At last.
Odin.
He was no taller than I was. That startled me, almost more than Baldr's lack of height had done. His remaining eye glinted like a pigeon's blood ruby. The ruined eye was a hideous mass of scar tissue. He hadn't bothered to cover it with a patch. He was probably proud of the scar—after all, he'd sacrificed the eye to gain wisdom, hadn't he?
Too bad the trade hadn't worked.
His face was deeply lined, the color and texture of very old, very dry leather. He was heavily bearded, and his long hair was grey. In fact, all he lacked was the stereotypical horned helmet to look every inch the seasoned Viking warrior.
Power rolled off him in damn-near visible waves. His every movement, every gesture, proclaimed someone accustomed to blind obedience to his slightest whim. I narrowed my eyes. Any chink in the armor was welcome; Odin wasn't likely to have very many. How much would it take to provoke him beyond his normal caution? My smile deepened. Given the look in his eye right now, not much.
An enormous raven sat on each shoulder. Bright little black eyes watched everything the way a starving vulture hovered over a road kill. I knew that one of the pair was Hugin and the other Munin; but I didn't have time to study birds just now.
The men near Odin followed his movements with adoring eyes. Many wore heavy gold rings. Was that how he retained loyalty? Bribery? No, it was more than that. Odin possessed a compelling, hypnotic charm that reminded me of a cobra. I got the distinct impression that of all the lethal things I'd met so far, the one I would have least wanted as my enemy—had I been given the luxury of choosing—was this one-eyed, gloating old bastard.
I'd just have to make the best of my perilously meager resources. Before our fight was over, one of us would be dead. Being a betting man, if I'd been placing money on the outcome, I'd have bet every cent I owned on Odin. I grinned. I always had nurtured a sneaking admiration for underdogs.
Fenrir had leaped into the air at first sight of Odin. He fell as the chain jerked him back. The wolf snarled deep in his throat and thrashed wildly to be free. Even as I stepped clear of his maddened struggles, I marveled that the slender chain didn't shatter.
Odin laughed, head thrown back. "You'll not break Gleipnir just yet. The dark elves forged it well, eh, Fenrir?"
Malevolent green light crackled through the depths of Fenrir's eyes. The look in Odin's eyes told me he knew only too well that someday Fenrir would have his revenge.
The look he gave me a moment later was even more chilling. Obviously Odin had wanted Fenrir to kill me; but—once again—something had gone wrong. Maybe Fenrir was smart enough to figure out that Odin wanted me dead, or maybe he knew I was a prisoner, too—or maybe he'd just wanted his ears scratched.
Whatever the reason, I was still alive and kicking and damned glad of it, because my prey was finally within reach. Meanwhile, I was surrounded by a pack of unwashed, walking corpses. The leader of the pack glared at me through one narrowed ruby eye. I grinned into his face—which caused a ripple of mutters to race outward from where we faced off—but before I could demand a showdown at high noon, or something equally Gary Cooperish, he turned without speaking a word and strode off.
Now what?
I planted both fists on my hips and caught the eye of the nearest guard, who—judging from his furs—had been dead several centuries. He looked uneasy.
"What's the plan?" I demanded. "An arrow in the eye, or a sword in the kidney?"
He didn't bother answering; or maybe the guttural grunt he belched in my general direction was an answer. Anyway, I found myself herded away from Fenrir, who had fallen onto his side, thrashing to be free. Odin himself strode ahead, handing out heavy gold rings as he went. What did this unwashed pack of warriors spend their treasure on in Valhalla?
Again it struck me how slavishly Odin's men followed him. Maybe he could out-propagandize Goebbels? Or were conditions here vastly different from my suppositions? Could these men really enjoy hacking each other to pieces?
I might buy that for a comparative handful of Viking Berserkers, or even a slightly larger handful of Mongol hordesmen; but most of the soldiers who'd died down through history were just scared farmboys sent off to die in battles they didn't understand against people they'd never seen, much less hated. Either Odin genuinely commanded their respect and loyalty through wise leadership—something I seriously doubted—or he was the most charismatic madman since Adolf Friend-of-Loki Hitler.
I squared metaphoric shoulders. I'd come unscathed through interviews with Hel, Skuld, and Loki, I'd actually managed to filch a ride on Sleipnir, and I'd brought Fenrir to his knees. What was one more pissed-off god?
We followed the course of a bloodred river that flowed away from Fenrir's prison. This had to be the River Von—"Expectation"—which flowed from Fenrir's jaws. Valhalla itself, the actual building which gave this world its name, must lie across the lake up ahead, where the river emptied into a bloody delta. A couple of football-field-sized barges were drawn up on the bank, to transport the "Viking Retreads." As we approached the delta, they began jostling one another like rowdy truants waiting in line for a roller coaster. They eventually got themselves sorted out and loaded.
Sleipnir stood waiting beside the boats. At his side stood another stallion, the same rusted-iron color as the river. This horse's eyes were amber and his mane and hooves were glittering gold. It made for an odd-looking beast. A heavy gold war-helmet hung from his saddle, beside a long, wicked sword.
Then I noticed her.
Tall, self-assured, with thick blond hair, icy blue eyes, and a figure that heavy, gilded chain mail couldn't disguise, she was far plainer of face than the Norns would be at their absolute grubbiest; but far more earthy and real. Hers was a beauty born of inner fire and pride. She reminded me of someone; I couldn't imagine who. She was maybe six inches shorter than I was. She stood beside her war-horse with the air of a woman who knew exactly who and what she was, and needed no outsider's flattery to tell her she was good at it.
My guards—some of them had managed to remember their duty—marched me through the grumbling crowd and delivered me into her delightful hands. She looked me over as I studied her assets. When she had finished her own frank perusal of my assets, she met my gaze. When she smiled, her teeth flashed whitely. Death looked from her eyes. (But what a way to go... .)
Odin leaped to Sleipnir's back. The eight-legged stallion tossed his head, pawing deep gashes in the earth with both right forefeet.
"Rangrid," Odin called.
The woman turned his way. "Yes, lord?"
God, her voice was as sultry as the rest of her... .
"Bring him."
Sleipnir leaped away, and vanished in a crack of thunder. Nice trick. I was reminded unpleasantly of the night Gary had died. Behind me, the interminable loading of the barges continued. I wondered where Gary was. Somewhere in that crowd? I wanted to see him again, almost as much as I wanted to kill his murderer.
Rangrid mounted her warhorse in one fluid, graceful vault. I followed the motion as she sprang easily to the saddle. I found myself insanely jealous of a dumb animal as she gripped with perfectly shaped thighs... .
She turned in the saddle to face me, and held out an imperious hand. I stood my ground, and grinned up at her. I kept my weight balanced on the balls of my feet—while hoping that I didn't look as dead-tired as I felt—and planted my fists solidly on both hips.
"No way in hell, lady."
She laughed, a delightfully intimate sound. A wave of her hand dismissed the guards. To my surprise, they obeyed, leaving us alone on the shore.