by Matt Larkin
Odin cocked his head ever so slightly. “It’s been done before.”
“By who? Madmen?” The weight of her temerity in so addressing the king hit her even as the words left her mouth. But she couldn’t forestall them. “In any event, we sealed most of the breaches as you commanded.” They’d tricked the jotunn Vörnir into doing it, rather, getting Meili and Hildolf killed in the process.
The king nodded. “One remains.”
“And of late the jotunn king Hrungnir has built his fortress over it, thus controlling which jotunnar may enter Midgard. Best as I can say, he did us a favor in that, but he’s not like to simply let you walk through his home and enter the jotunn lands.”
Odin’s wry smile grated on her nerves like sand scouring her flesh. “Hence why I come to seek aid from my mighty son. I’ll draw the jotunn out and, if he refuses to bargain, Thor can use Mjölnir to strike him down.”
Mjölnir, cursed hammer. Why didn’t Odin, slayer of Ymir, just … That was it! That was what was different. He now carried a staff instead of the ancient spear, Gungnir. He no longer held the ancestral weapon. Where had it gone? If he’d come to fight his way through Jotunheim, surely he’d have brought it. Unless it had become broken or lost.
So now, without his vicious weapon, Odin needed another tool of power to slay jotunnar. The one he’d given to his son. Sif scowled at the king. From the look in his eyes, he could tell exactly what she’d realized and almost dared her to speak of it. Well, fuck that. Let Thor ask him to explain himself.
“Father,” Thor said, “I am honored. Of course I will slay this jotunn king for you.” Sif wanted to scream at the both of them. “By my hammer, the beast shall meet Hel.”
Geri reached over to pat Sif’s knee. “It’ll be all right. We’ve done this before.”
It was a long trek through Bjarmaland, toward the Midgard Wall. Beyond the boundaries of Holmgard lay the jotunn-infested wastes of Qazan, territories that offered Thor numerous opportunities to sate—or rather enhance—his desire to smite every inhuman creature in Midgard.
Having found no replacement for her halberd, Sif had claimed a spear from the tower before they left. Most jotunnar stood only the height of an exceptionally tall human. Against those, the spear gave her the advantage of reach. Against man-eaters who feasted upon human flesh for long years, well, those jotunnar could stand twice the height of a man, meaning the spear at least evened out the reach advantage.
Seven of the creatures died on the way to the mountains. Thor’s fury grew with each he slew, and Mjölnir had begun to sound like a thunderclap as it killed. A drum beating inside Sif’s head, transforming her husband into a beast to rival his victims.
While she remained powerless to even broach the subject.
They saw it long before they reached it. The end of the world. The very edge of Midgard, rising up through the mist. Glaciers broke through great peaks, and rising up from those slopes, a wall of stone coated in thousands of years of ice. She’d never truly wished to see it again. Not after all the blood Vörnir had shed in this place.
A deep crevasse tore through the glacier, forcing them to take a long trek around. Before they had finished that circuit, Odin called for them to camp.
The jotunn king he planned to seek out alone, leaving Loki behind with the Thunderers. Sif wanted to believe Odin could talk Hrungnir into letting him pass.
But then, the rampant slaughter Thor had wrought among jotunn-kind was not like to endear them to the Aesir. And so the threat of impending violence permeated their camp. And Thor all but reveled in it.
18
One might have called the dwelling built before the breach a fortress, if one were more generous than Odin felt at the moment. Hrungnir’s home was rather constructed from giant chunks of ice packed hard against crudely carved boulders, creating something that looked as though it belonged as a part of the Midgard Wall.
An age ago, the Mad Vanr, Mundilfari, had raised this wall to keep the jotunnar out of Midgard. Now that Art had begun to fail, and Odin had some hope of actually reaching into Jotunheim. Thor had tried to recruit the jotunn Vörnir to fix the cracks in the Midgard Wall. Odin had never expected his son to succeed, though if he had, the task at hand might have actually proved more difficult.
By building his dwelling here, Hrungnir had actually thwarted too many more jotunnar from entering Midgard. In that regard, he made Odin’s task easier. Still, Odin needed to pass beyond the lumpy dwelling were he to reach the Well of Mimir.
Mounted on Sleipnir, Odin rode alone toward the jotunn’s hall, snow crunching under the horse’s many hooves. He’d told Loki to remain with Thor, in part to avoid alarming Hrungnir with too many humans, but mainly to keep Thor from doing something foolhardy in the meantime. Odin’s son had yet to learn patience or restraint. Perhaps he never would.
“Hrungnir!” Odin bellowed outside the hall. It had no gate, but rather a large boulder that obstructed the view inside unless one were to ride up to the very entrance.
A groan sounded within, echoing off those ice blocks. Cursing and grumbling followed, and then a frost jotunn came stumbling around the boulder’s edge. He stood half again as tall as Odin, with a bluish tint to his skin. Tusks jutted from his lower lip like those of a walrus, save inverted. Oxen-like horns burst from the sides of the creature’s head. A jotunn only grew so deformed by eating the flesh of men.
Odin pulled up on Sleipnir’s reins, causing the horse to rear back and kick six legs in the air.
“Guardian of the breach! They tell me you are quite proud of your steed.”
Hrungnir stomped out into the snow, looked Odin up and down, and nodded in obvious interest at Sleipnir. “Fastest horse in Jotunheim, Gullfaxi is. Of the old lines from Brimir. Don’t reckon humans know aught of that. Who comes to me?”
“Odin, King of Asgard and ruler of mankind. And this—” Odin patted his horse’s shoulder, “—is Sleipnir. The fastest horse in all lands.”
Hrungnir sucked noisy spittle between his tusks then blew it out in a spray that caught Odin, even from twenty feet back. “Reckon you’ve got less between your ears than a fucking troll. Care much to wager on how fleet that horse of yours is?”
Odin barely suppressed his rising grin. “I will. If I win, you allow myself and my people free passage back and forth across the wall, as much as we desire.”
Hrungnir snorted, then spat a glob of filth in the snow. “And when I win, I get to mount your head on a spike for talking about. That, and I get to eat your heart.”
Well, that was enough to kill the smile tugging at Odin’s lips. But Thor assured him this jotunn had power, and Odin didn’t want to risk his son’s life fighting the brute if he could avoid it. “Deal. Win, and I’ll not stop you from claiming your prize.”
A deep chuckle burst from Hrungnir, then the jotunn whistled out the side of his mouth. A moment later, a shadow passed overhead, then dropped down beside the jotunn.
A winged horse, and one a full arm’s length taller than Sleipnir.
Long ago, Loki had told Odin winged horses had lived in Midgard, but that they were gone now. When Hrungnir said this Gullfaxi came from an old line, he meant it.
“Reckon I race you to that peak.” The jotunn pointed at the same mountain Gullfaxi had no doubt just flown down from.
“No.” Odin’s mind raced. No matter how fast Sleipnir could run, he couldn’t well climb a mountain faster than Gullfaxi could fly to the top.
“No? You saying we ain’t got a bargain now?”
“No …” Odin glanced around, barely able to focus. “We race to the bottom of the crevasse in the valley.”
Hrungnir glared, his tusks flaring out to the side. “As you will. Already got a spot picked for your head. Place of honor, fit for a king.”
“I’d expect no less.”
Odin waited for Hrungnir to mount his flying horse, then kicked Sleipnir’s sides. “Run!” he whispered to the horse. “Run as you have never run!”
Sleipnir lurched into stomach-clenching motion, a flurry of snow spraying up behind his hooves. Icy wind blasted over Odin’s cheeks, freezing them even through his long beard.
A guttural shout went up behind him, some foul, ancient tongue that sent Odin’s nerves on edge.
“Run!” Odin repeated.
Sleipnir dashed toward the glacial shelf spread out between the mountains.
Once more the shadow passed overhead, the jotunn now aloft, and already moving beyond Odin, unimpeded by the snows.
A flying horse had not factored into Odin’s wager, damn it. He leaned forward, pressing himself tight over Sleipnir’s mane. “Run, my friend, or this shall be our last ride together.”
The horse surged forward with a fresh burst of speed. The wind now threatened to tear Odin right off Sleipnir’s back. It caught his hat and flung it away. It tugged at his cloak, streaming out behind him.
The jotunn’s horse dove for the crevasse, edging ever closer. But there was no flying in such narrow confines, so Hrungnir would have to land. That meant Odin still had a chance.
Sleipnir passed just under the flying horse, Gullfaxi’s massive hooves kicking mere feet above Odin’s head.
Surefooted, Sleipnir raced right into the crevasse, barely slowing, barely heeding as one or another hoof skidded along ice. The slope dropped down so steeply Odin felt himself falling forward, his weight trying to carry him right over Sleipnir’s head. Legs clutched tight around the horse’s flanks, all he could do was hold on and trust his companion to find the way.
And Sleipnir did, finally skittering to a stop at the bottom of this ravine, a few feet from a fissure that would’ve sent them both plummeting into the depths of the glacier.
“Impossible!” Hrungnir bellowed. The jotunn’s thick voice rumbled off the crevasse’s sides and sent cracks spreading along them.
Icicles the size of spears creaked. One split and pitched down the fissure with a whoosh.
“Keep your voice down,” Odin warned.
Heedless, the jotunn tromped down on Gullfaxi. “Ain’t no horse what runs faster than a pegasus flies! Impossible.”
Those cracks widened.
Teeth grit, Odin pointed above. Mercifully, the jotunn faltered, looked around, and seemed to remember himself. For he finally turned his horse about—an awkward maneuver to be sure—and began to ride back to the surface.
Odin followed, keeping a significant gap between them.
The pair of them rode up, then Odin turned away, west and headed for Thor’s camp. “A pleasure dealing with you. I’ll be looking to pass through the breach come the morn.”
“But …” The jotunn growled something in his own language.
With his back turned, Odin allowed himself a slight grin. Sleipnir had not failed him yet.
As expected, the tromp of heavy hooves rapidly closed in behind him. “I must have that horse!”
While the loss no doubt rankled the jotunn, his particular request left Odin gaping and turning to look upon the creature before he’d realized he’d done so. “Sleipnir is not for sale. He is a companion, not my property.”
Hrungnir spat in the snow. “Then I pays him instead of you! Don’t make no difference, but I must have him.”
Odin shook his head, and continued on, right into Thor’s camp.
Already, his son stood in the midst of the others, massive arms folded over his chest. “Welcome, Father. I see you brought the beast out away from his warriors. A prisoner?”
“I ain’t no prisoner, cur!” Hrungnir bellowed at Thor. “And I mean to bargain with your kin, not you.”
Odin dismounted Sleipnir and scratched behind the horse’s ear. “We had a bargain.”
“Reckon it’s time for a new one.”
Behind Thor, Sif groaned.
“I got a bargain for you,” Thor said. “I challenge you to a duel. If I win, you pack up and return through the breach and keep well clear of Midgard.”
Now, Hrungnir turned his glare more fully upon Thor. “You’re the humans what’ve been hunting my kind of late.”
Thor shrugged and hefted Mjölnir. “I fight to defend the men of Bjarmaland, but call it what you will.”
“And what do I win after I kill you?”
“A few moments of pride,” Freki said. “Before you wake up from that dream.”
Hrungnir pointed a meaty finger at Odin. “The rest of you can just stay damn well out of it.”
Several possibilities could have arisen if Odin won the race. One, he’d dared to hope, would involve Hrungnir actually keeping his bargain and letting them pass. More like than not, though, Odin had known this would come about. Armed with Mjölnir, Thor could probably kill the jotunn.
Probably.
It was a risk, but one Odin saw no alternative to. Already, Loki had motioned the varulf twins away, and Odin moved to join his blood brother. Sif, however, lingered at her husband’s side a moment longer than necessary. A deep look passed between them, as if the woman willed urd to unfold in some way other than how it must.
Maybe, once he’d drunk from the well, Odin might master urd and control such things. For now, he must let events play out as destiny demanded. He beckoned to Sif, and finally, she joined him. From the corner of his eye, Odin watched her. Was her disquiet the natural fear of a lover, or some manifestation of her latent gift with the Sight? Much as he’d tried, Odin had not been able to glimpse the outcome of this duel.
“I’ll carry your woman back to my hall,” Hrungnir said to Thor, eyeing Sif in the process. “I shall enjoy her squeals.” The jotunn drew a flint slab from off his back, the piece fashioned into a pointed shield. “Don’t even need no proper weapon to kill you. Take your head clean off with my whetstone.”
Odin glanced at Loki, who was frowning at the display. If his blood brother feared for Thor, though, Loki gave little outward sign of it. Still, could Odin have miscalculated? Few things mattered more than his son.
Thunder rumbled in the evening sky, though no lightning broke through the dense clouds.
Without warning, Hrungnir roared and flung his shield like an arrow shot from a bow.
Odin’s stomach lurched at the suddenness of it, as the missile streaked through the air.
Thor stumbled back, jerked Mjölnir up, and flung it at the last instant. The hammer smashed through the stone slab with a crash like a thunderclap. It continued soaring straight into Hrungnir’s forehead, and—Odin could have sworn—a crackle of lightning sizzled at the instant of impact.
The giant stumbled several steps backward, wobbled, and pitched over, crashing into the snow. His fall threw up a cloud of white that obscured his form.
Only then did Odin realize Thor was screaming. Lying on the ground, clutching his own head, as blood oozed out.
No.
What had … No …
Odin raced to his son’s side, but Loki got there first. His blood brother struggled to pull Thor’s arm away from his head. Odin grabbed the same hand and—flooding his limbs with pneuma—jerked that arm free.
A chunk of flint nigh as big as Odin’s hand had pierced Thor’s skull and lay wedged half inside. Blood streamed into Odin’s son’s eyes.
No.
No. He hadn’t prepared for this.
No … “Thor! Thor!” He cast a frantic glance at Loki. “Do something!”
Sif’s screams drowned out Loki’s answer, but the look on his brother’s face told Odin all he needed to know. Thor was a dead man. A slab of rock was jammed into his brain.
Odin grabbed the stone. Its sharp edges sliced his fingers and palm. He didn’t fucking care.
“Stop!” Loki shrieked. “If you pull it out like that, he’ll be dead almost instantly.”
Odin choked on his own breath, caught somewhere between screaming and sobbing. The bitter reality of his gambit settled like a mountain on his chest. To reach the well, he’d sacrificed Thor.
His son’s breath slowed, grew into irregular pants. Sif was beside him, shri
eking hysterically.
They could do naught. None of them knew a thing to save him.
None of them … “Valkyries!” Odin shouted.
The mist thickened at his call, and silhouettes within took shape. Like shadows rising up from deep underwater, they pressed against the surface before stepping through.
Sif jerked up abruptly, gaping at Hrist, Svanhit, and Altvir. “Wha …?”
At once, Loki pulled back from Thor, allowing the valkyries space.
Freki grabbed Sif and pulled her away as well. “Sorry, little brother,” he said to Thor.
Altvir knelt at Thor’s side, one hand on his chest, one on his head. “I cannot remove it without killing him. But … there is a song. Perhaps you know it?”
Of course. Väinämöinen’s spell-songs … One to speed the healing of the sick. But even that would not stop someone from bleeding to death. Save, maybe in conjunction with the power of an apple?
Voice shaking, Odin began incanting the ancient syllables. His song reverberated off the mountain peaks and infused the air itself with an energy not unlike the aftermath of lightning—a spark felt along the skin. A tingle that set the hair on his arms standing on end.
Altvir had begun signing as well, her voice high and clear and far more beautiful than Odin’s own. And with mercy, maybe enough to forestall the inevitable.
Odin sang until his throat felt raw, sang until nigh every drop of pneuma felt wrung out of him like a washcloth. Until he had to support himself on hands and knees. Until his voice broke and he could no longer carry the melody.
Even Altvir had faltered, now leaning against Svanhit.
Thor’s flesh had turned sallow, but his breathing had become somewhat more regular.
“He’ll live?” Sif asked, obviously choking back sobs of her own.
“For a little while,” Svanhit answered. “Maybe long enough to bid him farewell.”
No. Odin would not allow this. “Do something,” he rasped.
“Valkyries are not healers,” Svanhit said. “We can protect, sometimes stave off death. We cannot, however, mend flesh. Perhaps the most we can offer him is …”