by Matt Larkin
Brother.
Brother … Odin had had other brothers. Gone now. Dead? Fuck, he couldn’t remember their names nor faces nor aught about them. He was lucky he even remembered Loki. For now. And he hated the man … had he not? No, not hated. Mistrusted. But here, his brother was sacrificing his cloak all so Odin could escape from his own mistakes.
Odin clapped Loki on the shoulder, and his blood brother nodded.
“You have lost some things you would not have parted with for any price in the world.”
“I don’t know.” Maybe that was the worst part.
Odin pulled up the hood of the swan cloak.
46
Eighteen Years Ago
Rough hands seized Odin, jolting him awake. A pair of dvergar hefted him to his feet, and before he could even open his mouth, one cracked him across the jaw with a stony fist. Odin’s vision reeled, and his knees gave out.
He had not intended to sleep. So much lost blood … and where had these dvergar come from? Below the ground?
Shaking his head, he glanced about for Gungnir. A third dverg had claimed it, now leveling the dragon spear at Odin. “You killed my son.”
“Your son?” Odin glanced at the dverg corpse still lying on the riverbank.
The same dverg punched him in the gut.
“For such temerity, your life is forfeit, human.”
Irony …
Irony? That Odin had fought jotunnar, trolls, dragons, and all else and would now die because of dvergar.
Or give me … control …
Give himself over to possession, and let the wraith feast on the souls of his enemies. Except, once down that path, he might never again be himself.
You already become me …
“Your son attacked me. But I will offer you weregild for his death. What do I call you?”
“Hreidmar.” The dverg spat in the snow at Odin’s feet. “And I will accept no weregild for my son’s death save the whole of his treasure, enough to cover his entire corpse.”
The ring …
The ring would do him no good if these dvergar killed him. On the other hand, without that ring, Odin could not reach Freyja or Alfheim. And that alone was almost enough to let Audr free.
“You shall have your gold.”
“Swear it. Swear you shall cover my son in gold.”
Odin clenched his fists at his side. “I give you my oath—if you give yours to return my spear.”
Hreidmar glanced down at Gungnir, then nodded. “I so swear.”
The two dvergar holding him released him, shoving him down into the snow.
“Where is the gold?” Hreidmar demanded.
Odin glared up at him. “My brother brings it now.”
They waited.
Loki returned, dripping water and bearing what looked a heavy sack. Odin’s blood brother took in the three dvergar, then trod toward Odin’s side. Odin explained all that had passed, and Loki shook his head. He tossed the sack at Odin’s feet.
“Bury my son in gold,” Hreidmar demanded.
Odin knelt and untied the sack. Within lay a veritable mountain of coins, bracelets, and baubles, all crafted from glittering gold. Odin scooped up a great handful of it and carried it over to the corpse, then deposited it. Again and again he repeated.
And then …
There, among the pile lay a ring of rosy gold—orichalcum. Odin palmed this. Andvari’s Gift—Andvaranaut. The other wealth could be replaced, but this, this ring was unique in all creation. Unique enough that its creation had made Andvari a fugitive, perhaps even from his own family. Perhaps that was why his father and brothers now came to claim it on his death.
Tucking the ring into his sleeve, Odin scooped up more gold and continued to bury Andvari.
When at last the sack was empty, there lay before the dvergar a mound of gold larger than any Odin had ever beheld. With such wealth a man could build a new kingdom. Odin extended his hand to the pile, and Hreidmar waddled over, then bent down to inspect it.
At last the dverg rose. “Your oath was that he should be covered.”
“He is covered.”
“I can yet see the hair of his beard. If you cannot cover that, your oath is broken and your life is forfeit.”
Odin glowered, then looked to Loki.
His brother frowned. “You made an oath.”
The dverg knew. He fucking knew about the ring. It alone was worth more than all treasures.
“One moment,” Loki said. “You ought to know, Andvari made a foretelling, revealed to me in flame. That the ring and gold would be the death of any who possessed it.”
Hreidmar spat. “Lies. You cannot know what words my son spoke alone in darkness. Surrender the ring or be held as oath breakers.”
And shame Odin’s father, all his ancestors. His fallen brothers. His children. Damn it. Damn it!
The ring slipped from his sleeve into his palm. He was so close. He was so gods-damned close! He wanted to scream, to rage at the dvergar. To let Audr devour their souls. And to damn himself in the process.
Trembling with fury, he knelt and placed the ring on the pile, covering the last hairs from Andvari’s beard.
“This day will not avail you,” Loki said.
Hreidmar tossed Gungnir at Odin’s feet. “Be gone, humans.”
With last glower, Odin snatched up Gungnir.
“I will reclaim that ring.” The ice that had once filled his chest had melted to the raging inferno that now threatened to consume him. It felt like his eyes would burst into flames. Like heat would pour from his mouth and devour the world. All he could see was himself flaying those dvergar.
He and Loki sat above the fjord, looking down at the Morimarusa, its waves barely visible through the thick mist.
“You cannot take it from the dvergar without breaking your oath. You cannot act against them yourself, nor send anyone to do so in your stead.”
Odin flung a rock out into the waters, watching as it vanished. “Then I will find someone to claim it for me, whom I need to send, even if it takes me a lifetime. I will find a way to reach her.”
Loki blew on his hands then rubbed them together. “You think to manipulate someone into your service without ever actually asking for it?” Loki sighed and shook his head. “A tricky move, that.” Now he turned to Odin. “I understand the pain of losing loved ones, brother. Be careful what you do in the name of that pain.”
“Bah. I will do aught necessary to be reunited with her, cost or urd be damned. I need her, nor, do I think, can I face Ragnarok without her by my side.”
Loki sighed. “Your obsession with Freyja may cost you Frigg.”
Odin shrugged. “The one means naught compared to the other, as you well know.”
Finally, his brother clucked his tongue. “There is another craftsman, talented and famous as Andvari. I do not know if the dark smith could forge the likes of Andvari’s Gift, but he may be able to help you—if you are truly willing to pay any price.”
Now Odin turned to Loki. “Of whom do you speak?”
Loki blew out a breath before answering. “Oh, you have heard the name, even since your childhood. Your people tell of him in whispers and warnings, shivering at the now legendary cruelty of the vengeance he wrought.”
Odin paused, considering. And then he knew. “You mean Volund. He yet lives?”
“I fear so, if you could call his dark existence living.”
Legend said Volund had forged wonders during the Njarar War, perhaps even a new runeblade. Such a master might replicate Andvari’s ring. And for that, Odin would indeed offer any price the smith demanded.
Odin rose. “Find him.”
Loki stood too, frowning and shaking his head. “Come, then. I will look into the flames.”
47
Year 31, Age of the Aesir
Every lurch of the cart sent Sigmund’s gut swirling until it took all his concentration just to keep from retching all over himself inside the damn cask. If that happened, h
e’d have to open it for air … and … no. Don’t even think about it.
The road to Wolfsblood’s hall had never seemed so damned long. He needed to think of something else, aught else, really.
Wolfsblood’s head cut from his shoulders.
His hall burning down to cinders.
Father, avenged.
The wolf did not like being so restrained.
Sigmund’s fingers twitched. At long last, he would have his revenge. Naught else mattered.
Still, the wolf wanted to howl. To rage.
To kill.
Soon.
The traders deposited the casks one by one, in great clattering heaves. Though muffled by the wood, curses reached him, men whining over the weight of a few of the containers.
The one Sigmund waited in landed with a thud that jostled him and slammed his head against the wood. He barely stifled a groan.
More clatters rang out, more casks dropped in what—he hoped—must be a larder inside Wolfsblood’s main hall.
At last, when no further sound had reached him in some time, Sigmund pushed open the top a hair. No light filtered into the room. Slowly, he lifted the lid higher. Rising out of the cask proved more difficult, however. With neither room to stand nor leverage, he found himself forced to work against the side of the cask, edging his way up one painful hair at a time.
When he managed to stand erect, a jolt of fresh aches and pains coursed through him, and he had to steady himself on the cask’s rim. His varulf eyes began to adjust to the darkness—not total, as he had first though, for a hint of torchlight reached out from under the door.
One of the other containers rocked back and forth. Fitela. Sigmund stepped out of his, almost fell, and then stumbled his way over to Fitela’s cask. After his nephew cast aside the top, Sigmund helped him stand, then climb out of the cask.
Fitela groaned, arched his back, then cracked his neck. “It seems it worked.”
“Worked or not, I find your plan objectionable.”
The young man snickered, then made his way through the room, as if searching for something. After a moment, he turned about. “This is the outer room in front of Wolfsblood’s hall. We could burst in and attack, but Odin alone knows how many men he is like to have with him. Best we wait for full darkness, when they’ll have grown drunk.”
Sigmund had waited long enough. The wolf inside him whispered hints of rage and slaughter and revenge. “Drunk on what? You mean the ale in this very room?”
Fitela clucked his tongue, then rubbed his short beard. “Well, if we rush out like this we risk—”
Footsteps fell just outside the door, followed by voices. Sigmund spared a single glance to Fitela, then they both scrambled into the recesses of the room, taking up positions behind more ale casks. Sigmund slipped his dagger free. Maybe the time had come for blood at last.
The door opened, letting in a rush of light that, after so long in darkness, seemed nigh to blinding. Sigmund blinked, trying to adjust his vision.
“Bring up nine casks now,” a woman said. “And do not dare think to taste them before the feasting begins. These are for the guests.”
Sigmund knew that voice … Sieglinde. Of course, as the mistress of this house, she would command the slaves and servants, ordering the feast.
A pair of men stepped around Sigmund’s twin to grab the nearest container of ale, hefting it, and then waddling back out the door.
Sieglinde turned to follow them.
“Psst,” Fitela hissed.
She froze, then turned, hand on a knife that hung around her neck.
“Mother.”
“F-fitela?” Sieglinde advanced through the room, clearly unable to see well into the shadows.
Sigmund too rose, caught her eye, and embraced his sister at the same time Fitela threw his arms around his mother.
“You’re here,” she mumbled against his chest.
“The time has finally come to avenge all wrongs done to our family.” Sigmund stepped back from Sieglinde to look her over. The years had proved less kind to her. Even in the darkness, he could see the lines creasing her eyes, her mouth. His twin had born the worst hardships of all, married to the bastard who had murdered her kin.
She sighed and shook her head. “He has too many warriors here, bounty-seekers, raiders, even berserkir women. If you are to do this, you must strike him down as he sleeps.”
Sigmund scowled. Like mother, like son. “I will do no such thing. I shall reclaim Gramr—”
“It hangs above his throne.”
He waved that away. “If need be, I will kill him first, then reclaim her. But I shall not sacrifice my honor in any event.”
Fitela groaned. Despite their years together, the boy had never learned. Odin had chosen Sigmund. He must always make his actions worthy of that.
Sieglinde sighed but did not argue further. “At least wait until nightfall, then. If you face them all drunk, perhaps you have a chance.”
“Agreed. And sister, we need weapons. We cannot face armed men with but daggers.”
Sieglinde pointed back to the shadows. “Hide here. I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”
Sigmund nodded and moved back behind the casks.
“Mother?” Fitela said.
“Not now.”
“But surely he deserves—”
“Not now.” Sieglinde spun and fled the room as if chased by a draug.
Sigmund frowned. What in Hel’s frozen underworld? “Who deserves what?”
Fitela returned to his place beside Sigmund. “It matters naught. Leave it for now.”
Scowling, Sigmund folded his arms and settled down to wait.
The slaves came again and again, taking away the ale. And then they shut the door, and the day dragged on.
Until, after many hours, it opened again. Sigmund started to rise. Finally, Sieglinde would have brought weapons and …
Instead, two boys, maybe six or seven winters, they rushed into the room, giggling and chasing after some ring clattering along the floor. Sigmund froze in place, willing them to turn away.
One of them looked up though, caught his gaze, and then took off running.
Fitela leapt up, surging at the boy, but Sigmund caught him by the arm. “Those are your brothers, like as not!”
“And they will betray us!”
The younger boy chased the elder from the room.
Already, shouts rang out through the hall.
Fuck.
Fitela jerked his arm free and raced out of the room.
Damn it. Damn it!
Sigmund dashed after him. As he swung around the door, Fitela had snared the elder boy by the neck. He dashed him against the wall, pulverizing the boy’s skull with his inhuman strength. The other boy tried to duck around Fitela, screaming and wailing for his father. Fitela moved faster than the boy could hope to react, caught him, and snapped his neck.
As the body hit the floor, the boy’s vacant eyes stared at Sigmund, his neck twisted around so far his head looked attached backwards.
“What have you done …”
“Did you not kill my elder brother with your own hands?”
Sigmund had fought and killed an armed young man who knew what he faced. He had not slain a small child playing with a toy.
Before he could further berate Fitela, a pair of men came rushing in from the main hall, armed with axes. Fitela caught one by the throat and throttled him. Sigmund dashed forward, dodged the swing of the other, and slammed his fist into the man’s face, dropping him.
More men rushed around the corner. More than he had time to count.
Sigmund reached for the wolf, tried to let it out. But the sun was yet in the sky.
He ducked an axe swing, his fist shattering a man’s jaw.
A blade bit his shoulder.
He drove his dagger through someone’s eye, coating himself in blood. Another blade tore through his thigh and sent him stumbling. He slammed his blade again and again into the chest of a
man trying to pile atop him. A spear butt caught him in the face and sent him falling onto his back.
Everything spun. Red and black warred for control of his vision.
Someone kicked his ribs. Sigmund caught the leg and twisted, heard bones break though he could not see.
Screaming.
More blows rained down and slashes and pummeling.
Until all went dark.
48
Five Years Ago
Dawn had not yet broken and yet soft footsteps sounded outside the cave. Sigmund stirred, hand drifting to the sword by his bedding. Trolls did not move with such grace, and besides which, sunrise had to be nigh. Most such creatures would be moving for holes in the ground already. So a man? But at night?
Careful to make no sound, Sigmund rose. Barefoot, clad only in breeches, he advanced on the cave entrance. A man had to climb up and over rocks to escape this cave, but it did offer excellent concealment from Wolfsblood’s hunters. Actually, had they known who he truly was, they might not have given over their search for the wraith of the bog just yet.
Sigmund heaved himself up, out of the cave, only to find himself face to face with another sandy-haired boy. This one bore a torch in one hand and an axe in the other, his wild eyes darting about the wood for any sign of danger. The confidence of his stance, the way he held that axe, told Sigmund a great deal about his nature. This one might have been a winter or so younger than the last, but he knew how to kill. Sigmund need not even ask such a question.
“You came alone?” he asked instead, though the answer seemed obvious. Sieglinde would not and could not have snuck from the fort at night.
The boy shrugged. “She told me where to find you. I just followed the landmarks.”
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Fitela.”
“Fitela, I am Sigmund, your uncle.”
The boy frowned a moment, then nodded. “All right, Uncle Sigmund. Do you have a plan of attack?”
A plan of attack? He could not stop himself from chuckling at that, drawing an even deeper frown from Fitela.