by Matt Larkin
Thinking of her brought spots swimming before his eyes, an instant before the blinding pain shot through his head. Thor tossed the dagger aside and curled up on the floor, hand pressed to his forehead.
The pain made him want to break someone in half.
Baldr’s thrashing ended as soon as Thor withdrew the knife.
Stupid boy.
Across from Thor, Geri tended the fire, though she paused a moment to sniff Baldr’s wound, scowling at it.
“Not a völva,” Thor objected before his sister could point out the shoddy care he’d provided to the boy.
“It’s fine,” Baldr managed to sputter.
“It’s not fine,” Thor snapped. “You ought to have let me handle the situation.”
“I am a warrior.”
“You’ve seen sixteen winters. I’ve had nigh to seventy.”
“Just … makes you old.”
Thor glared at the arrogant whelp. Boy barely had a beard, but he had long blond hair and a too handsome face that Thor knew had already gotten dozens of shield-maidens and local ladies on their backs. And how many more he didn’t know of? Maybe he could hardly blame Baldr for it, but the boy’s life was too easy. He got things without learning how to fight for them.
Magni, though, he was here fighting to earn his apple. And Thor’s son knew not to try to wade into a pitched melee with a sea jotunn in the damn water. The boy was a winter older than Baldr and, if Baldr had any sense, he’d have looked to Magni for guidance. Never seemed to work out that way, though.
For now, Magni dozed against the wall in one of the few undamaged houses left in Holmgard. Thor figured he’d need the rest. They’d beaten back the sea jotunnar, but this was just a raid. Sooner or later they’d face the real invasion.
There were maybe eighty families left here, give or take a few, and Thor had sworn to protect them, much as he’d rather have gone out hunting jotunnar.
The door swung open and Freki strode in, his eyes bloodshot and his steps a weary trudge before he plopped down beside the fire.
“Well?” Thor demanded.
“Rathbarth is pressing his claim for rulership of Holmgard. He’s killed Bergir.”
Geri groaned. Thor scratched at his beard. Rollaugr’s boy had died in battle a long time back. The old king never managed to sire another … uh, what was that? Another heir. No, and for fifteen years the remains of his jarls and thegns had squabbled over a kingdom that was constantly besieged by damn jotunnar. Dogs fighting over scraps.
Bergir had seemed a good enough man, and had agreed to bring his war band to the city to protect it. If he had, maybe Thor could have spared the time to go jotunn hunting. None of this would really end unless someone killed Skadi, of course, but for all Thor knew she’d returned to Thrymheim and was well out of reach.
It seemed like Thrym’s death had shattered the jotunn alliance, but still, sometimes they worked in concert. Had to be Skadi controlling them, everyone seemed to agree.
“So we go to Rathbarth,” Baldr said. Thor hadn’t even realized the boy was awake.
Geri snorted. “Rathbarth is an upstart thegn who has no claim to the throne. He’s got naught to recommend him save a talent for bloodshed.”
“Isn’t that about what we need these days?” Baldr asked.
Much as Thor hated to admit it, maybe the boy was right. He’d dared to place his hopes on Bergir, but now … now all that remained were various warlords and the former Jarl Halvar. But Halvar didn’t have half so many people and besides, last Thor had heard, he’d headed south toward Kiovia. Thor highly doubted things were like to go much better for him there. Hymir controlled most of Kiovia and unless Halvar swore to him … Well. Maybe that was exactly what the man intended.
Either way, Thor saw no alternative left but Rathbarth, unless Thor himself planned to don a crown. Which he didn’t, least of all here.
“We have to go to Rathbarth’s camp then,” Thor said. “As soon as Baldr is well enough to move. A few days, at most.”
“What of Holmgard?” Geri asked.
Thor grimaced. “Can you hold it together?”
The varulf girl frowned, clearly not much inclined to be left here. But what choice did they have, save to leave the city unprotected? “Fine. I will.”
Rathbarth had camped on the south bank of the Itil River, southeast from the city of Holmgard. The land had no fortifications, but the river itself naturally hemmed in the camp and limited the locations from which rival warlords could attack the man.
Sentries met Thor and his party at the camp’s edge and, on his introduction, escorted him to see Rathbarth himself in the largest of the tents, one warmed by a giant brazier. Corded muscles, scars old and new, and a braided beard strung with finger bones gave the man a fierce aspect, one Thor would guess had served him well in subverting so many warriors to his banner.
Plenty of women and other followers clung to the army as well. Some were no doubt slaves captured in various raids, while others, Thor assumed, had come willingly. After all, nowhere left in Bjarmaland was safe. What few towns jotunnar had not plundered where subject to the rape and pillage of warlords just like Rathbarth.
Those who followed his war bands were safe from that, so long as Rathbarth kept winning.
Thor hadn’t much cared for the man’s arrogance even when he’d still served old Rollaugr and he misliked it all the more now. Still, as they had discussed, circumstances didn’t allow Thor to choose his allies.
So he thrust an arm at Rathbarth and hid his scorn. The warlord clasped the offered arm in his own, nodding. “Welcome to the war.”
Thor bit back his response that he’d been fighting this war since before Rathbarth was born. “I’ve come to invite you back to Holmgard. The people there need someone to protect them.”
“And I’m all you have left, eh?” Rathbarth sucked spittle between his teeth before pacing back to a table with a map strewn across it.
Thor took it as an invitation to follow, though Rathbarth probably hadn’t intended it as such. The map depicted the area surrounding Holmgard, down into Kiovia and east to Qazan, though Thor couldn’t read whatever scribblings noted these things. Either way, Rathbarth favored him with a discerning look for a moment.
“There’s very little left in that place, from what I’m told. Half the town took ship back to Sviarland or Kvenland or wherever they well pleased after Rollaugr’s death. Now, my scouts tell me the place is besieged by sea jotunnar. It’s in shambles. Holmgard is dead, Thor. On the other hand, there’s an ancient fort on the shore of Lake Ilmajarvi, some say built by the Old Kingdoms, even. Place is in the hands of a jotunn warlord now, but I aim to claim it for myself. Once it’s mine, it makes a fine seat for a new kingdom. Instead of trying so damned hard to save a dead thing, I say support the building of something new.”
Thor stared at the lake a moment. He’d seen the fort the man spoke of and, indeed, it did seem built by the Old Kingdoms. Had Loki been here, he’d have no doubt been able to carry on about which kingdom built it and why, but Thor neither knew nor cared. Worrying on that sort of thing just brought on the headaches.
Baldr moved to his side now and stared at the map hard. The boy had learned to read, and it rather vexed Thor that his brother could do something beyond him. “Which jotunn warlord?”
“Eh?” Rathbarth asked.
Baldr thumped the map with a finger. “Which warlord controls this fort you want to hold?”
Rathbarth shrugged. “I don’t know his name …”
Perhaps not, but his manner seemed to indicate he knew more than he spoke. Baldr had a way of figuring things out, too. Also vexing.
Thor let a heavy hand fall on the would-be king’s shoulder. “Then whom does the warlord serve?”
Rathbarth sucked his spittle again, the noise grating on Thor’s nerves. “Seems like … Hymir.”
“By the Tree …” Freki mumbled.
Thor glanced at his other brother but held his peace. Hymir had plagued
the Aesir even back in Aujum, from all he’d heard. He’d oft wished to bring the creature low, but Odin had insisted he stay well clear of him. Perhaps because rumor persisted that Hymir had spawned Tyr on some human woman.
Either way, taking out his warlord was like to rouse the mighty jotunn to anger. “What makes this place worth the risk?”
“The lake itself offers plentiful food, access to water for transportation, and is far enough from the sea to dissuade attacks from sea jotunnar, somewhat limiting our enemy’s ability to attack us.”
“You wouldn’t risk provoking Hymir for that.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t …”
Baldr straightened. “He plans to bargain with the jotunn.”
Now Thor groaned, rubbing his beard. Only thing worse than a jotunn who thought to be king … men who helped him do it.
“The creature likes tribute,” Rathbarth admitted. “And I’d like knowing my southern border is safe. If I can make a deal with him, and get the fortress included as part of it, well then why shouldn’t I?”
Thor looked to Freki who offered a grudging nod. “Fine. Fine, suppose we go to arrange it for you?”
“You’re not much loved among jotunnkind.”
Freki snorted at that.
“Maybe not,” Thor said. “But I am feared. If I go to negotiate, Hymir will know just how serious we are about this. He’ll be more inclined to prove … reasonable.”
Rathbarth shrugged. “If you say so. So you want me to go and protect what’s left of old Holmgard in the meantime? I suppose it’s a fine enough place to pass the winter, barring more sea jotunn attacks.”
Thor nodded. “Good. Magni, go with him and inform Geri what we’re about. Baldr, Freki, and I will head south, into Kiovia. It seems we have to meet with Hymir at long last.”
5
Fifteen Years Ago
King Rollaugr was dead.
Jarl Bergir had arranged his funeral and Thor attended. Mostly because mead was served freely at such events. No one spoke much, just watched the ship burning as it drifted over the Gandvik. That suited Thor well enough. Too much commotion brought on the headaches.
Shit, he had to try not to even think of those. Thinking on them could bring them on as well. First little black spots at the edge of his vision. Then the all-consuming, gouge-your-own-eyes-out pain, as if someone used Mjölnir to hammer a spike through his brow. From the inside out.
Took a troll-sized barrel of mead to deaden that kind of agony.
Fucking wedge of flint just kept cutting into his brain. Whoever thought immortality had no … what was it called? No drawbacks! Whoever thought it had no drawbacks hadn’t had to live for years with a jotunn’s weapon lodged in his skull.
Thor sniffed, cracked his neck, and strode away from the sea, back toward Holmgard proper. Wispy little town looked even more pathetic than usual, what with the better part of its people having gone to watch their last king burn. Those who hadn’t simply fled Bjarmaland altogether. Rollaugr was dead without heir and now his three jarls would quarrel over who should be king. Bickering swine, that’s what they were.
Squabbling piglets, fighting over scraps in a land already as dead as its king. There hadn’t been much reason for Thor to come back here, but it beat staying in Asgard and listening to Magni cry. Somehow that had lost its appeal after … after …
Fuck! Stop thinking it!
Walking through the empty town, Thor beat his palms on the side of his head. Damn it. He hadn’t had half enough mead for those kinds of thoughts.
The town wasn’t completely empty though. The twins—wolves had insisted on coming here with him—they sat in the snow before they house they shared with him, whispering to themselves. Shit … what did you call that kind of thing? A … a fucking conspiracy. A conspiracy of wolves.
Damn. Words were harder to come by with a flint shard stuck in your brain.
Thor marched over to the varulfur and leaned on the fence around their yard. “Didn’t attend the ceremony.”
Geri shook her head, saying naught.
Freki, though, he shrugged. “We saw them light the pyre ship. Seemed enough.”
True, these wolves understood the discomfort of being around too many people. Always awkward. Too loud. Plus, then he had to talk, and that just seemed so damned hard these days. The twins, though, they didn’t say too much. Thor could tolerate them because of it.
Offering them a grim nod, he plodded on toward Rollaugr’s hall. What had been his hall, really, though Bergir had taken it over, arranging a feast in the fallen king’s honor. Fallen being a generous term for it. Winter came, and old melancholy Rollaugr went to his bed and never came out again. Man hadn’t recovered after his boy died in Miklagard.
Thor didn’t blame him. Some wounds can’t be healed. Some, they hurt worse than even a shard of flint digging through your skull.
Inside the hall, slaves had set the place ready for hundreds of guests. Men had hunted a whale, enough to feed more people than had even come here. Thor wasn’t overly hungry, though.
That bastard Loki was here too, just staring at the brazier like he had a mind to fuck the coals.
Thor rolled his eyes then looked about until he spotted Roskva. “Girl! Get me some fucking mead! As much as you can carry.”
Thor’s slave flinched then scampered off out of the great hall. Grimacing, Thor plopped his arse down on a bench well away from the center aisle. Further he was from the crowd once they got here, the less time he’d have to spend telling people—or showing them anyway—that he didn’t want aught to do with them. No, the whole land could go straight to Hel’s gate for all he cared. Only good thing left about Bjarmaland was here he could split jotunn skulls on a regular basis.
Roskva came shambling back into the room, laden with three flagons. After glancing around until she spotted him, the girl ambled over and eased the drinks down in front of Thor. “Aught else I can get for you my lord?”
Thor ignored her, grabbing a flagon in each hand. The first he downed without pausing for breath, though it left him gasping by the time he slammed it back on the tabletop.
Trollshit. Those damn spots were already building at the corners of his eyes.
Thor upended the next flagon, desperate to drown out the building pain before it could overwhelm him. Once, in some jarl’s hall—he couldn’t even remember the bastard’s name—the pain had gotten so bad Thor had smashed his head against the table until the wood split in half. Jarl hadn’t been too happy. Had been less happy after Thor broke his nose.
“Fuck,” Thor said, slamming the next flagon down. “Damn it!”
The pain was already crippling. Damn blasts of fire erupting inside his head. He slapped his palms against his temples. Gah! More than once, he’d considered smashing his own skull in with Mjölnir. That ought to end even an immortal.
Roskva was backing away, shaking her head.
Thor growled at her, turning his gaze upon her. “Get over here! Hands on the table!”
“Here? My lord …” She glanced around. “There’s so many other slaves in here.”
Thor lurched to his feet, grabbed her elbow and spun her around to face the table. “You’re my slave, you do what I fucking tell you. Nobody here who hasn’t seen it all before.”
As she was bid, Roskva pressed her palms on the table. Thor hiked her dress up over her hips, dropped his trousers and plowed into her. It wouldn’t give him much relief. A few moments with something to distract himself from the pain. She knew it was the only thing save drink that might stave off the headaches. Otherwise, the pain might have crippled him.
“What the fuck are you doing!” her brother demanded.
The boy came rushing toward them like some kind of champion come to rescue his lady.
Thor rolled his eyes and kept pumping his hips, heedless of the other slaves staring at him. “Wait your fucking turn,” he snapped at Thialfi.
The boy grabbed the last flagon and swung it. The clay shattered aga
inst Thor’s skull and sent him toppling to the ground, drenched in mead.
Roskva was screaming.
Thor groaned. His vision narrowed, the spots seeming to solidify into a tunnel wrapping around his eyes. Roaring, he launched himself to his feet and grabbed Thialfi by the shoulders, then slammed him down on the table. He wanted to tell him a man had the right to do whatever he pleased with his slaves, himself included. But the words wouldn’t come, so Thor just hefted the boy up again and drove him back into the table once more.
Damn girl was still screaming.
“Shut up!” he bellowed at her.
She didn’t, instead dashing around him to her brother. The boy lay senseless on the table. Maybe when he woke up he’d know better than to interfere with a man’s rights. Maybe when he …
Roskva’s screams had become shrieks of horror. She was cradling Thialfi in her arms, staring at blood soaking one of her hands. More of it had splattered the tabletop, along with … bits of skull.
“Thialfi …” Thor said.
Rough hands shoved him away and Thor spun on whoever had accosted him.
Loki. “Get out.” The other man locked Thor with his gaze, seeming to challenge him.
Oh, he wanted to go at it too? Well Thor could crush him too. He could … The pain in his head doubled him over, had him gasping and unable to catch his breath. Loki shoved him and Thor tangled his feet in his trousers, suddenly realizing they were still around his ankles.
He crashed down into the bench and slammed his head, then lay groaning.
Alone, outside the hall, Thor threw back another horn of mead. How many was that? Twelve? What came after twelve? Twenty?
He tossed the horn in the general direction of another slave.
There were a lot of men and women inside, carrying on. Thor preferred it out here. No one staring at him, judging him for murdering his slave. Trollshit. It wasn’t even really murder when it was your own slave.