by Matt Larkin
Then his flesh began to sizzle as flame pressed against it.
He roared. For a moment, before darkness swallowed him completely.
Chanting. The words alien and hateful, worming their way through his brain and shredding his mind. Sounds he could not understand and yet knew, for he’d felt it, long ago, when the jinn held his body under its thrall. When it made him a slave and used him to work its wretchedness across the world.
Sounds a human mouth wasn’t meant to make. The ears of men weren’t meant to hear it.
Worse still, because something did know those words. Something came close in answer, unseen, but felt, crawling along his skin.
By the Tree, his arm hurt! It was on fire, unending fire, like the torment Eldr had wracked him with back in those days.
The haunt of his dreams, when still he had eyes. When he could see. When a vile thing used him to rape and murder and set the world ablaze.
“Oh. The world will burn.”
Hödr blinked, suddenly able to see, though almost wishing he couldn’t.
He stood in an expanse of almost total blackness, save for flames that surrounded him and yet provided almost no light. Instead, smoke billowed up from the fire, further obscuring his surroundings.
The voice had come from … the smoke? All around him.
“The world will burn soon. Can you feel it, vessel? Can you feel the sparks ready to ignite? The cycle continues, men die, rise again, so that suffering can reign eternal.”
The smoke had grown so thick he couldn’t breathe, and he fell to his knees, coughing. “Eldr?”
“Even now, a part of you wishes for the flame. You crave its power and seek for it, wondering how to hold the ashes.”
What madness was this? Hadn’t he been in Kvenland? And somehow now … his mind was in the dark, with this Fire vaettr.
“Or perhaps there was always a tiny vestige of me left deep inside. An ember, waiting for a spark, so that flame may once more rise into brilliance and immolate the impure.”
“I never wanted you.”
“A lie, of course. A lie told to yourself, over and over.”
“No!” Hödr shouted at the smoke. “No, I never asked for you! I would have wept for joy and relief when you were gone.”
“If you’d had eyes left?”
The smoke redoubled, forcing Hödr to the ground. Couldn’t breathe …
“Do you not wonder at the majesty of Muspelheim? Have you not longed to see the world from which flame rises, eternal?”
It haunted his nightmares. Hardly the same as desiring to see it.
He wanted to deny the Fire vaettr, but he couldn’t form words any longer for the choking.
Then a hand seemed to reach down his throat. Its bony fingers closed around his heart. And it yanked something out, tore it from deep inside him.
All the flames went out and Hödr collapsed onto his back.
Darkness returned.
He was shivering, despite the fur blanket thrown atop him. That was the first thing Hödr noticed. Slightly coarse fur. Wolfskin? Yes, wolf, maybe even dire wolf. He wheezed. His chest hurt and his throat was raw.
And his left arm itched, still feeling like it was on fire. He reached to scratch it, but it wasn’t there. Just a stump at his elbow, wrapped in stinking bandages.
“Oh … shit.”
“So you live.” The voice came from a man lying on his back on the other side of the fire. The shaman? “I’m glad it wasn’t all in vain.”
“You … you invoked spirits to drive that thing out of me.”
“Hmm.”
“It cost you.” Hödr knew it must.
“It always costs.”
Speaking hurt, so he said no more.
In the morn, Gelderus came to check on him.
Hödr’s strength had begun to return, though he could not drive the visions he’d seen from his mind. Eldr … might have been brought on by the fevers or the vaettr inside him resisting being pulled out. Probably, he’d never know the truth. Either way, though, he could not shake the image of the world burning.
The king sat down beside him. “I’m in your debt. I’ve secured Rutto’s blade for you. It lies beside you.”
Hödr patted around until he felt the hilt. He’d done it. He’d really done it. He blew out a long breath. So now he had the means to fight Baldr and win.
Discounting having lost an arm and thus being unable to use a shield now.
Hödr groaned.
“I get the feeling the sword isn’t really the end of your quest.”
“No. I have to … to overcome another Ás in combat. One who is probably a stronger fighter and who certainly can command far more men.”
“A bad proposition. And you have but the one mercenary?”
“I have an ally in Sviarland, a king, but yes, I doubt he can call up many men. Would you … If I were to ask you to accompany me, to sail to Sviarland and aid me in my fight, would you consider it?”
The king grunted. “Me, I can’t see myself refusing to aid a man what I owe my throne, no matter the risk. Every last man and woman here might’ve died if no one took out the witch’s spawn. Suppose that means I’d best get a few ships ready. No one’s going to be keen on sailing in winter, though, but it doesn’t seem we’re getting a summer this year.”
No, and that was strange enough itself. Eldr had claimed the world would burn, but at the moment, it seemed more like to die of deathchill.
Crops were failing. Not enough fish in the coastal waters. Famine all over.
Was it better than burning?
Hödr shuddered.
“I’ll get you another blanket for now. Be a bit before we can set out, and we’ve got to head south before we can make sail, regardless.”
But it wasn’t the cold making Hödr shiver. That, he could deal with. No. It was wondering whether what he’d seen had been real or the product of his illness and torment.
Nor was he certain he wanted the answer.
22
Fjalar’s court had gathered around his perverse throne room. Besides the prince, Odin saw six other men and several dozen women, all peering up at their prince, none drawing too nigh to the razor-lined columns.
Weth brought him in and guided him to where Idunn stood, wrapped in a shroud that exposed little save her face. Was that supposed to conceal her light? It was like aught remained of the sunlight she’d carried in from Alfheim. There were too many strange customs in this world, and so many of them left bile rising in his throat. He’d just as soon not remain long enough to understand the import of such things.
“Are you hurt?” he whispered to her.
She shook her head, though pain lurked behind her eyes. Pain, and fear. When he’d known her back on Midgard, she’d never looked like that. Now she seemed … smaller. Fragile. This woman who was, in a sense, his own granddaughter.
Odin drew her into an embrace. “I’m sorry we came here. It wasn’t … I didn’t want this for you.”
“They tortured me,” she whispered in his ear, her voice shuddering. From the way she cast a glance at Weth, Odin wondered if the svartalf herself had done the torturing.
Odin favored their captor with a hateful glare that seemed to only amuse her.
“So,” Fjalar said on his throne. “We have overcome the forces of Gnipahellir and taken numerous prisoners.”
Everyone in the room raised their hands, palms up and stuck out their tongues. Was that supposed to be cheers of approval?
“Yes, yes,” Fjalar said. “It’s time then to formally welcome our newest members into the court. I give you Odin Borrson, and Idunn Ivaldisdottir. To them we must extend our fullest hospitality.” Now he looked to Odin. “So, guests, tell us what strategy Prince Mantus of Gnipahellir will use. Will he have his soldiers retreat back to his cave city? Will he try another approach?”
“You’re helping him,” Idunn said, flatly.
Odin wished he could tell her he had no choice. That, were he to refuse
, whatever they’d done to her would only grow worse. But now was neither the time nor the place.
Instead, Odin shut his eye and let the vision trance descend around him. It washed over him like a wave, powerful as a raging sea, tossing him one way and the next, through the torrent of shifting currents. It stole his breath. For a moment. Then he sucked air in through his nose and saw himself telling Fjalar he should send his soldiers to the far side of the Onyx Lagoon.
The words flowed from his mouth as though it were not himself speaking, and he could not help but wonder at the questions Fjalar had raised about the Norns. Did they literally control Odin, strip him of his free will, such that he became compelled to relate the visions as he saw them? Could he choose to lie—or rather, to preserve his oath—simply to fail to give the advice he’d seen himself giving? Doing so would violate the precept of prescience that he and Loki had agreed upon—that it must account for itself.
He ought not to be able to see something which would not happen.
But conversely, if he relayed advice only because he saw his future self relaying that advice, but that self knew he wanted Fjalar to fail … was it possible he might thus intentionally give himself faulty counsel knowing that such must be passed on, while he, in the present would not knowingly be lying? Would such a tactic, in essence, be fooling himself with a thought he’d never actually had, effectively sidestepping his oath?
And what of Fjalar’s supposition that the Norns had agents? If such existed, he had to assume they might take it amiss if a mortal tried to subvert the designs of their masters. Assuming such even could be possible. For what was urd, if not the inevitable?
Fires raged over the plains. Men and horses turned to ash. Whole cities burned away to cinders that blew upon a scorching wind. From amidst the infernos, a shadow loomed. The march of fire jotunnar, the earth itself trembling before their fury.
The unsought vision sent Odin stumbling until Idunn caught his arm and hefted him up. What did it mean? He’d seen that before, the world burning. Was that the real Ragnarok? If so, then there lay the future he must prevent, whether the Norns willed it or no. If they had agents and those agents wanted to see the world end, then they, too, became his enemies.
They called him the Destroyer.
In another lifetime he had fought Hel … Rangda.
“Do you have more you wish to share?” Fjalar asked.
Odin shook himself, then fitted the svartalf prince with a grim look. “I’ll tell you when I wish to speak to you.”
The whole court was staring at him now. Almost holding their breath, as if waiting to see how the prince would react to Odin’s rudeness. He scarcely cared. In the future, Fenrir would come for him. That frightened him. That would be Odin’s final end.
Fjalar was a prolonged inconvenience. A thorn he’d eventually pluck from his heel and toss aside.
“Well,” the prince said. “Take our guests to the seamstress. We can find something more fitting for members of the Court of Amsvartnir. Burn their other clothes.”
Weth motioned for Odin to tread before her.
With a last glance at Fjalar, he did so, and Idunn stuck close to his side, her shoulders tense. Yes, it did seem she held a personal grudge against Weth.
Odin could see no way—at present—to take revenge against the svartalf, but he swore he’d keep looking. As an oracle and an immortal, he could afford patience, knowing that all crimes must be repaid in time.
He patted Idunn’s hand in reassurance, though she gave no sign of having noticed.
Weth guided them up a ramp and into another enclosed corridor that brought them to a maze-like chamber where the walls were lined with row after row of black and mottled gray leather. Scaled leather, in fact. From lizards?
So many of the svartalfar dressed in leathers, but he hadn’t given much consideration to it. But maybe it made sense. They had no sheep for wool, but if some kind of reptiles lived in this world of eternal night, their hides might make ideal clothes.
A svartalf female came around the bend, looked them over, then shook her head and waved a hand at Weth.
Their captor grabbed Idunn’s dress and ripped it off her shoulders. Idunn drew in a sharp breath but didn’t shriek, even as Weth yanked the sheer fabric clear from her belt and tossed it on the floor.
Odin didn’t bother to resist when the svartalf began to strip him in the same rough fashion.
In truth, he hadn’t looked close at Idunn before, but she bore red lines covering her stomach and stretching toward her groin, disappearing into the dark hair down there. The svartalfar had sliced her with razor blades. Not deep enough to cause lasting damage, especially to an immortal, but it had surely hurt fiercely.
Odin forced Idunn to meet his gaze and she shook her head once, as if to order him to make no mention of it.
When Weth had yanked the rest of Odin’s clothes off as well, she shoved him forward, toward the seamstress, who groped his thighs without preamble or warning. He drew in a sharp breath as she moved on to his stones, but there was naught sexual about her rough touch. She cupped his arse, then felt back down along his calf, chittering to herself all the while.
She repeated the groping with Idunn.
A moment later the seamstress shoved him aside as if he were but an obstacle in her path. She grabbed leather from the wall, folded it over her arm, and then stalked around the corner without even sparing him or Idunn another look.
Odin glanced at Idunn who shrugged.
Weth placed a hand on each of their shoulders and guided them to benches around the corner. While they sat, the seamstress continued chittering, cutting and sowing.
Eventually, she came back with leather trousers for both him and Idunn, flinging a pair at each of them. When they had donned the clothes, the seamstress next fondled his biceps, shoulders, and chest, then did the same with Idunn, who yelped slightly when the svartalf squeezed her breasts. The svartalf flashed Idunn a grin that might have been a leer, though it could have been mere cruelty.
Then the seamstress cut leather vests for each of them.
While the clothes were a little tighter than Odin would have liked, they did fit well enough.
Once they had dressed, Weth guided them out, though not back to the court, but rather to a large hexagonal chamber with benches around the outside and a pit in the middle. In this pit, a svartalf female fought against a giant serpent, barely fending the creature off with a spear while a small crowd cackled at her misfortune.
Odin shook his head at the scene.
“Does it not amuse you?” Weth asked.
“Not particularly.” He saw the end, in a flash of vision even before it happened. The serpent lunged and—though the svartalf managed to stab it—still sunk its foot-long fangs into her neck and torso. The female collapsed, thrashing on the ground.
Weth chuckled. “Mmm. I’ll bet she’s succulent.”
Odin blanched. “Y-you’re going to eat her?”
“Once the poison is cooked out, of course. But yes, it’s a good source of meat. Her heart will be reserved for the prince and his ritters. But as a pronoiar, I should get a taste. Maybe he’ll even let you have a bite.” Weth glanced at Idunn. “Probably not her, though.”
“Imagine my disappointment,” Idunn said.
Weth sneered at Idunn like she was a fool. “You should be grateful for the honor the prince bestows upon you both. He clothes and feeds you, allows you to partake in our entertainments, even ordered us not to torture you anymore. Unless you ask for it.”
“Ask for it?” Odin hadn’t meant to pose the question, but Weth’s words seemed so strange he couldn’t help himself.
“For certain. If you’ve never tested just how arousing pain can be, you’re missing something rather … enticing.” This entire world had gone mad. “She knows,” Weth said, nodding at Idunn.
Odin glanced at his companion, but Idunn merely grimaced, refusing to acknowledge the svartalf.
Weth snickered. “Gi
ve it time, then.” She pointed back down to the pit where two more females came out, each armed with a whip.
“What madness is this?” Odin demanded. “How can you do this to your own people?”
His captor cocked her head. “They’re not our people. These are prisoners taken from Gnipahellir, in the very battle you helped us win. They fight for their survival. One of them gets to keep breathing. The other feeds us.”
Odin wanted to retch. These people … maybe they weren’t people … but still. They suffered and died because he had helped Fjalar overcome them. Did it make it better, knowing that, if they’d won, they’d probably have done the same? Not really.
But perhaps he owed it to them not to look away from what he’d wrought.
To watch. And to despair.
23
The Brisingamen gleamed around Freyja’s neck, pulsing warmly as she trod toward her desired target. Through it, she felt herself drawn to the city on the Onyx Lagoon. Amsvartnir, she had heard it called, when the Áine’s court spoke of battles against Svartalfheim. One of the eight city-states claimed by the heirs of the Dark King, Amsvartnir was ruled by Prince Fjalar.
Freyja dared not draw too nigh, though, for fear of discovery by Fjalar’s scouts. His city was a fortress, and she had no way to conceal herself, no way to suppress the glow of her skin save to use up the stored sunlight. It always came back to that. If she burnt through the energy, she might somehow hope to sneak into Amsvartnir—though how she’d get over the wall she didn’t know—but she’d leave herself defenseless.
She could use a sword well enough, but hardly considered herself a master, nor would it have mattered against thousands of potential foes.
And if Odin was in the city, her worst fears seemed realized. A svartalf prince must have captured Od and Idunn. By herself, she had no hope of rescuing them. She’d studied the geography of this place—what maps the liosalfar had made—before coming.
