In a densely forested area to the north of Portland, Managarm stood in a small clearing and looked up at the sun in the overcast sky. He guessed it was shortly past 9 a.m.
He rubbed his hands together against the autumn chill and knelt down next to the sheep he’d stolen from a nearby farm. The benzodiazepine hadn’t yet taken full effect, and the animal continued to bleat pitifully as she tugged against the rope that secured her to the stake Managarm had driven into the ground. The old god smiled, watching the sheep grow weaker with each protest.
“I really don’t want to watch this,” Opal grumbled from a nearby tree, where she sat on the ground with Baron in her lap. “Plus, it’s cold. I don’t see why I couldn’t have just stayed with Sally back at the apartment.”
Shooting a quick scowl in Opal’s direction, Managarm sat down on the moss and patted the sheep’s head, watching her large eyes become increasingly hazy. “Surely, you’re not that thick,” he said to Opal. “I figured you were a bit sharper than your little witch friend. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
Managarm could smell the sheep’s fear at his nearness—he was still the Moon Dog, an ancient predator—but her body grew heavier by the second. Her cries were softer, and finally her knees buckled. She sank to the ground, shifted awkwardly, and panted quietly.
Opal held Baron close to her chest. “We’re your insurance policy. To make sure Sally does what you want.”
“Very good.” Managarm slowly untied the sheep. She was too heavily drugged now to run. Managarm grabbed the wooden stake by both hands and pulled furiously at it, grunting and cursing as it took several attempts to yank it out of the ground.
“Couldn’t you just leave us in the car? You know I won’t run away, not while you still have Sally.”
Managarm reached for the hunting knife on his belt. He resisted the temptation to give the sheep one final pat on the head—there was no sense getting attached to a sacrificial animal. He sliced across his open palm, letting his blood flow freely. The air sizzled with the spilling of a god’s blood, and a dark, burnt musk perfumed the air.
“Neither of you is of any use to me in the car.” Managarm returned the knife to his belt and smiled.
Opal clutched Baron more tightly, and the cat mewled in protest. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“You shouldn’t.” Managarm closed his eyes and lifted his bleeding palm to the sky. Come, Randulfr, he called out with his mind. You cannot resist a kinsman’s opened veins.
Stepping around the sheep, Managarm sat down next to Opal—delighting in how she flinched away from him, though still annoyed by the cat’s incessant growling—and reached for the radio in his pocket.
“All is ready,” he said into the radio. “I want no interference. No talking, no movement.”
“Understood,” Adam squawked back.
Managarm growled. “I just told you I wanted silence!”
He released the call button and stared at the radio, daring it—or anyone on the other end—to make a sound. Satisfied that the Berserkers would hold their positions, he slipped the radio back into his pocket.
“I’m not sure I like this new generation of Berserkers.” Managarm picked up a stick from the ground and started whittling absently with his hunting knife, periodically pausing to run his still-bleeding palm along the wood to coat its surface. “Too distractible.” And sometimes just plain stupid.
The gods’ warriors had been intensely loyal, attentive, capable of independent thought—but only within the framework of their given mission. What he remembered most vividly was their fierce, unwavering commitment—something seriously lacking in the crew he had thus far attracted.
“Or maybe your little friend is simply deficient in her services to the Moon Dog.” He continued to slice bark off the tip of the stick. “Can’t call up a decent Berserker if her life, or her friend’s, depends on it.” He leered at Opal, and she shot him a look of complete disgust.
“Stop calling her that,” Opal spat. “Little witch and your little friend. She has a name. And Sally is far more honorable and diligent than you’ll ever be.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Managarm replied calmly. “Pity she couldn’t awaken you as a Berserker, though.”
Opal shifted uncomfortably, and Baron hissed loudly at him.
“Oh, I know we can’t pick and choose who will answer the call to become our Berserkers. Not even Thor or Odin has that power.” He pointed his knife at Opal. “But you’re no fool. You could have made a great captain, alongside Rita and David.”
Managarm shifted slightly as the moisture from the ground began to soak through his blue jeans. The sheep was now nearly catatonic. Deliver me better warriors, witch. Do not disappoint me.
“Fine, I’ll be your freaking captain, or whatever,” Opal snapped. “Just let Sally go. Okay? I’ll do whatever you want.”
Managarm smiled. It was a shame this one had nearly outlived her usefulness, though he wouldn’t at all be sorry to lose that infernal cat. “The witch still has a final duty to fulfill.” He watched Opal shiver, and it warmed him.
“So after you catch the wolf, then what?” Opal nodded toward the sheep and edged farther away from him. “You still haven’t said why I need to be here. I really don’t want to watch a live animal getting eaten.”
“Oh, but the sheep is only the appetizer.” Managarm gestured toward the dozing animal with his knife. “You, and that portly cat there, you’re the main course.”
Opal tried to scramble to her feet—no easy feat with a cantankerous cat clinging to her jacket—but Managarm beat her to it. He stood over her, pointing his sharp blade at her throat.
“We’ll have none of that, now. Even if you did manage to escape me, we’re surrounded by Berserkers in these woods. Your freedom would be short-lived indeed.”
He sat back down next to her and resumed his whittling. Opal shook violently, and there was no pretending that he didn’t enjoy it.
“I assure you that if you sit quietly, it will go quickly and almost painlessly for you. If you try to run, well . . . I might just let my Berserkers have a bit of fun with you before I hand you over to Fenrir.”
Fat tears rolled down Opal’s cheeks. “Please . . .”
“Oh, don’t beg. It’s distasteful.”
Baron climbed up on Opal’s shoulder and, teetering there, took a swipe at Managarm, narrowly missing the god’s eyes.
“That creature,” Managarm pointed his knife menacingly at the cat, “will die with great violence, regardless. I’d kill him now, but my Randulfr cousin demands living blood.” He slid the knife’s blade along the piece of wood in his hands, honing the tip to a sharp and likely lethal point. The sheep was snoring now, and Managarm lifted his wounded hand and waved it around to further scent the air. “Any minute now . . .”
And then, suddenly, Opal was standing over him, brandishing the stake that had held the sheep. Without hesitation, she grabbed the whittled spear out of Managarm’s hands and shoved both points into his face. Baron stood at her feet, his hair standing on end as he paced slowly toward Managarm and growled in fury.
“I think we’ll skip your little family reunion, if you don’t mind.” Opal’s eyes burned behind her chunky glasses.
Managarm’s face reddened with rage. He moved to get to his feet, but as soon as he’d risen to his knees, Opal pressed closer, pricking his cheek and forehead with the sharp points of the stake and spear. Managarm rested back on his heels in acquiescence.
“That’s better,” Opal told him calmly.
“You know what I’ll do to your friend for this insubordination?” Managarm spat. “I’ll rip that little witch apart—”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Opal hissed. “Tell you what. Instead of heading back to your lair or waiting for this wolf of yours, why don’t we deliver you to Odin and Heimdall and see what they’d like to do with you, eh?”
Managarm looked up into the previously mousy girl’s fierce eyes. “No,” he groaned. “No
, it cannot be.”
Baron settled between Opal’s feet, still hissing and growling at Managarm.
He looked from the actively hostile tabby back up to Opal. “Einherjar,” he whispered.
“On your feet,” she barked at him. “And lose the weapon.”
Managarm dropped his knife and held his hands up as he slowly stood up.
If Opal is Einherjar . . . ? Managarm couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. His Berserkers were duly awakened warriors, but they were young and untested. The Einherjar were the heroes of Valhalla, select soldiers who had already tasted battle. “But the Einherjar are dead,” Managarm muttered, more to himself than to Opal.
“Not anymore.” Thrusting Managarm’s own spear at his chest, Opal backed him up against a tree, then motioned to the radio in his pocket. “You will call off your Berserkers. Have them stand down and retreat.”
“I won’t!” Managarm growled, then cried out when Baron slashed through his blue jeans and dug his claws into his calf. “You’re one warrior against a god,” Managarm tried to ignore the blood dripping down into his sock. “You’re no match for me or my army.”
Opal laughed. “All you have is a couple of kids with overactive thyroids. You have no army.” She brandished the spear in his face and held the stake like a dagger. “Get on the radio. Then we’ll take your car to go reconcile you with your kin.”
“Reconcile?” Managarm blustered. There was no way Odin would allow him to live after even planning such a coup, much less taking action. He was about to protest, to try to offer her a better deal, any bluff that would convince Opal to back down or give him the upper hand. But then he heard the distinct sound of footsteps coming from the surrounding trees.
Opal smiled. “You can always beg for mercy. Though I don’t expect that will help.”
Baron sat smugly at her feet, tail twitching.
“I’ll call off the Berserkers . . . ” Managarm reached for the radio, trying to buy himself some time. With any luck, his warriors had disobeyed his command to keep their distance and were even now closing in. He held up the radio. “Okay? I’ll call them right now.”
“Do it,” Opal commanded. “And tell them not to—”
Her head whipped around at the sound of a twig snapping just a few yards away. She crouched low and scooped up Baron. Staring into the forest, she sniffed at the air and grimaced. With a sharp, disgusted look at Managarm, she leapt to her feet and fled into the trees.
Just as she disappeared, an enormous black wolf tread carefully into the clearing from the opposite direction.
Managarm dropped quickly to his knees to retrieve his knife and prepared to defend himself. The wolf kept its eyes on Managarm and lowered its nose to smell the ground and investigate the drugged sheep.
Managarm studied the black and gray markings on the animal, and saw blood staining its massive paws and matting its fur. Managarm relaxed his shoulders and smiled. “Fenrir.”
The wolf growled low in his throat and stepped forward a few cautious paces. Managarm eased his grip on the knife and held out his bloody palm for the animal’s inspection.
“It’s safe.” He gestured to the snoring sheep. “A gift for you.”
Managarm sat down on the ground and tried to keep himself from erupting into exhausted tears. “You’re here.”
The wolf kept his head low and continued to sniff the air while keeping a suspicious eye on Managarm.
“Don’t you recognize me? I am your kin, your cousin, your brother. I am Managarm!”
Fenrir stopped and lifted his head. He looked Managarm directly in the eye, then opened his mouth in a wide grin.
Managarm clapped his hands together in glee, smearing blood across both palms. “I am so happy to see you again, my long-tormented friend!” He gestured toward Fenrir’s blood-stained body. “You’ve been hunting. Still, I make this offering. We will enjoy fresh mutton, and talk as old gods do!”
Managarm chuckled in delight as Fenrir trotted forward, sniffed at the sheep, and then sank his sharp teeth into the animal’s neck. So what if Heimdall had a few Einherjar? Once his own Berserkers got their first taste of battle, there would be no stopping them. And now he had Fenrir, Odin’s one and only mortal enemy.
“By this time tomorrow, my friend, the world will quite literally be ours.”
Valhalla Page 41