by Matt Larkin
Tyr tried to rise.
Then a mountain detonated, out to the north. Flames so bright they burned away the mist in an instant. Lava flung so high, even without the sun, Tyr could see it. Glowing hot, mixed with dark stone and ash from the depths below. For that bare instant, he could make out the great plumes of black smoke, too. Before the glow dimmed.
Before darkness settled in once more.
Then another blast, farther out from the first. Took a moment to even hear it, strange as that sounded. Maybe since his head still rang from the first explosion.
More tremors shook the land, sending Tyr skidding lower on the slope.
The mountain range cracked, split, and revealed a river of lava, bright, rushing through a far-off valley.
Tyr scrambled to his feet—or tried, the damn ground kept shaking, sending him banging shins and knees—and tried to press on south. Only, ahead, the valley split, like palms pressed together then slid apart. A chasm opened, jets of steam shooting out from it.
Couldn’t make much out, save the hiss of gasses. Snows melting in an instant.
No way he’d press on in that direction, it seemed.
Desperate now, he turned west. Meant doubling back a bit, moving too close to that lava river, too. But since Reidgotaland seemed poised to come apart at the seams, he didn’t have much choice.
The volcanoes sparked wildfires that spread through the woodlands in waves. Sometimes, the flames jumped to villages, what few Fenrir had missed or spared. Tyr had seen people running from the collapse of their homes, fleeing out into the mists they’d feared their whole lives.
Screaming, begging for succor. Begging even vaettir. Men and women, offering tribute. Some promising their very souls, if something would cross over and spare them.
Maybe they’d find something willing to deal.
If so, Tyr would pity them all the more. And he himself couldn’t do a damn thing to help refugees.
He had a mission, though, one that would make things better for some folk, whether they knew it or not. Killing Fenrir.
Sure, the lava had swept away whole villages, too. Tyr didn’t see it as much different, getting buried in ash and burned to death, or getting torn apart and eaten by varulfur. Still dead, either way.
One difference, though.
He could ram Mistilteinn straight through Fenrir’s chest. Didn’t figure stabbing a volcano would do much good.
So he pushed on, even if the quakes and flames and chasms had cut him off.
He’d find a way to put an end to that varulf.
He swore it.
19
The armies of the Sons of Muspel didn’t fight like those from Serkland. Thor had spent decades, on and off, fighting against the Serks. They had order, discipline. Here, in Reidgotaland, they called their foes by the same name—Sons—but they weren’t the same. More like a swarm of insects, sweeping over the world.
Burning everything.
They burned what few crops and livestock had survived the Fimbulvinter.
They burned the forests.
They burned people.
Great, smoldering piles of people, the reek of them sickly sweet, ashes carried on the wind, thick as the mist.
From a hilltop, he watched the Sons, eldjotunnar standing a full head taller than the rest, but, all of them, seeming to shimmer with heat as they marauded through the land. It should have been welcome, another force engaging the Deathless with such fervor.
Oh, they were happy to immolate the Miklagardians. The draugar, too.
The native Reidgotalanders, as well, and therein lay the problem.
Hel’s frost jotunnar and human minions had sieged Vermund’s town, but that was better than this.
Thor watched as a sea of flame-bearing marauders crashed into the shield walls of Miklagardian legions. Watched, and hardly knew which side to aid, if either. The Sons came at the Deathless fuckers with such ferocity, Thor almost admired them. They came, arms aflame, flinging their own bodies like weapons. Kicking shields with enough force to send men—even men bracing one another—tumbling backward. They’d leap bodily over the wall to land, shrieking, flinging fire and death all around, and hardly seem to care when the Deathless finally cut them down.
Oh, they’d have made fine allies. Had even—effectively—broken the siege trapping Thor’s people.
Trouble was, these Sons were fucking mist-mad savages that seemed more intent to engulf all Midgard in fire than to actually win wars.
Wave after wave of flaming, snarling, vaettr-possessed trollfuckers. A pyre for the world.
Hour after hour, he watched the armies … ugh, what was that word? Annihilate! They annihilated each other. Thor couldn’t well get scouts into the north, to see how the draugar fared. A strange thought, that his hopes now lay in the Sons causing as much damage to Hel’s ranks as they caused to Thor’s.
These fires, they didn’t burn out.
More and more possessed men came. Not dark-skinned like Serks. No, these were North Realmers, given over to the power of Muspelheim.
Thor could feel its power, rumbling beneath the earth. Angry.
And they just kept coming. He could guess why. Those they burned, those who would’ve died, some of them, let those things inside their bodies rather than surrender to death. So the fires spread themselves.
Mjölnir had drank in the souls of some such foes. Powerful souls, emboldened by the flames in their breasts. But there were too many of them. Always too many.
The fighting had gone poorly. That went without saying, considering Thor now sat amid a band of refugees, huddled in the Myrkvidr. Went without saying, true, but he felt like fucking saying it anyway.
The Deathless legions had come, mostly in ships, landing on the southern shores of Reidgotaland all while invading the islands. They held Sjaelland for now, but Thor didn’t expect that to last.
Not with what had come next.
Even while the draugar began conquering everything to the north and the vampire-worshipping death-fuckers taking over in the south, of a sudden the mountains decided to have a shitting contest. Damn things started spewing smoke and lava every which way imaginable.
Bad enough, that.
Then, well then, the fucking Sons of Muspel showed up. Which might have almost been welcome, had they been on Thor’s side. Only, instead, they started attacking everyone.
They burned draugar. They burned Deathless soldiers. They burned vampires. They burned aught and anyone they came across. For all Thor knew, they probably sat around burning each other when they had no other victims.
What did you get when you took a bunch of possessed, fire-crazy trollfuckers? You got chaos and ashes, that’s what. He’d tried. Oh, he’d fucking tried to stem their advance. Thor had rained death and destruction among the Sons and the Deathless alike.
It hadn’t changed aught.
And somewhere along the way, the Sons of Muspel had joined up with eldjotunnar—where the fuck had fire jotunnar been hiding anyway?—just to set some more stuff on fire.
So Thor had spent the better part of the past fortnight smiting so many men, undead, and jotunnar he’d lost count. So many his arm hurt, and Gefjon had kindly offered to massage it for him, so they sat, watching the camp in the dark, cold wood.
“I’m tired of smiting,” he said, breaking the silence. “I never thought I’d say that, but I’m actually tired of smiting. Do you have any idea how many skulls I had to crack to get tired of it? Because I don’t even fucking know. That’s like … like the ocean saying it’s tired of being wet.”
Gefjon snorted. “Your way with analogies is rather stunning.”
“Sure. Thanks. I mean, me, sick of breaking bones and killing trollfuckers. Did you ever think we’d get here?”
“I’m not really certain you’re interested in my opinion.”
Thor ignored her foolery. It was best that way. “Of course you didn’t think it. Mjölnir’s already crackling with lightning again. No.” He held u
p his other hand to forestall any questions. “No, I’ll tell you what that means. It means I’ve fed the hammer more souls since we left Asgard than I did in decades before that. Even the damn hammer has to be full by now. If it had a mouth, I bet it would complain about being overfed.”
“Uh, huh.”
Now he fixed with her a level glare. “Put some pressure on those muscles, all right? That’s my smiting arm, and I imagine I’ll be needing that again soon.”
“I imagine so.”
Thor huffed, shaking his head. He couldn’t see how things could get any worse.
“Well,” Frey said, leaning against a twisted trunk, “I’m afraid things have grown direr to the south.”
With Vermund’s lands lost to the approaching draugar—or possibly now in the hands of the Sons, Thor couldn’t say which—he’d sent Frey to scout if there were gaps in the Deathless lines. Gaps big enough to lead a kingdom’s worth of refugees through.
“No gaps?”
“Oh.” Frey cleared his throat. “Yes. There are gaps now. Perhaps woken by the quakes, but it appears as if a horde of …” He cleared his throat again.
“All right, man,” Thor chided. “Out with it already. The forest is dark and cold and wet, and those three things don’t go well together.
“A small army of linnorms have overrun Hunaland and perhaps Valland. They’ve devastated the Deathless lines and even managed to disrupt the Sons of Muspel. I cannot be certain, but rumor claims there’s seven of the dragons.”
Thor snorted. “Not really in the mood for jests. Especially stupid jests.”
Frey glanced to Nehalennia, who stood nearby with Gefjon. They’d all agreed to keep King Vermund and his men out of the strategy talks for fear of further disheartening the almost broken refugees.
Every so often, parties of hunters vanished into the Myrkvidr, and now men had begun carrying on about the curse of the dark forest. Claiming retreating in here was a mistake. Thor, had he been patient, might have pointed out that draugar and vampires and fucking fire jotunnar were outside the forest all trying to kill pretty much everything.
Since Thor—when he was honest with himself—knew he had the patience of a boy of three winters with a spider down his trousers and his hair lit on fire, he’d decided to leave such explanations to Gefjon, who had a way of talking that didn’t involve Thor’s fist connecting with anyone’s face.
“I don’t think he speaks in jest,” Nehalennia said. “Something has shifted in the world. Something ancient, violent. It had volcanoes erupting all over, even in places where none should have been. Little surprise if it woke dragons slumbering in deep places. Vanir legend claimed nine great linnorms dwelt in the deep places, under land or under sea. Some believed them all the spawn of Jörmungandr.”
Thor folded his arms over his chest. “Seven linnorms running around. That’s more than all the linnorms I’ve heard tale of combined, and now all loose. Fuck, not so long ago, I’d have given one of my stones for the chance to slay a dragon. And I never saw one. Now you’re telling me there’s seven in one land.”
“Eh,” Frey said. “Maybe two lands. Not that much remains of either. Wastelands, I suspect. It’s like none of the forces even know what they’re fighting for anymore. Just, everywhere you turn, battle and death. Someone has driven these armies to fits of madness.”
“And thrown in dragons,” Gefjon pointed out. “Sure to cut down on the chaos.”
“We cannot take the refugees into a land dominated by rampaging linnorms,” Frey said. Maybe the Vanr thought Thor couldn’t figure out something that fucking obvious.
Thor shrugged. “So then we have to get to slaying them. I’ll head southwest, toward Valland, and Frey’ll go southeast. We’ll meet in the middle.”
Frey groaned. “How would we possibly meet in the middle if we head in opposite—”
“Look!” Thor said before the Vanr could further underestimate his wits. “I’m not going to explain every bit of strategy to you. I’ve got a splitting headache, there are spots swimming before my eyes, and I need to slay a fucking dragon. In fact, it seems like I need to slay several. And so do you, so get to it. Gefjon and Nehalennia will stay with the refugees to keep them safe and organized. Last thing we need is for them to go tromping off back into the armies of Muspelheim.”
Frey massaged his temples like he was the one with a damn whetstone digging into his brain. Finally, he sighed. “So be it, Odinson.”
Dragons!
Damn, but Thor had always wanted to kill a dragon. What tales skalds would tell of such a feat. Fucking Sigurd Sigmundson had to go and kill the only dragon Thor had ever heard of, denying him the chance. Well, only dragon excepting the one Father had slain, but Thor couldn’t much begrudge him that one, considering Thor hadn’t finished teething at the time.
Right. If skalds called the man Sigurd Fafnirsbane for killing one dragon, what would they tell of Thor when he killed a half dozen of the beasts? Something good, that’s what. Something really … uh … good.
So he trudged through the Myrkvidr, torch in hand, looking for dragon tracks. Of course, he didn’t much expect to find them here. Frey claimed the beasts rampaged across Valland.
Had to be an amusing sight, those pompous, preening South Realmers running and screaming from a rampaging linnorm. Where was their deathless god now, huh? Probably hiding.
“Never one for stealth.”
Thor spun at the voice, torch out in front of him and hand on Mjölnir’s hilt.
Only, it wasn’t a foe but Tyr who came plodding toward him, almost silent despite the fresh snow.
Thor lowered his torch and shrugged. “Why should I sneak about? That just makes finding foes to smite more difficult.” And hearing there were dragons here, well sure, it had reinvigorated Thor’s love of smiting, no mistake. “What are you doing here?”
“Fenrir. Headed south. Maybe toward Idavollir.” Tyr spit in the snow. In case Thor wasn’t sure what the man thought of the varulf who’d bit off his hand.
“Huh. So happens I’m headed that way.”
“Thought you were holding Reidgotaland.”
Thor shrugged. “Pretty much lost that when the world started retching flame and Sons of Muspel everywhere. Now, I aim to clear a path for the refugees to reach Idavollir. Got to slay the dragons for that.”
Tyr arched an eyebrow. “Dragons? Multiple?”
Thor started to grin. Old habit. Before he remembered that bastard Loki had knocked out his gorgeous teeth. Now, Thor would look like a fool, grinning. “Linnorms. Seven of them, Frey says, so we had to split. I’m taking the ones on the left, he’s taking the ones on the right. Er … no, the other way around.”
“You gone mist-mad?”
“No.” Why would Tyr even need to ask that? “Look, if you want to help, I won’t stop you. Seven dragons means enough to go around. Glory for everyone.”
The man just glowered, though, before finally grunting in assent.
Thor paused a moment. “Where’s my daughter? She was supposed to be in your band in Sviarland.”
Tyr looked even more grim. Dark enough, Thor felt his fingers edging toward Mjölnir’s haft again. If aught had befallen his daughter …
“Holding Sviarland,” Tyr said, finally. “Best she was able. Figured she was safer there than hunting the Moon Lord with me. Already lost Sunna and Mani, the both of them. Saule, too.”
Well, trollshit.
Thor shook his head at that. It meant, once the dragons were gone, he’d have to go to Sviarland to find Thrúd.
For now, though, it sounded as if Tyr had the right of it. And they’d be trekking together a while.
Not the most interesting of traveling companions, Thor had to admit, but he supposed Tyr was better than having no one. Mostly better.
The village had sat along a river, once.
The first sign had been the better part of a house, half-submerged, floating downstream, crashing against frozen sheets of ice on the shoreline.
The village itself, when they’d come upon it, had looked worse. A gulley-like trough now carved its way through the center of town, where the monstrous serpent had surged up from the river. Its path seemed almost random, traveling through buildings—their remains broken into kindling and blown apart—rather than around them. Bits of half-eaten villagers and a handful of animals lay splattered and strewn about, oft seeming corroded as if by acid.
The venom of a linnorm. Caustic enough to burn flesh, if not all the way through.
Tyr knelt now, examining a torn-off forearm, even hefting the macabre thing to his face to sniff it. “Eitr.”
“What now?”
“Poison. Flows through the veins of linnorms. In their venom, too.”
Thor scoffed. “Their blood is poison? How do they even live, then?”
“Adapted to it. Born from it, some say. Like the poison gave rise to life.”
More Otherworldly knowledge from the spawn of a jotunn. Thor had heard enough. “Can we focus on how to kill them, then?”
Tyr shrugged. “Follow the tracks. Destroy the brain or the heart. Maybe both.”
Now that sounded like a plan Thor could get behind. He liked destroying things. Always well worth the effort.
Maybe it was Tyr’s words, but now, as they followed the trail, Thor couldn’t help but feel like it was one not only of demolition, with trees and rocks strewn to either side, but a swathe of toxic wastes, as if the mere passage of this fell beast had polluted the land with its poisons. The trees nearby looked sickly and twisted in unnatural angles. The underbrush, perhaps already dead from the long winter, now appeared putrid.
Plants weren’t supposed to look like corpses.
It just wasn’t natural.
The abomination had rent a trail clean through northern Hunaland—what had been Rijnland, not long ago, before the kingdom fell—and into the eastern reaches of Valland. From the way it cut through the woods, Thor almost wondered if it headed for Idavollir as well.
