Leshy

"Why are you all looking at me?"

Yevgeny Napokhov lifted his wig, rubbed the bald head beneath it, and smiled at the people around him. Then he clamped his mouth shut.

Want me to take the fall? Not a chance.

"Ladies and gentlemen." Fyodorovich raised his voice when none of the experts spoke. "I know you're all leading experts in this field, so think carefully. Is there any way you can help us capture Jormungandr? Does it have a particular weakness? Is there a weapon that can counter it?"

When he finished, Fyodorovich added pointedly, "Bear Nation's entire leadership is watching this matter. I hope you'll all cooperate."

Jormungandr had destroyed the Kirov Cruiser, and his friend Kudryash had escaped by jumping into the sea. Those events had left Fyodorovich under mounting pressure, and he was beginning to feel overwhelmed.

He did not dare berate the pillars of scientific research, but he could certainly put pressure on a few folklore experts.

Cooperate?

You think I don't want to?

We've spent our lives studying Norse Mythology. We know its origins inside out, but we study the history and culture behind those myths, not how to fight gods. That's not our field!

When no one volunteered an answer, Fyodorovich singled someone out. "Yevgeny Napokhov, you're an expert in this field. What do you suggest?"

Put on the spot by the major general, Yevgeny Napokhov could hardly say what he was thinking: I really don't know how to capture Jormungandr.

Seeing no way out, he steeled himself and said, "According to Odin's prophecy in Norse Mythology, Jormungandr and Thor will kill each other during Ragnarok."

Fyodorovich nodded. It was useless information, but at least someone was talking. That was a good sign.

"Thor is the god of thunder. His courage and prowess are unmatched by any god. He has often been called the Zeus of Norse Mythology, and at one point his standing even surpassed Odin's. In the Rusala Temple, Thor's statue stood at the very center, flanked by statues of Odin and Freyr."

Recalling a paper he had published, Yevgeny Napokhov continued, "In the Middle Ages and earlier, people worshipped gods tied closely to agriculture far more than other gods."

"Uka-no-Mitama in Eastern Isles mythology, Freyr in Norse mythology, Demeter in Olympian mythology, Osiris, the god of the underworld and agriculture in Egyptian mythology... Their statues generally held more prominent places in temples than their standing within their respective mythologies would suggest."

"The fact that Thor held a more prominent place in the temple than Odin and Freyr shows that the Norsemen's fervent reverence for martial prowess exceeded even their reverence for divine authority and agriculture."

Fyodorovich nodded earnestly. The man was an expert, all right. His understanding of mythology ran deep. "So how do we deal with Jormungandr?"

Yevgeny Napokhov, who had been speaking so fluently, suddenly faltered. After a moment's thought, he said, "My main area of research is Odin. I haven't studied Jormungandr much. Petrov knows far more about it. You can ask him."

Fyodorovich nodded gravely. "Is Petrov here?"

Yevgeny Napokhov, you bald old bitch. You'd throw a friend to the wolves?

Petrov cursed him inwardly, but his expression turned serious. "As a famous enemy of the gods in Norse Mythology, Jormungandr has no obvious weakness. But if you want to capture it, you don't necessarily need to exploit a weakness. There's a better way."

"A better way?" Fyodorovich's eyes lit up. He had consulted the folklore experts on the off chance they might help. He had not expected to get anything useful.

Petrov took on an enigmatic air. "You could ask someone with supernatural powers to help capture Jormungandr."

"Someone with supernatural powers? Mr. Petrov, where did you meet this person? What's his name? Where does he live?" Fyodorovich's face instantly turned stern. "Don't hold anything back. Tell me everything. This is important."

He knew the higher-ups had been searching for people with supernatural powers without making much progress. He had not expected a lead to surface here.

Petrov looked as though he were searching his memory. "I met him sixteen years ago, while I was conducting fieldwork in the Komi Primeval Forest. I was taking photographs when I noticed something strange. As I walked through the forest, branches kept catching my clothes and pulling them off for no apparent reason."

"It was winter, and I was wearing a down jacket."

"Was it Leshy?"

Fyodorovich immediately thought of Leshy, the forest spirit from Slavic mythology.

Legend said that Forest Demon Leshy lived deep in the woods and often used magic to disguise himself as a tree root. He delighted in playing tricks on travelers, silently stripping off their clothes and hanging them from branches.

"Yes, it was him." Petrov nodded emphatically.

Beside him, Yevgeny Napokhov gave him a strange look.

Petrov, that drunk who spills everything after a few drinks, met Forest Demon Leshy? How come he's never mentioned it?

"The forest was very quiet, and I couldn't shake a feeling of unease. I tried to run out, but no matter which way I went, I ended up back where I'd started."

"What happened next?" Fyodorovich asked in a low voice.

"Then I met a man." Petrov tried to recall the man driving the Sun Chariot in a video he had watched online. He altered the description before speaking. "He wore a black coat and had dazzling blond hair. His gray-blue eyes were sharp, and there was stubble on his face."

"When he saw me, he said nothing. He simply reached down and pulled a man out of the ground. The man had green skin, yellow eyes, a short body, an aged face, and a long white beard."

"He said Forest Demon Leshy was the reason I couldn't leave the forest. He told me I could go now and warned me not to tell anyone what had happened there."

As Fyodorovich listened, he suddenly recalled an intelligence report about the man who had helped Iceland drive off Jormungandr. The description differed somewhat, but Petrov had met him sixteen years ago. It was only natural that his appearance might have changed.

So he'd been to Russia—and he'd helped a Slav.