Thor Meets Captain America

3

“There there, Hugin. Fear not the dark Americans. They shall not hurt thee.”

The one-eyed being called Odin sat upon a throne of ebony, bearing upon his upraised left hand a raven the same color as night. A jewel set in the giant’s eyepatch glittered like an orb more far-seeing than the one he had lost, and across his lap lay a shining spear.

On both sides stood fur-clad figures nearly as imposing, one blond, with a great axe laid arrogantly over his shoulder, the other red-bearded, leaning

Guards in black leather, twin lightning strokes on their collars, stood at attention around the hall of rough-hewn timbers. Even their rifles were polished black. The only spot of color on their SS uniforms

The being called Odin looked down at the prisoners, chained together in a heap on the floor of the great hall.

“Alas. Poor Hugin has not forgiven you, my American guests. His brother, Munin, was lost when Berlin burned under your Hellfire bombs.”

The Aesir chief’s remaining eye gleamed ferally. “And who can blame my poor watch-bird, or fail to understand a father’s grief, when that same flame deluge consumed my bright boy, my far-seeing Heimdallr.”

The survivors of the ill-fated raiding patty lay on the dry stone floor, exhausted. The unconscious, dying Major Marlowe was in no condition to answer for them, but one of the Free British volunteers stood up, rattling his chains, and spat on the floor in front of the manlike creature.

“Higgins!” O’Leary tried to pull on the man’s arm, but was shrugged off as the Brit shook his fist.

“Yeah, they got your precious boy in Berlin. And you killed everyone in London an’ Paris in revenge! I say the Yanks were too soft, lettin’ that stop ’em. They should’a gone ahead, whatever the price, an’ fried every last Aryan bitch an’ cub…”

His defiance was cut off as a Gestapo officer knocked him down. SS troopers brought their rifle butts down hard, again and again.

Finally, Odin waved them back.

“Take the body to the center of the Great Circle, to be sent to Valhalla.”

The officer looked up sharply, but Odin rumbled in a tone that assumed obedience. “I want that brave man with me, when Fimbul-Winter blows,” the creature explained. And obviously he thought that settled the matter. As black-uniformed guards cut the limp form free, the chief of the Aesir chucked his raven under the beak and offered it a morsel of meat. He spoke to the huge redhead standing beside him.

“Thor, my son. These other things are thine. Poor prizes, I admit, but they did show some prowess in following the Liar this far. What will thou do with them?”

The giant stroked his hammer with gauntlets the size of small dogs. Here, indeed, was a creature that made even Loki seem small.

He stepped forward and scanned the prisoners, as if searching for something. When his gaze alighted on Chris, it seemed to shimmer. His voice was as deep as the growling of earthquakes.

“I will deign to speak with one or two of them, Father.”

“Good.” Odin nodded. “Have them cast into a pit, somewhere,” he told the SS General nearby, who clicked his heels and bowed low. “And await my son’s pleasure.”

The Nazis hauled Chris and the other survivors to their feet and pulled them away, single file. But not before Chris overheard the elder Aesir tell his offspring, “Find out what you can about that wolf-spawn, Loki, and then give them all over to be used in the sacrifice.”