by Matt Larkin
Finally, Odin cupped the ring in both hands and whispered to it. “Svanhit. Come to me, valkyrie. Odin calls you to fulfill your vow.”
No answer was immediately forthcoming, so Odin settled down on the riverbank to watch the sky.
Nestled beneath an evergreen, legs folded under him, Odin glowered. It was difficult, what he attempted, projecting into the Penumbra that he might cross Midgard and watch his son. He knew Tyr would watch over Thor, and yet he feared for the boy, tasting war for the first time. Odin’s connection to Thor made him easier to track, true, but every projection was fraught with peril, even discounting Audr.
We have an accord …
Which was not to say the wraith would not seize control of Odin’s body given the chance, given a single moment of weakness, of faltering will. One could never trust the dead.
We are all dead …
Yes, and on that, Odin had mused long years, unraveling the double meanings of Audr’s mantra. Through Yggdrasil, the souls of the dead were reborn again into Midgard, meaning Odin—and everyone else—had lived many lifetimes. Moreover though, it now seemed nigh unto every vaettir was some form of transmogrified shade, either reborn much like men or otherwise changed. The true nature of the Spirit Realm yet eluded him, but, as Audr had hinted, it seemed even some of the greatest powers in existence had once lived as men. Or women, as the case was.
Icy wind stung his cheeks and eyelids. A layer of rime had settled over his form as he sat, which returning to his body, he now felt.
He did not sleep, exactly, but the dancing lights drew him into reverie that blurred the passage of time. So much so that the plod of light feet before him jolted him into wakefulness and sent him leaping up to grab Gungnir.
Svanhit’s blonde hair seemed to shimmer in the night, much as her golden armor glittered. The woman moved with supernatural grace and a sensuality that belied the truth he had once seen for himself—she could best most any warrior in single combat and had nigh to bested Odin himself. No sign remained of the valkyrie’s brown wings. And oddly, her face had changed a hair as if … she had aged.
Odin released his spear but did not quite lower his guard. This woman had, after all, fought him before, and he did not know with absolute certainty that her promise to him truly bound her. He held up her ring before his thumb and forefinger. “I was not so certain you would heed my call.”
“Because you do not understand. My kind is trapped by our oaths, much as we are bound to both our sisters and our master.”
“And who is your master?”
Svanhit quirked a mischievous smile. “I cannot tell you that.”
“Even were I to command it?”
She laughed, flashing white teeth. “I am forbidden to speak of it, and my oath to you does not absolve me of prior bonds.”
“What bonds?”
She held out her hand.
Odin glanced at the ring. It was worked so elegantly into the likeness of a swan and wrought from orichalcum, the most valuable material in creation. Freyja had once told him that orichalcum could be infused with a soul and thus imbued with power, assuming one was willing to so pervert and torment another being. After a last look at it, he dropped it back into her hand.
The valkyrie’s shoulders seemed to loosen a little, and she replaced the ring on her finger, letting out a tiny sigh of relief as she did so. “The ring binds me to my master, though I answer more often to the leader of my sisters.”
“Who is?”
“Her name is Skögul, though I doubt you truly called me here to ask me that.”
Odin grunted then rubbed his beard. “No, I did not.” He had called her to ask what the valkyries, harbingers of war and death, knew of Ragnarok. That was the question he ought to have asked. “I must reach Alfheim.”
Svanhit pursed her lips and spread her hands in a mockery of sorrow. “I cannot take the living to any spirit world, Odin Borrson. That is forbidden.”
Of course it fucking was. And he had saved a boon from this strange creature for years just so she could offer up troll shit. “Do you truly think I will hold your oath fulfilled if you refuse to do aught to aid me? Return the ring, valkyrie, and I will keep it for centuries if I must.”
Svanhit frowned and closed her fist around the ring while taking a step back.
“So your oath is worth so little to you? You would withdraw it?” She wanted her ring back because … Because she seemed to need it. “You won’t live for centuries without that. Without the ring, you have begun to age like a mortal.”
All of her earlier joviality had slipped from her face. Indeed, her eyes held ice that seemed apt to chill him to the bone.
“Give me aught I can use, or else return the ring, valkyrie.”
Svanhit scowled. Then she slumped her shoulders. “There are ways between the worlds, but I am unable to show them to you. I don’t know what I can …”
“Speak.”
“Odin, I don’t think you understand quite what—”
“Tell me!”
Svanhit shut her eyes a moment and shook her head. “The … the dead know many things. Most especially those who delved the Art in life.”
Hel. She would have him summon the dead? “Evoking the dead is dangerous and not like to produce one who can answer my question.”
Svanhit faltered again.
“Speak, valkyrie.”
“I … Sometimes tongues wag of the first sorceress, the one from whom all other practitioners of seid descend, even long before the days of Halfdan the Old. They called her Svarthofda.”
“And you know how to summon her?”
This is unwise …
“I …”
Odin folded his arms. “Can she tell me how to reach Alfheim?”
“More like than not, yes.”
Ancient practitioners … Svarthofda … Vilmeid … Vidolf … All dead …
Odin strode forward and gripped Svanhit by the shoulder. “You will teach me her sign. When I have summoned this dead witch, then, and only then, shall I hold your oath fulfilled.”
Svanhit worked her lips a moment. Then she sighed and nodded.
27
Two days beyond Vörnir’s holding, they had reached the wall. It rose from the ground like a part of the mountains, the very end of the world, separating Midgard from Utgard. They had followed it some time before finding the first of the breaches—this a crack running from higher up than she could see and ending at ground level, nigh to seven foot across at the widest point. Even a large jotunn might squeeze through the passage that twisted and writhed and looked apt to send debris tumbling down.
Staring at that gap, Sif knew, deep in her heart, she was looking into the void. Beyond that wall lay chaos. Supreme and terrible, seeping into their world through breaches like this one.
And so, Thor had pitched a camp for them, and Vörnir had set to work. The jotunn had brought with him a horse nigh to the size of a mammoth, and together they drew behind them massive chunks of stone far larger than anyone had a right to move at once.
Thor watched the jotunn crack and mortar those rocks. The prince’s fingers drummed on Mjölnir as if he considered taking it up and striking down this creature they now worked with. Given they had never fought a jotunn of such size and strength, would a hammer blow even fell Vörnir?
Rubbing her arms, Sif drifted over to stand beside the prince. “You’re worried he can actually complete it in one winter.”
Thor grunted, then shook his head. “No. Of course not. No one could do that. Completely impossible.”
“He has that monstrous horse …”
“Hmmm. Maybe related to Sleipnir, who knows. Father said Loki told him other kinds of horse once lived—some with wings, or horns, or the like.”
Sif sighed. “You avoid the question.”
Thor spread his hands. “We had to make a bargain, Sif. He clearly only had one thing on his mind.”
“Like you were so much better! One look at all those tits and tren
ches and your tongue was practically hanging out of your damned mouth. He could have asked you for Yggdrasil itself, and you’d have agreed if it meant getting to plant your cock in that jotunn bitch’s—”
“What is your problem, exactly?” Thor demanded. “It’s not like you couldn’t have fucked anyone you wanted in there.”
Not anyone. She opened her mouth to chastise him but couldn’t quite form the words. Everything that went through her mind sounded petty or weak or foolish. What was her problem? That she hated seeing him with other women, much less with a fucking jotunn? As if she had some right to complain.
Finally, she huffed. “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you!”
He threw up his hands. “Why would I need you to tell me if I already knew?”
“Because you’re a damned fool!”
His face darkened. “I am your prince.”
“Then excuse me, my prince. I think I need some air!” She spun and stormed away.
“We’re atop a mountain,” he shouted after her. “Any more air and you’d be flying!”
Sif stiffened but refused to acknowledge that. Instead, she walked to the edge of the wall, inspecting the jotunn’s work. Whatever Thor said, Vörnir made too much progress too quickly. He would accomplish the deed and then Thor would have to admit he promised something he could never deliver. Besides the shame of that, what Otherworldly forces might a jotunn bring to bear against an oath breaker? She wasn’t certain she even wanted to know.
A thick layer of ice coated the wall in most spots, often hanging down from jutting outcroppings as icicles. The Midgard Wall would stop an army, yes, but more and more jotunnar had passed into Midgard in the past decades. Sif stared up but could not begin to make out the top from here, even though they had already climbed above the thickest of the mist.
And from atop the wall? How far could a woman see?
Certainly, she’d be able to see into Utgard and much more clearly than she would by simply passing the breach.
She blew out a long breath that frosted the air. Well … someone needed to see what they were guarding against. It may as well be her.
She had no real ice pick, but they did have crampons, and those would help. With her supernatural strength and stamina, she could do this. She returned to her bedroll and dug through her satchel, pulled out the crampons, then trod back to the wall.
With tingling fingers, she tested a slight overhang. Slick and slippery. This was a bad idea. And yet, she could not quite let go of it. She heaved herself upward, caught another handhold, and dug her crampon into the ice. How far up did it rise?
Maybe the Vanir knew the answer, but no one left on Midgard seemed to. Nor did it matter. She could do this.
Sif’s fingers slipped from the icy ledge, and she screamed. Her body dragged along the wall, ripping her nails. She pitched backward, clinging on with one hand, while the other bloody one hung free. Far, far below her, the mist, like looking down upon the clouds, stretched out forever. How high had she climbed?
Hundreds of feet, for certain. If she let go now, she’d break every bone in her immortal body. Not even the apple could possibly save her from such a fall. So why had she felt so damned compelled to go up here?
Heart pounding so loudly it drowned out all other sound, she flailed at the wall. Her blood-slicked fingers couldn’t seem to grab purchase.
She looked up. Another two dozen feet, maybe, and then she’d reach a ledge. Maybe even the top.
Drawing upon what remained of her stamina, she heaved herself upward. Her hand wrapped around another outcropping, and she pulled, half yanking herself up, half scrambling up with crampons against the wall.
On and on she climbed until finally her hand slapped the top of the ledge. One hand, then the other.
Just a little more …
She pulled her torso over the top, then rolled the rest of the way up, collapsing onto her back and gasping down great breaths of freezing air. So hard to breathe up here …
More than aught else, she wanted to sleep, but that invited the deathchill. Groaning, she rolled to her knees and forced herself to stand. She had come here to see this, so let her see.
She now stood high above the mist, looking down on all the world. The Midgard Wall ran like a serpent, winding north and south as far as the eye could see. All ice and stone, like the Vanir had somehow grown a glacier. Unlike manmade works, it lacked an even proper surface, the top of it formed from misaligned ice blocks all melded together.
A stiff wind sent her careening to her knees, scattering a dusting of snow over her. Sif clutched the ground for something to grab onto, but there was naught there. And had the wind blown the other way, she’d have flown right off the way she’d come. That thought sent her pulse pounding once again and forced her to crawl forward several paces.
At last she rose and trod—slowly—toward the far side, dozens of feet away. She dared not draw too nigh to the edge, but even from close, she could see down. As on the Midgard side, mist blanketed the land, obscuring any view of it. However many jotunnar lurked down there, she could not count or judge them through such a cloud.
Above the mist though, Utgard stretched on and on. A vast, frozen wasteland without end, broken by icy peaks that seemed to rise as high or higher than these mountains. She did not have many answers here, but she’d found one, even if to a question she had not thought to ask—Utgard was at least as large as Midgard. The middle world surrounded by the vaster and more terrible outer world of chaos. And if they failed to repair this wall …
Then perhaps the wasteland before her was the fate of all Midgard. So, either Vörnir failed, and they faced the wilds of Utgard encroaching into their world ever more swiftly, or he succeeded and held the Thunderers as oath breakers, thus damning them to the worst fates in creation.
Geri was right. A woman could not help but feel insignificant up here.
Sif could not tear her eyes away from the expanse beyond.
28
Five Years Ago
Sif threw back the drinking horn and emptied it in one swig, then tossed the damned thing aside. Her head would not stop throbbing. Her backed ached. Her loins … The memory of begging Freki to hurt her kept running through her mind, no matter how much she drank. The way she’d goaded him stung more than any actual pain he’d caused. Fuck! Stop thinking about it!
The damned apple made her more resilient to the drink. Certainly, she ought to have been in worse shape than she was.
The night meal had long since passed, and the hall had grown dark, lit by a few braziers. That and moonlight, pouring in from a series of slotted windows thirty feet above, casting the hall in a crisscross of light and shadow. Some warriors remained, despite the late hour, drinking and talking. They always stayed here, some almost until dawn. Odin’s table was never empty, his guests never turned away, though the king rarely showed himself.
Across the feast hall, Geri sat, watching her. Sif kept her eyes down, trying not to acknowledge the other woman. She didn’t need sympathy, and she sure as fuck didn’t want to talk about it. Not any of it.
Funny. She knew better than to get involved with princes. She knew. That had been one of her strongest lessons in Dalar, one she’d sworn never to forget. And somehow …
A slave brought her another drinking horn. They must have known it took a lot to sate an immortal in such a mood as her. Sif snatched it away from the girl without a glance and took another long swig. She sat with one leg over the bench, and one elbow resting on the table. As if any position might prove comfortable.
“Does it seem likely the bottom of that one will have more answers than the bottom of the last?”
Sif groaned, then looked up as Sigyn settled down on the bench before her. “I do not seek company.”
“A woman who lingers in the feast hall rather than her own chambers invites company. And on some level that means you seek it whether you realize that or not. So if you seek it, you have found it.”
&nbs
p; Sif glared at the older woman a moment, then took another drink. Damned horn was already empty again.
Her aunt placed a hand upon her knee. “I understand what you’re going through, Sif. I truly do. You have two choices before you—act on your feelings, or else learn to kill them. Nurturing them in darkness, dwelling on them while doing naught, it will not avail you. This passion will eat you alive if you allow it.”
“What the fuck do you know of passion, old woman? You have lived with your man so long you cannot possibly remember what it was like to …” Sif groaned and shook her head, not even certain what she wanted to say. Her mind felt fuzzy. Maybe the mead was finally doing something. About fucking time.
Now Sigyn frowned and removed her hand. “Old woman? Who do you think you are, niece? I do not deny you have suffered in your life, but if you think you are the only one, you are sadly mistaken. You cannot imagine the hardships the Aesir went through to reach Asgard. How we watched so many of our brothers and sisters die out in the cold on the journey. How we fought and bled along the way.”
“Ancient history.” Sif tossed the horn aside again. “The cold? I might sympathize more had I lived here, rather than fostering in Dalar. In the damned cold you so revile.”
“Odin thought to teach you of the world.”
“Odin thought to solidify his alliance with Gylfi.”
Sigyn spread her hands. “So the mead has not fully deprived you of your wit, even if it has stripped you of your courtesy. It appears none of your experiences managed to teach you much of humility.”
Sif scoffed, then snorted. “Humility? I guess you’d know of that, yes? They say you were once considered quite the beauty.”
“Once? I haven’t aged … you don’t think I’m still beautiful?” Sigyn’s face faltered a moment like she was actually hurt.
Bah. Hardly Sif’s problem. “Please. You’ve been jealous of me from the moment I returned to court. My hair more golden and shimmering, my body more fit, my breasts more perfect. I’ve seen how you look at me!”
