by Matt Larkin
“Sigyn …”
She shook her head. “No. Not this time. I’m not going to leave you.”
“You have to. Take the cloak and …” He pointed at where the chain lay among her discarded clothes. “Odin will need that.”
Sigyn scowled. So it did have power. And she had done well to claim it, though if she hadn’t, Loki would not now be making such a request of her. “You are wounded, barely conscious. For all you know, this could be a fever dream. After what I just went through to find you, I will not leave you here alone in this state.”
“Do you trust me?”
Sigyn snorted, not bothering to justify that with any other answer.
“Then help Odin. The future depends on his victory in Vanaheim. I should have been by his side, but I cannot now. I am too weak. So take that chain and go, make sure he succeeds.”
She leaned closer and stroked his cheek. “My future depends on you.”
He kissed her palm. “I treasure you. You do not need to fear for me.”
“This chain takes away supernatural power.”
Loki nodded. “It’s orichalcum, a special material, one suited to special properties. With this, Odin can bind his enemies and prevent them from using their greatest strengths against him. He faces many terrible foes. So I ask you, I beg you, to do what I cannot. Go to him and save the future.”
She clasped his hand and shut her eyes, shaking a moment. “You better make it back on your own. And Loki … one day soon, I’m going to get all the answers. I hope you know that.”
“No one gets all the answers Sigyn. Not even me.”
“We’ll see.”
She was not looking forward to donning those cold, wet clothes.
50
The bridge sparkled like a rainbow beneath Odin’s knees while the sky spun in a haze of turquoise mist and starlight. He knew this place—the bridge between the Penumbra and the Roil. And if he was here again, he was dead. His vision trembled, like the whole world was not quite stable, like reality had not decided on its final form.
He tried to stand, but his legs gave way and he fell forward, face pressed against the bridge. It was cool and slick, its ever-changing patterns hypnotic enough he could almost close his eyes and sleep.
“Odin.” A faraway feminine voice, calling him home. His mother, perhaps? Might he finally be welcomed into Valhalla? Or did Hel herself beckon, ready to taunt him for his failure on the threshold of victory? Though the thought left his chest constricting, he had no strength to stand.
Heaving, gasping at the pain wracking his body, he rolled over onto his back. The swirling sky of endless night expanded out into eternity. Through the Astral Realm spread the roads to the nine worlds of the Spirit Realm, and if he focused hard enough, he could almost see them through the iridescent clouds. If he reached out his hand and mind and soul, they seemed close enough to touch.
And why not? Here he stood at the crossroads of reality. The Nine Spheres of Creation spread out before him. There, the frozen mists of Niflheim where Hel sought to drag his soul into torment. And opposite that, the sphere’s counter, the burning ashland of Muspelheim, a volcanic waste that could scour the mist even as it burned away his flesh. And beside it, a glittering realm where the sun never set, where foliage and fauna frolicked in eternal spring and light. That was Alfheim, the world of the liosalfar—gods of light and nature. It seemed a preferable place to spend eternity, to escape the reach of Hel.
“Odin.”
No. That wasn’t Hel’s voice, laced with desperation, with fear. Who called for him in the darkness? Had the valkyrie Svanhit returned for his soul? Maybe now he could learn the truth, learn whether Eostre was right and death held naught but horror or oblivion.
“Odin, eat. Taste it or you will die.”
The sound was so far away, so easy to dismiss. Could he venture into the World of Sun and be freed? Eostre was wrong, he was certain of it now. There was something beyond life, some existence, some purpose to a soul. And if he reached out …
“Eat!”
He bit down, not quite certain why he did. Thick juice scorched his throat, acrid, bitter, and sweet. All at once his agonies returned, and along with them, the powerful beat of his heart, pounding in his chest, pulsing against his temples. The view around him spun faster and faster, caught in a nauseating cyclone that sought to drag him into oblivion.
“Don’t stop. Eat it!”
Again he bit down, again the explosion of flavors. The taste of life itself. His world reeled, and he sat up, nearly falling over as the view changed. He still sat on the roots beneath Yggdrasil. Odin jerked away from the figure holding him in place.
Idunn.
She pressed herself forward, forcing the apple back into his mouth. “Come on, damn you. We cannot give up now, not after all of this.”
Odin coughed, sputtering. Blood seeped from numerous wounds, but they had begun to close. He now gripped the apple with both hands and bit down. More flavor. And with each bite he swallowed, his wounds stung, itched, as his body knit itself back together. He had to fight the urge to scratch his ribs as they healed, tissue reforming even as he sat. Finally, he reached the core, finishing every last bit of the apple’s flesh.
It fell from his hands, which suddenly felt heavy. Tingles rippled across his whole body, and he pitched forward, shaking. His senses were exploding. A thousand scents tickled his nostrils—the thick earth above him, the heady roots, his own shed blood. Idunn and her intoxicating femininity. He looked up at her, and before his eyes her dress seemed to fall away. He could taste her flesh, feel her breasts between his thumb and forefinger.
She held up a hand at the way he was looking at her. “I know how you feel right now. But don’t. We have no time, nor would Frigg or Freyja appreciate it if we did.”
Odin shook himself. The desire building in his chest and loins felt ready to explode, to consume him and devour the world along with him. His stones ached so badly he thought he might die of it. He shut his eyes, trying to block the sensation. Neither Frigg nor Freyja would appreciate much of aught he had done on Vanaheim. But thinking of Freyja, keeping her in his mind’s eye, was the slightest comfort, the chance to keep from seeing Idunn.
“Your mother … is wrong.”
“What?”
“Something lies between life and death. The end of the body is not the end of the soul.”
“You were hallucinating, Odin. You lay moments from death when I found you. And to save you … I broke another of our most sacred laws. No one is granted a second apple. No one. The First Ones …”
Odin opened his eyes with sudden understanding. “They who established the Vanir as gods. Because the apples could save them from injuries that would kill even their immortal bodies. But it changed them, didn’t it? More and more, it altered their minds and bodies.”
Idunn made no answer save to look up at the bridge above them. The bridge where still the Aesir and Vanir fought for control of Yggdrasil. It would be no easy climb back up there. But then, Odin felt as if naught lay beyond him now. Maybe that was how the First Ones felt. Maybe that was the beginning of their downfall.
And maybe, some few of them knew it but, like Odin, found themselves with no choice but to take the dangerous path. To follow urd down winding halls, knowing full well the ultimate destination would mean their end. And still they kept walking, ever forward, ever toward destiny. Braver, perhaps, than the Aethelings who followed.
Odin rose and began to climb. As the First Ones had done, he must press on.
Flickers of visions and insights played out across his mind as he strode forward, making his way through the winding passages within Yggdrasil. Thoughts, once shrouded in the hazy recesses of his mind, began to clarify as the second apple coursed through his blood. Idunn chased after him, mumbling about her own damnation, bemoaning the now countless dead among her friends and family. On some level he heard her, sympathized, but his mind—his Sight—had reached levels she could never understand. Again and aga
in, Odin had crossed between life and death, and with every crossing he was changed. His body ravaged, but his mind … Oh, he had seen things.
First, when Gjuki’s torture had sent him falling into the Penumbra. And again, as Frey had choked the life from him and he had witnessed the worlds. Even back then, he had seen glimpses of all nine worlds. And after the squirrel had left him dying, he knew the truth. That secrets beyond time and space were there for the taking—available to those willing to risk their lives and souls.
In the darkness …
Yes, maybe Audr had been right all along. In darkness lay the answers he sought. Since his first taste of his first apple, the Sight—he had not even known what to call it back then—had tormented him, teased him with visions he could not make sense of. But now he knew. He knew what he had to do to sift through the torrent of images and the barrage of memories from beyond this life. He needed the stillness, the quiet. The ultimate quiet of the space between moments.
“You killed Ratatoskr …” Lytir stood before him now, blocking the way to the paths below. The priest held a dagger in a trembling hand.
Tyr suddenly pushed past Odin and tackled the robed man. Lost in his thoughts, Odin had not even realized his former thegn had followed him. The warrior hefted the priest up and shoved him against the wall, prying the blade from his hand.
Idunn moaned.
“Tyr, stop,” Odin said. “Enough have died this day. Leave the priest be.”
Tyr snarled at him, but backed away.
Lytir glared first at Tyr, then at Odin. “They told me what you plan. It is blasphemous.”
So. The Norns knew. Of course they knew. They had always known. From his first step into their domain what seemed an age ago, to his entrance into the Well of Urd, they had known what had to happen.
A price must be paid for every gain, a hefty weight for each wisdom.
They had warned him way back then, when Loki had first sent him into their midst.
And not so long ago, they had warned him again … told him he would not understand it all until after his last breath. To know all, he must pay all. To gain more wisdom than any living man, he would pay with his very life.
Sorcerers lost their humanity as they gained more and more knowledge of arcana beyond human ken. So too must he pay a price for understanding the future.
“Tyr,” Odin said, “I am going down below.” He shut his eyes. And he knew. Of course he knew. “No one is to disturb me nor grant me any aid. If I do not return after the end of nine days and nine nights, then I will not return. Until then, hold the bridge and defend the Aesir, but kill no one save those you must.”
“Nine days?” Tyr scoffed. “My lord, is this some jest?”
“Wait, what?” Idunn asked. “What are you going to do?”
Flush with the power of a second apple he felt invincible. He felt … inevitable. The Well of Urd was calling him, its song humming through his mind, demanding he look. Demanding he stare. Demanding he sacrifice everything. All for the future.
“He plans to kill himself before the Well of Urd and gaze into infinity,” Lytir said.
“My lord?” Tyr demanded.
“Heed my words, Tyr. Neither Ás nor Vanr is to disturb me. And tell Freyja I … No. Tell my wife and children I love them.”
Tyr grabbed his shoulder. “What madness is this?”
Idunn stood there, trembling by his side, hand on Tyr’s wrist. Her mouth hung open, but she only moaned. She could not have foreseen her actions would lead here. But then, it was not merely Idunn’s actions, but everyone’s. She had followed in the footsteps of her grandmother, who, in turn, had felt forced to this by Hel. A chain of desperation. A chain of destiny.
“It is not madness,” Odin said, shaking his head. “It is urd. It is necessity. Only with knowledge finally unveiling can I save this world. If I do not do this, Hel wins.”
“So instead you plan to throw yourself onto her doorstep?”
Odin smiled sadly. “If that is my urd. But I think, rather, I venture to a place not even the goddess of mist can follow.” And that was why she had feared him, why she had sent Ymir to try to destroy him. Finally, he understood. Hel had known Odin might reach this crossroads. Irony, of course, had her becoming the better part of the reason he had ventured to this point.
Odin had avenged his father on Ymir. Now, he would take the first true step to avenge himself against Hel.
He squeezed both Tyr and Idunn on the shoulder. “Do not fear for me. Hold the bridge.”
Tyr was shaking his head, but Odin knew the man would obey.
“You cannot do this,” Lytir protested.
But of course he could. He would. He always would. That was what the Norns had foreseen. Alone, he descended the steps into darkness, into the chamber where the Norns waited for him. The three of them stood in rapt silence, each staring. Once, Odin had thought them perhaps vӧlvur. They were not. These creatures were not human, maybe never had been. He did not know quite what they were or why—or even if—they were helping him. Maybe that answer, too, waited for him in the space between life and death. Or maybe Tyr was right and he would die here. But death no longer frightened him.
Slowly, he advanced toward the well.
Fall into darkness … Fall for eternity …
Perhaps it frightened him a little bit.
A root vine descended from the knotted earth above. Maybe the Norns called it for him. Maybe Yggdrasil itself prepared the way for his sacrifice. Eternity awaited.
And gazing into the dark waters it called to him. Yes. He had lied to himself just now. He feared it. What living man did not fear death?
Odin grabbed the vine, twisting it into a noose, then placed it around his neck. How could he not fear what he must do? He looked to the Norns, but their cowls hid their features, offering him no sympathy. This was his burden alone.
He climbed onto the ledge. His heart was pounding, pulsing at his ears. One foot stuck out over the edge, and suddenly all his bravado with Tyr and Idunn seemed so vain. All bravado was vain, perhaps. And courage lay only in acting despite that knowledge.
If so, then Odin would be brave. A world depended on him.
He stepped off the ledge. At once the vine tightened around his neck, yanking him upward. It squeezed his throat, pressing out all air until he felt his eyes would pop from his skull. His tongue felt limp. Death was looming over him, Hel’s cackles ringing in his ears.
And he stared into the dark, dark waters of the well. Waiting, watching.
51
Odin’s body hung from the roots above that damnable well. Tyr stood on the threshold, not quite daring enter the chamber where those hooded women lurked. Odin had forbidden anyone to aid him. What mist-madness had possessed him to commit suicide? Perhaps those very women had driven him fey, sent him plummeting over the edge of sanity. And because Tyr had given his oath, he could not even see to his lord’s pyre.
And though no sign of rot had crept over the body, a fool could see Odin was dead. He had grown pale, ashen even. All breath had fled his body.
All he had bid Tyr do was hold the bridge. But thus far, though nigh to three days had passed, no Vanr had tried the Ás lines. Perhaps they needed time to gather their numbers. To travel across these isles. Perhaps Fenrir harried them as well. Either way, the day had the smell of the wind before a winter storm.
His lord had commanded him to keep the lines, and yet had taken from him the best way to do that. Gramr, wrapped in suffocating cloth, wept for him to come and save her. She hung over Odin’s shoulder, begging Tyr to free her from her bondage. But to do so would be breaking his oath.
Odin was Borr’s son, his heir. And Gramr …
Tyr slapped the root wall. “Damn it!”
Damn himself and damn Odin and damn the Vanir. He spun, rushing up the stairs lest he give in and turn back. Gramr’s song had become a wail of lamentation.
Idunn waited in the landing above, a scowl marring her normally beatif
ic face. “They’re coming.”
Tyr didn’t bother to ask how she knew. It did not matter, nor did her intuitions surprise him any longer.
And her pain at it was all too apparent. He would go now, and slay her people. And she would stand here, watching it happen.
He glanced back at the stairs one more time. Gramr … he needed her. Idunn grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
“There are things I wanted to say to you,” he mumbled.
“Then you best live through the day.”
He nodded. Had she known he was about to go back for his blade? Probably. And she had saved him from breaking his oath.
“Idunn, I …”
“You better go.”
Hundreds of dead lay strewn across the bridge, and others still fell from the sides, dropping off into the abyss. The Vanr leader waded among the Aesir, flaming sword Laevateinn striking down man and shieldmaiden like. And then he would vanish, appearing elsewhere to cut down another and another Aesir.
With such power, he might have bypassed the lines and taken the tree. But Frey, the lord of war and sunshine, seemed more intent to slaughter every last invading Ás. All of Tyr’s people.
Three times Tyr had tried to make his way to the Vanr, but always the man would appear somewhere else.
A cascade of leaves had begun to fall from Yggdrasil, as if the tree sympathized with the losses on both sides. And those were heavy. The Vanr lords had gifts beyond those of Tyr’s men, but their common soldiers could not match Ás ferocity or courage. Men and shieldmaidens charged madly into every gap, hewing away at Vanir that too often fell back rather than meet such foes head on.
It put them at a disadvantage. Odin was right. They feared death too much. It had become a distant thing to them. For the Ás warriors, death was a constant drinking companion. A bitter but inevitable guest at every feast. Following them every morning, and lying down beside them every night. Until they accepted it and ceased to fear it.
And if Frey would rather slaughter Tyr’s men than seek him out for a duel, Tyr could do the same. He charged the Vanr lines screaming and doing his best to appear battle-mad, though he dearly missed Gramr’s weight in his hand. He ran shield-first into a Vanr, shoving him over the bridge. The man fell, shrieking, while his nearby friends quivered. Falling back and hiding behind their own shields.