by Matt Larkin
So they had.
“I bring to your daughter far more lands and greater wealth,” Sigmund said.
Lyngi snorted. “I bring a husband who’s not ancient and who—may I add—did not spawn a murderous bastard accused of being a varulf.”
Sigmund leaned heavily on the table, staring hard at Lyngi. One day soon, he warned with his gaze. One day soon, the king would fall on Gramr. Sigmund would drive the runeblade through his chest. She would feast upon his blood.
Eylimi cleared his throat. “Be all that as it may, I see only one impartial way to decide this. Let Hjordis herself claim the man she wishes to marry. She is wise beyond her years, and I will abide by whatever decision she makes.”
Sigmund barely stopped himself from glowering. Ask a young girl, barely a woman, to choose between a handsome young man nigh to her age and one three times it? It hardly seemed impartial to him.
Hjordis drifted to her father’s side, silent as a ghost, and looked from Sigmund to Lyngi and back. To her credit, she didn’t look down or turn away. He could almost see the thoughts racing behind her eyes, as if she truly gave consideration to both parties. Did she?
Sigmund cocked his head slightly at her. What did this woman think, truly?
“A difficult choice, Father,” Hjordis said after a long pause. “I think I must choose King Sigmund. Though he is old, he is also famed throughout the North Realms. Who does not know the glory of the Volsungs?”
Lyngi groaned, and Sigmund cast a triumphant smirk his way. The other king rose, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and strode out, a great retinue accompanying him.
It made Sigmund smile all the wider.
Perhaps urd was not so cruel to him after all. Perhaps he might enjoy one last chance at love in his life.
54
The child in Skadi’s belly kicked, drawing a grunt from her as she trudged up the stairs inside the Thunderhome. The ice palace would soon be hers again. Loki’s seed had finally taken hold. Things moved well now, and she need but convince Thrym of it.
However, once she entered the throne room, the king stared at her oddly. “They told me Skadi had returned.”
“I have. You asked for a larger body. One able to accommodate your lusts.”
Thrym snorted. “Still seem tiny from where I sit. And much like someone else has already plowed you deep enough.”
Skadi smiled. “Indeed. A spawn of chaos if ever there was one. A child of the line of Hel herself.”
The jotunn king leaned forward, grasping his armrests. “You tread dangerously nigh to blasphemy, ghost.”
“But I tell you the utter truth.” Skadi continued forward until she stood mere feet in front of the massive king. “The child is but one of many tools at my disposal. I now also bring you the throne of Vimurland.”
“King Geirrod rules Vimurland. I find it hard to believe he bends the knee to you.”
“He’s dead.” And even so, he served her, or had, until that Hel-damned Thor had destroyed his body. That particular thorn would need to be addressed, and soon. Thor and his hammer might well prove the largest obstacle in their path save Odin himself.
Thrym grinned at that, exposing fangs. So wolfish, this one. Bold and calculating at once. A terrible foe or a glorious ally. “You intrigue me, ghost. What is it you seek? To see Brimir restored to its former glory?”
Skadi continued toward him until she could lean on the armrests herself, staring up at the king. “Brimir is gone. I would build a kingdom of eternal winter. The other jotunn tribes must follow us or be crushed as though men.”
The jotunn cupped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, leering down at her. “Do you know our cousins in the south move now, bestirred to make war on the empires of man?”
Skadi smiled, hiding her surprise. The eldjotunnar, the fire ones, had been troublesome even in the days of Brimir. They’d barely held the peace then. She could not expect to establish one now. Now, she’d need to crush them too, eventually. “Perfect.”
“How so?”
“We let them and the humans exhaust theirselves while we marshal our forces here. We call all the kingdoms of frost jotunnar. We call the mountain jotunnar and the wood jotunnar. We call the sea jotunnar. And we tell them the war has begun again. The Vanir are gone.”
“Gone?”
“These petty Aesir you may have heard of? They did not merely join the Vanir. They banished them from the Mortal Realm.”
Thrym lurched from his seat, sending Skadi stumbling backward, clutching her belly and barely stopping herself from pitching onto her arse. “The Accursed One?”
“Mundilfari has been missing for a thousand years.”
“Frey and the flaming sword?”
Skadi didn’t know the whereabouts of Laevateinn, but that hardly mattered. “The children of Njord …” She growled the foul name, almost choking on it. The bastard king of the Vanir was dead. “They are gone. The king himself cast into the dark.”
Thrym rocked back on his heels. Then he chuckled. A low rumble, like an angry mountain, growing in vibration until the entire chamber seemed to tremble with his dark mirth. “Gone … the betrayers who cast us out. Truly gone?”
“Our concerns now are their successors. The would-be god-king allows his son to feast upon jotunn souls, feeding his accursed hammer.”
Thrym nodded, flakes of rime showering down from him as he did so. “This I have heard of. If we are to strike, it seems, we need to lay into motion plans to remove the weapon from his hand.”
“Indeed.”
Thrym chuckled again, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. “After so long … Well. It seems I have found my queen after all. And together … we shall be what Aurgelmir once was. Like a force of nature we shall wash away the corrupt lands of man.”
Skadi allowed herself a tight smile.
The reign of winter had now begun.
55
In swan form, Sigyn alighted upon a hill beyond the sight of the Serklander army. She always met the man here. Beneath a beech tree, she settled down to wait.
Most like, someone would have seen her flying overhead. Word would get back to Scyld’s man.
And indeed, after an hour, the spy came trudging up the hill. He was an Andalusian, not a Serk, his skin fairer than the Utgard soldiers—though still darker than Sigyn’s. An unassuming figure who could pass among the Valls without much suspicion.
His route took him up the steeper side of the hill, and he was huffing lightly by the time he reached Sigyn. “Well? You have more information? Will the new commander surrender?”
Sigyn almost laughed. Tyr was even less apt to surrender than Lotar had been. In fact, he was probably among the most stubborn foes Scyld could have possible arranged. “No. But I do have information.”
“And?”
“I found my husband.”
Loki dropped down from the tree like a shadow.
The spy had time to utter an aborted shout before Loki’s fist connected with his jaw. Sigyn’s husband drove a knee into the man’s back, then punched him once between the shoulder blades.
Sigyn flinched. That was painful to even watch.
Still, Sigyn had to admit a grim satisfaction. Every so often, urd delivered justice.
Sneaking the spy back into Peregot was like to have proved impossible. Sigyn wasn’t even sure how Loki had gotten in and out and—as usual—he remained somewhat cryptic on the topic.
Without another good alternative, they’d taken him deep into the woods and bound him to a tree.
Loki sat kindling a small fire while Sigyn stared at the prisoner.
Twice she opened her mouth before finally managing to get it out. “Will Hel have my soul?”
Loki groaned softly, but didn’t answer until she turned around to face him.
“Was that a yes?”
He shook his head. “Life and death are more complicated than anyone understands, Sigyn. We are all forced to balance—or gamble—our souls against th
e needs of a tumultuous present and even more perilous future.”
“A profound way of entirely circumventing the question.”
Loki rose from the cook fire and drifted over to the prisoner, then knelt, and pushed the man’s chin up.
He must have just woken, for his eyes were open, staring hateful daggers at the both of them.
“Do you know who I am?” Loki asked.
The man scoffed. “Apparently her husband. And more like than not, a dead man once Scyld learns of this.”
“Scyld.” Loki drew in a breath and sighed. “We are always haunted by our mistakes.”
“You have no idea.”
Loki shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re the one with no idea. Your greatest mistake was in thinking Scyld is the most terrifying manifestation of flame. Where is our son?”
“Why don’t you march down to the army and ask for him?”
Loki frowned, exchanging a look with Sigyn. Then he moved to the fire and stuck his hand in. It came out with flames dancing around it, swirling about his fingers, rising up from the back of his hand like a torch.
The prisoner sputtered. “Y-you’re a caliph?”
“No.” Loki returned to the Andalusian and knelt in front of him once more, holding his hand up before the man’s face. “In the most distant sense, though, I might claim responsibility for their existence. I stole the Art of Fire for man in days long lost. I can no longer say with certainty whether actions that then seemed expedient actually shall prove so. Regardless, the true child of Muspel lies within me. Fire is life. But it is also painful, purifying death. Speak now, or touch the tongue of flame.”
The man drew in short, ragged breaths, whimpering. Sigyn could hardly blame him. The hair on her arms stood on end at Loki’s words. He spoke of something she couldn’t quite understand, something beyond her.
When the Andalusian gave no answer, Loki pressed his thumb into the man’s forehead.
That drew forth bloodcurdling screams that had Sigyn cringing, looking away, even if she could not block out the terrible sound. The screams melding with the sizzle of flesh. The acrid stench of it overpowering her superhuman senses and leaving her ready to retch and implore Loki to release the man.
But who was she to ask such a thing? She, who had murdered her own niece for this. She, who had crossed all bounds, could not now shy away from inflicting torment on those who had brought her to this precipice.
Loki withdrew his hand, exposing a charred black mark around where his thumb had been. The Andalusian’s skin had bubbled and popped, frying under the awful torment. Sigyn clenched her teeth to keep from crying out.
The prisoner whimpered between choking, ragged gasps.
“Where is Hödr?” Loki repeated.
“With the army …” The Andalusian’s voice had become a raspy thing, seeming nigh to breaking.
“Scyld holds him in his very camp?” Sigyn asked. How many times had she flown overhead and never realized.
Tears dribbled from the man’s eyes. “Scyld serves him.”
“What?” Sigyn gaped at him. “How would … what?”
Loki groaned. “Eldr is the spawn of Surtr, blessed with a portion of his progenitor’s power. A fragment of Muspel himself.”
None of that made any sense nor served to clarify the deluge of questions assaulting Sigyn.
“He is the caliph in charge of … the conquest of Valland.” The man gasped in obvious pain. “It will be his to rule … when Bernard falls like his brother.”
Loki glowered a moment. Then he lunged toward the campfire and thrust both hands inside. Before Sigyn could even react, he flung his hands toward their prisoner. An orb of fire shot out of his opened palms and slammed into the Andalusian.
A wave of heat struck Sigyn and hurled her backward even as a deafening explosion wracked her senses.
Everything grew dim for a moment.
Then Loki helped her up. Her ears were ringing. She couldn’t hear whatever he said.
She looked to the prisoner. Now a charred mess of bones.
Sigyn truly wanted to retch. But this wasn’t done. Not in a long way.
56
After long days of feasting and celebration with his new father-in-law, Sigmund had returned to Rijnland to find the unrest had only grown. The summer was nigh to ended, and he’d need to use the winter to consolidate his power.
And thus had he spent the past moon in consideration of all options.
He sat, staring at Barnstokkr, Hjordis beside him, while Hamund spoke.
“Obviously Styria has become our most staunch ally.” Hamund nodded at his new stepmother. “And Swabia remains loyal. Unfortunately, Styria lost a great number of men due to raids by trolls last winter and, already they expect a recurrence in the coming moons. This leaves us to call levies only from Rijnland and Swabia.”
Sigmund waved his hand. “Yes, call them.”
“My king,” Keld interrupted. “Swabia has just committed a number of men as mercenaries in Valland. The South Realmer emperor offered a fair mountain of silver for Hunalander warriors to hold back the advance from Serkland.”
Sigmund groaned. Hel damn it all. “Inform those who remain we’ll call the levies before the end of winter.”
A messenger raced up to Keld and whispered something in his ear. The thegn’s face fell, and he exchanged a few words with the new man, who nodded grimly.
“What is it?” Sigmund leaned forward on his throne. He could afford no more dire news at present. All he’d built was crumbling …
“The men we sent to Njarar returned, my king,” Keld said slowly.
“And?” Hjordis asked. “Will Helgi not come to his father’s aid?”
“No, my queen.”
“Ingrate,” she mumbled under her breath, no doubt unaware Sigmund could catch it.
“He cannot come,” Keld said. “My king, Högne’s son Dag has murdered Helgi in an attempt to reclaim his father’s throne. They say Sigrún cursed him with seidr and he fled into the woods, mist-mad.”
Sigmund’s mouth had fallen open, but he couldn’t shut it. The news sounded impossible. Like some fell dream spawned by spoilt fish or far too much mead.
“Helgi?” Hamund said, stumbling backward until he bumped into Barnstokkr. “Helgi?”
“We have no choice …” Sigmund said. His chest felt at once numb and filled with acid eating away at his insides. “Send men to help Sigrún.”
“We have no men to spare,” Hjordis pointed out. “If you send away any part of the army, you risk losing Rijnland. And Styria.”
Keld cleared his throat and stared at his feet. No. How could it get worse? “Sigrún is dead as well, my king. She took her own life, so talk says.”
This wasn’t happening.
His whole world was crashing down around him. Had some vile curse befallen the Volsungs?
First Fitela, now Helgi. And Sigrún too, whom Sigmund might have at least dared hope carried Helgi’s blood within her. “They had a son already …”
“We don’t know his fate as yet. Civil war ravages Njarar. I’m led to believe the babe might live in hiding with those loyal to Helgi still.”
He had to go. Had to find his grandson … had to …
Sigmund slumped back on his throne.
The wolf’s howl had become a beating drum inside his head. Demanding he release it. Let it come to the surface and run, despite the crowd. Despite even the daylight outside. “I … I …”
Of course, he could not release the wolf if he wanted to. Not in sunlight, but still …
Sigmund rose, brushed past Keld and Hamund, hardly even seeing them.
He strode from his hall. He strode from the town, breaking into a run before he’d even cleared the gate. He ran and he ran.
Myrkvidr’s thick canopy made it seem almost night even in daylight. Almost free enough from sunlight to let the wolf run. Sigmund pushed ever deeper into the wood, until at last the sun did set. He tore off his clothes and shifted, t
hen dashed in a wild sprint, howling at the night.
Other howls answered him, varulfur, perhaps, or just normal wolves.
Either way, Sigmund sought no companionship this night.
His wolf eyes made sense of shadows no human sight could pierce. The deeper he ran, the more twisted the forest became, as if the trees themselves expressed the torment ravaging Sigmund’s mind.
His dark urd.
Maybe this was his place all along. Varulfur out in the wilds went savage, lost touch with their human roots.
An escape he longed for.
After two days, Sigmund returned. Despite the depths of melancholy, he could hardly ignore the duty to the kingdom he had built, the son he had left, or the wife he had newly married.
It took time to find his discarded clothes.
Weary, and despairing, he plodded back through the fields and toward his hall. As he drew nigh, however, he found the whole town abustle.
War bands gathered outside, men forming up with their thegns. Sigmund passed among them until he found Keld, the man already clad in mail and mounted on a horse.
“What’s happened?” Sigmund demanded.
“My king!” Keld leapt off the horse and caught Sigmund by the forearm to drag him away. “It’s good you’ve returned. We did not know where to look.”
“Despair seized me.” Not that it had ever released him.
Keld nodded grimly. “Would that we could allow you the time to grieve. But Lyngi has brought an army against us. Even now they march into Rijnland. They’ve already pillaged the outlaying villages and wrought uncounted slaughter among the common folk. Jarl Arvid is dead.”
Sigmund glowered. They had attacked now, on the cusp of winter? A move bold to rashness. It meant if they did not find swift victory, they risked being caught out by winter storms, unable to feed or shelter their warriors.
And his hand shook with the all-consuming need to offer Gramr their blood. If Sigmund could not be allowed to despair, at least he could be allowed to rage.