by Matt Larkin
She could not decide whether that decision represented wisdom or willful ignorance. Pretending the Art did not exist, that it did not represent the single greatest threat to the Mortal Realm—that delusion did not obviate the reality of the danger. Still, using the Art had, perhaps, caused the Vanir far more woe than weal.
She passed into the foyer, where inverted waterfalls still created curtains of beauty, and lilies still sat upon graceful ponds beneath arching bridges. Upon the rail of one such bridge, her brother sat, staring at her as she approached, arms folded across his chest.
“He had the temerity to ask if Mundilfari made a mistake, so long ago, when he banished the jotunnar to Utgard.”
Freyja sighed and settled down opposite her brother. Given all that had happened, she just … she didn’t even know. She’d helped Mundilfari raise the Midgard Wall, not so very long after the man had taken the throne, and it had all seemed so needful at the time. Or perhaps, she’d been taken with her teacher, convinced of his brilliance even as the man descended into madness.
“He has bargained with Aegir,” Frey said.
“So did Father.”
“Yes, I don’t begrudge him that. But the sea jotunn has agreed to host the delegation, and it includes representatives from Utgard. All Mundilfari wrought crumbles. They have torn down our great civilization and replaced it with a place I cannot hardly recognize.”
While she had just had much the same thought, Freyja didn’t see any benefit in admitting that. Frey had never much liked Odin, and this line of reasoning wasn’t going to smooth things over. What they all needed was unity. “I’m not sure there is any question of who was right or who was wrong anymore. We all failed the world, Vanir, Aesir, jotunnar. We all tried to rule urd with arrogance, with hubris, when we saw ourselves as gods. Where did it all lead? This final war that Odin calls Ragnarok? Idunn warned us, thousands of years ago, she warned us that Hel might return. That we had not done well by Midgard. None of us listened.”
“Idunn was always an agitator who never fit well in any society. She undermined the Vanr kingdom. I half suspect Father made her the keeper of Yggdrasil in the vain hope of keeping her out of trouble. Father’s murder falls upon her head as much as Odin’s.”
Freyja sighed, rubbing her hands on her knees. “Odin killed Father in single combat. It wasn’t murder. And don’t even start with claiming I never mourned him, because you damn well know I did. As far as Idunn … her mistakes are no worse than our own. I don’t care whether or not her svartalf blood led to her perpetual discontent. She was my friend and I will find a way to save her.”
“What would you have me do, then?”
“Exactly what we came here to do. Attend the council Odin has arranged. Find a way to fight back against Hel and stop her from turning the Mortal Realm into a second Niflheim. That is what’s at stake, is it not? Whether your loyalty lies with Vanaheim or Alfheim, it does not benefit us to see the Earth fall to Hel.”
“You still call it Vanaheim.”
Yes. She refused to refer to this place as Asgard. That just didn’t …
Frey snickered. “It’s not like our ancestors didn’t rename this place when they claimed it. What was it called back then?”
Freyja rubbed her head, trying to even remember. “Ugh … Atlantis. Maybe other names, too. What does that matter? Are you on the Aesir’s side now?”
Her brother broke into a chuckle. “Weren’t you the one asking me to set aside my grievances with the man?”
Yes, damn it. And she didn’t much appreciate having her own double standards pointed out, either. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe joining the Aesir, Vanir, jotunnar, all of us flawed would-be gods together is the only way to stop Hel.”
“A true goddess.”
“Odin claims she was once mortal. That she died and somehow gathered enough power to challenge the original Elder God of Mist.”
“How the fuck do we challenge someone with enough power to overthrow an Elder God?”
Freyja slid off the rail, shaking her head. She wished she had a better answer, but the only one she could see was simple. “She was defeated, more than five thousand years ago.”
“At the cost of the world itself. At the cost of blanketing the Earth in freezing mist. What will victory cost this time?”
Freyja wasn’t sure she even wanted to know the answer to that.
8
Aegir’s castle rose up from the sea, towers so tall they pierced the mist and touched the sky. Odin had seen this place in his visions, before he had turned from them, and though he had not known for certain it was Aegir’s, he’d suspected. It didn’t matter. This, he had seen already and thus could not turn from it.
While numerous towers rose from the main structure, still more spires jutted up directly from the sea, the greater portion of the architecture concealed by the waves. Aegir had married Rán, a mermaid queen, and the two were famed for their nine daughters. Wave maidens, tale called them, though Odin had never seen them himself.
A mighty bridge of stone stretched over the ocean, from the beach to the castle. Now, ice covered much of the shoreline, making the beach aught but inviting. Still, this place would serve the needs of the council. Aegir had maintained neutrality in the wars and not even the self-important emperors of Valland dared risk his wrath. Not anymore, though some had tried in the past, and lost a great many of their warriors.
Odin trod at the head of the procession, Freyja to his left and Frigg to his right. Many others trailed behind. Thor, petulant over him inviting the jotunnar, had refused to attend and no doubt still lingered up on the cliff. If the boy threatened Odin’s alliance by attacking the jotunn delegation … No. Odin wouldn’t dwell on that, not when he had so many other worries weighing upon him.
An archway almost ten times his height led into the castle itself. Inside, fluted columns supported a vaulted ceiling carved with reliefs of sea creatures, and—perhaps—one of the ancient mer kingdoms that had now dwindled. Fleeting memories of past lives flitted through his mind, of days where the sea inundated the land and the empires of mer dominated the world. Fragments and names came unbidden, of the battles of Hiyoya and Mu, and other sprawling undersea kingdoms.
Odin blinked, forcing it from his mind. If he looked back, the pull of time, the currents of it would seize him. Because the past was, in a sense, a refraction of the future, with prescience serving as a bridge that allowed causality to warp, not only in chains, but into loops. He must attend to the now, first, and find a way to sever the strands of the web of urd once the immediate situation had resolved itself.
Focus. Let him keep his mind grounded in the present.
To either side of the main walkway, the ground dropped away into pools of water that no doubt connected to the sea. Mermaids and mermen swam about there, perhaps even including some of the daughters of Rán.
A woman met them halfway across this walkway. She wore naught save a wrap around her waist—a mermaid in human form, perhaps, for she did not shiver in the least—and her skin had a slight aquamarine tint to it along her neck and ribs. Her eyes were deep as the ocean, almost mesmerizing.
“Kólga?” Freyja asked. “Is that you?”
“It’s true, then,” the mermaid said. “You are much changed by the World of Sun. And, yes, I’ve a new host now, of course, but my features begin to show through. Come.” She inclined her head for them to follow, and began to lead without waiting to see if they would.
While numerous paths led down the steps and through the pools of water, Kólga was considerate enough to take them along other walkways and thus allow them to remain dry. In some areas of the castle, waterfalls poured down from overhead, spilling from the mouths of carved benthic creatures, serpents and other undersea monstrosities.
Kólga led them on into a great chamber with a stone table at least forty feet long, and vaulted ceilings that rose high above. Arched windows twice Odin’s height let in a hint of sunlight from high above.
At
the head of the table sat Aegir, a veritable wall of corded muscles at least nine feet tall, shirtless, and with a long white beard. Faintly luminous runes covered his arms and chest. Odin had heard from Sigyn, long ago, that the sea jotunn could increase his size to the point he could walk on the seafloor outside his castle and still stand only waist-deep.
Beside him sat Rán, who herself seemed pushing seven feet tall, with glittering blonde hair that hung down to cover her otherwise naked breasts. A hint of fish scales peeked out from beneath her flesh. An old host, being slowly transformed into the more fishlike true nature of mer.
Odin took up a seat opposite Aegir and beckoned his entourage to fill in around the table. Frigg sat to his right, and Freyja to his left. Tyr, Frey, Ullr, Eir, Syn, Thrúd, and Magni all took places as well. Bragi, though, walked around the table for a time, before coming to sit closer to Rán, casting a slight glare at Odin in the process.
They had never got on well, Odin had to admit. He’d asked Bragi how the man had gotten to Alfheim—it had taken Odin decades and cost more than he’d ever have imagined—and Bragi had revealed that he’d merely embraced his heritage as the child of liosalf, and become one in truth, much as Volund had embraced his svartalf heritage. Odin couldn’t say he liked either man better for having done so.
Sunna and Mani came in next, followed by Gefjon, Saule, and her contingent of liosalfar.
While Odin had dared to hope his invitation to the jotunnar would have brought more of them, none had arrived as yet. Perhaps they would soon, but he wasn’t certain they could afford to wait much longer.
Already, the gathered guests had begun murmuring. Kólga and her sisters directed slaves who brought forth wine, then raw fish laid atop beds of seaweed. Most of the others seemed disinclined to try the fish, but Odin saw no harm and wouldn’t risk offending their host. More like than not, Aegir had ordered the fish served thus as a test. Peeling back scales, Odin tore a chunk of flesh off and bit into it.
Wet and cold and slimy. Not really enjoyable, but he could stomach it if he must.
Tyr and others followed his lead and poked at their own fish, and the liosalfar seemed much less reserved in doing so.
After forcing down a fair portion of the fish, Odin threw back his goblet of wine. A Vall vintage, though not one he knew. He’d been so long away. After a moment, he banged the empty goblet on the stone table, and everyone else fell silent. “Thanks to our host for feasting us here,” he said, raising the goblet.
As if on command, Kólga was at his side, and filled more wine from an engraved pitcher.
Everyone raised their own goblets, then drank.
Strange, really. He’d spent centuries preparing for Ragnarok, and now it was upon him, he hesitated. As if, to actually speak now, to say the words, would make it too real. How deeply he wished he could turn away from this. Return to Asgard, cross the Bilröst, and retreat to Alfheim to linger under the sun.
Craven …
No. Audr was wrong. Odin was no coward. He’d do what he must, what’d he’d always been preparing for. That did not mean he had to like it, nor rush forward with mad glee.
The image of Fenrir tearing out his throat came unbidden to his mind, and he forced the visions down lest they overwhelm him.
Give in … Let the future unfold as you know it must … You cannot deny urd …
He could try. “We all know why we’re here. Midgard … The whole Mortal Realm is in chaos. Winter never broke, and we can see Hel’s hand in that. She stretches forth from her prison, eager to escape it as she has done before.”
Will you perpetuate the cycle …?
No. He was going to end it. “Ragnarok is upon us.” Maybe, if Hermod succeeded in restoring Baldr, maybe that might avert the end. “Our enemies are manifold. The Deathless priests are a blight upon our world, servants of undead masters that spread a vile faith. But even they are an inconvenience compared to the power Hel must soon unleash against us.”
“Our great and glorious leader must forgive me,” Bragi said, “yet I find myself compelled to ask if he has any evidence other than a long winter? The world fares ill, you say, and the cause falls at the feet of Hel herself? Could it not be that mankind is simply a wretched race, lusting after power and treacherous?”
Part of him wondered if Bragi antagonized him simply out of habit, despite the reasonable points the poet raised.
It was Saule who answered, though. “Those of us who survived an eschaton before know it is a cycle that plays out in the Mortal Realm. One can see ample signs of the rising chaos in the last age of an era. From what I gather from the natives to this realm, those signs abound. As to whether the final conflict will come with Hel or with another power, does it truly matter?”
“It will be with Hel,” Odin said.
“Your visions?” Ullr asked. “I was given to understand you no longer relied on them.”
Odin grunted. “Nevertheless, I do not doubt their veracity. Hel has worked for four centuries to stir the currents here. It would not surprise me to learn she has even aided the Patriarchs of Miklagard, though we have no way to know for certain. I have called you here not to debate whether Ragnarok impends, but how we are to face it. These may be the last days of this world, but no matter what happens, I will not surrender our realm to her. We have endured five thousand years of her cursed mists, but I will not see Midgard become a second Niflheim.”
“We don’t have enough warriors to hold back the Deathless legions,” Frigg said. “Waging war against them will surely weaken our forces further. The vampires among them oft have enough power to challenge even an Ás immortal, to say naught of the Patriarchs, should they get involved directly.”
Saule chuckled. “We have a small army of liosalfar to help swing the balance of power back in your favor, if it comes to fighting vampires.”
“Nor do I think they’d fare well against Laevateinn,” Frey added.
Odin folded his hands. Yes. This was what they needed. The three factions working together. If only the jotunnar would have come then …
The great double doors to the hall swung open and Narfi strode in, stern-faced, and flanked by jotunnar from the frost, sea, and wood bloodlines. Everyone fell silent, watching. The jotunn king turned his grim gaze on Aegir first, before finally looking over the others gathered.
Bragi drummed his fingers on the table. “Perhaps the lord is hungry? Sadly, we’ve no man-flesh to offer you.”
With a sneer, Narfi pushed his way in beside Magni and Thrúd and settled onto the bench, staring at Odin. “Strange I don’t see my father here, nor my mother, when you named them kin, Odin Borrson.”
Odin pursed his lips. So Narfi knew. Hardly a surprise, given he possessed some degree of the Sight, though how powerful his visions had become, Odin could not say.
One of Rán’s daughters brought him a goblet, and Narfi raised it in salute. “Hail, Aesir! Lords of Midgard and Asgard.” He looked to Bragi. “And hail to the rest, discounting that glowing buffoon who thought to bandy words with me. Reckon he don’t realize I’d just as soon feast on his flesh?”
Bragi cleared his throat. “All right, all right, don’t take it amiss. Surely the lord doesn’t want to undermine the peace Odin strives for between us.”
“Wary of war?” Narfi asked. “Hiding a bit of craven under that gleam, are you?”
“Mind your tongue, lest you find your head held in my hand.”
Narfi snorted. “You? Who is this bench-ornament?”
Odin wanted to groan. He’d dared to hope Narfi might come here in good will. It seemed otherwise.
Gefjon stood. “Please don’t argue, either of you. Whatever happened with your father, it need not come between the rest of us who were not even here.”
Narfi pointed at her. “I know you, don’t I? Ain’t you the one who fucked her way through Reidgotaland after the Old Kingdoms fell? I reckon you must have the hungriest cunt in any realm.”
Odin lurched to his feet and slammed his
palms on the table. “Enough! We are not here to debate Loki’s misdeeds. You have truly gone mad if you plan to insult every last member of this gathering while we are here trying to discuss the fate of the world. Of all the worlds, perhaps.”
“Because you are so innocent, great king?” Narfi sipped at his wine. “Did you not use valkyries to decide the outcome of wars, betraying those most loyal to you? All of you play at honor and grandeur while sneering down your noses at the jotunnar. At least we don’t keep false airs. Your schemes and machinations wrought death and destruction around the North Realms, and yet you so abhor my father for his having had his hand forced by urd.”
Odin glowered at the man. He would not listen to this … Shit. Was he a fool for having refused to look forward and foresee Narfi’s belligerence? If he saw the future, did that set it, or was it set from the beginning? All he had to do was let his mind wander, see the outcome of this … No! No, damn it. There had to be another way about this.
Narfi believed his kin betrayed, and Odin must salve that wound if he was to hope the jotunnar would join his alliance. Finally, he slunk back down into his seat and rubbed his brow. “I’m told, Aegir, that your daughters have lovely singing voices. Perhaps we might lighten the mood with a song or two?”
Aegir spread a hand toward Kólga and the mermaid did move to the back of the hall, beckoning her sisters closer. They exchanged a few words, then broke into a haunting melody, one that echoed off the vaulting ceiling.
They sang of the collapse of the undersea kingdom of Mu, of the loss of the world. Of the end of an era.
9
The beautiful song had Freyja swaying in place, left almost as if in a dream. One that she found herself jolted from when Frey elbowed her.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He leaned in close. “Who is that jotunn woman beside Narfi?”
“How would I know?” What was he on about now?