by Adam Ingle
“This is probably as good a place as any to stop. We can use the banks to remount when we’re done,” said Fenrir. His horse was already drinking from the edge of the river and eyeballing a clump of the relatively plentiful vegetation near the water.
The river looked to be about a hundred feet across, and didn’t look like it was very deep. The volcanic sand of the arctic dessert had slowly given way to fist-sized rocks as they approached the river and the bank dipped about ten feet below level at an easily navigable incline. On the other side of the small river, the terrain became steeper, leading up to a small cluster of ice-capped mountains far to the northeast, which Magnus called the Kerlingarfjöll tuyas—a tuya being a type of mountain that he claimed were rare, being forming only in areas where volcanoes and glaciers comingled. Directly to the north lay the glacier Hofsjökull, above which the storm continued to grow. The winds picked up dramatically as they approached it.
“I’d guess that once we cross the river, which I would bet is the Þjórsá, we shouldn’t be any more than three hours from the edge of the glacial field. Once we get there, I hope you guys have some way of contacting the Vanir,” said Magnus.
In the time since Father Mike had taken them hostage, they had forgotten about the cover story Sir Regi had blurted out. It seemed like it had happened ages ago, but the Neo-Vikings clearly hadn’t forgotten their holy charge.
“They’ll find us,” said Sir Regi. It was as good an answer as anything else. Better than the truth, at least for now.
Once everyone had rested up and had a little something to eat—for a little was all they had—they went through the slightly less arduous and embarrassing task of mounting the horses. None of them had ever forded a river on horseback. They crossed it without a problem. The horses handled the water that came up to their knees deftly, not losing a step and hardly slowing down.
They continued on for another two hours and slowly realized that they were no longer heading directly toward the glacier but instead taking a slight angle away from the river that kept them crossing rivulets of water every ten or fifteen minutes. Their trajectory also started taking them toward the western edge of the glacier. Fenrir tried to correct their path several times, but after a few minutes it would be obvious that horses were again veering toward a large icy outcropping of the glacier that rose up like a ramp. He stopped fighting the horses and let them choose the path.
They reached the edge of the outcrop a half hour later. It fanned outwards in a semi-circle with two rows of small, irregularly oblong ponds and puddles dotting the edge of the flow. None of them were more than a few hundred feet wide, but there were easily a hundred of them. The horses walked up between two of the larger bowls of water and then stopped at the edge of a deep chasm that ran the perimeter of the outcropping. The chasm was filled with dense, rising steam. There was no vegetation within a thousand feet, which meant there was no reason for the horses to lead them there—but they had. Fenrir looked back at the others; he seemed to be suppressing a smile.
“End of the line, I suppose,” he said.
The others dismounted and looked around. It was a landscape as foreign as if they were on another planet. They were surrounded by dark stone, ice, and a thick and persistent fog that was still slightly warm even as it began to descend after cooling. The warmth of the steam was at odds with the brisk air that seemed to blow gently but unendingly from no discernible direction. The rain had picked up considerably in the last half hour and they were all soaked, but here it seemed to be only a light drizzle that was only slightly more solid than the mist.
“This place feels…old. Like there are old powers at work here,” said Magnus as he walked to the edge of the chasm, warming his arms and face. He smiled, feeling slightly rejuvenated.
“Old as the gods themselves,” said Fenrir, almost to himself. He then came to attention and turned to the group. “Alright, we’re here. Now what?
They shrugged and looked to one another hoping for an answer, even though they knew there wasn’t one. Stephanie looked up and saw the center of the storm swirling overhead, so near that the spinning pentagram was visible as it had been on the television. The exact center was a few hundred yards ahead of them. That would put it far on the other side of the chasm, and likely above them as the glacier rose. It was hard to tell what was beyond the steam.
“Well, let’s do what any Viking with a passing knowledge of the sagas and mythology would do,” said Magnus.
“Kill each other in battle and hope one of us makes it to Valhalla?” asked Sir Regi.
Fenrir looked as if he was contemplating the proposal, but Magnus shook his head in mock disappointment. “No, we call for Bifrost. The bridge that links the lands of mortals to that of the gods.”
“Might want to call for Heimdall instead. Don’t remember any legends of the bridge being sentient. Or a taxi cab,” said Fenrir.
Magnuson nodded, conceding the point, and then the two turned toward the chasm and yelled out Heimdall’s name. They both raised their arms, motioning with their hands in internationally recognized Rock Star Sign Language for the others to join in. The others obliged and they yelled out in unison. Sir Regi tried, but anytime he raised his voice it turned into a wordless howling like a dog wailing along with a siren. The howl was clearly involuntary, and he eventually gave up trying. Soon there was the distinct sound of stone grinding on stone, and the call for Heimdall abruptly stopped.
They stood there expectantly, waiting as the grinding sound grew louder and closer, and then a shape began to form in the mist. Gradually, they were able to make out two figures standing on something that was moving, with painful slowness, toward their side of the chasm. One of the figures coalesced into a tall, pale white man with long white hair, while on the right stood a slightly shorter but much more muscular man with a short curly beard who was missing his right hand and part of the arm below the elbow. He was leaning on a tall spear. Heimdall wore the same armor that he had when Persephone had called him, but now it was polished to a shine. The plain sword he had previously worn was replaced with another, this one larger and more ornate. The pommel and cross-guard sported a flame motif much like that of the bridge. The other man wore a massive chest plate that depicted a battlefield with one of the armies being led by a tall one-armed man that looked considerably like the one wearing it. The stump of his right hand had a leather and copper gauntlet strapped to it with a bronze cap on the end bearing a single rune that looked like an arrow pointing upwards. Both gods stared at the waiting group, seeming to look into the souls of each member as they rode through the mists on a wide span of stone.
“Heimdall. Tyr,” said Fenrir, nodding to each.
Heimdall reached to a beautiful carved and gold inlaid horn that hung at his side. Tyr touched the stump of his arm to Heimdall’s arm, which would have probably been a reassuring gesture were it not for the stump part.
“Not yet, my friend,” said Tyr, quietly.
The two figures stepped off the bridge and came in close to the group, looking down at each of them, even Magnus, who was several inches shorter than Heimdall. When they both came to stand in front of Fenrir, their eyes narrowed and mouths clenched.
“You dare show your face here, wolf?” asked Tyr.
Magnus looked confused at their interest in his friend and with his familiarity with what he could only assume were living gods. “I think you might be confused…” began Magnus, but was silenced by a dismissive wave from Heimdall. It wasn’t a magical silence; there was just such disdain in the gesture that Magnus didn’t see the point in continuing.
“Don’t worry, brother. Their bark is worse than their bite. Now my bite, on the other hand…” said Fenrir, flashing a knowing smile.
Tyr lunged at Fenrir, dropping the spear and grabbing at Fenrir’s shirt collar with his good hand—his only hand.
“I will kill you and skin you, and then whenever I shit I will clean myself with your pelt,” said
Tyr, spitting in anger. His muscles rippled in anticipation of a fight.
Fenrir still wore the wolfish smile, “Don’t fool yourself. We both know that’s not how it happens. I’ll die, no doubt. But it won’t be by your hands.”
“What the Hell is going on?” asked Magnus.
Tyr turned to Magnus, his anger now directed at him. Magnus backed up a step. “You travel in the company of a wolf. The wolf. And you bring us to the very brink of our deaths,” he said.
Magnus looked at the other members of the group, hoping they might have an idea of what was going on, but they all seemed just as surprised or confused as him. “I’ve known this man for years. He is a good man, and together we have worshiped you and your brothers,” he said.
Tyr stared at him for several seconds, and then looked to Heimdall. Heimdall just shrugged. Tyr shook his head slowly, as if he finally understood, and then turned to Fenrir with some amusement on his face.
“You are your father’s son. A trickster in wolf’s clothing. Loki be damned, you lot are all the same,” said Tyr. He chuckled, but his expression quickly turned sour and he moved faster than should have been possible. The movement startled everyone and they involuntarily jumped back. Tyr reared back with his handless arm and then stump-punched Fenrir in the head. The copper endcap of his gauntlet left an embossed rune imprinted into Fenrir’s forehead. And then another. And another. Three arrow-like runes were stamped his forehead in a tight grouping before Heimdall could make a grab at Tyr’s arm, already reared back for a fourth hit. Tyr slung off Heimdall’s attempt as if he were a weak midget and then began pummeling Fenrir in the chest, taking a step forward with each hit and sending Fenrir back a step closer to the edge of the chasm. When Magnus finally realized what was about to happen, he ran past Heimdal and tried to hold Tyr back as well. Tyr didn’t even register the attempt.
After another hit, Fenrir was at the edge of the chasm with his back to the mists with one foot scrabbling to make purchase on the ground. He was held up only by Tyr, who wore a wolfish smile of his own. Tyr pushed Fenrir backwards and turned to walk away. Magnus grabbed desperately at Fenrir, who smiled calmly despite a bloody, mangled face. Magnus caught a hold of something and grabbed onto it with all his strength, pulling backwards to keep from going over the edge himself. In his hand was the sword medallion and part of the thin, silver chain that Fenrir wore.
The wolfish man hung in the air, suspended by the remarkably strong chain and the toe of one shoe that still held traction on the edge of the chasm. Magnus’s arm shook with strain, and his body teetered back and forth as he fought to keep balance. Marcus, the closest to him, ran and grabbed a hold of Magnus to keep him from going headfirst into the chasm.
Tyr saw the look of horror on Heimdall’s face and turned to see what was wrong. “You fool!” he shouted.
Fenrir looked up at Magnus’s clasped fist and then his eyes followed the chain down. He looked back up at Magnus with a big, warm smile.
“Thank you, brother,” he said. Fenrir leaned forward with some effort but then immediately jerked backwards. The chain snapped in Magnus’s hand as Fenrir fell backwards in slow motion, the sword pendant falling with him. With the counterbalance of Fenrir’s weight gone, Magnuson and Marcus tumbled backwards. Fenrir disappeared into the mist, trailing a maniacal laugh.
Magnus and Marcus picked themselves up off the ground while Tyr rushed to the spear he had dropped earlier. He scooped it up and threw it as he turned, the ridiculously long shaft warbling through the air as it streamed toward Magnus. The Neo-Viking watched, dumbfounded, as the spear flew towards him. A second later, he stumbled and fell to one side, four feet of spear protruding from his chest. The collective jaws of the group hung wide, and then they heard the piercing sound of a horn.
Ragnarok was upon them.
Chapter 17
The One in Which Various Mythological Loose Ends Are Tied
St. Peter and Hades stood in an enormous, dimly lit hall of stone. In the center of the hall were a large inclined stone altar and a pillar that rose a hundred feet with a large eternally burning torch mounted halfway up. Tied to the altar by what looked like intestines or the sinews of something that had lived once upon a time in the distant past was a gaunt and mostly naked man: the Norse god Loki. Wrapped around the column was a snake whose head hung over the top of the altar and dripped poison like a leaky faucet. Sitting next to Loki on a small stone stool was his wife, Sigyn, who was surprisingly homely for the bride of a god. She held a large wooden bowl that was worn around the lip from an untold eternity of use. She used it to capture the poison that dripped from the snake’s mouth.
“So how long has this been going on?” asked St. Peter.
Loki looked to his wife, and the two of them seemed to be doing mental calculations. It was a bad sign if it took the two of them that much effort to figure out how long they’d been down there. After several seconds, Sigyn turned to answer.
“At least a millennium. Give or take a century or two,” she said, in a voice that was dull and rough with disuse. St. Peter didn’t get the impression that the husband and wife had too many conversations.
“You old gods have some of the most ridiculous tortures,” said St. Peter.
Loki shrugged; to him it was what it was. Even when Sigyn’s bowl filled up and she had to go off to empty it and the poison dripped down directly on Loki’s face, he took it in stride. Granted, his squirming and wrenching caused minor earthquakes each time she left, but once she came back and resumed collecting the poison he didn’t seem any worse for wear.
“I knew a fellow once who had his liver torn out by an eagle every day for millennia,” said Hades. “But that’s what you get for giving the fire of the gods to mankind.”
“That sounds awful,” said Loki with a smile.
Hades and St. Peter looked at him, both with an eyebrow arched questioningly.
“Well, yeah, this sucks too. But still…” said Loki.
“So what ever happened to ol’ Prometheus? I don’t remember him being on the list of Titans we hold in the void,” said St. Peter.
“Titans?” asked Loki.
“Giants from the dawn of time. They fought the gods and were cast into Tartarus,” said Hades.
“We’ve rebranded it as The Void,” interrupted St. Peter. “God’s very keen on names he can actually pronounce.”
“Oh, you mean the jötunn,” said Loki.
“No, the Titans,” said St. Peter.
“Jötunn”
“Titans,” said St. Peter, getting annoyed.
“They were my jötunn long before they were your Titans,” said Loki, pointing at Hades. “…or your prisoners,” he said, pointing to St. Peter.
“Yes, yes. We know that. In fact, that’s why we’re here,” said St. Peter.
St. Peter tried to explain as quickly as possible, giving away as little as possible, the situation they were in. They embellished a bit with details that were probably true, but that they didn’t know for certain. They told him that his Odin, Loki’s long-time nemesis, had something that they both wanted, and they would go to any lengths to get it. St. Peter told him that they knew he never handed over all the jötunn when the Olympians took them to be their Titans, and that even more went unaccounted when God took over and wanted to be rid of them completely.
Loki listened politely and nodded at pertinent bits. When St. Peter finally finished, he and Hades waited in silence. The silence drew out, and Hades and St. Peter exchanged impatient looks at each other.
“Did you hear me? We’re willing to offer you anything within our power for a few jötunn,” said St. Peter.
Loki smiled. “Of course I heard you. The only problem is that I don’t want anything. I have all I need.”
Hades and St. Peter looked around incredulously. They were at the bottom of a chasm with little light, a snake constantly poisoning him, and a kind of ugly wife who didn’t say a word unless she was addr
essed directly.
“You’re joking?” asked Hades.
Loki silently shook his head no.
“We could free you?” suggested St. Peter.
“Why would I want that?”
“With our help, you could take control of your pantheon,” said Hades.
“That’s not in my cards,” said Loki.
“But it could be,” said St. Peter.
Loki calmly shook his head again.
St. Peter tried a different tactic. “At the very least we could try and spruce this place up a bit. Bring in an interior decorator, some whores, you know? Maybe an umbrella for that snake problem? A TV?”
Loki politely declined each.
“What about…”
Loki shushed Hades, putting a finger to his mouth and tilting his head to the side.
“Listen here, you—” began St. Peter indignantly.
“Shut up!” Loki was clearly listening for something. They were all silent. Even Sigyn looked unusually attentive. “Do you hear laughing?” he asked with a smile.
“You know what? Fuck you!” said St. Peter.
Hades put his hand on St. Peter’s shoulder, “No. I hear it too.”
Again they were quiet, and after a few seconds even St. Peter could hear it. It was the sound of resounding, howling, thoroughly satisfied laughter, and it was getting louder by the second. It quickly became apparent that the laughter was coming from above them. They all looked up, even the snake, as the laughter became unbearably loud. And then a body landed squarely on the snake, which twisted, jerked, and then suddenly went limp. Then the body fell off the top of the pillar and flopped to the ground face up. Laying there with an enormous smile, still chuckling even though he was wincing in pain, was Fenrir. He lifted an arm, and dangling from his hand was the thin silver necklace.
“Son!” exclaimed Loki.
St. Peter and Hades gave each other a surprised look. Then the sound of a horn, loud and clear even at this great depth, echoed through the chasm. In response, Loki sat upright, and a look of mischief and glee that had previously been absent seemed to fill the gaunt man.
