by Matt Larkin
“There is truth to that,” Odin said. “But are we to fear the unknown now? Shall we cower like babes, clutching our mother’s skirts?”
The eight jarls all bristled at that. They were warriors, all, and filled with pride enough for kings themselves. Vili snorted and looked down on the others. “Fuck no. Why are we even talking of this? Let us kick down Volsung’s gate, roast his stones over a fire, and hang his head from his fucking walls.”
“Yes!” Jarl Lodur said. “Let us send a message to all those lands before us. Let them tell tales of the fate of those who cross us.” Lodur’s Didung tribe had maintained peaceable relations with the Wodanar ever since Borr’s peace. That had not stopped the Diduni from seeking war elsewhere, and they excelled at it. Lodur had won many battles already in Hunaland and had grown rich off them. And Odin had more than half a mind to grant the jarl his wish. He’d have relished watching Volsung and his people burn for their treachery.
Hoenir snorted. The Godwulf jarl was probably the oldest among them, and despite his role in overthrowing Alci, favored the part of caution in nigh every situation. It would be easy to condemn him for it, but he proved in the right more oft than not. “It is not courage to rush in blindly like a snow rabbit in heat.”
“You would know, old man,” Jarl Bedvig said. “The talk is, you like your smith to ride you like his prized mare.”
Odin barely stifled his groan. Bedvig and the Skalduns were also among the most powerful of the tribes. They had not taken easily to Odin’s rule.
Every thegn paused at the insult, save Hoenir’s men, who shouted back their own taunts. Accusing a jarl of unmanly behavior was like to start a war. If unanswered, all of the Aesir would believe Hoenir guilty of the charge, or worse, a coward. Either way, he’d lose his position and most likely be banished out into the mists.
Tyr caught Odin’s eye, hand reaching for his sword. The thegn had even more reason to hate Bedvig, but if Odin let his champion silence him, doubts would linger around Hoenir. Odin could not afford to have doubts cast on one of his stoutest allies. He shook his head. Tyr scowled, but made no further move.
Hoenir sneered back at the younger jarl. “Your tongue has run away with you, boy. Now I will have satisfaction.” The jarl drew his broadsword.
Now. Something he could harness, even if the timing left much to be desired. Odin rose, pounding the butt of his spear into the ground. “A holmgang is challenged. Do you accept the challenge, Jarl Bedvig?”
The younger jarl spit at Hoenir’s feet, then grunted assent.
“Then the holmgang will be fought tomorrow, at dawn,” Odin said, projecting his voice so all the gathered crowd could hear him. “Not here, not now. You may appoint champions or fight yourselves. For now, silence your bickering that we may actually accomplish the purpose of this Thing.”
If Hoenir killed Bedvig, maybe Odin could help arrange a more pliable jarl to replace the man. Frey, he’d reward Hoenir for that.
With Hoenir and Bedvig both cowed, Arnbjorn again insisted they send a scouting party before launching an all-out attack. Jarls Jat and Lodur, in turn, disputed him, warned they would lose the element of surprise if their scouts were discovered. Lodur was correct, of course. They needed to make an example of this king if they were to avoid facing such treachery in the future. They needed to strike so hard and fast Volsung would never recover.
All of this, for Idunn’s mist-mad request that he overthrow the Vanir and claim rulership of all Midgard. As if becoming king of the Aesir was not enough. He, in his desperation and pride, had given her his oath in his father’s name, without even knowing what she would ask. Not that he could have imagined such a desire from her.
And worse still, he could see himself on a throne, ruling over Vanaheim. Through the vagaries of the Sight, in his dreams, he could see such a reality. If he brought the Aesir to Vanaheim, they’d face no more mists. They would be free from the cold, free from the vaettir that preyed on them in the night, and freed at last from the threat of losing themselves, like Ve. But then, the Vanir would not give away their lands easily. They were immortal, ancient. If he trusted Idunn, then they could die—any that lived could die. But would he have the strength to kill them? What cost would a war with the Vanir impose on the Aesir? Would they fall by the hundreds, by the thousands? So many had died just to push through Hunaland. More would die now, while he claimed vengeance against Volsung.
But Lodur was right. Vengeance might preempt further resistance as they marched toward Vanaheim. Because march they would. Even had those mists not cost him his brother, Odin would never break an oath made in Borr’s name. He would take Vanaheim. And if he had to crush Volsung’s army to do so, he could not afford to hesitate.
Odin banged the spear on the ground once more, silencing the jarls. “I call for war against Volsung and his folk. As your king, I declare them our foes. Who will go to war with me?”
Annar, Lodur, and Vili stepped forward immediately, followed soon after by Hoenir. The older jarl preached caution, yes, but he was no coward. And other jarls could not back out now, not with half of them already pledged.
So war it would be.
6
In the predawn darkness, the campfires had dwindled. Someone always tended them, though, ensuring they never went out. Few men moved about this early, but a handful of varulfur—in wolf form—slipped in and out of the firelight. Always patrolling, searching for more of Volsung’s scouts. Vili’s shifters had become the salvation of the tribes, the few who stood guard in the night against the horrors of the mists. After losing so many brothers and sisters to the ambush, even the most reluctant Aesir welcomed the werewolves’ presence. Not that they did not fear them. They always feared them. They were men and women possessed, given over to feral passions. One foot beyond the bounds of human civilization. Too many too easily crossed that line, grew savage and wild. Forming packs as terrible as aught they would have otherwise guarded against.
The greatest number of varulfur came from the Godwulfs. They patrolled their own camp most heavily. A pair of the wolves, a male and female, eyed Tyr as he passed. Hoenir had a large tent in the northern reaches of the camp. The Godwulfs were not one of the most powerful tribes, but they were an old and proud line.
Hoenir himself was loyal and brave. But aging. Not a varulf like his predecessor. Bedvig, though also human, was youthful and quick. Any man wagering on the holmgang’s outcome would chose him without a doubt.
Hermod, Hoenir’s son-in-law, met him at the tent entrance. “Tyr.”
“I’ll speak with him before the holmgang.”
Hermod frowned. “He’s preparing.”
“I will speak with him,” Tyr repeated.
Hermod shrugged, then jerked his head for Tyr to follow him inside. The old jarl’s wife stood near the man, helping him don a chain shirt of obviously fine quality. His daughter, Syn, scowled first at her father, then at Tyr.
Hoenir spared him a glance. “Come to wish me luck, Tyr?”
“I’ve come to offer to champion you, lord.”
The jarl scowled now, brushing his wife away so he could stare Tyr down. “You think I cannot fight my own battles now? Maybe I’ve grown too old and soft? When I am too old to lift my own shield, feel free to toss me on a pyre. Until then, I can fight my own Hel-cursed fights!”
“I could have told you that,” Hermod mumbled. Must have offered to champion him already. Of course he had.
Tyr worked the words in his mind. Words were not his specialty. Didn’t want to offer Hoenir further offense. But Bedvig was like to kill the old man. And if not, if the Skaldun jarl beat him but let him live, Hoenir would suffer a worse fate. In the eyes of his men he would be confirmed as guilty of unmanliness. They’d oust him from his role, and Odin would lose a worthy ally.
“I owe Bedvig a debt.”
“So I’ve heard. It’s true then? This Zisa left you for him? Women can be fickle.”
His wife snorted at that and cuffed the jarl on the back of his head.
Fickle was not the word Tyr would have chosen. Zisa was ambitious, and Tyr was not. She’d claimed he had the skill to become a jarl of one of the tribes himself. Tyr owed Borr everything, though, and had not been willing to leave his side. He had sworn loyalty to the man and his line. That oath would bind him for all his days. As he told Zisa. And, oh, how they had fought. And, in the end, she had taken up with a passing jarl’s son. Bedvig. Now a jarl himself. It was not quite adultery, since she had divorced Tyr first. He’d had no right to stop her.
At the time, she’d been a shieldmaiden and a famed hunter. As a jarl’s wife, he supposed she didn’t use those skills quite as often. A greater shame then, since his fondest memories were of stalking game through snowy woods with her.
When Tyr didn’t answer, Hoenir nodded. “And here I thought you came for my wellbeing. If you owe this whelp so much, you can challenge him when I’m finished with him.”
Tyr shook his head. “That … is not possible.” Had Zisa not gone through the vӧlva for her divorce, Tyr might have challenged Bedvig. Indeed, even so, he’d had every intention of hunting the man down, though the fault was Zisa’s. And maybe Tyr’s. But Borr had wanted to avoid war with the Skalduns and had extracted an oath from Tyr that he would do no such thing.
Tyr did not break his oaths. Especially not to Borr. But if he were to champion Hoenir, he might slay Bedvig without ever having violated his oath. It would not be his honor leading to the challenge, though he hoped seeing him defeat the man would appease his ancestors.
Now he walked close to Hoenir. “I gave my word I would not challenge him. But, if you appointed me as a champion, lord, no one would hold it against your honor. You’ve fought great battles in your time. All know it. You fought in the Njarar War, and you fought now in Hunaland. You and I, we know you could take that brash fool.” Well, Tyr hoped it was true, though he knew no such thing. “But still, many see you and think your finest fighting days past. If you were to name me champion, I would be … grateful my lord.”
“If anyone should champion the Godwulfs, it ought to be me,” Hermod said. “As your son-in-law—”
Hoenir forestalled the young man with a stern look.
“Does your gratitude, Tyr, translate into Odin’s gratitude?”
Tyr nodded. Odin was not here, but Tyr suspected he’d have no objection. Whether he’d be grateful, who knew anymore? Odin was not the young man Tyr had trained. The king had spent too much time with Niflungar sorcerers and strangers like Loki, and turned to cunning, sometimes even before honor. At the very least, Tyr had to believe he would understand. “I do not speak for the king. But, he does heed my counsel.” If less so than he once did.
Hoenir sighed, then looked to his wife.
She snorted. “What do I know? I’m just a fickle woman.”
“Right you are,” Hoenir snapped at her, then turned back to Tyr. “So be it. You will carry my shield into the holmgang.” The jarl retrieved it from a bench where it sat atop his broadsword. The shield was carved from ash and reinforced with iron bands. A fine arm, for certain, and its owner was obvious for the painting of the great wolf on the front.
Tyr accepted the shield and nodded his gratitude. “It’s almost dawn. We should go.”
Odin had selected a tiny rock island for the holmgang. A small stretch of land in the middle of a river. The king stood with a handful of others from the Wodanar clan. Around the island, the ranking members of the Godwulfs and Skalduns awaited their arrival. Hermod rowed Hoenir and Tyr out to the island to join the other Godwulfs.
Idunn waited there, too. Waited for him.
After clapping Hoenir on the shoulder, Tyr strode to where she stood. “So?” he asked.
“So are you doing this because of Hoenir, or because of Bedvig? Or because of her?”
Tyr spit. “Zisa has naught to do with this.” It tasted like a lie even as he spoke.
Idunn offered her too-knowing smile. “Good luck.”
Tyr shook his head and strode toward the heart of the island.
A sneer on his face, Bedvig stood before his Skalduns. No doubt boasting. Zisa was there, but her eyes were on Tyr. Did she suspect? She was a clever woman and might already wonder why he had arrived with the Godwulf jarl instead of with Odin.
“You know it ought to be me fighting,” Hermod said again, behind him.
“I am stronger.” Tyr did not look back at the man.
“You can go fuck a troll.”
Hoenir snorted.
Tyr tightened his grip around his sword, suddenly filled with the urge to gut Hermod. Who did the motherless cock think he was? Tyr could and should thrash him. Maybe, when the holmgang was concluded, he would teach someone else a lesson.
Damn.
No, that was his anger at Zisa.
He drew his blade, hefting Hoenir’s shield in his other hand.
Zisa scowled and said something to Bedvig, who turned to look at Tyr. The man’s eyes widened for just a moment, then he spit and strode forward, toward the island’s center.
Not a coward, then. Tyr smirked and met him in the middle.
“Old man can’t fight his own battles?” Bedvig asked, none too quietly.
Hoenir either didn’t catch it, or pretended not to for Tyr’s benefit. “I come here to champion his cause, jarl.” He slapped his sword against his shield.
Bedvig stood similarly armed and, after only a brief moment’s hesitation, repeated the gesture.
The moment the jarl did so, Tyr launched himself forward, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Bedvig jerked his shield up to block. The impact rang out clear over the island and sent Bedvig stumbling backward. Tyr advanced at once, swinging again, drawing upon his supernatural strength. With every blow, Bedvig fell back, and Tyr’s rage only grew.
A feint. A counter.
His pulse pounded.
The jarl thrust his blade, and Tyr knocked it aside with his own shield, immediately riposting. His blow splintered Bedvig’s shield. The jarl grunted in pain and tossed his useless protection aside. Tyr allowed him the moment’s respite while Bedvig wrung out his no doubt swollen arm.
“Tiring out already?” Tyr said. “Maybe it’s you who likes to be ridden like a mare.”
Bedvig snarled and lunged at him, swinging his sword overhead in an arc meant to decapitate. Tyr whipped his own sword up to parry and, at the same time, stooped forward, swinging his shield along a horizontal plane. As the swords clashed, the edge of his shield caught the jarl in the gut. Bedvig doubled over, spewing his breakfast over Hoenir’s shield. Tyr slammed the vomit-caked thing into the jarl’s face with a satisfying crunch of shattered cartilage.
His foe toppled backward onto the rocky ground, barely conscious. Tyr advanced and pressed the point of his sword into the man’s chest. The jarl gagged, apparently unable to speak. How easy to finish him right now. He had not yielded, had not begged mercy. So Tyr was within his rights to just run the trollfucker through here and now.
Do it.
Hel, he ought to do it. His arm shook as he slowly pressed the blade further down. Blood began to well beneath Bedvig’s armor. One solid thrust to the heart. A cleaner kill than what Bedvig had done to him. Do it.
“Tyr!” He turned to see Zisa shouting his name. Had she been calling it before now?
She pointed to where Bedvig had raised a hand in supplication. He mumbled something, trying to yield. What if Tyr had not heard it? The man should die. His whole fucking brood ought to die. Zisa had given him two sons, young men now glowering at Tyr.
Damn it!
Tyr raised his sword, pointing it at Bedvig’s throat. “You admit you spoke falsely about Jarl Hoenir?”
“I was wrong,” Bedvig managed, the words barely decipherable.
Tyr glowered. Wrong. Bedvig wasn’t wrong—he was a Hel-cursed liar who had provoked Hoenir, intent on killing the old man. “You accused him of liking to take it in the arse. The most fitting atonement I see is if you kiss that arse and proclaim
it clean of all wrongdoing.” Bedvig’s eyes widened.
Angry shouts ran out among the gathered Skalduns, especially the jarl’s sons. The well-deserved shame he asked of Bedvig might be enough to make the man prefer death. If so, that suited Tyr.
Tyr did not look to Odin, lest the king try to overrule him or dissuade this course of action.
Bedvig looked to Tyr and to the blade. Tyr could have sworn the jarl ready to spit. To welcome the end, rather than bring such dishonor upon himself and his ancestors. Tyr grinned. Yes, let the wife-stealing cocksucker’s blood run dry on this barren island.
Finally, Bedvig nodded.
Tyr clenched his jaw. Damn it. He couldn’t well kill Bedvig now. Having to live with the shame would have to be enough punishment.
Hoenir chuckled, then strode forward and turned around. Tyr stepped back to allow Bedvig—blood still streaming from his shattered nose—to rise to his knees and crawl to Hoenir’s arse.
Before Bedvig reached him, Hoenir untied his trousers and dropped them. “Make sure you get the spot you besmirched.”
“You troll-loving son of—” the eldest of Bedvig’s boys—Starkad, wasn’t it?—shouted, before someone cuffed him.
Tyr glanced back to see Zisa silencing her son. His ex-wife stared at him with the icy gaze of Hel herself. Tyr turned from her, unable to bear it.
Bedvig hesitated, then moved in to kiss Hoenir’s arse. As he drew near, Hoenir farted loudly. “Had to miss my morning shit for this,” the jarl commented.
Hermod and the other Godwulfs laughed.
Bedvig, looking apt to vomit, planted a swift kiss on one arse cheek then backed away.
Tyr opened his mouth to protest, to demand more.
Odin beat him to it. “The holmgang is concluded. Hoenir is held blameless, and Bedvig is forgiven for his hasty words. We depart this island as allies.”
Growling, Tyr sheathed his sword. He returned Hoenir’s shield to Hermod, as his father-in-law was busy retying his trousers.
“I think that was the most enjoyment I’ve ever had before breakfast,” Hoenir said.