by Matt Larkin
Hljod laughed, grinning like a fool and spinning around as though taking in some skald’s tale. Then she sighed and shook her head. “But I’m no one.”
“Whoever you were born, Hljod, I have made you one of the Niflungar. You are a fledging sorceress, yes, but you have been embraced by a princess of ancient lineage. This hardly makes you no one. And I rather think he fancies both you and the position you hold.”
She rubbed her arms, looking lost, like someone not daring to hope. “I could really have that?”
So. It was what she wanted. “Would you rather be a queen than a sorceress?”
Her face fell, and she grabbed Gudrun’s hand, finally seeming to realize the price of joining Volsung. “You promised me power.”
“A queen has power, Hljod. On the other hand, if you want to remain by my side, you can do so. Do not sleep with the king, or, if you do so, do not allow his seed to take hold. One day, when this is done, I will leave Volsung’s court. You will have to choose to come with me or remain with him.”
She shook her head, obvious disappointment washing over her young face. “No. I would never turn my back on you. Not after what you’ve done for me.”
Gudrun swallowed the lump in her throat. Hljod’s gratitude was touching, and, truth be told, she loved the girl almost as a sister. But still, to defeat the queen, she needed assets. She needed pawns. And that thought filled her with such bile, she wanted to spit over the battlement, propriety be damned. Such thoughts made her into Grimhild. She shook herself and squeezed Hljod’s hand.
“I never doubted your loyalty to me. But you are equally valuable to me as a queen or a sorceress, and the choice is yours. If you want this king for yourself, I can help you get him and keep him. Or come with me and continue your studies.”
“I … How long do I have to decide?”
“A little while. We will sail soon enough. I suggest you make your decision before we leave.”
Hljod nodded. Then she threw her arms around Gudrun and held her tight, whispering in her ear. “Thank you for the choice. For everything.”
Gudrun patted the girl on the back, not daring to speak lest the tears beginning to well in her eyes should break.
8
The Vall emperor had allowed the Aesir to march through his country and into Andalus, a land embroiled in intermittent but fierce struggles between the Vall Empire and the Serkland Caliphate. The Serklanders came from beyond the Midgard Wall, in Utgard, and thus did not even qualify as South Realmers. Odin had no desire to involve himself in such conflicts while Vanaheim loomed before him, and thus he had negotiated with the Empire to remain within its holdings in Andalus. Ideally, they would have camped at what Idunn called the Straits of Herakles, nearest to Vanaheim, but that region remained the most contested by the Serklanders. Instead, they remained further north. And that had seemed wise, save that now, every two moons or so, a Vall emissary showed up expecting fresh tribute to ensure the Aesir remained unmolested on the shores.
As now, when the man—overdressed in embroidered silks that would have looked ostentatious on a princess—came calling on him in his hall.
“You cannot trust these Serklanders,” the emissary said. The man spoke the Northern tongue badly, and with a lilting accent that grated on Odin’s ears and made him want to break the South Realmer’s nose. “They say they lie down with … uh, well, I don’t think your language has a word for it—so call them, uh, Fire vaettir.”
Odin drummed his fingers on the armrest of his hastily constructed throne. Frigg had insisted he needed a throne, even here, to maintain the semblance of authority. The jarls did not openly question him, but after all that had happened in his absence, his wife seemed to fear further disloyalty among the tribes. “I have very little interest in Serkland.” At least at the moment. “You, however, have been paid rather handsomely for safe passage through your lands.”
“Indeed, you might think so, and yet keeping this beach free of Serklanders requires extraordinary effort, which, in turn, requires extraordinary expense. Surely your, uh, adventures throughout Hunaland might help us continue to fund our mutual defenses.”
Odin glowered. Before allowing the emissary into the hall, Tyr had argued they ought to refuse. After all, the man had pointed out the Valls could hardly afford to fight the Aesir and the Serklanders, both. Odin did not entirely disagree, but if he refused now, he made an enemy of the Vall Empire. Given how many lives they had already lost, he needed no new enemies, and he certainly did not want them behind him while he tried to scout Vanaheim.
When Odin gave no answer, the emissary began to shift his weight from foot to foot. “Uh, so, perhaps we might discuss specific terms of tribute to the emperor?”
One did not harm an emissary, and yet, Odin could not help but envision sending the emperor a tribute of this man’s head. Odin rose from his throne, leaning on Gungnir as he paced closer to the emissary. He stood almost a head taller than the man, so he forced the Vall to crane his neck to meet his gaze. “Emissary.”
“Uh, yes, King Odin?”
Send his soul screaming into the Roil.
Odin curled his lip at the wraith’s tempting suggestion. He could kill this man—save for restriction of law, custom, and practicality. Still, the temptation remained. “If the mighty Vall Empire cannot hold back the Serklanders, perhaps it is them to whom we ought to pay tribute to ensure we remain left alone.”
“Uh …” The emissary took a step back, and then another, looking around as if suddenly realizing the danger he had walked into. “Surely your majesty cannot think to bargain with these foreign savages.”
“Not yet. But do not test my patience, Vall, for it has reached its end. I will send you back with one last chest of silver in tribute. If that will not suffice to ensure the empire’s continued friendship, I will look for friends elsewhere.”
The Vall mopped his brow with a tiny cloth. “Your majesty is most generous.”
Odin waved him away. “Get out.”
He would send someone to pay that final tribute, yes. Odin had larger concerns than these squabbling empires of men. Very soon, he would instead ride to challenge a kingdom of gods.
9
The girl was weeping and kept trying to cling to Sigyn’s shoulder. They didn’t have time for this. They had drawn up against the riverbank only to be surrounded by the villagers.
“You have no idea what you’ve done!” the elder shouted at them.
Though many villagers had raised axes or farm tools against them, none advanced, a blessing Sigyn attributed to the flame dancing in Loki’s palm as he stood silent watch over them. Such a stalemate had held through the night, and—Freyja be praised—the ash wife had not ventured beyond the edge of her wood to pursue them.
Nor need she do so, in truth.
There was nowhere for anyone to go except back into the forest.
“The lady must have her sacrifice,” one of the other women moaned. “Gyrlin was chosen.”
Sigyn had made what she considered rather cogent arguments against human sacrifice, bargaining with vaettir, and most of all against snuffing out the lives of the innocent. At the least the Aesir usually only sacrificed criminals. None of her arguments had gotten through to the village folk, nor in truth, would she have expected any different. A people got used to a certain way of thinking such that, anyone trying to show them another path, even with logic or compassion, became naught but an enemy, a threat to a way of life that, no matter how putrid, they had accepted as their own.
And maybe, knowing this, she would have left in the first place and allowed these self-deluding folk to remain mired in their own ignorance until it finally killed them all. But then, had she done so, Gyrlin would be dead already. The girl had seen another dawn because of Sigyn, and she supposed that was something to be proud of.
“Do ash wives eat people?” she asked Loki, careful to keep her voice too low for others to catch.
“Sometimes. More oft though, they feast on s
ouls. Or perhaps this one intended to let another of her kind possess Gyrlin and thus swell their ranks.”
Sigyn frowned. “And when denied?”
“They can spread illness and blight, drive away game, foul the river.”
So by saving Gyrlin, Sigyn may well have damned the rest of these villagers. Still, how was she to pity a people willing to murder a young girl who had done no wrong? Damn, but she could not wish such a fate even upon these people. She tapped a finger against her lip. Only one recourse seemed open to her.
“Frigg told me a story once, that every ash wife is bound to a heart tree, and that without it she would wither away.”
Loki also spoke softly, not taking his eyes off the crowd. “Kill her tree, and she loses her tether in the Mortal Realm. But Sigyn, do not forget that, when propitiated the ash wife no doubt offers some service to these folk. She appears to keep the mist at bay and quite likely ensures plenty of game and fish. Take that away—”
“And they must fend for themselves, same as any other people, and without the need to cast away their children to sate the hunger of a vaettr. I’m doing this.”
“How? Not even you can pass through the forest without the ash wife detecting you.”
Sigyn glanced over her shoulder at Gyrlin. “We have something she wants.” The very thought of it set her stomach lurching. Such a cruel, calculating move seemed more akin to what she’d expect of her enemies. But Sigyn needed a way to keep the ash wife distracted while she searched for its heart tree. Sigyn grabbed Gyrlin now and pulled her forward. “I’m sorry for this,” she whispered in the girl’s ear. Then she looked to the elder. “Very well. Your arguments have convinced us. Take her back to the clearing.”
The look of abject, speechless betrayal on Gyrlin’s face was almost enough to stop Sigyn’s heart in shame.
The villagers wasted no time in taking the girl away, and indeed, paid Sigyn very little mind the moment she handed over Gyrlin. No doubt thoughts of vengeance would come to them later, but in the meantime Sigyn was able to slip off, away from them. In the village, she snatched up an axe one of her would-be attackers had discarded.
This would prove easier with Loki at her side—or if not easier, less frightening—but someone needed to watch over Gyrlin and make sure the ash wife did not actually kill the girl. With fire, Loki could do that.
Sigyn let them bind the girl and begin their prayers before she slipped into the wood herself. With the slightest bit of luck, those prayers and the wailing girl would hold the ash wife’s full attention while Sigyn passed unnoticed among the trees. Now, though, she could afford to waste no more time. She moved quickly, deeper and deeper into the wood.
Frigg had said a vӧlva recognized a heart tree by its twisted shape, the very wood warped by the presence of the ash wife’s soul. Whether the tree actually had to be an ash tree, or that was merely a name, Sigyn didn’t know, so she had to examine every large tree she came across. In the Myrkvidr, that was a lot of trees.
She ran deeper into the wood, sniffing for aught that might smell amiss, tasting the air for any hint of the Otherworldly. It was a desperate move, a hope she might detect something that might well prove undetectable. What else was she to do? Not far back, Gyrlin was being tied to a tree to become a sacrifice to this monster.
Damn, what she wouldn’t give for Loki’s or Odin’s or even Frigg’s gift of the Sight. All of them treated it like a burden, but some prescient insight would go a damned long way at times like this. If only she could …
Sigyn paused.
Up until this point, squirrels, birds, and the like had graced the boughs of nigh unto every tree she passed. But here, all of a sudden, no more surrounded her. As if they sensed something she did not—maybe because they had some sense she lacked, however keen her others had become.
Slowing, she continued deeper into the wood. The ash wife’s unnatural soul must rest within one of these trees. Sigyn ran her fingertips over the bark of one. Naught odd there. Again, and again, she touched tree after tree.
Until, at last, she came upon one she had no desire to touch. Here, the trunk had turned upon itself like the braids in a maiden’s hair, twined together and bent, with its boughs stretching down to scrape the ground and mesh with roots. After a shuddering breath, Sigyn laid her hand against the trunk. Within it pulsed something not unlike a thick, off-rhythm heartbeat.
She swallowed. So. She had found it.
After several steadying breaths, Sigyn raised the axe. This was it. Kill this tree, or Gyrlin was damned—destined to be consumed in body or soul by the vile ash wife these people mistook for a goddess. Damn. This sort of thing ought to have fallen upon Odin or his ilk. With a shriek, Sigyn slammed the axe into the twisted trunk. It only bit the surface, but the impact sent her arms tingling. Except it wasn’t just her arms—the whole fucking tree was trembling, groaning, writhing in disquiet, like the grim dead waking. Sigyn hewed again. This time, black ichor exploded out of the wound, stinging her eyes and drenching her stolen tunic. Unlike blood, it was cool and viscous and burned her skin.
The tree shrieked like some damned soul fleeing the gates of Hel. The ash wife knew Sigyn was here and would no doubt delight on feasting on her soul any moment now. Again and again Sigyn laid into the trunk, chopping and hewing, tearing out chips and spraying more of the burning black fluid all over her. Every time she breathed, grunting with effort, the vile stuff seeped into her mouth. Its acrid stench filled her nostrils. And she was not getting through this.
Without warning, vines exploded from the roots around the heart tree, snaking in and out and surging for her. Sigyn screamed, stumbling away, but too late. A vine snared her ankle and yanked her off her feet, hanging her upside down. It jerked from side to side, slamming her against the tree trunk once. The axe tumbled out of her dazed fingers and her vision swam in a black and red haze. As her view began to clear, the trunk ruptured, exposing a maw-like hollow lined with fibrous roots pulsing like limbs.
Another vine snared her wrist, and the two of them began dragging her toward that maw. From inside, a fell green light began to gleam, shimmering like a poisonous moon. Sigyn’s stomach clenched so hard she couldn’t even squeeze a shriek through her throat. Please, please let Loki be close. Let him come and save her again.
She grabbed the vine and yanked, having no more effect against it than a child would against an adult. As she drew nigh to the trunk, she managed to turn about, and brace one foot against it. The vines kept pulling until she felt like her knee would pop.
He had said … had said he might not always be able to save her.
Please! Not like this!
It was inside her, Loki had promised it. Inside, the very same power! The power that—
Her knee creaked, and she wailed in agony. The ash wife was tearing her to pieces, would devour her whole and leave naught for her love to ever find.
Sigyn screamed again, not only in torment, but in gut-wrenching rage. She was not going to be separated from him like this. He needed her. Her people, her sister, they needed her. And she was not done with life yet.
She shut her eyes rather than gaze into that putrescent maw, and in her mind forced the picture back, envisioning the rivers of life force coursing through her form. The pneuma filled her with the same power as Loki or Odin. She need but direct it. Sigyn had never known a battle fever like a warrior, but she could imagine it. Imagine ignoring pain and becoming stronger than she’d ever thought herself capable.
In a single instant, the throbbing ache in her limbs faded—it did not vanish, for she knew it was there, but it became a distant misery, overshadowed by the wrath and vivacity that suddenly suffused her. She screamed again, this time in fury, grabbing the vine around her wrist and yanking with all her newfound might. Fibers within the vine split and then tore free.
The tree shrieked again. For a moment she hung loose, then she grabbed the vine around her ankle with both hands. It creaked, groaned, and then rent in half. Sigyn fell
like a stone and smacked her spine against the roots. The impact knocked power out of her, and her injuries hit her like a waterfall, immersing her. Everything hurt. All she could see was pain. All she could do was moan.
A tree split beside her, the ash wife wresting her torso free of it. Black blood drenched her as well, streaming down her naked form in rivers. Sigyn seized the pneuma and flooded it into her limbs again, blocking pain and enhancing her strength.
Groaning in effort, she rolled over, snatched up the axe, and stumbled toward the heart tree. Another thwack. More ichor splattered on her. Another swing and the axe bit into pliant flesh.
The ash wife pitched forward, clutching her chest and wailing, crawling toward Sigyn in a frantic attempt to forestall the inevitable. Sigyn, panting, spared the ash wife a final glance.
“Go back to the fell world that spawned you.” She spun and plunged the axe deep into the pulsing heart of the tree. Gore jetted out of that heart with such force, it hurled her off her feet and sent her tumbling over the ichor-slicked ground.
When she at last managed to roll over, the ash wife lay staring up at the canopy with empty eyes. Her ribcage had ruptured like the tree trunk, exposing a knotted mess of roots where bones and organs ought to have resided.
Sigyn shut her eyes, unable to fight against the shudders any longer. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to ignore the noxious fluid drenching her and burning her skin.
Though she had wiped the ichor from her face as best she could, Sigyn had no doubt the black gore staining every speck of her flesh and clothes made her appear like a specter drifting into the village. She dragged the axe behind her in one hand, the other pulling the ash wife’s head by the hair. Severing it had proved more difficult than she’d expected, requiring three swings and—to her surprise—human blood.