by Matt Larkin
So the Vanr hadn’t seen Odin’s treachery. He turned to Freyja. “Let me look at what?”
“Lytir is the Voice of Urd. It seems the sisters welcome you to look upon the Well of Urd.” Was that fear in her voice?
Before he could ask more, she grabbed his hand, forcing him to relax his fist so she could thread her fingers with his own. She pulled him forward, toward the path.
“You will not like what you see,” Lytir called after them. “Few ever do.”
Odin stiffened but did not look back at the Vanr. The passage was so tight he and Freyja could not walk side by side, so she pulled ahead, drawing him after her. A protective instinct he could not explain compelled him to pat her arm in reassurance. She was frightened. She, the immortal sorceress and goddess of seid, feared this Well of Urd. Or else feared what dwelt in its presence.
33
Grimhild’s curse was subtle. Oh, Gudrun could see it working on Tyr, yes, but that had not stopped the warrior from slaughtering Volsung’s men. The very bloodthirst Grimhild had inflicted on him had turned him into a monstrous foe who cut down Gudrun’s allies with such efficiency even Volsung had sounded the retreat. Nor did she blame him. This was a battle they ought to have won, and yet, no one had been able stand against Tyr in battle. Any who tried were feeding ravens now.
Besides which, the influx of Vallander cavalry had cost them this day. Volsung had succeeded in burning four Ás ships. Hardly a victory, but then, his distraction had let her capture Loge, and naught else truly mattered this day.
Gudrun had retreated back to Volsung’s longship. Loge was there, bound to the mast by an orichalcum chain, gagged to prevent him from speaking. Had he but glared at her in wrath, she might have borne it. Instead, his eyes held a wicked certainty that bespoke revenge and horrors to be visited upon his foes. It wasn’t rage she saw, but a fey knowledge that seemed to come from the Sight. And she could not stand to look at him.
She turned from him to where Volsung sat on a bench, barking the occasional order at his men. Hljod was binding a wound in his shoulder, one inflicted by the blade of a Vallander knight. No one had expected Karolus or his men to join this battle. Odin and his people continued to prove more resourceful and more troublesome than any Niflung would have credited, even Gudrun. She supposed she would have to stop underestimating them.
The king glowered at Gudrun. “What fiend possesses that man?”
A difficult question to answer. Maybe it would be easier for Volsung to allow him to believe Tyr and the other few Aesir possessed. Certainly better than allowing him to learn the truth of the apples, or of the curse Grimhild had placed upon the Ás champion. But then, she was not certain she owed him any answer at all.
This battle was lost, yes, but it was not all in vain. Guthorm had succeeded, and in so doing had deprived the Aesir of an asset more valuable than even Tyr. If they remained here, sooner or later Frigg or that damned woman of Loge’s would figure out where he was, and then they’d be dealing with an Ás assault. It was time to count their victories, however small, until a new opportunity presented itself. Grimhild might have been content to allow the Hunalanders and the Aesir to slaughter each other to a man, but Gudrun was not. Not if Hljod was to be Volsung’s queen, as now seemed all but certain.
Gudrun pointed at Loge without actually meeting his gaze. “We accomplished our dearest objective. Tell your other men to cover our retreat and make sail back for your castle.”
Volsung rubbed the bandage Hljod had applied to his shoulder. The girl had laced it with a poultice Gudrun had taught her, one that ought to prevent infection and speed healing. The king did know quite how lucky he was to have Hljod’s ministrations. “I thought the objective was to break the Aesir and stop them from sailing for the islands of the gods.”
“That was an objective. But this man cannot be allowed to fall back into their hands, not on any account.”
Volsung frowned. “I lost a lot of men, and we took very little plunder. They will not be happy. Are we to count ourselves revenged with such little gain?”
“Would they rather wade back in against that warrior they so fear? Let them raid a few more villages along the shore on the way back.”
Hot breath stung the back of her neck, and Gudrun had to suppress a shudder. She turned slowly to face Fenrir. The werewolf stood so close, her stomach clenched, but to back away would make her look weak. Blood smeared his face.
“Odin is not here.”
Well, she had already known that, but it at least explained where Fenrir had disappeared off to during the numerous skirmishes in recent days. Her eyes drifted down to something he held. Fenrir followed her gaze and lifted the object up before her. A leg and foot, torn off at the knee and dripping blood. From the look of it, a woman’s leg. The varulf bit down, tearing a chunk off and splattering her with blood.
At that, Gudrun did back away, covering her mouth to avoid retching. “One day soon, I will slip your mother’s feeble grasp.” He spoke while he chewed, dribbling gore. “I hope you are looking forward to it as much as I am.”
Gudrun swallowed. She wanted to call for her brother, but he had wrapped himself in a cloak and hidden away from the sun. Instead, she forced her face to calm, trying not to acknowledge Fenrir’s obvious threat. “The warrior Tyr has become a liability. Go back and kill him, then follow us to Hunaland.”
Fenrir chuckled, then looked around, eyes pausing as he gazed at Loge. “No.”
“No?”
He shrugged. “Your mother demands Odin’s head. That is the only command I am bound to. And once it’s done … then we’ll see what I can do for you.” He leaned closer again and patted her hip with the severed foot. “Are you … a screamer?”
“How dare you?” Volsung said and spat at Fenrir’s feet.
Before Gudrun could even blink, the varulf had closed the distance and hefted the king up by the throat. “Was that supposed to be a challenge?”
“Release him!” Gudrun shouted. “I command you!”
One of Volsung’s thegns drove a sword through Fenrir’s gut. The werewolf dropped the king and looked down at the blade. Then he turned to its owner, eyes filled with murder. The man backed away, mouth agape that Fenrir had not fallen. Others swore, invoking the names of false gods, as if that might save them.
Hel.
Oh, Hel.
Fenrir grabbed the sword with one hand and yanked it out, heedless of the cuts on his palms. He snapped the blade in half like kindling, tossed the hilt aside, and slowly advanced on the thegn who attacked him.
“Stop!” Gudrun commanded.
The werewolf lunged forward, grabbed the thegn, and rammed the broken blade through his bowels. A foul stench spread over the ship. Fenrir tossed the whimpering man aside. The cuts on the varulf’s hands began to close before Gudrun’s eyes, as did the wound in his belly.
“Odin has gone to Vanaheim,” Gudrun said. “You failed. He is beyond your reach.”
Fenrir sneered, then stalked to the one of the rowboats. “There is nowhere in this world beyond my reach.” He tore the bindings free and let the boat crash down into the sea. Then he looked back at her. “Await my return, Princess. Or run. I like it when prey runs.” With that, he leapt over the gunwales and into the boat.
Gudrun shut her eyes and tried not to shake. Behind her, Hljod was weeping softly, Volsung whispering hollow comforts to her. Grimhild should not have released this monster. In truth, Gudrun had no idea where Fenrir had come from in the first place. But the Niflungar, at least through Grimhild, had given him reason to hate them. And angering so powerful a being was madness she suspected they would all pay for soon enough.
The thought somehow reminded her of Loge. The priest was staring off in the direction Fenrir had fled, straining uselessly against his chains.
“Get us away from this cursed land,” Volsung commanded.
34
The path wound back in a circle, descending until Odin was fair certain they had passed direc
tly below the chamber where they had met Lytir. Here, it opened into another such chamber. In this one, three hooded women stood around a massive well, one of them drawing water from it in a clay pail.
This place … he knew it. He had seen it in the depths of a mountain far from here, taken to a place only Sleipnir knew. On Loki’s advice.
The one with the water hobbled over to a section of the wall where the roots had frayed and begun to wither, then tipped the pail over, spreading the waters evenly across a wide swath of it. When done, she returned to her sisters.
Odin took a few halting steps forward, pulling Freyja after him. “You are Norns.”
Their robes were just the same as those of the others, and the well too seemed similar. The Well of Urd? The other Norns had had a well, too. Or perhaps these were the same ones, though this looked changed, more earthen, and the ground around it seemed like loam or mud.
“We are.”
“We were.”
“We will be.”
Odin scowled. “I’ve played this game before, and I don’t relish the thought of untangling more riddles.”
“All riddles are one riddle.”
“All mysteries were the great mystery.”
“What you will want matters less than what you will have.”
Freyja squeezed his hand. Her own felt clammy. Who were these Norns, really, that even a Vanr like Freyja should fear them? What power did they hold? Maybe the ultimate power. The power of knowledge, secrets of past, present, and future. Secrets they did not easily share, and certainly not in plain speech. But Odin had come here to learn those secrets. Eostre had spoken of a well that had shown Mundilfari much. And now it might be the best chance Odin would have ever at understanding his visions.
He would not become Loki’s enemy. He would not let mankind fall to Hel.
He returned the squeeze, keeping his eyes on the hooded women. “Are you the same Norns I met last year?”
“All Norns are—”
“Were—”
“Will be Norns.”
Odin groaned. If this continued, all Norns were going to be dead. “You told Lytir to let me pass. What do you want from me?”
“Everything.” The three spoke in unison, their word echoing through the root hall and sending shivers over Odin.
“So be it. Let me look upon your well.” Odin stepped forward, but Freyja remained rooted in place. He looked back to her.
She shook her head before finally releasing her grip on his hand and stepping back to the threshold. Lytir had warned him he wouldn’t like what he saw. Whatever that well showed, Freyja clearly had no desire to look. Or to look again, perhaps, had she ever come here before. Either way, he had come this far and had no choice. He could not turn from aught that could illuminate the maddening visions the Sight revealed. After offering Freyja a reassuring pat on the shoulder, he strode forward.
Look deeply … into the dark … And see … truth …
One of the Norns blocked his path. “You will not see what you are missing until after your final breath.” With that, the women parted around him, allowing him to approach the well.
The ground squelched under his feet as he drew nigh. The well’s sides were also formed of root, knotted endlessly upon itself until it looked almost like a woven basket, one nigh unto two dozen feet across.
The well almost seemed to call him, and he leaned upon the rim. Though lumpy, the root surface was smooth and slightly chilled. Far below, perhaps ten feet, dark waters lay still, barely illuminated by the mushrooms growing in this chamber. With a start, he realized a pair of swans—stark white—swam on the far side of its waters. He blinked and they were gone, almost like they had stepped across the Veil.
Odin leaned further out over the well. The Vanir seemed to worship this Well of Urd, but he didn’t see … Something moved in the water, though the surface remained still. Vertigo seized his gut and pulled him forward. He was falling in! His hands still gripped the well’s side, but he was certain he was falling. The plummet went on and on, for a dozen agonizing heartbeats. And then icy water engulfed him, filled his ears and nose and lungs. Back and forth he twisted, hands grasping for aught to hold on to. There was naught here save water, seeping into his soul, tearing his mind from his body.
Water and darkness, like the darkness between the stars. And something darker still, watching him, waiting in realms beyond Odin’s ken. It knew a door would one day open. The world of men would fall to shadows and drown in an abyss. Such things Odin knew with a sudden, heartrending certainty.
He stood upon a burning plain surrounded by mountains of the dead. The fallen stretched into the horizon and beyond. Millions of dead, their empty eyes accusing him of his failures. He had made an oath to return spring to Midgard. He had sworn it. And the angry ghosts of generation after generation cursed him for his broken, carelessly taken vow. For the crime of daring to offer hope where none could blossom.
Odin fell to his knees, weeping at the horror as Midgard turned to ash. Cinders drifted through his fingers like sand. In the distance Frigg stood before him, with Thor and Geri and Freki. His wife’s form flickered. Odin rose, running toward her. He had gone three steps only before she exploded into ashes, scattered on the scorching winds. Another step forward, and the werewolf twins caught aflame and vanished. Thor. Little Thor reached toward his father.
And he was no child, but a man, great and strong. And dying.
“We never stopped Ragnarok …” Thor said. “I tried …”
Odin ran faster than he had ever run, tripping over flaming corpses and crushing skulls beneath his feet. His fingers reached Thor’s. The moment they did so, his son broke apart, just as Frigg had.
“No!”
Odin stumbled, wailing. No! It was madness, some nightmare. He buried his head in his hands. He didn’t want to see this. Not this.
“Only fires burn pure.” The Norn’s voice broke through the trembling ground, reverberating against Odin’s skull.
First the burning child ignites a pyre you cannot staunch.
The first Norns had said that to him. Answering some question he had not even asked.
Odin looked up, but neither the Norns nor the burning field remained. Instead, he knelt in another place. Perhaps somewhere in Vanaheim, for ten thousand types of flowers grew about him. He was in a forest, one lush and pulsing with life. Moss covered every root, vines and creepers wrapped around each tree. The sound of streams running nearby mingled with calls of birds and the chirping of insects. Soft sunlight suffused everything.
What was he seeing now? Another future? An alternative to the burning horror he had seen a moment ago?
What was Ragnarok?
Odin tried to rise, but his feet and knees had become as roots themselves, planted in the ground. Leaves sprouted from his ribs as he looked at them, the sensation tingling rather than painful. He tried to speak, but his throat hardened and turned to bark, uttering a mere grunt.
“Is this the future you seek?”
The feminine voice came from behind him, but he could not turn to it. It rang hollow, fill with a chill that reminded him of his brief encounter with the Odling ghost. Mist seeped out around him, blanketing the ground, which froze as the vapors came. Odin’s roots shriveled and cracked in the cold, sending bolts of agony shooting through his entire body.
Snow crunched under the footsteps of the woman approaching. So slowly, he could barely breathe for anticipation, she drifted before him. The woman—or at least the female—was deathly pale. She wore a hooded cloak and naught else, but no hint of eroticism exuded from her. One side of her face was rotted away like dead flesh, putrefied, and in some places even revealing her skull. Where her lips had worn away, sharpened teeth, like fangs showed. The rot continued down the same side of her entire body—one breast was missing, her ribcage and blackened organs showing where it ought to have been. Writhing white hair framed her face, hanging in loose clumps on her rotten side.
The urge to
retch seized Odin, but his bark throat would not allow it. And he knew this thing. Knew it in the depths of his soul. Her mists had seeped into Midgard nigh unto five thousand years ago. Her touch had poisoned mankind and given rise to trolls. Her presence released the draugar and other foulness that had no right to walk upon Midgard. She was Hel.
And Hel smiled at him. “I know you. I know you of old, Odin Borrson.”
Her voice, as it hissed through her missing lips, felt like ravens clawed at his eardrums.
“Is this your promise to mankind … Destroyer? Burning or freezing. Either way, you offer only death. And I am death.”
And that was Ragnarok. The end of time. The war that would end the world. In seeing the past, he saw the future. The past Naresh had averted was merely delayed. Ragnarok was still lurching closer with every passing year.
This being, this vile goddess had sent Ymir after Borr. She had begun all of Odin’s pains. His chest shook, but even in his fear, his wooden form could not look away. Could not even close his eyes as she reached an icy hand toward his cheek. Her touch burned and froze at once, siphoning off his warmth and hope and his soul. She was right. Against this ancient power, there was no victory.
The goddess of the mists, the Queen of Death.
She was absolute. Hel. There is none greater. Those were the words of the Niflungar. And now, looking upon her horrid magnificence, faltering beneath her dire gaze, he could no longer deny their truth. Hel. There was none greater. His struggles against the mists were pointless vanity, the self-indulgent quest of a would-be god daring to stand against a true deity.
Despite the apple, Odin was just a man. A man could never stand against such a power.
“You’re wrong. A man did stand against her.”
Though mist still engulfed him, something about his vision had changed. A warm hand wrapped around his own—and through her pulse he felt his own. His heart beat again. His body was flesh. And the woman who now helped him up was not the rotting deity existing between life and death. She was young, vibrant. Lithe, with dark skin and darker hair that reminded him of Idunn. Or Eostre.
