by Matt Larkin
A chill wracked her, and she blew out a long breath. What was she doing, getting caught up in this religious nonsense? She laughed at herself. She had more important things to worry over than the words of some fallen civilization.
17
The tribe’s elkhounds heralded their return long before Odin and his brothers reached the Wodan town. By the time Odin reached the sentries, dozens of tribesmen and women bearing torches had rushed out to greet him. He was their jarl now, and they needed to see him as glorious. Especially if it meant no one looked too closely at Ve.
“The sons of Borr have returned,” he said, spreading his arms as if to take in the entire tribe. “And they are victorious!”
His incautious shout echoed through Eskgard, and with it rose a cheer from all around. Most nights he might have urged control lest the vaettir in the woods be drawn to the town. But they needed a celebration. Ve needed one most. Maybe enough mead and a night with a woman, and he’d been spouting poetic insults at Vili afresh.
“The jotunn Ymir is dead!” Odin shouted and hefted Gungnir. “I drove this through his eye and split his skull. And I ask you—who is your jarl?”
“Odin!” the crowd cheered. Shieldmaidens pressed forward, some winking salaciously at Odin, others eying his brothers. A pair of particularly voluptuous sisters each took one of Vili’s arms around their shoulders and guided him away.
Odin raised his arms, waving down the commotion. Then he slammed Gungnir into the ground, letting it stand as a reminder to all of what they had accomplished. “Then I ask you …” he said, when his people at last grew silent, “Where. Is. The mead?”
Another whoop filled the night, his people caught up in his own joy. On this night, let trolls and draugar and any other vaettir hear. Let them come and see the Ás tribe that had slain a jotunn. Let them know that on this night, men ruled. On this night, at least, mankind would not fear the darkness beyond the flame, would not fear the cold or the mist. Especially not the Hel-cursed mist.
In moments, a stein of mead graced every hand, including Odin’s, as a blonde girl slipped him a mug. The smith’s daughter, he thought, and by the sinewy tendons on her arm, like to follow in her father’s trade. If the look in her eye was any indication, she was a girl more than happy to serve her jarl.
Someone struck up a song, and soon the whole of Eskgard was caught in its fever, chanting along to ancient words calling back to ancestors long passed. They called their ghosts down from Valhalla, that their fathers and their fathers’ fathers might look with pride on the tribe this night. And did Father see him? Did he hold himself avenged, or did he blame Odin for Ve’s condition? Odin would not let Ve fall, not under any circumstance.
He’d only taken two steps when Heidr, the vӧlva of the Wodan tribe, pressed a hand to his chest. “You grow too bold.”
And here, the woman most apt to recognize the change in Ve. It made her a threat, but he forced himself to smile. He grabbed her around the waist and planted a kiss on her lips. Heidr probably had fifteen more winters than Odin’s own twenty-four, but she was comely. Not that he’d ever bed a vӧlva.
Heidr shoved Odin away. “You forget yourself, jarl!”
“Not yet, witch,” Odin said, then took another swig of mead. “But a couple more of these and just maybe. You might try it. If not with me, then for the gods’ sakes, with someone.”
He knew better, of course. A man would need more than a few drinks to risk falling under a witch’s spell.
“You still behave like the child you always were,” Heidr said and took another step away from him. Odin swore her glare ought to be enough to melt snow. “Your father was a man who understood—actions have consequences. You have a responsibility to your people now. Your gallivanting is apt to bring the wrath of the vaettir down on us, and though you think yourself prepared for the harsh realities of life, you are not, my jarl. Not even close.”
Odin waved her away. He had no time for lectures. Besides, no doubt a lass or three would be eager to join him in his bed. Maybe he could still find the smith’s daughter. He waded through the celebration, slapping his kin on the shoulders as he passed. All raised mugs to him. Good folk. Folk who knew life was short. Moments were all you had. Hel-cursed vӧlva probably had her arse squeezed so tight she couldn’t pop a fart to save her life. The world was what it was: cold and bloody. A good death was the best one could hope for—that and lots of fighting and fucking before one got there. Odin planned to make a fair account for himself before valkyries came for his soul—and he couldn’t do that running scared of what might lurk in the night.
Times like this, in the heart of winter, nights were long. Cold.
Feral grunts sounded from Vili’s tent, followed by the sound of one woman’s giggles and another’s cries of pleasure. Odin shook his head. His brother didn’t waste any time. Vili had two bastard children already, which seemed to suit him nicely. The man often paraded through town, a toddler on each shoulder, boasting of his conquests on the battlefield and in his tent. Knowing Vili, he probably hoped some of the bastards would grow up to be berserkir like himself. Not that Odin would mind—the more berserkir a tribe had, the more influence they could win. Berserkir and varulfur were savage, but savagery had its uses.
A bonfire blazed in the heart of the town.
Nights like this, Father had sat in front of the fire, telling tales of the Njarar War, of his travels among the other tribes, legends of Vingethor and the Great March, or myths of the lost runeblades of ancient times. Father had been nigh a skald himself, and Ve took after him that way. Odin shook himself, trying to force the image from his mind.
Someone offered Odin a slab of elk flesh, which he took with thanks. The rest of the animal roasted over the fire. Grease dripped from it, sending sizzles of smoke into the sky and an aroma fit for gods wafting around. Odin bit off a hefty piece, savoring the steaming juices as they dribbled down his chin. Unlike his brothers, he didn’t wear much of a beard, and for just this reason. He’d never liked feeling it sticky with grease and fat. Of course, Vili kept one for just that reason—he said if he got hungry in the middle of the night he need only lick his whiskers.
In the shadows, just beyond the firelight, sat Loki. The same lass, the smith’s daughter, seemed to be trying her wiles on Loki now. Poor girl wasn’t having much luck, though, from the look of it. Loki acknowledged every word she said without ever meeting her gaze. He just kept staring into the fire as if it held more of interest than a woman’s hips. Damned strange man, that foreigner. Odin’s brother, now.
Mug in one hand, hunk of elk in another, Odin marched over to them. “What’s your name, lass?”
“Jorunn, lord.”
“Well, Jorunn, I need a few moments to speak with my brother here.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “I’m sure you understand.” The last thing he wanted was to make her feel rejected twice in one night. Nobody deserved that.
The girl blew out a breath but nodded. From the smell, she’d had more mead than Odin had. Good for her. Course, he’d have to fix that. No girl of seventeen winters was out-drinking him.
She strolled back toward the fire with admirable poise, only a slight sway in her steps. Or she could have been swinging her arse that way to get his attention. Which it had. He’d not mind a closer look, in fact.
“So,” Odin said, then cleared his throat. “Don’t you like girls? That lass seemed fair eager to share her warmth with you tonight.”
Loki chuckled. “A drunk child, eager to share her warmth with any who would have her, just so she wouldn’t have to feel alone in this world.”
“That’s pretty much what everyone wants, right?”
“After a fashion,” Loki said. “But I doubt you came to ask me about my sexual appetites.”
Odin snorted. “No.” No, he’d left Ve wandering the town as a man in a daze. Eating, at least, but still it soured Odin’s mood. Let the people have their feast. They did not know, could not know, the fresh grief Odin had brough
t among them. In avenging his father, he had placed his own brother in jeopardy, no doubt further agitating Father’s shade. “I have to find that damned amulet. Do you know of it?”
Loki poked the fire with a stick and stared at it a while before answering. “The wise man might have asked such a question before agreeing to the quest.”
Odin groaned. “I already have a fucking vӧlva to lecture me. Wisdom is for elders and witches. Men have to take action. Wait too long, and opportunity burns away.” He took another swig from the mead and waggled his fingers over the fire. “Burns away like smoke. And you didn’t answer the question.”
“And here you claim not to value wisdom.”
“Bah. Speak plainly, brother. You know these things, things about the Old Kingdoms, call yourself a student of history. Do you know of the Singasteinn, or don’t you?”
Loki sighed. “There is a tale spoken of by but a few vӧlvur, that long before the mist, the seas had swallowed the world. Men had little, but one made a deal with a mermaid. She drew up the most perfect pearl from the depths of the ocean and ensorcelled it, forged an amulet from it, one designed to grant the wearer power in a world so inundated. And when the seas had receded, still the amulet remained. Lost to the tribes that once held it, found by others, and lost yet again, down through the ages. But those who touch the Art are drawn to artifacts created with it, and such things rarely remain lost forever.”
“Uh huh.” Odin licked the last juices from the elk meat off his fingers. “That helps me about as much as a cock made of straw. What I want to know is what I’m supposed to do about the fucking thing. You’re the one with all the answers, so tell me what to do.”
“No man has all the answers, Odin. Some just have better questions.”
Odin lurched to his feet, scowling at the foreigner. He leaned close. “I do not have time for games or riddles. You know what I’m dealing with, and if you can’t or won’t help me save my brother, I’ll find someone who will.”
At that, he spun and left Loki to stare in the damned flame.
The feast had served well enough to keep the others distracted, drunk and thinking little of Ve. But that might not last forever. If the people learned of Ve’s condition they would banish him into the mist. Odin could not let that happen. And if he could just find these Niflungar, that ghost would solve his problems.
“I swear, Father,” he mumbled under his breath. “I swear I’ll save him.”
He had not gone far when Tyr cut him off. Father’s champion. And indeed, Tyr had helped train Odin with weapons, helped him grow into the warrior he was. Tyr’s fame had spread throughout Aujum. Could he help Ve? Certainly his loyalty to Father had seemed absolute. And to Borr’s sons?
Odin clapped Tyr on the shoulder, drawing him to walk beside him. “We did it.”
“I heard. Skalds will sing of your feat until the end of time.”
Well. Odin liked the sound of that. “Yes, but now I face another challenge.”
Tyr nodded. “Glad to hear you say it. Consider Idunn’s challenge to you. Your fame in slaying the jotunn will spread. Strengthen your claim to becoming king. Still, you’ll need supporters. I spoke with your cousin Annar. The Athra find themselves in difficult times. If you were to—”
“What the fuck, man? I already told Idunn I have neither time nor desire to claim any throne.” Was that what Tyr had been doing with his time? Odin scowled and shook his head. Being jarl was burden enough.
“You must talk to the Vanr, Odin. You cannot ignore the words of the gods. It is madness.”
Idunn. Could she truly be a goddess? In the chaos of the hunt and of Ve’s condition, Odin had given her little enough thought. But she had offered—had claimed to have an apple of Yggdrasil. One that would grant eternal life. Eternal life … “Where is she?”
Tyr nodded, obviously pleased, then pointed to one of the outlying fires. “Speak to her. Then we must talk of the Athra.”
Odin shook his head and stormed over to the fire where the supposed Vanr sat, laughing with a pair of shieldmaidens, passing around the drinking horn.
Idunn looked up at his approach and crooked a mischievous half smile.
“Walk with me,” he said. “Please.”
She whispered something to the nearest shieldmaiden, something that set the woman chuckling and winking at Odin. Idunn rose then. Odin snatched a burning branch from the fire as a makeshift torch, and wandered toward the edge of the town, Idunn drifting by his side.
“Are you a temptress?”
Idunn laughed. “For certain. Are you tempted?”
For certain. “In so many ways.”
She laughed again, shaking her head. “If you are who you claim to be, I need a sign,” Odin said.
“Oh? Huh. Why?”
What in the gates of Hel was wrong with her? “Because you walk into my life, ask me to do great deeds, offer me great boons, and claim to be a goddess. Would you believe such a person?”
“Ahhh.” She smiled again, grabbing his hand and drawing him through the main gate, outside the town. “So you think I’m not really the same Idunn who gave your ancestors the spear. I understand. Why would you believe such a tale, after all? So instead, you turn to a stranger who takes you up a fell mountain, hunting a jotunn. And did that work out the way you wanted, did it sate the emptiness in your heart or solve your deepest worries?”
Odin frowned. Could she somehow already know about Ve? About what killing Ymir had cost him? He shook his head. “I want to trust you.”
“Wonderful! I want that too.”
Odin worked his jaw. How did a man deal with such a woman?
Idunn swirled around, finally pointing to the south, toward the Sudurberks. “So you climbed the peak with your foreign guide. What did you think of the mountain? Was it beautiful? Mysterious, unknowable?”
“I suppose so,” he said, following as she led him toward the forest on the edge of the town. “I didn’t think of it that way. I was there for a reason.”
“Ah, that’s the thing, my lord. You take it for granted because, for you, it’s always been this way, hasn’t it? Like this tree,” she said, putting her hand on one. “Is this a normal tree?”
Odin shrugged. As far as he knew it was. Some of the trees might have their own spirits within. In summer, the sparse greenery of the forest would thicken, hiding increased game and sometimes even fruits. The weaker plants never survived the hoar, but some did. Some always did. Life adapted.
Long before summer, he’d have to honor his oath to the Odlingar ghost. Not quite three moons, and here, away from the terror the ghost invoked, that suddenly seemed a very scant amount of time.
Idunn pressed a finger to her lips, kissed it, then pressed it against the tree. A ripple passed under the bark, and ice fell away, shaking free from the branches. Leaves sprouted—moons before they should have. And then, unbelievably, flowers began to burst from the branches. An explosion of white and pink and red petals erupted across the tree.
Odin had seen flowers on occasion, but this … He fell to his knees, mouth agape at the sight. A rainbow of colors. A warmth seemed to radiate from the trunk, from the flowers, from the very roots beneath the ground.
A long, cool breath escaped Idunn, and she steadied herself against the trunk.
“Wh-what is this sorcery?” Odin managed.
Idunn caught her breath a moment before answering. “What the world once looked like, before the Fimbulvinter. What it’s meant to look like.”
Fimbulvinter. He’d heard that term—what skalds called the time after the coming of the mists. This age. Then it was all true? Midgard had once been free of the mist? The world had known warmth, and the nightmares visited upon mankind—the trolls and draugar and aught else borne in the cold—were not meant to be.
“There was really a time before all this?” He waved his hand at the mist gathering just beyond the flames of his makeshift torch.
Idunn stared at something beyond his vision. When she spo
ke, her words came out slowly, albeit still with her unusual accent. “My grandfather died battling Hel, trying to keep her from spreading this mist across the world. He gave his life to stop the invasion of Niflheim, but much of the world of death had already spread into ours. And for nearly five thousand years, mankind has been left out in the cold. Most of the world looks like that …” she pointed first to the mist, then to the tree she’d set into bloom, “… when it should look like this.”
Thoughts ran through Odin’s mind too fast for him to call them to order. Five thousand winters … did that mean Idunn herself was so old? She looked to be no more than twenty-five. And they were true, the stories that said the mists came from Niflheim itself? Men always said that, but men were quick to claim Hel visited all the wrongs of the world on them. And vӧlvur were so caught up in their own mystery he’d never given too much credence to their claims. Which made him twice the fool. All his life he’d spurned the lessons and warnings Heidr tried to impart, certain she was the one who did not live in the real world.
Odin swallowed, trying to get a handle on the situation. “Then why not use your power to fix all the trees?”
Idunn laughed, the sound high and echoing, clean as a brook in summer. By now, others had gathered to stare at the tree, just out of earshot. Afraid, no doubt. As was he, truth be told. Such sorcery was beyond his ken. Idunn had not lied when she claimed to be of the Vanir.
“It takes too much out of me, sweet Odin. I gave part of my own life to do this. It’s different than sorcery. And even in a thousand lifetimes, I could never restore every tree in the world. They would die faster than I could finish my work. But there is a place where spring—true spring—reigns eternal.” She waited for his questioning look before continuing. “Vanaheim.”