by Matt Larkin
Bedvig snarled and lunged at him, swinging his sword overhead in an arc meant to decapitate. Tyr whipped his own sword up to parry and, at the same time, stooped forward, swinging his shield along a horizontal plane. As the swords clashed, the edge of his shield caught the jarl in the gut. Bedvig doubled over, spewing his breakfast over Hoenir’s shield. Tyr slammed the vomit-caked thing into the jarl’s face with a satisfying crunch of shattered cartilage.
His foe toppled backward onto the rocky ground, barely conscious. Tyr advanced and pressed the point of his sword into the man’s chest. The jarl gagged, apparently unable to speak. How easy to finish him right now. He had not yielded, had not begged mercy. So Tyr was within his rights to just run the trollfucker through here and now.
Do it.
Hel, he ought to do it. His arm shook as he slowly pressed the blade further down. Blood began to well beneath Bedvig’s armor. One solid thrust to the heart. A cleaner kill than what Bedvig had done to him. Do it.
“Tyr!” He turned to see Zisa shouting his name. Had she been calling it before now?
She pointed to where Bedvig had raised a hand in supplication. He mumbled something, trying to yield. What if Tyr had not heard it? The man should die. His whole fucking brood ought to die. Zisa had given him two sons, young men now glowering at Tyr.
Damn it!
Tyr raised his sword, pointing it at Bedvig’s throat. “You admit you spoke falsely about Jarl Hoenir?”
“I was wrong,” Bedvig managed, the words barely decipherable.
Tyr glowered. Wrong. Bedvig wasn’t wrong—he was a Hel-cursed liar who had provoked Hoenir, intent on killing the old man. “You accused him of liking to take it in the arse. The most fitting atonement I see is if you kiss that arse and proclaim it clean of all wrongdoing.” Bedvig’s eyes widened.
Angry shouts ran out among the gathered Skalduns, especially the jarl’s sons. The well-deserved shame he asked of Bedvig might be enough to make the man prefer death. If so, that suited Tyr.
Tyr did not look to Odin, lest the king try to overrule him or dissuade this course of action.
Bedvig looked to Tyr and to the blade. Tyr could have sworn the jarl ready to spit. To welcome the end, rather than bring such dishonor upon himself and his ancestors. Tyr grinned. Yes, let the wife-stealing cocksucker’s blood run dry on this barren island.
Finally, Bedvig nodded.
Tyr clenched his jaw. Damn it. He couldn’t well kill Bedvig now. Having to live with the shame would have to be enough punishment.
Hoenir chuckled, then strode forward and turned around. Tyr stepped back to allow Bedvig—blood still streaming from his shattered nose—to rise to his knees and crawl to Hoenir’s arse.
Before Bedvig reached him, Hoenir untied his trousers and dropped them. “Make sure you get the spot you besmirched.”
“You troll-loving son of—” the eldest of Bedvig’s boys—Starkad, wasn’t it?—shouted, before someone cuffed him.
Tyr glanced back to see Zisa silencing her son. His ex-wife stared at him with the icy gaze of Hel herself. Tyr turned from her, unable to bear it.
Bedvig hesitated, then moved in to kiss Hoenir’s arse. As he drew near, Hoenir farted loudly. “Had to miss my morning shit for this,” the jarl commented.
Hermod and the other Godwulfs laughed.
Bedvig, looking apt to vomit, planted a swift kiss on one arse cheek then backed away.
Tyr opened his mouth to protest, to demand more.
Odin beat him to it. “The holmgang is concluded. Hoenir is held blameless, and Bedvig is forgiven for his hasty words. We depart this island as allies.”
Growling, Tyr sheathed his sword. He returned Hoenir’s shield to Hermod, as his father-in-law was busy retying his trousers.
“I think that was the most enjoyment I’ve ever had before breakfast,” Hoenir said.
Tyr turned at the sound of angry footfalls behind him. Despite Zisa’s shouts, her two sons—maybe fourteen and fifteen winters each—were storming over, eyes lit in challenge, one carrying a spear.
“Go home and lick your father’s wounds,” Tyr said. “And aught else he wants you lick.”
“I do not know how, but I know you cheated. Men say you have power from the Vanir.”
Hoenir shook his head and laughed. “Run home to your arse-kissing father, boy.”
Indeed, Bedvig was chasing after his sons, shambling his way over and wailing for them to leave it be. At least that was it sounded like—so hard to tell with his hand clasped over a broken nose.
“Want to try your luck?” He spread his arms. “Go ahead, show me you even know how to use that pig-sticker.”
The boy rose to the challenge, thrusting at Tyr while roaring. Like any young man, he was all passion and no control. Tyr stepped out of the way, caught the spear’s haft, and twisted. His superior strength flipped the fool boy end over end and slammed him onto the rocks. Tyr yanked the spear from the boy’s dazed hands then swept the haft down on his chest. The loud crack silenced everyone, the blow leaving the boy unconscious.
Tyr tossed the spear to the younger brother. “What? Want to try your luck?” The boy hesitated, then backed away when Tyr advanced a step.
A few men laughed, Hoenir among them.
Tyr shook his head and walked toward the boat, ignoring the sidelong glances some cast his way. Oh, but he should have killed all three of them. That would have been justice. He prayed Bedvig would give him another chance.
He grunted. “You should get back.”
Tyr rubbed a whetstone over his blade. Take care of your weapons and armor, both. First rule of being a warrior. He sat alone, near a dwindling fire, some hours after breaking his fast with the Godwulfs. They had welcomed him to their table. Even if some few of them now seemed frightened of him. That was troll shit, obviously. He was their ally and meant them no harm, had fought for them. For the honor of their jarl. As he had fought for all the Aesir.
The men toasted him, offered him fresh fish and some weak ale raided from Hunaland locals.
Regardless, the Godwulfs shared freely with Tyr. But he saw the way they looked at him. With respect, yes, but always underlaid with a hint of fear. Bedvig had gotten what he fucking deserved. Less than he deserved, in fact. Of course that was what Odin wanted Tyr to do. He’d wanted Tyr to kill Bedvig, and Tyr had been too blind to see it. He had failed his lord, but he would find some way to make up for it, to get it done.
He looked up at the sound of someone stomping over.
“What in Hel’s frozen fields was that, Tyr?” Zisa demanded.
Tyr rose, sticking his sword into the dirt before him. “Are you referring to the holmgang your … man forced upon the tribes with his shameful remarks?”
“What was shameful was beating Starkad with own spear!”
“Shameful for him, yes? If his father armed him, he declared him a man. And a man challenged me. He ought to be grateful the shame visited on him was less than that visited upon his father.”
Zisa shook her head, mouth slightly open like she wanted to say something. Whatever it was, she bit it off and snapped her mouth shut. She watched him with those appraising, conniving eyes far too long.
“You ought not have done either of those things, but especially not to … Starkad.” Zisa shook her head and turned away, casting him another sad glance as she left.
Tyr watched her until she was out of his sight, then slumped down by the fire. To say he should not have done as he had was nonsense, and she, a former shieldmaiden, ought to have known better.
Maybe Hoenir was right. Maybe all women were fickle. And dangerous. Idunn tempted him every time her saw her. Maybe … but how could they have a future? How, when the Aesir marched to destroy her people?
No. Not the time.
Very soon, they would march to war. And then he’d have better things to think of than Zisa or Idunn.
7
Mounted on Sleipnir, Odin watched the army forming up before Volsung’s cas
tle. The Hunalander king himself had ventured out for this and now walked before his lines, inspiring them. Not hiding, not a coward, Odin had to grant him that.
Odin’s warriors had struck back and struck back hard, though no blow could repay Volsung’s treachery. Agilaz and Loki had not returned, and thus neither had Odin’s family. He tightened his grip around Gungnir’s haft.
And then he raised the spear high, bellowing a war cry. As one, his warriors took up that cry, thrusting weapons skyward or beating them upon shields. Like angry thunder cresting the horizon, ready to break into the fiercest storm.
Now.
Odin kicked Sleipnir forward, and the horse took off with the speed of a diving sparrow. Volsung’s line jerked apart even before he reached them, shock washing over their faces. Sleipnir crashed amongst them an instant later. Rather than risk getting his spear embedded in a foe, Odin swept it in great arcs. Its undulating dragon blade tore through armor and flesh and bone, severed limbs and heads, splintered shields.
Men charged at him, weapons high. Brave. Perhaps they would find Valhalla.
Those that did not fall to Gungnir’s blade instead found Sleipnir’s numerous hooves raining down upon them.
And then the other Aesir collided with Volsung’s broken line. A shieldmaiden drove the edge of her shield up under a man’s chin. A man—varulf, perhaps—leapt upon a foe with uncanny agility and bore him down. And there, Vili snapped a Hunalander’s spine.
Where was Volsung? Where had that trollfucking oathbreaker hidden himself?
Odin turned Sleipnir about. In the chaos of such a melee, spotting a single man proved difficult.
Gungnir’s blade cut down another man, and another, until Volsung’s warriors ceased to charge him. They circled round him, none willing to be the next to move in. So Odin kicked Sleipnir forward, right through their midst. The horse raced straight over a man. Sickening crunches vibrated under the horse’s hooves as it trampled the poor fool.
Beyond, Tyr had squared off with Volsung’s champion. The big man from before. Big and strong, though not half as a strong as Tyr, Odin had no doubt. Odin’s thegn ducked mighty blows, dancing aside as the Hunalander exhausted himself with wild attacks.
Odin smirked and pushed forward, riding down more of Volsung’s men. A spear flew through the air, headed for Sleipnir’s flank. The horse reacted on its own, dancing aside with Otherworldly grace. Odin charged at the man with the temerity to attack his mount. A wide swipe of Gungnir separated the Hunalander’s head from his shoulders.
He turned back in time to see Tyr draw his blade along his foe’s gut. Tyr, coated in blood, spun around and hacked into the man’s back to make sure. The big warrior collapsed into the bloody slush that had become the battleground.
“Odin!” someone bellowed.
He turned.
There, Volsung advanced on him. So, the man did have courage. Courage enough to face death when it came for him. And for such courage, Odin would allow him a proper fight. He swung his leg over Sleipnir and slid down into the muck, then batted the horse away with one hand. Sleipnir could fight on his own, would continue crushing anyone fool enough to draw nigh.
Volsung beat his sword against his shield. Blood drenched both. Blood of other Aesir, fallen before the king. One more wrong Odin would need to redress.
“You betrayed us!” he spat at the other king.
Volsung grimaced. “I am beholden to others of greater authority.”
“Now you are beholden to death and no other.” Odin advanced, both hands on Gungnir.
Volsung circled him, not giving ground, nor charging forward. Odin turned with him, spear ready. One slow step at a time they closed. The king must have seen him cut down so many men already. He would not act rashly—not unless Odin drove him to it.
Odin feinted left then immediately whipped Gungnir back, aimed not at Volsung’s body, but at the shield he had drawn up to protect himself with. His spear blade gouged the wood. His sheer strength jerked that shield out of position. Odin twisted, yanking the butt of his spear around in line with his momentum. It crashed down on the damaged shield, cracking it and driving Volsung to his knees.
The Hunalander king struggled to rise while swinging his sword. A clumsy blow, but it forced Odin back and gave his foe time to regain his feet. Volsung roared at him, all his former caution tossed aside—or crushed in desperation. He swung his blade in tight arcs. He had skill, true, but he couldn’t get past Gungnir’s reach. Odin gave ground rather than let the king close on him.
Other warriors nearby bellowed, rushing at him as well. A half dozen men intent to protect their king, all racing in as one. But Odin had no intention of letting that happen. He lunged at Volsung with a thrust aimed at his heart. The king twisted away and Gungnir’s blade instead sheared through the mail on his sword arm. Shrieking, the king dropped his blade and fell back.
Much as Odin wanted to press his attack, a screaming man with an axe demanded his attention. He raised Gungnir to block a descending blow, then kicked the attacker, sending him stumbling away. More men raced in, interposing themselves between Odin and Volsung. The Hunalander king—clutching his arm—disappeared into a mass of bodies.
“Volsung!” Odin roared at him. “I will make you suffer for your betrayal!”
Odin blocked a sword thrust with Gungnir, dodged a descending axe, and jerked his spear around to open a man’s gut. Round and round he went, slashing and impaling foes, blocking and dodging. His enemies scored several gashes on his arms and back. No one could fight so many and avoid taking a few hits. But the apple had changed him, given him endurance, strength, and an ability to fight through pain. Combined with years of hard training and the dragon spear, few men could have stood against him. Even few groups of men.
The butt of his spear shattered one man’s thigh an instant before its blade severed another foe’s wrist. Blood drenched his clothes, his hair, his face. Some of it his. Most of it not. But no matter how many he killed, he could not seem to get back to Volsung.
Panting, Odin broke the last of his attackers. Nigh to two dozen bodies lay around him, dead or dying, food for the ravens already circling overhead. Odin dragged his palm over his face to wipe blood from his eyes, but it too was so smeared he found little benefit in the gesture.
Many Aesir lay dead in the snow around the battlefield, but twice as many more Hunalanders.
Volsung’s army had broken. Odin needed to push the attack, to storm the walls of his castle and raze his hall. But …
The hour already grew late. If his people did not make camp and get fires going … No. He would never repeat the mistake he had made with Ve. Never again.
Further vengeance must wait.
8
High in the boughs of a tree, Sigyn could see a long way. A very long way. Even through the mist and the growing twilight she could spot the forest’s edge, and fires beyond it. Those fires might belong to either Aesir camps or those of Hunalanders. Either way, they couldn’t reach them before nightfall. Spending another night in the woods would not please any of them, but she could see no alternative.
Instead, she turned about, seeking any form of shelter. Thousands of ruins of the Old Kingdoms littered the North Realms—Hel, maybe even some of the South Realms—but never one when you needed it. Any shelter would do, though of course, things worse than men oft sought the very same havens. Vaettir, trolls, or savage beasts. Her improved sense of smell had let her avoid a pack of cave hyenas this morning—not something any of them wanted to stumble across by any measure.
Footfalls crunched on snow in the direction of the camps. Men or scouts, searching the forest. It could well be her own people, but she couldn’t know for certain unless they drew closer. Close enough to risk discovery.
She scrambled back down the tree.
With her bow, she’d brought down a pair of squirrels. The meat helped them keep their strength up, but the longer they delayed in the forest, the more chance of one of the children falling
ill. Winter was deepening, and even children could catch the thickness. Gods, Sigyn’s father would have died of that had he not fallen—saving her—to the trolls. It was not a death she’d wish on anyone, least of all Frigg’s children.
She tapped a finger against her lip. “There are people coming in our direction.”
Frigg groaned.
“Always with the running,” Fulla said. “And then the hiding and the running, both. Best thing, I tell you, is if we had some help. A few strong men to protect us.”
Sigyn hefted her bow. “I can protect us.”
“Sure as sure you can, if it be squirrels and deer come rape and kill us dead.”
Sigyn was about to point out that she’d killed trolls as well, but then again, that day had not ended well. Not well for her and Frigg’s father, and even worse for Fulla.
“You’re not a shieldmaiden,” Frigg added.
Maybe they’d respect her more if she did start spitting and cursing and carrying a sword. Instead, glowering, she trod off in the direction she’d heard men coming from. She kept low to the ground. To her ears, she made a great deal of noise—though not half so much as Frigg or Fulla.
Sigyn waved them back. With no experience in woodcraft, they were apt to get them discovered in a heartbeat. Alone, she pressed on, until she drew up close. Peering around a tree, she spied a small party, five men—none she recognized. Probably Hunalanders.
Damn it.
This close, they’d see a fire as soon as the sun finished setting. Even torchlight might draw them. Slowly, she unshouldered her bow. She was a damned fine shot, but five men … No one shot that fast. It took time to nock an arrow, draw it, take aim. At this range, a man with a blade could kill a woman three times over before she got a shot off.
Besides. Killing trolls was one thing. But these were just men, out scouting the woods for their enemies. She had never killed another human being, and the thought of seeing one of her arrows sprout from a person’s chest, seeing his eyes go cold, it turned her stomach and left her shaking her head. And if she did naught? If she allowed these men to find her and her sister, find Fulla, then she had done worse than kill. She’d allowed harm to come to those she loved.