"Do you remember the pathetic, old drunkard who walked the railroad tracks?"
"Gray Charlie, of course." Then, truth hammered Jon. He had not seen the old drifter since his accident. "Oh my god."
Eric said nothing. His eyes glittered in a weapon's yellow-white flash. He He unslung a pack from his back, then separated out a .45 side arm, the familiar book, and something smaller that he slipped into his hand too quickly for Jon to identify it. He placed the book on the ground, held the pistol, and knelt beside it.
Jon crouched to Eric's level. "You've used it here, haven't you?"
Eric said nothing.
"I spoke with Coby Jackson."
"Did you now?"
"There's no destiny involved. I came because of what he said." Jon fidgeted, forcing himself to raise the important issue. "Did you kill one of your own men?"
Eric looked up. Tears trailed lines through the cammo paint. "Yes." He made the confession without attempt at defense.
"How could you?"
The tears continued to flow, and Eric's head sank again. "It was him or the whole platoon. What choice did I have?"
"How do you know what would have happened?"
"I'm trained to know. I knew."
"You murdered one of your own men."
Eric said nothing.
Deep inside Jon Skell, honor warred with loyalty. "I love you, Eric. You're the only brother I ever had. But I can't sanction murder."
"We're in war, Jon. There is no such thing as murder."
"You killed one of your own men."
"You saw what happened to the men you were with. Was that murder?"
"That was an accident. You knew exactly what you were doing. Exactly who you were killing."
"Yes." Eric said. He raised his head, looking beyond or through Jon, focused on the ceaseless pops and explosions. Screams cut over the gunfire, most indecipherable. Someone shrieked, "Medic!" repeatedly.
Jon stiffened. Eric's focus back on the war reminded him of his own duties. He had come against orders, yet it made him no less liable for the men in his own mind.
Apparently guessing his friend's intentions, Eric caught his arm. "It's too late for that one." All of the remorse had left his tone. The tears stopped with unnatural suddenness. His fingers pried open Jon's hand, and he stuffed something small and metal against Jon's palm. "Soon enough, it'll be too late for all of us. It's my duty to see that my men survive."
Jon glanced at the object in his fist. It was Eric's pewter sword. A chill swept through him. "What are you doing?"
"I'm sorry," Eric said. Then, his words became incomprehensible.
It took Jon's mind unreasonably long to register what was happening. By the time he thought to read the book's final page, Eric was enunciating the last Nordic rune:
The speaking of words,
A brothers slaying
Will bring the Gray God
On your enemies preying.
The significance slammed Jon like a hammer blow. "Eric, no!" He dove blindly for Eric Skulason. His hands struck his friend's arms, driving them downward, just as the.45's discharge joined the deadly pandemonium around them. Jon collapsed, sobbing at the betrayal. He awaited the pain that never came, and he wondered if he had fallen dead before he felt it, waited for his mind to register the end he already knew. Yet still the oblivion would not come. opened his eyes.
Suddenly, the earth seemed to fold and shake beneath him. Light cracked open the heavens, obscuring moon and stars in a blinding flash that ached through Jon's eyes and ears. Wind funneled down from the sky, a bucking gale thai pounded Jon, nearly knocking him flat to the ground. Pain and pressure made his head feel as if it would explode. An odor nearly overwhelmed him, rancid with the reek of things long dead, the charnel odor that had sent him into spasms of vomiting as a child. Then, a giant stepped through the hole in the heavens. A simple, gray cloak enwrapped the figure, the hood in place. Yet, it could not hide muscles as thick and prominent as a draft horse's. The face lay in shadow, and a single blue eye glared forth like a beacon. Gripped in both weathered hands, he clutched a sword the size of a two by four. His laughter reverberated over the battlefield, reducing the mortar rounds, grenades, and machine guns to the volume of child's toys. He leapt for the NVA.
The pewter sword in Jon's hand twitched. Then, suddenly, it snapped to the size of a real sword. Startled, Jon sprang backward to stare, keeping hold of the haft by luck and habit alone. Only then, the answers came. This sword is of their world. Eric knew it would become life-sized when he set off that spell, because he's done it before. Jon took the logic one step further. And he gave it to me because he never intended to kill me. He intended— Jon attempted to cut off the thought, but his mind moved faster. —to kill himself. Instantly, he translated the idea to action, ignoring the charging god, ignoring the panicked screams that shattered his hearing, ignoring the guns that blattered at a creature not of this world, a god they could not harm.
And Jon turned his attention to Eric. His best friend lay still, eyes closed. Blood pulsed from a ragged hole in his leg, the flow lessening in the instant it took Jon to react. A lake of blood surrounded the wound. "Eric, you stupid, fucking hero." Jon hurled down the sword, hauling a bandage and a stick from his medical pouch. A tourniquet might well lose Eric his leg, but it could save his life. Jon's mind kicked in. He kept the facts, for the moment holding emotion at bay. It was probably already too late, but that did not stop him. He wrapped the bandage, twisted until the flow stopped, then deftly tied the wrap in place. Only then, his fingers slipped to the other femoral artery, near the groin. A pulse fluttered against his touch.
Alive! Joy rushed through Jon. He howled in exaltation, the cry lost beneath the rush of the wind. He caught a glimpse of the gray god, Odin, bullets flying around and through him, RPG-7's exploding against him, then raining shrapnel over the NYA. His sword flung red arcs like dawn light through the night-dark sky, and his laughter rang like thunder. The odor of fresh blood mingled with the dead smells. And Eric's pulse disappeared from beneath Jon's touch.
"No! Don't die, damn you! You can't die now." Springing to Eric's head, he sealed his mouth over his friend's, administering two solid breaths. The chest rose and fell without effort. "Live, you son of a bitch. Live. I need you here!" He performed the chest compressions, then leapt back to handle the airway again. On the second cycle, a weak but steady pulse answered his attempts. "Thank god."
Jon Skell looked up.
A woman stared back at him, her face savagely beautiful and her expression cruel. She wore the seamless, gold armor of the Valkyries in his reverie. She clutched a war axe in her fist. "Move aside. He is ours."
Jon picked up the sword, heart pounding. "You can't have him.'
"Then I will take him."
Rage turned Jon's vision red. Too much had happened too quickly. He had long ago accepted the presence of these mythical figures summoned by his friend who was more like a brother. He had worked too hard, given too much, to lose the battle now. Without warning, he lunged and thrusted. The point jabbed through metal and flesh. Shock registered on the woman's face. Then, she collapsed, screaming once, and was still. Where the bullets and grenades had failed, the blade from their own world had succeeded.
Again, light snapped and flared. Where one valkyrie lay dying, eleven others appeared to take her place. Every one clutched a war axe. Blood blond hair flowed in waves from beneath their helmets, and their blue eyes gleamed red from the flash of their own entrance. The advanced on Jon.
Jon Skell held his ground, checking his fear. He took a defensive stance he had learned in a book, surprised at how natural the position felt. "Do your worst. You may get me, but I'll take more than one with me! How many valkyries can you spare?"
The injured one went still, dead. The others hovered, their pale faces darkening at once. Yet, they did not press forward. Behind him, Jon could feel each of Eric's breaths as if linked. Without knowing how, he accepted that his brother
still clung to life. To believe otherwise would undermine the rage that drove him to face certain death.
"Hold!" Odin's voice boomed through the night, raw agony in Jon's ears. He did not give ground, even when the darkness split and the gray god appeared beside his entourage. He towered over Jon, his simplicity and expressionlessness somehow more intimidating than his killer frenzy. His great sword dripped blood. "Jon-Ulf Haakonsson, it is not your time. We came for your brother, Erik the Reaver. He gave himself to us, and it is my right to have him."
"Why!" Jon screamed in frustration, not expecting an answer, though he got one.
"Because he would have been the best warrior in Valhalla. Because with him we could have won the Ragnarok! We could have won! And the gods could have lived forever!"
"It's too late," Jon said.
"No! I've transcended time, and I can take him back."
"No." Jon clutched the sword tighter, trying to hide his pale, shaking fist. Blood from the valkyrie trickled, warm, across his fingers. It took an effort of will not to collapse, vomiting, to the ground.
Odin's voice made the earth tremble. "You stole him once, Jon-Ulf. You chased my Choosers away on the battlefield and let The Reaver die of age instead. It will not happen again."
"Go back where you belong."
The valkyries shifted uneasily, obviously fighting their own rage and need for vengeance. Odin studied Jon Skell. Then, he lapsed into a crazed fit of laughter. "You can't stop me, but I do admire your courage. This is your choice: You may step aside and let me claim what is rightfully mine, and I will let you and your pitiful soldiers live." He made a gesture of dismissal toward the company. The men fixed bunkers and tended the wounded, uncertain whether to attack, flee, or stare in curiosity. "Or, I can kill you and take what I want! The choice is yours, Jon-Ulf. Make it before I raise my sword, or I will make it for you."
Terror gripped Jon, and the urge to flee became an all-consuming fire. Yet, deep within him, a spark of honor flared. Bare is the back brotherless. Eric and I live or die together. "You can't have him." Jon sprang to the battle. His blade swept for the giant's groin.
Odin met the attack with an effortless block. His riposte blazed for Jon's chest. Jon blocked, the massive strength of the blow driving him to his knees. Pain lanced through his arms, stealing control. His sword plummeted to the ground. Still, he managed to keep his fingers clamped to the hilt. His arms throbbed with an agony that stole thought, and it took several seconds for him to realize they were not broken. Odin's sword whipped downward, aimed to split him in half.
Jon ducked and rolled. The great blade nicked his shoulder, tearing open the flak jacket and numbing his arm to the fingers. Before Jon could return the strike, the god's sword rose for another attack. This time, it came in a broad sweep that Jon scarcely dodged. He tried to redirect the blade with his own, but the god's power proved too much. Jon's sword snapped in two, inches from the hilt. "No," he sobbed.
Then, a sound cut through the din of wind and steel, so soft Jon would have missed it had it not been Eric's voice. "Wolf." Though delivered no louder than a whisper, it drove new vitality through Jon. He funneled energy from his core, drawing on the power of his guardian. And, suddenly, the "wolf" was with him. Jon dropped the sword and launched himself at the grim gray father of gods.
Briefly, it occurred to Jon that the mythology named a wolf as Odin's slayer. Then he gave himself fully to the animal, and felt the wolf's form, chaos, and vengeance become his own. Joyful, berserk frenzy seized him, and all else faded to colorless background. He snapped and frothed, his teeth gashing arms, legs, face, never in the same place twice, a whirling flame of killing fire. The taste of blood only crazed him further.
Now, Odin screamed, the sound cutting over all like a siren. He staggered backward, lost his balance, and crashed to the ground, the wolf's jaws clamped around his head. Lost in the wolf's need, Jon made its attack his own, giving himself over fully to the mythos.
Abruptly, the wind died. The world split open, revealing the hulking shapes of concertina wire, guns, and corpses on one side, and the blue-green meadows of Asgard on the other. The valkyries retreated, dragging Odin with them, the wolf's jaws still locked on his head. Jon stepped forward, then back, uncertain of his identity or his home. The frenzy burned him, promising an eternity of power on a world without guns. And loyalty pulled in the opposite direction.
Jon released the wolf, and it snapped away, drawing his strength with it. He felt as it life and soul were being stripped from him, tearing free of his earthly body and leaving him an empty shell. Agony ripped through him. Then, the wolf disappeared forever, along with the opening to the other world. And Jon Skell collapsed into darkness.
Jon Skell awakened beneath a threadbare blanket on a cot. The drab, bleak walls of the army hospital surrounded him. Eric. Jon whipped his head to the left, rewarded by his best friend's familiar presence in the bed beside him. Two feet jutted from beneath the covers. His chest rose and fell evenly, and his eyes lay closed in sleep. One arm dangled free of the covers.
Jon reached as far as he could, catching his best friend's fingers. Eric's hand closed about his briefly. "Clothed is the back," he murmured, without bothering to open his eyes.
"Shielded is the back," Jon corrected, then laughed. He fingered the miniature pewter sword, still hanging from his tags, and was seized with a sudden urge to visit his father and to thank him for teaching the values of love and bonds and family.
And to show him his medal.
EPILOGUE
As the image of Jon and Eric faded Tek returned to the problem of discovering the identity of his attacker. Thor had been busy back on the earth, angling to gain more heroes for Ragnarok. He was no longer a suspect.
This left only one person who could have caused and guided the monster. The war god sat for a long moment before accepting the conclusion. Then he stood over his teacher and glowered.
"Why?" Tek demanded. "What can you have gained?"
The god that had been disguised as Mentor seemed almost relieved the charade was over. With a self satisfied smile Loki changed back into his true form.
"Time, my less than astute new godling," he taunted. "Time for those allied with my brothers the Desert Giants to pluck a juicy plum off the coast of their lands."
"What's that got to do with me?" Tek demanded. He could feel his anger rising. The kind of pure, fiery anger that burnt everyone around it.
"Your damned technology can thwart my brother Djinn. They have only the desert and its wind and sand." Loki's voice was different from Mentor 's now too, shrill and more sarcastic. "Once the forces of nature were enough to drive the primitive machines away, but today our bravest warrior is just a target fix calculated by your worshippers from the safety of their bunkers. They're as cowardly and unfeeling as you."
Tek smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. Loki didn't care. He had been hiding his dislike for the cold, new god and now was giving it full vent.
"No one called for you. No one needs a war that doesn't need courage."
"Perhaps I am feeling enough to be willing to engage in a bit of revenge," Tek threatened moving toward the half god and half giant.
The look in Loki's eyes changed from hatred to fear. Then he was gone. Tek jumped to his console and caught the image of the fleeing god on his scope, checked it with sonic sensors and confirmed the sighting from a satellite he created just for the purpose. He then knocked the fleeing god out of the sky with a few Surface-to-Air Missiles, and willed himself to the spot where his former teacher fell.
They met on a empty area of the Ethereal Plane far from the mountains or castles of other gods. Loki cringed, but his eyes never left Tek. Tek summoned an M-16, but Loki managed to dodge the 30 rounds he sprayed.
Loki fought back by summoning the Fenris Wolf. The ten-foot-tall monster growled thunderously as it jumped toward Tek. Tek only smiled and countered Loki's wolf with his own panther. But this panther was the kind that fought on the
Russian front and the massive wolf's teeth ground uselessly on the steel armor. Two rounds from the dreaded 88mm gun sent Loki skittering for cover, and two hundred rounds from the machinegun mounted in the tank's hull discouraged his ally. Fenris snarled once at Loki and vanished.
Encouraged by his success, Tek changed the tank to the new MIA Main Battle Tank that was capable of traveling cross country at over 60 miles per hour. Through its infrared sights he could see the Norse god conjuring frantically. He waited patiently while Loki summoned a swarm of trolls. Determined to not only defeat, but also to embarrass his opponent, Tek reacted by turning them into sludge beneath his treads. By the time he had run down the last of the fleeing creatures, Loki had crept some distance off. The tank's running gears were gummed so Tek abandoned the tank, taking on the appearance of a Chief Petty Officer in the SEALs. In this form he was well armed with an automatic shotgun and his face, covered with camouflage paint, was a frightening visage. The helicopter carried him to a perfect insertion, about fifty feet from Loki. The war god fired a few shotgun rounds and Loki once more retreated, mumbling hard on yet another summoning.
Still, even as he enjoyed the battle, the war god couldn't help feel something was still wrong. He had solved the mystery and was also enjoying himself immensely. So all should be well. Instead he felt even less content than before.
Loki's new champion appeared. This time it was a massive giant, standing nearly a hundred feet tall. The earth shook as he approached threatening the puny god. Tek willed a selection of AT and AP mines to appear where the giant next stepped. Their shaped explosions sent the massive figure dancing with pain. Unable to resist a barking laugh, the modern god of war then summoned his own giant. Even he was impressed with the result.
Rather out of place in the desert, the USS Alabama leveled her computer controlled guns. Astonished, the Loki's giant stared into the gaping barrels at near point blank range, but he rallied and swung his fists toward the battleship. The roar of the eighteen inch guns firing overwhelmed even the giant s battlecry. When the freight car sized shells hit, they tore through the gigantic figure, throwing what remained onto its back several hundred yards further distant. With an accusing look at Loki, the giant faded from view.
The Gods of War Page 27
