by Matt Larkin
Sigyn tapped her finger against lip, uncertain how to interpret that. Things could have been worse? Somehow Hel had created a bridge between Midgard and Niflheim, and through that bridge she had unleashed the mists. And if this man, Idunn’s grandfather, had not stopped her and severed the bridge … Then what else might have come through? More mist? More vaettir?
“But why the Destroyer?”
“You haven’t been listening. Grandpa Naresh saved the world by destroying the old one. Odin can do the same—destroy the world of the Vanir to save Midgard. He has to.”
Sigyn grunted, not certain what to say. Idunn really believed Odin could be some kind of savior, not just of the Aesir, but of all mankind. She’d spoken of Odin bringing spring before, but maybe Sigyn had never truly believed it. But Idunn did. She truly thought Odin was … what? Going to finish what her grandfather started? So Idunn’s grandfather had been some previous incarnation of this Destroyer, and now Idunn thought Odin was as well.
But Odin would do none of that now. He’d been taken by the Niflungar. And if he was destined to be some kind of Destroyer, what would it mean if he was made to serve them? Now Sigyn was the one hiding from the truth. She knew what it meant: it meant he would destroy the current world on behalf of the Niflungar. He would build their new world, one ruled by the Hel-worshipping sorcerers.
As expected, Loki stood atop the ramparts, staring off to the east, back toward the Sudurberks.
“They’ve taken him there, haven’t they?”
Loki didn’t turn toward her, in fact, he leaned forward a little, resting upon the battlement. “I cannot see everything, not even in the flames.”
She laid a hand upon his shoulder. “But you think he’s there. And we’re going after him.”
“Sigyn …”
“No. I won’t be left behind again, not this time. We have the cloaks, we go together. I still don’t have all the answers, my love, but I have enough. I can see the fracturing and dissolution of all we’ve worked for. Everything falls without Odin, does it not?”
Loki nodded, once, then turned to stare into her eyes.
“So I am going with you. And we are going to find our king and bring him home.”
He kissed her then, long, passionately. And then he pulled up the hood of his cloak and became a swan.
Sigyn did the same.
25
“Odin has already set a precedent,” Hermod said. “The Aesir are primed for a king—at least for the moment. Arnbjorn knows this and knows, too, that his chance at a throne will slip away as soon as a single jarl breaks from us.”
Tyr ran his fingers over Gramr’s scabbard, savoring the rough leather and silver inlay. Fine work. All crafts that dvergar wrought became the stuff of legends. “You think he’d dare move against the king?”
Hermod shrugged. They sat apart from prying eyes, in a—sadly empty—larder. Some few others camped in the room, true, but they gave Tyr space. “Odin is not here to meet any challenge.”
“Frigg—”
“Is a strong woman, but a woman still, and not every jarl fancies bowing before her.”
Tyr groaned. “You think her not fit to lead?”
The other man shook his head. “The opposite, but it doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what we convince the rest of the tribes to think. Hoenir listens to me and will support Odin’s wife. Annar and Vili are family—”
Tyr spat. A few of the men and women in the room nearby looked to him, forced him to keep his voice low. “Vili is less reliable than we might have wished.”
Hermod raised his eyebrow at that. “That is not … welcome news. Last night, Arnbjorn took a meeting with three other jarls and raised doubts as to Frigg’s ability.”
“You know this?”
Hermod nodded. “This place is vast, thick with secret ways those adept at such things can use.”
The scout was his father’s son, for certain. “And who attended this treason?”
At that, Hermod held up a finger. “It’s not treason yet, Tyr. Cast all those men as traitors and you’ll destroy this alliance yourself.”
“Who was there?”
“Who do you think?”
Tyr’s grip tightened around Gramr. She knew. “Bedvig.”
“Of course, Bedvig. If he wasn’t an enemy before, you made him one.”
“I didn’t—”
Hermod held up a hand. “Peace, Tyr. Moda and Jat were there, too.”
Tyr scoffed. “Odin made Jat Jarl of the Friallafs.” By brutally killing his predecessor at the Althing, but still.
“And Jat argued against any action at this time. In fact, Jat won’t do aught until Odin returns.”
“Good. The others …” Well, Tyr had something for them. Gramr would see to each, one by one. She would feast on the blood of traitors and purify the tribes. “We need to make an example of them.”
“You are not listening to me.” Hermod rubbed his forehead. “If you want Odin to have a kingdom to return to, you need to move with care.”
Tyr lurched to his feet. Gramr begged him to draw her. To feed the unworthy to her and send them screaming down to Hel. “Each of those men deserves death.”
Before he could storm out, Hermod grabbed him by the arm. “Think what you do here. The tribes, jarls too, they’re in unknown lands facing strange threats from the mist, and suddenly the king vanishes. Dissent is to be expected.”
“Expected.” Tyr spat again. “Not tolerated.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“You say this? You who helped assassinate Alci?”
“To stop a war. Not to start one.” Hermod glanced over his shoulder at the people now watching them intently. “I beg you listen to me and take this to Frigg, let her decide what course to take.”
Tyr glowered. Cracked his neck. Frigg did have a right to know. Maybe Hermod spoke wisdom. Damn him for it.
A series of horn calls shattered the quiet and sent everyone in the room tensing. Tyr exchanged a brief glance with Hermod. Drew his sword. And they both rushed from the larder.
His breath came heavy as he crested the last step to the ramparts. Up there, braziers burned away the mist. The night had settled. Archers rained arrows upon foes far below. A shieldmaiden blew another long blast on a war horn.
Shieldmaiden—that was Olrun.
“What happened?” Tyr demanded.
Panting, she turned to him, blonde hair billowing about her face in the night wind. “Trolls are back.”
The woman handed him the horn then rushed over to join her husband on the edge. Agilaz fired arrow after arrow. Sweat streamed off him despite the cold. Drawing a bow like that took a lot of strength. A man couldn’t do it all night.
Tyr peered over the edge. Hard to make aught out through the mist. Massive forms moving ever closer, though. Some trying to climb the walls. Agilaz put an arrow into the eye of one such. Beast pitched over backward, tumbled end over end. Crashed into the snows below. Impossible shot, that.
Olrun had not taken up a bow. Instead, the shieldmaiden gave commands to the other archers. Pointed out the most important targets. Trolls most like to reach the top. And every man up there listened to her. She knew the battlefield better than most. Rumors, camp talk really, claimed she had been a valkyrie in some other lifetime. Seemed mortal enough now, though, and Tyr had never asked Hermod. Maybe he ought to.
“East side,” Olrun shouted, pointing with her sword. “Two of them drawing nigh. Move!”
Tyr raced over there, Gramr in hand. Indeed, two trolls already had scaled half the wall. Their claws dug in the ice coating the stones. More agile than they looked. Heaving themselves up great swathes all at once. Arrows clattered off their rocky hides and thick skulls. Not many archers could target a troll’s very few weak spots.
“The necks,” Olrun commanded. “Aim for the necks!”
One troll flung itself upward, covering a half dozen feet. Its great hands clutched the top of the rampart. Almost on her own,
Gramr leapt for the beast. The icy blade severed fingers, cracked the ice beneath, and even scored the stone. Shrieking, the troll pitched over backward.
“Well done.”
Tyr spun at the speaker. Arnbjorn. Food for Gramr. Before he knew what he was doing, Tyr had taken several steps toward the Jarl of the Itrmanni. Runeblade starting to rise on her own. The jarl fell back at his glower. Tyr’s hand shook. Gramr tried to rise further. She needed to drink this man and be done with it. And he deserved it, oh how he deserved it. His blood would stain the ramparts.
Tread with care, Hermod had bid him.
Damn it.
Damn it!
Arnbjorn’s men, his archers, took up positions along the wall, joining the others. Jarl had come to help defend the keep.
And still, still Tyr wanted to spill every last drop of Arnbjorn’s blood. This bastard who conspired with Bedvig.
He deserved death … didn’t he?
No, not tonight. Hermod had spoken truth—if Tyr acted against these jarls, Odin could lose everything. And he could not trust himself in this man’s presence. Instead, Tyr clenched his teeth together and raced down the stairs, almost falling over the steep drops.
He had come so close to killing a man trying to defend their people. Hymir would have been almost as proud as Borr would have been shamed. Tyr slammed his fist against the wall beside the stairs.
No matter what, he would not become what he had once been. Not again. Never again. He rammed Gramr back in her scabbard.
26
Iron manacles bound Odin’s wrists to the obsidian altar while others held his feet. He struggled to lift his head, unable to make out much in the darkness. A few candles lined the shelves, but otherwise the stone room was thick with shadows. He was underground, he suspected, given the total lack of windows. A ruin, perhaps another place of the Niflungar.
They had removed Odin’s shirt and painted a glyph on his chest, covering many of the runes that marked his flesh. Or maybe it wasn’t paint—it looked an awful lot like blood. Odin strained against his bindings, but they did not flex, even when he flooded his limbs with supernatural strength.
No mere iron, no matter how well wrought, was that strong. Was this some new metal, or had the Niflungar placed magic in the chains? Either way, Odin suspected he couldn’t escape by brute strength alone.
Which meant he ought to save what strength he had. He embraced the Sight, and, though the world grew hazy, it also filled with a pale luminescence. Shadows twisted and writhed about the room, the place filled with far too many ghosts. Unsent victims of the Niflungar, most like, trapped here in torment.
The door creaked open, and Odin’s vision shot back to normal, though he found it hard to focus on the shadowy figure that drifted in.
“Release me,” Odin demanded.
“No.” Gjuki’s voice, though soft, carried the utmost command, a surety that brooked no further discussion. “Not until you are ready to serve your true mistress.”
Odin snorted. “Serve Hel? Not in this lifetime.”
Gjuki drifted over to the altar so Odin could finally make out his face, lit by the candlelight. As always, a raven perched on his shoulder. “Perhaps, Odin. But you have many lifetimes now, don’t you? Our mistress will wait as long as needs be.”
Odin set his jaw, refusing to let this man see him squirm. The Raven Lord spoke with complete certainty, and he might just be right. Given a long enough time frame, anyone would break. How long could Odin hold out against Gjuki? A moon? A year? A century? But then, maybe that was exactly what Gjuki wanted him to think. The moment Odin began to see his failure as inevitable, he had already lost.
“I’ll watch the stones crumble in this place before I serve you.”
Gjuki laid a hand over Odin’s biceps and squeezed. “Your body is strong, Ás. It helps feed the strength of your mind, of your soul. But all three can falter, given time and appropriate techniques.” The Raven Lord drew an unseen knife along Odin’s arm, opening a long shallow cut from elbow to shoulder.
Odin clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out. Sick fuck wasn’t getting the satisfaction. Odin had been mauled by a snow bear. If Gjuki thought this was pain, he would be sadly disappointed.
The Raven Lord repeated the cut on Odin’s other arm. “Pain, blood loss, hunger, thirst, fatigue—they will sap your body. Eventually, your will, too, must begin to waver. A weakened mind and body lead to a vulnerable soul, and that is when the denizens of the Spirit Realm can truly find a way in.” He drew both hands along Odin’s bleeding arms, then slapped his bloody palms against Odin’s cheeks. When the Raven Lord next spoke, Odin could not make out many of the words—an incantation. Sorcery.
Whispers built from the shadows, sounds that plucked at Odin’s nerves, seeming to dig at the strands of his mind. He tried to focus, tried to shift his vision back to the Penumbra, but the pounding of his heart drowned out his concentration. A burning built along his arms, like Gjuki had poured acid into his cuts. It spread, like a thousand sharp claws digging into his flesh.
It was all in his mind. Through gritted teeth, Odin glared at Gjuki.
The Raven Lord smiled. “Shall I give you some time alone with your guests?”
Small cuts began to appear on Odin’s chest and arms, tiny tears ripping through his trousers. Like a swarm of rats crawling all over him. Despite himself, Odin grunted in pain.
The Raven Lord chuckled and left. And still the clawing and biting went on and on. Most of it left no visible mark, but Odin could feel himself covered in sweat and blood. Unable to bear it, he shifted his eyes again, embracing the Sight. A blanket of shadows clung to him, eyes in the darkness, invisible to normal sight. Tearing at his body, siphoning away his blood and life force. And as he looked at them, he swore a dozen sets of eyes met his gaze, laughed at him. Driven to fresh frenzy by the thought he could see them?
Odin moaned, then cried out. Did they feast on his very soul? What had Gjuki said? That as his mind and body weakened, so too would his soul? Why? Did Gjuki plan to …? Odin shook his head. The Raven Lord was right; it was already growing hard to think clearly. Possession. They’d weaken him until a vaettr could enter him, take him over. Hadn’t Gudrun said something about vaettir only being able to take those with weak, damaged souls? Or was it more complicated than that?
Odin shut his eyes, unable to bear seeing the creatures feasting on him anymore. Think of aught else, anywhere else. He was falling, letting his visions take him, offering him blessed relief as they drew him back to times forgotten. To a snowfield somewhere in southern Aujum, where three boys trained with wooden swords. Odin had not remembered this, but then, these weren’t his memories—they were Borr’s.
Tyr beside him, Borr watched as Odin bested Vili once again. Though Vili was larger than his older brother, he was all fury and no control. Sometimes it allowed him to get the upper hand and simply overpower Odin. Mostly, though, Odin outthought his brother, leading him into traps, feints, and poor footing that oft as not ended with Vili sprawled on his arse.
Borr beamed with pride. They would all be great warriors one day, even little Ve, chasing his older brothers around and waving his wooden sword in the air.
“Give Vili a new target, would you?” he asked Tyr.
Tyr, now seventeen winters, had been with them long enough, and Borr trusted him to teach his sons well. Tyr was a natural, as though born with a blade in his hand. Considering the way Tyr had come to the Wodanar tribe, that was probably not far from the truth. Besides, after losing Zisa, Tyr needed something to focus on. Borr could give him that.
Tyr did as Borr asked, and Borr motioned for Odin to come to him.
“You’re the oldest, son. One day you’ll be jarl. You have to protect your brothers. But you’ll need them too, for all your cunning. Family is everything, Odin.”
“I will protect them,” Odin said. His son, a mere nine winters old, said it with such conviction that Borr didn’t dare laugh.
He just smiled
and nodded. “Then show me how.” Borr picked up a stick and allowed Odin to demonstrate all he’d been practicing.
Back and forth he and Odin danced, Borr unable to keep the smile from his face. Odin had Bestla’s spirit, more than any of them. The boy overextended and Borr tripped him into the snow.
“That might have worked against an opponent your size, Odin. But from time to time you may face foes larger than yourself.”
Borr offered his son a hand up, pulling the boy to his feet.
At once Odin felt both his father’s strong hand grasping his own and the feel of his own weak grasp. Pride moved his father, so much Odin almost choked on it. He’d been there every moment of their lives, teaching, guiding, helping. A hero to his own family as much as his people.
Odin wailed, not at the pain in his body as much as the loss of the vision. He replayed it over and over in his mind, desperate to dive back into his father’s memories. But he couldn’t reach them.
“Odin.” Gudrun’s voice drew Odin’s consciousness back to the surface, and with a start he realized the vaettir had withdrawn when she had entered the room. “Oh, my love. It doesn’t have to be this way.” Gudrun. Odin hadn’t seen her since he’d leapt from her window. It seemed so long ago now. Her smile was like a breath of spring, her features soft, golden hair hanging down and brushing his cheeks as she leaned in to kiss him. Smiling, though he swore he saw unshed tears in her eyes.
Her lips were soft and warm on his own cracked and parched ones, but their touch was almost painful.
“Oh.” Gudrun clucked her tongue and drew a wineskin from her belt. “Come, drink.”
Odin turned his head away. “Another potion?”
“It’s just water.”
Water. Gods above and below, he’d kill for water. But how could he believe aught Gudrun offered him now? She’d enchanted him, tried to control him, made him believe he loved her. It was her Art—that’s all it had ever been. He was married to Frigg. He had no need for …