by Nick Harrow
“There,” Mimi moaned. “Oh, gods, there.”
Her back arched, her jaw clenched, and her muscles squeezed around Gunnar, pushing him over the edge. Ray clung to the jarl, her body trembling as aftershocks rocked through the connection that bound the three of them together.
Mimi ground against Gunnar for moments longer, unwilling to let go of the sensation of their bodies working in perfect rhythm. But Gunnar held back, holding himself in check to keep the image of Bridget burning like a star in his mind.
“I found her,” Mimi said, a dreamy smile on her face as she slowed to a stop and clung to Gunnar. “Let me show you.”
Mimi reached up and caressed the jarl’s face.
The Valknut flared with golden warmth. A vision of Bridget flooded the jarl’s thoughts. The tall völva was in a cramped room, her hands tied behind her back. Bridget looked up at him, her eyes white as a clean sheet of paper. “Time’s running out,” she whispered. “Hyrrokkin comes with the noonday sun.”
Before she could say another word, Gunnar’s vision soared into the air. He saw the building where the völva was trapped from high above, its timber walls surrounded by ancient bones and enormous tusks carved with glowing runes and corrupt sigils. Jötnar danced through the luminous boneyard, howling songs of battle at the sky. The location burned itself into his mind.
A dark cloud of rage passed over Gunnar’s thoughts, and he imagined every one of those dancing pricks burning, their bodies torn asunder by his rage, their limbs hacked to bloody pieces.
Several of the jötnar froze and looked up at the sky. A shadow blew across the sun, and fear kindled in their eyes.
Gunnar didn’t let himself revel in their terror, though. He had what he came for.
He knew where Bridget was.
And her time was running out.
“LET’S GO GET HER,” Gunnar said as he helped Mimi and Ray to their feet.
“That was something else,” Ray said, her voice still a little shaky. “You keep throwing those curveballs, Mimi.”
“I like what I like,” the völva said, and gave Ray a quick slap on the ass.
The trio left the lodge’s heart and found their new addition. The bodyguard yanked open the Hall of Battle’s door and let out a long, low whistle. Twenty matching sets of chain mail with helmets adorned wooden statues lining the room’s walls. Battle axes and swords lay across the statues’ outstretched arms. The weapons looked sharp, the armor sturdy. But what really caught Gunnar’s eyes were the four armor stands at the end of the hall. The gear there was beyond amazing, and it was meant for him and the völva.
“Oh, pretty,” Ray said when they reached that side of the room. She lifted an ornate bow from the armor stand and balanced it on her palm. Golden horns adorned the tips of the curved wood, and a pair of quartz crystals were embedded in the arms above and below the leather-wrapped grip. The bowstring, a gleaming strand of braided metal, hummed when the völva lightly stroked it. “This armor isn’t bad, either.”
The four matching suits were polished silver chain mail under breastplates and matching greaves. The völva’s suits had no helms, but gleaming torcs with a gemstone matching each of their dots set into the brow. Gunnar’s armor came equipped with a golden helm. He expected it to be too heavy to be practical, but when he lifted it from the stand, he discovered just how light it was. Despite the thickness of the metal, it weighed almost nothing. The armor was the same. Heavy protection without the added weight would be a huge advantage in the coming battle.
“Where are the horns on that thing?” Mimi asked.
“That’s a myth,” Gunnar said. “Viking helmets didn’t have horns. Don’t believe everything you see in movies.”
“Well, excuse me, Professor,” Mimi said. “Look how cute this knife is.”
She lifted one of a pair of long knives from one of the armor stands and brandished it threateningly. The blade, a seax, was a little over a foot long, its single cutting edge so sharp it sliced the light from the torches into rainbows along its length. Mimi twirled the weapon around her hand, caught it expertly, and plunged it back into its sheath without looking. “Holy shit,” she said. “I know knife fu.”
Gunnar chuckled, then peeled out of his clothes and into the armor. The völva followed suit, and soon the three of them were clad in their new gear. Ray slung a quiver of crystal-tipped arrows over her shoulder, while Gunnar retrieved his spear from where it rested against the stand. Mimi practiced drawing and sheathing her knives, a wide grin splitting her face.
Gunnar took the battleaxe and weapon belt off the stand meant for Bridget. He wanted to bring the entire suit of armor with him, but that wasn’t practical. He secured the axe to the belt and slung it over his shoulder like a makeshift harness. The völva would need it if they had to fight their way out. The jarl couldn’t help but smile when he imagined Bridget whipping her weapon around, white ponytail flying above her like a battle pennant.
The group left the Hall of Battle and marched toward the stairs. The residents of the lodge watched them, low whispers of admiration flickering through the crowd. Gunnar suddenly realized what the legendary heroes must have felt like as they marched to battle. It was unsettling and gratifying, all at once.
“Hey, wait up!” Erin called after them. She raced to catch them as they reached the stairs. “Let me come with you. Dad’s heavy weapons still work. You could use the backup.”
Gunnar wanted to accept the young woman’s offer. Any help in the coming battle might tip the scales in their favor. But he knew she wasn’t ready to face the jötnar. The virus hadn’t changed her. As strong and brave as Erin was, as any of the lodge’s residents were, she was only human. Against the monsters they would soon face, none of them would stand a chance. “Thank you,” he said, “but I need you to stay here and keep an eye on the lodge and my people.”
The words felt strange coming out of his mouth, but there was no denying their truth. The refugees living in the lodge were his people, and he was their jarl.
“Please,” Erin sighed. “Don’t put me on babysitting duty.”
The big man put a finger under Erin’s chin to raise her eyes to him. “This is not babysitting. Whoever’s got Bridget could use her as bait in a trap. They might send jötnar here while we’re gone. What’ll happen to those kids if you aren’t here to defend them? I’ll be back before you know it, with Bridget over my shoulder.”
Erin threw her arms up and stomped her foot. “You have to come back. We need you.”
“I know,” Gunnar said. “And I will. I promise.”
Even as he said the words, Gunnar knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut. Taunting fate with a promise like that had led to disaster far too often for him. He heard his father’s laughter in the back of his thoughts and did his best to ignore it.
Everything would work out.
It had to.
Chapter 25
GUNNAR EXPECTED TO find the streets clogged with jötnar as he and the völva marched north to rescue Bridget. If he was in Hyrrokkin’s shoes, the jarl would have marshaled his forces to assault the lodge and assert his rulership over the fallen city of Las Vegas. Barring that, he would have dispatched troops to blockade the roads leading to the site of his next ritual.
Instead, the streets were empty. Fires burned atop towering structures in the distance, and thick plumes of black smoke rose into the air to choke the sun. The cold winds that had blown through the city had died, as if the ruins were holding their breath in anticipation of the coming battle between the jarl and Hyrrokkin’s forces.
“You know he has her,” Ray said as they crossed under an elevated highway that had transformed into a strange stone bridge supported by massive log pilings. “There’s no one else it could be.”
Gunnar hadn’t wanted to think about that, but he also knew the völva was right. Arthur had Bridget. It made a sick sense. The wheel of destiny had completed its spin, and now the circle was complete. Five years after Arthur had tried
to steal the bodyguard’s life, Gunnar was coming to extinguish his.
“I know,” he agreed. “I know.”
There was nothing else to say after that. Gunnar didn’t dwell on the past, but Arthur’s betrayal had scarred him. He didn’t fear the man, but it would have been a lie to say their coming confrontation didn’t bother the jarl. To beat his nemesis, Gunnar would have to pull out all the stops. There could be no mercy, no second-guessing. This fight was about redemption as much as victory.
Gunnar wanted it so bad he could taste it.
The jötunn sanctuary was visible from a distance. Putrid green smoke leaked from fiery braziers atop pillars at its corners. The smoke reeked of rotten meat and sulfur, a choking scent that curdled Gunnar’s stomach. The cries of jötnar drifted on the wind, and Gungnir throbbed with the need to destroy the foul creatures.
“Soon,” Gunnar promised the spear. “Soon.”
The jarl and the völva took to the shadows when they were a few blocks away from their target and scrambled up the side of a log building to peer over its peaked roof at their enemies. A pair of jötnar stood outside the gates of the fortress, heavy black swords clutched in their gnarled fists, hand axes hanging off their belts. Their horns were impressive hooks jutting from their foreheads, as shiny as polished obsidian. Each of the creatures was at least as tall as Gunnar and outweighed him by a solid hundred pounds.
“I need your eyes,” he said to Mimi.
“My vision is yours, Jarl,” the völva responded, her voice stilted and ceremonial. “Use it as you will.”
The Valknut throbbed in Gunnar’s socket, and a warm golden glow spilled out from the darkness of his skull. He closed his good eye and peered at the work of his enemy. His vision penetrated the fortress and revealed dozens of outlines that cavorted around fires, feasted on scorched meat, or fucked on the ground. These creatures held nothing back, they felt no shame or guilt about anything they did. To the jötnar, life was best lived in pursuit of wild instincts. Satisfying their hedonistic urges was all that mattered.
Disgusted by his enemies, Gunnar searched for the reason they’d come. Strange clouds drifted across his vision and made it hard to find Bridget. It was like trying to watch a scrambled cable channel, and it took him far longer to locate her than he’d hoped.
They had her tucked away in a building butted up against the northwest corner of the wall. Gunnar’s enhanced sight didn’t show him more than the outlines of the structure, but what he saw gave him hope. There was no way to fight through all those jötnar to reach Bridget.
But he wouldn’t have to.
“She’s in there,” Gunnar said. “Along with a hundred or more jötnar. Most of them are gathered in the center courtyard. They’re not looking for a fight, but it won’t take them long to join the battle once it kicks off.”
“I could shoot them from here,” Ray suggested. “Take out the guards with my bow to attract their attention. When the others come out of the fortress, I’ll take them out. When they get close, use your spear and blow them all to hell.”
There was merit in the völva’s plan, but there was one serious flaw in it. “I don’t think we can do that,” Gunnar said. “In my vision, Bridget warned me we only had until noon to stop the ritual. That’s only a half hour from now. If Arthur’s in there, he’s smart enough to keep his people close until their little shindig wraps up. We could kill a few of them, but the rest will stay to guard Bridget. We have to get her out of there before it’s over.”
“We can’t just kick down the gate and start hacking,” Mimi said. “There’s not enough time to kill them all.”
“There’s another way,” Gunnar said. He drew a square on the sod roof’s surface. “The gate is here, at the bottom of the square. Bridget is back here, near the fence. We go over the top of the palisade, sneak inside, grab Bridget, then fight our way out. I’m sure they have Draupnir here, and they’re planning to sacrifice it to open a bridge. If I get my hands on that, the blood rune will even the odds in a big hurry.”
Gunnar pulled the völva into an embrace, one arm around each of them. “We can do this. Those assholes will not beat us.”
They stayed that way, holding each other tight. A single ray of sunlight pierced the clouds overhead, warming their skin and lighting the way.
And warning them that time was growing short.
THE JÖTNAR HAD NO PERIMETER patrols or guards posted anywhere but the front gate. Gunnar and the völva had no problems skirting the fortress to reach its back side, and they made it to the shadow of the palisade without raising any alarms. The jarl couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong about that. Why would Hyrrokkin neglect to protect this ritual after Gunnar had disrupted the last one?
There was no time to worry about that. Only minutes remained before the ritual’s end. They had to move.
“Here we go,” he said. “Up and over.”
Gunnar led the way, climbing up the wooden palisade using the thick cords that held it together as hand and foot holds. The völva were right behind him, their weapons stowed as they scaled the wall. The three of them swung their legs over the top of the barrier, then dropped to the ground on the inside.
Howls and shouts rose from the center of the fortress, but those were part of the ritual, not an alarm. The jötnar did not understand their doom was at hand.
Bridget was so close Gunnar felt her presence through the wall ahead of him. There was no window or door on that side of the building, though, and he didn’t think Gungnir could hack through its thick timbers fast enough to save her. With a muttered curse, the Jarl circled around the back of the building, searching for an entrance. There was nothing to be found on the north side of the structure, either, and time was running out.
Gunnar peered around the corner of the building and scanned the jötnar gathered at the heart of the fortress. They’d built an enormous bonfire in the center of the courtyard, and it belched black smoke into the sky. Six female jötnar had gathered around this side of the fire, their naked bodies writhing and glistening with sweat. Their unholy chants shook the air with every syllable, sending the flames spinning skyward.
It was impossible to see through the pillar of fire, but Gunnar was sure there were at least as many jötnar on its far side. His gut told him those were the shamans leading this ritual. Gungnir yearned to destroy them all.
A ring of warriors surrounded the shamans and stomped out a rhythm and counterpoint to the chanting, their wide, flat feet raising clouds of dust as they pounded out the pulse of an alien heartbeat.
The warriors brandished their weapons at the sky as if to challenge the gods themselves, and at certain points during the chanting they bellowed in unison. More jötnar, too many to count, swarmed around the circle, some of them on all fours like the beasts, others pounding their chests or flailing maniacally at one another. The frenzied, chaotic fever that radiated from the mob battered against Gunnar’s thoughts, urging him to join the insanity.
But there was no room in his determined mind for such pointless chaos. He only had eyes for the clear leader of the jötnar, who towered above the crowd on a raised stone platform overlooking the fire.
“Arthur,” Gunnar snarled under his breath.
Next to Gunnar’s mortal enemy stood two other jötnar. One of them, a thick warrior with a ridiculous number of golden chains around his neck and an enormous pistol on his hip, stood to Arthur’s right. He grinned wolfishly down at the crowd, enjoying the spectacle before him. A female jötnar occupied the stage to Arthur’s left. She was smaller than the males, and leaner, her blue skin covering sleek, well-sculpted muscles. A short skirt of freshly skinned hide, still dripping from the slaughter, was her only clothing. Dripping blood from the skirt had stained her thighs streaky red.
Gunnar couldn’t help but feel the female was every bit as dangerous as Arthur. There was something feral and wild about her.
Kneeling in front of that jötunn, facing the fire with her hand
s bound behind her, was Bridget.
The völva’s spine was straight, and she stared out over the crowd with no expression on her face. Her flawless white eyes never wavered from the horizon, and her mouth was set in a stoic line against the fate she knew was coming.
Arthur began pacing back and forth on the platform, energy coalescing around the ring he wore on his right hand. The golden band throbbed, every chanting symbol from the shamans pumping more energy into it. It blazed as bright as the fires that had forged it.
Draupnir.
Gunnar turned back to the völva still tucked behind the building.
“Change of plans,” he said. “They moved Bridget during our approach.
“Ray, I’ll boost you up to the roof of that building. Shoot anything that gets between me and the big platform you’ll see. Mimi, you’re with me.”
The völva nodded, Gunnar hoisted Ray into the air. He memorized her curves with his hands as he lifted her up to the roof, his fingertips brushing the soft globes of her ass and stroking her thick thighs as she climbed the last few feet up to her perch.
“You copping a feel, handsy?” she asked with a grin.
“You better believe it,” Gunnar said. “Good hunting, Ray.”
“Knock ’em dead, babe,” she responded, then disappeared behind the slope of the roof, waiting for her time to strike.
The jarl put his arm around Mimi’s shoulders and pulled her to the building’s corner to show her their target. “Stick with me. We’ll hack a path to Bridget. I need that ring, so if you get a chance, grab it. We’ve gotta go fast. It’s almost noon. Ready?”
“Let’s show these fuckers who they’re messing with,” Mimi said, her face twisted into a mask of rage. She threw her head back and unleashed a now familiar battle cry. “Óðinn á yðr alla!”
Gunnar flung his spear at Arthur in the same instant. A surge of hamingja leapt from him to the weapon’s sparking head, and he roared, “Stormur!”
