Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER SIX

icon

The clouds cleared, and Valhalla opened up before us. A green field swept up out of the cloudbanks, like an island of emerald earth set among the storms, bounded by snow-peaked crags that disappeared into the surrounding cumulus clouds. A long building sprouted out of the grassy hills, its roof thatched with golden hay and woven through with battle-scarred shields, bristling with chimneys that belched thick, black smoke. Two wide doors led into the hall, carved with intricate scenes of warriors and dragons and giants, all doing battle. A tree as tall as the sky loomed over the hall. Its leaves were golden red, and its bark was the color of fresh snowfall.

It was a breathtaking scene, and one completely ruined by the fact that Valhalla seemed to have been vandalized by a squad of disgruntled toddlers with a very poor understanding of color theory.

Swatches of colored fabric hung from every branch and twig of the majestic tree, a mismatched harvest of greens and yellows and bright reds that clashed with the subtle beauty of the foliage. Strands of rope hung with bone ornaments looped their way over the front of the beer hall, cluttering the simple architecture with a clattering, gruesome display. And music filled the air. Loud music. Music that sounded like it was being produced by banging together two halves of a broken piano.

It looked like they were having a festival. Or a riot. Or had been burgled.

Naglfr settled onto the grassy plain with a groan of toenail clippings. Our escort did a final pass overhead, then zoomed down next to us, landing like an artillery shell. A plume of hot air washed over our longship. The valkyrie straightened up, but did not sheathe her sword, or stop frowning, or anything else that might have made us feel welcome.

“Bloody show-off,” Esther muttered. “Should have never let them rent Top Gun that one time in Topeka. Flying around like complete knobs ever since.” She stood at the front of the boat and addressed us like a general overseeing a landing party. “Keep in mind why we’re here. We need to find that sword, and learn what we can about Valhalla’s involvement in the attack. This can be a pretty distracting place. Stay on target, all of you.” She pointed at me and scowled. “Especially you, John.”

“Hey, what’d I do?” I asked.

“Nothing. Yet.” Esther answered. Then she threw the rope ladder overboard—I want to emphasize that this rope ladder was, somehow, still made of toenail clippings. This was a persistently unpleasant ship—and clambered down onto the field. I followed close behind. This place wasn’t that different from the soccer field where I’d first met Knight Watch. Ren faires often had a lot of random pennants and a discordant backdrop of music and drunkenness. Fewer valkyries. A real pity, that.

“Esther MacRae!” the valkyrie boomed. “In accordance with the Compact of 1947, the Greater Danelaw Alliance, and the prophecies of the elder crow, I am required to welcome you into Valhalla.” She strode forward, sword held to one side, as though she meant to sweep its shimmering blade through our party at the slightest provocation. “Enter, and find peace.”

“Hardly a glowing welcome,” I said to Chesa, who was standing a little closer to me than was her usual manner. I found it comforting. Perhaps there was some hope between us after all. I glanced in her direction to try to make eye contact and saw that she was only close to me because I had ceased to exist in her mind as anything other than an obstacle. Her attention was elsewhere.

Specifically, her attention was on the doorman. As was Bethany’s attention, and Esther’s, and maybe even Greg’s. This man stood with fists planted firmly on hips, legs spread confidently, head thrown back and flowing locks of hair dancing on a breeze that seemed to blow only for him. A luxurious beard of golden curls descended from a jaw that could have broken boulders, and his eyes twinkled as clear and blue as the finest topaz. He smiled like a god of drunken joy.

Oh, and he was naked. Naked, and bulging with improbable musculature, and glistening like a waterfall of jelly. The only thing even close to clothing was a brightly colored sash that ran from left shoulder to right thigh, and read Mr Valhalla in golden runic script. The lower end of the sash barely, technically, might have covered his pendulous manhood. All things considered, I would have preferred a larger sash. Or a smaller man. Preferably both.

“Oh, Lord, what is happening?” I muttered.

“Why have we not been to Valhalla before?” Bethany asked breathlessly. “How is this not a regular occurrence?” She turned to Esther. “I have many questions.”

“I only have one,” Chesa said, shouldering past me. “Does he have a name?”

“He doesn’t need a name, sister,” Bethany said. “Look at those abs!”

“Alright, alright, I think we’ve had enough of the lurid meat show,” I said. “It’s hardly appropriate for two ladies of the Knight Watch to conduct themselves like skittish fangirls.”

“You can just shut right up!” Bethany said without looking at me. “You were heels-on-fire to get here, back when you thought it was full of Nordic battle witches and their impossible cheekbones. Well, here we are. Now be quiet and let the ladies enjoy the grand tour.”

Esther was ignoring all of this. After giving Mr. Valhalla a brief perusal (and blushing, to her credit) she had turned back to the attendant valkyrie. Esther was mirroring our escort’s stance, though rather than holding a sword with which to strike, our fearless leader had a clipboard and a pencil.

“Inge. I thought we would never meet again.”

“The gods willing,” Inge answered. “Though in this case, they have left us disappointed, and questioning their wisdom. What brings you to Valhalla, Captain MacRae?”

“I need to speak to Runa. A matter has come to my attention that requires her counsel.” She marched up to the valkyrie, stopping within striking distance, and presented the clipboard. The valkyrie didn’t move for the longest time. Then, slowly, she raised her hand and slid the visor of her helmet up, revealing her face. The whole helmet folded into her collar like a magician’s trick.

She was wearing a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, and her white-blond hair was braided into a complicated knot that clung close to her scalp. Inge glanced down at the clipboard and sniffed.

“Wow, they really went whole-hog on the Top Gun thing, didn’t they?” I whispered. Tembo, his voice low and rumbling, answered carefully.

“Yes. Several of their number were exiled to Kansas for a period of months in the eighties, as part of an incident involving three magical scarecrows and a great deal of cocaine. Their hotel had a VCR player.” He let out a long, steady sigh. “Esther has regretted that decision ever since.”

“You always did have a prodigious amount of paperwork,” Inge said. Her voice was sharp and slightly dissonant, as though it was being played on a musical instrument that was out of key. “You will find that such things mean little to us, here in Valhalla.”

“They meant enough when you were signing the Accords, valkyrie,” Esther said. “Our world runs on magical contracts and the spells they bind. Without them, we would both be in a lot of trouble. Now, are you going to honor our agreements, or do I need to get the djinn involved?”

“Okay, that sounds serious.” I glanced nervously at Tembo. “Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?”

“Allowed? Yes. Welcome?” He shrugged bony shoulders. “They are still working things out. Do not worry. Esther has a form. She always has a form.”

“My papers grant emergency access to Valhalla, and to your leader. So unless Runa Hellesdottir is currently locked in a fishing competition with Njorth, I need to speak with her.” She pushed the clipboard into Inge’s glimmering breastplate. “Immediately.”

Inge scowled at Esther for a long, long time. Then she sheathed her sword and pushed the clipboard back.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Inge said. “The fishing competition isn’t until Freyday.”

She turned and strode up the grassy slope to the door leading into the beer hall proper. This meant walking past the glistening man-mountain, a prospect that I viewed with increasing unease the closer we got. As we approached, he glanced in our direction, and I swear I could feel the smoldering heat of his gaze washing over me. He ignored the ladies, but his eyes lingered on Gregory, Tembo, and eventually me. Then he snorted and returned to staring heroically at the distant horizon, as though daring the sky to fall on his majestic head.

“You will need to sponsor greater champions than that, Inge,” he said. His voice was like molten copper, warm and rich and capable of melting your face off if you get too close. “None of them stand a chance.”

“These are guests of Runa Hellesdottir,” Inge said derisively. “Certainly not champions.”

“I killed a dragon,” I said, though my voice came out as a barely audible squeak. It was still enough to draw the attention of Mr. Valhalla. He scanned me quickly, then turned to Inge and laughed.

“They aren’t making dragons like they used to, eh, Inge? What is the world coming to?” He shook his head, then threw his arms wide and shouted. “Bring me your champions, children of Valhalla! I will pick my teeth with their bones, and wear their entrails as a crown! Bring them to me, that I might grind their brains into paste, and crush their hearts in my teeth!”

“A pleasant fellow,” I said to Tembo as we passed by. I glanced back, inadvertently confirming that Mr. Valhalla wore nothing under his sash. “Does he greet all the glorious dead this way, or are we a special case?”

“You have come at an inconvenient time,” Inge said. “We are in the middle of the Mr. Valhalla competition. If you are fortunate, no one will think enough of you to offer a challenge.”

“And if we’re unfortunate?” I asked.

“How do you look in a sash?”

“I, uh . . . I’ve never . . . I don’t think I would . . .” I fell silent, bracketed by laughter from the girls, and Tembo’s demure chuckle.

“I think we’ve come at the most convenient of times, actually,” Chesa said. “Might be a chance for you boys to work out some of those latent aggressive tendencies.”

I didn’t answer, and we passed through the doors to the beer hall. Inside we found an impossibly large space, lined with benches and tables, and lit by flickering torches that cast everything in a bright, golden light. The thatch roof stretched overhead, so high that at its peak it disappeared into a silver haze. Birds flew between the massive pillars that supported the thatched sky. The floor was hard-packed dirt, sometimes overlaid with thick carpets, while elsewhere lines of white-painted stones marked off pits of loose sand that served as wrestling rings and sparring circles. Small groups of scantily clad competitors battered one another on the blood-soaked sand, roaring as they flung themselves into battle armed with nothing more than drunken confidence and their fists. Crowds of fellow competitors and onlookers in full battle armor cheered them on, or mocked them in equal measure. Sometimes one of the competitors would tumble into the crowd, and the overly enthusiastic fans would join the fight, spilling off their benches to tumble onto the sand.

I was surprised to see a fair number of the competitors were women. One more misconception to toss in the garbage pail of history, I suppose.

We had come to a stop just inside the door and looked around. There had to be thousands of long benches, some arranged in neat rows, others dragged together in loose circles around the wrestling pits, or to form small cliques of similarly dressed champions. Most of the worthy dead who filled the hall looked like traditional Vikings, some in fur and leather, others wearing battered ring mail, a few in the silk of nobility. The air was filled with the sweet scent of woodfire and seared meat, along with the boisterous cheering of the host, and the clamor of combat.

“Somehow, this isn’t what I was expecting of Valhalla,” Gregory said. “This looks like a college frat party more than the glorious halls of heaven.”

“Pagans,” Matthew said. “Always having a party.”

“Seems okay to me,” Bethany answered. “Are those . . . volleyball courts?”

We looked in the direction she was pointing. A line of fishing nets, hung with skulls and strung between spears thrust into the ground, served as volleyball nets for pairs of sweating, screaming competitors. The ball flying through the air appeared to be wearing a helmet and smiling. When one of the players spiked it into the sandy court, the ball gave out a little scream that drew a round of laughter and applause from the audience. I swallowed the bile in my throat and turned away.

“It isn’t usually like this,” Esther said. “That time in Topeka, again. There was a pageant at the Holiday Inn across the parking lot, and they kept wandering over and taking notes. They’ve thrown a Mr. Valhalla competition ever since.”

“Please tell me there’s a swimsuit competition!” Bethany squeaked.

“There is not,” Inge answered. “Foolish child. Vikings wear armor, not swimming suits.”

“Well that’s a relief,” I said, looking around. “Good to see they’ve covered the gender gap, at least. All’s fair in love and war, right?”

“Sounds like a great opportunity for you, John,” Bethany said. “You might meet someone.”

“Eh, yeah. Ha. Pity no one’s available at the moment.”

“Yes, I am available,” someone said. Before I could turn around, they grabbed my wrist and dragged me bodily away from the rest of the team.

She was a little shorter than me, but built like a main battle tank with braids. Glistening chain mail and banded leather shone under a shawl of fox pelts, and her hair was woven through with charms. The hand wrapped around my wrist was thick but soft. She carried half a roast chicken in her other hand, the grease dripping down her bronze bracer. She turned to look at me. Her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes glassy with drink and cheer, and when she smiled she could have been any maiden in any grand epic.

“Where have they been hiding you, then?” she asked. “Or are you one of the recent inductees? You dress like one of Rollo’s boys—pretty hair, and such fine fingernails. You are bound to find a place on Naglfr with cuticles like that.” She jerked me forward to examine my fingers, all while dragging me through the crowd. “Such delicate fingers. A bard, perhaps? Even bards die in battle, I suppose. Though most of the bards I knew just drank and hit on the servants. Are you listening?”

“Yes . . . yes, I’m sorry. Where are we going?”

“What a funny accent you have!” she said with a laugh. “Oh, gods, you aren’t one of those Christians, are you?” She somehow managed to put five syllables into the word “Christian.” “How would a Christian get into Valhalla?”

“We had . . . paperwork . . . ?” I sputtered.

“That sounds right,” she said. “I am Solveig the Bashful. I think it is meant as a joke, but I have never laughed at it. So, here we are.”

A line of painted stones marked off a blood-spattered pit of sand. Solveig pulled me across the line, then dropped my hand and crossed to the other side of the pit. I stood dumbfounded while she took another bite of the chicken, then tossed it aside and wiped greasy fingers across her tunic. Chewing noisily, she did a quick set of calisthenics, then drew a short sword and sliced at the air a couple times. Apparently satisfied, Solveig turned to me and raised her weapon.

“I would prefer no shield. The whole shieldmaiden thing gets old, you know? But if you insist, I will allow you this advantage.”

“What is happening?” I asked.

“You asked if there were any women willing to fight. And yes.” She held her arms out, as though announcing the grand-prize winner at the lottery. “I am willing to fight!”

“But I don’t think—”

She lunged at me.


Back | Next
Framed