by Matt Larkin
“So you’re saying letting your mind jump around like a cluster of bunnies is not an act?”
Idunn frowned, then. “Have I done something to offend you, Sigyn?”
Now Sigyn frowned. Was she too hard on Idunn? Sigyn had to admit, she did not like that Idunn and Loki seemed to know each other from some time before, and, perhaps she had let Loki’s obvious distrust of the woman affect her own judgment about the Vanr.
“You want to be my friend, Idunn?”
Idunn laughed. “Child, I’ve tried to be a friend to all the Aesir. I’d never turn down a friend, though I’d prefer my friends not call me vapid. I’m not vapid, I’m enthusiastic. Spend a year or two with no one to talk to and see how you feel.”
“Then I apologize. I spoke too harshly. I’ll watch my words”—Sigyn was always careful with her words—“but you won’t call me or any of the others ‘child.’ Because we’re younger than you does not make us children, least of all your children. But we can be friends, Idunn. Why don’t you tell me about Odin?”
Idunn sighed and glanced off to the north. “As best I can tell, the Niflung king or one of his minions came for Odin.”
Sigyn had gathered as much herself, but she didn’t intend to stop Idunn until she got some real answers. “Where?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think they’ll kill him, though.”
And now the woman decided to drop the effusiveness? “Why not?”
“Oh. Well, I don’t really know, just a feeling I guess. I mean, if they wanted him dead, they’d have killed him on the battlefield, right? His death would have broken the Aesir. But the mists came in, and they took Odin and they left. They must have wanted him alive for one reason or another.”
“Yes. What reason?”
Idunn giggled. “How should I know?”
Sigyn paused as a troop of warriors passed them by. This was not for others. But she sure as Hel wasn’t buying Idunn’s act now. “What is the Destroyer?”
Idunn, picture of grace that she was, actually faltered a step. “Oh, Sigyn. You should not be spying on others. That’s rude. Now that you’re living forever, you have to think of your manners. Without trust, what is there?”
“What is the Destroyer?”
“A myth, Sigyn. A legend passed down from my grandmother to the Vanir. A primal force, like one of the Spheres of Creation. A force of … change. Change on a grand scale, the end of one world and the beginning of the next. The end of an era. Like … like the coming of the mists.”
The mists had come nigh unto five thousand years before Odin’s birth, brought by the dire goddess, Hel. What had any of that to do with Odin? Or maybe that was the wrong question at the moment. “And who was your grandmother, exactly?”
Idunn sighed. “She was magnificent, Sigyn. A warrior from the Skyfall Isles, a child of the moon. She guided our people to Yggdrasil, back before I was born, but she refused an apple herself. She was a hero, and she fought to save the world, giving everything she had to protect it from Hel.”
Sigyn had heard most of that already—that Idunn’s grandparents had tried to stop the mists, had battled Hel herself—but this morning Sigyn had seen the sun, pure and undiluted by a shroud of vapors. She’d looked down on the world and up at a sky so blue she’d wanted to cry. “It seems they failed.”
“They didn’t fail!”
Several other Aesir paused and stared at Idunn’s outburst. Sigyn couldn’t blame them—she hadn’t thought Idunn even had a temper to lose.
“My grandfather died to send Hel back to Niflheim and keep her there, Sigyn. He died to see my grandmother—and my mother in her womb—to safety. Whatever horror you think this world faces, believe me when I tell you it would have been far worse if they hadn’t closed the rift between the worlds.”
Sigyn tapped her finger against lip, uncertain how to interpret that. Things could have been worse? Somehow Hel had created a bridge between Midgard and Niflheim, and through that bridge she had unleashed the mists. And if this man, Idunn’s grandfather, had not stopped her and severed the bridge … Then what else might have come through? More mist? More vaettir?
“But why the Destroyer?”
“You haven’t been listening. Grandpa Naresh saved the world by destroying the old one. Odin can do the same—destroy the world of the Vanir to save Midgard. He has to.”
Sigyn grunted, not certain what to say. Idunn really believed Odin could be some kind of savior, not just of the Aesir, but of all mankind. She’d spoken of Odin bringing spring before, but maybe Sigyn had never truly believed it. But Idunn did. She truly thought Odin was … what? Going to finish what her grandfather started? So Idunn’s grandfather had been some previous incarnation of this Destroyer, and now Idunn thought Odin was as well.
But Odin would do none of that now. He’d been taken by the Niflungar. And if he was destined to be some kind of Destroyer, what would it mean if he was made to serve them? Now Sigyn was the one hiding from the truth. She knew what it meant: it meant he would destroy the current world on behalf of the Niflungar. He would build their new world, one ruled by the Hel-worshipping sorcerers.
As expected, Loki stood atop the ramparts, staring off to the east, back toward the Sudurberks.
“They’ve taken him there, haven’t they?”
Loki didn’t turn toward her, in fact, he leaned forward a little, resting upon the battlement. “I cannot see everything, not even in the flames.”
She laid a hand upon his shoulder. “But you think he’s there. And we’re going after him.”
“Sigyn …”
“No. I won’t be left behind again, not this time. We have the cloaks, we go together. I still don’t have all the answers, my love, but I have enough. I can see the fracturing and dissolution of all we’ve worked for. Everything falls without Odin, does it not?”
Loki nodded, once, then turned to stare into her eyes.
“So I am going with you. And we are going to find our king and bring him home.”
He kissed her then, long, passionately. And then he pulled up the hood of his cloak and became a swan.
Sigyn did the same.
25
“Odin has already set a precedent,” Hermod said. “The Aesir are primed for a king—at least for the moment. Arnbjorn knows this and knows, too, that his chance at a throne will slip away as soon as a single jarl breaks from us.”
Tyr ran his fingers over Gramr’s scabbard, savoring the rough leather and silver inlay. Fine work. All crafts that dvergar wrought became the stuff of legends. “You think he’d dare move against the king?”
Hermod shrugged. They sat apart from prying eyes, in a—sadly empty—larder. Some few others camped in the room, true, but they gave Tyr space. “Odin is not here to meet any challenge.”
“Frigg—”
“Is a strong woman, but a woman still, and not every jarl fancies bowing before her.”
Tyr groaned. “You think her not fit to lead?”
The other man shook his head. “The opposite, but it doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what we convince the rest of the tribes to think. Hoenir listens to me and will support Odin’s wife. Annar and Vili are family—”
Tyr spat. A few of the men and women in the room nearby looked to him, forced him to keep his voice low. “Vili is less reliable than we might have wished.”
Hermod raised his eyebrow at that. “That is not … welcome news. Last night, Arnbjorn took a meeting with three other jarls and raised doubts as to Frigg’s ability.”
“You know this?”
Hermod nodded. “This place is vast, thick with secret ways those adept at such things can use.”
The scout was his father’s son, for certain. “And who attended this treason?”
At that, Hermod held up a finger. “It’s not treason yet, Tyr. Cast all those men as traitors and you’ll destroy this alliance yourself.”
“Who was there?”
“Who do you think?”
Tyr�
��s grip tightened around Gramr. She knew. “Bedvig.”
“Of course, Bedvig. If he wasn’t an enemy before, you made him one.”
“I didn’t—”
Hermod held up a hand. “Peace, Tyr. Moda and Jat were there, too.”
Tyr scoffed. “Odin made Jat Jarl of the Friallafs.” By brutally killing his predecessor at the Althing, but still.
“And Jat argued against any action at this time. In fact, Jat won’t do aught until Odin returns.”
“Good. The others …” Well, Tyr had something for them. Gramr would see to each, one by one. She would feast on the blood of traitors and purify the tribes. “We need to make an example of them.”
“You are not listening to me.” Hermod rubbed his forehead. “If you want Odin to have a kingdom to return to, you need to move with care.”
Tyr lurched to his feet. Gramr begged him to draw her. To feed the unworthy to her and send them screaming down to Hel. “Each of those men deserves death.”
Before he could storm out, Hermod grabbed him by the arm. “Think what you do here. The tribes, jarls too, they’re in unknown lands facing strange threats from the mist, and suddenly the king vanishes. Dissent is to be expected.”
“Expected.” Tyr spat again. “Not tolerated.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“You say this? You who helped assassinate Alci?”
“To stop a war. Not to start one.” Hermod glanced over his shoulder at the people now watching them intently. “I beg you listen to me and take this to Frigg, let her decide what course to take.”
Tyr glowered. Cracked his neck. Frigg did have a right to know. Maybe Hermod spoke wisdom. Damn him for it.
A series of horn calls shattered the quiet and sent everyone in the room tensing. Tyr exchanged a brief glance with Hermod. Drew his sword. And they both rushed from the larder.
His breath came heavy as he crested the last step to the ramparts. Up there, braziers burned away the mist. The night had settled. Archers rained arrows upon foes far below. A shieldmaiden blew another long blast on a war horn.
Shieldmaiden—that was Olrun.
“What happened?” Tyr demanded.
Panting, she turned to him, blonde hair billowing about her face in the night wind. “Trolls are back.”
The woman handed him the horn then rushed over to join her husband on the edge. Agilaz fired arrow after arrow. Sweat streamed off him despite the cold. Drawing a bow like that took a lot of strength. A man couldn’t do it all night.
Tyr peered over the edge. Hard to make aught out through the mist. Massive forms moving ever closer, though. Some trying to climb the walls. Agilaz put an arrow into the eye of one such. Beast pitched over backward, tumbled end over end. Crashed into the snows below. Impossible shot, that.
Olrun had not taken up a bow. Instead, the shieldmaiden gave commands to the other archers. Pointed out the most important targets. Trolls most like to reach the top. And every man up there listened to her. She knew the battlefield better than most. Rumors, camp talk really, claimed she had been a valkyrie in some other lifetime. Seemed mortal enough now, though, and Tyr had never asked Hermod. Maybe he ought to.
“East side,” Olrun shouted, pointing with her sword. “Two of them drawing nigh. Move!”
Tyr raced over there, Gramr in hand. Indeed, two trolls already had scaled half the wall. Their claws dug in the ice coating the stones. More agile than they looked. Heaving themselves up great swathes all at once. Arrows clattered off their rocky hides and thick skulls. Not many archers could target a troll’s very few weak spots.
“The necks,” Olrun commanded. “Aim for the necks!”
One troll flung itself upward, covering a half dozen feet. Its great hands clutched the top of the rampart. Almost on her own, Gramr leapt for the beast. The icy blade severed fingers, cracked the ice beneath, and even scored the stone. Shrieking, the troll pitched over backward.
“Well done.”
Tyr spun at the speaker. Arnbjorn. Food for Gramr. Before he knew what he was doing, Tyr had taken several steps toward the Jarl of the Itrmanni. Runeblade starting to rise on her own. The jarl fell back at his glower. Tyr’s hand shook. Gramr tried to rise further. She needed to drink this man and be done with it. And he deserved it, oh how he deserved it. His blood would stain the ramparts.
Tread with care, Hermod had bid him.
Damn it.
Damn it!
Arnbjorn’s men, his archers, took up positions along the wall, joining the others. Jarl had come to help defend the keep.
And still, still Tyr wanted to spill every last drop of Arnbjorn’s blood. This bastard who conspired with Bedvig.
He deserved death … didn’t he?
No, not tonight. Hermod had spoken truth—if Tyr acted against these jarls, Odin could lose everything. And he could not trust himself in this man’s presence. Instead, Tyr clenched his teeth together and raced down the stairs, almost falling over the steep drops.
He had come so close to killing a man trying to defend their people. Hymir would have been almost as proud as Borr would have been shamed. Tyr slammed his fist against the wall beside the stairs.
No matter what, he would not become what he had once been. Not again. Never again. He rammed Gramr back in her scabbard.
26
Iron manacles bound Odin’s wrists to the obsidian altar while others held his feet. He struggled to lift his head, unable to make out much in the darkness. A few candles lined the shelves, but otherwise the stone room was thick with shadows. He was underground, he suspected, given the total lack of windows. A ruin, perhaps another place of the Niflungar.
They had removed Odin’s shirt and painted a glyph on his chest, covering many of the runes that marked his flesh. Or maybe it wasn’t paint—it looked an awful lot like blood. Odin strained against his bindings, but they did not flex, even when he flooded his limbs with supernatural strength.
No mere iron, no matter how well wrought, was that strong. Was this some new metal, or had the Niflungar placed magic in the chains? Either way, Odin suspected he couldn’t escape by brute strength alone.
Which meant he ought to save what strength he had. He embraced the Sight, and, though the world grew hazy, it also filled with a pale luminescence. Shadows twisted and writhed about the room, the place filled with far too many ghosts. Unsent victims of the Niflungar, most like, trapped here in torment.
The door creaked open, and Odin’s vision shot back to normal, though he found it hard to focus on the shadowy figure that drifted in.
“Release me,” Odin demanded.
“No.” Gjuki’s voice, though soft, carried the utmost command, a surety that brooked no further discussion. “Not until you are ready to serve your true mistress.”
Odin snorted. “Serve Hel? Not in this lifetime.”
Gjuki drifted over to the altar so Odin could finally make out his face, lit by the candlelight. As always, a raven perched on his shoulder. “Perhaps, Odin. But you have many lifetimes now, don’t you? Our mistress will wait as long as needs be.”
Odin set his jaw, refusing to let this man see him squirm. The Raven Lord spoke with complete certainty, and he might just be right. Given a long enough time frame, anyone would break. How long could Odin hold out against Gjuki? A moon? A year? A century? But then, maybe that was exactly what Gjuki wanted him to think. The moment Odin began to see his failure as inevitable, he had already lost.
“I’ll watch the stones crumble in this place before I serve you.”
Gjuki laid a hand over Odin’s biceps and squeezed. “Your body is strong, Ás. It helps feed the strength of your mind, of your soul. But all three can falter, given time and appropriate techniques.” The Raven Lord drew an unseen knife along Odin’s arm, opening a long shallow cut from elbow to shoulder.
Odin clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out. Sick fuck wasn’t getting the satisfaction. Odin had been mauled by a snow bear. If Gjuki thought this was pain, he would be sadly d
isappointed.
The Raven Lord repeated the cut on Odin’s other arm. “Pain, blood loss, hunger, thirst, fatigue—they will sap your body. Eventually, your will, too, must begin to waver. A weakened mind and body lead to a vulnerable soul, and that is when the denizens of the Spirit Realm can truly find a way in.” He drew both hands along Odin’s bleeding arms, then slapped his bloody palms against Odin’s cheeks. When the Raven Lord next spoke, Odin could not make out many of the words—an incantation. Sorcery.
Whispers built from the shadows, sounds that plucked at Odin’s nerves, seeming to dig at the strands of his mind. He tried to focus, tried to shift his vision back to the Penumbra, but the pounding of his heart drowned out his concentration. A burning built along his arms, like Gjuki had poured acid into his cuts. It spread, like a thousand sharp claws digging into his flesh.
It was all in his mind. Through gritted teeth, Odin glared at Gjuki.
The Raven Lord smiled. “Shall I give you some time alone with your guests?”
Small cuts began to appear on Odin’s chest and arms, tiny tears ripping through his trousers. Like a swarm of rats crawling all over him. Despite himself, Odin grunted in pain.
The Raven Lord chuckled and left. And still the clawing and biting went on and on. Most of it left no visible mark, but Odin could feel himself covered in sweat and blood. Unable to bear it, he shifted his eyes again, embracing the Sight. A blanket of shadows clung to him, eyes in the darkness, invisible to normal sight. Tearing at his body, siphoning away his blood and life force. And as he looked at them, he swore a dozen sets of eyes met his gaze, laughed at him. Driven to fresh frenzy by the thought he could see them?
Odin moaned, then cried out. Did they feast on his very soul? What had Gjuki said? That as his mind and body weakened, so too would his soul? Why? Did Gjuki plan to …? Odin shook his head. The Raven Lord was right; it was already growing hard to think clearly. Possession. They’d weaken him until a vaettr could enter him, take him over. Hadn’t Gudrun said something about vaettir only being able to take those with weak, damaged souls? Or was it more complicated than that?