by Adam Ingle
Although the barbarian had dropped his battle axe, he still had various weapons from various eras strapped to him. Tucked into sheathes at both hips were two large Celtic sgian-dubh, angled so they could easily be cross-drawn. Clipped to the many pockets of his cargo pants were medium-sized tactical folding knives and a multi-tool. He even had a small push-dagger, shaped like a bear claw, hanging from a chain around his neck.
“I am unarmed,” he said, gesturing toward the empty leather sheath on his back that should have held his battle axe. Mestoph raised an eyebrow, but he signaled for everyone to lower their weapons. Leviticus swung the ice axe so that it stuck into one of the cushioned arms of the row of seats in front of him. The barbarian grinned, which made Mestoph feel like they had fallen for some trick, but the hand that he held out toward Mestoph was empty and open.
“Komdu sæll,” said the large man, still grinning enormously.
Mestoph reluctantly grasped the man’s hand. The barbarian clasped it eagerly and then pulled him in for an uncomfortable bear hug, patting him roughly on his back.
“We were afraid you were all dead,” said the large man, seemingly on the verge of tears. “They never said anything about survivors. Please...please, forgive us.” He finally released Mestoph and yelled something in Icelandic to the rest of the group, to which they shouted enthusiastically in response.
The Neo Vikings rushed toward them. Many of the survivors shouted in excitement, and equally as many shouted in fear because they thought they were being attacked. Luckily the other Neo Vikings had been sensible enough to put their weapons away before charging headlong toward skittish survivors. In the midst of the celebration, there was a high-pitched scream in the darkness. Coming swiftly into the light was a short African rebel whom Mestoph recognized as the leader of one of the guerilla groups he had dealt with in his failed coup in Kenya. The rebel was running full tilt toward him with a grenade raised in one of his hands. The screaming rebel and the look of surprised confusion on Mestoph’s face got the attention of the enormous Viking leader, and he sprang into action.
Without pausing, he grabbed Leviticus’ ice axe from the arm of the seat, turned, and threw it with the speed and force of a Major League pitcher. The axe spun toward the rebel and stuck with a resounding thud into his forehead, causing him to do a back flip onto the ground. The grenade flew upward into the air, and everyone’s mouth dropped open as they watched it rise. At the peak of its ascent it exploded in a flowering of flame and a concussion that knocked several people to the ground.
And then there was nothing but silence; the war was now officially over. After the panic subsided, the survivors universally greeted the barbarians with hugs and tears. The leader of the group introduced himself as Magnus Magnuson. He was not only their leader, but the frontman of a Neo Viking death metal band known as Odin’s Taint. They were a rather motley crew of behemoths chiseled of ice and stone, none under six feet tall, who lived as modern Vikings by day and melted faces off by night with dark, insidious metal of the most ferocious variety.
Magnus explained they had been approached about a job by a distant acquaintance of their drummer, who called himself Fenrir, after they had played at a dive bar in Reykjavik the night before. Being that Odin's Taint wasn't exactly playing in sold out stadiums they could really use the money and signed up. Fenrir's acquaintance said there was an unmanned stealth drone belonging to the U.S. government that had crashed, and they were offering top pay to scavenge what they could from the wreckage: specifically hard drives, cameras, and any serial numbers, badges, or insignias that could point to the U.S.
They were told that it would be unguarded; they were just there for the literal heavy lifting. The Americans didn't want the Icelandic government to know they were flying drones over their country, and since the crash had apparently gone unnoticed, it should be safe to go in under cover of darkness, grab what they needed, and be out by dawn. When they arrived at the prearranged meeting place and met their contact and his boss, whom Magnus described in detail and was undeniably St. Peter, it seemed they had enlisted a few others to help with the job. The employer revealed that he had learned that it wasn't a simple, small unmanned drone after all but an experimental intelligence plane.
The Vikings still thought everything was going well until they arrived at the scene and it became immediately obvious that things didn't quite jibe with what they had been told. One rocket propelled grenade and twenty-three screaming survivors later, Odin's Taint realized they had been lied to, and being the Neo Vikings they were, they had no qualms fighting those who would try to take advantage of them—and who would, in all likelihood, have tried to kill them too when the job was through.
Their story told, there was immense relief on everyone's faces, Vikings and survivors alike, but there was an ever growing unease that Mestoph and the others were trying very hard to keep to themselves. Between the attack in Truth or Consequences, the plane being shot down, and now the story Magnus the Neo Viking had told them, it was undeniable that St. Peter would go to any extreme necessary. This was clearly not the last time they would come to heads with him, and it probably wasn't the last time it would involve excessive force.
Odin's Taint was more than just a metal band. It was a commune of about twenty-five Neo Vikings that lived the life of a modern barbarian. While they did have many modern conveniences like internet, geothermal heating, electricity, and motor vehicles, they also tried to live off the land as much as possible. They were hunters, gatherers, farmers, traders, grifters, and of course rockers. The band itself had four members: lead singer and guitar Magnus, bass player Fenrir, rhythm guitarist Skjorn, and drummer Johnny Machine Gun.
Although Magnus Magnuson was likely the large singer’s real name, Mestoph had serious doubts about the authenticity of the others. Fenrir was a ferocious wolf beast that would eventually eat Odin, at least according to Norse mythology. Mestoph did make note of a chain around Fenrir's neck with a small sword pendant hanging from it. He wondered if it was supposed to represent the magical chain that bound the mythological Fenrir until the day of Ragnarok. The man did have rusty, fox red hair that was more a shaggy mane than flowing locks, a sharp, predatory nose, and an aggressive grin, so the name at least fit.
Skjorn was the tallest of all the members of the group, towering easily above seven feet. He had long, straight black hair that hung loosely half way down his back. What little skin wasn't etched in deep grooves of woad-inked tattoos was pasty white, almost sickly. He was lean but muscular, with hard cords of muscle running the length of his unnaturally long arms.
Johnny Machine Gun was the odd man out. He was of average height and lanky, with a gaunt face and jittery demeanor like he lived off of cocaine and fast food. He looked like a Chihuahua crossed with a rat, which as far as Sir Regi was concerned was the same thing. His uncomfortably tight black jeans and tattered black denim jacket covered in strategic rips, safety pins, and Misfits, Black Flag, and Sex Pistols patches sealed the deal that he was the black lamb of this barbaric herd. He hardly looked like he could hold, let alone swing the large battle hammer he was reluctantly dragging behind him.
Skjorn, on the other hand, blithely tossed it over his shoulders, smiling down at Johnny as he did. Johnny gave a mousy and sarcastic “aren't you fucking special” grin in return. Johnny Machine Gun briefly flashed open his denim jacket to reveal a vest-like harness that held a dozen throwing knives, which were coated matte black with only the finely sharpened edges glinting in the light of the campfire. It was then that Mestoph also noticed leather bracers on his forearms, mostly hidden by the jacket, which he was fairly certain held daggers as well.
Dawn was only a few hours away, so no one even pretended to try to get back to sleep. Most of the barbarians from Odin's Taint spent the time preparing the funeral pyres for their four brothers who had died in combat. In rummaging for something to prime the fires, as most of the timber was too green to burn very well by itself, Skjorn
uncovered the plane’s drink cart, which was packed full of mini-bottles of Icelandic vodka and Kentucky whiskey. The whiskey they set aside for the fires, but the vodka they passed around and saluted their comrades with a hearty “Skol!”
Magnus sat down with Mestoph and Leviticus, having marked them as the leaders of the survivors. He looked at Marcus and Stephanie, ignoring Sir Regi completely, and only seemed at ease when Leviticus gave nod that meant they were in the inner circle as well.
“Is there any reason you can think of why someone would send a hit squad to take you out?” asked Magnus.
Mestoph and Leviticus kept steady poker faces, but both Stephanie and Marcus glanced briefly at them. Magnus did not fail to notice this and smiled. It was a mirthless smile. It was an understanding of secrets.
“They were after you,” he said quietly, not making it a question.
Mestoph looked to Leviticus, who in turn reluctantly nodded at Magnus. Their little quest for some R&R had killed approximately a hundred passengers and four Neo Vikings, and who knew what else it had cost. If Mestoph and Leviticus had possessed a better understanding of the value of a human life—and if they weren't justifying it all by placing the blame squarely on St. Peter—they would have backed out of the plan long ago. But if they had a real understanding of what it meant to be human, which neither of them had ever been, they might not have set out in the first place.
“Why?” asked Magnus.
There wasn't an answer they could give him that didn't betray far too much. Yet only something approaching the truth, or at least revealing their true nature, would really satisfy. Marcus was about to open his mouth and explain how they were witnesses to a heinous act by the head of a ruthless crime syndicate, which probably wouldn't have worked, when Sir Regi stole his thunder.
“They were protecting me,” said the Scottie as he hopped up on Magnus' leg.
“Odin's beard!” shouted Magnus as he jumped up, sending Sir Regi scrabbling for traction. Sir Regi sat back on his hind legs in a very formal pose and shouted in an unusually deep and commanding voice, a voice Stephanie recognized from her dream, “Sit down human! I am an emissary of the Vanir and you will do as I command.”
Magnus stood there, mouth completely agape, obediently sat. Sir Regi, now looking regal and dignified, waited for everyone to compose themselves. “I have been here in Midgard, your human world, as a spy for the Vanir, and I have a message of the utmost importance for Odin. The filthy monotheists, whom you ignorantly served in an attempt to wipe us out, will stop at nothing to ensure that message is never delivered.”
“That changes everything,” said Magnus, awed.
“No shit,” said Mestoph, annoyed.
Chapter 13
Don't kill the messenger…please.
Magnus had gone off to talk to the other members of Odin's Taint about this new twist of events. The second he was out of earshot, both Mestoph and Leviticus turned to Sir Regi. “What the Hell was that?” they asked in unison. Sir Regi shrugged, or what passed for it in a small dog.
“That was me ensuring we have body guards for the remainder of this trip. Otherwise we were going to have to ride with them all the way to Reykjavik, figure a way to disappear before the officials got involved, and then trek back out this way. In case you haven't noticed, the storm is moving inland. And in case you didn't notice, St. Peter hired a bunch of barbaric goons to kill us and anyone else associated with us. His failure will be obvious by the time we leave here, and he's not just going to give up. We need protection, transportation, and guides. I just got us all three rolled into one. Religiously devout bodyguard-chauffeur-guides.”
Mestoph and Leviticus each looked like they were about to broach an argument, but the words fell just short of being spoken. It probably wouldn’t have been convincing, anyway. Marcus finally spoke up, “Who are the Vanir?”
“Norse gods, separate from Odin and the rest, but gods none the less. I think they're supposed to be dead or in hiding. Something like that,” answered Stephanie.
“Actually, they're not dead. There was a war between the Vanir and the major Norse gods called the Aesir. As part of an eventual peace treaty the two groups exchanged members and the Vanir taught the Aesir to use magic, which hitherto they had no knowledge of. Now the Vanir are essentially a subgroup of the Aesir. Not necessarily equals, but not subordinates either,” explained Sir Regi.
“Thank you, Britannica,” said Mestoph.
Stephanie raised a brow in mild surprise. “You say that like they're...oh...” she said as she realized the truth, the raised brow dropping in dismay.
“Oh, what?” asked Marcus.
“They are real, aren't they?” asked Stephanie.
The three of them that weren't human just shrugged and nodded, like it was no big deal to them. The truth was, to them, the Norse gods were no big deal. They were more annoying than useful or relevant.
Iceland might have been the land of the midnight sun during summer, but in late spring it was the land of the nine a.m. sunrise. Rise it finally did, and with it so did the funeral pyres. Being hearty people and used to heavy drinking, the cart of mini-bottles had done little to dull the faculties or the sentiments of the barbarians. They burned their brothers in the early light with little fanfare. The rock mounds and scrubby wood of each pyre had been fashioned in the shape of a crude boat. There were small effigies of scrub brush and twigs that looked faintly feminine and were presumably meant to represent the Valkyries that were to lead the dead on their journey to the afterlife. The barbarians were silent and observed the rite with little show of emotion. Though they had fallen in battle and would be well on their way to Valhalla, they were still sad to see their friends and comrades go.
Once the service was over, the barbarians gathered more rocks and finished building cairns from the raised daises that had served as the base for the pyres. It was quickly done, and then the barbarians made to prepare the survivors for departure. They gave only fifteen minutes to gather up anything the survivors wanted to take, and then they were pulling out. Magnus was very clever about keeping Mestoph and Leviticus’ little group separate, giving them tasks and using them as coordinators. One of the vehicles they had arrived in was a mangled wreck, but they still had two large SUVs, two trucks, and one old army Range Rover. They assigned the survivors to various vehicles and arranged for drivers; Mestoph, Leviticus, Marcus, Stephanie, and Sir Regi would be riding in the Range Rover with Magnus and Fenrir.
Although all of Odin's Taint had wanted to help escort Sir Regi to the Vanir, they had reluctantly agreed to split up and traveled light. When the fifteen minutes were up, only a few of the survivors were still digging through belongings—whether they were looking for sentimental items or looting was anyone's guess—everyone jumped in their assigned vehicles and got ready to head out. Everyone, that is, except for Father Mike; he was leaning against the Range Rover with his arms folded across his chest.
“You guys are up to something,” said Father Mike as the other vehicles pulled off, leaving them no choice but to take him along despite the limited room.
“Obviously, so are you,” said Leviticus.
Father Mike smiled. “I come to Iceland to do mission work with the pagans, and God drops Vikings in my lap. I'm thinking that's no coincidence, so I'm sticking with you guys.”
“Technically, God shot you out of the sky and then sent Vikings to kill you. Maybe that's no coincidence,” said Sir Regi, who seemed to have totally forgotten he was a talking dog.
“You all aren't from around here, are you?” Father Mike asked, gesturing to the world around them. “And I don’t just mean Iceland.”
“No, we're not,” said Stephanie with a finality that broached no further discussion— something only a woman seemed to be capable of doing—and got in the Range Rover.
The shepherd and the lamb came to the edge of a deep chasm made of sleek, glassy obsidian. Warm steam rose up from it, making it impossibl
e to see how deep it went. These kinds of vents gashed Iceland here and there from one end of the island to the other and were as commonplace—and possibly more so in certain areas—as houses. The shepherd stood perilously close to the edge, trying to absorb as much warmth as he could. It had been over a week since he had been anything resembling warm, and he had to fight the urge to simply jump in.
Persephone stirred and jerked in his arms. The shepherd put her down a few feet from the edge and then stood back, waiting for further instructions. Instead, there was a brilliant flash and then, standing where the lamb had been, there was the Persephone he knew and loved.
She was curled in the same position the lamb had been in, and it took her a minute to stretch to her full height. She stretched her arms, rolling her shoulders back at the same time, and then gave her head a quick twist to the left and then the right as if she were giving herself her own chiropractic adjustment. The shepherd watched with both admiration and lust. Her skin was the palest of whites, and in the steam from the vent she sometimes seemed to disappear; only her long, curly black hair kept her from floating away. She was lean but had the build of a woman who was not averse to physical exertion—or perhaps even the occasional battle. Lean muscles rippled and coiled as she stretched, emphasizing her strength and beauty.
That's not to say she looked like a boy with breasts. On the contrary, she had just the right amount of curves for her slight frame, and her face was that of a goddess. Literally. She had classic Greek features, but not like an ancient statue; no, hers was the beauty of dreams. Her eyes were the deep blue of the arctic seas, with stormy flecks of violet that hinted at her mischievous side. She was everything a goddess should be, and more than any man should ever want, and the shepherd suddenly felt inadequate.
