Giantfall

by F. A. Bentley

  My pulse quickened as I tucked the card and the tiny hammer away, slipping my hands into my pockets. Mission gone awry? Informant anxious? Nine Towers taking off my leash?

  Something terribly big was happening. Big enough to make the arch mages of Nine Towers sweat. And if I didn’t get to the bottom of it, I knew that I would either wind up dead, or a scapegoat for my ‘gracious benefactors’.

  Chapter 3

  I needed information badly. So I did what every great thinker does when they need answers. I walked past the Opera House, down an alley, and slipped into the nearest fine drinking establishment.

  “Rusty nail, if you would,” I spoke to the bartender.

  The mustachioed man nodded, and served me a dark gold glass of half scotch and half Drambuie Ambrosia. It isn’t called the rusty nail because it’s known for smooth drinking. This was penitence. And what better way to play the flagellant than to punish my liver.

  Sorry Henry.

  I thanked the bartender, payed, and sat down in a corner booth of the tiny bar, nursing the drink and thinking.

  The Aesir and the Giants have always had a rocky relationship. If one of them wasn’t planning out a mean prank, kidnapping a bride, or the total destruction of the other team, then the world was considered terribly out of balance by the other powers that be. It made sense that it would be the Aesir trying to weaken Jotun control over the world by destroying a museum featuring artifacts central to their power. Just like Lodri said.

  All signs pointed to the Aesir, but my instincts screamed no.

  I raked a hand through my shock of black hair, and sighed. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

  “Are you alright?”

  I flinched at the sudden interruption and turned my eyes up to look at a kindly young woman dressed in the standard black and white attire of a nun. She had a thoughtful frown upon dainty lips, and her eyes stared down at me searchingly.

  I cleared my throat and marshaled my charm.

  “You startled me, sister.”

  “Please forgive me,” she said, “It’s just that you looked so troubled. Why don’t you tell me what the matter, child?”

  “Child,” I scoffed.

  She didn’t look a day over eighteen as she sat down across from me and offered me a sweet, innocent smile.

  I shook my head slowly. “I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather keep my thoughts to myself. I can’t say that this is a place for good girl like you anyways.”

  The nun looked hurt, biting her lip and replying, “I didn’t mean to intrude. I hope I haven’t made you cross by just... Barging into your business like this.”

  ...Made me cross? My eyes widened and the whole world ground to a halt. Recognition thrilled up by spine and made the hairs on the back of my head stand on end. She’d played me for a fool. If I were a fish she’d already be done taking pictures of me to photoshop later.

  There was only one monster that would make a cross joke that terrible.

  I groaned and buried my face in my hands, “Lisistrathiel.”

  “Shame on you,” the ‘nun’ replied, lips widening into a sharp, diabolical grin. “I had to make a bad joke before you even recognized me.”

  Everyone makes mistakes. Some people are haunted by theirs their whole lives, forever staining their souls or grimly reminding them of past failures. I should be so lucky. My mistake was six feet tall with pitch black hair, a forked tongue, and a love of blasphemy so terrible it could peel paint. Lisistrathiel, she-devil extraordinaire.

  “Let me ask you one more time then Charlie. What’s the matter?”

  “Trouble in the heavens. Not capital H heavens, mind you,” I replied neutrally.

  The trick was not giving her a reaction. If I’d gotten upset, or worse, blushed at her teases, I’d never hear the end of it.

  Lis looked surprised. “What, are we going to forego the usual foreplay? You’re supposed to be playing hard to get.”

  “My apologies,” I fired back. “I’ve had a rough day.”

  Lis furrowed jagged brows in concentration. It was terrifying how much her clasped hands and narrowed eyes mirrored my own ‘down to business’ stance.

  “That bad, huh? NT made you sift through the museum ruins?”

  I shook my head. “I was at that museum. Just as it became ruins, in fact. My contact says it’s the Aesir that are causing the trouble here. I have my doubts.”

  “Whyever for?” Lis asked. “I have it on the highest authority that the big bad Jotun and the hotheaded Aesir have been fixing for another proper brawl since World War Two.”

  “Of course. That’s what makes it too easy. Too predictable. Besides, I know something you don’t, Lis,” I said as I downed another mouthful of rusty nail.

  “Really?” she asked, gasping dramatically. “It must be nice turning the tables on me for once.”

  “What’s about four feet tall with a crooked nose, green skin, a raspy, tinny voice and a tendency towards dark magic?” I continued without breaking stride.

  There were two things I could always count on Lis for. Making my life more miserable, and knowing more about everything than anyone else I’ve ever met.

  “Round here,” Lis began, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “You’re looking at a Vettir. That’d be your Goblinoid. Miserable, savage, intelligence impaired. Probably one of their hags or a warlock if they were using magic. They’ve taken turns being the servants of the Jotun, the Aesir, heck, even the Vanir at one point. Doesn’t mean a gosh darned thing if they attacked you though. They’re everybody’s flunkies.”

  “Must be a lot of pent up anger towards slave masters over the centuries, I’d wager.”

  “Never heard of a rebellion if that’s your angle. I mean, not after the first time they tried to overthrow the ten foot tall Viking giants. Or that angry hammer swinging guy on the other side.”

  I smiled, raised my glass to my lips and said, “Vettiheim.”

  Jagged eyebrows rose expressively and inhuman eyes focused dangerously.

  “Vettiheim. Means Goblin home. No such place exists but given the fact that it was spoken by a Vettir trying to blow up a Jotun Locus of power it implies that it might be something they wish to create. Therefore the Vetti are the troublemakers? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Bombs,” I said.

  “Too dumb to use them. Unless Humans have a hand in it as well.”

  I nodded. It was the most likely explanation.

  Lisistrathiel summed up my thoughts perfectly: “Vetti chaff then, sold on the idea of a bright new future and payback on their mean old Giant overlords buddy up with a Human element that is supplying them with fancy pants tech.”

  I nodded, “And the Jotun, like any major magical power that pretends it doesn’t exist to the masses of Mundane human-beings out there, are slow to adopt modern technology, like--”

  “Like clock work, or the printing press, or Heaven forbid, a firearm,” Lis said, finishing my thought.

  “Which means they have a mortal benefactor who sticks close enough to the Norse supernaturals to know where to apply pressure. Rare. That’s who we’re after then,” I said.

  A triumphant grin spread across Lis’ lips, “Wow Charlie, you’re so smart. Figuring this all out on you own without any help whatsoever from little old me.”

  “You can stroke my ego later. What get-togethers are happening that are sure to include supernaturals in them? If I were a wealthy third party trying to shake things up, that’s where I’d be.”

  Lis huffed up, inspecting her razor sharp nails, “Easy. The Meadhouse. Downtown on Third and Beowulf. Supernatural crowd loves it, lots of big names pretending to be Humans in charge of big fancy companies go there. Black tie slash costume, or they feed you to the wolves. Very exclusive. Invitation only. Impossible to get into.”

  Forming a crooked heart shape between her fingers, Lis dramatically inched up a pair of ostentatious envelopes, gently wrapped in her devilish tail.On the front I could make out the words �
�Cordially Invited’.

  I stifled a groan. “It’s a date then.”

  Somewhere in that brain of hers was a dial labeled ‘high drama’ that needed to be turned all the way down.

  Chapter 4

  I was under the impression it was going to be a fancy gala with a ballroom and tight knit groups discussing philosophy or this quarter’s fiscal revenues. So I dressed appropriately.

  Black tie party standard. Silver cuff links and a prim and proper shirt. Well polished shoes and a suave bow tie. A gentle cologne that didn’t oppress and a comb passing through my hair completed the ensemble.

  Lis dressed up like a monk from Charlemagne’s court. Ripe to be slaughtered and her monastery raided by angry Norse men.

  Typical.

  As the security guards relieved us of our invitations and waved us through the main entrance, I came to grips with just the sort of party I’d come to attend. Impressive formal wear, some even more richly dressed than I, adorned half the gathered creme de la creme of Norway. Champagne glasses in hand and chuckling in hushed tones, they stood as a stark contrast to the other fifty percent of the party.

  The other half were wearing period dress. When Lis told me costumes were optional images of gaudy cowboy weddings or masquerade balls came to mind. These party goers were dressed like they just returned from jolly England after a year of pillaging.

  Axes. Spears. Round shields. Chainmail. Helmets. And they all looked authentic.

  “Some people,” I muttered under my breath, before turning to Lis, “You know where to find me. Do try to keep an eye open.”

  “What, and make this easy for you?” Lis replied, before making for the nearest crowd of grim gazed warriors.

  Soirees like these tended to be less for the sake of merriment and more for the covert veneration of deities ‘long gone’. Every Mundane that learned of the Norse supernaturals through history books or the internet or even movies were providing more power to them than the ragged worship of a dozen sincerely faithful mortals ever would back in the day.

  A costume party featuring make belief and dress up was just as potent as any ritual in empowering them. After all, beings of magic and myth do not disappear when the Mundane world ceases to believe in them. They only fade away for good when no one remembers them anymore.

  Amazing what latent Mundane talent could support. Every man woman and child, all six going on seven billion of them, gave off a faint magical hum. Usually nothing more than a drop in an ocean. Will, faith, ki, magic, different names for the same deep mystical wells of wordly power.

  Untapped by individual mortals, this unspent energy is the very Ambrosia the Gods of Greece sustain themselves on. The Golden Apples of the Norse. The Manna of the Near East and the Divine Spark of the far east. And with seven billion drops of this energy, there’s plenty to go around for supernaturals.

  I sat at the bar and signaled to the mixer. A Svartalf, judging by her short form and very high heels. She was concealing herself in Mundane society, just like Lodri.

  “Mead,” I said, placing down a thousand krone bill. “And a bit of your company.”

  She smiled and pocketed the bill before edging towards me, eyes focused on wiping clean a glass.

  She was listening, and covertly too. Good.

  “Terribly fancy building, but the gala is only on the first floor. The rest looks like business ventures. Do you know who is renting it out?” I asked.

  The dark Dwarf shook her head, “It’s not being rented. This is the owner’s party.”

  “Really? What’s the occasion? Not that the chance to inspect such a polished jewel as yourself isn’t an occasion in and of itself.”

  The bartender snorted derisively, but could not hide the redness of her cheeks.

  “Revelry then?” I asked, easing just the right amount of huskiness into my words.

  She shook her head again. “Blot,” she simply said, before turning to serve a blonde haired man who had a foot of height on me.

  “Good enough,” I muttered to myself.

  Interesting. Not that many people know about Blots, let alone the value that they have. Traditionally there’s a sacrifice involved and once it is collected on there is good fortune for the one that commits it. Usually on the eve of battle.

  “Ominous omens,” I muttered.

  “You too, huh?” Lisistrathiel asked, practically materializing in the seat next to mine.

  Male instinct required me to note that the monk robe clung to her supple frame in a suggestive manner. The curve of her breasts as well as her hip were unnaturally visible and stirred dangerous thoughts in the dark corners of my mind. I downed the remainder of my mead and shook my head clear of the thought.

  All play and no work makes Jack liable to get his soul invited to a barbecue after he dies. Kissing the chef was out of the question. Even if she was hot as hell.

  “What do you have for me?” I asked her.

  “I could give you party goer numbers, most common occupations, the color of my panties…”

  “Try again,” I snarled.

  “Charlie, this is a costume party. No one is what they seem to be. You’re dressed like some foreign gentleman but we all know the shadow you cast is--”

  “Lisistrathiel.” The tone of my voice drew a sharp smile from the Devil.

  “You only get one freebie from me today, Charles Montgomery Locke. I want a weakness for a boon. Like always.”

  I stifled a sigh. This is what I meant when I said she lived to make my life more miserable. For every aide she provided she would take an advantage from me. Of course, I wouldn’t last very long in this line of business if I weren’t adaptable.

  “Name it,” I replied.

  Lisistrathiel’s snake-like tongue lolled out of her mouth as she let out a rolling cackle. You thought I was being cute when I said she had a forked tongue, but I meant it literally.

  “Weapons. All of em. You only get to keep the wand. Everything else is mine til daybreak. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  There wasn’t much thought to it. I knew I was walking into a trap of hers. I was certain I’d need to shoot something in the next twelve hours of my life, but I needed that information more than I needed the comforting heft of modern weaponry.

  My pistol, my backup gun, and a slender knife I carried in case a renegade magician (more renegade than I, at least) decided to dip into anti magics.

  “Thank you, danke schon, and merci tres, tres beaucoup monsieur Locke,” Lis said, each thanks in the appropriate accent. “Notice anything interesting about that old guy over there?”

  I turned and followed her gaze. A man with graying red hair leaned against a crutch. He looked feeble despite wearing the full regalia of a raider. There was an ax decoratively tucked at his side and he was talking to--

  I blinked in surprise. Lisistrathiel’s lips widened into a Cheshire cat sized grin. A woman clung to the old man’s arm. She was four foot five, plump, and remarkably well proportioned.

  At galas and parties like these the word gorgeous tends to be overused. Rich and famous people have access to high end arm candy. There’s no such thing as a perfect girl, but this woman was breath taking. Immaculate.

  And most importantly, she was pretending to be something she was not.

  “She’s a Vettir,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” Lis replied.

  Chapter 5

  I rose from my seat and made my way towards the old man and his Goblin arm candy. Speaking between themselves, I had no problem approaching them and bowing my head politely.

  “Beautiful evening, don’t you think?” I said, careful not to look away from the Vetti woman’s eyes.

  “Welcome,” replied the old man, shuffling about to face me properly, “I hope you are finding everything well, mister...”

  Finding everything well? Old man? Disproportionately beautiful female at his side? No doubt about it: This was the host of the party.

  “I am Daniel Hunter,”
I lied through my teeth. “Finally I find a chance to pay my respects to the host of this decadent gathering.”

  The Vetti beauty let out a reserved giggle. “I’m Heidi, it’s refreshing to meet a humble gentleman among all these ruffians.”

  She offered a hand. I placed a kiss upon it.

  “And please call me Rurik,” the old man said. “So, Daniel, what are you hunting today?”

  We all laughed softly at the terrible joke.

  “Just sniffing about for prey at the moment, Mr. Rurik. Have you seen any?” I winked at the Vetti woman.

  She winked right back.

  “Mr. Hunter,” Rurik replied, shaking his head tiredly, “You don’t get to be old like me without knowing how to find a good hunt around these parts. Unfortunately, though, much of the game around here is dangerous. Even those that don’t seem to be so. A stag can still kick a hunter’s head in if he’s not careful.”

  Again we laughed. Of course, it wasn’t a joke this time though. It was a very subtle threat. He must know something.

  “I live for danger. Life’s not much of a thrill without it,” I said.

  “Oh, how scary Mr. Hunter. I might just faint if you keep staring at me those eyes,” Heidi the Goblin said, pushing my shoulder and practically squealing in delight.

  “Scary enough to stop my heart,” Rurik added grinning wryly. “Daniel, let me give you some advice: Do you know how you kill a bear?”

  I stopped and watched the old man as he smiled.

  “With a serpent’s poison. When I was little, I saw a snake bite one. Just a nip and some time to let the sickness fester from the inside out and the bear became nothing but a husk. The home of a thousand, thousand flies rotting in the forest. No matter how big a beast is, or how strong, all it takes is one little wound, carefully placed, to bring the whole hulk of claws and fur toppling down.”

  He knocked on his leg for emphasis. A metallic clank resounded from the rap of his knuckles. A prosthetic leg.

  “You shouldn’t hurry into risk. A true connoisseur of the hunt knows the prey, knows the cull, and most importantly, knows the tools that will get the job done.”