Chapter 000: Prologue

Heimdall moved through the the forest, silent as a wolf. First one step then another. He hastened his pace through the darkness as he hunted, the hooting owls and chirping cicadas providing the rhythm for his chase.

Seven nights he had been on this trail. Seven nights he had failed — himself, his father, the world.

He felt the stars above him, ancient heroes and gods older than even he looking down on him, pushing him forward.

The tree was everything.

A snap of a twig off to his left. Heimdall stopped short, resting a hand against the rough bark of the evergreen at his side. He deliberately controlled his breathing and crouched low, sniffing on the air like a true predator. He placed his palm flat against the cool earth and dusty pine needles on the forest floor, and listened. Like a wiretap on a phone line, he heard the trees talking to each other, meandering conversations about rainfall and nesting squirrel. He heard the rapid hearts and lungs of the rabbits in their burrows, and the rhythmic lumbering of a trio of possums.

The steady, slow heartbeat of the earth below it all — both a comfort and a reminder of the stakes of his quest.

Heimdall lifted his chin and sniffed again, searching for a trace of what creature had snapped that twig. But there was nothing.

He was about to rise, then pressed his palm more forcefully against the soil. He closed his eyes, frowning as he strained to wade through the cacophony of vibrations passing up through his skin, looking for that one familiar beacon.

His face relaxed. Ah, there it is. Filtering out the noise of the other creatures, plants, elementals and various pixies and fairies, Heimdall homed in on the small, vulnerable pulse of the young sapling.

He was getting closer.

Heimdall regained his feet and said a silent prayer to the heavens above. Odd for a god to pray. He batted away the fleeting thought as he would a pesky mosquito simple or audacious enough to disturb him. Yes, he was now prone to prayer. It was something that had crept up on him over the centuries as his own strengths had begun to wane. It had brought him comfort, sometimes even sanity, as he felt himself grow weaker. Now he was little more than the mortals he and his kind walked amongst.

The last words of his silent prayer passed his lips, and he stepped forward into the darkness once more. He deliberately didn’t think about who or what he might have been praying to.

His path led him into a clearing of trees, and Heimdall slowed his pace as he stepped into this place of power, a natural temple untouched by any human hand. He strode into the center of the circle, watching the shadows cast by the quarter moon overhead, knowing they concealed the movement of supernatural beings he no longer had the reliable ability to detect.

Heimdall stretched his arms up over his head, preparing to call down the subtle powers of the night — even if it was more of a symbolic gesture nowadays than a real divine act. He spread the fingers of each hand wide, then cringed downward as a dark chills danced across his shoulders. Straightening his spine, he breathed in sharply, trying to catch the scent of the intruder as his eyes darted left and right, unable to as keenly penetrate the darkness as they once could.

An owl cried out to his left, and Heimdall spun on his heel to face the noise. He could hear his own heart pounding in his ears, his body’s fight response still strong.

Was the hunter being hunted?

He smelled fear on the air and could almost taste the terrified heartbeat, just yards away from him now. The shrill chatter of a surprised chipmunk, which should have been in its nest at this hour fast asleep, was interrupted by burst of movement through the low shrubs, and the chatter became a high-pitched shriek, cut short by the quick snapping of jaws.

“Laika,” Heimdall called into the woods.

The bushes shuddered as the head of the wolf-dog emerged, her downcast eyes sparkling with a mix of guilt and pride over the small, bloody prey still warm in her open mouth. Stepping out into the clearing, she cocked her head to the side and studied the stern expression of her master. With a labored sigh, she dropped the furry body onto the ground and sank down beside it. Looking up at Heimdall, a shiver of a hopeful wag ran through her tail.

Heimdall growled deep in his throat. “I told you this was no hunting expedition, not for that kind of prey.”

Laika nosed her kill closer to her master. Her mouth fell open into a silly grin.

Heimdall couldn’t help but laugh. “No, you can have it. But no more.” He wagged a finger at her and watched her carefully pick apart the tiny chipmunk with the patience of a sport hunter, rather than a predator who hunted for food.

He sighed. He was still uncomfortable with the luxury and convenience of this world. He longed for the days of testing and survival, of true warriors and blood-soaked battles, even if living among these so-called more evolved humans had softened him.

Heimdall shook off the chill that had stymied his ritual. He didn’t kid himself about it being the cool, damp air of the Pacific Northwest or the approaching autumn’s frost. There was another presence here in the woods, another hunter after the same prey. Heimdall deliberately ignored it, and bent down to pat his dog on the head instead.