by Matt Larkin
“Only you can make sense of those visions, Odin. But know this. Ten thousand of your people died getting here. They did not give their lives so you could spend the rest of eternity plowing Freyja. I know the effect this land is having on you. Believe me, I know. I’ve felt it, I watched it happen to the Vanir. Who ever wants to leave paradise? But I will not let my grandmother’s legacy be only this place while the rest of Midgard fades to nothing. I will not! Now keep your oath.”
Odin backed away from her raised voice. If Lytir or anyone else in this hall heard her speak like that, they would both face great danger. Finally, he sighed. “I will speak to Freyja. Lay the seeds of …” Of rebellion … Of betraying her own father. Or, if he were truly lucky, of forcing Njord into an alliance with the Aesir.
As he left Yggdrasil, walking the long bridge back toward the rest of Vanaheim, Odin’s chest ached. His soul ached.
But Idunn was right. Moreover, the well had shown him. Hel was not finished with Midgard. And until her mists were cast from the world, she remained the greatest threat in creation. To save his world, Odin might have to sacrifice this one.
39
Sigyn’s whole body ached from so long a flight. For nigh unto three days, she had flown over the land and sea and back again. Some of Volsung’s men had retreated through the woods, others in swift ships, and Sigyn knew not which route Gudrun had taken with Loki, forcing her to scout both. All to no avail.
Night had fallen again, the mist thickened, and her wings seemed apt to tear from their joints. Even her growing mastery of the pneuma had its limits, and her body could be pushed but so far before it cracked beneath the strain of it. She had seen scattered camps of men as she flew, none bearing sign of Loki. In his absence, an empty hollow had opened in her gut. When he needed her most, she had not been by his side, had failed him.
Another campfire passed below her, this one tended by a lone figure. Not a war party, for there would be a much larger fire, and many people about. No, a single man roasting rabbit, by the smell of it, and alone, as few would willingly travel.
Sigyn alighted on the ground some distance away. Wisdom urged her to seek shelter and her own solitude, warning that a man might find a lone woman a great temptation in the wild. Wisdom said this, but sometimes one had to answer the call of hunger and fatigue. She resumed human form and crept closer, until she could get a look at the man.
He had exotic skin, even darker than Idunn’s, and black hair. He had shaved all but the top of his head, leaving that shorn short, like a hedge. The man looked up at her approach, though she had made little sound. After staring a moment, he beckoned her over.
“Are you lost?”
Sigyn slunk closer, finally settling down across the fire from him. “No.”
“Hungry.”
“Yes.” Gods above and below, yes.
He motioned to the rabbit roasting on a spit. He didn’t need to offer twice. She snatched it up, tore a hunk off its haunches, and bit down, heedless of it searing her tongue. Hot grease burned her mouth and scorched her throat. She didn’t slow down, though.
“Takes a great deal out of you.”
What did?”
“Traveling alone,” he said. “I always travel alone. Mostly.”
The man was odd. Older than her, though she had a hard time guessing his exact age—forty winters, perhaps. A hint of gray speckled his otherwise black beard. Certainly he had come from far off, though where …
Sigyn paused mid chew. “You’re speaking the Northern tongue.” Not very graceful, talking with her mouth full of rabbit, grease dribbling down her chin. But how had he known she would speak that language, here, well into the South Realms?
“It seemed easiest for you.”
Sigyn chewed, swallowed, and slowly drew her knife, ostensibly to pick meat from between her teeth. “You know who I am?”
“By reputation perhaps, insomuch as anyone can know another. Indeed, if one can even know oneself.”
“You talk rather like another man I know. Who are you?”
“You mean Loki? Oh! No, no.” He waved his hands. “I’m not Loki. I mean, you mean I sound like Loki, in that I’ve lost myself in pointless musings.”
Sigyn held very still. If he so much as made a move toward her, she’d have her cloak back up and be taking flight in an instant. The stranger knew too much and talked like a mist-mad vagrant. Either way, sleeping by his fire now seemed impossible. “How do you know that name?”
“Oh … oh! I knew him of old.” The man waved it away. “Old for me, for my kind even. Perhaps not for him. That truth I never quite puzzled out in all the encounters we shared down through the centuries.” He stared into the fire and spoke as if more to himself than her. “I was—maybe I still am—Mundilfari. I was. Some time ago, in another age.”
Mundilfari … She knew that name … An ancient king of Vanaheim, a sorcerer gone mad and left to wander the world. And he had known Loki back then? Of course he had. Given Loki’s inclination to pluck on the strands of fate at times of change now, why should she imagine he had been any different even back in the glory days of Vanaheim? The man might well have been one of the oldest, wisest Vanir yet living, but he still seemed perched upon the precipice of madness, ready to pitch over into that abyss with the slightest mischosen word.
He clucked his tongue. “You need not fear me. I owe your beloved more than I can express in words. Were it not for him, I might not yet linger in the twilight.”
Sigyn shifted. “And you blame Loki for your … twilight?”
“No. Oh, no. The alternative to twilight is the omnipresent dark of oblivion. Though oblivion, were it senseless, might offer respite.”
“From what?”
Mundilfari chortled and banged his thumbs to his eyebrows. “Can you envision aught worse than mist? Look deep beyond the Veil and you might.”
It was like talking to Loki if the man were half asleep. And drunk. And possibly smoking some of Frigg’s vision-inducing herbs. “I need to find him.”
“The Destroyer?”
“Loki! I need to find Loki.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. The fire bringer. He knows. The price. Touch the Art and it touches you—sell your soul and one day something comes to collect.”
She wanted to dismiss his words as more ravings, but she could not deny they sent her heart lurching into her throat and set her shivering. Was this the future of any who relied on the Art? Was this Loki’s future? And if so, had he foreseen it in the flames?
“Loki was captured by the Niflungar. I think they may have brought him this way. I need to find him. Can you help me?”
“Oh.” He rammed his thumbs against his eyebrows again. “Oh … yes. Ships came by, two days from now. Maybe one.”
“Two days from now?” So Mundilfari had seen the future?
“From now … before.” Still tapping his thumbs. “Before. Before now. One or two days.”
The urge to throttle him seized her. “Two days ago, ships came by here, and you think he might be on those ships. Is that correct?”
“Oh. Yes.”
She started to rise before a wave of dizziness drove her back down. Her muscles didn’t want to answer her commands any longer.
“Rest. He is lucky to have found you again, after all. You’ll find him.”
“Found me again?”
“Oh.” He stared in the flames. “Perhaps you knew each other in another lifetime.”
Had Loki not once said something along those lines? It didn’t matter. None of Mundilfari’s musings, daft or insightful, meant a damn while Gudrun held Loki. The thought of it filled the gaping maw in her gut with a smoldering fury akin to the blazes Loki used to scorch his enemies. Sigyn didn’t need the Art of Fire, though. When she found Gudrun, she’d wreak revenge befitting not only the tortures she herself had suffered, but those visited upon the man she loved. They had thought to use her against Loki and paid the price for it. Now, they had made the mistake of thinking to go after him
directly, forgetting for a moment, that others might be willing to go as far as he had gone to rescue Sigyn. Or farther.
“Careful,” Mundilfari said. “Ignite such anger and you will not find it easy to quell.”
“I don’t intend to quell it. I intend to sate it.”
The old sorcerer king sighed and shook his head. “Then sleep now. Your enemies will remain when you wake.”
40
A shriek woke him.
Tyr jolted awake, Gramr in hand. Had he slept holding the sword, or merely drawn it without realizing it? Either way, he had no time to dwell on such thoughts. He rose stiffly. Every muscle in his body ached from the beating they had taken the day before. How much worse then, would those without the blessings of an apple be feeling? Quite, he suspected.
The blinding sun had just risen above the horizon, illuminating the ring of mist that surrounded the isles of Vanaheim. Because of that ring, rising up several hundred feet, the full light of the sun didn’t reach them until well past dawn.
Already a small crowd had gathered around the screaming woman. That was the Itrmanni camp.
What in the name of all his ancestors went on now? He yanked on his trousers and then his boots, then scrambled over to the ever-growing crowd. By the time he reached them, nigh unto a hundred men and women had formed a circle. One he had to shove his way through to find the center.
The smell reached him before the sight. Blood and shit, guts. Smell of battle. He pushed a large man aside to reveal a gore-tossed beach. The sand was stained crimson for ten feet in all directions. Scattered limbs, fingers, a foot. Had to be at least two people’s worth of guts, but the victims were so rent he could not be certain.
One torso lay face down in the sand, a ragged, bloody hole torn right through him where his heart ought to have lain. Whatever had done this had ripped it out.
Tyr raised an involuntary hand to his mouth at the sight. He’d seen more battlefields than he could remember. Seen men die of terrible wounds and the vile infections that oft followed. Never could he remember seeing killings of such viciousness.
Could the Vanir have done this? Certainly they practiced the cursed Art. And what other reason could there be for such brutality, than to fuel profane sorcery? But to think they had crept into the Ás camp undetected and slaughtered these two people, and then slipped away unbeknownst to all …
“What happened?” Frigg was calling.
Damn it. Tyr spun away, intercepting her. The queen had no need to see such foulness. With this many witnesses—their numbers growing every moment—word would spread to every Ás of this.
He caught Frigg and dragged her away from the crowd. Too much chaos here. Too many angry eyes looking for answers.
“There was another victim, wasn’t there?” she asked.
“Another?”
“At least four people are dead in the Godwulf camp, and the two Hasding sentries you set to the north are missing.”
At that, Tyr spun back and snared a gawker by the arm. “Whose camp was this?”
The man shrugged. Someone else looked at him. “Jarl Arnbjorn and his wife.”
“Oh …” Frigg groaned.
Gods, they were in troll shit now. He grabbed Frigg’s arm and pulled her further away. Everyone had to know of Arnbjorn’s impending claim against Frigg. He had threatened to have her disposed in the morn. And he had not made it through the night.
“The other victims, were they jarls?” he asked.
Frigg shook her head. “One thegn. A washerwoman. The others we haven’t even identified.”
Random foul luck for Arnbjorn?
“Tyr.”
He looked to her.
“Listen to me. The moment the shock clears, suspicion will begin to fall on you and on me. You for your past actions and me because of what happened with Arnbjorn.”
“How could anyone possibly think any Ás could do this?”
Frigg shook her head sadly. “People are horrified, angry. Looking for an easy answer. We don’t even know how many of us are left after that whale attack. No one will stop to think about this calmly.”
He ran his thumb along Gramr’s hilt. Frigg spoke truth, but he would not answer for crimes he had not committed. “If they think me guilty, let one of them dare call me to a holmgang.”
Frigg raised a stern hand. “Oh, they will. And you’ll kill them. And the hatred will fester. We cannot afford that. Before that happens, you need to find who is responsible.”
“My place is by your side, my queen. If any dare raise a hand to you, I will be there to lop it off.”
“Tyr, please. You are the only one I have left to count on. Take the finest hunter we have and find out who did this.”
Tyr rubbed his beard and turned about. Yes, the crowd had already grown restless. The Hasdingi had a famed hunter among them, Hermod’s father. “Agilaz. Where is he?”
Frigg frowned. “I don’t think he survived the crossing.”
That drew a bout of silence from him. Damn Rán and her mer and that fucking whale. Damn them all. Agilaz had been a good man. And Hermod. Fuck. Hermod would be devastated.
Frigg’s eyes narrowed. “Who is the next most famed hunter you know?”
“I don’t …” And then he knew what she was about. “No. Absolutely not. The woman hates me.”
“But you can personally vouch for her skill and discretion.”
Yes, Zisa was a master tracker. One probably keen to put an arrow in his chest. “This is not wise.”
Frigg pointed back at the slaughter. “The people need a culprit for this, Tyr. Our little alliance is about to crumble into a very bloody slaughter. So, unless you can bring Odin back within the day, I suggest you give them somewhere else to focus their attention.”
Even if that meant asking his obstinate ex-wife for her aid?
The look on Frigg’s face answered that question.
Venom fit to wither a linnorm laced Zisa’s eyes every time she cast a glance in Tyr’s direction. Though the former huntress had not refused to help—given Tyr had phrased it as an order from the queen—she had left him with no illusions as to how she felt about being forced to toil by his side.
Now, she crouched among underbrush some distance beyond the beaches. Tapping a broken stem of some lush plant Tyr could never identify. This land was hotter than a boiling cauldron of stew, drawing forth a steady stream of sweat from both Zisa and himself. She had cast aside her mail before they left camp, and Tyr found himself wishing he had done the same.
“Found something?”
She grunted, then nocked an arrow to her bow, moving forward in a half crouch.
“How do you know this wasn’t one of our own people?” Aesir had come into the forest looking for wood, eager to stoke the fires high. And here, in this land, wood was beyond plentiful.
Zisa didn’t answer, instead, pushing onward.
With a grumble, Tyr grasped Gramr and crept forward after her.
“I want to say something,” he whispered. “I mean to say I’m sorry about—”
“Shh!” Now she slunk around a tree, and continued forward on a narrow path. Trail was well hidden, but obvious enough once he trod upon it. Game trail, perhaps, but Zisa followed it intently.
She didn’t want to hear aught he had to say. Nor was this the time. Even were it, he could not well apologize for killing her husband, could he? And then he had forced her and her sons onto ships attacked by a fucking whale monster. A palpable relief had overcome him to learn hers was a ship untouched by the devastation. Maybe he ought to have let her go, wander the wilds, as she seemed to desire.
Yes, profound danger might have hounded her every step. But then, danger lurked here too. Obviously.
Some things could not wait.
“Why did you not tell me?”
She glanced back at him with a scowl. “Don’t be daft. You think I would cast doubt on the parentage of a jarl’s firstborn while the jarl lived?” With that, she turned away, leaving h
im to his thoughts.
He followed her through the woods feeling numb. How was he supposed to be a father to a boy he’d only ever hurt?
Without warning she paused, rising up behind a tree. Tyr drew closer. A small clearing, thirty feet across, perhaps, and within it a moss-drenched stump the size of a house and nigh to twenty feet tall. In the middle of this stump lay a door partially concealed by the overgrowth. That tree must have been enormous before it fell, though still not as large as the behemoth they saw in the far distance. Yggdrasil, a tree of legend. An impossibility Tyr was not ready to dwell on.
This, though, demanded his immediate attention. If the tracks had led here, then, like as not, their murderous prey lurked within.
“Troll?” he whispered.
“Here?” She looked at him like an imbecile.
Probably not a troll. Scowling, he drew Gramr and made his way toward the stump house.
Zisa mumbled under her breath and, as he glanced back, began slinging her bow over her shoulder. Such a weapon was excellent for hunting, but not suited for use in close quarters. As a shieldmaiden, she was adept enough with spear and shield, but she had brought neither in favor of the bow and a broadsword. Well enough. Spear had less use inside a house.
With a nod at her, Tyr tried the door. It slipped open with a painfully loud squeak. Holes in the stump’s roof had been patched with panes of glass, allowing a crisscross of light beams to run over the otherwise dark interior. Vials, painted jars, and strange baubles covered shelves ringing the whole dwelling. An alcove housed an oversoft bed and, near it, a table and chair. Papers overflowed from that table. Whole place reeked of strange odors not unlike the foul stench of a troll mixed with rotting mushrooms.
A worn, wooden staircase led underground. Tyr glanced at Zisa, who continued scowling. He grimaced. Downward, then. A faint, flickering light rose from down there. Gramr out before him, he descended, one slow, careful step at a time.
