by Matt Larkin
Idunn had made Odin something inhuman. It seemed he could recover in days from any injury. He had strength and stamina beyond mortal man. And now he had the Sight, as Gudrun called it. Odin swallowed hard and shut his eyes. His quest for power, his mission to do as Idunn had asked, was transforming him. He’d wanted to honor his father. Now, Odin was becoming a being his father would not have even recognized. He was becoming a vaettr himself. He was becoming a god. And he’d have given it all up if it meant saving his brother.
But that would accomplish naught. He had to fulfill his oath to the ghost, and then he’d attend to his oath to Idunn.
But given what power had done to the Niflungar, what it had made them, would that become his fate as well? Would he one day ride through a village and torment the common people to achieve his aim? He’d thought he wanted men to fear him. He’d thought that alone might let him face his quest. But that fear, too, would have its price. Just like everything else.
He shut his eyes. The ravens would find him soon. Gjuki might well chase him all the way back to Aujum. Odin would return the Singasteinn to the Odling ghost, break the curse on Ve. Then he would deal with Gjuki. Before that, he had to claim what rest he could.
Dreams—or perhaps visions—haunted his mind. Odin was bombarded by sights of the Penumbra and shades that populated it. Ghosts of the slain, unable to escape to final rest. It was a world filled with the restless dead, like Midgard, a world taken over by the mists of Niflheim. And he had almost let himself be drawn in by their power.
He jolted awake at a hand on his shoulder. He snatched Gungnir and shoved the man away before recognizing Loki.
Odin coughed, clearing his throat. “Should have known Sleipnir wouldn’t let anyone else sneak up on me.”
“You’ve been hard to find.”
“Brother, I …” How could he even begin to explain to Loki the things that had happened of late? If anyone could understand, it would be his blood brother. And yet, so much had changed. Most of all Odin himself. He had so many doubts.
“We must make haste back,” Loki said. “I have an ill feeling for our people.”
47
Gudrun glared out the window from which Odin had leapt two days before, as if she might somehow still spot him emerging from the river.
The Singasteinn was the only true gift Grimhild had ever given Gudrun. Wearing it, and speaking the proper incantation, she could take the shape of a seal and swim even in the freezing Morimarusa, freed from the limitations of her mortal form. Grimhild had given her the amulet the first time she had bled as a token of her newfound womanhood. And Gudrun had spent hours upon hours swimming in the depths, lost in the elation of her seemingly boundless realm.
On her return, Grimhild had, of course, insisted she lay with a male sorcerer. It was tradition, a means to awaken her Sight and her heritage while inducting her into the Art. Neither the fear nor pain of that bedding had eclipsed the glory of swimming in seal form.
Old scrolls spoke of the Singasteinn in legends, even before it came to the Odlingar kingdom from which Grimhild had stolen it. Some said it was crafted in the mythical mer kingdom of Hiyoya, forged from the souls of finfolk. The finfolk—wereseals—had oft tried to recover the amulet, a few even tracking it to Castle Niflung some years back. They had failed.
No one would take it from her.
Except Odin had done so.
He had stolen it from her. And he had left her.
And why in Hel’s name did that hurt so much? After all, she had seduced him with a love potion. A little alchemy, a little mead, and a look at her breasts, and he was hers. Should have been hers forever.
Gudrun slammed the shutters on her window. Damn it. Damn him! How could he leave her? Was she not enough for the Ás king? Had they not shared something beyond words? He said he loved her. He said he … She rubbed unexpected moisture from her eyes. What in Hel’s name was wrong with her?
Her arm ached, a glyph branded there itching. Yes, she had several vaettir bound to her, the most terrible among them a wraith. She could send her out, have the vile creature suck out Odin’s soul and leave his corpse a withered husk. And the thief would deserve it!
Except then he’d be dead. And that tasted foul, empty, and bitter.
She should not care so much for the loss of a pawn. That was what pawns were for.
But he wasn’t a pawn. Not to her. Maybe not even to Grimhild.
He’d said he loved her.
She clutched the glyph on her arm. Why had he left her? Why?
It had to have been some mistake, some lapse in his judgment. In his time with the Vanr woman, had she also ensorcelled him? If so, perhaps the Vanr’s Art had interfered with Gudrun’s own. That must be it. Odin loved her; he would not have left her here, alone, unless he felt he had no choice. She just had to show him … show him the truth. Which was that he need not be her pawn at all. He could be her king. They could rule together one day.
She had to find him, had to bring him back. And a wraith was not the way to do that.
For such a task, she needed someone with more tact and more sympathy than any spirit would show. All beings from beyond the Veil resented mankind, even the Niflungar. Especially the Niflungar, who enforced their mortal wills upon immortal beings.
In the back of her chamber, a heavy shroud hung on the wall, concealing one more Niflung treasure. One Gudrun did not often care to look upon, despite its uses. She stood before that shroud, running her fingers through its thick, black wool. Coarse. Rough, like what lay beyond. Maids had embroidered it, of course. Naught plain decorated her chamber. Yet she had insisted on black embroidery upon black fabric, on designs intended to avert the eye rather than draw it.
Water was liminal, but sometimes a medium needed something stronger. Something wrought in the darkness of Nidavellir, the land of the dvergar, who had forged such devices of quicksilver in earlier ages when they yet took interest in the Mortal Realm. While they yet reached out from their strongholds, intent on conquest, before the Niflungar drove them into hiding. Before the Lofdar did the same to the Niflungar.
Gudrun yanked the curtain away.
The mirror beyond it gleamed, its surface almost like water. So deep a person could lose herself forever looking into it, as though it might reflect the shattered depths of one’s own soul. It so drew the eyes that she had not even noticed the intricate silver border the first time she saw the mirror. Only days later had she been able to examine the dvergar craftsmanship, the rune-adorned dragon framing the quicksilver.
A shudder seized her, and she let it run its course.
Denying such things frightened her was foolish. Because they should frighten. The quicksilver would reflect and amplify her own Sight, acting as a focus. It would not, necessarily, show her things she wanted to see. Worse still, it might show her to things she did not wish to be seen by.
Whispering incantations under her breath, she pressed her palms upon the surface. It was icily cold. Thicker than water, and viscous rather than solid. The chill spread through her hands and arms until her knees shook.
“Odin,” she mumbled.
The quicksilver surface shimmered as she jerked her hands away. To anyone else, it would have seemed merely to reflect Gudrun. But for her eyes, Odin rode over snowy hills, mounted upon his monstrous horse. A stranger accompanied him, a man intuition warned her lay steeped in his own secrets, perhaps even versed in the Art. Together they made way back toward Aujum and the Aesir lands.
“Damn it.” Hel take that Vanr trench and her sorcery, drawing away Odin from his true home. Gudrun ground her teeth. She needed to stop him from getting back to the Vanr, and now Odin had left her only one recourse to achieve that. “Show me Guthorm.”
Though ever his mother’s faithful son, Gudrun’s brother had, on occasion, shown her affection, even sympathy. Had she been born a man, she might have found Grimhild a more tolerable mother. Such was not her urd. Guthorm walked with steady purpose, mists clinging to his ev
ery step. Those were forests in Hunaland, meaning Guthorm had only recently left one of the numerous petty kingdoms south of here. Grimhild had her pawns in nigh every one of those kingdoms in Hunaland and a fair number spread in Valland besides. Not so many in the Aesir lands in Aujum.
Guthorm froze in place, his neck stiff before slowly looking around. An adept sorcerer himself, he sensed her scrying. Which was expected.
“Brother.”
He grunted, then turned to the side, walking a short distance until he came to a frozen stream. Guthorm sank to his knees and pushed snow from atop it, revealing the smallest reflection, one that would allow him to see her. She could not pretend to understand quite how this mirror worked, but it did. And the window it opened between places could sometimes reveal both directions.
“Gudrun,” he said. Guthorm didn’t speak much. He spent most of his time alone, stalking the mists as Grimhild’s assassin. Those she could not sway to her cause through bribery, blackmail, or seduction, Grimhild had her son eliminate. A task for which he was exceedingly well suited, even before she had gifted him with a runeblade, one more dverg-forged relic. In truth, a great many of the Niflung treasures came from the Earth spirits, who had a way with metals. They had forged Garmr for the Niflungar in the days of the Old Kingdoms, perhaps as a peace offering, though Gudrun suspected she did not want to know what price they had asked for such creations.
Gudrun worked her jaw, trying to find the right words. Admitting her failure tasted foul. And yet, maybe Guthorm could help her. He could find almost anyone, after all. “Odin took the Singasteinn from me and fled from here, heading in your direction, I think.”
Her brother frowned and looked up, as if he might catch sight of the Ás even now.
“I ask you to find him, bring him back to me.”
“I will find him. And he will pay for his betrayal.”
“No, no … I want you …” Her face was falling toward the quicksilver, as if the world had shifted and now the mirror had become down and drew her toward it as surely as the ground would. Her hair tumbled toward the shining surface.
Gudrun caught herself on the silver rim with both hands. And still she kept falling inward. Quicksilver shimmered around her, blocking all peripheral vision. Clogging her eyes and ears and mouth and nose. Suffocating, closing around her. In Hel’s name!
It wrapped her in its chill embrace. Until all she saw was Grimhild. The queen had an icy beauty, with fair skin and hair like spun gold, all concealed loosely behind a mask of bone. A troll skull she wore when she wanted men—and women—to fear her. And everyone did.
“You failed, daughter.”
“No, I—”
“You were to draw Odin to Hel’s service. Not only did he leave, he took from you a treasure of the Niflungar. We do not part with our treasures, Gudrun. We do not let others take them. And so where you failed, your brother will succeed. Odin’s soul will be sent screaming to the gates of Hel.”
She was going to send him to kill Odin. That wasn’t what Gudrun wanted at all. Odin had said he loved her. He had said … He was supposed to be her king. “You don’t have to—”
“Fear not, daughter. I will deal with you on my return. Until then, think on your failure.”
A force slapped her across the face, severing the connection and sending her reeling.
Gudrun crashed down onto her chamber floor. She lay there, head spinning, trying to catch her breath. Hel take Grimhild. Guthorm would never dare disobey his mother—no one dared disobey her. And that meant Odin was a dead man.
48
Hermod had returned.
And the Godwulfs marched to war. Marched, or rather rushed forward. A horde of men and werewolves. Slavering for blood.
Ready for a slaughter.
But not for their own. The Athra attacked from upwind, raining arrows upon the Godwulfs. Daylight attack. They had to win before the sun set or the Godwulfs would tear them to pieces.
Sword in hand, Tyr watched the unfolding carnage. Alci had arrested Agilaz and Hermod, but Tyr was neutral. Or so the jarl thought. Perhaps Alci had hoped Agilaz would resist and give him an excuse to murder the man. The thegn had not, forcing Alci to hold him for trial at the Thing. If Alci took Halfhaugr, he’d be like to execute Agilaz and maybe Hermod as well.
Tyr couldn’t let that happen, but they had a plan.
And so Tyr stood by. Let men die on both sides. Waiting for his moment. Waiting to give Hallr a moment.
Blood and screams. Guts and shit spilled on the snow. All so much like his days under Hymir. Carnage a jotunn would have loved. All a reminder of the man Borr had saved him from becoming. But urd was cruel. Drew a man back no matter how hard he fled.
Alci bodily flung one man into another. Grabbed a spear and impaled them both. Still strong, even in human form.
And Hallr did not strike. Drew closer to Alci, yes, but did not strike. Looked to Tyr, looked to Alci’s nearby champions. A pair of varulfur nigh as tall as Vili. Big bastards, with a vicious streak. One of those champions hewed through an Athra shieldmaiden’s skull with an axe.
Tyr hefted his shield. Only one choice then. Forward.
Roaring, he charged into the fray. Right at the champion who’d slain the woman. The man balked, as if not sure of Tyr’s intention. Raised sword and war cry ought to have told him that.
Tyr feinted left, then swung low. The varulf got his shield down an instant before Tyr would have claimed his kneecap. Tyr jerked out of the way of that axe, swung again. Chips and splinters broke off the shield. The varulf hesitated. Didn’t expect a human to match his speed, his strength. Tyr whipped his own shield forward, shoved it into the man. The varulf pitched backward a step. Tyr caught him with an upswing of the blade. Shattered his chin, tore through his nose. Showered himself in blood.
The other champion bellowed, charging Tyr as his brother fell.
Tyr spared Alci a glance. The jarl had felled a half dozen warriors on his own. Men, shieldmaidens, their corpses decorated his feet. He laughed, awash in blood.
Grimacing, Tyr met the charging champion, rushed forward himself. The man leapt in the air. Intent on bearing him down with sheer weight and momentum. Tyr rolled under him and twisted around. Launched himself forward and smashed his shield into the varulf’s face. Bastard fell. Dazed.
Tyr dropped down on him knees first, drove his blade through the man’s throat. A geyser of hot blood sprayed in his eyes. He jerked his sword free. Turned to Alci.
Another warrior rushed him. Tyr blocked a blow on his shield, whipped his sword around. It sheared through the man’s face.
Jarl Alci shrieked at him, mindless with rage. Batting aside Athra warriors like they were made of straw. So. Tyr would kill him after all. Maybe he had no claim to jarldom of the Godwulfs. He would still end this varulf, here, now.
Alci tossed aside his shield to pick up an axe. Sword and axe together. Very aggressive. Dangerous.
Tyr gave ground as Alci launched a wild flurry of attacks at him. The axe embedded in Tyr’s shield. Alci jerked it back, splintering the shield in the process. Tyr swung his sword, but Alci’s move threw him off balance. The jarl easily parried. Turned to riposte. Tyr twisted, tried to dodge, but the blade bit his shoulder, scraped off his mail. Tyr fell to one knee from the impact.
He flung the tattered remains of his shield at Alci’s face. The varulf batted it away with his axe, but it gave Tyr a breath. Time to rise, fall back.
“Greatest warrior of the Aesir?” Alci spat. “I’m glad you betrayed us. Gives me an excuse to crush your legend.”
“You die today.”
Alci chuckled. Advanced, sword out front, axe high. Ready to strike.
Hallr caught Tyr’s eye. Readied a spear. Tyr shook his head. Alci was his now. Urd had brought him here. And he would finish this himself.
Alci charged again. Tyr parried aside the sword. The axe whooshed by his face, almost took off his nose. He swung, scored a nick on Alci’s sword arm. The man barely
seemed to notice. Again he swung. Tyr parried.
Then Hallr’s spear burst through his lord’s chest. The traitor hefted Alci up, into the air. Planted the butt of the spear in the snow. His jarl flailed, dying. Blood running down his lip.
The traitor nodded at Tyr. He bent to pick up Alci’s sword and raised it in the air. Ready to declare himself jarl of the Godwulfs.
They had done it.
Tyr growled. And he swept his sword up in an arc that lopped Hallr’s head right off his shoulders.
The body tumbled down like a doll.
Tyr spit on the corpse as it stained the snow crimson.
Hoenir stood amongst his people, arms held high. Many fires burned, ward flames and pyres alike. Pyres for the Godwulf jarl. For half his thegns.
Some other thegns yet lived, might have challenged Hoenir’s claim to the jarldom. Might have.
Hermod strode to his father-in-law’s side. “Jarl Hoenir, on behalf of my father, thegn to Hadding, I offer you the support and friendship of the Hasding tribe.”
The old man clasped his son-in-law’s arm, then nodded at Agilaz, who stood apart from the Godwulf people.
A few more days, and Halfhaugr would have fallen under siege from these people. Now they offered friendship. What else could they do? They needed a friend among the Godwulfs. And now, Hermod’s marriage might actually mean something. But Odin needed these people as well.
Tyr looked to Annar, nodded, and they both strode forward.
“On behalf of Jarl Odin of the Wodanar, I offer my support,” Tyr said.
Annar stood beside him. “And as jarl of the Athra, I offer mine.”
A message. A warning to any of Alci’s former thegns. Three other tribes now stood behind Hoenir.
Maybe the old man could hold his place. Hermod would help him, without doubt. And because of Tyr, they would both owe Odin.
Because Tyr had embraced assassination. Betrayal. Murder.
