by Matt Larkin
Odin lurched over, grabbed her axe, and cleaved it down into her skull. Blood and brains exploded up over his face.
Teeth grit, Odin gained his feet, pausing only to retrieve his spear, then stalking over to where the last valkyrie was struggling to rise. Blood was pouring from her shattered nose.
“I’d ask you who sent you,” Odin said, wiping gore from his face. “But I assume you couldn’t tell me anyway. Shall I guess? A master in Alfheim?” He had wrested control of two lodges of valkyries from a radiant being of light. “Is it Dellingr?” That was a name for the lord of Alfheim, confirmed by Vafthrudnir.
The valkyrie hefted her spear, defiant to the last. Odin lunged in, feinted left, then jerked his spear up into her face. The woman spasmed for a moment before going limp.
Odin yanked the spear free then raced to Altvir’s side.
She had her hands wrapped around wound, a vicious gouge pumping blood out at an alarming rate.
Shit. Odin pulled one of her hands away to check. There was no staunching that with mere pressure. Her ring might allow her to live if he could close the wound fast enough. “Can you shift back across the Veil?”
Altvir nodded weakly. Her form turned hazy, then etheric, becoming just a shadow on the other side.
Damn it. Odin latched onto Audr’s power once more, embracing the vileness that brought with it. This time, the wraith’s tendrils lanced through him like oily serpents. The feel of it sent him toppling over onto to his side, writhing in agony. His whole body twitched as Audr tried to drive his mind into subservience and become the master of this form.
Odin convulsed. Gasped.
Blood burst behind his eye and the oozing of it blinded him. Strands of darkness seeped out of his flesh.
Scarcely aware of what he was doing, he crawled to Altvir’s side. No, he didn’t. His body did. Audr had seized control.
The wraith closed its hand around Altvir’s throat. Lowered Odin’s mouth to hers. The valkyrie convulsed as Audr sucked out her soul. Every sip of it only served to inflate the wraith’s strength.
Altvir grew cold, her eyes opened wide, frozen in terror and agony. And then she was naught but a hollow husk, seeming ready to crack and blow away.
No! Odin raged at the wraith.
Manacles of shadow bound his wrists and legs and throat. They tied him down and punched through his flesh, feasting on his essence.
The wraith’s insane cackling echoed endlessly through Odin’s prison, becoming a cacophony that begged him to join Audr in hateful madness.
An urd that seemed almost inevitable now.
15
Before Sigurd spread out a gloomy expanse that seemed to have the color sucked right out of it, where the only light came from distant stars. Here, shadows moved as if of their own accord, a sea of them, dancing to a soundless melody, and he was caught by its haunting music.
In this hollow place, a shining hand reached out toward him. A woman’s hand, her form obscured by blinding light, her words swallowed by a ringing filling Sigurd’s ears.
With a groan, Sigurd lurched awake. Color seeped back into the world like blood spreading through a sheet, and with it, a wave of nausea. He rolled over onto his side, intent to retch, but found naught forthcoming. Finally, he pushed himself up.
His fire had dwindled down to embers and crows now feasted upon the corpses of both Fafnir and Regin. Two brothers dead by Gramr’s bite, or rather, by Regin’s treachery.
The morning seemed to have drawn on, for the sun was well overhead. Sigurd groaned, blinking against the brightness.
Thor’s hammer, his head hurt. It felt like he’d tried to outdrink a dverg.
Sigurd rubbed his face then found his hands still smeared with mud and dried blood. Odin alone knew how long it would take to clean it from his mail, and his gambeson might well be ruined. Certainly his trousers were done for.
With another groan, he rose to his feet, finding his strength soon returning.
He trod to the river and washed his face, then looked around. Once more, a raven was watching him.
“C-can you understand me?” he asked.
The animal stared at him as if he’d gone mist-mad. Was that what had happened? In daylight, that suddenly seemed the more plausible answer than a raven speaking to him. But he had slain Regin based on the advice of one such bird. The raven cocked its head, cawed, and suddenly took flight. It did not, however, fly cleanly away, but rather circled, crying aloud.
“Does he wish to find Fafnir’s lair?”
At the voice, he spun, only to find yet another raven now watching him.
Oh. Stone-sucking rock bubbles.
At least that meant he wasn’t mist-mad. Or … he was still just as mad as before, which didn’t seem so very much of an improvement at all.
Sigurd stretched, looked away, then looked back at the raven. Still watching him. “I do. I do want to find the dragon’s plundered hoard.”
Now the raven cocked its head up.
Sigurd followed its gaze to the creature’s companion, still circling overhead. “Follow him?” Oh, Aesir, this was madness. “Fine. I shall follow.”
As if the one above had heard his answer, it suddenly banked away to the north. Into the Poison Marshes where Fafnir had laired.
Sigurd grimaced. So the birds clearly understood him. And if he told anyone, they’d have banished him for mist-madness, assuming they didn’t kill him just to be sure.
His energy returned quickly as he walked. Whether because of the dragon’s heart or simply getting some sleep, he felt charged, as hot inside as a deep forge. Like he could crush any foe with his bare hands. Like he could run for hours and swim across the sea. His whole form seemed to burst with jittery energy as if he might explode if not given some outlet soon. He needed to plow a woman. He needed to plow a half dozen women.
His fist clenched around Gramr’s hilt as though desperately seeking some way to vent his bubbling need. Something to slay and carve to pieces.
A cloying stench of decay permeated the marshes, assaulting Sigurd’s senses and mingling with foul vapors. Though the bog was not nigh so dark as the rest of the Myrkvidr, for its trees had fewer leaves, the branches seemed more numerous. They twisted about each other, bridging one tree to another like nested fingers, if those fingers were gnarled and misshapen. The raven cawed overhead, otherwise Sigurd could not have made out its path through the overgrowth.
So much of the region seemed choked in putrid waters that he trod very slowly, forced to climb upon roots where they jutted from the water, and leap to others. With such precarious progress, he wended deeper and deeper into the bog, trusting—though he could hardly say why—that the raven’s occasional cawing would keep him from going too far astray.
Eventually, he made his way to an island of relatively dry land covered in thorny bushes, at least where broken rocks didn’t jut up around a precipitous hole in the ground. Fafnir’s lair?
Sigurd climbed up to the entrance. It wasn’t quite a sheer drop. The slope looked very steep and who knew how much worse down where the sunlight didn’t reach. From what he could make out, bog water had permeated the inside, not quite filling it, but leaving a dripping, slimy cavern filled with mold and fungus. A more vile place he didn’t think he’d ever seen. Perhaps the linnorm’s power alone had kept it from flooding, and now that Fafnir was dead, maybe his hoard would soon find itself forever buried beneath this bog.
Or maybe the bog itself would dry out with the death of the linnorm.
Either way, Sigurd aimed to be far away with the gold before any of that happened. If this hoard was half what Regin claimed, he’d restore Rijnland’s coffers and ensure a prosperous future for all the Volsungs to come.
After lighting a torch, Sigurd took a careful step onto the slick tunnel surface. Another. And another. Nice, slow—
His heel sunk into the mud and slipped out from under him, spilling him on his arse and sending him sliding down the tunnel. Sigurd flailed, trying to
grab hold of aught with his free hand, but found only a mess of slime that squelched under his fingers. The tunnel whooshed by him before shooting him out into a shin-deep pool of scum. Sigurd slammed his arse on the bottom and groaned in pain and frustration. Yes, this place was vile.
As he lifted his torch once more, its light glinted off something large. Splashing to his feet, he stumbled forward.
“Thor’s thundering arse …”
A pile of gold filled the cavern, more than he could even dream of carrying. More than five men could have carried. Scattered about lay gems and silver-wrought knives, jewelry fit for any Serkland princess, and goblets Odin himself might envy. There was mail wrought from gold, though he could not guess why any would craft such from the soft metal.
There was a rosy gold helm that covered one’s cheekbones, leaving free twin openings for eyes, and trailing the back of a mail coif behind it. The helm was worked with spiked rivets, and strange spiraling designs set amidst runes.
“The Tarnhelm …” Sigurd mused, taking it.
Beneath it rested the hilt of a sword, plated with gold. This too, Sigurd grabbed, only to find its blade the same rosy gold, and lined with runes. Another runeblade! He gaped at it. Fafnir’s hoard must’ve represented more wealth than any man could dream of. More than could be spent in a lifetime.
And what of the ring he’d mentioned?
A great glob of mud plopped down from the ceiling and exploded among the coins in front of him.
Sigurd grunted. How long did this place have? Days? Hours?
With no time to waste, he set about scooping great heaps of gold into his satchel. A shame he didn’t have more bags with him, in fact, though even one satchel full should solve so many of Rijnland’s woes. To make it easier to carry, Sigurd donned the mail, slung the new runeblade over his shoulder, and stuffed the helm into the satchel, not wanting his vision in the least obstructed.
He cast around for gems and the most valuable of jewelry. In search of these items, he found a ring, wrought in the same rosy gold and bearing runes. This was it. Its craftsmanship was remarkable and—unless he missed his guess—that hue meant the metal was orichalcum, same as a runeblade. Which meant its value might be immeasurable. He slipped it on his little finger.
When he could carry no more, he began a slow, deliberate climb out of the tunnel. Twice, his footing slipped, sending him skidding back into the cavern below. Finally, he managed to catch hold of a rock nigh to the top and to pull himself clear.
Once he reached the edge of the marsh, he found Grani there, waiting for him as if the horse somehow knew he would be needed. “Descended of Sleipnir indeed.” Sigurd patted the horse’s mane.
Mounted on Grani, he kicked the horse into motion. They’d have a fair ride back to Xanten.
And then … well, Sigurd could scarcely wait to see the looks on the faces of his people when he restored the kingdom to glory.
Much less spread the tale of how he slew Fafnir.
16
“We had an accord,” Odin spat at the walls of his lightless prison. He wasn’t certain how long he’d dwelt in darkness. It felt like days. Many, many days. But he was hardly sure of it.
Without light, even time melted away. Each instant seemed an eternity.
He knew pieces of himself were lost. Missing moments, missing aspects of his humanity. He’d been losing them for a long time now, but Audr had taken more since claiming control of Odin’s body.
Still, his mind—if now full of holes—remained his mind, did it not?
Audr no longer bothered with his petty taunts. At least not oft.
Perhaps that was how the other presence had slipped into this chamber. Odin felt it, rather than saw it. He couldn’t see aught, given the impenetrable darkness.
“I ought to relish your suffering.” Valravn’s voice.
Odin had to smile at that. The reason for Valravn’s discomfiture was obvious. “You can’t because while I remain imprisoned here, you starve for souls to feast on.”
“You cannot control your body, but your mind remains free. And it is your mind …”
Odin’s mind … that held the Sight.
It was difficult, trying to steady himself enough to push his consciousness into the flow of time whilst Audr’s perverse torments ravaged him. Like trying to meditate while holding his breath under the ocean.
Three times the currents slipped from his grasp. On the third, the wraith’s coils squeezed, crushing his will and suffusing him with the chill of the grave.
But then a tiny fragment caught on, and held to the light.
The river led him into a plateau where the waters plummeted into a chasm deeper than he could make out. Indeed, water poured from all directions into the void, a cascade of falls that ought not to have existed and seemed to defy the laws of nature. Whence came so much water? Yet the falls continued to flow, the sound of their roar drowning out all other noise in this strange place.
A great mist rose up from the chasm. Not a cold, fell seeming mist like that which saturated Midgard, but a clean one, a pure spray from the crashing of water.
Across the gap rose great marble columns perhaps eighty feet tall. They ran off into the rainforest beyond the falls, perhaps leading to a city, but Odin could see no way across and his prescient visions had not prepared him for what to do from here.
So much of the ground around him was taken by the rapids, so he chose his footing with care, wending his way along the plateau. In the far distance, he at last spied a bridge spanning the chasm.
He made his way toward that bridge, smiling. For who would not smile given such warmth and such natural splendor? Indeed, he suddenly found himself wondering if the Vanir he’d sent here would actually be willing to leave. A supreme irony, really, if most of them refused his offer to bring them back to Midgard.
The bridge was carved from white stones tightly fitted together in blocks and rimmed with marble rails that, despite the moisture in the air, seemed pristine and hardly eroded in the least. Odin stepped on it, recalling his visions of doing the same. This bridge carried him over the tumultuous falls and he could not help but pause midway to gape at the glittering wonder all around.
Even the prescient memory of Alfheim’s radiance sent Audr’s withered tendrils recoiling. The dark creature hissed in Odin’s mind. He gasped, sucking in a painful breath and seeing through his real eye at long last.
Seeing a camp, in the deep of night.
Someone was whimpering.
Across a flickering campfire a man trembled, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth and moaning.
Odin stared at him a moment before realizing two other men lay strewn at his feet, their eyes glazed over, faces frozen in absolute terror. Hollow, from where Audr had devoured their souls. But the wraith had not wished to tread close to the flame, or had at least not yet managed to draw the last victim away from it.
Given what the man had no doubt just seen, naught Odin could say or do was like to calm him. Instead, he drew his cloak around himself and limped off into the shadows, each step painful.
His whole body felt ravaged, as if Audr had eaten away at his insides.
He brushed a hand over his face. It seemed even more wrinkled and weathered than before. This ghost would be his end, one day.
Part III
Year 70, Age of the Aesir
Summer
17
Sigurd’s stepfather had come to Rijnland and, despite Sigurd’s return, had chosen to remain here, along with Sigurd’s mother. Seeing the two of them lifted Sigurd’s heart, though Prince Alf had pressed him on several occasions to see about dealing with the threat posed by King Gunnar of the Niflungar.
Much as making war on the last of the Old Kingdoms might further enhance Sigurd’s already expansive fame, he wasn’t sure he savored the idea. The last time he’d gone to war, he’d lost men and women he’d liked, cared for. Despite his prowess, he could not single-handedly protect all those who followe
d him. And when skalds spoke of glorious deaths and warriors taken by valkyries, they oft neglected to mention the bitterness those valkyries left in their wake.
Thus Sigurd took to wandering the edge of the Myrkvidr, sometimes daring the forest itself, almost wishing some beast would come to test him. Proving the strength of his arm seemed easier than knowing how to help his stepfather’s kingdom. Had the Niflungar declared outright war against Cimbria, the choice would no longer fall into Sigurd’s hands. But now, Alf asked him to be the one to declare war, preemptively.
And so he walked—today with Thrain—along a stream running through the dark woods. With a sigh of frustration he flung a stone across the waters.
Thrain hissed and made a sign of warding. “You’re like to disturb a nixie or other vaettr. I don’t fancy angry spirits coming after me.”
Sigurd frowned but didn’t deny his friend’s objections. Maybe they were true. Who knew what dark powers lurked in the places feared by men? Fafnir’s death had not deprived the Myrkvidr of its oppressive shadows. “I find myself lost.”
Thrain quirked a smile and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Xanten is that way.”
Sigurd rolled his eyes then turned his gaze out over the stream once more. Across the waters, a raven had alighted on a branch, watching him. “Oh? And what do you suggest I do?”
“It’s not for me to say,” Thrain said.
“Shh.” Sigurd stared hard at the bird.
“Wait … are you talking to …?”
“He should ride up to Hindarfjall,” the raven said. “There he might find beauty and wisdom awaiting him. The answers to questions asked and unasked, lurking in dreamless slumber.”