“As did I of you,” replied Cassandra. “Ripped to shreds on some battlefield by vultures.”
With a savage howl, Freda Collins flung herself forward. To be met in midair by a screaming Cassandra Cole. Arms locked around each other’s shoulders in an unbreakable grip. A few anxious seconds went by before Jack realized that the two women were embracing. And laughing wildly.
“Uh, care to explain what the hell is going on?” he asked, wondering where Merlin and Megan might he hiding. Not that he blamed them much for keeping out of the way. “I gather you two recognize each other.”
“In the good old days,” said Cassandra, her face beaming, “we were best of friends. Many were the times we fought side by side, slaughtering anyone foolish enough to cross our path.”
“Those were fine times,” nodded his mother in agreement. His mom, the one who baked gingerbread men at Christmastime. “The clash of steel, the sweat of battle, the smell of blood, the agonizing cries of the dying.”
“Remember the Thirty Years’ War?” asked Cassandra. “Fighting with the Swedes against Tilly in Leipzig. Those were violent days, filled with excitement.”
“Especially with the bubonic plague killing half the population of Venice the same year,” replied his mother. “They wanted to burn you as a witch because of your color. Lucky I was there with my sisters to save you from the fire.”
“I paid back that debt during the war between Russia and Poland thirty years later,” returned Cassandra. “Those Cossacks had more than a game of kiss and tell on their minds.”
“You were a demon,” said Freda. “How many did you slaughter that afternoon? Twenty, thirty?”
“Mother,” protested Jack, his face turning red. “What are you saying!”
“Sorry, Johnnie,” said his mother, not quite succeeding in suppressing a grin. “Different times, different customs. I’m quite satisfied living with your father these days, helping him manage his business. Each age has its noble warriors. In this century, businessmen fight the great battles. But it is fun to reminisce a little about the past.”
“Your sisters?” interrupted Cassandra.
“The same as ever. We talk infrequently. They took offense that I left the act to get married. The last I heard, they were touring out west in a rodeo. My ravens spy on them. According to the birds, they continue performing trick riding stunts, forming human pyramids on the backs of horses, and shooting holes in playing cards. The same dull stuff we did for Buffalo Bill.”
Jack rubbed his forehead in bewilderment. His mind was overloading with too much data too soon. He spotted Megan edging out of the door of Merlin’s inner office. Anxiously, he hurried over to his girlfriend.
“You were expecting this?” he asked, taking hold of her hands. As usual, a tingle of excitement raced through his body from the touch. To Jack, Megan was real magic, pure and simple. The old-fashioned kind.
“Not really,” she replied, grinning. “We thought it would be nice to leave you and your mother alone for a few seconds to say hello. Neither of us expected this outburst. Father’s hiding behind his desk. What’s the story?”
“Apparently Cassandra and my mom are old drinking buddies,” said Jack, rolling his eyes in mock dismay. “We know Cassandra is the last of the Amazons. My mother, it turns out, is evidently some sort of warrior maiden.”
Megan giggled, as behind them the two women chattered away contentedly. “Your mom reminds me of the lead singer in one of those Wagnerian operas. You know, the sturm-and-drang things featuring Rhine Maidens and Siegfried and the Norse Gods.”
Jack opened his mouth to reply, then snapped it shut. He felt a little dizzy. It was either too many dramatic revelations in too short a time or going too long without lunch.
“The two birds that arrived with my mom?” he asked. “They anywhere around? I want to ask them some questions.”
“Probably yakking away with Merlin,” answered Megan. “I never met ravens who talked so much.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Jack, opening the door to the inner office. “Let’s say hello to your father. This pair won’t notice we’re gone.”
Merlin the Magician nodded a cursory hello to Jack and Megan as the two of them entered the inner chamber. The wizard, an elderly man with weather-browned skin and a long snow white beard, was engaged in a deep conversation with one of the ravens. Hugo and Mongo sat perched on the top of the magician’s chair, their yellow claws sunk deep into the leather.
Though he had lived with the birds most of his life, Jack still couldn’t tell one from the other. Now that he realized the pair were creations of magic, not nature, he understood their identical nature. The blackbirds had been imagined to life as twin ravens. Mankind’s subconscious mind had never given them any distinguishing aspects. Each bird was the exact duplicate of the other.
“Finally made it back,” said the raven, not speaking with Merlin. Jack assumed it had to be Hugo. “What took you so long?”
“We encountered some more problems on the highway,” replied Jack. “Besides,” he added, unable to resist, “it’s not as far traveling straight as the crow flies.”
“Crow?” squawked the bird, sounding indignant. “No insults, please. Mongo and I are ravens. We’re the most famous ravens in all of mythology.”
“I’ll bet,” said Jack. “Though I’m not sure how the pair of you hooked up with my mom.”
“Simple,” replied the bird. “Once the priests of the White Christ arrived in the northlands, the Boss realized his days were numbered. Before vanishing, he worked hard providing all of his loyal servants with good homes. Mongo and me always got along real well with your mother so we decided to stay with her. The wolves, Geri and Freki, moved in with your aunt Hannah.
“We stop in to see them once or twice a year. To keep things simple, they pretend now to be dogs,” The bird laughed, a bizarre sound. “Big, big, dogs, with immense teeth.”
“I’m lost,” said Megan, “completely, hopelessly lost.”
“Merely uninformed, daughter,” said Merlin, rising to his feet. “You’re lacking the proper information. This fascinating creature has just told Jack that his mother is one of the fabled ’Choosers of the Slain.’ Or, as they are called in books today, the Valkyries.”
Megan looked at Jack, her eyes wide. “Valkyries as in ’Ride of’?”
“You got it, sister,” said Hugo. Beside it, Mongo flapped its wings and cawed out a few barely recognizable bars of the Wagner piece. The screeching hurt Jack’s ears. “Freda was a high flier once. She and her sisters tore up the skies on Wings of Horses.”
“Then who are you two?” asked Megan.
“Hugi and Mugin at your service, ma’am,” said Hugo. The two birds dipped their heads, as if bowing politely. “Trained circus performers, notorious spies and gossips, and onetime companions to the mightly All-Father, leader of the Norse Gods, Odin.”
“It’s all coming back to me now,” said Jack. “Edmond Hamilton and Lester del Rey both wrote novels about ordinary mortals who find themselves in Götterdämmerung, the Twilight of the Gods. So did L. Sprague de Camp.”
An avid fantasy fan with a phenomenal memory, Jack’s knowledge of legendary and mythological characters came primarily from the stories he had read over the past decade. In most cases, the information he remembered served him better than consulting Bulfinch’s Mythology.
“Personally, I liked de Camp’s Incomplete Enchanter the best,” declared Hugo. “He portrayed Odin true to character—rude, mysterious, and always brooding.”
“Nah,” said Mongo. “Hamilton’s A Yank at Valhalla was tons more fun. He justified everything through super science and the story had a slam-bang finish. They don’t write stuff like that anymore.”