The Age Of Odin

Forty-Seven

We were now on a countdown to a deadline, it seemed. Mrs Keener's visit to the UK drew nearer day by day. Huginn and Muninn flew out over Midgard and sent Odin images of the preparations for her arrival. Odin spoke of city streets being cordoned off for security purposes, the Stars and Stripes being hung out on public buildings, and strenuous debate in the House of Commons over the wisdom and validity of asking her to come at all.

Prime Minister Clasen defended his decision on the grounds that Britain's business ties with the US remained strong, even if politically there were disagreements between the two countries. Besides, wouldn't it be better and more meaningful if he was able to challenge Mrs Keener on diplomatic issues face to face rather than via webcam?

Privately, in Cabinet — the ravens eavesdropped on a window ledge outside Number 10 — Clasen expressed misgivings about the visit, seeming to imply that rather than being invited, the President had more or less invited herself and he had been too intimidated to refuse. Mrs Keener was about to gatecrash, and she probably wasn't even bringing a decent bottle of plonk.

Protestors against American foreign policy were organising mass rallies, although the cops were going to see to it that they didn't get within a placard's throw of Whitehall or any of the other destinations on the presidential itinerary. Hence the street closures. Meanwhile, the TV channels were lobbying for interviews, although so far Mrs Keener's aides had turned down all the journalistic hard cases like Paxman and Dimbleby and approved on-air face time with only Alan Titchmarsh and Adrian Chiles. Real heavyweights who didn't flinch from asking the tough questions like, "What's your favourite colour?"

Our own preparations consisted of drilling like bastards, then drilling again, and then, when we'd had enough of drilling, drilling some more. In my spare time, such as it was, I went out in Sleipnir with the drawling RAFfer pilots and we scouted Asgard's borders looking for likely ingress points. Odin put the trolls on subsistence rations to make them less dopey and more aggressive, and it worked, although two of them became so hungry they had a fight and tore off and ate parts of each other, and had to be put down. The Valkyries, for their part, went about on their snowmobiles caching supplies and ammunition in various strategically useful places, mostly near the intersections between Asgard and the other worlds.

Either an attack was coming or it wasn't. Either Loki was going to make his move or he wasn't. That choice was his. Ours was whether to be caught with our knickers around our ankles or not, and we definitely wanted to avoid the "not" option.

I was still pissed off about the frost giants and losing Chopsticks, and I might have betrayed these feelings once or twice. For instance, when Bragi proposed reciting a poem about our recent trip to Jotunheim, and I told him he could stick his poem up his arse and shove that stupid beard of his up there too while he was at it. And another time, when Thor made some joke about being excluded from the mission to Utgard, saying it couldn't surely have gone any worse if he had accompanied us and had just started killing jotuns indiscriminately as soon as he arrived.

I suggested where he should shove his hammer — a similar place, funnily enough, to where I felt Bragi's poem and beard belonged — and Thor looked all set to deck me, and would have if Paddy hadn't played United Nations and got between us and told Thor to go easy on me because I was taking Chopsticks's death very personally. Thor backed down, grumbling, and said that at least his visit to the gnomes had been a success and he'd brought back something of value rather than leaving a corpse behind. At which point I tried to deck him, and it took a combined Herculean effort from Paddy, Cy and Baz to keep me from doing so.

The last person I'd have expected to take me aside for a friendly "what's the matter?" chat was Freya Njorthasdottir. But that was exactly who did, on the eve of Mrs Keener's arrival.

Of course she didn't put a gentle arm round my shoulder and suggest we go for a drink. That wouldn't have been very Freya-like. Instead she came at me out of nowhere, thrust a hunting rifle into my hands — a bolt-action Lee-Enfield with fibreglass stock and thick rubber recoil pad — and loped off into the woods without a backward glance. It took me a moment to realise that, since she was carrying a hunting rifle as well, this meant she wanted me to go with her. At first I thought she was simply dropping a not too subtle hint. Here's a loaded firearm. Go do the decent thing.

I set off after her. I'd been out admiring a spectacular, rather ominous, blood-red sunset, and now dusk was falling, the trees slatting the purple sky. Shadows gathered, smudging the air beneath the pines. Freya set a formidable pace and I had to run full pelt to keep her pale silhouette in sight. Several times I lost her in the gloom and had to resort to following her footprints. They were shallow, often so faint as to be virtually undetectable; she must weigh next to nothing. I recalled Chopsticks informing me, not long before he died, that the Vanir were airy, spirit-like beings. Unlike their junior cousins the Aesir, who were all too physical and fleshy, the Vanir belonged to a loftier order of existence. The word he used for them was "evanescent." Freya's barely-there footprints proved it. That and the way she could move across snow with scarcely a whisper of sound. That time she sneaked up on me at Yggdrasil, I hadn't heard a thing. No wonder she was such a good huntress. Her prey never had a clue she was coming.

Finally — and I'd sort of begun to accept that this would happen — I lost her. Or she lost me. One or the other. Her tracks faded to invisibility, she herself had long ago sprinted out of view, and I was left panting in the depths of the woods, alone.

I leaned against a tree while I caught my breath. Silence descended around me — the utter silence of a snowbound forest. Nothing else like it in the world. Every noise, even your own breathing, deadened. Nature's soundproofed booth.

Which meant the snap of a rifle bolt being racked right behind my head seemed as loud as if the rifle was actually being fired.

I groaned. She'd done it again.

"Nice one," I said without turning round. "You got me. Don't I just feel like a clumsy mortal oaf."

"It was too easy," said Freya. "I couldn't resist."

"So are we going hunting or what?"

"It depends."

"On?"

"Your definition of hunting. And of prey. Look at me."

I did as I was told.

And gaped.

She was stark naked, apart from an amazing, intricate golden necklace. It had to be the one Odin told me about, the one Loki had tried to nick off her. Complicatedly braided.

Not that I was paying the necklace much attention, mind. Stark naked, remember?

"Ah," was all I said. Power of speech all but gone. A babe in the nuddy with a rifle pointed at your head could do that to you.

She was perfect. Not all inflated and plucked like a porn actress. Lean, curvy where it counted, everything in proper proportion, real. The cold air had done to her nipples what her nipples, in turn, were starting to do to my dick. And her skin was smooth and pale, like the snow her feet left hardly any impression in.

She lowered the rifle.

"Well?" she said.

There was heat. Burning breath. Skin flushed pink. Rough bark against my back, then against hers. A handful of hair, gripped so hard it hurt. Tongue thrust into wetness. The pressure of thighs around hips. Gasps rising to screams — cries to startle every animal within a three-mile radius and put it to flight.

She did weigh next to nothing.

Afterwards we meandered back to the castle, rifles slung over our shoulders by their straps, and we talked. I wasn't normally a fan of postcoital chitchat. More the roll-over-and-start-snoring type. But we weren't in bed, and we had distance to cover, and not saying anything would have been awkward. More awkward than talking.

Freya revealed that she wasn't just a hunting goddess, she was a war goddess, a fertility goddess, a goddess of lust…

"In charge of nearly all life's essentials, then," I said. "Unless you're a goddess of pizza as well."

"My attributes haven't always made me popular among my own kind," she said. "I am frank about my needs and appetites."

"So I noticed."

"To earn my necklace" — she patted the front of her anorak, where the golden necklace lay beneath — "I slept with the Brisings, the four gnome brothers who owned it."

"All four at once, or one after another?"

"Does it matter?"

"Kind of. Not necessarily."

"They weren't terribly prepossessing individuals but they made up for it in other ways."

"How?"

"Do I need to spell it out? Let's just say attentive. And generously endowed."

"Gnomes are well hung?"

"Creatures of such poor physical grace and stature must have some redeeming features. It was… a memorable experience."

"Sounds like it."

"Odin was peeved at me, of course. He felt I'd debased myself. Which I had, I suppose." The corners of her mouth turned up as she said this. Here was a girl who didn't mind getting down and dirty every once in a while. As I myself was now well aware. "But if I see something I want, I go for it."

"Including me?"

"Don't think I haven't noticed how you've been staring at me ever since you got here. Particularly at my behind."

"Just appreciating a work of art."

"On the strength of that, I didn't think you'd be in any way unwilling."

"Bang-on there."

"And, in so far as I have a type I prefer, you're it. A warrior. A man of passion. Someone who seldom thinks before he acts. Callous at times. Rugged in manner as well as looks."

"I'll take all that as a compliment."

"It's meant that way. I had a husband once — a roamer, a faraway-eyed dreamer, poetically inclined. His name was Od."

"What was odd about it?"

"No. That was his name. Od. He disappeared one day. Just… wandered off, never to be seen again. I was sad that he went but it taught me that I wasn't suited to be with a man of that sort. My kind of man does not live too much inside his own head. He gets out there. He engages with life. He does."

"Like me. I do."

"I've seen it. We all have. Odin is especially impressed with your quick-wittedness, your decisiveness under pressure. He believes you might just make all the difference in the coming days. You might just tip the scales in our favour."

"Well, I'll try."

"And that's why he's concerned about this state of despondency you've fallen into since coming back from Jotunheim. You're still doing whatever's asked of you, but your heart doesn't seem to be in it any more."

"Hold it," I said, halting. "Before you go on, tell me — did he put you up to this?"

"What? Odin?"

"Did he ask you to get me out here and, you know, jump my bones? Has this just been some kind of sympathy shag to cheer me up? Because if so…"

She raised an eyebrow at me.

"If so…" I repeated, then said, "I don't really mind. It was great either way."

"Right attitude. And no, this was not the All-Father's idea. It was mine alone. And sympathy does not come into it. My own selfish desires aside, I simply wanted to bring you to your senses, remind you who you are, pull you out of yourself."

I leered. "That, you definitely did."

"Because, Gid, your comrade may have died, but you are still here. And we need you here. We need you fully with us when Ragnarok comes."

"Chops was a good man, though. When I think that Hel's got him now…"

"Has she?" Freya said, arching an eyebrow.

"She hasn't? But isn't that what happens when you die? Hel comes to collect you and drags you off to Niflheim?"

"Did you see her appear over his body?"

"No. I was kind of busy trying not to get killed myself."

"There is another world where the souls of the dead may go."

"What! No one told me that."

"Gimle. High Heaven. The outermost of the Nine Worlds. Hel can claim sinners, those who have acted dishonourably or shamefully in life or have committed heinous crimes."

"I imagine that would include those American black ops guys."

"Yes. But a virtuous man, a blameless man, anyone who has been without taint, even a god, goes to Gimle after death, there to spend eternity in oneness with the glorious light and majesty that lies at the heart of all creation. Was your comrade that sort of man?"

"Dunno. I'd say probably."

"Then there's every chance that that's where he is now — Gimle."

It was a load off my mind, seriously it was, to think that Chopsticks hadn't gone to Niflheim and wasn't suffering a long drawn out erosion of the soul under Hel's cackling gaze. I felt suddenly about ten pounds lighter.

"So how come she got Balder, then?" I said. "Wasn't he, like, the ultimate Aesir? Asgard's answer to Gandhi?"

"It is the greatest of injustices," Freya replied. "She should never have had him. In the wake of Balder's death Odin despatched son after son to Niflheim, to remonstrate with Hel and get her to agree to send Balder on to Gimle. She refused at first, but finally relented. She said she would do as Odin asked."

"'But.' I bet there was a 'but.'"

"There was. Odin, through his emissaries, had told her that every living thing was weeping with sorrow over Balder's death. Hel said if that was truly the case, she would let him go, but if not, he was hers to keep. And of course one living thing, and one alone, was not weeping."

"Let me guess. Loki."

She nodded. "Prior to his confession and imprisonment, he shed not a single tear for Balder, and any he shed afterwards sprang from pain and self-pity, nothing else."

"He's generally a big old tosser, isn't he?"

"He has been nothing but trouble to the Aesir since the day Odin took him in. Yet the All-Father used to have such a blind spot where he was concerned. He always managed to overlook Loki's misdemeanours or else dismiss them as mere pranks and japes. It was his greatest failing, and because it was wilful rather than inadvertent it is the reason he is destined for Niflheim when he dies, not Gimle. If he can defeat Loki and prevent the destruction of Asgard, he stands a chance of redeeming himself. But given the relatively small size of the army he has amassed…"

I finished the sentence for her. "You wonder if he genuinely wants victory. He doesn't feel he deserves everlasting peace after death."

"Maybe he thinks he needs to be punished."

"Well, that's brilliant, isn't it? Deep down our gaffer's a ruddy masochist. He wouldn't mind if Loki trounces us. We lose and it's still a win for him."

"Let's not rush to harsh judgement. Odin is a complex and troubled soul, and it isn't easy to understand what drives him."

"I tell you what, I haven't signed up simply to see our side get its arse whipped," I said hotly. "I refuse to. So this is Man U versus, what, Charlton Athletic? There've been bottom-of-the-league upsets before. The underdogs have been known to have their day."

"Well said."

"Only…"

I hesitated. I'd spent half an hour giving this woman a knee-trembler up against a pine tree. Two knee-tremblers, to be strictly accurate. But did I know her? Know her well enough to own up to one of my biggest sources of anguish?

I wanted to discuss it with someone, however. Needed to. It was driving me nuts keeping it to myself, clamping a lid down on it.

We'd just shared saliva, semen, and Christ knows what else. Why not a secret too?

"What is it, Gid?"

"Listen, Freya, what I'm about to tell you, this stays between you and me, right? You don't breathe a word of it to anyone else. Especially not Odin. He'll either think I'm mad or he'll believe me and go off on one. I'd rather not burden him with it unless I'm a hundred per cent sure. Got that?"

"Yes."

"Promise you won't tell a soul?"

"I promise."

"Can I believe you?"

"If the solemn word of a Vanir goddess means nothing to you…" That was the old Freya talking, the ice maiden I'd been familiar with up until now. Nice to have her back, although I much preferred the warmer, randy Freya I was just getting to know.

"Fair do's," I said. "All right, here's the deal. I think we have a traitor in the ranks."

Her eyes widened, lids pulling well clear of the irises.

"One of my lads," I went on. "He wrecked the parley with the frost giants, deliberately. It looked like we were on course to succeed, and he stopped that happening, and managed to pin the blame for it on Chopsticks."

"But… why?"

"Dunno. Simplest guess would be because he's employed by the other side. A sleeper agent or what-have-you. That or he just can't stand the frosties. It's not the why that's bothering me so much as the who."

"You don't know which of your men it is?"

"I have my suspicions, but that's all they are, suspicions. Nothing concrete. No hard evidence. A feeling, more than anything. A hunch."

"Why not confront him? See if you can get him to own up?"

"Because I could be totally wrong, this could all be just my imagination, and I don't want to wind the boys up needlessly and end up looking like a total paranoid prat. The only way to know for certain is to do nothing, act normal, and wait for the bastard to make his next move, if he's going to."

"Didn't all of you nearly get killed escaping from Utgard?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, if there's a traitor among you, his actions endangered his own life."

"Point taken. Where I come from there is such a thing as a suicide bomber, someone who's willing to martyr himself for his beliefs. But I'd wager that whoever-it-was was counting on me getting us out of there alive. Not only did he fuck everything up for me, the cheeky git then went and used me to save his own neck."

"A gamble."

"A calculated risk. Possibly he had some ace up his sleeve too, some get-out nobody else could know about. Trust me, I don't want to be thinking any of this. The whole idea makes me sick to my stomach. But it's gone and got itself lodged in my head, and try as I might I just can't seem to shift it."

"Then you must be vigilant at all times." Freya sounded surprisingly tender. Concerned, even. "Keep a close eye on the suspect. And if — when — he strikes again…"

"Castrate the fucker."

"I was going to suggest strangling him, but there's no reason not to perform your suggestion first, then mine."

All at once I was really liking Freya. She spoke my language. I was even tempted to kiss her, but I didn't think that would be welcomed at this moment. I didn't think we had that kind of relationship. Yet.

We ambled on, and the lights of the castle were just coming into sight when we heard a sound.

It started low, much like the lowing of a cow in distress. Then it grew, mounting in pitch and volume, until it reminded me of whalesong, plaintive and haunting. Loneliness in a vast ocean.

It kept rising. It kept getting louder. Freya and I had both halted in our tracks to listen, and her expression was a weird mix of dread and excitement, like someone about to embark on a rollercoaster ride. Me, I was uneasy bordering on nauseous. This was not a normal sound, not a good sound to be hearing.

Onward and upward it went, and there was a hint of shriek amid the blare now, a distorted top note — chainsaw, fuzzed guitar, dentist's drill going into molar. It was more than unpleasant, it was neck-hair-crackling eerie, and I wanted to put my hands over my ears, good and bad, to block it out. I did, and even so it still came in. It bored into my head. It reverberated through my teeth, the bones of my skull, my sinuses. It seemed to fill everything, the space between objects, all the gaps of the world, as though the sonic waves it consisted of were a solid substance, an invisible, all-pervading jelly. I found it hard to draw breath. I could barely continue to stand upright. My head swam. My vision blurred. The sound was inside me. The sound clogged my lungs and heart and arteries. I shouted against it, trying to drown it out with noise of my own, but I couldn't. It couldn't be fought or argued with. It wouldn't be ignored or resisted. I felt I was going to go deaf from it — the job begun by the roadside IED a few years earlier was about to be completed. Deaf, or possibly mad. If it didn't stop soon, if quiet didn't resume, the sound would rob me of my sanity, or what little I had.

Maybe it would never stop. Maybe this immense agonised wail would continue for ever and there would never be peace again. From now on nobody would know contentment or tranquillity. Life would be rage and torment until the end of time.

The blackness inside me relished that thought. It was singing along to the sound, in dark discordant harmony.

Then the sound stopped.

I carried on yelling, unaware. I broke off only when Freya jabbed an elbow in my ribs.

The silence of the sound's aftermath was awesome, as if everyone in all the Nine Worlds was waiting with bated breath, head cocked, not uttering word.

Finally Freya spoke, and it was just a whisper, and even as her lips parted I somehow knew what was going to come out of them. What else could the sound have been?

"The Gjallarhorn."