by Matt Larkin
Tyr turned at the sound of angry footfalls behind him. Despite Zisa’s shouts, her two sons—maybe fourteen and fifteen winters each—were storming over, eyes lit in challenge, one carrying a spear.
“Go home and lick your father’s wounds,” Tyr said. “And aught else he wants you lick.”
“I do not know how, but I know you cheated. Men say you have power from the Vanir.”
Hoenir shook his head and laughed. “Run home to your arse-kissing father, boy.”
Indeed, Bedvig was chasing after his sons, shambling his way over and wailing for them to leave it be. At least that was it sounded like—so hard to tell with his hand clasped over a broken nose.
“Want to try your luck?” He spread his arms. “Go ahead, show me you even know how to use that pig-sticker.”
The boy rose to the challenge, thrusting at Tyr while roaring. Like any young man, he was all passion and no control. Tyr stepped out of the way, caught the spear’s haft, and twisted. His superior strength flipped the fool boy end over end and slammed him onto the rocks. Tyr yanked the spear from the boy’s dazed hands then swept the haft down on his chest. The loud crack silenced everyone, the blow leaving the boy unconscious.
Tyr tossed the spear to the younger brother. “What? Want to try your luck?” The boy hesitated, then backed away when Tyr advanced a step.
A few men laughed, Hoenir among them.
Tyr shook his head and walked toward the boat, ignoring the sidelong glances some cast his way. Oh, but he should have killed all three of them. That would have been justice. He prayed Bedvig would give him another chance.
He grunted. “You should get back.”
Tyr rubbed a whetstone over his blade. Take care of your weapons and armor, both. First rule of being a warrior. He sat alone, near a dwindling fire, some hours after breaking his fast with the Godwulfs. They had welcomed him to their table. Even if some few of them now seemed frightened of him. That was troll shit, obviously. He was their ally and meant them no harm, had fought for them. For the honor of their jarl. As he had fought for all the Aesir.
The men toasted him, offered him fresh fish and some weak ale raided from Hunaland locals.
Regardless, the Godwulfs shared freely with Tyr. But he saw the way they looked at him. With respect, yes, but always underlaid with a hint of fear. Bedvig had gotten what he fucking deserved. Less than he deserved, in fact. Of course that was what Odin wanted Tyr to do. He’d wanted Tyr to kill Bedvig, and Tyr had been too blind to see it. He had failed his lord, but he would find some way to make up for it, to get it done.
He looked up at the sound of someone stomping over.
“What in Hel’s frozen fields was that, Tyr?” Zisa demanded.
Tyr rose, sticking his sword into the dirt before him. “Are you referring to the holmgang your … man forced upon the tribes with his shameful remarks?”
“What was shameful was beating Starkad with own spear!”
“Shameful for him, yes? If his father armed him, he declared him a man. And a man challenged me. He ought to be grateful the shame visited on him was less than that visited upon his father.”
Zisa shook her head, mouth slightly open like she wanted to say something. Whatever it was, she bit it off and snapped her mouth shut. She watched him with those appraising, conniving eyes far too long.
“You ought not have done either of those things, but especially not to … Starkad.” Zisa shook her head and turned away, casting him another sad glance as she left.
Tyr watched her until she was out of his sight, then slumped down by the fire. To say he should not have done as he had was nonsense, and she, a former shieldmaiden, ought to have known better.
Maybe Hoenir was right. Maybe all women were fickle. And dangerous. Idunn tempted him every time her saw her. Maybe … but how could they have a future? How, when the Aesir marched to destroy her people?
No. Not the time.
Very soon, they would march to war. And then he’d have better things to think of than Zisa or Idunn.
7
Mounted on Sleipnir, Odin watched the army forming up before Volsung’s castle. The Hunalander king himself had ventured out for this and now walked before his lines, inspiring them. Not hiding, not a coward, Odin had to grant him that.
Odin’s warriors had struck back and struck back hard, though no blow could repay Volsung’s treachery. Agilaz and Loki had not returned, and thus neither had Odin’s family. He tightened his grip around Gungnir’s haft.
And then he raised the spear high, bellowing a war cry. As one, his warriors took up that cry, thrusting weapons skyward or beating them upon shields. Like angry thunder cresting the horizon, ready to break into the fiercest storm.
Now.
Odin kicked Sleipnir forward, and the horse took off with the speed of a diving sparrow. Volsung’s line jerked apart even before he reached them, shock washing over their faces. Sleipnir crashed amongst them an instant later. Rather than risk getting his spear embedded in a foe, Odin swept it in great arcs. Its undulating dragon blade tore through armor and flesh and bone, severed limbs and heads, splintered shields.
Men charged at him, weapons high. Brave. Perhaps they would find Valhalla.
Those that did not fall to Gungnir’s blade instead found Sleipnir’s numerous hooves raining down upon them.
And then the other Aesir collided with Volsung’s broken line. A shieldmaiden drove the edge of her shield up under a man’s chin. A man—varulf, perhaps—leapt upon a foe with uncanny agility and bore him down. And there, Vili snapped a Hunalander’s spine.
Where was Volsung? Where had that trollfucking oathbreaker hidden himself?
Odin turned Sleipnir about. In the chaos of such a melee, spotting a single man proved difficult.
Gungnir’s blade cut down another man, and another, until Volsung’s warriors ceased to charge him. They circled round him, none willing to be the next to move in. So Odin kicked Sleipnir forward, right through their midst. The horse raced straight over a man. Sickening crunches vibrated under the horse’s hooves as it trampled the poor fool.
Beyond, Tyr had squared off with Volsung’s champion. The big man from before. Big and strong, though not half as a strong as Tyr, Odin had no doubt. Odin’s thegn ducked mighty blows, dancing aside as the Hunalander exhausted himself with wild attacks.
Odin smirked and pushed forward, riding down more of Volsung’s men. A spear flew through the air, headed for Sleipnir’s flank. The horse reacted on its own, dancing aside with Otherworldly grace. Odin charged at the man with the temerity to attack his mount. A wide swipe of Gungnir separated the Hunalander’s head from his shoulders.
He turned back in time to see Tyr draw his blade along his foe’s gut. Tyr, coated in blood, spun around and hacked into the man’s back to make sure. The big warrior collapsed into the bloody slush that had become the battleground.
“Odin!” someone bellowed.
He turned.
There, Volsung advanced on him. So, the man did have courage. Courage enough to face death when it came for him. And for such courage, Odin would allow him a proper fight. He swung his leg over Sleipnir and slid down into the muck, then batted the horse away with one hand. Sleipnir could fight on his own, would continue crushing anyone fool enough to draw nigh.
Volsung beat his sword against his shield. Blood drenched both. Blood of other Aesir, fallen before the king. One more wrong Odin would need to redress.
“You betrayed us!” he spat at the other king.
Volsung grimaced. “I am beholden to others of greater authority.”
“Now you are beholden to death and no other.” Odin advanced, both hands on Gungnir.
Volsung circled him, not giving ground, nor charging forward. Odin turned with him, spear ready. One slow step at a time they closed. The king must have seen him cut down so many men already. He would not act rashly—not unless Odin drove him to it.
Odin feinted left then immediately whipped Gungnir back, ai
med not at Volsung’s body, but at the shield he had drawn up to protect himself with. His spear blade gouged the wood. His sheer strength jerked that shield out of position. Odin twisted, yanking the butt of his spear around in line with his momentum. It crashed down on the damaged shield, cracking it and driving Volsung to his knees.
The Hunalander king struggled to rise while swinging his sword. A clumsy blow, but it forced Odin back and gave his foe time to regain his feet. Volsung roared at him, all his former caution tossed aside—or crushed in desperation. He swung his blade in tight arcs. He had skill, true, but he couldn’t get past Gungnir’s reach. Odin gave ground rather than let the king close on him.
Other warriors nearby bellowed, rushing at him as well. A half dozen men intent to protect their king, all racing in as one. But Odin had no intention of letting that happen. He lunged at Volsung with a thrust aimed at his heart. The king twisted away and Gungnir’s blade instead sheared through the mail on his sword arm. Shrieking, the king dropped his blade and fell back.
Much as Odin wanted to press his attack, a screaming man with an axe demanded his attention. He raised Gungnir to block a descending blow, then kicked the attacker, sending him stumbling away. More men raced in, interposing themselves between Odin and Volsung. The Hunalander king—clutching his arm—disappeared into a mass of bodies.
“Volsung!” Odin roared at him. “I will make you suffer for your betrayal!”
Odin blocked a sword thrust with Gungnir, dodged a descending axe, and jerked his spear around to open a man’s gut. Round and round he went, slashing and impaling foes, blocking and dodging. His enemies scored several gashes on his arms and back. No one could fight so many and avoid taking a few hits. But the apple had changed him, given him endurance, strength, and an ability to fight through pain. Combined with years of hard training and the dragon spear, few men could have stood against him. Even few groups of men.
The butt of his spear shattered one man’s thigh an instant before its blade severed another foe’s wrist. Blood drenched his clothes, his hair, his face. Some of it his. Most of it not. But no matter how many he killed, he could not seem to get back to Volsung.
Panting, Odin broke the last of his attackers. Nigh to two dozen bodies lay around him, dead or dying, food for the ravens already circling overhead. Odin dragged his palm over his face to wipe blood from his eyes, but it too was so smeared he found little benefit in the gesture.
Many Aesir lay dead in the snow around the battlefield, but twice as many more Hunalanders.
Volsung’s army had broken. Odin needed to push the attack, to storm the walls of his castle and raze his hall. But …
The hour already grew late. If his people did not make camp and get fires going … No. He would never repeat the mistake he had made with Ve. Never again.
Further vengeance must wait.
8
High in the boughs of a tree, Sigyn could see a long way. A very long way. Even through the mist and the growing twilight she could spot the forest’s edge, and fires beyond it. Those fires might belong to either Aesir camps or those of Hunalanders. Either way, they couldn’t reach them before nightfall. Spending another night in the woods would not please any of them, but she could see no alternative.
Instead, she turned about, seeking any form of shelter. Thousands of ruins of the Old Kingdoms littered the North Realms—Hel, maybe even some of the South Realms—but never one when you needed it. Any shelter would do, though of course, things worse than men oft sought the very same havens. Vaettir, trolls, or savage beasts. Her improved sense of smell had let her avoid a pack of cave hyenas this morning—not something any of them wanted to stumble across by any measure.
Footfalls crunched on snow in the direction of the camps. Men or scouts, searching the forest. It could well be her own people, but she couldn’t know for certain unless they drew closer. Close enough to risk discovery.
She scrambled back down the tree.
With her bow, she’d brought down a pair of squirrels. The meat helped them keep their strength up, but the longer they delayed in the forest, the more chance of one of the children falling ill. Winter was deepening, and even children could catch the thickness. Gods, Sigyn’s father would have died of that had he not fallen—saving her—to the trolls. It was not a death she’d wish on anyone, least of all Frigg’s children.
She tapped a finger against her lip. “There are people coming in our direction.”
Frigg groaned.
“Always with the running,” Fulla said. “And then the hiding and the running, both. Best thing, I tell you, is if we had some help. A few strong men to protect us.”
Sigyn hefted her bow. “I can protect us.”
“Sure as sure you can, if it be squirrels and deer come rape and kill us dead.”
Sigyn was about to point out that she’d killed trolls as well, but then again, that day had not ended well. Not well for her and Frigg’s father, and even worse for Fulla.
“You’re not a shieldmaiden,” Frigg added.
Maybe they’d respect her more if she did start spitting and cursing and carrying a sword. Instead, glowering, she trod off in the direction she’d heard men coming from. She kept low to the ground. To her ears, she made a great deal of noise—though not half so much as Frigg or Fulla.
Sigyn waved them back. With no experience in woodcraft, they were apt to get them discovered in a heartbeat. Alone, she pressed on, until she drew up close. Peering around a tree, she spied a small party, five men—none she recognized. Probably Hunalanders.
Damn it.
This close, they’d see a fire as soon as the sun finished setting. Even torchlight might draw them. Slowly, she unshouldered her bow. She was a damned fine shot, but five men … No one shot that fast. It took time to nock an arrow, draw it, take aim. At this range, a man with a blade could kill a woman three times over before she got a shot off.
Besides. Killing trolls was one thing. But these were just men, out scouting the woods for their enemies. She had never killed another human being, and the thought of seeing one of her arrows sprout from a person’s chest, seeing his eyes go cold, it turned her stomach and left her shaking her head. And if she did naught? If she allowed these men to find her and her sister, find Fulla, then she had done worse than kill. She’d allowed harm to come to those she loved.
So she had to do something.
She nocked an arrow. Slow breaths. Steady. Let everything else fall away, just as Agilaz had taught her. Her new senses made that easier. Her vision could narrow until naught but her target even existed.
Bow drawn, she stepped around the tree trunk. Aimed at a man. He turned in her direction. Maybe he heard something. She loosed. Her arrow punched straight through his thigh, jutting out the other side. The man toppled over, clutching his wound and screaming loud enough to draw every wandering vaettir in the whole damned forest.
Rather than draw again, Sigyn took off running, dashing between trees, away from Frigg and Fulla. Without her, they might get lost in the woods, wander into a cave bear or a pack of dire wolves or Freyja knew what else. But she had to draw these men off.
On and on she ran, the shouts of pursuit ever close behind. The apple gave her stamina, so maybe—maybe—she could outrun them. But quite likely not.
Heart racing, she jumped upon a root, then onto another, disguising her footprints in the snow. She leapt up, caught a branch, and climbed onto the bough of an ash tree. From there, she climbed further out.
Her foot slipped, and she slammed against the branch.
An instant later, men raced by beneath her.
“Where did she go?”
“Find the bitch before one of us catches an arrow like Roelof!”
“The footprints just disappear.” The speaker circled back, pausing beneath one tree over, where she had first started climbing on roots.
Damn it. She’d planned to move further, jump from one tree to the next. But any sound she made now would draw their eyes. And sh
ooting her bow from this position was impossible.
The man knelt, inspecting the roots.
Sigyn stifled a groan. Think fast. A drop from this height would slow her for a moment, long enough for them to catch her. She could sit up, try to shoot one of them, but those men had bows as well.
“She must have climbed a tree.”
Taking care to make no noise, Sigyn pushed herself up to a sitting position. The arrows jostling together in her quiver sounded loud to her, but none of them looked in her direction. They had, however, began scanning all the trees in a haphazard pattern. No plan or organization, but sooner or later they’d get lucky, and then she’d have nowhere to go.
So.
Slow breaths.
If she could somehow take out two of them, maybe the others would flee for cover, giving her time to get down. It was a slim hope, but better than none. She eased an arrow loose from her quiver.
More footfalls sounded from beyond the men. Sigyn grit her teeth. Last thing she needed. Reinforcements.
The twang of a bow caused her to drop flat again on pure instinct. An arrow sprouted from the chest of the one of the men. The victim fell, crashing into the snow.
“She’s behind us!”
As they fumbled with their own bows, another arrow hit one of them in the face.
Sigyn gasped at the gruesome sight, drawing the gaze of one of the scouts. At the same instant, a shadow stepped from behind a tree and wrapped a hand over the man’s mouth. The figure behind him—Loki! Freyja be praised—drove his victim to the ground and held him until he stopped struggling.
The last man broke and ran, but had gone only a dozen steps before another arrow caught him in the back.
Loki. Sigyn stared open-mouthed at him. He always found her, somehow. How did he do that? Not purely by tracking, it couldn’t be, not the route she’d taken. So one more secret, deep and hidden as his connection to the flames.
As she climbed down, Agilaz joined them. Sigyn threw her arms first around her foster father, then around her lover. They had come to save her.