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-Týr…
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 ýr one-handed as he did, so when the runestaff struck again—at the head this time—it glanced away as Odin cast T ýr 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 Týr left-handed as he pushed himself back onto his feet.
T ýr 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 Bór…
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 Njörd, 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 Varmatýr—
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.
3
The battle, he knew, was nearly done. Time after time Odin had struck; he was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but no damage had come to the Whisperer. Instead his blows had cleared a narrow swathe among the silent troops of the Order—but for every man that fell, another stepped in to take his place, and the ghastly Communion went unbroken. One-Eye fought on like a cornered rat—but in his heart he was coming to believe that the creature was invincible.
Now, at last, the General was reaching the end. Every name, every canticle cut deeper than the last. His glam was burned out, his right arm useless, his mindsword worn right down to a nub. He’d struck the Nameless a hundred times, but not once had he dealt it so much as a scratch.
If anything, it had gained strength as they fought, its Aspect taking shape around it so that, even blind, Odin could almost see the face now beneath the hermit’s cowl, the shape of the mouth, the intelligence behind its eyes. And its colors—surely he knew that rust red trail, flaring at the edges toward bright orange…
But it was not yet the Word made flesh. This Aspect, he knew, might wield power here, in the Land of the Dead, but to conquer the Worlds, it needed bone and muscle and living flesh…
A life for a life.
His flesh. His bone.
I name you Wotan, Vili, and Ve…
“Is this what you wanted, Mimir, old friend? I wish you joy of it,” he said. “For myself, I’m beginning to tire of this body.”
The Nameless gave a dry laugh. “Oh no,” it said. “Your body wouldn’t do for Me. Oh no. Not at all. It might have been all right a hundred years ago, but it’s far too damaged to be of any use to Me now. No, this, my friend, is for fun—and because I hate to see an old score go unsettled.”
It raised its staff to strike again and Odin rolled sharply out of the way, ignoring the pain in his wounded shoulder.
“So whom did you have in mind?” he said. “This is the Land of the Dead, in case you hadn’t noticed—”
And then it suddenly came to him.
A life for a life.
Without a body (or even a head), the thing could never leave the Underworld, and if it wished to conquer Worlds…
A life for a life.
Maddy’s life.
And now he saw the Nameless’s plan, and he struck out in rage and desperation at the thing that danced just out of reach. He fell to one knee—
The Nameless parried his blow with ease.
“So that’s what you wanted all along,” gasped Odin as he struck out again. “To be reborn into living flesh—to rebuild Asgard and to rule it yourself. To become Modi—to steal her glam and make it your own—to fulfill the prophecy you had to make…”
“At last,” said the Nameless. “You always were slow. Well, old friend, you know what they say. Never trust an oracle.”
And now they had come to the final verse. Thirty-three verses were written under the name of Odin Allfather in the Book of Invocations; ten thousand voices recited the final couplet.
I name you Warrior, One-Eye, and Wanderer.
Thus are you named, and thus are you…
And now, at last, the General fell, defeated, onto the bone gray sand.
4
Now Maddy had heard the prophecy. I speak as I must, the Oracle had said—and although it had misdirected them, told fragmentary tru
ths to deceive and delay, she knew that an Oracle could not lie.
I see a death ship on the shores of Hel,
And Bór’s son with his dog at his feet…
And yet as she’d watched the two terribly mismatched opponents, she had never lost the conviction that something, somehow, would happen to turn the battle to One-Eye’s advantage. Some unexpected turn of events, like in her favorite stories.
But now it was over. Her friend was lying facedown on the bone gray sand, his colors so faint that he might have been dead.
No, not you too, she mourned, and shaking off Balder’s restraining hand, she ran across the blood-spattered sand to where he lay. The Nameless stood over them, its runestaff raised, its face illuminated with triumph, but Maddy hardly noticed it.
She knelt down. Touched his hair. He was still alive.
“Maddy.”
“I’m here.”
Painfully he raised his head. Out of Aspect he looked very old—very human—as if a hundred years had passed since their last meeting on Red Horse Hill. He had lost his eye patch during the fight and his ruined face was a mask of blood and dirt. His one eye stared sightlessly, and she realized that he was totally blind. Her heart gave a wrench of pity and grief—but behind it the feelings of anger and hurt that had come to her when she learned the truth were still alive, still crying for release.
“Why did you have to come here?” she said. “I knew that if you came here, you’d die.”
Odin sighed. “Same—impatient—Maddy.” He spoke in a broken, breathless whisper, but she could still hear a trace of the old irritable One-Eye in his voice, and that made her want most terribly to cry.
“I wanted to stop the war,” she said. “I wanted to stop all this from happening. I wanted to save you—”
“Can’t,” said Odin. “Prophecy.”
Maddy began to protest, but Odin shook his head. “Let me—see you—again,” he said as, blindly and with great gentleness, he raised his hand to Maddy’s face.
For a moment Maddy held her breath as his fingers moved from her cheek to her chin, lingered at her forehead; traced the lines of sorrow and stubbornness around her mouth, the slight wetness around her eyes.
A good face, Odin thought. Strong but gentle—though perhaps not so wise…
He smiled and lowered his head to the sand.
And behind them the Nameless stepped in to deliver the final blow.
Meanwhile, at last, Nat and the Folk had reached the clearing. Passing unseen through the ghostly ranks, they found themselves mesmerized by the scene unfolding before them.
Ethel recognized it and sighed.
Adam gaped at it, openmouthed.
Dorian clutched Fat Lizzy.
Sugar looked down at the Captain’s runestone resting in the palm of his hand, and his stomach lurched as he saw it pulse with a violet light—just once, and faintly, like a heart that has not quite stopped beating.
Oh no, Sugar thought. Surely not. Not now …
The runestone flared, a little brighter this time, and a strange little shiver went up Sugar’s spine, almost as if a familiar voice—
You’re beyond reprieve. You said it yourself. There’s nowt I can do.
He made as if to drop the stone. But as he emerged from the Order’s ranks, he found himself still gripping it tightly and pushed it deep into his pocket. Perhaps there was something after all. You never did know with runes.
Nat Parson stared in wonderment, his eyes filled with the glory of the Nameless. He had traveled so far—suffered so much for the sake of this moment—that he hardly dared hope that he had reached it at last.
This Being shot through with wonderful lights; this terrible, glorious, all-powerful Being, born in Aspect from the stone Head—could this be the Word his heart had longed for? Slowly he began to push his way through air that was curdled with glamours and barbs. No one reached a hand to stop him; no one saw the joy in his eyes as he moved toward the two opponents.
“Don’t cry, My dear,” the Nameless said. “I told you that you were special.”
Maddy turned to look at it as it stood over her, lifting its staff. Glamours clung to it like wool to a spindle, spitting sheaves of static into the dead air. It was impressive; Maddy sensed she should have been impressed. But the ground was wet with One-Eye’s blood and the color of it was all she could see; that red, like Harvestmonth poppies, on the desert sand…
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, as once she had told a one-eyed Journeyman long ago, on Red Horse Hill.
The Nameless smiled. “I’m glad,” it said. “Because you and I are going to be very close.”
Now, Maddy had not heard the conversation between Odin and the Nameless as they fought it out across the plain. But she was no fool, and the thought had already crossed her mind that if Loki’s body could be used to make another live again, then perhaps the same was true of hers. An unmarked body was best, of course; One-Eye’s was damaged—perhaps beyond repair—but her own was healthy and, more importantly, her unbroken glam would give its bearer the power of gods…
She narrowed her eyes at the Nameless. “Special?” she said.
“Very special, Maddy,” it said. “You’re going to take us to the stars. Together we’re going to rewrite Creation from the top. Rebuild the Sky Citadel. Remake what the Æsir destroyed through their greed and carelessness. Instead of Nine Worlds in opposition, there will be only One World. Our World. A World where things make proper sense. A World with Good and Evil in their proper places and One God ruling everything, forever and always—”
Maddy gave it a scornful look. “That sounds a lot like something One-Eye used to call gobshite.”
The Nameless brightened angrily. “You think you have a choice?” it snapped. “You heard the prophecy.”
Maddy smiled. “I see an army poised for battle. I see a general standing alone. I see a traitor at the gate. I see a sacrifice.” She leveled her dark gray eyes at the Whisperer. “I asked you once if you thought I was supposed to be the sacrifice.”
No! said Odin.
No one heard.
Maddy looked around—at Hel, this time standing in silence with her dead profile averted; at Balder, clothed in Loki’s flesh; at the ten thousand troops—minus a few—standing in eerie silence before them.
“Don’t think of it as a sacrifice,” it said in its most soothing voice. “Think of it as a new beginning. You won’t be dead—you’ll just be Me, as everything else will just be Me. I’ll leave My mark on every blade of grass, every drop of water, every human heart—and everything will worship Me, and love Me, and fear Me, and be judged…”
It paused for effect and pulled back its hood. Its Aspect was almost completed, the stone Head it had occupied for so many years now standing forgotten to one side. Maddy could see her own colors swimming faintly behind those of the Whisperer and feel a kind of static in her hair and teeth as the Word gathered all around her.
Ten thousand dead were ready with it; ten thousand corpses drew breath. And in the anticipation of the Word, no one saw the small, cautious figure of Sugar-and-Sack as he left the shelter of his group and moved softly across the dead sand, unremarked and unregarded, in the direction of the two adversaries.
Now, Sugar was far from heroic material. As far as he was concerned, he should never have been a part of this business in the first place. The General was dead—or as good as—the Captain was dead—or worse than—and Maddy was about to be consumed by the Nameless, which made her at least as dead as both of them.
He really didn’t know why he didn’t just run. No rune or cantrip forced him to act. No profit was likely to come to him. Not even the runestone bound him now, though he could still feel the force of its pulse, as if some part of the Captain were still trapped there, urging him on in a soft voice.
It wasn’t even as if he quite understood what he was expected to do—or why—and yet he kept moving, low to the ground, toward the nasty old glam—the Whisperer—that had
started all this off in the first place and that now lay forgotten to one side as the thing that had blossomed out of the stone moved closer to Maddy and spoke.
“Dear girl,” said the Nameless. “Listen to Me.”
And such was its glamour that she almost obeyed, almost succumbed to the mellifluous voice. “You’re so tired, Maddy,” the Nameless went on. “You deserve to rest. Don’t fight Me now that we’ve come so close…”
And now the dead began to speak, their voices toneless as the drifting sand.
I name you Modi, child of Thor,
Child of Jarnsaxa, child of wrath.
I name you Aesk,
I name you Ash—
Maddy had fewer names than One-Eye, and she knew that her canticle was likely to be short. Already she could feel it working on her: her head was heavy, her legs half rooted to the ground…
With an effort she shook herself. “Fight you?” she said. “I suppose I could try.” And she pulled out of her pocket not a rune, not a glamour, not a mindsword, but a simple country clasp knife, such as might be carried by any smith or farmer’s boy in Malbry and beyond.
And now Maddy could see something truly surprising—Maddy, who had thought never to be surprised by anything ever again. It might be a mirage, she told herself, but wasn’t that Ethelberta Parson, with Dorian Scattergood at her side, and Adam Scattergood, and Nat Parson—and could that be…a potbellied pig?
She was going mad, she thought. It was the only possible explanation. It galled her slightly that in her last desperate moments of life, she should have to endure visions of Nat Parson and Adam Scattergood, but if things went according to plan, she thought, then at least she wouldn’t have to see them for very much longer.
“With that?” said the Nameless, and began to laugh. Ten thousand dead laughed with it, and their voices were like a flock of carrion birds rising into the gunmetal sky.