by Matt Larkin
Please, no. I couldn’t save Hljod. I at least must spare her children as much as I can.
Skadi placed her hand on the ice coating a door in the dungeon, sucking it back into herself. As it vanished, the door popped open, revealing Grimhild chained to the wall and clad in shit-stained rags. The once glorious queen of the Niflungar had grown old in the intervening years, humbled by decades wallowing in her own piss. Or perhaps by the torture as Skadi siphoned off bits and pieces of her already pathetic soul—the queen had traded off much of that long before now.
The stench was almost overpowering, drawing a further scowl from Skadi.
Grimhild blinked in the pale light, whimpering. “Gudrun …” Even her voice had begun to sound old, cracking and dry like worn-out leather.
“She can hear you,” Skadi said. “But she does not rule this castle. I do. And I wonder if yet some driblet of useful knowledge remains in your faltering mind. It strikes me then, that I ought to simply open it up and find out.”
Grimhild whimpered, shutting her eyes and mumbling as if to banish the situation by pretending it did not exist. And what was that? Was she praying to Hel? How ironic.
“I speak for the goddess now. She has grown tired of you.”
With her finger, Skadi began to trace spirit glyphs on the wall, preparing a summoning. Ice skittered and molded to her will, taking shape as dust flew away to form sigils.
There were things beyond the Veil that could help weaken Grimhild’s mind so that Skadi might dig through it, uncovering agents and secrets even the queen did not consciously remember. Skadi needed every edge she could to ensure naught interfered with Hel’s return. The way she had been banished back to Spirit Realm at the dawn of this era had cost the goddess, and Hel would no longer leave aught to chance.
Sometimes, Gudrun wondered at the efficacy of bargaining with this entity. Her motivations, when Gudrun could unravel them at all, seemed born of icy hatred, playing out the rage of one scorned long ago. Skadi’s hatred for Njord had become a hatred for all the warmth in the world.
Skadi paused. Where had that thought come from?
Oh. Oh, dear, sweet Gudrun. The host was not only seeping into her own consciousness but letting her mind get away with her. And that just would not do.
Skadi slammed her will against Gudrun, driving the sorceress down into the recesses of her own mind. Gudrun shrieked at the pressure of it, writhing as Skadi tightened her icy fingers against the arrogant mortal. The pain of that would put her in place for a time.
But if Skadi was to pursue her ends, she was left with two options … Fully possess Gudrun and separate their consciousness, despite her bargain with the sorceress—and breaking a bargain came at terrible cost to a spirit—or make certain Gudrun had no further doubts about which of them was in charge.
I … I don’t …
Gudrun was so very fond of Hljod, the poor wretched girl—gone now—who the trolls had so tormented. In her escape from those creatures, Hljod had lost a toe to frostbite. Maybe Gudrun would like to share Hljod’s pain?
Wait—what?
Skadi sat and yanked off her boot.
No, please, stop. Stop! It was just an idle thought. You don’t need to …
A razor-sharp blade of ice formed in Skadi’s hand. Of course, in possession of the host, she’d feel the pain, after a fashion. But it would hurt Gudrun more. And some lessons only had to be taught once.
No! You’ve made your point! Please!
Skadi began sawing off her little toe, ignoring the wailing of the sorceress trapped in her own mind. The delicious agony went on and on, even after the last bit of flesh was severed. Strange that it should hurt when not attached.
She froze off the blood flow. As a snow maiden, she could tolerate that, when it might well have killed another being.
“Am I understood?”
The old queen wept, curled upon the floor, as if thinking this was about her. Grimhild was babbling about how she knew naught else. Pathetic.
And then a thought hit Skadi. A way to be absolutely certain Gudrun would not entertain the barest hint of hubris after this. She released her hold on the sorceress, giving Gudrun control of her own body.
Gudrun screamed, falling over sideways and clutching her throbbing foot. “You did not have to do this.”
Prove your loyalty.
“I am loyal!”
Then eat the toe.
Gudrun froze in place, mouth agape. “You cannot be fucking serious.”
Deadly. Eat the toe … or do you need to suffer any of the other depredations your former apprentice went through? I’m certain I can find a troll somewhere in this marsh if I look hard enough.
The tears running down Gudrun’s cheeks were more than pain. They flowed from terror and utmost helplessness of knowing she would be punished for even daring to think of freedom or comfort or aught other than obedience.
Weeping bitterly, she snatched up her severed toe. And then, barely able to keep from retching, she put it in her mouth.
7
When the Thunderers reached Dalar, the flames from the funeral ship had already risen high into the night, burning away mist and Sif’s foster father. She pushed her way through the largest crowd she had ever seen, all clustered upon the shore and staring out after the longship. She spotted at least two of the other Seven Kings already. There, Olof Sharpsighted, who had visited the court often in her time here. And there, standing alone and watching, Aun, who had reclaimed the throne of Upsal for the Ynglings not long ago.
Who knew how many other men and women had come from far abroad to bid a final farewell to the oldest of the kings of Sviarland?
Growing up in his court, Sif had heard the rumors—that Gylfi practiced the Art, that he had used it to extend his reign to unnatural lengths. Indeed, even his grandchildren were grown, and still, last she had seen him, he walked with vigor. The sorcerer king, some men called him, though never to his face. No one accused such a man of the unmanly arts of seid in the open, but, drunk and morose, his daughter had once claimed he had tried to match his Art against Odin’s. Having lost, Gylfi became the first great disciple of the new gods.
Sif’s eyes stung and not just from the ash of dozens of torches set about to drive back the mist. Hand trembling, she drew the sword from over her shoulder. Gylfi himself had had it crafted for her. He’d worked with a woven knot pattern, its pommel crusted in gleaming bronze. Sif raised the sword in salute. After a moment, she heard other blades drawn and turned to see dozens of Gylfi’s men repeating the gesture.
At last, she let the sword fall to her side.
Long after the ship had vanished into the night, the crowd stood there, watching. Someone drifted to her side, and Sif spared a glance to find Heithr, his daughter. The old woman drew Sif into an embrace and held her tight.
Sif shuddered. “What happened?”
Heithr held her at arms length, eyes red and swollen. As a young girl, Sif had thought Heithr the very picture of womanly grace. But age had taken its toll on her, and she had lived longer than most any other mortal woman. “He fell to varulfur while visiting Siggeir Wolfsblood in Skane.”
Sif groaned. “Better than to die in his bed.”
That drew a frown from Heithr. “So skalds say, yes, but we might have had him a good many more winters had he not so feared such an end.”
Sif bit her lip a moment. Did Heithr blame Odin then, for reinforcing the belief in Valhalla? When pressed, Thor admitted he did not know what his father might have seen in the Otherworlds. Odin shared little, and, Thor suspected, not all of what he did reveal was literal truth. But the belief of a glorious afterlife was all mortal men had to cling to for comfort out in Midgard. She had to believe it true, whether Heithr missed her father or not. “You think it would have made any difference?”
“Perhaps not. None know the exact circumstances with which he fell, but some blame Wolfsblood.”
Which might mean war. Sviarland did not need more wars—recent y
ears had seen it torn asunder again and again. Blood had washed over Upsal many times in recent years, but none of the other kingdoms remained untouched either. Sif shook her head. Odin had all but forbidden the Thunderers to become involved in such conflicts, and Thor had taken it to heart, focusing his efforts on jotunnar and other monsters of chaos.
Still, someone would have to make hard choices if war came to Dalar. Their new king, no doubt. “Is your son here?”
Heithr pointed to a rocky precipice above the beach, where Svarflami stood staring off into the mists that had taken his grandfather. Even as she looked, the man turned and trod back toward the king’s hall. Sif looked to Thor and the others, who had moved to follow the prince—or the new king, now.
With a last look out into the mist, she set out after them.
The feast Svarflami set in his grandfather’s honor dwarfed aught Sif had seen outside of Asgard itself. The hall was so thick with men and women from around the land—and beyond as it turned out some had come from Reidgotaland, Hunaland, even Kvenland—she could not move without brushing up against someone. Once, a man had used the close quarters to cup a hand over her arse cheek. Her elbow to his gut had sent him toppling to the floor and set all those nearby into fits of laughter, one raising a toast in her honor.
She had not the mood for honor, though.
Instead, she settled down into a corner, watching Svarflami as he sat upon the throne. They had grown up together, him much her elder, and her, for a time, thinking him the incarnation of princely virtues and glory. It had not proved hard for him to entice her to his bed. Her first time, and despite the awkwardness and pain, she might have relished it. Had he not then moved on, no further interest in her.
“The world is changed now,” Thor said, settling down on the bench beside her.
Sif looked at him and tried not to smile too warmly. Do not become involved with princes. Some lessons a woman only had to learn once. Or maybe Geri was right. Maybe here she was, still chasing after a prince. “My world is changed.”
“Not just you.” Thor offered her a drinking horn. “Gylfi was the start of a new age of the world. Father used him to spread our fame, and with his passing, things change. Gylfi too will become legend one day. And still, I don’t even know what Father truly desires from Midgard. No one seems to, nor does he show himself much these days.”
Sif drank deep, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “They all grow old. Even the new king already seems to be approaching his twilight years. Another decade, perhaps, and he will grow gray. Life is short for the mortals out in Midgard.”
Thor rubbed his beard, favoring her with a scowl. “And what? What would you have me do about that? Perhaps I ought to grow another World Tree beside my hall, that we’d have more apples to share with anyone who crosses our paths.” He rose and shoved his way past the gathered crowd.
Sif frowned after him. What the fuck was that all about? Had he thought she was complaining about not all the Thunderers getting apples? Or about Gylfi?
She rose, winding her way after the prince. Whatever he was on about, she wasn’t going to let him talk to her like that. Yes, he was the son of the king and her leader, but still, she was the daughter of two respected members of the court of Asgard and no less than any other …
Thor had paused before a long-bearded, long-haired man with a pair of swords strapped over his shoulders. So long had passed since she had last seen him, it took her several breaths to recognize Starkad Eightarms. Eightarms glared at Thor, saying naught in greeting.
“So then,” Thor said. “Should you not bow before your prince, son of Tyr?”
Eightarms glanced around, as if concerned someone might have been listening, then shook his head. “I claim no kinship to any of you or yours.”
Thor snorted. “I wouldn’t want to admit if I had jotunn blood either.”
Oh. Well fuck.
Eightarm’s fist caught Thor in the jaw. Despite the prince’s strength and resilience, Eightarms was faster. Really, really fast. His other fist took Thor in the ribs, and the first came in again with such speed it seemed he had another hand. Thor fell back before the rain of lightning-fast blows.
At once, men pushed harder against each other, clearing a ring and shouting encouragement at the two combatants. Roaring, Thor swung back, the force of it feeling like a gust of wind. Eightarms didn’t bother trying to block Thor’s blow, instead evading it, and another swing, and another, all while continuing to land blows over Thor’s face and ribs.
“Bastard is slippery as an eel,” Itreksjod said beside her. “Makes killing into an art. Like me with lovemaking. In case you were wondering.”
Sif flinched. Her hands itched to interfere, but doing so would shame Thor far worse than getting pummeled by the most famed warrior in the North Realms. Eightarms swung again. This time, Thor caught the blow on his arm, moving faster than most men could dream, nigh to as fast as Eightarms. He bodily flung the other man into the air, tossing him over the ground to come crashing down on a table.
Thor stomped over as Eightarms groaned, trying to rise. The prince grabbed the man by his tunic and slid him across the table, scattering and breaking every plate and offering of food for ten feet, until Eightarms toppled off the end of the table.
Grumbling, Thor jumped up onto the table and trod over. Before the prince reached the other man, Geri and Freki had appeared, hefting up Eightarms and warding off Thor.
“Odin would not like this,” Freki warned.
Eightarms shook free of the twins. For a moment, his hands twitched like he debated going for a weapon. If he did so, someone would die. Much as she believed in Thor, and even though the prince had had an apple, still, Sif had to doubt which of them would come out ahead if the mercenary drew those famed blades.
“Not a good sign,” Itreksjod said. And his hand was clasping his sword hilt as well.
Eightarms did not draw, however, letting his hands fall. “I came here to pay respects to a fallen king. Not to squabble with you, Odinson.”
Thor shrugged. “Should you reconsider … I would relish a duel between us.”
Sif released a pent-up breath and glanced at Itreksjod.
The man did the same, sighing. “Well. I need to release some tension. How about you?”
“No.” She pushed past him.
“I was just offering you a drink,” he called.
She didn’t look back at him. “No you weren’t.”
Thor was like to be even poorer company than before, and she did not have much left to say to him just yet. At such times, she preferred to be alone. In this court, she had had a place just for herself, down by the lake.
Sighing, she left the hall.
The lake was as she remembered it, frozen this time of year and encircled by the forest. This little bank of it, secluded by rocks one had to scale to reach the edge, had become her private refuge in her years away from Asgard. In Dalar, Sif had mastered the bow and the spear, sword and shield, and all manner of other skills. The one answer she had never found though, was why Odin had sent her here. It had become a home, yes, but he had never spoken to her nor given her any mission.
The king had merely come to her father, Hermod, Odin’s trusted friend, and asked that he foster her with Gylfi. Nestled against the rocks, she bit her lip and stared out into the mist. The flames of her torch ought to keep the mist-madness at bay. Once, after Svarflami took her virginity then rejected her, she had spent the night out here, craving solitude and fearing everyone at court would know her shame to just look upon her.
Odin had thought much of Gylfi, had respected and needed him, and yet he had not provided the king with an apple. The Ás king forbade anyone to share an apple with outsiders, insisting on rules that limited access to immortality. Maybe it all stemmed from his fear of running out, but then, her father had once claimed the same fears once drove the Vanir into the isolation and abandonment of Midgard. The very crime for which Odin had cast them down.
Sif rubbed her knees and sighed.
A shadow descended over her, and Geri dropped down from above, landing in a crouch. The varulf had moved with such silence Sif had not even had time to grab her sword.
The girl looked at her now. “Were I a draug …”
“Then I would have heard you.”
“Perhaps. But the dead do not lose such skills as they had in life.”
Sif pursed her lips. “Would it surprise you to learn, when I left the party and wandered out into the woods I did not seek companionship?”
Geri shifted to sit beside her. “A woman needs her pack.”
Sif chuckled. “It’s not called a pack when we’re not all wolves.”
“Sure it is.”
The varulf leaned in, wrapping an arm around Sif. Somehow, the other woman always managed to stay warm. Her supernatural gifts, Sif supposed, though the wolfskin cloak probably helped.
“Thor has commanded we will return to Asgard soon,” Geri said.
Off seeking another challenge? Sif frowned, shaking her head. Thor just wanted to see where else reports of danger came from. For her sake, he had raced here, crossing several lands, that she might witness the funeral of her foster father. And that duty completed, he planned to rush off to battle once again.
Never pausing. Never seeing what lay already before him.
Sif wanted to say such things to Geri, but the words would not come. They never did.
8
For the better part of three decades, Gylfi had served as Odin’s voice in Sviarland—in all the North Realms, in truth. And now, thanks to Odin, the old sorcerer king was dead. Odin’s other unwitting disciples had ripped him to shreds in Skane in an attempt to ignite yet another war in Sviarland. Wars destroyed some men, but others they forged into weapons. Odin needed weapons, after all, if he was to win Ragnarok.
Disguised as the servant Thuth, Odin passed among the guests at the funeral, sipping the mead and trying not to fall into despondency over his actions. Were he to allow himself to do so, to wallow in regret, it would only cheapen the sacrifice he had forced from his vassal king. Gylfi’s death—following an unnaturally long life—served the greater purpose of guiding Sigmund toward his own destiny. Siggeir Wolfsblood himself mattered very little in the grand scheme, but Sigmund needed to become one of those weapons Odin could wield, and to reach that point, he had to achieve his vengeance.