The Fires of Muspelheim

by Matt Larkin

  Niflheim, the World of Mist, was the destination of the damned. The fear of all dead, who might ever find themselves drawn toward it. As if taken by madness, they now asked the einherjar to storm into that world, to break the unbreakable.

  “I know you have your fears,” Odin said. “Swallow them. Bury those fears deep, so that those beside you cannot be certain whether you even hold them.” The king paused, looking around. “I’m not asking this of you in the name of glory, though there will be glory. I don’t ask you to make such a drastic assault for honor. I ask you, because you have seen what Hel has done with our world. And if she is not stopped, she will do it again. Who among you has not lost wives, daughters, sons, husbands? Who has not lost descendants, those you cared for, because of the monstrous slaughter that has torn asunder our entire world?”

  Odin clanged Gungnir’s butt on the ground. “Should we turn back? Consider that we have done enough, have saved the world from her grasp for now? Have we not already done more, paid more than any others? We have! But it is not enough! I would not concede to break Hel’s army for now, for the next few thousand years, but forever! She has …” The king shook his head and swallowed. “She has taken from us that which should not have been taken! She has wrought that which cannot be borne!”

  Thor raised his hammer and hooted. “Let’s go kill some dead trollfuckers!”

  Odin looked to his son and nodded, then raised Gungnir once more. “I ask you to follow me into the shadows for a war that men will never know of. A battle none will remember. But they will live because we fought it. And the next time any so-called gods think to take our world, they will remember what lengths men went to against Hel. They will know the Mortal Realm is not theirs for the taking.”

  And with that, the king motioned for Hermod to lead the way.

  30

  Farther back than Sigmund could even remember, Hermod had warned him against the dangers of the Roil. Oft, Odin himself, and later Hermod, would stand on the dais of Valhalla and expound on the perils of venturing out into the Penumbra.

  “Yet more dire still,” Hermod had said, “are places where shadows deepen and the Astral ceases to be an echo of the Mortal Realm. Passing beyond the edge of shadow into utter darkness, you find the transitory lands where creation itself becomes nebulous. To this point the dead are ever drawn, but few shades ever return from here.”

  And now, Hermod led them directly through swirling Roil. They passed writhing fields of obsidian where the land looked like a half-frozen seascape. They moved through places dark beyond measure, where the sky itself seemed to watch them from behind crackling storms. Even now, they had entered into a domain where reality broke apart and fell away into a void of light and energy. What little ground remained beneath their feet seemed but strips of flesh, stretched too thin over a yawning abyss.

  There were presences in the Roil. Sigmund could feel them, their malevolent gazes falling upon the passing army.

  Hermod claimed that no forces yet accosted them because of their numbers. Because, so far as anyone knew, no such army had ever held together in this place, nor marched with such purpose through these dark lands. They were a throng of champions that had not known each other in life, most of them, and had come from decades or even centuries apart. Men and women born and bred to war, united through their long stay in Valhalla.

  Some had fought against each other in life, but Hermod had always said that death ought to cleanse all grievances, and the einherjar had—sooner or later—given in to his way of thinking and embraced one another as brothers or sisters. Or perhaps they had worked out their resentments through decades of combat broken up by bouts of celebration and wild, wanton fucking.

  Something about how Odin had created Valhalla as a place to hold souls together had ensured that even those struck down would rise again.

  And thus, Sigmund had beaten down Lyngi several dozen times, cursed him, and questioned the valkyries for bringing him to Valhalla. Even such hatreds had melted away with the passing of centuries, though. How many times could Sigmund expect to kill the man and still derive satisfaction?

  Oh, now, of course, the rules had changed, as Hermod had warned them all. Outside the influence of Valhalla’s strange magic, those struck down would dissipate, their souls drawn on to unknown ends, perhaps even destroyed. Many had fallen in the battle against Hel’s army, Lyngi among them.

  Even if Sigmund could have rekindled his old ire, how was he to a hate a man who died fighting against Hel herself? Who died, trying to save all Midgard from the grasp of such a horror?

  No, now the life—so to speak—of every one of the einherjar had become something precious and irreplaceable. Odin had not spoken of what would happen to them when this was done. Perhaps the king of the gods intended to return those who survived to Valhalla, or perhaps not.

  Maybe, after so long, Valhalla had already served its purpose and now would finally dwindled, drawn away by the shadows of the Astral Realm. It left Sigmund and the others to fulfill their purposes, before also drifting into the darkness.

  The army had paused for a time. While the dead did not experience physical fatigue in the same way as the living, Hermod claimed it would do them all good to take an hour or two of rest from the mental strain.

  Sigmund suspected this was because they must have drawn nigh to the border with Niflheim.

  Either way, he sat now, with his sons. Fitela and Hamund got on well enough, ever jibing at one another, though since descending into the Roil, even Fitela seemed to run low on his jests. Hamund chattered on about trying to convince Róta to bed him, despite the madness of wandering off alone in the Roil.

  Sigurd—who had never known his brothers in life—shook his head in silent discouragement of Hamund’s antics. It was a strange thing, one that all the passing years had not quite reconciled, seeing Gramr’s hilt over Sigurd’s shoulder when it also hung over Sigmund’s shoulder. And now Syn’s shoulder. And Freyja’s.

  All had borne the blade in life, and now each of them manifested a copy as a part of their ethereal bodies. None had the power of the true runeblade, of course, but to see that bone hilt carried by others … She had been his.

  Yes, he thought it fitting enough that the blade had passed on to his son.

  Sigmund reached over and tapped Sigurd on the knee. None of his kin had enjoyed lives without tragedy, but Sigurd’s tale, when he’d finally shared it, seemed the most soul-crushing of them all. “Where do your thoughts fly, boy?”

  Sigurd shrugged, then shook his head, dour as ever.

  For so very long, Sigmund had sought the words that might alleviate Sigurd’s sorrows or bring him out of his perpetual melancholy. Sigmund knew his son had bedded shieldmaidens and valkyries from time to time, but even those joys seemed so fleeting for him. Like he’d lost part of himself.

  And Sigurd, Sigmund believed, blamed Odin for it, even as he loved the god and sought to please him. Torn apart thus, Sigurd was more prey to the Lethe. And Sigmund couldn’t think of a damn thing to do to help his beloved son.

  They came to a bridge with a gold-thatched roof, glittering in this otherwise dark place. Further on, rime coated that roof, meaning they had reached the barrier. High windows allowed in streaks of light from the iridescent sky above, but mostly, the bridge seemed impossibly dark and ominous. Hermod and Odin trod across first, and Sigmund’s was the first war band to follow.

  The bridge spanned a swift, clanking river of knives that Odin claimed would shred their very souls were they to fall into it. Horrifying thought.

  The footsteps of his men and women—over a hundred of them—echoed along the wooden planks beneath them, growing into a cacophony as they plodded forward, in and out of the light beams.

  The further they went, the colder it grew. Not only on his etheric flesh, but a chill that seemed to seep into Sigmund’s very heart. Into his soul. It stiffened his limbs and had his fingers aching so badly he caught himself imagining cutting them off. It was like ice
had begun to form around his heart, and to crush it.

  Why, for one whose heart no longer beat, should that have proved so very painful?

  Further on, mist began to waft onto the bridge. Chilling and thick and malevolent, it gave the cold a visible form. It threaded between Sigmund’s legs and wafted toward his warriors, seeming half alive in its slithering movements, in the way it almost seemed to hesitate, to dawdle and gawk at the marching throng.

  His fingers were on Gramr’s hilt before he even realized it, though he forced himself not to draw the blade yet.

  Ahead, Hermod passed from the edge of the bridge and into a twisted, warped wood, in a world even darker than the shadows. Strange lights lit the sky faintly, but Sigmund saw no sign of moon or stars. Just endless night and mist thicker than any he’d ever witnessed. Or ever hoped to.

  And the trees! Most had few if any leaves, and they bent around at unnatural angles, as if writhing in pain.

  Hermod held up a hand to forestall the march, and Sigmund mimicked the gesture to stop the advancing army.

  The Ás had told him, before they entered the Roil, that a guardian barred the way into Niflheim. One that would not let the living enter or the dead leave. The latter seemed like a problem to Sigmund, but then again, perhaps this guardian—Modgud, Hermod called her—had not anticipated trying to stop an army such as the gathered einherjar. Perhaps, like the wraiths and other perverse denizens of the Roil, she would not care to try her luck against nigh to a thousand masterful warriors gathered toward singular purpose.

  The more Sigmund looked at those trees, the less … solid … they seemed. Bits of them seemed to break off into the mist … as if they could not decide whether they were truly real or not. The thought of reality proving so uncertain seemed to tighten the icy grip wrapped around Sigmund’s chest.

  Worse still, he could have sworn the mist was whispering. He could make out no words, so much as a hateful intent carried through unnatural sibilance that clawed at his mind. Behind him, his men had begun to squirm. To mumble to one another.

  Kára moved up to his side, her gaze sweeping over the mist and—Sigmund would have sworn—the valkyrie suppressed a shudder.

  “You never came this far,” Sigmund said.

  “Of course not. Valkyries may have needed to guide souls across the Roil, but never here. This place is for the damned.”

  “Damned … but doesn’t that include anyone not saved by valkyries?”

  The grim set of Kára’s jaw was his only answer to that.

  “We are all dead now,” Hermod said to the mists ahead. Sigmund could just make out the Ás’s outline, but he couldn’t see to whom he spoke. This Modgud, no doubt, and Sigmund suspected it was for the best neither he, nor especially his men, could see the guardian of this bridge.

  A moment more they were still, then Hermod beckoned them on, and Sigmund repeated the gesture, just as eager to be gone from here. Perhaps Niflheim would seem no better, but then, he’d welcome this all being done. He could not say how many days they had marched through darkness.

  And now the mist seemed just as bad.

  Maybe worse.

  Beyond the bridge, they passed into ice caves that blended wonder and horror in equal measure, but at least allowed them some respite from the howling winds and the icy mist. In this world of the damned, Sigmund would gladly accept whatever small reprieve was offered.

  The clatter of their footsteps now resounded through the ice caves as they marched, on and on.

  Ever, Odin conferred with Hermod, and Sigmund had begun to realize it was the king of the gods setting their pace. Odin was pushing Hermod ever forward, seeming driven by a fey compulsion to reach Hel with all possible haste. Something that Sigmund could not say he much looked forward to.

  Nor did he much like Odin’s new, horrifying aspect.

  The long march offered plentiful moments for reflection, enough that Sigmund knew he missed the camaraderie of Valhalla, not only in comparison to the hateful lands which they had trod since leaving, but in its own right. In life, Sigmund had lost wives and kin and children, over and over, never finding enduring peace.

  He was not alone in this, he knew.

  Peace was not to be found—not in life and certainly not in death—for most people. Contentment was the oddity, the strange irregularity that broke up the procession of life’s tribulations. Death exposed a soul to hints of the desolation and darkness that surrounded reality, but even life was defined by its struggles.

  Even in Valhalla, what did men tell tales of? Of sitting quietly by the fire pit, sipping mead and basking in the love of family? No. They spoke of bleeding on the battlefield. Of fighting, striving, and dying. The tale most heard by any teller in Valhalla was the tale of his own death.

  What was the fascination, for both teller and listener, with strife?

  A long time he plodded through the ice caves before eventually coming out into dire mountains, the wind here so fell, so very bitter, Sigmund couldn’t help but feel its rage sliced off pieces of his soul.

  The Mountains of Fimbulvinter, Hermod called these towering peaks. They broke out above the mist, so tall they seemed poised to scrape those shimmering lights in the sky, and Sigmund found staring up at them made his stomach lurch, and sapped away at his balance.

  Finally, he focused his gaze upon the endless snowy path that lay ahead of him, then plodded onward. None of them could afford for his warriors to see him disconcerted. They depended upon him to be strong, and he must show them that strength. Whatever fears he felt bubbled up, Sigmund would kill them. Odin’s quest would not tolerate weakness.

  Beyond valleys and chasms, they came at last nigh to the Well of Cold, Hvergelmir, from which sprang nether rivers, Hermod informed them. He led them on a path far around the river, so Sigmund gained no glimpse of the well itself. A part of him was glad about not having seen what Hermod described as the source of the mists, here and on Midgard. Another part felt dismayed, tempted to look upon the horror, just as men could not tear their gazes away from murder victims in the street.

  Horror demanded someone bear witness.

  But instead, Hermod found a bridge formed of ice that rose up in an arch over one of those rivers. The path took them up into the buffeting winds, but Hermod claimed they could not risk touching any of the rivers, and had no other means of bypassing them.

  So, a few warriors at a time, they crossed. It was a steep, unsteady climb to the top, and then, the snows were all that kept the ice bridge from being too slick to even attempt a crossing. Sigmund passed over, his steps unsteady, slow, keenly aware the others below watched him.

  Once he had made his way to the base, more men began to cross as well.

  Someone—Sigmund could not make out who with the mist—slipped, twisted around, and skidded over the side. A brief scream. A splash.

  Whoever had fallen did not surface from the icy river below, as if something in that current had seized him and swallowed him whole.

  A wave of nausea swept over Sigmund and he folded his arms across his chest to stop himself from using them for balance.

  Höfund, Kára told him, was the man who’d fallen. A brave man, with whom Sigmund had passed more than one evening in times long ago. Not recently. Sigmund ever found himself busied with newer arrivals in Valhalla, and with his own kin, and had not even spoken to Höfund in … years.

  Why had he not made time?

  The man had oft spoken of his courageous wife and his glorious son, Heidrik, who was in Frey’s band, Sigmund thought.

  In Valhalla, it always seemed like there would be plenty of time for things. Naught ever felt pressing.

  And then a brave man was gone in an instant.

  At last, beyond jagged peaks of ice, they came to the fortress itself. The place of nightmare that every last man, woman, and child of Midgard feared to ever look upon. The place of the damned.

  A single chasm-like path led up to this monstrous fortress. At the end of the passage, thos
e perilous, infamous, iron-bounded gates now stood thrown wide, and an army was arrayed, barring passage, while more of the damned flowed from the gates with each passing moment.

  There were thousands of ghosts. Their clothes in tatters. Their faces and limbs rotten, oft exposing bits of skeleton not so unlike Hel herself. In the Mortal Realm, Sigmund might have taken the army of the damned for draugar, and, indeed, they had that red gleam in their eyes.

  Here, they had no bodies.

  Like warriors in life, they stood in war bands, clustered together in great shield walls, with every shield bearing blood-painted symbols that seemed to writhe and defy Sigmund for even looking upon them.

  At the fringes of these shield walls stalked decaying hounds more terror-inducing even than the army around them.

  Beyond the gathered war bands stood—or rather flitted—shrouded, armored entities of flowing mist and darkness. Mistwraiths, Hermod had called them. The most dire servants Hel could throw against them. And here and there, like specters of white, drifted snow maidens, their hateful wails threatening to tear through Sigmund’s mind.

  Blowing out a reflexive breath, Sigmund drew Gramr and beat the bone hilt against his shield. “To me! Shield! Wall!”

  His warriors clustered up beside him, falling into position. Before him, men and shieldmaidens formed the front of the wall, leveling a thicket of spears that should have dissuaded even those fearsome hounds from charging.

  Across, he saw the other war bands forming their own walls, like spiked tortoises preparing to close in. It would come very soon now.

  The chaos. The maddening melee and slaughter.

  How many other warriors would Sigmund lament when this was done, wishing he’d taken more time to hear their tales?

  Odin could not or would not tell them what urd befell those souls who perished beyond the Mortal Realm. Not Valhalla, that much Sigmund felt certain. Perhaps they ought never to have come here.