Mjolnir

by B. C. James

  Fenris looked side to side. When he was sure nobody was paying attention to him, he leapt to his feet and delivered a trio of vicious kicks to Freya’s ribs. The bones didn’t just break, they splintered inside her. She could feel them piercing her organs as a warm rush of fluid made its way up her throat. She choked, gagged, and coughed up a mouthful of dark blood.

  Fenris knelt down again, put an inhaler to mouth, and gave her two quick squirts. The pain stopped almost immediately. She no longer had the metallic taste at the back of her tongue—a telltale sign of several leaks springing inside of her. She rolled over on to her stomach and her once-shattered ribs held the weight of rest of her body. She was amazed at the healing, but also disturbed.

  Freya had no idea what plans they had for her, but whatever was in that inhaler made it possible for her captors to torture her to the point of death, bring her back to health, only to torture her once again. She was once forced to watch a B.J. and the Bear marathon and later described that experience to some of her friends as torture. Whatever they had up their sleeves was destined to be far more painful than the worst Nick at Night could dredge up for its audience.

  Odin and Loki walked over to where she was lying. Idun made sure to stay close to Odin and out of easy reach of Loki.

  “Shall we get on with it then?” Odin looked a little impatient.

  While Odin’s gaze fell strictly on Freya, as best it could with only one eye, his body language suggested that the true object of his desire was the hammer sitting benignly on the pedestal.

  On the outside, Loki’s personality seemed to reflect what would happen if you gave a weasel access to PCP; in reality he was no fool. He knew that if Odin could get his hands on the hammer, their truce would be off and the Allfather would spend the rest of the night using the powerful weapon to play whack-a-mole with any god who happened to be in the same zip code.

  It remained true that no living member of the Aesir could wield the hammer except Thor. The only other person who could use Mjölnir was Sif, Thor’s wife, and she had been killed long ago on a diplomatic errand for Odin to Surt’s realm.

  Unlike what Marvel comics had to say about the hammer of Thor, or what any other myth describes regarding the use of powerful, supernatural weapons, using Mjölnir had nothing to do with the purity of one’s heart or the strength of their convictions. If morality truly dictated what tools one could use, none of the gods would be able to pick up a Craftsmen screwdriver from Ace Hardware without bursting into flames.

  However, two things were true about Mjölnir. The hammer itself had a low-grade intelligence, almost like a pet, and could only be used by those it allowed to use it. If somebody managed to use the weapon against its will, the effects backfired against whoever’s offending hand was clutching the hammer’s hilt. It also absorbed the soul of whatever it was used to kill. In other words, the more things it was used to slay, the more powerful the weapon became. This particular hammer had been used to kill an entire continent’s worth of men, monsters, giants, gods, and demigods. Mjölnir was now an extremely powerful weapon.

  Loki believed he had found a way around its refusal to let anyone but Thor play with it. His long-term plan was to secure Surt as an ally by sacrificing Freya to him and getting his hands on Mjölnir. After those two pieces fell into place, the rest would be academic. He would be invincible. No god could hurt him, and his strength would be beyond the reach of any prophecy.

  After Thor threw the hammer away, Odin took possession of it, in a way. He couldn’t use it of course, so he had his friends in the military store it at a strange, secret base in Nevada. A base that wasn’t supposed to exist but one that everyone on the planet seemed to know about.

  Loki was bothered by the fact that Odin had plans for Freya. According to his mole in Odin’s organization, they were really weird plans. He didn’t like that he couldn’t get his head around the odd little ceremony that was about to happen or figure out Odin’s endgame. Because they had made a deal, Freya would be available for Odin’s ritual first. After that, she would be handed over to Loki for sacrifice to Surt.

  Loki found it even more troubling that Odin had brought the hammer out of mothballs for the night’s ritual. It hinted to the possibility that the Allfather had also found a way around the hammer’s unfailing loyalty to Thor. When he asked Odin why the hammer was there, the old god simply said that the rite being practiced this evening would call upon some very powerful forces. He stated that it was only natural that a powerful object, such as Mjölnir, should be there as well. Both men knew that Odin was blowing smoke in an anatomically impossible way, but Loki was prepared. His mole may not have known exactly what Odin was up to, but they were still ready to put a sizeable dent in whatever hopes and dreams for the night fueled the ancient god’s schemes.

  Loki ran his finger up Freya’s arm and put it in his mouth as if he were tasting her. “Yup, I think she is just about ready. Are you going to call up Surt, or should I do the honors?”

  Odin sniffed derisively in Loki’s direction. “What do you think this entire encampment is for if not to call Surt from the realm of Múspellsheimr? Don’t worry, Loki, I can deliver the fire giant to this spot.”

  Loki doubted that everything at the site was dedicated to summoning the fire giant. The item he was particularly curious about was the sarcophagus. Loki was on casually good terms with Surt. For the fire giant, “casually good terms” meant that he might nod at you if you accidently bumped into him instead of setting you on fire.

  This special association meant that Loki knew a few things about the demon. He was absolutely sure that any ceremony intent on calling him didn’t need a sarcophagus, maybe a few unwilling human sacrifices and occasionally something from Orange Julius, but not a sarcophagus. Whatever was supposed to go in that high-tech coffin definitely had nothing to do with Surt.

  Loki put a bookmark in his concerns and bowed as sarcastically as possible to Odin. He made a “be my guest” gesture with his arm and let the Allfather get on with his attempts to bring one of the most dangerous beings in the universe to the Nevada desert.

  Odin called to the witch. She positioned herself at the edge of the flames. One of her attendants brought her a black lamb. This animal was so black that it didn’t seem real. Detail and contours just melted into its dark shape. It was as if there was a lamb shaped hole in the person who was holding it.

  She poured something on to the animal from a chalice. Loki didn’t know what it was, but he would have bet his company’s balance sheet that it wasn’t water. The witch then screeched a few words to the empty night air. She pulled a knife from inside her robes and in two quick motions, cut the jugulars of the lamb. She snatched it from the arms of the assistant and held it over the flames until it’s sad, panicked bleating had ceased, and the blood stopped pouring from the deep cuts at each side of its neck.

  She could have just sliced the throat, but the witch had deliberately left the animal with the ability to vocalize. The broad smile that she wore on her impossibly wrinkled and ancient face betrayed the genuine pleasure she got from hearing the animal as it pleaded for its life.

  She tossed the lamb’s body in the fire, raised her hands to the stars, and screeched another incantation. For a little while she stood there with her hands in the air as if waiting for something to happen. Several minutes passed with the only sound being that of the flames crackling away.

  The minutes ticked on. No demons appeared but there was the occasional burst of light from a smartphone as some of the younger guys in hoods checked their email. The witch put her arms down and began to swear in a language that sounded like a blend of Gaelic and ferret.

  Loki motioned to Fenris and together they walked toward Odin. As they approached him, two of the Valkyrie standing a few paces behind the Allfather started walking in their direction. The first was a dark-haired woman who Loki recognized as the current leader of these women. He remembered her name was Belle only because the name didn’t seem to sui
t her.

  While it was true that the word meant beauty, and she certainly fit that bill, it still somehow seemed wrong. He nodded to her while she passed on his left side. He turned around, strolling backwards for a moment; taking a not so subtle look at her as she walked away from him.

  The other Valkyrie didn’t bother passing on Fenris’ right side or make an effort to exchange any type of subtle greeting. Instead, she simply plowed into him so hard that he fell into his father and they both tumbled to the ground.

  The surprise and power of this obvious act of provocation didn’t leave Loki and Fenris on the defensive for long. Instead of just falling to the ground and then clumsily clamoring to their feet, each gracefully moved with the momentum and force of the blow, rolled when they hit the ground, and were back on their feet before most people could successfully blink.

  “What the hell!” Fenris growled as he moved forward to retaliate against the woman.

  The Valkyrie began to draw her sword and Belle grabbed her hand while the blade was still halfway inside its scabbard. Loki seized Fenris by the shirt and pulled him back before the altercation became ugly.

  “My apologies, Loki,” Belle said in a very matter of fact way. “I would ask that you forgive Katheryn for her impertinence. It seems to be in her nature to pick fights with those above her station.”

  Katheryn wrinkled her nose at the words, “above her station.” She wasn’t willing to simply accept that supposition until one of them actually proved it.

  Loki took a good look at Katheryn. He thought he knew all the Valkyrie, but he was absolutely sure he had never seen this one before. Loki considered himself a connoisseur of beautiful women so it was unlikely that he would not have remembered someone of such a striking appearance. She was tall and lithe with a physical grace that would prompt cheesy writers to compare her to a jungle cat. Her long, blonde hair framed a face that would make any Maxim cover model feel.

  Nobody with an active Y chromosome would have doubted her femininity until they got to her hands.

  Most Valkyrie, despite their grim purpose, were both beautiful and feminine. This was, of course, by design. Valkyrie were the ones who took the dead to their final destination. Souls didn’t struggle so much when their guide was attractive. To this end, every one of them were beauty treatment devotees who knew which side of an emery board was up.

  Unlike her colleagues, Katheryn didn’t seem to dive headlong into the mani-pedi culture. While just about all of her peers had long, elegant nails that were decorated in a variety of stylish patterns, Katheryn’s were short and painted black. Considering how willing she was to draw a weapon against an opponent, the short nails made sense. It’s easier to punch an adversary in the face when you don’t have to worry about ruining whatever gel products have been cured over the top of the fingernails. Why they were painted black was anybody’s guess. Loki just assumed that there was a Morrissey song or two hidden somewhere in the bowels of her iPhone.

  What he found truly interesting was that there was no way that Katheryn didn’t know who Fenris was and how dangerous he could be. Despite this, she didn’t hesitate when the opportunity came to try to pull her sword on him. There even seemed to be an eagerness to test herself against his wolf-like son. When Belle stopped her, Loki saw disappointment reflected in her crystalline, green eyes.

  He would have relished the opportunity to teach this upstart a few lessons about her place in the pecking order, or better yet, grab some popcorn while he watched Fenris give her a short and brutal education, but to attack one of Odin’s little pet Valkyrie would probably end their truce.

  For the moment, there was still some value for Loki in waving the white flag and playing nice. He was also open to the possibility that the girl’s whole purpose was to deliberately goad him or Fenris into breaking that peace. He and Fenris were currently outnumbered, and if they lost their head and broke the cease-fire, things would no doubt go badly for them…at least for now. With so much to gain by simply not losing their heads, playing things cool and casual seemed to be the way to go.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met this one, Belle. Have you been holding out on me?”

  “She’s new,” Belle said as she stepped forward so that she was positioned between Loki and Katheryn. “It’s rare, but sometimes when we find someone worthy among the mortals, we anoint a new member.”

  “Hmmmm…a new one. And what Victoria’s Secret calendar did this young lady fall out of?”

  “Where she came from is really none of your concern, but I will make sure she stays out of your way from now on.”

  Loki grinned in a manner that would have made John Wayne Gacy feel anxious. “Don’t keep her too far out of my way, if you know what I mean.” He winked at Katheryn while clicking his tongue and pointing a finger gun at her.

  Loki and Fenris headed back to Odin, who was now arguing with the old witch, while Belle and Katheryn made their way toward the trailers that were part of the encampment.

  Katheryn opened her palm and showed Belle the inhaler she had stolen from Fenris. “Picked him clean. I also got his wallet, but I’m keeping that.”

  Belle allowed a small grin to show upon her face. “Good girl, now just act natural and keep walking.”

  Chapter 34

  When Loki stood next to Odin. The argument between the Allfather and the witch had ended with neither of them getting what they wanted. She had failed to make Surt appear, and apparently, Odin was refusing to pay for her services until she did. The witch was now pretending to be in a deep trance when in reality she was just sulking.

  “Good help is so hard to find, isn’t it, Odin?” Loki said this with not a little bit of sarcasm in his voice. He enjoyed tweaking Odin. It was an adrenaline rush to him, like base jumping, putting his head between the jaws of an angry alligator, or eating at Denny’s. When it came to being a prick, Loki was an artist. Nothing and nobody was off limits. There was a special thrill to it when the person he was annoying was on his level, or higher.

  One of his fondest memories was the time he shaved the head of Thor’s wife, Sif. In the end, that didn’t go well for the God of Lies. While the dwarves replaced her hair with a magical form of organic gold that took root in her scalp and behaved as her natural hair. Thor was still furious about this crime against his wife’s hair and expressed this rage with punches. Sif walked away with hair that was soft and bouncy while still having the color and shimmer that’s common only the purest, highest quality gold and Loki came away with CTE and a potpourri of internal injuries. He winced at the memory but accepted a dynamic where the price of a good thrill was often savage beating. Nothing comes for free.

  Odin was in no mood to play and did his best to ignore the jabs from the God of Lies. He stood quietly, stroking his beard and trying to work out a contingency plan if Surt failed to show. His faithful and long suffering assistant, Simmons, shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. He knew that historically, when things went wrong for Odin, he was the one who was going to feel the full weight and blame for his boss’s disappointment. He couldn’t help but notice that the remaining Valkyrie had their weapons out and were casually cleaning them, doing their best to look both nonchalant and threatening at the same time.

  Loki walked over to Odin and started to put his arm around him. Odin’s head snapped to face Loki so quickly it almost created a sonic boom. Evidently, for this moment in time, a familiar action would be crossing the Allfather’s red line of tolerance. Loki backed away and pulled out his phone.

  “You know, Odin, for a guy who owns a company that could build him his own personal Death Star, you sure have put a lot of your eggs in the “chanting, wrinkly, witch” basket. Here, let me show you how we do this in today’s world.”

  “What are you doing?” Odin asked suspiciously.

  Loki simply put his hand up to silence his former blood brother and continued to type something into his phone with his thumb.

  Once he had finished, he put the phone
on the ground.

  “Okay, everyone, back up about a dozen steps,” Loki said.

  Odin, Simmons, and an assortment of heavily armed women followed Loki as he walked to what he seemed to deem as a safe distance.

  “Wait for it,” Loki said calmly before anyone could ask any questions.

  Suddenly, a column of black fire erupted from where he had placed the phone. The flames seemed to have a life of their own as they twisted and contorted into evil and obscene shapes. Every few moments tormented faces, like fiery apparitions, were visible in the fire. It was as if some poor tortured wretches were pressing against the flames in an attempt to escape.

  Greasy, black smoke billowed from out of the top of the dark inferno. Figures began to form from the clouds. The obsidian vapors solidified into sickly pale creatures with translucent, blue dappled skin. Dark mops of hair erupted from their heads and almost seemed to decorate their otherwise hairless bodies with black crowns. Their faces were decidedly human. Some attractive, some ugly, all warped into expressions of anger and hate.

  Demon after demon tumbled clumsily from the smoke and flames as if spit out and rejected by the fire itself. Before they tumbled to the ground, each one spread a pair of leathery wings from its back and raised clawed hands to the sky as they took flight across the desert.

  Some landed on the vehicles and equipment that were positioned around the encampment. The demons would lower their long, thin legs to a perch, and settle back between their stork-like knees. Oversized eyes darted from person to person as if measuring each being gathered for this event. Others continued to fly in circles above the column of fire. Some vocalized as they flew, others got into small altercations with other demons as they fought for a good perching place. These creatures, from a level of Hell that would have taken even Dante by surprise, sounded like slightly baritone seagulls when they sounded off. By the time the demons stopped emerging from the smoke, they outnumbered the rest of the assembly by at least five to one.