Ian unbuttoned the Tarnkappe, and wrapped it around Arnie’s shoulders. With the tiniest of shimmers, Arnie vanished.
“Sorry, kid,” came a faint whisper from the air. “I told you I wasn’t much good.”
It didn’t matter.
“Hear me,” Ian said, letting his voice ring out. “Fear me.” Harbard’s ring gripped his finger like a vice as the growling and snarling first faded, then died.
“I am Ian Silver Stone,” he said, “friend of Freya and of the Thunderer. Fear me, Sons of Fenris.”
The Sons whimpered, and the pack surrounding Freya fell away. She was surrounded by pieces of wolves, and covered with blood, but her helm had been torn away, as had portions of her armor. One of the scaled leggings had been torn open from hip to ankle, and shreds of the armor hung freely from her hip, leaving her bloodied leg bare.
All eyes were on him, and he held them by force of will as he sheathed Giantkiller and raised his hands.
“Fear me,” he said, again, as he stalked into the pack. It seemed like the right thing to say.
They parted like the Red Sea, some wolves walking awkwardly, almost comically backwards through the sea of bodies and body parts. Ian had forgotten that half of the Sons were werewolves, and the other half werehumans, and that the werehumans reverted to their human form when their abilities to maintain another shape failed in death, regardless of what form they were in when they died.
It reminded him of something out of Hieronymus Bosch: in the unsteady light of the spitting, flickering torches, bodies and pieces of wolves and humans lay scattered across the hilltop, fragments of white bones projecting out from the mess of foul flesh like broken shells on a beach of meat.
One head lay intact near his feet, that of a woman with long, dark hair, and a face that reminded him of Veronica Lake, dead, dirty, eyes staring upwards into his. Half of the Sons were humans in death; it would have been easier to look at if they’d all been wolves.
The largest Son, the one with the torn ear, stood alone in his path, whimpering, its long teeth bared. “Fear me,” Ian said.
It did; it pissed down its own leg in fright—but it held its ground, snarling and panting.
“I am Ian Silverstein,” he said, “slayer of Sons. The Son that so much as comes near me dies,” he said, his voice low. “You, dog, you are dying right now. You can’t draw breath—”
The panting stopped, as did the snarling.
“—and your legs have turned to water—”
It slumped to the ground, and Ian circled to the left to reach Freya’s side.
The Son again lifted his head, its teeth bared. It was trying to snarl, but it believed Ian when he told it that it couldn’t breathe, and all it could do was try to snap at him.
“—and your heart refuses to—”
“No.” Valin’s voice cut through the whimpering. “Enough, please, enough.” Valin stood on the porch, one hand raised. He shook his head. “You have won; you’ve killed many Sons and you’ve frightened the rest away. Let him live, please. There’s no point in it, not any more.” The dwarf walked down from the porch, tongue clicking against his teeth as he did so. “Please, Ian.”
Ian felt Freya by his side. “If you wish, my Silver Stone; I can see no harm in it.” She was leaning on him, hard. “Not now.”
Ian looked down at the Son. “You can breathe, and your legs will work—but only while you run from me. So run away—all of you—run away, while you can. Run.”
Unhurt Sons scattered and ran, the injured ones limping after.
Valin nodded. “Thank you, Ian.”
It finally hit Ian: he wasn’t talking in Dwarvish or Bersmal, but in English, and all the obsequiousness had vanished from his manner.
“Very cleverly done, Brother Fox,” Freya said. “I had no idea.”
Valin chuckled. “You must have had some idea. I was so hoping that you would lend one of the jewels to Ian, here. He means so well, after all.” His mouth twitched into a smile. “You do have them—or perhaps just one?—around here, of course. I had thought that you’d seize it for power or for safekeeping if the situation presented itself correctly.” He shook his head. “I’d look around for it, but I don’t think that would be entirely safe, would it?”
“Of course it would be,” she said, her smile cold and thin. “Go right ahead and look. Perhaps you’ll find it. I don’t think that we could stop you. No, Arnie, don’t. I don’t know what will happen if you throw Mjolnir at him, but he’s thought that through.”
“Alternately,” Valin said, “it’s possible that I’m bluffing, and could no more deflect Mjolnir than I could grow wings and fly.” He stooped to tsk over the body of one dead Son.
“But you could grow wings and fly,” she said. “Of all the Aesir, you’ve always been the best shapeshifter.”
Valin—Loki—snorted. “Best? Most talented, certainly. Most adept, yes. But best? When did it ever do me any good, eh?”
“Keep your distance,” Arnie Selmo said, as he folded the Tarnkappe over Ian’s left arm and turned to face Loki. His right arm still held Mjolnir out to one side. He waved the heavy warhammer easily, as though it weighed no more than a druggist’s pestle or pen.
Freya held up her free hand. Moving for the first time like an old woman, she sheathed her sword, slowly. “There’s no fight here, Arnold,” she said. “It’s all over—for now.” She nodded in admiration at Loki. “Very nicely done—it was all you?”
“You liked it?” Loki had already started to change, and as he reached her side, he was now a large, barrel-chested man in a black suit with a filigreed vest that looked as if it had been precisely tailored for his massive belly, although the cut and style were unfamiliar to Ian; it looked like something vaguely Western. The shirt was brilliantly white and ruffled, like a tuxedo shirt.
“I should have suspected it was you.”
“Please,” he said with a frown that vanished almost as instantly as it appeared. “After I’ve gone to such very great pains for so very many years to stay out of trouble?” He shot his cuffs and adjusted his cuff links—they appeared to be the skull of some small animal, although Ian wasn’t even able to guess which—then crooked his arm. “If I may?” he said, offering her his arm, which she accepted, ignoring Arnie’s glare.
“Slowly, now,” Loki said, as she hobbled toward the cottage, supported by Ian on one side and Loki on the other. “There’s no need to rush.”
His face was large and round, his hair and the wreath of black beard framing his round face black shot with just a hint of gray. With a large nose and vaguely olive skin, he seemed a lot more Mediterranean than Nordic. He was pleasantly homely as he smiled, and his voice was a booming baritone.
“But yes, I thought it worth a try. It seemed to offer several possibilities.” He shook his head. “I probably should have kept with it longer—that’s always been my failing: I’m patient up to a point, and then … Enh.”
All of it? Odin’s Curse on the Scion? The Sons, here and those sent after Torrie in Minneapolis?
Loki smiled at Ian. “Yes, O Honored One,” he said. “Just as you’ll find that Orfindel can always count on affection from the vestri, you’ll find that the Sons of Fenris are, by and large, willing to give their faith and obedience to the Father of Fenris.”
Ian’s lips pressed together. “Then Herolf was lying.”
“Pfui,” Loki said. “Why would you think that? He’s loyal to the Dominions—you must remember that Sons are pack animals, and while they can and will joust for standing in the pack, they’re loyal as, well, a good dog.” He shook his head. “No. I gathered my help from the Southern Packs, not the Northern.” He sighed as he toed a severed arm out of the way to make some space on the front step for his own foot. “Poor little things,” he said. “Have you ever seen them as cubs?” His smile was gentle, but definitely lupine. “They are very, very cute—in both their forms, although the bitches do have to keep them separate for the first while, or the two
-legged ones tend to get hurt.” He cocked his head to one side. “Would you like to come with me and meet some? You’d be well-received. If there’s anything the Sons respect more than their Father’s father, it’s somebody who can frighten a whole pack of them away.”
Ian’s jaw clenched. “You want me to join you?”
“Well,” Loki said, “I’ve been carrying your gear up and down hills for a while now. Don’t you want to return the favor?” What was surprising about his grin was the utter absence of menace in it “Besides, I think there’s a fair chance I’ll get to, to a sufficient number of the Brisingamen jewels soon enough, and well, once that happens, you’d probably want to have a friend in the next Cycle—and who better than the God of the next Cycle, eh?” He looked around and nodded. “I think I’ll bring this back, though. It’s a nice enough place.”
Freya shook her head. “I don’t think so, Brother Fox. I think you’re doomed to fail.”
“Doom? Fate? What is that, eh?” Loki shrugged. “I know the Norns, and I’ve fucked the Fates and the Furies, and while they’re all nice old girls, once I have—once I have a sufficient number of the jewels in my hands, well, we’ll just see what I decide fate is and doom might be—and step easy, now, old girl; you don’t want to hurt yourself any more than you already have.” He smiled at Ian, and it seemed genuine. “Seriously, boy, leave these old fascists, and throw in your lot with me. I can promise you a lot more fun than this old bag ever even teased you with.”
“Really,” Freya laughed. “Oh, Loki…”
“Seriously,” Loki said. “I’m a fun date, boy.” He gently detached Freya from his arm and stood to face Ian. “I know the noisiest bars in Paris, the best place to get a suit tailored in Hong Kong, and the most scenic hiking trails in the Dominions and camping sites in Mongolia—hell, I’ve got a house account at the finest brothel in Finavarra’s Hell. Throw in with me, and we’ll have a sweet trip, whether or not we end up snatching the jewels.”
“No.”
“Please, O honored One,” Loki said, in Valin’s voice, “I’ll even keep making your bed for you.” He tugged at his forelock with an extra left hand.
Ian’s hand never left Giantkiller’s hilt. “What part of no didn’t you understand?”
“You’ll never make much of a businessman, kid. Always be sure you know what the other fellow’s best offer is before you say no …” He took a step forward and gently touched a hand to Ian’s forehead.
This time it would be better. Really.
Ian lay back on the creaky old bed, pillowing his head on his hands. Dad and The New Girlfriend were due home from the party any time now. TNG would nuke a mug of milk with butter and honey in the microwave, and go straight to bed—she said it helped her sleep—but Dad would head for the liquor shelf for his nightcap.
Which was only fair enough. One drink at the end of the day was a habit, not a vice.
Ian had a surprise ready for him. It wasn’t quite perfect—he thought he had earned an A in Biology, but Mr. Fusco hadn’t seen it that way. Not enough class participation, he’d said, and then there were the few latenesses. Biology came right after gym on Tuesday and Thursday, and gym was Ian’s time to shake a few things loose, whether it was faking Bobby Adajian out of his shorts in football, or going for a jump shot with great enthusiasm and absolutely no skill during the quarter that basketball was the gym teacher’s sport of choice, because if he showed enough enthusiasm, and did at least passably well, Mr. Daniels would bring out his foils and masks and give Ian a quickie lesson while the rest of the class was taking their final laps. Mr. Daniels had, in his younger days, tried out for the Olympic team, and he had a deceptively defensive style that Ian was trying to pick up. Milking that lesson for every minute meant having to rush through a quick shower, and that usually meant being late, but that was no big deal. Or at least it shouldn’t have been. Shit, Mr. Fusco usually spent the first ten minutes of every class flirting with the senior girls.
It was a good report card. Except for the one B+, it was straight As. Even in driver’s ed, although that technically didn’t count. .
For once he had a report card to brag about, not try to hide.
He would, as usual, pretend to be asleep, and if he didn’t hear raised voices, he would pretend to be woken up by their coming home, and would stagger, sleepy-eyed up the stairs, from his basement bedroom after Dad had had a chance to notice. Oh, Dad would probably make some sort of comment about the one B+, but even he, with his high standards, would have to admit that this was as near-perfect a report card as an imperfect person could be expected to have.
Ian heard the car door slam outside, and then the garage door whirr up and then the muffled roar of the big V-8 engine pulling the Pontiac into the garage, and the dieseling chk-chk-chk-chk as it refused, for just a moment, to shut down, and then the thunk-thunk of the car doors, followed by the footsteps, the opening and closing of the door, and their footsteps and quiet voices out in the laundry room as they came into the house.
“He’s asleep,” TNG’s husky voice said. Her cigarette lighter hissed briefly.
“Mmmm. Room doesn’t look too bad, either. Bet you he hasn’t done the dishes, though.”
“So?”
“So, he is going to have to do that in the morning. That’s the deal—I cooked supper, he does the dishes.” They walked up the stairs.
Ian was just getting ready to get out of bed and put on his robe to go upstairs when he heard Dad’s footsteps on the stairs.
There was a knock on his door. “Come in,” he said.
The door swung open slowly. Dad stood there, framed in the doorway, the light from the hall making him only a silhouette. Ian found himself wondering, once more, why it should be that a little man no taller than five foot seven could loom so large in a doorway.
But this time it would be okay.
“Nice try.” That wasn’t right. Dad’s voice was calm and level, like he was trying to restrain himself.
“But, I mean, well,” Ian said, not understanding. “One B+? That’s near perfect.”
Dad snorted. “Yeah, it sure is. I bet you thought that you could fold the report card over and I wouldn’t notice that you’ve got five absences and seven tardies this quarter. I wish you’d told me—I don’t like you skipping school to go fencing. I can live with it, but I don’t like it—I’m proud of how well you do on the fencing strip, but school is more important. But hey, as long as you can keep your average this high, I guess I don’t have a complaint. Just tell me next time. But, hey, nice job, son.” His face seemed ready to split in a smile.
He took a step forward and—
Ian backed away, staggering as he pulled Freya off-balance, and found himself supporting more of her weight. Ian’s hand clenched painfully tight on Giantkiller’s hilt.
“Oh, well.” Loki shrugged. “Never hurts to ask, eh?”
“You bastard,” Ian said. Iron self-control kept the sword in its sheath. If it had been wrong to attack Loki before, it was still wrong to attack Loki now. There was a deep growling in Ian’s ears, and he realized it was coming from his own throat, so he stopped it.
“What is it, Ian?” Arnie asked, his eyes on Loki, never leaving Loki. He gave Mjolnir a trial swing or two. “All I saw was him touching you on the forehead, but only for a second or two.”
Freya’s face was ashen. “I felt what he did,” she said. “It’s cruel, Brother Fox.”
“Not at all, old woman. It’s a fair offer.” Loki spread his hands as he turned back to Ian. “If you’d prefer, I’d be happy to take you to your choice of mountaintop and show you the kingdoms of heaven and earth, but I thought something more, well, intimate and personal would have more appeal to you. You can have that on the next Cycle, or more.
“Just sign on with me. I can bind myself to keep my word, and why wouldn’t I want to keep my word? You can have everything you ever wanted; the most you can imagine wanting wouldn’t be a drop in the sea to me.”
&n
bsp; Yes, the most Ian could imagine wanting. Loki had been devilishly clever. He could have offered Ian much more, but he had played to Ian’s weakness. The father in the dream wasn’t a stranger; it was just Dad, as a decent father. Completely recognizable—save for him not treating Ian like shit.
Find the secret source of somebody’s pain, and you could control them, if they were weak enough. Ian wasn’t weak enough, but he would carry that dream around inside him like a sharp knife for the rest of his life.
He could kill Loki for that without the slightest misgiving, and then hang the body on a tree for the crows. Ian drew Giantkiller, just about six inches—
“It’s your call, Ian,” Arnie said softly. “Just let me know.”
“No, Ian,” Freya said. “Not here and now.”
—then slammed his sword back into its scabbard with a solid thunk.
No. Not here and now.
But there would be another day, he thought. Somebody who would exploit that sort of weakness had to be kept away from the jewels. Let that miserable excuse for a god think that Ian couldn’t control himself; let him underrate Ian. That was fine. It was best to have an enemy that dangerous think you were less than you were.
But there would come a day when he would be able to plunge Giantkiller first into Loki’s wrist to make him drop his weapon, and then, once more, blade held parallel to the ground, between the ribs.
He turned his back on Loki, and he and Arnie helped Freya hobble into the cottage.
Chapter Thirty
The Crimson Sky
The morning sun shone down brightly, cheerfully, on what had been a scene of carnage just hours before. Of all the gore and bodies, the only thing that remained were dark stains on the grass and a foul smell of wolf-shit that was already starting to fade.
Where had Loki put the bodies and the parts of bodies? There were probably some things that were best not to know.
Ian sat back in the rough-hewn chair. With the Tarnkappe as a cushion, it was quite comfortable, and with a steaming cup of coffee next to him, he was in no rush to get up. Let Freya sleep.
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