But there was a vast difference between training bouts and fighting in earnest for one’s life. He’d done almost none of the latter, and what sane person would want to engage a foe as terrible as a frost giant at close quarters?
Still, it was unthinkable to hang back while Sif and his other comrades risked themselves, and he only hesitated for an instant. Then he dropped his bow, drew the twohanded sword, and bellowed “Vanaheim,” the war cry of his native realm, to banish fear and send him charging into the fray.
He and Sif hacked at an enormous foot clad in a goatskin shoe tied at the ankle. Their swords sliced through the covering, and the frost giant roared. The Jotun jumped back from his foes, small as mice to him, and swung his club straight down.
Heimdall and Sif dashed between the Jotun’s legs, and the club splashed up snow and jolted the ground behind them. They cut at the same foot they’d already bloodied, and the giant stumbled away.
As the creature struggled to regain his balance, Heimdall cast about for the frost giant with the gold and blue-gem ornaments. He didn’t want to engage the Jotun leader, who might well be the fiercest of them all, but perhaps that offered the best hope of the Asgardians surviving the ambush. Sneering as he advanced, the creature swung a war club studded with sharp pieces of flint like a farmer using a scythe and reaped an Asgardian life with every strike.
“That one!” Heimdall said, dashing toward the leader.
“The other one–” Sif began. She likely meant to say the other wasn’t dead or incapacitated, and they turned their backs on him at their peril. But when it was clear her brother wasn’t stopping to listen, he heard her running after him.
They came up behind the leader and attacked a blue-skinned leg. The frost giant picked up his foot and stamped. They dodged out from underneath and kept on cutting.
Despite the thick leather of the frost giant’s calfskin boot, Sif’s broadsword slashed deep. When she yanked it out of the wound, blood spurted across the snow. The Jotun leader screamed and fell to his hands and knees.
“Retreat!” Ivar shouted, and he and his surviving warriors turned and ran.
One man fell behind immediately. A blow from a giant’s maul or hammer had bloodied but somehow not killed him. Discerning his plight, Sif dashed back and, using her Asgardian strength, picked him up and carried him.
After a time, Heimdall risked another glance backward. The frost giants weren’t pursuing yet. When their leader fell, lamed, it had balked them.
But he and Sif hadn’t killed the towering creature, and he had little doubt their Jotun foes would take up the chase soon enough. To his relief, though, the Asgardians soon came to a thick stand of pines and gray alders growing on the hillside to the right. The woods would slow them, but they’d hinder enormous creatures like frost giants even more.
Plainly thinking the same, Ivar changed course. “Up the hill!” he shouted.
The ploy worked as Heimdall had hoped. As he and his comrades raced through the forest, the crashing and bellowing attendant upon the Jotuns’ pursuit grew fainter and fainter. Around dusk, it fell silent entirely.
Two
Half of Ivar’s command survived, but the slaughter of the other half led to the company returning to the Realm Eternal’s capital city, likewise known as Asgard, there either to fill its ranks with new recruits or combine with another band of warriors as his superiors deemed expedient.
Though he recognized the practical reason for it, Heimdall hadn’t wanted to return. He’d always been determined to do his utmost to defend Asgard, for the sake of his people and to make his family proud, and that determination had only strengthened now that he was grieving for so many comrades, warriors he’d come to know well.
That grief was fed in turn by guilt. What if he’d communicated his misgivings to Captain Ivar sooner? Perhaps everyone would still be alive.
Once she wormed the cause of his brooding out of him, Sif told him he was being ridiculous. He’d noticed what no one else had, and if he hadn’t called out when he did, the entire patrol would have perished. He should be proud.
He wasn’t, though, and when Sif thought no one was looking, he sometimes saw a mournful cast to her countenance and a slump to her shoulders that revealed she felt the loss of their fellows more keenly than she liked to let on.
Even so, however, it seemed to him that she was better able to accept the deaths as an inevitable consequence of war and put them behind her. It might be one more indication that she was better suited to a warrior’s life than he was.
In any case, on the march back she’d argued that they’d been in the field for months and believed he could be forgiven a period of rest and relaxation however grim the circumstances providing the opportunity. Ultimately, somewhat persuaded, he’d resolved to enjoy his sojourn to the best of his ability.
Sadly, conditions in the city made it impossible to forget the war raging in the provinces. Perpetual summer prevailed here – so far, anyway – and purple saxifrage, blue speedwell, and white mouse-ear bloomed in the many parks and gardens. The golden spires and palaces gleamed as splendidly as ever. But large portions of the city were given over to military encampments. Builders were busy erecting new fortifications, artisans were fashioning new catapults, and the streets echoed with the clangor of swordsmiths laboring at their forges. More disheartening still were the hospital tents stinking of blood, sweat, and fever, and the haggard refugee families begging and sleeping in the streets.
Sitting across from Sif in a tavern crowded with other warriors – many sporting bandages, slings, and crutches – a flagon of beer in his hand, Heimdall said what seemed obvious to him. “We’re losing.”
“Not so loud!” his sister replied, glancing around at the occupants of the nearer tables. When it seemed clear no one had overheard, she glowered at Heimdall. “You’re liable to end up in a brawl, and I might not be inclined to stand with you.”
Heimdall sighed. “You know I’m not impugning anyone’s courage or prowess. The problem – well, one of the problems – is that the frost giants are fighting differently. The ambush they sprang on our patrol was just one small example. According to the sagas and chronicles, there was a time when they just came straight at us with nothing in the way of strategy and only the crudest tactics. Now it’s different.” It sometimes seemed to him that the Asgardian side might have benefited from a similar infusion of craftiness, but that was something he wouldn’t say aloud. It would feel disloyal and likely annoy Sif more than what he’d said already.
“We’ll beat them anyway.” Sif took a drink from her flagon and wiped foam from her upper lip. “We always do.”
“Always only holds until it doesn’t. I wish the All-Father would wake. He’d know how to win the war. He might even be able to break the connection between Asgard and Jotunheim.”
Asgard and Jotunheim were two of the Nine Worlds hung on Yggdrasil, the World Tree, but their relative positioning was more complicated than that fact might imply. Sometimes it took magic to journey from one to the other, but there were also conjunctions when one linked with the other as though they were simply two adjacent kingdoms on a continent. Such a conjunction currently existed between Asgard and Jotunheim, and this fusion, combined with Odin’s protracted slumber and the giants’ newfound cleverness, resulted in a situation as disadvantageous to Asgard as Heimdall could readily imagine.
Sif nodded to indicate that on this point at least she and her brother were in accord. “I’m sure he’ll wake soon,” she said.
Heimdall felt a pang of anger, although he wasn’t sure at who or what. Sif’s declaration of blind faith, perhaps. “Are you?” he asked. “In times past, the Odinsleep lasted a week, always. This time it’s lasted months.”
Sif snorted. “You’re quite the expert, considering you’d never even set foot in Asgard until a few months ago.”
She was of course right. He’d
grown up in Vanaheim prior to pledging his sword to the legions of Asgard. Still, he wasn’t willing to let the matter drop. “I read books,” Heimdall said. “I talk to people.”
“In short,” Sif said, “you think too much, and that’s always been your problem. The All-Father will wake when he wakes. There’s nothing you can do to speed the process along.”
Heimdall frowned. He’d actually had an idea about that. It was an idea he’d pushed away several times as possibly foolish and certainly above his station It kept coming back, though, and now he was experiencing something he’d occasionally experienced when he and Sif were growing up. Someone else’s obvious belief that he’d be a fool to proceed with a certain notion fed a stubborn desire to try it out. “Maybe there is,” he said.
Three
Heimdall was having second thoughts, though – eleventh or twelfth thoughts, really – three days later when the royal guards opened the tall double doors for him to make the long walk down the central aisle of the throne room. He’d been in that enormous space with its high vaulted ceilings twice before, but only as a member of Captain Ivar’s company on ceremonial occasions. He now found it was one thing to stand silent in the ranks and something else entirely to approach the ruler of Asgard alone and on his own initiative.
While Odin slept, that ruler was Frigga Freyrdottir, his wife, governing as regent in his stead. A tall, blue-eyed woman with strong features and white hair piled high on her head, she’d left most of her jewelry in the coffers and wore a pale-yellow gown less splendid than those Heimdall had seen her in previously on state occasions. She was dressed to work, to direct the affairs of a land at war.
The boil of activity around the dais on which she sat, her husband’s empty high-backed golden throne beside her, attested to the need for such direction. Advisors offered their counsel. Warriors hurried in and out, making reports and carrying away orders. Clerks scratched away with quill pens, recording the queen’s decrees. Either meek and nervous or shifting from foot to foot with impatience, commoners waited until she could spare a moment to hear their petitions.
Heimdall wondered if he shouldn’t just turn around and slip out the way he’d come in. Frigga was manifestly extremely busy, and she was the Queen of the Gods. He too was a god, but only as per the loose usage giants, dwarves, elves, and mortal men accorded to any inhabitant of Asgard. Whereas she was truly a deity, one of a handful of people either born with extraordinary powers, invested with them by Odin, or both. Who was he, a common warrior – a recent addition to the ranks, no less – to take up any of such a personage’s time?
But, having successfully requested an audience, he couldn’t just run away without looking ridiculous and without thoroughly annoying Captain Ivar, whose recommendation had helped him gain entry here. Besides, what if he truly was seeing something important that no one else had seen? If so, wasn’t it his duty to speak up?
His resolve somewhat bolstered by such thoughts, he started toward the throne. His mouth was dry, though, and the magnificence of all he saw before him fed the fear that he was presumptuously intruding where he didn’t belong. He had of course cleaned up thoroughly and put on his best clothes for a royal audience, but suspected he must still look drab – if not lowly – compared to all the courtiers in their splendid attire.
It was truly too late to back out now, though. He would have looked and felt a fool had he turned and fled while still back by the doors, but perhaps few people would have noticed. He was now far enough into the room that everybody would. Perhaps that was the reflection that gave him the final bit of courage required to walk on to the foot of the dais, drop to one knee, and wait to be recognized.
After the queen finished conferring with a minister, he was. “Rise,” Frigga said. She glanced at a list resting along with a cup of water on a little table beside her. “Heimdall, is it?”
He swallowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Of the Vanir.”
“Yes.”
Frigga smiled. “It’s always nice to meet a kinsman.” She too was of the Vanir, before her marriage to Odin sealed the treaty ending the all-but-forgotten war with the Aesir of Asgard. “Captain Ivar credits you with preventing the calamity that befell his company from being even worse.”
Heimdall felt embarrassed. Whatever he’d accomplished, it didn’t seem like much compared to the high matters of state that were Frigga’s concern. “There was a moment when I may have said something helpful, Your Majesty. But it was all of us working and fighting together that kept the frost giants from killing us all.”
“Well, Ivar made more of it than that, and that’s why I granted you an audience. But you see how hectic it is this afternoon.” The queen waved her hand at the waiting ministers, warriors, clerks, and petitioners. “Forgive me if I ask you to come straight to the point.”
“Well…” Heimdall began. He’d planned what he meant to say, but now that the moment had come, he felt nervous and tongue-tied nonetheless. “The Odinsleep has lasted months longer than ever before.”
Frigga sighed. “I have noticed.”
“Odin’s warriors need his leadership.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Heimdall felt a surge of anxiety that they might give offense. “Even though Your Majesty is doing a fine job!”
“I’m also aware that I am not my husband,” Frigga said. “I won’t have you thrown in a dungeon for saying so. I will ask if this parade of the obvious is going anywhere.”
“It is, Your Majesty. I mean, I hope it is. Has anyone considered that the All-Father’s slumber may have been unnaturally prolonged?”
Frigga frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, by sorcery, perhaps?”
The queen looked to the group of advisors. “Lady Amora. Have you been listening?”
A woman dressed all in patterned green leather stepped forth. A headdress confined her blond hair, and high boots sheathed her legs. She smiled a condescending smile. “I have, Your Majesty, and I assure you, this young man is being foolish. Odin is the mightiest of all. No one could cast a spell on him.”
That, Heimdall thought, should be that. Lady Amora was a mage, he wasn’t, and now that she’d said his idea was without merit, he should accept her judgment and escape this place where he had no business as soon as possible.
But it wasn’t quite that simple. Once a notion occurred to him, he’d always had trouble letting go of it until he’d tested it thoroughly, even when his continued questioning – occasionally arguing – irritated others. And thus, against his own better judgment, he said, “No one could cast a spell on Odin when he was awake. But isn’t he more vulnerable during the Odinsleep? Isn’t that why he shuts himself away? What if he was already asleep, and then the enemy struck?”
“Even assuming that would make any difference,” Amora said, “no one can get into the chamber. That’s the point of the defenses.”
Frigga spread her hands. “Lady Amora knows whereof she speaks. She’s one of the wisest mages in Asgard.”
That, Heimdall knew, was certainly her reputation. As he understood it, Lady Amora had studied magic with Karnilla the Norn Queen and then with other sorcerers throughout the Realm Eternal and beyond.
Still, wasn’t there always more for any person to learn about any subject? Presumably that even included witchcraft, which meant there might conceivably be a warlock somewhere who knew tricks Amora didn’t.
“I bow to Lady Amora’s wisdom,” he said. “Truly. Still, might it not be a good idea if someone entered the vault and checked? That way, Your Majesty would know for certain.”
Frigga’s blue eyes widened in shock. “Odin expressly commanded that no one is to enter under any circumstances. Disobedience would constitute high treason.”
“Even if Your Majesty commanded it? Until someone does go in, can we even be sure the All-Father is still alive?”
“Young man!” Fr
igga snapped. “Before, I warned you to avoid treason. That remark was little short of blasphemy. Odin is not only our king but also a primordial being. He and his brothers shaped the Nine Worlds. Which is to say, he, his will, and his mysteries are beyond you. Stick to your place and your proper concerns.”
Four
Despite Sif’s stated intent to relax and enjoy her time in the city of Asgard, it hadn’t taken her long to grow restless and resume practicing her martial skills. It was a sign, perhaps, that despite the air of confidence she put on, underneath she was as worried about the progress of the war as Heimdall was. This afternoon, on the day following his audience with the queen, she’d sought out an archery range, and, for want of anything better to do, he’d tagged along with her.
She nocked, drew, and loosed in one smooth motion, seemingly without taking the time to aim. Like the ones before it, her arrow, with its red and white fletchings, arced at the target far down the range and plunged into the bull’s-eye. “Stick to your place and your proper concerns,” she said. “Excellent advice.”
There were unopened crates of arrows behind the shooting line, and Heimdall had appropriated one to use as a seat. To sit on and sulk, as Sif had put it. Unfairly, he thought. Or somewhat unfairly, at any rate. He realized that in the wake of the royal audience, he was experiencing an untidy tangle of emotions that included worry, disappointment, and frustration. A little sulking might be somewhere in the mix. “I thought my own sister would be more sympathetic,” he said.
“I can’t imagine why,” Sif said, picking up another shaft. Farther down the line, two other archers clasped hands to seal some sort of wager. “If you’d told me you were going to bother the queen – the queen! – with your wild notions, I would have done my best to talk you out of it.”
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