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One good thing came of the incident. When the enemy emerged from the mists of Niflheim, we were all so keyed up that we didn't hesitate. We gave them what-for, venting our frustrations in a hail of bullets. Bastards didn't know what hit them. We roared like lions as we fired, and I was roaring loudest of all.

Fifty-One

A lull.

The raids ceased.

A hush settled along Asgard's borders.

We caught up on lost sleep, scoffed plenty of scran to replenish our strength, and enjoyed the downtime while it lasted. Because we knew it wouldn't last long.

The calm before the shitstorm.

Freya and I were out on one of our, ahem, "hunting expeditions." These we fitted in as and when we could, always at her instigation. With her tracking skills she'd find me wherever I was, hand me a rifle, and off we'd trot. Sometimes, once the fun and games were over, we'd even go and bag a token deer or rabbit to bring back, just so's no one would suspect we were up to anything other than what we said we were up to.

She was the fiercest sexual partner I'd ever had. Silent and intense while we did the deed. Hardly ever crying out in pleasure, but bucking and shuddering so violently when the moment came that I was never in any doubt I'd hit the spot. She'd claw me, often bite. It was fighting as much as fornication, each of us wrestling for dominance, demanding a submission from the other.

Something in me responded well to this. I'd lose myself while shagging Freya much as I'd lose myself during combat. It was primal and animal, us out in the woods, in the snow. None of your candlelit lovemaking with rose petals on the bed and Barry White grunting in the background. Just body thrusting and grinding savagely against body. Bare skin getting smeared with a mush of snow, soil, flakes of bark and fallen pine needles. Very few words exchanged beyond "turn over" or "try this" or "there."

It was how people fucked when there was a war on and a world was at stake and lives could end tomorrow. Urgently, no grace or ritual to it. Raw, raw, raw.

On this particular occasion we were on our second go-round, or maybe third. It was easy to lose track. One bout of rampant shaggery shaded into another, with little recovery time in between. Then all at once Freya said, "Stop."

I said, "Stop as in we're changing position, or...?"

"Just stop. And be quiet."

I froze. We listened. Me on my knees, her on all fours.

"I don't -"

"Hssst!"

Then I detected it. Sensed it through my legs rather than my ears.

Vibration.

Rumbling.

The earth moving, but not in that way.

"What is that?"

"I don't know. We need to go and see."

Abrupt withdrawal. Clothes flung back on. Charging through the woods towards the sound.

It was being made by an engine of some sort - a massively horsepowered motor that propelled something wheeled and huge. The closer we got, the more resonant and ground-shaking the sound became. The snow on the forest floor danced. The trees themselves shivered.

We began to hear crashing noises and splintering creaks. Pines falling, being shoved over.

Finally we caught our first glimpse of the machine. It was a wall of grey metal moving among the tree trunks ahead. There were caterpillar tracks as thick as my thigh, wheels several feet in diameter. Whatever this was, it barged the trees aside as though they were nothing. Old-growth pines shattered into toothpicks in front of it, toppled over like ninepins either side of it.

A tank.

But the biggest ruddy tank ever. Like twelve double-decker buses bolted together, three abreast, in two tiers of six. Just steamrollering through the forest, butting aside anything that got in its way.

As it passed us by and trundled off, leaving a cloud of black fumes, I looked at Freya. "How do we stop that?"

"No idea. We just do. Someone has to. It's heading for the castle. It mustn't get there."

"We need to raise the alarm."

"I'd be surprised if Heimdall hasn't already."

She had a point. The mega-tank might have caught the two of us with our pants down, but