by Matt Larkin
Her smile could’ve killed a man. “I’m fond of living, either way.”
“I’ve seen these keeps in Hunaland,” Thrain offered. “You don’t have the men to take his hold if he doesn’t come out to meet you.” And was that why Gripir had arranged Sigurd’s meeting with the man? Surely the seer could have told him as much himself.
Sigurd groaned. “If Thrain is correct, it sounds as if our only chance to draw them out is raiding so bitterly, so fiercely, that Lyngi has no choice but to come and face us on the field.” Which was to say, the wholesale slaughter of entire villages, razing whatever they couldn’t carry away.
His people would little love him for such tactics, but Sigurd had to win. His father’s ghost would have vengeance.
Sigurd folded his arms and glowered at the fire. “Then we sail for the Elfr and follow it upstream toward Baia. Once we pass Menzlin, we hit every village and town we come to.”
Osmund spat into the flames. The man was Hjalprek’s most-trusted thegn, so sending him along had been a token of support, one Sigurd suspected had Alf’s hand behind it. “You’ll have a lot of blood in the river before we’re halfway to Lyngi.”
That was the point, after all. “Yes, but not the blood of my own people here in Rijnland, and that’s all that matters. Rest yourselves. At dawn we break.”
True to Osmund’s predictions, the Elfr ran red with blood. Its banks became lit by pyre after pyre, both sides blazing as Sigurd’s men slaughtered everyone they came across. Hard, bloody work, and Gramr sang for it, though Sigurd denied her. The reforged sword’s first taste of blood would be Lyngi, or at least one of his thegns, not some fisherman out on the water or cobbler having himself a piss in the wrong place.
Sigurd had oft fallen asleep to the sound of screams. His own, he’d sometimes realized, in deliriums brought on by dehydration and the torments Regin had heaped upon him. Or the screams of whatever victim the dverg worked over that particular night.
It wasn’t like this, though. Not the cacophony of dozens or even hundreds of people bellowing in discordant agony, terror, or despair. The sounds, blended with the stench of so many dead men having shit themselves, turned into overwhelming tumult upon his senses.
He could block it out when someone came within reach of his sword, of course. He could block almost aught out thanks to Tiwaz’s training.
But if he faltered for even a moment, the chaotic onslaught of horrors set his mind reeling and his gut churning. Knowing he couldn’t afford to dwell on such things, he thus pushed ever onward, until finding another village to raze became a relief—at least while caught up in the act, he need not ponder the ones he had already left behind.
Once, while he vented his pent-up energies inside a village girl he’d found hiding, he’d caught Audhild staring at him with disgust.
“What?” he’d asked her. “Jealous?”
She spit in his direction. “Just thought you had more control.”
He stared at her askance afterward, unable to even finish with the girl. What did she expect? Was this not what was done in war? Regin had assured him it was and, from all he’d seen of his men, the dverg had the right of it. Except … Sigurd had respected Audhild, and the shieldmaiden had looked at him like he’d been doing it to her. And somehow, thinking of someone forcing her felt foul. He’d have killed any man who thought to do that.
A strange thought, but … hadn’t the seer claimed he would find love?
At night, Sigurd found an odd rapport with Thrain. Prince Alf had sent all the other warriors and they remained, first and foremost, loyal to King Hjalprek. They would no doubt report back to their lords on all Sigurd said and did, and thus, even as allies, he sometimes could not help but see them as judging him. Not a sensation he much enjoyed, even as he did revel in their adoration at his prowess in battle.
He had more kills than any man in his war band, but he still remained younger than most of them, a fact they seemed well aware of even if none dared give voice to it.
Thrain though, he had pledged his loyalty to Sigurd himself, or at least to the silver Sigurd brought him.
Tonight, they walked the camp’s perimeter along the riverbank. They must be drawing nigh to Lyngi’s stronghold and still no sign of the King of Baia. Did the man flee like a craven?
“You are deep in thought,” Thrain observed. “A problem that afflicts you too often, in my opinion.”
Sigurd snorted. “You prefer a fool who cannot reflect on his own actions or learn from his mistakes?”
“Have you made mistakes?”
Sigurd shrugged. “I don’t know, that’s why I’m reflecting on such things. What of you? You have far too much learning to be some mere wandering mercenary. I’ve seen you staring at scribblings in a book. You read the Southern tongue, the one they write on paper.”
The Vall grunted, offering a nod of acknowledgment. “My line once held the throne of Valland … a long time ago, before we fell from favor and the line of Karolus took it all from us. Some few found purpose in defending Valland from the Serks, but even that has ended now.”
“Ah. So you wander seeking wealth … in the hopes of returning to Valland and restoring your family to power.”
“After a fashion, yes. I wander seeking … aught which might lead to the restoration of my line, if not to the throne, than at least to prominence.”
Sigurd cast a glance at the older man. “What else besides wealth might do that?”
Thrain chuckled. “When you came for your lands, you brought men, yes. But something else, also, worn over your shoulder but never yet drawn. Why is that?”
Did he think to claim Gramr? Reflexively, Sigurd’s hand went to the bone hilt.
Thrain backed away, raising his hands. “Peace. I don’t try to claim what is yours, my friend. You merely asked what manner of thing I sought in the North Realms.”
Sigurd nodded, slowly, eyes narrowed. What Thrain said sounded of truth, but … but still Gramr seemed to whisper in his mind, demanding he kill the Vall for her. Kill with her. The runeblade longed for death.
He would feed her, yes, but not Thrain.
“We should get back,” Sigurd said.
Sooner or later, Lyngi and his kin would have to answer Sigurd’s advance. And he hoped for sooner.
7
Oft, when they trained thus, Sigyn closed her eyes and tried to imagine what such exercises must feel like to Hödr without sight. Much as her other senses had become enhanced, she still found the instinct to rely on her eyes a constant temptation.
Hödr stood with his bow drawn back to his cheek, face tilted a little to the side, very much focused on the straw-stuffed dummy across the clearing. Sigyn made an effort to select a valley away from any of the other settled areas of Asgard, offering both her and Hödr a reprieve from the angry stares of other Aesir.
Her son had never said that he noticed the way people looked at him, but somehow he seemed able to feel it, and Sigyn had no need to force him to voice such pain. Not when she too feared the populace might never forgive Hödr for the things he’d done while possessed by Eldr, nor Sigyn for creating the situation. Indeed, much of the blame seemed to fall on Loki, and Sigyn’s husband almost seemed to encourage that in an endearing, if misguided attempt to lessen the suffering of his family. Loki seemed to forget that seeing him punished for her errors did not do much to help Sigyn’s peace of mind.
As before, though, Loki was oft away. For a time he’d watched over Thor to keep Odin’s son from doing aught more foolish than usual. Other sojourns also seemed to be forever tearing them apart, duties sometimes he could not even explain, though over the years Sigyn had uncovered just enough to become fair certain Odin was not the only one compelling Loki’s services.
“Steady,” she said. With her enhanced hearing she caught Hödr’s shuddering sigh as he focused.
It had taken many years to train her blind son to hone his senses as sharp as hers, but through the proper distribution of pneuma—which an appl
e greatly reinforced—the human body was actually capable of far more than most people imagined it. Of wonders, really.
Hödr loosed and the arrow whooshed forward with a small gust of wind, landing with a thwack right in the middle of the target.
“You’re getting better all the time,” Sigyn said.
“It’s easier with targets that make noise.”
“Given that you cannot be certain of what you’d be shooting at, I’d prefer we avoid attempting to fell aught that moves about.”
“I’m not like to confuse a child with a rabbit, if that’s what you fear.”
Sigyn tapped a finger to her lip and Hödr looked sharply at her. Had he heard that? If so, his senses had honed far beyond her expectations. “I think that might be enough for today.”
Hödr grunted and trotted off across the field, toward the dummy.
The rustle of soft boots on grass had Sigyn spinning around, gaze sweeping over the forest beyond. But it was Loki who strode forth, so quietly most others would never had noticed his passing.
Sigyn smiled and ran to her husband, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him close. “I didn’t know you’d returned.”
“Only this morn.” He didn’t offer any explanation of where he’d been and Sigyn wouldn’t pry. Not this time.
But she had reason to guess whom he’d been serving, and it wasn’t Odin. Indeed, since returning from the Well of Mimir, Odin seemed less inclined to seek the counsel of others. When he came to Asgard at all, he’d sit upon his High Seat, for days sometimes, lost in whatever trance he found himself in. Frigg bemoaned it, for a while, before giving that over and perhaps accepting that the husband she wished for, had he ever existed at all, had been lost somewhere along the way.
While Loki, he seemed no more free than ever, leaving Sigyn to surmise just what he did and why. Mundilfari had spoken of the Norns, claimed they laced their webs with venom, and Sigyn had thought little of it at the time. But later, she’d delved into the research and—along with bits and pieces of things Loki let slip—she’d come to realize these Norns seemed to master the so-called web of urd. And Loki knew them, well enough she might imagine he actually served them.
Would he admit it, were she to ask him? No. Besides, such questions seemed to pain her husband and Sigyn had no desire to watch him squirm. All she really wanted to was to understand, and, through that understanding, to help her family.
“I’ve reason to believe Narfi behind the jotunn conquest of Bjarmaland.”
Sigyn suppressed a wince. “It’s not your fault. None of it is.” She’d not lie to herself. For a shameful moment, when he’d first admitted that Skadi had used Angrboda’s body to get a child from him, Sigyn had felt hurt. For a bare instant, she’d felt pain. And then she’d realized how he must have felt, or rather, how she would have felt had someone forced himself on her and used her body to create an unwanted child.
That moment of pain would haunt her a long time, she knew. And in that instant, she’d sworn, to herself and then to him, that Narfi would be her son as well as Loki’s. Hödr might have come from her body, but now Sigyn had two sons, and she and Loki had oft discussed breaking into Jotunheim to retrieve the boy.
“I thought you couldn’t find him,” she said.
Loki nodded absently. He’d told her, after revealing about the son, that he couldn’t locate the boy in the flames. Losing control of Surtr seemed to have weakened his pyromancy, though hardly eliminated it.
He’d never truly gone into depth about why he suspected himself unable to find the boy, but Sigyn suspected it related to Loki’s fear that Narfi had some aspect of the Sight.
“You think that he doesn’t want to be found, and thus his visions block yours.”
Loki looked to her appraisingly. “You’ve been thinking on this a while.”
True. “It makes sense, though. If both of you were able to see the future and thus able to react to the actions the other would take, having seen that future, you’d be stuck in a loop.”
“A paradox.”
“Right. So neither of you can see the other in any sort of way that would allow you to take an action the other would prevent.” Sigyn studied his face. Loki was a master of keeping it impassive, yes, but even his muscles revealed a tiny twitch of emotion that told her she’d hit the mark, or close to it. “Do the Norns give you your visions?”
Now he visibly flinched, and an expression of pain came over him. “Be careful of where this line of reasoning carries you. You might not like its ultimate destination.”
Sigyn tapped a finger to her lip. What she liked was a mystery. She liked pushing puzzle pieces around until the answers unfolded before her. “The library in Sessrumnir names one of the Norns as Urd. The well beneath Yggdrasil takes her name, but the Vanir make only the vaguest of speculations about the nature of the Norns. Now I’m wondering, is the very term ‘urd’ derived from her name? Or is the name a title? More to the point, I’ve seen numerous references to the ‘web of urd’ as a metaphor for causal chains that essentially keep us bound to fate. Chains so strong that you’ve implied, however subtly, that even prescience would not allow you to—”
Loki grabbed her upper arms sharply. “Listen to me, please. I implore you to let this go, Sigyn. Your curiosity is admirable and, in truth, one of the things I love best in you, and always have. But it has cost you in the past and if you cannot temper it with caution, it will cost us both further.”
Sigyn could only frown at his earnestness. Indeed, when had he ever gone so far as to beg her off a topic? She bit her lip, staring up at his crystal blue eyes.
He drew her in to his chest and held her close. Only when he released her did she realize that Hödr stood not so far away, head cocked in their direction. How much had their son heard? Maybe Loki was right.
Maybe some questions were too weighty for mortals.
Still, Sigyn did not like letting things go.
8
Lyngi held his court in the old fort of Drezdany on the banks of the Elfr. Sigurd had expected his forces to take to the field and meet him long before the fort came into view, but rather, the king had chosen to position himself on either side of the river just before the city, most of his forces on hills flanking the water.
A bold move, splitting his warriors, given that, when Sigurd landed his ships on the east bank, Lyngi’s forces on the western shore became useless. Still, it meant Sigurd could not afford to sail around Lyngi’s position, had he been in any such mind to do so.
He wasn’t.
In the time while Sigurd razed and plundered along the banks of the Elfr, Lyngi had set his defenses well, though, and arrows rained onto Sigurd’s longships before he even landed.
He held a shield up above his head, as did any warrior not at the oars. A shaft plunked down against it, sending vibrations up Sigurd’s arms. Those settlements they’d attacked thus far had not had many bows to employ against them. Sigurd found he misliked the indiscriminate hail of arrows that continually fell amid his people.
It wasn’t quite like how he’d heard skalds speak of warfare.
A shaft caught a man beside him through the elbow. The warrior fell, shrieking like one of Regin’s victims, clutching his arm and rolling around on the base of the ship. His flailing sent Sigurd stumbling away.
Hel take Lyngi and all his treacherous followers. Sigurd would see them all pay for what the man had wrought.
More arrows fell, most imbedding themselves on shields, or on the hulls, or punching holes through sails. Some found unfortunate victims, seeming to care little for whether a man was noble or common, a master warrior or a boy on his first voyage.
Behind him, a bloodcurdling shriek rose. Sigurd forced himself not to look. Whoever had taken that one, Sigurd could do naught for him save kill the archers responsible for this. And his foes had the advantage of high ground.
When Sigurd judged the boats nigh enough to the shore, he vaulted the side, landing in the river and sinking
up to his chest. Despite the summer sky, the water was still cold as Hel’s crotch, an icy shock that slowed his steps for a moment. Only a moment though. The fall of arrows kept his blood pounding, kept him warm enough.
“Move!” he bellowed at his men, sloshing his way forward.
And behind him, a battle cry rose, broken by more screams of pain.
A shieldmaiden charged at Sigurd, axe descending for a blow that would’ve cleaved his collar. He jerked his shield up, caught her axe on it, and shoved. The wooden plank slapped into the woman’s face, sending her toppling over backward.
Sigurd stomped on her throat, then turned at the bellow of a man. He whipped his sword around as the man—a lanky Hunalander with a small sword—lunged in. Sigurd’s sword deflected the man’s blade, then turned in riposte to catch him in the face, shearing off his nose and biting into his eye.
Another screaming assault and Sigurd’s reflexes took over. He ducked, swinging his shield rim in a horizontal arc. A spear rushed over his head even as his shield took the spearman in the gut. The man retched up bile. Sigurd pivoted, thrusting his blade up under his foe’s chin where his coif failed to protect.
Again and again, Sigurd felled men and women, until he could hardly tell friend from foe in the chaotic melee.
His arms ached, starting to turn sluggish. But he was still faster than those he faced.
“Hjorvard attacks our flanks,” Erland shouted.
What? How had the man crossed the land so quickly?
“Take who you need and slay him!” Sigurd shouted back. “Lyngi is mine!”
He was already panting. His mail had protected him from the blows of those lucky men who’d gotten past his guard, but even through the dverg chain and the pads from his gambeson, he felt his flesh bruising.
Blood and gore coated his face, mingling with his sticky sweat, leaving him reeling.