by Matt Larkin
Volsung spat. “Today he slew two berserkir. How would you have us reach the ships to burn them while such a man guards them?”
Now she ground her teeth. Tyr needed to die, and soon, but that was hardly her chief concern. Though she dare not say it, Gudrun had begun to think burning the ships came secondary to allowing Guthorm to capture Loge. The fire priest had helped the Lofdar bring down the Niflungar already. Gudrun did not want to see her rise to power as the new queen thwarted by the man, and, in this, he might prove a greater threat than even Odin.
With Irpa’s insight, Gudrun had succeeded in raising a draug of her own—an Ás warrior chosen at random. She might send the creature against Tyr, but the warrior had already come close to slaying Guthorm. Perhaps, though, she might solve two problems at once: impeding Tyr’s efforts to hunt the Hunalanders and drawing out Loge at the same time.
Finally, she sighed. “I am not to be disturbed this night, not under any circumstance.”
Volsung worked his jaw before grunting and turning away. The man had just enough wisdom not to ask about that which he would not wish to know.
Guthorm had been kind enough to secure her an Ás prisoner—a shieldmaiden drawn away from her troop. The woman hung from an ash tree by her ankles, bound and gagged, but struggling, clearly unable to take her gaze off the rotting flesh of Gudrun’s brother.
Blood drizzled from shallow cuts on the victim’s arms, blood with which Gudrun had painted glyphs on nearby rocks and trees in a summoning circle. Beyond the Veil, vaettir had already begun to gather, watching, drawn no doubt by the eldritch symbols. Gudrun could see them with the Sight, as could Guthorm of course, but the Ás shieldmaiden would have seen naught. Which was worse? The sense of gathering doom which one could not see, or to look upon the foul faces of the dead?
In truth, it did not matter. The shieldmaiden would see what awaited her, as life began to flee her body.
Gudrun blew out a long breath and wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Evoking several snow maidens was risky, especially weak as she had grown—and deprived of any protective talisman—but Snegurka alone would not serve her needs. With a last look around to ensure no mortals drew nigh, she began to chant in the spirit tongue, the foreign syllables tasting odd and seeming to reverberate in her skull, even after so many years of castings.
At her words, Snegurka and Irpa both stirred in the back of her mind, pushing, pressing against her will, perhaps even against one another, each seeking control of a mortal vessel.
Drawing a dagger from her belt, Gudrun approached the shieldmaiden, never ceasing her evocation. The victim thrashed, eyes wider than ever. Gudrun slid the blade along her throat, allowing blood to rush out in a waterfall over the woman’s head. The convulsions lasted but a moment more.
The mist thickened.
It whispered to her, answering her summons, as snow maidens drifted in on the vapors, approaching from all sides. Three of the them came, moaning and wailing, invisible to those without the Sight or drawing nigh to death. The Mist spirits were born of death, drawn to it, as if keen to drink the suffering of the damned. Sometimes, they even appeared to those fated to soon pass from the Mortal Realm, privy to some uncanny insight that revealed such things.
One drifted closer than the others, hair, eyes, and clothes all white and translucent, like moonlight reflected on a frozen lake.
They pressed their wills against her, seeking any ingress into her body.
Gudrun slumped to her knees and clenched her fists, ground her teeth and stared defiance at the Mist spirit. Pressure beat against her temples and welled in her chest, the weight of an avalanche crushing her from all sides. Instinctively, she reached for the Singasteinn, but it was not there. No talisman, no protection. Just her.
Hot liquid began to dribble down her nose, running over her lips. She could not let up, could not give in.
And then, all at once, the pressure eased, and the Mist spirits converged on the now-dead shieldmaiden. Gudrun did not look as they began feasting off the woman’s soul, accepting the sacrifice.
She wanted to stand but feared to topple over. One did not show weakness in front of vaettir.
You are weak.
Snegurka. The snow maiden did not speak in her mind so oft as Irpa—perhaps because Irpa was stronger, or because Gudrun had inadvertently allowed Irpa a stronger hold over her. Either way, Snegurka’s voice was softer and more sibilant than the wraiths, seductive rather than filled with loathing. Or maybe Mist spirits were just better at concealing their hatred than wraiths.
Almost. You are almost mine … Your final choice … between mist … and shadow …
Snegurka or Irpa. A choice of madnesses. A choice of damnations.
Gudrun blew air out from her mouth, clearing the blood away. “Go and bring the mists to the Aesir. Show them their impending deaths. Show them …” She paused to catch her breath. “Let them catch a glimpse of Hel. Thicken the mist … so they cannot see aught save doom.”
All three of the spirits turned to her in answer, an icy gleam in their eyes. They held her gaze so long, her heart clenched. And then they began to drift out, on the mist, as they had come in.
19
Eostre’s servants awoke Odin before sunrise, insisting he join their lady on the balcony. He yawned, climbing the many steps to reach the tower’s apex. He should have figured the goddess of the dawn would wake early. After his adventures on the sea, Odin could have done with another hour’s sleep. Perhaps three more hours. But even had Eostre not summoned him, the urgency of his quest did demand sacrifices.
He rubbed sleep from his eyes as he followed the servant—a muscular young man who strode about shirtless. Come to think of it, most of Eostre’s staff seemed to be handsome young men. Of course, young was a relative term for Vanir. Any one of these servants might well be immortal, like their masters. The man led him through a giant archway onto the balcony, a semicircular platform several fathoms across, where Idunn and Eostre waited.
The platform had no rail, just a drop to a seventy-foot fall. From up here, he could see out for countless miles, gazing across the mountains and valleys of Vanaheim. All were shrouded in darkness, though still he could make out the greenery covering the island. Before he could comment, a blinding ray broke over the horizon. Odin had to squint, but he would not have looked away for all the treasures in Midgard. In his whole life, never had he imagined such brilliance in the sky, nor dreamed of the colors now expanding around him.
He could almost feel the wraith retreat into the furthest corners of his mind. Come to think of it, Audr always seemed least inclined to speak or assert himself while Odin walked in daylight.
“Is it always like this?”
“Save when it rains,” Idunn said, sparing him a glance.
Odin moved to stand beside her. The wonders of Vanaheim never ceased. In the light of dawn, he could make out the shadows of the other island, sure to contain its own secrets and glories enough to fill a lifetime. On this island, though, rose the World Tree. Odin’s eyes drifted toward Yggdrasil, toward the boughs of the great tree overshadowing the valley at the island’s heart. Yggdrasil, that gave rise to all the beauty before him, holding back the mists of death, locking the islands of Vanaheim in eternal spring, and granting the Vanir themselves their immortality. Walking here was like walking through another world, so removed from Midgard he might think himself dreaming.
Idunn pointed to a mountain near the great tree. “Do you see the palace atop it?”
Indeed he did. A golden castle stood there, glittering in the sunlight, its spires topped with gleaming crystals. Vines overgrew the walls, making the shine of light beneath them all the more potent. At the castle’s foundations, giant stone faces poured out streams of water like fountains, but the size of waterfalls. Along the slopes, other golden structures rose as well, as if the mountain itself had sprouted palaces like flowers growing from a tree.
“That’s Sessrumnir, Freyja’s hal
l. Mother will take you there after breakfast.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Eventually, for certain. I haven’t seen Freyja in years, and I am eager to hear her stories and share my own, but Mother told me Bragi left here livid. I need to find him and make certain he won’t create trouble for us.”
Odin nodded. He would have rather travelled in Idunn’s company than Eostre’s, but he had not come all the way to Vanaheim to see a woman he already knew. Ingratiating himself with the rest of the Vanir might mean the difference between success and failure.
And he could not afford failure.
After a glorious breakfast of exotic fruits—most of which Odin could not name—and roast pig, Eostre guided him from her hall. The dawn goddess said little, seeming content more to bask in the radiance of her homeland. Nor could Odin blame her.
They walked along the mountain slope, pausing before a waterfall ten times the height of the tallest jotunn. It formed an endless curtain of water that rimmed the path leading between the mountains, its roaring cascade drowning out any other sound. Eostre watched his face, and Odin did not bother trying to conceal his awe.
After granting him time to absorb the sight, Eostre resumed her pace, and Odin reluctantly tore himself away to follow. Moss-covered stone bridges passed over great gulfs where more water poured down into glittering lakes that seemed to fill half the valleys on Vanaheim. The bridges also spanned across valleys, allowing them to cross the mountains without having to repeatedly climb slopes, the last of which led toward the mountain where Sessrumnir lay. Though they passed several palaces, in the whole time they walked, Odin spotted no more than a dozen other people, most paying them little mind. Vanaheim was pristine, almost empty. What kept the Vanir’s numbers so small? Or perhaps the other island was more populous than this one.
At the foot of the mountain, several ivy-covered buildings stood, all carved from golden stone. Most sported great columns five times Odin’s height or more. Yet the buildings themselves often lacked walls, the columns merely supporting decorative roofs. Perhaps their sole function was shelter from the rain. Here, at last, he saw people. Thirty or so of them, lounging about in the sun or in those structures, eating grapes and laughing.
Eostre did not pause nor speak to any of those people, so Odin had no chance to investigate. But one thing was obvious enough. Not one of those people carried a weapon. Half of them were barely clothed at all. Both men and women walked around in the sunlight with nothing but loin cloths. If these were the gods, they had grown soft through ages of peace and isolation. Still, he could not afford to underestimate them. They had banished the jotunnar and kept the Niflungar from their shores. Power lurked here, even if he could not easily spot it.
“With water crashing down over half the mountain, how are we to reach Sessrumnir?” Odin asked, as they passed by the cluster of Vanir.
“We carved a path through the mountain, beyond the falls. It’s a long climb, but we pass by the lower halls, should you need a place to rest.”
Rest? He kept forgetting Eostre thought him mortal, and an old man at that. He could have climbed all day if need be, but instead he nodded. A little feigned weakness might sometimes lead to a position of strength. Not that most of Odin’s people would believe showing weakness ever wise. Vili would have scoffed to hear him even suggest it. But Odin had seen things most of the Aesir could not imagine, and he bore burdens they would never understand.
The path leading up was paved with snug fitting stones, smooth, and so overgrown he’d not even noticed it until they neared. The Vanir didn’t appear to use stairs on their roads, though this path rose steeply.
“Lady Eostre,” Odin said as they climbed, “you spoke of your father, and Idunn told me stories of your mother.”
“Hmmm. I never knew my father, but Mother spoke of him. Not often, mind—she kept to herself most times. I remember she often seemed like she bore the weight of all the world on her shoulders. A burden perhaps you can begin to understand, King of the Aesir.”
Odin grunted. Yes. He imagined he could understand the burdens Eostre’s mother had borne, probably better than even Eostre or Idunn could. “Idunn was close to her.”
Eostre sighed. “Sometimes I think Mother was closer to my daughter than she was to me. Maybe I reminded her too much of Father.”
“There are things you wish you had asked her?”
“I’ve had five thousand years to regret the things unspoken between us. Time dulls such pains, but it does not erase them.”
Her words set Odin’s stomach burning. He had lost so many people in his life, and now Idunn’s apple had damned him to the same eternal regret as Eostre. Or maybe as all the Vanir, certainly the older generations. “Sometimes … do you wish for death?”
Eostre shook her head. “You are assuming the tales your people tell of an afterlife are true, that were I to perish, I would be reunited with my lost parents and all those who have gone before?”
“You don’t believe in Valhalla?”
“In five thousand years, nothing the Vanir have uncovered has led us to believe any paradise awaits those who pass from the world. Those who are exceptionally strong will linger between life and death as shades, locked in eternal torment. The rest … they are gone, Odin. All that they were is snuffed out and lost forever, save what little lives on in us. Idunn and I are all that remain of my parents.”
The bitterness in her voice tasted like poison in Odin’s ears. In all his musings, never had he considered reality to be so arbitrary and capricious as the one she spoke of. True, he had seen horrors in the Astral Realm, seen the Roil try to consume his very soul. But he had allowed himself to believe that, beyond the horror, something bright still existed. If Eostre was right, if no Valhalla awaited him, he would never again see his parents, either. Borr and Bestla would have simply vanished into oblivion. And when and if Odin’s work were accomplished, that was the only reward he, too, had to look forward to. The Vanir thought death meant the end. The Aesir believed that falling in battle would grant them a glorious paradise. That would prove a keen edge if it came to battle. The Vanir would probably do almost anything to save their own lives. After all, if Eostre spoke the truth, who wouldn’t?
We are all dead …
Odin’s legs wobbled beneath him, not from fatigue, as Eostre would no doubt guess, but from profound hopelessness. All of his efforts would mean naught if his ancestors could not look down on him. Alone, he was a man claiming godhood, making grand gestures that amounted to little more than a child building a snow castle. It might endure for a day or a season, but it would fall and be forgotten, as would all Odin wrought. The world would continue on, caring naught for the petty dreams of men or so-called gods.
All you build will turn to ash, your children shall die, and your dreams shall burn.
The Odling ghost’s curse. The runes she had branded him with stung, feeling fresh, though he knew it all in his mind.
He slumped down on a boulder some distance from the nearest palace and let his head fall into his hands.
“Forgive me,” Eostre said. “I forget you must be entering the twilight of life, and here I speak of the only options in death being oblivion or torment. I’m sorry. Perhaps a beautiful lie is easier to swallow. I imagine that’s how your people dreamed up Valhalla in the first place.”
Languor warred with his sudden desire to throttle the Vanr woman, even knowing she meant no harm. He kept his glare locked on his own boots lest she realize just how close he was to killing her. Perhaps she did not deserve his rage, but it bubbled in his gut like a frothing cauldron, demanding release. He refused to believe Eostre. He had seen the endless ranks of ghosts populating the Penumbra. And, in truth, all of them did seem lost, tormented, lingering on in an existence even more pointless than sheer oblivion. He had seen naught of glorious ancestors or happy halls, no sign of Valhalla. And after all they had learned of the Art and the worlds beyond Midgard, the Vanir believed nothing awaits the fal
len. He had come here seeking knowledge, but not this. Nor could he ever share such revelations with his people—if they believed at all, it would break them, perhaps turn them into the cowards the Vanir themselves had become.
Odin rose, shaking his head. “You were right. We should rest in one of the lower palaces.”
Eostre nodded, then turned, continuing down the path.
It took perhaps another hour to reach the nearest palace, this one a sprawling complex wrapping around the mountain in a semicircle. The stone walkway branched off, one path continuing up the mountain, the other leading to this structure. Marble statues of nude men and women decorated the path leading the palace, many engaged in activities so lewd, Odin could not help but stare. Eostre quirked a half smile at his reaction but made no comment, instead leading him onward.
More waterfalls pitched out of great archways cut into this palace’s foundations. How did they arrange such things? Surely only sorcery could have built such a continuous flow of water from so many locations. And yet, given the fear with which Idunn spoke of the Art, it was hard to give credence to the Vanir risking it on extravagances like making a river run through a building.
The palace itself glittered like gold, drawing his eyes to glimmering sun motifs carved above the front entrance—a doorless archway ten feet tall. Something about those carvings held his gaze, refusing to let go until he tore his gaze away through sheer will. A pair of nude women stood out front, each armed with a spear, though neither held her weapon as though inclined to use it. Who in Hel’s icy trench went into battle unclad? Well, save berserks and varulfur.