by Matt Larkin
Sigurd glanced back at Thrain, and the Vall cocked his head and spread his hands. So he hadn’t heard it. Not that Sigurd had expected him to, but it was good to know.
The raven said no more, instead suddenly taking flight and soaring off toward the south.
“Have you heard of a place called Hindarfjall?” Sigurd asked.
Thrain nodded. “It’s a mountain between Valland and Hunaland, in the northern reaches of the Sudurberks. Beyond it lies the lands of my ancestors.”
“I must go there.”
Thrain sighed and shook his head. “Then I’ll ride with you. It’s on the way back to my lands, and I must return there in any event. Do you plan to leave your stepfather to rule your kingdom in your stead?”
Sigurd folded his arms and tried not to let his disappointment show. Of course, he’d always known Thrain would leave one day and long feared the day approached soon. Still, he had so few friends he could truly count on and without Thrain, he’d have one fewer. “I suppose I must ask him to rule here.”
“You’ve not said why you want to ride to Hindarfjall. There’s naught there, not for centuries, so far as I know.”
But the raven had spoken otherwise.
Once he had collected Grani and a horse for Thrain, and made his farewells to his mother, they rode south. Sigurd could feel Grani’s urge to run and suspected he could have covered ground much more quickly, were he not pressed to wait for Thrain. Still, he was glad of the companionship, and the man spoke oft of his intentions to wrest some measure of power back from the line of Karolus in Valland.
Sometimes, the Vall spoke like a völva, almost as if he knew overmuch of the nature of vaettir who lurked in the wild places of Midgard. Sigurd knew of such things from his time with Regin, but Thrain never truly spoke of how he came by his own arcane knowledge. His secrets were his business, Sigurd supposed.
“I’ve seen your prowess in battle,” Sigurd said, riding beside the Vall.
“Yes, well, we both know it does not match your own.”
Sigurd waved that away. “I mean to say, you were a great warrior, even without the runeblade. Still … I worry how you can hope to challenge such a mighty empire.”
“I don’t have to overthrow the entire empire. I only need to prove my claim with enough force the emperor sees fit to restore titles to my kin. I hope to claim Aquisgrana and be made a subject king, or at least a duke.”
Sigurd couldn’t see how the emperor was like to capitulate to Thrain’s demands, but his friend refused to be dissuaded, leaving Sigurd no choice save to wish him well.
In sight of the Sudurberks, they at last had to part ways.
“That peak in the distance,” Thrain said, pointing. “That is Hindarfjall. Many centuries ago there was a Sikling fortress atop it. Whatever it is you seek might lie within.”
“Somehow I have this feeling I shall not see you again, my friend.”
Thrain grimaced. “Perhaps you have some hint of the Sight and it is a foreboding of my doom.”
“The Sight?” Regin had mentioned, once, that some few humans had abilities to perceive things others could not. To glimpse past the Veil or even perceive visions of events gone or not yet come to pass.
Thrain shook his head. “Perhaps. Perhaps, not. Either way, I hope you are wrong. But in case you are not …” Thrain offered his arm and Sigurd clasped it.
“May we both find great urds and fame aplenty.”
Thrain nodded and with that, he rode off toward Valland, while Sigurd turned to Mount Hindarfjall.
For a long way more Sigurd rode, resisting the urge to kick Grani into a quicker pace. Something waited for him up on that mountain, and—though Thrain’s talk of the Sight was beyond his ken—he could almost feel the pull of urd calling him there. Was fate a physical force that it could so tug upon his heart?
Gripir had said he was bound by a web of urd and that not even foreknowledge of his fate could avert it. Did that urd lie upon the mountain as the pounding of his heart seemed to attest? Could he, if his will were strong enough, turn from it and ride back to his people? And if he could, would he even wish to? Gripir had also promised him glory beyond the dreams of men and fame unto the ending of the world.
Perhaps he had already earned that by slaying Fafnir or by avenging his father on Lyngi. But still, it seemed more lay before him, beckoning him onward.
Grani’s pace had increased, though Sigurd did not remember urging the horse forward. Perhaps it mattered little. He would not turn from his destination either way.
As he drew nigh, it seemed as if a great light rose up from atop the mountain, kissing the sky.
Sigurd paused a moment and donned the Tarnhelm. He’d found that while wearing it, he could simply wish his aspect to become more fearsome and he would seem to grow beyond his already impressive stature.
Content, he rode up a steep slope toward that light, until its source revealed itself. A ring of white fire surrounded a keep where shields lined the ramparts. The Sikling fortress, no doubt, but where had the flames come from and why had they not burned out? Sorcery seemed the only explanation and even the thought of it left Sigurd ill at ease. Sorcerers called upon vaettir to breach the Veil and affect the Mortal Realm—this Regin had taught him, along with the admonition that doing so carried a terrible price and Sigurd should never even consider such madness.
Even from two score feet back, he could feel the sweltering heat from that wall. Grani shied away from it until Sigurd finally hopped off the horse’s back. Then he slowly made his way toward the flames, arm in front of his face in a vain attempt to ward against the heat. Ward … The ravens had claimed that consuming Fafnir’s heart would ward Sigurd against flame and blade. Had it done so?
The surest way to test such a thing seemed to be to dive through the flames, but if the ravens spoke lies—or Sigurd were merely mist-mad and they spoke naught at all—he’d die. Instead, he dropped his satchel, rustled through it until he found a torch, and lit it up. The flame he then held beneath his left arm. His shirt immediately caught ablaze but his skin did not, though the heat was incredibly intense. When he jerked the torch away, his skin was but slightly red, a color that soon began to fade. After tossing aside the brand, he patted out the fire on his shirt.
All right, then. So he could pass through the flames. Probably.
After a deep breath, Sigurd began to doff his mail, then his clothing as well. His satchels and everything else he tied to Grani, carrying only Gramr with him, and wearing the Tarnhelm. He could hardly enter an ancient fortress unarmed. Odin alone knew what vaettir might have taken up residence here.
Naked, Sigurd swung his arms back and forth, staring at the inferno ahead. It was much hotter than any torch and even standing before it he’d broken into a heavy sweat. Would he survive even this sorcerous flame? Well … he had to try. The ravens claimed he should come here and he’d not leave without learning what lay within.
Backing up a few steps, Sigurd launched into a mad dash. He raced through the flame wall, instantly blinded by its light and reeling from the heat. His foot stumbled and he threw himself forward, pitching onto the hard ground and rolling.
Groaning and blinking, he lay on his back until his vision began to return. First, everything was a blur of dancing lights. But slowly, things came back into focus. Much as he felt he’d just run naked through Muspelheim, he seemed unharmed.
Above him rose the fortress. An open archway led inside, the gate having been withdrawn. Sigurd pushed himself up and—Gramr out before him—made his way inward. The main gate led into a great hall. His gaze immediately fell upon a stone table in the center of the room and to the woman lying atop it.
She was clad all in mail. A shieldmaiden. Though she seemed dead, her body had not decayed in the least. Her blonde hair was woven into tiny braids that hung about her face, and a longer braid behind her head.
After stripping off the Tarnhelm and tossing it aside, Sigurd stalked over then held a hand a hairsbread
th above her mouth and nose. A faint breath blew against his fingers, with a great many moments in between it and the next. Alive, but very deeply asleep.
Who was she? Sigurd shook the woman, but she did not stir. The ravens had sent him here, so he could only assume he was meant to gain the wisdom they spoke of from this woman. That being the case, he needed a way to wake her.
Her mail seemed to have become so tight it almost appeared to have grown into her skin, as if it was constricting her. Slowing her breathing?
Sigurd wedged Gramr between links by her neck and eased them apart. Slowly, careful not to slice open the woman in the process, he sawed through the mail down one sleeve and then the other. Oddly, she had no gambeson beneath, only a thin shift. Pulling away the sleeves freed it enough he could saw off the rest of her mail. The links had indeed cut into her flesh in multiple places, forcing him to pry it free. The process shredded her shift and left numerous red welts along her torso.
The woman drew in a sudden, deep breath, as if at last she could fill her lungs.
Despite the welts, she was stunningly beautiful, with breasts so perfect he was suddenly overcome by the terrible urge to take one in his mouth. The man Regin had forged would have done so in an instant. Would’ve been inside her trench a heartbeat later.
But Sigurd was tired of being that person.
He had naught to cover her with save her own shredded armor, but this he piled atop her, then backed away. “Wake up …” He didn’t even know what to call her. She was a warrior, clearly, not only from her armor but from the obvious build of her arms. “Shieldmaiden.”
Her eyes jolted open and she sat bolt upright, heedless of it causing the remnants of her armor to fall away. She took a wild look around the hall, then leapt off the stone, snarling at Sigurd.
“Wait!” he pleaded.
The woman cast about herself, perhaps seeking a weapon, and finding none, turned on him with her hands raised before her in fists. “Already you grow hard once more. How many times have you sated yourself on me?”
“Uh … none.”
She sneered. “And yet you go about unclad. If you haven’t done so yet, you clearly intended it.”
“N-no.” Well, he’d certainly thought of it. “There was a ring of fire outside this keep. My clothes would not have survived passing through it.”
“And yet you did.”
He shrugged. “A little fire doesn’t scare me.”
Her eyes widened a hair, and her fists dropped. “You came to me, unafraid … A man without fear …”
Well, that was probably an overstatement. Rather, Regin had beaten undue fear out of Sigurd. “I …”
“You came to me and passed through Odin’s barrier.”
“Odin?” The Ás king had put the woman here? “I find myself rather at a loss, shieldmaiden. I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about.”
The woman quirked a smile. “And he didn’t bother to explain aught to you. Typical. I am Brynhild, adopted daughter of King Heimir. I was a shieldmaiden, as you claim, but later I became a valkyrie and fell into the service of Odin. I … I refused his order, once, and he punished me. He said I would lie in deathless sleep and suffer eternal nightmares, until the man who would be my husband came to me.”
Sigurd blanched, scarce able to wrap his mind around the audacity of her tale. A princess turned valkyrie? A servant of Odin himself? “I … You’re beautiful.” That wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say, true though it was.
Brynhild scoffed and strode toward the main gate. “It’s no accomplishment for a naked man to find a half-naked woman beautiful.” She was staring outside. “I see no ring of fire.”
“But it was there!” Sigurd raced after her and, sure enough, the flames had vanished without a trace. “I wouldn’t … I didn’t …”
She stepped in front of him, the edge of a smile on her lips. “I believe you. Odin set the spell so it would break for you and you alone, I suppose. But you haven’t told me your name.”
“Sigurd. Sigmundson, though now men call me Fafnirsbane.”
“Sigmund …”
He folded his arms, struggling to keep his gaze upon her face and no lower. “You know of my father?”
“Yes. I met him.”
“You can’t have been more than a child.”
Now she rolled her eyes. “I told you, I was a valkyrie. And after that, I presume Odin’s spell kept me from aging. I can only assume you are Hjordis’s son, yes?”
He nodded, feeling more lost than ever. As if he were caught in ocean currents being directed by forces he could neither see nor begin to imagine. Was this the work of urd? The will of the gods? “I … I am supposed to learn wisdom from you.”
Brynhild laughed, rubbing her brow with her thumb and index finger. “Oh … Sigurd. I wonder, who is it that sends you on such a quest? Odin himself? I should hate you because of him … but you were the one to free me from that …” She shuddered. “It doesn’t matter. Come, get your clothes, and then I’ll teach you.”
18
Rathbarth insisted on Thor placing the crown on his head. The man believed Odin’s authority as the King of Asgard flowed through Thor and thus legitimized his claim to the throne of Holmgard. Thor didn’t bother mentioning that Rathbarth wouldn’t have been his first choice. Or his second.
Still, the man seemed to have the right mix of courage and guile, enough that maybe he could hold the kingdom together for more than a winter or two.
Either way, Thor crowned him king, and now sat with him in the great hall, at the far side of the table. The jotunn Hrod hadn’t taken it well when Hymir promised this fortress to Rathbarth. The hate in his eyes as he left—that seemed like to prove a problem one day. Still, the ugly bastard did as his king ordered.
So Thor sat at Rathbarth’s victory feast, trying to block out the already budding pain in his head that seemed to grow worse with each raucous laugh, cheer, or boast that issued forth around him. The rest of Thor’s company sat at the king’s table, as well, and Rathbarth’s chief thegns, too. Among them, Thor figured Jary and Tait held the king’s ear the most. The former was a brawny but graying warrior, and anyone who managed to live long enough to get that gray had to have some cunning in him. Tait was young, but men called him a veritable god with his spear and shield, at least when they thought no Ás around to hear the claim.
After everyone had eaten their fill—the lake provided ample fish—Rathbarth banged his hand on the table for silence. “It’s a good day, and we must spread the word of our victory.” Victory? The man spoke as if they’d taken the place at sword point rather than traded a fair portion of Rathbarth’s wealth for it. “They must know a new kingdom of men rises once more in Bjarmaland. And this is a new kingdom, for Holmgard fell, crushed before jotunn might. Gylfi’s colony, however well intentioned, is broken. Thus I give us a new name: Gardariki!”
A few cheers went up in the hall, accompanied by the banging of fists and goblets on the tables. All enough to send the spots before Thor’s eyes swirling. Enough to make him imagine throttling every last noisy piece of trollshit filling this hall. Or enough to make him see himself—as he oft saw—digging out that flint shard with his own dagger, damage to his brain be damned.
“Are you well, brother?” Geri asked, leaning close enough to be heard over the commotion.
Thor nodded, keeping his eyes shut a moment.
“So then,” Rathbarth proclaimed. “Let us rejoice the founding of a new kingdom and new dynasty, one blessed by the Aesir!”
Oh, damn it. They’d be looking at Thor now. He opened his eyes, winced at the sudden return of light, and raised his drinking horn in salute. Let the men have their feast. Thor, he needed a mammoth’s share of mead. He rose and made his way to a dark corner of the hall, beckoning over a slave girl as he went.
“More mead,” he snapped when she drew nigh, and the girl cringed, scampering off to grab his drink.
Any number of half-drunk fools came t
o try to drink with him, but Thor shoved his way past them and instead slunk down upon a bearskin spread out behind a fire pit. Warriors came here to sleep off their drink. For his part, Thor would just as soon claim the spot beforehand.
Geri, though, she slunk down in front of him as if he’d invited her.
Thor rubbed his brows. “I’m your brother. Surely other men are more interesting this night.”
She shrugged. “When I’ve got an itch, I’ll scratch. Right now, I’m worried about you. Besides, didn’t you swear off feasting after …?”
It was true, though he hardly held to it. “I don’t have to drink myself senseless.” Not completely, anyway. “Just enough to let me sleep. On top of the fucking hammer, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Geri tossed aside her fur cloak, shuffling closer to the fire pit. “I think …” She groaned. “I mean we scarcely discussed …”
“Don’t.”
“She was my closest friend, you know.”
“It’s been years. I’ve moved past it.” A half-truth. “Maybe I’ll even wed again.” Perhaps not.
Geri sighed. “I think part of you kept thinking you’d somehow find whoever did it. But that man is almost certainly in Serkland, if he yet lives at all. And you’re right, it was years ago, so he might well not.”
“I didn’t say a damn thing about hunting for the murderer.” Oft though he’d considered it, he knew well enough he’d never succeed. Still, word came that Hermod had slipped into Serkland and murdered a caliph while the man was having a shit. Thor would’ve liked to have seen that.
“Fine.” Geri held up her hands in surrender. “Fine. What of this new kingdom? By declaring it openly, Rathbarth is effectively challenging all the jotunn kings dividing up Bjarmaland. He may have claimed this place in an attempt to protect his people, but someone will come to answer the challenge he’s presented.”
The slave girl returned bearing a large drinking horn. Thor took it and waved her away, then threw back a long swig before answering Geri. “I know. That’s why we need reinforcements from Asgard.”