Facing the Twilight

by Rachel Parsons

Chapter 6 appears
in this issue.

Chapter 7

conclusion

She went right to the mirror when she entered my chambers. Lifted her girdle and once again felt for fat deposits. Once again commented on her girth. You would think they did not have mirrors in Valhalla.

“You killed Henry Weston, did you not, Brunhilde?”

She turned and looked at me. “You reckoned it, Rhiannon. But how did you reckon it?”

“You went to him on the field of battle, and took him when he was unconscious. It was not until you were there in Valhalla that you realized that you had brought the wrong man. A man who was not a soldier but just pretending to be one, and he was not even dead. So you took him back to have him die. But you chose decapitation, and that frightened him. And a frightened soul is not a valiant one. You could not bring him. You could but hope his spirit would be so wounded that you would never be called on this thing.”

“And how do you know these things?”

“You were the obvious suspect: the first one on the scene and the only witness. Some of it is speculation, I will grant you. But it makes sense.”

“Yes, it does. But only to you. And you will die for it. In Valhalla, you will not care.”

She pulled her sword, lightening quick. But I had been standing with my hands behind me. As she lunged, I stepped off her path and pulled the death sword from my back to my front. Our swords clashed.

“Don’t you have any honor, Brunhilde?” Henry yelled. “You have armor, she is naked; you are a goddess, she is not.” He threw his head at her for a distraction.

But Brunhilde had her eyes focused on her next target: my heart. As she lunged to it, I stepped aside, hit her wrist with my left hand and sliced through it with the sword held in my right. Ichor spewed forth, as I again chopped her now useless arm and sliced through her throat. The sacred fluid gushed, causing flowers to grow everywhere.

Flowers are a sign of life. But a death sword, made of Goblin Ice, can kill even a goddess.

* * *

Epilogue

Henry is gone now. A Valkyrie came for him at last. Freya chose Kara, who liked to twirl her axe like a baton. She gave a demonstration to Rosalyn, Henry and me, and we were all very polite: none of us even flickered an eyelash when the axe came down on her right big toe. Fortunately, her axe was not made of Goblin Ice and nothing short can maim a goddess, but she did have a slight limp after that for a while.

Henry’s wish to make things right and to be by the Terran soldiers’ side earned his place in the Otherworld in spite of his not being a soldier. Queen Freya was saddened by Brunhilde’s demise, and wondered who she would get to take her place in the next war with the offworlders.

“Mayhap in the next war, I will get Heidi. If she could only get rid of those pigtails, she would look fearsome.” Freya was lounging on my sofa, her boots off, her armor by her side. One of the rare times she gets to relax, she says, is when she visits me.

“There will not be another war, Freya,” I said to her. She simply patted my arm. She then, with an air of sadness, dressed and departed on the Barge.

The Terran delegation left to get therapy for their “hallucinations.” Why they simply do not accept that death is part of life and that the dead are among us is beyond me. So once again, the negotiations with that world are going nowhere. They lingered long enough for a proper funeral, as they called it, for Henry, as my scouts finally found his body. What remained of it, as shifters had devoured all but the boney bits.

Unlike our funerals, the ale did not flow, and there was no dancing. A Terran funeral involves people dressing up, but they are always grim faced and there is much, much weeping. They apparently think it shocking to be naked at a funeral, for in spite of the ambassador’s stern warning about mentioning it, I heard many an unkind whisper, especially from the women.

The ambassador expressed her sorrow that her son could not get a twenty-one gun salute. As I have related elsewhere, Blunderbusses simply rust here, as my spellminder is as relentless as Graymulkin’s. Blunderbusses will stop rusting the day I can put on garments.

Ioseff’s mother has finally left and he is back to his old self. He will be escorting me to a play tonight, one about a Terran king who killed his nephews to gain the throne (how like them), and later making me glad (I hope) that I lack such comforts as clothing. It will remain true that I will have nothing on this evening, but when that means there is nothing on me but a hard man, it is a rosy prospect.

There are indeed thirty-two heads on posts overlooking the Don. But I went to the law library, dusted off the scrolls, and found that the number thirty-two is reserved for the number of your enemies who fought you in battle. It is twice the number of Valkyries, and as they can take two spirits at a time but have difficulties with more than that (I do remember that from the war), it was a courtesy to limit the heads to that number. If the rascals are common criminals and will be received by Queen Hel instead, you can have as many heads on posts as you wish.

I will have to review Rosalyn’s counting skills. Even when she counts on her fingers and toes, she sometimes misses but usually not as badly as by five. And I must read the petitions to see if I can stop yet another head from being added. My father, before his madness, condemned many people, and now that I have taken his place I have to live with his decisions. I suppose I could let them all rot or die, but that would not be fair to the innocent, and after what I have just been through, I know that I too will have to face the goddesses in Valhalla and explain myself, just as Henry has; just as my father some day will, just as the gods themselves with have to face the High Ones.

We all have to face the Twilight some day and in front of the High Ones, we are all naked.