by Matt Larkin
He made his way around the back of the canopy, staring out over the mountains and beyond, to the mist-covered sea. Did aught save Jörmungandr lurk beyond in the distant west? Perhaps not. He dared hope not, at least, for he could not see crossing such an expanse to reach the well.
The soft clack of padded boots on metal stairs drew his eye to an intruder entering from below. His guards had orders to allow none save Frigg up here. And yet, it was not Odin’s wife who crested the stairs, but Loki.
Odin opened his mouth to ask how his brother had managed to bypass warriors stationed not a dozen feet from the only entrance to these stairs, but shut it. With Loki, little still surprised Odin anymore. The man would rarely answer questions directly, and it seemed oft best to avoid wasting those he would attend to.
“Sigyn informed me of what she told you.”
Odin grunted, then paused in his circuit around the tower. “You know it.” While he’d not even considered asking Loki, the answer now seemed obvious.
Loki frowned and continued until he stood at the tower’s edge. A balustrade rimmed the tower, not quite reaching Loki’s waist. The man climbed atop it, then settled down sitting on it, staring out over the land. Sometimes, on the clearest of days, Odin fancied he could catch a glimpse of Andalus off in the distance, beyond the mist. Not so many miles away, his enemies grew in number.
But then, Odin’s enemies increased in all directions.
From the way Loki fidgeted, he seemed about to speak several times, yet remained silent.
Odin drew up beside him. “I have rarely known you to be at a loss for words.”
Loki blew out a slow breath. “Suppose in an era long gone, some few had tasted the very same apples that conferred immortality upon you. Supposing this, and given a nigh limitless expanse of time, these elder immortals might find themselves drawn or bound to causes of little of import to most of the world.”
“You speak of yourself?”
Loki glanced at Odin, a wry smile on his face, though no mirth reached his eyes. “Given enough time, even immortality might wane, and those thinking themselves eternal might find their grasp on a mortal existence more tenuous than expected. What befalls those who pass beyond?”
Odin folded his arms. “Either their souls are drawn into the roots of Yggdrasil to be spun out in another life, or they find themselves consumed by predators in the dark.”
“Or?”
Odin grunted. “Or they become ghosts, trapped in the Penumbra until they finally lose themselves. Ah … you imply that Mimir is dead?” Odin leaned on the balustrade beside his blood brother. “So Mimir appointed himself guardian of this well, for reasons you cannot or will not explain to me. He died … and became a ghost. Maybe still haunting the well.”
“Your intuitive abilities continue to improve, brother.”
“None of this answers where to find the well.”
Loki turned and pointed back at Yggdrasil. “Its roots reach into all worlds. They connect across the Mortal Realm and beyond. If one well lies beneath a root …”
Odin rocked back on his heel. “So might another.”
“And if you have searched all Midgard for the well and came up with naught save endless stretches you could not cover in a century …”
“Then try another tactic,” Odin finished. “Follow the roots.” He pushed off the rail and hurried over to the seat. “Thank you, brother. You are still not allowed up here.”
Loki’s wry grin returned.
Odin settled back into the seat and let his mind stream downward.
On, toward Yggdrasil, and down, into the fathomless dark of its roots. They reached out around the world, burrowing ever deeper. And Odin needed but find a place where they broke free from the dirt and exposed themselves.
His mind coursed alongside root after root, following their winding paths around a world larger than he had dared to imagine. In places, those roots passed through liminal regions where the Veil grew thin. These passages, Odin ignored. While Yggdrasil might have bridged the gap between the Mortal and Spirit Realms, sending his mind into other realities did Odin little good if he could not bodily follow his consciousness.
Inside, he retraced his passage, taking other branches. Over and over they spiraled amid themselves, knotting and twisting like a nest of serpents choking the world. Or holding it together. Or both.
And so deep the roots reached, deeper than Odin had dreamed one could reach and yet remain in the Mortal Realm. Until, finally, one burst free into an icy abyss from which rose a curtain of mists. Frozen waterfalls poured down into a chasm rent between mountains at the northernmost peak of the world.
It wasn’t in Midgard at all. It was in Utgard, in Jotunheim.
The root jutted from glacial walls, breaking out of one and back into another, tracing a winding path to some subterranean home. And from the depths rose a faint hint of light, reflecting off the mists, and promising the future.
Odin lurched forward, toppled from the Seat, and landed on his elbows. Frost misted the air from the breath he blew out, then vanished.
“It’s there …” he mumbled.
Loki grabbed Odin’s biceps and hefted him to his feet.
Odin shrugged away from his brother, grabbed his walking stick, and steadied himself upon it. “It’s real.”
“Yes.”
If the Well of Mimir could unveil the future, it would prove Odin’s best chance at knowledge and the surest route to regaining Andvari’s Gift. That ring meant everything. With it, he could rejoin Freyja and hope to win the coming final battle.
But crossing into Utgard, especially into Jotunheim, would not prove an easy task.
Panting, Odin turned to Loki. “I have decided on the favor you owe me, brother.”
“I know.”
14
Thirteen Years Ago
No moon lit the sky, leaving the ruins of Gladsheimr thick with darkness. Odin had sat so long in the starlight he could make out Hermod’s still form a few feet away, but only in outline. Patience had come to him with the understanding that its absence would lead to madness, and yet, still he dared to hope—would this be the night?
Frustrated with Hermod’s lack of progress, Odin had taken the man to see his foster sister. While Sigyn had no particular expertise in the Art and could not—praise the ancestors—project into the Penumbra, she had studied Vanr writings to a dangerous extent. The three of them had spent the better part of the past fortnight in discourse over the nature of reality.
“Mundilfari actually posited that this world is the shadow,” Sigyn had said.
Her words had wormed their way into Odin’s brain to plant the seed of a niggling doubt. The Mad Vanr was, of course, mad. Without doubt Njord’s predecessor had lost himself peering into the darkness. But one could not help but fear that in his madness, still he’d come upon insight.
In truth, however, whether the Mortal Realm or the Penumbra was the shadow mattered little at present. Odin’s stomach churned with the fragile hope that finally, Hermod might break free of the chains of flesh and allow his soul to become untethered. That Odin might, at long last, find himself with a true ally in the realms beyond.
The man across from him held so very still Odin might have mistaken him for a corpse.
We are all corpses …
Odin grimaced at Audr’s intrusion. The dark belonged to wraiths and always brought about greater activity in the foul vaettr bound to Odin.
We are all foul … Vileness compounded unto infinity …
Audr Nottson had also gazed into darkness. Maybe he more than any other could have aided Hermod in crossing, but Odin would not dare expose the other man to the price of it.
He will pay, nonetheless …
Odin grit his teeth, saying naught.
Reach across … rip his soul from his body …
And if Odin allowed such, it would only undermine his efforts to train Hermod.
A slight tremor rushed through the other man. Was this i
t? Odin relaxed his eyes to embrace the Sight. The pale light of the Penumbra filled his vision. Across from him, Hermod’s aura flickered. A shadow seemed poised to break off from him. He was doing it. He had come this far twice before, but no farther. Still, enough to let Odin know he had the potential.
Almost there … Come on, Hermod. Do not give up.
Surrender to the dark …
Odin leaned forward.
The shadow slipped from Hermod’s body and took up ethereal form on the other side of the Veil. He’d done it.
Odin pushed his own consciousness from his resting body, joining Hermod in the Penumbra. Colors bled out of the world, sucked away as Odin left the physical behind. A fell chill washed over him, familiar now and yet still enough to set the hairs along his body on end. Whispers echoed along that wind, the faint cries and pleas of the dead.
Hermod gasped, hand to his chest, flailed widely, and spun to stare down at his body. “Wh-wha …?”
Odin spared the other man a moment of pity. “The first time is the hardest. You get used to it.” After a fashion, at least.
Hermod turned now, gazing up at the massive hall around them. Columns thick as tree trunks supported a ceiling that rose up into flying arches supported by spears. Massive sconces lined the columns, unlit for now, but capable of casting the entire hall in a resplendent gleam. A dozen tables, each large enough to sit a hundred men, ran between the columns. At the back of the hall, on a dais, stood a throne Odin had fashioned to resemble his High Seat.
He led Hermod outside so the man could look upon the completed wonder. A hint of starlight flickered off the gilded shingles, their sheen muted by the oppressive dark tones of this reality. It had taken Odin enormous effort to infuse enough light into the region to keep ennui from seeping in, as it always seemed to in the Penumbra. It would not do for his potential guests to lose themselves as so many of the dead slowly did.
As we all do …
Hermod turned to Odin, then gaped at him. No doubt the man had suddenly become aware of the writhing shadows twisting at the edge of Odin’s own form as if threatening to burst forth. The curse of any sorcerer, in truth.
“Yes, boy,” Odin said. “I hold bound within me vaettir, always seeking to possess me.” He flexed his fingers, allowing a hint of Audr’s wispy, boney hands to break through for an instant. “Such is the source of any sorcerer’s powers.”
“And what happens if one of them gets control?”
Audr cackled, the sound no longer just in Odin’s head, but carried through the etheric air like maddening vibrations.
Hermod blanched and fell back a step.
“Naught good,” Odin said. “But that is not why we’re here. This hall will become Valhalla. There was no such place before now, but together, you and I will prepare a home for those who die glorious deaths.”
“So … what happens to those who have died before?”
Again, Audr cackled, and Odin allowed the wraith to drift half out of his form before snapping it back into place. It was all the answer he had for Hermod and clearly more than the man had wished for.
“Come,” Odin said. “There is something more I must show you.”
A long time they walked, traveling deeper and deeper into the Penumbra, until the mirror cracked and what was reflected did not—blessedly did not—exist in the Mortal Realm. A landscape of shifting shadows so deep not even the starlight above seemed to pierce them.
“I’d have expected dawn by now,” Hermod said.
“There is no dawn here, boy.”
“You keep calling me that, but we are nigh to the same age, are we not?”
Odin paused, suddenly forced to take in Hermod anew. Outwardly, Odin must have been three times Hermod’s age, but yes, their births had not been so far apart. Rather than offer an apology, Odin merely nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Sometimes, I find myself thinking of all people as my children.”
Hermod said naught to that, pushing forward.
They rounded a cliff of obsidian rock and came to a void that pitched away into infinity. A gap in reality filled with a faint, ever-changing shimmer. Across this, stretching out into forever, spanned an iridescent bridge.
“A rainbow?” Hermod asked. “I don’t … I don’t understand.”
Odin indicated the bridge. “Nor I, in truth. But the bridge spans the length of the Astral Realm, serving as a connection between the Penumbra and the Roil. Beyond this, all you know of reality falls away and vanishes into naught. There lies chaos, Hermod, and within, horrors we cannot fathom.”
“So what are we doing here?”
Odin grunted, then sighed. He pointed up into the starlit sky. “Somewhere up there, crystal spheres are lodged into the sky. They are facets of the Spirit Realm.”
“I thought we were in the Spirit Realm?”
“No. Each facet is a world unto itself, built from a primal aspect of creation. Niflheim is out there, the home of our true enemy.”
Hermod shuddered. “You mean …”
“Yes, her. I told you an end battle is coming: Ragnarok. And she will try to take our world. Yet we cannot take the fight to her. We cannot reach her world, though her forces can descend into the Astral Realm and from there, influence the Mortal Realm.”
“You mean to fight—”
“Do not speak her name, least of all here. She might hear you. She might answer you.” Odin sniffed and stretched his aching back. “This bridge joins the Astral Realm together, but I am convinced we might one day use it to reach the other worlds. Only, it’s guardian, Heimdall, will not tell me how to do so.”
Odin had pled with him. Had begged him to show the way to Alfheim that he might be reunited with Freyja. Heimdall had refused to even consider such a course. Odin had known he would, but still he tried, over and over.
“I still don’t understand why you brought me here.” Hermod waved his hand to encompass the bridge and all the Penumbra. “Why bring me to this twisted place?”
“Already, you can project your mind and soul into the Penumbra. But given your heritage, one day you’ll be able to enter it physically, a task I can only achieve by using the power of … one of the vaettir inside me. Once you achieve this, Hermod, you can reach anywhere. No wall, no barrier will be able to stop you.”
The man swallowed then pressed his palms to his brow. “I still don’t understand, my king.”
“I need a messenger. One who can go anywhere, cross any land. Perhaps even one day breach the Spirit Realm. You can be that, Hermod. It is inside you. Have you ever heard of a valkyrie having a child before? If any such ever existed, I know naught of it.”
“My … my uncles also married valkyries. I don’t know if they ever …”
“Your uncles?”
“Uh … Volund and Slagfid.”
Odin faltered, caught himself on an obsidian shard and gaped at the boy. Volund … the dark smith had married a valkyrie. He had a son by the princess of Njarar, Odin had known, but … it seemed had Volund had another child? One born of a valkyrie? And who was … Oh. What was the name he had asked after?
Altvir … Valravn said in his mind.
So, this Altvir had become Volund’s wife? Unlike Olrun, it did not appear she had chosen to surrender her immortality out of love. “Volund’s wife,” Odin said. “She was Altvir?”
“Yes. How did—”
Odin waved that away.
How strange the weave of urd. He shut his eyes and shook his head. The circles bent back upon themselves in twisting spirals. Well, there would be time to have the full of Hermod’s tale later.
“Come,” Odin said. “Meet Heimdall. You may find yourself forced to cross his bridge more than once in the days to come.”
“My king …”
Odin had started for the bridge, but turned back to look to Hermod.
“If I am to survive the task you set before me … I fear you must teach me somewhat of the Art and the secrets beyond the ken of humans.”
Odin quirked a faint smile. All as he had expected. “I fear you’re right.”
Part II
Year 49, Age of the Aesir
Summer
15
Peregot was too thick with people. Three winters here. Ever since Hlodwig sent Lotar to hold Aquiene. Prince had welcomed Tyr back. Nigh begged him to come to this overflowing piss pool. A wooden palisade around the town, a fort to protect his people.
And every year, more refugees fled here.
They packed in like rats, fleeing the war. Some came from the Andalus Marches, to the south. No one ought to have lived there. Not since old Karolus had set up the boundary. Since Odin and Tyr had gotten him to. But still people didn’t want to leave their precious villages. Farms. Places more like than not to get razed when the Serks came again.
They always came.
Others, they fled from all over Aquiene. Maybe they’d suffered hard winters. Maybe they figured the armistice wouldn’t hold much longer. Maybe they were right.
And so Tyr found himself staring out a window on the upper level of the fort. Looking at a town packed to overflowing. Stank of piss no matter which way the wind blew. Stank of shit. Stank of men.
Behind him, Lotar sat in his modest throne, grimacing no doubt. Always frowning, this prince. Him and a handful of knights, all grim at the report. Even with his back turned, Tyr could feel the prince’s souring mood at Hermod’s words.
Hoenir’s son-in-law was the best scout they could hope for. Always had been. Of late, though, he’d gotten so good at it men called him a ghost. Man would slip across the Marches without no one getting wind of him. Move through Andalus—now just a part of Serkland really—and hear things what no man ought to have been able to learn.
As now.
“Al-Dakil calls his retainers, all the men loyal to him,” Hermod said. “The caliph lost favor with the rest of the Caliphate when he established the armistice with you. A fortnight back, he got word that they send an emir to draw Andalus back under their control.”
