by Matt Larkin
Odin poked at the fire with Gungnir—his walking stick. “The birds claim one of these allies takes the roads to visit the king of Skane.”
“So?”
Odin said naught. Loki had believed the best lessons were those a man had to reach on his own, with as little outside prodding as possible. However Odin now felt about his blood brother, the man knew a great deal about teaching others. And one could ask for no finer teacher in the art of manipulation.
Sigmund drummed fingers on his knee. “Fine. So suppose we left the woods and ambushed this caravan … Wolfsblood looks weak if he cannot protect his allies visiting him.” Now the prince bared his teeth. “A great risk, yes, but a chance for glory.”
“Have you asked yourself what you wait for, lingering here in the woods?”
Sigmund glanced at his nephew. “Fitela grows stronger with each passing winter.”
“And how many winters does he have now? Fifteen? How many had you had when you went to war against Wolfsblood the first time?”
The prince glared, then grumbled. “The same.”
Sigmund didn’t say—perhaps didn’t even consider—that he had done so with an army under the command of his father Volsung. And had lost. Instead, he glowered, clearly vexed at even the slightest word spoken against his courage. A man with too much pride was easy to goad. Odin would know better than most.
“If King Gylfi dies to varulfur in the lands of Wolfsblood—the king who claims to have subdued the packs—his allies are like to abandon him, if not outright turn on him.”
“Gylfi?” Now Fitela crawled closer. “Gylfi is favored by Odin himself. If we act against him, we risk the wrath of the very gods.”
Odin scoffed. “Is he now? And is Sigmund himself not so favored? The stories claim the wizard who granted him the runeblade was none other than Odin. And your uncle lost the sword. If so, I would think recovering Gramr is the surest way to recover Odin’s favor.”
“You see a great deal, old man,” Sigmund said. “Too much, I think. But perhaps you speak truth. Perhaps the only way is to strike now and weaken our foe. For the better part of sixteen winters, we waited. Such a chance may not come again.” The prince rose without further word and trod off into the night. His nephew followed a moment later.
Odin heard them groan as they shifted back into wolf form. He listened to the soft, receding plod of their paws. And when they had gone far, Odin rose, stretching his back.
Finally. Finally, Sigmund would begin to move. Given the choice, Odin would have sent the man direct to recover Andvari’s Gift. But that choice was denied to him, and thus, he had to approach everything from an angle. Urd was cruel and oft too slow in its workings. The waiting had grown tedious. Still, he had to trust now; things were in motion.
Sigmund’s vengeance would be the first step. Just the first.
2
In daylight, they could not call upon the full power of the wolf spirits inside them. Then again, at night, the wolf struggled hardest for dominance, especially as the moon grew fuller. The moon drove the wolf into bouts of rage, of terrible violence and hunger. At least Sigmund preferred to think the worst of his deeds these past years fell at the feet of his wolf.
In his youth, he had never imagined himself turning to banditry and murder. Siggeir Wolfsblood, King of Skane, had made him this. It was not Sigmund’s fault. He played the role forced upon him—no more. This he told himself as he lay awake unable to forget his crimes.
The caravan they had waylaid had fallen in the late afternoon. After all, no one travelled at night. The guards they had killed with sword and shield, with bow, and with the strength and stamina of the Otherworld, of the vaettir dwelling in their souls. Gylfi, thinking himself among allies, had brought too few guards—a mistake Sigmund had once made in these very lands.
Sigmund wiped his blade clean after the last soldier had fallen. Brave men from Dalar in central Sviarland. Men who hadn’t had much chance, as arrows sniped them from the woods. Such tactics left Sigmund feeling like leeches sucked on his gut. There was no honor in it, but then, how else did two men face more than a dozen?
An aging man, knocked from his horse, now began to rise, balking at the dead guards and cursing when he saw the horse with an arrow in its neck. The man bore once-fine clothes, now stained with mud, and had donned enough gold to reveal himself.
Fitela stalked over to the king, tossing the bow aside.
“Do you know who I am, boy?” the man demanded.
“I know,” Fitela said, his voice a rasp. A varulf could heal from most any wound, yes, but the boy’s voice had never fully recovered from the damage Sigmund had done to it. “That’s the point.”
Sigmund folded his arms, frowning. What had Wolfsblood made him into?
Fitela grabbed King Gylfi by the collar, then rammed his dagger up under his jaw. He jerked it free, letting the king’s corpse fall like a rock.
Sigmund shook his head. Was it honor, killing a defenseless man? He had told himself he only killed men in a fair fight. He had told himself this over and over since he was a boy, training under Father’s champions. But since donning those wolf skins, naught had seemed fair, for or against him.
Wolfsblood hunted them like monsters of the wild. And they behaved like it.
Or perhaps Gylfi was never defenseless. Whispers called him a sorcerer. If so, cryptic dreams and potions did not seem to protect him from a knife through his jugular. Either way, the legend had fallen with so little effort that Sigmund couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Where was the glorious combat? Where was the battle for the ages?
Instead, a boy of fifteen winters had murdered an unarmed old man. Caught him unprepared and slain him before he could even steady himself enough to draw a weapon.
Sigmund glowered at the surrounding carnage—almost a score of dead, scattered around the wooded path. A slaughter yes, but still not quite the effect he needed. In case more was required to turn his gorge.
“We have to wait for nightfall,” Fitela said.
“I know.” Once the moon rose and they could assume wolf form, they’d need to tear these corpses to pieces. For this to work as old Vofuth suggested, people would have to blame varulfur.
Oh, he and Fitela had hunted plenty of Wolfsblood’s people over the past few years. They picked them off if they came near the deep woods, or sometimes, they even ventured outside the woods, hunting those alone. More murder, all to bring down the worst murderer of them all.
As the king’s desperation grew, he sent his men farther afield in search of the mysterious bandits who preyed on his domain. Them, too, Sigmund and Fitela hunted when they could. If Wolfsblood’s men came in numbers, they would vanish into the night, hiding in wood or marsh or the hollows between hills. It was how varulfur went savage, out in the mist. And if they had begun to turn mist-mad, would they even know it?
Sigmund kept flame when he could, but naught could come between them and the mission. All of these tactics, of course, had come from Fitela. The boy knew what he was about, always plotting and weakening the king through the years while himself growing strong. And he had.
The king’s varulfur hunted them, too, though Sigmund and Fitela had become adept at hiding themselves and had had only a few skirmishes with the pack over the years.
Now, with Siggeir Wolfsblood losing favor throughout his own realm, they might never get another such chance to bring down the king and at last avenge the wrongs wrought many years before. Sigmund owed Wolfsblood pain and suffering and loss. All of these things and more.
Fitela drew him from his reverie by tossing a box from a satchel. It cracked open, spilling forth silver coins. Sigmund scowled, then knelt to examine them. They were stamped from Miklagard. Sometimes the kings here traded in South Realm coins, but why did Gylfi bear so many away from Wolfsblood’s hall?
He looked up at Fitela, who raised an eyebrow. “A bribe. Or else a call for aid.”
And that worked in their favor. If Gylfi had come for ba
rgaining and died, it would arouse all the more ire against Wolfsblood. The king lost an ally, but more like than not he also gained fresh enemies. Still, Sigmund did not like seeking the aid of foreign kings to redress this wrong. He was a Hunalander and a Volsung, and vengeance was his alone to claim. “Leave the silver or most of it. Take what you need. Let whomever comes along find it.”
Fitela nodded. “This is truly happening? After five years, we are doing this?”
Five years? No. Longer. For Sigmund, it had been half his life, waiting to avenge the wrongs done to his family. The murder, the betrayal. At long last, the time had come to redress them all. Together, he and Fitela would bring down Wolfsblood and all his kin.
Skane would lose its king very soon. The Volsungs would be avenged.
3
From the edge of the wood, Odin watched Sigmund and his nephew’s return, each of them bloody and naked. Their most natural state, perhaps. Maybe savage and violent was the natural state of all men, in the end. Civilization might be only a pretense, a shallow illusion against the chaos. Odin shook such musings from his mind. He could afford no doubts.
“Vofuth?” Sigmund asked as he drew nigh. “I did not think you ever left the shelter of the forest.”
Odin shrugged. “I have been known to come and go, walking long roads.” Longer than this man could possibly imagine.
But then, that kind of thinking was a trap the Vanir had fallen into. How easy, given the scope of Odin’s burdens, for him to forget Sigmund’s suffering was not petty in his own eyes. That his quest for vengeance was little different from one Odin himself had undertaken some few decades back.
Sigmund grunted, then waved his hand behind him. “It is done, old man. Soon, Wolfsblood’s allies will know of his failure and his shame.”
“And when they do, to whom shall they turn?”
“What?”
“If they believe Wolfsblood has betrayed Gylfi, the favored of Odin, perhaps one of them might be inclined to side with the man’s foes. Say a prince … long thought dead, come back to avenge another famed king?”
Fitela grinned. “I warned you this old man was a snake. He’s right, Uncle. We can use this.”
Sigmund groaned. “You would have me lie and claim not that Wolfsblood failed, but that he did this himself?”
The boy rolled his eyes. “You need not lie, Uncle.” Now Fitela looked to Odin with a sly smile. “I’ll do that for you.”
Sigmund leaned against a tree, muscles all taut like his body refused to relax despite his mind’s orders, while pressing his brow between his fingers. “Such jests do not amuse me.”
“I do not jest,” Fitela said. “All we have worked for is now at hand, but it depends on winning support of the local Sviarland kings.”
Odin pointed to his spear—still disguised as a staff—to the north. “Gylfi had many allies, most strongly those in central Sviarland nigh to his own lands. Consider the new king of Njarar, a former disciple of Gylfi.”
“Olof Sharpsighted,” Fitela said. “A usurper, stories say.”
Odin shrugged. That was not entirely accurate, for Olof had merely claimed the vacated throne when the last king of Njarar died without heir, slain by Volund’s bastard son over a runeblade. Olof had fought long years under Gylfi before that and had taken the throne using advice from the old sorcerer king. “Olof has honor enough for your cause and reason to hate Wolfsblood for failing Gylfi.”
“We killed Gylfi,” Sigmund said.
Fitela scoffed. “For just this reason, Uncle. Tell me you do not lack the stones—”
Sigmund cuffed the young man hard enough to send him stumbling. “You forget yourself, and you forget what happened last time you questioned my honor or courage, boy.”
Let them kill one another …
Audr fed on suffering, of course, but Odin doubted that would serve well. Were Sigmund to strike down his own kin, the man was like to fall into a useless fugue—as Odin knew all too well. “You bicker like children. If you wish to escape your exile in this wilderness, you cannot allow this opportunity to slip through your fingers. Make north, and spread the tale as you go, the story of varulfur slaughtering those visiting Wolfsblood’s domain. When you present yourself to Olof, he must be already festering in rage, contemplating war, even.”
“You see much, old man,” Fitela said. “How does a hermit come to know the workings of all the kingdoms in Sviarland?”
“I wander, and I listen. You might try the latter, on occasion.”
Fitela sneered. Whatever he might have said, Sigmund forestalled with a raised hand. “So be it, Vofuth. You have always given sound advice, and this too I will follow. I have grown weary of hiding from Wolfsblood. If Olof Sharpsighted can help me avenge my father, I will pledge my loyalty to him.”
With a glance at Fitela, Sigmund now trod off into the woods. The boy lingered, eyes locked on Odin. Fitela had oft looked upon him with a hint of suspicion. He could not possibly have imagined Vofuth’s true identity, and yet, clearly the boy recognized him as more than he claimed to be. How much of these doubts had he or would he share with Sigmund? Odin needed the Volsung clan for his plans. Fitela though represented an anomaly, unplanned and difficult to account for. And Odin had his suspicions as to the boy’s origins, perhaps deliberately engendered by the Niflungar in their own hidden game.
“How far, exactly, does an old hermit wander?” Fitela asked.
“I long ago stopped counting my steps. There is a great deal to see across Midgard.” More still in the realms beyond. “You too could go far, boy, if you survive your uncle’s war with Wolfsblood.”
Fitela shrugged. “I’ll survive. And it’s not just his war.” With that, he took off after Sigmund.
Odin stood watching, a moment. Despite their frequent squabbles, Fitela did seem to want the same thing as Sigmund. And yet, Odin felt nigh to certain the Niflungar had involved themselves in his birth. Sigmund needed allies, true. Nevertheless, the man might be better off if Odin simply killed Fitela. Time would tell.
Before that, though, Odin needed to reach Aujum and with haste only Sleipnir could manage. Thor was there now, and Odin needed his son to know of Gylfi’s death. That would be the next step.
4
Black troll blood befouled the streets and buildings of Halfhaugr. The creatures had knocked down a vast chunk of the wall and occupied the fortress, turning its depths into a den that sprouted thorns jutting through the dverg stonework. None in Sif’s party remembered this place—she had not even seen it—though Geri assured her Odin had once held court here, before leaving for Asgard. Or Vanaheim, she supposed it had been back then.
“I think that’s the last of them,” Geri said.
Thor spat as if disappointed, smacking Mjölnir against his palm. Everyone knew to trust the varulf twins’ noses. Troll ichor coated Thor’s otherwise flame red beard and long hair, soaked his muscled chest, and drenched his pants. Thor and the varulf twins had done most of the slaying this day. In theory, Sif and the rest of them severed as but his bodyguards. Of course, more oft than not, Thor was the one saving them from danger. Like Thor and the twins, Sif had tasted the fruit of Yggdrasil, and, though she was a fine warrior, none matched Thor’s ferocity.
Nine of them had come to Aujum, but only seven would return home, assuming they met no more trolls. Thor had made it his self-appointed mission to rid the ancestral Ás homeland of the beasts, offering his bodyguards the chance to prove their worthiness to receive an apple in the process. The Thunderers, they called themselves, all followed in his wake. Nine years of blood and conquest and more glory than anyone truly needed. It had cost Nepr and Ali their lives.
Sif eased her grip on her halberd as she wandered around the streets. Her father had once lived in one of these houses. Strange and hard to think of Aesir calling such a barren place home. Only a few human villages persisted in these lands, many of them Miklagardian outposts. The South Realmer empire stretched its arm into the North, held back on
ly by the very trolls Thor seemed intent to slay. Sometimes, Sif thought it might be better to let the two sides annihilate each other.
“May as well head back to the village,” Thor said. “Naught else to do here.”
“What of the women?” Freki asked. They had found nigh to a score of troll wives in the fortress depths. Some of them had lost their minds or their will to live, but others might yet survive this ordeal.
Thor looked at the varulf as though mist-madness had claimed his mind. “Escort them back to the grateful village, of course. How else would our tales spread?”
Sif hid her wry smile. She was never quite sure just how much of the prince’s pomposity was an act and how much his true self. She remembered admiring him as a young child before Father had sent her to be fostered in Dalar. “Should we search the fortress again? Might there be aught of value worth claiming?”
Thor shrugged. “I think Father took it all when they left this place. The village will have food and drink—more than I can say for this Hel-cursed placed. Leave the stones to rot.”
“Besides,” Itreksjod said, “someone mentioned grateful villagers and opened thighs.”
Hildolf scratched his head. “Whose thighs?”
“The villagers’.”
Sif rolled her eyes.
“No one mentioned that,” Hildolf said. “Did they?”
Itreksjod shrugged. “It was implied. It is always implied, my brother.”
Through mist and snow, Geri led them back toward the village in the south. The locals here had migrated in from Bjarmaland some years after Odin’s march, only to soon find themselves conquered by the Miklagardians. Since they did not refuse—and could not have—subservience, the Miklagardian population had begun to blend with the North Realmers. In a distant way, it meant the Aesir shared some kinship with these people, though the villagers would never know it.