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 toward 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 as it isn't sidesaddle. 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 Valhöll. 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 Valhöll, 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 Valhöll were steep. At least you knew when you were going uphill toward 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 bloodhound 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 Jötunheim 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 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 gadfly 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 Valhöll'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 mailshirts 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 the 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 to pull the stopper loose. A stream of mead urinated unnoticed 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. Heimdall and several of his Viking-type buddies cheered her. 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 of 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 Allfather, 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, to follow her first instinct to see if he was all right. But her legs were trapped under a bench that appeared to have a few elephants sitting on it. She bashed her head hard on the oak of the table above her as she tried to sit up again. Seeing stars, she heard Odin say, "I gave orders for this one to be 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."