LITMIR.BIZ

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Hammer of Thor,” she said after a moment. “Whomever wields it can call forth a storm that would tear Asgard from its very foundations. The rains it causes create a flood more savage than a hundred wolves. It was stolen from its sacred burial mound in Norway two years ago, but this is only the third time it has been used.”

      “Someone found an old hammer in a pile of dirt,” Huntley said, “and just used it to try to drown us.” Patent disbelief dripped from his voice.

      Thalia looked up sharply at him. “You asked for an explanation, and I’m giving it to you. Whether or not you believe me isn’t my concern.”

      “Fair enough,” Huntley conceded. “Let’s assume that what you’ve told me is true. For now. Who stole this hammer?”

      She tightened her jaw. “I’m not supposed to tell you this.”

      “Think you can’t trust me?” Huntley scraped out a laugh that had no humor in it. “Sweetheart, I’ve been shot at, not only by bullets, but with metal wasps that punched through solid brick. I’ve been abandoned on the steppe, nearly struck by lightning, and come this close to drowning, and all in service to you and your mission, whatever the hell it is. I’m more trustworthy than the damned Archbishop of Canterbury.”

      “I could tell you some colorful stories about him,” Thalia said with a tiny smile.

      He wouldn’t be distracted by that enigmatic smile of hers, though he wouldn’t mind seeing it more often. “Some other time. Now, you were telling me about who took this hammer.”

      Seeing that he would not give up, she nodded. “I think it would be best if I started at the beginning. Or as near to the beginning as I can.”

      “You’re stalling.”

      “It may be hard for you to believe, Captain,” she said after casting him an annoyed look, “but the world is filled with magic. Actual, genuine magic. What you saw today was just a hint of the power that is out there. That which we call myths or legends is, in fact, the lore that has developed around this magic. Including the stories about the Norse thunder god, Thor.”

      “They write children’s books about him,” Huntley said, recalling some of the stories he’d learned in the dame school he had attended long ago.

      “And to most people, the realm of magic is just that, the stuff for nursery tales and academic research,” she continued. “But it is quite real and quite dangerous. All over the world, there are repositories of this mystical power, objects imbued with magic, like Mjolnir, the hammer that belonged to Thor. These repositories are known as Sources. They can be found in every country, amongst every people. England, Scotland, Spain, India, the Americas. Even here, in Outer Mongolia.”

      “If that were true,” Huntley cut in as his mind fought to understand, “then how is it that the world hasn’t been destroyed by power-mad dolts? And why don’t more people know about them?”

      “Not for lack of trying,” she said. “But the Sources are kept well hidden to ensure that doesn’t happen. They are protected and sheltered from the world at large.”

      Huntley thought for a moment. “By men like your father. And Morris.”

      She nodded. “There is a group of men and women who seek out and protect the Sources, wherever they are. This group has been around for over a thousand years, but when the nations of Europe began to turn their eyes to distant shores, racing one another to create giant empires, the group became more organized. They had to ensure that the Sources were not taken from their native homes and exploited, not only for the sake of the local people, but for everyone’s sake.” She looked utterly serious, and grim, staring into the fire. “Mutual destruction would be assured if the great nations of Europe were able to harness the Sources for their own blind advancement.”

      “That never stopped fools from trying,” Huntley added.

      “And they do try,” she confirmed. “Napoleon’s escape from Elba would never have succeeded without the use of Nephthys’s Cloak, which shielded him from the British patrols of the island.”

      “But he failed at Waterloo.”

      “The Cloak was recovered before the battle.”

      Huntley leaned back and considered. He had never thought himself to be very clever, had been an average student, and relied on his gut instinct when it came to soldiering. His instinct didn’t know what to make of the yarn Thalia was spinning, though he was becoming more and more aware that it wasn’t a yarn, but the truth. He felt the surface of reality growing soft and porous like an orange, peeling away to reveal a world underneath the one he thought he knew.

      “Those men who killed Morris and attacked you,” he said as things shifted and moved into their new positions. “They’re in on it, too.”

      “They are part of an organization called the Heirs of Albion.”

      “Heirs, hm?” Huntley mused, thinking of the murderous, gently born piece of shit who murdered Morris and who led the attack against Thalia. “They are England’s chosen sons? Upper crust men who kill unarmed men in alleyways and assault women? I hate them already.”

      She smiled ruefully. “Trust me, you will come to hate them more. The Heirs are one of the largest and most powerful groups who seek out the Sources for their countries’ benefit, and they don’t care who they step on, or kill, along the way. The Heirs will stop at nothing to ensure the supremacy of England, even if it means murdering their own countrymen.” Thalia looked at him guardedly. “But you’re a soldier. You have served Queen and country for many years. Perhaps you think the Heirs are in the right, that England should reign supreme over all other nations.”

      “I served my country,” Huntley shot back, “but I never stood for bullying. I didn’t in the army, and I don’t now. That goes for men, women, and nations. It was them, the Heirs, who stole the hammer and used it against us today.”

      She seemed relieved to hear his answer, though it galled him a little that she would’ve believed he sided with those blue-blooded bungholes. “Yes.”

      “How close would someone have to be to use it?”

      “No one knows for certain, since it hasn’t been studied thoroughly, but it’s been figured that the hammer can be employed from as far away as a hundred miles.”

      “So, the Heirs are close to us now.”

      “Within a hundred miles. But I fear that using the True Hammer is just the beginning. The Heirs know that there is a Source here in Mongolia, but they don’t know exactly where. That’s why they killed Tony, to keep him from finding out and getting to it first. And that’s why they attacked Batu and me yesterday.”

      “What will they do when they have the Source?”

      Bitterness hardened her voice. “With the Source’s unlimited power, Mongolia will belong to them. Its steppes will be plowed and plundered. The people yoked to pull the great machine of Britain forward, crushing everyone in its path, with the Heirs at the whip.”

      “That’s what Morris’s message meant, ‘The sons are ascendant,’” Huntley figured.

      Thalia smiled at him again, warming him faster than the whiskey ever could. “You’re a remarkably quick study, Captain,” she said with real admiration in her voice. “I should think you would have keeled over with shock after learning all this.”

      “I’m hard to shock.” He was, in truth, reeling inside from all this information. Magic. Sources. Heirs. Things that would have given him a good laugh only a few days ago. But now seemed real and serious. He thought of the metallic wasps in the alley in Southampton, piercing a brick wall and then vanishing. Another Source, perhaps. One that had almost taken his life. Years of going into battle had trained him well enough to keep from showing fear or shock, or at least, not too much. Wouldn’t do for his men to see his jaw hit the floor when confronted with a surprise counterattack. This wasn’t much different, only instead of an assault

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