by Vasich, Mike
Instead of answering, Frey closed his eyes and chanted while his fingers drew runes in the air. Blue-white letters glowed briefly, hovering before them, and then faded.
“We are mostly unseen.”
“What does that mean?” Tyr asked.
“If we stay to the walls and are quiet, we will not be noticed. Anyone who looks at us directly will likely see us, so we should take care to avoid that. Any confrontations or loud noises will allow us to be seen.”
“What if we encounter giants?” Tyr asked.
Balder replied, “My father said to avoid any fighting unless there was no other way. We are to find Loki's children and return with them—unharmed—to Asgard.”
He remembered the oddness of the conversation. Odin had spoken, and then suddenly had seen something else beyond view.
When you exit the Ash, you will live again, he had chanted. Balder was unnerved, but Odin would not respond to his questions or explain what he meant.
“And if we encounter Loki?” Tyr asked.
Balder brought himself back to the present. “We will not see him.”
The three made their way through the winding corridors of the mountain keep. Occasionally they saw giants, but they were not detected. Still, they were awed at the size of these creatures as they walked past. They had met giants many times on the battlefield, but to be so close, to be able to observe them nearby, was unusual.
Frey led them to a large door, the handle just slightly above his head.
“They are here with one other.”
“Who?” Tyr asked.
“Their mother.”
Balder nodded, realizing that this would be difficult. He did not relish attacking a female, even if she was a giant, but was not sure of how they were going to take the children without harming her. For a brief instant he wished that Loki was there; he would be able to craft a scheme that would get the children without any fighting. He half-smiled to himself when he realized again whose children they were.
Tyr asked, “If we open the door, will she see us?”
Frey said, “It is difficult to tell. If she is looking in that direction, then it is likely she will. If her attention is diverted, then perhaps not.”
“Is there any way to tell before we enter?”
“Not now. We are too far from Vanaheim for me to work any other spells.”
Balder said, “Then we go in slowly, and hope that we do not draw her attention.”
He reached up and grasped the handle, pulling it down slowly and as silently as possible. The door swung inward and Balder looked in before entering. He stuck his head out and nodded to the other two. The three slipped into the room.
The room was Angrboda's bedchambers. Much like any of their own, it was filled with all the requisite items: fireplace, bed, chests, and other items. Near the large bed there were three cradles, and sitting on a chair nearby was a female giant with a swaddled baby in her arms, suckling.
The giant was in her bedclothes, and they could see her lean musculature. This was no nursemaid, but a warrior. Angrboda paid no attention to the three gods, and it was clear that she was not aware that they had crept into her chambers. She rocked the baby at her breast slowly, lost in the timeless ritual.
Balder looked back at Tyr and Frey, but was met by blank stares. None of the three were certain about what to do, although their directive to gather the children was unequivocal. After long minutes of waiting, Balder made a decision. He gestured to Tyr and Frey to stay by the door, and then strode slowly and quietly toward Angrboda.
He stopped at the three cradles and peered into the first one. The infant was asleep, but it looked like no baby Balder had ever seen before. Its skin was scaly and tinted brown, and the child was hairless and reptilian. He considered drawing his sword and slaying it right then, but remembered his father's admonition that the children be brought back unharmed. Still, it took some effort to choke down the grotesque sight of this vile child. What kind of god could produce offspring like this?
He glanced first at Angrboda, still feeding one of the infants, and then back over to Tyr and Frey who stood ready by the door. They had curious looks on their faces, and he realized they had no idea what he planned. He was not sure of it himself, but he thought it preferable to simply slaying the giant mother.
At first he had considered letting himself be seen and then issuing her an ultimatum: give over the children or die. He realized quickly that neither she nor any mother would willingly give up her children, and that such a command would only begin a fight in which she and possibly one or more of the children would die.
Instead, he would use her protective instincts against her by threatening to kill one of the children if she did not hand them over to Tyr and Frey. She would be furious, and would seek to find a way to avoid giving up her children. But she might give them over temporarily, thinking that she could get them back once her hands were free and Balder's sword was away from the infant. By then, Sleipnir would reappear, and Balder could hold her off or kill her—in battle instead of in a cowardly way—while Tyr and Frey made off with two of the infants. After he dealt with her, Sleipnir would return for him and the last child.
He was not sure it was the best plan, but he felt an urgency to do something before they were revealed. In time, Angrboda would notice them—she might leave the room or simply turn her head in their exact direction, or they might make some noise that would give them away. Something needed to be attempted soon, or the entire scheme was at risk. He wondered what Loki would have come up with if he were in their party.
He stepped over to the second child asleep in the next cradle. Unlike her sibling, this infant did not look unnatural, aside from the fact that it was about as large as he was. Though he did not relish doing it, he drew his sword slowly and held the point over the infant's throat. When Angrboda saw the perilous position of her child, she would surely not be so foolish as to attack. He looked over to her, still unaware that they were there. Just as he was about to speak, he heard a quiet cooing from the child.
He turned back and saw that the infant was stirring, although the eyes were still closed. He nearly turned away before he saw something strange. The face began to change color, to grow pale and gray while the skin shriveled and withdrew, and black lines of decay shot across the face. The lips withdrew from toothless gums. The eyes opened, and they were empty sockets with flies crawling out of them.
In shock and horror he struck out, driving the sword into the grotesque infant. It stilled all movement, and he stepped back, barely grasping what he had done and forcing down a wave of nausea.
Tyr yelled, “Balder! Behind you!” but he did not turn in time. He was struck across the side of his head with something very hard, and he flew across the room, crashing into the stone wall of the chamber.
There was an unholy scream of rage and anguish that shook the room as Angrboda looked down upon her dead infant. She turned to Tyr and Frey with her fists clenched around a wooden cudgel, and the most horrible rage on her face that either of the gods had ever seen. The cudgel dripped with Balder's blood, and he lay unconscious against the wall.
She stared at Tyr and Frey with hatred and fury, and then charged, cudgel high and jaw clenched tight.
Both drew their swords, although they were unsure of this battle. Tyr could not get over seeing Balder stab the infant in its cradle, and it had caused his hesitation in warning him of Angrboda's attack. Still, they could not change the fact, nor could they ignore that they were being attacked by an enemy who wanted them dead, one who was at least twice their size.
Tyr turned to Frey before she reached them. “See to Balder.” Frey nodded and dashed off quickly while Tyr took several paces forward to meet the giant's attack.
Angrboda swung the cudgel hard and low, but Tyr deflected the blow with his sword. She recovered quickly—she had obviously been in battles before—and swung it again on a downward angle. Tyr side-stepped the blow and sliced his sword through her we
apon, cutting it in two.
She surprised him by dropping it instantly and grabbing for him. He stepped backward, but not far enough to completely avoid her grasping fingers, and he was suddenly hoisted off his feet and then thrown. He struck the wall with his back and fell to one knee before she was on him again.
Frey had roused Balder and used the runes to speed up his healing. Recovering from the blow and from the shock of the infant's change, he pointed toward the first cradle and the bed where they saw that Angrboda had set the other child down. Glancing to see how Tyr fared, they could see that he kept her occupied and allowed them the time necessary to secure the children.
Balder went to the first cradle and hoisted the large infant over his shoulder, while Frey did the same with the infant Angrboda had left on the bed. Sleipnir appeared suddenly between them as the two infants began wailing.
Angrboda turned with a look of horror, realization of how she had been tricked painfully etched across her face. “No!” she screamed, and turned towards them. She was held back by Tyr, who grabbed her wrist. She turned back to him quickly and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him up off his feet and crushing his neck in her large hand.
He was amazed at her strength, but had been in too many battles to be caught by surprise for very long. Staring her in the eye as she attempted to choke the life from him, he knew there would be no reasoning. Her fury was ignited as he had rarely seen before, and she would kill them all with her bare hands if she could.
His sword still in hand as he dangled at her eye level, he brought it up swiftly and sliced through her neck. Her head fell and her body followed, Tyr dropping to his feet even before Angrboda's fresh corpse hit the stone floor. He sheathed his sword and walked over to where Frey and Balder were mounted on Sleipnir.
“Why did you kill the child?” he asked.
“It was a vile thing. You did not see it.”
Tyr looked over at the cradle of the dead infant. “There is nothing to do about it now. We can only hope the Allfather will not be too displeased.”
“I will take the responsibility for the action, and the consequences.”
Tyr nodded.
Frey said, “We must leave.”
Tyr mounted Sleipnir. As before, though the horse did not look large enough to carry three gods and two giant infants, there was enough room for all. As it ran toward the wall, it faded into the spaces in between the Nine Worlds on its way back to Asgard with its cargo.
Chapter Sixteen
Odin could remember well the day that Loki's two children were brought to him. Laid out before him, wailing in his presence, he could see them clearly. One was the snake, and the other was the wolf. He almost found it amusing that these two helpless infants—large though they might be—would cause such destruction when the time came.
As he gazed upon them, Balder had spoken of the third infant.
“Father, the third child—”
“Is dead. I know.”
“It was unintentional.”
“Do not think on it more. She has been in Niflheim for countless ages already. Her death was fated.”
Balder had been confused, but Odin did not elaborate.
“Take this one,” he had said, nodding to the reptilian infant, “to the edge of Asgard and toss him into the seas surrounding Midgard.”
Balder had blanched. “Father? Do you jest?”
“Have you ever known me to jest, Balder?”
“But it is only an infant, no matter how hideous. At least let me end its life quickly before sending it to a watery grave.”
Odin had stared down at him from his high seat. “It will be no grave. Now do as I command.”
Head bowed, Balder had said, “Yes, my lord,” and left with the infant.
Odin had turned to Tyr. “You think my pronouncements cruel?”
“It is not my place to question the Allfather.”
“This one will have a different fate. What do you think of this infant?”
“It looks half beast, but it is not as ugly as the other.”
“Take it to the woods surrounding Asgard and leave it there for the wolves.”
Tyr had not flinched. “Yes, High One.”
As he turned to leave, Odin called after him one last time. “See that the child survives. No harm may come to it.”
Tyr looked at him oddly for a moment, but said, “Yes, High One. It will be as you say.” He left with the infant in his arms.
From his high seat he had looked down on both infants, although they were infants no longer. They had grown quickly, and the chaos at their cores had redefined them according to their surroundings. The snake had attained an enormous size at the bottom of the ocean, where it had fed on whatever creatures swam or crawled near it. It would grow larger still, but he would not need to think on the creature till the time they met again.
The wolf was a different matter.
He was not as large, but he was more dangerous because of his size. He had needed to be fast in those early days in the forest in order to survive, snatching food when available, avoiding those that would feast on him. Tyr had fed him for a time, which was how he had survived. The wolf now reigned supreme in those woods, and all other creatures either fled from him or fed his insatiable hunger.
Odin had watched the wolf roam the fields and forests of Asgard for some time now, considering his upcoming confrontation with the beast. He did not relish where he would send him, but of course there was little choice. He felt a small regret for what must be done and who must be harmed, but such feelings were useless. The High One could not afford emotions interfering with the fate of the Nine Worlds.
Tyr's servants led the cart to the edge of the clearing. With a nod, they began unloading the contents and tossing them towards the tree line. They made several trips, nervously scanning the trees for any sign of Fenrir. The wolf did not show, but even back near the cart, well behind Tyr, they were still fearful. Some of them had seen him devour the meat that Tyr left for him, and those that had not had at least heard about the size and ferocity of the beast from the others.
Unn, a younger servant, meekly approached him. “My lord?”
Tyr did not turn to face him, but kept his eyes on the trees. “What is it?”
“What if the wolf—”
“Call him by his name.”
“Yes, lord. What if Fenrir is not satisfied with the meat you have left for him?”
Tyr glanced at the servant, noting the clear terror in his eye. “Have you come with me to feed Fenrir before?”
“No, my lord.”
“But you have heard tales of him from the others?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What have they told you?”
Unn swallowed. “That the wo—that Fenrir is very large and terrifying. That he chokes down all the offered meat and glares hungrily at anyone standing nearby.”
Tyr grunted. “There is some truth there. Are you afraid?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“He is large enough, that is certain, about the size of a small horse. But he does not always take the meat that is offered. Or at least not while we stand nearby. Sometimes he simply stares. Other times he approaches and offers a word or two.”
“The beast can speak?”
“Yes, although his voice is not pleasant to hear.”
Unn looked even less comfortable. “Are we in danger, my lord?”
“There is always danger, even in the realm of the gods. But Fenrir has made no move towards me. I cannot say for certain that he will never attack, but it does not seem likely that it will be today. And even if he did attack, he would face my sword.”
Tyr turned to see the telltale signs of fear on Unn's face. He placed a hand on the young man's shoulder and leaned in. “No Asgardian of my house will come to harm while I draw breath.” Unn nodded and stood up the slightest bit taller.
There was hushed whispering from the servants behind him as a dark shape slowly walked out of th
e woods and headed towards them. Fenrir stopped at the meat that had been thrown for him, sniffed it once, and then looked up at Tyr. He came closer, ignoring the offering.
Tyr could see Unn blanch as Fenrir walked towards them, but the young servant was frozen in place, incapable of stepping back to join the others. Tyr gently nudged him backwards.
Fenrir stopped a sword's length from Tyr and sat back on his haunches. His head was level with Tyr's, making him the largest wolf the servants had ever seen. His fur was dark, and there was an intelligence about his eyes that made it clear that despite his size, he was no plain beast.
“Tyr,” he growled.
“You do not eat.”
“I hunger for more than meat, Tyr.” Again, the name was uttered like a growl.
“I cannot answer your questions, as I have told you before.”
Fenrir bared his fangs. He stood up on all fours, and Tyr heard the collective gasp of the servants behind him. Fenrir turned and trotted back to the meat. He reached down with his head and grabbed the largest piece, swallowing it down quickly. As Tyr and his servants looked on, Fenrir devoured the rest and then loped slowly back to the trees.
Before disappearing into the forest, he turned and looked back at Tyr one last time. There was menace in that glance, but he had seen the same each time he fed the wolf. He was not entirely certain why he continued to bring these offerings to the beast, but he could not erase the vision of Angrboda's head being sliced off and falling to the ground.
Freyja stepped carefully over a fallen tree, worry knitting her features. All living things—save for the gods—died, and those deaths were not upsetting to her. It was part of the cycle of the Nine Worlds, and as a Vanir she was not only a goddess of life, but of death as well. The delicate nature of life made it all the more valuable, even though mortals rarely understood that.
Witnessing the destruction wrought by the wolf, however, she did not feel any sense of beauty or closure in the death he had brought to the forest. Trees were savagely shredded, plants were trampled in his wake, and a slew of animals lay butchered, a bloody path that none could fail to follow. And all these things were destroyed for nothing. He had not even killed the animals for food, but merely rent them apart for the sheer pleasure of slaughter.