The Crimson Sky

by Joel Rosenberg

  “You want me to check on her?”

  Arnie Selmo smiled from where he sat in the wooden chair next to Ian, Mjolnir crosswise on his lap, as though he needed to touch it, every now and then, to be sure that it was there.

  “Sure, Ian. She’s fine, but go ahead.”

  Ian tucked the Tarnkappe under his arm and walked into the cottage, taking down a lantern from the wall rather than waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light further in.

  Stretched out like a corpse on a slab, Freya lay motionless under a thin sheet on the bed she shared with Arnie, her chest rising and falling with an almost impossible sluggishness. If it wasn’t for the way that the white feather, which somebody—Arnie, presumably—had hung on an invisible thread from the rafter above, twisted and swung every few moments, Ian would have wanted to put a mirror under her nose to check.

  The sheet clung tightly to her perfect body, but it was entirely unerotic.

  Was he over her?

  Nah. Maybe you never do get over your first fertility goddess.

  But she looked so still and lifeless that to be aroused by the sight would have felt like some particularly perverted form of necrophilia.

  The claw slashes on the side of her neck and face were already just old, healing wounds. Within a day or so, they would be just fading scars; within a week, just memories. She had a lot of memories.

  Arnie was right; she was fine.

  Ian blew the lantern out, hung it by the door, and returned to the porch, blinking at the daylight for just a moment. High overhead, Munin circled, on watch, presumably for more Sons, although Ian was sure that the Sons would give this hill a wide berth for quite some time.

  … unless, of course, Loki sent them back for the diamond.

  Well, if he wasn’t going to take the gem from her, that meant he would have to leave it, and if he left it, then it was her problem.

  Or everybody’s.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Arnie raised an eyebrow. “Is that a general comment, or you got something specific in mind?”

  “General.”

  “Then yeah: shit.” Arnie gestured with the flask. “He did clean it all up, like he said he would.”

  Loki had cleaned up the yard, but that was all. The Scion was still dying of the curse, that Loki had put on him, and Ian and Arnie and Freya had still been badly cut up. Give it a couple of days, and she’d be back on her feet as if nothing had happened.

  “Not what I expected,” Arnie said. “I always thought he’d be a lot more like, well, the devil, and less like a glad-handing politician.” He winced, and took another drink from Ian’s silver flask. “Kind of charming, really, didn’t you think?”

  “Charming?”

  “Sure.” Arnie nodded. “Charming is what you seem; it’s not what you are. He seemed a nice enough guy, all in all.” But then he shook his head. “But when the sky turns red as blood, and then goes all dark, you think it ought to be Loki who sits in the darkness, grinning to himself, saying, ‘Let there be light’?”

  “No.”

  “Me, neither.” He turned to look at Ian. “You willing to hang around for another couple of days?”‘

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I think,” Arnie said, eyeing the flask, “that I want to get real, stinking, falling-down drunk, and while this isn’t enough to do it, she’s got a few bottles of some fairly remarkable stuff in those wooden footlockers of hers, and I think I’m going to drink a fair amount of it. I’m not a mean drunk, but I’m kind of a stupid one—can you put up with that?”

  “Sure.”

  He looked Ian straight in the eye. “No, seriously—can you?” His lips pressed into a narrow line. “I can wait until she’s up and around, and I know she wouldn’t mind. Just rather to have it out of my system before she wakes up, you know?”

  “It’s okay, Arnie.”

  It would be nice to take a couple of days to figure out what to do next, and Ian was in no condition to travel. By the time he was, Arnie would be ready, too. They would return to the Old Keep, certainly, and share the bad news with the Scion, and then get Hosea home safely.

  And then what?

  He knew damn well then what. There was no point in beating himself up about the past, but giving any more gems to Freya held little appeal. But what had even less appeal was leaving the Brisingamen stones out for the likes of Loki to snatch up.

  How well were the emerald and the sapphire guarded? Probably very well. But could Loki get at them?

  No. That wasn’t the question—the question wasn’t whether; it was how.

  It was something to think about.

  Ian leaned back and closed his eyes. Perhaps a bit of sleep first, and some healing later. It would be nice if he could fall into a dreamless sleep on demand, a warm and comforting one, and wake later, rested and refreshed…

  Harbard’s ring pulsed once, lightly, against his finger.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Sons

  The coffee was hot and the sandwiches were remarkable, even in the cold. Part of it was the fresh-baked bread, sure, and lettuce and black olives, but what was that note of salty fishiness that held it all together? Jeff took another bite. Not sardines. Anchovy?

  Not that it was all that cold, not this week. You got used to that bitter cold; your body and your mind adjusted. And after a week of temperatures in the negative teens, twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit seemed absolutely balmy, to the point where you almost wanted to go out in shirtsleeves.

  Almost. But both Jeff and his partner on watch had their parkas unzipped, their gloves off.

  “Pan Bagne,” Jeff’s watch-partner said, pronouncing it ‘pan ban-yay.’ “Literally, bathed bread. Good, solid peasant food; I thought it was appropriate.”

  “It’s good,” Jeff said, leaning back against the wall of the warming shack, never taking his eyes off the hole, except for an occasional sideways glance at where Billy stood, leaning against the open door. He took another bite. “It’s very good.”

  “Well, you did say that sandwiches were the traditional fare for this sort of thing, and you know what an utter slave to tradition I am.”

  Jeff had to smile. Everybody else on duty at the cairn wore parkas this time of year, sometimes accompanied by earflap caps that may have looked silly to some—well, to all—but which kept your ears and head warm.

  Billy was in a solid one-piece suit, made out of some shimmering blue fabric that had probably never even been near a natural fiber, with what looked like gold racing stripes down the sides. He looked absolutely preposterous leaning against a wall of the warming hut with a Mossberg 500 shotgun cradled in his arms, like a duck hunter waiting for game.

  His ears were covered by a ski band of the same material as his … snow suit, except a few shades darker. The only concession Billy made to convention was the pair of battered old snow-pack boots and ragged gaiters that Jeff recognized as Billy’s dad’s.

  That was enough, for Jeff, at least. He glanced down at his wrist. 12:35, and that meant just under three hours until he was off, and after a quick spin around town—and probably a trip out to the Hansen place to check on David Peterson—it was home to shower and change. It was Wednesday, and that meant supper at the Aarsteds’.

  “You got dinner plans, Billy?”

  “First of all, yes, I do.” Billy smiled. “I’m cooking dinner at the Olson home this evening. Second of all, you don’t have to try so hard.” He sobered. “You check on Mr. Thorsen today?”

  Jeff shook his head. “Tomorrow, probably. He was fine on Monday, though. Back on his feet and hobbling around, but he’s spending more and more time down in the basement, putting Torrie and Maggie through their paces when he isn’t doing his own rehab exercises.”

  Doc Sherve thought he ought to heal some more before trying to get back into shape, but you didn’t get to be Doc’s age without knowing that there were some battles that you just couldn’t win.

  Jeff knew that, too. Putting Billy o
n watch had been the right thing to do—and it wasn’t like he wasn’t trustworthy, or anything. But Jeff just didn’t want to know who he could and couldn’t put Billy on watch with, so until somebody came forward and volunteered, Jeff would take his watches with Billy.

  “Well, good. I should stop by and see him tomorrow, on my way out.”

  “Way out?” But—

  “Hey, I’ve got an apartment, and a job—at least I did, as of yesterday; Chef Louis understands about personal emergencies—and it’s been nice to come back for awhile, but you know what they say: you can never go home again.”

  Jeff didn’t know how to answer that. He hadn’t really thought about Billy’s plans—but he was home again.

  “Nah,” Billy said, as though he’d read Jeff’s mind. “Not anymore. I like the city—and it’s not just because I’ve got one hell of a lot more chances there than I would have here to meet Mr. Right, or even just Mr. Right Now—and hey, Jeff, if that makes you twice as uncomfortable as you look, that’s got to be your problem, not mine.”

  “That’s just what I was going to say.”

  “Still,” Billy said, as he nodded with some satisfaction, “it is good to be able to visit, though.” He shrugged. “I know: I always could have, right?”

  Jeff kicked at the snow with the toe of his boot. “Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, you always could have.”

  “Sure. Well, forget about the past.” Billy eyed him levelly. “You tell me: would my old best friend still be happy to see me the next time I come to visit?”

  Count on Billy to make Jeff feel like shit. “Of course I will.”

  Billy’s smile spoke volumes. “Well, then,” he said with a nod. “It’s—fuck!” Billy racked the shotgun, hard, sending the already chambered shell flying into the air.

  A white rag, on the end of a stick projecting out of the hole, was waving madly.

  Jeff had his Garand up and shouldered, the safety firmly shoved off.

  “I would very much appreciate not being shot, or even shot at,” a familiar basso voice boomed, accompanied by an even more manic flag-waving. “It’s only Ivar del Hival and two companions, seeking some shelter from the cold, a crust of bread, a bowl of water, and a warm corner in which to sleep.”

  Billy glanced at Jeff. “You know who this guy is?”

  He nodded. “A friend of Thorian Thorsen. A good friend.” Good. It would be nice to see Ivar del Hival again. Apparently, Ian and Hosea had picked him up on their way back.

  But you could never be too safe. “Let’s just take this one step at a time, okay?”

  “Your play, officer; I’ll just point my weapon in a safe direction and chatter brightly, and if you insist, I can even keep the chattering brightly to a minimum.”

  “That would be nice, and a change,” Jeff said, without ever once turning his head to look at Billy. He brought the Garand up to his shoulder and took down the new rope ladder from its hook in the shack. He didn’t know quite how he was supposed to anchor it, but he could always bring the car in and loop the top rung over his trailer ball.

  It was Ivar del Hival at the bottom of the hole, a big, fat man in orange and black, his smile a white island in a sea of black beard. His hands were raised, fingers spread, as were those of the two bearded strangers, who stood next to him, shivering in their thin gray tunics and leggings. There was something strange about the both of them—their beards were too thick and—shit.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Ivar del Hival said, “there is hair on their palms, and it’s not from playing with themselves. I’d like to introduce my friends Hrolf and Luphen to you. They’ve been sent with me, on orders from the Scion himself, to help you with the Son problem we’ve heard about, and they really don’t want to get shot any more than I do. Truthfully.”

  “Billy—”

  “I’m on it.” Billy, never turning his back toward the hole, took the brand-new cell phone down from its shelf in the warming hut. “What’s the number?”

  “Thorsen’s?”

  “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

  “Just push Recall, and then 3.”

  “Done. Then I just hit the spend button.”

  “You mean the send button? Yeah.”

  “You’ve never had a cell phone, have you?—Oh, hi, Mr. Thorsen. I’m sorry to bother you, but if it isn’t too much trouble, well, Jeff and I are on shift out at the Hidden Way, and we could use you and Torrie here? No, no, everything’s just fine—at least I think it is?—but an old friend of yours—Ivan something? Ivar whatever, yes, that’s him—we’ll, he’s just shown up and he’s brought a couple of friends with him. I think it’s okay, but, well—no, the problem is that they’re Sons.”

  Billy listened for a moment, and then smiled that old Billy smile again.

  “He hung up. I think that means that he’ll be right here, don’t you?”

  L ‘Envoi

  The Norn

  Spring was coming; she could smell it in the air. The buds on the trees had turned green overnight, and soon, seemingly without any intermediate stage, they would become full-fledged leaves. Further north it would be even more explosive.

  She had heard, once, a long time ago, although she could not remember when, that the most explosive spring was in Siberia. That you could look at the branches of a tree and, if you were patient enough, actually see the buds slowly open. That would have been nice to see, but she was getting far too old for traveling.

  It was all just a matter of time.

  She was of hardy stock, though; Minnie was a Hansen on her mother’s side by birth, as well as by marriage.

  There would be no cancer to eat out her vitals, no arthritis to devour her joints; nothing progressive and debilitating. She would just get a little more feeble every day; each trip up the stairs more difficult, and every trip down the stairs more frightening; each meal just a tad less appetizing, until one day she would go to sleep in her own bed, and it would all give out at once. Just like Mr. Holmes’s One-Hoss Shay.

  She shook her head. They didn’t teach that poem anymore. Too much to explain. Pity.

  What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see. of course, if you’re not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,—All at once, and nothing first,—Just as bubbles do when they burst.

  Hansens were like the old One-Hoss Shay. There were worse ways to be.

  Until the bubble burst, she might as well dress herself warmly this morning, step out the back door into the cold, leaving the storm door propped open and the wooden door not quite clicked shut behind her, take the old wooden yoke and the two disturbingly bright orange plastic buckets from the back porch, and haul them and her ancient bones down the back steps, and down the well-beaten path into the woods.

  She walked with exaggerated care, practicing for the return trip. There were patches of snow here and there, and the ground was still frozen beneath the patches of black mud. It would be easy to slip and fall and break a hip.

  The path twisted through the woods to her favorite stand of birches. They had been seedlings the year she had first started teaching school; now they were a giant’s bony white fingers reaching up toward the sky.

  An even dozen plastic buckets, colored like a box of crayons, hung from spiles stuck into the trees, catching the slow drips.

  She set the yoke and the carrying buckets down. One by one, she took down the plastic buckets, poured the thin, watery sap into a carrying bucket, and then hung it back on its spile. There was no more than a quart in any of the drip buckets. She would only make one trip today. Tomorrow, she would stick the Makita drill in her coat pocket and drill new holes for the spiles.

  She bent, half at the back and half at the knee—sharing the pain between back and legs was the best compromise—to pick up the yoke and settle it on her shoulders.

  “‘Could you use some help, Mrs. Hansen?”

  She looked up.
Ian Silverstein stood in front of her, a cloak folded across one arm, his free hand hanging his rucksack over the stub of a branch. The insteps of his boots and the knees of his jeans were filthy with a reddish soil that wasn’t from the Dakotas, and a clumsily stitched wound flared red and swollen on his right cheek. His sword was belted around his waist, and he made no move to unbuckle the belt.

  She would have asked how long he had been home, but the only time she liked asking questions when she already knew the answer was in class, or when it was otherwise instructive.

  “Of course you can help,” she said ‘’You don’t think I like carrying two heavy buckets, do you?“

  “I rather thought you did.” He smiled as he lifted the yoke from her shoulders with the annoying ease that the young always displayed when they did something physical. “I’m not much of a woodsman,” he said, as they walked back up the path toward the house, “but those look a lot more like birches than maples to me.”

  She grunted. “Anybody who boils his own maple syrup when they can buy better at the Rainbow in Grand Forks, cheap, deserves to go to all the trouble. Birch syrup, though … well, if you have a taste for it, you make it yourself, or you do without.”

  “And Hansen women have all always had a taste for it, eh?”

  “I’ll make you some French toast for breakfast. You look like you could use a breakfast.” She glanced sharply up at him. “Does anybody else know you’re back?”

  “Hosea. The Thorsens. That’s all.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Really. You managed to slip by whoever is on duty at the hole?”

  His smile was thin. “I have my ways. I didn’t want to get involved in a lot of discussion—I don’t think I’ll be back long; I’ve some business to take care of.”

  “Really?” She raised the other eyebrow. “With all this business, you came to see me? I’m flattered.”

  He nodded. “I came to see you, yes,” he said, as he mounted the stairs.

  “Go ahead and just push on the door,” she said. “I left it unlatched.”