He was totally unaware of the people around him; remaining in a fog as Nwabudike, Bonchance and two more of Mjölnir’s crew carried him inside. After a time, the tears stopped, but he continued to stare blank-eyed at nothing at all, grieving more deeply than anyone had ever grieved before.
* * *
Jacques Montrose’s heart was breaking. Baldur Odinsson had been the best friend a man could ever have, and Gabriel was one of the greatest women he had ever known; she should have been a queen for all the grace that woman possessed. The sight of their son lying in bed, despondent, made Jacques feel like an utter failure; he was supposed to prevent anything like this from happening.
Jacques had no idea what was ailing the lad, but he suspected it had something to do with the amulet Vali searched for. Trying to remove the chain from the lad’s neck was impossible; each attempt was met with Thor’s hands clutching the chain in white-knuckled fists, the only sign the lad exhibited he was not in a coma.
The giant mastiff climbed into bed next to Thor, nuzzling the lad as if trying to get under his skin, growling and whining as the dog stared out the window intently. Sorina – Baldur and Gabrielle would have liked her – laid on the other side, whipping the lad’s forehead, and urging Thor to wake up in between sobs. Bryndis sat in a high-backed chair next to the bed, inconsolable. Michelle – Sorry – Mikki was crouched at the far end of the room, her back against the wall, muttering under her breath as she twirled a knife between her fingers like Charlie Watts would a drumstick. The blade would disappear occasionally, only to reappear a few seconds later.
“Let me know the second things change,” he said to Bryndis, placing a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder. There was no response, but Jacques did not expect one. He crossed the room, surprised when Mikki stood and announced she would join him.
Ten chairs lined the hall outside Thor’s room; five on either side of the door, in each sat one of Captain Adeyemi’s men, a rifle-butt resting between their feet. All the men stared forward, as if at attention, but Jacques had worked with African tribesmen like these before; several may be sleeping. It was said they could sleep during a march through the jungle, and he believed it.
The captain himself, stood directly across the door, staring straight ahead. Nwabudike was a good leader, and very loyal to the lad; Julia had done well choosing that man. Coal-black eyes flickered behind the granite mask, then closed in disappointment as Jacques shook his head. Jacques knew a bit of what the captain was going through; the weight of leadership could be crushing at times.
Jacques wound his way through hall and down stairs, the young Mikki – and her god-awful knife – in tow. It seemed as if every hall and room in the place was filled with throngs of celebrating mobs, cheering the beast’s demise, though he told his men to keep it to a minimum; there was something about the whole business with the lad that put him on edge.
Bonfires dotted the courtyard, with locals drinking and dancing around them like the scene of a gypsy caravan. The air was alive with the sounds of singing, laughter and the occasional gunshot. Jacques peered through the darkness to locate Doru Albusel among the revelers, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
If the Romanian soldier was like himself or Nwabudike, he was off somewhere brooding, and wondering why it felt like something was wrong.
The beast’s carcass had been stabbed, prodded, spat upon, and paraded through the courtyard as proof of death. Still fearing the damned thing may yet rise from the dead, they had it chained to the frame of an old truck, and were preparing to part the creature’s body out as trophies. A bit of Jacques’ stomach churned at that; the only real trophy worth having after a battle: going home, alive, and in one piece. But he supposed these people were owed something for all their suffering.
The bolts were removed with care – damned brilliant idea, those bloody things – per Jacques’ orders. To the captain’s shock, the bolt heads had chipped or broken completely where they hit bone. A man swung wildly, trying to remove the head with an ax. He may as well have tried to chop through the truck frame for all the good it was doing. The ruined ax head looked as if he did just that. What was this thing?
Jacques unsheathed his knife, making a cut from the beast’s groin to its sternum. He borrowed a torch from one of his men, pulled the wound open, and peered in. “Oh, dear God!” he gasped, stumbling backward, and falling to the mud. “Burn it!” he screamed to his men. “Burn the bloody thing, NOW!”
He looked up to see the color drain from Mikki’s face. The knife flashed in the firelight, another appeared in her other hand, and she screamed like a Banshee.
* * *
The emptiness was too much for Thor to handle. It was an all-consuming feeling that threatened to tear him apart. It washed over him, dragging him down to the depths of its bottomless sea, seizing him, crippling him, drowning him. Every heartbeat brought further pain. Every breath felt more and more constricting, until the act became a futile effort to stay alive.
WHY?!
Why had his grandfather done this to him, again? What had he done? What was the terrible crime he committed? To be born? To love? To live? Yes, that was it! He was alive… that was his crime. He was alive. As long as he was alive, his grandfather would lose.
The crushing emptiness subsided. It was far from easy, but it had to stop. He had to squash it like an insect beneath a foot. He ignored the pangs of fear trying to slip in to replace the emptiness; that was not easy either, but he had a lot more practice quelling that emotion. A small spark still burned deep in his soul; it would never be truly be extinguished, life would never allow that. He gently nurtured the spark, feeding it the jagged bits of his soul that remained, willing it to grow; it did grow, more and more, becoming a flame. The flame spread throughout him burning everything in its path, consuming all, leaving behind pure, unadulterated rage that need to feast on the flesh of his enemies; drink their blood till he had his fill.
All would pay for his torment!
“Not mine!” Thor moaned, shaking. He fought against the uncontrollable rage welling up inside him. He fought the overwhelming urge to maim and kill, to taste human flesh and bathe himself in blood. He fought against the feeling to turn all of Midgard into a smoldering pile of ash, before wreaking vengeance on Odin.
Sorina tried to soothe him with encouraging words. Mio inched closer – if that were possible – growling a deep, guttural growl from the depths; his ears pinned back and teeth stripped bare as he stared out the window. Bryndis moved slowly toward the dog; she had never seen Mio act this way before. No one had.
“Not mine!” Thor said louder, his shaking growing violent. His mind was linked to Fenrir’s, and it was maddening! Thor realized if he did not sever the tie soon, he may spend the rest of his life like this.
Mio howled, climbing over Thor, teeth bared in a vicious snarl, and snapping at the window.
Sorina froze with fear.
“Nwabudike!” Bryndis shouted, and the door burst open.
Half a dozen rifles pointed to every corner of the room as Nwabudike entered. “Do not move,” he said, eyeing Mio.
The dog crouched over Thor, as if ready for a fight to the death. Deep determination radiated from Mio to protect his master, his friend, growling so fierce he shook the bed.
“IT”S NOT MINE!!!” Thor shouted. His eyes sprang open, his breath coming in ragged gulps.
* * *
The long, curved blade flashed in Mikki’s hand as she twirled it between her fingers like mad; a habit she no longer cared to control. She shook with anger and sadness, watching her friend sink further and further into the depths of despair. Deep down, she knew he would snap out if it soon, but this wait was maddening.
So, when Jacques left the room, she decided to join him.
Nwabudike flashed each of them a hope-filled gaze as they exited the room. Seeing that sort of emotion on Death’s face was strange, but no stranger than watching pain cross the man’s face, as Jacques shook his head. De
ath, it seems, has developed a soft spot for Thor Odinsson. Good, that blue-eyed idiot is going to need all the help he can get!
Mikki followed the big man wordlessly as he moved through the throngs of revelers. Something was troubling Jacques Montrose, beyond Thor’s current condition; he knew as well as she, something was wrong.
The courtyard was like Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras; bonfires dotting the space, drunken fools singing and dancing to out of tune music, the smells of strong liquor and bad food. All that was missing was one of the idiots tossing her a string of beads to flash her tits.
Mikki pushed away the offered bottle of wine with a threatening glare, then hung her head, feeling this party was going to come to an abrupt, horrific end.
She followed Jacques to where they had the dead creature’s body strapped to a car frame. The locals paused in their attempts to carve the beast like a side of beef, as Jacques cut the thing open, peering inside. What the hell was he expecting to see?
The old man stumbled backwards, falling to the ground, and scrambling further back. “Burn it!” Jacques screamed. “Burn the bloody thing! NOW!” What the hell could he have seen to scare the piss out of him like that?
She never had the chance to ask; her eyes were drawn to the top of the wall, where a creature – big enough to make the dead one appear a puppy – stood, silhouetted against the reddish- moon. Her knife was in her right hand; its twin appeared in her left, and she let out the most ferocious scream she could manage.
The creature atop the wall howled, turning Mikki’s insides to jelly. She wanted to piss her pants and run, but she had a promise to fulfill.
Laughter turned to screams of terror, dancing turned to flight for life, and the monster leaped into the panic-stricken crowd, tearing its way toward the carcass, ripping to shreds everything in its path.
Jacques’ men began to fire at this new creature; the big man himself, still intent on burning the dead creature, found a gasoline can and tossed it to Jean. “Come get some!” Jacques shouted to the creature as he picked up a machine gun, firing a steady stream of lead into the oncoming brute.
Death was all around Mikki; twice she failed to save someone from those terrible jaws, twice more she managed to dodge being ripped to shreds by them. This thing was unbelievably fast; luck, alone, saved her skin as she moved through the chaos. She forced back tears, knowing her luck was going to run out before this ended.
From the corner of her eye, Mikki saw Martin LeMay fire a bolt into the creature’s chest. Two more hit the thing’s body from other men, then a grenade exploded into its side. It was about time these men used their heads.
The monster did not even flinch; its massive claws sent Jacques flying to die in a crumpled heap.
Martin LeMay was reloading when the damned thing turned, rushing toward the man. The F.B.I. agent stared the beast down with grim determination, frantically trying to reload his rifle.
Why did have to be him? Mikki asked herself, leaping to the bed of a truck, then onto the creature’s back. She brought down the knife with every ounce of her strength, shoving the blade deep into the monster’s right eye until it stopped, hitting the back of the goddamned thing’s skull.
Instead of dying, the monster howled in pain, tossed Mikki from its back, and raked a claw through her midsection.
She tumbled to the ground in a heap, as the monster tore through the chains, retrieved the body of the other creature, and leaped over the wall again.
Mikki tried to get to her feet, but could not move. Hell, she was finding it difficult just to breathe. Her hands reached for the open gash that covered most of her belly. She brought a shaking hand to her face, staring at the blood dripping from her fingers.
“No, no, no,” a man’s voice cried to the sounds of boots running over the blood-soaked ground. In the next forced breath, Martin LeMay was kneeling over her, his eyes wide with shock. He examined her wound; there was no need to see the sadness in his eyes to know she was going to die.
God, why did it have to be him? “Listen carefully, Martin LeMay, I have something you need to do for me…”
* * *
There was a long, hate-filled howl from the courtyard below, followed by screams and gun fire. Thor tried to move, but Mio would not budge. Nwabudike and his men rushed to the windows, breaking the panes of glass with the barrels of their rifles, then firing into the night.
Nwabudike turned to the five men still in the doorway. “Nothing gets through that door!” he shouted, and the men positioned themselves to guarantee it with their lives.
“Get off me, Mio!” Thor shouted, but the dog only lowered himself further, pinning Thor to the mattress.
“Cease fire!” Nwabudike said, after a few minutes. Dark eyes scanned the scene below, and the captain’s shoulders slumped. He turned from the window, appearing ten years older.
Mio licked at Thor’s face, finally, allowing him to rise.
Thor sprang from the bed, darting from the room, wearing only the silk lounge pants Sorina and Bryndis put on him before placing him in bed. He raced down the hall at full speed, the crewmen hot on his heels. He flew through the open front door, met by a gruesome scene of carnage usually reserved for soldiers in war time.
Through the gloom of early twilight and bonfires, Thor saw the bodies of those torn apart by Hróðvitnir: the real Fenrir, son of Loki. In that brief instant, with a thin line of silver widening on the eastern horizon, everything – most everything – became crystal clear. He understood the thing Jorick could not, and the secrets his grandfather, Vali, tried so desperately to gain.
Once Jorick killed the last of the army of beasts, he was tied to their leader, just as Thor had. The only difference, Jorick thought the emotions he felt were his own. So he buried the amulet, then put as much distance as he could from it, fearing he would use its power to destroy the world. That was how Hróðvitnir escaped. The lesson Thor should have learned from the dream; the beast feared nothing, save whoever wears the amulet. Why, was the one thing left unanswered, but Thor knew it was now within his grasp.
Thor stepped into the courtyard; a few of the bodies moaned and moved, some begging for help. More were silent and still, beyond any help. The area around what appeared a truck frame was the worst, bodies had been torn to pieces, and the ground was nothing more than reddish-brown mud, with pools of blood forming in the footprints. Thor fought back the urge to vomit, seeing Réka’s body – minus the lower half – her eyes staring blankly skyward, and a knife was clutched in her right hand. Thor had promised her a trophy, but the beast took from her the last thing he could.
Jacques was slumped over a .50 caliber machine gun, the old soldier given his all, even after being impaled by the tree he had been thrown against. Thor was going to miss his father’s friend, and hoped Jacques finally found peace.
Nwabudike called for men to sweep the area to help those that needed it. He shouted for Bonchance to take a crew to check the defenses, not that it mattered much, anymore; there was no more safety to be had in this place. Else took to the air; she was wasting her time, Hróðvitnir was long gone, and not coming back anytime soon.
Thor wrapped an arm around Sorina’s shaking shoulders, and together they searched among the dead for the living, when he caught sight of a man sitting in the midst of scattered limbs, holding a slender figure in his arms, rocking back and forth. Thor and Sorina moved to him quickly. The man was nearly unrecognizable through the blood covered face, but it was Martin LeMay, battered and bleeding from a long gash on his back. The slender figure was Mikki, her insides spilling from the wound in her belly.
Martin looked up at Thor, his eyes pleading for all of this to be a horrible nightmare; all the while, the man’s tears washing away the blood where they trailed down his cheeks.
“Hey, Sugah.” Mikki’s voice was weak. She smiled, despite the incredible pain she must be feeling. “I finally found something that can beat me in a fair fight.”
Thor fell to his knees,
grasping her hand tightly.
Her emerald eyes found Sorina. “If you do him wrong, I’ll find a way back here.” She squeezed Thor’s hand, a gentle squeeze that attested the woman’s failing strength. “You be sure to tell your little ones about their aunt Mikki, Sugah.”
“You’re going to be fine, Mikki.” Thor knew that was a lie before it left his lips.
“I’m tired, Sugah. So ti…” Mikki’s eyes closed for the final time.
Thor plunged into a lake of sorrow; this time the anguish was truly his. He clutched Mikki’s hand, threw his head back, and let out a terrible howl. Hróðvitnir may have eluded Jorick, but he would hunt it to the ends of the universe; beyond the gates of Hel if need be.
* * *
Hróðvitnir son of Loki raced through the forest, Rjenlia’s body clutched tightly in his jaws. How could she have been so careless? He taught her much better than to fall for such a trap, especially after he warned her how cunning this false god is.
The morning was on its way; already the dark-gray had faded to misty blue. He hated daylight; it would be too easy to be spotted by the flying machines, and burdened as he was, they stood a good chance of capturing him. Then Odin would finally have what he wished.
The sound of a lamenting howl filled his ears, and Hróðvitnir froze in his tracks. Fear ran through his veins like a thousand icy rivers; this false Thor had not fallen into the same trap that Jorick had, and would hunt him to the ends of Midgard. It seems his father, Loki, had no more luck to offer.
He had cut the false god deeply this evening, but nowhere as deep as he would; legendary suffering was heading this fool’s way. Soon, very soon, the one calling himself son of Odin would beg to die; only Valhalla would not be waiting to receive him after Hróðvitnir fulfilled that request.
Hammer of the Gods Page 35
