by Matt Larkin
When Odin gave no answer, the emissary began to shift his weight from foot to foot. “Uh, so, perhaps we might discuss specific terms of tribute to the emperor?”
One did not harm an emissary, and yet, Odin could not help but envision sending the emperor a tribute of this man’s head. Odin rose from his throne, leaning on Gungnir as he paced closer to the emissary. He stood almost a head taller than the man, so he forced the Vallander to crane his neck to meet his gaze. “Emissary.”
“Uh, yes, King Odin?”
Send his soul screaming into the Roil.
Odin curled his lip at the wraith’s tempting suggestion. He could kill this man—save for restriction of law, custom, and practicality. Still, the temptation remained. “If the mighty Vallander Empire cannot hold back the Serklanders, perhaps it is them to whom we ought to pay tribute to ensure we remain left alone.”
“Uh …” The emissary took a step back, and then another, looking around as if suddenly realizing the danger he had walked into. “Surely your majesty cannot think to bargain with these foreign savages.”
“Not yet. But do not test my patience, Vallander, for it has reached its end. I will send you back with one last chest of silver in tribute. If that will not suffice to ensure the empire’s continued friendship, I will look for friends elsewhere.”
The Vallander mopped his brow with a tiny cloth. “Your majesty is most generous.”
Odin waved him away. “Get out.”
He would send someone to pay that final tribute, yes. Odin had larger concerns than these squabbling empires of men. Very soon, he would instead ride to challenge a kingdom of gods.
9
The girl was weeping and kept trying to cling to Sigyn’s shoulder. They didn’t have time for this. They had drawn up against the riverbank only to be surrounded by the villagers.
“You have no idea what you’ve done!” the elder shouted at them.
Though many villagers had raised axes or farm tools against them, none advanced, a blessing Sigyn attributed to the flame dancing in Loki’s palm as he stood silent watch over them. Such a stalemate had held through the night, and—Freyja be praised—the ash wife had not ventured beyond the edge of her wood to pursue them.
Nor need she do so, in truth.
There was nowhere for anyone to go except back into the forest.
“The lady must have her sacrifice,” one of the other women moaned. “Gyrlin was chosen.”
Sigyn had made what she considered rather cogent arguments against human sacrifice, bargaining with vaettir, and most of all against snuffing out the lives of the innocent. At the least the Aesir usually only sacrificed criminals. None of her arguments had gotten through to the village folk, nor in truth, would she have expected any different. A people got used to a certain way of thinking such that, anyone trying to show them another path, even with logic or compassion, became naught but an enemy, a threat to a way of life that, no matter how putrid, they had accepted as their own.
And maybe, knowing this, she would have left in the first place and allowed these self-deluding folk to remain mired in their own ignorance until it finally killed them all. But then, had she done so, Gyrlin would be dead already. The girl had seen another dawn because of Sigyn, and she supposed that was something to be proud of.
“Do ash wives eat people?” she asked Loki, careful to keep her voice too low for others to catch.
“Sometimes. More oft though, they feast on souls. Or perhaps this one intended to let another of her kind possess Gyrlin and thus swell their ranks.”
Sigyn frowned. “And when denied?”
“They can spread illness and blight, drive away game, foul the river.”
So by saving Gyrlin, Sigyn may well have damned the rest of these villagers. Still, how was she to pity a people willing to murder a young girl who had done no wrong? Damn, but she could not wish such a fate even upon these people. She tapped a finger against her lip. Only one recourse seemed open to her.
“Frigg told me a story once, that every ash wife is bound to a heart tree, and that without it she would wither away.”
Loki also spoke softly, not taking his eyes off the crowd. “Kill her tree, and she loses her tether in the Mortal Realm. But Sigyn, do not forget that, when propitiated the ash wife no doubt offers some service to these folk. She appears to keep the mist at bay and quite likely ensures plenty of game and fish. Take that away—”
“And they must fend for themselves, same as any other people, and without the need to cast away their children to sate the hunger of a vaettr. I’m doing this.”
“How? Not even you can pass through the forest without the ash wife detecting you.”
Sigyn glanced over her shoulder at Gyrlin. “We have something she wants.” The very thought of it set her stomach lurching. Such a cruel, calculating move seemed more akin to what she’d expect of her enemies. But Sigyn needed a way to keep the ash wife distracted while she searched for its heart tree. Sigyn grabbed Gyrlin now and pulled her forward. “I’m sorry for this,” she whispered in the girl’s ear. Then she looked to the elder. “Very well. Your arguments have convinced us. Take her back to the clearing.”
The look of abject, speechless betrayal on Gyrlin’s face was almost enough to stop Sigyn’s heart in shame.
The villagers wasted no time in taking the girl away, and indeed, paid Sigyn very little mind the moment she handed over Gyrlin. No doubt thoughts of vengeance would come to them later, but in the meantime Sigyn was able to slip off, away from them. In the village, she snatched up an axe one of her would-be attackers had discarded.
This would prove easier with Loki at her side—or if not easier, less frightening—but someone needed to watch over Gyrlin and make sure the ash wife did not actually kill the girl. With fire, Loki could do that.
Sigyn let them bind the girl and begin their prayers before she slipped into the wood herself. With the slightest bit of luck, those prayers and the wailing girl would hold the ash wife’s full attention while Sigyn passed unnoticed among the trees. Now, though, she could afford to waste no more time. She moved quickly, deeper and deeper into the wood.
Frigg had said a vӧlva recognized a heart tree by its twisted shape, the very wood warped by the presence of the ash wife’s soul. Whether the tree actually had to be an ash tree, or that was merely a name, Sigyn didn’t know, so she had to examine every large tree she came across. In the Myrkvidr, that was a lot of trees.
She ran deeper into the wood, sniffing for aught that might smell amiss, tasting the air for any hint of the Otherworldly. It was a desperate move, a hope she might detect something that might well prove undetectable. What else was she to do? Not far back, Gyrlin was being tied to a tree to become a sacrifice to this monster.
Damn, what she wouldn’t give for Loki’s or Odin’s or even Frigg’s gift of the Sight. All of them treated it like a burden, but some prescient insight would go a damned long way at times like this. If only she could …
Sigyn paused.
Up until this point, squirrels, birds, and the like had graced the boughs of nigh unto every tree she passed. But here, all of a sudden, no more surrounded her. As if they sensed something she did not—maybe because they had some sense she lacked, however keen her others had become.
Slowing, she continued deeper into the wood. The ash wife’s unnatural soul must rest within one of these trees. Sigyn ran her fingertips over the bark of one. Naught odd there. Again, and again, she touched tree after tree.
Until, at last, she came upon one she had no desire to touch. Here, the trunk had turned upon itself like the braids in a maiden’s hair, twined together and bent, with its boughs stretching down to scrape the ground and mesh with roots. After a shuddering breath, Sigyn laid her hand against the trunk. Within it pulsed something not unlike a thick, off-rhythm heartbeat.
She swallowed. So. She had found it.
After several steadying breaths, Sigyn raised the axe. This was it. Kill this tree, or Gyrlin was d
amned—destined to be consumed in body or soul by the vile ash wife these people mistook for a goddess. Damn. This sort of thing ought to have fallen upon Odin or his ilk. With a shriek, Sigyn slammed the axe into the twisted trunk. It only bit the surface, but the impact sent her arms tingling. Except it wasn’t just her arms—the whole fucking tree was trembling, groaning, writhing in disquiet, like the grim dead waking. Sigyn hewed again. This time, black ichor exploded out of the wound, stinging her eyes and drenching her stolen tunic. Unlike blood, it was cool and viscous and burned her skin.
The tree shrieked like some damned soul fleeing the gates of Hel. The ash wife knew Sigyn was here and would no doubt delight on feasting on her soul any moment now. Again and again Sigyn laid into the trunk, chopping and hewing, tearing out chips and spraying more of the burning black fluid all over her. Every time she breathed, grunting with effort, the vile stuff seeped into her mouth. Its acrid stench filled her nostrils. And she was not getting through this.
Without warning, vines exploded from the roots around the heart tree, snaking in and out and surging for her. Sigyn screamed, stumbling away, but too late. A vine snared her ankle and yanked her off her feet, hanging her upside down. It jerked from side to side, slamming her against the tree trunk once. The axe tumbled out of her dazed fingers and her vision swam in a black and red haze. As her view began to clear, the trunk ruptured, exposing a maw-like hollow lined with fibrous roots pulsing like limbs.
Another vine snared her wrist, and the two of them began dragging her toward that maw. From inside, a fell green light began to gleam, shimmering like a poisonous moon. Sigyn’s stomach clenched so hard she couldn’t even squeeze a shriek through her throat. Please, please let Loki be close. Let him come and save her again.
She grabbed the vine and yanked, having no more effect against it than a child would against an adult. As she drew nigh to the trunk, she managed to turn about, and brace one foot against it. The vines kept pulling until she felt like her knee would pop.
He had said … had said he might not always be able to save her.
Please! Not like this!
It was inside her, Loki had promised it. Inside, the very same power! The power that—
Her knee creaked, and she wailed in agony. The ash wife was tearing her to pieces, would devour her whole and leave naught for her love to ever find.
Sigyn screamed again, not only in torment, but in gut-wrenching rage. She was not going to be separated from him like this. He needed her. Her people, her sister, they needed her. And she was not done with life yet.
She shut her eyes rather than gaze into that putrescent maw, and in her mind forced the picture back, envisioning the rivers of life force coursing through her form. The pneuma filled her with the same power as Loki or Odin. She need but direct it. Sigyn had never known a battle fever like a warrior, but she could imagine it. Imagine ignoring pain and becoming stronger than she’d ever thought herself capable.
In a single instant, the throbbing ache in her limbs faded—it did not vanish, for she knew it was there, but it became a distant misery, overshadowed by the wrath and vivacity that suddenly suffused her. She screamed again, this time in fury, grabbing the vine around her wrist and yanking with all her newfound might. Fibers within the vine split and then tore free.
The tree shrieked again. For a moment she hung loose, then she grabbed the vine around her ankle with both hands. It creaked, groaned, and then rent in half. Sigyn fell like a stone and smacked her spine against the roots. The impact knocked power out of her, and her injuries hit her like a waterfall, immersing her. Everything hurt. All she could see was pain. All she could do was moan.
A tree split beside her, the ash wife wresting her torso free of it. Black blood drenched her as well, streaming down her naked form in rivers. Sigyn seized the pneuma and flooded it into her limbs again, blocking pain and enhancing her strength.
Groaning in effort, she rolled over, snatched up the axe, and stumbled toward the heart tree. Another thwack. More ichor splattered on her. Another swing and the axe bit into pliant flesh.
The ash wife pitched forward, clutching her chest and wailing, crawling toward Sigyn in a frantic attempt to forestall the inevitable. Sigyn, panting, spared the ash wife a final glance.
“Go back to the fell world that spawned you.” She spun and plunged the axe deep into the pulsing heart of the tree. Gore jetted out of that heart with such force, it hurled her off her feet and sent her tumbling over the ichor-slicked ground.
When she at last managed to roll over, the ash wife lay staring up at the canopy with empty eyes. Her ribcage had ruptured like the tree trunk, exposing a knotted mess of roots where bones and organs ought to have resided.
Sigyn shut her eyes, unable to fight against the shudders any longer. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to ignore the noxious fluid drenching her and burning her skin.
Though she had wiped the ichor from her face as best she could, Sigyn had no doubt the black gore staining every speck of her flesh and clothes made her appear like a specter drifting into the village. She dragged the axe behind her in one hand, the other pulling the ash wife’s head by the hair. Severing it had proved more difficult than she’d expected, requiring three swings and—to her surprise—human blood.
The flame in Loki’s hand flickered and died as he looked upon her, yet she could have sworn a hint of pride lurked behind his crystal-blue eyes. He knew what she had done, without his help, without need for anyone to come and save her. She had slain a vaettr in its own domain. Odin himself would have been impressed.
Sigyn flung the head in the midst of the villagers, her arm aching. Using her pneuma to drawn upon superhuman strength had drained her, as if she still had to pay a price for what she put her body through. Chills wracked her chest, and though the situation demanded she remain the implacable, unassailable representative of King Odin, all she wanted was to curl up next to a fire and sleep for days.
Gyrlin, who had knelt behind Loki, slowly rose from her crouch, eyes wide.
“W-what have you done?” the elder said.
“Freed you.”
“You’ve damned us! What of the mist? Without her protection, the varulfur, the trolls, the draugar—”
Sigyn flung the axe between his legs. The blade embedded in mud at the elder’s feet, and he looked down at it, mouth agape. “Face them. And at least know you do so without selling your souls to some other vaettr, nor pissing away the lives of your young women.”
Not that Gyrlin was like to be safe in this village any longer. Once Sigyn had gone, the villagers would blame her. With luck, they would only ostracize her. Without luck, perhaps they would kill her themselves, as if any of this had been her fault.
Sigyn wiped a grimy hand across her forehead, then stumbled to where the girl stood. “Have you kin anywhere else?”
“I … I … down the river, by the sea. My brother is a captain beholden to King Volsung.”
Sigyn almost groaned. Volsung had proved himself foe to all Aesir already and would no doubt hang Sigyn and Loki both, given the chance. And yet … “A captain with his own ship?”
Gyrlin nodded. “Newly promoted, indeed. I was engaged here, but when my betrothed fell to pox, the villagers blamed me. Thought I’d make an apt sacrifice to the lady.”
Sigyn glanced back at the villagers. Maybe she ought to have let the ash wife wreak her vengeance upon these loathsome people. Either way, she could not leave Gyrlin here, and the girl might just have presented her an opportunity. She looked to Loki, who nodded. So Sigyn put a hand upon Gyrlin’s shoulder, heedless of the gore. “And will your brother be grateful? Grateful enough to ferry us to Valland or beyond?”
Gyrlin looked to the villagers who had so betrayed her. Perhaps she did not know the answer. But she nodded again anyway, obviously seeking any escape from the wretched fate that await her here.
So they would follow the river to the sea and—Freyja willing—be gone from Volsung’s domain in
a matter of days.
10
In the early morning, Volsung’s servant led Gudrun down to the many ships. The king himself stood aboard this ship, clad in mail decorated with dragon motifs. He cut a mighty figure surrounded by his many men-at-arms. Of course, if he faced Odin in battle, he would die. For Hljod’s sake, Gudrun hoped Odin would be occupied elsewhere.
All die …
Irpa spoke the truth, but Gudrun had no interest in the wraith’s opinions.
You will …
Of course, if Fenrir went after him, maybe even the Ás god-king would die. The mere thought of the Moon Lord silenced even the wraith. A vaettr older and more terrible than even the twisted shade bound within her flesh, and it frightened Irpa. The wraith’s lack of protestation made that much obvious and almost brought a smile to Gudrun’s face.
Almost, though in truth, she had little to smile about. Gudrun did not like sailing into a battle with so many uncertainties. No matter the outcome, chances were good someone she cared for or someone she at least needed would die. Volsung could prove a useful ally to her if he lived. And Odin … Gudrun ground her teeth. No! She did not care if he lived or died. Not anymore. In fact, it would be better if he perished and she could put all this behind her. This was the path Grimhild had set them all on, and Gudrun intended to follow it and beat her mother to the end. She would become the queen, no matter the cost.
And it all came back to the grimoire. In her desperation, Gudrun had even turned to Irpa to help unravel its mysteries. Despite the wraith’s obvious desire to increase her hold over Gudrun, Irpa had admitted the book’s secrets lay beyond even her. That had left Gudrun with the gut-wrenching fear she might need to summon something older and more powerful than even Irpa to unravel the grimoire.
A step she had thus far refused.