Regin grumbled toward me: "Hey Tom, stop staring at the damn door. I'm just about to open it. Be careful. You know I overlook mistakes regarding the forbidden names — he won't. So keep an eye on the boy. I like the kid."
He turned around, raised his hand, and began mumbling in an old Nordic language. I couldn't understand a word; he was whispering so quietly it sounded like a stone reciting poetry — silent, cold, but strangely beautiful.
Meanwhile, I spoke to Heinrich. He was admiring the scenery, fascinated by the door just as I was.
"Listen here, Heinrich," I said. "Wotan is strict, and he can get really pissy, especially if you mention any Nordic name. So don't ever do that. And especially — and I can't say this clearer — don't mention the name of the hero of the Rhinegold saga. Understood?"
He looked at me with fear in his eyes. He seemed unsure and nervous, not wanting to make a mistake. But slowly, he nodded.
A loud crack echoed through the hall. The door began to open. Regin motioned for us to step inside. A bright light poured out, blinding us so we couldn't see the room beyond. We walked forward carefully.
Just as I passed Regin, he grabbed my arm, leaned close, and whispered through his dark goggles:
"Many strange things have happened in these factories lately. I think Wotan is slowly losing his patience regarding the Ring. Be careful, my friend."
I nodded and stepped into the bright room.
Inside, the space revealed itself — a dome rather than a room. Every wall was covered in Nordic paintings, runes, and symbols. At the far end stood a long mahogany table covered with luxurious food and alcohol. Behind it sat a very old man on a golden throne. A dirty rag covered one of his eyes. He was half bald, with thin hair and an unkempt beard. He wore a leathery apron and welder's gloves.
He spoke immediately, his voice old but surprisingly loud:
"Mr. Jaeger and Schröder. I was expecting you. Come forth, so we may speak eye to eye."
We approached. On the table lay two broken spears.
The old man stood. "You seek information about the murdered worker from my factory, is that right?"
"Yes," I answered. "Do you intend to help us?"
He stroked his beard. "No. You are a danger to my factory and my workers. Last time you were here, one was killed and two are still in the hospital. You should be glad I still allow you entrance."
He sat again and waved us away dismissively.
It was a stupid idea — but as Regin said, it was the only way. I placed my hand on the table and called Wotan out:
"Well, mighty Odin, we both know that worker was a cult member and got what he deserved. But if you want, I hereby challenge you to a round of flyting."
The room fell silent. Wotan, however, was amused.
"Well," he said, rising, "if this is your desire, I accept. If you win, you get your information. If you lose, you die on the spot — and your soul belongs to Wotan."
A roar shook the hall. Blinding light erupted around him. When it faded, a man in his sixties stood there, wearing a long hood. One golden eye gleamed; the eyepatch was gone, revealing an empty socket. In each hand he held a short spear, broken at the shaft. This was Wotan's true form.
He floated over the table until he hovered before me.
"Shall we begin? The rules of flyting are simple: a battle of rhyme. Insult your opponent — sharply, and in rhyme."
I began:
"Old god so mighty and high, but in the end I'll leave him to cry."
Wotan's eye immediately began to weep.
He answered:
"Mother and brother dead, left in the mud like moldy bread."
Behind me, the rotting corpses of my mother and brother appeared, crawling with maggots. I remembered what the other Heinrich had said about killing my brother — but I didn't lose hope.
I answered:
"My family might be no more, but at least my wife isn't a dirty whore. Sleeping with every man across the land — isn't it right, Wotan, my friend?"
His rage was instant. A hundred images of his wife with other men must have flashed before him. He slammed his spear on the floor and hissed:
"Let's end this. I am Wotan the good — I can smite you down where you stood. My wife is faithful, and your existence is painful. Let me release you from your life, for you insulted my wife. Die now, puny human — your existence is nothing but amusement."
My throat closed. I couldn't breathe. I fell to one knee. Darkness swallowed the world.
But then — a voice in the void:
"Gialo still needs you."
Suddenly my throat opened. I stood. Wotan looked shocked.
I used my chance:
"I might be small, but my heart for the innocent is tall. I won't die here — your vision isn't clear. You fear us men with your idiotic factory clan. One person broke your spear, so now you live in fear. Siegfried was his name — and forever he'll be your bane."
Wotan collapsed, reverting to his old-man form. Rage burned in his eyes.
"You dare mention his name in my presence, you little dipshit human? I should kill you on the spot for your arrogance!"
I smiled calmly.
"Well, you can't. I won the flyting. So you must pardon me — and answer my question."
Wotan stood, red with fury.
"You are right. The worker who was murdered… he was one of those searching for the Nibelungen Ring. He said he found something on his last voyage and wanted to speak to me. But he was killed."
I rubbed my chin. "And where was his last voyage?"
Wotan smirked.
"Club Faust. In Berlin. Best of luck."
I sighed. This was going to be a fun journey.
I turned to leave with Heinrich, but Wotan grabbed my arm. Something burned into my skin. I screamed. When I pulled away, a rune was seared into my flesh.
Wotan said, amused:
"Well, I can't have you searching for my Ring unsupervised. I'm sending Regin with you. This rune lets me keep an eye on you. Now kindly piss off."
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