Gods of Fire and Thunder

by Fred Saberhagen

  As Hal came close enough to hear the strained tones of the quiet voices, and to get a good look at faces, he realized that it was less a conversation than a confrontation. This was no family squabble, but an encounter between strangers that gave every sign of threatening to turn violent.

  The woman was obviously in a wretched state of fear. Her barefoot children were shivering in the almost wintry cold. A cheap-looking purse lay emptied on the ground at the man's feet, and the current point of dispute seemed to be whether she was going to be completely stripped and searched. Her feeble gesture toward a streak of color on the arm of the man who stood near her suggested that the bandit had already robbed her of a reasonably good scarf.

  This fellow now turned at Hal's approach, hands casually on hips, and gave the newcomer a long look of appraisal. His greeting came in a shrill, threatening voice: "Is this any of your bloody business?"

  "No." Hal's voice was quiet, and he remained as resolutely mild-mannered as a hopeful salesman. "I just had it in mind to ask some questions. Nothing personal. You can go on with your conversation. There's a strange fire on a hill back that way a few miles. I thought that if any of you people lived in this vicinity, maybe you could tell me—"

  The robber was disinclined to be helpful. "Then turn your fat ass around and march back the way you came—hold on, though, not so fast. Let's see what you've got in that belt pouch before you go."

  Hal shot a glance toward the fence, where the bigger man, still content to be an onlooker, was leaning as if from sheer laziness against the top course of some farmer's hard-split rails. He, too, was armed with a sword, not drawn. His gaze was penetrating, and somehow his inaction did not give the impression of any reluctance to take part in robbery. Rather his attitude suggested that he thought neither Hal nor the woman worth his trouble. He might have been a master or a teacher, observing an apprentice at his work.

  As if to make up for his companion's near-indifference, the younger and slightly smaller brigand gave the impression of being more than enthusiastic enough. Now he was fairly bouncing on his toes. He seemed not in the least put off, as most people would have been, by Hal's formidable aspect. "You heard me. Let's see what you're carrying today."

  Hal chucked the chin of the long-handled hatchet that rode head-uppermost at his belt, loosening the weapon in its holster. The head was of fine steel, the handle seasoned hickory. His voice was even quieter than before. "Doubtless you can tell just by looking at me that I'm really a prince from the Far East, traveling incognito."

  While the other was trying to think of an answer for that, Hal added: "It is my duty, as royalty, to carry fabulous exotic treasures with me all the time. But a look at them will cost you something. Maybe an arm or a hand. Does that strike you as a good bargain?" He still sounded almost apologetic.

  It was as if the young bandit had received a long-sought invitation. Something had come alight deep in his eyes. "This is your last warning, fat man. Hand over that belt pouch, or I take it from your corpse."

  Hal made a soft meditative sound, and his right hand moved again toward his belt. The pouch stayed where it was, but the slender axe seemed to leap from its holster, as if with some purpose of its own. Hal's thick fingers, as practiced as a fine musician's, caught a solid grip on the low end of its shaft. In the same moment, a long knife had materialized in his left hand.

  The nearer brigand had drawn his sword, and in the same moment he launched himself in a rush, yelling loudly. But the intended victim was moving incrementally forward, not back, which tended to spoil the aggressor's timing. At the last moment the attack wavered just slightly, and the clang of the bandit's sword against Hal's parrying knife seemed to vibrate with uncertainty.

  For a moment, the two men were standing only a little way apart, just out of grappling range. One of Hal's stubby legs shot out straight from his hip in a hard, thrusting kick. The hard leather sole of his buskined foot struck home, and his attacker went down, bent at the middle, dropping his sword. Through the man's clenched teeth there came a shocking, frightening sound that had not been calculated to shock or frighten. He just lay there in the dusty road, eyes shut, his face now clenched like a fist, his body rocking a little back and forth, uttering the strange noise. He hardly seemed to breathe.

  Meanwhile Hal had turned to face the brigand's colleague. The bigger man had advanced two paces from the fence, but then abruptly stopped when faced with the surprising end of the fight. He, too, had drawn his sword, and now he began snarling, breathing heavily, as he waved the blade. He gibbered a few words of nonsense, and his arms and fingers twitched spasmodically, offering more evidence that he was going into a berserker rage.

  "I've seen that show before," Hal told him flatly. "Are you ready to dance or not? Yes or no?"

  The other only growled and twitched some more. He glared, and a thin string of saliva dribbled from the corner of his contorted mouth.

  "I'll take that as a 'no.' " Hal sheathed his knife, after frowning at a deep new nick on its edge. Then he looked at the hatchet in his right hand as if wondering why he had bothered to draw it. A moment later it again hung peacefully on his belt.

  The woman had snatched up her emptied purse, and then with daring fingers started to unwind her good scarf from around the fallen bandit's arm—he made no move to resist, his thoughts being still fully occupied elsewhere. Hal was about to try questioning the woman about the fire when behind him sounded running feet.

  He turned as Baldur came trotting up, one hand on his own sword-hilt, still clutching a half-eaten apple in the other. He looked ready enough to offer any help that might be needed, but honestly just a little late.

  The youth shifted his gaze from Hal to the man still writhing on the ground, and back again. "What happened?"

  "Little enough." Hal shrugged.

  "I thought the people here were only talking with each other!"

  "They were." Hal nodded toward the man lying in the road. "But this one and I quickly got into a little wager about wealth."

  "Wealth?"

  "Which of us might have the most. Let's see how much he's carrying." And Hal bent to take a look. By now the fellow had almost ceased to moan. Hal judged him in the first stage of recovery—to reach the stage where purposeful movement became possible again was going to take a little while.

  The man still standing in the background growled again, but fell silent when Hal looked at him. He was still holding his sword, but now the point was almost on the ground.

  Baldur stood gazing uncertainly at this onlooker, while Hal continued rifling the belt pouch and pockets of his fallen foe. The harvest was disappointing, only a small handful of coins.

  "I win my bet," said Hal. "He was wealthier than I." But when he straightened up, he looked disappointed, and muttered to himself: "Nowhere near enough to buy a farm."

  Suddenly the woman, who had been hovering a few yards away, stepped forward and dared to make a claim.

  Her bony finger stabbed at Hal's broad palm. "Those two coppers there are mine."

  The children's eyes were staring at the northman. "Important to you, are they?" Hal rasped. "Well, take them, then."

  The woman snatched up the small coins, her sharp fingers feeling like a bird pecking at his palm. Then she startled Hal by bursting out with what seemed to be a kind of thanks but sounded like an incantation. The name of the god Thor was mentioned, as were the names of Thunderer and Charioteer, which he thought might refer to the same individual. She swore that she knew him, despite his disguise. A moment later the woman had seized Hal's hand and was kissing it. Her last words were: "The common folk will know you, and you will have our worship, always!"

  Then she was gone, almost trotting at an impressive speed, her children scampering on bare feet to keep up with her.

  Hal could only stare after her in wonderment. "What in all the hells did she mean by that?" he asked the world at large.

  Baldur might have offered an opinion, but his attention had been d
rawn elsewhere. Now he nudged Hal with an elbow and cautioned in a low voice: "That one by the fence shows signs of being a berserker."

  Hal looked that way again, then shook his head. "Not he, not any time soon. Or I'd still be running. The same goes for his comrade here on the deck." He hesitated. "You said you'd pledged yourself to Wodan. But you've never seen the real thing, have you?"

  For a moment Baldur seemed poised to dispute the point, but then he shook his head. "A true berserk in action? No, maybe I haven't. But I have"—he hesitated—"have met some of Wodan's true servants. And they have very little in common with this one you flattened." The last words were uttered with contempt. The man who lay on the ground had ceased to moan, and it looked like he might soon be ready to attempt to stand.

  "That far I can agree with you, lad. But I think you mean that Wodan's men are somehow on a higher level, and the truth is that they're worse. Now, which way to your mother's house? Think she could spare me a peaceful cup of tea?"

  Again Baldur seemed on the point of arguing, but then he caught sight of something that made him nudge Hal again and point away along the road, in the opposite direction to that taken by the fugitives. "Look what's coming now."

  About a hundred yards down the road ahead of them, a group of about a dozen men had come into view, approaching at a deliberate pace. All but one were walking, and all seemed heavily armed; a few wore scraps of armor. One man, near the center of the group and clad in furs, was riding on a cameloid. Hal thought he could see that the rider's body was twisted and deformed in some way.

  The man by the fence had seen the approaching band, and the sight seemed to meet with his approval.

  "Trouble," Hal muttered.

  "Probably not." Baldur pitched what was left of his apple away. He sounded more annoyed than worried. "I know those men—more or less. Some of them. They're not likely to do any fighting unless they're paid for it."

  "If you say so."

  As the approaching band drew nearer, it became obvious that he who rode in their midst was the leader, and this despite some evident physical handicaps. The others kept looking to him as if seeking approval or direction. He was missing an arm and an eye, and what remained of his body seemed somehow twisted under the furs. Hal judged he might be around sixty years old.

  This fellow came riding slowly up on his cameloid, and with a few harsh words called his crew to heel, when some of them began to take a challenging attitude toward Hal. Others were already jeering at the fallen bandit, whose situation they seemed to find amusing.

  But Hal paid little attention to any except the twisted leader. The man wore an array of weapons on bandolier and belt, and his clothes appeared to be mostly furs and leather.

  Between Baldur and the crippled man in the saddle there passed a brief look suggesting that they knew each other; but at the moment neither had anything to say.

  Hal was the subject of many appraising looks; he was relieved to see that at least some of the others who came walking and riding with their chief were well satisfied, considerably amused, to see the robber who had been more ambitious now stretched out on the ground. They recognized Hal's victim, but gave him no respect.

  I am called Hagan the Berserk," the twisted man announced at last. His voice was low and gravelly, much like Hal's. But generally slower, as if every word were being carefully thought out. Seen at close range, he was younger than Hal had first thought, maybe even less than fifty. But whatever the number of his years, they had all been very tough.

  At the moment the man who claimed the title of Berserk looked anything but frenzied, but the northman had no intention of expressing any doubts. "My name is Haraldur."

  As Hagan dismounted, Hal could see that the cameloid had been fitted with a special saddle to accommodate his rider's disability.

  Standing on the ground, the leader was shorter than he had appeared to be when mounted. Now it was more obvious that his spine was far from straight. His one arm was long and powerful, and the forearm below a short fur sleeve, and his hand with which he gripped a crutch, were marked with old wounds, like his face and head.

  In fact Hagan's face was hideously scarred, and Hal watching him soon got the impression that he took a kind of perverse joy or pride in shocking and frightening people with his appearance. There was no patch over his empty eye socket.

  Even as Hal watched him now, a kind of spasm, evidently, painful, rippled through his body. Now Hal could see that one of the man's legs was also twisted, like his torso. The defect made him lurch when he moved, though his movement did not lack speed. The crutch had a hard, almost spear like point, which looked as if it might punch holes in a wooden floor.

  After taking one look at Baldur, who stared back blankly, the bent one turned swiftly to Hal and regarded him in silence.

  At last the northman broke the silence. His voice was not quite as easy as before. "My name is Haraldur. Some call me Hal, to save breath."

  "Haraldur," said Hagan thoughtfully. "That's a northman's name. You've come a long way from home."

  "I was born in the far north. But I have spent some years traveling round the Great Sea."

  "Ah." Hagan nodded. He appeared to be listening attentively. Then he shot an unexpected question. "Do you know Theseus?"

  Hal blinked. "The famed sea-rover? Only by name, and reputation. Most people think he is a pirate."

  The bent man nodded slowly, managing to convey the impression that he approved of piracy in general. "How about Jason?"

  "He was my captain on my last voyage."

  Hagan's one eye squinted. "Expect me to believe that?"

  "Or not, as you choose."

  The twisted man was nodding slowly. It seemed that he was choosing to believe, and that Hal's stock had just gone sharply up. Hagan's voice had a new tone, bordering on respectful, when he asked: "Then you were one of the forty Heroes Jason took with him to hunt the Golden Fleece?"

  "There were about that number of us rowing the Argo, that much is true. As for our being Heroes . . ." Hal let it trail away. "No one else in these parts seems to have heard of us. I'm a little surprised that you have."

  Hagan seemed to take pride in his knowledge. "I have my sources." He took another long assessing look at Hal, as if confirming his decision to believe him.

  When one or two of Hagan's followers showed signs of wanting to test Hal, Hagan with a look and a growl caused them to restrain their aggression. Then, in a surprisingly mild and reasonable voice, he allowed as how he had been favorably impressed by what he had seen, at a distance, of Hal's behavior.

  Baldur spoke to the twisted man at last, asking a question. "A member of your band?" With a nod of his head the youth indicated the man who had now stopped writhing on the ground, and was thinking about trying to sit up.

  Hagan's tone changed to one of savage contempt. "To join me was his ambition. His and this other's." The man who had been standing near the fence had not come forward to declare himself a member of the band by blending in with it, as Hal had been more than half expecting. Instead the fellow now seemed to be trying to turn himself invisible. Somehow he had translated his body to the far side of the fence, and was edging away into a barren winter hedgerow.

  The twisted man was taking no notice of his departure. "But I would not have them," he went on. "I want no play-actors in my company."

  Swinging his weight on his crutch and twisted leg, he brought himself a half step closer to Hal. With a new eagerness in his voice, he asked: "You will have seen the real thing? How men behave when the Father of Battles takes possession of their souls and bodies?"

  "I have seen them, true Berserks," Hal replied. He was trying to conceal the fact that it cost him an effort to keep looking into the bottomless blackness of Hagan's single eye.

  Now the bent man asked, in his urgent voice: "What of yourself, Haraldur? What is your ambition? Have you ever heard Wodan's call?"

  Slowly Hal shook his head. "I have seen how others walk that road, and it is
not for me. But let each man choose for himself."

  Hagan stared at him a moment longer, then turned his one-eyed stare away. "Well spoken, northman. Great Wodan's way is not for everyone."

  Hal felt some of the tension go out of his muscles. Meanwhile the gnarled man glanced with contempt at the figure still sitting in the road. The apprentice bandit's agony had receded to the point where he was now making an effort to get up, glaring about him in his fear and pain and rage. But the only response he got was laughter, from some of Hagan's followers.

  In his misery and humiliation the defeated bandit found his voice. "I'll see you again, fat man. I promise you."

  Hagan continued to ignore the fellow. "Maybe you can see, northman, how matters stand with me. It is my part to serve in this world for a time yet. When the time comes, I will climb the mountains to Valhalla and join my master there." He turned to give his men a narrow-eyed look of appraisal. "As for now, I have some good lads here," he proclaimed modestly.

  "I can see that," said Hal, honestly enough. Looking at the crew the bent man had assembled, he thought that if he himself were going in for banditry he could probably not expect to do much better. Somehow Hal got the impression that they were all fiercely dedicated to serving their master. The least formidable among them looked somehow tougher than the robber he had just beaten. Crippled as Hagan was, he seemed to exert an intangible attraction that could make men want to follow. Hal in his time had known a few others with the same power, and now he himself could feel the tug, though inwardly he recoiled from it as from the taste of some seductive and deadly poison.

  "Have you seen Loki's big fire on the hilltop, northman?"

  "I have. And it is certainly a wonder."

  "You've looked at it closely?"

  "Close as I could. Climbed the hill and got within a few yards of it. It warmed me up, but told me nothing. Except that it is more than natural, and I could see that from a distance."

  The bent man, who had been listening carefully, now squinted in that direction. "I would like to get a closer look myself. I wonder if a cameloid can climb that hill?"