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  "Do you mind taking me to the beach before you start trying?" asked Cruz. He'd have got more response out of a brick wall.

  Chapter 36

  Marie Jackson lay within the ring of fire, unbreathing and yet not dead, walking through dreams of her youth with an older man she loved. A man with a quick retentive mind, just out of the Marine Corps, hopeful of a bright future. She was not alone and afraid in those dreams.

  She was not alone in the ring of fire either.

  When Sigurd rode up on his great battle-steed Grani, having jumped the wall of fire and kicked open the great brass-bound door, he found the hall was so full of Valkyries that the walls were close to bulging. He had his instructions from Odin, though. Find the copper-skinned one, the one he'd fancied after killing Fafnir, wake her, give her Andvari's ring, and the usual courtesies to seal their betrothal.

  He had to leave Grani outside and wander around the hall a bit, pausing for a serious drink at the end of each row. My, but there was quite a selection here! He found the woman at the end of the third row, if she'd been another five rows on, he'd have found two of her. Like dragonslaying, it was dry work, keeping his attention on their faces.

  To save time later, he arranged her skirts. She had good legs. He took off his sword belt because it was in the way. Then, kneeling down between those legs he leaned forward and pulled out the thorn of sleep. He had a thorn of his own to put in instead.

  * * *

  Marie blurred out of the sweet dream to find someone leaning over her, his lips pursed for a kiss.

  And it wasn't the person she'd been dreaming of, either. He was holding her shoulders, but her legs were free, and so were her hands. The slaps he got were so fast and had all her strength in them that they must have almost popped his eardrums. Then, when he sat back, she kicked him with both feet. Hard.

  He was big muscular man. But she had strong legs and he really hadn't expected it.

  Sitting up and pulling her skirts down, the first thing that Marie noticed was the sword lying next to her. Seeing as the muscle-bound lover-boy was getting to his feet looking ugly, Marie pulled it out of its scabbard. She expected it to be so heavy she could barely lift it.

  Instead it was as light as . . . well, a feather duster. A very big feather duster.

  She'd never used a sword before, but she knew how to wield a feather duster. And was this guy ever a big cobweb!

  "Be careful with that sword, Brynhild!" said the lover-boy. He backed off, and tripped over a girl in a steel breastplate. He knocked the thorn out of her neck and she groaned.

  "Now look what you've made me go and do. Where is it?" He scrabbled around looking for the thorn, and pushed it back into her neck as she sat up. The girl promptly collapsed again.

  "I'm not Brynhild, and take that thing out of her neck," said Marie trying another swing with the sword.

  "But then she'll wake up. And it's you I am supposed to give my ring to." Marie recognized the overmuscled lover-boy. The dragon-killer. He was holding out a broad gold ring. "I am the mighty Sigurd, the Dragon-slayer, Valkyrie. I have come to make you mine."

  "I got the only ring I want, thanks," said Marie, showing him her wedding band. "And that means hands off, see. I'm taken. Or I'll use this thing to make your plans genuinely unworkable. No tools left, so to speak. Now take that thing out of her neck, before I take your fool head off."

  With this odd sword she felt as if she could almost do it. She looked around and realized that it wasn't just the one girl with a thorn in her neck. There were hundreds of them. Well, they probably didn't want to be in this enchanted sleep any more than she did.

  She noticed that, instead of doing as he was told, the mighty Sigurd was attempting to edge around her. She took a wild swing at him, not expecting to hit him—or even really intending to.

  The sword had its own ideas though. Sigurd leaped backwards, falling over yet another blond woman with a mailshirt and a thorn in her neck. He yowled and held the pieces of his chainmail vest. "That was kobold-weave, you silly bitch!"

  You didn't talk to Marie Jackson like that. Not now. Not ever. And certainly not in the mood she was in. Ten seconds later, Sigurd the hero had retreated out of the door and was scrambling to mount his horse. Marie was alone in a hall of full of armored women who lay like corpses around her. She rested on the sword for a bit, looking at the scene. Well. She had a husband and kids to get back to, while she could. She stepped toward the fire-wall.

  And realized that right now she wasn't going anywhere.

  She took a deep breath. It hurt. Then, pinching her lips with determination, she walked back to where Sigurd's scabbard and belt lay. She put on the belt and put the sword back into its scabbard. Then she turned to the nearest woman and pulled the thorn out of her neck. And then she worked her way down the line, doing the same.

  Five minutes later and she was surrounded by some three hundred puzzled looking women. "Where is the Hero?" demanded several.

  "Why have we been woken?" demanded several more, looking around in the milling mob. It looked like a Macy's mailshirt sale, and sounded worse. Like an opera chorus.

  "Who woke us from our enchanted sleep?" demanded yet more. They didn't sound too pleased about it either.

  A lot of fingers were pointing at her. This could just get ugly, and she had nowhere to run.

  "Where is the hero? Where is Sigurd? Where is Beowulf? Where is Gunnar . . ." they chorused around her, packing ever closer.

  She pulled the sword out. And suddenly they backed off, silent. Then one said, "That is the sword Gram."

  Then a silence. "Are you Sigurd in a woman's body?" asked one, incredulously. The rest giggled.

  "Shut up!" Marie was suddenly tired, and very cross. She pointed to one statuesque blonde. "I don't know what I'm doing here. So, maybe if you tell me what you are doing here, I'll have a better idea."

  The blonde looked puzzled, a thing that was probably not hard for her. "I am the Valkyrie Sigfrida. I angered Odin and was cast out of Asgard, trapped by the thorn of sleep, doomed to lie in the hall on the hilltop behind the wall of flame until a great hero and warrior was courageous enough to leap the fire-wall and free me, and take me to be his bride." She looked inquisitorially at Marie. "So where is he, if you have his sword?"

  Marie felt vaguely guilty. "Look honey, you're better off without him. It wasn't you he came to fetch anyway. And he's gone."

  "But what do we do now?" wailed the blonde. "I will not go back to Valhöll."

  "No," agreed another.

  "Not a chance," said a third.

  "Enough is enough . . ."

  Marie held the sword up. "All right!" she yelled. "Enough, already. I heard you. Though why you want a pumpkin-head like Sigurd is beyond me. He's got no brains. And he needs a bath . . ."

  "At least there is only one of him," said Sigfrida.

  "Yes, even Freyja's girls get nights off."

  Bit by bit, the details of a Valkyrie's life in Valhöll became clear. No wonder a life with a single hero, and handmaidens, seemed a good deal.

  "I thought the South Side Cafe was bad," said Marie ruefully. At least there you could elbow off any over-familiar customers and you got tips for waitressing. "It's time someone told you girls about emancipation. Because you sure are in slavery."

  "Oh, no. Slaves have it worse."

  "Things have to change," said Marie.

  Morgue duty—and picking out the ones that Odin wanted dead, waitressing and being a joy-girl to corpses. No wonder the place was so full.

  Chapter 37

  Jerry put his head in his hands. "I wish I knew just what we should do next."

  Liz had just come in from the pontoon bridge. She sat down next to him, in front of a desk littered with bits of parchment. "You'll figure it out, Jerry. You always do."

  "I just seem a bit short of inspiration this time. I need some kind of feint. Some kind of distraction."

  "And unfortunately," said Liz, "I don't think you mean me."r />
  "I have had enough of you distracting them," said Jerry.

  "Well, I got a nice horn out of it last time . . ." She stopped. "What about that horn?"

  "What horn?"

  "Heimdall's. I stole it. We brought it with us out of Asgard. It's in that big pot full of black stuff. I know Thrúd tied a cover over it. Let me go and ask her what she's done with it."

  "Heimdall's horn might do the trick," said Jerry, brightening. "It was supposed to be loud enough to be heard everywhere."

  "You might need as much wind as he has to blow it, though," said Liz dryly. "I'll go and find Thrúd."

  "I'll come with you. I could use a little exercise."

  So they walked off in search of Thrúd. They found her and Thor together trying to teach Emmitt how to wield a sword. When Liz explained, Thrúd nodded guiltily. "I had Ran put it in her treasure-room. It's mead. I . . . didn't want to leave it too close to Papa-Thor."

  "I'm stronger now," said Thor stoutly. "I can resist, even if alcohol still has mastery over me. Let us go and find the horn."

  They found the kettle, still sealed with a rope and oilcloth. Thrúd cut the cord and revealed the black liquor underneath. "Very dark mead," said Thor. "I've only seen one other this dark and it was made with the wise Kvasir's blood mixed with the honey."

  "Ugh," said Liz.

  "It's magical mead," explained Thor.

  "It'd have to be, and with an added antiemetic." Liz rolled up her sleeve and stuck her hand into the liquid. She pulled up Heimdall's enormous horn, and held it above the kettle to drip. "I should have brought a towel. We'd better take it and wash it."

  Thor produced a piece of linen. "Here. I was just polishing Mjöllnir when you came along."

  "Thanks," said Liz, gratefully taking it and putting the horn onto it. She sniffed her fingers and then tasted one. Licked her lips. "You know, of all the mead, this is the best, indeed. Hey. I'm a poet and I didn't know it."

  Thor put his hand over his eyes. At first Liz thought it was a reaction to her feeble poetry. She was about to persecute him with some more, when he turned to Thrúd. "Just where did you find this mead?" he demanded.

  "In the same storeroom we found Loki," said Thrúd. "It was not one I'd seen before. Very cobwebbed."

  "Call Loki," said Thor in a strangled voice. "Let us find out how he came to be in that place. Quickly, girl!"

  Thrúd ran off, and returned with an out of breath Loki. "Fire? Disaster?" he said, as he tried to catch his breath.

  "How did you get into that storeroom that you and Sigyn hid in?" said Thor.

  Loki chuckled. "Odin's cleverness backfired on him. Back when we were still on reasonable terms he asked me devise a hiding-spell for him. I did. I'm better at that sort of trickery than he could ever be. But I recognize my own work. When we came down from the gallery, looking for a place to hide, I saw it at once. It was easy enough to break the spell on my own work. I was just reconstructing it when these two bundled in."

  "Loki," said Thor slowly. "I know that you sometimes think that I am a bit slow. Sometimes I think it myself. But this time it was you who was a fool. Why would Odin use one of your cunning spells to hide a storeroom?"

  Loki narrowed his eyes. Clicked his tongue. "It was a treasure-room, wasn't it? What a fine opportunity I missed to loot it. Ah, well. Too late now."

  "I doubt if you would have got a chance to steal a more valuable treasure than the one you took by accident to hide Heimdall's horn in," said Thor dryly. He pointed at the kettle of black liquid. "That is Kvasir's mead of inspiration."

  Loki's mouth opened wide . . . and he sat down with a thump on the floor. He started to laugh, and laugh, until the tears ran down his face. And Liz looked like she was going to throw up.

  "Oh, Helblindi! If I tried for a century I could not have tweaked your beard so well," said Loki, wiping his eyes. "I wonder how I get to best taunt him with this?"

  Liz took a deep breath. "Not taunt. Use it, Loki. You and him." She pointed to Jerry. "We need inspiration, genius and fine persuasive words, and yes, poetry too. We need them now. We go to war. Never was our need so great, never was the hour so late."

  They all looked at her. "Kvasir talking," said Loki in a choked voice.

  "I know," said Liz. "I feel sick, but it does seem to work."

  She looked at Thor. "We'll boil some. Boil the alcohol off. We'll need all the inspired leadership we can get, and the warriors all look up to you."

  "Skírnir rides fast and far to the caves of the black dwarves on Aurvangar to beg them for a new horn for Heimdall," said Munin, as Liz held the rakfisk jelly bean for him.

  "Other than that," said Hugin, "Ull and his archers line the walls of Asgard. The Einherjar train and marshall. Freyja has donned her falcon mantle and flies across the Vrigid plain. Her warriors and Frey's band march behind his chariot drawn by the great boar Gullinborsti, out of the gates of Asgard. They lead Freyja's cat-drawn chariot too. They will give you challenge there."

  Loki smiled and said nothing. Down in the workshop Lamont was building a new chariot for Thor. For some reason the artificer to new Ás (as Loki had named them) was calling it the SUV. Loki was impressed by it. It might even survive Thor's driving. Thor's huge goats Tanngnjóst and Tanngrisnir had been summoned.

  He handed over the jelly bean and stood up.

  A few moments later he and a party of mountain-giants were heading down the trail to Aurvangar.

  Skírnir was surprised to see a black dwarf outside the caves. Normally he had to go from cave to cave, hunting them. They drove a hard bargain too.

  He dismounted and bowed respectfully. "Greetings, Sindri."

  The dwarf smiled at him. "And what do you want here, Skírnir?"

  "I have been sent by the great Odin of the Æsir to crave a boon from the smith-artificer sons of Ivaldi. I offer the same generous payment as last time, Sindri."

  Loki was interested to discover that Skírnir had had dealings with Sindri before, even if Skírnir wasn't actually having dealings with him this time. Loki hadn't known that Helblindi had had business with the dwarf-smith in the past. Like most things that Odin had a hand in, this smelled. Had Odin set him up when he'd come here to get Sif's golden hair? He began to suspect so. "And what would you need me to do this time?" Loki-in-Sindri-guise asked. "The same again?"

  Skírnir shook his head. "Loki will not come here again. No, we have need of a replacement for Heimdall's horn."

  Loki the shape-changer tugged his chin. "I could do it. But it is near the Time. It would cost you dearly. More dearly than just leading Loki into a stupid wager."

  "Odin has said that he will be very generous. I have a full score of the apples of Idun, and a treasure in jewels."

  "It is nearly the Time. What use are the apples of youth to us this close to the Time?"

  "What would you have, then?" asked Skírnir.

  Loki pointed. "That sword."

  Skírnir clutched the handle protectively. "It is a magic sword, given me by Lord Frey."

  "I know," said Loki. "I can make lesser swords. But that one is special. Give it to me and I will have a gjallarhorn at the gates of Asgard for you." Outside the gates, but still there, thought Loki. "A horn that will be heard across the nine worlds, as good as the one Heimdall lost. And to seal the bargain I will throw in a weapon that Odin could use. I have made a beast that will burrow under whole armies. Surely Odin will reward, generously, a loyal servant who brings him such a gift."