by Matt Larkin
Freki grunted and began to pump more aggressively at her hips.
“Harder,” she demanded. “Hurt me!”
And when she pushed him hard enough, he did.
It didn’t help.
In the end, she lay on her back, panting and spent. Her body sated over and over. And her heart hollow.
23
The ancient tower stood empty.
“Vofuth!” Sigmund shouted.
No answer. Not from the ruin, nor anywhere around it.
“Where have you wandered, old man?” Sigmund mumbled.
Fitela snorted. “We do not need the hermit. We have a plan. We were the ones who brought down Gylfi and turned Wolfsblood’s fellow kings against him. We destroyed his varulf pack, you and I. Have you not the courage to see this through without some mist-mad wanderer looking over your shoulder?”
Sigmund could not stop the growl that built in his chest, rumbling outward as the wolf wakened. “You dare question my courage?”
Fitela froze, then fell back a step and lowered his head. “Forgive my hasty words, uncle. I …”
Sigmund launched himself forward before he knew he meant to and hefted Fitela off the ground by each arm. “Who leads this pack, boy?”
Now his nephew glared. “I follow you in all things, uncle.”
Sigmund tightened his grasp, drawing a slight grunt of pain from Fitela. Finally, he dropped the young man and backed away, then raised a finger in warning. “I know you wish to honor your mother by avenging her father. But Volsung was my father as well, and more, you cannot imagine the horrors I suffered at Wolfsblood’s hands. The depravity and torment he put me through. I watched my brothers die before me—terrible deaths.”
“I know this, uncle.”
Sigmund shook his head. “Knowing a thing is not the same as living it. To hear of it is not the same as to taste the fear. Smell the blood. To watch, helpless, as those you love die in agony and terror.” He strode from the tower ruins back into the marsh.
No, he did not need Vofuth, though the old man’s counsel had proved wise time and again. He had offered the comfort of knowing one more person was on their side. But Fitela had a point—Sigmund had done enough on his own. And if Vofuth was absent, still he could finish this on his own as well.
Vern and Carr and all the others—he owed them that.
24
Sixteen Years Ago
Waves of pain hit Sigmund, waking him and warning him not to open his eyes. He did so anyway, then promptly retched, spewing filth over his mail. Blood from his broken nose had crusted over his lips and jaw, flaking as he moved.
It took several moments of blinking to clear his vision.
“You’re awake,” Vern said.
Sigmund groaned and looked around. He and his five brothers were in the woods. Chains around their ankles bound them, attached to stakes driven into a fallen tree trunk. Sigmund groaned. What the fuck had happened?
No sign of anyone else around.
Grunting, Sigmund grasped the stake as best he could—most of it was deep in the wood—and tugged.
Carr snorted. “You can imagine we tried that already, big brother.”
Sigmund glowered and gave it over. He could not even get his whole palm around the damn stake.
“Our sister pled for our lives,” Vern said. “This was the result.” Sigmund’s brother looked sallow. The arrow had been removed from his arm, but no one had bound the wound. Without aid, he was like to die within a day. Vern himself had his good hand clamped over the wound, for the limited benefit that would offer.
Seeing his brother like that … oh gods! Father! Odin help them now.
He blew out a long breath. They were all looking at him: the eldest, and he was meant to save them.
Damn. Sigmund braced his feet against the trunk, grasped the chain with both hands, and pulled. The fucking thing didn’t budge a hair. If only he had Gramr. She’d have cut through the trunk with ease. And where was his precious runeblade? Had Wolfsblood claimed it for himself?
His brothers followed his lead, save for Vern, each of them grasping the chains and pulling—and with no more avail than he had found. Most of them bore wounds as well, though Vern’s looked the most grievous.
Finally, Sigmund gave over any attempt to dislodge the stake. He needed an alternative tactic. For a long time he sat, but no idea held the slightest hope of success. Perhaps that was the true torture Wolfsblood had thought up for them—that they would sit here in despair, waiting to starve, watching Vern expire before them. And when that happened, they would be unable to even grant him rest in a pyre.
Sigmund sighed. When he looked again, Vern seemed to have fallen asleep.
“Brother! Vern!”
His younger brother stirred, opened an eye, and groaned.
“You must stay awake. I … I will think of something. All is not yet lost.”
Despite Sigmund’s words, the day dragged on.
Night fell, and still, no workable plan had come to him. The mist grew thicker and thicker. If they kept breathing it, they would fall to mist-madness before starving. No matter how he turned, every path before them held naught but darkness. A swift death on the battlefield would have proved a mercy to any of them.
A low snarl rang out through the woods. All the brothers, even Vern, sat bolt upright. Staring, searching for a sign of what predator had made that sound.
But in the forest, at night, Sigmund could make out but a few feet in front of him. It was dark as the shadows of Svartalfheim, and whatever stalked them was well out of sight.
A long howl erupted from the forest, as if fleeing from the gates of Hel.
“Dire wolf,” Colborn said.
“No.” Sigmund still searched the woods for any sign. “Varulf, I think.”
As if in answer, a massive wolf trod forward, all black fur and grim fangs. And eyes that held too much wisdom.
Siggeir Wolfsblood—because he was said to have conquered a pack of varulfur. Except, maybe he had not conquered them at all. Maybe he had cowed them, as one of them. This wasn’t King Siggeir, though—it was a bitch. Wolfsblood himself had not had the courage to face Father on the battlefield and now perhaps lacked the stones to even come and end this himself. And so he’d sent a woman to do it.
“Come on then,” Sigmund said. “Come to me and let us have done.”
The wolf looked to him and snarled, showing off teeth almost as long as a finger. This beast was larger even than a dire wolf.
“Come to me!” Sigmund shouted. He would not fear this bitch. He would meet death proud and on his feet. He rose, straining once again against the manacles binding his feet.
The she-wolf continued to pace around the trunk, watching them each.
“B-brother,” Carr said. “I do not think it wise to—”
“Fight me, you wretched bitch!” They might all die this night, but if they met such a fate with courage, perhaps they could avoid being dragged down to meet Hel. Valkyries came for the truly brave, and, if naught else, Sigmund could see to it his brothers died bravely. “You think we fear you? You filthy beast, we are men! Even bound we will—”
The varulf surged forward. Her teeth sank into Vern’s throat. With a savage twist, she tore out a huge chunk of flesh, showering Sigmund in blood and gore.
“No!”
The varulf jerked her head again, and Vern’s blood now flew into Sigmund’s open mouth. The beast chomped down twice before swallowing. And then she bit again, feasting on Vern’s corpse before their eyes.
Sigmund lunged forward, but the chains jerked him to a stop. She was just out of his reach. “Bitch! Fiend! I will send your soul to Hel!”
Her shoulder’s convulsed as if she laughed. And then she continued the macabre feast. Bones snapped under her jaws. She tore off an arm and gnawed on it. She ripped out his entrails and flung them at Colborn, who had begun to tremble and mumble in horror.
“Do not look away!” Sigmund commanded. “Do not give
her the satisfaction of your fear! Face her!”
But it went on and on, until naught but charnel remained of Sigmund’s beloved brother. The she-wolf turned to meet Sigmund’s gaze. She lapped blood off her snout with an overgrown tongue.
And then she trod off into the woods, leaving them in darkness once again, now saturated with the stench of death. Sigmund fell back against the trunk. And he cursed Siggeir Wolfsblood. And he cursed himself for his failures.
25
On a grassy hill, a cluster of standing stones formed a circle, out beneath the open sky. Those who did not know better might have thought someone truly lay buried within the mound, as the ancestors had done long ago, before pyres became the fate of all. Runes marked the stones, telling of the great deeds of those remembered here.
Odin’s family. His father, Borr, the jarl famed for bringing peace back to the tribes after the Njarar War. When Odin imagined his ancestors, it was his father’s face he saw looking back at him, judging his actions. Odin ran his fingertips over those runes, knowing it would not actually help him feel closer to the man but unable to stop himself from doing the same as he ever did on returning to Asgard.
Borr, if his soul yet existed in any form recognizable, would not know his son any longer. Odin had come so much farther than any of the Aesir before him, so far, in fact, that those who were gone could not have understood his actions no matter how hard they tried. Not even Father.
Nor Odin’s mother, Bestla. The stones commemorated her too, for she had been strong and brave and wise. And most of all, compassionate. She had come from the Athra, originally, and Annar was her nephew.
Then there was Ve. Poor, lost Ve, who had begged Odin to end his tortured existence. If Odin closed his eyes, the Sight would let him—force him to—live through it again and again. As Gungnir pierced Ve’s breast. It was like a blade through his own heart.
And then Vili. His death had meant even less than the others. Odin patted that stone too.
All those he had loved were gone from him.
All you build will turn to ash, your children shall die, and your dreams shall burn.
Odin had not yet lost his children. He would not lose them. Yes, he had sent Thor into danger but armed with the greatest weapon at his disposal. And the varulf twins—they could take care of themselves. Varulfur who had tasted the fruit of Yggdrasil were probably among the hardest beings to kill in all Midgard.
Finally, he rose.
Soon, he would leave for Miklagard. Freyja’s book had not answered all his questions—most of it was speculation based on second- and third-hand reports. It had not answered all the questions, but it had posed a few of its own. She had suspected some truth in the legends of the draugar ruling Miklagard, except she had posited the name nachzehrer. Draugar sometimes consumed the flesh and blood of the living in rage or perhaps an attempt to absorb their pneuma. These nachzehrer were said to drink blood to sustain themselves on that pneuma. And they all but worshipped the blood of Kvasir, one of their progenitors.
He rubbed his head. What did it all mean?
If Freyja was right, after the mists came, each civilization struggled to survive. And some turned to old powers now given new life, risen from dark slumbers to wake in a darkened world. Had Miklagard then been founded by these very immortals? It would explain how any empire of man had survived while the tribes and petty kingdoms of the North Realms continued to falter, falling toward oblivion. To combat the mist, some had turned to equally abhorrent powers of the Otherworlds. And still, he was not certain he could blame those people.
He felt it, as the girl approached. Still with that sensual walk, a pale imitation of the grace Vanr women like Freyja had mastered. Odin did not turn as Sjöfn climbed the hill to meet him.
“My king?”
Odin patted the memorial for Vili once again. “You must have been a very young child when he died.”
“Who?”
“My brother.”
“I … was born not long after you dissolved the tribes.”
Odin flinched. Girl was barely eighteen winters, then. So young, and it made what he had to do with her a bit harder. A bit. She should not have come to disturb his reverie, though. Not in this place. “What do you wish here?”
“You spoke as though you intend to depart soon, my king.”
“And?”
“And I … You have been known to be gone for long years at a time.”
“And?”
Sjöfn cleared her throat. “Perhaps, if my youth pleases you … I should keep it in prime for your return. Perhaps even, I might be able to help fulfill a purpose as Idunn once did.”
Odin turned on her. So that was Lodur’s play? Trying to steal position as guardian of the apples away from Annar? A weak move. Did Lodur honestly believe Odin would oust his trusted cousin from his role because he’d given Odin somewhere to wet his cock? If so, Odin had overestimated the man. “If you think yourself worthy for an apple, you must present your case to the queen. Frigg decides such things these days.” And was not like to grant such a boon to a simple handmaid, much less one so young. To say naught of how much Frigg would appreciate hearing the girl had fucked her husband.
“The queen? But you …”
Odin shrugged. “I what?”
“You … we … in the library!” She blushed. She actually blushed!
Poor, fool girl. He shook his head. “We fucked? Sure. I enjoyed it, and I hope you did too. But you weren’t that good. You think I give an apple of immortality to every woman I lay with? The whole World Tree would be bare!” He advanced on her. “You insult every man and woman who has bled and died for a chance at an apple. You think bending over a table is in any way commiserate with risks they take, with the sacrifices they have made? If you truly want to be a whore, I’ll give you silver from Valland.” He spread empty hands before her face. “Not gold. Not a golden apple.”
Sjöfn backed away, mouth working around words that would not come. She ducked her head as if to hide the moisture welling in her eyes, then ran from the hill.
Odin watched her go, then slapped one of the stones. Damn it!
Why did he have to hurt so many people? Was that too a manifestation of urd? Or was he, in the end, just a monstrous arse? Perhaps she did deserve shame for her petty and foolish attempt at an apple. Or rather, Lodur deserved it, for putting her up to it. If he did not tell Frigg, she might remain in the queen’s service. And would that be a boon?
Perhaps her shame would ensure she took no further steps out of line. She had, after all, suffered enough for what she had done. On the other hand, if she stayed at Valaskjalf, sooner or later, Lodur might try to use her again.
But that brought Odin back to the same end for which he had first taken the girl. It was better to walk into a trap he knew Lodur had set than allow the man to work in secret and actually cause harm. Let him act freely then, until he tied the nose around his own neck. Frigg was savvy enough to keep an eye on the girl and surely knew who her relatives were.
Leaving Odin to focus on Miklagard for the moment. One day, of course, he would need to deal with all those Frigg warned him of. One day, he would separate true friends from the schemers.
One day, before the end of all things.
26
Eighteen Years Ago
In the northernmost reaches of Kvenland, one could see an iridescent sky not unlike the parade of color found in the Astral Realm. Winter nights stretched on and on, the sun gracing the sky but a few hours each day. Here, in the farthest reaches of the North Realms, Odin had met wizards and seers, had taken council from nixes—called here näkki—and had even met the spirit bear.
None had held the answers he sought. Some, yes, knew chaos had begun to stir and thus foretold the coming battle, though they did not know it as he did—as Ragnarok. More dear to his heart still, none of them could guide him to Alfheim. In his years of wandering, he had practiced oft enough projecting into the Astral Realm, true, but from there no cl
ear road led to the World of Sun where he had banished the Vanir. Where he had, trapped by his urd, cast his own love, Freyja.
Blind light … and torment … Leave this …
Odin ignored Audr. In their many years together, the wraith had surely learned one thing about Odin—he did not give up. Besides, the wraith’s very existence was eternal torment. He would not have found peace anywhere Odin trod.
Passing through the sparse woods, snow crunched under his heels. This far north, it never melted and few trees survived it. Those that persisted here were twisted, wretched things that refused to surrender to the inevitable. Much like Odin himself.
At last he came to a river flowing swiftly enough only the banks had frozen. The lights overhead danced and swayed so entrancingly one might mistake them for the liosalfar who populated Alfheim. For all he knew, these lights did shine from Alfheim. Odin planted Gungnir in the snow at the river’s edge, then pulled the ring out from inside a pouch and rolled it around in his weathered hands.
The valkyrie Svanhit had given him the ring that he might call upon her for a single request. For more than a decade he had delayed, hoping to save the boon she owed him for when no other options remained before him. But then, the spirit bear had been the last option he could see, as yet. His own prescient visions from the Sight offered him glimpses of the future—if it wasn’t the past, present, or a metaphor—but rarely a clear course. They came to him in jumbles that forced him to make blind moves and simply hope for the best while, with each passing winter, Ragnarok drew one step closer. Like a man stalked by a cave lion in the woods, Odin fled from the future, looking every which way and knowing it drew nigh, yet unable to see it clearly.
And now, he had slain his own brother. Again. So little remained to him, and he had naught left to lose.
Much as he was loath to collect what was owed him prematurely, a boon meant naught when saved beyond its own usefulness.