The Crimson Sky

by Joel Rosenberg

  “Come on, Mr. Thorsen—we need to get out of here, and quickly. My car’s this way.”

  Thorian del Thorian spat warm blood out of his mouth. “You promised.” He felt cheated, somehow, although he couldn’t quite say why. This had been his fight, not this boy’s.

  “I lied. I spent a lot of years lying to myself and other people,”‘ he said, not slowing for a moment in their movement despite the chatter. “I’m very, very good at it,” he said, brightly. “I didn’t think the wolf hung around long enough to get a whiff of me the other night, but I didn’t want to argue the point, what with you being so ready to go get yourself killed.”

  “But how—”

  “Nice Starlight scope you have there. Even us sissy boys learn how to shoot when we grow up, and while I wouldn’t want to trust your sighting-in for a two-hundred-meter shot, for thirty yards or so it worked just fine. I wish you had given me another moment or two, or I could have shot him before he got to you, but… never mind that; we’ll have plenty of time to talk about all that later; if Torrie and Maggie get caught, Jeff and I are going to have to take you home by ourselves.“

  An unfamiliar car stood running, with only its parking lights on, by the side of the road. The twin headlights of a car were approaching, and Billy pushed him up, his back against a tree, while it passed.

  “But where?”

  “Sitting, freezing my cold but very cute little ass off, in an ice-fishing house,” Billy answered.

  “But you lied.”

  “Absolutely,” he said, as he nodded toward the car, and they resumed their progress while the rear door opened. “I don’t give a shit about promises, Mr. Thorsen. I don’t care a fig about keeping my word, or telling the truth, or any of that shit. You may feel free to despise me, if you like. On the other hand, you are not free to leave town without at least taking my recipe for popovers to your lovely wife,” he said, the stream of chatter never ceasing for a moment as he helped Thorsen into the darkened interior of the car.

  “Where to?” Jeff Bjerke’s voice rasped.

  “I’ll drive,” he said. “You get into the backseat and patch him up,” Billy said. “Blood makes my knees weak, and needles make me faint.”

  “Billy…”

  “Well, they do teach you how to do at least some first aid in Boys with Badges school, don’t they? I mean, every once in a while you simply have to run into a situation that can’t be solved with handcuffs, even if they aren’t lined with anything interesting. That steel is so plain. I mean, can’t you even put a few appliqués on them? Or maybe get them in different colors, or …”

  “Billy.”

  “Oh. You mean, ‘where are we going?’ ” Billy Olson shifted gears and pulled away from the curb. “I would have thought that was obvious. Mr. Thorsen is injured. We could just drop him off at a hospital, but there would be awkward questions asked, and we really don’t want awkward questions asked, even if Torrie and Maggie do manage to get the Son’s body off of the ice, then into the Bronco and out of town without anybody noticing. If you think Mr. Thorsen is going to die without treatment right away, well, then we put up with the awkward questions, and to hell with it, but—”

  “I’m … fine,” Thorian del Thorian said.

  “Oh, of course you are, Mr. Thorsen,” Billy said, bubbling like a soda fountain. “Just a little walk in the park for the lot of you, but I’m one of those effete mincing queens, sir, and you’ll forgive me if all this shit isn’t something I take for granted, the way you—”

  “Billy.”

  “Okay, okay, Jeff, if I have to spell it out for you, I will: we are going home.” He shifted gears and sped up. “We’ll need to gas up in a couple of hundred miles, and either you or me will have to be cleaned up enough so that the guy in the booth doesn’t stain his bloomers and call the cops, but—”

  “Don’t drive too fast,” Jeff said.

  “Nag, nag, nag, all you straights ever do is nag.”

  Jeff chuckled.

  Thorian del Thorian leaned back and closed his eyes. Home.

  Yes, they were going home.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Sons

  Ian Silver Stone came awake at a touch, reaching for Giantkiller, his hand closing on the familiar grip even before he could make out the dim form of Arnie Selmo leaning over him.

  “There’s something outside,” Arnie said, his rough voice barely above a whisper.

  Ian sat up and listened. All he could hear was what was left of the fire crackling in the hearth and the heavy snoring from where Valin lay sleeping over in the corner.

  Arnie already had Ian’s boots out, and he squatted down to help Ian ease his savaged right ankle into the right one, then tied it painfully tight. That was fine—support was more important right now than comfort.

  Besides … Ian fumbled in his pants for Harbard’s ring, and slipped it onto his finger. It would be very handy if it didn’t—

  Better. He forced himself not to flex the ankle. No need to tear the wound open through motion until he absolutely had to.

  Maybe it would be—no. It would not be a good idea if he was unable to feel pain. Pain was a valuable warning, not to be dismissed with a wave of his hand. It would be wonderful, though, if pain couldn’t blind, couldn’t disable him, but was merely a warning that he could keep in mind. That would be absolutely—

  Fine.

  Ian accepted Arnie’s help to his feet and into his shirt. His fringed leather jacket hung, limp, from a peg on the wall; he switched Giantkiller from hand to hand in order to put it on.

  She stepped out from the shadows, her body tightly covered by finely scaled silvery armor from foot to throat. It clung tightly to her, as though it had been intended to emphasize the swell of her breasts and hip, and the firm scallops of muscle on her flat belly.

  Her face, even in the firelight, now showed no trace of sag or age: it was smooth and ageless, and frightening in its inhuman perfection.

  Her warhelm was a cap with silvery wings over her ears, cupping the top of her head, beneath which her golden hair flowed, almost dreamlike in its languor, over her scaled shoulders.

  Her movements like something out of a dance, she walked over to an empty peg on the wall, reached up, and pulled down a black cloak.

  Yes, the peg had been empty.

  “It’s called the Tarnkappe, Ian,” she said, her voice a whisper of silvery bells. “The cloak of, well, Vestri, originally, although he did give it to one of his lesser sons.” She shook his head. “I told him better,” she said. “Alberich was always a vile little shit, although a finer hand with hammer and chisel I never did see.

  “But Vestri never did listen to me; a problem that others have had, before and since,” she said with a smile as she held up the cloak. “I think you’d best borrow it for now.” She shook her head. “In the daytime, it’s not nearly as effective, but at night, the only thing you need worry about is sound and smell, and the Sons will likely let you escape rather than try to pursue sounds and smells through the night.”

  She threw it to him; he caught it, reflexively. It looked substantial, and the black cloth was coarse and thick in his fingers, but it weighed almost nothing, as light as though it had been woven of cobwebs and whispers.

  Well, what the hell, eh? He slid the single plain bone button through the buttonhole, and settled the Tarnkappe across his shoulders. Ian worked his arm experimentally, dropping into a tentative lunge, and then into a full lunge and recovery, with no difficulty—the cloak was compact enough, light enough that the edge floated out of his way when his arm moved.

  Freya buckled a swordbelt about her hips, then pulled a silvery buckler out of one of the wooden footlockers. It had no straps that Ian could see, but when she touched it to her forearm, it hung there as though welded. She flexed her fingers, and for the first time he noticed that her fingernails were all silvered, like a mirror.

  Her right hand free, she drew her sword from its heavy sheath. It was short
and broad as his hand, its handle heavily jeweled, the blade black as night, black as Silvertop, and as she took a few quick practice swings, it whistled invisibly through the air.

  What did Ian have to do to make the Tarnkappe work? Was there some sort of switch? “Freya, I—”

  “Shh.” She turned at a low sound outside the cottage. “They’re waiting for… something.” Her brow furrowed. “Ian?” She was no longer looking straight at him.

  “I’m here,” he said, then walked around further to her side. Apparently he didn’t have to do anything to turn it on. Which was handy, all things considered. It would have been awkward not to be able to see his own body.

  As to Giantkiller? That wouldn’t have been a problem; he had no more trouble knowing where Giantkiller’s tip was than he would have knowing where the tip of his index finger was.

  “Make for Silvertop,” she said, as she addressed the air in front of her, “and ask him to carry you. The Son hasn’t been whelped that can outrun him.”

  My pleasure, Freya. Don’t mind if I do. Valin and I will be out of here so fast it’ll make your ancient eyes spin—and who the fuck am I kidding?

  “Nah,” he said. “Arnie needs somebody to watch his back.” Which was true enough. Arnie was able to wield Mjolnir as though he was an Aesir, but he wasn’t an Aesir; his human flesh was no tougher than Ian’s own.

  “I would have thought that to be my responsibility,” she said. “But have it as you will.”

  “Would one of you please give me a hand with this?” Arnie was struggling with the unfamiliar straps and buckles of his leather armor.

  “Sure, but I ca—”

  Before Ian could so much as complete the word, Freya had sheathed her sword faster than the eye could follow and blurred to Arnie’s side.

  “Honored One? Lady Frida?” Valin rubbed his sleepy eyes. “Where is Ian Silver Stone? Is he unwell? Is there some sort of problem?”

  Ian had grown to like the little dwarf, and he certainly admired his courage, but his impression of Valin’s intelligence would have dropped if it had had anywhere lower to go.

  “I’m right here,” Ian said. “There isn’t a back door to this place, is there?”

  “Yes, there is,” Arnie said, rising, “but it will be watched, as well.” Arnie was now buckled tightly into a long leather cuirass and greaves, a metal gauntlet on his left hand, his right hand bare. He reached out his right hand, and Mjolnir leaped into the air from where Arnie had it leaning next to the fireplace, and it slapped into his waiting hand with a meaty thunk.

  “How shall we do this?” he asked, his voice deeper and harsher than Ian was used to. “I’m not familiar with this sort of thing.”

  Freya laughed as she knelt back down in front of him, strapping another piece of leather armor Ian didn’t know the name of on his right thigh, then his left. “This from a corporal of Dog Troop, Seventh Regiment, First Cavalry? How many men have you left to rot in the sun, buzzards pecking at their eyes?”

  “None recently; the Iron Triangle was long ago and far away. I never stopped to count the bodies or the buzzards, anyway.” He growled, deep in his throat. “Besides, the one time I went up against Sons, I didn’t acquit myself all that well. So I ask again: how do we do this?”

  “We walk out on the front porch, and we tell them to go away,” she said with a smile as she accepted his hand and rose to her feet, a full head taller than Arnie. “Then, O Thunderer, when they don’t go fleeing into the night, running like the dogs they are, we kill them all.”

  She took half a dozen torches from the bin by the door, lit one by sticking it momentarily into the coals of the hearth, then opened the door and stepped out into the night, Arnie stalking after her.

  It would have been nice to have had some idea as to what was going on, but there wasn’t anything to do but follow.

  He had never seen so many glowing eyes before.

  Easily a hundred Sons were gathered in a ring around the cottage, and even as Ian walked quietly onto the porch, six more trotted up the path, and, one by one, snarled and batted for a place in the circle.

  There was apparently some sort of precedence involved; the larger and noisier ones seemed clustered around the front of the cottage.

  Freya planted torches in a rough arc in front of the cottage by the simple expedient of throwing them like spears into the ground; she then lit them one by one. She seemed even taller now, although as she stepped off the porch and onto the grass it was hard to measure her against anything else.

  Arnie gave Mjolnir a trial swing, and then he, too, stepped off the porch. Ian felt incredibly naked and vulnerable, but he felt even more lonely on the porch, so he followed them, moving off to the side. Even if he wanted to leave—and the idea of running away suddenly looked a whole lot better than it had before—there was no way he could have: the Sons completely encircled the cottage, two and three deep in places, and he would have had to go through or past several of them at the very least.

  Even with a running leap, like a beginner trying a flèche, it was unlikely he could clear the circle without coming to contact with one or more of them, and he had no illusions that he could fight them off in two or three or four directions at once, not for long.

  Freya drew her sword, her strange, wide-bladed short sword, which was almost invisible in the dark, and pointed with it. “Which of you speaks for the lot of you? Which one of you cares to explain why you dare to interrupt my rest?”

  As if in answer, the largest of the Sons, a broad-shouldered beast with one ragged ear, tilted back his muzzle and howled, loud enough to hurt Ian’s ears. It wasn’t just a simple cry, but a complex set of cries and howls, with a four-note theme that was repeated several times, with variations. Another Son picked up the original theme, and then repeated it with his own variations, and then another and another until the entire pack was howling.

  “No,” she said.

  The pack fell silent.

  “No.” Freya shook her head. “You may not take my guests, my friends. One of you: take human form, and we will discuss what form your apology to me for this inexcusable intrusion shall take. That is the only matter to discuss.”

  The silence was unnatural and oppressive. Ian moved around to the side of the cottage—if Arnie couldn’t see him, he might end up throwing Mjolnir right through Ian by accident. It would have been nice to have had a chance to discuss how to handle that, but it wasn’t the first time Ian noticed that old people often were as impatient with the idea of discussing things with young people as vice versa.

  Freya seemed confident, and certainly she was powerful, but if she could easily handle dozens and dozens of Sons by herself, she probably would have mentioned that by now.

  “Then if you do not care to talk,” she said, her voice strong but still melodic, “then leave, and take my ill will with you—and a heavy burden may you find it.”

  “Last chance.” Arnie murmured.

  Whether that was the trigger, or whether one of the Sons gave a signal that Ian didn’t catch—it wasn’t the big one; Ian was watching that one at the moment—Ian wasn’t quite sure, but without a warning, at least a dozen Sons leaped toward Freya while another dozen or more bounded toward where Arnie stood.

  Lightning flashed and thunder crashed deafeningly once, twice, three times, and Arnie Selmo swept Mjolnir through a Son’s head, shattering it like a pumpkin hitting the sidewalk. Another wolf leaped for the porch side rail, but Ian had anticipated that one would try to sneak around behind Arnie that way, and he met it with a quick thrust-twist-and-sidestep that left the animal tumbling noisily to the wood, blood and gasps bubbling out of a slash in its throat.

  That went unnoticed by the other Sons in all the confusion, and Ian was able to slip his blade between the ribs of one, and then another, and then another before a hairy mass knocked him off his feet and bounced him hard off the cabin wall, slamming his head into it so hard that lights danced behind his tearing eyes.

  Things
were a bit vague for a few minutes after that. Ian remembered slashing out with Giantkiller over and over again, once having to kick a body off his blade when it jammed up against the hilt. And all the while, lightning flashed and thunderclaps crashed, and the sounds of his own grunts of effort and pain mixed with the howls and screams of the injured and dying Sons.

  As he fought his way toward the front of the cottage, Freya was a silvery blur at the periphery of his vision, a metal-limbed tornado spinning through the pack of Sons, tossing bodies and parts of bodies aside as she slashed and cut and stabbed and smashed and kicked.

  But even as the three of them cut down Son after Son, and even as the shit stink of their death spasms filled Ian’s nostrils while the crashing of thunder and cries of the wounded filled his ears, more and more Sons ran up the path, and up the side of the hill, joining the fight.

  Perhaps even Freya could be buried under such a swarm.

  And what for? What was the point of it all? Sons chasing after the Thorsens, after Freya and Arnie—why?

  Through all the noise, he heard a very human groan from somewhere to his left, and Ian kicked and cut and smashed his way through to the porch, and then onto the porch, where Arnie had been forced back against the wall, surrounded by four huge beasts who snapped at him, ducking back when he swung Mjolnir.

  Arnie’s left arm, the armor now torn from it, hung bloody and useless at his side, and it was all he could do to ward the Sons away. If he threw Mjolnir again, at least one of them would be upon him instantly.

  Ian kicked the nearest Son aside, then thrust Giantkiller through the neck of the next. Spasming and howling in pain, the Son reared back, almost twisting the sword out of Ian’s hand. He recovered quickly enough, barely, to keep his grip, but another of the wolves had leaped upon Arnie, and while one swipe from Mjolnir smashed its chest into gore and bone, there was another and another…

  “Get away from him!” Ian shouted. Harbard’s ring clamped down, painfully hard, against his finger.

  The Sons stopped, and backed away, tails between legs, whimpering in pain and fear.