by Matt Larkin
Alf clucked his tongue. “Son, be careful where you tread here …”
Sigurd cast a withering look at his stepfather. “You married my mother. You protected her …”
“And yourself,” Alf said.
Well, leastwise they had allowed him to live. Protected seemed a stretch if they had the merest guess as to what depredations Regin had visited upon him.
Hjalprek raised a hand before Sigurd could spit further accusation at him. “The truth is … I no longer have the Volsung hoard.”
“What?”
“Our kingdom has faced recurring threats from the others, and from the Niflungar out of Samsey, too. We needed that gold to win loyalty to our cause. Without it, Cimbria would have been lost.”
“It was not yours to spend!”
“You claim to be a man,” Alf said. “So do not speak like a petulant child. If Arus fell, what do you think would have happened to your inheritance? Or your mother, for that matter? Father made the choice he had to.”
Hjalprek glowered. “I had dared hope to rebuild the hoard with raids before you came of age. But the world grows darker, not tamer. Wars spread across all lands.”
“Does my mother know?”
“She’s no fool,” Alf said. “She didn’t wish you fostered, but what mother would? I consoled her by assuring her the dverg was like to give you the strength needed to reclaim your throne in Rijnland.”
Sigurd chuckled mirthlessly at that, not bothering to explain when the pair of them cast questioning glances his way. Instead, he rose, scraping his chair over the floor. “I thought this my home. Apparently my place truly is in the dark tunnels to which you banished me.”
“No one banished you,” Hjalprek snapped. “Show a bit of gratitude, boy.”
Sigurd sneered at him. Gratitude? “You were right about one thing. I will reclaim my throne.” He spit in the fire, then stormed out before either of the men could further argue.
2
He was naked, but that hardly mattered.
An alabaster street unfolded before Odin, leading between buildings of pearl and gold, with gilded roofs that reflected the radiance in all directions. A city seemingly made of sunlight and peopled by scarcely clad men and women whose very skin seemed luminous.
They were creatures of Otherworldly beauty, a perfection of the human form so striking it made him want to weep and fling himself at the feet of these demigods and beg their worship. The liosalfar were as radiant as their realm. Their eyes shone with sunlight. Their hair glittered. Their visages saw right through to his very soul.
While the wilds had held wonders beyond telling, this city of light was the true glory of Alfheim, and etheric songs flitted between its rooftops and over its soaring skyways. The alabaster roads did not merely follow the ground, but soared up in graceful arcs, leading to balconies and spires and even to the great palace at the city’s heart.
A place of countless gleaming towers so tall they brushed the clouds. Atop the highest of those peaks sat the blinding sun itself, as if tethered to this place.
Within such trances, Odin oft could not tell the difference between vision or memory, if such a difference existed. In remembering the future he found it blurred with the present and left him adrift in time, as if all that happened or would happen was happening and always would be. Therein lay the danger of how thoroughly the Well of Mimir had rarified his Sight.
Odin had foreseen Sigurd choosing Grani long ago, and thus, had led Sleipnir to mate with the mare that would spawn the horse. It was strange how little different playing out the event in the present felt from living it in future memory.
He’d met Sigurd the same way he’d known he would meet him even before the boy’s birth. Given the same advice—words he’d pulled from his own circular memories. Leaving him to wonder if he could choose to say something else, to do something else when faced with the unfolding present.
Even prescience had its limits, of course, and those Odin had spent the intervening years delving into, trying to uncover, some with help from Loki, who himself seemed to impede Odin’s Sight in certain ways. The presence of another oracle created blind spots, though such were not noticeable unless one began to look for them. After all, the mere absence of a vision did not inherently portend much. Did a vision fail to materialize because whatever might have happened was not going to happen? Because it might put him at odds with an oracle who’s own visions might have caused him to create a shift in the timeline?
Or was prescience simply never perfect? Every vision had gaps, even when it could be separated from nonliteral imagery the Sight sometimes portrayed.
Odin and Loki had spent long nights debating the finer points of this gift, and, even so, Odin had no doubt his blood brother held back some knowledge. Nor could Odin truly blame him for that.
Either way, through their debates and his own experimentation, Odin had found one truth, bitter and hateful though it was. Loki had expressed it succinctly. “Prescience accounts for itself.”
That being the case, did it mean naught Odin could see would lead to changes in the future? That, no matter how hard he pushed his limits, never he could foresee aught that would lead him to take actions which would have invalidated the visions that created them? If so, he couldn’t choose to advise Sigurd differently, or, at the very least, he didn’t choose it.
This paradox, that oracles were ultimately powerless to alter the future, might have explained the weight that had borne down on Loki since the day they’d met.
But Odin was resolved to go further, go deeper than Loki’s pyromancy could ever hope to take him. To find the one way, whatever it might be, that would allow him to cut through the web of urd and create the future he willed. For if he could not, if the web was unbreakable, then free will was but an illusion.
A revelation that Odin could not abide.
The sun had set when Odin sensed a presence in the Penumbra. It came as a tightness in his chest, almost painful, and the rising of hairs on his arms and the back of his neck.
Oft enough, Odin could feel it when something drew close to the Veil, even before embracing the Sight. He knew when his valkyries approached. He knew when ghosts or other vaettir watched from the shadows, hateful of the world of the living yet unable to affect it in any but the most subtle of ways. A rotted crop here, a change in the wind. An unclean thought, whispered so quietly in the ear, a person might think it their own heart’s desire.
Were these tiny, oft hateful manipulations of reality also part of the web of urd?
Odin had to be careful. He had so many times lost himself in such musings, and, as now, when he was out in the world, he could little afford to be without his wits. Another danger of letting his mind loose in the shifting tides of time.
As now, passing through the woods of Cimbria, when he felt something close, searching for him. Odin could have embraced the Sight and seen his pursuer, but instinct warned him otherwise. For to look across the Veil pulled part of his essence out of this world and into the Otherworld. He would then become clear to whatever sought him. To see was to be seen.
Thus instead, he ducked behind a rock and pressed his body against it. Many vaettir became more active at night. The sun’s presence, even weakened by the mists, seemed to ward off a good many kinds of vaettir and most ghosts as well. But Odin was not convinced those who hunted him were from the Spirit Realm or the Penumbra.
Five years ago, he’d tracked down another valkyrie lodge and bound those women to his will, as he had done with Skögul’s lodge long before. Since then, every so oft when he ventured into Midgard, he felt it, the looming presence of a great power closing in on him.
The mud by the riverbank sucked on his heels and clung to his arse as he ducked low, undignified, perhaps, but he preferred to avoid a confrontation with his foe or foes for as long as possible. Certainly while he had no allies nigh at hand.
The tightness clenching around his heart slowly abated. The chill on his skin passed, replaced b
y coolness of a summer night. The presence had moved on without locating him.
Of course, he knew he ought to gather his allies and deal with whatever hunted him, but he had so many things to attend to and so little time in which to do so. Always, time swept past him, and the world could not afford for Odin to become distracted.
With each passing year, Ragnarok loomed closer.
3
A strange mix of relief and loathing overcame Sigurd as he trod back into the tunnels beneath the mountains of Cimbria. This place had become home to him, yes, but after nigh a fortnight out in the world, the underground seemed all the darker and less welcoming.
The horse would never have tolerated it, so Sigurd left Grani free to roam the meadows outside. The animal had taken an immediate liking to him and Sigurd had little fear he would run off, at least not for long.
Alone, lost in melancholic musings, Sigurd made his way toward Regin’s hall. His stolen hall, in truth, for it had no doubt belonged to others long ago. The wealth of kings always seemed coveted by those of lesser ilk.
Today, the dverg waited in the great hall, watching Sigurd as if he’d known this would be the day he’d return. Sometimes, Sigurd rather thought the stones spoke to Regin, for the dverg knew things he ought not to have and seemed preternaturally aware of all that passed in his domain.
“I smell no gold on you, boy,” Regin said when Sigurd drew nigh. He sat upon an ornate chair wrought from steel and silver and grander than the thrones of most kings.
Sigurd glowered at his foster father. “Hjalprek has spent the Volsung fortunes. He granted me a horse though.”
“A horse and the contents of its arse, and little else, eh?” Regin snickered. “Such is the way of the world.”
“So it would seem.” Sigurd folded his arms over his chest and stared down at the misshapen figure who had raised him. “I would have claimed that wealth to avenge my kin in Hunaland. Now, though, I find myself ill equipped to hire anyone to strike down Lyngi or the others. Hjalprek’s greed has damned my line. Even now, I fear my father waits beyond the Veil, trapped in torment and awaiting his revenge.”
Regin cocked his head to the side. The light in his eye seemed to bespeak some knowledge Sigurd—as a mere man—could not hope to understand. Experience had taught him Regin would not part easily with any such secrets. “What if there was a way to claim a new hoard for yourself? Wealth aplenty to hire whatever mercenaries your heart desires to enact your vengeance?”
Sigurd groaned, then slumped down on the floor against a column. “Am I to spend the next three summers raiding among the islands or plundering villages along the coast of Nidavellir? Have I not waited long enough for vengeance?”
The dverg grinned his wicked smile. “Perhaps you have. My father had quite the hoard before my brother stole it from him. Kill my brother, and you may claim what share you wish, so long as I have first pick among the treasures.”
“You never spoke of any brother.” It should not really surprise Sigurd that the dverg would stoop to murdering his own kin. The gods abhorred kinslayers almost as much as they did oathbreakers, but perhaps dvergar little cared what the gods thought.
“Fafnir murdered our father to claim the hoard.”
“Fafnir …” That name seemed familiar. “Isn’t that … Gods!” Sigurd lurched to his feet. “Treacherous stone-sucking cock. Fafnir is a dragon! He rules the Poison Marshes north of the Myrkvidr. You take me for a fool, then? To believe your brother is a dragon?”
“Such was the curse of his crimes, perhaps. Our father Hreidmar was a mighty dverg, a prince of Nidavellir and a son of Modsognir himself, and as such, taught my brothers and me the secret arts of smithing. None so excelled as my brother Andvari though, and through his craft he grew rich beyond measure and thus fearful beyond reckoning. He fled the company of our own kind, broke his fealty to Nidavellir and shamed our family.”
Sigurd frowned, then resumed his seat on the floor. Never had he heard the dverg speak of such things, nor even mention why he lived away from Nidavellir.
“Andvari’s craft delved in directions I suspect not even Modsognir himself could have imagined, exceeding that, perhaps of even Durin. But Andvari fled, even from the company of his own kin, and we were long in tracking him through the wild places of his flight. Before we found him, the Aesir set upon him. He had taken the form of an otter, and they slew him, claiming not to know him for who or what he was.”
“The Aesir? The gods themselves?”
“Odin and Loki, yes. My father, myself, and my brother Fafnir, we caught them and bound them. Father thought to kill them and perhaps he should have, but Odin offered Father weregild, and so he demanded all the treasures of Andvari. All the wonders my brother had wrought and all the wealth he’d acquired in trade for his services. And Loki went and recovered the hidden hoard and gave it to us, though he claimed Andvari had cursed his treasure. In the aftermath I … cannot say with certainty.
“Father claimed the riches and planned to use them to buy our way back into the graces of the court in Nidavellir. But Fafnir … before we had reached our homeland, he murdered father, ate his heart and cast his body into some chasm or other—where I cannot say. He might’ve turned on me, as well, but I hid. And my brother claimed all the treasures for himself and fled into the wilds. After long years he came to Myrkvidr, at the borderlands, and there settled, basking in his stolen wealth.”
“But how could he become a dragon?”
“Andvari’s power was great and hard to fathom. Perhaps he did curse the ring to punish any who would steal it. Or perhaps Fafnir’s crime and his greed wrought some primordial change within his breast. Either way, some decades back he began to change, and to spread poison across the land. His domain transformed into a noxious marsh where little lives and he himself became a serpent, laying upon his hoard and ever fearing someone should come and reclaim it.”
Sigurd snorted. “And you’d have me slay him.”
“I do not fancy becoming a kinslayer myself.”
“You have not the power nor the stones for it, you mean.” Sigurd shook his head. “And what exactly do you imagine I would do against a linnorm?”
“You, a mighty heir of Volsung? You, who claim to be such a great warrior. Prove it! Do what no mere man has done and slay a dragon.”
Sigurd grunted in disgust. “Strength of arm won’t prove enough. Legends claim linnorm scales are hard as iron.”
Regin glowered, his face half concealed in shadow. “Suppose I forge you a blade of dverg steel, stronger even than the one you bear now?”
To slay a dragon … Yes. It would make him famed across all lands, without doubt. Men would flock to his banner and he’d have all the help he needed to destroy Lyngi’s kingdom. And the treasure … All Hjalprek had taken from him and more could be his if he but slew Regin’s vile, treacherous brother.
Skalds spoke of linnorms as terrors out of legend, threats feared even by gods and jotunnar. And the man who killed one would win such glory. Sigurd was tired of lurking in dark tunnels and waiting for the day he could reclaim his birthright.
“Make me a sword worthy of such a task, and I shall complete it.”
Regin grinned. “I’ll make a blade stronger than any you have ever imagined.”
For days Regin toiled in the deep forge, the echo of hammer on anvil filling the cavern with little respite. Oft, Sigurd came to check the progress, and oft he saw little enough. Sometimes, Sigurd took to walking the woodlands, seeking after game or forage. Other times, he fished in the streams or practiced his swordplay.
Many times he considered trekking to Tiwaz’s hut—it was but a few hours from the caves—but always the question of when Regin would at last be finished drew him back. And always to disappointment.
“My brothers toiled for nine days and nine nights to forge each runeblade,” the dverg said to one such inquiry.
And Regin seemed to think himself capable of forging a weapon worthy of mention in the same
breath as a runeblade. Could he achieve such a feat? Tale spread across the North Realms that the blades returned to the world and with them, men carved out kingdoms or worked wonders.
They said Starkad Eightarms wielded one such blade, and he had slain men and jotunnar with it across Midgard and beyond. Others claimed Beowulf had wielded one, or Heidrek, or even the Ás Tyr. Oh, and old Healfdene had conquered Reidgotaland long ago, bearing the legendary Hrunting, though what became of the runeblade after the old king died, Sigurd could not guess.
All men spoke in a measure of fear of Mimung, the new runeblade forged by Volund in the days of Nidud of Njarar.
And, of course, Sigurd’s own father Sigmund wielded the legendary Gramr, lost when its master fell to Lyngi’s treachery.
Oft enough, Sigurd sat and watched the dverg work, hammering and quenching, tempering dverg steel endlessly.
The better part of five days Regin took, before finally quenching the blade once more, and handing it over.
Sigurd took it in hand, swaying it side to side to test its balance. It was indeed a finer blade than Regin had ever forged, at least to Sigurd’s knowledge, and the dverg had etched runes along its length in imitation of the blades his brethren had crafted long ago. “This will cut dragon scales? Even iron?”
“Yes, yes. It’s stronger than steel.” The dverg rubbed sweat and grime from his brow with his forearm. “Now, be about it.”
Sigurd stared at the blade. A solid weight, a good balance, yes, but fit to take on a linnorm? Capable of slaying such a creature? No, Regin was sending him to his death, almost certainly. Even if the dverg didn’t realize it—or let greed blind him. Sigurd might not fear death, but he didn’t long for it, either.
“They say Odin slew a linnorm, with a spear quenched in dragon blood.”
Regin rolled his eyes and groaned. “And a sword will do just as well. If you wanted a spear, you’d have done well to ask for one before this.”