Gods of Fire and Thunder

by Fred Saberhagen

  "Have a care how you speak of her!" Baldur had dropped his helmet to the ground, and his right hand had gone back to his sword. His blue eyes glinted wildly in the uncanny wavering of light.

  Brain damage, thought Hal again, and now he did retreat a pace. But he persisted in his quest for knowledge.

  He kept his raspy voice as soft as possible. "I mean no disrespect, Baldur. Go on, tell me more. So you got knocked down, in some kind of battle, and when you woke up, there you were, lying on the ground with your head a bloody mess. Right? Then this Valkyrie arrived to carry you to Wodan's feasting hall? Isn't that how the story—isn't that what's supposed to happen?"

  "Her name is Brunhild." Now the young man's voice seemed on the verge of breaking into sobs. Whatever threat had been in him was melting swiftly. "But she rejected me!" His gaze slid away from Hal's, fell to the ground.

  "Ah, but you somehow learned her name. So—"

  "She chose another man instead! She would not take me to Valhalla!" In a moment Baldur's legs had folded, leaving him sitting on the ground, face buried in his hands, while his shoulders heaved. It was not an attitude Hal would have expected to see in a man who had pledged himself to a god of war. But people were always doing unexpected things.

  The northman cast a swift look around him, to right and left over the curving hillside. It was only a routine precaution. As far as he could tell, he and the agitated youth were still alone.

  Approaching Baldur more closely, he squatted down in front of him, taking care to stay out of easy lunging distance—just in case.

  "Tell me more," repeated Hal with quiet persistence. "I find this very interesting. The lovely and respected Brunhild came to visit you when you were killed—and just the sight of her made you feel better. But then something went wrong, and you were cheated out of a trip to Wodan's glorious feasting hall."

  After a pause, during which Baldur said nothing, Hal added: "Well, at least she told you her name."

  Hal had to bend closer to hear the muttered answer: "I knew her name already. In spite of everything, she took another man instead!"

  "So you were telling me." The northman scratched his head again, trying to make sense of it all. He wasn't sure that the effort was worthwhile—but there was the gold he had just stuffed into his belt pouch. Beings who used gold for horseshoes might well be able to contribute a little more of it, even if unknowingly, to the retirement fund of a weary but deserving adventurer. Perhaps enough to buy him a small farm. "So, who was this other man? Why did your Valkyrie choose him?"

  Baldur shrugged.

  "All right, it seems he's not important. How did you come to learn her name?"

  No answer.

  "So, where is the incomparable Brunhild now?"

  A cry of agony burst from Baldur's lips, and he sprawled on the earth face down, one arm extended, pointing uphill, directly toward the wall of fire. Now he was screaming. "She is in there, surrounded by the flames, where no man may approach her!"

  That was an unexpected answer. The case was only becoming more complicated. Or maybe it really was all brain damage. "She's in the flames, and not in Valhalla? But why . . . ?"

  "Not in Loki's fire, but hidden behind it!"

  "Ah."

  "Wodan has bound her away from me forever, in an enchanted sleep!"

  "I see," said Hal, trying to sound as if he really did. He decided to keep trying. "So Brunhild is being punished? For what offense?"

  "For daring to look with favor on a mortal!" Baldur was still lying face down, talking into the grass.

  "The mortal in question being not the man she actually carried to Valhalla, but—you, the one she left behind. Is that it? All right, I think I do begin to see." Now Hal grunted sympathetically.

  He changed position so that his own back was to the fire, meanwhile automatically scanning his surroundings again, then sat down on the ground more comfortably. "That's too damned bad, son, too damned bad." He paused a moment before asking: "But how do you know she's in there?" He hooked a sturdy thumb over his shoulder.

  "I know!"

  Hal persisted. "Were you listening, watching, when Wodan passed his sentence on this girl?"

  "Of course I wasn't there, in Wodan's great hall with the heroes. Brunhild cheated me of that!" The final words came out in a shriek of accusation.

  "Aha," said Hal, trying to sound wise. He thought things over, shaking his head. So far there had been no mention in the story of any cache of gold, and that was where his interest lay.

  But he was curious, as usual, about many things. He pulled a stem of wintry grass, and chewed on the dry fiber. "Still, I keep wondering how you know that she's now behind this wall of fire—did the fight, the one that you were, uh, killed in—did it take place here on this hilltop?"

  "No, of course not! How could there be room for a battle here?" Shaking his aching head in exasperation, Baldur gestured at the narrow space between flames and the steep drop. "We fought in the valley, miles away."

  "All right. Keep calm. Let's go over again what happened. If you don't mind, I'd like to get it all straight. You were struck down in this little battle, and then—"

  "Only an hour after Brunhild abandoned me, while I still lacked strength to move from where I had fallen, a messenger from Valhalla brought me the cursed news. As a courtesy to Wodan, Loki had created a ring of fire, inside which those who offend the gods can be eternally imprisoned. Then I raised my eyes to this cliff, and saw the fire, and knew that it was true."

  Having finished that speech, Baldur sat up. Now he seemed to be making a start at pulling himself together; a tough young man, Hal judged, who must have been through a few hellish days, whatever the exact truth might be of what had happened to him.

  Hal knew from experience how dangerous it could be to interfere with the gods' business. But it would not be the first time in his life he had accepted such a risk. He thought it couldn't hurt to try to learn a little more.

  "What kind of messengers is the old god using these days?" When the youth did not respond to that, the northman prodded: "Maybe a black raven? Or a wolf?"

  Baldur looked mildly shocked. "No such thing. Great Wodan's messengers are the Valkyries. Girls. Young women, like Brunhild herself." He paused. "I happen to know that this particular messenger's name was Alvit."

  "Alvit, I see—another worthy name. Another Valkyrie you just happen to know—and how do these girls travel when they go on their errands? I've heard that they ride magic Horses through the air." Hal thought that he could feel the heavy little lump of gold in his belt pouch. "Most people in the world have never seen a horse—even the purely natural kind is something of a rare animal. But I have. Horses' feet are not like those of a cameloid or drom. They have hard hooves, and fairly often their owners fit them with metal shoes. Just nail them on. Then sometimes the shoes come loose."

  But it was no use now trying to find out what Baldur might know about horseshoes and gold. The youth seemed to be drifting away again, back into his ongoing nightmare of grief and loss. He had regained his feet and was moving restlessly about.

  He was mumbling now, and in his raving he kept returning to what obsessed him as a great horror and mystery: the fact that Brunhild had not counted him properly as a worthy hero among the slain, had refused to carry him away to Wodan's hall. The way in which he spoke of Brunhild strongly suggested to Hal that Baldur and the Valkyrie were or had been lovers. Which added to the mystery, of course. Now Baldur was groaning that he had lost both his beloved and his chance at glorious immortality as a member of Wodan's elite guard, one of those chosen to fight beside the Father of Battles in the final terrific conflict, the twilight of the gods at world's end.

  "Tell me no more about glorious heroes, lad, no more," Hal muttered in low tones. "Down south I had my fill of them."

  That evoked a twinge of interest. Baldur stopped muttering to himself and turned his head. "What do you mean?"

  The older man took thought, and sighed. "Does the Gol
den Fleece mean anything to you? You've heard of Jason and his voyage?"

  A blank look. "No."

  Hal shrugged. "I thought the news might have reached these parts by now, but never mind. It's a long story. Tell me more about this fight in which, as you say, you lost your life."

  He went on with his gentle but persistent questioning, and gradually Baldur disclosed more information, including the name of the lord whose army—or armed band, rather—he had been fighting in, and something of what the fight had been about.

  It sounded to Hal like a simple, more or less routine battle between two local warlords. That was something he could understand, and he took this turn in the conversation as a hopeful sign.

  Presently he was nodding. "Then the trouble came down to a matter of gold, didn't it? Barons, minor lords of some kind, squabbling about gold." He added, as casually as he could: "I've heard there are substantial amounts of yellow metal to be found hereabouts."

  Now for the first time the youth showed even teeth in a ghost of a smile. "That may be, but those of us who live above ground have never seen much of it. The gnomes have all the gold—or they did."

  "Gnomes, hey? I know very little about gnomes," Hal added truthfully. "Practically nothing, in fact. Where do they dwell?"

  "Underground." Then Baldur shrugged, as if to ask where else? "They have their towns and villages, some of them not very many miles from here."

  Hal grunted. "And you say they—the gnomes—did have all the precious gold—that means they've lost it somehow? Someone else has taken it away from them?"

  The youth did not answer; he was swaying on his feet.

  Hal stood up, reminded of his own tiredness. He'd had a long day's hike along the valley, then the ascent of a few hundred feet of steep and rugged trail. Now this. His right knee creaked as he called on it to lift his weight, and for a moment the joint threatened to be painful. Not as young as he once was; in a few more years, provided he lived that long, he would have to worry about getting old. But a poor man could not settle anywhere in comfort; a pauper would have no ease and no respect. "How long since you've slept, lad?"

  "Dead men need no sleep." Baldur's voice was slurring now in utter weariness.

  "But live ones do. You're no more than half dead. Come this way, I know where there's a bed of moss."

  "But Brunhild . . ."

  "She's probably waiting her chance to come to you in a dream. If you never sleep, how's she going to do that?"

  Five minutes later, Baldur, muffled in his quilted jacket, had sunk, like a drowning man, into the deathlike slumber of exhaustion. And a minute after that, Hal, who had pledged to stay awake and watch, was wrapped in his cloak and snoring almost comfortably with his back against the rock.

  It was the middle of the morning before Baldur awakened; Hal, who had been up and about a couple of hours earlier, had patiently let him sleep. Meanwhile the northman quietly chewed another morsel of his dried meat and thought things over.

  When the youth did open his eyes at last, he looked and sounded more normal than he had during the night. When questioned directly on the subject of life and death, he was ready to admit that he was still alive.

  "That would explain it, then," said Hal. "Why the lovely Brunhild did not choose you."

  Baldur sat bolt upright, frowning, shaking his head impatiently. "No! No, you see, the Valkyries have that power, given them by Wodan, to decide the fate of warriors. She could have counted me as fairly slain. She should have done so, and then I would have gone to Valhalla." What more could a warrior ask than that? his tone and manner seemed to plead. Then again unutterable woe: "But she rejected me!"

  Hal grunted and made vague gestures. "I wouldn't blame her for wanting to keep you alive. I'd have settled for a friend who did that. Most men would, I think."

  The youth's lip curled. "True fighting men, heroes, do not fear violent death."

  "That's fortunate for them, because they tend to find it early on."

  Baldur's smile in response was almost that of a dying man—sweetly tolerant, expressing unbearable sadness, confronting someone who had no understanding, none at all, of his grief's tremendous cause. It was hard to tell which bothered the young man most—the tragic fate of Brunhild, or her equally tragic failure to award him a place in Wodan's glorious company. Obviously they had both been stunning blows.

  But Baldur was also very young. He might indeed have tremendous cause for grief, but he soon admitted that he was also ravenously hungry. He could not remember eating anything since before the fight, which, as far as Hal could find out, had been at least two days ago.

  A long drink at one of the rushing mountain streams served both men for breakfast; Hal said nothing about his own remaining private store of food. Baldur was in no danger of starving to death, and Hal had the feeling that he himself might well be needing the little that he had. Nor did he mention to his new companion the two very unusual objects that he carried in his pouch. But he did persuade Baldur to wash some of the dried gore from his head and clothing before going home—there was no use frightening his mother or anyone else to death when he appeared.

  Now it was possible, in sunlight and with careful probing, to get a good look at the wound. Hal observed cheerfully that it would benefit from a few stitches; but he thought the operation could wait till the lad got home. The dented helmet was easier to fix. Using the blunt end of his hatchet, the northman pounded out the deepest part of the depression, leaving the metal almost smooth.

  Turning the conversation around to the subject of Baldur's family, Hal more or less invited himself to pay them a visit. In matters not directly connected with Brunhild and Valhalla, Baldur seemed willing to be told what he ought to do next.

  Together the two men set out on what Baldur said would be about a ten-mile walk to the small house where Baldur said his mother lived. He made no mention of a father. Well, in families where men took up the profession of arms, there tended to be many widows.

  When they reached the place where the trail descending to the valley took a sharp turn down, Hal paused to take one more relatively close look back at the enigmatic and unchanging flames, before descending to where they would be hidden by the shoulder of the cliff. They rose as high and fierce as ever, but now in the morning sunlight were pale and relatively inconspicuous.

  Baldur had paused with him. "Somehow I will find a way," the youth pledged solemnly. "A way to join her there."

  Hal shrugged. "I think you're right to go home first, take it easy for a while, heal that wound. They'll all be glad to see you there. Likely they think you're dead." Then when he saw how Baldur looked at him, he regretted his choice of words.

  * * *

  2

  Turning their backs on the central valley of the Einar, the two men trudged along on the road pointed out by Baldur. It led them through a countryside of pastures, orchards, and fields, with modest farmhouses visible from time to time. The trees were barren of leaves, awaiting the coming winter, the fields lifeless under dead stubble. Hal's experienced eye could find no signs of the devastation of recent warfare.

  As they walked, Baldur described his home—the modest, simple house owned by his mother, evidently a minor landowner of some kind. Hal got the impression she was widowed, but sufficiently well-off to hire people as necessary to work the land and tend the fruit trees. Baldur spoke in wistful, nostalgic tones, as if he had already been a lifetime away from home and might never be able to go back. It sounded as if he himself had not lived there for many months, or perhaps years.

  Baldur was given to long silences, and Hal had plenty of chance to guide the conversation his own way. This included the well-nigh-universal difficulties of farming and the price of land. Presently Hal had brought the talk—cunningly, he thought—to the point at which it was only natural for him to mention certain vague rumors that he had heard—that he had invented, actually. Stories of a great golden treasure hidden somewhere in this vicinity.

  He might have
saved himself the trouble of trying to be subtle and indirect; Baldur was too wrapped up in his own problems to give a damn for even golden treasure, and only remarked that stories of that kind were always floating around. Which was certainly true enough, in Hal's experience. It was only that he had not been here long enough to hear the local versions. Had it not been for the fragment of golden horseshoe, Hal would have already decided that the stories deserved no more credit here in the valley of the Einar than they did anywhere else.

  Around midmorning, the thin road the two men had been following entered a leafless autumnal forest. Shortly afterward they came to a fork in the road. Here Baldur, looking off to their left into a roadside maze of branches, what appeared to be a neglected orchard, observed that some of the trees still held late apples. He announced his intention to make a brief detour and pick some to allay his hunger.

  "Fine, lad, you do that. Bring a couple back for me." Hal, looking down the branch road to the right, was less interested right now in wizened apples than he was in information. Some fifty yards in that direction, a small group of people were standing in the middle of the road, to all appearances chatting amiably. He added: "I'll be over that way, having a word with our fellow travelers."

  But he had not covered more than half the distance to the little group before he realized that he had come to the wrong place for a peaceful exchange of information. There were two men visible, one of them staying in the background, leaning casually against a fence with his arms folded, as he watched the scene in front of him. Meanwhile, near the middle of the road, a younger and somewhat smaller fellow who wore a sword stood engaged in talk with a youngish woman, who was poorly dressed and had two small children hanging on her skirts.