by Matt Larkin
And Hallr did not strike. Drew closer to Alci, yes, but did not strike. Looked to Tyr, looked to Alci’s nearby champions. A pair of varulfur nigh as tall as Vili. Big bastards, with a vicious streak. One of those champions hewed through an Athra shieldmaiden’s skull with an axe.
Tyr hefted his shield. Only one choice then. Forward.
Roaring, he charged into the fray. Right at the champion who’d slain the woman. The man balked, as if not sure of Tyr’s intention. Raised sword and war cry ought to have told him that.
Tyr feinted left, then swung low. The varulf got his shield down an instant before Tyr would have claimed his kneecap. Tyr jerked out of the way of that axe, swung again. Chips and splinters broke off the shield. The varulf hesitated. Didn’t expect a human to match his speed, his strength. Tyr whipped his own shield forward, shoved it into the man. The varulf pitched backward a step. Tyr caught him with an upswing of the blade. Shattered his chin, tore through his nose. Showered himself in blood.
The other champion bellowed, charging Tyr as his brother fell.
Tyr spared Alci a glance. The jarl had felled a half dozen warriors on his own. Men, shieldmaidens, their corpses decorated his feet. He laughed, awash in blood.
Grimacing, Tyr met the charging champion, rushed forward himself. The man leapt in the air. Intent on bearing him down with sheer weight and momentum. Tyr rolled under him and twisted around. Launched himself forward and smashed his shield into the varulf’s face. Bastard fell. Dazed.
Tyr dropped down on him knees first, drove his blade through the man’s throat. A geyser of hot blood sprayed in his eyes. He jerked his sword free. Turned to Alci.
Another warrior rushed him. Tyr blocked a blow on his shield, whipped his sword around. It sheared through the man’s face.
Jarl Alci shrieked at him, mindless with rage. Batting aside Athra warriors like they were made of straw. So. Tyr would kill him after all. Maybe he had no claim to jarldom of the Godwulfs. He would still end this varulf, here, now.
Alci tossed aside his shield to pick up an axe. Sword and axe together. Very aggressive. Dangerous.
Tyr gave ground as Alci launched a wild flurry of attacks at him. The axe embedded in Tyr’s shield. Alci jerked it back, splintering the shield in the process. Tyr swung his sword, but Alci’s move threw him off balance. The jarl easily parried. Turned to riposte. Tyr twisted, tried to dodge, but the blade bit his shoulder, scraped off his mail. Tyr fell to one knee from the impact.
He flung the tattered remains of his shield at Alci’s face. The varulf batted it away with his axe, but it gave Tyr a breath. Time to rise, fall back.
“Greatest warrior of the Aesir?” Alci spat. “I’m glad you betrayed us. Gives me an excuse to crush your legend.”
“You die today.”
Alci chuckled. Advanced, sword out front, axe high. Ready to strike.
Hallr caught Tyr’s eye. Readied a spear. Tyr shook his head. Alci was his now. Urd had brought him here. And he would finish this himself.
Alci charged again. Tyr parried aside the sword. The axe whooshed by his face, almost took off his nose. He swung, scored a nick on Alci’s sword arm. The man barely seemed to notice. Again he swung. Tyr parried.
Then Hallr’s spear burst through his lord’s chest. The traitor hefted Alci up, into the air. Planted the butt of the spear in the snow. His jarl flailed, dying. Blood running down his lip.
The traitor nodded at Tyr. He bent to pick up Alci’s sword and raised it in the air. Ready to declare himself jarl of the Godwulfs.
They had done it.
Tyr growled. And he swept his sword up in an arc that lopped Hallr’s head right off his shoulders.
The body tumbled down like a doll.
Tyr spit on the corpse as it stained the snow crimson.
Hoenir stood amongst his people, arms held high. Many fires burned, ward flames and pyres alike. Pyres for the Godwulf jarl. For half his thegns.
Some other thegns yet lived, might have challenged Hoenir’s claim to the jarldom. Might have.
Hermod strode to his father-in-law’s side. “Jarl Hoenir, on behalf of my father, thegn to Hadding, I offer you the support and friendship of the Hasding tribe.”
The old man clasped his son-in-law’s arm, then nodded at Agilaz, who stood apart from the Godwulf people.
A few more days, and Halfhaugr would have fallen under siege from these people. Now they offered friendship. What else could they do? They needed a friend among the Godwulfs. And now, Hermod’s marriage might actually mean something. But Odin needed these people as well.
Tyr looked to Annar, nodded, and they both strode forward.
“On behalf of Jarl Odin of the Wodanar, I offer my support,” Tyr said.
Annar stood beside him. “And as jarl of the Athra, I offer mine.”
A message. A warning to any of Alci’s former thegns. Three other tribes now stood behind Hoenir.
Maybe the old man could hold his place. Hermod would help him, without doubt. And because of Tyr, they would both owe Odin.
Because Tyr had embraced assassination. Betrayal. Murder.
He strode away from the fires, out into the night. Some would celebrate. Some would mourn.
Tyr had the stomach for neither. Was this truly what Borr would have wanted? Back in Halfhaugr, Idunn waited, urging Odin to become king of the Aesir. To guide them all to a better future. Like this? Through blood and treachery?
Men became no better than jotunnar.
Someone chased after him, footfalls crunching the snow as he ran. Hermod drew up short as Tyr turned, glowering.
“Your wife must be pleased.”
Hermod nodded. “She just became daughter of the jarl.”
“And we murdered a great many men to make that happen.”
“Neither of us has to like this road, Tyr. But we did what we had to, what men like Alci and Hallr forced upon us. Neither one of them deserved to rule.”
Did Odin? The eldest son, the heir of Borr. Tyr cracked his neck and groaned. For Odin, Tyr had become a monster once more. For the son of Borr, he had cast aside the honor and teachings of Borr.
Tyr advanced on Hermod until he stood close enough to feel the man’s breath. “Very soon, Odin will call for the Althing. He will seek kingship of all the tribes.”
“My sister thought as much. First king since Vingethor …”
Sigyn was too clever. Much like her lover.
“You and your father-in-law will support his claim.” Tyr’s fist clenched, daring the man to deny it.
But Hermod did not deny it. He bowed his head. “You saved us all from war. Odin may count on us.”
At last, something turning his way. “Ride back to Halfhaugr with me. Tell Odin yourself. And convince your gods-damned sister to agree. She has the ear of Frigg and Hadding.” Tyr raised a finger in warning. “It is best for all.”
Hermod murmured something under his breath.
“What?”
“I hope you’re right.”
By all the gods, so did Tyr.
50
Out over the river, the boat carrying Hadding’s body burned, lighting the night with an eerie glow. Sigyn stood apart from her half sister, who watched from the shore alone, the wind flapping her dress about her legs. Ice had built inside Sigyn’s chest—a cold ache that naught seemed to fill. And though she knew Frigg probably needed her, Sigyn had not been able to comfort her sister, nor even to speak.
Her father was gone.
And he had died saving her. The daughter Sigyn would have sworn he cared less than naught for. Her whole life she’d thought herself a burden to him, a reminder of an indiscretion that was like to sour his marriage bed, and later, a child too willful to find a husband or do her family proud.
And when she was in danger, her father—old, crippled, and in pain though he was—had rushed out like a man half his age, glorious and valiant in a fight he’d known he could not win. Her father had died for her.
A tear streake
d her cheek.
She’d thought she knew everything. She’d thought she was so good at reading people, so gods-damned clever. So how had she missed something so very basic? Had he … loved her? The father who had never favored her with even a smile had not hesitated a moment to attack a troll for his daughter.
The dozen small fires in the boat grew into one mighty conflagration. The river would carry her father’s ashes far away, and maybe—if all the other stories proved true—maybe valkyries would take his soul to Valhalla. For such a death, he deserved to feast alongside his ancestors, rather than rot beneath the heel of Hel.
If Odin had given her father an apple, would he still live? Perhaps not. Perhaps naught would have let him survive such injuries, but they would never know, and Frigg was never like to forgive her husband for denying her that.
Sigyn could not blink as the boat vanished into the mist. Her father had vanished with it, gone forever, taken from her before she had ever known him. And with his departure, she could now never ask him the truth of his heart, the truth she had so long feared.
The Wodan warriors stood apart from the Hasdingi. It would fall to Frigg now, deciding whether the alliance would hold. Odin’s people had fought with valor against the trolls, and many who lived today owed them their lives. If not for those warriors, many women—Sigyn included—would now be troll-wives, ensnared in a fate worse than death.
But then, those trolls had come for Ve, of that Sigyn no longer had any doubt, even if she would not share the thought with others. The trolls had come for one of their own. It would be too much a coincidence for the creatures to attack the town after years of silence, on the same day Ve became one of them, if they had not somehow known. The implications were disturbing, and severely so. Did that mean all trolls had once been human? Were they now possessed by vaettir, or were they something else, something corrupted by the mists themselves? Or … were some trolls created as such, and others born of troll-wives?
She wanted to hate Odin and his brothers for all that had happened. Maybe part of her did, though it almost meant hating his blood brother Loki as well, and that man had been the best thing in her life. He was the one person she’d found who could truly understand her, match wits with her, and more, be grateful for it. Perhaps Ve was the victim here as much as the rest of them. And if Frigg’s vision was true, and Odin’s quest was something more than a madman playing god … then could the mists be banished? Could the world know the true spring of children’s stories? Could these men-turned-trolls be saved?
Sigyn thought she loved mysteries. Now she just wanted some answers. None lay on the riverbank. She hugged herself and went to her sister, taking Frigg’s limp hand to lead her away.
Neither spoke.
The procession had marched through the town and back to the fortress. The now-silent great hall where once her father had ruled.
For a time, Frigg stared at her father’s throne. Then she sat in it. A murmur rose among those in the hall at her presumption. And yet none rose to challenge her. She looked every bit the queen.
“Our people have been taken by trolls,” Frigg said at last. “Who will go to rescue them?”
“Go to the Jarnvid?” someone asked. “That’s suicide. Not even the Godwulfs venture within.”
Tyr strode forward. “I will go, my lady.” He and Hermod had returned only this very morn, while her foster father had remained to help ease Jarl Hoenir’s first days as ruler.
Odin’s brother Vili joined him a moment later. “And I.”
“And I.” Odin’s voice boomed through the hall from where he stood at its threshold.
Frigg rose from the throne at his entrance. Then Sigyn noticed Loki in the shadows behind Odin, watching her.
She drifted from Frigg’s side to meet Loki, even as Odin approached to converse with his wife.
“I should never have left you alone,” Loki said.
“Did you know about Ve?”
“Yes.”
Son of a troll. She raised her hands to slap him, though he didn’t flinch. “You don’t think that was something I should have known?”
“Perhaps. I’d hoped to have more time … Things are progressing more quickly than I anticipated.”
What in Freyja’s name? “Well, that’s a shame. Does it bother you that I was almost raped by a fucking troll?” Others turned toward them at her outburst.
In answer, Loki placed a palm against her cheek, his eyes pained. “That would not have happened.”
“If we’re going to spend eternity together, you’d better start trusting me!”
“Sigyn, I—”
She silenced him with a finger pointed at his nose. “Don’t think this is over, either.” She spun on her heel to stalk back to Odin and Frigg, even as she realized what she’d just said. Eternity. Even angry as she was, she could not imagine spending forever with anyone save Loki, and perhaps that boded well for their future. That thought made her boil even more inside. Damn him. He deserved her anger, and she was not going to let it go because of some warm coziness he managed to engender inside her.
She found Odin and Frigg leaning into one another, whispering in tones no one should have been able to hear. Yet Sigyn caught their words, her ears seeming to filter out the rest of the noise of the hall.
“I’m sorry,” Odin was saying.
“My father is still dead, husband. And where have you been?”
“I was … detained.”
“Detained? Is that what you will tell our child, Odin? You failed to save his grandfather because you were detained?”
“Our … child?”
Frigg pulled his hand by one finger, placing it over her abdomen, her face grim.
“You mean the child we will one day have?”
She shook her head. “It’s a boy. A vӧlva knows these things. We will have a son. What kind of father will you be?”
Sigyn tapped her finger on her lip. That explained Frigg’s earlier emotional state. To carry Odin’s child while he’d ridden off in anger …. She hoped never to face such a situation. And how keen her ears had grown. Would she one day be able to track scents like a wolf? See in the dark? The possibilities seemed so intoxicatingly endless she felt giddy.
“I will be a father our son can be proud of,” Odin said at last, his voice sounding hoarse.
Frigg leaned closer still. “I will never let you forget that promise, husband. You’ve failed your family once. You will not do so again.”
To Sigyn’s surprise, Odin didn’t challenge her claim, instead nodding with utmost sincerity. “This I swear.” Then he spun and strode down the hall. “We ride for the Jarnvid! We ride to save our people!”
51
No words escaped over the lump that rose in Odin’s throat as he rode toward the Jarnvid. A son. His own child. Frigg was right. This child would hear tales of all Odin had done in his life, the good and the bad. And his son would know the world through those deeds even as he would learn right from wrong by lessons Odin never intentionally set out to teach. The boy would learn honor, as Odin’s father had tried to teach his own sons. Odin’s son would be worthy of the line of Borr.
A grandson Borr would not see, unless he looked down from Valhalla. Odin prayed he did.
And Odin hoped his son would learn to be a better husband than Odin himself had been. He had betrayed Frigg, and he would have to live with that, though the knowledge he had been ensorcelled did offer some slight comfort.
Tales had spread of the troll attack even before Odin had reached Hadding’s hall, tales that spoke of trolls bursting into the village. And Ve was gone. Odin knew that before he’d even spoken to Vili. He was gone to the Jarnvid, gone to his own kind, and he had taken women with him. Odin would warm Hel’s bed before he let those women suffer such a life. He would get his brother back. He would save them all. He had made an oath, and though Gudrun’s games had cost him much time, he could still make it to the Odling castle if Tyr’s reckonings were right. There was another
day, at least, before the solstice. He’d make it. He had to. He had to break this curse.
The Jarnvid was the long-rumored home of the trolls, and thus Odin’s destination. If past experience was any guide, these monsters would be like to sleep away the daylight. With sunset they’d wake, they’d feed, and then they’d fight over the women. Odin could not change what had already passed, but if he could spare these women even one more night of it … And judging by the sun, time grew short.
He glanced back over his shoulder, at the war party behind him. It was comprised of Tyr and Vili, and the others, as well as several Hasding hunters. But they could never move as swiftly as he could. And those women—and Odin’s brother—had no time.
“The Jarnvid, Sleipnir!”
The horse twisted his head around, watching Odin with his inky black eye. It lasted only a moment before Sleipnir again took off at a gallop.
Miles blurred by until he and Sleipnir passed into the Jarnvid. The trees here twisted back on themselves, their roots grown in a tangled mess of crisscrosses that often resembled spider webs. Legends said the bark was hard as iron, and trolls sometimes sharpened the edges of the roots into razors. This was not a place for mankind. Not even the Godwulfs drew too close to this cursed place, much as they claimed to ward Aujum against it. Sleipnir’s pace slowed to a walk inside the wood. The sharpened foliage was simply too dense to allow a faster pace. Ravens perched on the branches watched his every move.
Odin glowered at Gjuki’s spies.
The horse climbed a hill, at last stopping before a tunnel dug into the hill. It must have been a troll burrow. It was too low for him to ride through or even bring Sleipnir, which was a shame, since his mount would help even the odds against the trolls’ superior size and strength.
Troll hide would deflect most weapons, but not Gungnir. Odin dismounted and hefted the spear, immediately feeling its power flow through him. His legs had healed, and his strength returned. All that remained now was the task at hand. This weapon, this spear born of dragon’s blood, would give him the strength for that task. Naught in Midgard, not even trolls, could stand against it. Ymir had fallen, and so would these monsters. Odin lit a torch. He would have preferred having both hands for his spear, but he needed light more than the trolls did. Maybe it was pride that made him come alone. Maybe he would find naught but valkyries waiting for him this night. But he’d made so many mistakes … he could not let this become another.