by Matt Larkin
“I came to Vanaheim with Idunn. She told me of her duty in these lands.” He glanced at Freyja, who was smiling again.
“She’s the only one allowed to climb up there and pick the apples. Once, long ago, she fell, oh, at least ten stories. She broke a score of bones and cracked her pretty skull. I had to use sorcery to save her life. Since then, she’s never fallen. Some lessons only have to be learned once, I guess …”
Odin would think so. Though he could not say exactly where Freyja was going with her story. From the way she trailed off, maybe she didn’t know either.
“Freyja?” Eostre asked after several moments of silence.
The blonde Vanr turned back to Odin’s guide, then nodded. “Your daughter and I went through a lot together. I always felt connected to her.”
Eostre said nothing, though her face made it seem she knew well enough everything Freyja was saying.
Freyja shrugged. “If you and Idunn want me to teach Odin about the Art, I will.”
“Teach him how to stand against the Niflungar. I do not suggest you arm the Aesir with the means to destroy themselves.”
Freyja laughed. “You should know the two are much the same thing. You cannot walk through the world of seid without being changed by it.”
If only she knew how changed Odin truly was. His trek through the Astral Realm and the tortures Gjuki had visited upon him—or how Odin had bound the wraith to him—had forever altered his body and mind, even as pieces of his soul were torn away. And more than anything, he suddenly wanted to tell her that. To confess all his burdens and be absolved of them. And if he admitted to having eaten one of Idunn’s apples, what would the Vanir do to him? Would they kill him for participating in the theft of their most precious of treasures? Perhaps not only him. Idunn too might pay that price. He couldn’t take that risk.
The Astral Realm. In it, he had seen a valkyrie—Svanhit. If there was no Valhalla, where did the valkyrie intend to take his soul? But he could not well ask Eostre such a question without revealing far more about himself than he dared.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Eostre said. “I need to have words with my son-in-law.”
Freyja quirked a half smile, then turned back to Odin. “Are you hungry?”
Gods, he was famished. “I could do with a meal.”
“Then come. I’ll have the servants prepare something, and we can talk. If the Niflungar have returned, I want to know everything.”
With a final glance at the lions, Odin followed her downstairs.
22
A scouting party crept through the forests some few miles from the Ás camp. Speaking the Northern tongue, so not Valls. Five men, all armed with blades and axes. One with a bow. If Gudrun had sent her minions after the Aesir, Tyr would have expected something more akin to Flosshilde or Guthorm. Something foul. Seeping out from the mist and wont to drag his people into some uncertain demise. Instead, she’d turned to Volsung again.
Human foes, though, seemed almost a distraction. He could pass these men by. Guthorm was still out there, and Gramr seemed to almost want to return to him. That alone made Tyr dream of hunting the draug down. But then these scouts would report back. That would lead to Ás deaths. Slinking low behind a snow drift, he kept Gramr in hand.
The scouts kept their focus on prey ahead, only rarely sparing a glance behind themselves. Definitely not Valls. For who, when wandering such woods, would forget to watch for vaettir or aught else? Who, save an army preparing for battle, focused on a clear enemy?
Gramr sang to him of glory, promised him a swift victory. No denying her.
One of the scouts fell behind to take a piss, standing before a tree, back to Tyr.
Tyr allowed the others to put a few dozen feet of distance between them, then rose, creeping ever closer. As he drew nigh, snow crunched under his foot. The scout started to turn mid-stream. A single stroke from Gramr lopped off his head before he could scream.
Tyr allowed himself the slightest smirk, then slipped between two trees. Stalking closer to the remaining scouts.
One of them finally glanced back. “What the fuck is taking him so long?”
Another man snorted. “Maybe you should go help.”
Tyr circled around them, drawing as close as the tree cover allowed.
“Maybe you should swallow some troll cock,” the first man answered.
That remark sparked raucous laughter from the remaining men. And provided enough distraction. Tyr charged into their midst. The speaker looked to him, mouth wide. A low swing severed one of his legs, drowning out his words in screams.
Bellowing, Tyr launched himself at the bowman. The scout dropped his weapon to go for a broadsword. Only managed to get one hand on it before Gramr bit through one of his lungs. Tyr yanked his sword free and raised his shield, blocking an axe strike from the nearest man.
He danced around.
Two remaining men worked in unison. Well trained. Or at least used to working together.
One swung while the other feinted. Tyr swept the feint aside with Gramr. Deflected the real attack on his shield. A swift twist let him scrape his blade along the axeman’s thigh. The chilling numbness would set in almost instantly. Indeed, the man fell back, gaping at his shallow wound as though his life were being drained by some foul vaettir.
Close enough to the truth, perhaps. Souls were bound in the runeblade, angry. Hungry.
“What in Hel’s—” the other man started to ask.
A quick slash spilled the speaker’s steaming intestines over the forest floor. The wounded man toppled onto his arse, trying to crawl away.
“Who sent you?” Tyr asked.
Before the scout could answer, Gramr drove herself through his throat. Tyr grunted, looked down at his blood-drenched hand. Had he meant to do that?
“Trollfuckers,” he mumbled.
It didn’t matter. He knew who sent them.
And he knew where they were going.
But if he went back … No.
Damn, but no. He had to press on and reach the Vall troops. Frigg had ordered him to bring back help.
And he would do so, even if it meant leaving his people alone for now.
23
All in Vanaheim seemed to move with a calm pace an outsider might mistake for languor, or even total apathy for life. After days walking the gardens with Freyja, Odin suspected it was more a matter of repose, of appreciation for nature and life born from living in a place where survival was no longer a struggle. And that was a reality he had never before imagined nor prepared for.
Freyja woke when she felt like it, stayed up late into the night, and often encouraged him to sit on the cliff, staring out over the landscape in silence. When he asked after the Art, she would sometimes answer questions and sometimes laugh it away. The night before, they had watched the stars, sipping wine and speaking of life until well past midnight. Never had he seen the moon so clear.
Most times, one or both of her cave lions walked beside them, seeming more companion than protector to her. After days of quiet, Odin had almost even gotten accustomed to the cats.
This morning, Freyja had sat with him in the book room, trying—as she had most days—to teach him to interpret the letters on the pages. He had managed some, but oft as not, his head would throb after but a few hours. In answer to which, Freyja always seemed to recommend wine and a walk in the sunlight.
Which he welcomed. He treaded behind her, more or less ignoring the lions pacing after them.
Sessrumnir’s terrace glittered. It was home to a rooftop hanging garden of a thousand varieties. And Freyja, for whatever reason, seemed intent for him to learn the names and scents of every one.
Somehow, she made such lessons so pleasant, he hardly minded passing a day like this. The sun was so warm, he had doffed his cloak and wool shirt for a simple tunic like she wore.
Now, as he sat on the terrace rail, Freyja pulled at the side of the tunic’s opening, examining the runes branded into his flesh.
“Do these cover your whole body?”
“Most of it, my lady. Both arms, my chest. My back.”
Freyja quirked that odd half smile. “You can drop the ‘my lady,’ Odin. By the Tree, after days walking together, perhaps we can dispense with titles.”
How could he refuse such a simple request? Freyja was grounded in a way he would not have expected of a princess, much less a divine one. And she was quick to laugh, with an infectious smile. Her easy way made him want to agree to anything she asked. “Do you … know what they mean?”
“I can take a closer look later. I have someone coming here today just to see you—a specialist in alchemy. It’s an important aspect of the Art—safer than sorcery, if not quite safe. A bit more predictable, too. Mostly.” She snickered at that. “Come on.” She inclined her head for him to follow, and he did so.
Her hips swayed with such elegant grace as she walked. It had to be intentional. Unless she had grown so accustomed to such styles, she no longer thought of them. Following her down the stairs, he found it hard to think of anything else.
Walls of water separated many of the lower rooms. In fact, many of the sleeping chambers, including Odin’s own, seemed shaped by walls of water that flowed upward. Naturally, these walls were translucent, and he assumed one could pass through them—if one didn’t mind getting drenched.
They passed by one chamber where a pair of Vanir hammered away at incandescent metal, working it over green flame. Though Freyja had given him a tour of most of the hall and the surrounding mountains, he had not noticed this forge before, and he paused.
“Oh.” Freyja turned when he stopped. “Right. They’re forging orichalcum.”
“Which is?”
“A metal with some unique properties. It’s found almost exclusively on Vanaheim, though some pieces have made their way into the world. Dvergar, in particular, prize it beyond all other wealth.”
“What kind of properties?”
“The metal resonates at a frequency that seems to pass between realms, making it suitable for ensorcellment.”
Odin took a step toward the forge. “You mean it’s magical?”
Freyja snatched his wrist and pulled him away. “It’s susceptible to the Art in surprising ways. Most importantly, one can forge souls into it, which is how the dvergar crafted the runeblades. On the other hand, it can be attuned such that it drains any supernatural energy from those bound by it, effectively blocking seid or other forms of the Art. We used it to bind those possessed by vaettir.”
Odin faltered. A metal that could block the Art? Maybe that was how Gjuki had bound him during his torture. The Raven Lord had claimed Odin would never break his chains. Perhaps because those very chains grew stronger as Odin fed his supernatural strength into them.
“Orichalcum is rare, hard to work with. And not my specialty—though I can teach you a bit about it if you really want to know, some other time. I just … soul forging is a vile practice, Odin.” She murmured something unintelligible, then shook her head. “Gullveig is waiting.”
Freyja guided him to a sun-drenched room lined with numerous tables and shelves. Upon each shelf sat various powders, poultices, and jars. Some of those jars held what looked to him like animal organs. One might have been the heart of a large bird. He rather hoped not, as a yellow-green bird the size of his forearm sat on one windowsill. Just big enough for the heart to have belonged to a relative.
A dark-haired woman sat in front of one desk, looking slightly disheveled and bemused. She had feathers laced through her hair and runes tattooed on one cheek.
“Freyja!” The woman stumbled to her feet without any semblance of the uncanny grace Odin had come to associate with immortal Vanir like Freyja or Idunn. The chair toppled backward, clattering to the floor.
“Sorry, sorry!” Indeed, this Gullveig seemed more like a laughing matron who ought to be weaving blankets and tall tales at the same time.
Freyja embraced her, then turned to him. “Gullveig, this is Odin. I want you to give him the basics in alchemy.”
The woman’s slightly-too-wide grin made her seem a child given a new toy. Strange odors wafted off her, a mix of wine and some putrid stench under it. “Oh, yes. I haven’t trained many mortal men. Women, yes, on occasion. Not so many anymore. No one brings them for training these days.”
Freyja frowned slightly at Gullveig’s words, though Odin couldn’t say why.
“Alchemy is like cooking with the Art. Or brewing! By the Tree, yes, like brewing a fine wine! Do you like wine? Shall we have a glass?”
Odin glanced at Freyja, who nodded encouragingly. He shrugged. Why not? A glass of wine might help him make sense of these lessons. It might also help cover the woman’s unpleasant odor.
Gullveig, it turned out, was fond of talking to the bird, which she called a ringneck parrot. More disturbingly, it spoke back from time to time.
“Blue one!” the bird chirped as Gullveig reached for a green vial.
“Pshwt,” the woman snorted. “Fool of a bird would have us seeing visions and talking to the walls.” She glanced at Odin, then winked at the parrot. “A worthy diversion, of course. Not what we’re learning today, though.”
The bird flew about the room, occasionally grabbing random vials in its claws and carrying them to one corner or another.
Odin kept a wary eye on the bird. Not long ago, it had tried to perch on his shoulder like it thought him some tree. When he swatted it away, it called him a “cranky bitch.” Who taught an animal to speak at all, much less in such terms?
The giggling woman mixing powders seemed the obvious culprit.
“Try the blue one,” she muttered under her breath. “Indeed. Oh, I wrote a book on the experience once. I don’t think anyone read it. It’s in the library downstairs, though, if you’d like to examine my musings on altered consciousness. I still believe the right mixture might allow one to pierce the Veil and see beyond the Mortal Realm.”
Odin leaned against the wall without taking his eyes off that bird. The next avian to call him a cranky bitch would be roast over a spit and be served for the night meal. “You’re talking about the Sight? Vӧlvur smoke herbs to achieve it.”
“Oh, oh my. The Sight is limited to certain, uh, special individuals.”
“Lucky bitches,” the parrot added.
Gullveig flung an empty bowl in the bird’s direction, and it took flight, settling down on the other side of the room. “Ahem. Yes. The right concoctions might open the minds of those not otherwise inclined toward supernatural perception. And for those already gifted, it could serve as a catalyst.”
“A catalyst?”
“A focus. The Sight is different for everyone, of course, oh yes. Always different … and most with it find it easiest to focus with an object to rarify their senses. Pyromancers stare into fire, hydromancers watch patterns in water. Others throw runes.”
Runes? Like those marking his skin? “Tell me about runes.”
She raised a finger. “Ah. Have your attention now, do I?”
“Cranky bitch,” the bird said.
“Oh, um. Well actually, Freyja is perhaps more suited to explain the correlation between runes and divination and sorcery. I can fill you a pipe, though! Damn, but you will see something once you finish that.”
“Something real?” If these catalysts could serve to focus the Sight, maybe he could finally find his answers. Loki oft stared into flames. Was that how his blood brother controlled the Sight?
“Real?” She giggled for a moment. “Well …” She drew that word out so long, she sounded daft. “Real is in the eye of the beholder.” Whatever she was mixing, she corked it, shook the vial, then offered it to him.
Odin frowned, but pushed off the wall and accepted the vial. “What do I with this?”
“Pour it in a flame. It will help open your mind.”
“I thought you were to teach me alchemy?”
“Oh! Well, I am, I am. You cannot learn it in an afternoon.” She snorted
.
“Cranky bitch,” the bird repeated. Wait, did the parrot speak to him or to Gullveig? If the latter, he was starting to like the bird after all.
“These lessons can take years, my, yes. First, drink the potion.”
“You said to throw it into a fire.”
She nodded with a fool grin. “Quite right. Do that. Enjoy the results. You only get one first time!” She turned to the bird. “Come on, Cranky. Time to go.”
24
A great cliff overlooked the land, rising above the mist. One of the Old Kingdoms had built a bridge from a hill to that cliff. Arches bigger than a jotunn supporting it. And atop the cliff, a fortress, the heart of Valland’s power in Andalus.
Tyr had come a long way to reach it. He trod across the bridge, staring at the behemoth structure ahead. Unlike many places of the Old Kingdoms, this wasn’t crumbling. They’d rebuilt it. You could spot where walls were patched up, the gates reinforced. Dozens of archers up on the ramparts. Serklanders would have it hard to take this place. Only one way in. Of course, it meant only one way out, too. If the Serklanders made it this far north, the Valls would be trapped here.
The South Realmers guarded the gate, too. Six men with halberds, flanking it. Others, at the far end of the bridge, they’d let him pass. A single man posed no threat—or so they’d think—and they believed him an emissary of Odin.
He passed between them, into a large gatehouse. Ceiling had holes in it. Maybe for archers? Some intentional defense, no doubt. Yes, Serklanders would lose thousands of lives to take this place.
