by Matt Larkin
The serpent shook its head, flinging blood around the cavern, then hissed at him.
“You think you’re vexed?” Odin mumbled. He regained his feet and drew his sword. “I am the son of Borr! I am no one’s prey!”
The serpent gave no indication it understood. Sword before him, Odin stalked ever closer to where he had dropped Gungnir. He needed that spear. Its magic gave him strength, fury, stamina. It could cut through the dragon’s scales. Some said Volund himself had forged the sword Frigg granted him, but would it pierce dragon hide?
The linnorm glanced at the fallen spear. It knew. Did it sense the dragon soul bound to the spear? Odin could use that. He feinted toward the spear. Predictably, the serpent surged forward to cut him off. Instead of continuing forward, Odin jumped onto its face, roaring. The linnorm jerked, trying to dislodge him, forcing Odin to wrap his arms around one of its horns. The serpent thrashed wildly. This had been a madman’s plan.
It slowed for an instant, perhaps even dizzier than Odin now felt—and he was apt to vomit. Which he had no time to think on. He slashed his sword down on the linnorm’s skull with one hand, but the scales reflected it.
He didn’t have the strength to pierce it with one hand. Odin released his grip on the horn and grasped his sword with both hands as he fell, slamming it straight down. The blade embedded itself in the linnorm’s snout, and Odin found himself hanging on only by that blade, his face now close enough to the linnorm’s maw to feel its foul, acrid breath.
It shrieked and jerked its head. Odin’s sword snapped in half, and he flew free, crashing back down on the ice. He felt ribs break from the impact. Pain blurred his vision, and he desperately clung to the magic in him, trying to drown it out.
His sword—Frigg’s sword. It was supposed to protect his family, and he’d broken it. Gods, that boded ill. The sword meant to defend his children, his wife …
Strength. He needed more strength. More than even the apple could grant. What was another year of his life if he was eaten? Odin pulled more power from the Audr, fueling himself. While the linnorm flailed, Odin scrambled over to Gungnir.
More energy filled him the moment he touched it. The power of his own dragon. Power to replace that of the wraith. The linnorm coiled around, preparing to strike again. Odin thrust Gungnir right into its throat, embedding the spear three feet into the dragon.
The creature’s blood gushed over him, burning like acid. It toppled to the ground, flailing and flopping around, its movements stripping Gungnir from his grasp once again. Odin tried to crawl away. Something slammed into his back and sent him sprawling. The dragon was apt to crush him in its death throes.
Odin yanked himself over the ice, desperate to put as much distance between himself and the dragon as possible.
Icicles rained down from the cavern ceiling as the linnorm thrashed.
Odin covered his head and screamed. His Sight slipped from him, leaving him in utter darkness. Darkness, and the earthquakes caused by a dying dragon, and a collapsing cave.
Part IV
Seventh Moon
43
In the snows ahead of her, draugar followed Odin’s trail. Gudrun did not favor using them. They were ghosts almost as vile as wraiths—indeed, some draugar became wraiths once their corpses were finally destroyed. But few options remained open to her now. Few, or none.
No choice.
None.
Not when she must find Odin.
Must she find Odin?
Indeed she must.
Unlike the draugar, she could not see well at night, but the dead refused to walk in even the hint of sunlight that pierced the mist. To use them, she had to travel in darkness.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just kill the troll shit,” Hljod said.
Death is no mercy …
As if she had thought it was. Had she … just thought that? Her mind swirled, not quite able to separate Irpa’s thoughts from her own. What a fool she had been to rely on the wraith that, like a parasite, now fed off her.
Oh, but she could deny Irpa in the simplest of ways … by using her Art of Mist so much that Snegurka would take her instead.
You would not …
Wouldn’t she? Had not she already fractured her body and mind in pursuit of a man who no longer loved her?
Never loved her. No one loved her.
Wretched girl …
Perhaps Irpa spoke of herself now.
“Gudrun?” Hljod asked. “What’s happened to you?”
Gudrun actually giggled. “I’m losing my mind, body, and soul.”
“Then for the gods’ sakes—”
Gudrun held up a finger to silence that blasphemy.
Hljod cleared her throat. “For Hel’s sake, let the damned man go.”
Perhaps the girl was correct. Odin might never truly love her. If he did not turn to her after all she had sacrificed, she could no longer expect him to ever do so.
Surrender to despair …
Would that not be so easy?
“I think,” Hljod said, “you want him more to spite your mother than out of any true love for the man.”
Gudrun paused, watching the restless dead march across the snows. An army of draugar meant Gudrun could track a man across any terrain. She needed merely to send her scouts along every possible route, and sooner or later one would return with word of its prey. As one had. Odin had chanced the mountain slopes, avoiding the more obvious route. The valleys might have provided him succor, but such was his desperation he would turn away from it.
Not that Gudrun truly blamed him. Her father would visit further horrors upon the man for his escape, for the lives Odin had taken in making that escape. He’d blamed her—and rightly so—for those losses, but Gudrun did not fear her father. Who she feared was Grimhild. If she didn’t return Odin to the Niflungar before Grimhild reached them, the queen would make her regret it.
But did Hljod have the right of it? Gudrun did want to spite Grimhild in any way she could, true enough, but Gudrun had just braved the Penumbra for Odin.
And then had seen that sacrifice scorned.
Maybe she should let Grimhild at Odin.
Hel, she hated that Ás King. And loved him?
No. She would not allow herself that, not anymore. Not after this.
It was Odin’s fault what was happening to her. Because of him, Gudrun was losing herself to the vaettir within her. She had pushed her powers beyond their limits, and now any further use of the Art would only accelerate the process.
Because of Odin, she had become a monstrosity walking in human form, and yet, part of her still wanted him to accept her. Such was her twisted urd that she could not even answer Hljod.
44
The Niflung scout’s corpse tumbled down the hillside before lodging in a snow drift. Tyr spat, then cleaned the blood off Gramr by wiping her in the fresh snow. Blade like her didn’t rust, but still. Had to treat her right.
For days he’d tracked and hunted every Niflung he could find. They passed around the local towns, avoiding them mostly. And they watched. Watched as trolls besieged Idavollir. Worse than when Tyr had left it.
No Niflung would watch tonight. Tyr had cut down four already.
He swept his torch in front of him, banishing mist. Ahead, trolls scaled the fortress walls. Others tore at the weakened gate. They’d break through it tonight.
Blood.
Troll blood was foul, black ichor, but it seemed to satisfy Gramr.
And she would feast well tonight.
Tyr raced down the hill, toward the fortress, blade hungry.
The trolls climbed atop one another, each trying to get a hand on the gate. A great lumbering pile of beasts, slavering over prey. None even looked at Tyr as he bellowed. So caught up in their own roars and grunts.
Gramr cleaved through a troll skull, into another’s arm, and into the back of another. Tyr reversed his momentum and swung back, cutting the back of yet another troll. He had their attention now
.
They fell atop of each other, trying to turn. To face him. He spun in rapid whirls, Gramr gorging herself on black troll blood. Great arcs and tight swings combined to fell nigh to a dozen of the beasts before they even managed to disentangle themselves.
Their foul ichor stung his eyes and soaked his clothes. Glorious!
A troll swiped at him with a heavy claw. Tyr danced back, and Gramr claimed fingers in response. The beast wailed, shaking its mangled hand in disbelief. Trolls knew naught of defense, trusting their nigh-impenetrable hides to protect them. But no armor seemed able to stop a runeblade, and these creatures had no idea how to fight a man so armed.
Two more charged him in a wild gait. Other men tried to block such blows on shields. Got broken arms for their trouble. Rather than retreat, Tyr raced forward, rolling between the two trolls. Came up swinging, severing a leg at the kneecap.
The other jumped like a beast, trying to angle him in. Tyr drove Gramr through the troll’s chest. Screamed fury at it. It caught his arm and tried to draw him in to bite him. Tyr’s strength surged through his limbs, and he flung the beast backward. They didn’t expect a man to match their strength, either.
By Frey’s flaming sword, he could do this all night! No troll could stand against him. How had he ever thought he needed caution against such beasts?
Again and again, Gramr drank troll blood.
Yes, they landed a few blows that sent him for a tumble. But he blocked the pain. Same power that granted him strength and speed let him do that. And a man without pain? It was a man who could not fail.
By the time the trolls broke and fled, a score of them led dead or dying before the gates.
Tyr bellowed after them.
He took a few steps to pursue, but as the battle-fever faded, his legs wobbled, and he sank to one knee. For a moment he stared at Gramr. Then at the mass of troll corpses. Men were watching him through the gates, mouths open, eyes wide. Unbelieving.
How could they believe?
He could not himself fathom what he had just done. Such a feat would have sounded absurd even in a skald’s tale.
And yet, the corpses did not lie.
Still an hour before dawn, but the siege had broken for the night.
Tyr almost dared hope he’d broken it for good, but perhaps not. Ve was still out there. Unlike his brethren, the Troll King had some measure of cunning. He’d come at them more carefully next time.
The gate creaked as the men up on the ramparts opened it. Tyr cracked his neck, waiting.
Jarl Arnbjorn’s thegns were first out, followed by the man himself, Kory, Hoenir, and several others. Men stared at him with awe.
How could they not? Here before them, on a pile of corpses, stood a man soaked in troll blood. Tyr would not have believed it either. He had sheathed Gramr over his shoulder, but she stirred at the sight of Arnbjorn. Begged him to draw her.
The jarls and thegns parted for Frigg. The queen looked both relieved and somehow sad, hands at her sides. “Tyr.”
“Queen Frigg.”
“You broke the siege.”
He shrugged. “Temporary reprieve. Ve will be back.”
Frigg looked to the jarls, her frown only deepening. “Nevertheless, you proved a hero today. It makes things … harder.” What was she on about now? “You violate the terms of your banishment, Tyr, and leave me with no choice but to order your arrest.”
He worked his jaw, words failing.
“I ask you to surrender your arms willingly.”
Tyr spat. “I just fucking saved you all.” His hand closed over Gramr’s bone hilt.
Frigg raised an eyebrow. “And now you plan to assault us for following the law?”
“The law?”
“You broke our laws by returning from exile, Tyr, and …” Again she glanced at the jarls. Afraid to lose their support. And maybe they would turn on her. “And that is not something we can simply let pass. When the king returns, he may decide your fate. Until then, I have no choice but to place you under arrest.”
Kill her.
Kill Frigg? Kill Odin’s wife … No. That he would never do. Not that, not to the son of Borr. His hand shook as he unslung the sword from his shoulder.
And he tossed her aside.
45
The cavern branched, and branched again, leaving Sigyn shifting the torch from side to side for any sign of which way to go. In the snow, they could easily follow Odin’s tracks and, of course, the tracks of whoever pursued him. In the ice cave, though, the passage of even so many boots left no clear indication which path the others had taken, assuming they had all even followed the same tunnel.
“Which way?” she asked.
Loki knelt on the floor, examining the ice as if it might offer up some clue she had missed, though she knew better.
“Can you not use the Sight?”
He sighed. “It doesn’t work like that, exactly.” Still, he raised his torch in front of his face, staring at so intently she’d have almost thought him lost in some somnambulistic trance, especially as he rose, drifting from one exit to another, before finally heading down one.
Perhaps the flame had offered him some vision or insight to guide his steps, or perhaps he could not bear to admit they wandered alone in the darkness without even starlight to illuminate their course. Either way, she trailed after him, putting just enough haste into her steps to catch up to him and look into his eyes.
He blinked—likely a side effect of staring too long into fire—and shook himself, before staring at her.
“What do you fear ahead?” she asked.
Loki didn’t answer, but rather pushed on until they came to another branch in the tunnel, where he hesitated once again, looking down either end of the ice cave.
Sigyn’s breath frosted the air. Down here, despite the lack of wind, it had grown even colder than on the surface, as if the ice itself saturated the cave with the unnatural chill of Niflheim. “So we know that the Niflungar took him to that ruin and that he escaped them. And we know many men pursued him.”
“Not men.”
“Yes, true, and my point exactly. The Niflungar used draugar once already against us, and who better to pursue Odin through these mountains than the dead? We have to suppose we’ll face them ahead, and I am not exactly a warrior.”
Loki chose a tunnel and took off. “You are what you need to be.”
It was hard not to smile at that. Even so, between them they had two torches and cloaks that let them turn into swans. Such supplies did not leave them well endowed to face even a single draug, much less substantial numbers of them. If Loki had a plan to overcome such foes, he had said naught of it, and they were like to need his plan soon enough.
With a sigh, she unshouldered her bow. “In your past I saw the coming of the mists, and vibrant islands, and before all that, flying cities, and I am left to try to piece together a tapestry of history stretching farther than even the wisest of vӧlvur begins to imagine.”
“And do you imagine vӧlvur so very wise in all things?”
The Aesir imagined them wise and looked to them with trust, though as Loki correctly surmised, Sigyn had never taken their words as any sort of ultimate truth. “How does a city fly?”
“With a terrible hubris within man, an insidious and inviolable pride that drives mankind ever toward darkness even while reaching for the skies.”
No doubt he spoke the truth, while avoiding the question, but then, she had not expected even that much of an answer. Always, it was their game, and to learn aught, she had to approach it at angle he would not foresee. “With everything I’ve learned about the Destroyer, it almost seems like Hel actually fears him. Why else would she have sent the Niflungar so fervently against any particular man?”
“You may find delving deep into the motives of Hel uncover more truth than you wish or are yet ready for.”
“Did you find that?”
Loki paused the barest instant, shutting his eyes, before turning toward her.
“I think they went this way. We have to hurry, or the minions of Hel will reach Odin before we do.”
Sigyn frowned, but followed where he led. As usual, he did not seem overly inclined to explain himself, but sooner or later, she would uncover the truths he hid. Loki knew far more of Hel and of the Destroyer and the urd binding them than he had divulged.
46
Gudrun shook her head, following the draugar deeper into the ice cave. Much as the idea tempted, she could not set Grimhild on anyone, least of all Odin. No one deserved such torment as the queen would wreak upon him. No one. And Odin had suffered too much—she just had to make him see the truth in her heart, in his own.
As if Gudrun herself might yet know what truth that was.
There is only one truth … the withering of hope …
Hljod trudged behind her, grumbling about the cold as she had every damned day they’d tracked Odin. Much as looking at the girl sometimes reminded Gudrun of her own worst pains, she couldn’t, wouldn’t leave her behind. By Gudrun’s side, the girl was brash, but Gudrun could see the fear that masked, for she knew what to look for all too well.
“When am I going to get magic powers?” Hljod asked.
Gudrun bit back a response about when the girl was ready to take a man to her bed. Telling her that would drive the girl into a frenzy of doubt and anxiety and do her no good. Instead, she spoke to the more practical reality. “Sorcery is not a magic power, Hljod, and it’s not to be taken lightly. Spirits will exact a cost for their services, especially if you’re not strong enough to master them.”
“Like what? What’s the worst they can do?”
Exactly what Irpa was doing to Gudrun. Or, in her weakened state, what the other spirit bound to her might do if she drew upon her.
