Descendant (13 page)

“What do we do?” Maddox asked, unfazed by the situation.

Rafe frowned. “I can carry one of you across the flames. But that’s it.”

Fennrys opened his mouth in protest, but Maddox nodded and said, “Right. Off you go, then. I’ll hang here and give old Sobek a hand.”

“Madd—no!”

“Shut up and don’t be stupid.” Maddox turned to him, his gaze placid. “Your girl is waiting for you, and
this
isn’t your big trial to face. I’m pretty sure that’ll come
next. This is a distraction.” He pulled the chain weapon out of his belt pouch again and began to swing it in a circle. He grinned at Fennrys. “I’ll see you back in Manhattan, yeah?”

Fennrys knew that Maddox was right. He knew, instinctively, that he could stay and fight beside Maddox and win, but in doing so he would have lost. Wasted too much time . . . allowed a door that was open to close . . . something. Part of the real winning was knowing when
not
to fight. Knowing when to trust his friend enough to leave him behind.

Fennrys had never really had friends to trust. It was a new sensation.

He held out his hand, and the two young men clasped wrists.

“You die and I’ll kill you,” Fennrys said. “And only ’cause Chloe will have killed me first.”

“Again.” Maddox grinned and shooed him on his way.

The screams of the baboons were so loud that they were almost deafening. Sobek was screaming, too, and the fireballs flew thick and fast. Rafe transformed into his huge, sleek black wolf self, and Fennrys threw himself onto the god’s back, gripping the thick fur tightly and burying his face in the pelt to protect himself from the flames as Anubis, Protector of the Dead, did his job and, backing up so he could take a good run at leaping over the flames, got Fennrys the hell out of his own hellish domain.

“S
-Starling . . . ?” Tag Overlea called out to Mason, his voice weird and querulous. His letterman jacket stood out like a wildly inflamed sore thumb among all the leather and iron of the Einherjar, and he moved as if he was caught in the throes of a nightmare.

Mason remembered hearing his voice when she was on the train—he’d been there when they’d crossed the Bifrost—but what was he doing in Asgard? she wondered. It was only when he got closer to her that Mason gasped in realization as she took in his appearance.
She
might have wound up in the Beyond Realms by accident, but from the looks of him, Tag had wound up there through more . . .
traditional
means.

Tag Overlea was dead.

The football star’s skin was mottled gray and purple. And the whites of his eyes were crimson with burst blood vessels. As he shambled toward her, the glancing blow from a sword, swung by a nearby fighter, tore a gash in Tag’s arm, right through the sleeve of his jacket, but he didn’t even really seem to feel it.

He just staggered a bit and mumbled, “Watch it, man. . . .”

He kept moving toward Mason, and she couldn’t help but recoil in horror.

“Starling,” he said again, reaching for her. “What’s going on? Where are we? I feel so . . . god, I feel terrible . . . you gotta help me, Mason . . . I gotta get outta here. There’s a big game coming up. . . .”

Mason felt a chill run up her spine.

“Taggert,” she said, her mouth dry as dust, “how did you get here?”

“I just told you. I don’t know. I gotta find Rory. He’s the one who can help me. I need a little of that stuff. . . .” There was a tremor in his dead hand as he lifted it to his neck, absently tugging at the collar of his jacket, and Mason saw something on his skin. Like a tattoo, only it looked as if it had been drawn on the side of his neck with dark, metallic ink. It glowed with a sullen, flickering light. “Just one more shot of that liquid gold, you know?”

“What’s he talking about?” Mason asked her mother.

Hel glanced at Tag and frowned. “Someone must have filled him full of rune magick,” she said. “So much so that it sent him here, to the ranks of the Einherjar, when he died. There’s no other way one of his . . . caliber would have found their way to this place. He never would have been one of the Valkyries’ Chosen. No doubt it’s been something of a shock to his mind.”

Mason had never thought Tag had been all that smart to begin with. But as he turned his gaze on her, she could see him struggling just to form a coherent thought. Clearly he had no idea where he was. Or how he’d gotten there.

“I know that you . . .” He faltered to a stop and then tried again. “I mean, I get that Rory wasn’t so nice to you, with the bag and all that. But he just wants what’s best for you, y’know? He told me . . . all this—what’s coming? He told me it’s for your own good. It’s gonna be awesome . . . you know?”

“No, Tag. I don’t know.”

Mason backed farther away from him to avoid his awkward, lurching grasp. It seemed as though he didn’t know how to make his muscles work properly anymore. Suddenly, Tag stopped and looked around, blinking dumbly.

“Where am I?” he murmured.

He looked so horribly lost and alone that—what he’d
done to her at Rory’s behest notwithstanding—Mason felt a surge of pity for him.

“I . . . somebody please tell me what to do. . . .”

Mason swallowed painfully. She had an idea and, kneeling, picked up a discarded sword that lay on the ground at her feet. “You’re at the game, Tag,” she said. “It’s . . . it’s the championship. Only the rules are a little different, okay?”

He turned his wounded, crimson gaze on her, a spark of hope flaring in the depths of his dull eyes at the mention of a game.

“Those guys?” Mason pointed at the sea of battling warriors. “They’re the other team. Understand?”

He nodded vacantly.

“And you use
this
”—she handed him the sword, pommel first—“instead of a football to get through them to the goal line.”

Tag reached out and gripped the weapon clumsily, fingers convulsively constricting on the leather-wrapped hilt. Gently Mason nudged his shoulder and turned him in the direction of the ongoing fray. “See what those guys are doing?” She pointed to a pair of dueling Einherjar. “You do the same.”

Tag looked down at the sword, and then back up at Mason, and nodded.

He turned and took a few tentative swipes at the air with the blade. Mason gave him another little push, and he lumbered forward a few steps into the fringe of the battle. He swung his blade at a stocky man in a helmet, who responded with a clashing blow right back at him. Mason heard a dissonant battle roar issue from Taggert’s throat as he launched himself into the heart of a six-warrior cluster, scattering them. Mason saw that a kind of weird, accepting smile had crept across his face, and then Tag was swallowed up by the melee.

Mason watched him for as long as she could see his red jacket and then turned away, back to the remote figure of her mother—who’d stood silently, impatiently by throughout the whole exchange—feeling strangely even more alone. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She
missed
Tag Overlea. On the other hand, she had the distinct feeling that the only reason he was in Asgard was because of her. Because of what Rory had done to her, and because he’d used Tag to help . . .

Mason had done what she could. She couldn’t do anything
else for him.

So she turned and, with her mother beside her, walked toward the hall of Valhalla. When they ascended the wide, shallow steps that led to the massive, carved-oak doors of the hall, Mason saw that there were two huge piles of weapons, stacked high on either side of the doorway, and she knew, instinctively, what that meant.

One did not enter the hall of a host armed.

Not if one wanted to be received in welcome.

Most of the weapons looked as though they had lain there for untold ages. The blades of the swords and pikes and axes were all darkened with tarnish and rust. Some of the handles and shafts of the gear near the bottom of the piles had begun to decay, the wood rotting to dust, leather wrappings falling to tatters, iron blades pitting with age. . . .

Hesitantly, Mason ran her thumb along the cool, smooth curve of the sweeping silver guard on her rapier. A deep ache of longing closed her throat. She knew she’d have to leave the blade behind if she was to enter Valhalla, and she hated the thought. But giving up the sword Fennrys had given her was infinitely less painful than never getting to see him again.
That
fear prompted her to reach for the leather baldric strap that hung from her right shoulder to her left hip. Swiftly and decisively, Mason lifted it over her head, wrapped the strap tightly around the scabbarded blade, and placed it gently on top of the pile of discarded and long-forgotten weaponry. She kissed her fingertips and placed the kiss on the blue jewel of the baldric’s silver buckle, promising herself that the next thing she kissed wouldn’t be Fenn’s gift, but Fennrys himself.

Again, her mother stood by, watching silently. She waited as Mason discarded her only means of defending herself, a look of satisfaction on her lovely face, and Mason guessed that she’d made the right choice.

Hurray for me.

Mason turned to face the soaring oak-and-iron doors, and as she did so, they groaned like a giant beast waking from slumber, and a crack appeared between them. They swung inward, slowly, ponderously, and a waft of stale sour-sweet air assaulted Mason’s nostrils.

Her mother stepped back and gestured for her to proceed. “You must—”

“Go first. Yeah, I figured.”

“No. You must go
alone
.” Her mother’s face was drawn tight. “I will not enter Odin’s Hall.”

Mason wasn’t about to argue, even though the thought of walking through those doors alone was a terrifying prospect. She clenched her trembling hands into fists at her sides and, faking a confidence she absolutely did not feel, strode through the doorway into the hall of a god.

The
empty
hall of a god.

The place was massive, gloomy, and shrouded in shadow. Mason heard the flapping of wings in the stillness, but she couldn’t see anything moving. She could barely see anything at all. The only light in the place was the cold illumination that spilled in through the doorway she stood in, but it was enough to paint a bleak picture. Mason glanced up. She had seen all the gilded warriors’ shields covering the outside of the roof and had wondered at the size of the army that had gone down in defeat to provide those building materials. But what she hadn’t stopped to consider was that the
inside
of the roof would be similarly tiled. The entire place was a monument to the Fallen Viking on a massive scale.

Mason imagined that vaulting space stuffed to capacity with a full company of raucous Einherjar, lit with roaring fires in the dozens of massive fire pits down the center, aglow with torchlight from the hundreds of sconces lining the walls. She thought of all the details she remembered from the stories she’d learned when she was a kid. Of the host of Valkyrie maids in winged helmets, bearing jugs of mead and platters of roast venison and boar . . . of Odin sitting on his throne beside his beautiful wife, presiding over the whole crazy party . . .

This? Wasn’t like that.

A thick layer of dust shrouded everything in gray, and cobwebs hung like curtains in the spaces between the rafters. The fire pits were long dead, as were the torches in the sconces on the walls, and the rows of tables were piled with the remains of roast carcasses and loaves of bread that had long since petrified. The place looked like it had been deserted for centuries—as if the mindless hordes of Einherjar outside had simply forgotten to refresh themselves after the battle. Or maybe it was because the fighting had never ended. Days full of fighting, nights full of feasts . . . and yet, Mason recalled how she hadn’t been able to tell
where the sun was in the sky when she’d been outside, and she really no idea how long a day lasted Asgard. But looking around, she certainly understood something of the so-called “twilight of the gods.” In the intervening years since the Aesir had been a dominant force in human belief systems, things had pretty obviously gone downhill. The hall stank of death—and not the good, fresh, violent kind that the Vikings reveled in, but rather the slow decline into decrepitude and irrelevance.

It doesn’t matter,
Mason thought. All that mattered to her was getting the spear and getting home.

She took a lurching step forward. But as she crossed the threshold, the massive doors swung shut behind her with a muted boom like distant thunder. She gasped, and suddenly, the sound echoed and distorted in her mind, warping into a refrain composed of a myriad of sounds. A car trunk slamming . . . The bolt lock on a shed door sliding home . . . The rattle of the Gosforth gym doors that wouldn’t open . . . The creaking hinges of the storage cellar trapdoor closing. A twisted soundtrack to accompany her claustrophobia.

She couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t move.

Trapped . . .

It felt as though something was shriveling, deep inside her. Shrinking back into the darkness. Her breath felt hot in her lungs, and her windpipe felt like it was closing.

I can’t do this. . . .

Her hands reached up, clawing at her throat, and her fingers brushed the iron medallion she wore. Fennrys’s medallion.

Yes.
She heard his voice in her head. Calm and steady and cool as water on a burn.
You can.

T
he measure of a man’s worth is in the weight of his heart.

That was, according to Rafe, how the hieroglyphics on the lintel stone over the entrance to the Hall of Judgment translated. Fennrys had been hoping that the whole heart-weighing thing was a metaphor. Would that have been too much to ask for at this stage?

As he stepped into the torch-lit, vaulted stone chamber, his attention was entirely occupied by an elegant set of slender scales, standing on a raised stone platform in the middle of the space. Two small, shallow dishes—each just big enough to hold a human heart—hung suspended by slender golden chains. Fennrys felt his own heart thud painfully in his chest. His familiarity with Egyptian mythology was hazy, but even he had seen enough references to the Trial of the Soul to know what came next. If he wanted to pass through the Hall of Judgment and out the other side into the place that Rafe had told him was called Aaru—where the Egyptian underworld borders brushed against those of the Norse Helheim—then he would have to have his heart weighed.