by J. A. Pitts
Jimmy nodded once, a smile on his face for the first time in a long while. “She is my light and my life.”
Each man lapsed into quiet contemplation, sipping his scotch. The anger in the room had finally begun to dissipate.
After a few minutes, Gunther shuffled back to his chair and sat down with a grunt. “But we need to discuss Sarah,” he said. “We have to figure out who she is.”
They each nodded but said nothing, waiting for the other to bring up the subject of the fiery smith.
Jimmy’s phone buzzed with an incoming text message. “In case you were wondering,” he said, shaking his head, “Katie and Sarah are at the Blain crossing into Canada. Katie says they will be in Vancouver in just under an hour.” He paused, glancing up quickly.
“What?” Stuart asked.
“Well,” Jimmy said, clearing his throat. “She also says that Sarah is hot.”
They all laughed.
Jimmy slipped his phone into his pocket. “That sister of mine sure can pick ’em.”
“Aye,” Gunther agreed. “First Melanie, now Sarah.”
“Oh, she’s dated more than those two,” Jimmy said, running both hands through his hair. “Drove me and Deidre crazy in high school. The drama and the angst of teenage love.”
Stuart picked up the crystal decanter and poured himself another scotch. “Love ain’t nothing but drama and angst,” he said. “Been burned myself one time too many.”
“I’ve been lucky,” Jimmy said. “Deidre is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Hear, hear,” Gunther said, raising his glass.
Jimmy retrieved his glass and stepped toward them. Stuart stood, and the three of them held their glasses high.
“To the women in our lives,” Gunther said, clinking his glass against first Stuart’s, and then Jimmy’s. “May they always find their way home to us.”
They drank, draining their glasses. Stuart lowered his glass and performed the sign of the cross. After a moment, they set their glasses on the table and Stuart picked up the decanter once again.
“Now, about Sarah,” he said, pouring a strong dash into each glass. “Who is this girl? What do we really know about her?”
Jimmy went back to pacing, but Gunther stepped over to the map, following a series of lights that filled Central Europe like a cluster of stars.
“Maybe she’s one of the two ancient lines of gods—Æsir, Odin’s crew, maybe, or one of the older lot, the Vanir,” Stuart suggested.
“Doubtful,” Jimmy said, striding to a case and pulling down a sheaf of papers. “According to the records my father uncovered in Reykjavík, the dragons have a covenant to kill all of them on sight.”
“Sure,” Stuart said. “But how do we know when we find one of the elder gods? Can the wyrms really tell the difference?”
“According to Markús Magnússon,” Jimmy said, pulling a page from the middle of the stack and setting the rest down on a glass case filled with golden armbands and torques, “in 1288, the last known of the Vanir had been killed by a young dragon in Düsseldorf. She was only an infant, but he describes her as a glowing child, with hair like spun gold and a laugh that would quiet the meanest heart.”
“Who does he think she was?” Stuart asked.
“Freya…,” Gunther replied, not turning from the map, “… is the last we know to be reborn. The dragons have feared their return for as long as the monks and scribes have kept hidden records.”
Jimmy and Stuart exchanged a glance.
“My order,” Gunther continued, “kept records of each Æsir or Vanir that was reborn, and their inevitable demise at the tooth and claw of one of the drakes.”
“And,” Jimmy continued, placing the parchment back on the pile with the others, “Sarah has met at least two dragons in her life, and neither of them thought she was an elder god returned to exact her vengeance.”
“Well,” Gunther said with a grim chuckle. “We don’t know what Jean-Paul Duchamp believed, may his carcass rot in hell.”
“True enough,” Jimmy said. “But this Frederick Sawyer in Portland has seen her on multiple occasions, and all he’s tried to do is invest in that movie company she works with … oh, and buy the sword.”
The three of them looked to the left, to the black blade that hung from a coatrack by the blood-encrusted leather rigging Sarah had worn into battle with the dragon.
“I think that is the key,” Gunther said, turning from the map and limping toward the sword. “This blade is the crux of things.”
“Gram,” Stuart breathed. “How did she come by it, much less wield it?”
“Katie says she bought it at an auction a few years ago. Some estate sale where the original owners had both died. Kids were selling off everything since they lived in Florida.”
“Quite the coincidence there, Jim. Don’t you think?” Stuart asked.
Gunther stood in front of the coatrack and examined the sword. “Völsung,” he pronounced finally.
“Why not?” Jimmy asked. “Hell, we have giants and trolls, witches and dragons. Why can’t my sister’s girlfriend be of the lineage of a defunct German tribe purported to be descended from Odin himself?”
“Holy cats,” Stuart said, scrubbing his face with his meaty hands. “Sigurd’s great, great, great, et cetera granddaughter?”
“The sword sought her out,” Gunther said. “How else can you explain it? And you know she claims to have met Odin himself.”
“Katie confirmed that,” Jimmy said. “Said he’d been haunting her place for years. She thought he was a harmless beggar.”
Gunther turned to face them. “Beggar perhaps, but if he’s Odin … How the hell did he get this old without the dragons killing him again?”
“Good point.” Jimmy rummaged around the bookcases for another bit of history. They waited while he pulled down a large dusty tome and opened the leather binding. “There are records of the dragons killing the gods over the years. I’ve counted six times Odin has been reborn. Three times for Thor…” He turned a page, drawing his finger down the thin, spidery script. “Loki is mentioned half a dozen times.”
“Okay, let me get this straight.” Stuart stood to stare at the great map. “The dragons have been in charge of things since before man figured out how to write, and you’re saying not only did they miss Gram when they were collecting all the trinkets from the elder gods, but they missed Odin being reborn?”
“I believe that is a valid assumption,” Jimmy agreed.
“You realize,” Stuart added, “if they missed Odin, then our Sarah could well be one of the elder gods, reborn.”
They considered it for a moment, contemplating.
Gunther shrugged, turning to face Jimmy. “Either way, then maybe it’s time to poke our heads out of this turtle shell and see who of your parents’ secret society have survived in the intervening years.”
Jimmy nodded slowly. “I’ll look into it.”
“Good,” Gunther said. “Would be nice to get some experienced help.”
Stuart reached out and poked Gram in the sheath, setting it to swinging in short, reducing arcs. “They are scholars and scribes,” he said. “They watch. What we need is someone who isn’t afraid to take action. Why else collect all this?” He turned to encompass the room. “There are a lot of weapons in here.”
Weapons hadn’t stopped the dragon from snatching Katie—hadn’t kept Deidre whole, or even kept his parents from disappearing. But his father wielded a blade. He’d seen it once. Perhaps there was a place for more than waiting.
“Our weapons held up well against the giants,” Jimmy said.
“Dwarven made,” Stuart added. “For the cost, they should have.”
Jimmy took down his sword, a long thin blade that had tasted the blood of giants and trolls. “The axe needs to be repaired,” he said, pointing to the great double-bladed weapon Stuart had used in the battle months earlier.
“My blade is barely scathed,” Gunther grumbled.
Gunther growled. “A few more weeks of physical therapy and I’ll be good as new. Hip is doing much better.”
“We cannot fight them openly,” Jimmy warned. “The witch, Qindra, and therefore her dragon mistress, Nidhogg, knows about Black Briar.”
The other two men frowned, losing the jovial banter.
“We need to proceed cautiously. Find my father’s contact and see who of the old crew is alive.”
“And in the meantime?” Stuart asked.
“In the meantime,” Gunther said, “we keep a close eye on our little berserker blacksmith and try and keep her out of trouble.”
For a moment, they stared at one another, and then they burst out laughing.
Two
I followed Katie into the Generalissimo on Granville. The sign over the marquee read SOLD OUT, and the fire marshall’s sign said the place held 1,500 people. Great, I thought. Fifteen hundred screaming filking fans. Maybe this was hell after all.
Katie tugged my hand as the line snaked between velvet ropes. Katie skipped with every other step, totally loving this. Ari Sveinsson. Who knew the little pisher would be a huge singing sensation? Hell, the last time I’d seen him, he’d been trying to schtup one of the tavern wenches at the same ren faire where I’d met Katie. Now the waif had grown up to be a hunk, with a voice that made girls’ panties fall off.
I squeezed Katie’s hand when the line slowed, and she leaned in to kiss me. “This is so great,” she said.
I shrugged, embarrassed. The public displays of affection were getting more commonplace, but I still had moments of total freakitude. Don’t get me wrong, I was coming to grips with the relationship, and we had been building it back slowly, after the events of the spring. While she still hadn’t gone into details about what happened to her and Julie after Jean-Paul kidnapped them, I know she cried when she thought I wasn’t looking. She was hurting more than she wanted me to see, but I loved her. How could I not see?
“I just hope I don’t want to kill myself when he starts singing.”
Katie laughed, flashing a smile that sent my heart fluttering. “He sings divinely,” she said. “And he’s hella cute, too.”
Two college girls in front of us squealed and began ranting about how hot Ari was. It was pretty annoying.
We followed a group of older women once the line split into two: one line for fast entry, the other to check IDs and wrap glowing plastic bracelets around the wrists of anyone who wanted to buy alcohol. Most of the patrons were underage, so they didn’t bother to try but rushed into the club.
Once we were ensconced in alcohol-friendly shackles, we grabbed a side table and flagged down a waitress. In the middle of the club, the dance floor was clear of tables and chairs, allowing a standing-room-only crowd. I would’ve considered it a mosh pit, but that didn’t jibe with the phrase—filk concert.
“Dear Odin, or whomever is listening,” I whispered as the waitress walked toward the long bar in the back. “Please, no Simon and Garfunkel.”
The drinks arrived before the opening act started. I demolished my Long Island iced tea just as the mandolin and Autoharp began the opening strains of Zeppelin’s “The Battle of Evermore.”
Katie squealed and grabbed my arm, shaking me. I could barely make out what she said over the screaming crowd, but my guess is, “Told you so.”
So, in general, The Harpers did not suck. Reminded me of a cross between Flogging Molly, Jethro Tull, and the Hammer of the Gods—Led Zeppelin.
The alcohol even loosened my shoulders. By the time I’d finished my second Long Island iced tea, The Harpers had polished off a great set—ending with the lead string player rocking a seven-minute version of “Going to California” with a twin-neck lute.
“Did you see that?” Katie asked as the house lights came up enough for everyone to find the restrooms and the bar. “Did you see what he was playing?”
“Lute of some kind,” I said as I stood and stretched.
“Chitarrone,” she said, practically bouncing. “That is the coolest.”
I smiled. Double-necked lute. Never knew what would make Katie excited.
Katie went to the bar to refresh our drinks, and I excused myself to go to the LGR—little girls’ room—as my mother always said. Once Katie was in the crowd at the bar I diverted to my real goal and went to find Wenceslas. I’d bought the tickets from him, and he’d promised to get me passes for the after-party. It was the icing on the cake for Katie’s birthday.
I veered away from the stupidly long line to the women’s restroom and walked up to a muscular man who was striking out with a young coed.
What a schmuck. Let the girl go pee first, geez. Figures I’d find him trolling the bathroom line. “Jesus, Wenceslas. Little early to be hitting on the teenagers, ain’t it?”
He turned around and squinted at me. We went way back, ren faires and jousting tourneys. Guy was good on a horse. Good enough with women when he wasn’t wasted. Unfortunately, he didn’t look like he was feeling any pain at this point.
“Beauhall,” he shouted, holding his thick arms out as if I’d hug him. “My favorite blacksmith.”
I stood my ground and let him stumble forward. This is for Katie, I reminded myself as he grabbed me in a sloppy bear hug. When he lifted me off my feet I seriously considered kneecapping him.
Of course his hug went on too long, so I pushed him back to arms’ length and put on my best smile. “You said I could find you easy enough,” I said. “But I didn’t expect you to be waiting for me in the bathroom line.”
He laughed, too loud and forced. “Can’t stay away from my fans.”
Several of the women looked around, giving me a pitying look, shaking their heads.
“Thought Ari was the family superstar,” I said loud enough for the women to hear.
“Aye, my kid brother is doing okay,” he said, flexing his biceps at the slowly churning bathroom line. “But I’m twice the man he is.”
I tried really hard not to roll my eyes, but some of the women seemed to look at him a second time. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, but was a little off the obnoxious scale. Good to see he hadn’t changed in the last few years.
“You got my passes?” I asked as he started to move toward the line again, forgetting me in his drunken state.
“Passes?” he asked, looking my way. “Beauhall?”
I glanced around, looking for anyone with the hanging badges of the staff or roadies. “Yeah, big guy,” I said, pulling him to the side, away from the women, and lowering my voice. “You promised me passes to the after-party to go along with the concert tickets.”
“Oh, did I?” he said, swinging around to look past me to the coeds who seemed to keep his attention. “I’d thought to use them to score tonight.”
Several of the women and one guy were watching us, giving Wenceslas the once-over. “Oh, I think a big strong hunk like yourself wouldn’t need those to score with this crowd.”
He chuckled, giving me a one-armed hug. “You always had a thing for me, didn’t you, Beauhall?”
I tried not to grimace. “How’s Pericles?” I asked, trying to divert his one-track mind. “Those new shoes holding up?”
Gotta give him some credit. Man loved his horse. “Aye,” he bellowed. “Pericles is a proud papa now. Virile like his master.”
I knew all that, having just shod the horse a couple of weeks earlier. Wenceslas had him out to stud at the moment. Starting his own herd of jousting horses. Smart guy, really. When he got enough blood to his brain that wasn’t soaked in alcohol.
“So, passes?” I asked, holding out my hand. “Then you can go back to scouting this evening’s conquest.”
“I like your thinking,” he said, fishing a couple of laminated passes from his back pocket. “My silly-ass brother wants me to pull in lots of groupies for the party
, so pretend to like him, will ya?”
I slipped the passes into my back pocket and patted him on the arm. “Sure thing, big guy. Be careful out there.”
He leered at me and stumbled back toward the line. He was going to make someone very happy later, or pass out trying.
Of course there was no line to the men’s room.
I looked around, didn’t see any security guards, and slipped into the men’s room. One guy stood at the urinal but didn’t notice as I stepped into a stall. No sense letting all that plumbing go to waste.
By the time I finished, the men’s room was crowded with women. Guess I broke the ice. Made sense. I bet there were only a couple dozen guys in the whole club tonight, including the bands, roadies, and security guards.
When I got back to the table, Katie was talking with a couple at the next table. They were both con-folk—dressed for a pageant. Damn fine costume work; not an amateur stitch to be seen. Katie introduced Carol and Paul, who hailed from Surrey and were erotica writers. We exchanged pleasantries, and then settled down as the house lights flickered. Nearly time for the main act.
Katie sipped a glass of wine, and I took a quick gulp of my third Long Island. “Katie?” I asked, touching the side of her face. “I have a surprise for you.”
She set her drink on the table and scootched her chair around to face me. “I love surprises.”
“Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”
I stared at her, studying the way her nose crinkled as she scrunched her eyes closed. God, she was beautiful. I so needed this moment, this chance to give her some joy. The last few months had been hard.
Katie kept her pain buried deep, side by side with her fear. She woke crying some nights but allowed me to hold her, and her nightmares had begun to go away. She kept her shields tighter these days, more brittle.
It killed me to see her spirit so fragile. Doubly so because it was partly my fault.
The last five months have been a struggle, that’s for sure. But Katie has been a trooper through the whole thing. Teaching me to knit alone should get her the Nobel Prize. But she kept her own stuff bottled up—always cheerful, but distant. I could see the haunt in her eyes, the pain and the fear—that more than anything kept the pain alive. I couldn’t fix her. Didn’t even know where to begin. While I rescued her from the dragon, I hadn’t found a way to free her soul. Not yet anyway, but I was working on it.