Part 6 (1/2)
”Signal!” Hermod screamed, and they both plunged their hands into the duffel and came out with a grenade each. Simultaneously, as though they'd drilled the maneuver together, they pulled the tabs, tossed their grenades underhand, and dove down in the sand. Hermod covered Winston with his body, peering up to see two of the pups leap to swallow the grenades.
And then nothing happened.
Hermod pounded a crater in the sand with his fist. ”d.a.m.ned unreliable black-market munitions-”
The rest of his words were interrupted by a pair of concussive blasts, followed by the plopping of sticky red chunks. .h.i.tting the ground.
”Two more,” he shouted, again reaching into his duffel.
But the four remaining pups turned tail and sprinted away, yipping and barking with lunatic laughter. Hermod pulled the tab of his grenade and lobbed the ball into the middle of the pack, but this one turned out to be a dud, and by the time Mist handed him another, the wolves were just tiny black dots in the distance. Hermod knew he'd never catch them; they were going too fast.
”Can't you toss it that far?” Mist asked with obvious impatience.
”Not with any accuracy. I'd be as likely to hit a hot-dog stand as the wolves.”
Mist responded with an ambiguous hmm, sc.r.a.ping blown-up wolf bits from her boots and pants. ”They're not quite animals, are they?”
”They are, in a sense, but they're also packed with other things, like chaos and entropy and emptiness.”
Mist shuddered. ”Wish we'd killed them all.”
”Yeah. There's not much worse than a half-defused bomb, and now that I've made it clear I'm out to get them, the wolves won't be as easy to find the next time. I hate to say it, but I think we need to see the sibyl.”
Mist held up her hand. ”Wait a minute, who's this 'we' you're talking about? You said if I helped you out here we'd discuss you guiding me to Helheim.”
”Well, sure, I said we could talk about it.”
”So,” Mist said, ”let's talk.”
Hermod sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. It had felt rather fine to have the Valkyrie at his side while fighting the pups; it'd been so long since he'd had an ally. And merely talking had never hurt anyone, right? He laughed bitterly in answer to his own question.
”We can talk,” he said. ”But let's do it somewhere else, okay? This beach hasn't been very good to me.”
Mist nodded and they set out for the pedestrian overpa.s.s.
A thought occurred to Hermod: ”Hey, you can also buy me breakfast.”
THE WORLD TREE grows from the roots of worlds, and down at the bottom of a deep depression between two of the roots is a sea, and in the sea is a single island, which has no name. The island's sole inhabitant is a wolf, and the wolf is called Fenrir. His fur is ice-white. His eyes, cold midnight.
Munin and I fly circles over the island, half-frozen rain striking our feathers. Munin recites from memory every word he knows for this kind of rain, asking me repeatedly which word I think most accurately describes it.
”For the last time,” I squawk, ”it's slush, all right? Cold, nasty slush.”
”In Alfheim they call it slow-stinging darts. Don't you think that's a better term for it, Hugin? More descriptive?”
”Fine, that's fine, that'll be fine.”
”But the giants in Jotunheim call it the frost kiss. I think I like that. Hmm.”
Hidden behind a wall of gloom, waves collide ceaselessly with the ghostly outline of towering crags. When a longs.h.i.+p fetches up on the beach in a crunch of timber on gravel, the wolf whines with apprehension.
The wolf is helpless, but this hasn't always been the case. Fenrir, closer in size to a bear than to another wolf, and much larger than that if viewed with a squint from certain angles, long ago bit off the arm of the Aesir's mighty warlord Tyr. The G.o.ds feared Fenrir, so they imprisoned him here on this rock, and gagged him, and fettered him. A sword keeps his jaws from closing, the pommel jammed against his tongue, the sharp tip of the blade poking the soft roof of his mouth. His legs are bound with a silken ribbon. The ribbon's name is Gleipnir, and it was crafted with great cunning by a pair of dwarf brothers.
Two figures emerge from the fog. One is Vidar, eldest of Odin's sons. Many consider him most like his father, in strength second only to Thor, but stingy with words and always deep in the wells of his own thoughts. So deep that even I have a hard time seeing them. His eyes are the dark gray of far northern skies, his face lean, almost gaunt. Strapped to his hip is a long scabbard. His hand rests lightly on the pommel of his sword.
The other is a child, chubby-kneed and hyper. This is Vidar's brother, Vali. After Hod was duped into killing Baldr, Odin sired Vali for the sole purpose of vengeance, and when Vali was scarcely a day old, he strangled Hod to death.
”You look uncomfortable, smelly old dog,” Vali says. ”I bet if we free you, you'll try to eat us. But you better not, because if you eat us I'll kick you from the inside and make your tummy hurt, and then I'll bite my way out of your belly and pull all your tubes out, and then I'll whip you with your own guts, do you wanna see my bug collection? It's right here in my pocket, only some of them aren't bugs, some of them are spiders, plus some ears and tongues from people I don't like-”
Vidar puts a restraining hand on Vali's shoulder, and while Vali doesn't exactly fall silent, he does lower his volume.
Vidar draws his sword, and Fenrir squirms and whines, longing for freedom. He does not want to die this way, helpless as a blind newborn. It's not merely fear that fills him with a sense of dread. It's that his death is supposed to occur in a way otherwise, after he has accomplished certain tasks, among them the killing of Odin the gallows G.o.d.
Vidar raises the sword above his head and closes his eyes, gathering himself. His blade hurts to look at, as if it's made of things that should not be, and Fenrir knows what it reminds him of.
Gleipnir, the ribbon binding him, is made of six impossible things, from the roots of a mountain, to the breath of a fish, to the sound of a cat's footfalls.
Vidar's sword is made of seven.
Vidar swings the blade down. The island s.h.i.+vers as the sharp edge cuts through the sound barrier, and then through the ribbon, and Fenrir is free.
The wolf doesn't move. He's craved freedom for so long that, once his uncanny restraint is gone, he doesn't quite know what to do. His breath rises in plumes, and he remains still when Vidar reaches into his maw and carefully removes the sword gag.
Cautiously, Fenrir tests his strength, drawing a paw across the stony ground and digging runnels as deep as graves. He extends his forelegs before him and bows his back in a mighty stretch that feels so good he nearly howls with joy. Then he yawns, and Vidar and Vali stagger forward, while Munin and I flap our wings harder to remain airborne.
”What time is it?” Fenrir asks.
Vidar takes a moment to recover himself. He holds his sword before him, and it suddenly looks ridiculously small, like a swizzle stick.
”It's really late,” Vali answers.
Fenrir imagines he could swallow the sword without trouble, and its owner too. He turns a circle, sniffing the ground. ”It would have to be late, yes, as I've been here a very long time. But not too late for games. You Aesir were always up for games. Is that why you freed me, little sons of Odin? To play? Tyr played with me once.”
Fenrir begins to salivate. He raises a leg and gushes a spray of urine. ”I've been confined for a long time, and I'd rather my first conversation in ages not be entwined in riddles. Why did you unbind me, Vidar Odinsson, when I am bound to kill your father?”
The wolf craves the taste of the All-Father's intestines. He knows the flavor will be rich.
”Once you kill Odin,” Vali says, ”Vidar will kill you right back.”
”Of course,” says Fenrir. The wolf pulls his lips back in something resembling a smile, running his tongue over teeth like scimitars. ”I think you enjoy games, Vidar. But you no longer wish to be a piece. Instead, you've found a way to be a mover of pieces. That makes you very mighty indeed.”
Vidar bows his head slightly. With that, the two G.o.ds take their leave, pus.h.i.+ng their s.h.i.+p back into the surf. Vidar vaults over the gunwales to take the tiller, and Fenrir watches the boat fade into the swirling mists. Then he compresses his body into a tight ball and releases, leaping high up into the near sky.
”These late days are very curious,” the wolf says.
WHAT RADGRID REALLY wanted to do was shoot them both in the heart and get on with her busy day. She didn't have time for guests, let alone G.o.ds. She was running into difficulties obtaining permits for another NorseCODE office in Shenzhen. There was a promising candidate in Vancouver whose testing awaited an available Valkyrie/Einherjar team. And Mist had gone missing. It was this last bullet point on her list of action items that troubled her most. She'd had such high hopes for the girl.
”Can I offer you anything else to drink?” she asked, using her facial muscles in a way that she hoped would form a convincing smile.
Magni raised his gla.s.s. The small movement caused alarming squeaks and creaks in his chair. ”More of this green stuff. What'd you call it?”