Odin's Ravens

by K. L. Armstrong

  “Where’s the hammer?” Baldwin asked.

  “There’s something in there,” Matt said. “Something alive. It punched me.”

  “Punched you?” Baldwin’s face screwed up. “Are you sure a bat didn’t fly into you? I bet there are a few in there.”

  Matt rubbed his tender jaw. “Unless its name is Bruce Wayne, that wasn’t a bat.”

  At a noise from the mausoleum, he spun, fists going up.

  “There is something in there,” Baldwin said.

  “Yep.”

  Baldwin inched toward the door. “Could be a homeless guy.”

  “How would he get inside?”

  “A tunnel?”

  Matt shook his head and walked back toward the door.

  “What?” Baldwin said, inching away. “You’re going back in?”

  “Nope. I’m going to get this door open so I can see him. Better yet, try to flush him out.” He turned to Baldwin. “Are you okay with that? If you want, you can switch off with Fen.”

  Baldwin squared his shoulders. “I’m fine. Sorry. This place just weirds me out.”

  Matt imagined it would, considering Baldwin himself had been dead just a day ago. He might still be fearless about most things, but apparently, that experience hadn’t left his confidence quite as unshaken as he pretended.

  Matt walked to the door and put his shoulder against it. “Give me a hand here?”

  “Right. Sure.”

  Baldwin took up position on the side farthest from the opening. He did give it his all, though, and with both of them pushing, the door slowly scraped open until it was as far as it could go, hitting a stone pillar inside. Then they looked inside and saw…

  The light only extended about a foot beyond the door.

  “Whoa,” Baldwin said. “Now, that’s dark.”

  Something whispered and shuffled inside. Baldwin staggered and caught himself. He looked sheepishly over at Matt.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “So what do we do now? Find a flashlight?”

  Matt had a feeling that wouldn’t help. The gloom inside the mausoleum wasn’t a natural darkness.

  “I have an idea,” he said.

  He motioned Baldwin back and whispered his plan. He knew Baldwin wouldn’t be thrilled with it, so he offered again to call in Fen, but Baldwin insisted he’d play his role.

  “I’ll go find a lantern or something,” Matt called loudly. “You wait here. And whatever you do, don’t go inside.”

  “Got it!”

  It was a trick, of course—to get whatever was inside to venture out. It wasn’t the best ruse in the world, but the monsters they’d run into so far hadn’t exactly been rocket scientists. Matt walked a little ways, veered left, and then zipped back alongside the tomb. He crept along the wall until he was beside the door, hidden out of sight. Once Matt was in place, Baldwin started for the mausoleum door.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is,” Baldwin muttered. “It’s probably just a bat. I bet I can find that hammer before he even gets back.”

  Baldwin stepped into the entrance and peered inside as Matt watched.

  “Huh. It’s really dark,” Baldwin said, “but it can’t be far. This place isn’t that big.”

  Baldwin took another step, and Matt heard that whisper again. He saw a blur of motion and raced forward, grabbing for it just as Baldwin did, too. They both caught the thing and heaved, yanking backward, trying to drag it out of the—

  It was like pulling a cork from a bottle. One minute they were heaving with all their might. The next they were sailing backward with the force of their pull, prize clutched in their hands. They both lost their balance and fell together, right outside the door, still holding—

  Baldwin let out a yelp and rolled away, leaving Matt clutching…

  An arm. He was holding an arm. Only it didn’t look like an actual limb. Not really. He could see fingers and skin, but the fingers were long and curved and the skin was gray and leathery, and there was bone sticking out from the skin, and the smell—

  The smell.

  Matt dropped the arm and staggered back. His hand shot up to cover his nose. Except it was the hand that had been holding the arm, and the smell—

  Matt swallowed, trying not to puke. He stared down at the mummified arm, now lying in the grass.

  “When you said you needed a hand…” Baldwin began.

  “Not what I meant.”

  Baldwin let out a laugh, but it was a nervous, sputtering laugh. Matt bent to look at the hand. It was from a dead body. A long-dead body. Had someone hit them with that? Using a corpse as a weapon?

  That was the only explanation he could think of.

  Actually, no. There was one other thing—

  Something barreled from the mausoleum darkness. It stopped in the lit doorway, threw back its head, and let out a bloodcurdling roar. At least as big as Matt’s father, it was dressed in a moldering leather tunic and leggings, with huge boots and a rusted metal helmet. With tangled reddish-yellow hair and a long matted beard, it was clearly a man. Or it used to be. When it was alive. Now it was rotted, with bits of leathery flesh hanging off it, bones showing beneath the holes. One side of its face was gone, leaving only skull.

  Also, it was missing a hand.

  Before Matt or Baldwin could react, the thing rushed out. It snatched up the discarded arm and stuck it back on. Then it bellowed, jaw stretching, showing a few remaining yellowed teeth. Its one eye rolled upward and its chest collapsed, as if it was taking a mighty breath. Then, as it released the breath, its whole body expanded, growing until it was taller than the mausoleum behind it. It roared again and the very earth quaked under their feet.

  “Um, you know those guys we met in the afterlife?” Matt said. “And I told you they weren’t Viking zombies?”

  “Uh-huh…”

  “This is.”

  The draugr charged Baldwin. Matt flew at it, knowing the Hammer was too risky. Apparently, so was tackling the rotting undead. He slammed into its arm and only took off a big chunk of dried-out flesh. The draugr hit Baldwin with a massive fist. Baldwin flew into the nearest gravestone. Matt tried not to wince at the impact, but Baldwin just bounced back, saying, “Hey, ugly! Want a piece of me? We already got a piece of you.”

  Baldwin dodged the draugr’s next blow and tore past him. One problem with being rotted is that, apparently, your joints don’t work so well, and the draugr turned awkwardly, stiffly, before charging Baldwin again.

  Baldwin kept taunting it as Matt snatched the shield, then prepared his Hammer, focusing on getting mad. That wasn’t hard—this thing was standing between him and Mjölnir, and the hammer was rightfully his. Plus, he’d had a really bad day. So he found that core of anger and lashed out, and the Hammer flew, stronger and straighter than it ever had before. A concentrated ball of pure power.

  It hit the draugr in the side and for a second, Matt thought they were going to be dealing with two draugrs. Or at least two halves of one. But the draugr toppled, still intact. When it tried to rise again, Matt held out his fingers, glowing now, and the draugr stopped.

  “Do you speak English?” Matt said.

  “Um, it’s a zombie,” Baldwin said. “If it does, the only word it knows is brains.”

  “It’s a draugr,” Matt said. “A dead Viking warrior who guards treasure. It’s sentient. Like a ghost. It can talk.”

  The draugr had deflated to human size now, which was still plenty big. But it stayed on the ground, watching Matt’s hand. Matt could see an amulet around its neck. A Thor’s Hammer.

  “You’re a Thorsen?” Matt said.

  “I am,” it said, its voice garbled, remaining teeth clacking. “Olaf Thorsen.” Or that’s what it seemed to say. It was hard to tell. Not all the consonants worked right when you didn’t have half your teeth. Or most of your lips. Or a tongue. At least he seemed to be speaking English, which meant he must have been one of the early settlers.

  “I
’m a Thorsen, too,” Matt said. “Matthew Thorsen. Of Blackwell. I need what you’re guarding in that mausoleum. I need Mjölnir.”

  The draugr laughed. It was a horrible dry, raspy, chortling sound. “You think because you are a son of Thor you can wield his great hammer?”

  “No, I think because I am the Champion of Thor, I can wield it. And I must. Ragnarök comes. The serpent stirs. The battle begins. I have been chosen to fight it.”

  As Matt said the words, he felt his heart stir. Noble words. Proud words. A champion’s words. And, for perhaps the first time, he believed them. It would have been a truly perfect moment… if the draugr hadn’t nearly burst itself laughing.

  “You?” The thing cackled. “You are a child, not a Champion of Thor.”

  Baldwin leaped forward, saying, “Yes, he—!” but Matt cut him short.

  The draugr continued, “You say you are the champion? We can settle this easily. Inside that crypt lies Mjölnir. Bring it to me.”

  “It’s a trick,” Baldwin hissed.

  “Yes, it is a trick,” the draugr said. “If the boy is truly a Thorsen, he already knows that. Do you think no one has found that hammer before now? They have. But they cannot lift it. It lies in its bed of stone, and only Thor’s true champion can raise it out. Only the living embodiment of the great god himself.”

  “Uh, isn’t that Excalibur?” Baldwin said.

  Matt tried to shush him, but Baldwin said, “It is Excalibur. With the stone. I saw the musical.” He lowered his voice. “I think his brains are rotting, too. He seems confused.”

  “The son of Balder, I see,” the draugr said. “I would believe you are the living embodiment of Frigg’s doomed son. As pleasant as a sun-warmed stone. And just as intelligent.”

  “Hey!” Baldwin said.

  “He’s being a jerk,” Matt said. “He wants to test me. I accept.”

  Matt handed Baldwin his shield for protection and then marched toward the mausoleum. The sun streamed through the open doorway, and he could see inside easily now that whatever magic the draugr worked was gone. The crypt was empty, except for a single casket with a stone top. Getting that top off took some serious work, but eventually it slid back enough for Matt to see inside, and there lay—

  A hammer. Which was what he expected. Except… well, he’d hoped for a little more. Maybe a flash of light. A bright jeweled handle. A gleaming bronze head. It was just a metal mallet. Not even a big metal mallet—maybe the size of one of the rubber ones in his dad’s workshop. It was dull and tarnished, and the handle was too short. And it was that, the short handle, that made his breath catch, that made Matt stare at the hammer as if it truly were brilliant with jewels and fire.

  The story went that Loki bet two dwarves they couldn’t beat their brethren’s gifts for the gods. To be sure of that, he turned into a fly and bit them as they worked. He succeeded in distracting one dwarf, and when he pulled out Mjölnir, the handle was short.

  That’s how Matt knew this truly was the hammer of Thor.

  Matt reached in and grasped the handle. It was just cold metal, not even wrapped with leather or cloth. He took a deep breath. The stories said that only Thor was strong enough to wield the hammer. Clearly, Matt wasn’t stronger than other Thorsens. Which probably meant that they could wield it, too—once they got it out of here. That was the problem. The head was half-buried in the stone bottom of the casket. Matt could see scratches and nicks where others must have tried to cut it free. To no avail. This wasn’t simple concrete. It was magic. Ancient magic.

  Matt gripped the hammer and closed his eyes.

  I am Thor’s champion. I know I am.

  He braced himself and, eyes still closed, he pulled—

  His hands started to slide up the handle. Slipping off. His heart pounded.

  This is Thor’s hammer. My hammer. All I need to do is pull—

  He staggered back, and as he did he opened his eyes and saw…

  He was holding Mjölnir.

  Matt let out a deep, shuddering sigh, and his whole body shook with it.

  Holding the hammer in one hand, Matt walked out of the mausoleum. Baldwin stood about ten feet away from the draugr, watching it. The thing hadn’t moved.

  No, not “the thing.” I shouldn’t call him that. He’s my ancestor. Olaf Thorsen.

  As Matt stepped through the doorway, Baldwin glanced up. His gaze went to Matt’s hand.

  “Is that… it?” he said.

  “It is.”

  “Are you sure? It seems kinda… small.”

  Matt could say that his glowing amulet proved it was the real hammer. Or he could point out the short handle and explain how it got that way. Instead, he stood on the stone slab outside the mausoleum doors and gripped the hammer, testing the weight of it. Then he swung back his arm and whipped it as hard as he could.

  “No!” Baldwin said as the hammer flew through the air. “I didn’t mean to throw it away! What if it is the right…?”

  He trailed off as the hammer suddenly changed direction. Like a boomerang, it started coming back. Baldwin hit the ground facedown. Matt stood there, hand out. The hammer struck it, the handle smacking against his palm. He gripped it.

  “Yep,” he said. “This is Mjölnir.”

  “That. Is. Awesome.” Baldwin hurried over and stared at the hammer. “Can I hold it? Oh, wait, no. You need to be worthy, right?” He gave a short laugh. “I probably don’t want to know if I qualify.”

  “That’s the comic book Thor,” Matt said. “In the myths, only Thor is strong enough to wield it.” Matt hefted it. “I don’t think that can be true, either. I’m strong, but not superhero strong.” He held it out. “You want to try? Keep your toes out of the drop zone, just in case.”

  Baldwin reached out. Matt handed him the hammer, then very carefully released his grip. It started to fall. Matt dodged to grab it, but Baldwin managed to grab it with both hands and stop it from dropping. He stood there, hammer a foot from the ground, his neck muscles bulging as he struggled to hold it up.

  “That’s what it means,” Baldwin said, grunting with the effort. “I can hold it. I just can’t wield it. Not unless I plan to drop it on someone.”

  Matt took the hammer back. It was heavy, but no more than he’d expect from a bronze mallet. That must be the magic, then. It didn’t require actual strength to wield—just a magical kind. The strength of Thor.

  “Vingthor,” the draugr whispered.

  Matt looked down at the hammer, his fingers wrapped around it, and in that moment, he almost believed Hildar. He wielded Mjölnir. He could be Vingthor. He really could. He gripped the short handle tighter and it was as if he could feel that strength filling him.

  Matt looked over. The draugr—Olaf—had dropped to one knee, head bent.

  “You are Thor,” Olaf said. “I doubted you. I mocked you. I offer my blessed Valhalla afterlife in penance. Wield the hammer. Send me to Hel.”

  “Your task was to guard Mjölnir,” Matt said. “Which you did, and I am grateful for that. Now that I have the hammer, your services are no longer needed, and you may begin your true afterlife. Go to Valhalla. Take your place there, where you belong.”

  Olaf bowed his head again. “Thank you, Vingthor. I will be cheering you to victory from the great halls.” He rose and started for the mausoleum. As he passed, he paused and looked at the hammer in Matt’s hands. “May I hold it? For nearly a millennium, I have guarded it, but I have never been permitted to touch it.”

  Baldwin glanced over quickly, as if wondering what Matt would do. For Matt, there was no question. This man was his ancestor. A warrior who’d done his duty for almost a thousand years.

  Matt held out Mjölnir. The draugr took it in both hands. It still dropped, as it had with Baldwin, but Olaf managed to lift it partway, bones rattling with the effort.

  Matt chuckled. “I guess Thorsen blood helps.”

  “It would, if I had Thorsen blood. But I do not, Vingthor. I am Glaemir, king of the draugrs.
I knew you would come for this, little Matthew Thorsen, and I did not have to wait long. While others may not be able to wield this hammer, I know many who’d pay dearly to keep it from your hands.”

  The draugr smiled, a horrible, grinning skull smile. Matt lunged to grab the hammer, but the earth under Glaemir’s feet opened and he dropped. Matt jumped to go after him. The earth closed as fast as it had opened, and Matt hit the ground. Solid ground now. He lay there, staring at the upturned dirt that marked the spot where Glaemir had stood. Where he’d last seen Mjölnir. Swallowed by the earth.

  NINETEEN

  FEN

  “NOT A HERO”

  The foul mood Fen had been trying to shake off wasn’t getting any better. He decided that for right now silence was his best plan. He sighed and dropped to the rear of the group as his cousin tried to cheer everyone up.

  “We’ll get it back,” she repeated as they left Saint Agnes. “We got Baldwin back, and we’ve accomplished so many other things! We’ll figure this out, too.”

  He muffled a snort of disbelief. At the rate they were going, they’d be lucky to be awake when Ragnarök came. They had no idea how much time they had until the big doomsday event, but they weren’t ready. They weren’t even a little bit near ready. So far, they’d found the shield, lost the shield, and retrieved the shield; they’d found the location of the hammer, been taken captive, escaped, actually had the hammer in their possession, and lost it. They’d found and lost several of the descendants. They’d spotted more monsters than he even knew existed. The truth of it was that they were fumbling around in confusion, barely one step ahead of disaster most of the time. It was nothing like in the movies, where the heroes always seemed to have a plan. Maybe it was because they were kids, or maybe the movies didn’t show how confused and beaten down the heroes were sometimes.

  Fen didn’t want to lose. He didn’t want the world to end and everyone he liked to die. He didn’t want to die. Things didn’t look good for them, though. Even Matt was quiet as they went back to the camp to regroup and catch a few hours’ sleep. Privately, Fen suspected that Matt was about as optimistic as Fen felt. The guy’s own grandfather was the leader of the enemy, and a rotting monster had just duped him. Admittedly, Fen didn’t think that having the Berserkers along would’ve changed that, but it would have been nice if they’d had some backup for that fight—and for whatever monster came at them next.