Ragnarok: The Fate of Gods

by Jake La Jeunesse

  After the attack on the orphanage, he liked that.

  Nearby, a train whistled. A few blocks over, uniformed men marched out. Rebel soldiers. One shouted into a megaphone. “All men in the street, line up.”

  Zeke had no choice. Another soldier came to him and pushed him in line. Being only fourteen, he was shorter than the others. They usually didn’t pick young ones. They must have thought he was older.

  “Count off by threes,” the soldier blasted through the megaphone. Numbers cascaded down the line.

  “One.”

  “Two.”

  “Three.”

  It came closer. One, two three, one two three. “Uh . . . one?” Zeke said, unsure of what was happening. The counting stretched down the line, out of earshot.

  “Ones, come with me,” ordered the soldier.

  What was happening? Where were they being taken? These men weren’t inquisitors. They were good guys. What were they doing? And where was Micah?

  The soldiers ushered the ones onto the train. The car was mostly empty. There were no chairs or benches. Only a few mops in a corner. The floor was so dirty, Zeke wondered if they had ever been used. Still struggling with Micah's bag, he found a little space in the back. He looked out the window, searching the crowd outside.

  But Micah was already on the train. “No, he’s too young,” came his voice. Zeke turned to see him arguing with a guard.

  “He’s old enough for the army. We need the fighters. The High Theocrat’s been throwing too much at us.”

  “Then please, take me instead.”

  Zeke fought his way through the crowd. When he broke through, he was surprised to see how relaxed his friend seemed, leaning against the wall by the mops.

  The train whistle blew. “There is no instead,” barked the guard. “The orders were to select draftees randomly, by counting off.”

  “But isn’t one fighter as good as another?” Micah pleaded, fingering the mop handle. “I’m stronger. Older. I’m sympathetic to your cause. I’ll fight well.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have the authority to change orders.”

  The mop handle leaps from its resting place to crack the soldier on the head. The man stumbles back. The train jerks to a start.

  “Then I’ll change them myself,” growls Micah, once he is sure he has the upper hand. He swings the mop again, striking the man’s shoulder. Two more soldiers push their way through the crowd. “Zeke, go!”

  He doesn’t move. “No.”

  Micah eyes up the two new challengers. Seeing their fallen comrade, they hesitate. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Not without you!”

  “I don’t have time for this!” The train picks up speed. The guards lunge at him. He swings the mop handle, but there is little room to move on the crowded car. Zeke dives out of the way as the wooden staff sails above him. It connects with a guard’s head. The man falls next to the other.

  The last challenger squares off. Micah tries to lunge, but the door behind him swings open. There are now two soldiers, and one is behind him. And the train is moving too fast to get off. He lays down the mop. The first guard gets up slowly, rubbing his head. “Well, orders or no, you’ve both been drafted now.”

  “It’s fine,” Zeke said. “They’ll feed us. We’ve got somewhere to go now.”

  “Yeah,” Micah agreed, softly. The guards returned to their posts, but kept their eyes on him, watching for more trouble. “I guess you’re right.”

  “You’re not the only one who wants to help the rebellion.” He thought of his family. The family killed by war. Or malak. He didn’t know.

  “Well, looks like I still have to look out for you.” Micah smiled.

  “Just tell me one thing. How did you do all that stuff with the mop? You don’t know anything about fighting.”

  “I know plenty.” He took back the bag and dropped it on the floor. He pulled open the clasps. It was filled with books. Zeke knew them well. They were the only possessions Micah ever cherished. Journey to the West. The Elder Edda. The Lord of the Rings. Grimm’s Fairy Tales. The bag was brimming with them.

  Micah dug through the bag, producing several volumes from the depths. These were books the younger boy hadn’t seen before. The titles and names seemed foreign. Bushido. Musashi. Kendo.

  “I got these from that traveler who died last year. I’ve been studying sword arts from them,” he explained. “But it doesn’t matter. They’ll teach us to fight now.”

  The train sped through the countryside.

  Zeke was woken up by the crackling radio.

  “Hey Ze— You –ake?” There was a short burst of static. “Wake up! Ze--!”

  A groggy hand slapped the floor randomly, hoping to hit the radio. Finally he found the radio. “Charlie. Hey.”

  “Good! You’re--. –time to get out. Now.” He wanted to leave. Zeke hoped he had a plan. “Good idea. We got bullets. Daniel’s rifle jammed, but we got that fixed. He’s got his own guns too.”

  “No.” His voice was broken by the concrete wall. “—don’t under— —tside. Now.

  The door opened slowly, creaking. Orange light streamed in.

  Only light. Nothing else.

  The street was void of monsters. Rubble still lined the streets. Shreds of the transport jeep strewn about on top of that. But no sign of life except Zeke, Daniel, and Charlie, who was running up to meet them.

  It was the first time they had seen the complex in the light without being chased by draugr. Strange dark brown stains covered everything.

  “What’s going on?” asked Zeke.

  “I don’t know. I just woke up and every last one of them freaks was gone.”

  “Are they hiding?” Daniel asked. “We didn’t see any of them when we arrived last night. Did they go back to their holes?” He and Charlie looked around for draugr.

  Zeke didn’t. “They’re not hiding,” he said.

  “You sound confident,” said Daniel. “How can you be so sure?”

  He remembered the malak. The terrified, torturous screams of the draugr. The cloud of brown mist. The disappearance of every monster that had chased him. “I just know. They’re gone. Now we need to get away from here as fast as we can.”

  Charlie looked confused. “Even if they’re gone?”

  “Especially if they’re gone.”

  A booming voice interrupted. “You folks having some draugr trouble?”

  A sturdy-looking man stood in the street. He was tall with light, unkempt hair. Thin, but strong, and dressed in ragged, patched leathers. Several others stood at attention behind him.

  “Uh, well,” stammered Charlie.

  “We thought so,” said Zeke, taking over. “But not anymore, I guess.”

  The man looked disappointed. “That’s a shame. We were picking up your transmissions all night long. We wanted to show up and cause some trouble, but it looks like you showed them a thing or two without our help.”

  “Pardon?”

  “This place is covered in blood! You guys must have had an all-out war.”

  They looked around at the brown stains. They were everywhere. On the doors and windows. On the walls. On the rocks and junk in the street. “Bait,” said Zeke.

  “Excuse me?” the man asked.

  “It’s like chumming for sharks. Spread the blood to attract the monsters to this area. Look at the stains. They were brushed on.”

  A demonic passover. Spread the blood on your door and the beasts from hell will devour your flesh.

  “So someone came by and . . . you know . . . painted the town red?” Charlie was nervous.

  “We were set up. We knew it from the beginning. How else do you explain the guns, explosives, and this goose chase of a mission?”

  “Someone wanted us to be ready for the attack,” added Daniel.

  “And someone wanted us to be attacked.” Zeke stated. A brief hush fell over the group.

  “Sounds like one of the Karellan’s schemes,” suggested the mystery
man.

  Daniel turned to him. “I’m sorry, but who exactly are you?”

  “Oh, sorry. I suppose introductions are in order.” He was very polite. “I’m just your average, every day, run-of-the-mill pirate. No more, no less. Though we do make an effort to stymie the Karellan’s salvage operations whenever we can.”

  “Never knew a pirate who talked like that, but I like this guy already.” Charlie strode forward and stretched out his hand, which the pirate took.

  Daniel followed his lead. “You’ll fit in very well with this crew, then, Mr. uh . . .”

  “Berezant. Joel, to my friends.”

  “Little guy’s right,” said the giant. “Sounds like we’ll get along fine.”

  Zeke interrupted their introductions. “I’m sorry, you said you’re a pirate. Do you have a ship?”

  As it turned out, Joel had an entire fleet of ships, which raised suspicion that he was more than a mere pirate. He was, however, happy to give them a lift back to Nifelheim, and even happier to detail his run-ins with the Karellan’s forces, including his battle with the Muselheim on the previous day, which he explained was merely to distract the government from his sub-marine salvage operation on the sunken ruins of Old Japan.

  Halfway through the recounting of the fight, Zeke had enough. Fighting the Karellan was, for once, far from his mind, so he decided to go up on the deck for a moment alone.

  He leaned against the side of the ship and gazed out over the water.

  Boats made him feel uneasy. Freedom was always in question on a boat. Cars, trains, and most passenger airships were small. There wasn’t much choice. You had to sit down and wait for the vehicle to take you where it was going.

  Ships were different. They were big. He liked that about them. He could get up and move around from place to place. But in the end, he was still being taken to the ship’s destination. Free only for a time. Only relative to the boat.

  Zeke was grateful that his current captain was working in his favor.

  But not so grateful that the same captain seemed to have followed him up from the cabin. He turned away from the open water and watched Joel approach.

  “You’re their leader, are you not?” asked the pirate lord.

  “Excuse me? Leader?”

  “The others. When they look at you, their eyes betray their deep respect. Especially the little one.”

  He had noticed Daniel’s reverence of him from the beginning. “It’s purely unintentional, I swear.”

  “Still, you possess a great power, and you wield it for a just cause. Because of that, I think you should know something.”

  “Oh really?” He was interested to see what the pirate could possibly entrust him with that deserved such solemnity.

  Joel took his place beside him, and gazed out over the water. “Long ago . . .”

  Zeke rolled his eyes, settling in for another story.

  “ . . . I used to work for the Karellan, delivering cargo to his cities in South America. It was good money, and my partner and I thought that by submitting to his authority we might gain his favor—perhaps even be promoted.”

  Zeke remembered Smalls and Jae-Ho. “Seems to be a common mistake.”

  “After several voyages, our crew began to complain about unusual noises coming from the hold. Talk began to fly. The ship was haunted. We had mutant rats. Sea monsters clinging to the hull. All sorts of insanity like this. My partner and I just ignored it. Then one day, we found out what our cargo was. The crates were rotten and weak. The draugr inside escaped. Killed nearly everyone on board.”

  It came as no surprise, but he still asked, “Why would the Karellan be shipping draugr?”

  “I’ve been trying to answer that question for the last six years. I rounded up enough support to start interfering with the Karellan’s shipping and salvage operations. My partner, however, wanted to continue working for the government. Not ask questions. That sort of deal. Became a little tense between us for a while. Then the tension fell into an argument . . . the argument fell into an all-out hatred . . .”

  And Joel’s story was falling into all-out irrelevance. “So why are you telling me all this?” asked Zeke, pulling him back to the point.

  “If you are going to fight him, you should know there’s more at play than a tyrannical government. There’s something shady involved with his administration, and this phony mission of yours further supports that idea. There is some connection between the Karellan and the draugr.”

  Joel wasn’t telling him anything new. He had worked it out for himself years before. Eight years of the Karellan, eight years of draugr. The draugr, which had effectively increased the government’s power by frightening people into submission. He thought of the Theocrat. Monsters have a tendency to push people closer to corrupt leaders. Monsters of their own accord.

  He faced the pirate. “Thank you for your confidence, but I’m no leader. I’m no fan of the Karellan, but joining a resistance group won’t make him disappear.”

  “Very well. But should you reconsider, the world could use a hero.”

  “Of course it could. People always need a hero,” Zeke said wistfully. Changing chords, he snapped to attention. “Hey, uh . . . do you ever have trouble with malak in this area?”

  Joel laughed nervously. “Malak? Not that I know of. We don’t see their kind very often. They stick mostly to North America. Keep to themselves.” More non-surprises. “Why do you ask?”

  Zeke turned back to the sea. “No reason. Just wondering.”

  “Fine then.” The pirate took a step away. “We’ll arrive in Nifelheim tomorrow. Get some rest, and take advantage of my cook. He’s the best in the fleet!”

  “I’ll be sure,” said Zeke, feeling neither tired nor hungry.

  Chapter Eight: Invasion

  The two men sized each other up. It was a meeting between friends, but it was not without tension.

  Jae-Hoon liked the Supervisor. He cared deeply for his citizens. He was always ready with helpful story or anecdote. He took interest in the Slayer’s recent hunts. The young priest knew Dumah felt an affinity towards him for being a fellow warrior, fighting for a noble cause.

  They dealt with each other frequently. While promotions were a Church matter, they were regulated by the government. The organizations were required to cooperate. As a result, he found himself in the ASH on a weekly basis.

  But the Slayer was always unsure about him. In his friendly tales and polite questions, there seemed a trace of melancholy. Something sad in his face when listening about Jae-Hoon’s hunts. As if he might somehow explode with horrible news. He never did, but it was too much to write it off as imagination.

  This morning, Jae-Hoon was only there to report on the most recent promotion, but he hoped for something more. “We integrated them into the upper-plate at oh-seven-hundred hours. The delegate from the first-class diocese met us at the lift and took them.” It was routine. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  “How many?” The Supervisor seeming slightly more melancholy than usual.

  “This month’s quota was five hundred. Quite high, compared to the usual two-fifty. I think we’re making progress.” He spoke cheerfully, but Dumah wasn’t excited by the news.

  There was a long pause.

  When it was clear that he didn’t intend to speak, Jae-Hoon continued. “If I may, sir, I’m interpreting the higher monthly quota to mean the government is more willing to unify the classes. I’d like to request more frequent promotions, but only you have the authority to pass the request on to the Hierophant and the Karellan. I was thinking, perhaps, bi-monthly. Weekly if possible but . . .”

  His voice trailed off. Dumah wasn’t listening. “No,” was all he said, and that was under his breath.

  “Sir?” asked Jae-Hoon. There was no answer, so he spoke louder. “Sir?”

  “I’m sorry” said the governor, suddenly remembering his business.

  “The promotions?”

  “Oh. Right. I’ll consider your
request, but I fear that more frequent promotions may detract from your duties as a Slayer.” It seemed more like an excuse than an explanation.

  You’ll never succeed. There are too many of them.

  Zeke’s words had been haunting the priest ever since their meeting three days before. The draugr have been increasing within the last several months. The Slayers’ efforts did seem in vain. He wondered whether or not Zeke was right. If he was, He wanted to spend more time working on promoting the lower-class citizens. At least then he could accomplish some good.

  A speaker buzzed. “Sir, your wife is here to see you,” came the voice of the secretary.

  The Supervisor pressed the button on the intercom. “Send her in. We’re almost finished.” Turning back to Jae-Hoon, he asked, “anything else?”

  “No,” he said, after a moment. “That’s all.”

  He turned to leave, but Dumah stopped him. “Jae-Hoon?”

  The priest stopped and waited. “Yes?”

  The older man looked as though he were going to say something profound. But after a long pause, all he said was, “You’re a good man. Take care of yourself.”

  Unsure of how to take this message, the Slayer answered, “thank you.”

  He turned to the door. It slid open. Lilith, standing on the other side, shot him a cold glance. He ignored her and left without a word.

  The rest of his day was free. Promotions were over for the month. There were no hunts until tomorrow. He could have returned to the monastery for lunch with the other Slayers.