by Matt Larkin
Freyja too panted, though whether she had seen the same thing as he, or was merely responding to his action, he could not say. She backed away, putting the table between them then shaking her head. “Your people … they worship me as the goddess of sorcery—of seid—right?”
And of sex. Odin decided not to ask how she had earned that title. Not yet. He nodded. “The vӧlvur worshipped you as a patron.”
Freyja sighed, then sat on the bench again. “It’s because in ancient times, I also tried to help humanity. I tried to do what you asked, and I taught a very few women.”
“The vӧlvur?”
“Back then they were called the seidkonur. And the descendants of Halfdan used what I had taught them to unleash horrors upon Midgard. They breached the Veil carelessly, without thought for what they might let into our world. This knowledge is the most dangerous weapon in all creation. A weapon often more dangerous to its wielder than its target. And if you have any other weapon that will do, be spear or sword, or even a rock—I suggest you turn to that first.”
“And when Grimhild uses her sorcery to enslave and slaughter my people, at least we’ll know we didn’t take unnecessary risks. Nothing has changed here, Freyja. Yes, I had an apple. I am still the man Eostre asked you to teach so that I could stand against the Niflungar and every other threat out there.”
The Vanr blew out a long breath before letting her forehead fall into her hands. Finally, she snorted. “Sometimes I wish I had someone to pray to.”
Odin could empathize. Finding out the gods he’d spent his life worshipping were naught but men and women, that they did not answer prayers for they could not even hear them, had left him adrift. Almost as much as Eostre’s revelation—or claim—that Valhalla did not exist.
Freyja shook her head. “We’re done for today. I need time to think.”
So did he. More than she could imagine.
26
They had decided to sail some few ships directly against the Ás beach. Loge had interfered, and Gudrun’s army—Volsung’s army, rather—had nigh broken because of it. In doing so, however, he had revealed himself once more. Now she, and Guthorm, knew the fire priest was here. With Volsung’s men losing their nerve, the only answer seemed a final, desperate assault. Let Volsung burn what enemy ships he could. Gudrun and Guthorm had another mission.
Volsung’s remaining berserkir led the charge against the Ás camp. A dozen men and three women leapt over the sides of their longships and rushed through the shallows, howling in mad ferocity. In moments, they would become bears and tear into their foes. Predictably, the Aesir had seen the ships approach moments before, and their own warriors had formed a line to meet the advance. Shield lines were apt to hold back an advance of charging warriors, but less suited to halt the momentum of a dozen angry bears.
All of it suited Gudrun well enough. The Sight had told her Odin had already left, and they could not find him. That, Gudrun had to assume, meant he must have gone to Vanaheim, probably riding that accursed monstrous horse of his. And with the Ás king gone, Volsung and Fenrir could slaughter his people all the more freely, save for the threat of Tyr—who seemed oddly absent these last days—and of Loge.
At her request, Volsung had dropped her and Guthorm off in a rowboat some distance away. Now, as the sun began to set, Guthorm’s strength increased. The boat surged forward with each great heave of his shoulders. Her brother’s face remained locked in a mask of pain and rage, though Gudrun could not say for certain whether moving actually hurt him, or whether he was trapped in the never-ending agony of his death. She feared to ask.
Screams rang out, war cries mingling with the pain of the dying and the lamentations of the living. Gudrun held her hands out, palms up, calling mist around the rowboat. Shrouding such a large vessel in mist took most of her concentration and a great deal of her energy. Snegurka squirmed, growing stronger—nigh strong enough to steal the breath from her lungs. But stealth was of the essence here, after all. Guthorm was tasked to find and capture Loge. Her brother would follow those commands, she knew, but quite likely might seek to let the priest destroy him in the process. Part of Gudrun wanted to allow it, wanted to see him find peace, if any was to be had. But Loge was an obstacle to her own plans, and if he could be eliminated, Gudrun would have a far freer hand with Odin.
The boat scraped the sand, crunching to a stop. Guthorm rose, keeping his cloak drawn around his decaying face, and stalked out into the mist. The draug took off as though he knew where to find his prey. Perhaps Hel guided her servant. Even in life, her brother had excelled at finding his targets and eliminating them. The mists clung to him so deftly, he must have retained an ability to control them. A draug wielding the Art, an undead sorcerer bent on revenge and slaughter. The thought left Gudrun cold. As with Fenrir, Grimhild probably did not quite understand what she had unleashed.
Gudrun followed, wrapping mist around herself. They stalked the outskirts of the battlefield, never drawing near the flames nor too close to the warriors of either side. Often, it was hard to tell the difference. Volsung’s troops were slightly better armed and armored, but in the chaotic melee, who knew one screaming, bloody man from the next? Guthorm’s pace increased, though his footfalls still made no sound, and Gudrun had to hurry to keep up.
Without warning, Guthorm pulled up short, dropping to one knee. Gudrun slipped down beside him, following his gaze. There, on a sand dune near the shore, stood the man she had seen in the ice caves. He held a torch in one hand, but he didn’t fight. Instead, he was shouting orders to nearby Ás warriors, commanding them to fill in gaps in their lines.
The chain clinked in Guthorm’s hand as he unfurled it. Her brother rose, stalking closer. A knife appeared in his hand.
Before Guthorm crested the dune, a bear charged up it, roaring at Loge. The priest deftly rolled aside and rose. Flames swam off the torch and swirled over his hands as he rose. The bear fell short, staring at the flames. What would the berserk think of such an uncanny display? Even under the thrall of the beast within, the flame must have been terrifying. The bear circled the man a moment more, as Guthorm crept ever closer.
The berserk lunged then, roaring. Loge moved even faster, twisting out of reach of its claws and tossing flames between his hands in an arc that swept over the bear’s paw. The werebear howled in surprise and pain, backing away. Those flames would burn mist, preventing Guthorm from closing. And then they’d destroy her brother. Release him from his pain. Assuming … assuming Hel allowed his soul rest after that. And if he failed here, that seemed unlikely. No, Guthorm was damned either way.
Gudrun held up her hands, palms facing one another, summoning ice crystals dancing between them. The wisest thing would be to retreat, to take no direct hand in this chaos. But such wisdom would not bring her any closer to her goals. She was going to have to a great many chances if she was ever to take the throne from Grimhild. This was but one such chance.
The crystals formed into a semisolid orb of jutting spikes half a foot across. Thrusting her hands out in front of her, Gudrun sent the orb flying at Loge. The priest spun, looking in her direction even as she did so. How in Hel’s name did he know? He dove for the ground, rolling under the projectile. Gudrun’s chest heaved. Manifesting such an attack took a lot of her own life force. No one had ever avoided it before. She was committed now, though. She strode forward, congealing mists around her hands, forming them into a thickness approaching water.
Loge twisted, splitting his flame in two. One half he flung at the berserk. The flame impacted the animal on its snout and exploded outward, engulfing the poor Hunalander. The bear rolled to the ground, whimpering as the fur burned off its face and shoulders. The shuddering mass convulsed, slowly resuming human form as it died, the Moon spirit fleeing its host—a host whose flesh was half-melted off by flame.
The fire priest advanced on Gudrun, obviously aware of her location despite her attempt to shroud herself. The flames in his hand danced and separated, turning each
of his fingers into a candle of silent threat.
Gudrun hated fire.
She dropped the shroud of mist and moved to meet her foe. From what she had seen of this man before, her mists would not be enough to quench the fires at his command. But if she could hold him off long enough, maybe Guthorm could do his work.
The priest fell short then, turning to look in her brother’s direction. How was he doing that? Oh, Hel. He had the Sight.
The draug snarled and leapt forward, slashing violently with the knife. Loge dodged, whipped his flaming hand forward, and struck Guthorm in the face with his palm. Her brother howled. His cloak caught fire and he ripped it off and tossed it aside. Burns covered his face. Under them, his eyes gleamed red with unholy hatred.
Gudrun rushed forward, flinging congealed mist at Loge with one hand. The priest twisted to the side, avoiding her missile. Guthorm swung his knife again. Her brother was fast, inhumanly fast. And somehow, Loge caught Guthorm’s forearm with his own, slammed his other palm into Guthorm’s chest, and twisted her brother round. His flaming hand wrapped around Guthorm’s forearm. Her brother shrieked as flesh melted from his arm, exposing bone beneath. The dagger tumbled to the ground.
Loge’s muscles trembled trying to hold her brother. He was strong, maybe almost as strong as a draug. Gudrun flung herself against the priest, slapping her remaining congealed mist over his hand. Flames licked her fingers even as the mist extinguished the fire.
A blow to the side of the head sent her reeling, tumbling down the hill. The whole world spun too quickly. All she wanted was to close her eyes and sleep. Instead, nauseated, dizzy, she tried to look up. Fist wrapped in the chain, Guthorm punched Loge in the face. The priest stumbled apart from her brother, falling to his knees.
Almost immediately, he was up again, blood dribbling down his split lip. Already Guthorm was swinging the chain like a whip. It cracked Loge against the side of the head and sent him back to the ground. Her brother was on him in an instant, wrapping the chain around the priest’s wrists. Loge tried to speak, and Guthorm punched him across the face, then continued binding him. Arms and torso secured, Guthorm threw the priest over his shoulder and jerked his head back toward the mists.
Burns now covered what remained of his face, and his arm—though it appeared to still function—was now skeletal, bits of seared flesh still clinging to it. Hel, she hoped he could not feel the pain of that.
Gudrun’s own fingers stung from where she had forced mist to extinguish the fire. Still, she shrouded herself again, and Guthorm did the same. They needed to be far away from here.
27
Freyja came to him again in the morning, on the terrace. She was smiling her coy smile, eyes filled with mischief and no hint of her ire from yesterday. Was she quick to forgive, or just to try to forget?
“Let’s start with the most basic question,” she said after standing beside him in silence for a moment. “Do you know why we call it the Art?”
Odin opened his mouth. He could not recall ever hearing an answer to that. It was simply what sorcerers called their witchcraft. Maybe because they didn’t like it being called witchcraft. He shook his head.
“We call it the Art to create a clear distinction between it and science. The Art is not a science. It is not scientific. It does not follow rules. It has guidelines—but those lines change as capriciously as the ocean. It has structures that never produce the same result twice. It is a practice held together by strength of will and hope, as ephemeral as spider webs.”
Her words were spoken with the intonation of a lecture given many times to many students. Perhaps most of them would have had a better idea what in Hel’s trench she was talking about. “What exactly is science?”
Freyja paused, then chuckled, her dour and no doubt carefully prepared speech faltering. “Oh, by the Tree.” She shook her head and sighed. “All right.” She gestured with her hands, indicating the whole of the island. “Science is the study of the laws of the natural world. Our world.”
Odin folded his arms and settled back on the bench. “Idunn told me we cannot understand the supernatural because the laws governing other worlds are beyond our understanding.”
“That’s … more or less accurate. The point of telling students not to confuse the Art with science is because it looks like something governed by rules and reason. There are signs and glyphs and sacred geometry that almost seem to be some form of maddeningly complex mathematics. But every attempt to catalog and analyze it as such has failed. And the reason it fails is simple—because the Art changes from person to person, from time to time. Every time you use it, every time you look at it, it changes.
“Lacking any better explanation, until further notice, try to think of seid as a living being. A hostile one that delights in driving men and women to become addicted to it. It wants you to destroy yourself. And it will make you enjoy the slow suicide of your own soul.”
That sounded about the most horrifying thing Odin had ever heard. Maybe that was why she’d intended have this conversation in the darkness of the void room. Maybe the Vanir wanted to frighten all students of the Art, and for good reason. “You’re saying magic is evil.”
“Evil …” She ran her teeth over her lower lip. “There are different theories. The truth is no one really knows what seid is or why it works—when it works—which is not all the time. Some believe that yes, it is literally alive, and literally a hostile force. I don’t know that I agree, but it’s useful on a conceptual level to assume that to be true. And because of that, many people call the practice of sorcery the dark arts. In order to fuel it, or the Manifest Arts, we must expend some of our life force, called pneuma.”
Pneuma. Gudrun had not used that term. She had, however, taught him that sorcery was the process of evocation or invocation. “And beyond sorcery and alchemy?”
“Hmmm. Well, it depends on how to define the branches of the Art. As I said, because it defies classification, we naturally have several conflicting models. I would assume Gudrun—that’s who told you this?—that she meant to distinguish sorcery from Manifest Arts. We also usually classify alchemy as part of the Art, albeit one standing on a bridge between Art and science. There’s also divination, and considerable debate arises whether that is an aspect of the Sight or a discipline whole unto itself.”
Odin rubbed a hand over his beard. “How do I stop the Niflungar from cursing my people or spying on us?”
Now Freyja smiled. “Warding, of course.” He opened his mouth to ask, but she continued. “Warding is the use of glyphs to block spirits from interacting with the mortal world. It’s enough like sorcery that some call it part of the same aspect, though I tend to think of it is as a unique discipline with some overlap. But this, this I can show you with less risk. Come downstairs. We’ll return to the void room another day to talk more of sorcery.”
Odin couldn’t wait.
Freyja strolled along Sessrumnir’s outer wall, and Odin trailed behind her. The hall sat upon a plateau, and no more than ten feet separated him from a precipitous drop off the mountain. Much of that space was taken up by bushes, flowers, and other foliage. Freyja wended her way among the garden with practiced ease Odin had to admire, pointing to glyphs carved into the palace’s foundations, neatly hidden under ivy, or even decorating the backs of the giant heads.
“How do these wards work?” he finally asked, having to shout to be heard.
Freyja laughed, the sound light and vibrant, yet almost lost under the cacophony of falling water. “The how and why of anything involving the Art is open to debate. But wardings are designed to block anyone from casting sorcery into Sessrumnir by trying to bar outside access to spirits.”
“Like a summoning circle.”
“Sort of. This one”—she pointed to a carving on the back of a head—“is supposed to interfere with divination attempts. If it works, it makes it harder or impossible for people like the Niflungar to spy on what happens inside.”
“If it works
?”
She shrugged. “How would we really know? Most of this kind of knowledge was gained by bargaining with spirits, and they often lie.”
Odin scowled. So well he knew it. The Odling ghost had lied to him about saving Ve, a lie that, in its own way, had led him into conflict with the Niflungar. For that matter, what did it bespeak of his encounter with the valkyrie Svanhit or with Heimdall, who guarded the bridge between worlds? Was any word they had spoken the truth? The valkyrie had given Odin her ring; he bore it still, though he had not dared call upon her.
He wanted to believe the mere existence of a valkyrie confirmed that of Valhalla. But perhaps it did not. Svanhit had never promised him a glorious afterlife with his ancestors, and even if she had, Freyja implied the woman might well have lied.
Perhaps he could only afford to place his trust in his own eyes and in the Sight, though it too often revealed nonliteral truths.
“If you had been completely possessed by that wraith, the wards should have stopped you from entering Sessrumnir. It’s not perfect—sometimes those hosting long enough get twisted by the spirits within. The spirit can go dormant, and the host might still work on its behalf. But it helps.”
The wraith inside him stirred in general disquiet, but made no comment, perhaps cowed by the sunlight.
Freyja took him by the hand and began to lead him back toward the stairs. “Do you know why I was showing you all this?”
Odin shrugged. He assumed she was teaching him everything.
“You see, warding is one way to protect against hostile spirits—and they’re all more or less hostile, Odin. Like many Vanir, I bound a liosalfar to myself.”
Now Audr hissed somewhere deep within Odin’s mind.
“It gives me power when I need it most, and we even came to a mutual understanding over the centuries.” She lead him back into the library—what she called the book room—and ran her fingers over several tomes before selecting one.