Hammer of God

Chapter 2

2

I followed Tres and Arthur out of the kitchen. Both men were large and ate up the distance with their wide gaits. Marching double time, I caught up as they passed the Great Hall.

There, the townsfolk's merriment rose to my ears. It was after dinner, but a few people still lingered. Every man's head inclined with respect as Arthur passed by. Many women looked up beneath hooded gazes or batted their eyelashes outright at Tres.

I assumed Arthur was headed for the Throne Room where the Round Table sat to conduct this business. But no. We continued on down the winding stairwell. Here, I moved easily with my slight frame. Both Arthur and Tres had to turn their bodies slightly to the side to fit.

At the bottom of the stairs, I turned my body to go into the weapons room, figuring Arthur might feel this discussion would best be had with heavy artillery within reach. But, no. We passed that room too.

I spied Yuric and Maurice inside on cleaning duty. Baysle jumped to his feet from behind the gaming console and dropped the controller when he saw Arthur. Arthur's attention was focused farther down the hall and the little weasel's fecklessness wasn't caught. But I pointed at my eyes with my middle and index finger, then pointed at him with only my middle finger to let him know I was watching him.

My buddies, Yuric and Maurice, gave me questioning glances. But I could only shrug to indicate I had no idea where I was headed. Because I didn't.

I didn't even know there were more rooms beyond this hall, and I had snooped in every nook and cranny in this old castle. Or, so I thought.

Arthur, Tres, and I headed past the dungeons and down an even lower layer. At one point, when we walked past the rust bars of a cell with there was the taste of iron in the air wafting off broken manacles, Tres turned to me. His expression was easy to read.

Am I walking into a trap? His face said.

The hell if I know, I shrugged. It'd be you and me both.

Finally, we reached a simple wooden door. Only there was no latch on the doorpost. Arthur gave a distinctive, complicated, Morse code of a knock on the undecorated wood. From the other side, I heard locks and bolts rattling and unfastening. The door was thrown back to reveal Percy.

Sir Percivale was bare-chested. Low slung leather pants rested on his narrow hips. His feet were bare. His light eyes flitted about in his head like they scanned everything on the surface of the scene and then slipped past another layer to take a deeper look.

All the while, his eyelids jumped and jerked as he held his stare. His molars ground behind his pursed lips. His fists balled and flexed, knuckles cracking with each clench.

I knew without anyone having to warn me that Percy was cray-cray. He leaned against the jamb of the doorframe with one arm over his head. His thick bicep blocked any view inside the room.

I was momentarily fixed on the long hairs in his armpit. He'd taken a moment to braid them. Weird.

There was a hum of activity coming from within the four walls of the room. Like a horde of bees, gnats, wasps and any other tiny insect that swarmed around a large mammal’s head.

"Yeah, boss?" Percy asked. His voice barreled unwillingly from his chest like a boulder hefted up with great force only to roll crashing down the side once it was shoved free.

"I need a word," said Arthur.

Percy glanced over Arthur's shoulder. He didn't bother me with his scrutinizing. I wasn't sure whether to take that as a compliment that he trusted me, or as an insult that he didn't see me as a threat.

It was Tres that the knight's eyes landed on. Percy and Tres looked as though they could be cousins. Both men had the sandy, golden brown skin of the desert. Their jaws were the harsh angles of sand dunes. Their brows arched like the top of a sheik's tent. Only their eye color was different.

Percy's were bright, sharp as glass. Tres's were dark but there was a lightness in the center. Sharp met light. They did that silent exchange thing that men did. Twitching their eyes and flaring their nostrils and puffing up their chests. The dialogue to the scene probably went something like this:

I can totally kick your ass with one hand tied behind my back.

Oh yeah? I can do it with both hands tied and a bum knee.

Well, I bagged more booty than you.

I'm massively endowed and don't need to count my bounty.

Arthur cleared his throat and the staring contest ended. Before I knew it, Tres and Percy shook their respective bits of equipment and the pissing contest was over. Percy backed up and opened the door wide.

With his body no longer obstructing the view, I gaped at what I saw inside. Arthur and Tres were already inside, but my footsteps slowed as I walked into what could only be called a war room.

There were screens everywhere. Receivers showing green blips. Monitors displaying lines of code. Video feeds broadcasting open areas and densely populated streets. And … was that a live shot of Westminster Abbey? And over there on that other screen, was that an interior of the White House's Situation Room?

Honestly, that's not what had me gasping out loud.

Percy had arranged himself in a chair surrounded by another set of wide television screens. There was rugby on one, American football on another, and WWE wrestling on a third. If I didn't know him any better (and I'm not sure I did) I might question which side he played on. No European watched guys in tights crashing into each other chasing after a pigskin. Every man worth anything knew that balls belonged on the floor and were only handled with feet.

The NFL? Really, Percy?

A tumbler of hard whiskey sat on a side table. I'd stopped worrying about Percy's liver the second week of knowing him. He was never sloshed. He had no tolerance for drunkenness. Whiskey was like Kool-Aid for him.

After quests, Percy always disappeared. I figured he preferred to unwind alone. I supposed that process took place in his room with the violence and whiskey. Once he'd gathered his wits after his self-imposed solitude, he'd emerge and was his normal loud and boisterous self.

But I see now that, as loud as he was, he was an introvert at heart. Sir Percivale got recharged by solitude and quiet, watching violent visuals and downing strong spirits. I wondered if we had a psychologist in the village? Might be a good idea if we didn't want Camelot to end up like Waco one day.

"We have a situation," said Arthur once the door was closed.

"What do you need?" asked Percy. "A code cracked? Someone tracked down? A body buried?"

"Entry into the fae realm," said Arthur.

That called Percy up short. His left hand shook, but the shaking appeared beyond his control. I'd never seen the knight rattled.

The wildness in Percy's eyes magnified with each word that left his lips. "I'm not going back to Alfheim."

Alfheim? Why did it sound familiar? Was that what the fae realm was called.

“You've been to the fae realm?" I asked. "No one tells me anything."

"We don't need you to go back," Arthur said. "Just help Mohandis get in."

Percy turned his wild gaze to Tres. "Wow, you're still pissed at him for Evangeline?"

About two hundred years ago, Tres had trifled with a witch. I'd met the woman. Evangeline was five hundred years old and looked to be in her late forties or maybe early fifties by human standards. She was happy about the trifle of an affair and would talk anyone's ear off about her escapade with Tres. Yeah, I'd listened to her, more than once. But knights didn't countenance anybody messing with their witches without putting a ring on it.

"They'll eat him alive," Percy was saying.

"Who?" I asked. "Fairies?"

I could believe it. I'd met the fair kind. They were as beautiful as described in children's books. But they were also bloodthirsty, conniving miscreants.

"Not the fae," said Percy. "The Valkyrie."

"Valkyrie?" I asked.

I was starting to put two and five together. Alfheim, Valkyrie. These were all Norse mythology. Valkyrie were women in armor who chose fallen mortal soldiers and carried their souls to Valhalla. They were the Norse representation of Amazonians, like German Wonder Women.

"They're real?" The adolescent girl inside me squealed with delight.

But Percy ignored me and kept his focus on Tres. "A big, strong man like you? They'll take one look at you and cart you off to Valhalla."

"What's a Valkyrie?" Tres asked.

I raised my hand, ready with my know-it-all answer. They all ignored me.

"You know what a siren is?" Percy asked. "Beautiful women in the water that lure men to their deaths. Those fools are happy to go when they hear the women's seductive songs."

What did sirens have to do with Valkyrie? Percy was getting his lore mixed up. Sirens were Greek.

"Valkyrie don't sing, and their beauty would make a siren look like a troll," Percy continued. "They don't get in the water, though the seas would probably part for them before a drop would dare muss their hair or mar their boots. They fly on dragons and wield swords forged in light. They lead the souls of the dead to Valhalla to their father, Odin. But they have a taste for men."

"Carnal?" I asked.

"Carnivorous," said Percy.

I was failing to see how this Valhalla wasn't a fool's paradise for men. I suspected there was a line queued up outside the walls.

"They'll strip your flesh and eat your soul," said Percy. "At least that's what the fae told their sprouts."

"I'm told the Hammer of God is in this realm," said Tres.

"Odin's hammer?" asked Percy.

"I thought it was Thor's Hammer?" I said.

"There are many hammers," said Percy. "What do you want to do with the hammer you're questing after?"

"We need to travel to the core of the earth," said Tres.

"You want to travel between the realms?" asked Percy. "Then it's Odin's hammer you want. It allows him to take the souls between the nine realms. He won't part with it. And you won't be able to get past his daughters to even get to him. Not with your flesh intact. A big, strong warrior like you? The Valkyrie will eat your soul."

"We need that hammer to rescue Nia," I said.

"Oh? You sure that tight piece of ass is worth it?"

Tres bristled. That soft spot in his eyes turned hard. His knuckles cracked as his fists balled.

"Yeah," I glared at Percy. "She is."

"Do you know a way in or not?" said Tres through gritted teeth.

"I know a way out," said Percy.

If the stories were correct, and I'd learned all of the Arthurian tales held a kernel of truth, Percy was raised in the wild with his mother. What if that wild was the fae realm?

"If you got out, then there must be a way in," I said.

Percy sighed, but then he coughed it up. "The Bermuda Triangle."