I was stiff from the cold, the previous days’ exertions, and due to the gifts of my illness. I knelt on the ground next to my bedroll and racked the slide of the Kimber 1911 pistol. The gloom hid the harriers from me.
“Oh, we will come,” said the reedy voice again. “But we won’t be the ones meeting death on this cold night.”
Yowrnsaxa shrugged and then her laugh boomed into the night. “Weak men talk,” she said. “Cowards talk.”
“Come,” taunted Sif, her voice almost seductive. “Don’t keep a lady waiting.”
Something stirred in the darkness off to my left, a twig snapped, and snow crunched. “Ehlteenk!” yelled Meuhlnir. Thunder boomed and rolled through the woods. A blinding bright blue fork of lighting arced from the sky, through the trees and into the peaked metal helmet of a man standing in the woods. The night lit up like it was daylight for a brief second, just long enough to get a glimpse of the many men ringing our camp. Just long enough to see the man struck by Meuhlnir’s bolt of lightning crumple to the ground. Just long enough to see a man with a bow taking aim at Mothi’s back.
As soon as the bolt faded, I was blind, night vision shattered by the lightning, but my instincts and training took over. The Kimber snapped up in my hands, and it bucked twice, filling the silent night with a different kind of thunder and shattering the dark night with flashes of yellow-white light.
I knew I’d hit the man, even before I heard his bowstring thrum, even before I heard him crash over on his back. The forest was suddenly silent again. No one moved for the briefest of moments, and then one of the horses screamed, and the fighting resumed.
“Au noht,” said Yowrnsaxa.
I felt a kind of pressure wrapping around my head, as soft as feathers and as cold as the snow I knelt in. My eyes began to sting, and suddenly I could see again.
Mothi snarled and swung his hands together at shoulder height, bearded axe blades glinting in the low light from the fire as he chopped into the neck of one of the men closest to me. Mothi seemed have grown a foot or so, and he got proportionally bulkier as well as taller. He was no small man before, but now he seemed to hulk over the remaining foe before him. He whirled to face the man closest to him. “I am Mothi,” he hissed, “and if you stand before me, you die next.” Fear bloomed on the man’s face as he backed away, his eyes darting around as if looking for help.
A man lurking in the woods across the fire from me caught my attention. He was holding a dagger in each hand and was staring at Sif with hot hatred. She didn’t see him—she was looking at a large man in front of her. As the man with the daggers snuck closer to her, Sif took a step toward the woods and beckoned with her shield.
The Kimber bucked in my hand again, and the man with the daggers buckled and fell to his knees. The retorts of the .45 rolled through the forest again, its muzzle flashes blindingly bright. Again, everyone froze for a breathless moment until the echo of the two gunshots died, and then the violence erupted again.
“Ehlteenk!” yelled Meuhlnir.
Thunder split the night again and a bright blue bolt arced from the heavens to melt one of the attackers into the snow. Yowrnsaxa screamed and leapt on a man close to her, the sword in her hand a whirling blur of sharp edges. Her opponent dodged and countered, but either her shield or her sword seemed to jerk into the path of his attacks. Fear glinted in his eye as her sword continued its mad dance. Meuhlnir took two big strides to Yowrnsaxa’s side, and his hammer crushed the skull of the man.
“Fools,” said the reedy-voiced man. “Don’t fight them one by one!” He grabbed a man from each side and pushed them forward—at me. They stumbled a step or two and then saw I didn’t have an axe or a sword in my hand. They glanced at each other and sprinted at me. The one on the left leered at me and laughed as if he were crazy. The one on the right ran silently, his face grim and set.
The Kimber roared twice, and the leering man on the left took two stuttering steps before he fell, blood misting the night air. As he hit the ground, he flopped to his side, his empty face staring at me in a rigid mask of death, two bullet holes in his chest. The grim man on the right leapt to the side and hunched over, trying to hide behind his painted wooden shield.
The .45 caliber pistol in my hand boomed, and the slide locked back. The bottom portion of his painted shield exploded in a shower of splinters, but I couldn’t tell if I’d hit only the shield or the man behind it, too. I ejected the magazine and rammed a full one in its place. I thumbed the slide release as I brought the pistol to bear.
The pistol barked and coughed, its muzzle spitting daggers of flame three times. Three slugs almost half an inch wide slammed into the grim man, one in the shield arm, one in his jaw just below the left corner of his mouth, and one in the middle of the throat. For the third time, there was a stricken lull in the fighting.
The man facing Mothi threw down his sword as he turned and ran. Mothi spun in a circle, flinging blood from his bearded axes, looking for someone to fight. His face wore a savage, victorious smile.
The man fighting Sif was very large, but she barged into him with her shield and staggered him back a step. It seemed to enrage him, and he screamed at her. Her axe streaked low under her shield and chopped into his thigh—a vicious wound. He screamed in a high-pitched voice but grabbed the edges of her shield and flung her into a tree. She staggered, and the man snarled.
I brought the Kimber up to fire, but Mothi streaked by me, fouling the shot. He was screaming as he ran, and his scream was loud enough that the man glanced over his shoulder in fear. Sif shook her head to clear her mind, and her knee rocketed up into the big man’s groin. He doubled over as Mothi reached them. Mothi hit him between the shoulder blades with an axe while Sif hit him in the face with the spiked back side of hers. The resulting mess was not pretty, and the man lay in a twitching mass as he died.
Dead attackers lay all around us, some with gaping bullet holes torn through their flesh and some with gaping wounds from melee weapons. The harriers no longer seemed very eager to fight, and even the reedy-voiced man was quiet. They gripped their weapons and looked around, all nerves and fear. In a few short moments, their numbers had been cut by two thirds, and not one of us was injured.
“What’s the matter, cowards?” snapped Sif. “Not interested in a fight of even numbers?”
“Shut up,” said the reedy-voiced man.
The Kimber barked twice in my hand, two bullets slammed into his chest, and he had nothing more to say in his delicate, feeble voice.
Mothi looked at me with a strange expression on his face and then grinned. “I didn’t like him, either,” he said.
I was as surprised as he was, I hadn’t even given it a thought. I’d just shot a man for talking too much.
“Who sent you?” barked Meuhlnir. “I’ll have the name.” There was a strange feeling of mounting pressure in the air, and menace seemed to drip from his voice.
Yowrnsaxa sliced the air with her sword and grinned at the man nearest to her. “Speak fools. This is Meuhlnir, He of the Thunder, and he gets grumpy when awakened by harriers.”
Mothi pointed at Yowrnsaxa. “And she is Yowrnsaxa, Mistress of the Dancing Steel. This is Sif, Harvester of Blood. I am Mothi Strongheart.” He turned and pointed at me. “And this fearsome man is called Aylootr, trouble him at your peril.” His mouth crooked in a smile.
The four remaining men looked at each other with fear and uncertainty in their eyes.
“Come now!” snapped Meuhlnir. “I grow impatient.” The air around him started to crackle and pop with electricity.
One of the harriers twitched his hand. He was holding a spear, but before he could bring it to bear, lightning slammed into him and drove him to the ground. Only a steaming lump of twitching, dead flesh remained.
As if a switch was thrown, the brief respite from violence was ended.
Sif snarled and bashed a man in the chin with the rim of her shield. His head snapped back, and her axe slammed into his throat, cutting hi
s head from his body. Meuhlnir’s hammer crushed the face of another man, and he fell like a bag of rocks dropped from a height.
Mothi grinned at the last man. He was a young man and scared out of his skin. “You should speak now,” said Mothi.
“It was Vowli!” he said, his voice high and strained. “It was Vowli who sent us. He said you were bandits and had it coming. He said—”
Yowrnsaxa took two quick steps forward, and it looked like she punched him in the stomach, but when she pulled her hand back, her blade was sheathed with blood. “Do shut up now, coward,” she said.
The man looked down at his bleeding stomach and then looked up and met my eye. “What is it?” he whispered.
“What?” I asked him, but he pitched forward on his face, dead. I looked at Mothi. “What?” I asked him.
Mothi just pointed at the Kimber in my hand. He seemed to be shrinking back to his normal size almost as if he was a balloon with a slow leak. “That’s an unusual kind of magic,” he said.
I shook my head. “Not magic,” I muttered. “It’s a machine. A tool.” They were all looking at me. I shrugged. “It’s a chemical reaction. The gunpowder explodes, expelling the bullet due to the pressure in the chamber.” I ejected the magazine and then racked the slide, ejecting the round in the chamber. I held it up before them. “The chamber of the gun is strong enough to contain the explosion, leaving the barrel as the only way to expel the pressure, but the bullet is in the way, so it shoots out in front of the explosion.”
They looked at me for a long moment, not speaking or moving.
“It’s not magic,” I said again.
Mothi laughed and looked around at the bodies. He grinned at Meuhlnir. “Looks like you aren’t the only one fond of loud noises. And I don’t mean your farts.”
Meuhlnir snorted and arched an eyebrow at Mothi. “Aylootr?”
Mothi shrugged. “Seems to fit. And you know as well as I do that there is power in a name.”
“What does Aylootr mean?” I asked.
“The ever booming,” said Mothi with a laugh.
Sif let her shield slide from her arm. She looked around the campsite with disgust. “I don’t want to sleep here again,” she said.
Meuhlnir looked to the east where a glimmer of gold light was visible. “The day is upon us anyway. Might as well pack up and go.”
I got to my feet, fighting stiffness and pain, and bent to start packing my things. The quick battle replayed in my mind’s eye again and again. The words in the Gamla Toonkumowl seemed to be mist in my memory, I couldn’t seem to pin them down. I straightened, stopping in the hunched position that was so familiar to me now, waiting for the sharp, burning ache in the small of my back to subside so I could stand straight.
Sif appeared at my elbow, her magic cream already open. “You know what to do,” she said. “Where is it the worst?”
“The pain isn’t so bad this morning, but I am as stiff as Meuhlnir’s beard.”
“That bad, is it?” She laughed as she pulled up my jacket and shirt, shoving the small container into my hands and digging out a dollop with her fingers. The warm burning sensation that I was already starting to associate with relief spread slowly across the small of my back. Her fingers worked my trousers down to my knees and spread more of the delightful warmth around my hips and knees. She turned me around and began working the cream into the joints of my hand.
“What did Mothi say at the start of the fight?” I asked.
“Harriers,” she said.
“No, not that. The Gamla Toonkumowl.”
Her eyes rose slowly to meet mine. “Ah. He said ‘Hooth ow yowrni’ which roughly translates to ‘skin of iron.’ To protect himself. Armor,” she said. “And he said ‘Strikuhr risa’—‘strength of the giants.’ He has always been jealous of his brother’s natural strength.”
“Also your son?” I asked.
“Yes, though Yowrnsaxa gave birth to him.”
I wracked my brain, trying to remember the name of Thor and Járnsaxa’s son. “Magni?” I asked.
She shrugged. “None other.”
I shook my head, a small smile on my lips.
“Something?” she asked, taking the container of cream from me and waving her hand at my trousers.
I pulled them up and buttoned them. “It just amuses me at times to be standing amongst you. I pointed at Meuhlnir. “The god of thunder and battle.” I pointed at Mothi. “The god of bravery.” I waved at Yowrnsaxa. “The giantess, Yowrnsaxa.”
“And me?” asked Sif.
They were all looking at me now. “Sif, goddess of the harvest,” I said. It struck me as funny how closely Norse mythology matched the list of names Mothi had told the harriers. I chuckled a bit. “And Magni, god of strength. You all made quite an impression on my ancestors.” They all seemed to find something interesting to look at in their packs or the woods around us.
“One of these nights,” said Meuhlnir, “you should tell us of these myths.”
“I wish I knew them better,” I said. “They were first written down long after the fact, after centuries of oral history had mutated what I assume to be tales of your visits to the early Norsemen. They were known as the Sagas.”
Mothi grunted. “It might be interesting to see how these tales have grown.”
I nodded my head. “Unfortunately, I don’t know them by heart. There are many of them.”
Mothi nodded and then shrugged. “It’s no matter,” he said and went to ready the horses. “Maybe we will tell you the tales of our visits that birthed them.”
Yowrnsaxa walked over to me and slapped my arm. “That giantess crap better not be a reference to my dimensions,” she said with a grin.
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “After I’ve seen you fight? And anyway, I enjoy your cooking.”
She laughed and started to turn away, but then turned back. “Eyes of the night,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“Au noht, eyes of the night. To help us see.”
I nodded. “I understand. One thing, though.”
“Yes?” she asked.
“You had to fix our vision because of my gun?”
She nodded. “That and the lightning from the great lout, though we are more accustomed to that and close our eyes when he yells the key. Your weapon was unexpected.” She shrugged at my expression and punched me in the bicep. “It is no matter.”
She left me looking at the bodies lying in heaps all around us.
Twenty-six
Over the next several days, we woke early in the cold mornings and rode long into the dusk of early evening, averaging sixty or seventy miles a day. The cold was bitter and harsh, and we were all exhausted at the end of each day’s ride, but Meuhlnir had wanted to get as far from the scene of the battle as we could, as fast as we could.
On the fifth day, we were watering the horses in the icy water of a large river when Meuhlnir called a halt in the late afternoon, and the sun was low in the sky, but not yet close to the horizon.
“Might as well camp here,” he said.
Mothi glanced at the river and shrugged. “It’s pretty enough.”
“What would you know of ‘pretty,’” asked Sif with a grin.
“Not much surrounded, as I am, by you lot,” said Mothi with a matching grin.
Meuhlnir came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Too tired for a walk?” he asked.
I felt good, given the week of riding long and hard. “Not at all,” I said. “That will give these three the time to come to grips with my dashing good looks.”
Meuhlnir stifled a chuckle. “Might as well ask peacocks to see the beauty of a sunset.” He took my arm and walked me toward the edge of the sparse wood running along the bank. He walked beside me, lost in thought.
The forest of fir trees had given way to black cottonwood, soaring toward the gray skies. It was somehow more pleasant to me—the cottonwoods seemed to be more properly trees than the Christmas tree shapes of t
he firs. There was some snow-covered underbrush, but for the most part, the walking was easy. The snow was shallow here, and more like dust than the heavy, wet snow around the cabin. My cramped legs relaxed into the rhythm of walking.
“I have come to a decision over the past few days. You should go back to the cabin,” he said.
My jaw dropped open, but I couldn’t find anything to say.
“I may have made a gross miscalculation,” said Meuhlnir. “I may have put us all in more danger than is reasonable.”
“I’m not sure about that,” I said. “If anyone did, it was me, dropping in uninvited and embroiling all of you in my fight.”
Meuhlnir shook his head. He stopped walking and turned to look me in the eye. “That’s of no consequence at all. This is something we needed to do if Luka is ever to redeem himself. We’ve spoken of it often.”
“Still, I came and now—”
“No, Hank. I won’t hear of it. If anyone is to blame for us being out here, it is Luka. And the Black Bitch.” His voice was hard and firm. “But this is something else. I never imagined that Vowli would involve himself in your fight, and I should have,” he said. “I made a mistake, and the risk to you is much higher than I had calculated.”
It hung in the air between us. He was more concerned with my safety than his own, that much was clear. “But the risk is the same for me,” I said. “The risk to you and your family has risen from nothing to being attacked by harriers in the night.”
Meuhlnir shook his head and waved his hand. “No, that’s wrongful thinking,” he said, “though it does you credit. No, we have been in danger for many centuries, and instead of facing that danger, we have all chosen to hide here in the woods and the snow. It’s time that we faced this.”
He stroked his beard, looking at me with bright eyes. “But my point is this, I’m not sure we can guarantee your safety on this trip. It might be better for me to travel on to meet with Veethar on my own while the rest of you return to our cabin, or to Mothi’s estate.”
“That doesn’t make much sense to me, Meuhlnir. We are already six hard days’ ride from your cabin. Splitting up and turning back now seems to be more dangerous than continuing on. Dividing our forces. Presenting two targets.”
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