Part 16 (2/2)

Vidar dipped his head, which Hermod took as an admission. ”Ragnarok must happen, but it is not such a bad thing. The world that comes after will be a good one.”

Hermod remembered the battle against the Vanir, the Aesir's rival G.o.ds. Their home of Vanaheim had been every bit the paradise Asgard was, possibly even more beautiful. But when the war was over, every living thing there had been killed. Every man, woman, creature, and blossom. Only twigs and scorched rocks were left, all beyond recovery. A truce was declared, and the G.o.ds walled off that dead world and renamed it Helheim.

”Ragnarok isn't something that happens,” Hermod said. ”Ragnarok is something we do, and when it's over, it'll make Helheim look like a kitchen garden. You'll preside, but your new green world will be fertilized by corpses.”

Vidar vaulted the distance between them, and his elbow connected with Hermod's jaw. Hermod's head snapped back and he flew into the concert sh.e.l.l with cement-cracking force. Hearing footfalls crunch over rubble, he scrabbled to his feet, just in time to duck and roll as Vidar's blade swung over his head. There was a sound like an ax biting wood, and, floating in the air where Vidar's sword had sliced, a ragged black line wavered and flapped like a torn sail in the wind. Through the thin seam, Hermod caught a glimpse of a timber palace among ocean waves. Air shrieked through the seam, threatening to pull Hermod off his feet, a sensation much like being drawn into the vacuum of a wolf monster's open maw.

”Hermod! Here!” Mist tossed him his sword in a tumbling, underhand arc that sailed over Vidar's shoulder, and, grateful though Hermod was, he knew Vidar's blade would cut through his own sword like a razor through cheese. Besides, he wished Mist would concentrate on her own problems: Vali danced circles around her, giggling, trying to get past her saber. Mist looked grim and courageous and so mortally fragile.

Hermod lifted a fragment of concrete and hurled it at Vidar. It exploded in a puff of powder upon impact, leaving a short length of rebar emerging from Vidar's neck. His face drawn in pain, Vidar silently withdrew it and tossed it aside. It landed with a ringing clang at Hermod's feet. A fountain of blood spurted from Vidar's wound.

”Your fighting skills have improved, Hermod.”

Vidar raised his sword high overhead in an executioner's posture. When he brought it down, there was again the colossal sound of chopping wood, and a wide rent appeared in the air. Hermod felt salt spray on his cheeks. Black swells broke against white towers, and with dread Hermod recognized the place he was seeing through the seam: his mother's home.

Drawn by the seam's gravity, he stumbled into Vidar's sword and felt the blade slide into his shoulder. He struggled feebly as Vidar removed Odin's eye from under his jacket, and there was a colorless moment before he fell out of the world.

Waves washed over him. Lightning split the sky. His blood mingled with seawater.

From the other side of the seam, Hermod saw Vali leap high, his pudgy hands reaching for Mist's throat. Despite his agony, Hermod tried to get up. There was a scream-not Mist's-as Sleipnir rushed forward and raked Vali's face with his tail. Rearing up, the horse hammered Vidar with six of his hooves, giving Mist time to mount. She held on, clenching her teeth with effort as Sleipnir surged forward and leaped through the fissure. Winston followed, landing in the water beside Hermod.

Mist spilled off the horse and reached into Hermod's bag. On the other side of the seam, a bloodied Vidar recovered from Sleipnir's battering and marched ahead. Hermod was in no condition to fight him. Merely remaining conscious was taking all his effort. The world was fractured, and there was something wrong with Mist's hand. It was giving off sparks.

No, Hermod realized, it wasn't her hand that was sparking. It was the last of the black-market grenades. As Vidar thrust his sword through the seam, Mist lobbed the paper-wrapped bomb.

The world shuddered weakly, and Hermod could no longer see the Hollywood Bowl, or Vidar, or anything other than a white flash.

GRIMNIR STRODE ACROSS the field of blood and smiled at the sight of the fat orange sun glinting off Valhalla's roof of s.h.i.+elds. At least the sun was still s.h.i.+ning somewhere. Corpses littered the field-throats slashed, bellies torn open, some of them still gripping swords. Servants and slaves picked their way through the carnage with baskets, collecting arms and legs and matching them up with the torsos they belonged to. Grimnir waded through the butchery, blood-wet gra.s.s streaking his s.h.i.+ns as he stepped over the bodies.

Things crawled and slithered unseen in the gra.s.s, but no rat or beetle dared nibble on the fallen here. Grimnir paused over the body of a young warrior with blue tattoos swirling across his chest. His throat had been cut open, but restoration was already in progress. Frayed tendons and muscle fibers reknit. Missing flesh re-formed. The lips of his throat wound reached to meet and seal the gap.

Grimnir watched similar scenes happening all over the field. Intestines retracted into split bellies. Limbs re-formed attachments of muscle and bone.

The tattooed warrior gasped and sat up. ”Where is he?”

”Where's who?” Grimnir asked.

”He calls himself Wani of the Salmon Clan, but I call him Smells Like Wet Dog.” The man was breathing steadily now, color returning to his face.

”He's the one who slit your throat?”

The warrior rubbed his healed wound. ”He got lucky. If I hadn't tripped on a rock-”

”I get lucky every time,” said another warrior, clad in tree-bark armor and an elaborate headdress of bright bird feathers.

Grimnir moved off and left the two behind to settle their differences. All around him, the other warriors were stirring, readjusting their armor and clothing. Some joined in small groups to brag about their feats of combat. The more experienced fighters criticized the technique of the newer ones, and there was much mockery.

It was good to be home.

Later, inside the hall, with the sounds of laughter ringing to the rafters and the smells of spilled beer and roasting meat, Grimnir felt a knot of tension loosen in his neck. He only wished he could have convinced Mist to join him. She was a good, brave kid, and he would have enjoyed partying away the last days of the world with her. He'd hated leaving her in the company of Hermod, even though he'd managed finally to gain some respect for the flaky Aesir. But Mist had made her choice, and he had to respect that too. Now it was time for Grimnir to make sure he was ready to fight and die with his Einherjar buddies. And that would require some drinking.

The nightly feast was in full swing, the fighters carousing in a babble of languages. It didn't take Grimnir long before he found himself seven drinks up in a healthy arm-wrestling contest. His current opponent was a pumpkin-headed anarchist in a Che Guevara T-s.h.i.+rt.

”I hear we're going over the top tomorrow,” the anarchist said, grimacing with effort.

”Enh, they've been saying that for a hundred centuries. I'll believe it when I hear the horn.”

Grimnir's blithe dismissal was insincere. Unlike most of the other Einherjar, he'd recently been out in the world. He'd seen decay and winter, and he knew things would be happening soon. What would the Einherjar's reaction be if they knew it too? Would their enthusiasm falter?

”Enh,” he said again, slamming the anarchist's arm to the table.

Another man slid into his opponent's place, one whose face Grimnir recognized. ”Tang Xiang,” Grimnir said with pleasure. ”Lose any limbs lately?” Shaven-headed, with fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, Tang Xiang returned Grimnir's greeting with a quiet nod. Grimnir took no offense at his friend's reserve; a master from the Shaolin temple at f.u.kien, Tang Xiang had always expressed himself better with the sweep of his curved broadsword than with words. The man was phenomenally skilled, but in ways so opposite to Grimnir's combat style that Grimnir could only admire him the way he admired Sinatra.

Tang put his elbow on the table and opened his hand. Grimnir grasped it, and they began the contest. Grimnir dwarfed the man, but he already felt the strain in his muscles, while Tang remained implacably still.

”You have been working for the Valkyrie Radgrid, I understand.”

Grimnir grunted. ”That's right.”

”I've been making the acquaintance of some of the fighters she's been recruiting into our ranks. I must say, I do not entirely approve of her methods.”

”There're a lot of doors in and out of Asgard. Not everyone has to come over the traditional way. But what do you think about the fighters themselves?”

”I question their loyalty,” Tang said, direct as a sword thrust. Grimnir's arm tipped back, and he recovered barely in time to avoid losing the match.

”What are you talking about? I've personally faced each and every one of Radgrid's recruits, and I'm telling you, those guys are as solid as anyone.”

”I have no reservations about their martial prowess,” Tang said evenly, forcing Grimnir's arm backward again. ”As I said, it is their intentions I question. I have heard things. Whispered conferences. Things said in moments of drunken indiscretion. I have noticed whose eyes will not meet mine squarely when I speak about the final battle. I have a sense that these men you helped bring to Asgard will not be fighting on our side.”

Grimnir's arm bent nearly to the table. He ground his teeth and forced Tang Xiang's arm to vertical. ”That's stupid,” he said. ”If they're not on our side, whose side are they on?”

”The answer to that should be obvious. It is whoever stands to profit most from Ragnarok.” With that, Tang took a deep breath and slammed Grimnir's arm down. He offered a small, unenthusiastic bow and removed himself from the table without waiting for Grimnir to honor his victory by fetching him a drink.

Grimnir spent the next few hours in a dark cloud that not even wrestling or drinking could alleviate. Why did Tang Xiang have to spoil his homecoming? And why should Grimnir give a goat's s.h.i.+t what the little Shaolin thought? Everybody had a crackpot theory about something or other. Tang's accusations sounded just like the sort of thing Hermod would say.

But Hermod wasn't always wrong.

Something absurdly large b.u.mped into Grimnir's shoulder. He staggered back, spilling beer from his cup.

”Whoa, dude, sorry,” came a voice from above. Grimnir peered up into a broad, sunburned face framed with curly blond locks. Below it swelled a muscular body, easily twice Grimnir's width, dressed in a yellow T-s.h.i.+rt, floral-print Jams, and rubber flip-flops.

”No problem,” Grimnir muttered, anxious to move on. He'd never liked Thor's son Magni, nor his brother Modi, whose bulky presence moved behind Grimnir. Like their father in his youth, they spent a great deal of time on Midgard, but Grimnir had always managed to avoid running into them. Just his luck to see them now.

”You're Grum-Ear, right? The dude who works with that Valkyrie hottie?” Magni smiled lasciviously.

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