by Matt Larkin
Not an Ás tribe. But whoever they were, he’d find them if it meant sparing his own people. The solstice, during the sixth moon, was less than three moons from now. Still it ought to prove ample time to track down whatever people these were. He crawled over to his spear. “I swear, by my own blood.” He drew his hand along the blade of Gungnir, opening his palm. “I swear to return this Singasteinn to you in three moons. And you must save Ve.”
The ghost drifted closer still, close enough to place an icy kiss on his lips. A chill settled deep within him, clenching around his heart. He hadn’t realized he’d shut his eyes, but when he opened them, the woman and wolf were gone.
Fail to bring it within three moons, and your oath is broken. All you build will turn to ash, your children shall die, and your dreams shall burn.
Odin shook his head from the voice echoing within it. One look at Loki showed the man had heard naught.
Three moons.
Three moons to save Ve, to undo his mistake. Even when he returned to the fire, Odin couldn’t get that icy chill out of his heart.
15
The crumbling tower might have once watched over the Jarnvid. Now, no one maintained it. No one watched the wood from its ramparts. If the Godwulfs had been half the protectors they claimed to be, they’d have garrisoned this place for the good of all Aujum. Instead, Tyr had found it abandoned, nigh the southern border of Athra lands.
Occupying it, lighting a brazier atop the tower—an almost direct challenge to varulfur looking to expand their territory. Here, men pushed back, claiming what might have otherwise belonged to the wolves. Annar had set four archers atop the tower. They all hunkered down now, hidden and trusting the smoke to mask their scents.
Two nights already they had passed like this. Surely the Godwulfs could not anticipate the trap? Savage beasts were cunning, yes. But driven by instinct and fury.
Annar and a few of his men dwelt in the lower floors of the tower. In daylight, they worked to begin restoring the foundations as if they intended to stay here long.
Tyr and Geir, however, and three of Geir’s men, lingered in a dug-out snow drift. Skin caked with mud to mask their scents. Hidden, so the wolves would think their numbers few. Plan had sounded better before spending two freezing nights huddled in the snow.
“Some of the mist is getting inside,” Geir complained again.
“A torch would give us away.” Tyr had told him that enough times it ought to have sunk in by now. Yes, mist-madness. They all feared it. But if they didn’t kill these varulfur, naught else would matter.
Grumbling, Geir stuck his hands under his armpits. “If our stones freeze rock solid, we’re not like to care about werewolves either.”
“Too late,” one of the men complained, and the others snickered.
The sun was dipping low. A third night. If the wolves didn’t come tonight, they’d have to rethink their plan. They had announced their presence already, and if the varulfur didn’t take the bait, they had wasted their efforts.
Sometime later, a howl rang out through the woods.
Another followed, and another.
Tyr held up a hand to forestall any of the men from speaking. Varulfur had great ears. Like real wolves. Stronger than men, track you by scent, hear you breathing. Best hunters in Midgard. But Tyr didn’t like being hunted.
A large black wolf loped toward the tower. It meant others lurked in the woods, waiting. Watching to see if men saw their scout.
Tyr kept his hand up. Not yet.
The wolf nudged open the main door. It didn’t latch, and they had left it unbarred on purpose. A moment later, shouts rang out. Growls. Screams.
Not yet.
Geir tried to rise behind him, and Tyr shoved him back down.
The varulfur would not send one wolf after them. Never just one.
And then five more oversized wolves came charging from the woods, rushing for the tower. Geir pushed past Tyr and charged out, bellowing a war cry. At the sound, two of the wolves broke off and circled him.
“Up! Go!” Tyr shouted at the others.
He scrambled out of the snowdrift.
“For Athra!” Geir shouted, swinging an axe wildly at the wolves. One jumped back out of the way. The other leapt forward, bearing him down. Teeth closed on his throat and yanked. Tore it out, showering steaming gore on the snow.
An arrow caught that one. It yelped. Tried to fall back. Tyr charged it, slashing. The wolf ducked, moving with uncanny speed. Dodged again and leapt for Tyr. He whipped his sword back into place, and the wolf impaled itself. The impact sent Tyr toppling over backward, heavy canine form landing atop him.
The other wolf snapped at him, but Geir’s warriors tore into it with axes and spears. Its jaws closed around a man’s knee and ripped it out. Bastard fell wailing.
The corpse atop Tyr had become a man. Heavy, too. Tyr shoved him off, jerked his sword free. Archers had felled another wolf outside the tower, but more screams echoed within. Tyr raced over there.
A wolf charged him as he hit the threshold. He didn’t have time for a proper swing, but he twisted his blade enough to shear off part of the wolf’s ear. The beast fell, whimpering. Tyr kicked it, twice. Then raised his blade to run it through.
“No, wait,” Annar said. The jarl was favoring one arm, blood seeping out between the chain links of his shirt. “A prisoner.”
“You want to try to hold a varulf prisoner?”
The whole tower had become a slaughter house. Blood coated every wall, every surface. Half of Annar’s men lay dead or dying, many missing their throats. One poor bastard was clutching his guts, uselessly trying to pile them back into his torn-open belly.
“Prisoners have uses. Especially those cowed by a solid defeat.”
Several of these dead must have come from the varulfur.
Tyr groaned. Annar had a point. He kicked the downed varulf again. Hard.
The tower had a basement, one lined with rotting barrels. Contents long since turned to dust. Rat shit covered half the floor. Rusted manacles on one wall served their purpose though. Not ideal. A varulf might be able to break bonds. If he did, Tyr would run him through. The sun had forced the man back into human form, and they had bound him in that awful place.
Two archers stood, arrows nocked and readied, and before them, a spearman. And Tyr, sword in hand. Given half an excuse, he’d have run through this shapeshifting trollfucker.
He kicked him in the gut, drawing him into sudden alertness. A low growl from deep inside the beast.
“Tell us your master’s plans, wolf,” Annar said.
The varulf sneered. “My master?”
Tyr grabbed him by the hair and hefted him to his feet. “We know you serve the Godwulfs. Do not waste our time denying it.”
“The Godwulfs, yes. But Jarl Alci?” The varulf spat on the floor, dangerously close to Tyr’s boot.
Tyr raised his eyes slowly from the thick phlegm to the half-man before him. “Do not lie to me.”
“On my honor.”
Tyr scoffed. “Honor? What honor, varulf?”
The man strained against his chains. Rust showered down from them, where links ground together. The varulf leaned his face as close to Tyr as his bonds allowed. “I serve my tribe. You have no idea what it’s like to have this thing inside you. Driving you to kill. Worse. So you can go fuck a troll. But you can’t judge me.”
Annar advanced now, wending his way through spearmen and archers. “What do you want from us?”
“Me? Not a damned thing. Alci, though, he wants it all. Your lands, your tribute. Probably your life, if you’re the jarl.”
Annar folded his arms over his chest. “You have a name, varulf?”
“I do. Hallr. Hallr Stonecrusher.”
Annar looked to Tyr. “How’d you fasten a name like that?”
“Bit off another varulf’s stones when he challenged me over a mate.” The varulf smirked. “Listen. You don’t have to kill me. You want the raids to stop? I c
ould do that. If I were jarl.”
Tyr groaned. So being a murderous beast was not enough. This varulf wanted to betray his own lord. No greater breach of honor seemed possible. They ought to send the men back to Alci with word of his treachery. Let the jarl exact what justice he would.
Or … Or maybe Tyr ought to just finish things here and now. Keeping a varulf in their midst was asking for Annar to lose more good men like Geir. He pushed the edge of his sword against Hallr’s neck. “Is there any reason I ought not leave you to rot in this tower?”
“Tyr.” Annar’s arm on his wrist. “He may have his uses.”
Tyr spat in disgust but lowered his blade.
“Tell me,” Annar said. “Why all this? Only because of Borr’s death? Was that all that held Alci back?”
Hallr chuckled. “Made it easier, maybe. No, this was already simmering. You think Alci takes it well, his weak and dying brother holding Halfhaugr? The greatest fortress in Aujum? So when the messengers of Otwin came to us, he leapt at the offer.”
“What are you talking about?” Annar demanded. “Who’s Otwin?”
“King of Njarar, come at last to collect on the debt Hadding owed his father. And when Hadding refused him, he armed Alci with blades and armor of the finest make. Rumor says Volund himself forged them in the war. Otwin wants his due, and he wants his vengeance. But I care not a troll’s fuck for either, and even less about the Athra. And if you are so keen to save yourselves, help me take the throne from him.”
“Why would anyone follow you?” Tyr asked.
“I’m a distant cousin to the jarl and a respected warrior in our tribe.”
Tyr shook his head. “Not here, you’re not. You’re a traitor, betraying your oath and your kin alike. Annar, hang this man and be done with it.”
Annar rubbed his beard a moment. Then shook his head. “Not yet. I need to know how far Odin will support us.”
Tyr glowered. Odin didn’t even know Tyr had come. He could offer no promises on the man coming to support his cousin, much as Odin did value family. Still, Tyr was going to have to tell him now, especially with Alci moving in on Halfhaugr. Besides which, he needed to see Idunn. Maybe the goddess could see a way through this mire of intrigue and betrayal. Tyr surely could not.
“I’ll leave for Eskgard as soon as I’ve gathered supplies. Annar, heed me. Do not let this man out of your sight while I am away. You cannot trust him.”
The jarl nodded. “We’ll bring him back to Breivik. Chains stay on. Fare well, Tyr.”
And swiftly, Tyr hoped.
16
The depths of Halfhaugr, of the fortress itself, delved deep into the ground, dug—legend claimed—by dvergar. According to skalds, the twisted vaettir once held many lands beyond Nidavellir but had long since withdrawn from the affairs of men. In tales, they had built this place and marked it with ancient runes now known to only the vӧlvur. Some, not even they understood. Sigyn didn’t doubt the dvergar existed as such; she doubted more whether they truly were vaettir, spirits from an Otherworld, or rather, simply an old people now nigh unto extinct and long departed from these lands.
Frigg worked in one of those deep rooms, denying access to any of her father’s men but welcoming Sigyn. As if Sigyn would ever feel welcome anywhere in Halfhaugr. Her half sister ground up some rancid paste on a table while a cauldron bubbled with fulvous smoke Sigyn avoided drawing too close to.
“Is that going to save him?” They both knew the signs in their father, of the thickness saturating his lungs, and he was not like to live out the winter.
Frigg sighed. “I don’t know.”
“What do the runes say?” The ancient markings decorated this room, as they did the outer fortress, but here, the dvergar had grouped their writings close together, recording a tale now forgotten by men. Perhaps that had led Frigg to choose this place to work her witchcraft. It ought to break Sigyn’s heart, watching her own father die. But a heart can only be broken so many times before a woman stops noticing an extra crack or two. Sigyn ran her fingers along the runes, tracing the patterns. “What does this one mean?”
“You know I can’t tell you that. It is forbidden.” Desperation and frustration mingled in her voice.
“I might be able to help.”
“You are not a vӧlva.” They’d had this conversation before, of course. Too many times. Sigyn would keep asking until Frigg’s desperation outweighed any concern for pointless traditions of secrecy.
The vӧlvur jealously guarded all their secrets, runes included. Since she had first come to the fortress two winters ago, Sigyn had resolved to unravel the threads, solve this puzzle. And at the moment, she’d do aught to keep her mind off of Hermod. Off the danger he faced. As if any puzzle, no matter how elaborate, could make her forget.
The door swung open, slammed against the wall, and made Frigg jump, spilling the paste all over the table. They both turned to see Fulla standing there, flushed and panting, eyes gleaming.
“You don’t know what news I’ve got, I dare say you don’t, now do you?” The red-haired servant bore a grin wide enough her face ought to have split in half like that.
Sigyn tapped a finger against her lip, but Frigg answered before she could say aught. “What’s happened?”
“Jarl Odin came back, he did. Not afore killing a jotunn, deader than dead down in the Sudurberks. Whole town is talking of it. The scouts, they wanted him to stay and feast, but did he now? No! That man just went tromping right on back to Wodan lands like he had an awful rush on him, not hearing of aught else.”
“Deader than dead?” Sigyn asked. “Are you certain? Maybe the jotunn was just plain dead.”
“Well I didn’t see the body myself now, but I can say I’m nigh positive, still.”
Sigyn rolled her eyes. A jotunn. Really. “The bluster of men often knows few bounds, and he’s not the first to claim to have slain some mystical monster. But a jotunn, here? If they exist at all, they dwell beyond the Midgard Wall.”
Sighing, Frigg swept the paste back into the mortar bowl. “So, he did not stop in the town at all?” His absence would make all Frigg’s schemes more difficult. Hard to sway a man who was not here. In fact, had he come here half as flush with his victory as Fulla seemed to be, Frigg might have drawn him to her bed. “I suppose we’ll have to go there, then.”
“I don’t think you want to do that,” Sigyn said. “Go chasing after him, and you show your impuissance in a time when the appearance of strength could mean everything.” Like herself, following after Hermod. Wanting to ride Snow Rabbit back there and rescue him from his urd, though he sought no rescue from her or anyone else. “He wishes to celebrate with his kin. Let him. When the revels fade, he will remember who helped him, or if he does not, then he wouldn’t have proved a stalwart ally in any event.”
“You don’t know what I saw in his future.”
Nor was she certain she should care. “Because you chose to keep it to yourself. Share if you wish.”
“Oh now!” Fulla said. “That sounds a wonderful idea, it does, my lady! Why you just tell us all about your visions, and we’ll help you understand them.”
Sigyn snorted. “Yes. We’ll help you understand.”
Frigg looked from her maid to Sigyn and back before her shoulders slumped, ever so slightly. “No, no. I must speak with Father. Odin’s fame will begin to spread now, embers sparking a wildfire.”
So she believed his boast? Sigyn shook her head, and Frigg strode from the room, Fulla chasing after her as always. Killed a jotunn. Had he claimed to have felled a troll, she might have given it at least some credence. But a jotunn? She found that about as believable as men who claimed to have fucked valkyries.
Sigyn folded her hands behind her back and stared at the runes carved into the walls. Frigg, all the vӧlvur, they thought to keep the secrets of old times among themselves, and thus they refused to teach any others to read the runes. Never even imagining a clever enough woman might begin to uncover their meanings
on her own.
But symbols repeated in more than one place formed a pattern, and patterns were just puzzles with a few missing pieces. Find enough pieces and a woman could guess the shape, one answer leading unto the next until, with enough time, the picture of the whole clarified. The irony, of course, in Frigg’s refusal to teach her the runes, lay in Sigyn now being unable to elucidate to Frigg the ones the vӧlva herself did not seem to understand.
Her half sister had chosen this room to work in, knowing it important, and yet probably not even supposing why. In the chambers beneath Halfhaugr, the dvergar builders had recorded a history stretching back to ancient times. More surprising still, they seemed to predict or even prophesy events not yet unfolded. Something about the doom of gods, assuming she had correctly interpreted the other runes. A tale of destruction and of the someone or something that brought it about—a destroyer the dvergar feared. They wrote as if the gods were real, as if Vanaheim were a real place. If so, what could threaten Vanaheim?
Frigg’s table stood against the wall, obscuring some of those final runes. Her sister rarely left her alone down here, and Sigyn could not exactly go creeping around the fortress on her own. She glanced over her shoulder, then crept over to the doorway. No one out in the hall. She shut the door, then dragged that table away from the wall to give her an unobscured view of the runes.
Ages of dust caked the lower wall. She knelt and brushed it away with her hand. Cracks had broken along the ancient stone. But these runes, here, they appeared at the beginning of the story as well. She traced them with her fingers. Eaters? Devourers? Beings born of chaos and driven to engulf the world in that same anarchy.
At the start of the tale, the Vanir, the gods, had struggled against these beings who would feast on men. And here, at the end, the dvergar wrote of the return of devourers.
Her heart began to race.
Sigyn rose, glancing from the upper runes to the lower ones. The Vanir had fought terrible battles against these devourers. Jotunnar? She tapped a finger against her lip. The Vanir defeat of the devourers marked the dawn of the world of men. But naught lasted forever. So if these devourers were jotunnar, and if Odin had faced one … then according to the dvergar runes, they stood upon the cusp of the end times.
