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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Clarence led us through the courtyard and into the great hall at the foot of the central tower. The space was only dimly lit by smoldering coals in the fireplace at the end of the hall, but as Clarence entered a series of torches along the walls came to life. A table ran the length of the room, with benches and a set of more comfortable looking chairs nearest the hearth, along with a handful of rugs on the floor and tapestries on the walls. The tapestries appeared to depict scenes from Clarence’s days in Knight Watch. At least, that was my assumption. I don’t remember a lot of fire-breathing helicopters in the Bayeux Tapestry. There was food on the table, as well, and glasses of wine, enough for all of us. That’s how it was last time I was here, as well. Meals appearing in empty rooms whenever they were needed. I didn’t even realize I was hungry until the smell of freshly baked bread and thick gravy filled my nose. I made for the table.

That’s when I saw that what I had mistaken for coals were actually cinders curling out of the nostrils of Clarence’s tame dragon, Kyle.

Kyle lay curled in the fireplace, with his scaly butt sticking out into room, and his back pressed hard against the mantel. His jaws rested primly on paws the size of heater shields, and with each deep, snoring breath, a plume of flame licked across the stone floor. In the crook of Kyle’s neck nestled a white puffball of fur, no bigger than my head, snoring in time with the rise and fall of the dragon’s chest.

“Oh, it’s a kitty!” Chesa squealed. “I wanna hug it!”

Both Kyle and the puffball snapped their eyes open at Chesa’s approach. A long cloud of scalding hot smoke rolled out of Kyle’s nostrils, driving Chesa back. Clarence snorted.

“My advice is you let the cat come to you. Or hope it ignores you,” he said. “Claws like fish hooks, that one has. I’ve taken to wearing my chain mail again. Bloody inconvenient.”

“Commissar Snowflake loves you, Clarence,” Kyle rumbled. “You feed him.”

“Yes, well, the commissar has a strange way of showing affection.” The old knight sat down in one of the comfortable chairs near the hearth, snatched up a goblet of wine, and leaned back, with his feet on the table. “So. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“We’re having trouble with a Nazi zombie sword,” I said, settling into my own chair. The rest of the team took seats. “Esther said you were involved in beating it last time around.”

“And which Nazi zombie sword is this?” Clarence asked.

“There was more than one?” I asked. Without thinking, I shoveled some of the stuff on my plate onto a slice of bread and shoved it in my mouth. It was . . . highly textured. And inedible. I opened my mouth and let it dribble back onto the plate. When I looked up, Clarence caught my eye and smiled uncomfortably.

“Mostly moss when I’m not around,” he said under his breath. “Can’t get the medieval spirits to quite understand the idea behind a vegetarian diet. They try, but . . . ” He pushed food-shaped lumps around his plate with disappointment. “They are rarely successful.”

“We were talking about Nazi zombie swords,” Chesa prompted. “You said there was more than one of them?”

“Sure. They had a whole division dedicated to mythic inquiry. A lot of it fell to Nik’s team to handle, but we got the odd resurrected giant or soul-bomb tossed our way. There was a whole operation to bind the ghost of Joan of Arc and crown her Queen of Vichy France. Went about as well as you might expect.” He took a long drink of wine, then fished an apple out of the bowl in front of him and peered at it nervously. He took a slow bite, chewing carefully until he was sure it was just an apple. Then he smiled and turned his attention back to us. “So what are we talking about here?”

“The Totenschreck,” Tembo said.

“Ah, the valkyries. Always a good time when the valkyries are around. Runa still in charge up there?” he asked. Tembo nodded, and Clarence continued, crunching happily into his apple. “A good one, Runa Hellesdottir. I know she and Esther don’t get along, but I wouldn’t trade that month in the Hebrides for the world. But the Totenschreck was a nasty business. One of the Kraut scientists found a way to harness the power of Freya’s tears, forged it into a blade, and just started wreaking havoc in the Ardennes.”

“What exactly does it do? We’ve seen it in action, or at least a facsimile,” Gregory said. “It killed with a touch.”

“Worse than that,” Clarence said. “I mean, you’re right, it doesn’t take more than a slice to lay a soldier low. We buried most of a company the first time we met that damnable blade. But the worst part came in the morning.” Another bite of the apple, and Clarence stared off into the middle distance, lost in thought. “Those bodies came clawing back up out of their graves, biting and shooting and mean as a hellcat. No offense.” This last part was to Commissar Snowflake, who was now watching our conversation with eerie yellow eyes. “Every day we had to kill them again, and every morning they came back. And all the while, the Totenschreck kept adding to their number. Didn’t stop until we killed the bearer, and separated the sword from the Tears.”

“Why didn’t you just burn the bodies? Or put them in steel boxes?” Bethany asked.

“Because this was more than just a cheap zombie movie. These things were mythic. Their actual bodies didn’t really matter. Every time they died, their souls went up to Folksvangr to wait. And every morning, the Totenschreck brought them back down. Burning the bodies just meant the Nazis could summon them somewhere else, hundreds, maybe thousands of miles away. Wherever the sword was, that’s where they showed up.” Clarence threw his apple into the fire, apparently forgetting that Kyle occupied the hearth. The seedy core bounced off Kyle’s forehead and tumbled to the ground. Snowflake rose from her nest and went to sniff at the apple, mewing quietly. “They’re drawn to it. Like flies to meat.”

“You said the souls went to folks winger? I think you mean Valhalla,” I said.

“What? No, lad. Folksvangr. The field of the people. Valhalla is only where half the honored dead go. The other half belong to Freya, and end up in Folksvangr. Read a book.”

“So killing the guy who carried the sword ended it? The zombies all went back to being dead?” Gregory asked.

“Not at all. We had to hunt them down one at a time and put them back in the grave. And even then, their souls are still up in Folksvangr, waiting to be called again,” Clarence said. “If someone manages to reunite the sword and the Tears, all those dead soldiers are going to come roaring back to life. Kill them all you want. They’ll be back.”

“That sounds bad,” I said. “How many do you think it is?”

“Enough to kick off Ragnarok,” Tembo said quietly.

“More than enough for that. Valhalla will have to summon their hosts to counter, and Fenrir will come looking for his moon pie.” Clarence pushed his food around on his plate one more time, searching fruitlessly for something that could be consumed by the human digestive system, then poured himself another glass of wine. “You said you’ve encountered a facsimile of the sword, which means someone is training a new bearer. But as long as the real deal is safe in Valhalla, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

“It’s not,” I said. “Someone got it last night, right in the middle of the Mr. Valhalla competition. Runa blames us.”

“Hmm. That sounds like trouble.” He drew another apple from the pile and crunched into it loudly. “Next step is to find the Tears. Because if those two get together, you’re going to have a lot of dead soldiers coming for you.”

“Great. That’s just great. Runa says she doesn’t know where they are.”

“I’ll bet she doesn’t,” he said. “But I do. Or, more accurately, I know someone who does.”

“Who?” Chesa asked.

“The last zombie,” Clarence said. “Nice guy. You’ll like him.”

“Wait, some of those things are still wandering around?” Tembo asked. “Esther said that operation was over. You rounded up the last of those guys in the eighties!”

“I made my last kill in 1984, at a roller skating rink in suburban Charlotte,” Clarence said. “But there was one left. Clever fellow. Managed to hide for a very long time. Kept moving around so no one would get curious about their ageless neighbor. I just couldn’t bring myself to kill him.”

“Clarence! He’s a zombie!” Bethany said.

“Maybe. But he’s also a hell of a gardener. Anyone who can grow roses like that can’t be all that dead,” Clarence said. “Besides, it sounds like my mercy was providential. If anyone can find the Tears of Freya, it’s Percy.”

“As in Sir Percival?” Gregory asked.

“As in Percipept Humboldt-Hastings the Fourth,” Clarence said, “Apparently it’s a family name.”

“Family name or no, I can’t imagine calling a kid Percipept,” Chesa said.

“Not that part. The Fourth,” Clarence said. “His dad was named Billy. Actually, Billiam Humboldt-Hastings”—he made a rolling gesture with his hand—“the Fourth.”

“So where is he now?” I asked. “Still moving around?”

“No. That was too dangerous. He had to come up with a new identity each time, and the cops were getting curious. Plus he had to start his garden over with every iteration, and that was a bloody tragedy,” Clarence said. “I helped him out. Carved off a slice of the old Unreal and gave him some cover. The neighbors don’t get curious anymore. As long as he keeps his head down, no one’s the wiser.”

“But you can get us to him?” I asked.

“Quick as a whistle,” he answered, standing up and wiping his hand on the bristling back of Commissar Snowflake. Kyle lifted his head and let out a disapproving snort. “We can walk there from here.”


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Framed