by Matt Larkin
With startling swiftness, Loki grabbed her shoulders and shoved her away. Then he dropped the satchel at his feet. “Desist this. What Sigyn did was foolish and childish. Nevertheless, I dare hope one day you will realize she was trying to help you when you so goaded her. You are so caught up in your pain and loneliness you do not see those who are here for you, nor those who would try to ease your burdens. The lesson might have served you better were you forced to endure it longer than a moon, but I will offer you the kindness of helping you move past this. Do not mistake my kindness for an invitation to aught more.”
Sif crossed her arms over her chest, stepping back. Blood rushed to her cheeks, her neck, her ears. She wanted to look away but dared not. “I … I’m sorry.”
Loki nodded. “All people make mistakes, Sif, and you are young enough to make a great many of them. Learn from them.” He moved toward the door, then stopped. “Do you know why Odin chose you? Why he sent you to Gylfi?”
“My father.”
“Odin trusts your father, yes, but it was more than that. He saw the potential for greatness in you and wanted to forge you into something strong and beautiful, both. He placed his faith in you. Earn that.” He slipped from the room without another word.
Sif stared out after him.
Odin believed in her? Saw potential in her?
For a long time, she stood there, unable to move. Unable to make sense of the words Loki had spoken.
Part II
Year 31, Age of the Aesir
Summer
33
Siggeir Wolfsblood’s fort sat atop a hill, all of it surrounded by a wall twice the height of a man. A fair swathe of that wall was constructed from stone, but the original builders had never finished it. Thus Wolfsblood had plugged the gaps with a spiked wooden fence.
From below the hill, Sigmund crouched, watching the women at the gate. A pair of shieldmaidens guarded the main gate. Certainly they could overcome two such women, but how many more warriors lurked behind that wall?
“A rumor persists,” Fitela said, “that Wolfsblood has hired twelve berserkir women as mercenaries.”
Sigmund grimaced at the thought of it. Wolfsblood had hired mercenaries before—like that bastard Eightarms—so he would hardly put it past the king. Much less now, after having all of his varulfur murdered. But where in the gates of Hel would a man even find twelve berserkir women? “It might just be rumor.”
They had visited the towns on a few occasions, posing as vagrants, and purchased supplies with bounty plundered from Wolfsblood’s own men. More importantly though, Fitela used the time to glean such rumors. The boy planned too much sometimes.
Sigmund’s hand drifted to his sword. Berserkir or not, he’d take down any man or woman who faced him.
“Twelve of them,” Fitela said, eyeing Sigmund’s hand. “Pure arrogance to think you can fight twelve berserkir.”
“This from the child who thought to take on twelve full grown men.” Damn it. He ought not to have said that.
And indeed, Fitela’s face soured at the reminder of a time his own uncle had nigh to torn out his throat. “What matters more to you, uncle? Your precious honor or your revenge? Set aside your Hel-cursed pride and let us find one of these women alone and test her.”
Sigmund groaned. More waiting. After so many years, he had thought today would finally be the day. Summer had finally arrived, and Olof’s raids had begun. Already, Wolfsblood had sent the bulk of his levies north to fight against the Njarar invaders.
Now was the time.
But … but damn. The boy had the right of it. They would have but one chance at this, and they could not afford to squander it.
They had followed a pair of the women all the way from Wolfsblood’s fortress down to a town by the sea. They could have been mere shieldmaidens—worth killing either way—but the confidence in the way they moved bespoke something more. They had a wildness about them Sigmund knew well, for it lurked in himself and Fitela, too.
The day stretched on and still the women stuck together, visiting the jarl’s hall where Sigmund could not well follow. So instead, he passed his time idle by the sea, keeping half an eye on the hall.
Toward twilight one of the women emerged alone and trod along the shore, perhaps seeking a private place to relieve herself. Sigmund rose and followed at a distance, beckoning to Fitela who had perched himself by the town wall.
His nephew fell in beside him. The woman headed out, some distance away from the buildings, before squatting and dropping her trousers.
“You could kill her like this,” Fitela said.
“No.” Sigmund held back until she rose again, then he pulled his sword and advanced.
The woman turned to look at him at last, saying naught as she drew an axe from her belt.
“Stay there,” Sigmund said to Fitela. “Do not intervene.”
The young man grumbled something under his breath.
Sigmund paid him no mind, instead, charging forward, sword high.
The shieldmaiden met his downward swing against the point of her axe, thrust it aside, and shoved. The force of it sent him stumbling back a pace. Strong as a damned troll—definitely a berserk. And that meant he had to act with care.
He feinted left, then slashed in from the right, scoring a gouge on her side.
That drew a roar from her and, instead of falling back, she surged forward, swinging that axe in great cleaving chops. A single hit would have lopped off a limb. Or a head. Sigmund fell back under the assault. She wasn’t agile, but the sheer power behind her blows meant they came fast, almost too fast. Spittle flew from her mouth as she spewed incomprehensible curses at him.
She had given in to her beast. It made her powerful, yes, but not so clever.
Sigmund feinted again.
She didn’t fall for it. In fact, she continued her attack as if she didn’t care if he struck her at all. Sigmund twisted, trying to get out of the way of her wild assault. Her axe smacked the sword from his hand, and her shoulder slammed into his chest, sending him stumbling away. It knocked the wind from his lungs, and he pitched over backward, tumbling into the chilling sea.
The berserk charged in even as he tried to rise, hacking and hewing.
Sigmund dodged one way and the next, finally throwing all his weight into her abdomen. Strong as she was, she didn’t weigh so much, and he heaved her forward, down into the surf. The axe fell—buried in wet sand, no doubt. The woman splashed around for it for a heartbeat before grappling him.
Sigmund stretched, reached for the dagger at his waist. She was stronger.
She pushed his head underwater. Saltwater shot up his nose. Burned his sinuses. Coursed down his throat.
Sigmund flailed.
He beat at her arms, but they were iron.
Inside, the wolf writhed, clawing its way up from the depths of his soul. It had awakened. And that meant the accursed sun had set.
Beast.
Sigmund surged upward, flinging the woman off him even as he began to shift.
With a roar, she did so as well, tearing her tunic apart.
The change hit him hard, expunging the water from his lungs. He finished shifting before her, and despite the pain and wooziness of his change, managed to launch himself forward. His teeth sunk into her neck, deep, rending flesh and tearing out a chunk of it.
A massive bear claw raked his back and sent him tumbling over into the water. His wounds burned like fire!
By the time Sigmund had rolled over to look back at her, the berserk teetered, clawing at her torn-out throat as if bear paws—as if aught at all—might staunch the blood flow. A moment later, she collapsed into the water.
Rather than risk discovery by the other berserk, Sigmund too took to the sea and swam out away from the town.
Fitela met him some distance away, close to dawn, in a grove of elms. Sigmund lay on his stomach, head on his arms, letting the air cool the agony of the wounds on his back. The berserk bitch had so rent him she
must have almost struck his spine. Had that happened …
Had that happened he would never avenge himself against Wolfsblood.
Fitela dropped Sigmund’s clothes—they fell with a wet plop—before him, then collapsed in a heap himself. “Still think you want to fight twelve of those bitches all at once?”
“Eleven now.” He didn’t look at the young man, though. Meeting his gaze seemed painful under the circumstances.
Fitela snorted. “We cannot face eleven nor even five of those women at once, much less in any kind of fair fight as you seem to insist on giving them. She damn nigh took your head off because you refused to kill a woman while her trousers were around her ankles.”
Sigmund groaned. “You who grew up in the halls of Wolfsblood might never understand—”
“No! It is you who does not understand! Born a prince, son of the greatest king in Hunaland. Oh yes, you thought you could claim the whole fucking world, that it was your due. And here, you look down on me for speaking practicality … for speaking reason. Your honor is not your strength, uncle. It is merely a remnant of your spoiled arrogance, from still thinking yourself a prince.” Fitela huffed. “You have spent more years as a vagrant, a bandit, than you ever did as a prince.”
Sigmund pushed himself up, ignoring the fresh lances of pain it sent through his back. “How dare you, boy! You think to challenge me?”
“I try to help you! All I have ever done, from the day I was born, was prepare to return our house to prominence.”
“Our house? You are as much of the vile line of Wolfsblood as you are a Volsung, a lineage made plain by your refusal to guard your tongue or your actions.”
“I am not …”
“Not?” Sigmund folded his arms over his chest. “Not what?”
Fitela sighed and waved it away. “Not your enemy, nor do I embrace Wolfsblood’s house, as you well know. We have tried your way, uncle. Now I bid you heed mine. Let us find an alternative.”
Sigmund frowned. Much as he wanted to dispute it, the wounds on his back did lend credence to the boy’s argument. He had worked so many long years to avenge his family. If he died before succeeding, it all meant naught. And if he gave Wolfsblood more time to gather his strength—for now the king had to know someone plotted against him, what with one of his women missing—the undertaking would become that much more difficult.
So, let them see what Fitela could come up with.
34
Sixteen Years Ago
Each night, the varulf bitch returned and claimed one of Sigmund’s brothers. She would tear them apart where they sat, chained to the log, devouring them before Sigmund’s very eyes. She was saving him for last, he supposed. As the eldest—or the one who challenged her—she wanted to prolong his suffering.
Until, at last, Sigmund was alone. Left to spend the day talking to the deserted skulls of his five brothers. Father was dead. His brothers were dead. And—much as it pained him—if Wolfsblood had gone to the trouble of such a betrayal here, had hired mercenaries the likes of Eightarms, then surely he also intended to wipe out the rest of the Volsung line.
While Sigmund remained bound in this forest, no doubt Wolfsblood or his men had already sailed on Hunaland, intent to murder Mother and the rest of the young ones. And Sigmund was powerless to save any of them. Perhaps he deserved to find himself standing before the gates of Hel and prey to her own hounds.
Round and round, his mind sought Gramr, but she was gone. And without her, he could do naught save wait for night. Maybe, he almost welcomed it.
Twilight had settled when the snap of a twig drew Sigmund’s eyes back to the woods. The varulf had never come until well into the night before. Why now?
It was not a varulf who emerged, however, but a man, dressed in simple slave rags, bearing a heavy satchel.
What fresh torment was this? Sigmund was weary of the drawn out struggle. Let them kill him and be done with it all. “Wolfsblood sent you?”
The man drew nigh and knelt beside him. “No. Your sister did.”
Sigmund sat up straighter. “If you are the king’s man, why do you serve my sister?”
The man looked away for the barest instant, but Sigmund caught it. “She has … paid me.”
Oh fuck. Sieglinde should not have done this, not even for her brother. “Do you have a name, you bastard?”
“You can call me Thrithi. And you are lucky the mist has not yet taken your mind or soul.”
Had that happened, Sigmund might have called it mercy. “Apparently that is not my urd.”
“It was not easy to arrange this.” The slave opened the sack and then uncorked a jar of honey. “You should be grateful.”
“For a last meal?”
“Queen Sieglinde instructed I was to smear this all over your face.”
So the wolf would lick him before she bit him? Why? What plan had Sieglinde hatched? None with any obvious advantage, but then, Sigmund had little left to lose.
Sigmund glowered at the other man. “Release me from these chains, cur.”
“Even had I a key, no lock binds you.”
Sigmund sighed. And how could he expect a slave to pull free the spike hammered into the log? “So do as your mistress bids and leave me, then. I would not spend my final hours in the company of such as you.”
The slave stuck his fingers in the honey, then slapped Sigmund’s cheek. Hard. “If you have not known lust, you are not yet a man.”
While Sigmund tried to form a response, the slave slopped more of the honey on Sigmund’s face and neck. Speaking would have disrupted the process anyway, so Sigmund simply glared.
When he was dead, perhaps his anguished soul would linger as a shade. If so, he would haunt Wolfsblood and his slave both.
With the last of the honey lathered over Sigmund, the slave rose and left. Sigmund shut his eyes and nurtured his hatred. Naught else remained to him.
Midnight closed in on him.
Sigmund sat very still, awaiting his final moment. By now, he might be the last of the Volsungs. But when the wolf came for him, he would not go down without a struggle. The valkyries would see his courage and know that, alone and unarmed, a Volsung had faced down a varulf.
And then she arrived, entering the clearing in utter silence. The wolf paced around him, never taking her eyes from Sigmund’s face.
He too glared at her, not willing to speak. The honey had become a sticky, sick mess on his face, but she must have caught the scent of it, for she began to plod toward him. When she drew very close, she sniffed, twice. Then she licked his face.
Her rough tongue lashed against his temple and his neck. Perhaps the animal side dominated the human one, and she never bothered to wonder at the honey. Either way, Sigmund had to fight to keep still as that tongue scoured the honey from him.
She licked across his lips. And Sigmund lunged forward, biting that canine tongue with his own teeth. Her blood scorched his throat, and she shrieked, but he did not release the tongue. The wolf thrashed, kicking her feet against him and the trunk. Her nails tore great gouges in his thighs, but at least his mail protected his chest.
Sigmund caught her jaws in each hand and yanked them apart, still pulling with his teeth. And then her tongue ripped from her throat. Gargling on blood, the wolf toppled over, a pathetic crawling thing. Sigmund spit out the tongue.
The varulf collapsed, choking to death on her blood. For a few moments she thrashed. And then she fell still. Fur began to retreat back into her body, revealing an aging woman. How many winters had the varulf woman seen? A great many.
Sigmund spat again, trying to clear her filthy blood from his palate. He coughed. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Starving, he might almost consider eating her. But in human form … Bah. No, he would not eat the flesh of a human being.
And that meant he would still die here, though at least he might count his brothers partially avenged. Perhaps the valkyries would yet …
The log. A crack had split along it wher
e the wolf had pulled, trying to free herself from him. A varulf had greater strength than any man, even Sigmund. And she had weakened the trunk where the stake was driven in.
Sigmund twisted around to brace his feet against the wood, then grasped his chain in both hands once again. His palms were slick with blood and gore. Every speck of his clothing was worse, so there was no cleaning them. He heaved on the chain. It creaked, wood splintering and cracking but holding.
Panting, Sigmund released the chain and mopped his brow.
Siggeir Wolfsblood had murdered his entire family. Sigmund might blame Starkad Eightarms for the death of Father, but, in truth, the mercenary would have just as easily fought for them had they hired him. No, the fault lay in the man who had betrayed his wife’s family and spent three moons hiring such an unbeatable army. He might have beggared his own kingdom to do it … but since he would have claimed the Volsung hoard as his own, he could now replenish his wealth.
And Sigmund could not stay here and allow those wrongs to go unavenged. Father. Carr. Vern. All of them had died. But Sigmund lived. And by Odin, he would have his revenge, no matter how many years it took to claim it.
Again he grabbed the chain. His muscles twitched with the strain of it as he pulled. And then the stake popped free, sending him tumbling over backward.
Grunting, Sigmund rose and stumbled away from the clearing. With his feet hobbled together, he could not move fast. And he needed to be far away from here before Wolfsblood came to look into the final fate of the brothers.
Sigmund slammed the rock down on his manacles again. A shard of metal chipped off them, but still they held. Damn it! He tossed the useless rock aside and lay back in the cave. Odin alone knew how he would manage. He could not hunt—though he had least found some roots to take the edge off his hunger—nor accomplish much else so hobbled.
