by Matt Larkin
“May as well head back to the village,” Thor said. “Naught else to do here.”
“What of the women?” Freki asked. They had found nigh to a score of troll wives in the fortress depths. Some of them had lost their minds or their will to live, but others might yet survive this ordeal.
Thor looked at the varulf as though mist-madness had claimed his mind. “Escort them back to the grateful village, of course. How else would our tales spread?”
Sif hid her wry smile. She was never quite sure just how much of the prince’s pomposity was an act and how much his true self. She remembered admiring him as a young child before Father had sent her to be fostered in Dalar. “Should we search the fortress again? Might there be aught of value worth claiming?”
Thor shrugged. “I think Father took it all when they left this place. The village will have food and drink—more than I can say for this Hel-cursed placed. Leave the stones to rot.”
“Besides,” Itreksjod said, “someone mentioned grateful villagers and opened thighs.”
Hildolf scratched his head. “Whose thighs?”
“The villagers.”
Sif rolled her eyes.
“No one mentioned that,” Hildolf said. “Did they?”
Itreksjod shrugged. “It was implied. It is always implied, my brother.”
Through mist and snow, Geri led them back toward the village in the south. The locals here had migrated in from Bjarmaland some years after Odin’s march, only to then be conquered by the Miklagardians. Since they did not refuse—and could not have—subservience, the Miklagardian population had begun to blend with the North Realmers. In a distant way, it meant the Aesir shared some kinship with these people, though the villagers would never know it.
A good number of the abducted women had come from here, and they rushed back into the arms of their loved ones, nigh to broken, yet still with a hint of life. Those without … those who could never return to the human world, Freki and Meili had put out of their misery. Sif had not wanted to watch. Killing on the battlefield was one thing—any Ás hoping for an apple had to prove her worth in battle. But this mercy seemed little different than murder to her. Not that she herself would want to live after … No. Better not to let thoughts go down those directions. The grimmest of the Thunderers, such tasks always fell to Freki and Meili.
The villagers welcomed them with mead and roast mammoth and a great celebration, inviting them into the main hall. Sif left her halberd by the door and took up a seat at the largest table. A moment later, a serving woman came and offered her the drinking horn. Sif took a long swig of it before passing it on to Geri.
Since Sif’s return to Asgard, Geri had become her closest companion. The varulf girl wore her scraggly brown hair short—for a woman—and though she had on occasion expressed jealousy of Sif’s own golden tresses, the varulf refused any urging to grow out her own hair past her cheekbones. She danced about the edges of Ás society but remained outside, almost as much as her brother. As Odin’s adopted daughter, she held a place of honor, but the wolf in her always set her apart.
Geri drank deeply, then handed the horn off to her twin. “I saw you take down that troll,” she said to Sif. “By yourself—bold. Trying to impress … everyone?”
Sif shrugged.
“Sometimes,” Geri said. “I suspect duty is not the only reason you remain on the Thunderers after so many years.”
Sif flinched. The varulf girl read too much, too easily. In a way, Geri reminded her of Aunt Sigyn, if not half so infuriating. “I would speak of aught else at the moment.”
Geri chuckled. “As you wish. Father has been pushing the boundaries of our civilization, you know. There was an expedition a few years back to Thule. Tales say men woke something there, in the forgotten north. Something ancient and angry. If naught else comes up, we may find ourselves sailing there and looking for more things to kill.”
Sif groaned. “You mean draugar.” As if trolls were not bad enough. The Thunderers had fought a few draugar in their time. The dead made the vilest of foes.
“So tales tell it. They say the expedition left behind great wealth on Thule—gold and ancient dverg craftwork. A woman could buy herself a palace in Asgard with such a horde.”
Imagine that … her own palace. Odin’s chosen few each had their own halls around the islands. Frigg and Thor, Tyr, Loki, and Sif’s own grandfather Hoenir. Some others. In truth though, the queen decided such things more than the king, who never spent much time in Asgard in any event. But a palace—Sif could almost see it. A shinning hall, hung with tapestries plundered from Serkland and Miklagard, decked in silver, and served by a dozen slaves. It was as much a dream as receiving an apple, really.
Before she could offer much response, Thor rose with a pair of village women, heading outside their hall. Sif groaned and snatched the horn back from Freki. Fucking empty. She cast a glare at the varulf, who shrugged.
“Sorry.”
Sif beckoned over a slave girl who refilled her cup, then took another long swig.
“Yes, indeed,” Geri said. “You are clearly here for duty and no other reason.”
Freki raised an eyebrow, and Sif glared at him. He had even less right to look at her like that than his sister.
The varulf flashed a toothy grin. “If you need someone to help you celebrate, I have incredible stamina.” He bit suggestively into a hunk of mammoth flesh. “I assume you recall.”
Geri cuffed her brother on the back on the head, causing him to spit out his food.
Sif groaned and rose from the table. She tired of this company. Instead, she strolled the hall, sampling a few other foods the locals had brought. When she could eat no more, she retired to a room the villagers had arranged for the Thunderers.
Most of the others already lounged about it—some sleeping, some stirring. Meili nodded at her, rubbing his axe with an oilcloth as if it did not already shine. The man cared for little more than those weapons.
Sif returned his nod, then collapsed onto the bed in an alcove and stared at the roof, watching brazier smoke curl around the rafters until sleep at last claimed her.
A hand shook her awake roughly, and Sif rose in an instant, hand wrapped around a dagger at her side.
Geri stood there, eyes grim. “A messenger arrived not long ago, a servant—Thuth.”
Sif climbed from the bed and cracked her neck, then ran fingers through her tangled hair. “Ugh. What is it?” Her head throbbed from last night’s mead and she could have done with another hour’s sleep, at least.
Geri put a hand on her shoulder. “King Gylfi has died.”
Sif stared dumbly at the varulf girl, unable to quite wrap her mind around that. She tried to shake her head, to deny it, but no words came out. Her foster father had grown old, certainly, but she hadn’t thought … “H-how?”
“We have no details. But if you hope to reach his funeral, you must ride very hard.”
Damn it.
Damn it!
“Where is Thor?”
“Set into the day meal.”
Sif pushed around her friend an all but ran back to the main hall.
Thor rose as she entered, licked grease from his fingers and then wiped his hand on his breeches. “You’ll be wanting to go to Sviarland then?”
“Please. I … I have to.”
Thor cleared his throat. “Good then. I ordered Freki to have the whole band made ready, soon as I heard. And I told the locals we’re taking their fastest horses. We’ll ride for Hunaland and take ship there.”
Sif’s pleas died on her lips. He had already known what she would need and had dropped all else to see to it. It almost made her wonder if somehow, despite Thor’s indulgences in the other women—all the other women …
No. She could not think on such things now. Too much else weighed on her. Thor’s own father had insisted her parents foster her with the mortal king, one of Odin’s favorites. And though she had resented it at first, Sif had grown fond of her home in Da
lar over long winters. And now … Gylfi. She had never thought the last time she’d seen him would be the very last. That she would never again embrace the man who had treated her well as his own daughter.
“Don’t stand there gawking,” Thor said. “Stuff your face, and pick a horse. We’ll have to ride even at night to make it.”
His words launched her into motion. She snatched up a fistful of food and raced from the hall. Naught could keep her from bidding her final farewell to Gylfi.
5
According to Loki, Vanaheim had once had other names before the Vanir had come here. Now, it was Asgard.
The Aesir had built their palaces, settling with discomfiting ease into the roles now vacated by the Vanir. In three decades, they had become what they had first worshipped and later resented, and Sigyn could not say with certainty that they managed the role better than their predecessors.
In the late afternoon sun, Sigyn drifted among spires that stretched higher than any construction built since the days of the Old Kingdoms. The Aesir had begun to uncover lost knowledge in all fields thanks—in no small part—to her own ceaseless quest to sift through the lore the Vanir had left behind. She shook her head, unable to quite shake the smile from her face as she strolled. Loki claimed she flitted from one obsession to the next like a puppy, save that every discovery she made changed the world.
He never discouraged her studies, but he did warn that some Vanr lore was best left buried. He meant the Art, of course. The former occupants of these islands had delved deep into arcane secrets of the universe, trying to control all creation in their vanity. It had cost them a great deal, eventually leading them to banish their own elders to another world.
Sigyn placed a hand on her belly as she walked. Sometimes, she imagined she could feel the babe turning, examining its world. Preparing itself for … whatever reality she’d be able to offer him or her. She dared hope it would be a better one than she’d been born into.
A cobblestone-paved street led through the marketplace. Ás men and women who might once have spent their days hunting mammoths and their nights huddled around fires now sold ripe fruits and vegetables harvested from both islands of Asgard. They were a changed people already, and the newest generation gave little thought to the tribe structure that had once defined Ás society.
They still venerated their warriors, though, and thus many of the young sought to prove themselves out in Midgard, fighting against trolls or draugar or joining Tyr in his war against the Serkland Caliphate. Those who found glory in war were much more likely to be granted one of the scant apples of Yggdrasil still available.
A woman beckoned to her, offering her a bushel of grapes. With a nod, Sigyn left her a copper bit and picked out some red grapes. These in hand, she wandered down to the gardens.
Around the market, the Aesir had cleared much of the overgrowth the Vanir had once let sprawl. In the gardens though, nature still dominated, and this garden overflowed with poinsettias and roses while lilies decorated the numerous ponds.
On the edge of one such pond sat Loki, clearly waiting for her. She sat down beside him, dangling her feet in the water while leaning back on her hands and exposing her belly, now showing a definite bulge. And yes, she showed it off every chance she got. The apples dramatically reduced fertility as an unwelcome side effect, which meant, though they had spoken of children before, it had taken more than thirty years for her to conceive. Part of her always harbored a hidden doubt that Loki had managed this on purpose. He had lost children before, she knew, though he refused to speak of it.
“So,” she said after a few moments. “Did you look into the flames?”
Loki sighed, then shook his head. “Can you not wait for time to take its course?”
“Has waiting for the future to unveil itself in its own time oft been your strategy?”
He quirked a smile at that. “This is not the tafl board.”
“Hmmm.” She kicked her feet, splashing water on him. “Are you certain?”
He chuckled. “Odin has not yet returned.”
“Changing the subject so directly seems a rather unworthy move of you … but as you wish. Are you concerned for the king?”
“Always.” As Sigyn delved into the mysteries the Vanir had left behind, Odin pushed even beyond those boundaries, seeking answers the Vanir themselves could not or would not have sought. Desperate to understand the Sight and broken by the loss of Freyja, Loki’s blood brother so rarely returned to Asgard these days. It frustrated Frigg to no end, though she was more than capable of ruling in his stead. And Loki … well, Odin’s actions did not seem to surprise him though clearly they concerned him.
“To become the one we need in order to face Ragnarok,” Loki said, “Odin walks alone in darkness. And I am …”
“Always torn between the need to let Odin learn on his own and the fear of what the man might become without guidance. I know.”
These were the answers her husband no doubt sought in flame, the revelations of the future he could not trust. “I may very soon have to go to him.”
That drew a glower from her, but she said naught, having long since accepted the position he found himself in—torn between his own desires and the need to steer the course of history.
As evening drew on, the groundskeepers lit stone braziers scattered around the gardens.
Sigyn shifted about before finally pointing to one. “Please. Indulge me.”
With a sigh, Loki rose and drifted over to the brazier. He gripped it with both hands and stared into the flames. She had wanted to know for some time now, and he had delayed for reasons he had not spoken. Maybe many parents might have wished to look into the futures of their children.
“Sometimes,” he said, “it is better to walk blindly in dark woods than to know what lurks there and be forced to tread the same path regardless.”
“We are talking about our child, Loki.”
Again he sighed, staring deeper into the flames. What did he see in them, and how? Sometimes she envied his Sight, much as it seemed to burden him.
He had begun to tremble. Just as she started to rise to go to him, Loki stumbled away pressing his palms against his eyes. He sucked long breaths down, shuddering as if in pain.
Sigyn raced to his side and stroked his shoulders. “What is it?”
Loki turned to look deep into her eyes, then worked his jaw, clearly struggling with words. “A boy.”
“You saw something else. What? Tell me!”
He raised a hand. One more secret he could not share.
“Loki?”
He kissed her on the forehead, offering no other answer.
6
Ice formed under Skadi’s feet as she trod through the marsh, freezing the muck and allowing her to make a straight shot back to her castle. This place, lost in ages past, served well enough for her needs. Even Gjuki’s ravens did not fly so far nor think to search here for the failing witch queen. Really Skadi should just kill the woman and let Hel deal with her.
Not yet.
Gudrun’s obsession with her mother—
She’s no mother of mine!
—with her mother had infected Skadi like a blight, festering as she found herself inexplicably drawing out tortures and torments for years when her time might be better spent reclaiming her own father’s kingdom.
The castle lay half sunk into the marsh and coated with hoar and mold. The top of one tower had crumbled, its pieces now lost in the bog. Rather than allow the perilous sun inside, Skadi had rebuilt the broken tower out of ice, a single glittering spire rising from the otherwise dismal ruin.
A casual wave of her hand sent the ice gate retreating from her and allowed passage, just as she reformed it behind her. Now in control of the host, she could at last make full use of her power, limited only by the strength of the body and its pneuma.
You mean mine! And you have destroyed my hair …
Skadi fingered a few of Gudrun’s locks—transformed from blonde to white
as snow—and sneered. She needed to put the human in her place.
Are we not … allies?
Were they? Skadi could not say that with absolute certainty. She would bring about the great winter that would herald the return of Hel, and this time, none would obstruct the goddess. And to ensure that, she needed to thwart Odin.
Why is he so damn important?
Skadi descended into the depths of the castle, infusing the ice coating the walls with iridescent light as she did so. No abominable flame could enter this space, after all, which necessitated alternative illumination.
Odin had some plan for the Volsung line, and—though Skadi had not been able to unravel his intent—she needed to counter it regardless.
It had been a peculiarity, meeting with the son of Hljod, some years back. Now he was grown, and, in fact, with a child of his own, though he did not realize it. Gudrun’s memories of her former apprentice bombarded Skadi’s mind until she could almost forget those memories did not come from her own past. Such were the dangers of allowing the host even the slightest hint of free reign. Still, the sorceress did serve Hel, even if not nigh to so well as Skadi. For that service, Skadi had to grant Gudrun a measure of reprieve.
But Odin thought to use Sigmund, and perhaps turning the man into a varulf was not enough to disrupt the Ás’s plan. No scheme of the Ás king would work in Hel’s favor, after all. Maybe Skadi ought to simply kill all the Volsungs herself.
No! These are Hljod’s children! I will not betray them. We must find a way to prevent Odin’s intentions without acting against Hljod’s blood.
Skadi scowled. The human sorceress’s sentiments did infect her, staying her hand from the obvious course. Yes, more like than not, having Sigmund and the boy possessed by wolf spirits would disrupt Odin’s plans. Killing them would have done so more surely.