Echoes of the Gods

PROLOGUE

S

HARA WOKE WITH A GASP.

For four nights, he had been racked by visions of death. For four days, he had not eaten.

When his body would not be denied any longer, he went on a hunt into Mashu, Nibiru’s largest forest. He had spotted a young buck, cut off from its herd, and tracked it to a clearing. Now he waited, weaponless and obscured in the rain-spattered thicket on the fringe.

The deer emerged unsteadily from the underbrush, then buckled to its knees and collapsed on the damp floor. A thick branch protruded from its belly. It was dying.

Shara curled his fingers; a luminous bow and an arrow tipped with blue fire appeared in his hand. He was about to shoot and end its pain when he heard a low growl.

They were not alone. A panther had tracked the same deer here.

Shara stepped out into the open and shot a warning arrow into the ground at the panther’s feet, then two more. The beast sidestepped the flaming shafts, and advanced.

Shara made a fist, and his bow became a fire-edged sword. He stepped between predator and prey, primed for the attack.

The beast’s tail flicked once, then it launched itself at Shara, swiping at him and catching skin in its claws. But Shara had swung his sword up, and his shout of pain was drowned out by the creature’s roar—his blade had sliced its flank.

The panther pulled back, and paused at the edge of the clearing. Shara tightened his grip on the hilt and slashed at the air between them, advancing on the beast as he did. The panther snarled, then retreated into the trees, its wary amber eyes fixed on him. Instinct told Shara that he would not be attacked again.

His chest and stomach stung, and when he pressed a hand to his torn skin, it came away wet and red. He turned and walked up to the deer.

It opened its eyes at his approach, the flickering blue flame from his arrows reflected in its dark gaze.

Its belly rose and fell, breath shuddering with pain. Sympathy outstripped hunger, and Shara drove his sword into its skull, bringing its suffering to a quick, painless end.

His sword vanished, and he knelt beside the dead buck, pressed a hand to its belly and with the other, began to ease the branch out.

His palm prickled where it touched its wound, where their blood mingled. His vision blurred for a moment; then an unseen door flew open in his mind and he was overrun with the dying creature’s memories of its abbreviated life.

The rapid influx of images knocked him backward but he kept his hands on its wound. In his mind’s eye, he experienced the deer’s final moments of surprise when the flaming fence had formed around it and he had approached: a blue-skinned figure with a sword like tethered lightning.

He sensed its resignation when his sword had entered its head, then felt its relief as life faded from its open eyes.

He remained at its side for a while, drained by the experience, by the strange intersection with another being’s mind. It had never happened before. But then his blood had never before mixed with another’s.

Eventually, his hunger forgotten, he stood and waved a hand. His burning arrows disappeared.

Over the whisper of the wind, he picked up a rustling in the underbrush behind him, the panther’s growl growing louder. He turned, locking eyes with the beast for a moment, then retreated into the thicket.

He waited there long enough to see the panther circle the carcass once, then sink its teeth into the limp neck.

SHARA SPRINTED THROUGH Mashu forest until he reached his cabin, which stood in the middle of a glade. Nearby, water surged over a rocky bluff down into a narrow brook.

Inside, he lit a torch and undressed. Then he went back out, padding across damp grass to the water.

He stood under the spray, head bowed, groaning softly as cool water sluiced down his limbs and saturated his long hair. He looked down at his chest and saw unbroken skin. His wounds had healed, as they always had. His body bore no scars, only a leaf-shaped birthmark around his navel.

By the time he had washed himself, any lingering memories of the deer’s death had faded. He had reached the water’s edge and set one foot on the grass when it happened.

A now-familiar pain seared up his spine, folding his body into itself.

Not again, he thought.

His insides felt like they were on fire. His hands clawed at his throat, trying to tear free of an invisible stranglehold. He could hear the screams of women, and men who were not him.

And then it came, as it had come every time—that long, anguished shout, the shaking cry of a dying man. 

It was his voice, but older.  

Closing his eyes did not shut out the horror of his body being slashed, his dismembered limbs being flung piecemeal into the heavens. He heard himself moan, then go silent.

The pain had receded to a dull throb, but the stream of images continued.

A ball of blue fire arced across the night sky and disappeared into the forest. He sensed a faceless man moving beside him. Then he saw something new, something he had not seen in his past visions.

The hilt of a sword.

It was a singular weapon. A large blue gemstone adorned the golden pommel, and the base of the blade was engraved with two serpents coiled around a winged staff.

He fell to his hands and knees, his head slumping down to his chest, and caught his reflection in the gentling ripples—mouth open, blue skin gone pale under the moonlight, gray eyes darkened to black.

His elbows buckled and he crumpled on the moist bank, unable to move as residual shudders racked his body.

He did not know how long he lay there, or when he had found the strength to drag himself out of the water and back inside, to collapse on his bed, bare, wet and shivering until sleep, mercifully, claimed him.

THE NEXT MORNING, A furious thumping on his door yanked him to the edge of wakefulness. At once, echoes of the previous night’s delirium overran his mind, snapping him upright. His body shuddered. Pressing his hands to his eyes did not push the memories away, and it took a period of forcing his breaths to lengthen before he felt his pulse slow.

The pounding on his door would not relent. Open the door, Shara!

He swore, forced his body out of bed, pulled open the door and was blinded by the glare of sunlight. It took a few moments to discern the figure of the envoy standing outside.

What do you want? said Shara, his voice rough with sleep. When his eyes had adjusted to the brightness, he caught the envoy’s gaze straying over his nakedness. Seen enough?

The envoy smirked. Put some clothes on, he said. You have been summoned by the Sky-Father. You are to come with me to the Great Hall right away.

CHAPTER ONE

I

T WAS FOUR YEARS SINCE Yngvi’s last battle. Four years since the armies of Odin All-Father had crushed the last rebellion by his own son—Loki, god of the Underworld.

Now, Yngvi sat outdoors at a seaside tavern in Midgard, looking down a long street that cut through the city to the opposite coast.

He shifted his gaze to the horizon, tracing the angular asymmetry of the alpine chain fronting Niflheim, the land of Frost. The icy peaks seemed to stare in cold condescension, past Midgard, at the simmering chaos on the other side—the volcanoes of Muspelheim, the land of Fire.

And between ice and fire, encircled by restless waters and walled by sea crags, was Midgard—the realm of Man. A land of rolling hills, dense forests, foaming rivers, and the men and women who served under Odin, guardian of the nine worlds of Yggdrasil.

Yngvi was a general in the Asgardian army of Thor Odinson, and on the battlefield, he was known as one of Thor’s fiercest and best warriors, second only to the god of Thunder himself. But now, lounging in a chair outside the tavern, he was weaponless and dressed like the other townsfolk in a simple, long-sleeved tunic over pants which were tucked into leather boots.

His legs were stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. He had raised his arms, interlacing his fingers behind his head. His blond hair, which he kept braided during battle, now hung loose, the tips brushing his shoulders.

The skies were clear, the sun was warm and it was a wonderful, bustling morning in Midgard’s market square.

Fishmongers and bakers had to share the street with artisans and merchants, and they shouted over one another in a fight for paying customers. Every now and then, a gaggle of young scamps would cause a ruckus, and Yngvi smiled, thinking back to the time, years ago, when he and his brother would dart through the streets, deftly snatching a fruit from here or a fish from there, and scurrying away when the more motivated vendors gave chase.

Beside him, the ash-gray eyes of a quiet man surveyed the same scene. He cut a marmoreal figure, seated deep in his chair, fingers interlaced over his slim stomach. Occasionally, with careless elegance, he ran his fingers through his dark hair, pushing it off his forehead. 

Despite having had the pale stranger in his sights all morning, Yngvi had never been this close to him, and the sudden nearness was an unexpected thrill.

He was not Midgardian; of that Yngvi was certain. A cold fire radiated from the man, and Yngvi wondered whether that glacial exterior concealed a volcano underneath. He frowned at the notion. It was not natural for Yngvi, all-round military man, to invent such fanciful analogies.

He blamed his whimsy on boredom.

Under Odin, an extended period of peace had prevailed in Yggdrasil, and with no battles to fight, Yngvi was at loose ends.

He spent his days sparring in the arena and later, exerting himself in his bed with whoever had caught his fancy that night. His bedmates over the years had been impressive in count and variety, but the man beside him was unlike any of them.

A single, wintry glare from those hostile eyes had stolen Yngvi's breath and capacity for sensible thought and, heeding the dictates of his body, he had decided to follow the stranger.

He missed the pleasure of the chase. Lovers had always come easily to him, and the blatant disinterest in the unfriendly stranger’s glower was a challenge Yngvi decided to overcome, considering he had nothing else to occupy him that morning.

Ostensibly unaware of Yngvi, the pale man leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Yngvi mirrored his pose, feeling his skin tingle in the crisp air. Beyond his shuttered eyelids, the sun’s brilliance was a diffused, reddish glare. When he stole a glance at the pale man, he saw that the dark lashes had lifted and a knowing smirk played on the sweet, lush lips.

The game had begun.

The stranger’s chair grated over the gravel as he pushed it back and stood. He paused a moment, then headed away from the marketplace. As if responding to the tug of an invisible leash, Yngvi followed, picking up the pace when his lovely target disappeared down another street.

Hurrying around a blind corner, he was stopped abruptly by a cold, gray stare. It took him a few moments to grasp that the tip of a knife was pressing into his side, below his ribs. He should have felt vulnerable. But all he could think was how daringly illicit it was to be connected to this man in any way—even separated by a knife and the fabric of his tunic.

Who are you? The stranger’s jaw clenched. Why are you following me?

Yngvi immediately liked the deep, warm timbre, nothing at all like the man’s icy exterior. The volcano had just become a little more probable. I’m not following you, he lied.

The stranger’s expression grew colder. You have been, all morning. First at the blacksmith, then outside the armory. You followed me into the tavern, came out after me, even sat beside me. And now, here you are. A dark eyebrow arched. You’re following me.

Yngvi’s lips slanted up. I caught your eye. I’m flattered.

Don’t be. But for your face, you’re like all the other Midgardians: oversized and bronzed with a golden head.

That pricked. What’s wrong with my face? he challenged.

It’s hairless.

Yngvi had eschewed the thick beard that typified Midgardian men. He ran a hand over his sharp jawline, feeling the scrape of a day’s stubble. Are you old enough to grow hair on your face? he teased, admitting to himself that it was more than a tease.

A small scowl furrowed the stranger’s forehead. What do you want with me?

Take your knife away. I just want to talk to you.

The man lowered his knife.

This close, his head came up to Yngvi’s lips. Perfect, thought Yngvi. His smile did not fade while he gaped. The stranger was very male but to call him handsome would be a gross injustice to the astonishing elegance of his features. He was beautiful.

Of the many women Yngvi had tumbled, only the loveliest had earned that compliment, and his male lovers had, without exception, been unambiguously mannish. But this man was confusing.

I am Yngvi Eklund. The words came out in a rush.

A moment later, as though it surprised him to say it, the pale man said, Your name. Yngvi. It suits you. I like it.

Yngvi did not know what to do with that candid endorsement but experienced a small thrill. I like that you like it, he admitted. For lack of a better explanation, he blamed these aberrant, dreamy ideas on the knock his head had sustained the previous week in the arena.

Later that same evening, he had taken the fighter from that encounter to his bed, where the young soldier had applied himself with enthusiastic contrition and earned Yngvi’s forgiveness. It had been a satisfying end to the day. Yngvi smiled at the memory, because the prospect of reprising those events with this stranger was delicious.

Cold words cut into his reverie. Leave me alone, the man said. His eyes darkened.

Like gathering storm clouds, thought Yngvi. His pulse quickened. Your name. Tell me your name.

My name is— the man started to say, paused, then, as if having made a decision, —Shara.

Shara, Yngvi repeated, lifting a cynical eyebrow. Did you come up with that just now? He inclined his head, waiting.

A long moment later, Yngvi heard a muttered, No.

It suits you. Shara. I like your name, too.

I don’t care. Shara’s tone was sourer than his expression. Go away.

But Yngvi did not leave and Shara’s cheeks and neck flushed hard under Yngvi’s frank appreciation. Yngvi thought his heart might stop at any moment and decided he had better speak while it still thudded in his chest. He brought up the other reason he had followed the man. What’s your business with Odin?

Why do you care? Shara snapped. Then, sounding unsure, he said, Who’s Odin?

That pulled a laugh out of Yngvi. You want to go to Valhalla not knowing who lives there? Catching Shara’s puzzled look, he explained, I heard you in the tavern. You asked where the gods live. And your skin hasn’t seen much sun. That’s how I know you’re not Midgardian. Then there’s your name.

Shara lifted his chin. What’s wrong with my name?

Nothing at all. I told you, I like it. Yngvi paused for effect, then said, I also like that you care that I do. Who came up with it?

Shara’s face hardened. My— My sister.

Yngvi could not suppress a snigger. Sister? Your parents let your sister name you?

I never knew my parents.

I am sorry, said Yngvi, surprised by his own sincerity.

Shara went quiet for a moment, then dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. Was there anything else? But Yngvi did not move, and Shara sighed. You’re still here.

Any moment now.

Why?

And there it was. Yngvi smiled, helplessly charmed.

Yngvi, Shara said, a warning in the upward inflection.

Gods. Your voice. Say it again, Yngvi urged, trying to keep his expression blank, hoping his grin did not make him appear idiotically delighted. His artless flirtation thawed the frost in Shara’s eyes, but just a little.

Yngvi, said Shara, lengthening the last syllable in a lazy burr, clearly enjoying what Yngvi’s name on his lips did to the man himself. He gave a fleeting smile. Get out of my way or I’ll knock you off your feet and walk over you.

I’d like to let you do that, said Yngvi, enjoying this far too much. But I don’t think you could.

You’d be surprised.

That was all the invitation Yngvi needed. He pounced. Then surprise me, he dared Shara wolfishly. Spar with me in the arena. Your rules. Weapons of your choice. Lose, and you spend an entire day with me. Win, and you won’t see me again.

Shara was quiet.

I’ll understand if you don’t want to, Yngvi said, feigning consideration.

Shara’s sharp tone hinted at his irritation. What do you mean?

Just look at you. To prove his point, Yngvi took a step back and raked his gaze over Shara for an unhurried appraisal from head to toe, as if seeing through his clothes to the body underneath.

A muscle clenching in Shara’s jaw was his only discernible reaction. But there was iron in his tone when he said, What’s wrong with me? 

Not one damned thing, Yngvi admitted to himself. If there were, I wouldn’t be following you around Midgard like a dog in heat. Aloud, he taunted, Afraid you’ll lose?

Not at all, said Shara. Lead the way.

CHAPTER TWO

T

HEY WALKED IN SILENCE TO the armory.

The arena was located in the center—a roofless, rectangular enclosure with loose sand covering the hard floor. Training weapons were arrayed against the wood-paneled walls. Cups and pitchers of water were placed on a long table against one wall.

A dozen soldiers-in-training, all of them younger than Yngvi, were engaged in different forms of friendly combat. They did not look up when Yngvi and Shara entered.

Yngvi strode to the center of the arena and stopped. Everyone! Out! he said, his strident tone carrying over the clamor of the training weapons.

The youths lowered their weapons, looked at one another and then at Yngvi. Recognition bloomed on their flushed faces.

General, said one soldier. We were just—

Out! Yngvi snapped, inclining his head at the door.

In deference to Yngvi’s rank in the army, the youths dropped their weapons by the narrow door and filed out.

Afraid of an audience? Shara asked.

I’m doing it for you, said Yngvi.

It’s unnecessary, said Shara. I’m going to put you on your back, unless you want to reconsider.

Yngvi stepped close to Shara and winked. I’m never on my back.

Shara pushed him away.

Yngvi stumbled backward from the thrill of Shara’s hand on his chest. What do you want with the gods?

I’m looking for one.

Just one? Is he special?

Very, said Shara evenly.

Must be Thor, Yngvi presumed, optimistically naming the god who was closest in appearance to himself.

Shara shrugged. Must be, if he intends to rout Valhalla.

So you’re looking for Loki, said Yngvi, naming the thorn in the collective Asgardian side. In that case, what are you doing here with me? Then he flashed Shara a teasing smile. Am I that irresistible?

Not at all, said Shara. I’m waiting for that god—

—Loki.

I’m waiting for that god to reveal himself.

So not Loki, then, said Yngvi. He was intrigued. Who is this god?

Shara shook his head once. I have to be on my way, and I know this won’t take long. Shall we begin?

Somewhat deflated by the easy rebuff, Yngvi said, You’re wasting your time going to Valhalla. The gods don’t fight anymore.

Even better. Let’s get on with this. Shara went on to state the rules. Three matches: one bout with sword and shield, one match of archery and one last round with bare hands. Victor needs two wins.

Very well.

Yngvi picked up a pair of training swords and tossed one to Shara. Next, he threw Shara a round wooden shield and picked up another for himself.

Seeing Shara’s fingers grip the hilt sent Yngvi’s thoughts careening off on a very different course. Eyes fixed on Yngvi, Shara hefted the weapon and cut the air between them with calm, swift strokes. Yngvi mirrored his moves, grinning. Shara scowled.

He said, First contact with the neck, ribs or midriff counts as a win.

They stepped into the center of the arena. Yngvi knocked his shield twice with his sword, signaling the start of combat. Shara knocked his own shield twice.

They were ready.

Hunched and wary, they circled each other. Yngvi looked for faults in Shara’s footwork and posture to predict missteps. But Shara was frustratingly limber and delightfully sullen, a walking contradiction. In his twenty-five years, Yngvi had not met a more aggravating or alluring man. Best put him on his back without delay, then.

Yngvi’s arm was tucked against his side, his torso protected by the large shield. He attacked first, thrusting his sword, but Shara calmly sprang aside. His shield swung up, caught the edge of Yngvi’s blade and knocked it off its trajectory.

Yngvi staggered. Shara laughed.

A second later, Yngvi felt the flat surface of Shara’s blade lightly slap his unprotected thigh and saw Shara grin. Wily bastard, he cursed, crashing the rim of his shield with calculated force on Shara’s forearm, to deter but not injure.

Shara swore; his fingers flew open in reflex and his sword fell to the ground, spinning over the dusty surface before coming to rest a fair distance from them. But an effortless somersault on one shoulder landed Shara by his sword; a spry jump and he was on his feet again, sword in hand.

Yngvi charged, blade lowered, body bowed, attacking Shara’s legs with a flurry of