by Matt Larkin
A man got to do … whatever … the man … should do. It.
Except Thor hadn’t meant to do shit. Hadn’t meant to hurt the siblings. Had … uh … liked them.
And now they were dead.
No, not they. Only Thialfi was dead.
Just like Sif.
Fuck!
No!
Fuck, there wasn’t enough mead in this whole kingdom for that. He stumbled from his perch, wobbled toward the hall. “More drink!” he bellowed.
He needed a lot more fucking drink. An ocean of it.
The stench of vomit woke him. Thor pushed himself up from a pool of mud out behind the jarl’s hall. He’d been lying in a pool of his own sickness. He spit a vile chunk of … something … out of his mouth. The vomit caked his face, his beard, his shirt.
Something else under that reek. Piss? Had he pissed himself? His trousers were damp too.
“Oh, trollshit.”
He rubbed his face and only managed to smear more bile everywhere.
Actually, his arse was wet. Had someone else pissed on him? Why would … Oh.
Thialfi.
Every slave in Holmgard had seen him murder the man. Thor was lucky he hadn’t woken up with a knife in his back or spear shoved up his arse. A man had the right to do what he wished with his slaves, true. Didn’t mean none of them would take revenge on Thialfi’s behalf. Maybe Roskva herself had done it.
And Thor fucking deserved it. He was a wretch.
Groaning, he stumbled to his feet, then looked around. Something was wrong.
Something … Where was Mjölnir?
There was an impression in the mud where the hammer had lain. But the weapon itself was nowhere to be seen.
Thor turned about, squinting in the morning light. No sign of it.
Someone had stolen his hammer.
6
Arus had been Sigurd’s home, once, before Hjalprek sent him to foster with Regin, though he little remembered the place from back then. It held no warmth for him on his return, seeming cold and empty. Despite his bravado with the dverg, Sigurd could not say for certain that Hjalprek would truly grant his request for men and ships.
If Alf’s father refused, how should Sigurd respond? His natural inclination would be to kill the man, but doing so would place himself and, more importantly, his mother, in dire peril. Alternatively, could he go around Hjalprek and beseech Alf directly? The prince held less authority, true, but he remained married to Sigurd’s mother.
Such things weighed heavily upon him as he trod up to the king’s hall atop the hill. For all Hjalprek’s protestations of the hardships Cimbria had faced, Arus seemed to have prospered to Sigurd’s eyes. The town was thick with warriors and fishermen, though in truth, Sigurd had little enough to compare the place to. He had visited no other large towns or cities in his life.
Once he passed beyond the wall around Hjalprek’s holdings, guards met him.
“Lady Hjordis ordered I was to bring you to her on your arrival,” one said, a blond-bearded man that looked like he’d probably tried to wrestle a bear and perhaps had won in the process.
Sigurd nodded at him. Much as he wanted to get the confrontation with the king over with, he could hardly deny his mother whatever she needed.
The guard escorted him not into the king’s hall, though, but back into the town, to a fisherman’s home by the sea. With a glance at Sigurd, he rapped on the door.
Sigurd’s mother appeared from within and nodded at the man. “Thank you Erland.”
The guard inclined his head, then strode off.
Sigurd paid him little mind after his mother waved him inside. The old man, Gripir, sat in her house. On seeing him with his mother alone once more, Sigurd sneered, ever so slightly. What would people think of a man and woman spending so much time alone? What must they assume—rightly or no—about her staying in his house? And would such suspicions be truth?
His mother had called Gripir like a brother to her, but Sigurd found it hard to credit.
Still, he embraced his mother.
After she pulled away, she glanced at the sword hung over his shoulder. “He truly repaired it.”
More or less. He’d not trouble her to know it yet required a soul to feast on. Most people were not prepared to understand the dark needs of crafts wrought with the Art. “I plan to sail now for Rijnland and oust Lyngi.”
“Lyngi is in Baia, so far as I know. He placed his cousin Hjorvard as ruler of Rijnland after he seized the Volsung hall at Xanten.”
Sigurd frowned. So be it, then. First, he’d kill Hjorvard and liberate his homeland, then he’d reap his vengeance upon Lyngi. Even as his mother spoke, Sigurd found he couldn’t quite look away from Gripir, sitting as he did by the fire pit, seeming to stare off at naught Sigurd could guess.
He patted his mother on the shoulder. “I need ships and men from Hjalprek. Will he arrange this freely?”
His mother, too, glanced at Gripir.
The seer looked up now. “He will, if you promise his men can plunder the Volsung hall.”
Sigurd grimaced.
Before he could complain, his mother opened her mouth. “You cannot expect warriors to fight if there is little for them to claim for themselves.”
True, perhaps, though he misliked allowing others to raid the very kingdom he intended to restore. “Fine.” Now he moved to sit beside Gripir. “Then tell me, seer. Tell me my future.”
The old man didn’t look at him, though, instead staring off at the wall as if some skald spoke verses there.
Sigurd glanced at his mother who settled down beside him.
“Can you do that, Gripir?” she asked.
Sigurd chuckled. “He sees things a man ought not to, that much is certain. Whether he will use the gift to our benefit, that’s the real question.”
“Gift?” Gripir did look at him now, his gaze too intense, as if he was staring right through Sigurd. “Benefit? Your question presupposes you live free of the web of urd and could, given foresight, avert your destiny. But if you cannot, if you find yourself a prisoner of the web, then to see the future, to know it lies before you and yet you cannot change it, offers only pain.”
“My former master claims we are forged by pain.”
“Oh, indeed.” Gripir shook his head. “And you won’t relent no matter how I might wish to spare you it.”
“Do I avenge my family?”
Gripir shut his eye. “Yes.” He drew the word out so long he seemed to be speaking to someone else, someone far away. “A great many men will fall upon your blade and perpetuate the cycle of blood and vengeance unto the end of time. You slay all those who you perceive as having wronged your kin in your vain attempts to sever the threads that bind the lives of men. You find great love and marry for it too, only to have it end in bitterness and yet further cycles of death and dark oaths. Yours shall be the hand to bring down those glorious lineages who have thought to rule forever.”
“I … don’t understand. Do I kill the dragon?”
Gripir chuckled. “No, you truly do not understand.”
“The dragon?”
“A serpent will die by your hand.”
“And I will have glory and vengeance?”
Gripir frowned. “More of one than a man needs, and more of the other most could hope to dream of.”
Sigurd pushed himself up. “Then that’s all I really need to know. I accomplish my aims in life. What more could a man ask for?”
“Indeed …”
His mother was frowning at the seer, but Sigurd didn’t see much reason for her concern. He kissed her atop the head, then made for Hjalprek’s hall.
“It is the least we can do for my wife’s son,” Alf said. “I agreed to raise Sigurd as if he were my own blood.”
Hjalprek glowered. “If he fails, Hjorvard and Lyngi will turn their eyes upon Cimbria and think to cut their vengeance from the towns and villages on our shores. A great many people will pay the price.”
The
king and his son sat in the throne room, upon the dais, looking down at Sigurd, who stood with his arms folded across his chest.
“I’ll not fail,” he offered. How could he, when he bore the runeblade and when the seer himself had already foretold he’d achieve victory and slay the dragon, both? “Give me warriors and ships enough, and I’ll crush Rijnland and Baia, and then instead of foes in the south, you’ll find yourself with allies.”
Hjalprek exchanged a look with his son that, to Sigurd’s eyes, bespoke some peril to their kingdom.
“What is it?” he finally asked.
“The Niflung king has begun to stretch his hand forth again, and with none here like Healfdene, it seems he might well claim all of Reidgotaland this time.”
Sigurd frowned. King Gjuki was long dead now, but his son Gunnar had succeeded him, and, according to Regin, the king’s witch mother Grimhild had begun to reclaim her former powers. The kingdom posed a threat here, though, and from the sound of it, had perhaps even begun raiding.
“Cimbria lies perilously close to Samsey,” he finally said. “I’m sure you fear to send away too many of your warriors. But … as my stepfather mentions, if I am king of Rijnland and Baia, you’ll find yourself with a warrior ally more than ready to help ensure the Niflungar turn their eyes elsewhere. Sjaelland, perhaps, or even into Skane. If they seek easy victories to garner wealth, they’ll not find those here.”
Alf turned to his father. “I want to go with him. He is my stepson and he speaks the truth about our need.”
Hjalprek shook his head. “If you must send warriors, send Erland, but you cannot leave. One way or another, raiders are like to land on our shores this summer. I need you here to lead our people when that happens. Give Sigurd nine ships, and no more than that.”
Sigurd held silent. In truth, he couldn’t have asked for much more. Besides, he wasn’t certain he’d have truly wanted his stepfather along sharing the command or the glory.
“Give me three days to ready your men,” Alf said.
Sigurd nodded, barely containing his smile.
His stepfather insisted he stay the evening and take the night meal with them, and drink, and Sigurd could hardly refuse.
When the ships were ready to depart, Sigurd bid farewell to his mother, and trod up the gangplank only to find Gripir seated against a footlocker.
Sigurd knelt beside the seer. “You intend to make the journey, old man?”
“I would see your conquests with my own eye.”
“I thought you’d already seen them.” Sigurd chuckled at his own jest and flashed his teeth.
“Then perhaps you’d like a bit of wisdom, here and there, to keep your course true.”
Sigurd waved that away. “I assure you, my course shall remain very true.”
He’d slay Lyngi and Hjorvard, kill Fafnir, and maybe even help his stepfather make peace with the Niflungar.
All of it lay before him, unfolding in glorious tales in his mind as if he himself were a seer.
Gramr would make everything possible, this she seemed to promise him in sweet whispers he alone could hear.
“One more thing,” the seer said, even as Sigurd had started to turn away. “You seem so very sure of yourself.”
“Odin loves my line and blessed my father. He will not allow my purpose to go unfulfilled.”
The old man grunted. “I see. And … if the gods do love you … do you think that likely to prove beneficial to you?”
Sigurd waved that away. “Of course it is.” Seers were known to spout their share of mist-mad nonsense even amid their revelations.
Glory lay before Sigurd. Of this, he had no doubt.
The bitter howl of a northern wind preceded the storm. Gusts and pounding rain bombarded Sigurd’s ships as if Odin had decided to test the limits of his resolve. If so, the Ás king would not find Sigurd wanting.
Teeth clenched and face turned to the storm, he braced himself against the gunwale. He had not withstood the torments of a dverg only to succumb to the elements.
“We must lower the sails,” Erland shouted at him.
Sigurd bit back laughter. “Do you jest? Raise them higher! We’ll not be waylaid!”
No, the seer had promised Sigurd had a destiny, and even now Gripir sat wrapped in his cloak, face shielded against the pouring rain.
Over the peals of thunder, Sigurd could make out naught of what his men may have said in answer, though the looks on their faces seemed full of doubt. But they had not been tempered by the hands of Regin. They did not know the promise of victory lay already before them.
Exulted, Sigurd roared defiance at the sky.
A hand on his shoulder had him spinning around and reaching for Gramr, but it was the old man Gripir, shaking his head. “Make for the fjords south of Fyn!”
Sigurd balked. What, now even the seer had turned craven? “You promised me vengeance lay ahead in my future! What need to fear the weather?”
“Urd does not allow you to ignore all wisdom, boy! Make for the fjord before we find ourselves wrecked on some rocky island.”
Growling in aggravation, Sigurd looked to his men. “West! To the fjords, the seer says. Only then shorten the sails!”
Gripir nodded.
Sigurd spit over the gunwale. Pointless delay. Should not the seer have known a storm would crop up so soon into this voyage? They may as well have passed the time in Arus.
And Gramr sang to him, begging him to draw her and sate her thirst. Even the runeblade misliked this dawdling.
They passed the storm in Als Fjord, cold and wet and miserable, and the sailors seeming to bear it worse than Sigurd himself. What was their excuse? It was his first time at sea and he felt far less stricken than those used to raiding all summer.
When at last the winds abated, they sailed back along a rocky headland toward the sea. Before they reached open water, one of the ships closest to the shore appeared to have lowered their sails.
Sigurd peered at them, but through the mist, he could make almost naught on the other ship.
“Bring us up beside them,” he ordered.
Erland relayed his order, and the crew shortened the sails and drew up in line with the stalled ship.
“What is it?” Sigurd shouted across the waters.
A moment later, Audhild, the shieldmaiden captain appeared at the gunwale. “There’s a man on the shore asking to join us. A mercenary out of Valland.”
Valland? Sigurd looked to Erland who shrugged. What in the gates of Hel was a South Realmer doing in Reidgotaland?
Sigurd looked back to Audhild. “Tell him to swim to my ship, then.”
The shieldmaiden nodded, then returned to the far side of her ship to relay his order.
Sigurd folded his arms and stared not at Audhild, but at Gripir. Was it coincidence that the seer had demanded they take shelter in the same fjord where a mercenary happened to have walked?
Time would tell, but Sigurd felt fair certain Gripir knew more than he let on.
The Vall, as it turned out, called himself Thrain. He wore no beard but had a thick mustache, all his hair as flame red as Thor’s was said to be, and quite long. Thrain looked as though he’d seen a fair number of winters. He was clad in furs layered over gambeson, and, from his scars, had fought in a great many battles.
“Why do you wish to join us?” Sigurd asked.
Thrain grinned. “This many ships mean raids.” His accent was thick and grating, though he seemed fluent enough in Northern. “Raids mean profit, and I aim to make my fortune.”
“I mean why are you so far from home?”
Thrain chuckled softly. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you. For now, trust I follow the call of silver.”
Sigurd looked to Gripir, who offered a slight nod. Oh yes, the seer had brought Sigurd here specifically to find this man. Was Thrain then one to help him achieve his aims against Lyngi? If so, Sigurd would gladly welcome him.
He offered his arm to the Vall and the man clasped it.
“Do you care where we raid?” Sigurd asked.
“Not if they have wealth I can claim.”
“He’ll fit in,” Erland observed.
Indeed he would.
Fair weather followed them all the way to Hunaland and they landed on the north shore of Rijnland, in the late afternoon, out of sight of any town. Much as Sigurd longed to set about pillaging, his men would need to regroup and plan their strategy. Thus he ordered a camp made, but that as few fires as possible should be lit lest they reveal themselves.
In the evening, the captains and thegns and leaders of his war bands had gathered about one such fire while others clustered around three more.
Sigurd found himself little able to hold still though. “Has anyone seen Gripir?”
Erland shook his head. Most of the others didn’t even seem to know who the old man was. It was as if the seer had simply vanished as soon as they made land. Or even before it, impossible as that sounded, for no one had seen him disembark either.
Sigurd grimaced. Where was that blasted seer when he needed the man? Gripir could have advised whether Sigurd ought to go straight for Lyngi or attack Hjorvard here first. Instead, it would fall to him to decide. As maybe it should have … but still. The seer’s words would have been welcome.
“We have two choices before us,” Sigurd finally said. “We can raid here in Rijnland and bring down Hjorvard, thus cutting Lyngi off from his support but forewarning him to our presence. Or, we can move directly on Baia. To do that, though, we have to sail upriver through Menzlin and again, risk the king getting word of our passage. And if that happens while Hjorvard remains behind, we may find ourselves surrounded by foes.”
Erland grunted. “If you take down Lyngi fast, you’ll have cut Hjorvard’s stones right off the bastard.”
“I’m all for cutting off stones,” Audhild said.
“That,” Sigurd said, “and we avoid raiding overmuch in my own lands.”
Thrain snorted. “Getting caught between two enemy forces is a good way to get your own stones cut off.” He cast a pointed look at Audhild. “For most of us anyway.”