"...And she married Sintolt the Hegeling," the Nom was saying, "and their son was Eormanric..."
"What's going on?" Flosshilde asked.
"There has been a rather singular development," said Erda, looking up from the papers on the floor. She had fluff from the carpet all over her jacket. "We have succeeded in tracing the last of the Volsungs."
"Really?" said Flosshilde. She wasn't in the least fascinated, for it scarcely seemed to matter now. Still, it would be something to do, and if she got bored she could play her word-game.
"I think you will be surprised when you hear it," continued Mother Earth. "Let me just go through the stemma for you."
"Don't bother on my account," said Flosshilde. "I'll take your word for it." She sat down and picked up a magazine. "Just tell me the name."
"There are three living descendants in the direct line," said the Nom, taking off her spectacles. "Mrs. Eileen Fisher, of Sydney, Australia; her daughter Bridget, also of Sydney; and her son Malcolm, of Combe Hall, Somerset."
In an instant, Flosshilde was kneeling beside them. She bullied the Norn into going over every link in the complex genealogical chain, which spanned over a thousand years. The descent was indeed direct, from Siegfried the Volsung, Fafner's Bane, to Bridget and Malcolm Fisher.
"I hurried over as soon as I found out," said the Nom. "Of course, you know what this means."
"No," admitted Flosshilde, breathlessly. "Go on."
"Well," said the Nom, putting back her spectacles. "Siegfried was, at least in theory, a subject of the Gibichung crown when he married Gutrune. Certainly, Sieghilde was a Gibichung subject, and so the Ring, if we accept that it was Siegfried's legitimate property, is subject to Gibichung law in matters of inheritance. Gibichung law is of course very complicated, and on the subject of testament it verges on the arcane, but it so happens that I have made a special study of the subject." The Norn paused, as if expecting some words of praise. None were forthcoming. "Anyway, hereditary as opposed to acquired property cannot, under Gibichung law, pass to the female heirs but is only transmitted through them to the next male heir. That is to say, to the female it is inalienable and she has no right to assign or dispose of it. She can only keep it in trust until the next male heir comes of age at fourteen years."
"What are you going on about?" said Flosshilde.
"Although his mother is still alive and his sister is older, than him, Malcolm Fisher is, according to Gibichung law, the rightful heir to the Nibelung's Ring."
"Which ring?"
"My bloody ring," said Alberich impatiently. "Your ring. The Ring. Look, if we're going to be all legal about this..."
"Human law," said Mother Earth loftily, "has no bearing on property that is or has been owned or held by a God. Since the Volsung race is descended from Gods and is therefore semi-divine, and since the Ring was, if only for the space of a few hours, once held by the Gods Wotan and Loge, the Ring is subject only to divine law."
"Oh," said the Norn, clearly disappointed. "Never mind, then."
"Under divine law," said Mother Earth, "property descends by primogeniture alone. Mrs. Eileen Fisher, Mr. Fisher's mother—and the eldest surviving Volsung, is therefore the legitimate legal heir to the Nibelung's Ring."
"What about me?" shouted Alberich.
"And me," added Flosshilde. "It was ours to begin with, remember."
"The gold was," said Alberich. "But I made the bloody thing."
"I was about to say," said Mother Earth, severely, "that under divine law, right of inheritance is subordinate to right of conquest."
"What?" Flosshilde was now utterly confused.
"It means," said Alberich bitterly, "that if I take something away from you it becomes mine, and if they take something away from me it becomes theirs. That's divine law. Marvellous, isn't it?"
"In other words," said the Norn triumphantly, "it amounts to the same thing as Gibichung law. It belongs to Mr. Fisher."
There was a baffled silence as the four immortals pondered the significance of all this.
"Be that as it may," said Mother Earth at last, "the fact remains that Malcolm Fisher, if not the last of the Volsungs, is one of the last of the Volsungs—certainly, he is the most recent of the Volsungs, which is roughly the same thing—and as such is by birth and genetic programming one of the three most suitable people in the world to be the Ring-Bearer. Goddammit," she added.
Flosshilde could hardly contain her excitement. "Just wait till I tell him," she said. "He'll be thrilled."
"I hardly think it would be suitable at this juncture..."
Flosshilde made a rude face and left the room.
"That child is scarcely helping matters," said Mother Earth.
* * *
"Guess what," said Flosshilde, bursting into the room. "You're a Volsung."
"I'm sorry?" Malcolm said.
Flosshilde told him everything, putting in explanations where she felt they would be necessary. "So you see," she said, "you're not really human at all. You're one of us. And she is your cousin."
Malcolm laughed. "What a coincidence," he said sardonically.
"But don't you care?" said Flosshilde. "You're virtually a God. You're descended from the world's greatest hero. Aren't you pleased?"
"No," said Malcolm truthfully. "I couldn't care less, to be honest with you. Of course, I always knew there was something wrong with me, but now that I know what it is, I don't see that it's going to make a great deal of difference. " He continued to stare out of the window.
"Oh, for pity's sake!" Flosshilde was angry now. She had so wanted him to be pleased and excited, and he wasn't. "You're hopeless."
"Very probably. And besides, from what you said, Bridget is the real Volsung, or the eldest, or whatever. That doesn't surprise me in the least. Judging by what I've heard about Siegfried lately, it sounds like she takes after him a whole lot."
Flosshilde knelt down beside him and put her hands on his elbows. "But she hasn't done what you've done. She hasn't made the world a wonderful place or defeated Wotan. You have, all on your own. You're the real hero, much more than Siegfried was, even."
"Really?" Malcolm shook his head. "I don't think so. I've stopped living in a make-believe world, you see. Just finding out that I'm a make-believe person doesn't make any difference. It's not going to change anything."
"But you don't understand..."
"That's the one thing I have got right," he said, looking straight at her. "I do understand, and that's the only good thing that's come out of this whole rotten mess. I've been living in a world of my own and..."
"But the world is your own," Flosshilde almost shouted. Suddenly Malcolm began to laugh, and Flosshilde lost all patience with him. As long as she lived, she told herself as she walked furiously out of the room, she would never understand humans.
On the landing she met the Norn, who seemed agitated.
"Call him," she said. "Something terrible is happening."
* * *
Across the Glittering Plains, which stretched as far as the eye can see from the steep rock on which the castle of Valhalla is built, Wotan had mustered the Army of the Storm. In their squadrons and regiments were assembled the Light and Dark Elves, the spirits of the unquiet dead, the hosts of Hela. At the head of each regiment rode a Valkyrie, dressed in her terrifying armour, the very sight of which is enough to turn the wits of the most fearless of heroes. Around his shoulders, Wotan cast the Mantle of Terror, and on his head he fastened the helmet that the dwarves had made him from the fingernails of dead champions in the gloomy caverns of Nibelheim. He nodded his head, and Loge brought him the great spear Gungnir, the symbol and the source of all his power. When he had first come to rule the earth, he had cut its shaft from the branches of Yggdrasil, the great ash tree that stands between the worlds, causing the tree to wither and die and making inevitable the final downfall of the Gods. Onto this spearshaft, Loge had marked the runes of the Great Covenant between the God and his subjects.
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Wotan raised his right hand, and the Valkyrie Waltraute, who closes the eyes of men slain in battle, led forward his eight-legged horse, the cloud-trampling Sleipnir. Above his head hovered two black ravens.
"If you get mud on that saddle," said Waltraute, "you can clean it off yourself."
Without a word, Wotan vaulted onto the back of his charger. As the first bolt of lightning ripped the black clouds he brandished the great spear as a sign of his army, the Wutende Heer.
It was over a thousand years since the hosts of Valhalla had ridden to war on the wings of the storm, and the world had forgotten how to be afraid. Like a vast cloud of locusts or a shower of arrows they flew, blotting out the light from the earth. At the head of the wild procession galloped Wotan; behind him Donner, Tyr, Froh, Heimdall, Njord and Loge, who carried the banner of darkness. Close on their heels came the eight Valkyries: Grimgerde, Waltraute, Siegrune, Helmwige, Ortlinde, Schwertleite, Gerhilde and Rossweise, baying like wolves to spur on the grim company that followed them, the terrible spirits of fear and discord. Each of the eight companies bore its own hideous banner—Hunger, War, Disease, Intolerance, Ignorance, Greed, Hatred and Despair; these were the badges of Wotan's army. Behind the army like a pack of hounds intoxicated by the chase followed the wind and the rain, lashing indiscriminately at friend and foe. Below them, forests were flattened, towns and villages were swept away, even the mountains seemed to tremble and cower at the fury of their passing. With a rush, they swept over the Norn Fells and past the dead branches of the World Ash. As they passed it, lightning fell among its withered leaves, setting it alight. Soon the whole fell was burning, and the flames hissed and swayed at the foot of Valhalla Rock. As the army of the God of Battles passed between the worlds, the castle itself caught fire and began to burn furiously, lighting up the whole world with a bright red glow.
The army passed high over the frozen desert of the Arctic, convulsing the ice-covered waters with the shock of their motion, and flitted over Scandinavia like an enormous bird of prey, whose very shadow paralyses the helpless victim. As they wheeled and banked over Germany, the Rhine rose up as if to meet them, bursting its banks and flooding the flat plains between Essen and Nijmegen. Wotan, his whole form framed with the lightning, laughed when he saw it, and his laughter brought towers and cathedrals crashing to the ground. And as the army followed its dreadful course, black clouds of squeaking, gibbering spirits leapt up to swell its numbers, as all the dark, tormented forces of the earth were drawn as if by capillary action into the fold of the Lord of Tempests. The very noise of their wings was deafening, and when they swept low the earth split open, as if shrinking back in horror. But however vast and awesome this great force might seem, most terrible of all was Wotan, like a burning arrow at its head. As he flew headlong over the North Sea, the heat of his anger turned the waters to steam, and soon the forests of Scotland were blazing as brightly as Valhalla itself. As the army neared its goal, it seemed to concentrate into a cloud of tangible darkness, forcing its way through the air as it bore down like a meteor on one little village in the West of England.
* * *
"What's going on?" shouted Malcolm. The noise was unbearable, and through the splintered windows of the house a gale was blowing that nearly lifted him off his feet.
"It's Wotan," yelled Alberich, his face white with fear. "He's coming with all his army."
"Is he indeed?" Malcolm replied. "I want a word with him."
All the lights had gone out, but the brilliance of the ball of fire that grew ever larger in the northern sky dazzled and stunned the watchers, so that even Mother Earth had to turn away. But Malcolm walked calmly out of the shattered door and stood in the drive. His hair was unruffled and his eyes were unblinking, and on his finger the Ring felt easy and comfortable. Out of the immeasurable darkness that surrounded it the awful light grew ever more fierce, until the very ground seemed to be about to melt. Like a falling sun, it hurtled towards the ruined house, straight at the Ring-Bearer, like a diving falcon.
"All right," said Malcolm sternly. "That will do."
The light went out, and the world was plunged into utter darkness. A hideous scream cut through the air like a spearblade through flesh, and was held for an instant in the hollow of the surrounding hills. Then it died away, and the cloud slowly began to fall apart. Like a swarm of angry bees suddenly confounded by a puff of smoke, Wotan's army sank out of the air and disintegrated. The black vapours dissolved, and the gentle light of the sun fell upon the surfaces of the wrecked and mangled planet.
"And before you go," said Malcolm, "you can clear up all this mess."
Like a film being wound back, the world began to reassemble itself. Smoke was dragged out of the air back into the stumps of charred trees. Bricks and stones slipped back into place and once more were houses. Glass reformed itself smoothly into panes, and the cracks faded away. The flooded rivers slid shamefacedly back between their banks, taking their silt with them, and the earth silently closed up its fissures. While this remarkable act of healing was taking place, a pale mist formed and hung in the still air above the surface of the world, and the light of the sun was caught and refracted by it into all the colours of the spectrum. Malcolm had never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.
"What is it?" he asked a passing dove. The bird looked puzzled for a moment.
"Oh, that," it said at last. "That's just the Test Card." Malcolm shrugged his shoulders and walked back into the house.
* * *
The drawing-room seemed to be deserted, and Malcolm had come to the conclusion that everyone must have got bored and gone away when he heard a voice from under the table.
"What happened?" said the voice.
"Nothing," said Malcolm. "It's over now."
Looking rather ashamed of herself. Mother Earth crawled out from her hiding-place. "I dropped my goddamned glasses," she mumbled. "I was just looking for them, and..."
"Are you sure they're not in your pocket?" asked Malcolm sympathetically. Mother Earth made a dumb show of looking in her pocket and, not surprisingly, there they were. "Thank you," she said humbly.
"You're welcome," said Malcolm.
Alberich and the Middle Norn emerged from behind the sofa. To his amusement, Malcolm saw that Alberich was holding the Norn's hand in a comforting manner.
"There now," said the dwarf, "I told you it would be all right, didn't I?"
The Norn beamed at him, her round face illuminated by some warm emotion. "I don't know what came over me," she said.
"That was very clever," Alberich said to Malcolm, forgetting to let go of the Norn's hand even though the danger was past. "How did you manage it?"
"What, that?" said Malcolm diffidently. "Oh, it was nothing, really."
Alberich and his new friend walked to the window. In the sky there was a deep red glow, which could have been the sunset were it not for the fact that it was due North. Alberich looked at it for a long time.
"I never did like them," he said at last.
"Who?" Malcolm asked.
"The Gods," said Alberich. Then he turned to the Norn. "You look like you could do with some fresh air," he said. "Do you fancy a stroll in the garden?"
It seemed very probable that she did, and they walked away arm in arm. Malcolm shook his head sadly.
"Who was that, by the way?" he asked Mother Earth, who was busily brushing the fluff off her jacket.
"The Middle Norn," said Mother Earth.
"Doesn't she have a name?"
"I don't know. Probably."
"What's that light in the sky? I thought I'd put everything right."
"That is the castle of Valhalla in flames," replied Mother Earth quietly. "The High Gods have all gone down. They no longer exist."
Malcolm stared at her for a moment. "All of them?"
"All of them. Wotan, Donner, Tyr, Froh..."
"All of them?"
"They went against the power of the Ring," said Mother Earth with a shru
g, "and were proved to be weaker."
"And what about the Valkyries?" Malcolm's throat was suddenly dry.
"They were only manifestations of Wotan's mind," said Mother Earth. "Figments of his imagination, I suppose you could say."
"But they were your daughters."
"In a sense." Mother Earth polished her spectacles and put them precisely on her nose. "But what the hell, I never really got on with them. Not as people. They were too like their father, I guess, and boy, am I glad to see the back of him."
"And they're all dead?"
"Not dead," said Mother Earth firmly. "They just don't exist any more. I wouldn't upset yourself over it. In fact, you should be pretty pleased with yourself. By the way, did Flosshilde tell you about... ?"
"Yes," said Malcolm, "yes, she did." He was trying to remember what Ortlinde had looked like, but strangely enough he couldn't. He felt as if he had been woken up in the middle of a strange and wonderful dream, and that all the immensely real images that had filled his mind only a moment ago were slipping away from him, like water that you try and hold in your hand.
"Let me assure you," said Mother Earth, "that you have in no sense killed anybody."
"I don't believe I have," said Malcolm slowly, "I think I'm beginning to understand all this business after all. By the way, what happens now?"
Mother Earth came as close as she had ever done to a smile. "You tell me," she said. "You're in charge now."
Malcolm looked at the Ring on his finger. "Right," he said, "let's get this show on the road."
Mother Earth yawned. "I'm feeling awful sleepy," she said. "I guess I'll go to bed now, if you don't mind. If I don't get my thousand years every age I'm no use to anybody."
"Go ahead," said Malcolm. "And thanks for all your help."
"You're welcome," said Mother Earth. She was beginning to glow with a pale blue light. "I didn't do anything, really. It was all your work."
Malcolm smiled, and nodded.
"Remember," she said, "whatever you feel like doing is probably right." She was indistinct now, and Malcolm could see a coffee-table through her.
"Sorry?" he asked, but she had melted away, leaving only a few sparkles behind her in the air. Malcolm shrugged his shoulders.
Expecting Someone Taller Tom Holt Page 19
