by Renée Jaggér
But as the newcomer rounded the corner into the dining area, she saw that she was wrong.
It was Balder. He wasn’t wearing his golden armor or other divine accouterments, of course, having traded them in for a nice button-down cream-colored shirt and well-pressed slacks. Otherwise, though, he’d done nothing to tone down his appearance.
As such, Tomi was following him with a sort of rapturous expression, her mouth slack. Bailey was afraid she might drool on the floor. She’d always gotten the impression that Tomi preferred men who were a little rough around the edges, hence her obvious lust for the Nordin boys, but Balder was so blindingly attractive in his male-model way that it didn’t seem to matter. His long golden hair sparkled even in the low lighting.
“Oh,” Tomi gasped, “uh, sir, just, um, sit wherever you want! I’ll be along to take your order in a second.” She glared at the other waitress on duty, who was also gazing at their new customer as if hypnotized.
To Bailey’s total lack of surprise, he came over and sat across from her. The fact that he was here meant he must have something important to share, but she wished he could have waited until she was done eating. Now she’d have to put up with Tomi’s shenanigans through the whole rest of her meal.
“Hello,” the god of beauty and innocence greeted her. “Are you well?”
“Yeah,” she returned. “Fine, mostly. Busy as heck lately, trying to save multiple worlds while keeping abreast of all the godly political crap going down. How about yourself?”
He smiled pleasantly. “Oh, I’m good. Thank you for asking.”
Tomi rushed up and took his order, complimenting him on his shirt and cracking jokes the whole while as he grinned at her in a bemused but confident fashion. The werewitch wondered if he fully understood the effect he was having on the poor woman. He seemed aware that something was going on, but being an immortal, he might not have grasped quite what.
Balder ordered a club sandwich, heavy on the bacon, along with a root beer.
“Ohh, that sounds good!” Tomi cooed. “How do you want your bacon done?”
“Crispy, please,” replied Balder.
The waitress rushed off to place the order, shooting two backward glances at the god as she left.
Bailey sipped her orange juice. “I had a club yesterday; it was from the sandwich shop, though, instead of the diner. Slight difference. Also, it’s weird to me that you're a bacon fan.”
Balder smiled. “Food of the gods, if you ask me,” he quipped.
It took the girl a second to realize he’d made a joke since it hadn’t occurred to her that he had a sense of humor. “Oh, ha-ha, right. Most of us mortals—I’m not one anymore, but close enough—are fond of it also. Except for people whose religion forbids pork or are concerned about cardiac arrest. It’s so damn tasty, though.”
“Indeed,” the deity agreed. “So, Bailey, do you know why I’m here?”
Tomi reappeared with a tall glass of root beer, and he thanked her with a warm smile that made her shudder. Bailey was afraid she would stick around, but one of her other tables started giving her the eye, forcing the woman to tend to them.
The werewitch looked into her visitor’s big blue eyes. “I’m guessing you’ve come for the same reason Coyote did: to teach me more stuff and offer training and advice, right?”
“Indeed. You would benefit from learning more of the ways of swordplay and combat magic, and I can instruct you in them better than anyone. People sometimes think I am too nice to be a warrior, but they are mistaken.”
Bailey didn’t doubt it. The first time she’d met Balder, he’d summoned a swarm of Viking ghosts to attack her and Roland as a test, and not long ago, she’d faced him in single combat. With a sword and shield in hand, he was nothing to fuck around with.
The girl nodded and bit into her last slider.
Balder asked her to quickly review what Coyote had taught her so there were no redundancies since they didn’t have time to repeat things she already knew. She told him, and he seemed satisfied.
After his sandwich arrived, he spent a couple minutes eating, a look of deep satisfaction on his face as he chewed the crispy bacon and washed it down with soda. Tomi lingered for a minute to stare at him and sigh before assuring him that anything he needed from her—anything at all—would be his if he requested it. He thanked her and said his food and drink seemed fine.
Bailey cleared her throat. “That may not be what she meant, but let’s not get into that. Anyway, could you elaborate on what you’ll be showing me?”
“Of course.” He set down his half-eaten club. “En route to enacting his ultimate plans, whatever they are, Fenris will be coming for us, the Asgardian pantheon, which means that I am among his targets, so I’m afraid it’s personal. I would prefer not to die. Training you in weapons-based fighting that you might be able to use to defeat him will be both beneficial and cathartic.”
The girl wiped her lips with her napkin. “Makes sense.”
“Quite honestly,” Balder continued, “I cannot stand Fenris, and it has been thus for eons. He is humorless, cynical, and dishonest, though we’ve only just come to realize how dishonest. However, I am not certain I could overcome him in combat, but Tyr may be able to, and on the side, I can train you to help. Do you agree to that, Bailey Nordin?”
She breathed in through her nose, pushing all feelings out of her head. “I do.”
“Damn,” Bailey said and whistled. “How much did you pay for this thing?”
Balder shrugged. “I’m only renting it. Please, hop in.”
It was an electric-blue 2020 Porsche 911, one of the nicer sports cars she’d seen outside of Gunney’s collection of antiques. She was all too happy to climb into the passenger’s seat and secretly hoped he planned to drive a nice long way.
They went southwest out of town, speed climbing toward a hundred miles per hour as Greenhearth fell away behind them and they climbed the little-traversed mountain roads. Past the point, Bailey recalled, where Roland and the rest of the town had confronted the Venatori Inquisitor who had tried to place the whole community under lockdown. The road had been badly torn up, but it was repaired by now.
“Holy shit,” the girl exclaimed as Balder continued his mad exercise in reckless driving. Yet his control was perfect, and he reflexively made every necessary adjustment to keep the car in its lane despite the winding and steep quality of the asphalt path before them.
The drive ended five minutes later at a remote scenic outlook, the one where the Weres of the Hearth Valley had held a memorial service for several of their own who had fallen against the Venatori. Normally it was a touristy place, though not heavily visited. At the moment, it was empty.
“Ah, good,” remarked Balder. “We’ll have privacy. I’ll set an enchantment to ensure it stays that way.”
They climbed out of the car and strode to the center of the paved area atop the low peak, with other mountains and vales spread out in all directions around them.
Balder pulled a medieval European longsword out of thin air and tossed it to the girl, who managed to catch it only at the last second in her surprise. She looked it over; it was a classic weapon of its type: cruciform, approximately four feet long, with a two-handed grip and a relatively narrow blade that would be good both for cutting and thrusting attacks.
“Nice,” she remarked. “For whatever reason, I assumed we’d be using, you know, Viking swords.”
The god of innocence tittered at that. “The iconic sword type associated with my original worshipers is my favorite for sentimental reasons,” he conceded, “but I am skilled with all forms of blades, and you ought to be as well. The fourteenth-century longsword is a well-rounded weapon and an excellent place to start. However, I shall oppose you with something a bit different...”
He put a hand behind his back and pulled out a long, elegant rapier. The curled and upswept guard upon the hilt and narrow blade made the type of sword unmistakable, but somehow Bailey had thought of rapie
rs as being smaller, bendier weapons, like modern fencing swords. The earlier and more martially-oriented blade Balder wielded was a thick, deadly, forty-inch spike mounted on a one-handed grip.
“Bailey,” he began, “it is time you learned true and proper swordsmanship, above and beyond what you practiced in the training grounds not long ago.”
That rankled her. “I did fine then. A sword is a sword, isn’t it? You swing the edge toward someone as fast as you can, then you stick them with the pointy end or however that quote goes; you know the one I mean. Besides, I can turn into a wolf and call in a magical airstrike whenever I need one. Honestly, isn’t this kinda redundant?”
He laughed again, and there was a faint note of contempt and condescension in it. “Not at all. In the many realms of our universe, there are many magical weapons, and knowing how to wield something similar will serve you well. Trust me.”
With that, he attacked.
She’d expected him to give her a brief introduction before they got to it, but she’d also learned to expect the unexpected from supernatural beings. Fortunately, Balder began with simple alternating thrusts, high and then low, which were fast enough to have been deadly if she’d been caught unawares. Since she was paying attention, they were easy to parry.
Still, Balder forced her back step by step, his offense coming too quick for her to counterattack. Particularly as her sword, while less heavy than she’d expected, was not as nimble as his.
Then he stopped. “Not bad,” he opined. “You have good instincts for the flow of a fight and were able to block my strikes, which, by the way, were legitimate attacks, albeit simple ones. Had you slipped up, the blade would be lodged in your face or chest.”
She nodded. “I imagine we don’t have time to train the safe way.”
“Indeed. Anyhow, your footwork is rather sloppy. You managed to remain balanced, an indicator of your general aptitude for combat. However, greater smoothness and precision is needed for proper high-level swordplay. Allow me to show you...”
He drilled her in the complex footwork associated with multiple different types of fencing and European martial arts. There wasn’t time for her to attain full mastery, of course, but with all the techniques she’d learned for expanding her mind and retaining information, it was nonetheless educational. More than anything, she tried to focus on the underlying philosophy of moving her body in tandem with her sword, supporting herself on her feet at all times, and positioning herself in ways to gain leverage and minor tactical advantages over her opponent.
Then they again locked blades, with Balder employing different kinds of attacks, showing her various ways to strike and block, and urging her to combine those with the footwork lessons, blending everything into a harmonious, nearly mechanistic whole.
Whatever enchantment the god of beauty had used to keep people away, it must have worked. No one bothered them as the sun began to sink behind the mountains. They continued, never breaking to rest for more than two or three minutes at a time, as the sky went dark and the stars became visible.
Not until the sun reappeared over the distant peaks to the east did Balder conclude the lesson. Bailey, huffing and increasingly stressed, had been forced to call upon her extra reserves of strength as a shifter, not to mention taking heart to Coyote’s previous lessons about drawing vitality from the earth.
The girl leaned on her sword and stared down at the valley. All she wanted at the moment was a glass of water, followed by a soft bed.
“Good,” Balder congratulated her. “If you can remember all you’ve learned, I would say you possess a serviceable grasp of the basics. Wielding a sword, you will not simply commit inadvertent suicide.”
“Thanks,” she gasped. “Good to know.”
He gave her ten minutes to sit down and drink some water.
“But,” he added, “that was only our first lesson. There is another, though it ought not take as long as the first.”
The girl scowled. She had little choice about participating, but she wanted to protest. Dragging the process out would leave her too exhausted to remember all she’d learned.
Balder then showed her how to imbue a sword with magic. He enchanted his rapier so flames spewed from the blade and left saffron streaks in the air as it moved. Then he summoned a bolt of lightning to strike it, so it sparked and made white flashes when it struck things, especially her sword. She had to focus hard to repel the electricity from entering her body and stunning or even killing her.
“To do this,” he explained, “you must first focus your will and attention on the sword, imagining the structure of its steel as a foundation on which to build or a nexus around which the magical energy will revolve. Try it first with fire, then with lightning.”
Sighing and clearing her mind of fatigue and distractions, she summoned a flame, but at first succeeded only in heating the blade to dull redness. It started to bend out of shape, and Balder had to magically repair it twice.
On her third try, she succeeded, but the flames persisted for only a minute. It took eight tries before she could maintain the fiery blade for a good three minutes, which Balder considered adequate.
“Well done,” he complimented her. “Now, lightning.”
This time she not only damaged the sword but electrocuted herself and had to use magic to heal the superficial damage and pain-shock the lightning caused. Balder frowned but restored the sword, advised her on how to better control the electricity, and watched as she tried again.
Seven attempts and she had an electrified blade under control for about two and a half minutes.
Balder nodded. “That will do. You are far from a master, but you are no longer a clumsy novice, either. With some, it might have taken over a week. You have done it in a day. Be proud. However, the time has come to give me back my sword.”
He smiled and extended his hand.
Though it was a nice enough weapon, Bailey was happy to be rid of it. “By all means, take the damn thing,” she grumbled.
The blond god took the blade, and it vanished the moment it touched his hand. Then he twirled his hand behind his back and produced another, different sword.
Bailey blinked, staring at the training weapon’s replacement.
It too was basically a European longsword, though slightly shorter and broader of blade, about three and a half feet. Curiously, it had no crossguard, only blade, handle, and pommel. It looked as though it were made of shining quicksilver and glowed with a bright iridescence that reflected the sunlight like a rainbow in a mirror.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Is it—”
“Special, yes,” Balder finished for her. “Magical, certainly. At my request, and according to my specifications, it was crafted by the dwarves, who are masters of metalworking and possess certain magicks of their own in addition to the powers I lent them for the task. It has one purpose: to kill a god.”
Something deep within her went cold with a strange mixture of fear, anguish, and borderline religious awe. She accepted the weapon. Nothing happened when she touched it, but it felt perfect in her hands that even were it not enchanted, she’d have realized that it was a priceless piece of superlative craftsmanship.
Balder went on, “I am trusting you with such a potent artifact because we, the other deities, are all on Fenris’s hit list. He expects us to have such weapons, and having taken me out, it would fall into his hands to use against other gods. He will not anticipate it being in your possession. Hold onto it, Bailey, and keep in mind that it can only kill a weakened god, not one at full power, so do not rely upon it at first. Save it for when the fight is about to come to an end, then end it.”
She stared at the blade as the meaning of Balder’s words sank in.
“Farewell,” he added, then turned around. When Bailey looked up, he was gone. So was the Porsche.
Fenris strolled across a lush green landscape, more oak savannah than forest since much of it consisted of rolling plains of emerald grass. The trees
were regularly interspersed amidst the terrain, though hardly dense. The sky, mostly clear with wisps of white cloud, was visible overhead, and there were boulders—many great heaps and chunks of ancient limestone.
The lycanthropic deity kept walking until he came to a pile of rocks the size of a modest one-story human house. Something about it was subtly different from the boulders he’d come to previously. He stood before it and waited.
In the span of two heartbeats, the rocks moved and rose, rolling up over each other to assemble themselves into a humanoid shape of stones linked by unseen forces. The head-rock, with vague depressions that resembled eyes and a mouth, turned toward the hooded man.
“What,” it asked in a voice like crumbling sediment, “are you doing here?”
Fenris raised a hand, palm outwards. “I come in peace,” he stated. “And I wish to speak to your leader. Will he receive me?”
The rock giant made a rumbling sound as its component parts ground against each other in thought. “If you are true to your word, perhaps he shall. Come, and make no foolish errors. We will not tolerate treachery.”
“Of course.”
Fenris followed the giant up a gentle slope toward a ring of hills where the trees were larger and the scattered rocks more numerous. They reached a rough wall of many different types of stone, within which was a courtyard of quartz and gypsum.
At the center of the courtyard grew a massive tree, as big around as a tower. A recess had been carved into its trunk and was lined with flat stones in the shape of a strangely majestic throne. There sat another rock giant, larger by a head than the one Fenris had followed.
To the sides, piles of minerals assembled themselves into the attendants and bodyguards of the king, who turned his face-boulder toward his guest.
The monarch’s voice resembled a small earthquake. “You are Fenris, yes?”
“I am,” responded the wolf-father. “Perhaps you have been paying attention to what’s been happening lately, perhaps not. Either way, I would inform you of it, and of the role you can play in bringing about Ragnarök and overthrowing the gods of the Asgardian pantheon.”