by Matt Larkin
They all sat.
“My goats are outside,” Thor said. “Kill one for food and see to the other.”
Sif flinched. He commanded the man like he was a slave.
She looked to Loki, but Odin’s blood brother was staring at the fire pit as if it were his lover. Mist-madness.
The farmer—Sif had seen a small vegetable field, so she assumed that was his trade—disappeared outside a while.
His children began to ply Thor for stories of the outside world, timid at first. But Thor’s mood swung almost immediately, a wide grin spreading over his face.
“You ask the right person, this I tell you. Do you know who I am? No, you wouldn’t.” He chuckled. “I’m the prince of Asgard, Thor Odinson, slayer of trolls and jotunnar.”
The boy’s eyes widened. No doubt the very effect Thor had sought. Sif struggled not to roll her eyes at his display. Her husband launched into several tales of the Thunderers bringing down their foes. While he left out the bloody deaths of their friends and embellished a few details, his boasts rang mostly true so far as Sif recalled. Some parts, he had out of order, but she didn’t bother to correct him.
“That was my friend who slew that troll,” Thor said. “The great … The great …” He grunted, scratching his head and frowning as though drunk.
“Meili,” Sif finally said. Thor had thought of the man like a brother. And he couldn’t remember his name?
“Meili! That was it, yes. He fought in the war against the South Realmers.”
The boy—Thjalfi—leaned in. “Against Miklagard?”
“Ugh …” Thor worked his jaw a moment. “Ugh, no. No, Serkland.”
Sif frowned. He was just hungry, tired. That was all.
The farmer returned bearing great slabs of meat. These he threw in a pot which he placed in the fire pit.
The disturbance jerked Loki out of whatever strange trance he’d been in. The man blinked, blew out a breath, and scooted away to lean against the wall, shutting his eyes.
Thor just launched into another tale, this one of the mountain jotunn Skadi had called upon when they fought her in Sviarland. It had slain Itreksjod, but Thor left that part out, though he mentioned the man.
The farmer turned the goat meat over a few times.
“Oh, enough already!” Thor snapped, reaching into the pot. He pulled out a large hunk of meat, still a bit bloody, and tore into it, dribbling juice into his beard.
Given the ache in her stomach, Sif didn’t much blame him. Their host served them, and Sif greedily devoured her own portion. And the next, as the man served more. Himself and his children, he served last.
Thor took seconds, and thirds. The prince belched. “More.”
The farmer sputtered.
“Get more food,” Thor snapped. “I’ve hardly eaten in a fortnight. Is this your hospitality?”
“That’s all we—”
“Can you not feed a guest, man?”
Sif frowned. “Thor I think you should—”
“Stay out of this!”
Paling, the farmer rose and stumbled out the door.
Thor almost immediately seemed to forget him, rumbling into another story. One he’d already told this night, of trolls in Halfhaugr.
Sif glanced at Loki, but the man still had his eyes closed. Sleeping against the wall, perhaps, or otherwise uninterested in Thor’s rambling.
After a while, the farmer returned, bearing more meat. This he dumped into the pot, throwing up a pleasant sizzle, and shortly after, the delicious aroma of more roasting meat.
Sif wouldn’t mind another serving herself. The trek had drained her and, moreover, they had worse, and harder yet before them.
The family had no mead or other alcohol, inciting more complaints from Thor. Fortunately, the farmer’s daughter, Roskva, redirected him by asking to hear about his exploits against Serkland. From the nature of her questions, she’d clearly never heard of the Serkland Caliphate or their war in Andalus, where Sif and Thor’s daughter now fought. So removed, these people.
Thor talked long into the night, until Sif drifted to sleep.
“What in the name of my father’s father is this?” Thor roared.
His outburst had Sif lurching awake, reaching for her spear. She looked around the small cabin, but found no sign of others.
“What have you done?” Thor bellowed, his voice coming from outside.
“Oh, troll shit,” Sif grumbled. She raced outside to find Thor standing over a pile of bones and gristle. Dead goats.
“Y-you said to cook the goats …” the farmer stammered. His children had taken up behind him. Or rather, the farmer held back Thjalfi who tried to interpose himself between Thor and his father.
Thor’s brows knitted and he stomped over to the man. “I told you to kill my goats, did I?”
“Y-you said that—”
“Kill a goat!” Thor roared. “I didn’t offer you both of them!” The prince glanced at the charnel pile. “Poor Tanngrisnir … I’ll avenge you.”
He’d named the goat? When did he name the … The rest of the line settled on Sif like a rock in her gut. Avenge a goat?
The farmer whimpered and threw himself at Thor’s feet. “Please forgive me, Ás. I … you demanded food and I had naught to offer.” He sputtered, seeming afraid to even look up at Thor. “Please, I’ll give you all I own! Just please don’t harm us.” He glanced at his children, then back, tears glistening in his eyes.
Sif strode forward. “Of course he’s not going to harm you. We understand it was just—”
“Fine,” Thor snapped. “I’ll have recompense for the goat. Naught in your cabin holds any value, save the slaves.”
“I … have no slaves.”
Thor sneered. “No? Well now I do.” He snapped his fingers. “Boy, girl, fetch the bags. We’re leaving.”
Sif groaned. Troll shit. Momentous piles of troll shit. Whole fucking mountains of it.
The farmer choked on his sob, but Thjalfi stepped around him. “It’s all right, Father. I am … honored to serve the Aesir. As is Roskva, I’m sure.”
From the look on her face, Roskva was torn between excitement and terror. And why not? Thor’s moods changed faster than the winds.
By the time they’d packed everything, Loki returned, a pair of skinned snow rabbits dangling from his hands. One he offered to the farmer, who wept at it, and the other he kept for their journey.
As Thor tromped off ahead—his new slaves in tow but casting glances back at their former home—Sif hung back to explain all that had passed to Loki. Odin’s blood brother said naught while Sif talked of the demand Thor had placed on the poor man. An old farmer alone in this valley, without the help of his children might well die. While not strictly Sif’s problem—she’d not long ago wanted to abandon this entire land—it didn’t fit with Thor’s nature in the least.
Loki just nodded.
“Something is wrong with him,” Sif said.
Loki cocked his head to the side. “He has a shard of rock slowly working itself through his brain. I’d assume this carries with it severe headaches among other deleterious effects. The man you knew may well have died fighting Hrungnir.”
“He’s immortal …”
Loki nodded. “Even immortals change over time. Naught lasts forever.”
Sif shivered at his words, only falling farther and farther behind him and the others.
32
Together, Sigyn and Mundilfari made the long climb up the mountain to Sessrumnir. Once, smaller palaces had dotted this slope, offering rest stops to those making the ascent. Odin had ordered all such places torn down, unwilling to stomach the reminder of the civilization he had destroyed. Now, some paltry shelters remained where palaces once stood, but neither of them seemed to even consider rest.
Sigyn had found Eir in the city, and the healer had confirmed that Hödr had not returned to Asgard. She dared to hope he yet lingered in Andalus, and, given the choice, would have headed straight there to s
earch for the boy. Mundilfari, however, insisted he could not do aught for him without a talisman hidden in his sanctum. And so, once inside Freyja’s old hall, they descended into the lower levels.
The Mad Vanr raised an eyebrow when Sigyn triggered his secret passage without even having to search for it, but made no comment. Now that she knew where to look, her enhanced senses made locating the switch trivial, and she had spent years traipsing down here, though she remained always careful to ensure no other found this place. Even Eir, who had now learned so much of the Vanr healing Art, Sigyn did not trust with Mundilfari’s secrets.
Not after what had happened to Hödr.
The Vanr lit the brazier, then drifted around the room, tracing his fingers along the spines of books, wiping dust from vials. His wistful looks concealed thoughts Sigyn could not begin to imagine. Given the apple had already extended her life beyond what most people experienced—and she must now be older than Father had been when he died—already the years had begun to blur. And Mundilfari had not walked in this place in nigh to a thousand years. What would it feel like to tread such halls of memory? Sigyn shook herself. It didn’t matter. She had no time to indulge the Vanr in his reminiscence.
“Where is this talisman?”
“Oh. Oh, yes. Uh, well … I might forget such things. Might … might have forgotten, that is.”
“You forgot?” Sigyn worked her jaw. “You forgot where you kept the talisman that might save my son?”
“Oh. Uh … Yes! Yes! I have definitely forgotten.” He smiled as if that solved some great puzzle.
Sigyn wanted to weep. This was the man she turned to in her last, desperate hope of saving the one who was most precious to her. This was Hödr’s salvation: a half-mad buffoon. The very same man to whose writings she had turned in her own mist-madness.
“What does it look like?”
“Hmm? Oh. Yes, uh, a wand. A stick, that is, carved from a fallen branch of Yggdrasil. Very useful.”
Sigyn hesitated, then snatched a book off one of the shelves, flipping through the pages. One of Mundilfari’s more cryptic passages had mentioned a small branch that had inexplicably broken from the World Tree, and he’d included a sketch. There, this Gambanteinn, he’d named it. The sketch depicted a wand the length of her arm, one wiry and twisted, and carved into in spirals. She turned the book so the Vanr could see his own drawing. “This?”
“Oh. More like than not.” He nodded. “I’d say so.”
“Then think. Where did you hide this?”
Mundilfari bit his lip, then banged his thumbs against his eyebrows. “Uh. Oh. Think. Think. Yes!” He raised a finger and grinned. “I should think.”
Sigyn stared at him a moment. Then she began flinging all the books and scrolls from the shelves, tearing away all impediments. Unless the Vanr had completely lost his mind—and she was beginning to think that might have occurred—he must have kept Gambanteinn somewhere in his sanctum. It was small enough room. Finding naught behind any of the books, she grabbed the bookcase itself and—seizing her pneuma for strength—pulled it off the wall. The heavy case crashed down to the floor and cracked. A single iron bolt had held the case against the wall. Sigyn examined that and, finding naught there, ran her fingers along the wall itself, looking for more secret chambers. Secrets inside secrets—why not?
Pages rattled and she turned to look at the Vanr. He was shaking a book upside down as if the wand might come tumbling out of the pages. Damn it. Perhaps this man served as an admonition against any delving into the Art. Had she heeded such a warning, they would not now be here.
She dropped to her knees and began feeling along the floor, seeking out any aberration in the texture, any variation in the sound the stone made as she rapped against it. Some clue existed somewhere and she wound find it.
“Oh.” He pulled on the doorframe then shook his head. “No, no. Iron banding. Good for warding, not for hiding. Never would’ve hidden wood inside the iron. That would be madness.”
So that would have been madness. She was fortunate he clarified where to draw that line. Hiding a staff inside a metal doorframe … Inside …
She rose, then strode to the marble statue in the corner. A delicate carving of some woman.
“Sunna …” Mundilfari said.
His daughter? Sigyn stared at her likeness for a heartbeat before seizing it by the head and yanking it down onto the floor. The enormous crash split the carving in half at the waist. She pulled the shards of marble apart, revealing a hollow, inside which rested the wand from the sketch.
“Oh. Right, of course. Inside the statue, yes. I used to be so clever. For a fool.”
Sigyn drew the wand free, blew the dust off it, and examined it. It didn’t feel powerful, but she was no true sorceress nor gifted with the Sight. She handed the artifact to the sorcerer. “Can we now depart?”
Mundilfari nodded, then ran a hand over his short shorn hair. “This was … the easy part. You know? I think … I shouldn’t have …”
“We both should not have done a lot of things. We need to make for Andalus and pray Hödr yet lingers there.”
33
Eight Years Ago
Sigyn’s son sat at the table in Mundilfari’s hidden sanctum. At ten winters old, he already had a strong build, and under other circumstances, might have become a warrior. Maybe Sigyn could offer him that chance now, change his urd and give him a better life.
His milky white eyes stared off into the shadows, blissfully unaware of them, though he cocked his head at every slight sound she made while she painted glyphs along the walls and floor. In truth, she could not say how much these rituals were necessary. Despite her years of research into the Art, she was no sorceress and had no proper training. Nor, in fact, was this a full summoning.
Mundilfari appeared to have already conjured the vaettr and somehow bound it inside a ceramic jar, it too painted with wards. Sigyn suspected simply opening the jar would not be enough, but then, who knew, really?
All the tomes on learning the Art presupposed the student would have a teacher, and moreover, recommended some kind of sexual indoctrination. Most oft, it seemed, males taught females and females taught males, as the sexual experience allowed arcane knowledge to be passed more easily. Sigyn had certainly derived some secret lore from Loki that way, but none of it prepared her to use the Art.
“Mama? Your breathing grows ragged. Why are you so vexed down here?”
Hödr was perceptive. Like his mother, she supposed. “I uh … I’m going to try something perilous.”
“Why?”
A single sad chuckle escaped her. “Because sometimes the only path forward requires one to take risk. If you can’t, you become mired in whatever place you find yourself in.”
“So you’d rather plunge headfirst into the sea than risk sinking in slowly?”
By the damn Tree … “You sound like your father.”
“Where is he?”
She sighed. “Seeking his own answers elsewhere.”
Breaking her heart in the process of grieving his own broken heart. He said he had lost children before. An understatement given his daughter had turned so very cold. And now, to see his son bereft of a future … No, Loki’s lost child was Hel herself.
No amount of passing years had made that bitter truth easier to swallow. Naught ever would. A dead child, tormented until she became a dead god.
No such urd would befall her son. Sigyn was going to change it all.
“Breathe easy, Hödr. I just need to finish a few last preparations.” She paused to look over at him. “Whatever you hear … just stay where you, all right? Do not try to interfere.”
“Mama?”
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” At least she hoped she did.
Vanr writings called the vaettr language Supernal. Having never heard it spoken aloud, Sigyn prayed her pronunciation was correct. She supposed if she got it wrong enough, maybe naught at all would answer. That was the best-case scenario for fai
lure. The other potential outcomes the tomes hinted at it were not worth dwelling on.
Over and over, she repeated the mantras, the invocations, and the supplications, until she began to feel herself a fool. Hödr visibly tensed as the recitation went on, either out of fear of the strange sounds, or the general unease that seemed to accompany the Art. Indeed, Sigyn’s own skin had begun to feel like ants crawled along the surface of it. Her voice had started to echo in her head, leaving her addled and struggling to remain on her feet, until at last she fell to one knee.
And then the ceramic jar wobbled.
Panting, Sigyn crawled over to it. It just sat there, beckoning.
“Mama? What’s happening?”
Her hand hesitated above the stopper. A wax seal bound it in place. Sigyn’s fingers closed over that stopper.
“Eldr,” she said. “I offer you freedom in exchange for the ancient bargain—one wish.”
The jar had grown warm beneath her hand, hot even, as though a flame raged within. Could it hear her? Would it bargain?
Sigyn’s heart beat against her ribcage. Her insides felt like someone had coated them in whale oil. Her stomach was dancing about.
“Eldr, I ask but one wish. Restore sight to my son, and I shall free you from the imprisonment the sorcerer has forced upon you.”
Hödr’s chair scraped the floor as he stood. “Who are you talking to, Mama?”
Sigyn drew upon her pneuma to increase her strength, then crushed the wax seal as she pulled the stopper free.
Naught happened.
Slowly, heart still hammering, she pulled herself up to look down in the jar. Naught but ash in there … A smolder sizzled amongst the ash. And then another, and another. Several dozen of them crackled, and with each, a hiss of steam rose from the urn, flooding about the sanctuary.
Shrieking, Sigyn scrambled away on all fours. Her shoulder bumped a table, spilling its books all over her. One thunked onto her head, driving her to her hands.
