt nothing but disgust when the second son of the prophecy, Magni, had proved to be not only a traitor, but a second daughter (which was worse).
Now he felt profoundly ashamed. Maddy had made a gesture so brave and so generous that he hardly understood it himself, and now there would be no chance to explain, or to tell her that no son of his could have made him half as proud.
‘I wish I could have told her …’ he said, unaware he was speaking aloud, still less of the tears that rolled down his face and into his fiery beard.
‘Told who what?’ said Jolly.
Thor sighed. ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said.
They hurtled towards Asgard.
DOWN IN THE city, Maggie had reached the site of the old University. But the buildings that had first housed scholars and historians, then the devotees of the Order, then the traders and merchants who had rushed in after the Bliss, were now filled with refugees – terrified and cowering.
Some were native World’s Enders; some were the foreigners Maggie despised. Some were wealthy; some were slaves; some were old; some, children. But in the face of the shadowcloud, everyone was equal. Equal in terror, equal in grief. Race, money, influence – none of those things mattered now. Fear had united World’s End at last. Fear, and the need for a scapegoat.
The thought gave Maggie a bitter kind of pleasure. This is what it feels like, she thought. Everyone in the same boat. Everyone has lost someone: a friend, a child, a relative. A woman was sitting on the floor just under the pulpit that concealed the secret entrance to the labyrinth under the University. Quite a young woman, Maggie saw, tangled hair over her face, singing a little rock-a-bye. There was a baby in her arms, bundled into a blanket.
Instinctively Maggie fingered Bjarkán – but she didn’t need the truesight to tell her that the baby was dead.
The woman looked up at her hopefully. ‘Are you a healer, lady?’ she said in a heavily accented voice. She was an Outlander, Maggie saw; her hands were tattooed with Outlandish designs. She held the bundle out to Maggie. ‘Please. My baby. My baby is sick.’
‘Your baby’s dead,’ said Maggie. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’
Maggie had thought she was em
pty inside after watching Adam die, but the wail that the Outlander woman gave changed her mind immediately. She put a hand to her own belly, where the germ of a new life was already so strong in her that she could actually feel it there, calling out to her, whispering; and the love she felt for that tiny life was greater than anything she’d ever felt. Greater than her love for Adam; greater than her need for revenge. She knelt down beside the Outlander woman and took one of her hands.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
The Outlander woman looked up at her. ‘Do you have a child?’
‘Not yet,’ Maggie said.
‘Then you don’t know,’ said the woman, and went back to her singing and rocking. Maggie heard the words of the song:
‘Rock-a-bye baby on the treetop.
When the wind blows, the Cradle will rock …’
She tried to feel inside herself for something to comfort the woman. Of course, Maggie had had no formal instruction in how to cast runes. But she was a child of the Fire, and now she reached for the fingerings that might soothe a mother’s grief.
With new-found skill, she fingered Bjarkán, the rune of revelation and dream. Then came Sól, the Bright One: sunshine and renewal.
‘Close your eyes,’ Maggie said. ‘You must be so tired. Try to sleep.’
Then she sketched Madr, the rune of compassion, on the woman’s forehead – and crossed it with Úr, the Mighty Ox, to give her strength and endurance.
The runes flared briefly, then dispersed. The Outlander woman closed her eyes. Maggie knew that runes alone could not compete with the death of a child, but sleep itself was a healer of sorts, and Dream, she knew, was a haven for those for whom the waking world has become unbearable. She watched as the Outlander woman began to drift slowly into Dream, and with a last gentle touch of her hand Maggie drew the new rune Gabe – a gift – in the air above her.
The woman would sleep now, Maggie thought. Sleep and, if she was lucky, dream – and if she never awoke from the dream, then perhaps it would be for the best. Because something was coming – a darkness – from which Dream might be the only escape.