by Matt Larkin
As evening drew nigh, Loki directed them toward a ruined tower in the foothills beneath the Sudurberks. Though built from stone two feet thick, a breach twice the size of a man tore through the wall, allowing a thick drift of snow to pile up inside. The tower’s peak had fallen, its rubble no doubt buried in the snows that blanketed the hill.
“Men must take what shelter they can,” Ve said, “but vaettir are drawn to such places. Njord knows what kind of fell being might dwell within, and we brought no hounds to sniff them out.”
Torch out before him, Loki kept pushing on toward the tower. “A long time ago, even before Njord was king of the Vanir, they built towers like these to watch the mountains.”
Ve snorted. “Naught happened before Njord was king. Any skald could tell you that. Your illusion of wisdom falters, foreigner.”
Odin glanced from Loki to his brother, then pushed on toward the breach in the tower wall. Who to believe? Certainly vӧlvur seemed to agree with Ve, that one ought to avoid ruins when possible. Remnants of the Old Kingdoms dotted all of the North Realms, places once glorious, built to ward against the mist or each other. Now, though, trolls, draugar, and other vaettir lurked in such places, hiding from sunlight and venturing out at night. So vӧlvur said. But then again, when facing a winter storm, sometimes a man had to take whatever shelter he could.
“So you think the Vanir themselves built this tower?” Odin asked.
Loki brought his torch close to the outer wall, then began to chip at ice crusted upon the stone. A large chunk of it fell free, and Loki brushed aside what remained with his forearm. The walls bore some kind of runes, but such symbols meant naught to Odin, nor to any man. Only vӧlvur learned such arts. And how had Loki known to find one there?
“Before the rise of the Old Kingdoms, the Vanir waged unending wars against the jotunnar. Many of their foes dwelt in these mountains, so the Vanir built towers to watch for them, guard against them. Sometimes they succeeded, and sometimes the walls could not withstand the violence of such manifestations of chaos.” Loki swept his torch around to indicate the breach in the wall. “The storm will get worse, and we ought to save our strength for the journey through the mountains.”
Odin grunted, then climbed over the snow pile to reach the inside of the tower. A spiraling stair led to the upper regions, but he already knew those had collapsed. Still, the ceiling here remained intact, and a wide fire pit lay in the tower’s center. He nodded. Loki was right. This place was the best respite they were like to find before nightfall.
“Vili,” Odin said. “Go find whatever wood you can. We need to get a blaze going before the sun sets.” Sparse trees—evergreens, mostly—covered these foothills, though none survived higher up in the mountains. This might prove their last chance to make fresh torches or rest safe by a fire. “Ve, sweep the tower and make sure we truly are alone.” Besides vaettir, one always had to worry about cave hyenas, bears, and other predators. They all liked such places.
Loki drifted around the edge of this central room, inspecting shelves that lined the walls. Some of those shelves held what must be parchment. Men in the South Realms used such things. Bits of it crumbled as Loki touched it, and Odin scoffed. And that was why vӧlvur carved their runes into stone and wood. Lasted longer.
The foreigner paid no attention, lifting a piece the size of his hand up close toward his face. Wait … could he read the markings upon it? That sounded most unmanly of him. Odin folded his arms. Indeed, if Loki spoke the truth and the Vanir had built this place, how did the foreigner know that? How could he guess what had happened before the Old Kingdoms? The most learned skalds Odin had ever known had a few tales, stories of the Vanir from the old times, but Loki spoke with more authority than that. Was his guide a skald himself? And one who could read?
Odin’s brothers had distrusted Loki the moment they met him, as had Tyr. But Tyr was filled with suspicion and doubt, Vili never liked anyone, and Ve probably saw Loki as a threat to his own status as a skald. Still. He knew—or claimed to know—more than any man ought.
Such a man might well bring disaster among them by fumbling into eldritch lore not meant for man or even for mankind. Such was the man with whom Odin had entrusted his chance at vengeance.
9
The crunch of his snowshoes rang out louder than Tyr would have liked. Especially with evening drawing nigh. Still no shelter. Just the woods. On and on. Not the Jarnvid. He’d have known if he’d wandered into the twisted forest of the trolls. But woods covered much of Aujum. The Athra lived in towns in the north, by the Gandvik Sea. Whalers. Had to pass through all these woods to reach them. Woods, and lands held by the Godwulfs.
The only other way would have taken him through Skaldun lands, and Tyr would not go there. Not until he must.
Njord grant him a ruin, a cave, something. Somewhere he could kindle a flame against the encroaching night. He’d never get a blaze going in this snow. The crunch of ice sounded off, and he froze in place. Had that come from behind him?
Tyr spun, hand on his sword hilt. Naught back there but trees. Those, too, could house vaettir, watching. Angry at the trespass of a man in silent woods. Ash wives demanded sacrifices, and the only blood Tyr had was his own.
Fuck.
Traveling alone. Fool plan. Maybe he ought to have convinced Vili or Ve to come. Vili, especially. The berserk had good ears, a strong nose. Not like a varulf, but still. Better than Tyr.
The sun would set in moments. He couldn’t keep wandering all night. In the dark he’d become too easy prey for the denizens here. Sighing, he stuck his torch in the snow, wedged it tight. He lit two more, placing each around the spot he’d chosen in a triangle. Then he began gathering pine leaves, branches, aught that might have a chance of burning. He had to try.
All those he flung into a pile, then wedged a fourth torch in their midst, low enough for the flames to touch the tinder. By now, the sun had set, leaving him in almost total darkness save the torchlight.
A howl broke through the night, seeming to come from all around him. The howl might have been a wolf. But just one made no sense. Wolves were pack hunters. Even the largest ones, dire wolves, always stuck together. A lone wolf meant something fell, rabid, or possessed by the mists. Or a lone varulf, somehow cast out of his pack. A varulf meant a foe with human-like intelligence and supernatural cunning. It would stalk him.
Tyr dropped into a crouch by one of the torches and slid his sword free. Wait here. Let the wolf come to him. Normal wolf, even a dire wolf, it might not approach the flame. Varulf, though, it would make him prey. Maybe even come back with more of its kind.
Hunt, or be hunted. He wrapped his palm around the torch haft. Carry that, and the varulf would see him coming a mile away. Without it, Tyr couldn’t see five feet. Mist, tree cover, they didn’t let much moonlight in. His grip tightened around his sword hilt. Make a choice.
The obvious choice. The one Hymir would have had him choose. Risk it all, and win. The jotunn was a monster, an eater of man. And a survivor. Tyr groaned. No choice, really. He released the torch and stalked forward, staying low to the ground as he passed from tree to tree.
Beyond the light of his torches, he paused. Fresh paw prints in the snow, definitely canine, and large. Large enough to be dire wolf or varulf. And it had passed close. Just outside the circle of his flame.
Another growl.
As he rose, Tyr’s eyes met those of a wolf, not a few feet away. Watching him from the mists. Tyr froze in place, caught in its gaze. He dared not look away and invite the beast to charge.
The wolf growled, baring teeth far too long. Hot saliva dripped from the wolf’s mouth, casting up steam as it hit the snows.
“Easy,” Tyr said, keeping his voice barely audible.
The wolf advanced a step, its snarl deepening.
The sudden shift of its weight was the only warning. It flung itself forward, faster than a wolf ought to be able. Tyr tumbled backward as it collided with him. Barely managed to fling hi
s arm up in its path. The wolf bit down, fangs rending his chain armor like cloth. It tore through flesh as it bore him down. Tyr screamed in pain, a flash of red. His sword fell from his grasp.
Too strong. Gnashing, growling, rending his flesh.
His screams of agony ringing in his ears.
Not like this. He had fought his way out of the darkness, out of the cold. Made himself a man instead of a monster. He would not end here in cold woods, alone.
He shoved forward, now heedless of the wounds the wolf inflicted. With his bloody arm, he pushed it back enough to draw a dagger from his belt. He thrust it upward, into the wolf’s belly. The beast whimpered, immediately releasing his arm and falling over.
Tyr flung himself atop the creature and rammed the dagger into its skull. Bucking, thrashing, though it ought to have been dead. And then stillness. The creature shuddered. Fur receded back into its skin. Joints popped as bones shifted, the corpse slowly reverting to human as the wolf spirit fled, driven back to whatever Otherworld it came from.
The pain washed over him afresh, and he spilled forward. He needed to bind the wound. Groaning, he half walked, half crawled back to his makeshift camp. He grabbed his sword along the way.
Varulf had mauled his arm. Vӧlva might have cut it off to save him. Fuck that. A warrior without his sword arm was better off dead. The kindling had caught aflame at last. Blood streaming out now. Whole fucking world spinning.
He thrust the blade into the flame. Then he emptied his satchel. Bandages. Couldn’t be certain he’d stop bleeding though. Growling, he looked to the blade. Starting to glow hot. Fucking varulf.
It would hurt. A lot.
But Tyr had known pain. The jotunn had inflicted it. Forced Tyr to inflict worse still.
He grabbed the sword and pressed the scalding blade to his arm.
His screams echoed through the wood.
Lost blood made a man delirious. Twisted like the mist-mad. Why wasn’t he dead yet? Ought to have died from those wounds. Lost in the night. No, no. Tyr was fucking strong.
Forged in the cold by Hymir. Remade in the light by Borr. He wouldn’t die like this.
Not like this.
Torch in his working arm, he stumbled, crashed into a tree and fell in the snow. Blood had seeped through his bandages and now stained the spot where he’d fallen. Die out here alone, rise again as a draug. Men said it, and Tyr had seen the vile creatures, denied death. Wakeful in eternal torment, and strong as a troll.
Ahead, a lodge. A small house of logs. Delirium?
Hunter’s lodge. Godwulf hunter, most like. Maybe even the varulf he’d just killed a few hours back.
Or not. Could be another’s.
Men didn’t turn away guests. No one wanted to be left in the cold. At night, though, alone in the woods—only a fool would let a stranger in. Vaettir could come to your door, ask a boon. Take your soul.
He drew nearer. Plume of smoke rose from the lodge. Fire.
Fire was life.
And Tyr wasn’t ready to die. And if the hunter wanted to turn him away?
He’d not die this night. If he fell, he could never fulfill his promise to Borr.
He stumbled over to the house, pounded on the door. No answer. But shuffling inside.
A simmering anger roiled in Tyr’s gut. Maybe the hunter knew the varulf who’d attacked him. Maybe not. Either way … “Open the fucking door!”
“Be gone!” a woman shouted from within. “In Njord’s name I cast you out.”
“I’m not a fucking vaettr. Open the door!”
“Be gone, I say! There is naught for you here.”
The heat in his gut filled his limbs. A surging rage born of delirium and hate. Tyr kicked the door. It shuddered on its hinges, wood splintering. He kicked again. It flew inward. The woman inside scrambled away, sword up before her.
“I need shelter.”
She looked to his arm, dripping blood through the bandage. Then she grasped her sword with both hands and took a step forward.
Tyr growled, flung the torch at her head.
She shrieked and batted it away with the sword. In the moment, he launched himself forward, caught her wrist. Twisted. The blade clattered to the floor. She writhed in his grasp, so he punched her with his right hand, then used his good hand to grab her by the throat when her head flopped back. He hefted her off the ground, squeezing.
From the shadows cast by her hearth, Borr looked on with shame. Judged him for such a breach of all honor. He was doing this for Borr, for Borr’s sons. Doing what? Murdering a hunter? Growling as much at himself as the woman, he slammed her against the wall then dropped her. She lay still on the floor.
“You wronged her,” Borr said.
Not his ghost. No, just the delirium. Tyr snatched up her sword lest she wake and attack him again. Odd. Woven iron with an over-keen edge. No modern smith could make such works. Something from the Old Kingdoms or the dvergar, maybe. But how did a simple hunter woman claim it?
“You are like Hymir.”
Tyr spun at the ghost. “Hymir would have fucking raped her and then eaten her!”
Of course, naught stood there. He knew that. It could not be. “And you want to do the same.”
“Shut up! Silence!”
“How had you such strength, Tyr? Strength to heft her with one hand, to squeeze her unconscious. Strength like the very jotunn who forged you.”
No! Anger, pain. They had given him strength. Naught more. “Go to Hel.”
“She holds me because of your failure.”
The words hit him like a blow, and he stumbled against the wall. “I … I didn’t … You didn’t tell me your plans …”
“Petty excuses. No wonder your woman left you.”
Tyr screamed in wordless rage and flung the woman’s sword at the shadows. It clattered against the wall. He was done arguing with shadows. It was not Borr.
It was not Borr.
This huntress would have food, something he could use for fresh bandages. He’d tie her up, treat his injuries. Manage a few hours’ sleep. And go.
A darkness settled in this lodge. One he’d best be free of soon as he could.
10
Toward evening, the Godwulf town came into view. They had made good time, Agilaz riding beside his son and Sigyn sitting behind him, pressed against a foster brother she might soon never see again. Snow Rabbit had carried them far each day, and they had needed spend only a few nights in the wild, to everyone’s certain relief. Shortsnout trotted behind them all without complaint, though the aging hound collapsed with exhaustion each night. Agilaz had already convinced Hermod to keep the animal, saying he’d need a friend in his new home.
The Godwulf lands lay on the eastern reaches of Aujum, nigh unto where the Jarnvid formed much of the border with Bjarmaland. The tribe wandered, however, migrating with each passing summer, never wintering twice in the same place. Always, however, they remained around that accursed forest. They raided into Bjarmaland by skirting its edges, though no man, not even varulfur, would dare enter the Jarnvid. Skalds claimed trolls dwelt there in ancient burrows, and their tales engendered nightmares in every woman in Midgard. Trolls ate men, on that, every skald agreed, debating only on whether trolls cooked a man first. But they took women as wives, as some people referred to the abomination that befell such a woman. If she survived the rapes at all, she was like to be torn apart when an infant troll clawed itself from her womb.
And did trolls really exist, or rather, were they figments conjured up to frighten the gullible and keep women in line? Sigyn had spoken to no man—at least no man not swaying from drink—who had seen such creatures with his own eyes, and she had asked. In many a skald’s tale, trolls were the misbegotten offspring of the equally fanciful jotunnar, the beings of chaos beyond the edge of Midgard. But then, she knew of no one who had seen Utgard, either.
A wolf howl rang out as they drew nearer the town of Kaldlund, drawing a growl from Shortsnout. Agilaz spoke softly to the hou
nd, eyes locked on the direction the howl had come from.
The Godwulfs claimed to guard the Jarnvid lest the trolls emerge and threaten all the North Realms. Perhaps they even spoke truth, had indeed faced perilous fiends of the mist. More like, though, they used it as an excuse for their never-ending raiding, their own rape and plunder of foreigners and other Ás tribes alike. And varulfur did exist. They could plant their seed in a woman’s belly, and, oft as not, the child would bear the traits of the father. Such were the men Hermod had been sent to live among.
She had drawn a little closer to him now. How could she not? Varulfur and berserkir could barely contain their aggression and lust when they tried, and most of them didn’t bother, from what she heard. Agilaz had warned her against coming here, but she would not let go of Hermod without seeing him safe. If he was lost from her life, he ought at least to be able to live his own, even if it was among such savage brutes as these.
“Don’t worry,” Hermod said. “We are guests here. No harm will come to you.”
“Mmmm.” How was she to tell him she feared as much for him as for herself? Such a sentiment would insult his honor. And Olrun had spoken the truth—they did need peace with the Godwulfs, lest Hadding’s varulf brother come to take Halfhaugr from them. If that happened, anarchy would fall upon the Hasding town. Frigg, their father, and everyone else Sigyn cared for would face a bloodbath.
Kaldlund had only a spiked wooden wall around it, no ancient stone wrought in times past. Scant protection against the mist and its denizens. A fur-swathed man met them at the gate, axe in his hand. He nodded at Agilaz, and her foster father rode up and dismounted before him.
