by Dave Freer
Mac shook his head. "It's not that simple, Bes. They haven't gone to Greece or Egypt. Prof Tremelo thinks it's Scandinavian myth."
"Got any giants for me to beat up?" asked Bes, curiously.
"Lots. And lots of other dwarves there too. But it's kind of a tricky question just how we'd get there."
"Can't you fly there, my dear?" asked Bes of Throttler.
"I don't think so," said Throttler. "They're heathens. They don't believe in the sphinx."
"We'll have to get there and do some missionary work then," said Bes, rubbing his hands.
She nodded. "And some riddling."
The secretary came in. "I have a call from Professor Tremelo for Sergeant Cruz," she said, trying not to look at the Sphinx's exposed frontage. Cruz had to admit that he'd almost forgotten that she wasn't wearing anything.
Miggy Tremelo sounded exasperated. And like he wanted their company with whatever was making him feel that way. Which was why he was ordering them—in the politest fashion—to get everyone, including the dragons, to Washington.
"I've spoken with the Air Force. They're arranging air transport. Someone will be in touch shortly."
Cruz had encountered dragon feelings about air-traffic before. The skies belonged to them, not these upstarts. "Uh... Professor. Wouldn't it be more sensible to fly everyone here?"
"Much," said the Professor. "But it would also be easier to take a tortoise out of its shell."
Or get a dragon into a plane, thought Cruz, but he didn't say anything. There was a dangerously explosive quality to Professor Tremelo's voice, that said "don't argue."
* * *
They did, after a while, settle down to sleep that night in their jury-rigged bedrooms in Tremolo's offices.
Well, most of them. Bes, the protector, sat like a gargoyle, silent and unmoving on the roof of the building. Cruz felt genuinely sorry for any Pissant who might try anything during those dark hours. Bes would just take them by the scruff of the neck and give them a shake. It was a quick and efficient way of dealing with rats.
* * *
But the night passed with no untoward events. So, the next morning, the dragons on flat-beds ("don't want them flying in city limits") and the rest in appropriate vehicles were whisked off to meet their airplane. The Air Force cargo plane would be landing at Midway airport instead of O'Hare, since that was closer. Nobody—certainly not the drivers—particularly wanted to be hauling two dragons all the way across the metropolitan Chicago area.
* * *
Cruz was dead right. Once they got there, the dragons were not impressed. Not impressed to the point of open rebellion.
"If the gods had intended us to fly in one of those devices they would have given us hand-luggage, not wings," said Smitar, so convincingly you might almost think that he knew what hand-luggage was.
"Besides, I want to accumulate those frequent flier miles. I can't do that if I'm not flying," said Bitar, showing that he too could eavesdrop without understanding a word.
"It flies. You don't have to," said the misguided fellow they'd sent to organize this flight. "Now please get your animals in the plane, Sergeant."
"With respect, sir," said Cruz. "They're not my animals. And even if they were how do you expect me do that? I can't carry them on my back."
"Soldier, if I needed your cheek..." He stopped because Bes had stepped between them, reached up, and pulled him down to Bes height.
Bes had a plane wheel-chock in his other hand. He let go of the air force officer, took it in both hands and squeezed it flat. "I don't think I can carry a dragon that doesn't want to go either," Bes said, "and I'm fairly strong. So why don't you show us how it is done, eh? You get Bitar in and we'll follow with Smitar."
He twisted the steel wheel chock into a pretzel. "Now. We'll watch."
The officer stepped back.
"Piece of advice, sir," said Mac. "The dragons are a rare and protected species. And don't argue with Bes. He's got no respect for rank. No real understanding of it, in fact."
That, thought Cruz, was the understatement of a lifetime. Bes was a genu-ine god—so what did he care about the difference between a captain, a major and a colonel?
But all he said was "Bitar, don't eat him."
"Phtt. Too small and smelly," said Bitar, tasting the fellow with his tongue.
Now looking nervous instead of belligerent, the officer took a walkie-talkie from his waist-band. "Look. I'm just doing my job. But if you want to make it difficult, I'll need some heavy equipment."
Cruz kept his face impassive and said nothing. When the low-loader device came trundling along, along with a team of burly loaders, the officer said: "Now get on, beast."
"Why?" asked Bitar, curiously.
"We need to move you. Or we can hoist you on with a crane."
Bitar brightened. "Cranes are biggish birds. Do you mind having it plucked first? The feathers get stuck in my teeth."
He leaned over and took a small nibble at the lowbed-forklift thing. "Terrible flavor. Anyway, you're supposed to carry me. Not put me on that thing. And I am not going into that flying machine. Not into its mouth." He swung his tail, putting a twenty foot long six inch deep dent into the hanger's steel door. Then he tipped the lowbed-forklift onto its side with negligent ease. The operator had to hurriedly clamber out of his little cubicle, onto the ground.
Cruz took pity on the man. "Sir, can I suggest something?"
The officer took a deep breath. "Besides telling me that I have just made a fool of myself? But it can be done, Sergeant. I'm not beaten yet."
"Yes, sir. It probably can be done. But Smitar will probably also knock the airplane apart if he doesn't want to be in there. And they haven't got a tranquilizer that can deal with the dragons either."
"Oh." The officer studied the dent in the hangar's steel door and the tonnage of his loader.
Cruz cleared his throat. "Generally the dragons are pretty fond of food, sir. And you can reason with them. You could try bribery."
"You said 'food'," said Bitar. "Don't tell me you didn't, Cruz. I heard you!"
"Yes, I did." said Cruz. "You were just going to tell me about in-flight catering, weren't you, sir?"
Smitar licked his lips "Do you serve maidens?"
The officer took a deep breath. "We serve nearly anyone, as long as they're over twenty-one, and on the airplane. And I hear you're going first class. Food and drinks on the house."
"Now can you put the drinks trolley back on its wheels?" said Cruz.
Bitar did, nearly effortlessly. "Is it normal to eat on a house?"
"Of course," said Smitar. "Bigger than a plate, isn't it? How do they get the house inside the plane?"
It took a lot more cajoling and a substantial menu, with ketchup and hot sauce in industrial quantities, before the two dragons were persuaded aboard. And there was no way they were staying there without the others for company.
The dragons filled up a lot of floor-space, and persuading them that they could not leave their tails out, and then strapping them down took even more diplomacy. It would have taken the dragons a few days to fly to Washington under their own steam. But it might have been easier.
The rest of them were at least co-operative about getting on and strapping in, but finally they and a small mountain of dragonish delicacies parted with a sweating officer, and taxied onto the runway.
"I need to go to the bathroom," said Priones.
"Tie a knot in it and pray the dragons didn't hear you," said Medea, nervously. "Otherwise they'll want to go too."
That wasn't a pretty thought. But it was only when they were coming in to land at the end of their journey that Cruz realized that there was another ugly thought he hadn't had. Dragons need to eat to fly. They produced huge volumes of lighter-than-air biogas which made them bulge like oversize balloons. Liz De Beer said that was the only possible way they could get airborne. It was a smelly if effective solution to getting something really big to fly under its own muscle power.
Only now they were stuck in an airplane with them. And not only was it not going to be nice to be here—that gas was flammable. It was also toxic.
And by the looks of it, their in-flight greed had seen to it that the dragons were not likely to fit out of the cargo bay. Cruz, his mouth suddenly dry, ignored the seatbelt warning and went up to talk to the pilots.
The co-pilot came and had a look. And then there was some very hasty consultation with the flight-controllers.
It was not a text-book landing. But it was a wise one. So was opening the nose cone and the tail bay... and retreating a long way to a fire-truck while the C-5A rocked...
* * *
Miggy Tremelo appeared to be in a far better temper when he met up with them upon their arrival in Washington. "Easy flight, I trust?" he asked, cheerfully. "Let me introduce you all to our Norse mythology consultant, Dr. Lars Gunnarsson."
Mac had expected all mythology experts to look like Jerry Lukacs. It was a bit of a shock to find that this one looked as if he'd be more at home in a Norse myth himself. Okay, so he was a little old for it, with some white hair in his beard, but you sort of expected him to be wearing a mailshirt and a bear-cloak.
"Very Norse-looking dragons," he said, professionally. "More serpent-like than the modern pictorial image is usually."
"They're Colchian," said Medea.
"We've got indigestion," said Bitar.
"From the Caucasus, are they?" said the scholar. "You know, we all tend to think of the Scandinavians as a bunch of blood-thirsty Norse Vikings raiding England, but it was their trading voyages that spread their influence across Europe and even in my opinion, America. Huge numbers of traders plied the rivers in what is now Russia. Ibn Fadlan, the Arab traveler and diplomat, records meeting them on the Volga. And although his description was hopelessly sensationalized, the Scandinavians were there, to the northwest of the Caucasus, as well as on the Dnieper. They would have brought memories home to influence their culture. I wonder if these were not the source for the prows on all those longships?
Medea shrugged. "The females live in the water. They only come out to breed."
"Even more plausible," he beamed.
"It would seem," said Tremelo, "that our friends probably have ended up in a place called Geirrodur's castle. Anyway, we're scheduled to appear before the Senate committee charged with overseeing Krim pyramid affairs. I have organized hotel accommodation, and for the dragons, this hangar..."
"I think we'd all better stick together, Prof," said Cruz. "Here is good for all of us, if we can get some camping gear."
Tremelo looked at them, taking in the children, and the concrete floor. "You don't think that's a bit extreme? I had ordered some hay for the dragons."
Mac shook his head. "You don't know, first hand, what these PSA guys are like, Prof."
Tremelo hesitated. Then, shrugged. "Okay. I think the PSA may have cut its own throat, but they've got enough loose screws rattling around inside that organization that it's hard to predict what they'll do. I'm also getting the feeling that support for this clandestine operation went deeper than we'd like to think it did. Very well, you stay right here. I'll get the camping gear delivered. Is there anything else you might need?"
"Maybe some sleeping tablets for Tina," Cruz pointed at the Jackson child. "She's taken this pretty hard, Professor. She's fallen asleep a couple of times and seems to go straight into nightmares about her twin."
The mythology expert smiled. "As it happens I am a psychologist. Or I used to be until I retired to focus on my first love, Scandinavian mythology. Let me have a talk with her. She is naturally very traumatized."
* * *
A few minutes later a very troubled looking Scandinavian mythology expert came back from the corner where he had been talking to Tina. "I am afraid I must strongly recommend against using any sleeping tablets," he said shortly. "She isn't having nightmares. I have read Dr. Lukacs' reports about the mythworlds they found their way into last time. This girl is dreaming about things she could not possibly know, but that her sister in the mythworld may be experiencing."
"Telepathy?" said Tremelo skeptically.
Dr. Gunnarsson shrugged. "We don't exactly know where they've gone. It may be contact with a spirit medium for all we know. But she knew details about Geirrodur the troll-king's castle, Thor, Grid's rod and the belt of strength and gauntlets of iron, as well as about Fafnir and Sigurd—none of which a girl her age would have known, and all of which goes well beyond coincidence. And I am as skeptical with regard to telepathy as you are, Professor Tremolo."
"I guess the mythworlds—and the denizens of them," Tremelo said, nodding at the Sphinx in animated conversation with Bes, "should teach me not to be so skeptical." He grimaced. "Somehow I don't think I'm going to introduce that into testimony into the hearings, even if I do believe it."
Chapter 22
It was a cold clear night. You could actually hear the frost-crisp grass crunching under the horses hooves. Loki noticed it and laughed. "Fimbulwinter. Loki is free. The clouds are massing in the west."
Thrúd's face, white in the moonlight, looked as if it had somehow gone a paler shade. "No!" she said.
Loki shrugged. "It will mean the return of Baldr."
Thrúd scowled at him. "Is there any bit of mischief and gossip you don't know, Uncle Fox? It was just a little-girl crush. I had one on you, too."
"What appalling taste you had, girl," said Loki. "Anyway, I am willing to avoid Ragnarok if I can."
"The question," said Sigyn, "is whether Ragnarok is willing to avoid you. Great magics are tied to the Time."
Loki raised an eyebrow. "I don't play with great magics, lady-wife. That's One-eye's province."
"Exactly," said Sigyn. "A reason to be suspicious, especially after what Jerry told us."
"About what?" asked Liz trying not to shiver. This was no weather for damp skirts, whatever Fimbulwinter and this Ragnarok were.
"About being trapped in a cycle, which repeated and repeated to give power to some foreign god. The 'Krim,' he called it."
Thrúd peered intently at her. "It does have a strange feeling that I have been here before. But I remember great Bilskríner becoming a place of ruins."
"It's true enough," said Liz. "Jerry and I and our friends fought the Krim before. We defeated it... but it fled. This is obviously where it came to. It re-activates old myths. Old beliefs. Jerry's the expert. All I can say is that I'm very cold."
"Bilskríner lies just ahead," said Thrúd comfortingly.
* * *
Lamont Jackson was almost beside himself with worry. Should he leave the children in the care of a pair of monsters and go and look for Marie... and Liz too? The waiting was going to kill him, for sure.
The sound of hooves was a welcome one. Even bad news had to be better than no news. It took him a few seconds to realize that there was more than one horse out there. He wondered if he should find a weapon... and then Liz came in.
With several others.
Not Marie.
He forced himself to be as calm as possible. "What news?"
Liz took a deep breath. "Well, she's not dead, Lamont. Thrúd here saw her. But I couldn't rescue her. Odin has put her into a kind of suspended animation. She's in, well, like a coma, inside a wall of flames on a mountaintop."
It was Lamont's turn to take a deep breath. "At least she's not dead. Come in to the fire, Liz. You're blue with cold."
She nodded weakly. "I think I'm about to fall off this horse."
Lamont caught her, set her on her feet, gave her his arm to lean on. "Let's go into the main hall and the warmth and we can get introduced. Thor is still out of it. That stuff was distilled, and potent as hell," he said, grimly.
Lodin arrived, and beamed at the stocky individual in the sort of tied up rags that the local peasants seemed to wear. "Lady Thrúd," he said, bowing respectfully. "Whose horses are these?"
"Einherjar's, Stumpy. See that they're well rubbed down
and that they have some oats. We'll turn them out at first light. It is too cold outside now."
* * *
Thrúd was a little worried by these strangers that had taken over her father's hall. They seemed a little short of respect for Papa-Thor. But she could always re-establish that! He didn't seem to be too good at doing it himself these days, she admitted ruefully. She remembered how it once had been. At the same time she began to remember what it had become. It was strange how that memory had faded, of the immortal Ás trapped in the downward spiral of Asgard. That was when Papa-Thor's drinking had really got out of hand. That hadn't changed. Well. If these strangers—she really was not at all sure they were black elves—could help, then a little disrespect was a small price to pay.
They walked through into the main hall, where a number of small trees were blazing merrily in the hearth. Three children were fast asleep against dread Fenrir's side. The wolf was trying to look as if he was quite unaware that the girl-child—who looked remarkably like the woman sent to be a stand-in for Brynhild the Valkyrie—didn't have an arm around his neck. The fourth was sleepily looking at them from next to the great Jörmungand. Two other men in roughly cobbled furs were fiddling about with some strange helmet on a table off to one side.
"Any news?" asked the black-elf boy who was still awake.
"Well, Marie is still alive," said the black-elf man whom Liz had addressed as Lamont. "But she's trapped behind a wall of flame in a coma."
The boy began to cry. Big tears starting suddenly from eyes that had had the Loki-flame of rebellion and trouble moments before. "I never even had a chance to say..." his chin quivered and he dissolved into a flood of tears.
Lamont went over and put an arm around him. "Easy, Emmitt. It's not that kind of coma." Plainly, by his voice, he was hurting too.
Close family ties, plainly. That was good. Thrúd approved. "It is a magical sleep, child. If the thorn of sleep is drawn out, she will wake. Even if a thousand years have passed."
"And we'll get her free," said Liz. "And get it out of her. Promise."