“And by all accounts, that’s true. But when I found myself facing the emissary, he didn’t look especially young, and it occurred to me, would his king really send a stripling to negotiate an alliance with the trolls? Then there were the skulls hanging around his neck. Delicate and detailed as they were, they didn’t look like frost giant carvings. Except for being tiny, they looked real.”
“So you put it all together and guessed he’d used magic to shrink down small enough to go into the tunnels.”
“Yes, and if I could separate him from the source of the enchantment – which I thought might be the gold medallion – and make him shoot up big again, he might end up too big for the cave, and that might crush and kill him.” He repressed a shiver to recall just how close the giant had come to killing him instead. “As it turned out, things worked out even better than I expected. The trolls panicked and ran instead of attacking me en masse. Now it’s your turn for a question. How did you show up just in time to help me?”
Sif shrugged. “When I realized you weren’t behind me any more, I turned back to look for you.”
“In that maze of tunnels,” he said. It seemed an all but impossible task, and he marveled that she’d succeeded.
She smiled. “Once in a while, brother – once in a great while – you do see something I miss. But you weren’t the only one with sense enough to memorize the map that troll scratched on the wall, and the giant and the trolls made plenty of noise to lead me to you. You’re welcome, by the way.”
He felt contrite. “Thank you. I’m grateful, truly. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before.”
She grinned. “I was only teasing. You don’t have to gush. Naturally I came back.”
“I didn’t know you would. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t. Recovering the head of Mimir is important, it’s the one thing that could restore your honor, and so I thought you might head on to Jotunheim alone.”
Her grin became a frown that told him she thought he was talking nonsense. “Yes, I’m a loyal Asgardian, but nothing means more to me than my own family. As for reputation, of course I value it. But it doesn’t matter if the world thinks you honorable if inside you feel unworthy and full of regret. Really, I don’t know why we’re even talking about this. If our positions had been reversed, you would have looked for me.”
“Well… yes. Probably.”
She snorted. “No probably about it.”
He realized she was right. His head might have told him it was his duty to press on without her, but in that instance, his heart would have overruled it.
“Anyway,” Sif continued, “how could I abandon you when this mad search for Mimir’s head is your mad plan, and it’s liable to take more of your crazy notions to see it through. At least we’ve shaken Lady Amora off our trail. I suppose that’s progress. Do you have any idea where we came up out of the ground?”
He waved his hand at the tiny drifting snowflakes. They were melting as soon as they reached the ground but were an ominous sign nonetheless. “Closer to Jotunheim, evidently.”
“Or else the giants are advancing and bringing winter with them.” A likely possibility even if he hated the thought of it. “Suffice it to say, I don’t know where we are precisely, but we can take our bearings from the sun to get us headed in the right direction. Or ask somebody.”
“I favor asking people. We can ask them to give us some food while we’re at it. But if you don’t mind, let’s do that after we’ve rested a little longer.” She drew her broadsword, inspected the edge, and then removed a whetstone from her belt pouch and started honing the blade.
Heimdall realized his great sword could likely benefit from the same sort of care. He found his own sharpening stone, and the rhythmic whisper of the hones was restful. His eyelids dropped, and he slipped into a doze.
He dreamed that there was indeed a traitor in the court of Asgard, someone he had to denounce or the Realm Eternal would surely fall. He couldn’t call the name of the traitor to mind but would recognize him as soon as he saw his face. He plunged through the throne room, grabbing couriers by the shoulder and wrenching them around, only to find that none of them had a face.
Sif delivered him from his nightmare by kicking him lightly in the ribs.
“Ouch!” he said. “That’s where the frost giant squeezed me.”
“And whose fault is that?” she said. Illogically and unfairly, it seemed to him. “Come on. Mimir’s head isn’t going to steal itself back, and we need to move if we’re going to get anywhere before nightfall.”
At first, Heimdall felt his nap had done him little good, that it had in fact left him feeling dull-witted and on edge at the same time. Then, however, he and Sif came upon a cold little stream and, stooping, washed their faces. That cleared his head and provided another opportunity to slake his thirst.
He and Sif followed the stream as it murmured on downhill and eventually out of the woods. Up ahead, it wound its way into a peat bog.
Old tumbledown shacks with sod roofs revealed that people periodically worked the marshy ground for bog iron, and sections of peeled-back turf indicated that one such harvest was in progress. Nobody was out on the bog wielding a turf knife now, however. Rather, men and a dwarf were bustling around loading their tools and other portable possessions onto mule carts. They’d dumped the pellets of bog iron the wagons were meant to carry on the ground.
“Now we know the way to the battlefields,” Heimdall said.
“The opposite direction from the way they’re pointed,” Sif replied. “But we still need to catch up with them if we want them to feed us.” She ran toward the workers and their carts, and Heimdall dashed after her.
Heimdall and Sif plainly weren’t frost giants. Still, when they saw the warriors coming, the workers were jumpy enough to clamor in alarm and seize spears, turf knives, and any other real or makeshift weapon that was ready to hand.
Or maybe it was more than jumpiness. With a twinge of trepidation, it occurred to Heimdall that the crew might recognize the supposed traitors for who they were, but he was willing to gamble that wasn’t the case. Surely word of the fugitives hadn’t spread everywhere, especially when people had news and rumors of the war to concern them. If Amora had reported that the brother and sister had fled into the Realm Below, in all likelihood to die there, perhaps no one was hunting them any more.
He stopped and raised his empty hands to signal peaceful intentions, and Sif did likewise. “We’re friends,” he said. “We were running at you because we wanted to talk to you before you moved on.”
The dwarf stepped forth. He was only half as tall as Heimdall, but his shoulders were as broad, and his hairy arms knotted with muscle. Long brown whiskers hung down the front of his tunic, and the narrowed eyes under his shaggy brows showed he was still wary if not genuinely suspicious. So did the curve-bladed turf knife he carried, not quite presented in a nakedly threatening fashion but ready for use nonetheless.
“My name is Mudbeard,” said the dwarf. “I’m in charge here.” Heimdall didn’t doubt it. A dwarf with any real mastery of his people’s arts would likely work in an underground mine or at the forges, but every dwarf had a natural affinity for metals that would make him a good choice to direct the collection of bog iron. “And who exactly are you?”
“I’m Sune,” Heimdall said, choosing an alias at random. “My friend is Thyra. We fight in Gudrun’s company.”
“Then what are you doing here?” Mudbeard asked. “The fighting’s to the north.”
“Unless it isn’t,” one of the workmen said. “Maybe the frost giants are on the move again. It’s snowing, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Mudbeard said, “but if the Jotuns were already here, I think we’d be able to tell. My guess is that these two are deserters.”
“Then you’re guessing wrong!” Sif snarled. Perhaps the words stung because in a perverse way they were true.
&
nbsp; Heimdall spoke quickly to keep the exchange from continuing in the same acrimonious vein. “There was a report that a war party of frost giants had somehow slipped behind our battle lines. Thyra and I were sent to scout and see if it was true. I’m happy to say it’s not. On our mission we exhausted our provisions, so as warriors in the service of the crown we need to requisition a little of yours.” He gave the dwarf what he hoped was a conciliatory smile. “We hope you’re of a mind to share freely, be hospitable, and have a meal with us.”
Mudbeard glanced up at the glow of the sun shining through the gray clouds. “It’s nowhere near evening,” he said, “but we are just about packed up. A meal – a quick one – it is, then.” He raised his voice, making sure everyone in the crew could hear him. “Eat! We’re not stopping once we’re on the trail!”
The meal consisted of stale barley flatbread, cheese, and smoked fish. Mudbeard ate his sitting on the driver’s bench of one of the carts as though to emphasize that he was eager to be gone. His workers hovered near to their leader, Heimdall, and Sif, no doubt to hear whatever tidings their unexpected visitors had to share.
Heimdall related what war news he had to offer, meanwhile recognizing that it was as stale as the flatbread. He and Sif naturally hadn’t heard anything new during their time in the Realm Below. He still didn’t know how long that had been and also didn’t know how to go about finding out. What day is it might come across as a peculiar, suspicious question.
As he’d halfway expected, when he finished, Mudbeard frowned. “We haven’t had a lot of news working here. But we have heard all of that.”
Sif swallowed a mouthful of her food. “We told you we’ve been out scouting and not seeing anyone. Tell us what you know. Has the All-Father awakened from the Odinsleep?”
“No,” said the dwarf. “Not as far as we know, and if he had, wouldn’t it be obvious to everyone?”
Heimdall judged that it probably would. In his wrath, the King of the Gods would unleash forces that shook all Asgard as they smashed the frost giant army.
“Are there any signs,” he asked, “of the conjunction of Asgard and Jotunheim coming to an end?” Should that happen, the Jotun army would have to withdraw lest it be stranded when the two worlds separated.
Mudbeard snorted. “What am I, a sorcerer? But again, no, not so far as we’ve heard.”
Heimdall glumly decided that made sense as well. He was no mystic either, to understand how the Nine Worlds were likely to move in relation to one another. But he did know conjunctions had lasted as long as a century. This one was less than a year old.
“Then how is the war itself going?” asked Sif. “There must be some good news.”
“They say Thor and his followers won a battle or two. But he can’t be everywhere at once, can he? And the frost giants are pushing forward everyplace he’s not. Looks like you finished eating. We have too, so it’s time for us to part company.”
“Wait,” said Sif. “You said it yourself. If the Jotuns were already here, it would be obvious.”
Mudbeard took the reins of his cart in hand. “That doesn’t mean they won’t be here soon.”
“I’ve seen the smithies of Asgard,” Sif told him. “They’re working night and day to equip our warriors, and they need every scrap of iron workers like you can provide.”
“We can’t provide any if we’re dead.”
Sif gestured to the piles of bog iron pellets littering the ground. “At least load this metal up again and take it with you when you go.”
“Iron’s heavy,” Mudbeard said. “It would slow us down.”
“Coward!”
The dwarf glared. “What’s Asgard to me? My clan never should have come here from Nidavellir, and when I’m back in the city, I’m going to find a witch to send me home.”
Sif raked the assembled workers with her gaze. “What about the rest of you?” she asked. “You’re Asgardians! Surely you mean to do your duty!”
But Heimdall could tell from the mix of shame and resentment on their faces that they didn’t. He put his hand on his sister’s arm. “We’re guests in this camp,” he said, “and the last thing our hosts need from us is a scolding.”
“But –”
“Enough. Please.”
Sif stiffly inclined her head to Mudbeard. “I apologize for my rudeness, and we thank you for the food.”
Mudbeard grunted. “Accepted.” He raised his voice. “Time to go!” In another couple minutes, the mule carts were rumbling south, the workers who hadn’t found a seat inside one hiking along with the procession.
Sif gave Heimdall a disgusted look. “Why did you stop me?”
“I didn’t think you were going to persuade them, and I didn’t want you to make us memorable. Someone might recognize us when they told the story. Why were you so insistent anyway? It isn’t the task of common folk to stand their ground when an army of frost giants might be drawing near.”
Sif sighed. “I suppose it was because all the news was so bad. It made me angry to see people not doing everything they could to turn things around.”
“Well,” Heimdall said, “I agree, the news is bad. If Odin is still asleep and even Thor isn’t stopping the advance of the frost giants, then maybe it all truly does come down to us and our mission, and we haven’t even made it out of Asgard yet. We’ve barely managed to keep ourselves alive.”
“Still,” said Sif, “we’re going ahead.”
Heimdall squared his shoulders. “I think we have to.”
Fourteen
Heimdall and Sif hadn’t marched far before the snow started sticking to the ground. Then the drifts grew deeper until they were slogging forward with a frigid wind blowing in their faces. He wound his scarf so that it covered his mouth and chin.
“I remember winter,” Sif said. Though it now hailed Odin as its king, Vanaheim didn’t have the perpetual summer that had formerly prevailed in much of Asgard. “Skiing. Sledding. Snowmen and snowball fights.”
Heimdall smiled. “Something else you’re losing your fondness for?”
“You read my mind,” she said.
Periodically they met bands of warriors trudging in the opposite direction. The fugitives had their false names and their excuse for traveling apart from a company of their fellow soldiers prepared, but not even the thanes were much inclined to question them. Too many of the fighters were wounded, and even those who weren’t seemed demoralized.
It was further evidence that the war was going badly, and though it was convenient that almost no one could muster the will to challenge Sif and him, Heimdall felt dismay to see the wounds and despondency of the retreating Asgardians nonetheless.
Heimdall and Sif also met bands of fleeing farmers carrying bundles on their backs, herding pigs and goats. At night, the pair sheltered in the abandoned farmsteads. With the snowfall blighting the fields and wolves stalking from the forests and ranging down from the mountains to kill the livestock left behind, it felt as if the farmers had left their holdings not just days but months or years before.
Thus, despite Heimdall and Sif’s outlaw status, it nonetheless lifted his heart for a moment when, after two days’ travel, the ongoing spectacle of misery and desolation gave way to the sight of an army that was still ready to fight. The camp stretched along a ridge. Claiming the high ground was a standard tactic even if of questionable use against creatures as tall as frost giants.
Sif smiled. “I even hear some of them singing.”
“So do I,” Heimdall replied. His moment of happiness faded as the depressing thought came to him that there was no reason to expect this army to fare any better in the long run than the defending armies the frost giants had already broken. “Of course, you’d expect Asgardian warriors to be full of cheer if they haven’t gone into battle yet. If nothing’s happened to shake their confidence.”
“Audhumia’s milk,
you’re gloomy!” Sif replied. “Maybe they’re happy because they fought and won.”
“I suppose it’s possible, but it doesn’t seem likely.”
“Anyway, do you think we sneak around or through?”
Heimdall took a moment to consider. It would be a risk to enter the camp, a risk that worried him, but the alternative seemed chancier still. “They must have sentries out on their flanks. If we’re spotted trying to go around, we’ll almost certainly be taken for deserters or, well, ourselves.”
Sif frowned. “Someone could also recognize us if we walk right into the camp. There are hundreds of warriors up there.”
“You’re right, but it’s hundreds who have other things to think about than spotting a pair of fugitives, even assuming they’ve heard about us in the first place. We’ll just be two more faces in the crowd.”
“Won’t it be suspicious when the two faces say, ‘Farewell, we’re going to wander off in the direction of the frost giants now, without orders and all by ourselves?’”
“When the time comes, we’ll think of something.” He hoped.
“Sune and Thyra it is, then.” Sif sniffed the air. “Somebody’s roasting mutton up there. If anyone denounces us, maybe we’ll at least have full stomachs when it happens.”
By the time they hiked to the top of the ridge, the sun was setting. As Heimdall had expected, a few other folk had business that took them up or down the slope, and nobody paid any particular attention to their approach. Though still on edge, Heimdall felt somewhat encouraged.
There was a scattering of hide tents tall enough for a man to stand up inside, and brother and sister avoided those. The warlords seemed most likely to be on the lookout for the so-called traitors Heimdall and Sif if anybody was. The common warriors had small low tents or had built lean-tos with fires crackling among them. This time of day they were cook fires, but the heaps of firewood sitting close at hand suggested they burned continually so people could huddle around them to combat the chill of the snow and the icy wind blowing out of the north.
The Head of Mimir Page 10