by Matt Larkin
Mundilfari … She knew that name … An ancient king of Vanaheim, a sorcerer gone mad and left to wander the world. And he had known Loki back then? Of course he had. Given Loki’s inclination to pluck on the strands of fate at times of change now, why should she imagine he had been any different even back in the glory days of Vanaheim? The man might well have been one of the oldest, wisest Vanir yet living, but he still seemed perched upon the precipice of madness, ready to pitch over into that abyss with the slightest mischosen word.
He clucked his tongue. “You need not fear me. I owe your beloved more than I can express in words. Were it not for him, I might not yet linger in the twilight.”
Sigyn shifted. “And you blame Loki for your … twilight?”
“No. Oh, no. The alternative to twilight is the omnipresent dark of oblivion. Though oblivion, were it senseless, might offer respite.”
“From what?”
Mundilfari chortled and banged his thumbs to his eyebrows. “Can you envision aught worse than mist? Look deep beyond the Veil and you might.”
It was like talking to Loki if the man were half asleep. And drunk. And possibly smoking some of Frigg’s vision-inducing herbs. “I need to find him.”
“The Destroyer?”
“Loki! I need to find Loki.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. The fire bringer. He knows. The price. Touch the Art and it touches you—sell your soul and one day something comes to collect.”
She wanted to dismiss his words as more ravings, but she could not deny they sent her heart lurching into her throat and set her shivering. Was this the future of any who relied on the Art? Was this Loki’s future? And if so, had he foreseen it in the flames?
“Loki was captured by the Niflungar. I think they may have brought him this way. I need to find him. Can you help me?”
“Oh.” He rammed his thumbs against his eyebrows again. “Oh … yes. Ships came by, two days from now. Maybe one.”
“Two days from now?” So Mundilfari had seen the future?
“From now … before.” Still tapping his thumbs. “Before. Before now. One or two days.”
The urge to throttle him seized her. “Two days ago, ships came by here, and you think he might be on those ships. Is that correct?”
“Oh. Yes.”
She started to rise before a wave of dizziness drove her back down. Her muscles didn’t want to answer her commands any longer.
“Rest. He is lucky to have found you again, after all. You’ll find him.”
“Found me again?”
“Oh.” He stared in the flames. “Perhaps you knew each other in another lifetime.”
Had Loki not once said something along those lines? It didn’t matter. None of Mundilfari’s musings, daft or insightful, meant a damn while Gudrun held Loki. The thought of it filled the gaping maw in her gut with a smoldering fury akin to the blazes Loki used to scorch his enemies. Sigyn didn’t need the Art of Fire, though. When she found Gudrun, she’d wreak revenge befitting not only the tortures she herself had suffered, but those visited upon the man she loved. They had thought to use her against Loki and paid the price for it. Now, they had made the mistake of thinking to go after him directly, forgetting for a moment, that others might be willing to go as far as he had gone to rescue Sigyn. Or farther.
“Careful,” Mundilfari said. “Ignite such anger and you will not find it easy to quell.”
“I don’t intend to quell it. I intend to sate it.”
The old sorcerer king sighed and shook his head. “Then sleep now. Your enemies will remain when you wake.”
40
A shriek woke him.
Tyr jolted awake, Gramr in hand. Had he slept holding the sword, or merely drawn it without realizing it? Either way, he had no time to dwell on such thoughts. He rose stiffly. Every muscle in his body ached from the beating they had taken the day before. How much worse then, would those without the blessings of an apple be feeling? Quite, he suspected.
The blinding sun had just risen above the horizon, illuminating the ring of mist that surrounded the isles of Vanaheim. Because of that ring, rising up several hundred feet, the full light of the sun didn’t reach them until well past dawn.
Already a small crowd had gathered around the screaming woman. That was the Itrmanni camp.
What in the name of all his ancestors went on now? He yanked on his trousers and then his boots, then scrambled over to the ever-growing crowd. By the time he reached them, nigh unto a hundred men and women had formed a circle. One he had to shove his way through to find the center.
The smell reached him before the sight. Blood and shit, guts. Smell of battle. He pushed a large man aside to reveal a gore-tossed beach. The sand was stained crimson for ten feet in all directions. Scattered limbs, fingers, a foot. Had to be at least two people’s worth of guts, but the victims were so rent he could not be certain.
One torso lay face down in the sand, a ragged, bloody hole torn right through him where his heart ought to have lain. Whatever had done this had ripped it out.
Tyr raised an involuntary hand to his mouth at the sight. He’d seen more battlefields than he could remember. Seen men die of terrible wounds and the vile infections that oft followed. Never could he remember seeing killings of such viciousness.
Could the Vanir have done this? Certainly they practiced the cursed Art. And what other reason could there be for such brutality, than to fuel profane sorcery? But to think they had crept into the Ás camp undetected and slaughtered these two people, and then slipped away unbeknownst to all …
“What happened?” Frigg was calling.
Damn it. Tyr spun away, intercepting her. The queen had no need to see such foulness. With this many witnesses—their numbers growing every moment—word would spread to every Ás of this.
He caught Frigg and dragged her away from the crowd. Too much chaos here. Too many angry eyes looking for answers.
“There was another victim, wasn’t there?” she asked.
“Another?”
“At least four people are dead in the Godwulf camp, and the two Hasding sentries you set to the north are missing.”
At that, Tyr spun back and snared a gawker by the arm. “Whose camp was this?”
The man shrugged. Someone else looked at him. “Jarl Arnbjorn and his wife.”
“Oh …” Frigg groaned.
Gods, they were in troll shit now. He grabbed Frigg’s arm and pulled her further away. Everyone had to know of Arnbjorn’s impending claim against Frigg. He had threatened to have her disposed in the morn. And he had not made it through the night.
“The other victims, were they jarls?” he asked.
Frigg shook her head. “One thegn. A washerwoman. The others we haven’t even identified.”
Random foul luck for Arnbjorn?
“Tyr.”
He looked to her.
“Listen to me. The moment the shock clears, suspicion will begin to fall on you and on me. You for your past actions and me because of what happened with Arnbjorn.”
“How could anyone possibly think any Ás could do this?”
Frigg shook her head sadly. “People are horrified, angry. Looking for an easy answer. We don’t even know how many of us are left after that whale attack. No one will stop to think about this calmly.”
He ran his thumb along Gramr’s hilt. Frigg spoke truth, but he would not answer for crimes he had not committed. “If they think me guilty, let one of them dare call me to a holmgang.”
Frigg raised a stern hand. “Oh, they will. And you’ll kill them. And the hatred will fester. We cannot afford that. Before that happens, you need to find who is responsible.”
“My place is by your side, my queen. If any dare raise a hand to you, I will be there to lop it off.”
“Tyr, please. You are the only one I have left to count on. Take the finest hunter we have and find out who did this.”
Tyr rubbed his beard and turned about. Yes, the crowd had already grown restless. Th
e Hasdingi had a famed hunter among them, Hermod’s father. “Agilaz. Where is he?”
Frigg frowned. “I don’t think he survived the crossing.”
That drew a bout of silence from him. Damn Rán and her mer and that fucking whale. Damn them all. Agilaz had been a good man. And Hermod. Fuck. Hermod would be devastated.
Frigg’s eyes narrowed. “Who is the next most famed hunter you know?”
“I don’t …” And then he knew what she was about. “No. Absolutely not. The woman hates me.”
“But you can personally vouch for her skill and discretion.”
Yes, Zisa was a master tracker. One probably keen to put an arrow in his chest. “This is not wise.”
Frigg pointed back at the slaughter. “The people need a culprit for this, Tyr. Our little alliance is about to crumble into a very bloody slaughter. So, unless you can bring Odin back within the day, I suggest you give them somewhere else to focus their attention.”
Even if that meant asking his obstinate ex-wife for her aid?
The look on Frigg’s face answered that question.
Venom fit to wither a linnorm laced Zisa’s eyes every time she cast a glance in Tyr’s direction. Though the former huntress had not refused to help—given Tyr had phrased it as an order from the queen—she had left him with no illusions as to how she felt about being forced to toil by his side.
Now, she crouched among underbrush some distance beyond the beaches. Tapping a broken stem of some lush plant Tyr could never identify. This land was hotter than a boiling cauldron of stew, drawing forth a steady stream of sweat from both Zisa and himself. She had cast aside her mail before they left camp, and Tyr found himself wishing he had done the same.
“Found something?”
She grunted, then nocked an arrow to her bow, moving forward in a half crouch.
“How do you know this wasn’t one of our own people?” Aesir had come into the forest looking for wood, eager to stoke the fires high. And here, in this land, wood was beyond plentiful.
Zisa didn’t answer, instead, pushing onward.
With a grumble, Tyr grasped Gramr and crept forward after her.
“I want to say something,” he whispered. “I mean to say I’m sorry about—”
“Shh!” Now she slunk around a tree, and continued forward on a narrow path. Trail was well hidden, but obvious enough once he trod upon it. Game trail, perhaps, but Zisa followed it intently.
She didn’t want to hear aught he had to say. Nor was this the time. Even were it, he could not well apologize for killing her husband, could he? And then he had forced her and her sons onto ships attacked by a fucking whale monster. A palpable relief had overcome him to learn hers was a ship untouched by the devastation. Maybe he ought to have let her go, wander the wilds, as she seemed to desire.
Yes, profound danger might have hounded her every step. But then, danger lurked here too. Obviously.
Some things could not wait.
“Why did you not tell me?”
She glanced back at him with a scowl. “Don’t be daft. You think I would cast doubt on the parentage of a jarl’s firstborn while the jarl lived?” With that, she turned away, leaving him to his thoughts.
He followed her through the woods feeling numb. How was he supposed to be a father to a boy he’d only ever hurt?
Without warning she paused, rising up behind a tree. Tyr drew closer. A small clearing, thirty feet across, perhaps, and within it a moss-drenched stump the size of a house and nigh to twenty feet tall. In the middle of this stump lay a door partially concealed by the overgrowth. That tree must have been enormous before it fell, though still not as large as the behemoth they saw in the far distance. Yggdrasil, a tree of legend. An impossibility Tyr was not ready to dwell on.
This, though, demanded his immediate attention. If the tracks had led here, then, like as not, their murderous prey lurked within.
“Troll?” he whispered.
“Here?” She looked at him like an imbecile.
Probably not a troll. Scowling, he drew Gramr and made his way toward the stump house.
Zisa mumbled under her breath and, as he glanced back, began slinging her bow over her shoulder. Such a weapon was excellent for hunting, but not suited for use in close quarters. As a shieldmaiden, she was adept enough with spear and shield, but she had brought neither in favor of the bow and a broadsword. Well enough. Spear had less use inside a house.
With a nod at her, Tyr tried the door. It slipped open with a painfully loud squeak. Holes in the stump’s roof had been patched with panes of glass, allowing a crisscross of light beams to run over the otherwise dark interior. Vials, painted jars, and strange baubles covered shelves ringing the whole dwelling. An alcove housed an oversoft bed and, near it, a table and chair. Papers overflowed from that table. Whole place reeked of strange odors not unlike the foul stench of a troll mixed with rotting mushrooms.
A worn, wooden staircase led underground. Tyr glanced at Zisa, who continued scowling. He grimaced. Downward, then. A faint, flickering light rose from down there. Gramr out before him, he descended, one slow, careful step at a time.
The stairs wound a circuitous round before opening out into the center of a room twice the size of the one above. A pair of braziers lit the room, the color of their flames slightly off, almost too red. Numerous tables cluttered the room here, each covered in more vials, powders, and ancestors knew what else making that stench.
Tyr turned side to side, sword before him. Something fluttered in the shadows and he spun. The hint of a shrouded woman stepped forward. Strange, floral tattoos covered what little he could see of her face. Her eyes seemed almost luminous in the darkness.
“Who—”
She blew a purple dust at him. The powder immediately set him coughing, sneezing, and swaying. Hundreds of glowing flies buzzed around his face. Tyr swatted at them with Gramr but they paid no mind.
Round he spun, finally ducking into a crouch, trying to avoid inhaling the foul swarm.
“Witch!” Zisa shouted. “What have you done to him?”
Had she bewitched him? Damn all sorcerers to Hel. Tyr swung Gramr, intent to drive her through the witch’s breast.
Someone shrieked.
“Be still!” Zisa shouted.
More screaming. The flies were only growing in number and in color—a rainbow of disgusting creatures intent on swarming his mouth and nose.
He rolled on the ground, covering his head. They were crawling in his beard, trying to tunnel into his ears.
“Release him or die!”
“That vial.” The voice sounded pained. “Pour the contents in his eyes.”
A moment later, rough hands jerked his head back, and some stinging liquid seared his eyes. Tyr convulsed, fell to the floor. Blinked. One by one the flies disappeared. His eyes stung. Everything looked blurred.
A thud sounded nearby.
He rolled to his knees. The witch lay face down on the floor. Zisa stood over her, blood dripping from the pommel of her sword. Trollfucking bitch had poisoned him, hadn’t she? He snatched up Gramr, intent to ram her through the witch’s back.
“Stop!” Zisa demanded. “Should we not bring her back to the others, to stand trial for her crimes?”
Bringing such a being among his people sounded dangerous. Besides which, Gramr hungered desperately for her blood. But Zisa had been the one to capture the Vanr witch; it was her right to decide.
Tyr spat. “Bring her, then.”
“She’s one of them.”
“A goddess.”
“I heard she used seid on Tyr.”
“She cut out men’s hearts for some witchery.”
With no hall to hold a proper Thing, Frigg had convened the remaining Ás jarls on the beaches. That, of course, meant every last Ás stood in the wings, barely held back by thegns who were themselves focused more on the fiendish woman in their midst.
They had bound her, and out of fear of being bewitched by her words, gagged h
er as well. Now, a hundred spears pointed at her, this witch sat on her knees. Eyes wide with fear. Feigned terror? How could so vile a creature know fear? Perhaps even a witch capable of carving out a man’s heart would tremble knowing her crimes uncovered.
“We do not know her name,” Frigg said. “We cannot hold a proper trial without allowing her to speak on her own behalf.”
Vili scoffed. “We’ve all seen what follows from witchcraft.” A pointed gaze at Tyr. “Do you truly wish to let this creature speak?”
The woman mumbled something through her gag.
Tyr scowled at first Vili, then the Vanr witch. “The vile poultices and potions we saw are enough to condemn her.”
Frigg held Gungnir. The queen rarely seemed to need so blatant a reminder she spoke for Odin. But then, when she had come to Tyr, she seemed truly afraid of this whole alliance collapsing. Maybe she was right. The Aesir needed a common foe, and now.
Some hidden struggle warred on Frigg’s face. “Perhaps,” she said after a long moment, “she is merely a vӧlva. Poultices and potions are necessities of healing.”
“Is murder vӧlva’s work?” Hoenir said. “Men and women are dead. A jarl and his wife murdered, brutally in their sleep. Why have we come to Vanaheim if not to face our foes?”
Gramr begged him to draw her. She needed this witch’s blood and she needed it now. Justice. Only justice.
Justice …
Blood.
Tyr grimaced, trying not to listen.
Frigg stood still for a long time, eyes locked on the witch. What did she mull over? What decision was there in this? The Vanir were enemies to all Aesir and, according to Odin, all humankind. She ought to be put down like a troll.
The shouts and indignant cries from around the circle only increased. Men spat in the witch’s direction. Someone threw a torch at her, though it fell short and landed on the sand.
Frigg looked to the crowd. Then she turned Gungnir in her hand and flung it. The throw was clumsy by a warrior’s standards. The spear punched through the witch’s hip. The woman fell, wailing even through the gag.
