The Apples of Idunn

by Matt Larkin

  The horse had no saddle, so he slung himself over bareback and tucked Gungnir in front of him. A hand on the horse’s mane to steady himself, he turned to Loki. “Tell them I will return soon.” Odin hesitated. “Brother. I need you to guard the last two apples well. Save them until I decide who most to trust.”

  “I will.”

  Odin tossed him the satchel.

  This was madness, more like than not. But Odin needed answers. He could not save Ve without knowledge. He kicked his heels into the horse, and it bucked. Odin slipped from the sudden motion and spilled over the horse’s arse, landing behind. The deep snow cushioned his fall, leaving him dazed only a moment.

  “Gods-damned beast!” he spat.

  Loki shook his head and stood with hands behind his back, saying naught, but raising an eyebrow when Odin looked to him. Earn the horse’s trust. Stupid animal.

  After brushing himself off, Odin moved to Sleipnir’s head and placed a hand along it. “Please.”

  The horse neighed. Hopefully a good sign.

  He leapt back on the horse again and pressed his knees together. “Take me to the Norns, Sleipnir. Please.”

  The horse took off at a sudden trot, forcing Odin to lean low and clutch his mane. Sleipnir darted around trees and obstacles with no guidance from Odin. It was fast—much faster than a horse had any right to be. On and on it charged. Trees swept past in a blur.

  His mount moved at unearthly speed.

  Apt, as his quest was like to take him beyond the bounds of Midgard.

  An hour’s travel, and Odin recognized an old ruin as they passed it. Impossible—that place was eighteen miles from the town. It should have taken nigh unto a day to reach it. Sleipnir charged onward, never slowing. The horse ran up the steep incline of a hill and leapt right off it, clearing the distance to an icy precipice ahead.

  “Whoa! What in Njord’s name are you doing?” Odin yanked the horse to a stop. “I want to get there in one piece. If that means we get there a bit slower—”

  A low growl rumbled through the hills, cutting him off. Odin turned to the side in time to see a snow bear rise up on its hind legs. He fell backward, trying to clear the bear’s claws, but they swept across his shoulder. The claws ripped through his furs, mail, and skin like stew. Sudden pain blurred his vision, and the force of the blow hurled him aside.

  Sleipnir snorted, raising hooves to kick the snow bear. It backed away under the assault, then roared. Gods, he should have been more attentive. He crawled forward, pulling himself toward Gungnir where it had fallen, twenty feet away. He was never going to make it.

  The bear roared again, moving in on him. Odin pulled himself to his feet, fighting the pain in his shoulder. He would die standing, a man of the Aesir. The animal reared up on its hind legs, bringing both paws down on Odin. Odin screamed back at it in defiance. Its forelegs fell on him like boulders.

  And he caught them.

  His feet dug into the snow as the impact drove him backward, but he held up the bear’s legs. His arms ached with the struggle of keeping the beast away. It snapped its jaws at him, snarling. Gods … He was holding up a bear. He was holding up a fucking bear! Odin roared right back at the animal.

  “I am Odin! God among men!”

  For a brief instant, the beast recoiled, as if shocked a man was matching its strength. In response, rage and power boiled inside Odin.

  Sleipnir reared up, kicking the bear in the back of the head. Dazed, it shook its maw. Odin dropped the bear’s legs, and it slumped down. Damned animal could have killed him. Odin punched it right in the nose. Bones crunched under the blow, and the bear whimpered. Odin roared at it again and landed a wild haymaker atop its skull. The impact stung his fist and actually cracked open the bear’s skull. It collapsed into the snow, blood oozing from its mouth.

  Hel’s frozen tits. He’d just punched a bear to death.

  His legs gave out from under him as his newfound strength seeped away and he fell to the snow. Sudden pain in his shoulder raged. His hands had gone numb. He’d probably cracked his own bones with that absurd stunt. He was losing blood from the gouges in his shoulder. Thanks to Sleipnir’s speed, he was far from Eskgard.

  He had to get up. The horse nuzzled him, eliciting another grunt of pain. “Yeah. Thank you.”

  Sleipnir was offering his head, wasn’t he? Odin grabbed on, and Sleipnir rose, pulling Odin to his feet. Then the horse knelt down in the snow, allowing Odin to mount more easily. First, he paused to retrieve Gungnir, then mounted.

  He’d seriously underestimated his new friend. “Thank you,” he said again.

  And would the apple stop him from bleeding to death? He supposed he would soon find out.

  23

  The ice spread out over the Gandvik Sea for a dozen feet or more. It created a shelf Tyr now walked on, with Annar. His journey back to Athra-held lands had felt different. Easier. A new strength rose in him, an endurance. As if the apple had reinforced his muscles.

  Not only would he live forever, but be more than human. How was he supposed to feel about that?

  In the distance, a whale breached.

  Both men drew to a stop, watching.

  “Whalers are too far out. They’ll be cursing themselves for missing that beauty. Would have fed us through the rest of winter.”

  Tyr grunted. Though they stared at the deep, no other sign of the whale arose. Mist covered the sea. You couldn’t see far anyway.

  “You’ll have to send him back there,” Tyr said at last.

  “So Odin agreed to it?”

  “Ugh.” Odin had barely heard two words about the Athra and the Godwulfs. Make me king, he’d said. Well, Tyr would do it.

  “I thought you hated using the lying traitor.”

  “I do.” Tyr spat on the ice. “Fucker should be hanged. But we have more to lose by not acting.”

  “Suppose we do. Doesn’t seem like you, though.”

  And how well did this jarl think he knew Tyr? With a scowl, he turned to look back at the town. “It’s not just me. There’s a hand guiding mine and Odin’s both.”

  “Oh?”

  Men might deny it. Call him a liar or a madman. But some might believe. Maybe it would give them an edge. And Hel, Tyr needed to tell someone. “A Vanr is driving this.”

  “Ah. You mean a vӧlva. That Heidr, yes?” Annar started back for the town, Tyr following.

  “She’s dead. I mean an actual Vanr came to us. Asked Odin to do something.”

  Annar faltered now, looked back. “Troll shit. What are you playing at?”

  “Not much of a tafl player.” He paused. “Idunn, she came to Odin.”

  “The goddess?” Annar chuckled. “Next you’ll tell me my cousin fucked her too.”

  Ah. Well, not Odin. Not so far as Tyr knew. He frowned, shook his head. “Whether you believe or not does not matter overmuch. Something does matter. World is changing, Annar. Odin’s going to change it more.”

  “Meaning?”

  Tyr walked in silence until they reached the fence around Annar’s hall. He leaned on that fence. Go inside. Let the traitor go free and hope he spoke the truth. Bold move. And as Tyr had said, he wasn’t much for tafl.

  “I’m here for Odin, helping you save your people. One day soon, Odin will come himself. Come and call the Althing. Not to try any great crime. He will stake his claim as King of the Aesir. You will support him.”

  Annar coughed, looked around. “He is my cousin, yes—”

  Tyr looked down at the log forming a horizontal beam of the fence. Anger swelled in him. Heat. Power. He slammed his fist on it. The log cracked and splintered. Whole chunk of the fence crashed down.

  Everyone in earshot paused, staring.

  Tyr had wanted Annar’s attention. Hadn’t really expected that dramatic an effect.

  “Odin is chosen by the Vanir. And if you would have us as allies, I will have your oath.”

  Annar swallowed, looked at the fence, at his people. Shook his head. “Gods.
So be it. I give my word. Stop the Godwulfs, and Odin will have my voice at the Althing.”

  That put two tribes in line.

  Seven more would need to be won over.

  24

  Sleipnir carried Odin far and fast in the morn, and the next day beyond that, and again. The days blurred as much as the miles, and they passed far beyond aught he had ever known. The eight-legged horse carried him far to the east, beyond all Aesir lands and back through Bjarmaland where the tribes had lived before the Great March of Vingethor. And beyond, in mountains that stretched into the sky and covered the land as far as he could see. On one of those peaks he’d paused, looking out at the world above the mists, a world stretching so much farther than he’d ever imagined. And over that mist, running through the heart of the mountains, rose a wall of impossible height and thickness.

  The sight left him trembling, shivering atop the monstrous steed. Skalds and vӧlvur spoke of the fortification with the reverence of the works of gods one never expected to lay eyes upon. But the stories were true. Out of these mountains, the Vanir had raised the Midgard Wall to enclose the middle world, shut it out from Utgard, the outer world. Beyond that wall lay the realms of utter chaos, the wilds of Jotunheim and Njord alone might know what else. And to serve its purpose, the wall must run for thousands of miles, around the Hyrcanian Sea and beyond.

  Far-wandering travelers told stories of Serkland, a realm of savage foreigners across a mighty sea and thus outside the sphere of Midgard. If those Serklanders were human, did they worship other gods? Were there other gods besides the Vanir?

  At last, they climbed a mountain peak he would have called impassible on his own. But the horse’s every step fell surefooted. Icy winds bit at Odin. They had passed through the chill of the mist and above it, and now he clung to Sleipnir as much for warmth as to keep his seat.

  His stomach growled. The apple sustained him, even while his supplies dwindled, and he found himself eating but a few mouthfuls at a time. Even once he found these Norns, still he would have to return to the known lands.

  “I truly hope Loki knows what he’s doing.”

  The horse snorted.

  “Yes. I trust you.” Absurd, one-sided conversation.

  His breath frosted the air, and his cheeks had gone numb. This place would be the death of him, apple or not, unless he found warmth quickly.

  The horse followed a winding route up the mountain that had begun to look suspiciously like a path. At last a hall came into view—a hold carved right into the mountain. An ice-crusted overhang kept the snow from gathering too heavily before iron double doors taller than he was. Runes like those he’d seen in the Odlingar castle covered them.

  Odin raised his fist to knock, but the doors creaked open on their own. Given the choice, he’d have preferred to avoid sorcery. But then, he needed these sisters. Loki claimed they were keepers of past and future. Perhaps that meant they could guide him toward his destiny. Like as not, though, they might try to steer it. Either way, if they could tell him of the Niflungar, he had no choice but to descend into the foreboding passage.

  Inside, a row of braziers lined each side of the hall, which descended farther back into the mountain than he could see.

  Gungnir in hand, Odin glanced back at Sleipnir, who neighed. “Right. Get on with it, huh?” He clenched his fist at his side and strode through the threshold. He’d gone no more than a dozen steps before the doors swung closed behind him.

  “Show yourselves, vӧlvur!” His voice echoed down the hold, making him cringe.

  No answer returned to him.

  Even with the doors shut, he could see, thanks to the braziers, though he didn’t relish wandering through the dark hall. The flickering flames cast pitiful light that gave way to deep stretches of shadows, all dancing to an unheard song.

  Were these Norns human vӧlvur, or were they vaettir? The latter, he began to suspect, as he pressed on down the sloping path. He walked longer than he could track the time. Hours, perhaps. Still the path went on and on; still the braziers continued. He should have been well under the mountain by now.

  The apple had given him stamina beyond mortal limits, he knew, for despite the hunger and the distance, he still had energy to carry on.

  “Go up the mountain, go down the mountain,” he mumbled. And he’d have to repeat the whole process to get out, wouldn’t he? Had Loki known about this when making his fool metaphor with the rock? Most like he did.

  Odin could boast of his journey here, but the tribe would think it just that—a boast. A hall carved into a mountain, and the Sisters of Fate? Indeed, why anyone would choose to live here was beyond him. What was it Loki had said? That Sleipnir would carry him across Midgard and beyond, to the lands of the Norns. Did this mean he had somehow passed outside the mortal realm into another world? He had reached perilously close to the Midgard Wall, so he might well have crossed some other boundary between worlds.

  Though the hall was shut against the mountain wind, a sudden chill passed through him, and he pulled his cloak tighter. More than once Odin caught himself looking back over his shoulder. Maybe it was a mistake to seek out these Sisters of Fate. Maybe he should return to Sleipnir. But if he did so, if he abandoned this path, he had no way to find the Niflungar. Not in the time the ghost had given him. Already the days had begun to slip away from him. This remained his best chance. Fast as his new steed could run, still it had taken nigh unto half a moon to reach this mountain.

  He had to save Ve. He had to.

  Finally, the path leveled out, opening into a wide circular chamber. At the heart of the room stood a massive well, and around it, three hooded women.

  “You are the Norns?” Odin asked.

  “We were,” said the nearest.

  “We are,” said the next.

  “We will be,” the final answered.

  Odin tried to release the tension in his muscles. “Your location is hard to reach.”

  “That was the point.”

  “Location is irrelevant.”

  “We shall be where we need to be.”

  Odin glowered. The women were worse than fucking vӧlvur. Odin approached the one to his left. “Can you tell me where to find the Niflungar?”

  “You do not know who you are, or who you’ve been.”

  Odin shrugged. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Correct. Son of Borr, who felled the jotunn who once ruled the world. Eldest of three, descendant of Wodan.”

  He shifted his footing. They knew him already.

  “All the powers went to the thrones of fate,” the middle woman said, “there to ruminate on the thoughts of stones, and the fate of a withering tree, whilst they await the roar of Jotunheim and the writhing of nine serpents.”

  “Now you fancy a child of the Vanir, grandchild of the far eastern isles,” the first woman said. “New moon and dark moon. Dream of one who dreams of you, never the two dreams to meet. Still you wait for the one to hold your heart.”

  “Find your heart you shall,” the third sister said, “and lose it, too. First, the burning child ignites a pyre you cannot staunch. A price must be paid for every gain, a hefty weight for each wisdom. Sight for sight, breath for breath. The seed of the one-eyed king falls in betrayal and languishes in Hel. The beginning of the end, time of fire, time of flood. The land trembles and weeps before the ravages she knows are to come. Axe-time, sword-time, come the sundered shields, wind-time, wolf-time. Never shall men each other spare. The sun turns black, and the land sinks into the sea, while a conflagration feasts upon the heavens. Only fires burn pure, only ash will remain.”

  Odin grunted, more unnerved by their nonsense than he’d have liked. “Sisters, you speak in riddles that mean naught to me. I have an oath to keep. Can you guide me to the Niflungar?” Or was all this a waste of time?

  “Old places the people of the mist favor,” the first sister said. “Places touched with ancient past where waits the doom of men. When all lands have fallen d
o children cross the seas and dwell in sorrow, waiting upon the dimming of the sun. Night falls, and darkness wakens.”

  More riddles. People of the mist? Did that mean the Niflungar were somehow connected to the mists of Niflheim? Why not—they seemed to have named themselves after it. And if the Norns thought them perilous, the doom of men, he had to expect them deranged by overlong exposure to those mists. But the rest, what did it even mean?

  Odin rubbed his face. “Speak plainly. I need answers, a location!”

  “Knowledge has its price,” the middle sister said.

  “What price?”

  “The knowing,” the third sister said. “It is not easily unknown.”

  Odin opened his mouth but had no idea how to answer that. “Your riddles serve no purpose.”

  “We have spoken.”

  “We will speak.”

  Odin groaned. He hoped he had no reason to ever seek out these Norns again. Loki had said they held the answers, but instead they had given him more questions. Maybe his foreign brother would understand their words, but Odin surely did not. Be these sisters goddesses, vaettir, or mere deranged vӧlvur, they were too removed from the world to reach. And far too unnerving for him to wish to hear their counsel.

  Best he returned to Sleipnir and got off the mountain. He glanced back over his shoulder as he left their chamber. The well stood alone in the darkness.

  And though he wanted to dismiss their words, in the hours trudging back up the mountain, he could not escape them. They rang through his mind like a funeral dirge. They blazed his consciousness like the pyre the sisters had spoken of.

  None of it made any sense. None except … A price must be paid for every gain. The pit of his stomach would not let that one go. Not even when he at last crested the slope and reached the icy mountain where Sleipnir waited.

  25

  Eskgard offered a welcome sight after his time away. It seemed every time Tyr came home he’d had to leave almost as soon. Back into the mist, into the cold. Such went kingmaking.