by Adam Ingle
“Sit,” said Odin, as much an invitation as a demand.
“What charges do you find us guilty of? God or not, you have no right to sentence us to anything,” said Stephanie, a swell of defiance and anger rising up in her. Marcus put a hand on her arm, but she shrugged it off.
“No, he owes us that much,” she said.
“You bring about all our deaths, and you ask by what right I sentence you? Did you not bring the wolf Fenrir unerringly to the very precipice of Bifrost? Did not another of your party free the wolf from shackles put upon him at great price?” Odin gestured toward Tyr, who involuntarily rubbed at the capped end of his stump. “You started Ragnarok, something I have spent my entire life trying to forestall, and still you consider yourself innocent? I would kill you twice if I thought it would do any good. I give you asylum in all but name, for you are staying under my roof regardless, and now you show me nothing but indignity? Sit!”
Odin made an angry, sweeping gesture with his hand, and the group felt themselves being dragged against their will to the pillows and roughly tossed to the ground upon them. If they tried to stand they felt a force as if gravity had suddenly doubled and fell to the ground breathing heavily. After a few seconds, the feeling subsided and they were free to move around again. The purple-eyed girl smiled at them and gestured to the wolves.
“We all have our shackles,” she said.
Odin stood and walked over to a brass tube that stuck out from the wall, flared at end like that of a trumpet. Odin used the tube to call Freyr and Thor, ordering them to join Heimdall and Tyr. Voices that sounded distant and tinny returned their acknowledgements. While waiting for the others, the Norse gods argued loudly amongst themselves, occasionally consulting with the disembodied head, Mim. First they argued about whether or not to send emissaries to the other pantheons. Odin quickly shot the idea down, but Tyr and Thor both put up a second attempt that the All Father completely ignored. The idea of negotiating with Loki and Fenrir to stall their predestined assault on Asgard was entertained briefly, but again Odin shot it down definitively and the subject was tabled.
They had just begun to discuss their battle plan when a raven flew in through an open window, landed on Odin’s shoulder, and spoke into his ear. Moments later a second raven flew through the same window and landed on the other shoulder, likewise speaking directly to Odin. There was absolute silence in the open room, and then Odin sighed. It heavy with the weight of responsibility only a god could know.
“Call forth the Valkyrie,” he said. “Loki is free and he marches at the front of an army of Jötunn, joined by St. Peter and Hades,” said Odin, looking at Leviticus and Mestoph’s group and then at the purple-eyed girl. At the mention of her husband’s name, she turned to the man with the wool sweater and gasped.
“Persephone, I presume,” said Mestoph.
Fenrir tapped the sword pendant that had once hung from the necklace that had held him prisoner for over a millennia. It turned into a full-sized sword, and he swung it at the entrails wrapped around Loki. The god rose up and pulled the remaining restraints from him as if they were paper streamers. He stretched, stood, and stretched again, causing joints to crack and pop from head to toe. He was not a hulking, muscular figure like some of the other Norse gods, but he had a wiry strength about him that was remarkably similar to Fenrir’s build. He stood naked for a moment, enjoying the freedom he had gone so long without.
Despite their attempts at propriety, neither Hades nor St. Peter could help but notice that the trickster god was hung like a porn star. Loki noticed their discomfort and awe, and he smiled as he snapped his fingers and was instantly clothed in long tunic cinched by a sword belt. Loki put his hand out expectantly toward Fenrir, who handed the sword over. Loki sheathed it and told Fenrir to gather his brother and sister. The wolfish man turned and ran off down the chasm. As he was running, he jumped into the air and swiftly and smoothly transformed into a lean and somewhat mangy wolf with mottled fur of black and charcoal. Fenrir the wolf was at least five feet tall at the shoulders and bounded off at incredible speed.
“Are either of you fireproof?” asked Loki, turning to Hades and St. Peter.
St. Peter shook his head no while Hades nodded yes, though both were hesitant to answer. Loki snapped his fingers, and both St. Peter and Hades were limned in a subtle sparkling blue light. Hades looked down at himself and then to Loki, questioningly.
“Just in case,” said Loki.
“Just in case what?” asked Hades.
“Just in case…” said Loki, smiling as he snapped his fingers. All three of them were instantly transported to a realm engulfed in flame, “…you’re wrong.”
They stood on a pathway of glowing coals that wound its way between blackened trees of flame. Columns of swirling fire shot up from the pathway randomly, sending gusts of hot air swirling around them. Despite Loki’s magical protection, it was still uncomfortably warm and the air was stiflingly thick. There was a general burnt smell in the air. It wasn’t sulfur, or woodsmoke, or even barbecue, but occasionally faint whiffs of each and then some would distinguish itself to the nose. Loki led the way, taking turns at branches and intersections with the confidence of someone who had traversed the confusing tangle of paths often.
At one intersection they passed through what looked like an old Norse village that could have been anywhere in Iceland over a thousand years ago were it not for the fact that it was built on a scale about ten times too big, and everything was on fire. Blackened, looming figures that were vaguely human, with skin like charred tree bark, milled about the village. One of the smaller creatures, still ten feet taller than St. Peter, pointed at the group of interlopers and giggled. It said something to a full-sized burnt tree man in a syrupy thick language that seemed to lack vowels or commas. The taller creature smacked the smaller one. It had the uncanny likeness to a human mother scolding a child for making fun of a handicapped person.
“Where the Hell are we?” asked St. Peter.
“Not Hell, nor Hel. This is Muspell. Flameland. Though it lacks a lot of the niceties of your typical amusement park,” said Loki in a singsong manner as he made a dramatic pirouette and gestured to the flames around him.
They passed through another giant’s village and then came to the edge of a plateau that overlooked a sea of lava. Growing from the plateau was a large gnarled tree whose trunk split in two and then coiled around itself like a snake in an orgy. Wrapped in the tree coils was an enormous Viking longboat that appeared to be made out of some kind of thin shell that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be fingernails and toenails. The longboat was held at an angle so that the mast leaned back and toward them as they approached.
Although both the tree and the boat were on fire, its sail was still intact and was currently being used as a hammock for one of the burnt creatures. It had a large flowing beard of matted and melted stuff that looked more like steel wool than hair. The fire giant was snoring loudly. The sound was deep enough that St. Peter could feel it in his chest, and his ears seemed to vibrate from within. Loki turned to Hades and St. Peter with a mischievous look on his face and put his finger to his lips. He snuck up to the boat, cupped his hands, and let out a shout that was impossibly loud for a man his size. Startled, the creature jerked upright and yelled in surprise, shooting a stream of flames from his mouth.
The shout turned into a stream of what sounded like the same thick-tongued language that St. Peter had heard back in the village. The creature, now on his feet and standing ten times the height of any of them, looked down and saw two tiny humans.
“Who dares,” began the creature in a voice that sounded drunk or dumb. Loki charged from behind and somehow, despite his considerably smaller size and strength, caused the creature to tumble. Its hand, nearly as long as St. Peter was tall, missed him and Hades by a foot. The Jötunn rolled over and crushed Loki underneath him, nearly crushing Hades and St. Peter again in the process. The Jötunn was silent for a
moment and then bellowed in laughter. Then he shrieked suddenly and jumped to his feet. In a small depression was Loki, his sword poking straight up. The Jötunn raised its foot to squish what had poked him, but stopped when it saw who was lying on the ground.
“Loki,” it said thickly. “I should’ve known.”
Loki jumped to his feet and bowed deeply, swinging the sword with a flourish.
“Surtr, it’s been too long,” he said.
“No, it hasn’t,” said Surtr sourly.
“Whatever. I come with great news and great offerings. Ragnarok is upon us, and these men are going to get your boat free so we can sail to the shores of Asgard and fuck some shit up,” said Loki, saying the last part with vulgar gusto while miming having sex with…something.
“We’re going to what?” asked St. Peter.
“If you want help, you’ve got to help in return. Despite what you may think, you can’t possibly get us into Asgard. Only I can do that. But you can get this ship unstuck. Surtr can’t do it without destroying it, and I’m not allowed to help,” said Loki.
“Why not?” asked Hades.
Loki put a hand on one hip and looked at them both like they were stupid children. “Because it wasn’t prophesized. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got prophecies out the ass. If it weren’t for the fact that there’s not a prophecy specifically against me taking a piss, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to.”
St. Peter looked to Hades. He had no idea how they were supposed to get an ancient burning boat out of a gnarled, ancient burning tree. Both of which were ten times the normal size. He told Hades he had no powers that would help since most of them didn’t work outside of Heaven. Hades didn’t seem terribly worried and waved off his concern. Hades studied at the boat for several minutes while Loki and Surtr looked at him expectantly. If Hades felt any pressure, he didn’t show it. At last, he lifted a hand and pointed at the ship, which was now surrounded by a protective bubble much like the one he had been resting in when St. Peter found him. Hades lifted his other hand, made it like a gun and shot the tree with his fingers. Blue bolts of energy snapped the coiled tree limbs off just outside the bubble. The limbs toppled over and slid down the outside of the bubble, leaving the ship unscathed. Once the pruning was done, he lifted his hand and the ship rose. He manipulated it around the remaining limbs, slowly turning and lifting it until the ship floated high above the tree.
“Where do you want it?” asked Hades.
A few minutes later, they were standing on the deck of the charred longship made of toe and fingernails as it slowly bobbed up and down in the sea of lava. Like most things in Norse mythology the boat had a name. It was Naglfar, which literally meant “nail ship.” Although the ship was nearly as long as a football field, it was uncomfortably close quarters at the moment because it was currently full of about forty Jötnar.
Though there were a dozen ships in the fleet, Naglfar was by far the largest. The others were full of ragged, pale grey humans who looked like they would have committed suicide if they weren’t already dead. They were led by Fenrir’s sister, Hel, who reigned over the land of the same name. She was only slightly taller than St. Peter, but she was as thin as a person could be and still be recognizably human. Her face was sunken to the point that her eyeballs were held in by skin alone; all muscle had left her body long ago. Her lips and gums were both pulled back so tightly she had a permanent fake smile recognizable in any family photo. Her skin was a mottled patchwork of grey and black that looked like randomly shaped puzzle pieces, and her hair was a brittle and pale grey-green. She wore a tattered robe that was wet and grey that revealed ribs as pronounced as if they were grooves chiseled into her chest.
Swimming playfully in the lava around the ships was Fenrir’s brother Jormungand, an enormous serpent. The snake was so large that it could coil around the entire fleet several times. Its scales were the size of surfboards and looked to be made of rusty iron with odd patches of algae. Fenrir stood on his hind legs in half wolf, half human shape at the helm of Naglfar with St. Peter, Hades, and his father Loki. The trickster god stood atop the carved dragon that served as a figurehead, which blew real flames in great gouts in front of them. He had called them all to attention using the same booming voice that he had used to startle Surtr.
“My children, my allies, and my, er, friends. We arrive at the hour of the crowing cocks.” To emphasize the point, there were three giant roosters, easily twenty feet tall, standing at the edge of the plateau overlooking the sea. There commenced a racket that could be construed as crowing if one had never heard an actual rooster before. “Ragnarok is upon us and it is our duty to shatter the skies, devour the sun and the moon, and generally fuck some shit up,” Loki repeated with the same vulgar voice and pantomime he had used earlier, this time to the raucous roars of his friends’ approving cheers.
They launched with full sails of fiery wind and the assistance of the Jötnar rowing the giant vessel, with the ships of Hel following suit. Loki snapped his fingers and a bolt of lightning shot from the sky. When the flash had dissipated, there was a black rip in the sky that started at the horizon and went up high into an orange and purple sunset—only there was no sun. He made a grand gesture like sweeping curtains aside, and the rip parted likewise, revealing a gloomy world on the other side. The waters of a wide river rushed in through the rip and into the lava, creating dense steam where the two met. As they sailed toward the portal into Asgard, they passed a single jutting island of rock that was about as big around as a hula-hoop and perfectly flat. Sitting on the rock was a pasty white man playing a lute. Loki waved reverentially as they sailed by. St. Peter looked at Hades and then shook his head. He wasn’t sure how much more of this ridiculously random religion he could take
Chapter 18
Battle Royale
Leviticus and Mestoph were in another one of their hypnomancy meetings, only this time they had included everyone else in their little group.
“Yes, I’m a Demon,” said Mestoph. “I do bad things for a living. Lying is one of them.”
They had gone around in circles for the last ten minutes over what was a very minor detail when it came down to it. No one had any objection to his actions thus far, although only Leviticus knew all of them, but they now questioned his motivations. “They” meaning mostly Marcus. Mestoph now realized that Stephanie had been right to withhold that bit of information. He couldn’t help it that he was the spawn of the greatest demon in Hell short of Satan—a detail he was most definitely not sharing with this group. He did the job he was born into, as much because of expectations as the fact that there wasn’t an alternative. The only reason his father Mephisto had been allowed to retire was because of his eons of top-notch work and the fact that he had a successor in Mestoph. It didn’t matter if the successor was more interested in sipping Mai Tais at a tropical resort.
“What the Hell do Mai Tais have to do with it?” asked Marcus.
Mestoph looked up, startled. He had been lost in thought and didn’t realize he had been talking out loud. He really hoped his propensity for fruity cocktails was the only thing he had let slip. He began mumbling something about life being like a Mai Tai, trying to cover his slip, when Stephanie spoke up.
“What does it matter which side of the tracks he comes from? I’m a barista and you’re a computer nerd; what gives us the right to judge him? Maybe being a demon is what allows him to make the hard decisions. He did what had to be done.”
Marcus opened his mouth to make a counterpoint, but none came to mind. That was about the time the guilt finally hit Mestoph. The demon looked at Leviticus, but the Angel was staring at the ground. He had been noticeably silent, and Mestoph thought he understood why. Leviticus was still an Angel, and everything they had done was against his nature. Even if it was a nature he tried desperately to shrug off. Leviticus hadn’t said anything about it, but this had to have been eating at him from the beginning, the whole using humans for their own
gain.
Guilt was a new feeling for Mestoph, and it hit him hard. It was with equal surprise and confusion when he realized he was crying. He wasn’t even sure what it was at first; after all, real demons don’t feel guilt and they certainly didn’t cry. He marveled for a moment at the emotions that washed over him. He observed it like a rare animal in captivity; the way the tears formed at the corner of his eyes, and then when they were heavy and full, the tears hurtled down his face and dripped off the edge of his chin into a blooming splotch on his shirt.
“We used you,” Mestoph sobbed.
This was met with silence, except for the rushing off blood in Mestoph’s head. Leviticus stared wide eyed at him while the humans looked confused. Stephanie looked like she was about to speak, but Marcus held up his hand to keep her silent. He didn’t want the moment to fade; he felt he was about to be vindicated in his anti-Demon argument.
“There was never a conspiracy to kill you. We used you to get something we wanted, and things just went horribly, horribly wrong,” said Mestoph.
Marcus and Stephanie looked at Mestoph and then Leviticus. Leviticus didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t look either of them in the eye and had a guilty grimace on his face. It was as damning as a confession. Finally, Leviticus sighed and spoke up.
“Mestoph, I think it’s time we got some help. It’s gone too far now, it’s time to end it,” he said. “Teleport out of here and summon the cavalry.”
Mestoph flashed a car salesmen smile, but it faded to the look of a kid who had been caught with his finger in the cake. “Uh, yeah. I’ve been meaning to say something about that.”
“You can’t teleport,” said Leviticus. “I should have known it all along.”
“Not since Truth or Consequences. I’m pretty sure I winged St. Peter during that shootout at Hitler’s.”
“Well, now I think we’re seriously fucked,” said Sir Regi.
