Pyramid Power: Chapter Eighteen

    “Yes, you do have to wear a mailshirt,” said Jörmungand firmly. “All the Valkyries do.”

    Liz held the offending garment at arm’s length. “You realize that if it was going to do any good, there is no way I could hold this out like this? It’s too light.”

    “I could bite through it like fine vellum,” said Fenrir, licking his lips. “But I think it is for the look of the thing. No one expects Valkyries to actually fight.”

    “Even for the look of things,” insisted Liz, “this is designed for someone with smaller shoulders. And a smaller bra-size. It’s metal and it doesn’t stretch.”

    “I’ll see what I can do to the side-straps,” said Lamont in a subdued voice. “Not much I can do about the chest part, though. Is there no way you can fit into it?”

    Liz looked at his face and nodded. “I was just complaining for the sake of it, Lamont. It’ll be a bit of a squeeze but I’ll manage. But you might need tin-snips and pliers to get me out of it again.”

    Lamont managed a slight smile. “Maybe a can-opener.”

    “There is one in my bag. I don’t like leaving that behind.”

    “Hit them with the sword instead,” said Emmitt.

    Liz felt the Norse sword at her side. “It doesn’t weigh as much. Besides I don’t know too much about fencing. I thought it was something you had around the game-paddocks until I was about twenty-five.”

    “Hit them with the sharp bit,” advised Fenrir, his tongue lolling as he stretched in front of the fire. “Does anyone else feel that it is much colder tonight?”

    “Not compared to Geirrodur’s castle.”

    “Maybe so, but it is cold for Asaheim. Maybe Fimbulwinter comes at last.” There was a look of bloody joy in his eyes.

    Liz had felt no guilt about helping herself to Sif’s wardrobe. She did feel uncomfortable about taking a horse from Thor’s stable without his permission. There was only one. It was a gentle looking chestnut, about fifteen hands high, with a long mane and tail. It turned an enquiring head towards them as they entered.

    “Thrúd’s,” said Lodin. “She’s used to a woman’s touch.” The stable thrall looked warily at Liz. “Not… that Thrúd was too good at being ladylike. You can ride, Lady?”

    Liz nodded. “So long is it isn’t side-saddle. Even that I did once or twice.”

 

---

 

    So, a few minutes later, Liz was trotting across Asaheim in the dusk over the low ridge to Vallhöll. She had strict instructions from Lodin about Thrúd’s mare. The stable-thralls at Odin’s hall would care for her, especially if she dropped a word or two in the right ear. She wondered how you got to be thrall in the afterlife. It didn’t seem like much to look forward to, really. An eternity of forking dung. If that was your reward in paradise… life on earth must have been pretty grim. Mind you, you had only to look at the special offers from most religions—a  cloud, a set of wings and a harp, or seventy white raisins with transparent flesh—to understand why preaching hellfire as an alternative was so attractive.

     When she reached Vallhöll, the noise coming from within told her the party had already got to the hitting-each-other-is-fun stage. Wonderful.

    She stabled the mare, said appropriate things to a certain bald stable hand, as per her instructions, took a deep breath and headed for the nearest door and the mayhem.

 

---

 

    The rock-hewed tunnels under Vallhöll were steep. At least you knew when you were going uphill towards daylight. That was the only direction they could be sure of. The tunnels were dark and, worse, branched. Jerry was beginning to wonder if they’d ever find a way out.

    “We need a light,” said Sigyn. “We could wander forever in the dark.”

    She said that without much thought, but it provided a spark of inspiration. Or just a spark… on the end of a piece of rock, which became a flame. “We’ve been fading away in that pit for far too long. I should have thought of this ages ago,” said Loki, his teeth gleaming in the darkness.

    It made it easier going, but it took a while before it occurred to Jerry to ask Loki if he could smell like a blood-hound if he turned into one?

    Loki nodded. And laughed. “Now, would you be implying that the bouquet of even a dog would be better than mine?”

    Jerry shrugged, grinning back. “There is a certain in-scent-ive to that aspect too. But I must admit it was getting out of here, that was my first thought.”

    “You shouldn’t have even hinted at the idea of getting clean,” said Sigyn, longingly. “The first century was the worst, though.”

    “After that our noses went numb,” said Loki. “You get used to pretty nearly anything. It will mean darkness again, but Jerry’s idea is a good one. Stand beside me. And then, when I change, keep a hand on my back, both of you.”

    So they did. Loki was a fairly tall dog, fortunately. He led them back and down—the direction they’d been avoiding—and then up again. At last Jerry could hear the distant sounds of a huge, very raucous party. And there was a torch burning in a wall-sconce.

    Loki transformed into himself again. “Good thinking, Jerry. Except I kept wanting to lift a leg. Now, I will go and scout ahead. The trouble is that even transformed, the Ás would recognize me.”

    “It’s the eyes. Something about them does not change. They remain the true Loki,” said Sigyn. “Go then. But go carefully.”

    A large buzzing gadfly went.

    He came back a little later. “It’s early yet. If we can wait until they reach the fall-down drunk stage we can pass through the hall with a bit more ease. Follow me. We need to slip through the sculleries, and up a little stair. I have found us a perfect spot to watch and wait.”

    He had indeed. It was a little gallery, plainly intended for musicians. They could watch the whole debauch within the vast hall with ease.

    “Odin’s not there,” said Loki. “But there is Heimdall-goldteeth. And there is Magni. Thor’s son. They’re likely to recognize me.”

    “Heimdall is not likely to ever forget you,” said Sigyn, dryly. “And let’s hope that he doesn’t try that hundred mile vision of his.”

    “I thought he was out keeping a watch for giants,” said Jerry.

    “Well, yes, but not at night,” said Loki. “So it must be after nightfall. Good. I thought so by the drinking, but it is hard to tell. Now all we need is a little more drinking and a good distraction. A big fight. There is always one. Then we’ll be out of here before they drink the minni-toast. I’d like to be gone before Skadi finds out she was tricked, and before Odin starts looking for us.”

    That made every kind of sense to Jerry, although he wasn’t sure what a “minni-toast” was. He was willing to bet it wasn’t a small piece of lightly carbonized bread, or a drink to the health of Mickey’s bride. But he had something of the measure of Loki now. “And then?” he asked.

    Loki chuckled. “You think far too far ahead. Next thing you’ll be asking me if I have thought of the consequences.”

    Sigyn shook her head. “We’re not that ignorant about you! But what are we going to do? We need to get out of the gates of Asgard. Once we have reached Jotunheim or even Midgard, they will not take us with ease. So how are we going to get out of Asgard?”

    “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet,” said Loki, cheerfully.

    “That’s what we’d like you to try,” said Jerry dryly. “If it is not beyond you.”

    “Of course I can, but it is so dull…” said Loki. He caught the look they were both giving him. “Oh very well. We need to get to either to Thor’s or Frey’s homes. Thor has those vile goats and a chariot. Frey has his boar Gullinborsti and his chariot. I could fly over the walls to Midgard, but we’ll need fast transport to get you two away. There’ll be hue and cry of course, but I thought I could do my act as a gad-fly and bite Heimdall. Or if we hit the gates early, he might not be there yet. The child of nine mothers is dipping very deep.”

    Loki pointed to where Heimdall was half slumped over a table with a Valkyrie on his lap trying to get his head up to pour more mead down his throat. With shock Jerry realized that he recognized that face. His first reaction was of intense relief. Liz was still alive! His next reaction was of fairly violent jealousy. As a rational and serious academic Jerry hadn’t even known he could feel like that.

 

---

 

    Liz realized the error of her ways about ten seconds after entering Vallhöll’s smoky and noisy halls.

    For starters, the place was enormous. It looked bigger than ten O’Hare’s put together, and full too. The only answer as to how dark-ages architecture stood up to these demands was by magic, because there was no other possibility. It had looked big from outside. From inside it looked, if not like a sea of people, like a reasonable sized lake.

    There were rows and rows and more rows of tables and bench-seats full of the butts of Norse heroes. In between them staggered thralls carrying platters of steaming hog-meat, and of course, foaming jugs of booze. The raucous bellowing and laughter was like a solid wave of sound.

    It appeared that Oktoberfest had had its origins here, complete with low-cut mail-shirts as an early version of the dirndl. Valkyries, accompanied by a train of thralls, poured foamy stuff into the drinking horns. Impatient yells for service added to the Munich feel of it all. The Valkyries were understaffed. By the looks of it, it would get a lot worse before midnight. Well. Jerry wasn’t going to be in this room. It was kind of a pity. She’d enjoyed Oktoberfest.

    Then an arm snagged her around the waist and deposited her derriere on a lap, and she realized that it was less fun for the waitresses here. For starters you might get a lot more than a tip. And, looking at the face of man who had hauled her onto his lap, you could forget some gallant gentleman stopping him from harassing the hired help. From what Thor had said, Heimdall-with-the-gold-teeth was one of the boss’s cronies. Maybe he enjoyed partying with the hoi-polloi. Or maybe this end of the hall was for the major league heroes. Most of them were big enough to have done well in any rugby team.

    Heimdall blinked owlishly at her. “Shwat you looked f’milar, wench. I’m better c’mpany than that slob, Thor. Drink with me.”

    He held the horn to her face, clumsily slopping a quarter pint of the stuff down her mailshirt. Mead was a lot nicer than she’d thought it would be, but she still didn’t want to shower in the stuff. His arm was still around her waist, and he held her so firmly that there was no escape without a major struggle. Mailshirts did have one advantage on your average dirndl, in that squeezing private property was less intrusive. His fingers were strong enough to dent the metal, though.

    Liz took the only option available. She drank. A lot less of the stuff than Heimdall had had in mind for her, as he attempted to pour the whole horn down her throat. It was a big horn. Silver-chased. It was the same thing he’d had for a tootle-pipe at the gates! There was a stopper in the bottom. Well, you could probably drink out of a trumpet if you didn’t mind wrecking the thing. And there were no valves on this.

    Liz managed pull the stopper loose. A stream of mead urinated un-noticed into Heimdall’s cloak. Liz, with the stopper firmly clasped in two fingers, used both hands to stop herself being drowned in mead. All she had to do was to keep Heimdall from tipping it too much, and pretend to drink. She still got a fair bit more down her cleavage, but doubtless this oaf thought that added to her charms.

    She was able to upend it and drain the last dregs so that it wasn’t too obvious. He and several of his Viking-type buddies cheered. Heimdall showed no signs of letting go, although she tried to pull free. So she snagged a jug from a passing thrall. This was what was expected of her, so she was allowed to pour it into the enormous twisted horn—and quietly push the stopper home. It took another half a two quart jug to fill the darn thing. But now it was her turn to pour it in his face. As he leaned back she saw the pyramid-pendant, under his blond beard.

    He drank all of his hornful. And bellowed for a refill. For Liz.

    Liz could see no way out of it… yet. But when the horn was full again, she leaned forward and kissed him, as she pulled the plug. She wasn’t quite as lucky this time, as some of it was dribbling down her leg. She’d take this big sot on at down-downs, and drink him under the table, but not while Jerry and Marie needed finding. She gave him some tongue as mead spilled onto the rush-strewn floor. By the looks of old gold-teeth’s face that hadn’t happened too often lately.

    Then she used two hands to chug the empty horn full of mead, ignoring his clumsy efforts to give her a feel up and wishing they’d issued her with chain-mail pants, with a small bear-trap strategically placed. She pushed the bung back in and “accidentally” whacked his fingers with the end of the horn.

    While he was still sucking his fingers she called for more mead. “Two to one,” she said, lining up jugs. “You’re bigger than me, big boy.”

    “By the all-father, Valkyrie, you can drink!” said a man with a plaited walrus moustache next to her.

    “Not as much as me,” said Heimdall, putting it away. Liz hastily refilled while he was still belching and wiping his beard. And while he was drinking she snagged two more jugs off a passing tray. Heimdall’s counting was getting a little weak. “Wasn’t that my two?” he asked, taking the horn anyway.

    “No, this is the second,” said Liz, pouring it down his throat. She raised her eyes to heaven. Wouldn’t this oaf pass out?

    Then she nearly passed out instead. There, standing on the little gallery, as bold as Beauchamp, was Jerry, looking ready to commit murder.

    She tried to stand up. And that was a mistake. Heimdall sat up and made a grab at her. “Time for loving,” he bellowed pushing her back onto the table and sending the bench flying along with a full load of Norse warriors as he tried to lift her dress. Liz kicked him. As hard as she could. Unfortunately, only in the belly. He did crash into the next table, via a platter of steaming boiled pork.

    “S’playing hard to get?” he said, sitting up and tilting his head at her, ignoring the fight that had broken out next to them. He surged forward again, grabbing her dress. He was so drunk he missed. Liz flung a leg of fatty pork at his head. And then swung that horn of his at him, as she tried to get up, and slipped on the pork-fat and spilled mead. He grabbed her with one hand, and Liz knew that, drunk or not, he was stronger than she was. And no-one around here was about to lift a finger to help, despite her scream for it.

    Except for Jerry Lukacs. He’d wrenched the upper rail off the little gallery and jumped the twenty feet down to the tables. The table went over, but not Jerry. He’d already gained the next one, swinging an eight-foot long piece of two-by-two rail, whacking blond heads. He brought it down, edge on, on Heimdall’s head, just as gold-teeth managed to hitch her dress up,

    Liz rolled frantically away.

 

---

 

    Jerry slipped on the horrendous mixture of grease and mead, lost his grip on the two-by-two, and fell onto plaited walrus moustache’s head. The heavy oak table went over.

    Liz rolled across the floor, seeing Jerry wrestle with walrus-moustache, who must have been three times his size. And then Heimdall sat up.

    He was a god. But didn’t he have the decency to fall over and stay down? thought Liz furiously, struggling to get up with her wet skirts tangled in someone’s feet. They fell, just as she saw Heimdall grab Jerry…. and the torches winked out.

    There was nothing but darkness and pandemonium. Liz tried her best to add to that by hitting anything in reach with what she had in hand—the horn.

    Then something hit her. If it hadn’t been for that stupid mailshirt it would have been a lot worse. As it was the breath was knocked out of her, and she was sent sprawling, gasping, into a space that was fairly free of legs.

    There was light again. The torches were being hastily rekindled. Liz, peering out from under the table, could see the profile of the man with one eye talking to gold-teeth. They were holding Jerry. Holding him in such a way as to make escape highly unlikely, even if his head were not lolling. He was moving, though, so he probably was still alive.

    Liz tried to get up, follow her first instinct to see if he was all right. But her legs were trapped under a bench which appeared to have a few elephants sitting on it. She bashed her head hard on the oak of the table above her, and as she tried to sit up again. Seeing stars, she heard Odin say: “I gave orders for this one to put into Loki’s pit. What in Hel’s name is he doing here?”

    Heimdall blinked owlishly. “Maybe he ‘shcaped.”

    “Or maybe he never got there. I’ll question him, either way.”

    “Can’t I finish killing him?”

    “No. This is not one of the Einherjar, Heimdall. I need him alive to get some answers out of him. Where is your horn?”

    Heimdall scratched his head. “I had it with me. I was having a drinking competition with some new Valkyrie…”

    “There are no new Valkyries,” said Odin, his eye narrow with anger. “Fool. Don’t say you’ve lost it. You’ll need it at the Time. No other horn will be heard across all of the nine worlds to call our allies!”

    “It mus’ be here somewhere,” said Heimdall.

    Liz looked at the item in her right hand.

    Odin turned, pushing Jerry in one of his escort’s arms. “Look for it. In the meanwhile I’d better send someone to check on Loki. Actually, I’d better go and check myself. And I’ll see this one bestowed. With guards. Sober ones.”

    Liz crawled deeper into the shadows under the table. There was a platter under here. A huge one, that had obviously got lost in the melee. Well, so gold-teeth and Odin wanted the horn back. It was not her heartfelt desire to oblige the bastard. And it was still smoky, half-dark and chaotic out there. She wanted to follow Jerry, to find out where they were going to put him. There was something to be said for a weedy academic who would take on a whole hall full of these warrior types with a two-by-two for her. That something was probably “crazy idiot,” but still.

    She bit her lip. Explaining what she was doing kissing gold-teeth might just be interesting.

    She crawled out from under the table, held the horn under the platter and set off towards the doors where Odin was heading, hoping Heimdall didn’t spot her. Risking a quick glance back she saw most of the people in that area of the hall were on hands and knees. Horn hunting, no doubt.

    The trouble was that there were a lot of doors in the wall at the hall end, just below Jerry’s gallery. At least three of them were possible, but if she hesitated she was probably lost anyway. So she walked through the nearest one. And nearly collided with a load more boiled pork. This plainly led to the kitchens. One of the thralls looked at her and the empty platter and pointed with an elbow to a stair leading down off to her left. “Scullery.”

    She had very little choice but to go into it, or crash into half a boiled pig. The passage wasn’t wide enough for both of them. And there were more food-carriers coming.

    The scullery stair was obviously not the main access to that area, as there was no traffic. She might find somewhere to stash this horn. She couldn’t come out of the kitchen doors with an empty platter. She walked down and round. And collided with a ragged thrall. The platter and Heimdall’s horn were knocked flying.

    “What are you doing with that?” demanded the thrall, in a very un-thrall female voice. “That’s that jerk Heimdall’s Gjallarhorn. How did you get that?”

    Liz was grabbed by a pair of strong hands. Very strong hands. She tried to pull free and failed. “Let go, damn you!”

    The thrall snorted. “Not until I work out where you’re running off to with Gjallarhorn. Asgard needs it, even if I don’t need gold-teeth.”

    “I don’t need him either,” said Liz, shuddering. “I have to agree with what Thor said about the creep this morning. And you can have the horn. I just took it to spite him.”

    The ferociously strong grip on Liz’s wrists eased slightly. “You saw Papa-Thor this morning?”

    “Yeah. We brought him back from… watchamacallit… Geirrodur’s castle.” The part about “Papa” registered. “Thor is your father?” asked Liz, incredulously.

    “I think,” said the woman holding her who was disguised like a thrall, “that we need to talk. There is a store-room back there. Do you have anything to do with the black-elf that Sif had kidnapped? That made Papa-Thor stop drinking?”

    Liz nodded. “Yes. That’s why I’m here. To try and find her. Now let’s get into this store-room before they find us.”

    The “thrall” let go of her and scooped up the horn. “This way.”

    It was only few yards to the unobtrusive door. “In here.”

    The door closed. It was pitch dark in there. “Who are you? I did not know my father had any friends among Odin’s Valkyries.” The voice was thick with suspicion.

    “I’m not a Valkyrie. I just disguised myself as one to come and look for Marie. And my boyfriend.”

    There was a long silence. Then Thor’s daughter said: “Are you quite crazy?”

    “I think I am,” said Liz, ruefully. “I didn’t realize that it was a bulls party, and that I was dressing up as hooker. But what are you doing here? And what do you know about Marie? And who are you actually?”

    There was another long silence. Finally the other person replied. “I’m Thrúd. I thought that was obvious. And what I’m doing here is my business.” Her voice was stiff with a “don’t ask” tone. “But I can tell you what has happened to the black-elf woman. One-eye has sent her to lie inside the wall of flame, like the Valkyrie Brynhild.”

    “He’s killed her?”

    “No. She lies as if dead, but she is not. She is somewhere between death and life. She will lie like that forever, unbreathing, but undying, untouched by the passing of days, forever, until the Time itself.”

    “Where… Lamont will go spare. Is there anyway of getting to her? Of waking her?”

    “Oh yes,” said Thrúd. “If you can get to her. She lies in a great hall on a mountaintop in Midgard, guarded by a wall of flame. If the thorn of sleep is drawn out of her neck she will wake to be the bride of the hero that has dared this mighty deed.”

    “Her husband is going to be mighty unimpressed, if it’s anyone but him,” said Liz dryly. “But at least she’s not dead. I’m less sure about Jerry.”

    “Jerry?”

    “My boyfriend,” said Liz. “Your one-eyed friend took him off to question. He was just going to check on someone called Loki first.”

 

---

 

    “Then we’d all better get out of here,” said another voice, nearly startling Liz out of ten years growth.

    “Uncle Fox!” said Thrúd incredulously.

    A flame flared in the darkness. Liz found herself looking at an impish grin that dominated an otherwise handsome but scarred face. “Liz, I presume?” he said coolly. “And my little Thrúd.” There was considerably more warmth in that.

    Thrúd hugged him.

    “Easy on my ribs, girl. You don’t know your own strength.”

    “Where is Sigyn?” demanded Thrúd. “If you’ve left her behind…”

    “Behind these boxes,” said a female voice.

    Loki looked at Heimdall’s horn. “Payment for services rendered? We were watching your little carouse from the gallery.”

    Liz swallowed. “It wasn’t what it looked like,” she said. “And now if you’ll excuse me I must go and see if I can get Jerry free.”

    Loki shook his head, and put himself between her and the door. “Explain what it was then,” he said, standing there with his arms crossed. “Before you go out and call One-eye and his henchmen down on us.”

    Liz shrugged, feeling herself coloring. “I got dressed up in this Valkyrie outfit and came across from Thor’s home to look for Marie and Jerry. I didn’t… quite realize what I might be in for. Heimdall pulled me onto his lap when I tried to walk past. So… I played the part. And tried to get him fall-down drunk. We were having down-downs competitions out of this stupid horn. Only I kept pulling the plug out, while, uh, distracting him,” she coughed, “and letting the drink run out, before I pretended to drink it. See. The side of my dress is soaked.” 

    “And then,” said Sigyn, coming out from behind the boxes.

    “Then I saw Jerry, and that ass decided to rape me. Jerry came to rescue me, I got knocked under the table. And the lights went out.”

    “My work,” said Loki. “When Helblindi thinks about it, he’ll realize that. And then?”

    “Then the guy with one eye was there. I was under a table with the horn, and I saw them take Jerry away. More to stop gold-teeth from finding this horn of his than anything else—One-eye told him to—I hid it under a meat platter and tried to follow them. But I took the wrong door and collided with Thrúd. She brought me in here.”

    Loki looked at Sigyn. “Well, I don’t know. I suppose it is possible. Look, we’ll take you with us. And the horn. That’s a prize and a half.”

    “Leave me behind,” said Liz.

    Loki shook his head. “When Odin finds I am gone there will be a manhunt such as Asgard has never seen. Jerry, to whom we have sworn an oath, will be guarded by enough of the Einherjar to stop Thor, let alone you. But that horn might do for the ransom.”

    Thrúd looked a little doubtfully at it. “Maybe,” she said, “but Ragnarok comes. And the Ás will need the horn, Uncle Fox. “

    Loki’s eyes danced in the flame-light. “Ah. But I reached a compromise with Jerry, Thrúd. A compromise that will hopefully avoid the need for Ragnarok entirely. It does rather depend on getting this Jerry free to fulfill his side of the bargain. If I swap the horn for Jerry, I won’t mind, because gold-teeth won’t need to use it. It’ll do him no good.”

    Thrúd still looked doubtful. “I suppose we can take it along,” she said, reluctantly. “But I don’t trust you, Uncle Fox. I like you, yes, but I don’t trust you. Not that you always cause ill on purpose,” she condescended, “But it does follow you around.”

    “But you can trust me, Thrúd,” said Sigyn, practically. “And this Midgarder did convince me. I agreed. I will settle for vengeance on those who killed Narfi, and who bespelled Vali. If I can have that without Ragnarok, so be it.”

    Thrúd raised her eyebrows. “That makes this ‘Jerry’ the most valuable hostage in the nine worlds. “

    “That’s the way it should be,” said Liz.

    “The way it should be is that we get out of here,” said Loki. “With Gjallarhorn, or he’s doomed and not worth anything.”

    Thrúd nodded. “Through the kitchens. I wish we had horses, but we’ll just have to steal some from the Einherjar.”

    “Lodin gave me your little mare to ride over here,” said Liz, guiltily. “She’s lovely.”

    Thrúd blinked. “Old stumpy let you ride Snowy?”

    “Yes. I’m sorry. He did make special arrangements for her to be looked after.”

    Thrúd shook her head. “It’s all right. I’m just surprised.”

    “Well, can you be surprised later,” said Loki impatiently. “I hear shouting.”

    Liz did too.

    “Put the horn in that little kettle,” Thrúd said decisively.

    The “kettle” was what Liz would have called a pot. And yes, it was black, and so were the contents. Loki picked it up, frowned, and said : “You’d better take it. I might need to organize a distraction.”

    “No wholesale destruction,” said Thrúd.

    “I had thought of setting the kitchen ablaze.”

    Sigyn and Thrúd raised their eyes to heaven.

    “No,” said Liz firmly, pushing him ahead of her. “Jerry is somewhere in the building. And if part catches fire, it will all burn.”

    “The fires under the pork,” said Sigyn. “And make everything else go out.”

    Loki smiles nastily. “It’ll be a pleasure to ruin their dinners anyway. Let’s go.”

    Liz found herself hustled down the passage. There was definitely something going on in the main hall. It sounded like a enormous disturbed beehive.

    At the door to the acre of kitchen—a well-orchestrated bedlam of fires and enormous pots, spits and other mysterious implements of torture—Loki paused. Then, fixed his gaze on a huge black pot in the corner. It reminded Liz more than anything else of one of those cartoon pots that had four missionaries boiling in it.

    The pot erupted into a fountain of flames. Loki shrugged apologetically to the others. “Spontaneous pork combustion. Walk. Don’t run.”

    With the kitchen staff trying to put out the fire in the pot, and smoke as thick as tar pouring from it, and the torches and fires in the place somehow burning less well than they had been, they edged their way to a small door at the back, and out into a passage that led to the stables. They paused in the doorway.

    By the sounds of it, the stable-hands had already adjourned to the hayloft with some beer for the night. The Einherjar obviously did not go night-riding.

    Loki transformed into an owl, fluttered up to a trapdoor and obviously took a look around. He transformed again on the ladder as Liz tried to persuade her brain not to disbelieve her eyes. The mythworlds were hell on a hardened empirical scientist. Still, it was useful to have someone quietly close the trapdoor, and take the ladder down.

    They walked the horses out as quietly as possible, and two minutes later were on the grassy slope leading back to Bilskríner.