Chapter 21 — The Eyes of Thunder

Nobody flinched first. For a moment, it was just the four of them, dripping cold cave water and sweat, staring at the circle of women who could kill them without blinking.

The archers held their bows at half-draw—each muscle tensed, but not quivering, as if they'd rehearsed this moment for centuries. There were at least thirty, maybe fifty. Impossible to count: they filled every gap in the cave, some balanced high on ledges, others stepping smooth and silent across the slick black stone. Their armor wasn’t uniform, but each piece looked carved from the same twilight—shards of iron, fur, and what might have been wolf hide, stitched with black sinew. Most wore their hair braided down their backs, some white, some gold, others the color of old ash. Every face was marked: thin lines, dots, whorls—tattoos that flickered blue in the cave light.

Dottie recovered first. “You want to talk it out?” she shouted, loud and clear. “Or you just gonna stand there looking pretty?”

One of the archers stepped forward. She moved like she weighed nothing, boots barely touching the ground. Her face was broad, cheeks painted with a slash of red, and her hair was a waterfall of silver, streaked with something darker. Tattoos scrawled across her scalp and jaw, swirling up to her eyes, which were cold and gray and utterly without humor.

She spoke, her accent thick as wet gravel: “You have trespassed in sacred ground. The penalty is death.”

Bradley tried for a smile, but it came out lopsided. “We were just leaving,” he offered.

The silver-haired woman ignored him. She leveled her bow directly at Zill’s face, then shifted it an inch to center on Wildman. “Drop the relic. Step away from the altar.”

Wildman held up both hands, palm out. “We’re not here to steal anything,” he said. “We’re here to keep it out of worse hands.”

A ripple of laughter traveled through the women. The leader raised her hand, and the cave went dead silent. “There are no hands worse than those of the dead.”

Dottie, never one for subtlety, snapped, “You think the Nazis’ll ask permission?”

The leader made a gesture. Two of her soldiers surged forward, moving so fast Zill didn’t see the draw—they were just suddenly there, arms locked around his and Dottie’s shoulders, hands grabbing wrists and shoving faces into the stone. Dottie tried to kick, but one of them caught her prosthetic mid-swing and wrenched it off at the knee.

Zill caught Wildman’s eye. They nodded—just once—and tried to move, but the women were stronger than they looked. Zill got a headbutt in, caught one of them on the nose, but she just smiled, wiped the blood with her thumb, and pressed her knuckles into his neck until he couldn’t see straight.

Rivera let himself go limp, lips moving in a silent Spanish prayer. Bradley yelled, “Careful with the merchandise!” as they muscled him into a chokehold and twisted his arms up behind his back.

They were herded down a side tunnel. Zill’s boots barely touched the floor, the grip on his arms so tight his hands went numb. The passage narrowed, then widened into a room carved out of solid black rock. A dozen stone chairs sat in a circle, each with runes chiseled deep into the seat and arms. The air smelled of tallow, sweat, and something sharp—ozone, maybe, or blood.

The women threw the Brigade into the chairs, binding their wrists with leather straps that were slick from old use. The edges bit deep, burning the skin. Dottie cursed in three languages, none of which made the women so much as blink. When she tried to kick, one of them drove a fist into her stomach—hard, not showy, just enough to knock the wind out. They buckled her glass eye for good measure.

Above them, ancient torches hissed and spat, their flames twisted blue and white by some draft Zill couldn’t find. Water dripped from stalactites, each drop echoing like the click of a metronome.

The silver-haired leader paced before them. She didn’t bother to introduce herself at first, just walked the circle, eyes measuring, jaw tight.

Bradley twisted his hands, testing the leather. “I just want to say,” he announced, “that nobody is impressed with this hospitality.”

The leader stopped in front of him. “We are not here to impress,” she said. “We are here to judge.”

Wildman said, “Let me guess. Valkyries?”

That got a reaction: the line of warriors bristled, every eye snapping to Wildman. The leader smiled, barely. “You know your stories, old man.”

“It’s my job to know stories,” Wildman said, meeting her gaze. “Also my job to know when they’re real.”

The leader bowed her head, just a fraction. “You may call me Reginleif. I command the Eyes of Thunder.”

Zill tried to force his hands free, but the straps just cut deeper. He gritted his teeth. “You’re making a mistake. We’re not your enemy. The Nazis are coming. Doctor Metallgeist—”

Reginleif cut him off with a sharp laugh. “You have been reading too many comics, American. We do not fear the dead. If these Nazis are foolish enough to come calling, they will meet the same fate you are about to.”

Zill spoke up, voice low and formal. “We are not thieves. We came to keep your secret from men who would use it to hurt millions.”

Reginleif regarded him with an odd respect. “And if I believe you?”

Beside him, Rivera drew one finger, slow and level, across his own throat — then kill us clean.

Bradley, ever the tactician, tried a new tack. “Is it too late to ask for a trial by combat?”

Dottie shot him a look that could have burned off paint.

Reginleif’s smile widened. “There will be a trial, of sorts.” She stalked behind the chairs, voice echoing through the chamber. “The Eyes of Thunder are not just a legend. For a thousand years, we have guarded Thor’s Belt from those who would misuse its power. We are the chosen, the dead come again, the last line against the end of all things. We do not negotiate with trespassers. We judge them. Then we do what needs to be done.”

Dottie, unable to stay quiet, barked, “You want to execute us? Do it. But don’t pretend you’re anything but another flavor of fascist.”

Reginleif’s eyes narrowed, and her next words came out slow and deliberate. “You come here, you trespass on our holiest ground, you disturb the rest of warriors who sleep beneath your boots, and you lecture us?”

Dottie spat on the floor. “Somebody’s gotta.”

The room went still.

Reginleif came to Zill, crouched so her face was level with his. “You wear the face of the all-American hero,” she said, “but you have the soul of a funeral. Tell me, Frank Zill. Why should you walk out of here alive?”

Zill didn’t answer at first. He stared at her, saw something in the set of her jaw that reminded him of his own mother, the way she looked at the world like it was a sick animal she couldn’t quite put down.

He said, “I don’t want to walk out alive. I want to finish what we started. We didn’t come for glory, or gold, or even to win. We just want to keep that thing—” he nodded at the chest— “away from monsters.”

Reginleif didn’t blink. She studied him, then glanced to Wildman. “And you?”

Wildman said, “I came because I was asked. And because every now and then, the world deserves a little magic.”

She gave a tight nod, then moved on to Dottie. “You want to die?”

Dottie sneered. “I want to see you try.”

Bradley, bound and struggling, still managed to look bored. “Can I get a last meal first?”

She ignored him, turned to Rivera. “And you?”

He met her gaze, unflinching, and answered with his hands: a fist pressed flat over his heart, then opened toward her, empty. Death he did not fear. Evil men with too much power — that was another matter.

Reginleif stood, the leather of her coat creaking. She raised a hand, and a warrior placed the belt—still in its velvet-lined chest—on the stone at her feet. She looked at it, then at the Brigade.

“For centuries, men have come for the Megingjörð. None have succeeded. You will not be the last to try, nor the last to fail. But it is the custom of my people to offer the condemned a chance to speak their piece, before the world forgets them.”

She paced the circle again, the faces of her warriors alive with expectation.

Bradley, never one to waste a spotlight, spoke up first. “If you’re going to kill us, at least let us put on a show. I’m the best in the business, ask anyone. Give us five minutes with your best, and if we lose—fine, kill us. But if we win, you let us walk.”

Dottie rolled her eyes. “Shut up, Bradley.”

But Reginleif was listening. “You would fight for your lives? In the old way?”

Bradley grinned, a crooked thing. “Hell yes. Name the rules. We’ll go three falls, last man standing, whatever you like.”

Zill shook his head. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a moron.”

Wildman interjected: “It’s not the worst idea. At least if we lose, we do it on our feet.”

Reginleif looked at her warriors, then back at the Brigade. “Very well,” she said. “You will have your trial. And when it is done, we will see if the gods still care for you.”

She snapped her fingers, and the warriors unstrapped the Brigade from the chairs, then yanked them upright, arms pinned behind their backs.

Reginleif turned to the door. “You will rest,” she said. “You will prepare. And in the morning, you will face the test.”

As they were dragged away, Dottie shot a glare at Zill. “Remind me to kill Bradley myself.”

Zill just nodded.

In the echoing chamber, Reginleif stared at the chest and the belt within.

Her eyes were the color of old steel.

They didn't let the prisoners sleep. Sometime after the trial, after a meal that was mostly bone and salt, the Eyes of Thunder dragged them to the execution chamber.

Zill couldn’t feel his fingers. The leather cut so tight, it was a matter of time before circulation lost the fight. He tried to look tough, but every step sent a jolt from his wrists up to his skull. Wildman didn’t even bother resisting, just shuffled along like he was already halfway dead. Rivera limped, face pale under the mask. Dottie was the only one who put up a scene: she bit, kicked, and screamed until one of the women brained her with the blunt end of a spear. She stayed conscious, but not by much.

Bradley played it like a matinee, milking every moment. “I never thought I’d go out like this,” he whined. “I always figured it’d be poison in a hotel room, or a jealous promoter with a tire iron—never a bunch of Valkyrie knockoffs in an undersea death cult.”

“Shut up,” said Dottie, voice thin and mean.

The Eyes of Thunder marched them down a passage lined with bones—hundreds, maybe thousands, mortared right into the wall. The corridor ended in a round amphitheater carved into the base of the falls, lit by a dozen blue torches and the weird glow of the water overhead. At the center stood Reginleif, ceremonial cloak over her armor, a short-handled axe in one hand, the chest set at her feet with its lid still shut. A thin line of gold light lay along the seam, patient as a fuse.

She regarded them without interest. “It is the hour of judgment,” she said. “Each may speak a final word, if you wish.”

Wildman nodded, calm as ever. “Go on, Zill. Show them why you get the big bucks.”

Zill stared at the floor, then the ceiling, then back to Reginleif. “You’re making a mistake. If Metallgeist gets here before you kill us, you’re all dead. You don’t know what they’ll do with the belt.”

Reginleif smiled, the tiniest lift of her lips. “I have met many men who thought the world revolved around them. None are remembered.”

Dottie growled. “If you’re going to kill us, at least listen. We’re not your enemy. Hitler’s got factories of death on the surface, and you’re sitting here playing gods and monsters. You think you’re tough? Try holding the line at Verdun, then talk to me about being tough.”

Rivera’s hands flew, spilling it the only way they could: a family gathered close against his chest; soldiers tearing it apart; a city skyline drawn on the air. Then he reached into the brow of the mask and drew out a photograph gone soft with handling — a woman, three children, a plaza in Madrid — and held it up to Reginleif with his other palm pressed flat over his heart. That is what happens when evil men get power. The plea needed no voice at all.

Bradley, forced to his knees, looked up and grinned. “I always said I was too pretty to die, but honestly, if it has to happen, can you at least let me do it in the ring? Best two out of three? I’ll put on a match that’ll make your gods cry. You can even pick the referee.”

Reginleif said, “You will die as you lived—without dignity.”

Dottie lunged, despite the bindings. “Screw you, you—” A spear butt hit her gut, folding her.

Wildman didn’t say anything at first. When Reginleif prodded him with the axe, he looked her in the eye and recited, in flawless Old Norse: “Hel will have us all, but let her choke on my bones.” The words hung in the air. Some of the women behind Reginleif made signs, old and private.

The chamber filled with tension. Water from the falls hissed, droplets spattering the ancient stone. Zill braced for the end, figured he’d take whatever was coming. Maybe it’d even be quick.

Reginleif lifted the axe, spinning it once. “The gods have heard your pleas. They are not swayed. You will die, and the world will not notice.”

Dottie spat blood on the floor. “Guess you’re just like everyone else.”

Reginleif tensed, ready to swing.

And then the world ended, again.

A wall of sound hit first: a roar, sharper than thunder, the kind of noise you felt in your teeth. The waterfall above the amphitheater exploded, shrapnel and water and bodies raining into the pit. For a split second, Zill saw the eyes of the Valkyries widen, panic and rage warring in every face.

Then the Eisen Verfolger rappelled through the breach, gas masks glowing in the blue light, each one trailing a rope and a shower of spent shell casings. They dropped in perfect sync, weapons raised, covering every angle.

“Too late, Americans!” shouted Metallgeist, his voice echoing off the dome. “The Megingjörð will create Hitler’s army of super soldiers!”

Bradley started giggling, half panic, half relief. “I called it! You owe me five dollars, Zill.”

Reginleif’s face twisted in fury. She shouted in her own language, and the Eyes of Thunder sprang into motion.

It was a war, not a fight.

Chapter 22 — Three-Way Dance

It started with a single shot—one of the Eisen Verfolger, perched on a ledge with the patience of a barn owl, squeezed the trigger and popped a Valkyrie through the lung. She tumbled off her rock like a ragdoll and vanished into the mist. Then the whole cave exploded: machine guns, arrows, and axes in a three-way orgy of destruction.

Frank Zill caught a round ricocheting off a stone pillar just inches from his ear. He dropped, rolled, and came up behind a half-dead stalagmite, heart jackhammering. Three of the Eyes of Thunder charged past, screaming in something halfway between German and prophecy, spears raised high. The first went down in a tangle of teeth and gas masks, the spear splintering against a rifle butt. The second made it through the hail, put an arrow point right into a Nazi’s throat, then caught a bullet in the face and dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

The third Valkyrie just kept running. Zill watched her, and for a second he wanted to cheer. She was all muscle and velocity, no wasted motion, a missile of rage. She went straight at the guy in front—maybe a foot taller, probably two hundred pounds heavier—and shoulder-blocked him off his feet, never breaking stride. His gas mask shattered like a porcelain doll, the wet pop of his skull lost in the echo of the guns.

Reginleif stood on a boulder, barking orders, her hair trailing like a battle banner. “SCHNELL! FORMIEREN!” Her warriors fanned out, arrows ready, eyes white with war. The first volley turned two Nazis into pincushions before they even got the next round off.

The Eisen Verfolger regrouped, forming a shield of bodies around Dr. Metallgeist. He marched at the center, untouched, moving with the slow confidence of a man who owned the script. Every step, his men closed in tighter, rifles up, firing in smooth, perfect rhythm.

Wildman Fowler landed next to Zill, teeth bared, shirt already drenched in blood—not his, Zill hoped. He didn’t wait for Zill’s nod. “We need to break the line,” Wildman hissed.

“How?” Zill barked back. “It’s a meat grinder!”

Wildman shrugged, then grinned. “That’s what they said about Stalingrad.”

Above them, Benjamin Bradley went up the cave wall like a squirrel up a drainpipe. He found a rock shelf ten feet up, balanced on the toes of his wrestling boots, and counted to three on his fingers. On “three,” he leapt, arms wide, a war cry on his perfect lips.

“Watch this, you corpse-painted freaks!” he howled.

He came down like a meteor, perfectly horizontal, and plowed into the top layer of the Nazi phalanx. Two of them went down hard; one’s helmet spun off his head, flying into the pool at the cave’s center. Bradley bounced, landed in a roll, and came up with a Nazi rifle in his hands.

He fired at the ceiling. Chunks of rock rained down, breaking the tight formation of the Eisen Verfolger. The moment they staggered, Wildman and Zill charged.

Zill caught the nearest Nazi in the chest, shoulder-first. The guy went up like a sack of potatoes, Zill’s arms locked around his waist. “German suplex!” Zill yelled, and snapped the man over his head. The Nazi’s boots left the ground, his spine bent like a question mark, and he hit the stone with a sound like a watermelon dropped from a truck.

Wildman tackled two more. He grabbed them by the webbing of their vests, bonked their heads together, then hurled both into a cluster of Valkyries. One of the women yelped in surprise, then took the opportunity to gouge a thumb through the soft spot under a mask’s eye.

Dorothy Betts had her own agenda. She limped into the fray, unscrewed her prosthetic at the knee, and used it like a Louisville Slugger. The first swing caught a Valkyrie in the ribs—cracked them, probably, but the warrior just grunted and spat blood on the floor. Dottie’s second swing caved in the jaw of a Nazi, the glass eye at the tip of her leg winking as it punched through the faceplate.

“Sorry!” she grunted at the Valkyrie, then turned to batter another Nazi mid-scream. “Not sorry!”

Somebody shot Dottie in the shoulder. The bullet went clean through and stuck in the wooden handle of her prosthetic. She screamed, not in pain but in pure anger, and ripped the bullet out with her teeth.

Bradley slung the Nazi rifle like a club. He slipped on blood, fell, and kicked out, catching a Valkyrie right at the shin. She toppled, grabbed him by the hair, and tried to break his neck. He raked at her face with his nails, gouging out a chunk of skin. “Cat fight!” he screamed, even as she throttled him.

“Bradley!” Zill yelled. He ducked a wild swing from a bayonet, grabbed the barrel, and wrenched it sideways, pulling the Nazi into his own knife. The man’s hands jerked, let go. Zill used the rifle like a staff, batoning his way through the crowd until he reached Bradley and the Valkyrie.

He jammed the butt of the gun between them. The Valkyrie let go, then headbutted Zill in the temple. For a second, he saw stars.

Bradley snapped, “Let the lady go!” and smacked the Valkyrie in the back of the head. She slumped, not out but dazed.

They caught their breath for a heartbeat. Then Zill pointed at the altar, where Metallgeist was almost to the chest.

“We gotta move,” Zill panted.

Wildman reappeared, breathing hard, blood streaked down his face. “On three,” he said.

“Three!” Zill said, and they went.

They barreled straight through the chaos. Zill Irish whipped Wildman into the scrum—just like in the old days, muscle memory and pure hate. Wildman hit a wall of Nazis at full tilt, elbows out, teeth gnashing. Helmets and rifles flew.

Zill followed with a flying clothesline, taking down two at once. He tripped over a corpse, rolled, came up in a crouch. Wildman was already ahead of him, tearing a mask off one of the soldiers and shoving it down his throat.

They made a hole. Bradley followed, running a diagonal, belt still at his waist, arms pinwheeling. Dottie limped behind, using her prosthetic like a crutch and a hammer, each swing bringing a new chorus of bone and agony.

At the altar, Metallgeist had reached the chest. Reginleif saw him, screamed, and loosed a wild shot—an arrow that caught Metallgeist in the bicep, pinning his arm to his own ribcage. He didn’t flinch, just smiled, the kind of smile that made you want to burn the world down.

He yanked the arrow free and turned to his men. “Cover me,” he barked in German.

The nearest three Nazis formed a living wall in front of him, firing at anything that moved. Zill took a shot to the thigh, felt the bone spark, but kept charging. He slammed into the body wall, wrestling through the pain. Wildman went low, hit them at the knees. One went down. Zill locked arms with the next, tried to twist him into a full nelson, but the guy was built like a tractor.

Behind them, Dottie and Bradley double-teamed the last one, each grabbing an arm and twisting it until it snapped.

Metallgeist flipped the chest open, eyes wild — and pulled out a gold-plated, rhinestone-studded championship belt with ALL-STAR WORLD WIDE WRESTLING stamped across the faceplate.

For one perfect second, the whole grotto went silent. Nazis, Valkyries, gods and monsters on the walls — every eye in the cave turned to Benjamin Bradley.

Bradley shrugged. “It seemed disrespectful to leave it empty.”

Metallgeist looked at the title in his hands the way a man looks at a winning ticket for last week’s race. Then he hurled it across the cave — Bradley caught it out of the air like a family member — and came for him. Three strides, a fist like a coupling rod, and Bradley was down in the shallows, protecting his face on principle while the Doctor’s hands tore at his fatigues and came away with what they had crossed a war to find.

Metallgeist held it up. It gleamed in the torchlight—solid gold, embossed with runes, wider than any title belt Zill had ever seen. It looked alive, the runes crawling across the leather, shifting as if to spell new words by the second.

Metallgeist laughed, high and awful. He turned, holding the belt over his head, blood running down his arm.

He roared, “Für den Führer!”

And the world went completely insane.

The Valkyries saw the belt, and every single one changed direction at once. They stopped fighting the Brigade, stopped fighting each other. The room filled with a unified howl—rage, grief, maybe even awe—and they all ran for Metallgeist.

The Brigade was caught in the middle, but Zill wouldn’t stop. He and Wildman locked hands and made a human battering ram, pushing through the mass of bodies.

“Now!” Wildman said.

“Now!” Zill echoed.

They picked up speed, then, at the last second, Zill boosted Wildman by the waist, launching him over the crowd. Wildman flew, arms and legs spread, a cannonball of muscle and hate.

He hit Metallgeist square in the chest, taking him off his feet. The two crashed to the floor, the belt popping out of the doctor’s hands. It skittered across the altar, landing in front of Reginleif.

She grabbed it, hands shaking, and for a second, everything stopped. She looked at the Brigade, at the Nazis, at her own warriors. Then she said, in English, “This does not belong to any of you.”

She strapped the belt around her waist. The cave lit up—pure white light, every shadow peeled away. Reginleif rose, growing taller, broader. Her voice, when she spoke, was not human.

“You came for the power of gods,” she said. “You will have it.”

She leapt off the altar, straight into the melee. The first Nazi she touched exploded, pieces of armor and bone spraying in every direction. The next two went flying into the stalactites, bodies torn in half.

Wildman tried to grab the belt off her, but she backhanded him across the room. He slammed into the wall and crumpled, dazed but alive.

Bradley whistled, low and impressed. “Now that’s an entrance.”

Dottie, bleeding and wild-eyed, charged Reginleif with her prosthetic raised. Reginleif caught it in one hand, lifted Dottie clean off the ground, and flung her into a crowd of Valkyries. They all went down in a heap, screaming curses.

Zill saw Metallgeist crawling for the altar. The doctor’s eyes were rabid, intent only on the belt. Zill blocked his path, planted a boot on his wrist.

“Not today, Doc,” Zill growled.

Metallgeist spat blood, smiled. “You can’t stop it, All-American. It was always meant for a god.”

Bradley, seeing his moment, launched off a rock and dropkicked Reginleif right in the back. It didn’t do much, but it threw her off-balance. She spun, catching Bradley by the throat. He clawed at her arm, face purple.

“Guys!” he croaked. “Little help?”

Zill and Dottie moved as one. Zill tackled Reginleif around the knees, while Dottie swung her prosthetic at Reginleif’s head. The blow landed with a sound like a church bell.

Reginleif staggered. Zill twisted, wrapped her legs, and dropped her with a perfect wrestling takedown.

Bradley, free of the chokehold, scrambled up and tried to unbuckle the belt. Reginleif punched him in the gut, hard enough to lift him off his feet. He dropped, clutching his ribs.

Dottie dove for the belt, fingers scraping the gold, but Reginleif yanked her forward and locked her in a bear hug.

Wildman, still groggy, used the chaos to stumble back to the altar. He snatched the Nazi Luger and took aim at Reginleif.

He fired once, twice. The first shot hit her shoulder, tore out a chunk of flesh, but she didn’t even flinch. The second grazed her cheek, leaving a line of blood.

Reginleif roared and hurled Dottie at Wildman. The two collided, tumbling down the steps.

Metallgeist saw his opening. He lunged, grabbing the Megingjörð by the tail end. Reginleif and Metallgeist tugged, locked in a wrestling match neither had ever trained for.

Zill knew what he had to do.

He grabbed the chain from the floor—the one Dottie had used as a weapon—and looped it around Reginleif’s waist. With a grunt, he yanked backward, using every inch of leverage.

Bradley, catching on, threw his own weight into the effort. Together, they pulled Reginleif off-balance. Metallgeist twisted the belt free and held it high, victorious.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved.

Then Zill tackled Metallgeist, driving him to the stone. The two rolled, fighting for control. Metallgeist got his hands around Zill’s neck, squeezing with inhuman strength. Zill saw stars, the edges of the world going black.

Bradley dove in, biting Metallgeist’s arm. The doctor yelped, let go. Dottie, her face a mess, crawled over and clawed at Metallgeist’s eyes.

Reginleif tried to stand, but Wildman, now back in the game, tackled her around the waist. He locked the chain tight, pinning her arms.

“Do it, Zill!” Wildman yelled.

Zill grabbed the Megingjörð, braced his knee on Metallgeist’s chest, and wrenched the belt free.

He held it for a second, feeling the weight, the power.

Then he looked at Reginleif, at the Nazis, at his own broken team.

He tossed the belt to Bradley. “Champ’s yours,” Zill gasped.

Bradley caught it, wrapped it around his own waist, and held his arms high.

For a second, the cave was silent.

Then, above, a rumble—the ceiling, starting to go.

The fight wasn’t over, but for a heartbeat, the world belonged to the Brigade.

And to the show, as always.

Jose Rivera ducked a flying knee, rolled sideways, and came up eye-to-eye with Der Leiter. The commander’s mask was dead black, the lenses dark, but the way he moved—quick, controlled, never wasting a twitch—felt more like a wrestler than a soldier. Rivera recognized it instantly.

Rivera circled, hands open, knees bent, and touched two fingers to the brim of an invisible hat — respect, from one professional to another. The brawl raged around them, but it was noise now, part of the arena. He only saw the man in front of him.

Der Leiter didn’t answer. Instead, he feinted left, then shot in with a palm strike that nearly caught Rivera on the chin. Rivera twisted, caught the arm, tried for a wristlock. Der Leiter reversed, slammed Rivera’s hand into a nerve cluster just below the elbow. Rivera’s fingers went numb.

They broke apart, reset. Der Leiter tilted his head, just a hair. It was a wrestler’s tell—respect.

Rivera flicked his own head, then dove in. He caught Der Leiter in a leg sweep, but the man went with it, landing in a sprawl. Rivera tried to float over into a headlock, but Der Leiter turtled up, rolled, and came up behind him. A kick to the kidneys, not hard, but precise, then a suplex that would have made Zill cheer.

Rivera landed flat, air gone. He rolled to his feet and, still winded, touched two gloved fingers to his brow — not bad.

Der Leiter stalked him, one hand up, the other flexing like a talon. Rivera darted forward, tried a flying armbar. The two went down in a tangle. Der Leiter slipped out, faster than a snake, and locked on a rear naked choke.

Rivera worked the angles, got his chin tucked just in time. Who ARE you, he thought wildly. Nothing about the man was German.

Der Leiter didn’t reply, just squeezed.

Rivera slammed his heel into the stone, bridging up and over. The move popped the lock, and they scrambled. Both were on their feet in a heartbeat, circling again.

It was perfect. Beautiful. For a second, Rivera forgot about the death, the guns, the legends. It was just the mat.

Then Der Leiter jabbed a finger at Rivera’s chest, right at the eagle painted over his heart.

“El Aguila de la Muerte,” he said, voice flat, inflection off.

Rivera froze. Nobody here should know that name.

Der Leiter reached up, slow, and unbuckled the gas mask. The face underneath was not German at all. The skin was old and leathery, a net of scars running down from temple to chin. The mouth smiled, but the eyes were grave. On the left cheek, a dragon tattoo writhed, inked in blue-black.

Rivera’s jaw dropped behind his own mask, and his lips shaped a name without a sound. Tokage. The dead legend of Japan.

“Eien no Tokage,” said the man. He bowed, formal. “For you, there is always one more round.”

They rushed at each other, hands and legs a blur. Rivera tried for a hurricanrana—Tokage blocked it, used Rivera’s momentum to whip him into the wall. Rivera bounced, flipped, came down hard on his bad ankle. Pain shot up his leg, but he ignored it.

Tokage circled, never hurrying. “Your sensei taught you well. But not enough.”

Rivera jabbed a finger at him, then swept it out toward the dark — you left. The accusation needed no voice.

Tokage’s face didn’t change, but he came in faster now, working Rivera’s arms, battering at his defenses. Rivera countered as best he could, but every move was met, every feint punished. He was losing, and he knew it.

They moved, step by step, toward the mural wall—the one painted with Valkyries and monsters, with the bottomless pit right below. Each exchange was more desperate, more furious. Rivera tried everything: judo trips, lucha aerials, straight-up boxing. Tokage handled it all, and with every pass, Rivera got closer to the edge.

At the last second, Rivera saw it: Tokage was going to throw him in. The old man locked on a gutwrench, lifted, and started to pivot. Rivera fought like a rat, biting, clawing, anything to break free.

“Honor demands a fall,” Tokage whispered in his ear.

Rivera answered the only way he had left — with his legs.

He twisted, wriggled his legs up, and wrapped them around Tokage’s head. In one desperate spin, he hit a tornado headscissors. The torque caught Tokage off-balance, and the two of them spun together, locked like dancers.

They tumbled over the edge.

Down, down, into the dark.

The last thing Rivera saw was the old man’s eyes, not angry or smug, just tired.

Then they vanished into the nothing below.

Above, the war raged on. The Valkyries were losing ground, cut down by the steady, disciplined fire of the Eisen Verfolger. The stone ran slick with blood and water, arrows and shells strewn everywhere. Reginleif fought on, but even gods could bleed.

And somewhere deep in the pit, two legends were still falling, still locked together, still unwilling to let go.

For a moment after the two legends went over the edge, everything stopped. Even the Eisen Verfolger. Dottie reached the lip first and looked down into a dark that gave back nothing at all — no splash, no cry, no bottom. For once in her life, she said nothing. The Eyes of Thunder lowered their bows without being told, and the grotto stood silent as a chapel.

It was Metallgeist who broke the hush, because of course it was.

Dr. Viktor Metallgeist clung to the golden Megingjörð like a drowning man to a plank, the gold of the belt smeared with the blood of his own men and at least three Valkyries. Every foot closer to the exit, the more the world fell apart behind him.

“Suppress!” he screamed in English, and the Eisen Verfolger fanned out, spraying bullets into anything that moved in the haze. Valkyries in furs and piecemeal armor dropped, some sliding off the ledges into the icy pools below, others sprawled out on the stone and not moving again.

Dottie Betts, half her face painted in someone else’s blood, hobbled toward the doctor, swinging her leg like she was knocking in fenceposts. She caught one of the Nazis just below the knee, shattered it backward, then ducked as a bullet took the sleeve off her jacket. She flung herself behind a fallen column, laughing like a lunatic.

Bradley was next—he leaped across the chaos, championship belt clattering at his waist, and tackled Metallgeist at the base of the altar. “You want a show? I’ll give you a show!” Bradley yelled, and clawed at the doctor’s throat.

Metallgeist didn’t waste time. He drew a blade, slashed at Bradley’s arm, and kicked him off. Two of the Verfolger grabbed Bradley, hauled him up, and slammed his head into the altar for good measure. Bradley didn’t stop smiling, even when blood sheeted down his eye and over the bridge of his nose.

Zill and Wildman made their last stand at the far end of the cave. Zill’s leg barely worked, but he used it, limping through the fire and dragging a Valkyrie spear behind him. Wildman was raw meat, painted in cuts and bruises, but he moved with a weird energy, all momentum, taking punches and giving better. Together, they pinned a cluster of Nazis, kept them from flanking the rest of the group.

But the numbers were wrong. Too many dead, too many on the ground. The Eyes of Thunder, once thirty strong, were down to a battered handful. Most of them limped or crawled. Reginleif herself had an arrow through the meat of her arm, but she stood at the center, face cold as glacier ice.

Metallgeist saw it all and made his call. “We have what we came for!” he barked. “Get out!”

The Verfolger closed ranks around him, firing in short, tight bursts as they retreated toward the waterfall entrance. Each shot sent a Valkyrie or Brigade member diving for cover. The Nazis advanced, tight and perfect, not a single man out of place.

“Don’t let them go!” Dottie screamed, and tried to launch herself after them. Her bad leg buckled, sent her skidding across the stone. She spat at the ground, then at her own luck.

Wildman pulled Zill behind a fallen boulder, chest heaving. “We can’t stop them,” Wildman said. “Not like this.”

Zill gripped his spear, anger shaking his hands. “We can’t let them win.”

The waterfall entrance, where the Nazis made their push, was already turning to chaos. Shards of ice and rock rained down from above as the retreating squad threw charges against the stone, collapsing the way behind them as they ran.

Metallgeist went last. He paused at the edge, turned back, and locked eyes with Zill. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Then he vanished into the cold blue light of the falls, the rest of his men following.

The world shuddered. A shockwave slammed through the cavern as the explosives went, and a chunk of the ceiling peeled away, sending a white avalanche down into the pools. The sound rolled through the tunnels for a solid minute.

After, there was just the hiss of water and the clink of bullet casings rolling to a stop.

For a second, nobody moved.

Then Zill heaved himself up, found Bradley bleeding but upright. He slapped Bradley’s face, once, twice. “You in there?” he said.

Bradley grinned, pink teeth. “I don’t know where I am, but yeah.”

Dottie limped over, holding her prosthetic like a club. She tried to fix it to the stump, but it was bent from the fighting. “Piece of garbage,” she muttered, then used it as a cane instead.

Wildman checked the bodies, moving from Valkyrie to Valkyrie, closing their eyes where he found them. He didn’t say a word.

Reginleif gathered the last of her warriors. There were five left, none unscathed. She looked at Zill, at the rest of the Brigade, and at the waterfall—now a hole, pouring blue light onto the shattered stone.

Bradley staggered to the pit at the center of the room, the one where Rivera and Tokage had vanished. He peered in, blood dripping off his nose.

“You see them?” Zill asked, coming up behind.

Bradley shook his head. “Gone. Both of them.”

He wiped his mouth, then looked at Zill. “You know he saved the world just now? Or at least us.”

Zill nodded, didn’t trust himself to say anything.

Behind them, Reginleif approached. She moved stiff, every inch an effort. “You have lost,” she said. “The Nazis take the belt, and with it, the strength of gods.”

Zill, not caring about titles anymore, stared back. “Is there another way out?”

Reginleif pointed. “The upper tunnels. They will be crawling with death, but perhaps less so than the one the enemy now holds.”

Wildman limped over, bandaging his arm with a strip of Valkyrie fur. “They won’t stop,” he said. “You know that, right? Metallgeist will use the belt.”

Dottie thumped her cane. “Then we go after him. We take it back.”

For the first time, Reginleif almost smiled. “Warriors die. That is the way of things. But you are not warriors. You are something stranger. You may live.”

Bradley barked a laugh, winced at the pain. “Can we get a bandage first? Or a medic? Or at least a drink?”

Reginleif ignored him. She turned to her women, muttered words in Old Norse, and they fanned out to search for survivors.

Dottie slumped next to Zill. “Hell of a finish, huh?”

Zill said nothing.

He stared at the falls, at the world beyond, at the echo of what had just happened. They were alive, but that was all.

Somewhere, far above, a Nazi superman now wore the Megingjörð. It was a problem for tomorrow.

For today, there was only the battered Brigade, the ruins of the old gods, and the hollow sound of applause ringing in the back of Zill’s mind.

The show always went on.

Even when the heroes lost.