by Matt Larkin
His fiery red hair hung about his face, tangled in his beard, obscured his eyes when he finally looked up. “I don’t want you to go.”
Sif set her jaw. What in the gates of Hel did he expect her to say to that? Now?
Thor grunted. “After all we have been through, can you not allow me to at least come in and discuss this?”
That was … fair. Not that aught more remained to discuss, but she supposed she owed him the chance. With a sigh, she stepped out of the way and allowed him into the house.
He shut the door behind him, stalked over to the opposite wall, and stared out the window.
Sif rolled her eyes. “I want to use the daylight to get as far as possible. By tomorrow I hope to reach the sea.”
Thor spun around. “My life would not be the same without you.”
She bit her lip and spread her hands. None of their lives would be the same any more. “Everything changes,” she said, finally. “We cannot be what we were in any event. Too many of us are dead now. Besides, you’ll be fine. Everywhere you go, you’ve got women throwing themselves into your bed. Fuck, Thor. You’ve got damned jotunnar warming your bed.”
He groaned. “I’m sorry if I offended you with … Everyone was affected by Vörnir’s hall.”
“It’s not just that, and you know it. You only care for other women.”
He snorted. “I lay with them because I do not care about them.”
What the fuck? “I … I don’t even know what to say to that.” She dropped her satchel on the floor. “What do you even want me to say to such a claim?”
“No, no, no.” He held up a placating hand. “Damn it. I am abhorrent at … explaining … things. I, uh …” He slapped a fist against the wall, cracking the wood and causing her to cringe. “Right. It’s easy to sleep with someone you care naught for—you risk naught. Just pleasure and release and no worries about the heart. I don’t know if you can understand what I’m trying to say …”
Sif flinched, unable to quite drive the image of her night with Freki from her mind. For that matter, she had taken a few lovers over the years. And maybe none of them had meant aught to her, either. Just a way to ease the pain. But Thor … no. No way she’d believe that of him. “None of that matters. Where you put your cock is your business, my prince. We both know why I cannot remain by your side. I allowed myself, in my foolishness, to feel what I should not have.”
Thor scratched his head and groaned. “Why shouldn’t you?”
“Because you are the prince.” Don’t get involved with princes. Obviously.
“So? I can have … feelings too.”
Sif leaned against the wall. By the Tree, she did not want to have this conversation. “You don’t. I’m a sister to you.”
“That … that’s just what we call women who fight beside us. Brothers and sisters-in-arms. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to …”
“What?”
“It was just that I did care about you. A lot. I remember you, as a child, you know. So brave, always wanting to fight with us. You asked me once, challenged me really, to see who could throw an axe farther. You remember?” She remembered. “And then you came back all grown up and beautiful, and I just …” He shrugged. “Didn’t know how to … It’s just fucking different if you want more than one night from someone!”
“Why?” What was he saying?
“I don’t know!”
Sif glanced down at her satchel. She could grab it and run. Avoid all this. Her face was flushed, her heart so fast. After so many years he could not be saying what it sounded like he was saying. Could he? “How do I know you’re not just saying all this to keep me in the Thunderers?”
“Have I lied to you? Ever done aught to make you mistrust my honor?”
No. She shook her head. He never had.
“Every time I take a woman, that’s it. I rarely even see her again. I didn’t want that to become us … if you left.”
Sif snorted. Geri would have asked if that meant he’d left a string of unsatisfied women in his wake. Somehow, Sif doubted that was the case. But if she let this happen …
Act on your feelings or kill them, Sigyn had said. And … and … Fuck it.
Sif rushed him, leapt up into his arms, and threw her legs around his waist, planting kisses on his face. All hesitation slipped from him in an instant. A moment later, she was on her back as he tore away her clothes. Fabric ripped, but it didn’t matter.
He pushed inside her, and she drew her nails down his back.
“Hurt me,” she said, trying not to weep.
Thor pushed himself up to look into her eyes. “Never.”
66
The very same traders who had brought Hunalander ale for the feast now agreed to ferry Sigmund and Fitela back across the Morimarusa. Back to Hunaland and the ancestral hall of Volsung in Rijnland, where, he prayed, Barnstokkr yet stood awaiting his return. Sigmund’s long-delayed vengeance for Father had cost him precious time, and any number of foes or former allies might have moved against his lands in his absence.
But that kingdom was his birthright, left to him by his father, and Sigmund would freeze before the gates of Hel before he gave it up.
“You seem lost in perilous thought,” Fitela said, joining him in the bow.
Sigmund nodded without taking his eyes from the sea. The mist was always thick over the waters, and you could not make out much beyond a few feet. It made sailing treacherous work, especially nigh to any rocky coasts. Still, the sea connected the North Realms and one could not avoid it. They were all connected as never before, now, slowly being united through the faith of the new gods. Unlike their Vanr predecessors, the Aesir came to Midgard and fought its evils. Sigmund had seen that with his own eyes.
One day, perhaps, the Aesir might ask something of him—and he would do all in his power to deliver that to them. Until then, he had to concern himself with the affairs of this world.
“I was thinking about … your mother.”
Sigmund’s son stiffened. “I spent my whole life planning revenge on that man. And with it finally done … I find myself lost in the mist. Unable to see another goal clearly enough to focus on it.”
Sigmund tapped his fingers on the gunwale. “All those summers ago, I came across this sea to join my sister and celebrate her union.” Or to make certain she was happy in that union. “And now, long delayed, I at last return to a home not knowing what waits for me there save this—it is mine, Fitela. It is all mine. Father intended to claim not only our kingdom in Hunaland but to unite the whole of the land under his rule. I swear this—I shall fulfill his dream.”
“Bold dreams. From overthrowing one king to forcing many to bend their knee before you. A man who dreams too boldly might overreach himself.”
“I am favored by Odin. I wield the runeblade Gramr. I am a fucking varulf. I do not think there are many in this world who can stop me now. But I do see the mist that blinds you … and I ask you to look past it. Turn your plots in another direction now, son. The Volsungs must win back the hearts and swords of the people of Hunaland.”
Fitela grunted. “I have been thinking on your … blessings. You are so convinced that Gramr is a precious gift, given to you by the gods. But it also seems to me the beginning of your dark urd spawned from that sword. I felt its power yes, and I understand well the jealousy it engendered in Wolfsblood.”
Sigmund scowled and shook his head. “You speak of what you cannot understand. Petty men will always be jealous of something, and most of all of great things. Odin meant Gramr for me that I might do grand deeds with her. Do not dare besmirch that honor!”
At his outburst, a few sailors looked up from their oars and in his direction. Sigmund turned away so that he would not have to look upon their faces.
Finally, Fitela slapped the gunwale and walked away, leaving Sigmund alone.
Before, Sigmund had thought the boy’s temperament a curse from his father. Now that he knew the truth … it was a curse from his father.
The both of them had the zeal of true warriors, even if they went about it differently.
And between the two of them, they would slaughter every last bastard that dared oppose him. Whether through silver or iron, through words or through blood, Sigmund would be king of Hunaland. The kind of king of whom legends spoke.
An impulse took him, and he drew Gramr, slicing his palm with her. The icy numbness set in, but he ignored it, painting his blood along the runes of the blade. “In my own blood and upon this sword, I swear my oath. I will be a king like no other, such that skalds will sing of me and my line for a thousand years. I swear it, Father.”
A heavy wind cropped up, speeding their passage.
67
All kings had to do things they might have rather not. For the good of the kingdom, sometimes one had to make decisions that tasted of bile. To ensure the continuance of one’s reign—and that must often become a king’s first duty, for failing it, none else mattered—a king might find his hand forced. Mercy was not always an option for a ruler.
And how much more the burden then, if one was king not only of a kingdom, but of all the world?
It was arrogance, of course, to name himself such a king. Arrogance and necessity were all Odin had to have any chance of sparing the world from the ravages he had foreseen.
He trod among the path into the valley, passing through the elm groves that surrounded Lodur’s hall. It was calm and beautiful.
“Is there no other way?” Freki asked behind him. “Must we act against him?”
Odin glanced at his son. “You know their crimes.”
Freki grunted. Odin had sent Geri to watch and ensure none of the traitors tried to escape the valley. Freki, he called to his side. He had considered bringing Thor and Sif, but Thor favored Lodur and should not be forced to witness his downfall while Odin could spare it.
When the hall finally came into view, Odin sighed. Truly, sometimes a king had fewer choices than anyone else. He had to enact this reckoning or risk chaos and disloyalty spreading in Asgard. Neither his reign nor the world could afford to take such a risk.
And so he nodded at Freki.
The varulf threw open the doors to Lodur’s hall, striding in a few paces before Odin. Once again, Odin found himself missing Gungnir and the strength—and rage—it gave him. These things were easier when enraged. Now, he just felt cold, leaning on naught but a true walking stick.
Lodur and Sjöfn both sat at a table, playing tafl. A single glance told Odin the girl had lost that game a good many moves back, even if she did not yet realize it. Then again, she never did seem that cunning. Had she been, maybe it would not have come to this.
The former jarl—Odin’s former friend—rose at his entrance. “My king?”
Odin motioned to Freki, who strode toward Lodur and grabbed his arm.
“Lodur, on charge of inciting treason I arrest you,” Odin said.
“What in the gates of—”
At a nod from Odin, Freki slammed a fist into the man’s gut, doubling him over and shutting him up.
Sjöfn was backing away now.
“And you, girl, are guilty of the greatest crime one of our people can commit. In betraying your heritage, you are no longer Ás.”
“I … I don’t know what you’re …”
Odin stalked closer. The weight of duty could suffocate a king. He cracked her across the face with his staff, and she dropped like a stone.
Lodur would spend years, maybe centuries, locked in a small cell in the back of Valaskjalf. It was a burden, keeping him, but he would serve as a reminder to anyone else who might contemplate treason. A warning, that Odin could and would visit eternal punishment on those who defied him.
Annar, much as it pained Odin, would have to be stripped of his position. While allowing himself to be seduced didn’t exactly make Odin’s cousin guilty of treason, it also did not leave him fit to guard the Tree.
Sjöfn, though, was the one who had broken the greatest law among the Aesir. She had stolen an apple, eaten it without permission. According to Sigyn, the Vanir punished such crimes using terrible curses of the Art that flayed flesh from bone and yet denied the victim death.
Odin would not turn to the Art if it could be avoided, nor could he decide whether the punishment he had in mind was actually more merciful.
Hand wrapped around the girl’s elbow, he guided her deep below the mountains of Asgard. Through ancient rocky tunnels lit only by the flicker of his fading torch.
She sniffled, though her tears—and her protestations had stopped. “Where are you taking me?” Her voice shook. And small wonder, for these tunnels were saturated with ancient darkness even before Odin had put them to their current use.
Odin didn’t answer her. The tunnel opened out into a cavern filled with an underground lake. At the lake shore, four guards stood, watching his approach. Few Aesir knew of this place, and thus the burden and honor of watching over it fell to but a select few, chosen by Frigg and oft vetted by Tyr.
“Prepare the raft,” Odin said.
Two of the guards, moving in silence, untied a wooden raft from the shore and stepped aboard. Odin guided Sjöfn onto it as well. Then they shoved off and set out across the lake. Torchlight did not reach far there. Beyond sight lay a barren, rocky island. There, an orichalcum chain ran through a massive rock at the island’s heart.
“Immortality is not always a blessing,” Odin said as they drew closer to the island. “There are those who cannot die, and thus they can but suffer for eternity. And for the crime of stealing eternal life—from taking that gift away from someone else more worthy—I am forced to punish you with eternal damnation.”
A vile howl echoed out over the water, setting the hair on Odin’s neck on end.
“What the fuck is out there?” Sjöfn wailed. “A varulf?”
“The ultimate varulf. You have used your sex as a weapon to betray all Aesir. I fear you will have long to regret that choice.”
“Y-you can’t! You cannot do this!”
The raft creaked up on the island. Odin dragged the girl, now shrieking and trying to pull free—though she clearly had not learned to channel her pneuma to gain superhuman strength—forward, into the dark.
Gleaming eyes reflected torchlight, as the creature chained to the rock stalked forward, stretching the limits of his chains.
“Fenrir,” Odin said. “I have brought you a companion to ease your eternal imprisonment.”
“No, no, no!” Sjöfn had begun to weep again.
Odin grimaced, feeling apt to retch at his own cruelty. He flung the girl at Fenrir, who caught her, saying naught. If Sjöfn was very lucky, he would not keep her alive too long.
But then, Odin had never expected her to be lucky.
Odin’s great hall Valaskjalf stood upon one of the highest peaks of Asgard, roofed in silver and glittering in the sunlight. Here, Odin and Frigg’s thrones sat as, even now, she held court after their reunion. From Valaskjalf rose a silver spire nine years in the making, and atop this, Odin had placed his new throne, his High Seat, and forbidden any other save Frigg to set foot in the tower.
From atop the spire, he could see out over all Asgard, looking down on the cerulean sea, or even to the ring of mist enshrouding the two isles. These things he could see from the tower’s low balustrade. But sitting on the High Seat, he would see more. He would see everything.
And now that the moment had come, he found himself hesitating. So many years spent in preparation for this. At last—and at a great cost—he had the means to scour all creation for the answers he sought. He had but to begin.
The orichalcum chair too glittered in the light, radiating power and peril from the wolf-eye rubies to the dragon fang ornaments. All waiting for the ruler of Midgard to sit upon his throne. Odin blew out a long, slow breath. And what would he see now, when all might finally be revealed? With this throne, he might focus his Sight on what he needed most to see, obviating the need to spend days sifting through cryptic vi
sions.
So then … let it begin.
Odin settled into the throne, leaned back, and shut his eyes.
Far from here, across the Middle Sea, the caliphs of Serkland kindled new flames and gathered for a great push across the Straits. Odin watched as they plotted and schemed, building their fleets and marshaling for war. Even those mighty sorcerers did not seem to notice him watching them now, as they might have had he projected there through the Penumbra. They did not know what he knew, nor could they hope to match him any longer.
For decades, the Serkland Caliphate had pressed deeper and deeper in Andalus, stripping away at the Vall Empire, the temporary allies of the Aesir.
Lest Serkland become a threat, Odin would need to set plans into motion to cripple their fleet and prevent a full-scale invasion. But as always, a good plan might solve more than one dilemma …
The Miklagardian Empire swelled, even as it rotted from the corruption within, and the terrible secrets held by the Patriarchs and their ancient emperor. Much as they proved implacable foes to the Aesir in the days of old, greater still was the Miklagardian struggle against Serkland. Always, they teetered on the edge of war, and their impenetrable city had weathered many sieges down through the ages.
Given to hubris and acrimony, the Patriarchs harbored undying resentment toward the caliphs. Now, they probably hated Odin even more. One day they would come for him. Before that happened, he would weaken their empire. He would find a way to break their hold on the South Realms and destroy even their corrupt immortality.
A single spark, carefully ignited, might drive them to make an ill-conceived counter-invasion across the Middle Sea and begin a war with Serkland. There, the two empires would weaken and thwart each other for years to come while Odin’s grip tightened around the rest of Midgard.
And Midgard was failing. The breaches in the Midgard Wall grew more numerous, and the natives of Bjarmaland had all but fallen to the jotunnar. Self-proclaimed jotunn kings now built their own realms in Bjarmaland, slowly spreading outward into Aujum—which itself, abandoned by the Aesir—now seemed a wilderness roamed by trolls and varulfur.
