by Matt Larkin
Tyr grunted. Trusted champion, to speak for his lord. “Then imagine what aid a few hundred of these warriors, berserkir included, might provide. What a difference they might make in narrower confines, as the Straits. You seek to hold them against Serkland. Help us now against the invaders, and I swear on my honor, we will send warriors to aid your war.”
Karolus leaned forward on his throne, grasping the armrests. “When?”
No good answer for that. Even once Volsung was driven out, they needed to sail for Vanaheim. Still, he could not offer the emperor vague promises. “Give us six moons.”
The emperor confirmed with his emissary a moment before answering through the little man. “Five moons for the rest—but berserkir and varulfur are to be sent as soon as your foes are dispatched.”
Tyr nodded in agreement. Frigg would be bound by his oath, but the queen would welcome it. He hoped.
If it drove back Volsung’s army, it bought them time.
Karolus waved his hand, then turned to the armored man. “Roland, take your paladins and cavalry back with Tyr. Let us drive these raiders from our shores before the moon is waned.”
The armored man, Roland, nodded, then strode forward, beckoning Tyr to follow.
Good sign.
25
Freyja led Odin downward, into a cellar carved into the mountain. The lions were not with her, and he saw no reason to ask after them. A long stair led to a hallway rimmed by a half dozen doors, the last of which Freyja opened. The circular room inside was small and plain, ringed by a stone bench. At the center rested a low stone table with a pit of smoldering coals set inside it.
“The woman seems half mad,” Odin told her.
“Gullveig is eccentric. Too much time smoking her own herbs.”
“Isn’t that why we came down here?”
Every other room he’d seen in Sessrumnir was replete with natural light from large windows or, on the top floor, open atria in the roof. Plants and water were everywhere.
This chamber was naught like the rest of the palace. After days walking in sunlight, surrounded by greenery, the darkness here was so oppressive, it tugged at his heart. He had to fight the urge to embrace the Sight just to reveal what went on here. Freyja had asked endless questions about the Niflungar, and Odin had admitted to meeting Gjuku, Grimhild, and Gudrun. The first two names Freyja seemed to know.
Despite the direness of their topics, the Vanr woman had an easy smile and lightness in her way. None of that shone through here, though.
“What is this place?” He twitched his thumb over the vial Gullveig had given him. If this was to be his introduction to alchemy, he hardly felt he’d learned a damned thing.
Freyja sat on the bench and motioned for him to take a place across from her, waiting until he did so to speak. “There are some things best considered free from any potential distractions. We call these rooms void chambers because the darkness is meant to help empty your mind. I know there are things you hold back, things you have not told me of yourself or of your enemies. They weigh on you like an anchor, threatening to pull you under. Those burdens will only amplify the risks you take in delving into the arcana of the Otherworlds.”
In darkness lies all truth … in madness lies apprehension …
Also in darkness, the wraith woke. Odin sighed, his eyes drawn from her face to the coals.
Freyja stoked the pit with nearby wood, until the flames rose. The hypnotic patterns called to him, whispering things just beyond his hearing. Was this the pyromancy Gullveig spoke of? If only he could see a little more. But no matter how far he plumbed the depths of the Sight, he could never quite make sense of it. Maybe Freyja could help him. Maybe she was the only one who could, or would help him. But that would mean admitting he possessed the Sight, which would in turn lead to questions he could not answer.
But then, he had the vial. This was why Freyja had brought him down here. She must have known what Gullveig would prepare.
And Freyja was right. The less he told her, the less she could help him. He had promised Idunn he would do all he could to win the loyalty of the Vanir. Moreover, something—prescient insight or pure intuition—told him Freyja was the key to the Vanir. She was the king’s daughter, but more than that, her mere presence infused vibrance and life into even this empty room. She had a depth to her, even more than Idunn, and it had come as no surprise to hear of their long friendship.
Finally, he looked up from the flame. “Should I …”
She waved her hand, inviting him to pour the vial’s contents into the flame.
He did so. The fire reacted immediately, sputtering and turning a shade bluer. An acrid scent like burning oil filled the room. Freyja leaned back on her palms, eyes shut. Odin mirrored the gesture.
Soon, the room began to spin and to tilt like a ship on a stormy sea. Opening his eyes didn’t help. Everything had gone hazy with the smoke. Odin coughed, struggling to breathe. He was choking.
And his hands were wrapped around someone’s throat.
The haze parted just enough for him to see his victim’s face: Loki.
Odin reeled backward so quickly he toppled back off the bench and knocked his head against the floor. He scrambled up, coughing, and rubbing his head. What the fuck was that?
Had this foul brew somehow made him live a nightmare, made him to turn on his most trusted ally? If so, he would have words with Gullveig. Strong words.
Freyja watched him now, for time. “You have some semblance of the Sight, don’t you?”
Fuck it all. Odin coughed. Maybe she could not help him if he didn’t tell her. Worse, holding back from her felt like a serpent coiled in his gut, dripping venom. He wanted to tell her everything.
“How old do I seem to you, Freyja?”
She spread her hands. “Guessing mortal ages is not really an area I excel at. Sixty years, perhaps? Trying to impress me with how long you survived out in the cold?”
“I look that, don’t I? I’m approaching twenty-six winters.”
Now she leaned forward, frowning, the expression looking wrong on her face. “You’ve already tried sorcery, haven’t you?”
He chuckled. “I fear I have—and I’ve had it tried on me. I told you I was captured by Gjuki and the Niflungar. He tortured me, trying to break my spirit with unseen vaettir gnawing away at bits of my soul. I—my mind—was forced into the Astral Realm. I somehow … bound something to me.”
The wraith simmered beneath his skin, constricting around his throat as if trying to forestall his words. Odin clutched his neck with one hand. “Gudrun had told me I could glamour away the changes, but I didn’t dare dawdle in her company.” His voice sounded raspier than normal. “And so I returned to my people, aged and weathered.”
Freyja rose from where she sat and moved to stand in front of him, her eyes searching his face. “This was done to you?” She bit her lip, staring at his face for what seemed an eternity. She moved her head about, examining him from every angle. “I feel like I know you. I mean, that I somehow knew you before I ever met you.”
No answer seemed sufficient for that. He could tell her he knew the feeling, that, ever since he had met her, his mind had tingled with something like premonition or a forgotten memory. He could say he wanted to know her. She was so close, he wanted her to touch him, put her hand on his face.
Before he could say anything, she did so, almost as though she had read his mind. “This Gudrun told you that you could glamour away the change?”
Odin sputtered. Hel take him for a trollfucker. He hadn’t even thought about the implication of that.
“So you are schooled in the Art? What have you bound?”
“I …”
Freyja leaned so close, her cheek nearly brushed his. Her breath on his ear tingled as she whispered. “You have come into my realm, a land I am to protect. And now, I find you come bearing secrets with a little too much weight behind them. I like you, Odin. But you are going to tell me the truth now.” Despite the soft
ness of her voice, her tone brooked no argument.
Nor could he bring himself to lie. Odin was suddenly beyond weary of the deception. He could tell her he carried the blood of Halfdan the Old. There was probably truth enough in such a claim. And yet, such words tasted bitter on his tongue.
What horror had Gullveig’s brew shown him? Could it truly be the future? Or some terror-born hallucination?
“A wraith.”
Silence!
Freyja recoiled with a look like she’d eaten something rotten.
“Midgard is dying, Freyja.” He spoke softly, not wanting her to pull away further, nor wanting to see judgment in her eyes. “Mankind’s numbers dwindle with each passing year, while trolls and vaettir grow fat feasting on our bones and very souls. And now, the Niflungar hunt me and my kin across the land. Eostre spoke the truth—their exile is over. I went to them not knowing who or what they were, sent there by a treacherous ghost. I went to them to reclaim what they had stolen long ago. And for reasons I cannot begin to fathom, their goddess has set out to break me.”
“You think Hel herself has some special interest in you?”
“She sent a jotunn to murder my father. Gudrun claimed Ymir intended to find me. Maybe he would have, had I not driven a spear through his head.”
Freyja pulled away now, staring at him as if trying to tell whether he spoke the truth. “You killed a jotunn.”
“I did. And because of that …” Idunn was Freyja’s friend. Odin had to pray that friendship meant enough to Freyja to protect Idunn and him. He had started down this path, and he could not now avoid telling this. “Idunn came to me. And she gave me something.”
Freyja’s eyes widened and she backed away until her heels bumped the table. “No.”
“She did the only thing she could think of to try to spare mankind from the ravages of the cold.”
“No.” Freyja shook her head. “No. She … she wouldn’t.”
“The Vanir have done naught to protect us from the Niflungar. And now …” Odin rose, too, moving to once again stand close to her face. “Now I am using what she gave me to try to save both of our peoples. Help me do that, Freyja. Do not turn your back on humanity the way your father has.”
“Do you have any idea what Father will do to Idunn if he finds out?”
Odin shut his eyes. “Kill her, I assume, and me as well.” All the more reason to not reveal the other apples. “But he doesn’t have to know.”
“Oh, Odin. You think her punishment would end in death? He would cast her from this world, thrust her into the Spirit Realm to fall prey to whatever vaettir took it upon themselves to feast upon her soul. If she was lucky, he might throw her into Alfheim, where I banished the First Ones. If less so, she might be cast into Svartalfheim or even …” She did not say Niflheim, though the thought obviously crossed her mind.
Odin swallowed. He had not known such a thing were even possible, though, after his own astral projection, he supposed it should have occurred to him. “You cannot tell him. If you do, your friend’s fate falls on your head as much as mine.”
“I didn’t ask for this burden!” she snapped.
“Who asks for burdens? I did not ask Idunn to choose me, but she did so. I most certainly didn’t ask Hel to send Ymir to murder my father. Nor did I truly intend to bind this vaettr to me. The Niflungar march as we speak. A few scant moons ago, they attacked us with an army of draugar. Through courage, luck, and sacrifice, we survived—or some of us did. There are no more Lofdar to hold them back. There is you and there is me. Save the world, or let it freeze. Only those choices remain to you.” He stepped back, giving her space. He had not asked for it, and yet it had come to him. The sense of destiny was almost staggering, and that soured his stomach. Urd. Compelling his actions, making his choices for him. He extended a hand.
That could not be the future he had seen.
Freyja’s eyes darted back and forth between his outstretched hand and his face. Her eyes bored into him, as if seeing his soul, as if able to uncover the last secrets he kept from her: the other apples, and the final truth that he would bring all the Aesir to these shores. That, if Njord would not ally with him, Odin would take his throne. Would, if forced to it, kill Freyja’s father. The deeper she looked into him, the more his fear grew until he could hear the pounding on his own heart. She knew him, though he could not explain it. She knew him, and she would read his deceptions written across his soul as clearly as the runes marked upon his skin.
Her mouth trembled. This was it. She would speak the words and accuse him of treachery, force him to make even her his enemy. He wanted to speak, to plead, to beg her to make the right choice. But his mouth had grown so dry, his tongue would not work.
And then she clasped his arm. The moment she did so, a torrent of sensations washed over him. He felt the smoothness of her skin, the pliancy of her breasts under his fingers. The taste of her lips and the impossible warmth as he pushed himself inside her. All passed over him in the space of a heartbeat, moments so intense he fell to his knees, gasping. Did the Sight show him his future with this beautiful enchantress, or lay bare desires he could no longer deny? He had sworn to do better by Frigg and his family. He had taken an oath.
Freyja too panted, though whether she had seen the same thing as he, or was merely responding to his action, he could not say. She backed away, putting the table between them then shaking her head. “Your people … they worship me as the goddess of sorcery—of seid—right?”
And of sex. Odin decided not to ask how she had earned that title. Not yet. He nodded. “The vӧlvur worshipped you as a patron.”
Freyja sighed, then sat on the bench again. “It’s because in ancient times, I also tried to help humanity. I tried to do what you asked, and I taught a very few women.”
“The vӧlvur?”
“Back then they were called the seidkonur. And the descendants of Halfdan used what I had taught them to unleash horrors upon Midgard. They breached the Veil carelessly, without thought for what they might let into our world. This knowledge is the most dangerous weapon in all creation. A weapon often more dangerous to its wielder than its target. And if you have any other weapon that will do, be spear or sword, or even a rock—I suggest you turn to that first.”
“And when Grimhild uses her sorcery to enslave and slaughter my people, at least we’ll know we didn’t take unnecessary risks. Nothing has changed here, Freyja. Yes, I had an apple. I am still the man Eostre asked you to teach so that I could stand against the Niflungar and every other threat out there.”
The Vanr blew out a long breath before letting her forehead fall into her hands. Finally, she snorted. “Sometimes I wish I had someone to pray to.”
Odin could empathize. Finding out the gods he’d spent his life worshipping were naught but men and women, that they did not answer prayers for they could not even hear them, had left him adrift. Almost as much as Eostre’s revelation—or claim—that Valhalla did not exist.
Freyja shook her head. “We’re done for today. I need time to think.”
So did he. More than she could imagine.
26
They had decided to sail some few ships directly against the Ás beach. Loge had interfered, and Gudrun’s army—Volsung’s army, rather—had nigh broken because of it. In doing so, however, he had revealed himself once more. Now she, and Guthorm, knew the fire priest was here. With Volsung’s men losing their nerve, the only answer seemed a final, desperate assault. Let Volsung burn what enemy ships he could. Gudrun and Guthorm had another mission.
Volsung’s remaining berserkir led the charge against the Ás camp. A dozen men and three women leapt over the sides of their longships and rushed through the shallows, howling in mad ferocity. In moments, they would become bears and tear into their foes. Predictably, the Aesir had seen the ships approach moments before, and their own warriors had formed a line to meet the advance. Shield lines were apt to hold back an advance of charging warriors, but less suited to halt
the momentum of a dozen angry bears.
All of it suited Gudrun well enough. The Sight had told her Odin had already left, and they could not find him. That, Gudrun had to assume, meant he must have gone to Vanaheim, probably riding that accursed monstrous horse of his. And with the Ás king gone, Volsung and Fenrir could slaughter his people all the more freely, save for the threat of Tyr—who seemed oddly absent these last days—and of Loge.
At her request, Volsung had dropped her and Guthorm off in a rowboat some distance away. Now, as the sun began to set, Guthorm’s strength increased. The boat surged forward with each great heave of his shoulders. Her brother’s face remained locked in a mask of pain and rage, though Gudrun could not say for certain whether moving actually hurt him, or whether he was trapped in the never-ending agony of his death. She feared to ask.
Screams rang out, war cries mingling with the pain of the dying and the lamentations of the living. Gudrun held her hands out, palms up, calling mist around the rowboat. Shrouding such a large vessel in mist took most of her concentration and a great deal of her energy. Snegurka squirmed, growing stronger—nigh strong enough to steal the breath from her lungs. But stealth was of the essence here, after all. Guthorm was tasked to find and capture Loge. Her brother would follow those commands, she knew, but quite likely might seek to let the priest destroy him in the process. Part of Gudrun wanted to allow it, wanted to see him find peace, if any was to be had. But Loge was an obstacle to her own plans, and if he could be eliminated, Gudrun would have a far freer hand with Odin.
The boat scraped the sand, crunching to a stop. Guthorm rose, keeping his cloak drawn around his decaying face, and stalked out into the mist. The draug took off as though he knew where to find his prey. Perhaps Hel guided her servant. Even in life, her brother had excelled at finding his targets and eliminating them. The mists clung to him so deftly, he must have retained an ability to control them. A draug wielding the Art, an undead sorcerer bent on revenge and slaughter. The thought left Gudrun cold. As with Fenrir, Grimhild probably did not quite understand what she had unleashed.
