The Apples of Idunn

by Matt Larkin

  He crept forward. The burrow delved deep, perhaps fifteen feet down. Ahead, deep snores echoed off the walls. The tunnel opened up into a central chamber accessed by a maze of side passages. Odin knelt at the entrance, taking stock of the scene. Huddled masses that looked like mossy boulders slept, piled atop one another. Six trolls perhaps, though it was hard to be sure given their sleeping arrangements. More might well dwell deeper in the burrow.

  In the center of the room, iron roots had ripped through the ground like claws rising from the dust. Those roots bent into a cage where a half-dozen naked women lay huddled in each other’s arms, bruised and bloodied. The nearest he recognized as one of Frigg’s maids. Her hair was fiery red, even in the torchlight—probably what had led the troll to choose her in the first place. The root cage had sprouted thorns that looked sharp enough to shred skin and sinew if the women tried to slip through the cracks. Troll magic? It didn’t matter. One way or another, he would set them free.

  No sign of Ve … unless he had become indistinguishable from the other trolls. Odin refused to believe that.

  Odin laid the torch on the ground and rose, both hands on Gungnir as he snuck forward. The red-haired maid looked up abruptly at him and started to whimper, drawing the eyes of the other women. Odin silenced her with a finger to his lips and continued toward the largest mass of trolls. Three of them in here—it had looked like four from the entrance. So with the two on the other side, five trolls occupied this warren. And gods knew how many beyond.

  Too many. But the only other choice was to wait for Tyr and risk them waking. He could be here in less than an hour, most like. No. The element of surprise was an advantage he couldn’t surrender. He just needed a way to diminish their numbers … They lay sleeping in a pile. All three of them lumped on top of one another in a mass, like dogs in a litter.

  There.

  He hefted his spear over his head and slammed it straight down, roaring with the effort. Gungnir sank through one troll’s skull, into another’s chest, and apparently through the arm of the third. And it kept going, embedding right into the stone. The wails of the wounded trolls were a nigh-deafening cacophony.

  The other two leapt to their feet. Odin grasped his spear but didn’t pull it free. The first troll was dead, the second dying, but the third was just pinned under them. If he removed the spear, he’d free that troll.

  “Fuck.”

  The troll’s flailing became frantic as it tried to dislodge itself from its fallen brethren and the spear.

  Odin spun to face the remaining two. He drew his sword—a sword given to him by Frigg to protect their family—and readied against the charge. He could only pray the sword held true to its promise.

  Trolls had weak spots, albeit not many. The joints, the eyes, the noses …

  Odin stepped in front of the cage. The first troll rushed at him, all fury and animal aggression. Odin leapt to the side and rolled as the troll swung a meaty hand at him. The creature slammed its palm into one of the roots, a thorn punching through its flesh.

  It wailed in agony, bending the root as it yanked its hand away, further shredding its palm and spraying the women with black gore. Odin came up swinging at its knee with enough force to cut to the bone. The troll toppled forward, clutching its wounded hand, howling like a fiend of Hel. A heartbeat later the other troll slammed into Odin.

  The impact knocked all wind from his lungs and sent him flying backward. He crashed into the burrow wall and fell, smacking his chest on the ground. Vision blurred, he gasped. Fiery surges of pain rocked his body with each ragged breath. Broken ribs.

  Dimly, he heard the troll bellow. Odin pushed his face up, half expecting to see the troll ready to rip his head off. Instead it grabbed him by his tunic and slammed him up against the burrow wall, sending fresh jolts of pain coursing through his body. Distorted as the troll’s face was, he recognized it.

  “Ve!”

  Again the troll slammed him against the wall, knocking all wind out of him, before flinging him away. Odin crashed along the floor and rolled up against another wall. Pain blinded him. He couldn’t rise.

  For a moment he’d matched strength with a snow bear and fought through the pain of his wounds like a berserk. That power was in him. He reached for it, falling inside himself, desperately grasping for it. Something inside him seemed to rupture, filling his limbs with more strength than he’d ever known. The troll—his brother—charged forward and swung a claw down at Odin.

  Odin flung himself out of the way. The pain of his broken bones faded in the surge of power rushing through him, and he drank that power like mead. Before Ve could turn, Odin charged him, wrapping his arms around his brother’s midsection. His momentum and enhanced strength allowed him to heft the troll’s weight and charge forward, slamming him into a wall. Rather than grant him respite, Odin rained blow after blow upon his brother.

  Ve could take it.

  He’d had an apple, too.

  Odin pounded his fist again and again into Ve’s ribs until they cracked. An uppercut to the troll’s jaw sent his brother stumbling backward, head colliding with the wall.

  Dazed himself, Odin backed away, then wrapped a hand around Gungnir. The dragon’s power filled him, fueling his own, blending until he could no longer see the difference. The pinned troll wrapped a hand around Odin’s leg. He yanked the spear free and slammed it into the last troll’s head, then whipped it around in front of him, pointing it at Ve.

  Ve watched him, gleaming eyes locked on Gungnir. The troll was wounded, stunned. Odin could close the distance and finish this. They both knew it.

  Tyr and the others would be here, ready to clear this burrow and end the threat. And they would hunt down and kill Ve, never knowing who he was.

  “I’m so sorry, brother,” Odin said. “I swear I will return the amulet and restore you. I’ll force that ghost to break this curse.” He glanced back at the women he’d come to rescue, then turned back to Ve. “Run!”

  Ve needed no further prompting. He took off, lumbering down a side tunnel.

  Odin slipped to his knees. The power he’d drawn seemed to flee the moment his heart began to slow. With it gone, the renewed agony of his wounds hit him like a fresh torrent. He fell over, dimly aware of the women shouting.

  His vision blurred.

  52

  The twisted Jarnvid lay before them. No horses inside. Even the hounds wouldn’t venture there. Dogs were wiser than men in such things.

  Hermod rose from where he knelt. “He passed this way, maybe an hour ago.”

  “You have your father’s gift at woodcraft.”

  The young man scoffed. “I’m fair certain that’s the only eight-legged horse in the area.” He switched his torch to his left hand so he could draw a sword. “No woodsman enters the Jarnvid. At least not until now.”

  Vili strode forward, axe in hand. “Wish the fucking sun would set.”

  Tyr spat. “No. You don’t. Trolls won’t come out in sunlight.” He drew his sword. This would be bloody. But his lord—his king—had ridden in there alone. Tyr would not leave the son of Borr to face this by himself. He ought to have seen what was happening to Ve. Had he remained, maybe he could have stopped this from happening. Maybe not.

  Tyr lit his own torch off Hermod’s. He edged his way into the thorny wood. Had to be careful. Trees here could shred a man right through his mail. Vili pushed past him. Berserk tore a gash open on his side but didn’t slow.

  “Odin!” Vili bellowed. “Where the fuck are you, brother?”

  Tyr cringed.

  “This way,” Hermod said, pointing off to Vili’s left. “Deeper inside.”

  Vili raced off blindly, axe clanging against the iron-like trees. After a dozen strides, he paused, looked around. Huffed while Hermod caught up and pointed in a new direction.

  “Vili,” Tyr said. “Guard our backs.”

  The berserk grunted. “Soon as the fucking sun sets …”

  And that would be in mere moments.<
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  They pressed on, even as darkness spread over the wood. Fast as if someone had shuttered a window. And then only torchlight remained. In the dark and the mist, a man couldn’t see five feet.

  “Stay close,” Tyr commanded.

  Vili had already doused his torch. He fell to his knees, groaning and roaring as he shifted. He tore off his clothes as the bear burst forth.

  A louder bellow rang out from off to the left. A moment later, a massive form lumbered through the trees. It crashed into one of Tyr’s men. Impact flung the man’s body into a tree. Impaled him on a thorn bigger than Tyr’s arm.

  Tyr roared at the beast. Troll turned to meet his charge but not fast enough. Tyr leapt into the air, clanging his sword against its skull. The troll recoiled, stumbling backward, before slamming its claw atop the spot where Tyr had stood. Tyr rolled forward between its legs. Drew a knife in the same motion. He slammed the knife into the back of the troll’s knee. It pitched forward.

  Tyr mounted its back. Grabbed his sword. Jerked it free. He rained blows on the troll’s neck. Blade clanged against rocky protrusions and skin tougher than armor. But a few blows bit. Geysers of black ichor spurted out of those wounds, drenching Tyr.

  A bear collided with the troll. Tyr tumbled off backward, dropping his torch. Bear bore the troll down, clawing out its face. Its guts.

  Another troll came crashing through the wood an instant later. Tyr snatched up his sword and raced in. Dodged to the side. Troll’s hand slapped a tree, cracked it. Tyr’s blade hit it in the abdomen. Blade snapped in half. Arm numb with the impact, Tyr stared a heartbeat at his broken sword. Damn. Not good.

  The troll seized him by the tunic and hefted him off the ground. Tyr beat at its wrist with the hilt. Troll roared in his face. His stomach lurched. He dropped his weapon and clutched the troll’s arm. Just before it tried to fling him free into a thorn.

  Tyr’s brain rattled around in his skull as the troll shook him about. The troll slammed him against a tree. Knocked all wind from his lungs. His arms lost their strength, and the troll flung him on the ground. Bellowed at him.

  Tyr tried to roll over, to grab a weapon, torch, something. To catch a breath.

  Troll was going to smash him, maybe step on him.

  Hermod hewed at the back of the beast’s knee with his sword. Troll wailed, spun on him. The young man thrust the torch in the monster’s face. That sent the troll reeling backward.

  Tyr scrambled to his feet, grabbed his fallen sword hilt, and raced to Hermod’s side.

  By now, Vili had risen from the other one. Swaying, bloody snout. Still charged right in to the next troll. The bear shoved the troll backward, driving a thorn through its shoulder.

  The trolls’ own twisted wood could hurt them.

  Tyr drew all the supernatural strength he could. Everything the apple had given him. And he slammed his shoulder into the troll’s gut as it tried to pull off the thorn. The troll shook the tree. Half the wood seemed to tremble with it.

  Then Vili’s claws began to rend its neck. Black blood sprayed everywhere.

  Tyr retrieved his torch. As he let his strength go, pain flooded back in. His back felt like a giant welt. He was lucky the troll hadn’t snapped his spine.

  “Can you continue?” Hermod asked.

  “You saved my life.”

  He shrugged. “You probably saved mine too. Sleipnir went this way.”

  Odin lay unconscious in a troll burrow.

  Sleipnir had waited outside, leaving no doubt where his master had gone. Fool son of Borr had waded in there alone. It was like storming the gates of Hel, going into a troll’s lair.

  And within, so many dead trolls. Odin had single-handedly slain twice as many trolls as the three of them together had taken.

  The women had fled their cage but still huddled together. Weeping. Trembling. Nigh broken by the violence and horror.

  “Get them out of here,” Tyr said to Hermod. “Stick close to Vili.”

  He knelt by Odin’s side. Tyr’s place was here, until he could wake his king.

  53

  Odin’s head felt apt to burst as Tyr shook him awake.

  “My lord!”

  Odin grunted, then rolled over to spit out a mouthful of blood. “What happened?”

  A fool’s question, as Tyr’s gaze clearly stated.

  Odin pushed himself up, fresh shots of pain scourging every part of his body. The trolls would have pulverized a mortal man. As it was, even the apple had barely allowed him to survive the beating that … Ve … that Odin’s own brother had dealt him.

  And how much time had he lost?

  “You must wait for your wounds to heal,” Tyr said.

  Odin pushed the warrior away, grunting with the effort of it. He’d wasted too much time already. He’d meant to ride all night to reach the Odling castle, but his time lost to the trolls and unconsciousness would cut deep into that period.

  “I must be gone,” he said. “See the women safely back to Halfhaugr.”

  Night was in full swing before Odin rode from the Jarnvid. Ve had lost himself to that monster, and Odin would do whatever it took to restore him. His injuries meant naught compared to that. Sleipnir ran like the wind as if he understood the urgency too well. Singasteinn had become a hot weight against Odin’s chest. He needed this to be done. He needed to be free of ghosts and curses and the mist.

  The weight of it all threatened to suffocate him, an avalanche of urd, crushing him and leaving a poor imitation of a man in his place.

  Odin had made an oath to Idunn to become king, and in so doing, had accepted responsibility for all the Aesir. The throne was one more burden, but one he had agreed to shoulder. He had to give them a better world. He would not allow anyone to suffer Ve’s fate again.

  A sharp hiss filled the air to his left a heartbeat before the mist slammed into Sleipnir like a solid wall. The horse tried to bank but was knocked through the air end over end. Odin, bareback, tumbled off and hit the ground hard.

  “Sleipnir!” he gasped.

  His mighty steed hit the hill, tumbled end over end, and lay still.

  “Sleipnir!”

  “The horse cannot save you this time, traitor,” a voice called from the mists.

  Odin pushed himself up, searching for where Gungnir had fallen. It had landed some distance away, down the slope of a hill. “Who are you?”

  Mist clung to the man as he trod through it, revealing himself at first in silhouette, then in truth. Guthorm. Gudrun’s brother, Hel’s assassin—Grimhild’s favorite.

  Odin edged toward his spear, not taking his eyes off this newcomer. He struggled to claim the power within, that strength that let him lock out pain. A rustling sounded behind him. Someone moving through the mists. Many someones.

  “You have betrayed my father, Little King. You’ve turned away from the Lady Hel and spurned the gifts that were offered to you. And you have shamed my sister! And that we will not abide.” With agonizing slowness a sword crept from his scabbard. The mist seemed to chill around it, as though it radiated cold. Runes decorated the length of a woven steel blade. A runeblade. The stuff of legend. Guthorm held the sword before his face, as if saluting Odin. “This was forged by the dvergar. No finer blade graces Midgard. Retrieve your weapon, Odin. Die like a warrior.”

  Odin swallowed. He desperately wanted to check if Sleipnir lived, but Guthorm would give him no such chance. Instead, he resumed edging toward his fallen spear. He’d practiced gazing into the Penumbra with Gudrun. Gjuki had said that once the door was open, he would always know it was there. Well, now Odin needed to know. He needed to see the sorcerers creeping through the mist, seeking to surround him.

  His eyes glazed over, and an instant of dizziness swept him before he righted himself. It grew easier each time he embraced the Sight. The shadows in the mist leapt into clarity. Many were wandering ghosts, trapped on Midgard long past their time, but Guthorm did have a half-dozen warriors with him. A hunting party seeking their prey.r />
  Odin knelt and retrieved Gungnir. As he clasped it, its power merged with his own, making it easier to hold onto his strength.

  “Are you quite certain you want to do this?” Odin asked. He leveled the spear before him, as if inviting Guthorm in.

  The man stalked closer, sword before him. “Oh, yes.”

  Before Guthorm could reach him, Odin spun, slashing out the throat of one of the not-so-hidden sorcerers in the mist. Blood gushed from the wound, and the falling corpse appeared clearly. He reversed his momentum and jutted out the butt of his spear, breaking the nose of another man. The sorcerers scattered, suddenly realizing how vulnerable they were. Odin hurled Gungnir like a bolt of lightning. It crashed through a man’s chest and exploded out the other side, piercing into a boulder beyond. The dragon was thirsty for blood this day.

  Guthorm roared, charging him. But Odin wasn’t finished, nor did he intend to face the prince with other sorcerers at his back. He dove into a roll, slipping under Guthorm’s furious swing. The strength the apples gave him made him fast. He easily chased down another man and slammed into him, the impact sending the poor bastard rolling along the ground.

  Odin sprang forward, snatched Gungnir, and spun around to meet the Niflung prince. He raised his spear to parry the prince’s downward chop. Sparks sheared off Gungnir at the impact. The runes on that sword glowed. Odin had never seen another weapon of ancient power besides Gungnir. This sword was extraordinary, seeped in eldritch energy and hungry for blood. Again and again he parried Guthorm’s onslaught. This man was a master to rival Tyr.

  Odin fell back, quickly losing ground. Left, right, and again he jabbed, trying to drive the prince backward, to gain maneuvering room. But Guthorm forced their bodies ever closer, gave him no chance to use the spear’s superior reach.