The Apples of Idunn

by Matt Larkin

  One of the other jarls must have planned this, tired of Father’s attempts to direct them—the slaughter, the barbarism, a mere ruse to distract from the truth.

  “Odin, you must see to the guests,” Tyr said. Persistent man, Odin would have to grant him that.

  Odin spat in the snow. “Yes. I will see to them, thegn.”

  “Hold them together. Hold the tribes together. Let Borr’s life mean something.”

  Odin lunged at him before he knew what he was doing, snatched up a fistful of Tyr’s fur cloak, and jerked the man closer. “His life meant something. It meant everything!”

  Tyr growled before he answered. “You are not the only one who loved him.”

  Oh. Oh no. Odin shook his head, almost choking on his rage. “He took you in. But he was not your father.”

  “I did not say he was. He was a great man. Many loved him for it. I ask you to be worthy of that legacy.”

  Odin shoved Tyr away and stormed off, back toward the town and his feast hall. The guests awaited.

  The jarls of the Hasding, Didung, and Godwulf tribes had come, though each sat apart from the others, surrounded by their own men and shieldmaidens. Smoke from numerous braziers choked the feast hall, mingling with the smell of roasting mammoth. Between the braziers and the press of bodies, the hall remained warm despite the freezing winds just outside.

  Lodur, jarl of the Diduni, clapped Odin on the shoulder and offered a solemn nod. Naught remained to say, really. Odin’s father had fostered Lodur for two winters, and in that time Lodur had tried often to best Odin in every feat of strength and arms. The Didung won oft as not, too. Lodur’s grief for Father was real, Odin had no doubt, but it was a candle next to the raging inferno consuming Odin.

  Odin wandered the hall, finding no solace in any who had once been his friends. He wanted neither friendship nor condolence. He wanted vengeance. He wanted blood. And to get it, he needed someone who knew something of Unterhagen and what had befallen it.

  Decrepit Jarl Hadding of the Hasdingi had no sons, so his daughter sat by his side, speaking to others about the great Borr. As if she might begin to imagine.

  Hadding’s long beard and longer hair had both gone gray, and Odin guessed the jarl had seen at least fifty winters, probably more. That was an age few men reached, and fewer still among warriors. A man of honor would have fallen in battle long ago. Hadding didn’t care for raids, always hiding behind his fortress walls. But that fortress, Halfhaugr, lay at the heart of Aujum. All the tribes came there to trade, to share stories, to take respite from the mist. And that meant many tales reached Halfhaugr.

  Trying not to glower, Odin stalked over to the table where the old craven sat. He almost tripped over one of the numerous elkhounds seeking warmth inside the hall. Grumbling, Odin ruffled the hound’s ears to show he meant no harm. Father always said, trust the hounds, that they smelled when aught was amiss—that’s when you brought out the iron. Iron to ward, iron to slay.

  Hadding lacked the stones to have betrayed Father. Ironic, that his weakness made him one of the few men here Odin had little reason to doubt. While the Wodanar—indeed, all the other tribes here today—migrated around Aujum every few years, the Hasdingi cowered behind their fortress, trusting in dvergar runes and the goodwill of others to keep them safe. They had grown fat off Borr’s peace and would not have wanted that to end.

  Odin slumped down on the bench across from the other jarl. Hadding did not rise to greet him, instead clearing his throat with a thick cough.

  His daughter stood, though, and inclined her head. “Jarl Odin Borrson. You honor us.” She was young, clad in a vibrant green dress, her long, auburn hair worn in elaborate braids. What was her name again? Frigg?

  He inclined his head to her. He had imagined himself bedding her, at least briefly. But a jarl’s daughter was not like to give in easily, and he had no time for pursuing her. He had plenty of slaves to fulfill his needs.

  “We grieve with you,” Hadding said. Again the man coughed, slapping a hand to his chest. The thickness—it must already be filling his lungs. Odin pitied any man forced to endure such a death. One more reason to seek the end on a battlefield and find the embrace of valkyries. Dying like that, Hadding had naught to look forward to save the gates of Hel.

  “Thank you,” Odin said. The old man seemed almost sincere. Without Father’s watchful eye, other tribes might look to seize Halfhaugr for themselves.

  “Will you eat with us?” the girl asked.

  Odin motioned to a slave to bring him the drinking horn. He took a long swig of mead before handing it to the next man—one of Hadding’s thegns, no doubt, aging himself. The whole damned tribe would probably find themselves eating from Hel’s table within a winter or two. Odin cleared his throat. “Jarl Borr went to Unterhagen for a reason. Someone knows why, knows who he went to meet. I want information.” He thumped his forefinger on the pine tabletop. “I want it now. Father’s ghost has languished too long already. I feel his grimace cast upon us from the shadows.”

  Hadding rubbed his chest. “Maybe. But as yet, men speak of other things. They speak of war. We face dangerous times, and when winter breaks …”

  When winter broke, Hadding would no doubt have any of the other eight tribes trying to seize Halfhaugr from him. Did he think Odin would do aught to protect him? Odin fixed the useless old man with a level stare. At the moment, the Wodanar themselves had no reason not to claim the fortress.

  “What about the foreigner?” Frigg said.

  Odin looked to her. “What foreigner?”

  “A man came to us recently, someone from far away. Somewhere in the South Realms, maybe, he didn’t say. But rumor claims he is a masterful tracker, wise in woodcraft, and nigh as learned as any Miklagarder, as well.”

  Hadding waved his daughter away. “The man is full of himself. You can’t trust a man who talks like a vӧlva and fills his mind with South Realmer learning.”

  That earned him a scowl from Frigg.

  “Tyr already searched Unterhagen for tracks. With the snows, he found naught.”

  “Maybe,” Frigg said. “But this man might know something else. He has a strange urd about him.”

  Urd? What did some jarl’s daughter know of a man’s fate? Still, he had naught else to go on.

  “Then I will go back to Halfhaugr with you, meet this foreigner,” Odin said. “If he can do as you say, you and he shall both earn my gratitude.”

  Almost as one, a number of the hounds perked up and stared at the doors to the feast hall. A moment later those doors crashed open. Then even the people began to fall silent. Men rose from their benches to move toward the newcomer.

  A crowd quickly surrounded her, and she took each into her gaze. When her eyes met Odin’s, he stumbled. She wore her long, brown hair loose, flowing around her shoulders. Her skin was rich, deeper in color than any he’d ever seen, and now that he’d drawn nigh, he could see the flowing red gown she wore beneath her furs. The material shimmered in the light of the braziers and was sheer enough to give a hint of the delicate flesh beneath. Odin had no doubt that every man in the circle eyed her with lust, even as he pictured himself carrying her off to his own bed in the back room of the hall.

  “Dangerous lands to walk alone,” he said. “Especially at night.” Especially for an unarmed woman.

  Visitors from another tribe were not uncommon, but no one traveled in the dead of night unless desperate. The deathchill was the least one needed to fear at night, and that could easily bring down a man. Beyond that, trolls and vaettir, especially the vilest ones like draugar, often grew more active at night. Sunlight thinned the mists and tended to drive its horrors into hiding.

  The foreign woman smiled at him—or rather, she crooked half her mouth in a smile. “You are Odin.” Her voice was light, her accent lilting and odd.

  “I am,” he said. “And who are you, my lady?”

  “My name is Idunn.”

  A murmur rose through the crowd. Someone scoff
ed and someone else gasped. Odin caught himself glancing at Gungnir where it rested against his throne.

  “Idunn?” The goddess of spring? One of the Vanir here, among them? The same who had given the spear Gungnir to his great-great-grandfather?

  “Yes,” she said, flashing a bit of teeth in her smile now. “Do your people still remember me? I’d hoped they would.”

  How coy. Every Ás remembered Idunn—assuming she was who she claimed to be. Beautiful, no doubt, but a goddess? Since when did gods come strolling into Aesir halls in the middle of the night? Though that was exactly where his ancestors claimed Gungnir came from. Regardless, there was only one thing a jarl could do when a guest came calling.

  “Lady Idunn, I extend to you the full hospitality of the Wodanar.”

  With that smile, she’d have any man in the tribe eager to do her bidding.

  2

  Odin had taken Idunn out into the night despite the cold. Tyr assumed he wanted to speak with her without prying eyes. Keeping others from following was probably the only reason he had allowed Tyr along. Hand resting on the sword over his shoulder, Tyr followed several paces behind the pair. One of the elkhounds walked at his side. Always best to take a dog if you could. Hounds smelled foulness in the mist. Let you know when aught went creeping about.

  Like Odin, Tyr carried a torch. A man needed fire. Without it, the mist would seep into his body. Into his soul. Tyr had seen men go mist-mad. They’d lose themselves. Have to be put down or banished for the good of the tribe. Besides, the mists sheltered ghosts, trolls, draugar, and other vaettir. All waiting to prey on the world of men as soon as the fires dwindled.

  “So,” Odin said after walking through the town awhile.

  The Wodanar were spending the winter at Eskgard. Reinforced old houses not used in a decade. When summer came, they’d abandon this place for better hunting grounds. Migrating in winter was left to the foolish and the desperate.

  “So,” Idunn answered. “Here we are.”

  This woman was like none Tyr had ever seen. Dark brown hair, exotic skin like some South Realmer. Graceful movements, confidence. And she had wandered the wilds alone. Did that make her a fool—or desperate? Or could she truly be one of the Vanir? Nigh to absurd. If the Vanir existed at all, they no longer walked the lands of Midgard. Not in ages. But then … most would have said the same of jotunnar. And Tyr knew better on that count.

  “Yes, here,” Odin said. “Where you would have me believe a Vanr has come to call upon my people.”

  She shrugged. “Oh. Well, yes. I think so. I mean you should believe me. You still have Gungnir, don’t you?”

  Odin grunted. “What do you want of me?”

  Tyr knew he ought to keep more careful watch, but he could not tear his eyes from the two of them. The one, a self-proclaimed goddess. Beautiful and outlandish enough that he could not quite dismiss her claim. And the other … Borr’s son. Borr had been a hero to many. He had saved Tyr from a wretched life as a raider enslaved to a more wretched master. Had taken him in. In time, Borr made him first a thegn and then his personal champion. Had even trusted him to help instruct his own sons with weapons. If naught else could be said for him, Tyr knew his way around a battle. Blade, axe, or bow, Tyr had mastered them all.

  And Odin had grown up quite skilled himself, at least in weaponry. But he was not his father. Not by any measure. The young man had fire. But that fire stoked his pride more than his honor. Rage consumed him. Tyr did not blame him for wanting to avenge his father. Indeed, Tyr himself would have gone to great lengths to do so. But Odin was allowing Borr’s legacy to splinter around him while he quested for revenge against unknown enemies. Tyr had helped Borr forge this peace. Had waded through rivers of blood to do so. And Odin and his brothers saw none of that. Would not listen.

  Idunn giggled. What kind of goddess giggles? “What a question. What do I want from you? Let me ask you—what do you think your father would want of you?”

  “Vengeance.” The man didn’t even hesitate.

  Tyr stifled a groan. Barely. The hound cocked one of his ears at Tyr. Asking if he had sensed danger. He had, though no danger he could explain to the animal.

  “Truly? Don’t you think he’d care about maintaining all he was building? Just maybe he’d want you to continue on the path he’d begun?” Goddess or not, Idunn had the right of it. Maybe she could talk some sense into Odin. If she did, his brothers would fall in line. Odin was eldest, and they looked to him.

  Odin groaned, cast a glance back at Tyr. Tyr offered him a nod. “What of it?”

  “You are jarl now. What would it take for you to be something more? To be a king?”

  Tyr’s foot snagged in the snow. King? Not even Borr had held such a lofty goal, despite the claims of other jarls. Mist-madness, if he’d ever heard it.

  Odin stopped there and turned on her, forcing her and Tyr to pause as well. “We’d have to call an Althing, put it to a vote among the nobles of all nine tribes. Which is not going to happen. No Althing, no vote, and if there was, not one man everyone could agree on to be king. Least of all me.”

  “Oh? Can you think of some better way to honor your father?”

  Odin folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. “What do you hope to gain from this?”

  “Hmmm.” She reached inside her fur cloak and pulled something out. It looked like an apple. A golden apple glittering in the torchlight. “Do you know what this is?” Odin shook his head. “This is immortality, my dear Odin. This sweet fruit tastes of creation itself. And I bring it to you, even as I once brought Gungnir to your ancestors.”

  “Wh-why?”

  Tyr’s mouth hung open. He could not quite manage to shut it.

  Idunn withdrew the apple and stuck it back within the folds of her cloak. “This ultimate gift I could grant you. The power to live forever, to lead your people—all of the Aesir—forever. But you must do two great services for me.”

  Odin licked his lips. “Live forever? How am I even to believe such a thing?”

  “The apple comes from the World Tree, Yggdrasil, the heart of Vanaheim, the source of all life. But then, you wouldn’t really know until you tried it, would you?” She shrugged. “It’s a puzzle. Sometimes you have to have faith. Sometimes you have to take a chance.”

  Tyr’s heart pounded against his ribs. What she spoke of sounded impossible. Sounded like the prattling of a mist-mad vӧlva. And yet … he wanted to believe. Her voice, like music, offering such temptations. And Odin had not quite leapt at the chance. Had Tyr underestimated his new jarl?

  Odin released a shuddering breath. “Your terms, Vanr?”

  “You must make yourself king of all the Aesir.”

  Odin spread his hands wide. “I’m not fucking Vingethor. And do you really think my father intended to become king? Do you think he could have? The other jarls wouldn’t have bowed before him, and they sure as Hel will not bow before me. In any event, why do you care?”

  “Mankind is dying, Odin. Slowly, yes, but with each generation humanity’s numbers dwindle. The mist suffocates the world, and the cold creeps ever closer, while petty kings and jarls fight each other for scraps. It’s why I gave your ancestors Gungnir. Back then, I thought it might prove enough. It did not. If naught changes, there will be but a few more generations of life left in Midgard.”

  Her words left Tyr shivering. Vӧlvur stories claimed that long ago, maybe thousands of years ago, the world was warmer. Before the mists. Now, each passing winter claimed more lives. Men froze. Murdered each other over scraps of food. Or because they could. And out in the mist, those who fell lingered. Grim, wakeful. Caught between life and death. Idunn spoke of the end times as a nigh certainty. And worse, as fast approaching.

  Odin pressed his palms against his forehead, shaking his head. “And if I would or even could do such a thing, claim this throne … what of your other request?”

  Tyr had almost forgotten she had asked for two services. As if becoming king of nine tri
bes on the brink of war were not enough burden for the brash young man.

  “Once you are king, I will come to you with another task. You will owe me then, and I will have your oath you’ll do all in your power to grant my final request.”

  Odin scoffed. “You still have not told me what that request is.”

  Idunn giggled again. “I suppose I haven’t. First make yourself king.”

  The jarl held up his hands. “No. No, I will not give an oath to any task without knowing what you ask. A man would have to be a fool to do such a thing. If you care so much about mankind’s fate, goddess, you attend to it.” With that, he shook his head and stormed back toward the feast hall.

  “I am trying,” Idunn mumbled.

  Tyr took a few steps closer. “You truly believe that man would make a good king?”

  Idunn grinned now. A half smile, like a wicked child. “I think he could be the greatest king the Aesir have ever known. Beyond Vingethor, beyond even Loridi. Maybe. If he can see past his own petty desires. And stop staring at my tits.”

  Tyr realized what he had been doing and flushed. Maybe she couldn’t tell in the torchlight. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. What did a man say to a goddess? Particularly one as odd as this. “I … er.” He cleared his throat. “Borr worked his whole life to win and keep peace between the tribes. Everyone respected him.” Or feared him. “But Odin is right. The other nobles wouldn’t have supported Borr as king. They certainly won’t support his son.”

  Idunn scratched the hound’s head—and the animal let her. “Hmmm. Well—not yet.”

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