Jamie and the Dwarves, Part 1

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Jamie arrives in Asgard in the middle of a pitched battle; he chooses a side and gets a spear through his leg for his trouble, but manages to impress the dwarves.



Jamie's head stopped whirling and his vision cleared, but there was still a roaring in his ears . . . no, wait, that was coming from outside. He sat down hard on what was, apparently, a very rocky slope and tried to figure out what was going on.

When he blinked the last sparkles out of his eyes, he found out that what was going on was a small war, which explained the roaring. And the screaming. And the loud crunching noises that he didn't really want to think about. A small group of shortish people, most of whom had beards, all of whom wore what looked quite a bit like chain mail, seemed to be fighting a much larger group of much larger . . . monsters, with green skin and warts and tiny, mean-looking eyes, and an odd assortment of rusty armor and weapons.

His first thought was that he'd stumbled onto the set of a movie. Maybe they were doing a Hobbit movie, to go with Lord of the Rings, or something. Then one of the big green monsters swung a club that looked more like an uprooted tree, plus metal spikes . . . and one of the bearded warriors flew back, and when he landed his neck was at an angle necks didn't generally come in, and nobody did special effects that well. This was real.

A sharper, higher scream cut through the general noise to Jamie's left, and he spun to see three of the monsters backing one of the-–well, he supposed they pretty much had to be dwarves, didn't they?–-into a couple of boulders. They were taking their time, and she–-it was either a woman or a young boy, and either way–-the dwarf was in trouble. Jamie's hand fumbled in the scree by his feet. He didn't know why they were fighting, or anything about what was going on–-but you didn't go three-on-one when the one was that much smaller. And you didn't laugh like that while you were doing it. A rock came into his hand and felt right–-about fist-size, round and not too jagged, a solid lump of granite, and he stood.

Jamie's Little League pitching career had been a short one, before his dad had moved him back to outfield, and then he'd had to quit when he started being able to field most of a team himself. All he'd ever been able to throw were hard, straight fastballs right over the middle of the plate, and pretty soon everybody figured out how to hit those.

But nobody'd ever said he didn't have the arm. One of the monsters reared up, a jagged sword raised high, and Jamie threw-–and the creature's badly-fitting helmet rang like a cracked bell, dented visibly, and the sword slipped from its hand as it collapsed bonelessly to the rocky ground. One of the others saw the first one fall, looked up at Jamie, and snarled; the other stabbed at the dwarf with something that might have started life as a scythe. He scrabbled in the rocks again and came up with a piece of somebody's pike, broken off to about three feet long and no head, but he wasn't going to do any better.

The monster didn't seem impressed by Jamie's charge down the rocky slope; it set itself, grinning toothily, a short stabbing spear clenched in its taloned hand. It was slightly more impressed when, a moment later, four Jamies were charging down the rocky slope, and faltered long enough for Jamie to strike, two high, two low. This one had better gear than the first, though, and recovered quickly-–

The wet, meaty thunk of the broad-bladed spear going through Jamie's leg seemed like the loudest sound in the world, and the pain sent starbursts across his vision. The monster took a perfunctory yank on the spear–-Jamie screamed as the barbed head dug in-–then dropped it, drawing a notched axe from its belt.

Jamie was oblivious. Outvote it, he thought muzzily–-he had three perfectly good healthy bodies to the one in agony, after all–-he tried reabsorbing the dupes, but that made it worse, if anything, all his attention concentrated in one body with a spear through it, oh God, and all the blood . . .

As he fell into merciful unconsciousness, he heard the dwarf girl scream again–-rage, this time–-and saw her pull a pair of knives big enough to make Paul Hogan meekly concede the argument, and leap for the monsters.

---

King Gunnar wiped the black troll-blood off his axe blade and tossed the rag away with a grimace of distaste, turning to survey the battlefield. A costlier raid for the trolls than for the children of Eitri, as was usually the case, but as always there were too many of his own people who would not be boasting over mead at the feasting.

Movement at the tree-line caught his eye, and he scowled, clipping the axe to his harness with a jerk and rushing over. "Disa," he growled, "I told you to stay out of the fighting."

His eldest daughter glared up at him, a familiar fire in her eyes–-by Hammer and Spear, the girl was far too much like him for his comfort, and not enough like her gentle mother. "Would you speak to any of your other warriors so, King?"

Gunnar gritted his teeth. "Very well, Halldis Gunnarsdottir. If you insist on being treated as any other warrior, you have my leave to report, and tell me why I should not have you whipped for disobeying orders."

"I was obeying orders, Father," she said, suddenly all sweetness again. "Save that I found a place where I could watch the battle, and be ready if you had need of me, and was set upon by these three as they tried to outflank our warriors. The fight was going ill for me when this Midgarder appeared–-" She indicated the fallen body Gunnar hadn't quite noticed she was tending. "He charged three full-grown trolls without armor or weapon of his own–-felled one with a stone before falling himself, and gave me the opening I needed to overcome the other two. He saved my life, Father, and him little more than a boy. I have never seen such courage."

Gunnar ruthlessly suppressed a stab of pride–two trolls, and at her age!-–and stooped to get a look at her apparent rescuer. Tall, and strangely dressed, and with an ugly wound in his thigh from a troll-spear, he seemed little more than a beardless youth with a broken stick held loosely in his hand–-either courageous or a halfwit, to face trolls so ill-prepared. And his very presence was a mystery-–potentially a dangerous one, if this boy had anything to do with the tales of Loki's recent misadventure in the mortal realm.

Disa read his expression. "He saved my life, Father," she repeated quietly.

"Very well, then." Gunnar craned his neck, sharp eyes picking one of his thanes out of the crowd. "Angvald, a stretcher here; take him to the rest quarters." He turned back to regard his daughter. "The debt is yours, Disa."

"I know, Father." She bore up stubbornly under the weight of his frown, and finally Gunnar cracked, clapping his daughter on the shoulder with one broad hand.

"You did well, Halldis. Send the boy to me when he's recovered enough; I've questions for him, and he's due honor for his deed."


And the next day, Jamie wakes up to find Disa, the dwarf-king's daughter, using an unusual ointment on his wound. They talk for a while before Jamie dozes off again; he finds out where he is and, all things considered, takes the news with remarkable aplomb, probably because most of his attention is on the big hole in his leg.



The first thing Jamie heard when he woke up was the crackling of a fire; the first thing he smelled was, oddly, apples. His leg ached, horribly, and he could feel the ache all the way through what, his memory informed him, was almost certainly a gigantic hole in his thigh . . . but "ache" was so much better than "fiery clawing agony" that there wasn't a comparison. He pried his eyes open, blinking away an embarrassing amount of crusty gunk, and looked around as much as he could without moving.

The ceiling was stone, one solid piece of stone, carved in intricate bas-relief that, combined with the dancing light from the fireplace, quickly made him a little queasy; he tried raising his head a little.

"Careful now," somebody said. The voice was warm, friendly, female, sounded young. "You lost a good deal of blood, and you'll likely be abed a few days more while you make it up again." Gentle hands adjusted a pillow behind his head, bracing him so he could look around, and he got his first good look at his benefactress.

She was pretty enough, in a sturdy, well-muscled way, although the strong features and prominent nose would probably get her called "striking" a lot more often; her golden hair was looped around her head with some fancy braiding that Jamie didn't look at too closely in case it did the same thing to his stomach that the ceiling had. She was also probably no more than four feet tall.

And she seemed to be ladling applesauce into what, even behind a shielding pile of blankets, was almost certainly his leg. The funny thing was, it seemed to be working–-every time the spoon disappeared behind the blankets, the ache got a tiny bit less.

"Where–-" Jamie coughed, very carefully, wincing as the effort tried to tense muscles that were in no condition to do anything other than, apparently, eat applesauce. "Where am I? Who are you?" He tried to peek over the blankets. "And what are you doing to my leg?"

She chuckled. "So many questions! To answer your first, you are in my father's holding, the mountain-home of the clan of Eitri, in the realm of Nidavellir, in the land of Asgard."

Jamie's head fell back onto the pillow, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "It would be really nice if the next thing you say is 'I'm joking.'"

She patted his knee comfortingly. "I almost wish I could. Does this mean you are not here of your own free will?"

"You could say that." Jamie sighed. "Asgard, huh?"

"Asgard," she agreed. "What do you remember?"

Jamie smiled wryly. "Aside from the huge spear sticking out of my leg? I was playing a game with some friends, and then there was . . ." He frowned. "Fire, but no smoke, a ring of it, and suddenly I was here." He struggled to his elbows, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Did you see anybody else? Are they--"

She stood, concerned, and placed a small but firm hand on his chest. "You must rest, if you're to heal. We found no one, I am sorry to say."

Jamie subsided. "Hell." Looking up at her, something clicked in his memory. ". . . That was you, wasn't it? Earlier, I mean?" He waved a hand vaguely down at his injured leg.

She nodded. "So it was. I am Halldis Gunnarsdottir, and you saved my life with your courage."

"Jamie Madrox." He paused. "You'd probably say 'Jamie Danielsson', I guess. And I dunno if I'd go that far. There were still two of them when I passed out."

She smiled. "You must call me Disa, as my friends do, and my father when he forgets I am no longer a child . . . and I had trouble enough with the two. All three together would have killed me; I knew it, and they knew it, and there was no one else close enough to help when you appeared. I know when my life has been saved, Jamie, and you–-" She poked him in the stomach. "Saved mine."

"I'd argue, but I have this big hole in me." Jamie smiled. "Nice to have a friend, though, especially since it looks like I misplaced mine somewhere." He eyed the bowl of applesauce suspiciously. "Okay, though, I have to ask. I'm not getting an immortal leg out of that stuff, am I?"

Disa laughed. "No, and I did not know the story was still told in Midgard. These are only poor descendants of the golden apples of Idunn–-my great-grandsire did a service for her once, and was rewarded with a cutting, which he grafted to a tree in his own orchard. They do not give eternal youth, but they grant strength and health, and speed healing." She traced a thoughtful line on his leg. "You will have a brave scar to boast about, Jamie Danielsson, but that is all."

"Well, that's good. Scar's a lot easier to explain than an immortal leg." Jamie leaned his head back into the pillow, closing his eyes. "Dammit, I just woke up."

"Your body is only telling you what it needs," Disa replied soothingly, "and right now, that is rest most of all. You are safe here, and I will tend you; sleep."

"Thanks," Jamie mumbled. "I swear, I'm not really like this, all this passing out and dozing off . . . fun guy, me, usually . . ."