by Matt Larkin
“These things are picking us off one night at a time.” Tyr glanced back at the beach.
“Why aren’t our own varulfur catching their scents?”
Damn good question. How could they miss so many of their own kind running around every night?
“Hoenir claimed some of his varulfur have gone missing.”
Tyr spun on her. “Are you suggesting Aesir did this?”
“Hoenir thought whatever was killing the sentries had killed them too, that we just haven’t seen the bodies. I was in no mood to listen to his complaints.”
Frigg might have told her she ought to bury her grievances with the Godwulf tribe. Tyr knew better. Blood was not so easily cooled.
And Tyr was done being the hunted. Whether these foes were sent by the Niflungar or Hoenir’s own werewolves had turned on them, he intended to find them. “Can’t afford to wait around any longer. We’ll take scouting parties and comb these woods. Find the pack in daylight. Split up our own varulfur, at least one with every scouting party. Maybe they can catch the scent of this pack.”
“And if those werewolves turn on us?”
“Eh. Warn the other scouts. Quietly. And Zisa … don’t let Starkad join any of those groups.”
“I know how to handle my son, Tyr.”
That made one of them.
Tyr led one hunting party himself. Killing the witch had bought them time, even if she was not the culprit. Hel, maybe she had ensorcelled the varulfur. Either way, Frigg’s fear the Aesir would tear themselves apart remained. He had to keep them focused on a common foe. That and pray Odin was found soon.
The forests covering these mountains and valleys stretched on and on. Even the awe-inspiring view from the beaches had not prepared him for wading so deep into this wild, green world. No, not even in dreams had he imagined such a place. His group paused beside a stream, running clear and, of course, unfrozen. It bubbled over rocks, the sound intoxicating. Begging them to stare in wonder, to stop and drink.
Some of the Aesir did so now, carrying on about how the water wasn’t even cold. Tyr fought the urge to join them. Necessity had forced him to leave his armor behind. It was too fucking hot here, even knowing varulfur might stalk the woods. With the slightest luck, though, he hoped to catch them asleep. The morning was still early. No shifters favored daylight. Not even the one he had brought with him, a woman who had not once stopped grumbling about being split from her pack and set under Tyr’s command.
“Any sign of them?” Tyr asked.
The varulf sneered at him. “Plenty. I just thought I’d keep them to myself so we could wander around this accursed morning a bit more.”
Tyr’s fingers itched. Gramr whispered he ought to teach the bitch a lesson.
She looked up, suddenly, sniffed, and turned back toward the way they had come.
“What is it?”
“Someone is coming.”
Now he did draw Gramr. Her bone hilt was a reassuring presence. Warming his hand, promising peace. The others saw him, snatching up their own weapons. Archers nocked arrows, readied for aught that might burst from the trees.
Tyr backed up to the stream. He wanted as much space to maneuver as possible. Damn trees were so tight he could barely swing his sword in the forest.
A young man dashed forward, chest heaving. An Ás boy, cheek bloody.
Sparing only a swift glance beyond him, Tyr grabbed the boy and pulled him to the stream. “Watch the trees,” he ordered the others before turning to the boy. “What happened? Did you find the varulf?”
“No, lord.” He swallowed and rubbed a dirty wrist over his cut, then looked at it. “Th-the Vanir attacked us.”
Tyr groaned while those men nearest him cursed. The gods had poor timing.
Unless … unless the varulf served them. The Aesir had varulfur among them … why would the Vanir not have them as well? He had just never considered the gods, in their peaceful world, would need such protectors. Hel take him for a fool. The attacks were a trap, designed to draw the Aesir into the woods where the Vanir could pick them off a few at a time. And he had charged right in.
“Find the other scouting parties!” he snapped at the varulf. “We have to gather the people!”
They could not afford to let the Vanir separate them.
The war had begun.
43
Corpses decorated the lush forest, blood splattering the sea of greenery as Odin drew closer to the screams. So many screams, so many Aesir dead. The Vanir knew their islands well and used that knowledge to their favor. Their warriors—clad in leaf-like armor painted to match the forests—seemed to melt in and out of the underbrush like vaettir preying on fools in the mists.
Odin had killed three already, and had snatched up a spear from the first. The Vanir still seemed to think him a weak old man. It was usually the last mistake they ever made.
He climbed over a moss-covered root twice his own size, wending his way through thick trees. His people were not accustomed to fighting in such overgrowth, indeed had probably never seen its like. If they could catch the Vanir in a fair fight, they might gain the advantage, but like this the Aesir were doomed. He needed to reach them soon, and turn the battle’s tide.
A pit opened in his stomach as he rounded another tree, accompanied by a sudden wooziness and the irresistible urge to take cover. He did so, ducking even as an arrow impacted the tree trunk where he had just stood. Prescient warning from the Sight? He dashed sideways as another arrow chased him. Fucking archer had to be close. There was no shooting at range in this forest.
Even as he stepped behind a tree, another arrow grazed his arm. Odin glowered, blocking the pain from his mind. The shot had come from the left, and up. The archer was in the boughs. From here, Odin could probably sneak away, but that would leave the Vanr warrior to snipe at any other Ás passing this way. Odin frowned. No. He could not bring himself to hate the Vanir, not really, but nevertheless, he had started down this path and could do naught but see it through.
He let his eyes relax, embracing Sight, letting instinct take him. The world melted away until he saw with senses beyond eyes, saw the archer stalking along a massive branch. Search for an angle to snipe at Odin. Poor bastard.
In one movement, Odin stepped around the tree and flung his stolen spear. It lodged in the surprised archer’s sternum, heaving him out of the treetops. The man pitched backward and crashed to the forest floor.
The ranks of the dead only ever grow …
Odin shook his head. He needed to find the rest of the Aesir.
Several hundred of the Aesir had gathered in a glade in one of the valleys, the warriors and shieldmaidens forming a protective circle around those who could not defend themselves. Vanir slipped in and out of the glade, probing the ring of warriors for weaknesses. More often than not, they succeeded in provoking one or two Aesir to break ranks and chase them. Without the shield wall, the foolish would-be heroes fell to sudden spears or arrows from more snipers.
Odin glowered as he crept up just behind one such archer. Freyja had taught him well. The air shimmered around him for the barest instant as he pulled a glamour over himself, changing his appearance to that of a young warrior clad in leaf-armor. The archer glanced back at as he drew nigh and offered him a single nod. Odin returned the greeting. When the archer turned back to the Aesir, Odin wrapped an arm around the man’s throat. He rushed strength into his limbs and jerked, snapping the Vanr’s neck.
Such trickery felt foul. And yet, when the world itself was at stake, was any tactic too much? The Well of Urd had shown him a future and a past and an eternity of horrors. Odin had to protect his children and his people from those realities, no matter the cost to himself. He was so close to understanding. Even when he’d fought Frey, he’d been on the cusp of something no one, not even the Vanir knew. So close he could taste it.
He let the glamour fall as he entered the glade, running to join his people. A few shouts rang up at his approach. Most eyes, however, we
re drawn to Tyr. Sword in hand, the warrior had broken ranks and chased down a pair of Vanir. Gramr cleaved through a man’s shield and severed the arm beneath it. Tyr never slowed, hacking into the next man and charging off into the woods, screaming like a berserk.
“Damn.” What in the Gates of Hel was the man thinking, leaving his troops?
Many of the men chased after Tyr in his rampage. In that one instant, the whole shield wall collapsed. Vanir appeared almost from nowhere, charging into the breach with blades and spears and axes in hand. Women, children, all were cut down.
“Tyr!” Odin bellowed, rushing away from the man and toward the chaos. He could not afford to go chasing off after his champion when so many people were in danger. He slammed into a Vanr, hurling the man aside like a doll, and barreled in among his people.
A spearman charged for the thickest cluster of Aesir—where Frigg stood with Odin’s children, trying desperately to direct a losing battle. Odin ran for her, jumped on the back of a fallen warrior, and tumbled over another. He was not going to make it.
His family. He could not lose anyone else. Not again.
An arrow caught the spearman in the throat and he pitched forward, gurgling blood. Odin spun to see Zisa nocking another arrow. She nodded at him, then turned on more of the charging Vanir.
Odin pushed forward and grabbed Frigg. “Are you injured?”
“No. But Tyr has lost himself in bloodlust. He acts as though his entire nature had shifted.”
Odin shut his eyes. “How?”
“I don’t know.”
It was a difficulty he would have to face later. “Did you keep Gungnir safe for me?”
She nodded and rushed to a bundle nearby. Odin snatched it, yanking away fabric to reveal the spear. The moment the haft was in his hand, strength surged through him, power, the anger of dragons. He was going to rend the Vanr armies and leave them broken on the forest floor. He would kill every last one if he had to. They had brought it upon themselves.
A bear roared. Odin turned to see Vili, assuming his bear form as the sun set. Yes. The Vanir were bound for Hel this night.
“Zisa!” he shouted. “We must find Tyr.” The thegn would need their help and would not be the only one to find glory this night.
Odin pushed through the dense underbrush and into another smaller glade. Tyr stood there, blood dripping from his sword, chest heaving. A half dozen Vanir lay at his feet, as did three Aesir. Odin fell short. One Aesir had been decapitated, a feat he doubted any of the Vanr spears had achieved. The only blade capable of such a wound was in Tyr’s hand. Indeed, all the dead seemed to have fallen to a sword. Gramr.
The icy runeblade of Guthorm, forged by the dvergar smiths in ancient times. Not unlike the blade Audr had once wielded.
Cursed …
And perhaps, much like Gungnir, it had its own will, its own hunger. One Tyr had given himself over to so fully Odin could do naught but gape at the man who had once tried to teach him discipline.
Always hungry …
Zisa, too, stumbled to his side, a pair of Ás warriors trailing her. “Tyr?”
He spun on them, eyes wide and wild, and, with a mad bellow, charged. Odin barely had time to react before Tyr was on him, swinging with lightning-fast strike after strike. Odin fell back, parrying each with Gungnir’s haft. Tyr’s blows left Odin’s arms numb, forcing him to use his supernatural strength just to keep his grip. The blade snaked through his defenses, opening a gash on an arm. Immediately, an icy chill settled over him. This did not bode well. He had overcome Guthorm only because of his supernatural stamina, an endurance Tyr could match.
“Tyr!” Zisa shouted at him.
The man swung at her. She shrieked, rolling on the ground as the runeblade nearly took her head off. Odin used the opportunity to charge shoulder-first into Tyr’s abdomen, hurling him through the air. The man hit the ground, wind exploding from his lungs. Odin surged forward, but Tyr recovered all too quickly, thrusting Gramr up in the air.
Odin dodged to the side. “Yield!” He made half thrusts with Gungnir, keeping Tyr from finding his feet. “Yield, damn you!”
Odin swung at the blade, trying to disarm Tyr, but the warrior was too fast, too skilled for such things. All it earned Odin was another cut, this on his ribs. The thegn was going to skewer them. One of the other Aesir grabbed Tyr, tried to pin him. Tyr flung the hapless man off with one hand. No one could overpower Tyr in terms of pure strength. No one save perhaps …
“Vili!” Odin bellowed.
Tyr climbed to his feet, and Odin immediately swung Gungnir’s butt at his legs, sending him toppling back to the ground.
As the man tried to rise again, Zisa slapped him. The sound rang through the glade and forestalled Tyr at least for a moment. Odin whipped the butt of his spear into Tyr’s sword arm and the blade fell from his grasp. The warrior immediately lunged for it, his face wild as a man gone mad. Odin cracked him on the back of the skull with Gungnir.
Tyr toppled forward and lay on the ground, groaning. Damn. He had never imagined the sword might have so strong an effect on Tyr. It had driven to him to bloodlust, true, but never against his own men before. Was it merely a matter of time, or had something else shifted in Odin’s absence?
Zisa moved to retrieve the blade.
“Stop!” Odin shouted at her. “Do not touch that sword.”
Instead, he knelt beside and wrapped it in cloth. Powerful as it was, he could not afford to let the Aesir wield any such instrument. Not if it could cause them to turn on their own.
A bear burst into the glade a moment later, then sniffed around as if confused.
“Vili,” Odin said, “Tyr is bewitched. We must fall back to the others, regroup.”
The bear grunted in assent, then spun to the woods behind Odin. Odin rose, turning. A shirtless, long-haired man strode out. He wore naught but torn trousers, not even boots, though the undergrowth did not seem to bother him. The man paused some few fathoms away, flashing a sharp-toothed grin at Odin.
Odin sighed and brandished Gungnir. “Begone, Vanr, before I send you to Hel. You have wandered into a fight you cannot win.”
The man sneered, then continued forward. The Aesir with Zisa rushed at him, spears lunging. The man dodged to the side, caught one spear and snapped it in half like kindling. He snared the ogling Ás by the throat and flung him into a tree with one hand. The sound of it breaking echoed through the glade like a gong. Only after a moment did Odin realize it was not the tree that had broken, but the Ás’s spine.
Vili roared and charged forward. In the time it took to close the distance, the Vanr had leapt on the second Ás, pinned him to the ground and ripped out his throat with his bare hands. Vili reared up on his hind legs and swiped at the Vanr. The man ducked under the claws, caught one of Vili’s forelegs, and slapped his other hand on it. Vili’s leg—his arm—snapped forward, bending the wrong way as the bone jutted out. The Vanr ducked under the broken arm and slammed his fist into the bear’s jaw. The blow dislocated it with a sickening crack and sent the bear rolling end over end.
“Fuck me …” Zisa said, her hands fumbling with an arrow.
“Aesir to me!” Odin shouted. Spear out ahead, he advanced on the man. This man had the strength of a jotunn and the speed of … of naught Odin had ever dreamed of. “Who are you? Did Frey send you for me?”
The man chuckled, eyes dark and spread his arms, as if to welcome Odin’s attack. “I am no Vanr, little man. I am the first of the varulfur. A Lord of the Moon. I am Fenrir. Come to send you to Hel. And before dawn, I will feast on your heart and rape your woman until her breath gives out.”
He said the last while looking at Zisa. Odin was about to deny she was his. Zisa, however, had a better response, planting an arrow in the werewolf’s chest. The varulf barely slowed, even as he yanked the bloody thing from his body and tossed it aside without a glance.
The werewolf leapt, his form changing midair with a swiftness Odin had seen from no shifter before.
At once, the creature had become something halfway between man and animal, face elongated and jutting fangs, arms ending in claws. Odin thrust Gungnir. Fenrir batted it aside as he landed, swiping claws across Odin’s face. Pain like fire exploded in front of him, sent him stumbling away. Odin grasped for his power, trying to block the pain. Claws racked his back, and Gungnir was yanked from his grasp. The next thing he knew, he was flying through the air. A hard impact drove wind from his lungs.
He opened his eyes—blood stinging them—to see Tyr trying to bear the werewolf down. Fenrir slashed claws across the thegn’s back, rending so great a chunk of flesh Odin felt bile scorch his throat at the sight. Fenrir flung Tyr off him even as more and more of the Aesir poured into the clearing. The werewolf leapt among them, biting and clawing. His jaws ripped out throats, almost severing heads from bodies. Some few blows landed upon the beast, but barely seemed to slow it.
Other varulfur charged in, Vili’s men in wolf form. Fenrir spun on them, halting their movement with a gaze. For an agonizing instant, as Odin stumbled to his feet, the werewolf held his weaker brethren with his stare and they whimpered. Then Fenrir jerked his head at the Aesir. The other varulfur snarled, suddenly laying into their own former allies. Men and women fell screaming.
Axe-time, sword-time, come the sundered shields, wind-time, wolf-time. Never shall men each other spare.
The Norns’ words were a slithering poison in his mind. A sickening reminder of the urd before him.
Odin roared, finally blocking the pain as berserkir did. Injuries did not matter. Pain was immaterial. There was only will, the choice to continue even when one’s own body would not wish it. That, after all, was much of what Freyja had taught them. Sorcery often came down to a contest of will—not unlike battle.
He charged forward, beckoning all Aesir follow him. They could not outrun such a foe, which left only one recourse. Win or die. Fenrir howled at the sky, then took in the advancing army of Aesir, their numbers ever growing.