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as they were—like the prohibition against firearms—and so far the enemy had stuck to them. More or less.
    Mist swallowed a battle cry as she hacked at a frost giant, slicing a ragged piece of flesh from his half-armored shoulder. He yelped in pain, but the wound hardly slowed him. He swung his arm, adorned with a hundred razor-sharp icicles, at her head.
    Konur, lord of the elven allies, caught the blow on his own sword, staggering a little under the weight of the blow. He recovered quickly, elf-swift, and danced aside. Mist slipped into his place and stabbed at the Jotunn’s belly.
    Fortunately, this particular giant was more bulky than fast, and he failed to get out of the way in time. He moaned and fell like an ancient redwood cut down by elements even its formidable strength couldn’t withstand.
    Mist pulled Kettlingr free and wiped the blade on the Jotunn’s clothing. She caught her breath and brushed her hand across her forehead, sweeping up a damp strand of hair that had come loose from her braid, and watched the dark-haired elf-lord take on another frost giant.
    For a moment she imagined Dainn fighting there, just as swift and sure, concealing a savage beast behind his dispassionate face. She was barely prepared when another Jotunn came at her from behind.
    Fury beset her whenever she thought of Dainn, and this time was no different. She spun wildly to catch the Jotunn’s ice-sword on hers, and felt the frost giant’s weapon cut through her sleeve.
    Chanting the Galdr as she built the Rune-staves in her mind, she added the smallest touch of forge-magic, as if her blade had just been pulled from the fire. The Jotunn was briefly confused by the glint of flame and attacked empty air. Mist cut off his head.
    Two of the surviving Jotunar fled for the mouth of the alley and the relative safety of Grant Avenue. Mist knew better than to pursue them; true dawn was still a good half-hour away, but on a Tuesday morning there would be people already headed to work, drivers and pedestrians not quite groggy enough to ignore a sword-and-ax fight in the middle of the street.
    She turned back, ready for the next opponent. But there was no one left to fight. The asphalt was slick with melting ice, the buildings on either side splashed with blood both red and blue. One mortal lay dead. Two mortals and one elf were wounded, but Mist’s warriors had accounted for three Jotunar.
    Mist sheathed her sword and knelt beside the human warrior, sketched Runes of peace and protection on his brow and gently closed his eyes. She knew his name, but little of his life or what had drawn him into this fight.
    It wasn’t easy keeping track of the two hundred or so mortal recruits who’d trickled in over the past spring and summer, especially since they were spread out all over the city countering Jotunar assaults and tracking the giants’ increasing encroachment into the city’s underworld.
    Hel, Loki practically ran all of it now. And more.
    A lot more.
    “He died well,” Konur said, coming up beside her. “Do not grieve for one who willingly gave his life to save his world.”
    Mist wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “He wouldn’t have died at all, if we hadn’t brought this war down on mortalkind.”
    “ We did not bring it,” Konur said, cleaning his own sword before sheathing it and reducing it to the size of a small dagger. “He was as like to have died in one of the mortal’s own wars, and for a far lesser purpose.”
    Biting back a sharp retort, Mist got to her feet. “What about your people?”
    “Only the one is injured, and not severely. Our healer sees to the mortals.” He concealed the dagger in his jacket—the Lord of the Alfar still looked bizarre to Mist in his very ordinary human clothes—and glanced up at the lightening sky. “We must go as soon as they are able to travel.”
    Mist followed his gaze, clenching her fingers around Kettlingr’s hilt. Konur touched her