by Matt Larkin
The light scorched his eyes, leaving naught but whiteness and the sensation of falling. A burning stench that ripped through him was the first thing he was aware of. Odin blinked, trying to clear his vision, but his eyes were nigh to useless, revealing only shadows. His muscles trembled.
Worlds unfolded before him—the nine worlds of the Spirit Realm. Left without sight, he had a clarity of vision, if only for a moment, for an instant of confusing flashes of sunlight and greenery and mist and flame and endless sea.
Something struck him in the ribs, lifting him off the ground for an instant before another heavy impact jarred him.
He was blinded. Shadows. Shadows like those of the Penumbra.
Scrambling to his knees he embraced the Sight. The Penumbra, too, was blurred, distorted like something underwater, but he saw it with something beyond mere eyes. Saw, as a hostile, man-sized ripple approached with raised trident. Odin spat blood, clenching his hand around Gungnir.
“You offered me a chance to yield,” Njord said. “But I owe you no such courtesy. You and your tribe shall sit before Hel this night.”
The shadows moved as the figure hefted the trident. Odin twisted at the last instant, jerking Gungnir forward. Its undulating blade tore through the Vanr’s armor, flesh, and bone to pierce out his back. Odin rose, hefting the man into the air.
He blinked, his vision slowly clearing, and dismissed the Sight. “I gave you a chance.”
With a shake of his head he flung Njord off the spear. The body crashed into the rail and tumbled off, falling into the chasm.
At once, Tyr was at his side, sword in hand and warding him against the astonished Vanir. They stood watching the Aesir, as if uncertain how to react to the death of their immortal king.
And then someone fired an arrow. The missile grazed Tyr. The Aesir exploded into action, surging forward over the Vanir.
Odin stumbled forward, away from the chaotic melee behind him. Tyr had it well enough in hand, after all. And Yggdrasil was there. Calling to him, beckoning him with visions and half-whispered prophecies. The World Tree held the secrets of all its worlds. Just as the Norns looked into past and present and future from the Well of Urd. This place was the center of creation, and Odin’s every step had carried him here. Always, always toward this destination. Toward answers, and even toward questions he had not known well enough to ask.
Yggdrasil is probably the most important place in all creation.
Freyja had claimed such when she first brought him here. Now he knew it without doubt.
Hundreds of leaves were falling from the tree now, as he drew nigh. Deaths—hundreds of deaths. Aesir and Vanir fighting across Vanaheim, the leaves of their souls being torn from the tree’s embrace.
At the end of the bridge, Lytir waited, a staff held out before him. “Come no farther, Odin. You do not come in peace, and you are not welcome.”
Odin slowed but did not stop. He could not stop, even had he wanted to. Not when urd demanded he continue on his way. Always forward, always toward destiny. The avalanche of fate that never stopped. “I need the answers. All the answers, priest.”
“You will not like the answers.”
So the priest had said before, and there had been truth in his words then. And yet, Odin could not turn back. His feet seemed to move of their own accord. “Stand aside, Lord Lytir. Do not test me.”
Lytir shook his head sadly. “I am not the test.” He slammed his staff over his knee, snapping it half.
At that, Odin faltered. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it as a massive shadow above drew his eye. A giant shape twice the size of a bear plummeted to the bridge, forcing Odin to roll to the side. A heartbeat later, a black squirrel landed where he had stood. The fall didn’t faze the creature, which immediately snarled at Odin, baring fangs the size of small swords. Its great bushy tail swished side to side, blocking Odin’s view of Lytir.
From behind the monster, the priest spoke. “Behold Ratatoskr, the messenger of Yggdrasil. You who approach the tree without permission are … damned. He will carry you down to Nidhogg for your eternal punishment. Forgive me, Odin.”
Ratatoskr leapt forward with such speed he almost seemed to fly. Odin rolled to one side again, only to be slapped by that tail. It flung him out into open air. His stomach shot up into his throat as he plummeted down into the chasm, wind rushing past him and stealing his screams. He landed on a massive root, the impact banging his teeth together and leaving the world spinning. Gungnir slipped from his grasp and fell, impaling itself on a root farther below.
Odin shook himself, looking up at the bridge three stories above. “Fuck a troll.”
That was all he had time to say as the massive squirrel gracefully landed before him, snarling. With no time to gain his feet, Odin simply rolled off the root and fell again, catching himself on the lower root. The sudden stop jarred his arms for an instant—at least until he drew upon his pneuma and rushed strength to his limbs.
A whole maze of roots interlocked under the bridge and stretched out farther and deeper than he could see, descending into endless darkness. Odin heaved himself onto the root as the squirrel leapt to another nearby. He caught the end of Gungnir as he landed, turning and swinging. Its undulating edge sliced through the tip of the beast’s snout.
The squirrel bellowed—a sound halfway between a chirp and a roar—and leapt backward, scurrying onto roots about Odin and disappearing into the darkness. He whipped the spear around, brandishing it above him. Damn monster could be anywhere. Slowly, pacing backward, he turned, trying to keep all angles in view. His foot slipped and he teetered over the abyss.
In the instant of his distraction, the massive form launched itself at him from above. It slammed into him and bore him down. Those giant fangs snapped above his face. The monster’s weight had pinned Gungnir to the ground. Its claws dug into his right arm, holding that, too, rending flesh. Odin roared back at the squirrel, shoving away at its neck with his free hand. It was larger and stronger than a snow bear. Slowly, those jaws moved closer and closer to his head, gnashing again and again. Hot saliva and a stream of the thing’s blood dribbled over his mouth and nose and eyes. Claws dug into his shoulders and chest, and only his power kept the pain from driving him into unconsciousness.
He was going to die on the roots of the Tree of Life. The sheer irony of it was almost enough to induce a fit of hysterical laughter. He was going to die.
But not here, not like this.
He had not come through so much to perish in the jaws of a squirrel. Screaming, he pulled against the claws pinning his right arm. Every movement tore the flesh from his bones. Red haze blurred his vision until all the pain became naught but a distant agony. He ripped his arm free and snapped his fist into the squirrel’s wounded nose. The creature shrieked and leapt away, tearing more flesh from Odin’s legs and chest with him. He was awash in blood, most of it his own. The root was so slick with it he stumbled as he tried to rise, falling to one knee and sliding toward the abyss.
Using Gungnir as a brace, he managed to gain his feet. The squirrel was skittering in the roots below, trying to pass under him. To attack from his flank. Odin turned, focusing all his energy into blocking pain and feeding strength into his legs. This squirrel was intent on dragging him down to this Nidhogg, and whatever that was, Odin didn’t think he wished meet Ratatoskr’s master.
The squirrel leapt again, and so did Odin, flying through the air with Gungnir outthrust. Its blade caught the surprised squirrel in the belly, ripping open a gash four feet wide. Muscle tore aside as torrents of blood poured from the beast. Odin landed on another root, stumbled, and turned. Ratatoskr also landed, but the blood so slicked his claws they skidded over the root and he fell. His weight bore him down off the root, but he caught himself, clawing at his slicked purchase. The beast’s great bushy tail beat at the chasm, at nothingness, as it tried to pull itself up.
Odin shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He slipped the dagger from his belt. Not e
xactly weighted for this, but then, his target could not really move, either. Odin reversed his grip on the blade and flung it with all his enhanced strength. The thing spun wildly and clunked the beast on the head, hilt first.
The impact was enough, and one of Ratatoskr’s claws slipped from the root. One leg alone could not support the beast, and its claws scraped great gouges in the wood, then slipped free as the monster plummeted into darkness.
Odin slumped down to his knees, and pitched forward, gasping as pain took him. His heart was slowing, each beat of it pulsing out more of his precious blood. He shut his eyes, unable to keep them open a moment more.
49
All Sigyn wanted was to collapse on the beach and sleep. Loki had almost lost consciousness as they swam, forcing her to give him the cloak. Wearing it, he hadn’t had the strength to fly, but had swum along the surface.
When they reached land, Loki resumed human form and pitched forward, hands barely catching himself on the sand.
Sigyn was freezing. She need to strip off these wet clothes or she might not even wake from sleep. Her hands shook so fiercely she only managed to fumble with the laces on her shirt, making no progress in untying them.
Panting, Loki rose, stumbling forward with each step.
“W-where are you going?”
He paused but seemed too weak to even turn to her. Instead, he pointed toward a copse of trees growing out beyond the beach.
Oh, Hel. He thought the Niflungar might still come after them. Or, if not Gudrun, at least that draug. If that was the case, they needed be out of the open.
At this point, she wanted to weep. Instead, she pushed herself up, teeth chattering, and took one faltering step after Loki.
Now he did look back at her, and shuffled to her side. He moved to support her with one arm.
No. No, he was the wounded one. Sigyn twisted, instead slipping his arm around her shoulders. For once, he needed her to save him. And she would not rest until she had completed that task.
They had stripped off their clothes and lay in each other’s arms, neither of them, Sigyn thought, having the least inclination toward romance. She had not bothered to ask for a fire. The draug might use it to find them.
And so they had slept, drawing what warmth they could from one another.
She woke to find him sitting, still holding her. His eyes were closed, his face contorted as if in pain. The wound on his chest no longer bled, but the raw flesh around it looked pale and sickly. Could an immortal get an infection? That seemed unlikely, but it still looked foul.
Sigyn brushed her fingers against the slash, and he flinched, but did not open his eyes. The sun had not yet risen, probably would not for several hours. Even a glance at her clothes told her they were still wet. The sun would dry them, but not for many hours yet. With naught else to do, she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to control her shivering.
How many times now had Idunn’s apple saved her life? She would have died on several occasions, had she been mortal. Part of her wondered if she would ever again see the Vanr woman. She and Odin had left before Sigyn had returned, and because of Gudrun, Sigyn had let Frigg sail to Vanaheim without her.
Loki shook himself. “I need fire.”
“But what about—”
“I have to have fire, Sigyn.”
She crawled over to her satchel and pulled out her well-worn flint and steel and a torch. It, too, was soaked, but she hoped the oil in the rag remained potent. Her fingers trembled as she tried to light a spark. Loki moved in to help, and between the two of them they managed to get a sputtering flame going.
He jammed the butt of the torch in the ground, then held a hand to the wound on his chest, groaning. Before Sigyn could move to his side, he sat up, staring into the fire. With every passing moment his scowl deepened.
Sigyn drew their clothes near the torch. It wouldn’t help dry them much, but it was all she could think to do. Finally, she folded her own legs to watch Loki. He sat very still, eyes locked on the flame. Sigyn saw so many colors there. The heat distorted the air, and the flame left numerous tiny tendrils of smoke. More details than she had noticed before, yes, but naught of whatever Loki seemed to see there.
He shook his head. “Odin is in danger.”
Sigyn hugged herself, uncertain what to say. Loki clearly sensed when those he cared for faced danger, that much she had figured out some time ago. The flames allowed him to focus the Sight in a process called pyromancy. She lacked his gift for the Sight, and it didn’t appear merely being able to control her pneuma would change that. To her, a flame remained beautiful and life giving, but still just a flame.
He turned to her now, eyes looking tired. Exhausted, in fact. As was she.
“Sigyn …”
She shook her head. “No. Not this time. I’m not going to leave you.”
“You have to. Take the cloak and …” He pointed at where the chain lay among her discarded clothes. “Odin will need that.”
Sigyn scowled. So it did have power. And she had done well to claim it, though if she hadn’t, Loki would not now be making such a request of her. “You are wounded, barely conscious. For all you know, this could be a fever dream. After what I just went through to find you, I will not leave you here alone in this state.”
“Do you trust me?”
Sigyn snorted, not bothering to justify that with any other answer.
“Then help Odin. The future depends on his victory in Vanaheim. I should have been by his side, but I cannot now. I am too weak. So take that chain and go, make sure he succeeds.”
She leaned closer and stroked his cheek. “My future depends on you.”
He kissed her palm. “I treasure you. You do not need to fear for me.”
“This chain takes away supernatural power.”
Loki nodded. “It’s orichalcum, a special material, one suited to special properties. With this, Odin can bind his enemies and prevent them from using their greatest strengths against him. He faces many terrible foes. So I ask you, I beg you, to do what I cannot. Go to him and save the future.”
She clasped his hand and shut her eyes, shaking a moment. “You better make it back on your own. And Loki … one day soon, I’m going to get all the answers. I hope you know that.”
“No one gets all the answers Sigyn. Not even me.”
“We’ll see.”
She was not looking forward to donning those cold, wet clothes.
50
The bridge sparkled like a rainbow beneath Odin’s knees while the sky spun in a haze of turquoise mist and starlight. He knew this place—the bridge between the Penumbra and the Roil. And if he was here again, he was dead. His vision trembled, like the whole world was not quite stable, like reality had not decided on its final form.
He tried to stand, but his legs gave way and he fell forward, face pressed against the bridge. It was cool and slick, its ever-changing patterns hypnotic enough he could almost close his eyes and sleep.
“Odin.” A faraway feminine voice, calling him home. His mother, perhaps? Might he finally be welcomed into Valhalla? Or did Hel herself beckon, ready to taunt him for his failure on the threshold of victory? Though the thought left his chest constricting, he had no strength to stand.
Heaving, gasping at the pain wracking his body, he rolled over onto his back. The swirling sky of endless night expanded out into eternity. Through the Astral Realm spread the roads to the nine worlds of the Spirit Realm, and if he focused hard enough, he could almost see them through the iridescent clouds. If he reached out his hand and mind and soul, they seemed close enough to touch.
And why not? Here he stood at the crossroads of reality. The Nine Spheres of Creation spread out before him. There, the frozen mists of Niflheim where Hel sought to drag his soul into torment. And opposite that, the sphere’s counter, the burning ashland of Muspelheim, a volcanic waste that could scour the mist even as it burned away his flesh. And beside it, a glittering realm where the sun never set, where f
oliage and fauna frolicked in eternal spring and light. That was Alfheim, the world of the liosalfar—gods of light and nature. It seemed a preferable place to spend eternity, to escape the reach of Hel.
“Odin.”
No. That wasn’t Hel’s voice, laced with desperation, with fear. Who called for him in the darkness? Had the valkyrie Svanhit returned for his soul? Maybe now he could learn the truth, learn whether Eostre was right and death held naught but horror or oblivion.
“Odin, eat. Taste it or you will die.”
The sound was so far away, so easy to dismiss. Could he venture into the World of Sun and be freed? Eostre was wrong, he was certain of it now. There was something beyond life, some existence, some purpose to a soul. And if he reached out …
“Eat!”
He bit down, not quite certain why he did. Thick juice scorched his throat, acrid, bitter, and sweet. All at once his agonies returned, and along with them, the powerful beat of his heart, pounding in his chest, pulsing against his temples. The view around him spun faster and faster, caught in a nauseating cyclone that sought to drag him into oblivion.
“Don’t stop. Eat it!”
Again he bit down, again the explosion of flavors. The taste of life itself. His world reeled, and he sat up, nearly falling over as the view changed. He still sat on the roots beneath Yggdrasil. Odin jerked away from the figure holding him in place.
Idunn.
She pressed herself forward, forcing the apple back into his mouth. “Come on, damn you. We cannot give up now, not after all of this.”
Odin coughed, sputtering. Blood seeped from numerous wounds, but they had begun to close. He now gripped the apple with both hands and bit down. More flavor. And with each bite he swallowed, his wounds stung, itched, as his body knit itself back together. He had to fight the urge to scratch his ribs as they healed, tissue reforming even as he sat. Finally, he reached the core, finishing every last bit of the apple’s flesh.
