Norse Code Part 6

"Signal!" Hermod screamed, and they both plunged their hands into the duffel and came out with a grenade each. Simultaneously, as though they'd drilled the maneuver together, they pulled the tabs, tossed their grenades underhand, and dove down in the sand. Hermod covered Winston with his body, peering up to see two of the pups leap to swallow the grenades.

And then nothing happened.

Hermod pounded a crater in the sand with his fist. "d.a.m.ned unreliable black-market munitions-"

The rest of his words were interrupted by a pair of concussive blasts, followed by the plopping of sticky red chunks. .h.i.tting the ground.

"Two more," he shouted, again reaching into his duffel.

But the four remaining pups turned tail and sprinted away, yipping and barking with lunatic laughter. Hermod pulled the tab of his grenade and lobbed the ball into the middle of the pack, but this one turned out to be a dud, and by the time Mist handed him another, the wolves were just tiny black dots in the distance. Hermod knew he'd never catch them; they were going too fast.

"Can't you toss it that far?" Mist asked with obvious impatience.

"Not with any accuracy. I'd be as likely to hit a hot-dog stand as the wolves."

Mist responded with an ambiguous hmm, sc.r.a.ping blown-up wolf bits from her boots and pants. "They're not quite animals, are they?"

"They are, in a sense, but they're also packed with other things, like chaos and entropy and emptiness."

Mist shuddered. "Wish we'd killed them all."

"Yeah. There's not much worse than a half-defused bomb, and now that I've made it clear I'm out to get them, the wolves won't be as easy to find the next time. I hate to say it, but I think we need to see the sibyl."

Mist held up her hand. "Wait a minute, who's this 'we' you're talking about? You said if I helped you out here we'd discuss you guiding me to Helheim."

"Well, sure, I said we could talk about it."

"So," Mist said, "let's talk."

Hermod sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. It had felt rather fine to have the Valkyrie at his side while fighting the pups; it'd been so long since he'd had an ally. And merely talking had never hurt anyone, right? He laughed bitterly in answer to his own question.

"We can talk," he said. "But let's do it somewhere else, okay? This beach hasn't been very good to me."

Mist nodded and they set out for the pedestrian overpa.s.s.

A thought occurred to Hermod: "Hey, you can also buy me breakfast."

THE WORLD TREE grows from the roots of worlds, and down at the bottom of a deep depression between two of the roots is a sea, and in the sea is a single island, which has no name. The island's sole inhabitant is a wolf, and the wolf is called Fenrir. His fur is ice-white. His eyes, cold midnight.

Munin and I fly circles over the island, half-frozen rain striking our feathers. Munin recites from memory every word he knows for this kind of rain, asking me repeatedly which word I think most accurately describes it.

"For the last time," I squawk, "it's slush, all right? Cold, nasty slush."

"In Alfheim they call it slow-stinging darts. Don't you think that's a better term for it, Hugin? More descriptive?"

"Fine, that's fine, that'll be fine."

"But the giants in Jotunheim call it the frost kiss. I think I like that. Hmm."

Hidden behind a wall of gloom, waves collide ceaselessly with the ghostly outline of towering crags. When a longs.h.i.+p fetches up on the beach in a crunch of timber on gravel, the wolf whines with apprehension.

The wolf is helpless, but this hasn't always been the case. Fenrir, closer in size to a bear than to another wolf, and much larger than that if viewed with a squint from certain angles, long ago bit off the arm of the Aesir's mighty warlord Tyr. The G.o.ds feared Fenrir, so they imprisoned him here on this rock, and gagged him, and fettered him. A sword keeps his jaws from closing, the pommel jammed against his tongue, the sharp tip of the blade poking the soft roof of his mouth. His legs are bound with a silken ribbon. The ribbon's name is Gleipnir, and it was crafted with great cunning by a pair of dwarf brothers.

Two figures emerge from the fog. One is Vidar, eldest of Odin's sons. Many consider him most like his father, in strength second only to Thor, but stingy with words and always deep in the wells of his own thoughts. So deep that even I have a hard time seeing them. His eyes are the dark gray of far northern skies, his face lean, almost gaunt. Strapped to his hip is a long scabbard. His hand rests lightly on the pommel of his sword.

The other is a child, chubby-kneed and hyper. This is Vidar's brother, Vali. After Hod was duped into killing Baldr, Odin sired Vali for the sole purpose of vengeance, and when Vali was scarcely a day old, he strangled Hod to death.

"You look uncomfortable, smelly old dog," Vali says. "I bet if we free you, you'll try to eat us. But you better not, because if you eat us I'll kick you from the inside and make your tummy hurt, and then I'll bite my way out of your belly and pull all your tubes out, and then I'll whip you with your own guts, do you wanna see my bug collection? It's right here in my pocket, only some of them aren't bugs, some of them are spiders, plus some ears and tongues from people I don't like-"

Vidar puts a restraining hand on Vali's shoulder, and while Vali doesn't exactly fall silent, he does lower his volume.

Vidar draws his sword, and Fenrir squirms and whines, longing for freedom. He does not want to die this way, helpless as a blind newborn. It's not merely fear that fills him with a sense of dread. It's that his death is supposed to occur in a way otherwise, after he has accomplished certain tasks, among them the killing of Odin the gallows G.o.d.

Vidar raises the sword above his head and closes his eyes, gathering himself. His blade hurts to look at, as if it's made of things that should not be, and Fenrir knows what it reminds him of.

Gleipnir, the ribbon binding him, is made of six impossible things, from the roots of a mountain, to the breath of a fish, to the sound of a cat's footfalls.

Vidar's sword is made of seven.

Vidar swings the blade down. The island s.h.i.+vers as the sharp edge cuts through the sound barrier, and then through the ribbon, and Fenrir is free.

The wolf doesn't move. He's craved freedom for so long that, once his uncanny restraint is gone, he doesn't quite know what to do. His breath rises in plumes, and he remains still when Vidar reaches into his maw and carefully removes the sword gag.

Cautiously, Fenrir tests his strength, drawing a paw across the stony ground and digging runnels as deep as graves. He extends his forelegs before him and bows his back in a mighty stretch that feels so good he nearly howls with joy. Then he yawns, and Vidar and Vali stagger forward, while Munin and I flap our wings harder to remain airborne.

"What time is it?" Fenrir asks.

Vidar takes a moment to recover himself. He holds his sword before him, and it suddenly looks ridiculously small, like a swizzle stick.

"It's really late," Vali answers.

Fenrir imagines he could swallow the sword without trouble, and its owner too. He turns a circle, sniffing the ground. "It would have to be late, yes, as I've been here a very long time. But not too late for games. You Aesir were always up for games. Is that why you freed me, little sons of Odin? To play? Tyr played with me once."

Fenrir begins to salivate. He raises a leg and gushes a spray of urine. "I've been confined for a long time, and I'd rather my first conversation in ages not be entwined in riddles. Why did you unbind me, Vidar Odinsson, when I am bound to kill your father?"

The wolf craves the taste of the All-Father's intestines. He knows the flavor will be rich.

"Once you kill Odin," Vali says, "Vidar will kill you right back."

"Of course," says Fenrir. The wolf pulls his lips back in something resembling a smile, running his tongue over teeth like scimitars. "I think you enjoy games, Vidar. But you no longer wish to be a piece. Instead, you've found a way to be a mover of pieces. That makes you very mighty indeed."

Vidar bows his head slightly. With that, the two G.o.ds take their leave, pus.h.i.+ng their s.h.i.+p back into the surf. Vidar vaults over the gunwales to take the tiller, and Fenrir watches the boat fade into the swirling mists. Then he compresses his body into a tight ball and releases, leaping high up into the near sky.

"These late days are very curious," the wolf says.

WHAT RADGRID REALLY wanted to do was shoot them both in the heart and get on with her busy day. She didn't have time for guests, let alone G.o.ds. She was running into difficulties obtaining permits for another NorseCODE office in Shenzhen. There was a promising candidate in Vancouver whose testing awaited an available Valkyrie/Einherjar team. And Mist had gone missing. It was this last bullet point on her list of action items that troubled her most. She'd had such high hopes for the girl.

"Can I offer you anything else to drink?" she asked, using her facial muscles in a way that she hoped would form a convincing smile.

Magni raised his gla.s.s. The small movement caused alarming squeaks and creaks in his chair. "More of this green stuff. What'd you call it?"

"It's Mountain Dew," Radgrid said, a model of patience. "It's very popular with my younger programmers."

"Yeah, I'll have some more too," put in the other G.o.d, Modi.

The need to show the brothers courtesy went beyond protocol. The two sons of Thor were stupid but incredibly mighty, and Radgrid couldn't afford to anger them. They had the trust of Vidar and Frigg, G.o.ds for whom Radgrid's respect was unquestioned. So she made sure not to laugh at Magni's and Modi's broad faces and the little pale racc.o.o.n masks around their eyes; apparently the G.o.ds had been visiting a tanning salon.

Radgrid buzzed her secretary to have the G.o.ds' drinks refilled. They finished them in one gulp each and belched.

Radgrid closed her eyes, counted to three, and opened them again. Something in her look made the G.o.ds sit up a little straighter, and that pleased Radgrid. She might not be an Aesir G.o.ddess, but she was a Valkyrie, a chosen servant of Odin, and she deserved their respect.

"So, here's the thing," Magni said, jiggling the ice in his gla.s.s. "We're concerned about your progress with this whole NorseCODE project. You've been doing this for, what, almost four years now, and what have you got to show for it? Eighteen recruits?"

"Nineteen," Radgrid said tightly. "Which is almost double the number of recruits found using the traditional methods in the same period of time."

"Maybe so," Magni said, "but you're using more than double the resources of your more traditionalist sisters. You've got eight Valkyries devoted one hundred percent to NorseCODE endeavors, an equal number of Einherjar, and two dozen Asgardian slaves and servants who are too busy with NorseCODE to keep up with their normal duties. Not to mention all the gold it takes to keep you in test tubes and Mountain Dew."

Radgrid frowned. She did have a gun in her desk drawer. She really could just belly-shoot the both of them. Though she doubted it'd be enough to kill them.

"Is Asgard tight for cash?" she asked, no longer caring if her displeasure registered.

"It's not about having the money," Magni said. "It's about the trouble of moving it to Midgard. It's not like you can electronically transfer a ton of dwarf gold from Asgard to Geneva. Magni and I are breaking our backs to handle the logistics that fund your little project, so if we're not getting sufficient results, well, that's a problem."

"I see," Radgrid said. "Thank you for voicing your concern. Is there anything else? I do have matters requiring my attention."

"Not anymore," said Magni. "We're taking over NorseCODE, my bro and I. You'll stay on as our executive a.s.sistant, helping us get settled and stuff. We'll be working out of LA, mostly, so you can keep your office here, but we're taking some of your staff; we want the best people working directly with us."

He paused, waiting for Radgrid to say something in response. Instead, she reached into her desk drawer, took out a .45 Luger, and shot both brothers in the forehead. Her ears rang, so she barely heard what Magni said as he held his ham-size palm to his bleeding brow. She didn't suppose he was saying anything complimentary. She shot him again, and then Modi again, and she continued to squeeze the trigger until the magazine was empty, although she could already see that the bullets weren't penetrating their skulls. A misshapen slug from her last shot bounced on the carpet near her feet. The G.o.ds stood.

She wished she'd poisoned their Mountain Dew.

"b.i.t.c.h, we're gonna shred you," Magni said, as Radgrid took a sword from the umbrella stand next to her desk. She didn't wait for the brothers to advance but drove a thrust toward Magni's right knee.

A tremor shuddered the walls. The floors vibrated, and the windows jiggled in their frames, and through the sounds of all the shaking rose a hum, ringing like a bell struck deep in the earth. The tones s.h.i.+fted, and though they didn't form words, they expressed an undeniable intelligence. Its will was clear enough, and Radgrid listened, as did the Aesir brothers.

Radgrid hadn't been born yet when Frigg exacted her pledge from everything in the universe, but there was no mistaking this voice, or its power, or its simple message: Magni and Modi would do whatever Radgrid told them to do, because Frigg had just said they must.

The voice faded, and the tremor subsided.

The brothers glowered furiously at Radgrid, ma.s.sive fists clenched. Muscles writhed in their wrists and forearms like boa constrictors, but they didn't dare touch her.

She put her sword back in the umbrella stand and went to the phone to raise her secretary.

"Ingrid, I need a car from the motor pool for Thor's sons."

"Where are we going?" asked Modi, blood dripping down the bridge of his nose.

"One of my Valkyries is missing, and the Einherjar I sent after her is causing me concern. You're going to find them for me. And don't abuse your expense account. As you reminded me, NorseCODE needs to observe financial prudence."

Once the brothers, sulking, left the office, Radgrid returned to her desk with the sunny realization that Frigg had just promoted her over Aesir. That must mean Frigg considered Radgrid worthy of being a G.o.d herself, which would be a nice position to be in after Ragnarok, when there'd be a new, green world to rule.

Now Radgrid could concentrate on devising a way to rule it all by herself.

MIST AND HERMOD returned to the black market, where they I found Grimnir chatting up a couple of prost.i.tutes. "My lady friends say they've seen a guy with a dog matching your Aesir's description," he said to Mist, and then he looked over her shoulder and saw Hermod for the first time. "Oh," he said, favoring Hermod with one of his more unfriendly glares. "Huh."

Mist made quick introductions, and as they walked back to the Jeep, she filled Grimnir in about the wolves on the beach.

"Kid, you shouldn't be getting involved in that level of thing," he grumbled, settling in behind the steering wheel. "You've gone so far off the reservation that I'm not sure how you're ever going to patch things up with Radgrid."

"Later," Mist said. She didn't want to have this argument in front of Hermod, who was fumbling with the seat belt in the backseat and trying to keep his face away from the malamute's wagging tail.

Grimnir keyed the engine. "Fine, but you're not the one calling headquarters to give Radgrid updates. She's starting to find it suspicious that I haven't tracked you down yet."

"Why should she be suspicious of you?"

"Because I'm too good not to have tracked you down yet. So, where to?"

Hermod directed them to Venice Pier, or the remains of it, saying he wanted to go there to contact an old consultant of Odin's. He had questions for her about Ragnarok.

Minutes later they were picking their way across the debris-strewn beach, stepping around snapped pylons and concrete slabs. City services, already overwhelmed, hadn't gotten around to hauling away the remnants of Venice Pier, and at low tide the wreckage provided small, private coves. Hermod led them to one, about twenty feet across. "This'll do," he said. "Seawater, privacy, and an easy surface to write on."

Mist picked up a few marooned starfish and frisbeed them back into the ocean, not sure if she was saving them or if they were already dead.

"You're a regular lifeguard," Grimnir said.

Hermod patted his pockets. "Anybody have a knife I could borrow?"

Like a magician conjuring a bouquet of flowers, Grimnir provided a frightfully large Bowie knife. Hermod regarded it skeptically. "Thanks, but I've already got a sword."

Mist offered her Swiss Army knife, which he accepted. "I'll want it back," she said. A gift from her sister, it was one of her few possessions that predated her existence as a Valkyrie.

Hermod hinged open the larger of the two blades and lowered himself to his knees. He drew a vertical line in the damp sand and then spread the line out into nine roots. Next, he drew an eye.

"It's some kind of rune spell," Grimnir explained for Mist's benefit. "The World Tree, and Odin's eye, which he sacrificed at Mimir's Well in exchange for knowledge."

"I wonder who got the better end of that deal?" Mist said.

"I dunno. Odin's eye has seen a lot, I bet."

Hermod cleared his throat. "Do you mind? I need to concentrate here."

He drew a half-decayed rune, which, from the little bit of rune lore Radgrid had given her, Mist recognized as a reference to death and to Hel. Hermod worked quickly as the tide gradually came in. When he finally stood and handed the knife back to Mist, he'd drawn a circle of runes that surrounded them.

"What happens now?" Mist asked.

Hermod shrugged. "Magic is a little like pulling the pin on a grenade and then stuffing it down your pants to see what happens."

"How rea.s.suring."