by Donna Hosie
Yes, I lived once. For sixteen winters I walked the earth and breathed the air and lived in the company of loved ones, and took comfort in the memories and legends of those who had passed on.
Then I died, surrounded by strangers. I made my foolhardy choice to enter into battle alone, and that choice resulted in my death.
The thousand years since have afforded me plenty of time to ponder my death. To turn the details over and over in my mind. To learn from the maneuvers of those people and beasts who ultimately brought about my demise. And now, surrounded, outnumbered, and overpowered as we are by doglike demons, I have to smile, for I know Elinor would have something to say about déjà vu right about now.
As the Skin-Walkers inch closer, there is some comfort in knowing that my friends and I cannot die again. Still, I think we would all prefer to avoid being torn limb from limb. And fortunately, I have the power to lead my friends away from the danger now surrounding us.
I take a step back and beckon to Mitchell and Medusa to follow in the direction Virgil was guiding us. It puts us closer to the Skin-Walker from the circle of Heresy, but I need to at least catch a glimpse of the Sixth Circle if I am to get us out of this.
Both Mitchell and I have slipped our backpacks from our shoulders. The trio of Skin-Walkers in front of us are laughing, but the sound that comes from their mouths is like no laughter I have ever heard. It is a mixture of high-pitched choking and hacking and screaming.
The heat from the Sixth Circle is now blisteringly hot, and I fear I will start to stagger. But I continue to inch the others toward the Sixth Circle.
Mitchell is level with me. Plan B, he mouths.
Plan C, I mouth back.
I know my friend so well now I can preempt his swearing—and the choice of words.
Pressure is building in my head. It feels as if there is something inside it, pushing to get out. I can tell that Medusa is feeling it, too, because she is shaking her wild mane of hair and rubbing at her eyes. Haeresilion of the Sixth Circle has now joined his perverse brothers in their pack. The four of them are padding across the ground toward us, their movements deliberately slow, as if they’re stalking prey. With no Skin-Walker now separating us from the Sixth Circle, we could turn and run.
We would be caught in seconds.
“Septimus has so much to answer for,” says Perfidious. “But I am tiring of the game. Their fear of us is not what it was when I first met them.”
“You can’t hurt us,” says Medusa bravely. “You know Septimus has Fabulara on his side.”
“That Higher’s name is not one to be thrown about lightly, girl,” snaps the elongated mouth of Frausneet: the one Skin-Walker who had not spoken yet. “And the Highers do not take sides. We are the original denizens of Hell. We know Fabulara’s mind and what it would take to bring her and the other Highers down.”
I’m picking up the pace. The passageway between the Seventh and Sixth Circles has come to an end. We have now backed up past the spiked arch that leads into the Sixth Circle. The spikes are made from sharpened rib bones. The heat and fire have increased and the color of searing flame is burning into my eyes. I know that a warrior must have peripheral vision, but I simply can’t afford to take my eyes off the Skin-Walkers.
Yet.
Mitchell, Medusa and I continue to move away, but to my relief, Virgil has now rejoined us. The old man has been cantankerous and unpleasant, but he is now our Oracle, and with Elinor separated from the group, I will need him. He must get closer to us, though, for Plan C to work.
“Where did you go?” whispers Mitchell.
“Hearing the voice of . . . The Devil was unnerving . . . I wanted to be . . . alone.”
“You picked a great moment to leave us.”
“I chose an even better one to return,” snaps Virgil, sniffing and grimacing.
Perfidious is growling to Visolentiae. It is not the language of dogs, but it is not a tongue I recognize, either.
I don’t have much time. We are finally in the Sixth Circle. It is a cavern, filled with burning stone tombs that look like enormous ovens. Each one has an opening in the center, about five feet off the ground, that is barred. Beyond the barred window, deep in the flames, are the flailing limbs, faces, and torsos of those being burned for all eternity. I give silent thanks to the Norse gods that Jeanne and Elinor did not tarry here. The smell of burning flesh is like festering food and excrement.
“I’m gonna puke!” cries Mitchell, but he remains stoic in the sight of such horror and shouts out for Beatrice Morrigan, gagging on each syllable as he calls.
This is the smallest circle so far. Almost immediately I can see that the only movement in the circle comes from within the burning tombs. Beatrice Morrigan is not here.
And across the way, through the warped haze of the fires, I can see the exit to the passageway that will take us to the Fifth Circle.
“I say we watch them burn,” calls a Skin-Walker. Three unnatural voices bark their approval.
“Virgil!” I cry. “Catch!”
My axe spins through the air toward the guide. All four Skin-Walkers immediately fall into a defensive position. Their gums retract, baring sharp fangs as their necks snap toward Virgil.
I quickly slip my hand into my backpack and pull out the Viciseometer. Mitchell has the quickest reflexes of us all, and he lunges to grab Virgil by the arm.
“Hold on!” I roar. I have no time to adjust the time and date, but that shouldn’t matter. I press down on the large red button on top of the Viciseometer.
Flames that do not burn rush over us. A single scream accompanies us through the dark-gray smoke that surrounds us. This is my first time being the official bearer of the Viciseometer, and it throbs against my skin, almost burrowing into my hand. Although my eyes have been pushed far back into my head, I can still see my axe, shining like a shooting star as we are pushed through space and time.
The landing is hard, and the sudden flood of glorious color that fills my vision after the fire and brimstone of the Sixth Circle threatens to kick-start my heart. The plan worked.
“Where the Hell are we?” groans Mitchell.
“Are you okay, Medusa?” I ask. “You screamed. Did I hurt you?”
Medusa’s pale-pink eyes are wide and unblinking. She purses her lips into a tight, flat line and shakes her head.
“I just wasn’t expecting . . . we left. Holy crap, Alfarin. Where are we?”
I have brought Mitchell, Medusa and Virgil to the only place I could visualize at that moment.
Valhalla.
Not the Valhalla in Hell where my kin dwell. This is the Valhalla I saw when I was taken from my dead body in the Seventh Circle. The magnificent hall of gold is exactly the same, although the Valkyrie-harpy that tried to tempt me is no longer here.
Is my mother here?
There is a rumbling coming through the stone. The vibration of feet and hooves and wheels.
“Alfarin, where the Hell did you bring us?” asks Mitchell again. “What’s the date?”
“This is the true Valhalla,” I reply, looking down at the flames flickering around the Viciseometer in my hand. “I was shown a vision of it in the Seventh Circle. I knew I could get us away from the Skin-Walkers. I just needed a diversion, and my axe provided. You caught well, Virgil.”
“I am impressed, Viking,” says Virgil, straightening his red skullcap. “It is not often the Skin-Walkers are outmaneuvered in their own domain.”
But his praise falls on deaf ears. Something is wrong. When I look down at the timepiece in my hand, the date in the Viciseometer is not the date I was expecting.
“It has been used since,” I say to Medusa, holding out the Viciseometer.
“Used since what?” asks Medusa, flinching away as if the device is contaminated. “And what is that noise? It feels like an earthquake.”
“To my knowledge, the last time this Viciseometer was used, it was to bring all of us back to Hell from Aotearoa. I assumed that was the
date we were working with, because I did not have the time to change it back in the Sixth. And I thought that if I used that date, then some of the Skin-Walkers would be stuck in a fixed point in time and would not be able to follow us. But the date in the timepiece is different.”
“So it’s been used again since we gave it back,” says Mitchell. “So what?”
“It is important,” I reply, “because it means someone else within Hell is, or was, time-traveling. To this moment specifically. Somewhere.”
“Alfarin, I don’t care,” replies Mitchell. “It’s probably The Devil going to set off some world disaster or something. You said this was Plan C—so what’s the rest of it? We have to get Eleanor and Jeanne. We can’t just leave them in the Nine Circles. And we still haven’t found that damned Banshee.”
“That damned Banshee has a name,” says Virgil, sniffing the air. “And I can smell blood. War has started.”
Medusa has wandered over to one of the windows. As she does, the eagle atop the arched stonework takes flight and glides outside.
“Alfarin,” calls Medusa. “You’ve got to see this.”
The hall of Valhalla is shaking more violently now. Tiny shards of golden dust are cascading down from the ceiling of shields. The spears that form the arches are bending as the crescendo of noise from outside increases.
“What is that?” asks Mitchell as the three of us crowd around the window. “Is this a battle from your past, Alfarin?”
“No,” I reply, showing him the Viciseometer. “Look at the four numbers that have been input for the year.”
“We’re in the future,” gasps Mitchell. “Whoever is time-traveling is going into the future, although not far.”
“And this is must be Ragnarök,” I reply. “The battle has begun. My friends . . . this is the end of all days.”
Nítján
Alfarin and Elinor . . . and Mitchell
While I was secure in my position of importance as a Viking prince in Hell, there were occasions when I doubted my devilish manhood. These occasions concerned gainful employment in Hell. For many years—in fact, ever since I had offended my father by not forcing Elinor Powell into marriage—I had washed and dried glasses in my cousin Thomason’s bar. There were times when I stretched my job description, for on my watch, washed and dried more often than not meant smashed and swept. My strength was legendary—but unfortunately, so was my ineptitude when it came to handling anything delicate. Sometimes it seemed as if I could knock a glass off the counter just by looking at it. I was sure the nefarious shadows that plagued Hell aided and abetted the breakage.
And Vikings drank out of tankards anyway. Or barrels. Who was the fool who decided devils should have access to vessels made of brittle minerals?
Should I have had greater ambitions for employment? Elinor had been doing such a wonderful job in devil resources that she was asked to help out in the housing administration office a few days a week. She was an inspiration to all, including Vikings. It did not take long for her new employers to request a permanent transfer. At first, I thought Elinor would be unhappy with the change—she had wanted to move into devil resources for so long—but she welcomed it. She claimed she could seek what she was looking for more easily in housing.
I did not realize that Elinor’s search was not, in fact, for family, but for another, unrelated male until the day we met Mitchell Johnson.
The housing administration department was located on the lower floors of the central business district—levels 427 to 452, to be exact. Many devils would have seen moving to a lower floor as a demotion, but not Elinor. She had a purpose, and there was a skip in her step as I walked her back to her dormitory. Her spirits were higher than I’d seen them in a long time, even though I knew her wrist ached after spending hours on end moving a plastic mouse around her desk.
Once more, I cursed the inventor of that stupid, confusing device, and wondered who he was. Probably the same fool who allowed glass into Thomason’s. I would have liked to have made a “cocktail” from his bodily parts.
I was lost in my own thoughts and did not register Elinor’s words at first. I came to regret my folly when I received a jab to the stomach from a pointed finger.
“Alfarin, are ye listening to me?”
“Of course.”
“So what did I just say?”
“You were saying that you were glad that Swiss person won the glorious match of Wimbledon in the land of the living this year.”
“No, I was not,” scolded Elinor. “I was saying that I wanted to stop by the H1N1 accommodation block.”
“I heard the word won. At least give me credit for that,” I replied sheepishly.
“Wrong version of the word, Alfarin,” replied Elinor, sticking her lovely little freckled nose in the air. “I said one, not won.”
“I am confused.”
“I mean O-N-E instead of—oh, never mind. Just make a path to H1N1,” said Elinor. “We will be here all night at this rate, and ye know ye cannot cope without dinner. I will give ye my share as a thank-you.”
“Your wish is my command.” And I started to swing my arms from left to right, bowling devils out of the way with ease. It was fun, and once I had momentum on my side, it took me a while to stop.
H1N1 was a new block that had been built for those devils who had died in the year 2009. The expanse of terrified white eyes going in and out of that dormitory reminded me of marshmallows . . . which reminded me of dessert . . . which reminded me of dinner.
Burgers or curry for dinner? Or fajitas or roast chicken? These were the important questions.
“Alfarin, ye are doing it again.”
“No, I am not.”
“What did I just say?”
“You wanted to borrow a book?”
“I said I just wanted to have a look,” replied Elinor, her exasperation rising right along with my need for sustenance. “Can ye wait with me? It shouldn’t be long.”
“I will wait with you for eternity, my princess,” I said as my stomach made a desperate noise of longing for fajitas. “But what are you looking for?”
Elinor usually blushed when I called her my princess and would affectionately call me an oaf. I had started doing so after the incident with the mouse. I had read up on words of endearment for women. I wanted to woo Elinor properly in the ways befitting a lady. But on this occasion there was no blushing and no oafing. She did not answer my question at all. Her flaming ruby eyes were transfixed on a tall, thin male with blond spiky hair and eyes that were already turning pink around the edges. He was walking into the building.
Elinor hurried after him. Although I had promised my princess to wait outside, I had no intention of leaving her to chase after some strange male alone, even if he was puny. I rushed in after her and found her in a hallway, sneaking peeks into a dormitory room. I joined her outside the doorway.
Her quarry was sitting on the edge of his bed, which he was sharing with two other devils, who were both sobbing.
He was not crying or wailing or making any desperate sound. The male looked confused. He was only wearing one sneaker. Perhaps counting to two is beyond his capability, I thought maliciously. What is so special about this new devil, and why has he captivated my Elinor in such a way?
Sensing my discomfiture, Elinor slipped her arm through mine.
“That is Mitchell Johnson,” she whispered. “And he is going to be our friend.”
19. A Future Foretold
“What is Ragnarök, Alfarin?” asks Mitchell.
“Ragnarök is the battle to end all battles,” I reply. “Gods, Valkyrie, men, women and monsters will fall as the destruction of all worlds comes about. It is a story I have grown up hearing. It is as much a part of me as my axe, my beard and my need to box the ears of Saxon scum.”
The urge to join the conflict before us is so strong I feel it physically pulling me.
“Alfarin,” says Medusa sharply. “We have to go back to the Circles.”
“This is my destiny,” I say. I hear my voice echo in the hall, even above the din of battle, but it is detached from my soul.
“Alfarin, you can’t even be sure this is Ragnarök,” says Mitchell. “It could just be another fight.”
“It is Ragnarök,” says Virgil. “In the Seventh Circle, the Valkyrie must have tempted you with a vision and you remembered it, Viking.”
The old man is standing with his head bent back, as if he’s gazing up at the golden shields on the roof. Their magnificence reflects on his translucent skin, bathing it with a golden glow.
“That’s insane!” exclaims Mitchell. “The Valkyries weren’t even in the Seventh Circle. What Alfarin saw was a hallucination brought about by . . . by . . . anger, or witchcraft, or just sheer batshit craziness caused by the fact that he was fighting a Minotaur.”
Medusa attempts to placate Mitchell by laying her hand on his arm, but I think Virgil is right. It was too real to be just a vision, and we’re here now.
It was real.
“I wish you could see Valhalla, Virgil,” I say.
“I do not require eyes to see,” he replies, with a smile that shows off his crooked teeth and pink gums. “Sometimes the pictures in one’s head are enough. And as long as they’re in my head, I can enhance reality and dilute the horror. In other words, I control it, and that is all anyone wants in the end. The Devil taught me that.”
“Do you know The Devil, Virgil?” asks Medusa. “Have you met?”
“A long time ago.”
Virgil slowly turns his face away from the ceiling and walks to us. He seems less decrepit here, as if the halls of my fathers are healing him from the terrible effects of aging.
“Ragnarök is called that by Vikings, but it is also known by other names,” says Virgil. “The coming of Kalki; the beginning of the Messianic age; the Apocalypse . . .”
Virgil’s voice reaches me as if it is traveling through a long tunnel. I am becoming more and more detached from my surroundings. I can taste the adrenaline of fear and the sweetness of victory. Out the window, I see that the expanse of green fields I saw here before is now teeming with trebuchets, men and women dressed in armor that flashes like lightning. Black smokes rises into the sky, twisting and flailing, as if it, too, is fighting for existence. And in the distance, a large black shadow, like a cloud that is touching the ground, is creeping toward the advancing army.
