by Matt Larkin
Sieglinde wore a cloak stained with blood on its hems, but insisted she was uninjured. Her belly seemed slightly thick. Wolfsblood had already planted his brood in her.
“What has happened?” Sigmund demanded as soon as he drew nigh enough.
His sister’s gaze darted back and forth between the ship and the road to Wolfsblood’s keep. “I had to kill a man my husband set to watch me.”
“Fuck, girl,” Father said. “Why on Midgard would you do such a thing?”
“I needed to get word to you. My husband plans to betray you all. He has spent these moons gathering an unbeatable army to his side. He has called all his levies, even hired mercenaries from afar. I beg you return to your own kingdom.”
Father scoffed. “All peoples know well I have never fled from iron or fire thus far, and do not intend to do so now in my twilight years. Nor will I have maidens taunting my sons as cravens running from their foes.”
Sigmund tapped a finger on his thigh but held his peace. Stories claimed that Father had all but suffered defeat when he tried to challenge the new gods, though none dared mention such things in earshot of the king. True or not, Father had one thing right—if they fled now, they would lose face at home and abroad. Their enemies would multiply while their chances at alliances withered.
“Father, please,” his sister said. “Go and gather a proper army, I beseech you. Then you might come back and avenge your honor. You cannot escape his treachery like this.”
Father raised a finger to silence her. “I have fought a hundred battles in my life, daughter. I will not now run from one, even if it be my last. We have troops enough and my strong boys. You have not seen Sigmund fight with Gramr.”
A tear welled in her eye, and she shook her head. “Then please, Father, at least do not send me back to him.”
“You must return to your husband, daughter. However it goes with us, you will be secure, in his home, or in ours.”
“Damn you.” She mumbled the last under her breath, and Father’s old ears did not seem to catch it. Finally, tears at last running free, she remounted, cast a last look at them, and rode away.
Sigmund stood very still watching her go.
“You do not approve?” Father asked after a moment.
“It is not for me to judge the will of the king.”
“You yourself will be king one day, and then may you weigh the consequences of decisions. Our honor is not only for ourselves, Sigmund. It is the shield with which we guard our people. Broken or cast aside even once, it becomes useless forever after.”
Sigmund glanced back at their three ships. They had some few warriors with them, mainly as protection against raiders or pirates. Hardly enough to be considered an army. “A shield can only protect against but so many foes.”
“That, son, is why you also carry a sword to strike those who are not deterred by the strength of your shield.” Then Father sighed. “I thought to give you a united Hunaland over which to rule.”
“Father?” The weariness in his voice set Sigmund’s gut twisting more than the anticipation of any battle. “You still will do so.”
“Yes, of course. Tonight we rest and in the morning, we march to meet our foes.”
A dozen men lay at Sigmund’s feet and a stream more behind him, all sent to the valkyries or else cast screaming down to Hel. And still, Wolfsblood’s army pressed on, their numbers at least eight times those of the Volsung’s.
Roaring, Father, hewed another man down. Though aging, Father still had the heart of a warrior and the muscles to match it. Grim as the tide looked, Sigmund dared hope they might yet claim victory. And if not, perhaps he too would feast with valkyries this night.
A man rushed him. Gramr hewed through his spear, then through his neck, sucking up his blood with an icy hunger. She needed this. It gave her purpose, and Sigmund would not see her unfulfilled. After all, surely it must be Odin himself who granted him such a boon.
Before him, Vern toppled to the ground, an arrow jutting from his arm. Sigmund raced forward, blade flashing in the morning light as he cut a path to his brother. Two more men fell before him, then Sigmund stood protectively over Vern as his little brother reclaimed his feet.
“Fall back. You cannot fight without your sword arm!”
If Vern answered, Sigmund did not catch it. Screams and the clash of metal on metal created a tumult over which naught could be heard. The whole shore was awash in blood and guts, stinking of iron and shit and fear. They feared him now and rightly so.
Father now squared off against a man bearing a sword in each hand. What the fuck? Who could fight thus?
“Starkad Eightarms,” Father said. “How much is that bastard paying you?”
“My weight in silver.” Eightarms … the most famed raider in the North Realms.
Oh fuck. Sigmund ran for his father, but one of Wolfsblood’s men intercepted him.
Father spat and charged the mercenary. His blade dove for the man in a mighty strike. Eightarms deflected it.
Sigmund killed the man before him and shoved the corpse aside.
He made it only three strides.
One of Eightarm’s blades knocked Father’s wide. The other opened his gut.
Sigmund faltered and almost fell.
The mercenary’s first sword swept back with uncanny speed and sliced through Father’s throat. Father—the great king Volsung—toppled over into the mud.
No … It was …
Sigmund blinked, shook his head. When the day was done, then he could toast Father’s life. Now … Now Gramr needed blood. Roaring, he charged the mercenary.
The man parried. And again, his blades seemed to come from nowhere, faster than any man ought to move. Sigmund bellowed at him. Struck again.
Eightarms caught Gramr between his two blades and twisted his wrists. Sigmund’s sword flew free from his grasp. He fumbled for it in the air a moment. Then a pommel crashed into his face.
Ears ringing, he fell. The world turned red.
And then it went black.
16
Thor’s hammer flew through the air like a shooting star, end over end, smashing into the rime-crusted chest of a jotunn with enough force to hurl the creature back ten feet. Sif gawked as Thor chased after his hammer. She never got tired of that.
But damn, that was the fifth jotunn in a fortnight. Bjarmaland swarmed with the devourers. This one had stood a mere nine feet tall, but she had seen bigger. Legend claimed those who consumed enough flesh of men became like walking mountains, lumbering and unstoppable. Thus far, though, none had stood before the power Thor wielded.
Her prince worked his way through the snow, arm raised against a curtain of it, then bent to retrieve Mjölnir. Thor examined the hammer and nodded. “Did you see that? The look on that trollfucker’s face to see Mjölnir soaring at him!”
Sif swept her hair away from her face and shook her head. “And what, exactly, was the plan if that didn’t work and you were left weaponless?”
Thor shook a fist in her direction while grinning like a damned fool. “I am never weaponless, my friend.”
Friend. When she had first returned to Asgard and joined the Thunderers, she had welcomed it when he had called her friend. Now it sounded just a little off, much as she tried to bury any acknowledgment of the reason why.
Before she could say aught else, Freki came trotting out of the mist. “This domain is claimed by the jotunn king Hymir.” He glanced at the corpse. “Probably one of his sworn warriors.”
“Hymir,” Thor said and spat. “He holds a hall here?”
“Indeed,” Freki said. “A court of mankind and a few jotunnar alike these days. His reach grows vast, encompassing nigh to a quarter of Bjarmaland. Or at least he lays claim to it. I think some of the other jotunn kings challenge that.”
Thor hefted Mjölnir. “Then what say we bring this king low? This one has plagued Midgard too long already.”
Sif glanced over to Geri, who was frowning. After sauntering closer
, Sif whispered to the varulf. “Who is Hymir?”
“A jotunn king long living here. Tyr grew up in his court and rumors claimed he might even be descended from the jotunn.”
Sif groaned. She’d known, of course, of the rumors of Tyr’s connection to a jotunn. In the days before she’d left for Sviarland, Tyr had spent time instructing Thor in the arts of war. But something ill had passed between them in her absence, and Thor never seemed to think kindly of his old teacher now.
“Aren’t we supposed to be building a wall?” Hildolf asked.
Sif cleared her throat. “I hate to agree with Hildolf, Thor, but should we not remain dedicated to the mission at hand?”
He pointed his hammer off toward the woods in the direction Freki had just come from. “The mission is to control the threat the jotunnar pose. What better way to do so than by striking down one of their so-called kings?”
Sif opened her mouth, but Freki spoke first, treading lightly atop the snow. “I doubt Father would much approve of this diversion.”
Thor scowled at the varulf and let the hammer drop to his side before scratching his beard. “You think you know his mind so very well, then?”
The prince could be stubborn, but maybe if they found the right words … Sif crunched through the snow, not half so graceful as Freki. “If we repair the breach, we can deal with the jotunnar on this side at our leisure … but right now, more could come through at any time. While we dawdle here, mankind is suffering under their yolk.”
“I rather expect men—and women—suffer right there! In that fucking court! Would you have us leave them to such a fate?”
For the first time, Geri spoke. “They have endured it many years already. Let us first look to stop others from joining them, then turn our eyes to these courts already established.”
Thor turned from her to Sif, then to Freki. Finally, he hung his head. “So be it.” He stomped off, plowing through the snow like a mammoth heading east, toward the Midgard Wall.
Sif sucked air through her teeth. The pounding snow stung her eyes and pelted her cheeks, so she drew up her hood and trekked out behind Thor. Without an apple, her endurance might have given out already. They slept little enough, as if some invisible master drove Thor ever onward. Always, always seeking the next battle.
“He lusts after foes like most men lust after women,” Itreksjod mumbled behind her. “Oh. I suppose he lusts after women too.”
Sif flinched, glad the man couldn’t see her face. Thor was excessive in all his pursuits.
They passed into a thicker stretch of trees that, thankfully, blocked out the worst of the snowstorm. Forest covered so much of this land, but with the intensity of the winter, she’d seen hardly a sign of green in all their days in Bjarmaland. In such overgrown realms, she found herself staring long at every twisted tree trunk or branch creaking in the wind, expecting ash wives or worse. Chaos had settled over Bjarmaland, as if Utgard had begun to reclaim this part of the world, expanding its own borders, ever reaching further.
Geri fell into step beside her, wrapped in her fur cloak, and, like her brother, more adept at traversing the snows than a human. Sif ought to have arranged snowshoes or even skis for this sort of terrain, though fighting in such proved difficult. Yet another advantage the jotunnar had over their human foes.
“I do not like this land,” Sif said after a while. “It feels … too wild. As if we look upon a realm where the sputtering flame has finally gone out and left us alone in darkness.”
Geri snorted. “A skald now, are you? I suppose it’s an apt enough description, though. I have been to the Midgard Wall, once, with Father. The Vanir, for all their faults, did try to protect Midgard as best they could. To see something of such grandeur makes a woman feel insignificant. And to know that even it too is faltering … we see our time is limited, even as immortals. Even the wolf fears what lays beyond that wall.”
“That’s why we must succeed,” Sif said. Her foot caught on an unseen root, and she slipped, stumbling forward.
Geri caught her arm and jerked her to a stop. The varulf hefted her up, atop the snows, though Sif immediately crunched down through them again. Geri chuckled. “Odin places more faith in this jotunn than I do, if he thinks Vörnir will help us against his own kind.”
Sif wished she could disagree with that. She truly did. “Maybe Thor can convince this Vörnir to work for us.”
Now Geri favored her with a wry smile, almost hidden beneath her hood. “And you place much faith in Thor. I love him as a brother, but if Odin sent us for diplomacy, he placed the wrong Thunderer in charge.”
Sif frowned, huffing as she continued to struggle with her footing. “And who then do you think ought to lead this endeavor?”
“Someone with wit over brawn. Itreksjod maybe. Or you.”
She scoffed. She didn’t know how to lead a damned thing. “Thor is our leader and has always been.”
“He can barely see what’s right in front of him.”
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Geri glanced back at her. “Of course not.”
Sif lowered her gaze to focus on the snow where she trod. Such a conversation would go nowhere, nor did she have the energy for it. And yet … Geri spoke a truth: Thor did not seem to see Sif. Maybe he never would.
She had to accept her place and her urd. She had to or wither away in melancholy until naught remained of her.
17
Nine Years Ago
For a decade, Sif had fostered in the home of King Gylfi of Dalar. Ten years sent away from Asgard, as Odin had promised his vassal, until at last, she returned to find everything changed. New halls and palaces had risen up, scattered about from the port all the way up the mountains. The markets had expanded and now vendors hawked wares from the farthest corners of Midgard. And more forges than ever worked hot, crafting arms and armor to fight battles all over the world toward Odin-alone knew what end.
Her parents met her halfway through the market. Her father pointed at her and shouted a greeting. Mother, on the other hand, rushed toward her, almost seeming ready to shed a tear despite being a famed shieldmaiden. Her mother, the great and mighty Syn, weeping? Never. The woman threw her arms around Sif and held her so close Sif could barely breathe.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” Sif mumbled.
“We knew you’d return any day now …” her father said. “We cannot be away from the front long, but we would not have missed this. By the Tree, Sif! It’s been so long.”
Sif smiled, embraced her father as well, and then motioned for him to lead the way. Despite the long years apart, she was home. Finally, home with her family once again.
Her father did start off toward the tiny hall he held in a valley. It lay not far from the one granted to her grandfather, Hoenir, in whose lands she had oft played as a child. Would she see him now?
Her parents had each visited her once in Dalar. Separately, of course, for Tyr needed them in the fight against Serkland. The death of Karolus had hit the Vallander Empire hard, and no leader since had held the South Realmers together with such strength. Even in Dalar, word of the war reached Sif—and the word had not sounded good.
“Another ceremony goes on very soon,” her father said. “Tomorrow at dawn, the prince will receive his apple.”
The prince. Thor. Sif had seen him, when they were children, he three winters her elder. He was always training in the arts of war, always stronger and tougher and faster than the other boys. How she had envied that power back then. And how she’d have done almost aught to get the attention of the mighty son of Odin, drawn by childish fancy. He’d be grown now, for certain, and she could only dream of what glories he must have accomplished to be receiving an apple. Not that anyone had ever doubted the son of Odin would claim one.
Yes, she’d relish the chance to catch another glimpse of him.
The prince had grown taller and wider in the shoulders, indeed, and now bore a fiery red beard. He stood well above the other
gathered men as he strode down the long hall toward his parents’ thrones. Standing beside her own parents, Sif watched Thor kneel before the king and queen of Asgard. She watched as Queen Frigg presented him with a golden apple.
The queen spoke words of reverence, but those words washed over Sif, making no mark before the grand spectacle now unfolding. This mountain of muscle and glory was the boy she’d admired in their youth. As the guests had gathered, men had woven tales of Thor’s victories against Serkland. So, if he’d won fame already, Sif could only imagine what glories he’d achieve as an immortal.
Once she’d seen him fight—and overcome—three other boys at once, one of them two winters his elder. Now he fought armies. Oh, she had learned well the arts of spear and sword and shield, trained first by her parents, then in the court of Gylfi. Nevertheless, Sif didn’t delude herself into thinking she’d ever match the glory Thor had already found. Still, it was nice to imagine it.
“My friends,” Thor said, turning to address the whole hall. “Today I announce the grandest endeavor. When I leave Asgard, I will take with me eight companions—warriors all, who will set out into Midgard to fight the enemies of mankind. To slay abominations of the mist!”
What in the gates of Hel was he even talking about? The queen seemed to be thinking the same thing, leaning forward in her throne with a heavy frown creasing her brow. Odin, however, sat thoughtful, looking little surprised.
Thor was creating a party to … what? Have adventures? That sounded absurd and reckless. And fucking glorious. What surer way to win an apple than by joining the prince on his escapades? Any who fought alongside him—and lived—would have her name immortalized in tale. And with the littlest bit of luck, find herself immortal in the process.
The prince, however, did not linger long enough for her to even approach him on the subject. He strode from the hall, a buxom woman on each arm. Sif frowned after them as they left. She’d heard the stories, of course, of what eating an apple did to a person. Of what it made them want or even need to do.