The Unyielding

  She let herself have that moment for all of fifteen seconds.

  Then she lifted her head, screamed in rage, and charged.

  * * *

  Kera ducked the mace aimed for her head and swung her axe up, catching the Carrion between the legs. He dropped to his knees and another Crow, who’d gotten one of the flint blades from the Carrion’s brother, sliced off his head.

  And yet, as they battled on, all of them trying to make this last as long as possible in the vain hope that Erin and Stieg might suddenly appear, there was still no sign of Gullveig.

  And every time another Clan member fell in battle, Kera felt it as acutely as if it were she. As if she’d taken the blow. As if she was the one dying in a pool of her own blood.

  Kera ignored that feeling, though. She had to or they would all be dying in their own blood.

  * * *

  Erin continued to go for the eyes, but her timing had to be impeccable. A second too long moving her blade, and a secondary lid shut closed and that thing was like steel, so the tip of her blade bounced off it.

  Stieg occasionally used a weapon retrieved from the lizard things, but mostly he snapped necks or ripped off legs. His biggest problem was avoiding those damn tails, so Erin tried to cut them off when she could because whatever leaked out of them burned holes in the sand.

  Of course, all this was well and good and nothing they hadn’t done before. Fighting things they’d never seen before until someone or everyone was dead.

  That was their job.

  The problem, though, was that the lizards just kept coming. Every time Erin thought they were finally cleared, more would come over one of the gray hills. Or dig themselves out of the ground.

  Finally, when more came running at them, Stieg pushed Erin away. “Go,” he ordered.

  She didn’t want to leave him but knew she had to. She had no choice. With her blades clutched in her hands, she turned and ran down the beach, leaping over bodies, ignoring the hands grasping for her. She wished she could say she’d gotten used to the smell, but that would be a lie.

  That horrible, disgusting odor did help with one thing, though Erin knew she was going in the right direction because the farther she moved away from Stieg, the stronger the scent became. Nidhogg, she knew, would want to stay where the meat was.

  And there was so much meat. The number of water-logged bodies grew exponentially the farther down the beach she went.

  As she kept going, Erin kept spitting in a weak attempt to get the vile taste out of her mouth, and rubbing her watery, stinging eyes with the back of her hands. None of it helped. Suddenly, a gnawed-on leg bone landed in front of her. The marrow had been sucked clean, but there were some traces of flesh still on it.

  Erin stopped and, desperately trying to blink away the pain, she turned and . . . there it was.

  Nidhogg aka Malice Striker.

  She wouldn’t even try to guess how big he—she guessed it was a he—was. Fifty feet? One hundred? One thousand? Erin didn’t know. He was covered in pale gray scales that matched the dull gray of this land. Two white horns rose from his head and darker gray spikes went from his neck, down his spine, to the tip of his tail. He had a long silver mane that spread around his body like a silken sheet. Sharp blue eyes stared down at the victim near one of his front claws.

  That corpse was screaming.

  Nidhogg placed one talon across its chest to hold it in place while he took his time with his free claw ripping the other leg off. He lifted the leg and opened his snout, revealing fangs. Rows of fangs. And he ate that leg like Erin ate a chicken leg, which made her wish for the first time ever that she had become vegan.

  Erin debated how best to do this. She only knew what she’d learned in the flippin’ Poetic Edda, and it wasn’t the kind of information she needed when trying to manage a person or a god.

  Wait.Was he a god? Or just a dragon. Or were dragons gods? Wait. No. Tyr said the dragons had their own pantheon, which meant they weren’t all gods. Right? She gritted her teeth in frustration. See? She had more questions than she had fucking answers. And while she was trying to manage this, her friends were dying!

  On the verge of throwing one of her blades at Nidhogg’s head and yelling Give me that sword, whore!, Erin spotted him.

  He scrambled down the nearby root of the World Tree, his little body running across the sand; leaping from body to body, bone to bone; gleeful as always.

  Erin ran toward him. He didn’t see her. He’d probably never, in the eons he’d been alive, had anyone race toward him while in this place. So when she reached down and scooped him up in her hands, he began to put up a fight.

  Legitimately concerned with disease, Erin squeezed her hands together and warned, “Bite me and I crush these fucking bones like matchsticks. Make a sound and I’ll tear off your little feet.”

  Ratatosk immediately calmed down and Erin dodged behind the World Tree’s giant roots. She waited for a moment and when she heard no cries of alarm, she opened her hands and looked down at the squirrel and messenger of the gods. “I need your help,” she whispered.

  He chittered back at her and, for the first time, Erin understood his chittering perfectly. “What do you mean no?” She gasped. “Don’t you threaten me, little fucker.”

  He went on for a bit, explaining how he wasn’t supposed to get involved in anything. His job was to bring messages. That was all. And even as he went on, she could hear him striving for the appearance of innocence. Like a check kiter talking to a cop after he’s been caught red-handed.

  “I don’t want to hear it. You’re gonna help me, or I swear by all that is holy, I will stalk your ass, whether it’s in this life or the next! And we both know that I’m the crazy bitch who will make that happen. Don’t we?”

  Ratatosk nodded his small squirrel head.

  “Good. Now come on!” She looped back around the tree root but froze when she came face to fang with Nidhogg. Startled, Erin dropped the squirrel and Ratatosk took his opportunity to run, making a beeline right to the dragon’s front leg and up his body, disappearing in his hair.

  Nidhogg’s two front claws were crossed and his ten-thousand-foot-long tail—okay, she didn’t know if it was that long—slithered around to scratch the top of the dragon’s head with the tip. His right talons drummed against the hard sand as he gazed down at Erin.

  Finally, Ratatosk reappeared from under Nidhogg’s mane and made himself quite at home on top of the dragon’s head, right next to his left ear.

  The staring between all three of them went on for a bit longer than Erin wanted, but she was having a very hard time finding her voice.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Nidhogg asked, all gentlemenlike manners and what sounded like a strong British accent, which seemed weird since he was supposed to be Nordic. Plus, the dragon could speak. Like a human being. His lips even moved.

  “Helloooo?” he tried again. “Anyone home? Because you don’t look dead, so you really shouldn’t be here.”

  Ratatosk whispered something in Nidhogg’s ear.

  “A Crow?” Nidhogg said, laughing. But when Erin didn’t laugh along with him, he fell silent, his blue eyes narrowing. “Is what he says true? Are you a Crow?”

  “The tone of your voice makes me uncomfortable answering that.”

  He growled, his long body uncoiling. It was like watching a giant snake move except Nidhogg had four legs and could speak. “There are no Crows allowed on my territory.”

  “This is actually Hel’s territory if we’re going to nitpick. I can see the entrance to Helheim from here—”

  The growling became worse and Erin raised her hands, palms out. “Let’s not get angry.”

  “Too late.”

  “No, no. I just . . . I need five minutes of your time.”

  “For what?”

  “Your assistance in an important matter.”

  “My assistance? You, a Crow, need my assistance.”

  She blinked and the dragon mov
ed in, his nostrils painfully close, his hot breath on her skin.

  “Do you, insignificant Crow, understand who and what I am?”

  “I do. But that doesn’t change that I . . . I . . .”

  The dragon reared back when Erin’s words faded off. “What’s wrong with you?” Nidhogg demanded, looking over his shoulder, then back at Erin. “You truly don’t seem like someone who’d shut up. So why have you?”

  Erin shrugged. “No reason. And,” she quickly added when she watched Ratatosk begin to chitter in Nidhogg’s ear, “whatever he’s telling you—he’s lying.”

  “Why do I doubt that?”

  * * *

  Stieg heard the dragon speaking to Erin again and he eased away from the dune he’d hidden behind.

  Yes, he’d finally killed all those lizard things. And, if he hadn’t been so incredibly stressed out, it would have been fun. But he’d taken two swords, went on a good ol’ Viking rampage, either beheading or disemboweling all his victims, then came right here to find Erin.

  At least she’d seen him. Stieg knew that much, and he could tell she was not having much luck with Nidhogg.

  It seemed that what Erin had said was true. Absolutely everybody hated the Crows. Even dragons that spent their entire day eating filthy, stinky corpses, which could not be an enjoyable job.

  However, the one thing Erin did have—with the help of Ratatosk—was Nidhogg’s entire focus and attention. They’d have to use that to their benefit.

  “You know,” he heard Erin say, “I won’t say that Ratatosk is lying on that one, but I wouldn’t say that I tried to yank Odin’s eye out. I merely tried to . . . gouge it out.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Intent.”

  Stieg quickly moved away from the trio until he could run without worrying too much about Nidhogg hearing him. Their biggest challenge was the size of the dragon. His tail alone was over a hundred feet long and Stieg just couldn’t seem to get past it.

  But Stieg kept going. He didn’t reach the end of the tail, but he did find the entrance to a cave. Runes surrounded the stone opening and he prayed he was right. That this was Nidhogg’s home. Or, at the very least, where he kept his horde.

  Stieg ran inside, already freaking out about how far he’d have to go to find any of Nidhogg’s treasure, but he turned a corner and slid on gold coins, crashing face-first into a pile of jewels and precious metals that easily filled the entire chamber. He pushed himself to his hands and knees and scrambled across the pile, stopping to dig random holes in the hopes of finding the sword. But it wasn’t working. He stopped. Stieg was panicking.

  He couldn’t panic. He remebered what his brothers had always taught him. Panic will get you killed faster than anything.

  Sitting back on his heels, Stieg closed his eyes, took in a breath, let it out. After a full minute, he opened his eyes and began to think rather than react. “It’s not Nidhogg’s sword,” he said out loud. “It’s the fire giant’s sword. Whom he will aid during Ragnarok . . . which means he’ll keep it in a place of—”

  Stieg ran over the horde to the other side of the cavern, through a narrow tunnel, and into another, well-lit chamber. . . His hands began to shake, his eyes naturally averting at the intensity of the powerful weapon. Even hung on the wall, the sword blade was bright with burning flames. It had to be several hundred feet long.

  Thankfully the hilt was closest, so he didn’t have to walk the entire horizontal length of the chamber. He took a minute to recall the words Inka had taught Erin to obtain the sword, while he’d stood there listening. He’d never been so grateful to have constantly shadowed her before she’d been about to leave on her quest.

  He recited the spell and waited for it to do . . . whatever it was going to do.

  And what did it do . . . ?

  Stieg grinned and reached down to pick up the five-foot, non-glowing sword from where it had fallen.

  Now he just needed to figure out how to get him and Erin out of here.

  * * *

  “It’s true,” Erin admitted, her glare for Ratatosk and Ratatosk only, “I did once steal Idunn’s apples and then—“she cleared her throat—“sat back and enjoyed the gods’ getting old and freaking out about it. But, in my defense—”

  “She started it?” Nidhogg asked lazily, his giant head resting on the palm of his front claw.

  “You know, I am the innocent party here.”

  “What did Idunn do? Look at you funny?”

  “No. I just didn’t like her tone. Like she’s so above me.”

  “Is that your issue, puny human? That Idunn—a god—considers herself above you? The descendent of a slave?”

  “We all have our gifts.”

  “And yours is?”

  “Charm.”

  Nidhogg exchanged bewildered glances with Ratatosk, who now sat high and safe in the roots of the World Tree.

  “Wowwwww,” the dragon said.

  “And I gotta tell ya,” she told him in no uncertain terms, “I’m not appreciating your tone at the moment, either.”

  “Am I hurting your feelings? Your cold, hard, Crow feelings?”

  “Tone.”

  Behind one of the dunes Erin saw Stieg again. He held up a very small—for a giant, anyway—uninspiring sword. But the way he excitedly gestured at it, she could only hope that it was Surtr’s sword.

  Pointing to the left—both Nidhogg and Ratatosk turning to look—and tossing the Carrion hand past Nidhogg’s right side so that Stieg could run up and grab it, she said, “I know you probably don’t have an actual . . . bathroom. But is there a spot I can go and take a—”

  “Why are you here?” he asked, surprising her.

  “What?”

  “Why are you here?”

  Erin’s usually active mind went blank. It had never occurred to her she’d end up having a conversation with the dragon, so she hadn’t bothered to come up with a backstory. “Ummmmm. . . why wouldn’t I be here?”

  “Because this is Corpse Shore. That is, as indicated by its name, filled with”—he gestured with his talon—“corpses and a smell that I can tell is not your favorite.”

  “I’m just tired.”

  “Uh-huh. Why don’t you just tell me what you’re up to?”

  “I’m not up to anything. You’re a mighty dragon. Who wouldn’t want to meet you?”

  “Everyone. Because I am a mighty dragon and I eat corpses. So no one really just . . . visits me.”

  “Well . . . I do. We have a lot in common.”

  His laugh was short and harsh before he reined it in. “This I must hear.” He glanced at Ratatosk. “You want to hear, yes?”

  Ratatosk chittered agreement and Erin thought about cutting his tiny little rat head off!

  “Please,” the dragon said, with a wave of his claw, “tell me what things we have in common. I can’t wait.”

  Shit. “We both . . . uh . . . love the beach.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And, uh, we enjoy being on our own when at the beach.” She could see Stieg waving at her in the distance, trying to get her to get out of there.

  “But,” she went on, “we still love good conversation.” She pointed at Ratatosk. “We both think he’s just a rat with a fluffy tail.”

  “Anything else? Because so far, your choices are exceptionally weak.”

  Erin snapped her fingers. “We both have a way with flame!” She blinked and asked, “You are a fire—”

  “Yesss. I’m a fire dragon.”

  “Exactly! I also have the gift of flame. A little something extra from Skuld.”

  “I see,” he said, still sounding incredibly unimpressed. She had the feeling that if she didn’t impress him, he was going to eat her. For eternity. That was not something she wanted to experience.

  But she didn’t think she could impress him. So she went with flattery and self-deprecation.

  “I mean, you are a fire dragon, so much more mighty than I could ever be,” she
went on, desperate, “I mean, that must be so awesome. The power of your fl . . .”

  His head tilted a bit. “The power of my . . . what?”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry?”

  “You are trying to use flattery on me in the hopes that I won’t tear you apart, limb from limb, and then suck down your marrow like a fine wine.”

  “No, it . . . it wasn’t flattery. You really do have the gift of fire. Much more powerful than mine,” she said, finally feeling intense excitement.

  “It’s a gift for you, Crow. It’s just part of me.”

  “So much a part of you that you and Surtr are . . . buddies?”

  “I can’t say that. No one is really buddies with Surtr. He’s actually quite the asshole. But, of course, being a dragon and basically made of flame, I can come and go from Muspellheim. You know, when one gets bored with the screams and terrified begging of the condemned, one will often head to a Muspellheim pub for some ale. If one is so inclined.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I wouldn’t suggest you go there. You may be able to make little flame angels in the snow or whatever, but you walk into Muspellheim and you’ll be turned into ash before you even realize that you’re on fire.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Oh, come now. No need to fret so. I don’t have to make your death torturous.”

  Erin raised her forefinger and, while holding it up for Nidhogg to see, she walked around him until she was past his shoulder. “There’s something else we have in common.”

  He sighed. “And that is?”

  “Wings. See?” She unfurled her wings, let them stretch out from her back. “Cool, right?

  “Small. They’re very small bird wings.”

  “Well . . . compared to you, I’m like a hummingbird. But hummingbirds are fast.”

  He snorted. “So you’re going to make a run for it.”

  “No. At least, not until I tell you that while I was keeping you busy out here, my Viking boyfriend was stealing Surtr’s sword. Oh, and uh”—she snapped her fingers like she’d forgotten something—“fuck you!” Then Erin spun around and flew like everything depended on it.

  Because everything did.

  * * *

  Standing on the freeway billboard so she could clearly see the battle, Kera sent more troops to head off a squadron of Lucifer’s minions. She couldn’t believe that bastard was involved. And no one had warned her! Even now she could see the Four Horsemen looking out over the battle. They’d known Gullveig had involved the king of hell, and it would have been nice if they’d bothered to warn her or Erin. Somebody!