I name you Sann and Sanngetal,

Svidur, Svidri, Skilfing-

It was a weak spot, barely healed from the crossbow bolt, and he went down heavily under the blow. He rolled out of range, casting Týr left-handed as he pushed himself back onto his feet.

T ýr hit the Nameless squarely between the eyes.

Odin staggered back to see the result.

In the ranks, a knot of Examiners vanished like smoke, and the rest closed in to take their place. Odin did not see it; instead he saw the bolt pass right through the airy form of the Nameless, dispersing its glam harmlessly on the dead air.

The Nameless gave its dry laugh.

The river Dream swelled and rose.

Grimly Odin drew his mindsword again.

2

On the far side of the battlefield the Vanir heard the Nameless speak. Every syllable was relayed to them as ten thousand voices spoke the words:

I name you Odin, son of Bór…

It was beginning, Heimdall thought. Eight against the multitude…

He took a step closer to the line of men. This time no eye followed him. Every man’s gaze was fixed on the same point; their backs were turned; he sensed the depth of their concentration. A dry wind blew, charged with dust, but no man so much as shielded his eyes, and from the widening gyre in the crow-colored clouds came a heightened glare the color of fresh blood.

He’d sworn to Odin that he would not follow. It rankled, but an oath was an oath. Still, he thought, no oath had been sworn concerning the dead men standing so passively, apparently lost in thought, watching the fight by the riverside.

He could sense the power of that canticle and knew that for Odin each word was a blow. If he could break their Communion, he thought-stop that damned chanting, at least for a moment…

He drew a mindbolt from the rune Hagall and shot it into the nearest column.

Nothing happened; no man fell.

Frey joined him, mindsword in hand, but the Reaper’s blade was no more effective than Heimdall’s weapon; it passed through the line as if through smoke.

He called Skadi, then Njörd, but neither mindwhip nor trident had any effect, nor had fire runes, ice runes, or runes of victory. The ears of the dead were impervious even to Bragi’s most potent music, the eyes of the dead were blind to Freyja’s most seductive glamours; and still they continued to chant the secret names of the Allfather:

Ialk and Herteit,

Vakr and Varmatýr-

Bileyg and Gaut…

And in the general consternation and the assault of the Word it was as many as twelve verses later that the Vanir realized that the parson and his prentice-not to mention the farmer, the woman, and the potbellied pig-were missing.

3

The battle, he knew, was nearly done. Time after time Odin had struck; he was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but no damage had come to the Whisperer. Instead his blows had cleared a narrow swathe among the silent troops of the Order-but for every man that fell, another stepped in to take his place, and the ghastly Communion went unbroken. One-Eye fought on like a cornered rat-but in his heart he was coming to believe that the creature was invincible.

Now, at last, the General was reaching the end. Every name, every canticle cut deeper than the last. His glam was burned out, his right arm useless, his mindsword worn right down to a nub. He’d struck the Nameless a hundred times, but not once had he dealt it so much as a scratch.

If anything, it had gained strength as they fought, its Aspect taking shape around it so that, even blind, Odin could almost see the face now beneath the hermit’s cowl, the shape of the mouth, the intelligence behind its eyes. And its colors-surely he knew that rust red trail, flaring at the edges toward bright orange…

But it was not yet the Word made flesh. This Aspect, he knew, might wield power here, in the Land of the Dead, but to conquer the Worlds, it needed bone and muscle and living flesh…

A life for a life.

His flesh. His bone.

I name you Wotan, Vili, and Ve…

“Is this what you wanted, Mimir, old friend? I wish you joy of it,” he said. “For myself, I’m beginning to tire of this body.”

The Nameless gave a dry laugh. “Oh no,” it said. “Your body wouldn’t do for Me. Oh no. Not at all. It might have been all right a hundred years ago, but it’s far too damaged to be of any use to Me now. No, this, my friend, is for fun-and because I hate to see an old score go unsettled.”

It raised its staff to strike again and Odin rolled sharply out of the way, ignoring the pain in his wounded shoulder.

“So whom did you have in mind?” he said. “This is the Land of the Dead, in case you hadn’t noticed-”

And then it suddenly came to him.

A life for a life.

Without a body (or even a head), the thing could never leave the Underworld, and if it wished to conquer Worlds…

A life for a life.

Maddy’s life.

And now he saw the Nameless’s plan, and he struck out in rage and desperation at the thing that danced just out of reach. He fell to one knee-

The Nameless parried his blow with ease.

“So that’s what you wanted all along,” gasped Odin as he struck out again. “To be reborn into living flesh-to rebuild Asgard and to rule it yourself. To become Modi-to steal her glam and make it your own-to fulfill the prophecy you had to make…”

“At last,” said the Nameless. “You always were slow. Well, old friend, you know what they say. Never trust an oracle.”

And now they had come to the final verse. Thirty-three verses were written under the name of Odin Allfather in the Book of Invocations; ten thousand voices recited the final couplet.

I name you Warrior, One-Eye, and Wanderer.

Thus are you named, and thus are you…

And now, at last, the General fell, defeated, onto the bone gray sand.

4

Now Maddy had heard the prophecy. I speak as I must, the Oracle had said-and although it had misdirected them, told fragmentary truths to deceive and delay, she knew that an Oracle could not lie.

I see a death ship on the shores of Hel,

And Bór’s son with his dog at his feet…

And yet as she’d watched the two terribly mismatched opponents, she had never lost the conviction that something, somehow, would happen to turn the battle to One-Eye’s advantage. Some unexpected turn of events, like in her favorite stories.

But now it was over. Her friend was lying facedown on the bone gray sand, his colors so faint that he might have been dead.

No, not you too, she mourned, and shaking off Balder’s restraining hand, she ran across the blood-spattered sand to where he lay. The Nameless stood over them, its runestaff raised, its face illuminated with triumph, but Maddy hardly noticed it.

She knelt down. Touched his hair. He was still alive.

“Maddy.”

“I’m here.”

Painfully he raised his head. Out of Aspect he looked very old-very human-as if a hundred years had passed since their last meeting on Red Horse Hill. He had lost his eye patch during the fight and his ruined face was a mask of blood and dirt. His one eye stared sightlessly, and she realized that he was totally blind. Her heart gave a wrench of pity and grief-but behind it the feelings of anger and hurt that had come to her when she learned the truth were still alive, still crying for release.

“Why did you have to come here?” she said. “I knew that if you came here, you’d die.”

Odin sighed. “Same-impatient-Maddy.” He spoke in a broken, breathless whisper, but she could still hear a trace of the old irritable One-Eye in his voice, and that made her want most terribly to cry.