by Matt Larkin
Blinking through the haze of pain, she looked up. Was that …?
For a single heartbeat she thought she’d seen a pair of incandescent red eyes among the particulate dust that rose from the jar. Then they were gone. The dust settled and the steam vanished.
Sigyn rubbed her head. Fuck. Had she done all this for naught? Released the Fire vaettr without gaining any recompense for her trouble?
“Mama. You are quite beautiful.”
She looked up.
Her son was staring at her. Crystal brown irises and dark pupils had appeared in his eyes. He moved with a confident grace that belied his former blindness. Hödr stroked her cheek, then helped her stand.
“Y-you …”
“Oh. Yes, Mama. I am fine. Very fine.” He flashed a toothy grin.
Sigyn tried to smile through her shock. It worked. It had worked!
By the fucking Tree!
Part of her had never expected it to work—though she hadn’t realized that until just now. She swayed a little, still somewhat dizzy. Summoning was supposed to take a lot out of you, and to have a price on top of that. It seemed she’d gotten lucky enough and the Fire vaettr had accepted its own freedom as the price.
Hödr strolled the room, looking around as if keen to examine everything here. It was, after all, the first room he’d ever seen. Nevertheless, the dusty, dark chamber was no place to begin his introduction into the beautiful realm of Asgard.
“Come outside, I cannot wait for you to see the sun, Hödr. The sky, the sea—you cannot even imagine.”
The boy tripped over the ceramic jar, sending it crashing into a table where it cracked and broke in two pieces. “Oh. I suppose I am not yet used to my new eyes.”
The boy smiled again, flashing teeth as he strolled past Sigyn and out into the hall. He snatched up a torch from a sconce and trod forward.
Sigyn trailed behind, not quite able to settle her stomach. It was just the strain of the conjuring.
34
More than half their number were dead. The weight of it hung in the air as Tyr led his broken war party back through the gates of Peregot. They had more horses than riders now. Valls refused to eat them, even when things were tough. Instead, they brought the animals back by the reins, intent to find them new owners.
City was abustle, even more than usual. Men and women, they had that furtive look. The one people get when they know battle is coming to them. Coming, and they can’t do a damn thing to stop it. How they knew before Tyr and the others returned, he couldn’t rightly say.
Reolus sucked a hissing breath in, leaning heavily on his horse. Wound over his ribs still troubled him. Under the stink of the road, Tyr fancied he’d caught a whiff of rot. He’d seen too many battlefields not to know that smell. It was worse, when you thought you’d lived through a battle. Only to have it still killing you, slow as a patient lover.
“Come with me to the fort,” the knight said. “We have to see Lotar.”
Indeed. They’d talked it over more than a few times on the way here. The prince was not like to agree to their request. Not easily, leastwise. Asking his father for aid made him look weak, dependent. All the harder because he’d disobeyed the emperor’s command to banish all so-called heretics. Those like Tyr.
Hlodwig would’ve thrown out the Aesir, the shifters, and anyone else who might’ve had half a chance against the Sons of Muspel. And now they had to come begging him for aid against those very same troops.
Tyr nodded at Reolus. He turned to address Starkad but the fool boy had disappeared somewhere. Tyr grimaced. No matter how hard he tried, naught seemed able to mend the rift between them. Might as well have tried to clasping arms with Hymir.
Having little choice, he followed Reolus all the way up to the fort. Knight grunting quietly in pain with each rising step.
While the town had been packed tighter than ever, the fortress seemed eerily quiet. Not half the troops they’d left behind yet remained. Tyr exchanged a glance with Reolus, and they both hurried up the stairs to Lotar’s chambers.
Reolus was first through the door, and paused on the threshold, forcing Tyr to step around him.
The knight had paused because the only one in the room was a vexed-looking Mallobaudes. To be fair, Mallobaudes most oft looked vexed. At the moment, he sat at Lotar’s desk, staring at a map.
“Where’s Lotar?” Reolus demanded.
The other knight grimaced, pushing himself up with both palms on the desk. He drew in a loud breath. Glanced down at the map once more, then cast a weary gaze past Reolus. At Tyr. “The Prince has gone to join his brother’s forces.”
“Bernard?” Reolus strode toward Mallobaudes now, pausing in front of the desk. “He went to Aquisgrana?”
Mallobaudes frowned. “No. They meet halfway. The emperor has declared a Great Purge as he calls it.”
“What?”
Tyr folded his arms. He already misliked where this seemed to be heading.
Mallobaudes’s face only grew grimmer. “Emperor Hlodwig has declared the Deathless God frowns upon the moral decay of Valland. Thus he’s ordered all heathens, whores, and other undesirables exiled from our homeland. He’s even burning heathen goods and art. Melting down jewelry imported from Serkland, all of it. Any of those he’s deemed ‘filthy’ are to be purged by flame as well, once the moon is out.”
Oh, by the Tree. This nonsense was bad enough the first time, and now Hlodwig seemed intent to take it twice as far. Good part of Tyr was tempted to walk away. Fifty years of war here more than upheld his oath to Karolus. Caliphate was no closer to breaking. Valland was still fucking doomed. And here was this petty, self-righteous trench of an emperor, ordering Tyr’s people out?
Why not return to Asgard? Let the Aesir reinforce Hunaland against the Serklanders. King Sigmund had brains and stones both, from all Tyr heard.
“Lotar went to reason with him?” Reolus asked. The knight was leaning over a little, clutching his ribs.
Mallobaudes leaned back a little. Must’ve caught wind of it. “Are you well, sir?” Reolus waved that away. Would’ve been more believable without the grunt of pain. Looking unconvinced, Mallobaudes continued. “It’s gone too far for reason now. Lotar has conscripted Bernard to remove their father from his position.”
“Treason?” Tyr couldn’t stop himself from spouting it. Only thing worse than a weak, fool of an emperor … was sons who betrayed him.
The other knight cast a withering gaze Tyr’s way. “Large words from a savage. The emperor is mentally unfit to rule. His obsession with purifying Valland will leave him with no kingdom left to govern. It is hardly treason when the good of the land demands it.”
Tyr had his doubts on that. But he held his tongue. Just cracked his neck.
Reolus groaned. Had to have figured the same as Tyr. Not only were they not getting reinforcements from Hlodwig, but they’d just lost the better part of Lotar’s forces too.
“Well,” Mallobaudes said to Reolus. “Lotar’s placed you in charge upon your return, and instructed us all to—” his face drew up in a sneer “—heed the wisdom of him.” He inclined his head at Tyr. “So then, what would you have us do, great knight?”
Reolus looked to Tyr, who nodded. Not much to do, really. Reolus turned back to Mallobaudes. “Prepare for a siege. We …” The knight collapsed to one knee, then pitched over sideways.
“He’s got the rot,” Joveta said.
Woman wasn’t a völva. South Realmers didn’t hold with witches of any kind. They called her a chirurgeon. Seemed to Tyr her kind poked extra holes in men instead of fixing them.
Tyr cracked his neck. Had to stop himself from spewing foulness at her. “Fix him.”
But from the way she shook her head, Tyr knew the answer to that.
A long slow death. The fevers would addle the wits. Sooner or later, Reolus would beg for death.
South Realmers frowned on that. Killing their own.
But Tyr had called Reolus friend. So he figured it wo
uld come to him, in the end.
Heedless of the woman, Tyr spit on the floor.
And stormed out, ignoring her indignant sputters.
Outside the Ás barracks, Tyr almost blundered straight into Hödr.
For a moment, he stood there, gaping at the boy. Loki and Sigyn’s son had proved too much to handle—by far. But today, he’d almost forgot he was here.
Shit. But Tyr had far too few Aesir here. If Valland had any hope left, Tyr would need every possible hand.
“You been training?”
Hödr cast a glance back over his shoulder. “Of course. Is it true the war heats up? That the Serks are coming?”
“It’s true enough. You ready to fight?”
Hödr nodded.
Tyr cracked his neck. Hermod had claimed the boy might’ve raped some smith’s girl. Girl didn’t say so though. Hard to be sure without her word. Nor would Hödr be the only young man who’d ever stuck his cock where it wasn’t wanted. Half the soldiers here were guilty of that. Tyr included.
Tyr sucked air through his teeth. “Got reason to believe Serk troops will be moving on us in a moon, maybe less. The Sons of Muspel are bringing Al-Dakil back into line. Sure to shatter whatever truce Lotar had here.”
“The Sons of Muspel are here?”
Tyr grunted. He’d half expected the boy to ask who they were. But soldiers talked, he supposed. “In Karjuba by now, no doubt. You stay here, you face real war.”
“Oh, I’m ready for war.”
“Fine. Get to Cyr. Few more bouts of training before things go to shit.”
Hödr—arrogant smirk on his face—nodded and tromped along past Tyr.
Now Tyr just needed to find Thrúd. Wouldn’t like it much, but she needed to be back on Asgard. The relative safety of Peregot had vanished in smoke. Place was like to become one of the most contested cities on Midgard before summer was out.
He made his way to the barracks. Paused outside. A strange moan within. Very faint.
Tyr flung open the door.
No one in here. As if a ghost had … his eyes settled on Thrúd. She lay on the floor, beside one of the cots. Clothes torn apart. Trousers looking burnt off around her crotch. And her face … Scorch marks around her mouth.
Tyr raced to her side. “Thrúd!” Five burn lines covered her cheeks, and a big deep one that had burnt away the flesh on her lips. Exposed tooth and gums. Skin a charred, bleeding mess.
Like a handprint branded over her face.
35
The door to Odin’s cell creaked open and Agnar slipped inside. “I … I got the keys.”
Odin blinked. His eyes had gone so dry, even given the water Agnar had brought him earlier. Everything seemed crusted, hazy. A madness had taken him, to come to this place, to take this risk. To dare to believe in a hope for peace between Asgard and Jotunheim.
Madness …
Like the slow erosion of all hope … watching as the end days crept closer, inevitable. Fire and flood and the howls of a ravenous wolf. To destroy the world of the Aesir. To consume the world men.
Where was Thor? Did he yet live? Had Loki saved him?
Agnar was at Odin’s side, fumbling with a key the size of his hand, working it into joints too fine to have been crafted by jotunnar. Dverg work, perhaps, or alf work, even.
Odin had made so many enemies. They piled up around him on all sides. In the darkness around the Mortal Realm they waited … even as the mortals destroyed themselves …
One of the restraints clanked open. Odin collapsed to the floor, hit his shoulder, and lay there, groaning.
A moment later, his other manacle popped open and he fell face-first to the ground.
“King Odin?” Agnar asked. “It’s really you, ain’t it? Reckon we don’t have much time.”
Odin grunted, forced himself up. So little pneuma to call on … he pulled on what he could, trying to wash away the fatigue and weakness with power he would soon have to pay back.
“Where are my … children?”
“Father locked them in the cells some bit back. Said he reckoned he could use them to breed up a few werewolves for himself.” The boy helped Odin up, face twisted in a mask of disgust.
“What is it, boy?”
Agnar leaned in, looking shamefaced. “I heard men talking. Saying the … uh, the girl bit off the man’s cock what went to plant his seed. No one else came to try her after that. Ain’t heard no problems for breeding the man, though. They send them to him, three or four a day and he just—”
Odin held up his hand to forestall any further explanation. It sounded like Freki was having a far better stay here than Odin had been. “I need water, food to regain my strength.”
“Father’ll be wanting to see you here, soon.”
“Oh, I’ll be here waiting.”
Agnar had refastened the manacles upon Odin’s wrists, but not locked them. Odin’s arms ached all the more for having had a moment’s reprieve, but he rather suspected the boy was right. Nine days had passed, and the king always came at least once a day to gloat or torture Odin with hot brands.
To talk of how he planned to eat the flesh of a sorcerer and thus become stronger himself.
And it was past due time for another such visit.
Odin waited, until at last the door swung open and clacked against the wall.
Geirrod walked in, the mighty sword resting unsheathed upon his shoulder. He edged around the fire to the far side of Odin’s tiny cell and flashed a fang-like grin at Odin. “Been thinking about how I’m gonna get me some answers out of you. See, then your varulf bitch gave me just the idea. What if I was to roast one of your stones in this flame right here? Stones make a juicy treat to whet the appetite.” The jotunn chuckled, then ran his tongue over a lower fang. “You ever taste a man’s stones, Grimnir?”
“No.”
“No.” Geirrod shrugged. “Maybe if you had, you’d not have been snared so easy. Flesh is power, old man.”
“There are other powers.”
“See, there you go, spouting riddles and nonsense again. Me, I just don’t hold with men what can’t speak plainly.”
Odin chuckled dryly. “Oh, Geirrod, much have I said, though little you remember. I see your sword, splattered with blood. But yours is the life that is over.” Odin rose abruptly, letting the chains fall away from his arms. “See now, Odin, the terrible doom of your kind. You know to fear my mighty son, yet fail to realize when his more fearsome father walks among you.”
Geirrod balked, fumbled with his sword, and dropped it. The massive blade clanked on the grated floor.
Odin surged pneuma into his body and lunged forward, caught the sword, and thrust it up into Geirrod’s gut. Blood oozed from the wound, washing over Odin’s burned hands. He stared up into the eyes of his tormentor.
Eyes now wide with fear.
Streams of blood dribbled down between Geirrod’s fangs.
“It strikes me now, that the line between jotunnar and humans is thinner than I had once believed. The horror in your eyes I have seen in those many … who grew to regret their dealings with me.”
Geirrod stumbled, hit the wall, and collapsed to his knees. Even from that position, he still towered over Odin.
The stench of blood and shit filled the chamber. The sword must have lodged in Geirrod’s bowels. An unpleasant way to die.
But then, so would be being strapped between two fires.
Odin left the king alone in that cell, whimpering and crawling feebly toward the door.
“Where’s my father?” Agnar asked, when Odin entered the upper floor.
Geri and Freki he’d found in neighboring cells, and the two varulfur now plodded along behind Odin. Neither spoke much of what they’d endured.
Odin looked to Agnar, the son of the creature who’d just spent nine days torturing him. Vile as Geirrod had proved, his son had offered succor. Odin stroked his beard and his hand came away coated in grime from all the sweat and soot. “He will not be joining us.
Now, you are king here. And if you are wise, I would seek treaty with the rulers of Asgard, not war.”
Agnar nodded, expression tight with unspoken pain. The boy had loved his monstrous father?
“Boy,” Odin said. “Heed this warning. Do not again taste human flesh. Do not fall prey to the weakness that so plagues your kind.”
The boy’s glower only deepened, whether because of the command or because he too feared the addiction, Odin couldn’t say.
“If you command the others to let us pass freely, will they obey?”
“I am the rightful king, now. Blood matters a great deal to my people. By law, I hold authority even over my mother.” Agnar sniffed, then grunted. “I’ll see you all fed, properly.”
The other jotunnar avoided Odin and his children while they sat at an otherwise empty table. That suited Odin well enough. He had little mind to speak with them in any event.
Agnar, however, did sit at the table’s head, watching as the varulfur tore into massive hunks of mammoth meat.
Odin had sated himself, but he lacked the varulfur’s appetites. Instead, he watched Agnar. The boy fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable and more than a little sullen. For all that he claimed blood mattered, Odin thought it more like than not that some other, stronger jotunn would come to claim this land from him.
Or even that his own mother—now glaring at them from the shadows—would humble her son once Odin had left.
A shame, though not truly Odin’s problem. “You must send a single representative to offer an overture to Asgard. No more than one, or Thor may think it a trick.”
“Thor always thinks it a trick,” Geri said around a mouthful of meat.
Agnar nodded. “I understand.”
Odin leaned forward, cast a glance to make sure no other jotunnar had drawn nigh, then looked deep at Agnar. “I seek an ancient place, boy. One you’d have my undying gratitude were you to help me find.”
The boy squirmed, frowned, and then leaned forward himself. “I ain’t much for learning history.”