by Matt Larkin
He pressed the point against Flosshilde’s neck.
“Please …”
Blood welled there. Feeding Gramr. She needed it.
Tyr growled at the nixie. “You should die.”
She shut her eyes. Shaking.
His arm trembled. He didn’t want to do this, did he? He wanted to … to be …
Borr had told him he could be a better man. That he was not bound by his past with Hymir. And Tyr had sworn an oath.
He cast the sword aside.
Clutched his face. “Borr …” Man ought not have died. Ought not have left Tyr like this. Now there was Odin, and … Odin was missing. Odin’s people were dying. And Grimhild would have more plans than just killing Tyr.
Don’t leave me.
Before he knew what he was doing, he’d reclaimed Gramr, stroking her. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”
He stumbled toward the doorway.
“Wait!”
He glanced back over his shoulder at Flosshilde.
“You’re not just going to leave me bound like this?”
Tyr scoffed. “Maybe next time someone happens along and wants to help you, you won’t try to eat them.”
The girl’s mouth fell open. “I … I wasn’t going to eat you. I was supposed to drown you so a nix could slip inside you and …”
That thought made him recoil. Slip inside him and take him over, possess him and use him up. So there was a human girl underneath, one controlled by the nixie. Killing her would free her from the vaettr. Maybe even be a mercy. Gramr raised, he took another step toward the girl. Blade was hungry for more blood. Was Flosshilde the girl’s name or the nixie’s? Was there even a difference, anymore?
Icy, cold rage crawled out from his gut and seized his limbs. More blood.
No. He should let her go. She was so scared.
More blood.
He ought to slay her. She deserved death. She was their foe. Gramr needed her blood.
BLOOD!
Gasping, he dropped to one knee. Hand on her shoulder, he spun her around. A single swipe of Gramr severed the bindings and drew a cut along her arms.
He leaned in close to her ear. “I see you again, you will answer for your crimes.”
Gramr was screaming in his ear. She had to die. She had to die.
BLOOD!
Tyr rose, shaking his head, and stumbled away. He needed to be gone from this place.
Grimhild had wrought this, and she would not stop with sending one nixie.
The Niflung queen would never stop.
And neither would Tyr. He would claim the blood of every Niflungar on Midgard.
42
Never had Odin missed Sleipnir more. The cold cut through even his supernatural stamina, making every step up the snowy slope an effort. His feet had gone numb, and his joints ached, as seemed his eternal fate in his now aged body. Though Odin had slain several Niflung warriors, the Raven Lord himself would no doubt follow, and Odin held no illusions about his ability to fight the sorcerer king, at least not until he had rested.
For days he had walked, even as Audr slithered around in the back of his mind. The wraith had fallen more silent here in the Mortal Realm, but his presence was a constant weight upon Odin’s soul, forcing him to spend every waking and even sleeping moment in an unconscious war for control of his own flesh.
Perhaps the wraith could be exorcised, but such was beyond Odin’s meager command of the Art. All he could do, for now, was focus on getting as far away from Gjuki as possible.
Clearly, he was somewhere in the Sudurberks, and if he continued west he would reach the sea, sooner or later. But days of walking, fleeing the Niflungar, days without food or rest, had drained him. He needed more strength, more …
And Audr had strength, power that suffused his very being. Odin had only to reach for it and then …
Fresh energy flooded through his limbs, giving him stamina, dulling his aches, and settling his empty stomach. Even as it tasted foul and toxic, like bathing in tar. And yet … such power felt so good. How could something feel sickening and intoxicating all at once?
The wraith wakened within him as he called upon that power, growing more active, tightening its hold around Odin’s body. Every time he used Audr, he would lose more of himself, until finally the wraith grew strong enough—or himself weak enough—to completely seize control.
The very power that sustained him would kill him, or nigh enough to as Audr consumed his life and his soul. And still he took the more difficult route forward. He could have tried to stick to the valleys, maybe found game there, but that was exactly where Gjuki’s people—and ravens—would look for him.
He’d rather fall to the mountain than let the Raven Lord drag him back to that dungeon. Whatever Gudrun might have wanted, her father would not relent. The truth was, part of him longed for Gudrun’s warm embrace, longed to sleep in her soft bed, her legs entwined with his, his belly full. It would have meant an end to this torturous journey, to his endless quest. And an end to his people, to his family, to his dreams. Maybe that was what the Odling ghost’s curse meant. She said his dreams would burn—maybe through Odin’s own weakness.
And he couldn’t let that happen. He had not fought his way back from the Astral Roil and given up his youth just to die on this mountain or give in to the Niflungar.
Except … still he wondered. If he burned out his own life, would he find his parents waiting for him on the other side? Was that the one escape from the immortality the apple had granted him?
He might feed Audr more of his life rather than surrender control of his body, let age ravage him beyond all recognition. Even if he could control such things, though, it offered no guarantee the wraith could not claim him as he aged beyond the limits of men, or in fact, that death would come either, given the apple’s effects.
Fresh snow flurries stung his eyes. He needed shelter. The storm would stop him from making much progress, but with any luck, it would also hide his passage, even from the ravens. These mountains were littered with caves—Loki had shown him that. Ancient tunnels dug through the ice, cut by rivers or trolls or aught else.
Odin shielded his face with his arm, a futile effort to keep the ice crystals from his eyes. His stubble had grown into a thick beard, providing some scant warmth to his cheeks, but a hood would have been nice. Caves … if they were dug into the ice, they would likely be lower in the mountain. But how to find one in this storm?
Altering his course back down the slope, Odin racked his brain. Even an immortal would likely perish if buried in a blizzard. His Sight had allowed him to see through mist and darkness, because neither extended into the Penumbra. It meant, like as not, neither would the snowstorm. He knelt in the snow, forcing his eyes to relax, allowing himself to see beyond the Mortal Realm. When he opened his eyes, the snow was just a dance of shadows across the sky. There, down the slope, waited an overhang crusted with icicles. If not a cave, perhaps it would at least shelter his body from the storm.
His own body flickered, strands of the wraith dancing around the edges of his flesh, always threatening to take over. This was what he had seen in Gjuki, how the man’s astral form seemed so twisted and shadowy. The gods alone might know how many vaettir Gjuki had bound to himself. And here Odin felt apt to die with but one such entity squirming under his skin.
Vision locked in the Sight, Odin trudged for the overhang, feet skidding along the ice as quickly as he dared. As he drew closer, he saw the overhang did extend deep into the mountain. An ice cave, much like Loki had shown him. Which probably meant he owed his blood brother his life once again.
Shades moved about the cave, watching him with hateful eyes. They knew he saw them, but Odin needed the Sight to see through the darkness. He leveled Gungnir before him, working his way deeper. After all he’d been through, he’d not fear a few ghosts. A more terrible and ancient shade dwelt within him now. Farther he delved into the cave, but something made him stop. An uneasiness rose in his stom
ach, one not born of ghosts nor snow.
There was something behind the ice. Odin moved closer, pressing a hand against the ice crusting the cave wall. Beyond, frozen in the wall, a man stooped in clear agony. Hel’s crotch. How could a man wind up inside the ice wall? Should he cut the man free and burn him, send his soul properly? But it was impossible to tell how deep in the ice the man was, and Odin’s strength was fleeting. From the look of it, this man must have died an age ago. Already, his soul must be one of the shades wandering this place.
One of them?
Odin pressed on, spotting another body in the wall not far along. A mother, holding a child in her arms.
“Fuck me,” Odin mumbled, the sound reverberating through the ice cave. What in the gates of Hel had happened here? Or maybe that was just it—were these more victims of Hel? Victims of Niflung sorcery. Another of the Old Kingdoms, maybe.
Odin looked down. Hard to tell through the ripples of ice, but the stone beneath him looked worked, carved by men. A lump built in his throat, and he pressed on, his step quickening—much as he feared what might lie ahead, he could not stop himself. He had to know. Deeper and deeper he delved until, around a bend, he saw it. Far below, off a fifty-foot drop, stood a fortress on the shores of a frozen lake. A winding path led around the outside of the cavern, down to the old ruin, a place now covered in frost. Countless abandoned outbuildings surrounded the fortress, and Odin could only guess more would lie in its courtyard.
This place had been an outpost, a guard station to some fallen land, much like Idavollir, where Odin’s own people must still linger. He dreamed of them from time to time, dreamed of the trolls plaguing them, of the deaths that tore them apart. But his son lived, that much he could feel, and it gave him some small hope.
More shades flitted about the outskirts of the ruins, though fewer seemed to enter the fortress proper. Perhaps they lamented their fallen home. The Niflungar had destroyed this kingdom as they had the Odlingar. Unable to take his eyes from the giant fortress below, Odin made his way down to it. What lost knowledge would be buried here? Ancient secrets? Mystical weapons like Gungnir or the runeblade Tyr now wielded? Any such weapon would make a world of difference to his people now. Or might he find answers about the Niflungar themselves, or even the Vanir?
It was not luck he’d found this place, but urd. This was his chance to learn what he needed to know to save the Aesir—to save all Midgard. Save them from Hel and the Niflungar and the indifference of the Vanir. Save them from the mists of Niflheim, once and for all.
As he reached the bottom of the cavern, he caught himself almost running. Easy. The ghosts here could still be a danger—much like the Odling ghost had proved. And this place had waited here for centuries, perhaps longer. He could afford to side with caution.
But as he approached the gates, the ghosts fled from him rather than try to bar his way. They were mere whispers of their former selves, trapped here through the horrors visited upon them. Perhaps they sensed the wraith in him and feared it. Would burning their corpses free some of their souls? Odin hoped so. He didn’t have time to dig those bodies from the ice now, but one day he’d return with his people and put the fallen to rest. They deserved no less.
An iron portcullis blocked his entrance to the courtyard, this too caked in a thick layer of ice. Odin glowered. The ice-slicked wall would make a difficult climb, so this gate was likely his best chance. Maybe the ice had weakened the metal within? He grasped Gungnir in both hands and swung it like a club. A cacophonous clang echoed through the cavern. Ice cracked over the gate, but the metal didn’t break. Odin swung again, dislodging icicles above him. To avoid the falling things—some thick as spears—Odin leapt backward.
Only then did he notice the massive shadow now lurking overhead. The serpent had crawled over the lip of the fortress, the bulk of the creature’s body still on the other side. Its forelegs, larger and thicker around than Vili, held it aloft at an angle at which its massive eyes could meet Odin’s own. Eyes filled with primeval hatred and hunger. Gray-green scales covered the monstrosity, with spurs rising from its spine and enormous horns jutting from either side of its head. It opened its mouth to reveal snake-like fangs dripping with venom.
Odin had seen the linnorm carved in ice in Hunaland, a monster not unlike the dragons engraved along Gungnir’s shaft and blade. Though he tightened his grip on Gungnir, Odin dared not move. His heart beat so fast he felt he could choke on his own pulse.
The linnorm reared back. Odin flung himself away in a roll an instant before it crashed into the space he had stood. Its massive form dragged over the portcullis, crushing it and bringing down the wall around it. It didn’t slow for an instant, lunging again. Odin dashed wildly, rapidly changing directions, then rolled to the side again as it crashed past him.
It had no hind legs, but it used its forelegs to heave itself forward with ungodly speed, if not much control. When it lunged for him again, Odin rolled toward it, swiping Gungnir up in an arc. The spear tore through the linnorm’s scales, scoring a gash Odin had no time to congratulate himself on. Before he could even move, the linnorm twisted its mighty form, encircling him like the walls of a courtyard.
Odin spun, seeking any escape. This thing had to be eighty feet long, its bulk a solid wall around him. It reared its head above him, jaw impossibly wide, baring fangs that themselves must reach as long as he was tall. Rapid gasps escaped Odin. He made no effort to control his breathing, sucking in every bit of air he could while lowering Gungnir to his side. Draw the beast in.
And the linnorm struck, surging forward like a bolt of lightning. Odin jumped forward and to the side, swiping with his spear. It slashed upon the serpent’s neck. The linnorm immediately slapped its head into Odin, the sheer size and momentum sending him flying backward, his grip on Gungnir lost. Odin slammed into the monster’s coils, stunned.
The serpent shook its head, flinging blood around the cavern, then hissed at him.
“You think you’re vexed?” Odin mumbled. He regained his feet and drew his sword. “I am the son of Borr! I am no one’s prey!”
The serpent gave no indication it understood. Sword before him, Odin stalked ever closer to where he had dropped Gungnir. He needed that spear. Its magic gave him strength, fury, stamina. It could cut through the dragon’s scales. Some said Volund himself had forged the sword Frigg granted him, but would it pierce dragon hide?
The linnorm glanced at the fallen spear. It knew. Did it sense the dragon soul bound to the spear? Odin could use that. He feinted toward the spear. Predictably, the serpent surged forward to cut him off. Instead of continuing forward, Odin jumped onto its face, roaring. The linnorm jerked, trying to dislodge him, forcing Odin to wrap his arms around one of its horns. The serpent thrashed wildly. This had been a madman’s plan.
It slowed for an instant, perhaps even dizzier than Odin now felt—and he was apt to vomit. Which he had no time to think on. He slashed his sword down on the linnorm’s skull with one hand, but the scales reflected it.
He didn’t have the strength to pierce it with one hand. Odin released his grip on the horn and grasped his sword with both hands as he fell, slamming it straight down. The blade embedded itself in the linnorm’s snout, and Odin found himself hanging on only by that blade, his face now close enough to the linnorm’s maw to feel its foul, acrid breath.
It shrieked and jerked its head. Odin’s sword snapped in half, and he flew free, crashing back down on the ice. He felt ribs break from the impact. Pain blurred his vision, and he desperately clung to the magic in him, trying to drown it out.
His sword—Frigg’s sword. It was supposed to protect his family, and he’d broken it. Gods, that boded ill. The sword meant to defend his children, his wife …
Strength. He needed more strength. More than even the apple could grant. What was another year of his life if he was eaten? Odin pulled more power from the Audr, fueling himself. While the linnorm flailed, Odin scrambled over to Gungnir.
&nbs
p; More energy filled him the moment he touched it. The power of his own dragon. Power to replace that of the wraith. The linnorm coiled around, preparing to strike again. Odin thrust Gungnir right into its throat, embedding the spear three feet into the dragon.
The creature’s blood gushed over him, burning like acid. It toppled to the ground, flailing and flopping around, its movements stripping Gungnir from his grasp once again. Odin tried to crawl away. Something slammed into his back and sent him sprawling. The dragon was apt to crush him in its death throes.
Odin yanked himself over the ice, desperate to put as much distance between himself and the dragon as possible.
Icicles rained down from the cavern ceiling as the linnorm thrashed.
Odin covered his head and screamed. His Sight slipped from him, leaving him in utter darkness. Darkness, and the earthquakes caused by a dying dragon, and a collapsing cave.
Part IV
Seventh Moon
43
In the snows ahead of her, draugar followed Odin’s trail. Gudrun did not favor using them. They were ghosts almost as vile as wraiths—indeed, some draugar became wraiths once their corpses were finally destroyed. But few options remained open to her now. Few, or none.
No choice.
None.
Not when she must find Odin.
Must she find Odin?
Indeed she must.
Unlike the draugar, she could not see well at night, but the dead refused to walk in even the hint of sunlight that pierced the mist. To use them, she had to travel in darkness.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just kill the troll shit,” Hljod said.
Death is no mercy …
As if she had thought it was. Had she … just thought that? Her mind swirled, not quite able to separate Irpa’s thoughts from her own. What a fool she had been to rely on the wraith that, like a parasite, now fed off her.
Oh, but she could deny Irpa in the simplest of ways … by using her Art of Mist so much that Snegurka would take her instead.