The Age of Odin - James Lovegrove [156]
Odin's sons battered their way through the frost giants to engage with the oncoming JOTUNs and SURTs outside. At the same time Skadi abseiled off the battlements on a rope, snapped on her skis, and scooted off. The frost giants, meanwhile, redoubled their efforts. The appearance of Nagelfar on the scene gave them an added boost, not that they really needed it. They'd already been shitting on us. Now, with Loki's third big monster-machine freshly arrived, they were shitting on us from an even greater height than before. Our forces were divided. We were taking flak on two fronts. The frosties scented just how badly we were in trouble and fought harder than ever to take the castle.
Vali, Vidar and Tyr did their very best out among the tanksuits. The JOTUNs and SURTs took a pasting. Improved or not, they met their match in the form of three righteously pissed-off gods in gnome-made iron outerwear. The tanksuits bundled in with their freeze rays and flamethrowers firing full throttle, and the Aesir knocked them back. It was a thing to see - a tanksuit spinning helplessly through the air, whacked clean off its wheelbase by a swipe from a clunky, metal-sheathed arm. One JOTUN got pounded into the ground, almost literally. Bashed on the bonce repeatedly until its wheels were submerged in the muddy soil. A SURT ended up so dented and misshapen, it was barely recognisable. The man inside was presumably no better off.
Then the trolls entered the fray. At least, most of them did. A couple showed more sense than I'd have credited a troll with and hurried off into the forest, avoiding the battle altogether. The rest, however, true to form, headed right into the midst of the fighting. Because the JOTUNs and SURTs looked to be the nastiest players on the pitch, naturally the trolls went for them rather than Odin's sons. Bursts of flame scorched the trolls' bodies, and subzero beams zapped them, and some fell, but the others piled on into the tanksuits, batting them aside, clobbering them, picking them up and tossing them around.
For a few minutes - a few brief, precious minutes - it looked like the battle outside the castle might just go our way. Between Odin's sons and the trolls, the JOTUNs and SURTs had their hands full. They were taking casualties by the truckload. Their superior firepower (and icepower) wasn't getting them anywhere. They'd come on like a tsunami, only to crash against a granite cliff of resistance, that shuddered from the shock but withstood.
Their actions became hesitant, unsure. I could imagine the operators inside yelling like crazy into their comms sets, asking one another what the hell was going on, how come these motherfuckers weren't breaking like they should, why were three low-rent Iron Man knockoffs and a bunch of jumbo-size caveman-type goons getting the better of the might and majesty of US military knowhow? On paper this should have been a rout. So how come the tanksuits were taking all the punishment instead of dishing it out?
I allowed myself to believe that we did stand a chance after all, that Vali, Vidar and Tyr - with the trolls' help - were going to swing things in our favour. The blizzard was dwindling, too, which was also to our advantage. Maybe, maybe...
Then Nagelfar itself got involved, and that was the tipping point. The decisive moment. The final, fateful turning of the tide.
The automated machine guns on its hull swung into play, strafing the battleground. Their accuracy wasn't pinpoint, but damn well as near as. The trolls were first to take the brunt of it. Laser dots suddenly speckled them, like a fluorescent dose of the measles, and then pieces started flying off their bodies. They jerked and flailed, disintegrating under a hail of sabot-cased flechette rounds.
"Christ..." I groaned.
The guns then turned their attention on Vali, Vidar and Tyr. The gnomes' suits of armour stood up to the onslaught. The iron shells became peppered with pockmarks. The