by Timothy Zahn
In fact, it took the rest of the Browning’s thirteen-round magazine to do the trick. The ghoul’s leg finally collapsed, leaving him crawling on one leg, a stump and one hand, while the other hand held the Tommy gun clear of the snow.
One down. One to go. Dropping the empty Browning into the snow, Basil pulled out the second gun and shifted his aim to the other ghoul’s kneecap.
He was down to his last round, and the second ghoul was starting to stagger, when both of them abruptly swung their Tommy guns toward him and opened fire.
Basil barely made it to the ground, landing face-first in the snow, before the burst cut through the air over his head. His attackers were still at the edge of their optimal range, a corner of his mind noted, which thankfully meant the incoming fire wasn’t very accurate.
But pinpoint accuracy didn’t mean a whole lot when he was pinned in a snowdrift and down to a single round of ammo. As long as there were bullets left in those submachineguns, the Ghoul Brothers could stroll up to him at whatever speed they liked, collect the Hammer from his pocket, and stroll away again.
A second burst went over his head. They could probably take him out right now, he knew, if they were willing to spend enough ammo to blanket the whole area. The fact that they were sticking with short bursts probably meant they were low on firepower and content to hold him in place until they were at point-blank range.
At least having the Ghoul Brothers’ focus on him meant that Basil and Crenshaw should be able to get the rest of the way up the hill without being shot at.
But then, why wouldn’t they be free and clear? The ghouls wanted the Hammer, and the Hammer was with Basil.
The Hammer.
Basil lifted his head a bit, peering over the snow and through the ghostly figures still gathered accusingly around him. The Hammer…and the ghouls low on ammo.
It was a crazy idea. But right now, crazy was all he had.
Lowering his head again, he fumbled for his pocket. Crenshaw had said that once a person touched the Hammer he could never go back. Basil wasn’t sure he bought into that theory; but what he did know was that the Ghoul Brothers probably had more ghosts between them than everyone else in the greater Berkåk area combined.
The ghouls hadn’t reacted earlier when he’d held up the Hammer to show him, but that could have just been because they’d been too far away. At least, he hoped that was the reason. If it wasn’t, he’d better hope he was up on his broken-field running.
He lifted his head again. The ghoul he’d crippled had fallen behind his partner, clawing his way up the hill and dragging his shattered leg behind him. The other ghoul was no more than thirty meters away now, his Tommy gun cradled ready in his arms, the dead eyes peering out between the bandages staring unblinkingly in Basil’s direction. Waiting—and probably hoping—for him to make a run for it.
Mentally crossing his fingers, Basil pulled the Hammer out of his pocket and raised it toward the sky.
The lead ghoul jerked to a stop like he’d slammed into a wall. His partner made it one more crawl before he, too, abruptly froze in place. For a long pair of seconds both of them just stared at whatever it was they were seeing.
Then, in nearly perfect unison, both raised their Tommy guns and opened fire.
Not with the quick bursts they’d been firing at Basil, the kind of suppression fire designed to keep an opponent pinned down. This was a full-auto hailstorm, the kind you used when enemies were surging and swarming toward you. Enemies, in this case, that didn’t even exist. Basil hugged the ground, wincing at the staccato thunder hammering at his ears.
And then, suddenly, the guns went silent.
Cautiously, Basil once again raised his head. The Ghoul Brothers were exactly where they’d been the last time he looked, standing or crouching in the snow, their silent Tommy guns still sweeping back and forth as if they hadn’t realized their drums had run dry.
Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe all they could see or understand was the ghosts of their victims standing before them.
There was no expression possible on those bandaged faces. But there was no need for any. Basil had had a hint of what they were seeing and feeling. He didn’t need or want the details.
All he needed to know was that their guns were empty, and that it was time to go.
Dry guns or not, the Ghoul Brothers were still dangerously skillful with their throwing knives, and they undoubtedly had brought a few of those with them. Basil headed toward the hill behind the cabin at a full zigzag run, his back itching with creepy anticipation of a final deadly gift. It was a relief when he finally made it around the corner of the cabin and out of their immediate line of fire.
But the reprieve was only temporarily, and if the Ghoul Brothers didn’t already know that they would quickly figure it out. Moebius and Crenshaw had made it to the top of the hill and had vanished into the trees, but the rope they’d used to assist in their climb was still in place, a thin black line against the white snow. There was no way Basil could get up the slope and to safety before the ghouls made it around the cabin after him. He had no idea what the effective throwing range of their knives was, and he had no interest in finding out the hard way.
But there was nothing to do but hit the rope and the hill, and make a race of it. Slogging through the deep snow, feeling fatigue starting to tremble his leg muscles, he headed toward the end of the rope.
He was nearly there when a sudden movement from the top of the hill made him flinch to a halt.
It was just as well he’d stopped. The movement became something large and flat that sailed spinning through the air and landed with a muffled thud and a splash of snow barely six feet in front of him.
He frowned. The thing was hard to make out, half dug into the snow. But as best he could figure it was the trunk lid from their rental car.
He looked up. Moebius was standing between two of the trees, waving down at him. “Hop on and belay!” the other’s voice drifted down the slope.
Grinning tightly, Basil waved back. Good old Moebius had come through again.
Reaching down, he picked up the trunk lid, shook off the snow, and flipped it over so that the flat side was down. He stepped onto it, grabbed the end of the line, and belayed it around his waist. “Go!” he shouted.
And with a distant roar from the car’s engine, he was abruptly on the move, pulled along the snow, riding the lid up the hill like a surfer climbing a particularly steep cresting wave. He gripped the line tightly, shifting his weight back and forth to guide himself around small chunks of protruding rock or half-hidden tree roots.
Thirty seconds later, he was at the top of the hill.
Quickly, he popped the line from around his waist lest he be pulled into the maze of fir branches facing him. The haste turned out to be unnecessary; Moebius had been watching, and brought the car to a halt before Basil could be pulled into the trees.
Grabbing the lid—it was his name on the rental agreement, after all—Basil ran to the waiting car. He tossed the lid half into the open trunk and climbed in beside Moebius, and a second later they were kicking up a blizzard of snow as they roared away down the road and away from the Ghoul Brothers.
“You okay?” Moebius asked as he fought the car through a series of skids.
“Yeah,” Basil said. “Thanks for the tow.”
“No problem,” Moebius said, waving an airy hand. “Sorry I couldn’t get you a proper snowboard, but the Alpine shops don’t deliver. Nice job down there, by the way.”
“Very nice,” Crenshaw agreed from the seat behind them. “And I think you’ve proved that we do indeed put ourselves at risk for other people.”
“I never said we didn’t,” Basil growled, half turning in the seat and fixing him with a hard look. “That’s not the point. Back in Baghdad you weren’t risking your life. You were risking other people’s lives. There’s a bloody big difference.”
“I just meant—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Basil cut him off. �
��And I don’t want to hear you. Not a word.”
He turned back around to face forward, glaring through the windscreen at the snow and the spectacular Norwegian landscape.
And, in front of that landscape, at the ghosts from his past.
Wondering if, or even when, they would fade away.
*
“Excellent,” the Collector said, turning the Hammer over in his hands a moment, then laying it carefully down on his desk. “Well done.”
“Thank you,” Moebius said, his voice sounding a little strained. Maybe he was still seeing his ghosts.
Basil didn’t know. Nor did he really want to. His own ghosts had been slowly fading since the flight out of Norway, but they were still there.
They weren’t solid-looking anymore. But they were still there.
“Then we’re done here,” the Collector said, lowering his gaze to the Hammer. Already, Basil noted cynically, he and Moebius were forgotten.
“One question first, if I may,” Moebius said.
Reluctantly, Basil thought, the Collector looked up again. “What is it?”
“The Hammer,” Moebius said, nodding toward it. “Mjölnir. Does it really blast lightning like the legends say?”
The Collector’s forehead creased. “Mjölnir? Whatever gave you the idea this was Mjölnir?”
“You called it the Hammer of the Gods,” Moebius said, his forehead wrinkling in response. “I just assumed we were talking Thor and Asgard and all that.”
“You assumed incorrectly,” the Collector said, reaching over and gently stroking the Hammer. “Mjölnir is still lost, though I hope to find it someday. No, this is indeed the stuff of legend; but Roman legend, not Norse. Perhaps you’re familiar with the phrase quem deus vult perdere, dementat prius?”
Moebius winced. “Yes. I see.”
“Then we’re done here,” the Collector repeated, a little more firmly this time. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
A minute later, they were once again driving through the London night. “What was all that stuff at the end?” Basil asked. “That quem deus whatever?”
“Quem deus vult perdere, dementat prius,” Moebius said. “Latin. ‘Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.’”
Basil swallowed hard. “Oh. Right.”
“Indeed,” Moebius said.
Basil studied the other’s profile. “You okay, mate?”
Moebius pursed his lips. “I was just thinking about Professor Crenshaw,” he said reluctantly. “How he didn’t show any signs of a struggle.”
“You’re right,” Basil said. “They didn’t.”
Moebius threw him a frown. “Who didn’t what?”
“The Ghoul Brothers,” Basil said. “They didn’t kill him. That pistol we saw tucked in the one ghoul’s waistband? That was a Bull Dog revolver, chambered for a .442 Webley cartridge. I’ve never seen either of them carry a gun like that, not ever. The only explanation is that they picked it up from the library after they broke in.” He sighed. “After the Professor…you know.”
“Shot himself,” Moebius murmured. “Whom the gods would destroy…”
“Yeah,” Basil said. “I wonder what the Collector wants with it.”
“Nothing good.”
“Probably not.”
They drove the next two blocks in silence. “So you’re okay?” Basil asked again. “We soldiers are trained to live with memories like this. But you’ve never been one.”
“No, but I’m very resilient,” Moebius said, flashing a slightly flat smile. “No, I was just wondering if Maggie might have dropped into Ye Olde Cock N’ Bull tonight. Feel like taking a look?”
“Sure,” Basil said. “Provided you keep your distance from her.”
“Wouldn’t think of butting in, old chap,” Moebius assured him, taking the next corner just a hair too fast. “Anyway, you were there first.”
“And don’t you forget it.” Basil paused. “You never told me what kind of ghosts you saw back there. I mean, you not being a soldier and all.”
“You’re right, I never did,” Moebius agreed.
“Are you ever going to?”
“Nope,” Moebius said. “Oh, and if Maggie’s not there, first round’s on me.”
The End