by Matt Larkin
All of it was necessary, and yet, even the sweetest mead tasted bitter this night. Such were the draughts of traitors. Men and women here gossiped in shock that Odin and the Aesir would let their favored king fall. Others predicted grim retribution soon to fall upon those who defied the will of Asgard. Ironic, really, that Gylfi’s death had been as much a part of that will as the vengeance that would follow.
Freki nodded at him, saying naught. His varulfur children could smell him through the glamour and know him, yes, but they never revealed him. They understood his need for secrecy, even from Thor, much less from the mortals. His plans required a lighter touch than simply appearing and demanding all follow his orders, not least because doing so would reveal his plans to his enemies. The Niflungar were always watching, and, no doubt, so too was Hel.
Odin passed between other servants, unnoticed, and drifted then toward Starkad. The warrior had fought with Thor—again—but such things offered little enough harm. Starkad, like Gylfi, served Odin’s interests across Midgard, and he too suffered for this. At Tyr’s behest, Odin had worked dark sorcery to extend his son’s life—for he would not offer an apple to a man who refused to bow to Asgard—but there was a price for it, even as Gylfi had paid a similar price.
All did, Odin supposed. The Niflungar, too, squandered their own humanity in desperate attempts to shed their mortality. Even the Vanir and the Aesir seemed changed by immortality. Perhaps one could not move past mortality without shedding some semblance of humanity.
And now Odin once again let himself fall into morose reveries, as if the nature of humanity offered some import to the circumstances at hand. No, Odin would not have missed this funeral for his once-beloved disciple nor the chance to commiserate with the bereaved, but that was not the sole reason for his presence here.
For nine years he had waited, biding his time until the high seat Volund crafted neared completion. Before that happened, he needed two final components. The blood of Kvasir he would have to acquire on his own despite Loki’s misgivings. The other, Thor would serve for, Odin dared to hope.
From the shadows among servants and slaves, Odin watched his son, his brooding already replaced by a boisterous drunkenness. Odin’s ancestors knew how much he loved his son, but the man lacked subtly or cunning. He was, in his way, only one more weapon—a mighty one, but one barely in control of his own actions. And thus, long had Odin wrestled with the question of whether to rely on him. The man wielded Mjölnir with fervor and power not even Odin could have matched, and it made him ideal for slaying jotunnar.
“What do you wish?” Freki asked from behind him.
Odin suppressed a shudder. Few could sneak up on him. He did not turn as he answered. “I will speak to him directly … in the morning when he has sobered.”
“Hmm. So.” Freki cleared his throat. “Did you do this?”
Odin stiffened, still keeping his eyes on Thor, as much because he could not bring himself to meet Freki’s gaze as for any other reason. “Why do you think I would act thusly?”
“A feeling. Your other pet varulfur are here, watching. They smell guilty.”
“Stay away from Sigmund,” Odin snapped. “I cannot allow aught to interfere with his destiny.”
“Aught save yourself? If Sif even suspected the truth—”
“Then see to it she remains ignorant.”
Freki didn’t answer. When Odin finally looked back, the varulf had already slipped off into the crowd. Odin cursed under his breath. The twins were both overfond of the girl, but he had to trust their first loyalty remained to him. The last thing he needed was Sif, enraged, coming after Sigmund or otherwise disrupting Odin’s carefully laid plans.
That, if naught else, made sending Thor and his people on their way all the more important.
9
They had taken a long road to Dalar. Other men went by dog sled, but dogs could sometimes sense varulfur, and Sigmund could not afford to take such a risk. Thus, they had run as wolves themselves, stealing clothes when they entered the kingdom. Dalar was one of the strongest of the seven petty kingdoms of Sviarland, second only to mighty Upsal. But where Upsal had been torn asunder by political turmoil and the recurring assassination and usurping of the throne, Dalar had represented a pillar of stability in all the land. Gylfi had ruled fairly and—more importantly—without interruption for longer than most men could remember.
And for his funeral, men had come from the farthest reaches of Midgard. Some claimed that even mighty Thor drank inside the hall. Part of Sigmund wanted to peek inside, to try to catch a glimpse of the son of Odin, and yet, he could not afford such a risk. In the open, someone might recognize him as the son of Volsung, even after all these years. He did not want Wolfsblood to know he yet lived—not until the moment he was ready to strike the man down.
So instead, Sigmund drifted among the outskirts, watched the great fires rise, and kept to darkness. In truth, it had been long since he’d been around so many men at once, and he preferred his solitude.
Run.
The wolf needed to run and be free.
And kill.
The familiar scent announced Fitela’s presence, even over the smoke of so many fires. The young man drifted closer, until he could whisper in Sigmund’s ear. “King Olof will meet with you.”
Sigmund nodded. Good. He motioned for Fitela to lead the way, then followed the boy back to the far side of the town. The men from Njarar had opted not to stay within the Dalar hall, rather claiming shelter with a lesser jarl for this ceremony. Perhaps Gylfi’s old hall lacked accommodation for so many well-wishers. Either way, it worked in Sigmund’s favor since it allowed him far more privacy with the new king of Njarar.
The jarl’s hall was thick with smoke and sweat and strong mead, the mingled scents almost enough to overwhelm Sigmund’s senses. Men were eating, boasting, a pair wrestling. In the back, his varulf ears heard someone fucking. Gods, too many people in one place. Sigmund grimaced, trying to focus on King Olof Sharpsighted, who sat with his wife off to one side.
Fitela led him toward the king in a roundabout route, drifting around the hall without obvious purpose and pausing to exchange a few words or accept the drinking horn or share in the boasting. Sigmund’s nephew had retained a knack for such events Sigmund himself seemed to have lost.
At last they settled down beside the king, who looked Sigmund over a long moment. “I saw you once,” he said at last. “Young and prideful and nigh to unstoppable with that runeblade in your hand.” Olof cleared his throat. “Before I was king, of course, in the days when I fought as a mercenary.”
Sigmund grunted. Well enough, if the man recognized him it solved the issue of proving his first claim. “I long for the days fighting beside my father. Such days were taken from me.”
Olof beckoned to a servant who brought over a plate of steaming boar. The king picked at it before waving for Sigmund and Fitela to do the same. “The tale reached us, of course, of Volsung’s death. A great many tales, I should say, different versions to explain why Wolfsblood would turn on his own in-laws. But none of the Volsungs lived, or so we all thought, and thus the king’s claims were accepted. And now I come to learn you have been here all along. Why did you not come to seek an ally sooner?”
Sigmund pulled at the greasy meat, tore off a great hunk, and took a bite before answering. “Who was I to trust after one king of Sviarland had so misused myself and my kin?”
“Gylfi, perhaps, for one,” Olof said. “A man of honor, respected by all the kings in Sviarland.”
“And murdered by varulfur,” Fitela said.
Sigmund bit his tongue. The words were true enough, though Fitela left out that he and Sigmund were the damned varulfur guilty. Now they became liars as well as murderers.
“So I have heard.”
“And then?” Fitela asked. “What of Wolfsblood’s claims to have suppressed all varulfur in his lands? Clearly he has lied about it. Either those varulfur serve him, or he knew of them and claim
ed to have made his roads safe anyway. Either way, a man could place blame for Gylfi’s death at his feet.”
“Indeed.” Olof let the remaining pork fall from his hand then wiped his fingers on his trousers. “One could blame him. Is that why you are here? To finally seek redress for crimes done long ago?”
“Now we know what Wolfsblood thinks even of his own fellow kings of Sviarland,” Fitela said. “How many kings have died in recent years? The wars and murders … your own predecessor met a violent end, did he not?”
Olof shrugged. “The son of Nidud reaped a fitting reward for his family’s crimes.”
“So should Siggeir Wolfsblood,” Sigmund said.
“Gylfi was favored by Odin,” Olof’s wife added. “Surely his death, unavenged, will anger the gods.”
“What would you have me do? March all the way to Wolfsblood’s hall? A prolonged war would leave Njarar at risk itself. My kingdom is not so strong as others.”
Sigmund shook his head. No. No, having Olof Sharpsighted kill Wolfsblood was not enough. Vengeance was his to claim. “You need not besiege his very hall. Simply lead a large raid into his lands. It will force him to send many of his men to confront you.”
“To what end?”
“Do you not raid in summer regardless? Instead of sailing to Kvenland or Reidgotaland or anywhere else, prey on those close to home. And while Wolfsblood’s forces engage your own, he will have fewer men at his hall. So when I go to face him, he will have no one to hide behind.”
Olof snorted. “The two of you? And if he refuses you your challenge? This plan is like to end in both of you dead—but at least we will hear one last tale of Volsung valor.”
“Then you agree?” Sigmund asked.
“Yes …” Olof leaned back in his chair. “So be it. Come summer, every able man who serves me shall raid into Skane. The rest falls on your shoulders, prince.”
Sigmund pushed away from the table and rose. “No one else must know I live—not yet.” When Olof nodded, Sigmund beckoned Fitela to follow him from the hall.
They had preparations to make. Besides which, he was already more than sick of the stench of humanity and the push of people so close together. He could not leave this place too soon.
10
Sixteen Years Ago
Barnstokkr’s branches brushed the roof of the Volsung hall—of Father’s hall, really, for he had become a legend throughout the North Realms. Sigmund supposed that was why Siggeir Wolfsblood had come calling during this feast. One of the Seven Kings of Sviarland, Wolfsblood had earned his fame by overcoming a pack of a varulfur, or so stories told.
Wolfsblood sat at Father’s table now, his great host seated at the lesser tables, all toasting and feasting, most drunk. With summer came the time for raids and war-making yes, but peacemaking also, and Wolfsblood claimed to come in peace. Sigmund, for his part, leaned forward and watched the foreign king, saying little, though his brothers certainly joined in the ruckus. Their line was a testament to Father’s virility—Sigmund’s nine younger brothers and, of course, his twin Sieglinde, who like him, watched the celebration without comment as she refilled the mead.
A great many others had come this moon, nobles from around Hunaland all eager to see where the great Volsung would turn his eye this summer. In offering to join his raids, many of those nobles were subtly trying to keep from becoming the targets. Sigmund heard the rumors, of course, that one day Father would rule all of Hunaland.
Some claimed Odin and the new gods favored Father, though the man himself never said aught about the Aesir. Others even argued the god himself had been the one to drive the runeblade into Barnstokkr as a sign of his support for their line. In truth, it mattered little. If the people thought Father blessed by the gods, it was enough to earn their loyalty. And the sword yet stuck there, a silent reminder of the power in this hall.
Wolfsblood banged his empty drinking horn against the table and stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “King Volsung. I travelled far on the stories of your daughter’s beauty, and I find I am not disappointed.”
Father inclined his head, then glanced at Sieglinde. Sigmund’s twin sister stepped back into the shadows, feigning demureness, though Sigmund doubted anyone else knew it as feigned. He did, after all, know her best.
“So then,” Wolfsblood said. “I would ask you for her hand in marriage and make a worthy alliance between our two realms.”
A few of Sigmund’s brothers whooped, banging on the table. Sigmund did not.
Father inclined his head once again. “What say you, Sieglinde?”
Sigmund’s twin glanced up just long enough to reveal the daggers in her eyes. “As in all things, Father, you must do what you think best.”
Sigmund sighed. Loyal even to a fault. He saw naught wrong with Wolfsblood, of course, and the man would make a fine ally. Still, he could hardly wish unhappiness on his sister, and Skane was far across the Morimarusa.
Father, however, didn’t see it. He clapped his hands together. “Then come, let us discuss the terms of our arrangement.” He beckoned Wolfsblood over and, the two kings began arguing over the worth of Sieglinde.
Sigmund rose and searched the hall for the girl herself, finding her at last helping herself to a long enough swig of mead to make a shield-maiden proud. “You do not approve?”
“It’s not for me to say.” She covered a burp then took another swig.
Sigmund snorted. “He is wealthy, well respected, and famed in the North Realms. Even if not as much as Father, still.”
“Wealthy and famous. What more could a woman want?”
“Indeed!” He clapped her on the arm. “Indeed, I’m glad you see that. Come now, let us have some food.”
Sieglinde rolled her eyes for no apparent reason, but she did follow him back to the table and accept her share of elk. Clearly she was not yet well pleased, but perhaps every girl felt so before her wedding. She would come around.
The feasting went on for several days, stretched now to accommodate the wedding. Siggeir Wolfsblood had brought with him chests of silver and trinkets of gold some claimed wrought by Volund himself in Njarar. All fine prizes, and more than Father could have hoped to ask for.
And maybe that was why Father did not seem to notice the way Sieglinde emerged from her bedding, unsteady on her feet, eyes red and swollen. Sigmund, however, could recognize the signs of a woman used harshly. Those caught during raids often looked thus the first time Father’s men finished with them.
Sigmund drummed his fingers upon the table. Some men were like that, he knew. Maybe the man had hurt her on purpose; maybe he’d just been too fervent in his attentions. Either way, he was a bastard. And any word Sigmund might utter risked shaming Father and Sieglinde both. Still, part of him wished to call out Wolfsblood. At fifteen winters, Sigmund was well past the age of manhood and had a right to challenge anyone he saw fit. But … but if he did so, no one here would thank him. Not even Sieglinde, more like than not. That she said naught herself meant she did not want attention drawn to it.
Instead, Sigmund sat in silence, glowering at their guests. Perhaps his twin had even had a foreboding of her husband’s appetites. Perhaps that was why she had not wished this. And it was now far too late to renege on their agreement. The marriage was sealed with the bedding.
And so Sigmund sat in simmering rage, willing Wolfsblood to burst into flame. The king did no such thing, boasting and laughing and drinking up Volsung hospitality.
One of Wolfsblood’s thegns was trying to loose Gramr from the tree trunk. As expected, he failed, giving up with a huff and spew of spittle.
“What is this?” Wolfsblood demanded.
Vern laughed. One of the triplets, Sigmund’s next oldest siblings, Vern was a man himself, as he loved to remind others. “An old wizard left that there for the most worthy warrior in the North Realms. No finer blade exists, but no one has ever drawn it. Nor will they. Men come to try every summer.”
Wolfsblood chort
led. “Truly?” He strode to the sword. “We shall see.” He wrapped both of his meaty fists around the bone hilt and heaved. His muscles twitched. A vein began to pop on his head.
Sigmund folded his arms, not bothering to hide his smug smile. At least he’d get to watch Wolfsblood fail to something this day.
As expect, Wolfsblood flung up his arms and spat. “It is true then. None may claim this blade.” And there he was, huffing, chest heaving, and glaring at the sword as if it had personally offended him.
“Won’t you try, brother?” Sieglinde asked.
Sigmund started, not having heard her approach. She covered any shame or discomfort she felt well enough now, though it lurked deep in her eyes.
“Would it please you?” Sigmund asked.
She inclined her head, so he sighed and strode over to the tree. He gripped the bone hilt. It was smooth and cool and comfortable enough. For his sister’s sake, he wished he could free the damn blade and shame her husband. So, one good heave and—
Sigmund stumbled backward as the runeblade jerked free of the trunk, tearing out a shower of splinters in the process.
The entire hall fell silent. Father rose from his throne.
Sigmund knew his mouth hung agape but could not close it as he turned to his father.
“The spell is broken,” Father said. “For the most worthy warrior has come to claim the sword.”
Men cheered, Sigmund’s brothers most of all.
“Fucking Sigmund,” Vern said. Then his brother laughed. “Always have to be first at everything.”