Soul Music

what was, Susan realized with horror, an early breakfast. Soft bits, sunny-side up.
    “You’d better go and look for your lad,” said the raven. “Otherwise he’ll miss his ride.”
    “What ride?”
    The eyes orbited again.
    “You ever learn mythology?” it said.
    “No. Miss Butts says it’s just made-up stories with little literary content.”
    “Ah. Deary me. Can’t have that, can we. Oh, well. You’ll soon see. Must rush.” The raven leapt into the air. “I generally try to get a seat near the head.”
    “What will I—?”
    And then someone started to sing. The voice swooped out of the sky like a sudden wind. It was a rather good mezzo-soprano—
    “Hohotojo! Hotojoho!”
    And after it, mounted on a horse almost as fine as Binky, was a woman. Very definitely. A lot of woman. She was as much woman as you could get in one place without getting two women. She was dressed in chain mail, a shiny 46 D-cup breastplate, and a helmet with horns on it.
    The assembled dead cheered as the horse cantered in for a landing. There were six other singing horsewomen plunging out of the sky behind it.
    “Isn’t it always the same,” said the raven, flapping away. “You can wait hours without seeing one and then you get seven all at once.”
    Susan watched in astonishment as each rider picked up a dead warrior and galloped up into the sky again. They disappeared abruptly a few hundred meters up and reappeared again almost instantly for a fresh passenger. Soon there was a busy shuttle service operating.
    After a minute or two one of the women trotted her horse over to Susan, and pulled a scroll of parchment out of her breastplate.
    “What ho! Says here Volf,” she said, in the brisk voice used by people on horseback when addressing mere pedestrians. “Volf the Lucky…?”
    “Er. I don’t know—I MEAN, I DON’T KNOW WHICH ONE HE IS,” said Susan helplessly.
    The helmeted woman leaned forward. There was something rather familiar about her.
    “Are you new?”
    “Yes. I mean, YES.”
    “Well, don’t stand there like a big girl’s blouse. Jolly well go and fetch him, there’s a good sport.”
    Susan looked around wildly, and saw him at last. He wasn’t very far away. A youngish man, outlined in flickering pale blue, was visible among the fallen.
    Susan hurried over, scythe at the ready. There was a blue line connecting the warrior to his former body.
    SQUEAK! shouted the Death of Rats, jumping up and down and making suggestive motions.
    “Left hand thumb up, right hand bent at the wrist, give it some wellie!” shouted the horned woman.
    Susan swung the scythe. The line snapped.
    “What happened?” said Volf. He looked down. “That’s me down there, isn’t it?” he said. He turned slowly. “And down there . And over there . And…”
    He looked at the horned female warrior and brightened up.
    “By Io!” he said. “It’s true? Valkyries will carry me off to the hall of Blind Io where there is perpetual feasting and drinking?”
    “Don’t, I mean DON’T ASK ME,” said Susan.
    The Valkyrie reached down and hauled the warrior across her saddle.
    “Just keep quiet, there’s a good chap,” she said. She stared thoughtfully at Susan.
    “Are you a soprano?” she said.
    “Pardon?”
    “Can you sing at all, gel? Only we could do with another soprano. Far too many mezzo-sopranos around these days.”
    “I’m not very musical, I’m sorry.”
    “Oh, well. Just a thought. Must be going.” She threw back her head. The mighty breastplate heaved. “Hohotojo!”
    The horse reared, and galloped into the sky. Before it reached the clouds it shrank to a gleaming pinpoint, which winked.
    “What,” said Susan, “was all that about?”
    There was a flurry of wings. The raven alighted on the head of the recently departed Volf.
    “Well, these guys believe that if you die in battle, some big fat singing horned women carry you off to a sort of giant feast hall where you gobble yourself silly for the rest of eternity,” said the raven. It belched genteeley. “Damn stupid idea, really.”
    “But it just happened!”
    “Still a daft idea.” The raven looked around at the stricken battlefield, empty now except for the fallen and the flocks of his fellow ravens. “What a waste,” he added. “I mean, just look at it all. Such a terrible waste.”
    “Yes!”
    “I mean, I’m near bursting and there’s hundreds of ’em untouched. I think I’ll see if I can have a doggie bag.”
    “They’re