Heracles' roving gaze took us all in, the god of strength's brow furrowing at me; he also shot Marcus a scrutinising look, as if unsure whether he had seen him before. Finally, his blue eyes settled on Iovan.

'Do I know you?' the god rumbled, his smile returning, though it was now tinged with a wary curiosity. Like when you see a mirror in a haunted house, and are unsure whether it's a real mirror, or the distorted reflection is a monster waiting to jump you.

God, sometimes I wished I was a vampire. That way, I'd turn off my reflection and, and never have to waste precious microseconds judging whether I'm looking at myself or not when rooting out shapeshifters.

'I know you.' Iovan hefted his namesake bludgeon over his broad shoulder. Aside from physique, height and choice in weapons, they appeared quite different. Heracles was clad like he was going to the Gigantomachy again, while Iovan looked like a shepherd, or an outlaw: loose white shirt and tight breeches, with dark green, scaled boots, and a wide-brimmed black hat, half-hiding his face in its shadows, so that only his bristly black moustache, and the fierce gleam in his dark eyes were seen. A thick woolen coat hung around his shoulders, supported b nothing, Maybe it just thought it looked too cool to fall off. 'They tell me my legend was shaped by yours. Reshaped Cerna and the mountains 'round it smashing the Corcoaia.' He smiled at Hercacles' questioning look. 'You might have called it a hydra, at a guess. Beat the damned thing until it got tired of growing new heads, then killed it.'

'Huh,' Heracles looked thoughtful. 'I should have tried that with mine. Maybe it would have worked. Or it might have grown so many heads, it would have become unable to lift its necks! Ah, how easy to slay it would have been then...'

'Sadly, you can't kill the monsters you've already killed.'

'Truer words have never been spoken, my friend...'

I could tell these two were going to get along famously. Judging by Tyr's amused look, he shared my thoughts. And, judging by Greuceanu's pursed lips as he ran a hand through his long, straight black hair, and Prîslea's twitchy smile as he shook his head, blond curls swaying, they also agreed. To their regret.

'But 'tis not the time to swap stories!' Heracles suddenly cried out, receiving a determined nod from Iovan. 'Nay, 'tis the time to make stories-history, in fact!' The god leapt to the top of Yggdrasil's root, landing easily several metres above Tyr, hefting his club. 'Know three hosts of heroes set out this day, but only one shall return victorious-us!' He stomped forward, leaning to look down at us-or, well, in the ispolin's eyes-mace also on his hip now, a hand on his knee. 'The first host is led by none other than the Third Lotus Prince! Odin is likely feasting Ne Zha and his companions in Asgard's golden halls right now, for that is where their search begins-aye, each host shall scour three worlds of the nine Odin and his brothers wrought. And, like those brothers three carved the giant's corpse into realms for life to flower or wither in, so we shall carve open this shadow of confusion that lies over everything. I said this strife ends now, and Heracles never lies. Let this be my thirteenth labour!'

As great as it was to get a pep speech from my favourite Greek hero, there was something to consider...

'Excuse me?' As lame as I sounded, at least I didn't raise my hand like I was in the class, and not the classes I used to teach, either. Heracles jerked his chin towards me, so I forged on. 'I assume you are to be the leader of our...host, then?'

'Assuming makes an ass out of you and me, revenant-but not this time! Aye, lead you Heracles shall, for he was once mightiest among men, and is now mighty among gods as well.'

As boastful as that sounded, I couldn't find a reason to contradict him, even if I had wanted to. He had accomplished the most, and most impressive, feats of anyone here. The experience alone...

'Then may I ask which realms we are to search?'

'You may.' Heracles stood up straight, stretching his arms behind him as he adopted a more relaxed posture. 'Ne Zha leads heroes from his homeland to the Island of Tin-their host is largest, and guided by the Thunderer, though greatness is a matter of judgement.' Heracles smiled to himself, before his eyes briefly darkened and he sighed. 'So many I would have liked to meet again...but, nay. May the fates be so that we can reunite in better, happier days. As friends, not suspicious rivals.'

He shook his head, and he momentary gloom that had come upon him as well. 'They shall search Asgard, Vanaheim and Alfheim, then return to the the golden kingdom if they are successful. Or, if they are not, wait there until we or the others need their help.' The fact Odin was kissing up to most of the other pantheons by giving their champions the easiest task was not spoken, but we all heard. Though, gods being gods, it was equally likely one of them would feel slighted at this underestimation of their chosen's ability and start Ragnarök earlier than expected, not that the Norns held much sway now.

'The Jaguar Twins lead the second host, and Baldr guides them.' He had started going exclusively by that after all the "balder than whom?" jokes. The jokers had stopped after realising mocking Thor's nearly as strong, nigh-invulnerable brother was bad for your health. 'I have heard rumours Camazotz pushed them forward so that they may be destroyed in this quest, but that is foolish talk! A god like him would never try to indirectly kill anyone.' Another shake of his head, and a laugh at the idea of that charming rascal Camazotz indirectly killing anyone. 'They are not mighty in power, compared to us-but they needn't be. They are to search bitter Niflheim, mountainous Jotunheim and teeming Midgard, and these tasks call for stealth and cunning, not might.' I suppressed a wistful sigh at the revelation we would not be going to Midgard. Life in the pantheons' Clusters fascinated the researchers of our "neutral" world, for only their worshippers left Earth for its counterparts under the gods. Was Midgard flat, as it has been depicted a few times? Or was it round, with the same continents as our world? The gods guarded such details jealously.

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'And us? We, my friends, have received the greatest honour Odin could provide! We shall prowl sunless Nidavellir, fiery Muspelheim, then dive into Hel itself in search of Mimir's head!'

Note to self: ancient heroes had different ideas of what "fun" and "being honoured" meant, compared to sane people.

***

'If I may speak...' I had the sensation Marcus was trying to scream over the wind lashing Nidavellir-Svartalheim, Sturlusson had called it-but his ghostly, always-echoing voice reached my ears as a whisper. Impossibly, it could still be heard, despite the wind and distance between us. 'Is our band of the band,' yes, Marc, keep feeding Tyr, I could practically hear him grinning. 'Not a little, how do the youths say...top-heavy?'

'It's my chest, isn't it?' I said in my best bitchy girl voice, then flitted over to Marc, trusting my arcane sense where my eyes, which could see through any shadow on Earth but were completely useless here, failed me. 'Are my tits too big for you, Flavius? Are you jealous? How could you call me 'top-heavy' here, in front of everyone!?'

'Ignore him,' the Roman hissed. 'He's insane.'

'No, I'm David!'

'David is right!" Heracles' booming bass almost sounded like an indoor voice in the choking darkness. "You are all too focused on your chests and arms! Why, a true warrior knows to value and trust every part of his body: his legs, his buttocks-'

'Sage advice, mighty one!' Marc said reverently, clearly as eager not to get into the buttocks-heh-as I was. 'But I meant more in the terms of our illustrious presence. Do you not outmatch everyone else here, even if we were to pool our might?'

'His arse doesn't hurt. You can stop kissing it,' Tyr muttered. If Heracles heard, or was offended, he did not give any sign. Instead, he answered the Legionary.

'You might think so, and rightly! The truth is, besides myself and honoured Tyr, none of you are beloved or valuable enough to the world that your losses would be mourned. Hence the most dangerous worlds being given to us.'

And, with that cheerfully grim pronouncement, we reached the cave entrance Greuceanu had argued must be somewhere on the mountain, unless the dwarfs swam through stone like fish through a river. Heracles was the first to enter.

We quickly discovered that, being sized for dwarfs, the mineshaft was short, tight and narrow, like the women who often walked it. So, as we worked the shaft, we bumped out heads dozens of times, and swore hundreds more at the critters that assaulted us. The dwarfs, or black elves, knew we were coming, but hadn't bothered to arrange a welcoming committee, a red carpet, or even a damn row of torches.

The ispolin had flipped head over heels thrice, and turned into a little man, small enough to ride in Prince Marko's cap. Even being covered by it, though, was not enough to silence him.

'I don't trust this place, your Highness,' the little giant said. 'Why keep it dark all the time? They are blacksmiths, they must work with light and heat.'

'That they do, my friend!' Even in the dark, I could picture Marko's fierce eyes darting wildly, looking for enemies when he couldn't even see his nose. 'They must be planning to waylay us, and take everything of worth-mark my words!'

'Heaven above,' Greuceanu muttered. 'They are not going to rob you just because they are black-' The sound of something small and furry hitting flesh, shrieking, and being slapped away. 'Elves. Lord take these bats...'

'I concur.' Prîslea's careful steps were supernaturally light. Even I could barely hear them. 'They might ask for hefty payments for their work, but it is always worthy.'

The shaft got smoother and smoother as we came to the end, growing larger and opening into a round, brightly-lit forge with no visible ceiling, only smoke in all colours of the rainbow that swirled and spun to form a kaleidoscopic cloud over our heads. The dwarfs barely glanced up from their work, but that was understandable. When I got all (metaphorically) sweaty handling my hammer, I couldn't be bothered with people either. One of them, working what looked like the bastard spawn of an anvil and a 3D printer, moulding a lump of twisting metal that seemed to devour light, looked at us over his shoulder, then at his project in disappointment, and put it aside.

Sindri smacked hands like baseball gloves together as he came forward to greet us, the top of his balding head barely reaching my waist, but his arms alone packing more muscle than I had in my whole body.

'Yes, I know,' he gestured at each of us, then at the room itself, and beyond. 'And I know. Let's get to work.'

***

Despite the dwarfs' senses being accustomed to their impossibly-dark home, they did not find any trace of Mimir's head, nor did us, even when I tapped into my arcane sense, expecting to spot what should have been an aetheric supernova.

I got the feeling Sindri believed we had crimped his people's style, as he glanced askance at us whenever he felt we weren't looking. We were back in the forge, and, despite it being as bright as you could get in this world, I felt just as blind as outside.

So did the others. Unsurprisingly, it was Prîslea and Marko who came up with an idea to-feel free to groan-lighten the atmosphere. To thank our hosts for the help, futile as it had been.

The hero launched into an enthusiastic account of his search for the golden apples, his claim to fame. About halfway through, at his fights with the zmei, though, he realised that, first, the dwarves were used to this kind of talk from their neighbours, so they saw it as boasting, and second, they weren't interested in the subject itself, either.

'Well,' he said, hands on his hips. 'I did say I'd brighten your day, didn't I?' And he flipped thrice, turning into a roaring flame, as he had during his fight with the fiercest zmeu brother, when they had fought as fires. The dwarfs stared blankly at him for a few seconds. Then, their stony facades cracked, lips twitching and eyes narrowing and brightening.

Seizing the chance like he seized his wolfskin cap every time it threatened to slip off, much to the protests of its newest occupant, Prince Marko leapt into the middle of the room, not even bothered by the fire pit that could turn steel into smoke. 'That he did! We said we would brighten your day, and for that, we must make light!'

And he launched into an account of his battles against the Turks, completely uncaring of whether or not it would be well received.

Shaking his head in amusement, Sindri turned to Heracles. 'Leave these jesters two here, would you? We would thank them for the farce...we are a grim people, as you might have noticed. And...we have a device in mind, that might help with your quest. But it will take time to make, and it will need to be tested once it is done. Surely they can remain for that?'

I wasn't sure I liked splitting up the gang, even for a good cause. 'So you're saying you'll need to test its mettle?'

Sindri's bemused smile reversed quicker than any boomerang. 'Get out.'

And with that gently-worded request, we left Nidavellir, heading for Muspellheim.