12.
. . .
Loki shoved aside the flap of the command field tent without a word as the guard stationed there continued to stand at rigid attention. He ripped off his belt of weapons and tossed it onto a camp cushion before tearing a glance almost as violent across the two adjutants, the old jarl and war-chief who ran this edge of the war, and another of Thor's younger friends, Hogun, who sat silently in the corner.
As prince and direct representative of the crown, Loki held rank in this tent. Rarely did he act like it in favor of better counsel - but his temper threatened to boil. "We're barely holding the riverland, and when I say bare I mean a scant handful of men go down tonight and Karnilla's loyalists are going to be all over our arses for breakfast." He shook his head, frustrated. "Where are those gods-damned reinforcements?"
The jarl, Ulf, son of Frode, shifted where he sat on a low folding stool next to the tactical table. His armor, heavy and gilded and somehow older than he, clanked uncomfortably. A good mind, but he rode out from the tent seldom now. Unlike some of the more heated warriors, Loki thought nothing less of the old man for that. To him, maps and supply lines and raw knowledge were as vital in a fight as steel. "We have another day before they cross from the northern camp, Your Highness. Had a problem with the skiffs. Sabotage, they think."
"We don't have a day."
Ulf bowed his head, acknowledging the obvious and speaking as calmly as he could. "Then we must somehow make a day."
Loki snapped a gesture at one of the adjutants. Not for anything useful, but for a drink of wine while he thought. To calm him, if nothing else. He sipped at the goblet given him, shaking his head and thinking unwillingly of the scene he had just left. A brace of three of Karnilla's sorcerous loyalists, with a dozen well-armed men at each of their sides. Less than fifty total, and yet with better control of the terrain and some inner resource of power, they'd routed a hundred man garrison and nearly pushed back to this camp itself.
Most of those men were bleeding, near useless until the field medics saw to them. Loki had ridden with a team of elite outriders to try and cut off the chase that threatened to ensure the men died outright. It meant an open skirmish, not his preference or his speciality, and the smell of burned aether and scorching flesh stayed hot in his nose, nauseating him. He drank half the goblet, still thinking.
"They've refocused on this line of the front." Hogun spoke rarely. When he did, it was worth listening. Of Thor's newer allies, Loki found he liked Hogun the best. He hadn't argued when Thor pleaded with him to allow one of his own band to ride out to the front at his side. "Means they see something here. Either that growing weakness at the river, or something worth taking."
Meaning him. Karnilla going for a royal prisoner was an old trick and an effective one, having nearly snatched up Odin himself long ago in her first press against Asgard. She'd tried for Thor once, too, a few years back. Although that attempt cost her damn near half her fielded troops at that tower when the elder prince released the inner berserker that made him already so damned formidable, despite his youth. She hadn't tried again, not with him. But so long as it was the house of Asgard versus the Witch Queen, royal necks were always going to be a prize worth gunning for. Dead or alive.
However. No one beyond the camp's leadership was supposed to know Loki was here yet - the jarl's closest men, Hogun, and the palace alone held that secret. Not any soldier, though he'd been at camp for almost a week overseeing things quietly. Even afield today, Loki had masked his appearance somewhat, those warriors with him never knowing their efficient, knife-wielding backup was a prince and a sorcerer in his own right. Loki looked at Hogun over the goblet, then set it down. "Either way, that means Karnilla knows what we know here. And that is troubling to consider."
Hogun lifted a shoulder in a casual, agreeable shrug. "Too small a group for spies. The camp itself is too busy for most eyes to follow."
Loki nodded. If there was some kind of an information leak, it wasn't coming from this tent.
That meant the palace was somehow the source, increasing the chances that the intended target was himself. And that also meant there was nothing he could do about that leak yet. He set the problem aside for later study, and he reminded himself to send a missive back as fast he could.
It also meant… Loki pushed the empty goblet aside with considerable more patience than he'd had on entry, balancing his palms on the edges of the tactical table and giving it a good lean. "It's an old trick, but a good one." He stared at one of the small blue tokens representing Karnilla's local garrison.
"My prince?" Jarl Ulf craned his neck forward, studying him.
"If Hogun and I are on the same wavelength here, then the news our enemy is operating off of is intensely valuable to them - but also not that fresh. They might not know how long we've got to wait for reinforcements." He looked up from the table, gesturing at the appropriate icons as he spoke. "We need to plump the front line on the other side of the river immediately, fully staff the towers on either watershed and get a patrol cycle up. Make it look like we were just refreshed. Anyone in a ten kilometer radius that we can slap spare armor on and stand straight dusk to dawn to dusk. If we look menacing enough, they might not strike. They took losses, too, these last few days. Just not as many as we wanted. They'll poke our borders for a better, more efficient opportunity, some other way to draw what they want out."
Hogun nodded, silent. He leaned forward, pushing three civilian tokens in turn with a single finger, then looked at the jarl. "Here. Farmer encampments, dug in despite the evacuations. They've been good men, they'll stand for our war so long as they need not die for it today."
Loki snapped his fingers and spoke directly to them both as Ulf grinned. "Perfect. And I want whatever warriors we can spare at each point, so that if this does go sideways we can get the civilians out first. They don't pay for our mistakes. Not for this."
Ulf raised himself out of his camp chair with an old man's mutter. "I'll ride out personally and gather them up. I know back trails to shorten the route and no few of the men themselves. Stubborn lot, but they see me and they'll do this for us. I'll get them lined up and backslapped into a good king's pride by eventide."
"Take a brace of guards with you, Jarl Ulf, for my sake if not yours." Loki moved out of the way with a nod of his head.
. . .
The plan was working. But not perfectly - the ruse was nearly flushed out shortly after midnight when a cloaked scouting group with a sorceress riding lead felt their vinegar and took a shot at one of the river towers. Being one of the more crucial locations, it was staffed with more of the remaining healthy and rested warriors than some of the other pressure points along this part of the front, and further, to their credit, the farmer men in borrowed armor refused to flee. Golden spears were not pitchforks, but they understood the worth of the pointy end well enough to hold the line until help could arrive.
Loki kept gloved hands tight on the reins of his horse, following close behind the tense squadron captain as they galloped towards the river. Without many other options left, he'd made it plain to the young man in gilded plate and leather exactly who he was, and what he damn well intended to do when they got to the skirmish. No time for subtlety, risks to himself be damned, and he'd left group command to the captain otherwise. This was going to be heavy blades and hot fire. His job was going to be going straight for the sorceress in charge while the rest of the relief mopped up the mundane attackers.
The captain's mare gave a sharp whinny as the animal detected stress and blood in the air. They were close, just the other side of the tree line and across a riverbank of smooth old stones and moss that had once been a popular place for children to play. Loki realized his teeth were bared, the cold night wind whipping sharp across his face.
You've not yet seen war, whispered Frigga in his ear. Battle, but not war. The outrider chase scant hours before. The lines of refugees flooding into the palace fields. These images haunted. He'd already fought demons and flame elementals in Muspelheim, rode off Dwarven exiles and a pirate band of Kree, all of this at his brother's side, but this battle now felt far closer to his own veins. Those were distant enemies, fading figures the mind could file away as amorphous Other in an attempt to rationalize what it saw.
These enemies were born Asgardian, the bloody shroud of the known quantity. They could have been people he met personally, sorceresses and hedge witches that had corresponded once, peacefully, with Frigga herself. He swallowed, cold through the breastbone. The hooves of his horse struck water and he looked down to be sure of the beast's footing as they charged on towards the noise of battle. Instead he caught sight of a body in the river, someone - he couldn't tell if in life they had been friend or foe - floating face down with their back torn open. The water around them was black from blood, reflecting nothing but a moonless midnight.
If the leader of the war band had a shot at him, they would take it. It wasn't the wisest, most tactical move to personally ride out with the group, but Loki rationalized it to both Hogun and the Jarl for two reasons. One, he was the most capable of stopping another magic user quickly, before they could do deeper damage to the fording than Asgard could pay. And two, if they got whiff of him personally afield, they'd almost certainly change focus away from the handful of warriors and civilians and converge on him instead.
Worth the risks. And yet his palms felt slick and cold inside his gloves. Much could go wrong.
The captain shouted a command as they struck the other side of the riverbed and the relief party began to fan into a jagged line, shield and spear riders at the front, archers and knife-men behind. And Loki, right behind the captain. He muttered something sharp of his own, slashing a quick gesture in the air to place an almost invisible ward in front of the captain. He couldn't protect the whole line, but he could armor his point group, where they were virtually begging the attackers to focus on.
The smell of magic would be a calling card for the enemy sorceress, to boot. His jaw tightened further, bringing the ache of tension to his face. He realized he arrived at the camp not fully ready for this, but it no longer mattered. By the time the knife came into his hand, he had to be.
It happened even quicker than he realized. He smelled the aether heating up first, then heard the crack of growing power. Not electricity, not fire, something else. Wild and almost sickly. Forbidden powers, things that came with deadly cost, and things that Karnilla didn't judge as harshly as some in their discipline. In war, all weapons came to bear at need. He braced himself on instinct, then realized that wasn't going to be enough. He rolled off the horse and hit the damp grass with both heels, shouting a word at the stallion to get it to speed up and out of the blast zone as he strengthened his shields.
Not quick enough. The flash struck, turning half the poor beast to ash despite his own wards. A scream of fear rippled through the line as leftover energy rushed hot over exposed flesh, wounding them. But Loki had indeed been the target - the sorceress laying in wait for a rescue team with a building first strike and finding a better focus for her work in him. He went unscathed under his shields, took no time in grieving his steed for now though his stomach roiled at the smell of cooked horseflesh. He ran instead, finding shelter in the lee of tall trees and going dim from all eyes, mundane and magical, while the captain regrouped the troops.
He scanned what he could with his own eyes shut for a risky minute, mentally following the trace of that blast back to a fortified copse behind the line of attackers. Smart sorceress. She dug in for safety, and had eyes on the fight entire - but by the trace of her next building assault, she hadn't spotted him looking for her yet. Too focused on her work, another sort of magical danger.
Loki grinned, animal reflex, no cheer in it. Then he took off on a tree-covered route that would bring him up on her flank within a minute. Surprise was going to be his first weapon in killing her now, fast, while she searched to see if he'd survived her assault.
The athame in his hand was going to be his second, slicing her lifeforce off from the pool of poisoned magic she tied herself to.
. . .
"We could have used her for information, my prince." Jarl Ulf paused his horse at the edge of the copse, where Loki was now studying the body of his opponent in the rising mist of the dawn. "Alive, I hasten to add."
Loki shook his head. "She wouldn't have given any. She knew capture would be synonymous with death eventually. Even if that capture happened, she would have suicided before we decided for her." He gently tugged at one of her sleeves to show the man the elf-scorch runes embedded there. The meaning would be lost on the jarl, but nonetheless they were important to what he meant. "Her loyalty wasn't just to the Witch Queen herself, but to a kind of magic most of us consider anathema. Not just blood magic, Jarl Ulf. Soul magics, corrupted bleak. That's why she was with this scout force. It's harder to sense for that, even if you're trained to watch for mages. Makes for a damn good surprise attack, and you saw well it did."
He looked up to see the Jarl studying him doubtfully. An old warrior, and though wiser than many, he'd ridden with All-Father Bor during Karnilla's last incursion. Asgard's fear of magic still lingered in many, and though Loki couldn't fault it, he already tired of it. "I'll defer to you then, my prince."
Loki turned back to the body, studying the old sorcery written in its fading aura, frowning. His mother would have to look over the notes he was taking. Bad work all around. Then something important occurred to him. "Defer to me also in this - the Captain needs acclaim for the victory here, but not him alone. Every farmer that stood, that never broke and ran. They ought be held in honor as warriors in their own right, and named heroes when this is over."
He heard the creak of a leather saddle, and an equally creaky, pleased voice. "No need to defer, Your Highness. I must agree with you entirely, and I'll see to it straightaway." Then the voice hesitated. "But I must also say I'm ruddy stunned with how fast this matter escalated. I fear for your safety already, and suggest I send back to the castle and say that while your presence is of great value to our men, I cannot bear the risk of this occurring again."
Loki rolled the sleeve back down, then also gently closed the dead sorceress's eyes before the sun rose full. An enemy, and a self-cursed mage, but it wasn't in him to deny the dead some peace. He thought, then he said, "I'd rather you didn't do that, Jarl Ulf."
"You want to stay in this fuckin' mess?" Astonishment took long-trained courtesy out of his voice and put the coarseness of the old blood back in to replace it.
Loki found he had to fight off an entirely inappropriate laugh. In doing so, he took a moment more than he needed, thinking next of what he actually meant and what he would say instead.
The field horrified him. There were bodies strewn from here to the river, and it was not going to end soon. And yet, no. He didn't want to go back. He bit his lip, studying the corpse still laid before him. His duty was to learn to face war, and survive it, and understand the worth and need of that horror, if there were any to be understood.
And back at the palace, all that waited for him was Amora, another piece of his recent life he knew he didn't really want.
In truth, he wished he could go somewhere else. Any place in the galaxy. But there had never been anywhere else for him but the palace, so, very well. The lessons of war - and meanwhile, sniff out the trail of whoever, whatever, had let slip his role here at the front. The list of suspects could be narrowed quickly, even from the distant camp. "Yes, Jarl Ulf. Exactly so. I intend to stay in this fucking mess, for as long as I need to."
. . .
Loki used the old trick of dimness instead of full invisibility to skulk his way through the palace to the sealed chambers Heimdall grudgingly gave up to him, saving what he could of his energy in case matters went sour. He assumed they would. Surprise was not enough of a guarantee, not for this stalk. But he might at least corner the masked hunter, and in so doing either win a short battle - should he be that lucky - or find some leverage against them to ease the rope around his neck.
Going dim was less effective, potentially left more of a trail, and even someone with mundane senses could catch him out if he stood in the middle of a gloomy room and they were paying attention. The hunter would. But at this hour, the gloaming before full night, they might not be in the lair and he could investigate, perhaps lay traps, without that risk becoming too costly.
He found the opened latches of the old corridor easily where they lurked behind a haphazard looking but perfectly cavernous stack of crates and folded tapestries, inspecting the entire outline of the door to see if the hunter left methods to see if the door had been disturbed and not finding anything. The latch opened easily, freshly greased for silence, and the passage behind led to an area that once connected to private spaces of the Queen's own tower. Hence the sealing, centuries ago.
Loki wrinkled his nose and inspected the dusty shadows, noticing how carefully much of the gloom was untouched. Even those soft shoes left only the barest trail, off-kilter and messy, possible to pass for the bellies of rats or some other vermin that thrived even in the grandest of realms. He followed the same path best he could for several careful minutes, leaving almost no trail of his own and carrying no light to give him away. In the distance, he could mark the first gleam of his goal, a flicker of at least one candle left behind in the first storage room he'd seen on the old map he referred to before starting. Before he reached the bend in the hall that would show him the room, Loki checked himself carefully, paranoid that his knives were still at his hip, that another still hid at his thigh, and other small tools that could save him, should he corner himself here.
Then he slipped into that first storage room, and stopped, stunned.
Not one candle. A narrow shelf of them, each fatty long-burning stub carefully maintained in tempered glass ornaments. Beneath the glow was the shrine. Another shelf, this one of memories and offerings. A small gold cup of honeyed mead, a vintage his nose recognized instantly as one of Frigga's favorites. A beautifully carved elderwood clasp, of the sort she would often give away to ladies and girls for their braids. A slice of fresh bread taken from the palace kitchens. Scraps of blue silks, dried flowers, braided ribbons. On a cleaned box nearby he saw a few tapestries the queen had woven and laid aside when he was young, thinking they were not fine enough for display. A booklet of bardic verse, a thin tome of cantrips he knew well, though this was a different copy than the one he recalled.
Loki sagged against the frame of the door, unsure what to think, and the dim peeled away from him as his thoughts swirled, entirely unfocused by the forceful presence of the dead queen in that secret shrine. Someone had known her well to display their grief in this way.
Someone else still hurt.
In the corner of the room, a black-leg clad leg and its soft booted foot shifted. The hunter lifted flung that leg over the other, not rising from the chair they sat in.
That she sat in. Realizing what he'd done, knowing he'd foolishly left himself vulnerable out of sheer surprise and his own renewed grief, Loki turned his gaze from the shrine to examine his hunter fully, unmasked, studying him right back with a coldly serene expression on her face.
"I know you," he said through numbed lips. He could feel nothing but the frozen shock that coursed his body.
The hunter tilted her face at him, mock-polite, dark hair neatly braided close to better fit under that mask. Lips that turned in easily for subtle sarcasm creased in a grin that was a threat and he knew just how fast, just how graceful she could move if she struck now. "I would be deeply surprised to discover you yet remember any of our names. We were small women, Your Highness. Fleeting memories."
He did, though. He had never quite forgotten, but nor had he allowed the name close to the front of his thoughts in ages. Not since the rebuke he'd earned from Frigga for that one stray thought, long ago. "You're the Lady Kara. You served at the Queen's hand for centuries." Loki felt no satisfaction at the tiniest flinch that crossed her narrow, tense face. "I remember you very well."