by Matt Larkin
Of course, ignoring a problem did not mean it didn’t exist. Her body could heal more quickly, but it did still suffer injuries, and at the end of the first night she’d found the sores on her feet cracked and bleeding. By morning, they had almost healed—might have done so, had she not proceeded to further abuse her feet all that day.
Somewhere in Hunaland, they reached a river running through the Myrkvidr, and this they followed for quite some time until now, towards twilight, they stumbled upon a village. No wall protected the village itself, though each of the dozen houses had their own spiked fence that might have served to bar wild animals, but would have done naught at all against varulfur or human foes.
Sigyn tapped a finger against her lip while gazing into the village. A village meant women, and women would have clothes much better suited for her, though, of course, they had very little with which to barter. Had she her bow, she might have brought down game, but as it was they had eaten naught but berries and roots, and had to count themselves lucky for that.
Loki placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Do you not wish to enter?”
“Hmm. Oh, I do. Something here seems amiss, though.”
“What?”
“I’m not certain.”
Loki grunted, then pushed forward.
Sigyn followed him toward the village square, and, as they drew closer, the problem became obvious. She had heard few people ahead because almost no one was about. Indeed, they saw only an old woman sitting by a cook fire, and a few children, each no more than four winters old.
She glanced back at Loki, whose own face gave naught away, though she’d have sworn some foreboding lurked in his eyes. Sigyn approached the old woman who looked up sharply. Even the children all faltered, staring at her no doubt disheveled appearance.
“Where is everyone?” She had meant to ask about shelter, food, and clothes, but the question had slipped out before she could think better of it.
The old woman glanced at the wood beyond the village. “Working.”
“Now?” Sigyn tried not to scoff. “It’s almost sunset. Who would …” She choked on her words. What if this were no human village at all? Who worked at night? Vaettir. Spirits in possession of the bodies of men or women, perhaps, even a whole settlement. Once, Sigyn had disdained Frigg’s beliefs in the beings of the Otherworlds. Now, unfortunately, she knew better. Rán herself had threatened to have Sigyn possessed by a mermaid. So what else might lurk here, in this village?
The old woman stared down at her cooking pot, suddenly consumed with it.
Loki remained as unreadable as ever, though he stared off north, where the old woman’s gaze had looked for a moment.
All Sigyn had to do was ask for a set of clothes and be away from here before the others got back. That was it. She didn’t need to stay here, risk … whatever these people were caught up in.
She did not consciously strain her ears, but still the scream reached her, carried on the breeze wafting in from the north. A woman’s scream of terror, followed by sobs, begging to be released. Loki didn’t react. Maybe he hadn’t heard it, but now that she had, could she truly ignore such a thing?
Damn.
Damn, but no. She had to do something.
“Sigyn …” Loki said.
She shook her head and took off in a dash toward the north. She paused to snatch up a lantern hanging from a post nearby. It smelled of whale oil. These villagers must trade with whalers, which meant the river must run to the sea. While welcome news, it did not help her current situation much.
Dozens of tracks marred the ground leading back into the forest. Even now, at dusk, she could follow such an obvious trail. She pushed on, swift as she dared, until she came to slight clearing where it seemed nigh unto the whole village had gathered. Only one of them bore a torch, and that a young man of no more than twelve winters. Despite the lack of flame, the mists had not congregated here and, indeed, seemed to recede away from the clearing, barely permeating it.
All the village turned to her, most of all a naked girl tied to a tree with a hemp rope. The poor girl—no more than fifteen winters old—had pissed herself in terror and chafed her wrists until they bled trying to escape the bonds.
What the fuck was this? A human sacrifice? Well, Sigyn had the stage now.
“What crime is this girl accused of?”
“It’s no concern of yours,” an old man said. The others looked to him, meaning he was the village chief or elder and no doubt the one responsible for this twisted spectacle.
Behind her, she heard Loki moving in the shadows, though human ears would not have caught his passage. He’d support whatever she chose to do. Sometimes, the most brazen move is the best, not because one had the strength to back it up, but simply because it could catch others unprepared and drive them to defend when they ought to mount a counteroffensive.
“On behalf of King Odin, god among men, I command you to release the girl immediately.”
The villagers looked at each other, clearly bewildered, while the elder stammered, and Sigyn pushed onward, toward the prisoner. Chances were, people in this remote village would never have even heard of Odin. Nevertheless, now they’d be asking themselves if they should have heard of this god-king. Sigyn’s finger’s twitched, seeking the comfort of a bow she no longer had.
“We cannot … cannot deny the lady her due,” the elder said.
The lady? Were they sacrificing this girl to Hel? Or some other fell goddess?
Sigyn stared at the man, doing her best to match Frigg’s most regal gaze. A few more steps and she’d reach the girl. Since she didn’t have a knife, she’d have to untie the damned rope, which meant she needed to buy as much time as possible.
“You do not understand … she cannot be denied.”
“Nor can King Odin. Odin, lord of the Aesir! Slayer of jotunnar and dragons, he who brought low trolls and sorcerers.” Sigyn grasped the rope and began fumbling with the ties with one hand, while keeping her eyes on the crowd. “Odin the mighty, who crossed back from the realm of the dead!”
Huh. Actually, it did sound rather impressive, when she considered all he had done. The damned knot didn’t want to give. It was going to take both hands.
“Odin who … took to bed nine valkyries and sated them all!” So she was making that part up. Men loved to hear about legendary—if ludicrous—sexual prowess. Maybe they imagined themselves in such a place. “Odin, who—”
A tremendous crack resounded through the clearing as a nearby ash tree split halfway down the middle. Everyone cringed—including Sigyn—and, at the same moment, a nude woman began to wrest herself from the midst of the tree. Her skin was like bark, at least at first, but the further she pulled out of the tree, the more human-like it became, even if it retained an unnatural color. A pale, luminous green light lingered in her eyes.
The villagers fell to their knees, praising their askafroa—an ash wife.
They worshipped a fucking ash wife.
And the ash wife stepped out of the tree, one slender foot treading upon the ground, then another. Those glowing green eyes fixed first on her intended sacrifice and then on Sigyn, who faltered in her attempts to free the girl.
Well, damn.
Sigyn did the only thing she could think of. She flung the lantern at the ash wife.
It fell short, broke upon the ground, and still had the intended effect as the whale oil ignited a sudden conflagration. The ash wife shrieked and fell back several steps, hands raised to ward against the flames.
With the vaettr distracted, Sigyn redoubled her efforts on the ropes. At last the knot gave way. The girl jerked free and took off running. She had gone but a few steps when a vine dropped down from the canopy and surged toward her.
Sigyn shoved the girl, knocking her away from the vine, and then dropped to the ground an instant before it tried to snare her. By the time she rose, the ash wife had vanished off to Freyja knew where. Sigyn grabbed the girl, jerked her to her feet, and ran b
ack toward the village.
They passed out of the clearing, and, as they did so, Loki stepped forward, sweeping his arm in an arc. The flames responded, rising into a wall that would impede any pursuit from the villagers. The ash wife, though, would prove a greater threat.
They had to get away from the trees, and, in the Myrkvidr, that meant the river. They had to reach the river.
7
For two days, more and more men and shieldmaidens had arrived at the castle. Jarls and thegns from a dozen tribes loyal to King Volsung answered his levy. Many of these were men his father had won after taking this castle, but no few of the warriors had joined Volsung himself. The king had a taste for battle and seemed so apt to reap glory that Gudrun had to wonder if Grimhild had granted him some supernatural blessing. Maybe that was why she had chosen him now. The queen was always planning ahead, a trait Gudrun would have to learn from her soon enough.
Like their king, many of these Hunalanders were eager to take revenge on the Aesir. Ironic—Gudrun would have thought them reluctant after being so crushed. But these men valued pride and honor more than life itself, and, in truth, why not? After all, their lives were always short.
Indeed, from the swiftness with which the warriors converged, Volsung must have already summoned some of them. Meaning, most likely, Grimhild had ordered Guthorm to tell the king the same thing Gudrun had. Why then send Gudrun at all? A test, perhaps, or a message to either Gudrun, Volsung, or both. Grimhild had schemed and plotted for centuries, building her power, preparing for the day when the Niflungar would retake Midgard. Gudrun could not hope to uncover all those schemes at once. The best she could do was make certain she had enough plays of her own to be the one who came out on top. In the end, Hel would reward the one who best served her.
Most of the warriors arrived in longships now gathered in the harbor, though the people made camp around the castle. So many ships.
Gudrun stood on the battlements, watching them all. An army of sails. It would be a terrible army, one the Aesir—after such losses as they had already suffered—could not well prepare for. Gudrun almost pitied them. Save for Loge. The fire priest was too dangerous; Gudrun had seen it with her own eyes.
Rumors had circulated the castle of a few men and women gone missing out in the camps. Deserters, most claimed, cowards afraid to fight the savage Aesir once again. Some perhaps were at that, but Gudrun suspected Fenrir had picked off others to sate his unnatural hungers. A spirit as old as that was godlike in both power and appetite and all the more inimical to humanity. It had even less place on Midgard than other beings from beyond the Veil. When this was all over, when Gudrun was queen of the Niflungar, she would find some way to banish that creature. Grimhild was beyond a fool to think she could control so primal a beast.
Below, in the courtyard, Volsung emerged, followed by Hljod. The two chatted lightly—too far away for Gudrun to make out their words—but the obvious, growing familiarity concerned her. True, the savage descendants of the Siklings did tend to choose mates quickly. Their lives were short, so they often decided on things like love seemingly on a whim. Still, she had to wonder if Volsung’s interest in her apprentice had as much to do with laying a hold on the Niflungar as it did with lust. Ironic, given she’d considered sending Hljod to do the same to him. And why should Gudrun be surprised to find a young, headstrong girl smitten by a king, and at an age when most of her people would be married off and bearing a child or three?
The girl looked up at her, and Gudrun took the opportunity to beckon her over. Hljod stared at her as if she might consider refusing the summons, then she turned to Volsung, said something, and headed for the stairs.
Gudrun awaited Hljod’s approach, keeping her eyes on the gathering army. Hel, but Grimhild had changed things with Guthorm. Had she raised him before losing the grimoire? Had Guthorm been out there, in the world, still doing his mother’s bidding even in death? She could ask him, of course, but he might be under orders to report her questions back to Grimhild.
If Gudrun was to take the crown, she needed plays of her own. She needed allies more loyal to her than to Grimhild. And Hljod could do that but … but Gudrun would not order it. Never. She would never force the girl to it.
“What are you even looking at up here? It’s cold as Hel.”
Gudrun didn’t turn at Hljod’s approach, but she did cringe at her words. “Do not invoke the lady’s name so flippantly, girl.”
“Ah. Sorry. There’s none greater.”
“Hmmm.” Gudrun let her eyes relax, embracing the Sight to look into the Penumbra. Slowly, she turned around, making certain no spirits lurked nearby. Ghosts and other fouler things played about the castle, more in the camp, but none close, none watching her. Gudrun blinked, allowing her eyes to return to the Mortal Realm. Now she did turn to look at her apprentice. “Are you sleeping with Volsung?”
“What? No! I mean … no. I’m not.” She fidgeted, tugging at her dress. “We haven’t done anything.”
“It’s not a criticism if you were, Hljod. I’ve already shown you how to make brews to make sure nothing unwanted takes root in your womb. But if you were to do so, if something did take root …”
Hljod’s mouth hung open, but her eyes were smiling. “Are you asking me to carry his bastard?”
“No. I will not ask it.” Gudrun leaned back on the battlement wall and folded her arms. “If, however, you so choose, it might be fortuitous. He might even claim you as a wife.”
Hljod laughed, grinning like a fool and spinning around as though taking in some skald’s tale. Then she sighed and shook her head. “But I’m no one.”
“Whoever you were born, Hljod, I have made you one of the Niflungar. You are a fledging sorceress, yes, but you have been embraced by a princess of ancient lineage. This hardly makes you no one. And I rather think he fancies both you and the position you hold.”
She rubbed her arms, looking lost, like someone not daring to hope. “I could really have that?”
So. It was what she wanted. “Would you rather be a queen than a sorceress?”
Her face fell, and she grabbed Gudrun’s hand, finally seeming to realize the price of joining Volsung. “You promised me power.”
“A queen has power, Hljod. On the other hand, if you want to remain by my side, you can do so. Do not sleep with the king, or, if you do so, do not allow his seed to take hold. One day, when this is done, I will leave Volsung’s court. You will have to choose to come with me or remain with him.”
She shook her head, obvious disappointment washing over her young face. “No. I would never turn my back on you. Not after what you’ve done for me.”
Gudrun swallowed the lump in her throat. Hljod’s gratitude was touching, and, truth be told, she loved the girl almost as a sister. But still, to defeat the queen, she needed assets. She needed pawns. And that thought filled her with such bile, she wanted to spit over the battlement, propriety be damned. Such thoughts made her into Grimhild. She shook herself and squeezed Hljod’s hand.
“I never doubted your loyalty to me. But you are equally valuable to me as a queen or a sorceress, and the choice is yours. If you want this king for yourself, I can help you get him and keep him. Or come with me and continue your studies.”
“I … How long do I have to decide?”
“A little while. We will sail soon enough. I suggest you make your decision before we leave.”
Hljod nodded. Then she threw her arms around Gudrun and held her tight, whispering in her ear. “Thank you for the choice. For everything.”
Gudrun patted the girl on the back, not daring to speak lest the tears beginning to well in her eyes should break.
8
The Vallander emperor had allowed the Aesir to march through his country and into Andalus, a land embroiled in intermittent but fierce struggles between the Vallander Empire and the Serkland Caliphate. The Serklanders came from beyond the Midgard Wall, in Utgard, and thus did not even qualify as South Realmers. Odin had no d
esire to involve himself in such conflicts while Vanaheim loomed before him, and thus he had negotiated with the Empire to remain within its holdings in Andalus. Ideally, they would have camped at what Idunn called the Straits of Herakles, nearest to Vanaheim, but that region remained the most contested by the Serklanders. Instead, they remained further north. And that had seemed wise, save that now, every two moons or so, a Vallander emissary showed up expecting fresh tribute to ensure the Aesir remained unmolested on the shores.
As now, when the man—overdressed in embroidered silks that would have looked ostentatious on a princess—came calling on him in his hall.
“You cannot trust these Serklanders,” the emissary said. The man spoke the Northern tongue badly, and with a lilting accent that grated on Odin’s ears and made him want to break the South Realmer’s nose. “They say they lie down with … uh, well, I don’t think your language has a word for it—so call them, uh, fire vaettir.”
Odin drummed his fingers on the armrest of his hastily constructed throne. Frigg had insisted he needed a throne, even here, to maintain the semblance of authority. The jarls did not openly question him, but after all that had happened in his absence, his wife seemed to fear further disloyalty among the tribes. “I have very little interest in Serkland.” At least at the moment. “You, however, have been paid rather handsomely for safe passage through your lands.”
“Indeed, you might think so, and yet keeping this beach free of Serklanders requires extraordinary effort, which, in turn, requires extraordinary expense. Surely your, uh, adventures throughout Hunaland might help us continue to fund our mutual defenses.”
Odin glowered. Before allowing the emissary into the hall, Tyr had argued they ought to refuse. After all, the man had pointed out the Vallanders could hardly afford to fight the Aesir and the Serklanders, both. Odin did not entirely disagree, but if he refused now, he made an enemy of the Vallander Empire. Given how many lives they had already lost, he needed no new enemies, and he certainly did not want them behind him while he tried to scout Vanaheim.