by Matt Larkin
4
Volsung’s castle lay before them once again. This time, no one cast open the gates at her approach. No doubt the men still nursed their wounded pride after their crushing defeat by the Aesir, and thus would not welcome her, either as the reminder of their failure, or with any further task she might bring them. As she did.
“Irpa. Get their attention.”
The wraith she had bound to her seethed beneath her skin like an icy snake worming its way between her organs. Irpa was growing stronger. Feeding her power just to make a demonstration for her supposed allies bespoke of Gudrun falling prey to the same addiction she feared in Hljod. Either way, though, she needed Volsung to know with whom he dealt and to understand no choice lay before him save compliance.
A fell wind blew down over the castle, howling. Gudrun imagined the men on the battlements would be swearing against the chill and the sound, though they could not see the wraith, of course. The wind slammed against the doors, crushing the wooden beam holding them in place. Even from outside, Gudrun could hear the board snap. The double doors flew inward, banging against the castle walls.
Shouts rang along the walls and inside the keep. Gudrun strode forward, pulling back her hood to walk proudly, Hljod and Fenrir a few steps behind her. Men inside spit in warding at the sight.
A half-dozen soldiers poured into the threshold, barring her way, but all kept their weapons pointed at the ground, none daring to actually accost her.
“Tell Volsung the Princess of the Niflungar has returned.”
The guards exchanged glances, shifting their feet.
“Now.”
One of the guards broke off, running toward the keep without even waiting for an order from his superior. Or maybe he was the officer. Such things mattered little.
From the corner of her eye, she spied a man backing away from behind them and spared him a glance. Fenrir was staring him down, and the soldier had seen something in the varulf’s eyes. Even in human form, Gudrun had to admit, there sometimes seemed something inhuman about the creature. Grimhild ought to have left the monster in the Pit, or better yet, killed it ages ago. Then again, if Fenrir were truly a Lord of the Moon, perhaps banishing the spirit would have proved impossible or at least too costly. And killing his host … spirits of such strength, deprived of a body, might simply latch on to anyone nearby. To kill Fenrir’s current host might have meant he’d take another Niflung’s body. Unable to destroy the beast, Grimhild thought to use it. That, of course, bespoke madness, as the queen’s mind crumbled after the loss of her grimoire.
Gudrun was not left waiting long. Volsung—wearing a golden crown and arm rings—walked at the head of a dozen more warriors. The king made no attempt to seem pleased to see her again. Another man followed him, this one wrapped in a hooded cloak. A local priest, perhaps. Volsung would want all the protection he could find from a sorceress, scant though it might be.
The king advanced within ten feet of her, then stopped.
Gudrun smirked.
“I’ve been expecting you, Princess Gudrun.”
Well, that was a surprise, though she tried to keep the shock from her face. Had scouts seen them? She suspected Fenrir had killed a few men here and there, had on occasion seen blood splatters on the ground. It was hard to believe the werewolf might have missed anyone spying on them.
She could not afford to lose the upper hand here, so she strode forward proudly, until but a few feet stood between them. Luckily, none of his warriors dared bar her way. “I’ve come to collect on an ancient debt. You owe us … everything.”
Grimhild’s sorcery had led to Volsung’s birth. For all Gudrun knew, the queen had arranged Rerir’s sterility. Either way, Volsung owed the Niflungar his life, and the king well knew this.
Volsung frowned but did not deny her claim. “I have already acted to repay this debt.”
“A failed attempt does not abrogate your obligation.”
The king groaned, then shook his head. “Come into the warmth, princess.”
Gudrun was about to claim the cold was not her enemy, but with Hljod shivering by her side, the simple defiance seemed petty. Instead, she nodded and followed Volsung into his hall before the great tree. He welcomed them to a table where he sat alone. The hooded priest remained standing behind him, but he dismissed all but two guards.
Fenrir had slipped off Hel knew where. Not murdering anyone, Gudrun hoped.
When Gudrun and Hljod had settled at the table, Volsung motioned to a servant. “Bring mead and venison.”
“Thank Hel,” Hljod mumbled. “I’m fucking starving.”
Volsung sputtered, then laughed while Gudrun scowled at her apprentice. The girl must truly learn to guard her tongue. The king might be petty compared to the Niflungar, but he was still a king. That Volsung seemed amused rather than offended was fortunate, but not the point.
Hljod took no hint of Gudrun’s displeasure and tore into the venison the moment it was present.
Volsung laughed again. “Your servant seems ravenous, princess.”
“I’m a sorceress,” Hljod said between mouthfuls, juices dribbling down her chin as she spoke.
“Hljod is my apprentice, not some mere servant.” Gudrun glowered at the girl, who grinned and downed a large swig of mead. She did not say that Hljod had not earned the title of sorceress—not in front of Volsung. The girl would, however, hear of it later. Bravado was a tool—hubris was a weakness. Finally, Gudrun tore off a small piece of meat herself, chewing slowly.
Hljod took no notice of Gudrun’s demonstration of manners. The girl could not have been so uncouth on accident. Surely even the basest of peasants had some idea how to act. This had to be a test, or a subtle revenge for the hardships Gudrun put the girl through. Necessary hardships, if Hljod was ever to be more than some cheap witch peddling brews as like to kill someone as to heal them. Or maybe Hljod didn’t even understand her little rebellions herself. Maybe, unable to punish the trolls who had raped and tormented her, she now sought any way to release her frustrations.
“A sorceress, huh?” Volsung asked. He chuckled again.
“Mmm, hmmm,” Hljod said.
Gudrun sipped some mead, considering. Volsung made no effort to hide his interest in the girl. Under other circumstances, Gudrun might have asked Hljod to seduce him, to secure his absolute loyalty. Much as she hated Grimhild for it, the queen had taught Gudrun one truth: seduction was one of the most valuable tools a sorceress could wield. Less costly, more predictable, and generally more enjoyable than sorcery. But Hljod … one day, yes, she would have to take lovers, to get over the horrors done to her as a troll-wife. Sex was an integral part of the Art—no less than life—and Hljod could not achieve nigh as much without it. Still, Gudrun would not rush such a thing, nor force it on the girl before she was ready.
“So,” Gudrun said, then waited until Volsung tore his eyes off of Hljod’s breasts to look at her. “I come with a command from Queen Grimhild.”
“A command?”
“Yes. The queen commands you to take your army into Andalus. There the Aesir are preparing ships to cross the sea. You are to go and burn the ships, kill any you can, and abort their passage at all costs. Any plunder you attain is yours to keep.”
Volsung frowned. “It is true enough—our defeat at Odin’s hands rankles me. Never before have I withdrawn from a fight. But Andalus is very far.”
“The South Realms are soft, thick with riches for the claiming. Besides, the man who invades the south and brings down mighty Odin would win fame to last a hundred generations.” That was, after all, the only thing such kings valued more than wealth. Given their short, painful lives, they clung to the idea of an enduring legacy, as if such things mattered in the grand scheme.
Volsung grumbled, then glanced back at Hljod.
“Your father swore an oath that binds all your clan to us until it is repaid. You may have some idea what the queen did for you and your father. You do not wish to know what befalls those
who break faith with her.”
“My father is dead.”
“And yet he swore on your behalf, an oath that outlives him.”
Volsung drummed his fingers on the table, then took a large swig of mead. “Yes, an oath. Our priests speak of it, of my mother’s dying words, insisting I one day fulfill that oath. So I will summon my jarls and thegns, and we will call our levies and have our revenge. But after this, whatever befalls in Andalus, you will hold us absolved of my father’s oath.”
Grimhild would not give away a tool so easily, but then, Gudrun hoped Grimhild would not be around to care much longer. “I give you the word of the Niflungar.” She rose, tired from more than her trek. Sometimes politics and debts and oaths could become so exhausting. Sometimes she longed for another life, a different reality. But this was the life she was given. “Have your men show me to chambers. I will retire now.”
Volsung raised a hand toward a servant, but the priest stepped forward instead, beckoning her to follow without a word. Eager to keep an eye on her? If only he knew Fenrir was the greater threat stalking this hold tonight. Gudrun hoped none of them would linger overlong in the castle.
The priest led her upstairs, some metal clanking against his side as he moved. A weapon? He led her to a tower in the west wing. Perhaps it was special consideration, keeping the Niflung princess away from the accursed rising sun. Or perhaps this tower simply housed the finest guest chambers. The priest opened the door to a room laden with plunder, decorated with a warm-looking featherbed. Not quite the comforts of Castle Niflung, but it would do.
The priest shut the door, closing them both in the room. Gudrun spun on him, in no mood for his audacity. Hljod had more than covered that tonight.
“What do you want, priest?”
“I am no priest.” His voice was sibilant and hollow, sounding as though it hissed through gaps. Something inhuman was staring at her.
Gudrun frowned, summoning ice crystals to her fingertips, though she kept her hands by her sides, waiting.
The man lowered his hood, revealing blond hair bound at the nape of his neck. Eyes of pale blue, though one was glazed over and white. A hole had indeed rotted through his throat, leaving an opening through which wind passed.
Gudrun’s mouth fell open, and she could not swallow. “B-brother … ?”
Gudrun had thrown her arms around Guthorm, heedless of the slight stench of the grave and even of his total lack of warmth. She had held him a while. He was, perhaps, not the perfect brother. But he had died trying to avenge her honor on Odin, though she had not asked him to do so.
They sat now, by the window. Guthorm had said very little. Indeed, a hole in his chest, much larger than the one in his throat, made his words sound too wheezy. He need not have said much in any event. Gudrun knew what must have happened. A faint red gleam hid behind Guthorm’s pupils. Yes, he had become a draug.
Odin had left his body in the snow. And perhaps, in his rage, the mist could have animated his corpse, trapped his soul to its torment. Perhaps, but Gudrun knew better. Grimhild, their own mother, had raised him. Maybe she could not stand the thought of losing her favorite child, or maybe she simply would not let go of such a valuable tool as the assassin prince.
Long ago, while Gudrun trained as a sorceress, Grimhild had ensured a vaettr possessed Gudrun. She had been a powerless observer, trapped in her own mind for days. Watching as her body was used for whatever the snow maiden wanted. To torment her, it had sated its lust on a man she hated. It had used her voice and body to order soldiers she did like to fight one another, even to the death.
And Gudrun had raged, screamed, beat the inside of her own skull to make it stop. And the spirit had laughed, fed on her suffering. Later, Grimhild had finally exorcised the spirit. The vaettr managed to break all of Gudrun’s fingers in the process. The queen had claimed it was a lesson, a warning of what could happen when a sorceress pushed too hard against the Veil.
As Gudrun had lain abed, in agony and shame and self-loathing, she had wondered about the story of another sorceress possessed by a Mist spirit, the one who had killed her own family. That sorceress had pushed too hard and paid for it. For the first time, Gudrun had wondered if the woman in the story was Grimhild.
“I’m so sorry, brother,” she said at last.
“There is pain …” he rasped. “Pain that never heals.”
Gudrun swallowed. This was a fate Grimhild used on her enemies. She had damned Prince Álf and the rest of her Bone Guard to eternal torment for opposing her. But her own son!
“Why did she do this?”
“She says … my anger holds me here. But she will release me … when my task is done …”
Gudrun scowled. Of course, the vile bitch. Whether Grimhild would actually release Guthorm if he did her bidding was another story. “What does she ask?”
“Hunt down … the fire priest. Bring him … in chains.” Guthorm shifted, dropped a thin chain on the floor. That must have been orichalcum, ensorcelled to bind even Loge. This was the plan Grimhild spoke of. The priest had destroyed draugar already, true, but one like Guthorm, armed with such a chain …
Guthorm could not refuse Grimhild’s command, and if Loge destroyed his body, he’d be freed. Maybe that was what he would hope for. Gudrun ground her teeth, wanting to curse the queen. But the woman held sway over Guthorm, and she could never trust him as an ally. He had always been her favorite in life, and now this.
Hel, but she pitied him. And if Grimhild was willing to inflict such agony on her cherished son, she would not hesitate to do worse to Gudrun. And had Grimhild left her son here with orders to meet Gudrun, just to send that message?
Gudrun patted Guthorm on his cold, dead hand. “Volsung will move his army soon. March with them. Don’t try to strike Loge until he is distracted.”
“I am the assassin … would you teach me my trade?”
Gudrun sniffed. “I’m tired, brother. Please let me rest.”
He rose stiffly, retrieved the chain, and left.
When he had shut the door, Gudrun dropped onto the bed, trembling. Damn it. Damn Grimhild. And damn Odin for killing her half brother. The only way this might ever end would be for Gudrun to become more powerful than the queen. And to do that, she needed more knowledge.
Sighing, she rose and slammed the windows shut. Then she pulled the grimoire from her satchel and spread it on the bed. There were answers here—Hel had provided them—if only Gudrun was clever enough to decipher them.
5
Soon, the ships would be done. The Aesir would sail for Vanaheim. And Odin still had no plan—least none he’d told Tyr. Didn’t bode well. Odin had called him his champion once again, true enough. Said Tyr had earned back that right when he fought the draugar. The king still didn’t take his counsel. Not anymore.
Tyr wandered the camp, inspecting the longships. They needed to be strong. Idunn had advised on the building. Said they might have endure nigh unto two days at sea. No one much cared for that. Sailors kept to the coast, made land for night. Otherwise, fucking mist would blind you, even as it poisoned you.
Skaldun tribe was building this one. Zisa wasn’t exactly the new jarl. No, but men looked to her. And she looked down at Tyr. He hadn’t won back her trust. Maybe never would. Nor did he need to. It was Idunn who graced his thoughts, oft as not. She sat on the beach again, staring out over the waves. She always sat there of late.
Beautiful, graceful, and … tormented. Even Tyr could see that much, and he wasn’t so good with reading women. She spoke less these days. Her losing that bubbling sense of life—well it set his teeth to grinding. Tyr cracked his neck. Odin had let him keep Gramr, but bid Tyr not to draw her unless times grew dire.
Idunn sat by the shore, looking all forlorn. Not dancing or laughing or chattering.
Eh. What good would the runeblade do now? Would he slay her melancholy?
Tyr trudged over and stared at her a moment. She looked so tiny now, just a hair over five foot, an
d slender as a waif. Could almost make him forget she’d seen thousands of winters pass by. “You, uh … I’d like to talk to you.”
“Hmm? Oh. I’m always happy to talk, Tyr.”
“Can we, uh … in private? My tent?”
At that she turned, arching an eyebrow. Quirking that little half-smile he loved. She said naught else, though, and rose. Followed him back.
“You want to do more than talk, don’t you,” she said, when she ducked into his tent.
Tyr swallowed, a little stunned by her brazenness. Probably shouldn’t be. Idunn was no shieldmaiden, but she was at least as forward as one. He liked that, the confidence. Surety. A woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. Maybe there was something he could learn from that. From her endless lifetimes of experience. Maybe that, even given centuries, life was too short to be held back by doubt?
It was why he asked her here. Wasn’t it? His damned tongue felt heavy as a stone and covered in wool.
“I would … I would wed you, Idunn, if you will have me.”
“W-wed me? Uh, well …” Idunn suddenly pulled away. She settled on the ground across from him.
Had he misread her? He’d thought she wanted him. They’d spent so much time together since Idavollir. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I thought …”
Idunn chuckled nervously. “Yes. I thought you just wanted to sleep together. I mean, that would be fun, but I … uh … I can’t marry you, Tyr.”
He groaned. Cracked his neck. Woman wanted to sleep with him, but not marry him. She was a damned shieldmaiden. Or was it because she was Vanr? “Would it change things, after we reach Vanaheim?”
“Um, not for the better, I’m afraid. I mean, my husband is there. He’s not going to want me to bring home a new one.”
Husband? Frey’s flaming sword! Married? How had she … Why hadn’t she ever said so? And she had just offered to sleep with him. Had already slept with him, back when he’d had that apple. Tyr shook himself. Backed away, snatched up Gramr from where she lay amidst his furs. Even sheathed, her weight was a small comfort.
