by Matt Larkin
Ages had passed since Freyja had last bothered throwing runes. Somehow, in Alfheim, such petty divinations had seemed to matter less and less, as if, removed from the Mortal Realm, she had begun to lose her natural apprehension for the future. Now, with Od gone and wars raging out of control over all the lands, all she had was apprehension.
She’d carved them into bone and now jiggled the pieces in one hand while Sunna and Nehalennia looked on, equally pensive, silent, even as they watched her. Sunna still held her gut, no doubt in agony from her bowels slowly knitting themselves back together. Neither of them should be here.
Freyja ought never to have told them she planned this, but their desperation had become palpable, as much or more so than any of the Aesir, and they had looked to her, as they had done in the days when she replaced Mundilfari as the preeminent worker of the Art on Vanaheim.
How very strange to think that, long ago, jotunnar had taught Svarthofda this, and she had taught Mundilfari, and he Freyja. That, even now, out there in the dying lands of the North Realms, the last völvur, heirs of those Freyja had taught, must be casting the runes just the same. Desperately praying for a sign, for guidance. For hope.
Now, they sat in Freyja’s chamber in Idavollir, where perhaps jotunnar had once sat also musing on their end, and they watched her.
With a practiced flick of the wrist—it had been ages, yes, but some things one did not forget—she flung the runes out before her. Nehalennia leaned in, examining them. Freyja had taught her the basics of this ages ago, in fact. Across from her friend, Freyja too leaned forward, peering at the patterns created by the fall of bones.
“Well?” Sunna asked. “What do they tell you of the future?”
Nehalennia mumbled something under her breath. “I don’t understand this pattern at all. Did you … did you make a mistake?”
Freyja frowned, gaze still locked on the runes. The damnable runes that tingled her mind, touching her Sight. Offering flickers of their own kind of forewarnings. Not prescience, not as Odin experienced, but as close as most practitioners of seid could get. And she had not made a mistake.
They were all going to die.
It was a death knell for the entire world, in fact. When the others had left her chamber, Freyja had cast the runes again, to be sure.
Odin had been right all along, of course.
Ragnarok was here, and few, if any, would survive this battle. But how was Freyja to tell that to the gathered throng of Aesir, Vanir, and liosalfar? Oh, the latter might take the news with unaffected apathy. To them, the death of a host meant a temporary loss of pneuma and being forced back into the Spirit Realm. Not without dangers, of course, and not pleasant, but hardly the same as what it meant to natives of the Mortal Realm.
They sat around the great table once more, after servants had cleaned the blood from Loki’s rampage.
Even before that, though, there had been blood. Nigh to a score of men and women had taken their own lives, having thought—she could only assume—that defeat was inevitable. The last, a fisherwoman, had slain her ten winter-old daughter first, then herself.
No one had known what to say when they burned the bodies.
Now, Thor sat at the head of the table, but Odin’s son didn’t deign to speak much. His broken nose had begun to heal, but combined with his missing front teeth, his voice wheezed and whistled and clearly annoyed the man to no end. Indeed, Odin’s son had suffered grievous injuries on Vanaheim, as well, having lost a good chunk of one foot, had a finger ripped off, and been nigh hacked to pieces by Loki’s son Narfi.
None of those physical injuries seemed to weigh half so much upon him as the loss of his mother and of his father’s disappearance. The poor man. Thor would not have won accolades for his intellect—some claimed the problem arose from an old head injury—and he had lost his good looks thanks to Loki and his son, but still, he had courage, Freyja had to grant him that. Courage other men could not have dreamed of.
For the better part of an hour, the gathered throng had argued one way or another about what to do. Eostre, for her part, had insisted the only chance at salvation now lay at the hands of the Sons of Muspel, while Tyr—who seemed more the true leader of the Ás faction than Thor—steadfastly refused to ally himself with his erstwhile enemies.
Sunna had suggested they reclaim Vanaheim, relink the bridge, and evacuate all who survived to Alfheim. To which Freyja’s brother had pointed out that doing so would mean leaving the bridge active and returning control of the Bilröst to the jotunnar. Odin alone knew what he had done to stabilize it, and Frey could not keep it open if he removed the ring.
“Odin will return,” Freyja finally said, still looking at Thor. The prince nodded at her. “Until such time as that, we have to try to hold out. He … he’ll know what to do.” Freyja prayed he would, at least. His plan, whatever it was, he had claimed might serve to free them from the perilous future he had imagined.
Frey cleared his throat. “We cannot wait.” When she cast a withering look his way, he raised a hand. “Whatever ill will passed between Odin and me, it has naught to do with what I’m saying now. If we are to have any hope of holding this world against Hel, we cannot afford to wait. We do not know where she is or what her plan is, but clearly we need that information. Moreover, some mortals will remain loyal to us, but at the moment, they have no idea where we are or how they should hold out. We need to have spies sent out among all the North Realms, to learn the situation.”
Magni snorted. “To say naught of the continuing advance of the Deathless legions.”
Gefjon groaned. “I hardly think they much matter, compared to the threat of Hel herself. Surely the Queen of Mist represents the single greatest power in this world.”
Freyja pursed her lips. “Gefjon is correct about the threat Hel presents us, but it hardly renders a massive army led by ancient vampires irrelevant.”
“What about the invasion of Serks?” Magni asked. “Hermod was convinced that on Muspelheim—”
“Fucking Serks,” Thrúd snapped. “Hermod is dead and none of us can reach Muspelheim, even if we wanted to.”
“But the Serks—” her brother began again.
Thrúd slapped her hand on the table. “They are not our allies!”
Indeed, the Aesir had spent the better part of the last four centuries either at war with Serkland, or in a very uneasy truce with them. Nevertheless, Eostre and the Sons had come to their rescue on Vanaheim. The Serks called her Al-Uzza and revered Eostre as … well, as something. A wisewoman, perhaps. Freyja remained unclear on the details of what had gone on in the south.
Frey stood. “If it came to it, I could use Andvaranaut to reach Muspelheim. The fact remains, though, we don’t know where this seal Hermod wanted to break lies, nor if doing so would even serve our ends.”
“Aught that weakens Hel aids us,” Magni protested.
Eostre spoke now, for the first time in a good while. “Through arrogance, ignorance, or urd, Hel has returned to our world. I never much wanted to credit my parents’ tales of … Well. I think we must at least try to consider how we might learn the location of that seal. If there is any means of weakening Hel, we must take it.”
“I don’t see how we’d do that,” Sunna objected. “Even if Sessrumnir had that sort of knowledge, it’s lost now.”
“Oh, there’s a way,” Nehalennia said. “Though Freyja told us never to attempt it.”
Freyja stared at her friend a moment. Then a pit began to open in her stomach as she realized what the other woman meant. “No.”
Nehalennia’s tight grimace offered no pity. “Can you imagine any circumstance more dire than this one?”
“No,” Freyja snapped. “Mundilfari forbade necromancy on Vanaheim, and for good reason. Irpa almost brought down our entire civilization by plying the dead for answers. It drove her mad and I will not call up shades.”
Mani chuckled, drawing every eye. “What? Oh … Well. Heh. Far be it for me to question Father’s
wisdom, never minding all of you kept calling him the Mad Vanr. But uh … You’re saying Irpa almost brought down Vanaheim? Because, last time I saw Vanaheim, it was on fire. We have already lost everything, Princess.”
“Don’t call me that,” Freyja said. She wasn’t the princess of aught anymore. Her father’s kingdom had fallen an age ago, and Freyja held no such lofty title in Alfheim. “And you’re a fool if you truly think piercing the Veil like that cannot make things any worse for us. But let’s imagine, for a moment, I could call up Hermod’s soul, and he could explain to us where to find the seal on Muspelheim. Do you truly believe that my brother could safely reach that world, destroy the seal, and escape? What little we know of the World of Fire implies the world is on fire.”
A few chuckles.
“Someone,” Thor wheezed, “thought Hermod could do it.”
Thrúd shook her head. “Someone, Father, who wouldn’t have given a mouse shit for Hermod’s safety.”
“All of this is moot,” Freyja said, “because I’m not doing it, and I wouldn’t advise any of you to even consider trying it.”
And now a few grumbles. They didn’t understand. Oh, everyone knew they were supposed to fear the Art. They knew it, and most people felt it. Still, they failed to truly realize what bringing a shade across the Veil thus would mean. What else it might open their world to, even if Freyja succeeded. No. There had to be other options.
“So, then,” Frey said after a moment. “We come back to needing to gather our allies. I will take a small force up into Reidgotaland. We’ve already lost Hunaland and we cannot afford to lose Reidgotaland, or we’ll be cut off from Sviarland, as well.”
“I’m going,” Thor said. The man kept trying to talk without revealing his missing teeth. Which only further muffled his voice. “I’ll leave Magni in charge of the defense here.”
“Well and good,” Frey said. “Still, we should send people direct to Sviarland. Saule, I want you to lead that band.”
Freyja frowned. Saule was her friend, yes, but she had little care for human life. “Thrúd should go with her. We need someone familiar with the political landscape of this age.” Thrúd offered a grudging nod. “Myself, I’ll stay here and await Odin’s return. When he makes it back, who knows how much time we’ll have to mount a defense.”
“I’m going too,” Tyr said.
Maybe he meant to protect Thrúd, maybe he thought himself best suited to deal with the petty kings of Sviarland. Either way, it meant both of their supposed war leaders were leaving, and even Thor.
They placed their trust in Magni. Freyja hoped he was up to the task.
3
The barbed chains dug into Idunn’s wrists and ankles as she hung suspended in midair. Much as Volund had promised, the sensation had somehow transformed from pure pain into a nameless ecstasy, much like all the other tortures the svartalf had inflicted upon her. Behind her, he furiously pumped his hips, slapping against her arse as he pounded into her, and she couldn’t stop herself from squealing.
Just like all the other beautiful torments in this place.
What a loathsome creature she had become, to so enjoy this. To have begged him for it, even after his seed had already quickened in her womb. Now, an equally naked svartalf girl traced a razor blade along Idunn’s abdomen, licking at her trickle of blood while her master slammed into her.
She rocked and thrashed against her chains as her body gave in to the climax. The pain made that more powerful too.
As he finished as well, Volund dug the claws of his glove into Idunn’s arse cheek, drawing forth another squeal.
Yes, she truly was Ivaldi’s daughter. How deliciously wretched she’d become. His dark blood ran through her veins.
And when she bore Volund’s heir—her own nephew, no less—that heir would become a new great power on Svartalfheim.
It ought not to have brought her pride. It ought to have horrified her. And yet, panting, she could not find it within herself to regret any of this.
Idunn had ordered a mirror brought to her chambers—Volund no longer confined her to a cell—and now, stripped naked, she stood before it, examining her body in the candlelight. Her skin tone had shifted, subtly, but it was there. It had begun to take on the ashen, almost gray hues of a svartalf, like her father, losing the golden wheat tones from her mother. Her hair had turned from dark brown to black, even as Volund had told her, so many moons ago.
Idly, she pinched a few strands between her thumb and forefinger and lifted them up before her face.
People had always called her beautiful, and, though she’d liked to think herself above vanity, in truth, it had pleased her. Her transformation had not really stolen aught from her, but still, the change was … what? Discomfiting?
Discomfiting, when it ought to have horrified her.
Clucking her tongue, she sat on the bed shelf and tugged on her leather trousers. Her belly had not yet begun to bulge, but it soon would, and she’d need looser garments. No one in this world wore gowns, exactly, though she’d seen pregnant females clad in long tunics and naught else, so she supposed she could …
Idunn froze in the process of bending to grab her leather vest. What … what the fuck was wrong with her? How had she become this person who would fret over what to wear or worry so over her appearance while she remained captive in Saevarstadir?
Groaning, she slumped down beside her bed and let her head fall into her hands. These increasingly rare moments of lucidity made it all worse. Most of the time, she was aware of her transformation but unable to move herself to fret over such things. But sometimes she … she …
Idunn slammed a hand down on the bed shelf, moaning in despair.
This wasn’t what she wanted! It shouldn’t have been what she wanted, at least. This madness.
Part of her longed to weep, but the human capable of that had faded long before she’d come to this dark world.
All she could do instead was wail, adding her pitiful cries to the chorus of suffering and arousal that saturated Volund’s fortress.
And then her door slid open and Idunn’s breath caught in her throat while she stared daggers at the intruder.
Hnoss.
Freyja’s daughter slipped into Idunn’s room, shutting the door behind herself. “I heard your lamentations.”
“I don’t lament aught.”
Hnoss snickered, shaking her head, before slinking down onto the floor in front of Idunn. “You do, not only with your voice, but your essence. Its pain is reflected through the umbral currents running through this very world. Once your transformation is complete, you will hear the shadows speak of truths beyond the ken of even other spirits. The first years are the hardest ones, whatever comfort that offers you.”
Idunn glowered while finishing donning her vest. “What should you care?”
The other woman frowned a moment, seeming to war with something within herself. “I … I’m going to offer you a chance to leave this place. No one ever came for me, and maybe no one could. But you … there is still a fragment of light in you, Idunn. Caught between that light and the darkness of this realm, you are torn in half. Given your heritage, that light will die sooner, rather than later. But I’m going to give you a way out, a way back to the Mortal Realm where you might yet determine your own fate.”
Pity? Should the centuries here not have stamped out any semblance of pity or empathy within Hnoss?
Idunn found it difficult to swallow. She should have leapt at the chance the woman offered her. And yet … her chest seized up tight at the thought of leaving it behind. Her body, her very soul ached for the shadows here.
Hnoss leaned in close. Her open-handed slap caught Idunn off guard, sent her toppling over onto the floor, her ears ringing.
Hand to her cheek, Idunn rolled over and sat back up. That had really stung, with alfar strength behind it.
“You think that you want it. You want him. There is a darkness in your mind, slithering about your soul, calling you to this
place. But that darkness is not yet complete, not utter. It soon will be, Idunn, and I doubt I will have the strength or inclination to make this offer again. Let me help you.”
Idunn flinched. By the Sun, the woman had the right of it. Idunn knew Hnoss had the right of it. And still, trying to flee this dark world felt like trying to saw her own leg off. The pain of yanking an arrow out of her flesh.
“I remember,” Hnoss said. “I remember in the way we remember dreams, in that place of sun, swimming with you when I was very small. I remember you encouraging me to push my limits, to swim farther. And you knew the names of every bird, every flower in the rainforest. Aunt Idunn, I called you, because Mother loved you, even though the court thought you cursed, an exile. Do you still remember those days?”
“I …” Idunn could almost picture it in her mind, swimming in the sea, diving for pearls, as her ancestors had done. Finding one to give to little Hnoss, back when the girl had but a dozen years behind her.
“In the Summer Court, they called you tainted, urged me to stay away from you, but I didn’t listen. You took me to see the Radiant Falls. Was that a dream?”
As if Hnoss’s words had unlocked something in her mind, Idunn saw that blinding reflection of sunlight off the waters. Saw and reveled in its overpowering glory. A glittering rainforest. A sea of crystal waters. An ocean of light.
Hnoss leaned in close again and Idunn braced for another slap. “I wonder,” the girl said, though, “what was the Mortal Realm like? Is that a dream for you?”
“It’s …” Vanaheim was not so unlike Alfheim. A place of sun and warmth and myriad plants. Not eternal sun, no, for there was night, but Idunn liked the moon and stars and the cool breeze that blew across the mountains. And Midgard … it held so many wonders. Horrors, too, and more suffering than she could bear.
“I think I’d like to see it,” Hnoss said, “even if I could not stay.”
“Couldn’t stay?”
“Oh, the shadows are too deep inside me now, and this world would call me back. But I can show you the way through the darkness, and back to the Mortal Realm. I was born half-human, and thus still have a physical body. As do you, for the moment.”
