by Sam Hooker
Not bad, cawed Redcrow, if you’re into that sort of thing.
“It’s wonderful.” Volgha smiled with wonder. “Shall we listen for a while?”
Oh, let’s! said Osgrey.
Redcrow’s feathers shook, and he flapped his wings.
Let’s not. There’s something odd about this tune, don’t you think? Volgha? Osgrey?
No response. Redcrow flapped and squawked. Squawking was singularly undignified behavior for a crow, but Redcrow sensed that desperate times were afoot.
Volgha willed Redcrow to be quiet, not wanting to slip out of the reverie. She just wanted to sit and listen to this glorious music for as long as she could.
The Vikings sitting around Volgha apparently wanted the same thing, and one or two of them swatted lazily at Redcrow to hush him up. He dodged and flew up into the rafters.
“Quiet,” said Volgha.
Redcrow cawed a swear word. It’s an enchantment! Don’t listen, you’ll get trapped in it!
It is not, said Osgrey. I’d know if it was, believe me. It’s just the sweetest music I’ve ever heard! I could listen to it forever.
Volgha made no reply. She simply sat and listened, enraptured by the chords and scales that rang out from the lute. Sublime arpeggios trilled from Loki’s fingers with practiced ease. They delighted her. She only wanted to hear what came next.
Redcrow had finally gone quiet. She could still feel his presence up in the rafters. He was fine. He was … plotting something …
Oh, but such music!
She forgot about Redcrow, let him fade into the background with the din of all of her other thoughts. The notes rose and fell in measured patterns so sublime, that—
In the name of the Warden!
In a flurry of scarlet feathers, Loki was bowled backward over his chair. The music stopped, the lute flew out of his hands, and Loki hit his head on the polished wooden boards of the stage. Redcrow ended his gallant charge by flying back up into the rafters. Volgha and all of the Vikings rubbed their eyes, shook their heads, and looked around as though they had no idea where they were.
“I’m starving,” said a great red-bearded Viking next to Volgha.
“What happened to the music?” asked another Viking with a black beard. “I was listening to that!”
A few other Vikings growled and grumbled their agreement. Others yawned, the bags under their eyes as big as sausages.
What started as confusion flew past annoyance with alarming speed on its collision course with rage. In a crowded room, the worst thing that could possibly happen is for the angriest among them to start coming up with the ideas. Especially when the angriest are the ones with the big swords and axes strapped to them.
To make matters worse, there is a single catalyst that makes it very easy for anger to run the show, and at that particular moment, that was exactly what happened.
“Yeah?” shouted a blonde Viking woman who had accidentally bumped her shield into a blonde Viking man, who’d given her the old watch-it-with-that-thing. “What are you going to do about it?”
It is a well-known fact across every world culture that there are a certain number of magical spells that may be cast by any person at any time, whether they’re a wizard, witch, baker, or student just out of the university who hasn’t quite decided what she wants to do with her life. One such spell is an eight-word incantation, which compels a person to punch the caster in the face without hesitation. Predictably, in this instance, the magic succeeded.
“Hey!” shouted a different Viking who also had a great blonde beard. “You just punched my sist—” and was punched as well.
Vikings’ affection for a good fight rivals that of adolescent girls for yawning kittens. As soon as one starts, there’s no keeping them away from it. So it was that the entire room gave gleeful smiles and started punching whatever faces happened to reside within the proper distance.
Volgha ducked, weaved, and generally concentrated on being in whatever spot wasn’t occupied by a fist at any given moment. She rolled under a table and did her best to stay there, until one Viking pushed another over the top of it, and the table went crashing to the side behind him.
In the rush that followed, she got the wind knocked out of her with a kick that may or may not have been intentional, and then a big armored boot planted itself squarely on her ankle. She cried out, scrambled up, and started limping her way toward the door.
She was rushing, careless. She didn’t see the fist that clearly had the right-of-way in the busy traffic and darted blithely into its path. Her head spun, and before she could find her bearings, she felt herself being lifted up, flung through the air, and then colliding twice: once with the shelves full of booze behind the bar, and again with the floor behind said bar.
She used the brief respite to crawl into a corner and cast the spell to make herself Dim. Best just to wait this one out, she decided.
Good idea, cawed Redcrow from his perch in the rafters. It appeared as though they’d be there a while.
15
“That was a good one,” said the bartender, a big, burly Viking with a grey beard.
“A good one?” Volgha shouted, partially from the adrenaline still coursing through her, but also because all of the roaring and shouting during the brawl had left a persistent ringing in her ears.
“Yeah.” The bartender smiled. “It’s nice when the whole community comes together like that. Reminds us all that we’ve got friends and neighbors just like us.”
“It was a brawl!”
“Sure, but only punching and kicking. There may have been a bit of biting, too, but no steel came out.”
“They destroyed the place!”
“Hasn’t happened in a while. We were overdue. Besides, now all of the furniture makers, glass blowers, carpenters, and the like have orders to fill. The occasional row is good for the economy.”
“Are you serious?”
“Aye,” said the bartender. “Besides, I finally had a reason to punch Sven. Been wanting to do that for years. I think he lost a tooth! It was a fine dust-up.”
Volgha stood up. Her head spun a little and her ribs hurt, but the worst was her ankle. She was fairly certain it wasn’t broken, but she’d be limping for a while at the very least.
She straightened up, donned her pointy hat, and made her way over to the stage where Loki was part of an unconscious pile, which snored loudly enough to go professional.
I don’t think brawling is our game. Redcrow looked down from the rafters, where he’d watched the whole show.
“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” she said with a grimace.
The two of you were just going to sit down and drool along with the music, cawed Redcrow. You should be thanking me! I broke the spell!
I was working on a plan, Osgrey protested. I just wanted to enjoy the music while I was doing it.
“Be that as it may,” said Volgha, “you started a fight. We could have handled it with more subtlety!”
You’d have subtly starved to death, cawed Redcrow. You got off easy, with what? A few unanswered punches, a twisted ankle, and a little toss behind a bar?
She hadn’t thought about the punches having gone unanswered. Her bruises would mend, but some cretin—or rather, several cretins—had gotten away with knocking a witch around. Volgha knew that she had far more important things to deal with, but it galled her to think that these vexes were going to go unanswered.
Wasn’t that something? asked Osgrey. We took a mighty toss! We went flying through the air, whoosh! And then, bang! And then, thud. It must have been painful. Unlucky for you, having a body and all.
“Thanks for reminding me.” Volgha winced as she stretched, now acutely aware of which of her ribs had been involved with the aforementioned “bang” and “thud.” She’d survey the damage later, preferably during a soak in a nice hot tub. For now, she set herself about the task of liberating the unconscious Loki from under a pair of snoring Vikings. She managed to wake one
of them and had to settle for rolling the other one away.
“Loki,” she said, trying to gently shake him awake. No response. She shook him harder.
“Loki!” She gave him a good slap. He snored.
She slapped him again and tried to suppress a grin.
You enjoyed that one, cawed Redcrow.
“He had it coming.”
Another slap. Still nothing. Loki snored with a vengeance, as though he were trying his hand at lumberjacking simply by making the noise of the saw.
That doesn’t seem to be doing any good, cawed Redcrow.
“So now knocking someone around is a bad idea? Mind your own business!”
“Is he all right?” asked the bartender, who was giving her a look that one might give a crazy person who got into shouting matches with birds.
“More or less,” Volgha replied. “How long had he been playing?”
“A dozen evenings, at least. It was amazing, I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“He needs to sleep,” said Volgha. “Can you have him brought up to a room?”
“Sure, but who’s going to pay for it?”
“Take it out of whatever you were going to pay him.”
“I wasn’t going to pay him,” said the bartender. “Minstrels are paid by the patrons, he knew the deal.”
“Then where is the money the patrons gave him?”
The bartender shrugged. “Must have gotten swept away in the fight.”
The look that Volgha gave the bartender could have curdled a block of stone.
I know that look, cawed Redcrow. Give him the business!
“So you mean to tell me,” Volgha growled, “that this man gave you an enormous crowd for a dozen evenings, a brawl that will be the talk of the town until spring, provided a boon to the economy, played himself nearly to death, and you have the gall to ask ‘who’s going to pay for his room?’” She hadn’t intended to turn on a glamour, but there are times when a witch’s magic just sort of seeps out unexpectedly, like farts in church.
Her eyes went black. Thunder rolled through the rafters, and shadowy tendrils started to creep out from under her dress.
“Put him in a room right now,” said a pair of voices, one Volgha’s and the other several octaves lower, “and let him sleep until he wakes! Never mind the cost, and never ask another stupid question of a witch again!”
A streak of pale and clammy bartender whisked Loki over its shoulder and hoofed it for the stairs.
The thunder faded, the shadows dissolved, and Volgha’s eyes went back to their natural color—though one of them was still black, but only in the post-brawl sense.
Oh, you’ve got the hang of that, said Osgrey. That’s the sort of intimidation that only comes from practiced witchery! You’ll make a fine Warden, I’m sure of it!
“I’m still not interested!”
Yes, she is! Redcrow flapped and cawed. Look, just don’t make any decisions until we’ve got this mess sorted out. You’re not thinking clearly.
Volgha made a dismissive noise, somewhere between a groan and a growl. She knew perfectly well that she didn’t want to be the Warden of anything because she knew her own mind. It was the same mind that was far too groggy to fight about it.
She picked up her broom, which had ended up near the edge of the stage. Half of its bristles were gone, but it was otherwise serviceable.
“Let’s go,” she said to Redcrow. He flew onto her shoulder as she hobbled toward the door.
“It’s true,” said one of several Vikings standing outside the door. His beard was grey.
“What?” said Volgha.
“A witch with a blood red raven started a great brawl in the tavern!”
Crow, cawed Redcrow.
“It’s not important.” Volgha pointed a finger at Redcrow. “Fine, word’s gotten around. What of it?”
“Heimdall sent us for you,” said the Viking.
“Did he?” asked Volgha. “Or she? Sorry, I don’t know who that is.”
“He guards Bifrost,” explained a woman holding an enormous axe, “the bridge that leads to Asgard. He said Odin wants to speak with you.”
“I didn’t start any brawl,” said Volgha.
“That’s all right,” she replied. “Odin still wants to speak to you.”
There were half a dozen Vikings there, armed to the teeth and intent on bringing Volgha before the chief of their gods. Volgha didn’t particularly want to play along, but considered that they might have wanted to appease their god more strongly than she wanted to go lie down with her ankle in a bucket of snow.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Lead on.”
One of the Vikings struck the ground twice with the butt of his spear, and they all started marching toward Yggdrasil. Volgha limped along behind them. They readily outpaced her, stopping every so often so that she could catch up. She made no great effort.
“Can’t you walk faster?” inquired one of the Vikings, as she caught up with them for the fourth time.
She glared at him. “No, I can’t. One of you horn-helmed idiots stepped on my ankle in the brawl, and it hurts to walk on it. This is how fast I can walk.”
“It’s going to take you until spring to climb the ten thousand steps.”
“Ten thousand steps?”
“The staircase,” he said, pointing to Yggdrasil. “Asgard is at the top.”
“Oh, forget it.” Volgha mounted her broom and rose up into the sky, a bit less smoothly than usual for all of the missing bristles. The shouts of the Vikings below quickly faded from her ears. Redcrow flew alongside her, and within a few minutes, they were high enough to see the great golden doors that led into the halls of the gods. They were quite impressive, though enormous golden doors generally couldn’t help but be. She touched down just outside the doors, and two guards crossed spears before them to block her way.
“Halt!” demanded one of the guards. “Who approaches the gates of Asgard?”
“Volgha the Winter Witch.”
“Caw!” said Redcrow, which Volgha understood to mean “ahem.”
“And Redcrow,” she said.
“A red raven!” The guard stared with his mouth open. “Surely it’s an omen!”
“It’s a crow,” said Volgha, having the grace to pass on the obvious pun.
He’s a crow, cawed Redcrow reproachfully.
“It doesn’t matter!” Volgha snapped. “Just be quiet!”
I’m here, too, you know.
“Not the time, Osgrey!”
“Right,” said the guard, his eyes narrowed. “And why do,” he waved his hand toward Volgha and Redcrow, “the lot of you wish to enter the hall of the gods?”
“I don’t,” said Volgha, “but this Odin fellow insisted that I do.”
“Odin is not just some fellow,” balked the guard. “He is the Allfather! First among the gods, and Lord of all Vikings!”
Oh, how nice for him.
“That’s not helping,” Volgha said to Redcrow. She turned back to the guard. “Look, I’ve had a rough time of it, and this summons is the only thing standing between me and a well-earned nap. So if you don’t mind—”
“If you were summoned, you’d have an honor guard. Where is your honor guard?”
“Walking up thousands of stairs, I presume. I made my own way.” She lifted her broom slightly for emphasis. “Now I’m done talking to underlings, are you going to open the door or not?”
“I can’t just open the door for everyone who claims to have been summoned by Odin. What would happen if word got out?”
“Block me if you like, only give me your name so I can give a reason why I didn’t turn up when Odin Allfather summoned me.”
He balked. “Well, that’s not— It’s just— Wait here, I’ll have to check.”
“I’m not that patient,” said Volgha. “Just give me your name, and I’ll go.”
“I— Oh, fine, but I’ll have to escort you in.”
Volgha smirked at him. “If it’s
not too much trouble.”
The guard opened the doors and led Volgha inside. The vaulted ceilings were impossibly tall, disappearing into shadows above that the torches ensconced on the walls could not reach. Statues, suits of armor on stands, great urns with fruit-bearing plants, and other divine spectacles lined the great hall. One plant in particular bore berries that continually changed colors. Their fragrance was mesmerizing, nearly enough to make Volgha forget how incurably grumpy she was.
They walked on past more splendor until they finally came to a great banquet, with most of the gods in attendance. Odin sat at the head of the table, his great white hair and beard slowly flowing in a breeze that wasn’t really there. His left eye bore a jeweled patch, with an enormous ruby in the center.
The guard stopped at the foot of the table, struck the floor twice with the butt of his spear, and announced her in a bold voice.
“Volgha,” he announced, “the Winter Witch. And her crow, er … Redcrow.”
“Thank you,” said Odin. “You may go.”
The guard glared at Volgha for a second, then spun around on his heel and went back the way they’d come in.
“Please.” Odin gestured to a seat on his left, on the other side of a man who could only have been Thor. Volgha limped over to the chair and sat. A wine bearer filled her cup with a honey-colored, fragrant liquid.
“Nectar of the gods,” said Thor. “For your wounds sustained in glorious battle.”
“Glorious battle!” shouted one of the other gods, standing quickly and raising his cup. It was Tyr, she assumed, from the missing hand.
“Glorious battle!” the other gods shouted in unison, standing and raising their cups and horns. They all paused and looked at her.
When in Asgard, said Osgrey, maybe do as the Aesir gods do?
“Glorious battle.” Volgha stood, raising her cup. They all drank. Volgha couldn’t help but drain her cup, it was so delicious! It was like honey and sunshine and magic all mixed together and massaged into her face by angels!
A different wine bearer refilled her cup with red wine, and she looked around for the other one—the one with the nectar.
“Wine for you now,” said Odin with a smile. “The nectar of the gods is potent, and more than a little has driven mortals mad.”
