The Sword of Summer: Chapter 54–Epilogue

Rappelling down the wall was the easy part.

Their gray faces were hideously painted with rouge and lipstick.

Gjalp crossed her arms, forming a new mesa against her chest.

Behind him pooled the parachute—a swath of turquoise silk that exactly matched Blitz’s suit.

Rows of stone columns were interspersed with iron braziers filled with burning coals like dozens of barbecue grills.

He reeked of fermented honey. The overall impression was less “fashionable nightclub dude” and more “well-dressed wino.”

The next salvo set Blitzen’s parachute on fire.

I gave you the opportunity to prove your mettle.

“Girl, stop calling me lord. I’m a god of the common people, not a lord! And don’t worry, I won’t kill you. Not all of Loki’s brood is evil. Even Loki himself...”

Gauzy curtains of snow swept across the brownstones.

The right side of the woman’s face was a nightmare—withered skin, patches of blue ice covering decayed flesh, membrane-thin lips over rotten teeth, a milky white eye, and tufts of desiccated hair like black spiderwebs.

I was fresh out of bravado. The best I could manage was not running away shrieking.

“I could have her. The status of her soul, of everything that she was, is still in flux.”

Inside the chain-link fence, a few dozen students huddled in cliques, chatting in doorways or pushing each other around the icy pavement.

Blitz had scored a new outfit, of course: olive-colored fatigues, a yellow ascot, and a matching yellow pith helmet with yellow sun-proof netting.

Through the haze of snow, the shoreline of Boston morphed into something primeval—the way it might have looked when Skirnir’s descendant first sailed his longship up the Charles.

The island looked like the caldera of an ancient volcano—a flattened cone maybe fifty feet above sea level.

I slogged onto the beach, and a wolf’s howl split my eardrums.

All in all, if I were the god Tyr, getting my hand bit off so the other gods would have time to bind the Wolf, I would’ve been pretty torqued off at this shoddy work. Didn’t the Aesir have one decent god of knots?

The Wolf paced, the rope gleaming between his feet, barely slowing his gait.

Like most fire giants, he’s a lot of hot air, more bluster than brains, but he will serve his purpose.

From across the valley, Gunilla yelled, “No fraternizing! I want them in chains!”

“Here’s the thing, Magnus: Gunilla made it clear that if we don’t prove our loyalty to Valhalla by apprehending you, we will spend the next hundred years in the boiler room shoveling coal. So consider yourself under arrest, blah, blah, blah.”

The fields of heather may have been noxious to the Wolf, but the stuff didn’t seem to bother the fire giants.

The power of Frey could constrain Fenris just as it constrained the extremes of fire and ice.

“But how about that ropework, huh? That’s a perfect stevedore’s knot right there, and I don’t even have hands.”

“I consecrate this ground in the name of Frey.”

Jack sprang to life, spewing a tirade of insults I can’t really repeat.

“Well, after my big speech about not holding on to the past..." He smiled ruefully. “She was a vibrant soul. She would be proud of you.”

The fiesta slowly quieted as our procession made its way toward the thanes’ table. An honor guard of Valkyries carried the bodies of Gunilla, Irene, and Margaret, covered with white linen, on stretchers.

Hearthstone signed as discreetly as possible: This is why I work for Mimir.

Despite the compliment, I liked Odin better as a taciturn half-troll than as a motivational speaker.

Many here mistrusted you, but you rose to the challenge. You followed my orders. You did your duty even when you were reviled and exiled.

“I need a captain for my Valkyries. I can think of no one better than you. This would allow you more time to spend in the mortal world, perhaps a chance to rest after your harrowing quest. Or”—his blue eye gleamed—“you could choose a much more dangerous assignment, working directly for me as the need arises on other, shall we say, high-risk, high-reward missions.”

“By Gungnir, the hallowed weapon of the All-Father, I declare that these seven heroes shall have full rights of passage through the Nine Worlds, including Valhalla. Wherever they go, they shall go in my name, serving the will of Asgard. Let no one interfere on pain of death!”

Somehow, the einherjar had gotten possession of a swan boat—the kind that normally don’t ply the waters during the winter.

On the other hand, I didn’t want to put her at risk, or threaten the tenuous relationship we were starting to reconstruct.

A man in a priest’s frock was sitting on his desk, dangling his feet.

Loki spread his hands magnanimously.

I’m sure you’ll find a way to explain the horrible hand-shaped scar on your face. I think it lends you a certain... gravitas. The Vikings will be most impressed.