Pyramid Power: Chapter Sixteen

PART III

To sleep, perchance to dream…

    “Got anything to drink in this place, Thor?” said the huge wolf.

    The presence of the creature and the serpent-dragon seemed to trouble Thor a lot less than they bothered Liz.

    “If Sif sees you here she’ll have a fit,” said Thor, grumpily. “And no. You should know by now that we finished every drop in this place in that last drinking session.”

    “She hasn’t been here for days. I keep hoping someone might restock,” said the serpent-dragon, in the sort of tone that said she thought it ought to be him doing the restocking. There was something female about that sibilant voice, somehow.

    “Anyway. I’ve given it up,” announced Thor.

    The wolf sat down hard on its haunches and let its cavernous mouth drop open. Liz could see that it was terribly scarred. It shook its vast head. “That’s going to go down really well in those fatuous sagas.”

    Liz might be alarmed by the wolf and serpent-dragon—but at least one person wasn’t. Neoptolemeus danced forward. “You’re beautiful. Do you know Bitar and Smitar?” he demanded.

    The serpent-dragon looked at him, and shook her gargantuan head. “No. Don’t know you either. Got anything for a girl to drink?”

    The disappointment written in the boy’s face was enough to make Liz want to hug him.

    “So,” said the wolf, eyeing them curiously, and possibly a little hungrily, “who are you? Do you have something to do with Thor suddenly deciding he doesn’t drink?”

    “They’re friends of mine, Fenrir,” said Thor. He sat down on a bench next to the wall. “I feel awful. There might be some food in the kitchen, Wolf. Thrúd usually restocks that.” 

    The wolf grinned toothily. “There won’t be, when I’m finished.”

    Marie put her hands on her hips. “Well, then, let the children get some first. You’re ugly enough and big enough to catch your own anyway.”

    The wolf blinked. Then cocked his head sideways. “I thought they were starters.”

    “Trust me,” said Marie. “Those little boys would disagree with you.” The way she stood made it clear that the disagreement might just be Marie Jackson.

    “And we really aren’t little boys,” said Ty. “We’re from the planet Krypton. We just look small.” He flexed a minuscule bicep. “But try and eat us and POW! WHAM!” He windmilled the air.

    “And you wear your underpants outside your trousers,” said Emmitt derisively.

    “They’re cute,” pronounced the serpent-dragon. “You’re not to eat them, brother.”

    “Hmph,” said the wolf. “Jörmungand, one of them just has to say you look pretty, and you put me on diet. I’m always hungry.”

    “Except when you’re asleep or thirsty,” said the serpent-dragon. “What’s wrong with Thor?”

    The thunder-god’s arms and legs were starting to thrash around and he was muttering something about spiders on the walls.

    “Delirium tremens,” said Liz.

    “Oh. He looks like a berserker after they’ve been eating mushrooms,” said Jörmungand. She looped a coil around Thor, basically enclosing his whole body. “That’ll keep him from hurting himself.”

    It wasn’t exactly a padded cell, but it was a kind of restraint, Liz supposed. The wolf had walked closer and was sniffing them. “You smell unlike any other prey I have hunted across the nine worlds.”

    Liz had spent her life with big dogs. She knew as well as anyone that what she shouldn’t do was show fear, or even think fear. She grabbed the sniffing muzzle with both hands. They were barely big enough to go around it. She stared into the yellow eyes. “That is because we’re not prey. Got me?”

    Fenrir wrenched himself backwards and free, growling at her. Then, probably because—by the smells of his breath—he’d had the better part of someone’s ale-barrel already, tripped over his own feet and fell over. Liz was above him in a flash, grabbing his jaws again, this time in an armlock. Having an older brother who had been keen on wrestling was useful from time to time.

    “You wouldn’t be growling at me, would you?”

    He looked at her with wary eyes, and she stared straight back at him. After a brief pause, she released his jaws and he growled, “You’re quite some boss-bitch.”

    There was a little grudging admiration in that tone. He wagged his tail. His tongue lolled out and he turned his head turned at a slight angle. “Sexy, too.”

    That wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind as a response. But this was a big dangerous animal, and she could use an ally like that. “Yeah. Well, you need a good brushing before I can call you anything but scruffy. Lie down and I’ll do that.”

    She delved into her bag, and dug out her hair-brush. She could possibly get another hairbrush, but this beast could bite your leg off.

    The startled wolf lay down, and Liz started to brush his manky fur. He stretched and rumbled, but there was no malice in it. Belatedly, Liz remembered there was a social aspect to grooming among wolves too. Oh, well. She’d worry about that when the time came. In the meanwhile, wolfie needed half a ton of winter fur brushed out. And there was something very therapeutic to grooming a big dog, even if his snake-dragon sister was looking rather puzzled at the entire performance.

    Fenrir was skinny, she discovered. Still young and growing, by the looks of his teeth. He had a gap just behind his vast canines where the carnaceals were beginning to cut through. Liz had specialized in fish, but she would bet that this enormous wolf was still less than full-grown.

    Someone coughed. Liz turned her head and saw that it was Thor’s stable thrall. He had a silly grin on his face which suggested that he’d had a few horns of ale in a hurry.

    “My lady…”

    “Just Liz.”

    “Justliz, I have found out what happened to the prisoner. He was taken before Odin, and then was flung down into the pit with Loki.” He seemed to think being eaten alive might be preferable.

    “He’ll be all right, then,” said Fenrir. “The old man isn’t a bad sort even though he has prehistoric tastes in Skaldic verse.”

    Jörmungand nodded. “Positively ninth century. He’s a real old fuddy-duddy. Thinks Starkadian meter is all the rage.”

    Whatever or whoever this Loki was, besides someone with a moribund taste in poetry, being flung into a pit didn’t sound too good. “Well, we need to get him out,” said Liz determinedly.

    “Can’t be done,” said Jörmungand. “Not that we haven’t tried.”

    “Yeah,” growled Fenrir. “Sigyn isn’t your typical literary-fiction step-mom. She was kinder to us than Angbroda.”

    “And mostly better at keeping Papa Loki from doing anything too crazy.” There was some resignation in Jörmungand’s voice.

    Liz blinked. This was the world of myth, where science, and, indeed, genetics did get a little twisted. But this Loki would have to be a really weird creature to father such a diverse pair. “Tell me about this pit.”

    “It lies in the caves deep under Asgard. Odin has magically imprisoned Loki there.”

    “There is another entrance through Skadi’s place,” said Fenrir. “But it goes through a gap too narrow for me to fit through.”

    “And if Loki can’t escape,” added Jörmungand, “it must be the greatest prison ever built. He has always got away before, sometimes just by talking his way out. He has a silver tongue, even if he has a dated taste in music.”

    Fenrir nodded. “Still likes the lughorn!”

    “Awful noise. Sounds like me with a belly-ache,” agreed Jörmungand.

    “Would I fit through this gap that you can’t, Wolf?” asked Liz.

    Fenrir studied her briefly. “Maybe. Be a bit tight around the top, I reckon. But it wouldn’t help you much. There are a maze of caves down there and you humans don’t have anything that passes for a nose.”

    “So that leaves going in through Odin’s lair.”

 

---

 

    The wolf and the serpent blinked at her in unison. “Lair is too flattering,” said Fenrir.

    “And while it is true that Fenrir and I would stick out and get noticed…”

    “Maybe not in the early morning,” said the wolf snidely.

    “In Vallhöll,” continued Jörmungand, “I gather a woman in that place needs to be a Valkyrie.”

    Fenrir nodded. “One-eye was always too cheapskate to hire enough, and I gather the job is… uh,” he looked warily at her, “pretty wearing. Odin gets half the slain and the rest go to Freyja, and she’s got the monopoly on trollops. Odin relies on the Einherjar getting drunk and fighting for entertainment, and it doesn’t work that well. I’d go with you, except that then they would work out that I was free again, and that Thor had taken his sword out of my mouth.”

    “Oh.” Not knowing anything about mythology was awkward at times. She must make some time to talk to Lamont about it. He wasn’t Jerry’s ore-grade as a mine of useless information, but he was a long way from being as ignorant as she was. Everyone was. She could swear like a bosun, identify fish by their otoliths, do the math for Von Bertalanthy growth curves, and even cope with public transport in foreign cities. But it was only when she had found herself plunged into the myth-worlds that she’d realized that she’d neglected her education.

    “In the meanwhile we will need some food,” said Marie, practically. “And we got invited to help ourselves. I’m betting that there won’t be any coffee.”

    “And there I thought this place was the Norse idea of heaven,” said Lamont. “Which way is it, Lodin?”

    “I’ll show you, master,” said the stable thrall. “But you’d better get them out of here.” He pointed to Jörmungand and Fenrir. “I saw Thjalfi and gave him Thor’s message. He said he would be back with Lady Sif soon. And she’ll give Lord Thor such a hard time if she sees them, that he’s likely to drown himself in a barrel of mead, just to shut out her voice.”

    Jörmungand looked at him. “And what am I supposed to do with this shaker?”

    “Let me out,” Thor said. “I’m all right now.”

    He didn’t look it, and Liz had her doubts. Usually the DTs lasted for days… but then Thor wasn’t really human either. Maybe it affected Norse gods differently.

    “And I’m not going until I’ve eaten,” announced Fenrir. “I got invited, remember.”

    Thor sighed. “At least go across to the old side of the house, where we always used to meet. I’ll bring you something. Or send Lodin with something, if I can’t get away. She never goes there.”

    “I’m not surprised,” said Jörmungand. “It’s feet thick in dust. Come on brother, we know when we’re not wanted.”

    “It’s knowing when we are wanted that’s a bit more difficult. Like getting enough drink,” said Fenrir with a wolfish grin. “We only tried you because we’ve even been thrown out of Gjálp’s place.”

    “Did you break the place up?” asked Thor, curiously.

    “No, she just keeps insisting that we pay up or get out. So if you’ve got any money…”

    Thor scowled. “I seem to be a bit short. I haven’t got anything left worth selling. Get along with you. I don’t think I could stand another scene with Sif, truly. She has hair of gold and a voice of brass.”

    “Did I hear my name mentioned?” A golden-haired woman stood in the doorway, posing artistically so that the sun could catch her hair and dazzle them.

    “Er. Hello, my love,” said Thor, sounding as if he had a frog in his throat.

    “Visitors, dear?” She gave them all a saccharine smile, that was as genuine as a Dior dress with a made in China label.

    “Just… just some people that were about to be leaving,” said Thor.

    “Oh, nonsense. We must ask them to stay for a drink and bite. Some of them look fascinating.” She cast a steely gaze over the group. “Jörmungand and Fenrir…”

    “No,” said Fenrir. “I’m Freki. Odin’s been overfeeding me. And I don’t know who this is.” He looked at his sister. “What did you say your name was again, dragon?”

    “Orm,” said Jörmungand.

    “Ah,” said Sif. Her tone registered absolute unbelief. “You looked so much smaller when I saw you minutes back at the Allfather’s side, Freki.”

    Fenrir grinned wolfishly. “Everything looks smaller than it is next to Valfödr.”

    “What were you doing there?” Thor asked his wife, suspiciously. “I’ve asked you not go there.”

    Sif tossed her hair. It really was like spun gold. “I know. But I needed provisions for this house. It’s strangely empty,” she said pointedly. “And tributes from Thrúdvangar are also… late. So somebody had to do something.”

    She smiled toothily at him. “And so? Are you going to introduce me to your guests? Svartalfar and a Valkyrie? And these are perhaps Einherjar?” She pointed at the two surviving PSA agents. “Such charming little boys. I have missed the patter of tiny feet since Magni and Modi grew up.”

    “Magni couldn’t patter… ever,” said Thor. “Made more noise than any giant from the day he was born. And where are he and Modi?”

    Sif waved an airy hand. “Out and about.”

    “At Vallhöll. Partying,” said Thor crossly.

    “Well, you can’t blame them for wanting to spend time with their grandfather,” said Sif. “Now, Roskva. Where is that food and drink?”

    The dark haired maiden standing two paces back from Sif bowed. “Waiting, my lady. They’ll need to come in through this door.”

    “And I am blocking it. Tch,” she clicked her tongue. “Now I must go and clean up after my journey. Have them bring it in. Have a feast prepared.”

    “It’s at least a mile, that journey,” muttered Thor.

    Sif chose to ignore that and swept regally past them. Behind her came a stream of thralls rolling barrels and carrying meat.

    “Just three barrels of that and I’m anybody’s,” sighed Jörmungand mournfully, looking at the hogsheads of mead going past. She sniffled. “If anyone would have me.”

    At a mere fifty gallons of mead a barrel, Liz guessed that she wasn’t most dragon’s idea of a cheap date. “Not a lot of talent out there?” she asked, sympathetically.

    Jörmungand snorted. “They’re all old enough to be my grandfather! You read all those sagas… and you know what? I am the only dragon who was ever born in them. The others were all around already. So what am I to do? Except eat… and now I’m bigger than all of them too. Like that really helps.” She sighed gustily. “You don’t know any dragons, do you?”

    Liz looked speculatively at her. She was—to a biologist anyway—a superlatively beautiful animal. “I might just be able to fix you up with someone. You wouldn’t mind if they were maybe a little younger and smaller than you, would you?”

     Jörmungand stared at her wide-eyed. “Younger… listen, as long as they’re under a millennium, I’m interested.” She paused. “Or do you think I need to play a bit hard to get? You know, suave, sophisticated… a dragon-girl who has been around, that sort of thing.”

    “Honey, I don’t think Bitar and Smitar would know ‘sophisticated’ if it bit them on the leg.” Candor might do best, thought Liz. “They’re a little thick, actually. Handsome beasts but… Not your deepest thinkers.”

    “Male dragons are always a bit slow,” said Jörmungand. “Or that’s what papa Loki said. He always said that he was glad I was a girl. Anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers. So… um, can you set something up?”

    Jörmungand looked around uneasily to see if her brother was listening and then whispered sibilantly… “and maybe give me a little girl advice?”

    Liz hoped that it would be on reptile biology and not on dating behavior. She’d never been too good at how you were supposed to behave. Reptile biology had to be simpler. “The only problem is that they’re back where we come from. We just need to take you back with us.”

    America could cope with another dragon, she figured. Maybe this one would eat a few INS officials for her.

 

---

 

    Thor wandered over, shaking his head. “I think Sif’s up to something.”

    Another one of your great thinkers, thought Liz, but kept her opinions to herself.

    “But she did make one good point,” said the red-bearded god. “We never really got properly introduced.” He bowed. “Thor, god of warriors and thunder, at your service. I know the black-elf lady Marie, but I have not been introduced formally to you. And here in Thrúdvangar we like to at least meet formally. After that things tend to get more muddled. This here is the Midgard serpent, Jörmungand, and the famous Fenrir the wolf. We’re… ah, drinking companions. But I have given up.”

    “Well, I ain’t no black elf,” said Marie forcefully. She cupped her ears in her hands. “See? No pointy ears. We’re Americans. I’m Marie Jackson, that’s my husband Lamont and these are our kids. Tyrone, Ella, and Emmitt. He’s sort of adopted. My sister’s son. She had the same sort of problem you got. And that there is Neoptolemeus. He’s with me until we can get him back to his ma.”

    “And I am Dr. Elisabet De Beer,” Liz said, wondering what that title would translate to. “Call me Liz.”

    “Or Sir,” said Lamont, with a shadow of his usual smile.

    Thor nodded with deep respect. “A skald must always be welcome.”

    Skald? Liz hoped it didn’t mean scold. She tried not to be… too much.

    “And you two?” Thor asked looking at the two agents in their breast-plates and roughly cobbled furs.

    “Special Agent Bott. PSA.”

    “And Special Agent Stephens. PSA.”

    Thor looked at them with a jaundiced eye. Liz wondered what special agent translated to.

    She was answered by Thor’s next comment. “Tax collectors, eh? Well, I suppose there is need for your ilk. Listen, I’m having some problems with the revenues from my own kingdom, Thrúdvangar. If you’re in need of a job… or do you already work for the Americans? And how came you Americans into the land of the trolls? I had not previously heard of Americans. Is Americanaheim beyond Vanaheim?”

    “We were transported magically from our own place. It’s a lot further than Vanaheim,” said Lamont. “We’d like to get back home.”

    Thor blinked. “But do you not like Asgard?”

    “It’s a great place,” said Lamont. “But one of my daughters got left behind. And Tolly here got separated from his ma.”

    Ella burst into tears. Neoptolemeus swallowed and nestled into Marie.

    Then Thor started to cry too. He came and knelt before Ella, looking like some kind of cross between a fat cabbage-patch kid and red-haired troll. “It’s all right child. Thor will see gets fixed,” he said earnestly, a tear running down his red nose.

    “He always was hopelessly soft with kids,” said Fenrir, loftily disapproving.

    “It’s why he didn’t tear your head off when you were little and the others wanted him to,” said his sister. “It’s his better aspect, if you ask me.”

    The man with a swelling eye who had followed Sif in had been trying to keep a low profile, Liz noticed. Now he coughed and said: “Platters have been laid in the small feasting hall, Lord.”

    “Thjalfi! Where have you been, you rogue?” demanded Thor, focusing on him. “And where is my belt of strength and Grid’s rod?”

    Thjalfi looked at his master with amazement, impressively so for someone Liz had last seen with a fake red beard and the aforementioned rod. “But they were with you my lord, at the evil troll Geirrodur’s castle. Didn’t you bring them back with you?”

    Thor looked uncertain. “No.”

    “He had them on. I saw him,” said Marie, pointing at Thjalfi.

    Good, thought Liz. At least I wasn’t imagining things.

    “Me?” said the faithful retainer in hurt tones. “My lord. That’s ridiculous. I am your body-servant and loyal bonder. I’ve served you for years…”

    “S’true,” muttered Thor. “But I thought you got killed. It’s all vague now…”

    Thjalfi bowed. “I am a very solid ghost.”

    Thor frowned. “Disir are female.”

    Thjalfi waved his hands airily. “Anyway, my Lord, Lady Sif awaits with dinner.”

    Thor blinked and gestured at Jörmungand and Fenrir. “Yes, but my friends…”

    “Orm and Freki,” said Fenrir.

    “Uh, Orm and Freki won’t fit there. You will have to have the food moved to the greater chamber,” said Thor.

    It was Thjalfi’s turn to look taken aback. “I, er, thought something could be brought to them.”

    “No,” said Thor largely. “Friends of mine. They eat with me. Have the platters moved. It’s only a few sword lengths.”

    Thjalfi looked—very briefly—mutinous, but then he bowed and dog-trotted off to go and do as he was bid. So a little while later they all trooped through to a huge hall that would have been big enough for fifteen simultaneous platteland weddings—the kind where every relative living gets dredged up to fill every inch with people you’d rather not meet.

    Sif was doing that job single-handedly, and doing it very well, Liz thought. Thor’s wife was the sort of lady bountiful that would make the average recipient of condescending kindness ready to starve to death rather than take a mouthful of the bounty.

    But then, Liz admitted, maybe her antagonism to the woman was just a case of not liking someone with real golden-blond hair. The damned stuff really looked as if was made of gold, and it made Liz feel very unwashed and un-brushed. Maybe she should have done her hair before Wolfie’s.

    Sif’s gown too, was an embroidered thing of beauty, studded with seed-pearls. It was surprising Thor hadn’t sold that. But then, she probably hadn’t let him get his hands on it.

    Servants ghosted around with jugs of mead, filling the drinking horns. Marie, seated at Thor’s left hand, reached out and covered Thor’s horn. “We’re resisting one drink one day at a time, remember.”

    Thor nodded. “Uh. Well. I suppose so.”

    “We have no control over alcohol,” she said firmly, quoting.

    “Right.” The thunder-god’s lips quirked. “And you are a power higher than I am.” But he turned the horn over, and adopted a firm-chinned look of red-bearded determination.

    “But, my dear, you must have a drink to the health of our guests!” insisted Sif. “It would be rude not to.”

    “Right,” said Thor weakly, turning his horn the right way up again.

    “Wrong,” said Marie, glaring at Sif. “Get this into your head. From now on he can’t even have one drink because one drink leads to another.”

    “But he is Thor! Thor the mighty drinker who even lowered the ocean when Utgardaloki put the end of his ale-horn into the sea.” Sif gestured to the waiting Thjalfi and his jug.

    “He can drink as much sea-water as he wants to,” said Marie.

    “Uh. It made me throw up,” said Thor. “What am I to drink if I can’t have mead or beer… or small beer? There is nothing else.”

    “Water,” said Lamont.

    “That stuff kills you,” said Thor. “Really. And fish… well, they live in it.”

    Liz could believe that the local water might easily kill you. Like the Greeks drinking wine, almost everyone here probably drank something with alcohol in it to keep the waterborne diseases limited, if not completely at bay. Boiled or spring water it would have to be.

    Thjalfi tried to pour some more of the mead into Thor’s horn. Marie plucked the jug out of his hand and emptied it over his head.

    Sif smiled sweetly at her. “You say she is a power greater than you, husband?”

    Thor looked at Thjalfi, dripping and gaping, and nodded. Marie grinned. And then her face spasmed with pain, briefly.

    “So don’ push me,” she gasped. “Gimme one of those pills, Lamont honey.” The pills had altered, but still seemed to work.

    Thjalfi had backed off to the now open mead-barrel, which stood beside the other three unbroached ones. He was about to refill the jug, despite his dripping, when Marie caught sight of him.

    She whistled at the dragon, to get Jörmungand’s attention. “You. Go and finish up that lot.”

    Jörmungand didn’t wait for a second invitation. She surged up and plunged her gargantuan black-lipped mouth around the first barrel, and up-ended it down her throat. The next one she just swallowed whole… As she did with the last two. And then she gave a little ladylike burp, and said “‘scuse me.”

    Sif watched with little red spots of furious color blossoming on her cheeks. Liz was sure, now, that Thor’s wife not only understood Thor’s drinking problem, but had come here with just one purpose in mind—to get him drunk. She was also certain that Thjalfi was up to his plump neck in whatever Sif was up to.

    The real question was why? Liz could only think of one plausible answer. The Krim had lost two prior encounters with some of this set of humans, so it was treading more cautiously now. One of its aims was presumably to get any allies they might have made out of the way.

 

---

 

    “All right,” growled Fenrir. “She got to drink all the drink. Can I eat all the food?”

    “No,” said Liz, firmly. “You need a properly managed diet, or you’ll end up with all sorts of growth problems. And we don’t want that.”

    Fenrir stared at her, his bucket-sized toothy mouth wide open. “Diet…” he said, as if he might be pronouncing a foreign word. “Did you say ‘diet’?”

    “Not starvation. I just need to adjust your protein and calcium input. You’re growing too fast. You’ll end up with weak bones. Wolfing down everything is just not on. I want you a strong and beautiful wolf, not one crippled with joint pains.”

    “Just one roast ox?” said Fenrir pleadingly.

    Jörmungand began to hiccup.

 

---

 

    “So what we do now?” said Special Agent Bott, to his companion.

    “They’re treating us like amateurs and pariahs,” said Stephens.

    “Yeah, I know.” Bott examined what his laser sighting device had become. He tossed the piece of pitch-pine and flint aside. “Trouble is, they do know more than we do. And they don’t seem very interested in co-operation.”

    That was at the root of their problems here. Cooperation. These guys seemed to have no loyalty and worse, no respect. The scary thing was that the others were in control. Well, more in control than Stephens or he were.

    “That Thjalfi…” Bott mused. “The local factotum fellow. He seemed more friendly.”

    “At least he brought me a loaf of bread, and took away the meat,” said the vegetarian. “I don’t see why they all find it so funny.”

    “I suppose it is very odd in this culture. Anyway. I think we should cultivate this Thjalfi.”

    His companion shrugged. “Why not? We can’t complete our primary objective. If I understand it right we don’t have much of a chance of getting back to the U.S .either. Except these guys did manage it before.”

    Bott nodded. “That’s why I think its worth sticking with them. Even if means putting up with their nonsense.”

    “Until we get home.”

    “Yeah,” said Bott, rubbing his hands together. “It’ll be quite different then.”

 

---

 

    “Shouldn’t have drunk that stuff so fast,” admitted Jörmungand, a bit later. Liz was no expert on the proper color of dragons, but that particular greenish tinge didn’t look right at all.

    “A mistake,” she agreed, nodding. Liz felt genuinely disoriented. Women going off in pairs to the bathroom was something she hadn’t actually thought of across the species-divide. And Jörmungand being sick was something she could have passed on entirely.

    “Just… drink helps me to forget my sorrows. Helps me to forget that I’m a freak.”

    “You’re not a freak! You’re a very fine dragon!” Who has just puked up four hogsheads of mead, the barrel staves, a roasted ox, and some large sharks, but she didn’t say it aloud.

    “I’m too fat,” sniffed Jörmungand. “These dragon friends of yours will never like me. I need to diet!”

    At this rate, thought Liz, I’ll have an anorexic dragon in my life. “Nonsense,” She said robustly. “Who told you that rubbish?”

    Jörmungand sniffed again. “It says so in all the skaldic sagas I’ve read. They say I am so big I have to live in the ocean. And I’ve read all of them. They… help me get away from myself.”

    “I wouldn’t believe everything you read. I mean, who wrote them?” asked Liz.

    “Some of the greatest skalds in history, and some of the worst,” said Jörmungand. “You must know more about them than I do, being a skald yourself.”

    “Um,” said Liz. “I just think that what I really am is lost in translation. And I promise you that I’ve written a lot of things I didn’t believe myself, and they’re supposed to be true. I was writing about fish—and I’m not a fish. Naturally, I get some things wrong. If these skalds  were writing about dragons, unless they were dragons, they probably got things wrong too. Trust me. My skills are not skaldic poetry… well, not any kind of poetry, but I know a lot about zoology.”

    Liz saw the puzzled look. “Take it as the study of animals.”

    “Like hunting?”

    “No. More like understanding how they work… look, just trust me, I’m an expert. You are not fat. Just… very big. The skalds have it wrong. I’m sure, if you think about it, you’ll find they get other things wrong.”

    “Oh, all the time. And most of them can’t write for old rakfisk. I mean take that stupid death scene in the Volsung Saga. Could it be any more contrived? Here is Atli dying, having been murdered by Gúdrun, and they stop to have a long pointless bicker about her temperament not always having been what it should have been. Artistry,” said Jörmungand sarcastically. “I could do it better myself.”

    “Spoken like a true critic,” said Liz.

    “I think it goes with a serpentine body,” said Jörmungand, flicking out her forked tongue.

 

---

 

    Marie turned, too late, to try and pull the sharp thing out of her. It must have killed her, she realized. Consciousness was fading like the light seemed to be. All she was aware of was that golden-haired woman smiling toothily in triumph as she fell.

    Regret. She hadn’t even been able to say a proper goodbye to Lamont and the children….

    She’d come into the room looking for Thor. At this stage, the guy was going to need near constant support, but he was doing well. She’d found him—and Sif and Thjalfi. Thor had been in a chair, lolling, drool running down his chin and the air smelling like ‘shine.