James Lovegrove - The Age Of Odin by James Lovegrove Read Free Book Online

a halt, and the rider swung the gun down, sighted, and loosed off another round at the alpha male. He, however, was already on the run, skedaddling for the cover of the trees as fast as his legs could carry him.
    Some of the pack were sensible enough to follow their leader's example, but others, although startled by the snowmobile's roar and the rifle reports, were reluctant to abandon the tasty snack that was Abortion's corpse. The snowmobile rider levelled the rifle at them and picked off three in swift succession.
    Two more snowmobiles arrived in the glade, and the riders joined in the gunplay, taking potshots at the pack. The remaining wolves finally saw sense and scattered, but several more perished before they could get out of range. The slaughter couldn't have lasted more than half a minute, but it was brutally efficient, and in all a good fifteen of the animals were despatched to wolf heaven. Grey bodies littered the clearing, pelts reddened with their own blood and Abortion's, and as I surveyed the carnage - ignoring as best I could the mangled remains of my friend - I thought good riddance .
    The first snowmobile rider dismounted, shouldered the rifle, and strode over to me. A woman. I'd guessed that already from the hair. The gait confirmed it. She was stocky, sturdy, with a confident posture. I gazed dumbly up at her.
    She pulled down the scarf that covered the lower half of her face and demanded, "Are you all right?"
    I replied, "Honest answer? No."
    Then passed out.
     
    Rocking. Jolting. The blare of a two-stroke engine drilling my eardrums.
    I was lying sideways across the saddle of the snowmobile. The woman was leaning across me to hold the handlebars, gripping me in place with her thighs.
    Not dignified. Or comfortable. Or even the remotest bit arousing.
    But I passed out again before I had the chance to grumble about it.
     
    The snowmobile halted. Engine off.
    Voices.
    "Who is this?"
    "We found him out in the woods. There were two of them. Wolves got the other."
    "He's in a bad way."
    "Sharp-eyed as ever, Heimdall."
    "All that blood."
    "It may not all be his."
    "I'll radio the castle, get them to bring down a stretcher."
    "Good idea."
    "Think he can be saved?"
    "How should I know? Not my department. But if you ask me, this one looks pretty resilient. I don't think he's a candidate for Hel."
    Hell? I thought. I should damn well hope not .
    Then again...
     
    A stretcher came. I was hoisted onto it. People carried me across a bridge, a wooden one. I heard their footfalls tramp resoundingly on planks. I felt weirdly snug and warm, detached inside myself, like I was in a cocoon. Things that were happening to me seemed to be happening to someone else. I was merely along for the ride. A curious bystander. Intrigued to see where this was going, how it would all pan out.
    My bearers crunched over snow. Above, branches of some huge tree passed, so thickly interwoven they blotted out the stars. Then there were lights, windows that glowed a deep buttery yellow. Walls of ancient stone towered. Turrets, battlements reared against the night sky.
    Ah , I thought.
    There was only one place this could be.
    I'd made it.
    Abortion - God rest his dope-addled soul - hadn't, but I had.
    Asgard Hall.

Five
     
    It wasn't me that trod on the Improvised Explosive Device, it was someone else. My oppo, Private Davies. I had no memory of the event itself. I could remember everything leading up to it, and fragments of what came straight after, but simply nothing about the actual kaboom . Total blank. Perhaps the morsel of grey matter on which it was recorded happened to belong to the small section of my brain that leaked out through the hole in the side of my head. Gone for ever. And better lost, I'd say.
    We were foot-patrolling through a remote village not far from Sangin in Helmand province. Six of us on a routine little meander. The village wasn't a hotbed of insurgency or militancy. Not according to the intel, at any rate.