by Matt Larkin
The door swung open, slammed against the wall, and made Frigg jump, spilling the paste all over the table. They both turned to see Fulla standing there, flushed and panting, eyes gleaming.
“You don’t know what news I’ve got, I dare say you don’t, now do you?” The red-haired servant bore a grin wide enough her face ought to have split in half like that.
Sigyn tapped a finger against her lip, but Frigg answered before she could say aught. “What’s happened?”
“Jarl Odin came back, he did. Not afore killing a jotunn, deader than dead down in the Sudurberks. Whole town is talking of it. The scouts, they wanted him to stay and feast, but did he now? No! That man just went tromping right on back to Wodan lands like he had an awful rush on him, not hearing of aught else.”
“Deader than dead?” Sigyn asked. “Are you certain? Maybe the jotunn was just plain dead.”
“Well I didn’t see the body myself now, but I can say I’m nigh positive, still.”
Sigyn rolled her eyes. A jotunn. Really. “The bluster of men often knows few bounds, and he’s not the first to claim to have slain some mystical monster. But a jotunn, here? If they exist at all, they dwell beyond the Midgard Wall.”
Sighing, Frigg swept the paste back into the mortar bowl. “So, he did not stop in the town at all?” His absence would make all Frigg’s schemes more difficult. Hard to sway a man who was not here. In fact, had he come here half as flush with his victory as Fulla seemed to be, Frigg might have drawn him to her bed. “I suppose we’ll have to go there, then.”
“I don’t think you want to do that,” Sigyn said. “Go chasing after him, and you show your impuissance in a time when the appearance of strength could mean everything.” Like herself, following after Hermod. Wanting to ride Snow Rabbit back there and rescue him from his urd, though he sought no rescue from her or anyone else. “He wishes to celebrate with his kin. Let him. When the revels fade, he will remember who helped him, or if he does not, then he wouldn’t have proved a stalwart ally in any event.”
“You don’t know what I saw in his future.”
Nor was she certain she should care. “Because you chose to keep it to yourself. Share if you wish.”
“Oh now!” Fulla said. “That sounds a wonderful idea, it does, my lady! Why you just tell us all about your visions, and we’ll help you understand them.”
Sigyn snorted. “Yes. We’ll help you understand.”
Frigg looked from her maid to Sigyn and back before her shoulders slumped, ever so slightly. “No, no. I must speak with Father. Odin’s fame will begin to spread now, embers sparking a wildfire.”
So she believed his boast? Sigyn shook her head, and Frigg strode from the room, Fulla chasing after her as always. Killed a jotunn. Had he claimed to have felled a troll, she might have given it at least some credence. But a jotunn? She found that about as believable as men who claimed to have fucked valkyries.
Sigyn folded her hands behind her back and stared at the runes carved into the walls. Frigg, all the vӧlvur, they thought to keep the secrets of old times among themselves, and thus they refused to teach any others to read the runes. Never even imagining a clever enough woman might begin to uncover their meanings on her own.
But symbols repeated in more than one place formed a pattern, and patterns were just puzzles with a few missing pieces. Find enough pieces and a woman could guess the shape, one answer leading unto the next until, with enough time, the picture of the whole clarified. The irony, of course, in Frigg’s refusal to teach her the runes, lay in Sigyn now being unable to elucidate to Frigg the ones the vӧlva herself did not seem to understand.
Her half sister had chosen this room to work in, knowing it important, and yet probably not even supposing why. In the chambers beneath Halfhaugr, the dvergar builders had recorded a history stretching back to ancient times. More surprising still, they seemed to predict or even prophesy events not yet unfolded. Something about the doom of gods, assuming she had correctly interpreted the other runes. A tale of destruction and of the someone or something that brought it about—a destroyer the dvergar feared. They wrote as if the gods were real, as if Vanaheim were a real place. If so, what could threaten Vanaheim?
Frigg’s table stood against the wall, obscuring some of those final runes. Her sister rarely left her alone down here, and Sigyn could not exactly go creeping around the fortress on her own. She glanced over her shoulder, then crept over to the doorway. No one out in the hall. She shut the door, then dragged that table away from the wall to give her an unobscured view of the runes.
Ages of dust caked the lower wall. She knelt and brushed it away with her hand. Cracks had broken along the ancient stone. But these runes, here, they appeared at the beginning of the story as well. She traced them with her fingers. Eaters? Devourers? Beings born of chaos and driven to engulf the world in that same anarchy.
At the start of the tale, the Vanir, the gods, had struggled against these beings who would feast on men. And here, at the end, the dvergar wrote of the return of devourers.
Her heart began to race.
Sigyn rose, glancing from the upper runes to the lower ones. The Vanir had fought terrible battles against these devourers. Jotunnar? She tapped a finger against her lip. The Vanir defeat of the devourers marked the dawn of the world of men. But naught lasted forever. So if these devourers were jotunnar, and if Odin had faced one … then according to the dvergar runes, they stood upon the cusp of the end times.
A chill wracked her, and she blew out a long breath. What was she doing, getting caught up in this religious nonsense? She laughed at herself. She had more important things to worry over than the words of some fallen civilization.
17
The tribe’s elkhounds heralded their return long before Odin and his brothers reached the Wodan town. By the time Odin reached the sentries, dozens of tribesmen and women bearing torches had rushed out to greet him. He was their jarl now, and they needed to see him as glorious. Especially if it meant no one looked too closely at Ve.
“The sons of Borr have returned,” he said, spreading his arms as if to take in the entire tribe. “And they are victorious!”
His incautious shout echoed through Eskgard, and with it rose a cheer from all around. Most nights he might have urged control lest the vaettir in the woods be drawn to the town. But they needed a celebration. Ve needed one most. Maybe enough mead and a night with a woman, and he’d been spouting poetic insults at Vili afresh.
“The jotunn Ymir is dead!” Odin shouted and hefted Gungnir. “I drove this through his eye and split his skull. And I ask you—who is your jarl?”
“Odin!” the crowd cheered. Shieldmaidens pressed forward, some winking salaciously at Odin, others eying his brothers. A pair of particularly voluptuous sisters each took one of Vili’s arms around their shoulders and guided him away.
Odin raised his arms, waving down the commotion. Then he slammed Gungnir into the ground, letting it stand as a reminder to all of what they had accomplished. “Then I ask you …” he said, when his people at last grew silent, “Where. Is. The mead?”
Another whoop filled the night, his people caught up in his own joy. On this night, let trolls and draugar and any other vaettir hear. Let them come and see the Ás tribe that had slain a jotunn. Let them know that on this night, men ruled. On this night, at least, mankind would not fear the darkness beyond the flame, would not fear the cold or the mist. Especially not the Hel-cursed mist.
In moments, a stein of mead graced every hand, including Odin’s, as a blonde girl slipped him a mug. The smith’s daughter, he thought, and by the sinewy tendons on her arm, like to follow in her father’s trade. If the look in her eye was any indication, she was a girl more than happy to serve her jarl.
Someone struck up a song, and soon the whole of Eskgard was caught in its fever, chanting along to ancient words calling back to ancestors long passed. They called their ghosts down from Valhalla, that their fathers and their fathers’ fathers mig
ht look with pride on the tribe this night. And did Father see him? Did he hold himself avenged, or did he blame Odin for Ve’s condition? Odin would not let Ve fall, not under any circumstance.
He’d only taken two steps when Heidr, the vӧlva of the Wodan tribe, pressed a hand to his chest. “You grow too bold.”
And here, the woman most apt to recognize the change in Ve. It made her a threat, but he forced himself to smile. He grabbed her around the waist and planted a kiss on her lips. Heidr probably had fifteen more winters than Odin’s own twenty-four, but she was comely. Not that he’d ever bed a vӧlva.
Heidr shoved Odin away. “You forget yourself, jarl!”
“Not yet, witch,” Odin said, then took another swig of mead. “But a couple more of these and just maybe. You might try it. If not with me, then for the gods’ sakes, with someone.”
He knew better, of course. A man would need more than a few drinks to risk falling under a witch’s spell.
“You still behave like the child you always were,” Heidr said and took another step away from him. Odin swore her glare ought to be enough to melt snow. “Your father was a man who understood—actions have consequences. You have a responsibility to your people now. Your gallivanting is apt to bring the wrath of the vaettir down on us, and though you think yourself prepared for the harsh realities of life, you are not, my jarl. Not even close.”
Odin waved her away. He had no time for lectures. Besides, no doubt a lass or three would be eager to join him in his bed. Maybe he could still find the smith’s daughter. He waded through the celebration, slapping his kin on the shoulders as he passed. All raised mugs to him. Good folk. Folk who knew life was short. Moments were all you had. Hel-cursed vӧlva probably had her arse squeezed so tight she couldn’t pop a fart to save her life. The world was what it was: cold and bloody. A good death was the best one could hope for—that and lots of fighting and fucking before one got there. Odin planned to make a fair account for himself before valkyries came for his soul—and he couldn’t do that running scared of what might lurk in the night.
Times like this, in the heart of winter, nights were long. Cold.
Feral grunts sounded from Vili’s tent, followed by the sound of one woman’s giggles and another’s cries of pleasure. Odin shook his head. His brother didn’t waste any time. Vili had two bastard children already, which seemed to suit him nicely. The man often paraded through town, a toddler on each shoulder, boasting of his conquests on the battlefield and in his tent. Knowing Vili, he probably hoped some of the bastards would grow up to be berserkir like himself. Not that Odin would mind—the more berserkir a tribe had, the more influence they could win. Berserkir and varulfur were savage, but savagery had its uses.
A bonfire blazed in the heart of the town.
Nights like this, Father had sat in front of the fire, telling tales of the Njarar War, of his travels among the other tribes, legends of Vingethor and the Great March, or myths of the lost runeblades of ancient times. Father had been nigh a skald himself, and Ve took after him that way. Odin shook himself, trying to force the image from his mind.
Someone offered Odin a slab of elk flesh, which he took with thanks. The rest of the animal roasted over the fire. Grease dripped from it, sending sizzles of smoke into the sky and an aroma fit for gods wafting around. Odin bit off a hefty piece, savoring the steaming juices as they dribbled down his chin. Unlike his brothers, he didn’t wear much of a beard, and for just this reason. He’d never liked feeling it sticky with grease and fat. Of course, Vili kept one for just that reason—he said if he got hungry in the middle of the night he need only lick his whiskers.
In the shadows, just beyond the firelight, sat Loki. The same lass, the smith’s daughter, seemed to be trying her wiles on Loki now. Poor girl wasn’t having much luck, though, from the look of it. Loki acknowledged every word she said without ever meeting her gaze. He just kept staring into the fire as if it held more of interest than a woman’s hips. Damned strange man, that foreigner. Odin’s brother, now.
Mug in one hand, hunk of elk in another, Odin marched over to them. “What’s your name, lass?”
“Jorunn, lord.”
“Well, Jorunn, I need a few moments to speak with my brother here.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “I’m sure you understand.” The last thing he wanted was to make her feel rejected twice in one night. Nobody deserved that.
The girl blew out a breath but nodded. From the smell, she’d had more mead than Odin had. Good for her. Course, he’d have to fix that. No girl of seventeen winters was out-drinking him.
She strolled back toward the fire with admirable poise, only a slight sway in her steps. Or she could have been swinging her arse that way to get his attention. Which it had. He’d not mind a closer look, in fact.
“So,” Odin said, then cleared his throat. “Don’t you like girls? That lass seemed fair eager to share her warmth with you tonight.”
Loki chuckled. “A drunk child, eager to share her warmth with any who would have her, just so she wouldn’t have to feel alone in this world.”
“That’s pretty much what everyone wants, right?”
“After a fashion,” Loki said. “But I doubt you came to ask me about my sexual appetites.”
Odin snorted. “No.” No, he’d left Ve wandering the town as a man in a daze. Eating, at least, but still it soured Odin’s mood. Let the people have their feast. They did not know, could not know, the fresh grief Odin had brought among them. In avenging his father, he had placed his own brother in jeopardy, no doubt further agitating Father’s shade. “I have to find that damned amulet. Do you know of it?”
Loki poked the fire with a stick and stared at it a while before answering. “The wise man might have asked such a question before agreeing to the quest.”
Odin groaned. “I already have a fucking vӧlva to lecture me. Wisdom is for elders and witches. Men have to take action. Wait too long, and opportunity burns away.” He took another swig from the mead and waggled his fingers over the fire. “Burns away like smoke. And you didn’t answer the question.”
“And here you claim not to value wisdom.”
“Bah. Speak plainly, brother. You know these things, things about the Old Kingdoms, call yourself a student of history. Do you know of the Singasteinn, or don’t you?”
Loki sighed. “There is a tale spoken of by but a few vӧlvur, that long before the mist, the seas had swallowed the world. Men had little, but one made a deal with a mermaid. She drew up the most perfect pearl from the depths of the ocean and ensorcelled it, forged an amulet from it, one designed to grant the wearer power in a world so inundated. And when the seas had receded, still the amulet remained. Lost to the tribes that once held it, found by others, and lost yet again, down through the ages. But those who touch the Art are drawn to artifacts created with it, and such things rarely remain lost forever.”
“Uh huh.” Odin licked the last juices from the elk meat off his fingers. “That helps me about as much as a cock made of straw. What I want to know is what I’m supposed to do about the fucking thing. You’re the one with all the answers, so tell me what to do.”
“No man has all the answers, Odin. Some just have better questions.”
Odin lurched to his feet, scowling at the foreigner. He leaned close. “I do not have time for games or riddles. You know what I’m dealing with, and if you can’t or won’t help me save my brother, I’ll find someone who will.”
At that, he spun and left Loki to stare in the damned flame.
The feast had served well enough to keep the others distracted, drunk and thinking little of Ve. But that might not last forever. If the people learned of Ve’s condition they would banish him into the mist. Odin could not let that happen. And if he could just find these Niflungar, that ghost would solve his problems.
“I swear, Father,” he mumbled under his breath. “I swear I’ll save him.”
He had not gone far when Tyr cut him off. Father’s champion. And indeed, T
yr had helped train Odin with weapons, helped him grow into the warrior he was. Tyr’s fame had spread throughout Aujum. Could he help Ve? Certainly his loyalty to Father had seemed absolute. And to Borr’s sons?
Odin clapped Tyr on the shoulder, drawing him to walk beside him. “We did it.”
“I heard. Skalds will sing of your feat until the end of time.”
Well. Odin liked the sound of that. “Yes, but now I face another challenge.”
Tyr nodded. “Glad to hear you say it. Consider Idunn’s challenge to you. Your fame in slaying the jotunn will spread. Strengthen your claim to becoming king. Still, you’ll need supporters. I spoke with your cousin Annar. The Athra find themselves in difficult times. If you were to—”
“What the fuck, man? I already told Idunn I have neither time nor desire to claim any throne.” Was that what Tyr had been doing with his time? Odin scowled and shook his head. Being jarl was burden enough.
“You must talk to the Vanr, Odin. You cannot ignore the words of the gods. It is madness.”
Idunn. Could she truly be a goddess? In the chaos of the hunt and of Ve’s condition, Odin had given her little enough thought. But she had offered—had claimed to have an apple of Yggdrasil. One that would grant eternal life. Eternal life … “Where is she?”
Tyr nodded, obviously pleased, then pointed to one of the outlying fires. “Speak to her. Then we must talk of the Athra.”
Odin shook his head and stormed over to the fire where the supposed Vanr sat, laughing with a pair of shieldmaidens, passing around the drinking horn.
Idunn looked up at his approach and crooked a mischievous half smile.
“Walk with me,” he said. “Please.”
She whispered something to the nearest shieldmaiden, something that set the woman chuckling and winking at Odin. Idunn rose then. Odin snatched a burning branch from the fire as a makeshift torch, and wandered toward the edge of the town, Idunn drifting by his side.