by Matt Larkin
Finally, he looked to Frigg. A small cut marred her jaw. Hermod had claimed a piece of Vili’s axe had done that in the fight. That meant the werebear had harmed his queen. For that he should pay with his life.
“So,” Bedvig said, “the man’s savagery is now known to all. Only one course of action presents itself.”
Thegns of the gathered jarls hung behind them, crowding the great hall in here. If only the king were here. He would put all of these rank trollfuckers in their places.
“This criminal has assaulted two jarls and his own queen,” Bedvig said.
Tyr spit at the jarl’s feet. Who in Hel’s frozen wasteland did he think he was? Assaulted the queen! “Frey’s flaming sword, that was Vili’s doing, you cocksucking boy-lover!”
“You fucking jest,” Vili said. “You attacked me. You, who swore to serve my family until your dying breath. We took you in despite where you came from, and my father gave you a home, a purpose.”
Tyr took a step toward the werebear. “Shut your mouth, berserk. Shut it now.”
Vili snorted. Faint bruises were the only remaining sign of injuries Tyr had inflicted on him the night before. Damned shifters healed too fast. “Oh. Still don’t want everyone to know who you really are? But I know. Father told me. How you grew up in that jotunn’s castle, how he raised you like a son. Or was it like a daughter? Did daddy bend you over the fence now and again?”
Tyr trembled with rage as everyone in the hall stood with mouths agape. No, Hymir had never done such a thing. But he had raised Tyr as a killer. A raider sent out to plunder villages and bring back whatever the jotunn fancied. A life Borr had saved him from when Tyr had had the misfortune to raid the Wodanar. And a secret the jarl had kept in their family for the sake of Tyr’s honor.
“Were you not your father’s son I would kill you where you stand,” Tyr said. His fingers twitched. He needed Gramr. She was calling him, wailing for him. Could the others not hear how the sword wept at the separation from her master?
“No wonder the man is a monster now,” Bedvig said.
“No …” Hoenir stepped forward. “No. Tyr has saved all of our lives many times over. Why should we care where he … where he was raised? That was no choice of his. His choice was to stand with us against every danger we have faced. We’d all be troll food or troll wives now, were it not for his courage and prowess.”
Frigg’s head fell to her hands, her normal composure broken.
“His choice,” Bedvig snapped, “was to strike his betters.” The Skaldun jarl pointed at Frigg. “Look at the scar on the queen’s once-pure face.”
Tyr opened his mouth to protest that Frigg, immortal, would be healed in a day or so. Bedvig, however, kept right on talking.
“This jotunn-spawned bastard has struck two jarls and queen. How many more crimes shall we permit him? Shall we wait until he commits murder before we act? The punishment for his actions is clear—he must pay with his life. Bind him, sacrifice him to the gods this very day!”
“Two jarls?” Hoenir protested. “Are you counting yourself, in a holmgang legally fought?”
Bedvig waved the comment away. “So be it—forget his needless savagery back then.”
Hoenir chuckled. “I’m sure you’d like to.”
The infuriating jarl just kept talking. He had taken Tyr’s wife. His wife, granted to Tyr with Borr’s blessing, for the services he had done. And Bedvig had taken Zisa. Now he besmirched Tyr’s good name. He deserved a terrible death. Tyr’s whole body was shaking now. Gramr begged him to heft her, not to leave her alone like this. She needed him. Was he truly going to abandon her, leave her be taken up by someone like Bedvig?
Indeed, the jarl, advanced on the blade. Or moved to speak to Frigg? No! He was after the blade!
Tyr surged forward, shoved Bedvig aside, and grabbed Gramr up into his hands. She was safe. Safe, with him. No one would take her from him. Not her. Roaring, he rammed her through Bedvig’s side.
“Feel like a daughter?” he asked him.
Blood exploded from the man’s mouth as he looked down on the blade.
A roar of shouts filled the hall, and men throughout drew their weapons. Tyr spun frantic. They all wanted to take her away from him. Just like the dead trollfucker had taken Zisa. He would not let that to happen.
“Tyr!” Frigg shouted, the sound just reaching over the roar of the crowd.
Jarls and thegns all ringed him now, blades and axes and spears pointed in his direction. He’d kill them all if he had to. No one was taking his Gramr from him.
“He must die,” Arnbjorn shouted.
“No!” Frigg said. “No! Tyr is the favored of Odin, and I will not allow his death.”
Arnbjorn scoffed, the numerous men obviously siding with him. Even Hoenir was shaking his head sadly at Tyr. “You cannot plan to spare him after this murder.”
Frigg shut her eyes a moment, then shook her head. “No. Tyr … I …” As Tyr turned to Frigg, she drew herself up, regal once again. “Your crimes cannot go unpunished, either. For the deeds done this day … I take from you all the titles Borr once bestowed upon you. You are no longer thegn, nor of the Wodanar tribe, nor of any Ás tribe.” She swallowed, as if barely able to speak. “I banish you to the mists.”
A few of the jarls nodded at what was, effectively, a death sentence. Or had been seen as such in times past. Those left alone in the wild became prey to trolls or vaettir or varulfur. Or, as they now knew, became trolls themselves. But Tyr was no mere mortal.
He growled. Cracked his neck.
“Tyr,” Frigg said. “You must go out, leave this place, and be far gone before the sun sets.”
“Before the trolls return and kill you all?” Tyr spat. So even the queen betrayed him. Well, the legacy of Borr had fallen far without Odin. “I will go. But any man who tries to take Gramr from me shall die.”
Frigg held up a hand. “A man banished is always given a weapon. Keep yours, Tyr. But know you are a stranger to all Aesir now, and … and a foe. Be gone from this fortress immediately. You may take a skin a of mead, your arms and armor, and naught more.”
Tyr held the blade close. Wise. He’d have killed every man here if they thought to take her away from him. The crowd parted slowly, allowing him escape from the hall.
Zisa spit on him as he passed. “Hel curse your soul and take from you whatever you hold most dear.”
His hand shook with the urge to run her through as well. Her. The woman who betrayed him. But the thought of seeing her dead tasted foul.
Instead, he dashed out of the hall and began to run.
These were no longer his people. He had all he needed with Gramr. And long as she stayed with him, he would be a king in the wilds. Laughter poured from his mouth even as a tear stung his eye.
35
The stronger your will, the more satiating breaking it becomes.
Unless the wraith came up against a will he could not break, one upon which he could only be broken upon.
Audr laughed in Odin’s mind, as ever, a sound of wretchedness rather than humor. The laugh of a being that hated everyone and everything—most of all himself.
That thought drew a hiss from Audr, but no other response.
For days he had wandered, on and on, his body not giving out. Audr refused to answer most questions and, Odin suspected, probably did not know all the answers himself. The consumptive force that stole memories must have stolen most of the wraith’s, as well. Still, the vaettr had hinted that time flowed somewhat differently the further out from the Mortal Realm one travelled. That could be a lie—Gudrun had told him vaettir delighted in misleading mortals—but it might mean he couldn’t know how much time had passed on Midgard.
He had a slight sense his body yet lived, but he knew naught more of its condition.
And then, without real warning, the ground in front of him dropped away into a chasm of unending night. He could not hope to judge distance into such an abyss, but he saw no end to it. Perhaps none e
xisted. Were he to fall here, maybe he would continue to fall for all eternity.
Then again, Audr had also implied even worse realms lay beyond the Roil.
He followed the chasm for a time before coming to a bridge that spanned the gap, disappearing out into the horizon. The bridge shimmered like an iridescent rainbow, glittering in the starlight of this place. In the distance, a blue-green mist concealed all else. Did this bridge connect the Penumbra to the Roil?
With no better choice, he stepped onto the bridge. It felt like solid stone beneath his feet, and indeed, despite the shimmering, had the texture and heft of rock. But it gleamed, and what stone did that?
He followed the bridge for a long time, assuming time meant aught here. His bones ached, but he did not grow fatigued. Rather, it was a dull, constant ache he suspected would become his companion for the rest of his life. In the space of but a few hours, he had lost all youth and approached what, to a mortal, would have been the twilight of life.
On and on he walked, Audr leaving him in blissful silence. The silence gave him time to think on all his failures—to his father, to Ve, to their memories as even those faded away from him. He had to do better.
At last he reached a figure standing in his path.
The man was broad of shoulder and well-muscled, towering over Odin. Long auburn hair hung past his shoulders. He wore a suit of golden mail, with solid plates guarding his forearms and shins. Never had Odin seen such armor. A gilded horn hung from the man’s belt. The man’s hand rested easily on a sword stuck in the bridge.
“Who are you?” Odin asked.
“I am the Guardian of the Bridge. I am the sword in the night, the last watcher between worlds. None may pass but through me.” The man’s voice boomed, echoing into eternity.
A vaettr—a god, in fact. Odin had heard vӧlvur speak of the bridge between worlds. Its guardian was Heimdall. According to the legend, Heimdall warded Midgard against further invasion by those who dwelt beyond the Veil.
Did that make him a foe of Hel? Could this being help Odin? “I need to get back to Midgard.”
Heimdall stared at Odin intently a moment, watching something far distant, then pointed past himself. “There is yet life in your body, should you wish to embrace pain.”
Embrace pain. Heimdall seemed to know only too well the cruel urd that lay before Odin. Were he to return to Midgard, he would sacrifice more. Already, he had paid with his father, his brother, his memories of them, even his own youth. And it would never, ever end. Maybe something more waited beyond the Roil, and, if he could have just pushed past it, maybe he would have found Valhalla and there found his father waiting for him. And instead he had turned back toward his eternal life and unending struggle and sacrifice. To save the Aesir he would make war against the Vanir and lose more—more than any man ought to bear.
But … through his eternal suffering he might save others, save them from sharing Ve’s fate. Spare them the pain he embraced on their behalf.
“I have no choice.” When he came before his father again, he would have a tale to make the man proud. And between now and then, Odin would keep fighting. He would protect his son and give him a better world than the one he’d been born to. “My work is not yet done.”
“Then go. However long your tasks last, I will be waiting here for you, human. But know that you have drunk in much of this realm. It is inside you now and will forever try to call you back.”
Odin hesitated. He could feel the call even now. Some force drawing him, not back to Midgard, but back into the Roil. Maybe that was the most insidious trap of all. Audr had claimed it devoured light, but maybe, deep down, men wanted their light consumed and taken from them, their burdens finally lifted. With the fading of memory, a man might at last cast aside his burdens, not absolved of them, but in simple ignorance.
Oblivion …
36
The breath that issued from Odin’s still body was so faint one might mistake him for a corpse. The thought chilled Gudrun’s heart. Fool man hadn’t taken the potion she’d given him, and now, Father considered the matter settled. Like as not, Odin’s soul would never return to his body, at least, not without aid, not without a guide.
And his body had been ravaged by the process. Though his muscles remained strong, his skin had weathered and his face wrinkled. His hair had gone gray, almost white, making him look ancient. Gudrun ran her hand lightly over his arm. How anyone could have survived such a change she didn’t know. Perhaps the apple allowed it—it seemed to have already healed the actual damage—but it would not reverse the aging.
“What are you going to do?” Hljod asked. The girl sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, eyes wide as she stared at Odin’s body resting on Gudrun’s bed.
Gudrun’s father had made no objection when she’d had servants carry him up here. He always allowed her enough freedom to pursue her own ends—and the consequences that came with them. Nevertheless, she doubted he realized what she intended. If he had, she suspected even Father would have intervened.
“Shutter the window,” Gudrun said, then resumed pacing around her chamber. “And light a few candles—just a few, mind.”
Hljod did as Gudrun ordered, making a clear effort to hide her fear. Gudrun hated depriving the girl of her innocence, forcing her to look at the dark truths underlying the reality of the world, but Hljod had lost aught resembling innocence at the hands of the trolls, and if she was to have a place among the Niflungar she would have to learn. Gudrun had sworn to make the girl not only her apprentice, but a sister, and that meant teaching her everything.
“Our world is but a shadow,” Gudrun said when Hljod had finished lighting the candles. “Like the shadows cast upon the wall by those small flames. A deeper reality underlies our realm.”
“The Penumbra.”
Gudrun nodded. “Odin’s soul is adrift in the Astral Realm, prey to the inhabitants that dwell in the aether.”
“Shades?”
“Hmm. Shades and other … older spirits. Things that were already ancient before the mists came to our world.”
“L-like Hel?”
Gudrun laughed at that, and shook her head. “I seriously doubt Lady Hel herself is gallivanting around the Penumbra looking for amusement.” She clucked her tongue at the ridiculous thought. But there were dangers out there. Vaettir had their own worlds out in the Spirit Realm, but many could pass into the Astral Realm. Beings so far beyond Odin’s understanding as to be gods in his eyes—gods all too eager to feed off a wandering soul and leave Odin an empty husk.
“You’re going to call him back?”
“I’ve tried that. He’s too far gone to hear me from … wherever he has wandered. I have to go after him.” It was the only way to save her love, the only way to bring him back to her. Then, finally, he would have to see what he meant to her, and seeing that, would acknowledge where he belonged.
Hljod looked around the room for a moment before frowning and turning back to Gudrun. “That sounds like a royally stupid idea.”
Gudrun chuckled again. Indeed, the plan was one born of desperation more than wit. With the Sight, she could look into the Penumbra to see and speak with spirits and shades there. Doing so opened oneself to their attentions, and often, their ire. What Gudrun planned was something deeper … to project her own consciousness into the Astral Realm. Spirits lacked substance in the Mortal Realm—it was why they could only interact on Earth by possessing a mortal host. Astral projection would change the rules. The spirits would be as real to her as any being on the Mortal Realm.
“So this is sorcery.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to teach me? That doesn’t sound nearly as useful as learning to do that ice thing you do with your fingers.”
Gudrun paused. Ice thing? She sighed. “You mean the Art of Mist. We call such things Manifest Arts because it’s literally manifesting a spirit inside me—one of two I previously bound using sorcery.”
“Um … I ha
ve no idea what all that means.”
Gudrun blew out a breath. For all the girl’s brave face, she was just a girl. Alone and afraid, having suffered so much. So much that was too much the same. Gudrun shook herself. She’d promised not to push Hljod away, nor to let her be alone, but now was not the time for a lesson.
“Ask me another time,” she said. “I have to concentrate.”
“Have you ever done this before?”
“No.” Not successfully. “I’m going to need you to be very quiet, Hljod. You can watch, but whatever happens, do not distract me.” Gudrun sat on the floor in the middle of the chamber and folded her legs beneath her. Her heart was pounding. Not a good sign. The spirits would sense her fear, be drawn to it like sharks to blood, and like a wounded animal, they’d tear her to pieces—or take her. She risked that every time she evoked a spirit or used her Manifest Arts, and yet, no other recourse lay open to her. “Hljod … if I … if I wake up, and it doesn’t seem like me, you need to leave. Find my father and tell him what’s happened, but do not stay and check on me.”
The girl’s face paled, but she nodded.
Gudrun shut her eyes. Astral projection was beyond her ability with the Sight—meaning Odin had surpassed her in at least some aspect—so for this, she needed the aid of a vaettr who could help pull her through the Veil. Neither the journey, nor the vaettr she had to call would prove pleasant. She could have turned to the Mist spirit, Snegurka, but a wraith had a more inherent connection to the Astral Realm.
“Irpa,” she called. “Irpa, I need you.”
She opened her eyes, now embracing the Sight. Even after so many years, seeing the wraith appear sent shivers down Gudrun’s spine. Irpa drifted in and out of shadows, the darkness clinging to her and wafting off in a haze at the same time. Wraiths were shades of the dead, twisted beyond all recognition by their rage and warped by eons spent wandering the spaces between life and death. The wraith’s glyph on Gudrun’s arm warmed as the shade drew nigh.