Gods of Fire and Thunder

by Fred Saberhagen

  In some ways, gods were no better or more able than any human. And Hal had known mortal men to die, risking their lives to steal something they did not truly need.

  The two other gods he had encountered over the last few days had both been looking for Loki. They had each mentioned him more than once, and not in any friendly way.

  The dead skull grinned its grin, as if proud of how very good it was at keeping secrets. The blasted ruin surrounding the bones was good at keeping secrets too. And now an unmelted snowflake came drifting down, to give it the same blessing as another flake had given Brunhild's ruby lips.

  Well, you may contemplate your dead bones, northman. As for me, I must report this find to Wodan."

  "Of course."

  Alvit had already plunged into the near tunnel, making her way back to the outer corridor. Hal kept right behind her, and Alvit called back: "I don't understand. Are Loki and the Trickster the same god, the same being, or are they not?"

  "There's more than one Trickster among the gods, and I think it will be very hard to get a simple answer to any simple question about any of them. Stop and think who you are dealing with."

  That answer gave Alvit pause. By this time she was standing beside her faithful Horse.

  "For the last time, are you coming with me, northman? We can ride double out through the fire, and then I will set you down anywhere you like, before I go on to Wodan. He would not be pleased to see you."

  "I would like to go with you, Alvit. Actually I would like very much to spend a considerable amount of time with you, somewhere where there are no battles to be fought . . . but before I can go anywhere with anyone, there is another matter I must think out for myself. So let me stay where I am, for now."

  "Has this other matter anything to do with Loki's Face? Or with the gold?"

  "With one of those at least."

  "But you are determined to remain trapped inside these flames?"

  "If you want to look at it that way."

  She shook her head slowly, as if chiding him. "There is too much gold in that pile, Hal, for any one man to carry." Then she suddenly raised her head, to all appearances listening intently. "My god is calling for me," she informed Hal in a tense voice.

  In a moment she was astride her Horse, and in another moment after that she and her Horse were gone.

  Now Hal was completely alone, standing in the smooth, narrow curve of the outer corridor, surrounded by the enduring magic of a dead god. Not even a gnome remained for him to argue with. Not even a Horse on which to get away.

  Turning, he gazed at the outer entrance to the first tunnel, as if pondering whether it could be worthwhile to drag himself through it again. But he had not decided anything before another Horse came bursting in through the outer flame-ring.

  For a moment, Hal believed that Alvit had turned round and come back to him, and his heart leapt up.

  Then his hopes fell, and his hand moved to the bloodstained hatchet at his belt. This time the mounted intruder was Hagan, with another man, who could only be one of his band of robbers, clinging to the Horse's back behind him.

  * * *

  20

  Strangely enough, Hagan on first entering the fire-sanctuary showed no particular surprise at discovering Hal was there before him.

  The Berserk's first words offered a kind of explanation. "Hail, northman! I had word from our mutual acquaintance that I would probably find you here." Then he looked curiously at the second wall of fire. "What is this? Rings within rings?"

  Hal nodded slowly. He had been looking forward to getting some sleep, as an aid to thinking out his problems, but clearly rest and sleep Would have to wait. "Our mutual acquaintance being your son Baldur?"

  "So, the brat told you that he's mine?" Expertly Hagan slid off mount, keeping his one-handed grip on the Horse's mane. The man who had been riding behind him got off more awkwardly. Hagan went on: "He'll never make a real warrior, and I have serious doubts about his parentage, though his mother was my wife when he was born." He gave Hal a look of frank admiration. "He'll never be a fighter good enough to soak himself in a berserker's blood."

  "Baldur acquitted himself well. He saved my life." Hal glanced down with revulsion at the dried stains on his own garments. "But I think your son is done with praying to Wodan, if that's what you mean."

  So far Hagan had been balancing, on one good leg and one bad, without his crutch. But now he accepted the aid when his silent attendant handed it over. "Speak no more to me of sons, Haraldur—I'll never get another one on any woman. Wodan, in his tender care for his servants, has seen to that as well." And with the upper end of his crutch tucked into his armpit, Hagan pointed with a jerk of his thumb at his own crotch.

  Then Hagan had a question. "You've seen that flying thing out there, northman? Looping in a circle around this rock, like some demented bird?"

  "I've seen it."

  "I made sure to keep well clear of it as I approached. What do you know about the thing?"

  Hal shook his head as if the question were beyond him. "It's every bit as strange as you say." Then, as if just struck by a thought, he added: "I wonder if it has something to do with the Valkyries."

  Hagan seemed intrigued. "Why should it?"

  "Some of them have gone to fight at Wodan's side. Are you going to join them?"

  The twisted man looked over his shoulder, making sure his acolyte was temporarily out of sight. The man had gone off along the circular corridor, evidently exploring. Then Hagan snarled, in a low voice: "I am going to tear out Wodan's bloody guts, if I can ever find the means to do it." When Hal only stared at him, he grabbed Hal by the arm. "Haven't I been dropping enough hints for you to understand? It's he, the grand All-Lowest, the Father of Shit, I have to thank for what I am today. The great Wodan, who has robbed me of all human life!"

  Hal was staring, fascinated. But he shook his head. "No, not robbed. You laid your life on his altar, willingly, when first you went to worship him."

  "I was only a boy then."

  "Of course. It is the kind of thing that children do." Hal started to say something else, but then his eye fell on the Horse. Jarred out of his own thoughts, he demanded of Hagan: "That's the mount that Baldur rode. Where is he now?"

  The man gave a twisted shrug. "Who knows? I did the brat and his woman no harm."

  "You have the Horse that they were riding."

  "Is that what worries you?" Hagan laughed. "I got this beast in a fair trade. I gave Baldur two nice cameloids for it, and he and his girl were happy."

  "The two of them just rode away?" Hal was not quite convinced.

  "I told him he'd do well to ride clear of war, and he gave me no argument."

  Hagan's attendant had returned, having completed his circle of exploration. Now the man put into operation what seemed a prearranged plan, backing the Horse into the outer circle of flame, in which its magically protected body seemed to suffer no discomfort. At once, more of Hagan's men began to appear inside the corridor. They were using the beast as a kind of bridge or conduit to bring them safely through the flames. One after another came stumbling through, eyes closed, sliding close along the animal's side and arriving safely, to open their eyes and blink in wonder at the strangeness.

  Hal supposed the one Horse could hardly have carried them all here, so most of these new arrivals must have climbed the crag on their own springy legs. Each man of them was young, disgustingly young in Hal's estimation, and he could easily picture them all bounding swiftly up the rocky path, probably not even needing to stop for breath. Their youth and vigor made them all the easier to hate. And now, how proud they all were of having dared the flames.

  When about half a dozen had come through, and there seemed to be no more, Hagan interrupted his confrontation with Hal to count heads. He seemed satisfied that everyone he had been expecting had now arrived.

  Then he turned back to Hal. "Do you enjoy taking revenge, northman? You look like a man who knows something about that subject."<
br />
  Hal shrugged. "It's like some other things in life—I find I enjoy it less as I grow older."

  Hagan did not seem to be listening. "But how can a mere man ever manage to revenge himself upon a god? Did you ever ponder that question, northman?"

  Slowly Hal shook his head. "That's one problem that I've never tried to solve."

  "Oh, but I have! I have tried indeed. I've thought and thought about it, northman. And when I had thought enough, and sacrificed enough of my own blood, eventually understanding came. The only practical chance a man can have to be revenged upon a god—is by becoming a god himself."

  Hal murmured something and tried to keep himself from backing away a step. He didn't like what he thought he was beginning to see in Hagan's single eye.

  "That's why I have come here." Hagan stood closer to Hal and lowered his voice so only Hal could hear him. "I want to get my hands on the Face of Loki, for I have reason to believe that Loki has died here somewhere, inside these rings of fire."

  Hal nodded. "Others have had the same idea. Loki is suddenly a very well-liked fellow. Nothing like death to make a god more popular."

  Hagan's one-eyed stare was boring into each of Hal's own eyes in turn. "I don't suppose you've seen the little trinket that I'm seeking, northman—? No, of course you haven't, or it'd already be inside your head. And I can see in your eyes that hasn't happened."

  Hal had to struggle to keep his own voice steady. "Are you quite sure you'd know the Face of Loki if you saw it? He's one of the Trickster-gods, you know."

  That set Hagan back for only a moment. "Oh, I'd know it. Don't try to fool me, northman. You do not wear the Face of any god."

  "You're right, I don't."

  "But you're right too, there may be trickery." Hagan looked taken aback, as if he had not thought of that before. "Loki's a Trickster, among other things. His Face may change its look from time to time, for all we know. Maybe it can even move itself about, without the help of any human hand."

  Hal nodded silently. In fact he remembered how, just as he was stuffing it in his pouch, the Face had twitched like a small animal in his hand, startling him so that he almost dropped it.

  Hagan seemed about to say more on the subject, but he was distracted by a call from one of his men.

  "Chief, come look at this! Someone's really been digging! Digging like gnomes, through solid rock."

  Naturally Hagan went to look. After inspecting the outer entrance of the first tunnel, and snarling at those who had failed to inform him of the excavation sooner, he said: "This work is very new, the dust still drifting in the air." Then he turned on Hal a glare that burned with new suspicion. "Who dug that hole, and when? Where does it lead?"

  "Your man there is right, gnomes did the work. Look into it, and you can easily see where it leads." Hal gestured. "No farther than just inside this second ring of fire. Crawl through, and you'll discover a third ring that looks just the same, and a second tunnel going under it. Inside the third ring of fire, at the core of Loki's little stronghold, you'll find an open space, maybe three or four strides across."

  Hagan was studying him intently. "And what have you discovered there?"

  Hal gestured minimally toward the hole. "Might as well go see for yourself."

  Commanding his men to stay where they were, and guard the Horse, Hagan plunged in headfirst. He had less trouble than Hal would have expected, dragging his twisted body one-handed through one narrow passage after another and even managing to bring his crutch along.

  Presently the two men were standing side by side inside the inner sanctuary, with Hagan eagerly taking in its contents. At first disregarding the exposed surface of the pile of gold, he spotted the skeleton, and went immediately to search near it for the Face that was no longer there.

  When Hagan raised his head, he was bitterly disappointed. "So, I will have to find some other way . . . who took it?"

  Hal was standing back with folded arms. "I am curious, Hagan. Which would you rather have, the Face of Loki, or this pile of gold?"

  Hagan's eyes turned in the direction of Hal's gesture. Slowly the expression on his scarred face altered, as he began to appreciate the full magnitude of the hoard.

  At last he said: "So, it's real gold? And what a heap! Yes, very interesting indeed. With that much—with half that much—a man could hire and pay an army."

  "And even hire wizards, to help him fight a god. If a man had time."

  When the bent man had probed the surface of the treasure, he straightened up, as well as he was able. "This gold is now mine, northman. I am here, with my men, and in possession. Unless you want to dispute the rights of ownership with me?"

  "Oh no." Hal shook his head. "I wouldn't if I could." He had trouble understanding why everyone besides himself seemed ready to fight and die for the tremendous treasure. What bothered Hal more than missing out on gold was trying hard to win something, coming close to success, and then being denied the victory after all. It was a discouraging thought, but he was beginning to wonder if all of life might not be like that.

  To himself he thought: Maybe I'll still go for one handful of those yellow coins, if I can get the chance.

  Aloud he mused: "That great pile might buy a man his dearest dream. But for some dreams, it still would not be enough."

  The ravaged face before him showed puzzlement, followed by a flash of understanding—no, misunderstanding, as it turned out. "Are you trying to tell me there's some way to trade this gold for Loki's Face? I'd do that in an instant!"

  Hal was taken aback. "No, I didn't mean that at all."

  "Then what?"

  "Nothing. Listen to me, Hagan, I—"

  "Tell me, damn you to the Underworld! Tell me!"

  Hal tried to turn away, but with impressive one-armed strength the bandit grabbed and spun Hal's massive body back.

  Hagan's face was evilly transformed. "A god is speaking to me right now, northman. He tells me that you're acting strangely, you must have weighty matters on your mind." The twisted man took a step closer. "You know where the Face is, don't you? Tell me! The gold is yours, all yours, if you can somehow put the powers of Loki into my hands!"

  Before Hal could answer, they were interrupted. The first of Hagan's men had found his way through the second tunnel into the central area. Others were right behind him. One after another they came pouring up out of the ground, weapons ready in their hands, in response to the sound of Hagan's raised voice.

  "Having any trouble, chief?"

  Something in that voice caught at Hal's memory, and when he took a second look at the speaker, the face was unpleasantly familiar too.

  Their master seemed about to order them back, but then he stuttered and stumbled. Hagan raised his hand to his head and tangled his gnarled fingers in his hair. Suddenly his voice held hollow desperation. "Ever since the last time my head was hurt . . . there is a certain god who visits me, now and again."

  "That's interesting," said Hal in a small voice.

  "Ever since the last time my head was hurt . . ." Hagan repeated. A moment later, he sank to the ground in a kind of trembling fit.

  "Remember me, fat man? We met once before."

  Again Hal heard the voice that he had almost forgotten, and turned to see a countenance to match. When last he saw that face, its owner had been sitting in a dusty road, and it had been contorted with great pain. But now it wore an evil grin of triumph.

  Hal said: "I remember."

  "I told you, fat man, that this day would come. Now take that hatchet off your belt and set it down—and your knife, too."

  Hal took a long look behind him, then in front of him, evaluating the grim and eager faces, the ready weapons. Then he shrugged and followed orders. Greedy, grasping hands picked up axe and dagger as soon as he cast them down. Eager eyes examined the beautifully made if somewhat battered weapons with the proprietary interest of new owners.

  By this time Hagan had regained consciousness. In another moment he had pulled himse
lf to his feet, and stood leaning on his crutch, looking thoughtfully from one of his men to another. It was as if he wanted to make sure he knew what had happened while the fit was on him, and what was happening now, before reassuming control. Evidently his men were used to these interruptions of command, for at the moment none of them were paying their leader much attention.

  Meanwhile the short bandit was taking his time; obviously he meant to enjoy his moments of power to the full.

  Now he said: "In a minute I'm going to pay you something that I owe you, fat man. Give it back with interest. But first, let's see what's in your pouch. This time I think you'll let me have it."

  Again Hal hesitated only briefly before he unfastened the pouch from his belt and tossed it over. "That's twice in a row you're right. You're having a good day."

  Three men who had been standing behind Hal pushed forward, around him, to join the others. One of the bandits snatched up the oilskin package and dumped out the contents on the ground. A circle of grimy faces stared uncomprehendingly at something they had never seen before. The Face of Loki had fallen among some trivial oddments, including a few crumbs of food—so had the scrap of fabric that once had been the Golden Fleece, but no one even noticed that.

  As Hal would have been willing to bet, the bent man still had the wit and spirit, the unthinking berserker readiness, to move faster than any of his followers. Uttering a hoarse cry, Hagan lunged forward with a terrible surge of strength, thrusting with his crutch to knock aside a couple of his followers who were just an instant too slow. His strong hand snatched up Loki's Face, and without a moment's hesitation he pressed it over his own eyes and nose.

  Hal had thrown himself down in the same instant that Hagan moved, but in the opposite direction, stretching his body away from the Face as far as he could go. He hugged the hard rock, and wanted to close his eyes, but somehow his private demon of curiosity would not allow him to do that—he had to see what was going to happen next.