CHAPTER SEVEN
Solveig came at me like a thunderstorm. I clutched my shield in both hands as she rained down on it, blow after blow, steel ringing off steel until the sound became a constant ringing in my ears. Each strike sent shivers down my arms and through my spine. My muscles shook so hard that I thought they were going to turn to jelly under the assault.
And then it stopped.
“You know, the whole Mr. Valhalla thing gets old after the first decade or so,” Solveig said, almost casually. I peeked out from behind my shield. She was dancing back and forth, feinting at the empty air. “It sometimes feels like we’re just going through the motions, you know? I hardly care who wears the crown of entrails anymore.”
“Crown of entrails?” I croaked.
“Yes, of course.” Solveig shuffled forward and laid her sword across my shield, wrenching my shoulder to one side. “Say, do you even have a sword back there?”
“Sure, sure, hang on.” I thumbed my shield into a lighter configuration—her initial attack had triggered some kind of panic response in me, and I had unfolded the shield into a full tower—then drew my sword. Clearing my head, I fell into a basic defense, sword and shield supporting each other, arms close together like the prow of a ship.
“Much better! I was starting to feel like I was doing all the work in this relationship,” Solveig said. She circled around me, watching my footwork, weighing her attack. “Good to see you’re willing to put in a little effort.”
“I just think there’s been some kind of—” I shut up as she drifted forward, swinging and then immediately reversing her grip to stab down at my head. The force of the downward strike banged the shield into my forehead. I stepped back just as she swept the blade through the air that used to contain my midsection.
“You can block with the sword too, if that’s all you’re going to do,” Solveig said. To demonstrate, she danced her blade up and down the length of my sword, from forte to tip, clanging the steel like a bell. “Block block block block BLOCK! Maybe you should just carry two shields. You can hit back, yes?”
“My father always taught me to never hit a girl,” I said, though in truth I had no trouble hitting girls, especially girls who were actively hitting me, double especially girls with swords. Unfortunately my ability to act on this willingness was deterred by the fact that I was fully engaged in not getting my brains splattered all over the ground by this psychopathic Viking lady.
“That is a good idea. I like that. I wish more men would follow your father’s advice,” she said, then dove to one side, drawing the attention of my shield just long enough to plant her pommel in my kneecap. I yelped and limped away. “Would make my job so much easier.”
I backed away, folding my shield into a more manageable shape, shrinking it until it was a simple disc of beaten bronze, not much larger than my fist. Solveig’s brows shot up.
“So is that a magic shield of some kind?”
“What? Oh, yeah. I can change its size and shape at will.” I took a step back as she lunged forward, then made a counterstroke that she took off the forte of her blade. Sparks flew over our heads.
“That’s a pretty good trick. When it is bigger, it is heavier, yes?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but tested my reactions with a series of slashes. “You have kind of small arms. Lot of shield for such a little man.”
“I do alright,” I said, though my arms were getting tired. She had really hammered me in the opening moments of our match. “Is that why you don’t carry a shield? Girl arms?”
“Oh, ho! He has a mouth on him!” Solveig hooted. “Better do the shield trick, hero. You’re going to need something to hide behind!”
She charged in, laying her blade across my knuckles just as I folded the shield larger. I whipped the enarme straps around my neck, releasing the shield and taking my sword in both hands. While she battered the shield I slid around its edge and took a nick out of her thigh. Solveig hissed with appreciation, then kicked me in my already lame knee, followed up with a hip check into my collapsing leg, then thrust her boot into my chest. I hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. I tried to bring the shield around, but she kicked it aside, then slapped my sword out of my hand and rested the tip of her sword at the base of my throat.
“‘Girl arms,’ eh?” she said, breathing heavily. “We will see about that.”
“Wait!” I shouted, just as she leaned down on the blade. I felt the tip press against my skin, and the first trickle of blood pooling.
A second blade flashed out of nowhere, stabbing Solveig’s weapon in the fuller, sending the tip skating across my throat to land heavily in the sand next to me. The pain was immense but not, as I expected, fatal. I scrambled back, grabbing at the trickle of hot blood pouring down my neck.
Inge had joined us in the pit. Her glittering blade crossed Solveig’s, both of them smeared with the bright red of my blood. She had saved my life.
“This one is mortal, Bashful,” Inge said. “You would have killed him.”
“Mortal?” Solveig said, mortified. She looked at me in horror. “But what is he doing in Valhalla?”
“Making a nuisance of himself,” Inge said.
“Excuse me, I think I might still be dying,” I said. There was a lot of blood spurting from between my fingers, and I was starting to feel light-headed. Solveig took a step toward me, a look of concern on her face, but Inge pushed her back.
“Do not get involved, shieldmaiden,” she said. Fortunately, Saint Matthew shouldered his way through the crowd. He walked across the sand, ignoring the gritty blood staining his cream-colored robes, then knelt beside me.
“Looking rough, warden,” he said quietly. I tried to answer, but my mouth was filling up with blood. Matthew smiled and pressed his hand against my throat. “It’s alright, buddy. It’s going to be okay. Everything’s going to super chill.”
Brilliance ran down his hand into my throat. I felt blood harden under my fingers, then the skin knit itself back together. My head cleared, and the pain in my throat melted like frost in the sun. I coughed, then spat a chewy slug of rapidly coagulating blood onto the sand.
“Better?” he asked.
“Super chill,” I said.
“That’s the spirit,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. Then he rose and helped me to my feet. “Come on. We’ve got to talk to this valkyrie queen lady. Apparently it’s important.”
Inge led us out of the sandpit, leaving Solveig standing alone. The crowd in our immediate vicinity had grown very quiet, so I was able to hear my sparring partner.
“Sorry, mortal man,” Solveig said. I turned around and waved.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
“Yes, I suppose. But look at it this way: When you die, you might still earn your way into Valhalla,” she said. “And maybe by then you’ll have learned how to have a conversation with a real woman.”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” I said. Then Matthew pulled me through the crowd, and I lost sight of my almost-murderess.
The rest of the team waited in a tiny knot. Inge passed through them. Gregory clapped me on the shoulder as I approached.
“Little man, doing big work!” he said. “We’ll make a swordsman of you yet.”
“I killed a dragon,” I muttered.
“Yes, yes. And someday you will prove that was more than a fluke,” he said.
“Hold that thought,” Esther said. “Inge, we really need to see Runa. Where is she?”
“On her throne, watching the world fall apart,” Inge answered. “This way.”
We wound our way through the hall, avoiding kegs of spilled beer and the occasional spatter of blood from the surrounding fighting pits. The gathered host ignored us. I spotted a scattering of valkyries watching the proceedings, apparently serving as judges and arbitrators in the various competitions, though a few seemed to simply be sitting back and enjoying the spectacle, drinking horns in hand. The valkyries watched us very closely. One, a tall, black-haired warrior with severe features and a scar across her lips, turned to follow our progress before lifting into the air on raven wings and gliding smoothly to the back of the hall. Judging by the hall’s size, it felt like we should be walking for hours, but it took mere minutes to arrive at the wooden throne of Valhalla.
The throne was broad, carved from a single trunk lying on its side, the far edges still rough with bark and tangled roots. Three seats made up the throne, the center one elevated and crowned with a carving of a tree and two ravens, while the flanking two seats were more diminutive, though still grand. The whole triumvirate was worked with engravings of various mythological animals, from scaled dragons to sharp-eyed foxes, and a stag whose rack grew into a flowering tree. The wall behind the throne was made of piled logs, and bristled with every manner of weapon the Norse mind could imagine, each one buried deep into the wood. A wide firepit stretched in front of the throne, straddled by a half dozen cooking spits, laden with roasting pigs. Sizzling fat dripped onto the hot coals of the fire. Tembo saw me scanning the wall of weapons.
“The weapons of the dead,” he whispered into my ear. “Every soul here died in battle. And these are the blades that killed them.”
“Cheery,” I said.
“They’re Vikings,” Tembo said with a shrug. “They do cheer differently.”
Two winged figures lounged beside the throne, while a rather regular-looking man in leather armor lingered to one side. One of them was the raven-winged valkyrie I had noticed earlier. She stood next to the smallest seat, one hand resting on the carved horn of a wyrm, the other cradling a silver goblet. She was speaking to the other valkyrie, a plainly dressed woman seated on the left-most seat, whose wings rustled against the back of the throne. Her hair was the color of gold shot through with veins of copper and steel, and she wore a black bar of paint across her face, turning her eyes into pools of bright green in a field of shadow. As we approached, she waved the other valkyrie away and stood up. The man watched us closely, but made no move to join the conversation.
“Esther. I never thought I’d see you again,” the golden-haired valkyrie said.
“Runa,” Esther said. Her voice was unusually tense, even for her. “I’m sure the feeling was mutual.”
“And yet here you are,” Runa said, smiling tightly. “Come to offer an apology?”
“No. But I do have a warning.” Esther hesitated, then looked to the man beside the throne. “Who is this?”
“Aelwulf,” Runa said. The man nodded. He had deeply set eyes, and dark hair that hung in braids around his face, with eyes of startling blue. A single scar ran from his left eye down his cheek, but it did little to blemish his rugged handsomeness. The ladies had certainly noticed him. Runa continued. “My personal attendant, and onetime skald. Whatever you must say to me can be said to him.”
“He will only wheedle it out of her later,” the dark-feathered valkyrie said. Aelwulf glared at her, but then smiled and nodded to us.
“If you would be more comfortable in my absence, I am happy to oblige.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Runa said. “The crone of Knight Watch will have no secrets from you. Speak, Esther, that we might get back to our celebration.”
“The world is coming to an end,” Esther said simply. Aelwulf’s brows shot up, but Runa simply snorted.
“The world is always coming to an end,” she said. “That is the nature of the world. That is why we are here, preparing for the war that will follow.”
“Well, you might want to kick those preparations into high gear,” Esther said. She produced her clipboard and thrust it in Runa’s direction. The two valkyries exchanged a look, then Runa stood and took the board.
“What is this?”
“After-Anomaly Report,” Esther said. “My team had to attend to a creep in a Halloween mask raising the dead with a magical sword. The guy had a valkyrie for a girlfriend. Sound familiar?”
“Sounds like the cover art from a heavy metal band,” Runa said. I laughed, but shut up when she looked at me. She was absolutely serious.
“Do you know where all your girls are, Runa?” Esther asked.
“There are no time cards in Valhalla,” she answered. “The cadres come and they go. I do not keep track of them.”
“Well, maybe you should,” Esther said. “Because it sounds like you’ve got a rogue valkyrie trying to rush Ragnarok to the brink.”
Runa Hellesdottir reviewed the paperwork for a long moment. The black-haired valkyrie drifted closer, reading over Runa’s shoulder. Aelwulf just stared at us coldly. Eventually the other valkyrie grimaced and muttered something into her goblet of wine.
“We don’t know that,” Runa answered. She looked up at the team. “Is the agent here?”
“Solveig the Basher just about killed him,” Esther said, gesturing to me. Runa looked me over again, this time with curiosity. Aelwulf’s gaze was less forgiving. I started blushing.
“Bashful. Her name is Bashful,” Runa said absently, her eyes still scanning the document. Then she looked up, fixing me in her icy gaze. “This is true? The dark knight with a thirsty blade, and a valkyrie at his side?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s what happened. Though the term ‘thirsty’ has changed meaning a little since—”
“We will talk,” Runa said. “Inge, you and Revna see to the proceedings. The volleyball competition has gone on too long. They are simply taunting that poor head. Make sure that Hrapp gets his skull back. Aelwulf, prepare a table for our guests. They will be hungry after their long journey.”
“Yes, my lady,” the two valkyries said in unison. Aelwulf simply nodded and turned away, disappearing behind the throne. Runa gestured back to us. “Let’s find some privacy. There’s no reason to interrupt the festivities for this.”