(Alex - The National Guard Compound)
"Lieutenant Drake?" someone called out over a speaker. "Approach the gate and present your ID. Whoever you're with, please hold where you are and keep your hands in sight."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Hands in sight!" came the order.
Alex took a deep breath and called on his father's gruff non-com, no-nonsense attitude. "Son, check the Lieutenant's ID and stop wasting our time, or I'm going to strip you buck naked and toss you out in the snow for being an idiot," Alex warned. Drake's ID was checked and they were admitted. They were separated and hustled off to interview rooms. It was over an hour before someone came to speak to him.
"Name?"
"I'd like to speak to the OC, please," Alex said.
"Name?"
"The OC. I did say please."
"Name?"
"Donald Duck."
"Don't get cute, asshole. Name."
"Duck, Donald. Corporal. Serial number 1-2-3-4-5-6," Alex said.
"All right, we'll play it your way. You're not going to like it," his interrogator said. He opened the door and motioned for two MPs to come in. One had his weapon drawn and took a bead on Alex; the other motioned for him to hold out his hands, a set of shackles and a hobble at the ready.
"Where's my orange jumpsuit?" Alex sneered.
"Shut your mouth," the MP told him. "Hands. You fuck around, Pete'll put a round right between your eyes."
"He fucking gave me your name, Pete," Alex said. "He must not like you."
"Shut up," Pete answered.
"Pete, Pete, Bo-Pete," Alex sang deliberately off-key. "Banana nana fo-Pete ..."
"Shut the fuck up!"
"Fee-fie-mo-meet / Nice to know you Pete," Alex continued. He grinned at the other MP. "Wanna play?"
"Sit him down," the interrogator said. "Name?"
"You already know who I am."
"Okay, we do. Why should we give you back to your buddies in the castle?"
"Did they ask nicely?" Alex countered.
"We need to know why they want you so badly."
"We got a thing, goin' on," crooned Alex. "Fuck if I know. Never seen 'em before."
"Guys blow up your house, you don't know who they are?"
"No. And I'll probably have to sue them over the house," Alex frowns. "I'm pretty sure my insurance company won't cover that."
"Yhis whole, 'Son of Tyr,' thing. What's that, a title? You were all part of the Viking Scouts when you were kids?" the interrogator asked.
"Yea, verily I say unto thee, thou art off thy rocker," Alex replied.
"Does the name Jason Lyman mean anything to you?"
"Well, if you think 'Son of Tyr,' means something, 'Son of Loki,' should really make your day."
"All right, North. CO will be in to speak to you in a bit."
It was just under an hour before an officer in battle utilities entered the room, escorted by MPs with their rifles at present-arms.
Alex remained seated. No one argued the point.
"Alex North. Son of Tyr," he said. "What's that make you, some kind of prince or minor lordling? I'm sorry, but we here in America did away with all that nobility stuff in 1776."
"We've been over your records, and you are the son of Franklin and Rachel North of Baltimore, Maryland. Good education, turn in the Army as a JAG officer, then a private law career. What's with this pagan religion shit?"
Alex frowned. He glanced at the officer's insignia. "I haven't claimed to be anything, Major."
"Tell me where you've been for the past six months."
"Prisoner, for a bit. Fought a troll. Then went for a chat with the Norse Goddess of Death. That was fun. But when I came back, six months had passed, Vegas was sporting a new snow fort, and I hear the occupants have me on their most-wanted list," Alex told him.
"And you're claiming you don't know what that's about?"
"No one's bothered to tell me."
"Fine. What do you think this is about?" the Major asked.
"The End of the World. Snorri Sturluson and the Poetic Edda, not St. John and the Book of Revelation," Alex answered. "But you must know that, right? Talked to someone at the University? Google?"
"So I'm to believe a bunch of ... frost giants ... are camped on our doorstep and asking for the Son of Tyr as what, the kickoff to Ragnarok?"
"Something like that."
"North, I'm a proud American and a devout Christian," the Major said. "I believe in what the Holy Bible says, not in some Norse superstition. Tell me what these clowns want with you."
"I'll say it again: I don't know. Revenge? Sour grapes? It's real enough to them."
"But not to you?"
"Oh, it's my head their asking for. It's very real to me," Alex said. "But it doesn't matter. They're not the good guys, Major. Like I said. Revenge, some kind of twisted sacrifice ... it isn't going to make any of what's out there disappear."
"Some folks out there think it might."
"Well, then, some folks can come say that to my face."
"Word hasn't quite gotten out that you're here," the Major told him. "But it will. And it might surprise you as to who's suggesting we hand you over if we find you."
"All right, Lieutenant. You look like you're doing all right in the clothes department, so here's how it works," the Major says. "We've taken over the Las Vegas Convention Center, and thank whatever gods are running amok that we've run out of those ghastly hot dogs. We've hit just about every grocery and warehouse store that hadn't already been ransacked. Resorts have been good about chipping in, but we can't put people in anything higher than the first four or five floors, depending on the building's facing. Might as well stick 'em in a meat locker."
"We'll give you an escort, and ask that you remain inside the military cordon."
"Major, have the bad guys asked for anything else?"
"Immediate and unconditional surrender," he frowned. "All civic authority to be remanded to approved individuals, blah, blah, blah. Alex North, the Son of Tyr, and any who style themselves to be allies of the Aesir are to be handed over without conditions."
"Lieutenant Drake has some strong opinions about that," Alex said.
"He does, and I agree with him," the Major said. "You were posted in Who-gives-a-fuckistan, so you know the rules as well. But, like I said, there are some folks who believe handing you over solves all of our problems, instead of creating more."
Alex's escort happened to be Lieutenant Drake and two soldiers.
"Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant North," he said.
Both men saluted.
"Shit. Alex North? The Aesir?" asked one.
Drake nodded.
The man who inquired about North's identity offered a second fist-to-heart salute. "An honor, my Lord."
"Relax. A circumstance of birth, and it doesn't make me your superior under any lights," Alex said.
"Not my patron, anyway," the soldier grinned.
"Thor?"
"I'd rather not say, other than it's not Loki," the soldier told him. "It's personal. Corporal Brian Jensen, by the way."
"All right, button it up," Drake said. "Let's give you the cook's tour, and treat you to an MRE.*"
"Really? You hit up the resorts for supplies and we get MREs?"
"Civvies are getting the real food. Troops have to take one for the team," Drake told him. "Good old home cooking."
Alex laughed. Actually, the thought of a mess-hall sized pot of store-bought macaroni-and-cheese wasn't all that appealing ...
The civilians were packed into the convention center, with cots spilling out into the hallways. People seemed to have settled into a routine, but there were shell-shocked looks on their faces, the expressions Alex remembered from villagers who kept their heads down while the Mudjehadeen ran roughshod over everything.
At the same time, people were coming together. The school district was holding modified classes. Stationary bikes and other exercise equipment had been commandeered to provide the necessary physical activities for the refugees. And a medical pavilion/clinic had been set up.
"We still have a presence over at General," Drake explained. "There's a lot to be said for proper facilities. But we have volunteers making the rounds of the other communities, except for one or two groups that aren't playing nice."
"How are people taking the whole Ragnarok thing?"
"Most folks are trying not to think about it. Some are convinced it's happening because there's not enough Jesus, so you'll be getting an earful from that quarter, too."
"You haven't said anything about our friends out there," Alex asked. "I can't imagine they're just sitting around playing patty-cake."
"They're not. Area around the castle is pretty much a no-man's land," Drake said. "Vehicles draw fire from catapults, trebuchets, whatever those are. And they have forces with firearms, as well."
"My gyoja** calls them ein-something," Jensen said.
"Einjehar. Warriors summoned from Valhalla to fight for whoever pays a tribute of food and drink," Alex explained. "Not quite undead, but not living soldiers with a mind to staying alive."
"A lot of whom like playing World War II dress-up," Drake frowned. "Took a lot to change the ROE***, but we don't fuck around with them anymore. We just open fire, or they get close enough to lob grenades or suicide our lines. Ain't seemed to cut into their numbers, though."
"I got the impression they've been ... recruiting ... for some time," Alex said. "Got a decent-sized force and all they need is a mead hall to conjure up reinforcements."
Jensen's eyes widened. "How's it work? Can we do the same thing?"
"I don't know the details, so I'm not sure," Alex said. "Can you ask yourgyoja, is it?"
"Priestess. Maybe. The clans had their own network and emergency plan," Jensen said. "But they won't open the door for just anyone."
Alex didn't notice the guardsman at first.
"Alex? Shit, it is you!" Mark Jeschke exclaimed, followed by a more restrained, "Lieutenant, Sir. I know Alex on the civilian side."
"At ease, Sergeant."
"Look, I'm due on post, but ... watch out. Megan found out about the bullet, and then this whole thing broke loose. Blood in the water, Alex," his friend told him.
"Oh, that's just grand."
"What do you mean, '... found out about the bullet'?" Drake asked,
"Bullet. As in, 'I got shot,' and, more to the point, took a cop-killer round in the chest that was stopped by a ballistic vest," Alex explained.
"And you're telling me there's something more to the story?"
"Yeah. Got a knife?" Alex asked.
Drake cautiously handed over a utility folder; Alex flicked it open. He glanced around, then drew the blade quickly across his palm, the cut welling with blood.
"What the? You're not summoning one of those ein-whatever things, are you?" Drake exclaimed, his hand drifting back to his holstered sidearm.
"No," Alex says. "And, gods, I hope this works like I think it does."
He tipped his palm to one side, let the small amount of blood that had pooled drip into a 'cup' made from the foil wrapper of his MRE. His hand was uninjured.
Drake blinked. "Son of a bitch. You healed."
Jensen gaped. He gave Alex another fist-to-heart salute. "You are the Son of Tyr."
"So I'm told," Alex said. "If that means anything to you, Corporal Jensen, don't spread it around."
"So ... you got shot by a pre-frag round, which Sergeant Jeschke recognized, but you shrugged it off?" Drake asked.
"Three prefrag rounds, actually. One to the trauma plate, one in the gut, and the one Mark spotted was a graze. Only now, the reporter he works with is putting everything together."
"Great. Gotta pass by media staging to get to HQ and 'City Hall,'' Drake said. "Can you heal others?"
"Beats me. Never tried. But I'm not about to ask for volunteers. Let's say, 'no,'" Alex told him.
Jensen was still staring at Alex. "Shit, this changes everything."
"I thought you worshipped a different god or goddess."
"I do. And it's one thing to believe, but ... to see it manifest! You're the Son of Tyr. He's real. All of this is real!" Jensen exclaimed.
"Don't go full Viking on me, Jensen," Drake warned. "Now, that looked pretty impressive, and there appears to be blood on my knife, but this is Vegas. Got a street full of magicians and hucksters and places that'll gladly take your money."
"I know what I saw, and I know what I believe," Jensen said quietly. "Sir. I stand by my oath as a member of the Army National Guard. But this is gonna shake shit up."
"It might not," Alex warned. "Look, when ... when I first learned about the whole Son-of-Tyr thing, I swear someone on the radio said, 'Death to the Son of Tyr!' ... but the helo pilot heard something else, and there was no record of any communications at the time we got our asses shot down."
He avoided mentioning Valeria. He wondered if she was still out there, being a paramedic, or if Fimbulwinter descending upon the world meant the All-Father had called her to more pressing duties.
"So you're saying people won't believe what's right in front of them?" Jensen frowned.
"Not because they think you and I are Section 8, Corp," Alex explained. "But because if they open the door that much, if they start believing in other gods, it throws a monkey wrench into everything. What does it mean if you're Catholic, or Jewish, or Muslim? I know a couple of atheists who will still cry, 'bullshit!' It's just a question not a lot of people are prepared to ask themselves."
"Okay, then," said Drake. "We're going to march right into HQ. We're not here to take pictures or answer questions. North, you're not under my command, but I'll recommend you keep your mouth shut until we're clear of the media line. Though I'll warn you, City Hall ain't going to be much of an improvement once they learn you're here."
"Let's go," Alex said.
They made it most of the way, and then it was like a stampede. Someone spotted Alex, tapped a colleague's shoulder, and there was a mad scramble of reporters and photographers trying to get close as Drake led the way to the meeting rooms that had been appropriated as a command center for the Guard and city government.
"Alex!"
"Alex, are you really the son of a Norse god?!"
"Alex, do you know Thor?"
"Alex, any comments on the shooting last year?"
"Alex, are you human?"
"DEATH TO THE SON OF TYR!"
Several people scream.
There's a double clap of thunder, followed by shouts from several guardsmen. Perhaps because he had a split-second to brace, perhaps because it's no longer a surprise for him to be assaulted in this manner, the shots don't knock Alex flying. One to his right side, the second in his left shoulder.
Clutching the lower of the two wounds, Alex coughs and spits up some aspirated blood. His face works as he struggles to remain standing, waves Corporal Jensen off.
"No. Let them see. Let them fucking see," he rasps. There's another coughing spasm, but no froth of blood on his lips. He shrugs his left shoulder out of his jacket, and then his bloodied shirt. A puckered bullet wound heals as people watch.
"Alex?" asks Megan Whittaker. "Are you all right?"
"Seen enough? Turn it off," Alex glares at the photographer. He looks around, sees several guardsmen still wrestling with the shooter, far too large of frame to be a gang member. One of Lyman's paid mercenaries, perhaps?
The man is still struggling and redoubles his efforts as he realizes Alex is standing nearby.
"News flash. I'm not the son of the God of Mercy," Alex says, letting fly with a right cross that knocks the man's head aside. Surprisingly, the man takes it and spits at Alex.
"Hagel, Loki!" he says, glaring defiantly. He shrugs off the restraining guardsmen and lunges for Alex.
Several rifles bark in triple-burst fire. The man drops, blood pooling beneath him.
"Get the Lieutenant under cover, now!" barks Drake.
"Corpsman!" Drake shouts as they quick-march Alex into a repurposed meeting room.
"Whiskey tango, Drake?" the Major says.
"Looks like we had a wolf among the sheep, just waiting for Lieutenant North to put in an appearance," Drake said.
"Ten-mil with hollow points," says another guardsman, holding the weapon in a gloved hand.
"All right, first things first. North, are you injured?" the Major asked.
"I hurt like hell, but, no, Sir, I'm good to go," Alex said.
"Then smile and be nice to the corpsman. We're going to take blood, and that isn't a request," the Major said. "Get some towels and water, let the man clean himself up. And get ... shirt size, North?"
"Are we talking military sizes?" Alex asked.
"Too small or too large, right?" the Major grinned. "No. We actually have gear that fits, now."
"Extra-large, please, Sir."
Alex was changing into a fresh BDU shirt when the politicians showed up: the Mayor, the Chief of Police, District Attorney Chris Clemens, and Assistant District Attorney Soleil Hunter.
"Quite the entrance, Mr. North," Mayor William Collins said.
"No bullshit stories about wearing a vest this time, I see," said Chris Clemens.
"And if I'd told you I survived a point-blank shot with cop-killer bullets, would you have believed me?" Alex replied.
"It's impressive," Soleil Hunter said. The others might think she was giving him an appreciative, appraising look, but there was no coy double-entendre this time. The direct look in her eyes clearly established her as another Scion.
"Hello, Sunny," Alex said. "What I don't get is why they keep trying."
"I don't see that it matters," the Chief said. "Back when you joined the DA's office, we began processing a concealed-carry permit for you, North."
He presented Alex with a cardboard box, a Sig-Sauer P226, a standard for law enforcement and civilians such as members of the District Attorney's office.
"Now, I understand you quit, but the Mayor and I agree you're probably better off having a sidearm," the Chief explained. "Maybe knowing you're carrying will back the bad guys off a bit, since they seem to be banking that the right hit will take you down."
"Well, if they roll out a howitzer, duck," Alex told him. "Thank you, Chief. I'm not planning on a High Noon style showdown. If I can take a bullet, there's no reason to assume they can't."
"When did you learn about this whole Son of Tyr thing?" asked Clemens.
"It happened after my chopper got shot down in Afghanistan," Alex said. "'Hi, how are you, I'm the Norse God of War, and you're my kid. See you around.'"
And I'm not about to tell you what gifts unlock my powers, Sunny.
"And that you were unkillable?"
"Nope, sorry. Didn't get an instruction manual. I didn't know shit until I got shot a few months back," Alex said. "Tyr may be the God of War, but I'm just a lawyer."
"That still leaves us with a serious problem," Mayor Collins said. "None of us are keen on the idea, you understand, but we can't put the citizens of Las Vegas at risk. We might have to hand you over."
"Then I expect you to be honest with me and tell me to my face," Alex said. "I don't believe you'd be doing anything but buying a temporary reprieve. According to Norse legend, the Fenris wolf bites off Tyr's hand when Tyr tricks him into being bound by an enchanted cord. Fenris breaking free is what starts Ragnarok. So this whole hand-over-the-Son-of-Tyr thing could just be a grudge match ... or it could be a twist in the prophecy. Fenris freed means the End of the World."
"You're going to tell me you believe in prophecy?" Clemens said. "Should we check our horoscopes to see if they say today would be a good day to kick off Ragnarok?"
"I'm saying that we aren't necessarily facing a free choice. If the prophecy were to say that the Son of Tyr would be betrayed," Alex said, conveniently looking in Soleil's direction, "but it didn't say anything about who would betray him, it could be anyone, including a little kid on a street corner."
"I think I understand," the Chief says. "Take a burglar. That he wants to hit a specific house isn't the question. If the door is unlocked, he'll go in through the door. If a bathroom window is open, he'll go in through the window. If there's an alarm, maybe he'll hit the next house over. But the burglar will strike."
"Then can we lay a trap for them?" Mayor Collins asked.
"I don't like that idea," Soleil Hunter said. "They're gods. We're outclassed."
"Ma'am, they're not the God I learned about when I was young," the Major pointed out. "No disrespect, North. There's clearly something more to you than meets the eye, but that doesn't mean I'm throwing out my Bible in favor of some ancient Norse poem."
"No, no traps. Soleil's right," Alex said. "I won't have good men and women throw their lives away."
"A martyr complex isn't any better, Alex," Hunter said.
"I don't plan on being one."
"Most martyrs don't," she smiled.
"I'll want to talk to some of the men standing watch, maybe even get a look at the place. When's change-of-watch?" Alex asked.
"1600," the Major told him.
"It's like an episode of The Walking Dead, Sir," a soldier tells him. "Night falls, and those ... whatever they are ... march out of the castle. Anything on the streets is fair game. Folks are just as likely to end up dead in the street as prisoners - they've marched a lot of people back into Castle Adolf."
"Any intel on what they're doing with these people?" Alex asked the table of soldiers.
"No. Can't see shit through all the snow," comes the answer. "We did try getting inside, kitted out some of our people as neighbors banding together. They had radios and GPS tags. Nothing. Once they crossed the bridge, signals just blipped out. We don't know if they're alive or dead."
"They're fortifying positions outside the castle, Sir," another soldier says. "They have to be. Companies march out, nobody comes back. So they're lying in other positions throughout Vegas, or there's a real nasty surprise just waiting to roll down on us. Just a question of time, really."
"All right," Alex said. "Drake, I'll want to take a look at the place in the morning, and we'll go from there."
"You're gonna turn yourself in, aren't you?" Drake frowned.
"Do I have a choice? I said it back in the CP, I'm not going to hide behind these men and the residents of Las Vegas," Alex said.
"You can't go in there alone. They'll kill you and toss your head back over the wall."
"Hand. Tyr loses his hand." Alex winks. "Can we mount any serious offensive?"
"Short answer? No. We have too many civilians to shield," Drake said.
"Do we have enough to make a C4 tuxedo?" Alex said bluntly.
"Self-sacrifice is one thing, but I won't help you commit suicide."
Alex shrugged. "Just exploring my options."
"Find better options. War is a game of resources and asset denial. They want you because of something you are, something you know, or something you have," Drake said. "Make them spell it out."
The evening brought another round of MRE's and a turn through the civilian area, allowing Alex to see how Vegas residents were coping. One casino had relocated some of its videogames and set them to free play for the younger crowd, while more traditional card games were enjoying a resurgence, as were art and musical endeavors.
"Don't be fooled," Drake told him. "There's a brittle edge to all of this. It's like being on patrol in Iraq. Your nerves are wound so tight you don't even remember what it's like to relax."
Alex remembered what it was like crawling through scrub brush and hiding behind rocks, tired enough to fall asleep standing, but only being able to pause for fitful naps.
"Yeah. Been there," Alex said.
Not that accommodations here were much of an improvement - troops were 'hot bunking,' the practice of rotating shifts sharing the same bunks, so you wouldn't be sliding between cool sheets, but already-warm (and possibly clammy) bedding.
"And here I thought the MRE's were bad," he quipped.
"Squids do this all the time," noted another guardsman.
Morning came. At least breakfast was somewhat normal, scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee - though Alex was sure the eggs were powdered mix confiscated from one of the hotels. He wondered, for a stray moment, about people like Rick and Maggie over at the Soul Food Diner, and hoped they were all right.
"Morning, Lieutenant," Corporal Jensen greeted him. "Ready for our field trip?"
"Guess so."
"I've sent word to our priestess, but it will probably be several days before I hear anything," he said. "And I don't know that she'll have any real advice. We're mortals. You're ... Aesir."
"Doesn't mean I have all the answers, Jensen. Even Odin had to trade an eye at the Well of Mimir," Alex told him. "Let's go."
The trip out was along a carefully-patrolled route warded by multiple checkpoints. Either the frost giants or the guard had levelled some of the houses in the immediate vicinity, to provide a clearer field of view.
The forward base was under lockdown, having repelled an overnight assault by Einjehar.
"You think someone told them you're here?" Jensen grinned.
"It's possible, especially if yesterday's shooter missed a check-in," Alex said.
"Hey, did you hear?" asked one guardsman. "Night shift caught a Jerry."
"How'd they pull that off?"
"Tripwire and a fire sack," was the answer. "Usually, if one of 'em goes down, his buddies just shoot him in the head. So they set up a deadfall and had guns trained. Guy goes down, and they cut down everyone else."
"He say anything?" Alex asked.
"He's actually talking about the Third Reich," said another guardsman. "Thinks we're allied troops invading the Sudetenland."
"Okay, I guess we'll get a look when we head back," Jensen said. "The Lieutenant wants to take a look at No Man's Land."
"All right, we'll have eyes on you," said a guardsman.
No Man's Land wasn't far from where the guard had set up camp - a church and adjoining elementary school, buildings easily hardened against enemy incursions, while the church's bell tower provided a ready vantage point. It was unfortunate that houses had been leveled to provide a buffer, but it was a sensible strategy for units who had faced snipers and IEDs in the Middle East.
"Do they do anything when we send people out?" Alex asked.
"You mean other than lob boulders at us?" Drake asked.
Alex stopped short on his way back to the Guard's MRAV. "Seriously?"
Drake held up his hands. "Seriously."
"What's their batting average?" Alex asked.
"Single-A Ball," Drake told him. "No worse than random mortar fire. They don't have forward observers, and catapults aren't precision instruments. We won't be stopping for combat selfies, though."
The driver was on comms with several observer posts.
"Approach is clear," he told his passengers. "Seat belts, please."
The drive out was uneventful, though Alex felt a familiar apprehension as they moved further into the open.
"The enemy has only ventured out on foot. No vehicles of any kind, no cavalry," Drake explained. "Catapults behind the walls, conventional arms for the Jerrys."
"Has Jensen told you Einjehar can be from either side?" Alex asked.
"You mean there might be Allied soldiers in their ranks? How does that work?"
"Your allegiances in life don't matter. You're loyal to whomever summoned you," Alex said.
"Summoned," Drake mused. "Can we send them back without having to fight them?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"INCOMING!" the driver warned, turning sharply. A hunk of ice smashed into the ground nearby, pelting the vehicle with frosty shrapnel. "Okay, get your recon. Got time for one pass, then we're out- aw, fuck!"
Several ranks of Einjehar were goose-stepping out from the keep and across the drawbridge.
"Get us out of here," Drake said.
"Let me out," Alex said.
"Hell, no."
"Ain't giving you a choice," Alex said, unlatching his seatbelt. "Let me out, or I'll kick the door off its hinges."
"I ain't stoppin, sport," the driver said. "You wanna jump, you jump."
"Shit. See you back at camp," he told Drake. He bailed.
"North, you crazy motherfucker!"
It never looks like this in action movies. Alex hit the dirt and rolled to a stop. He stood, dusting snow and dirt off his clothes.
The Einjehar - maybe three or four ranks deep - were still goose-stepping towards him.
"I am the Son of Tyr!" he roared. "Face me!"
They stopped. Rifles went from shoulders to ready-to-fire.
"Cowards!" Alex shouted, spreading his arms. He tossed his new Sig-Sauer onto the ground. With luck, he'd be able to recover it shortly. "Hiding behind your guns. Fight me!"
The rifles began to lower. One soldier in the front rank handed his rifle to another and strode towards him. Alex hoped his grip and healing ability would allow him to take on more opponents than anyone might think sensible.
The Einjehar charged, lowering his torso into a solid tackle, which Alex braced against, meeting the man with a hammer-blow to the back of his head. The soldier went down. A second broke ranks, raising his fists. A lightning-fast punch caught Alex on the jaw, and the soldier pushed his advantage, working tight and fast until Alex caught the man's fist in his hand and twisted it sharply. The man howled as his wrist snapped like a twig. He dropped to his knees, and Alex kicked him in the side.
The rest of the first rank moved forward, thinking to overwhelm Alex with numbers. Or, that was the theory. Alex found himself delivering punches that felled his opponents, exerting bone-breaking holds. Even a simple shove, powered by his full strength, was enough to send a man flying.
"Holy shit," came the report over the radio. "He's tearing them apart. Who is this guy?"
"Ell-tee?" asked the driver.
"That's the guy they've been looking for all this time," Drake said. "Alex North."
"You mean all this Norse god shit is real?" the driver said. "And the rumors about this guy getting shot?"
"Real."
"Fuck," the radio said. "Our guy, eight; bad guys, zero."
In one sense, it was becoming comical. The Einjehar were horribly outmatched in a fist fight, but they must have been given a do-not-kill order at some point. If anyone figured out clubbing him unconscious with a rifle butt, or sticking him a dozen times with a bayonet wouldn't cross the line, he would be toast.
Instead, they just kept coming. It dawned on Alex that their orders held them back, while his own knowledge that these weren't living opponents freed him to be more brutal than he might otherwise consider fair.
And it was over. Eighteen men lay on the ground, a collection of broken bones and bloody noses. None of them were dead. A few raised their hands weakly, asking for release.
What was it Valeria had told the Einjehar who attacked during Lya's concert? Rest, warrior.
He approached one of the fallen.
"Einjehar. Rest, warrior," he said.
"Danke," the man whispered. His eyes closed as he breathed a sigh of relief.
As with the Einjehar at the concert, he faded from sight.
Alex knew what he had to do, even if he was in the open. These men had fought valiantly because they had no other choice. Best to release them from whatever twisted service Lyman had exacted from them.
Wait.
How could that be? How could he release Lyman's flunkies?
What was it Hel had said? He had trespassed on her domain, not by his physical presence, but by his actions. He'd defied death, seen the ghosts of his fallen colleagues, seen a Valkyrie ...
He'd touched power outside of his father's sphere. Purview. Whatever.
And Tyr knew it.
The challenge coin his father had given him bore the seal of the Judge Advocate General's office on one side ... and the crest of the Grim Reapers, the fighter squadron supporting their mission, on the other. Justice and Death.
But he was capable of doing more than just seeing ghosts, it seemed.
He continued working through the men he'd defeated, releasing each in turn. Some gave him a traditional Nazi salute. None refused his mercy.
The battlefield empty, he saw his Sig Sauer on the ground and reclaimed it, then began walking back towards the edge of the zone.
Alex passed the gate to a chant of hooah from the guardsmen.
"Crazy son of a bitch," Drake smiled, slapping him on the back.
"Just like the old Batman show on TV," one guardsman said. "Wham! Pow! Zowie!"
"And you were a JAG?" marveled another.
"All right, I've seen as much as I'm going to see, I guess," he told Drake. "Let's get back to the main post, and make sure the bad guys see me leaving."
"So they don't mount an offensive on the post thinking you're still here? Good idea."
The captive Einjehar was shackled to a chair, with guards inside and outside of the room. He was apparently no more forthcoming with information than Alex had been.
Soleil Hunter was sitting off to one side.
"Picking up some pro bono work, Counselor?" Alex smiled.
"Just observing," Soleil answered.
"Tell me what Lyman has planned," Alex said. "Tell me, and I'll set you free."
"Sir? A word, please?" the interrogator interrupted, motioning Alex towards the door. Hunter joined them.
"Set him free? Are you nuts?" he asked a moment later.
"Oh. Sorry, we're talking about different things," Alex said. "He's a warrior, summoned from Valhalla. I can release him from that. Otherwise, he's bound to whomever is calling the shots over in the Snow Fort."
"The Major has the last say on any deal."
"Has he said anything at all?" Alex asked.
"Nothing. Worse 'n you, actually. Just sits there and glares."
"Okay. Can I continue asking questions?"
"It's your dime, Ell-Tee," the interrogator told him.
"All right," Alex said, sitting down at the table. "Lyman. What is he planning?"
The Einjehar glared at him.
"I am the Son of Tyr," Alex told him. "I can grant you release. Your place in Valhalla is not at stake, and this is not your battle. It's not even Fimbulwinter."
Still nothing.
Alex removed the soldier's helmet and set it on the table. He put his hand overtop it and squeezed. The helmet crumpled like an empty beer can. One of the MP's coughed.
"Shall we try this again?" Alex asked, gripping the prisoner's bicep. "What is Lyman planning?"
No answer.
Alex squeezed, and there was an audible crack. The Einjehar schooled his face into a snarl, clamping down on any verbal expression of pain.
"Whoa!" the interrogator said. "Hold on just a minute, Ell-Tee."
Alex placed his hand on the prisoner's shoulder.
"It's entirely up to him," Alex said. "The question stands."
"North," Soleil said, coldly. "You can't do this."
"Lyman's plans," Alex said, ignoring her. He squeezed, and there was another snapping sound. The Einjehar choked back a sob of pain, then steeled his expression once more.
"Feigling. kämpfen mich als Krieger," he said. Coward. Fight me as a warrior.
"I just came from beating up eighteen of your pals," Alex told him. "I won't lose any sleep if you're next in line."
Alex's phone rang. "I'll be right back, mein schatz," he told the prisoner. "Hello?"
"First things first, where are you?" Phoebe asked.
"Convention Center," he said. "Interrogating a captive Einjehar."
"He's not talking, is he?" Phoebe asked.
"How did you guess?" Alex said.
"They're summoned beings. They'll be loyal to the person holding their leash."
"I see your point."
"I called to bring you up to speed," she said, recounting what had happened.
"Okay. Can we get Arky's people relocated?"
"We're working on that."
"Phoebe," the Einjehar said. He must have gotten a glimpse of the smartphone's caller ID.
"Don't mess with her, pal. You'll regret it."
The Einjehar chuckled. "Your friends will let me go before they let you torture me further. I will come for you."
"So tell me what Lyman has planned."
"And you call yourself Aesir," the Einjehar sneered. "He has bound the worlds as your father bound the Fenris Wolf. Asgard will fall."
"Nothing is too high for the daring or mortals; they storm heaven in their folly," Alex recited. "He must have summoned a metric assload of you guys if he wants to take Asgard."
The Einjehar gave him another grim smile.
"What I don't get is if you destroy Asgard, you destroy Valhalla," Alex told him. "I don't see Lyman keeping his tools around when he no longer needs them. You and all your buddies will be discarded without a thought. No honor. No glory. Oblivion."
Silence.
"Right. Well, if you should break loose, or if we set you free, tell your fellow warriors I can grant them release. You walk away from Lyman and whatever bullshit promises he made you," Alex said. He turned to the interrogator. "He's all yours."
"Going back to your friends?" Soleil asked.
"So, who's little girl are you?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," Soleil cooed. "Needless to say, we're not on the same side."
"So do you want to answer the question the Einjehar didn't?" Alex asked. "Why Vegas?"
"The Son of Tyr begging for answers. How sweet," Soleil laughed, and it was a cold, heartless sound. "Why not? It's a perfect example of mortal conceits. A city where they flock to beg for good fortune, or have pretensions of being gods themselves. Hitoshi surprised us with his takeover of the Westview Group, but your disappearance made up for it. A pity you came back just to watch Ragnarok unfold."
"Mankind deserves better than to be trod underfoot."
"Mankind doesn't have a vote," Soleil sneered.
"Does Chris know he's sticking his dick in crazy?" Alex asked.
"Chris is in love with me. Nothing you can say will change that," she told him.
"Same warning I gave the Einjehar, Sunny," Alex said. "Lyman doesn't give a shit about you. Once you've served your purpose, he'll push you off the roof or something."
"If I recall correctly, he doesn't have a very good track record on killing Scions," Soleil smiled. "He arranged to have your chopper shot down and managed to kill everyone but you. I'll manage."
"You heal like I do, is that it?" Alex said.
"Unless you're going to pull out your gun and shoot me, you'll just have to wait and see," Soleil said.
"Tempting."
"You can't. Justice runs too deeply in your blood," she reached out and swiped a finger at his nose. It was a bit of byplay for several guardsmen passing through the hall.
"I'd quote Shakespeare, but you're not my friend, no matter how you slice it."
"Mmmm. Chris quotes that stupid shit all the time," she says. " 'If we meet again as friends, why, then we shall smile. If not, then this parting was well made.' Is that the one?"
"You know I'll tell the others."
"As if the angry villagers will come for me with torches and pitchforks?" Soleil laughed again. There was lambent fury in her eyes. "Let them. They will learn their god, their Christian god, was nothing but a salve to their fears of Ragnarok. The true gods will return."
"What do you plan on being? Certainly not a goddess of Justice."
"My sights are set considerably higher, Counselor. Justice only matters when you care about those beneath you," she said. "Now, I have to bring Chris up to speed on your interrogation and make sure he understands you showed your true colors when you tortured a prisoner."
Alex watched Soleil walk away. Perhaps it's not Jason Lyman I need to worry about, he told himself. Soleil seemed rather unimpressed by the suggestion that she was a disposable ally, and she didn't strike him as being particularly naive.
He found Lt. Drake.
"I need to talk to Jensen. Or one of your other Asatru," he said.
"Jensen's on the line," Drake told him. "Bjornson was heading for the sack, we should be able to catch him."
The soldier could easily be an extra in a Hollywood saga. In fact, he looked somewhat out of place in BDU's. Right job, wrong era.
"Tyrsson," he said, clapping his fist to his chest in salute. "I am honored."
"I'm telling you this because you believe," Alex said. "The snow fort isn't the only threat. There are others, like me, but on the side of the Frost Giants. One is a man calling himself Jason Lyman, but another is a woman attached to the District Attorney's office. Her name is Soleil Hunter, and she's very good at bending men to her will."
"And recommending the Guard do nothing more than patrol the line," he said. "We've seen her at 'town hall' meetings. Anything else, my Lord?"
"Alex. Lieutenant, if you feel the need for a title."
"Sir."
"No, nothing else," Alex said. "I'm going over to the Westview Grand. Drake has my phone number, but I suppose you and the other Asatru should as well." He hands the soldier several business cards. "Lieutenant Drake, if someone can run me over there? I'll try to square some transport, so I'm not using you guys for taxi service."