strain about his face, a tightness to his jaw. Whatever he'd heard, or thought he'd heard, wasn't something he'd been keen to hear.
And then it stole over me — a sense of being watched. Someone out there hiding among the trees, surveying us. A definite presence.
The hairs on the back of my neck crackled. I could see no eyes, but I could feel them. The dead weight of their gaze, looming from the shadows.
Five whole minutes passed, and then, with a 'hmph,' Heimdall lowered the rifle. 'Yes. Well. Gone. A scouting party, sneaking around, reconnoitring. They're starting to get bold.'
'Who is?' I couldn't help but ask.
'The enemy. They were well concealed, so I couldn't tell if it was frost giants, trolls, or the other enemy — the one we really have to worry about.'
'Oh. So the frost giants and the trolls aren't so bad, then.'
'Not to be underestimated, but a nuisance more than anything. Certainly not worth blowing the Gjallarhorn for.'
I worked it out for myself. 'Your trumpet? The one I just saw in the guardhouse?'
A sombre nod. 'That's reserved for one very particular occasion. The day we're all dreading. The day we're preparing for but hoping will never come. When I blow the Gjallarhorn… Well, let's just say you'll wish I hadn't had to.'
He left that hanging ominously in the air for a moment or so, like a bad smell. Then his mood lifted and he said, 'Still, that's in the future. Now's now, eh? Cherish the moment. Speaking of which, I understand there's going to be a feast this evening. Big celebration.'
'No one told me. What in aid of?'
'No special reason. Odin just likes to hold feasts every once in a while. Helps everyone get along. Cements solidarity. You should be there. They're terrific fun. All sorts of roistering goes on.'
'Blimey, really? Roistering? I haven't had a good roister in, ooh, ages. You going?'
'Oh no. Never abandon my post. That's my duty and my curse as Heimdall, born of nine mothers, gatekeeper of Asgard. I'm on watch here at all hours and in all weathers. Can't relax my vigilance for a second. I did let my guard down once, you see. A long time back. Allowed a witch called Gullveig to pass. Granted, she was disguised as a beautiful maiden, but even so. Caused all sorts of bother among the Aesir, did Gullveig. They quarrelled over who could give her the most gold. Odin had to sort it out by burning her at the stake. Three times.'
'Nice.'
'After a slip-up like that, I've had to be extra careful, as you can imagine. So no time off, no fun and frolics for me.' A tiny sigh as he said this. 'But you must attend the feast. You won't regret it.'
Won't regret it? I was regretting everything about the Valhalla Mission. Regretting I'd ever heard about it, regretting coming here most of all. As I followed my own deep footprints back to the castle, I mused on the fact that even the people at Asgard Hall who seemed normal at first glance, like Heimdall, weren't. Every one of them was infected with Odin's obsession, to the extent of spouting gobbets of mythology as though they were pure gospel truth.
It was way past time for me to go. Earlier, I'd spied out a lean-to where the Valkyries' snowmobiles were kept. It nestled against the castle's western wall. Now I ambled past it again, closer this time, noting that all three vehicles had keys in the ignition and there were jerry cans of fuel stacked nearby. A snowmobile was all but begging to be borrowed.
Once back in civilisation I would contact the authorities and tell them about Abortion and let them know roughly where his body might be found. I doubted there'd be much left of him by now. The wolves would surely have returned to finish what they'd started, once the Valkyries had gone. What remained, though, should be retrieved and given a decent send-off, a proper funeral. For the sake of Abortion's relatives, such as they were, and my own sake as well. A cremation ideally. Going up in smoke — it was what Abortion would have wanted.
A feast? Sounded all right to me. Then tomorrow, first thing, I'd be snowmobiling my way across Bifrost to freedom.
Twelve
Whole roast suckling pigs sat on platters on the banqueting hall tables, apples in their mouths, beds of parsley all around, the works. Their skins glistened like gold in the light of the torches burning in sconces on the walls. There were pies, heaps of root vegetables, tureens of broth, a stew which I was reliably informed was made of wild boar, and more forms of cooked herring than the mind could bear. Serving staff ferried it all in from the kitchen, and two hundred or so bods tucked in avidly, helping themselves to whatever came to hand, reaching, gnawing, munching, slurping.
Odin at the top table looked down on the scene with approval. On his shoulders a pair of large black birds were sitting — ravens was my guess. They perched there like a pair of bulky epaulettes, preening themselves and occasionally riffling their beaks through Odin's hair and beard. In return he fed them titbits from his plate with an indulgent smile.
Flanking him were Frigga and Thor, and lined up on either side of those two were other members of the Aesir and Vanir families. I couldn't see any sign of Freya, however. I looked, but she wasn't anywhere in the room.
Me, I was placed somewhere far down one of the long tables, and by coincidence — or perhaps not — the bloke next to me was Cy, the black guy I'd watched Thor beating up shortly before the thunder god turned his attention to me. Close to, Cy's facial scar was impressive. A jagged line that started just below the eye and ran down his cheek to his jaw. One of those scars that didn't disfigure, didn't ruin your looks, just made you look mean and cool.
Never one to mince around, I asked him how he'd come by it.
'Fight. When I was fifteen. You should have seen the other guy, though.'
'Ugly?'
'He is now.'
'And don't tell me, you got put on probation and they gave you the choice — prison or the army.'
'Bingo.' Cy grinned. 'You too, man?'
'Not quite. Me, it was army or what the fuck else are you going to do with shitty qualifications like those?'
'Nothing? No GCSEs?'
'Failed them all. I'm not thick. I just don't get on with writing essays or working out equations or remembering who signed the Magna fucking Carta. One look at an exam paper and I freeze.'
'Snap.'
'South London, yeah?'
'Bermondsey. You?'
'Wandsworth. And I've got a scar too, we've got that in common as well. Right big fuck-off one, only you can't really see it because my hair's grown over.'
'Give us a look.'
'All right. As you insist.' Like I needed asking twice.
I pushed up the hair on the left side of my head. Cy peered, then whistled. It always impressed people, my scar, once it was exposed. A rough hexagon shape, about the diameter of a ping-pong ball, with straggly lines forking off it in various directions. I tapped it with a finger. 'Ding-ding. Titanium underneath. Sets off airport scanners everywhere I go. Which, of course, plays havoc with my millionaire jet-set lifestyle.'
'Where'd you get it?'
'Afghanistan. Gift from the Taliban. One of the 'roadside flowers' they planted for us.'
'Shit, bruv,' Cy said, with feeling. 'Harsh.'
Some of the other guys around us nodded in sympathy.
'Tell you what I heard about you, though,' Cy went on. 'I heard you gave Thor a run for his money. After he'd knocked seven shades out of me, you went all psycho on his arse.'
