by Matt Larkin
“I am not staying long.”
Sigyn shrugged. “Not a surprise.”
Odin frowned. Did Sigyn dislike him because of the rift between him and Loki? Or because he shamed her sister? Or just because he was not the king she’d have chosen? Maybe all of the above. Either way, she had access to her precious library at his sufferance. “I need your help.”
“My help?” Now she closed the book. “I’m honored.”
Sarcasm? “I need to know everything the Vanir know about Miklagard.”
Sigyn tapped a finger against her lip, then rose, the slight hint of stiffness in her steps. She drifted to the far side of the library then ran a thumb along several volumes. “The Vanir didn’t seem to organize their writings into the North and South Realms, exactly. They used these shelves to discuss the lands beyond their sphere of influence including Miklagard, Serkland, and even Jotunheim.” She pulled a tome out, flipped a few pages, then returned it. “Outer Miklagard. But you want to know about the city proper? Or the central empire?”
“About the Patriarchs.”
“Hmm.” Now she knelt, placing a hand on the small of her back while examining other titles. “I think that … Yes. Freyja wrote some speculation on the subject a few hundred years ago.”
Odin flinched. Freyja. Reading her words, seeing her fine hand, it was all torment and memory and relief. All at once. And from the way Sigyn was looking at him, she must have noticed his reaction, though she said naught of it. He took the book she offered, then gave her a hand up.
“You’ve read this?”
“No. I just perused the introduction. It was one I planned to look at later, but there are so many …” Indeed. The Vanir had spent nigh unto five thousand years collecting knowledge and speculation on every conceivable subject. “It caught my attention though since she mentions the rumor of the Miklagardian aristocracy having attained immortality, after a fashion. Some of the Vanir even suspected they were draugar.”
Odin scoffed. “You jest. The Vanir thought the dead ruled the largest empire in Midgard? Freyja believed this?”
Sigyn shrugged and returned to the table. “I haven’t read the book yet. Do you need me to read it to you, your majesty?”
Odin opened his mouth for a curt reply, but the outer doors creaked open. “Has Frigg granted someone else permission to enter this place?”
“No.” Sigyn stood and drifted to the rail. “Just me.”
Odin joined her.
Below, Sjöfn walked over a bridge spanning the canals that decorated the lower level.
“Frigg’s handmaid,” he said.
“Yes.” The tone of her voice didn’t exactly conceal much love for the young woman. “She’s the grand niece of your friend Lodur.”
Lodur’s grandniece. Fuck—Odin had been away a long time. Why then, would the girl be so blatantly offering herself to him? Two possibilities seemed likely—either she expected political gain for herself by drawing close to the king … or she was trying to win favor back to her family.
Odin had told Frigg the truth before—he had not given much consideration to how the former jarls faired. Certainly they must still hold some authority among the Aesir, if in a less official capacity. Could Lodur, knowing Odin had returned, have sent his own blood to tempt Odin? And why not? Lodur was an apt warrior, not only for his skill in battle but for his cunning. Perhaps the Aesir waged a different kind of battle here on Asgard while their king was away.
Sjöfn climbed the stairs, swaying seductively as she did so.
Sigyn folded her arms across her chest as the girl drew nigh. “What are you doing here?”
“Frigg sent me to tell you … that the shipwrights need new designs. She wants the ships to be able to endure a full moon at sea or more.”
“And she sent you all the way here to tell me this? It couldn’t have waited until I returned in the evening?”
“Well …”
Sigyn snorted, then glanced at Odin. “Sure. Fine. I’ll look into it.” With that, she walked toward one of the other shelves.
Sjöfn stood, staring at Odin long after Sigyn had left.
“You did not come here to see her.”
“Perhaps my king needs assistance with his … research.”
Odin chuckled and drifted toward one of the back rooms, book in hand. Since as far as he knew, only he and Sigyn could even read, there could only be one way in which the girl might think she could help him. So … did Lodur think him so very easy to win over? What, throw a pretty pair of tits at him, and he’d win favor? Part of him wanted to have the girl punished for her temerity. He could have her publicly shamed, even banished for a winter out in Midgard. But then again, she was probably just doing what the head of her family ordered.
And still, knowing what Lodur intended might prove useful. If his old friend thought him now starved for sex, it was hardly an onerous task to play along until he could see Lodur’s endgame.
“How do you plan to help me?” Odin asked.
“In any way my king needs, of course.” She swayed her hips, just in case he somehow missed her meaning.
Odin drifted around behind her and ran a hand up her thigh where her skirt split. She shuddered as he cupped her arse, then bent her down over one of the tables.
No. It wouldn’t be so unpleasant a task.
20
Eighteen Years Ago
The fire in the brazier had dwindled and now most of the light in Frigg’s chamber came from moonlight through a lattice window high above. Odin’s wife sat beneath the window, crisscrossed by the shadows, head in her hand.
At last, she looked up. “He is a man now—you cannot simply send him for fostering.”
“Asgard is not the best place for him, nor can his actions go unanswered.”
“Nor yours,” she snapped.
Odin scowled. “Perhaps I ought to have left you to Vili? Or even let him strangle Thor?”
“You ought to have handled it without murdering your brother.”
It is the betrayal of our families that cuts deepest …
“Shut up!”
Frigg recoiled.
“Not you,” Odin said. Then shook his head. “Forgive me the outburst. I am burdened.”
“As ever.”
Oh, she had no idea. “If he cannot be fostered, he must be sent then somewhere else.” Odin nodded to himself. The answer seemed obvious enough. “To Tyr. Let him prove himself against Serkland and earn his apple.”
Frigg frowned but didn’t speak. They both knew Odin had reserved an apple for Thor—thanks to Loki—from the time Thor was an infant. But sending his son to war would earn the boy respect and take him away from Asgard long enough for the court to forget about what had just transpired.
“Tyr will ensure Thor remains safe.”
Frigg sat very still. “There is no safety in war.”
“He was man enough to take up an axe and attack a berserk. He must now face armed men as a consequence. I cannot spare him this forever.”
Odin had just started to rise when the door creaked open, and Fulla stuck her head inside. Frigg’s maid had stood by her side all these years, her bright red hair now streaked with a few hints of gray. Sooner or later, Frigg might grant the woman an apple, if not for her valor, at least for her loyalty.
“Them jarls are all here and set to gossiping and blustering like jotunnar in a blizzard.”
“About what?” Frigg asked.
“Carrying on about holding a Thing soon as now, this very night, this very hall. As if there weren’t proper ways for doing a Thing.”
Odin groaned, and Fulla flinched at his expression. She had done naught wrong, but he had no patience to coddle her at the moment. He pushed past her and stormed out into the hall where, indeed, the remaining jarls—those on Asgard—and many thegns had gathered.
“What in the gates of Hel is all this?” Odin bellowed.
“A jarl was murdered,” Jarl Moda said. “The law demands we hold a Thing to find
justice. More, Thor attacked the acting king. This cannot go unanswered.”
“A Thing. A Thing?” Odin stalked closer to Moda. He looked to Annar, to Lodur, to Hoenir. Men he’d thought he could trust, men he’d thought he owned the loyalty of. And yet, here they stood with Moda. “You are correct. This cannot go unanswered.”
He felt it as Frigg drifted close behind him, though she did not make a sound.
“I will not be questioned by my own jarls,” Odin said, drawing each word out. “I will decide what urd befalls my son.”
Moda frowned. “The law of the tribes does not allow even a king to avoid answering—”
“The tribes?” Odin said. “The fucking tribes?” He placed his hands on either side of Moda’s face. Squeezing enough for the man to grimace. “The tribes think to hold me answerable to them?”
“Odin …” Frigg said. “Be careful what you do here. There is already unrest and—”
“The tribes,” Odin bellowed, “and the jarls who serve them are obsolete!” He shoved Moda away, and the man tumbled to the ground, scowling.
“What are you saying?” Lodur asked.
“I am saying, where once stood nine petty tribes, now stands a united Ás people. United by me! We have no more need for tribes.” He turned, waving a hand at the gathered jarls. “And I suppose that means no real need for jarls to rule them!”
Frigg clutched his wrist and tried to pull him close.
Odin jerked his hand away from her, unable to stop himself from clenching and unclenching his fists. It was like a volcano had wakened in his chest, burning him. Consuming him. “From this day forth, all Aesir are one! There will be no further discussion of the divisions of the past!”
“You cannot do that,” Moda said, rising.
“It is done, and you are all witness,” Odin said. “I am the king of Asgard. I am the king of Midgard. I am the king of the fucking gods!” His breath had become ragged. “Unless any of you wishes to challenge me for the throne? Any of you?” He looked at each jarl in turn. “No? Then be gone from my hall!”
And they did.
The former jarls left, taking their thegns, muttering, and shaking their heads. As if unable to fathom what he had just done. And indeed, it hit Odin like a wave that drove him stumbling down onto his throne. Long had he mused the tribes might need dissolving in order to obviate the differences that still divided the Aesir. He had not considered taking the action like this though and certainly had not intended to strip the jarls of their titles. But he had done so and could not recant without looking twice the fool he already did. If he lost control of Asgard and his people … they would lose Ragnarok. Mankind would die.
Surely, preserving the world justified him offending a few jarls. Former friends.
Frigg drifted to her own throne and sank down beside him. “This can only make things worse. Already, a schism divides those with apples from those without. The Vanir had millennia to find a balance, a system to award the greatest prize. For us, it threatens to tear us apart. Every day, our young men kill each other in vain attempts to prove themselves the most worthy.”
Odin groaned and let his chin fall to his fist.
“And what of Annar?” Frigg asked.
“The jarls are dissolved, but still we need him to guard the apples. And to know he holds our favor.”
“So?”
“So come up with new titles for those most favored.”
Frigg sighed. “You tell me this because you intend to leave. Again.”
“And you must rule our people wisely. Hold them together.” In truth, she could do it better than he ever would. Raging outbursts aside, Odin was better at uniting people against a common foe than ruling them over a prolonged period. He had neither the temperament nor skill to do what Frigg did. None of which were the real reasons he always fled the paradise he had stolen.
“What do you seek out there, husband?”
“The same as always—wisdom.”
“There is wisdom to be had here, among your people and your family. Already you will send my son away from me. Now you too insist on leaving Asgard. For how long this time?”
Odin shook his head, having no answer to offer her. He would walk until he found the knowledge he sought. Whether that took another year or ten or a hundred. He would find his answers.
21
Across endless snowfields they trekked, passing through woods and hills and over frozen rivers too wide to measure. Before this, Sif had known Midgard was vast but never imagined aught could stretch so far. So if their world was yet so large, how could she even guess at what lay beyond in Utgard?
They had passed into mountains, climbing a steep slope so ice-slicked her boots threatened to give way with each step. This high up, were she to fall, she might tumble and pitch over a side that must drop a thousand feet.
Her breath froze in crystals, clinging to her cheeks and stinging her eyes. Every rasp of air scorched her frozen throat like a burn. Among the Thunderers, only Hildolf had not yet had an apple, and Sif would not want to imagine the hardship he faced. Every night, he collapsed, shuddering under his blankets. At first, the others had mocked him for it. Strong Hildolf, who never tired before this. No more. Not now, when even they, immortals, seemed ready to drop.
And the damned snows just kept falling, storm after storm, obscuring aught beyond a few feet, as if the mist itself did not do enough of that. Her fingers had gone numb, too.
Two days back, they had stumbled upon a jotunn-infested ruin—three of the brutes. Her hands were so cold, she’d fumbled her halberd and might have fallen had not Thor raced to the rescue, fervent as ever with that hammer.
Sif rubbed her arms, switching the halberd from hand to hand so she could try to keep blood flowing in both. Vörnir seemed to live on the edge of Niflheim, as if wanting to gaze through the gates of Hel. And if they did not reach him soon, maybe they never would.
Freki appeared from the mist ahead, drifting in like a wraith. “I’ve found it. He holds court up ahead, half an hour from here, in the valley.”
“At long last,” Thor said, then glanced back at the others.
Hildolf pitched over onto his knees. In an instant, Meili was there, helping him up. “Come on.”
So, they might not freeze to death, nor starve. Instead, they would march straight into the court of a jotunn … after killing a dozen or so of his kind on route here. Sif could not imagine that would earn them welcome.
“Are you well?” Thor asked her.
“I’m fine.” Fear was her greatest enemy. And she sure as fuck wasn’t going to let Thor see her tremble at the thought of a potential foe.
So.
Let them walk into the monster’s very den.
Coming down the mountain into the valley ought to have been easier. Instead, Sif’s footing proved even more treacherous, always threatening to slip out from under her. With every step, she wedged the halberd’s butt into the snow, anchoring herself before pushing forward.
A little farther.
They had to be almost down this fucking slope. They had to. Never mind that she couldn’t see five feet ahead.
“We’re nigh to the wall,” Geri said.
The varulf’s voice had come from the left, but Sif couldn’t even see her friend. Just keep pushing forward. Eyes on the ground, she spotted the chasm a moment before she’d have stumbled in, drawing up into an abrupt stop. Cracks in the glacial shelf spider-webbed before of her, many large enough for even a jotunn to plunge down into oblivion. What kind of mist-mad imbecile built their palace in such a place?
A hand seized her arm, pulling her away.
Sif jerked around. Had Geri been a foe, Sif would be dead twice over. The varulf had closed the distance without Sif noticing the slightest sign of her presence.
“Come on. Not much farther.”
She had heard that before.
They pushed on, wending their way between the cracks and chasms. Until finally, in the heart of this Hel-cursed p
lace, they found an enormous keep. Through the blinding snow and the accursed mist, she could not even guess at its size and height, but twin braziers lit a stone path leading up to a gate at least many, many times her height. The path was wide enough for an army to march along, though ice crusted all of it.
Thor trod forward first, seeming unaffected by the stone behemoth ahead. Meili followed after him, axe in hand, and then the others.
Sif shuddered again.
As they drew nigh to the gates—and fuck, those had to rise ten times her height—they creaked open of their own accord. Beyond them lay a steaming, smoky hall, thick with strange odors. Humans and jotunnar, all naked or nigh to it, lay about, eating, drinking, or fucking in great heaps of hedonistic abandon. Sif faltered, unable to make herself cross the threshold, even as the others pressed on.
Geri grabbed her wrist and dragged her inside.
The doors screeched shut behind them with the sound of rattling chains. The steam seemed to rise from numerous slits in the floor, and, as they passed some, she had no doubt they burned some strange herbs on the lower levels. The vapors left her dizzy, but at least they warmed her.
It felt good.
Damned good.
They followed the central hall. Maybe it was the herbs but … that looked like a two-headed jotunn with two … two cocks? Because he seemed to be fucking two separate women, each head focused on one. Sif blinked, then shook her head. The motion sent the whole room spinning.
She caught herself on someone.
A naked jotunn, his skin blue as a man in deathchill. Her head barely came up to his navel. She giggled. Then she jerked a hand over her mouth. She did not giggle. What the fuck? She laughed again. Sif didn’t giggle!
She stumbled along after Thor, struggling to walk in a straight line.
“I’m a little odd,” Hildolf said.
“We know,” Itreksjod answered.
“I feel odd today,” Hildolf repeated, looking around in obvious confusion.
