The great hall beyond the private chambers was a shambles. Broken dishes and tables, clean-picked bones, unidentifiable bits of garbage, spilled mead, and a few unconscious warriors were strewn randomly across the floor. Those warriors on their feet were swaying badly. The civilians I'd seen the previous night were conspicuously absent.
Odin waited on his massive throne. His single ruby eye followed our progress through the stench and the mess. My escorts saluted him, although I noted that Rangrid's was sloppy. I simply waited, poised lightly on the balls of my feet, one sweating hand on the hilt of my silly sword. I'd rather—far rather—have been holding Gary's knife, or even my lost AR-180 rifle.
Odin's glance swept me dismissively. "Are you prepared to die, mortal?"
I grinned. "Even the gods die sometime. Maybe this is yours, eh, Odin?"
Rangrid drew a sharp breath. The other valkyrie made an abortive move toward her sword. I ignored them both. Odin's face had lost color. The hall was so quiet, I heard a faint belch from at least a mile down the tables.
His attempt at a sneering grin was a dismal failure. "This should be uncommonly entertaining." It came out sounding forced.
I was, perhaps, more relaxed than I had a right to be. "I hope you sold lots of ringside seats. It isn't every day a god gets the immortal shit kicked out of him. Hell, after today, my future's in the bag: cereal endorsements, sportswear franchises, maybe even a shot at a commentator slot on Monday Night Football."
His stare was vacuous. Beside me Rangrid made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like choking laughter.
Odin scowled. I guess even Neanderthals catch on eventually when someone scores off them; he obviously didn't have the faintest idea how to score back. So he settled for an uncreative curse and a speech that was beginning to sound like a broken record.
"You have come living to Valhalla"—I never said he was genius material—"and you have feasted under my roof and partaken of the pleasures reserved for the Einherjar alone.
"You now must demonstrate that you deserve the right to join our ranks, or forfeit not only your life, but also your soul, to everlasting torment in the darkest, frozen wastes of Niflhel. The choice is yours: Die fighting and join us; or die shamefully, as a coward dies. Which do you choose?"
I stood watching him for a moment; then deliberately folded my arms across my chest and spat to one side. I'd fight him, all right—and die if I had to—but I wasn't about to buy into that ridiculous pair of choices. The way I had it figured, I had three options: fight and win, fight and die, or fight to a draw. If it turned out I couldn't physically kill him, then I had only one slim chance. And that depended on two things: Was Odin a betting man? And could I trust his sworn word to honor a lost bet?
Yeah, right.
I didn't have much choice.
So I looked him up and down; then spat on the floor again, and launched into it.
"Who the hell taught you to make speeches? Professor Bigwind at Pompous University, Bombast 101? If I thought you could fight as well as you talk, your offer might actually be tempting."
The vacuous stare returned. Hell, it wasn't nearly as much fun scoring off someone too stupid to appreciate your wit.
A murmur of laughter ran through the crowd behind me, though. Odin might not get it; but the Einherjar did. Odin's face and neck began to turn red under all that hair. A little slow, our boy, but not entirely dim. Maybe he was just getting senile?
I added with a drawl, "You realize, of course, getting killed isn't in my game plan. I came here to kill you. Tell you what: I'll fight you. And if you can kill me, I'll join up with the boys. If you can't, or if I strike a killing blow—"
He interrupted me with a snort. "You know well enough you cannot kill me. Fenrir is fated to bring my death; not you, nor any other man." There was worry in his eye, though, and his bravado didn't dispel it.
"—or," I went on, as if he hadn't spoken, "one that would be a killing blow if you were an ordinary man like me, then the fight ends, and I win."
"Your point, mortal?" he asked testily.
"Just that. I win; you lose. I'm free to go my merry way—and you will step down forever as head of the gods and general of the armies of the Einherjar."
Odin gaped. Even Rangrid gasped. A low mutter spread through the hall as dead warriors passed along my challenge. The only thing Odin seemed capable of was sputtering.
I nudged a little harder.
"What's wrong? It's just a sporting little bet, between rivals. A minute ago, you were all set to tear my living heart out and eat it for lunch. Don't tell me the great Odin's a chickenshit? You'll break my heart."
Rangrid gasped. The muttering became a muted roar. Odin's face went slowly purple, out to the roots of his hair. For a moment I thought I wouldn't have to fight him, because he looked like he was about to have a stroke.
I decided to give it one last shove and twist. I glanced at Rangrid. "Hell's bells, Rangrid, I thought you were just paying me a compliment when you said I was a bigger man than Odin."
She flamed scarlet. I winked. The other valkyrie gasped audibly, and stared. I noted peripherally that she wasn't staring at my face. As for the Einherjar . . .
Laughter erupted at the front tables and spread in spastic waves. Odin looked dazed for an instant, resembling a hairy, purple, dumbstruck virgin caught with his pants down.
The nearest Einherjar howled and pointed; Odin was losing them, and he knew it.
His mouth worked, and his Adam's apple bobbed convulsively, then his harsh voice rang out across the hall. "It is a fool's bargain! Done!"
I grinned. "Yo, fool, you just made yourself a deal."
Laughter exploded out of control. I thought for an instant Odin would jump me right where I stood. Rangrid tensed.
Instead, he spat, "Rangrid Shield-Destroyer! Take this . . . this silver-tongued son of Loki to the battlefield!" He stabbed a pointing finger at a distant door, which looked like it was about a mile away. "I'll be waiting!"
He spun on his heel so fast, both ravens squawked and took flight. He vanished through a side door. A moment later, I heard his voice raised in bellowed curses.
Rangrid looked a little round-eyed as she met my glance. I winked again, and gestured grandly. "Shall we?"
A slow smile lit her eyes. "You," she said succinctly, her lips twitching uncontrollably, "are a thoroughgoing, unrepentant bastard."
"Oh, without doubt." I grinned. "After you, dear lady."
Rangrid had other ideas, however. She got her sister to lead the way, and chose rear guard herself. It was probably just as well; the other valkyrie was so white-lipped, she might've been tempted to skewer me, if she'd been presented with a convenient target like my back. I certainly didn't bank on the other valkyries possessing anything like Rangrid's motive for defecting.
They escorted me into the press of crowding Einherjar. A swelling roar gathered as men beat empty flagons on tabletops. I heard shouts of encouragement and last-minute advice. The noise level mounted deafeningly, beating against us with near-physical force, and still we moved down endless lines of tables. When at last we gained the cavernous doorway, the maelstrom of noise died away behind us, and a mad scramble for the best vantage point came in its place.
I blinked and paused for an instant on the threshold.
"What is it?" Rangrid asked tersely.
"Uh . . . nothing," I muttered. Hastily, I strode forward before the Einherjar—jammed into the doorway behind us—could trample our heels. Yesterday, when we'd come in through a different door, we'd ridden up across a broad plain. Beyond this door were rocky hills, muddy valleys, and twisting, treacherous little gorges with angry white water snarling through stony riverbeds. The size of the Valhall staggered the imagination. Useful for battle training, though . . .
Odin waited atop a barren ridge, seated on Sleipnir. The horse bore the brunt of his temper. Sleipnir tossed his head fretfully. There was blood in the foam at his muzzle. Odin constantly jerked the bit in his mouth. It was a lousy way to treat a valuable horse. I was a little surprised Sleipnir stood for it. Even from here, I could see the war-horse's eyes rolling white.
I narrowed my own eyes. Did he mean to fight from Sleipnir? A man on foot was at a bad enough disadvantage against a man on horseback; but Sleipnir's little trick of popping in and out of reality left me with sinking apprehension in my belly.
Well, I hadn't expected a fair fight, and I knew a trick or two that might just startle a cavalryman into a fatal error.
When I heard a familiar, spine-chilling howl, I turned, badly startled. Further down the ridgeline, where the vantage was best, was Fenrir. He snarled wildly at the end of his chain. A one-handed man held grimly onto the quivering fetter. Each time the wolf lunged, Tyr's shoulder and arm strained to hold him. I wouldn't have thought Tyr would get anywhere near Fenrir again. The wolf had bitten off his other hand the day they'd chained him.
Just beyond Fenrir's slavering reach, Thor swung his short-handled maul as though it were a jackhammer. He was busy driving the boulder that pegged Fenrir's chain deep into the earth.
Tyr, struggling to hold the wolf, bellowed, "Hurry the hell up, Thor! The bloody fight's about to start."
Thor grunted sharply and finished the job. He stepped back, and nodded once. Tyr let go the chain. Fenrir's snarled cry set up a nearly subliminal resonance through the sword blade jammed into his jaws. I pressed a hand against my skull bones and shook my head against the painful sound. Tyr lunged out of Fenrir's way, then strolled closer, chatting animatedly with Thor. The red-haired god, I noted dourly, watched me narrowly and caressed his war hammer Mjollnir. Fenrir gave one final snarl, then turned his baleful green eyes on me.
He whined piteously.
I growled under my breath. Odin was one sadistic son-of-a-bitch.
I turned my gaze away, sickened. We'd stopped in a broad, shallow valley below the Fenris Wolf's vantage point. Rangrid turned to me.
"Fight well, hero," she murmured. She drew me close. Her lips were warm and trembling against mine. "Take the kiss of Rangrid Shield-Destroyer into battle." I thought for an instant she was going to cry. Then she shook her hair back, lifted her chin in the motion I'd come to recognize, and stepped back.
I stood alone in the valley.
As alone as a live human can be surrounded by more dead men than Genghis Khan had left in his wake.
The air trembled with the swelling noise from tens of thousands of throats: "O . . . din! O . . . din! O . . . din!"
Tyr had squatted down comfortably on his haunches up on the ridgeline. Thor was beginning to grin. Odin shook a heavy war spear above his head in a gesture of confidence. Numbing sound rolled over us, stirring the blood—his hot, mine cold.
I knew, of course, what he held. It wasn't just a spear, any more than Sleipnir was just an eight-legged horse. The weapon was called Gungnir. The dwarves had presented it to him as a gesture of obeisance.
Gungnir never missed its mark.
Never.
As Odin held Gungnir on high, the tumult gradually died away. Silence stretched taut.
"Einherjar," Odin said. He spoke without raising his voice; yet I knew that even the farthest, dimmest ranks lost in the misty distance heard him clearly, so profound was the silence.
"There has come to Valhalla a living mortal"—cripes, was that the only speech he knew?—"who has challenged your Valfather to personal combat. His courage is great."
Odin's sneer revealed what he really thought of me; but he was wary of saying it after his comeuppance in front of these men.
"Before the sun sets on our feasting, he will join you as brother. Honor to him! Honor to you all! Let battle be joined!"
A shock wave blasted through the valley, a spontaneous, inchoate deluge of noise from the Einherjar. Odin hooked his leg over Sleipnir's withers and slid easily to the ground. He was fighting on foot, thank God. With sweating fingers I dragged my sword from its sheath. Odin might call me a silver-tongued son of Loki, but I was one helluva worried one. I knew all too well what my odds of success were. Somewhere behind me, I heard some poor fool betting money on me; and abruptly felt better.
Then there was no time left to worry about anything.
Odin strode down the ridgeline, not quite loping. I considered whether to let the bastard come to me, or carry the fight to him. He had the reach of me, armed with a spear against my sword. Odin held his weapon in the classic bayonet assault position as he closed the distance. His right hand gripped the haft just above the butt, with the butt end tucked between elbow and hip. He grasped the haft farther toward the deadly iron point with the other hand, ready to jab or charge.
I watched his narrowed bloody red eye for any betraying movement that would telegraph his intent. He squinted slightly. . . .
And charged.
I shifted into a classic right guard, with my right side toward him, sword ready in front of me. Odin drove forward, like a freight train on full steam. The iron spear point never wavered a millimeter from true. He was driving Gungnir straight toward my center of mass. At the last possible second, with the glittering sharp tip a hairbreadth from my skin, I shifted hard left. Gungnir's point passed harmlessly behind my shoulder.
Before I had time to be shocked that Gungnir had missed, I seized the haft. I shoved the spear point down hard, driving it into the ground with Odin's own momentum. Odin stumbled. I leaped clear. A booming wave of sound rolled over us.
Odin ripped the point free and charged again.
I dropped into left guard, left side toward him.
This time when he rushed past my shoulder, I deflected the spear haft upward with the flat of my sword. I dropped the blade instantly, and grabbed Gungnir with both hands. Again using his own momentum, I shoved the spear shaft straight up and back over Odin's shoulder. Gungnir's razor-edged point windmilled in a circle. Odin was forced to let go. He howled in pain as his arm was wrenched beyond its normal range of motion.
I couldn't hear my own panting breath above the thunderous noise. The point came down hard behind Odin. The spear which could not miss, had. Twice.
And now it was mine.
He twisted blindly around, his mouth agape as I grasped the haft and swung the point around at his exposed side—
A tornado-force wind slammed me backward. I sprawled flat, badly winded. A shadow fell toward me. . . .
I jerked sideways, dragging the spear with me. Odin slammed into the dirt. His sword blade sank into the mud all the way up to the guard. I rolled to my feet and so did he, wrenching mightily on the buried weapon. Before he could evade, I charged.
Two steps from achieving Odin shish kebab, I staggered. A cloying stench hit me wetly in the face. A decaying corpse—its rotting flesh falling away in gobbets and chunks—rose out of the ground and grappled me. The damned thing tripped me up and clawed its way higher as it pulled itself up out of the muddy earth. Its hands were slimy and cold, its flesh disconcertingly solid. Its grip was as tenacious as an alligator snapping turtle's.
I stabbed and clubbed at it with Odin's spear, knocking off hunks of dead meat; but the decaying hands clung like leeches. A bony skull leered blindly through empty eye sockets. Nearly liquid brains the color of dead algae oozed out through them. The apparition shifted its grip. Bile rose in my throat as some of the stuff dripped across my hands. I set my jaws, and shattered the skull case with the butt of the spear, but still I couldn't pull free.
Feet consisting mostly of bone tangled with my own and we crashed backward. The obscenity fell with me, smothering me in slime and rotted flesh.
I'd lost my grip on the spear. I was left with nothing but my bare hands. Tearing with fingers, kicking with booted feet, I wrenched my way clear of the mess, sufficiently to see Odin—spear once again in hand—bearing down on me. I rolled violently aside. Abruptly I was as free of slime and gore as though it had never existed.
The spear point buried itself in the earth where I'd been.
I scrambled to my feet. A gibbering, five-foot-high skull with fire shooting from eye and nose sockets sailed through the air at me. I dodged under the lower jaw, snatched up my discarded sword, and threw myself at Odin again.
Now I knew why they called him Helblindi, he-who-blinds-with-death.
Too bad for him the "helblindi" ploy wasn't working. I began to feel hopeful—which was a damnfool thing to do.
Odin fell back, feinting left; and I whirled to face him.
And suddenly a hot flush spread through me. Whatever it was, it hit my brain like a fifth of whiskey gulped neat. I was abruptly—reelingly—drunk out of my mind. The horizon tilted wildly. I staggered, trying to stay on my feet. A large blur lurched forward, toward me. I had to remind myself that I was the one doing the lurching, not the blur. Then I realized my eyes were blurred, not the shape barreling down on me like a bull elephant.
I tried to move out of the way, which was a mistake. I tangled my feet together and landed flat on my face, breathing mud. Wet earth splattered into one ear as a foot thudded into the ground right beside me. Gradually it occurred to me that my drunken mistake had saved my life.
I crawled to my hands and knees and shook my head in an attempt to clear it. I willed the ground to quit heaving and billowing like ocean waves. Then I reminded myself that Odin was somewhere behind me, charging at my exposed back. There was no way I could get out of his way. So I fell flat again—and a spear point whistled across my back. The draft of its passage left goose bumps along naked flesh where it had split open my leather shirt. The Einherjar's cheering shook the very ground.
Someone—it had to be Odin—was swearing nonstop. I shook my head again, still trying to clear it. These sensations were Odin's doing. They weren't real.
I remembered First Officer Spock muttering, "The bullets are not real . . ." while the Earps blazed away, and I giggled drunkenly. Yeah, that was the ticket. This drunk is not real. . . .
It occurred to me, in my befuddled state, that somewhere in this valley, Gary was watching me crawl around on all fours while Odin finished me off at his leisure.
That made me mad. Hatred colder than the ice in Niflhel spread through me. As the hatred grew stronger, the drunken stupor faded. My eyes focused sharply. With a prickling of the hairs on my neck, I lunged to my feet. Blind instinct prompted a twisting, sideways motion. An animal shriek struck my ears. I felt more than heard the passage of something massive just behind my left shoulder. I snapped into a diving forward roll. I came up scanning wildly for my lost sword and Odin's current position.
Movement overhead caught my eye. I snapped my attention skyward. Silhouetted against the bloody skies was a gigantic eagle, big enough for a starring role in a Harryhausen Sinbad movie. It clutched Gungnir in great, curved talons. The bloodred light from Valhalla's skies glinted off those curved daggers as the huge bird of prey dove fast and hard. I scurried backward and sideways—
My ankles sank into something cold and wet. My foot twisted under me as I stumbled over a buried rock. I windmilled wildly and fell flat again, back into a deep snowdrift. The eagle was diving at my belly, screaming out of a pulsing vermilion sky. . . .
I was helpless to move. Irresistible surges of sexual bliss left me shaking and weak. I groaned aloud. My eyes rolled back in my head, and I felt a warm stain spreading across the inside of my heavy leather pants. . . .
Then my right thigh cramped. My foot cramped even worse. I rolled over in agony. I tried to rub the spasmed leg muscles with one hand while I forced the foot out straight with the other. That brought on an even worse spasm, and left me doubled over and rolling around like some demented pillbug.
A mass of feathers and bone slammed into the snow with meteoric force. Abruptly I was engulfed in a smothering cloud. One huge wing buffeted me, with enough force to stun. Then, as the eagle struggled to right itself, it backwinged to regain its balance. The leading edge of its wing caught me in the side. The force of the blow rolled me along the snowbank like one of those cartoon characters bouncing along at the center of a rapidly growing snowball.
By the time I slithered to a squishy halt, all thought of cramped muscles had left me. In fact, the cramps had vanished as quickly as the corpse. I struggled to my feet. Odin was back in man form, literally spitting mud where his beak had plowed deep into the muck. His furs were askew. He was cursing so hotly, sparks crackled spontaneously in the air about him.
Odin yanked the great spear free of the mud with one Herculean pull. He kicked at the snow. It vanished. My lost sword reappeared, buried halfway to the hilt in the muck like Arthur's sword in the stone. Odin spat one final mouthful of muddy saliva, bent my sword downward, and stepped on the blade with one foot. Then he yanked up hard on the hilt.
Rangrid's sword broke with a snapping sound that brought a hush to the onlookers. I thought I heard a single sob, cut short.
My eyes narrowed. I flexed my fingers, watching coldly as Odin flung away the useless hilt of my sole weapon. He stepped forward, and raised the spear.
"Now," he snarled, "we end this little game!"
I watched him begin his lunge. Time slowed. I tensed, ready to meet him with nothing but my naked fingers. Sweat poured from me. My fingers twitched, wanting the feel of the black-bladed weapon Odin had stolen from me—
Its warm haft slid snugly into my palm.
The Biter's tail lashed firmly around my wrist. The Biter met Gungnir's iron point and shoved it upward. The blade slid along Gungnir's iron socket with a shrieking whine that sent sparks flying in every direction. The Sly Biter's long blade pulsed with an aura that looked black in the bloody light of Valhalla's skies.
The spear point whistled harmlessly past my shoulder. I grabbed the haft in my free hand and wrenched it aside—
And Odin lunged straight onto the Biter's waiting blade.
I gritted my teeth, and braced my wrist with my other hand, then wrenched upward with all my strength. I cut through muscle and bone. I heard an immortal, gawdawful scream. . . .
Then Odin was past me. He crouched on one knee, huddled in on himself. I gasped for air, deafened by the screaming Einherjar. The Biter hung expectantly in my hand.
Slowly Odin straightened. He turned to face me, holding his belly. Blood oozed from between his fingers. Not gushed—oozed. Slowly. And fell off to a mere trickle while I watched. Odin swore, tearing off ruined furs to reveal a long, nasty gash in his abdomen. It was healing before my eyes. He scratched a scabbing scar that obviously itched, passed wind, and worked one shoulder as though it had twinged a little.
Too winded to do anything else, I just stared, first at the healed wound, then at the blade in my hand, which had failed me. I got an impression of deep dismay from it, and decided that this time, at least, the Biter was not at fault.
Brunowski had warned me there'd be days like this.
I scrubbed my face with the back of one hand, and waited. There was still our bet. And if he didn't honor that, I'd try cutting off his head. What worked against Dracula . . .
"I did warn you," Odin wheezed. He wagged a finger in my direction. "It is not my time to die. The Biter knows that. Did you truly think Skuld's favorite blade would harm me before my time?"
I didn't bother to answer. He didn't want one, in any case.
"I must confess some small jealousy. The blade was once mine. I had thought it loyal when I relieved you of it." He shrugged. "I grow weary of this nonsense, mortal. You have fought well. Your end shall be quick, and well rewarded."
Paralysis hit before I could protest. I couldn't move, not even my lips. I'd expected him to break the bet; but not this. . . .
An angry roar went up from the Einherjar; then Rangrid sprawled into my line of vision. Her lips were bloody. The side of her face was already bruised.
Odin shouted, "This is none of your affair, traitorous bitch!" He added a kick to the ribs when she tried to drag herself to her feet. She doubled up, and lay still. "I'll deal with you later!"
Exerting all my strength only brought rivers of sweat into my eyes. I quickly discovered I couldn't even blink to clear them. At the very fringes of my peripheral vision, I saw movement. With an effort that cost me burst blood vessels in my nose, I managed to blink until I could see.
Off to my right, an oak tree was growing. Its gnarled trunk split the wet earth as its diameter swelled from sapling to water-oak-sized monster in less time than it took to think about it. Darkness engulfed me. The huge tree spread heavy branches and thick leaves between me and the bloody skies. A massive branch dipped invitingly a few feet above my head. Its leaves rustled quietly in the breeze.
Odin strode into view, all trace of humor gone from his craggy face. In one hand he held a coil of thick rope; tucked under his other arm was the spear.
He drove the spear point into the soft earth, and kicked viciously again at Rangrid when she tried to cut his legs out from under him. Then, using slow, deliberate motions, he knotted a hangman's noose. Sweat flooded down me. Blood streamed from my nose; but I couldn't move anything. I remained frozen as a marble statue, and watched—raging and helpless—while he slipped the heavy rope over my head. He grinned into my face.
"A bigger man than Odin, eh?"
He tightened the noose cruelly around my throat. A quick flick of his wrist sent the free end sailing over the waiting branch and back into his hands.
He pulled hard, taking up slack. Coarse, thickly twisted fibers cut into my windpipe and carotid artery. I swayed into the air. He hauled me up until just the tips of my toes remained in contact with the earth. Then he tied off the end, pulled his spear free, and moved directly in front of me. I fought to move, and gurgled obscenely. No air got past the back of my mouth. Blood pounded agonizingly in my ears. Pain bit deep into my throat. My chest heaved—but nothing got into my lungs, save spittle.
Odin watched with a leering grin. He was savoring every second of this. . . . Rasping, gargled sounds and the thunder of blood filled my ears. Pain seared my throat, burning inside and out. My tongue felt thick as old shoe leather. Pounding agony filled my head, lay like stones in my heaving chest. . . .
The entire universe seemed to collapse. It shrank in on itself until all that remained was one blazing crimson eye, burning in the air before me. Then even sight of his eye vanished into a red mist. Searing, icy hatred shook through me. It coursed like a drug through my veins, exploded through my entire body. . . .
Abruptly I was moving. I clawed at the rope above my head, before the front of my brain had time to register what the lizard back of it already knew. Freedom might be short-lived. . . .
I hauled myself upward to ease the pressure on my throat, and tore madly at the choking noose. Some instinct screamed at me to kick out. I did so, blindly, with both feet. My boot soles connected hard with something solid.
Air whistled into my lungs. I hung by one hand, and wrenched the noose wider. My vision began to clear with agonizing slowness. The Biter still hung grimly from my wrist, by its tail. The moment I realized that, it slid back into my hand. I slashed through the rope with one cut, and fell heavily. I landed flat on my back.
Hearing began to return. The Einherjar were screaming mindlessly. I neither knew nor cared who they cheered. My whole concern was to get the clinging noose off. I tore again at the rope around my throat, dragged it over my head, hurled it away. Then I staggered to my feet and faced Odin. His face was a bloodied mess. His nose was shattered. It streamed gore where I'd kicked the living shit out of him, point blank.
My tongue didn't want to work right. "Old man . . ."
I coughed, and tried to swallow. I wiped sweat from my eyes with an arm that weighed more than a mountain.
" . . . Old man, you can't even kill me when you cheat. You're finished. Done. It's my turn, and my world's. Nothing you do will stop us. Nothing, do you hear me?"
I advanced on him. He gave ground at every step I took. I lifted the Biter and pointed it at him, stabbing the air to emphasize every syllable: "You . . . lost . . . your . . . bet! Now pay the hell up and get the hell out."
He didn't reply. He just roared and rushed me, spearpoint foremost. My muscles were sluggish; but the Biter came up, dragging my arm with it. The spear point threw sparks as it scraped along the length of the Biter's black blade. I stumbled to one side, off balance, and tried to get the tree trunk between us as the enraged god charged again.
The screams of the Einherjar shook the earth. The very air trembled. Odin came at me, and I evaded, again with the Biter's help. He came again. I foundered, fell, and rolled aside. Odin drove the great spear into the mud. I tripped him up with my feet and he fell heavily against the spear shaft.
A terrible splintering crack rent the air.
Gungnir split down the shaft, breaking off completely just above the heavy iron point. Odin looked almost ready to cry.
The Einherjar fell utterly silent.
Then Odin shrieked. He whipped his sword out of his scabbard, and swung like a madman. I dodged under the blow, and slashed across the hilt. The Biter sang in my hand. There was a moment's terrible shock. . . . Odin was left holding a hilt, and two inches of broken blade. He hurled the ruined weapon at my face, and leaped. Odin sought my throat with his bare hands. We rolled. I stabbed blindly with the Biter. I heard a grunt of pain, and stabbed with all my strength. Hot blood drenched my knuckles.
The Biter's hilt went slippery—then a grip of unbelievable strength fastened onto the Biter's tail. It lashed madly as Odin forced it slowly to uncurl from around my arm. The tail came completely loose and he wrenched it bodily away from me. I cursed, and got clear. Odin hurled my knife with all his might. I dropped to the ground. It whistled past my ear as I fell, and landed quivering, its point buried deeply in the trunk of the great oak tree.
Odin slammed into me. We rolled in the mud, unable to get a killing grip on one another. I squirted out of his grasp like a watermelon seed at a spitting contest. I scrabbled my way up a muddy slope. Odin followed, grabbing at an ankle. I kicked backward and slammed my foot into his teeth. I felt several break off; then he let go and I sprawled forward into shadow. I squirmed forward on my belly.
Again he closed, wrestling me into the mud. We rolled in several directions at once, flailing about ineffectually, with arms and legs sticking out every conceivable direction. We fought for fatal grips, lost them, and squirmed for new ones.
He finally got his hands on my windpipe. I couldn't break his hold. He was twisting my head around, toward the snapping point. I jabbed my thumb into his good eye.
He screamed and let go. I wriggled free. Odin groped blindly for a weapon—
I froze. His questing hand had found the hilt of a sword—a sword jammed into gaping jaws. He wrenched it free. I had time to roll aside, then the bloody point stabbed into the earth millimeters from my ear.
I slid backward, willing the Biter into my hand. A flare of frantic motion blazed in my peripheral vision, then the Biter slid firmly into my palm. The tail got a death grip of its own around my wrist. The Biter was literally buzzing with rage. I slashed blindly. The Biter met Odin's swordpoint and turned it. The weapons grated against one another. Then sword and Biter strained sideways, smashing against a taut length of chain.
Both weapons rang and scraped noisily along it, drawing sparks without nicking the fetter. Fenrir was howling like all the demons of hell combined. His chain was caught on our weapons—and I stood between him and his prey.
As our locked blades slid down the length of chain, toward Fenrir's jaws, I yelled in a last-ditch effort.
"Fenrir! This chain is made out of nothing! Nothing at all! It's a goddamned illusion! Break it!"
The Biter pulsed with baleful black light.
Then sliced through Gleipnir's magical links like a blowtorch through butter. Either that, or the whole chain just disintegrated into dust.
And Fenrir was suddenly free. The sword that had held his jaws open for centuries was now clutched in Odin's sweating grip. Odin was frozen in place. He was staring—horror-struck—at the Fenris Wolf.
I came around with a deadly slash. It laid Odin's throat wide. He reeled. Brought up his sword with a fumbling motion . . .
I slammed the Biter through his black heart.
"Die, damn you!"
I don't know what the Biter did, inside him. But he stumbled backward. Shock and pain turned his face grey. I fell off balance, pulled forward as he jerked himself free. He started to crumple. . . .
I was buffeted to my knees by a massive, grazing blow from behind. I heard a blood-gurgling scream through the spurting mess from Odin's jugular. A huge shadow fell across us. Odin's scream ended abruptly in a strangled whimper. Then something slammed into me again from above and rolled me aside. When I managed to lift my head, Odin's body lay strangely twisted on the muddy, bloody ground.
He had been bitten in half. His legs and hips were missing entirely. He was still alive.
I caught a glimpse of murderous light dying from his single red eye. It had fixed on me with a look I knew I would see in nightmares for the rest of my life.
Then Fenrir opened his great bloody jaws one more time. . . .
And the rest of Odin vanished forever.
The silence was so still, I could hear the individual breathing of tens of thousands of men above my own labored gasps.
Fenrir raised his muzzle to the bloody sky and howled once, a drawn-out victory cry that chilled the blood. Sleipnir thundered toward him. The stallion screamed, and reared; then unaccountably settled again, and pawed restlessly with two right front hooves.
Twenty paces away, Thor—his face ashen against his flaming hair—lifted Mjollnir. Mouth working, eyes blazing with homicidal rage, he hurled his massive war hammer. It flew at my head with all the speed of his immortal strength.
I moved blindly. The Biter whipped up. The shock against my arms lifted me off the ground and hurled me fifteen feet backward. Then I lay panting on my back, both arms completely numb. The shattered pieces of Mjollnir lay scattered in the mud all around me.
The Biter purred in my grasp. If it'd been a kitten, I'd have rubbed its ears.
No one else moved, and I remained where I'd landed.
I still was unable to take it in.
Mjollnir was broken.
Fenrir was free.
And Odin was dead.