by Matt Larkin
“Fetch this man something to drink,” Sigmund snapped. Keld ought to have known better than to bring him here without some hospitality first.
A slave came rushing along, offering a horn.
The man quaffed down great gulps of whatever they’d offered him, coughed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you. I …” He panted. “Forgive me, my king. I am Manning, housecarl to Prince Hildebrand. I bring word from Baia.”
“Oh!” Borghild leapt to her feet. “What’s happened?” Her voice shook as if the messenger’s mere presence had confirmed every fear she’d so long stewed over.
Sigmund leaned forward and motioned for the man to continue.
“Prince Helgi’s raid landed on a town King Hunding himself happened to be visiting, leading to a pitched battle between their retinues.”
Borghild whimpered.
No. No, this wasn’t supposed to happen. How could … they were protected by Odin … weren’t they? “Helgi …”
“Despite severe losses, Prince Helgi managed to overcome Hunding and slay him. He now presses his claim to the throne of Baia.”
“What?” Now Sigmund was on his feet without realizing he’d stood.
“Hunding’s sons have declared blood vengeance upon him. My Prince has already sent men to aid your son, but requests you to send your forces as well.”
“Yes!” Borghild shrieked. “You must go to him. Turn him away from this madness.”
It was boldness for certain, but madness? Perhaps not. Helgi had slain the king of Baia, whether he’d intended it or not—and Sigmund would not have put it past Fitela to arrange these circumstances. Now Helgi went to claim the throne of Baia. But if Sigmund himself went and joined the battle, he’d undermine both Helgi’s authority and his victory.
His fingers itched with the urge to claim Gramr and charge to his son’s rescue. But to do so would insult his son even if the boy didn’t realize the insult until much later. “Keld. Gather two war parties and leave for Baia within the hour.”
“You’re not going?” Borghild demanded.
He couldn’t. Not this time.
21
The King and Queen of Vimurland sat upon their thrones, watching Skadi with mistrustful eyes. She could not rightly blame them. They may not have known her, but they knew of her, the woman who had cowed mighty Godmund in Glaesisvellir beyond their border. Who had broken the wood tribes of Galgvidr who might have once raided their lands.
The queen, Angrboda, had a wicked gleam in her eye. She could not have known the fate Skadi had planned for her, of course. Had she even suspected, she’d surely have beseeched her husband to try to slay Skadi where she stood. Yes, she was sleek of form, skin the color of snow, hair like platinum.
An ideal choice for a new host.
Deep inside, Gudrun murmured nonsense, seeming unable to decide whether to embrace hope or further despair. The human mattered little now. She’d serve for just a while longer.
Finally, Geirrod leaned forward, his oxen horns bobbing, drumming his fingers upon the blade of his sword as it sat in his lap. “What do you wish here, snow maiden?”
Skadi allowed herself a grim smile. Oh, she was a snow maiden, yes, but so much more. Death had not wholly rent away her identity as a frost jotunn. “A wizard will come here, across the frozen plains. Disguised as but an old man, but you will know him when even your wolves fear him and his kin. He’ll come and you will lose your throne, caught in his schemes.”
Geirrod snarled, his hand closing around the blade of his sword until droplets of blue blood seeped from between his fingers. “No man threatens to claim what is mine.”
“Then I bid you seize him and wring from him the truth of his identity and his mission.”
The king grumbled, but leaned back. “Why would I trust you? You yourself are human, or rather a spirit in a human.”
“No. I am still like you. I am the daughter of King Thiazi.”
Now the queen bestirred herself. “Princess Skadi? She died long winters back.”
“And in the endless tracts of Niflheim, she became … me.”
“You came back …” Queen Angrboda looked to her husband, then rose from the throne. “I’d much like to speak with you of your … sojourn.”
No she would not.
Hmm. Gudrun grew more lucid. Driven to it by fear—or relief—at her imminent replacement as host?
Skadi bowed her head to the queen, and the jotunn woman led her upstairs, to a balcony overlooking a central courtyard. Down there, a pair of young jotunnar, one male and one female, trained with spears under the tutelage of an elder.
“My son,” Angrboda said. “Agnar. He spends overmuch time in reflection so my husband insists he learn more masculine arts. Ironic, given my daughter Gridr insists upon much the same training. In her mind she’ll be a great queen like the jotunnar of the old days …”
“In Brimir?” Skadi had to smile at that. Almost, she might have liked Angrboda. Considering the woman’s fate, growing attached would little avail Skadi. Still, conversation couldn’t hurt.
“So you truly are who you say?”
“Yes.”
“Mmm.” The queen followed the balcony’s path around the courtyard before leading Skadi into a tower. There they climbed a long staircase that wove up the tower in an irregular pattern, like a vine.
Once they reached the top, Angrboda exited through a tall doorway into yet another balcony, this one rimming the entire tower and offering a stunning vista over the great snow plains all around.
“I dream of Niflheim,” she said. “The goddess speaks to me, but I cannot fathom her words or meaning.”
Skadi leaned on the balustrade and watched the landscape. Up here, they were above the mist, looking down on it like a blanket of clouds.
The queen moved up beside her. “Have you seen her? The goddess?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve stepped beyond the gates of Hel?”
Now Skadi looked at the jotunn woman. A queen torn between reverence and doubt, so wanting to believe the source of frost jotunn strength had her interests at heart. But Hel served herself most of all. And now, knowing what she knew of the goddess’s origins, Skadi could not be certain of aught any more.
Hel was a dead woman. Not even a jotunn, unless she’d misread the signs. Human.
Was that knowledge something Skadi could use to her advantage? If so, she didn’t quite see how.
“The fortress lies in the heart of Niflheim, towering taller even than this keep. Only the damned pass through there. When the gates are open, you can hear the screams. It is dark and cold. The Queen of Mist has bound wraiths and snow maidens and other fell servants to herself. Men sometimes speak as though the dead will dine at her table. But men do not feast there—they are the feast. Their souls are devoured to sustain the cold legions.” Skadi wasn’t even certain why she was telling Angrboda all this. A vague sense that the woman needed to hear it?
Or a cruel desire on Skadi’s part to see another tremble with fear. And, indeed, Angrboda twisted about where she stood, seeming vexed.
“I … I would learn from you.”
Not quite the response she expected. Tragic, in truth. “Bid your husband follow my instructions carefully. The wizard will come here, and later, another man, bearing flame stolen from Muspelheim. These foes must be dealt with precisely.”
“Flame?” The frost jotunn spat the word like a curse. “It will be as you say, Princess.”
“I am a queen now. The Queen of Winter.” Skadi quirked a smile. “And I welcome you into my service.”
22
Seven knights, counting Reolus. Them, a varulf, a berserk, and a handful of Ás and Vall warriors. That was all Tyr had when he crossed into the Andalus Marches. Twenty-three men and women, all astride horses.
Couldn’t say for certain how many men this emir would have with him. More, maybe. Maybe not. Seemed to Tyr, whatever Art the Caliphs used to create the Sons, they couldn
’t make too many like that. Must’ve cost something. What, he couldn’t say. Didn’t much want to know, either.
His troop had crossed the river, avoiding the March villages as best they could. Some locals held loyalty to Valland, true enough. Some to Serkland, too. Many, though—especially those who hadn’t fled—they held themselves apart. Different peoples, their own language even. One what Tyr couldn’t make much sense of, nor Reolus or his men, they’d said.
Hard to trust men who could speak without you knowing what they were about.
Tyr pulled up on his reins and took in the landscape. Lots of hills. Lots of trees, plenty of them in marshland. Made it hard to know when foes were about, Hermod’s keen eyes not withstanding.
“You fought here,” Reolus said, riding up beside Tyr. “Back when Karolus himself reigned.”
Tyr grunted in assent. Lot of men died here. Lot of blood. Wasn’t so far from where he’d fought Volsung’s men. Course, that was a lifetime ago. Two lifetimes, maybe.
Another led his horse up to them. Norbert. “Our taciturn friend must have been alive when my grandfather was a boy. Why, it’s almost enough to wonder if all his parts are in working order.”
Tyr spat in the dirt.
“Your grandfather’s?” Reolus asked.
“Shit,” Norbert said. “I hope his parts are not still working. Man’s been dead eight winters. Can you imagine a corpse running around with a big old—”
“I’d prefer not to imagine,” Reolus said.
Nor Tyr. Valls called draugar ‘revenants.’ Weren’t as common here as in the North Realms. Maybe mist was thicker up there. Maybe men were angrier, more like to come back. Either way, the dead didn’t rise quite so oft in Valland. But it happened. After a battle, men went and burned the bodies.
Valls did it of necessity.
Serks did it as some kind of offering to their Fire God. Muspel they called him. Bastard wanted to see the whole of Midgard burn, seemed to Tyr.
Reolus pointed in the distance. “Karjuba is that way.”
Tyr shook his head. “Further than you realize. Race them to Karjuba, city’ll belong to the Sons before we get there. Have to cut them off before that. Hermod says they’re crossing the Middle Sea. Plan to land at Turab and march south.”
Reolus grunted. “They’re not crossing the Straits?”
“No.”
“All right,” Norbert said. “I have to ask. How does Hermod know things the emir’s own horse probably hasn’t been told yet?”
Reolus chuckled. “The Ás is good at getting close to people without them knowing.”
“Close?” Norbert asked. “The horse is between his legs. To get closer, he’d have to crawl up the man’s arse.”
Tyr refused to smile at the man’s absurdity. Would only encourage it. “Have to ride hard if we’re to cut them off. Follow the coast, but not too close.”
At that, Reolus whistled and beckoned for the rest of the men to ride.
Hermod had gone with Thythkil, the varulf, to scout ahead. Left the rest of them to camp. Fire might’ve given them away. Still, Tyr let them build one. Couldn’t risk the mist. He’d seen it turn men savage, into trolls. Hoped never to see it again.
So they sat around two small fires, him and a score of others. Clustered tight about the warmth. Too tight, like wolves laying atop one another. Most of the knights gathered here, along with Tyr and his chosen few. The rest, common warriors, they sat at the other fire.
Norbert had wanted to sing, the fool. That, Tyr had soundly forbidden. Reolus had enough brain to back him up. Norbert looked shame-faced for about a heartbeat, then set to carrying on about his escapades hunting boar in the Valland woodlands.
Tyr couldn’t say as anyone was actually listening. He sure as the gates of Hel wasn’t.
No, he looked to Obeainn. Berserk was tearing into some under-cooked rabbit Bertulf had shot. Like he intended to eat the whole thing himself. Wouldn’t surprise Tyr overmuch.
“Seen one of the Sons before?” Tyr asked.
Obeainn spit grease from one side of his mouth. Straight into the fire, causing a tiny flareup. “No.”
“Expect them to have same strength as you, leastwise while you’re in human form.”
“Wait,” Arnoul said. “These Sons of Muspel have the strength of a berserk?” Knight was big, for a South Realmer. Dark haired, a shaggy beard.
Tyr grunted. “We lost more than one berserkir holding the Marches. Just as strong, or nigh to it. And fast.”
“Fast like Reolus?” Arnoul cocked his head. “Or fast like you?”
Tyr had spent decades training to use his left hand. Still wasn’t as good a swordsman as he’d been with his right. But he heard the rumors among the knights. Called him a god of the north. The more pious, they named that blasphemy. Maybe it had led to Hlodwig’s decision to break with the Aesir. His son proved more practical though. And still the stories spread. Tyr didn’t hide his skills. He spat. “Maybe almost as fast. Maybe faster, depends on the man, I’d guess.”
Obeainn snarled. Sound of it had Arnoul and the men nigh him lean away from the berserk. “So we fight them in moonlight. Give Thythkil and me the edge.”
“No,” Reolus said. “Most of us can’t see in the dark. We’d risk the battlefield devolving into total chaos.”
Eh. Tyr had fought his share of night engagements. Sometimes risky. Sometimes less risky than fighting in daylight. They’d need every edge they could get. “Obeainn may have the right of it. Most like the Sons won’t have prepared for a bear. We hit their camp. Take them in the night.”
Reolus shook his head. “They’ll have heard stories of Ás berserkir.” Numbers of those just kept dwindling. Fewer born on Asgard, and too many kept dying in the wilds. Plus, Frigg didn’t seem much inclined to grant an apple to shifters. Couldn’t blame her overmuch. Not after Vili. “We cannot assume them to be fools.”
Tyr grimaced. Arguing with Reolus in front of his men wouldn’t do. Only serve to make him look bad. The knights needed to respect his authority. Everyone did, really. Couldn’t afford any doubts. Not on this mission.
At the base of a hill, Tyr stood, rubbing his thumb across his brows. Staring down as Hermod traced a crude map with a stick. Squiggly lines in the dirt, really.
“There’s nineteen of them, all told. They follow the old roads south. They’re on foot, which means we can catch them before they hit Al-Dakil’s first outpost.” Hermod pointed with the stick. “We’ll hit them here, between these two hills.”
Reolus knelt down beside him. “Then we have to get ahead of them, set archers on both hills.”
“A cross fire,” Bertulf agreed.
Tyr grunted. “Sons don’t die easy. Have to put an arrow in their heads or hearts. Else, they’re like to keep coming at you.”
The knight raised a brow as if Tyr weren’t speaking Vallish.
“Well,” Hermod said. “There’s more, I’m afraid. They have an eldjotunn with them.”
“Oh by the fucking gates of Hel.” Now Tyr did speak in Northern.
Reolus frowned. “A fire giant? Those stories are exaggerations, yes?”
Hermod shook his head. “Bastard has to be nine feet tall. Pushing ten, I’d guess.”
“That’s shit,” Arnoul said. “No such thing as jotunnar. Men down in these hills claim jotunnar set the standing stones. Right. Who’s ever seen one? Just tales the men told from the March battles, trying to make themselves seem heroes.”
Tyr almost bit his tongue. Sheltered cocks like Arnoul had no idea. Jotunnar clawed at the fringes of Midgard. A jotunn had raised Tyr. Not that he was about to say so.
“They’re real,” Thythkil said. Varulf didn’t bother trying to prove it. Must’ve figured his word ought to do. So should Hermod’s for that matter.
Hermod looked Arnoul square in the eye. Back in Asgard, he’d have been in his rights for calling a holmgang, man calling him a liar like that. “Cast aside your illusions. This jotunn is real. He’s with them
. And he’s going to be stronger and tougher than any ten men. You best resign yourself to that so you don’t wind up pissing your trousers when it comes time to fight him.”
Bertulf rose, stretched. “I can set the archers. But I have to ask. They’ve only got nineteen men. Al-Dakil has a few thousand, at least. Why not let them try to fight it out? The caliph will solve our problem for us.”
Reolus stood now too. “Because they’re not coming to fight. They’re coming to bring Al-Dakil into line. He won’t risk attacking the Sons of Muspel even if he thinks he could win. He’d bring the wrath of the whole Caliphate down on his head. If we kill them though, he’s hardly responsible.”
“They’ll just send more men,” Bertulf said.
“Eventually, maybe. But if they get to Al-Dakil and force him into war, those thousands are suddenly coming against Peregot. Every moon we delay that is a moon longer to build our own strength.”
Tyr nodded. “Got to be the ambush. Only way.”
Tyr knelt low, behind bushes. Watching the pass between the hills. Five Ás archers crouched behind him, Hermod included. Bertulf had the Vall archers across, on the far hill. Hopefully ready. Hopefully waiting for the enemy to walk in.
Tyr’s fingers itched. Ached to draw a blade. All these years, still he missed the feel of Gramr’s hilt. She was good to him. When she wasn’t breaking his mind in half.
Down there, he could see cobbles where the old road had been. Now grass poked up between the stones, making it hard to see the path. Locals thought jotunnar had lain those cobbles. Tyr knew better. Jotunnar didn’t build roads.
“They’re coming,” Thythkil whispered.
No one spoke, but men nocked arrows to bows. Everyone knew better than to question a varulf’s ears. Tyr had sent Obeainn with Reolus, across. Berserk hearing wasn’t as good as varulf. But it was still a lot better than that of men.