Airmid directed me to Dian Cecht’s house. When I arrived there, he was not at home. I approached it in camouflage and disabled his few simple wards, went inside, then put them back together. Since I was over sixty, I didn’t feel equal to besting him in a fair fight, and I dislike fair fights anyway. I needed an advantage, so I greased down the floorboards near the door. Once he closed it behind him, I would spring from hiding and the uncertain footing would negate any advantage he had in speed.
The entrance to his house was a kitchen and dining area. A hallway from this led to other rooms, and after I was finished with my preparations, I hid around the corner and sat in the hall.
Hours passed, during which I had ample opportunity to reconsider, but I convinced myself that, in a very real sense, it was either him or me. If I didn’t kill him, I would die-eventually. If I did, I wouldn’t die, period. I had killed men in battles but never plotted a murder before. It didn’t sit well with me, but neither did the prospect of gasping my last breath.
When Dian Cecht finally came home, he brought a chicken with him to pluck for his dinner. He clutched it tightly against his chest with one hand-his sword hand. When I leapt out of my hiding place and shouted, “HA!” with my own sword drawn, I killed him. Or, rather, the chicken did.
He let go of the chicken to reach for his sword, and the creature exploded from his grip and slapped him several times in the face with her beating wings as she pecked at him. In his attempt to shy away from the chicken and also draw his weapon, he slipped on the greasy floor, cracking his head open on the edge of a worktable near the door as he fell. He was dead before he hit the ground. And that’s when I first met the Morrigan. Though I had never crossed swords with Dian Cecht, the intent had been there, and thus our confrontation had fallen to her sphere of influence. She had chosen Dian Cecht, not me, to be slain, and she let me know.
She couldn’t choose him for death against Miach, because Miach had never tried to fight back. And Miach thwarted her again when he made Airmid promise not to kill her father. I was an acceptable work-around, however, and she said at the time we would meet again. I thought she meant she’d choose me to die in battle soon; I had no idea at the time that our association would last so long.
I took the chicken back to the inn where I’d met Airmid and had them cook it for me. She came in as I was finishing up and I told her that the deed was done.
“Where did you cut him?” she asked.
“I didn’t use my sword,” I said, then pointed at the bones on my plate. “I used this chicken.”
I told her what had happened and she seemed pleased. True to her word, she gave me the sum of her notes and showed me the binding I needed to use to create Immortali-Tea, as well as several other bindings for other special brews. And that is how I not only gained the secret to eternal youth but gained the herblore of the greatest herbalist ever to walk the earth. Plus a great chicken dinner.***
Odin set down his fork and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He looked at Frigg and said, “I hope the fourth course won’t be a chicken dish.”
“I don’t think it is.”
“Good.” He turned to me and said, “I can see why you prefer to keep that story to yourself. It is a terrible thing to be henpecked.”
The fourth course was a veal sirloin stuffed with morel mushrooms and another attractive arrangement of vegetables on the side. I tore into this since I’d never enjoyed a bite of the third course, occupied as I was with the story. The gods enjoyed their wine but didn’t touch the food. Apparently they don’t do veal. Perhaps they would have enjoyed chicken after all.
“I have had much time to ponder the ramifications of your actions in Asgard,” Odin said as I was eating. “And much time to ponder my response. In the old days, there would be no question-we would have killed you and any known associates. But this is a different time, and the simple vengeance we crave would not serve us well in the long run. We would rather, instead, that you serve us well.”
I stopped chewing. “I beg your pardon? Are you suggesting some sort of indenture?”
“No. A blood price. Ragnarok is coming soon, and since you have killed or assisted in the killing of many gods who were to fight on our side, we wish you to take their place.”
I very nearly choked and needed to drink a bit to clear my throat before I could speak. “You want me to take the place of gods?”
“Not entirely by yourself. It would be helpful if you could recruit some others. You clearly have the powers of a classical hero, and your assistance would be invaluable. All that matters is defeating the forces of Hel and Muspellheim: Next to that, our vengeance is a trifling matter. Fight with us, and the blood you shed on our behalf will expiate your debt. That, and one other thing.”
“What?”
“I would appreciate the return of Gungnir.”
“Promise not to throw it at me again?”
A flicker of irritation crossed Odin’s face. “Yes.”
“Okay, sure, I’ll return it. I have no use for it. Send Hugin and Munin to visit me in Arizona three days from now. I’ll tell them where to pick it up.”
“Thank you. And Ragnarok?”
I thought about Hel and her attempt to kill me near Kayenta. I thought about the world overrun with draugar. Even people who were preparing for the zombie apocalypse would have trouble with those things. “If the shit goes down, Odin, I’m on your side.”
“Excellent. Will you fight with him, Morrigan?”
The Morrigan, like Frigg, had remained silent for much of the meal. Now she gave a thin smile. “I’m afraid I’ll have to miss that particular battle. The Valkyries will have to suffice.”
Odin’s expression darkened. We had killed twelve of the Valkyries when we raided Asgard. I don’t know how many remained, if any. To change the subject, I said, “Can I ask what happened to Thor’s hammer?”
“Why?” Frigg asked. “Did you promise someone you’d steal it?”
The nastiness of the question surprised me. We’d been getting along so well. But I tend to react when provoked. “No,” I said. “If I had, it would already be in my possession.” Frigg seethed and Odin chuckled softly.
“You were supposed to keep my anger in check,” he said.
The fourth course was cleared away-the waiter making sure we were all okay, since the gods hadn’t touched the veal-and the fifth was laid before us. Five different well-aged cheeses were attractively presented on a white rectangular platter with crackers and fruit compote. Some were sliced in triangles, some in thin, translucent pieces. It was a superlative achievement in both geometry and dairy. The sommelier served us something from Italy; I didn’t quite catch it.
“Mjollnir rests in Gladsheim,” Odin said once the servers had retreated.
“No one wields it now?”
The Norse gods frowned as if I’d asked something particularly inane. “Like who?” Odin said.
“I was thinking maybe some other, later aspect of Thor. The one from the comics is popular right now.”
Odin scoffed. “Popular, perhaps. But he is not worshipped, and you know what that means: He can’t muster magic enough to manifest himself! He has to be played by a human actor in his own movies. He’s nothing but cheap entertainment. Surely you know this.”
I did know it, but it never hurts to let possible antagonists think they are smarter than you.
“Well, if he can’t do it, then surely some other aspect of Thor can?”
“They are all comfortable in their current situations, and none is as strong as the original. I wouldn’t want a single one of them at my back. No, Thor’s responsibility is now yours.”
“Mine? You want me to face the world serpent?”
“Or find someone else to do it, yes.”
This twist in the conversation reminded me uncomfortably of Cleopatra on the ceiling. I looked up and examined it again past the glow of the chandelier, and, while I did, the gods directed their attention to the cheeses.
The artist had taken quite a bit of license; Cleopatra reclined, leaning on her right arm, while her left hand held a snake up to her breast, inviting it to bite her. I thought the snake would have simply bitten her hand when she reached to pick it up, but that was the least of the odd choices the artist had made. For some reason, he had
