by Matt Larkin
Hermod jerked Dainsleif free and pointed it at the entity. A wraith? Those fell shades were drawn to the darkness of the Roil, seeking dead souls to devour. “Stay back.”
He could not say with utter certainty that the apparition was a wraith—or any other form of ghost—but it hissed at him, a sound that made him want to run and hide like a damn craven.
Rather than allow the sensation to grow, Hermod urged Sleipnir forward. “Back!”
The entity spoke, the words hateful, and alien, bombarding his mind and leaving him even more disquieted. A few, though, he recognized, or thought he did.
“I do not speak Supernal.”
And why would a ghost use the language of spirits? Because it was timeless, eternal?
The apparition melted away, only to reappear closer. Sleipnir jerked against his reins in terror and Hermod brandished Dainsleif.
How the fuck had it done that? Ghosts that could manifest visibly in the Mortal Realm could achieve that by moving quickly through the Penumbra, as he did. Within the Penumbra, perhaps some shades could achieve that sort of thing by crossing into the Roil and back. But—so far as Hermod knew—he was already in the Roil. Where had it gone?
The entity breathed out a long, discordant breath and Hermod barely managed to stay his hand. He had no idea what it was or how powerful. Dainsleif could kill it, he suspected, but if he could avoid being drawn into battle with the thing, he would prefer to do so.
“Mortal …”
Now he faltered, allowing Sleipnir to fall back a step. “You can speak Northern?”
“Mortal …”
In the sense he had come from the Mortal Realm, yes. Hermod had not come to debate semantics with a ghost. “What do you want? I’ve no time to fret over the last wishes of the restless.”
“Passage …”
Passage? Oh. It wanted to ride him back to the Mortal Realm. It wanted him to allow it into his body. “No.”
“What do you seek … in dark lands? Do you know how to find it … in the shadows?”
Hermod glowered at the dusty ghost. No. He didn’t know where he was, and even if he did, he did not easily know the way to cross into Niflheim. Nor after that how to find Hel’s abode within the World of Mist.
It was a significant issue, in fact, and one he’d fretted over on his way to meet Syn. There had to be a way, for he’d found a way to Svartalfheim. But he’d paid a ferryman for it … with pieces of his very soul.
“I seek the gates of Hel,” he finally said.
“Oh … I know them well …”
“Because you are damned.”
“We are all damned … You cannot reach the gates alone …”
Hermod grimaced at the shifting apparition before him. Its very nature seemed as fluid and alien as the landscape that surrounded him.
Never trust vaettir. They lie. All the time. About everything. Odin had warned him, over and over. And yet … yet the king himself relied—at times—upon the two vaettir he had bound to him.
Hermod wasn’t a sorcerer. But he did know that, much as vaettir lied, they could not easily break a pact.
Stifling a tremor, he dismounted, and sheathed Dainsleif, instead drawing a dagger. “Your oath that you will guide me to the gates of Hel and will not, under any circumstances, attempt to possess my body or feed upon my soul.”
The ghost’s answering hiss sounded annoyed.
“In exchange,” Hermod said, “so long as you remain true, I’ll grant you the chance to return to the Mortal Realm.”
He’d be unleashing a dead thing upon the world of the living. But then, the world was already in turmoil. There was always a price. Odin had told him that, too.
He slid the dagger along his palm, then squeezed out several drops of blood. “My oath.” Flipping the blade around, he offered it to the ghost. “Now yours.”
The creature reached out, a hand of shadow brushing over Hermod’s fingers with a graven chill. Despite feeling less than whole, the ghost had substance enough to grasp the blade, and it drew it along its own hand. Rather than liquid blood, motes of dust flitted up and drifted along in the air before vanishing into oblivion.
“I swear to abide by your terms …”
Did that seal an oath? Unfortunately, Hermod would never know enough about this place to be certain. Nor did he much wish to learn more.
The ghost returned the blade, and Hermod sheathed it, then the creature held out a waiting hand. Waiting for him to take it.
Damn.
He could not stop the tremor in his hand as he reached for the ghost’s grasp. His fingers brushed so close, he could feel the creature’s chill without even touching it.
This was a mistake.
Never trust a vaettr.
Never.
Hermod’s hand closed around the apparition’s wrist.
“The pact is made …”
At once, the ghost yanked him forward, while flowing toward Hermod itself. Dust and shadow rushed over him, flowing into his mouth, eyes, nose, and ears. The cloud of it choked him. He tried to cough, but coarse shadows continued to scrape down his throat.
So cold!
Wracked with convulsions, he stumbled to his knees, hands at his own throat. In utter panic, Hermod clawed at the edges of his mouth, trying to pull the creature back out, to stop it from diving inside of him. It was like trying to hold a sandstorm. It brushed roughly over his fingers.
Sleipnir began backing away.
The last of the ghost flooded into Hermod. He sucked down a painful breath then broke into a fit of agonizing coughing. It felt like his lungs were aflame. Like his throat had been shredded from the inside out. Then frozen solid.
Sleipnir continued to edge backward.
“Wait,” Hermod rasped.
And then another convulsion wracked him. An awful, unspeakable pain, as if something wormed its way through his insides, crawling along his spine, burrowing up into his brain, and squirming around behind his eyes.
In horror, he tried to scream, but his throat had seized up and refused to obey his command.
What had he done? What had he agreed to? What a fool he’d been!
Yes … To seek the abode of the damned …
The hollow voice now sounded within his own head, hateful. A whispering gong in his mind, one he could never hope to ignore.
Hermod pressed his palms against his temples, unable to fight back the pain of this thing’s presence.
Keuthonymus …
What? His breaths came in pants, his chest heaving, but slowly, his brought himself under control. He had chosen this. Had chosen to agree to Odin’s request, and had agreed to his alliance with this creature.
Keuthonymus …
Its name?
Yes … Long I wandered in the dark … Waiting for one like you …
Keuthonymus. Rather unwieldy name.
Then use Keuthos …
Shuddering, Hermod forced himself to his feet. Sleipnir continued to back away. Hermod raised his hands. “Easy.”
Finally stopping, the horse allowed him to touch its face.
Hermod blew out a long breath, then mounted up. “All right, Keuthos. Show me the way to Hel.”
4
The vargar couldn’t have passed beyond the old fortress at the breach that Hrungnir had built. Narfi’s advisors had warned him, of course, said that tearing open that fortress and widening the breach might get looked at as an act of war. The way he reckoned it, so would leading an army of jotunnar across Midgard intent to storm the gates of Asgard. Taken that way, Narfi didn’t see how it much mattered, him riding a varg across Bjarmaland.
No one dared bar their way, of course. Frost jotunnar had tamed other vargar. Nine of the wolves, in total, rode beside him. The greater part of the army trailed days behind, but they’d made good progress.
Ironic, really. Frigg had given him the means to hold together the fracturing jotunn alliance. Didn’t reckon that was her intent, but there it was. It had come to him, i
n a vision, the way the queen had ordered his brother ripped to pieces. The bastard Thor had done it, and he’d pay for it, too, or Narfi would be damned. Oh, but the real guilt fell on the Queen of Asgard, and it fell hard, like Narfi’s axe would fall on her skull.
Some of the jotunnar, they’d be itching for another war. Them what sat around too long got restless as a snow rabbit in mating season. Locking hips or locking weapons won’t so different, when it came down to it. All about getting the blood flowing. They wanted to avenge themselves for the loss, some of them, but mostly they just couldn’t abide the boredom. The different tribes, they’d been at each other’s throats before he called for this march.
Better part of all Jotunheim must lay empty now, what with thousands of jotunnar all converging on Bjarmaland. Oh, some numbers, they set about sieging Gardariki and taking slaves and what not, true enough. But Narfi didn’t give a trollshit about conquering petty mortal kings, nor even much about whether Miklagard held sway wherever. That weren’t his style, even if he didn’t see much point in arguing with the jotunnar who set about it.
No, he’d come for vengeance, plain and pure as fresh snow. For blood. The Queen of Asgard had murdered his brother, and done it vilely at that. Then the king had shown up and had Narfi’s father imprisoned.
Maybe Odin could see him coming, maybe he couldn’t. Didn’t much matter, he reckoned. Either way, Narfi could see it, in his mind, when the messenger would meet him and invite him to sit and talk and so forth. A waste of time, his men would say, but Narfi figured he owed it to those trollfucking Aesir to look ’em dead in the eyes and tell ’em he was coming for their blood.
The varg beneath was panting heavy now, so he called for a halt, reckoning this must be Aujum. Past here they’d run into Hunaland, and more civilized lands, or so men claimed. ’Course, by civilized, they just meant some men thinking themselves better than others, and the rest having to ask permission just to have a shit.
Probably they’d be meeting a deal more resistance from there, though. Men were touchy about their civilizations.
They passed a few groups of Miklagardian soldiers in Bjarmaland, true, but none fool enough to try to take down a band of jotunnar mounted on vargar. Just as well. His quarrel weren’t with them.
After rubbing the wolf’s head, he slid down, his feet sinking in the snow, then made his way to where the rest of his band were doing the same. Gangr, the eldest, the others always seemed to defer to him, which was half the reason Narfi had brought the old jotunn. That, and he gave good advice, time to time, while still respecting Narfi.
Gangr patted his varg and sent the animal off scrounging for food. “Didn’t reckon the Fimbulvinter would’ve hit so hard already.”
Narfi nodded. Old Vafthrudnir, he’d claimed it was coming, the bitter cold what would swallow the summer like the wolves chasing the moon. Since the better part of his forces were frost jotunnar, Narfi reckoned it worked in his favor, even if it was Hel stretching her power in the Mortal Realm. Mother—his real mother, not Sigyn, much as Narfi loved her—she’d said Hel was Father’s daughter, which Narfi figured made her his sister. He liked to think she’d called up the Fimbulvinter on account of knowing he’d be needing it to cover the march of his army.
Wishful thinking? Sure, could well be. Still, they were kin, and he’d make an ally of her, if it came to it.
“It’s time Asgard fell. I’m thinking of raising a throne there.”
Gangr sniffed. “You like to tell the others this is about Asgard’s corruption. Maybe about how Brimir fell and they took our legacy from us and the time had come to take it back. We both know that ain’t half of it.”
“Never denied I wanted vengeance on top of the rest.”
“Nah. Not on top of it. You’ve been holding the peace with Asgard for three hundred winters, while they was getting fatter off the world’s praises. Now, though, now they killed your kin, and you’d have us all believe this is war for our rights.”
“Can’t be both?”
“Sure. Just sayin’. Old Vafthrudnir tells it like our kind had great empires before Brimir, too. But those fell, and menfolk came to take the world. Over and over, if you can believe that. Great circles of history or whatever. Lots of jotunn empires rose and fell. Strains the mind, it does.”
Narfi snorted, his breath frosting the air. “Reckon it’s about time we took another turn at it. Few thousand years ought to do for men. Maybe a few thousand for us, now.”
Hyrrokkin stomped her way over to them. She was the real tamer of vargar, the one who got the wolves for his little advance band, and she weren’t half inclined to let anyone forget it. The others, especially Gridr and Leikn, they respected her almost as they did Gangr. A shame, really, since she’d never got on over well with Narfi. “What are you arse-faces jabbering about? Sökkmimir caught a pair of men a few miles back. Plan is to fill our bellies, but he won’t let us get a taste without your damn say-so.”
Narfi grimaced. All these years, he’d discouraged the eating of man-flesh. Now though, the rules had changed. They said a jotunn, even a half-jotunn like him, what ate the flesh would always crave after it. Always want more, to get stronger and bigger. ’Course, them what ate enough of it got twisted up like Thrivaldi.
Still, he couldn’t well be seen to pass it up now. It would undermine his position, and naught could be allowed to interfere with him avenging Hödr. Shit, Narfi scarcely even liked his brother, but the matter remained, he was dead, and died awful. Some things couldn’t be borne. So he followed Hyrrokkin back to where Sökkmimir was poking a stick into the foot of a tied up man, while the man’s comrade stared and whimpered.
“Gonna eat your toes, one by one,” Sökkmimir said.
“Well, I claim his stones,” Baugi said. Everyone paused to look at him. “What? You eat enough man-stones and you might grow another cock. You ain’t heard that?”
“What the fuck you need with another cock?” Leikn asked. “You don’t hardly know how to use the one.”
Suttungr chuckled and punched his brother’s shoulder, though Baugi himself frowned.
“Why don’t you show me how, Leikn?” the offended jotunn said. “I hear one grew up between your tits for you to suck on when night goes on too long.”
Narfi snorted, and settled down beside the captives. Shit, but he didn’t much want to do this. Truth be told, though, it was for the best. Eat them, he’d absorb their pneuma and get all the stronger. He reckoned he’d want all the strength possible when it came time to fight Thor or Odin or the rest of that family of giant arse-birds.
Thor might’ve had a head the size of the Midgard Wall and the brains of a dead mushroom, but Narfi reckoned no man had killed more jotunnar in all the scope of the world.
So he pulled out his axe and grabbed one of the men by a finger. Immediately, the prisoner set to screaming. “Relax,” Narfi said. “I ain’t gonna eat it while it’s still attached. Not that savage.”
“Well, I am,” Hyrrokkin said.
“Shit, yeah,” Baugi said. “Don’t know if eating the stones would work if I cut them off first.”
The man whimpered, a stain began to yellow the snow between his legs.
“Ugh,” Baugi said. “That’s offensive.”
Narfi sighed. Poor unlucky bastards. Well, he could spare them a little of this, then. He leaned in and swung his axe, planting it cleanly between the man’s eyes, crunching bone and splattering his face with blood.
The man’s companion set into a fresh bout of screams.
With a grunt, Narfi jerked the axe free, then lopped off the hand he still held. First time was the worst, he’d heard it said. Bleh. “Kill the other bastard, would you? No need to make him suffer.”
“I like the suffering,” Hyrrokkin complained. “Seasons the flavor.”
“Fucking kill him!” Narfi ordered. Wouldn’t do to push his authority too far, no, but there was a time to make sure everyone knew he still commanded the jotunn alliance. Maybe he could make a
nother Brimir, maybe not. But whatever he made, it would be his.
Grumbling, Sökkmimir slit the remaining man’s throat.
Satisfied, Narfi carried the severed hand away from the others a bit and settled down. He was still staring at the macabre thing when Gunnlöd made her way to his side and settled down. The last and youngest of their band, she was Suttungr’s daughter and Baugi’s niece. Course, Narfi mostly just wanted her around because she was keen to spread her legs for him every night.
“Best just be about it.” Actually, she was holding a severed femur, dripping with blood and flesh.
Narfi blew out a breath. “Sure this is really what jotunnar are meant for? Eating men and killing and so forth?”
She shrugged. “Meant by who, exactly? Them Norns? Why should we care what they want, anyway? Don’t much care about Vafthrudnir’s wild musings on urd, myself. Eating flesh gives us power. Ain’t naught more to it than that.”
The woman had eyes like a cave lion. She didn’t used to, did she? He could have sworn they were less feline when he’d first met her, a few decades ago.
Well, but they let her see better, she claimed.
And he did need power. The Aesir, they had that. And he aimed to see them all rotting before the gates of Hel. Let his sister deal with the bastards, and the world might even thank him. Well … maybe not the men he ate, nor their kin.
Some things, though, just had to be done.
With a grimace, he stuck a finger in his mouth and bit down.
5
Those stupid, trollfucking, arse-licking jotunnar!
Thor’s mother sighed. “You’ll wear a track in the floor with all that pacing.”
Grumbling, Thor cast his mother a glare, not pausing in his stride. Let him wear a fucking hole, then. Dig a pit with his feet. Then throw the fucking jotunnar inside and stomp on them. “He’s invited them.”
Mother leaned forward on her throne. “Why do you think that is?”