The Sword of Summer: Chapters 14–26

We will seek wisdom from the runes, unless the All-Father wishes to intercede.

Her face was hidden in the shadows of her cowl, but judging from her stooped posture and her gnarled hands, she must have been ancient.

As the chanting subsided, the vala raised her withered arms.

Then the mumbling and grumbling began, punctuated by bursts of incredulous laughter.

“Lord Ottar”—Sam’s voice sounded strained—“the thanes have looked past such a technicality before. Whether or not Magnus gripped the sword at the moment of death, he died bravely in combat. That is the spirit of Odin’s law.”

The soft disembodied voice resonated through the hall, seeping into my head, turning my skull into an icebox.

Harbinger of the Wolf.
The crowd stirred uneasily. I’d seen the word harbinger somewhere before, maybe in a fantasy novel, but I couldn’t remember what it meant. I didn't like the sound of it.

I was still miffed at her for bringing me here, especially if it had been a mistake, but I didn’t want to see her kicked out of the Valkyries because some doctored video made me look like a doofus.

Compared to the main feast hall, lounge nineteen was downright intimate.

Along the other wall, a buffet table was laden with every kind of breakfast food imaginable (and a few kinds I had never imagined).

“Samirah judged him worthy and brought him here. She got some flak for that decision.”

Some einherjar wore full plate mail like medieval knights. Others wore chain mail shirts, breeches, and combat boots. A few sported camo fatigues and AK-47s.

T.J. sang “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” while he stabbed and parried with his bayonet.

As for me, I shuffled along in abject terror, my shield raised, my sword dragging.

When I said I wanted to see you eviscerated, I didn’t mean I wanted to be standing next to you.

Mallory glanced back, her expression a mix of disdain and exasperation and something else...admiration? “That idiot will keep fighting until he is literally hacked to pieces.”

I put my back against a big oak tree while X smashed and backhanded and head-butted Vikings into oblivion.

The warrior next to him had an eye patch and red leather armor decorated with silver curlicues.

Cold wind whipped across the marble floor, stirring the fire in the central hearth, making the flames gutter in the braziers on either side of the tall dais.

The seat itself was lined with ermine.

Loki pantomimed wild applause.

The braziers burst, showering hot coals across the dais, and the High Seat of Odin erupted in flames.

I was too busy trying not to die from vertigo.

And circling the edge of the city were white ramparts that made the Great Wall of China look like a baby fence.

Under the jacket, he was rocking a charcoal paisley vest with a gold watch chain, a turquoise dress shirt, and a bolo tie.

“Dark elves aren’t actually elves, kid. It’s...what do you call it? A misnomer. We’re a subset of dwarves.”

Hearth said the same thing in sign language—a gesture that looked disturbingly like a set of mandibles rending flesh.

Mallory cursed in what was maybe Gaelic. Our little hallway group was a veritable United Nations of Cussing.

Hearthstone was just getting to his feet when I landed on top of him and knocked him flat. Before I could extricate myself, Blitzen plowed into my chest.

Blitzen sighed dismally.

His nice wool suit looked like it had passed through the digestive tract of a snail.

There wasn’t much to see—just metal scaffolding, stacks of green number cards hanging on the wall, and the stadium’s concrete ribs tattooed with a hundred years of graffiti.

The obituary didn’t say much. Nothing about my two-year disappearance, my homelessness, my mom’s death. Just: Untimely demise. Survived by two uncles and a cousin. Private service to be held.

Hearth and I raided a charity drop box on Charlesgate so I wouldn’t have to walk around town in my pj’s. Soon I was resplendent in stonewashed jeans, a hunting jacket, and a T-shirt peppered with holes.

Mortals are not good at seeing magical things. Between Ice and Fire is Mist, G-i-n-n-u-n-g-a-g-a-p. Obscures appearances.

I remembered what Gunilla had told me about the worlds forming between ice and fire, and how Frey represented the temperate zone between. Apparently, though, Frey’s children didn’t inherit an innate understanding of what the heck that meant.

He hesitated, then splayed both hands in front of his chest like he was having a heart attack: the sign for scared.

Inside, the funeral home smelled of moldering bouquets.

So, of course, my punishment was to find out I was the son of a Norse deity, go to a Viking afterlife, and have an open coffin memorial in a cheesy uni-faith chapel. If there was an Almighty God up there, a head honcho of the universe, He was totally laughing at me right now.

He gesticulated so frantically I could barely read the signs: HURRY. DANGER.