Norse Code Part 11

Hermod skidded to a halt and waved the others to run past him. Holding his ground, he looked up the path to face Garm. Puffs of dust flew up every time the dog's paws slammed the ground. Saliva cascaded down his jaws.

Hermod shook the cake as though it were a tennis ball and Garm an excited retriever. With the hound thundering toward him, he told himself to wait. He'd once gotten in the path of a charging woolly rhinoceros. The horn had gone through his chest, puncturing a lung and missing his heart by a quarter of an inch. It'd taken him years to heal. Garm was bigger than a woolly rhino.

When Hermod could smell the dog's breath and feel the saliva spray in his face, he hurled the cake off the path into empty air. Garm switched direction and lunged at the cake, his momentum propelling him to the edge of the path. His nails tore deep scars in the ground as he tried to scrabble to a stop, but with a piteous yowl he fell, twisting head over tail.

Hermod peered over the ledge, watching mists swirl in the wake of the hound's descent.

IT FELT as though they'd walked through a season. The road stretched ahead in a long, brutally straight line along a dusty plain, the monotonous scenery broken only by the occasional cl.u.s.ter of piled rocks, some of them as large as houses. Hermod imagined unpleasant things using them for cover.

He led the group east, heading for a distant ridge of sharp rocks on the horizon that never seemed to grow closer. He remembered that a river ran parallel to the other side of the rocks, and he reasoned that if they followed the river, they might eventually find a portal out of Helheim. Rivers in all the worlds flowed from the same place.

Several dozen yards ahead, in the middle of the road, stood a boy with eyes too big for his face. He leaned on a tree branch roughly the shape of a rake, beside a field of rows drawn in the powdery dirt with rulerlike precision. Nothing living could grow in the fields of Helheim, but the dead weren't spared hunger, and in their desperation some of them tended hopeless plots of land. Others made attempts at building towns and villages like the ones they'd come from. Helheim was unfathomably vast, but Hermod could imagine it one day crowded with dead-men and women never stopped dying. The habitations would grow into cities, and the cities would sprawl to the deadlands' borders. And what then? If the World Tree stood long enough, there would be so many dead that they'd start spilling over into the other worlds, in greater numbers than the occasional stray draugr.

It occurred to him that Ragnarok had a purpose: to end the world when it reached carrying capacity. Death and rebirth formed a natural cycle-isn't that what the sibyl had tried to tell him? Why couldn't he just accept that? Let the wolves eat the sun and moon. Let the worlds burn.

As they approached the boy, both Hermod and Grimnir reached for their swords. Mist moved in front of them. "Let me handle this," she said. Hermod had to admit she made a more agreeable presentation than either himself or Grimnir, especially when they were brandishing weapons at a little boy.

He nodded at her. "Be careful."

She took a few more steps toward the boy. "Hi, there. My name is Mist. What's yours?"

The left side of the boy's skull curved inward. "Steven," he said. "I'm a farmer."

Mist nodded appreciatively. "Did you rake this field yourself? Those are really straight rows."

"I rake 'em every day. The hounds always leave paw prints, and I gotta rake 'em over."

Hermod and Grimnir exchanged unhappy glances.

"That's a big job for one farmer," Mist said. "Don't you have anyone who helps you?"

The boy smiled shyly, dust mottling his blond crew cut. Then he dropped his rake and took off running as fast as his spindly legs would carry him.

"Wait!" Mist shouted. "I'm not going to hurt you!"

Grimnir grinned. "Leave this to me."

Mist shot a warning look to both him and Hermod. "You will stay here and let me handle this," she said, before taking off after the boy.

"Sure, kid, you're the boss," Grimnir said.

He let Mist get a bit of a head start. Then he launched himself in a heavy-footed jog after her.

Hermod watched the boy lead the chase toward a stack of sharp-edged, Cadillac-size boulders in the distance.

"Stay," he commanded Winston. The malamute barked once and joined Hermod as he set off across the field after the others.

The boy scrambled over the crest of the rocks. A moment later, Mist and Grimnir climbed up after him. When Hermod got there, he moved around the pile instead of going over it, and when he came to the other side, he found Mist and Grimnir surrounded by a dozen men and women with sharp sticks. The boy peered around the legs of a woman with a face smashed in so badly that, when viewed straight on, her nose was in profile.

"I got 'em, Ma, I got 'em!" the boy said, dancing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet.

She ruffled his hair. "You did real good, Steven. But hush up now and keep still."

"That goes for you three as well," said a plump man. In overalls, a plaid shirt, and a bloodstained straw hat, his robin's-egg-blue eyes were the most colorful things Hermod had ever seen in Helheim.

"I've got a sword," said Grimnir. "So does my pal Hermod. The woman's got one too. And as for you, you've got... sticks. The friggin' dog could take you lot all by himself."

The man in the straw hat nodded thoughtfully. "There's more of us than you see here, and we know this terrain better than you. Think about it: One boy led you into our trap. So maybe your swords aren't giving you the upper hand you think."

The others in the group gave approving nods.

Grimnir turned around in a slow 360, arms spread to indicate the miles of fields and rocks around them. "Not that it matters much, but you're bluffing."

Putting two fingers to his mouth, Mr. Straw Hat whistled sharply. Hermod admired that whistle. He'd never managed to develop a good whistle himself. Out from a gap between two potato-shaped boulders, half a dozen others emerged. Hermod wanted to call these newcomers townsfolk, the men dressed in cotton shirts and denim, the women in plain, practical dresses the colors of pale spring flowers. They all bore injuries-broken limbs and cruel lacerations-but they held their crude spears with confidence.

"Let's not have any unnecessary fisticuffs," Hermod said. "So, what is this, highway robbery? Piracy on the plains?"

"We'll ask the questions," said Mr. Straw Hat. "For starters, where'd you come from?"

Hermod hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Down the road."

"We know that. Steven saw you coming for miles. I meant before that."

"We're from California," Hermod said. "Died of drug overdoses."

"My condolences to your families," Mr. Straw Hat said with possible sincerity, though others in the group frowned at Hermod and his companions with disapproval.

Hermod wondered if he should just cut off all their legs at the knees right now. The longer he conferred with these fine townsfolk, the more likely they would dispatch a messenger to Hel to let her know the whereabouts of her wayward Aesir prize.

"Tell them the truth, Hermod."

Hermod's brother Hod squeezed between a gap in the rock pile. He brushed dirt from the knees of his charcoal wool pants. Directing the dark pits of his sightless eyes at Hermod, he leaned on his stick and said, "Trust these people, brother. You'll be bringing more trouble to them than they to you."

A woman followed through the gap, but other than to register that she seemed familiar, Hermod was too taken aback to pay her notice.

"Hod," he said.

"Yes. How flattering you still recognize me."

Definitely Hod, thought Hermod. "Why aren't you at Hel's hall, with Baldr?"

"Because he is a pretty-mannered traitor. Why aren't you with him?"

"I'm neither a traitor nor pretty-mannered," Hermod sputtered back, offended.

"No," said Hod, blindly appraising him. "I suppose not. Which is fortunate. Who are your friends?"

Hermod uttered some introductions.

Grimnir grunted a greeting, but Mist was preoccupied with Hod's companion, who, unlike the others, was dressed in modern clothing-jeans and a Greenpeace sweatshirt punctured by two ragged holes and caked with dried blood. Hermod realized now why she seemed so familiar.

"Hermod," Mist said in a choked voice, "I'd like you to meet my sister."

LIKE A TRUSTY Scout leader, Henry Verdant ushered Hermod and his companions, along with Hod and Lilly, through a gap between the rocks, where a rickety ladder fashioned from sticks led down into a cramped tunnel.

"Dug by hand and stone," Henry said with pride, his face flickering in the uncanny light of bioluminescent torches stuck into the walls.

Hermod managed to summon a noise of appreciation. He remembered Nana saying how rare fire was in Helheim. "You people live down here?"

"Not this particular tunnel, no. This one's a staging area." Verdant went on to tell Hermod about the tunnel network: miles of underground warrens that served as hiding places, escape chutes, storage caches for the Iowans' crude weapons and tools, and places like this, which emerged at watch points near the road.

Hermod drew a fingernail along the wall. Sandy rock flaked away. "And you dug this whole thing yourselves?"

"Oh, no," Verdant said, waving off the notion. "A lot of it was done by others who came before us."

"There have always been escape attempts in Helheim," Hod said from the shadows. "Sometimes those who still have a desire to live and the will to do something about it manage to find one another and organize their efforts. But n.o.body has ever actually made it out, as far as I know. The hound gets them, and they end up being incorporated into the corpse gate. You're the exception, of course."

"Back then, Hel was willing to let me go," Hermod said. "I won't get a guarantee of safe pa.s.sage this time."

"Still, it's fortunate our paths crossed," said Hod. "I think you can be of use to us."

Hermod didn't like Hod's phrasing. "Haven't we all had enough of being 'of use' to one another? Loki used you to kill Baldr, and now I'm being used by ... I don't know by whom. By Odin, or the sibyl, or Hel maybe."

"I simply meant that I hoped you would stay and help us. I realize dropping in only to move on shortly thereafter is in your nature."

Verdant held up a hand. "Let's not put the cart before the horse, now. No offense, Mr. Hod, but we just took you and Lilly on, and I have to remind you, it wasn't a unanimous decision. I understand these newcomers are your kin, and I'm sure they're fine folk, but we'll need to talk over whether they can stay or not."

"Town meeting?" said Hermod.

Verdant answered firmly, "That's how we do things around here."

The Iowans filed through a slit in the tunnel, which led to a larger chamber, leaving Hermod and his companions behind, along with Hod and Lilly.

"They seem like nice enough people," Grimnir said. "Hel's going to chew them like kibble with gravy."

"Quite possibly," agreed Hod.

Now that they were away from the Iowans, Hermod had so many questions for his brother he scarcely knew where to begin. He turned to Mist for help, but she and Lilly stood looking at each other intently, both with their arms stiffly at their sides, as if they were afraid to use them.

"You good?" Lilly asked Mist.

"Pretty much. You?"

"Considering everything? Yeah."

"Hug now?" Mist said.

"Yeah."

They held each other, weeping just a little.

Hermod turned back to Hod. He had thinned and whitened, like a forgotten garment hung out to dry, a necklace of purple bruises around his throat.

"These farmers are your resistance?" Hermod said.

"They're not farmers anymore. They're fighters now. I'll show you."

Hod led him through a twisting pa.s.sage that opened onto a s.p.a.cious chamber. "This is the Iowans' armory."

Hermod took in their cache of rocks, slings, bows carved of bone, and arrows of brittle-looking wood. Grimnir was right: Hel would annihilate these people.

"How many of these resistance cells are there?" he asked.

"I don't know, and neither do they," Hod said, leading the way back out of the chamber. "They work autonomously, hara.s.sing Hel and her soldiers. Mostly they just succeed in irritating Baldr, but that's something."

"What happened with you two? Despite your differences, you used to be so close."

"In Asgard, Baldr always shone," Hod said. "Here, it's dark. It turns out Baldr gives less light than he takes. He became smaller in Helheim, and meaner. But don't judge him too harshly. After a long time in Hel's realm, it is difficult not to wear away until you're nothing but a ghost woven from memory and resentment."

Henry Verdant met them in the corridor. "So, how about it, Mr. Hermod? Would you and your friends care to join forces with us?"

Really, Hermod would have preferred not to. "What about my dog?" he said, resigned.

Verdant smiled warmly. "So long as he doesn't bite the wrong people, he's welcome."

Using the femur of some animal, Verdant tapped a rhythm on the cavern wall. Within a few minutes, the resistance had a.s.sembled in the weapons cache room. There were about forty people in all.

Verdant cleared his throat. "Most of you know I was in a field artillery battery in France. Three whole days on the front line, mostly pushing horses through mud, until I was captured. I spent the rest of the war in the Langensalza POW camp. We had three objectives there: survive, escape, and sabotage. I know things aren't the same in Helheim as in that camp. For one thing, we're dead. As for escape, thousands and thousands have tried, and thousands and thousands have failed. But Mr. Hod has shared with me some new information, some new possibilities that promise hope. I've already talked it over with a few of you, and if you'll give Mr. Hod your attention, he'll tell you the rest."

Verdant moved aside, and after a moment Lilly guided Hod forward. Hermod had an uncomfortable flashback of Hod standing in the middle of Valhalla with a mistletoe spear in his hands, and from the look on Hod's face, he might have been having the same thought.

"I have been in Helheim a very long time," Hod began. "When I first came here, there was no Iowa. The continent in Midgard you came from wasn't even occupied by humans."

"Not even Indians?" said the little dead boy, Steven.

"Not even Indians," Hod said. "In the intervening time, billions of people have entered Helheim, but only Hermod ever left it alive." Hermod shifted uncomfortably. "The ship Naglfar has been under construction ever since things first started to die. The ship is made of death. Her hull is lined with the fingernails of the dead. Her boards are bones. Her sail is flesh. It's long been known that, in the time of Ragnarok, Naglfar will break free from her moorings. She will deliver Hel's dead army to the final battle and bring yet more destruction to the worlds. The details of this prophecy, however, are unclear. Some say the ship will set sail with Loki at the helm. Others say she will be steered by the giant Hymir. When a prophecy so lacks clarity, I see opportunity.

"We were aware that Naglfar was moored here in Helheim, but until recently her exact location remained a secret. Now we know she lies east of here, anch.o.r.ed on the banks of a certain unnamed tributary of the river Gjoll. We will go there. We will board the ship as galley slaves, and we will take her over. She will be our tool, not Hel's."

Hermod sighed. He'd been hoping to hear a good plan.

As the a.s.sembly broke up into smaller groups to discuss various logistical issues, Hermod drew Mist and Grimnir off into a secluded corner.

"What do you guys think?" Mist asked. "Suicide mission?"

"Obviously," Grimnir said. "Hel's army has actual weaponry and ammunition, the stuff she let them keep when they pa.s.sed into her lands. How are forty farmers with Stone Age technology supposed to take the ship?"