The Apples of Idunn

by Matt Larkin

  Don’t let go.

  Do not let go.

  He could lose neither Gungnir nor the Singasteinn.

  Another rock slapped him in the shoulder.

  Then he was falling again. He sucked in another lungful of air as he pitched over the waterfall, finding himself with just enough time to realize it was a fuck of a lot taller than he’d thought.

  The Morimarusa slammed into him like solid rock.

  He sank beneath the waves, mind swirling and unable to focus. His legs were surely broken, though it should have hurt more. The cold was too much. He was going to drown.

  The thought cut through his rapidly numbing mind and body.

  His immortality would mean naught when he was drawn beneath the sea, caught in the net of Rán. Perhaps he would rise as a draug, hatred fueling him with a desire to consume those he once loved.

  His legs wouldn’t work. He swam toward the shore, his strokes clumsy and growing slower. For a moment he managed to get his head above water, sucking in a single breath before he sank again. This was how it would end …

  Something bit his shoulder, jerked him toward the land.

  A rough tongue grazed over his eyes. Odin gagged, sputtering up water. Sleipnir stood above him, scuffing the icy ground with his hooves.

  The horse had pulled him from the sea? That was impossible. No horse could do such a thing.

  But Sleipnir was so much more than just a horse. Where had the horse been? Hiding from the Niflungar?

  He tried to speak, to offer thanks, but his throat only rasped. Sleipnir knelt beside him, insisting he mount.

  Yes. They’d be coming for him.

  In the sky above, a raven circled once before flying back toward the castle.

  Gjuki’s little spies.

  A gasp of pain escaped him as he pulled himself onto Sleipnir’s back. His legs were broken. He was certain now. And that should have hurt more than this. His body trembled. Could an immortal die of deathchill? If so, he surely would. He’d seen the toughest warriors in the world brought low by the cold, especially when wet. They would lose fingers, toes—lose their lives.

  Sleipnir took off, running across the sea the moment Odin had managed to mount. Odin slipped the amulet around his neck and tucked Gungnir across his lap. He needed sleep. He needed to rest.

  Rest.

  Except a man dying of the cold had to stay awake. Odin bit his tongue, trying to focus his thoughts and remain alert. Sleipnir’s ride across the sea had become a dream. He’d lost any sense of time, but whenever he looked up, he saw a raven above. Following.

  Gjuki would know. The Niflung king would know Odin’s every move.

  A sickness welled in the pit of his stomach. Gods, he had made a terrible enemy, hadn’t he? In trying to hold to his honor, he’d no doubt deeply offended Gjuki’s.

  Mists swelled up before Sleipnir, taking the shape of a serpentine head. A dragon. Sleipnir jerked violently to the side, changing directions to avoid the apparition. Seawater splashed up under his hooves, further soaking Odin.

  Fire.

  Fire would keep the mists away and let Odin warm himself. If he wasn’t dead yet, he should heal. The apple had made him that way, at least. He suspected he’d recover from aught that didn’t kill him. The thought left him both slightly comforted, as Sleipnir sped toward the shore, and unsettled.

  A wall of mist seemed to harden before them, cutting off passage to the shore. Sleipnir leapt into the sky, soaring over the wall and kept running. He was fast, maybe faster than the damned ravens. But the speed only served to further chill Odin to the bone.

  “Fire,” he mumbled to the horse.

  While it was unlikely the animal could start a fire, if he could understand Odin’s need for it, maybe he could find a place.

  Sleipnir snorted and galloped toward the village they’d passed through on the way here. The people there, even if they couldn’t understand him, would surely see a man in need and offer hospitality. But they scattered like the wind as Sleipnir approached. One man rushed inside a house, slamming the door.

  A monstrous horse might have some disadvantages, too.

  “Please,” Odin croaked. “Fire.”

  No one answered.

  Sleipnir trotted up to a hut with a smoking chimney. Odin grunted. The horse was right, as usual. He needed warmth to survive, and if it frightened these people, they would have to live with that. Sleipnir kicked the door. When no one opened it, the horse kicked it again, this time hard enough to make the frame shudder.

  Odin climbed off the horse, then slumped to the ground. A fresh agony shot through his legs the moment he put pressure on them. Maybe that was a good sign.

  “Please. Help me.” The words meant naught. If the people inside heard his tone, though, it might move them.

  At last a man opened the door and stared down at him. The foreigner had blond hair past his shoulders, a thick beard, and a long mustache. He looked upon Odin’s bedraggled form with a hint of wary sympathy in his eyes.

  Odin pantomimed rubbing his hands together and warming them on a fire.

  The man eyed the horse with fear, then Sleipnir backed away.

  Odin patted his leg to indicate it was broken.

  When Sleipnir had backed out of sight, the foreigner helped Odin up, supporting Odin’s weight on his shoulder. The hut was small, and a woman, plump with child, already sat by the fire, another little girl clinging to her skirts. Both backed away as the husband deposited Odin on the floor by the fire.

  The man opened a trunk and pulled from it a dry cloak. He tossed it at Odin, then spoke to his family, who scampered into a room divided from this one by a fur curtain.

  “Change my clothes?” Odin nodded and pulled his wet garments off. They clung to him like a second skin, sealing in the chill. His teeth chattered.

  The man was shorter than Odin, so the trousers and tunic he offered fit much too snugly. But they were far better than Odin’s freezing garb. The man called out for his wife, and she came and hung the wet clothes on a rod before the fire.

  Odin shut his eyes, soaking in the delicious warmth of the fireplace. Just a short respite. A reprieve before the fury of the Raven Lord sought him out and sought to strangle him for his temerity. Gjuki would send Odin’s soul screamed down to Hel that the goddess might draw out his suffering for eternity. A punishment for rejecting the all-powerful queen of death.

  Odin had left behind foes more powerful than any people he had before encountered. And they would hunt him. Soon.

  45

  The whole of the Godwulf camp rustled. Bristling with the energy. Tyr knew it, when battle drew nigh. They were eager, almost ready to move. To march on Halfhaugr. Tyr had come here to stop a war. And found war underway without him.

  But Alci had not turned him away either. Had even allowed him to call on Agilaz, who stayed with Alci’s thegn Hoenir. No one had truly welcomed him. Not Agilaz, thegn to a jarl whom Odin had alienated. Not Hoenir or his daughter Syn, a shieldmaiden awaiting the return of her husband. And perhaps least of all Hallr. The bastard stared at him with open distrust.

  The traitor to his own jarl. Man ought to hang from a tree instead of sit around a fire pit with them. Talking of treason and murder. Maybe they all ought to hang, Tyr included.

  “Hadding will never surrender Halfhaugr,” Agilaz said.

  Syn scoffed. “Doubt Alci expects him to. He sent Hermod as a pretense.”

  “That means war is inevitable,” Tyr said.

  Hallr shook his head. “Not if we kill Alci. I’ve been sending messages back to Jarl Annar. He will agree to strike, give us a distraction.”

  Tyr scowled. “So you’d rather start a war with the Athra.” With Odin’s cousin, who already supported Odin.

  “Just long enough to give me the chance to end Alci.”

  Tyr spat. “You want to assassinate your own lord.”

  Hallr just shrugged. “Only way to become jarl.”

  Tyr barely resisted the urge to s
eize the man. “Other than a proper challenge.”

  “No one beats Alci in a fair fight.”

  Then none of these people deserved to be jarl. “So I’ll challenge him.”

  Hoenir sighed and rubbed his temples. “We all know your prowess, Tyr, but you have no claim to leadership in this tribe. Only a thegn of the Godwulfs can become the next jarl.”

  Syn rose with a huff. “And what of you, Father?”

  “I’m too old to take down Alci, even by surprise.” And probably too honorable to try. Hoenir would make a damned sight better choice than Hallr. But he was human. As a varulf, at least Hallr had a chance.

  “Very true,” the traitor said. “It has to be me. And as soon as your husband returns, dear Syn, Alci will order the march on Halfhaugr. Assuming he even waits that long. We all know Hadding will tell his brother to go to Hel. So, if we want to do this, I need to send word to the Athra. Now. They must attack before the chance is lost.”

  This is what he had been reduced to. In all his years of service of Hymir, Tyr had never plotted assassination. He had done murder more oft than he cared to remember. Had pillaged and razed and raped his way across Aujum and Bjarmaland. Under the tutelage of an incarnation of chaos. But he had not schemed. Not as he now did for Odin.

  For a throne the man did not truly want.

  Tyr growled, drawing stares from the others. Let them look. Let the fucking traitor look upon Tyr. Who, by agreeing to this, became no better himself.

  Tyr. Champion of a jotunn. Champion of Borr. Champion of Odin.

  Assassin.

  Plotter.

  Schemer.

  Wretch.

  Was Borr’s legacy worth so very much? Borr had saved Tyr from the darkness. And to honor the man, Tyr descended back into that mire. Covered himself in muck, so he could hold Borr’s son up above it all.

  He spat. “Just get it done.”

  46

  Sigyn’s sister stayed so often alone in the moons since Odin had left. Publicly scorned, shamed by her new husband, perhaps Frigg feared to show her face. No—that wasn’t like her. She doubted Frigg’s dignity would allow that. It was worse, Sigyn suspected. Her half sister was actually hurt by Odin’s rejection.

  When Sigyn knocked on Frigg’s chamber door, there was a slight pause before she called for her to enter. Most people would never have caught the reddening around her sister’s eyes, so faint in the dim light of the brazier. But Sigyn’s eyes were too sharp now. Frigg had been weeping. Gods. Frigg, of all people. That bastard was lucky he wasn’t here, else Sigyn would have found a way to shame him so completely he’d be the one hiding in his chambers.

  Her sister sat on the floor, herbalist instruments in front of her. Weeds and plants no doubt intended for one vӧlva ritual or another. Or perhaps to dull the pain of a broken heart by enveloping the mind in haze.

  “What happened?”

  “Naught, Sister. I was just preparing a poultice for the hunters.”

  “And the fumes stung your eyes?”

  Frigg sighed, then pushed away the poultice bowl in front of her. “There are times one can be too perceptive, Sigyn.”

  “Why let him discomfit you so?”

  “Lord Odin is my husband, Sigyn.”

  “A political alliance. If you want another lover it’s not as if he could fault you.”

  Frigg murmured, shaking her head. “You don’t understand.”

  Sigyn knelt by her side. “I understand you had a vision of you and him ruling together, but then you became infatuated with the vision, not the man. He may well be a future king, but he’s also a—”

  A bellow that shook the walls echoed, chased by a crunch of splintering wood.

  “What in Freyja’s name?” Sigyn asked.

  Frigg started to rise.

  “Stay sheltered!” Sigyn shouted and dashed from the room. Screams rang through the town, and the walls shuddered again. Sigyn raced from the fortress. What could make such sounds?

  More bellows echoed, sending shivers down her back. It must be something out of the mists. The sun had just set, but even so, vaettir attacking the town? It seemed impossible.

  She ran to Agilaz’s house and snatched up her bow. Her foster father was still with the Godwulfs, and Olrun had gone, taken her sword out to meet this threat.

  Sigyn ran outside in time to see men and women scattering around the town square. She needed to see what was happening. She sprinted up the stairs to the wall. The thatched roof of a house below the keep trembled, then exploded upward as a massive form crashed through the wall, flinging debris in all directions. The creature that stumbled through stood over eight feet tall, its hide covered in rocky protrusions and moss. A nose as thick as her wrist dangled from an elongated snout, hanging just past boar-like tusks.

  Trolls!

  Her father’s soldiers launched arrow after arrow at the beast. Most ricocheted off the thick hide as though they’d hit a stone wall. Sigyn launched a shot herself, but it flew wide as the monster burst through another house. An instant later, it came crashing back out, a woman over its shoulder.

  Oh Hel. They sought troll wives.

  A man chased out of the house after the beast, pounding ineffectively against the troll’s back with an axe. The troll spun, a sweep of its massive hand sending the poor man crashing back through the walls of his house.

  Again and again Sigyn loosed arrows at the monster. A few stuck in its hide, barely slowing its rampage. Another troll stomped into view, a woman slung over one shoulder and a sheep tucked under the other arm. With one foot, it kicked a hunter who charged it. The poor bastard hurtled back through the air and slammed into a house.

  Gods, Sigyn couldn’t do this—she was used to hunting deer. Agilaz and Olrun were the warriors. But she had to do something or that woman would be … She nocked another arrow, this time slowing her breath as she sighted along it. That thick hide covered most of the troll’s body. She wouldn’t pierce it except by luck—but maybe she could find a spot more lightly armored.

  Like the back of the creature’s knee. It would be a hard shot on a moving creature, even one of that size. But if she missed, she risked the woman’s life. She had one chance. Adjust for the wind, adjust for its movement, its gait awkward but constant … Sigyn’s eyes narrowed, her focus drawing in deeper and deeper until she saw naught else. Was it the power of the apple?

  She loosed.

  The arrow soared, almost off mark. Almost, but not quite. The creature toppled forward with a shriek, the woman flying from its grasp. She tumbled along the ground through three rolls before being lost in a snowdrift. Sigyn let out a whoop. Several other guards turned to look at her—whether shocked at her impossible shot or her outburst, she didn’t care.

  The wounded troll pushed itself to its hands and knees, jerking its head around with murder in its eyes. A few warriors advanced on it, clearly not eager to close the distance. The first drew too close—the troll lunged forward. Its claws rent right through the warrior’s armor and tore out his guts, flinging them steaming onto the snow.

  A woman screamed a war cry, charging the beast. Olrun! The troll tried to turn, but before it did, she had scaled its back. She drove her sword straight down where spine would have met skull, igniting an eruption of ichor that coated her face. The troll stumbled around, flailing wildly and unable to dislodge her. Olrun threw her weight onto the blade and drove it further down until the troll fell to its knees. Then she leaped off it and rolled along the ground.

  Well, damn. Her foster mother seemed to have that one well in hand. Ordinary blades couldn’t do that. One day, she need to ask about how Olrun had pulled that off.

  More bellows sounded from across the village. Sigyn was no warrior, but she’d tasted the apple of immortality. She would not stand by, so she ran toward the sounds, knowing it was about the stupidest thing she could possibly do. She sprinted around a corner in time to see another troll crush a villager with a single blow. A horse ran from the troll. The mons
ter overtook the animal in three strides and flung it to the ground, then proceeded to jump up and down on the poor beast, shattering bone and flesh.

  Another bellow sounded inside the house given to Odin’s brothers. Shit, she couldn’t leave them. She darted around the troll and burst in through the door.

  “Ve!”

  A grunt sounded in the corner. Sigyn turned to see red glowing eyes there, as a crouched form rose. The thing that strode forward looked somewhere between a troll and a man. Rocky protrusions had erupted from its face and elbows, though it wore what had been Ve’s tunic.

  “Oh, gods,” Sigyn mumbled, backing away from the creature. Was this even possible? Could a man become …

  The troll-man was on her in two strides. Sigyn tried to knock an arrow, but with one hand, it snatched her bow and crushed it, the other grasping her bodice. It ripped it away, the momentum flinging Sigyn right into its arm. She shrieked, pounding the rocky skin with ineffective blows.

  The troll-man flung her over its shoulder and trod out into the street. Sigyn hung with her chest against its back, screaming, trying to twist around and reach the dagger at her waist. Its grip was iron, her weight not even slowing the troll.

  “Help!”

  “Sigyn!” her father shouted.

  Hadding wore his mail, as he had not done since she was a child. Broadsword held in both hands, he rushed toward her.

  “Father!”

  He swung, connecting with the troll’s midsection, drawing forth a roar of pain from the beast. A gout of black blood spurted over his face as he reared back for another swing. The troll was faster. It twisted, slapping him with a claw. The blow sent her father flying through the air. He slammed into a support pillar inside the house, splintering it and continuing onward.

  “Father!” Sigyn shrieked.

  A bear roared on the other side of the troll. Sigyn never saw the impact, but she was flung free of the troll’s grasp and tumbled end over end through the snow. Cuts and bruises stung her arms and chest and back. When she finally pushed herself up again, one arm trying to cover her naked breasts, a bear was grappling with the troll, pummeling it into submission. A berserk. Was that Vili?