But old Regin Fafnirsbruder was a lot sprier than he looked. He ducked and he dodged and she ran right on by him. The sword went wheet! a couple times but it didn't cut anything but air. And old Regin Fafnirsbruder laughed his ass off again and said, "Your blade is my life to drink not fated."
Well, old Brunhild was already madder than hell, but that only pissed her off worse. She started swinging that sword like a madman-up, down, sideways, I don't know what all. I swear to God, I don't know how old Regin Fafnirsbruder didn't get himself chopped into dog food, either, I really don't, Houdini couldn't have gotten out of the way of that sword, but Regin Fafnirsbruder did. He was a bastard, but he was a slick bastard, I have to admit it.
Finally, he said, "This grows boring. I shall another surprise for you one day have." Then he was gone. One second he was there, the next second he wasn't. I don't know how the hell he did it. I guess maybe he really was a magician, for crying out loud.
Old Brunhild, she needed like half a minute to notice he'd disappeared, she really did. She just kept hacking and slashing away like there was no tomorrow. She'd already hit the ceiling in fourteen different places, and she wasn't anywhere close to ready to calm down. I wanted to keep the hell out of her way, was all I wanted to do right about then, if you want to know the truth.
Only I couldn't. There was this castle with the ring of fire around it, and there was the slope that headed down toward old Isenstein and the Rhine that didn't stink any more, and there were me and old Brunhild. That was it. Talk about no place to hide. If she decided I was in cahoots with old Regin Fafnirsbruder after all, she'd chop me in half. I didn't know how the hell he'd dodged her, but I knew goddam well I didn't have a chance.
Anyway, Brunhild finally figured out old Regin Fafnirsbruder'd flown the coop. She didn't rub her eyes or go "I can't believe it" or anything like that. She just sort of shrugged her shoulders, so the chainmail went clink-clank again, and she said, "Curse his foul sorcery."
Then she remembered I was there. I swear to God, I wouldn't've been sorry if she'd forgotten. She walked over to me, that crazy armor jingling every step she took, and she looked up into my face. Like I said before, she didn't have to look up very goddam far, on account of she had almost as much heighth as I did.
"You came through the fire for me," she said. "You did it unwittingly, I think, and aided by Regin Fafnirsbruder's magecraft, but the wherefores matter only so much. What bears greater weight is that you did it."
"Yeah, I guess I did."
Old Brunhild nodded. The sun shone off her helmet like a spotlight off the bell of a trombone in a nightclub. She took this deep breath. "However it was done, it was done. As I said when first you woke me, if you would claim me for your bride, you may." And she looked at me like if I was crumby enough to do it, she'd spit in my eye, honest to God she did.
Isn't that a bastard? Isn't that a bastard and a half, as a matter of fact? Here's this girl-and she's a pretty girl, she really is, especially if you like blondes about the size of football players-and she was saying "Yeah, you can give me the time, all right, and I won't say boo," only I know she'll hate me forever if I do. And when old Brunhild hated somebody, she didn't do it halfway. Ask Regin Fafnirsbruder if you don't believe me, for crying out loud. And she was holding on to that sword so tight, her knuckles were white. They really were.
I said, "When I woke you up back there, in that crazy old castle and all, didn't you tell me you were in there waiting for Sieg-for somebody?" I couldn't even remember what the hell his name was, not to save my life.
"For Siegfried." Old Brunhild's face went all gooey again. I'd kind of like to have a girl look that way when she says my name-or else I'd like to puke, one or the other. I'm not sure which, I swear.
"Well," I said, "in that case maybe you'd better go on back in there and wait some more, don'tcha think?"
She swung up that old sword again. I got ready to run like a madman, I'm not kidding. But she didn't do any chopping-it was some kind of crazy salute instead. "Ja," she said, just like old Regin Fafnirsbruder, and then she put the sword back in the sheath. "I will do that." And then she leaned forward and stood up on tiptoe-just a little, on account of she was pretty goddam tall, like I say-and she kissed me right on the end of the nose.
Girls. They drive you nuts, they really do. I don't even think they mean to sometimes, but they do anyway.
I wanted to grab her and give her a real kiss, but I didn't quite have the nerve. I'm always too slow at that kind of stuff. Old Brunhild, she nodded to me once, and then she walked on back through the fire like it wasn't even there. I heard the door close. I bet she laid down on that old sofa again and fell asleep waiting for old Sieg-whatever to get done with whatever he was doing and come around to give her a call.
As soon as that door closed, I decided I wanted to kiss her after all. I ran toward the ring of fire, and I damn near-damn near-burned my nose off. I couldn't go through it, not any more.
No Brunhild. Damn. I shoulda laid her, or at least kissed her. I'm always too goddam slow, for crying out loud. I swear to God, it's the story of my life. No Regin Fafnirsbruder, either. I don't know where the hell he went, or when he's coming back, or if he's ever coming back.
If he's not, I'm gonna be awful goddam late making that Rhine boat connection to old Düsseldorf.
What's left here? A crumby castle I can't get into and that little tiny town down there by the river where Isenstein used to be or will be or whatever the hell it is. That's it. I wish I'd paid more attention in history class, I really do.
Well, what the hell? I started toward old-or I guess I mean new-Isenstein. I wonder if they've invented scotch yet. I swear, I really wish I'd paid more attention in history class.
Jesus Christ, they're bound to have beer at least, right?
With the Knight Male (apologies to Rudyard Kipling) by Charles Sheffield
I received the final payment this morning. To: Burmeister and Carver, Attorneys. Payable by: Joustin' Time.
Logically, Waldo should have signed the transfer slip. He deserves the money, far more than I do. But given his contusions, fractures, lacerations, and multiple body casts, he is in no position to sign anything. In fact, all the negotiations, arguments, offers, and counteroffers to Joustin' Time had perforce to come from me. But if Waldo learns anything from his experience-doubtful, given his history-my extra effort on his behalf will be well worthwhile.
I ought to have been suspicious at the outset, when Waldo drifted into my office from his next-door one, preened, and said, "Got us a client."