The Beasts Of Valhalla

sitting there-a boyish-looking man in his late twenties or early thirties, brown hair cut very short, tan suit and matching vest. I couldn't tell the color of his eyes, because he wouldn't look at me.

'Where's Garth?'

Randall wouldn't answer. The F.B.I, agent looked ashen, but Bolesh was grinning. The county sheriff's hair was glued back in place, carefully combed and pomaded.

'For Christ's sake, Randall,' I continued. 'This man killed two kids, and he's going to kill Garth and me-if he hasn't already killed Garth. You don't want to be a part of this. Help me.'

This time Randall squirmed a bit, but he still wouldn't answer.

'Listen to me, Randall; you lied your ass off to me, but I was telling the truth when I said I wrote letters. I can appreciate what top secret means, and Garth and I know how to keep our mouths shut. We're not interested in passing secrets, or in screwing the government in any other way. All I'm asking for is the right to take care of this crazy bastard, Bolesh, myself, and for you people to punish the men at Volsung who let him off his leash. It's not much, and it's fair. Give me those things, and our problem ends right here in this office. Tell Bolesh and his men to leave; he's not about to kill an F.B.I, agent. I'll make sure you get those letters back, unopened. We can deal, Randall.'

Finally he spoke. His voice was tortured, and I could see the cords moving in his neck. 'No. You didn't write any letters. You are a straight arrow; even if you'd had time to write letters, you'd have been concerned about who might have to pay the return postage.' He rose, turned his head in Bolesh's direction. 'Remember what you were told; I haven't been here.'

The agent gave me a fleeting glance just before he walked out the door. His eyes were brown.

Bolesh pulled down the shade, took out his sap.

'Hey.'

The word reverberated like a gong in the great empty cathedral that was located just behind my eyes. Sharp metal was biting into my wrists, holding my arms back around a square wooden object that was rough with splinters. Unable to move my hands or arms, I tried my head.

'Hey. Mongo.'

My head worked; at least it moved. I tried my eyes. I panicked for a few moments when I couldn't see anything, but then relaxed when I caught sight of a shaft of moonlight. It was night. Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the dim glow of moonlight, and I could see that I was sitting on matted, filthy straw, chained to a support post inside what looked like Coop Lugmor's barn. Garth was chained to a second post, about twenty feet to my right.

'Hey, Mongo. You all right?'

'Of course I'm all right. I'm just sitting here filling in my empty spaces.'

'Oh, I love it. That's good.'

'And wondering why Bolesh hasn't added a few more. As long as you're up, signal the beach boy, will you? I can use a drink.'

'Goddamn it, you're all right. How about asking if I'm all right?!'

'Are you all right?'

'No, I am not all right. I hurt. I cracked a knuckle on Bolesh's front teeth, and with all the stomping they did on me I do believe they managed to crack a couple of ribs and break a foot. I'll survive, but it was a shocking example of police brutality.'

'What the hell's the matter with you? Didn't you realize you were supposed to beat the shit out of Bolesh and his deputies and rescue me?'

'I'm tired of rescuing you; it gets boring after a few years. I figured this time I'd let the villains keep you, just to see how it turns out.'

'Well, you certainly have a front-floor seat.'

'Yeah. I can't wait for the next reel.'

'Seriously; from past experience, I've learned to view these little setbacks as character-building, consciousness-raising events.'

Garth chuckled softly. When he spoke again, his deep voice was resonant with emotion. 'It's good to see you, Mongo.'

'It's good to see you, brother. Do you hurt bad?'

'No. I've got a very hard head, and the foot's numb. You?'

'No. Seeing you alive is the only painkiller I needed.'

'Okay.'

'Okay. Mom and Dad…?'

'They were all right the last time I saw them, aside from being worried out of their minds about you. Bolesh and his crew really trashed the house, but all the relatives are over there helping to put it back together again.'

'By the way, what the hell are you doing here?'

'Janet called me after Bolesh snatched Tommy's computer. She thought you might need some help.'

'You're a big help. You were afraid I might get lonesome in the afterlife, right?'

'I forgive you for that thoughtless remark, the same as I forgive you for being absolutely, congenitally unable to keep your dwarf ass out of the most fucking outrageous situations.' He paused, and I could hear him breathing heavily. When he spoke again, his tone had changed and taken on a jagged edge of real anger. 'I'll tell you what I won't forgive you for, Mongo; I won't forgive you for not calling me the second you knew things here weren't right, and you realized you were in trouble. I could have helped then. Forget the stupidity; I'm used to you doing stupid things. I know why you didn't want me here, but you had no right to try to protect me. Tommy was my nephew, too; my family lives here, and you just happen to be my brother. Reverse our positions and tell me how you'd feel. It was a bad insult, Mongo.'

'You're right,' I replied quietly. 'I'm sorry, Garth.'

'Your apology is accepted.' The anger was gone as quickly as it had come, the boil lanced and drained. 'You don't even look like the Lone Ranger.'

'Other people have commented on that.'

'What would you suggest we do?'

'Aw, hell, you were right about letting the villains keep me; this is kind of exciting. Why don't we just hang around, breathe the good country air, and wait to see what happens?'

'Why not? While we're waiting, why don't you tell me what the hell's been going on?'

'Sure. How do you feel about dragon stories? I mean, what's your general attitude?'

'About the same as toward stories about giant alligators in New York's sewers.'

'Mad scientists?'

'I like shaggy dog stories. Get on with it, Mongo.'

'You're going to love this one.'

Bolesh showed up about an hour later. He snapped a wall switch, and a single naked light bulb hanging just above our heads came on. A pigeon in the loft, startled by the light, swooped down, brushing against the electric cord. The bulb jerked, then swung back and forth, casting shifting, chiaroscuro shadows, patterns of light and dark, across Bolesh's grim face. He was carrying a black leather satchel, and I was afraid I was about to find out what had killed Coop Lugmor.

'Hi, shithead,' Garth said brightly. 'How's your mouth?'

In our present position, it didn't seem like a good idea to talk like that to Bolesh; I tensed in anticipation of the terrible beating I was certain Garth was going to get.

Bolesh didn't even blanch. He smiled slowly-which made me even more nervous. Then he opened the satchel, took out a pint bottle full of an amber-colored liquid. Next came a hypodermic syringe. He punched the needle through the rubber sheeting covering the mouth of the bottle, depressed the plunger, filled the tube of the hypodermic. Then he came for me, angling around toward my back so I couldn't kick at him.

'I told you God didn't make you right, dwarf,' Bolesh said in a fluttering voice that bubbled with unfinished,