by Matt Larkin
And when Grimhild had commanded Gudrun to return to Hunaland, Gudrun had leapt at the chance to be out of the queen’s sight.
Beside her, Hljod’s breath came in heavy pants, frosting the air. “I can’t feel my feet. How are you not fucking freezing?”
“You are apprenticed to a sorceress, a princess of the Niflungar. It might behoove you to restrain your tongue, or at the very least, save the profanity for when it is truly called for.”
“I’m pretty sure when facing deathchill, profanity is fucking called for. I’ve already lost one toe and I’d rather like to keep the rest.”
Gudrun couldn’t help but smile. Hljod always seemed to have that effect on her. Despite all she had been through, the girl’s soul had not broken, had, if anything, grown more defiant. That refusal to crack would serve her well as a sorceress, assuming she could learn enough self-control to avoid destroying herself. If not, Hljod would find trolls far from the worst thing out there.
“Come on,” Hljod said. “It’s almost nightfall. Can we not stop for the day? At this point, I’d welcome another lesson if it meant I could get off my feet for a while.”
“Mmmm.” Most likely, the desire to get back to her lessons was half Hljod’s motivation. Knowledge—and the power that came with it—was an addiction, and the girl drank deeply, desperately seeking more and more understanding of the truth of reality. And therein lay the problem. It was so easy to offer too much, too quickly. Many apprentices wound up going mad, as though plunging into the depths of the freezing ocean, unable to find anything to grasp on to as their perceptions of the world washed away in the tide. Those less fortunate found themselves possessed by spirits they were not ready to evoke. There was a legend from generations back about a sorceress who tried to conjure a snow maiden in the hopes it would share with her the secrets of Niflheim. Instead, the vaettr had slipped inside the woman and used her to murder her own parents, her brother and sister, and half a dozen others.
After a bit more complaining, Hljod finally fell silent. Only then did Gudrun allow her to stop, pointing at a copse of trees. As soon as she reached there, the girl collapsed onto the ground. She yanked off her boots and began massaging her feet.
Gudrun nestled down beside her, her back to an evergreen, and pulled some salted rabbit from her satchel. Around the copse, icicles hung from the trees like stalactites—a ceiling of spikes apt to shred those who walked without care. Even Hljod had instinctively picked a safe spot. She had grown up in Midgard, must have known the wilds enough to avoid such hazards. Gudrun shouldn’t think of her as a child, nor could she shield her from the truths inherent in the path she set before Hljod by taking her as an apprentice.
She tossed a piece of the rabbit to Hljod, who bit into the dried meat with relish. “You want me to name the nine worlds of the Spirit Realm?” she asked, mouth full.
Gudrun sighed and picked at her rabbit. Manners were another lesson. She waved a hand to motion Hljod on.
“Mmm, Hel, that’s good,” Hljod said, then swallowed hard. “Is there mead left?”
Gudrun passed her a skin of it, then folded her arms, waiting.
Hljod took a large swig, wiped her mouth, and grinned. “First is Niflheim, the World of Mist and land of our lady Hel. There is none greater. Opposing that, Muspelheim, the World of Fire. There’s cursed Alfheim, the World of Sun. Oh! And there’s Svartalfheim, the World of Dark.” She had set aside the skin to start counting on her fingers. “Uh, Nidafjoll, World of Earth, from which dvergar hail. And then there’s Noatun, the—”
A tingle in her mind had Gudrun on her feet at once, holding up a hand to forestall Hljod. Sorcery seeped into the air, congealing in the mist. Instinctively, Gudrun glanced at her satchel, just to make certain no corner of the grimoire was sticking out where Grimhild could see it.
The queen’s face appeared in the mist a heartbeat later, eyes mere empty hollows in the vapors, but clearly searching. “Where are you?”
Grimhild’s voice was soft, like a whisper carried on the wind, and yet somehow filled with unspoken threats and barely concealed malice.
“We’ll reach Volsung’s hall in two days, three at the outside.”
“Good. Remind him he owes me everything. I want the Aesir broken before they launch those ships.”
That might prove difficult. Gudrun had sent her own vaettr to spy on Odin’s people and found they were nigh to ready to make for Vanaheim. Even if Volsung agreed immediately—and he might not, given his last defeat at Odin’s hands—it would take time to reach the Aesir. Besides which, should they succeed, an army of men was like to have even less success than an army of draugar had in overcoming Odin and his protectors.
Gudrun folded her arms. “You’re trusting Fenrir to handle Odin, Tyr, and all the others who had the apples, to say nothing of Loge.” The legendary priest of the Lofdar somehow, despite all odds, walked among the Aesir, thwarting the Niflungar now as he had done centuries before Gudrun’s birth. “That’s a lot of faith to put in the varulf.”
The mists hissed at her response, perhaps the only way they could translate Grimhild’s irritation. “I have made arrangements to deal with Loge once and for all. As for Tyr, I finally selected the most fitting punishment for the man daring to wield your brother’s sword. His own temerity will be his undoing. I need but amplify the damnation the runeblade itself brings upon its wielder.”
Gudrun offered no answer. If Grimhild had cursed Tyr, perhaps it would be enough to slow the warrior down. As things stood, he was among the finest swordsmen she had ever seen, and now he was armed with Gramr, a weapon that might make him nigh to invincible. They had made the mistake of underestimating him before, and he had carved his way through trolls and draugar alike. She prayed Grimhild was not repeating that error. Yes, the runeblade would undoubtedly drive Tyr toward a bitter urd, but in the meantime, he slaughtered his enemies with it.
More interesting, however, were the queen’s unspoken plans for Loge. If she truly had a way to eliminate that threat, it would be a boon to the Niflungar and a serious blow to Odin’s people. The thought of letting a monster like Fenrir loose on anyone did not sit well with her, but neither could she disobey Grimhild. Not yet. Not until she learned how to read that grimoire.
“Do not fail me, daughter.” With that, the mists drifted apart, resuming their normal consistency.
Gudrun struggled not to tremble after her conversation. It was always a struggle. Part of her longed to throw herself on Odin’s mercy, to beg him to take her in and protect her from Grimhild. Mere idle folly, of course. She was the princess of the greatest people on Midgard, heir to an ancient throne. She would beg of no one. And even if Odin would leave his wife for Gudrun—and he likely would not—it was beneath Gudrun to surrender herself to them. Sadly, she was committed to this course until another presented itself. Besides which, Odin had betrayed her enough times. She had given over any hope of claiming him for herself. That route was closed to her, and she must now tread another, one that would lead through darkness and mist, but that might, in the end, allow her to surpass Grimhild.
“She’s a real bitch, isn’t she?” Hljod asked.
Gudrun sank down before her apprentice and leveled a stern gaze at her. “The mist has ears, apprentice.”
At that, the girl took a nervous look around. Gudrun was sufficiently adept at the Art, she suspected she would know if any vaettr spied upon her from across the Veil. But it would behoove Hljod to remember there were always presences beyond the realm of mortal sight, always things that might see or hear you, even when you thought yourself alone.
Maybe the best way to protect Hljod from such things was to continue training her, to let her learn the skills she needed to protect herself. Gudrun sighed, then shook her head. “You were regaling me with your knowledge of the Spirit Realm. Continue.”
3
Thanks to ill-fitting boots stolen from a dead Niflung, a dozen sores rubbed on Sigyn’s feet as she plodded her way through the de
nse forest. The pilfered tunic itched and chafed her nipples—none of the guards had a chemise for her to steal, obviously—made from fabric rough as canvas. Loki had wrapped her in his swan cloak, and still she was fighting deathchill.
The canopy here was so thick that not even her enhanced senses could make out much more than a dozen feet ahead of her through the mist. This had to be the Myrkvidr—the ancient forest dividing Hunaland, Reidgotaland, and Valland, though which of those lands they presently passed through she could not say for certain. Aptly named, as the wood seemed nigh black around them, save for the scant light of Loki’s last torch.
“Take the cloak and fly away,” he said. Her lover followed where she led, trusting to her skill at woodcraft, as if such truly helped in these unknown lands.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“By which you imply I cannot.” She was about to glare at him, but stilled the impulse. He had, after all, just trekked across the known world to save her from the people who now pursued them.
“I did not mean that.”
Sigyn said naught else. What could she say? No words he might utter would force her from his side, and she did not want to argue.
A long howl broke their silence.
“Wolves. Sunset is approaching.”
“The sun has already set,” Loki said, “and those are varulfur.”
Oh fuck. “They hunt this wood?” Varulfur would track their scents no matter how far they ran … unless they passed through water. From the sound of it, a stream ran some distance off. Southeast, maybe, though that put them going half in the wrong direction. Still, what choice did they have? There was no outrunning werewolves.
She set off toward the sound of the stream.
“Without doubt, some free packs roam here,” Loki said, “but I fear these are in service to the Niflungar.”
“Why?”
When he didn’t answer, she glanced back at him. His face had grown grim in the torchlight.
“Loki?”
“In her desperation, Grimhild seeks tools and allies in all corners of the Otherworlds, even turning to that which she cannot hope to control. And after what I have done, all their eyes will be turned upon us, forever seeking to bring us low. In her wounded pride, Grimhild will think me a greater threat than Odin, which alone might serve our ends, did it not place you in danger as well. Please Sigyn, take the cloak and fly from here.”
“Yeah, well, you can shove the cloak up your arse.”
“I … what?” Hearing him flustered almost made all this worth it.
“You wouldn’t leave me behind, and I already told you—I’m not leaving you.” She pushed forward, stepping over a thick mass of roots. This place did not welcome mankind or aught from the human world. Even the flames of the torch here seemed alien, casting the trunks in eerie shadows apt to swallow light and hope alike. But then, Sigyn was not the kind to give up hope.
“The varulfur will be upon us in moments,” he said.
“Uh-huh.” She quickened her pace, trusting instinct to guide her safely over roots. The stream’s babble had grown louder. Running through chill waters did not much appeal, but at least it would offer brief respite from the pain in her feet.
“Sigyn, please—I cannot lose you.”
At that, she stopped and turned to face him, spreading her hands. How was it that even the smartest man she had ever known could seem such a fool? “And you think, for even one moment, that I am willing to lose you? Did the Niflungar knock your skull once too often?” She thumped a finger against his chest. “You risked everything for me and still cannot understand why I would—why I must—do the same the for you? Now move your damned feet toward the stream, and maybe we can still lose the varulfur.”
She did not wait for an answer, but spun and dashed through the woods. The further she got ahead of him and his torch, the less she could make out, but her instinct held her course true, and moments later, they reached the waters. It was narrow, perhaps ten feet across. The canopy held so thick it barely broke, even over the stream, but where it did, a beam of moonlight lit the waters.
Sigyn scrambled into the waters, which by midstream, reached her waist. As expected, they were chill and provided a moment of relief from her feet as the pain was washed away by the numbing cold. Loki splashed in the waters behind her as she pressed forward. Sigyn wanted to climb out of the stream immediately, but if they didn’t follow it for a bit, the varulfur would pick up their trail on the opposite bank. Instead, she pushed downriver.
Only moments had passed, but already her teeth had set to chattering. She turned to look back at Loki—he held his torch high above the waters—and her foot pitched forward into a steep drop-off. Next she knew, waters were over her head. Sigyn sputtered, swam to the surface, and turned back again.
Loki had taken to swimming as well, his torch now just about the surface. The splashing might extinguish it eventually, and they were going to need fire. She saw no good moves ahead of them, so she swam with the current, covering as much distance as she could. It did not seem long before her arms ceased to function properly. They flopped and flailed, numb with cold, and no doubt turning sallow with frostbite.
Sigyn edged toward the far bank, then changed her mind. The varulfur would expect that. Instead, she doubled back to the bank they had come from, albeit much farther downstream. Her foot brushed the bottom, and then she was pushing through mud and silt. It sucked at her ankles as the water receded. She stumbled and pitched forward, landing on the muddy bank. She tried to push herself upward, but her arms gave out.
And then arms were lifting her up, carrying her deeper and deeper into the wood.
Loki had stripped off their clothes, and wrapped her in his arms, trying to warm her. He’d built a small fire in a cave. The flames posed additional risk of discovery, but otherwise deathchill might have had them, or at least her.
“M-more fire,” she said through chattering teeth.
“We cannot risk it.”
“N-no … I mean you u-used more fire magic.”
“The Art of Fire.”
“They know now. S-so why hide?”
Loki rubbed her arms. “Every use of the Art carries with it danger. Every time I call upon the spirit bound within me, it grows stronger. Only through years of meditation and concentration do I hold it at bay.”
She shuddered. Even her mind seemed frozen, moving in useless languor.
Loki pulled her close for a moment, before sighing and releasing her. “Warm yourself.”
“W-what?” Sigyn crawled a little closer to the fire. He was rejecting her? Now? That didn’t make any sense. What had she done? She wanted to plead with him to come closer and hold her again. She wanted it more than aught else. Instead, she pulled as close to the flames as she could.
“Not with the flame, Sigyn. Draw on the energy within you.”
“N-not my gift from the apples.”
Loki rubbed his forehead a moment. “The answer is both simpler and more complex than you seem to imagine. The apple awakens an awareness of the flow of energies within you, coursing through channels you cannot see but you can feel. It is your life force, what has, by some, been called pneuma. And by controlling the pneuma, you can push your body beyond normal human limits. Odin, Tyr, even I, we achieve superhuman levels of strength, speed, and toughness in this way, by burning our pneuma. The others attained this ability by instinct because they are warriors, and naturally given to focus the inner energies to push their physical limits.”
Sigyn sniffled, still struggling to stop her teeth chattering, much less make sense of his words. So hard to think while freezing to death.
“You, my love, see yourself as a woodsman—woodswoman—and as an outsider, so your natural inclination was to focus your pneuma into observing the world around you. It’s a use not even I manage to such an extreme degree, but you delude yourself into thinking that’s all you can do. You have the ability within y
ou to push the boundaries of any limitation of your body, to be stronger than any man, to be able to continue on even when fatigue or injury would cripple another.”
Sounded wonderful. “H-hard to think.”
“I know. That’s why it has to be now. You are too much in your own head. Your keen mind, your greatest asset, at the same time has become the very impediment to exceeding your current limitations. You can do this, my love, I know you can.”
“W-warm me …” Gods, she was begging him now. She didn’t care. She just wanted to feel better.
He moved closer but didn’t touch her. A terrible sadness lurked in those deep blue eyes. “Though I would not willingly leave your side, you know all too well I cannot be there every moment of your life. You must be able to live up to your own potential.”
Much the same reason Loki gave such limited aid to Odin, preferring to only offer his blood brother hints and inspirations.
Loki folded his legs beneath him and sat with his hands on his knees. And he watched her. Waiting for her to do the same?
“I’m naked, starving, and f-freezing. And you want to teach me to meditate, now?”
“Yes.”
Grumbling, she rose and mirrored his position.
“Close your eyes and imagine your body is water, fed by nine rivers of energy …”
She did so.
“Feel the energy as it flows into you, traveling through all parts of your body, warming every extremity and suffusing your being with the essence of the universe. That is the pneuma, though it has many names. Men have called it prana, mana, qi, or ruah. It flows in you and through you, because you, as all beings, are formed of the Spheres of Creation.”
As he spoke, as she tried and failed to concentrate on his words, a picture unraveled in her mind. Energy—pneuma—warming her. And it did so.
Finally, her teeth stopped chattering.