by Matt Larkin
The queen spoke words of reverence, but those words washed over Sif, making no mark before the grand spectacle now unfolding. This mountain of muscle and glory was the boy she’d admired in their youth. As the guests had gathered, men had woven tales of Thor’s victories against Serkland. So, if he’d won fame already, Sif could only imagine what glories he’d achieve as an immortal.
Once she’d seen him fight—and overcome—three other boys at once, one of them two winters his elder. Now he fought armies. Oh, she had learned well the arts of spear and sword and shield, trained first by her parents, then in the court of Gylfi. Nevertheless, Sif didn’t delude herself into thinking she’d ever match the glory Thor had already found. Still, it was nice to imagine it.
“My friends,” Thor said, turning to address the whole hall. “Today I announce the grandest endeavor. When I leave Asgard, I will take with me eight companions—warriors all, who will set out into Midgard to fight the enemies of mankind. To slay abominations of the mist!”
What in the gates of Hel was he even talking about? The queen seemed to be thinking the same thing, leaning forward in her throne with a heavy frown creasing her brow. Odin, however, sat thoughtful, looking little surprised.
Thor was creating a party to … what? Have adventures? That sounded absurd and reckless. And fucking glorious. What surer way to win an apple than by joining the prince on his escapades? Any who fought alongside him—and lived—would have her name immortalized in tale. And with the littlest bit of luck, find herself immortal in the process.
The prince, however, did not linger long enough for her to even approach him on the subject. He strode from the hall, a buxom woman on each arm. Sif frowned after them as they left. She’d heard the stories, of course, of what eating an apple did to a person. Of what it made them want or even need to do.
“That was unexpected,” Sif’s mother said.
“Perhaps,” her father said. “I see Odin’s hand in this.”
Her mother grumbled something under her breath.
Why would Odin care? If Father was correct, and he’d wanted Thor to take this path, what did he hope to gain? Save perhaps glory for his son? Was that it? Either way, it changed naught—Sif needed to be on that squad. She would join Thor’s team, no matter the cost.
Another bolt of lightning split the night sky. A heartbeat of illumination in the pouring rain and darkness. The thunder had grown so close it drowned out many other sounds. Sif pulled up her cloak closer and hurried her steps toward Thor’s hall. Thrudvangar, he called it—a gift from his mother on his return from the war in Andalus.
Thrudvangar lay very close to Valaskjalf where his mother resided. The thought made Sif smile. Frigg granted her son the honor of his own hall, but then, she still wanted him by her side. Sif imagined she’d have done the same damned thing.
When she reached the hall, she banged on the double doors. A slave pushed open one of them a moment later, ushering her inside as another peel of lightning crashed overhead. Sif let the slave take her sopping cloak, then trod toward the gathered others. The hall was thick with smoke from many braziers and warm despite the storm outside.
Thor sat in its heart, a massive drinking horn in one hand and a redheaded woman in the other, sitting on his knee while he pet her hair. Other men and shieldmaidens surrounded them, clambering and chattering and boasting, all no doubt as eager for a spot on his party as she was.
And if she didn’t act soon, her chances would wither away before Thor even met her gaze.
Sif cleared her throat.
No one bothered to look at her, save a brunette girl sitting some distance behind Thor. Not clamoring for his attention, that one. Why? Had she already secured a spot? Sif met the other girl’s gaze. Wait, wasn’t this Odin’s varulf girl? Geri. That was it. Well of course Thor would give first chance to his own siblings, and varulfur no less. Fuck. She should have known. And did that mean she was competing against other shifters for these spots?
She needed an edge to get on the team. It wouldn’t be her fighting prowess—unfortunately, others could match or exceed that. So what then? She had really only one claim to prestige here. Boasting had never been her strongest suit, but you had to learn to do it in any court.
“I am Sif Hermodsdottir!” she shouted, finally drawing Thor’s eye. “Fostered with King Gylfi of Dalar in Sviarland for ten years and returned now. And I …” And now they were all looking at her. “I believe I would make an excellent addition to your team, my prince.”
Thor looked her up and down, then glanced back at Geri.
Whatever the prince intended to say though, he snapped his mouth shut when the doors flew open again. And in strode the king. Dressed in worn travel clothes and a wide-brimmed hat, carrying a heavy satchel and leaning on his spear like a walking stick. Looking not the least like the ruler of the whole fucking world. But then again, he never had.
Odin strode straight to his son’s side, and the gathered men and women parted before him like leaves blown away by a gale. He spoke in his son’s ear for a moment, Thor nodding along. Then the prince looked back at Sif.
“I have found my newest companion,” Thor announced and waved her over.
Wait. Just like that? That easy? She looked to Odin, but the king did not turn toward her. He’d said something to get Thor to choose her, hadn’t he? Why? First Odin had sent her to Gylfi, now he’d helped her achieve her dream. Men said Odin favored her father … could that be all this was?
Thor beckoned again, and Sif scrambled over, sitting beside him where he indicated.
“So,” the prince said. “We have but one place left remaining, and we will be nine. An auspicious number, and the most I can handle.”
“Unless they were all as pretty as that one,” someone said. “I hear you’ve handled twelve, once.”
Thor looked to the speaker. “Such tales are exaggerated, Itreksjod.”
“Ah.” The man shrugged. “They handled you then?”
Thor grinned like an idiot. “I suppose they did at that.”
“Well then, my prince,” Itreksjod said, “surely you can bless us with the tale?”
Thor snorted. “Not this night, I think.”
“Very well. Though it burdens me, I can see no alternative save to then accompany you, to ensure I am there when the night does arrive.” He raised his hands and waved everyone else away. “Forgive me all, but I am now bound by duty and an oath. Thank you all for coming. The team is now full. Please enjoy the mead on your way out. Do not slip in the rain.”
What the fuck?
Thor chuckled, then waved his own hand. “You heard him. The team is full.”
When the others had gone, the nine of them remained, along with the king.
“It strikes me,” Meili said, “that to call ourselves the team repeatedly is cumbersome.”
“Nor does it make for the best work for skalds,” Itreskjod added. “And lo! Did the team break their fast. And lo! The team ate cold fish.”
Meili rolled his eyes. According to Geri, Meili had fought his way through the Serkland lines after being separated from the rest of his war bands. He’d escaped custody and become a bit of a legend, enough to earn acknowledgment from Odin himself.
Nepr and Hildolf had been in Thor’s band in Andalus, so those choices had seemed obvious enough, as, of course, were Geri and her brother Freki. Then there was Ali, who said almost naught the whole time but had earned fame for his skill with a bow, said to rival even Agilaz, Sif’s other grandfather.
Really, it made Sif herself the only strange choice for this team. Nor did she quite know her place here. But she would make one. “Stories say they named you for a thunderstorm,” she said.
Thor looked to her, then nodded.
“And here we are …” Another crash of thunder rang outside. “Again. So why not call ourselves the Thunderers?”
“An excellent suggestion,” Itreksjod said. “I was, however, going to suggest something like The Feral Minions o
f Itreksjod. Something to strike fear into the loins of our enemies.”
Hildolf scratched his head. “We want scary loins?”
“We want our foes to have cravenly loins, yes. For then they shall sink to despair and be unable to stand against the Feral Minions.”
Thor groaned. “I’m starting to rethink the team composition. And, yes, Sif, I like Thunderers. Like a storm we shall sweep through Midgard and destroy the enemies of mankind.”
The king rose then, nodding. “Out in the wild places you will face many great souls among the forces chaos. Jotunnar, trolls, perhaps even stronger enemies. Opponents not easily slain by mortal blade or arrow.” He drew up the satchel beside him. “Against such foes, I would see you properly armed.” The king drew out a wide-headed hammer from the satchel, one engraved in runes and knot-work, with a stunted haft. “To accomplish your mission, I give you Mjölnir, wrought in the ancient dverg tradition and imbued with power.” Thor reached for it, and Odin jerked it away. “Be worthy of such a prize, my son.”
Thor paused, nodded, and then Odin let him grasp the hammer. His eyes seemed to gleam in the firelight, as if he had just touched something Otherworldly. Maybe he had. Sif shivered.
“It is like a runeblade,” Thor said.
“Much like one,” Odin said, “but with more heft and thus well-suited to fell even the largest of foes. Few on Midgard or Utgard will stand before its power, if you wield it well.”
Thor’s grin grew almost too wide. “Oh, you know I will.” He ran calloused fingers over the engravings and seemed so enraptured with it, Sif wanted to touch the thing herself though she restrained the urge. “With this Mjölnir, I shall crack skulls and shatter bones, bringing down any who oppose the Thunderers.”
“Do so with care, and remain true to your mission. You do not go out into the world to terrorize mortals nor make free with them. And, too, be careful not to become distracted by mortal wars. We must be better than the Vanir were, or all we have done amounts to naught.” With that, the king turned and shuffled away into the darkness, then slipped out into the storm.
Thor, for his part, sat there, running his fingers over the rune work on that magnificent hammer.
Jotunnar … without knowing what she was about, Sif had just volunteered to fight the god-like jotunnar. She was going to need a great deal of mead this night.
18
Year 31, Age of the Aesir
A long scar crossed the corded muscles of the berserk woman’s arm. The leader of their band, this Magnhild, offered Skadi a crude solution to a potential problem. The woman strode beside her like a bodyguard, though Skadi needed none.
These mercenaries had stomped through Wolfsblood’s town like all they saw was their birthright. The arrogance of it might have offended her, were they not her own warriors, bought and paid for. True, Skadi might have bound the bear spirits with the Art, but there was little reason to go to such trouble when plundered dverg silver would win the women’s support with far less effort or risk.
Magnhild tossed aside the thighbone of a deer she’d swiped from the village. “How long are we supposed to watch over the wolf fucker?”
Skadi glanced at the mercenary. The woman twitched, like she needed to be doing something with her hands every moment of the day. Throttling someone most of the time. “A few moons, most likely, though longer if needed. However long, you’ll be compensated by me and the king both.”
“Extra pay is always welcome.”
Skadi didn’t answer her. Such petty beings were barely worth conversing with, after all. These berserkir were but tools to bring down Odin and his people. Savage animals populated the World of Moon, beasts driven by base instinct.
The berserkir followed her to the outer wall that ringed Wolfsblood’s village and his hall within it.
It was as unimpressive as Skadi remembered from the last time she had come here, though functional by the standards of the mortals who now claimed Midgard. Most of it was stone, thick enough to hold back a small army, with the only real weakness in the gate they now approached.
Skadi’s hood concealed her face, and the gate guards held the door fast until she drew very nigh. Then, looking upon her, they glanced at one another. Neither spoke, but one threw the gate wide, letting her inside the wall. They all fell back as she entered, not one offering to escort her toward Wolfsblood’s hall. Rime had crusted around her eyes and mouth—as she liked it—no doubt driving these so-called warriors into fits of panic for their very souls. Skadi smirked. They need not know her to know of her. Word of the Queen of Winter had begun to spread.
Inside lay a small village and beyond that, Wolfsblood’s hall.
Skadi slipped into the king’s hall and drifted among his gathered horde. Most paid her no mind unless she drew close and they saw her, or, no doubt, felt the cold wafting off her. Then they fell away like scattering ravens taking flight.
A hand grabbed her elbow and spun her around. Who dared! Ice formed around her fingertips without a conscious thought, but Skadi dismissed it a moment later.
“What are you doing here?” Wolfsblood’s own queen, Sieglinde, drew Skadi off into the shadows, away from the hateful flames in those braziers. Then she faltered, as light must have fallen on Skadi’s face. “Y-you’ve changed.”
Of course she had. When last she had come here, Gudrun’s natural looks had shown through, and Sieglinde had thought her a beautiful witch. True enough, she supposed. The foolish and spiteful queen had been easy to manipulate and had jumped at the chance Skadi offered to exchange their shapes. Wearing Gudrun’s form, Sieglinde had seduced her own brother in her desperation to avenge her father, so certain they could produce a pure heir together. And Fitela indeed carried the courage of his father and the ruthless cunning of his mother.
You are disgusting …
Skadi frowned. Perhaps Gudrun needed to be punished again.
No! Forgive me. I misspoke. It was not you, but her, Sieglinde, at fault. Forgive me …
“I am here for the same reason as before, to call upon King Siggeir. Were you not pleased with our last arrangement? Did it not sate your … desires?”
Sieglinde flinched, and Skadi barely concealed her smirk. Maybe the girl had lusted after her own brother, using the conception of that boy as an excuse. The important thing here was, the more this family twisted and turned upon itself, spiraling into depravity, the less use Odin could make of any of them. The Volsungs were damned.
The real irony of course was, Skadi had actually encouraged Siggeir Wolfsblood’s desire for Gramr and thus his betrayal of Volsung.
In the back of her mind, Gudrun stirred, obviously trying not to think. Yes, the sorceress had favored Hljod and her husband. But disrupting Odin’s plans mattered far more than her host’s petty sentiment.
Petty? The girl was like a sister to me! Because of you she and her husband and most of her children are dead! You call this petty?
Forgotten her place again?
Well, there was always a cure for that. It was largely because of Gudrun that Volsung’s son lived at all. The mortal sorceress seemed to have forgotten her last lesson. Her foot still ached where the missing toe ought to have been.
Gudrun hissed in the back of her mind.
Skadi waved Sieglinde away and strode toward Wolfsblood where he sat upon the throne. With her eyes, she commanded the king to rise. He managed to do so without quite surrendering his dignity and followed where she led into her personal chamber behind the great hall. Skadi motioned Magnhild to wait among the other guests. The berserk was certain to avail herself of the king’s hospitality.
“I did not think to see you again after so many long years,” the king said. “You look changed … but not older.”
Skadi shrugged. “I am changed. But I have not come to talk of myself. I come to talk of you and your lands.”
Please don’t do this …
Wolfsblood shifted his weight but kept his mouth shut. Well trained this one. Gudrun could stand
to learn from him. And, in fact, she soon would learn a great deal through this king.
Please …
“You think that the last of the Volsung men are dead, but one yet draws breath in your very realm.”
Wolfsblood frowned. “Who?”
“You know him well.” Skadi pointed back to the main hall. “The rightful owner of the runeblade that hangs above your throne, as chosen by Odin himself.”
Wolfsblood sneered. “Sigmund. So he did escape my mother before her death.”
Why are you doing this? Do you not think Odin’s plans already thwarted by your schemes?
Since Skadi did not know exactly what Odin’s plans were, that was hard to tell. Thus far, she had spared Sigmund and his sister. Maybe it was time to change that. She had let Gudrun’s sympathy influence her long enough.
“Not only does Sigmund live, but I believe he will soon come for you. Your varulfur pack is gone, as I’m sure you’ve now suspected … Your allies have turned against you, blaming you for Gylfi’s death … And soon he will come for you …” She pointed at Gramr. “And for the sword.”
Wolfsblood glowered, casting another glance at the hall. “Oh, then he will have it. I will ram that blade through his gut and spread his entrails over half the marsh. The last Volsung will die like all the rest.”
“Oh, but after he has slain your own mother?” Skadi let a wicked smile settled over her face. “Do you not wish him to suffer long? Surely you can think up some prolonged agony for him once he falls into your grasp.”
Stop!
The Niflung princess did not seem inclined to learn—she commanded naught any longer. All Midgard belonged to Skadi now, and she could do as she pleased with the world—and with Gudrun’s body.
Wait …
Skadi willed away the worst of the cold from her hands and placed them on Wolfsblood’s shoulders, slowly pushing him down onto the bed. “I bring you twelve berserkir women—more than a match for any foe and well suited to replace all you have lost.”