The Apples of Idunn

by Matt Larkin

  Tyr was always careful. Kept you alive longer, at least on a good day.

  8

  Sitting, waiting in Unterhagen—Odin knew he tortured himself even coming here—he could not look away. Could not stop staring at the ruined, snow-covered village. Could not quite still the voice somewhere in his mind that expected his father to step around a mound of snow, walk over, and embrace him. Ask why he was fretting.

  Father did not come.

  Not in the flesh, at any rate. Perhaps his ghost watched Odin now, waiting, as Odin did, his back to the fire Loki had built. The lamentations of so many murdered ghosts filled the air here. Not something he could hear—unless it were the howling wind—but he could feel it. Like the hunger of a man who hadn’t eaten in days.

  The foreigner spoke little, seemed to understand Odin’s desire for solitude. If that was what he truly wished. Like the dead, he dwelt in isolated misery, unable to find solace in others. Because, like the dead, no living man could understand his anguish. Or so he was apt to think in bouts of melancholy that served no one.

  “Do your parents still live?” Odin asked, without looking back at the man.

  The foreigner did not immediately answer, but Odin could hear him poking at the fire. “All my family, and all I have loved, are gone now, lost in the march of years.”

  “I seem to have opened an old wound.” Odin watched the snowdrifts. He had been wrong. Loki clearly did know suffering.

  And still no one came. Father would never again walk by his side. Odin kept telling himself that, but his mind refused to accept it. Such a great man could not be snuffed out in an instant like a flame doused. It should have been … different.

  “Some wounds never quite heal,” Loki said. “They scab over, perhaps, and we become so accustomed to the pain we may forget it’s there. And the reminder of it does not cause the pain, just forces us to acknowledge it once more.”

  Odin grunted, then did turn back to face him. Loki was staring into the fire like a man looking into the eyes of his mistress. “You understand pain.”

  “Those who do not have not lived overlong in this world.”

  “And do you find your answer in the flames?”

  Loki shrugged. “Fire is life.”

  Odin grunted. So he knew. “Yet I find myself weary of life, drawn ever to think on the fallen.”

  Loki shook his head. “There is a darkness pervading the world of the living, I grant, but do not mistake the Otherworlds as cleaner or clearer, Odin, for they are realms of lies. Like memories twisted in the back of your mind, the dead lie.” He pointed off in the distance. “Your brothers approach.”

  In the morning, they had set out south, toward the Sudurberks. Ve, the youngest of the three brothers, constantly yammered on with Loki. The foreigner did not quite engage Ve in his contests of poetry, though certainly he spoke with the authority of a skald, if not the grandeur. Not exactly.

  “All who travel far are said to see much,” Ve said. “Surely then, a wanderer such as yourself might enthrall us with tales of Miklagard or even Serkland. Speak, then, of wonders that we might know the glories of your wanderings.”

  Vili grumbled under his breath, as he so often did when their youngest brother got into his moods. “Man claims to have seen Miklagard, and you believe him? Fools, both of you.”

  Loki glanced at Odin, the hint of a wry smile on his face. “If I had seen Miklagard or Serkland or Nidavellir or even beyond, would it bear relevance to the task at hand? Or do you seek to distract yourself from the fears that prey upon you, from the threat you march toward?”

  “You calling me a coward?” Vili demanded.

  “I don’t believe I did.”

  Vili grumbled again, and moved needlessly close to Loki, probably trying to intimidate him with his size. As a berserk, Vili was always torn in two—part of him human, part of him driven by a savage animal spirit. He looked the part, standing a full head taller than Odin.

  If it bothered Loki, he gave no indication.

  “What my brother wants to know,” Ve said, “is how you can know so much about the jotunnar? About this one in particular, one of whom we have heard no songs nor stories.”

  “Oh?” Loki asked. He walked across the snow with ease, not even relying on snowshoes. “Have you not heard the tales of Aurgelmir, the lord of the rime jotunnar? It seems a significant lapse in the education of any skald.”

  Vili spat. “What the fuck is Aurgelmir?”

  Ve chuckled nervously. “Father of the frost jotunnar, at least according to some tales. Maybe a progenitor of their whole line. So you’re saying this Ymir is Aurgelmir?” Ve scrambled a little closer to Odin, who rolled his eyes.

  “Bah!” Their berserk brother spat again. “The foreigner makes you into a fool, little brother. Look at you, quivering at the thought of such a thing. You truly believe the father of all frost jotunnar exists, lives still, and came out to smash a small village on the edge of Aujum? Next you’ll tell me you believe that troll shit about men and women coming from different trees.”

  Ve chuckled. “My brother, a poet you are not, in word nor soul. You doubt every tale right up until you find yourself enmeshed in it, then scream and chop and hew until the tale submits to your liking.”

  The berserk spat again, grumbling under his breath as they walked. His mumbles persisted until nigh unto sunset, while Ve continued to pry against Loki’s wits. Odin found himself only half listening. His youngest brother had a clever tongue, but he seemed to have finally found a man he could not outsmart. Odin cared very little for these duels of wits, even before. Before such things became utter pettiness in the face of all-consuming loss and the need to avenge that loss upon the whole world.

  As evening drew nigh, Loki directed them toward a ruined tower in the foothills beneath the Sudurberks. Though built from stone two feet thick, a breach twice the size of a man tore through the wall, allowing a thick drift of snow to pile up inside. The tower’s peak had fallen, its rubble no doubt buried in the snows that blanketed the hill.

  “Men must take what shelter they can,” Ve said, “but vaettir are drawn to such places. Njord knows what kind of fell being might dwell within, and we brought no hounds to sniff them out.”

  Torch out before him, Loki kept pushing on toward the tower. “A long time ago, even before Njord was king of the Vanir, they built towers like these to watch the mountains.”

  Ve snorted. “Naught happened before Njord was king. Any skald could tell you that. Your illusion of wisdom falters, foreigner.”

  Odin glanced from Loki to his brother, then pushed on toward the breach in the tower wall. Who to believe? Certainly vӧlvur seemed to agree with Ve, that one ought to avoid ruins when possible. Remnants of the Old Kingdoms dotted all of the North Realms, places once glorious, built to ward against the mist or each other. Now, though, trolls, draugar, and other vaettir lurked in such places, hiding from sunlight and venturing out at night. So vӧlvur said. But then again, when facing a winter storm, sometimes a man had to take whatever shelter he could.

  “So you think the Vanir themselves built this tower?” Odin asked.

  Loki brought his torch close to the outer wall, then began to chip at ice crusted upon the stone. A large chunk of it fell free, and Loki brushed aside what remained with his forearm. The walls bore some kind of runes, but such symbols meant naught to Odin, nor to any man. Only vӧlvur learned such arts. And how had Loki known to find one there?

  “Before the rise of the Old Kingdoms, the Vanir waged unending wars against the jotunnar. Many of their foes dwelt in these mountains, so the Vanir built towers to watch for them, guard against them. Sometimes they succeeded, and sometimes the walls could not withstand the violence of such manifestations of chaos.” Loki swept his torch around to indicate the breach in the wall. “The storm will get worse, and we ought to save our strength for the journey through the mountains.”

  Odin grunted, then climbed over the snow pile to reach the inside of the tower. A
spiraling stair led to the upper regions, but he already knew those had collapsed. Still, the ceiling here remained intact, and a wide fire pit lay in the tower’s center. He nodded. Loki was right. This place was the best respite they were like to find before nightfall.

  “Vili,” Odin said. “Go find whatever wood you can. We need to get a blaze going before the sun sets.” Sparse trees—evergreens, mostly—covered these foothills, though none survived higher up in the mountains. This might prove their last chance to make fresh torches or rest safe by a fire. “Ve, sweep the tower and make sure we truly are alone.” Besides vaettir, one always had to worry about cave hyenas, bears, and other predators. They all liked such places.

  Loki drifted around the edge of this central room, inspecting shelves that lined the walls. Some of those shelves held what must be parchment. Men in the South Realms used such things. Bits of it crumbled as Loki touched it, and Odin scoffed. And that was why vӧlvur carved their runes into stone and wood. Lasted longer.

  The foreigner paid no attention, lifting a piece the size of his hand up close toward his face. Wait … could he read the markings upon it? That sounded most unmanly of him. Odin folded his arms. Indeed, if Loki spoke the truth and the Vanir had built this place, how did the foreigner know that? How could he guess what had happened before the Old Kingdoms? The most learned skalds Odin had ever known had a few tales, stories of the Vanir from the old times, but Loki spoke with more authority than that. Was his guide a skald himself? And one who could read?

  Odin’s brothers had distrusted Loki the moment they met him, as had Tyr. But Tyr was filled with suspicion and doubt, Vili never liked anyone, and Ve probably saw Loki as a threat to his own status as a skald. Still. He knew—or claimed to know—more than any man ought.

  Such a man might well bring disaster among them by fumbling into eldritch lore not meant for man or even for mankind. Such was the man with whom Odin had entrusted his chance at vengeance.

  9

  The crunch of his snowshoes rang out louder than Tyr would have liked. Especially with evening drawing nigh. Still no shelter. Just the woods. On and on. Not the Jarnvid. He’d have known if he’d wandered into the twisted forest of the trolls. But woods covered much of Aujum. The Athra lived in towns in the north, by the Gandvik Sea. Whalers. Had to pass through all these woods to reach them. Woods, and lands held by the Godwulfs.

  The only other way would have taken him through Skaldun lands, and Tyr would not go there. Not until he must.

  Njord grant him a ruin, a cave, something. Somewhere he could kindle a flame against the encroaching night. He’d never get a blaze going in this snow. The crunch of ice sounded off, and he froze in place. Had that come from behind him?

  Tyr spun, hand on his sword hilt. Naught back there but trees. Those, too, could house vaettir, watching. Angry at the trespass of a man in silent woods. Ash wives demanded sacrifices, and the only blood Tyr had was his own.

  Fuck.

  Traveling alone. Fool plan. Maybe he ought to have convinced Vili or Ve to come. Vili, especially. The berserk had good ears, a strong nose. Not like a varulf, but still. Better than Tyr.

  The sun would set in moments. He couldn’t keep wandering all night. In the dark he’d become too easy prey for the denizens here. Sighing, he stuck his torch in the snow, wedged it tight. He lit two more, placing each around the spot he’d chosen in a triangle. Then he began gathering pine leaves, branches, aught that might have a chance of burning. He had to try.

  All those he flung into a pile, then wedged a fourth torch in their midst, low enough for the flames to touch the tinder. By now, the sun had set, leaving him in almost total darkness save the torchlight.

  A howl broke through the night, seeming to come from all around him. The howl might have been a wolf. But just one made no sense. Wolves were pack hunters. Even the largest ones, dire wolves, always stuck together. A lone wolf meant something fell, rabid, or possessed by the mists. Or a lone varulf, somehow cast out of his pack. A varulf meant a foe with human-like intelligence and supernatural cunning. It would stalk him.

  Tyr dropped into a crouch by one of the torches and slid his sword free. Wait here. Let the wolf come to him. Normal wolf, even a dire wolf, it might not approach the flame. Varulf, though, it would make him prey. Maybe even come back with more of its kind.

  Hunt, or be hunted. He wrapped his palm around the torch haft. Carry that, and the varulf would see him coming a mile away. Without it, Tyr couldn’t see five feet. Mist, tree cover, they didn’t let much moonlight in. His grip tightened around his sword hilt. Make a choice.

  The obvious choice. The one Hymir would have had him choose. Risk it all, and win. The jotunn was a monster, an eater of man. And a survivor. Tyr groaned. No choice, really. He released the torch and stalked forward, staying low to the ground as he passed from tree to tree.

  Beyond the light of his torches, he paused. Fresh paw prints in the snow, definitely canine, and large. Large enough to be dire wolf or varulf. And it had passed close. Just outside the circle of his flame.

  Another growl.

  As he rose, Tyr’s eyes met those of a wolf, not a few feet away. Watching him from the mists. Tyr froze in place, caught in its gaze. He dared not look away and invite the beast to charge.

  The wolf growled, baring teeth far too long. Hot saliva dripped from the wolf’s mouth, casting up steam as it hit the snows.

  “Easy,” Tyr said, keeping his voice barely audible.

  The wolf advanced a step, its snarl deepening.

  The sudden shift of its weight was the only warning. It flung itself forward, faster than a wolf ought to be able. Tyr tumbled backward as it collided with him. Barely managed to fling his arm up in its path. The wolf bit down, fangs rending his chain armor like cloth. It tore through flesh as it bore him down. Tyr screamed in pain, a flash of red. His sword fell from his grasp.

  Too strong. Gnashing, growling, rending his flesh.

  His screams of agony ringing in his ears.

  Not like this. He had fought his way out of the darkness, out of the cold. Made himself a man instead of a monster. He would not end here in cold woods, alone.

  He shoved forward, now heedless of the wounds the wolf inflicted. With his bloody arm, he pushed it back enough to draw a dagger from his belt. He thrust it upward, into the wolf’s belly. The beast whimpered, immediately releasing his arm and falling over.

  Tyr flung himself atop the creature and rammed the dagger into its skull. Bucking, thrashing, though it ought to have been dead. And then stillness. The creature shuddered. Fur receded back into its skin. Joints popped as bones shifted, the corpse slowly reverting to human as the wolf spirit fled, driven back to whatever Otherworld it came from.

  The pain washed over him afresh, and he spilled forward. He needed to bind the wound. Groaning, he half walked, half crawled back to his makeshift camp. He grabbed his sword along the way.

  Varulf had mauled his arm. Vӧlva might have cut it off to save him. Fuck that. A warrior without his sword arm was better off dead. The kindling had caught aflame at last. Blood streaming out now. Whole fucking world spinning.

  He thrust the blade into the flame. Then he emptied his satchel. Bandages. Couldn’t be certain he’d stop bleeding though. Growling, he looked to the blade. Starting to glow hot. Fucking varulf.

  It would hurt. A lot.

  But Tyr had known pain. The jotunn had inflicted it. Forced Tyr to inflict worse still.

  He grabbed the sword and pressed the scalding blade to his arm.

  His screams echoed through the wood.

  Lost blood made a man delirious. Twisted like the mist-mad. Why wasn’t he dead yet? Ought to have died from those wounds. Lost in the night. No, no. Tyr was fucking strong.

  Forged in the cold by Hymir. Remade in the light by Borr. He wouldn’t die like this.

  Not like this.

  Torch in his working arm, he stumbled, crashed into a tree and fell in the snow. Blood had seeped through his b
andages and now stained the spot where he’d fallen. Die out here alone, rise again as a draug. Men said it, and Tyr had seen the vile creatures, denied death. Wakeful in eternal torment, and strong as a troll.

  Ahead, a lodge. A small house of logs. Delirium?

  Hunter’s lodge. Godwulf hunter, most like. Maybe even the varulf he’d just killed a few hours back.

  Or not. Could be another’s.

  Men didn’t turn away guests. No one wanted to be left in the cold. At night, though, alone in the woods—only a fool would let a stranger in. Vaettir could come to your door, ask a boon. Take your soul.

  He drew nearer. Plume of smoke rose from the lodge. Fire.

  Fire was life.

  And Tyr wasn’t ready to die. And if the hunter wanted to turn him away?

  He’d not die this night. If he fell, he could never fulfill his promise to Borr.

  He stumbled over to the house, pounded on the door. No answer. But shuffling inside.

  A simmering anger roiled in Tyr’s gut. Maybe the hunter knew the varulf who’d attacked him. Maybe not. Either way … “Open the fucking door!”

  “Be gone!” a woman shouted from within. “In Njord’s name I cast you out.”

  “I’m not a fucking vaettr. Open the door!”

  “Be gone, I say! There is naught for you here.”

  The heat in his gut filled his limbs. A surging rage born of delirium and hate. Tyr kicked the door. It shuddered on its hinges, wood splintering. He kicked again. It flew inward. The woman inside scrambled away, sword up before her.

  “I need shelter.”

  She looked to his arm, dripping blood through the bandage. Then she grasped her sword with both hands and took a step forward.

  Tyr growled, flung the torch at her head.

  She shrieked and batted it away with the sword. In the moment, he launched himself forward, caught her wrist. Twisted. The blade clattered to the floor. She writhed in his grasp, so he punched her with his right hand, then used his good hand to grab her by the throat when her head flopped back. He hefted her off the ground, squeezing.