by Matt Larkin
Skadi fell silent, turning her gaze upon Irpa, then Snegurka.
On impulse, Gudrun slumped to her knees, then beckoned the other spirits to do the same. Snegurka did so, though Irpa hesitated. Gudrun and Snegurka glared at her until at last the prideful wraith knelt before the winter goddess.
At last, Skadi pressed a single, freezing finger against Gudrun’s forehead.
Gudrun’s already fractured thoughts were swept away in a maelstrom. At once, she felt sight and memories of four different women. Vertigo swirled the world around her.
It took a moment to realize those were her real knees, and she rested now on a real floor, in the same ruin Grimhild had summoned her. Skadi—she was Skadi now, in a way—rose. Gudrun’s body was young and lithe, and Skadi could keep it that way for centuries. It was changing, though. She fondled a loose strand of hair. Already, it had transformed from golden blonde to ash blonde. One day, it would be white as Skadi’s own hair.
She had already cast aside Gudrun’s worn traveling clothes. Such tattered rags did not befit the figure of a goddess. Truly, it was better to go unclad and reveal her glory than hide it beneath such terrible cloth. Soon, she would need garments worthy of the queen of winter.
For now, she pulled the grimoire from Gudrun’s satchel. She—they—had taken it from the unworthy Queen Grimhild, who, despite the arcana revealed to her by Lady Hel, had failed to secure Midgard for the lady’s return. Queen Skadi would do better.
She opened the tome, flipping to pages she had previously not understood. Now she understood. For she had written them in a distant age, back when she was the chosen of Hel. Grimhild had occupied that position of honor for too long now.
What had once been Skadi’s, would now be again.
Njord was dead.
And at long last, true winter would settle upon Midgard once again.
The cold would reign eternal.
59
Well past midnight, Ás scouts met them in the woods perhaps five hundred feet from the beach. Zisa led them, to Tyr’s chagrin. Woman held the arrow aimed at them longer than necessary.
“Who is she?” his ex-wife asked when finally lowering her bow.
The woman Odin loved, apparently. Tyr didn’t even want to think about Frigg’s reaction when that got back to her. No, nor the look of utter betrayal he could imagine all too well.
“Lady Freyja,” Idunn answered for him.
Zisa rounded on her. “I did not ask you, witch.”
Tyr opened his mouth to protest, but Idunn gave him no chance.
“No. Had you asked my opinion on anything, I’d have called you a fool girl to leave Tyr for Bedvig. You chased ambition with your trench instead of your brain. Small wonder the man you found ended up being a trench himself.”
Tyr flinched. It did not do to so besmirch the dead. Even if Bedvig was a fucking trench. Zisa started to raise the bow again, while her scouts seemed torn between stifling guffaws and sharing her outrage at having their former jarl insulted.
Freyja folded her arms. “You wonder why my father left your uncouth tribes out in the cold? Where is Odin?”
“A good question.” The harsh, throaty voice sounded from somewhere in the woods. A voice Tyr knew and was not apt to forget soon.
Fenrir.
“I keep killing his people. Still he does not show his face. Craven?”
Tyr jerked his sword free of its sheath and turned slowly, looking for sign of the werewolf. The Aesir had begun cursing, quickly forming a circle.
At once, Zisa was by his side, eyes locked on the woods. “He breached the walls, killed twenty people tonight. We had no choice but to give chase.”
Hel’s frozen tits. She had willingly pursued the varulf lord into the woods at night? At least she was not fool enough to have brought her sons on this mission.
He grabbed Idunn and yanked her toward the circle’s center. “Get behind me. Both of you.” He addressed the latter to Freyja, who stood looking at the forest with her head cocked.
Something in the woods yelped. Brief cry of an animal in pain. Followed by a dry chuckle. And still Tyr couldn’t tell where that damned voice came from.
“V-Vanadis?” Freyja called. “Hörn?”
The chuckle grew worse. “You think you can protect the women? I will lay all three of them out and fuck them to bloody pulps. And I will leave just enough life in your body for you to watch.” There, in the shadows of the trees. The voice came from there, though he was moving. “Or you can give me my prey and end this.”
Tyr stepped forward, sword out before him. “You are brave in darkness. Come forward and face me, wolf.”
The glimmer of eyes flickered in the darkness, then he stalked forward, moving every bit like a predator. He was naked, his flesh taut, rippling muscles. Dark hair covered much of him. Behind him he dragged the corpse of a cave lion by its mauled throat.
“Vanadis!” Freyja tried to rush forward, but Tyr caught her wrist.
“Do you know,” Fenrir said, “every shifter traces their bloodline back to a single progenitor? All the varulfur you trust to guard you in the night … are my children. Do you see them by your side now?”
Tyr turned to one of Zisa’s men. “Run for the others. Bring Vili and any reinforcements you can.”
The man did so, dashing through the woods.
Fenrir chuckled, dropped the lion corpse. Held his head back and howled. Sound ought to have issued from no human throat. Dozens of howls answered from the woods all around. And then, after the briefest of silences, a single gut-wrenching scream from the direction the scout had run.
“My children are hungry.” Fenrir shrugged, stalking closer.
“I will send your soul screaming to Hel!” Freyja shouted at him.
The varulf laughed, shaking his head. Not impressed with Vanr Art.
Behind him, Tyr felt some of the other Aesir start to fall back. They were terrified. The same weakness that had crippled the Vanir now held back the Aesir. Perhaps they did not fear death, but they feared this primal, feral wolf.
Tyr could not afford to let that fear take hold of them. He strode forward to meet the nightmare.
Fenrir grinned. “Small consolation—once Odin is dead, I will be free. And what I do to that Niflung witch will be worse than anything I do to your people.”
“You will do naught save rot in this forest.”
Tyr drove forward, a single sweep of his blade that might have hewn the beast’s head from his neck. Fenrir bent backward under the blade and caught Tyr’s shirt in his hand. He continued his momentum, flinging Tyr through the air. Tyr slammed into a tree with so much force the trunk cracked. So dazed, Tyr almost didn’t feel the ground hit him an instant later.
Fuck, but that hurt. He tried to grab the apple’s power, drown the pain. Head was too foggy. Everything seemed so distant. Something grabbed him, and a sudden, severe warmth coursed through him, pounding like his own pulse. It rippled through his muscles and seared together cracked bones. He rolled over to see Freyja, dripping sweat, fall back on her arse. The Vanr was panting, her eyes locked behind Tyr.
He stumbled to his feet. How long had he been dazed? A few heartbeats?
At least five men were dead, their bodies splayed around the wood. Idunn leaned against a tree. Vines had shot out from it, binding Fenrir—who was now half man, half wolf. The varulf grasped a vine with a clawed hand and yanked it free. Those claws slashed right through the next vine.
Another shot from the tree and wrapped around his throat. It pulled him off the ground. Immediately, he reached around and shredded that one too.
“Hold him!” Zisa shrieked.
Idunn fell to her knees, trembling, and sent another vine shooting out at Fenrir. It wrapped around his ankle and slowed him. Zisa had planted three arrows in his chest, but none seemed to even slow the wolf.
Hel take Fenrir. Tyr rushed forward and slammed into the varulf’s back. The werewolf pitched forward a foot, and vines yanked the werewolf u
p again. As his head flew back, Zisa loosed. Her arrow caught the beast in one eye. Fenrir howled, straining against the vines.
Tyr dove for his sword. He caught it in a roll and surged upward, driving the blade through Fenrir’s heart. The varulf convulsed, still straining despite the arrow embedded in his skull and the sword run halfway through him.
“Oh, for Hel’s sake,” Tyr said. “Just fucking die!”
He turned. Three Ás spearmen remained. He waved them closer. After glancing at one another, they edged forward. Each impaled the werewolf with their spears. He thrashed with each wound, and still yanked at the vine with one hand.
Without warning, Sigyn came limping from around some trees, dragging a chain behind her. Girl looked like she’d just escaped the gates of Hel. Couldn’t afford to dwell on her now, though.
Fenrir gasped. Finally fell still. Tyr spat on the corpse as it slowly reverted to human form. Idunn fell forward, barely catching herself on her hands.
Sigyn grabbed the Vanr’s shoulders before throwing a chain at Tyr’s feet. “Loki thought you’d need that and said it could bind any supernatural creatures.”
“Thank you. I think we have it—”
A brutal snarl sounded behind him. Tyr turned. One of the Ás spearmen flexed, muscles bulging and eyes gleaming as only a varulfur’s could. He ripped away his shirt.
What was … The man moved with unnatural speed, closing the distance to Zisa in an instant. Before Tyr could even move, he had his arm wrapped around her neck and drove her to her knees.
“Do you think the progenitor of all varulfur could die?” The voice was changing with each word, already growing into the throaty growl of Fenrir.
Not possible. Tyr’s sword faltered. Before his very eyes, the man’s form was changing. Muscle tone, size, even his hair color. Becoming the same as he had been.
“I am forever,” Fenrir said.
All at once, his hands became claws and his form became that of a wolf. Even as he changed, he jerked his hands apart, tearing Zisa’s throat out in the process.
“No!” Tyr screamed.
Starkad’s mother’s body fell limp, her head hanging on by a few shreds of flesh.
Lungs wouldn’t work. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do …
Fenrir cracked his neck and licked a long tongue over his claws. Drinking her blood.
With a bellow of mindless rage, Tyr surged forward. His sword bit into the werewolf’s flesh, scoring a wound that seemed to be healing even as he inflicted another. And another. Fenrir snapped at him with those bloody jaws, driving Tyr back. Claws tore through his thigh and sent him stumbling down.
“Tyr!” Idunn shouted.
Another spearman lunged at Fenrir. The werewolf caught the haft and flipped the man end over end to slam him down on the ground. Seeing his broken companion, the final Ás spearman faltered. Looked to Tyr. Like he could do something. Even if Tyr killed him again, Fenrir would just take another host. And another.
“The chain, damn you!” This time it was Freyja shouting.
Tyr’s hand brushed the thin chain Sigyn had brought. It couldn’t bind aught. It seemed too small for such a feat. But Loki was given to trickery. He grasped the chain in his left hand, rising, sword held out in front in the other.
“If you cannot die … I will see you suffer until the end of time.”
The varulf snarled at him, then leapt forward like an arrow launched from a bow. Tyr whipped his sword in an arc, spinning as he did so. The blade sliced through the edge of the beast’s nose, smearing Tyr with blood. He twisted around behind the werewolf, taking a claw to the back in the process. And he flung the chain around, dropping his sword and catching it.
With all his strength drawn, he pulled on that chain. The varulf caught it in one clawed hand, stopping it from closing around his neck. The creature lunged then, his jaws closing on Tyr’s right arm. Those fangs tore through armor and flesh and bone with the most agonizing pain Tyr had ever imagined. A single jerk of the werewolf’s head ripped Tyr’s hand off at the wrist.
Torment. Mountains of it, far beyond what the apple could suppress.
And somehow, everything slowed. Naught else mattered save his prey. Save this monster from outside of time. This fiend who had torn Zisa to pieces and killed Hel alone knew how many others. Time slowed. One end of the chain flapped free, his severed hand still clutched around it.
And then Sigyn was there, clasping the other end of the chain. Sigyn pulled it tight, far stronger than he’d have thought she could.
The chain closed around Fenrir’s neck. All strength seemed to drain from the wolf. Sigyn handed Tyr the chain, and he clasped both ends in his remaining hand. Tyr roared, yanking the chain tight enough he could flip the varulf over his shoulder and slam him into the ground.
Fenrir had already returned to human form as he hit. Tyr drove a knee into his back, then wound the chain twice more around the creature’s neck. More than anything, he wanted to strangle this monster. To watch the life drain out of it. But then Fenrir would win. Again. And Tyr had promised him suffering until the end of time.
Tyr yanked him up by the neck and flung him against a tree. Idunn grabbed the ends of the chain and wound it round the trunk, binding the wolf. Tyr stumbled to his knees and pitched forward. The whole damned world was spinning. He glanced at his sword hand. Gone. And losing a lot of blood. It seemed he would join his ancestors. Maybe see Zisa again in Valhalla. Tell her he had done all he could to avenge her.
She was there, stroking his face. He wasn’t certain he wanted her touch, but she was there.
“Shh, don’t talk.”
Idunn?
A fresh warmth slammed into Tyr, life and energy and searing, blinding pain. He shut his eyes against it.
“Where are you going?” Idunn’s voice.
Tyr wanted to open his eyes but couldn’t. Sleep beckoned.
“To find Odin. Maybe we can still have peace. They … the Niflungar sent that to our shores. Maybe he was right all along.”
“You’re too weak.”
Tyr tried to tell them to go to the boats. No one seemed to hear him.
“I’ll live. Tend to him. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen such courage.”
“Freyja? Thank you for saving his life.”
“There are too many dead already.”
No. Go to the boats. Go to Andalus. Odin commanded it.
Odin commanded …
Someone stroked his cheek. “Shh. Rest now. You did your part.”
60
The last rune carved on the floor, Odin rose, turning to take in the chamber inside Yggdrasil. Sounds of war and death and pain rang just outside, but he had long since managed to block out all distractions. Hundreds of runes marred the once pristine shrine delving into the World Tree. In his work, he had uncovered those glyphs Freyja and Njord had so deftly hidden. He had known where to find them, of course. Blending them into his own spell was natural, for all he intended was what they had done, magnified, expanded beyond horizons they ever dreamed possible.
Odin had walked the forbidden halls between life and death. Possibility was something he could not help but view differently now. Given the infinite complexity of the cosmos, one found infinite possibility—compressed into a singular inevitability. Urd. Loki had been right all along. He always seemed to be.
And maybe even the man’s death at Odin’s hands would prove urd.
A choice of damnations …
No. Odin had no choice at all.
Lytir, bound in chains of orichalcum in the corner, had long since given over raging at Odin for his blasphemies. The priest had no doubt screamed himself hoarse. From the way his eyes flitted about, looking at things beyond the present chamber, Odin had suspected the priest had at least some idea what he intended.
“For what it is worth, I am sorry,” Odin said.
Lytir chuckled, then sputtered in coughing. “One does not … apologize for violating the most sacred tenets of belief. Nor for
murder.”
Odin spread his hands. “As you wish. I offer no further apologies, priest. You and your kind brought this upon yourselves. Your arrogance and your cowardice have forced the need to take drastic actions. For nigh unto five thousand years you lived in the light and warmth of the World Tree, while the rest of us dwindled in the cold darkness beyond these shores. Because you refused to fight the war in ages past, now a more terrible war is coming. A battle between chaos and the last vestiges of order on Midgard. A war that may spell the end of the cosmos. I asked your people to fight beside me in Ragnarok, this end war, but they refused. This leaves me but one choice. And it is not murder—it is sacrifice.”
“You plan to sacrifice me to work a killing curse upon the rest of the Vanir.”
Odin paused. Perhaps that would have been the kinder path, the more just path, returning the souls of the Vanir to the tree they so loved, and thus allowing that they might be born again into future generations. But he could not bring himself to slaughter an entire people. That left only one other solution, the same answer the Vanir themselves had chosen when faced with those they could not control nor bring themselves to kill.
“No, priest. Some will die, for I need the energy of your lives to breach the Veil. You among them, First One. And, as Freyja has done, I will have to draw energy from Yggdrasil. That, I regret. I hope, in your next life, you find peace. I strive to give you a world where that might be possible. In vain, perhaps, but I will not surrender to the forces of chaos.”
“Breach the Veil … By the Tree. Odin, you cannot mean …”
Odin shook his head and hefted the priest with one hand, slinging the man over his shoulder. Like that he trod out to the bridge, where the Aesir yet battled the Vanir, even in the predawn darkness. Arrows rained down on warriors on the far side, but Vili had arrived and was holding the line with ferocity.
