Battle Ground (The Dresden Files #17) - Jim Butcher Page 0,60

to his body to keep it from swinging. I went with him.

By the time we reached the second level of the garage, the old man was at the front of the garage, facing the park. Shot rattled around him, but the Blackstaff was the White Council’s dedicated killing machine. There were rumors among the Wardens that the old man’s shield had completely held off a round from a German battleship’s main guns in World War I. I didn’t know if that was true or not, but buckshot scattered off it in little fluttery sparkles that had no chance, at all, of getting through.

The old man stared down at the park thoughtfully, heedless of the incoming fire, then nodded once, held out a fist, spoke a word, and gathered a sphere of white-hot light into the palm of his right hand. He flicked his wrist, and the sphere of light streaked over to the park and set the nearest tree there violently ablaze.

Octokongs screamed and poured out of it—to where they were well-lit by the fire on open ground.

The Einherjaren let out whoops of excitement and approval as their weapons roared, absolutely withering every octokong on the ground.

“Do it again, seidrmadr!”

“Let them have it, wizard!”

The old man obliged them, and another tree went up with similar results.

I heard the cry of a hawk, and then a bolt of lightning descended, crashing into several parked cars along the road, providing cover for the enemy. The cars exploded into flame with a number of whumping sounds.

Screeches of rage and pain rose from the park, but the enemy pressed closer and closer. One of the Einherjaren set down his rifle, picked up one of those grenade launchers with a rotary magazine, and quickly sent half a dozen grenades into the park, each with a report and a phoont sound. He had used white phosphorous rounds. The carnage was impressive, but the octokongs kept pouring mindlessly forward—

—and a sudden sound split the air.

It sounded like a call from a horn—if the horn was the size of a Buick. It was a deep, brassy, throaty sound. And it was loud. Loud as a thunderstorm. Loud enough to shake the concrete beneath my feet.

And then I saw him.

Striding forward, toward Lake Shore, his black hair soaked with lake water and clinging to his skull.

A giant.

A genuine, honest-to-God giant. A Jotun.

His features were crude, rough, his beard and hair were woven in enormous braids, and he wore the armor and kit of a Viking warrior—just on a much larger scale. In his hands he bore a horn made from God knows what kind of animal, and as I watched he lifted it to his lips and blew again, shaking the city.

I thought of footprints on the beach and started cackling.

And then . . .

More giants.

They came forward, in a straight line from the lake, two by two, each armored and tattooed and bearing swords and axes of enormous, rough design. One of the giants got caught up in the branches of a tree, and with a snarl he turned, and his twelve-foot-long sword burst into flame and swept clean through the tree, as if it had just been a weed in need of whacking. That not being enough, he turned to a car parked near him, split it in half with another swing of his sword, and kicked the separate pieces forty yards.

The first giant blew the horn again.

The others answered with a roar and began a basso chant, a war song, in some language that sounded thick and sludgy.

The gunfire had stopped.

I looked around me to see the Einherjaren staring at the incoming behemoths, mouths open, eyes bright.

Then the big guy with the grenade launcher screamed, in freaking joy, “JOTNAR! JOTNAR OF MUSPELHEIM!”

And the goddamned madmen roared their excitement and began their own war song in answer. The Jotnar focused on the parking garage and bellowed pure rage at the sound of that song.

Then they started sprinting right at us.

Chapter

Fifteen

From the top deck of the parking garage, we were at eye level with the Jotnar. It didn’t make me feel any better. All it meant was that I could see the distinct expression of rage on each face as they either climbed and vaulted over the Lake Shore Drive bridge over Montrose, or else dropped under it, duckwalking under the bridge and rising as they emerged.

The scary part about it was that they were fast. Their walking speed would have been a fairly serious run for me.