by Matt Larkin
28
Gudrun’s father always liked to sit in the dark, the walls of his private chamber lined with candles whose light barely reached his face. The candles were a nod to what remained of their humanity. Fire might be an enemy of Mist, but even the Children of the Mist needed light by which to see and read. Her father probably liked the tension between the two, the darkness and the shadows broken by hints of light.
Before the Niflungar were driven from these lands, this Hunalander fortress had belonged to them. Had her father been here back then, so many centuries ago? No one had come here in a great many winters. Lost in the mountains, the men had forgotten this place. Men, but not her father.
Countless ravens perched up in the rafters, watching Gudrun as she sat before her father.
He glanced at her, then turned back to the decaying tome in front of him. If it had been her, she’d have lit a few more candles. Straining her eyes to make out faded glyphs was not her idea of an enjoyable evening.
“What troubles you, daughter?” he asked at last. Unlike Grimhild, her father never tried to conceal his spell tomes from her. He had once told her she alone could decide what knowledge she was ready for, as she alone would pay the price for it. Ironically, that had proved a more effective deterrent to keep her from delving through his secrets than any threat would have.
Gudrun opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again, then sighed. A hundred times she’d run this conversation over in her mind, and now she couldn’t get a damned word out. “Father,” she began, then sighed again.
“I have never known you to stumble for words, Gudrun.”
“Is what you’re doing to Odin really necessary?” she blurted. True, the steps he took were naught compared to what Grimhild would do to break the man. She’d done worse to her own daughter, so Gudrun didn’t want to imagine what the woman would do to an enemy. She couldn’t cross Grimhild, but there had to be some way to help Odin. Seeing him on that altar ripped her heart out.
Her father’s face remained impassive, but he arched a brow—which invariably meant she had uttered some folly. “You’d rather we wait until your mother arrives? I imagine she will be here very soon.”
“I don’t want Grimhild anywhere near him!” The queen’s methods probably would have been more effective, but all the more destructive to his soul—assuming she didn’t simply kill him. “I can still turn him myself. These tortures weaken him, make him less useful.”
Her father shook his head. “You tried that already.”
That wasn’t fair. She’d done as he commanded, using her potions and spells to enchant Odin. This time it was real. She had so much she could teach the man, and he had so much power within. With her brother gone, she was heir to the Niflungar kingdom. What finer husband could she hope for than the immortal warrior? He was her perfect match, her destiny.
“I have a connection to him,” she said.
“That may be true, but we underestimated him once before, and it cost us Guthorm. Your brother died because you and I failed to properly contain that man. And if he is not contained before your mother returns from the east, that is a failure she will exact terrible payment for—out of him and …”
Out of Gudrun, more than likely. “You could always stand up to her.”
“She is the chosen of Hel, daughter. Do not forget that.”
Gudrun never forgot. Through the blessings of Hel, Grimhild had destroyed the Odling kingdom and left their queen as the ghost who had cursed Odin. Another irony, since her curse might actually make it easier for the Niflungar to sway him.
The things her mother would do to Odin would make her father’s techniques pale in comparison. Nevertheless, what her father was doing to Odin set her stomach roiling. He didn’t deserve such tortures. If they broke him at all, they would do so by leaving him an empty shell, one ripe for possession by a spirit. And then, he wouldn’t really be Odin anymore at all. The thought of that opened a hole in Gudrun’s stomach as deep as the bottomless pit beneath Castle Niflung. She felt like vomiting.
“Does torture so vex you?”
Gudrun sighed. “There must be a better way to turn him.”
Her father looked back at his book. “Then try it. I have never denied you an opportunity to test your limits.”
Maybe not, but Grimhild had made her pay for pushing those limits. And her father offered no promise to cease torturing Odin. Gudrun rose and slipped out of the room, then slumped against the wall.
“Are you all right?” Hljod asked. The girl had waited outside, no doubt shifting nervously in the dark and chilly hall. And, indeed, she wrapped her arms around herself despite the fur cloak Gudrun had given her.
“Yes,” she said. “I will be fine.” Gudrun took Hljod’s arm and led her away, back down the stairs from the tower her father had claimed here.
“So?” the girl demanded. “Is he going to help you?”
“No.”
“Your parents are charming people, aren’t they?”
Gudrun glowered. “I only have one parent. And he’s … complex.”
Hljod snickered, then laughed loudly, the sound echoing through the halls. “Complex? Gudrun, what about your life is not complex? You’ve got a man chained up in the dungeons—a man you fucked, if I’m not wrong—who is being tortured by your father. Your mother is like the goddess of thunder cunts, and you’re in love with a man who probably hates you.”
Gudrun couldn’t quite suppress her snort, but she shook her head. “Keep talking like that, and someone will hear you and have your tongue out, girl. Do you remember the potions I showed you this morning? Go to my chambers and bring them down to the dungeons.”
“Wait, me?” Her voice came out as a bare squeak. The girl was all bravado one moment and timidity the next. It was to be expected, Gudrun supposed.
She allowed herself a smile. Under other circumstances, a girl Hljod’s age could be inducted into the mysteries by letting her lie with one of the male sorcerers. But given what Hljod had suffered at the hands of the Troll King, Gudrun wouldn’t send her for that until she was ready, and Hel alone knew how long that might take.
Nevertheless, with a mouth like Hljod’s, the girl deserved a little shock now and then. “You can trust me, Hljod. You have naught to fear in this place. You are under my protection.”
“You’re afraid of your mother.” From the way Hljod’s eyes widened, the girl regretted the words the moment she said them.
As well she should. Gudrun forfeited any attempt to hide her irritation. There were lines, after all. “Go and bring me the potions, Hljod. Now.”
Her new protégé scampered off to do as Gudrun bid.
Gudrun trod back down to the dungeon alone. Odin was no longer bound to the altar, but chained to the wall. He squinted as she opened the door. Her father had put out the candles, leaving Odin in darkness. A minor torment, compared to the others. Servants had allowed him to use the chamber pot and had cleaned him up after his ordeal.
“What now?” he demanded. “Here to fuck me or flay me?”
Gudrun knelt before him, hiding her disgust at the grime and filth that covered the dungeon floor. “Neither, my love. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You have.”
Gudrun recoiled from the venom in his words. Had she not just made love to him a day before? “I’m sorry.” The words just slipped out. Grimhild had told her a princess of the Niflungar apologized to no one. “How long has he kept you in the dark?”
Odin snorted. “Has your father forgotten I too have the Sight? There’s starlight in the Penumbra, enough to sustain me. Or is that part of his plan? Force me to look there, to see the ghosts that flit about this place? Are they meant to be a vision of my own future? I do see them, Gudrun. The vaettir, waiting in the wings, so eager to slip inside me if my guard should drop.”
“He’ll put you back on the altar at midnight,” she said. “Please, Odin. If you choose me of your own free will, I can stop all this. He’s desperate to bring
you to our side before Grimhild returns.”
“Even your father fears your mother, then?”
“He’s trying to save you, for my sake.”
“Save me?” Odin spat at her. “Save me! If you want to save me, take off the fucking chains! Release me, Gudrun, and I will spare you. I will …” He shook his head, and his voice softened. “Please, Gudrun. You have to know this is wrong. However much Hel has corrupted your heart and soul, surely there is some humanity left in there.”
Corrupted her heart? Was that what he thought of her? Her stomach burned with an empty fire, and she rose and backed away. Her heart wasn’t corrupted. She and her people had made their choices, that was all. They had done what was necessary to survive the Fimbulvinter and the chaos that it brought with it.
“I am a descendant of Halfdan the Old!” she said, thumping a finger against her own breast. “I am a princess of the Niflungar, greatest of the kingdoms born of Halfdan. My people built an empire while the Aesir hid in caves! We built the castles and monuments spread across Midgard. Do not speak to me as though you understand our ancient lineage.”
“And where is this empire?” Odin spoke through gritted teeth, his anger still driving her backward, making it hard to hold on to her own. “If Hel is so great a patron, why did your people fall?”
The fire-worshipping Lofdar and their priest, Loge. Gudrun shook her head. She wasn’t about to admit that to him. Even among the Niflungar, no one liked to speak of the fall of the old kingdom.
Hel, this man was difficult. But if he wanted to open old wounds, she could do the same. “Do you know why Ymir came down off that mountain and slew your father?” Gudrun asked.
“What?” Odin now jerked forward, straining against his chains. “What do you mean why? What are you saying?”
Gudrun shook her head. She hadn’t wanted to reveal it, had been a fool to even let that slip out, but maybe the truth alone would get through his thick skull. “Hel sent him.”
“What the fuck? Why would Hel send a jotunn? What did she want with my father?”
Gudrun blew out a slow breath. This had been a mistake. She should never have mentioned this. All it would do was inflame Odin’s rage. But he’d never stop without an answer now. “It … was never about Borr, Odin. It was about you. She wanted to make certain you were who she thought you were.”
Odin’s mouth hung agape, his eyes begging her to admit it was a lie. “You took my father from me as … a test?” For a moment, she thought he might actually weep. “A test?” His voice sounded so frail.
“She hates you, Odin.”
“Why?”
Gudrun shook her head. “I don’t know. But she will have you serve her, or she will destroy you. She will take everything from you.”
Odin launched himself forward, straining against the chains. “You took my father! You took my father!”
Gudrun fell back, nearly tripping over her own feet.
“Who is that?” Odin demanded before she could even recover. “Now you’ve brought another whore to tempt me?”
She followed his gaze to see Hljod trembling in the doorway. Gudrun snatched a ceramic vial from the girl’s hand, then stalked back over to Odin who still strained against the manacles. “Take this. Or don’t; it’s your choice. It will ease your pain and protect you from the ravages of the spirits when Father begins again.” She leaned closer. “And do not ever call Hljod a whore again, Odin.”
“Nice to see you care about something.”
“I care about you! You stupid, arrogant man. I didn’t take your father away from you—I didn’t even know who you were back then. You think my soul is corrupt, but you don’t want to see what my parents will do to yours. Think about that before you slap my hand away again.”
29
Iron rent with an ear-shattering cry. From atop the battlements, Tyr could barely make out what was happening below. One of the trolls was directing the others at the gate. Ve. Had to be. And he was coordinating trolls. Not a threat a man usually had to worry over.
Bunches of them had gathered at the main gate. From the sound, they were actually bending the iron.
Damn it.
“Shoot them! Shoot the ones at the gate!” he ordered.
“They have no clear shot up here,” Olrun said. “And more are scaling the walls. We cannot—”
Tyr didn’t bother listening to the rest of her objection. Gramr in hand, he dashed down the stairs, leaping several at time until he could jump to the ground floor.
More shrieking iron.
And then trolls crashed through the ranks of men at the gate. A troll grabbed a man, wedged its fingers in his mouth. One hand up, one low, and the troll tore the man’s jaw off in a shower of gore. The bastard laughed, a sound like grinding boulders.
A backhand swing sent another warrior colliding with the gate. The man impaled himself on one of the now bent iron spikes. More trolls kept pushing their way inside.
Screaming a war cry, Tyr charged forward. Gramr cleaved through a troll’s arm, severing it at the elbow. Black ichor splattered over the gathered men and women. They rained ineffective blows on rocky troll hides. Another troll caught a spear in its hand, snapped it in half.
Tyr slashed his runeblade through the monster’s throat.
Some of the breachers had pushed inward. Past the warriors. Toward the civilians.
“Hold the gate!” Tyr bellowed. “Let no more inside.” He knew better, knew they could do little without him. But the civilians inside would die in droves.
He raced after the trolls, following the sound of screams.
He darted down a hallway strewn with bodies. Men and women’s guts and blood splattered the walls, even the twelve-foot-high ceiling. Gore was so thick his foot slipped. Banged his knee on the stone floor. Tyr raised a hand to his mouth to keep from gagging. Whole corridor stank of blood and shit. Had to be a score of dead in here. Arms and legs ripped right out of their sockets. Skulls splattered on walls. On the floor in front of him rested a head with its nose bitten off.
Further down, a troll had bit through a man’s crotch, severing the legs.
Tyr rose. “Gramr …”
She felt his anger. Or he felt hers.
These foul creatures of Mist had come into a place of men, a place far too thick with people.
More screams rang out from ahead. He raced on, fast as he could without falling. A troll had blundered right through an ash wood door without bothering to open it. More bodies. A shieldmaiden swung a sword at him. Troll ignored it. Caught her by the legs and drove her to the ground. It yanked apart her legs with such force Tyr heard bones break. Shieldmaiden screamed.
So did Tyr, charging. Troll didn’t turn in the chaos. Didn’t even look before Gramr bored through the back of his neck while he tore at the shieldmaiden’s trousers. Tyr jerked the blade free, half severing the head. Body felt atop the shieldmaiden. It took all of Tyr’s now significant might to pull the beast off her. One look told him she might never walk again.
He shook his head in sorrow.
But too many others needed his help for him to remain here. He kicked the woman’s sword over to a boy—maybe ten winters old. The oldest and largest person still standing in this room. “Defend these people as best you can!”
In the next room, a pair of trolls feasted on the dead. No living men or women here. Tyr raced in and leapt at one. It tried to stand. Gramr slid through its heart before it gained its feet. Tyr rolled off it, twisted around and came up even as the second troll stumbled to its feet. Still holding a man’s half-eaten foot in one hand.
Tyr scrubbed black ichor from his face, trying to clear his eyes.
The troll seemed to at last realize how much blood of his kind drenched Tyr. It tossed aside the foot and loped forward, swinging its great arms. Tyr surged forward at the last instant, a swipe of Gramr tearing long gouges into each of the troll’s forearms. It shrieked, as if somehow still surprised a blade could hurt it. Tyr pressed his advantag
e and swung low, opening the troll’s guts. Oily, serpent-like intestines spilled out over the floor. The troll stared down at that in sheer shock.
For the barest instant, Tyr considered leaving it to die slowly. But it could do more damage between now and then. He swung up, cleaving through the skull.
A great many more trolls might still lurk inside. And every instant he delayed, more Aesir died.
“The gate must be repaired,” Hoenir said. “We must reinforce it before nightfall.”
Indeed, the rising sun had spared them further casualties, but Tyr could not begin to guess how many had died last night. And if they could not fix the gate, tonight would be worse.
“You want to waste time on such tasks,” Jarl Jat said, “then you do it. I am taking my people and leaving this cursed place with as much daylight as we can. I aim to be miles away before they come seeking us again.”
They all stood before the mangled gate now, taking in the newly risen sun, and the carnage it cast to light. Tyr had almost gotten used to the stench of corpses. No one had had time to burn the dead yet, but it had to become a priority.
“You cannot leave,” Annar said. “We are stronger together.”
Jarl Moda spat. “As last night clearly attested. Was your tribe not in charge of holding the damned gate, Annar?”
“You think you might have done better?”
“I know the Bjars would have done better.”
Arnbjorn scoffed. “They could hardly have done any worse.”
“All of you, silence,” Frigg commanded. “We must work together. Hoenir is right, we have to repair the gate as best we can. Tribe Bjar can begin digging a trench in front—”
“We’re not digging a damned thing,” Moda said. “I’ll say this much for Jarl Jat, he has the right idea. If we break apart and each go in different directions, they cannot pursue us all.”
“So instead they pick off a few tribes at a time?” Hoenir asked. “Don’t be a fool, boy.”
“Please,” Frigg insisted. “We have no time for this. Hoenir, send your varulfur out to patrol. Moda, get your people digging now.”