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  "They're not involved, Njörd. I've been talked out of asking for that alliance. For now. Anyway, why would I want your help fighting my own side?"

  "My cousins in Vanaheim say the long lines of fire-wielders are assembling in the East, Loki. They come, and not at your bidding or naysaying. Odin has made common cause with Surt—against you."

  There was a long silence. "Ragnarok comes, then, whether we want it or not."

  "And the Vanir cannot stand against Surt's hosts and the sons of Muspell on their own, Loki," said Njörd. "We're not coming to you to help. We're coming for help. Vanaheim has no walls, unlike Asgard."

  Chapter 34

  The ravens still flew across the heavens bringing word to Odin about the troop build-up in Jötunheim, which was stretching even Loki's power's to exaggerate. They also, in exchange for their favorite jelly beans, brought word of what was happening in the halls of Asgard. Odin was doing his best to ready the Æsir for war. He had sent messengers to the Vanir and South and East to Surt and Muspellheim.

  It was the news from there that was worrying. Surt really did have millions of minions. He also, according to Hugin—and separately confirmed by Munin—had a black, five-sided pyramid for a neck ornament.

  Lamont came to Jerry and Liz's shared room. "What's happening?"

  Jerry bit his lip. "It looks like the end is Surt-ain. We're still, even with all of Hel's corpse warriors, very short of troops. And this is exactly what I was trying to avoid: that apocalyptic war."

  Lamont snorted. "Surt-ain! I guess we'll just have to make sure it's a dead-Surt." He sat down on the bed. "I've been thinking. I'm not finding any answers to my problem with Marie, except to leave her like that forever. And I don't think that's what she would have wished. You're supposed to have acquired knowledge too, Jerry. Have you got any ideas for me?"

  Jerry sighed. "Don't get your hopes up, but in one way, yes. The thing is, it would take magic or a miracle to cure Marie. Science and medicine can't do it. At least here, well, magic can work. I can think of two possibilities. One we get this world's foremost magic-user to help. The trouble is, that's Odin—and he's a tricky, Krim-controlled bastard. Two, if we could somehow get Marie to the world of Egyptian myth, we've got contacts there. And my magical skills there are a long way ahead of what they are here."

  "I didn't even know that you could do magic here at all."

  "Magic isn't as big a part of this mythology as it was in the Egyptian. Magic here tended to focus quite heavily on foretelling the future. Runes were used to invoke certain powers, and symbolism is vital. It goes a bit beyond the principals of similarity and contagion, although of course those do apply."

  "Don't you love it when he talks in foreign languages?" said Liz.

  Jerry grinned. "It gets worse. Poetry—verse and heiti and kennings—are all part of it. So are items of power." He paused, chewed his lip and then said, "I have to point out that there are plenty of examples of Odin raising dead warriors and restoring virginity, and there are also things like one-handed Tyr, and blind Hod, and dead Baldr. But there definitely are magical aspects that ordinary humans can manage."

  "And how are you getting on with learning this lot?" asked Lamont.

  "Slowly. Our biggest need is time, and that seems to be what Surt and Odin have worked out too. They're rushing things on. Surt has no major barriers to his west, just Myrkvid. We have to either cross Midgard, or the sea or the great river Élivágar. And Loki's Naglfar-ship is big, but it is a lousy ferry."

  "Lamont knows this, Jerry," said Liz tiredly. "We've been consulting with him about the pontoon bridge."

  "Xerxes," said Jerry.

  "What?"

  "History, dear," said Jerry. "That stuff you disapprove of. Where most problems had to get solved before, and we don't learn anything from. Xerxes was supposed to have crossed the Hellespont—that's the Dardanelles—on a bridge of boats with an army of two and half plus million men. Back in 490 BC, if I recall correctly."

  "So it can be done?"

  "Apparently."

  "Good. Because we're ready to start planking. How wide are the Dardanelles?"

  "I remember less geography than history."

  "A pity. The Élivágar is about a mile wide and flows strong enough to shift most anchors. Lamont showed them how to make kedges, and I finally got through to the dumb trolls that straight down is not the right place for an anchor."

  "Where do you put the anchor? Straight up?"

  She shook her head. "Doesn't your ancient history explain cable lengths for laying off in strong currents? About six to seven times the depth."

  Lamont laughed. "You know, we make a good team. What one member of group doesn't know, the other will, and we get to insult each other too."

  In Asgard, the man the PSA agents knew as "Harkness"—gullible fools, they were, just as Thjalfi's new master had foreseen—held a conference with his new two acolytes. Thjalfi had to admit he liked having them here. He was in a position of power, but the Einherjar treated him as if he was a jumped-up servant, and so did the other Ás. Some of them—Njörd for one—didn't bother to hide their contempt. And having Odin for a master instead of Thor was a lot scarier. One-eye behaved very strangely half the time, and he was alert and mean.

  But he needed to concentrate on the matter at hand, so he summoned up the trapped spirit of Harkness to guide him. "Look guys, the other side appear to be managing a hell of a rate of troop build-up. And it's pretty apparent that they are too useless to do it by themselves. So it has to be that bunch of renegades over there. We need to put them out of action. They're aiding and abetting the enemy."

  "There's the kids . . ." Bott fiddled with the crossbow that Thjalfi had provided him with. "But they'll probably be under tight guard now."

  "Hugin and Munin say that they are," said Harkness.

  "There is one other weak spot," said Stephens. "That's Lamont Jackson. His wife is missing. From what I could work out she was in a coma. Something about the thorn of sleep."

  "I was there," said Thjalfi-Harkness. "She's in what you might call suspended animation. We've got her tucked away behind a fire-wall."

  "Well, he's pretty worried about her," continued Bott. "She's got some kind of fast growing cancer. They reckon that she would be dead if it wasn't for this coma."

  "Good thinking, guys. That's the sort of leverage we need. Let me go and have a talk with Odin about her."

  "It's a good point, Thjalfi. I can see that she'd be a valuable hostage. But I have other plans for her, now that you bring it up."

  "We could turn this Lamont," suggested Thjalfi slyly.

  "Turn him? Is he coming toward us?"

  Thjalfi shook his head. "No, I mean make him our spy."

  Odin shook his head. "No. She will die too soon from what you have said, and he knows that. I have a better idea. The device," he touched the pyramid pendant, "says we need more reenactments, with belief. I will make her into the vector for turning their cause into a doomed Völsung-saga. Get me Sleipnir saddled. I will send Sigurd, both to his doom and to hers. Let the Andvari curse deal with them. It is strong enough. I just hope she is strong enough to survive for long enough to hand it on."

  The smile was cruel. "It has blighted even my most powerful foe before this."

  Sigurd the Dragon-slayer traversed a land abandoned to war and kinslaying. He thought nothing much of it. Thus it was due to be when Fimbulwinter came. And he had a good hoard of treasure and was better at killing than almost anyone else, thanks to the sword Gram. He even indulged in a sacrifice or two himself. Keeping the Æsir sweet was a reasonably wise idea, seeing as Odin had helped his cause so much so far.

  He wasn't that surprised to see the old man with one eye, a broad hat and his blue cloak, waiting for him. He bowed respectfully. "Hail, Allfather."

  "Hail, Sigurd Dragon-slayer. You must follow the green paths up onto Hindafjall, to a great hall fenced in flame. There find a Valkyrie maid stabbed with Ygg's thorn. She slew men th
at He had not wished dead. Find her, if you can gain her. She is like no other there, her skin the color of copper, and her hair dark. Give her your ring, the ring you took from Fafnir's hoard, and take her into the lands of Midgard to the northwest. There is great battle and much honor to be gained there."

  Chapter 35

  "Ur-Greece," said Throttler, "is nothing like it used to be. The vineyards are taking the place over. Little Pan and Bacchus have been very busy. Anyway. It's a negative. I went and checked with Circe first, Medea. She sends her love by the way, and says she could use some more fish and a visit from your cooking Americans. She thanks you very much for the shampoo. And if possible she would like another one of those Landrace pigs. Your John Salinas did improve her stock, but he disappeared after the Krim did."

  She looked cross, for a moment. "I had to fly all over to find Prometheus, but the same story. There were a rash of disappearances just after we attacked and conquered Olympus. Then we went to Ur-Egypt."

  Bes took over. "Harmakhis was very cooperative. He confirmed the same thing."

  "Bes dear," said Throttler, patting her breasts. "Do you think I should get one of those boob-jobs?"

  Bes looked at his hands, at her frontage, at his hands. "They say that more than a handful is a waste." He looked at his large hands again. "So, maybe. If you want one."

  "Well, I'd look carefully at fur-lined bras if you do," said Cruz. "Because from what we can work out this Norse Ur-Mythworld is as cold as ice, and then some. It's having some kind of three-year winter."

  Throttler looked disapproving. "I don't like hiding my assets, and I don't like snow. Has the professor located a 'carrier' for us?"

  "Yes," said Cruz. "One of the PSA operatives arrested by Fish and Wildlife. He's agreed in exchange for immunity from prosecution." He started rubbing down a dragon with a lifeboat oar acquired especially for the purpose. "Their scales are looking magnificent, eh?"

  He was very proud of the way the two dragons were looking. It had been a tough interview with the officials and zoologists from Fish and Wildlife. But the fact that the two dragons were positively gleaming with a new metallic sheen and good health, and so obviously affectionate and happy, had won the biologists over. Eventually. The park might want them back, but the health and welfare of such irreplaceable creatures had to come first. It was a real tragedy that they could never be bred. Anibal Cruz was just glad that the Fish and Wildlife boys didn't know that Bitar and Smitar were planning on going along with the sphinx on her next venture. He was also planning to go. He had a stepson to fetch home.

  His new commanding officer, Lieutenant Evans, put his foot down. "No, Sergeant. You can't. Not this first trip.

  "With respect, sir. I can see Mac staying put. But we need a reliable, and uh, experienced soldier along. Throttler and Bes are not used to American military methods, sir. And we can't trust that PSA shit as far as we can throw him."

  "I take your point, Sergeant. Also the point about the dragons. Dr. Gunnarsson has pointed out that they'll automatically have respect in a Norse environment whereas Throttler and Bes will have to establish it. But I think they'll do that quite fast. Let them go through. If they succeed in planting the Sphinx image . . . You can go on the next trip. My word on it."

  As Cruz had seen Bes in his new down-padded jacket swatting a dragon that fancied his new epaulettes, he had no doubt about that. Bes looked like a short, squat Michelin man on steroids in that outfit. No sane Viking was going to give him too much trouble. And it did make sense. That way the pyramid got a minimum amount of energy. It didn't appear to register Throttler's flights in and out.

  So Cruz had to wait, with the rest of the team, while Throttler and Bes went alone with the PSA agent.

  "Some man with fake wings and hamstrung legs," said Throttler when they returned.

  "Ah. Völund. Or as you might say Wayland," said Dr. Gunnarsson eagerly.

  "Wrong way to land, you mean," said Bes. "I need thicker boots, by the way, Cruz. Wrong way to land shouldn't have argued about sky space with us."

  Bes hefted Agent Schmitt off Throttler's broad back. Cruz caught the bundle of a man who hung limply in his arms. He was breathing. "He seems to have lost his wits. I had to subdue him, or he'd have had us out of the sky too. This Norse place is full of snow and people with no manners." Bes seemed to relish the idea of teaching them some. "Anyway. It's all set up. Throtsy needs a rest, though, before we fly again."

  Throttler nodded. "At least four hours. And I need lots of food."

  Three hours and fifty-eight minutes later, Bes and Throttler were ready to go again. Cruz was waiting, with his pack, a composite bow and a jungle knife, being hugged by a crying little boy and a woman with pride and tears on her face.

  "I'll bring him back, Medea," said Bes indulgently.

  "And my big brother," said Priones.

  "Do my best," said Cruz, getting up on Smitar's back.

  "Don't you dare chew," said Throttler to Bitar, as the creatures formed a daisy chain, preparing for flight.

  "You sure you don't want me along?" asked Mac, looking up at him.

  "Yeah. Someone has to keep the army going," said Cruz, knowing what the offer meant, and knowing just how little his buddy wanted to go into the Mythworlds again. "Okay, let's move out."

  Cruz found himself airborne above the island of Sævarstad where the newly erected military issue kit-sphinx now stood.

  "Hello. What's that?"

  It was a dragon in the water, a huge dragon, at least twice the size of Bitar or Smitar. The last time these two had seen a dragon—which had proved to be a shape-shifter and not the real thing—they'd plunged headlong. Now both of them coughed nervously, almost in unison. "Uh, Cruz."

  "Yeah?"

  "What do we say?" demanded the dragons.

  "We don't know how to talk to lady dragons," said Smitar.

  "Yeah, you haven't told us about those birds and bees yet," complained Bitar.

  "Should we . . . er, go and ask her if she's doing anything Saturday night?" suggested Smitar. "We could go clubbing . . ."

  Bitar wrinkled his nose. "But I don't like them after they've been clubbed. Too tender. Maybe we could just give her a florist?"

  "Offer to buy her a drink?" asked Smitar. "Candy is dandy but liquor is . . ."

  "Let's just fly down and see what happens," said Cruz who really had no idea what pick-up lines worked on dragons. "How do you know she's female? You might want to say 'hello sailor.' "

  "She's swimming. Females are aquatic," explained Bitar.

  "It figures. Beach romances. Do they wear bikinis?" asked Cruz bemusedly.

  "Not as far as I know. Is my crest straight?" asked Smitar nervously.

  They were skimming the wave tops in aerobatic elegance now. The female dragon put her head up from the water. "Bitar and Smitar?" she said.

  The two dragons ended up crashing into each other and splashing down into the waves, both puce with embarrassment and too tongue-tied to speak.

  Cruz stood on Smitar's back. "That's them," he said. "Can I introduce my two suave dragon buddies to you, lovely lady?"

  She answered him in Norse.

  Beneath him Smitar quivered. "What a voice," he said faintly. "And a Swedish accent too."

  "Sweetish? She's pure sugar." Bitar seemed completely besotted by the huge dragon. "I wonder how good my dragonish is?"