by Matt Larkin
And when she had gone, finally, he could once again dive into memories of happier times, to embrace his loved ones where they yet lived.
38
Odin’s soul did not appear beside his body, nor anywhere within these ruins. Gudrun had wandered the fortress, passed among the shadows of the living and the ghosts of the dead, and found no sign of her lover. The Penumbra encompassed the Mortal Realm, and thus was vaster than it, perhaps immeasurably so, if vaettir spoke truth about the Astral Roil. She might walk this shadowy place for untold days, moons even, and still discover naught of Odin. Worse, the longer she remained here, beholden to Irpa’s power, the greater the risk of losing herself. To say naught of the other dangers inherent in this realm, the countless ghosts and spirits eager to prey upon a mortal fool enough to project herself beyond the Veil.
“Where is Odin?” Gudrun demanded. When the wraith said naught, Gudrun sighed. “Do not test me, Irpa.” The wraith’s threats had unnerved Gudrun far more than she wanted to let on, though of course, from inside her, the wraith knew all her fears.
“How badly … do you want him?”
“Where is he?”
“Would you … give me … the girl?”
Hljod? Gudrun had let Irpa possess one troll wife. Did the wraith think Hljod hollow enough to overtake her? And if she was? The shade would exact a price from Gudrun, of that she had no doubt. If she could be satisfied with simply a body … but not Hljod—never her. That girl had suffered enough, and Gudrun had promised herself she would take care of her, give her a better life. Grimhild would have taken the deal—taken it and counted herself fortunate, but Gudrun was not Grimhild, and there were some lines she would not cross so long as she retained the least part of her true self.
Yet, she would have to give Irpa something. She could not afford another contest of wills so soon, not if she was to survive this place and bring Odin home.
“I won’t give you Hljod,” Gudrun said, “but I will give you your freedom.”
The slow way the wraith turned her head sent a fresh chill over Gudrun. Irpa laughed. “Freedom … Why? Soon I will have you …”
Gudrun shuddered, then clenched her teeth against it. “Fine. You want another soul to feast upon, I will arrange that.”
“Two … On your blood oath …”
And now she made a bargain much as Grimhild would have, offering up souls to this vile shade, allowing it to grow stronger by trading away what she had no right to give. And while part of her still remembered that this ought to horrify her, another part found the deal almost tantalizing, giving testament to just how much of herself she had lost to the Art. And oh, what she had gained to replace it.
Gudrun reached for the dagger at her side. Or, the one that should have been there, but this form was a projection and the dagger was a physical object, one locked in the Mortal Realm. Before Gudrun could even think, Irpa wrapped her wrist in an iron grip, and she drew one long, claw-like nail along Gudrun’s palm. She had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out.
When the wraith released her, Gudrun held her palm up. “I swear, by my own blood, that if you help me find Odin and help us both return to our realm safely, I will offer you two souls to feast upon.”
At that, the wraith turned, silently beckoning Gudrun follow. She did so, passing out of her chamber and out of the ruins. Some of the Niflungar seemed more real than Hljod had—those looking into this realm with the Sight. But none seemed to recognize her. And why would they? None looked for their princess in this place, and even if they had, they would not have expected her to have changed so much in such a short time.
She passed beyond the ruins, following the wraith. Other shades watched them, but none drew close. They knew the wraith for what it was and wanted no part of it. Once, long ago, Irpa must have been a living woman. Now, she was hatred made manifest.
Irpa paused, looking around as though lost. Then the wraith held up a hand for Gudrun to wait, and melted into shadows. Searching the darkness for Odin?
Gudrun shifted idly from one foot to another, instantly feeling the weight of many eyes upon her. Without Irpa here, she was suddenly very, very alone in the Penumbra. She could see the fortress in the distance, could run for it, but she would never make it. Even if she did, she’d still be in the Astral Realm. Prey to whatever …
The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and Gudrun turned slowly, to look at the being that had risen behind her.
A woman, her skin like ice, long platinum-blonde hair wafting around her like a cloak. The woman wore a plain white dress, that in tatters. The snow maiden’s hand suddenly appeared on Gudrun’s cheek, chilling her.
“Gudrun.” Her voice was sickly sweet, almost childlike.
And the sound of it sent shards of ice coursing through Gudrun’s veins. And the Mist spirit knew her. Probably the same one she had used to carry her will through the mists. How many spirits had Gudrun enslaved to her will? How many would gladly rend her soul to shreds for it?
“Is it worse?” the vaettr asked. “Seeing it coming?”
“Get back, Mist spirit. I serve the goddess.”
“Fear not, little sorceress … she can have what’s left of you.”
“I …” Gudrun couldn’t swallow over the lump in her throat. She drew frost along her own hand, calling upon Snegurka’s power to manifest it.
The Mist spirit laughed at her. “You would chill me, human?”
The air around Gudrun turned ice cold, and she toppled to the ground, gasping, unable to breathe. She tried to crawl away, but the cold drained her strength until she couldn’t even move.
And then the cold broke in an instant. Gudrun dared to look up. Irpa stood behind the Mist spirit, her hand plunged into its back. The wraith yanked her hand free, pulling out the spirit’s icy heart. The spirit before Gudrun crumpled to the ground and began to dissipate. Irpa bit into the heart, sucking at the Mist spirit’s soul.
Gudrun shut her eyes against the horror, then shook herself and rose.
“I … found … him,” Irpa whispered. The wraith beckoned, giving no further glance or comment to the spirit she had just devoured.
Bile scorched Gudrun’s throat. What fell creatures these were, feeding on each other’s souls, killing and torturing without thought or conscience. What ancient hatreds drove them? The Niflungar sorcerers pretended to know the secrets of the Otherworlds, but to stand here was to know the truth—they had barely scratched the surface.
Part of her longed to delve the deeper mysteries, while that faltering part of her that remained human knew such knowledge would prove her undoing.
Gudrun had started down a path from which she could not escape.
39
No Aesir had ever called Valland home. Not before Odin’s march across Midgard. As such, Tyr had no knowledge of who might have built the ruin down by the half-frozen river. More of the Old Kingdoms, maybe. Its single tower had crumbled such that Tyr could only assume the snow mounds nearby housed the fallen stonework. Despite the tower’s state, the wall stood nearly intact. At least where he could see. Certainly offering some shelter from the cold.
Of greater import, a thin plume of smoke rose from somewhere within. Smoke meant fire, and fire meant humankind. Few beings of mist welcomed flame. After three days in the wilds, any sign of civilization was a boon. Yesterday he’d stumbled upon some roots to eat, but since then he’d had naught. Tyr was a good hunter, true. But with no bow or snares, catching aught seemed unlikely.
He had lost count of how many times he had cursed himself for a fool for not searching for the coast. The coast would have led to villages. Local Vall places might have welcomed a warrior. He could have worked for food. Maybe even had a warm place to sleep. In his wrath, however, he had fled through the forests, headed inland.
Blind luck or the sheer kindness of some vaettir of this land had let him find this refuge. But now, weakness slowed his legs even as he made his way down toward the river. Too long without food. Even
the apple would not keep him from starving to death. Snow crunched under his feet as he gracelessly stumbled onward. The ruin’s wall stood twice his height, the entire complex no larger than a jarl’s great hall. A small fort to guard against rival tribes. Probably one risen after the Old Kingdoms. Few such nations lasted long—the long trek across Midgard had brought them past dozens of them. Faded into memory, if even that much remained. Idunn knew of many, spoke of how their petty kings fell to trolls or bickering among their own kin. Some kingdoms had so weakened each other with their wars they could not stand against marauding packs of varulfur. These had grown more numerous in recent years, Idunn claimed. Other towns, entire kingdoms had vanished into the mist. Even the Vanr woman didn’t know what had happened to their people.
Such events grew in frequency down through the centuries, ever increasing Idunn’s sorrow for the fate of mankind. The Aesir had only ever known the harsh realities of Fimbulvinter. But through Idunn, they had learned mankind’s numbers had begun to dwindle. She said that, back when the mists first came, most of mankind, most of the world perished. Some few persisted and rebuilt, humanity’s numbers allowed to grow once the Vanir had driven out the jotunnar. But the Vanir had left the world. Grown tired of struggling against the mists. And since then, mankind’s descent into oblivion had resumed. The saga spoke of the end of time, of the return of chaos.
And Tyr knew of chaos. Hymir had introduced him to it from his earliest memories. Chaos burned. It froze. It ruined all it touched.
Tyr grunted. Frey! When did he become given to such musings? His time with Idunn had driven him to introspections he had neither desire nor wit to undertake. Leave mulling over the future and the fate of the world to Odin or Loki or even Sigyn. Tyr was the sword guarding against that chaos, he and Gramr standing together. And Frigg—though he could not truly blame her decision—would regret casting aside such a great pair as Tyr and the sword. At least she would not abandon him.
A fell wind chilled his ears and eyes before the gate. Growing out his beard more might help. Usually he kept it short enough no foe could grab on, but the added warmth might count for more than such things on most days. The ash wood gate hung half off one hinge, blocking the interior against large creatures, though something like a snow fox could have easily slipped beneath it. Maybe he ought to knock here, but the gesture seemed pointless given that such a door would not keep out a determined foe.
He grasped it and pulled. Frost had crusted over the entire frame, freezing it to the hinges and holding it place. As Tyr strained, cracks spread along the ice. Finally, the door snapped free, flapping on its one remaining hinge. Tyr slipped inside.
Most of the roof remained, keeping the inner fort cast in shadow. From that darkness, something stirred, skittering away from his approach. Gramr leapt to his hand of her own accord. She was always eager to protect him. The one woman who would never betray him.
“I know you lurk there,” he warned. “Do not make me chase you through the darkness.”
Again, something moved, shifting around in the deep shadows before him.
Tyr edged around the sound. A warrior could not well fight a foe he could not see. Nor, for that matter, a foe without form. The thought raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “If you are living, show yourself,” he said. “And if dead and you wish me gone, speak the word, and I will leave you to your slumber.” Maybe such vaettir could be bargained with. Maybe not. But Tyr didn’t see that he had aught to lose.
Though he heard naught, the setting sun reflected off twin eyes that had drawn closer. Those eyes watched him a long moment as he held Gramr out before him. She would protect him. She was all he had.
Finally, the figure crawled forward to reveal itself—a waif of a girl. Probably not yet twenty winters, clad in a ragged blue dress, its hems soaked as though she’d gone running through the snow or wading in the river. Her golden hair hung around her face in messy clumps. Spent so long in the wilds she had forgotten to care for it.
Tyr lowered Gramr and relaxed his shoulder. “Forgive me, girl. I mean you no harm.”
“You made a lot of noise.”
He glanced back at the door, then nodded. “It was stuck.” Girl must have come and gone by crawling under the gap, but Tyr would never have fit through so small an opening. “You have a fire here? Food?”
“I have fish.” She rose, looking around and peering out through the door. “You shouldn’t have made so much noise.”
Tyr frowned. “Who are you, girl?”
“You should not have done it. It will have heard that.”
That did not sound auspicious. “What will have heard?”
Girl hugged herself and stepped into the light. Stood under a crack in the roof, staring up at the sky. “The sun will set soon. It comes out beneath the moon.”
Tyr strode toward the girl and grasped her arm with his free hand. “Tell me what you fear.”
“I … I don’t know. I hide when it roams.”
Scowling, he cast a look outside. Damn. Hadn’t meant to expose the girl to danger. He returned to the door and shoved it back in place. Making more noise in the process, though perhaps it was too late for that.
He turned to the girl. “Show me your fire.”
She nodded and scampered off, running in the direction of the river. He had to run to keep up. Twice she disappeared around corners, forcing him to search her out. Finally, he spied her waiting in a doorway. She darted through when he approached. The wall on this side had crumbled more fully. Aught approaching from the water’s edge could easily climb over mounds no more than a foot tall. It made the door a rather pointless worry against anyone who circled the fort. A room adjacent to one such gap housed a kiln issuing a thin stream of smoke from a cooking fire above which hung an iron cauldron. The smell of roasting fish set Tyr’s stomach grumbling.
“May I?”
The girl hesitated, but looked to clay bowls nearby. “It could be here soon. We have to hide.”
Tyr shook his head. “Whatever stalks you, we will kill it for you.”
“We?”
“Gramr and I. First, though …” He grabbed the bowl and scooped out a helping of the stew. A few roots and herbs graced it, and perhaps algae. None of that mattered. The fish was succulent and hot and tasted like it ought to be served on the tables of Valhalla. Tyr scarfed the meal down so quickly his stomach rumbled in protest.
He belched, trying to ignore the ache in his gut. He needed his strength after all. Maybe he even ought to have another serving. “Tell me your name, girl.”
“Flosshilde.” She stared at her knees as she spoke.
Tyr scooped more stew into his bowl.
A long, cruel howl erupted. He glanced out to the river. The sun had just set.
Fresh snow caked the riverbanks, spreading out onto the frozen waters. Gramr held low out before him, Tyr stalked forward. The moon was bright but only half full, and with the cloud cover, it provided little illumination. A wise man would have stoked the fire and holed up inside that ruin, waited for dawn. Tyr had always had more courage than wisdom. Flosshilde was in danger because Tyr had drawn the attention of this beast lurking in the night. Through his carelessness, she might become a victim. That he would not allow. Gramr agreed. A powerful need to kill something thrummed through this gut and left an anxious tingling in his arms.
Indeed, even the river seemed to shift and spin before him in his lust for the kill.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered to her. “You will feast on twisted flesh tonight.”
As he crept forward, he kept his eyes near the ground, searching for any sign of tracks. There was naught. Naught save the snows that must have filled in any indication of his prey.
More howls rang out in the night. Wolf pack must hunt these lands. Could that be what she feared? Wolves, even dire wolves, they didn’t usually close in on a fire. She’d be safe. Except … Varulf might slip into the ruin in his absence, though.
Flosshilde could be in
danger.
Tyr growled. Back to the same choice—wait in the ruins or take the hunt outside. He did not care much for waiting for an enemy to ambush him. But perhaps he might have more luck near the fort.
Footprints in the snow before the tower. Large footprints, but human. No wolves. Varulfur would have kept to beast form under moon like this. Something else. Something the wolves had reacted to.
Had to keep low, now. Something would be hunting him, too.
Gramr sung to him, her voice a faraway aria of glory before the eyes of the gods. A battle in darkness with a fell beast, one worthy of such songs.
“You’re not worthy of songs,” Zisa said.
Tyr shook his head. His wife ought not be here. She stood, hands on hips, scowling at him. He didn’t need her now. He had Gramr. She was his, and he was hers. Zisa meant less than naught. He waved the sword at her, and she vanished.
Fool woman should run back to the tribes.
Tyr’s stomach clenched. Why should he miss Zisa? The bitch had betrayed him. Spread her legs for the first man who might have elevated her position. Gods, were all women formed of spite and ambition? No, not Gramr, of course. He hadn’t meant that. No need for her to get her hackles up too. No, of course not. Gramr he could believe in, always. She would never turn from him, never betray him with another man. Not like the others.
“I trust you,” he whispered.
He rolled over, wiping blood and vomit from his mouth. How had he fallen to the snow?
“Fool,” Zisa said, and kicked him in the gut.
Her blow was strong, too strong, and he spewed up all he had eaten. Finally, gasping for air, he rolled over. Gramr … Where was she? He had dropped her! He pushed himself to his knees. What had he done?
“I’m sorry, I—”
Out in the darkness, moonlight gleamed off a pair of eyes. A figure crouched in the snow, but it rose. Sharp, angular features. Corded muscles covered in coarse hair. And half again as tall as Tyr. A jotunn. A jotunn here, in the heart of Midgard, well over a thousand miles from the fabled Midgard Wall.