by Matt Larkin
Loki had opened her eyes even as his apple had enhanced them.
“I feared for your safety.”
“I know. I met your friend Tyr on the road and sent him on to meet Father.”
Sigyn guided him back toward the house. Olrun had gone out wandering the town in an unstated but obvious hope her mere presence would induce calm and prevent another altercation between the tribes. The longer the strife went on with the Godwulfs, though, the more likely her hope would prove futile. The Wodanar had not lit the first fires of the Hasding anger, but their presence fanned those flames.
Hermod dropped his pack inside and slouched down, warming his hands by the fire. “I cannot stay long here. My wife awaits my return.”
“I didn’t think to see you here at all.”
“Alci himself sent me, Sigyn. He thought, given my connection between the tribes, I would prove the perfect emissary.”
“Emissary to what end?”
Hermod glowered at the flames as though he could avoid whatever he intended to say. And he need not say it, for his coming could only portend a single end.
Sigyn sucked air through her teeth and shut her eyes. “He sent you here to demand his brother surrender Halfhaugr to him. He’s coming to take our home.”
Hermod’s wary gaze offered all the answer she’d need.
43
When they spoke of sorcery and the Art, they did so in nigh total darkness that frayed Odin’s nerves and invited in the sibilant whispers of the vengeful dead. Shades were so thick on this isle that Odin could all but choke on their invisible rage.
He and Gudrun sat huddled in a windowless room below Castle Niflung, the only light from a dwindling candle on the floor between them. Odin’s legs ached from sitting with them folded beneath him for hours. Bare chested, he shivered in the cold. Not even the apples of Yggdrasil completely blocked out such chills. Or maybe it was not the cold alone that froze him this night, try as he might to block the sensation of being watched. And hated.
“Tell me,” Gudrun said.
Odin cleared his throat. “On the far side of the Penumbra lie the nine worlds of the Spirit Realm. Each home to vaettir, timeless beings of thought and power.”
“And?”
Odin cleared his throat. “And malice. They are not friends to mankind.” That ire settled upon his shoulders now like heavy mail dragging him under a river.
“But they can be bargained with, cajoled, or dominated, whence comes the power of a sorcerer.”
He almost could not swallow. Hearing this over and over did not make him inclined to want to bond such a vaettr to his flesh and soul. Gudrun knew more of the vaettir than he’d have ever thought a mortal could know—or should know. She herself had bound more than one to her flesh, making a pact with beings she knew were powerful and hateful beyond human ken. And yet, even she admitted her knowledge was but the surface of a sea of unknown, of beings ancient long before the rise of the Old Kingdoms, even before the coming of the mists. With the Sight, they could see into the Penumbra, true, but not into the Spirit Realm beyond it. What they knew of those worlds came from hints and intimations of the vaettir themselves.
And the vaettir lied.
Seething in timeless enmity, they manipulated, used, and possessed mortals foolish enough to cross their path.
And now Gudrun wanted him to call one forth, pull it through the Veil and let the formless, hostile entity into him. Through a pact with a servant of Hel—there is none greater—he might come closer to his goddess and, indeed, gain some measure of mastery over her domain. The Niflung sorcerers thus controlled mist and cold, used it to conceal themselves, to spy, to kill. To wield influence far beyond that allotted to humankind, at a price men could not begin to fathom.
A man’s soul would shriek from it, at least until it withered into a useless remnant. Such was the price for the godlike power of true sorcerers.
Gudrun had painted a complex symbol on Odin’s chest. She called it a glyph, though it looked to him much like vӧlvur runes, only more intricate in design. Other such designs decorated this room, forming a circle of arcane symbols designed to ward against the very vaettir she wanted to evoke.
“Are you quite certain this is wise?” he asked.
The princess sighed and shook her head. “Wisdom factors little into powers from beyond the Mortal Realm. Every use of the Art comes with risk—every time you pierce the Veil, you might lose yourself. Even after you bind a spirit and gain its power, using that power gives over more and more of yourself to the spirit. The wise sorcerer uses the Art as the last resort, not the first. It is, however, better to have a last resort to call upon in desperate extremes.” She placed a reassuring hand on his wrist. “Now. Do you remember the words?”
Words of a bargain, a pact to make with the unknown, spoken in language that meant naught to him and everything to vaettir. He would call out names of fell vaettir. To name a thing was to evoke it. Even common men knew that much, or thought they did. Still they invoked the name of Hel in feeble curses, not realizing the goddess—there is none greater—might actually catch it. She was not always listening, but she might be, and only a fool would invite the eye of the Queen of Mist to fall upon him.
His breath came in rapid, irregular pants. He pressed his palms together. Steady. He could do this. Hel commanded it. He must become like the Niflungar. He would gain their power, and then he might lead them in battle, help them reclaim their rightful place as rulers of …
The door crashed open, and a man strode in. He bore a sword at his side, though he placed no hand on it. With a single glance, he took in everything.
Gudrun rose. “This is an evocation chamber, brother. You know better than to barge in like that.”
“No incanting—you had not started.”
The princess frowned. “I take it Grimhild has returned.”
“Mother will see you. Both of you.”
She looked to Odin, working her jaw with some unknown emotion. Brother. Her elder brother, then, Guthorm. The man’s resemblance to Gudrun was undeniable. Blond hair just like hers was bound at the nape of his neck, and they had the same pale blue eyes.
Gudrun avoided speaking of her mother. She feared the woman. So what now, would Queen Grimhild want of Odin?
They met the queen in a throne room Odin had not realized Castle Niflung even had. Two thrones sat in the back of a long, mist-shrouded hall, though Gjuki’s sat empty. Grimhild, however, looked like part of hers. It shimmered, like black ice, multispined spikes jutting from the back of it. The armrests looked like onyx, carved in the shape of skulls, and the queen herself wore a skull mask—though too large to be a human skull. A troll’s, perhaps.
Guthorm stood off to the side, but otherwise, the queen had no guards. A woman possessed of extreme confidence, at least within her own castle.
Gudrun, on the other hand, stood rigid at Odin’s side, so stiff she seemed apt to shatter. Her only movement the slow grinding of her teeth. He meant to pat her on the shoulder, reassure her, but somehow found himself not quite able to move while Grimhild silently inspected him.
After a prolonged pause, the queen leaned forward, hands on the armrests. Those skulls had ruby eyes, gleaming. “Has he become one of us?”
“He … would have. We were in the process of evocation when you returned.”
“Long as you’ve had, and that is all you have achieved?” Grimhild cocked her head ever so slightly. “A disappointment, I’m afraid.”
Gudrun managed to grow even stiffer in posture.
“You speak harshly to your own kin,” Odin said.
“Odin,” Gudrun whispered through gritted teeth.
The queen rose, looking at him now. As she stood, she pulled off the mask, revealing a smooth face beneath. She looked but a few winters older than her daughter, a woman in her prime and so radiant in beauty he could not look away from her eyes.
She drifted toward him as if floating on the mist, at once motions of fluid grace and
immeasurable sensuality that caused a sudden swelling in his trousers. He knew he stood there, eyes and mouth wide, but he could not move. Not as she drifted ever closer. Not as she stroked a finger along the line of his jaw.
“You will love me.” Her voice sounded off, echoing against his skull in low, pulsing tones.
“I … I …”
His hands shook. He loved Gudrun, not this woman.
“You will love me and serve me until the end of your days. And beyond …” It came out as a whisper that rang inside his head with the force of a peal of thunder. Of a lightning strike.
Odin gasped, struggling to breathe. He loved her, the beautiful queen. He loved … Gudrun … his princess who he …
He shook himself. “I … I …”
Married? Was he not married already? To Gudrun?
No. No he had married someone else.
He groaned, backed away, clutching his head. So many voices ringing out, pounding against his temples. Laying claim to him.
Love me.
Serve me.
Love me.
Serve me.
Love me.
“Your Art is interfering with the brew I gave him.”
“Fool child. Were your sway half so strong as you think, you would have had naught to fear.”
Odin had fallen to his knees. Where was he? Who was speaking? He needed to rise, to do … something. What had he come here to do?
“My own Art has done well enough thus far. Odin is mine. Must you truly claim everything?”
“Daughter. You—”
“Please. Let me do this. Let me have this one damned thing for myself.”
Silence lingered a moment. Odin struggled to rise, to shake himself free.
“I must ride for Hunaland very soon. Dear Volsung needs my attention. When I return, you had best have swayed him fully. Fail in this, and you will regret it, daughter. You will force me to take more than one barbarian man from you.”
Odin staggered to his feet. “M-my wife …?”
Gudrun seized his cheeks and kissed him hard, with such hot passion all thought fled from his mind. “Come,” she said at last. “You must be thirsty. Let us have some mead.”
Mead. Yes. He needed mead to clear his head.
Part IV
Sixth Moon
44
Gudrun lay in their bed, asleep and naked beside Odin. He stroked her hair.
Was this love? This was what he’d been missing with his wife. Odin shook himself. Wife? Where had that thought come from? He wasn’t married.
He was meant for Gudrun alone. He should marry her. This very day he’d ask her father for her hand. The Raven Lord was powerful, a true king. Except … except … Hadn’t there been something wrong with him?
He’d being praying … to Hel—there was none greater.
A sourness rose in his stomach. He needed mead. He reached for the goblet that always sat by their bed. It felt cold to his touch, chilled. He wanted to drink.
But somehow, the thought of that burning liquid just made his stomach turn again.
He shook his head and rose, trying to make no sound as he pulled on his trousers.
Hel—there was none greater—there was something about her. Something he needed to remember. She was queen of the underworld. She’d brought the mists of Niflheim. She’d given their power to the Niflungar, allies of Odin’s people. And the mists …
Hel, none greater, had brought them … five thousand years ago … Idunn’s grandparents had fought her. Why would they fight Hel? The woman, Idunn, haunted his vision. Beautiful, with exotic, rich skin. Was she not an ally to his people? She’d given him Gungnir, the spear that had rested in the corner of his room for … moons. How long had he been here?
Odin shook himself, then turned back to Gudrun. She’d taught him so many things. Secrets of the universe, though he had trouble focusing on them. He could see into the Penumbra now, he had the Sight.
Something was wrong.
He’d come here to find the Singasteinn … because he’d promised the ghost. The ghost who had cursed Odin, who had … Ve! Son of a troll-fucking whore! Odin spun, his fists clenching at his side, taking in the woman in his bed.
No. Not his bed. His wife lay alone in his bed. This was the sorceress’s room.
And it wasn’t love. It was sorcery. Gudrun had literally enchanted him. She must have. He’d heard vӧlva could do such things. And the mead … a love potion?
The conniving bitch had seduced him with flesh and foul Art drawn from Hel.
But … her words were clearly the truth. She could give him everything. The Niflungar and the Aesir together might well rule Midgard. Was that what Gjuki intended? Was that reason enough for him to throw his daughter in Odin’s path? The sorcerer might have sought more than this frozen kingdom at the edge of Midgard. And Odin could give it to him—together, they could take everything, conquer all the North Realms and beyond.
Odin shook his head again. Whatever they intended mattered naught. They’d bewitched him, used him. Perhaps Gudrun could break the curse the ghost had placed on Odin, but that was not enough. Because Odin would live for eternity knowing he had broken his oath and sacrificed his honor. And Ve, gods! Ve! Odin would save his brother himself, without relying on such people. How easily he forgot Heidr’s lessons. Gudrun’s help would have had a price, too. Everything did.
He’d almost let himself fall for her. And for what? An enchantress who had worked her Art on him. A people who worshipped Hel herself. Hel—there was none … No! Gods above and below, Hel had done this to the world. She was a queen of nightmares, an enemy to mankind. His enemy!
He clutched his head. The sorceress’s seid beat at his temples, demanding he return to her bed. To deny it felt like ripping his own skin off. Odin had to be gone from this place before his mind fell under Gudrun’s spells again.
He donned his tunic and stood over Gudrun. She still wore the Singasteinn as well as her golden headband. And to look on her there, barely stirring in the depths of some dream … was it more than lust? He could spend eternity by this woman’s side. His heart sped at that thought. He could do it, but for the price of his honor. And his brother’s soul. Or maybe it was her magic, still working at his mind, trying to draw him back. He barely stifled his groan.
Maybe the apple had given him resistance to her powers. Maybe any mortal would have been helpless in her thrall. Or maybe even the brief respite from her potion had been enough to clear his thoughts. But fuck, did he want this woman. And for that, he loathed her almost as much as he hated himself.
Odin clenched his teeth. He had to return that amulet. Not much time remained, of that he was certain. The Odling ghost would lay her curse upon him if he did not move from here.
Gingerly he unclasped the amulet from Gudrun’s neck, careful not to wake her. Despite himself, he planted a light kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
Odin hated this bitch. And loved her.
Perhaps he’d never untangle the truth of his heart, the truth of whether his feelings were real or the results of her power … Every moment he stayed increased the temptation to crawl back into that bed. He knelt to retrieve his spear—for moons he’d let his ancestral weapon lie on the floor, as if it were naught but common iron. What shame he’d brought to it. And to his father—perhaps one of the shades looking on Odin—languishing in despair at the failure of his son.
Shaking his head, Odin slipped out of the room. Back on the landing, he slid the door closed and backed into a man waiting there.
“My lord?” the man asked. “Was there something you needed?”
“I, uh … just some food. I’m famished.” If the man had been waiting in the hall, he’d no doubt heard all that had gone on the night before—all the nights before—and couldn’t help but believe that.
The Niflung, a man dressed finely and armed with a short sword at his side, nodded at first. Then his eyes drifted to the amulet clutched in Odin’s left hand. “Very good,
my lord. I’ll just check with her ladyship to see what I should arrange.”
“She’s sleeping. You don’t want to wake her.”
The man took a step toward the door. “I’m afraid I—”
Odin slammed his fist into the man’s gut. Before the servant could even double over, Odin grabbed him and wrapped his hand around the poor bastard’s mouth and nose. The servant flailed, clawing at Odin’s arm with his nails. Odin just tightened his grip, drawing the man down to the floor. A few heartbeats and those struggles lessened until the man slumped into unconsciousness.
Odin shook his head.
Fuck.
There would be more servants down there. Guards, sorcerers … and Gjuki. Odin would never make it past all of them if they were intent on stopping him. And if they tried, he’d be forced to kill them. Maybe a lot of them. These people didn’t deserve his slaughter. Despite the seduction and sorcery, they had done naught to physically harm him. He could not repay their hospitality with violence any more than he could remain and break his oath to the ghost or abandon his brother.
“Odin?” Gudrun called from behind the door.
He could go back in there. Stay.
And lose himself forever.
And gods, would he have wanted that. Part of him still did.
Instead he turned to the window. Eight stories down and then icy rapids. But he was immortal. Maybe he could survive such a fall. And it might be the only way to avoid killing these people. Odin started for the window when Gudrun’s door opened.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Stop.” Her voice dropped in pitch. “Stop!”
It echoed in his mind. He should listen to her. Remain. Be the man she needed … He flung himself out the window before he could think more. Icy wind stripped away whatever words Gudrun shouted after him. The air tugged at his clothes and stole his breath. And then he plunged into the river.
A shock like a bolt of lightning shot through his body. All thought fled, and he barely held on to the amulet and his spear. The current slammed him against a rock. Breath exploded from his lungs, and his vision blurred.