by Matt Larkin
“Your companion knows of what he speaks,” Hrist said.
Loki looked in her direction as if he’d heard her. Possessed of the Sight, perhaps he had. Odin remained uncertain how far Loki’s gift matched his own.
The valkyrie fell back several steps up the mountain, perhaps equally aghast to find another aware of her presence.
Odin turned his gaze to clouds the sun had dipped behind, letting his vision linger on the brilliant streaks running through the sky. “Save your warnings about the Veil for your daughter.”
Loki flinched at that and Odin immediately regretted his words. Still, Hel pushed in from her side, plaguing the Mortal Realm. It seemed only fitting Odin respond in kind.
Odin ran a hand over his beard and sniffed. “I’ll not be drawn into this argument again, brother. I don’t begrudge you this respite, but Valland needs you. If it falls, we are faced with a foe we have no resources to combat.”
“Indeed. But I had to see Sigyn and Hödr. They are both troubled.”
Odin wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders. He hardly needed say he understood the desire to protect one’s family. “I’ll look after them, as best I’m able while I remain here.”
“Your attention is drawn to the new hall you build.”
Odin had wondered how much Loki knew of Valhalla or what Odin had Hermod doing with it. The flames told his brother so many things. Some, Odin might have preferred remain concealed. He said naught in answer.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.” Loki shook his head. “You intend to start wars.”
“I intend to claim strong souls as a bulwark against the last days of the world. Old men dying in their bed from the thickness do very little enhance our ranks.”
Loki sighed. “Now, finally, you have what you sought. You will see things finished with Serkland, at least for the present.”
“No,” Odin said, drawing a raised eyebrow from his brother. “You will. When winter breaks, you must return to Valland. Arrest the Serklander advance however it seems needful. I will not lose this world to them.”
Loki grunted. “Your friend Tyr is the warrior and the leader of men.” And no great friend of Loki’s, though Odin’s brother left that unsaid.
Odin clapped him on the shoulder. “It will come to a head soon enough, brother. And I suspect it will take all you and Tyr both have to sway the battle in our favor.”
Loki nodded slowly, and Odin rose.
Now back on Asgard, he had something else to see to. The High Seat beckoned.
8
Sixteen Years Ago
For decades the Valls had fought against the spread of the Serkland Caliphate. Odin had long sent young Aesir to Andalus, to train under Tyr and make names for themselves fighting the Utgarders. Tyr’s alliance with the Valland Empire had remained ever tenuous but never quite fractured, and, regardless, it served Odin’s ends well enough to have his people tested here before they could earn an apple.
Odin passed among the tents, largely unnoticed. Hundreds of soldiers kept dozens of bonfires burning day and night, keeping the mist away from their camps. A wooden palisade surrounded the camp, but the outer doors remained open in daylight, and countless army followers entered and left. Washerwomen and cooks, fishermen bringing in the day’s catch, and whores come to ease frustrations. The clanging of anvils greeted Odin’s entry. Smiths working forges long hours to keep the officers in mail and the rest in at least gambeson. A man without armor might find his career short. Any who lived long enough used their first pay at the smithy.
Odin’s own son Thor had fought here not so very many years ago, well armed and well armored thanks to Odin’s wealth. Thor had brought honor to his family, even as his initial banishment here had been punishment. Almost, Odin wished Thor was still here now, so rarely did he get to see his son.
Back then, they’d still held the Straits. Slowly, the Valls had fallen back, losing ground to the Caliphate. One day soon, Odin would be forced to make a more concerted effort again Serkland or risk them claiming the South Realms.
“Odin?” Tyr called. Odin’s one-handed friend came blundering over and wrapped him in a mighty bear hug. “Gods, man. How long’s it been?”
“Long.” Odin clapped the man on the back. “Too long.”
Tyr pulled away and nodded. “Not since Roland …”
Odin knew his friend had taken the passing hard, but Roland had been mortal, and a warrior at that. He’d died bravely, if perhaps in vain. Serkland’s strength swelled and, as yet, Odin had not given enough time into his plan to ignite war between the Caliphate and the Miklagardian Empire. So many places, so many events all needed his attention and he could not attend to all of them at once.
Tyr grunted. “I’m glad you’ve come. But why?”
Odin led him away, out of earshot. “I must speak to Hermod. Is he still your captain here?”
“He leads scouts. South. Taking the measure of our foes. We must strike back.”
Odin nodded. A thought sent a raven to flight, soaring out over the woods to the south. His birds would find Hermod more quickly than any human scout might manage.
“Stay,” Tyr said. “Take the night meal.”
Odin nodded. He would stay for now, and depart under the moonlight. His mission did not allow him to tarry longer than that.
In the end, Hermod found him, as Odin knew he would. Odin sat against a rock on a hill well into Serklander domain, singing softly. His ravens told him no one save Hermod and his scouts were about, and regardless, Odin did not fear common Serkland soldiers. Some of their people, their sorcerers, they posed a threat, as did the Sons of Muspel. Few others did.
Hermod came trudging up the hill, covered in mud and grime, making almost no sound as he walked. Were it not for the ravens, Odin might not have even known the man approached.
Before Odin, Hermod dropped to one knee. “My king.”
Odin grunted and pushed himself to his feet. “Oh, stand up. You’re not a South Realmer to grovel before a king, and besides which, you are much like a second son to me.”
“I … I am flattered, my king.” But he did rise.
And, of course, it was flattery. Odin needed Hermod, and he needed him loyal. Nothing bred loyalty more than its return. Sigyn was Frigg’s half-sister, and thus part of the royal family. And Hermod was Sigyn’s foster brother, making him roughly Odin’s brother-in-law. But son created a greater bond of subservience, one Odin would need to make use of now.
Hermod was born of a valkyrie. If some portion of Olrun’s gift had passed on to Hermod, he might well be able to pass between realms like a valkyrie. And if so, no better ally might serve Odin’s needs as a messenger.
Odin clasped Hermod’s arm on his own. “The battles here will grow worse before they grow better.”
Hermod nodded. “So Tyr claims, as well. We cannot hold out against the Serklanders much longer, not without the full support of Asgard.”
Odin grimaced and pulled away from Hermod. A pitched war between Valland and Serkland might serve to create a great many dead warriors, some of them powerful. If Odin were in a position to gather those souls and make use of them, it might serve his ends. If not, such a battle might only lead to waste. “I cannot yet commit such forces to Valland.”
“My king … time runs out. With each passing summer the fire-worshippers press further into Andalus. Soon they will break into Valland itself. From there, they could access Hunaland or even Asgard.”
No. The perilous reefs around Asgard would make such an approach difficult at best. And should the Serklanders land upon the shores of Asgard, there they’d find warriors unlike those they faced here in the south. Still, Hermod’s point remained—if Valland fell, Serkland would push into the North Realms.
“I need time, Hermod. More than just these foes claw their way at the fringes of our world. The Midgard Wall is failing and jotunnar roam free. The legions of Miklagard push into Bjarmaland.” And the Niflungar were not yet wholly broken, st
ill working Hel’s will upon this world. So many enemies, and Odin had not the strength or time to tend to them all.
He needed a battle here, but not now, not yet.
“What would it take to hold the line?” Odin asked.
“Hold it? Not push it forward?”
No, just enough to keep Serkland from toppling Valland, and no more.
Hermod scratched at his beard. “Another pack of varulfur to harry their scouts might slow their advance.”
Odin frowned. Varulfur and berserkir grew fewer and fewer among the Aesir, as Hermod well knew. Many had died here, in fact, and others who served Fenrir in the war with the Vanir. Odin kept but a few varulfur to guard Asgard and any sent away would become a breach in his defenses.
“I’ll see what I can arrange when next I’m in Asgard.”
The look Hermod shot Odin held an unspoken rebuke—as if Odin oft returned home these days.
Odin scoffed. “Oh, I am going back soon enough, and you must return to Asgard with me.”
“But I—”
“You will help select the warriors to bulwark this place personally.”
Hermod frowned. “Surely Tyr would better serve that end.”
Quite likely, but Odin needed Tyr to hold the line and needed Hermod to help with other pursuits, those beyond Tyr’s abilities. “Come. We have much work to do.”
9
Unclad save for the blanket draped over her shoulders, the early morning winds outside chilled Sif almost to the bone, though she refused to close the shutters. Rather she stared outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sunrise despite the mists. A slight coloring of the sky behind those vapors was all she found. A fleeting pleasure in a dying land.
Behind her, Thor still snored in their bed.
King Rollaugr had given them this place on the edge of Holmgard. A watchtower otherwise abandoned due to the encroachment of jotunnar from the east.
Strange, how so many in Midgard considered the jotunnar almost children’s stories, while the people of Bjarmaland lived in constant fear of them. Every summer the Thunderers—what few of them remained—would trek out and hunt those jotunnar who tried to lair too nigh to the border. Winters, though, when the frost jotunnar seemed strongest, it was all the Thunderers could do to defend this border. Every passing year, the numbers and strength of their foes increased.
It was like watching the world die one day at a time.
Even old Rollaugr seemed to have all but given up on his own kingdom. Sif had heard the tales, of course, that the man’s son had died in an ill-fated punitive expedition against Miklagard. Only sheer stubbornness had kept him on the throne since, or so rumor claimed.
So many years now they’d fought the jotunnar. One petty jotunn king after another, some strong enough even the Thunderers dared not go up against them. Well, most of the Thunderers. She glanced back at Thor. Someone always had to talk him down. The man would wrestle a mountain just to prove he could.
Still, her husband had grown. Time was, he’d not have listened to anyone. Now at least he’d give real weight to Sif’s opinions, and the twins’, too.
Maybe then, he’d listen to what they all had to say now.
After dressing as quietly as possible, Sif slipped outside their room in the upper reaches of the tower. It had probably once belonged to a watch commander, since the only other living space was clearly a barracks. Geri and Freki didn’t seem to mind it overmuch. The two of them oft as not just curled up by the fire pit.
Sif had come in on them once and found them whispering conspiratorially in the way only close siblings could ever manage. Plotting pranks, no doubt, or considering some mischief or other. Damn, but Sif loved those varulfur. Thrúd used to call them Auntie and Uncle Wolfie.
Now, Sif found them not in the barracks but in their second-favorite room, the kitchen, which was actually a separate building across a short path from the tower. The smoke billowing from it announced their presence inside even before their snickering laughter did.
Geri looked up abruptly at Sif’s entrance, the varulf's short hair swaying, a grin on her lips. “Can you believe the gall of this bastard?” At Sif’s raised eyebrow she continued. “Suggesting I ought to go find a male varulf to help continue the species.”
Freki winked at Sif. “Our numbers have dwindled.”
“Then you go plant one in some bitch.”
Freki snickered. “I do. Every chance I get. They just don’t let us keep the whelps.”
Sif ran a hand through her hair, shifted uncomfortably, then leaned against the wall. Freki’s words stung, though he surely hadn’t meant them to. These days, Sif almost never saw her daughter. The girl had insisted on fostering with Tyr, and Thor had insisted on coming back out to this forsaken wasteland.
“Ugh,” Geri said. She kept one eye on whatever she was cooking in that cauldron. Smelled of leeks and some kind of meat. “Can’t be good.”
Freki raised his hands in a warding gesture. “I wasn’t asking you to bear the whelps, Sif. Relax.”
Sif ignored that, opened her mouth, and couldn’t quite find the words, so she shut it again. Cleared her throat. “We have to tell him.”
“Ah,” Geri said. “That ought to make for a lovely morning. You want me to track down a troll or something for him to smash afterward, to turn his mood around?”
Sif frowned, shaking her head. “We’ve known this was coming. Isn’t it better to just have out with it?”
Freki chuckled. “She’s bursting at the seams.”
Truer than the varulf probably realized. Knowing what needed doing, knowing she would have to anger Thor, it had hung over her head like a storm cloud apt to burst into thunder any moment. Days of fighting jotunnar and nights of making love could only push away that dangling threat for but so long.
“I hope you’re making something he’ll like for the day meal,” Sif said.
“Freki caught a few squirrels,” Geri answered, giving the cauldron another stir.
Hardly Thor’s favorite, but at least it was meat. Some days they found naught but mushrooms and roots. Even the varulf twins couldn’t always catch game without roaming too far from camp, which Thor had forbidden.
After losing so many of the Thunderers, he’d grown cautious, at least with the lives of others.
“It’s almost ready if you want to wake him,” Geri said.
Sif wanted to … and didn’t at the same time. Because waking him would mean hastening the breaking of that storm cloud. But it had to break sooner or later. Thunder could not be contained forever.
Thor gave every sign of being pleased with squirrel soup. Whether he actually was, or simply offered a little uncharacteristic politeness to his foster sister, Sif couldn’t say.
Either way, the four of them sat in the tower’s dining hall, a place no doubt originally intended to serve a score or more of hungry warriors. Like so much of this land, it was an empty remnant of times now drawing to a close.
The end of the age of man.
Thor upended the bowl and noisily slurped the last of its contents while Sif stared at him. The prince then tossed it down, and the clay dish skittered along the table.
“Like it?” Geri asked.
Thor flashed a grin. “Starting a day eating squirrel is always better than starting the day eating what squirrels eat.” He chuckled at something. “Father ever tell you about that giant squirrel he found in the boughs of Yggdrasil? Hard to believe it, really. What I wouldn’t have given to see such a beast!”
Sif folded her hands on the table in front of her and leaned forward. “We need to talk.”
“Ugh.” Thor looked pointedly at Freki instead of her. “You ever hear those words, brother, you run for cover. Never a direr battle cry was sounded.”
Freki grinned. “And yet, here you sit.”
“Indeed! I’m too stuffed to run. Foul trick, that, Geri. Foul trick.”
Sif sighed. Freki playing along with Thor’s antics did not exactly set the mood for
the rather serious discussion she needed to have with her husband. “We cannot save Holmgard.” There, it was out there. “The four of us are not a match for the growing number of jotunnar. The locals can do naught. This land is lost, Thor.” Ironically, the end of the Miklagardian advance had only hastened the jotunn domination of Bjarmaland.
The smile slipped off his face in an instant. “You suggest we abandon those we’ve come here to protect? Leave them to fall before the encroaching chaos?”
“They’re dying already,” Freki pointed out. “We but delay the inevitable.”
“Oh?” Thor shot him a glare. “And you’re in on this, as well? The both of you?” The last he aimed at Geri, who suddenly seemed to be busy staring out a window. “Well?” When no one answered, Thor slapped the table. “I’m not leaving men to die!”
“All men die,” Sif said. “If we remain here, sooner or later, so will we. And dying for something is one thing. But dying for a cause that cannot be won …”
Thor grumbled something under his breath, then pressed his thumbs into his brows. Sif could swear she could hear his teeth grinding from across the table. Finally, he looked up, staring hard at her. Then at the varulf twins. “Did Father tell you aught of Ragnarok?”
Sif frowned at the strange word.
Now Geri did look at the prince. “He told us there would come a final battle between the Aesir and the forces of chaos.”
Thor nodded, then pointed out the window into the snowy fields around the tower. “That. Right there. Out beyond the border—that’s chaos. I don’t pretend to know all Father gets enmeshed in. I do know he’s roaming all over Midgard and beyond, always seeking some way to stop the fight or to win it. Because that chaos—it’s coming for everyone. Everywhere.” He turned back to Sif. “I don’t know much more than that. But I do know jotunnar are more like than not to side with the forces of chaos. And every one of them we kill is one less left to bring war and death to Midgard.”
