by Matt Larkin
An instant later the door flung open and Hogne burst in. “I heard fighting.”
“My wife attacked me.” Gunnar wasn’t looking at his brother, nor even at Brynhild, his gaze seeming to be fixed at naught Brynhild could see.
Hogne groaned. “I told you such would happen, eventually. You were fools to go along with this.”
Brynhild stared from one brother to the other. Everyone knew. Every single person in the godsdamned castle knew.
“Chain her,” Hogne said. “Put her in fetters and bind her in the Pit until we decide what to do with her.”
Gunnar glanced back at her, his face looking like he’d drunk sour milk. “I … I don’t want her to live in chains.”
Brynhild climbed to her feet, slowly, careful not to make it look like an attack. If she raised a sword against him again, she would make damn sure it would be a killing blow. “Don’t fret over that, husband dear. From this day forth I have no intention of coming into the hall with you.”
“Brynhild—”
“No! Did you think we could just go back to feigning happiness? That I’d play tafl with you, offer my counsel, tell tales over the night meal?” She spat at the floor in front of him. “It is the greatest woe of my life that I broke my oath to Sigurd and married you.”
Gunnar backed away, to stand beside his brother. “You were right before. My mother has wrought things she ought not—”
“Enough!” Brynhild screamed at him. “You think I want your condolences now? Get out! Get out! I’ll see no one! Any who dare to come into my chambers I will strangle with my bare hands. You disgust me, the lot of you. You have so long festered in the dregs of your Art-rotted souls, you cannot see the disgrace you have made of all our lives.” A crushing rock had settled upon her chest, making it hard to even get the words out. “You would cast the blame on your mother or sister or wherever else, but you knew exactly what you were doing when you had Sigurd take your shape. You are all to blame for this.”
The king nodded grimly, then guided his brother out, shutting the door behind him.
Brynhild stormed over to the shutters, flung them open and screamed her fury at the desolate land around this accursed place. She screamed her throat raw.
39
Stavns, the tiny port off the fjord, was about the only place to make anchor on Samsey, and thus Sigurd, on his return from Rijnland, landed there and reclaimed Grani. The mist-drenched fishing town had grown more accustomed to visitors in the past few years, and to Sigurd in particular, but still people watched as he rode through their single street and up the path back to Castle Niflung.
He’d been long away from here this time, on the quite plausible excuse of needing to oversee things back in Hunaland, where, with the rise of the warlord Etzel—a man who styled himself king of all Huns—Rijnland stood on the brink of total war. Given Gunnar’s ambition to claim the land under the Niflung banner, a conflict seemed inevitable. Indeed, Etzel’s sudden ascension to power might well be a direct result of pushback against Gunnar’s own attempts to claim Hunaland through Sigurd.
And part of Sigurd almost thought to throw in his support with Etzel. To forsake his wife. Though he cared for her, to even look at her now served as a blade through his chest. A reminder of his broken vow to Brynhild, his first wife, and the one he could not bear to gaze upon in the least. Did Gudrun know? If so, her kindness toward Brynhild and the friendship she’d cultivated there became a perverse thing, a slow poison masquerading as a remedy.
But still he returned here, because he had given his oath to Gudrun and to her brothers. Because he loved his children and thus found leaving almost as painful as staying. Because, were he to join Etzel, those children might pay the price, and the rest of the North Realms most certainly would.
Sitting astride Grani, he smiled and waved at the fisherfolk he passed, offered nods to the few soldiers garrisoned at Stavns, and generally strove to seem as peaceful as he had once felt here.
He’d spare everyone else the truth, even if the lie suffocated him.
Stable hands took Grani’s reins once Sigurd reached Castle Niflung. The Niflungar kept few horses here, and Grani was by far the finest, such that Sigurd had insisted on bringing the horse across the sea, back in times when his heart had been lighter. When he’d believed—and why he could not quite say—in the veracity of Gunnar’s claim to be the rightful lord of all the North Realms.
And Gunnar did speak truth, insofar as the lands were shattered. Where the nine Old Kingdoms had ruled now lay broken remnants divided among so many petty kings, no man could hope to keep track of them all.
Sigurd took the stairs slowly, ascending to the tower room he shared with Gudrun. He found his wife sitting on the floor holding little Svanhildr in her arms, with the girl’s nursemaid Runa beside her. Of Sigmund, he saw no sign.
“You’re home.” Gudrun handed Svanhildr off to Runa and shooed her away, throwing her arms around Sigurd the moment the other woman had shut the door.
Sigurd stiffened, then forced himself to return the embrace. He’d chosen to continue this lie because he could see no alternative. That remained the case and thus he must live with his choice and see it through.
Returning from Hunaland, he had considered casting himself over the side of the ship and letting the net of Rán drag him under. But such was the craven’s way out. No, Sigurd would die in battle and let a valkyrie carry him away to Valhalla and perhaps even meet his father at long last.
“The passage back was tumultuous,” he said.
Gudrun nodded. “Less so than things here, I think. Brynhild has grown … dark. She’s …” The woman hung her head.
So Gudrun knew. Some sorcery had wrought this, that was the only conclusion Sigurd could come to. Grimhild was a sorceress and there were others here—maybe even Gudrun, though she’d not worked the Art in Sigurd’s presence. But Gudrun knew of the way Sigurd had deceived and lain with Brynhild to win the shieldmaiden for Gunnar. And now, Brynhild knew it too.
Sigurd folded his arms, staring blankly at Gudrun. Maybe it was better this way. Better to let the bitter truth out rather than allow it to continue to fester in his breast, a rot eating away at his soul. Better if he no longer had to hold his false smiles. “She has learned the truth.”
Gudrun flinched and turned her face away, probably despairing to realize he, too, knew. If not everything, if not how he’d somehow forgotten his own wife, at least Sigurd knew enough. And Gudrun was complicit if not outright guilty. “She’s slept for seven days.”
Sigurd chuckled mirthlessly. “Oh, I don’t think she’s sleeping, my wife. I think she plots her vengeance upon us all for the dark deeds we have done.” Vengeance well deserved, in fact.
His wife looked back, tears welling in her eyes, shaking her head. “I cannot lose you. Please, Sigurd, I … I beg you. Whatever happened, I truly love you. So go to her, convince her to let this go.”
Sigurd snorted and rubbed both hands down his face, groaning. The bitter grasp of urd had them all, and he could see no ending before him that would not leave them all reeling. “Some deeds are dark enough they cannot be undone. Some cracks cannot be repaired.”
“You have to try.” Gudrun grabbed his shoulders, seeming on the verge of collapse. “Try, husband.”
Oh. He was her husband, a fact that would bring ruin upon both the Volsungs and the Niflungar. This seemed inevitable now. But would he deny his wife’s fervent plea? No. No, he would play out the lie just a little bit longer.
Brynhild’s chambers were not locked and Sigurd slipped inside, shutting the door behind himself. With the shutters drawn, the room was cast in terrible gloom, so he flung those open and let a hint of sunlight peak through.
The woman lay under her blanket, hands folded atop her stomach and eyes closed.
Shaking his head, Sigurd pulled back the cover and sat down beside her. “Brynhild. Brynhild, it’s me. Wake up. You’ve slept enough, I think. Whatever your sorrow … just … cast it off now.
”
The shieldmaiden did open her eyes then, and sat up, staring too intently at him. “How dare you come to me!” She slapped him. The blow itself barely stung through his hardened skin, but it felt like a nail in his heart. “You, who were the worst of all the villains in this whole wretched affair! And you dare come to me and ask me to forget it all?”
Sigurd rubbed his cheek, frowning. “I never wanted any ill will between us. I have never thought harshly of you in the least.”
“Of me!” She shoved him off the edge of the bed and he collapsed onto the floor. She fair leapt onto him, grabbing his shirt in both fists.
“Y-you received the man you chose as your husband.”
“No! Liar! You passed through the flames for me then, as you had done on our first meeting. I cannot believe I did not know you then. Not even when you pushed yourself inside me.” She spit on his face and it dribbled down his nose. “I was so stricken by my shock and despair that some other man could fulfill my conditions. Conditions I set that only you should have been able to accomplish. And you did! Gunnar never entered the flames, never bested me, and did not lay with me until after our marriage. I should have known …” She chuckled darkly, seeming somewhere between weeping and utter rage. “Odin knew. He knew I would be blind to my urd and blunder into it. He knew when he cast me into Hindarfjall. Before you were even born! He made me arrange for Sigmund to marry Hjordis. He made sure your father died so you would be there, to come to me. I only cannot see why.”
Sigurd gaped at her, unable to work his mouth nor even make sense of his thoughts. Odin, King of the Aesir, had arranged Sigurd’s very birth? Had arranged the death of his father Sigmund, whom men said Odin favored above all others? Had planned everything … Was the god the spider at the center of the web of urd? “I …”
Brynhild shoved away from him. “Fool of a man.”
Sputtering, Sigurd wiped the spittle from his face. “You have Gunnar, the son of Gjuki. He is also a great man, no less than I. He has slain many princes, kings … won great fame …”
Now she burst into bitter laughter. “Oh, Sigurd. You but help to remind me of all the wrongs I must revenge against the Niflungar. No. You, Sigurd, killed the linnorm and passed through flame to join me, whether it was by Odin’s hand or no. Gunnar did neither of those things.”
“And yet you married him.”
“I had no choice! Do you believe I ever loved that bastard? Son of the direst sorceress in the North Realms? I loathe him and have but concealed it to ensure peace through our lands. But I have tired of the lies.”
Sigurd pushed himself up, shaking. Was this what he had wanted in hoping it would all come out? This vehemence now directed at him from the woman he loved most in the world? “What do you want, then? What would you have me do?”
Brynhild stalked closer, her lips trembling, until she finally stood a hair from his face. “What do I want? I want you to die, Sigurd Sigmundson. I wish only that it would be my blade stained by your blood. The Ás lord will betray you, as he betrayed me, as he betrayed your father.”
A shard of bitter ice seemed to pass through Sigurd’s gut. A pain so real it left him short of breath. “If you believe naught else, believe I love you. I love you more than I love myself. I didn’t choose any of this! I was bespelled and deceived, Brynhild! You must know that.”
Still shaking, she raised a hand to his cheek. “It’s too late. Maybe … if you had told me sooner, maybe …” She shook her head.
“It’s not too late.” Sigurd grabbed her face and kissed her hard, forcing his tongue into her mouth, massaging hers with it until she began to kiss him back. He hefted her in his arms to carry her to the bed, but she jerked backward and pulled violently away, stumbling.
Her slap caught him on the mouth. “I said it’s too late! I am Gunnar’s wife now, like it or not.”
“I never divorced you. We are still husband and wife, you and I.”
Brynhild clenched her teeth and shook her head, then looked away from him and braced herself against the wall. “We are naught at all, Sigurd.”
“They deceived me as well! I didn’t even know who you were until after you’d wed Gunnar. When the spell finally broke, so did my heart.” Now tears had begun to well in his own eyes. He hadn’t cried since those early days with Regin, as a boy of six winters. The dverg had whipped and cut and raped the tears out of him until all that was left was steel. Or so he’d thought. Now … he cared little whether it made him seem unmanly. “It tore me apart.”
Brynhild turned back to him. “When the spell broke … when we wed?” She raised a hand to her mouth. “That … that was a year ago, Sigurd. A fucking year!” She lunged suddenly toward her sword and came up bearing it.
“What was I supposed to do?” Sigurd demanded, forcing himself not to draw Gramr. If she wanted to strike him down, he’d not stop her.
“Leap over the godsdamned balustrade and put a stop to the ceremony before he bedded me! Had you told me then that it was you who came to my hall, you who lay with me, then I would have at least had the chance to …”
“I wanted naught more than to do what you claim. But it would have meant war. Terrible war that would destroy this land. And though I hate what she has done, I still love the children Gudrun bore me. They are my blood, Brynhild.”
“War is inevitable. It is always inevitable. You remember now who I am? What I was? I have seen more war than you can imagine, Sigurd. I lived every day for it. And war would have been preferable to this facade of life. We could have fought side by side and died the same way and I would have gladly shared your pyre. Now all I want is to die.”
He strode to her again, heedless of the sword, nor did she strike him when he reached to hold her elbows. “No … I … I will forsake Gudrun and marry you, I swear it. Even if it means bitter war.”
She jerked her arms free, then tossed the sword aside. “Oh, Sigurd … I don’t want you. I don’t want anyone. Get. Out.”
All he could do was stare at her, willing her to take back her words. But she didn’t.
Finally, he raised a trembling fist to his mouth. The awful truth was, no words could mend this, nor even any deed he might now do. Niflung sorcery had destroyed all their lives, and all that remained was to see whether the end came in fire or bitter cold.
Caught in the grip of despair, head hung low, he fled from Brynhild’s chambers. And beyond, he fled from Castle Niflung, and into the chill winds that marked the end of summer.
Outside, on the mountain’s slope, he screamed. He roared at the setting sun in defiance of the urd given to him. He bellowed until his voice was gone. Then he collapsed to his knees, tore off his shirt and cast it aside.
He knelt there, alone, in the darkness, until slaves finally came to find him and guide him back inside. They warmed him with flame and blanket, but it didn’t matter. For his heart would never know warmth again. That had shattered and left but a bloody ruin in his chest.
40
On the edge of a cliff just beyond the walls of Castle Niflung, Brynhild sat, legs dangling as she stared into the mist swirling around before her. She had not bothered to bring a torch. What fear was mist-madness when her life was already warped beyond hope of joy or even that it might get better?
“You have forsaken your oath of service,” Odin said. “And oathbreakers are damned to feed the dark dragon with their corpses. As you tried to interfere in my choice of victors, so shall you never again enjoy the sweet mead of victory, woman.”
Brynhild shook her head. Even in death, she could not escape her torments, else she would cast herself from the cliff and let her miserable life finally end. No, as a mortal warrior she’d led armies of Huns in battle after battle. As a valkyrie she’d fought still, at the behest of two different vile masters. And now, returned to her mortal existence, she yet found the greatest suffering.
The question that remained, though, was, could she lay the root of all her suffering upon urd, or did she have to shoulder th
e blame herself? Or was it Odin she should hold to account? Odin had not forced her to break her oath, perhaps, but in knowing she would and yet putting her in the situation regardless, had he not knowingly created her urd?
The trudge of footsteps on the rocky ground announced the arrival of another before his form appeared out of the mist. Gunnar strode toward her—and of course the Niflung bore no torch—only a hint of hesitation in his steps. At her side, he settled down, staring out himself, as if he might somehow imagine what dark thoughts ran through her mind. But while the sorcerers plied at the Veil and tried to use the hateful entities beyond it to evoke their will, few of them could begin to imagine the things a valkyrie saw between life and death.
It left her to muse on urd more than most. Some claimed the Norns wove urd about them, though Brynhild had but rarely seen their hand—at least that she could be certain of. If those dire sisters wrought the workings of urd, they did so in secret places.
“Did you know I am kin to King Etzel of Hunaland?” she asked.
“No. Only that Heimir fostered you, making you a princess.”
Brynhild snorted. Whoever she’d been in her previous life mattered little, she supposed. “I imagine he’d welcome me if I fled from this place. And were I to tell him of all that had passed here … In my mind, I see the endless span of ships besieging this island. I see the dark powers Grimhild would call up from the sea in an attempt to turn away the tide of death descending upon your line. Her might is not so great she can undo an army.”
“Your talk is dangerous. Treasonous.”
Brynhild ignored that. “And still she tries. Her dark Art is loathsome to the lands of men, though, and all your allies abandon you. Those who do not join Etzel’s fleet in his quest to wipe the Niflungar from the face of Midgard. The last of the Old Kingdoms dies not in the fires of the Lofdar, but in ignominy, undone by the arrogance of their queen.”