James Lovegrove - The Age Of Odin (50 page)

Vali, Vidar and Tyr did their very best out among the tanksuits. The JOTUNs and SURTs took a pasting. Improved or not, they met their match in the form of three righteously pissed-off gods in gnome-made iron outerwear. The tanksuits bundled in with their freeze rays and flamethrowers firing full throttle, and the Aesir knocked them back. It was a thing to see - a tanksuit spinning helplessly through the air, whacked clean off its wheelbase by a swipe from a clunky, metal-sheathed arm. One JOTUN got pounded into the ground, almost literally. Bashed on the bonce repeatedly until its wheels were submerged in the muddy soil. A SURT ended up so dented and misshapen, it was barely recognisable. The man inside was presumably no better off.

Then the trolls entered the fray. At least, most of them did. A couple showed more sense than I'd have credited a troll with and hurried off into the forest, avoiding the battle altogether. The rest, however, true to form, headed right into the midst of the fighting. Because the JOTUNs and SURTs looked to be the nastiest players on the pitch, naturally the trolls went for them rather than Odin's sons. Bursts of flame scorched the trolls' bodies, and subzero beams zapped them, and some fell, but the others piled on into the tanksuits, batting them aside, clobbering them, picking them up and tossing them around.

For a few minutes - a few brief, precious minutes - it looked like the battle outside the castle might just go our way. Between Odin's sons and the trolls, the JOTUNs and SURTs had their hands full. They were taking casualties by the truckload. Their superior firepower (and icepower) wasn't getting them anywhere. They'd come on like a tsunami, only to crash against a granite cliff of resistance, that shuddered from the shock but withstood.

Their actions became hesitant, unsure. I could imagine the operators inside yelling like crazy into their comms sets, asking one another what the hell was going on, how come these motherfuckers weren't
breaking
like they should, why were three low-rent Iron Man knockoffs and a bunch of jumbo-size caveman-type goons getting the better of the might and majesty of US military knowhow? On paper this should have been a rout. So how come the tanksuits were taking all the punishment instead of dishing it out?

I allowed myself to believe that we did stand a chance after all, that Vali, Vidar and Tyr - with the trolls' help - were going to swing things in our favour. The blizzard was dwindling, too, which was also to our advantage. Maybe, maybe...

Then
Nagelfar
itself got involved, and that was the tipping point. The decisive moment. The final, fateful turning of the tide.

The automated machine guns on its hull swung into play, strafing the battleground. Their accuracy wasn't pinpoint, but damn well as near as. The trolls were first to take the brunt of it. Laser dots suddenly speckled them, like a fluorescent dose of the measles, and then pieces started flying off their bodies. They jerked and flailed, disintegrating under a hail of sabot-cased flechette rounds.

"Christ..." I groaned.

The guns then turned their attention on Vali, Vidar and Tyr. The gnomes' suits of armour stood up to the onslaught. The iron shells became peppered with pockmarks. The flechettes weren't penetrating, but the guns fired so thick and fast, and their volleys were so fiercely concentrated, that their targets were scarcely able to move. In fact, it was all the three gods could do just to stay upright.

This allowed the dozen remaining tanksuits to close in and blast away at them point blank, unimpeded. Ice and flame together battered the gnome armour's surfaces. Superheated and supercooled in several places at once, iron cracked and ruptured. Tyr was the first to die. The tanksuits peeled his armour off him in fragments, exposing him bit by bit to their weapons. It was dismal to watch, and just as dismal to see the same being done to Vali in turn.

Vidar managed to stumble away while his brothers were getting the freeze/burn treatment. He made it back to the castle with the armour falling off his body at every footstep, crumbling away in chunks and flakes until it was just a trail of scrap metal behind him in the snow. His strength was nearly gone as he threw himself across the threshold of one of the breaches. Almost immediately he was in the clutches of frost giants, who hauled him off somewhere, recognising him as a prize, a captive worth taking while he was in no fit state to resist.

Freya and I were still up on the battlements, and by this time I was becoming resigned to the inevitable. So, it seemed, was she. I didn't even bother checking via the walkie-talkie to see how the fighting was going in the castle itself. I didn't want to know. Besides, I could tell by the sounds of battle, or rather the increasing lack of them; gunfire was becoming sporadic and petering out. And now frost giants could be heard singing. An unholy racket, more football terrace chant than actual melody, drifting across the roofless turrets and tumbledown walls. I couldn't make out the words but their sense couldn't have been clearer:
face it, losers, we've won
.

"Freya..."

"Gid." She gripped my arm, tight. "You did your best. Never doubt that. No one could have done more." Her eyes sparkled like frost under lamplight.

"But we -"

"We tried. But it is Ragnarök. It isn't called the Doom of the Gods for nothing. Victory was never going to be easy."

She was planning on saying more, but frost giants had found us. They approached from both sides along the battlements, much as had happened at Utgard. Freya and I checked how much ammunition we had left - enough for a last little burst of mischief - and then turned back to back.

"Meet you in Gimlé," she said over her shoulder.

"Sure thing," I replied. "I'll be the one with the red carnation in my buttonhole and carrying a copy of the
Times
." Then to the frost giants I said, "All right, boys. Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough."

They sneered, snarled, and charged.

They were just metres away when clusters of brilliant little laser dots painted the battlements between them and us, swirling on the snow-capped stonework. Wisely, they halted. The laser dots then swept upwards to mark Freya and me.

I braced myself, but no flechette rounds came. The message was clear.
Don't move a muscle, or they'll be cleaning you up with a mop and bucket.

As we stood there pinned in place, a fur-clad figure exited
Nagelfar
and strode towards the castle, passing briskly between the last few JOTUNs and SURTs, which backed away respectfully.

"Well, howdy there," the figure called up, reaching the base of the castle wall. "And how're you two doing this fine day?"

"Smashing," I said. "And you?"

"Oh now, let me see. Almost all of the folks I hate the most are now dead. Me and my jotun buddies appear to have conquered Asgard. And Midgard's official biggest pain in the bee-hind is currently stuck with more laser sights trained on him than a sow's got teats."

Mrs Keener beamed at me, happy as a bride on her wedding day.

"All in all, I'd say I'm just peachy, wouldn't you?"

Sixty-Six

We stood huddled in the shadow of
Nagelfar
- everyone from our side who was still alive and not bedridden in the field hospital. Shockingly few of us. We looked bedraggled and downcast. Beaten. Hollowed by defeat and humiliated by surrender.

Epic fail, as Cody might have said.

It sickened me. Not just that we'd lost, but that we'd lost so thoroughly. I wanted to believe there was some way we could reverse the situation and still pull off a victory, but frankly that wasn't looking any too likely. We'd been disarmed, and frost giants surrounded us in throngs, and beyond them the tanksuits were loitering, along with
Nagelfar'
s guns. Some kind of last-ditch comeback was just too tall an order.

Mrs Keener was having a high old time. Strutting up and down in front of us, looking all preeny and disdainful.

"So this is it, huh?" she said. "All done and dusted. To be honest I'd been expecting more of a challenge. All this time, knowing Odin, I was thinking I was gonna be in for some serious opposition. I went to a whole heap of trouble having these here heavy-duty vehicles built, and turns out I hardly needed 'em. Talk about disappointment. I feel as let down as a pussycat with an inflatable mouse."

"All right, all right," I said testily. "We get it. You've won. No need to rub it in."

She snapped round to look at me. "No need? Oh, there's every need, big guy. I've waited a long time for my revenge on the Aesir. Tucked away underground for ages -
ages
- suffering the torments of the damned, I dreamed of nothing else. This is my moment and I am determined to wring every last drop of enjoyment out of it I can."

"Look, Mrs Keener... Loki?... No, I'm going to stick with Mrs Keener... Look, Mrs Keener, nobody here is in a position to do you any further harm. Let your prisoners go. There's no question that Asgard is yours. The decent thing to do now would be show some compassion."

She seemed astonished. "Let them go? The very idea! Who do you take me for, sir?"

"The men at least. The mortals. What else are you going to do with them? Mass execution?"

"It had crossed my mind. Are you trying to plead for your own life?"

"Not mine specifically. Everyone's."

She stepped closer to me, and in spite of everything I couldn't help thinking how flat-out ravishing she was. Someone this beautiful and this bewitching, it was easy to see how she could have enslaved a world.

"What if I offered you a deal... Gideon, is it? What if I agreed to what you're asking, but at a price?"

"The price being...?" I said, suspecting.

"What do you think?"

"Just say it."

"You." Almost a purr. "You've sure been a tick under my saddle and I'd like to make an example outta you. And it occurs to me you might try and get yourself killed tryin' to escape, or something like that. So you promise to come meekly, in exchange for the lives of all these other guys."

"What by you mean by 'example'? Would this be a sex thing by any chance?"

"Oh, you! You know full well it ain't. I mean you peacefully submit to a big old spectacular execution, and the rest go free, just like you want. You have my word on that."

My throat was crackly-dry. My stomach felt like I was both constipated and about to pebbledash my Y-fronts at the same time. A voice in my head was screaming
No!

"Okay," I croaked.

To my right there was a soft sigh. I didn't look round. That was where Freya was. There were also murmurs from the other prisoners - surprise, hope maybe.

"But they live," I went on. "I want your guarantee on that. They live and they go home safe and sound."

"You have it."

"Gid, Loki is a trickster," Vidar croaked from amongst the crowd. "You cannot trust him."

"Oh hush up, you," Mrs Keener said. "Don't you pay him no mind, Gid. Whatever anyone might say, I do possess a sense of honour. Shake on it?"

We did. Her hand cold in mine, and slender, but strong. Then Bergelmir stepped up and grabbed me roughly by the collar. His
issgeisl
was raised and ready.

"It will not be swift, human," he said in a voice thick with emotion. "A hundred cuts or more. By the end I will have you pleading to be put out of your misery."

Mrs Keener caught his arm. "No, Bergelmir. Not now. Not like this. I reckon Gid deserves something a little more... exotic. And I have just the thing in mind."

"He is mine," stated the frost giant leader, towering over her. "Mine by right. He killed my Leikn."

She was not intimidated. "And you can officiate at his death, I promise. The job of executioner's yours. But I'd like it to be elaborate - ceremonial - and that's something we have to prepare for. It won't take long to built the apparatus we're gonna use. Once that's set up, he's all yours."

Bergelmir considered this, finally nodding. "A pleasure deferred is a pleasure increased."

"Attaboy. Now, haul his sorry carcass off to
Nagelfar
. Stick him in one of the troop cabins, and make sure he's well guarded. As for the rest of this crowd, back to the castle with them. And make sure they're well guarded too. I'm not anticipating any misbehaviour, but you can't be too careful."

As Bergelmir frogmarched me past her, I said, "You'd better keep your promise, Loki. Or..."

Mrs Keener arched one plucked-to-a-perfect-comma eyebrow. "Or...? You ain't got an 'or' to threaten me with, Gideon. You ain't got jack spit. But," she added, "when I make a deal with somebody, I always keep my end of it. Well, pretty much always."

It was all the assurance I was going to get.

It would have to do.

Sixty-Seven

The cabin was deep within
Nagelfar'
s bowels. It had a hard bunk, no porthole, a dim lightbulb, a solid metal door. A snapshot of a toddler was Blu-Tacked to one wall. A pair of size 12 Converse trainers sat on the floor, waiting for an owner who was in all probability not returning.

No less than four frost giants were posted outside. I paced. I was going nowhere; pacing was all I had. Back and forth, back and forth. Seven steps one way, seven steps the other.