[ WP ] You were a soldier in a future conflict , until your heroic death . Now you face the battlefield of the Ragnarok of Nordic myth , with your full war kit .

Somewhere below, a trickster god is laughing when he is n't howling. That's what Morden's heard since he arrived, still reeling from the death blow to his chest, all his ribs tingling and intact. The trickster god, the wolf mother, Odin son. Everyone around here has so many titles. 
 
 `` If I ever see the great prick below, I'm going to break something of his,'' Morden says. There's twenty metal pieces in his hands, some from the copper age, some from his age. Rusted green copper meshing with silky blue plastic alloy. It works as well as he expected it to; they'd fired the cannon once before everything broke again. 
 
 `` Not his fault we're using something from the revolution,'' Gaggle says, muffled around the hammer between his teeth. There's five of them gathered around the cannon. There's a hole in barrel, a weird dip in the outer rim that makes cannon balls plop ten feet out. They're trying to patchwork it with whatever they found nearby. Again. 
 
 Imperious, their new Roman recruit, asks which revolution, then swears when broken iron shears through his hand. `` Get that looked at,'' Morden says, not looking at it. If they had a thermal heater, a blow torch, a damned lighter, maybe they could fit the pieces in right. 
 
 Their regiment is down to seven, was down to forty when Morden had joined. Seven plus the cannon is a cramping number in trenches. Mud slicks down their shoes and elbows bump. If they went up, they would be shot by bullets or arrows, and dying to such primitive weapons is an insult to Morden. 
 
 Course, chances were, their trench would fill with poison when the big snake got upset again. 
 
 `` Maybe we should ditch the cannon?'' Obbol asks, knee deep in muck. She keeps scratching her chin, until it turns red. The death itch, the tingle-prickle Morden ca n't get out of his ribs. `` I think we missed a giant, last time. What good is it if we ca n't hit a giant?'' 
 
 `` Well,'' Gaggle shouts, over the noise of his hammer. `` Giants are tricky to hit anyways. I've seen some of them phase out, like mirages, and appear somewhere else. Hard to hit a thing like that.'' 
 
 `` You drank mead,'' Morden says. `` That stuffs made for gods, who at the least are twenty feet taller than you.'' Around their little group are screams and bangs, the firecracker whoosh of small missiles, and the chitter-thunk of missed arrows. `` You could barely handle Imperious's wine, so I'm impressed you did n't vomit something important.'' 
 
 There's laughter, and Imperious groaning over his wine. It's more than the battle noises around them. Obbol slows her pacing, and Gabby finally pulls his nails from his mouth. Stabilize, calm, prepare; it was a mantra in Morden's training. He'd discovered, on his own, that laughter did the first two. 
 
 The cannon's ready, and they tug it up the trench lip. Straight up into a muzzle made of dark coffee black, two eyes like harvest moons. Gaggle whispers, `` Fenrir, ah shit,'' and Obbol clamps hard onto the cannon to aim it straight between those eyes. The wolf focuses on them, and suddenly it is bigger, a monolith and monster, towering over them, blocking out the alien stars of this world. Breath rancid between the wet yellow teeth it bares. 
 
 No one can move. No one can fight. Morden is a rabbit in the corner, worn out, ragged from the chase. He can feel the teeth around his neck, in his neck. The killing bite spilling his blood. This is death part two, more permanent, for there is no battlefield afterlife in a second failure. There is no heaven in the wolf's eyes. 
 
 Then Fenrir turns, sniffs, howls, and darts off. Morden leans against the cannon, breathing slow and hard. 
 
 `` What's Cujo after?'' Gabby asks. 
 
 They turn to look. It is the first time Morden sees a god. He is tall enough to match the wolf, one eye beneath his cloak, with ravens fluttering over his shoulders. He meets the wolf's charge, swings his staff, and dies in a quick snap of neck bone. 
 
 `` Ah shit,'' Gaggle says. The wolf stands beside the god's corpse. It is waiting. And all the battlefield dims to silence, waiting too. `` Time's up,'' Gaggle continues, in a drained laughing voice. `` We had our little play fight, but the gods have run out of delaying time.'' 
 
 There is a trickster god below, but he will be free now. There is a snake beneath the ground, and it will die soon. There is a prophecy writ in stone and hanged man's blood; it demands every god die, and the world burn with them. 
 
 `` Yeah, time's up,'' Morden says, and slaps Gaggle's head. `` Get this cannon moving. We're all done for, but first, we're going to shoot a god with this thing.''
