The Apples of Idunn

by Matt Larkin

  The foreign guide yanked Odin back onto the platform, then slapped him on the shoulder. “Not an auspicious way to begin the hunt.”

  Odin glanced back at his younger brothers. The snow he’d disturbed could well have started an avalanche, but they’d come off easy, buried only up to their calves. He’d hear worse of it over the fire, no doubt.

  As soon as Loki released Odin, Odin slipped down onto his arse. Hot blood streamed out over his trousers and stained the ice platform. He prodded at the wound on his leg. “Fuck.”

  The wind howled at him, like something calling out from Niflheim. Odin crawled to the edge, peered out over that platform. Through dark and blinding snow, he couldn’t see aught below. Hel would have had him if not for Loki. As it was, Hel had his pack. His extra torches, his food.

  Vertigo seized him, and he backed away, suddenly overcome by the magnitude of what lay before them. Odin coughed, choked. They stood moments away from a clash fit for one of Ve’s tales. He had no time to let dread or the pain of his wounds weigh him down.

  Ve scrambled down toward the platform where Odin had fallen, snow skidding beneath his feet. “Are you injured, brother?”

  “No. I covered my trousers in red war paint.”

  The skald knelt to examine Odin’s wound, shaking his head. “You cannot go on.”

  “Like Hel,” Odin said, then spat into the night. “Father’s murderer is out there, and every heartbeat he lives is an insult.”

  Ve shrugged. “Better to live with an insult than die of hubris.”

  Odin shoved him away. “Father named you a man nigh ten winters back, and still you think like a boy.” He forced himself up, unsteady as he felt.

  A hand on his shoulder pushed him back down. Loki. “Whether you intend to go forward or back, I must bind the wound. You cannot walk like this. You’d bleed out over the mountain.”

  “Man really is a fucking vӧlva,” Vili grumbled.

  Loki set to tying Odin’s leg with bandages and foul-smelling herbs from his back. He paid Vili no mind, which only further enraged the berserk.

  “Not got a damned thing to say for yourself? You admit to unmanliness? Maybe you’d rather have a boy than a girl?”

  “Just shut up, Vili,” Ve snapped. “We don’t have a vӧlva here. If Loki can save Odin’s leg, let the man try.”

  “Not a fucking man at all. Probably got a trench instead of a cock.”

  “I have to stitch this,” Loki said, still ignoring the berserk.

  Odin gritted his teeth and nodded. The foreigner knew what he was about, treating Odin’s wound quickly, with as few stitches as possible. Would have been better if he’d had some mead. Would have been better if this had not happened. Fuck.

  “It strikes me our guide must have seen a great many battles,” Ve said.

  Loki paused for the barest instant. “More than you can imagine.” He bit off the stitch, then wrapped another bandage around Odin’s leg.

  “This stranger has brought this upon us,” Vili grumbled. “The storm, the foul urd, all of it. He acts like a woman, speaks like a vӧlva, and invites the wrath of vaettir. Doesn’t know his fucking place.”

  Loki met Odin’s gaze and offered no answer to Vili, which only further set the berserk to grumbling.

  When Loki had finished, Odin stood, wobbling for just a moment. Gungnir gave him strength. Its power filled him, dulled the pain. With it, he could best any foe.

  “We must turn back,” Ve said. “The storm is getting worse, half our food is gone, and that injury will slow you.”

  Odin sneered. “Then go back, coward. My father was murdered by that fucking jotunn.” He thumped a finger on Ve’s chest. “He came down off the mountain and killed him and everyone else in Unterhagen.” He thumped Ve again. “I will not allow Father’s ghost to writhe in torment one more night. I will not!” He shoved the boy for emphasis. “If you will not fight, I will do it alone. But there is no turning back. Not for me.”

  Vili cuffed Ve on the back of the head and started to climb again.

  Odin followed after him. No turning back. Never.

  12

  The Gandvik formed the northern border of Aujum. The Athra tribe occupied a half dozen small towns there. Fishing, whaling, hunting seals. Sometimes, they crossed the sea to Sviarland for trade. Or to raid. Borr had said all the Ás tribes once lived on the Black Sea as the Athra now did on the Gandvik. Closest to the ways of their ancestors, perhaps.

  The largest town, Breivik, served as the jarl’s home and had done so for over a generation. Tyr had come here oft enough with Borr. Once, before she died, Bestla had come here to visit her parents. A stone wall, crumbling but still thick, surrounded the town on all but the sea side. Tyr had not reached the gate when a man skied out to meet him.

  Big man, thick, bristly mustache. A warrior for certain. Didn’t go for a weapon, but archers stood up on those walls.

  “Who comes here?”

  “Tyr. Thegn of the Wodanar.”

  The man grunted. “Your name is known, champion of Borr. I am Geir, thegn to Jarl Annar.”

  “I need to see him.”

  Geir nodded and beckoned Tyr to follow. The man shed his skis once within the town wall. Tyr unstrapped his own snowshoes and left them by the gate.

  “You’re wounded,” Geir said.

  “Varulf attack.”

  “Many of those of late. Not so many men walking away from them, though.”

  Tyr grunted. Varulfur were men possessed by vaettir. They died harder than other men, but they died still.

  Geir led him past the shore where men were cutting blubber from a seal corpse. Bloody, foul-smelling mess, but it would give them oil. Make for a safer winter than most tribes had.

  “Ever hit finfolk?”

  “Wereseals?” Geir grunted. “Those are real?”

  Tyr shrugged. Far as he knew.

  Geir shook his head. “Not in the Gandvik. Fishermen, whalers, they claim serpents live in the deeps. Few swear to have seen one. Most don’t believe though. Who escapes a serpent, right?”

  Tyr nodded. Even jotunnar feared dragons. Such monstrosities were best left well alone.

  Annar occupied an old hall, one built of stone. Thanks to braziers spaced every ten feet or so on each side, the hall didn’t seem oppressive. A balcony rimmed the main hall. Windows up there were shuttered now, but Tyr had seen them open in summer. At the moment, a cluster of women stood up there. Staring as he trod down the hall.

  The jarl, son of Bestla’s sister, did not sit on a throne but rather paced about his hall. Every time he reached the right side, he’d spin and fling a knife at a shield hanging from a pillar. Men stood about Annar, offering the occasional bit of insight. Enough to tell the Athra did not fare well.

  “My lord,” Geir said. “Tyr of the Wodanar.”

  Annar paused midthrow, looked to Tyr. Then he turned back to finish hurling his knife. It clattered off the shield and landed on the floor. Annar swung his fist in obvious frustration. Only then did he turn to meet Tyr. He strode over, clapped him on the shoulder, and guided him away from the main hall, into a back room.

  The jarl frowned at Tyr’s arm. “Eir!” he bellowed down the hall.

  A moment later, a middle-aged woman shuffled in, took one look at Tyr, and then fled.

  Annar beckoned Tyr to sit on a bench. “Gone to get her healing supplies. Best vӧlva in Aujum, men say, though she denies it. Varulf?”

  “Your vӧlva?”

  “Frey’s flaming sword, no! Varulf did that to your arm, I’m asking.”

  “Huh. Yes. A few days back from here.”

  Annar clucked his tongue. “And you’re still standing. Impressive, warrior. Always winning so much fame.”

  “How did you know about the varulf?”

  The jarl sat in a chair across from Tyr. “Hairy bastards are everywhere now. Encroaching on our lands.”

  “Godwulfs?”

  Annar spread his hands. “One or two stray wolves, even a
pack, I might think them wild. Gone to the mist. No, this is deliberate, a challenge. As soon as Borr died, they began pushing their borders. We can’t fight them at night when they become wolves, of course. And in day, they’re armed with the finest weapons, with mail that can turn even a strong spear.”

  “Huh. I saw a huntress with a woven iron sword.”

  “You killed her, I hope?”

  Tyr scowled and stared into the nearest brazier. Annar said naught else. The vӧlva, Eir, returned. She began unwinding the crude bandages Tyr had wrapped around his arm. After a moment, she hissed at the mangled mess.

  “Can’t see how you warded off rot, save the luck of Vanaheim. Someone there loves you.”

  The Vanr … Idunn. Could her power have helped him in his quest? He shook the thought away. The goddess was helping, but not like that.

  “About Borr …”

  Annar sighed and pressed his palms against his eyes. “I know it, man. I would have come to his funeral given any such chance. Only, with the wolves pressing in on us … Safe passage to Wodan lands would be hard to find. Worse, I’d leave my people without their jarl. Is that why you’re here? Odin is angry? Of course he is. Please explain to him, I had no choice, and I meant Borr no disrespect.”

  Eir smeared some foul-smelling paste on Tyr’s wounds. For an instant it stung like fire, then gave way to a welcome warmth.

  Tyr watched Annar.

  The jarl shifted, obviously uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “We’ve lost a lot of men, hunters, fighters. Fishermen even, if they tried to bring a catch ashore too late in the day or too far from the town. Surely Odin will understand.”

  Even the goddess Idunn herself seemed hard-pressed to predict Odin’s actions or reactions. Offered the chance at immortality and kingship, the fool had scorned her. Favored the foreigner. But Odin would be king. Would fulfill Borr’s legacy if Tyr had to carry him to his throne kicking and screaming.

  And to be king, he needed his cousin. Needed Annar to owe him a great debt.

  “I can help you,” Tyr said. “If we hunt down one or two of these raiding parties, the Godwulfs may decide to look for weaker prey. Turn their eyes away from the Athra.”

  With luck, maybe they’d go after the Skaldun.

  “You’d fight by our side?”

  Tyr grunted. “With your blessing, I will lead your warriors to victory. But you, Annar, you will owe Odin and the Wodanar for this.”

  Despite the slight hesitation in his eyes, Annar nodded.

  Good.

  Kill a few varulfur, and one tribe might already support Odin at the Althing. Now there just remained the problem of slaying well-armed men with superhuman strength and durability. Small problem.

  13

  Every step sent a lance of pain through his wounded shins and his thigh. Pain was good. Pain meant he had life. It meant he hadn’t gone numb from the cold. It meant there was still time. He could not feel his face. Even his thick fur cloak provided scant protection against the scathing chill of this storm. Ice stung his eyes.

  The path had leveled some. He dug Gungnir’s butt into the ground, heaving himself forward. Just keep going. Father was counting on him. Father.

  Father.

  Was he watching?

  The ground rumbled beneath him, nigh costing him his balance. One hand on the spear and the other on an ice-coated boulder, he steadied himself.

  The mountain trembled again, as though it wasn’t finished with its little earthquake. It went still. Then it trembled again. A dusting of snow skittered off a rock precipice above, almost blending with the flurries. Stillness. Then another quake.

  The four men exchanged glances. Loki pointed to a pass just beyond the next rise.

  Ymir was here. Finally.

  Valkyries could very well have their souls before sunrise. If so, Odin sure as Hel was not going to be the only one dying on this mountain.

  Father. Watch.

  He scrambled toward the precipice wall.

  Vili and Ve didn’t need to be told what Odin planned. They made for the pass, Vili casting aside his furs even as he ran.

  More snow fell from the overhang, the barrage of hoar now constant, making Odin’s climb nigh blind. Gripping Gungnir, he felt for handholds with his free hand. Aught that could support his weight. He had to get to higher ground. He would look this jotunn in the eye before he cut it down to size.

  And his brothers—Odin spared them a glance. Vili’s back arched. He dropped to all fours, roaring in pain and perhaps joy at the change. His muscles rippled beneath his skin, shifting, tearing at stomach-rending angles. Tufts of brown fur sprouted from him as he released the bear spirit inside him. Had the giant ever seen a berserk? If not, he was in for a nasty surprise.

  A peak of the mountain moved, just beyond the edge of the pass. Not a peak … a horn, at least five feet long. A horn of granite. Odin’s handholds vibrated as Ymir rose above the pass. The jotunn turned, as if slowly taking in Odin’s brothers. Clinging frost fled its mouth, like the mists of Niflheim that engulfed the world. Its skin was tinted the icy blue of a man in the throes of deathchill.

  Vili, a full bear now, roared and charged the monster. Ve hung back, but only for a moment, before raising his battle-axe and rushing after his brother. And Loki … nowhere to be found. Fair enough—their guide had agreed only to help them find the one responsible for Father’s death. It fell to the brothers to avenge Father.

  Odin yanked himself onto the plateau, then scrubbed frost from his eyes. He’d have sworn the jotunn sneered. He hefted something—a boulder. Or a hammer with a head the size of a boulder. Vili charged right in.

  “Hel’s frozen tits,” Odin mumbled.

  Ymir twisted, surprisingly fast for a being of its size. An underhand swing of its hammer slammed into Vili with a sickening crack. The bear flew through the air at least twenty feet before smashing into the mountain slope. The jotunn’s laughter echoed off the mountain peaks, reverberating across what seemed the whole of Midgard.

  Ve screamed wildly, hewing his battle-axe into the jotunn’s leg. From Ymir’s reaction, or lack thereof, Odin suspected his brother wasn’t even cutting through the iron shin guards.

  Fucking jotunn was going to splatter his brothers without breaking a sweat. Odin backed to the edge of the plateau. Even with a running start, he’d never make that jump. The jotunn was simply too far. And a few more heartbeats and Ve wouldn’t be around to distract it. Odin reversed his grip on Gungnir. A good throw. A throw the skalds would tell stories of.

  The jotunn swooped down and snatched Ve in one hand. Odin’s little brother froze, caught in a fist bigger than he was. His face turned red. The jotunn was squeezing the life out of him. Crushing his bones to pulp.

  Now or never. Odin took off running. His feet skidded on the ice. The pain in his legs threatened to tear them out from under him. Didn’t matter. Just momentum. Just a moment. He flung Gungnir with all his might. The spear soared faster than it should have, faster and farther than any throw a man could make. The missile shrieked through the air, and Ymir turned at the sound. Too late. Gungnir shot right through the jotunn’s eye.

  The behemoth bellowed, releasing Ve, who plummeted to the icy slope below. Vili might survive such a fall, but Ve was only human, like Odin himself. His little brother. A pit opened in Odin’s stomach, and time slowed as Ve fell. As Odin watched, powerless.

  From the shadows beneath the plateau, Loki jumped forward and caught Ve in his arms, rolling as he hit the ground.

  Odin’s breath caught. He’d thought their guide had fled.

  Ymir stumbled, pitching forward, headfirst toward the plateau. Odin had sworn an oath in Father’s name. All three brothers had. Time to make good.

  Odin drew a deep breath. Set his jaw. And he ran.

  He leapt from the plateau onto the jotunn’s shoulder, then caught the haft of his spear. His own weight yanked it from the bastard’s eye. Ymir howled, clutching his face, then fell to his knees. The movement sh
ook Odin free, and his boots slipped on the jotunn’s blood-slickened armor. He fell fifteen feet and landed in a snow drift. White filled his vision as his weight flung him deep into the drift.

  Could have been worse, he supposed. Could have been rocks down there.

  Odin kicked the snow, doing little but burying himself further. It’d take him forever to dig his way out of this.

  Ymir screamed again, this time the wail of a tortured beast needing to be put out of its misery. Odin clawed his way upward, snow giving way grudgingly, if at all. He was missing the damned battle. Some jarl he was.

  And then a hand appeared before his face.

  He accepted the proffered grip, and Loki pulled him out of the drift. Ve had hamstrung Ymir and was now hacking at the jotunn’s elbow. Loki pointed at Gungnir, which was sticking from the snow several feet away. Blood and gore streaked down it, a crimson stain spreading across the once pure snow.

  Yes. Time to finish this.

  Odin’s legs nearly gave out beneath him as he trod toward his ancestral weapon.

  He yanked the spear free, cracking blood that had already frozen to the ice. Ymir turned his one remaining eye toward Odin as he stalked over, pace steady, if slow for his own wounds. In that eye, Odin could see the beast knew the truth. And he was scared.

  As he should be.

  “Father!” Odin bellowed, his voice echoing off the mountain. He thrust the spear through Ymir’s forehead.

  Part II

  Fourth Moon

  14

  Arm raised against the blinding snow, Odin pushed forward. Ice crystals stung his forehead, ears, and any other exposed flesh they could find. The storm had not abated with Ymir’s death. In truth, the blizzard had worsened, as if rejecting the frost jotunn’s demise—or feasting upon his soul and growing fat on it.