Gods of Fire and Thunder

by Fred Saberhagen

  "The path I found went up a trifle steep for that."

  Someone said how long the supernatural fire had been on the hill—it had appeared within an hour or so after the fight in which Baldur had been hurt.

  Now Hagan seemed to lose the thread of his discourse. He set aside his crutch and stood rubbing his head, first on one side then the other. At last he said: "Ever since the last time my head was hurt . . . there is a certain god who visits me, now and again . . . did I tell you that?"

  "I hope his visits do you some good," Hal told him. "Whoever he may be."

  Presently Hagan called his troop together and marched them off, saying he had heard of a local warlord who might want to hire them.

  Hal and Baldur watched them go. When the two of them were alone again, Hal remarked: "You and Hagan seemed to know each other."

  "We have met before."

  "I see."

  "He has those spasms . . . in his spine and elsewhere, and sometimes they leave him helpless for minutes at a time."

  Hal nodded. "I have seen such things before, the aftermath of head wounds."

  "That may be the cause. Or maybe it is a visit from a god. I only know that when it happens, his men seem as afraid of him as ever, perhaps ever more so."

  "You seem to know him fairly well."

  But Baldur had nothing more to say on that subject. They had walked another hundred yards or so before he began: "Hal, when we reach my mother's house . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "The people there will naturally want to know what has happened to me."

  "Naturally."

  "Of course they will see that I have been fighting—this blood on my clothing—and I will tell them about that."

  "I suppose they'll be interested."

  "But I think it will be better if you say nothing—especially to my mother—about Valkyries."

  "I won't if you don't."

  They walked on, through a countryside that seemed as peaceful as before.

  * * *

  3

  The home of Baldur's mother proved to be a good match for his description. The house was solidly built of timber, though by no means a fortress, and well kept, pleasantly enough sited on a small rise of ground. As Hal drew near, he thought the building must be roomier than his first look had suggested. It had a sharply peaked roof, suggesting that the local climate could produce heavy snows, and was backed up by a few small outbuildings and a sizable barn. Nearby were open fields, now lying fallow with the onset of winter, with leafless woods at a distance in every direction.

  Hal took note of a modest stream meandering at the foot of a slope some yards behind the barn. Looking a couple of hundred yards downstream, he could make out, among scattered trees, a few more buildings at what looked like the edge of an ordinary small village.

  Dogs erupted out of the farmyard behind the cottage, at first barking a furious challenge, then changing tone to welcome as soon as they caught Baldur's scent. It had been a long time since Hal had seen so many dogs in one place, and he would have commented on the fact, but it was useless to try to talk with all the racket.

  In response to the uproar, people of all ages and both sexes, some twelve or fifteen of them in all, began to emerge from the house and several of the buildings in the rear. Children came running in the lead, and Hal took note of the fact that there seemed to be no men of prime fighting age on hand.

  The last to emerge from the house, moving very slowly, was one very old man, leaning on a cane.

  There was no doubt which of the women was Baldur's mother, from her attitude and the change in her expression when she saw him standing there alive. She enfolded Baldur in a hug that came near lifting him off his feet. In a harsh voice she cried out: "I thought I had lost you too!"

  She was a spare and careworn woman, though well-enough dressed, and in general rather prosperous-looking, wearing a couple of items of silver jewelry.

  Baldur looked vaguely embarrassed by this attention. Repeatedly he reassured everyone that despite all the dried blood on his clothes, he was not really hurt. Only a scratch, that was all.

  Hal was shaking his head. "And there are those," he murmured to himself, "who scoff at the idea of resurrection!"

  Baldur's introduction of his traveling companion was brief and to the point: "This is Hal. We met on the road, and he has been of some help to me. He'll stay with us tonight, and maybe longer."

  Moments later food and drink were being pressed into Hal's hands, and he was led into the house and offered a place to sit. The names of a dozen of Baldur's relatives were thrust upon him, He thought he might remember one or two, those of the younger and better-looking women. On entering the house he put aside his helmet, and as a sign of peace, his hickory-handled axe, as soon as he could find a proper place to stand it against the wall, where it was not hidden but out of the way. He was careful to retain his belt pouch, and incidentally his dagger—possibly the latter could be useful when it came time to eat.

  Hal was heartily welcomed as Baldur's friend, but Baldur himself remained the center of attention. Now some members of the family were eagerly volunteering that they had heard, from other participants in the recent skirmish, that he, Baldur, was dead. Either some member of the family had already gone looking for his body, or someone had been about to go—Hal couldn't quite determine which. No one here had seen any trace of Baldur, living or dead, for months, but apparently that was not really unusual, so the family had continued to nurse strong hopes for his survival.

  The names of several absent men were mentioned, and Hal gathered that they were all close friends or relatives currently engaged in various military operations, though not all in the service of the same lord.

  Baldur kept trying to change the subject away from war and casualties, and eventually succeeded, though the change was only slight. "Hal and I met Hagan and some of his people on the road. I said hello to him, but not much else."

  That diverted everyone's attention, and brought on a brief silence. All the people in the room seemed to know who Hagan was, but no one wanted to talk about him—not just now, anyway. Very soon the focus of attention shifted back to Hal.

  The great joy felt by Baldur's mother at his return, almost from the dead, was shared to a greater or less degree by all the other members of the household.

  Several people had brought Hal refreshment of various kinds, but only one remained to sit beside him on the bench. This was Matilda, some kind of cousin to Baldur, perhaps five years younger than Hal, and moderately attractive. A little on the plump side, but brisk and active.

  Meanwhile several children were also being introduced as either Baldur's cousins or his orphaned nephews and nieces. Hal lost track of which was which. Two half-grown boys, in particular, Holah and Noden, though shy about actual conversation, were studying the scarred and well-traveled stranger with great interest. They seemed to find Hal's axe even more fascinating than its owner, though so far neither boy had offered to approach closer than ten feet to where the weapon stood resting in a corner.

  Half an hour after Baldur's coming home with his new friend, preparations for a feast of celebration were well under way. Hal undertook a visit to the privy, which proved to be about where he expected to find it, buried behind the house in a discreet clump of small evergreens. On the way, he paused in several places to take a better look at Baldur's mother's establishment.

  Taking inventory as he strolled along, he observed that the house was considerably bigger than it had looked when he first saw it from the road. Farther back, almost hidden from view, were several shanties that he supposed housed workers on the land and in the house.

  One of these in particular, almost behind the small barn, suggested in the shape of its large chimney and general configuration that someone in the family was, or had once been, a blacksmith. The smithy had a disused look about it now.

  On his way back to the house, along a path that must be flower-girt in summer, Hal encountered Matilda again. She
seemed to be waiting for him, and was making no pretense of doing anything else. He noted that there were now ribbons on her dress and some late-blooming flowers in her hair.

  She was obviously not given to blushing and stammering when she had something to say. "You've got the beginnings of a limp there, don't you? My late husband walked that way before he died. That's right, I'm a widow these two years. Childless, too. Some say I'll never marry again, being too sharp-tongued to attract a worthy husband, and too hard to please to accept a lesser one."

  Hal framed his answer carefully, considering every word before he spoke. "And what do you say when they say that, Matilda?"

  "I say they're wrong. I'm not impossibly hard to please."

  "I see. Well, people who know me say I am."

  "One more thing I must tell you, Haraldur. Ten days ago I had a sign from the gods, telling me that a stranger would soon arrive at this house, whom I must get to know."

  "It's remarkable how those things work, sometimes," Hal acknowledged diplomatically.

  By now they were strolling together back toward the house. Matilda had not yet taken Hal's arm, but he was expecting the gesture at any moment. She took the opportunity to point out that she owned some nearby farmland in her own name.

  Now they were passing the disused building that had once been a working smithy. Matilda saw where Hal was looking.

  "I don't suppose you are a smith, or armorer? Too bad. The man who worked there once made fine weapons. Before he felt the call of Wodan," Matilda added.

  Before Hal could craft a good response, she was changing the subject, pointing at something far on the other side of the house. "The land up to that ridge and over it is mine, almost as much of it on the far side as you can see on this; I have clear title by inheritance. Good soil, too. By now the harvest's in, of course, or you could see how fine was this year's crop."

  "Then you are a fortunate woman."

  "That's as may be. My husband's dying was a grievous stroke, but I have my health, and independence."

  Hal murmured vague congratulations.

  Having explained herself with apparent candor, Matilda was not shy about offering an appraisal of her listener: "I like a man who's old enough to know his way around in the world. Not so old, of course, that his joints and his wind and maybe other powers are failing him."

  Hal looked appropriately grim. "I fear I'm practically at that stage."

  She ignored the discouraging admission. "And what do you do? Here I talk on and on, and give you no chance to say a thing about yourself. You're not a blacksmith. Are you a farmer?"

  He shook his head. "Never been wealthy enough to own a farm. Why, do I look like one?"

  Matilda sighed. "You know well enough what you look like. I was just trying to be polite. As if I couldn't see what . . . but you're close enough to some farmers I've known, who were not exactly gentlemen either. You might be one."

  "If you mean I might become a farmer, I suppose that's possible. If you mean I might be a gentleman . . ." He shook his head.

  Matilda continued to be selective in what she chose to hear. She eyed his arms and face. "I see a few scars here and there, but you're still strong enough for honest work. No disabilities?"

  Hal sighed in turn. "None in particular. Except a lack of opportunity for certain forms of exercise. How about you?"

  The celebratory dinner was substantial, the long table in the biggest room of the farmhouse crowded with almost twenty people. It was obvious that several neighbors had dropped in. For the first time in many days, Hal truly had his fill of food and drink.

  That evening, when some of Baldur's family asked the young man what he meant to do with his life now that he had survived such a close call in battle, he disappointed some and intrigued others by telling them that he meant to find or fight his way to the side of Brunhild.

  His mother looked up sharply. "Who?"

  "There is a girl, mother. Her name is Brunhild. And she is very important to me. Somehow I will find a way to be with her again, dead or alive."

  It was clear from his mother's face that that was not the answer she had been hoping for.

  Judging from the silence round the table, and the looks on people's faces, this was the first any of Baldur's family had heard of his affair with a Valkyrie.

  It was the very old man with the cane who asked: "Who is Brunhild? What is her family like, and where is she? Is she in some kind of trouble, that Baldur says he will be with her dead or alive?"

  As if realizing that he had already said too much, Baldur shut his mouth and refused to utter another word about Brunhild. When it became obvious that Baldur was determined to say no more on the subject, people began to turn to Hal, as if they expected him to come up with some further explanation. He tried to return a look indicating that he had nothing of the kind to offer.

  "Not some kind of camp-follower, I hope." That was Matilda's remark, obviously intended as a question.

  Hal grunted. Now Baldur's mother, hovering near, wondered aloud if this Brunhild could possibly be from a good respectable family.

  Feeling that he had to say something or be taken for an idiot, Hal finally got out: "It's definitely my impression that she is." He could indeed recall Baldur saying something about only the daughters of the nobility being chosen for such exalted roles in Wodan's service.

  Matilda pounced. "You know her, then?"

  Now the guest regretted opening his mouth on the subject at all. "Never met the girl myself. Baldur's mentioned her name a few times."

  By evening, a chill drizzle had set in, and Hal congratulated himself on being snug inside, not seeking some crude shelter on the road.

  Not that he or Baldur were in the house. What had once been Baldur's sleeping room as a son of the household had long since been reassigned, since he was almost never home. The rain was drumming harder on the roof of the shed, a small and inelegant but comfortable shelter he and Baldur had been assigned to share. The only fundamental really lacking was a fire, but there wasn't going to be a fire in here, not with all this hay.

  As if the subject of fire were on his mind, the youth was groaning to Hal that he, Baldur, should have forced himself through Loki's flames when he had the chance, whatever the cost.

  "That's a crazy idea." Hal was keeping his voice low. "Your Hildy wouldn't be pleased to have a great lump of fried sausage fall into her lap. And that's what you'd be when you got through that fire. Not that I think you could get through it at all. Anyway, I say it again, you don't really know that she's in there."

  "I know." Baldur was calm, resigned.

  "You do? How could anyone put anyone in there, without—well—how is it physically possible?"

  "You mean to pass through Loki's flames and not be burned?" Baldur shook his head dismissively. "I've seen that done, with my own eyes."

  Here was revelation. Hal demanded further details.

  Baldur tried to brush his questions aside. "I tell you I have seen it done, by a mere mortal human, never mind how."

  "How?" Hal promptly insisted. He waited what seemed to him a decent interval, three or four breaths, then prodded again. "Lad, if she's really stuck up there behind that wall of magic flame, better forget about her. You've seen that fire up close, and so have I. No one's going to get through it." Even as he spoke, he supposed the rain might well be pounding down on Loki's flames, but he doubted it was having the least effect on them.

  Baldur's confidence was unshaken. "Someone can pass through without harm," he repeated finally. "For the last time, I've seen it done."

  "Oh? If you want me to believe that, tell me who and when. And especially how."

  After briefly hesitating, Baldur gave in. "I suppose there's no reason I can't tell you. It was another of the Valkyries, on her Horse—I saw them disappear right into the flames, and a minute later emerge again, to tell me the fate of her sister, Brunhild. When she came out, Alvit—her name is Alvit—she told me it was the Horse, and especially the Horse's magic
shoes, that made the passage possible. And I saw that she had taken no harm. Not a hair on her head was scorched."

  "And when was this?"

  "Only a few hours before you and I met, up there on the crag."

  Once having got started, the young man was ready to talk on and on. Within a few minutes he was telling Hal that now, seeing no purpose or value in his life apart from the effort to reach Brunhild, he, Baldur, had almost made up his mind to becoming a berserker himself, and prove his devotion to Wodan by achieving a glorious death on the field of battle.

  "Why?" Hal asked.

  "Why?" Baldur looked at him as if he suspected an attempt at wit. "Because that is the only way a man can ever be truly certain of getting into Wodan's hall."

  Hal yawned, reached out a hand to pat and shape the pile of hay behind him. He was looking forward to tonight's soft bed. "Wait a minute. Brunhild's not there, is she? I thought the only object you now had in life was just to reach Brunhild."

  "But it's the same thing! You see, Hal, once I am there in Wodan's hall, standing in the presence of the god of warriors, the Father of Battles, I will beseech the All-Highest to set her free."

  This seemed to have the makings of an interesting story, anyway. "You think Wodan would do that?"

  Baldur stood up from where he had been sitting in the hay. "For a man who stands high in the ranks of Wodan's heroes, anything is possible. Yes, I hope and believe that the god of warriors would grant me that favor. But if he refused, then I would plead to be allowed to join Brunhild. To share her fate, whatever it might be."

  The young man remained standing, with one arm raised, as if listening for an answer from above. There was only distant thunder and the sound of the cold rain testing the solid roof.

  "I think you mean that," Hal muttered at last, shaking his head. "At this moment you are really convinced that getting yourself cut to bits in some damn fool fight would be a good way to reach your goals in life."

  Baldur, sitting down again, gave him his haughty, stubborn look. "Of course I mean it. Were I to die in true berserker fashion, fighting against a dozen men or so . . ." He nodded, as if in private satisfaction.