by Matt Larkin
Tyr groaned, shaking his head. Turned to them. Already, Lotar looked to him. Like the prince thought Tyr could do aught about it. Nigh five decades he’d spent here. Trained men. Tried to hold the Straits of Herakles with Roland. Failed at it, back when Roland and most of his paladins died.
But old Emperor Karolus had forced them to a peace. After a fashion. Established the Andalus Marches as a buffer. Worked well enough. Held back a full war, at least until Karolus died too. His son Hlodwig had practically restarted the war himself. Said anyone who didn’t believe in their Deathless God were foes.
Which had included Tyr and his Ás warriors. Almost lost all Valland before he sent his son to clean up the shit he’d cast about.
Tyr cracked his neck. “Always knew the Marches wouldn’t hold forever.”
Lotar rubbed his face. “Perhaps, but I dared to hope the war with Miklagard would prevent this from coming to pass.”
Hermod scratched behind his ear. Always looking about these days. Like he saw something other men didn’t. “The emir they send leads a troop of the Sons of Muspel.”
“Fuck,” Tyr said, drawing a raised brow from the prince. Tyr didn’t have time to fret on his sensibilities though.
Reolus—best damn knight Lotar had, if he’d asked Tyr—he stood with his arms crossed, glowering worse than most. “If the Sons of Muspel oust Al-Dakil, you can bet every warrior in Andalus will be moving on the Marches before the end of summer.”
Lotar looked to Mallobaudes. The man shook his head. “We cannot stop the Sons. Every encounter with them ended in disaster.” The other knight had come with the prince, all the way from Aquisgrana. Man had managed to live long enough to let his hair gray. Prince valued his counsel, maybe. Tyr couldn’t help but see a hint of a craven in the knight though. Didn’t ever want to draw that blade of his. “Don’t forget what happened at Roncevaux.”
Tyr sucked spittle between his teeth. Damn, but he wanted to spit. Lotar frowned on that sort of thing though. Got him riled. “I remember it.”
They all looked at him, save Hermod. These knights, especially ones new to the front, they never seemed to believe he could be as old as he was. To most of them, forty winters back was before they were born, much less fighting.
“I knew the paladins,” Tyr said. “All of them.” Hadn’t liked them all, but that hardly much mattered. “Roland fought against some few of the Sons back then. They’re fast and they’re strong. Hardly unkillable, though.”
“What do you suggest, then?” the prince finally asked.
Tyr cracked his neck, then strode to stand beside Hermod. “Preempt them.”
Mallobaudes sneered. “You mean start the war ourselves.”
“Intercept the emir. Kill him. Before he can bring down Al-Dakil.”
Mallobaudes shook his head, looking at Tyr like a child. “The caliph is not like to thank you for killing his own people.”
Sounded nonsense to Tyr. “Saving him from men sent to kill him?”
“He may have dreams of establishing an independent caliphate in Andalus, but that doesn’t mean he’ll side with you against his own kind.”
Tyr looked to Hermod.
The other Ás grimaced. “Hard to say. It might reinforce the armistice. If you can actually kill the Sons of Muspel.”
A fair if. Sons were nigh to as strong as Tyr, even after an apple. Got their name because they claimed the fires of Muspelheim burned hot in their veins. Even counted some eld jotunnar among their ranks.
“I’ll go with him,” Reolus said. “We’ll need a small unit that can move quickly, but one strong enough to fight the Sons.”
Mallobaudes threw up his hands. “Your plan is suicide, sir. All you do is waste lives that could be used to reinforce the borders when they come. And they will come here.”
Tyr glared at him. “Not if we win.”
Hermod followed Tyr out as he headed down to the Ás barracks. “I’ll come with you.”
Tyr grunted, pausing on the stairs. “Odin always has some mission for you. Won’t want to risk you on this.”
“You don’t have time to send for reinforcements from Asgard. How many varulfur have you got in Peregot? How many berserkir?”
Tyr grunted and started back down the stairs. “One of each.” Didn’t bother looking at Hermod. Didn’t much want to see his expression at that admission.
“You need every blade you can get at your side.”
“King’ll have my stones if you die out there.”
Hermod snorted. “Old friend, I sincerely doubt Odin wants aught you have in your trousers. Besides, you’ve already lost a hand for the cause of Asgard. What’s a few rocks compared to that?”
“Just make sure you tell me what to say at your pyre,” Tyr called over his shoulder.
Outside the barracks, he found Thrúd watching a Vall knight training soldiers to fight with spear and shield. South Realmers were small, more oft than not. Could be fierce though. Well armed. Disciplined.
Girl leaned against a wall. Seeming intent to memorize every move. The shieldmaiden had seen thirteen winters. This would make fourteen, in truth. An adult by rights, but hard not think of her as a child.
As Thor’s child, in fact, much as Odin’s son hadn’t wanted her here. Girl had fire. Sure as her hair was red. Never listened half so much as she should have though.
Tyr beckoned her over with a wave of his hand. Thrúd tromped to his side, casting another glance back at the training soldiers. Or maybe the knight who was doing the training. Cyr, his name was.
“Watch where your eyes roam, girl,” Tyr said.
Thrúd snorted. “Just studying.”
Strange thing, training her. An unofficial fostering, really. Thor and Sif wanted their daughter growing up strong. And Thrúd had demanded training from Tyr. Well enough, since these past few years he’d managed to stay clear of the fighting. Tyr hadn’t gotten to raise his own sons as long as he might’ve liked. Starkad and Vikar had left. Fostering Thrúd, he’d sworn not to make the same mistakes.
Maybe only made different ones.
Between her and Hödr now, felt he spent half his time watching the young. Trying to steer their courses.
“I have to leave soon,” he said.
“We heading back to Asgard?”
He grunted. “You’re staying here. Me, I have to go into the Marches.”
Her face lit up like he’d promised to let her see an alf. “The Marches? Why can’t I go with you?”
Because she was young enough to ask a damn fool question like that. “You stay here and finish your training.”
“But I—”
“Look here. This one thing, don’t fight me on. Hard enough as it is. Stay, train. Be ready in case things go wrong. Maybe the Serks come here.”
Her mouth quirked all sideways. “Go wrong? You get yourself killed, I’ll come kick you in the stones, Uncle Tyr. Trust me—I can kick hard enough even a dead man would feel it.”
Tyr grunted, the nodded at her. “Just see you mind the knights.”
“Oh. I do.” She winked.
Fool girl. Tyr drew her into an embrace. “You know, do one thing for me. Keep an eye on Hödr. Boy is trouble. Let Lotar know if he gets up to any mischief.”
Thrúd clapped him on the back then pulled away. Grinning ear-to-ear at him trusting her with aught more than taking charge of a watch. She’d do all right. Girl was Odin’s granddaughter, after all.
16
The Rijn ran down from the Sudurberks, cutting through the western regions of Hunaland, before passing through the shadowy Myrkvidr and finally emptying into the Morimarusa. The ancient keep of the Volsungs lay along this river, already hidden by the mist as Sigmund peered over the longship’s stern.
Beside him, his son Helgi stood, looking forward rather than back. Looking up at the Myrkvidr, the source of a thousand dark tales. Men claimed witches and hags dwelt there, or trolls even. Others believed it housed varulfur who would come to stalk the fields and valley
s under the moonlight.
Sigmund, however, had never smelled varulfur in these lands, save for himself and Fitela.
Every so often, ships would sail through the forest and no one would hear from them again. Still, it was the swiftest, surest way to the sea, and a fitting test of a young man’s courage. How could one who refused to stare down shadows be expected to stare down a man intent to kill him?
Helgi’s mother had objected, of course. Borghild refused to see one of her sons leave the safety of their Rijnland keep. The Volsungs had made many enemies, she’d claimed, in their conquest of Swabia and Menzlin. More foes, too, lay in Baia and Styria, who continued to bitterly resist Sigmund’s efforts to unify Hunaland.
With Fitela at his side, he’d returned to find a land shattered by petty wars among pettier jarls and kings. While he and Fitela had succeeded in casting down the usurpers who had claimed Volsung’s lands, uniting Hunaland had proved another task altogether. One that long years had not yet brought to conclusion.
“Hamund wanted to come too,” Helgi said, not taking his gaze from the Myrkvidr ahead.
“He’s too young,” Sigmund answered.
“He’s a man rights.”
Fitela—blessed with varulf hearing like Sigmund—chuckled from the far side of the ship.
Sigmund scratched at his beard. It had grown too long of late, making him look older than he felt. The wolf vaettr inside him meant he aged more slowly than other men. Part of him had hoped Helgi or Hamund would inherit the wolf as well, if only so he would not have to watch his boys grow old before he did. Another part dreaded the thought of them bearing the terrible curse that he and Fitela had—the savagery, the bloodlust.
Finally, he looked to his son. “There is something of a tradition among our family. At fifteen winters, a man must prove himself in battle. I had fifteen behind me when I sailed with my father and we met Siggeir Wolfsblood with arms drawn. Fitela had fifteen winters when we avenged that wrong. And now you, at fifteen, shall set out and blood yourself on raids. Bring back wealth to hold for your future kingdom, son. And when Hamund has fifteen winters, he must do the same.”
Apparently drawn by the conversation, Fitela stalked over, eyes shinning, no doubt hatching some scheme or other to bring them all glory. Fitela always had plots roaming far and wide. Many of Sigmund’s victories he had to attribute as much to his eldest son’s cunning as to any mastery at arms. “Father thinks we ought to raid into the islands of Reidgotaland. Snatch some sheep and maybe a shepherdess and make a man of you in more ways than one.”
Helgi flushed and pointedly looked away, though Sigmund could smell his excitement.
While Sigmund had implied no such thing to Fitela, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for Helgi to lay with a woman. Regardless, Sigmund had chosen Reidgotaland because he thought Hrothgar unlikely to pursue minor pirates given the disquiet that rumor claimed had settled upon his lands. Sigmund fixed Fitela with a level glare.
Fitela just grinned. “As Father has tasked me to watch over you, I will take his advice under strong consideration.” Meaning he’d ignore it completely. Fitela had vehemently argued that raiding Hunding’s lands in Baia would serve to weaken their enemies. Sigmund’s eldest still believed provoking Baia into outright war would force them to make a poorly calculated move and thus lead to Hunding’s destruction.
Given that Baia and Styria had managed to set aside their differences to stand against Rijnland, Sigmund hadn’t wanted to risk a joint assault by both kingdoms. The potential for things to go awry was simply too great.
Fitela, however, always liked a bold plan.
“If I’m to lead these raids,” Helgi said, “should it not be my decision where we go?”
Fitela raised an eyebrow and cast a look at Sigmund. Yes, Helgi was a Volsung through and through.
“You will decide, then, son.”
Helgi looked back at the approaching Myrkvidr. Beyond the wood, another ship waited for Helgi’s command. A chance to prove himself. Sigmund had to allow his son that much. Finally, Helgi turned back to him. “You got to where you are by fighting for what mattered. You speak of the deeds you and Fitela did … I cannot settle for less. I’ll raid Hunding’s shores and deprive him of as many resources as possible.”
Sigmund drew in a deep breath and blew it out. He clapped his son on the shoulder, then turned away, unwilling to let the boy read the depths of emotion on his face. It was starting again. The cycle he and Fitela had been through.
The destiny of all Volsungs, perhaps.
17
With the break of summer, Sif had dared to hope Thor might change his mind and abandon Bjarmaland to the jotunnar. He had not. Indeed, the prince now spoke to her little, oft foraying out on his own, traveling to outlaying villages. Always searching for foes to slay.
Sometimes, he took the Thunderers with him. Two nights back they’d come upon a troll snatching up sheep, perhaps hunting the shepherdess. Sif had broken her halberd on its head, doing little more than annoy the beast. Mjölnir had had a more significant effect—crunching its rock-like skull as if it were made of clay.
Whenever Thor slew something with that hammer, a fell light came into his eyes. A gleam that might have been Sif’s imagination, though Geri claimed to have seen it too. A bloodlust one expected in varulfur and berserkir but found far more disturbing in other men. As if each death only left Sif’s husband craving for the next.
Still, no other trolls had turned up, and finally, bone weary, they’d trod back to the watchtower Rollaugr had granted them.
“Reminds me of our days in Aujum,” Freki said, as the tower drew into view.
“Our new home?” Sif asked.
“Hunting trolls. Father said back when the Aesir lived in Aujum, the trolls were largely confined to the Jarnvid. Now I hear they’ve been raiding all the way into Hunaland.”
Thor grumbled something under his breath. Did he think that Freki’s subtle prodding to head to distant lands? Was it? If so, Sif would have much rather gone to Valland and joined Thrúd than fought over a now unclaimed wilderness.
“Look,” Geri said, pointing at the tower. Sif didn’t see aught worth mentioning. Geri glanced at her. “There’s a plume of smoke rising up through the mist.” She sniffed the wind. “Hmm. Father.”
Sif stumbled over her own feet. King Odin? Here? Troll shit. Sure, she might hope he’d come to recall his son back to Asgard … But the last time Odin had come to task the Thunderers with something it had cost Itreksjod his life.
At the mention of his father, Thor’s steps quickened into a trot, any weariness he’d felt obviously forgotten. Sif had to scramble to even keep up.
Following Thor, they blundered back to the tower to find, indeed, a small fire smoldering just outside the kitchen, with a man sitting before it, his face obscured by his wide-brimmed hat.
“Father!” Thor bellowed, rushing over to clasp the old man’s arm.
Odin rose stiffly, not quite concealing the pain it brought to him, and embraced his son. “You’ve been too long away.”
Meaning the son took after the father. How oft did Odin actually sit upon his throne in Valaskjalf? How oft did he hold his court and see to his lands? Sif couldn’t recall the last time. He looked different than she last recalled him, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on how.
The varulf twins too embraced their foster father, then the three of them settled down around the fire. Thor glanced back at Sif and beckoned her over. Forcing a smile, she dropped down beside him. How easy it had been to forget, really, that these four were family and she an outsider of no blood relation to them.
What was she, really? Thor’s wife, yes, though she knew he’d taken others in times they spent apart. Maybe he hadn’t meant to. Maybe he’d intended to remain true to her. But Thor was Thor, and, like his father, had trouble keeping his trousers on. Everyone spoke of it, at least when neither man was around to hear.
And even if Sif was Geri’s friend and Thor’s wife, t
hat did not quite let her settle into the easy camaraderie the others felt around Odin. She still did not truly know why he’d chosen her as Gylfi’s ward so long ago. In truth, maybe no one knew why Odin did aught. His motives seemed nigh as unfathomable as Loki’s. It was an even toss whether Thor’s father or Aunt Sigyn’s husband was the more vexing with their mysterious airs.
The varulf twins and Thor regaled their father with tale of their exploits over the past few years, and passed a fair time with pleasantries. Sif held silent unless one of them directly addressed her. Any word she might have uttered struck her like an intrusion. Her gut screamed for her to find some reason to excuse herself and retire to the tower or even the kitchen. Aught that might take her away from the solitude Odin had somehow carried here with him.
Only when she had sat did she realize Loki too rested nearby, gaze locked on the fire. What was Aunt Sigyn’s husband doing here? Sif could never look at him without feeling ill at ease, especially given what had passed between them.
The king watched her, Sif suddenly realized. Even while talking to Thor and the twins, he kept an eye upon her. Why? What did the man want from her, truly?
Thor looked to Geri. “Would you fetch us something to drink?” The varulf woman snorted at being addressed like a servant, but she did clamber off into the kitchen. Thor next looked to his father. “Much as I wish you’d come only to visit, I suspect otherwise.”
Odin nodded slowly, a hint of a smile upon his lips. Pleased his son could understand this much? “Indeed. I have need of your aid in a pressing matter.” Here it was. The king would come and send them into some reckless, foolhardy quest, like to get them all killed. “I must break into Utgard and cross into Jotunheim.”
Sif sputtered. Everyone looked to her, but she couldn’t help it, really. “You want to enter Jotunheim? To go beyond the Midgard Wall and actually enter jotunn land?”