Oliver awoke in his hotel bed feeling like hell. 

He had successfully navigated the winding road from Neuschwanstein Castle to the village of Hohenschwangau, nestled into the fold of land between two mountains, at the end of a long blue lake, and swapped the stolen car for the one which he had rented under a false identity and driven from Munich earlier in the evening. So far as the German police were concerned, Oliver Lucas was still sleeping soundly in his hotel room in Munich, blissfully unaware of the escapades of James Croft, the Danish businessman who had just witnessed a bizarre murder and theft in the Neuschwanstein castle. Oliver could only hope that there were no security camera recordings of his face inside the castle. The drive back to Munich had taken four hours, with Oliver strictly observing every German traffic law of which he was aware and jumping in his seat each time a pair of headlights appeared in his rearview mirror. 

Now, laying in the fine bedclothes, finally clean after sitting in the steaming shower for twenty minutes last night, Oliver blinked his eyes furiously and tried to piece together the events of recent weeks. Recent events, from the encounter with Leo, who might have actually been the Norse god Loki, to the strange interaction of the shard and the heartwood, to his evening spent drinking mead with Odin in a strange, in-between place that was both in his hotel room and not, were beginning to make Oliver think that he had crossed some critical threshold. He had always believed that there was an underlying structure to the world, a deep meaning that was truly seen only by the sort of religious visionaries that seemed so common in history books, but were strangely lacking in his own experience. The confluence of beliefs and sudden emergence of technologies, religions, and social movements across the world had seemed an impossibility to him without some external motivator. 

Oliver had thought that he had found that catalyst in the shards. 

Now though, Oliver felt as if he had fallen into the straits of Charybdis and was trapped between the deadly, snapping heads of the Creed kept flitting about at the corners of his perception on one side, and the gaping whirlpool of mad conspiracy theories on the other. Oliver closed his eyes and groaned at that thought, briefly toying with the idea that he might next encounter a literal Scilla and Charybdis while crossing the street outside his hotel. He rolled over and threw his arm out to pull a pillow over his eyes. 

His hand touched something warm and soft, which rose and fell steadily under his questing fingertips. He opened his eyes and found himself gazing into the face of a woman. Her face was long and narrow, with a sharp nose framed by wide eyes, which were closed in blissful sleep, framed by long blond hair which flowed over her neck and shoulders in sweeping curves. Her hair seemed to glow in the light pouring into his hotel room, the yellow radiance of it accentuating the deep tan of her smooth skin.

Oliver rolled away from her and leapt out of bed. His eyes darted around the room, searching for some clue to who this woman was and how she had found her way into his bed. 

“What sort of man are you, boy? I put a comely lass in your bed and all you can do is run away. I’m surprised you didn’t piss yourself.”

Oliver turned and saw Odin sitting in a chair beside the wide window. He was dressed in the gray robe, which had seemingly shed all of the blood which had stained it when Oliver returned to the hotel the night before, and munching on a large green apple.

“I remember the days when a real man would have stayed there in that bed with her for hours. It’s a proper celebration after a victorious campaign.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Oliver hissed. He stormed over to his suitcase and pulled out a pair of clean khaki cargo pants, then continued as he pulled them on, “And where did you get her?”

Odin took another bite from his apple and chewed it slowly as Oliver zipped his pants and glared at him. Finally he replied, “So many questions from one who should be enjoying himself. Did I misread you? Ought I to have brought one of her brothers instead?”

“No, you should not. And you should not have brought her. Where the hell is she from?”

“Please, don’t call her that.”

“What?”

“Hel. This is Bila, a beautiful woman who I’ve known many times, as is my right after fighting her father, and all of her older brothers, to win her and claim her family’s land. Hel, on the other hand, is Loki’s wife, or daughter, or sister, depending which story you believe. Maybe all three, for all I know. The ugliest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, she is.”

“Bila, Hel, whoever she is I don’t appreciate waking up to her in my bed.”

Odin sighed and shook his head, looking wistfully at the woman laying asleep beneath the covers. After a moment he nodded and she disappeared, her body seeming to dissolve into a cloud of mist, which dispersed out into the room carrying the scent of an ancient time: fires, sweat, blood. The bedclothes held their shape for just a moment, then settled down, drooping into the space where the woman had lain.

“Thank you,” Oliver said. 

He stepped over the table by the window and settled into the seat opposite Odin. Odin pushed a room service tray laden with breakfast foods towards him and Oliver selected a plate of scrambled eggs with buttered raisin toast. He cracked the seal on a bottle of orange juice and drank deeply from it, then began eating his eggs and toast in silence, watching Odin thoughtfully as he chewed each bite. After a few minutes he noticed a slow twitch in Odin’s remaining eye. He ate more slowly, savoring each bite, then taking a slow sip of juice, then sitting in silence and contemplating the growing tension in Odin’s face for a moment before taking his next bite.

Nearly ten minutes passed in this manner before Odin slammed a fist down on the  breakfast table and shouted, “Damn it boy, did you get the folio?”

Oliver sat back from the table, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a sardonic smile. “I thought you said the woman was a reward for a job well done.”

“And you rejected her. And now you sit here eating like you haven’t a care. So maybe you didn’t finish the job.”

“Then why did you appear in my room with a naked woman? For that matter, how did you know I was back?”

Odin rose from his seat and leaned across the table with both hands braced on the tabletop. His eyes fixed onto Oliver’s face and he growled, “I am the Allfather. Odin, the wandering god of old. I know your true name, Oliver Lucas, the name which is hidden to all others. With a word I could snuff out your life or grant you an eternity of ecstasy. Now, before I grow angry, tell me where that damn folio is!”

Oliver took in all of this with a cool consideration, his face remaining impassive as he listened to the old god rage. He had been afraid last night, when the cloaked swordsman had unexpectedly attacked the party at the castle, but in the fresh light of morning Oliver had come to a decision. He had been far too passive since starting this quest, simply going from place to place at the suggestion of others, never sitting down to determine what course of action he truly thought to be the best. That was going to change.

“You need me,” Oliver said. 

Odin blinked and cocked his head to one side.

“If you could do this yourself, you wouldn’t have asked me to steal the folio, you wouldn’t have loaned me your cloak, you certainly would not be asking me where I hid the folio. You’ve already told me that you can’t go back to the well yourself. So, please, stop with the theatrics and tell me what you want.”

Odin’s eye squinted nearly shut and he held his breath for a long moment, then  he let out a harsh guffaw of beer-scented breath and slapped the tabletop, rattling the silverware and sending his browning apple core skittering to the floor. He fell back into his chair and exclaimed, “Damn, boy. You were a good choice.”

“Thank you, again. Can we get to the point now?”

“Sure. Did you steal the folio?”

“Yes.”

“Munin spotted you coming out of the castle covered in another man’s blood and watched as you stole a car to escape. Not very subtle, if I may say.”

“Neither was the swordsman. Do you have any idea who that might have been?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it was probably Loki.”

Oliver thought about that, trying to fit it into the puzzle of recent events. If the man that Oliver had known as Leo and the infamous Loki had indeed been the same person, and Odin appeared certain that they were, then Loki had certainly been interested in the Wagner folio. But that didn’t answer the question of why Loki had proven so ineffective at capturing the folio for himself.

“Why does he keep failing?” Oliver muttered to himself as his gaze unfocused and he stared out across the rooftops of Munich through the window. His fingers crept up past his bare chest to finger the heartwood from Moses’s staff, which still hung about his neck on a leather thong.

“A worthy question.”

He turned back to Odin and said, “You still haven’t made it clear what you need the folio for, and I don’t understand why Loki keeps showing up, attacking me, and failing.”

Odin glowered. His right hand tightened into a fist atop the table and he growled, “I don’t know for certain, but I suspect that Loki may have hidden clues to the ritual that unlocks the passage to the roots of Yggdrasil in that folio. Unfortunately, I have forgotten the ritual over the last few thousand years, thanks to indulging in so much wine and so many women. So, if you want what I’ve got up here,” he jabbed a finger at the side of his head, where Oliver knew a shard rested deep within his maimed eye socket, “You’re going to need to find a way into the roots of Yggdrasil.”

“And you can’t help with the translation?”

“You would trust me to help?”

Oliver stifled a yawn, then shook his head as he took a sip of orange juice. “No, I can’t say that I would.”

“That’s just as well. It has been a long time since I read any ancient tongues. I’ve had other things on my mind these last few centuries.”

“You’re pretty much useless as a partner, other than having that nice cloak.” Oliver pushed his empty plate away and crossed his arms on the table in front of him, leaning forward to meet Odin’s eye. “I want the shard, and I’ll do my best to give you your mortality back, but it would be very helpful if you had any more information to share.” 

“All I recall of the ritual is that I had to cut my thumb and press it to some runes. I have no idea what runes I touched or in what order. I can’t honestly recall how many there were either.”

Oliver nodded. That was at least somewhere to start.

Odin glowered at Oliver for a long moment, then nodded his shaggy head and stood, flicking a card onto the table. “We will meet again when you are finished then. Contact me at the brewery when you are prepared to continue. I’ve lived on this earth nigh four thousand years, I can tolerate a few more days.”

Oliver picked up the card, glanced at the number embossed in the heavy paper beneath the printed words “Ash Spear Brewery,” and set it down again in front of him. He waited until the old man had paused to open the door to the hall before he said, “Odin.”

Odin turned and fixed Oliver with his single eye.

“Do you have any idea what that shard in your head actually is?”

Odin shook his head, turned to leave, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Next Chapter: British