by Matt Larkin
The cavernous city-states of Gnipahellir and Saevarstadir lay closest, though the river-city of Fjörum also wasn’t so far, if she’d had a boat.
In a crouch, Freyja backed away.
She’d not made it far when a cold blade came up against her neck.
“Who are you?” The voice didn’t have the cadence of a svartalf. It was scratchy a little, but not half so sinister.
Freyja lifted her chin, suppressing the urge to Stride away immediately. “Freyja Njordsdottir.”
“The Vanr?” He sounded shocked. “Why are you glowing?”
She’d have laughed, if not for the bite of that blade. In fact, it had but brushed against her skin and still she felt a small trickle of blood running down her neck. “These days there is little distinction between Vanr and liosalf. Will you remove the blade, please?”
The man did so, backing away, and allowing her to turn around. He was clad mostly in thick furs, with an unkempt beard and long, dark hair.
“Who are you? An Ás?”
“Hermod Agilazson. If you’re a liosalf, what are you doing in this vile place?”
Part of her wanted to snap that Alfheim, while more beautiful, had its own insidiousness. A petty accusation, though, and she’d have chosen Alfheim over Svartalfheim, regardless. “I assume I’m here for the same reason as you. Seeking Odin.”
“Why?”
Because he was the father of her daughter? Because, despite his crimes, he was, perhaps, her soul mate? “He and Idunn have become trapped here, held prisoner—I think—by Prince Fjalar of Amsvartnir across the lake.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Freyja quirked the edge of a smile. Not so foolish as the court tended to think of mortals, then. Honestly, though, she’d been asking herself the same question over and over. Why not let Odin fend for himself? His suffering had resulted from his own arrogance, first in banishing the Vanir, then in coming after them thinking he might make amends. Did it matter that she believed him when he claimed to have wanted to send them to a paradise to avoid bloodshed? Did it matter that he’d not known of Hnoss when he made the bargain with Volund?
“Well?” Hermod demanded.
“I love him.” For more than a thousand years she had wrestled with that, tried to deny it, most of all to herself. Self-deception suited her little, and when she’d learned they had come here, to this accursed world … No. She could not abandon either Od or Idunn. “And my friend Idunn came here with him.”
“Idunn. Huh.”
He knew her. Interesting. “You want the same thing as I do, yes? To find him?”
“I want to bring him back to Midgard. I need to bring him back because the world is faltering.”
Freyja sighed. “Perhaps we can help each other, then. I suspect I know more of this world than you, but as you can see, sneaking about is … a challenge for me.”
Hermod said naught. So very grim.
“We need a plan, though. I know Odin is in Amsvartnir, but even if you could sneak into the city, I don’t see how you could save him alone. The best play …” It tasted foul to even think this. “The best play may be to use one of the other princes. Their schemes and skirmishes against one another never cease. Perhaps we can prompt one into attacking and use the diversion.”
The man stared off at the city around the bend in the lake, shaking his head. “What are the options, then?”
Freyja sighed. She had one move that she’d turned round and round in her mind, detesting herself for considering it and yet hopelessly desperate to try. “I …” No. How could she control herself if they went there? “There’s the cave-city of Gnipahellir, ruled by Prince Mantus. It’s close and—last I heard—they’re oft hostile to Amsvartnir.” Freyja swallowed. “Then there’s Fjörum, a city on the river that connects to this lake. It’s ruled by Orcus, among the most powerful of the svartalfar. Maybe too powerful to risk …”
“You hold something back.”
Only one choice, really. She had to see her. “There’s Saevarstadir, a city on an island in an underground sea—within the same cavern as Gnipahellir, a place they call the Gloom Hollow. A river connects that sea to the Onyx Lagoon.”
“Why do you hesitate on that one?”
“It used to be ruled by Prince Rathwith, a son of Ivaldi. Now it’s ruled by a … a grandson. Volund.”
Hermod blanched.
“You’ve heard of him. Good. He was a smith on Midgard, a number of years ago, before he embraced his heritage as a child of Ivaldi. Since then he …”
Hermod looked ill. That wasn’t just trepidation about the legendary cruelty of an old smith, was it?
“You’ve met him.”
Hermod shut his eyes and nodded. “I had no idea he yet lived, much less that he’d become … what you say. He’s … my uncle.”
Freyja backed away a step, hand going to the pommel of her sword. “You’re descended from Ivaldi? You should not have come here …”
The Ás raised his hands in warding. “My father was Volund’s half brother. Both were sons of a Kvenlander prince named Wade, albeit by different mothers. Father never said much more than that.”
Different mothers. Freyja eased her hand from her sword. “Volund carries the blood of Gugalanna through his mother, Gorgyra, a daughter of Ivaldi. If your mother was a different woman, you are clean of that filth.”
“You’re afraid of him.”
“He took something of mine.”
Hermod groaned, then rubbed his face. “That makes it more complicated. But still … he does share some common blood. Perhaps he would help me on that count.”
Perhaps. Though Freyja knew of at least one other reason Volund might agree to help, despite how she loathed the dark-loving bastard. “If we follow the edge of the lake to the river, a branch of it will break away and lead to the cavern. We’ll have to skirt around Gnipahellir. The place is especially famous for its yeth hounds. But we can reach Saevarstadir.”
Hermod shrugged off his cloak and handed it to her. “It’ll help conceal you, especially with the hood up.”
The thing stank of sweat and too long in the wilds, and was more than a little uncomfortable. Still, Freyja donned it and raised the hood, as Hermod had suggested.
“Let me lead. I’m well experienced in moving unseen.”
“You don’t know the land.” Of course, she also knew it only from a map. But the Brisingamen would guide her to Volund, same as it did to Odin.
“So stay close behind me.” Not bothering to wait for her answer, he took off at a brisk pace along the lakeshore.
Freyja could not control the hammering of her heart.
24
Why had the winter never ended? That question had plagued Baldr after he returned from Asgard. No one there, not even Mother, really seemed overmuch concerned about it. “It’s but a cold summer,” she had said, and told him to wait it out in the court.
Baldr had lingered long—too long, really—caught in the politics of Asgard. And from the moment he’d finally set foot back in Valland, snows underfoot, a nameless apprehension had clenched around his heart.
Maybe it was his mother. She’d claimed to have a foreboding of ill soon to befall him, but she could not say more, other than that she had dreamed it. Baldr refused to abandon Midgard because his mother had a nightmare, even were he not drawn back to Nanna.
Travel had become more tedious in the past century, though. They had to land the boats in Valland, and, these days, the Valls no longer respected their old alliance with Asgard. No, the Deathless faith had grown so strong there that local knights would attack Aesir on sight. It meant making the crossing at night and hiding his identity all through Valland. Skulking about like thieves or criminals, sticking to the wilds most times.
He misliked such games. Others, like Mother, they called it all the more reason to remain on Asgard and bask in the warmth and peace of the World Tree. But Father had intended to protect all of mankind and now that he was gone, t
he task had fallen to Baldr. Let Mother attend to the court. Baldr would save Midgard.
From Valland he had passed into Hunaland, and there struggled to find anyone willing to cross the Gandvik and make for Sviarland. Damned inconvenient, really. When he’d finally gotten to Skane, he’d bought a dogsled and began to make good time, back to Agnafit.
Once the walls drew into view, he dismounted the sled and guided the dogs inside the town. He’d send one of Jarl Eindride’s slaves to attend them once he reached the island, so he tied them off to a tree.
Ice on the wooden bridge to Eindride’s island cracked beneath his boots. The sea below hadn’t frozen, though the land around it had. While the tail end of it, this still should have been summer. This scene that, but for the people, could have portrayed Niflheim itself. Baldr shook his head, grumbling.
If he did not know better, he’d have thought the frost jotunnar behind this. The strongest of them could call down winter storms, or so tale told. But Narfi had them curtailed, even if his reports to Asgard had become less and less frequent.
Actually, that rather vexed Baldr, too, though he had no intention of trekking across the wasteland to reach Thrymheim to ask. Now, they had to make do with whatever information Loki brought back from his infrequent visits to his son.
Ah, well, that at least was a worry for another time.
By the shore, men knelt sawing timber in the hull of a longship. It seemed they, too, had given over waiting for the warmer months for such things. On this island, if they did such work, it was only because Eindride had ordered it.
“Why now?” he asked one of them.
The man rubbed his brow, having managed to work up a sweat despite the chill. “Food’s running low. Jarl says we have to risk a raid on Reidgotaland or else people will start to starve.”
Baldr shook his head slowly. These were the people Mother now ignored, begging him to remain at court. These were the men—followers of the Aesir still—who the Aesir had begun to abandon. It had taken the Vanir longer before they turned their backs on Midgard.
For food, though, Baldr had no help he could give these men, so he nodded, and moved on to Eindride’s hall. A slave welcomed him inside and escorted him to the jarl, who sat at a table laden with far less fare than Baldr had seen on his previous visits. Even the jarl found the times trying, it seemed. A man famed for his hospitality now could not feed his own household.
The jarl lurched to his feet as soon as he saw Baldr, though, offering a gracious nod of his head. “My lord. Be welcome. I, uh … well there is but a small amount of mead left, and some fish.”
“Whatever you have is a feast under the circumstances.”
Eindride ushered one of his thegns up and Baldr took the vacated seat beside the jarl.
“You should know,” the jarl said, “that I had to swear to Ingjald. Not much choice in the matter.”
It should have pleased Baldr, in fact. His chosen ruler’s power spread. Except that Ingjald and his daughter both rather disgusted Baldr. They were better than losing the world to the Deathless, yes. It did not make either of them an ideal choice. “You did the right thing. You must take what steps seem needful to protect your people.”
His words seemed to encourage Eindride, who nodded and managed to break a smile.
Slaves returned with a flagon of mead, and Baldr threw it back. Somewhat watered down, but he couldn’t really blame them. He handed off the flagon, refusing when the slave tried to offer more. “Tell me of the north.”
“Word is all but Lappmarken have sworn to Ingjald now. Skane pushes back, though.”
Strange. Baldr would have assumed that with Guthruthr and Halfdan Snjalli dead, Skane would have fallen in short order. “Who holds it?”
“Vidfamne, son of Snjalli.”
Hmm. It seemed Asa had badly miscalculated in arranging for Snjalli’s murder. Assuming her actions were prompted by any grander design than sheer madness, and Baldr was hardly certain on that count. She was a vicious bitch that fed on suffering. Part of him hoped she’d died on the way back to her father, though it didn’t really change much either way.
“They call him Ingjald Ill-Ruler these days,” Eindride ventured. So the jarl wasn’t well pleased with his new king.
Not that Baldr blamed him. Rather, Ingjald was simply the ruler with the stones and guile to hold Sviarland against the Deathless. In a way, Baldr could almost understand his mother’s abdication of her duties to Midgard. Everywhere he looked, he found naught but flaming piles of trollshit where the lords of men should have sat.
Baldr rubbed his face. He hadn’t come to Agnafit for Eindride, nor to hear news of just how each pile of trollshit reeked. “Where’s Gevarus and his daughter?”
Eindride grunted.
“Please do not say you turned them over to Ingjald.”
The jarl shook his head. “No. But I did swear to him … so I couldn’t rightly keep a fugitive from the man in my own hall.”
“Where are they?”
“I sent them up to a farmhold in the hills. Place fell empty after the man, eh … man sold his wife and children into slavery on account of not being able to plant a damn thing. The frost, you know. One of his neighbors saw it and brought it to me, so I had him hanged. Had to split the silver the man won with that neighbor.” Eindride shrugged.
Baldr frowned at the casual brutality, but what was he to say? No matter how hard times had grown, one didn’t sell their kin. Slaves were to be taken on raids. But such crimes had become more and more common, and he half expected Eindride would have looked the other way had he gotten a bribe out of it. Shit, maybe he had, actually, and had then hanged the man anyway to keep it all.
“Have someone show me to the farmhold.”
“Yes, lord.”
One of Eindride’s shieldmaidens guided Baldr through the hill lands northwest of Agnafit. The country was lightly wooded, and not far from the sea. A good location, if the ground hadn’t been frozen solid.
Men were hungry now, but it was like to get much worse very soon. How many moons until the next summer could draw nigh? Would it ever come again?
Flurries of snow had pelted him every step of the way here.
The shieldmaiden pointed out the house, nestled on a hillside and largely concealed by the trees. Down in the valley a bit was flatter land, mostly open snow fields. Maybe dead crops lay there, beneath the frost.
Baldr offered the shieldmaiden a nod and took off on his own to the house. Before he reached it, he found Nanna at a stream in the valley, slamming her knife down into the ice over and over. Scarcely cracking it, really, and panting for the effort, her hair all askew. A wooden bucket rested beside her.
She looked up sharply at his approach, brandishing the knife for an instant before she recognized him. “My lord.”
“Let me help you.” He knelt beside her and drew his own knife, then flooded pneuma to his arms and slammed the blade down, cleaving easily through the frozen surface. He punched a hand down into the water, tore off a chunk of ice, and flung it aside.
Baldr wrung the water from his hand, then grabbed the bucket and filled it for her.
“Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble.”
She tried to take the bucket, but he rose, hefting it. “Let me do it, please. Where’s your father?”
“Hunting.”
And game must also have grown scarce, given the lack of plants for animals to feed on.
Baldr sighed. “We’ll take the water to the house, then, and wait for his return.”
Nanna nodded, face unreadable, and accompanied him back to the farm house. The place was modest but comfortable, with a small fire pit in the center. After the chill outside, the blaze was welcome. Nanna took the bucket and poured most of the water into a kettle to boil it, reserving some for drinking and washing. She filled a cup and handed it to Baldr, and he drank gratefully.
“Things go ill across the land,” he said when he’d finished, handing back the cup.
/>
“We don’t get so much news out here.”
Perhaps not, but they’d surely heard something, so he had to assume she preferred not to speak of it. “I’m glad you chose to remain in Sviarland instead of returning to Gardariki.” Or maybe no one would take them across the sea for fear of the storms.
Nanna folded her hands in her lap and said naught. Indeed, she scarcely responded to any of his attempts at conversation, until he finally gave over and shut his eyes to rest.
The opening door woke Baldr just before Gevarus strode inside and started at his presence. The king bore a dead rat in one hand, with a bow slung over his shoulder. A rat. The best game he could find? Certainly not enough for him to share with his daughter. Not and have either of them well sated.
Baldr climbed to his feet.
“My lord,” the man said.
“King Gevarus. I know times are hard, but I’ve come to make good on my offer to marry Nanna. I’ve brought a hefty bride price in silver and gold and gems from Asgard. Enough to make you rich and ensure she lives in the greatest comfort. Indeed, if it pleases her, once we are wed I would take her back to Asgard with me.”
Nanna busied herself rekindling the embers in the fire pit, curiously avoiding Baldr’s gaze.
Gevarus grunted noncommittally, then tossed the rat onto the floor. “Your offer is exceedingly generous, my lord …”
No. This was not happening. “Because of the traitor …?”
“What?”
Baldr would not be bested by a man who should have knelt at his feet. He was the Prince of Asgard. He was the one fighting to save Midgard, no matter the cost. Hödr deserved to die for his crimes, and anyone else would have gladly killed him, not least for having burned Thrúd. But Baldr had spared him and this was his thanks?
“My lord,” Gevarus said. “I’m afraid that—”
“You should be afraid.” Baldr struggled to hold his voice steady and not growl at them. “Your enemies are everywhere, including Ingjald, who, unless I order him not to, will no doubt seek to reclaim Gardariki for the Aesir. You’ve allowed the Deathless priests into your midst and invited your doom because of it. Moreover, that,”—Baldr pointed the scrawny rat—“appears to be all the food you have. The world grows harsher, not more pleasant. And I offer your daughter a land untouched by this winter, a full table, and a chance at immortality! But you would spurn me for a man who has betrayed his own prince.”
