A whirling object whistled past my ear, embedding itself in the wall to my right. One of those ice tomahawks. An inch to the left and I'd have been deaf on both sides; two inches and not being able to hear would have been the least of my concerns.
"Move!" I bellowed, and we moved, leaping over the frost giant bodies in front and scurrying pell-mell along the street. We were in anaerobic mode, like sprinters, sucking in enough air to meet our muscles' demand for oxygen but with nothing to spare. We couldn't keep up this pace much lomger. Cy, the youngest and by far the fittest of us, was racing ahead, but even he would burn out eventually. Flat-out, we were faster than the frosties, nimbler. But they took longer strides, and were generally stronger, with greater levels of endurance. In short, we were managing to stay ahead of them but only just, and we wouldn't be able to maintain our lead indefinitely. When we crapped out they'd be on us in a flash, and once our remaining bullets were spent and our guns were removed from the equation, we stood about as much chance of surviving as I did of sleeping with Jennifer Lopez.
Which might happen, but only in some parallel universe where J.Lo was blind and desperate and I was the last non-impotent man on the planet.
Then salvation appeared ahead, or at any rate a close approximation of it.
Utgard's outer wall.
All we had to do was follow it around, and we'd be at the gate.
Naturally, though, it wasn't going to be that simple. On reaching the wall itself we realised there was no convenient ring road that ran along the inside of it. Buildings butted up hard against its flank in either direction. The street we were on effectively dead-ended with it. Our only chance lay with the set of steep steps that projected out from the wall, leading up to the battlements that crowned it.
I didn't need to give any command. Cy started up the steps, Backdoor went next, and the rest of us were close behind, me taking the rear.
The steps were slippery. Each of us lost his footing several times, not helped by the mob of frosties, who bombarded us with weapons and anything else they could lay their paws on. That was if they weren't following us up the steps, which dozens of them did and which, with their sickle-claw toes gouging into the ice, they made a far better job of than we were making.
In fact, the front runner of them gained on me so fast, and was so close to snaring my heel with one outstretched hand, that I had to stop and turn and expend a bullet on him. His lifeless body thudded heavily into the frost giant behind, knocking him off-balance so that the two of them — one dead, one alive — toppled off the steps and plunged onto the roof of the house below and from there tumbled onto the street. It bought me a few metres' grace, although the Glock's slide had locked back, indicating that the pistol was now as much use as voting Green.
Cy reached the top, gunning down a couple of frosties who came charging towards him along the battlements. Then the rest of us were up there with him, and Paddy took it on himself to defend the steps, crouching with his SA80 set to single shot and planting rounds in the frost giants as they ascended. They could only come up one at a time, so that was fine as far as it went. Paddy could mow them down pretty efficiently, provided he aimed at armour-free parts of their bodies. He didn't have the luxury of missing; if he failed to account for each frost giant with the very first shot, the creature had a chance to get within striking distance, and then he'd be rogered.
Of course, he didn't have an endless supply of ammo, either.
But he stayed there, unhesitating, somehow able to steady his breathing so that each trigger-pull fell in the lull between exhalation and inhalation, and he whittled down the oncoming frosties.
Balls of fucking titanium, that Irishman.
He was only postponing the inevitable, though. He knew it, we all of us knew it. The frost giants would storm the battlements sooner or later.
I scanned both ways. There were watchtowers positioned at intervals all along the battlements, and other sets of steps that gave access up here. Already I could see sentries venturing out from the next watchtower but one, heading for us. There'd be more joining them before too long. I imagined Bergelmir had been informed by now that the delegation from Asgard had, for reasons best known to themselves, betrayed his trust and gone rogue. He'd be hopping mad and sending out every armed man he had with orders to bring back our cocks on sticks.
We had minutes left, if that.
I looked out over the battlements' sharp crenellations and saw a sight that gladdened my heart. But only a little.
The Valkyries were skimming towards us across the ice on their snowmobiles. They'd be at the stronghold's edge in seconds.
Thing was, we were two hundred metres up, and they were down there, and a crevasse yawned between us and them.
The Valkyries were coming to the rescue, but there wasn't actually anything practical they could do to get us out of this shitstorm.
Forty-Three
The good news — there was some — was that Sleipnir's rotors were starting to turn. Jensen and Thwaite must have clocked our predicament and recognised that an emergency airborne exfiltration was our best and probably only hope.
The downside of the good news was that it would take time to get the Chinook in the air. Wokkas couldn't just spring up from a standing start. Engines had to cycle, everything had to be running smoothly and all tickety-boo before a great goliath like that could lift off. The bigger the aircraft, the more of a warm-up it needed to get going. However frantically the pilots were prepping in the cockpit, Sleipnir could not be rushed.
Steady on, said those slowly speeding up rotors. All in good time. I'm going as fast as I can.
"Not fast enough, you bugger," I growled under my breath.
"Gid!" Paddy called out. "I'm dry. What're the options?"
"This way. We make for the gate."
We scuttled along the battlements, arriving at the first watchtower at roughly the same time as the sentries from the next watchtower along did. Basically it was a covered platform that jutted out from the wall, over the crevasse. There, we and the two sentries engaged. Backdoor's Browning burped its last, killing one of them. I snatched up the dead sentry's issgeisl and ran it through his mate, who looked startled, as if he couldn't work out how a human could handle a frost giant handweapon so well.
"I had practice," I told him, and the issgeisl made a great wet slurp as I yanked it out of his belly, taking some of his innards with it.
On we went. The Valkyries were directly beneath us, shadowing our progress on their snowmobiles. Rendezvousing with them at the gate was the only strategy that made any sense, but while they'd have no trouble getting there, we had a gauntlet to run. Plus, Suttung and his guardsmen were right on our tails.
Awesome.
But seeing as the only alternative was to surrender, and the frosties were hardly in a mood for taking prisoners, what else could we do?
Another pair of sentries blocked our path, and a quick check confirmed what I feared. Everyone was out of ammo. Backdoor's pistol shot had been our collective last.
I took point, meeting the first sentry with my issgeisl already swinging. He parried with his broadsword, then aimed a thrust at my chest. I sidestepped and brought the issgeisl's axe end up between his legs.
His eyes bulged, his face registered stunned amazement, and then came a scream that would have made even Germaine Greer wince in sympathy. Frankly my next blow, using the spear end to slit his throat from ear to ear, was an act of compassion.
The second sentry was on me before the first had fallen. He chopped at me with his tomahawk, and I only avoided radical facial rearrangement by bending backwards like a contortionist. I collided with the rim of the battlements, completely off-kilter, in no fit state to block or duck his follow-up shot. His look said it all. A-ha! I have you now!
Then in an instant it changed to huh?
This was accompanied by the top of his head disintegrating in a red mist, and that jibed with the fact that a bullet from a high-velocity rifle fi
red from below had entered beneath his jaw and exited via his crown. A hell of a shot from an almost impossible angle, but one of the Valkyries had managed to take it, and I didn't pause to wonder who she might have hit if her aim had been just a smidgeon off, because the likely answer was me. Instead I gave her a quick wave of acknowledgement and let Cy grab me by the sleeve and hustle me onward.
Suttung and company were nearly on us by this time, and to add to our woes dozens of guardsmen cresting the set of steps ahead. We were sandwiched between two large groups of the enemy, with no way off the battlements except to leap over the side and plummet to certain death.
Paddy began murmuring a prayer. "Hail Mary, Full of Grace… Colm O'Donough here. If you're listening, now would be a fine time for a miracle. I know I've not been the best of Catholic sons and I may have said and done some things you wouldn't approve of, but if you could just see your way to helping us out…"
I felt like joining in. No atheists in foxholes and all that.
The frost giants slowed their approach, partly through caution but mainly through confidence. They knew they had us trapped. Suttung looked especially gleeful. He was itching to get his hands on the humans who'd done for so many of his guardsmen.
"Sell yourselves dearly, lads," I said.
Cy seemed on the point of speaking. There was something urgent on his mind.
Then — salvation.
Not divine intervention. Not a direct response from Him Upstairs to Paddy's prayer. But good enough.
Sleipnir bellied in from out of nowhere, with a roar like a thousand angry dragons. The Chinook swung about, presenting us with its huge rear end, and the cargo door was open and the ramp was extended down towards us, almost touching the battlements.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" I bawled at the boys. "An embossed fucking invitation?"
The downwash from the rotors was literally staggering. It pummelled and pounded from above. Even simply standing upright under it was an effort. Nevertheless Baz was able to crawl onto the crenellations and leap across to the ramp. Backdoor followed him, then Cy and Paddy in swift succession.
I saw Suttung howl with frustration, the sound swamped by the insanely loud cacophony from Sleipnir's exhaust ducts. The humans were getting away! He urged his guardsmen forwards, and they tottered along the battlements, bent double, shielding their faces.
I abandoned the issgeisl and scrambled onto the crenellations to make the jump to Sleipnir myself. At that same moment the Wokka veered closer to the stronghold, too close for comfort, and Jensen had to make a correction. All at once the gap between battlements and ramp widened. It was now something like four metres, further than I could have managed even with a run-up. Baz and Backdoor were gesticulating at me from the cargo bay: come on! Cy and Paddy were crouched on the ramp, holding out their hands. The frost giants were seconds away.
Ah well, what the fuck. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Who wants to live for ever? Et cetera.
I sprang.
Geronimo!
Forty-Four
I wasn't going to make it. Even as my boot soles parted company with the battlements I knew I was going to fall short of the ramp and start a long plunge into the crevasse. It was just the way it had to be. I couldn't have stayed put. Jumping and hoping was all I had.
So I was surprised as hell to thump chest-first against the lip of one of the ramp's three extensions, and just as surprised to find myself clinging on there, using hands, elbow and even chin to keep me in place. I bicycled my legs, trying to get a knee up onto the extension. Then hands fastened onto my uniform tunic, digging into its layers of padding, and I was hauled unceremoniously up and over like some item of baggage until all of me was on the ramp proper. I lay there, prone, gasping like a landed fish. I could hardly believe I'd done it. Still in one piece.
Someone else couldn't believe it either. Suttung.
As Sleipnir began to draw away from Utgard, he launched himself off the battlements, determined that his pursuit wasn't going to end here. He hurtled through space and hit the ramp with an almighty clang, flat on his stomach. Immediately he began sliding off and scrabbled for purchase. His talons found little they could dig into on the ramp's cross-hatched surface until, by chance, one hand encountered my ankle. He latched on, but his slide continued, and now he was dragging me with him.
The boys cottoned on fast that I was in trouble. It might have had something to do with me shouting out, "Fuck's sake, he's pulling me down!" They grabbed my arms and braced themselves. Suttung had slipped completely free of the ramp and was dangling off the end of it, between two of the extensions. The only thing preventing him falling was his hold on me. As my leg was halfway over the lip of the ramp, this was bending my knee the wrong way and causing me some considerable fucking amount of pain.
"Get him off! Get the bastard off me!"
Suttung clamped his free hand onto the ramp. That relieved the strain on my knee a little, but then he lost his grip and dropped back down again. The sudden shift caught everyone unawares, and I was tugged further out of the helicopter. Now I was hooked over the lip of the ramp, which dug excruciatingly into my midriff. The boys planted their heels in and attempted to bring me back up. Suttung hung on grimly. I'd become the rope in a life-or-death tug of war, and to be honest, I wasn't hugely enjoying it. I communicated this fact to the others in what I felt was, under the circumstances, quite a calm and reasonable manner. I might have used the word "cuntbags" once or twice but otherwise I was pretty restrained. Oh, and "shit-fuckers." And possibly "twatting bollockheads." Apart from that, though — a model of dignity and coolness under pressure.
Suttung just wasn't letting go, and to make matters worse his claws were spiking into my shin and Achilles tendon. It seemed likely he'd tear my foot off before he gave up his hold on me. Sleipnir was accelerating and he was getting swung in all directions, buffeted by the wind, a mad pendulum. I tried kicking at him with my other foot but he didn't stay in one place long enough for me to connect.
With all four of the lads pulling on me, they started to make some headway, and soon most of my body was back on the ramp. Cy thumped at Suttung's fingers hard as he knew how, but couldn't dislodge his grip. In fact it only made those talons sink in deeper. The blood was now streaking out over my boot, flecking the frost giant's arm and face.
One final heave, and I was safely in the cargo bay once more.
Unfortunately, so was my hanger-on. Suttung got one thigh over the lip of the ramp, then rolled himself the rest of the way in. He was up on his feet and raging in no time. He grabbed Backdoor by the head and threw him the length of the cabin. Backdoor collided with a bank of seats and went down hard. Then Suttung drew a weapon from the waistband of his armour, another of those fucking ice tomahawks. He lashed out at Cy with it, and the kid got a forearm up in the nick of time, which saved him from having a trapezoid-shaped blade embedded deep in his noggin. The downside was that his arm was slashed open clean to the bone. He fell, hissing through his teeth, clutching the wound.
Suttung made a big mistake in hurting Cy, for two reasons. First, I was fond of Cy and it pissed me off. Second, it meant he'd stepped close to where I happened to be lying. So close that I was able to scissor my legs around his ankle, twist, and bring him crashing to his knees.
I hadn't thought this one through too brilliantly, though, since he turned his attention on me. The tomahawk was up, poised, and Suttung's grin said he was looking forward to burying the hatchet with Gid Coxall — and not in a good way.
Then an Irish-accented voice said, "Hello there, frostie. You like cold? How about some dry ice?"
Paddy had the Chinook's fire extinguisher in his hands, and he sprayed the contents full-on into Suttung's ugly mug. Carbon dioxide jetted out from the nozzle in clouds, and Suttung shrieked. The stuff went in his mouth, up his nose, into his eyes, and he reeled backwards, frantically rubbing at his face with both forearms. Paddy gave him no quarter. Kept blasting away with the fire ex
tinguisher. Driving him back towards the ramp.
I scrambled on all fours to help. Suttung teetered on the end of the ramp. His eyes were bloodshot and streaming. He was choking, flailing.
I gave his legs a good shunt, and all at once there was no more frost giant filling the cargo doorway. There was just a vista of Jotunheim, glinting ice fields, Utgard receding on the horizon, and the sounds of hammering wind and a falling, fading scream.
Forty-Five
Sleipnir doubled back and we picked up the Valkyries and their snowmobiles some two kilometres outside Utgard — a safe distance, and not far, in fact, from the splash of mangled red fur and flesh that had been Suttung. Then we began the journey home.
Five soldiers slouched together in sullen silence. Cy's arm was bandaged up, a nifty piece of field dressing courtesy of Paddy, and he had been fed some ace painkillers from the Wokka's first aid kit. He looked grey but okay. Backdoor was suffering from mild concussion but joked that it was only his head so no vital organs had been damaged. I'd staunched the bleeding from the gashes in my leg. We sat there and avoided one another's gazes. Each of the others wore a face like a slapped cock, and I'd no doubt I did too.
Someone had to skewer the sour mood. Guess who elected himself to do it.
"Well," I said, "that all went swimmingly, didn't it?" Which won a couple of weak smiles and not much else.
"Might as well get this over with," I went on. "What happened? Any idea? Somebody? Anybody?"
Shrugs.
"Come on, one of you must have seen something. Who fired first? Why? What at?"
"It was Chops, I think," Cy volunteered. "Not sure, but he was behind me and that's where the shooting started."
"Weren't you taking the rear?" I asked Backdoor.
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