by Matt Larkin
So she had to do something.
She nocked an arrow. Slow breaths. Steady. Let everything else fall away, just as Agilaz had taught her. Her new senses made that easier. Her vision could narrow until naught but her target even existed.
Bow drawn, she stepped around the tree trunk. Aimed at a man. He turned in her direction. Maybe he heard something. She loosed. Her arrow punched straight through his thigh, jutting out the other side. The man toppled over, clutching his wound and screaming loud enough to draw every wandering vaettir in the whole damned forest.
Rather than draw again, Sigyn took off running, dashing between trees, away from Frigg and Fulla. Without her, they might get lost in the woods, wander into a cave bear or a pack of dire wolves or Freyja knew what else. But she had to draw these men off.
On and on she ran, the shouts of pursuit ever close behind. The apple gave her stamina, so maybe—maybe—she could outrun them. But quite likely not.
Heart racing, she jumped upon a root, then onto another, disguising her footprints in the snow. She leapt up, caught a branch, and climbed onto the bough of an ash tree. From there, she climbed further out.
Her foot slipped, and she slammed against the branch.
An instant later, men raced by beneath her.
“Where did she go?”
“Find the bitch before one of us catches an arrow like Roelof!”
“The footprints just disappear.” The speaker circled back, pausing beneath one tree over, where she had first started climbing on roots.
Damn it. She’d planned to move further, jump from one tree to the next. But any sound she made now would draw their eyes. And shooting her bow from this position was impossible.
The man knelt, inspecting the roots.
Sigyn stifled a groan. Think fast. A drop from this height would slow her for a moment, long enough for them to catch her. She could sit up, try to shoot one of them, but those men had bows as well.
“She must have climbed a tree.”
Taking care to make no noise, Sigyn pushed herself up to a sitting position. The arrows jostling together in her quiver sounded loud to her, but none of them looked in her direction. They had, however, began scanning all the trees in a haphazard pattern. No plan or organization, but sooner or later they’d get lucky, and then she’d have nowhere to go.
So.
Slow breaths.
If she could somehow take out two of them, maybe the others would flee for cover, giving her time to get down. It was a slim hope, but better than none. She eased an arrow loose from her quiver.
More footfalls sounded from beyond the men. Sigyn grit her teeth. Last thing she needed. Reinforcements.
The twang of a bow caused her to drop flat again on pure instinct. An arrow sprouted from the chest of the one of the men. The victim fell, crashing into the snow.
“She’s behind us!”
As they fumbled with their own bows, another arrow hit one of them in the face.
Sigyn gasped at the gruesome sight, drawing the gaze of one of the scouts. At the same instant, a shadow stepped from behind a tree and wrapped a hand over the man’s mouth. The figure behind him—Loki! Freyja be praised—drove his victim to the ground and held him until he stopped struggling.
The last man broke and ran, but had gone only a dozen steps before another arrow caught him in the back.
Loki. Sigyn stared open-mouthed at him. He always found her, somehow. How did he do that? Not purely by tracking, it couldn’t be, not the route she’d taken. So one more secret, deep and hidden as his connection to the flames.
As she climbed down, Agilaz joined them. Sigyn threw her arms first around her foster father, then around her lover. They had come to save her.
She kissed Loki.
Shame, though. Had she proved more useful, maybe she would not have needed saving.
When it came to it, she’d kept Frigg and Fulla and the babes alive, but not much else.
“Are you injured?” Agilaz asked.
No. Not injured. But she was going to have to do better in the future. She would not allow herself to become a burden. She’d had an apple, same as any of them. And that meant it was past time to start doing her part.
9
Volsung stared at his convulsing hand a moment, looked up at Gudrun, then back down at his hand. At first, she thought he might ask her to ease his pain or try to heal his injury—neither of which lay within her Art—but he did naught instead. Perhaps he had not even imagined the Art could do such things. Perhaps he had simply accustomed himself to pain. Gudrun could empathize, though her wounds did not show as obviously as Volsung’s.
“The stories are true,” the king said at last. “Odin is a god among men.”
Well, that was unfortunate. Gudrun ground her teeth a moment, before spreading her hands. “It is more complicated than that.”
Volsung leaned forward, lips curled back in what almost looked like a snarl. “I count us fortunate he has not yet laid siege to this castle. It leaves me time to send word to our allies in case he does so. However, should the Aesir choose to leave us be, prudence demands we return the favor. Let them be gone from our lands, and good riddance.”
“That is not your place to decide. You have an oath to the queen.”
Volsung slapped his throne with his good hand and rose suddenly enough that several of his men turned on her, hands on weapons. Gudrun kept her hands at her side, careful not to further incite these people. They had lost lives and honor both, and men in such situations could act rashly.
Scowling, Volsung stalked to the great tree and stroked it. “My father’s oath means naught if we lose our kingdom and still fail.”
The men were still watching her. Afraid. What would such men do if they witnessed the Art? Those sensitive to it might feel unnerved, even ill, when a sorceress began to call a bound spirit. But if they actually saw her do something? Would they break, flee screaming about witchcraft? Perhaps not. Perhaps they would attack. She drew close to Volsung, but slowly, trying not to seem a threat.
“Queen Grimhild does not tolerate failure.” She spoke softly, pitching her voice for the king alone. “And she answers to a greater power still—one for whom we can truly say there is none greater. Fail in your oath, and you may find even death offers no respite from the agonies you will suffer.”
Volsung groaned, leaned heavier against the tree. “I need time. I need to gather every ally I can. If we hope to overcome them, we’ll need vastly greater numbers.”
“Then move quickly, before they pass beyond your lands. For if they do, Grimhild will still expect you to pursue. Even unto Valland or beyond, if need be.”
Volsung raised an eye at that. Maybe at learning the Aesir were bound so far, maybe at her implying she would force him to invade a foreign empire. Either way, Gudrun spun and stalked out of the hall.
She needed to gather her own information about Odin and his whereabouts, and she would not try such things here. Not surrounded by these skittish men.
Instead, she left the castle and wandered the woods. The same mist that choked and poisoned the land also offered succor and answers to those willing to bend to it.
Gudrun paused, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. The mist was congealing, sorcery in the air. She spun to see the vapors forming up behind her, taking the shape of a skull. Or a bone mask, as Grimhild wore when she conjured. Gudrun forced herself to stillness. If the queen wished to speak with her, there was little point in running. None of Gudrun’s Art could hold a candle to Grimhild’s. The queen carried a tome said to be written by Hel herself, and with it, Grimhild could summon spirits Gudrun would not dare even name.
Grimhild had been Queen of the Niflungar for centuries at the very least. And through all that time her hair had retained a luster as blonde as Gudrun’s own, her face blemish free. Indeed, her mother could pass for Gudrun’s older sister. What secrets she used to maintain her youth, Gudrun had never been able to uncover. And Grimhild gave na
ught away for free. Everything with her had a price. That was one lesson Gudrun would never forget.
She rubbed the spirit glyph on her arm as if to remind herself.
“Where are you?” The vapors hissed as her mother spoke.
“Near Volsung’s hall. His people died in droves, and still the Aesir march on. They may reach Valland within another moon.”
“It will be enough time.” Though the words were but a whisper in the wind, Gudrun heard them clearly.
“Time for what?” Did Grimhild now sanction her attempt to win Odin back?
“For your army to catch them.”
“My army?” Gudrun had many talents, but she was no general. Her brother Guthorm might have been able to lead men, but Gudrun had other ways of getting what she wanted.
“You are the closest. You will serve, directing the troops to harry Odin’s warriors. Cut them off—do not let them reach Vanaheim.”
Vanaheim would be beyond the Niflungar’s reach, true, but Gudrun doubted she could stop the Aesir through any direct confrontation. She caught herself about to shake her head. One didn’t deny Queen Grimhild. Not ever. To do so was … Gudrun had to suppress a shiver that threatened to overcome her. Some mistakes a woman made only once. “How will an army catch them, much less get ahead of them?”
She could have sworn her mother snickered, the sound like the crunch of snow underfoot. “Because, daughter, your army need not sleep.”
The mists shifted again, revealing an image of a snowfield nearby. Across it tromped the shadow of a man, its gait uneven but steady. Its flesh had turned sallow and wan, though remnants of armor concealed most of the wretched thing. But not its eyes. Eyes filled with hatred of the living, lit with a red gleam. More and more of the creatures trudged forward, never faltering, never slowing.
Draugar.
Revenants of the dead, animated by the mists. Warriors not fortunate enough to have had a funeral pyre, now bound in service and trapped in eternal hatred, become ghosts possessing their own corpses. Stronger than any man, tireless, and utterly relentless. An army of the dead that could match even the so-called Ás gods. And where had her mother gotten an army of the dead?
Deep down, Gudrun knew. A whole battlefield of fresh corpses lay strewn about, men fallen from both sides. The Aesir and Hunalanders alike would set pyres, but perhaps they had not moved quickly enough. And Hel granted Grimhild the strength to raise those fallen tainted with the most hatred. Why now? Why would the goddess grant such a thing centuries after the Niflungar were defeated and driven to islands in Reidgotaland? Was Hel herself so bent on Odin she would expend such power to see him brought to ruin? Or brought to heel.
And the very warriors he had just slain would rise against him again, more powerful than ever.
Gudrun hugged herself, for once not caring if Grimhild saw it as weakness. Even for a priestess of Hel, this seemed profane. A single draug possessing a corpse was enough to leave even most Niflungar on edge. An army of them was like the myths of old. But … but it was an opportunity. Pushed to the brink, Odin would at last turn back to her. And the draugar would push him there. Odin and those who had eaten the fruit of Yggdrasil might match a draug, but his mortal warriors would fall like leaves from a tree.
And faced with the annihilation of all he knew, Odin would finally see where his true love lay. Finally embrace his destiny at her side. And if he did so before Grimhild could reach him, Gudrun could hope to save him from the queen’s plans.
10
With Volsung’s army broken, Odin had called another Thing. Voices filled the circle, wondering why Odin did not order them to storm the castle of those who had betrayed them. Tyr wondered the same. Odin seemed only to have a mind for his family, now returned. Thanks to Agilaz … and Loki. The man who always knew too much.
Tyr tried to keep his watchful eye on the crowd, but found his gaze ever drawn to Odin and Frigg. They stood in the midst of the people. Thor held tight to Frigg’s breast.
Only Jarl Bedvig held silent now, no doubt yet reeling from his shame. It brought a slight smile to Tyr’s face. The man deserved worse still, of course.
“Why are we not pushing forward?” Lodur demanded.
Odin held up his hand and, like that, everyone fell silent. They had seen what he’d done in the battle. Fewer and fewer of them would challenge his authority now. At least while the memory remained fresh. “We could lay siege there, yes. Spends days or moons trying to breach those walls while winter deepens and our supplies run low. Do you suppose, then, that we will find enough game and forage in one place to feed all those mouths out there?” He waved to indicate the greater portion of Aesir. “No. We will starve before they do. Believe me, I wanted to make an example of this king—and one day, perhaps I will. We do not forget the debts owed to us.”
Men shouted at that, a few banging weapons on their shields.
“We cannot afford to sap our strength fighting every petty king between here and Vanaheim. Instead …” Odin looked to Loki. Damn it. Foreigner had some other fool plan. “Instead we must push south, into the mountains no man lays claim to.”
The Sudurberks. Damn it all.
“No man,” Vili said. “Fucking vaettir, though. Mist so thick you’d choke on it.”
Odin scowled at his brother. “We’ll have torches.”
Other jarls began bickering. Complaining about leaving foes behind them. Or the hardships of marching their tribes through mountains. Or who would get to go first in narrow mountain passes. Which tribe deserved the highest honors.
Agilaz wended his way among the Thing. Tyr watched him, arms folded over his chest. Nigh to twenty thousand people trying to move through mountains. Hard to say whether it would cost more lives than it saved.
Roughly a third of the people were what Tyr would consider warriors. Some others could fight if pushed to it. More important were the berserkir and varulfur who had fallen roughly under the command of Vili and Hoenir. Dozens of the shapeshifters guarded the Aesir against the night, against other vaettir.
Varulfur had always existed on the fringes of Ás society. By adopting those two werewolf children, Odin had bestowed honor on the entire breed. Once, Tyr had heard a legend that all shapeshifters had a progenitor. An ultimate ancestor of the breed that embodied all the true, unbridled power the Moon vaettir wielded. Rage and power made flesh. Born to slaughter all in its path. What had Heidr called the ancestral varulf? Fenrir. That was it. A story the vӧlva had used to frighten children. To keep them huddled close around the fires. Or perhaps, the stories of epic slaughter were intended to separate ordinary men from the varulfur who protected them.
Now, though, Vili seemed primed to portray all shapeshifters as the elite of the Aesir. And true, they did make astounding protectors and guardians. But it was hard to trust one who was half controlled by a vaettr. Particularly one that could be given over to animal savagery at any moment.
“The mists have worked too quickly in the night,” Agilaz said. “No few of the fallen are missing.”
“Missing?” Odin demanded.
A hush fell over the circle.
Agilaz scowled, took in the Aesir. “Battlefields are chaos, so it’s hard to say with certainty. But I believe some of the dead rose last night.”
“Draugar.” Odin fairly spat the word.
“Yes. I believe so. And when the sun sets … They seem already to be trying to flank us. Hem us in.”
Tyr’s groan was one of many. Men feared few things more than draugar, and with good reason. Unlike trolls which were given to stupidity, draugar held the skills and cunning of men. Matched those with relentless strength and stamina and hatred for the living.
Murmurs passed among all gathered. The Ás leaders, clan jarls, vӧlvur, all stirred. The looks on their faces, the tremors in their voices, Tyr watched them all. Some of these men and women would break, panic. Others didn’t seem to believe Agilaz.
“Are you certain?” Odin asked.
Tyr could un
derstand his skepticism. A draug might be expected in the wilds. Indeed, perhaps even groups of them. Entire hunting parties brought down by the cold or vaettir. Brought down, and raised once again by the mists of Hel. But hundreds … that was an army. Their army. Such things did not happen this quickly. Vӧlvur stories spoke of such occurrences when the mists first covered the world. Back before men knew they must always burn their dead. But such times had since long passed into legend. Myth.
Even Tyr could not fight such an army. Some of the other warriors looked to him, so Tyr forced his gaze to remain impassive. Courage was worth a hundred spears. It was the one weapon they could not afford to ever break.
“Can we avoid them?” Frigg asked.
The scout hesitated. “They move faster than we can transplant the tribes, and they seem to know where we are bound. Their greatest numbers gather to the west, where we head.”
The murmurs once again filled the crowd. A few jarls started arguing.
After several moments, Odin banged Gungnir on the ground, once again drawing silence. “Then the course is clear,” Odin said, casting his voice so deep it would carry beyond the Thing to the crowd that, by now, had begun to panic. “We must take to the mountains. We cannot face human enemies and draugar both. I will gather my forces and head off those who may block the passes, clear the way. The rest of you,” Odin said, looking to the jarls, “send your finest warriors to guard our flanks. We cannot allow this to slow us.”
Slow us. Interesting choice of words. Odin implied there was no actual worry of the threat defeating them. Only disrupting their advance. Was that a conscious choice to instill confidence in his people, or was it his own pride in thinking none could stop him? Either way, Tyr had to approve. Courage was what these people needed to see. And courage was what Odin showed them.
