by Eric Flint
"I know," said the first raven. "That's why you should have kept a better watch on them."
"I forgot, Munin. I was too busy looking out for trolls. This is too close to Geirrodur's castle to be comfortable for a bird. There's nothing trolls like more than raven-roast."
"You'd forget your own head next, Hugin," said the other raven, with a disapproving clack of its beak.
Hugin scratched his poll with a black claw. "Memory is your job. Anyway we'll just have to do it without them. When is the idiot going to burn his hand and lick the hot blood, if he has thralls doing the cooking?"
Emmitt looked incredulously at Liz. "They're talking," he said in a frightened whisper.
Liz had been trying to come to terms with them saying anything but "Nevermore," herself. She'd already worked out that they weren't speaking English, but that she was understanding them. "I know," she said quietly. "Now, for a tasty piece of dragon heart, they might like to explain."
Hugin bobbed his head forward. But Munin—the one on the left—clacked his beak angrily. "You're not supposed to taste the hot blood."
"Why not? The human is blond, and it is offering us some," said Hugin eagerly, hopping from one foot to the other.
"Because it is not Sigurd the Dragon-slayer, the killer of Fafnir the Great. He's the one with the sword and the ice-brew. Go and peck that stuff out of his hand. I'll chase off these thralls."
"No chance," said Hugin. "If that's Sigurd, then that sword is Gram. I might not be you, but I remember that much. I don't want to be half a raven. You do it. I'll chase the thralls. Peck their eyes out."
"Emmitt, pick up a rock," said Liz, doing it herself. "If one of these dumb birds even takes to the wing, I'll have to show you how to pluck ravens for roasting."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of shades, and passed them to the boy, who now had a rock in his hand. She perched her reading glasses on her nose.
"How straight and how hard do you throw, Emmitt? I killed a crow or two, from a lot farther off than this." She noticed that Lamont had put down the spade and picked up a rock too. Emmitt might look a bit sulky, but like Lamont the boy was quick on the uptake.
"I practice my pitching on sparrows, Liz. I never miss." He hefted the rock, as if gauging it for a throw. "You get the one on the right. I'll kill the left-hand one."
This boy was good. He sounded convincing too. The attitude came through.
Munin squawked indignantly. "You're not supposed to do that! We'll tell Odin."
Sigurd started singing again. Liz reflected that obscene songs hadn't changed much, and then realized that she could understand the words.
"If you live that long," said Emmitt disdainfully.
"And, even if we let you live, Odin is going to really like the fact that you've botched it," said Liz, keeping her voice calm and even. "So you might as well talk to us and tell us what's going on here. Maybe we can reach a deal. In the meanwhile, Lamont, you all need to have a taste of this heart. It does translation magic."
"You can't do that!" squawked Munin. He was definitely both the more intelligent and the more conservative of the two.
"Why not?" said Liz.
"Because Sigurd is supposed to," said the raven.
"We'll leave him some," said Emmitt.
"But . . . he's supposed to eat all of it," protested the raven. Lamont came forward with one of the PSA agents' rather useless short swords and sliced a piece off. Sigurd concentrated on squeezing the last few drops out of the skin he'd just drained and swayed out past them to relieve himself of some of his one-man party.
"And then drink Reginn's blood," the raven concluded.
Liz shuddered. "He's welcome to that. All of it. You Norse are so sweet. We just need a bit of translation skill and we'll happily get out of here, okay?"
"I suppose it'll still work," said Hugin, as Lamont gingerly tasted a bit of the heart.
Marie was far more pragmatic when she was told what to do. She closed her eyes and ate it.
"I don't see why not," said Munin. "A drop of dragon's blood does the trick."
Marie blinked at the raven. "Lamont," she said. "You hear what I hear?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
"Cut another piece for the kids. Quickly now, before that blond lunk comes back."
"I don't want to eat that, Mama," protested Ella, in girlish horror.
"Just close your eyes and pretend it's medicine, which is what it is," said Marie. She pointed a finger at the PSA men. "You, fat ass, you and your friend better get a piece too."
Ty and Tolly tried to outdo each other with he-man noises of enjoyment, and Ella gagged on her fragment.
"I'm a vegetarian," protested one of the PSA agents.
That was nearly too much for Liz, and, she noticed, for the ravens. They nearly fell off their ledge.
"Caw! Vegetables . . . Caw. Caw. Caw."
Back on Earth in the United States, there was no reason why you couldn't be a PSA operative and a vegetarian—or a homicidal maniac, for that matter. But to the Norse, Liz was willing to bet, it was as funny as it must have been to the Zulu the first time they encountered the idea. She wondered what the word "vegetarian" translated into. By the way the ravens were behaving, it was really bizarre. Liz knew from the farm the idea was still a joke to the rural people whose life centered on cattle herding. Meat was as much of a part of their life as Kleenex wasn't.
"Shut up," growled Lamont. "It's part of your cover. Put some in your mouth and pretend."
The agent looked pale, but took the piece of hot meat. Put it to his face. Seemed to be chewing.
"Het jy dit geëet?" asked Liz.
He looked at her blankly.
"You've got to really put it in your mouth," she snarled. "Ass. The spell doesn't work otherwise. Your buddy understood me, didn't you?" she said to the other PSA man.
He nodded, startled. "Yeah. Look, Stephens, you've got to do it."
"I can't . . ."
Liz took a fingerful of the hot bubbling juice and pushed it into his mouth, which was still open. He spat and retched. But when she said "Moeshle nyama!" at least he understood her, even if he did not agree.
"Right," said Marie. "Birdies. Are you going to talk us out of here? We'll get this Sigurd guy to taste this stuff when he comes back in."
The two ravens had almost gotten over the vegetarian business. "It's a deal, black-elf. So long as we get a piece of heart too," said Hugin, plainly the greedier of the two. "What do you say, Munin?"
"I suppose. I want a rare piece," said Munin. Lamont obliged.
"Will it work?" said Liz. "Look, we could just sneak out now."
"He'd chase you, and cut off your head with Gram," said Hugin. "It's what you do to runaway thralls. And that is Sigurd. He's a one-man army."
Munin tore a fragment of meat off the piece between his claws. "No problem. Look, we need you out of here to do our job. And he's a pushover for us corvids. Trust me, it'll be easy. A guy who will take advice from nuthatches hasn't got much in his brain-box."
"Good meat," said Hugin. "Sure you won't have some more, grass-eater?" He cawed at his own humor, as Sigurd walked back in.
Liz pointed at the meat, which was charring on the one side. "Try, master."
He shook his head. "Reginn's supposed to eat it, thrall-wench. Otherwise I end up with the blood-guilt for killing Fafnir his brother."
"See if it is done then, master," persisted Liz, wondering how long she could keep up the "master" bit.
"I suppose so," he said, prodding it with a big forefinger. Hot juice obligingly burned him, and he licked his finger.
"Here stands Sigurd," said the raven Hugin. "Cooking a dragon's heart for someone else. If he ate it he would understand the speech of all, even the birds and the beasts."
"He really should chase these thralls out of here," said the other. "They're here to help the evil Reginn who murdered his father with Fafnir and got the great Sigurd to kill the dragon Fafnir, the brother of Otr, for whom the gods pa
id weregild of Andvari's hoard."
"Yes," said Hugin. "Send these thralls away. Half of them are black-elves anyway."
"Reginn probably needs them to do his dwarfish magic," said Munin. "Send them away."
Sigurd looked at them. "Shall I kill them all? I fancied keeping the one wench for a tumble."
Liz lifted the rock still in her hand just enough for the ravens to get the message. "Caw. Wouldn't do that. No, never. The black-elves would be angry. Send them away now. And give us a piece of meat."
Sigurd blinked. "Did you speak my language before?"
"No, you now understand ours," said Munin.
"I meant this thrall-wench."
"Only after, master," said Liz with a false smile. "Can we go?"
Sigurd cut himself a slice of hot heart. "I suppose so. I thought I'd get you lot to carry the dragon's treasure, but you and those men without any pants on can get gone. I worry about men without pants."
They left, hastily, with Hugin saying in a wheedling voice, "You could spare us a bit. Come on!"
Outside the cave it was apparent that both evening and the weather were drawing in. "So where do we go now?" said Lamont. "You're the outdoor expert, Liz."
"And can I take these off now?" asked Emmitt, tugging at the wraparound dark glasses. "I can't see much out here in them. I couldn't see anything at all in the cave except that fire."
"Sure. It was just to stop those ravens pecking out your eyes." She grinned at him, giving a thumbs up. "You did pretty well in there. And Lamont, I think we have to find shelter and warmth, before the agents' knees fall off and we all freeze to death tonight. This is about as different from my part of Africa as is possible, but that's just common sense."
As usual it was Marie and the department of common sense that took over. "Practically that leaves us with the dragon's cave—and that bozo Sigurd is going to go back there, or return to that place the birds said was a troll castle." She pointed back the way they'd come from. "I'm for the castle. It was fairly warm with those fires, and I think all of the trolls ran away."
"Besides, your average troll is an improvement on Sigurd," said Liz.
Marie nodded. "And it looks like it's about to start snowing."
As they walked back over the hill it began to do that, in unpleasant wet sticky flakes. By the time they got to the troll castle, Liz was fairly sure they were safe from any sort of pursuit. They were lucky to find the place themselves.
The room where Red-beard was still sleeping had delicious warmth seeping out of the stone window, although the two PSA agents in their sandals were almost too cold to climb in there. They had to be hauled over the sill.
"First things first—we ought to block that hole," said one of them.
"With what? Fatso's cloak?" said Liz, sarcastically. She leaned over and gave the ratty garment in question a tug.
The snoring stopped abruptly. The huge red-bearded man sat up and looked at them, with bleary road-map veined eyes.
"Who are you?" he asked. "Where is Thjalfi? And has anyone got something for me to drink?"
Chapter 12
Marie could smell the wave of old booze sweating out of the man. She'd got a whiff of it on their way out, but at the time there had been other things to think about. Now the smell and the sight of the tremor in his hand brought it all back, sharply. It didn't take a glance at Emmitt to realize that it would do the same to the boy. Her sister—Emmitt's mother—had been in that state often enough.
The big red-bearded man looked at the broken stone chair. "I did that?" he asked warily.
"I reckon so," said Marie. There was frost in her voice, despite the situation they were in.
He actually looked as if he was about to start crying. "I didn't mean to. I don't remember . . ." He trailed off.
"I never can remember." He sniffed. "Look, I'm sorry. I'll try and get you another one, but I'm . . . er, a bit broke right now."
Marie looked at him silently.
"There's more, isn't there," he said, looking uneasy.
"There always is, isn't there?"
He hung his head. "Sometimes," he admitted.
She still stared at him.
"Look. I'm sorry about the chair." He started wringing his huge hands.
"It ain't my chair."
He stood up shakily and groaned. "Oh, my head. Then what's the problem?"
"You are," said Marie. "Or rather, your damn drinking is. It's not just chairs you're wrecking. It's yourself."
He held his head. "That's not something I can fix. I wish I could."
"It can be done. If you want to enough. If you're determined enough. If you're strong enough."
He staggered over to the rock window, took a handful of snow and wiped his brow with it. Then took another handful, stuck it into his mouth and sucked on it.
He looked down at his clothes. It was fairly plain he'd been sick on them. He swallowed. "I, Thor, am the strongest of the Æsir. I will do this thing, or die in the effort." He looked at his clothes again. "I don't like waking up like this."
"It's a first step," said Lamont dryly. "But do you think you can keep it up?"
"Thor?" said Emmitt incredulously. "You mean, like, the hammer-thrower?"
Thor nodded. And then plainly wished he hadn't. "Yes. I am the master of Mjöllnir." He went and sat down again, leaning against the wall. "Never again," he groaned.
"So if you are Thor . . . let's see the hammer!" demanded the boy.
Thor shook his head carefully. "I . . . er, sold it."
"What for?" asked his audience.
Thor looked sadly at them. "Drink."
"Look, I can accept this part about powerless over alcohol. Every one of the Æsir is unable to stand against something. Frey is weak against the frost Giants, Heimdall against Surt's minions. And it's true my life has become unmanageable. It's a mess."
Thor now gave Marie a stern look. "But this second step nonsense! This 'we came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity' nonsense. I am a power greater than myself. I am one of the Æsir. I'm a god, you idiotic woman. And I've tried, and I couldn't restore me to sanity. Sif tried. Heimdall tried. Idun tried with curative apples. Nothing works! When the drink gets in me nothing will calm me down but another drink."
"Strongest? You don't look that strong," said Ella doubtfully.
Thor attempted to haul his belly in. "I am Thor of the Æsir. Mighty Thor!" He patted his midriff. "I admit I have let myself get a bit out of condition, lately. But with my girdle of strength . . ."
Liz laughed. "Girdle. It'd have to be super-strong to keep that gut in."
"I think he means a sort of belt, like a boxing champion's belt," said Lamont, with a grin. It was hard to take this wasted bleary slob too seriously, even if in this world he was a god.
"Heavyweight champion," said Liz. "And there I was going to ask where he bought it."