by Matt Larkin
“So the liosalfar are more benevolent?” he asked.
“Mmm, after a fashion.” She spread the book out over the table, tapping a diagram of a glyph circle. “Warding isn’t actually required to banish, but it does make things easier if you have time to set up a circle—one that might prevent your target from slipping away. Now if the hostile spirit is actively possessing a host, you’re forced to try an exorcism—banishing a spirit currently inside someone. This is even more difficult because the host acts as a tether. More often than not, such exorcisms kill the host. Shifter spirits like varulfur, for example, are so closely entwined with the souls of their hosts that any attempt to exorcise them is doomed to fail or else destroy the very person you try to help.”
Odin stared at the glyphs, but they meant so little. Freyja had said before that they recorded reality in the base language of all spirits, Supernal, and that most such glyphs represented either a specific spirit or class of spirits. Looking too long at such things quickly sent his mind reeling and left him nauseated.
Freyja paid no mind to his discomfort. “Banishing is a kind of specialized sorcery. We invoke spirits inimical to the one you are trying to cast out. Those spirits we feed energy through our will, and they use that energy to pull the hostile spirit back through the Veil. So what matters here is first, knowing what kind of spirit you want to banish, and secondly, being familiar with other spirits willing to antagonize your target. If you have those two facets in place, it then becomes largely a contest of wills between yourself and your foe.”
Odin slumped down in a chair.
Say naught, mortal …
He pressed his palm against his forehead. Audr rarely stirred so fervently unless Odin tried to draw upon the wraith’s power. “I don’t understand? You want to teach me to banish the Niflungar’s vaettir allies?”
She bit her lip. “The liosalfar, for example, are no friend to creatures of mist or darkness.” Freyja leaned over the table to stare close into his eyes. “The wraith inside you … do you know its name?”
Silence …
Odin gagged, trying to speak and finding his jaw would not open. That wraith was now vying for control of his body, as it did in moments of weakness. Audr constricted his throat, thrashing inside Odin’s blood and flesh, pounding him into submission.
Freyja’s soft hands pressed against his temples, looking deep into his eyes, though somehow, Odin felt she was not quite looking at him. “Release him.” Her voice was low, yet it seemed to reverberate inside Odin’s skull. “Release him, wraith, or we will see how much I have learned in millennia of studying the Art.”
Kill … the bitch …
The very thought left Odin so aghast he slammed his will into Audr. The wraith retreated, simmering in its anger like poison in his gut.
“Audr,” Odin said, panting and struggling to get a proper breath once again.
Freyja let go of his temples, to his dismay, though the warmth where she had touched him lingered. “Audr …” She chewed her lip. “Audr … I know that name.”
Kill … her …
Freyja turned, rushed up a set of stairs. Odin followed, hand pressing against his pounding head, and found her running her fingertips over more book spines. She selected one, then began to flip through the pages. After a moment, she let the book fall to her side. “Audr Nottson?”
Audr growled, his rage so palpable Odin almost fell over.
“Nott? As in the goddess of night?”
Freyja replaced the book without taking her eyes from Odin. “The last prince of the Lofdar, who betrayed his people and thus earned his name.”
I … was not the traitor …
“Audr wielded the flaming runeblade, Laevateinn, at least until he turned his back on his people.”
I did not …
“I thought Laevateinn was the sword of Frey.”
“My brother took it after the Lofdar fell. Some few of them escaped the darkness Audr brought into their kingdom. Frey helped Loridi escape, a general under Audr, so the man granted Frey the runeblade in recompense and in the hopes a Vanr might resist its curse.”
Odin worked his jaw, uncertain how to answer that. Loridi—fabled ancestor of the Aesir. Odin leaned against a bookcase to steady himself.
“Odin,” Freyja said. “Odin, I think you ought to let me exorcise this spirit from you.”
No …
“If you are so inclined, I can then help you bind a liosalf. You might be able to access some of the same Manifest Arts as now.”
No!
Gods above, to be free of that hissing voice, that vileness polluting his soul. He opened his mouth, all but ready to beg Freyja to cast Audr out and back into the shadows where he—it—belonged.
I am of the shadows … I am darkness … Which you seek …
What?
You want it … more than aught else … you want the answers you know lie in darkness … And I delved them … They cast me out of my kingdom for I knew too much …
Odin clenched his fists. This creature was an abomination.
You want to know everything … It is your curse … It is your urd …
Audr had forgotten many things, thanks to the consumption of memories one faced in the Roil.
Yes … Much is lost. Much yet remains … You will find no answers in the sunlight … The World of Sun is an illusion, a temporary disruption of the darkness …
There was a terrible, inevitable truth to what Audr said. Odin did want to know what lay beyond death, did need to understand the connections holding the worlds together. And perhaps the wraith lied, and a liosalf might give him those answers, too, though Freyja had said it took millennia for her to attain her partnership with the one she had bound. Odin did not have the luxury of such time. But would Audr stop fighting him?
Yes …
A lie, no doubt. But maybe enough truth lay behind it he could function, could find his answers. “No.” He could not believe the words even as they came out of his mouth. “Who and what Audr is offers me … insights I would not claim for certain with any other vaettr. I cannot afford to sacrifice those.”
Freyja frowned and looked about the library as if seeking some way to convince him to change his mind. “It is addictive, you know. The Art, the powers you can gain. Be careful, Odin. I like you, and I do not want to see you come to the same end as …”
“As the First Ones?”
She sighed, then placed a hand on his cheek. “If you have made your mind up, I won’t try to change it. Would you like to see something?”
Despite his melancholy, Odin did want to see more. He wanted to know everything, and he could not keep the smile from his face. Step by step, word by word, Freyja opened new realities to him. And somehow, he knew he would follow wherever she led.
28
Roland had granted Tyr a horse. Man was Karolus’s champion, true, and nephew too. Boded well the emperor trusted his own kin to aid the Aesir. Less chance of treachery that way. Nigh unto two hundred armored men on horses rode in a long line through the hills. Enough men to make a difference in the battles ahead.
Emperor’s nephew had twelve favorites, called them paladins. His companions from many battles, he said. Man liked to talk, though he spoke the Northern tongue poorly. Tyr got the idea, though, Roland carrying on about battles against the Serklanders. Heathens, Roland called them, rejecting the truth of god. Hard to say which god the man meant. Njord, maybe? Except none of these men spoke of the Vanir, so far as Tyr had caught.
“They let their foul fire—hmm, what is the word?” Roland said. “Hmm. Spirits? Vaettir. They let the vaettir take them over.” The Vall shook his head as if aghast at such a thought. “Jinn, they call them. Such beings let them command flames and cast back the mist. Men like that do not die easily, my friend.”
Command flames. Huh. Like Loki? Hadn’t Odin gone on about the Lofdar wielding flame to defeat the Niflungar? Didn’t sound so bad. Not that a man ought to touch the Art. Foul business, in ge
neral.
One of the paladins trotted back to where Roland rode beside Tyr. The other man, nodded, spoke in the Southern tongue. Roland answered in kind.
Then the paladin kicked his horse into a gallop, shouting orders to the line.
“Enemy?” Tyr asked.
“A great many North Realmers are caught up in battle. Ganelon says they attack your camp on the beach.”
Huh. Gramr was hungry for blood. Nigh to screaming for it over his shoulder.
Tyr kicked his own horse into a gallop, riding to the head of the line.
A beam of sunlight glinted off his runeblade as he charged into the Hunalander ranks. Two hundred mounted men came a heartbeat behind him. Hunalanders had their archers in the back. Gramr cut down one man who had only begun to turn and face him. She lopped off another’s head as he tried to dive aside.
Blood splattered over Tyr.
He did not slow.
Men who didn’t move fast enough got trampled under the horse’s hooves. Almost too easy like this. Archers had barely drawn blades, and he was through them, eight or ten dead in his wake. A glance back. The paladins’ armor no longer gleamed, so coated in blood. Half the Hunalander archers were dead in one charge.
At sea, several of the boats were aflame. Women and men screaming, fleeing assault from warriors.
Tyr kicked his horse forward, racing past the carnage of the general melee. Some few men tried to strike at him as he passed. Those he struck down.
On he rode, until the press of bodies and tents and supplies forced him to slow. Here he dismounted. Camp was thick with smoke and corpses, stinking of shit and burning flesh. Always like that in a battle.
Roaring, he charged forward and fed Gramr. Again and again, she bit into Hunalander flesh and drank deep. She severed heads and hands and legs at the knee. She punched through mail and shattered spears.
Round he spun, hacking away at any who drew nigh. Yes! This was what she had needed. This would finally sate her.
Bellowing a war cry, he charged man after man. None could stand before him. None could withstand the bite of Gramr.
29
Sweat dripped in her eyes as Sigyn released her last arrow, a shot that slipped between numerous Aesir to fell a raider out on a hill. The man pitched forward, to the obvious shock of those around him. A leader, perhaps, given he seemed to be shouting orders. And with luck, it would send the raiders into disarray.
The Aesir had fewer trained warriors than their foes, but now Tyr had returned with mounted men from Valland, enough to sway numbers in their favor. She had seen no sign of the Niflung sorceress, though at least one no doubt lurked among Volsung’s men.
Sigyn rubbed her thigh. The wound Gudrun had inflicted on her had long since healed, but it ached every time she thought of the Children of the Mist. An interesting—that was one word for it—side effect of her heightened senses was that she could recall physical sensations with vivid clarity. Including the sensation of a knife shredding through her skin and muscles and scraping her bone.
Now was not the time for such things, though. She lurked just behind the Ás lines, trusting a handful of shieldmaidens to keep the raiders from her and other noncombatants. She hated to think of herself as such—as so helpless—but other than her skills with a bow, she had naught to contribute to a war. That might need to change. Perhaps Loki would teach her to use a sword—he clearly knew how, though he rarely seemed to favor carrying a weapon. With superhuman strength and his Art of Fire, perhaps he didn’t need to.
For that matter, where was he? Last she’d seen him, he stood on that hill, commanding Aesir against the attackers. He had justifiably told Frigg he could not fight himself after the last time. So now where had he gone? It was unlike him to wade into a melee given any other option. No, her love seemed to prefer working through others, from the shadows, and for good reason. She had almost lost him to whatever fire vaettr he had bound within him.
Senses focused on his voice, she slowly filtered out all other sounds as she scanned the battlefield. It was a technique she had been perfecting in the past moons. She cocked her head to the side. Where was he? Could something have happened to him? Barely realizing she was doing it, Sigyn drifted forward, toward the line of shieldmaidens. The thought was absurd. Loki had fought off draugar and gods knew what else when pressed, and, with his gift of foresight, how would any foe catch him unawares?
But then why had his voice fallen silent?
She reached for another arrow. Naught there, of course. Sigyn gnawed her lip and turned, looking through the mist. Warriors from both sides fighting, dying. The stench of blood and intestines and shit all mingled together, soaking the ground and clogging her sinuses.
“Loki!” Of course, he didn’t have her senses, and wouldn’t hear her shout.
Olrun glanced back at her and fervently motioned for her to back away from the front line. Sigyn ignored the woman, pushed even closer. With Odin gone and Tyr leading their forces, to whom could she look for help? Frigg was no warrior either, and that only left Vili among the Aesir who had tasted the apples of Yggdrasil.
The berserk had already taken bear form and waded into the thick of enemy lines. She could see him, shrugging off wounds and ripping men to shreds with mighty claws. Even could she get to him, he would not help her. Not like this.
She was on her own. As many times as Loki had saved her, she was not going to let him fall into danger alone. Maybe the best way to search this battlefield was from the sky. She slung her bow over her shoulder. The swan cloak would let her fly high enough to avoid attention, especially on such a bloody night.
A terrible cry sounded from the south, and she turned, trying to focus her gaze. There, far away, was that … Tyr?
The thegn cut down a half dozen warriors in the space of a few heartbeats. None could keep up with his speed, his ferocity, his obvious rage. Maybe he could help her after all. Tyr had never liked Loki nor been terribly good at hiding it, but he had shown Sigyn enough kindness. She raced closer, dodging around warriors.
A raider spotted her, charged her with an axe raised over his head and a mind-numbing bellow. Sigyn ducked around behind an Ás warrior, then dodged through more men caught up in melee. Her would-be attacker found himself engaged with other warriors, and Sigyn pressed on. Wading into the chaos was a potentially deadly mistake, but she had to reach Tyr. Something told her Loki did need her, that some ill had befallen him.
An Ás man drew near Tyr and opened his mouth to speak. Tyr cut him down, too.
Sigyn fell short, staring at the scene.
The thegn waded from one clash of swords to the next, as if feasting upon the blood. Many of their enemies charged him, sensing the threat. None could keep up with his speed, his strength, his skill. He took a few blows, true enough, but none slowed him. And everywhere he turned his gaze, men died. When no raiders drew close enough, he felled any armed man or woman in reach of that runeblade of his.
Sigyn swallowed hard. He was turning the tide of the battle, yes, a force which no enemy seemed able to withstand. But he had gone mad, filled with a bloodlust only found in varulfur who gave themselves fully to the beast within.
The clang of swords and axes rang on his shield. Gramr returned each blow, carving through the shields of other men.
“Tyr!” Sigyn shouted at him.
He didn’t even look.
He was too far away, too focused on his bloody mission.
“Trollfucker,” Sigyn mumbled. She turned, taking in the chaos.
There. Zisa had joined the battle too, a spear in one hand, a shield in the other. The woman had been married to Tyr. Maybe she alone might cut through the madness that now gripped him. On the other hand, the woman had betrayed him and might, more like than not, drive him to greater bouts of rage. No, Sigyn could not take such a chance, least of all at such a time.
Instead, she sneaked ever closer. By now, their enemies had formed a circle around Tyr, none eager to close with the man. Nor did she
blame them. Gods, it had to be three dozen bodies in his wake, and though he was panting, he showed no signs of slowing. He turned about, bellowing challenges at man after man.
The thegn had lost himself, but somewhere, deep inside, that honorable man he had once been had to remain. She just needed some way to remind him of it. For long years he had served as the protector and champion of the Wodanar. Vili’s claims, that Tyr had been raised by a jotunn, seemed hard to credit, though Tyr had not denied them. Perhaps such things did not matter. What mattered was who the warrior truly was.
She drew closer, close enough he must have seen her behind the raider circle. But his eyes glanced over her, focused on those bearing arms. Of course, in his bloodlust, he cared only for foes. But Tyr had a higher calling now, a reason for his might. He just needed to remember it.
Sigyn stooped to grab a rock. She scowled. How did she keep getting herself into these situations? Oh, well. She rose and flung the stone at one of the raiders. It clanged off his helm, sending him stumbling to the ground. The two men on either side of him turned, glaring at her.
Sigyn spread her hands in taunt. “What’s the matter? Mist shrivel your stones off?”
They exchanged glances, then both trotted toward her. One man held an axe, the other a wide-headed spear. Sigyn let them drew nigh, hands out before her, desperately trying to stifle the urge to flee.
And then they closed.
“Tyr!” she shouted. “Save me!”
“Take her alive,” the axeman said. “She’s got no weapons.”
Sigyn dashed to the side, trying to evade. Technically, she had a dagger, but drawing it seemed pointless. Instead, she fell back. The trollfucking thegn was not even looking at her.
“Tyr! Odin’s family is in danger!”
Finally, as Sigyn rolled under the spearman’s grasp, the thegn did turn. Spying her.
