The Songweaver's Vow

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  Urd nodded. “You did not see Narfi in Eljudnir.”

  Euthalia started to speak and then stopped. Urd had not repeated Euthalia’s words. “Then… then he is not in Eljudnir, but he is in Helheim?”

  The three regarded her patiently.

  “Then he—oh!” She gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth in horror. “I have seen him!”

  Skuld nodded. “You know him.”

  “I do now.” Euthalia swallowed. “I nearly did then. I thought—I thought he was Fenrir, coming through the Corpse-Fence. But of course, they are brothers, and even more alike now.”

  “Then you know how you will try to stop Loki,” said Verdandi.

  Euthalia was keen on their slippery words now. “Try?” she repeated. She looked at Skuld. “Only try?”

  Skuld gestured to the pool, the damp stones, the roots, the tree. “It is a cycle,” she said, “But a complex one, with many fine details and intricate pieces. And the debt must be paid.”

  Euthalia closed her eyes. “I have nothing to lose,” she said resolutely. “Ragnarok will come, now or later. If I do nothing, it will come now. If I fail, it will come now. If I succeed, I save us all.”

  “Until Ragnarok comes,” agreed Skuld with depressing accuracy. “But safe for now.”

  Euthalia nodded firmly. “Then I must find Loki.”

  “First you must find Narfi,” Verdandi reminded.

  “But how can I return to Helheim?”

  “Did you not come with a valkyrja?” asked Urd pointedly.

  Euthalia looked back to where she had left Hildr. “Will she take me?”

  “Considering what you mean to stop,” said Skuld, “I think she will.”

  Verdandi gripped Euthalia’s hands, pressing them in hers. “You choose where to pour the water.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Euthalia went back to Hildr. “Can you carry me to Helheim?” she asked. “I must find Garm, the hound of Hel.”

  “The one that lives near Nágrindr?” asked Hildr.

  Euthalia was surprised. “You know him?”

  “And how would a valkyrja not know the world of the dead?” asked Hildr with a smile. “Yes, I can take you there. Let’s go.”

  And Euthalia clung again to the armored woman as they were carried up, up Yggdrasill and into the nine worlds and to Helheim. They galloped over the bridge, and Euthalia was nearly relieved to see the river of battle beneath them. She had faintly worried that they would have gone to choose sides at Ragnarok, and seeing them still there gave her slim hope the final battle had not yet begun.

  And then they came to Nágrindr, and Hildr drew the horse to a halt. Euthalia could hear the snarls coming from within the mound of earth. She slid from the horse and faced the battlement. “Narfi?”

  The ground began to crumble, and she could see the signs of the unnatural gate opening. The snarls grew louder, and Euthalia’s stomach tightened. What if she and the Nornir were wrong, and this was not Narfi at all? What if it had been Narfi, but he had lost all his humanity and could no longer recognize his name or an effort to help him?

  “Narfi?”

  The dark head burst from the earth, teeth flashing, and Euthalia noticed Hildr was beside her with sword drawn.

  “Narfi!” Euthalia called, shrinking back. “Narfi, wait.”

  The shoulders worked free of the earth and Narfi lunged. Hildr jerked her sword to readiness. But Narfi was checked midair and fell backward, snarling.

  The crack in the earthen mound split and the gate opened, and Narfi pulled against the chain which held him back from the women. His ears were flat against his skull, his teeth fully bared. Euthalia wanted to weep for him. “Oh, Narfi,” she said. “Don’t you know yourself?”

  “Sing to him,” said Hildr.

  Euthalia looked at her. “What?”

  “You are a weaver of songs, yes? And the skein of his life has been twisted. Sing to him and unknot him.”

  Euthalia doubted her ability could meet such a task, but there was nothing to lose and everything to gain. She swallowed. “I knew your mother,” she began, her voice not a melody, but the commanding singsong of a skald opening a saga. “We dined together in the longhouse of Odin, in the Hall of the Fallen, Valhöll.”

  The snarls subsided to a long growl, as the wolf tried to decide what this intruder was doing.

  “I knew your father,” Euthalia continued. “He too dined in the Hall of the Fallen, and he spoke to all the gods, pulled all their beards, named all their faults.”

  The wolf’s ears flicked forward and back.

  “I knew you when you walked on two legs.” Euthalia clenched her fists and forced her voice to steady. “I saw you bend beneath Odin’s word, I heard your bones twist and shape by his curse, and I watched what was done. I saw Nari bite his captor’s wolf-joint, and I saw him run, and I saw Sigyn weep as her children became wolves and the food of wolves, and—”

  The wolf’s growl stopped, and the golden almond-shaped eyes became round with recalled horror and comprehension. He stared at Euthalia with a disturbingly childlike expression of shock and regret and shame.

  “And I have seen your brother,” she went on, holding his nearly-human eyes. “I have seen him sit in a place of honor beside the sister he did not know, the lady of the deep, the Lie-Father’s daughter. I have held him in my arms and I have seen him embraced by his father the Smith of Lies.”

  She was not being kind to Loki, but she felt it was important not to lie in a song meant to restore the truth of Narfi’s mind. And surely Narfi must have known, must have heard the stories of what his father did throughout Asgard.

  The wolf’s ears sagged—not now the flat fierce warning of battle, but of hurt and despair.

  Euthalia took a breath and knelt, opening her arms. “Narfi,” she said. “Let me take you to your brother.”

  Narfi stepped into the limit of his chain, pressing against the collar, and she leaned forward to embrace him, keenly aware of how exposed her throat was and how little wolves might like being grasped about the neck.

  But Narfi was not a wolf, not entirely and not now.

  Euthalia lifted her head from the dark fur, wiping away tears, and looked around. She did not see the woman who had been at the gate before. Perhaps she had gone with Hel and Loki and the others. “How can we free him?” she asked, pulling at the chain.

  Hildr gave her a flat look and took an axe from her belt. She lay the chain flat against a hard patch and swung the long-handled axe with enough power to drive the fractured link partly into the ground as it gave with a metallic chink.

  “Where do we take him?” she asked, holstering the axe.

  Euthalia looked at Narfi. Loki was not the only one grieving him. “The cave in Midgard,” she said. “The one where they bound Loki. Do you know it?”

  Hildr shook her head. “But I can find it.”

  “His mother Sigyn is there. And she is Loki’s wife—she may have some idea of how to stop him.” Though it seemed Loki would not stop for her, not by the way he had cast her aside upon being freed. Would Loki be angry to see her? It seemed wiser not to bring them together—not at first.

  More, it seemed unwise to confront Loki before all the Jötnar he had gathered to make his attack. She could not ask him to abandon his assault before his army of destroyers; pride would prevent him from agreeing even if she could sway him. She must get him away from the Jötnar, bring him to Narfi.

  “I will go ahead myself,” Euthalia said. “Take Narfi to his mother, and I will bring Loki there. If I can.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Naglfar was beached on the stony shore, nails against pebbles and dried bones, and Loki’s army spread out from it like blood.

  Loki sat among the Jötnar, running a long whetstone against the edge of a sword. The venom scars showed dark against his face. The giant Angrboda crouched beside him, cradling an uprooted oak tree with most of the branches torn away—the sight chilled Euthalia, for she had s
een this tree-club in the well’s vision—and other Jötnar of all shapes and sizes were clustered in groups around them, talking or jeering or laughing. They hardly glanced at Euthalia as she approached.

  Loki noticed, and his mouth curved into a crooked smile. “Oh, little butterfly,” he said, lifting the sword to examine the unnaturally perfect edge. “What question brings you to me this time?”

  “Will you stop?” The words escaped before she could consider them.

  Loki chuckled. “No.”

  He regarded the sword and, seeing Euthalia’s eyes touch it, turned it to display it better. “She is a fine thing, isn’t she?”

  Runes lay in the steel like smoke within ice, fading into and out of sight as the firelight played over the surface. The sword was unblemished, the hilt intricate with knotwork and tiny images Euthalia was not near enough to make out.

  “Her name is Laevatein,” Loki said with obvious pride. “Wand of Wounds and Destruction.” He rotated the sword, letting light run down the blade like water. “I forged her myself. You thought I was a smith only of lies, didn’t you? I forged her in Niflheim and there is no weapon like her, nor shall there ever be.”

  “You created a sword for the ending of the world.”

  He chuckled. “If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing well.”

  Euthalia straightened and met his eyes. “Loki, stop this attack. You will destroy everything, all the worlds. And you will not survive this, there is no profit in it for you, and—”

  “Ah, you have been to the Nornir,” he said. “And you think that makes you knowledgeable? Powerful? We have all seen the end, my fragile little butterfly. How did you think Odin knew his danger? He fears Fenrir because he knows Fenrir will kill him. Thor, that bold and stupid goatsack, knows Jörmungandr will be his death. And you think to stop me by telling me what I already know?”

  Euthalia clenched her fists. “There are so many lives,” she said. “Lives which had nothing to do with you, or your humiliation, or your pain, or….” She faltered, trying to think of his cherished wrongs.

  Loki chuckled. “Do you think this is for revenge?”

  She stopped and looked at him, surprised.

  He shook his head. “You foolish little storyteller, thinking everything has a tidy reason you can explain away in a clever turn of phrase.” He lowered the sword and came toward her, very close, and she fought the impulse to retreat. “Well, perhaps it is a simple reason, after all. Think, little butterfly. What am I?”

  Euthalia licked her lips. “You are Jötunn.”

  “Yes,” Loki sighed with nearly sensual pleasure. “I am Jötunn. I am a destroyer. It is my nature. And all that they have done to me is my justification—but it is not my reason.” He grinned, his narrow tongue visible between his teeth. “You seek to trap me in your puny, narrow, human reasons. But I am Jötunn. I am a destroyer. And that is all the reason I need.”

  He turned back and took up his work again, cheerful. A little distance away, Angrboda raised the stripped tree overhead and smashed it into the ground, scattering rock and bone.

  Hope slipped away from Euthalia. “Loki,” she pleaded. “You can stop this.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. His eyes met hers, and he grinned. “But why would I?”

  This was her chance. Her only chance. Their only chance. “Would you kill your own son?”

  “Ha!” barked Loki. “My son is already dead, or didn’t you see him sitting with Hel in Eljudnir?”

  “Narfi,” she said. “Narfi is not dead.”

  Loki’s hands slowed, and he did not look at her. “I saw Narfi turn.”

  “He turned, but he did not die.”

  Loki set aside the whetstone and sword and faced Euthalia, and then he seized her upper arms and pressed her hard into the planked side of the nail-ship. “Where is my son?” he demanded.

  For a moment Euthalia couldn’t speak, confronted so close with his dangerous eyes. This near, she could see all the mounds and cracks of the venom scars over his face, could see the pinprick scars where the dwarfs had once sewn his mouth shut. She gulped and answered, “With Sigyn.”

  For a moment Loki did not move, and she wondered whether the mention of his wife had caught at his heart or infuriated him. At last he set Euthalia down and released her. “Narfi is alive?” The muscles of his jaw worked visibly. “With her in the—the cave?”

  She nodded. “I did not know where else to look for her. She could not travel back to Asgard without help.” Help Loki had not offered.

  He was silent.

  “At least go and see him,” she urged, hoping she did not press too hard and break the fragile spell. “At least speak to him before you kill him and destroy his world. He thinks you abandoned him.”

  “No!” said Loki, and the word seemed to surprise him as much as her. “I did not.”

  “You went to Helheim and greeted his brother,” Euthalia said, pitching her voice with faint accusation, “and left him behind there. What else could he think?”

  Loki’s eyes shifted. “He was there?”

  “He was. Hel did not know him. He was not in Eljudnir.”

  Loki’s mouth flattened, and he looked at Naglfar and the assembled army. “I will go to my son,” he said. “But I will not give up my day of destruction.”

  Euthalia did not answer. One battle at a time. Loki’s flow had shifted about the first rock.

  Loki made some sort of gesture which seemed to rip a hole in the air, revealing a passage through thin air where there should have been nothing. Its walls sparkled like a geode’s cavern, but with all the colors of the rainbow, brilliant and penetrating. He stepped into the Bifröst passage, and Euthalia leapt after him, anxious that he not leave without her.

  He seemed neither surprised nor displeased at her hasty following, but he did not reach a hand to her as the opening sealed behind them. The colors blurred into a dazzling and disorienting swirl, and they fell. Euthalia shielded her eyes, squeezing them closed, and then the sensation of falling slowed.

  She felt ground beneath her feet, and she opened her eyes to see the mouth of the Midgard cave.

  Loki snorted. “Is this what it looks like?” he said dismissively. “I had forgotten, if ever I knew. What a dull place.” He went inside.

  Euthalia followed.

  She nearly knew the way by now, hands outstretched for the stalactites and stalagmites she knew were there. Loki did not seem to feel his way nor falter. Perhaps he could see in the dark.

  When they came to the broken stalagmites, lit by an oil lamp, he hesitated only for a heartbeat. And then he looked around, ignoring the scarred floor and the serpent still writhing in its place and shouted, “Narfi!”

  There was a sudden scrabble of sound from the dark, and a wolf streaked into the circle of light and plunged toward Loki. He bent and caught the animal effortlessly, his muscles bunching beneath the onslaught of weighty wolf. Narfi pressed into his father, hard and still. Loki put his face into the animal’s fur.

  Behind the wolf came Sigyn, more slowly but with the same anxious expression.

  Narfi must have felt his father tense, for he wriggled free and dropped to the cavern floor. Sigyn and Loki faced each other.

  “I stayed with you.” Sigyn’s voice trembled but did not give way. “I never left you—only to pour out the bowl and rush back to you. I never left you.”

  Loki shook his head. “You think you are at the center of this?” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “I was bound, and now I am free. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “It does!” Sigyn answered sharply. “Because I am here, and your son is here, and you are not here. You mean to go out and destroy our world, all the worlds, all when you could stay here with us.” Her eyes blazed. “You are going to kill our child!”

  That caught Loki. He stared at her, speechless for perhaps the first time.

  “If you do this,” Euthalia said quietly, “Narfi will die. And not Narfi alone. Fenrir, and Jörmungandr, an
d Hel. Sleipnir. All of them.”

  Loki’s lips parted, but he did not speak.

  Sigyn put a hand on his forearm—light, resting, not holding. “Stay with us,” she said softly, her eyes on his scarred face. “Please.”

  Loki looked at her hand, and then at her eyes, and for a long moment neither of them moved.

  Euthalia found she was holding her breath. Please. Please. Please.

  A cat meowed.

  Sigyn looked up as Loki whirled into a battle crouch, his hand already grasping for Laevatein. But Freyja spoke a word, and he froze.

  Euthalia stared as Freyja descended from her low wagon, driven straight into the cave. Two large cats sat before it in harness, unconcerned with the scene around them. One of them raised a paw to lick and wipe at its cheek in slow disdain or a mockery of tears.

  Freyja’s smile was equally catlike. “Lie-Smith.”

  Loki tried to speak through his gritted teeth.

  “Oh, no,” Freyja said. She gestured behind her, and Euthalia saw figures in the dark. Freyja raised a light from her wagon, illuminating a half dozen valkyrjur gathered about a wooden framework. Ropes stretched and sagged across it, swinging with weights, and they were busily working the shuttle—a loom, Euthalia realized. It was a loom, and they were weaving.

  Loki’s face screwed in furious concentration.

  The valkyrjur together worked their weaving, winding bloody fingers over the weaving bar, the beating bar. The weights swung with their rapid motions and Euthalia realized with horror that they were heads, human heads, keeping tension as the women worked and bumping gently together. And it was not linen or wool which they worked, it was ropy intestines, pale and bloody and slick with yellow fat.

  Sigyn was locked in place as if a spell held her too, but it was not their magic. “No,” she breathed. “Not again.”

  Freyja glanced behind her. “Is it ready?”

  “It is ready,” answered one.

  “Now,” said Freyja.

  The valkyrjur moved, leaving the loom and splitting across the cavern. Two seized Sigyn and Euthalia and pulled them away from Loki, setting them against a wall and a long stalactite. One, Euthalia saw, was already pinning Narfi in place with a threatening spear to his back. Others with Freyja caught up the rigid Loki and flung him down onto the broken stalagmites.