by Matt Larkin
“Maybe you should swallow some troll cock,” the first man answered.
That remark sparked raucous laughter from the remaining men. And provided enough distraction. Tyr charged into their midst. The speaker looked to him, mouth wide. A low swing severed one of his legs, drowning out his words in screams.
Bellowing, Tyr launched himself at the bowman. The scout dropped his weapon to go for a broadsword. Only managed to get one hand on it before Gramr bit through one of his lungs. Tyr yanked his sword free and raised his shield, blocking an axe strike from the nearest man.
He danced around.
Two remaining men worked in unison. Well trained. Or at least used to working together.
One swung while the other feinted. Tyr swept the feint aside with Gramr. Deflected the real attack on his shield. A swift twist let him scrape his blade along the axeman’s thigh. The chilling numbness would set in almost instantly. Indeed, the man fell back, gaping at his shallow wound as though his life were being drained by some foul vaettir.
Close enough to the truth, perhaps. Souls were bound in the runeblade, angry. Hungry.
“What in Hel’s—” the other man started to ask.
A quick slash spilled the speaker’s steaming intestines over the forest floor. The wounded man toppled onto his arse, trying to crawl away.
“Who sent you?” Tyr asked.
Before the scout could answer, Gramr drove herself through his throat. Tyr grunted, looked down at his blood-drenched hand. Had he meant to do that?
“Trollfuckers,” he mumbled.
It didn’t matter. He knew who sent them.
And he knew where they were going.
But if he went back … No.
Damn, but no. He had to press on and reach the Vallander troops. Frigg had ordered him to bring back help.
And he would do so, even if it meant leaving his people alone for now.
23
All in Vanaheim seemed to move with a calm pace an outsider might mistake for languor, or even total apathy for life. After days walking the gardens with Freyja, Odin suspected it was more a matter of repose, of appreciation for nature and life born from living in a place where survival was no longer a struggle. And that was a reality he had never before imagined nor prepared for.
Freyja woke when she felt like it, stayed up late into the night, and often encouraged him to sit on the cliff, staring out over the landscape in silence. When he asked after the Art, she would sometimes answer questions and sometimes laugh it away. The night before, they had watched the stars, sipping wine and speaking of life until well past midnight. Never had he seen the moon so clear.
Most times, one or both of her cave lions walked beside them, seeming more companion than protector to her. After days of quiet, Odin had almost even gotten accustomed to the cats.
This morning, Freyja had sat with him in the book room, trying—as she had most days—to teach him to interpret the letters on the pages. He had managed some, but oft as not, his head would throb after but a few hours. In answer to which, Freyja always seemed to recommend wine and a walk in the sunlight.
Which he welcomed. He treaded behind her, more or less ignoring the lions pacing after them.
Sessrumnir’s terrace glittered. It was home to a rooftop hanging garden of a thousand varieties. And Freyja, for whatever reason, seemed intent for him to learn the names and scents of every one.
Somehow, she made such lessons so pleasant, he hardly minded passing a day like this. The sun was so warm, he had doffed his cloak and wool shirt for a simple tunic like she wore.
Now, as he sat on the terrace rail, Freyja pulled at the side of the tunic’s opening, examining the runes branded into his flesh. “Do these cover your whole body?”
“Most of it, my lady. Both arms, my chest. My back.”
Freyja quirked that odd half smile. “You can drop the ‘my lady,’ Odin. By the Tree, after days walking together, perhaps we can dispense with titles.”
How could he refuse such a simple request? Freyja was grounded in a way he would not have expected of a princess, much less a divine one. And she was quick to laugh, with an infectious smile. Her easy way made him want to agree to anything she asked. “Do you … know what they mean?”
“I can take a closer look later. I have someone coming here today just to see you—a specialist in alchemy. It’s an important aspect of the Art—safer than sorcery, if not quite safe. A bit more predictable, too. Mostly.” She snickered at that. “Come on.” She inclined her head for him to follow, and he did so.
Her hips swayed with such elegant grace as she walked. It had to be intentional. Unless she had grown so accustomed to such styles, she no longer thought of them. Following her down the stairs, he found it hard to think of anything else.
Walls of water separated many of the lower rooms. In fact, many of the sleeping chambers, including Odin’s own, seemed shaped by walls of water that flowed upward. Naturally, these walls were translucent, and he assumed one could pass through them—if one didn’t mind getting drenched.
They passed by one chamber where a pair of Vanir hammered away at incandescent metal, working it over green flame. Though Freyja had given him a tour of most of the hall and the surrounding mountains, he had not noticed this forge before, and he paused.
“Oh.” Freyja turned when he stopped. “Right. They’re forging orichalcum.”
“Which is?”
“A metal with some unique properties. It’s found almost exclusively on Vanaheim, though some pieces have made their way into the world. Dvergar, in particular, prize it beyond all other wealth.”
“What kind of properties?”
“The metal resonates at a frequency that seems to pass between realms, making it suitable for ensorcellment.”
Odin took a step toward the forge. “You mean it’s magical?”
Freyja snatched his wrist and pulled him away. “It’s susceptible to the Art in surprising ways. Most importantly, one can forge souls into it, which is how the dvergar crafted the runeblades. On the other hand, it can be attuned such that it drains any supernatural energy from those bound by it, effectively blocking seid or other forms of the Art. We used it to bind those possessed by vaettir.”
Odin faltered. A metal that could block the Art? Maybe that was how Gjuki had bound him during his torture. The Raven Lord had claimed Odin would never break his chains. Perhaps because those very chains grew stronger as Odin fed his supernatural strength into them.
“Orichalcum is rare, hard to work with. And not my specialty—though I can teach you a bit about it if you really want to know, some other time. I just … soul forging is a vile practice, Odin.” She murmured something unintelligible, then shook her head. “Gullveig is waiting.”
Freyja guided him to a sun-drenched room lined with numerous tables and shelves. Upon each shelf sat various powders, poultices, and jars. Some of those jars held what looked to him like animal organs. One might have been the heart of a large bird. He rather hoped not, as a yellow-green bird the size of his forearm sat on one windowsill. Just big enough for the heart to have belonged to a relative.
A dark-haired woman sat in front of one desk, looking slightly disheveled and bemused. She had feathers laced through her hair and runes tattooed on one cheek.
“Freyja!” The woman stumbled to her feet without any semblance of the uncanny grace Odin had come to associate with immortal Vanir like Freyja or Idunn. The chair toppled backward, clattering to the floor.
“Sorry, sorry!” Indeed, this Gullveig seemed more like a laughing matron who ought to be weaving blankets and tall tales at the same time.
Freyja embraced her, then turned to him. “Gullveig, this is Odin. I want you to give him the basics in alchemy.”
The woman’s slightly-too-wide grin made her seem a child given a new toy. Strange odors wafted off her, a mix of wine and some putrid stench under it. “Oh, yes. I haven’t trained many mortal men. Women, yes, on occasion. Not so many anymore. N
o one brings them for training these days.”
Freyja frowned slightly at Gullveig’s words, though Odin couldn’t say why.
“Alchemy is like cooking with the Art. Or brewing! By the Tree, yes, like brewing a fine wine! Do you like wine? Shall we have a glass?”
Odin glanced at Freyja, who nodded encouragingly. He shrugged. Why not? A glass of wine might help him make sense of these lessons. It might also help cover the woman’s unpleasant odor.
Gullveig, it turned out, was fond of talking to the bird, which she called a ringneck parrot. More disturbingly, it spoke back from time to time.
“Blue one!” the bird chirped as Gullveig reached for a green vial.
“Pshwt,” the woman snorted. “Fool of a bird would have us seeing visions and talking to the walls.” She glanced at Odin, then winked at the parrot. “A worthy diversion, of course. Not what we’re learning today, though.”
The bird flew about the room, occasionally grabbing random vials in its claws and carrying them to one corner or another.
Odin kept a wary eye on the bird. Not long ago, it had tried to perch on his shoulder like it thought him some tree. When he swatted it away, it called him a “cranky bitch.” Who taught an animal to speak at all, much less in such terms?
The giggling woman mixing powders seemed the obvious culprit.
“Try the blue one,” she muttered under her breath. “Indeed. Oh, I wrote a book on the experience once. I don’t think anyone read it. It’s in the library downstairs, though, if you’d like to examine my musings on altered consciousness. I still believe the right mixture might allow one to pierce the Veil and see beyond the Mortal Realm.”
Odin leaned against the wall without taking his eyes off that bird. The next avian to call him a cranky bitch would be roast over a spit and be served for the night meal. “You’re talking about the Sight? Vӧlvur smoke herbs to achieve it.”
“Oh, oh my. The Sight is limited to certain, uh, special individuals.”
“Lucky bitches,” the parrot added.
Gullveig flung an empty bowl in the bird’s direction, and it took flight, settling down on the other side of the room. “Ahem. Yes. The right concoctions might open the minds of those not otherwise inclined toward supernatural perception. And for those already gifted, it could serve as a catalyst.”
“A catalyst?”
“A focus. The Sight is different for everyone, of course, oh yes. Always different … and most with it find it easiest to focus with an object to rarify their senses. Pyromancers stare into fire, hydromancers watch patterns in water. Others throw runes.”
Runes? Like those marking his skin? “Tell me about runes.”
She raised a finger. “Ah. Have your attention now, do I?”
“Cranky bitch,” the bird said.
“Oh, um. Well actually, Freyja is perhaps more suited to explain the correlation between runes and divination and sorcery. I can fill you a pipe, though! Damn, but you will see something once you finish that.”
“Something real?” If these catalysts could serve to focus the Sight, maybe he could finally find his answers. Loki oft stared into flames. Was that how his blood brother controlled the Sight?
“Real?” She giggled for a moment. “Well …” She drew that word out so long, she sounded daft. “Real is in the eye of the beholder.” Whatever she was mixing, she corked it, shook the vial, then offered it to him.
Odin frowned, but pushed off the wall and accepted the vial. “What do I with this?”
“Pour it in a flame. It will help open your mind.”
“I thought you were to teach me alchemy?”
“Oh! Well, I am, I am. You cannot learn it in an afternoon.” She snorted.
“Cranky bitch,” the bird repeated. Wait, did the parrot speak to him or to Gullveig? If the latter, he was starting to like the bird after all.
“These lessons can take years, my, yes. First, drink the potion.”
“You said to throw it into a fire.”
She nodded with a fool grin. “Quite right. Do that. Enjoy the results. You only get one first time!” She turned to the bird. “Come on, Cranky. Time to go.”
24
A great cliff overlooked the land, rising above the mist. One of the Old Kingdoms had built a bridge from a hill to that cliff. Arches bigger than a jotunn supporting it. And atop the cliff, a fortress, the heart of Valland’s power in Andalus.
Tyr had come a long way to reach it. He trod across the bridge, staring at the behemoth structure ahead. Unlike many places of the Old Kingdoms, this wasn’t crumbling. They’d rebuilt it. You could spot where walls were patched up, the gates reinforced. Dozens of archers up on the ramparts. Serklanders would have it hard to take this place. Only one way in. Of course, it meant only one way out, too. If the Serklanders made it this far north, the Vallanders would be trapped here.
The South Realmers guarded the gate, too. Six men with halberds, flanking it. Others, at the far end of the bridge, they’d let him pass. A single man posed no threat—or so they’d think—and they believed him an emissary of Odin.
He passed between them, into a large gatehouse. Ceiling had holes in it. Maybe for archers? Some intentional defense, no doubt. Yes, Serklanders would lose thousands of lives to take this place.
Beyond the gatehouse lay a small town. Shanties and shops, all clustered together. Stinking of horse shit and humanity. The emissary—the sniveling weakling who had called on Odin not so long ago—met him there.
“Welcome, chosen of Odin. We did not, uh, expect you to come calling upon his imperial majesty directly.”
“The emperor himself is here?”
“Indeed my good, uh, good sir. Emperor Karolus arrived a fortnight ago to oversee the war. Have you come to discuss that?”
Not exactly, but close enough. Tyr grunted in assent.
“The emperor is a busy man, yes. I’m certain you, uh, you understand these matters, being in service to a king. And you can but imagine, an emperor is far above—”
Tyr cut him off with a raised hand. “I’ve walked a long way to come and say my piece. I have no patience for delays. Take me to the emperor.”
“Well, you must understand that—”
Tyr stepped very close to the emissary and placed a hand on the back of his neck, forcing him to crane to look up. “We are besieged. I have no time to waste. Do you understand me, little man?”
The Vallander wiggled free from Tyr’s grasp and scowled, mumbling something in his own tongue. “Very well. I will see what I can do. Follow me to the keep.”
The man had led him through a maze of tiny streets in that town. Might have taken Tyr an hour or more to navigate himself. Maybe intentional. More defenses? Beyond that lay the keep and yet another guarded gate. They allowed him inside and bid him wait in the foyer.
Room seemed as decorated as any dvergar horde, all golden ornaments on the walls and fancy tapestries. Lots of plunder worth taking, if a man was of such a mind. Made him wonder what the emperor’s real palace in Valland looked like. Probably soft and silky, weak. South Realmers always wanted to pamper themselves.
Eventually, the emissary returned and beckoned Tyr into an even more ornate throne room. Candles hung from some giant lantern-like device above, lighting the hall. The emperor sat on a throne upon a dais at the end of a carpet that gave way under Tyr’s boots. Too soft. Could these people even fight? If he’d come all this way for allies who’d rather sit on cushions than face their foes, he’d wasted too much time already.
The emperor was aging, but still fit. Well muscled, if not tall. He wore a crown decked with gems and crafted in gold. So much wealth here. Small wonder, if they exacted such tribute from all their allies as they had from the Aesir.
The emissary left Tyr’s side to go and stand next to the throne, where also stood a clean-shaven young man suited in a breastplate and mail. Personal guard? Champion?
“Your imperial majesty,” Tyr said. That was what the emissary had called t
he emperor, after all.
The emissary whispered something in his master’s ear. Translation.
The emperor in turn spoke in the strange Southern tongue, only to be translated by his servant. “We extend a warm welcome to the champion of our ally, King Odin.”
Tyr worked his jaw. Ally. Sounded well enough. “Your allies come seeking aid.”
“Have the Serklanders attacked your position?” the emperor asked through his emissary.
A lie might well serve to get soldiers. But Tyr had to hold on to what honor he had left. “Not Serklanders. Hunalanders, come raiding into these lands, and enemies of ours already.”
“We are sorry to hear of these troubles. What is it you wish of us?”
Tyr almost laughed. Was that not obvious? “Send men to drive the raiders out of Andalus.”
Emperor Karolus rubbed a hand over his thick beard. “If we divert men from facing the Serklanders, we risk a full-scale invasion. How are we to justify such a decision?”
The unfortunate truth of it was, the Aesir had little enough plunder left to offer. Frigg had sent Tyr here hoping the Vallanders would feel bound by their promises of protection. “Your allies need you. We have already contributed many riches to your war effort.”
“Such pittances may have seemed significant from your perspective, but do not represent a substantial change in our fortunes.”
Tyr was pretty certain he—or rather Odin—had just been insulted. Gramr beckoned him to draw her. It would mean his death, of course. More than a dozen guards in here. Hundreds more outside. Still, she sang to him an aria of blood. Entreated him to let these arrogant bastards paint the halls with their guts. Such thoughts would bring ruination to the Aesir. They needed these people. Question was, what did Karolus need? From Odin’s estimate, the Vallander Empire faced invasion from the more numerous armies of Serkland. If they lost Andalus, their own homeland was next.
“You have heard of the prowess of Ás warriors, yes?”
The armored man whispered something to the emperor, then, on some response, addressed Tyr in the Northern tongue. “Your reputation has spread from Hunaland, most especially tales of these berserkir and varulfur.”