Norse Code Part 1

Norse Code.

Greg van Eekhout.

To Lisa.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

It's often said that writing is a lonely profession, but I enjoyed so much a.s.sistance, support, friends.h.i.+p, and camaraderie during the making of this book that it didn't seem lonely at all.

My thanks go first to my best friend and best companion, Lisa Will.

For keen editorial and business guidance, I thank my agent, Caitlin Blasdell, and thanks also to my editor, Juliet Ulman, who turned a big shload of words into a book better than the one I initially sent her. Thanks as well to David Pomerico and the crew at Bantam for their care and professionalism.

I am deeply indebted to Sandra McDonald and Sarah Prineas, founders of the Harmed Fan Club, for constant encouragement, commiseration, ridiculousness, and friends.h.i.+p.

The members of the Blue Heaven novel workshop shared Brandy Alexanders with me on a snake-infested island and twice provided invaluable feedback on my ma.n.u.script, then t.i.tled "Greg's d.a.m.ned Norse Novel." For that, my thanks to Paolo Bacigalupi, Tobias Buckell, Rae Carson, Brenda Cooper, C. C. Finlay, Sandra McDonald, Holly McDowell, Paul Melko, Chance Morrison, Tim Pratt, Sarah Prineas, Heather Shaw, William Shunn, Ian Tregillis, and Mary Turzillo.

Tim Pratt and Heather Shaw have been particularly kind to me through a Ragnarok or two, and their young nephew, Aleister Seiflein, provided me with the line "hole made of wolf" during a backyard cookout that involved watching a bee fly away with a chunk of meat, a sight that seemed plenty apocalyptic to me.

Thanks to Mike Jasper, David Moles, and Jenn Reese for providing helpful critiques of embryonic attempts at this story, some of which made it to the final draft. And thanks to Patrick Nielsen Hayden, who published my story "Wolves Till the World Goes Down," which got me started on wayward G.o.ds and nosy ravens.

I owe much grat.i.tude to the ranks of additional friends and family who've boosted me in so many ways: Amy Creamer, Kirsten Hageleit, Karen Meisner, Robert Mitch.e.l.l, Brian Tatosky, Aaron Vanek, Mom and Dad, Mike, Vicki, Sage, Mom Will, Dennis, Anita, Ashley, Amy, Renee, and the many awesome folks who have kept me company by leaving thousands of funny and lovely comments on my silly blog.

I'd go to war or dinner with this crew anytime.

ON THE LAST true day of spring the nine worlds will ever know, my brother and I fly recon through the land of the G.o.ds. From this high up, Asgard s.h.i.+mmers. The s.h.i.+elds that roof the timber halls glimmer like golden fish scales. It's all green gra.s.s and fluffy white sheep and fresh red blood. A very pretty scene.

"One, two, sixteen, seven hundred and eighty-three," my brother intones as we fly over the wall where the heads of giants sit atop stakes, dripping blood. "Four thousand and eight."

"What are you doing?"

"Counting," he says, angling his wings to swoop down for a closer look.

"Counting what?" I ask, following.

"Everything. Five million and six."

My brother is good with questions of what and when and how much, and he remembers it all. His name is Munin, or Memory, and he annoys me.

As for myself, I'm better with questions of why and how and what next and what goes on in the minds of G.o.ds and men. I can see what happens in their skulls better than an electroencephalogram. I am Hugin, or Reason, or Thought, and we are the ravens of Odin. Every morning he sends us out to fly through the worlds, and every evening we return to perch on his shoulder and tell him what we've seen and heard. Sometimes I even tell him what I think.

We have been following one of Odin's sons today, the one called Hermod, who is coming home for the first time in several dozen years. Tall and thin, wincing as though the brilliance of Asgard gives him a headache, he approaches the gates of the city. He has walked far today. This morning he woke up on the sh.o.r.e of a white-sand beach in Midgard, the world of men, enjoying warmth and solitude. It's not that Hermod doesn't like people and G.o.ds; he just likes them better from a distance. For this reason, he spends a great deal of time in Midgard, for man at this time hasn't yet built his great cities and highways and shopping malls. He hasn't yet invented plastic and television. On the continent that will later be known as North America, humans are just starting to establish a toehold, chasing game across the Bering land bridge. Hermod is much more likely to encounter a woolly mammoth in Midgard than a human being.

Nothing makes Hermod happier than wandering with the broad sky above his head and stalks of wild wheat brus.h.i.+ng his knees. Some consider his restlessness a fault. But before this day is done and a stake is driven through the heart of the Aesir's paradise, Hermod's gifts will be called upon.

So why has he come home? He's not sure himself. He felt something today, when he was lazing on that beach. Something changed. Something enormous, though Hermod can't quite put his finger on it. It's just a feeling, as though every particle in the universe suddenly changed state. And, strangely, he had a strong desire to see his brother Baldr. So he started walking. And he kept walking until he found a swirling arch of light, the rainbow bridge Bifrost. Now he approaches the city of his birth with dread.

"One hundred forty-six thousand, three hundred and two," says Munin.

"What's that now?"

"The number of hairs on Hermod's head."

Hours later, night has fallen, and Odin's hall of Valhalla is lit like a forge. Whirlwinds of embers spiral up to the rafters. Odin sits on his high seat, clutching his spear. His one eye glows like a fired coal. The hole where his other eye used to be is a dark chasm that knows no bottom. Beside him sits his wife, Frigg, soft and lovely and soothing as bread from the oven.

The hall is in a state of full-scale revelry. G.o.ds and warriors drink tankard after tankard of the mead that squirts from the teats of a goat the size of a Midgard mastodon. They eat from an equally monstrous boar, who squeals piteously as meat is sliced from his flanks. Tables and chairs sail across the room. Cups smash together in toast. It is a good time. The party is not in honor of Hermod, who stands against the wall in shadow, trying and failing to stay sober. Instead, it is in honor of Hermod's brother Baldr.

Baldr, so handsome and fair he gives off a glow, sits at a table and indulgently drinks whatever his admirers put in his hands. Unlike Hermod, he can handle the strong drink of Asgard, and he will not disappoint those who have come to celebrate his life. If Thor is all the raging weather of earth compressed into bodily form, and if Njord holds the might of the seas in his eyes, then Baldr is all that is good and right and hopeful in the world.

Long ago a sibyl told Odin that Baldr's death would be the first link in a long chain of events culminating in the end of the G.o.ds and the destruction of the nine worlds. And then, earlier this week, Baldr had a dream in which he died. So there's been some nervousness in Asgard.

But as soon as she heard of the dream, Frigg, Odin's wife and Baldr's mother, had taken care of things. She exacted an oath from every creature living or inert, every animal, insect, fish, bird, every rock and chunk of metal-she took an oath from everything-that no harm would come to Baldr.

Well, she did leave out one thing. A small thing. Just a sprig of mistletoe growing on the outskirts of the city.

Too insignificant to be worth worrying about.

Which brings us back to Hermod.

REACHING OUT to grab an ale from a pa.s.sing servant girl, Hermod slouched against the wall, watching the festivities from the shadows. He had entered the hall hours ago but hadn't yet paid his respects to his parents, and every moment that went by was making things worse. Maybe the best thing to do was slip out now, get back on the road, walk until his shoes wore out, and then walk some more and try to forget the murky anger brewing ever since he'd learned of Frigg's oath enchantment. Hermod hadn't needed a spell cast on him to get him to pledge no harm to Baldr. Why would he want to hurt Baldr? n.o.body wanted to hurt Baldr.

He drained his cup and looked to the high seats where Odin and Frigg sat. Odin had many guises-mad poet-magician, gray wanderer-but tonight he was the great warlord, powerful, grim, and inscrutable. His wolf lay at his feet, and his two insufferable raven spies perched on his shoulders. Hermod couldn't even begin to guess what was going on in his father's mind as he watched over the proceedings.

Meanwhile, Frigg was in conference with some hunchbacked old crone, her face serious and intent as the old woman whispered in her ear. What was the crone doing in the hallowed hall of Valhalla? Who knew? In any case, his parents were clearly busy, and it would be rude to interrupt them. Good time to hit the road.

"You've returned!" Baldr was suddenly pulling him into a warm embrace, clapping him on the back and laughing in his good-natured way. "Please tell me you'll be staying in Asgard awhile, brother. We have missed you."

"Well, I ... Yes, I'll be staying. Of course." And Hermod was surprised to find he actually meant it. It had been years since he'd entered his own hall, longer still since he'd sat in counsel with his Aesir kin, and perhaps it was time to settle down, at least for a little while, and reacquaint himself with Asgard.

And why had his thoughts on this matter changed so suddenly? he wondered.

"It is good to see you, Baldr. I trust there've been no more dreams?"

Baldr smiled, embarra.s.sed. "Ah, yes, my dreams. I fear a lot of fuss has been made over nothing."

"Mother doesn't make fusses over nothing. That was a powerful piece of enchantment she worked on the worlds."

"And wholly unnecessary. But, then, she and Odin have been frightened by the idea of Ragnarok for some time."

Baldr almost, but not quite, rolled his eyes.

"Isn't the end of the worlds worth fearing?" Hermod said. For some reason, he found himself suddenly wanting to put a protective arm around his brother, but he resisted.

Baldr took two tankards from a serving girl and replaced Hermod's empty cup with one of them. "The final days are a very, very long way off, I think."

"Winter always seems a long way off in the beginning of spring," Hermod said.

They clacked cups.

A few hours later, when the host was even deeper in their cups, someone came up with the idea of hurling weapons at Baldr. The math was simple: Baldr can't be hurt.

It's entertaining to throw weapons.

Weapons should be thrown at Baldr.

Tables and benches were dragged away to make room near the hearth, and Baldr stood alone in a circle of orange light, an indulgent smile on his face. He never sought to be the center of attention, but if it would satisfy others, he'd submit to it.

It began with Thor. He made his way down the length of the floor, like a storm cloud gathering malice. Hermod took one look at the spear in his hands and knew this was a bad idea. Surely Frigg's spell of protection hadn't been cast for the Aesir's amus.e.m.e.nt.

Thor flung his missile with a clap of thunder. The spear struck Baldr's chest and exploded in a cloud of splinters. Baldr laughed and brushed debris from his tunic, and the hall erupted in cheers that made the flames in the hearth quaver.

Thor glowered. "Let me try my hammer."

After that, everyone wanted a turn. Arrows were shot. Swords were thrust. Cauldrons of boiling water and flaming torches and benches and tables collided with Baldr, much to the merriment of all.

Somebody tried to put a spear in Hermod's hands-that crone he'd seen conferring with his mother earlier-but he begged off, claiming he'd hurt his shoulder in a fall down a mountain. The woman released a high peal of laughter in response. In truth, dragged low by drink, Hermod was sure he'd miss and accidentally maim a serving girl.

That left only blind Hod among Hermod's brothers who were present and hadn't yet taken a turn.

Hod was the darkness to his twin Baldr's light. He stood tall and alone, his dark eyes like wells in a limestone face. Hermod didn't like to look too closely into Hod's eyes. They went a long way down.

Slumped over a table, Hermod watched the gray-cloaked old woman hobble toward Hod, leaning heavily on her walking stick. Seemingly aware of her approach, Hod s.h.i.+fted his posture uncomfortably.

"Why do you not join in the game?" she asked, her voice like a ragged talon.

"The last time I threw a spear," said Hod, "it went out a window."

Amid laughs, the woman persisted, wheedling; Hod continued to demur, but along with the weariness in his voice was a longing. How many times had he remained on the margins of things while his brothers and cousins played at contests and had adventures? Hermod sought those margins for himself, but Hod had been thrust into them, and it had been that way ever since they were boys, when Hermod and Baldr would race through the woods, bouncing off trees, chasing down wolves. Hod was ever left behind, a silhouette diminis.h.i.+ng in the distance.

"I will lend you my stick to throw," the crone said, "and I will guide your aim. Come, what's the harm?" She placed her walking stick in Hod's hand. It was a twisted, leafy thing, clumped with dirt and gra.s.s and what looked to Hermod like mistletoe.

Hod could not have been more awkward holding the stick if it were a dead eel. He raised the rude spear, ready to throw it, but the woman put her hand on Hod's arm.

"Too low, dear. Let me help."

"I think this is a bad idea," Hod said, and Hermod tried to voice his agreement, but his drunken muttering was lost in the a.s.sembly's cheering. On her high seat, Frigg looked on, her peaceful smile matching Baldr's. Odin's face was blank stone.

Hod let the stick fly. It wobbled and corkscrewed, and when it punched through Baldr's flesh, he let out a squeak of pain and surprise. He laughed a little, as though he thought the dart protruding from his chest was a joke. Then he fell.

Later, people would say that color drained from the world at that moment. They would say that every living thing wilted just a little bit. But Hermod noticed none of that at the time. What he noticed instead was that Baldr looked like most other dead people he'd seen. His skin went gray. A froth of blood formed on his lips. There was a filmy red air bubble that Hermod couldn't take his eyes off until it finally popped.

His brother was just a corpse. No doubt the first of many to come.

ONLY TWO HOURS into Mist's first job, things were already going badly. For one, the duct tape had come loose over the recruit's mouth, and he was screaming so loudly that Mist was sure he'd be heard through the walls of the van, even above the roar of Route 21 traffic.

She turned to her companion in the pa.s.senger seat. "I thought he was supposed to stay out for at least another hour."

"Do I look like an anesthesiologist? Chloroform's not an exact science."

Mist shook her head at Grimnir. He did not look like any kind of ologist. Decked out in black jeans, quadruple-XL leather coat, and black homburg crammed over his head, he looked like what he was: a thug. Her thug, she reminded herself, still amazed at the idea of having her own devoted thug after having been with NorseCODE for only three months.

In back, the recruit pleaded for mercy. Mist steeled herself against his cries. Too much depended on the work to let a soft heart get in the way.

Grimnir slurped hard on the straw of his Big Gulp and popped open the glove box to retrieve a roll of tape. "I'll go back and redo him."

"Never mind," Mist said, aiming the van down the off-ramp. "We're almost there."

There was a vast, flat gray area of industrial parks and sc.r.a.p yards, where a dummy corporation several steps removed from NorseCODE had prepared a warehouse expressly for this particular job.

Mist rolled down her window, letting in a blast of cold air and April snowflakes, and punched a security code in a box mounted on a short metal pole. A moment later, the automatic warehouse doors opened and she drove onto the concrete floor. The doors screeched shut and she killed the engine.

Grimnir got out and walked around to the side of the van. With reasonable care, he lowered the recruit's hog-tied form to the ground and used shears to cut the plastic ties that bound his hands and legs. The recruit had gone quiet, but Mist expected he'd start screaming again now that he was unbound. The warehouse was well insulated and equipped with fans and blowers configured to be as noisy as possible on the outside, in order to conceal interior sounds.

Tall and trim in workout pants and a New Jersey Nets sweats.h.i.+rt, the man stood, shoulders hunched, like someone expecting a piano to fall on his head. "I don't know what this is about, but you've got the wrong guy." His voice quavered only a little.

"Your name is Adrian Hoover," Mist said. "You live at 3892 Sunset Court, Pa.s.saic, New Jersey. You're twenty-seven years old. You've been an actuary for Atlantic Insurance since graduating with a finance degree from Montclair State. I could also recite your Social Security number, driver's license number, cell phone, anything you'd like. You're definitely not the wrong guy."

Mist's boss, Radgrid, stressed the importance of establis.h.i.+ng authority early in the recruitment process.

While Mist spoke, Grimnir removed two shotgun cases from a compartment beneath the van's floorboards.

Hoover's face looked green and clammy under the fluorescent lights. His eyes darted around the warehouse, at the ranks of port-a-johns and the gla.s.s-walled side office, its file cabinets full of authentic paperwork provided in the event that agents of some Midgard authority came knocking.

"You are about to undergo a trial," Mist said. "It's your right to understand-or at least be made aware of-the purpose behind it."

Grimnir opened one of the gun cases and withdrew a long sword. He rolled his neck and shoulders to loosen them and took a few practice lunges.

"Trial? But ... I haven't done anything." There was at least as much outrage as fear in Hoover's voice. Mist took that as a positive sign.

"It's not what you've done, it's who you are. You and your fathers."

"My dad? He owns a dry cleaners'. Is that what this is about? Does he owe you money?"

"My name is Mist," she said, forging ahead. "I'm a Valkyrie, in the service of the All-Father Odin. My job is to help him prepare for Ragnarok, the final battle between the G.o.ds and their enemies. To that end, I'm in the business of recruiting fighters for the Einherjar, the elite regiment of warriors who, when the time comes, will fight at the side of the Aesir, who are essentially G.o.ds. In short, if we have any hope of winning, we need the best army of all time. For reasons we can go into later, we have identified you as a promising candidate."

Grimnir's sword swooshed through the air as he continued to warm up.

"Are you guys in some kind of cult?" Hoover said, making an effort not to look at Grimnir. "Religion, I mean? I'll listen to anything you have to say. I'm open-minded."