The Gods of War

by Christopher Stasheff

  Jon recovered quickly. "Norristown. Fifth. My mom and I just moved here. I start Monday."

  Eric studied Jon from the top of his strawberry blond mop, down the tee shirt and jeans, to the sneakers. He nodded with mild approval. "You can't be any worse than Jerk Sawdrins."

  "Jerk? There's a guy in your class named Jerk?"

  "Dirk, actually. We call him Jerk. I've had to sit next to him for four years. Now you'll have to. But at least you'll get me on the other side."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Sawdrins, Skell, Skulason. Think about it."

  "Oh." Another prolonged pause. Finding the silence uncomfortable, Jon broke it. "Good." He clarified. "The you part, not the Jerk part."

  Eric changed the subject. "Listen. I've got this new tree fort my dad and I just built. It's gonna be a Viking club. Would you like to be the first other member?"

  Excitement flashed through Jon. He had expected difficulty finding friends in a new city, a thousand miles from his home. Yet, within days, he had already come upon one who seemed the epitome of cool, a boy his own age who shared his love for all things Viking. It seemed too good to be true. Jon maintained his composure, not wanting to look too eager. "Sure. Okay."

  "There's dues."

  Jon's hand wandered to the change in his pocket. "How much?"

  "One Viking item."

  Both boys' gazes fell to the pewter sword on the key chain. Jon's memory kicked in at once, the lazy Sunday afternoons when his father had taken him to his favorite museum, letting him stare for hours at dragon-headed prows, scramasax swords, and preserved wooden shields. Despite a party with all of his friends and his favorite ice cream cake, Jon's fondest memories of his tenth birthday were of the quiet time after the celebration had ended. His father had taken him to the museum gift shop and let Jon choose any item under ten dollars. The pewter sword had not left his side since that day.

  Jon remembered, too, his parent's final argument that he had overheard through his bedroom window. His father's voice remained as firm and calm as always, though his tone betrayed a hurt that cut Jon to the heart. "I know why you're leaving. You think that if you move far enough, you can sever the bond between my son and me. But you can't. He knows I'm his father, and he knows I'll always love him. You can lie to him; you can make yourself believe your own lies. You can try to run from your past, but it follow you. And no matter what you do, I'll always be my son's father!" Jon felt tears sting his eyes.

  "Yoo hoo! Earth to Jon Skell." Eric's voice cut through the heavy burden of memory. "Do you want to join or not?"

  "I want to join," Jon said. "But not if costs my sword." He felt the need to explain, but the words came with difficulty. He had never discussed his parent's divorce with anyone. "My dad gave it to me. I'm not going to get to see him much anymore."

  "Your folks don't live together?"

  The topic made Jon irritable. "Will you take something else for dues or not?"

  "Jeez, don't bite my head off." Eric Skulason leaned on the glass case that held the Viking swords. "How 'bout if the sword stays just yours. But we keep it locked in the fort when you're not carrying it. Would that be okay?"

  Jon nodded carefully.

  "I've got something special to keep there, too. Found it in the farthest corner of the basement last year. I've never shown it to anyone before. It's got Viking writing and everything."

  Awe and doubt warred within Jon. "Are you sure it's Viking writing?"

  "Positive. Come on. I'll show you."

  The Skulason's tree fort perched on a long, flat branch of a twisted oak. It smelled pleasantly of new boards, still pale brown with darker knotholes, and moisture had not yet rusted the nails. Leaves closed around the wooden railings, screening it from the sky as well as from trespassers below.

  Jon Skell crouched on the plank floor, fingering the pewter sword on his key chain. He watched in silence as Eric slid a metal box from beneath the continuous bench that circled the wooden boundaries just inside the railings. Eric set his parcel carefully on the bench. Kneeling in front of it, he pulled a key from his pocket and inserted the key into the lock. It clicked open. Eric hefted something from the interior and set it beside the box. His shoulder hid the object from Jon's view.

  The Skulason's brown and white corgi, Cerberus, stared up through the branches, watching every movement with his head cocked in question.

  Curious, Jon moved to Eric's side. The object was a book, its leather binding worn to silky smoothness. The front cover had been torn away, revealing a page covered with runic scrawl that looked similar to the silver and bronze ornamental inlay on many of the museum weapons. Jon stared. Eleven years in Chicago had made him wary, and he had prepared himself for scams intended to make a fool of the new boy in school. Yet, he had seen enough ancient, museum writings to believe. The uneven, yellowed page could not have been forged by an eleven year old, and the ink strokes looked fine and old. He reached out to touch it, focused on an edge of the page.

  Eric drew in a sudden, sharp breath.

  Cerberus barked.

  Jon retreated, annoyed that Eric could touch the manuscript but would not let him do the same. He turned his head to say as much, only to find Eric's eyes riveted on the page.

  Confused, Jon followed his companion's gaze. The strange runes remained, yet now their meaning came to him in simple, English rhyme:

  Speak these words;

  Take a life without value.

  Skirnir will bring,

  That which will bind you.

  A string of Nordic letters followed. And, though Jon could not translate these, he somehow felt certain of their pronunciation. A chill swept through him, but he kept the presence of mind to doubt. "This is a joke, right? How did you do that?"

  Eric ignored the accusation. His gaze remained fixed on the page.

  Jon leapt to his feet. "Cut it out. It's not funny. You're giving me the creeps."

  Eric still made no reply.

  "What's it say on the other pages?" Jon tried to turn the upper leaf, but it remained rigidly clumped to the others. Hefting the book, he tried to shake the pages free. They remained adherent to one another and to the back cover.

  When the writing disappeared from his sight, Eric finally spoke. "I can read it. I've never been able to read it before." He blinked, but apparently still could not look away to meet Jon's gaze. When Jon replaced the book, Eric's attention refocused on the lettering.

  Jon froze. Either Eric was serious, or he was the best actor in the world.

  "Can you read it, too?"

  "Yes. What's it say to you?"

  Eric read, speaking the exact words that Jon saw, down to the pronunciation of the final line. Finally, he managed to tear his gaze from the page and meet Jon's. "What do you think it means?"

  "I don't know," Jon said. He considered. "Well, according to the myths, Skirnir's the servant of the god, Frey. I guess he'll bring us something if we say that . . ." He pointed at the final line. ". . . and kill someone worthless."

  "Or something," Eric added thoughtfully. "It doesn't say it has to be a person."

  Eric's serious consideration spiraled horror through Jon. Still, the idea seemed morbidly fascinating. "I m not killing anyone."

  "My sister has mice."

  Jon liked mice. "How about an insect? That's about as worthless as life gets."

  "Okay."

  The boys scrambled to their feet, searching the oak leaves for an insect. At length, Jon discovered a huge, black ant crawling across a twig. "Got one." Gently, he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. "I'll squash, you read."

  "Okay." Eric cleared his throat. He spoke each syllable cleanly. As he pronounced the final word, Jon smashed the ant between his fingers.

  Eric's voice seemed to tumble into an abyss of silence, and the intensity of the quiet transformed the ripple of wind through the branches into a rattling, whistling gale. Nothing obvious happened. Jon glanced down through the branches. Cerberus lay,
waiting for his master at the base of the tree. Jon had heard that dogs could sense the supernatural. If anything had come of their attempt, even the animal had not noticed it.

  Jon loosed a nervous laugh, wiping ant guts from his fingers onto his jeans. "I guess it was just words on a page."

  Eric frowned, obviously unconvinced. "My family lived in that house for ten years, and we weren't the first. There's a reason why everyone missed that book but me. And there's a reason why the writings got clear today."

  "What are you saying? We met because of fate?"

  "There's this Viking I've been drawing for years. A guy with hair exactly your color and a real sword just like that little one you got."

  Jon held his breath, recalling the brother in his own reverie. "Named Jon?"

  "Well, no. Ulf. But I still think it's supposed to be you." Eric studied Jon cautiously, apparently waiting to see if he had gotten too familiar too quickly. "I think Ulf means 'wolf.' "

  "Wolf?" Excited and frightened at once, Jon tried to reassure. "In my daydreams my brother's name is Erik. With a 'k.' And my symbol is a wolf."

  The boys stared at one another for several moments, uncertain what to say next. Suddenly, Eric whirled. "I'm getting a mouse."

  Before Jon could protest, Eric scrambled down the first several wood block foot rests. He jumped the final six feet to the ground, his light easy landing enviable. Eric ran toward his house, Cerberus chasing at an easy lope.

  Jon paced, trying to take things all in at once. Yesterday, he had found himself alone in a strange town in Pennsylvania. Now, he had found a friend who, in a matter of hours, had become more like a brother. Accustomed to daydreaming, he had a firm grasp on the differences between imagination and reality, and he knew that the events of the past few hours were real. Again, he stole a glance at the book. The runic letters remained, boldly printed on the page. He could still remember the translation, though it had become harder for him to discern the English words. He wondered if that had more to do with time or with Eric's leaving.

  Shortly, Eric returned, clambering up the toeholds one handed. He cradled a coffee can in the crook of his other elbow and clutched a brick in that hand. As he reached the floor of the tree fort, he scooted the brick across the planking, then lowered the coffee can. He scampered into the clubhouse. "Got it."

  Cerberus barked once, then again settled at the base of the tree.

  Jon took the coffee can, peeling back the lid a crack to expose a white mouse. Its beady red eyes stared at him. He closed the lid. "I don't know if I want to do this."

  "You chickening out on me?" Eric did not wait for an answer. "Come on." He picked up the brick and offered it to Jon.

  Jon ignored the offering, taking another look at the mouse. Its whiskers twitched. "Won't your sister miss him?"

  "I left her favorite."

  "Won't she miss this one?"

  "So I'll buy her another one." Eric shook the brick. "Here."

  Jon removed the lid from the can. Reluctantly, he lay the can on its side on the bench. The mouse looked out cautiously. Jon looked at the brick, and the idea of pulverizing a living thing repulsed. "Do we have to squish it?"

  "No. Do it anyway you want. I just thought that'd be easiest."

  Jon considered. "Could we poison it?"

  "With what?"

  "Rat poison?"

  Eric threw up his hands. "Do you happen to be carrying rat poison?"

  "No." Jon stared at his feet.

  "You big chicken."

  "You're so damned brave, you do it."

  "All right. Fine. I'll do it. You read."

  Relieved, Jon stepped aside to stand in front of the book. He spoke each syllable gingerly.

  Eric raised the brick, smashing it down on the mouse, pressing it further until a red stain spread across the bench seat. A pink foot poked from beneath one edge.

  Jon felt his stomach lurch, and he tasted bile. He turned away, struggling against his heaving gut. A gust of ice-grained wind caught him square in the face, staggering him against the rail. An odor seeped into his nostrils, thick, ancient, and cloying, a sickening combination of mold and honey. Jon gave up the battle. He sagged across the rail, vomiting to the ground below, pain aching through his stomach.

  "Oh my god!" Eric whispered. "Oh . . . my . . . god!"

  Before Jon could turn, thunder slammed through his ears, cruel agony against the drums. Light flashed, its reflection a blinding fog off the tight umbrella of leaves. Sensation tore through Jon, a cold ugly feeling of fear and wrongness that drove him to vomit again and again until his stomach heaved dry. Only then did he manage to whirl.

  Eric sprawled on the clubhouse floor, still. A figure hovered over him, cape flapping and cracking in the gale, a blackened, blood-stained tunic clinging to his muscled form. A huge sword girded his hip.

  Jon screamed, the sound muffled in his thunder-deafened ears. As he adjusted his perception of sound, he could now hear the whoosh of the wind, Cerberus' constant, wild barking, and the soft words of the creature before him. ". . . she can save him. The book." The voice emerged as deep and low as a bassoon, and it enhanced the obvious aberration of its presence. More than anything in the world, Jon wanted it to go.

  As if in answer to the need, lightning cracked open the sky, thunder booming around it. Whiteness bathed the creature, then winked out in an explosion that stabbed Jon's vision. He closed his eyes instinctively, afterimages of the creature flashing in colored pictures on the insides of his eyelids. The thunder trailed into silence, leaving the ceaseless rattle of rain on the leaves overhead, pierced by the whines and barks of the corgie below.

  "Eric?" Jon approached his friend cautiously, blinking to clear the huge white spots obscuring his vision. "Eric? Are you all right?"

  Eric did not move. He lay as if in sleep, hallway under the clubhouse bench. Despite otherwise complete relaxation, Eric kept his right hand tightly clenched. Jon shook him. "Wake up, Eric." The head lolled, revealing a scalp cut and a winding trickle of blood.

  Jon recoiled, alarmed. "Eric!" Panic suffused him. He knew he had to get help immediately. Yet, he felt shamed by the proceedings, and he knew no one would believe what had happened in the clubhouse. Another thought broke through the savage boil of fear. What if they think I killed him? What if they send me to the electric chair? His thoughts shattered, scattering in random directions. He's not dead. Eric's not dead. He can't be dead. He seized an arm, poking at the wrist for a pulse, uncertain whether he felt a heart beat or just his own movement. Then, the otherworld thing's advice returned to him. She can help him. The book? He spun, staggering across the planks to the book.

  The top page had disappeared, revealing another scrawled with Nordic runes. Jon discovered that he could still understand, though the words had changed:

  Read the words inscribed here;

  Kill a beloved pet.

  That will bring Sifs mercy

  And save a friend's life yet.

  Horror clutched Jon, and he felt as if his heart had stopped beating. A beloved pet. Jon and his mother had no animals. No pets. His eyes finished the thought long before his mind found the strength to function. His gaze slid down the tree's trunk to alight on the dog below. Cerberus stood at the base of the tree, tail wagging, head cocked to one side as if to understand.

  No. Jon felt the sickness return, though nothing remained in his gut. He glanced at Eric. His new friend lay absolutely still. Jon looked back at the book. The letters on the page remained, but they had gone fuzzy and indistinct. The writing seemed to smear, becoming less legible by the moment. His mind groped for an answer, and it struck him with all the abrupt force of the gale that had arisen with Skirnir's coming. When Eric went away before, I could no longer read the book. The conclusion came without the need to ponder. When these instructions disappear, Eric will be dead.

  Knowing what he had to do, Jon Skell leapt to his feet, snatching up the book. He seized the brick in his other hand. Mouse remains slid fr
om the surface as he raised it, and the gore gave spongily beneath his grasping fingers. Illness rocked him. He stared at the dog. Cerberus watched him with happy curiosity, and desperation engulfed Jon in a muscle-locking convulsion. So sweet. So trusting. He gauged the distance to the dog's head, yet he did not throw. For several moments, he knelt on the wooden floor, frozen immobile. Then, the lettering smeared nearly into oblivion, and he concentrated on Eric, knowing that he had to place a human life before that of a dog. Locking his gaze on the book, Jon hurled the brick and read.

  A yelp cut through Jon's mental fog. Then, the tree shook, as if in the throes of a giant seizure. Light flared, bright as a thousand spotlights. Then, Jon Skell collapsed to the clubhouse floor, overtaken by oblivion.

  Jon Skell awakened to a vigorous shake, with no comprehension of time and place. Gradually, the tree fort took its familiar shape around him. Eric Skulason stood over him, the freckled face split into a joyful grin. The book lay on the floor near Jon's knee. A glance through the hole in the floor leading out of the tree revealed Cerberus' still form on the ground, and memory returned in a painful rush. He twisted to face Eric, hiding the sight from the corgie's owner. "You're all right! Thank god, you're all right."

  "I'm all right? You're the one k.o.'ed on the floor."

  "But you were . . ." Jon trailed off, thinking it better not to continue. Apparently, Eric had no knowledge of his near death. Better he never found out that the new boy had killed his dog. Better he believed that the same event that had floored Jon had killed the dog. Eric looked so normal, Jon feared that he had destroyed Cerberus without need. The thought speared guilt through him. For good or ill, he hated what he done.

  Eric did not wait for Jon to finish his sentence. "Look what he gave me!" He held out his right hand.

  "Who?"

  "Skirnir. Look what he brought." Eric opened his hand, revealing a pewter sword exactly like the one on Jon's key chain. The resemblance was so striking, that Jon could not help taking a quick glance to make certain that his father's gift still hung in its proper place. Finding it there, he looked at Eric's again.