Marie Jackson lay within the ring of fire, unbreathing and yet not dead, walking through dreams of her youth with an older man she loved. A man with a quick retentive mind, just out of the Marine Corps, hopeful of a bright future. She was not alone and afraid in those dreams.
She was not alone in the ring of fire either.
When Sigurd rode up on his great battle-steed Grani, having jumped the wall of fire and kicked open the great brass-bound door, he found the hall was so full of Valkyries that the walls were close to bulging. He had his instructions from Odin, though. Find the copper-skinned one, the one he'd fancied after killing Fafnir, wake her, give her Andvari's ring, and the usual courtesies to seal their betrothal.
He had to leave Grani outside and wander around the hall a bit, pausing for a serious drink at the end of each row. My, but there was quite a selection here! He found the woman at the end of the third row, if she'd been another five rows on, he'd have found two of her. Like dragonslaying, it was dry work, keeping his attention on their faces.
To save time later, he arranged her skirts. She had good legs. He took off his sword belt because it was in the way. Then, kneeling down between those legs he leaned forward and pulled out the thorn of sleep. He had a thorn of his own to put in instead.
Marie blurred out of the sweet dream to find someone leaning over her, his lips pursed for a kiss.
And it wasn't the person she'd been dreaming of, either. He was holding her shoulders, but her legs were free, and so were her hands. The slaps he got were so fast and had all her strength in them that they must have almost popped his eardrums. Then, when he sat back, she kicked him with both feet. Hard.
He was big muscular man. But she had strong legs and he really hadn't expected it.
Sitting up and pulling her skirts down, the first thing that Marie noticed was the sword lying next to her. Seeing as the muscle-bound lover-boy was getting to his feet looking ugly, Marie pulled it out of its scabbard. She expected it to be so heavy she could barely lift it.
Instead it was as light as . . . well, a feather duster. A very big feather duster.
She'd never used a sword before, but she knew how to wield a feather duster. And was this guy ever a big cobweb!
"Be careful with that sword, Brynhild!" said the lover-boy. He backed off, and tripped over a girl in a steel breastplate. He knocked the thorn out of her neck and she groaned.
"Now look what you've made me go and do. Where is it?" He scrabbled around looking for the thorn, and pushed it back into her neck as she sat up. The girl promptly collapsed again.
"I'm not Brynhild, and take that thing out of her neck," said Marie trying another swing with the sword.
"But then she'll wake up. And it's you I am supposed to give my ring to." Marie recognized the overmuscled lover-boy. The dragon-killer. He was holding out a broad gold ring. "I am the mighty Sigurd, the Dragon-slayer, Valkyrie. I have come to make you mine."
"I got the only ring I want, thanks," said Marie, showing him her wedding band. "And that means hands off, see. I'm taken. Or I'll use this thing to make your plans genuinely unworkable. No tools left, so to speak. Now take that thing out of her neck, before I take your fool head off."
With this odd sword she felt as if she could almost do it. She looked around and realized that it wasn't just the one girl with a thorn in her neck. There were hundreds of them. Well, they probably didn't want to be in this enchanted sleep any more than she did.
She noticed that, instead of doing as he was told, the mighty Sigurd was attempting to edge around her. She took a wild swing at him, not expecting to hit him—or even really intending to.
The sword had its own ideas though. Sigurd leaped backwards, falling over yet another blond woman with a mailshirt and a thorn in her neck. He yowled and held the pieces of his chainmail vest. "That was kobold-weave, you silly bitch!"
You didn't talk to Marie Jackson like that. Not now. Not ever. And certainly not in the mood she was in. Ten seconds later, Sigurd the hero had retreated out of the door and was scrambling to mount his horse. Marie was alone in a hall of full of armored women who lay like corpses around her. She rested on the sword for a bit, looking at the scene. Well. She had a husband and kids to get back to, while she could. She stepped toward the fire-wall.
And realized that right now she wasn't going anywhere.
She took a deep breath. It hurt. Then, pinching her lips with determination, she walked back to where Sigurd's scabbard and belt lay. She put on the belt and put the sword back into its scabbard. Then she turned to the nearest woman and pulled the thorn out of her neck. And then she worked her way down the line, doing the same.
Five minutes later and she was surrounded by some three hundred puzzled looking women. "Where is the Hero?" demanded several.
"Why have we been woken?" demanded several more, looking around in the milling mob. It looked like a Macy's mailshirt sale, and sounded worse. Like an opera chorus.
"Who woke us from our enchanted sleep?" demanded yet more. They didn't sound too pleased about it either.
A lot of fingers were pointing at her. This could just get ugly, and she had nowhere to run.
"Where is the hero? Where is Sigurd? Where is Beowulf? Where is Gunnar . . ." they chorused around her, packing ever closer.
She pulled the sword out. And suddenly they backed off, silent. Then one said, "That is the sword Gram."
Then a silence. "Are you Sigurd in a woman's body?" asked one, incredulously. The rest giggled.
"Shut up!" Marie was suddenly tired, and very cross. She pointed to one statuesque blonde. "I don't know what I'm doing here. So, maybe if you tell me what you are doing here, I'll have a better idea."
The blonde looked puzzled, a thing that was probably not hard for her. "I am the Valkyrie Sigfrida. I angered Odin and was cast out of Asgard, trapped by the thorn of sleep, doomed to lie in the hall on the hilltop behind the wall of flame until a great hero and warrior was courageous enough to leap the fire-wall and free me, and take me to be his bride." She looked inquisitorially at Marie. "So where is he, if you have his sword?"
Marie felt vaguely guilty. "Look honey, you're better off without him. It wasn't you he came to fetch anyway. And he's gone."
"But what do we do now?" wailed the blonde. "I will not go back to Valhöll."
"No," agreed another.
"Not a chance," said a third.
"Enough is enough . . ."
Marie held the sword up. "All right!" she yelled. "Enough, already. I heard you. Though why you want a pumpkin-head like Sigurd is beyond me. He's got no brains. And he needs a bath . . ."
"At least there is only one of him," said Sigfrida.
"Yes, even Freyja's girls get nights off."
Bit by bit, the details of a Valkyrie's life in Valhöll became clear. No wonder a life with a single hero, and handmaidens, seemed a good deal.
"I thought the South Side Cafe was bad," said Marie ruefully. At least there you could elbow off any over-familiar customers and you got tips for waitressing. "It's time someone told you girls about emancipation. Because you sure are in slavery."
"Oh, no. Slaves have it worse."
"Things have to change," said Marie.
Morgue duty—and picking out the ones that Odin wanted dead, waitressing and being a joy-girl to corpses. No wonder the place was so full.