Текст книги "Loki's Wolves"

Автор книги: Kelley L. Armstrong

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

He motioned to a second board, covered in eclipse pictures and graphs and descriptions. It was a rush job, and it looked like it, but it wasn’t as bad as some… or so he kept telling himself.

“That’s very interesting, Matty,” his grandfather said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Where did you come up with an idea like that?”

Matt shrugged. “It just came to me.”

“Did it?”

Granddad’s blue eyes caught Matt’s, and under his stare, Matt felt his knees wobble. His grandfather studied him for another minute, his lips pursed behind his graying red beard. Then he clapped Matt on the back, murmured something to the Elders, and they moved on.

Matt got a B, which was great for a rushed project that didn’t actually work right. His teachers seemed happy. His parents weren’t. They’d headed out as he packed up his project, and he’d taken it apart carefully, slowly, hoping they’d get tired of waiting and leave.

“So it just came to you,” said a voice behind him.

It was Granddad. The gym was empty now, the last kids and parents streaming out.

Matt nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t win.”

His grandfather put his arm around Matt’s shoulders. “Science isn’t your strongest subject. You got a B. I think that’s great.” His grandfather pointed to the honorable mention ribbon on Matt’s table. “And that’s better than great.”

Of the thirty projects at the fair, five got an honorable mention. Plus there were the first-, second-, and third-place winners. So it wasn’t really much of an accomplishment, but Matt mumbled a thanks and started stacking his pages.

“So, Matty, now that it’s just us, tell me, how didit come to you?”

Matt shrugged. “I had a dream.”

“About what?”

“The wolves devouring the sun and moon. The start of the Great Winter.”

“Fimbulwinter.”

Matt nodded, and it took a moment for him to realize his grandfather had gone still. When he saw the old man’s expression, his heart did a double-thump. He should be more careful. With the Elders, you couldn’t casually talk about dreams like that. Especially not dreams of Ragnarök.

“I was worried about my project,” Matt said. “It was just a dumb dream. You know, the kind where if you fail your project, the world ends.” He rolled his eyes. “Dumb.”

“What exactly did you see?”

Sweat beaded along Matt’s forehead. As he swiped at it, his hands trembled.

Granddad whispered, “It’s okay, Matty. I’m just curious. Tell me about it.”

Matt did. He didn’t have a choice. This wasn’t just his granddad talking—it was the mayor of Blackwell and the lawspeaker of the town.

When he finished, his grandfather nodded, as if… pleased. He looked pleased.

“It—it was only a dream,” Matt blurted. “I know you guys believe in that stuff, but it wasn’t like that. I didn’t mean to—”

Granddad cut him off by bending down, hands on Matt’s shoulders. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was just curious. It’s always interesting to hear where inspiration comes from. I’m very proud of you. Always have been.”

Matt shifted, uncomfortable. “Mom and Dad are waiting….”

“Of course they are.” After another quick hug, Granddad said, “I’ve always known you were special, Matty. Soon everyone else will know it, too.”

He pulled back, thumped Matt on the back, and handed him the box. “You carry this, and I’ll take your papers. It’s windy out there. We don’t want them blowing away.”

Matt started across the gym, Granddad beside him. “I saw ice on the Norrström a few days ago. Is that why we’re having Vetrarblot so soon? Winter’s coming early?”

“Yes,” Granddad said. “I believe it is.”

FIVE

MATT

“CHOSEN”

After the science fair, Granddad came to the house and took Matt’s parents for a walk. By the time they came back, Matt was heading off to bed—early wrestling practice—but they called him out to the living room and gave him a long speech about how proud they were of him for getting a B and an honorable mention. As a reward, they’d chip in the forty bucks he still needed to add to his lawn-cutting money so he could buy an iPod touch.

He knew they weren’t really proud of him. He’d still messed up. But his parents always did what Granddad said. Most people in Blackwell did. Anyway, he wouldn’t argue about the money. Now he could start saving for a dirt bike, and maybe if he managed to win the state boxing finals, Granddad would guilt his parents into chipping in for that, too. Not likely—his mom hated dirt bikes almost as much as she hated boxing—but a guy could dream.

Vetrarblot. It wasn’t as cool as Sigrblot—because Sigrblot meant summer was coming, which meant school was ending—but it was a big deal. A really big deal this year, for Matt. He’d just turned thirteen, which meant he’d now be initiated into the Thing.

The Thing. What a dumb name. Sure, that’s what it had been called back in Viking days—the word thingmeant assembly—but you’d think one of Blackwell’s founding fathers would have come up with a new name so the town meetings wouldn’t sound so stupid. They hadn’t.

In Viking times, the Thingwas an assembly made up of all the adult men who weren’t thralls—what the Vikings called slaves. In Blackwell, women were members, too. And by all “adults,” they meant all Thorsens past their thirteenth birthday.

As for what exactly the assembly did, well, that was the not-so-exciting part. It was politics. They’d decide stuff. Then the town council—which was mostly Thorsens—would make it happen.

They discussed community issues, too—ones you couldn’t bring up in a town council, like “That Brekke kid is getting into trouble again” or, he imagined, “Matt Thorsen still can’t control his powers.” Which was why he’d rather not be sitting there listening.

And during Vetrarblot, he’d really rather not be there. They held the meeting just as the fair was starting. Cody and the rest of Matt’s friends had a nine-o’clock curfew, which meant he wasn’t even sure he’d get out of the Thingin time to join them. Which was totally unfair, but his parents wouldn’t be too happy if he began his journey into adulthood by whining about not getting to play milk-bottle games.

He’d already gotten a long talk from them that morning about how he was supposed to behave. Matt was pretty sure they were worried it would be a repeat of the disaster at Jolablot. That was the winter festival where they retold all the old stories, and Granddad had asked Matt to tell the one about Thor and Loki in the land of the giants, just like Josh and Jake had when they were twelve. His parents hadn’t wanted him to do it, but Matt insisted. He knew the myths better than his brothers did. A lot better. He’d make them proud of him. He’d really tried to—memorizing his piece and practicing in front of his friends. Then he got up on the stage and looked out at everyone and froze. Just froze. Granddad had to come to his rescue, and his parents weren’t ever going to let him forget it. This festival, he’d just keep quiet, keep his head down and out of the spotlight, and do as he was told.

Between the parade and the Thing, there was food. Real food, not corn dogs and cotton candy. At that time, everyone who wasn’t a Thorsen went home or filled the local restaurants or carried picnic baskets to Sarek Park. The Thorsens took over the rec center. That’s when the feasting began. There was rakfisk, of course, and roast boar and elk and pancakes with lingonberries. Mead, too, but Matt didn’t get any of that.

Inside the rec center, there were a bunch of smaller rooms plus the main hall, which was where the feast took place. The hall would have looked like a gym, except for the mosaics on every wall. Matt’s granddad said they were nearly five hundred years old, brought over from some castle in Norway.

The mosaics showed scenes of Thor. Fight scenes mostly—when it came to myths about Thor, that’s what you got. Thor fought this giant, and then this giant, and then this giant. Oh, yeah, and a few dwarves, but they were really mean dwarves.

Back when Matt had signed up for boxing and wrestling, he’d pointed this out to his parents. Sure, people loved and respected Thor because he was a great guy, but more than a little of that came because he sent monsters packing. And he didn’t send them packing by asking nicely.

His parents hadn’t bought it. Physical strength was all very good—they certainly wouldn’t want a bookworm for a son—but the Thorsens weren’t like Thor. They had each other, so it was a team effort, and those skills were better developed through football.

Still, those mosaics were what Matt grew up with. Thor fighting Hrungnir. Thor fighting Geirrod. Thor fighting Thyrm. Thor fighting Hymir. And, finally, in a mosaic that took up the entire back wall, Thor’s greatest battle with his greatest enemy: the Midgard Serpent.

According to legend, Thor had defeated the serpent once but hadn’t killed it. He’d fished it out of the sea and thrown his hammer, MjÖlnir, at it, leaving it slinking off, dazed but alive. According to the myth, when Ragnarök came, the serpent would return for vengeance. The mosaic on the wall showed how the epic battle would play out, ending with Thor delivering the killing blow. As Thor turned his back, though, the dying serpent managed one last strike: it poisoned Thor. And the god staggered away to die.

Matt kept looking at the Midgard Serpent scene as he sat with his family at the head table. The hall was filled with wooden folding chairs and long tables set up for family-style feasting. A small stage stretched across the front of the room.

The Seer was already up there with her assistant. At first look, he always thought the Seer could be a grandmother, but when he’d look again, he’d think she barely looked old enough to be a mother. She had that kind of face. For the festivals, the Seer and her assistant both dressed like women from Viking times, in long, plain white dresses with apronlike blue dresses overtop. White cloth covered their blond hair. Otherwise, they looked like a lot of women in Blackwell, and he was sure he passed them all the time on the streets and never even recognized them without their Viking dresses.

As the feasting went on, the Seer stood on her platform, throwing her runes and mumbling under her breath, making pronouncements that her assistant furiously jotted down. Matt noticed some of the younger members of the Thinghad taken seats near her. They were hoping to hear something important. They weren’t allowed to talk to her. No one could. And they really, really weren’t allowed to ask her anything.

Divining the future through runes was a very serious matter, not to be confused with fortune-telling, a lesson Matt had learned when he’d bought a set of fake ones and charged kids two bucks to get their futures told. That scheme got him hauled in front of the Thing, and he’d had to miss the next festival. He should have known better. Okay, he didknow better. But it was like pulling pranks—he knew he should just behave and make his parents proud, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was hard, doing the right thing all the time, trying to live up to his brothers when he knew he never could—not really—and sometimes, he just got tired of trying.

As dinner wound down, more people moved to sit cross-legged around the Seer. Others shifted to the Tafl tables set up along the sides of the room. When Granddad asked Matt to play a match against him, it was no big deal—Matt played Tafl with his grandfather all the time. Maybe not at the festivals, but only because Granddad was usually too busy. As they walked to a table, though, Matt could hear a buzz snake around the room, people whispering and turning to look, some making their way over to watch.

Tafl—also known as Hnefatafl, but no one could pronounce that—was a Norse game of strategy, even older than chess. It was called the Viking game because that’s where it came from, and it was based on the idea of a raid, with each player getting two sets of pieces as his “ship” and the king and his defenders in the middle.

Matt wasn’t worried about people watching his match with Granddad. Tafl was like boxing: he knew he was good at it. Not good enough to win every time, but good enough that he wouldn’t embarrass his family.

He didn’t win that match. Didn’t lose, either. The game had to be called on account of time—kids were itching to get out to the fair before dark, and it was Granddad’s job to officially end the feast. As Granddad did that and the kids took off to the fair, Mom led Matt over to the chairs that had been set up as the tables were cleared.

When Granddad stepped onto the stage, everyone went silent. Someone carried a podium up and set it in front of him. He nodded his thanks, cleared his throat, and looked out at the group.

“As some of you know,” he began, “this will be very different from our usual assemblies. No new business will be brought forward tonight. Instead, we will be discussing a matter that is of unparalleled importance to all of us.”

Some people shifted in their chairs. Were they worried about what Granddad was going to say? Or did they know something Matt didn’t, namely that importantmeant “you’re going to be stuck in those chairs for a very long time”?

Granddad continued, “As you know, our world has been plagued by natural disasters for years now, but recently the rate of these disasters has increased to the point where we barely have time to deal with one before we are hit with another.”

That was the truth. It seemed like every day there was a new school fund-raiser for a newly disaster-torn country. So far, Matt had helped out with two dances, a dunk tank, a bake sale, and now the charity boxing match… and it wasn’t even the end of September yet.

Was that what this was about? Raising money for disaster relief? Or maybe looking at the town’s emergency plan? His parents had totally redone theirs after all those tornadoes went through in the spring.

Granddad was still talking. “Last week, a volcano erupted that scientists had sworn was dormant. Today, they closed down Yellowstone Park because the hot springs and cauldrons are boiling over, releasing deadly amounts of poisonous gas into the atmosphere.” His grandfather paced across the tiny stage. “Dragon’s Mouth is one of those. The Black Dragon’s Cauldron is another. Aptly named, as our history tells us, because what keeps those cauldrons bubbling—and what makes fire spew from the mouths of mountains—is the great dragon, Nidhogg, the corpse eater. For centuries, his destruction has been kept to a minimum because he is otherwise occupied with his task of gnawing at the roots of the world tree. But now he no longer seems distracted. We know what that means.”

Matt felt icy fingers creep up his back.

This was his fault. He had the dream, and it was just a dream, but now his grandfather believed it, was using it to explain the bad things that were happening in the world.

“Nidhogg has almost bitten through the roots of the world tree. One of the first signs of Ragnarök.”

Matt gripped the sides of his chair to keep from flying up there and saying Granddad was wrong. He’d misunderstood. He’d trusted some stupid dream that was only a dream; Matt was only a kid, not a prophet, not a Seer.

“And we understand, too, the meaning of the tsunamis and tidal waves that have devastated coastal cities around the world. Not only has Nidhogg almost gnawed through the world tree, but the Midgard Serpent has broken free from its bonds. The seas roil as the serpent rises to the surface. To the final battle. To Ragnarök.”

Matt sucked in air, but it didn’t seem to do any good. He started to gasp. Mom reached over and squeezed his hand. On his other side, Dad eased his chair closer, his arm going around Matt’s shoulders as he whispered, “It’s okay, bud.” Josh leaned around Dad and gave a wry smile.

On Mom’s other side, Jake snorted and rolled his eyes. Scorn for the baby who was freaking out because bad things were coming and he couldn’t handle it, which was how it would look to everyone else.

Matt disentangled his hand from his mother’s and shrugged off his father’s arm. Then he pulled himself up straight, gaze fixed on his grandfather, who was saying something about nations in Europe breaking their promises on an environmental treaty and rumblings of conflict. All signs of Ragnarök. Oaths broken. Brother turning against brother. War coming.

“In that final battle, we have a role.” Granddad looked over at the mosaic, and everyone’s gaze followed to the epic confrontation against the Midgard Serpent. “For centuries, the Thorsens have worked together, stayed together, fought together. But this battle is different. This job is for one and only one. The Champion of Thor, who must win the battle, defeat the serpent, and save the world from destruction.”

Dad’s hand went to Matt’s leg and squeezed. When Matt looked over, his father’s face was tight and unreadable as he stared straight ahead.

“We have waited for the signs that point us to our champion,” Granddad said. “We had seen some, but we were still unsure. Now, though, the prophecy has been fulfilled and the runes…”

He moved back, and the Seer shuffled forward. She didn’t step up to the microphone, so her reedy voice barely carried past the front rows. Matt had to strain to listen.

“The runes have spoken,” she said. “I have cast them again and again, and the answer remains the same. We have chosen correctly. We have our champion.”

Matt glanced at his father. Tentatively, his father slid his hand around Matt’s and held it so tightly that Matt had to fight not to pull away.

On the stage, the Seer’s voice rose, so all could hear. “Our champion is Matthew Thorsen, son of Paul and Patricia Thorsen.”

Matt froze.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then whispers slid past. Did he really say the Thorsen boy? He’s just a kid. No, that can’t be right. We heard wrong. We must have.

Granddad’s voice came back on the speakers. “I know this may come as a surprise to some of you. Matt is, after all, only thirteen. But in Viking times, he would have been on the brink of manhood. The runes have chosen Matt as our champion, as the closest embodiment of Thor. His living representative. And they have chosen others, too, all the living embodiments of their god ancestors, all children born at the turn of the millennium. Young men and women like Matt. The descendants of Frey and Freya, Balder, and the great god Odin. They will come, and they will fight alongside our champion. And…” He pointed at the mosaic of Thor’s death. “That will not happen, because they will win and they will live.”

Another moment of silence, like they were processing it. Then someone clapped. Someone else joined in. Finally, a cheer went up. It didn’t matter if they thought Matt was too young—the runes called him the champion, so that’s what he was. However ridiculous it seemed.

Matt looked around. People were turning and smiling, and his mother was pulling him into a hug, whispering how proud she was. Josh shot him a grin and a thumbs-up. Jake’s glower said Matt didn’t deserve the honor and he’d better not mess this up.

So Ragnarök was coming? And he was the Champion of Thor? The chosen one? The superspecial kid?

I’m dreaming. I must be.

Once he figured that out, he recovered from the shock and hugged his mother and let his dad embrace him and returned Josh’s thumbs-up; then he smiled and nodded at all the congratulations. He might as well enjoy the fantasy. Too bad it wasn’t real, because if he did defeat the Midgard Serpent, he was pretty sure he could get a dirt bike out of the deal. He laughed to himself as he settled back into his seat. Yeah, if he fought and killed a monstrous snake, Mom really couldn’t argue that a dirt bike was too dangerous.

He looked around as everyone continued congratulating him.

It had to be a dream. Anything else was just… crazy. Sure, Matt believed in Ragnarök, sort of. He’d never thought much about it. That’s just how he was raised, like some kids were raised to believe an old guy named Noah put two of every animal on one boat. You didn’t think much about it—it just was. So Ragnarök must be real, even if it sounded…

He looked around. No, everyone else believed it, so it must be true.

Maybe it wasn’t an actual serpent. Maybe it was a… what did they call it? A metaphor. That’s it. Not an actual snake, but some snake-like guy who had to be killed or he’d unleash nuclear war or something.

Except that wasn’t what Granddad was talking about. He meant the Midgard Serpent. Like in the picture. An actual serpent.

That’s the story, Matt. Don’t you believe it? You’ve always believed it.

His head began to throb, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

Let Granddad handle it. Just do what you need to do.

Do what? Be their champion? No. He’d make a mess of it. He always did.

The Thingended, and every Thorsen lined up to shake Matt’s hand. He wasawake, and he was the chosen one—and he was going to fight the Midgard Serpent and save the world. First, though, he was going to throw up.

Every time someone shook his hand, he felt his stomach quiver, too, and he thought, I’m going to do it. I’m going to barf. Right on their shoes. The only way he could stop it was to clamp his jaw shut and keep nodding and smiling his fake smile and hope that the next person who pounded him on the back didn’t knock dinner right out of him.

After the others left, his grandfather talked to him. It wasn’t a long discussion, which was good, because Matt barely heard any of it. All he could think was They’ve made a mistake. They’ve made a really, really big mistake. He even tried to say that, but his grandfather just kept talking about how Matt shouldn’t worry, everything would be fine—the runes wouldn’t choose him if he wasn’t the champion.

Check again.That’s what he wanted to say. If a kid has to fight this… whatever, it should be Jake, or even Josh. Not me.

Granddad said they’d talk more later, then he slipped off with the Elders into a private meeting, and Matt was left alone with his parents. They told him a few more times that everything would be fine. Then Dad thumped him on the back and said Matt should go enjoy the fair, not worry about curfew, they’d pick him up whenever he was ready.

“Here’s a little extra,” Dad said, pulling out his wallet. “It’s a big night for you, bud, and you deserve to celebrate.”

When he held out a bill, Matt stared. It was a hundred.

“Uh, that’s—” Matt began.

“Oh. Sorry.” His dad put the hundred back, counted out five twenties instead, and put them in Matt’s hand. “Carnies won’t appreciate having to cash a hundred, will they?” Another slap on Matt’s back. “Now go and have fun.”

Matt wandered through the fair, sneakers kicking up sawdust. He didn’t see the flashing lights. Didn’t hear the carnies hustling him over. Didn’t smell the hot dogs and caramel corn. He told himself he was looking for his friends, but he wasn’t really. His mind was still back in the rec hall, his gaze still fixed on that mosaic, his ears still ringing with the Seer’s words.

Our champion is Matthew Thorsen.

Champion. Really? No, really? I’m not even in high school yet, and they expect me to fight some giant serpent and save the world?

This isn’t just some boxing tournament. It’s the world.

Matt didn’t quite get how that worked. Kill the serpent; save the world. That’s how it was supposed to go. In the myth of Ragnarök, the gods faced off against the monsters. If they defeated the monsters, the world would continue as it was. If the monsters won, they’d take over. If both sides died—as they did in the myths predicting Ragnarök—the world would be plunged into an ice age.

What if the stories weren’t real?

But if the stories aren’t real, then Thor isn’t real. That amulet around your neck isn’t real. Your power isn’t real.

Except it obviously was. Which meant…

Even thinking about that made Matt’s stomach churn and his head hurt and his feet ache to run home. Just race home and jump in bed and pull up the covers and hide. Puke and hide: the strategy of champions.

Matt thought of his parents catching him, and his heart pounded as he struggled to breathe. They expected him to do this, just like they expected him to walk home after practice and make his own science fair project. They expected him to be a Thorsen.

Something tickled his chest, and he reached to swat off a bug. Only it wasn’t a bug. It was his amulet. Vibrating.

Um, no, that would be your heart, racing like a runaway train.

The tickling continued, and he swiped the amulet aside as he scratched the spot. Only it wasn’t his heart—it really was the pendant. When he held it between his fingers, he could feel the vibrations.

Weird. It had never done that before.

“You are looking for Odin,” said a voice behind him.

Matt wheeled. There was no one there.

“You are looking for Odin,” the voice said again, and he followed it down to a girl, no more than seven. She had pale blond braids and bright blue eyes. She wore a blue sundress and no shoes. In this weather? She must be freezing. Where were her parents?

“Hey,” he said, smiling as he crouched. “Do you need help? I can help, but we should probably find your parents first.”

The girl shook her head, braids swinging. “I do not need your help, Matthew Thorsen. You need mine.”

Strange way for a kid to talk. Formal, like someone out of an old movie. And the way she was looking at him, so calmly. He didn’t recognize her, but in Blackwell, there were so many little blond kids that it was impossible to keep them all straight.

“Okay, then,” he said. “You can help me find your parents.”

“No, you must find Odin. He will help.”

“Help what?”

She frowned, confused. “I do not know. That is to come. That is not now. I know only what is now, and nowyou must hear.”

“Hear what?”

She took off into the crowd.

Matt bolted upright. “Wait!”

The girl turned. She looked at him, her blue eyes steady. Then she mouthed something, and he understood her, like she was standing right there, whispering in his ear: You must hear.

She turned and ran again. Matt hesitated, but only for a second. As safe as Blackwell was, no kid her age should be wandering around alone.

He raced after her.