by Matt Larkin
So he could not resist the vision, the call to see what his father had seen. The temptation to understand a life that wasn’t his own, but yet felt so close.
Borr and his men were greeted with more screams as they trod into the village. The people no doubt feared a raid, unable to conceive that other men would come just to help them. No. Not simply other men. Borr. Odin’s father had been a hero, hadn’t he? Not just to his sons, not even just to his own people. To mankind. And Odin had failed to live up to his father’s legacy.
Snow crunched under Borr’s knees as he knelt to examine a depression. In the torchlight, in the mist, maybe he couldn’t see it for what it was. But Odin could see. A footprint, one so massive his father’s whole body could have crouched in it. The footprint of the frost jotunn Ymir. Was any of this real? Or had Odin’s mind built this vision from the bits and pieces he had learned in visiting the remains of the village, and from the tales Loki had spun of these events?
Odin’s heart pounded in his chest, apt to burst through his ribs. He wanted to scream at his father, shout a warning back to that time. A warning his father would never hear.
Instead, the silence was broken by a crash like thunder as a house exploded, spraying splinters and thatch over Borr and his men. Through the mists, Odin could only see to the jotunn’s waist as he trod forward. But he knew the thing, the blue tint of his skin, the iron plates covering his legs. Borr spun, leveling Gungnir against a foe far beyond his ken. Ymir’s bellow drowned out the battle cries of Borr and his warriors. The jotunn surged forward, smashing one warrior with his hammer. Borr never hesitated, never backed down, charging the monster. Ymir batted the spear away, and it embedded itself in the same tree Odin had found it in days later.
The jotunn snatched up Borr in one hand and hefted him to his face. From Ymir’s head jutted a granite horn, stretching nigh unto five feet long. His icy breath stung Borr’s face. Ymir kicked away another of Borr’s warriors, remaining focused on Odin’s father’s face, meeting his gaze.
And then the jotunn spoke, his voice like the rumbling of a glacier. His words were foreign and unknowable, except … Odin could have sworn he made out one word—Hel. The dire goddess of Niflheim, mistress of the Niflungar.
Ymir squeezed his fist, and Odin screamed, feeling his bones snap as his father’s had.
He jolted upward, roaring at naught, suddenly feeling stifled by the tent above them. Dimly, as though he still dreamed, he knew Frigg had thrown her arms around his chest, leaned her head against his back. Their babe cried, wakened by his outburst.
Odin shrugged free of Frigg, crawled over to Thor, and cradled him in his arms. “There’s naught to fear,” he mumbled.
The two werewolf babes had sat up, watching Odin with wary eyes. Geri pensive, on the edge of tears; Freki with his head cocked to one side.
Tyr stuck his head in the tent, but Frigg waved him away.
“Tell me what you’re seeing,” she said as soon as Odin’s thegn had slipped back out.
Odin couldn’t look away from Thor’s eyes, from the boy’s red hair. Hair the color of Odin’s father’s. “There is naught to fear,” he repeated, unable to still the tremble in his own chest. Because there was something to fear. The jotunn had come specifically for Borr. He had paid no mind to the villagers or the other warriors, at least not until he had finished with Odin’s father. Why? Could Odin have conjured such things in his mind, or had he witnessed the real finality of his father’s last moments? They had found his body broken and no one left to tell the tale of what had destroyed that village. Only later had Loki told him about the jotunn.
“He took my father,” he mumbled.
“Husband,” Frigg said, gingerly taking Thor from his grasp. “You avenged him. You killed Ymir.”
The jotunn had taken his father away from him … taken him before his time. Now, thanks to the apple of Idunn, Odin might never again see his father’s face. And would Borr the great, Borr the hero, be proud of all Odin had done? He had become king of the Aesir, but was that even what Borr would have wanted? Probably not. Nor had Odin wanted such a thing. Idunn had forced the role upon him, and now, responsible for all the Aesir, he could not shirk that role.
“He has my father’s eyes, his hair …” Odin said. Had his own father once comforted Odin like this? Comforted him against the horrors of the night and the mists and the cold?
Would he be proud? No. Borr would not be proud. Odin’s pride had cost him his brother Ve, whom the mists had transformed into a troll. And because Odin had given Ve an apple before that, he would be more than any troll had ever been—a fresh horror Odin had now visited upon Midgard. And if they did not take Vanaheim as Idunn urged, then all he had done would amount to naught.
Odin heard Frigg nursing Thor, felt her warm hand on his bare back. But he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. She was his wife, and still he dreamed of another woman. Of Gudrun, the sorceress who had ensnared him, bent him to her will, and tried to bend him to the service of Hel.
He shuddered, and Frigg removed her hand. His mind wandered too far these days. He rose and donned trousers, not bothering with a shirt. The cold no longer had so much effect on him. Still, he strapped his sword to his side—the sword Frigg had given him to protect their family. Though he always preferred to fight with Gungnir, the sword’s weight was a comfort, a reminder he had not yet failed his son. “I need to find Loki.”
“Again?”
Odin pretended not to hear the judgment in her voice. Yes. Again. Again he sought the council of another over his wife. But Odin’s blood brother knew things beyond what even Odin’s vӧlva wife understood. And Odin could look him in the eye without feeling the guilt of having betrayed his wife.
He stalked into the night, among the countless tents. Thousands of them. All nine tribes of the Aesir, all marching into the unknown under his command. At Idunn’s urging, Odin had uprooted an entire civilization, sent all his people trekking through field and forest and hills in the hopes of finding a better world. And if they fell, if they failed to take Vanaheim, Odin would have led his people to extinction.
Two moons since they named him King at the Althing. Two moons, and he had crushed Hunalander kingdoms beneath his march, won plunder for his people. And lost a great many lives.
“Would you be proud?” Odin whispered into the night. Was Odin a hero following in his father’s footsteps, or was he drunk on his own power, entranced by his own myth? Oh, the men here worshipped him as a god. The god who had fought a jotunn, fought trolls, fought varulfur and won, time after time. Except when he didn’t. His skin bore the runes of a ghost’s curse, a constant reminder she had damned him, promised he would lose everything. As he had lost Ve. And the Aesir? They thought the runes were another indication of his mystique, of his apotheosis, as Idunn called it.
And so they had followed him across the border into Hunaland where they found little welcome. His people met skirmishes every few days—not all at once, but whenever they ventured out to hunt or forage. Thousands of bonfires lit the night, holding back the mists. Perhaps the world had never known such an army. But they were an army burdened by the young and the elderly, by those who could not well defend themselves. And thus it fell to Odin to protect them all. The Aesir had raided into Hunaland for generations. Small wonder the kings here did not welcome them. And through these delays, already the first snows had fallen. Winter returned and they had not yet crossed half this country if Idunn measured correctly.
Tyr had argued they ought to take only warriors, seize Vanaheim, then come back for the women, children, and elderly. It had been Idunn herself who pointed out the flaw in his plan—they would either have to leave a significant force of warriors behind to watch over those helpless people, or leave them defenseless. What she left unsaid, or perhaps was too naive to even see, was that if Odin left people behind, he risked more than their lives. He risked losing control of them. Odin’s presence held these tribes together by a thread of spider silk
. Old hatreds and rivalries and petty ambitions were set aside while their god-king walked among the people. But only just.
Loki sat upright as Odin entered his tent, while Sigyn burrowed deeper under the blankets, clearly naked—a sight Odin would not have minded seeing. From the look in Loki’s crystal blue eyes, his brother knew exactly what Odin was thinking. Yes, Odin was a terrible husband. Frigg deserved better. Maybe … maybe Thor deserved a better father. No. By Frey’s flaming sword, Odin would be worthy of his son, worthy to continue his father’s line.
“I would speak with you, brother.”
Loki glanced at Sigyn, then rose, pulled on his trousers, and followed Odin outside.
“I’ve had another vision,” Odin said as they walked outside the camp. Loki always kept his tent on the outskirts, as he didn’t seem to relish being too close to the company of men. Odin’s blood brother held himself apart, always. Out here, in this never-ending mountain range, that meant he slept on icy slopes above the valley where the rest of the Aesir camped.
But there was no one Odin trusted more. Even despite, or perhaps because of, Loki’s vӧlva-like knowledge.
“You’ve opened yourself to the Otherworlds. It’s not a door you can shut. The Sight carries with it many aspects, and sometimes, you see things you might rather not.”
The Niflungar had said something similar, and they were sorcerers, worshippers of Hel. And still Gudrun had stolen his heart.
“Was it truth?” Odin asked.
Loki shrugged. “What is truth? Your question belies a simplistic worldview, Odin. Do you ask whether it could have been a mere dream? Of course it could have. But then, even dreams may have meaning, though not always literal ones. If what you saw was not actual reality, that does not discount that it may have held some reality worth gleaning.”
Hel’s icy trench, Odin hated when Loki spoke in such riddles. And by the gleam in his eye, the man damned well knew that. Payback for fantasizing about his brother’s woman, perhaps.
“Ymir wanted my father, specifically. Spoke to him. Why would he do that? Why—assuming this was literal truth—would a jotunn speak to a man? Particularly a man he intended to kill.”
“What did he say?”
“I couldn’t understand his language. Something about Hel, I think.”
The bare hint of frown. “Perhaps he merely threatened to send Borr to her.”
Perhaps. But Odin’s gut insisted it was something deeper. Ymir had come just for his father. He was certain of it.
Odin rubbed his face. These mountains left everyone on edge. They needed to be free of them, free of the mists and the death and the pain.
“How far to reach Vanaheim?”
Loki looked up at the night sky for a time before answering. “Several moons at least, depending on our progress. Not before summer. We have to pass through Hunaland and Valland. There will be some flatlands beyond this, then more mountains, albeit not as treacherous as these. And that is only to reach the shore at the edge of the land. We will also need to cross the sea, and decide whether to do so in Valland or press on further south, into Andalus.”
“Then spread the word. We break at dawn and march hard.”
The Niflungar were still out there, probably hunting him. And they would not hesitate to prey on his people in order to get to him.
To prey on his family. Odin would not allow it, not while he had breath left in his body.
2
Volsung’s castle was a stone behemoth. Had to be built by one of the Old Kingdoms. Men didn’t build like this. Not anymore. Tyr stared at it. Worked his jaw. Odin and a half dozen men and shieldmaidens waited behind him. Carefully picked by Tyr. Odin insisted on meeting this king in Hunaland. Tyr insisted on not letting him die.
Other Ás warriors held back, far off. They didn’t want this to seem like an invasion. Odin thought he could make peace. If not—well, Tyr didn’t fancy storming such a castle.
They had built this place to guard against the mists. Had to be. Except now, it served even better against men. A spiked iron gate opened for them, creaking on chains as it rose into the wall. Half frozen already, though the snows hadn’t thickened here. Not yet.
“What a monster,” Tyr mumbled.
“Smaller than Castle Niflung,” Odin said behind him.
Men built bigger than this? Why? He’d have half expected these walls to hold against a fucking jotunn.
A big man strode out at the head of a small army. Scarred, bearded. Carrying a heavy axe. “You come here to die, Aesir?”
“To talk,” Odin said.
The big warrior sneered. “You few walking in here, alone?”
Man thought them fools. Didn’t seem to know just what Odin and Tyr had become. Hel, Tyr didn’t know what he’d become. But when his pulse pounded hard enough, he was strong as a draug. Hard to control, but the apple made him a god. When it counted.
But this thegn didn’t know. Thought them fools not to ask for a hostage before walking into the castle.
“Can we not trust in our safety as guests of King Volsung?” Odin asked.
The warrior grunted, then motioned them to follow. Tyr went first, Odin a step behind him. The warrior led them into a courtyard. Wide, and decorated with a dragon carved of ice. Massive horned serpent, coiling through the center yard. Linnorms, legends called these two-legged serpents. Even Hymir feared such monsters.
“Wait here,” Volsung’s man said and strode into the hall.
The men behind Tyr cursed, or whispered prayers to Njord, Frey, Freyja. Still praying to the Vanir. Somehow forgetting the plan to overthrow them. Tyr didn’t blame them. “Who carves such monstrous things as this dragon?”
Odin drummed his fingers on Gungnir. “A sorcerer.”
“What? They have a sorcerer here?” Tyr was already reaching for his sword. No good ever came from magic. Sorcerers touched powers of Hel. The mist had already begun to gather in the courtyard, held back by the torches of their men. Barely held back.
The king shook his head. “I’m not certain. This looks old.”
How did Odin know such things? The man had changed much in his time with the Niflungar. Too much. He saw things, knew things he ought not. Like his damned blood brother.
“We must have peace,” Odin said, softly so only Tyr could hear him. “Despite the Althing, not all the jarls love me as their king.”
“Most probably don’t. They don’t have to love you. Respect matters more.”
“They respected my father. I think they fear me.”
Not without cause. Tyr grunted. “Everyone respected Borr. He was a great man.”
Odin turned to him with a level gaze. “And you still think me unworthy of that legacy.”
“Bah! I said naught of the sort. Unlike your new brother, I can speak plainly.”
“I made Loki my blood brother, and I’ll hear no ill of him, Tyr. He saved my life more than once and helped me avenge my father. What more do you need to know of him?”
“Where does he come from?” Arms folded over his chest, Tyr glowered at Odin. “Who are his people? What does he want from us? Why the secrets?”
Odin waved away his questions. “Worry more over the jarls, Tyr. I learned recently Father had gone to meet Jarl Arnbjorn in Unterhagen.”
“What? How did you learn such a thing?”
Odin shook his head.
Hel. More secrets. Tyr groaned. The Jarl of the Itrmanni had been there, then. Had known of Borr’s fate. Had shared naught of it, nor had he attended the funeral. Tyr ought to wring justice from the man’s hide.
Except. Odin needed the jarls now. And Tyr had promised himself he would do things right. No more playing politics in the shadows. If he could not meet Arnbjorn in open challenge, he would not fight him at all. Even if it meant letting the past lie.
Evening approached fast. Still this king kept them waiting in the courtyard. Flaunting his power.
Odin stood very still, leaning on Gungnir. Apparently not offended. Or
making of show it.
When the big thegn at last returned, he still sneered. Tyr would welcome the chance to wipe it off his face. But Odin sought peace. Like Borr. He had become worthy.
“The king will hear your offer,” the thegn said, and motioned them into the central hall.
This hall stood flush against the rear outer wall. Inside, a twisted tree grew from the hall’s heart. Its branches tangled in the rafters, reached out windows near the roof.
“Huh.” Quite the sight.
The king’s throne sat a step above the rest of the floor, in the back of the hall. They had to pass around the tree before they could see him. Volsung had the look of a warrior. Powerful muscles. A sword rested against his throne. Young for a king. Maybe twenty winters. Maybe less.
“So the great Ás King graces my hall.” Volsung rose and gestured around his grand home. Then he turned back to them and strode off the raised step. “Odin, the man who thinks himself a god. Already two of my fellow kings of Hunaland have fallen before you, and yet you come to me and wish to talk.”
“Your fellow kings tried to stop us from going where we must. I implore you not to repeat their error.”
“Ah.” Volsung nodded, looked to each of the many thegns and warriors standing around his hall. “Yes, I see. But you do not realize, I think, that I am not like the little men you have marched past thus far. I am the son of Rerir, and grandson of Sigi the Swift, who carved this kingdom out of the lands of his enemies.” Volsung turned and pointed to the sword against his throne. “With that. So you, see, I too come from a glorious line, risen as you have done. And I do not fear you.”
