by Matt Larkin
No.
Loki had offered Sigyn his goodbyes before her death and urd would not afford him another chance at it. If it had not been enough—it never was—still, all that remained to him was one more death. One more piece of himself ripped out.
And as with removing an arrow lodged in flesh, these things, drawn out too long, became only more painful.
So, in a single fluid motion, he mounted the gunwale and dropped down into the sea far below.
15
Arms locked around Gondul’s waist as she flew, Hermod had watched the miles of shadow lands melt away. She’d carried him up, out of the desolate, alien landscape beneath the ocean into the even emptier sky. Once, she needed to rest, and they had alighted back down on the seafloor.
The valkyrie spoke little, despite his prodding for stories of his mother from her youth. Gondul confirmed that Mother had originally lived in Valland, but not much more.
So, Hermod had told her of Olwen, the liosalf who’d claimed to have taught her songs of the alfar. Gondul had nodded along, perhaps having already known these things, or perhaps simply out of weariness.
After a time, she’d taken flight once more, carrying him onward, until at last he saw shores he knew well. The beaches of Asgard. Two glorious islands of paradise, beyond the Straits of Herakles. In the Mortal Realm, rainforests covered the mountains, but here, Hermod saw naught save desolate rock.
At least until they drew round the mountain and came to the plateau where Gladsheimr had once stood. Vanr ruins, so old and powerful they had persisted into the Penumbra, and which Odin, against any logic Hermod could understand, had somehow managed to raise into glory once more. A glittering hall, with a roof of gold-plated shields, and many great, broad doors.
Valhalla.
Gondul deposited Hermod on the plateau’s edge.
One set of the mighty doors lay ajar, and from within streamed the sounds of drinking, boasting, laughing. Clanging of mugs and shields. Men and women, spared from the ennui-inducing forces of the Astral Realm by more of Odin’s strange and fearsome powers.
Hermod had come here, oft enough, stopping by whenever he’d returned to Asgard in order to check on the einherjar. He’d come here to ensure they remained themselves, and remained loyal to Odin, though the king had been away so very long. But Odin had trusted Hermod with this task, and so he’d walked among the einherjar, unable to share their feasts, but still partaking of their humor, from time to time.
Never had he truly considered that he might one day count himself among their number.
Hermod spared a glance back at Gondul.
“Frightened?” she asked.
He didn’t bother to answer that. Valhalla was a refuge from the terrors stalking through the Penumbra. Most of all from the Lethe, that stole men from themselves. He was not frightened … save of his own desire to stay here for eternity and find his solace. He did, however, clap her on the arm. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
Considering the countless, empty miles he’d crossed in her arms, who knew when or if he’d have ever made it here. Time might not mean much for him in the Penumbra, but it still passed in the Mortal Realm. And time had begun to run short.
Odin had gathered the einherjar for a reason, and it fell to Hermod to see that reason through, whether or not he’d ever see the king again.
So he strode boldly through the gates, taking in the army of warriors gathered within. Odin had dedicated this place as a veritable monument to war. The rafters were thick, reinforced spears. More shields hung on the massive columns, beneath mighty ever-glowing sconces that almost cast out the shadows of the Penumbra.
Here, and here alone, a hint of true color seeped into this Realm. Into the existences of the fallen shades. The warrior dead.
They looked to him, and someone raised a toast. “Skål!”
Others, they began to look at him now, and they would see the difference. The change in him. No longer a being of the Mortal Realm, but a ghost, like the rest of them.
Gondul drifted from his side to greet another valkyrie, Kára.
Sigmund was the first on his feet, his stride almost uncertain as he approached Hermod, trailed by his sons. Volsung’s son offered Hermod an arm and a nod, and Hermod returned both.
He did not get the chance to speak, though, before Syn came charging at him. His wife leapt into his arms, driving him back into one of the pillars. They crashed together with a thud, and then she was planting kisses on his forehead and holding him close.
“I didn’t … I didn’t know you’d be here,” he managed.
“Kára.”
Well, Hermod would have to thank the valkyrie, then. Odin had claimed, once, that Kára was Sigrún reborn, and because of it, he’d told Hermod to give her leeway. To let her have her indulgences which had included a mortal lover. When he’d died, Hermod had encouraged Kára to continue her relationship with him here, in Valhalla.
Considering she’d brought Syn, he’d call them more than even.
“There are plenty of private rooms,” Fitela said. “If you two need a moment. I mean, I offered, but she was too preoccupied with you.”
Hermod cast a weary glance at Sigmund’s son. He was too grateful for all this to take much offense, in truth.
“Come,” Sigmund said. “Feast, and then tell us what goes on in the world. Valkyries continue to bring in souls, but they tell us precious little, even Kára.”
Yes. Hermod would tell them.
“It’s Ragnarok,” Hermod said, after wiping the ale from his lips. The stuff tasted strong, thick. Odin had refused to explain just how he had arranged unending supplies of ale and mead for the einherjar, save that it involved the ancient cauldrons of Brimir, massive things, each large enough to have brewed for an army.
“You mean it’s finally here,” Fitela said. “What we’ve been preparing for, training for. The battle!”
Hermod nodded at him.
The man elbowed his brother, Sigurd, who sat with folded arms. Probably their finest warrior, but Sigurd had never fully forgiven Odin for not bringing Brynhild here. The king had been lost before Hermod could question him on the matter, and afterward, with all that had happened, he’d had no chance.
No, but Brynhild had broken her oath to Odin, and Hermod could guess why Odin had not brought her. Perhaps could not bring her. In Naströnd, Hermod had heard his own beloved mother. Damned and tormented for the crime of loving her family.
Sigurd, as usual, did not speak.
“What does it mean, then?” Sigmund asked. “Was Odin himself not supposed to come and lead us into battle?”
Hermod desperately hoped the king would do so, but he did not know that for certain. Odin had gone to see the Norns and, so far as Hermod knew, had never returned. Maybe never would. “The king is not here, and I am forced to make the choices I think he would have me make. The world is besieged by Hel herself, to say naught of the other forces arrayed against us. So, I must take up the sword and take the fight to her.”
Kára stood behind her lover, Helgi, arms folded across her chest. “Few valkyries remain here, but those who do … I can send word to join the battle. Still, we have no means to allow the einherjar to fight in the Mortal Realm. Even if we could arrange corpses for them to possess, the process of dragging each of them across the Veil would be slow and laborious. Besides which—”
Hermod raised a hand to forestall her. “I don’t think we have to do that. Hel, our ultimate foe, is, I think, essentially a draug. A ghost. Which means, though she possesses a corpse in the Mortal Realm …” Sigyn … Damn. What had he done? How rage had so blinded him! “She possessed a body.”
“Ah,” Gondul said. “But her essence bleeds through into the Astral Realm. As would those of any draugar or other vaettir she brought into her service.”
Hermod spread his hands. “The einherjar cannot easily fight against mortal foes, true, but it is not the mortal foes that concern me. Odin, Thor, the others, they can hold off mort
al armies. Where they need our support, is against beings from the Otherworlds.”
“Beings like us, now,” Sigmund said.
“Indeed.” Hermod rose, leaned on the table, and looked hard at every member in the hall. So many massive tables occupied by thousands of warriors. The greatest warriors of this final age of the world. Men and women who had already died, bold, honorable deaths after glorious lives. And since then, they did naught save train with their arms. Well … aside from the feasting and fucking and laughing. “I have not come to force anyone to this path. Once we leave the protection of Valhalla, we will all again be subject to the deleterious effects of the Penumbra. Nor do I expect there will be any return for most of us. But this moment is what you have prepared for. For centuries, in many cases. Now is the time, and I ask you to follow me into one last battle.”
Sigmund banged a fist on the table. Then a second time. Then others began to join him in the gesture, a tumult ringing out through the hall, becoming a cacophony.
He had them. They would come. Hermod raised a hand. “We are dead, all of us. And the Mortal Realm belongs to the living. It is the dead now, who try to claim it from them. But they are not who we are.” He turned from Sigmund to Sigurd. To all of them. “I look at you and I see the greatest warriors in history. Who serves Hel? The dishonored dead! The weak! Those who prey upon your living kin and look to strike fear in their hearts!” Now, Hermod slammed his fists onto the table. “Well, now those dead will look upon our faces. And they will be the ones to know fear!”
Almost as one, the warriors began to rise, chairs and benches scraping over the stone floor.
“To arms!” Sigmund bellowed. “Bring the spears and the axes! Grab your swords and shields! Let them look upon such an army as has never before walked the world!”
Syn’s hand fell on Hermod’s shoulder, and he took it, clutched her fingers. Looked to her. “I’m going to watch Odin kill her. And I’m going to get our daughter’s soul back.”
16
An eclipse created pervasive shadows that encompassed all of Vanaheim. Not so long ago, Idunn would have found the dark oppressive, but now, it offered a kind of solace. Hnoss had vanished into the deeper darkness in tunnels beneath the islands, using means Idunn could not easily replicate to pass through the Veil. A secret of the dark, Hnoss had called it, and forced Idunn to leave it at that.
For a time, she’d navigated those tunnels, relying on the whispers of shadows to keep her course true, until at last she’d come to a collapsed cavern. The cave-in had exposed open sky above, and Idunn had climbed a mountain of rubble and debris to reach the surface, pausing twice to gape at the ring of fire where the sun should have shone.
Yes. Not so long ago, she’d been suffused with the Sun of Alfheim. Been almost a being of light. Perhaps her nature, tainted by the blood of Ivaldi, had prevented her from ever completing that transformation. Or perhaps the haughty disdain the liosalfar had heaped upon her had itself subverted her attempts to embrace the Sun.
Such things hardly mattered now.
No, now, she had to fight with the urge to descend back into the tunnels, to chase after and hope to catch Hnoss, and find a way back to Svartalfheim. How truly abominable she had become to miss the torture, the rapes, the inundation of cruelty. How … inevitable it all felt. Like a part of her she’d tried so very long to keep buried, to deny even existed. But Volund had known it lay there, had woken it in her, even as he’d had it woken in himself.
And Idunn couldn’t say whether she missed the light or the dark more.
Would this ever be her fate now, caught between the two, torn in half?
And what of the child growing inside her? Volund surely had spawned enough bastards in his time, yes, but her child would be different. She, a direct descendant of Ivaldi, carried the blood of Gugalanna. For a child born of two parents of that line, Volund would cross worlds. He would hunt her, drag her back into the darkness by her heels, and force her to remain in his court.
The worst of it, though, lay in her body’s own reaction to such a thought. The hardening of her nipples. The spreading wetness between her thighs. The pounding of her heart in its hope that Volund would find new, creative tortures to punish her.
Damn it!
Atop the debris, Idunn faltered, grabbing her head. What had her nephew transformed her into? She didn’t want to be this! This, this thing that reveled in the suffering of others and most of all in her own torment. This abomination that delighted in such depravities. Who craved being cut, and lashed, and raped, for naught less than the pain could arouse her any longer?
This was the gift of Nott, through Gugalanna.
A madness that consumed the svartalfar as a whole. She could feel it, creeping up inside her mind, taking control, and squeezing out the light. Maybe … maybe she should … end it?
Svartalfar died, from time to time, from self-inflicted injuries, having pushed the limits of even their immortality too far. Idunn hadn’t heard of any actually committing suicide before. But then, she was more keenly aware of her descent into darkness than most. Aware enough to hate not only that descent, but herself, for loving it.
Growling, she brushed her now jet-black hair from her face. She had not escaped Svartalfheim with Hnoss only to give in to despair now. She could not allow herself to return to the shadows, nor would she find welcome in Alfheim. The Mortal Realm, though, she might find solace in, even if she had to endlessly flee from Volund’s pursuits.
She could escape.
She just needed … a little …
Teeth grit, she slipped free a dagger from her belt, then lifted up the edge of her leather vest. Her skin had lost much of its color, though she might still pass for human without need of any glamour. Slowly, she slid the blade along her abdomen, hissing at the delicious pain of even a shallow cut.
Even her blood looked darker now. Deeper than crimson. Almost black, like troll blood. A darkness in her very veins.
With a sniff, she flung the blood from her fingers, then wiped the dagger on her leather trousers before jamming it back into its sheath. A moment’s peace, at least while the pain lasted.
So she pushed on, not quite certain which way to head.
Vanaheim … was in ruins. The halls had been reduced to ashes. The mountains covered in snow and surrounded by rumbling storms. The valleys flooded. Islands of chaos, of nature run rampant.
The work of jotunnar, no doubt. The question then became, had the jotunnar left any boats she could use to reach Andalus?
In the shadow of Yggdrasil, the tree that had so long been her home and her duty, Idunn found Odin and Freyja, beset by a small army of jotunnar.
Crouching in the woods, she watched as the two of them fell back, unable to cross the great bridge that spanned the gap to the Tree.
Over a dozen frost jotunnar barred their way, and though Odin tore through them with Gungnir—and Freyja, despite lack of sunlight, killed her fair share with sheer speed and strength—more continued to pour from the hollow where Idunn had once lived.
The two of them, those she had once called friends, were far more adept warriors than Idunn had ever been. Charging in there to fight jotunnar might well get her killed. In her countless treks back and forth across Midgard and beyond, she’d learned to handle a spear when necessary, but had mostly relied on glamours or powers drawn from a bound ash wife—one now lost to her.
Still, as a svartalf and former Vanr immortal, she did possess rather momentous amounts of pneuma. Enough, she ought to be able to match Freyja’s speed and strength, or close to match, at least.
Growling, she snatched up a large branch in one hand, and pulled her dagger with her other. She had not expected to find Odin and Freyja here, no, but nor would she abandon them. Pushing pneuma throughout her body to enhance her abilities, Idunn took off at a sprint, faster than she’d ever remembered running before.
She surged past Freyja—who gaped at her—to smack a jotunn in the face with her makeshift club.
The blow shattered the branch but stunned the jotunn long enough for Idunn to ram the dagger into its throat.
Freyja overcame her momentary shock and grabbed Idunn, shoving her away from the jotunnar. The other woman whipped her thin-bladed sword around in a whirl. One that distracted an advancing jotunn enough he failed to notice the upsweep of Freyja’s mace before it crunched into his ribs with enough force to actually heft him half a foot off the ground. That thin blade whipped around and tore out his throat a heartbeat later.
For a bare instant, Idunn stared in marvel at Freyja’s grace and power.
Then she looked to Odin, engaged with a half dozen of the frost jotunnar at once. And winning. The looks of fear, confusion on their faces as an old human man with one eye whipped his brutal spear in deadly arcs. As the undulating blade tore through throats, severed limbs, and tripped jotunnar in a blur.
Idunn had known many warriors in her life. She could not say she’d ever known any who truly made it an art. No, but Grandmother had known one. A story, a promise that he would come again, and that promise had driven Idunn back out into Midgard in a desperate attempt to find him, to arm him. To beg him to fix the world.
But looking upon him like this, Idunn could not help but gape. Stare, and realize, that some part of her had never truly believed. Had never really accepted what it meant for him to be this Destroyer. Oh, Grandmother had spoken of how Grandpa Naresh had become like a god of war.
But Idunn had not understood what she meant, not really. Not until she’d seen Odin become a veritable army in Amsvartnir, slaughtering Fjalar’s forces as though hewing through tufts of wheat.
And now, on the bridge before the Tree of Life, an entire war band of jotunnar—any one of which might have overcome an equal-sized band of men—lay dead at Odin’s feet.
Freyja pushed back into the melee, relentless, but also more cautious than Odin. He … fought without regard for his safety, Idunn would have thought. Except, so rarely did the jotunnar manage to land a blow upon him.