by Sandra Hill
"A weapon...the maniac is carrying a weapon. Duck, everyone, duck!"
"Duck? What duck?" The man twisted his neck this way and that. Then he shrugged as if to indicate there was not a duck in sight.
Maggie was becoming as confused as this man appeared to be.
There was chaos all around them. Police and security guards were attempting to run forward, guns raised, but their progress was impeded by the capacity crowd, which was standing, inadvertently forming a barricade, some cheering, some screaming with fright, still others calling out their opinions. Even mild-mannered Harry, who claimed a longtime interest in orcas, was yelling with outrage at the interloper, whom he perceived as a threat to Gonzo, Mork, and Mindy.
But Maggie and her two daughters sat stone still, mesmerized by the spectacle unfolding before them.
"And you wanted to go roller coasting," Beth told her sister.
"This is better than Jerry Springer," Suzy offered with awe.
But Maggie had more important things on her mind as she continued to gape at what had to be the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen—one of God's perfect creations, superbly formed and wonderfully wild, just like the orcas.
More than that, Maggie sensed an eerie connection between them... a connection that was getting stronger the closer he came.
"Cool!" Beth exclaimed.
"Ditto," Suzy added. Then: "So that's what a too-too looks like."
"Eeew. It looks like a fat worm."
"I didn't know men had hair there."
It was then that Maggie registered the fact that her daughters, too, had been staring at the nude man, openmouthed, like every other female in the park. Even though his privates had been visible for only a few seconds, Maggie's maternal instincts kicked in. "Cover your eyes," she ordered.
Suzy looked at Beth. Beth looked at Suzy. They both looked at their mother—and laughed. "Yeah, right," they said simultaneously, and did just the opposite.
Their eyes were glued to the man emerging slowly from the water, his step confident.
When he reached the bulkheads, he raised himself on braced arms, causing veins to stand out on the ropy muscles outlined under skin deeply tanned by the sun.
As he panted to regain his breath, water drops glistened on silky chest hairs.
Lordy, Lordy! She noticed the intricately etched arm rings that encircled his upper arms. Were they a new male fashion accessory... gold arm bracelets more suited to ancient warriors than modern man?
If not, they should be.
Thank goodness, his more intimate body parts were now hidden by the bulkhead as he surveyed the crowd before him, as if searching for someone in particular.
Maggie saw confusion in his eyes, which opened wider and wider as they moved along the rows of people gawking at him like a freak at a sideshow. He was either a really good actor, or he was a man who'd fallen into a situation he did not understand.
Either way, this was a day Maggie would not soon forget.
Jorund was totally confused.
Well, he supposed that was understandable. Entering Asgard, land of the gods, would muddle even the most clearheaded warrior.
Still, it passed all bounds, this sight that he beheld. If this was the otherworld, then the land of the gods was mightily overvalued. Where were the walls made of golden spears and the roof of gold shields? Supposedly, Valhalla, hall of the gods, had 540 doors, each big enough to allow eight hundred armed men through side by side. Furthermore, he saw no gilded longships, nor groaning boards overlader with plentiful foods and tuns of ale. Jorund blinked with bafflement.
Not a god was there in sight not Odin, nor Thor, nor any of the lesser deities, not even the mischievous Loki... and for a certainty, missing were the beautiful Valkyries that were supposed to escort brave warriors into Valhalla.
Most important, he saw no one who even remotely resembled his brother Rolf. That at least was good news. Apparently his brother was still alive.
Too bad Jorund was not.
Best he gather his wits about him and study the situation. He should pull himself up onto land and walk among these curious people who were gaping at him as if he were the strange one. However, he was much aware of his nudity, and did not relish displaying his manly parts before one and all impressive though they might be. He was little inclined toward modesty, but he would be a lackwit not to mind being the only one unclothed... and vulnerable.
An idea came unbidden to him. What if this were a test? Mayhap this was just the outer portal to Valhalla—not unlike the Christian limbo, leading to heaven. Mayhap he must endure some ordeal in order to finally enter the hall of the gods. Could being naked in a clothed crowd constitute an ordeal?
Without hesitation, he levered himself up onto the narrow, wharflike ledge, pretending unconcern over his nudity. Standing, legs braced apart, hands clasped behind his back, he harbored a passing vain concern that his staff might be all shriveled up, as male genitals were wont to be when in cool water, but he resisted the impulse to glance downward. Instead, with practiced nonchalance, he looped his thumbs in his leather belt and slowly scanned the crowd.
On his initial survey of the staring faces, he noticed children. In a blink he grabbed a large toweling cloth off the ground near his feet and wrapped it about his hips, leaving an opening on his sword side. It was one thing to exhibit bold arrogance before adults, quite another to show himself to children. He was not a pederast. Who knew there would be children in Asgard? But he supposed it made sense. There had to be a place for all the young persons to go.
But, oh, that brought another thought to mind: would he be seeing his own precious dearlings here... Greta and Girta?
No, it was impossible. Where did these fanciful ideas come from? No doubt he had salt on the brain from all that time spent underwater. His brother Magnus would call it pickling of the brain, though most Vikings did it with mead, rather than brine, and were known as aleheads.
Enough of this nonsense! He was a warrior... one of the finest in all the Varangian Guard. Where were his well-honed instincts? Why was he standing about waiting for something to happen? Every good soldier knew it was best to take the offensive.
He inhaled deeply and let all the sounds of this unfamiliar place seep into his pores. Some part of him had already suspected that foreign tongues were being spoken here, yet he'd been able to understandand speak—moments ago. At first all the words had seemed to blend together, like endless, raucous chatter. No matter. He would do what Thora, the killer whale, had instructed him: Listen, Viking. Listen with your heart. Well, he did not know about listening with his heart, but he opened his mind as best he could and concentrated with all his might. Soon the words began to separate, like wheat from chaff.
"Armed and dangerous," one man shouted in an accusing manner.
"Well, of course I'm armed," he snapped back, and was surprised, just as he had been moments ago, that the words coming out of his mouth were in this strange language. "And you had best hope that you do not learn firsthand just how dangerous I am."
The man who had shouted stepped back, even though he was separated from Jorund by the several hundred people sitting and standing in the bench area. The man exchanged glances with some men behind him who wore identical clothing—dark blue braies and long-sleeved, collared sherts of a lighter hue. Silver, starlike, metal emblems flashed on their chests, and on their heads were ridiculous round hats with hard brims, which were the oddest helmets he'd ever seen. They would be no protection at all in a real battle. By the looks of their livery, these men must be the royal hird for the king of this land, or guardsmen to one god or another, if this indeed were Asgard.
More important, the men carried metal implements in their hands, which they pointed in his direction. He sensed that they were weapons of some type.
Surreptitiously, he loosened his sword from its scabbard, making ready to defend himself, if necessary. He would not attack unless he was provoked, but it was always best to be prepared when in hosti
le territory.
It appeared the armed guard was having trouble spearheading a way through the mob, so he had a few more moments to study the situation. Stepping back slightly, he began to examine the people standing and sitting in the arena.
What manner of dress was this that people wore here? The arms and legs of many of the women and children were bare, as were those of some of the men. He supposed it was in deference to the heat. Still, it appeared odd to him. The majority of the men, besides the guardsmen, wore short-sleeved, collarless sherts with indecipherable messages on them, like Just Do It, Forget about Your Gardens; Show Me Your Busch, Houston Oilers, and My Wild Oats Have Turned to Shredded Wheat. Later he would have to ponder this bizarre business of people wearing words on their bodies, like human books. In addition, these people wore braies made of coarse-woven blue fabric similar to sailcloth, and high-heeled leather boots.
High-heeled boots on men! Are the men of this place demented? Do they not know how ridiculous they look? Do their toes not hurt and their ankles not ache at the end of a day spent in men's work?
His keen eyes were scanning the front row now, left to right, when his attention snagged on one particular person, then doubled back for closer inspection.
Initially, he'd thought it was a diminutive, dark-haired male because of the short haircut in the Frankish mode, which exposed the nape and ears. But no, no male had the curves this person did. Full, rounded globes filled a collarless, knitted shert that had short sleeves and stretched barely to the waist. From the arch of her hips to just above the knee she was covered by a garment of the same blue fabric as some of the booted men.
But then she stood, as if involuntarily, and raised a hand to her hair nervously, which cause the shert to lift and the bottom garment to recede, leaving a band of bare skin exposed. It was that area between her shert and her lower apparel that caused his breath to catch and his heart to skip a beat. In that region where smooth skin gleamed with a summery glow was the most enticing belly button he had ever seen—and he had seen more than a few—pierced with a small golden ring. It was not the first such ornament he'd ever viewed, but most of them had been on houris in Eastern harems.
He couldn't help smiling. In fact, another part of his body was starting to show its appreciation, as well. He had to be thankful now for the toweling cover over his nether parts.
Jorund raised his eyes and met the direct gaze of the woman with man-hair. Her eyes were wide and blue as a springtime sky in the Baltic, fringed by black lashes that curled up prettily. Her nose was straight, her cheekbones high and her mouth full and rosy red. It was the kind of mouth that led a man to wicked thoughts, especially in combination with that belly ornament.
She did not return his smile, but instead continued to stare at him as if hit by a thunderbolt.
He knew how she felt. Ripples of some odd connection were assailing him as well.
He inclined his head to her and said, "M'lady."
She nodded back at him, but instead of saying, "My lord," in response, the normal expression when returning a salutation, she exclaimed, "Good Lord!"
He wondered if she were one of the Valkyries sent to welcome him. If so, he would not protest—not even with that man-hair. Her body was the type meant to please a man—rather, him in particular—of that he was convinced. He held out his hand to her as he recalled that the Valkyries were to take the chosen warriors by the hand and lead them into Valhalla.
Instead of stepping up to him and leading him off, the woman plopped back down into her seat, dazed with bewilderment.
"Mother! That man is flirting with you," someone said, diverting Jorund's attention away from his Valkyrie.
"I am not flirting. I was merely..." Jorund's words trailed off as he got his greatest shock of the day. The person speaking had been a young girl, no more than eight or nine, and her identical twin sat next to her. At first he thought it was Greta and Girta, but soon decided he was mistaken. The two girls with honey blond braids and a slight dotting of freckles on their small faces were older than Greta and Girta had been, and their hair was a darker shade of blond than his daughters', and they wore strange metal jewelry on their teeth.
But, oh, look at that! One twin had ribands tied at the ends of her braids—multicolored ribands, in all the colors of the rainbow. The other wore cloth shoes of a bright red color... not silk harem shoes as Girta had requested, but close enough, to his way of thinking.
Was it a cruel jest of the gods? Or was it a sign? He had no time to ponder further. His attention had been distracted by the woman and two girls, but not so much that he didn't notice the moment that the soldiers broke through the crowd.
They were rushing at him now, weapons raised. In fact, one of the weapons made a loud popping sound. He felt the whiz of air just past his ear, not unlike that of an arrow in flight, and then noticed the splintering of a lettered board behind him.
"No shooting, you fool! Hold your weapon," one of the soldiers yelled at another, who responded, "I thought he was reaching for a weapon."
He hadn't been, but he was now. With well honed instincts, Jorund drew his sword from its scabbard and prepared to fight off the assault—though why they should be assaulting him was unknown to him at this point. There were at least ten of them, but he had been outnumbered before. He could handle this.
"Halt!" one guardsman yelled. "Drop your weapon."
"Use the stun gun," another guardsman suggested.
Jorund had no idea what a "stung one" was, but he was taking no chances. When he did not comply, but instead took the battle stance, crouching with his sword at the ready, another guardsman raised a weapon of a different kind. In the blink of an eye, Jorund felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, which radiated down his arm to his fingertips, causing him to momentarily loosen his grip on his sword. Shocked, Jorund saw that there was no blood, and yet he felt as if he'd been struck by lightning. In that split second of inattention, the guardsmen jumped on him, knocking him to the ground.
In a daze, Jorund realized that he had been bested. It was humiliating that he—the most noted warrior in all the Norse and Saxon and Frank lands—should be struck down by such weak specimens, but there it was.
Even as he fought against the overpowering waves of dizziness that he sensed would lead to loss of consciousness, he was somehow able to hear and understand the words Greta and Girta sobbed pitifully: "Mother, help him. Please. You have to help him." Ah, good girls! That's it, intercede on my behalf.
But, no, he reminded himself, they were not Greta and Girta. These were merely twins who resembled his dead daughters. And he needed no intercession from children. If only he could stand. For some reason, though, he was not even able to lift his arms.
"Shhh! He's a stranger," the mother answered in a voice that he recognized, even in his foggy, limp condition, as husky and deliciously sensual.
"No! No, he's not a stranger!" one of the twins wailed. "He's the one."
"He is not the one," the mother said indignantly.
"Which one?" he tried to ask, but, though his lips appeared to move, no words came out.
"Don't let them hurt him," the other twin cried. "He's not dangerous, Mommy. He's just mixed-up."
Mixed-up? That's an understatement.
They were all standing about, peering down at him as he lay ignominiously on the ground the twins, the mother, and several guardsmen.
Finally he heard the woman with the man hair tell the guardsmen in an authoritative voice, "I'm a doctor. I work at the Rainbow Psychiatric Hospital."
She's a dock whore? And she works in a hospitium? Amazing!
"This man is clearly under mental duress. He's my... uh, patient."
Man-tail door-ass? Pay-shun? I do not think I care to be described thus. He wasn't sure of the meaning of those words she'd used to describe him, but they must not be good, since the two girls gasped and the guardsmen growled with displeasure. But then, maybe not, he thought, when the girls turned to their mother as if she
'd granted them some great favor... like his life.
He tried to speak up in protest, but his lips would not move. However, he was able to raise his eyelids to half-mast and assess his surroundings.
"Release him to my custody," the dock whore demanded.
That he understood. How ferocious she sounded! She really must be his personal Valkyrie. He had to smile at that, or at least try to smile.
That was when another man emerged into his line of vision—the strangest creature in this strangest of lands. The man wore braies that reached only as far as his thighs and a patterned and colored shert, but most unusual was his hairstyle. Bald he was on the top—like Jorund's cousin, Arnaud No-Hair but this fellow chose to grow his side hairs excessively long on one side and fling them over his pate like a drape. No doubt it was the custom of some minor tribe in this land.
The man with the hair drape spoke to the woman with man-hair. It appeared as if he was arguing with Jorund's Valkyrie. How dared he! But when Jorund tried to rise to her defense, his brain spun woozily, and he dropped back, weak as a blood-drained warrior after a fierce battle.
The dock whore and the man with the hair drape stared down at him, still debating some issues that sounded like unethical, illogical, and emotional. The woman began to drop down on her knees at his side, but a burly guardsman held her back. "He needs my help. You didn't have to hurt him," she accused in a loud voice. "He was just... confused."
"Confused? The psycho had a sword," the guardsman yelled back at her. "And he's not hurt, just temporarily stunned."
He could hear a loud, high-pitched noise in the distance, like a violent tornado at its most destructive peak but no, this was no storm approaching. Instead, white-clothed men rushed forward and lifted him onto a canvas pallet. To his satisfaction, it took four of the white-dressed men to lift him.
"Take him to the Rainbow Psychiatric Hospital," she told one of the newcomers.
The leader of the white-dressed men glanced at the head guardsman, who shrugged as if Jorund were a problem the guardsmen would just as soon not handle. "You'd better put him in a straitjacket, though," the chieftain said. "When the effects of the stun gun wear off, he's going to be really pissed."
