by Matt Larkin
“Do not force me to kill you, brother.”
Ve stumbled to his feet, staring down at Odin. “Do … Release me …”
Odin faltered. Ve wanted to die? The Troll King spread his arms as if inviting the final stroke, or reminding Odin to acknowledge the monster he had become.
“Release …”
Odin gripped Gungnir so tightly his hands hurt. “Brother.”
Ve reached out a rocky claw. “Live forever … No release …”
It is our children we must do right by.
Urd. Odin screamed defiance at the urd he saw before him.
Every decision, perhaps, becomes one of necessity. Of fate—urd.
Roaring, Odin thrust Gungnir through Ve’s heart.
The trolls broke with the death of their king, and Odin suspected they would not return to trouble the Aesir again. Through dark tunnels, they would disperse in small groups, some returning to the Jarnvid, other packs preying on the men of Valland and Hunaland. Given the choice, he might have hunted every last one of them down and put an end to their vile, foul race, but no such choice lay before him.
He had broken the trolls, yes, but their Niflungar masters remained. Ve’s blood stained Odin’s hands, but Grimhild and Gjuki had forced him into making that final blow. For that, Odin would never forgive them. For that, he would tear down their ancient halls and ensure a final, tragic end to the last of the Old Kingdoms.
He fair trembled with wordless rage.
Now you begin to fathom … hate …
Yes. So he had. Grimhild and Gjuki had made of him a kinslayer. No forgiveness existed for such a crime, so much worse the fate of those who necessitated it.
Odin stalked back to the fortress to find Frigg. She stood in the great hall, clutching Thor to her breast. Odin placed a hand on Frigg’s cheek, then slipped Thor into his arms. How long had he been gone? Already the boy seemed to have grown. One day, Thor would be a mighty warrior, tall and strong. Odin could see it already. Given the chance to grow up, the chance to reach maturity. Thor had Borr’s red hair. Blood bound them, generation after generation, a connection that extended beyond time, beyond life, beyond death … and beyond words.
Odin would do right by his son. He would make Thor proud, as proud as Borr had made him.
And Odin would see his son grow up in the light and warmth of spring, free of these cursed mists.
The only way he was going to be able to do that, the only way he could be free to turn his gaze on Vanaheim, was to face the Niflungar. Gjuki and Grimhild and, if need be, Gudrun. They would die for all they had done.
For if he did not strike down Grimhild, the Niflungar would regroup and come after the Aesir again. And again. Ever pressing Hel’s relentless agenda. Unless Odin took the fight to them.
Odin rocked Thor in his arms. Blood from his hands trickled onto the babe, but Thor just cooed.
Odin kissed his son on the forehead then handed him to Frigg.
“Where are you going?” she demanded.
They were out there, plotting, watching. He could feel them now.
“To war.”
52
Grimhild led Gudrun back to a tent guarded by her Bone Guard, a squad of four draugar decked in carved bone armor. Grimhild’s elite, most trusted servants. Once, centuries ago, these draugar had been a prince and his elite warriors among the Bragnings. Grimhild had used the mists to bind their corpses, bind their souls. She had built her personal guard out of the remnants of her enemies, forcing them into the ultimate blasphemy of betrayal. But then, Grimhild probably thought it poetic justice for those foolish enough to oppose her, now damned, denied peace even in death.
The lead draug, Prince Álf—so named for his once-fair complexion like the liosalfar—glowered at them as they entered. He always glowered, eyes glimmering red despite the lack of any fire to reflect. In life, she had been told, his hair had been like silken gold. Now what remained of it was a clumped mass of gray and white. Did Álf hate Grimhild as much as Gudrun did? Or had his hatred of all life—his very nature as draug—so altered his perceptions he no longer cared for his fallen brethren or former existence?
Hljod followed behind Gudrun and, on entering the tent, actually clutched her wrist, as if expecting her to protect from the draugar or Grimhild. As if Gudrun could protect herself.
“The draugar are finally gathered,” Grimhild said. “I did not truly expect the Aesir to overcome the trolls, but no matter. When the sun sets, Álf will lead a renewed siege. Those barbarians are accustomed to fighting brainless trolls and will not be prepared for foes who can use tactics, bows, or shields.”
“And you think that will be enough?”
Grimhild offered her about the cruelest smile Gudrun had ever seen. “With Odin returned? Perhaps not. But then again, I have a surprise for his people and a special one for him. Your father saved a great deal of his blood, more than enough to establish a sympathetic link.”
A link for a curse. Hel. Grimhild would make Odin suffer beyond endurance. And maybe he deserved it. Hljod was right about everything. He would never love her, and Gudrun’s desire to keep him probably had much to do with spite toward Grimhild.
Kill him …
“Álf,” Grimhild said. “The tome.”
The draug removed Grimhild’s book from a satchel, placing it on the fur mat before her. Gudrun sat in front of Grimhild. Much as she wanted to be away from the queen—to say naught of her Bone Guard—if Grimhild wasn’t going to send her away, she could hardly pass a chance to look at this tome. The grimoire was said to contain the secrets of Hel, the truths of the Otherworlds, and all the power at Grimhild’s command. The queen rarely allowed anyone, save herself or Álf, access to the book. Even Gudrun’s father said he had never read it.
Grimhild paused over the book, flipped a few pages, paused again. Gudrun tried to read it without making it obvious, even as Álf stared at her.
Kill them all … Take the book …
Gudrun almost snorted at Irpa’s absurd suggestion. Grimhild would have her flayed for even thinking such folly.
It was hard to make aught of the writing and diagrams in the tome, not least because it seemed written in several hands, with annotations made by numerous sorceresses over the centuries, some probably from Grimhild herself. Other parts seemed recorded in Supernal itself, the language of spirits, which to the uninitiated, seemed little more than unnerving gibberish. A sorceress might uncover meanings therein, but she could also destroy her own mind in so trying.
“Hmmm. We will need a sacrifice to fuel such a curse.” The queen peered around Gudrun’s shoulder. At Hljod.
The girl started to back away, releasing Gudrun’s wrist.
Before Gudrun could say aught, another of the Bone Guard snared the girl’s shoulder and drove her forward.
“Wait!” Gudrun said. “Wait, this is my apprentice.”
Grimhild scoffed. “An unworthy peasant bitch?”
“I have already begun inducting her into the mysteries.”
The queen waved the comment away as it meant naught.
Gudrun’s mind raced. By feeding her soul to some vile spirit to power her curse, Grimhild would condemn Hljod to a fate even worse than she had endured at Ve’s hands. As a troll wife, she’d have suffered the abuses to her body, true, but death would have ended that. Nevertheless, the trolls had heaped more anguish upon the girl than anyone ought to bear, and Gudrun would have killed them for it, could she have done so.
“The trolls …”
“What?”
“The trolls failed the goddess and broke away like cowards.”
“They are beasts.”
Gudrun nodded. “Beasts—with the souls of men. Punish them even as you achieve your ends.”
Grimhild smirked. “Clever.” She looked to the other Bone Guard. “Take your brethren and bring me a living troll. Several, if you can.”
The draug released Hljod—who grabbed Gudrun’s wrist again—then ducked out of the
tent.
She had spared her apprentice—for now—but Odin would still suffer, maybe more than he deserved. And in the end, much as Gudrun hated it, Grimhild would win. She would accomplish all she had set out to do and make the Aesir suffer for ever daring to stand in her way. The Aesir who had, in their own way, made Gudrun suffer.
Kill them …
No, Gudrun would not kill them.
But maybe it would be better if they were all dead, wiped from Midgard, their souls cast down into the Roil. And, knowing Grimhild, that would very soon come to pass.
53
Somewhere, far away, Gramr called for him. Her voice had grown dim, weary. A weak echo in Tyr’s mind. Because of the others, Tyr had abandoned her.
He had betrayed her.
Or the Aesir had betrayed him.
Someone was coming now, but they didn’t have her. He’d have felt if she was with them. He knew her song.
A great many men trailed down the stairs into this dungeon.
Tyr rose to his feet. Maybe Frigg had come to decide his fate. If so, he’d meet that fate with pride. With what little honor remained of all Borr had granted him.
The procession stepped into the torchlight, and Frigg was there, an old man beside her. A man somehow familiar but … Impossible!
“Son of Borr,” Tyr said. Alive, and finally returned. Unless Tyr’s waking visions had grown into full mist-madness.
Odin took in the cell, then looked to Frigg, then Jarl Arnbjorn beyond. “Why is my champion bound here in times of war and desperation?”
Frigg frowned. “You know why.”
“I know he broke through a line of trolls and saved all your lives.”
“He also broke numerous laws,” Arnbjorn said. “A valorous deed does not excuse a criminal one, especially not in a thegn. No one doubts Tyr’s valor, my king, but he lacks respect for authority or law.”
Odin scowled, turned back to Tyr. “Is this true?”
“My loyalty has always been to the line of Borr.”
Now Odin looked to Arnbjorn, then Frigg. “I have seen a great many things, beyond aught any of you suspect, and other things, other places, which not even the vӧlvur would dare to look. Therein lies madness and clarity both, and the road to understanding sacrifice. Now we stand at war with an ancient people that has seen as far as I have and holds power beyond your imagining. Should we overcome them, still we must face down the gods themselves. I will not face such battles without my greatest warrior at my side.” He waved to a soldier. “Release Tyr immediately.”
The soldier rushed to fumble with the lock to the cell.
“Odin,” Frigg said. “You truly intend to pardon the man for accosting one of your jarls—your brother—and for the murder of another?”
“You have stripped him of his titles and his honor. I intend to grant him the chance to reclaim them on the battlefield.”
The cell opened. And Odin strode forward and clasped Tyr’s arm. Tyr almost could not suppress the shudder of gratitude that swelled in his chest. His king understood. Believed in him. Odin truly was worthy of Borr’s legacy.
“Somewhere out in the mist, the Niflungar watch us,” Odin said.
“I have seen them.”
The king nodded. “And now we must hunt them down and show them their folly in moving against the Aesir.”
Tyr opened his mouth to agree.
And then shrieks of damnation echoed out of the well room. For a bare instant, everyone froze in shock and horror. Turned, even as soaking wet draugar surged out of that room. Axes, swords, shields, all raised.
The closest soldiers turned to engage them. Moved too slow. Three of them dead before anyone else had reacted.
Odin rushed forward to engage the draugar.
“My lord!” someone shouted from atop the stairs. “The dead attack the gate.”
Inside and outside. How had they climbed up the icy well shaft? Didn’t need to breathe, true. But no one even considered foes could manage that. Well must connect to some underground reservoir.
A draug bore down on Arnbjorn, the jarl still fumbling to draw his blade. Tyr slammed into the dead thing with his shoulder, sent it flying. The draug crashed into a pair of its brethren swarming out of the well room. Beyond, more of the creatures still crawled out of the water.
Tyr snatched up a sword from a fallen soldier. An instant later, a draug raced at him, axe high. Tyr twisted out of the way. The axe buried itself in the soldier’s corpse. Tyr swiped the blade across the draug. Just seemed to annoy the creature. This was no runeblade.
“I need Gramr!” he shouted at no one in particular. Another swing of his sword, another useless wound to the draug’s chest.
“Go for the necks!” Odin shouted from behind him.
The draug immediately raised his shield to block any such attempt. So Tyr grabbed the shield and shoved, drawing on all his power. Three steps, then three more, he pushed the draug back into the well room. The one he rushed toppled over backward. Its fellows immediately clambered atop it. Their attacks drove Tyr back.
Odin thrust Gungnir over his shoulder, catching a draug in the face. That one crumpled into a heap, a true corpse once more.
Another slashed at him. Tyr dodged away, snatched up a fallen shield. He blocked more blows on that. Finally managed to twist behind the draug and caught hold of it by the mail. He flung it at the wall. The impact barely slowed the creature. But Tyr grabbed it by the skull and smashed that against the icy wall. Repeatedly, until it fell still.
More and more of the draugar had fallen to Odin. Tyr approached behind one and cleaved through the back of its neck. Draug dropped like a stone. Another bore a helm, so Tyr slammed the sword’s pommel atop it. Staggered it. Other men tore into it. Arnbjorn drove a blade through its gleaming eye socket, and it stilled.
And then there were no more.
Corpses—many of them fresh Ás corpses—littered the well room and the hall beyond it. Maybe a score of draugar had come up this way. Hard to judge exact numbers. More would be outside, trying to breach the walls.
Arnbjorn clapped him on the arm. “You saved my life.”
Tyr nodded. He had. Not long ago he had planned to murder the man, and now he had saved him. Hadn’t even thought about it. A mistake? Or maybe Odin was right … maybe the first step in reclaiming his honor.
“There are more to face outside,” Odin said, looking at Frigg. “Go and bring the runeblade. We need more weapons that can strike these creatures down.”
She hesitated, then raced off, taking two men as guards with her.
Gramr. Odin would return Gramr, thanks to all the gods high and low.
Atop the walls, he could see the draugar spread out through the night. Not well. Not through the mist and darkness. They carried no torches and were smaller than trolls. Harder to spot. Sometimes you caught the gleam of their eyes. Sometimes the glint of weapons reflecting fires beyond the gate. Not much else.
Agilaz was up there, shooting arrows with the other archers, but not many. Had to be running low. Besides, arrows rarely slowed a draug.
Gramr would, though. She purred on his back, eager to drink the blood of the dead.
Maybe she could still prove a force for honor. Sating herself on the wretched denizens of the mist, the Niflungar and their vile allies. He need but find a way to control the rage she built in him. Bloodlust that would not be denied.
You need me.
Still couldn’t be certain whether the voice was real or a delusion. Gramr was made from a soul, forged into metal. But was she really able to speak in his mind? So hard to say.
“Gungnir talk to you?” he asked Odin.
The king raised an eyebrow. “Gungnir is a spear.”
Huh. Suppose that answered that. So the dvergar curse on these runeblades was driving Tyr mad. And yet, even could he have given it up, they needed this sword. It could fell trolls and draugar and aught else they might face on the road to Vanaheim. Probably could slay Vanir too. He need
ed Gramr.
Odin pointed out into the darkness, at the horde of the dead. Opened his mouth to speak. Then wobbled in place. He dropped like his knees had given out. Tyr caught him, eased him down. The king’s flesh had turned sallow, almost blue, and felt like ice. Odin trembled in Tyr’s arms, shook like a frightened maid.
His eyes seemed glazed over.
Tyr looked up to call for a vӧlva. Dozens more of the men up here had fallen as well. Archers, just dropping at their post.
“Agilaz!” Olrun shrieked, kneeling by her husband’s prone form.
What fell sorcery was this? How could so many men take so ill all at once? And Odin, he had eaten the fruit of Yggdrasil. Should have been immune to ordinary ills.
Tyr clasped Odin’s face in his hands. “My king? My king, what do we do? Odin?”
The king shivered. Convulsed.
And said naught.
54
Amidst the chaos of battle, no one paid much attention to a swan alighting in the trees. They ought to have, of course. What swan would fly into such a miasma of death and pain? But most people didn’t notice small things, and that gave Sigyn all the advantage she needed. Taking care to make no sound, she crept out to the edge of a branch, then jumped to the next.
From up here she had a clear view of the two sorceresses. The woman she’d seen before, Gudrun, stood watching another woman, this one wearing a bone mask. The masked one stood in the center of a circle drawn with blood—marring the snow in arcane geometric designs—and marked with stones upon which runes were carved. More horrifying, bone-armored draugar guarded the pair, and a troll bound with strange chains. The masked one must be Grimhild, the book she stared down at the grimoire Loki so feared. If she was like those who had eaten the apples, she might still have some powers without it, but her curses and spells would be lost, her power crippled.
As she watched, Grimhild spoke in strange words that left Sigyn queasy, then drew a knife along the troll’s throat, spilling black blood onto the snows.
