The Fires of Muspelheim

by Matt Larkin

Flooding strength to his legs, Tyr kicked. Whole door flew back, crashing down into great the room beyond. Two women screamed, and a child shrieked.

  On the floor, a man lay in a pool of blood. Runeblade had carved through his collarbone, chest, and arm. Dead almost in an instant, his whole torso coming apart.

  Tyr’s gaze met that of the closest woman. Old, a grandmother, hiding her daughter behind her with her own body. Any sort of apology, any sort of explanation, it would’ve been an insult to these people.

  Still hard to keep it off his tongue, as he stalked toward them, grim-faced. Of course, if he opened his mouth to speak, he’d have spewed bile everywhere. It kept rising up, scorching his throat.

  A man shouldn’t be able to survive hating himself that much.

  A swipe took the grandmother’s head off her shoulders, splattering the younger woman beyond with blood. Her shrieks somehow became even more frantic. Didn’t run, though. Just stood there, hands on her head, screaming and screaming. Staring at the corpse of her … mother, probably.

  Don’t apologize.

  Apologizing wouldn’t mean trollshit to her.

  Tyr drove Mistilteinn through her heart. A single thrust. Blood spilled from her mouth and her screams cut off abruptly.

  Tyr caught her, eased her down.

  In the corner, a child was sobbing. A boy, five winters maybe.

  Tyr looked at him. And the sick in him couldn’t hold back anymore. Stumbling, he hit the floor. Retched over and over. Stomach clenching and heaving.

  A man like him … a man like …

  Gurgling, Tyr wiped his mouth on his forearm. Looked up at the boy. Child had crawled over, toward his mother. Was holding her hand, weeping. Shaking her.

  Fuck … Tyr should’ve … should’ve …

  Surely, Fenrir couldn’t take so small a boy. Except … if he could, if he did … then everyone else, whole damn village Tyr had murdered, it was for naught. Tyr had to make sure. Not even a chance for the wolf.

  Not this time.

  It had to end. Had to. That thing couldn’t be allowed to stay in the world. Elsewise, this might just go on and on. For centuries, maybe. Longer, even.

  Wetness blurred his vision and Tyr realized he was weeping too. Which was trollshit. Man like him didn’t deserve tears. No pity for him. Not even Hymir would’ve done what he had.

  Setting the runeblade aside, Tyr crawled to the boy. Drew him into an embrace. Tight. So tight, covering his mouth and nose and burying his face against his chest.

  Thrashing didn’t last long, probably. Felt long, though.

  Felt like forever.

  Blood still caked him, head to boots. It had dried on his clothes, on his mail. He hadn’t even bothered cleaning the runeblade this time. Just trudged, bloody and wretched, through the wood, hunting the beast.

  Wolf would’ve caught his scent, regardless. This much blood—it would draw Fenrir. Had to draw him.

  So dark in the wood, without a torch. But Tyr, he wanted the runeblade in hand. Fenrir was fast. Faster than anyone, really. Stronger, too.

  How do you kill a vaettr that can move from one host to another?

  Had to be done.

  Had to be done.

  Had to …

  “Ah …” Fenrir’s voice came from within the trees. In the darkness, in the night, Tyr couldn’t see him. “You still hunt me, even after your king is dead. Is vengeance so very much to you?”

  Only thing that mattered more than vengeance, Tyr figured, was making damn sure no one else suffered for this. Fenrir, and Tyr himself, they’d be the last ones to pay this awful price.

  “Got pain coming to you,” Tyr said. “Lot of it.”

  Fenrir snickered, now stepping out into the path before Tyr. The man’s face still looked mostly human, but his hands seemed more like claws, and dark hair covered his naked body. So very fell. Even the look in his eyes. Inhuman in cruelty. In knowledge. In appetite.

  Tyr stalked toward him, hefting Mistilteinn. “Know this blade? It can kill even an immortal.”

  Fenrir shrugged his disdain, actually smiling. Or at least baring his teeth. Vile creature.

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  “You, my one-handed friend, are going to amuse me. Perhaps I’ll even take my time with you. Shall I bite off your other hand? A foot?”

  Tyr didn’t bother offering him any further comment. Just lunged, drawing all the apple’s power, swiping the runeblade. The varulf leapt backward, blurringly fast, evading the attack, and stepping back in before Tyr could end his momentum.

  The varulf’s claws lanced across Tyr’s face. Tore through his cheek. Scraped into his gums and ripped out several teeth. Things landed in bloody chunks on Tyr’s tongue, almost before the pain hit him. The apple helped him ignore that pain. Mostly.

  Tyr roared, using it, the agony, as he swung back. This time, the blade nicked Fenrir’s ribs, slicing through flesh with ease.

  The varulf fell back, glancing down at his wound. Seeming surprised, maybe, the wound hadn’t begun to heal at all.

  Tyr spit his missing teeth out and bared his own bloody grin at Fenrir. “Wounds don’t heal any better than for mortals.” The bloody ruin of his face slurred his words. Didn’t matter. Tyr didn’t much care if Fenrir even understood.

  Snarling, he lunged in again, swiping in tighter circles. Couldn’t afford to overextend. Sword gave him reach, true, but Fenrir was faster. Couldn’t forget he could close in on an opening others couldn’t. Could end this all with one swipe of his claws.

  All for naught, then.

  The varulf bent backward, under a slice that ought to have cleaved him in half. Came slashing his own claws at Tyr’s legs. Tyr leapt back, barely evading a blow that might’ve scoured him down to the bone.

  Fenrir chuckled. Still thought this was a fucking game. Thought himself invincible. So fast. So damn strong.

  Oh, but Tyr had something he didn’t. He had fury. The rage at what the wolf had done. What he’d forced Tyr to do.

  The varulf lunged in, driving Tyr back. His claws sliced into a tree trunk, splintering it. Sending shards of wood flying. The tree broke under its own weight, toppling over, forcing Tyr to leap back again.

  Then Fenrir came flying over it.

  Tyr dashed to the side, whipping Mistilteinn up in an arc. Didn’t have time to line it up right, but the runeblade still gouged into Fenrir’s shin and drew a yelp from the wolf. The varulf crashed into a snowdrift and tumbled once, coming up in a snarl so fast Tyr might’ve thought he’d missed entirely. Except that wounded leg he held behind himself, favored. Protected.

  Varulf should’ve kept his feet on the ground. Too cocky. Maybe that gave Tyr an edge. His only real edge, besides the fury and desperation.

  Fenrir shifted his weight, shoulders bobbing, limbs growing more canine. Face, too. Fangs jutting from gums. Now more wolf than man. Angry.

  Tyr closed in, making careful swipes with Mistilteinn. Driving the wolf back. Not getting too close. Couldn’t afford that. With a snarl of his own, he feinted high, then swiped low.

  Fenrir’s claws tore into his right arm, gouging his shoulder straight down to the bone.

  Agony had him stumbling back, but not before the runeblade ripped into Fenrir’s gut, splattering hot blood over the snows.

  Tyr gasped, tripped over his own feet, and floundered backward. Slipped and fell to his arse.

  Fenrir might’ve ended it then, if he’d lunged.

  Varulf was cautious now, though. Hand to his gut, looking at his own blood.

  Was it enough?

  No, maybe not. A man might live through that. Had to be deeper. Had to make sure Fenrir couldn’t walk away from this. No matter what, it ended tonight. Had to. Tyr swore it.

  He spit a glob of blood and struggled back to his feet. Whole right arm had gone numb, save for the throbbing pain in his shoulder. He’d gotten careless and Fenrir had damn nigh taken his arm off.

  The varulf knew it, too, sneering like that, st
alking closer.

  Well.

  Tyr had best end this, then. Just careful. Couldn’t get gutted in the process.

  Fenrir broke into an unsteady lope, a mass of dark fur and snarling teeth. Lunging at Tyr’s throat now. Not toying with him anymore.

  So fast, Tyr didn’t have time to angle it right. Had to hope for luck as he dodged aside.

  Mistilteinn punched through Fenrir’s ribs.

  For a bitter moment, Tyr feared he might’ve caught something that would kill the varulf immediately. But Fenrir, he snarled, howling in pain, and Tyr jerked the runeblade free, tearing out a great chunk of the varulf’s side.

  Wanted him dead, of course.

  Just not yet.

  Fenrir collapsed, hand to his side. Unused to wounds that made him feel mortal, no doubt.

  Tyr spat blood again, stumbling several paces away before falling to his knees in the snow. Glaring at the trollfucking wolf. “Know what you’re thinking … thinking … you’ll have me next …” Tyr coughed, reversing his grip on Mistilteinn. “But I told you … blade … deals wounds like we were mortals.”

  “What are … you …?”

  Tyr leaned forward, letting the runeblade plunge through his gut. Pain lanced through him, breaking his grip on the apple’s power.

  Didn’t matter.

  Got the satisfaction of seeing Fenrir’s eyes go wide.

  Trollfucker had never imagined anyone would do it. Take his own life. Had to know it now, that there weren’t any hosts left for miles. That he was going back to whatever vile world he’d come from.

  Tyr retched up blood. His vision had begun to blur, as he collapsed onto the snow. Still kept his gaze locked on Fenrir’s.

  Snarling, the wolf tried to crawl his way over to Tyr. Like there was aught he could yet do.

  They both had fatal wounds dealt by Mistilteinn. Wounds no man could’ve lived through. And the runeblade meant the same for immortals.

  Tyr had won.

  And Fenrir’s eyes, they admitted it, plain and clear. Raging.

  And he could die, raging.

  29

  The einherjar were still engaged with the remnants of Hel’s army. Draugar had fled with the dawn, yes, but when night had fallen once more, they had come out, and Hermod would not allow any of the ghosts to remain. Without Hel’s hand guiding them, they’d have scattered to the winds and haunted any remnants of civilization across the North and South Realms, both.

  So, he’d sent his armies out, hunting them.

  Sigurd, Sigmund, and Thor each led a small band of einherjar, hunting the escaping draugar. Hermod had complete confidence in his generals.

  And he, himself, needed to see what had become of Odin. The man had gone into the wood with Tyr. Hermod wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding about it.

  And Odin had done it. He’d defeated Hel. While the army of einherjar had fought her forces, Odin had pursued Hel back and forth across the Veil, fought her with a viciousness Hermod could never have imagined. With a terrifying fury.

  Syn’s hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned to his wife. She already looked … weaker … like the energies of this Realm, beyond the protective barriers of Valhalla, had begun to draw out wisps of her essence. And Syn, driven by the need to find their daughter, held together better than some others.

  They could not maintain this army forever. Not for very long at all, he feared.

  “I found him,” she said.

  Hermod nodded at her. It was good. They needed to hurry. Syn led him through the wood, and to a clearing where Odin—was it truly him?—seemed to struggle with some writhing darkness attempting to burst through his form. Hermod could not help but gape, back and forth between Odin and Syn. Had he not known better, he might have mistaken the figure before him for a wraith, hateful and twisted.

  Odin doubled over, as if in pain, arms wrapped around his gut. As Hermod drew nigh, the king looked up sharply. His one eye held a fell look in it. The other was a gaping void of darkness, so deep Hermod had to look away for fear he might fall inside it if he stared a moment longer.

  “My king.”

  Odin cocked his head. Grit his teeth. Rose, unsteady on his feet. He flexed his hand and Gungnir seemed to materialize out of the shadowy fabric of this Realm, suddenly supporting him.

  Of course, Hermod knew it wasn’t Gungnir, any more than it was really Dainsleif over his shoulder, or Gramr over Syn’s.

  “My king,” Hermod repeated, suddenly struck by a nervous fear that Odin was too changed by his death. That, whatever darkness he’d invited inside in using the Art, it had now gained control of him.

  But Odin, he looked back and forth from Hermod to Syn, then managed a sad smile. “H-how many are we? What forces can we bring to bear?”

  Hermod suppressed his sigh of relief. The king was still the king. “A few thousand. We lost a good number of warriors fighting the draugar, though Gondul and the others managed to claim others who fell in the same battles.”

  “Others?” Odin asked. “Freyja!”

  Hermod nodded. “Yes.” The Vanr woman, being newly dead, was having more trouble controlling her condition than some. “She’s also searching this wood for you, alongside her brother and a few others. Geiravör was with them.”

  Odin seemed to release some pent-up tension and strode purposefully toward Hermod before enwrapping him in a sudden embrace. “I knew … I knew I could count on you, Hermod.”

  “You’re going back to Niflheim, aren’t you?”

  Now, Odin pulled back to look at his face, then at Syn’s. “You seek Sif.” He nodded. “Yes. We are going to Niflheim. We have to finish this.”

  When they found Freyja and the others, the Vanr woman was trying to comfort Tyr who seemed stricken by his own sudden death. As a valkyrie, Geiravör had clearly helped him hold himself together and remain coherent.

  Tyr abruptly leapt to his feet at their approach. “My king!”

  Odin, though, cast him a bare nod, obviously focusing the better part of his attention on Freyja. His face trembled with unvoiced pain. Hermod had heard how Odin had slain her once Hel had taken over her body, and, though Odin had not spoken of it, Hermod could not imagine aught that could have weighed more heavily upon the king. In his place, Hermod doubted he could have done the same.

  Freyja looked caught between words, trembling when she looked upon her lover. Her brother rose abruptly, but she forestalled him with a hand.

  Then, without a word, she drifted toward Odin, and the two of them fled deeper into the shadowy woods. No doubt the things they had to say to one another were not for the gathered ears.

  Hermod could only pray Freyja would forgive Odin for what he’d done, for, without her support, Hermod rather doubted the king could press on and see this through.

  For his part, Hermod made his way to Tyr’s side and clapped him on the shoulder. “What happened?”

  “Had to make sure wolf couldn’t get another host.”

  Hermod groaned in sudden understanding. Tyr need say no more. Maybe none of them did. Who among them had not paid terrible prices to reach this place?

  Whatever had passed, Hermod had to believe Odin would make it all worthwhile. And Hermod and Syn, they would ensure they got Sif’s soul back. She would not be left to linger behind Hel’s gates. He swore it.

  They were many, gathered out on the plains, not so far from where the einherjar had won their great victory against Hel’s draugar. Thousands of dead, interspersed by a handful of valkyries among them, their powers strained in helping so many ghosts retain their senses of self.

  The Lethe tugged at them all, and many found themselves drawn toward the Roil, perhaps in order to find their ways back to the Wheel of Life, or perhaps toward some other end. Either way, they could afford to lose no one—and Hermod suspected some few may have already drifted off.

  He’d broken the forces into six war bands, and Odin had seemed to approve. Sigurd, their finest warri
or, led the largest band, aided by the valkyrie Róta. They gathered now, on the southern hill, while Odin made his way between the bands, seen by all, with Hermod following along in his shadow.

  Thor, captain of another band, Odin had taken special time with, and none had begrudged the king a few moments with his son. Gondul aided Thor, and the valkyrie cast a nod at Hermod as they passed.

  Nearby, Sigmund moved among his own band, inspiring confidence in his people. Probably a better natural leader than the others, true, but Thor and Sigurd had to be given bands for einherjar already flocked to them because of their prowess. Kára aided Sigmund, with her lover, Helgi Haddingjaskati at her side.

  Rather than command any of the bands himself, Hermod had placed Syn in charge of one, knowing he would fight by her side, but might need to race between the others. The valkyrie Skalmöld stood beside his wife, gaze darting amid her charges.

  Frey and Geiravör had command of another band. While Frey had never well loved Odin, he commanded respect among all for his prowess in battle, and appointing him helped soothe any ill-will between Aesir and Vanir. Hermod hoped.

  Fitela, Sigmund’s cunning son, had all but appointed himself in command of the final band. Hermod knew better than to argue, and had simply assigned Sanngridr to watch his back. However, with Tyr here now, Fitela had volunteered to step aside and give the one-handed man command. It was well, Hermod believe, for Tyr had decades of experience at commanding warriors against Serkland.

  In the midst of all these bands, Odin raised Gungnir high into the air. “By now, you have all heard the truth! We shall make for the gates of Hel. We shall cross the shadows of the Astral Realm, breach into Niflheim, and lay siege to the fortress of the so-called Queen of Mist!”

  A few murmurs ran through the gathered einherjar. For centuries, Hermod had gathered them—through the valkyries, of course—in order that they might fight Ragnarok. Never in all that time, however, had he known or prepared them to believe that battle might not be fought on Midgard at all. Now, Odin asked them to march straight into the very maw of terror. Into a realm that could not have more terrified.