Moon Dog Magic Read online

  In the meantime, he was reduced to practicing magick the hard way—as some mortals dared, much to Managarm’s disgust—using what little he could remember of Freya’s rites and his own imagination, alone in the woods.

  If his test spell worked, Managarm would have to figure out what to do with the Berserker he’d just summoned. It wasn’t quite time to build his army of ancient, crazed warriors. He needed just another day, maybe two. Then he’d be ready to command, something he’d never even come close to doing before. But Berserkers weren’t a particularly patient lot—engineered for the express purpose of making war and violent mayhem—and they would come looking for their maker.

  Managarm would call them one at a time, to start. Calling too many too early could be disastrous. Especially if Odin got control of them first.

  Managarm shuddered. Blasted Odin! Managarm spat more sooty phlegm into the dirt, and his empty stomach churned on the pain pills. The Chief of the Gods—old fool!—couldn’t be satisfied with the victory spoils and titillating dramas of his peoples. He’d gone soft, shying away from war-making in favor of diplomacy. The ancient idiot even sacrificed himself—fasting for a ridiculous nine days as he hung upside down on the World Tree—for greater understanding and wisdom. What deity does such honor to a tree? Even the revered Yggdrasil should bow down and worship at the gods’ feet.

  But Odin had been determined to bring written language to the Vikings. As if the bloody Vikings needed to waste their time on that kind of education. What use were reading and writing when there were battles to be fought and enemy settlements to pillage?

  With writing came record keeping, stable commerce and trade, peace accords and even civilized government. The mighty Vikings had been wiped out not in armed conflict, but with every careful stroke of chisel meeting stone, every curve of ink on paper.

  It was enough to make an old god lose his breakfast.

  Managarm took an angry swig from his water bottle. He’d warned the others. Even if the mighty Odin hadn’t foreseen where the Norse peoples were headed, he still should have put a stop to the perverse decline of their warrior culture. With each new civilization that flourished, every alliance forged, the Norse gods lost their relevance.

  Their very survival was at risk, but the old Æsir had just shrugged it off. It was the proper unfolding of human history, Odin said. Then he’d told the Moon Dog to remember his place.

  The kettle whistled in the fire, and Managarm dug into his rucksack for a stash of ground coffee beans. After those runes blew up in his face, he needed a cup of campfire brew to clear his head and chase away his migraine. But the metal coffee tin was empty. Digging deep into the pack, he found a stale, half-eaten granola bar, a bag of dried apricots, and three chamomile tea bags.

  Despite the sudden sear of pain across his forehead, Managarm growled and cursed the hippie hiker from whom he’d stolen the pack. Birds fled the branches overhead.

  He took another drink of water and looked into the sky. The fingernail moon had slipped behind the evergreen trees.

  The Halls of Valhalla were just a memory. But Managarm still dreamt of fallen heroes enjoying an eternal after-life of roasted meat, obliging women, and bottomless steins flowing with mead.

  The cursed, bloody runes! Managarm pounded his fist into the ground again. He’d redeem their lost culture. Odin’s obsession with the World Tree was now his own. The Nine Realms would be his. The Cosmos would obey only the Moon Dog. After centuries as an outcast, Managarm would have followers. Let the others embrace their own decline, with hardly any belief left in themselves. Managarm would not scatter on the winds and become a mere shade of his former self.

  He scooped up a handful of dirt and threw it at the fire.

  “Curse Odin!” he screeched, sending more small birds scattering overhead for safety. The moist soil sizzled as the flames danced, threatening to die out but then leaping up again.

  The wind shifted, blowing smoke into his face. Managarm coughed violently and scrambled on his hands and knees to the opposite side of the fire. Not even the wind had any respect for an old god, albeit one of the lesser ones.

  He laid his palms flat on the ground and pressed hard against the earth.

  “I know you can hear me,” he whispered to the Yggdrasil through the network of roots beneath the ground. “The others are still here in the New World, so I know you’re close. Odin has his hunters out looking for you even now. You’re just a tender sapling. Vulnerable.”

  Managarm laughed. “Before you know it, we’ll be back to thunderbolts and battle cries instead of computers and cable television. The time of the dark wolves is here. I’m coming for you, little Tree.”

  He lifted his hands and brushed off the dirt on his filthy trousers. He added a few pairs of blue jeans and several spare shirts to his mental shopping list. Things could get very messy over the next few days.

  Managarm slipped the water bottle back into his rucksack and smiled. With the stars coming into alignment and the Black Moon looming, Odin would be nearly frantic in his search for the young Yggdrasil. Very possibly, Heimdall roamed this very forest looking for the Tree.

  It’s too bad the Old Ones would never find it.

  Managarm stretched his arms over his head and yawned loudly. The birds balanced on branches above chirped louder with the brightening sky. Judging the angle of the sun, Managarm took his cue to break camp, or more accurately, to abandon camp. He surveyed the charred remnants of his tent and other supplies and shook his head. He’d be long gone by the time anyone stumbled onto this site.

  He kicked at the hot kettle sitting in the fire, knocking it over and smiling at the sizzle and smoke as the water doused most of the flames. He covered his hand with his sleeve to grasp the handle of the hot kettle and tossed it into his rucksack.

  Now it was a simple matter of fashioning a new set of runes from the dead Tree’s ancient corpse to harness the powerful magick still left in the decaying wood—and to replace the set he’d made on wood chips from Home Depot, which he’d just burnt up in this latest test spell. He’d call his army of Berserkers, in service to the Moon Dog, not to Thor or Odin. He’d free the Fenris Wolf, his imprisoned cousin who was supposed to be the only creature in heaven, earth, or elsewhere capable of killing Odin.

  “Ragnarok. The End of Days.”

  Managarm’s smile widened as he imagined the Earth crumbling to ash, and the new world he’d create—with a new class of reverent, blood-thirsty warriors, a race of passably intelligent elfkin to handle the administrative details of running the Cosmos, and maybe a couple of sea monsters and mermaids for entertainment.

  Piece of cake.

  But first, he needed coffee.

  Managarm climbed to his feet, shook the dirt and ash from his clothes, and wiped the soot from his face with the shirttail peeking out beneath his fleece pullover. He kicked damp earth onto what remained of the fire, then stamped on the embers with his heavy boots—not out of conscientiousness, but from sheer selfishness. The sapling Yggdrasil might well be in this very stand of trees, and a forest fire at this stage would be disastrous.

  He packed up the few items worth keeping—a metal camping mug, his hunting knife, and a spare pair of socks that had survived unsinged—and left the rest to smolder.

  Managarm snaked his way through the woods on foot, careful to leave a maddeningly meandering trail for anyone who might attempt to track him. He hit the forested park’s main path and followed it back to the parking lot at the trailhead along NW Germantown Road. A ranger was stuffing brochures into a plastic box bolted onto the large trail map stationed next to the trash cans and port-a-potties. Managarm nodded and made an attempt at a smile.

  “Getting in a quick hike before work?” The ranger took a sip from a steaming Starbucks cup.

  Managarm inhaled the coffee aroma and felt his morning irritability rear its ugly head. The migraine raged. Caffeine withdrawal was a bitch.

  “Something like that.” Managarm passed the rang
er and yanked open the rusty door of his gas-guzzling Suburban. His vehicle was always unlocked, because who in their right mind would steal such a behemoth, particularly when it reeked of eviscerated game? He threw his few belongings into the back, climbed into the cab, and slammed the door shut.

  Managarm gunned the engine to life and deliberately neglected his seat belt. First stop, Starbucks. Second, Home Depot to demand a refund on the sub-standard wood chips he’d bought the day before. They’d actually done just fine, but he was in a mood to argue and it was easy to pick fights with customer service reps. That’d also buy him some time to figure out how to handle the Berserker he’d now have to be on the look-out for. Hell, he might even sic the crazed warrior on the folks at the Home Depot Returns counter. He needed some entertainment.

  3

  Thor could feel the steam pouring out of his ears. Sitting on the floor just outside the principal’s office at Pine Grove High School, he imagined himself as some unfortunate fool in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, crouched as he was next to the industrial-size photocopier, parts scattered across the low-pile carpet, the gray trousers of his uniform covered in toner. Like Wile E. Coyote trying to assemble a bomb from a kit he’d ordered from Acme, except that the coyote always managed to get all the pieces to fit together—right before the explosion went off in his face.

  He cursed in unintelligible syllables under his breath. The toner cartridge had come apart in his meaty hands, again. Just as other cartridges had done every day this week, and twice already this morning. Whether he was too strong or simply too impatient for such menial work didn’t matter. He sucked at it.

  Thor pitched the broken cartridge into his canvas utility bag and wiped his hands on his shirt—streaking black stripes across the white polyester fabric—then chanced a glance through the open door into the principal’s office. Just his luck. Sitting behind his desk and grimacing at each sip of coffee, the principal was watching Thor’s every move. The old man glared at him with his one good eye, then sighed in disappointment.

  The glaring Thor could take. As the god of thunder and war, he reveled in heroic conflict, and a little skirmish or personal clash here and there was just good fun. But seeing the displeasure on the face of the school principal—who happened to be his father, Odin, Chief of the Gods—raised his blood pressure considerably.

  Thor frowned at the broken cartridge in his utility bag, then glanced back at Odin and attempted a meek shrug—not an easy maneuver for a Norse god whose build made NFL linebackers look like ballerinas.

  Behind his battered desk, Odin rolled his one eye and shook his head.

  Before pulling out a new toner cartridge, Thor took a deep breath. He tried to remember the relaxation technique his mother had taught him to help keep his frustration in check. Even centuries removed from his last great battle, Thor was hardly a model of patience or calm.

  The others had gradually found ways to earn a living. Bragi, the divine bard, was an online news editor and columnist. Thor’s mother, Frigga, grew herbs and flowers and baked organic treats for sale in stores across the state. Heimdall had adapted best, falling easily into a job as a forest ranger—giving him a perfect excuse to hang out in the woods every night, first looking after the old Yggdrasil, and now hunting for the new one.

  But getting and keeping a job had not come easily to Thor.

  He’d tried his luck as an auto mechanic, a Walmart janitor, a baggage handler, and a parking lot attendant, but he always managed to cause more damage than he prevented. Working on a time clock was a foreign concept, and man-made tools felt like children’s toys in his hands. His temper grew shorter by the hour, and he invariably got fired, usually in a matter of days. His record was a seventeen-minute stint as a warehouse worker at Jake’s Super Discount; taking orders from a pimple-faced manager barely out of high school had Thor so steamed he drove a forklift directly into a new shipment of diapers and canned beans.

  He lasted longest as a strip club bouncer—nearly two months—before he stepped into a brawl and single-handedly sent three patrons, two bartenders, and a waitress to the hospital. At least he hadn’t minded being surrounded by naked women while it lasted.

  Thor squinted his eyes closed and struggled to relax, knowing full well he was working at cross-purposes with himself. It wasn’t in his nature to be calm; tranquility was a far cry from what he was created for. But he’d burned through six jobs in just the past two years—with long periods of unemployment in between—and he needed to keep his cool.

  He opened his eyes and reached for a fresh toner cartridge. Weighing the plastic carefully in his hands, he chanced a furtive glance into the office to make sure Odin wasn’t watching, then delicately grasped the cartridge’s protective tape between his fingertips and peeled it back as slowly as he could manage.

  “Just think of it as an egg,” he mumbled.

  That did it. He could feel Odin’s watchful eye on him again. Still balancing the cartridge in his hands, Thor gritted his teeth as his face and neck flushed red.

  Don’t break it. Don’t break it. Don’t break it. Thor chanted silently. You’re not the god of chaos. Thor cracked a smile, remembering some of Loki’s misfortunes.

  If Thor was having difficulty adjusting to the life of an ordinary guy, Loki had it worse. The god of mischief and mayhem had practically gone underground.

  Loki was the only one of the old gods who had any power left, though he had no control over it, and modern technology was no match for the god of entropy. It had started with a few blown light bulbs and burnt up sewing machines but quickly escalated over the ensuing decades. It was entirely possible Loki had been responsible for the 1963 Chicago blackout, and even the mild-mannered nature god Freyr had nearly blown a gasket at his own Super Bowl party; as soon as Loki got within five yards of Freyr’s state-of-the-art, 50-inch flat-screen TV, the display shorted out with a tiny pop and a puff of smoke, three minutes before kick-off.

  Thor dragged himself across the carpet and paused on his knees before the photocopier. He felt like a ridiculous supplicant with his humble offering of toner, worshipping at a mechanical altar.

  “Peace,” Thor whispered to himself, eyes half-closed and head bowed. An odd mantra for the god of thunder and lightning, but it got the job done. “Shanti.” Freya had taught him the Sanskrit word, and he liked the feel of it on his tongue, though he would have preferred a streak of old Viking curses.

  “Principal Wyatt?”

  Thor looked up, startled to find the not-unattractive, red-haired office secretary hovering over him as she leaned into Odin’s office. He fumbled the cartridge and nearly lost his grip on it, but he caught it just before it hit the carpet and sprayed more black toner dust across the floor.

  The wheels of Odin’s office chair squeaked as he turned to face her.

  “Jeanine,” came the Chief God’s grumbled reply as he knocked back a couple of aspirin with a gulp of coffee from a Portland State University mug—a gag gift from his wife. Odin glared at the university’s mascot emblazoned on the side—Victor E. Viking, carrying a football—then slammed the mug down on top of his desk. Hard. Black coffee sloshed over the rim and onto the piles of work orders, permission slips, and other documents awaiting his review and signature.

  Jeanine jumped back and nearly stumbled over Thor still crouched on the floor.

  Embarrassed, she held a hand to her chest and glanced down at Thor. “I, I’m so sorry,” she stammered.

  Thor just smiled and nodded.

  “Jeanine,” Odin called her again.

  She recovered herself and stepped tentatively into his office. “Yes, these are the phone messages that came in overnight for you . . . ?” She held a collection of pink papers out to him.

  Odin lifted himself from behind the desk and lumbered across the floor toward her. Jeanine held the papers as far away from herself as possible and tried, unsuccessfully, to keep from wincing as he approached.

  Odin stopped in front of her. With a gracious dip of
the head, he gently took the papers from her outstretched hand. “Thank you, Jeanine.”

  He tried to smile at her but as soon as his eye met hers, she stifled a high-pitched squeak and dashed back to her desk, narrowly skirting Thor’s hulking form on the way. Odin sighed and shook his head. He stepped to the doorway and stood over his son, watching him.

  Thor ignored his father, or pretended to. He closed his eyes, took another deep breath, and gingerly slipped the toner cartridge into place inside the copy machine. His eyes popped open in an immediate frown when the cartridge didn’t click into position, but instead of hammering it into place with his fist—as he sorely wanted to do—Thor visualized a cool waterfall pouring restorative waters over his head and down his back. He reached deeper into the machine and gently pressed down on the cartridge, smiling in satisfaction and relief when he heard the familiar sound of the plastic snapping into place.

  “There now,” he said for Odin’s benefit as he leaned back from the photocopier. “Piece of cake.”

  Thor nodded triumphantly up at his father, but then his face fell as he surveyed the litter of copier parts strewn about him on all sides—parts he’d unceremoniously ripped out of the machine trying to get to the malfunctioning toner cartridge in the first place.

  Swallowing a chuckle, Odin rested against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Piece of cake, was it?”

  “Bloody, godless hell.” Kneeling on the floor, Thor pressed his palms against his thighs, jaw clenched. What he wouldn’t have given for a thunderbolt—one big enough to obliterate all photocopier machines across the globe, any factories that might manufacture more of them, and the person or persons responsible for their invention in the first place. Was that too much to ask?

  He doubted anyone, anywhere, really needed 150 collated copies of anything, anyway.