The High Seat of Asgard (The Ragnarok Era Book 4)

by Matt Larkin

  A tremendous crack sounded as Mjölnir flew through the air and smashed into the bear’s skull, splattering the creature’s brains all over Sif. The bear dropped like a stone, pinning her. Immediately, it began to shift back into a woman’s form.

  Tears of pain clouded her vision as she clutched her thigh, trying to staunch the blood flow. Her mind raced, trying to access the apple’s power and control her body. Blood was running from her like a river, mixing with the mud. Already the world was spinning, her head throbbing. She fell over sideways, still making her feeble effort to put pressure on the wound. She was going to bleed out.

  She was going to die like this.

  Now unarmed, the prince seemed hard pressed by a pair of berserkir. Thor.

  He’d endangered himself to save her. Fuck!

  “Thor!” Her voice sounded weak even in her own ears. Certainly not audible over the tumult of battle. Roars of anger and pain filled the fields before Wolfsblood’s keep. Sif crawled for him, pulling herself along the ground and making almost no progress toward him.

  Nearby, the varulfur twins brought down a berserkir, Freki tearing out the woman’s throat with his teeth. Even as the bear fell, the wolf dashed toward Thor, launched himself in the air, and collided with one of the other bears. A wolf was no match for a bear—not alone. But his sister joined him a moment later.

  Sif pulled herself toward them more. They needed her. They were going to die like this—all of them.

  She just … She just …

  Everything kept spinning. The edges of her vision had turned shadowy.

  She needed to reach them. To do something … to do …

  The whole field seemed to wobble. Something hit her face.

  The ground?

  The ground had hit her, sucking her into the mud.

  She was …

  62

  “Push!” Eir said.

  “I am fucking pushing!” Sigyn meant to shout it, but it all came out as a wheeze between pants.

  She had gone into labor in Sessrumnir, and Eir had declared they could not make it down the mountain. Instead, the vӧlva had sent a guard racing back to get Frigg and Fulla.

  Sweat streaming down her face, Sigyn lay in a room she had claimed as her own. Alone save for the vӧlva. Gods! Where the fuck was Loki now? She couldn’t do this alone!

  Inexplicable tears leaked from her eyes. Her insides were ripping apart.

  Another contraction, another push.

  Another scream at her failure to have this baby. Immortal or not, she was going to die. This baby was going to kill her.

  Loki!

  Where was that fucker?

  “Listen to me,” Eir said, hands on Sigyn’s knees. “Listen! You’re going to be all right. I need you to focus now.”

  She needed a respite, a reprieve from this. Just for a little—

  Another contraction tore through her.

  “Sigyn!”

  Blinking through the tears, a figure crystalized. Frigg rushed to her side. Holding her hand. Stroking it.

  Voices talking.

  “She’s lucky she’s had the apple.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “The baby is facing the wrong way. She’s already lost blood. I think she’s delirious.”

  Someone was rubbing a wet cloth on her face. Sigyn turned, looking for Loki. It was Fulla. Fulla was not Loki.

  “My baby …” Sigyn moaned.

  “I don’t know what I can do for the baby.”

  “Cut it from her.”

  “She’ll die.”

  “No, she’s immortal.”

  “Olrun …” Sigyn moaned. Where was Olrun? Where was her mother … ?

  “We both know that none of you are that immortal.”

  “I’m going to push my pneuma into her as soon as you’re done.”

  “That’s dangerous, your Majesty. We’ve been reading about the side effects—”

  “Do it!”

  “Do it …” Sigyn said.

  Screaming and pain and blood.

  And then energy hit her like a wave of ice and fire and love and light. Sigyn fell back, convulsing, unable to discern between agony and euphoria. She gasped, sucking down air.

  “Best be stitching her up, faster than fast.”

  Sigyn closed her eyes and tried not to think, nor to imagine what Eir was doing to her.

  A baby’s cries forced her own eyes open.

  “Sweet Freyja’s great cats,” Fulla said.

  Sigyn blinked. The maid was holding her baby.

  Frigg lay by Sigyn’s side, reaching for the babe. “What is it?”

  “W-what?” Sigyn said.

  Something passed between them. Sigyn couldn’t see Frigg’s face. Fulla handed over the babe, then Frigg pressed him to Sigyn’s chest.

  “You need to feed him now. Do not worry about aught else, sister. Just rest.”

  She tried, despite the strange sensation of the infant gumming her nipple.

  Sigyn woke with a groan. Her whole body hurt, especially her … ow! She tried to sit up but collapsed back onto the bed.

  “Right, now, don’t you be sitting or setting or no nonsense,” Fulla said. “Sure as sure, you need your rest, and we’re here to take the best care of you you’ve ever had taken. Don’t you get to fretting over naught, now.”

  Despite the delirium, she was pretty damn certain Eir had cut her son out of her belly. She’d heard of the procedure, though only in horror stories. No woman had ever survived that, so far as she knew. At best, rot took them within a day. Sigyn’s gut and trench hurt like Hel herself had tortured her, but she didn’t feel rotten.

  Sigyn froze. “What would I be fretting over?”

  “See now, I told you. Sure as sure, you had naught to fret over. And here you go, fretting over what to fret on.”

  “Where is my son?” she demanded.

  “He’s here, Sigyn,” Frigg said. She stood in the doorway, holding a bundle in her arms.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Her sister shook her head.

  No. No. “Is he …”

  “He’s fine, sister. He’ll grow up big and strong …”

  “What is wrong with my baby! Give him to me!”

  Frigg looked down at the babe. “Sigyn …”

  “Now!”

  With a sigh, her sister trod over.

  “Now, now,” Fulla said. “Don’t you be getting all attached. We all know what has to be done with them who’s born like this.”

  The maid’s words sent a chill down Sigyn. She forced herself up and snatched the babe from Frigg as soon as she drew nigh.

  He was fine. He was fine.

  He was …

  Milky white eyes stared at naught.

  Her son was blind.

  “Now Sigyn,” Fulla said. “You know what’s best for them like—”

  “No one is exposing my son.” The iron in her own voice shocked her, close as she knew she was to shattering. “Now get out.”

  “Listen, if you don’t do it now—”

  “Get. Out!”

  The maid retreated.

  Frigg slunk down beside Sigyn, not speaking for several moments. Finally, she sighed. “Fulla may have a point. This is not the same as what Father almost did with you. The boy can never have much of a life like this.”

  “Yes he will.”

  “Sigyn …”

  “Yes he will!” she shrieked. “I won’t give up on him! Never! Never!”

  She pulled her babe close and held him to her chest. She would fight for him. And he would fight to, to make a life for himself. So … so she’d call him her warrior: Hödr.

  Little Hödr. The one who would never surrender.

  63

  Dawn had drawn nigh, but any who might have woken instead rushed for the commotion outside the gates. Odin alone might know who attacked Wolfsblood’s fort now—and at night!—but Sigmund would have to thank the person.

  Later.

  Fitel
a returned, laden down with yet another pile of wood gathered from the houses inside the fortress wall. Blood stained his clothes and armor, meaning the young man had slain the occupants of said houses to keep them silent.

  Sigmund frowned at the thought. One day, perhaps, they would need to speak long on such things. Still, these people served his enemy. And he would win this day. Maybe Fitela had been right all along. Maybe any price was worth it to claim victory.

  With Gramr, he hacked through a support plank from the wooden part of the wall. It tumbled down, offering the invaders ingress once they reached the fence. More importantly though, the massive log would burn. Sigmund split it in half with his runeblade, then dragged the piece of it toward the hall.

  Next he grabbed a massive brazier from just outside and tipped it over onto the log, spilling burning whale oil all over it. The blaze took up immediately and soon leapt to the hall itself. With luck, Fitela had done as he’d bid and piled tinder before the other two exits. With those lit aflame, there would only be one way out of the now blazing hall.

  Indeed, moments later, the great doors swung open, and men rushed out, coughing and searching the predawn darkness with confused eyes. Sigmund ought to have called them out and challenged them one by one.

  The wolf had other plans though.

  Silent as death, he crept up and cut down first one man, then the next. More people began to flood from inferno.

  An arrow took one in the chest, another in the face. Fitela was quite the shot.

  Wolfsblood himself stumbled out, howling and yelping and beating at flames that had singed his jerkin. “Who had done this? Are the walls breached?”

  Now Sigmund paced about the shadows, separate from his prey by flames. “I have done this, Siggeir Wolfsblood. I, the last son of Volsung, have come to repay your treachery and malice. And with me stands Fitela, son of my sister and thus, also, of the Volsung blood, tainted though he be by yours.”

  “Fitela? That son died long winters back. No it cannot—”

  Wolfsblood jerked away as an arrow sprouted from one of his warriors.

  “So then,” Sigmund said. “Send for Sieglinde, that she may bear witness to the end of you and your line.”

  “I am here, brother,” his twin said, still standing in the threshold of the burning building.

  Wolfsblood glanced back at her. “Come out of there, you fool wench!”

  Sigmund’s twin smiled now, grim and dark as a valkyrie. “Do you think I had forgotten the murder of my own father? I had our firstborn slain when he could not avenge that crime. And, too, I found a use for the sorceress. She gave me her shape that I might come to Sigmund and with him conceive the truest heir of the Volsung line, one capable of aught we needed.”

  Sigmund’s jaw dropped and a hollow opened in his gut. His brain did not want to close in on the words she spoke. “N-no …”

  “Yes. Fitela is our son, brother, and has no drop of accursed Skane blood in his veins.”

  “He is born of incest … of unnatural lust and …” Sigmund stumbled and almost dropped Gramr. “This cannot be. I cannot hear this!”

  “But you must!” Still, she had not fled the flaming hall. “Kill the betrayer, brother. And bring all of this to a final end.”

  “Sieglinde …” Sigmund reached a hand toward her. Took a step in that direction.

  “Fool woman,” Wolfsblood said. The man stumbled away from the flames, not even looking back at where his wife stood. He jerked off his shirt and discarded it.

  This man had wrought all of the ruin upon the line of Volsung. He had done all of this. No punishment could ever be enough for that.

  “Fitela!” Sigmund shouted. The young man appeared by his side, bow in hand. Sigmund pressed Gramr’s hilt into the other man’s palm. “Kill everyone. No one leaves this pyre.”

  Face grim, his nephew … his son nodded.

  Sigmund spit as he advanced on Wolfsblood, tearing away his own shirt. “It is not yet dawn.”

  “I’m going to tear out your throat and eat your heart. Your power will be mine … and as I live down through the centuries, I will erase the Volsung name from history. And your son shall replace Volund’s victims as the name men utter when they think on cruelty beyond measure. His suffering shall last for decades.”

  Sigmund unlaced and dropped his trousers, welcoming the change after caging the wolf so long. “Yours shall last for eternity—beyond the gates of Hel.” He surged forward, embracing the pain as his muscles shifted and bones popped, as hair ripped out of his flesh.

  Wolfsblood began a similar change, becoming a black wolf so like the bitch Sigmund had once slain.

  He wanted to taunt Wolfsblood with that, but his voice came out only as snapping and growls. And so he charged forward. They collided in mid-air, tumbled over sideways, and hit the ground, rolling apart a few feet from the rapidly spreading fire. The whole fort was ablaze.

  Sigmund surged to his feet and snapped at Wolfsblood, who leapt backward. Always defensive, always finding a way to retreat. Except tonight, there would be no retreat left.

  Wolfsblood snapped at him, and Sigmund dodged to one side. Only Wolfsblood moved fast, changing his attack. His jaws snapped down on Sigmund’s neck and bore him to the ground.

  Blood gurgled inside Sigmund’s throat, and he yelped, struggling and rolling, attempting to get break free. He raked with his nails until one gouged the other wolf’s eye.

  Whining, Wolfsblood leapt back several times like he thought himself a fucking rabbit. Sigmund regained his feet, but they felt watery, loose. Like he stood on a boat. Blood was seeping from his wound. Soaking fur. Clouding mind …

  Had to finish it.

  Wolfsblood lunged again, again going left. This time, instead of dodging right, Sigmund drove forward. As Wolfsblood tried to change and catch him in another feint, Sigmund came in first. His teeth snapped down on the wolf’s foreleg so hard he felt bone crunch and snap between them. This sent Wolfsblood toppling over, howling in pain.

  Sigmund paced around to look the vile king in the eye. He ought to see the end coming, to see his death lurching ever closer. Not so he could embrace it as a warrior, but so that he could fear it and shame himself like the craven he had always been. Sigmund took another step closer.

  Stumbling and howling with the pain of it, Wolfsblood rose, trying to lope away on three legs.

  Sigmund laughed—or tried. It sounded more like a bark.

  He gave chase. Two strides, three. Fast, like he was flying.

  And then the first ray of dawn hit him like a blazing spear between the eyes. It stole his breath and sent him careening down into the mud. His body convulsed, writhing and twisting, as muscles and bones jerked and popped back into their human configurations. Hit unaware of by the change, forced out of it like that, it took him several moments to catch his breath, made no easier by the bloody wounds in his throat. He coughed up more blood as he gained his knees and again as he stood.

  Wolfsblood had been similarly affected, and even now, had only managed his knees, clutching his mangled arm with his one hand. Naked, dirty, bleeding … pathetic.

  Sigmund did not bother looking for his clothes as he stalked through the mud. He knew damn well he cut a very different figure than the fallen king. One of glory, of ancient lineage. One of death, come for the unworthy.

  Wolfsblood gained his feet as Sigmund drew nigh and raised his good hand as if he offered surrender. Sigmund’s right hook slammed into his ribs, doubling him over. An uppercut smashed his jaw and sent Wolfsblood toppling onto his back in the mud.

  The king lay there, groaning, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

  Sigmund stomped his heel into the king’s stones. “For my sister.” He glanced at her, where she stood on the threshold of the burning building.

  Sieglinde nodded grimly.

  The king rolled over, moaning and crossing his legs as if he might protect himself in any way from the justice that had at long last come for him. Bu
t this was his urd, one he had all but asked for with his own treachery.

  Sigmund grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him back toward the burning hall. He passed Fitela who, with Gramr, had cut down at least a dozen more men. Bodies lay everywhere. Some looked like warriors, others not. It mattered naught.

  Sieglinde had suffered long because of this place. Because of this troll-fucking, murdering, thief. Sigmund paused at a warrior’s body, just long enough to grab an axe. He dropped Wolfsblood, turned, and showed him the axe.

  “N-no …” the king tried to crawl away backward.

  Sigmund screamed as he swung, lopping the fucker’s foot off at the ankle. “For my brothers.” He tossed the axe aside and hefted the wailing king by his remaining foot.

  Now he looked again toward Sieglinde. “Will you finish it, or should I?”

  Sieglinde swallowed. She stepped back toward the flames. “I have worked so long toward vengeance, and in such vile means, I am no longer fit to live. So let me die beside the husband I never desired.”

  Sigmund reached for her, but she shook her head. The look in her eyes told him everything. He’d never sway her course. She stepped into the fire and screamed in such agony his stomach clenched and he had to turn away. For a moment.

  Sigmund shuddered. Turned back to Wolfsblood. “For my father … I ask but that you go to join the wife he gave you in good faith.” Sigmund grasped Siggeir Wolfsblood’s ankle with both hands and heaved, sending the body flying end over end into the hall. It must have hit something, because a crack rang out, followed by a massive collapse of the roof that turning the smoldering timbers into the largest pyre imaginable.

  For a time, Sigmund stared into the flames. Then he spat after Wolfsblood and turned away.

  Fitela fell in beside him. “Mother …”

  Sigmund might have said it was her choice. He might have said she could never live with all she’d done. He might have said aught, but no words seemed sufficient. And so, he kept his silence, staring at the flames.

  Fitela offered Gramr’s hilt.