by Matt Larkin
Grimhild shut the door behind herself then—after casting a disdainful look at Gudrun’s still unkempt chambers—brushed aside blankets so she could sit on the bed. “You spent the evening in private conversation with the King of Rijnland.”
Gudrun nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak. Already, her vision seemed cloudy, hazed from the draught. It would slur both her thoughts and her words, she knew from vast experience. All she wanted now was to lie down on the bed her mother had occupied and hope to dive into another such dream.
“You have feelings for him.”
Gudrun meant to deny it. Instead she managed a chittering laugh that she knew should have mortified her.
Grimhild nodded. “Well, I don’t blame you. He’s handsomer than most men I’ve ever seen. To be honest, I’m just glad to see you showing some interest in aught save your bed.”
“I … want him.” Oh, fuck. Had she just said that aloud?
Her mother nodded, her smile seeming fragile as porcelain, like her face was about to crack. Gudrun definitely needed to lie down now. “You’ve been through so much,” Grimhild said. “I wanted to make you strong, daughter. I didn’t want … not this. Whatever it takes to give you back to yourself, you’ll have it.”
Gudrun rose, swayed, and stumbled over toward her bed. “I need …”
Her mother caught her arms and eased her down. “I’ll get you what you need.”
Two days after they had departed, Gunnar, Hogne, and Sigurd returned to Castle Niflung in the evening. Grimhild ordered another feast set, clearly intent to impress their guest, and Sigurd joined them.
Gudrun noted a conspicuous absence of the better part of those Niflung nobles that had attended the last feast, leaving only those few who showed the greatest loyalty to the queen. Grimhild had surrounded herself with only her lackeys. Did she hatch some plot?
Once everyone had sat, Grimhild took a drinking horn from a slave and handed it to Sigurd. “We’re grateful you came all the way here in the name of peace. Please, enjoy the fullest extent of our hospitality. Drink.”
Sigurd took the horn and threw it back, seeming intent to chug its entire contents himself. Amber liquid sloshed over his beard and dribbled down his shirt before he at last handed it off, gasping.
Grimhild laced her fingers in his hair, slowly turning the king’s head toward Gudrun. “You are like a son to me, and my son like your brother. And our princess must surely then be as a queen to you.”
“A … queen?” Sigurd wiped his mouth. “Beautiful queen.”
Gudrun had hefted her own drinking horn. Now it slipped from her fingers and clattered on the table, splashing its contents over her and everywhere else nearby.
Sigurd leapt up at once to help her dry her gown, while Hogne chuckled and Gunnar stared.
Oh, Hel. What had Grimhild done?
“My … love,” Sigurd said. “Are you well?” Asking her? Talking to her.
“I …” Gudrun couldn’t help gaping at her mother, who just offered a nod. Now she looked to Gunnar, and her brother, stern-faced, glowered at their mother, then nodded at Gudrun as if to say, yes, it was done. So enjoy it? “I didn’t … I think I need to rest.”
“Sigurd, dear,” Grimhild said. “Won’t you take Gudrun to her chambers?”
“Of course, it’s my pleasure.” He took her hand and guided her toward the door, then beyond, to the stairs.
Gudrun couldn’t do aught save play along. She had tried something like this before, with Odin, and it had ended badly. But Odin had eaten the fruit of Yggdrasil, and besides, Grimhild had interfered with Gudrun’s potion by trying to claim him herself. Would the queen’s potion hold Sigurd forever? Her mind raced too fast and she could make little sense of what was happening.
Much as she’d lusted after him—or was it deeper than lust?—she hadn’t intended to go about it like this. So much woe had resulted from using the Art. But … maybe, just this one time.
She hadn’t even realized they’d reached her chamber until Sigurd shut the door behind himself. Then his palms were on her cheeks, turning her face up to meet his. He was so tall she needed to rise up on her toes to reach his lips. His tongue brushed over her teeth and soon was exploring her mouth.
If she’d intended to resist this, she’d definitely forgotten. She tore at the laces of her gown, growling in frustration when they wouldn’t come undone fast enough. Sigurd grabbed both sides of the garment and yanked, ripping those laces apart and exposing the linen shift beneath. This he yanked over her head so fervently she stumbled backward.
Sigurd caught her, hefting her up in his arms and taking her left breast in his mouth.
They pitched over, onto the bed. Giggling, Gudrun pulled her gown up around her hips while Sigurd yanked off his trousers.
And then he was inside her, just as in her dream.
Three times they made love that night. And finally Gudrun slept.
When she woke, the first thing she realized was Sigurd was gone. The second was that she had slept without taking the draught for the first time in over a decade.
Gudrun sniffed, rubbing her face. Where had the man gone? Had he realized what had happened and remembered his real wife? Oh, Hel. Not that.
After scrambling around to wash and dress, she blundered down the stairs, only to find her brothers—and Sigurd—in the great hall. Taking the day meal.
“Gudrun!” Sigurd said, leaping from his seat. “I thought to let you sleep. You hadn’t seemed much for mornings in the time I’ve been here.”
“Indeed,” Gunnar said somewhat dryly. Was he angry about this? Did he think any of it had been her idea? “And mother has already left to plan for your wedding. A small ceremony, she said, but still she wishes to invite all the prominent families on Samsey.”
Yes, an edge of judgment laced his voice, but, perhaps also one of hope. Because he knew that if Sigurd joined them, their chances of restoring the Niflung dynasty to glory rose immensely. As if that had not factored into Grimhild’s plans.
Of course, all Gudrun could do was smile. So she did.
A great many days passed thus, a moon perhaps, and Gudrun found herself craving the draught less and less. Sigurd didn’t force her to refrain, but his look of a disapproval when she imbibed it made Gudrun switch more oft to plain ale. What need to fear insomnia when there was someone to talk to her until exhaustion finally claimed her?
But this night, Sigurd was late in returning and Gudrun sat alone in her chamber, sipping Hunalander imported ale and flipping through a tome on theories regarding the history of the world before the rise of the Old Kingdoms. Since no records persisted among men, people were left to speculation, or to believing the self-serving lies spread by the Vanir.
And Gudrun knew them for lies, for Skadi had known of the ancient jotunn empire of Brimir. The Vanir had all but destroyed the jotunn races, but all Niflung scholars knew of it came from fragments gleaned from occasional conversations with the jotunnar themselves. And indeed, few of those remained who’d seen the old days. All the great empires of the world had crumbled, it seemed. The Old Kingdoms, the Vanir, the dvergar, Brimir. All fallen, as if naught built could endure for long anymore.
Gudrun gently flipped another page—the parchment was so old it threatened to crumble if not handled with extreme care. Assuming the scholar had the right of it, nigh to five thousand years had passed since the coming of the mists. A breach to Niflheim had let the mists flood the Mortal Realm and those freezing vapors had lowered the temperature across the world. It was hard to imagine what the land might have looked like without that cooling. Perhaps there would have been more—
Her chamber door opened and Sigurd entered, a slight unsteadiness in his footing giving away his drunkenness. He had a cloth wrapped around one palm, though blood had seeped through and stained the linen crimson.
“What happened?”
Sigurd grinned. “I thought there was no reason Gunnar and I should not be brothers in blood as well as in our
hearts.” He chuckled. “I think the king was honored almost beyond words.”
Gudrun forced herself to smile. Blood brothers? Considering Gunnar well knew Sigurd’s memory had been affected by Grimhild’s potion, it was beyond bold to invoke such old magic. Such a bond ran deeper than any mortal understanding of the Art and could not easily be broken.
Perhaps Gunnar had simply felt he had no recourse but to accept Sigurd’s offer, or else risk giving unforgivable offense to the man. But now … now Sigurd was bound to them by more than the bonds of marriage.
It ought to please her, of course. But she couldn’t help but feel a nameless dread that only ill could result from so abusing a man’s trust. A foreboding from the Sight or merely her own fears? Either way, it was done and naught could undo it.
Sigurd was one of them for good now.
Part IV
Year 72, Age of the Aesir
Summer
(Two and a half years later)
27
Wearing the Tarnhelm, Sigurd trod amidst the warriors of Menzlin, transformed into their new king Kensley. Men and shieldmaidens hailed him as he passed in the night, never even suspecting such a ruse. Some few stared at him oddly, perhaps having thought their king already in his own tent, as he no doubt was.
In truth, Sigurd misliked the plan, but Gunnar had insisted that by assassinating Kensley rather than leading an open assault, they’d eliminate the need for mass slaughter. If Kensley lived and paid tribute to Etzel, joining their forces, the Niflungar might well find themselves embroiled in another prolonged conflict.
Sigurd had already slain four kings who opposed Gunnar’s unification of the North Realms. Perhaps this one more would ensure the rest fell in line.
Thus, he ducked into the king’s tent.
The enclosure was large, with a fire pit dug in the center, though the flames had dwindled down to embers now and the shadows grew thick. The king slept beneath a bearskin, his arm around a naked woman, the both of them snoring lightly.
Sigurd eased a seax from its sheath at his waist, shaking his head. Killing a man in his sleep was despicable. Indeed, what if such a fell death denied the otherwise courageous Kensley his place in Valhalla? This was the vilest of murder, and he couldn’t see how the gods could let it stand. Did Sigurd invite damnation on himself by carrying out Gunnar’s will here?
Yes, he’d sworn loyalty and brotherhood to the Niflung King, but this tactic still left him filled with self-loathing.
He clucked his tongue softly. So what was the alternative? Wake the king and challenge him here? Even if Kensley agreed to fight such a duel, it might prove difficult to escape the Menzlin camp. The Tarnhelm allowed him to disguise himself as anyone he liked, appear as tall as a jotunn, or even seem as insubstantial as a shadow. He might fight his way out and conceal himself once the deed was done. On the other hand, the helm’s trickery would prove less effective if someone saw him turn translucent.
No, he had to do this the way Gunnar had advised.
Sigurd stalked over to Kensley’s bed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see how he’d kill the man without dealing with his woman as well. Grimacing, he slapped a hand over the woman’s mouth. At the same time, he sliced the seax across Kensley’s throat.
The King of Menzlin jerked awake, flailing. He struggled to cry out, but Sigurd had cut clean through his throat and all that escaped was a wheezy gurgle. Sigurd sliced through the woman’s throat next, then dropped the blade by his feet, and held both victims down while they bled out. Their pooling blood stained the bearskin and seeped onto Sigurd’s boots, but all he could do was grimace as their struggles slowed.
What a wretch he was to take such an approach. The others he’d slain in battle. This was treachery.
When the thrashing had ended, he bent to retrieve the seax.
Disgusted with himself, he adjusted the Tarnhelm. It warped to his will, and his form became almost imperceptible in the darkness.
After checking no one lurked close to see the tent flap move, Sigurd slipped out into the night.
Murder had never been so easy. Too damn easy.
On the ship, Gunnar threw an arm around Sigurd’s shoulders embracing him. “You ought to smile a little, brother. You just ended a war before it began.”
Sigurd wished he could look at it that way, he truly did. Gunnar’s cheer was infectious, though, and by the time their longship was away from shore, the whole crew had burst into song, praising the might and beauty of Rán, the mercurial mermaid queen.
After patting Gunnar on the back, Sigurd made his way to the bow and stood watching the ocean. He couldn’t help but give in—just a bit—to the jovial mood of the other Niflungar. Yes, it was another kingdom weakened and made ready for Niflung rule.
At this rate, they’d control everything around the Gandvik within another five years or so. Well, all save Holmgard, perhaps. Word had come that sea jotunnar had destroyed that settlement, though Sigurd found that hard to credit.
Jotunnar ought to have been on the far side of the Midgard Wall in Jotunheim, not sacking towns a few days’ sail from here.
Hogne trod up beside him. “You did well.”
“I know.” Sigurd shrugged, still staring at the waters.
“Worried about a kraken?”
Sigurd snorted. “Why worry? If such a behemoth exists and comes for us, there’s not a damn thing we could do about it, yes? Fearing that which lies entirely beyond our control is pointless.”
Hogne snorted. “Men say you fear naught at all, regardless.”
Perhaps Regin had beaten it out of him. Sigurd couldn’t see much use for fear—not since he was a child. Which wasn’t to say naught niggled at him. “I wonder if we should prepare Samsey for these sea jotunnar.”
Hogne shook his head. “If they come for us at all, it will not be soon. They know we make sacrifices to Hel, as do the frost jotunnar. The sea jotunnar won’t come at us unless all the lesser kingdoms of men have fallen. In that sense, bringing other nations under our rule actually serves to protect them.”
Put that way, perhaps they weren’t moving fast enough. Thus far, they’d not struck against the strongest kingdoms, but maybe that needed to change soon.
Once they returned to Castle Niflung, he’d have to talk it over with Queen Grimhild and with Gunnar. Given the state of the world, men would need Niflung strength, and soon.
28
As Baldr had predicted, Loki arrived, along with his wife Sigyn. Thor couldn’t guess how she felt about Loki having a bastard child with Skadi, but here she was. Did that mean it rankled her less than Thor’s affair with Gridr had done to Sif?
Tale told Skadi had taken Loki’s seed without his consent, though Thor found that a bit hard to fathom. Maybe Sigyn believed him, though.
Either way, most all had unfolded as Baldr had said. Narfi closed his net around Gardariki, until no other free land remained in Bjarmaland. Maybe Loki’s bastard would work to take Kiovia from Hymir, too. He’d already forced all the other jotunn kings to bow to Skadi, though Thor had received no word of attacks yet launched on Hymir.
But Gardariki lay besieged now, and at Baldr’s insistence, Thor and his party weren’t even in the damn fortress. No, he had to trust to Rathbarth and his thegns to hold it. Well, he supposed they had Tyr, and never had Thor met a grimmer warrior.
Thor, the twins, Loki, Sigyn, Magni, and Baldr were all camped in the forest south of Lake Ilmajarvi. From inside the wood he couldn’t see a damn thing about the siege, but sometimes the sound of battle carried on the wind. Thor misliked hiding here while others fought and died, but Baldr insisted on avoiding a frontal assault.
Thor’s brother said the key to ending this was in going after Narfi and hopefully even catching Skadi. But thus far, the twins reported they hadn’t seen Loki’s bastard. So where was he hiding?
Worrying over it oft seemed to bring on the headaches. Sometimes, he could block out the pain. Others, not so much.
With little else t
o pass the time, Thor found himself oft watching his aunt and uncle. Loki and Sigyn seemed able to hold whole conversations between them with but a look. They were both too clever, without doubt, and neither of them had objected to Baldr’s plans, so Thor figured there must be sense in it all.
The forces Mother had sent harried Narfi’s northern front. Thor longed to join them, but Baldr said they wait.
Just keep waiting.
Thor hated it.
Freki returned from scouting late one evening, slumping down by the tiny fire—a small crackle was all Baldr allowed them. “Some news of interest,” the varulf said. “Ivar of Skane brought a fleet here, probably intent to reclaim his daughter.”
Thor grunted. He’d known Rathbarth’s ill-conceived marriage to Authra would cost them. He’d known it, and no one had listened. No one ever fucking listened.
“The king apparently had no idea what went on here in Bjarmaland,” Freki continued. “Hardly a surprise, I supposed, since no one has been able to leave Gardariki. Regardless, Ivar blundered straight into one of Narfi’s camps, maybe thinking it belonged to Rathbarth.”
Magni chortled. “Wait, so King Ivar thought to raid a camp full of men and instead stirred up an army of jotunnar?”
Freki nodded. “I imagine he regretted his mistake. Briefly, at least. He’s dead.”
Huh. Welcome news, though it meant the thrones of Sjaelland and Skane lay vacant. In theory, Authra’s son Harald ought to have held claim to both, but that only mattered if they survived this siege.
Though she said naught, the appraising look Sigyn cast upon Freki left Thor wondering what went on in that head of hers. And she’d caught him staring at her, for she raised a brow in question.
Thor slapped his knee. “How long are we to wait here while the jotunnar kill our people?”