by C. Gockel
“Right,” he mutters.
He feels less wobbly and she quickens their pace. They tramp into the meadow, and the grass flattens beneath them. “Someone might see that,” she murmurs under her breath. Glancing up, she sees the gap in the wall where the World Gate is. Tugging harder at Lionel’s arm, she tries to urge him into a jog, but he stumbles and she slows.
“I’m still trying to maintain the illusion in front,” Lionel responds, his voice sounding like he’s gritting his teeth. “As long as Odin doesn’t look out the—”
From behind them comes the shattering of glass. Odin’s voice booms behind them. “What are you doing?”
“—window,” Lionel finishes. “Get your knife out.”
He makes them visible, whips a knife from his wrists, hands it to her, and says, “Wait for my signal, and then throw it at the ground.”
From behind them come a cacophony of footsteps. They turn to see Einherjar pouring around the sides of the house. Odin has leapt through the window, and the soldiers line up on either side of him, a glittering line of armor and weapons. Tara’s heart races. “Well, dying here might be better than being a zombie,” she whispers.
“I prefer your naive-human optimism.”
“I was being optimistic,” she whispers.
Keeping his eyes on Odin, he backs toward the gate, and Tara does the same.
The Einherjar raise their spears, and Tara’s legs go weak. Then their spears start glowing, and she almost falls over in sheer terror.
Odin holds up an arm—Tara braces for the agony of becoming a red-hot pincushion—but the Einherjar put their spears away. She almost breathes a sigh of relief and then sees them taking out swords instead—they don’t intend to kill them, they intend capture. Death was an optimistic prediction; she’d tease Lionel about that, if she wasn’t scared speechless. Stepping forward, Odin says, “Lionel—” What follows is a string of words … or maybe names … in Elvish, too long for Tara to follow.
Lionel freezes.
Odin finishes, “—Odinson, halt right there.”
Lionel’s head bows, and his eyes are wild. Tara wants to grab his arm and pull him away from whatever spell Odin has cast, but she’s got knives in both hands. “Lionel,” she whispers. “Lionel.”
He doesn’t acknowledge her. He just begins muttering words under his breath. Words that sound vaguely familiar.
Odin sighs. “If you’re so weak you can’t resist the invocation of your name—”
Lionel’s voice becomes louder and he lifts his hands. It’s the same words he used in the swamp. He’s summoning the Destroyer … again.
“No,” Odin roars. “Sto—”
His voice is drowned out in the thunder of the Einherjar charge. Chant rising in a crescendo, Lionel throws the blades at the ground before them. There is a spark, a shimmer, but for what feels like an eternity, yet is probably less than a second, Tara thinks nothing is happening.
And then there is flame. It’s not like in the flash of fire in the swamp; it is a wall that reaches the treetops, and its heat is like opening an oven on full broil. For a moment, Tara is stunned. Tilting her head back, she gapes. She can hear the sound of shouting from the other side and pounding footsteps … going where? She knows in an instant, and throws one of her knives to the grass on the left and the other to the right, willing them to catch. They explode with almost as much fury as Lionel’s had, and she sees men draw back behind the fires. Her eyes widen as the four blades’ inferno join together in a solid “u” of orange heat. Tara looks at Lionel, and sees him gaping at the flames.
“Lionel, what now?”
He snaps from his awe. “Run!”
They grab hands, and they tear through the wildflowers, now bathed in the glow of fire and the shadow of smoke.
Lionel begins to laugh. “I am Odin's son but I am not an Odinson! He tried to compel me, and it almost worked … but my last name is not his!”
Tara cannot speak, and it’s not just from the smoke. Between the gap in the ancient stone wall where the World Gate resides stands a looming shadow.
She and Lionel draw to a halt before the huge figure of Thor. “No one can lie to Odin,” Thor rumbles. He tilts his head. “It would take magic from you, brother, to compel me to stall them.”
Lionel draws back. “Thor …” he begins. The big man nods and rolls his hand as though to say, more, more, more. Tara sees shapes running behind the stone wall. Lionel adds hastily, “Ásabragr?” Thor nods again, and keeps doing the hand motion. Lionel spouts, “Ása-Þórr, Atli, Biorn, Einridi, Ennilang, Hardhugadr, Hardveur, Hioridi, Rym, Sonnung, Vethorm, Veod, Veur, Vingthor Odinson, I command you to hold the gate?”
A man shouts.
Thor shrugs. “Close enough. I am compelled.”
A spear slices through the air, and Thor holds up his hammer. Lightning pierces the smoky shadows, catching the spear and shattering it. Lionel pulls her forward. Everywhere is rainbow light. Tara braces for zombieland.
Bending over, Lionel gasps for breath as the heat of flame is replaced by cool, crisp air, and the smell of mud replaces the acrid stench of smoke. “It would have been nice to get to know you, brother,” he murmurs. Odin’s addition of “Odinson” to his name had shattered the compulsion he’d almost set upon Lionel. Lionel may be Odin's son by blood, but he is not his son in spirit.
“Thor let us go, didn’t he?” Tara whispers.
Lionel can only nod. Lionel is proud to be his mother’s son. Being Thor’s half-brother might not be so bad, either. He feels Tara’s hand on his back, and he remembers that they aren’t out of the woods yet. Straightening, he sees that they aren’t actually in “woods” of any kind. They are in a rolling plain with very regular furrows that look a lot like—
“Looks like downstate Illinois, or maybe Iowa …” Tara whispers.
“Iowa?” He turns to her and she is framed by blue skies, as she often has been in his hallucinations of her, but this blue sky is real and brilliant. He drops his eyes to the ground. The furrows are definitely the sort you’d expect from agriculture. The soil is dark and rich. Do the giant spiders farm? Do the zombies, or the Norns?
A chittering comes from their feet, making them both look. There is a rectangular cage of copper-like wire that’s not quite knee high. It seems to be made of the same sort of material as the metallic net they’d first been captured with. Inside is a squirrel with tufted ears, chittering madly in Squirrel, racing in circles around what looks like an ear of some sort of seed husk. The chittering is rather repetitive; it’s just “shit, shit, shit, shit …” over and over again.
“Ratatoskr?” says Tara.
The creature stops, blinks at her, and says, “Fuck you!” Thankfully, Lionel hasn’t given Tara the ability to understand Squirrel.
“Is the wire keeping him from speaking?” Tara asks.
Stepping toward it, Lionel tries to extend his magical senses into the cage … but can’t. “It could be.”
Tara lifts the cage and touches a finger toward Ratatoskr’s nose. “He’s kinda cute when he’s not swearing.”
“Nutt mites!” Ratatoskr shrieks in Squirrel, shaking the wire with tiny paws.
“Um …” says Lionel.
From behind them comes a low growl. They both turn to see a metal beast approaching them. It is reminiscent of the vehicle bonded to Tara. On the back is a raised pennant of the United States of America.
“We’re home,” Tara whispers, putting down the cage and walking toward it, waving both arms. Within moments, the four-wheeled chariot beast skids to a halt not ten paces from them. Lionel quickly illusions his ears to look rounded.
Three men, one old, two young, all of complexion similar to Lionel’s, get out with firearms raised. “Halt right there, Asgardians!”
“We’re not Asgardians! We escaped!” Tara cries, hopping up and down in happiness that hurts Lionel’s heart. He has a horrible moment when he hopes they don’t believe her. He forces himself to relax, to diss
ipate the magic threatening to course through his fingers, and releases a breath. This is better than Nornheim … so much better than that. He is closer to Chicago … and closer to the gate that will take him to his mother. He swallows. The Dark Elves are going to think of him as a Light Elf, since Odin so helpfully got his status reinstated.
The old human puts down his weapon. “Like the girl and the colored boy that came through on the eight-legged magical horse a few weeks back?”
Tara’s arms drop, and her mouth forms a small “o.” Lionel rolls back on his feet, remembering Odin riding Gna’s steed. Had two humans stolen Sleipnir?
“Dad, I don’t think they like to be called colored anymore,” says one of the young men, lowering his own weapon. “And I’m pretty sure he was Hindu.”
The second young man says, “Hey, Director Rogers was right! The squirrel trap he gave us worked. Foul-mouthed critter won’t be in Mom’s bird feeders anymore.”
“How do we know for sure you’re not a Valkyrie?” asks the old man, spitting in the dirt. “Ya got a driver’s license?”
Tara shakes her head. “No, I was abducted, and I didn’t have my wallet—”
“What’s your name?” asks one of the young men, holding up a rectangular device.
“My name is—”
Lionel feels the flush of magic on the back of his neck. “The gate is opening!” he says.
The firearms go up again—thankfully at a space behind their heads. Ducking, Tara darts toward the chariot, and just before he follows, Lionel picks up Ratatoskr’s cage. The stalwart farmers don’t blink. Lionel hears one of them grumble, “Thor’s not eating another one of my goats.”
By the chariot, Tara turns and looks back. “They can’t hold the Einherjar back,” she says. Turning to look at the men, she gulps. “They’ll be slaughtered.”
She’s right. “Go tell them not to defend us,” he says. “Odin won’t harm them if they’re truthful and say we were here.”
“Were here?” says Tara.
“I have a plan,” Lionel says. She meets his eyes, nods, and darts off toward the men.
He can’t believe what he is about to do, but he doesn’t belong in the House of Odinson … Tara was right. She can’t stay in Asgard and be free; neither can his mother, neither can Lionel. Facing down zombies is better.
He kneels down beside the cage.
“I’ll fuck you up!” hisses the squirrel he really hopes is Ratatoskr.
“I know you’ll try,” Lionel replies. He flips the cage’s latch.
Tara darts up to the oldest of the farmers. “Sir,” she says to the man. “You can’t fight Odin for us.”
He doesn’t put down his rifle, but his eye darts from the sight to her. “You don’t understand, girl—”
She bristles at the word “girl,” but then he continues. “—Odin, he’ll make you a slave. We been hearing things, and not just from Rogers. Some people round here, they don’t have their heads on straight. That apple thing, it’s a trap.”
“I know—but …” She puts her hands on her hips. “You don’t even know if I’m not a Valkyrie!”
“If he’s hunting you, you’re one of ours,” he says, narrowing the eye in the sights.
That is frustratingly noble. Tara tries again. “We’re going to run—”
“If we can’t stand up to them, what hope have you got running?” His eyes get wide, and he looks around. “Where’d she go?” he calls to his sons.
“I dunno.”
“Me, either.”
Tara looks down at her hands and sees they’re gone. “I’m invisible … and running. Thank you, sir.”
She feels a hand in hers, and hears a shrill squeak. “Don’t strangle me, you shit!”
“Is that squirrel loose again?” says one of the men she thinks are the old guy’s sons.
“This way,” says Lionel, and she can feel his breath in her ear. He pulls on her hand, and together, they run and stumble toward a strand of trees at the bottom of the incline.
Behind her, she hears the stamp of many feet, and hears a shout in Asgardian of, “Team report!”
“Not the tree on the right, you two-legged morons!” chitters the tiny voice. “The one on the left! And hurry. I can’t keep you nucking futts invisible forever.”
Ratatoskr is making them invisible? That would explain why Lionel is running and not falling over. She hears someone behind them say in English, “You will put down your weapons for the All Father!” but doesn’t look back.
They pass from the brightness of the sun to the semi-shade of an oak tree that’s just starting to put forth spring foliage. “Stop!” shrieks Ratatoskr.
Tara skids to a halt and feels Lionel do the same a heartbeat later.
“Hold onto your flippin’ tits, I need a second to open the World Gate,” grumbles Ratatoskr.
“I’m going to hold your tail instead,” says Lionel. “And you’ll be a popsicle if you break your oath.”
“Some assholes got no fucking trust,” mutters Ratatoskr.
Tara looks back. Odin is standing just beyond the three farmers. She holds her breath … and exhales when the farmers lower their shotguns. She can’t hear what they are saying but she sees the old man shrug. His sons spit and then copy the motion. Tara smiles, but her smile drops when Odin strides past the farmers and points down the hill toward the trees Lionel, Tara, and Ratatoskr hide in.
“Hurry, Ratatoskr,” Lionel hisses.
“Ouch! Stop squeezin’—it’s hard to open this gate and keep you invisible.”
Einherjar warriors race down the rise.
“Make us visible,” shouts Tara. “Just get us out of here!”
She knows the exact moment she’s visible. The Einherjars’ eyes light up and their pace increases. She looks over at Lionel. His arm is outstretched, but disappears at the elbow. “Seemed best to let him open the gate and go first,” he says.
“Go first where?” Tara asks. But Lionel is gone, except for his hand still in her own. His wrist disappears in a shimmering spot of light.
“Halt!” shouts an Einherjar, raising a spear, but she’s being yanked forward, her eyes are filled with every color of the rainbow, and she almost falls over.
“Tara?” says Lionel.
“I’m okay,” she says, regaining her feet and looking around. They’re in a sort of hallway, on the far side of which is a silvery curtain. The walls are a milky white and shimmering. Ratatoskr is nowhere to be seen, and Lionel’s hand is bleeding. She looks back the way they came. There is a solid wall, but in its surface, she sees Odin striding toward them, the farmland of Illinois or Iowa in the background. He halts just before their noses. Tara and Lionel draw back. Tara’s breath catches. She swears her heartbeat is so loud it must be audible even to Odin on Earth. Lionel’s hand tightens.
But then Odin’s flickering image draws back, too.
“Where are we?” she asks as the All Father backs away.
“Shh …” Lionel whispers. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but I think we might be in the nest of some of Nornheim’s giant spiders.” He touches the wall. “And I can’t open the gate … it’s gone.”
“Giant spiders,” says Tara, noticing for the first time that the hallway they are in is about eight feet high.
“I consider myself more average-sized,” says a feminine voice.
“Norns,” whispers Lionel, like you might say a curse.
They both turn. Coming through the silver curtain is a woman dressed in silver silk. It’s wrapped about her like Grecian robes. She is terribly thin, her skin so pale it has a blue cast to it, liked skim milk. Her hair is so blonde it is white. She smiles, revealing two glittering fangs.
Cruel Twists of the Fates
“Ah … I’m sure you aren’t a spider at all, ma’am,” Tara stammers. Politeness has worked so far on this trip.
The woman puts the finger of one hand on her lips, and her other hand on her throat. Another pair of hands clasp in front of her stoma
ch, and two more hands go to her hips. “You’re sweet.” She licks her lips.
Putting a hand on her shoulder, Lionel whispers in her ear, “Remember, the Norns don’t write our fates, they only watch them. Not all is lost.”
“They?” whispers Tara, instinctively stepping closer to him.
“My sisters and I,” says the woman, sauntering toward them. From behind the curtain, two other women emerge. One of them looks Asian Indian, and is as round and as plump as the first is thin. She has wide brown eyes, full lips, and a delicate little nose. She’s kind of adorable and looks terribly friendly until she looks at Tara, smacks her lips, and her eyes start to glow. The second sister is tall and athletic. She is as dark as Tara’s father had been, has long, blood-red braids, and looks vaguely African. On her shoulder perches Ratatoskr … currently twerking. “Suck it mofos!” he chitters.
“You’re right, Lionel, son of Odin and Tavende,” says the tall, dark woman. “We don’t control your fates.” She narrows her eyes.
The pale woman smiles. “But we do place bets on them. And you two dears have helped me win.”
Frowning, the tall woman sighs and rolls her eyes at her sister. “Stop gloating.” She looks back at Tara and Lionel. “And you brought Ratatoskr back to us.”
Ratatoskr stops his twerk. “What! I would have gotten out of that cage by myself!” He starts chittering up a storm that doesn’t stop until the woman pinches his little snout with her long, elegant fingers.
“Also,” says the plump one, bouncing on her heels. “Your story has been romantic and exciting.” Tilting her head, she taps her chin while clapping her middle pair of hands, and holding her third pair behind her back. “As delicious as you look, I can’t help wanting to know what you’ll do next!”
“Mm …” say the other two women, nodding their heads.
The tall woman’s fingers slip and Ratatoskr chirps, “I’m freaking exciting! Didn’t you see me dodge Thor’s hammer?”
