by Matt Larkin
Sigurd paced around the deep forge. “Oh, I favor a sword. If it is truly an invincible one capable of felling a dragon.” He turned toward the anvil. “Strong enough to cut steel?” Taking the sword in both hands, Sigurd cleaved down into the anvil. The blade bit into the metal surface, ever so slightly. The impact jarred his arms and the blade at once snapped off and flew free, soaring past Sigurd’s head a hairsbreadth from taking his ear with it.
“What the—” Regin bellowed.
Sigurd spun on the dverg. “You would have me place my trust, my very life on your work! And this is what it is worth. What will I do when such a blade snaps off on dragon scales? Shall I wrestle the beast to death with my bare hands? Kick it into submission?” He flung the hilt at the dverg’s feet and the thing scraped over stone, bouncing once before coming to rest. “Perhaps I shall defeat the dragon with my stare? You send me on a fool’s errand.”
Regin spat over his shoulder into the forge fire. “No blade would stand up to such abuse.”
“A runeblade would.”
Now the dverg shambled closer to Sigurd, until he could glare up at him. “That’s the finest steel we have. You want me to pull some orichalcum out of my arse, boy? If I could shit the stuff I’d be the king of Nidavellir myself. Nay, king of the whole stone-sucking world. That’s as good as it gets.”
Sigurd shook his head. “Then Fafnir shall sit on his stolen gold until this world dies. I will not throw my life away.” With that, he stormed off toward the stairs.
“Boy! Get back here, you ungrateful wretch! Boy!”
Sigurd ignored Regin and trudged off, up the stairs, and out of the vile darkness of these tunnels.
Night had settled not long after Sigurd had fled the underground, but he had little mood to make camp, much less return to Regin’s domain. Instead, he lit a torch and continued his wanderings, almost choking on his overwhelming need to beat something. To chop whatever unfortunate victim crossed his path into pieces.
Did he ask too much of Regin? Perhaps, but if so, the dverg had no one to blame save himself. In his hubris, Regin had claimed to be the match of his brothers, and Sigurd found that momentously unlikely. Besides which, Regin himself had offered not the least tolerance for failure or weakness in Sigurd. How could Sigurd now expect any less from him?
Torch beside his head, he stomped through the woods, neither knowing nor much caring where he headed so long as it was away from the dverg. The Earth vaettr could catch him, if he so desired, but Sigurd doubted Regin would do any such thing. No, the creature must know their relationship now hung by a tenuous thread of spider silk, and any further provocation was like to snap that thread.
Seething, Sigurd blundered through the wood until he came to a stream, then fell to a sudden stop. Out there, above the mist over the waters, a plume of smoke rose, large enough to have come from a campfire. What fool would dare make camp in these supposedly haunted lands where Sigurd had long slain most who trespassed? A large group, perhaps? If so, they might have food. If not … well they might have something of value worth taking.
He followed the stream’s course until he could hear voices out in the mist, then he drove his torch into the sand and left it there. In a crouch, he crept forward, to the edge of the circle where fire banished mist. Around a small flame sat his mother and with her … the old man, Gripir. What in the gates of Hel?
Sigurd rose to his full height and stalked forward.
His mother started at his approach, though the man with her did not. “Sigurd!” she said, climbing to her feet with obvious discomfort. “Praise Odin! He said we’d find you, but I had begun to doubt …” She threw her arms around him and Sigurd returned her embrace.
“How do you know this hermit, Mother?”
She pulled away and glanced back at the old man. “Gripir has aided our family many a time over the years. He’s become like a brother to me, oft warning me of danger and helping me steer around it. Please, sit.”
Sigurd did so, staring not at his mother, but at Gripir. “How did you know where to find me?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“You’re a seer.” Unmanly, for certain. Such things were best left to völvur. He didn’t give voice to those thoughts, but Sigurd imagined his face spoke them plain enough.
And indeed, the quirk of Gripir’s smile bespoke an understanding.
Now he did turn to his mother. “What are you doing here?”
“Your fostering is over, Sigurd. You returned to us only to—”
“Surely you know why, Mother. Your father-in-law has spent that which you saved for me.”
She frowned, shaking her head. “Hard times in Cimbria forced us to make hard decisions.” Sigurd scoffed, and the woman frowned, obviously shamed by what had gone on. As well she should have been. “Not everything was spent, Sigurd.”
Now he paused, turning to regard her more carefully. She’d saved some treasure for his use? If it was enough to reclaim Rijnland …
Gripir produced a satchel and tossed it in front of Sigurd. This he untied. Within lay a wrapped bundle he unfolded in his lap. A rose-gold sword, snapped in two pieces not so very unlike the one Sigurd himself had just broken. Along the length stretched a string of runes. Sigurd ran his index finger over their grooves.
“Is this …?”
“The shards of Gramr,” his mother said. “The runeblade your father bore when he avenged himself on Siggeir Wolfsblood.”
“I assumed this was lost after the final battle with Lyngi.”
“Not lost,” she said. “I saved it, as your father bid me. He hoped one day you would take it up again, might restore it.”
“But how could a runeblade be broken?”
“Odin willed it so,” Gripir offered. “The Ás king has many secret ways of achieving his ends. Now, perhaps, he intendeds the runeblade for you.”
Sigurd sighed. “If it broke once, what is to stop it from breaking again?” Against a dragon.
“You need not raise your sword against Odin himself.”
That drew a snort from him. No, he’d not even considered … wait. Did the seer imply Father had striven against Odin? Was he not favored of the Ás?
“It might be hard for us to understand the will of the King of the Aesir,” Gripir said. “Without doubt, he must have had good reason for his actions. And for allowing the blade to come to you now.”
Truth or wishful thinking? Either way, he could not turn his back on Gramr, not when it had come to him at long last. With a last look, Sigurd folded the cloth back over the blade, then looked to his mother. “It is not safe here. You must return to Arus and to your husband.” He turned to Gripir. “Can you escort her safely back, seer?”
“Yes. There are few with whom she would be more secure.”
Sigurd nodded and rose.
“Lyngi killed not only my husband,” his mother said, “but my father. It is not a slight I can forgive.”
Sigurd met her gaze. “Don’t worry, Mother. I’m not the kind to forget nor to forgive. It’s not my nature.”
Regin met him halfway down the stairs to the deep forge, somehow alerted to his presence once more. Sigurd did not bother to worry on such things, not now.
“You’ve come to your senses?” the dverg asked. “I’ll forge one more blade for you … maybe I can make it stronger still, but you must see reason.”
Rather than answer, Sigurd withdrew the bundle and unwrapped it, holding it low so Regin could inspect it.
The dverg’s mouth dropped open, then he reached a trembling hand to it, brushing his fingers over the metal. “How did you …?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. Most like, the souls forged into this yet remain, even though the blade snapped. I can reforge it, but it will take another nine days.”
Sigurd handed the bundle to the dverg. “Take what time you require. But see to it you create something truly unparalleled.”
Regin chuckled, then began making his hobbling w
ay back to the forge.
After the sun had set on the ninth day, Regin shambled from the deep forge, a restored runeblade in hand and a wicked grin spread across his face.
Sigurd rose from the rock where he’d passed the time, crossing the distance without even realizing he’d moved. A glimmer from a brazier flickered off the blade, and—though it might have been but a trick of the light—the runes themselves seemed to gleam.
“It’s glorious.”
“Heh.” Regin snorted and handed it over. “And strong enough to withstand even dragon scales, I guarantee it.”
Glorious indeed. As if Regin had invited it, Sigurd trod back into the forge and stood before the anvil, grasping Gramr’s bone hilt with both hands. He looked to the dverg who—though he grimaced ever so slightly—nodded.
Roaring, Sigurd raised the runeblade and chopped downward. The blow again sent jarring reverberations through Sigurd’s arm. But this time, it sliced clean and deep into the anvil’s metal, wedging itself nigh a foot down.
Sigurd laughed. Truly unbelievable. What a wonder the sons of Modsognir had wrought in these runeblades.
He tugged to free the blade, but the anvil held it fast. Sigurd placed his foot against the surface and heaved. Slowly, a hair at a time, it began to edge free, metal grating all the while. Finally, the sword lurched loose and Sigurd stumbled backward.
Regin cleared his throat. “It needs a soul to finish the restoration, a feast to complete the rebinding.”
Sigurd felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Perfect. I’ll feed it Lyngi.”
“Later, perhaps. For now, but go and ply your banditry on whomever you come across.”
Sigurd glanced at the dverg, already shaking his head. “No.”
“What no, boy? You need this blade to slay Fafnir, that was our arrangement.”
“And I will slay the dragon. But first I’ll avenge the wrongs heaped upon my parents. This blade will bring down Lyngi and his allies.”
Regin sputtered, and lunged for the blade, but Sigurd fell back a step and the dverg stumbled, seeming close to pitching onto his face. “That’s in Hunaland! You intend to ride clear past Fafnir and take no action?”
Sigurd snorted. “I don’t intend to ride to Hunaland at all. How many warriors could I safely march through Myrkvidr? Too few, for certain. No, I’ll demand ships and a crew from Hjalprek, and he’ll oblige me, or I shall perhaps find Gramr a different sacrifice.”
“No, boy, you listen to me—”
“Stop calling me boy! I am a man, and if you were capable of bringing low the serpent yourself, you’d have done so. You need me, and thus you will allow me to claim my vengeance first. Then we shall see to yours.”
Regin spit into the forge and fitted Sigurd with a glare. Then, grumbling under his breath, the dverg shambled away.
Sigurd found himself transfixed by the blade as firelight glinted off it. Not even a scratch marred it, even after such abuses as he’d just visited upon the sword.
Truly glorious. And it would serve to end his foes such that the skalds would write verses of it for a thousand years.
4
The docks first warped then crunched into kindling as the surging wave rushed over them. The buildings closest to the sea were next, caught in the rising tide with such force they collapsed into themselves. Treading amid the chaos were even more sea jotunnar. Sallow-skinned and with legs covered in fish scales such that one who wasn’t overly discerning might mistake them for seven or eight feet tall mer.
Thor knew better, of course. Another of the brutes fell at his feet. Roaring, he brought Mjölnir down upon the creature’s skull. It struck with the sound of a thunderclap, flinging bolts of lightning in all directions. Though standing shin-high in the waters, the hammer itself seemed to protect Thor from the discharge. In fact, he only grew stronger with each such jotunn he slew.
Mjölnir thirsted for their blood, without doubt. And Thor had begun to surmise it thirsted for more than that as well. Did the mighty hammer devour their very souls? A fitting end to the beasts that had invaded all Bjarmaland.
Shin-high in water, he sloshed his way over to another of the creatures, this one armed with a trident. The weapon gave it reach, and Mjölnir seemed tiny when trying to deflect a trident. Thor batted a blow aside and charged forward. Or tried. Damn water slowed his steps while hardly bothering the sea jotunnar at all.
Another jab from that trident, and this one took him in the shoulder, the force of the blow shearing through his mail and sending him spinning around and crashing down into the muck before the pain even caught up with him. Mjölnir let him block out even more of that pain than the apple did.
“Thor!” Baldr shouted.
Thor’s little brother leapt in, sword flashing. The sea jotunn used its superior reach on him too, and even as Thor rose, its thrust caught Baldr in the ribs and sent the boy down hard, falling prone underwater.
Roaring, Thor smacked Mjölnir into the jotunn’s side. Another thunderclap sounded on impact. Lightning jumped along the jotunn’s side, frying its flesh as it convulsed, releasing a sickly sweet aroma that Thor had almost learned to ignore. The creature collapsed sideways and Thor paid it no more mind.
Instead, with one hand he reached into the waters and yanked Baldr up. “Brother!”
Baldr gasped, coughing up a disgusting mix of blood and seawater, looking pale and grim.
“By the fucking Tree, Baldr,” Thor grumbled. “Magni!” he shouted to his son. “Get the twins.” He pointed Mjölnir at a pair of sea jotunnar stomping through what remained of Holmgard’s market.
Then—having no choice but to trust the others to pull it off—he hefted Baldr up in his arms and trod away from the attacking jotunnar. He sloshed through the waters until finally coming into the mostly dry portion of town, kicked in a door, and laid Baldr down beside an unkindled fire pit.
His brother groaned.
Ignoring Baldr’s protests, Thor yanked the boy’s mail up and pulled away the gambeson beneath. A prong of the trident had punched through both, leaving a puncture between two ribs. Blood was pumping from it like a fucking fountain.
More groans from his brother, and the boy’s eyes began to close.
Thor slapped his cheek. “Stay with me, Baldr.” Thor was not a fucking völva to know how to treat such a wound. “You’re a damned imbecile.” He wasn’t really sure the boy could hear him or would remember, but some things needed to be said. “I swore to Father I’d keep you safe here. But if you hadn’t had an apple you’d be dead already.” And Thor wasn’t certain Baldr would pull through this, regardless.
It was his fault, too. He should’ve known to prepare for it. The jotunnar had to come for Holmgard sooner or later, that he’d known. Only, he had his men watching the wall, waiting for an attack from frost jotunnar or wood jotunnar or, worse, mountain jotunnar. He’d barely even considered worrying over an attack from the sea.
Oh, he’d heard the rumors. Not long after Rollaugr’s death, the sea jotunnar had begun their assault on the Miklagardian colonies. Thor would’ve sent them along with his blessings, actually. The Patriarchs were probably worse than the damn jotunnar. Besides, all the kingdoms of men in Bjarmaland had collapsed under the assault from Jotunheim. All Thor could do these days was try to protect what bands of men he could, in between forays to thin the jotunn ranks.
Thor grabbed his flint and started striking up a fire beside Baldr. Best he could do for the moment was to sear the wound closed. The boy wasn’t like to enjoy that, but Thor had to trust the apple would keep him alive if he could stop the bleeding.
All of Midgard was doomed. That much seemed certain. Everything he did just delayed the inevitable. Maybe it bought Father time to prepare more defenses in Sviarland. Truth be told, Thor rarely had the first clue what his father got up to these days.
But Thor, his son Magni, Baldr, and varulfur twins were about all that was keeping the jotunnar contained here.
Mostly containe
d. Plenty had slipped into Aujum, he knew, and news from Miklagard was scarce. Others had begun raiding into Kvenland. Thor could only be in so many places at once. Mjölnir could kill them over and over, but Thor couldn’t fight an army by himself and couldn’t really count on the locals here to help.
Those who hadn’t fled or gotten killed spent too much of their time fighting each other for a crown that was now worth less than a good pair of boots to let a man run the fuck away.
Once the blaze was going, Thor drew his dagger and stuck it in the kindling, letting it get hot.
The boy was closing his eyes again. Thor slapped him awake. “None of that. You’re not allowed to die until I say so, brother.”
Baldr wasn’t ready for an apple, but Mother had given him one anyway. She was so fearful for him, though she never said rightly why. So fearful, and she’d given him an apple even when everyone else had had to earn one or live as a mortal. But not Baldr. No, brave, stupid Baldr had to have an apple when he’d had what, sixteen winters?
Thor shook his head. Had Father approved of Mother’s choice? No one except maybe Loki ever seemed to know what Father thought of aught. And Loki … well, despite all he’d done to help, it was hard to even look at him. Thor could never forget what Hödr had done to Thrúd and had planned to kill the boy, possessed or no. But Father and Loki both had pled against it.
Grunting, he snatched up the dagger from the fire. It had turned incandescent around the point, so he figured that would have to do. With one hand he braced Baldr’s shoulder and with the other, pressed the blade to his wound. The sizzle and pop of flesh was almost worse than the smell. Baldr’s screams, those Thor could ignore with ease. He’d heard plenty of worse screaming over the past years. It became a chorus that helped him forget …
Sif.
Thor grimaced. He refused to let her image come to his mind again. He couldn’t allow …
But there she was, staring at him with accusing eyes, blaming him for her death as she did most every night.
