Gods of Fire and Thunder

by Fred Saberhagen

  To Hal the most realistic of them suggested reflections in a fine mirror, rather than flesh and blood.

  Sometimes Baldur was greatly bothered by the wraiths, and kept nagging Hal with unanswerable questions. "If these ghosts come from some strange device, what power sustains it?"

  Now and then Hal saw in a wraith some resemblance to someone he had known in life, once to a man he knew to be dead. But he told himself firmly that it was not truly the man himself who walked, but only an image, like a reflection in a pond.

  Hal realized that this explanation tended to leave uncertain the fate, the nature, of other individuals . . . he told Baldur he had heard wild stories of certain folk down in Tartarus, people once alive who had passed through the gates of death but still retained their solid, breathing bodies. Sufficient life remained in these dwellers in the Underworld to allow them to move and speak. And Hal had even heard one tale to the effect that when some of these were able to regain the surface of the earth, they were not much the worse for their dread experience.

  "Who has ever visited the Underworld and returned, to bring such reports?"

  "Not I." Hal shuddered. "I told you that these are only wild stories."

  On almost every evening (excepting only those occasional times when Wodan for some unexplained reason did not attend) events in the great hall followed pretty much the same routine. Several times during the course of each nightly carousal, Wodan urged his followers to stand on their feet and laugh, to empty their flagons and sing a rousing song. There arose a thin chorus of broken and wavering voices, creating echoes that soon were lost, drifting away through the cracked stonework high above. Even with one or two men roaring loudly, the overall sound of the song was never more than feeble at its best. The serfs, or the wraith musicians, were still making most of the noise.

  Something made Hal look up, into the dim, broken vaulting high above; he felt slightly cheered to see that a bird had flown in, but a better look convinced him that it was a bat.

  Now and then a chunk of stone, perhaps disturbed by bats or birds or gusts of wind, or simply coming loose, came falling from the heights to strike with a vicious crack on floor or furniture. Hal decided he'd keep his helmet on.

  Strong drink, generally mead, was magically provided, though not on any dependable schedule, and never served by wraiths or soldiers, but only by creeping, starveling serfs. The servers staggered and stumbled as if they were helping themselves when out of Wodan's sight, for which Hal could not blame them. On some nights, the casks and flagons on the tables were filled with all the fermented honey that any man could drink.

  After his first cup, Hal made a face. "Is there never any wine?"

  "No wine," one of his new mates told him. "Wodan does not consider it a proper drink. Mead is for true Heroes."

  On other evenings there was nothing in the men's flagons but weak beer or water. When there was enough mead to let them do so, most of the men generally drank themselves into a stupor.

  All too often, the new recruits were told, the rations of real food tended to be scanty. Wodan's quartermaster department was nonexistent, except for the occasional magical efforts of the god himself. Wodan simply never made much of an effort to equip or strengthen his captive army. His magic had grown as erratic as his thinking.

  Wodan himself always drank mead, as befitted his legendary reputation, according to which he never ate. Hal was vaguely relieved to note that in practice the god speared some of the choice food morsels for himself—it made the All-Highest seem more human and therefore more fallible.

  Though the food varied wildly in quality, the dishes and knives and goblets were consistently magnificent. Hal thought some of the plate might be worth as much as the damned disappearing horseshoes; but the dishes would be harder to carry and more readily missed.

  None of the Valkyries ever showed up for the nightly feast, and no one seemed to be expecting them. Hal saw no reason to hope that any of them would accept the idea that solacing the Heroes was part of their duties.

  Wodan, when addressing his troops, spoke to his poor handful as if they represented a mighty host. He repeatedly announced it as his own sacred duty, and also his solemn fate, that he must do his best to amass an army for some climactic battle against an opponent of shadowy reality. The god of war was convinced that on that day the treacherous god Loki would be one of his opponents.

  At least once an evening he broke off to ask: "Have any of you who feast and drink with me tonight learned aught of the whereabouts of Loki the Treacherous?" And with his one eye Wodan searched the thin ranks of his guard.

  On each of the several nights that Hal heard this question asked, the large room remained profoundly silent.

  Some members of the guard of honor talked of Loki, as of some being with whom they were almost familiar.

  He was a god, that much was certain. But he had now become the enemy of his former colleagues.

  Each night, when Wodan had finished with his futile questions, and produced from somewhere an ancient-looking scroll, and unrolled it, a silence fell in the great hall.

  Presently the god began to read:

  ". . . in that evil day, Loki's wolf-child Fenris will lead the monsters of disorder to blot out the Sun and Moon.

  "Rising from the sea, the great snake Jormungand will try to swallow up the Earth."

  Hal raised his head and began to listen. He had heard that name before.

  ". . . meanwhile his demon officers will sweep out of the Underworld with an army of ghosts and monsters. Then will follow a tremendous battle, in which the great gods and their enemies will destroy each other. The dead bodies will be consumed in a terrible fire that will engulf the universe and drown its ashes in the sea of anarchy."

  Obviously Wodan took his legends very seriously, and this one was fascinating in what it suggested; but still Hal's attention kept being drawn away from Wodan's words to Corporal Bran. Bran always sat listening to the reading with rapt attention, eyes shining, his broad shoulders swaying slightly, as if he dreamed of swinging weapons. This was evidently the high point of the corporal's day, every day. Tonight Bran was murmuring something, in a kind of counterpoint to the reading itself; the sound of his voice was so soft it was smothered by Wodan's stage-whisper, but something gave Hal the impression that the corporal was whispering some kind of prayer.

  Meanwhile the god's voice rumbled on. "Know that before these things can come to pass, there will be savage wars all across the world, and a time when each man seeks revenge upon another. The ties of kinship will be dissolved, and the crimes of murder and incest will be common . . . the stars will fall from the sky, and the entire earth will quake and quiver . . . all monsters bound beneath the world will be set free. The . . . sea rises to engulf the land, and on the flood the ship Naglfar is launched . . . fashioned from the fingernails of dead men. It carries a crew of Giants, with Loki as their steersman."

  Hadn't the gnomes included Giants in their catalog of enemies? Hal thought he could remember something of the kind from his brief visit to their village.

  Wodan had concluded the night's reading, and sat staring into space, as if in contemplation of the horror and glory of the events to come. Looking round his own table, Hal was struck by the absence of two men. "Where's Baedeker?" he asked the man next to him in a low voice. "And Baldur?"

  The other whispered back: "Baedeker was too sick to make it out of the barracks tonight. Baldur stayed with him. If anyone should ask, they're both on special duty."

  Soon the evening had frayed out to nothingness in its usual way. Wodan had departed and all were free to leave the great hall, Hal returned to the barracks.

  There he found Baldur, sitting beside the dying man. Sergeant Nosam had also come in and was standing by. As Hal entered, the man on the bunk murmured a few words, something that made Baldur burst out with: "Wodan will not let you die!"

  Hal and the sergeant looked at each other, but neither of them bothered to contradict Baldur. Baede
ker, his breath rasping in his throat, was gazing off into the distance, through the stone walls, into some country that he alone could see.

  Presently Corporal Bran came in and joined the group. Standing at the foot of the bunk, Bran in a firm voice but with gentle words tried to urge the prostrate man to pull himself together and return to duty.

  Baedeker gave him a fleeting glance, and got out a few words: "It's no good, Corporal."

  Bran looked nervous. "That is no way for a man to die. You shouldn't just lie there like that, on a bed of straw." With a sudden movement he unsheathed a knife, and held it out, hilt first. "Here. Get up and fight me, I'll give you a proper end."

  Baedeker did not try to move. He had resumed his staring into the distance, as if he and Bran were now a million miles apart.

  Sergeant Nosam intervened. "Bran, I want you to go up and take the high lookout for a while. I mean on top of the keep. Relieve whoever is on duty now."

  Bran only looked at him, as if his mind was far away. Then he looked back to Baedeker on his bunk.

  It was the first time Hal had seen Nosam nervous. "Do you hear me, Corporal? I have given you an order."

  At last Bran nodded. "I hear you, Sergeant. The high lookout." Obedience to orders was part of the great scheme of things, ordained by the All-Highest, not to be disputed. Bran slowly turned and took himself away.

  The sick man's breath, already labored, began to rasp and rattle in his throat.

  And then, before Hal had really been expecting it to stop, it stopped.

  No one put the event into words, but no one had any doubt of what had happened. Baldur sat stunned on the edge of the cot. The sergeant stood by with nothing to say for the moment, only looking a little grimmer than usual.

  Hal drew a deep breath. "What's the usual procedure now?"

  Nosam seemed grateful for this practical attitude. "Simple rites are usually conducted around midnight." The sergeant looked all around him, into darkness, as if seeking some sign that would tell him how far the night had progressed. "Guess there's no use waiting. Just wrap him up in his blanket and bring him along."

  Baldur was shaking his head slowly. "Is there to be no ceremony?"

  "If you want some ritual, make one. But I wouldn't want to remind the Old Man—or Bran—that people actually die here. They know it, but they don't want to know it, if you know what I mean. They manage to forget the fact, in between the times it happens."

  Baldur did not respond to that. Hal thought: Who would he pray to, if we did have a ritual? Wodan?

  Hal moved to pick the body up, but Baldur stepped ahead of him, and gathered up the underweight corpse, wrapped in a thin blanket, to carry it in his arms.

  "Follow me."

  The sergeant led them out of the rear door of the barracks, through cold and darkness, past the malodorous latrine, then through another unheated vault of stone and out of doors again.

  As they walked, Hal's guide pointed with a hand out over the parapet.

  "The plain of Asgard's out there. Had we proper light now, you could see it."

  "The plain of Asgard?"

  "You know, it comes up in the Old Man's readings. Or maybe he hasn't gone through that part of the book since you've been here. That's the great stretch of flat land where the last battle will be fought."

  The night was well advanced by now, and Hal took note of the stage of the waning moon. It had been just full, he recalled, on the night when he and Baldur began their walk from the gnomes' village to glorious Valhalla. Somehow he had lost track of the days, but there could hardly have been a great many of them.

  Presently they came to a dim, chest-high parapet.

  "Here's where we usually put them over," the sergeant said. "The deepest drop is just below. So lift him up, and let him find his rest. Then we'd best be getting right back to the barracks. I've got to see the Old Man yet tonight, and we're due for an early drill tomorrow."

  Hal asked: "You're going to see Wodan about—?"

  "Not this. No, never about anything like this. Unless he heard it from someone else. Then I'd have to answer questions. Somehow come up with answers."

  Someone was still holding the body. "Where do I put—?"

  The sergeant patted the top of the parapet. "Just set him up there, I say. Then give him a little shove. There's a good thousand feet of air to cool his fever before the trees and rocks will catch him."

  Baldur complied. Then just at the last moment he reached forward with one nervous hand, to tuck in a fold of blanket, as if in the name of neatness or of comfort. It was the sergeant who stepped forward to push the bundle off the wall, over the precipice, to vanish in dead silence. Hal found himself listening for some faint sound of impact, but then he turned away before it came.

  Next morning, immediately after the early drill, Alvit appeared, and after a few words with the sergeant took Hal aside to talk with him.

  He was half expecting to be questioned about Baedeker's death, but Alvit did not mention it.

  "What do you think of Wodan*s army now?" Alvit asked when the two of them were alone, walking through one of the snowy courtyards. The sun was out this morning, and the trampled whiteness underfoot was turning into slush. "Have you perhaps found the place you have been looking for, here in Valhalla?"

  Hal gave the Valkyrie a hard stare, trying to figure her out. "I thought you were willing for us to escape."

  "I was, but I have changed my mind."

  "I don't understand."

  "I have been watching you, Haraldur, and I think you are a real soldier, not just a thug or an unlucky drifter, like most of these. You probably have it in you to be a real leader. To command troops in combat."

  Hal stopped walking, and shook his head. "My present position does not afford much scope for leadership."

  "Having experience as a common soldier in Wodan's ranks should work to your advantage. You must know the organization before you can be placed in command of it."

  He had started to walk again, but now he stumbled and almost fell. "What are you talking about?"

  "I am thinking, hoping, praying to all the gods I know, that there might be time to turn this feeble remnant into a real army before it must enter battle." Alvit looked back at the remnants of the morning's drill, a small mob slowly breaking up, and shook her head. "I know it will take months, at least, but we might have that long. Perhaps even a year, if we are lucky."

  Hal's curiosity was growing. "Tell me more."

  "The point is that we need leaders as well as men. Nosam is too thoughtful and cautious, Blackie too sly, and Bran—I think could not be trusted. And they are all too small in mind to be commanders. Baldur may perhaps someday grow big enough."

  "And you think I'm big enough now?"

  "I think you may be if you try. In good time we will see. For now, be patient."

  Alvit's hints gave Hal something to think about as he trudged back to the barracks. It came to him that she might be the true commander here, managing things for Wodan in his dotage. Was the Great Game of power Hal thought he had abandoned about to catch him up again? He was still tired of trying to be a hero.

  But Alvit, herself, now . . . she was something for a man to really think about. He could well imagine himself trying to talk her out of keeping any foolish vows of virginity she might have made . . . as Baldur must have done with Brunhild.

  * * *

  12

  On the night after Baedeker's death, the evening feast was delayed, and when the food and drink at last were served, both Wodan and Sergeant Nosam were absent.

  Corporal Blackie had been left in charge. He and Bran were sitting two tables away from Hal and Baldur, facing in Hal's direction.

  Hal thought the food was a little worse than average tonight, though plentiful enough. But the mead was of reasonable quality, and fairly plentiful. The music seemed even feebler than usual, though Bran several times ordered the musicians to play louder and faster.

  When the faint hum of talk in the
big room suddenly ceased, Hal looked up to see that the pair of gnomes were standing, unbidden and unexpected, in the entrance to the great hall. It was the first time he had ever seen them here.

  Blackie growled at them. "Well? What is it?"

  Moving a step forward, Andvari asked pardon for intruding, then said they had come not so much to complain as to beg for food, because no one was feeding them lately, and they were still forbidden to leave Valhalla. He doubted that Wodan really wanted to starve them to death. They were almost ready to run out, to just leave anyway.

  Hal stood up and scraped food from serving dishes on his own table onto two clean, incongruously elegant plates. Then he carried the plates over to the gnomes, who thanked him profusely, sat down at once, and began to eat.

  Baldur tonight had consumed more than his usual share of the drink of true Heroes. When Hal came back to his own table, Baldur waved an arm to indicate the scene before them. "I am now certain of it, Hal. This—all this nonsense we have here—it cannot be the real thing—all this—it must be a test, I tell you, Hal."

  "You've said it, youngster." Looking over from two tables away, Bran vehemently agreed. "I don't believe a man can really die here, the straw death, in his bed. Some kind of lousy magic trick was worked on us. And I don't think Wodan's really sick." His voice was challenging, belligerent, and none of the eyewitnesses to death corrected him. No one was going to try to force Bran to face anything.

  "We are being tested," Baldur repeated.

  It seemed that Bran, too, had been having more than usual to drink. He slammed a big fist on the worn table. "That's it, you're right, I've said it all along, we are being tested. Those who prove loyal will win to the true reward at last. True Heroes should be fighting every day and every night. Not this . . ." His face and his gesture spoke eloquently of his disgust.