by Matt Larkin
Battles between jotunnar and trolls, both spawn of chaos, well served Odin’s interests. Having the jotunnar press north into Kvenland and bring down that ancient land did not. He would need to take steps to ensure the jotunnar remained contained for the moment.
And what better agent than Thor, who, with Mjölnir, had already struck fear into the hearts of those devourers? Thor would need to recruit new Thunderers and to make certain the jotunnar could not press farther into Midgard.
Merely thinking of his son sent Odin’s vision swirling to reveal Thor, hips pumping furiously as he plowed the girl Odin had fostered with Gylfi. Sif screamed, clawing at Thor’s back. Odin blinked the image away. He had no interest in seeing such things.
What Odin truly sought did not even lie in Midgard but beyond the Veil. It parted before him, unfurling, the dead realm of the Penumbra. His vision soared over the endless horde of the dead, shades flitting in and out of darkness, losing themselves slowly or fading into the Roil.
The dead outnumbered the living and, one way or another, he’d find a way to make use of them.
We are all dead …
Yes. And all the living and the dead would serve if needs be, all to ensure victory in Ragnarok. But before that … Odin pushed Audr from his mind and concentrated on Freyja.
His mind plummeted through the Penumbra and into the Roil. From there, he stared up into the perilous sky of the Spirit Realm. Ancient sorcerers speculated some paths might lead there, but Odin had found none. And yet, if he could not tread there, still he might see …
Orbiting above like stars, the spirit worlds shimmered and shined. One of them would be Alfheim.
He had to reach it. This was the ultimate reason the High Seat existed. To focus the Sight into acuity beyond what any prophet might ever achieve, to harness it so that he might …
Dimly, he felt blood trickling down his ears. He was forcing so much of himself into the Seat to achieve this. But no matter how much it took, he had to see her. Just to look upon her face once again might give him the strength to find a way to cross that gap.
His heartbeat grew irregular, painful even, as a chill spread from his chest into his limbs. But he would not give up. Just a little more …
Searing light filled his eyes, burned them, until he thought himself blinded by the radiance. Blinking, gasping with it, at last images flitted across his vision. Lush greenery like the forests of Asgard, giving way to glittering streams that reflected the burning sky of an eternal dawn.
She was here. She had to be here.
Someone surfaced from beneath the river. A woman with long blonde hair that itself seemed to radiate light, almost coruscating with it. She flung her head back, throwing the water off. And for that bare instant, he saw her, naked and beautiful and … changed.
Freyja.
Suffused with the sunlight of the place he had sent her.
Odin reached a hand toward her. Please, forgive him … Please let her forgive him for what he had to do … To defeat the mists of Hel he had …
Profound vertigo seized him and sent him tumbling through a shifting miasma of images and locations, plummeting out of the Spirit Realm and back into the Roil. And then to Midgard.
Here on Midgard, the disciples of Hel worked to bring about her eternal dominion. Here, Odin’s foes toiled, unaware he now watched their secrets unfold.
So then, his course seemed obvious. Odin needed to bridge the gap to Alfheim, true, but before that, he would set in motion the steps to secure Midgard.
Because now, with the High Seat at his disposal, there was nowhere left his enemies could hide.
Epilogue
Sigyn sat behind their hall when Loki returned, arms wrapped around her knees, trembling with emotions she could probably not even name. She would have heard him coming, of course, and his presence no doubt made it harder at first.
“You knew.” She did not look up at him as she spoke. “You knew, but you were so busy trying to steer Odin’s urd you paid no mind to ours!”
Steer, of course, was the generous view in which she no doubt accredited his role, not yet understanding he was more slave than master, bound to the merciless procession of history. Some had called him a fate spinner, but Loki was trapped by fate as much or more than any other, compelled to watch as civilization after civilization turned to ash. Because the alternative was so much worse.
And Odin needed guidance in any event. With the ravens and High Seat, his mind now reached further than ever before. All of Midgard expanded before him. Before long, Utgard and even the Otherworlds would fall under his eye. And in his ever-expanding reach, he might well stretch beyond his own limits and imperil all mankind.
Loki settled down beside her. “Had I remained here, naught I could have done would have changed the boy’s situation. I am not a god, Sigyn. Seeing glimpses of the future does not allow me to change it.”
“Then why do aught at all? If you are so very powerless, why bother trying?”
He tried not to recoil from the spite in her voice. In more pain than she could deal with, she was lashing out at anyone close. Even knowing that, it still stung. “That is a discussion for another time, I think. For now, should we not talk of our son?”
“Hödr. His name is Hödr.”
“A good name.”
“A good son! And I swear to you, I will find a way to save him.”
Loki patted her knee. “What makes you think he needs saving?”
She slapped his hand away and stood, hands on her hips. “Our son is blind. I will not allow him to live an unfulfilled life!”
“And you believe blindness would deny him meaning in his life? All lives are different, Sigyn. All are fraught with difficulties of one kind or another. No man or woman experiences quite the same tribulations, but we do all face them.”
“Spare me the philosophical musings! If you know of no way to help him, then I will find one.”
Loki sighed, letting his head fall into his hands. “Be careful that desperation does not lead you down perilous roads. You cannot help your child by risking yourself. Believe me, I know the pain of seeing your progeny suffer—and I know the parent’s anguish always exceeds that of the child. I have seen too many men and women fall into darkness because of it.”
“You are not a mother.”
“Perhaps not.” He rose, slowly. “But if you mean to imply that, having never been a mother, I cannot fully understand a mother’s anguish, then, you must also accept that you have never been a father.”
She spread her hands. “And where does that leave us?”
“Together, of course, that we might try to bridge the gap.” He reached a hand out toward her, but she didn’t take it.
“You want to share our pain together?” Sigyn shook her head slowly, glaring. “You have yet refused to unveil the barest hint of your past or your real intentions for the future. How am I to expect you to commiserate with me when you hide so much of yourself?”
Loki flinched. There was truth to her words, guided by pain though they were. And perhaps he could no longer delay giving her something, some hint, as she called it, even if he could never tell her the full truth. A tremble built in his chest at the thought of it, and he stilled himself against the wall.
“I … You are right. So, then … there is something you need to know now. Something … about Hel.”
Author’s Ramblings
The High Seat of Asgard opens the middle trilogy in the whole Ragnarok Era saga. This trilogy focuses on—among other things—the Volsung Saga. The nature of Sigmund’s story, being spread out over so many years, created several challenges. This actually proved to be one of the most difficult books I’ve ever written—certainly the most difficult I took all the way to publication. While the overall story remained intact through all the various iterations, I went through numerous structural revisions trying to figure out the most logical way to present events and still follow the basic story structure found in the other books.
In the end, what I wound up with was using flashbacks, told out of chronological order (kind of like Lost), even though they occur in order for any given character. For example, Odin’s flashbacks mostly occur before those of Sigmund or Sif.
Speaking of Sif, an early decision I struggled with was whether Sif or Thor made the best point of view character for that part of the story. My initial intent was to use Thor. Everyone knows Thor, right? Thanks to Marvel, the character is hugely popular (hell, I also enjoy the movies a lot, though I’ve tried to make the character here closer to his mythic inspirations). That was actually part of the reason I decided not to use him, but only part.
When I was looking at the tale I wanted to weave, Sif’s side of it just seemed more complex, more pained, and thus, more interesting. This is not to say Thor won’t ever get his side told—he might in later books. But Sif proved the character with the more interesting arc for this book.
Regardless, Sif, in Norse mythology, is actually a fairly minor character. The only substantial story about her is one in which Loki shaves her head as a prank and then—to placate Thor—gets magical golden hair for her from a dwarf. In adapting this little story, I obviously changed it to better fit the nature of the characters in this tale and to try to make it feel more realistic, as I’ve done throughout my adaptation of mythology.
On the same note, in the original myth, the otter that Loki kills (sometimes named Otr) is not the same dwarf as Andvari. Loki is forced to give away the ring to Otr’s family right after stealing it from Andvari. It simply made so much more sense narratively, for this to be a single event here. Having a plethora of dwarves was likely to add nothing but confusion to an already complex tale.
And complexity was a big concern here, enough that I wound up not using Tyr as a point of view character in this book, and saving most of Sigyn’s chapters for the next book. Both were hard choices, especially with Sigyn, who seems to be a fan favorite (and a personal one).
Lastly, most of the Volsung Saga material here was taken from the traditional Norse version; however, I did draw some inspiration from Wagner’s adaptations. After all, he did a masterful job of reconciling some otherwise inconsistent aspects of the stories and character motivations.
So special thanks to my family to all their support. Also to Clark for helping me repeatedly work through these structural issues, and to my cover designer for another awesome one.
Thank you for reading,
Matt
P.S. Now that you’ve read The High Seat of Asgard I would really appreciate it if you’d leave a review! Reviews help new readers find my work, so they’re very helpful. Thank you in advance for helping me build and grow my author career!
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The Well of Mimir
Prologue
Year 33, Age of the Aesir
(Two Years After The High Seat of Asgard)
Sunlight glinted off the gold-plated roof of Sessrumnir, bright enough to sting Loki’s eyes despite the ivy covering large swathes of it. This place, the Vanr archives and the school they represented, had caused both great weal and great woe across Midgard. Maybe it would have served his people better had Odin torn it down with the rest of the halls on Vanaheim.
But then, Loki had always known he wouldn’t. The web of urd twisted and bound all men to their cruel fates, oft unaware of the strands that bound them. Blissfully unaware, perhaps. The few like Loki, who glimpsed the truth, had to live in unrelieved horror at such revelations.
The flames told him a great many things. Most, he might rather have not known.
Some men thought they’d rather know beforehand the tribulations they’d face. They thought this because they had not considered the disquiet engendered by knowing the future and yet remaining powerless to avert it. That was the worst of torments.
Loki trod up the mountain, not lifting his gaze from Sessrumnir despite the burning in his eyes. This place was still working its way through the web. Still spinning, twisting. It had wrought so much ill. And more would come.
At the peak, he threw open the great double doors. As expected, Sigyn appeared at the balustrade of the upper level, looking down on him. That first flush in her cheeks, that unabashed smile at his presence before she caught herself and remembered all that had gone—those things he wished he could savor forever. To grab hold and never let go.
To pretend the future wasn’t hurtling ever closer.
But of course, Sigyn’s smile fell. Of course, she remembered what had happened. And while she lacked the Sight, on some level, her own intuitive sense probably told her a hint of what must soon unfold.
Ages of practice let Loki keep his own smile in place as he climbed the stairs up to her.
Pyromancy didn’t oft reveal specifics. Not context, nor exact timing. Just shadows on the wall, dancing and leaving the viewer to guess at their meaning. Some revelations proved clearer than others.
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
Sigyn nodded, bit her lip, then embraced him. Despite the warmth, she held something back. She blamed him, as if, in knowing some misfortune impended, he ought to have been able to avert it.
A death. A plague. A child born blind.
As if any of them were truly gods.
“You were gone a long time,” Sigyn said, her voice tinged with a hint of reproach.
“I know.” He patted her shoulder. “There’s always so many things to do.”
“Pieces to move about the board.”
Loki ignored the snipe. Sigyn meant it less spitefully than it sounded, he knew. A parent in pain could barely control her actions. Or his. “I fear you’re spending rather too much time in this place.”
Sigyn pulled away, turning her back, maybe just to keep him from reading her face. “The answers are in here.”
“Maybe not to the questions you truly want to ask. Certainly not to those you ought to ask.”
“I don’t have time for riddles.” Still refusing to look at him, her shoulders tensed.
“You used to love them.”
Now she did spin on him. “That was before my son was born this way. One of us has to find a way to help him.”
“If you turn to the Art, you will pay a price. One greater than aught you hope to achieve with it.”
Sigyn glared at him. “No price is too high for my child.”
Loki shook his head sadly. Many would have claimed the same, before realizing what the price might be.
He reached for Sigyn’s hand, but she jerked it away and stormed off into the archives.
Leaving him as trapped by the future as ever.
Part I
Year 49, Age of the Aesir
Winter
(Eighteen Years After The High Seat of Asgard)
1
Hunaland stretched as far south as the Sudurberks, encompassing vast swathes of land into five kingdoms of the Huns. A century and a half ago, they had swept in and conquered the native Siklings, prompting the Great March of Odin’s ancestors along the way. One might say then, that the Huns had made Vingethor the last king before Odin and perhaps led to his own rise.
On a peak in the Sudurberks, Odin sat staring at the blood moon above Hunaland. It was larger than he ever remembered seeing, though what it portended he didn’t know. Its ominous red color filled the sky and left him shuddering slightly, as if the Veil had grown thin. Part of him longed to embrace the Sight and glimpse the ghosts that no doubt flitted about these snows, equally drawn by the moon. But to see them was to be seen by them, and Odin did not care for the burden at present.
Sigyn had predicted this night would come. Vanr astrology, she’d said, claimed the great blood moon would rise. She had even predicted Hunaland might offer the best view, back three moons ago. She busied herself with such things, perhaps, to distract her from her own pain. Odin empathized.
Years ago, the völvur would have sacrificed criminals under a blood moon in th
e hopes of appeasing Njord and the other Vanir. In the hopes of buying respite from the mists. A vain hope, of course. And Odin had killed Njord, though that felt another lifetime ago.
A raven’s cry broke through the stillness, followed by muffled whimpers. Odin shut his eyes and let his raven’s vision feed his own. In truth, Valravn controlled the ravens, but Odin had stolen the vaettr from Gjuki, and now the birds served as Odin’s eyes and ears while away from the High Seat. He called them Huginn and Muninn, thought and memory, fallible as both were.
Through their eyes, he spied the shadowed figure drifting up from a crevasse, a flailing girl tucked under his arm. Ashen-skinned, with hair and eyes jet-black, the svartalf drew up alongside Odin, the play of shadows concealing his features even in the bright moonlight.
He cast the bundle at Odin’s feet, and she crunched down in the snow. Then she turned over, a girl, maybe sixteen winters behind her. Dust and grime matted hair that might have once been sandy. Streaks of red rimmed her eyes. A rope gag had worn the sides of her mouth so raw they bled, as did her wrists, bound behind her back. Her blood stained the white snows to match the crimson moon above.
“What is this, Volund?” Odin demanded.
“Oh, you already know. There is truth in the old ways.”
“There is barbarism.”
Volund cackled, the sound grating on Odin’s mind, a twinge of inhuman cruelty behind it. “As if you have not drenched your hands in a sea of blood.”
