by Matt Larkin
From inside the depth of that crater rose a tower, bent to one side, banded with dark metal and lined with claw-like spikes pointing upward. The brothers had wrought the tower themselves, tale claimed, or at least designed it, and constructed it with the help of countless slaves.
Her destination. Hateful though it was. Maybe she could run and jump to the lip. Maybe not.
No, she didn’t want to risk falling in and getting stuck, or getting pulled down into whatever abyss lay beneath the falls.
With a sigh, she Strode to the lip. Her feet skidded, and she half slid, half fell down the side and into the crater. Sharp ridges lined the hollow and she had to twist to the side to avoid getting impaled on one.
Frey had warned her not to try this. He’d forbidden her to come after Hnoss, either, and back then, she’d been fool enough to give him her oath. But she couldn’t have done aught for Hnoss, as Odin had promised her to Volund. Still, she wouldn’t lose him too. Part of her hated him for his reckless oath, made without half considering the consequences. A large part of her, in fact. So why could she not let him go? What irresistible force pulled her back to the man, after so many years?
Soul mates, as Mundilfari had once suggested? Was that sort of thing even possible? She had asked herself that question oh so many times over the intervening years. Before Odin had come to Alfheim—come for her, he’d claimed, truly having no idea of what she’d suffered—and certainly many times after it.
It was easier to hate him. To cast aside esoteric questions of souls and connections and blame him for the suffering his actions had wrought. Justice, her brother would have called that. The man deserved the judgment visited upon him. Except … surely a thousand years of torment and isolation in the Tower of the Eye had made them even.
And Freyja’s heart refused to listen to her. No matter how she tried to cling to her anger, her terrible wrath, it kept slipping through her fingers like a handful of sand.
They’d know she’d come, probably even had her skin not glowed like a torch. The svartalfar knew when anyone moved through the shadows, especially the shadows of their own domains. The darkness whispered to them, told them things they ought not to have known. Truths and secrets and—for all she knew—lies, as well.
According to many liosalfar scholars, the svartalfar were all at least half mad. Perhaps the shadows made them that way, having suffused them as much as the light of Alfheim had seeped into her, changed her. She could scarcely recall what humanity felt like anymore.
As she approached the tower, a notched double gate opened like a sideways maw of a dragon, its teeth as long as her forearm. From this stepped four svartalfar, the darkness seeming to cling to them, welling in their eyes and pooling about their feet. In this world, Dark was everywhere. The svartalfar called it the strongest of the Spheres of Creation, though the liosalfar disputed that.
The approaching alfar did not draw their blades, though the foremost among them had a hand on the pommel of his sword, much as she did.
“You are the sons of Nainn.”
A chuckle moved from one to the next of them, as if in a wave of mirth, a connection that unnerved her far more than she’d have liked to admit. As if they were all aspects of a single, dark entity. “We are,” the lead of them said. “And you come seeking sanctuary, perhaps, little liosalf?”
“Your crafts are legendary, even where I come from.”
The four brothers all looked to another, then another cackle ran from one to the next before they turned back to her. “Of course. What can you possibly know of forging in the dark, the first crafting of souls?”
“We,” another said, “grandsons of Dainn, who first struck orichalcum and bound to it his sacrifices.”
“We,” a third said, “who heed the whispers of that which lies beyond even the Dark. If you hold still enough, you can hear them, itching, scratching. Hungering.”
Freyja shuddered. Better to dismiss such ravings as utter insanity. There were things forbidden to speak of, in Alfheim, fears brought forward from her days as keeper of Sessrumnir, as master of lore to the Vanir. If men were children to the Vanir, and the Vanir were children to the vaettir, suppose then, something else lurked yet further out? But one did not say such things under the light of Alfheim’s eternal Sun.
“She wants the Brisingamen,” the fourth svartalf said, and licked his lips, exposing teeth filed into fangs.
Freyja forced herself to stillness. “I would purchase the torc from you.” It was said the bearer could find anyone, anywhere. It alone might allow her to find Od and Idunn before this place seeped so deep into them he could never return from it.
“Oh,” the foremost said. “But she brought no orichalcum.”
“Hardly matters, we have enough.”
“Hmm, will she give her soul?”
“I doubt that she can afford to part with enough to sate the four of us.”
“Hmm. Really only leaves one currency, then.”
Freyja refused to balk or tremble before them. She’d known well enough what price they must invariably ask. In the Mortal Realm, she could have offered silver or gold, but beyond that realm, few things held value. Souls, of course, and knowledge, on occasion. Mostly though, she’d found herself left with only one way to purchase her advancement through the ranks of the liosalfar. Hers, and Frey’s, too, with the only other thing vaettir craved.
Souls and flesh.
“Which of you will it be, then?” she asked. Long practice with such things allowed her to keep her voice level. For a time, she’d dared to believe herself beyond the need to buy her way with her body … at least until she’d resolved to come here.
Lifetimes ago, she’d loved Od, and Idunn too. She wasn’t ready to let them go.
“Which?” the one furthest back asked. Another cackling wave ran amongst them.
“All, of course,” the foremost said. “You must lie with all of us. All at once, all through the night, little liosalf.”
“Pleasure us with trench and arse and mouth and hand.”
Freyja barely fought down a shudder. While liosalfar had oft invited her to join in orgies—or compelled her to, even—never had they placed her in such a situation. But svartalfar fed on suffering and cruelty, even more than most vaettir. They wanted to hurt her. They wanted to terrify her, and she would not give them the satisfaction. “Night does not end here. I’m hardly going to agree to lay with you until daybreak in a realm with no sun.”
The foremost cackled wildly. “Twelve hours, then, clever one.”
There was no way back, save to turn and flee into the bog. Probably she could have escaped from them, maybe even made her way back to Alfheim. And accomplished naught at all. Instead, she plastered a smile across her face as she sashayed over toward the opening to their tower. “Twelve hours sounds rather ambitious on your parts.”
Only a faint snicker answered that.
The inside of the tower seemed forged from black metal, a cold, alien place lit by two small braziers that sent the shadows dancing in ways they ought not to have. A darkness swirled around the room.
The dragon-maw gates creaked as they closed behind her.
19
The svartalfar had removed Odin’s chains and taken him to a hot spring beneath the city. There, six svartalf females watched him bathe. The waters were so hot Odin had to ease in, and they stung his numerous cuts. He’d lost track of time, but his hands still shook from fatigue and hunger.
As he sank deeper, up to his shoulders, the urge to doze became almost overpowering, and he shut his eye.
Your body becomes saturated with the shadows … it could not bear the light of the accursed world … but here you are at peace …
Lies.
“You asked me to keep you grounded in the present.” Hermod’s voice yanked Odin from his painful explorations. Odin’s apprentice paced around their prison.
Damn, but part of him wanted to weep and the rest of him wanted to curse urd, curse the Norns, and defy t
he very cosmos. This wasn’t how it was meant to unfold. Everything was falling apart and all his schemes, all his plans, all his efforts had not served to avert the end in the least.
Because … because he had relied too heavily on the visions? Odin shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. No. No.
“Odin?”
“We were always headed here. I thought … I thought if I could see enough, I could change the future. Save us. But there was never any hope of that. There was no stopping Ragnarok. It comes on us as sure as the tide rises. I thought the visions my gift … they are worse than a burden.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Prescience accounts for itself.”
When he jolted awake, he had no idea how long he’d remained. But as he rose, he saw the cuts on his chest had become naught more than red welts, the pain almost gone.
“Come,” one of the females said.
The spring smelled faintly of sulfur, but it was so soothing he almost wanted to remain. Still, better not to test the patience of his captors just yet, weak as he was.
The female who’d spoken motioned to another one, who handed Odin first a linen to dry himself, then clean trousers, his boots, and a new shirt.
“You’ll wish to eat,” the speaker said.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I am Caballos Weth. And that’s the only question I shall answer, mortal. Do you wish to eat or not?”
Odin nodded. Indeed, he was starving and had no idea how long Fjalar had held him prisoner without food and with only a few sips of water.
His guards led him up from the spring, following a narrow staircase with a precipitous drop down either side. He could try to escape from here, perhaps throw Weth from the stairs and seize a weapon from one of the others. But he remained exhausted and all they offered him at the moment was what he needed most.
So instead, he followed Weth and her soldiers back into the beehive city of Amsvartnir, and into Fjalar’s palace. His dinning hall was a platform suspended in the air, overlooking a chamber where several pairs of females trained with spears, blades, or wrestling.
“Why are there so few males among the svartalfar?”
Weth pointed to a silver-plated chair set along one side of a hexagonal table. “Sit down. Ask your questions of the prince, if you dare.”
Darkness is subtle in its advance … you almost don’t notice when it encroaches upon your soul …
Odin did as the female directed, pulling his chair up to the table.
Moments later, two other females clad in gowns with revealing cuts descended from a staircase. One bore a steaming platter she set upon the table. Sitting on a bed of mushrooms was what looked to be a roasted slug the size of Odin’s torso, split down the middle and stuffed with some greenery he couldn’t identify.
The other female placed a goblet in front of him and poured an almost black liquid into it from a decanter. The stuff smelled like wine. Maybe Fjalar wanted to poison him, but he’d had Odin at his mercy a long while. Refusing the drink seemed madness, especially given he had to eat … whatever that thing was next.
Odin threw back the glass in one swig. It burned and was far more bitter than the wines he was used to, though it had a smoky aftertaste he could get used to. Odin coughed, then cleared his throat. The female helpfully refilled his goblet.
After another glance at Weth—who remained standing rigid, staring straight ahead—Odin prodded at the slug thing. The flesh was well cooked, so it broke off under his fingers.
Probably too much to hope for to get venison or rabbit or aught else he knew in this realm.
So he tore off a chunk and popped it in his mouth. The stuff was chewy, and it too tasted of smoke, though not half so bad as he’d expected from it.
He’d eaten a fair portion of the creature by the time Fjalar descended a different staircase and sat across from him, this time in the company of another male, who remained standing behind him.
“I’ve seen so few males here,” Odin said. “Why is that?”
Fjalar steepled his fingers on the table. “You will learn of our ways in time. First, I’ll have your oath to speak the truth to me, in my court.” The prince cocked his head at Weth, and she produced a dagger and laid it on the table in front of Odin. “You will serve.”
He grunted. Well, what would defiance buy him at present? He took the knife and sliced open his palm. “I give you my oath, on my own blood, I shall not lie to you, so long as you do the same for me.” He tossed the knife onto the table and it clattered noisily.
Fjalar scowled at him, clearly not amused by the conditions of his oath. Odin could almost see it, the war behind Fjalar’s eyes, wondering if he ought to resume his tortures and try to wrest a more obedient vow from Odin.
Odin kept his face impassive. The svartalf thought himself grand, without doubt, and his posturing and pronouncements about the unfathomable power of those from beyond the Mortal Realm might well ring true. Still, Odin would not allow himself to become a mere slave, nor to let an oath bind him without hope of release. “Do you welcome the idea of an alliance?”
Fjalar pressed his palms flat on the table. “I welcome you into the court of Amsvartnir, Odin Borrson, so long as you respect that I alone am prince here.”
Odin nodded. “You want to harness my Sight, against your enemies, I presume. I can make best use of it once I’ve rested.”
“Yes, yes, mortal. Weth will have you taken to chambers more pleasant than those you previously occupied. Ask any of the females for aught you wish, further drink, or bedding any of them or so forth.”
Odin sputtered on his wine. “Bedding any of them? You mean no one will take offense at such a request?”
Fjalar sneered. “You truly know so little of the realms beyond your own. No. No one will take offense nor are the females permitted to refuse.”
Not permitted to … “Then how’s that different from rape?”
“Semantics. In your world, owners do what they will with slaves, including taking them when and where they wish, yes?”
Odin turned his gaze to the two serving females, then to Weth. “You’re saying … the entire female population of Amsvartnir is enslaved?” He wanted to retch. This was … he had no words for such an injustice.
Darkness reigns eternal … it is the state of all things, living and dead … we are all dead …
“No, that was an analogy to make it easier for your simple mind to comprehend. The princes of Svartalfheim are descended from Gugalanna, the Dark King, who was the mate of Nott and vessel for her infinite power.”
“If all your power comes from a goddess, why are the females not her servants?”
Fjalar shrugged. “They are. As they are mine, as a Prince of the Dark, I have told you this.”
“Where are the rest of the males?”
The prince smirked. “Where do you think? Why should I want too many to challenge my primacy or sexual rights to the population? We permit but a few males of the blood to live. All others are fed to Nott.” Damn, but that smirk was infuriating. Fjalar snickered as if reading his mind. “Do not try to deny that it tempts you, arouses you, the thought that you can walk down the street and spread your seed wherever the mood strikes. Do you imagine there is a female left in this city I have not had in my bed? If there is, I am not aware of it.”
Now you find yourself mired in darkness … and can no longer remember the lie of light …
Odin lurched to his feet, toppling over the chair and looked not to Fjalar but to Weth. “Why would you tolerate this insanity? You have a thousand times their numbers. Should you not rise up and kill these so-called masters?”
The female met his gaze with inexplicable defiance, as if he was the criminal in this. “You have sworn an oath, as have we all.”
“Even oaths have limits.”
Fjalar cackled. “You’d try to make someone question practices that predate your entire world? I told you, I am a scion of the power of Nott. There are eight prin
ces, ruling eight city-states, across our world. Your role is to help me ascend over the other princes. Not to waste your breath hoping to incite a rebellion that cannot begin to live.”
“You disgust me.”
How self-righteous … from the man who forces valkyries to bed him …
It wasn’t the same. It was not the same …
You almost don’t notice it … as the dark surrounds you …
Odin couldn’t swallow.
Oh, yes … you see it now … your hypocrisy …
“Take your rest, mortal,” Fjalar said. “If you don’t wish to sate yourself on any of the females here, you’re hardly obliged to do so. But you have sworn your oath to aid me, and I will have knowledge from you. First, of the positions of the troops out of Gnipahellir. We shall thwart their attempts to outmaneuver Amsvartnir. Only then shall we talk more of the future.”
Weth grabbed Odin’s arm and guided him up one of the staircases. He stole a glance at her, unable to believe she could stomach her station in this. But she didn’t even look at him.
When they’d passed into a corridor between buildings, away from the prince, Odin jerked his arm free. “You cannot truly wish to live like this.”
When she at last turned to him, her sneer was so hateful, Odin found himself falling back a step. “Do you believe this is the worst possible urd that might befall a soul beyond the Mortal Realm? I am a caballos—a knight—and among the upper echelons of rank that any female might hope to achieve. My position places me well above that of the vast majority of svartalfar.”
“But beneath any man. Literally. Or is your position why you serve—you enable those who enslave you?”
“You know naught of the realities into which you have blundered. Spirits exist by the sufferance of the Elder Gods. Only once has such a being felt the sting of defeat and had her power claimed by another.”
An Elder God defeated … He had heard that before. Loki had claimed that in a distant era, his dead daughter had usurped the power of the first goddess of Mist. “You mean Hel.”