by Dyrk Ashton
Mol approaches two of the largest dogs, who are being led by villagers. A heavy-jowled Mastiff and a Great Dane. The Mastiff sniffs, then whimpers and lowers to the ground on his belly, putting his nose to the ground. The Great Dane does the same. Even more astounding, all the dogs, in all the pens, are getting down as well. Even the cats are silent.
A Basset Hound and a Dachshund, held under the arms of one of the villagers, get a whiff of Baphomet and growl.
“How do they know?” Fi asks.
“Animals know many things,” Peter replies. “Far more than they’re given credit for. And they can see through any cloak, no matter how strong.”
Mol barks to Edgar, who says to Peter, “We can move along. He’ll catch up.” They continue along the road, but Fi looks over her shoulder to see a villager open one of the runs. Mol barks a command and several dozen dogs run out and up the ramp at the back of a truck in an eager and orderly manner.
Past the kennels, the castle comes into view. Its immense and sprawling structure looks to have been built in phases over the centuries, the millennia even, in a variety of architectural styles. There’s a massive stone section, which looks more like a towered fortress than a castle, then the part with the spires, and further additions of painted wood with slate roofs. But now Fi sees there has been damage. One outer wall is broken, a tumble of stone on the grass, and a wooden section is burned. The grounds around the castle and into the gardens and meadow are trampled and torn.
As they follow Brygun further they hear a woman’s voice singing what sounds like an operatic aria.
They round the corner of the manor to see what’s left of what was once a grand gazebo. The raised stone floor remains, but the white-painted beams and roof have been demolished and piled to the side. A tiny old woman in a white dress and shawl stands on the floor above the steps facing the manor, arms held high, singing with clarity, pitch and volume that would put the greatest of opera singers to shame. On the grass in front of her, a man who looks and dresses exactly like Brygun sits in a white wicker chair playing a bass clarinet. Fintán, standing and in human cloak, plays a Vienna horn. Not far from him sits Zeke, in another white chair, eyes closed, slowly bobbing his head while he plays his guitar.
There’s an energy in the air, esoteric and primal, but also bright and clean, and Fi senses it comes from Freyja’s voice. She’s not only singing, she’s working magic.
With a flourish, Freyja completes her mystical aria to applause from the new arrivals. Pratha’s clapping is less than enthusiastic, but Myrddin whistles and shouts, “Bravo! Bravo!”
Zeke sets his guitar on the chair and hurries to Fi. “You made it. Isn’t this place awesome?”
“Yeah it is,” Fi replies. “You doing okay?”
Zeke leans closer. “She’s a little gruff, but she’s been great. And the food. Oh my God.” He looks to Brygun and Trejgun. “Those guys can cook.”
Freyja eyes the group, arranged in a semicircle, with dour disapproval. She harrumphs, then says, “Welcome to my home, I suppose.” She points her white lacquered cane with a pink ball of stone on top from the gazebo to the damaged castle. “What’s left of it.” She relies on her cane as she comes down the wide stone steps.
As she approaches, Fi realizes how tiny she is. Maybe four feet ten inches tall, thin as a rail except for a paunch at her midsection, and her back has such severe kyphotic curvature she has to turn her head to look up at them.
Mrs. Mirskaya is first in line to be greeted. “Mokosh, good to see you, dear.” Freyja’s voice is that of an old woman, though clear, and she has a Norwegian accent. She taps her wrinkled cheek. Mrs. Mirskaya stoops to kiss it, then the other, then back to the first.
“Is good to see you too, Freyja,” says Mrs. Mirskaya. “I wish was under better circumstances.”
“You’ve put on some weight,” Freyja adds, moving on without waiting for a reply. Mrs. Mirskaya looks to Fi and rolls her eyes.
Edgar is next. “Sir Galahad. You, of course, are always welcome.” She holds out her tiny wrinkled right hand, which he takes and kisses with a bow. Fi notices the back of her hand is pigmented black. Not brown or dark, but pitch black. “Always the gentleman,” she says, patting his hand. Fi has yet to see her smile, though.
Shuffling past Pratha, Freyja barely glances at her and mutters, “Whore.”
Fi and Zeke blanch, but the others appear accustomed to Freyja’s odd ways.
“Bitch,” Pratha replies with a smirk.
Freyja pats her on the arm as she moves on, as if it’s an afterthought. “Glad to have you, though, in these times.” But as she continues on, she says it again. “Whore.”
She comes to Fi and says, “Aren’t you lovely?”
Fi blushes. “Oh, thank you, Freyja.”
“I’m sure Horus told me, but what’s your name again?”
“Fi, I mean, Fiona Megan Patterson.”
“The new baby sister.” She shoots a look at Peter, who stands at the end of the line. “I thought you weren’t having any more.” Peter starts to answer but Freyja cuts him off, telling Fi, “He never could keep it in his pants.”
She shuffles to Zeke. “Who are you?”
Confused, Zeke says, “I’m Zeke, ma’am, I—”
“I know who you are, Zeke Prisco, you’ve been here all afternoon. Don’t be so serious.” Back to Fi, she comments, “Sweet boy, if a bit dim. Lovely fingers on the guitar, too.” She addresses Peter again, thumbing back to Zeke. “He smells familiar, you know.”
Peter says, “He’s a descendant of—”
Freyja cuts him off again, waving a hand. “Quiet, you. I know that. Just hush.” Fi’s beginning to like Freyja already.
Though Myrddin saw Freyja when he and Fintán first visited, he can barely contain his excitement as she moves in front of him. She eyes him warily. “Speaking of keeping it in your pants—” but before she can finish, he grabs her and kisses her hard on the mouth. She knocks him flat on his butt. “You scoundrel!” He crabwalks backward, giggling, as she threatens with her cane.
She spits on the ground and wipes her mouth. “Try that again, Myrddin Wyllt,” she warns, “you’ll have no lips to kiss with!” She stabs her cane toward his groin. “Nor parts to follow it up.”
He grins from the ground. “Good greetings again, milady.”
“Pah,” she exclaims, then spins on Peter. “And you!” She kicks him in the shin. “What have you done?” She advances, continuing to kick with her tiny slippered feet. “Look at my home!” He dances back while she smacks him on the arm with her cane. “Nothing but trouble, you are.” Finally she stops her attack, glaring up at him. “And you haven’t been to visit in ages.”
“It’s wonderful to see you too, Daughter,” Peter says, rubbing his arm and shaking out a leg.
Fi whispers to Mrs. Mirskaya, “Can she really hurt him?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Mirskaya answers, “but goes better for Father if he pretends.”
Freyja smacks Peter one more time for good measure. “Now give us a kiss.” Peter gets on his knees, his head the same height as hers, takes her shoulders gently and kisses her on the forehead.
She pats him on the cheek with her spindly hand. “That’s better,” she says, then shoves him away and turns to the group. “You’ve met Brygun. This is his brother and littermate, Trejgun.” Trejgun offers a curt bow of his head, every bit as serious as Brygun.
The formal introduction over, or as formal as it gets, Fi supposes, the group talks amongst themselves. Zeke pulls Fi to a table piled with delicacies. Fi takes a bite of a pastry. “Oh my God that’s good,” she says, looking over the rest.
“Told ya,” says Zeke, pouring himself a glass of water from a pitcher with sliced lemon and cucumber floating in it. He speaks low. “That song she was singing? That’s how she protects the valley. I guess her wards have been weakened since the attack.”
“It was beautiful,” Fi replies. She leans closer. “Not quite what I expected
the Norse goddess Freyja to look like, though. And yes, I know who Freyja is.”
Zeke says, “Right. I guess she’s pretty old.”
“They’re all old.”
Zeke looks them over. “Yeah. Really old.” Fi uses a silver spoon to fill her palm with an exotic looking trail mix. Zeke turns back as she upends her hand, dumping it into her mouth. “Wait!”
“What?” she asks, mouth full, trying not to chew.
Freyja glances over with a disapproving look.
Zeke says, “Um, never mind.”
Freyja goes back to her conversation with Peter. “What is it?” Fi asks quietly.
Zeke grimaces. “Bugs.”
Fi glances around. “Oh look.” She drops down behind the table and spits, wiping her tongue with her hand. She palms a fork from the edge of the table and stands to see Freyja eyeing her with suspicion. “Fork. Fell on the ground.” She takes a swig from Zeke’s glass and they rejoin the group.
“It was a half-assed assault, all in all,” Freyja is explaining. “Varulvs and vampyr, a few ogres and trolls. And a lind-wyrm, if you can believe that. We burned the bodies.” She points to a smoldering mound of ash at the foot of the mountains a few hundred yards away. “They were led by Gog and Magog.”
“That is disappointing to hear,” says Peter. “They fought with us as Deva during the last Holocaust.”
“Gone back to the Asura now.”
Mrs. Mirskaya clucks her tongue. “That is a shame.”
“Who needs them?” Freyja continues. “Buffoons. Cowards. We drove them off, wailing with their tails between their legs.”
“Just the three of you?” Edgar asks.
Freyja says, “Who else would we need for that rabble?” She waves a hand over the trampled earth and burned areas of the castle. “But we could not stop them before they did this. No idea what they expected to accomplish. Or how they broke my wards.”
“I’m sure Kleron had something to do with it,” says Peter.
“If I get him at the point of my blade...”
After a moment, Peter asks, “Have you heard anything from The Twins?”
“Of course. They call me regularly on those telephone devices. Wonderful invention. I do have one, you know. Though they don’t write anymore. I do love to get letters. But they still visit at least once a year. They’re good boys. Real family. Unlike so many others.” She looks over the group with derision.
“Have you spoken to them recently? Since the attacks began?” Peter asks.
Freyja looks worried. “No, our lines are down since the attack, and we haven’t been able to restore service. We don’t use those fancy wireless things. I don’t trust them. We have a shortwave radio, but they do not.”
“Anything from Akhu, or Phanuel-Seval?” She shakes her head. “Quon, or Ganesh?”
“No. But I do know where The Twins are.”
“You do?”
“Well, where they were.” She turns to one of her attendants. “Trejgun, when was that?”
“Ten days ago. They were in Haiti, preparing to fly to Angola to tend to children in the bush.”
“Someone should go after them,” says Mrs. Mirskaya.
“Yes,” Peter answers, “but not this minute. We need to greet the Cats and Dogs, learn as much as they can tell us. First thing in the morning.” He glances at Pratha.
Brygun says, “They have been going by the names of Schmieder and Johanan.”
Zeke chokes on his water. “You’re kidding?” he blurts out, then turns red as all eyes fall on him.
“I do not kid, young man,” Brygun replies.
“I’m sure you don’t,” Zeke sputters, “but I know those guys. Dr. Schmieder and Dr. Johanan. I worked for them in Guatemala.” They stare at him, skeptical. “Big guys. Johanan is taller, but Schmieder is burlier. They both have beards, or did. They smile and laugh all the time, and goof around a lot, for doctors, I guess. They don’t act much like doctors, really, but I thought they were pretty cool.”
“Sounds like The Twins to me,” says Mrs. Mirskaya.
“Oh,” Zeke adds, “and Dr. Schmieder is missing a finger on his left hand.”
Myrddin claps. “That’s them. No doubt about it.”
All are clearly amazed at the coincidence.
“They’re Firstborn?” Zeke asks. “And twins? Real twins?”
“Fraternal, but yes.” Peter rubs his chin. “And you know them...”
“Yeah. And they liked me. I think. They wanted me to go with them to Polynesia for more aid work, but my six months was up so I turned them down.”
“Good idea,” Mrs. Mirskaya says.
“Why?”
“Risky to hang out with those lads,” says Edgar. “They are... adventurous, shall we say.” Edgar smiles, as if from a pleasant memory of long ago. “But good lads, all in all.”
Peter says, “You never cease to amaze, Zeke Prisco.”
Zeke blushes again. Peter sneaks Pratha another glance.
Pratha acknowledges the look, then turns her attention to Freyja. “What do you hear of Munin?”
“He is with Yggdrasil. Has been these past thousands of years, which you would know if you did more than hole up in brothels and sleep with anything that has a heartbeat, and maybe some things that don’t. Wouldn’t surprise me, you ravenous harlot.”
“This from the woman who slept with dwarves for a necklace.”
“Pah,” says Freyja. “I didn’t care about that thing, and I knew it was Myrddin Wyllt in his feeble guises.”
Myrddin gasps. “You did?”
“Of course I did, you fool. Who do you think I am, The Prathamaja Nandana?”
Comprehension spreads in a grin across Myrddin’s face and his eyes shine. “You knew...”
“Shut it, Wyllt. Don’t let it go to your head.” To Peter, she says, “It calls to you, you know. The Tree.
“I have not heard.”
“Because you haven’t been listening.”
Peter is thoughtful, ashamed even. “No, I haven’t. Not for a long time.” He looks back to her. “Why does it call?”
There’s a somber note in her voice when she answers, “To say goodbye.”
Peter swallows and nods, gazing at the ground. After a moment, he says softly, “The Lady of the Lake is dead.”
“I know that,” says Freyja. “We visited each other often, Isis and I. Unlike some people I know. How do you think she received her supplies all these years? She’s been dying for some time. Not that you would know.” Peter is quiet. “Come with me. All of you.” Her eyes fall on Baphomet, who’s been standing at the back, bound and silent. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you, Goat. I’ve been watching Pater’s progress since you all entered Norway. I can still scry my father, you know. Brygun, escort the prisoner to the dungeon. Put him in the strongest cell.” She looks to Peter. “Unless we could prepare him for dinner. Trejgun makes a delightful Punjabi curry.”
* * *
They follow Freyja and Trejgun to a stone barn against a cliff not far from the castle. Inside, it’s like any old barn, with mows above, musty straw on the floor and empty stalls of worn wood. They proceed to the far end, where Trejgun inserts a key into a hole in the stone. One push and the wall cracks along mortar joints and swings open as double doors.
Gas lamps flare to life inside, revealing a storeroom nearly as expansive as the Lady of the Lake’s, but the walls are rough and unfinished, the ceiling much lower, braced with mortared arches throughout, and there aren’t as many shelves. Piled everywhere are weapons and armor, furniture and décor, and treasures of every kind imaginable. Heaped near the door are gold coins and jewels like one might imagine discovering in a dragon’s cave from a fairytale.
“The boys brought everything of value from the Lady’s vault here, after we laid her to rest according to her wishes. We knew her wards would fade, so we destroyed the stone circle as well.”
“But you left the Siege Perilous and the Wheel,” says Myrddin.
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“I’m not having those infernal contraptions anywhere near my home, Myrddin Wyllt.”
“They’re ruined now anyway,” says Myrddin.
“Good riddance.” Freyja waves her hand over the storeroom. “As you can see, with the Lady’s collection and my own, it’s in a bit of disarray, but we have fortune and arms aplenty, should we need them.” The group spreads out, looking over the bizarre collection. “Sudarshana is here, Pater, should it come to that,” she says to Peter.
Peter pauses. “And here it will stay.”
A display against one wall catches Fi’s attention. Unlike the rest of the room, this area is tidy, its wares dusted and polished. A half-dozen sets of gleaming gold armor are arranged on stands. Stunningly beautiful and wicked, and all designed for women. Not full suits, but pieces specifically designed for flexibility and speed. Helmets with wings sharp as knives. Pieces with short blades at the shoulders and elbows, bladed spurs for the heels, as well as finely mailed hauberks and slim faulds. There’s a rack of swords, as well as a collection of daggers, spears and bows.
Zeke looks them over with Fi, then studies a mound of swords behind them, heaped as high as he is tall. “Damn,” he utters, walking across the aisle to examine the stockpile.
“Excalibur is in there somewhere,” Freyja says, startling him, “should you wish to dig it out.”
“Excal—” Zeke begins to say. “Um, that’s okay.”
“Good choice. Probably lose fingers in the process. Maybe a whole leg.” Freyja turns back to Fi. “Don’t touch that,” she scolds.
Fi pulls her hand back from one of the helmets. Freyja shuffles up. “All that’s left of the armor of the Valkyries. A reminder of grand and terrible days.”
“And that one?” Fi says, pointing to the central set of armor. Smaller than the others, enameled bright shining white, with gilded trim.
“That belonged to the queen of the Valkyries,” Freyja answers wistfully.
“You,” says Fi. Freyja nods. “You said ‘belonged.’ Not anymore?”
“Hard to be queen of nothing, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would be a Valkyrie,” Fi says softly.