by Matt Larkin
But then again, who did?
“What do you need?” she asked.
59
Sigmund had lost track of time, but judging by the dwindling light from above, evening once again drew nigh. How many days had they lingered down here already? Too many. Half a moon, maybe? Perhaps less, though it felt like more. His stomach ached, and the wolf lurched around inside him, howling in his mind until he felt the vibrations ringing in his skull. It wanted out and he half feared it would force him to shift, caring naught for the fetters. With his hands bound behind his back, a shift was like to rip his arms off. Yet, while his feet remained chained to the slab, he could do naught to change the position of his hands.
Wolfsblood had given this torture ample consideration.
Fitela had not spoken all through the day, and Sigmund had left the boy to his melancholy or self-loathing. In either case, he had naught to offer him.
The sun began to set.
Someone paced around up above. On occasion, one of Wolfsblood’s men—or perhaps the king himself—would piss down through the gap, sending a shower of it out before them. The position meant it could not fall upon them, but it ran down the incline and left them sitting in a pool of it. As if being stuck sitting in a pool of their own piss were not vile enough.
Whoever stood above grunted, trying to force something down through the gap.
“What wretch stands up there?” Sigmund demanded.
The man grunted. “You know me … I once brought you honey.”
The slave from years ago! Thrithi was his name. “And now?”
“Now your sister sends pork that you might live longer.” A final grunt and then something plopped down on the far side of the slab. Well then, at least Fitela would have some food, though it might only prolong his torment. “Sorry. I have to go! The mist thickens, and I cannot risk discovery. Sieglinde …” He fell silent.
“What are you doing there, slave!” A woman’s voice. A berserk?
“T-the mistress ordered me to mock those who slew her children.”
“Get your wrinkled old arse inside the hall before mist-madness rots what’s left of your mind.” The other speaker grumbled something under her breath about fools coming out at night, her voice receding as she wandered away.
“Fitela,” Sigmund whispered when it seemed the woman had left.
“Mmm.”
“If you eat that, it’ll only be that much longer before you can leave your body behind.”
“I’m fucking starving. Sorry I can’t share but … what the …”
Sigmund pushed himself up. “What? What is it?”
Fitela grunted, followed by the sound of wet flesh hitting stone.
“What has happened?” Sigmund asked.
“The flesh of a whole damned boar it seems, and the bones inside seem too hard like …” He flung something else away from himself. “The bones are all wrong and—ah! Fuck!”
“Fitela!”
“Something inside cut me … my—my whole damned hand is going numb.”
Sigmund turned around, staring at the slab, though he could make out naught in the growing darkness. “Numb? Fitela. The bone you felt before that—might it be a sword hilt?”
More plopping and sloshing of flesh. “This is a bone-hilted sword.”
Oh, Sieglinde. Oh, sister. She had stolen Gramr. And how Wolfsblood was like to rage once he realized his stolen blade had vanished from above his throne. “Take the hilt in both hands.” Sigmund lurched away from the slab as far as his fetters allowed. “Drive it through the stone slab.”
“You want me to cut stone with iron? Have you already gone mad with hunger?”
“I do not think that dverg-wrought blade is made of iron. Either way, do as I command, boy.”
Fitela grunted and shifted from the other side. And then, with a cry of effort, a rending sound, metal screeching on stone. The blade sheared through the slab and punched to stick out not far from where Sigmund had retreated to. She had really done it.
“Hel’s frozen tits,” Fitela said. “This blade …”
“Nephew. Listen carefully, for we must do this before dawn, before men begin to wake. Saw the blade back and forth to cut through the slab. With it gone, you’ll have an angle to free me, then I can do the same for you.”
Fitela’s pants came in ragged gasps long before Gramr finished hewing through the slab. As the sword sliced free from the edge of it, the stone teetered.
“Grab it from the right side and twist,” Sigmund said. “I’ll do the same, and we can turn it.”
Stone grated on stone as they pushed. Sigmund’s muscles ached from his starvation. How much worse Fitela’s must feel. Finally, the stone turned around, and Sigmund squeezed around the end of it so he could join Fitela.
“You did well.”
The young man slumped down, wheezing, his arms and chest trembling.
“Give me the sword,” Sigmund said and turned around to feel back with his hands. Fitela pushed the hilt into Sigmund’s fingers.
Gramr purred to him as he held her, her song a reprieve from his agonies. For so long he missed her and now, finally, they were reunited. And together they might have true vengeance.
But damn, finding a way to cut those chains with both of them having their hands bound behind their back—that would prove awkward. Lacking a better plan, Sigmund began to saw at the chain binding Fitela’s feet.
After a great deal of jerking the sword around at a strange angle, one of the links snapped through. Using his fingertips to feel around in the dark, Sigmund unthreaded that link from the others.
“You got it?” Fitela asked.
“Yes. See if you can get your hands around now.”
Fitela rolled about on the ground a moment, before coming properly, hands before him. Sigmund handed Gramr to him, hilt first. With a single stroke Fitela sheered through the chains binding Sigmund’s wrists. Another stroke freed his feet.
Sigmund reclaimed the blade, kissed her runes, and then cut through the chains holding Fitela’s wrists. Now he rubbed his own wrists, staring up at the gap. They might climb it, though footholds looked few and far between. Still their varulf muscles could accomplish great leaps when at full strength.
Fitela fell to his hands and knees and began scarfing down the roasted pork scattered about this side of the cairn. Of course, they would need their strength. Because this very night they would break free and then, berserkir or no, Sigmund would have his revenge.
60
Five Years Ago
For almost two moons Sigmund and Fitela had stalked the forest and the marsh, hunting down any who dared trod upon it. As a varulf, he no longer feared the mist. Indeed, it concealed him from his prey. The wolf vaettr inside him stirred most with every moonrise, demanding he run, stalk, and kill. Sigmund obliged it. As he would tonight with moonrise drawing nigh.
He and Fitela sat on the forest floor, perhaps a quarter mile from the wood’s edge, waiting. They had stirred up enough trouble for the outlaying villages that now, the local jarl had sent men to hunt them. Perhaps they even blamed Wolfsblood, the man who was supposed to have driven out the varulfur from his land. As it stood, Sigmund had now slain another four of those as well. He could not quite conceal the smile at the thought of Siggeir Wolfsblood bearing the blame for crimes Sigmund committed.
They had done well, but Fitela needed to learn to track and fight on his own.
“They look for us,” the boy said.
“Indeed. But they yet fear to wander into the forest. We can play on that, but first we must draw them in. We will split up, each harrying the hunters from different sides. When you have a few alone, take them, and leave no survivors.” Sigmund hesitated. Despite the wolf spirit giving him the strength of a man, Fitela remained yet a boy. “Much as you are young and daring, do not risk engaging more than seven men at a time. If facing such odds, retreat and howl for my help.”
Fitela sneered. “And will you agree to do the same?”
Damn, but the boy had grit. Sigmund snorted, but he nodded his head, then stalked off on his own.
As the moon rose, the wolf spirit stirred, growing restless beneath his flesh. Sigmund fell to his knees, shedding his clothes and groaning in pain as muscles shifted and joints popped. It always hurt. Fur sprouted from his back, his shoulders, then everywhere else. His face stretched and twisted, elongating into a snout, the process of which felt much like having his bones smashed to pulp with a rock. Finally able to breathe, he howled—or the wolf inside did. In such a state, he almost could not tell the difference.
And Sigmund ran, dashing around trees with speed and grace no human—nor even a mortal wolf—could hope to match. The sheer freedom of it, of the wind racing over his eyes and snout, it overwhelmed all other sensation and set him into a euphoria much like a battle frenzy.
And he ran and ran.
They hunted him, of course, maybe even thinking him the prey. Or maybe they were not such fools but had given in to their desperation and thus pursued him through the woods. In truth, it did not matter. These men paid tribute to Wolfsblood for their safety. Through their slaughter, the king was shown as weak and would thus lose his supporters.
Besides which, the wolf demanded it. It needed the hunt. It needed the kill.
Through the mist, Sigmund stalked behind the back of the hunters’ group. They stuck close together, all torches and spears and one with a bow. Seven men.
He no doubt could have slain them all, but had struck a bargain with the boy. And thus followed them, letting loose a long howl that sent the hunters into a frenzy. They swung their torches about to banish mist and formed up close together.
Sigmund would have laughed had he the throat for it. Instead, he loped around to the side. Waiting.
Fitela’s answering howl rang out through the night, some distance away. How was it he could now recognize a specific howl?
His tongue craved the iron taste of blood and the soft chewiness of flesh. Sometimes, he could no longer say where the wolf ended and he began.
Sigmund continued to circle. At last, the hunters gave over their watch and began to spread out, seeking their prey.
Falling dead still, Sigmund waited. It almost hurt, trying to control the wolf, to stop it from surging forward. Every instinct demanded he act immediately. But wait. He had to wait.
One of the men screamed off to the right, drawing the eyes of all others. At that, Sigmund charged forward. Snarling, he leapt through the air and bore down the bowman. They collided, and Sigmund’s jaws clenched around the man’s throat. A single savage twist ripped it out, the intoxicating taste of a fresh kill settling over his palate. He could not let the wolf savor it.
Sigmund lunged at the next man. His victim brought up a spear, trying to fend him off, but moved as if mired in snow, his every motion clear long before it connected. Sigmund dodged around the weapon and bit the man’s knee. As the victim fell, the wolf took over. It snapped jaws down over the man’s face. Bit and tore, rending, chomping. Destroying.
Predator.
Meat.
Sigmund felt it as another man tried to advance on him. The flying form of Fitela bore that man down. Sigmund leapt at another. One by one, they tore the villagers to pieces. Then they parted again, for there were yet more hunters to fell this night.
Sigmund’s last victim led him on a chase back toward the village, seeming intent to escape. He caught the man in a field just beyond the wood. His weight drove his prey onto the ground. Jaws snapped close. One more dead. One more man the king had failed.
After lapping up the blood, Sigmund rose and shook himself. Where was the damn boy? He had not heard from him in hours now. An ill feeling seized his gut, and Sigmund trotted off, back into the woods, until he finally picked up Fitela’s scent. This he followed a long way. He tracked the boy past several kills, over a creek, and beyond, into a grove where lay the bodies of eleven men, all torn to shreds. What in Hel’s frozen underworld was Fitela thinking? He had taken on so many and never called for help.
Now, the other wolf’s scent mingled with a trail of blood Sigmund followed to a great oak. There the boy lay, in human form, bleeding from numerous wounds. Sigmund knelt and examined the worst one, what looked like a spear thrust to the hip.
Fitela groaned, eyes popping open as Sigmund touched the wound.
“What madness took you, boy? Why did you not call for my help?”
Fitela pushed himself up, back against the tree, grinning. “Oh?” He chuckled. “You do not test your limits. You accepted my help to kill seven men, while I, a child, killed eleven by myself. Perhaps I am the greater of us.”
Before he realized what he was doing, Sigmund had hefted Fitela to his feet and slammed him against the tree trunk. The wolf took over.
It used his jaw to bite the boy’s neck. Hot, acrid blood ran down Sigmund’s throat.
Burning rage pumped through him, demanding he force the boy into submission. Demanding it. None might challenge his authority. Not in this pack!
Not …
Sigmund dropped the boy, gagging. For a bare moment he stared down at his hands, soaked in the blood of his own nephew.
Fitela gurgled, spitting up yet more blood, clutching both hands to his throat.
No. No. No!
What had he done? He hadn’t even thought, hadn’t had the chance to form any …
“Fitela?” Sigmund grabbed him and lifted him in his arms. “Fitela, boy!”
His nephew tried to say something but just choked. Oh, Odin. Please, do not let this boy die. Please, Odin. Please.
Fuck!
The wolf had completely taken him over. Its rage blinded him to aught else, its fury at being challenged.
Damn the wolf. And damn Gudrun! The vӧlva—or sorceress, if so she was—had wrought this.
Naked and cradling his nephew in his arms, Sigmund raced through the forest. The cabin those other varulfur had claimed lay nearby. There Fitela could rest. He’d be all right. He had to! Sigmund’s heart clenched, and he felt apt to retch up all the blood and flesh he’d taken down this night. Fitela’s blood.
A varulf could heal from wounds mortal to a human. He could heal. He had to heal.
Sigmund found himself screaming, roaring into the night. Defying the sorceress and the wretched king and the wolf inside him. Sigmund would do aught it took to gain control of the beast now sharing his body. But first, he had to tend to Fitela.
His nephew could not die.
He would not allow it.
Together, they were going to save the Volsung dynasty. Together they had planned everything.
61
Year 31, Age of the Aesir
Voices awakened her. Sif’s eyes popped open though she held very still. Night had fallen—sometime after midnight by the look of it.
“Because time is very short. It behooves our cause to ensure Wolfsblood’s castle remains undefended against the Volsung revenge.” That was Odin’s voice.
Now Sif did sit.
Indeed, the old king sat before their fire, talking to Thor and the twins.
“But killing women,” Thor protested. “That is not work fit for us.”
“They are berserkir mercenaries and murderers and thieves, every one of them, should that ease your conscience, son. They prey on their fellow people and care naught for the sentiments of honor that seem to guide your hesitation.”
Thor grunted, then looked to Sif. “The king wants us to eliminate Siggeir Wolfsblood’s berserkir mercenaries.” That much she had gathered already. Thor cleared his throat. “So you … uh … you intend to aid in that.”
No. She was done.
Except … Odin was staring at her now. This was the man who’d let Gylfi die, who had, if some rumors were to be believed, perhaps even betrayed her foster father.
Odin had thought Sif special, or so Geri had claimed. The king had believed her capable, important even, and thus used her to foster with his most-trusted ally on Mid
gard. It was a trust she had not given overmuch thought to, really, but she could hardly betray it. Damn him.
And damn Thor. Damn the whole fucking royal family.
But this was Gylfi. And Wolfsblood deserved what was coming to him.
“This is the last time.”
Odin nodded, the barest hint of a smirk creasing his aged face. He’d known. Bastard. He’d known she’d never refuse the mission. Not from him and especially not this mission.
Thor rose then, grabbing his mail and fumbling with it.
“What?” Sif asked. “Now?”
“Has to be tonight, Father says,” Geri answered.
Oh by the Tree. Mountain jotunnar and berserkir and not even a full night’s sleep between the two.
Another bear charged at Sif, loping over the hill outside Wolfsblood’s town. Sif held very still, stolen sword in hand, waiting. Waiting. Damned things were fast—much faster than something that size ought to be. Less agile than varulfur, yes, but able to cover ground at incredible speeds.
Her heart was pounding. Sweat streamed down her back. Stung her eyes.
Two berserkir were dead at her feet already, reverted back to naked woman.
And here came the third.
The bear roared as she charged. Her massive paw surged up for a swipe that might’ve knocked Sif’s head from her shoulders. Screaming herself, she jerked her sword around, catching the shifter in the muzzle. Her sword sheared off her nose and immediately sent the bear recoiling in shock.
Sif jumped backward, out of the way of those deadly claws in case the she-bear still managed to attack. And she did. The pain forestalled her only a moment, and then rage must have took over. The bear reared up on her hind legs, swiping and bellowing.
Again Sif leapt backward. Not far enough. Not fast enough.
A paw caught her leg. It ripped through her unarmored thigh, tore out muscle and scored bone, the absolute agony driving all thought from Sif’s mind. She pitched over, and the bear was on top of her. Jaws descending on her face.