Valkyrie's Conquest (2 page)

The soul came away easily, though it struggled to escape the moment her sword severed the shining tether that bound spirit to body. Tyra panted hard from the rush of conflicting, unfamiliar emotions.

“What have you done?” Bron demanded. “I don't see anything.”

“Just wait and watch.” A jumble of shyness and confusion galloped through Tyra, leaving her skin hot as if it had burned in the sun. It was embarrassing, as if she had drunk one too many horns of honey wine. Still, she felt a pang as the desire, fear and longing slipped through her grasp, leaving only a fractured memory behind. Her eyes stung and she closed them, and in a beat the awkwardness had passed. She was back to what she had been before—a soulless creature with only the barest shreds of feeling to trouble her heart.

And then only her work remained. The soul became visible slowly, emerging first as a faint outline of the man, as if someone had sketched him in glowing pencil. Then the outline filled in, a bit at a time, to become as dark and solid as the body on the ground, except now his uniform was whole and clean. Bron murmured a long string of words she didn't know, but the wonder in them was clear.

The whole time, Tyra clasped the soul's hand, holding him close to her side. She liked to think her firm hold gave her charges a comforting anchor in those first few moments of their new lives. Or maybe it was just her need to understand. Humans were extraordinary beings, with spirits that granted them eternity. Despite her powers, if she were slain, or if the Allfather cast her aside, she would simply cease to exist.

Once the man was solid, she turned to him. “I have come for you, Gregory Macdonald, to take you to Valhalla, the Allfather's mead hall. It is time for you to claim your seat in the host of fallen heroes, to drink and sing songs of glory and to fight alongside my father's warriors.”

Macdonald was staring down at his own body and swearing with all the force of abject terror. “I was stabbed,” he said, his voice hollow. “Clawed.”

“You were killed by demons,” Tyra corrected him.

“Demons?” the man repeated slowly, goggling at her in confusion.

Bron just looked angry. “Why are demons roaming loose in the city?”

“This place was not always a city,” Tyra explained. “For thousands of years, the warriors of Odin Allfather have battled the armies of the dark god, and much of the war has happened right here.”

“Say what?” Macdonald asked.

Bron frowned. “Why have I never heard of this before now?”

Tyra shook her head. “The dragons have ever kept to their own affairs.”

“You might have written,” Bron said reasonably. “Fate of the world and all that.”

“It is a matter for gods and heroes,” Tyra replied.

“And yet you take casualties to add to your father's army,” said the dragon. “It seems to be a matter for humankind as well.”

“Dragons?” said Macdonald. “Just asking.”

Tyra gave both men a quelling glance. “We only take the souls of mighty warriors. There are rules both sides have agreed to. The hellspawn cannot use weapons other than sword and spear. And they cannot disturb the Valkyries in their work.”

“And the demons obey these rules?” Bron's voice declared his doubt.

Tyra wavered. She might have said that they had, until recently. The war was changing in subtle ways that worried her and that Odin Allfather would not admit to. More dead. Bolder demons. The age of the gods was over and the balance of power was shifting. But she wasn't about to complain to a random dragon, however much he had compelled her notice.

Which he should never have done. She wanted nothing more than distance between them.

“The rules are as iron,” she said in a voice equally hard. “And they do not include dragons.”

Bron's amber eyes narrowed. “As you wish.”

That gaze was as hot as the lick of dragon fire. Tyra shuddered. “Go in peace, Bron of the Flameborn. Keep to your own affairs.”

And with that, she unfurled her wings and launched into the air, setting course for Valhalla with the soul in tow. She looked down only once. Bron stood in the parking lot, arms folded and with his face tilted up, watching her go.

With disturbing clarity, Tyra remembered wanting him. There had been a rush of longing, a desire to comb her fingers through that thick, dark hair and to feel his lips against hers. To touch skin to skin, as no Valkyrie ever would. The fleeting desire had been so acute, she could remember every detail.

Almost as if it wasn't a memory at all.

Chapter Two

“Are you going to kidnap the babe, or allow someone else to hold her?” Sigrid asked Tyra in her imperious way. As the eldest and strongest of the Valkyries, Sigrid was senior to them all, and never let them forget it. “This is a naming ceremony. We're here to bless the child with womanly strength, not melt into a puddle.”

“One moment.” Tyra held the little girl, bewitched by the contrast between her sword-calloused hands and the baby's tiny fingers. Nestled in the soft woolen blanket, the child was barely an armful. It was hard to imagine everyone, even the mighty Thor, had started out so small. The thought made her heart flutter oddly.

The ritual itself was over and the house of the goddess Freya was crowded with women. They stood in groups or reclined on cushions, drinking honeyed wine and nibbling on nuts and fruit as they gossiped. Their hostess was everything the Valkyries were not. She was curved and womanly, a beauty skilled in the rites of pleasure and fertility. Her home was beautiful and welcoming, even if there were a few too many cats.

“Tyra?” This time Sigrid's voice was tinged with impatience.

Knowing argument was pointless, Tyra passed the baby over to its mother. The woman—one of Freya's favorite handmaidens—bowed her thanks to the Valkyries and retreated, leaving the two warrior women alone at the fringe of the crowd. The ceremony was over, the baby blessed, and their duty done.

Tyra rubbed her arms, which felt cold and empty without the soft little bundle. Although Odin encouraged the Valkyries to attend such celebrations, it was only to cement their role in Asgard's society. Their duties would never allow them to have children of their own. As creatures without souls, motherhood was nothing they should have desired, anyhow.

Yet Tyra's gaze followed the baby as it was passed around the group. Restless, she turned away, knowing she did not fit with these women chattering about milk teeth and swaddling clothes. Home and family were not her domain, and yet today they tugged at her in unreasonable ways. She had felt this ache ever since she had gathered that last soul, as if the waves of emotion brought on by touching it had never entirely faded.

Or had it been meeting the dragon? Bron's dark, towering presence flashed through her memory like lightning, bringing a tingle to her flesh that was both heat and chill. He was tall and broad, fit for wielding a battle ax or broadsword, but he moved with grace and speed. Dragons were creatures of flight, and those hard muscles were honed to lean perfection. She had wanted to touch every line and ridge of him, as if memorizing his form was the most important task in the universe. His children would be strong, and the act of creating them…

Tyra shook herself, suddenly needing air to cool the flush rising to her skin. Holding babies in the house of a love goddess was clearly a bad idea.

Sigrid had drifted away to inspect the food. That was just as well, since Tyra wanted a moment to gather her wits. With a quick goodbye to her hostess and the new mother, Tyra left. Pride kept her pace even, but the urge to flee the domestic atmosphere was a spear point poking her back.

She had barely gone a hundred paces before Sigrid came running after her. “What is the matter with you?” Sigrid asked.

Tyra cast her sister a sidelong glance. Like all their kind, Sigrid was fair-haired and blue-eyed, but she was taller by a hand span. If the Valkyries had been allowed to ride to war instead of reaping the dead, demons would have fallen before Sigrid's black sword like wheat at harvest. But that would never happen because they no more rode to war than they had families.

“Why can't we join Father's battles?” Tyra blurted out. It was a good question, and she didn't want to talk about babies or dragons. “We are excellent fighters! You are like Thor on the practice field.”

Sigrid raised her eyebrows. “I'd need a beard and breath that smells like stale beer before I'm anything like Thor.”

“I am serious! You are his equal with a blade. Why does Father forbid us to fight?” She had long wondered, but Odin had no time for questions from the youngest of his daughters. Frustration raked at her. “You are the firstborn. Has he ever told you?”

They walked side by side through the meadows of Asgard, their soft boots rustling the grass. Asgard was the home of the gods, mountainous and starkly beautiful. Before them stretched a long valley beneath an azure sky, the air sharp with the snows of distant peaks.

Sigrid didn't answer for a long time, but when she did her voice was firm. “Our father says it is not our place to question him.”

“Is that all? That is not a reason.”

Sigrid shrugged. “I have my thoughts. The gods and their magic are fading. Humans no longer worship us.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Father likes things the way they are. We do nothing for our own personal glory. Our work is all about his army and nothing more.”

“But why does that matter to Father? What harm is there if someone sings of our triumphs or names their sword Sigrid?”

Sigrid folded her arms. “The Valkyries love no men except our father. Indeed, we do nothing unless it is in his name. I don't think Father is about to let his devoted warrior maidens go. We are the last remnant of the old days, when being a god mattered.”

“But we could help him fight demons!”

“And someday we may have to.” Sigrid stopped walking and put her hand on Tyra's shoulder. “But wait for him to give the command. He cannot stand disobedience.”

“I know that,” Tyra said defensively.

“You are his favorite. You've not seen that side of him,” Sigrid replied. “He punishes rebellion with a person's greatest fear. Blindness. Hunger. The hot fangs of wolves. Whatever it is, Odin will use that terror to make an example of anyone who crosses him.”

Tyra had heard the tales, but hadn't wanted to believe them. Defiance flared in her heart. It lasted a mere breath, but it left an ashy resentment in its wake. She'd never felt such a thing before. She put a hand over her stomach where the sick feeling lay. Something definitely had gone wrong when she'd collected Macdonald's soul.

Unbidden, her mind darted away to Bron once more—which was pure madness. She was as forbidden to want him as she was to fight, even if she was a warrior and a woman. She was a reaper for her father's army, nothing more.

Sigrid was watching her with a cool, speculative gaze. Tyra clenched her hand and tried to look normal. Now was the moment to speak up about these newfound feelings, but her tongue wouldn't form the words. They were hers, and she had an irrational need to protect them from Sigrid's ice-blue eyes—or Odin's wrath.

Tyra swallowed. “If there is no chance that Father will change his mind about riding to battle, then there is nothing more to say.”

“No,” said Sigrid. “There isn't.”

The words slammed the topic shut. Tyra cleared her throat. “Then I have duties to attend to. I need to collect my assignment for tonight.” Without another word, she struck out across the meadow alone, leaving Sigrid where she stood.

Her path took her to the foot of a great tree that stood alone in the sea of waving grass. The branches reached so high there seemed to be no top. A huge cleft at the base formed a sort of cave, where a small fire burned even though it was the middle of the day. The tree-cave was actually a tiny house. Three old crones sat inside: one weaving, one spinning and one measuring and cutting the threads. They were the Norns, the three Fates who wove the future. They were also the ones who told the Valkyries which souls to reap.

The old women didn't look up from their work as Tyra paused outside their dwelling. A tapestry lined the walls of the tiny home. One end hung unfinished, a mass of threads waiting on the loom to weave the future. The other end, the past, was so long that the fabric lay in piles along the floor—millions upon millions of threads begun and ended long before even the gods had been born. Though Tyra had seen the weaving many times, she could not help feeling awe.

Tyra fell to one knee, bowing her head low. “Greetings, honored mothers, I have come to receive my orders.”

As she waited, an image of a place formed in her mind. A dark alley. A door. Darkness. Without any effort on her part, Tyra knew when and where to wait for her next charge. “I shall obey.”

“If one thread goes unattended, others may tangle in unexpected ways.” The words came from inside her head, but she couldn't tell which of the Norns had addressed her. None of the three crones so much as looked her way.

“I understand,” Tyra was deeply startled. The Norns almost never spoke directly to her. “I shall always do what is asked and keep the weaving pure.”

The same dry whisper replied inside her mind. “Indeed? The demons have their own dark threads in the tapestry. Their pattern has changed and become unpredictable. They make choices that alter the weave. That is within your power, also.”

Tyra heard the ring of truth in the words, but was unsure how to answer. Despite her conversation with Sigrid about riding to battle, changing the weave of Fate sounded far beyond a mere Valkyrie. “I am not so important. I change nothing”

There was a long pause before the next words. “Even a child can open a door. There is no telling what might walk through.”

“I am not a fool.”

“I hope not. Your thread anchors whatever picture comes next.”