by Matt Larkin
It fell from his hands, which suddenly felt heavy. Tingles rippled across his whole body, and he pitched forward, shaking. His senses were exploding. A thousand scents tickled his nostrils—the thick earth above him, the heady roots, his own shed blood. Idunn and her intoxicating femininity. He looked up at her, and before his eyes her dress seemed to fall away. He could taste her flesh, feel her breasts between his thumb and forefinger.
She held up a hand at the way he was looking at her. “I know how you feel right now. But don’t. We have no time, nor would Frigg or Freyja appreciate it if we did.”
Odin shook himself. The desire building in his chest and loins felt ready to explode, to consume him and devour the world along with him. His stones ached so badly he thought he might die of it. He shut his eyes, trying to block the sensation. Neither Frigg nor Freyja would appreciate much of aught he had done on Vanaheim. But thinking of Freyja, keeping her in his mind’s eye, was the slightest comfort, the chance to keep from seeing Idunn.
“Your mother … is wrong.”
“What?”
“Something lies between life and death. The end of the body is not the end of the soul.”
“You were hallucinating, Odin. You lay moments from death when I found you. And to save you … I broke another of our most sacred laws. No one is granted a second apple. No one. The First Ones …”
Odin opened his eyes with sudden understanding. “They who established the Vanir as gods. Because the apples could save them from injuries that would kill even their immortal bodies. But it changed them, didn’t it? More and more, it altered their minds and bodies.”
Idunn made no answer save to look up at the bridge above them. The bridge where still the Aesir and Vanir fought for control of Yggdrasil. It would be no easy climb back up there. But then, Odin felt as if naught lay beyond him now. Maybe that was how the First Ones felt. Maybe that was the beginning of their downfall.
And maybe, some few of them knew it but, like Odin, found themselves with no choice but to take the dangerous path. To follow urd down winding halls, knowing full well the ultimate destination would mean their end. And still they kept walking, ever forward, ever toward destiny. Braver, perhaps, than the Aethelings who followed.
Odin rose and began to climb. As the First Ones had done, he must press on.
Flickers of visions and insights played out across his mind as he strode forward, making his way through the winding passages within Yggdrasil. Thoughts, once shrouded in the hazy recesses of his mind, began to clarify as the second apple coursed through his blood. Idunn chased after him, mumbling about her own damnation, bemoaning the now countless dead among her friends and family. On some level he heard her, sympathized, but his mind—his Sight—had reached levels she could never understand. Again and again, Odin had crossed between life and death, and with every crossing he was changed. His body ravaged, but his mind … Oh, he had seen things.
First, when Gjuki’s torture had sent him falling into the Penumbra. And again, as Frey had choked the life from him and he had witnessed the worlds. Even back then, he had seen glimpses of all nine worlds. And after the squirrel had left him dying, he knew the truth. That secrets beyond time and space were there for the taking—available to those willing to risk their lives and souls.
In the darkness …
Yes, maybe Audr had been right all along. In darkness lay the answers he sought. Since his first taste of his first apple, the Sight—he had not even known what to call it back then—had tormented him, teased him with visions he could not make sense of. But now he knew. He knew what he had to do to sift through the torrent of images and the barrage of memories from beyond this life. He needed the stillness, the quiet. The ultimate quiet of the space between moments.
“You killed Ratatoskr …” Lytir stood before him now, blocking the way to the paths below. The priest held a dagger in a trembling hand.
Tyr suddenly pushed past Odin and tackled the robed man. Lost in his thoughts, Odin had not even realized his former thegn had followed him. The warrior hefted the priest up and shoved him against the wall, prying the blade from his hand.
Idunn moaned.
“Tyr, stop,” Odin said. “Enough have died this day. Leave the priest be.”
Tyr snarled at him, but backed away.
Lytir glared first at Tyr, then at Odin. “They told me what you plan. It is blasphemous.”
So. The Norns knew. Of course they knew. They had always known. From his first step into their domain what seemed an age ago, to his entrance into the Well of Urd, they had known what had to happen.
A price must be paid for every gain, a hefty weight for each wisdom.
They had warned him way back then, when Loki had first sent him into their midst.
And not so long ago, they had warned him again … told him he would not understand it all until after his last breath. To know all, he must pay all. To gain more wisdom than any living man, he would pay with his very life.
Sorcerers lost their humanity as they gained more and more knowledge of arcana beyond human ken. So too must he pay a price for understanding the future.
“Tyr,” Odin said, “I am going down below.” He shut his eyes. And he knew. Of course he knew. “No one is to disturb me nor grant me any aid. If I do not return after the end of nine days and nine nights, then I will not return. Until then, hold the bridge and defend the Aesir, but kill no one save those you must.”
“Nine days?” Tyr scoffed. “My lord, is this some jest?”
“Wait, what?” Idunn asked. “What are you going to do?”
Flush with the power of a second apple he felt invincible. He felt … inevitable. The Well of Urd was calling him, its song humming through his mind, demanding he look. Demanding he stare. Demanding he sacrifice everything. All for the future.
“He plans to kill himself before the Well of Urd and gaze into infinity,” Lytir said.
“My lord?” Tyr demanded.
“Heed my words, Tyr. Neither Ás nor Vanr is to disturb me. And tell Freyja I … No. Tell my wife and children I love them.”
Tyr grabbed his shoulder. “What madness is this?”
Idunn stood there, trembling by his side, hand on Tyr’s wrist. Her mouth hung open, but she only moaned. She could not have foreseen her actions would lead here. But then, it was not merely Idunn’s actions, but everyone’s. She had followed in the footsteps of her grandmother, who, in turn, had felt forced to this by Hel. A chain of desperation. A chain of destiny.
“It is not madness,” Odin said, shaking his head. “It is urd. It is necessity. Only with knowledge finally unveiling can I save this world. If I do not do this, Hel wins.”
“So instead you plan to throw yourself onto her doorstep?”
Odin smiled sadly. “If that is my urd. But I think, rather, I venture to a place not even the goddess of mist can follow.” And that was why she had feared him, why she had sent Ymir to try to destroy him. Finally, he understood. Hel had known Odin might reach this crossroads. Irony, of course, had her becoming the better part of the reason he had ventured to this point.
Odin had avenged his father on Ymir. Now, he would take the first true step to avenge himself against Hel.
He squeezed both Tyr and Idunn on the shoulder. “Do not fear for me. Hold the bridge.”
Tyr was shaking his head, but Odin knew the man would obey.
“You cannot do this,” Lytir protested.
But of course he could. He would. He always would. That was what the Norns had foreseen. Alone, he descended the steps into darkness, into the chamber where the Norns waited for him. The three of them stood in rapt silence, each staring. Once, Odin had thought them perhaps vӧlvur. They were not. These creatures were not human, maybe never had been. He did not know quite what they were or why—or even if—they were helping him. Maybe that answer, too, waited for him in the space between life and death. Or maybe Tyr was right and he would die here. But death no longer frightened him.
&nbs
p; Slowly, he advanced toward the well.
Fall into darkness … Fall for eternity …
Perhaps it frightened him a little bit.
A root vine descended from the knotted earth above. Maybe the Norns called it for him. Maybe Yggdrasil itself prepared the way for his sacrifice. Eternity awaited.
And gazing into the dark waters it called to him. Yes. He had lied to himself just now. He feared it. What living man did not fear death?
Odin grabbed the vine, twisting it into a noose, then placed it around his neck. How could he not fear what he must do? He looked to the Norns, but their cowls hid their features, offering him no sympathy. This was his burden alone.
He climbed onto the ledge. His heart was pounding, pulsing at his ears. One foot stuck out over the edge, and suddenly all his bravado with Tyr and Idunn seemed so vain. All bravado was vain, perhaps. And courage lay only in acting despite that knowledge.
If so, then Odin would be brave. A world depended on him.
He stepped off the ledge. At once the vine tightened around his neck, yanking him upward. It squeezed his throat, pressing out all air until he felt his eyes would pop from his skull. His tongue felt limp. Death was looming over him, Hel’s cackles ringing in his ears.
And he stared into the dark, dark waters of the well. Waiting, watching.
51
Odin’s body hung from the roots above that damnable well. Tyr stood on the threshold, not quite daring enter the chamber where those hooded women lurked. Odin had forbidden anyone to aid him. What mist-madness had possessed him to commit suicide? Perhaps those very women had driven him fey, sent him plummeting over the edge of sanity. And because Tyr had given his oath, he could not even see to his lord’s pyre.
And though no sign of rot had crept over the body, a fool could see Odin was dead. He had grown pale, ashen even. All breath had fled his body.
All he had bid Tyr do was hold the bridge. But thus far, though nigh to three days had passed, no Vanr had tried the Ás lines. Perhaps they needed time to gather their numbers. To travel across these isles. Perhaps Fenrir harried them as well. Either way, the day had the smell of the wind before a winter storm.
His lord had commanded him to keep the lines, and yet had taken from him the best way to do that. Gramr, wrapped in suffocating cloth, wept for him to come and save her. She hung over Odin’s shoulder, begging Tyr to free her from her bondage. But to do so would be breaking his oath.
Odin was Borr’s son, his heir. And Gramr …
Tyr slapped the root wall. “Damn it!”
Damn himself and damn Odin and damn the Vanir. He spun, rushing up the stairs lest he give in and turn back. Gramr’s song had become a wail of lamentation.
Idunn waited in the landing above, a scowl marring her normally beatific face. “They’re coming.”
Tyr didn’t bother to ask how she knew. It did not matter, nor did her intuitions surprise him any longer.
And her pain at it was all too apparent. He would go now, and slay her people. And she would stand here, watching it happen.
He glanced back at the stairs one more time. Gramr … he needed her. Idunn grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
“There are things I wanted to say to you,” he mumbled.
“Then you best live through the day.”
He nodded. Had she known he was about to go back for his blade? Probably. And she had saved him from breaking his oath.
“Idunn, I …”
“You better go.”
Hundreds of dead lay strewn across the bridge, and others still fell from the sides, dropping off into the abyss. The Vanr leader waded among the Aesir, flaming sword Laevateinn striking down man and shieldmaiden like. And then he would vanish, appearing elsewhere to cut down another and another Aesir.
With such power, he might have bypassed the lines and taken the tree. But Frey, the lord of war and sunshine, seemed more intent to slaughter every last invading Ás. All of Tyr’s people.
Three times Tyr had tried to make his way to the Vanr, but always the man would appear somewhere else.
A cascade of leaves had begun to fall from Yggdrasil, as if the tree sympathized with the losses on both sides. And those were heavy. The Vanr lords had gifts beyond those of Tyr’s men, but their common soldiers could not match Ás ferocity or courage. Men and shieldmaidens charged madly into every gap, hewing away at Vanir that too often fell back rather than meet such foes head on.
It put them at a disadvantage. Odin was right. They feared death too much. It had become a distant thing to them. For the Ás warriors, death was a constant drinking companion. A bitter but inevitable guest at every feast. Following them every morning, and lying down beside them every night. Until they accepted it and ceased to fear it.
And if Frey would rather slaughter Tyr’s men than seek him out for a duel, Tyr could do the same. He charged the Vanr lines screaming and doing his best to appear battle-mad, though he dearly missed Gramr’s weight in his hand. He ran shield-first into a Vanr, shoving him over the bridge. The man fell, shrieking, while his nearby friends quivered. Falling back and hiding behind their own shields.
Too afraid to push an advantage when presented with one.
And so they died. Tyr cut down man after man, hesitating only for an instant on a spearwoman. But she carried arms into battle and would have slain Aesir given the chance. And so he hewed her legs out from under her.
In the distance, at the forest’s edge a man shouted something and pointed at Tyr. As if in answer, a hawk twice the size of a man dove for him. Tyr fell back, raising his shield. Talons punched through the wood and shredded it, yanking the ruined thing right off his arm.
“Hel,” he mumbled as the hawk soared back up, circling round again. He glanced at the man controlling it—one of the Vanr lords no doubt. And one fearing to wade into battle himself. Tyr grabbed his stones and spat in the coward’s direction.
He couldn’t hear the man’s response, but the Vanr was clearly shouting something. And still not joining the fucking battle. The hawk shrieked as it dove again. Tyr twisted to the side, lowering himself. Not fast enough. The hawk raked his back, reopening the wounds Fenrir had given him. Wounds that had still not fully healed.
Tyr blocked out the pain, turning with the bird, and drove his sword upward. It lacked Gramr’s rage or power. But still it punched through the hawk’s abdomen. The bird crashed into the bridge with a squawk. It crunched its wing, and slid to a stop, flopping around. Sword held in both hands, Tyr hacked into its neck, slicing its head more than half off. The bird convulsed and lay still.
Once again, he spit in the direction of the bird’s former owner. The craven raged, but still did not approach. So Tyr set upon more of the Vanir—and they broke, running from him.
A dark chuckle escaped him.
As he turned, he spied Frey, now facing him. So the Vanr did not like it when his tactics were turned against him. Flaming sword grasped in both hands, Frey advanced.
Tyr pointed his own blade behind Frey. The Vanr glanced back to see dozens of Aesir charging him. That was the difference between the Vanir and Aesir. The Vanir were afraid of death, and having somewhere to flee, they fled.
The Aesir had nowhere to run. And lacking other options, they spit in the face of death and charged right in. Maybe that was part of why Odin chose this place for a final stand.
Frey turned, weighing the option of facing so many. Tyr advanced slowly, sword held low, ready.
The Vanr sneered at him, then vanished. Tyr spun. The man had appeared at the end of the bridge, by the same craven, and was trying to drive some order into the chaotic retreat of his men.
Tyr shook his head. The man would be back, perhaps with more forces, perhaps with fresh tricks. Though the bridge was drenched in blood and viscera, this was far from over.
52
Putrid wind rushed past Odin as he plummeted ever downward, falling. Falling for what seemed an eon, through darkness and acrid mist, past stone and the rottin
g roots of Yggdrasil. All time ceased meaning, and he slept, or at least he dreamt, visions of the sky falling from above, of all the cosmos crashing down and sucked into chaos—a spiraling abyss of anarchy and entropy.
For days he fell.
Until, waking from his dream, he found himself enmeshed in a nightmare. Cold, putrefying bodies surrounded him. Corpses piled waist high, impeding him from moving at all. The stench was so thick it clung to his throat and stung his eyes and nose. He retched over and over, until nothing remained in his stomach. And, unable to move far from his spot, remained mired in his own vomit.
Even embracing the Sight, all was darkness, as if even in the Astral Realm, no light could reach here. Or rather, he was already in the depths of the Roil and beyond the astral lights. At last, he drew his feet free and pushed on. Pulse pounding, he waded blindly through the sea of the rotting dead. His hands brushed over some foul stickiness he preferred not to dwell on.
Coldness saturated the air and stung his cheeks. His stones seemed apt to freeze off in this muck.
His mad, desperate grab for knowledge had somehow landed him in a twisted world, probably somewhere on the edge of Niflheim. Freyja had speculated there were boundaries between worlds of the Spirit Realm, liminal places where chaos might seep in through the cracks and feast upon the tendrils of reality. Perhaps this was one such place, a hall of corpses, damned to rot away forever.
And Odin had cast himself into this place between places, this pit of the damned. Perhaps he would remain trapped here in darkness until he starved. Or, were he already dead, until he went mad. Was that not what happened to wraiths and the like, after all?
After a fashion … Delve so deep not even a wraith will follow … And we are ever alone …