Norse Code Part 16

The one seam Mist had been empowered to open was that between Midgard and Valhalla. She flicked the Zippo and dialed the flame to its full height. Just as Radgrid had taught her, she traced a rune in the air, over and over, until it blazed a trail of light. It grew bright red, then orange, then yellow, and when she killed the flame, the rune hung in the air, cycling through all the colors of the rainbow.

Men who had seen Bifrost often described it as a rainbow bridge, and Mist supposed that was as good a description as any. The arch of light rose from the ground and curved up to the clouds, and within the confines of its shape swirled eddies of energetic color, the colors of the rainbow and other colors that weren't quite in the rainbow.

Grimnir engulfed Mist in a sudden embrace. She emerged from it out of breath but intact.

"You be careful," she admonished him.

"I won't be careful, but I'll be fine. You, however ..."

"I'll be fine too."

Grimnir gave a brief salute to Hermod, and Hermod returned it. Then Grimnir stepped up to the arch and began to climb. He grunted with effort to maintain grip but made slow, inexorable progress. After several minutes, he faded into the shimmer and was gone. The bridge dimmed and vanished soon thereafter.

Winston beat his wagging tail against Mist's leg as she quietly wept.

THAT NIGHT, Hermod and Mist made camp onstage at the Hollywood Bowl. The graceful curve of the concrete concert sh.e.l.l provided some shelter from the wind. Mud slides had rendered the hills impa.s.sable to wheeled vehicles, and after a day of trying to remain out of public view on an eight-legged horse, Hermod was happy to have found some privacy. He tried to imagine the seats filled with a dancing, cheering audience, an image that belonged to a different world in a different time. A dead kudu, escaped from the storm-battered zoo, would provide an ample supper, and Hermod and Mist even risked attracting unwanted company by building a fire to roast it on. The cries of hyenas pierced the dark like lunatic ghosts and were answered by the roar of big cats.

Tucked under Hermod's jacket, Odin's eye grew increasingly heavy, as if it were resisting Hermod's efforts to drag it through Midgard. It had remained silent since its removal from Mimir's well, and only its uncanny weight convinced Hermod that it was anything more than a dead orb of sclera and humors.

Mist stared into the fire. She'd probably said fewer than a hundred words since Grimnir had departed.

"All told, this isn't so bad," Hermod said, turning a slab of kudu flank on his makeshift spit. "I remember when the Neanderthals were dying out. Scarce game, dwindling resources, compet.i.tion from your species ... Now, that was a rough time." Dripping kudu grease hissed in the flames. "I didn't think h.o.m.o sapiens would hang on either, but you lot managed just fine. You're more stubborn in your own way than we Aesir."

Mist stood up. "Hermod?"

"Yeah?"

She walked over to him. "Shut up."

"Oh, okay. Sorry."

Tugging gently on his wrist, she pulled him to the ground.

"Oh," he said. "Are we going to ... I mean, do you want to-"

"No," she said.

"Oh, right, I didn't think-"

She curled up close, which was very nice.

"Let's just consider this our first date," she said, yawning.

The kudu meat burned to a crisp. Later, they ate it anyway.

THE MORNING broke frigid and wet, with eddies of frost swirling up the hills. Mist lay nestled in Hermod's arms. Not wanting to wake her, he tried to ignore his madly itching nose and focused instead on the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing. This was a nice place to hide from the world, in this little pocket of warmth, with food in his belly, with a woman who maybe liked him a little bit. It wasn't that far removed from his end-of-the-world fantasy, and he was content to stay here awhile.

Winston ruined it with a sharp bark, and Mist started awake. A few dozen feet away, in the third-row seats, sat Vali, manic eyes gleaming. He'd grown since Hermod had last seen him. He now had the appearance of a grubby-faced three- or four-year-old, with a tangle of dirty-blond hair falling over his eyes. He bounced in his seat and swung his legs.

Sitting beside him, Vidar gave off the impression of a calm, snow-covered mountainside at rest before an avalanche.

Vali pointed at Winston with a chubby finger. "Stupid dog! You be quiet!" Which naturally set Winston off into a fresh barrage of throaty barks.

Mist put an arm around Winston's neck, trying to shush him. Hermod's vision pa.s.sed over the scabbard belted to Vidar's hip. Nausea corkscrewed down his belly. There was something about that sword. ... He swallowed.

"What a pleasure to receive a visit from my brothers."

"We were looking for you," said Vali. "Vidar figured you'd be on a hill above the ice and you'd make a fire, and guess what?" He glanced around the bowl, fidgeting. Vali was a G.o.d sired to mete out justice, but it was a poorly controlled, hyperactive brand of justice. He sang a little la-la song and then jumped to his feet. Hermod and Mist stood as well.

"Do you have Daddy's eye?"

Hermod weighed his possible responses. He decided to go with a bald-faced lie.

"No. Last I heard, it's still at the bottom of Mimir's Well."

"We already looked there," Vali said, picking his nose. "I swam and swam and swam, all the way to the bottom of the stinky well, and then Vidar swam and stayed under while I threw rocks at Mimir's head, and when Vidar came up he didn't have the eye because he couldn't find it."

"Wish I could help you," Hermod said. "Want something to eat? I've got some kudu here if you don't mind it well done."

"Yay!" Vali clapped his hands and jumped up and down, and for a moment Hermod thought maybe he could get out of this encounter losing nothing more than a few pounds of antelope meat. But then Vidar came to his feet, rising ever higher in a way that made Hermod wonder if he would continue on, taller than the treetops, higher than the clouds. Hermod blinked, and then Vidar was no taller than a man.

Vidar drew his sword. His blade wavered like a heat mirage, disobeying the laws of optics such that it was visible from all angles at once. Hermod recognized the sword now. It was the same one he'd seen in the dwarves' workshop below the sc.r.a.p yard.

"The eye is under your jacket," Vidar said. Hurricane forces raged behind his voice, tremendous energies contained in his bare whisper. Mist staggered, but Hermod held himself steady. He would not be intimidated. Had Vidar ridden to Helheim and back? Had he stood before the queen of that realm, whom even Odin feared? No. Hermod had done those things. He would not fear his brother.

"Our father's eye lay steeping in the well of wisdom for thousands of generations," Vidar said. "Did it reveal its wisdom to you?"

Hermod thought of the toy world at the bottom of Mimir's Well and how he'd crushed a mountain with an effortless movement of his hand. What was he supposed to have learned, other than that, under the right circ.u.mstances, he could be as destructive as any G.o.d?

"I really don't know," he told Vidar.

"It is not everyone's fate to be the recipient of knowledge," Vidar said. "Had I hung on the World Tree for nine days like Father, I might have gained nothing more than an acquaintanceship with pain."

"I'm not giving you the eye, Vidar."

"You cannot stop me from taking it." Vidar spoke the truth. Hermod would not be able to beat him in combat, not even if he somehow took Vidar's magic sword out of the equation.

Vidar moved the sword, and Hermod had to look away.

"You've never been a thief, Vidar. If you want the eye, what are you willing to give me in return?"

"My pledge that I will not harm you. Nor your companion."

"Then it sounds like what you're offering me is a nicely gilded threat. Will you at least grant me answers to some questions? Getting the eye wasn't easy, and you could do me the courtesy of telling me why it's so valuable."

"True wisdom is the ability to see the world as it is," Vidar said. "That's a useful skill if one wishes to adapt the world to a particular purpose."

"The sibyl says you're among the few who survive Ragnarok and that the world that rises from the ashes will be yours to rule."

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 shields. At least the sun was still shining 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 shins 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-shirt.

"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-shirt, 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.