tarnished and the sdadown.
Ask , he said.
The waelcyrge turned her face aside, her knuckles pale on the hilt of her sword, and closed her dark gray eyes.
The earth heaved under the snowdrifts. The waelcyrge lost her footing and pitched backward into the snow a second time, her flailing arms carving angel wings in the white drift behind her. All around Kasimir, the surface cracked like the crust of an over-risen loaf; the frozen ground softened beneath him. He thrashed—whinnying, dragging himself to his feet, tossing his antelope-horned head, dragging the antlered one—but the earth bucked again and heaved him to his knees.
He could not stay down. Even a winged horse is terrified of unstable ground, and Kasimir’s wings were shredded hobbles.
His waelcyrge scrambled backward, regaining her feet none too nimbly, and the earth split wide as the snow around Kasimir’s hooves vanished in rushing hiss. Steam billowed around him, searing, bellying from deep below.
S TAND , K ASIMIR .
It might have been Herfjotur’s voice. He couldn’t knowover the roaring and the hiss, but he was sure it was not Muire’s.
What mattered was that it was a voice he trusted. He locked his three good legs and his broken one, bone grinding, rasping under his weight. He lifted his head and stood his ground, and did not shy as metal oozed glowing from the steaming cracks.
He did not shy. But he screamed, and kept on screaming.
M uire could not go to him. She had been waelcyrge, and fire no more a threat to her than ice. She had been a smith, able to scoop metal from the crucible with her bare hand and pour it palm to palm like mercury. And when the earth yawned open and the white-hot iron smoked through the snow, she could not walk through the fire to Kasimir.
More cowardice. But at least she would not close her eyes.
He screamed while the metal crawled over him, fingerling rivulets broadening into a red-hot weld. It
was
like mercury, like a gold ring dipped in mercury, the quicksilver bonding to the surface. Yet this was no cold quicksilver, but molten metal, rising from the belly of the land in response to Muire’s ill-considered prayer.
All-Father, have mercy.
But mercy, in the end of things, was not what Othinn was for. Not the god who had hung on the world-tree for nine nights and nine days, who had sold his eye for power. And anyway, he had been left behind in Midgard. He had promised he would follow, that he would come to lead them in the new world. But he had not. And they had proven decisively, Muire thought, that they could not do it alone.
________
S omehow, through it all, the stallion stood.
And when it was done, he
shone
.
Impassive now, he straightened slowly. Both heads on their long necks turned to regard Muire, white rings already fading around living brown eyes in sculptured faces. His new skin cooled, his new bones hardened, and his bright steel-blue wings opened and flexed, feather-perfect.
The soft whisper of tiny interlocking barbs on the pinions was like a declaration of war. Steam hissed under pressure as he moved. He shook out his mane, and each hair of it was a single, gleaming wire. The snow sublimated under his footsteps as he came to Muire. He nosed her chain mail–covered breast, not hard, and she gasped at the startling heat. The earth smoldered under his footsteps.
She laid her hand flat against his cheek and jerked it away in a moment, scalded. “What are you?”
Kasimir , he answered. Metal and meat. Sorcery and steel.
“What are you?” she asked again.
His eyes were warm and soft. I am War.
“No,” she choked, before her voice failed. The world was new and empty, changed from the world it had been at the sunset, and the valraven had changed with it.
And Muire would not change, did not wish to change. “What have you become?” She reached out, but snatched back scorched fingers. “You are the future.”
I am the world, what the world will need, and what the world will
Ask , he said.
The waelcyrge turned her face aside, her knuckles pale on the hilt of her sword, and closed her dark gray eyes.
The earth heaved under the snowdrifts. The waelcyrge lost her footing and pitched backward into the snow a second time, her flailing arms carving angel wings in the white drift behind her. All around Kasimir, the surface cracked like the crust of an over-risen loaf; the frozen ground softened beneath him. He thrashed—whinnying, dragging himself to his feet, tossing his antelope-horned head, dragging the antlered one—but the earth bucked again and heaved him to his knees.
He could not stay down. Even a winged horse is terrified of unstable ground, and Kasimir’s wings were shredded hobbles.
His waelcyrge scrambled backward, regaining her feet none too nimbly, and the earth split wide as the snow around Kasimir’s hooves vanished in rushing hiss. Steam billowed around him, searing, bellying from deep below.
S TAND , K ASIMIR .
It might have been Herfjotur’s voice. He couldn’t knowover the roaring and the hiss, but he was sure it was not Muire’s.
What mattered was that it was a voice he trusted. He locked his three good legs and his broken one, bone grinding, rasping under his weight. He lifted his head and stood his ground, and did not shy as metal oozed glowing from the steaming cracks.
He did not shy. But he screamed, and kept on screaming.
M uire could not go to him. She had been waelcyrge, and fire no more a threat to her than ice. She had been a smith, able to scoop metal from the crucible with her bare hand and pour it palm to palm like mercury. And when the earth yawned open and the white-hot iron smoked through the snow, she could not walk through the fire to Kasimir.
More cowardice. But at least she would not close her eyes.
He screamed while the metal crawled over him, fingerling rivulets broadening into a red-hot weld. It
was
like mercury, like a gold ring dipped in mercury, the quicksilver bonding to the surface. Yet this was no cold quicksilver, but molten metal, rising from the belly of the land in response to Muire’s ill-considered prayer.
All-Father, have mercy.
But mercy, in the end of things, was not what Othinn was for. Not the god who had hung on the world-tree for nine nights and nine days, who had sold his eye for power. And anyway, he had been left behind in Midgard. He had promised he would follow, that he would come to lead them in the new world. But he had not. And they had proven decisively, Muire thought, that they could not do it alone.
________
S omehow, through it all, the stallion stood.
And when it was done, he
shone
.
Impassive now, he straightened slowly. Both heads on their long necks turned to regard Muire, white rings already fading around living brown eyes in sculptured faces. His new skin cooled, his new bones hardened, and his bright steel-blue wings opened and flexed, feather-perfect.
The soft whisper of tiny interlocking barbs on the pinions was like a declaration of war. Steam hissed under pressure as he moved. He shook out his mane, and each hair of it was a single, gleaming wire. The snow sublimated under his footsteps as he came to Muire. He nosed her chain mail–covered breast, not hard, and she gasped at the startling heat. The earth smoldered under his footsteps.
She laid her hand flat against his cheek and jerked it away in a moment, scalded. “What are you?”
Kasimir , he answered. Metal and meat. Sorcery and steel.
“What are you?” she asked again.
His eyes were warm and soft. I am War.
“No,” she choked, before her voice failed. The world was new and empty, changed from the world it had been at the sunset, and the valraven had changed with it.
And Muire would not change, did not wish to change. “What have you become?” She reached out, but snatched back scorched fingers. “You are the future.”
I am the world, what the world will need, and what the world will
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