by Matt Larkin
Thor ducked a blow from the monster’s club, then came up swinging his hammer. The weapon cracked into the jotunn’s thigh, sending splinters of rock flying amidst a geyser of dark blue blood. Thor was roaring like a berserk, swinging wildly. Blow after blow landed about the jotunn. He was trying to drive it down to one knee, leave its head vulnerable.
Sif shrieked and charged. The monster paid her no mind, focused entirely on the prince and his merciless hammer.
That worked for her. Sif launched herself at the icy castle wall, kicked off it, and landed atop the jotunn’s shoulders. Her foot slipped immediately. She slid downward but jammed her sword into the beast at the same instant, shearing through rocky hide and spilling dark blood and pebbles in equal measure. The blade snared in a crag in the jotunn’s back.
Then her sword snapped in half, pitching Sif onto the ground.
An instant later, a massive stone-crusted foot descended on her. Sif rolled to one side even as the jotunn stomped down. The ground trembled from the impact, actually hefting her airborne for a heartbeat.
Her sword. Gylfi had made that sword! Damn it!
A wolf launched itself onto the jotunn as she hit the ground again. Freki tore at it, his teeth and claws having little effect on the rocky hide. Mjölnir, however, was another matter. The hammer cracked the jotunn’s hip, sending a shard of it flying.
The monster pitched forward, landing on hands and knees and howling. Sif pushed herself up as Thor stalked around, readying a blow to cleave in the creature’s skull.
And then an icicle spear surged at Thor. Sif tackled him, sending them both to the ground as the missile passed above them. She lifted her head—mud and blood and dust in her eyes. The witch was there, glaring, frost forming around her hands once again.
“I’ll get her!” Sif said. “Kill the damned jotunn!” She scrambled upward and rushed the woman. Damn but she missed that sword already. It had been the nicest gift anyone had ever given her.
Skadi had hair the color of fresh snow and skin tinged almost blue, much like a frost jotunn’s. What foulness a witch must have bargained with to become so changed, Sif did not know. She dove into a roll as the witch launched another icicle at her, coming close enough to grab Skadi by the legs and send her tumbling over.
Sif reared back to land a haymaker on the woman’s temple. The witch’s hand shot out and wrapped around Sif’s throat. In an instant, all warmth drained from her and with it, all her strength, as if the witch were sucking out her very life. Sif went limp, unable to even struggle, save to moan. She tried to lift a hand, but all it would do was tremble.
“Fool bitch,” Skadi said. “You think you can handle me? I who witnessed the early days of mist? I am the very incarnation of the Fimbulvinter. When I have finished with you, naught but your frozen corpse will remain, unfit even to feed the ravens.”
Sif tried to object, to speak, to beg. All that escaped her mouth was a cloud of frost. Her lungs had seized up. Breath failed her. Every beat of her heart came slower and with more effort.
One beat.
Another.
How many more did she have left? A handful … That would be it … This one last mission … one final battle … and she was done …
A varulf collided with the witch, sending all three of them tumbling to the ground. Freki leapt to his feet first, snarling and snapping. His jaws closed on the witch’s arm, and she shrieked, obviously still capable of feeling some pain. It cost Freki though—he released her almost immediately, gasping and choking and pitched over, clearly struggling to breathe.
Shivering, Sif rose to her knees and took a clumsy swing at the witch. Her fist smacked into the woman’s cheek and sent her sprawling. Unable to arrest her own momentum, Sif toppled back over as well. She lay there, lungs burning, trying to warm herself with her arms. It felt like a long time, though she knew only a moment had passed. A few painful heartbeats.
With a groan of effort, she rolled over once again.
The ground trembled and leapt as the mountain jotunn fell. The impact tore icicles from the witch’s spire, sending them raining down in a shower. Sif looked back to see the witch herself slumping away.
“You cannot escape,” she managed through chattering teeth.
The witch glanced at her and sneered. Then her entire body broke apart and disappeared into the mist.
Oh.
Well. Then maybe she could escape.
With another groan, Sif curled up into a ball and hugged herself as closely as she could.
A fire raged outside the witch’s tower and before it, Sif huddled together with both the varulf twins. Despite his own chattering teeth, Freki fondled one of her breasts.
Sif slapped his shoulder.
“Oops. Just an accident.”
Geri snorted. “I hope my foot doesn’t accidentally kick your stones.”
“It won’t happen again, Freki,” Sif mumbled. “It was a one time … Let us not even speak of it.”
Thor returned from the bog, arms full of more firewood. These he dumped into the flames. “Get warm, all of you.” Before bothering with that, he’d beat down the greater part of the ice tower, denying the witch any further use of this place. “We leave soon. Soon as we’ve honored the fallen.”
Itreksjod. One more fallen Thunderer. One more brother dead in Thor’s self-righteous quest to save Midgard.
Had Odin not showed up, Sif would have left already. She could not deny the king his request, but it was done now, and Thor did not seem intent to wait around for days on the off chance the witch returned. And that left Sif back to the same decision she had already made. That this was no longer the place for her. She had to go, before being with him ate away whatever good parts were left of her.
Sigyn had once told her, act on her feelings or kill them. Back then, Sif hadn’t wanted to listen to her aunt. And now … by the Tree, what a fool she’d been. What a royal bitch. Sigyn had been right all along. And Sif could not act on her feelings, for Thor already knew them and did not return them. That left only a single solution—run far enough to bury her longing for the man. Maybe one day, when her heart was changed, she might look upon him and not feel this. But now … it had become too much to bear. Had she listened to Sigyn five years ago, maybe they’d all have been better off.
Or maybe not. Maybe Geri was right, and Sif had done some good here but still …
She groaned.
“What is it?” Thor asked.
The varulf twins too looked at her, Freki in concern and Geri in obvious distress.
Sif leaned back, looking Thor in the eyes. “This … this was our last adventure together.”
“What?” The look on his face, confusion, maybe even betrayal, it was almost more than she could take. Almost enough to make her try to take the words back.
Almost.
“I … I have to leave.”
Now the prince glowered, mumbling something under his breath that only seemed to deepen Geri’s frown. Finally, Thor rose and kicked a rock. “Do whatever you feel you must.” And he stomped off into the woods.
Leaving Sif alone with two varulfur now staring at her.
Rather than face them, Sif curled up in a ball and tried to sleep. She doubted it would come easy.
57
Arm hanging useless by her side, Gudrun slunk through her tower. The beating the Aesir had given her body—or the effort to escape the fight—had seemed to drive Skadi into a torpor, enough that Gudrun managed to reclaim control over her own body. For a time. She’d never thought she’d be grateful to the Aesir.
No.
No, she would not allow herself to start thinking that way again. Odin and his people were foes of Hel and thus of Gudrun. That Odin’s son had bought Gudrun a reprieve from Skadi—and Thor had shattered her ice tower as if to merely prove he could do so—did not make him the least kind of ally to her. He was a tool as crude and savage as that hammer he bore.
And now that they had fled into the wood, she needed
to see what remained of this place.
Grunting in pain, she slumped back down through the fortress. The Aesir had plundered the hoards of gold and silver she—or Skadi—had collected, a loss that stung but was not her primary concern. Other vaettir writhed beneath her skin, coiling around her gut and constricting her insides like furious serpents. Snegurka and Irpa, no doubt, roused from their own long dormancy. The three of them had tried to bargain with Skadi only to find the self-proclaimed Winter Queen’s idea of partnership involved all others bending to her will.
And Hel, somehow her missing toe hurt, as it sometimes did when she thought of Skadi. What a fool she’d been to think she could ever contain such a powerful and ancient spirit.
Give in …
Irpa?
Panting, Gudrun leaned against the wall before the stairs leading down into the dungeon.
Take me, before she returns …
As if surrendering to the wraith might somehow spare Gudrun from the desecrations the snow maiden wrought upon Gudrun’s body. As if the wraith would not do as bad or worse.
Then rot in torment …
Gasping with the effort, Gudrun started down the stairs. Her legs wobbled, and she pitched forward, barely catching herself against the wall. Would that not be a fitting end? Breaking her neck falling down an ice-slicked staircase. And would it be the end? Gudrun allowed her foot to drift forward. If she fell, if she died, Skadi could do naught else to her beleaguered body.
Hel will punish your soul.
Snegurka’s warning was born not of genuine concern for Gudrun’s wellbeing but meant as one more torture. The vaettir hated the living, and Snegurka was no exception. As a sorceress, Gudrun had dared to place herself above spirits and tried to master them. Now she paid the price all wielders of the Art must eventually pay—eternal damnation. Threat or warning, Snegurka’s words no doubt held a morsel of truth: Hel would subject Gudrun’s tattered soul to yet worse depredations than aught Skadi had imagined.
Living or dead, there was no escape from her damnation. Only an eternity of suffering and torment as the last vestiges of her mind shattered.
Unless … unless she could exorcise the spirit. Such thoughts verged on blasphemy for a priestess of Hel. Blasphemy and madness, too. No one could exorcise a spirit from themselves, and even if she succeeded, she was like to lose all the spirits within and thus find herself powerless and at the mercy of the many foes she had made for herself.
Having no other course before her, Gudrun thus continued down the stairs, one arduous step at a time. By the end of it, her lungs felt chilled, and she almost toppled over. The iridescent light Skadi had infused into the ice was not much to see by, but it would do.
The dungeon housed the only being Gudrun loathed more than Skadi. Part of her wanted to simply kill Grimhild and be done with it. But, under these circumstances, the Niflung queen might be the only one who could help her daughter. Not that she would, not after all Gudrun had done to her. But Grimhild had survived possession by Skadi before, and if …
Gudrun paused on her way down the hall. Grimhild’s cell door lay ajar. Too much to hope the son of Odin would have left this castle without exploring these dungeons. Gut all tied in knots, she advanced. Not this. Please, Hel. If Thor had slain Grimhild, then Gudrun had nowhere left to turn save … save her father, but he was no doubt far, probably in Reidgotaland at Castle Niflung. She didn’t have time to find him.
She reached the doorway. The door wasn’t broken. Did that mean Thor had not …
No one lay in the chilled cell beyond. Empty.
Like her soul.
Like her options.
Gudrun slumped down to the floor and let her head fall into her hands. Why? Why would Thor free Grimhild?
Or had someone else used the attack on the castle as a distraction? But who would want to free the Niflung queen? Not Odin, surely, who would have slain her. So then someone else had simply used the situation to … to his advantage. Of course.
Her own father had come for his wife.
And that meant he, her only fragile hope no matter how far, was also against her.
Gudrun was alone.
Not alone … She returns … Even more malice than usual had seeped into Irpa’s voice. As if the wraith hated Gudrun more for refusing the deranged request to surrender her body.
Damn. Damn them all. Gudrun jerked a knife from her belt. Maybe Hel would torture her for eternity. That uncertain peril beyond death seemed better than enduring the long centuries Skadi might yet stretch her life. And it left her only one last recourse. A dam broke in her at the thought of it, and tears streamed down her face. Her heart was pounding. Already throbbing in pain. With a ragged pant, Gudrun slammed the knife toward her heart.
The blade stopped a hairsbreadth away. Her arms wouldn’t respond. Just a little more and she’d be free.
There is no freedom.
No. No! Skadi had awakened. Not her. Please Hel, anyone! Gods above and below, please! She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The knife wouldn’t move. She strained, throwing all her will into the knife.
It. Would. Not. Move.
Fine! Fine, Irpa, could have her. Or Snegurka, both of them. Aught but Skadi, not this again not …
The knife tumbled from her fingers and clattered onto the frozen floor. She rose, the pain in her legs suppressed. Gudrun beat against the corners of her own mind, wailing, sobbing, throwing all of her will against the snow maiden. It was like trying to push over a mountain with her bare hands.
Gods, gods, gods! Not again!
Hel did not answer. She never did.
All the wretched things Gudrun had done in the name of the goddess, all the Niflungar had done for her, and Hel still offered no solace against this abomination of her domain. And all those dark sorceries and intrigues and betrayals melded in Gudrun’s mind into an unending chorus of despair that sang on and on.
Until at last, unable to bear it anymore, having naught left with which to resist, she surrendered.
And she felt it as her own mind collapsed.
58
Glamoured as a slave, Odin stole into Sieglinde’s room.
The queen of Skane sat in the shadows, her eyes stained red and staring at the brazier, seeming to see naught at all. In her hands was a knife.
Odin drifted closer.
The woman jerked the blade behind her at his approach. “Thrithi …”
“Mistress.”
She mouthed something under her breath. “How many long years you were away.”
“Forgive me.”
She waved that away. “You are no slave, I think. Not to my husband, nor to me. No … I know who you are.”
Odin nodded. Sieglinde had a hint of the Sight. It was part of what made her useful, in truth.
In their dreams, Odin could touch the minds of people such as Sieglinde. He could use them, manipulate them, or guide them.
Of course, those with the Sight—even a latent trace of it—might come to uncanny understandings of the truth of things.
Gylfi had been like that, and it had made him both useful and dangerous to Odin.
“So,” Odin said. “Do you know why I have come this night?”
Sieglinde blinked, then turned back to the flames. “I am not certain it still matters. I am a wretched excuse for a woman. I have broken every bond of propriety. I betray my husband, I … have lain with my brother. Murdered my … child. What mother can even contemplate such a crime?”
Indeed. Sieglinde’s broken oaths would land her soul in the pit of Nidhogg, like as not. Nor could Odin do aught to spare her from her urd. Those were not choices he had forced upon the woman, though he understood her decisions all to well.
We are all damned …
Some more than others, perhaps.
“And all of it …” Sieglinde said. “All for naught. Sigmund is dying in that mound.”
Odin placed a hand on her shoulder, offering her the only small, brief comfort he co
uld. “He need not die. It is in your power to get him what he needs to yet overcome this. So.” He squeezed her shoulder. “There is one more thing I need you to do. Then you may rest.”
Lies …
A pleasant omission, perhaps. Sieglinde would never have peace.
But then again, who did?
“What do you need?” the queen asked.
59
Sigmund had lost track of time, but judging by the dwindling light from above, evening once again drew nigh. How many days had they lingered down here already? Too many. Half a moon, maybe? Perhaps less, though it felt like more. His stomach ached, and the wolf lurched around inside him, howling in his mind until he felt the vibrations ringing in his skull. It wanted out and he half feared it would force him to shift, caring naught for the fetters. With his hands bound behind his back, a shift was like to rip his arms off. Yet, while his feet remained chained to the slab, he could do naught to change the position of his hands.
Wolfsblood had given this torture ample consideration.
Fitela had not spoken all through the day, and Sigmund had left the boy to his melancholy or self-loathing. In either case, he had naught to offer him.
The sun began to set.
Someone paced around up above. On occasion, one of Wolfsblood’s men—or perhaps the king himself—would piss down through the gap, sending a shower of it out before them. The position meant it could not fall upon them, but it ran down the incline and left them sitting in a pool of it. As if being stuck sitting in a pool of their own piss were not vile enough.
Whoever stood above grunted, trying to force something down through the gap.
“What wretch stands up there?” Sigmund demanded.
The man grunted. “You know me … I once brought you honey.”
The slave from years ago! Thrithi was his name. “And now?”
“Now your sister sends pork that you might live longer.” A final grunt and then something plopped down on the far side of the slab. Well then, at least Fitela would have some food, though it might only prolong his torment. “Sorry. I have to go! The mist thickens, and I cannot risk discovery. Sieglinde …” He fell silent.
