by Matt Larkin
He’d seen mothers sell their own children into slavery. He’d seen husbands murder their wives over petty complaints. He’d seen men hungry enough they killed other men just to eat their flesh.
And the wars never stopped. There was no refuge left on Midgard not touched by the slaughter.
That was why he’d now begun fresh attempts to find Odin. Because, without the king, Midgard was finally failing. It seemed so obvious to him, though Frigg and her court refused to acknowledge that doom. Maybe the queen saw it as an insult to her rule, as if he blamed her. He didn’t really, though she could have and should have done better. She held things together here in Asgard and she sent warriors to Midgard to hold back trolls and such. But her efforts in the kingdoms of men had long remained in the shadows.
Most Aesir slowly forgot they were part of the same world as the people out there dying. A warrior people grown weak and decadent. They had seen that before, with the Vanir. They’d fought the Vanir for failing mankind. Maybe Frigg was more involved than the Vanir had been at the end … but who knew how things would look in another century? How long before the court decided to withdraw from Midgard entirely, and leave mortals to their petty games?
Hermod paid a brief visit to Valhalla. Over the passing centuries, the hall had grown more and more full with feasting einherjar. Odin had created a refuge for the warrior dead, though the few valkyries who remained could hardly claim all the fallen. No, most where lost to the shadows.
Having seen to the warriors—they still trained daily, readying themselves for Ragnarok, though Odin had not come back, and some must doubt the battle still lay ahead—Hermod made his way to Loki’s hall.
The man’s hall was modest, atop a mountain overlooking the sea and offering a brilliant vista, while somewhat secluded from the bustle of the rest of the court. Hermod trod up the path.
His foster sister met him at the summit, no doubt having heard even his soft footfalls. She—and her son—were amazing in that regard. Hermod had honed his senses as well, and Sigyn had helped him learn to do so, but he was no match for either of them when it came to such talents.
He drew her into a warm embrace. “It’s been too long.”
Sigyn patted him on the back, then pulled away and guided him to the cliff where she’d so often sat with her husband. No sign of him, though.
“Loki?”
“He went to Midgard saying he feared Hödr had need of him. I asked if I should come as well, but he promised to return soon enough. And I stay busy enough with Sessrumnir. I’ve been creating an index to make it easier to find Vanr references, and some of the others—the younger ones, mostly—have wanted to learn to read.”
Hermod himself had learned a little, under Odin’s tutelage, but had rarely practiced it since. “How’s your son?”
“They’re both well enough, though I see Hödr rarely and Narfi almost never.”
Her subtle reminder that she’d taken the half-jotunn as her own child. A strange choice, and one that didn’t much endear her to the Aesir, but then, Sigyn herself had been Hadding’s bastard child, fostered by Hermod’s family. Nor had Sigyn ever seemed to care overmuch what others thought of her. Hermod rather admired that about her.
“Will you stay for the night meal?” she asked. “I’m not the cook Loki is, but I’ve learned a few things over the years.” Though, she’d refused to keep a house slave who could have done such things for her. Even Hermod had his own slave, though the man was getting old now.
“Given that you seem to master any discipline you wish, I have to imagine if you’ve not mastered cooking, it’s for lack of interest in doing so.”
Sigyn quirked a smile at that. “Either way, I’ve been stewing carrots and fish. It should be ready in an hour or so. Stay. Please.”
How could he refuse?
Sigyn’s stew, while hardly extraordinary, proved far more appetizing than most of what Hermod ate on the road. And since he spent most of his days on the road, this meal came as a welcome reprieve.
When they had eaten, they walked down the mountain slope and around the cliff by the sea, Sigyn talking at length about her latest obsession: Vanr studies of the stars. Hermod didn’t see how such things made the least difference in anyone’s lives and thus how they were worth studying, but his sister seemed more than content to invest her time in such pursuits.
“What of you?” she asked. “Were you down in Serkland again?”
She meant, was he still out there killing Serks for what they’d done to Sif. Despite Odin’s admonitions to leave it be, Hermod had hunted down numerous Serk officers and even two caliphs. His abilities gave him an exceptional gift for murder, when the need arose.
Hermod grunted. “I … uh. I haven’t been anymore. Whoever was responsible for … for my daughter … They’d be long dead. And Midgard has greater worries at the moment. I cannot help but see the state of the world and fear for the future. War and treachery lurk around every bend. Without Odin, I don’t see how … Are we on the same road as the Vanir?”
He knew he wasn’t making much sense, but Sigyn nodded as if she understood anyway. His sister was always like that. Always so easy for her to see the connections and make the leaps, to know things. So many things. Maybe … Maybe she could help.
Hermod told her of the spread of the Deathless, the general deterioration of all kingdoms, and she murmured along as he spoke. Surely not all of it came as news to her. And yet, the more he spoke of what he saw, the grimmer her face grew.
“Do you know something?” he finally asked.
Sigyn sighed and sat down in the sand, hand to her forehead. “Did you know that the dvergar carved runes into Halfhaugr? In rooms below the surface, where Frigg used to brew her potions, there was … a prophecy, I think. I didn’t know what to make of it at the time, but it spoke of Ragnarok—the end of time.”
Hermod slumped down beside her. “Ragnarok. Odin was always going on about it … but I thought he stopped it? Thrym and Skadi are dead. Narfi now holds the jotunnar under control.” Of a sudden she tensed, only for an instant, but it was there. “You know something more.”
“I don’t think Odin stopped Ragnarok.”
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Sigyn looked to him now, debate warring over her face. “Maybe I can’t share everything. But I can tell you what the runes beneath Halfhaugr said. Brother would fight brother … Sisters’ sons would break the bonds of kinship … The world falters … Axe time, sword time, broken shields, wind time, wolf time … The Destroyer wakes …”
Hermod found it hard to swallow. Families betraying each other and a time of terrible war. That certainly sounded like what was going on. And Sigyn had known, since … since before they ever came to Vanaheim and made it Asgard.
“Destroyer?” he finally asked. “A jotunn?”
“Oh, Hermod, brother.” Sigyn clucked her tongue. “It’s Odin. And you’re right, I’m not sure we can win Ragnarok without him. But Loki has tried for years to find him without success.”
“I have now done so.”
They both jerked around to see Sigyn’s husband standing behind them. How in the gates of Hel had the man snuck up on him, much less on Sigyn? Were they so engrossed in the unfolding horror of some ancient dverg prophecy?
“Y-you found him?” Hermod asked, climbing to his feet. Even standing, Loki was much taller than him.
Loki nodded. “For a long time, I couldn’t see him at all, though I could have guessed where he went. Where he’s always wanted to go. But he did not return and I didn’t know with complete certainty. He’s left there now, though. I saw a glimpse of him with Idunn.”
Sigyn drew in a sharp breath. “Idunn?”
“They’re in Svartalfheim,” Loki said.
Hermod blanched. “That’s not …” Odin couldn’t travel bodily to the Spirit Realm. The man had hinted that perhaps Hermod could do so, passing through the Astral Realm and on to those outer realities. But Odin had never b
een able to manage it. “How is he in such a place?”
Loki fitted him with an intense look, so intense Hermod backed away. “Do you believe it matters how he has done it, or simply that he has been trapped in the Spirit Realm for all these years?”
Odin was trapped. Hermod could never avert the descent into chaos without the king. The world needed Odin, especially if Sigyn was right about Ragnarok looming closer.
“I … I have to go after him.”
“No!” Sigyn said. “You can’t even think to go there. Not even the Vanir were willing to risk such a thing. Some of their scholars mused that the power of Dark might be more horrifying than Mist.”
Loki laid a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Hermod is the only one who can go after him now.”
Sigyn shook her head. “I refuse to allow this madness.”
Hermod kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, sister. We must have the king. The things you’ve told me only make me all the more sure of it.”
Sigyn cast a dark look at Loki, though Hermod couldn’t say for certain what import their unspoken exchange held.
Hermod offered them both a nod, then he plodded off, into the forest. There, he breathed deeply.
Then he stepped through the Veil and into shadow.
12
Frigg met Sigyn in the garden, in the valley Valaskjalf overlooked. Once, a long time ago, this had been wilderness, but—at Frigg’s request—Sigyn had drawn up plans for a cultivated refuge here, one overflowing with flowers centered around a pond the queen had ordered men to dig for her. All of it walled off from the natural reaches of the island.
Her sister wanted to enjoy the flowers, but not the wilderness that went with them.
She did use a small portion of the garden to cultivate herbs. Or, rather, she allowed Eir to use it, relying on rare plants for most of her needs as a healer.
The queen sat on a stone bench before the pond now, hands folded in her lap, staring out over the waters but probably not really seeing them at all.
Folding her dress, Sigyn sat down beside her sister. Things hadn’t ever really been the same between them. Not since Hödr had hurt Thrúd. Sigyn couldn’t blame Frigg for her pain at that, and naught she could say would ever really make it better.
After all, it had been Sigyn’s fault. Her crimes. Her mistakes that had rent asunder their two families.
“I was glad you sent for me,” she said. Particularly as it offered a small distraction from Hermod’s mist-mad plan to travel to Svartalfheim.
Frigg glanced at her, then put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “It occurred to me, maybe too many years had passed without us having a moment alone together.”
A great many years, without a doubt. “I hear you’ve commissioned new ships.”
“Oh.” Frigg withdrew her arm and shrugged. “They’re using one of your old designs, actually. We trust to the reef to protect us, and to Aegir, but it occurred to me it would not hurt to have a few vessels ready to deter anyone who might think to try their luck at finding Asgard. Things with Valland continue to grow direr, and, sooner or later, some warlord or other will look to make a name for himself by destroying the heathen gods.”
No doubt, though Sigyn suspected Aegir himself—given the tribute Frigg paid him—would provide severe deterrent to anyone who came here looking to make war. Besides the numerous Ás immortal warriors now residing on Asgard. In the past, many of those would have gone out into the world, fighting Odin’s wars or making their fame. Not now, though. Now, Frigg pulled more and more Aesir back. Her interest in Midgard had flagged with the passing of centuries.
Odin’s obsession with saving the world had never really motivated Frigg. She looked to her own people first and foremost. That made her a better monarch, of course. A queen who cared deeply about her own people and left the rest of the world to fend for themselves. Never mind that the Vanr, too, had lived like that.
“The ships can’t hurt.” Sigyn kept her expression blank, even though Frigg wasn’t looking at her. Given that her sister was finally, after so long, bothering to speak to her as a sister again, she wouldn’t jeopardize that by antagonizing the woman’s decisions. Not just yet, anyway.
“Actually, there’s something else that concerns me a bit more.” So there was a reason behind her summons beyond sisterly affection. Well, Sigyn had assumed as much when the messenger had come for her. “Thor returned the other day, on Sleipnir. He reports that winter never broke. It just rolled along all through summer and now winter draws nigh once more.”
Well, that was … disturbing. “What is it you want me to do?”
“Peruse the archives to see if you can find out why.”
Sigyn had already read the better part of the books available in Sessrumnir. “The only reference I’ve seen to something like that was stories from the early days, before the Vanir came here. They passed local tribes calling it the Fimbulvinter. Saying that Niflheim had stolen the summer itself, or some such.”
Frigg frowned. “We called this time the Fimbulvinter. Völvur and skalds, I mean.”
“I know. Probably from the Vanir who got the term from the dvergar.”
“What about them?”
Sigyn shrugged. “They’ve all gone into hiding, from what I hear. Even in Nidavellir, no one sees them anymore. Within the past few years, they’ve stopped showing up to even accept their usual tribute from the lands adjacent. Just sealed the doors to their tunnels.”
“What?”
It had worried her, a little, though she’d not really discussed it with anyone. “Let me have another look in the library, then.” She hadn’t given consideration to scouring Vanr tomes about dvergar.
Frigg patted her hand. “I cannot help but feel an ill omen in all this.”
Ah, but then most people thought the Aesir sent omens. Knowing all she knew now, of the true nature of Vanir, of vaettir, Sigyn hardly knew what to think, save that spirits did little for the benefit or edification of mankind. At best, the Otherworldly creatures tolerated mortals.
Still, she couldn’t entirely dismiss Frigg’s concerns.
Dverg runes swam before her eyes, seeming to dance about the page with discomfiting ease, a blur of cryptic references in an oblique language the Vanir themselves appeared to only have half understood. Once, when she’d first come to Sessrumnir, she’d thought the Vanir so very learned, wise beyond all understanding. Some measure of truth probably remained in that thought, and yet, they themselves had understood so very little of the greater scope of the cosmos.
Sometimes, as with this previously misfiled tome, they had simply recorded the observations of vaettir with little or no annotation or analysis. A crude Vanr hand—not Mundilfari or Freyja, those she could recognize—had scribbled in the margins of this book: Vaettir lie; regard as propaganda.
Apathetic and useless.
Sigyn rubbed her eyes before flipping the page again. Unbroken winter presages the breaking of axes and the days of wolves.
Days of wolves … Wolf time. Like the runes beneath Halfhaugr? Also dverg writings—a prophecy about the Destroyer. Odin. And Hermod had just left to find him.
Damn it … why couldn’t she fit these pieces together?
“All right,” she mumbled, shoving the book aside. Odin was the Destroyer. Which would seem to mean he would cause Ragnarok, though he’d spent years trying to prevent it. But Loki himself claimed to have been working toward creating that final battle. Centuries ago, Loki and Idunn had quarreled over who could control the Destroyer. So … Loki was using Odin to create this final battle. And Idunn had known, or suspected it, even before Odin had become king.
Odin was with Idunn again.
Hel had tried to sway Odin’s loyalties through the Niflungar, and, failing that, had tried to have him killed. Which meant Loki’s daughter feared Odin, or possibly feared Loki’s plans for the man.
This led her to believe Odin would fight on their side come Ragnarok, despite the Destroyer ma
ntle.
So if ‘days of wolves’ meant Ragnarok, and the unending winter presaged that … the final battle was already beginning. And Odin was missing.
Huh. “Well, fuck.” She slammed the book shut. She couldn’t tell Frigg these things, not when she didn’t truly understand Loki’s motivations. Whatever was going on, she wouldn’t betray her husband.
She would, however, need to have a discussion with him. A long one.
Loki was sitting up in their hall when Sigyn returned, staring into the fire as he so oft did, hands resting on his folded knees.
He looked up when she sat down across from him, the dwindling fire between them.
“I need to know.”
“You’ll know soon.” He didn’t bother asking what she was talking about. So, either the flames had warned him of her line of questions, or he also knew.
“It’s here? Isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Sigyn sniffed. It had always hung over her, especially in the time since Loki had admitted he worked toward Ragnarok. But … it had seemed like there would be more time. “Why?”
Loki swallowed, refusing to meet her gaze. “I love you.”
“That’s not a damn answer.”
“It’s the only one I can give. For now. The rest will come …”
“When?”
He didn’t answer. But she could guess. She’d understand the reasons, the connections … when it was too late to do aught about them.
13
Odin’s breath was ragged when at last they drew nigh to shore. Twice, he and Idunn had stopped, treading water while they—or mostly he—caught his breath. In the limitless night all around, he could scarcely make out much of aught beyond the shore. The slap of waves against the beach was the only clear indication they’d reached the edge of this lake or sea.
