by Matt Larkin
Odin rose, pulling on his trousers just before the Vanr reached him.
“How dare you!” the man shouted.
“What—”
The Vanr’s fist slammed into Odin’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. From the tree line, a boar squealed. Hildisvini. His momentary distraction allowed the Vanr to land another blow, this one to his temple. It sent Odin sprawling to the sand.
“Bragi stop!” Idunn cried.
“I find my wife naked with another man!” He kicked Odin in the ribs, actually lifting him off the beach and sending him tumbling.
All the air blew out of Odin’s lungs, and his vision blurred.
“You think I’m going to let him get away with this!”
“Damn it, Bragi! We both know you plow anything with tits. And besides, I …”
The Vanr was on him, swinging again as Odin rose to his knees, gasping. This time, Odin caught the man’s arm on his own. He surged strength to his limbs and roared, hefting the Vanr up over his head. With a grunt, Odin flung Bragi down onto the sand. Odin spat blood, then backed away. The god of poetry was attacking him. That was something worthy of song. And a lot of mead.
“Your body is strong,” Odin said, “but countless lifetimes of luxury have weathered away any warrior instinct in you.” How long since he fought a real battle? Centuries?
Bragi rose, snarling, and rushed him.
Odin sidestepped, caught the man by the back of the neck, and slammed his fist right in the poetry god’s face. Cartilage shattered beneath his blow.
Bragi fell to his knees moaning, blood spurting from between fingers clenched over his face.
Odin took a step toward him, but Idunn jumped in between them—still naked—and pushed him back with a firm hand on his chest.
“Stop it. Both of you. By the Tree, Bragi! I never slept with Odin—our clothes got wet. And no, I actually don’t care whether you believe me. It’s not like I don’t know about you and Nehalennia. And Sunna. And—”
“Your mother will hear of this,” Bragi said, his voice distorted by the broken nose and his hand clamped over it. The poetry god struggled to his feet and backed away.
Odin’s instincts urged him not let a potential enemy walk away. But he had come here with the hope, however small, of reasoning with the Vanir. If he killed one now—Idunn’s husband, no less—his chances of peace would die forever. Fists clenched at his side, he watched Bragi slink away, up a path running through the hills.
“He’s going to be a problem.”
Idunn sighed. “Maybe. But he’s my problem, Odin. All right?” She shook herself. “We’re near Gefjon’s hall. I’m sure she’ll offer us something to eat and a place to sleep.”
Gefjon. That was the goddess of plenty. Those Aesir who tried their hand at tilling fields—a difficult task given the nigh ever-present snows—prayed to her. It seemed every step of this journey would bring him face to face with beings his people had worshipped, with gods his instincts all but demanded he kneel before. The sudden reality of that left him dizzy, and he slumped back down to the sand.
There was no turning back. He had made an oath. But was it the oath that bound him here, or something deeper? Was Loki right about urd? Either way, Odin’s stomach danced like a storm raged within.
15
Hills and forests covered much of the Andalus countryside. Gave Volsung’s men lots of places to hide. Small raiding parties picked off Ás hunters and gatherers. Sniped men working on the beaches. The shore was hard to guard.
So Tyr had taken eight warriors with him and gone hunting those raiders. A small group could move with stealth. Catch the trollfuckers with their cocks dangling free. As now, with evening drawing nigh, and them thinking fighting was done for the day.
Volsung’s raiders had taken a hill topped with a mighty elm. Already they’d set about making camp—laying fires, rolling out furs. Soon they’d have sentries. Not soon enough.
Tyr pulled Gramr from her sheath and shared a look with his own people. Two shieldmaidens and six men, Hermod among them. All of them well proven.
Without a word, he pushed forward, slinking closer. Quiet—silent as death. Until the last moment. Then, just when they might’ve noticed, he charged up the hill. Drawing power from the apple, he could run faster than a normal man. Not as fast as a varulf, but fast enough. Fast enough the first man only looked up an instant before Gramr sheared through his face. The runeblade cleaved through skull and brain like water. And Tyr was already advancing on the next man.
Startled imbecile had been stringing a bow and kept fucking trying. Gramr tore out his throat and splattered his blood over his fellows even as they rose.
And then Tyr’s people were among them.
Someone flung a throwing axe into a shieldmaiden’s face. Woman tried to raise her shield, but the axe came too fast. Caught her right between the eyes. Should have been Gramr’s to kill. Who the fuck stole his prey!
Tyr roared and charged straight for three other men. One had a sword, two had axes. Tyr feinted toward the swordsman, shifted and turned it into a lunge that opened an axeman’s gut. The other swung. Tyr deflected it on his shield.
The swordsman had flanked around him and was swinging.
Hermod cut him down. Bastard taking his glory again! Tyr shoved Hermod with his shield. The stupid trollfucker fell on his arse and stared up at Tyr like he didn’t know what he’d done. Tyr ignored him to cut down the other axeman.
One of Volsung’s shieldmaidens had felled one of Tyr’s. Tyr bellowed at her and flung himself in her direction. She turned too slowly, and his weight bore her down. He slammed the rim of his shield onto her nose, shattering it in an explosion of blood and cartilage. She choked on that blood, her scream drowned in it. Tyr rose and ran her through.
“What in Hel’s icy trench has got into you?” Hermod demanded.
With no foes left, Tyr spun on him. Who did this man think he was, to question Tyr? There should be more prey.
More blood.
Oh, they’d find more before dawn. Have no doubt on that.
One of Tyr’s men uttered a bloodcurdling scream that drew every eye. A figure shrouded in a cloak stood over the man, now fallen, corpse tumbling down the hill. Half his face missing.
Tyr raced for the cloaked man, but the figure moved even faster. A blade flashed from beneath the cloak and cleaved through another of Tyr’s men. A third charged in, only to be caught by the throat, hefted into the air. Tossed off the hill like a fucking doll.
And the cloaked man turned, revealing the bare hint of a red gleam from beneath his hood.
“Draug!” Hermod shouted.
At once, Tyr’s remaining warriors began to cluster together, forming a desperate defense. Anyone who’d fought draugar before—all Aesir now—knew how dangerous the dead were. Strong. Hard to kill. Easier with a runeblade.
Tyr had slain more than his share, after all.
He beckoned to his men to stay back, and moved in himself. Finally, a real challenge. A worthy foe. Let Gramr drink deeply of foul draug blood.
The draug lunged forward as Tyr drew close. Dead always thought themselves invincible. Tyr met the lunge. Only it turned into a feint. The draug jerked his blade back into Tyr’s shield with enough force to crack the wood. The impact numbed Tyr’s arm. Forced him to draw on more of the apple’s power to keep using it. He wrung out his stinging hand.
The draug had backed away rather than press his advantage. Testing him.
Tyr cracked his neck and tossed the shield aside.
“It is mine …” The draug’s voice sound like he’d just escaped from Hel, all raspy and hissing, air passing through holes in its neck. “You dare to raise … my blade?”
What the fuck?
Tyr followed its gaze. Gramr. The runeblade of the Niflungar. Taken by Odin after he’d slain Guthorm. “So,” Tyr said. “Guthorm?”
“Yes …”
Tyr spat. Odin would want to know the Niflung prince yet lived—after
a fashion. Of course, if Tyr killed him now, that problem would be solved.
“She’s mine now.”
The draug chuckled, a vile sound like someone torturing bats. “She? It already takes your mind, driving you toward your own personal damnation. It was not meant for you younger races.”
The dvergar had forged the nine runeblades for the Old Kingdoms, true enough. But times had changed. And Tyr had no intention of arguing with the dead. He surged forward, probing left, then swinging Gramr right.
Guthorm parried each attack with ease, then turned into a riposte that drove Tyr back on the defensive. The Niflung prince moved with the speed of a mountain gale, launching attack after attack. No opening. No chance to take back the offensive.
Just parry, dodge, fall back.
Again, again.
Someone charged in, screaming a war cry. Before Tyr could shout otherwise, the man—Eluf—swung at Guthorm. The Niflung didn’t parry, let the sword open a wound that slowed the draug not at all. Guthorm twisted, his blade opening Eluf’s bowels even as his other hand grabbed the man. Flung him at Tyr.
The body sent Tyr stumbling backward. His footing gave way, and before he had it again, Guthorm was in. More blows. Gramr parried two, and a third. And then the draug’s sword snaked through and slashed into Tyr’s side. His mail bore the brunt of it, but the blade definitely tore flesh. Maybe bruised ribs too.
Tyr drew more power to block the pain. That was getting harder. Even as he steeled himself, another blow fell, and another. He could barely hold them off. Guthorm was too fast.
But Tyr wasn’t done with this trollfucker just yet. He drew as much of the apple’s power as he could and swung Gramr in a mighty upward arc. Guthorm’s blade hit him first, but he let it. If the draug could bear it, so could Tyr. The Niflung hadn’t expected the tactic, and Gramr caught him in the face. The blow sheared off a small hunk of his jaw and sent him tumbling down the hillside. It should have severed half its head, but … but Gramr had pulled herself back.
Tyr roared intent to chase after the draug. Gramr became a sudden weight in his hand, almost pulling him into the dirt. She was … betraying him?
Blood was seeping from the numerous wounds the draug had opened. His fingers were slick with it. Hard to hold on to Gramr. Some of the blood was Eluf’s, too. Poor bastard.
Someone—Hermod—grabbed Tyr and dragged him away.
Others of the Aesir had clustered, beating a retreat through the woods. Back toward the beaches.
“We have to kill it,” Tyr said.
“We will.” Hermod kept driving him, and so spent, Tyr had no strength to resist. “But if that thing kills us all, there will be no one to report. Besides which, you are not yourself.”
Guthorm had tried to take Gramr from him. For that, Tyr would split the draug down the middle and scatter its ashes to the wind. Soon.
But … but the sword was torn between her masters.
And that cut Tyr deeper than any blow from the draug.
16
Gyrlin had done as she promised and taken Sigyn and Loki to meet her brother, Reiner, a captain for Volsung. Gaining passage west had not proved so difficult—given that Volsung already planned to launch his fleet against the Aesir now camped in Andalus. Sigyn could only assume Grimhild and the Niflungar had further incited the Hunalander king against the Aesir, in spite of—or because of—the extreme defeat Loki had visited upon them. Either way, Reiner had allowed them to pass as members of his crew, which meant Sigyn and Gyrlin, neither of them warriors, had dressed as shieldmaidens.
The shield was an awkward weight on her back, especially given the knowledge she couldn’t use it well if pressed to it. Then again, what shieldmaiden had slain an ash wife? As shieldmaidens, they were expected to take their turn at the oars whenever the winds did not favor the passage. Sigyn’s newfound strength and stamina served her well, while Gyrlin, hands raw and bleeding, had borne it all without complaint.
And so the long voyage had passed, and Reiner had released them on the shores of Andalus. And for days more, they snuck through the wilds, avoiding scouting parties of Volsung’s men, of Valls, even of strange Serklanders bearing curving swords and odd helms. And they had arrived to find the Aesir already beset by Volsung’s men.
Sigyn threw her arms around her sister, almost choking on the relief that swelled in her chest at seeing the woman again. Frigg held her back for a moment, before speaking of all that had passed in Sigyn’s absence. And much had passed.
With Odin gone, it fell to Frigg to hold the alliance of jarls together, and Sigyn’s sister took to that duty with diligence. She held court in the same hall as Odin had, sitting in his throne to remind the people of whom she spoke for.
At present, Vili and Arnbjorn both graced the court. Arnbjorn was cunning and ambitious, traits that could serve Odin well enough or could make him a rival, albeit a subtle one. Vili, on the other hand, was neither especially cunning nor, Sigyn thought, overly ambitious. Either way, Sigyn doubted any Aesir would be fool enough to challenge Odin now, at least not were he here to be challenged. As he so often had, though, Odin left his people to fend for themselves while pursuing his own ends.
While Arnbjorn spoke of backup plans—cleverly skirting around actually suggesting Odin might not return, might die in Vanaheim—Vili grunted his assent. Sigyn knew better than to think the berserk cared overmuch for Arnbjorn’s plans or schemes. No, the werebear was in this hall for one reason—Frigg. Her sister thought the obvious lust driving Vili was born from when she had infused Vili with some of her own pneuma to bring him back from the edge of death. After his altercation with Tyr, Vili had backed off for a time, and perhaps the thegn thought it done. Sigyn could see more than Tyr. Indeed, the berserk seemed obsessed with the queen now, so much so Sigyn could scarcely believe Odin had not seen it himself. Even a few of the thegns whispered of the treason Odin’s brother courted, but the king remained far too preoccupied with whatever visions he saw. Having a vӧlva for a sister, Sigyn was used to being around those who drifted off into melancholy and Otherworldly contemplation, but Odin had taken it further, dangerously far. Maybe he saw the past or the future, but he seemed to miss the present.
“That’s why I say we must split the fleet,” Arnbjorn was saying. “Send some few ships north and some south, ready to approach Vanaheim from all sides if the need arises. And in the meantime, take the local villages. Our supplies run low, and we cannot hold against the Volsung army for long. They cut down our hunters with each passing day.”
Frigg held her hands in her lap until the jarl finally fell silent. Only then did she move, grasping both arms of the chair and drumming her fingers on them, a move probably calculated to make the jarls wait on her. “You seem to have forgotten what Idunn told this council some moons ago. We cannot approach Vanaheim from the north or south because of the reefs. A direct approach from the east is the only option unless you want your sailors caught in the net of Rán.”
“I have not forgotten, my queen. I humbly suggest, however, that perhaps the Vanr enchantress is not to be trusted when it comes to such matters. Are we to believe her more likely to betray her own people than to betray us?”
Sigyn snorted and shook her head. There was naught humble about Arnbjorn or his suggestion, and she would have trusted Idunn more than him, despite the secrets the Vanr woman kept. One of these days, Sigyn would have to uncover the truths Idunn and Loki concealed, but she did enjoy the challenge, after all.
Arnbjorn must have heard her, for he cast a disparaging look at her. As the bastard daughter of the former jarl of the Hasdingi, she had no official rank here, though the queen always welcomed her presence. At some whispered word from Arnbjorn, however, Vili turned to her.
“Sigyn … go and fetch Loki. We need his counsel.”
Barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she looked to Frigg, who nodded with obvious reluctance. As the jarl of the Hasdingi—Sigyn’s tribe—Vili had the right to command her. And if Frigg
overruled him in such simple commands, she risked undermining his authority and costing Odin even more. Vili wasn’t smart enough to have figured that out, but Arnbjorn was.
With a nod, Sigyn turned to leave. When she glanced over her shoulder, though, Vili was moving in dangerously close to Frigg’s throne, pushing his boundaries. How was Odin so blind to this?
Sigyn slipped out of the hall. Or maybe the king was not blind at all. He would know if he shamed Vili, his own brother, not only would he lose a supporter, he would himself look bad in the eyes of the jarls. Why, then, had he even named the werebear a jarl? Three possibilities seemed plausible. Perhaps Odin did not know Vili fancied his wife and was, as Sigyn had suspected, too preoccupied with his visions and his quest. Or he did know and was hoping to placate the berserk with a position of authority. Or … or he knew the truth but was not willing to lose another brother. If that was the case … of course he had to name Vili a jarl, for to favor someone else over his own brother would have shamed Vili.
Which was worse? Odin the oblivious fool who did not see his brother lusting after his wife? Or Odin the conniving schemer who did know, and allowed it to continue? She wandered through the camp, finding no obvious sign of Loki. Oh, she knew how he would answer that question anyway. Did they really want a king who was not able to plot and connive and manipulate? Yes, the machinations of such a man might seem painful when turned against his own people, but they might also be all that allowed a final victory against his foes. Sigyn gnawed her lip. Maybe Odin had no easy answers, either.
On the beach, Tyr sparred with three opponents at once. At least Sigyn assumed it was sparring, though by the look on his face, he seemed half-inclined to cut down his foes. If she couldn’t find Loki, maybe Odin’s champion could talk sense into the jarls. Tyr was no Hasding tribesman, and Vili could not order him away.
Sigyn beckoned to him, though it took several tries to get his attention. The thegn caught one warrior’s blade on his shield and shoved him back so hard the man actually left the ground for a heartbeat before hitting down. Hard.
