The Fires of Muspelheim

by Matt Larkin

  Except, linnorms were beasts. They didn’t have goals. They certainly didn’t have fucking strategies. And Thor was just working himself up with worry.

  They came upon it, at last, nestled in a small lake within a snow-blanketed wood. Here, the trees had lost most all their leaves, and some had begun to bend out of shape, already seeming to react to the presence of this poison thing.

  The linnorm lay with its bulk under the water, while it munched upon the corpse of a mammoth that had made the mistake of coming to drink. The sound of crunching bone and splattering flesh carried across the waters, setting Thor’s teeth to grinding. A hideous noise, followed, every so often, by an even more stomach-churning slurping.

  They’d agreed to flank it, coming upon it from opposite sides of the lake, Tyr bearing that fell runeblade, and Thor with trusty Mjölnir. The hammer had never feasted on a dragon’s soul before, so that ought to be a treat. Old legends claimed Father’s spear—or at least the blade—was forged from a dragon’s soul.

  Thor had already cast aside the torch. Without it, the mist grew thick, and he couldn’t make out the details of the beast he stalked, though the hideous sound of its feasting left no doubt he drew nigh. Still, he couldn’t afford to let the torchlight give him away. He needed to creep up and get the advantage over the beast.

  Father had told stories about his encounter with one—Thor had asked for those tales oft, as a young man. And his father had indulged him, telling how those two forelegs could propel a linnorm forward like an arrow flung from a bow. Incredible speed, though not much ability to change direction once it had launched itself.

  Trying to keep his breaths slow and quiet, Thor continued to make his way forward.

  Part of him wanted to challenge the dragon to a proper duel. Only, knowing it wouldn’t even understand him if he tried, that contributed to him not feeling overinclined to do so.

  Shame, though.

  A holmgang with a linnorm would’ve made a fine tale for Thor’s own children. Well, if Frey had it right, there’d be plenty of dragons left for dueling with once …

  The slurping had stopped.

  Without further warning, an enormous reptilian head came drifting out of the mist, looking straight at Thor. Great horns jutting from its head. Spurs popping out of its spine. The thing looked much larger up close.

  Much larger.

  “Ah,” Thor said. “Why don’t you go back to your business and I’ll go back to smiting you?”

  The linnorm lunged at him, fast as a snake. All Thor could do was fling himself down as the serpent crashed past him, hurtling through a tree as if it wasn’t even there.

  Thor’s shoulder hit ice. Then he felt it shift beneath him.

  Shit.

  The ice gave out and he plunged down into the lake, silt blinding him, freezing waters shooting up his nose.

  Wild flailing.

  He broke the surface, sputtered, and—

  The serpent’s bulk slapped him like a giant fist, sending him tumbling beneath the waters once more. Careening deeper and deeper, breathless, frantic.

  His free hand brushed over rough scales that sliced open his palm.

  He couldn’t see! What the fuck was going on?

  His fingers caught a spur and the linnorm’s momentum hurled him through the water then flung him into the air, into the mist. Desperately, he held on.

  Thor gulped down great, choking, painful breaths, retching up filthy water.

  All around, the trees broke into kindling as the linnorm thrashed, lunging around in furious heaves. Chasing Tyr? Thor couldn’t see through the mist.

  Roaring, he slammed Mjölnir down on the serpent’s body as its momentum carried him along with it. A crack of glorious thunder resounded through the grove and carried over the lake, tiny bolts of lightning leaping along the thing’s scales. The answering bellow confirmed it had at least annoyed the thing.

  He reared back for another strike—

  The linnorm dove beneath the waters once more, pulling Thor under, the force of the water yanking Thor’s grip loose. His fingers slipped and he flew free, spinning end over end beneath the lake.

  His shoulder squelched against soft ground, and, desperate, he managed to turn himself about, then kick off the lakebed toward the surface.

  He broke free once more, only to hear Tyr’s war cries intermingling with more bellows from the linnorm.

  Oh, damn it.

  Picking a direction at random, he pulled on the apple’s power and swam for all he was worth. Please let him be close to land! Fucking mist! He couldn’t even tell one way from the other.

  To his right, the sound of more trees shredded beneath rushing bulk.

  Trees meant land.

  Land meant no more damn swimming!

  Thor changed course, surging forward.

  More bellows from that side. A war cry. Something large flew over Thor’s head and splashed down in the waters behind him. Was that Tyr? Oh, well fuck.

  Thor’s feet slurped in silt, then he was half swimming, half running, waters slowing him.

  Before he’d reached the shore, that massive head came swinging around once more. With a roar of his own, Thor whipped Mjölnir in an upward arc. The hammer smashed through a fang the size of his forearm, shattering it. A spray of acid exploded over Thor’s face and chest, immediately engulfing him in searing torment. It was eating his skin!

  He flung himself back into the waters, their freezing touch now welcome, if only to dull the pain a moment more. All he could do now was try to get away for—

  A lance punched through his thigh and he was yanked into the air, flying so fast the wind stung his cheeks. The serpent had him in its jaws! One of its fangs had punched through his leg!

  Thor wanted to retch.

  Couldn’t even draw breath to scream at the waves of agony that bombarded him. Burning through his veins with every beat of his heart.

  The linnorm jerked him violently around.

  Desperation. Pulling on all the apple’s power.

  His hammer, cracking on the side of its jaw. A crash of thunder. Again. Again!

  Die, trollfucker! Die!

  Scales and flesh and searing blood sprayed all around as the linnorm’s skull splattered beneath his blows. No longer shaking him, now the dragon listed from one side to another, as if drunk.

  Thor tried to curse it, but managed only a hissing gurgle that stung his throat. Mjölnir smacked the side of the dragon’s head and the beast collapsed. Its impact on the ground had its fang lurching from his leg—until the rest of its shattered jaw pitched down atop him.

  Hardly able to move, Thor continued to beat wildly against flesh already turning to goo.

  Pain meant naught! It meant naught!

  He had Mjölnir …

  He felt it, as the dragon died. A blast of power flooded into the hammer, and Mjölnir began to crackle with lightning, as it had before his fight with Thrivaldi.

  Power.

  So much power.

  Tyr had wedged those broken jaws apart, eased Thor off the fang, and built a fire for the two of them.

  Thor had retched—twice—and now chills wracked him. He’d stripped, as Tyr instructed, and the man had wrapped him in a blanket.

  “Too much eitr,” Odin’s thegn said. “Can change a man. Don’t rightly know if I’m doing the right thing.”

  Dimly, Thor looked over to see the man was roasting the dragon’s heart.

  “Maybe it was eitr. Maybe what Hermod called pneuma. Don’t know. Something in Fafnir, it changed Sigurd. You heard tale of it, I’m sure. Eitr, it had an effect on Starkad, too. Risk, I suppose. But world’s already ending.”

  Thor groaned. Swallowed past the burning in his throat. “Need to lie down? I doubt I’ve ever heard you put that many words together, Thegn.”

  Tyr grunted.

  Eating the heart—or a bit of it, the thing was fucking huge—had sent Thor into convulsions and given him dreams of his mother. She said she was proud of
him, but then, she was weeping, too. Claiming she endured so many great sorrows.

  But Thor had woken feeling strong, the once gaping hole in his leg almost already knitted together once more.

  Tyr, too, was sitting up, staring at the dragon’s corpse. Which reeked, now that Thor was finally well enough to notice.

  Thor swallowed, and pushed himself to sit. Coughed once. “Well,” he said, and Tyr looked to him. “That’s one down. How many are left?”

  20

  Odin plunged through time, unable to control his falling. Not without focus, not without the one who had helped him anchor his movements before. His beloved Freyja had … had … been a lover to her own brother? How long ago was that?

  No! Fuck, Odin didn’t even want to know.

  Temporal currents left him stumbling, falling, into a snowdrift. The cold rushed through him, bracing, but almost a relief after being half on fire not so long ago.

  Groaning, Odin lay there a moment.

  No.

  Whatever she’d done … Well, incest may have churned his stomach, but still … she needed him. The world needed him. Focus. Get back to the present.

  He forced himself to sit up, folding his legs beneath himself.

  Focus on her. On the present.

  The tides tried to deny him. Or rather, he knew, part of himself was resisting. Angry. Broken.

  But the world could not afford his doubts.

  Just a little more was yet required of him. A little more, and then, perhaps, he could rest again.

  Forget again.

  The sweltering heat washed over him and had him drenched in sweat before he even opened his eye.

  Fires blazed all around, choking him with their smoke, but the air itself no longer seemed ablaze. Strange, that he should have to consider that an improvement in his fortunes.

  He sat now, not far from the edge of the lagoon, which meant, with any luck, he might still find Freyja and Idunn somewhere nigh.

  Gungnir lay on the ground beside him, so, leaning on the spear, he rose.

  He did not make it far, though, before a tall figure strode through smoke and flame, making right for him, posture and pace so aggressive Odin leveled the spear.

  A jotunn had survived this?

  But it was not a jotunn that exited the wall of smoke. Rather, an exceptionally tall man with auburn hair and golden mail, and this time, though he had not borne them last Odin had seen him, valkyrie-like wings made of golden-hued feathers.

  “Heimdall? What are you doing here? And since when did Dellingr create male valkyries?” Though, admittedly, his armor, while golden, didn’t match the gilded breastplates valkyries wore.

  “You have wrought chaos beyond compare on this world. You bridged worlds divided for a reason!”

  Odin balked at the guardian. So far as Odin knew, Heimdall only watched over the barrier between life and death and that between the Penumbra and the Roil. What did he even care what Odin wrought in the Mortal Realm?

  He opened his mouth to ask as much, but Heimdall gave him no chance. The man hefted his large sword, fair snarling at Odin, and lunged forward with Otherworldly speed. So fast, he caught Gungnir’s haft before Odin could bring the spear up to bear. A tug on the spear sent Odin flying toward him. Soaring toward that sword’s point.

  Odin released his spear and twisted backward, managing to only catch the blade in his shoulder rather than get impaled. Heimdall’s boot caught him in the gut and sent him hurtling through the air, slamming into a smoldering tree trunk with enough force to shatter it and drive all wind from Odin’s lungs.

  Breathless, nigh senseless, the temporal currents seized him once more, even before he crashed down into the still burning forest floor. He landed in flames, and immediately felt himself yanked under, torn apart by the tides of time.

  He was back in the snow. Groaning. Blood seeping down his shoulder where the guardian’s sword had gouged it. Odin rolled over, shaky, trying to stand.

  A shadow moved over him, offering him a hand. Loki?

  “Where am I?” Odin managed.

  Loki slipped an arm under Odin’s shoulders and eased him into a sitting position. “The Sudurberks.” That explained the deep snows and bitter winds. “It’s forty-six years since you conquered Vanaheim.”

  “Huh.” Well, he supposed that answered the question as to whether Loki understood what was happening. Clearly, his blood brother knew he wasn’t the Odin from this time, which meant that the other, younger Odin must be somewhere that precluded his presence here.

  But Loki had still known that Odin would wind up here? Had predicted it from the flames? Or else, Odin’s own mind had brought him to the one person that might help him.

  “What happened to your shoulder?” Loki asked, kneeling in front of Odin.

  “Uh … Heimdall attacked me.”

  “You were in the Penumbra?”

  “No … he … he attacked on Asgard. Retribution for—”

  Loki held up a hand. “I don’t want too many details about the future. It introduces complications, sometimes. But tell me, when?”

  “Uh …” Odin’s head was throbbing. Maybe he ought not trust the man, but he didn’t know what else to do. He could both hate and love Loki. Loathe him, even, for what he’d done on behalf of the Norns, and still understand. Finally, understand. Loki had ruined Odin’s life, destroyed his family, his legacy. And done the same to his own. Because no other option seemed to lie before him.

  Loki clasped Odin’s head behind the ear, drawing him to meet his gaze. “When did Heimdall attack you? At the very end of all things?”

  Odin nodded, not hardly trusting himself to speak of it. Let Loki know. It didn’t matter anymore. Maybe naught mattered anymore. “I don’t know if I can forgive you for all you’ve done. But I … I understand it.”

  “Do you? Do you truly understand it?” Loki shuddered. “Do you know of Ginnungagap?”

  Odin nodded numbly. “The primal void völvur claim all the cosmos sprang from.” Wait. Now he sat up, staring at Loki.

  “A primordial darkness from which man arose … and which is even yet seeking to devour the creation it gave rise to. Something beneath existence.”

  And Naströnd was like a capstone above it.

  “I know what I have to do.” So hard to swallow. “I’m just not sure that I can. The forces arrayed against me are … immense beyond imaging. Ancient, powerful. I … I’m just a man. You should have done these things yourself, Fatespinner.”

  Loki tightened his grip on Odin’s head a moment before releasing him. “But you are not just a man, brother.” He reached over now, and grasped Odin’s tunic, and yanked it apart, revealing the rune bands covering his chest. “You are a thousand men. A thousand different warriors, who have lived a thousand times.” Loki thumped a rune, forcing Odin to look. Each of these was one of his lifetimes. “You and I may have both learned every form of warfare in history, but your experiences are not linear. They are exponential. They are one man, fragmented into myriad lifetimes. Pain and love and loss. And the knowledge and strength of all those lifetimes is in you, compounding down through the ages. And if you were to allow those thousand warriors to become one warrior again …”

  His failure to elaborate bespoke some tension, reflected in his eyes. A fear or a hope he dared not even give voice to.

  Because he didn’t know it was possible.

  This was … all of it … a gambit. A last, desperate chance Loki had taken in the hopes that, somehow, Odin might be able to access the buried depths of his soul and fuse those disparate lives into a single warrior who would become an army unto himself.

  “Brother …” Odin began. Then shook his head. “I’m not sure I can be what you hope for. I’m not sure that’s even possible. I just know I … I have to do something, even if it’s the wrong thing.”

  Maybe, in releasing the fires of Muspelheim, Odin had done just that. But he had resolved himself that any price was worth it, if it meant finally overcomi
ng Hel and ensuring she could not rise to threaten the Mortal Realm ever again.

  Perhaps the flames had already done that. Either way, he had to get back.

  From the look on Loki’s face, his blood brother had thought much the same, even if he yet lacked the details.

  And something else … something, born perhaps of prescient insight, his or Loki’s, he could no longer say. An almost certain revelation that forced itself unbidden into his mind.

  This was it. This would be the last time he would see Loki.

  This man, his brother, who had passed through so much with him. Whose life had so helplessly entwined itself with Odin’s, must now diverge. The thought of it washed over him in a flood of memories as powerful as any temporal current, that for an instant, stretched on forever, he found himself certain the tides of time had caught him once more.

  “You are Loki?” Odin asked.

  “Yes, Odin, I am.”

  “Where do you hail from?”

  Loki laced his fingers together on the table, eyes refusing to release Odin from their gaze. “That’s not what you came here to ask me, nor would names of far-off lands hold much meaning to your ears.”

  “Do your parents still live?” Odin asked, without looking back at Loki.

  The man did not immediately answer, but Odin could hear him poking at the fire. “All my family, and all I have loved, are gone now, lost in the march of years.”

  “I seem to have opened an old wound.”

  “If Ymir sees us coming, we lose our one advantage.” Odin scowled, staring up at the peak, barely visible through the snow. The storm was growing worse. “I will not allow Father to go unavenged over some vӧlva’s tale of the mist. A man doesn’t go mad in one night.”

  Loki drew up close to him now, shaking his head. “Your brother speaks truth. Fire is life, and it was given to mankind at great cost to the giver. It is our only ally out here. And as a frost jotunn, Ymir abhors the flames. If you cast it aside, you lose a shield and sword both.”