Contents

The High Seat of Asgard

Extra Resources

Skalds’ Tribe

Prologue

Part I

Part II

Epilogue

The Cycle Continues …

Skalds’ Tribe

About the Author

Author’s Note

The High Seat of Asgard: Eschaton Cycle

Gods of the Ragnarok Era Book 4

MATT LARKIN

Editors: Clark Chamberlain, Jena Roach

Cover: Yocla Designs

Copyright © 2017 Matt Larkin.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Incandescent Phoenix Books

mattlarkinbooks.com

Extra Resources

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Prologue

Year 22, Age of the Aesir

Those who watched such things might have said that the Aesir had rekindled the flame of the Lofdar. That they had become a second bulwark against the ever-encroaching mists and thus, a fragile hope in the final age of a dying world. Loki had given them that flame, as he had done for the Lofdar and for others even before them. And indeed, in two decades, the Aesir had become the new gods of the North Realms. Petty gods though, and none too quick to face the true threats plaguing Midgard.

And their king, as ever, proved both less and more than Loki could have ever hoped. Like a wildfire, he raged out of all control, consuming the World in his passions and leaving Loki the same fragile hope as all others—that when all was done, perhaps the mist too would have burned away in the conflagration.

“I do not require your presence here,” Odin said. “Why do you not return to your wife?”

Loki, crouched atop a boulder and staring into the mist of a ravine, craned his neck around to take in his blood brother. He did not need to ask why the king failed to act on his own advice. Odin, for his part, looked away in acknowledgment of Loki’s unspoken point. Or dismissal of it, perhaps, for in truth, they faced different realities.

Sigyn did wait for Loki back in Asgard, no doubt wondering where he had wandered now in his endless pursuit of Odin. She knew, of course, that Loki worked to guide the king ever toward a destiny that might, if he played his moves well enough, allow a semblance of victory however temporary. Odin’s true love, though, had been cast out of Midgard entirely, and by his own hand no less. Loki’s blood brother no doubt felt affection for his wife, perhaps even trust, but Freyja would always hold his heart, and—as Sigyn did with Loki—even a piece of his soul. The pain of separation Loki knew all too well.

Odin did not speak of such things oft, however. He grunted instead, waving his hand southward. “We may have to move against them one day.”

“You are not prepared for such foes.”

The Miklagardian Empire spread across the better part of the South Realms, forcing men to their religion by sword point, to say naught of ensuring a steady stream of tribute flowed into the city of Miklagard. Indeed, someday Odin might need to confront them if only for the threat of the spread of their faith—and the perverse truth behind their doctrine of life beyond death—represented to the spread of his own. Beyond the Sudurberks, they called the lands Outer Miklagard, for it was far from their center of power and the labyrinthine politics that accompanied it.

Odin stroked his graying beard. “Perhaps not yet. We will be … soon enough.”

Loki sighed and rose from the boulder. “I told you I would help you see this through. My promise binds me, even if I do not wholly approve of your machinations.” With a last shake of his head, he strode toward the tunnel entrance below them.

Not content with the barely controllable weapon that Fire represented, Loki’s blood brother now courted another power, as if unwilling or unable to imagine there might be aught worse than Mist.

Odin snorted and fell into step beside Loki. “You are one to talk of machinations.” He fell silent a moment as they entered the dark tunnel, treading ever toward their treacherous ally. Given the choice, Loki would have suggested another path, and yet, every glimpse of the future seemed to dry up more choices, leaving but the bitter urd he saw before them. Odin no doubt felt the same. “The Volsung line,” Odin said after a moment, “will allow me to recover the ring and finally bring down the Niflung dynasty, all in one stroke. Whatever the cost to them, the end result will prove worth it. You cannot tell me you have not made decisions in your long life—moves on the tafl board, rather—that sacrifice the happiness of a few for the longterm good of the whole.”

Loki grunted, acknowledging the hit. He had wrought a great deal of chaos and death in his time, all in pursuit of an endgame Odin did not yet—could not—understand.

Neither spoke while they trod through the tunnel, the only light coming from Loki’s flickering torch, and that at half the illumination one would expect. At least one who had never trod here before. The clang of a hammer on anvil announced their host long before the fires of his forge came into view.

In another age, the dvergar had constructed a deep forge here—massive underground chambers capable of generating flames that blazed hotter than any known to man. In such places, they crafted their great works, their terrible artifacts that cast a fell urd upon all who came into contact with them. The crippled, ashen-skinned man working the forge was no dverg, however, but the far more sinister svartalf. Volund glanced at them with his gleaming eyes and his wicked half smile. Left with but his own withered soul, the smith now seemed intent to claim those of others. Loki ought not have ever brought Odin here, but having found no choice then, he remained with no choice now—if he allowed his blood brother to face such an adversary alone, Odin might fall even farther into darkness.

The smith set aside the blade he was working on and hobbled over to a shelf against the wall.

“Is it done?” Odin asked.

“As I said it would be. As you well know, Ás King, or you would not have come.”

Indeed, they had both foreseen the weapon’s completion. It had drawn them here across frozen mountains and long miles, beckoning and irresistible.

Volund held up a short-hafted hammer with an overlarge head. “I give you Mjölnir.”

“A hammer?” Odin snorted. “I asked you to craft the greatest weapon on Midgard, and you make a tool for building houses?”

The smith grumbled and shook his head. “You are a fool, Ás, if you cannot see the potential. I have improved on the design of Miklagardian war hammers, rendered it strong enough to break jotunn bones, even through armor. And should you yet have the vigor to wield it in your decrepit body, it will fulfill all your requests.”

Odin took the proffered weapon, examining it and testing its heft as Loki watched. “It is not for me.”

Loki, in all his interminable years, had never seen quite such a weapon. No, but he had seen a great many terrible works, and this hammer rivaled any of them. The dark smith had demanded vast quantities of orichalcum, and Odin had delivered it unto him without question.

“I wonder,” Odin said, “did you refuse to make a sword or axe simply as one more means of proving your mastery of your craft—the man who could make even a hammer a mighty weapon.” Odin blew out a long breath and looked around the forge.

Loki frowned. Odin was no doubt correct there. Volund had already forged a runeblade to rival those crafted by the dvergar as prizes for the Old Kingdoms. Now, he had crafted something new …

Volund spread his hands. “Your goods are delivered, and thus, I have fulfilled my bargain.”

“And you shall have what I promised you.”

Loki clenched his jaw, saying naught—for the bargain was struck and naught was left to be said. Odin might think himself unlikely to ever have to fulfill his part of it. But Loki had witnessed more years than Odin could imagine, and such things oft came about in ways unexpected.

“I have another task for you,” Odin said.

The svartalf cackled, then hobbled his way over to a chair where he collapsed. “I cannot tell you how delighted I will be … I fair salivate on imagining what you will ask … and what I might claim in return.”

Odin unshouldered his satchel and drew from it a scroll. The king had taken that from Sessrumnir, then marked it with his own notes. Long years spent delving into the nature of the Sight had deepened his understanding of it, even if it remained yet imperfect. They spoke of it, from time to time, on the rare occasions Loki’s brother still trusted him with aught. Odin still allowed himself to believe that, were he to crystalize the Sight, the added clarity might allow him to save the future.

Loki pressed his palms together, forcing himself to stillness. He had oft seen men destroy themselves and knew all too well naught he might say or do would alter the course of events here.

Volund unfurled the scroll on his table, snickering as his eyes darted over the sketches, the notes, the inscriptions. “There is one thing I like about you,” he said at last. “You come to me with ever greater challenges, intent to see my fame spread across all Realms. Were I to craft such a visionary object for you, I would need a great deal of orichalcum.”

Odin shrugged. “However much you require.”

“Why, all of it, of course. Your oath … that every scrap of orichalcum in Asgard will come to me.”

“Odin …” Loki warned. Sometimes, even knowing he could not alter the future, he found himself helpless but to try.

Odin ignored him, as had become his wont. “I will counter your offer—if I grant what you ask, you must then agree to craft at least one more work from it for me.”

“And what further craft would a king require?”

“I have not yet decided.”

Volund shrugged. “Provided the two requests combined require less than half the total orichalcum you provide, I agree to your request.” With that, he drew a knife and slit his palm, coating it in dark blood.

Odin took the knife and cut his own palm, swearing a blood oath. Loki grimaced.

“So now,” Volund said. “That covers my price, but still I would need souls to infuse into the … throne. Very strong souls, not petty criminals sacrificed for your ends.”

Loki strode over. “Odin, what he asks is barbaric. I beseech you not to—”

“You will have your souls, smith,” Odin said. “As many souls as required and very strong ones. After all, I already have the means to deliver them to you.”

“And one more thing I require, in the end.”

Odin leaned forward on his spear. “Name it.”

“What you want requires insight to pierce time. Such a thing might be best achieved with old blood, saturated with power.”

Now the king spread his hand in silent question.

“They call it the Ordrerir, this goblet that houses the blood of an ancient power. Kvasir, they name him.”

Loki flinched. There were few things Volund could have asked for that might prove more difficult to obtain.

Odin was watching him now. “You know this thing?”

Loki nodded.

“Then you will have it, smith.” With that, Odin grunted and turned from the forge. Loki sighed. In a war with Mist, Odin chose to ally himself with Darkness.

The smith locked his eyes on Loki’s, as if guessing what he thought. “Nine more years,” Volund shouted after Odin. “Then I require the blood.”

Odin flinched, though his prescient insights must have suspected it would take as long.

Loki scowled at Volund, then strode out after Odin.

“It does not matter,” the king said as Loki drew up close. “The intervening years will give me time to solidify my plans for Sigmund and the other Volsungs. I’ve waited more than twenty winters to rejoin Freyja. I will manage a few more—no matter how long it takes. And with her by my side, we will find a way to win Ragnarok.”

Loki kept silent, for how could he reproach the king? To win such battles, he had himself done worse already. And perhaps, in truth, he remained yet in the midst of still darker machinations.

Part I

Year 31, Age of the Aesir

Winter

1

The frozen lakes of Sviarland seemed to stretch out forever, the light of a nearly full moon reflecting off the blanket of mist enshrouding them. It was neither a place nor a time for men, but Odin waited here, on the shore.

He oft visited this land—all the North Realms, really—going by many names. There were rare times when it served his purposes to reveal his true identity to mortals. More oft, however, he found it wise to call himself by some alias or other. Thrithi or Thuth. Atrith or, as now, Vofuth. He adopted guises as the mood struck him, and men, thinking him most oft a simple, aged wanderer, showed him the truth of themselves. A simple glamour disguised Gungnir as a walking staff and cast Odin as a hermit. Few noticed a haggard vagrant wandering among them, catching bits of wisdom on the wind.

Few, though some did. Some sought him out, almost as if guided by some nascent hint of the Sight, somehow aware he might know things they could not. Thus did he maintain his dwelling in the forest here. Odin turned from the lake and trod back into the wood. The Sight told him the ones he sought now came to him. Of course they did, for he had manipulated them into it, set them on a path that would lead back here.

Like a true hermit, Odin took shelter in one of the countless ruins scattered over the North Realms. This one had been built by the Siklingar, one of the Old Kingdoms, more than a thousand winters back. All that remained now, eight centuries after its fall, was the foundation of a tower. Stone blocks as high as Odin’s chest jutted from the snow, enclosing a ring near the lake. On one side, enough wall still stood to offer a hint of shelter. Once, perhaps, this place had been important. Maybe it watched over a border. Maybe it had guarded against enemies like the Niflungar. Now, it was home to naught but ghosts and, on occasion, Odin. In the midst of this, he had kindled a small fire, and he now sat with his back to it, preserving his night vision.

The descendants of the Siklingar had spread here in southern Sviarland and too, crossed the sea to Hunaland. Ironic, in truth, that both sides of the conflict he now stirred hailed from the same forgotten kingdom. Not that either of them would ever know it. The children of Sigarr slaughtered one another in bloody feuds that served no one, save perhaps Odin himself. A wise man learned to make use of fools.

Some time after Odin had settled down, the varulf pair loped up to the fortress, each in wolf form, one larger than the other. Odin eyed them from his assumed shelter, waiting until they drew nigh and arched their backs in pain to shed their animal guises. Once again in the shape of men, the pair drew close to the fire. The one had thirty winters; the other half that.

The older man settled into a crouch, staring at Odin, while the younger skirted the edge of the ruins, as if searching for hidden foes. Perhaps, as a varulf, he sensed the dead, pressing against the Veil and watching them. These old ruins were thick with ghosts, but varulfur could do naught to interact with them.

“You return,” Odin said after a moment.

Sigmund, the older of the men, shrugged. “We found ourselves wandering this way and thought you might again share the fire, old man.”

Odin shifted, turning toward the flame, and beckoned Sigmund to join him. The younger—Fitela—would no doubt skulk about for some time before he settled. “You come here oft enough, it seems. You hunt the woods for game and men, run like wolves, and stalk from cave to ruin. It must be a very contented life you lead.”

Sigmund scowled. “I am trapped by an ill urd, hermit. You cannot imagine the weight I bear.”

Odin tried not to chortle at that. Indeed, how could Odin—bearing the weight of all Midgard on his shoulders—begin to imagine the burdens of a fallen prince? To say naught of the fact that Odin had helped orchestrate at least some of those burdens upon Sigmund’s shoulders when he had driven Gramr into Volsung’s tree. “If you find your circumstances loathsome, why have you done naught to change them?”

Now the prince spat. “You would have me march to Valhalla for no purpose save but to see it. Siggeir Wolfsblood has an army of men, a pack of varulfur, and alliances with at least two others of the Seven Kings. I have myself, my nephew, and—on occasion—the questionable advice of an old man living in the woods.”

As if summoned, Fitela now stalked closer to his uncle, crouching down just outside the firelight. Odin had not predicted the boy’s existence, nor could he decide whether it would serve his ends or not. Thus, it seemed prudent to keep his focus on Sigmund and let the boy attend to himself, at least for now.

Odin poked at the fire with Gungnir—his walking stick. “The birds claim one of these allies takes the roads to visit the king of Skane.”

“So?”

Odin said naught. Loki had believed the best lessons were those a man had to reach on his own, with as little outside prodding as possible. However Odin now felt about his blood brother, the man knew a great deal about teaching others. And one could ask for no finer teacher in the art of manipulation.

Sigmund drummed fingers on his knee. “Fine. So suppose we left the woods and ambushed this caravan … Wolfsblood looks weak if he cannot protect his allies visiting him.” Now the prince bared his teeth. “A great risk, yes, but a chance for glory.”

“Have you asked yourself what you wait for, lingering here in the woods?”

Sigmund glanced at his nephew. “Fitela grows stronger with each passing winter.”

“And how many winters does he have now? Fifteen? How many had you had when you went to war against Wolfsblood the first time?”

The prince glared, then grumbled. “The same.”

Sigmund didn’t say—perhaps didn’t even consider—that he had done so with an army under the command of his father Volsung. And had lost. Instead, he glowered, clearly vexed at even the slightest word spoken against his courage. A man with too much pride was easy to goad. Odin would know better than most.

“If King Gylfi dies to varulfur in the lands of Wolfsblood—the king who claims to have subdued the packs—his allies are like to abandon him, if not outright turn on him.”

“Gylfi?” Now Fitela crawled closer. “Gylfi is favored by Odin himself. If we act against him, we risk the wrath of the very gods.”

Odin scoffed. “Is he now? And is Sigmund himself not so favored? The stories claim the wizard who granted him the runeblade was none other than Odin. And your uncle lost the sword. If so, I would think recovering Gramr is the surest way to recover Odin’s favor.”

“You see a great deal, old man,” Sigmund said. “Too much, I think. But perhaps you speak truth. Perhaps the only way is to strike now and weaken our foe. For the better part of sixteen winters, we waited. Such a chance may not come again.” The prince rose without further word and trod off into the night. His nephew followed a moment later.

Odin heard them groan as they shifted back into wolf form. He listened to the soft, receding plod of their paws. And when they had gone far, Odin rose, stretching his back.

Finally. Finally, Sigmund would begin to move. Given the choice, Odin would have sent the man direct to recover Andvari’s Gift. But that choice was denied to him, and thus he had to approach everything from an angle. Urd was cruel and oft too slow in its workings. The waiting had grown tedious. Still, he had to trust now; things were in motion.

Sigmund’s vengeance would be the first step. Just the first.

2

In daylight, they could not call upon the full power of the wolf spirits inside them. Then again, at night, the wolf struggled hardest for dominance, especially as the moon grew fuller. The moon drove the wolf into bouts of rage, of terrible violence and hunger. At least Sigmund preferred to think the worst of his deeds these past years fell at the feet of his wolf.

In his youth, he had never imagined himself turning to banditry and murder. Siggeir Wolfsblood, King of Skane, had made him this. It was not Sigmund’s fault. He played the role forced upon him—no more. This he told himself as he lay awake unable to forget his crimes.

The caravan they had waylaid had fallen in the late afternoon. After all, no one travelled at night. The guards they had killed with sword and shield, with bow, and with the strength and stamina of the Otherworld, of the vaettir dwelling in their souls. Gylfi, thinking himself among allies, had brought too few guards—a mistake Sigmund had once made in these very lands.

Sigmund wiped his blade clean after the last soldier had fallen. Brave men from Dalar in central Sviarland. Men who hadn’t had much chance, as arrows sniped them from the woods. Such tactics left Sigmund feeling like leeches sucked on his gut. There was no honor in it, but then, how else did two men face more than a dozen?

An aging man, knocked from his horse, now began to rise, balking at the dead guards and cursing when he saw the horse with an arrow in its neck. The man bore once-fine clothes, now stained with mud, and had donned enough gold to reveal himself.

Fitela stalked over to the king, tossing the bow aside.

“Do you know who I am, boy?” the man demanded.

“I know,” Fitela said, his voice a rasp. A varulf could heal from most any wound, yes, but the boy’s voice had never fully recovered from the damage Sigmund had done to it. “That’s the point.”

Sigmund folded his arms, frowning. What had Wolfsblood made him into?

Fitela grabbed King Gylfi by the collar, then rammed his dagger up under his jaw. He jerked it free, letting the king’s corpse fall like a rock.

Sigmund shook his head. Was it honor, killing a defenseless old man? He had told himself he only killed men in a fair fight. He had told himself this over and over since he was a boy, training under Father’s champions. But since donning those wolf skins, naught had seemed fair, for or against him.

Wolfsblood hunted them like monsters of the wild. And they behaved like it.

Or perhaps Gylfi was never defenseless. Whispers called him a sorcerer. If so, cryptic dreams and potions did not seem to protect him from a knife through his jugular. Either way, the legend had fallen with so little effort that Sigmund couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Where was the glorious combat? Where was the battle for the ages?

Instead, a boy of fifteen winters had murdered an unarmed old man. Caught him unprepared and slain him before he could even steady himself enough to draw a weapon.

Sigmund glowered at the surrounding carnage—almost a score of dead, scattered around the wooded path. A slaughter yes, but still not quite the effect he needed. In case more was required to turn his gorge.

“We have to wait for nightfall,” Fitela said.

“I know.” Once the moon rose and they could assume wolf form, they’d need to tear these corpses to pieces. For this to work as ancient Vofuth suggested, folk would need to blame varulfur.

Oh, he and Fitela had hunted plenty of Wolfsblood’s people over the past few years. They picked them off if they came near the deep woods, or sometimes, they even ventured outside the woods, hunting those alone. More murder, all to bring down the worst murderer of them all.

As the king’s desperation grew, he sent his men farther afield in search of the mysterious bandits who preyed on his domain. Them, too, Sigmund and Fitela hunted when they could. If Wolfsblood’s men came in numbers, they would vanish into the night, hiding in wood or marsh or the hollows between hills. It was how varulfur went savage, out in the mist.

And if they had begun to turn Mist-mad, would they even know it?

Sigmund kept flame when he could, but naught could come between them and the mission. All of these tactics, of course, had come from Fitela. The boy knew what he was about, always plotting and weakening the king through the years while himself growing strong. And he had.

The king’s varulfur hunted them, too, though Sigmund and Fitela had become adept at hiding themselves and had had only a few skirmishes with the pack over the years.

Now, with Siggeir Wolfsblood losing favor throughout his own Realm, they might never get another such chance to bring down the king and at last avenge the wrongs wrought many years before. Sigmund owed Wolfsblood pain and suffering and loss. All of these things and more.

Fitela drew him from his reverie by tossing a box from a satchel. It cracked open, spilling forth silver coins. Sigmund scowled, then knelt to examine them. They were stamped from Miklagard. Sometimes the kings here traded in South Realm coins, but why did Gylfi bear so many away from Wolfsblood’s hall?

He looked up at Fitela, who raised an eyebrow. “A bribe. Or else a call for aid.”

And that worked in their favor. If Gylfi had come for bargaining and died, it would arouse all the more ire against Wolfsblood. The king lost an ally, but more like than not he also gained fresh enemies. Still, Sigmund did not like seeking the aid of foreign kings to redress this wrong. He was a Hunalander and a Volsung, and vengeance was his alone to claim. “Leave the silver or most of it. Take what you need. Let whomever comes along find it.”

Fitela nodded. “This is truly happening? After five years, we are doing this?”

Five years? No. Longer. For Sigmund, it had been half his life, waiting to avenge the wrongs done to his family. The murder, the betrayal. At long last, the time had come to redress them all. Together, he and Fitela would bring down Wolfsblood and all his kin.

Skane would lose its king very soon. The Volsungs would be avenged.

3

From the edge of the wood, Odin watched Sigmund and his nephew’s return, each of them bloody and naked. Their most natural state, perhaps. Maybe savage and violent was the natural state of all men, in the end. Civilization might be only a pretense, a shallow illusion against the chaos. Odin shook such musings from his mind. He could afford no doubts.

“Vofuth?” Sigmund asked as he drew nigh. “I did not think you ever left the shelter of the forest.”

Odin shrugged. “I have been known to come and go, walking long roads.” Longer than this man could possibly imagine.

But then, that kind of thinking was a trap the Vanir had fallen into. How easy, given the scope of Odin’s burdens, for him to forget Sigmund’s suffering was not petty in his own eyes. That his quest for vengeance was little different from one Odin himself had undertaken some few decades back.

Sigmund grunted, then waved his hand behind him. “It is done, old man. Soon, Wolfsblood’s allies will know of his failure and his shame.”

“And when they do, to whom shall they turn?”

“What?”

“If they believe Wolfsblood has betrayed Gylfi, the favored of Odin, perhaps one of them might be inclined to side with the man’s foes. Say a prince … long thought dead, come back to avenge another famed king?”

Fitela grinned. “I warned you this old man was a snake. He’s right, Uncle. We can use this.”

Sigmund groaned. “You would have me lie and claim, not that Wolfsblood failed, but rather that he did this himself?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “You need not lie, Uncle.” Now Fitela looked to Odin with a sly smile. “I’ll do that for you.”

Sigmund leaned against a tree, muscles all taut like his body refused to relax despite his mind’s orders, while pressing his brow between his fingers. “Such jests do not amuse me.”

“I do not jest,” Fitela said. “All we have worked for is now at hand, but it depends on winning support of the local Sviarland kings.”

Odin pointed to his spear—still disguised as a staff—to the north. “Gylfi had many allies, most strongly those in central Sviarland nigh to his own lands. Consider the new king of Njarar, a former disciple of Gylfi.”

“Olof Sharpsighted,” Fitela said. “A usurper, stories say.”

Odin shrugged. That was not entirely accurate, for Olof had merely claimed the vacated throne when the last king of Njarar died without heir, slain by Volund’s bastard son over a runeblade. Olof had fought long years under Gylfi before that and had taken the throne using advice from the old sorcerer king. “Olof has honor enough for your cause and reason to hate Wolfsblood for failing Gylfi.”

“We killed Gylfi,” Sigmund said.

Fitela scoffed. “For just this reason, Uncle. Tell me you do not lack the stones—”

Sigmund cuffed the young man hard enough to send him stumbling. “You forget yourself, and you forget what happened last time you questioned my honor or courage, boy.”

Let them kill one another …

Audr fed on suffering, of course, but Odin doubted that would serve well. Were Sigmund to strike down his own kin, the man was like to fall into a useless fugue—as Odin knew all too well. “You bicker like children. If you wish to escape your exile in this wilderness, you cannot allow this opportunity to slip through your fingers. Make north, and spread the tale as you go, the story of varulfur slaughtering those visiting Wolfsblood’s domain. When you present yourself to Olof, he must be already festering in rage, contemplating war, even.”

“You see much, old man,” Fitela said. “How does a hermit come to know the workings of all the kingdoms in Sviarland?”

“I wander, and I listen. You might try the latter, on occasion.”

Fitela sneered. Whatever he might have said, Sigmund forestalled with a raised hand. “So be it, Vofuth. You have always given sound advice, and this too I will follow. I have grown weary of hiding from Wolfsblood. If Olof Sharpsighted can help me avenge my father, I will pledge my loyalty to him.”

With a glance at Fitela, Sigmund now trod off into the woods. The boy lingered, eyes locked on Odin. Fitela had oft looked upon him with a hint of suspicion. He could not possibly have imagined Vofuth’s true identity, and yet, clearly the boy recognized him as more than he claimed to be. How much of these doubts had he or would he share with Sigmund? Odin needed the Volsung clan for his plans. Fitela though represented an anomaly, unplanned and difficult to account for. And Odin had his suspicions as to the boy’s origins, perhaps deliberately engendered by the Niflungar in their own hidden game.

“How far, exactly, does an old hermit wander?” Fitela asked.

“I long ago stopped counting my steps. There is a great deal to see across Midgard.” More still in the Realms beyond. “You too could go far, boy, if you survive your uncle’s war with Wolfsblood.”

Fitela shrugged. “I’ll survive. And it’s not just his war.” With that, he took off after Sigmund.

Odin stood watching, a moment. Despite their frequent squabbles, Fitela did seem to want the same thing as Sigmund. And yet, Odin felt nigh to certain the Niflungar had involved themselves in his birth. Sigmund needed allies, true. Nevertheless, the man might be better off if Odin simply killed Fitela. Time would tell.

Before that, though, Odin needed to reach Aujum and with haste only Sleipnir could manage. Thor was there now, and Odin needed his son to know of Gylfi’s death. That would be the next step.

4

Black troll blood befouled the streets and buildings of Halfhaugr. The creatures had knocked down a vast chunk of the wall and occupied the fortress, turning its depths into a den that sprouted thorns jutting through the dverg stonework. None in Sif’s party remembered this place—she had not even seen it—though Geri assured her Odin had once held court here, before leaving for Asgard. Or Vanaheim, she supposed it had been back then.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Geri said.

Thor spat as if disappointed, smacking Mjölnir against his palm. Everyone knew to trust the varulf twins’ noses. Troll ichor coated Thor’s otherwise flame red beard and long hair, soaked his muscled chest, and drenched his pants. Thor and the varulf twins had done most of the slaying this day. In theory, Sif and the rest of them severed as but his bodyguards. Of course, more oft than not, Thor was the one saving them from danger. Like Thor and the twins, Sif had tasted the fruit of Yggdrasil, and, though she was a fine warrior, none matched Thor’s ferocity.

Nine of them had come to Aujum, but only seven would return home, assuming they met no more trolls. Thor had made it his self-appointed mission to rid the ancestral Ás homeland of the beasts, offering his bodyguards the chance to prove their worthiness to receive an apple in the process. The Thunderers, they called themselves, all following in his wake. Nine years of blood and conquest and more glory than anyone truly needed. It had cost Nepr and Ali their lives.

Sif eased her grip on her halberd as she wandered around the streets. Her father had once lived in one of these houses. Strange and hard to think of Aesir calling such a barren place home. Only a few human villages persisted in these lands, many of them Miklagardian outposts. The South Realmer empire stretched its arm into the North, held back only by the very trolls Thor seemed intent to slay. Sometimes, Sif thought it might be better to let the two sides annihilate each other.

“May as well head back to the village,” Thor said. “Naught else to do here.”

“What of the women?” Freki asked. They had found nigh to a score of troll wives in the fortress depths. Some of them had lost their minds or their will to live, but others might yet survive this ordeal.

Thor looked at the varulf as though Mist-madness had claimed his mind. “Escort them back to the grateful village, of course. How else would our tales spread?”

Sif hid her wry smile. She was never quite sure just how much of the prince’s pomposity was an act and how much his true self. She remembered admiring him as a young child before Father had sent her to be fostered in Dalar. “Should we search the fortress again? Might there be aught of value worth claiming?”

Thor shrugged. “I think Father took it all when they left this place. The village will have food and drink—more than I can say for this Hel-cursed placed. Leave the stones to rot.”

“Besides,” Itreksjod said, “someone mentioned grateful villagers and opened thighs.”

Hildolf scratched his head. “Whose thighs?”

“The villagers’.”

Sif rolled her eyes.

“No one mentioned that,” Hildolf said. “Did they?”

Itreksjod shrugged. “It was implied. It is always implied, my brother.”

Through mist and snow, Geri led them back toward the village in the south. The locals here had migrated in from Bjarmaland some years after Odin’s march, only to soon find themselves conquered by the Miklagardians. Since they did not refuse—and could not have—subservience, the Miklagardian population had begun to blend with the North Realmers. In a distant way, it meant the Aesir shared some kinship with these people, though the villagers would never know it.

A good number of the abducted women had come from here, and they rushed back into the arms of their loved ones, nigh to broken, yet still with a hint of life. Those without … those who could never return to the human world, Freki and Meili had put out of their misery. Sif had not wanted to watch. Killing on the battlefield was one thing—any Ás hoping for an apple had to prove her worth in battle. But this mercy seemed little different than murder to her. Not that she herself would want to live after … No. Better not to let thoughts go down those directions. The grimmest of the Thunderers, such tasks always fell to Freki and Meili.

The villagers welcomed them with mead and roast mammoth and a great celebration, inviting them into the main hall. Sif left her halberd by the door and took up a seat at the largest table. A moment later, a serving woman came and offered her the drinking horn. Sif took a long swig of it before passing it on to Geri.

Since Sif’s return to Asgard, Geri had become her closest companion. The varulf girl wore her scraggly brown hair short—for a woman—and though she had on occasion expressed jealousy of Sif’s own golden tresses, the varulf refused any urging to grow out her own hair past her cheekbones. She danced about the edges of Ás society but remained outside, almost as much as her brother. As Odin’s adopted daughter, she held a place of honor, but the wolf in her always set her apart.

Geri drank deeply, then handed the horn off to her twin. “I saw you take down that troll,” she said to Sif. “By yourself—bold. Trying to impress … everyone?”

Sif shrugged.

“Sometimes,” Geri said, “I suspect duty is not the only reason you remain on the Thunderers after so many years.”

Sif flinched. The varulf girl read too much, too easily. In a way, Geri reminded her of Aunt Sigyn, if not half so infuriating. “I would speak of aught else at the moment.”

Geri chuckled. “As you wish. Father has been pushing the boundaries of our civilization, you know. There was an expedition a few years back to Thule. Tales say men woke something there, in the forgotten north. Something ancient and angry. If naught else comes up, we may find ourselves sailing there and looking for more things to kill.”

Sif groaned. “You mean draugar.” As if trolls were not bad enough. The Thunderers had fought a few draugar in their time. The dead made the vilest of foes.

“So tales tell it. They say the expedition left behind great wealth on Thule—gold and ancient dverg craftwork. A woman could buy herself a palace in Asgard with such a hoard.”

Imagine that … her own palace. Odin’s chosen few each had their own halls around the islands. Frigg and Thor, Tyr, Loki, and Sif’s own grandfather Hoenir. Some others. In truth though, the queen decided such things more than the king, who never spent much time in Asgard in any event. But a palace—Sif could almost see it. A shinning hall, hung with tapestries plundered from Serkland and Miklagard, decked in silver, and served by a dozen slaves.

Before she could offer much response, Thor rose with a pair of village women, heading outside their hall. Sif groaned and snatched the horn back from Freki. Fucking empty. She cast a glare at the varulf, who shrugged.

“Sorry.”

Sif beckoned over a slave girl who refilled her cup, then took another long swig.

“Yes, indeed,” Geri said. “You are clearly here for duty and no other reason.”

Freki raised an eyebrow, and Sif glared at him. He had even less right to look at her like that than his sister.

The varulf flashed a toothy grin. “If you need someone to help you celebrate, I have incredible stamina.” He bit suggestively into a hunk of mammoth flesh. “I assume you recall.”

Geri cuffed her brother on the back on the head, causing him to spit out his food.

Sif groaned and rose from the table. She tired of this company. Instead, she strolled the hall, sampling a few other foods the locals had brought. When she could eat no more, she retired to a room the villagers had arranged for the Thunderers.

Most of the others already lounged about it—some sleeping, some stirring. Meili nodded at her, rubbing his axe with an oilcloth as if it did not already shine. The man cared for little more than those weapons.

Sif returned his nod, then collapsed onto the bed in an alcove and stared at the roof, watching brazier smoke curl around the rafters until sleep at last claimed her.

A hand shook her awake roughly, and Sif rose in an instant, hand wrapped around a dagger at her side.

Geri stood there, eyes grim. “A messenger arrived not long ago, a servant—Thuth.”

Sif climbed from the bed and cracked her neck, then ran fingers through her tangled hair. “Ugh. What is it?” Her head throbbed from last night’s mead and she could have done with another hour’s sleep, at least.

Geri put a hand on her shoulder. “King Gylfi has died.”

Sif stared dumbly at the varulf girl, unable to quite wrap her mind around that. She tried to shake her head, to deny it, but no words came out. Her foster father had grown old, certainly, but she hadn’t thought … “H-how?”

“We have no details. But if you hope to reach his funeral, you must ride very hard.”

Damn it.

Damn it!

“Where is Thor?”

“Set into the day meal.”

Sif pushed around her friend and all but ran back to the main hall.

Thor rose as she entered, licked grease from his fingers and then wiped his hand on his breeches. “You’ll be wanting to go to Sviarland then?”

“Please. I … I have to.”

Thor cleared his throat. “Good then. I ordered Freki to have the whole band made ready, soon as I heard. And I told the locals we’re taking their fastest horses. We’ll ride for Hunaland and take ship out of Menzlin.”

Sif’s pleas died on her lips. He had already known what she would need and had dropped all else to see to it. It almost made her wonder if somehow, despite Thor’s indulgences in the other women—all the other women …

No. She could not think on such things now. Too much else weighed on her. Thor’s own father had insisted her parents foster her with the mortal king, one of Odin’s favorites. And though she had resented it at first, Sif had grown fond of her home in Dalar over long winters. And now … Gylfi. She had never thought the last time she’d seen him would be the very last. That she would never again embrace the man who had treated her well as his own daughter.

“Don’t stand there gawking,” Thor said. “Stuff your face and pick a horse. We’ll have to ride even at night to make it.”

His words launched her into motion. She snatched up a fistful of food and raced from the hall. Naught could keep her from bidding her final farewell to Gylfi.

5

According to Loki, Vanaheim had once had other names before the Vanir had come here. Now, it was Asgard.

The Aesir had built their palaces, settling with discomfiting ease into the roles now vacated by the Vanir. In three decades, they had become what they had first worshipped and later resented, and Sigyn could not say with certainty that they managed the role better than their predecessors.

In the late afternoon sun, Sigyn drifted among spires that stretched higher than any construction built since the days of the Old Kingdoms. The Aesir had begun to uncover lost knowledge in all fields thanks—in no small part—to her own ceaseless quest to sift through the lore the Vanir had left behind. She shook her head, unable to shake the smile from her face as she strolled. Loki claimed she flitted from one obsession to the next like a puppy, save that every discovery she made changed the World.

He never discouraged her studies, but he did warn that some Vanr lore was best left buried. He meant the Art, of course. The former occupants of these islands had delved deep into arcane secrets of the World, trying to control all creation in their vanity. It had cost them a great deal, eventually leading them to banish their own elders to an Otherworld.

Sigyn placed a hand on her belly as she walked. Sometimes, she imagined she could feel the babe turning, examining its world. Preparing itself for … whatever reality she’d be able to offer him or her. She dared hope it would be a better one than she’d been born into.

A cobblestone-paved street led through the marketplace. Ás men and women who might once have spent their days hunting mammoths and their nights huddled around fires now sold ripe fruits and vegetables harvested from both islands of Asgard. They were a changed people already, and the newest generation gave little thought to the tribe structure that had once defined Ás society.

They still venerated their warriors, though, and thus many of the young sought to prove themselves out in Midgard, fighting against trolls or draugar or joining Tyr in his unending war against the Serkland Caliphate. Those who found glory in battle were much more likely to be granted one of the scant few apples of Yggdrasil still available.

A woman beckoned to her, offering her a bushel of grapes. With a nod, Sigyn left her a copper bit and picked a few that looked tasty. These in hand, she wandered down to the gardens.

Around the market, the Aesir had cleared much of the overgrowth the Vanir had once let sprawl. In the gardens though, nature still dominated, and this garden overflowed with poinsettias and roses, while lilies decorated the numerous ponds.

On the edge of one such pond sat Loki, clearly waiting for her. She sat down beside him, dangling her feet in the water while leaning back on her hands and exposing her belly, now showing a definite bulge. And yes, she showed it off every chance she got. The apples dramatically reduced fertility as an unwelcome side effect, which meant, though they had spoken of children before, it had taken more than thirty years for her to conceive. Part of her always harbored a hidden doubt that Loki had managed this on purpose. He had lost children before, she knew, though he refused to speak of it.

“So,” she said after a few moments. “Did you look into the flames?”

Loki sighed, then shook his head. “Can you not wait for time to take its course?”

“Has waiting for the future to unveil itself in its own time oft been your strategy?”

He quirked a smile at that. “This is not the tafl board.”

“Hmmm.” She kicked her feet, splashing water on him. “Are you certain?”

He chuckled. “Odin has not yet returned.”

“Changing the subject so directly seems a rather unworthy move of you … but as you wish. Are you concerned for the king?”

“Always.” As Sigyn delved into the mysteries the Vanir had left behind, Odin pushed even beyond those boundaries, seeking answers the Vanir themselves could not or would not have sought. Desperate to understand the Sight and broken by the loss of Freyja, Loki’s blood brother so rarely returned to Asgard these days. It frustrated Frigg to no end, though she was more than capable of ruling in his stead. And Loki … well, Odin’s actions did not seem to surprise him, though clearly they concerned him.

“To become the one we need in order to face Ragnarok,” Loki said, “Odin walks alone in darkness. And I am …”

“Always torn between the need to let Odin learn on his own and the fear of what the man might become without guidance. I know.”

These were the answers her husband no doubt sought in flame, the revelations of the future he could not trust. “I may very soon have to go to him.”

That drew a glower from her, but she said naught, having long since accepted the position he found himself in—torn between his own desires and the need to steer the course of history.

As evening drew on, the groundskeepers lit stone braziers scattered around the gardens.

Sigyn shifted about before finally pointing to one. “Please. Indulge me.”

With a sigh, Loki rose and drifted over to the brazier. He gripped it with both hands and stared into the flames. She had wanted to know for some time now, and he had delayed for reasons he had not spoken. Maybe many parents might have wished to look into the futures of their children.

“Sometimes,” he said, “it is better to walk blindly in dark woods than to know what lurks there and be forced to tread the same path regardless.”

“We are talking about our child, Loki.”

Again he sighed, staring deeper into the flames. What did he see in them, and how? Sometimes she envied his Sight, much as it seemed to burden him.

He had begun to tremble. Just as she started to rise to go to him, Loki stumbled away pressing his palms against his eyes. He sucked long breaths down, shuddering as if in pain.

Sigyn raced to his side and stroked his shoulders. “What is it?”

Loki turned to look deep into her eyes, then worked his jaw, clearly struggling with words. “A boy.”

“You saw something else. What? Tell me!”

He raised a hand. One more secret he could not share.

“Loki?”

He kissed her on the forehead, offering no other answer.

6

Ice formed under Skadi’s feet as she trod through the marsh, freezing the muck and allowing her to make a straight shot back to her castle. This place, lost in ages past, served well enough for her needs. Even Gjuki’s ravens did not fly so far nor think to search here for the failing witch queen. Really, Skadi should just kill the woman and let Hel deal with her.

Not yet.

Gudrun’s obsession with her mother—

She’s no mother of mine!

—with her mother had infected Skadi like a blight, festering as she found herself inexplicably drawing out tortures and torments for years when her time might be better spent reclaiming her own father’s kingdom.

The castle lay half sunk into the marsh and coated with hoar and mold. The top of one tower had crumbled, its pieces now lost in the bog. Rather than allow the perilous sun inside, Skadi had rebuilt the broken tower out of ice, a single glittering spire rising from the otherwise dismal ruin.

A casual wave of her hand sent the ice gate retreating from her and allowed passage, just as she reformed it behind her. Now in control of the host, she could at last make full use of her power, limited only by the strength of the body and its Megin.

You mean mine! And you have destroyed my hair …

Skadi fingered a few of Gudrun’s locks—transformed from blonde to white as snow—and sneered. She needed to put the human in her place.

Are we not … allies?

Were they? Skadi could not say that with absolute certainty. She would bring about the great winter that would herald the return of Hel, and this time, none would obstruct the goddess. And to ensure that, she needed to thwart Odin.

Why is he so damn important?

Skadi descended into the depths of the castle, infusing the ice coating the walls with iridescent light as she did so. No abominable flame could enter this space, after all, which necessitated alternative illumination.

Odin had some plan for the Volsung line, and—though Skadi had not been able to unravel his intent—she needed to counter it regardless.

It had been a peculiarity, meeting with the son of Hljod, some years back. Now he was grown, and, in fact, with a child of his own, though he did not realize it. Gudrun’s memories of her former apprentice bombarded Skadi’s mind until she could almost forget those memories did not come from her own past. Such were the dangers of allowing the host even the slightest hint of free reign. Still, the sorceress did serve Hel, even if not nigh so well as Skadi. For that service, Skadi had to grant Gudrun a measure of reprieve.

But Odin thought to use Sigmund, and perhaps turning the man into a varulf was not enough to disrupt the Ás’s plan. No scheme of the Ás king would work in Hel’s favor, after all. Maybe Skadi ought simply to kill all the Volsungs herself.

No! These are Hljod’s children! I will not betray them. We must find a way to prevent Odin’s intentions without acting against Hljod’s blood.

Skadi scowled. The human sorceress’s sentiments did infect her, staying her hand from the obvious course. Yes, more like than not, having Sigmund and the boy possessed by wolf spirits would disrupt Odin’s plans. Killing them would have done so more surely.

Please, no. I couldn’t save Hljod. I at least must spare her children as much as I can.

Skadi placed her hand on the ice coating a door in the dungeon, sucking it back into herself. As it vanished, the door popped open, revealing Grimhild chained to the wall and clad in shit-stained rags. The once glorious queen of the Niflungar had grown old in the intervening years, humbled by decades wallowing in her own piss. Or perhaps by the torture as Skadi siphoned off bits and pieces of her already pathetic soul—the queen had traded off much of that long before now.

The stench was almost overpowering, drawing a further scowl from Skadi.

Grimhild blinked in the pale light, whimpering. “Gudrun …” Even her voice had begun to sound old, cracking and dry like worn-out leather.

“She can hear you,” Skadi said. “But she does not rule this castle. I do. And I wonder if yet some driblet of useful knowledge remains in your faltering mind. It strikes me then, that I ought simply to open it up and find out.”

Grimhild whimpered, shutting her eyes and mumbling as if to banish the situation by pretending it did not exist. And what was that? Was she praying to Hel? How ironic.

“I speak for the goddess now. She has grown tired of you.”

With her finger, Skadi began to trace spirit glyphs on the wall, preparing a summoning. Ice skittered and molded to her will, taking shape as dust flew away to form sigils.

There were things beyond the Veil that could help weaken Grimhild’s mind so that Skadi might dig through it, uncovering agents and secrets even the queen did not consciously remember. Skadi needed every edge she could to ensure naught interfered with Hel’s return. The way she had been banished back to Spirit Realm at the dawn of this Era had cost the goddess, and Hel would no longer leave aught to chance.

Sometimes, Gudrun wondered at the efficacy of bargaining with this entity. Her motivations, when Gudrun could unravel them at all, seemed born of icy hatred, playing out the rage of one scorned long ago. Skadi’s hatred for Njord had become a hatred for all the warmth in the World.

Skadi paused. Where had that thought come from?

Oh. Oh, dear, sweet Gudrun. The host was not only seeping into her own consciousness but letting her mind get away with her. And that just would not do.

Skadi slammed her will against Gudrun, driving the sorceress down into the recesses of her own mind. Gudrun shrieked at the pressure of it, writhing as Skadi tightened her icy fingers against the arrogant mortal. The pain of that would put her in her place for a time.

But if Skadi was to pursue her ends, she was left with two options … Fully possess Gudrun and separate their consciousness, despite her bargain with the sorceress—and breaking a bargain came at terrible cost to a spirit—or make certain Gudrun had no further doubts about which of them was in charge.

I … I don’t …

Gudrun was so very fond of Hljod, the poor wretched girl—gone now—who the trolls had so tormented. In her escape from those creatures, Hljod had lost a toe to frostbite. Maybe Gudrun would like to share Hljod’s pain?

Wait—what?

Skadi sat and yanked off her boot.

No, please, stop. Stop! It was just an idle thought. You don’t need to …

A razor-sharp blade of ice formed in Skadi’s hand. Of course, in possession of the host, she’d feel the pain, after a fashion. But it would hurt Gudrun more. And some lessons only had to be taught once.

No! You’ve made your point! Please!

Skadi began sawing off her little toe, ignoring the wailing of the sorceress trapped in her own mind. The delicious agony went on and on, even after the last bit of flesh was severed. Strange that it should hurt when not attached.

She froze off the blood flow. As a snow maiden, she could tolerate that, when it might well have killed another being.

“Am I understood?”

The old queen wept, curled upon the floor, as if thinking this was about her. Grimhild was babbling about how she knew naught else. Pathetic.

And then a thought hit Skadi. A way to be absolutely certain Gudrun would not entertain the barest hint of hubris after this. She released her hold on the sorceress, giving Gudrun control of her own body.

Gudrun screamed, falling over sideways and clutching her throbbing foot. “You did not have to do this.”

Prove your loyalty.

“I am loyal!”

Then eat the toe.

Gudrun froze in place, mouth agape. “You cannot be fucking serious.”

Deadly. Eat the toe … or do you need to suffer any of the other depredations your former apprentice went through? I’m certain I can find a troll somewhere in this marsh if I look hard enough.

The tears running down Gudrun’s cheeks were more than pain. They flowed from terror and the utmost helplessness of knowing she would be punished for even daring to think of freedom or comfort or aught other than obedience.

Weeping bitterly, she snatched up her severed toe. And then, barely able to keep from retching, she put it in her mouth.

7

When the Thunderers reached Dalar, the flames from the funeral ship had already risen high into the night, burning away mist and Sif’s foster father both. She pushed her way through the largest crowd she had ever seen, all clustered upon the shore and staring out after the longship. She spotted at least two of the other Seven Kings already. There, Olof Sharpsighted, who had oft visited the court during Sif’s time here. And there, standing alone and watching, Aun, who had reclaimed the throne of Upsal for the Ynglings not long ago.

Who knew how many other men and women had come from far abroad to bid a final farewell to the oldest of the kings of Sviarland?

Growing up in his court, Sif had heard the rumors—that Gylfi practiced the Art, that he had used it to extend his reign to unnatural lengths. Indeed, even his grandchildren were grown, and still, last she had seen him, he walked with vigor. The sorcerer king, some men called him, though never to his face. No one accused such a king of the unmanly Arts of seid in the open, but, drunk and morose, his daughter had once claimed he had tried to match his Art against Odin’s. Having lost, Gylfi became the first great disciple of the new gods.

Sif’s eyes stung, and not just from the ash of dozens of torches set about to drive back the mist. Hand trembling, she drew the sword from over her shoulder. Gylfi himself had had it crafted for her. He’d worked it with a woven knot pattern, its pommel crusted in gleaming bronze. Sif raised the sword in salute. After a moment, she heard other blades drawn and turned to see dozens of Gylfi’s men repeating the gesture.

At last, she let the sword fall to her side.

Long after the ship had vanished into the night, the crowd stood there, watching. Someone drifted to her side, and Sif spared a glance to find Heithr, his daughter. The old woman drew Sif into an embrace and held her tight.

Sif shuddered. “What happened?”

Heithr held her at arms length, eyes red and swollen. As a young girl, Sif had thought Heithr the very picture of womanly grace. But age had taken its toll on her, and she had lived longer than most any other mortal woman. “He fell to varulfur while visiting Siggeir Wolfsblood in Skane.”

Sif groaned. “Better than dying in his bed.”

That drew a frown from Heithr. “So skalds say, yes, but we might have had him a good many more winters had he not so feared such an end.”

Sif bit her lip a moment. Did Heithr blame Odin then, for reinforcing the belief in Valhalla? When pressed, Thor admitted he did not know what his father might have seen in the Otherworlds. Odin shared little, and, Thor suspected, not all of what he did reveal was literal truth. But the belief of a glorious afterlife was all that mortal men had to cling to for comfort out in Midgard. She had to believe it true, whether Heithr missed her father or not. “You think it would have made any difference?”

“Perhaps not. None know the exact circumstances with which he fell, but some blame Wolfsblood.”

Which might mean war. Sviarland did not need more wars—recent years had seen it torn asunder again and again. Blood had washed over Upsal many times in recent years, but none of the other kingdoms remained untouched either. Sif shook her head. Odin had all but forbidden the Thunderers to become involved in such conflicts, and Thor had taken it to heart, focusing his efforts on jotunnar and other monsters of chaos.

Still, someone would have to make hard choices if war came to Dalar. Their new king, no doubt. “Is your son here?”

Heithr pointed to a rocky precipice above the beach, where Svarflami stood staring off into the mists that had taken his grandfather. Even as she looked, the man turned and trod back toward the king’s hall. Sif looked to Thor and the others, who had moved to follow the prince—or the new king, now.

With a last look out into the mist, Sif set out after them.

The feast Svarflami set in his grandfather’s honor dwarfed aught Sif had seen outside of Asgard itself. The hall was so thick with men and women from around the land—and beyond as it turned out some had come from Reidgotaland, Hunaland, even Kvenland—she could not move without brushing up against someone. Once, a man had used the close quarters to cup a hand over her arse cheek. Her elbow to his gut had sent him toppling to the floor and set all those nearby into fits of laughter, one raising a toast in her honor.

She had not the mood for honor though.

Instead, she settled down into a corner, watching Svarflami as he sat upon the throne. They had grown up together, him much her elder, and her—for a time—thinking him the incarnation of princely virtues and glory. It had not proved hard for him to entice her to his bed. Her first time, and despite the awkwardness and pain, she might have relished it. Had he not then moved on, no further interest in her.

“The World is changed now,” Thor said, settling down on the bench beside her.

Sif looked at him and tried not to smile too warmly. Do not become involved with princes. Some lessons a woman only had to learn once.

Or maybe Geri was right. Maybe here she was, still chasing after a prince. “My world is changed.”

“Not just you.” Thor offered her a drinking horn. “Gylfi was the start of a new age of the World. Father used him to spread our fame, and with his passing, things change. Gylfi too will become legend one day. And still, I don’t even know what Father truly desires from Midgard. No one seems to, nor does he show himself much these days.”

Sif drank deep, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “They all grow old. Even the new king already seems to be approaching his twilight years. Another decade, perhaps, and he will grow gray. Life is short for mortals out in Midgard.”

Thor rubbed his beard, favoring her with a scowl. “And what? What would you have me do about that? Perhaps I ought to grow another World Tree beside my hall, that we’d have more apples to share with anyone who crosses our paths.” He rose and shoved his way past the gathered crowd.

Sif frowned after him. What the fuck was that all about? Had he thought she was complaining about not all the Thunderers getting apples? Or about Gylfi?

She rose, winding her way after the prince. Whatever he was on about, she wasn’t going to let him talk to her like that. Yes, he was the son of the king and her leader, but still, she was the daughter of two respected members of the court of Asgard and no less than any other …

Thor had paused before a long-bearded, long-haired man with a pair of swords strapped over his shoulders. So many years had passed since she had last seen him, it took her several breaths to recognize Starkad Eightarms. Eightarms glared at Thor, saying naught in greeting.

“So then,” Thor said. “Should you not bow before your prince, son of Tyr?”

Eightarms glanced around, as if concerned someone might have been listening, then shook his head. “I claim no kinship to any of you or yours.”

Thor snorted. “I wouldn’t want to admit if I had jotunn blood either.”

Oh. Well fuck.

Eightarm’s fist caught Thor in the jaw. Despite the prince’s strength and resilience, Eightarms was faster. Really, really fast. His other fist took Thor in the ribs, and the first came in again with such speed it seemed he had another hand. Thor fell back before the rain of lightning-fast blows.

At once, men pushed harder against each other, clearing a ring and shouting encouragement at the two combatants. Roaring, Thor swung back, the force of it feeling like a gust of wind. Eightarms didn’t bother trying to block Thor’s blow, instead evading it, and another swing, and another, all while continuing to land blows over Thor’s face and ribs.

“Bastard is slippery as an eel,” Itreksjod said beside her. “Makes killing into an art. Like me with lovemaking. In case you were wondering.”

Sif flinched. Her hands itched to interfere, but doing so would shame Thor far worse than getting pummeled by the most famed warrior in the North Realms. Eightarms swung again. This time, Thor caught the blow on his arm, moving faster than most men could dream, nigh to as fast as Eightarms. He bodily flung the other man into the air, tossing him crashing down on a table.

Thor stomped over as Eightarms groaned, trying to rise. The prince grabbed the man by his tunic and slid him across the table, scattering or breaking every plate and offering of food for ten feet, until Eightarms toppled off the far side.

Grumbling, Thor jumped up onto the table and trod over. Before the prince reached the other man, Geri and Freki had appeared, hefting up Eightarms and warding off Thor.

“Odin would not like this,” Freki warned.

Eightarms shook free of the twins. For a moment, his hands twitched like he debated going for a weapon. If he did so, someone would die. Much as she believed in Thor, and even though the prince had had an apple, still, Sif had to doubt which of them would come out ahead if the mercenary drew those famed blades.

“Not a good sign,” Itreksjod said. And his hand was clasping his sword hilt as well.

Eightarms did not draw, however, letting his hands fall. “I came here to pay respects to a fallen king. Not to squabble with you, Odinson.”

Thor shrugged. “Should you reconsider … I would relish a duel between us.”

Sif released a pent-up breath and glanced at Itreksjod.

The man did the same, sighing. “Well. I need to release some tension. How about you?”

“No.” She pushed past him.

“I was just offering you a drink,” he called.

She didn’t look back at him. “No you weren’t.”

Thor was like to be even poorer company than before, and she did not have much left to say to him just yet. At such times, she preferred to be alone. In this court, she had had a place just for herself, down by the lake.

Sighing, she left the hall.

The lake was as she remembered it, frozen this time of year and encircled by the forest. This little bank of it, secluded by rocks one had to scale to reach the edge, had become her private refuge in her years away from Asgard. In Dalar, Sif had mastered the bow and the spear, sword and shield, and all manner of other skills. The one answer she had never found though, was why Odin had sent her here. It had become a home, yes, but he had never spoken to her nor given her any mission.

The king had merely come to her father, Hermod, Odin’s trusted friend, and asked that he foster her with Gylfi. Nestled against the rocks, she bit her lip and stared out into the mist. The flames of her torch ought to keep the Mist-madness at bay. Once, after Svarflami took her virginity then rejected her, she had spent the night out here, craving solitude and fearing everyone at court would know her shame to just look upon her.

Odin had thought much of Gylfi, had respected and needed him, and yet he had not provided the king with an apple. The Ás king forbade anyone to share an apple with outsiders, insisting on rules that limited access to immortality. Maybe it all stemmed from his fear of running out, but then, her father had once claimed the same fears once drove the Vanir into the isolation and abandonment of Midgard. The very crime for which Odin had cast them down.

Sif rubbed her knees and sighed.

A shadow descended over her, and Geri dropped down from above, landing in a crouch. The varulf had moved with such silence Sif had not even had time to grab her sword.

The girl looked at her now. “Were I a draug …”

“Then I would have heard you.”

“Perhaps. But the dead do not lose such skills as they had in life.”

Sif pursed her lips. “Would it surprise you to learn, when I left the party and wandered out into the woods I did not seek companionship?”

Geri shifted to sit beside her. “A woman needs her pack.”

Sif chuckled. “It’s not called a pack when we’re not all wolves.”

“Sure it is.” The varulf leaned in, wrapping an arm around Sif. Somehow, the other woman always managed to stay warm. Her supernatural gifts, Sif supposed, though the wolf-skin cloak probably helped.

“Thor has commanded we will return to Asgard soon,” Geri said.

Off seeking another challenge? Sif frowned, shaking her head. Thor just wanted to see where else reports of danger came from. For her sake, he had raced here, crossing several lands, that she might witness the funeral of her foster father. And that duty completed, he planned to rush off to battle once again.

Never pausing. Never seeing what lay already before him.

Sif wanted to say such things to Geri, but the words would not come. They never did.

8

For the better part of three decades, Gylfi had served as Odin’s voice in Sviarland—in all the North Realms, in truth. And now, thanks to Odin, the old sorcerer king was dead. Odin’s other unwitting disciples had ripped him to shreds in Skane in an attempt to ignite yet another war in Sviarland. Wars destroyed some men, but others they forged into weapons. Odin needed weapons, after all, if he was to win Ragnarok.

Disguised as the servant Thuth, Odin passed among the guests at the funeral, sipping the mead and trying not to fall into despondency over his actions. Were he to allow himself to do so, to wallow in regret, it would only cheapen the sacrifice he had forced upon his vassal king. Gylfi’s death—following an unnaturally long life—served the greater purpose of guiding Sigmund toward his own destiny. Siggeir Wolfsblood himself mattered very little in the grand scheme, but Sigmund needed to become one of those weapons Odin could wield, and to reach that point, he had to achieve his vengeance.

All of it was necessary, and yet, even the sweetest mead tasted bitter this night. Such were the draughts of traitors. Men and women here gossiped in shock that Odin and the Aesir would let their favored king fall. Others predicted grim retribution soon to fall upon those who defied the will of Asgard. Ironic, really, that Gylfi’s death had been as much a part of that will as the vengeance that would follow.

Freki nodded at him, saying naught. His varulf children could smell him through the glamour and know him, yes, but they never revealed him. They understood his need for secrecy, even from Thor, much less from the mortals. His plans required a lighter touch than simply appearing and demanding all follow his orders, not least because doing so would reveal his plans to his enemies. The Niflungar were always watching, and, no doubt, so too was Hel.

Odin passed between other servants, unnoticed, and drifted then toward Starkad. The warrior had fought with Thor—again—but such things offered little enough harm. Starkad, like Gylfi, served Odin’s interests across Midgard, and he too suffered for this. At Tyr’s behest, Odin had worked dark sorcery to extend his son’s life—for Odin would not offer an apple to a man who refused to bow to Asgard—but there was a price for it, even as Gylfi had paid a similar price.

All did, Odin supposed. The Niflungar, too, squandered their own humanity in desperate attempts to shed their mortality. Even the Vanir and the Aesir seemed changed by immortality. Perhaps one could not move past mortality without losing some semblance of humanity.

And now Odin once again let himself fall into morose reveries, as if the nature of humanity offered some import to the circumstances at hand. No, Odin would not have missed this funeral for his once-beloved disciple nor the chance to commiserate with the bereaved, but that was not the sole reason for his presence here.

For nine years he had waited, biding his time until the high seat Volund crafted drew nigh to completion. Before that happened, he needed two final components. The blood of Kvasir he would have to acquire on his own despite Loki’s misgivings. The other, Thor would serve for, Odin dared to hope.

From the shadows among servants and slaves, Odin watched his son, his brooding already replaced by a boisterous drunkenness. Odin’s ancestors knew how much he loved his son, but the man lacked subtly or cunning. He was, in his way, only one more weapon—a mighty one, but one barely in control of his own actions. And thus, long had Odin wrestled with the question of whether to rely on him. Still, the man wielded Mjölnir with fervor and power not even Odin could have matched, and it made him ideal for slaying jotunnar.

“What do you wish?” Freki asked from behind him.

Odin suppressed a shudder. Few could sneak up on him. He did not turn as he answered. “I will speak to him directly … in the morning when he has sobered.”

“Hmm. So.” Freki cleared his throat. “Did you do this?”

Odin stiffened, still keeping his eyes on Thor, as much because he could not bring himself to meet Freki’s gaze as for any other reason. “Why do you think I would act thusly?”

“A feeling. Your other pet varulfur are here, watching. They smell guilty.”

“Stay away from Sigmund,” Odin snapped. “I cannot allow aught to interfere with his destiny.”

“Aught save yourself? If Sif even suspected the truth—”

“Then see to it she remains ignorant.”

Freki didn’t answer. When Odin finally looked back, the varulf had already slipped off into the crowd. Odin cursed under his breath. The twins were both overfond of the girl, but he had to trust their first loyalty remained to him. The last thing he needed was Sif, enraged, coming after Sigmund or otherwise disrupting Odin’s carefully laid plans.

That, if naught else, made sending Thor and his people on their way all the more important.

9

They had taken a long road to Dalar. Other men went by dogsled, but dogs could sometimes sense varulfur, and Sigmund could not afford to take such a risk. Thus, they had run as wolves themselves, stealing clothes when they entered the kingdom. Dalar was one of the strongest of the seven petty kingdoms of Sviarland, second only to mighty Upsal. But where Upsal had been torn asunder by political turmoil and the recurring assassination and usurping of the throne, Dalar had represented a pillar of stability in all the land. Gylfi had ruled fairly and—more importantly—without interruption for longer than most men could remember.

And for his funeral, men had come from the farthest reaches of Midgard. Some claimed that even mighty Thor drank inside the hall. Part of Sigmund wanted to peek inside, to try to catch a glimpse of Odinson, and yet, he could not afford such a risk. In the open, someone might recognize him as the son of Volsung, even after all these years. He did not want Wolfsblood to know he yet lived—not until the moment he was ready to strike the man down.

Instead, Sigmund drifted among the outskirts, watched the great fires rise, and kept to darkness. In truth, it had been long since he’d been around so many men at once, and he preferred his solitude.

Run.

The wolf needed to run and be free.

And kill.

The familiar scent announced Fitela’s presence, even over the congesting smoke of so many fires. The young man drifted closer, until he could whisper in Sigmund’s ear. “King Olof will meet with you.”

Sigmund nodded. Good. He motioned for Fitela to lead the way, then followed the boy back to the far side of the town. The men from Njarar had opted not to stay within the Dalar hall, rather claiming shelter with a lesser jarl for this ceremony. Perhaps Gylfi’s old hall lacked accommodation for so many well-wishers. Either way, it worked in Sigmund’s favor since it allowed him far more privacy with the new king of Njarar.

The jarl’s hall was thick with smoke and sweat and strong mead, the mingled scents almost enough to overwhelm Sigmund’s lupine senses. Men were eating, boasting, a pair wrestling. In the back, his varulf ears heard someone fucking. Gods, too many people in one place. Sigmund grimaced, trying to focus on King Olof Sharpsighted, who sat with his wife off to one side.

Fitela led him toward the king in a roundabout route, drifting around the hall without obvious purpose and pausing to exchange a few words or accept the drinking horn or share in the boasting.

Sigmund’s nephew had retained a knack for such events Sigmund himself seemed to have lost.

At last they settled down beside the king, who looked Sigmund over a long moment. “I saw you once,” he said at last. “Young and prideful and nigh to unstoppable with that runeblade in your hand.” Olof cleared his throat. “Before I was king, of course, in the days when I fought as a mercenary.”

Sigmund grunted. Well enough, if the man recognized him it solved the issue of proving his first claim. “I long for the days fighting beside my father. Such days were taken from me.”

Olof beckoned to a servant who brought over a plate of steaming boar. The king picked at it before waving for Sigmund and Fitela to do the same. “The tale reached us, of course, of Volsung’s death. A great many tales, I should say, different versions to explain why Wolfsblood would turn on his own in-laws. But none of the Volsungs lived, or so we all thought, and thus the king’s claims were accepted. And now I come to learn you have been here all along. Why did you not come to seek an ally sooner?”

Sigmund pulled at the greasy meat, tore off a great hunk, and took a bite before answering. “Who was I to trust after one king of Sviarland had so misused myself and my kin?”

“Gylfi, perhaps, for one,” Olof said. “A man of honor, respected by all the kings in Sviarland.”

“And murdered by varulfur,” Fitela said.

Sigmund bit his tongue. The words were true enough, though Fitela left out that he and Sigmund were the damned varulfur guilty of that crime. Now they became liars as well as murderers.

“So I have heard.”

“And then?” Fitela asked. “What of Wolfsblood’s claims to have suppressed all varulfur in his lands? Clearly he has lied about it. Either those varulfur serve him, or he knew of them and claimed to have made his roads safe anyway. Either way, a man could place blame for Gylfi’s death at his feet.”

“Indeed.” Olof let the remaining pork fall from his hand then wiped his fingers on his trousers. “One could blame him. Is that why you are here? To finally seek redress for crimes done long ago?”

“Now we know what Wolfsblood thinks even of his own fellow kings of Sviarland,” Fitela said. “How many kings have died in recent years? The wars and murders … your own predecessor met a violent end, did he not?”

Olof shrugged. “The son of Nidud reaped a fitting reward for his family’s crimes.”

“So should Siggeir Wolfsblood,” Sigmund said.

“Gylfi was favored by Odin,” Olof’s wife added. “Surely his death, unavenged, will anger the gods.”

“What would you have me do? March all the way to Wolfsblood’s hall? A prolonged war would leave Njarar at risk itself. My kingdom is not so strong as others.”

Sigmund shook his head. No. No, having Olof Sharpsighted kill Wolfsblood was not enough. Vengeance was his to claim. “You need not besiege his very hall. Simply lead a large raid into his lands. It will force him to send many of his men to confront you.”

“To what end?”

“Do you not raid in summer regardless? Instead of sailing to Kvenland or Reidgotaland or anywhere else, prey on those close to home. And while Wolfsblood’s forces engage your own, he will have fewer men at his hall. So when I go to face him, he will have no one to hide behind.”

Olof snorted. “The two of you? And if he refuses you your challenge? This plan is like to end in both of you dead—but at least we will hear one last tale of Volsung valor.”

“Then you agree?” Sigmund asked.

“Yes …” Olof leaned back in his chair. “So be it. Come summer, every able man who serves me shall raid into Skane. The rest falls on your shoulders, prince.”

Sigmund pushed away from the table and rose. “No one else must know I live—not yet.” When Olof nodded, Sigmund beckoned Fitela to follow him from the hall.

They had preparations to make. Besides which, he was already more than sick of the stench of humanity and the push of people so close together. He could not leave this place too soon.

10

Sixteen Years Ago

Barnstokkr’s branches scraped the roof of the Volsung hall in Xanten—of Father’s hall, really, for he had become a legend throughout the North Realms. Sigmund supposed that was why Siggeir Wolfsblood had come calling during this feast. One of the Seven Kings of Sviarland, Wolfsblood had earned his fame by overcoming a pack of a varulfur, or so the story told.

Wolfsblood sat at Father’s table now, his great host seated at the lesser tables, all toasting and feasting, most drunk. With summer came the time for raids and war-making yes, but peacemaking also, and Wolfsblood claimed to come in peace. Sigmund, for his part, leaned forward and watched the foreign king, saying little, though his brothers certainly joined in the ruckus. Their line was a testament to Father’s virility—Sigmund’s nine younger brothers and, of course, his twin Sieglinde, who like him, watched the celebration without comment as she refilled the mead.

A great many others had come this moon, nobles from around Hunaland all eager to see where the great Volsung would turn his eye this summer. In offering to join his raids, many of those nobles were subtly trying to keep from becoming the targets. Sigmund heard the rumors, of course, that one day Father would rule all of Hunaland.

Some claimed Odin and the new gods favored Father, though he never said aught about the Aesir. Others even argued the god himself had been the one to drive the runeblade into Barnstokkr as a sign of his support for their line. In truth, it mattered little. If the people thought Father blessed by the gods, it was enough to earn their loyalty. And the sword yet stuck there, a silent reminder of the power in this hall.

Wolfsblood banged his empty drinking horn against the table and stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “King Volsung. I travelled far on the stories of your daughter’s beauty, and I find I am not disappointed.”

Father inclined his head, then glanced at Sieglinde. Sigmund’s twin sister stepped back into the shadows, feigning demureness, though Sigmund doubted anyone else recognized it as feigned. He did, after all, know her best.

“So then,” Wolfsblood said. “I would ask you for her hand in marriage and make a worthy alliance between our two Realms.”

A few of Sigmund’s brothers whooped, banging on the table. Sigmund did not.

Father inclined his head once again. “What say you, Sieglinde?”

Sigmund’s twin sister glanced up just long enough to reveal the daggers in her eyes. “As in all things, Father, you must do what you think best.”

Sigmund sighed. Loyal even to a fault. He saw naught wrong with Wolfsblood, of course, and the man would make a fine ally. Still, he could hardly wish unhappiness on his sister, and Skane was far across the Morimarusa.

Father, however, didn’t see it. He clapped his hands together. “Then come, let us discuss the terms of our arrangement.” He beckoned Wolfsblood over and, the two kings began arguing over the worth of Sieglinde.

Sigmund rose and searched the hall for his sister, finding her at last helping herself to a long enough swig of mead to make a shield-maiden proud. “You do not approve?” he asked.

“It’s not for me to say.” She covered a burp then took another swig.

Sigmund snorted. “He is wealthy, well respected, and famed across the North Realms. Even if not as much as Father, still.”

“Wealthy and famous. What more could a woman want?”

“Indeed!” He clapped her on the arm. “Indeed, I’m glad you see that. Come now, let us have some food.”

Sieglinde rolled her eyes for no apparent reason, but she did follow him back to the table and accept her share of elk. Clearly she was not yet well pleased, but perhaps every girl felt so before her wedding. She would come around.

The feasting went on for several days, stretched now to accommodate the wedding. Siggeir Wolfsblood had brought with him chests of silver and trinkets of gold some claimed wrought by Volund himself in Njarar, in decades past. All fine prizes, and more than Father could have hoped to ask for.

And maybe that was why Father did not seem to notice the way Sieglinde emerged from her bedding, unsteady on her feet, eyes red and swollen. Sigmund, however, could recognize the signs of a woman used harshly. Those caught during raids oft looked thus the first time Father’s men finished with them.

Sigmund drummed his fingers upon the table. Some men were like that, he knew. Maybe the man had hurt her on purpose; maybe he’d just been too fervent in his attentions. Either way, he was a bastard. But any word Sigmund might utter risked shaming Father and Sieglinde both. Still, part of him wished to call out Wolfsblood. At fifteen winters, Sigmund was well past the age of manhood and had a right to challenge anyone he saw fit. But … but if he did so, no one here would thank him. Least of all Sieglinde, more like than not. That she said naught herself meant she did not want attention drawn to it.

Instead, Sigmund sat in silence, glowering at their guests. Perhaps his twin had even had a foreboding of her husband’s appetites. Perhaps that was why she had not wished this. And it was now far too late to renege on their agreement. The marriage was sealed with the bedding.

And so Sigmund sat in simmering rage, willing Wolfsblood to burst into flame. The king did no such thing, boasting and laughing and drinking up Volsung hospitality.

One of Wolfsblood’s thegns was trying to loose Gramr from the tree trunk. As expected, he failed, giving up with a huff and spew of spittle.

“What is this?” Wolfsblood demanded.

Vern laughed. One of the triplets, Sigmund’s next oldest siblings, Vern was a man himself, as he loved to remind others. “An old wizard left that there for the most worthy warrior in the North Realms. No finer blade exists, but no one has ever drawn it. Nor will they. Men come to try every summer.”

Wolfsblood chortled. “Truly?” He strode to the sword. “We shall see.” He wrapped both of his meaty fists around the bone hilt and heaved. His muscles twitched. A vein began to pop on his head.

Sigmund folded his arms, not bothering to hide his smug smile. At least he’d get to watch Wolfsblood fail at something this day.

As expected, Wolfsblood flung up his arms and spat. “It is true then. None may claim this blade.” And there he was, huffing, chest heaving, and glaring at the sword as if it had personally offended him.

“Won’t you try, brother?” Sieglinde asked.

Sigmund started, not having heard her approach. She covered any shame or discomfort she felt well enough now, though it lurked deep in her eyes.

“Would it please you?” Sigmund asked.

She inclined her head, so he sighed and strode over to the tree. He gripped the bone hilt. It was smooth and cool and comfortable enough. For his sister’s sake, he wished he could free the damn blade and shame her husband. So, one good heave and—

Sigmund stumbled backward as the runeblade jerked free of the trunk, tearing out a shower of splinters in the process.

The entire hall fell silent. Father rose from his throne.

Sigmund knew his mouth hung agape but could not close it as he turned to his father.

“The spell is broken,” Father said. “For the most worthy warrior has come to claim the sword.”

Men cheered, Sigmund’s brothers most of all.

“Fucking Sigmund,” Vern said. Then his brother laughed. “Always have to be first at everything.”

“Well done,” Wolfsblood said. “A worthy feat.” The Sviarlander king drew nigh, staring down at the runes engraved along the length of the blade. “Very worthy …” Wolfsblood leered at the blade like he might a woman, so much that Sigmund wanted to jerked it away from him—or thrust it into his gut. “And what price would you ask for such a weapon?”

“Price?” Sigmund glanced at the blade in his hand. The blade that was like a part of his hand, in truth. For it was his. It had always been his, waiting for him. This he knew, from the moment he held it.

“I will give you three times its weight in gold for this blade, and a more generous offer you will never hear.”

Sigmund looked to Sieglinde where she stood stiffly, eyes hard and still tinged red. He turned back to Wolfsblood with a sneer. “Were the sword meant for you, you could have claimed it from the tree where it stood. Now you shall never hold it, not for all the gold in your kingdom.”

The Sviarlander king snorted, then waved it off as if of no consequence.

After a last look, he sauntered back over to his seat. “More mead!” he snapped at Sieglinde.

Sigmund, though, could not take his eyes off of Gramr. It glittered in the light of the brazier, promising him great battles and glories beyond his dreams. It was his.

The morning was clear and the seas calm, and thus, Siggeir Wolfsblood had claimed it a good day to sail back to Sviarland. Father made a small attempt to persuade the man to stay longer but clearly had no intention of compelling one who wished to be gone. Nor would Sigmund regret the bastard’s leaving, save that it meant losing Sieglinde.

She came now to call upon them in the hall while others helped make ready for the journey. With the runeblade slung over his shoulder, Sigmund watched the scene, reclining against Barnstokkr.

“I … I have a foreboding of misery for us all, Father,” Sieglinde said. His sister wrung her hands before her abdomen, looking from Father to Mother and back again. Was she still in pain? Sigmund ought to ram Gramr right up Wolfsblood’s arse and see if he could walk straight. “I do not wish to go with him. We have made a mistake—please, dissolve this marriage contract and free me. I beg you.”

Father glanced at Mother, who nodded. He, however, shook his head, his face growing dark. “You cannot say such things, daughter. Breaking the contract would shame both us and him and surely make an enemy of Skane. We cannot afford such a foe now while we work to unite Hunaland. We must hold this contract.”

Sigmund narrowed his eyes. Father, for all his glory, never quite seemed to understand his own daughter. Sigmund was never certain whether her so-called forebodings were more than her own fancy or not, but neither could he stand to see his sister so distressed.

“Think of your child,” Mother said. “You cannot understand what it is for a woman to be forced to—”

“I am thinking of all my people and all my children! We cannot become known as false in our dealings with other kings! Not without a just cause. If Sieglinde did not wish to marry, she should have spoken so before the wedding.”

Sigmund rose. It was not his place to speak, but if he did naught now, he would regret it almost as much as Sieglinde. “Father. She was trying to honor you and your wishes, as ever.”

The king sighed. “And now she must continue to do so. No other course lays before us.”

At that, Sigmund’s twin bowed. Always willing to submit, to do well by her family. Sigmund’s mouth tasted bitter. He’d have spit right in the hall, would it not have dishonored his father. Even so, he was tempted.

Wolfsblood stood aboard his longship, Sigmund’s sister behind him.

Arms folded across his chest, Sigmund watched as the man bid them all farewell. It sat ill with him, but Father did speak the truth. For Sieglinde to back out of the marriage now would almost certainly lead to war, or worse, to Wolfsblood siding with their enemies against them.

“Well then, we leave with the tide,” Wolfsblood said. “But King Volsung, you and your kin must come to call upon us soon, before the summer is out. Say in three moons?”

Father cocked his head. “Come to Sviarland?”

“We would love to,” Sigmund said. After all, it would ensure he could check in on Sieglinde. If that bastard was not treating her better by then, maybe war would be called for.

Father raised an eyebrow at Sigmund’s presumption, but he did nod. “Very well, King Siggeir. Expect us in three moons.”

“I will look for you.” With that, the man turned away and began to order his men to cast off the lines.

Sigmund continued to watch. It would be a long three moons, waiting and wondering how his sister fared in the foreign land. A long three moons indeed.

11

The wars in Sviarland never ended, and, though Thor refused to get directly involved in them, following Gylfi’s death, things could only grow darker here. Almost, Sif wanted to beg him to avenge Gylfi, though she knew what he’d say.

“I’ve had a thought,” the prince said, poking at a fire. They all sat beyond Svarflami’s town, a half-day’s trek toward the sea behind them.

“Very impressive,” Itreksjod said. “I shall inform the skalds so that they may record this day in the tales.”

Sif decided it best to keep her eyes on the flames.

Thor scowled at Itreksjod a moment. The man always knew just how far he could push the prince—or at least, almost always. Thor’s fist had explained to the man’s jaw when he’d gone beyond that point, once or twice. “Suppose we push into Miklagard and lay siege on Kaunos? Stories claim the South Realmers rebuilt it twice as strong as in years past. Imagine the plunder hidden behind thick walls.”

Sif looked up now. “What have we to gain from killing mortals or stealing their treasures?”

Thor shrugged. “What have we to lose?”

“You appointed yourself the guardian of Mankind,” Sif said. “Would you now turn on them?”

“Guardian of those who follow us …” Thor said, though without a hint of his usual zeal behind his words.

“We could find glory,” Meili said. “Miklagard is no ally to us, though perhaps there is more glory against Serkland.”

Hildolf scratched his head. “Why?”

No one bothered to explain to the man that they were actually at war with Serkland.

“You’re just bored,” Freki said to Thor. “But boredom is like to be fleeting under the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Sif asked.

The varulf jerked his head toward the shadows beyond the campfire, from which issued a dry chuckle that sent every member of the Thunderers—save Geri and Freki—leaping to their feet and snatching up weapons.

A figure drifted in, an old man leaning heavily on a spear, his face concealed by his wide-brimmed hat. But Sif knew that silhouette and fell to one knee before the king, planting her sword back into the dirt.

Odin patted Freki on the shoulder and waved the rest of them to resume their seats. He settled down before their fire, dropping a heavy satchel beside him.

“Father?” Thor said. “I did not think to find you here.”

With that hat, Sif still couldn’t see aught of the king’s face, making it impossible to read him, though his shoulders looked stooped and weary. “Be that as it may, I looked to find you here and was not disappointed.”

“Oh.” Thor scratched his beard. “You bring word from Asgard? From mother?”

“I bring word from Bjarmaland. There a greater winter spreads, crusting over the Realm and locking it in a fell embrace.”

“We heard tale,” Freki said, “of a winter witch here in Sviarland, though we have not yet found sign of her. We were discussing heading east instead.”

Odin grumbled something under his breath, then shook his head. “We have greater concerns than witches at present, Freki. The winter follows on the heels of the frost jotunnar. Have you not noticed where once they seemed tales of fancy, now their numbers in Midgard increase? Much of Bjarmaland has already fallen under their sway, swept up by one self-proclaimed jotunn king or another. Men become their slaves, or worse, their food.”

Thor slapped his knee. “That sounds a worthy challenge, indeed. But you had previously warned us not to cross beyond Aujum or Kvenland. Now you would have us hunt down the jotunnar plaguing the very edge of Midgard?”

Odin lifted his head enough to fix Thor with a level gaze that set the big man squirming in silence. After several moments of this, Odin lowered his head once again. “Did you ever stop to wonder why so many of these devourers have now appeared in Midgard? Did any of you, as you flit about hunting monsters, ever question where they had come from?”

From Utgard, of course, though Sif found herself disinclined to speak up in Odin’s presence. Something Otherworldly pervaded around him—this was the closest she had been to the king since he’d had her sent to Gylfi—something that had grown stronger over the years.

Thor shrugged. “Why should we care where trolls or jotunnar or other spawn of chaos hail from? I send them all screaming down to Hel.”

“They come from Hel,” Hildolf added.

Freki snorted. “They don’t come from her. Thor means we send them to her.”

“The Midgard Wall,” Geri said, ignoring them.

“Indeed,” Odin said, “and I’m glad to see at least one of my children places some value on wisdom. The wall is breached, possibly in several places. The works of the ancient Vanir slowly come undone, either by the passage of time, or by the influence of another force. And we lack both the Art and the willingness to pay the price to reconstruct what the Mad Vanr made.”

“Mad Vanr?” Sif mouthed to Geri. The varulf girl just shook her head.

“So?” Thor asked.

“So we must find an alternative means of repairing the wall. But as the wall is massive beyond measure, so too it needs a craftsman of substantial stature to work on it.”

“I’m big,” Hildolf added. “More than six feet tall.”

“With the cunning to match,” Itreksjod added.

“You mean a jotunn,” Sif said, then clamped her mouth shut, realizing she had just addressed the king. The last time he’d paid her any mind, she’d been a tiny girl. Yet he had taken some interest in her urd. What would he make of her now? Would he recognize her?

“Yes,” Odin said. “Among their number, not all are hostile to us—most are driven by mere ambition, greed, or lust. And some of those can be bargained with, offered something in exchange for work. One famed for his craft, Vörnir, you might find and convince to repair the wall.”

Well damn, but there was no holding silent on that. “You would have us trust this Vörnir with our lives and the urd of all Mankind? Surely no jotunn is worthy of such faith.”

Thor huffed. “My name is known to these jotunnar by now, as is the name of Mjölnir. Even Vörnir will know better than to cross me, and, if he does, I’ll enjoy smiting him.”

And … fuck. Sif sighed and shook her head.

Odin raised a finger. “Careful of pride, boy. It carries with it a hefty price over time.”

Thor grunted, clearly uninterested. Sif had to hope Odin’s point would not come to him in pain, in the future.

“Go to Vörnir’s court in Bjarmaland. Bargain with him and get him to repair the wall however you must. Gold, silver, slaves—whatever he requires, Asgard will deliver. Succeed in this, son, and all Midgard will be safer for it.”

“Fail and we will be a little less safe,” Itreksjod said, earning glares from Odin and Thor both. The man shrunk down to about half his size under their ire, averting his gaze.

Thor cleared his throat, then patted Mjölnir by his side. “I will not fail, Father.”

Sif wished she shared his confidence.

12

How long had it been since Odin had last walked on Asgard? Five years, at the least. Or was it six? He shook his head as he walked the streets. Always it changed, growing, expanding. His people constantly stripped more and more of the historic, natural beauty of Vanaheim away—as he had ordered them to do in his grief. The thought drew a sigh from him, though he knew such things to be trivial in the long view. All that mattered was the mission.

Thor and his Thunderers would serve well enough to achieve the first half, but Odin needed more information to truly undertake the latter portion. Always, always seeking more knowledge—it seemed his true urd.

In a grove, children played at soldier, dashing about and beating each other with wooden swords and blunted spears. A large boy cracked another on the skull, drawing a wince from Odin. In some other lifetime, he and his brothers had trained thus. If he was clever, the younger boy would learn a lesson from this. All pain could be a lesson … which might soon make Odin very wise indeed.

The more sacrifices he made, the more he learned. Urd was cruel, after all.

He needed look no further than the hall atop the mountain in order to believe that. There waited the man whom Odin had loved as a brother—once. Whom, in time, he would strangle, if the future could not be changed.

Loki liked the high places and thus had built his home on a precipice overlooking the sea. It was modest by the new standards of the Aesir. No towering edifices nor space to feast hundreds the way the other leaders favored. No, Loki and Sigyn had taken a small dwelling—with a few architectural flourishes that reminded Odin of swans decorating the roof—and lived plainly. Perhaps they understood something the other Aesir, still reveling in their new opulence, did not.

It was a long climb to the top, especially with his sore back, though his joints did not hurt so much on Asgard as they did out in Midgard. Perhaps the energy of Yggdrasil invigorated him, for he did not think his heart so much lighter here.

Outside the house itself, Loki knelt beside a stone-rimmed fire pit, chopping vegetables. He tossed bits of carrot and cabbage into a smoldering cauldron from which wafted the most savory aroma Odin had caught in long years.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

Loki shrugged. “I have lived a long time. Time enough to learn many skills.”

“How long, exactly?”

Loki had moved on to peeling some garlic. “I stopped tracking.” He tossed a few cloves in the pot. “Nor did you come here to ask me about that.” Now Loki finally looked up at him, over his shoulder. And his eyes pled with Odin, begging him to find a way to repair the shattered trust between them.

But how could such things ever be righted? Or was that not the real reason Odin had come up this mountain? For certain, he sought answers, but … No. Knowing what he knew now, he could not ever fully trust Loki again. And yet, if the man wished to be reconciled, maybe he would help. “I need to know about the blood of Kvasir. You always have insight into such things.”

Loki sighed. “Sigyn will return this evening, and I promised her a fine stew. The best stews simmer all day, of course. It takes time for the meat to absorb all the flavor from the spices and vegetables.” He beckoned for Odin to sit on the ground beside him. “I don’t imagine she would object were you to join us for the night meal.”

Odin frowned. Sigyn might not openly object, but somehow he doubted she would be pleased. They valued their privacy, after all—choosing to make their home away from all others. In any event, Loki had avoided the subject entirely. Still, Odin knelt beside his blood brother. “I cannot stay, as you well know.”

Loki nodded and moved to stir the cauldron.

Odin stroked his beard, waiting, but still Loki did not speak. So he would not relent. Damn it. “You brought me to Volund in an attempt to prove your loyalty, did you not?”

“You ask questions for which you know the answer all too well. Indeed, you of all people ought to know the burdens of prescience, and the weight the future demands of us.”

“I do. The future requires all we have and more and maybe our descendants alone know whether the results we achieve absolve us of what we do in its name. You have done much, I know. So why half measures now, brother? Tell me of the blood of Kvasir. Or if you do not, I will go from here and find what I seek elsewhere, and we will both know you refused me when I sought your aid.”

Loki turned again, then rose and stretched. “I am not refusing to aid you, brother. Sometimes the help we need most is not what we think we want.”

Odin groaned and pushed himself up as well. “I did not come here so you could decide what I need.”

Loki closed his eyes a moment, before fixing Odin with his gaze. “We who have tasted the fruit of Yggdrasil are not the only immortal beings wandering Midgard. Kvasir was one name for such a being, blessed or cursed with eternal life, if you could call it that. Now his disciples in Miklagard use the blood to sustain their own perverted existence in a world where life has grown very short for most. These are the rulers of the Miklagardian Empire—the Patriarchs and their god emperor.”

That drew a grumble from Odin. So Volund wanted him to steal the source of immortality from other gods. Odin could barely imagine his wrath if these Miklagardians came to Asgard to steal the apples of Yggdrasil. So what then would they do when he came to their city to do the same? Still, he had started down this path, and he would see it through.

“Where do they keep it?”

“I don’t know exactly.”

Odin nodded. “Fine. Thank you.”

And with that, he started off, back down the mountain.

Atop a neighboring peak stood Valaskjalf, the hall Odin shared with Frigg and the center of Asgard government. Here, Odin rested in his throne. In the morning, he’d go to Sessrumnir to search for any further details he could find on the Miklagardian immortals. Now, however, the court buzzed with his presence. For hours he had entertained petitions and requests, gifts, and amusements all brought before him.

At last, he raised a hand to forestall any further distractions. “That is all for today.” He rose from his seat, and Frigg rose after him, following him into chambers behind the thrones.

Gold plating decked the rafters, ensuring any who came here knew well the glory of its owners. Frigg’s tastes formed such a stark contrast to that of her sister and Loki that, coming from there, Odin could not help but frown at the ostentation he might have otherwise thought beautiful.

Odin lowered himself in a chair. “Wine!”

The Aesir had learned to follow the Vanir craft and, though naught they produced rivaled the Vanir brews, they got better every year.

A young woman scampered over, handed him a drinking horn, and filled it with a pitcher. The woman had auburn hair and legs barely concealed by her slit skirt. The way she winked at Odin left little doubt she would make herself available if he but hinted at such a desire. Considering his wife now sat across from him, he did not.

“Thank you, Sjöfn,” Frigg said, when the woman had filled her horn as well.

Odin downed the horn in a great gulp, then tossed it aside, relishing as Frigg cringed when it clattered against the wall. Of course, he had no reason to enjoy her discomfort. None of his cruel urd was her doing … and yet, he could not look upon her without guilt trying to devour his soul. Without a reminder that she was not, would never be, the woman he wanted. Even if she should have been.

She sipped her wine with too much grace before speaking. “You were gone long this time.” She did not complain, exactly. Nor chide him for not learning his lesson after all that happened before because of his long absences. She did not have to. “The discontent among the tribes seems to grow worse with each passing year.”

“There are no tribes anymore.”

She shook her head slowly. “Perhaps not officially. But saying a tradition is broken does not make it so, husband. Many among our people do not love you.”

Odin glowered. He did not need their love. Only obedience. In the end, they might well hate him. But if he could stop Ragnarok, they would owe him their very world. “More wine!”

Sjöfn rushed back and bent over to snatch up his horn, giving him an extended and no-doubt deliberate view of her arse. She returned then, refilled the horn, and drifted back into the shadows.

“Now that you are returned, you will have a great deal of work to do here,” Frigg said. “Relationships must be mended, trust repaired. The jarls—”

He raised a hand to object.

“The former jarls,” she said, “still form the pillars of our society. You need them, husband.”

“Coddle them if you must. I am not staying in any event.”

“You … you jest. You cannot plan to leave again so soon.”

Odin shrugged. “I must.”

Frigg drummed her fingers on the armrests. “You cannot simply ignore the problems in your kingdom, Odin. If you do not address the growing discontent here, you may one day return to find your people no longer your people.”

Odin stuck out the horn, and Sjöfn appeared as if from nowhere to fill it. This handmaid he liked. “I do not ignore my kingdom. My kingdom is all of Midgard, and I am needed elsewhere. The Vanir failed Mankind by hiding here, absorbed in their own society. I will not repeat their mistakes.”

“Instead you make all new ones.”

Odin glared at her as he downed the wine once again.

13

Eighteen Years Ago

Where once had stretched an endless paradise of green, now rose spires and halls, taller than aught the Aesir had ever built before. Somehow, in the long years Odin had spent away, Vanaheim had become Asgard in truth. Many such halls rang out with the sound of metal on metal and shouting and struggles as men and women trained, ever hoping to prove themselves worthy of the fleeting few apples.

Odin mumbled under his breath, plodding up the long path toward Sessrumnir, using Gungnir as a walking stick. True, he should have returned first to his own hall, laid his eyes upon his wife and his children. But Freyja’s hall called him, always, as if it might somehow lead him back into her presence. As if she was not gone now for over a decade.

Yggdrasil beckoned too, reminding him of a time—however brief—when he had known peace, contentment. When he and Freyja had made love inside a hollow within the great tree, and he had almost forgotten the terrible mission that had brought him to Vanaheim. Now Freyja was gone and Idunn too.

It always came back to those damned apples.

He paused and stretched his back. The apples gave him stamina, yes, and stopped him from aging further, but they did not obviate every symptom of his advanced age, nor restore his youth.

There is no going back …

Audr was correct, of course. There was only forward. And everyone wanted an apple of Yggdrasil. With Idunn gone, Odin had placed his cousin Annar in her position, trusting him to ensure no one approached the tree. Who deserved an apple … let Frigg muse on such questions.

The wraith offered far less commentary here in Asgard than out in the mists of Midgard. The sunlight drove it into a torpor, and this was the first it had spoken since Odin had returned. Odd to think how accustomed he had become to its voice in his mind.

With a sigh, Odin pushed on up the slope. He did not get far, however, before shuffling feet behind him drew his attention. A boy raced toward him, his shock of red hair the clearest sign of his identity—for Odin had not laid eyes upon his son in some time.

“Father!” the boy shouted from forty or fifty feet below.

Odin stood rigid, steeling himself against the imminent reunion.

Your own kin …

Bah! Odin loved Thor down to his very soul. His son, however, served as one more reminder that Odin’s heart did not lay with the boy’s mother. That, and a reminder that Odin had failed as a father, again and again, if for no other reason than his continued absences. Neither Thor nor Frigg could begin to fathom the burdens Odin bore, weighted down by his cryptic visions of a dire future. No one could, save perhaps Loki.

“Father!” Thor shouted again and threw his arms around Odin.

Odin embraced him back, knowing himself a fraud as he did so.

Thor drew away after but an instant, favoring him with as stern a gaze as a boy of—what thirteen winters?—could manage. Actually, thirteen winters meant Thor had already passed the age of manhood. And Hel take Odin for missing the day.

“You have been gone too long, Father.”

“I know.”

“And do you also know what has happened in your absence?”

Odin leaned on Gungnir, saying naught. He knew some of what transpired, as it came to him in blurred hints from the Sight, but he could not guess what Thor meant in specific.

“Well?” Thor demanded. “Do you know your wife is no longer your wife?”

Odin reeled. “Frigg has divorced me?” He had not seen that coming, though perhaps he ought to have.

“No. Your brother has claimed her as his own, saying you had been gone five winters.”

Odin stared slack-jawed at his son, not quite able to wrap his mind around what the boy was saying. Vili had stolen Frigg? For certain, the berserk had long lusted after his wife. Had she returned the feeling, Odin would not have much cared if they took comfort in one another. It was not like he had remained loyal to his wife … ever. But to openly contest Odin’s claim on the queen was much like contesting his claim on the throne of Asgard and thus Midgard. That thought drew a snort from him. He had not even wanted the throne until Idunn forced it upon him. But now he needed it, if he was to have any chance of guiding humanity through Ragnarok.

“Is this amusing to you?” Thor practically shouted.

“Not in the least. Trust that I will handle it.”

“Handle it! Slaves claim your brother took your wife on her own throne! Had I not heard of your return so soon after learning this I would have—”

“You will do naught, Thor! Go back to the hall, and await my return.”

Thor stood there a moment, fists clenched at his side—a mirror of the man Odin had once been, always rushing off after vengeance and honor. “It is true what they say then—you have lost your courage, and you care naught for your own wife.”

Odin glowered at his son. There was a time he’d have struck the boy for such words. Now he had only ice inside. Over time, it seemed to matter less and less what others thought of him. “Go home.”

Thor spat, then stormed off back down the mountain.

With a sigh, Odin slumped down on a rock and shook his head. His own brother had betrayed him. Could such a betrayal be forgiven? Vili had few enough brains—it would surprise no one to learn he thought with his cock. Still, Odin had lost one brother already. Vili and Ve were part of the legacy of Odin’s parents, and with them gone, Odin had to protect that legacy.

And yet, if Thor spoke the truth, Vili had forced himself upon Frigg, both sexually and as a husband. That, Odin could not let stand. If it proved true … damn him. What options would lie before Odin? He would not have his brother slain. So what then? Banished to the frontier, perhaps? Sent to fight against Serkland? Groaning, Odin pushed his palms against his eyes. Even banishment seemed a small punishment for Vili’s crime.

So then, he would have to take Frigg’s counsel and heed her wishes—aught short of Vili’s execution. Castration perhaps? Such things happened, in these kinds of cases. Stupid, Hel-cursed berserk. Why, why did he not think before he acted?

Damn it!

Odin sighed.

Well then. There was no sense delaying the inevitable. Odin rose, his back creaking as he did so.

Damn Vili.

“You are a bastard!” Thor shouted at Vili as Odin entered the hall.

The berserk chuckled where he reclined on the throne. “That’s your own grandparents you speak of, boy.”

Thor lunged forward, drawing an axe from beneath his cloak as he did so.

“Thor!” Odin shouted. Too late.

Vili moved with stunning speed for a man of his size. He caught Thor by the wrist and throat and drove him to the floor.

Odin raced forward. “Release him!”

Vili didn’t even look up. His bulk obscured any view of Thor, but the boy must be choking, dying.

“Brother!”

His son. His son. His son.

Hardly thinking, Odin flipped Gungnir around and hurled it.

Even as it left his fingers his heart clenched. His stomach lurched. He tried to snatch the shaft out of midair as if such a thing could be possible. The dragon spear soared with unnatural speed, punched through Vili’s back, and pinned him to the throne.

Odin faltered. A dream. A nightmare. He had not meant to …

Choking and gasping, Thor rose from the floor, to turn and stare blank-faced at Odin. Almost as ashen as Odin himself must have looked.

A tumult rose in the hall, jarls and thegns shouting. Cries going up of murder and kinslaying and of the lost king returning mad. Odin could not focus on their words.

“I told you I had that handled …” he said to Thor, or tried, though he felt he was choking on his own words.

The boy stood there, shaking, as if uncertain what to do next. As if dreaming.

Gungnir, the legacy of his father, had slain Ve. And it had slain Vili. Maybe that was Odin’s legacy—death.

All is death …

Odin wanted to retch but could not show such weakness before his people. Their eyes bored into him, watching and judging him. And now he must find Frigg.

He grabbed Thor by the back of his neck and dragged him away from the main hall.

14

Naught could be allowed to interfere with Sigmund’s vengeance. He would go to Wolfsblood’s hall and call out the king, force him to fight and die for his crimes. If Olof Sharpsighted remained true to his word—and Sigmund thought he would, given his reputation—Wolfsblood’s main force would be occupied come summer. Before that happened, all else needed to be in place.

Because Wolfsblood had other allies. Forces lurking in the marsh, hidden from sight, even as Sigmund and Fitela had become expert at hiding from them. And should this varulf pack somehow catch wind of their master’s distress and come to his aid, Sigmund’s battle might turn against him. That left but a single recourse—before summer arrived, the remaining varulfur must die.

Thus did he follow their trail, sniffing after them, beyond the marsh and into the solid ground of the wood. They roamed far, true, and Fitela had already caught a straggler separated from his brethren. The man had lived long enough to reveal the size of his pack—a mere six wolves remained. Six varulfur left in these woods, and Sigmund would be ready.

Hunt. Stalk. Kill.

The woods were not large enough for two packs.

The trail led down a steep hill and into a valley. Within that valley lay a cave where their prey no doubt slept away the daylight hours. Sigmund crouched above it, unable to make out much in the darkness within. The cave itself descended steeply into another hillside. Large rocks piled around the edge meant only one man at a time could slip inside. More importantly, it meant they could only escape one at a time as well.

And that led to an idea.

It was late evening the next day when Fitela returned, laden with a wine cask. Soon, the wolves would wake. Perhaps waiting another day would be prudent at this point, but every night they lingered so close to the wolves’ den increased their chance of discovery. Besides, Sigmund was tired of waiting. The wolf did not like waiting.

The last time he’d fought any of Wolfsblood’s pack he tried to offer them a fair fight. Instead, they stalked him in darkness, using stealth and trickery.

So this time he would not offer a fair fight.

Crouched low to the ground, the cask tucked awkwardly in his arms, he snuck close to the entrance. The steep slope would serve well for this. Sigmund glance at Fitela, and the boy nodded. So, here it was. His heart was pounding. So loud that varulf hearing might actually catch it, or at least it felt that way. Do it. Do it!

Hunt. Kill.

The wolf inside felt ready to burst from beneath his skin at the thought of it.

Sigmund popped open the cask and tipped it over, sending wine pouring down into the cave. Oil would have worked better, but wine would do. He rose and backed away.

Then Fitela tossed a torch into the wine.

Flames lit up along the path, spreading wildly down into the cave and lighting it like some perverse vision of Muspelheim. All ash and flame and horror.

Sigmund drew his sword while Fitela nocked an arrow to his bow.

The howls erupted an instant later. Wails of pain and fury and terror. A singed, naked man came stumbling out, flailing as he tried to climb free of the conflagration. Fitela’s arrow caught him dead between the eyes. The man pitched backward, knocking over another trying to escape.

A third man crawled over their burning bodies, coughing and slapping at flames ignited in his hair. Sigmund swung. The man tried to fall back but too slowly. The sword opened him from groin to shoulder, spilling his intestines over the ground. Not even a varulf would heal from that. Sigmund kicked the dying man, sending him sprawling back into the flames—and his pack.

Even as he did so, a naked woman leapt over all of them and collided with him. She slammed Sigmund onto the ground, and his sword clattered from his grasp. One of Fitela’s arrows sprouted from her shoulder. She batted it away, snapping off most of the shaft without slowing. Blows rained down on Sigmund’s face as the woman snarled and growled.

Again and again she punched him with blows powerful enough to leave his whole World blurry. Her fist cracked his nose. Everything went red.

She hefted him up by his throat. Lifted him off the ground with one hand, staring murderous daggers at him.

Breathless, Sigmund caught what remained of the arrow shaft in her shoulder, and he twisted as he yanked it loose.

Now she howled in pain and dropped him. Gasping, barely able to see, Sigmund thrust the arrowhead up into her belly. The woman doubled over in pain. Another arrow flew over her shoulder.

Sigmund couldn’t see who Fitela was shooting at. Didn’t matter right now. He had to trust his nephew.

Still fighting for breath, he snatched up his fallen sword and rose, swiping it across the woman’s face. The blade shattered skull and splattered brain and left her dead before she hit the ground.

Sigmund blinked, rubbing blood from his eyes with his forearm. Someone was crawling from the blaze, skin black as char, cracked, and bleeding. Hair all burnt away.

The half-dead varulf reached a hand toward Sigmund. The gesture seemed so weak he couldn’t be sure if it was meant as a plea for mercy or an accusation. The former, probably. His response would have been the same in either case. With an overhead chop, he cleaved down into the man’s skull.

“Are you injured?” Fitela asked, as Sigmund backed away from the carnage.

He shook himself. A broken nose at least. Maybe a broken jaw. Given his varulf nature, those would heal in a day. Two at the most.

He opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it as blinding pain sent him wobbling. Yes. Definitely broken. Instead, he shook his head, just a little. Breathing hurt too, between his nose and his mouth both being so damaged. And he wouldn’t be eating aught in the next day—which actually might slow his healing, gods damn it.

They waited until the fires had died out, and then Fitela went to check. “Six corpses,” he said on his return. “So we are done here?”

Yes.

Now they had only to wait for summer, and all would be settled. Sixteen years of suffering would finally be avenged.

15

Sixteen Years Ago

Three moons had passed more swiftly than Sigmund had expected, in large part thanks to the raids they made against Swabia in the south of Hunaland. Gramr proved an even greater boon than stories would have claimed. Without her, Sigmund had already been a master warrior able to engage several men at once. With the runeblade, he had no equal. She cut foes like the tide crashing against rocks, unstoppable as any force of nature.

Thus he was of good cheer as they sailed toward Sviarland, despite the thick mist and the overcast sky.

Skane was the southernmost of the petty kingdoms of Sviarland and therefore the most accessible from Hunaland. The voyage took but a few days, first skirting the islands of Reidgotaland, then breaking off for Sviarland.

“I think I see land!” Vern shouted from the bow.

Sigmund’s other brothers raced forward to watch as well. The youngest of the Volsung clan had remained behind with Mother in Hunaland, but five of Sigmund’s brothers made this voyage. For Carr and Colborn, it was their first time abroad at all. At ten and eleven winters, they were not yet men, but Father thought them close enough to visit an ally. Besides, they all wished to see their sister. For the first time in any of their lives, Sieglinde was not there when they came home to the Volsung hall, and that absence had become a hollow in Sigmund’s gut, made worse by fear for her happiness in this land.

A rider mounted on a black mare watched as their ship drew nigh to the shore. One of Wolfsblood’s thegns, no doubt, sent to escort them to his castle. Such an escort was custom in some lands, and they were all family to Wolfsblood now. Even if the king seemed a bastard.

“That’s … that’s Sieglinde!” Vern said.

What? What was she doing down on the shore? Sigmund frowned and joined his brothers at the bow, shoving Colborn aside so he could see. As if in answer to one of her so-called foretellings, his sister did await them on the rock-strewn shore, astride the mare. Her horse stomped about a little, as if in distress.

Sigmund looked back to Father, who raised an eyebrow. After Sigmund nodded to confirm it was indeed her, Father scowled.

“Sigmund and I will go ashore to meet her first,” Father said. “The rest of you, heed Vern’s command until we return. Prepare to drop anchor.”

Sieglinde wore a cloak stained with blood on its hems, but insisted she was uninjured. Her belly seemed slightly thick. Wolfsblood had already planted his brood in her.

“What has happened?” Sigmund demanded as soon as he drew nigh enough.

His sister’s gaze darted back and forth between the ship and the road to Wolfsblood’s keep. “I had to kill a man my husband set to watch me.”

“Fuck, girl,” Father said. “Why on Midgard would you do such a thing?”

“I needed to get word to you. My husband plans to betray you all. He has spent these moons gathering an unbeatable army to his side. He has called all his levies, even hired mercenaries from afar. I beg you return to your own kingdom.”

Father scoffed. “All peoples know well I have never fled from iron or fire thus far, and do not intend to do so now in my twilight years. Nor will I have maidens taunting my sons as cravens running from their foes.”

Sigmund tapped a finger on his thigh but held his peace. Stories claimed that Father had all but suffered defeat when he tried to challenge the new gods, though none dared mention such things in earshot of the king. True or not, Father had one thing right—if they fled now, they would lose face at home and abroad. Their enemies would multiply while their chances at alliances withered.

“Father, please,” his sister said. “Go and gather a proper army, I beseech you. Then you might come back and avenge your honor. You cannot escape his treachery like this.”

Father raised a finger to silence her. “I have fought a hundred battles in my life, daughter. I will not now run from one, even if it be my last. We have troops enough and my strong boys. You have not seen Sigmund fight with Gramr.”

A tear welled in her eye, and she shook her head. “Then please, Father, at least do not send me back to him.”

“You must return to your husband, daughter. However it goes with us, you will be secure, in his home, or in ours.”

“Damn you.” She mumbled the last under her breath, and Father’s old ears did not seem to catch it. Finally, tears at last running free, she remounted, cast a last look at them, and rode away.

Sigmund stood very still watching her go.

“You do not approve?” Father asked after a moment.

“It is not for me to judge the will of the king.”

“You yourself will be king one day, and then may you weigh the consequences of decisions. Our honor is not only for ourselves, Sigmund. It is the shield with which we guard our people. Broken or cast aside even once, it becomes useless forever after.”

Sigmund glanced back at their three ships. They had some few warriors with them, mainly as protection against raiders or pirates. Hardly enough to be considered an army. “A shield can only protect against but so many foes.”

“That, son, is why you also carry a sword to strike those who are not deterred by the strength of your shield.” Then Father sighed. “I thought to give you a united Hunaland over which to rule.”

“Father?” The weariness in his voice set Sigmund’s gut twisting more than the anticipation of any battle. “You still will do so.”

“Yes, of course. Tonight we rest and in the morning, we march to meet our foes.”

A dozen men lay at Sigmund’s feet and a stream more behind him, all sent to the valkyries or else cast screaming down to Hel. And still, Wolfsblood’s army pressed on, their numbers at least eight times those of the Volsung’s.

Roaring, Father, hewed another man down. Though aging, Father still had the heart of a warrior and the muscles to match it. Grim as the tide looked, Sigmund dared hope they might yet claim victory. And if not, perhaps he too would feast with the valkyries this night.

A man rushed him. Gramr hewed through his spear, then through his neck, sucking up his blood with an icy hunger. She needed this. It gave her purpose, and Sigmund would not see her unfulfilled. After all, surely it must be Odin himself who granted him such a boon.

Before him, Vern toppled to the ground, an arrow jutting from his arm. Sigmund raced forward, blade flashing in the morning light as he cut a path to his brother. Two more men fell before him, then Sigmund stood protectively over Vern as his little brother reclaimed his feet.

“Fall back. You cannot fight without your sword arm!”

If Vern answered, Sigmund did not catch it. Screams and the clash of metal on metal created a tumult over which naught could be heard. The whole shore was awash in blood and guts, stinking of iron and shit and fear. They feared him now and rightly so.

Father now squared off against a man bearing a sword in each hand. What the fuck? Who could fight thus?

“Starkad Eightarms,” Father said. “How much is that bastard paying you?”

“My weight in silver.” Eightarms … the most famed raider in the North Realms.

Oh fuck. Sigmund ran for his father, but one of Wolfsblood’s men intercepted him.

Father spat and charged the mercenary. His blade dove for the man in a mighty strike. Eightarms deflected it.

Sigmund killed the man before him and shoved the corpse aside.

He made it only three strides.

One of Eightarm’s blades knocked Father’s wide. The other opened his gut.

Sigmund faltered and almost fell.

The mercenary’s first sword swept back with uncanny speed and sliced through Father’s throat. Father—the great king Volsung—toppled over into the mud.

No … It was …

Sigmund blinked, shook his head. When the day was done, then he could toast Father’s life. Now … Now Gramr needed blood. Roaring, he charged the mercenary.

The man parried. And again, his blades seemed to come from nowhere, faster than any man ought to move. Sigmund bellowed at him. Struck again.

Eightarms caught Gramr between his two blades and twisted his wrists. Sigmund’s sword flew free from his grasp. He fumbled for it in the air a moment. Then a pommel crashed into his face.

Ears ringing, he fell. The World turned red.

And then it went black.

16

Thor’s hammer flew through the air like a shooting star, end over end, smashing into the rime-crusted chest of a jotunn with enough force to hurl the creature back ten feet. Sif gawked as Thor chased after his hammer. She never got tired of that.

But damn, that was the fifth jotunn in a fortnight. Bjarmaland swarmed with the devourers. This one had stood a mere nine feet tall, but she had seen bigger. Legend claimed those who consumed enough flesh of men became like walking mountains, lumbering and unstoppable. Thus far, though, none had stood before the power Thor wielded.

Her prince worked his way through the snow, arm raised against a curtain of it, then bent to retrieve Mjölnir. Thor examined the hammer and nodded. “Did you see that? The look on that trollfucker’s face to see Mjölnir soaring at him!”

Sif swept her hair away from her face and shook her head. “And what, exactly, was the plan if that didn’t work and you were left weaponless?”

Thor shook a fist in her direction while grinning like a damned fool. “I am never weaponless, my friend.”

Friend. When she had first returned to Asgard and joined the Thunderers, she had welcomed it when he had called her friend. Now it sounded just a little off, much as she tried to bury any acknowledgment of the reason why.

Before she could say aught else, Freki came trotting out of the mist. “This domain is claimed by the jotunn king Hymir.” He glanced at the corpse. “Probably one of his sworn warriors.”

“Hymir,” Thor said and spat. “He holds a hall here?”

“Indeed,” Freki said. “A court of men and a few jotunnar alike these days. His reach grows vast, encompassing nigh to a quarter of Bjarmaland. Or at least he lays claim to it. I think some of the other jotunn kings challenge that.”

Thor hefted Mjölnir. “Then what say we bring this king low? This one has plagued Midgard too long already.”

Sif glanced over to Geri, who was frowning. After sauntering closer, Sif whispered to the varulf. “Who is Hymir?”

“A jotunn king long living here. Tyr grew up in his court and rumors claimed he might even be descended from the jotunn.”

Sif groaned. She’d known, of course, of the rumors of Tyr’s connection to a jotunn. In the days before she’d left for Sviarland, Tyr had spent time instructing Thor in the arts of war. But something ill had passed between them in her absence, and Thor never seemed to think kindly of his old teacher now.

“Aren’t we supposed to be building a wall?” Hildolf asked.

Sif cleared her throat. “I hate to agree with Hildolf, Thor, but should we not remain dedicated to the mission at hand?”

He pointed his hammer off toward the woods in the direction Freki had just come from. “The mission is to control the threat the jotunnar pose. What better way to do so than by striking down one of their so-called kings?”

Sif opened her mouth, but Freki spoke first, treading lightly atop the snow. “I doubt Father would much approve of this diversion.”

Thor scowled at the varulf and let the hammer drop to his side before scratching his beard. “You think you know his mind so very well, then?”

The prince could be stubborn, but maybe if they found the right words … Sif crunched through the snow, not half so graceful as Freki. “If we repair the breach, we can deal with the jotunnar on this side at our leisure … but right now, more could come through at any time. While we dawdle here, Mankind is suffering under their yoke.”

“I rather expect men—and women—suffer right there! In that fucking court! Would you have us leave them to such a fate?”

For the first time, Geri spoke. “They have endured it many years already. Let us first look to stop others from joining them, then turn our eyes to these courts already established.”

Thor turned from her to Sif, then to Freki. Finally, he hung his head. “So be it.” He stomped off, plowing through the snow like a mammoth heading east, toward the Midgard Wall.

Sif sucked air through her teeth. The pounding snow stung her eyes and pelted her cheeks, so she drew up her hood and trekked out behind Thor. Without an apple, her endurance might have given out already. They slept little enough, as if some invisible master drove Thor ever onward. Always, always seeking the next battle.

“He lusts after foes like most men lust after women,” Itreksjod mumbled behind her. “Oh. I suppose he lusts after women too.”

Sif flinched, glad the man couldn’t see her face. Thor was excessive in all his pursuits.

They passed into a thicker stretch of trees that, thankfully, blocked out the worst of the snowstorm. Forest covered so much of this land, but with the intensity of the winter, she’d seen hardly a sign of green in all their days in Bjarmaland. In such overgrown Realms, she found herself staring long at every twisted tree trunk or branch creaking in the wind, expecting ash wives or worse. Chaos had settled over Bjarmaland, as if Utgard had begun to reclaim this part of the World, expanding its own borders, ever reaching further.

Geri fell into step beside her, wrapped in her fur cloak, and, like her brother, more adept at traversing the snows than a human. Sif ought to have arranged snowshoes or even skis for this sort of terrain, though fighting in such proved difficult. Yet another advantage the jotunnar had over their human foes.

“I do not like this land,” Sif said after a while. “It feels … too wild. As if we look upon a Realm where the sputtering flame has finally gone out and left us alone in darkness.”

Geri snorted. “A skald now, are you? I suppose it’s an apt enough description, though. I have been to the Midgard Wall, once, with Father. The Vanir, for all their faults, did try to protect Midgard as best they could. To see something of such grandeur makes a woman feel insignificant. And to know that even it too is faltering … we see our time is limited, even as immortals. Even the wolf fears what lays beyond that wall.”

“That’s why we must succeed,” Sif said. Her foot caught on an unseen root, and she slipped, stumbling forward.

Geri caught her arm and jerked her to a stop. The varulf hefted her up, atop the snows, though Sif immediately crunched down through them again. Geri chuckled. “Odin places more faith in this jotunn than I do, if he thinks Vörnir will help us against his own kind.”

Sif wished she could disagree with that. She truly did. “Maybe Thor can convince this Vörnir to work for us.”

Now Geri favored her with a wry smile, almost hidden beneath her hood. “And you place much faith in Thor. I love him as a brother, but if Odin sent us for diplomacy, he placed the wrong Thunderer in charge.”

Sif frowned, huffing as she continued to struggle with her footing. “And who then do you think ought to lead this endeavor?”

“Someone with wit over brawn. Itreksjod maybe. Or you.”

She scoffed. She didn’t know how to lead a damned thing. “Thor is our leader and has always been.”

“He can barely see what’s right in front of him.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Geri glanced back at her. “Of course not.”

Sif lowered her gaze to focus on the snow where she trod. Such a conversation would go nowhere, nor did she have the energy for it. And yet … Geri spoke a truth: Thor did not seem to see Sif. Maybe he never would.

She had to accept her place and her urd. She had to or wither away in melancholy until naught remained of her.

17

Nine Years Ago

For a decade, Sif had fostered in the home of King Gylfi of Dalar. Ten years sent away from Asgard, as Odin had promised his vassal, until at last, she returned to find everything changed. New halls and palaces had risen up, scattered about from the port all the way up the mountains. The markets had expanded and now vendors hawked wares from the farthest corners of Midgard. And more forges than ever worked hot, crafting arms and armor to fight battles all over the World toward Odin-alone knew what end.

Her parents met her halfway through the market. Her father pointed at her and shouted a greeting. Mother, on the other hand, rushed toward her, almost seeming ready to shed a tear despite being a famed shieldmaiden. Her mother, the great and mighty Syn, weeping? Never. The woman threw her arms around Sif and held her so close Sif could barely breathe.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” Sif mumbled.

“We knew you’d return any day now …” her father said. “We cannot be away from the front long, but we would not have missed this. By the Tree, Sif! It’s been so long.”

Sif smiled, embraced her father as well, and then motioned for him to lead the way. Despite the long years apart, she was home. Finally, home with her family once again.

Her father did start off toward the tiny hall he held in a valley. It lay not far from the one granted to her grandfather, Hoenir, in whose lands she had oft played as a child. Would she see him now?

Her parents had each visited her once in Dalar. Separately, of course, for Tyr needed them in the fight against Serkland. The death of Karolus had hit the Vallander Empire hard, and no leader since had held the South Realmers together with such strength. Even in Dalar, word of the war reached Sif—and the word had not sounded good.

“Another ceremony goes on very soon,” her father said. “Tomorrow at dawn, the prince will receive his apple.”

The prince. Thor. Sif had seen him, when they were children, he three winters her elder. He was always training in the arts of war, always stronger and tougher and faster than the other boys. How she had envied that power back then. And how she’d have done almost aught to get the attention of the mighty son of Odin, drawn by childish fancy. He’d be grown now, for certain, and she could only dream of what glories he must have accomplished to be receiving an apple. Not that anyone had ever doubted the son of Odin would claim one.

Yes, she’d relish the chance to catch another glimpse of him.

The prince had grown taller and wider in the shoulders, indeed, and now bore a fiery red beard. He stood well above the other gathered men as he strode down the long hall toward his parents’ thrones. Standing beside her own parents, Sif watched Thor kneel before the king and queen of Asgard. She watched as Queen Frigg presented him with a golden apple.

The queen spoke words of reverence, but those words washed over Sif, making no mark before the grand spectacle now unfolding. This mountain of muscle and glory was the boy she’d admired in their youth. As the guests had gathered, men had woven tales of Thor’s victories against Serkland. So, if he’d won fame already, Sif could only imagine what glories he’d achieve as an immortal.

Once she’d seen him fight—and overcome—three other boys at once, one of them two winters his elder. Now he fought armies. Oh, she had learned well the arts of spear and sword and shield, trained first by her parents, then in the court of Gylfi. Nevertheless, Sif didn’t delude herself into thinking she’d ever match the glory Thor had already found. Still, it was nice to imagine it.

“My friends,” Thor said, turning to address the whole hall. “Today I announce the grandest endeavor. When I leave Asgard, I will take with me eight companions—warriors all, who will set out into Midgard to fight the enemies of Mankind. To slay abominations of the mist!”

What in the gates of Hel was he even talking about? The queen seemed to be thinking the same thing, leaning forward in her throne with a heavy frown creasing her brow. Odin, however, sat thoughtful, looking little surprised.

Thor was creating a party to … what? Have adventures? That sounded absurd and reckless. And fucking glorious. What surer way to win an apple than by joining the prince on his escapades? Any who fought alongside him—and lived—would have her name immortalized in tale. And with the littlest bit of luck, find herself immortal in the process.

The prince, however, did not linger long enough for her to even approach him on the subject. He strode from the hall, a buxom woman on each arm. Sif frowned after them as they left. She’d heard the stories, of course, of what eating an apple did to a person. Of what it made them want or even need to do.

“That was unexpected,” Sif’s mother said.

“Perhaps,” her father said. “I see Odin’s hand in this.”

Her mother grumbled something under her breath.

Why would Odin care? If Father was correct, and he’d wanted Thor to take this path, what did he hope to gain? Save perhaps glory for his son? Was that it? Either way, it changed naught—Sif needed to be on that squad. She would join Thor’s team, no matter the cost.

Another bolt of lightning split the night sky. A heartbeat of illumination in the pouring rain and darkness. The thunder had grown so close it drowned out many other sounds. Sif pulled up her cloak closer and hurried her steps toward Thor’s hall. Thrudvangar, he called it—a gift from his mother on his return from the war in Andalus.

Thrudvangar lay very close to Valaskjalf where his mother resided. The thought made Sif smile. Frigg granted her son the honor of his own hall, but then, she still wanted him by her side. Sif imagined she’d have done the same damned thing.

When she reached the hall, she banged on the double doors. A slave pushed open one of them a moment later, ushering her inside as another peel of lightning crashed overhead. Sif let the slave take her sopping cloak, then trod toward the gathered others. The hall was thick with smoke from many braziers and warm despite the storm outside.

Thor sat in its heart, a massive drinking horn in one hand and a redheaded woman in the other, sitting on his knee while he petted her hair. Other men and shieldmaidens surrounded them, clambering and chattering and boasting, all no doubt as eager for a spot on his party as Sif was.

And if she didn’t act soon, her chances would wither away before Thor even met her gaze.

Sif cleared her throat.

No one bothered to look at her, save a brunette girl sitting some distance behind Thor. Not clamoring for his attention, that one. Why? Had she already secured a spot? Sif met the other girl’s gaze. Wait, wasn’t this Odin’s varulf girl? Geri. That was it. Well of course Thor would give first chance to his own siblings, and varulfur no less. Fuck. Sif should have known. And did that mean she was competing against other shifters for these spots?

She needed an edge to get on the team. It wouldn’t be her fighting prowess—unfortunately, others could match or exceed that. So what then? She had really only one claim to prestige here. Boasting had never been her strongest suit, but you had to learn to do it in any court.

“I am Sif Hermodsdottir!” she shouted, finally drawing Thor’s eye. “Fostered with King Gylfi of Dalar in Sviarland for ten years and returned now. And I …” And now they were all looking at her. “I believe I would make an excellent addition to your team, my prince.”

Thor looked her up and down, then glanced back at Geri.

Whatever the prince intended to say though, he snapped his mouth shut when the doors flew open again. And in strode the king. Dressed in worn travel clothes and a wide-brimmed hat, carrying a heavy satchel and leaning on his spear like a walking stick. Looking not the least like the ruler of the whole fucking World. But then again, he never had.

Odin strode straight to his son’s side, and the gathered men and women parted before him like leaves blown away by a gale. He spoke in his son’s ear for a moment, Thor nodding along. Then the prince looked back at Sif.

“I have found my newest companion,” Thor announced and waved her over.

Wait. Just like that? That easy? She looked to Odin, but the king did not turn toward her. He’d said something to get Thor to choose her, hadn’t he? Why? First Odin had sent her to Gylfi, now he’d helped her achieve her dream. Men said Odin favored her father … could that be all this was?

Thor beckoned again, and Sif scrambled over, sitting beside him where he indicated.

“So,” the prince said. “We have but one place left remaining, and we will be nine. An auspicious number, and the most I can handle.”

“Unless they were all as pretty as that one,” someone said. “I hear you’ve handled twelve, once.”

Thor looked to the speaker. “Such tales are exaggerated, Itreksjod.”

“Ah.” The man shrugged. “They handled you then?”

Thor grinned like an idiot. “I suppose they did at that.”

“Well then, my prince,” Itreksjod said, “surely you can bless us with the tale?”

Thor snorted. “Not this night, I think.”

“Very well. Though it burdens me, I can see no alternative save to accompany you, to ensure I am there when the night does arrive.” He raised his hands and waved everyone else away. “Forgive me all, but I am now bound by duty and an oath. Thank you all for coming. The team is now full. Please enjoy the mead on your way out. Do not slip in the rain.”

What the fuck?

Thor chuckled, then waved his own hand. “You heard him. The team is full.”

When the others had gone, the nine of them remained, along with the king.

“It strikes me,” Meili said, “that to call ourselves the team repeatedly is cumbersome.”

“Nor does it make for the best work for skalds,” Itreskjod added. “And lo! Did the team break their fast. And lo! The team ate cold fish.”

Meili rolled his eyes. According to Geri, Meili had fought his way through the Serkland lines after being separated from the rest of his war bands. He’d escaped custody and become a bit of a legend, enough to earn acknowledgment from Odin himself.

Nepr and Hildolf had been in Thor’s band in Andalus, so those choices had seemed obvious enough, as, of course, were Geri and her brother Freki. Then there was Ali, who said almost naught the whole time but had earned fame for his skill with a bow, said to rival even Agilaz, Sif’s other grandfather.

Really, it made Sif herself the only strange choice for this team. Nor did she quite know her place here. But she would make one. “Stories say they named you for a thunderstorm,” she said.

Thor looked to her, then nodded.

“And here we are …” Another crash of thunder rang outside. “Again. So why not call ourselves the Thunderers?”

“An excellent suggestion,” Itreksjod said. “I was, however, going to suggest something like The Feral Minions of Itreksjod. Something to strike fear into the loins of our enemies.”

Hildolf scratched his head. “We want scary loins?”

“We want our foes to have cravenly loins, yes. For then they shall sink to despair and be unable to stand against the Feral Minions.”

Thor groaned. “I’m starting to rethink the team composition. And, yes, Sif, I like Thunderers. Like a storm we shall sweep through Midgard and destroy the enemies of Mankind.”

The king rose then, nodding. “Out in the wild places you will face many great souls among the forces of chaos. Jotunnar, trolls, perhaps even stronger enemies. Opponents not easily slain by mortal blade or arrow.” He drew up the satchel beside him. “Against such foes, I would see you properly armed.” The king drew out a wide-headed hammer from the satchel, one engraved in runes and knot-work, with a stunted haft. “To accomplish your mission, I give you Mjölnir, wrought in the ancient dverg tradition and imbued with power.” Thor reached for it, and Odin jerked it away. “Be worthy of such a prize, my son.”

Thor paused, nodded, and then Odin let him grasp the hammer. His eyes seemed to gleam in the firelight, as if he had just touched something Otherworldly. Maybe he had. Sif shuddered.

“It is like a runeblade,” Thor said.

“Much like one,” Odin said, “but with more heft and thus well-suited to fell even the largest of foes. Few on Midgard or Utgard will stand before its power, if you wield it well.”

Thor’s grin grew almost too wide. “Oh, you know I will.” He ran calloused fingers over the engravings and seemed so enraptured with it, Sif wanted to touch the thing herself though she restrained the urge. “With this Mjölnir, I shall crack skulls and shatter bones, bringing down any who oppose the Thunderers.”

“Do so with care, and remain true to your mission. You do not go out into the World to terrorize mortals nor make free with them. And, too, be careful not to become distracted by mortal wars. We must be better than the Vanir were, or all we have done amounts to naught.” With that, the king turned and shuffled away into the darkness, then slipped out into the storm.

Thor, for his part, sat there, running his fingers over the rune work on that magnificent hammer.

Jotunnar … without knowing what she was about, Sif had just volunteered to fight the god-like jotunnar. She was going to need a great deal of mead this night.

18

A long scar crossed the corded muscles of the berserk woman’s arm. The leader of their band, this Magnhild, offered Skadi a crude solution to a potential problem. The woman strode beside her like a bodyguard, though Skadi needed none.

These mercenaries had stomped through Wolfsblood’s town like all they beheld lay within their birthright. The arrogance of it might have offended her, were they not her own warriors, bought and paid for. True, Skadi might have bound the bear spirits with the Art, but there was little reason to go to such trouble when plundered dverg silver would win the women’s support with far less effort or risk.

Magnhild tossed aside the thighbone of a deer she’d swiped from the village. “How long are we supposed to watch over the wolf fucker?”

Skadi glanced at the mercenary. The woman twitched, like she needed to be doing something with her hands every moment of the day. Throttling someone most of the time. “A few moons, most like, though longer if needed. However long, you’ll be compensated by me and the king both.”

“Extra pay is always welcome.”

Skadi didn’t answer her. Such petty beings were barely worth conversing with, after all. These berserkir were but tools to bring down Odin and his people. Savage animals populated the World of Moon, beasts driven by base instinct.

The berserkir followed her to the outer wall that ringed Wolfsblood’s village and his hall within it.

It was as unimpressive as Skadi remembered from the last time she had come here, though functional by the standards of the mortals who now claimed Midgard. Most of it was stone, thick enough to hold back a small army, with the only real weakness lying in the gate they now approached.

Skadi’s hood concealed her face, and the gate guards held the door fast until she drew very nigh. Then, looking upon her, the pair glanced at one another. Neither spoke, but one threw the gate wide, letting her inside the wall. They all fell back as she entered, not one offering to escort her toward Wolfsblood’s hall. Rime had crusted around her eyes and mouth—as she liked it—no doubt driving these so-called warriors into fits of panic for their very souls. Skadi smirked. They need not know her to know of her. Word of the Queen of Snow had begun to spread.

Inside lay a small village and beyond that, Wolfsblood’s hall.

Skadi slipped into the king’s hall and drifted among his gathered horde. Most paid her no mind unless she drew close and they saw her, or, no doubt, felt the cold wafting off her. Then they fell away like scattering ravens taking flight.

A hand grabbed her elbow and spun her around. Who dared! Ice formed around her fingertips without a conscious thought, but Skadi dismissed it a moment later.

“What are you doing here?” Wolfsblood’s own queen, Sieglinde, drew Skadi off into the shadows, away from the hateful flames in those braziers. Then she faltered, as light must have fallen on Skadi’s face. “Y-you’ve changed.”

Of course she had. When last she had come here, Gudrun’s natural looks had shown through, and Sieglinde had thought her a beautiful witch. True enough, she supposed. The spiteful, imprudent queen had been easy to manipulate and had jumped at the chance Skadi offered to exchange their shapes. Wearing Gudrun’s form, Sieglinde had seduced her own brother in her desperation to avenge her father, so certain they could produce a pure heir together. And Fitela indeed carried the courage of his father and the ruthless cunning of his mother.

You are disgusting …

Skadi frowned. Perhaps Gudrun needed to be punished again.

No! Forgive me. I misspoke. It was not you, but her, Sieglinde, at fault. Forgive me …

Skadi stared hard at Sieglinde. “I am here for the same reason as before, to call upon King Siggeir. Were you not pleased with our last arrangement? Did it not sate your … desires?”

Sieglinde flinched, and Skadi barely concealed her smirk. Maybe the girl had lusted after her own brother, using the conception of that boy as but an excuse. The important thing here was, the more this family twisted and turned upon itself, spiraling into depravity, the less use Odin could make of any of them.

The Volsungs were damned.

The real irony of course was, Skadi had actually encouraged Siggeir Wolfsblood’s desire for Gramr and thus his betrayal of Volsung.

In the back of her mind, Gudrun stirred, obviously trying not to think. Yes, the sorceress had favored Hljod and her husband. But disrupting Odin’s plans mattered far more than her host’s petty sentiment.

Petty? The girl was like a sister to me! Because of you she and her husband and most of her children are dead! You call this petty?

Forgotten her place again?

Well, there was always a cure for that. It was largely because of Gudrun that Volsung’s son lived at all. The mortal sorceress seemed to have forgotten her last lesson. Her foot still ached where the missing toe ought to have been.

Gudrun hissed in the back of her mind.

Skadi waved Sieglinde away and strode toward Wolfsblood where he sat upon the throne. With her gaze, she commanded the king to rise. He managed to do so without quite surrendering his dignity and followed where she led into his personal chamber behind the great hall. Skadi motioned Magnhild to wait among the other guests. The berserk was certain to avail herself of the king’s hospitality.

“I did not think to see you again after so many long years,” the king said. “You look changed … but not older.”

Skadi shrugged. “I am changed. But I have not come to talk of myself. I come to talk of you and your lands.”

Please don’t do this …

Wolfsblood shifted his weight but kept his mouth shut. Well trained this one. Gudrun could stand to learn from him. And, in fact, she soon would learn a great deal through this king.

Please …

“You think that the last of the Volsung men are dead, but one yet draws breath in your very Realm.”

Wolfsblood frowned. “Who?”

“You know him well.” Skadi pointed back to the main hall. “The rightful owner of the runeblade that hangs above your throne, as chosen by Odin himself.”

Wolfsblood sneered. “Sigmund. So he did escape my mother before her death.”

Why are you doing this? Do you not think Odin’s plans already thwarted by your schemes?

Since Skadi did not know exactly what Odin’s plans were, that was hard to tell. Thus far, she had spared Sigmund and his sister. Maybe it was time to change that. She had let Gudrun’s sympathy influence her long enough.

“Not only does Sigmund live, but I believe he will soon come for you. Your varulf pack is gone, as I’m sure you’ve now suspected … Your allies have turned against you, blaming you for Gylfi’s death … And soon he will come for you …” She pointed at Gramr. “And for the sword.”

Wolfsblood glowered, casting another glance at the hall. “Oh, then he will have it. I will ram that blade through his gut and spread his entrails over half the marsh. The last Volsung will die like all the rest.”

“Oh, but after he has slain your own mother?” Skadi let a wicked smile settle over her face. “Do you not wish him to suffer long? Surely you can think up some prolonged agony for him once he falls into your grasp.”

Stop!

The Niflung princess did not seem inclined to learn—she commanded naught any longer. All Midgard belonged to Skadi now, and she could do as she pleased with the World—and with Gudrun’s body.

Wait …

Skadi willed away the worst of the cold from her hands and placed them on Wolfsblood’s shoulders, slowly pushing him down onto the bed. “I bring you twelve berserkir women—more than a match for any foe and well suited to replace all you have lost.”

“Berserkir … truly?”

“Oh, yes.” Skadi smiled. Women who would crush Sigmund. “I will depart soon … But first …” She kissed him, drawing forth a shudder from the king.

He trembled, hands reaching for her but falling just short of touching her. Afraid. As well he should be.

No. Stop this, please. Gudrun had begun to weep inside her own mind. Not this.

Skadi doffed her cloak and began to unlace her dress.

Wolfsblood laid back underneath her. Still, his hands hesitated over her ice-blue nipples, as if unable to decide between his lust and his fear of powers from the Otherworlds. It didn’t matter. She had a lesson to teach Gudrun. Besides which, Skadi had not sated herself in long years.

Please …

She was going to enjoy this.

19

Thirty years ago, Sessrumnir would have sheltered a dozen or more scholars studying all aspects of Vanir learning. Now, the hall was silent and empty, save for the woman sitting at a table on the upper level, the light of a lamp sputtering before her. Odin climbed the stairs to the library there, and Sigyn glanced at him.

“Loki said you had returned.” Sigyn’s abdomen showed the hint of a bulge. Soon, Loki would soon be a father once again. Ancestors allow this child turn out better than the last. Odin fought down a surge of bitterness. He had not come here to talk of this.

He had come here to seek answers on Miklagard, but then, Sigyn had become the new keeper of this place. Odin wasn’t so certain he’d have bestowed such an honor upon her—had Frigg asked him—but since Frigg had done it regardless, Odin suspected none yet on Midgard knew Sessrumnir better than Sigyn. At least not the public libraries … Odin truly hoped she had not found access to any of the hidden studies for the Art.

“I am not staying long.”

Sigyn shrugged. “Not a surprise.”

Odin frowned. Did Sigyn dislike him because of the rift between him and Loki? Or because he shamed her sister? Or just because he was not the king she’d have chosen? Maybe all of the above. Either way, she had access to her precious library at his sufferance. “I need your help.”

“My help?” Now she closed the book. “I’m honored.”

Sarcasm? “I need to know everything the Vanir know about Miklagard.”

Sigyn tapped a finger against her lip, then rose, the slight hint of stiffness in her steps. She drifted to the far side of the library then ran a thumb along several volumes. “The Vanir didn’t seem to organize their writings into the North and South Realms, exactly. They used these shelves to discuss the lands beyond their sphere of influence including Miklagard, Serkland, and even Jotunheim.” She pulled a tome out, flipped a few pages, then returned it. “Outer Miklagard. But you want to know about the city proper? Or the central empire?”

“About the Patriarchs.”

“Hmm.” Now she knelt, placing a hand on the small of her back while examining other titles. “I think that … Yes. Freyja wrote some speculation on the subject a few hundred years ago.”

Odin flinched. Freyja. Reading her words, seeing her fine hand, it was all torment and memory and relief. All at once. And from the way Sigyn was looking at him, she must have noticed his reaction, though she said naught of it. He took the book she offered, then gave her a hand up.

“You’ve read this?”

“No. I just perused the introduction. It was one I planned to look at later, but there are so many …” Indeed. The Vanir had spent nigh unto five thousand years collecting knowledge and speculation on every conceivable subject. “It caught my attention though since she mentions the rumor of the Miklagardian aristocracy having attained immortality, after a fashion. Some of the Vanir even suspected they were draugar.”

Odin scoffed. “You jest. The Vanir thought the dead ruled the largest empire in Midgard? Freyja believed this?”

Sigyn shrugged and returned to the table. “I haven’t read the book yet. Do you need me to read it to you, your majesty?”

Odin opened his mouth for a curt reply, but the outer doors creaked open. “Has Frigg granted someone else permission to enter this place?”

“No.” Sigyn stood and drifted to the rail. “Just me.”

Odin joined her.

Below, Sjöfn walked over a bridge spanning the canals that decorated the lower level.

“Frigg’s handmaid,” he said.

“Yes.” The tone of her voice didn’t exactly conceal much love for the young woman. “She’s the grand niece of your friend Lodur.”

Lodur’s grandniece. Fuck—Odin had been away a long time. Why then, would the girl be so blatantly offering herself to him? Two possibilities seemed likely—either she expected political gain for herself by drawing close to the king … or she was trying to win favor back to her family.

Odin had told Frigg the truth before—he had not given much consideration to how the former jarls faired. Certainly they must still hold some authority among the Aesir, if in a less official capacity. Could Lodur, knowing Odin had returned, have sent his own blood to tempt Odin? And why not? Lodur was an apt warrior, not only for his skill in battle but for his cunning. Perhaps the Aesir waged a different kind of battle here on Asgard while their king was away.

Sjöfn climbed the stairs, swaying seductively as she did so.

Sigyn folded her arms across her chest as the girl drew nigh. “What are you doing here?”

“Frigg sent me to tell you … that the shipwrights need new designs. She wants the ships to be able to endure a full moon at sea or more.”

“And she sent you all the way here to tell me this? It couldn’t have waited until I returned in the evening?”

“Well …”

Sigyn snorted, then glanced at Odin. “Sure. Fine. I’ll look into it.” With that, she walked toward one of the other shelves.

Sjöfn stood, staring at Odin long after Sigyn had left.

“You did not come here to see her.”

“Perhaps my king needs assistance with his … research.”

Odin chuckled and drifted toward one of the back rooms, book in hand. Since as far as he knew, only he and Sigyn could even read, there could only be one way in which the girl might think she could help him. So … did Lodur think him so very easy to win over? What, throw a pretty pair of tits at him, and he’d win favor? Part of him wanted to have the girl punished for her temerity. He could have her publicly shamed, even banished for a winter out in Midgard. But then again, she was probably just doing what the head of her family ordered.

And still, knowing what Lodur intended might prove useful. If his old friend thought him now starved for sex, it was hardly an onerous task to play along until he could see Lodur’s endgame.

“How do you plan to help me?” Odin asked.

“In any way my king needs, of course.” She swayed her hips, just in case he somehow missed her meaning.

Odin drifted around behind her and ran a hand up her thigh where her skirt split. She shuddered as he cupped her arse, then bent her down over one of the tables.

No. It wouldn’t be so unpleasant a task.

20

Eighteen Years Ago

The fire in the brazier had dwindled and now most of the light in Frigg’s chamber came from moonlight through a lattice window high above. Odin’s wife sat beneath the window, crisscrossed by the shadows, head in her hand.

At last, she looked up. “He is a man now—you cannot simply send him for fostering.”

“Asgard is not the best place for him, nor can his actions go unanswered.”

“Nor yours,” she snapped.

Odin scowled. “Perhaps I ought to have left you to Vili? Or even let him strangle Thor?”

“You ought to have handled it without murdering your brother.”

It is the betrayal of our families that cuts deepest …

“Shut up!”

Frigg recoiled.

“Not you,” Odin said. Then shook his head. “Forgive me the outburst. I am burdened.”

“As ever.”

Oh, she had no idea. “If he cannot be fostered, he must be sent then somewhere else.” Odin nodded to himself. The answer seemed obvious enough. “To Tyr. Let him prove himself against Serkland and earn his apple.”

Frigg frowned but didn’t speak. They both knew Odin had reserved an apple for Thor—thanks to Loki—from the time Thor was an infant. But sending his son to war would earn the boy respect and take him away from Asgard long enough for the court to forget about what had just transpired.

“Tyr will ensure Thor remains safe.”

Frigg sat very still. “There is no safety in war.”

“He was man enough to take up an axe and attack a berserk. He must now face armed men as a consequence. I cannot spare him this forever.”

Odin had just started to rise when the door creaked open, and Fulla stuck her head inside. Frigg’s maid had stood by her side all these years, her bright red hair now streaked with a few hints of gray. Sooner or later, Frigg might grant the woman an apple, if not for her valor, at least for her loyalty.

“Them jarls are all here and set to gossiping and blustering like jotunnar in a blizzard.”

“About what?” Frigg asked.

“Carrying on about holding a Thing soon as now, this very night, this very hall. As if there weren’t proper ways for doing a Thing.”

Odin groaned, and Fulla flinched at his expression. She had done naught wrong, but he had no patience to coddle her at the moment. He pushed past her and stormed out into the hall where, indeed, the remaining jarls—those on Asgard—and many thegns had gathered.

“What in the gates of Hel is all this?” Odin bellowed.

“A jarl was murdered,” Jarl Moda said. “The law demands we hold a Thing to find justice. More, Thor attacked the acting king. This cannot go unanswered.”

“A Thing. A Thing?” Odin stalked closer to Moda. He looked to Annar, to Lodur, to Hoenir. Men he’d thought he could trust, men he’d thought he owned the loyalty of. And yet, here they stood with Moda. “You are correct. This cannot go unanswered.”

He felt it as Frigg drifted close behind him, though she did not make a sound.

“I will not be questioned by my own jarls,” Odin said, drawing each word out. “I will decide what urd befalls my son.”

Moda frowned. “The law of the tribes does not allow even a king to avoid answering—”

“The tribes?” Odin said. “The fucking tribes?” He placed his hands on either side of Moda’s face. Squeezing enough for the man to grimace. “The tribes think to hold me answerable to them?”

“Odin …” Frigg said. “Be careful what you do here. There is already unrest and—”

“The tribes,” Odin bellowed, “and the jarls who serve them are obsolete!” He shoved Moda away, and the man tumbled to the ground, scowling.

“What are you saying?” Lodur asked.

“I am saying, where once stood nine petty tribes, now stands a united Ás people. United by me! We have no more need for tribes.” He turned, waving a hand at the gathered jarls. “And I suppose that means no real need for jarls to rule them!”

Frigg clutched his wrist and tried to pull him close.

Odin jerked his hand away from her, unable to stop himself from clenching and unclenching his fists. It was like a volcano had wakened in his chest, burning him. Consuming him. “From this day forth, all Aesir are one! There will be no further discussion of the divisions of the past!”

“You cannot do that,” Moda said, rising.

“It is done, and you are all witness,” Odin said. “I am the king of Asgard. I am the king of Midgard. I am the king of the fucking gods!” His breath had become ragged. “Unless any of you wishes to challenge me for the throne? Any of you?” He looked at each jarl in turn. “No? Then be gone from my hall!”

And they did.

The former jarls left, taking their thegns, muttering, and shaking their heads. As if unable to fathom what he had just done. And indeed, it hit Odin like a wave that drove him stumbling down onto his throne. Long had he mused the tribes might need dissolving in order to obviate the differences that still divided the Aesir. He had not considered taking the action like this though, and certainly had not intended to strip the jarls of their titles. But he had done so and could not recant without looking twice the fool he already did. If he lost control of Asgard and his people … they would lose Ragnarok. Mankind would die.

Surely, preserving the World justified him offending a few jarls. Former friends.

Frigg drifted to her own throne and sank down beside him. “This can only make things worse. Already, a schism divides those with apples from those without. The Vanir had millennia to find a balance, a system to award the greatest prize. For us, it threatens to tear us apart. Every day, our young men kill each other in vain attempts to prove themselves the most worthy.”

Odin groaned and let his chin fall to his fist.

“And what of Annar?” Frigg asked.

“The jarls are dissolved, but still we need him to guard the apples. And to know he holds our favor.”

“So?”

“So come up with new titles for those most favored.”

Frigg sighed. “You tell me this because you intend to leave. Again.”

“And you must rule our people wisely. Hold them together.” In truth, she could do it better than he ever would. Raging outbursts aside, Odin was better at uniting people against a common foe than ruling them over a prolonged period. He had neither the temperament nor skill to do what Frigg did. None of which were the real reasons he always fled the paradise he had stolen.

“What do you seek out there, husband?”

“The same as always—wisdom.”

“There is wisdom to be had here, among your people and your family. Already you will send my son away from me. Now you too insist on leaving Asgard. For how long this time?”

Odin shook his head, having no answer to offer her. He would walk until he found the knowledge he sought. Whether that took another year or ten or a hundred. He would find his answers.

21

Across endless snowfields they trekked, passing through woods and hills and over frozen rivers too wide to measure. Before this, Sif had known Midgard was vast but never imagined aught could stretch so far. So if their world was yet so large, how could she even guess at what lay beyond in Utgard?

They had passed into mountains, climbing a steep slope so ice-slicked her boots threatened to give way with each step. This high up, were she to fall, she might tumble and pitch over a side that must drop a thousand feet.

Her breath froze in crystals, clinging to her cheeks and stinging her eyes. Every rasp of air scorched her frozen throat like a burn. Among the Thunderers, only Hildolf had not yet had an apple, and Sif would not want to imagine the hardship he faced. Every night, he collapsed, shuddering under his blankets. At first, the others had mocked him for it. Strong Hildolf, who never tired before this. No more. Not now, when even they, immortals, seemed ready to drop.

And the damned snows just kept falling, storm after storm, obscuring aught beyond a few feet, as if the mist itself did not do enough of that. Her fingers had gone numb, too.

Two days back, they had stumbled upon a jotunn-infested ruin—three of the brutes. Her hands were so cold, she’d fumbled her halberd and might have fallen had not Thor raced to the rescue, fervent as ever with that hammer.

Sif rubbed her arms, switching the halberd from hand to hand so she could try to keep blood flowing in both. Vörnir seemed to live on the edge of Niflheim, as if wanting to gaze through the gates of Hel. And if they did not reach him soon, maybe they never would.

Freki appeared from the mist ahead, drifting in like a wraith. “I’ve found it. He holds court up ahead, half an hour from here, in the valley.”

“At long last,” Thor said, then glanced back at the others.

Hildolf pitched over onto his knees. In an instant, Meili was there, helping him up. “Come on.”

So, they might not freeze to death, nor starve. Instead, they would march straight into the court of a jotunn … after killing a dozen or so of his kind on route here. Sif could not imagine that would earn them welcome.

“Are you well?” Thor asked her.

“I’m fine.” Fear was her greatest enemy. And she sure as fuck wasn’t going to let Thor see her tremble at the thought of a potential foe.

So.

Let them walk into the monster’s very den.

Coming down from the mountain into the valley ought to have been easier. Instead, Sif’s footing proved even more treacherous, always threatening to slip out from under her. With every step, she wedged the halberd’s butt into the snow, anchoring herself before pushing forward.

A little farther.

They had to be almost down this fucking slope. They had to. Never mind that she couldn’t see five feet ahead.

“We’re nigh to the wall,” Geri said.

The varulf’s voice had come from the left, but Sif couldn’t even see her friend. Just keep pushing forward. Eyes on the ground, she spotted the chasm a moment before she’d have stumbled in, drawing up into an abrupt stop. Cracks in the glacial shelf spider-webbed before of her, many large enough for even a jotunn to plunge down into oblivion. What kind of Mist-mad imbecile built their palace in such a place?

A hand seized her arm, pulling her away.

Sif jerked around. Had Geri been a foe, Sif would be dead twice over. The varulf had closed the distance without Sif noticing the slightest sign of her presence.

“Come on. Not much farther.”

She had heard that before.

They pushed on, wending their way between the cracks and chasms. Until finally, in the heart of this Hel-cursed place, they found an enormous keep. Through the blinding snow and the accursed mist, she could not even guess at its size and height, but twin braziers lit a stone path leading up to a gate at least many, many times her height. The path was wide enough for an army to march along, though ice crusted all of it.

Thor trod forward first, seeming unaffected by the stone behemoth ahead. Meili followed after him, axe in hand, and then the others.

Sif shuddered again.

As they drew nigh to the gates—and fuck, those had to rise ten times her height—they creaked open of their own accord. Beyond them lay a steaming, smoky hall, thick with strange odors. Humans and jotunnar, all naked or nigh to it, lay about, eating, drinking, or fucking in great heaps of hedonistic abandon. Sif faltered, unable to make herself cross the threshold, even as the others pressed on.

Geri grabbed her wrist and dragged her inside.

The doors screeched shut behind them with the sound of rattling chains. The steam seemed to rise from numerous slits in the floor, and, as they passed some, she had no doubt they burned some strange herbs on the lower levels. The vapors left her dizzy, but at least they warmed her.

It felt good.

Damned good.

They followed the central hall. Maybe it was the herbs but … that looked like a two-headed jotunn with two … two cocks? Because he seemed to be fucking two separate women, each head focused on one. Sif blinked, then shook her head. The motion sent the whole room spinning.

She caught herself on someone.

A naked jotunn, his skin blue as a man in deathchill. Her head barely came up to his navel. She giggled. Then she jerked a hand over her mouth. She did not giggle. What the fuck? She laughed again. Sif didn’t giggle!

She stumbled along after Thor, struggling to walk in a straight line.

“I’m a little odd,” Hildolf said.

“We know,” Itreksjod answered.

“I feel odd today,” Hildolf repeated, looking around in obvious confusion.

The pair of them had dawdled, staring at humans and jotunnar engaged in an orgy. Sif stepped around them to follow Thor.

At the back of the hall sat another jotunn, this one probably three times Sif’s height. Even his throne rose so high above her, stretching into the shadows above, she felt dizzy just looking at it. Actually, she felt dizzy no matter where she looked.

“Vörnir!” Thor said. “I am Thor Odinson!”

“I know who you are.” The jotunn’s voice rumbled like an avalanche, his pronunciation of the North tongue odd and drawn out too long. “Have you come seeking pleasure … or war?”

Thor glanced about the hall, his eyes lingering too damn long on the parade of flesh and food and what looked like a river of mead. “Pleasure. I … I mean, I seek to offer you a bargain.”

Vörnir grinned, revealing two white teeth that looked, just a little, like the fangs of a wolf. “What bargain?”

Thor grunted and rubbed his eyes. “You built this place?”

“I did.”

“And your craft is a well-known. I would hire you to repair the … Midgard Wall. On behalf of the king of the Aesir. The king of Midgard.” The prince kept turning about, as if drunk, staring at a jotunn woman who had settled herself into the river of mead.

Vörnir laughed, the sound seeming to set the whole hall rumbling, like the mountain itself mocked their temerity in coming here. Sif clenched her jaw and held her hands still at her side, if only to keep herself from curling up into a ball and hiding. “Why not? I am already on this side, and I need no competition from my brethren. And yet, what could you possibly offer me for such a grand undertaking? The sun? The moon? No, I think you have little to bargain with.”

Thor grunted and slapped a hand against the side of his head like that might clear it. If it worked, Sif would happily do the same damned thing. “Name your price.”

Vörnir leaned forward, then again revealed his fangs. “I have a great many beautiful women in my collection. But I have never sampled the most beautiful on Midgard, famed far and wide for her stunning body.”

Thor took a half step back, though Sif couldn’t say if from revulsion or just the herbs in the air. “Who do you wish?”

“Your people overthrew the Vanir, or so rumor holds. Bring me Freyja, the matchless daughter of Njord.”

Sif snickered. Given that Odin had cast Freyja—and all the Vanir save the First Ones—into the Otherworlds, that didn’t seem apt to work out for Vörnir.

“Uh …” Thor said. “Yes. I will bring you Freyja …”

What the fuck? Was he going to lie to this jotunn lord while they stood in his very hall? Sif opened her mouth, but Geri elbowed her in the ribs, knocking away both her breath and her words.

“I will bring you Freyja if you can finish the entire wall before the winter is out. But if even a crack remains in the wall come summer, you forfeit your prize and must still complete your work.”

Oh. Oh, no. Sif opened her mouth again, glanced at Geri, and shut it. This had to be the stupidest bargain Thor had ever made. What in Hel’s frozen underworld did he think would happen when Vörnir found out they had tricked him and made an offer in bad faith?

Vörnir clapped his hands. “Agreed. Now, please, indulge yourself in my keep. We leave for the wall tomorrow … though perhaps not at first light.”

Thor nodded with more eagerness than Sif liked, then turned and headed for the mead.

Sif rushed after him, cutting him off halfway. “What were you thinking?”

Thor leaned in close to her ear, leaving her heart beating too fast. “Father said there are several breaches. No one can possibly fix them in less than one season. Learn to relax, my friend.”

Before she could retort, Thor stepped around her, stripping off his shirt and heading for the jotunn woman in the mead river. He yanked off his trousers midway, hopping on one foot to do so. Then he leaped in, ducked his head beneath, and sucked down great gulps of it.

Sif stared at him, trembling, unable to believe what she’d seen. Thor hated the jotunnar. So what the fuck was he doing? They were whispering something. Laughing together! Hel take that jotunn bitch. Thor ducked his head back under the water. Incredibly close to the jotunn woman—who arched her back.

No.

Oh, Thor! No! Stop!

Sif raised a hand to forestall what was happening, then spun away. Damn it! She had to get out of this haze. Where the fuck was Geri? Sif drifted around the hall, resisting several offers—and why were they so damn tempting?—to indulge in one debauchery or another. Sweet meats, fruits no one ought to have been able to grow here, and so many lustful, handsome men …

She pressed her palms to her temples, wandering on, then faltered. Geri reclined against a pillar, a man dripping some kind of crimson liquid onto her tongue one drop at a time. Please don’t let that be blood.

Sif stormed over. “What are you doing?”

Geri stared up at her with glassy eyes and blinked twice. The varulf moaned and slid a hand down along her trousers, grabbing herself between her legs. The man feeding her the vile liquid took that as an invitation and began unlacing her clothes.

Damn it, Geri. What had gotten into all of the Thunderers? This place was a poison—thick and toxic as the fabled river Elivagar. Sif’s stomach lurched as she stumbled away. She’d find no comfort in Geri, nor, from the look of it, in any of the others.

Even quiet and solemn Meili seemed lost in the debaucheries of Vörnir’s hall, laying down with a trio of women.

And Hildolf … a jotunn seemed to have convinced him to try licking honey off his own arse. Thus far, he seemed to be failing, much to the amusement of the watching jotunnar.

Sif shuddered. It would be so easy to let go, let herself give in, and relish a moment of comfort like the others. But then, who would watch over them? If they could not take care of themselves, she would look after the band. They were her people, and she had to do whatever it took to keep them safe—even from themselves.

She dared not sample the liquids or draw too nigh to the steam, but she would have to eat. And just pray no toxins saturated the damned food. Eyes bleary, she wandered the hall, snatching up bits of food and fending off one unwanted advance after another.

To this jotunn lord, this lust-addled monstrosity, they had entrusted the safety of all Midgard. It was not like to end well. A sudden, terrible fear settled on her gut and sent her rushing over the pile of Thor’s discarded clothes. She lifted his tunic … Mjölnir still lay underneath it. Replacing the shirt, she settled down beside it. They could not afford to lose the hammer.

Not even if it meant she had to sit there while Thor pumped his cock into a jotunn trench ten feet away. Sif turned her back on the atrocity, set her jaw, and settled herself to watch the hammer. She would not allow herself to sleep in this place, no matter how much she needed it, no matter how dizzy the fumes made her.

Someone had to retain her senses. That someone had to be her.

22

Five Years Ago

The warmth of Asgard offered a welcome reprieve after their long moons about Midgard. Here, the sun warmed Sif’s face, and she let her hair hang loose, relishing the light. Thor, of course, claimed they fought to bring this bounty to all of Midgard, but Sif couldn’t see how slaying trolls and jotunnar and draugar would banish the mist.

The Thunderers walked the road toward the royal hall of Valaskjalf side by side, save for the prince, who led. Men and women cheered their passing, some offering fruits or sweetmeats. The latter, Geri accepted, stuffing her face and letting juice drip down her chin.

Sif snickered and shook her head. “Wild dog.”

Geri sucked down more juice. “Bitch.”

That drew another snort. “Do I truly need to point out the irony in such a claim coming from you?”

“I don’t know. Do you? If so, I’d say that says something about you.” The varulf offered Sif a hunk of meat.

She shook her head again. “We look travel-worn and disheveled enough as it is for an audience with the queen.”

Geri shrugged, then licked her fingers. “You mean Mother.”

Yes, though it was so easy to forget that, as Odin’s adopted daughter, Geri thought of Frigg as her mother.

Above the hall, construction had begun on a tower that seemed made of silver. Sif shook her head in wonder. The sheer ostentation of the creation would leave a woman speechless. Why build such a thing, save as a beacon to reflect the light and announce Odin’s hall to all Asgard? As she drew closer, it became apparent the workers had set silver plates atop a stone foundation.

“Father ordered it built,” Geri said, obviously reading the look on her face.

Gate guards announced them as they drew nigh to the throne room. The royal hall was not unlike the great halls of mortal kings, save the ceilings rose ten times her height, supported by rafters of stone and silver-plated iron. Massive statues warded the outside of the hall, and others, smaller but still three or four times her size, lined the long stretch back to the thrones themselves. Sif had come here only but a few times, and always, the long walk left her stomach rumbling like butterflies flitted about inside.

Four years ago, she had met Thor here, after his apple ceremony. That was when he had formed the Thunderers, and she had begged the prince for a place on his team. And for reasons he never explained, he accepted her.

Frigg, elegant and graceful, sat upon one throne, legs crossed and arms gripping the armrests. Her smile at Thor’s return seemed so controlled Sif might have almost doubted the woman cared had she not known better. The queen hid her emotions, always. A woman could learn a lot from her, she supposed.

“At long last you return to us, my son,” Frigg said. “Word has reached us of your many victories across Midgard. I hear you even felled a jotunn.”

“Two of them, mother.” Thor swept a glorious bow, turning to flash his brilliant smile at every member of the court. “One I decapitated with his own axe.” He pointed a finger at a skald. “Be certain to include that detail in the tellings!” Thor chuckled. “Glorious, I tell you.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Indeed. And”—Thor turned, smiling at Sif for a brief moment that sent the butterflies into a rampage—“I could not have accomplished nigh so much without my companions. Most notably, Sif Hermodsdotter. She has fought bravely beside me and even slew trolls with her own hands. As such, I request you grant her a reward fitting for such deeds.”

By the Tree! Was he saying what it sounded like? Sif’s legs turned to water. All she could do was focus her energy on not collapsing in the middle of the great hall.

It wouldn’t do to seem too eager. Of course, everyone wanted an apple. To live forever in youth and health, stronger and faster than any other person? No greater prize existed. But then, a great many Aesir fought, bled, and oft as not, died trying to prove themselves worthy.

“You mean you think the girl deserves an apple of Yggdrasil,” Frigg said.

“Indeed.”

Ten thousand questions raced through Sif’s mind. Why did Thor speak now? Did he feel aught more than friendship for her? Or was it purely a reward for her actions as he said? Or did he fear losing her in battle? And if so, did that fear belie some deeper emotion between them? No. No, she could not dare to hope such a thing. Could she?

One did not dabble with princes. Naught good came from such liaisons. She knew. She had learned it already.

The queen spread her hands and leaned forward, locking Sif’s eyes with her own.

Right. The queen of Asgard was looking at her. At her. Oh fuck.

“So, shieldmaiden,” Frigg said, “do you believe yourself worthy of such an honor? Would you accept eternal life, knowing it meant denying it to another?”

Sif’s mouth opened and a squeak came out. Fuck. How did you even answer a question like that? Was she the most worthy person in all the World for immortality? That sounded like the most pompous claim she’d ever heard—and she spent all her days beside Thor. Much as she adored him, the prince had pride the size of the World Serpent. She tried again. Another damn squeak.

“Oh, come now, Mother!” Thor bellowed. “Are such ceremonies truly necessary when your own son vouches for the woman’s honor and prowess? I say to you she deserves it.”

Did he love her? It sounded like he did. By the Tree! Her heart was beating so hard against her ribs it would probably start to echo through the hall. Her fingers twitched, unable to still themselves. Was she ever this tongue-tied in Gylfi’s hall? No. Not even close. “I … am honored.” Wonderful. She sounded like a mouse in a hall designed to carry sound hundreds of feet.

Thor strode over and slapped her on the back, hard enough to send her stumbling forward. “You see! She admits she deserves it.”

She forced a chuckle as she caught her balance, trying not to look a damned fool before the queen. His mother. His mother! Sif grinned. Like a fool. Oh fuck. Just let the whole damn hall collapse and bury her now.

Frigg turned her hand over in a gesture that sent someone scrambling away toward the back of the hall. “Very well. The petition for an apple is granted. Sif Hermodsdotter shall be welcomed into the ranks of the immortals.”

The ceremony felt like a dream, a ritual happening to someone else as she watched. Men and women blew upon gilded horns at dawn, heralding her arrival as though she were a goddess herself. Sif supposed that was the idea.

She wore a dress of elegant blue silk, imported from Miklagard, shimmering and sleek. She rarely wore dresses anymore. It always felt like trying too hard.

Her parents were off fighting against the Serkland Caliphate, so, of those she truly cared for, only Thor and the rest of the Thunderers attended. Off in the wings she had spotted Aunt Sigyn, but they weren’t close. And so, alone, she walked the long hall to where Frigg waited, holding a basket with a single golden apple.

The queen spoke long of the duty and honor now bestowed upon her, of the need to always remain worthy of that honor, to become a symbol to those who remained mortal, out in the cold. And when at last Sif’s hand closed around that apple—warm and pulsing faintly—it felt the hand of another.

One did not eat the apple in the main hall. She had heard it would drive her into fits of delirium, euphoria, and sexual arousal unlike aught she had ever experienced. People talked about it, especially the last bit, and shared stories of what they imagined it was like.

And then it was over. Frigg waved a hand, the gathered crowd cheered, and their ranks broke as they went to mingle among themselves, laughing and drinking. Many raised toasts in her honor. As she drifted around the crowd, several men offered to help her sate herself after she tasted the apple. Sif tried to keep a straight face at each.

Thor was talking to Gna, one of Frigg’s ladies, who giggled into her palm. Sif scowled at the woman. What were they talking about? With the tumult of the celebration, she couldn’t make out the words but from the look on that bitch’s face …

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she turned roughly. “Aunt Sigyn.”

“Congratulations, Sif.”

Sif smiled as politely as she could manage, casting another look back at Thor. That wanton bitch was leading him away, out of the royal hall. Who the fuck did they think they were fooling? A blind man could have seen what they intended.

“It’s hard, sometimes,” Sigyn said, “when those closest to us cannot see what lies right in front of them. You have to decide whether it’s best to give over what does not lie in your urd, or whether to step forward, custom be damned, and claim it. Eternity is a long time to live in regret.”

Sif favored her with a withering scowl. The woman always knew more than she had any right to and seemed to think that gave her permission to stick her nose in other’s affairs. “I do not seek counsel at the moment, aunt.”

Sigyn opened her mouth, then shut it with a too-knowing smile. Bitch. “Sif, you know the Vanir had a tradition in such times. The recipient of the apple could request to spend the night with anyone she chose as a part of the honor, and, it was all but forbidden for anyone to refuse.” Sigyn cast a glance at Thor and Gna as they reached a doorway. “There is precedence for a request if you don’t let it slip through your fingers.”

Could she do that? Just walk up to the prince and ask him to lay with her? She snorted and turned away from Sigyn, scowling as Thor left with Gna. Let him stick his cock wherever he fucking wanted. It was naught to her, and she would not go begging for his attention.

She cast about the hall, until at last settling on Geri, talking to her brother and keeping some distance away from the other guests.

Sif shoved her way over to them, then pulled up short in front of Geri. “Is it half so … intense as the stories say?”

Geri glanced at her brother, shrugged, and they both nodded. “I took three men to my bed that day. So did Freki.”

Her brother growled. “Fuck you, Geri.”

Sif’s stomach hurt. Even the idea of eating the apple sounded bitter. This ought to have been the happiest, most glorious day of her life. Instead, she held Geri’s gaze a moment, then grabbed her brother’s wrist and pulled him away.

She couldn’t bear to look at whatever expression Geri cast upon her, but she could all but feel Freki silently laughing. At least until he looked at her. Then he stroked her cheek.

The apple’s exotic, bittersweet taste coursed through her, crashing over her senses like a thunderstorm fit to rend the sky. And it passed like a fever dream.

Freki lay atop her, caressing her and pushing inside her with more control than she’d have thought any varulf could manage. Maybe this was their friendship.

And that was bitter too.

Waves of lust barraged her, her loins pounding, begging for release that would not come. She needed it so badly she thought she’d die. And only wanted it from the one man she couldn’t have. So like some whore she turned to anyone else.

Tears welled in her eyes. “Harder,” she said.

Freki grunted and began to pump more aggressively at her hips.

“Harder,” she demanded. “Hurt me!”

And when she pushed him hard enough, he did.

It didn’t help.

In the end, she lay on her back, panting and spent. Her body sated over and over. And her heart hollow.

23

The ancient tower stood empty.

“Vofuth!” Sigmund shouted.

No answer. Not from the ruin, nor anywhere around it.

“Where have you wandered, old man?” Sigmund mumbled.

Fitela snorted. “We do not need the hermit. We have a plan. We were the ones who brought down Gylfi and turned Wolfsblood’s fellow kings against him. We destroyed his varulf pack, you and I. Have you not the courage to see this through without some Mist-mad wanderer looking over your shoulder?”

Sigmund could not stop the growl that built in his chest, rumbling outward as the wolf wakened. “You dare question my courage?”

Fitela froze, then fell back a step and lowered his head. “Forgive my hasty words, uncle. I …”

Sigmund launched himself forward before he knew he meant to and hefted Fitela off the ground by each arm. “Who leads this pack, boy?”

Now his nephew glared. “I follow you in all things, uncle.”

Sigmund tightened his grasp, drawing a slight grunt of pain from Fitela. Finally, he dropped the young man and backed away, then raised a finger in warning. “I know you wish to honor your mother by avenging her father. But Volsung was my father as well, and more, you cannot imagine the horrors I suffered at Wolfsblood’s hands. The depravity and torment he put me through. I watched my brothers die before me—terrible deaths.”

“I know this, uncle.”

Sigmund shook his head. “Knowing a thing is not the same as living it. To hear of it is not the same as to taste the fear. Smell the blood. To watch, helpless, as those you love die in agony and terror.” He strode from the tower ruins back into the marsh.

No, he did not need Vofuth, though the old man’s counsel had proved wise time and again. He had offered the comfort of knowing one more person was on their side. But Fitela had a point—Sigmund had done enough on his own. And if Vofuth was absent, still he could finish this on his own as well.

Vern and Carr and all the others—he owed them that.

24

Sixteen Years Ago

Waves of pain hit Sigmund, waking him and warning him not to open his eyes. He did so anyway, then promptly retched, spewing filth over his mail. Blood from his broken nose had crusted over his lips and jaw, flaking as he moved.

It took several moments of blinking to clear his vision.

“You’re awake,” Vern said.

Sigmund groaned and looked around. He and his five brothers were in the woods. Chains around their ankles bound them, attached to stakes driven into a fallen tree trunk. Sigmund groaned. What the fuck had happened?

No sign of anyone else around.

Grunting, Sigmund grasped the stake as best he could—most of it was deep in the wood—and tugged.

Carr snorted. “You can imagine we tried that already, big brother.”

Sigmund glowered and gave it over. He could not even get his whole palm around the damn stake.

“Our sister pled for our lives,” Vern said. “This was the result.” Sigmund’s brother looked sallow. The arrow had been removed from his arm, but no one had bound the wound. Without aid, he was like to die within a day. Vern himself had his good hand clamped over the wound, for the limited benefit that would offer.

Seeing his brother like that … oh gods! Father! Odin help them now.

He blew out a long breath. They were all looking at him: the eldest, and he was meant to save them.

Damn. Sigmund braced his feet against the trunk, grasped the chain with both hands, and pulled. The fucking thing didn’t budge a hair. If only he had Gramr. She’d have cut through the trunk with ease. And where was his precious runeblade? Had Wolfsblood claimed it for himself?

His brothers followed his lead, save for Vern, each of them grasping the chains and pulling—and with no more avail than he had found. Most of them bore wounds as well, though Vern’s looked the most grievous.

Finally, Sigmund gave over any attempt to dislodge the stake. He needed an alternative tactic. For a long time he sat, but no idea held the slightest hope of success. Perhaps that was the true torture Wolfsblood had thought up for them—that they would sit here in despair, waiting to starve, watching Vern expire before them. And when that happened, they would be unable to even grant him rest in a pyre.

Sigmund sighed. When he looked again, Vern seemed to have fallen asleep.

“Brother! Vern!”

His younger brother stirred, opened an eye, and groaned.

“You must stay awake. I … I will think of something. All is not yet lost.”

Despite Sigmund’s words, the day dragged on.

Night fell, and still, no workable plan had come to him. The mist grew thicker and thicker. If they kept breathing it, they would fall to Mist-madness before starving. No matter how he turned, every path before them held naught but darkness. A swift death on the battlefield would have proved a mercy to any of them.

A low snarl rang out through the woods. All the brothers, even Vern, sat bolt upright. Staring, searching for a sign of what predator had made that sound.

But in the forest, at night, Sigmund could make out but a few feet in front of him. It was dark as the shadows of Svartalfheim, and whatever stalked them was well out of sight.

A long howl erupted from the forest, as if fleeing from the gates of Hel.

“Dire wolf,” Colborn said.

“No.” Sigmund still searched the woods for any sign. “Varulf, I think.”

As if in answer, a massive wolf trod forward, all black fur and grim fangs. And eyes that held too much wisdom.

Siggeir Wolfsblood—because he was said to have conquered a pack of varulfur. Except, maybe he had not conquered them at all. Maybe he had cowed them, as one of them. This wasn’t King Siggeir, though—it was a bitch. Wolfsblood himself had not had the courage to face Father on the battlefield and now perhaps lacked the stones to even come and end this himself. And so he’d sent a woman to do it.

“Come on then,” Sigmund said. “Come to me and let us have done.”

The wolf looked to him and snarled, showing off teeth almost as long as a finger. This beast was larger even than a dire wolf.

“Come to me!” Sigmund shouted. He would not fear this bitch. He would meet death proud and on his feet. He rose, straining once again against the manacles binding his feet.

The she-wolf continued to pace around the trunk, watching them each.

“B-brother,” Carr said. “I do not think it wise to—”

“Fight me, you wretched bitch!” They might all die this night, but if they met such an urd with courage, perhaps they could avoid being dragged down to meet Hel. Valkyries came for the truly brave, and, if naught else, Sigmund could see to it his brothers died bravely. “You think we fear you? You filthy beast, we are men! Even bound we will—”

The varulf surged forward. Her teeth sank into Vern’s throat. With a savage twist, she tore out a huge chunk of flesh, showering Sigmund in blood and gore.

“No!”

The varulf jerked her head again, and Vern’s blood now flew into Sigmund’s open mouth. The beast chomped down twice before swallowing. And then she bit again, feasting on Vern’s corpse before their eyes.

Sigmund lunged forward, but the chains jerked him to a stop. She was just out of his reach. “Bitch! Fiend! I will send your soul to Hel!”

Her shoulder’s convulsed as if she laughed. And then she continued the macabre feast. Bones snapped under her jaws. She tore off an arm and gnawed on it. She ripped out his entrails and flung them at Colborn, who had begun to tremble and mumble in horror.

“Do not look away!” Sigmund commanded. “Do not give her the satisfaction of your fear! Face her!”

But it went on and on, until naught but charnel remained of Sigmund’s beloved brother. The she-wolf turned to meet Sigmund’s gaze. She lapped blood off her snout with an overgrown tongue.

And then she trod off into the woods, leaving them in darkness once again, now saturated with the stench of death. Sigmund fell back against the trunk. And he cursed Siggeir Wolfsblood.

And he cursed himself for his failures.

25

On a grassy hill, a cluster of standing stones formed a circle, out beneath the open sky. Those who did not know better might have thought someone truly lay buried within the mound, as the ancestors had done long ago, before pyres became the urd of all. Runes marked the stones, telling of the great deeds of those remembered here.

Odin’s family. His father, Borr, the jarl famed for bringing peace back to the tribes after the Njarar War. When Odin imagined his ancestors, it was his father’s face he saw looking back at him, judging his actions. Odin ran his fingertips over those runes, knowing it would not actually help him feel closer to the man but unable to stop himself from doing the same as he ever did on returning to Asgard.

Borr, if his soul yet existed in any form recognizable, would not know his son any longer. Odin had come so much farther than any of the Aesir before him, so far, in fact, that those who were gone could not have understood his actions no matter how hard they tried. Not even Father.

Nor Odin’s mother, Bestla. The stones commemorated her too, for she had been strong and brave and wise. And most of all, compassionate. She had come from the Athra, originally, and Annar was her nephew.

Then there was Ve. Poor, lost Ve, who had begged Odin to end his tortured existence. If Odin closed his eyes, the Sight would let him—force him to—live through it again and again. As Gungnir pierced Ve’s breast. It was like a blade through his own heart.

And then Vili. His death had meant even less than the others. Odin patted that stone too.

All those he had loved were gone from him.

All you build will turn to ash, your children shall die, and your dreams shall burn.

Odin had not yet lost his children. He would not lose them. Yes, he had sent Thor into danger but armed with the greatest weapon at his disposal. And the varulf twins—they could take care of themselves. Varulfur who had tasted the fruit of Yggdrasil were probably among the hardest beings to kill in all Midgard.

Finally, he rose.

Soon, he would leave for Miklagard. Freyja’s book had not answered all his questions—most of it was speculation based on second- and third-hand reports. It had not answered all the questions, but it had posed a few of its own. She had suspected some truth in the legends of the draugar ruling Miklagard, except she had posited the name nachzehrer. Draugar sometimes consumed the flesh and blood of the living in rage or perhaps in an attempt to absorb their pneuma. These nachzehrer were said to drink blood to sustain themselves on that pneuma. And they all but worshipped the blood of Kvasir, one of their progenitors.

He rubbed his head. What did it all mean?

If Freyja was right, after the mists came, each civilization struggled to survive. And some turned to old powers now given new life, risen from dark slumbers to wake in a darkened world. Had Miklagard then been founded by these very immortals? It would explain how any empire of man had survived while the tribes and petty kingdoms of the North Realms continued to falter, falling toward oblivion. To combat the mist, some had turned to equally abhorrent powers of the Otherworlds. And still, he was not certain he could blame those people.

He felt it, as the girl approached. Still with that sensual walk, a pale imitation of the grace Vanr women like Freyja had mastered. Odin did not turn as Sjöfn climbed the hill to meet him.

“My king?”

Odin patted the memorial for Vili once again. “You must have been a very young child when he died.”

“Who?”

“My brother.”

“I … was born not long after you dissolved the tribes.”

Odin flinched. Girl was barely eighteen winters, then. So young, and it made what he had to do with her a bit harder. A bit. She should not have come to disturb his reverie, though. Not in this place. “What do you wish here?”

“You spoke as though you intend to depart soon, my king.”

“And?”

“And I … You have been known to be gone for long years at a time.”

“And?”

Sjöfn cleared her throat. “Perhaps, if my youth pleases you … I should keep it in prime for your return. Perhaps even, I might be able to help fulfill a purpose as Idunn once did.”

Odin turned on her. So that was Lodur’s play? Trying to steal position as guardian of the apples away from Annar? A weak move. Did Lodur honestly believe Odin would oust his trusted cousin from his role because he’d given Odin somewhere to wet his cock? If so, Odin had overestimated the man. “If you think yourself worthy for an apple, you must present your case to the queen. Frigg decides such things these days.” And was not like to grant such a boon to a simple handmaid, much less one so young. To say naught of how much Frigg would appreciate hearing the girl had fucked her husband.

“The queen? But you …”

Odin shrugged. “I what?”

“You … we … in the library!” She blushed. She actually blushed!

Poor, fool girl. He shook his head. “We fucked? Sure. I enjoyed it, and I hope you did too. But you weren’t that good. You think I give an apple of immortality to every woman I lay with? The whole World Tree would be bare!” He advanced on her. “You insult every man and woman who has bled and died for a chance at an apple. You think bending over a table is in any way commiserate with risks they take, with the sacrifices they have made? If you truly want to be a whore, I’ll give you silver from Valland.” He spread empty hands before her face. “Not gold. Not a golden apple.”

Sjöfn backed away, mouth working around words that would not come. She ducked her head as if to hide the moisture welling in her eyes, then ran from the hill.

Odin watched her go, then slapped one of the stones. Damn it!

Why did he have to hurt so many people? Was that too a manifestation of urd? Or was he, in the end, just a monstrous arse? Perhaps she did deserve shame for her petty and foolish attempt at an apple. Or rather, Lodur deserved it, for putting her up to it. If he did not tell Frigg, she might remain in the queen’s service. And would that be a boon?

Perhaps her shame would ensure she took no further steps out of line. She had, after all, suffered enough for what she had done. On the other hand, if she stayed at Valaskjalf, sooner or later, Lodur might try to use her again.

But that brought Odin back to the same end for which he had first taken the girl. It was better to walk into a trap he knew Lodur had set than allow the man to work in secret and actually cause harm. Let him act freely then, until he tied the noose around his own neck. Frigg was savvy enough to keep an eye on the girl and surely knew who her relatives were.

Leaving Odin to focus on Miklagard for the moment. One day, of course, he would need to deal with all those Frigg warned him of. One day, he would separate true friends from the schemers.

One day, before the end of all things.

26

Eighteen Years Ago

In the northernmost reaches of Kvenland, one could see an iridescent sky not unlike the parade of color found in the Astral Realm. Winter nights stretched on and on, the sun gracing the sky but a few hours each day. Here, in the farthest reaches of the North Realms, Odin had met wizards and seers, had taken council from nixes—called here näkki—and had even met the spirit bear.

None had held the answers he sought. Some, yes, knew chaos had begun to stir and thus foretold the coming battle, though they did not know it as he did—as Ragnarok. More dear to his heart still, none of them could guide him to Alfheim. In his years of wandering, he had practiced oft enough projecting into the Astral Realm, true, but from there no clear road led to the World of Sun where he had banished the Vanir. Where he had, trapped by his urd, cast his own love, Freyja.

Blind light … and torment … Leave this …

Odin ignored Audr. In their many years together, the wraith had surely learned one thing about Odin—he did not give up. Besides, the wraith’s very existence was eternal torment. He would not have found peace anywhere Odin trod.

Passing through the sparse woods, snow crunched under his heels. This far north, it never melted and few trees survived it. Those that persisted here were twisted, wretched things that refused to surrender to the inevitable. Much like Odin himself.

At last he came to a river flowing swiftly enough only the banks had frozen. The lights overhead danced and swayed so entrancingly one might mistake them for the liosalfar who populated Alfheim. For all he knew, these lights did shine from Alfheim. Odin planted Gungnir in the snow at the river’s edge, then pulled the ring out from inside a pouch and rolled it around in his weathered hands.

The valkyrie Svanhit had given him the ring that he might call upon her for a single request. For more than a decade he had delayed, hoping to save the boon she owed him for when no other options remained before him. But then, the spirit bear had been the last option he could see, as yet. His own prescient visions from the Sight offered him glimpses of the future—if it wasn’t the past, present, or a metaphor—but rarely a clear course. They came to him in jumbles that forced him to make blind moves and simply hope for the best while, with each passing winter, Ragnarok drew one step closer. Like a man stalked by a cave lion in the woods, Odin fled from the future, looking every which way and knowing it drew nigh, yet unable to see it clearly.

And now, he had slain his own brother. Again. So little remained to him, and he had naught left to lose.

Much as he was loath to collect what was owed him prematurely, a boon meant naught when saved beyond its own usefulness.

Finally, Odin cupped the ring in both hands and whispered to it. “Svanhit. Come to me, valkyrie. Odin calls you to fulfill your vow.”

No answer was immediately forthcoming, so Odin settled down on the riverbank to watch the sky.

Nestled beneath an evergreen, legs folded under him, Odin glowered. It was difficult, what he attempted, projecting into the Penumbra that he might cross Midgard and watch his son. He knew Tyr would watch over Thor, and yet he feared for the boy, tasting war for the first time. Odin’s connection to Thor made him easier to track, true, but every projection was fraught with peril, even discounting Audr.

We have an accord …

Which was not to say the wraith would not seize control of Odin’s body given the chance, given a single moment of weakness, of faltering will. One could never trust the dead.

We are all dead …

Yes, and on that, Odin had mused long years, unraveling the double meanings of Audr’s mantra. Through Yggdrasil, the souls of the dead were reborn again into Midgard, meaning Odin—and everyone else—had lived many lifetimes. Moreover though, it now seemed nigh unto every vaettir was some form of transmogrified shade, either reborn much like men or otherwise changed. The true nature of the Spirit Realm yet eluded him, but, as Audr had hinted, it seemed even some of the greatest powers in existence had once lived as men. Or women, as the case was.

Icy wind stung his cheeks and eyelids. A layer of rime had settled over his form as he sat, which returning to his body, he now felt.

He did not sleep, exactly, but the dancing lights drew him into reverie that blurred the passage of time. So much so that the plod of light feet before him jolted him into wakefulness and sent him leaping up to grab Gungnir.

Svanhit’s blonde hair seemed to shimmer in the night, much as her golden armor glittered. The woman moved with supernatural grace and a sensuality that belied the truth he had once seen for himself—she could best most any warrior in single combat and had nigh to bested Odin himself. No sign remained of the valkyrie’s brown wings. And oddly, her face had changed a hair as if … she had aged.

Odin released his spear but did not quite lower his guard. This woman had, after all, fought him before, and he did not know with absolute certainty that her promise to him truly bound her. He held up her ring between his thumb and forefinger. “I was not so certain you would heed my call.”

“Because you do not understand. My kind is trapped by our oaths, much as we are bound to both our sisters and our master.”

“And who is your master?”

Svanhit quirked a mischievous smile. “I cannot tell you that.”

“Even were I to command it?”

She laughed, flashing white teeth. “I am forbidden to speak of it, and my oath to you does not absolve me of prior bonds.”

“What bonds?”

She held out her hand.

Odin glanced at the ring. It was worked so elegantly into the likeness of a swan and wrought from orichalcum, the most valuable material in the World. Freyja had once told him that orichalcum could be infused with a soul and thus imbued with power, assuming one was willing to so pervert and torment another being. After a last look at it, he dropped it back into her hand.

The valkyrie’s shoulders seemed to loosen a little, and she replaced the ring on her finger, letting out a tiny sigh of relief as she did so. “The ring binds me to my master, though I answer more often to the leader of my sisters.”

“Who is?”

“Her name is Skögul, though I doubt you truly called me here to ask me that.”

Odin grunted then rubbed his beard. “No, I did not.” He had called her to ask what the valkyries, harbingers of war and death, knew of Ragnarok. That was the question he ought to have asked. “I must reach Alfheim.”

Svanhit pursed her lips and spread her hands in a mockery of sorrow. “I cannot take the living to any Spirit World, Odin Borrson. That is forbidden.”

Of course it fucking was. And he had saved a boon from this strange creature for years just so she could offer up troll shit. “Do you truly think I will hold your oath fulfilled if you refuse to do aught to aid me? Return the ring, valkyrie, and I will keep it for centuries if I must.”

Svanhit frowned and closed her fist around the ring while taking a step back.

“So your oath is worth so little to you? You would withdraw it?” She wanted her ring back because … Because she seemed to need it. “You won’t live for centuries without that. Without the ring, you have begun to age like a mortal.”

All of her earlier joviality had slipped from her face. Indeed, her eyes held ice that seemed apt to chill him to the bone.

“Give me aught I can use, or else return the ring, valkyrie.”

Svanhit scowled. Then she slumped her shoulders. “There are ways between the worlds, but I am unable to show them to you. I don’t know what I can …”

“Speak.”

“Odin, I don’t think you understand quite what—”

“Tell me!”

Svanhit shut her eyes a moment and shook her head. “The … the dead know many things. Most especially those who delved the Art in life.”

Hel. She would have him summon the dead? “Evoking the dead is dangerous and not like to produce one who can answer my question.”

Svanhit faltered again.

“Speak, valkyrie.”

“I … Sometimes tongues wag of the first sorceress, the one from whom all other practitioners of seid descend, even long before the days of Halfdan the Old. They called her Svarthofda.”

“And you know how to summon her?”

This is unwise …

“I …”

Odin folded his arms. “Can she tell me how to reach Alfheim?”

“More like than not, yes.”

Ancient practitioners … Svarthofda … Vilmeid … Vidolf … All dead …

Odin strode forward and gripped Svanhit by the shoulder. “You will teach me her sign. When I have summoned this dead witch, then, and only then, shall I hold your oath fulfilled.”

Svanhit worked her lips a moment. Then she sighed and nodded.

27

Two days beyond Vörnir’s holding, they had reached the wall. It rose from the ground like a part of the mountains, the very end of the World, separating Midgard from Utgard. They had followed it some time before finding the first of the breaches—this a crack running from higher up than she could see and ending at ground level, nigh to seven foot across at the widest point. Even a large jotunn might squeeze through the passage that twisted and writhed and looked apt to send debris tumbling down.

Staring at that gap, Sif knew, deep in her heart, she was looking into the void. Beyond that wall lay chaos. Supreme and terrible, seeping into their Realm through breaches like this one.

And so Thor had pitched a camp for them, and Vörnir had set to work. The jotunn had brought with him a horse nigh to the size of a mammoth, and together they drew behind them massive chunks of stone far larger than anyone had a right to move at once.

Thor watched the jotunn crack and mortar those rocks. The prince’s fingers drummed on Mjölnir as if he considered taking it up and striking down this creature they now worked with. Given they had never fought a jotunn of such size and strength, would a hammer blow even fell Vörnir?

Rubbing her arms, Sif drifted over to stand beside the prince. “You’re worried he can actually complete it in one winter.”

Thor grunted, then shook his head. “No. Of course not. No one could do that. Completely impossible.”

“He has that monstrous horse …”

“Hmmm. Maybe related to Sleipnir, who knows. Father said Loki told him other kinds of horse once lived—some with wings, or horns, or the like.”

Sif sighed. “You avoid the question.”

Thor spread his hands. “We had to make a bargain, Sif. He clearly only had one thing on his mind.”

“Like you were so much better! One look at all those tits and trenches and your tongue was practically hanging out of your damned mouth. He could have asked you for Yggdrasil itself, and you’d have agreed if it meant getting to plant your cock in that jotunn bitch’s—”

“What is your problem, exactly?” Thor demanded. “It’s not like you couldn’t have fucked anyone you wanted in there.”

Not anyone. She opened her mouth to chastise him but couldn’t quite form the words. Everything that went through her mind sounded petty or weak or foolish. What was her problem? That she hated seeing him with other women, much less with a fucking jotunn? As if she had some right to complain.

Finally, she huffed. “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you!”

He threw up his hands. “Why would I need you to tell me if I already knew?”

“Because you’re a damned fool!”

His face darkened. “I am your prince.”

“Then excuse me, my prince. I think I need some air!” She spun and stormed away.

“We’re atop a mountain,” he shouted after her. “Any more air and you’d be flying!”

Sif stiffened but refused to acknowledge that. Instead, she walked to the edge of the wall, inspecting the jotunn’s work. Whatever Thor said, Vörnir made too much progress too quickly. He would accomplish the deed and then Thor would have to admit he had promised something he could never deliver. Besides the shame of that, what Otherworldly forces might a jotunn bring to bear against an oath breaker? She wasn’t certain she even wanted to know.

A thick layer of ice coated the wall in most spots, often hanging down from jutting outcroppings as icicles. The Midgard Wall would stop an army, yes, but more and more jotunnar had passed into Midgard in the past decades. Sif stared up but could not begin to make out the top from here, even though they had already climbed above the thickest of the mist.

And from atop the wall? How far could a woman see?

Certainly, she’d be able to see into Utgard and much more clearly than she would by simply passing the breach.

She blew out a long breath that frosted the air. Well … someone needed to see what they were guarding against. It may as well be her.

She had no real ice pick, but they did have crampons, and those would help. With her supernatural strength and stamina, she could do this. She returned to her bedroll and dug through her satchel, pulled out the crampons, then trod back to the wall.

With tingling fingers, she tested a slight overhang. Slick and slippery. This was a bad idea. And yet, she could not quite let go of it. She heaved herself upward, caught another handhold, and dug her crampon into the ice. How far up did it rise?

Maybe the Vanir knew the answer, but no one left on Midgard seemed to. Nor did it matter. She could do this.

Sif’s fingers slipped from the icy ledge, and she screamed. Her body dragged along the wall, ripping her nails. She pitched backward, clinging on with one hand, while the other bloody one hung free. Far, far below her, the mist, like looking down upon the clouds, stretched out forever. How high had she climbed?

Hundreds of feet, for certain. If she let go now, she’d break every bone in her immortal body. Not even the apple could possibly save her from such a fall. So why had she felt so damned compelled to go up here?

Heart pounding so loudly it drowned out all other sound, she flailed at the wall. Her blood-slicked fingers couldn’t seem to grab purchase.

She looked up. Another two dozen feet, maybe, and then she’d reach a ledge. Maybe even the top.

Drawing upon what remained of her stamina, she heaved herself upward. Her hand wrapped around another outcropping, and she pulled, half yanking herself up, half scrambling up with crampons against the wall.

On and on she climbed until finally her hand slapped the top of the ledge. One hand, then the other.

Just a little more …

She pulled her torso over the top, then rolled the rest of the way up, collapsing onto her back and gasping down great breaths of freezing air. So hard to breathe up here …

More than aught else, she wanted to sleep, but that invited the deathchill. Groaning, she rolled onto her knees and forced herself to stand. She had come here to see this, so let her see.

She now stood high above the mist, looking down on all the World. The Midgard Wall ran like a serpent, winding north and south as far as the eye could see. All ice and stone, like the Vanir had somehow grown a glacier. Unlike manmade works, it lacked an even proper surface, the top of it formed from misaligned ice blocks all melded together.

A stiff wind sent her careening to her knees, scattering a dusting of snow over her. Sif clutched the ground for something to grab onto, but there was naught here. And had the wind blown the other way, she’d have flown right off the way she’d come. That thought sent her pulse pounding once again and forced her to crawl forward several paces.

At last she rose and trod—slowly—toward the far side, dozens of feet away. She dared not draw too nigh to the edge, but even from this close, she could see down. As on the Midgard side, mist blanketed the land, obscuring any view of it. However many jotunnar lurked down there, she could not count or judge them through such a cloud.

Above the mist though, Utgard stretched on and on. A vast, frozen wasteland without end, broken by icy peaks that seemed to rise as high or higher than these mountains. She did not have many answers here, but she’d found one, even if to a question she had not thought to ask—Utgard was at least as large as Midgard. The middle world surrounded by the vaster and more terrible outer world of chaos. And if they failed to repair this wall …

Then perhaps the wasteland before her was the urd of all Midgard. So, either Vörnir failed, and they faced the wilds of Utgard encroaching into their world ever more swiftly, or he succeeded and held the Thunderers as oath breakers, thus damning them to the worst urds in the World.

Geri was right. A woman could not help but feel insignificant up here.

Sif could not tear her eyes away from the expanse beyond.

28

Five Years Ago

Sif threw back the drinking horn and emptied it in one swig, then tossed the damned thing aside. Her head would not stop throbbing. Her backed ached. Her loins … The memory of begging Freki to hurt her kept running through her mind, no matter how much she drank. The way she’d goaded him stung more than any actual pain he’d caused. Fuck! Stop thinking about it!

The damned apple made her more resilient to the drink. Certainly, she ought to have been in worse shape than she was.

The night meal had long since passed, and the hall had grown dark, lit by a few braziers. That and moonlight, pouring in from a series of slotted windows thirty feet above, casting the hall in a crisscross of light and shadow. Some warriors remained, despite the late hour, drinking and talking. They always stayed here, some almost until dawn. Odin’s table was never empty, his guests never turned away, though the king rarely showed himself.

Across the feast hall, Geri sat, watching her. Sif kept her eyes down, trying not to acknowledge the other woman. She didn’t need sympathy, and she sure as fuck didn’t want to talk about it. Not any of it.

Funny. She knew better than to get involved with princes. She knew. That had been one of her most enduring lessons in Dalar, one she’d sworn never to forget. And somehow …

A slave brought her another drinking horn. They must have known it took a lot to sate an immortal in such a mood as her. Sif snatched it away from the girl without a glance and took another long swig. She sat with one leg over the bench, and one elbow resting on the table. As if any position might prove comfortable.

“Does it seem likely the bottom of that one will have more answers than the bottom of the last?”

Sif groaned, then looked up as Sigyn settled down on the bench before her. “I do not seek company.”

“A woman who lingers in the feast hall rather than her own chambers invites company. And on some level that means you seek it whether you realize that or not. So if you seek it, you have found it.”

Sif glared at the older woman a moment, then took another drink. Damned horn was already empty again.

Her aunt placed a hand upon her knee. “I understand what you’re going through, Sif. I truly do. You have two choices before you—act on your feelings, or else learn to kill them. Nurturing them in darkness, dwelling on them while doing naught, it will not avail you. This passion will eat you alive if you allow it.”

“What the fuck do you know of passion, old woman? You have lived with your man so long you cannot possibly remember what it was like to …” Sif groaned and shook her head, not even certain what she wanted to say. Her mind felt fuzzy. Maybe the mead was finally doing something. About fucking time.

Now Sigyn frowned and removed her hand. “Old woman? Who do you think you are, niece? I do not deny you have suffered in your life, but if you think you are the only one, you are sadly mistaken. You cannot imagine the hardships the Aesir went through to reach Asgard. How we watched so many of our brothers and sisters die out in the cold on the journey. How we fought and bled along the way.”

“Ancient history.” Sif tossed the horn aside again. “The cold? I might sympathize more had I lived here, rather than fostering in Dalar. In the damned cold you so revile.”

“Odin thought to teach you of the World.”

“Odin thought to solidify his alliance with Gylfi.”

Sigyn spread her hands. “So the mead has not fully deprived you of your wit, even if it has stripped you of your courtesy. It appears none of your experiences managed to teach you much of humility.”

Sif scoffed, then snorted. “Humility? I guess you’d know of that, yes? They say you were once considered quite the beauty.”

“Once? I haven’t aged … you don’t think I’m still beautiful?” Sigyn’s face faltered a moment like she was actually hurt.

Bah. Hardly Sif’s problem. “Please. You’ve been jealous of me from the moment I returned to court. My hair more golden and shimmering, my body more fit, my breasts more perfect. I’ve seen how you look at me!”

Sigyn rose, shaking her head. “I have never been jealous of you, niece. And maybe you think too much on your beauty. Perhaps that’s why it hurts so much now that it has failed you. And now, when I try to help you learn to use your brain instead of your tits—”

“You talk too much. Small wonder your father cast you aside as a babe. He must have known how much trouble you’d prove. If grandfather had not …”

Sigyn’s mouth dropped open, and she recoiled. The moment the words had left her mouth, Sif choked on them. Had she truly just said that? She tried to mouth an apology, but her aunt had already turned away.

Damn it. Sif needed another drinking horn.

A long groan escaped her, and she rolled over. Her mouth tasted like old sweat. The whole room stank of vomit. Where was she? Head spinning, Sif sat up, then wobbled and had to steady herself on the bed.

A private room. One of the chambers in Valaskjalf. An odd feathery softness under her palm drew her attention, and she lifted her hand. Golden hair was plastered to it. What in the gates of Hel? That was her hair. How had it … ?

Her head was cold.

She reached a trembling hand to her scalp. She ran shaking fingers along the back of her skull, rough with stubble. “Wha …?”

Oh gods. Oh fuck. Oh Hel.

Sif leapt from the bed, tripped, and slammed her knee onto the floor. She grunted in pain, then stumbled over to a metal mirror beside the wash basin. Barely daring to look, she rose and lifted the mirror. Turning it this way and that. Because what she saw had to be an illusion, a trick, a nightmare.

Her head was shaved all the way around. Bald as an old man.

Sif screamed.

29

In the snowy hills of Valland, Odin sat, staring to the east. Somewhere, far behind the curtain of snow, lay Miklagard. Another Realm of immortals, after a fashion.

Loki trod up the slope with slow, measured steps. Odin didn’t need to open his eyes to know his blood brother. He could feel the man. They were connected, perhaps forever.

Some souls were bound together, in lifetime after lifetime, struggling to get their lives right. All men were dead—save maybe Loki, who seemed to have passed every Era yet living, inexplicable as that sounded. But still, Odin had known him many times, of that he was certain.

Loki settled down beside him, snow crunching beneath him.

Now Odin did open his eyes, though he could make out little through the falling snow. In years past, he might have relished spending the evening thus, talking with his blood brother. But everything had changed when Odin had summoned Svarthofda. The unspoken and half-spoken recriminations had rent a chasm between Loki and him, one he might never again bridge. “I wonder, brother, what the flames showed you this time.”

Loki sighed and shook his head. “A king who, despite his love for his son, uses him as a pawn.”

“More than a pawn.”

“Is he? You send him on a mission he cannot possibly succeed at. The wall will fail, as it has been failing for long years now. Even could that jotunn be bargained with, Thor is not the man to head such negotiations.”

Odin rose, shaking the rime from his shirt, then brushing it from his breeches. “True enough. He lacks wisdom, but then, neither of us ever expected the wall to work. It will, however, make him stronger, more ready for what is coming. A motivation, we both know, has lain behind some of your own machinations, brother.”

Loki shook his head and motioned for Odin to follow him. Odin could refuse. But that would be petty and foolish, denying his own need for warmth out of some misguided desire to spite Loki. Odin liked to think he had moved beyond petty motivations, though sometimes doubt lingered. Always, doubts.

His blood brother trod down the slope to a shallow cave where, as predicted, a fire blazed. Loki sat before it roasting some small animal—a rat, perhaps. Given the scant game here, Odin would take it. Loki removed the spit and handed it to him. “I know what you face, making these blind moves in the hopes all your pieces finally line up.”

Odin picked at the animal’s flesh, searing his fingers. “I do not yet see enough.”

“No one possesses perfect prescience, Odin. Imagine the World as a tafl board, but you play against many opponents. You cannot see all the pieces and even your own pieces do not always respond as you wish. Your glimpses of the future give you forewarnings of some of the moves your opponents may make but rarely the strategies behind them.”

Odin pulled off a hunk of meat. “And how does one win such a game?”

“Maybe you cannot win.” Loki stared off into the flame. “Maybe the best that can be hoped for is a stalemate.”

“Restart the game? Wouldn’t that mean sacrificing my own pieces?”

“Most of them, yes.”

Odin bit down into the hot flesh, letting the juice run down his beard. The beast had little fat, just damn chewy muscle. After gnawing at it enough to swallow, he looked back at Loki. “Sometimes I understand you very little, brother. On one hand, you seem to offer recriminations against my using Thor; on the other, you admit that we both find ourselves forced to play this long game against our unseen opponents. What is a king to make of your conflicting advice, then?”

“This conflict, like so many, becomes a matter of perspective. Because you do not fully understand your own moves, you risk making them simply for the sake of making them while holding back from your people the import of the tasks before them.”

Odin spat out grease. “The more such conversations we have, the more blatant your hypocrisy becomes. You speak of withholding the true nature of Thor’s mission from him while you, in turn, concealed crucial truths from me for long years. You, the man who I took as my own brother, failed to play true with me.”

Loki leaned forward. “Disregarding for the moment whether my choice was right or wrong or necessary, where has it led us? Convinced my withheld truths represent a lie of omission, you cannot forgive me. How then, do you expect your son to forgive you when he learns the full scope of your schemes?”

Odin flinched. Indeed, Thor might never forgive him, though that did not change Odin’s situation. Loki, as usual, spoke wisdom. Sitting here, like this, Odin could almost forget the broken faith between them. He could almost reach back, across the years, to when Loki had been his closest brother and most trusted friend.

Almost.

“I will tell you one last time, brother. Do not go to Miklagard. Withdraw from your bargain with the dark smith however you are able. Neither this throne nor what actions you undertake in order to craft it will avail you well in the end.”

Odin warmed his hands over the fire. “We both know you did not leave your pregnant wife just to tell me this.”

“I leave her only because you give me no choice.”

“No! I have no choice, brother. I will finish the throne, and I will have my answers. And that means I need the blood of Kvasir, even if I have to take it from these nachzehrer.”

Loki shuddered now, then rubbed his forehead as if in pain. “In Miklagard, they hold another name: vampires.”

“You know of them.”

Loki nodded.

“Then you ought to accompany me. That is, after all, why you are here, is it not?”

“You will pay a price for this course, Odin.”

He waved that away. There was always a price to pay. Sometimes, you just had to pay it and keep going.

30

Eighteen Years Ago

The greater the ritual, the more power required to complete it and, unfortunately for the woman Odin had tied to the tree, power came from life. Odin had provoked the poor shieldmaiden into challenging him and, having overcome the Kvenlander, now had his sacrifice. To her credit, the warrior said naught as Odin traced glyphs in her blood, drawing on rock and ice.

Despite the chill, a sheen of sweat ran down Odin’s back and neck. The physical labor of it meant little, but perhaps the knowledge of his intent weighed on him. He pulled back his hat to mop his brow. Every joint ached these days.

Power has a price …

Since he could not well glower at the wraith inside him, Odin ignored Audr and resumed his work.

A flash of intuition gave him pause even before he heard the crunch of snow underfoot. Odin turned to look at Loki as his blood brother drew nigh, bundled in furs and bearing a sputtering torch.

Odin grunted. “You have come to counsel against this course, no doubt.”

Loki’s gaze darted to the prisoner before coming back to Odin’s. Those crystal blue eyes had once seemed to hold wisdom beyond all ken of Mankind, secrets and truths Odin had relied on above all others. In fairness, Loki still held such wisdom, but now Odin had seen beyond the Veil and he himself knew more of the Otherworldly than any vӧlva. “You speak as though your course has become set beyond all dissuading.”

That drew a snort. “It is. I will have my answers. So, unless your flames have told you how I might reach Alfheim while yet breathing, you have no right to interfere.”

Loki frowned. “Right? Brother, I came here for your benefit.”

“Oh?” Odin pointed to a bare stone he had not yet attended to. “Then by all means, help me finish this circle. Time is hard to judge in this land of enduring nights, but I think midnight must draw nigh.”

“You jest while courting darkness you do not understand. I would not turn to sorcery while any other course yet remained to me. Even death may be better than the malignancy you open yourself up to with the Art.”

Death is not so … pleasant …

Unable to see Audr, Odin glowered at Loki before resuming his work. “If you will not help, at least do not delay me further, brother.”

“Your desperation leads you to speak with scorn to those whom have done you no wrong.”

Not yet …

Odin stifled a groan. Some visions could not be forgotten. His hands, wrapped around Loki’s neck, squeezing. This man he had loved, even before his own brothers. Perhaps Loki did mean well, but no one would keep Odin from rejoining Freyja. Nor from winning Ragnarok. He would do both, and damn the cost.

Neither Loki nor the warrior said aught more while Odin finished and awaited midnight. His blood brother kindled a ring of small fires around the summoning circle, no doubt as much to keep the mist at bay as for light. Though the man refused to aid in the conjuring, Odin still appreciated the gesture.

He looked up at the sky. How was he to know the hour? Perhaps it did not truly matter. He blew out a long breath that frosted the air, then shut his eyes to steady himself. The will mattered more than aught else. With a strong enough will, most any vaettr could be commanded.

Opening his eyes, he began to chant in Supernal, the spirit tongue. The strange words tasted acrid and reverberated against the inside of his skull. The warrior began to squirm. Those not schooled in the Art might not see or understand it, but sometimes they could feel it when the Veil grew thin and a profound wrongness began to seep into Midgard. It was like a chill that would not pass, growing into a waking nightmare. For his victim, the true nightmare had not yet begun.

Odin could not afford to become distracted. He strode toward the Kvenlander. She raised her chin defiantly. Odin nodded at her courage. Then he slit the woman’s throat. Dark crimson dribbled down her neck in a thin waterfall that soon stained the snows.

The dead come …

Odin continued his evocation. On and on it went, until something foul began to strain against his will. He relaxed his eyes into the Sight, looking beyond the Veil. There, shades flitted about, lost and wailing, trapped outside the circle. It was meant for a particular ghost, be she now wraith or aught else.

The shieldmaiden’s own shade had fled her corpse, writhing in pain and confusion, finally giving in to the terror she had forestalled in life. Much as Odin pitied her, it was too late.

Loki crossed into the circle and stood some distance away from Odin, turning slowly as if afraid of what was coming. Could his blood brother see across the Veil? The Sight was different for all, and Loki’s seemed so very much tied to flames.

The woman’s corpse jerked. It coughed up blood.

“Svarthofda,” Odin said.

She sputtered, dribbling a stream of red over her lips. A sickly tongue darted out then and licked at that blood.

“Svarthofda,” Odin repeated, then knelt before the possessed corpse.

“You dare … command … me …” Her words came out clipped and aspirated, spewing blood and spittle that Odin chose to ignore.

“Tell me how to cross the worlds.”

“Gguck … ha!” The corpse chortled, licking up more of her own blood. That tongue was growing longer, pointed. “Die.”

“Sorceress. Tell me all your secrets.”

“All secrets … you have not so long …”

Odin snatched up her braid and jerked her head forward even as he pressed his will against the shade. “Speak, Svarthofda, for I am versed enough to cast you into farther Realms than even the Roil. You are ancient, and though the Lethe may have stolen memories, I know you yet remember enough.”

“Remember … gck. I remember … jotunnar born in mist in early days, wild … and wise … oh. They nurtured me, as I lay beneath them … and they made me … great.”

Odin struggled to keep his face impassive. The first sorceress seemed to be saying she had learned the Art from the jotunnar. That she had allowed many of them to fuck her until she at last began to fathom the truths of the chaos that engendered them. And why not? After all, the Art was vile … why should it not come first from the children of chaos?

Now he leaned in. “I care not what monstrosities plowed your trench in life, sorceress. Tell me of the worlds of the Spirit Realm.”

“I remember … nine worlds … bound to the World Tree … and between them the yawning void of chaos …”

“How do I cross that void?”

“Gguck … haha … there were powers standing … before the thrones of Fate … beholding night and her children …”

Odin scowled. “Wretched shade, do not force me to increase your suffering.”

“You too stood before the thrones of Fate … but knew them not.”

Loki knelt beside him, hand on his shoulder. “She means the Norns.”

“The tree stands above Urd’s well … They saw it … no doubt … when the war came … and Gullveig fell.”

How did this witch know aught of what had happened in Vanaheim? She had died ages before these events yet spoke of them with alarming acuity.

“Od’s girl is lost now …”

What? Was she … ? Odin snarled and slammed the corpse’s head against the tree. “How dare you, witch! You may not speak her name! Tell me! Tell me how to reach Alfheim! How? How do I find her?”

Loki pried him away. “Calm yourself, brother. Do not allow her to distract your focus. Your will is all that—”

Odin shoved the man away and snared the corpse once again. “Speak, damn you! How do I reach Freyja!”

“Many are the spawn of Modsognir.”

“Dvergar?”

“Great crafts they wrought in darkness beneath this world … and the others …”

The dvergar made something to travel between worlds? Odin swallowed. “Where do I find it?”

“In terror he waits … oh but … gck … he saw … the serpent that feasts on the dead …”

“Nidhogg?”

“He fears now … to use the ring …”

“Who?”

“Andvari …”

Odin shook her. “Where do I find him? Where!”

“The sun turns black … the land sinks into the sea … the bright stars vanish … hot flame scorches the heavens …”

“Speak!” he bellowed. “Tell me!”

“Odin,” Loki said, again trying to pull him away. “You let your emotions—”

Odin jerked his elbow back into Loki’s face, silencing his objections and sending his brother sprawling.

Something comes …

“The doom of gods … and then …” The corpse jerked, then thrashed violently, spewing blood over Odin’s face.

The stuff stung like icy water and sent him stumbling backward. He blinked it away.

The corpse grinned now, breathing out mist that crystalized along her bonds. The ropes stiffened, then cracked and shattered like icicles, even as the woman rose.

Odin rose too, shaking his head. “Sorceress, I command you—”

The woman laughed now. “Command? Me?”

He had heard that sibilant, mind-rending voice before. In the Well of Urd.

Hel.

Somehow, Hel had overtaken this corpse. Odin faltered, unable to move or speak. What was he to say to this goddess? How did one confront the Queen of Niflheim?

The goddess drew a finger along his jaw. Paralyzing cold coursed through him, stiffening his muscles and seeming to forbid him from making the slightest move.

“Long I waited … for you … Destroyer.”

A rough hand jerked him backward, and he stumbled and fell. Loki stood before him now, flames writhing his hand as he warded against this dark goddess.

Hel looked to Odin’s brother. And she laughed. “You think such a paltry flame will hold me back, Fatespinner? Or do you imagine, that no matter how many ages pass, no matter how you change your visage, I would not know you, Father?”

“You are no child of mine. My daughter died. You are but a soulless abomination with delusions of grandeur.”

“Oh …” She cackled. “There are not delusions when one embodies the grandioseness of old.”

“Be gone!” Loki jerked his hands together. The flames from every fire he had built around the circle all surged together and collided, washing over them in a conflagration. Sheets of fire surged outward, and it was all Odin could do to bury his face in the snow.

The inferno consumed air and sound and all vision, even as it scorched the clothes off Odin’s back. It seared his flesh and left him writhing in agony.

His ears rung as he finally managed to roll over. The snows had melted and turned the ground to mud that stung his badly burned flesh. Had he not been immortal, that would no doubt have killed him. At last, groaning, he sat up and looked around.

Loki lay on his back, some ten feet away, arms splayed wide. The blast must have thrown him there. Odin crawled over to the man, working his jaw in the vain hopes his hearing would return. As he drew nigh to Loki, one thing became clear. His brother did not lay still, but rather spasmed, as if struggling against … a vaettr inside him.

Fire vaettr … jinn …

The word meant naught to Odin, but still he knew better than to disturb the man while he struggled against such a foe.

And so he waited.

31

The last snowstorm had passed days ago, and though one could hardly call these mountains warm, everyone knew—summer lay less than a moon away. Close, but not close enough, for Vörnir was already fixing the third breach they had found. One remained, and at his pace, the jotunn would close that with time to spare.

Sif followed the slope, up to a precipice where Thor stood, watching the jotunn. He did not turn at her approach, so she cleared her throat.

“It does not bode well,” he finally said.

Had she not said the same, moons ago, before this whole damned endeavor? “We have to do something, don’t we? If he upholds his end of the bargain what will you—”

Thor grumbled, at last turning to look at her. “Father says there is a dragon, deep below this world, in Realms nigh unto the gates of Hel. The serpent feasts on the corpses of oath breakers, heaping eternal suffering upon them.”

The mental image of that made Sif shudder. She stared at the wall, trying to picture aught else. As if the horrors of Midgard and Utgard beyond were not enough. Mankind was not meant to know of the Otherworlds or the silent terrors lurking within them.

“Were I to strike him down now, it would be as good as breaking my oath.”

Sif scoffed. “You cannot be serious. Even if you could kill such a monstrosity—”

Thor’s scowl cut her off.

“Fine. Say you might slay the creature. Say even that attacking him would not constitute the grossest violation of the spirit of our bargain.” She pointed down at the breach where Vörnir yet labored. “Who will finish the fucking wall? You have no idea what lays beyond that, but whatever it is, it frightens Odin enough he sent us here to seal it off. As it frightened the damned Vanr sorcerer kings who ruled this world for nigh unto five thousand years!”

“Keep your voice down. It can echo in such places.”

Sif snapped her mouth shut. Having Vörnir hear them plot against him might be even worse than actually attacking him.

Thor scrubbed his beard, then shook his head. “Do you see any option before us?”

“Have you got a map to Alfheim shoved up your arse?”

Thor spat. “Then I have to send the twins.”

She groaned. “We’ve been over this. None of the Thunderers can attack the jotunn without—”

“Not him. The horse. Without it, he’ll be slowed and unable to finish his work in time. I can send them in the night. Maybe the jotunn won’t even realize varulfur brought down the animal instead of regular wolves.”

Sif glanced down at the massive jotunn jamming a stone bigger than she was into a gap. “This is a bad plan.”

“Do you have any other?”

She shook her head.

In the darkness before dawn, a bellow shattered the calm, reverberating off every peak and seeming agonized enough to shatter Sif’s bones within her chest. It was the wail of a being who had lost something beloved, something irreplaceable.

Well fuck.

Sif scrambled out of her bedroll, grabbed her halberd, and hesitated. What of her armor? Without it, every blow would fall all the harder, but she might not have time to don even a chain shirt …

The trembling ground answered that question, as tiny earthquakes announced charging Vörnir. Blue frost streamed from his eyes and mouth, and he bore a sword twice the size of any man. Rime and icicles crashed down from the wall and mountain slopes as Vörnir surged forward, kicking aside great drifts of snow.

“Thor!” Sif shouted, needlessly.

The prince had already risen, grabbed Mjölnir, and raced to meet the threat.

Vörnir swung that blade. It swished through the air with such speed and force the mere wind of it pushed Sif back. Thor rolled under it, coming up swinging Mjölnir. The hammer cracked against the jotunn’s fur greaves, drawing a howl from the beast and sending him stumbling to one knee. His off-hand caught Thor as he fell, the impact hurling the prince into the air. Thor flew past Sif and smacked into the wall with a tremendous crash.

Oh, Hel.

Screaming, Sif raced in, halberd leading.

The varulfur got there first, leaping upon Vörnir’s back and biting. Their teeth and nails shredded his furs, revealing a gambeson with iron guards woven into it. Damn it!

Sif thrust the halberd at Vörnir’s face. The jotunn jerked backward and blocked the polearm with his vambrace. Its blade shredded fur and flesh, showering her in ice-blue blood, but the momentum stripped her weapon from her hands and sent it flying.

Meili was there an instant later, sword flashing. His blade carved into the jotunn’s thigh, sprang free, and came around again.

Vörnir roared, sweeping his own sword horizontally.

Sif threw herself prone, trying to shout for Meili to duck. He didn’t move fast enough.

The jotunn’s blade sheered through his waist without even slowing. Meili’s torso pitched over, blossoming in a fountain blood, drenching and drowning her with it.

Sif was shrieking.

She had drawn her sword.

Didn’t know what she was doing, hacking and hewing. Bastard!

Someone tackled her just before Vörnir’s blade clove the ground where she had stood. Hildolf was atop her.

Sif pushed him off, and they rolled apart an instant before that giant sword crashed down between them.

She scrambled to her feet, racing away.

Vörnir’s other hand caught Hildolf up. Shit. Sif dashed for the jotunn, sword high. Vörnir chucked Hildolf at the wall. In the darkness, Sif could barely make out the red splatter on the ice.

No. Without an apple … There was no way he could …

Mjölnir soared over her head, slammed into Vörnir, and drove the jotunn back several paces. The jotunn clutched his chest, gasping, but did not fall. He did not fall!

Screaming and half-blind with snow and blood, Sif charged forward and drove her sword through Vörnir’s calf. The jotunn toppled now, falling to his hands and knees, his sword crashing to the ground a bare foot away from Sif.

She couldn’t lift that but … Mjölnir was on the ground. Sif snatched the hammer up and swung, smacking Vörnir in the temple with it. That drove the jotunn to the ground, splattering his blue blood everywhere.

An instant later, Thor was at her side. “Give me that!”

Panting, she handed over the hammer. Thor spun, raised the weapon high and slammed it down on the jotunn’s skull. And again. Twice more, driving the creature into the snow, smashing skull to pulp and brains to gore.

Sif backed away. She stumbled over Meili’s legs and fell. Then immediately scrambled away from him like a crab, trying desperately not to weep. Meili … Hildolf …

“I had no choice,” Thor said, staring at the flames of twin pyres.

Sif too did not look away from the fire, especially not at him. “And now two men are dead.”

Thor growled. “You blame me? They were like brothers to me! All of us, all the Thunderers, we are all brothers and sisters to one another. Family!” He paused and shook his head. “And I will have them remembered as such.”

Family. Wonderful. Maybe that was why he’d never seen her as more than a friend. She was his damned sister. Well, now his pride and hastily made bargain had cost the lives of two more of their band. Their numbers dwindled.

Vörnir had repaired most of this breach—most—but another yet remained, and jotunnar on the other side could still dig out this one. So, all they had done was for naught.

Less than naught, in truth. For, the other jotunnar would learn that the Aesir had dealt with Vörnir in bad faith. The members of his court knew of the bargain, and when he didn’t return, they would suspect treachery.

And what would the rest of the jotunnar do about it? Certainly they would never trust anyone from Asgard again. Worse, though—they might seek vengeance for the betrayal. And it would be the Men of Bjarmaland who would first suffer for it.

After what they had unleashed … there could be no going home now. Now, they would face the wrath of Utgard.

32

Five Years Ago

Geri had burst into the room after Sif had screamed at her shaved head. The varulf girl had taken a look around, apparently judged no danger, and then embraced Sif. Like that, they had sunk down to the floor, and Sif had wept. Sif was not a woman who wept, and yet … her hair …

Svarflami had once called her hair the finest, most shimmering tresses in all Midgard. That some goddess must have woven her locks from liquid gold. His words had eventually pried apart her thighs, but she still liked to tell herself he truly believed them.

Had she not already retched all over the room, she would have done so to think on this. Sigyn. Her aunt had done this because of … Sif flushed at remembering the awful things she had said to the woman. Her cheeks were burning.

But if Sigyn had a point to prove, she had gone way too fucking far with it. Sif was going to beat the woman bloody. She’d break the hand that had sheered her. She’d … she’d … What? Shave Sigyn’s head as well?

Finally, she lurched from Geri’s grasp. Her friend said naught, just stared at her. Sympathizing, yes, but not overmuch. Geri had never put so much weight upon her looks.

Sif though, had a reputation. And as soon as she strode out that door, all of Asgard would be staring at her. All of them would know her shame, snickering behind their palms. Mocking her as they dined and drank. She’d become a mockery.

The Thunderers could not leave Asgard too soon. She’d run to the farthest corner of the World if she could. Better to face a draugar or troll than the looks of amusement, or worse pity, she would surely find on these islands.

Damn it. Damn Sigyn! Why this?

“Do you know who did it?” Geri finally asked.

Oh yes. She knew.

“Who has done this!” Thor roared. “I will rend the man in two! I will rip out his spleen! I will mock his ancestors! I will shatter his weapons and cast the shards into the sea! I will feed his stones to my goats!”

Sif flushed again, speechless at the prince’s reaction. She’d not have thought he would so care about her or her beauty. And yet Thor seemed furious as though someone had impinged his own honor. Was that it? Would he have reacted so violently had one shamed any of the Thunderers? Or was it because it was her?

No. Once again, she was deluding herself. Four years together and he had said naught to let her believe such a thing.

“Sigyn,” Geri said. “They had an altercation the night before. This appears to be revenge.”

“Revenge!” Thor shook his fist in the air, flailing around like a troll. “I’ll show her revenge!”

And the prince raced off, out of Valaskjalf.

Sigyn and Loki’s hall barely earned the name compared to Valaskjalf. It sat atop a smaller mountain, overlooking the sea, more beautiful for the scenery than the building itself. Thor marched up that mountain at such a pace that, even with the apple, Sif’s heart had begun to race before they reached the top. Then again, more than just exertion probably drove her heart rate this day.

The breeze felt especially cold on her bare scalp. How did bald men even tolerate such chills? And once they returned to Midgard and the mists and the snows, it would only become that much worse. A daily suffering, although a small one, compared to her shame.

Thor kicked in the door to Loki’s hall, splintering the wood, though from the way it flew in, it had remained unbarred. Her aunt and uncle sat before a tafl board, both now staring at Thor. Sigyn had clearly forced herself to stillness, so stiff in her guilt. Loki, however, yet managed to look relaxed despite the prince’s towering figure and palpable rage.

“How dare you!” Thor bellowed, pointing a finger a Sigyn.

Loki rose, palms facing Thor. “Given that you have just kicked in my door—which was, as always, open to the son of Odin—one might be forgiven for wondering how you dare such an action.”

“Your woman has wronged my—” Thor glanced at Sif, “—my friend.”

Was he about to say something else?

Loki cast a brief look at Sigyn, then shrugged. “Did she deserve it?”

Thor crossed the room in three strides, caught Loki up by his tunic, and hefted him into the air. “Do you dare mock me or my people?”

Loki’s eyes darted down to Thor’s clinched fist, and he grimaced. “I take responsibility for all that has happened. And I apologize. Does this sate your fury?”

Thor leaned in, seeming to snarl so fervently that Sif stepped forward. This ought not to go too far.

“Your apologies will not bring back her hair!” Thor snapped.

“Nor will you throwing your weight around like a troll,” Loki said. “However, I might be able to arrange something that would accelerate the natural growth of her tresses.”

Now Thor dropped him. “You can bring back her hair?”

Loki smoothed out his shirt, then took a step back. “Not overnight. But I can assist in the process, assuming the needed materials remain in Sessrumnir. Go back to your father’s home, Thor. I will attend to you there before the next morn.”

Thor grunted, then backed away. He looked at Sif as if suddenly asking her opinion.

Feeling a fool, she nodded. Was it even possible? Could Loki fix this? It would not undo all the people who had witnessed her in this state, but at least she would be able to leave behind this awful memory. Assuming Odin’s blood brother spoke the truth. But how did he intend to do this? Not by the Art, she hoped. Naught but woe ever resulted from mortals dabbling in such things. And yet … she would not live this way given another choice. The stares felt like lances in her side …

“I trust you will cast no further threats or allegations against Sigyn,” Loki said.

Thor shook his head. “You have taken responsibility. If you fail to help her, I will throttle you, uncle. Your woman is safe.”

“Your threats are as petty as her vanity,” Loki said.

Sif frowned, then flinched when she realized he meant her. He was saying it was her vanity that had wrought all this. And … and it was. Bitter and angry, she had made an enemy of Sigyn when the woman had probably not meant harm. Well, the bitch had done harm now. And Sif was not like to forget this. Thor might accept Loki’s claim of responsibility, but that didn’t mean Sif would.

Her mind raced, seeking some scathing comment to shame her aunt. Before aught came to mind, Thor grabbed her wrist and led her away from Loki’s hall.

When Sif did not attend the night meal, Thor had ordered slaves to bring her food in her room. He had come with them, checked on her, and after she promised she’d be fine, left. She had wanted him to stay, had willed it. He didn’t see that. He never saw her anyway.

But he had raged at Loki and Sigyn for what they’d done. What did it mean? She almost wanted to hunt Geri down and ask, as if the varulf might have some insight into the mind or heart of her foster brother. At the very least, Thor clearly cared for her on some level. He’d called her a friend, but he’d almost said something else. Hadn’t he?

Damn it all. Why did such things have to be so complicated?

Do not get involved with princes.

Act on her feelings or kill them, Sigyn had said. Noxious bitch ought not to have acted on her own feelings.

Besides, what in the gates of Hel did Sigyn think would possibly happen if Sif suddenly told Thor she … what? That she lusted after him? That she … loved him? Was that what this was? Four years together, and he hadn’t seen her yet. Besides, she didn’t love him.

Do not get involved with princes.

Lust, love, aught more than admiration, it only led to pain.

Sif threw herself down on the floor against the wall. All of it was pain. She was a warrior and now, with the apple, a peerless one. That had to be enough. She didn’t need aught else.

If she lusted, there was a cure for that. Maybe Freki hadn’t fucked her hard enough after all.

No!

Damn, no, she would not repeat that mistake. And not with him, not with Geri’s brother. She’d needed someone else if she couldn’t control her—

A rapping on her door.

Sif steadied her face. “Enter.”

Loki slipped into the room, a satchel over his shoulder, and shut the door behind him. The sandy-haired man watched her a moment.

While she wallowed on the floor like a child. Sif rose, putting as much sensuality into that act as possible. She need not look like a victim. And … and what would hurt Sigyn more than a bruised nose? The same thing that hurt anyone more than aught else. A broken heart.

Sif drifted over to Loki and ran her fingertips along his chest. “You brought me something?”

The man stiffened, then took a step back. “I brought you a draught that will accelerate hair growth for a time. In a moon or so, your hair should be as it once was. You may find it desirable to trim or shave the other hair on your body during that time as it might also thicken.”

Trying not to laugh at the mental image, she moved closer again, using one finger to unlace the ties in her shirt.

With startling swiftness, Loki grabbed her shoulders and shoved her away. Then he dropped the satchel at his feet. “Desist this. What Sigyn did was foolish and childish. Nevertheless, I dare hope one day you will realize she intended to help you before you so goaded her. You are so caught up in your pain and loneliness you do not see those who are here for you, nor those who would try to ease your burdens. The lesson might have served you better were you forced to endure it longer than a moon, but I will offer you the kindness of helping you move past this. Do not mistake my kindness for an invitation to aught more.”

Sif crossed her arms over her chest, stepping back. Blood rushed to her cheeks, her neck, her ears. She wanted to look away but dared not. “I … I’m sorry.”

Loki nodded. “All people make mistakes, Sif, and you are young enough to make a great many of them. Learn from them.” He moved toward the door, then stopped. “Do you know why Odin chose you? Why he sent you to Gylfi?”

“My father.”

“Odin trusts your father, yes, but it was more than that. He saw the potential for greatness in you and wanted to forge you into something strong and beautiful, both. He placed his faith in you. Earn that.” He slipped from the room without another word.

Sif stared out after him.

Odin believed in her? Saw potential in her?

For a long time, she stood there, unable to move. Unable to make sense of the words Loki had spoken.

Part II

Year 31, Age of the Aesir

Summer

33

Siggeir Wolfsblood’s fort sat atop a hill, all of it surrounded by a wall twice the height of a man. A fair swathe of that wall was constructed from stone, but the original builders had never finished it. Thus Wolfsblood had plugged the gaps with a spiked wooden fence.

From below the hill, Sigmund crouched, watching the women at the gate. A pair of shieldmaidens guarded the main gate. Certainly they could overcome two such women, but how many more warriors lurked behind that wall?

“A rumor persists,” Fitela said, “that Wolfsblood has hired twelve berserkir women as mercenaries.”

Sigmund grimaced at the thought of it. Wolfsblood had hired mercenaries before—like that bastard Eightarms—so he would hardly put it past the king. Much less now, after having all of his varulfur murdered. But where in the gates of Hel would a man even find twelve berserkir women? “It might just be rumor.”

They had visited the towns on a few occasions, posing as vagrants, and purchased supplies with bounty plundered from Wolfsblood’s own men. More importantly though, Fitela used the time to glean such rumors. The boy planned too much sometimes.

Sigmund’s hand drifted to his sword. Berserkir or not, he’d take down any man or woman who faced him.

“Twelve of them,” Fitela said, eyeing Sigmund’s hand. “Pure arrogance to think you can fight twelve berserkir.”

“This from the child who thought to take on twelve full grown men.” Damn it. He ought not to have said that.

And indeed, Fitela’s face soured at the reminder of a time his own uncle had nigh to torn out his throat. “What matters more to you, uncle? Your precious honor or your revenge? Set aside your Hel-cursed pride and let us find one of these women alone and test her.”

Sigmund groaned. More waiting. After so many years, he had thought today would finally be the day. Summer had finally arrived, and Olof’s raids had begun. Already, Wolfsblood had sent the bulk of his levies north to fight against the Njarar invaders.

Now was the time.

But … but damn. The boy had the right of it. They would have but one chance at this, and they could not afford to squander it.

They had followed a pair of the women all the way from Wolfsblood’s fortress down to a town by the sea. They could have been mere shieldmaidens—worth killing either way—but the confidence in the way they moved bespoke something more. They had a wildness about them Sigmund knew well, for it lurked in himself and Fitela, too.

The day stretched on and still the women stuck together, visiting the jarl’s hall where Sigmund could not well follow. So instead, he passed his time idle by the sea, keeping half an eye on the hall.

Toward twilight one of the women emerged alone and trod along the shore, perhaps seeking a private place to relieve herself. Sigmund rose and followed at a distance, beckoning to Fitela who had perched himself by the town wall.

His nephew fell in beside him. The woman headed out, some distance away from the buildings, before squatting and dropping her trousers.

“You could kill her like this,” Fitela said.

“No.” Sigmund held back until she rose again, then he pulled his sword and advanced.

The woman turned to look at him at last, saying naught as she drew an axe from her belt.

“Stay there,” Sigmund said to Fitela. “Do not intervene.”

The young man grumbled something under his breath.

Sigmund paid him no mind, instead, charging forward, sword high.

The shieldmaiden met his downward swing against the point of her axe, thrust it aside, and shoved. The force of it sent him stumbling back a pace. Strong as a damned troll—definitely a berserk. And that meant he had to act with care.

He feinted left, then slashed in from the right, scoring a gouge on her side.

That drew a roar from her and, instead of falling back, she surged forward, swinging that axe in great cleaving chops. A single hit would have lopped off a limb. Or a head. Sigmund fell back under the assault. She wasn’t agile, but the sheer power behind her blows meant they came fast, almost too fast. Spittle flew from her mouth as she spewed incomprehensible curses at him.

She had given in to her beast. It made her powerful, yes, but not so clever.

Sigmund feinted again.

She didn’t fall for it. In fact, she continued her attack as if she didn’t care if he struck her at all. Sigmund twisted, trying to get out of the way of her wild assault. Her axe smacked the sword from his hand, and her shoulder slammed into his chest, sending him stumbling away. It knocked the wind from his lungs, and he pitched over backward, tumbling into the chilling sea.

The berserk charged in even as he tried to rise, hacking and hewing.

Sigmund dodged one way and the next, finally throwing all his weight into her abdomen. Strong as she was, she didn’t weigh so much, and he heaved her forward, down into the surf. The axe fell—buried in wet sand, no doubt. The woman splashed around for it for a heartbeat before grappling him.

Sigmund stretched, reached for the dagger at his waist. She was stronger.

She pushed his head underwater. Saltwater shot up his nose. Burned his sinuses. Coursed down his throat.

Sigmund flailed.

He beat at her arms, but they were iron.

Inside, the wolf writhed, clawing its way up from the depths of his soul. It had awakened. And that meant the accursed sun had set.

Beast.

Sigmund surged upward, flinging the woman off him even as he began to shift.

With a roar, she did so as well, tearing her tunic apart.

The change hit him hard, expunging the water from his lungs. He finished shifting before her, and despite the pain and wooziness of his change, managed to launch himself forward. His teeth sunk into her neck, deep, rending flesh and tearing out a chunk of it.

A massive bear claw raked his back and sent him tumbling over into the water. His wounds burned like fire!

By the time Sigmund had rolled over to look back at her, the berserk teetered, clawing at her torn-out throat as if bear paws—as if aught at all—might staunch the blood flow. A moment later, she collapsed into the water.

Rather than risk discovery by the other berserk, Sigmund too took to the sea and swam out away from the town.

Fitela met him some distance away, close to dawn, in a grove of elms. Sigmund lay on his stomach, head on his arms, letting the air cool the agony of the wounds on his back. The berserk bitch had so rent him she must have almost struck his spine. Had that happened …

Had that happened he would never avenge himself against Wolfsblood.

Fitela dropped Sigmund’s clothes—they fell with a wet plop—before him, then collapsed in a heap himself. “Still think you want to fight twelve of those bitches all at once?”

“Eleven now.” He didn’t look at the young man, though. Meeting his gaze seemed painful under the circumstances.

Fitela snorted. “We cannot face eleven nor even five of those women at once, much less in any kind of fair fight as you seem to insist on giving them. She damn nigh took your head off because you refused to kill a woman while her trousers were around her ankles.”

Sigmund groaned. “You who grew up in the halls of Wolfsblood might never understand—”

“No! It is you who does not understand! Born a prince, son of the greatest king in Hunaland. Oh yes, you thought you could claim the whole fucking World, that it was your due. And here, you look down on me for speaking practicality … for speaking reason. Your honor is not your strength, uncle. It is merely a remnant of your spoiled arrogance, from still thinking yourself a prince.” Fitela huffed. “You have spent more years as a vagrant, a bandit, than you ever did as a prince.”

Sigmund pushed himself up, ignoring the fresh lances of pain it sent through his back. “How dare you, boy! You think to challenge me?”

“I try to help you! All I have ever done, from the day I was born, was prepare to return our house to prominence.”

“Our house? You are as much of the vile line of Wolfsblood as you are a Volsung, a lineage made plain by your refusal to guard your tongue or your actions.”

“I am not …”

“Not?” Sigmund folded his arms over his chest. “Not what?”

Fitela sighed and waved it away. “Not your enemy, nor do I embrace Wolfsblood’s house, as you well know. We have tried your way, uncle. Now I bid you heed mine. Let us find an alternative.”

Sigmund frowned. Much as he wanted to dispute it, the wounds on his back did lend credence to the boy’s argument. He had worked so many long years to avenge his family. If he died before succeeding, it all meant naught. And if he gave Wolfsblood more time to gather his strength—for now the king had to know someone plotted against him, what with one of his women missing—the undertaking would become that much more difficult.

So, let them see what Fitela could come up with.

34

Sixteen Years Ago

Each night, the varulf bitch returned and claimed one of Sigmund’s brothers. She would tear them apart where they sat, chained to the log, devouring them before Sigmund’s very eyes. She was saving him for last, he supposed. As the eldest—or the one who challenged her—she wanted to prolong his suffering.

Until, at last, Sigmund was alone. Left to spend the day talking to the deserted skulls of his five brothers. Father was dead. His brothers were dead. And—much as it pained him—if Wolfsblood had gone to the trouble of such a betrayal here, had hired mercenaries the likes of Eightarms, then surely he also intended to wipe out the rest of the Volsung line.

While Sigmund remained bound in this forest, no doubt Wolfsblood or his men had already sailed on Hunaland, intent to murder Mother and the rest of the young ones. And Sigmund was powerless to save any of them. Perhaps he deserved to find himself standing before the gates of Hel and prey to her own hounds.

Round and round, his mind sought Gramr, but she was gone. And without her, he could do naught save wait for night. Maybe, he almost welcomed it.

Twilight had settled when the snap of a twig drew Sigmund’s eyes back to the woods. The varulf had never come until well into the night before. Why now?

It was not a varulf who emerged, however, but a man, dressed in simple slave rags, bearing a heavy satchel.

What fresh torment was this? Sigmund was weary of the drawn out struggle. Let them kill him and be done with it all. “Wolfsblood sent you?”

The man drew nigh and knelt beside him. “No. Your sister did.”

Sigmund sat up straighter. “If you are the king’s man, why do you serve my sister?”

The man looked away for the barest instant, but Sigmund caught it. “She has … paid me.”

Oh fuck. Sieglinde should not have done this, not even for her brother. “Do you have a name, you bastard?”

“You can call me Thrithi. And you are lucky the mist has not yet taken your mind or soul.”

Had that happened, Sigmund might have called it mercy. “Apparently that is not my urd.”

“It was not easy to arrange this.” The slave opened the sack and then uncorked a jar of honey. “You should be grateful.”

“For a last meal?”

“Queen Sieglinde instructed I was to smear this all over your face.”

So the wolf would lick him before she bit him? Why? What plan had Sieglinde hatched? None with any obvious advantage, but then, Sigmund had little left to lose.

Sigmund glowered at the other man. “Release me from these chains, cur.”

“Even had I a key, no lock binds you.”

Sigmund sighed. And how could he expect a slave to pull free the spike hammered into the log? “So do as your mistress bids and leave me, then. I would not spend my final hours in the company of such as you.”

The slave stuck his fingers in the honey, then slapped Sigmund’s cheek. Hard. “If you have not known lust, you are not yet a man.”

While Sigmund tried to form a response, the slave slopped more of the honey on Sigmund’s face and neck. Speaking would have disrupted the process anyway, so Sigmund simply glared.

When he was dead, perhaps his anguished soul would linger as a shade. If so, he would haunt Wolfsblood and his slave both.

With the last of the honey lathered over Sigmund, the slave rose and left. Sigmund shut his eyes and nurtured his hatred. Naught else remained to him.

Midnight closed in on him.

Sigmund sat very still, awaiting his final moment. By now, he might be the last of the Volsungs. But when the wolf came for him, he would not go down without a struggle. The valkyries would see his courage and know that, alone and unarmed, a Volsung had faced down a varulf.

And then she arrived, entering the clearing in utter silence. The wolf paced around him, never taking her eyes from Sigmund’s face.

He too glared at her, not willing to speak. The honey had become a sticky, sick mess on his face, but she must have caught the scent of it, for she began to plod toward him. When she drew very close, she sniffed, twice. Then she licked his face.

Her rough tongue lashed against his temple and his neck. Perhaps the animal side dominated the human one, and she never bothered to wonder at the honey. Either way, Sigmund had to fight to keep still as that tongue scoured the honey from him.

She licked across his lips. And Sigmund lunged forward, biting that canine tongue with his own teeth. Her blood scorched his throat, and she shrieked, but he did not release the tongue. The wolf thrashed, kicking her feet against him and the trunk. Her nails tore great gouges in his thighs, but at least his mail protected his chest.

Sigmund caught her jaws in each hand and yanked them apart, still pulling with his teeth. And then her tongue ripped from her throat. Gargling on blood, the wolf toppled over, a pathetic crawling thing. Sigmund spit out the tongue.

The varulf collapsed, choking to death on her blood. For a few moments she thrashed. And then she fell still. Fur began to retreat back into her body, revealing an aging woman. How many winters had the varulf woman seen? A great many.

Sigmund spat again, trying to clear her filthy blood from his palate. He coughed. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Starving, he might almost consider eating her. But in human form … Bah. No, he would not eat the flesh of a human being.

And that meant he would still die here, though at least he might count his brothers partially avenged. Perhaps the valkyries would yet …

The log! A crack had split along it where the wolf had pulled, trying to free herself from him. A varulf had greater strength than any man, even Sigmund. And she had weakened the trunk where the stake was driven in.

Sigmund twisted around to brace his feet against the wood, then grasped his chain in both hands once again. His palms were slick with blood and gore. Every speck of his clothing was worse, so there was no cleaning them. He heaved on the chain. It creaked, wood splintering and cracking but holding.

Panting, Sigmund released the chain and mopped his brow.

Siggeir Wolfsblood had murdered his entire family. Sigmund might blame Starkad Eightarms for the death of Father, but, in truth, the mercenary would have just as easily fought for them had they hired him. No, the fault lay in the man who had betrayed his wife’s family and spent three moons hiring such an unbeatable army. He might have beggared his own kingdom to do it … but since he would have claimed the Volsung hoard as his own, he could now replenish his wealth.

And Sigmund could not stay here and allow those wrongs to go unavenged. Father. Carr. Vern. All of them had died. But Sigmund lived. And by Odin, he would have his revenge, no matter how many years it took to claim it.

Again he grabbed the chain. His muscles twitched with the strain of it as he pulled. And then the stake popped free, sending him tumbling over backward.

Grunting, Sigmund rose and stumbled away from the clearing. With his feet hobbled together, he could not move fast. And he needed to be far away from here before Wolfsblood came to look into the final urd of the brothers.

Sigmund slammed the rock down on his manacles again. A shard of metal chipped off them, but still they held. Damn it! He tossed the useless rock aside and lay back in the cave. Odin alone knew how he would manage. He could not hunt—though he had least found some roots to take the edge off his hunger—nor accomplish much else so hobbled.

Certainly he could not fight Wolfsblood and his army even if the man were not a varulf as Sigmund now suspected. Who was the bitch he had killed? A relative of the king? His mother, perhaps—she certainly seemed old enough. Or maybe Wolfsblood simply had an arrangement with the varulfur dwelling in these woods. Had Sigmund and his brothers thus been an offering?

None of his questions mattered, though, not while he remained weak and bound.

Soft footfalls scraped on the forest floor, drawing his eye. Sigmund crept to the edge of the cave and there found Sieglinde turning about, burdened by a heavy pack.

“Sister?”

She spun, then spotted the low entrance to his cave, nestled between rocks. “Sigmund! By Odin, I knew it had to be you!”

She knelt, and he helped her slide down into the cave.

“How did you find me?”

“I heard the clanking and followed the sound.”

Sigmund glanced down at his manacles and shrugged. “With proper tools I could remove the spoke binding them, but I have only rocks.”

“Oh. Damn, I didn’t think of … Sorry.” She upended her satchel, dropping torches, flint, steel, knives, and—gods!—food. Salted boar meat, which Sigmund snatched up and tore into with relish. “Odin’s beard, brother. Take it slow, lest you vomit it all back out.”

Ravenous, he didn’t bother to respond. The meat was dry and tough, which stopped him from eating as quickly as he wished. Probably a boon, really.

“There’s mead, too.”

The thought of aught made from honey churned his stomach, but he was so thirsty after all …

His sister handed him a skin of the stuff, and he sipped it, trying not to think of the gods-damned wolf. Finally, he wiped his mouth, panting. “You have certainly saved my life.”

Sieglinde sat frowning, hand over her belly. Where Wolfsblood had planted his brood in her. Odin damn that bastard.

“It is difficult for me to leave the fort for long,” his sister said after a moment. “But when next I come, I will bring tools and more food.”

“Wolfsblood …?”

“I … I could not stop him from going to Hunaland. He knows Mother would come after him when she learns what he had done.”

Indeed, and Sigmund had heard rumors of Mother’s witchcraft. He prayed it would be enough to forewarn her of danger now, for he could do naught to aid her from across the sea.

“I’m going to kill him. However long it takes, I will find a way.”

Sieglinde hesitated, then brushed a hand over his cheek. “I pray to Frigg you will. But, brother, promise me one thing—do not strike prematurely. You will have but one chance to avenge our family. We cannot afford to squander it.”

That he knew well enough. He would wait and regain his strength. Perhaps even allow a few more winters to pass. With each, he grew larger and stronger. And soon, he would have the power he needed to strike down the king.

“I must go,” Sieglinde said.

“Wait—what of Gramr?”

“Wolfsblood has set it as his trophy now, hanging above his throne. I cannot claim it without my duplicity being discovered. We might lose our best chance.”

Sigmund ground his teeth. That bastard had done all this over the runeblade, hadn’t he? Gramr had brought this hardship upon the Volsungs. But she would bring worse yet upon Wolfsblood and his brood. Sigmund would see to that.

“Go then. And bring me another weapon when you return.”

In the mean time, he could use the knives to fashion a bow. A start. His would be a long war. And if Siggeir Wolfsblood thought all the Volsungs dead, it would be a war the king would never see coming.

35

The years of waiting had dragged on. Though nine years had not yet passed, Odin found himself drawn ever back toward the deep forge beneath the Sudurberks. Loki trailed behind him, lost in thought or in melancholy, Odin could not say. In either case, he supposed he understood. For millennia, Loki had born the burdens that Odin had carried mere decades, and perhaps, Odin thus should not judge him harshly. He could not, in fact, imagine the life his blood brother must have led, watching Eras pass and his loved ones die over and over while he yet endured.

They had come a long way over the winter to reach this place now, and soon, they would pass beyond, into Outer Miklagard. And from there, into the strange Realm of the vampires.

Odin carried his own torch through the dark tunnel, no longer bothered by the odd way Volund’s domain seemed to suppress all illumination. Still, the moving shadows did make the hair on his arms stand on end. This place was close to the Otherworlds somehow, as if the Veil grew thin here.

Maybe that was exactly what happened. Everything on the other side was too close in this place.

The dead …

Yes, the dead. Life and death—and the connection between them—meant everything. All the winding paths of the future, the course of urd, led back to those two things. For Odin and for Loki both. And if Odin judged his brother too harshly? Loki was Hel’s father and part of him must still love her, even as he hated what she had become.

Damn it.

Odin fell short before the forge entrance, letting his blood brother catch up. “I could see myself in your position, almost.”

Loki grunted, then shook his head. “No. You cannot, though I appreciate the sentiment.”

Odin looked hard into Loki’s eyes, but the man gave so little away. Odin had to believe that, in the end, they wanted the same things. To save the World from Ragnarok … He had to let himself believe that. “What I am now, urd necessitates, brother. If I am to trust in you, you too must accept what I have been forced to become.”

“I have always accepted you, Odin. If I offer guidance, it is in the hopes you might not fall prey to the same mistakes I have made. Immortality gives one long to regret one’s failings and missteps.”

“Which is why I have to see more than I now do. You once told me, the answers I sought were out there. The Well of Urd allowed me to see my past lives. Now, I must see our world and its future. I must, or the World dies.”

Loki sighed. “I know the feeling all too well. But consider yourself forewarned of the danger of this obsession.”

Odin shook his head. Even when he tried to make amends between them … No. He was tired of arguing. Maybe they were too alike, in the end. With a jerk of his head, he beckoned Loki to follow into the forge.

As before, they were greeted to the sound of hammer falls and to sparks shooting off metal as Volund worked yet another of his crafts. From the look of it, he now fashioned a mount for the back of the throne. Some sort of decoration? Nearby rested large ivory-looking … dragon teeth?

Odin opened his mouth, then shut it. Objecting to Volund’s artistic embellishments to the throne was pointless. The svartalf worked his craft as much to enhance his own reputation as for the payment, and he would settle for naught less than stunning in all he wrought.

The smith paused in hammering, though he did not look up. “It must seep in the power. The nine years are not yet passed.”

“I wanted to see your progress in any event.”

Volund grumbled, a sound not unlike the low anger of a snow bear about to leap into violence. The svartalf glanced from Odin to Loki—who now stood staring into the flame—and back, sneering at both. Finally, he mumbled something Odin could not make out and, snatching up a cane, hobbled over across his forge. On the far side, he jerked a woven tarp away to reveal the foundations of a fine wrought chair. Its frame was all orichalcum, delicately engraved with runes and geometric designs that wove into an endless knot-work pattern.

Odin walked around the seat, marveling. The back of it had a slot for the mount Volund now crafted, which would, in turn, allow him to insert the dragon fangs. The oversized armrests looked like snarling wolf heads, set with rubies for eyes. And from within, Odin could almost feel the souls screaming in their agony, seeking escape from the torment the smith had bound them in.

Hand hovering a breath above the chair, Odin could not quite bring himself to touch it. This, like aught else Volund wrought, combined the extremes of beauty and depravity into a perfect symbiosis, a macabre work of art from which one could not look away.

“Pain is its own beauty,” Volund said, as if reading Odin’s mind—a sensation Odin found all the more foul coming from this creature. “And the jotunn souls absorbed by Mjölnir have provided all the power and pain you might ever hope for. Hmm. I wonder, does the hammer’s wielder even know that is why you have him killing jotunnar?”

Odin fixed Volund with a level gaze. The svartalf drank in suffering and lies like mead, but Odin owed him no explanation. He had paid the smith in orichalcum for the throne and in an even more precious commodity for the hammer.

Obviously realizing he would get no answer, Volund snorted. “In any event, the throne needs a few more souls and time to saturate in the power. And the Ordrerir. Have you brought the blood?”

Odin shook his head. “We are on the way there now.”

“Then your visit is premature, human, and I do not welcome interruptions. So be gone from here, lest I become tempted to forge something from your soul.”

Under a blood oath to craft on Odin’s behalf, Volund would do no such thing. But Odin had naught to gain by arguing with the svartalf.

“No,” Loki said. “No …”

They both turned to look at Odin’s blood brother, who now leaned closer and closer into the raging fire of Volund’s forge.

“Damn it.” He stood there, shaking his head. “Sigyn.”

Odin frowned. One did not oft see Loki so discomfited. Perhaps the man had been so preoccupied with the schism grown between them, he had neglected to look hard enough into the urds of his own family. Or perhaps his wife had now crossed some line—or soon would—which might place her in more immediate peril.

The man jerked away from the flames and strode purposefully toward the exit.

Odin followed Loki from the forge, ignoring Volund’s chuckles—the bastard probably enjoyed seeing Loki in distress. “Do you require assistance?” The words slipped out before Odin even realized he’d meant to speak. Perhaps, despite all that had passed, they could one day get back to the ease and trust that had existed between them. Or, perhaps, even without it, they yet remained brothers, bound to each other by their blood oaths.

Loki paused, then shook his head. “There is naught to be done.” The man looked like his heart would rend in two. “Not now, but we must make haste. I must go to her as swiftly as I am able.”

“Then let us tarry no longer.”

Loki nodded and strode off toward the south. “Beyond these mountains we can reach the sea. Many ships sail for Miklagard in summer. We must be on one.”

Indeed.

And they went together. So maybe there was hope. Maybe, despite the lies and deceptions, despite Loki’s daughter, Odin could still remain true to his brother. He could … hope.

36

Eighteen Years Ago

“She called you Father.” Odin leaned against a tree, watching his blood brother struggling to rise.

Loki groaned as he sat up. He rubbed his face and when he looked up, Odin could have almost sworn the man seemed ready to break. Loki, whom naught on Midgard ever seemed to truly shake, was breaking. His hands shook, his jaw trembled—ever so slightly.

“I …”

“So,” Odin said. “It’s true. I do not understand how, but it’s true.”

Loki sat very still for several moments before looking to Odin, his crystal eyes now seeming hollow and laced with pain almost beyond measure. “Svarthofda spoke truth enough … in this Era, she was the first sorceress. But you and I know the World has ended before, as it must one day end again.”

“No!” Odin shook his head and stabbed an accusing finger at Loki. “No, I will win Ragnarok. Whatever has gone before, I will end this.”

Loki sighed, folding his legs beneath himself and then placing the back of his hands upon his knees. “You have tried that before.”

What? As the lives he had led in past Eras? As Naresh? Had Odin then too been so certain he could break the cycle and stop the spread of chaos once and for all? It mattered naught what he had done before, though. What mattered was only what he would do now. “You change the subject as if I might somehow be misdirected from the significant detail that Hel called you Father.”

Loki shut his eyes a moment before staring at Odin. “My daughter died long Eras back … and had she not touched the Art maybe … maybe that would have been the end of it. Instead, she endured in Niflheim. And there, in time, she usurped the power of the first goddess of mist.”

The image of strangling Loki flashed through Odin’s mind again. Now, at last, it began to make a terrible and irrevocable sense. For how could the father of his greatest enemy truly be his ally? Odin, a father, knew well what lengths a man would go to for his own children. No matter what else might befall them, some part of Loki would never let go of Hel. For that, Odin could not blame him, but then, neither could he ever again endow the man with his full trust.

The avalanche of urd continued.

It tore from him his greatest ally. It stole from him his family, those of birth and those of choice. Until, at last, it would leave him alone to face the final battle.

And if his vision could not be prevented, then perhaps, neither could the doom of gods Svarthofda had just spoken of. Perhaps, bereft of allies, he was destined to lose Ragnarok. Or if Loki was correct, even should he win, it would only perpetuate a cycle of destruction and death that had spun out more times than he could know.

“Do not turn from me now,” Loki said.

“How can I do otherwise? What choice remains to me?”

“I could not tell you sooner, brother. I—”

Odin held up a hand. “You lied to me. By omission, perhaps, but I cannot imagine a greater omission.”

“I can still aid you, Odin.” Loki looked up at the streaming night sky, then shook himself.

“How? How can I accept aid from a man I can no longer trust nor rely on?”

“I can help you find Andvari. I have heard tales of this dverg and his workings. You know well I have a gift for finding even those who would prefer not to be found.”

Odin lowered his chin to his chest and clenched his fists at his sides. The hours waiting for Loki had given him long to think on that, after all. Svarthofda claimed Andvari had made a ring to pass between worlds, but now he feared to use his own creation, and thus hid himself away even from his own kin. Without other leads, Odin might search long years to find a hermit dverg. Neither Odin, nor Freyja, nor Midgard could afford those years.

Maybe, in the end, even seeing urd, he could not veer from the course it had set before him. In her way, the sorceress had claimed the Norns sat upon the thrones of Fate. And Odin must live his.

He sighed. “So let us find the dverg.”

Loki nodded and rose. “I will. I swear it.”

Odin too stood, his back aching as he did so. Loki moved to go, but Odin forestalled him with a hand on his chest. “I have loved you as much as either of my own true brothers. And still, I cannot see before us a future in which we long remain allies.”

Though Odin had expected Loki to jerk away, the man instead grabbed his wrist. “The future is a winding river, brother. You do not always see all you think you see, and a sudden turn may yet surprise you.”

And then Loki released him and trekked on, into the snow.

37

“So then,” Sigmund said, “how are we to breach the castle without fighting our way past so many berserkir?”

Fitela sat against the wall around town, staring at the lapping waves. Whatever his nephew mulled over, he kept it to himself.

Sigmund flung a rock into the sea. “Olof’s raids will not keep Wolfsblood’s forces busy much longer. These women risk undoing all we have worked for. If I cannot force Wolfsblood to face me directly, everything—Gylfi, killing the varulfur, it is all for naught.”

Still, Fitela sat there, staring. And why not? Why should the boy be responsible for coming up with a plan? Much as Fitela claimed to want to avenge his grandfather, this was Fitela’s own father they moved against. It was Sigmund’s place to enact Volsung’s vengeance, and he was failing.

Despite everything, despite all Sigmund had done to prepare, Wolfsblood somehow remained a step ahead. The king might not even know Sigmund lived, true, but he had somehow arranged to protect himself with better than an army. Two varulfur could not overcome eleven berserkir. Where did that leave them?

“How does a wolf fight a bear?” Fitela asked.

“What?”

The young man finally turned to look at him. “How would a wolf fight a bear, assuming it had to?”

Sigmund threw up his hands then folded his arms across his chest. “Let the pack stalk it, surround it. Wear it down. And you’d still lose a lot of wolves.”

“How would a couple of lone wolves do it?”

“They wouldn’t.”

“Right,” Fitela stood. “They’d just avoid the gods-damned bear.”

Sigmund rolled his eyes.

“So we go around the bears. Sneak past them. Forget openly challenging the king.”

“But—”

His nephew shrugged. “It was probably never going to work. But if you were to break into his chamber in the middle of the night, with none of his guards around, I imagine he’d fight you then. He’d have to.”

“And now we’re murderers, liars, and assassins.” Sigmund slumped down into the spot Fitela had vacated. Was this what it took to avenge Father? Was it even what the great Volsung would have wanted? Or maybe Father would have looked upon his heirs in shame. Sigmund had not only failed to avenge him after so many years, but he had sacrificed his honor.

Fitela spat. “I didn’t say kill him in his sleep. By all means, let the king have a chance to fight back if it so matters to you. But decide here and now … uncle. How much is your vengeance worth to you?”

How much indeed?

Kill. Slaughter. Devour.

The wolf inside him crawled for the surface, demanding he act. Too long had he lingered, waiting always for the perfect moment. That moment had never come.

In a skald’s tale, he’d have marched up to the front gate, bellowed a challenge, and the two of them would have fought out a holmgang at dawn. They’d have battled for hours, perhaps, in such a telling. And Sigmund would have emerged bloody and victorious and filled with the honor of his ancestors.

None of that had happened.

Father’s honor had cost himself, Mother, and all Sigmund’s brothers their lives. Because the man had refused to back down, even when Sieglinde warned them of the trap. And now, here was Sieglinde’s son, warning Sigmund about his course. Showing him another path.

“My vengeance is worth … everything.”

Fitela nodded. “Then we have but to find a way into the castle under cover of darkness. Let us sneak into the fortress, bypass the berserkir, and kill Wolfsblood. Surely you will get your glorious battles when that is done, and at least we will have succeeded in avenging grandfather.”

And still.

“You know we are like to die,” Sigmund said. “Even should we succeed in bringing down Wolfsblood, those berserkir will no doubt come after us.”

Fitela nodded. “Maybe they will, maybe not. Perhaps, with their employer dead, they will hold their contracts fulfilled.”

“Berserkir.” Such people did not walk away from battle. Fitela’s face said he knew that plain enough. Sigmund shook his head. “Whether we die or no, I am proud of you, nephew.”

Fitela faltered, as if unaccustomed to any praise. “I … thank you.”

Sigmund nodded. So be it. They would find a way to sneak inside the fortress and bring down Wolfsblood. And if naught else, Sigmund and Fitela might at least find honor in their deaths.

He had spent long years alone in the wilderness because of Wolfsblood. One way or another, it was all coming to an end now.

38

Fifteen Years Ago

Each moon, Sigmund had to venture farther from his cave to hunt, fearing to bring down too much game in one place. This afternoon, he stalked a deer that, if he caught her, might feed him for a great many days. These hunts had made him a fine archer, though still only a decent tracker. Perhaps he had not prayed to the proper god or goddess.

In any event, he crept along the forest floor until he reached the lake. There, the deer had stooped to drink. Sigmund nocked an arrow. Sieglinde had brought him a few fine ones, but this one was crude and tipped with stone. Seemed best to save his good arrows for killing men when the time came. Shoot a deer and fail to bring it down, it ran away. Shoot a man and fail to fell him, and he might shoot back. And either way, you couldn’t always reclaim an arrow. They broke, got lost.

He paused.

A woman emerging from the lake scared off the deer. It bolted away, darting between trees too quickly to let him draw a bead. Besides, the woman was the more interesting view, as she drew on her dress. Her skin was very fair, her hair blonde and beautiful. And Sigmund had been alone a great many moons.

He slung his bow over his shoulder and approached slowly so as not to startle her.

The woman spun at his approach, opened her mouth, then shut it again.

“I mean you no harm.”

She worked her mouth a moment. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“It will grow dark soon, and you are far from shelter.”

She swallowed and licked her lips. “Can you not … offer me shelter for the night?”

Oh the thought of it sped his pulse and made his palms clammy. “We’ll need to make haste then. We don’t want to be caught out alone in the mists, especially at night.”

The woman paused to pull on boots, then fell in beside him.

“You have not even asked my name,” he said after a moment.

“Oh, I …”

“But I’d love to know yours, my lady.”

“Uh … Gudrun.”

“Well, Gudrun, I am Sigmund, but I would ask you to share my name with no one, for I value my privacy.”

“Oh. No one will know of this.”

They walked a long way back to his cave.

He climbed down into it, then helped her down as well. The woman seemed not the least afraid of it, which was odd, but then so too was it odd for a woman to wander the woods alone. She had courage, for certain, but somehow he doubted he needed to fear her betrayal after he had offered her hospitality.

He rekindled the small fire he kept by the entrance, then beckoned her to sit before it.

“I’m sorry I have no table here.” He offered her the roots and berries he’d gathered, and the last of the squirrel he had brought down the day before. “But what I have is all yours.”

The woman but nibbled at the food, glancing often at him as if nervous. And he knew why.

“It is true what you think,” he said. “I would like us to share one bed. But I would not force such a thing on you. That is not my nature.”

She swallowed heavily and blinked, as if having a hard time even finding words. Shit, he was a fool. He’d meant to assuage her nervousness, not enhance it. Finally she licked her lips and nodded. “I will share your bed, Sigmund …”

He froze, not certain he had heard that correctly. Had she said …

Gudrun let her dress fall from her shoulders, exposing perfect breasts. Then she crawled over to the blankets Sieglinde had brought for him.

And so he joined her.

She did not leave the next morning, nor the next.

For three nights she remained by his side, and each night they made love. It was almost enough to make him forget his vow against Wolfsblood. Almost, though in the night, he saw visions of a wolf devouring his brothers before him. He saw life leave his father’s eyes. And he saw a cruel king laughing at his misfortune and fucking his sister.

He slept in fits until finally settling into a deep, dreamless slumber.

And when he awakened on the third day, Gudrun had gone.

Sigmund was alone again.

39

Asgard’s spires glittered, scraping the sky like trees of metal and polished rock. Some of these palaces were Sigyn’s own design—researched from Vanr archives—and walking among them, seeing them realized, lifted her heart in days when it might have otherwise felt heavy.

The baby kicked again. He was an active one and, moreover, she found herself nauseated all the damn time. Fulla—self-proclaimed expert—told her that should only happen in the mornings and only in the first few moons. When Sigyn protested it had continued well past that, Fulla had explained Sigyn must be confused.

“Sure as sure, you’re just thinking you’re feeling all vomit-like,” the woman had said a few days ago.

Frigg walked beside Sigyn now, which naturally meant guards went ahead and behind. Her sister had offered some more practical advice on the pregnancy—which herbs to take to ease the symptoms and so forth. These days though, Frigg spent most of her time ruling Asgard and directing the Aesir. Odin, of course, being the ideal king and husband, showed up once a decade or so to issue some cryptic orders before vanishing again. In an odd way, Frigg’s husband had become more like Sigyn’s own.

Who was also not fucking here when he was needed.

“Our parting was less amiable than I would have liked,” Sigyn finally said.

“Who? Loki?” Frigg murmured something before glancing at her and shaking her head. “Sigyn, you do realize I have barely seen my husband in the past twenty years. Not that I don’t sympathize with your plight, but I still envy you.”

Sigyn folded her arms, found she couldn’t well walk like that, and let them fall to her side. She barely bit back her spite. She knew pregnancy made a woman emotional—given to hysterics if Fulla was to be believed, though Sigyn had little faith in the maid’s so-called folk wisdom. Still, it took an effort of will to hold back snarky comments every other word. When she wasn’t about to burst into tears.

And the man wasn’t even here to see her suffer through what he’d done to her.

“I did not ask you to walk to discuss our husbands,” Frigg said.

“What then?”

Frigg glanced over her shoulder. Checking to make certain the guards were not close enough to overhear? “You are the only one who has made the slightest headway in understanding Vanr writings.”

Sigyn nodded. Her sister had been the one to grant her special permission to access Sessrumnir, Freyja’s old palace and school for the Art. From it, Sigyn had learned much of what she knew of architecture, among other subjects. Hel, even Odin had come to her for help some moons back.

“And I warned you never to delve into the Art.”

Sigyn quirked a smile. Oh, this was precious. Her sister, the vӧlva, jealous guardian of all arcane knowledge, needed Sigyn’s help on that very subject.

Frigg frowned, obviously not pleased Sigyn had already guessed the subject. “Sister, we stand upon a precipice of conflict on many fronts. Our forces aid Valland against Serkland where we know sorcerers make pacts with fire vaettir. Worse still, are the Niflung sorcerers. And then the jotunnar, who seem ever to increase in number. All of these foes possess power and knowledge we lack.”

Sigyn shrugged. “True enough. But what happened to all those lectures about how the Art could steal my soul and my mind and gobble up my kidneys when I’m not looking?”

“Sigyn! Do not make a mockery of this. Incautious use of the Art can cost you more than you can begin to imagine.”

“But?”

“You can be infuriating, you know that?”

Sigyn laughed. “You mean because you need me.”

Now Frigg sighed and shook her head. “Work with Eir. I don’t have time to research such things myself. Eir is intent to learn whatever she can of Vanr healing as a means to counter our foes.”

Eir had been the tribe vӧlva to the Athra, but Sigyn had had few dealings with the woman. Still, researching a new subject might serve to distract her from her aching back and roiling stomach. “I’ll see what I can find.”

Even as many times as Sigyn had come to Sessrumnir—and, in truth, she spent many nights here, studying long hours—the golden palace never failed to impress. The Vanir had used the Art to achieve an impossible continuous flow of water, including curtains of it that streamed upward.

Eir was there when she arrived, staring at the marvel with the same rapture that had overtaken Sigyn in her first visit. Few of the Aesir had seen this place, given that Odin had forbidden access. Frigg cared less and less what her husband willed, though, and so had now granted Eir permission as well.

The woman was aging, with streaks of gray in her hair and creases earned by many winters of hard work. “It’s astounding,” the vӧlva said. “I have never seen aught like this.”

Sigyn leaned against a wall to take some of the pressure off. Climbing up here in her condition had proved exhausting and had taken nigh to the whole damn day.

Eir at once rushed and placed a hand on Sigyn’s belly, then her ear to it. “Are you well enough? I had forgotten you were so far along. Perhaps we should wait.”

“No.” Sigyn groaned and waddled over toward the stairs. Upstairs, in the library, there were chairs she could sit on. Just a little farther. “I’d rather not have wasted the trip here.”

Eir chased after her, then slipped Sigyn’s arm around her shoulders, helping her up the stairs. Once there, she pulled out a chair. Sigyn sank down into it with another groan. It was only a temporary reprieve from the pain and pressure, of course. Sitting would hurt too, soon enough.

“I’m truly grateful you’ve agreed to aid me in this,” Eir said. “I do not even know where to begin.”

“So this was your idea, not Frigg’s.”

“Uh … well …”

Sigyn nodded. “I get it. You’re not a warrior so there are few ways a woman in your position might prove herself worthy of an apple.”

Eir frowned and leaned forward over the table. “True enough. It does not mean I do not truly wish to help our people however I can.”

“Then the first task is to help you learn to read the Vanr script. It’s much more involved than simple runes, but at least those give you a foundation. So … just grab any two or three books. It doesn’t matter where we start.”

Eir rose to do so, and Sigyn shut her eyes.

All too soon the vӧlva returned, laden with a half dozen books. Maybe she couldn’t count. Wouldn’t that be an auspicious start to this endeavor? Sigyn selected one at random and opened it.

The author had written a short introduction to the subject matter. Sigyn skimmed it but paused at the signature: Mundilfari. The Mad Vanr, who had once been king. Thanks to him, she had been able to rescue Loki from Gudrun.

“What is it?” Eir asked.

“An introduction to the theory of pneuma,” Sigyn said. “Which I suppose is the best possible place for us to start.”

“Pneuma?”

“It’s what the Vanir called a person’s life force. Megin, völvur call it. Which, I’m told, must be harnessed to practice seid.”

Or to make use of the superhuman gifts an apple might bestow. Odd, that Eir had chosen this book. It was almost enough to make Sigyn believe in urd.

She turned the book so the other woman could see and pointed to the first word.

Odder still, that Sigyn would now instruct another in the secret mysteries of Vanr philosophy, in the lessons once taught to her by Loki.

The baby kicked again.

Sigyn smiled. Some things changed for the better.

40

Where once had stood a walled town in southern Kvenland, now lay only rumble. A few moons back, Sif and the others had passed through this place, taken shelter with the locals, and shared their food. Now, the bodies of those same men and women lay strewn about the streets, tossed like dolls atop the buildings, or ripped to pieces and left to rot. The whole place stank of shit and blood and death, smells and sights all sending her stomach into heaves as she passed among the ruins, searching for signs of any survivor. They were not like to find one, of course.

They had not found any in the last town, nor the one before it.

The former lord’s hall had burned down—most likely an overturned brazier, as the frost jotunnar didn’t use fire—and Freki crouched beside it, examining something among the ash and mud. The whole of it looked like naught more than gray mush to Sif, but Freki could find hidden truths almost anywhere.

“Well?” Thor demanded. The prince took the rampaging jotunnar to heart, blaming himself—as he maybe should. They had earned the wrath of these beings when they betrayed Vörnir.

The varulf rose. “Three of them came in, smashed through the wall, and began destroying everything and everyone in sight. Some few of the townsfolk fled into the wilds, most in different directions. I can follow one of the trails …”

But depending on how much time had passed, even if the jotunnar had not hunted down the survivors, the common people had little hope of holding out long in the wilds. Sif blew out a breath of frustration.

“No,” Thor said after a moment. “I want to know where the jotunnar who did this went. First we put an end to them, then we can offer more succor to their victims. Else wise, they’ll continue their raids and rampage while we pick up the pieces.” He wasn’t wrong. “Can you follow the jotunn tracks?”

Freki cocked his head, staring at Thor like the prince was an imbecile. “Yes,” he said. “I can follow the trail of a trio of giant marauding savages.”

Thor waved for him to do so, and Freki took off, loping away to the west.

Sif exchanged a glance with Geri, then they all followed after.

The jotunnar’s trail led through open plains stretching on and on. The snows had melted, save in scattered drifts, but only the hardiest of tangled trees dotted the landscape. For two days, they pursued their prey, pushing hard since their foes could cover ground more quickly.

The trail turned north then, leading up to a lake and another shattered town, this one even larger than the last. Buildings had toppled, others burned down, and still others stood with half their walls torn away, skeletons of the shelter they once represented.

Sword in one hand and torch in another, Sif eased her way through a new breach in the town wall. Geri and Freki each took off in opposite directions, sniffing out survivors. With any luck they had arrived in time to save someone this time. Always appearing in the aftermath of …

Sif faltered, almost tripping over a body lying in the mud. A little girl, no more than seven winters, her hair splayed, limbs twisted the wrong way. The sight of it hit Sif like a blow and drove her to her knees. Knowing what she’d find and still unable to stop herself, she turned the girl over. Her ashen face was a mask of pain and terror.

And something clenched around Sif’s gut, leaving her convulsing. She wanted to weep, but the tears wouldn’t come. So instead she screamed at the sky. “Fucking jotunnar!”

“Sif,” Itreksjod said, “not the best rallying cry, I’m afraid. What are you—”

The adjacent house exploded as a jotunn stood from within, shattering the roof and sending thatch and beam splinters flying in all directions. The beast reached over ten feet high, towering above them and bellowing for an instant that froze her.

Itreksjod moved faster, racing forward to land an axe blow on the jotunn’s side.

Its shriek of pain and rage shocked Sif into motion, and rising, she charged forward, sword swinging. The jotunn swiped a club at Itreksjod. Her friend leapt backward, falling, but avoiding the blow. Sif raced into the gap, her blade sheering along the jotunn’s wrist and forearm. She’d meant to sever the limb but instead only drew a long deep gouge into it. It served however—the jotunn’s club fell from his hand as he bellowed again, clutching his arm.

It gave her the chance to swing once more, this time cleaving into its knee. Her sword wedged into the joint, drawing forth a geyser of blue blood and toppling the jotunn. As the creature fell, the blade ripped from her hand. Itreksjod jumped atop the jotunn and buried his axe in the beast’s skull.

More roars and bellows and crashing weapons echoed all around the town. Sif turned, taking in the carnage. Five jotunnar remained, engaging Thor and Geri and Freki. All must have lain in wait in the buildings … knowing they were being followed.

Fuck. Didn’t matter now.

Sif jerked her sword free and dashed toward her friends. Three of the jotunnar had surrounded Thor, focusing all their efforts on him. The prince fell back, unable to get room to even swing his mighty hammer, so fast did the clubs and axes of the jotunnar swing in. Sif shrieked a battle cry and sprinted toward the melee.

Thor ducked one club, twisted out of the way of an axe, and swung his hammer at a third jotunn. The giant dodged with shocking agility, leaping backward. And nigh straight into Sif. She whipped her sword up, catching him between the shoulder blades. Her weapon struck the heavy hide of some beast, barely managing to draw blue blood from the jotunn. Roaring, it spun, swinging at her with its club. She rolled sideways out of the way and came up to the sound of Mjölnir crashing into the distracted jotunn’s skull. The creature fell in a heap.

Thor turned back, trying to fend off the axe-wielding jotunn. And not seeming to see the other club-bearing one gearing up for a swing that would turn his bones to pulp. Before she knew what she was doing, Sif ran for him, tackling Thor and driving them both to the ground. The club whooshed over her with the force of a gale. She rolled over, trying to rise—

The club’s backswing caught her full in the chest. All wind blew from her lungs, all thought from her mind. All light from her eyes.

“Half her ribs are broken. She’s lucky none pierced her lungs.” Geri?

Someone was poking her, sending bolts of lightning coursing through her. Every breath felt like wrestling a volcano, trying to hold back the eruption of her insides. Sif blinked, then gagged as the sensation of the light only worsened the overwhelming pain.

“Shhh,” Geri said. “Lie still and let your body heal.”

Sif opened her mouth, tried to ask what had happened, but speaking was a fresh agony, and she only managed a groan. She shut her eyes again.

The dreams came and went. A fever pitch of marauding jotunnar, crushing the life from her and Thor and everyone else she held dear while Meili and Hildolf and a dead little girl stared at her with accusing eyes. They watched, as Asgard itself crumbled beneath the assault of chaos. The Midgard Wall broke in half and from the breach stormed ten thousand jotunnar, all fury and destruction made flesh.

And crackling flame …

A fire beside her, warming her face. She opened her eyes. She lay on her back, inside a house and indeed, beside a fire pit. A good sign?

Sif drew in a tentative breath. Almost no pain. She sat up. Someone had removed her armor, but otherwise she wore what she had during the battle.

In the shadows of a corner, someone stirred. Thor, who had sat against the wall, hands on his knees. He rose now, his flame-red hair dancing as he shook his head. “What in Hel’s frozen underworld were you thinking?”

“I was …”

“A mortal would have been dead twice over, Sif. Even you are lucky to have lived through that. Geri said that if any of those ribs had broken differently you’d have been …” He shook his head and grumbled something under his breath.

She spread her hands, not sure what to say.

“So why?” Thor demanded. “Do you not think I can take care of myself?”

“There were three of them …”

“We have already lost two brothers in the past moons. I do not aim to lose a sister as well!”

“I am not your fucking sister!” The words erupted before she realized she intended to say them.

Thor raised an eyebrow.

Well shit. Not much for it now. “I … I … How could I be your sister, Thor? How when I … When it’s you? And I just … I’ve always wanted us to …”

Thor sighed and nodded slowly. Then he shook his head. “Sif … get some rest.”

Her mouth slowly dropped opened. No. No, he couldn’t have. He couldn’t.

But she had said it, and he had barely reacted. Because he’d known. Fuck. Of course he’d known. He was the man who’d seduced as many women as there were drops of water in the ocean. And she’d thought he wouldn’t know when one wanted him?

Thor shook his head again and ducked out of the house.

It hit her with all the force of the jotunn’s club. Stole her breath. Sent her collapsing onto her hands.

He had known.

He had known and had said naught. And that meant … it meant there was naught left to be said.

She slumped down and stared at the fire.

Unable to move or think or hope.

Hollow.

41

The wind tugged at Odin’s beard as their ship drew into the Miklagardian harbor. A river split the city, though the ship did not enter it, rather weighing anchor at a pier. The city itself exceeded aught Odin had ever witnessed in his long years wandering Midgard. Surely so many people could not live in one place, least of all peacefully. The buildings seemed to grow atop one another like barnacles, spreading out until every last foot of space was filled with stone. Drab stone, painted stone, mottled stone.

In the distance, great towers rose along with stunning columns topped with statues, and too, mighty domes to what must have been palaces or centers of worship. Here though, the place looked haphazard, as if a hundred different stone carvers had worked in competition, unable to agree on a single building, much less a street.

And that godsdamned stench! Shit and piss and vomit and sweat, saturating the whole fucking street such that he could smell it even before he took his first step off the ship. The heat here—almost as warm as Vanaheim—only exacerbated the reek.

Odin glanced at Loki.

His blood brother’s face remained impassive, though his eyes offered the barest hint of distaste. So even Loki thought such a place repugnant.

A massive stone wall encompassed the entire city, great braziers evenly spaced every dozen feet atop it. And it worked, for Odin saw little hint of the mist within the city. Perhaps the locals considered wallowing in their own filth and living atop one another like dogs worth the price, if it meant breathing air untainted by the mists of Niflheim. Odin had his doubts.

People shouted at him in what sounded to be several different languages as they wended their way beyond the harbor and into a market. And if the city had not seemed strange enough at a distance, now it grew nauseatingly vibrant. Men and women hawked clothing and fabrics of every color imaginable, jamming bits of it in his face even as he waved them off and cleared his path with Gungnir—disguised as a staff. Even the vendors themselves came in many colors, from fair-skinned North Realmers to deep-skinned men like Eostre, to those even darker, nigh to black. Odin had no idea where the latter must have hailed from. Beyond the Midgard Wall, for certain, and that meant humanity did somehow live there. Perhaps these people fell under the Serkland Caliphate’s … protection.

“We ought to seek shelter for the night before it grows dark,” Loki said, smoothly guiding Odin around a trio of whores. “We are not familiar enough with the customs here to risk wandering the city once the sun sets.”

Odin grunted. If these vampires were aught like draugar, sunset would endow them with their powers and encourage them to leave their domains. Perhaps Loki spoke the truth, though Odin suspected he would have to confront the Patriarchs sooner or later.

“When was the last time you were here?” he asked.

“Long enough for things to have changed. Not long enough for them to have changed for the better.” Loki ducked down an alley off the market, forcing Odin to follow.

His blood brother led him around another bend. Here, cracking white paint covered the buildings. The structures abutted one another such that it became hard to tell one from the next, save for the multiple doors. Above one such door hung a wooden signpost depicting an eagle or some similar bird. This one Loki opened, revealing a tiny entry room in which sat an aging man.

“Does Batzas still run this house?” Loki asked, speaking the South tongue.

The man shook his head. “Grandfather passed more than ten winters back.”

“My condolences. I am relieved to hear the establishment remains to his kin, though.” Loki produced a pair of silver coins—no doubt excessive for this place—and offered them to the man. Odin could not see them well, but they did not look like Vallander coins. So Loki still had Miklagardian currency. “We need shelter, perhaps for several nights.”

The Miklagardian’s eyes lit, and he all but launched himself from the chair, snatching up the coins. “Of course. Of course. I have only one room to let at the moment—I hope that will do—but I assure you, it’s the finest room this side of the palaces.”

That seemed exceedingly unlikely.

Nevertheless, Odin followed as the man led them down a hall. He pushed on a door. It stuck. He shouldered it, revealing a windowless room small for one man, much less two. Instead of bed shelves like a Ás house, the room had a straw mat on the floor, with a dirty wool covering barely wrapping it.

“Stunning,” Odin muttered.

“So … uh …” The Miklagardian wrung his hands, then cleared his throat. “If you need aught at all—companionship or food or such, that can be arranged.”

Considering the man’s whores were like to be as clean as the room, Odin wouldn’t want to touch them with Gungnir, much less his flesh. Before he could chastise the owner, however, Loki just shook his head. And so the local man ducked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Prelude …

To what?

The depredations of darkness … to what lays behind the Veil …

Odin snorted. Audr was right. If this was living, it well prepared these people for the horrors of death. In their fear of the mist, they had somehow welcomed an existence yet worse.

Loki was staring at him. “Do you know what the advantages of such modest accommodations are?”

“No. But surely for what you paid the man we could have had better than this.”

“What is better? You insisted we come here for a reason and, as such, I would think better qualifies as that which allows us to pursue your ends with the greatest chance of success. In a city infamous for its labyrinthine politics, we dwell in a place beneath the notice of the great and grand and thus avoid becoming enmeshed in games we have neither time nor desire to play. As such, you are free to pursue your own ends in relative obscurity, at least for the moment.”

Corruption … on a scale heretofore unknown in Midgard …

Maybe Loki was right. Odin groaned. “We have a few hours before dark, yes? Then let us figure out where to find the Ordrerir so we can leave this place. I do not fancy remaining here any longer than we must.”

Loki nodded. “Nor I.”

Lacking a better option, Odin wandered the city, letting the Sight tug at his senses and draw him into a trance-like state until he must have seemed a man sleepwalking. He had to trust Loki to keep watch over him as he did so, looking at domed spires and great palaces and trying to catch insight about any one of them.

Until at last, staring at a tower large enough to put the wonders of the Old Kingdom to shame, intuition brought him to a standstill.

“There.”

Smooth, white-painted stone formed the tower, with the lowest window at least forty feet in the air. A single doorway offered entrance, and that stood an easy ten feet up, with no obvious way to reach that landing. From the tower’s sides jutted carvings of wicked, dragon-like monsters, staring down at them. Most locals they saw did not pass close to the tower, nor did they seem to give it much mind, as if they had somehow forgotten it was even there. A place so rarely opened, it had become like a part of the background to them, a giant tree one simply walked around.

“Do not stare at it,” Loki said and drew him away. “We cannot do aught now. Darkness will settle in soon, and we had best be back within doors before that happens.”

Odin nodded, forcing himself to look away. So very, very close. It did not seem likely many guards waited inside either, for who would they think could enter, even if someone wished to?

Still, Loki spoke wisdom, as oft seemed to be the case. Odin followed him back to their room, then sunk down on the floor. He leaned against the wall, head in his hands.

“The goblet is in the tower,” he said.

“They do not need to access it very often. Still, you cannot expect to climb the tower unnoticed.”

The thought of trying had occurred to him, though he dismissed it for much the reason Loki said. In broad daylight, every passerby would see him. At night, they had to worry about these undying lords of the city. So what did that leave?

Darkness …

Odin glowered. Audr, as usual, had little usefulness to offer.

Or perhaps the mighty king simply does not listen well enough …

What now?

Pass the dark …

Pass the … What? The Astral Realm?

Yes …

Oh. Oh, well fuck. Odin shifted, trying to find a position where his back did not ache.

“Lay down on the mat if you wish,” Loki said.

Odin snorted. “The floor is no doubt cleaner and with fewer fleas.”

“Perhaps.”

“I can see but one way in.”

“Oh?”

“Audr.”

Loki shook his head. “Only a fool would trust a wraith. Besides which, every time you call upon his power—”

“I know.” Every time Odin used Audr’s power, Audr’s hold on him tightened. Odin had prevented the wraith from taking control by burning away his own life, aging his body. To use Audr to enter the tower, he’d either have to give up more of his life or more of his soul.

Is either truly so valuable to you?

“Can you suggest an alternative?” Odin asked, ignoring Audr.

“Just because I do not yet have another plan does not make this one wise.”

Odin grunted. “Nor do I count remaining in this cesspool wise or even practical. You have until tomorrow morn to offer me another plan. Failing that, I will enter the tower through the Penumbra.”

“You make compromise after compromise, brother. One day, you may open your eyes and not like the place you find yourself.”

“I already dislike the place I am in.” With that, Odin rolled down onto his side to sleep.

42

Eighteen Years Ago

Water cascaded down the mountains in southern Nidavellir, pitching over ledge after ledge in a tumult that defied the frozen landscape. It flowed into a river too swift to freeze and from there, down into the fjord they had traveled up to get here.

This night lacked the dancing lights found farther north, and, as such, Odin could not see far through the mist. Beneath millennia of snow and ice, rocky crags rose up precipitously. Loki had led Odin to this desolate place, insisting the flames guided their passage toward Andvari, a fugitive even from his own kind.

Odin paused before the crumbling ruins of some dverg outpost, no doubt abandoned during the rise of the Old Kingdoms. Even an immortal might break his neck trying to climb such slopes, nor did he see sign of anywhere a person might live. True though, the dvergar were not people exactly. They were vaettir possessing men, twisting them into warped images of the tormented Earth spirits themselves. And as an Earth vaettr, a dverg would live beneath the ground, shunning even the paltry sunlight that would have pierced the mists in day. But where?

Odin glanced at Loki who frowned, sweeping his torch to dispel mist while he went to examine the ruin. Using Gungnir as a walking stick, Odin pressed on, toward the cascade. It was beautiful, in an odd way, much as his visions of Niflheim held an empty beauty. If one could forget the shades lost in the mist, one might, for a moment, appreciate the stillness and see it as a wonder. Only for a moment, of course, before the reality would set in.

Desolation … entropy. The epiphany that beyond the Mortal Realm lay but consumption.

A snarl—barely audible over the crash of water—froze Odin in place. He turned, careful not to make any sudden move, to see a brown head rise from the river. Like a monster of the deep, the creature rose and, only as it scrambled ashore, did he recognize it: it was an otter half again as large as Odin himself. Odin tilted Gungnir, trying to bring the spear around.

At his movement, the otter surged forward.

It collided with him before he had gotten Gungnir in place, weight and momentum slamming him down into the icy bank. Claws rent his shirt and chest, and teeth sunk into his shoulder. Odin bellowed in pain, calling upon all his supernatural strength to push the creature away from his face.

The otter’s claws tore great gouges into his flesh. Red agony blinded him. The beast dragged him toward the river, pulling him off the bank with a sudden jerk of its body. The shock of the cold stole his thoughts. Couldn’t move.

Couldn’t act.

He had dropped Gungnir somewhere …

Odin plunged beneath the waters. He thrashed with the creature, but it was too agile while submerged. Claws slammed him down into the sludge at the bottom of the river. His breath exploded from his lungs and freezing water rushed in to take its place. Odin choked, kicked, and struggled with the creature.

Dying …

Audr. Audr! Odin grasped the wraith’s power and shunted himself across the Veil. His body lost substance in the Mortal Realm, and he slipped through the otter’s grasp. The waters had become wrong, not quite substantial. Odin flailed, finding swimming all but impossible, forced instead to fumble along the riverbed.

Audr’s hold over him tightened, squeezed him. Like the roots of Yggdrasil that had once hung him.

Odin stumbled through the sludge until finally his head broke free of where the waters would end. Unable to hold on a moment longer, he plummeted back into the Mortal Realm. Gasping for air, he pitched onto the frozen bank.

The otter splashed behind him as it surged from the waters. Barely able to move, he looked at the descending jaws. A stone crashed into the creature’s skull in midair. The otter toppled over, slapping back down into the river.

A moment later, Loki was pulling Odin ashore. Odin groaned in agony. Blood continued to seep from his numerous wounds.

Everything grew hazy.

The crackle of fire awoke him. Loki must have kindled the small blaze that now warmed Odin. His blood brother had stripped him of his wet clothes and wrapped him in a blanket. Odin tried to sit, but all the blood rushed from his head, and he slumped back down.

The wraith’s claws seemed to dig at his brain, lodging ever deeper. Odin gagged, almost retching at the sensation of finding himself becoming more like this thing inside him. Hollow and wretched, as it ate away memory and soul.

“Your injuries are healing, but it will take days for all the lost blood to replenish itself.”

Odin groaned and rolled over to where Loki sat, examining the corpse of a misshapen man—a dverg?—with a split skull. “What the fuck was that? A wereotter? And a dverg?”

Loki peeled back the corpse’s eyelids as if some answers might lurk in its dead eyes. “I don’t think two kinds of vaettr could possess a single host, but perhaps the dverg somehow managed to bind a Moon spirit and use its power.”

Odin coughed. “Fine. So why the fuck would it take an otter spirit?”

“It is difficult for a man to speculate on why a vaettr does aught that it does.”

“And are you? A man?”

Loki turned from the corpse frowning.

Damn it. His blood brother had just saved his life. No matter how many lifetimes—or Eras—Loki had lived through, he deserved gratitude. “Forgive me. That was unworthy of me.”

Loki grunted and stood. “You are still weak from your injuries.”

You are mine …

No. They had an arrangement …

Odin grunted, trying to force the wraith back into dormancy. “So you think that was Andvari?”

His blood brother moved back to the fire and began to stoke it. “Perhaps. It is hard to say for certain, especially with the host dead.”

“If it was, his treasures must lie nearby.” Odin groaned, forcing himself to his knees. “I may not be fit enough to claim them, but you are. I cannot allow that ring to slip away, brother. Not now. Go and find it, I beseech you.”

Loki looked to the fire a moment, then to the falls. “I think …”

“As an otter, he hid the treasure behind the waters?”

Loki sighed and tugged off his tunic, then his breeches. Without another word, he stalked over toward the river.

Odin watched him go, prodding at his wounds. Damn otter’s claws had rent him deep.

None of that mattered though. Not if Loki returned with the ring. Very soon, Odin might rejoin Freyja. That thought would carry him through any hardship.

Now, he needed to force Audr back into his place. And hope not to lose aught too valuable of himself in the process.

43

Fitela pointed to the march of people headed for the gate.

Sigmund folded his arms. With summer here, the king was compelled to host a feast to reaffirm his allies and declare his foes. Of course, the greater part of his host had already travelled north to meet Olof’s force, but Wolfsblood had to follow tradition.

A great many travelers followed the dirt road through the main gate to the fortress. Some laden with gifts and tributes, some whole families. Amongst such crowds they might pass unnoticed, true, but it meant gambling their success on the hope no one would recognize either Sigmund himself—who had fought them long ago—or Fitela, who had lived among them. In either case, Hel would have them the moment someone noticed them.

“We cannot risk it,” Sigmund said. “Not if you yet hope to avoid an all-out assault.”

Fitela shook his head. “I do not think to pass freely there. Wolfsblood brings in cart after cart of meat, vegetables, ale—all to appease his guests. Because we have cost him so much these last years, he has begun to look weak, forcing him to strain himself to appear the opposite.”

“So?”

“So … they bring the ale in giant casks, up from the town, yes?”

Sigmund nodded, not liking where this seemed to be heading. “I would not poison the king, much less all his guests. I will claim his life with my own blade, not through some—”

“We don’t need the ale, uncle. We just need to be inside those casks, and Wolfsblood’s men will happily escort us inside his very hall.”

Sigmund groaned, unfolding his arms. A plan born of Mist-madness if he ever heard one, and yet, he had naught better to offer. Frowning, he started back toward the seaside town.

In the town, men unloaded the ale from longships onto the pier, rolling the casks along toward carts by the harbor.

Sigmund stood watching, arms folded, as sailors deposited the last of their goods. The day had dragged on, and they could never reach the fort before darkness fell, which, he supposed, might well work in his favor. No one paid him overmuch mind as he drifted among the casks.

Fitela was correct—they could fit inside. Assuming they were willing to scrunch up with their knees rammed against their faces and their spines feeling like a troll had stomped on them. Such a plan precluded carrying swords, but he could bring a knife and hope to plunder a larger blade.

Great as the risks of this plan, it was bold. That alone spoke volumes in its favor. So be it then. Tomorrow night, he would face his foe and one—or both—would die. And Fitela? Well, they had already agreed on the necessity and the cost, both. The young man had courage.

Sigmund glanced at Fitela, who remained sitting on a crate by the pier. His nephew nodded at him. Yes, he knew.

But their deaths mattered little, so long as Wolfsblood paid an even greater price.

Sigmund drifted amidst the town, finally picking an alley filled with discarded debris in which to rest.

And to wait.

Off and on he slept, dreaming of blood and death and valkyries.

As twilight settled on, men had lit torches around town, but most retreated inside to huddle around the warmth and protection of fire pits. The mist thickened, and it drove all men away. Thanks to what Gudrun had done to him, Sigmund was not quite a man anymore. So he lingered, unnoticed, until most all the townsfolk had disappeared behind closed doors.

At last he rose and stretched, working out the kinks in his aching back and neck. The better part of a day sleeping in an alley had done him no favors, nor made him more inclined to squeeze into a fucking cask. Sigmund spit. Comfort mattered naught compared to the task before him.

By the time he returned to the carts, Fitela had already stuck a wedge into one, trying to pry off the top without making any sound. Sigmund grabbed another bar and began to do the same. It popped off easily enough. The moment it did, though, the smell hit him. Strong, hearty, Hunalander ale, probably out of Styria or maybe Swabia. Odin’s beard! How long it had been since he’d tasted ale from home?

Fitela tipped over his cask, spilling the succulent brew into the mud without hesitation or ceremony. Sigmund cringed.

Damn.

With a cupped hand, he sipped the ale. Gods, it was good. He shook his head. What a waste. What a fucking waste. He pushed over the cask, turning the ground at his feet into a sloshy mess.

Lid in hand, Fitela had already started climbing into his, and, with a last look at Sigmund, settled down inside.

Hel take this whole damn plan.

Sigmund groaned as he climbed into the cask. As expected, he barely fit. His knees jammed against his jaw, his spine scraped the wood, and, once he lowered the lid, he could see not a damn thing. The heavy odor of ale left his head spinning after even a few breaths inside.

This was going to be a long, long night.

44

Six Years Ago

The king’s last man blundered through the woods, banged his shoulder against a tree, and spun around, his axe tumbling from his grasp as he did so. Sigmund advanced on him in a steady gait. The man glanced over his shoulder, clearly debating trying to hide in the woods.

“Naught that way but swamp,” Sigmund said. He nodded toward the fallen weapon. “Pick it up. Face me with whatever honor remains to you.”

The man’s gaze darted to the weapon, but he didn’t move. Craven bastard. “Y-you’re the wraith of the bog …”

Sigmund sneered at the little fool. By now, most men knew to avoid the wood and the swamps that fed into it, but some wretched fools occasionally thought to try their luck. Most never made it out, though not all fell to Sigmund. This man’s companions had, four of them, chancing the woods. “I am flesh. Pick. It. Up.”

The warrior—barely worthy of the name—finally stooped and snatched up the axe.

The moment he stood, Sigmund was on him, feinting left with his sword. The man tried to use the axe to deflect, but Sigmund reversed his feint, hewing low across the warrior’s belly. Steaming guts spilled out over the forest floor. The man again dropped his axe, this time slumping down to fumble with his own entrails, as if pushing them back inside might spare him his urd. Some said men dying thus might give them visions of snow maidens come to drag them down to Niflheim. Certainly not of valkyries, not for a craven like this.

Sigmund cleaned his blade—claimed as spoils from a similar kill last winter—and left the man to die and, perhaps, to become an actual ghost of these woods.

One by one, Sigmund was going to hunt down every last man loyal to Siggeir Wolfsblood. None could stand before him in a fair fight, not he, blessed and chosen by Odin himself. Sigmund stalked them through the woods, yes, but he did give all a fair fight when he could, any who would face him in single combat. If they attacked in a swarm like a pack of wolves, well then, he gut them like animals.

He meandered back through the woods, an eye out for game though his last kill had not yet run out. One day soon he might need to take his personal war against the king beyond the bounds of this wood. But Sigmund, mighty as he was, remained but one man and could not well storm Wolfsblood’s keep single-handedly. That being the case …

Tracks in the mud led into the cave where he sheltered. Human tracks, albeit small ones, like those of a woman or child. Had Sieglinde returned? Sigmund dropped into a crouch, making not the slightest sound as he drew his blade nor as he crept forward into the cave. The fire had dwindled down to embers, barely enough to keep the mist from saturating his home. Beside it sat a boy, maybe ten winters, a crop of sandy hair atop his head.

Relaxing and lowering his weapon, Sigmund advanced. The boy spun at the sound of his footfalls so close and jumped up, his eyes darting about the cave like a cornered beast.

“Who are you?” Sigmund demanded.

“I … uh … I’m Kettil. Your sister’s son.”

Sigmund sheathed his sword then folded his arms across his chest. “And what are you doing here?”

“Mother says you are to train me so we can avenge grandfather and my uncles.”

Not so long ago, Sigmund had lamented to his twin that he could not overthrow Wolfsblood by himself, nor could he trust any man in the king’s Realm. This, however, is not what he’d had in mind. A child and the spawn of the very man Sigmund aimed to murder no less, even if he was also Sieglinde’s son. Still, ten winters he had waited for his vengeance already. If needs be, he might wait ten more. Not even the snows of the direst winter could quench the flames of vengeance.

“So be it,” Sigmund said at last. “Come then, and show me what you can do.”

Sigmund led Kettil through the woods to the marsh, casting back an occasional glance. But with him guiding the way, he could not garner the true extent of the boy’s woodcraft. Finally he paused, folded his arms, and nodded at the boy. “Now you lead. Take us east to the edge of the swamp but not into the regions where footing becomes unstable. Take care to make no noise as you move, for we do not want to alert aught to our presence here.”

The bog wraith legend might have cropped up because of Sigmund, but true vaettir and trolls did lurk in the darker places. Though they wakened mostly at night, a bumbling fool could well bestir some of them even in daylight.

Kettil glanced around with obvious doubt for a while, before setting off to the south.

Sigmund groaned. By the time he’d been ten winters, he could have found east even in the forest. “Boy. That way.”

“Ugh.” Kettil trotted in the direction Sigmund had pointed, leaving easily followed boot prints in the mud and seeming to step on every loose twig and rotting root in the entire Realm.

So Sieglinde had not taught her son the least bit of woodcraft. Sigmund scowled as he trailed after the boy, much more careful of his own steps. Still, such things could yet be learned. Kettil needed time to grow before he could serve Sigmund’s purpose, and in that time, he’d train the boy in stealth. He just prayed Kettil had more experience at arms. Surely the son of a king ought to have received tutelage with the bow, spear, and sword? In Sigmund’s youth, his father had taught him much, along with masters hired from across Hunaland.

Sigmund allowed Kettil to draw further ahead. Would he notice the edge of the swamp when he reached it? Or would he plunge in with both feet? Standing waist-deep in freezing water might well serve as a lesson the boy would not soon forget about watching where he walked.

Ahead, Kettil shrieked like an old woman.

Damn it.

Sigmund rushed forward, jerking his plundered blade from over his shoulder as he did so.

Kettil stood frozen at the edge of the swamp, eyes locked on an adder a few feet away from his face. Sigmund glowered, careful to make no sudden moves as he drew nigh. Not until the last moment … His blade caught the serpent solidly, half cleaving through it, half carrying it away with sheer momentum. He flung the dying beast out into the murk, then turned to stare down at the trembling boy.

Fuck.

“T-that was poisonous!”

Sigmund did not bother answering. Instead, he stalked away from the swamp and back in the direction of his cave. A moment later, the sound of shuffling feet followed behind him.

Sigmund said no word the entire time they walked back to the cave, ignoring the boy’s attempts to engage in conversation. Twilight had drawn on by the time they reached his home, and Sigmund paused only to gather extra wood to stoke the fire. A man needed fire most in the night, when the mist thickened and all manner of beast and vaettr came looking for prey.

Inside, while he tended the flame, Kettil settled down against the wall. “Do we have aught to eat? It must surely be time for the night meal.”

Sigmund tried not to sneer. “Indeed we do. All through the forest there is food. Go out and catch some.”

At that the boy glanced at the entrance. Beyond, a wolf howled, followed by another. Kettil must have decided Sigmund did not mean it—though Sigmund was not certain on that himself—because he simply curled up on the floor.

Shaking his head, Sigmund grabbed what remained of his kill, a different serpent in fact, and tossed it at Kettil, drawing another shriek from him. Now Sigmund rolled his eyes. “Eat it. Or starve. As it pleases you.”

Sigmund rolled over by the fire, trying not to think of the useless boy Sieglinde had now saddled him with.

In the early morning, Sigmund left to gather roots, and, while he was out, heard footfalls in the forest. Probably not Kettil—he’d left the boy snoring away not an hour before, besides which, that boy couldn’t track his way across an empty room.

Hand on sword hilt, Sigmund crept toward the intruder. This time, it was Sieglinde. Cloaked and concealed, but he’d recognize the silhouette and walk of his twin anywhere. He stepped out to meet her, and she threw back her hood.

“Brother. Forgive me for not staying longer yesterday, but I could not afford to await your return. Wolfsblood might have noticed my absence.”

Sigmund shrugged, then drew her into an embrace.

When she pulled away, he looked her in the eye. “I met your son.”

“And?”

“He is of no use to our cause. Woodcraft, swordplay, tactics—these things I can teach if I must. But he has no warrior’s soul, and his heart beats with the craven blood of his father.”

“Useless … ?” Sieglinde frowned. Then she waved it away. “Then get rid of him.”

Now Sigmund backed away, gaping. “He is your son.”

“Planted in my belly without my desire. I will not weep to see Wolfsblood deprived of his firstborn heir.”

Sometimes it seemed the only one more dedicated to their revenge than himself was his sister. “As you will. Go back to the fort. You need not see this.”

Sieglinde hesitated. “I will send you my next eldest soon … I think … you will find his nature more akin to your own.”

Sigmund nodded, then turned from her.

Kettil handled the sword—another plundered from Wolfsblood’s men—like he knew how to hold it, at least. It was a good sign.

Sigmund had taken the boy back out to the edge of the swamp, to the site of his shame, uncertain even in his own mind why he had bothered to come so far. Now they both stood, sword in hand, facing one another.

“Today we train with blades?” Kettil asked. “I prefer the spear.”

Sigmund frowned. “Had you told me that back at the cave, I would have given you one.”

The boy waved it away. “Tomorrow.”

Sigmund shook his head. “No. You see, boy, the gods respect honesty, so I will be honest with you. I am going to kill you. I will give you a fair chance to defend yourself. You will fail and die, but you might at least die with honor and perhaps avoid being dragged down to Hel. Have courage and face me.”

“W-what! Why are you turning on me, uncle?”

Sigmund shook his head and advanced. He did not owe the son of Wolfsblood any explanation.

After cutting off the boy’s head to ensure no draug would rise, Sigmund left the boy’s corpse in the muck. Unfortunately for the child, Sigmund doubted he saw any valkyries this day. If aught at all came for Kettil, it would be the servants of Hel.

As they must soon come for all the brood of Siggeir Wolfsblood.

45

In daylight, Audr’s power was weakened, making it harder to grasp onto. Odin strolled along the street outside the tower, casting a glance back at Loki where he lingered in an alley. This was the only chance they had, yes, but the thought of it left a sick, empty pit in Odin’s stomach. Just reach down into the back of his mind and grab hold of the wraith. That was all he had to do.

That, and welcome darkness into his soul, choking on it as it smothered him. To bear witness as his soul and his humanity withered away into husks as empty as those carried by the Niflungar.

He cast a glance around to make sure none would see what he was about. Using his own power he might have projected his consciousness into the Astral Realm, true, and even passed into the tower. But that allowed him no way to interact with the Mortal Realm. No, he needed the wraith to physically pull him through the Veil and back, and that meant accepting the taint that came with it.

Odin’s mind touched Audr’s power. A surge of bile scorched his throat as his gut lurched at the feeling of the wraith’s simmering, oily hatred of life. His stomach roiled again as that power tugged him across realities, like falling headfirst over a cliff and straight into a maelstrom. Astral currents tore at his consciousness as his body and soul began to shred.

Falling.

Falling upward, outward. Inward.

Vertigo seized Odin, and he plummeted to his knees. They cracked down on hard stone steps, the impact sending a jolt of lightning coursing through his body.

He was back in the Mortal Realm.

The thought fled as fast as it had come, as he toppled down stairs inside the tower. His hip banged one step, his foot slipped. His wrist twisted as he tried to arrest his fall. He pitched over backward and toppled.

His skull slammed against the floor when he finally stopped falling.

Everything blurred, spun.

Almost no light in here.

A serpent slithered along his intestines, crawling up his bowels, into his stomach. Coiling around his heart. Audr was squeezing it. Taking control.

They had a deal.

They had a fucking deal!

Of course the wraith could not be trusted. The Otherworlds were the worlds of lies. Of deceit. Corruption. Not that the Mortal Realm was so much better. No! That was the wraith’s natural ennui grasping him, dragging him into oblivion to smother all hope.

Lying on his back, gasping for breath and nigh to blind, Odin beat at the wraith as it coiled around him. His hands flailed wildly, slapping stone. His one good leg spasmed, pounding again and again into the side of the tower.

Not like this. His body was his body. His mind his mind. His soul … He could almost feel pieces of it shred as Audr feasted upon him. He opened his mouth to scream, but his agony swallowed even the sound, leaving him writhing in silent torment.

A memorial. Vili had died because of Odin’s mistakes.

Except the berserk … the man … his brother …

Memories of him evaporated like Odin had fallen into the Lethe. There one moment, then gone. For an instant, he knew what he had lost, then even that fell to a haze. Something was torn from him. Something precious.

And yet, at last, Audr receded into the interminable darkness.

Odin sucked down a long painful breath. Fuck. He hadn’t been able to breathe this whole time? And he had pissed himself. He gasped, moaned, unable to sit. His knee was throbbing. Damn this aged form! He might well have cracked the bone.

He had expected to age a few more years for this. Not … whatever had happened to him. Maybe that was the true horror—never knowing what price you’d pay for calling upon the Art.

Odin coughed, barely able to turn his head to spit out the phlegm. Sorcerers lost their humanity and their souls. Or perhaps it was all part of the same thing. Souls, memories. Humanity.

His brother. He had lost memories … of his brother … He knew he’d had a brother … two brothers? It ought to pain him, this knowledge, but he just felt empty. At last he managed to push himself over, coughing and gasping against the pain.

He embraced the Sight, illuminating the darkness with astral light. He lay on a landing beneath a winding staircase. It no doubt delved down into some hidden basement. Other stairs rose up into the tower.

So—up or down? If Odin were a creature denied his powers in sunlight, he’d head toward the darker place.

You are always bound for darker places …

Standing sent fresh jolts of agony through his knee, and he collapsed against the side of the tower, sputtering with the effort. Grunting, fumbling around, he managed to pull the butt of Gungnir under him for support. Descending stairs was not like to end well. But then, none of his choices ever did.

Not that urd had truly allowed him choices.

We are all trapped by Fate …

Or perhaps men preferred to think thus, as if that might absolve them of their responsibility for their own situations. But was that truth, or was that Loki’s wordplay at work in Odin’s agonized mind? It didn’t matter.

What mattered was taking one slow, painful stair at a time.

It felt a long way he descended, though it could not have been more than twenty steps. This opened into an underground chamber, circular. In its center stood a pedestal atop which a copper goblet rested. Odin paused on the threshold, looking around the empty room.

Where were the guards? Surely the Patriarchs would not leave their greatest treasure unattended. And yet, no one was here. The walls bore engravings, both carvings of wicked, fanged faces of monsters and of strange glyphs. Some of those might have resembled spirit glyphs, but others Odin could not identify. Alcoves retreated into the back of the wall, so perhaps, behind those …

Odin took a step forward.

Then another, still supporting himself on Gungnir.

Still, naught happened. He advanced toward the goblet. Could it be so easy? Could he claim his prize and leave without …

Dust wafted out of the one of the alcoves. Then another. And another. It began to flow from them like a waterfall, raining over the floor and rising up in great clouds that slowly began to take shape.

Hel take these Miklagardians.

Odin surged forward, snatched up the goblet—it was filled with blood—and leveled Gungnir at one of the rapidly solidifying dust clouds.

He could use Audr to escape … at a price more terrible than could be borne.

A hint of red eyes gleamed in the darkness for a moment before fading. One of the other dust clouds broke apart and raced toward him. Odin swept Gungnir in a wide arc at it while trying to fall back. Putting weight on his knee nigh sent him toppling to the floor with pain and forced a gasp out of him.

The first dust cloud had become a man, dressed in a tattered shroud, and that man advanced on him with a steady gait. Odin glanced over his shoulder. The other dust cloud had moved behind him, cutting off his escape, and it too had solidified into a man. The third closed in from his left.

Odin spun, whirling Gungnir around him in an attempt to keep these creatures at bay. His movement put weight on his knee, almost sent him plummeting to the floor.

The one to his side lunged at him with superhuman speed. Odin seized the power of the apple to make himself stronger, faster. Blocking all pain.

Rather than turn to face his attacker, he twisted backward, jutting the spear out behind himself and impaling the vampire mid-air. Gungnir punched through the creature’s chest, eliciting a mind-rending shriek from it.

The one before Odin froze in place, mouth agape, as if unable to comprehend that a living man might accomplish such a thing. Odin whipped his spear back around, flinging the impaled vampire off at its kin. The two collided and stumbled to the floor.

Odin spun on the remaining one and thrust at it. The creature broke apart into dust and shadow, reforming as the spear passed. Again and again, Odin attacked, and each time the creature dodged, becoming dust with uncanny speed, denying Gungnir any solid purchase.

Roaring at his foe, Odin lunged forward, sweeping the spear blade in a descending arc. With only one hand, his swings were wild. Too easy to avoid.

The vampire solidified beside him, caught the spear haft and jerked Odin around. Its strength exceeded even his own. With one swift motion, it had lifted him off the ground and flung him against the wall.

The goblet clattered from his hand.

And then the vampire was on him. One hand pinned his spear to his chest. The other snared his hair and jerked his head around. Icy fangs sunk into his neck. At once the chill of the grave hit him, draining his strength even as he felt his blood siphoned out. Awakened by the apple, he could almost see his pneuma vanishing, sucked out through his blood. And with each swallow, the vampire grew stronger, and Odin’s power diminished. His legs kicked helplessly in the air, unable to find purchase.

Breath wouldn’t come.

The one he had wounded—that ought to have killed it!—was crawling over to him. It bit him on the thigh, sucking down great gulps of his blood. As it did so, the hole in its chest began to seal over.

Thought wouldn’t come.

Except … Audr.

He touched the wraith and fell through the vampire’s grasp, his form no longer in the Mortal Realm. Just for an instant—a single heartbeat—and then he plummeted back into reality. Long enough to rise behind the vampire. It turned but not fast enough. With another bellow, Odin drove Gungnir through its back. The spear bit through the stone and embedded itself in the wall, pinning the vampire in place. Odin kicked the other one in the face, sending it spinning end over end through the air.

Audr’s icy claws clutched his heart, trying to take control again. Odin threw his faltering will against the wraith. Something impacted him from behind and drove him to the ground. The third vampire.

It spun him around. Its fist snapped into his face, smacking his head against the floor. Odin reeled, unable to move. Blows rained down upon his face and chest and ribs with lightning speed and enough force to crack bone with each hit. Odin jerked his knee up, trying to catch the vampire in the stones. He either missed, or it didn’t care, because it didn’t halt its assault in the least.

It took all of the apple’s power to block out the pain or dim it to the point he could even think. And all he could think of was the same solution, over and over. The wraith was his only chance. The wraith was … going to devour his soul.

But Odin had been other men. Men who could fight even unarmed, even against a stronger foe. He caught the vampire, shifted his weight, and twisted, instinct telling him just how to move to reverse the hold. The surprised creature slammed into the ground. Whether stunned by the impact or the fact that Odin was now atop him, it faltered for an instant. Long enough for Odin to launch powerful blows of his own. He shattered the creature’s nose, slapped his hands on its temples, and crushed its throat.

Too much to hope that would kill the dead thing, but Odin rolled off it and scrambled for the goblet. Somehow, the blood had not spilled from it. In fact, even as Odin lifted it, the liquid seemed to shift to maintain its position, as if possessed of its own will.

The other vampire rose up, lurching toward him, the hole in its chest half closed and obviously agonizing the monster. It surged forward, clawed fingers reaching for Odin. As he fell back, that hand slapped the goblet, knocking it aside. That was their priority. Make sure the goblet couldn’t leave this tower.

And Odin just needed to get the goblet outside, into the sunlight.

Sunlight … Accursed …

Odin feinted left, then dove around the vampire in a roll. His knee felt like it would rip off with every motion. He was burning through so much pneuma to fight the pain he wouldn’t have much left to fight these bastards. He caught up the goblet.

Sunlight … may destroy the blood’s power …

What? The wraith couldn’t have told him that sooner?

The fell vaettr cackled inside him, the sound like a child in pain.

The vampire with the crushed throat had risen. The one impaled on Gungnir was working his way off it, heedless of the gaping hole in its chest. And the third was already swinging at Odin.

Odin grabbed Audr’s power again, this time, shifting himself onto the steps. The wraith’s claws were in his skull now, shredding bits and pieces of Odin’s past. His life, his past lives. Memories. Hopes. Dreams. All of it torn and dragged down into the dark oblivion in which Audr dwelled.

The anguish of it sent Odin stumbling to the ground. The vampires were dashing for him.

He could use Audr to escape the tower, but it all meant naught without the blood. And he had no easy way to conceal it from the daylight. Cover it with his cloak? Would that work?

Perhaps …

Again, that mad cackle. Memories of his brother, his father, his mother, they disappeared, consumed by the wraith. Odin had had a family but … what had happened to them?

He was weak from blood loss. Not thinking clearly. The vampires had drained his pneuma through his blood.

They drank it.

Drank it.

Oh … Precious …

Before he could think better of it, Odin took a long swig from the goblet. Acrid, iron taste scorched his throat. It burned his stomach like acid. And then his heart beat. It coursed through his veins like tar, like a poison he felt devouring him from the inside out.

One of the vampires flung himself at Odin in a rage. Odin was past caring. He seized Audr’s power again, this time shifting himself outside the tower.

The wraith vanished the instant he reentered the Mortal Realm, driven into dormancy by the sunlight. Light that now stung Odin’s eyes and left him coughing, gagging. It stung his skin. Too bright.

He tried to rise, but everything hurt. Everything. From the top of his head right down to his knees, he was a ragged, bloody mess of wounds and broken bones. Worse still, the damage inside. His heart pulsated oddly, like it struggled to pump this foreign substance.

Odin rolled over onto his back, shielding his eyes with his forearm. Everything inside had become a haze. So many memories gone. And his body seemed more ragged, more aged than ever. His battle with these creatures had cost him more than he’d expected. If only Gungnir had been able to … shit. Damn it! He’d left the spear embedded in the tower wall.

He had to reclaim it! The spear was his legacy! A gift from … from …

What the fuck?

Where had that spear come from?

Odin opened his eyes as hands dragged him away from the tower into the shadow of an alley. A sandy-haired man looked down at him.

This man … “Loki?” his voice came out as a rasp.

“What did you do?”

“I drank it. It’s in my blood now.”

“Y-you what!” The man looked like he might retch. Had Odin ever seen him so discomfited?

“I am losing myself.”

Loki slapped his cheek. “Concentrate, Odin. The price of the Art almost always exceeds its gain. But you knew that before you turned to the wretched ghost inside you. Now. For what you have done, the Patriarchs will turn this city upside down looking for you.”

“We have to escape.”

Loki pulled Odin to his feet, then wrapped a cloak around his shoulders. “You have to escape, or all this was for naught. Use the swan cloak and fly from here.”

His brain felt like it was underwater. Everything seemed distorted, confused. “You?”

“They will be searching the ships. I’ll have to go by land, find a way to hide in the mountains until an alternative route presents itself. Fly, Odin. As soon as the sun sets, these creatures will be everywhere. Do what you set out to do, brother.”

Brother.

Brother … Odin had had other brothers. Gone now. Dead? Fuck, he couldn’t remember their names nor faces nor aught about them. He was lucky he even remembered Loki. For now. And he hated the man … had he not? No, not hated. Mistrusted. But here, his brother was sacrificing his cloak all so Odin could escape from his own mistakes.

Odin clapped Loki on the shoulder, and his blood brother nodded.

“You have lost some things you would not have parted with for any price in the World.”

“I don’t know.” Maybe that was the worst part.

Odin pulled up the hood of the swan cloak.

46

Eighteen Years Ago

Rough hands seized Odin, jolting him awake. A pair of dvergar hefted him to his feet, and before he could even open his mouth, one cracked him across the jaw with a stony fist. Odin’s vision reeled, and his knees gave out.

He had not intended to sleep. So much lost blood … and where had these dvergar come from? Below the ground?

Shaking his head, he glanced about for Gungnir. A third dverg had claimed it, now leveling the dragon spear at Odin. “You killed my son.”

“Your son?” Odin glanced at the corpse still lying on the riverbank.

The same dverg punched him in the gut.

“For such temerity, your life is forfeit, human.”

Irony …

Irony? That Odin had fought jotunnar, trolls, dragons, and all else and would now die because of dvergar.

Or give me … control …

Give himself over to possession and let the wraith feast on the souls of his enemies. Except, once down that path, he might never again be himself.

You already become me …

“Your son attacked me. But I will offer you weregild for his death. What do I call you?”

“Hreidmar.” The dverg spat in the snow at Odin’s feet. “And I will accept no weregild for my son’s death save the whole of his treasure, enough to cover his entire corpse.”

The ring …

The ring would do him no good if these dvergar killed him. On the other hand, without that ring, Odin could not reach Freyja or Alfheim. And that alone was almost enough to let Audr free.

“You shall have your gold.”

“Swear it. Swear you shall cover my son in gold.”

Odin clenched his fists at his side. “I give you my oath—if you give yours to return my spear.”

Hreidmar glanced down at Gungnir, then nodded. “I so swear.”

The two dvergar holding him released him, shoving him down into the snow.

“Where is the gold?” Hreidmar demanded.

Odin glared up at him. “My brother brings it now.”

They waited.

Loki returned, dripping water and bearing what looked a heavy sack. Odin’s blood brother took in the three dvergar, then trod toward Odin’s side. Odin explained all that had passed, and Loki shook his head. He tossed the sack at Odin’s feet.

“Bury my son in gold,” Hreidmar demanded.

Odin knelt and untied the sack. Within lay a veritable mountain of coins, bracelets, and baubles, all crafted from glittering gold. Odin scooped up a great handful of it and carried it over to the corpse, then deposited it. Again and again he repeated.

And then …

There, among the pile lay a ring of rosy gold—orichalcum. Odin palmed this. Andvari’s Gift—Andvaranaut. The other wealth could be replaced, but this, this ring was unique in all the World. Unique enough that its crafting had made Andvari a fugitive, perhaps even from his own family. Maybe that was why his father and brothers now came to claim it on his death.

Tucking the ring into his sleeve, Odin scooped up more gold and continued to bury Andvari.

When at last the sack was empty, there lay before the dvergar a mound of gold larger than any Odin had ever beheld. With such wealth a man could build a new kingdom. Odin extended his hand to the pile, and Hreidmar waddled over, then bent down to inspect it.

At last the dverg rose. “Your oath was that he should be covered.”

“He is covered.”

“I can yet see the hair of his beard. If you cannot cover that, your oath is broken and your life is forfeit.”

Odin glowered, then looked to Loki.

His brother frowned. “You made an oath.”

The dverg knew. He fucking knew about the ring. It alone was worth more than all treasures.

“One moment,” Loki said. “You ought to know, Andvari made a foretelling, revealed to me in flame. That the ring and gold would be the death of any who possessed it.”

Hreidmar spat. “Lies. You cannot know what words my son spoke alone in darkness. Surrender the ring or be held as oath breakers.”

And shame Odin’s father, all his ancestors. His fallen brothers. His children. Damn it. Damn it!

The ring slipped from his sleeve into his palm. He was so close. He was so gods-damned close! He wanted to scream, to rage at the dvergar. To let Audr devour their souls. And to damn himself in the process.

Trembling with fury, he knelt and placed the ring on the pile, covering the last hairs from Andvari’s beard.

“This day will not avail you,” Loki said.

Hreidmar tossed Gungnir at Odin’s feet. “Be gone, humans.”

With last glower, Odin snatched up Gungnir.

“I will reclaim that ring.” The ice that had once filled his chest had melted to the raging inferno that now threatened to consume him. It felt like his eyes would burst into flames. Like heat would pour from his mouth and devour the World. All he could see was himself flaying those dvergar.

He and Loki sat above the fjord, looking down at the Morimarusa, its waves barely visible through the thick mist.

“You cannot take it from the dvergar without breaking your oath. You cannot act against them yourself, nor send anyone to do so in your stead.”

Odin flung a rock out into the waters, watching as it vanished. “Then I will find someone to claim it for me, whom I need not send, even if it takes me a lifetime. I will find a way to reach her.”

Loki blew on his hands then rubbed them together. “You think to manipulate someone into your service without ever actually asking for it?” Loki sighed and shook his head. “A tricky move, that.” Now he turned to Odin. “I understand the pain of losing loved ones, brother. Be careful what you do in the name of that pain.”

“Bah. I will do aught necessary to be reunited with her, cost or urd be damned. I need her, nor, do I think, can I face Ragnarok without her by my side.”

Loki sighed. “Your obsession with Freyja may cost you Frigg.”

Odin shrugged. “The one means naught compared to the other, as well you know.”

Finally, his brother clucked his tongue. “There is another craftsman, talented and famous as Andvari. I do not know if the dark smith could forge the likes of Andvari’s Gift, but he may be able to help you—if you are truly willing to pay any price.”

Now Odin turned to Loki. “Of whom do you speak?”

Loki blew out a breath before answering. “Oh, you have heard the name, even since your childhood. Your people tell of him in whispers and warnings, shivering at the now legendary cruelty of the vengeance he wrought.”

Odin paused, considering. And then he knew. “You mean Volund. He yet lives?”

“I fear so, if you could call his dark existence living.”

Legend said Volund had forged wonders during the Njarar War, perhaps even a new runeblade. Such a master might replicate Andvari’s ring. And for that, Odin would indeed offer any price the smith demanded.

Odin rose. “Find him.”

Loki stood too, frowning and shaking his head. “Come, then. I will look into the flames.”

47

Every lurch of the cart sent Sigmund’s gut swirling until it took all his concentration just to keep from retching all over himself inside the damn cask. If that happened, he’d have to open it for air … and … no. Don’t even think about it.

The road to Wolfsblood’s hall had never seemed so damned long. He needed to think of something else, aught else, really.

Wolfsblood’s head cut from his shoulders.

His hall burning down to cinders.

Father, avenged.

The wolf did not like being so restrained.

Sigmund’s fingers twitched. At long last, he would have his revenge. Naught else mattered.

Still, the wolf wanted to howl. To rage.

To kill.

Soon.

The traders deposited the casks one by one, in great clattering heaves. Though muffled by the wood, curses reached him, men whining over the weight of a few of the containers.

The one Sigmund waited in landed with a thud that jostled him and slammed his head against the wood. He barely stifled a groan.

More clatters rang out, more casks dropped in what—he hoped—must be a larder inside Wolfsblood’s main hall.

At last, when no further sound had reached him in some time, Sigmund pushed open the top a hair. No light filtered into the room. Slowly, he lifted the lid higher. Rising out of the cask proved more difficult, however. With neither room to stand nor leverage, he found himself forced to work against the side of the cask, edging his way up one painful hair at a time.

When he managed to stand erect, a jolt of fresh aches and pains coursed through him, and he had to steady himself on the cask’s rim. His varulf eyes began to adjust to the darkness—not total, as he had first thought, for a hint of torchlight reached out from under the door.

One of the other containers rocked back and forth. Fitela. Sigmund stepped out of his, almost fell, and then stumbled his way over to Fitela’s cask. After his nephew cast aside the top, Sigmund helped him first to stand, then to climb from the cask.

Fitela groaned, arched his back, then cracked his neck. “It seems it worked.”

“Worked or not, I find your plan objectionable.”

The young man snickered, then made his way through the room, as if searching for something. After a moment, he turned about. “This is the outer room in front of Wolfsblood’s hall. We could burst in and attack, but Odin alone knows how many men he is like to have with him. Best we wait for full darkness, when they’ll have grown drunk.”

Sigmund had waited long enough. The wolf inside him whispered hints of rage and slaughter and revenge. “Drunk on what? You mean the ale in this very room?”

Fitela clucked his tongue, then rubbed his short beard. “Well, if we rush out like this we risk—”

Footsteps fell just outside the door, followed by voices. Sigmund spared a single glance to Fitela, then they both scrambled into the recesses of the room, taking up positions behind more ale casks. Sigmund slipped his dagger free. Maybe the time had come for blood at last.

The door opened, letting in a rush of light that, after so long in darkness, seemed nigh to blinding. Sigmund blinked, trying to adjust his vision.

“Bring up nine casks now,” a woman said. “And do not dare think to taste them before the feasting begins. These are for the guests.”

Sigmund knew that voice … Sieglinde. Of course, as the mistress of this house, she would command the slaves and servants, ordering the feast.

A pair of men stepped around Sigmund’s twin to grab the nearest container of ale, hefting it, and then waddling back out the door.

Sieglinde turned to follow them.

“Psst,” Fitela hissed.

She froze, then turned, hand on a knife that hung around her neck.

“Mother.”

“F-fitela?” Sieglinde advanced through the room, clearly unable to see well into the shadows.

Sigmund too rose, caught her eye, and embraced his sister at the same time Fitela threw his arms around his mother.

“You’re here,” she mumbled against his chest.

“The time has finally come to avenge all wrongs done to our family.” Sigmund stepped back from Sieglinde to look her over. The years had proved less kind to her. Even in the darkness, he could see the lines creasing her eyes, her mouth. His twin had born the worst hardships of all, married to the bastard who had murdered her kin.

She sighed and shook her head. “He has too many warriors here, bounty-seekers, raiders, even berserkir women. If you are to do this, you must strike him down as he sleeps.”

Sigmund scowled. Like mother, like son. “I will do no such thing. I shall reclaim Gramr—”

“It hangs above his throne.”

He waved that away. “If need be, I will kill him first, then reclaim her. But I shall not sacrifice my honor in any event.”

Fitela groaned. Despite their years together, the boy had never learned. Odin had chosen Sigmund. He must always make his actions worthy of that.

Sieglinde sighed but did not argue further. “At least wait until nightfall, then. If you face them all drunk, perhaps you have a chance.”

“Agreed. And sister, we need weapons. We cannot face armed men with ourselves bearing but daggers.”

Sieglinde pointed back to the shadows. “Hide here. I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”

Sigmund nodded and moved back behind the casks.

“Mother?” Fitela said.

“Not now.”

“But surely he deserves—”

“Not now.” Sieglinde spun and fled the room as if chased by a draug.

Sigmund frowned. What in Hel’s frozen underworld? “Who deserves what?”

Fitela returned to his place beside Sigmund. “It matters naught. Leave it for now.”

Scowling, Sigmund folded his arms and settled down to wait.

The slaves came again and again, taking away the ale. And then they shut the door, and the day dragged on.

Until, after many hours, it opened again. Sigmund started to rise. Finally, Sieglinde would have brought weapons and …

Instead, two boys—maybe six or seven winters—rushed into the room, giggling and chasing after some ring clattering along the floor. Sigmund froze in place, willing them to turn away.

One of them looked up though, caught his gaze, and then took off running.

Fitela leapt up, surging at the boy, but Sigmund caught him by the arm. “Those are your brothers, like as not!”

“And they will betray us!”

The younger boy chased the elder from the room.

Already, shouts rang out through the hall.

Fuck.

Fitela jerked his arm free and raced out of the room.

Damn it. Damn it!

Sigmund dashed after his nephew. As he swung around the door, Fitela had snared the elder boy by the neck. He dashed him against the wall, pulverizing the boy’s skull with his inhuman strength. The other boy tried to duck around Fitela, screaming and wailing for his father. Fitela moved faster than the boy could hope to react, caught him, and snapped his neck.

As the body hit the floor, the boy’s vacant eyes stared at Sigmund, his neck twisted around so far his head looked attached backwards.

“What have you done …”

“Did you not kill my elder brother with your own hands?”

Sigmund had fought and killed an armed young man who knew what he faced. He had not slain a small child playing with a toy.

Before he could further berate Fitela, a pair of men came rushing in from the main hall, armed with axes. Fitela caught one by the throat and throttled him. Sigmund dashed forward, dodged the swing of the other, and slammed his fist into the man’s face, dropping him.

More men rushed around the corner. More than Sigmund had time to count.

He reached for the wolf, tried to let it out. But the sun was yet in the sky.

He ducked an axe swing, his fist shattering a man’s jaw.

A blade bit his shoulder.

He drove his dagger through someone’s eye, coating himself in blood. Another blade tore through his thigh and sent him stumbling. He slammed his dagger again and again into the chest of a man trying to pile atop him. A spear butt caught him in the face and sent him falling onto his back.

Everything spun. Red and black warred for control of his vision.

Someone kicked his ribs. Sigmund caught the leg and twisted, heard bones break though he could not see.

Screaming.

More blows rained down and slashes and pummeling.

Until all went dark.

48

Five Years Ago

Dawn had not yet broken and yet soft footsteps sounded outside the cave. Sigmund stirred, hand drifting to the sword by his bedding. Trolls did not move with such grace, and besides which, sunrise had to be nigh. Most such creatures would be moving for holes in the ground already. So a man. But at night?

Careful to make no sound, Sigmund rose. Barefoot, clad only in breeches, he advanced on the cave entrance. A man had to climb up and over rocks to escape this cave, but it did offer excellent concealment from Wolfsblood’s hunters. Actually, had they known who he truly was, they might not have given over their search for the wraith of the bog just yet.

Sigmund heaved himself up, out of the cave, only to find himself face to face with another sandy-haired boy. This one bore a torch in one hand and an axe in the other, his wild eyes darting about the wood for any sign of danger. The confidence of his stance, the way he held that axe, told Sigmund a great deal about his nature. This one might have been a winter or so younger than the last, but he knew how to kill. Sigmund need not even ask such a question.

“You came alone?” he asked instead, though the answer seemed obvious. Sieglinde would not and could not have snuck from the fort at night.

The boy shrugged. “She told me where to find you. I just followed the landmarks.”

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Fitela.”

“Fitela, I am Sigmund, your uncle.”

The boy frowned a moment, then nodded. “All right, Uncle Sigmund. Do you have a plan of attack?”

A plan of attack? He could not stop himself from chuckling at that, drawing an even deeper frown from Fitela.

“I had dared to hope you would,” the boy said. “If my father could be slain with ease, I’d have done so already.”

Sigmund folded his arms across his chest. Boy certainly held a high opinion of himself. The question was, did he deserve that self-confidence? And the only way to be certain of that was to test it. Sigmund cocked his head to the cave. “There’s fire down there. I want you to go out and catch some game, cook it, and prepare the day meal for us.”

“Where are you going?”

“First, to dress. Then I’m going out for an hour or two. Be ready when I return.”

From behind a tree, Sigmund watched the cave entrance. The viper writhed around in the sack he held, hissing and furious at being so snared. But if it had worked well enough to test one brother, it could test the next.

For a time he watched, until, the sounds of scraping came from within. The boy must be skinning a kill.

No better time would present itself, and, thus, Sigmund crept forward to the cave’s edge. Over the lip, he upended the sack, pitching the viper down over the rocks. The hissing thing slithered off into the darkness below.

Sigmund settled back to wait.

No shout came from within. Sigmund folded his arms. It should have happened by now. If the boy had found the snake, he’d have either run screaming or tried to kill it. If not, he should have cried out when it bit him. Either way … something should have passed by now.

Sigmund tapped a finger against his thigh.

The smell of roasting meat drifted up out of the cave, sending his mouth watering. Boy could cook, too. That boded well in itself. Finally, careful of where he trod lest the serpent yet lived, Sigmund slid down over the rocks himself. Slowly, he edged toward the back of the cave.

The boy looked up from a spit over the fire and turned, revealing the animals roasting there. A snow rabbit and … a snake. He’d caught, skinned, and roasted the fucking snake.

“Uncle. Do not seem so surprised. I only tracked the rabbit. The snake was just luck I happened upon.”

Was Fitela mocking him? His eyes were hard to read. What child was so practiced in deception he could conceal the depths of his meaning from a grown man? Had the boy known Sigmund had set that serpent, that he was testing him?

Either way, he had done exactly as Sigmund had ordered. He didn’t lack for skill or courage, and they would need both for their mission. Rather than interrogate the boy, Sigmund settled down in front of him and accepted the meat when Fitela offered it.

When he was finished, he licked his fingers, savoring the hot juice. “I have to ask, boy. What has your mother told Wolfsblood about the disappearance of first one son and then the next?”

“She told him he died of a snake bite while hunting.” The boy did know what had happened to his brother. Interesting. “She burned the corpse of some other peasant boy and called it Kettil. I don’t know what she plans to say of me, but I trust it will be convincing.”

Sigmund grunted. He’d had no idea Sieglinde had grown so very accustomed to deception. He supposed her position necessitated it. Were she to admit her feelings about her husband, he’d have her killed no doubt.

“So,” Fitela said. “About the plan. I have been thinking about our first step.”

“Our first step?”

“Are we not to work together to bring down my father? Mother led me to believe I could count on your assistance.”

Him count on Sigmund’s assistance? Had the boy eaten some bad mushrooms? Biting back his initial response, Sigmund folded his arms. “How old are you, boy?”

“Almost ten winters.”

“Then, in almost a winter you will be two winters shy of manhood. So the first step—grow a fucking beard.”

Fitela spit juice into the fire and glowered. “To what end? In my youth, the king’s men will underestimate me. We need but get by a few of them, sneak into his chamber while he sleeps, and slit his throat.”

Small wonder a boy raised in Wolfsblood’s court would have no more honor than his father. “I will not kill a man in his sleep, much less Wolfsblood. When he dies, he will know a son of Volsung yet lives and brought about his fall. And I aim to bring down his entire house, all his line wiped from Midgard by my blade. To that end, we wait. We train. And you grow up strong enough to face a man in a fair fight.”

Fitela yet glowered at him, shaking his head. “While you dawdle over your precious honor, grandfather and your brothers lie unavenged. Their shades no doubt in torment. But mother has commanded I heed your orders, so we wait. At least let us use the intervening years wisely and perhaps find ways to turn Wolfsblood’s allies from his side.”

Sigmund sighed and unfolded his arms. Maybe the boy was right. Maybe he had dwelt in this cave long enough. The forest was large, and many outlying towns lay just beyond it. So then, together they would begin to right the wrong Siggeir Wolfsblood had done to the Volsung line.

Together, Sigmund and Fitela, would find justice.

49

Odin’s injuries had not healed with the speed to which he’d become accustomed. Perhaps, drained of so much blood and pneuma by the vampires, his body lacked the resources it needed to recover. Regardless, his flight to Volund’s cave had proved agonizing and had taken him much longer than he might have desired. Walking still hurt, doubly so without Gungnir to count on. Instead, he was forced to lean on the tunnel wall as he descended into the darkness of the deep forge.

His knee popped loudly, announcing him, though Volund must surely have sensed his presence in any event. Odin suspected the very shadows spoke to the svartalf. He paused a moment, caught his breath, and then pressed on. The throne, once completed, might help him see a way to avert or win Ragnarok. This he prayed, for it had cost him more than he’d have liked. In his current state, he was not well suited for a direct confrontation with foes. It took too much out of him, even without these accursed injuries.

“You have not brought the Ordrerir.” The voice came from the darkness, echoing through the tunnel and making Volund seem some shadowy god.

Apt …

Odin pushed on, into the forge, this lit dimly by the fires. “It was suggested to me that exposure to sunlight might shatter the power imbued in the blood.”

Volund hobbled out of the shadows, looking Odin up and down. “And yet you have brought something, have you not? There is a fresh gloom upon you and not merely the shaded aspect of one who passes close to the other side, losing himself.”

“I brought the blood of Kvasir, as best I was able.”

Volund turned, ever so slightly, taking in the throne with a wave of his hand. “Once it is saturated with blood, the final steps can begin. It will not be long now, and you will have all you require.”

“Will I?”

“Has Mjölnir yet disappointed you, King of the Aesir? Through it, you fell the jotunnar and claim their chaotic souls for the forging of your treasures. Like the Vanir, you build your paradise upon the corpses of your victims. Is that not grandeur almost beyond measure? In these few decades, your fame already rivals that which they spent millennia building. And those of us who watch wait with bated breath to see how it will all end.”

Odin made his way to the throne and settled down on it. Cold and hard and bitter. “You did not answer my question. Will the throne show me all I wish to see?”

Volund snickered. “It will show you much. Whether you wish to see it all is a question only you can answer.”

Odin grunted, the profound weariness of the past days almost driving him into torpor. Volund had said the throne needed to be saturated in the blood of Kvasir. That blood was in Odin now, pumping through his veins. Somehow, they used it to make more vampires, though he hoped that would not become his urd. For now though …

Odin drew a dagger from around his neck, then slid the blade along first one palm, then the other. Then he slapped his bloody hands down upon the wolf’s head armrests, letting the blood seep over them. It poured into the grooves, running in thin rivers until it plummeted over the edge and dribbled onto the floor.

Die at last …

So.

The throne might give him his answers, but still, another task lay before him. He could not afford to abandon Sigmund now. The Volsung was the only solution the Sight had yet revealed to recovering Andvari’s Gift. He didn’t know how Sigmund would recover it, only that the Volsung might one day do so. Odin dared hope the throne might offer another option, but until he had one, he could not risk aught befalling Sigmund.

Thinking on the man, flickers of images came to Odin through the Sight. Darkness much like a cairn or a barrow. What was Sigmund doing in such a place? What vile urd had fallen to him now? Had Odin’s plans gone askew? Or perhaps they remained on course. If so, not for any lack of interfering by the Niflungar. Those sorcerers had caused no end of trouble for Odin, and perhaps the time had come to focus on breaking their power once and for all.

His visions told him the Volsungs would lead to the Niflungar’s demise. Fitting then, that Gudrun’s obsession with Sigmund kept her in Sviarland. Where Odin could find her and break her power.

Blood continued to seep from his palms, as if the throne drank it much as the vampires had. Odin did not remember shutting his eyes, but he felt himself falling into a trance. Felt his mind scraping other lands. It flitted about, all control over his visions lost in his weakness.

He saw the barrow and Sigmund.

A castle, belonging to his enemies.

In the marsh, Gudrun—or Skadi—had built a fortress. She had tried on multiple occasions to disrupt Odin’s intentions for Sigmund in one way or another.

Yes, Sigmund was in danger. Odin would need to ride Sleipnir and push him hard to reach the Volsung in time.

He blinked.

And the Midgard Wall. Thor had gone from there, so why did he see it? Did aught of import lay beyond it? Did the jotunnar move themselves, bestirred to learn a man consumed so many of their souls?

His mind grazed over Asgard. There Sjöfn rode Annar hard within Yggdrasil, her back arched in ecstasy that hardly seemed feigned. Had Odin not lost so much blood, the vision might be arousing. Instead, it seemed more tedious than aught else.

Especially when the girl left the sleeping guardian of the apples … climbed the boughs … stole an apple for herself. Foolish girl. The others all yet imagined that if Odin was not there, he could not see what wickedness they wrought in his absence. What treason.

Always, they betray us …

No. Odin was not like the fallen prince of the Lofdar.

We are not so different …

The difference was, Odin would win.

At last he stumbled from the throne, pitched onto the floor, and looked up at Volund. “Enough?”

The smith quirked a wretched smile and nodded.

So, then. First, he would deal with Sigmund and Gudrun.

Then, another reckoning on Asgard.

50

Eighteen Years Ago

On a moonless night, a raven had watched them enter the tunnel. One of Gjuki’s spies, perhaps, though Odin had long since given over trying to kill every such bird he came across. He would deal with the Raven Lord soon enough, and, in fact, the man he sought here might help him with it.

The flames of Loki’s torch seemed to retreat from the darkness beneath the Sudurberks rather than the inverse, as would have been proper. Here, shadows prevailed, permeating the tunnel with a thickness that seemed apt to choke them. More disturbingly, even embracing the Sight revealed naught, as if the darkness had grown so dense it pierced the Veil between worlds.

Odin did not need to ask if Loki was certain they had the correct location. After all, the stifling air and the plague on his senses all but confirmed they had trod down into some tainted domain of the Otherworlds. He wanted to speak, though, to fill the silence with some sound other than the pathetic crackle of a dwindling flame. And yet, his voice did not heed his call, as if it too fled from the oppressiveness that here prevailed.

Even Odin’s footfalls sounded distant, muffled, while Loki made no sound at all.

Without warning, the torch further dimmed, the flame retreating within itself.

“I know what you are …” The voice emanated from the shadows, coming from all sides around them.

“I am the king of Asgard,” Odin said.

“Perhaps … But I was not speaking to you …” A faint yellow light gleamed in the darkness, a pair of eyes reflecting the meager torchlight.

“We do not come here as foes,” Loki said. “We come to hire your services.”

The man—Volund—chuckled, the sound grating on Odin’s brain, wrong somehow. “Many seek it, but few can afford the cost.”

Odin growled. He was not about to watch as Loki negotiated with an unseen opponent. “Show yourself, svartalf. I would deal plainly with you.”

Again, Volund chuckled. “No one deals plainly with the Otherworlds, human, for they do not deal plainly with you. There is always a catch.”

Darkness made flesh …

Odin would have thought Audr would prefer a svartalf to a liosalf.

Yes … Darkness … is truth … Light … lies …

As if in response, the torch sputtered back to life, revealing the hint of a man. His skin was ashen gray while his hair was dark as pitch matched by his clothes—all black leather and worked with rubies that seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it. The smith dragged a lame leg behind him, but Odin would never have mistaken him for weak. This creature fair reeked of Otherworldly power.

“I am prepared to offer you a hefty price if you can make for me that which I require.”

“Oh, I do find that unlikely.”

Odin scowled. “Unlikely that you can make it?”

“Unlikely you are prepared for the price. No one ever is.” In the shadows, it was hard to tell, but he looked to be smiling. “Tell me then, King of Asgard, what prize do you so seek that you would travel to the edge of Miklagard or beyond to claim it?”

“Andvaranaut,” Loki said. “A prize crafted by your own former masters.”

Volund uttered a guttural sound like a cave lion. “I know of Andvari’s Gift. You waste your time, for I cannot replicate a craft I have never seen. Worse yet, you have wasted my time.”

Damn it. Odin took a step toward the svartalf. “If you cannot remake the ring, then make for me another way to pass between the worlds.”

The smith sneered. “I can make a great many wonders, but I have had no reason to study the crafting of that for which I need no aid.”

“You can pass between worlds?”

“Between this Realm and the World of Dark.”

Svartalfheim, the Realm of Nott … the very opposite of the World of Sun where Odin needed to reach.

“I’m sorry, Odin,” Loki said. “Perhaps we have naught to gain here.”

Grumbling, Volund shambled backward, fading into the shadows.

No. Damn it! They had come so far. Surely it was not all in vain. Even if Volund could not make another ring …

“Wait!” Odin said. “Wait, smith. Even if you cannot craft my dearest desire, you said you can make a great many things.” Odin’s visions had revealed enough to know that, using the Volsungs he might yet reclaim Andvari’s Gift, though not quite how. So if Volund could not recreate the ring, perhaps he might still be of use in ensuring it fell back into Odin’s hands. Besides which, Ragnarok still loomed.

“Assuming you can meet the price, what would you have of me?”

“Is it true you forged a runeblade in Njarar?”

“Oh … yes …” Volund chortled, the sound reverberating through the tunnel and promising damnation.

“Odin …” Loki said. “Are you certain this is the course that—”

“So then, smith,” Odin said. “I would have you craft weapons fit to strike down the forces of chaos and all who might rise against the Realms of men.”

“Oh …” Now Volund ambled forward, eyes gleaming. “I toiled for nine days and nine nights to craft Mimung. And you would have me make something stronger?”

Pride. Odin understood Volund’s weakness now, for it was one they shared. “The greatest weapon ever forged—imagine it, even dvergar speaking your name in awe.”

“They speak it now in fear.”

“It is not the same, is it? Craft for me and all the worlds will know there has never been a greater smith in all of history.”

Volund’s wicked grin set Odin’s stomach roiling. This was a man lost in his own darkness. “I would need souls.”

“If that is your price.”

“Oh, dear King of the Aesir. That is not the price, merely the material, much as I would need orichalcum.”

Loki did not speak, though Odin could feel his blood brother’s disapproving stare. He was past caring.

“Orichalcum I can bring from Asgard. Souls … I will bring from across Midgard if needs be. Speak your price.”

Volund snickered. “The firstborn daughter of your loins shall belong to me, body and soul.”

Now Odin frowned. Naught mattered more than family, true. But he had no daughter, save Geri, and she was not born of his loins. These weapons might help Odin protect the family he did have. After a long sigh, he drew a knife to slice his palm.

Loki snatched his wrist. “You have no idea what it is like to lose a daughter.”

Odin glared at his blood brother. “Perhaps not. But I have lost a father, a mother, two brothers, and many others I loved dearly. I cannot risk any more for the sake of one who might some day live.”

Loki released him but leaned in very close. “Do you really believe in the space of eternity that you will sire no more children? Not one girl among them? I will not watch you make such a bargain.”

“Are you yourself not experienced in making sacrifices for the future?”

Loki recoiled as if struck, then stalked from the cave.

Odin drew the blade along his palm and offered both to Volund.

The svartalf clasped his arm. “It is done. Your firstborn daughter belongs to me. And now, I shall make you a weapon the likes of which none have ever seen. The World changes before our very eyes.”

And not always for the better.

51

“I think I have to leave,” Sif said.

She and Geri sat in the same house in which she’d made her convalescence. She had sat here long, and no one disturbed her, save the varulf. In truth, Sif appreciated the gesture, though she had not had overmuch to say to Geri. Words had never been her strongest talent, and regardless, what could anyone have said to change aught?

“You don’t want to do that,” Geri said. “You worked hard to be here with us, to be part of the Thunderers.”

Sif grunted, then poked at the fire with an iron. “Are we still that anymore? Our numbers dwindle. First Ali and Nepr, and now with Meili and Hildolf gone … I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“It does matter, Sif. We are all of us a team, a party. Together. We have fought and bled and died together, and we’ve done it all well. We had a purpose to save the World, to protect Mankind against the mist, to …” She wrung her hands, obviously not much more comfortable with words than Sif was.

“That was his mission, Geri. Thor appointed himself champion of Mankind. And I somehow thought that I could … I don’t know, be part of that glory.”

“You are part of it.”

“I’m not.” She rose and drifted to the window. Outside, in the ruined town, Itreksjod and Thor were sparring. She watched them duck and weave, throwing punches with force mortals could not match. Especially Thor. He clearly had the upper hand. “I dared to believe, once, that Odin thought me special. If so, it was not for this. Not to follow his son around like a puppy.” She scoffed, then turned to Geri. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Geri snickered. “Whether you are special or not has little to do with Father or Thor or anyone else. It’s about the choices you make. If you run away from us, from your family here, you may never find the answers you seek.”

Sif shook her head and turned away from the window. Watching Thor fight was marvelous. And like getting a fresh knife between her ribs. “What answers? I don’t even know what the fuck I’m looking for. For nine years now, I’ve been doing this. And he’s known. He’s known, Geri. Maybe the whole damned time.”

Geri shrugged, then scrambled to her feet as well. “Well he’s not a complete imbecile.”

“So what? Everyone knew?”

“I’m not sure about Hildolf. He was a complete imbecile.”

Sif frowned.

“I know, I know. Don’t speak ill of the dead. And I loved Hildolf. He was a brave man and a worthy ally. It’s just I’ve known rocks smarter than he was.”

Sad but probably true. Regardless, he had been a brother to them and … brother? Oh damn it. She also thought of the other Thunderers as brothers. True, she’d slept with Freki all those years ago but since then … Thor wanted to see her like that, as a sister. It would have been better for all of them if she’d just let him. It would have been better if she’d remembered her own damned rules.

Don’t get involved with princes.

“Come here,” Geri said after a moment. The varulf grabbed Sif’s arm, then dragged her out of the house and into the town. “Look.” Geri swept her arm as if to encompass the whole valley. “What do you see?”

“Houses. Trees. Rocks.”

“And?”

“Not a lot else.”

“Hmm. No people? No children? No life?”

Sif jerked her elbow away from Geri and folded her arms. “No. The jotunnar killed everyone, and we were too late.” What was the damned varulf even trying to say? To point out how badly they had failed this time?

“Too late for these townsfolk, yes, but we did kill the jotunnar who murdered them. Because of us, those jotunnar will not do this elsewhere. You have the ability to try to fulfill the unspoken promise Father made to Midgard when he took the throne. Through us, the Aesir can try to preserve civilization a little longer. You’ve seen what I’ve seen, Sif. You know the World is dying. With the power the apple gave you and your training and your passion, you can delay that end.” Geri frowned and spread her hands. “So don’t you have a duty to try?”

Sif shut her eyes, trying not to look at the ruins. Damn, but she did not want to listen to this. After nine years of blood and sweat, had she not given enough to Midgard? But now, thanks to this, were she to return to Asgard, she’d never get this sight out of her mind. Damn Geri for that.

“Even if you’re correct, even if I have a duty to Midgard, I might do it apart from the Thunderers.”

“It’s not going to be the Thunderers without you!”

Sif glanced around to make sure none of the others had heard that. Chances were, Freki would have, even if he lurked many streets over. “I’ve made my decision, Geri. I’m done with this. I’ll travel with you until we pass back into Sviarland, but from there, I go my own way.”

“The Thunderers—”

“The Thunderers are finished.” Sif left her friend standing there, unable to look back. Unable to offer solace for fear of breaking her resolve.

52

Sigmund’s vision returned in sputters of pain. He managed to roll over enough to cough and spit, hacking up blood and Odin knew what else. Groaning, he finally managed to sit. One of his eyes seemed bruised shut. Iron fetters bound his hands and feet. He blinked, trying to clear the blood from his working eye.

He lay on the floor in the great hall, in the back of which, Siggeir Wolfsblood sat on a throne drenched in shadow, head resting on his fist.

After staring at him a time, the king rose and drifted forward, though not quite into the light. “You have become one of us, Sigmund Volsungson. I can smell it in you.”

Sigmund forced himself to his knees, staring daggers at the murderer before him. “So you are a varulf, then? The man who took his throne through treachery and lies.”

A few guards stood in this hall, and they bristled at his words. A few guards and four women—berserkir, no doubt.

In the shadows beyond the throne stood a woman, concealed in a hood, from which hung stark white hair.

Fitela knelt beside Sigmund, similarly fettered. Their whole quest was lost, then. They had failed most utterly, having managed to slay but a few warriors and a pair of small children.

Wolfsblood paced about in the shadows, casting furtive glances at the main door, as if assuring himself only those he trusted would hear this. That seemed to include Sieglinde, his faithful queen, who lingered by the throne, face an unreadable mask. “I have been long in deliberating the slowest death you might suffer. For one of our kind, I can think of naught worse than starving in a cage, consumed from within by the beast. Thus, have I prepared one for you.”

Sigmund almost toppled over as he stood, his chains barely allowing it. “I fear naught you might conceive of, murderous craven.”

Wolfsblood snickered. “Maybe not yet.” He turned to the berserkir women. “Take them to the cairn.”

Two women hefted each of them up by their forearms, lifted them off the ground, rendering all their struggles pointless. Sigmund spat at them, earning himself a backhand that left him dazed as they dragged him from Wolfsblood’s hall.

Wedged up against the older stone wall of the fortress sat a half dozen barrows, no doubt dug by the original builders before they abandoned this place. Wolfsblood’s men had hollowed out one from the top down. The berserkir carried Sigmund and Fitela atop the mound.

In the center of this pit someone had placed a massive stone slab, standing on its edge, thus dividing the pit in two. Sigmund peered down into the darkness of the cairn. He just barely made out the bottom, perhaps a dozen feet down, perhaps a little more. Stonework lined much of it, finely crafted in days when men yet buried their dead instead of sending them to pyres. He could only pray the builders had never interred anyone in this particular cairn. If so, Wolfsblood’s people had no doubt woken the dead, and a curse was like to fall upon them as much as upon Sigmund.

“Do you like your cell?” Wolfsblood asked. Before Sigmund could answer, the king shoved him over the edge.

He hit the ground shoulder first, sending a shock of lightning through his system. An instant later, one of the women landed beside him. She flung him up against the slab, knocking his head on it in the process. Her form split and danced before his one good eye, swirling through a miasma of pain now clutching him.

With another chain, she bound the fetters on his feet to an iron ring jutting from the slab. Then someone lowered a rope, and she climbed out.

Sigmund groaned, trying to clear his head. The wolf stirred, soon to wake, but at least another hour of daylight yet remained, and besides, shifting now, with his arms fettered behind his back, was like to tear his limbs off.

“You see,” Wolfsblood called from above, “it occurred to me, it shall be worse for you, to hear the anguish of the other, yet not be able to be together as the beast slowly consumes your mind.”

“Go to Hel,” Sigmund said, his voice sounding slurred in his own ears.

Wolfsblood chuckled. “Perhaps, one day. But for now, you will begin a long, slow march toward her gates. I wonder how long will that wolf spirit will sustain you without food? A moon? Longer? Of course, you shall be worse than Mist-mad long before that. One cannot expect your mind to last half so long as your body. Enjoy yourself, son of Volsung.”

With that, someone lowered another slab over the top of the cairn, shutting out all but a hint of light.

Sigmund slumped down against the rock, unable to do aught else.

“The wolf spirits brought us to this,” Fitela said, his voice reaching Sigmund through gaps between the slab and the cairn walls. “Perhaps you were right, and we ought never to have accepted them into ourselves. Besides which, I think that very sorceress was the one standing behind Wolfsblood’s throne.”

Gudrun?

If so, it meant she had betrayed him, though Sigmund could not imagine why. Nor could he do aught about it now. He shook his head. A man could never really understand the motivations of a witch. Wolfsblood, though, Sigmund understood. Petty jealousy and fear drove him, for which he deserved an ignominious death—one which Sigmund ought to have delivered unto him. Instead, he had failed.

His only redemption lay in that Wolfsblood seemed not to suspect Sieglinde’s treachery against him, meaning she might yet be spared. Though only to live out her days beside the man she loathed most in all of Midgard …

“Uncle?”

“Hmmm.” He shook himself again. “Forgive me. I cannot think of much to say now … besides, I do not think the wolves alone to blame for this. They are but pieces of our own selves.”

Fitela didn’t answer right away. When he spoke, his voice came out slow and laced with venom suited to a linnorm. “And this was my ill-conceived plan.”

“What? You think I blame you?” Fitela had planned this, yes, true …

“Do you not?”

Sigmund scowled. “The plan was a fool one, I grant.” And tempting as it was to blame the boy, Sigmund had agreed to it despite his own misgivings. “Still, it benefits no one for us to spit and spew recriminations now.”

“What would you have us do, then?”

Sigmund didn’t know. Lacking any other option, he began to whisper prayers to Odin, Thor, Tyr, or any other of the new gods who might listen.

53

Five Years Ago

No matter what Sieglinde had told Fitela, how could the boy be so eager to kill his own father? Kinslaying was foul before the eyes of gods and men, and, though necessity forced Sigmund to accept aid, he could not understand his nephew. Always, the boy trained. He completed every task Sigmund set before him and then spent the hours between concocting and discarding plan after merciless plan. Sieglinde had raised him with such a singular purpose he seemed incapable of even discussing aught else.

Fitela ambled along through the forest, not nigh to as silent as Sigmund might have hoped for, especially given their errand.

“Watch where you walk,” he said. “Every time we go without a torch we risk Mist-madness. If you then fail to move with grace, that risk becomes pointless.”

Fitela grunted, slowing his pace. “You don’t really think we can sneak up on these varulfur in any event?”

Sigmund frowned. Perhaps. He had always avoided this stretch of the wood for fear of the creatures, but Fitela had confirmed Sigmund’s suspicions of a pact between Wolfsblood and the varulfur. Any ally of the king had to die. “I am most concerned with ensuring they cannot sneak up on us, but yes, boy. I hope to catch them sleeping before the moonrise and thus force them to fight without being able to …” The hair on the back of his neck had started to tingle and with it came a nagging sensation in his gut.

Someone watched them. He had not heard anything, but … Even the birds had fallen silent. Sigmund grabbed Fitela’s wrist tight.

The underbrush rustled some distance off to his right.

His hand drifted to his sword hilt over his shoulder.

The faintest creak of leaves sounded behind him. Fuck. The varulfur had started to flank them.

In one motion, Sigmund shoved Fitela forward and pulled his sword. “Move, boy!”

Sigmund relished a fair fight. Taking on multiple varulfur at once did not sound to him the least bit fair.

Fitela sprinted through the woods, darting between trees with natural agility. Sigmund came slower, constantly casting his gaze behind them. The wolves pursued, he had no doubt, though he had seen no sign of them. They were even more adapted to this forest than he, and being inhuman, they probably had naught to fear from the mists. It gave them a strong advantage.

Sigmund dashed around a tree, leapt over a root, and spun around, sword out before him. Still couldn’t see aught. Through the mist, he heard them though—light footfalls, bushes brushed aside, the occasional pant.

“Face me like men!” he bellowed.

None answered him.

They awaited the moonrise, when they would gain every advantage over mere Men. Damn it. Lacking a better plan, he raced off after Fitela, who had already disappeared into the mist himself. Following tracks while running was never easy, but it looked like the boy had kept a fairly straight course.

It felt like a quarter hour—maybe less—and he almost ran into Fitela, where the boy had knelt in a slight clearing, staring at a log house. A hunter’s cabin, perhaps.

Fitela glanced at Sigmund, then scrambled forward in a crouch before Sigmund could say aught about this plan. The boy stole up to the window then rose to peer inside. Sigmund crept forward after him.

Then a twig snapped behind him.

Fuck it all. He rose, sword in hand, breath coming heavy after his run. The damn varulfur had become all but invisible in the mist. Where were the bastards? Hiding like cravens?

He glanced over his shoulder. Fitela had disappeared. A moment later, the boy flung open the cabin door and beckoned toward Sigmund. Chest heaving, Sigmund ran for him. The moment he crossed the threshold, Fitela slammed the door and then dropped a board in place to bar it.

“This must be their house,” he said, as he raced over to the window. No full-grown man could have fit through it, but Fitela flitted about, clearly looking for a way to bar that as well.

“Don’t bother. We must face them sooner or later.” The varulfur had left a low fire, embers really, burning in a pit in the cabin’s center. Sigmund stoked this, feeding it until it rekindled. The cabin’s owners had only a few torches lying about. Hel, they were lucky these savages kept flame at all.

“Nowhere to run!” someone shouted from outside.

Sigmund snatched up a torch and stuck it in the fire. “So face us like men! Save what little honor remains in your accursed bones.”

A face covered in a matted beard, with dark eyes appeared at the window. Wild, savage. Sigmund spun and lunged at him, thrusting the torch at the man’s face. The varulf bellowed and fell back, even as something else struck the main door. The board trembled with the impact. It wouldn’t hold long.

Fitela cast about the cabin, tossing aside aught he found, in his search for Odin-alone knew what.

Sigmund raced over to the door, heaving the torch back in the fire pit. Another impact cracked the board barring it. With one hand, Sigmund yanked the pieces free, then backed away from the door. An instant later, a different varulf barreled through the unbarred door clearly expecting more resistance. He stumbled on his footing. An upward swipe of Sigmund’s sword cleft the varulf through the jaw, splitting his face in half in a shower of bone and blood.

That should have killed anyone, but the man pitched onto the floor, clutching his face and wailing in agony. Before Sigmund could do aught else, Fitela launched himself atop the body and slit the varulf’s throat with a dagger.

Sigmund stepped around the boy and the corpse to the outside. “Fight me like a man!”

A silhouette stalking around in the mist, a dark form. If the wolf dragged this out much longer, twilight would settle upon them. Then the true varulfur could join the battle.

Damn but he missed the comforting weight of Gramr’s bone hilt, even after so many years. Sigmund strode forward, bloody sword pointed in the last direction he’d seen the beast. “Craven!”

A heavy pant beside him sent him spinning but not fast enough. The varulf caught him with a shoulder slam that lifted Sigmund off his feet and flung him several feet away before he crashed down. The impact knocked the sword from his grasp. Gasping for breath, Sigmund struggled to rise. An instant later, the varulf leapt atop him, superhuman strength driving Sigmund back down. The man grabbed Sigmund’s tunic and slammed him hard against the ground.

Everything went red as his head cracked against the dirt.

Barely aware of it, Sigmund raised arms to block blows that he knew would come. And they did, slamming against the arms he held over his face with such force it felt apt to break bones. Sigmund rolled to one side, struggling to win free. Something hit him in the ribs and sent him doubling over into a ball, unable to block out all the pain of it.

Giving over any attempt at defense, he jerked his fist up into the varulf’s stones. The man yelped, stunned for an instant. Long enough for Sigmund to scramble away hand over foot and snatch up his blade. Eyes bleary and feet unstable, he rose. Every breath sent waves of agony rioting through his chest. Broken or bruised ribs, for certain.

That he could use his arms at all meant they weren’t broken, but every move ached like Hel herself had wreaked her torment upon him.

The varulf rose, snarling, and unslung an axe from his belt. So the games were done.

That suited Sigmund well enough. He spat, spewing out blood and phlegm. “So there were only two of you after all.”

Savagery had seized the varulf, as though he barely still understood human speech. He sprang forward with such speed and ferocity, Sigmund had to fall back, any hope of a counter given over. It took all he had to back away fast enough, ducking and dodging the varulf’s never-ending barrage of swipes.

A torch sailed end-over-end through the air and caught the varulf in the chest, igniting his tattered garments. The man shrieked, patting out the flames.

Scowling, Sigmund lunged forward, swinging with all he had left. The varulf veered backward, but the blade still clipped his abdomen, releasing a spray of blood. With one hand, the varulf grasped his guts. And with the other, he attacked with the damn axe, stilling swinging.

Sigmund toppled over backward before the unexpected assault, unable to form an effective riposte in time. The varulf overreached, and Sigmund kicked him in the knee, sending him stumbling to the ground, one hand still holding in his entrails. Maybe he’d even live through that wound.

Fitela appeared out of nowhere, landing on the varulf’s back. Before either the varulf or Sigmund could react, the boy planted a dagger in the man’s throat. A geyser of hot blood sprayed Sigmund in the face, blinding him. He shoved upward, sending his attacker tumbling over, then managed to crawl away, wiping his eyes.

Again and again, the boy impaled the varulf, until the creature finally collapsed in the now blood-drenched dirt.

Sigmund rose, gasping. “I was engaged with him. You had no right to interfere, torch, dagger, or otherwise.”

“I just saved your life.”

“I might have taken him! Here I stood, calling them out for refusing to face us one on one, and you made me guilty of the same charge. We have naught but our honor, boy!”

Fitela slowly wiped the gore from his face, then spit out a trickle of blood. “Your honor will not keep you warm when you pass the gates of Hel … uncle. Nor is it like to see your father and brothers avenged on Wolfsblood.”

Sigmund opened his mouth to object, but his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees. With the battle fervor broken, he had no strength left. Night would approach soon, and the varulfur’s cabin offered the only shelter they might find in time.

Fitela must have realized the same for he sauntered over to the first man he’d killed and began to drag the body from the doorway. It was well since Sigmund could barely drag himself inside.

Sigmund lay on his back beside the fire pit, trying not to think on the ways his body ached. Nor to give overmuch thought to whether or not the boy was right. Honor was all they had. But … more like than not, the varulf would have killed him. And if Wolfsblood himself was such a monster? How then could Sigmund avenge Father in any fair fight? Much less considering the king had a great army? And how many more varulfur served Wolfsblood? They needed to hunt each down one by one, but they’d been lucky only the two varulfur lived together this time.

Unless there were more of them, now stalking the woods.

Sitting sent fresh pains washing over him and stole his breath.

“Someone draws nigh,” Fitela said, jumping up from the window. The boy snatched up a torch in one hand and pulled his dagger with the other, settling into place beside the door.

Hel take the damn varulfur. And Fitela was right about one thing—Sigmund could not afford to continue offering these creatures honorable combat when they would not return the favor.

Grabbing his sword, he staggered to his feet moments before the door creaked open.

A woman stood in the doorway, her garb not at all the tatters the other varulfur had worn. A bitch of the pack or …

“Gudrun?”

Fitela had reared back to fling the torch at her as he had done with the man but faltered as Sigmund spoke. “You know this bitch?”

“She’s not a varulf at all.”

The woman raised an eyebrow and stalked inside, giving Fitela a wide berth. “Sigmund Volsungson.”

Sigmund knew his mouth hung agape, but he had not thought to see his onetime lover again, much less in such a place. Though, true enough, their first encounter had come in this very forest. “What are you doing here?” he at last managed to ask.

She snickered, her gaze still darting back and forth between him and Fitela. “I come bearing a gift, son of Volsung.”

“So formal? I had once thought we knew each other well, even if only for a little while.”

The woman smiled a little, her thoughts on their nights together unreadable. She still moved with sensuality, even after these many years. Though her face showed few signs of aging, her hair had begun to fade from blonde to frosty white. “Indeed. We know each other well enough. But you, I think, do not realize I am steeped in the secrets of the Otherworlds. Thus I come to you in your time of need to … repay what kindness passed between us.”

Time seemed to have changed her more than he had first thought, for her words sounded somewhat amiss, though he could not say why. Perhaps it was the unease with which any man might meet her claim. “You are a vӧlva.”

She waved that away as it were of no consequence. “You still think to challenge the king, but you cannot hope to match his varulfur. You have slain two, true enough, and yet from the look of you, the battle came at a cost.”

Sigmund slumped back down, letting the sword fall from his hand. “So it did.”

Fitela moved behind her and, after peering out into the mist, shut the door. The boy did not sit nor relax though.

Gudrun drifted among the small cabin, examining the hunters’ few possessions. “If you wish to overcome such foes, the most obvious choice is to become like them.”

Sigmund chuckled. “One is either born a varulf or else not. Besides which, such creatures are a plague on Midgard.”

“The first part is not entirely correct. There are ways, old, nigh to forgotten, in which a man might be changed.”

“How?” Fitela advanced now with such fervor Sigmund balked. The boy wanted to entertain such a path?

“I have no wish to become a monster,” Sigmund said before Gudrun could answer. “Neither of us do.” Even if Fitela seemed to think he did.

“No?” Gudrun said. “In ages past, the varulf progenitor Fenrir sired many offspring, and they themselves did so as well. With each generation that power diluted. None of those who came after possess the sheer power of their forebear, but still, even the meekest varulf has strength, stamina, and agility beyond any human. With such power, you might counter Wolfsblood. Particularly, were you to host a varulf more directly related to Fenrir, an elder soul.”

Sigmund scowled. “What you speak of sounds hateful to the gods.”

“Does it? Have you not heard of the wolves of Odin? Do you not know they too are varulfur?”

Now he fell silent. Odin was famed in the North Realms for his eclectic servants, from the eight-legged horse to the wolf twins. So did Gudrun speak the truth, and were those two wolves themselves varulfur?

“Uncle,” Fitela said, “whatever your misgivings, we cannot discount any advantage in our pursuit of vengeance. For all you know, Odin himself sent this woman to us that we might gain the power needed to redress the wrongs done to the Volsungs.”

Gudrun frowned but said naught else, eyes seeming to beg Sigmund to heed Fitela’s words.

Finally, he sighed. “What must we do?”

Gudrun’s frown vanished. “Go forth under the moon, and cut out the hearts of your victims, and too, cut their skins from their bodies. Consume the hearts and then don the skins. The rest, I will attend to.”

Sigmund’s stomach clenched at the thought of it.

Fitela, however, threw open the door. Not hesitating to undertake any ritual or act. As Sigmund must now do.

“Very well,” he said, at last.

Groaning with the effort, he rose and headed for the door. Out into moonlight to desecrate corpses.

And become a monster.

54

The southern ranges of Kvenland had become overrun with jotunnar marauders ranging across the borders from Bjarmaland. No surprise that Thor and his people had come here to try to contain the threat. Odin’s son must on some level blame himself for the surge of jotunn anger that now threatened Midgard, though Odin knew better. That had always been the likely result of sending the man in a doomed attempt to repair the wall.

The inconvenience here came from the time it would take Thor and the others to reach Sviarland. Even could they board a ship tomorrow, it would take days to reach Skane. In that time, Odin’s plans for the Volsungs could falter.

He patted Sleipnir’s mane, dismounted, and strode as purposefully as he could through the ruin where his son had holed up. The pain in his knee had diminished—which was to say, it had gone from agony to mere continuous, profound discomfort. Odin had grown accustomed to suffering, though, and it mattered little, save when he felt compelled to move with speed.

A form melted up out of the shadows of the ruins, silent as a ghost, but welcome the moment Odin recognized him.

“Freki,” Odin said.

“Father. What brings you here?”

Odin quirked the barest smile. Sometimes, he wished he could tell his children the truth of such things. Would it lessen his burdens to share them with others? But Freki could not begin to apprehend the depths of Odin’s plans, even were Odin willing to try to explain his moves or the dark visions guiding them. The varulf’s World was simpler—fighting foes before him, living in the now, and probably thinking of the future rarely if ever. Odin had to envy him that.

His World was the muddied tapestry of history.

“I must see Thor immediately.”

Freki nodded, then led him to a building where the others had taken shelter. They sat around a fire pit, though all rose as he entered. Thor, Sif, Geri, and Itreksjod … had there not been more of them? Flickers of insight tickled his mind, revealing a roil of death and loss and grief.

The inevitable wages of the path he’d set them on.

Odin motioned them all to sit and himself settled down before the fire, welcoming its warmth almost as much as he did the chance to be off his feet. “I offer my condolences on your lost brothers.” He looked at Thor as he spoke, though he meant the words for all of them. These were the bravest of Asgard’s new generation, and, because of their bravery, Odin used them cruelly and without much regard for their lives. He had to. “Their names will be honored in all the halls of Asgard as long as our fires burn.”

Thor turned about, snatched up a drinking horn, and raised it in salute, though it was certainly empty. “Thank you, Father. You came to us because of the fallen?”

“Sadly, no. I came to you because I am in need of your help.”

“I … I’m honored, Father. You have but to name your foe, and I shall smite them off the face of Midgard.”

Odin stifled his smile, though Geri snickered. Thor’s World was simpler than even Freki’s. Maybe simpler than anyone else’s World. In his mind, Thor was the protector of Mankind, wandering Midgard battling monsters and tyrants and making the World a better place. Part of Odin hoped his son would never have to lose that innocence, no matter how absurd it seemed. Part of him wished he could share it himself. In a way, Thor was more like … who? Odin’s father …? Those details had become blurred, like someone had stolen away bits of his life. Had Borr not been a hero … to someone?

Odin stilled the disquiet in his mind, trying not to dwell on the bitter holes there. “You recall the bog witch in Skane? The time has come to deal with that threat. I want all of you to break into her fortress and shatter her grip upon Sviarland. Her foul sorcery has caused enough harm there.”

Geri frowned. “We didn’t find her keep when we were there. Besides which, we’d have to cross the Gandvik Sea. Why now?”

Odin frowned at her, ever so slightly. More astute than Thor and in a time he was disinclined to explain himself. Still, it would not do to show his daughter ire simply for being intelligent. “You do not need to hunt long for her. I can tell you where to find the witch—Skadi, she now calls herself, or Gudrun on occasion. As for the timing—before now she was an annoyance. Now, she has become a threat.”

Thor slapped his knee. “What witch dares to threaten the king of Asgard? Consider her dead already!”

Geri snickered. “I’m not certain Father meant that she threatened him …”

“Come, Thunderers!” Thor said as he rose. “We leave immediately for Sviarland.” Without further ceremony, Thor strode off, presumably to gather supplies.

The others left as well, save for Freki, who remained standing by the doorway.

Finally, Odin turned to him. “You have something you wish to ask?”

“Gudrun … the Niflung princess, yes? Whom you once warned us to stay away from.”

Odin sighed, then groaned as he stood. He needed rest to replenish his pneuma, but recent days had only forced him to push himself harder. “I did tell you that.”

“And now?”

“Now …” Now, things had changed. He could remember her, the girl he had once thought he loved. And he had always wanted to blame that on her potions and her seid, but deep down, he knew—he had truly cared for her. And thus, he’d been unwilling to see harm befall her, even when Freyja had driven all others from his heart. “Gudrun is no longer Gudrun.”

“She’s possessed by Skadi.”

Odin nodded.

“And if we kill her?”

“Death,” Odin said, “might be the only mercy you can offer her.”

Though he knew it for a lie. Hel would punish her servants for failure, even in death.

55

The snow maiden’s wail jolted Skadi from her reverie, tore her away from her plans for Grimhild, and sent her racing out of the dungeons. That snow maiden had but one purpose here in the marsh—to alert Skadi should any dare trespass nigh to her castle. Such a wail meant not only trespassers but those coming in force. Needing to move faster, Skadi fed her pneuma through her form, becoming mist and flying up the stairs and onto the ice-crusted battlements.

There, beyond the mist, came a mighty red-haired man leading a war party. So, this must be Thor, of whom she had heard much from the jotunnar of late. His presence here meant Odin had finally decided to strike against her and to do so through his proxies.

Skadi scowled. The jotunnar claimed he wielded a hammer capable of crushing the strongest ice into shards, one powerful enough to fell any foe and devour the soul within. So then, Skadi would not risk fighting him herself. If Odin wished to send proxies, she could do the same.

And Odin would grieve his precious son.

Resuming mist form, she scattered, flying off the castle and out in the rocky island beyond the marsh. By the time she reached it, cacophonous blows rang out against her castle. Odin’s boy was trying to beat his way inside. He would succeed soon enough. Before that could happen, though, he would find the castle defended by more than snow maidens.

Skadi resumed her physical form and drifted among the rocks, running her fingertips over them and leaving a layer of rime behind.

“Come to me, bergrisi. Waken now and revenge yourself upon the one who dares threaten your kin.” She rubbed a rock. “Heed my call and I shall reward you …”

Jotunnar derived their power from a connection to one of the Spheres of Creation. The most populous, frost jotunnar drew their power from Niflheim. But other kinds existed as well, and Skadi was willing to negotiate with any—well most any—jotunn eager to bring about an age of chaos. As were the bergrisi—mountain jotunnar.

It started with a rumble.

Like an earthquake, setting pebbles dancing across the ground and sending ice cracking and snow falling. A spray of slush exploded upward as boulders broke and separated, waking the mountain jotunn from his slumber. She had found this one when she first came here, found him, and reminded him of who she had been in life.

The earthquake intensified until she had to spread her arms to steady herself.

And then a boulder began to rise up, the head of a creature five times her own height. The bergrisi opened opalescent eyes, the crack of its lids sending a shower of dust raining down on her far below. From its misshapen head jutted a pair of granite horns. The jotunn was a walking mountain, one rousing itself from a slumber that had lasted a decade. When it stretched, its groan evoked memories of avalanches in her father’s kingdom. Arcane sigils marred the creature’s rocky chest as a reminder of its oaths to her.

A reminder it did not need, perhaps, for when it at last noticed her, it bent at the waist and squinted as if uncertain she truly stood before it.

“My beautiful bergrisi … forgive the waking. Mortals now assault my very abode. I ask you to advise them of their error.”

The mountain jotunn worked its jaw, sending a further rain of dust pouring down. In the spot it had vacated—now a sunken hollow some ten feet deep—it had left an iron club twice her height. The jotunn reached down with bulging fingers to snatch it up. Naught about it spoke of speed, but then, naught needed to. Finally, the jotunn shook itself and took off back toward her fortress in great plods that carried it over wide stretches of the marsh. As it moved, it built momentum, once more drawing to mind an avalanche. Slow to start but unstoppable once in motion.

Every step sucked up enormous gobs of muck that plopped back down in a putrid shower as it ran, crushing trees and kicking up a wave of mud. Skadi resumed her mist form and floated atop her castle, to look down on her would-be attackers. The redheaded man swung the hammer again, shattering the last of the ice coating that had secured her main gate.

He raised the hammer to swing at the iron beneath but paused to look at the rumbling earthquake charging straight for him. Another man rushed the jotunn first, eyes wild and axe high. The jotunn kicked him so effortlessly one had to wonder if it even meant to. The man—corpse—flew through the air, snapped a tree trunk, and splattered down into the mud beyond.

A shrieking woman with brown hair rained ineffective blows on the jotunn with her halberd. The blade scraped along the jotunn’s rock-shins without drawing its attention. The woman snarled and began to strip out of her fur cloak. A shifter of some sort?

The jotunn finally noticed her. With one hand it plucked her from the ground and flung her spinning and screaming out into the marsh, disappearing from Skadi’s view. Oh, so precious. Naught on Midgard could stand against her bergrisi. And if it should kill Odin’s own son in his arrogance, all the better.

56

“Itreksjod!” Sif screamed.

No answer came from the man’s obviously broken corpse. Not even an apple of Yggdrasil could have saved him from the mountain jotunn’s blow. Panting, Sif turned on the rocky monster.

It stood as tall as Vörnir had. Maybe taller. But then again, they had slain Vörnir too.

Sword in hand, she advanced.

Thor ducked a blow from the monster’s club, then came up swinging his hammer. The weapon cracked into the jotunn’s thigh, sending splinters of rock flying amidst a geyser of dark blue blood. Thor was roaring like a berserk, swinging wildly. Blow after blow landed about the jotunn. He was trying to drive it down to one knee, leave its head vulnerable.

Sif shrieked and charged. The monster paid her no mind, focused entirely on the prince and his merciless hammer.

That worked for her. Sif launched herself at the icy castle wall, kicked off it, and landed atop the jotunn’s shoulders. Her foot slipped immediately. She slid downward but jammed her sword into the beast at the same instant, shearing through rocky hide and spilling dark blood and pebbles in equal measure. The blade snared in a crag in the jotunn’s back.

Then her sword snapped in half, pitching Sif onto the ground.

An instant later, a massive stone-crusted foot descended on her. Sif rolled to one side even as the jotunn stomped down. The ground trembled from the impact, actually hefting her airborne for a heartbeat.

Her sword. Gylfi had made that sword! Damn it!

A wolf launched itself onto the jotunn as she hit the ground again. Freki tore at it, his teeth and claws having little effect on the rocky hide. Mjölnir, however, was another matter. The hammer cracked the jotunn’s hip, sending a shard of it flying.

The monster pitched forward, landing on hands and knees and howling. Sif pushed herself up as Thor stalked around, readying a blow to cleave in the creature’s skull.

And then an icicle spear surged at Thor. Sif tackled him, sending them both to the ground as the missile passed above them. She lifted her head—mud and blood and dust in her eyes. The witch was there, glaring, frost forming around her hands once again.

“I’ll get her!” Sif said. “Kill the damned jotunn!” She scrambled upward and rushed the woman. Damn but she missed that sword already. It had been the nicest gift anyone had ever given her.

Skadi had hair the color of fresh snow and skin tinged almost blue, much like a frost jotunn’s. What foulness a witch must have bargained with to become so changed, Sif did not know. She dove into a roll as the witch launched another icicle at her, coming close enough to grab Skadi by the legs and send her tumbling over.

Sif reared back to land a haymaker on the woman’s temple. The witch’s hand shot out and wrapped around Sif’s throat. In an instant, all warmth drained from her and with it, all her strength, as if the witch were sucking out her very life. Sif went limp, unable to even struggle, save to moan. She tried to lift a hand, but all it would do was tremble.

“Fool bitch,” Skadi said. “You think you can handle me? I who witnessed the early days of mist? I am the very incarnation of the Fimbulvinter. When I have finished with you, naught but your frozen corpse will remain, unfit even to feed the ravens.”

Sif tried to object, to speak, to beg. All that escaped her mouth was a cloud of frost. Her lungs had seized up. Breath failed her. Every beat of her heart came slower and with more effort.

One beat.

Another.

How many more did she have left? A handful … That would be it … This one last mission … one final battle … and she was done …

A varulf collided with the witch, sending all three of them tumbling to the ground. Freki leapt to his feet first, snarling and snapping. His jaws closed on the witch’s arm, and she shrieked, obviously still capable of feeling some pain. It cost Freki though—he released her almost immediately, gasping and choking and pitched over, clearly struggling to breathe.

Shivering, Sif rose to her knees and took a clumsy swing at the witch. Her fist smacked into the woman’s cheek and sent her sprawling. Unable to arrest her own momentum, Sif toppled back over as well. She lay there, lungs burning, trying to warm herself with her arms. It felt like a long time, though she knew only a moment had passed. A few painful heartbeats.

With a groan of effort, she rolled over once again.

The ground trembled and leapt as the mountain jotunn fell. The impact tore icicles from the witch’s spire, sending them raining down in a shower. Sif looked back to see the witch herself slumping away.

“You cannot escape,” she managed through chattering teeth.

The witch glanced at her and sneered. Then her entire body broke apart and disappeared into the mist.

Oh.

Well. Then maybe she could escape.

With another groan, Sif curled up into a ball and hugged herself as closely as she could.

A fire raged outside the witch’s tower and before it, Sif huddled together with both the varulf twins. Despite his own chattering teeth, Freki fondled one of her breasts.

Sif slapped his shoulder.

“Oops. Just an accident.”

Geri snorted. “I hope my foot doesn’t accidentally kick your stones.”

“It won’t happen again, Freki,” Sif mumbled. “It was a one time … Let us not even speak of it.”

Thor returned from the bog, arms full of more firewood. These he dumped into the flames. “Get warm, all of you.” Before bothering with that, he had beat down the greater part of the ice tower, denying the witch any further use of this place. “We leave soon. Soon as we’ve honored the fallen.”

Itreksjod. One more fallen Thunderer. One more brother dead in Thor’s self-righteous quest to save Midgard.

Had Odin not showed up, Sif would have left already. She could not deny the king his request, but it was done now, and Thor did not seem intent to wait around for days on the off chance the witch returned. And that left Sif back to the same decision she had already made. That this was no longer the place for her. She had to go, before being with him ate away whatever good parts were left of her.

Sigyn had once told her, act on her feelings or kill them. Back then, Sif hadn’t wanted to listen to her aunt. And now … by the Tree, what a fool she’d been. What a royal bitch. Sigyn had been right all along. And Sif could not act on her feelings, for Thor already knew them and did not return them. That left only a single solution—run far enough to bury her longing for the man. Maybe one day, when her heart was changed, she might look upon him and not feel this. But now … it had become too much to bear. Had she listened to Sigyn five years ago, maybe they’d all have been better off.

Or maybe not. Maybe Geri was right, and Sif had done some good here but still …

She groaned.

“What is it?” Thor asked.

The varulf twins too looked at her, Freki in concern and Geri in obvious distress.

Sif leaned back, looking Thor in the eyes. “This … this was our last adventure together.”

“What?” The look on his face, confusion, maybe even betrayal, it was almost more than she could take. Almost enough to make her try to take the words back.

Almost.

“I … I have to leave.”

Now the prince glowered, mumbling something under his breath that only seemed to deepen Geri’s frown. Finally, Thor rose and kicked a rock. “Do whatever you feel you must.” And he stomped off into the woods.

Leaving Sif alone with two varulfur now staring at her.

Rather than face them, Sif curled up in a ball and tried to sleep. She doubted it would come easy.

57

Arm hanging useless by her side, Gudrun slunk through her tower. The beating the Aesir had given her body—or the effort to escape the fight—had seemed to drive Skadi into a torpor, enough that Gudrun managed to reclaim control over her own body. For a time. She’d never thought she’d be grateful to the Aesir.

No.

No, she would not allow herself to start thinking that way again. Odin and his people were foes of Hel and thus of Gudrun. That Odin’s son had bought Gudrun a reprieve from Skadi—and Thor had shattered her ice tower as if to merely prove he could do so—did not make him the least kind of ally to her. He was a tool as crude and savage as that hammer he bore.

And now that they had fled into the wood, she needed to see what remained of this place.

Grunting in pain, she slumped back down through the fortress. The Aesir had plundered the hoards of gold and silver she—or Skadi—had collected, a loss that stung but was not her primary concern. Other vaettir writhed beneath her skin, coiling around her gut and constricting her insides like furious serpents. Snegurka and Irpa, no doubt, roused from their own long dormancy. The three of them had tried to bargain with Skadi only to find the self-proclaimed Snow Queen’s idea of partnership involved all others bending to her will.

And Hel, somehow her missing toe hurt, as it sometimes did when she thought of Skadi. What a fool she’d been to think she could ever contain such a powerful and ancient spirit.

Give in …

Irpa?

Panting, Gudrun leaned against the wall before the stairs leading down into the dungeon.

Take me, before she returns …

As if surrendering to the wraith might somehow spare Gudrun from the desecrations the snow maiden wrought upon Gudrun’s body. As if the wraith would not do as bad or worse.

Then rot in torment …

Gasping with the effort, Gudrun started down the stairs. Her legs wobbled, and she pitched forward, barely catching herself against the wall. Would that not be a fitting end? Breaking her neck falling down an ice-slicked staircase. And would it be the end? Gudrun allowed her foot to drift forward. If she fell, if she died, Skadi could do naught else to her beleaguered body.

Hel will punish your soul.

Snegurka’s warning was born not of genuine concern for Gudrun’s wellbeing but meant as one more torture. The vaettir hated the living, and Snegurka was no exception. As a sorceress, Gudrun had dared to place herself above spirits and tried to master them. Now she paid the price all wielders of the Art must eventually pay—eternal damnation. Threat or warning, Snegurka’s words no doubt held a morsel of truth: Hel would subject Gudrun’s tattered soul to yet worse depredations than aught Skadi had imagined.

Living or dead, there was no escape from her damnation. Only an eternity of suffering and torment as the last vestiges of her mind shattered.

Unless … unless she could exorcise the spirit. Such thoughts verged on blasphemy for a priestess of Hel. Blasphemy and madness, too. No one could exorcise a spirit from themselves, and even if she succeeded, she was like to lose all the spirits within and thus find herself powerless and at the mercy of the many foes she had made for herself.

Having no other course before her, Gudrun thus continued down the stairs, one arduous step at a time. By the end of it, her lungs felt chilled, and she almost toppled over. The iridescent light Skadi had infused into the ice was not much to see by, but it would do.

The dungeon housed the only being Gudrun loathed more than Skadi. Part of her wanted to simply kill Grimhild and be done with it. But, under these circumstances, the Niflung queen might be the only one who could help her daughter. Not that she would, not after all Gudrun had done to her. But Grimhild had survived possession by Skadi before, and if …

Gudrun paused on her way down the hall. Grimhild’s cell door lay ajar. Too much to hope the son of Odin would have left this castle without exploring these dungeons. Gut all tied in knots, she advanced. Not this. Please, Hel. If Thor had slain Grimhild, then Gudrun had nowhere left to turn save … save her father, but he was no doubt far, probably in Reidgotaland at Castle Niflung. She didn’t have time to find him.

She reached the doorway. The door wasn’t broken. Did that mean Thor had not …

No one lay in the chilled cell beyond. Empty.

Like her soul.

Like her options.

Gudrun slumped down to the floor and let her head fall into her hands. Why? Why would Thor free Grimhild?

Or had someone else used the attack on the castle as a distraction? But who would want to free the Niflung queen? Not Odin, surely, who would have slain her. So then someone else had simply used the situation to … to his advantage.

Oh. Of course.

Her own father had come for his wife.

And that meant he, her only fragile hope no matter how far, was also against her.

Gudrun was alone.

Not alone … She returns … Even more malice than usual had seeped into Irpa’s voice. As if the wraith hated Gudrun more for refusing the deranged request to surrender her body.

Damn. Damn them all. Gudrun jerked a knife from her belt. Maybe Hel would torture her for eternity. That uncertain peril beyond death seemed better than enduring the long centuries Skadi might yet stretch her life. And it left her only one last recourse. A dam broke in her at the thought of it, and tears streamed down her face. Her heart was pounding. Already throbbing in pain. With a ragged pant, Gudrun slammed the knife toward her heart.

The blade stopped a hairsbreadth away. Her arms wouldn’t respond. Just a little more and she’d be free.

There is no freedom.

No. No! Skadi had awakened. Not her. Please Hel, anyone! Gods above and below, please! She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The knife wouldn’t move. She strained, throwing all her will into the knife.

It. Would. Not. Move.

Fine! Fine, Irpa, could have her. Or Snegurka, both of them. Aught but Skadi, not this again not …

The knife tumbled from her fingers and clattered onto the frozen floor. She rose, the pain in her legs suppressed. Gudrun beat against the corners of her own mind, wailing, sobbing, throwing all of her will against the snow maiden. It was like trying to push over a mountain with her bare hands.

Gods, gods, gods! Not again!

Hel did not answer. She never did.

All the wretched things Gudrun had done in the name of the goddess, all the Niflungar had done for her, and Hel still offered no solace against this abomination of her domain. And all those dark sorceries and intrigues and betrayals melded in Gudrun’s mind into an unending chorus of despair that sang on and on.

Until at last, unable to bear it anymore, having naught left with which to resist, she surrendered.

And she felt it as her own mind collapsed.

58

Glamoured as a slave, Odin stole into Sieglinde’s room.

The queen of Skane sat in the shadows, her eyes stained red and staring at the brazier, seeming to see naught at all. In her hands was a knife.

Odin drifted closer.

The woman jerked the blade behind her at his approach. “Thrithi …”

“Mistress.”

She mouthed something under her breath. “How many long years you were away.”

“Forgive me.”

She waved that away. “You are no slave, I think. Not to my husband, nor to me. No … I know who you are.”

Odin nodded. Sieglinde had a hint of the Sight. It was part of what made her useful, in truth.

In their dreams, Odin could touch the minds of people such as Sieglinde. He could use them, manipulate them, or guide them.

Of course, those with the Sight—even a latent trace of it—might come to uncanny understandings of the truth of things.

Gylfi had been like that, and it had made him both useful and dangerous to Odin.

“So,” Odin said. “Do you know why I have come this night?”

Sieglinde blinked, then turned back to the flames. “I am not certain it still matters. I am a wretched excuse for a woman. I have broken every bond of propriety. I betray my husband, I … have lain with my brother. Murdered my … child. What mother can even contemplate such a crime?”

Indeed. Sieglinde’s broken oaths would land her soul in the pit of Nidhogg, like as not. Nor could Odin do aught to spare her from her urd. Those were not choices he had forced upon the woman, though he understood her decisions all to well.

We are all damned …

Some more than others, perhaps.

“And all of it …” Sieglinde said. “All for naught. Sigmund is dying in that mound.”

Odin placed a hand on her shoulder, offering her the only small, brief comfort he could. “He need not die. It is in your power to get him what he needs to yet overcome this. So.” He squeezed her shoulder. “There is one more thing I need you to do. Then you may rest.”

Lies …

A pleasant omission, perhaps. Sieglinde would never have peace.

But then again, who did?

“What do you need?” the queen asked.

59

Sigmund had lost track of time, but judging by the dwindling light from above, evening once again drew nigh. How many days had they lingered down here already? Too many. Half a moon, maybe? Perhaps less, though it felt like more. His stomach ached, and the wolf lurched around inside him, howling in his mind until he felt the vibrations ringing in his skull. It wanted out and he half feared it would force him to shift, caring naught for the fetters. With his hands bound behind his back, a shift was like to rip his arms off. Yet, while his feet remained chained to the slab, he could do naught to change the position of his hands.

Wolfsblood had given this torture ample consideration.

Fitela had not spoken all through the day, and Sigmund had left the boy to his melancholy or self-loathing. In either case, he had naught to offer him.

The sun began to set.

Someone paced around up above. On occasion, one of Wolfsblood’s men—or perhaps the king himself—would piss down through the gap, sending a shower of it out before them. The position meant it could not fall upon them, but it ran down the incline and left them sitting in a pool of it. As if being stuck sitting in a pool of their own piss were not vile enough.

Whoever stood above grunted, trying to force something down through the gap.

“What wretch stands up there?” Sigmund demanded.

The man grunted. “You know me … I once brought you honey.”

The slave from years ago! Thrithi was his name. “And now?”

“Now your sister sends pork that you might live longer.” A final grunt and then something plopped down on the far side of the slab. Well then, at least Fitela would have some food, though it might only prolong his torment. “Sorry. I have to go! The mist thickens, and I cannot risk discovery. Sieglinde …” He fell silent.

“What are you doing there, slave!” A woman’s voice. A berserk?

“T-the mistress ordered me to mock those who slew her children.”

“Get your wrinkled old arse inside the hall before Mist-madness rots what’s left of your mind.” The other speaker grumbled something under her breath about fools coming out at night, her voice receding as she wandered away.

“Fitela,” Sigmund whispered when it seemed the woman had left.

“Mmm.”

“If you eat that, it’ll only be that much longer before you can leave your body behind.”

“I’m fucking starving. Sorry I can’t share but … what the …”

Sigmund pushed himself up. “What? What is it?”

Fitela grunted, followed by the sound of wet flesh hitting stone.

“What has happened?” Sigmund asked.

“The flesh of a whole damned boar it seems, and the bones inside seem too hard like …” He flung something else away from himself. “The bones are all wrong and—ah! Fuck!”

“Fitela!”

“Something inside cut me … my—my whole damned hand is going numb.”

Sigmund turned around, staring at the slab, though he could make out naught in the growing darkness. “Numb? Fitela. The bone you felt before that—might it be a sword hilt?”

More plopping and sloshing of flesh. Grunts of effort. “Yes. A bone-hilted sword.”

Oh, Sieglinde. Oh, sister. She had stolen Gramr. And how Wolfsblood was like to rage once he realized his stolen blade had vanished from above his throne. “Take the hilt in both hands.” Sigmund lurched away from the slab as far as his fetters allowed. “Drive it through the stone slab.”

“You want me to cut stone with iron? Have you already gone mad with hunger?”

“I do not think that dverg-wrought blade is made of iron. Either way, do as I command, boy.”

Fitela grunted and shifted from the other side. And then a cry of effort and a rending sound—metal screeching on stone. The blade sheared through the slab and punched to stick out not far from where Sigmund had retreated to.

She had really done it.

“Hel’s frozen tits,” Fitela said. “This blade …”

“Nephew. Listen carefully, for we must do this before dawn, before men begin to wake. Saw the blade back and forth to cut through the slab. With it gone, you’ll have an angle to free me, then I can do the same for you.”

Fitela’s pants came in ragged gasps long before Gramr finished hewing through the slab. As the sword sliced free from the edge of it, the stone teetered.

“Grab it from the right side and twist,” Sigmund said. “I’ll do the same, and we can turn it.”

Stone grated on stone as they pushed. Sigmund’s muscles ached from his starvation. How much worse Fitela’s must feel. Finally, the stone turned around, and Sigmund squeezed around the end of it so he could join Fitela.

“You did well.”

The young man slumped down, wheezing, his arms and chest trembling.

“Give me the sword,” Sigmund said and turned around to feel back with his hands. Fitela pushed the hilt into Sigmund’s fingers.

Gramr purred to him as he held her, her song a reprieve from his agonies. For so long he missed her and now, finally, they were reunited. And together they might have true vengeance.

But damn, finding a way to cut those chains with both of them having their hands bound behind their back—that would prove awkward. Lacking a better plan, Sigmund began to saw at the chain binding Fitela’s feet.

After a great deal of jerking the sword around at a strange angle, one of the links snapped through. Using his fingertips to feel around in the dark, Sigmund unthreaded that link from the others.

“You got it?” Fitela asked.

“Yes. See if you can get your hands around now.”

Fitela rolled about on the ground a moment, before coming properly, hands before him. Sigmund handed Gramr to him, hilt first. With a single stroke Fitela sheered through the chains binding Sigmund’s wrists. Another stroke freed his feet.

Sigmund reclaimed the blade, kissed her runes, and then cut through the chains holding Fitela’s wrists. Now he rubbed his own wrists, staring up at the gap. They might climb it, though footholds looked few and far between. Still their varulf muscles could accomplish great leaps when at full strength.

Fitela fell to his hands and knees and began scarfing down the roasted pork scattered about this side of the cairn. Of course, they would need their strength. Because this very night they would break free and then, berserkir or no, Sigmund would have his revenge.

60

Five Years Ago

For almost two moons Sigmund and Fitela had stalked the forest and the marsh, hunting down any who dared trod upon it. As a varulf, he no longer feared the mist. Indeed, it concealed him from his prey. The wolf vaettr inside him stirred most with every moonrise, demanding he run, stalk, and kill. Sigmund obliged it. As he would tonight with moonrise drawing nigh.

He and Fitela sat on the forest floor, perhaps a quarter mile from the wood’s edge, waiting. They had stirred up enough trouble for the outlaying villages that now, the local jarl had sent men to hunt them. Perhaps they even blamed Wolfsblood, the man who was supposed to have driven out the varulfur from his land. As it stood, Sigmund had now slain another four of those as well. He could not quite conceal the smile at the thought of Siggeir Wolfsblood bearing the blame for crimes Sigmund committed.

They had done well, but Fitela needed to learn to track and fight on his own.

“They look for us,” the boy said.

“Indeed. But they yet fear to wander into the forest. We can play on that, but first we must draw them in. We will split up, each harrying the hunters from different sides. When you have a few alone, take them, and leave no survivors.” Sigmund hesitated. Despite the wolf spirit giving him the strength of a man, Fitela remained yet a boy. “Much as you are young and daring, do not risk engaging more than seven men at a time. If facing such odds, retreat and howl for my help.”

Fitela sneered. “And will you agree to do the same?”

Damn, but the boy had grit. Sigmund snorted, but he nodded his head, then stalked off on his own.

As the moon rose, the wolf spirit stirred, growing restless beneath his flesh. Sigmund fell to his knees, shedding his clothes and groaning in pain as muscles shifted and joints popped. It always hurt. Fur sprouted from his back, his shoulders, then everywhere else. His face stretched and twisted, elongating into a snout, the process of which felt much like having his bones smashed to pulp with a rock. Finally able to breathe, he howled—or the wolf inside did. In such a state, he almost could not tell the difference.

And Sigmund ran, dashing around trees with speed and grace no human—nor even a mortal wolf—could hope to match. The sheer freedom of it, of the wind racing over his eyes and snout, it overwhelmed all other sensation and set him into a euphoria much like a battle frenzy.

And he ran and ran.

They hunted him, of course, maybe even thinking him the prey. Or maybe they were not such fools but had given in to their desperation and thus pursued him through the woods. In truth, it did not matter. These men paid tribute to Wolfsblood for their safety. Through their slaughter, the king was shown as weak and would thus lose his supporters.

Besides which, the wolf demanded it. It needed the hunt. It needed the kill.

Through the mist, Sigmund stalked behind the back of the hunters’ group. They stuck close together, all torches and spears and one with a bow. Seven men.

He no doubt could have slain them all, but had struck a bargain with the boy. And thus followed them, letting loose a long howl that sent the hunters into a frenzy. They swung their torches about to banish mist and formed up close together.

Sigmund would have laughed had he the throat for it. Instead, he loped around to the side. Waiting.

Fitela’s answering howl rang out through the night, some distance away. How was it he could now recognize a specific howl?

Sigmund’s tongue craved the iron taste of blood and the soft chewiness of flesh. Sometimes, he could no longer say where the wolf ended and he began.

He continued to circle. At last, the hunters gave over their watch and began to spread out, seeking their prey.

Falling dead still, Sigmund waited. It almost hurt, trying to control the wolf, to stop it from surging forward. Every instinct demanded he act immediately. But wait. He had to wait.

One of the men screamed off to the right, drawing the eyes of all others. At that, Sigmund charged forward. Snarling, he leapt through the air and bore down the bowman. They collided, and Sigmund’s jaws clenched around the man’s throat. A single savage twist ripped it out, the intoxicating taste of a fresh kill settling over his palate. He could not let the wolf savor it.

Sigmund lunged at the next man. His victim brought up a spear, trying to fend him off, but moved as if mired in snow, his every motion clear long before it connected. Sigmund dodged around the weapon and bit the man’s knee. As the victim fell, the wolf took over. It snapped jaws down over the man’s face. Bit and tore, rending, chomping. Destroying.

Predator.

Meat.

Sigmund felt it as another man tried to advance on him. The flying form of Fitela bore that man down. Sigmund leapt at another. One by one, they tore the villagers to pieces. Then they parted again, for there were yet more hunters to fell this night.

Sigmund’s last victim led him on a chase back toward the village, seeming intent to escape. He caught the man in a field just beyond the wood. His weight drove his prey onto the ground. Jaws snapped closed. One more dead. One more man the king had failed.

After lapping up the blood, Sigmund rose and shook himself. Where was the damn boy? He had not heard from him in hours now. An ill feeling seized his gut, and Sigmund trotted off, back into the woods, until he finally picked up Fitela’s scent. This he followed a long way. He tracked the boy past several kills, over a creek, and beyond, into a grove where lay the bodies of eleven men, all torn to shreds. What in Hel’s frozen underworld was Fitela thinking? He had taken on so many and never called for help.

Now, the other wolf’s scent mingled with a trail of blood, one Sigmund followed to a great oak. There the boy lay, in human form, bleeding from numerous wounds. Sigmund knelt and examined the worst one, what looked like a spear thrust to the hip.

Fitela groaned, eyes popping open as Sigmund touched the wound.

“What madness took you, boy? Why did you not call for my help?”

Fitela pushed himself up, back against the tree, grinning. “Oh?” He chuckled wetly. “You do not test your limits. You accepted my help to kill seven men, while I, a child, killed eleven by myself. Perhaps I am the greater of us.”

Before he realized what he was doing, Sigmund had hefted Fitela to his feet and slammed him against the tree trunk. The wolf took over.

It used his jaws to bite the boy’s neck. Hot, acrid blood ran down Sigmund’s throat.

Burning rage pumped through him, demanding he force the boy into submission. Demanding it. None might challenge his authority. Not in this pack!

Not …

Sigmund dropped the boy, gagging. For a bare moment he stared down at his hands, soaked in the blood of his own nephew.

Fitela gurgled, spitting up yet more blood, clutching both hands to his throat.

No. No. No!

What had he done? He hadn’t even thought, hadn’t had the chance to form any …

“Fitela?” Sigmund grabbed him and lifted him in his arms. “Fitela, boy!”

His nephew tried to say something but just choked. Oh, Odin. Please, do not let this boy die. Please, Odin. Please.

Fuck!

The wolf had completely taken him over. Its rage blinded him to aught else, its fury at being challenged.

Damn the wolf. And damn Gudrun! The vӧlva—or sorceress, if so she was—had wrought this.

Naked and cradling his nephew in his arms, Sigmund raced through the forest. The cabin those other varulfur had claimed lay nearby. There Fitela could rest. He’d be all right. He had to! Sigmund’s heart clenched, and he felt apt to retch up all the blood and flesh he’d taken down this night. Fitela’s blood.

A varulf could heal from wounds mortal to a human. He could heal. He had to heal.

Sigmund found himself screaming, roaring into the night. Defying the sorceress and the wretched king and the wolf inside him. Sigmund would do aught it took to gain control of the beast now sharing his body. But first, he had to tend to Fitela.

His nephew could not die.

He would not allow it.

Together, they were going to save the Volsung dynasty. Together they had planned everything.

61

Voices awakened her. Sif’s eyes popped open though she held very still. Night had fallen—sometime after midnight by the look of it.

“Because time is very short. It behooves our cause to ensure Wolfsblood’s castle remains undefended against the Volsung revenge.” That was Odin’s voice.

Now Sif did sit.

Indeed, the old king sat before their fire, talking to Thor and the twins.

“But killing women,” Thor protested. “That is not work fit for us.”

“They are berserkir mercenaries. Murderers and thieves, every one of them, should that ease your conscience, son. They prey on their fellow people and care naught for the sentiments of honor that seem to guide your hesitation.”

Thor grunted, then looked to Sif. “The king wants us to eliminate Siggeir Wolfsblood’s berserkir mercenaries.” That much she had gathered already. Thor cleared his throat. “So you … uh … you intend to aid in that?”

No. She was done.

Except … Odin was staring at her now. This was the man who’d let Gylfi die, who had, if some rumors were to be believed, perhaps even betrayed her foster father.

Odin had thought Sif special, or so Geri had claimed. The king had believed her capable, important even, and thus offered her in fostering to his most-trusted ally on Midgard. It was a trust she had not given overmuch thought to, really, but she could hardly betray it. Damn him.

And damn Thor. Damn the whole fucking royal family.

But this was Gylfi. And Wolfsblood deserved what was coming to him.

“This is the last time.”

Odin nodded, the barest hint of a smirk creasing his aged face. He’d known. Bastard. He’d known she’d never refuse the mission. Not from him and especially not this mission.

Thor rose then, grabbing his mail and fumbling with it.

“What?” Sif asked. “Now?”

“Has to be tonight, Father says,” Geri answered.

Oh by the Tree. Mountain jotunnar and berserkir and not even a full night’s sleep between the two.

Another bear charged at Sif, loping over the hill outside Wolfsblood’s town. Sif held very still, stolen sword in hand, waiting. Waiting. Damned things were fast—much faster than something that size ought to be. Less agile than varulfur, yes, but able to cover ground at incredible speeds.

Her heart was pounding. Sweat streamed down her back. Stung her eyes.

Two berserkir were dead at her feet already, reverted back to naked women.

And here came the third.

The bear roared as she charged. Her massive paw surged up for a swipe that might’ve knocked Sif’s head from her shoulders. Screaming herself, Sif jerked her sword around, catching the shifter in the muzzle. Her sword sheared off her nose and immediately sent the bear recoiling in shock.

Sif jumped backward, out of the way of those deadly claws in case the she-bear still managed to attack. And she did. The pain forestalled her only a moment, and then rage must have taken over. The bear reared up on her hind legs, swiping and bellowing.

Again Sif leapt backward. Not far enough. Not fast enough.

A paw caught her leg. It ripped through her unarmored thigh, tore out muscle and scored bone, the absolute agony driving all thought from Sif’s mind. She pitched over, and the bear was on top of her. Jaws descending on her face.

A tremendous crack sounded as Mjölnir flew through the air and smashed into the bear’s skull, splattering the creature’s brains all over Sif. The bear dropped like a stone, pinning her. Immediately, it began to shift back into a woman’s form.

Tears of pain clouded her vision as she clutched her thigh, trying to staunch the blood flow. Her mind raced, trying to access the apple’s power and control her body.

Megin, they called it. But it refused her grasp.

Blood was running from her like a river, mixing with the mud. Already the World was spinning, her head throbbing. She fell over sideways, still making her feeble effort to put pressure on the wound. She was going to bleed out.

She was going to die like this.

Now unarmed, the prince seemed hard pressed by a pair of berserkir. Thor.

He’d endangered himself to save her. Fuck!

“Thor!” Her voice sounded weak even in her own ears. Certainly not audible over the tumult of battle. Roars of anger and pain filled the fields before Wolfsblood’s keep. Sif crawled for him, pulling herself along the ground and making almost no progress toward him.

Nearby, the varulfur twins brought down a berserkir, Freki tearing out the woman’s throat with his teeth. Even as the bear fell, the wolf dashed toward Thor, launched himself in the air, and collided with one of the other bears. A wolf was no match for a bear—not alone. But his sister joined him a moment later.

Sif pulled herself toward them. They needed her. They were going to die like this—all of them.

She just … She just …

Everything kept spinning. The edges of her vision had turned shadowy.

She needed to reach them. To do something … to do …

The whole field seemed to wobble. Something hit her face.

The ground?

The ground had hit her, sucking her into the mud.

She was …

62

“Push!” Eir said.

“I am fucking pushing!” Sigyn meant to shout it, but it all came out as was a wheeze between pants.

She had gone into labor in Sessrumnir, and Eir had declared they could not make it down the mountain. Instead, the vӧlva had sent a guard racing back to get Frigg and Fulla.

Sweat streaming down her face, Sigyn lay in a room she had claimed as her own. Alone save for the vӧlva. Gods! Where the fuck was Loki now? She couldn’t do this alone!

Inexplicable tears leaked from her eyes. Her insides were ripping apart.

Another contraction, another push.

Another scream at her failure to have this baby. Immortal or not, she was going to die. This baby was going to kill her.

Loki!

Where was that fucker?

“Listen to me,” Eir said, hands on Sigyn’s knees. “Listen! You’re going to be all right. I need you to focus now.”

She needed a respite, a reprieve from this. Just for a little—

Another contraction tore through her.

“Sigyn!”

Blinking through the tears, a figure crystalized. Frigg rushed to her side. Holding her hand. Stroking it.

Voices talking.

“She’s lucky she’s had the apple.”

“What’s happening?”

“The baby is facing the wrong way. She’s already lost blood. I think she’s delirious.”

Someone was rubbing a wet cloth on her face. Sigyn turned, looking for Loki. It was Fulla. Fulla was not Loki.

“My baby …” Sigyn moaned.

“I don’t know what I can do for the baby.”

“Cut it from her.”

“She’ll die.”

“No, she’s immortal.”

“Olrun …” Sigyn moaned. Where was Olrun? Where was her mother … ?

“We both know that none of you are that immortal.”

“I’m going to push my Megin into her as soon as you’re done.”

“That’s dangerous, your Majesty. We’ve been reading about the side effects—”

“Do it!”

“Do it …” Sigyn said.

Screaming and pain and blood.

And then energy hit her like a wave of ice and fire and love and light. Sigyn fell back, convulsing, unable to discern between agony and euphoria. She gasped, sucking down air.

“Best be stitching her up, faster than fast.”

Sigyn closed her eyes and tried not to think, nor to imagine what Eir was doing to her.

A baby’s cries forced her own eyes open.

“Sweet Freyja’s great cats,” Fulla said.

Sigyn blinked. The maid was holding her baby.

Frigg lay by Sigyn’s side, reaching for the babe. “What is it?”

“W-what?” Sigyn said.

Something passed between them. Sigyn couldn’t see Frigg’s face. Fulla handed over the babe, then Frigg pressed him to Sigyn’s chest.

“You need to feed him now. Do not worry about aught else, sister. Just rest.”

She tried, despite the strange sensation of the infant gumming her nipple.

Sigyn woke with a groan. Her whole body hurt, especially her … ow! She tried to sit up but collapsed back onto the bed.

“Right, now, don’t you be sitting or setting or no nonsense,” Fulla said. “Sure as sure, you need your rest, and we’re here to take the best care of you you’ve ever had taken. Don’t you get to fretting over naught, now.”

Despite the delirium, she was pretty damn certain Eir had cut her son out of her belly. She’d heard of the procedure, though only in horror stories. No woman had ever survived that, so far as she knew. At best, rot took them within a day. Sigyn’s gut and trench hurt like Hel herself had tortured her, but she didn’t feel rotten.

Sigyn froze. “What would I be fretting over?”

“See now, I told you. Sure as sure, you had naught to fret over. And here you go, fretting over what to fret on.”

“Where is my son?” Sigyn demanded.

“He’s here, Sigyn,” Frigg said. She stood in the doorway, holding a bundle in her arms.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Her sister shook her head.

No. No. “Is he …”

“He’s fine, sister. He’ll grow up big and strong …”

“What is wrong with my baby? Give him to me!”

Frigg looked down at the babe. “Sigyn …”

“Now!”

With a sigh, her sister trod over.

“Now, now,” Fulla said. “Don’t you be getting all attached. We all know what has to be done with them who’s born like this.”

The maid’s words sent a chill down Sigyn. She forced herself up and snatched the babe from Frigg as soon as her sister drew nigh.

He was fine. He was fine.

He was …

Milky white eyes stared at naught.

Her son was blind.

“Now Sigyn,” Fulla said. “You know what’s best for them like—”

“No one is exposing my son.” The iron in her own voice shocked her, close as she knew she was to shattering. “Now get out.”

“Listen, if you don’t do it now—”

“Get. Out!”

The maid retreated.

Frigg slunk down beside Sigyn, not speaking for several moments. Finally, she sighed. “Fulla may have a point. This is not the same as what Father almost did with you. The boy can never have much of a life like this.”

“Yes he will.”

“Sigyn …”

“Yes he will!” she shrieked. “I won’t give up on him! Never! Never!”

She pulled her babe close and held him to her chest. She would fight for him. And he would fight too, to make a life for himself. So … so she’d call him her warrior: Hödr.

Little Hödr. The one who would never surrender.

63

Dawn had drawn nigh, but any who might have woken instead rushed for the commotion outside the gates. Odin alone might know who attacked Wolfsblood’s fort now—and at night!—but Sigmund would have to thank the person.

Later.

Fitela returned, laden down with yet another pile of wood gathered from the houses inside the fortress wall. Blood stained his clothes and armor, meaning the young man had slain the occupants of said houses to keep them silent.

Sigmund frowned at the thought. One day, perhaps, they would need to speak long on such things. Still, these people served his enemy. And he would win this day. Maybe Fitela had been right all along. Maybe any price was worth it to claim victory.

With Gramr, he hacked through a support plank from the wooden part of the wall. It tumbled down, offering the invaders ingress once they reached the fence. More importantly though, the massive log would burn. Sigmund split it in half with his runeblade, then dragged the piece of it toward the hall.

Next he grabbed a massive brazier from just outside and tipped it over onto the log, spilling burning whale oil all over it. The blaze took up immediately and soon leapt to the hall itself. With luck, Fitela had done as he’d bid and piled tinder before the other two exits. With those lit aflame, there would only be one way out of the now blazing hall.

Indeed, moments later, the great doors swung open, and men rushed out, coughing and searching the predawn darkness with confused eyes. Sigmund ought to have called them out and challenged them one by one.

The wolf had other plans though.

Silent as death, Sigmund crept up and cut down first one man, then the next. More people began to flood from inferno.

An arrow took one in the chest, another in the face. Fitela was quite the shot.

Wolfsblood himself stumbled out, howling and yelping and beating at flames that had singed his jerkin. “Who has done this? Are the walls breached?”

Now Sigmund paced about the shadows, separated from his prey by flames. “I have done this, Siggeir Wolfsblood. I, the last son of Volsung, have come to repay your treachery and malice. And with me stands Fitela, son of my sister and thus, also, of the Volsung blood, tainted though he be by yours.”

“Fitela? That son died long winters back. No it cannot—”

Wolfsblood jerked away as an arrow sprouted from one of his warriors.

“So then,” Sigmund said. “Send for Sieglinde, that she may bear witness to the end of you and your line.”

“I am here, brother,” his twin said, standing on the threshold of the burning building.

Wolfsblood glanced back at her. “Come out of there, you fool wench!”

Sigmund’s twin smiled now, grim and dark as a valkyrie. “Do you think I had forgotten the murder of my own father? I had our firstborn slain when he could not avenge that crime.” A wicked grimace crossed her face. “And, too, I found a use for the sorceress. She gave me her shape that I might come to Sigmund and with him conceive the truest heir of the Volsung line, one capable of aught we needed.”

Sigmund’s jaw dropped and a hollow opened in his gut. His brain did not want to close in on the words she spoke. “N-no …”

“Yes. Fitela is our son, brother, and has no drop of accursed Skane blood in his veins.”

“He is born of incest … of unnatural lust and …” Sigmund stumbled and almost dropped Gramr. “This cannot be. I cannot hear this!”

“But you must!” Still, she had not fled the flaming hall. “Kill the betrayer, brother. And bring all of this to a final end.”

“Sieglinde …” Sigmund reached a hand toward her. Took a step in that direction.

“Fool woman,” Wolfsblood said. The man stumbled away from the flames, not even looking back at where his wife stood. He jerked off his shirt and discarded it.

This man had wrought all of the ruin that had fallen upon the line of Volsung. He had done all of this. No punishment could ever be enough for that.

“Fitela!” Sigmund shouted. The young man appeared by his side, bow in hand. Sigmund pressed Gramr’s hilt into the other man’s palm. “Kill everyone. No one leaves this pyre.”

Face grim, his nephew … his son nodded.

Sigmund spit as he advanced on Wolfsblood, tearing away his own shirt. “It is not yet dawn.”

“I’m going to tear out your throat and eat your heart. Your power will be mine … and as I live down through the centuries, I will erase the Volsung name from history. And your son shall replace Volund’s victims as the name men utter when they think on cruelty beyond measure. His suffering shall last for decades.”

Sigmund unlaced and dropped his trousers, welcoming the change after caging the wolf so long. “Yours shall last for eternity—beyond the gates of Hel.” He surged forward, embracing the pain as his muscles shifted and bones popped, as hair ripped out of his flesh.

Wolfsblood began a similar change, becoming a black wolf so like the bitch Sigmund had once slain.

He wanted to taunt Wolfsblood with that, but his voice came out only as snapping and growls. And so he charged forward. They collided in mid-air, tumbled over sideways, and hit the ground, rolling apart a few feet from the rapidly spreading fire. The whole fort was ablaze.

Sigmund surged to his feet and snapped at Wolfsblood, who leapt backward. Always defensive, always finding a way to retreat. Except tonight, there would be no retreat left.

Wolfsblood snapped at him, and Sigmund dodged to one side. Only Wolfsblood moved faster, changing his attack. His jaws snapped down on Sigmund’s neck and bore him to the ground.

Blood gurgled inside Sigmund’s throat, and he yelped, struggling and rolling, attempting to get break free. He raked with his nails until one gouged the other wolf’s eye.

Whining, Wolfsblood leapt back several times like he thought himself a fucking rabbit. Sigmund regained his feet, but they felt watery, loose. Like he stood on a boat. Blood was seeping from his wound. Soaking his fur. Clouding his mind …

Had to finish it.

Wolfsblood lunged once more, again going left. This time, instead of dodging right, Sigmund drove forward. As Wolfsblood tried to change and catch him in another feint, Sigmund came in first. His teeth snapped down on the wolf’s foreleg so hard he felt bone crunch and snap between them. This sent Wolfsblood toppling over, howling in pain.

Sigmund paced around to look the vile king in the eye. He ought to see the end coming, to see his death lurching ever closer. Not so he could embrace it as a warrior, but so that he could fear it and shame himself like the craven he had always been. Sigmund took another step closer.

Stumbling and howling with the pain of it, Wolfsblood rose, trying to lope away on three legs.

Sigmund laughed—or tried. It sounded more like a bark.

He gave chase. Two strides, three. Fast, like he was flying.

And then the first ray of dawn hit him like a blazing spear between the eyes. It stole his breath and sent him careening down into the mud. His body convulsed, writhing and twisting, as muscles and bones jerked and popped back into their human configurations. Hit unaware by the change, forced out of it like that, it took him several moments to catch his breath, made no easier by the bloody wounds in his throat. He coughed up more blood as he gained his knees and again as he stood.

Wolfsblood had been similarly affected, and even now, had only managed his knees, clutching his mangled arm with his one hand. Naked, dirty, bleeding … pathetic.

Sigmund did not bother looking for his clothes as he stalked through the mud. He knew damn well he cut a very different figure than the fallen king. One of glory, of ancient lineage. One of death, come for the unworthy.

Wolfsblood gained his feet as Sigmund drew nigh and raised his good hand as if he offered surrender. Sigmund’s right hook slammed into his ribs, doubling him over. An uppercut smashed his jaw and sent Wolfsblood toppling onto his back in the mud.

The king lay there, groaning, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

Sigmund stomped his heel into the king’s stones. “For my sister.” He glanced at her, where she stood on the threshold of the burning building.

Sieglinde nodded grimly.

The king rolled over, moaning and crossing his legs as if he might protect himself in any way from the justice that had at long last come for him. But this was his urd, one he had all but asked for with his own treachery.

Sigmund grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him back toward the burning hall. He passed Fitela who, with Gramr, had cut down at least a dozen more men. Bodies lay everywhere. Some looked like warriors, others not. It mattered naught.

Sieglinde had suffered long because of this place. Because of this troll-fucking, murdering, thief. Sigmund paused at a warrior’s body, just long enough to grab an axe. He dropped Wolfsblood, turned, and showed him the axe.

“N-no …” the king tried to crawl away backward.

Sigmund screamed as he swung, lopping the fucker’s foot off at the ankle. “For my brothers.” He tossed the axe aside and hefted the wailing king by his remaining foot.

Now he looked again toward Sieglinde. “Will you finish it, or should I?”

Sieglinde swallowed. She stepped back toward the flames. “I have worked so long toward vengeance, and in such vile means, I am no longer fit to live. So let me die beside the husband I never desired.”

Sigmund reached for her, but she shook her head. The look in her eyes told him everything. He’d never sway her course. She stepped into the fire and screamed in such agony his stomach clenched and he had to turn away. For a moment.

Sigmund shuddered. Turned back to Wolfsblood. “For my father … I ask but that you go to join the wife he gave you in good faith.” Sigmund grasped Siggeir Wolfsblood’s remaining ankle with both hands and heaved, sending the body flying end over end into the hall. It must have hit something, because a crack rang out, followed by a massive collapse of the roof that turning the smoldering timbers into the largest pyre imaginable.

For a time, Sigmund stared into the flames. Then he spat after Wolfsblood and turned away.

Fitela fell in beside him. “Mother …”

Sigmund might have said it was her choice. He might have said she could never live with all she’d done. He might have said aught, but no words seemed sufficient. And so, he kept his silence, staring at the flames.

Fitela offered Gramr’s hilt.

This Sigmund gladly claimed. “I have never before let anyone else wield this blade. But you are my son, and you wielded it well. With … honor.”

The main gate and the wooden wall had also caught flame, so they climbed the stone section of the wall and leapt over it, each landing in a crouch. And each rising to cast a last look at the end of the ones they had spent so long despising. Revenge was done.

“You do not think me a monster?” Fitela asked.

“I think you knew all along … and you wanted to tell me, but you followed your mother’s orders. A monster would not so have honored his mother’s words. Whatever else you may be, Fitela, I claim you as my son and heir.”

The young man ventured a wane smile, then clapped Sigmund on the arm.

Sigmund drew him into an embrace, but a brief one, for he spied a large man in the field beyond, watching them. No one could have escaped from Wolfsblood’s side, but then, someone else had attacked the fortress and drawn off a number of warriors. Including those berserkir—Sigmund hadn’t seen them during the entire fight.

The large man bore a mighty, short-handled hammer. His fiery red hair and beard alike were braided, and his armor glittered like silver beneath the blood splatters.

“Who are you?”

The warrior flashed a toothy smile. “Thor Odinson.”

Sigmund exchanged a glance with Fitela. The son of Odin! He stammered a moment, before falling to one knee. “Then I am honored beyond words to have the Aesir come to fight alongside us.”

Thor laughed, then glanced back at others behind him. Yet more Aesir? Had even Odin himself come to look upon this battle? And why not? Odin had left the sword for Sigmund. Yet he dared not ask such a question nor belittle the importance of Thor himself. “Go now, mortals. I too have someone who requires my immediate attention.”

Without further explanation, the son of Odin turned and strode off to rejoin his companions. Sigmund rose as the god vanished into the mist, his words faltering. More than aught else, he wanted to call out and beseech Thor to return, to grace them with his presence a moment longer. Or to take Sigmund with them and let him look upon the wonders of Asgard or fight beside them against aught they might face.

But one did not demand such privileges from the gods. More than ever, Sigmund was certain all he had achieved he owed to Odin. He could no longer doubt that the old wizard who placed Gramr in Barnstokkr had been the king of the gods. Odin had helped Sigmund avenge his father, as legend claimed had once been a driving quest for the god himself.

He supposed that had to be enough.

He turned back to the blaze. By midday, naught but cinders would remain of this place. One of the Seven Kings of Sviarland was dead, along with all his line. Things would change here, no doubt, but it was no concern of Sigmund’s.

His line came from Hunaland. And he had been away more than too long already.

64

Legs folded beneath him, Odin projected his mind into the Astral Realm. From there, he passed ghosts and spirits, wandering amidst a ruin in southwestern Skane. Night had settled in above them, and a half moon lit the sky. He might have awaited daylight, save that his foe would cast at midnight, and Odin would not allow this spell to be completed under any circumstances.

In the heart of the ruin, Gjuki, the Raven Lord, stood, preparing a foul conjuration. Nearby, his wife Grimhild, the priestess of Hel, sat, awaiting the results. Awaiting the Raven Lord’s attempts to restore the powers she had lost.

Odin had tried to plan every detail, but the Raven Lord had managed to liberate his wife from his daughter’s captivity. Those ravens must have fed him so much information, he’d managed to use Thor’s distraction against him. Now, Gjuki would call upon the foulest vaettir in an attempt to restore Hel’s greatest servant on Midgard.

Except, Odin had grown tired of the king and queen of the Niflungar. These sorcerers had hunted his people, thwarted his plans, and otherwise proved an unending source of misery to the World. And the time had come to put a stop to that.

Gjuki froze from painting a glyph, then turned slowly to look right at Odin’s astral form. The Niflung’s shadowy outline solidified as he embraced the Sight. And Odin made no attempt to hide. Let the Raven Lord know Odin was coming for him. He was already too close for the man to flee unless he were to abandon his wife.

No, this moment had been coming for a long time, and from the way Gjuki watched him, the Raven Lord knew it too.

Death draws nigh … and we all await its pleasure …

Odin dismissed his projection and rose. Damn but he missed Gungnir. Lacking it, he instead drew a sword and advanced on the ruin.

Resting the past few days had finally allowed his body to heal, maybe to as good as it would get now. His knee no longer pained him any more than his other joints. The Art had made him an old man, and he was stuck that way. But he was an old man who could channel his pneuma to be faster and stronger than any mortal warrior, even enough to match most draugar or vaettr-possessed hosts. That made him more than a match for Gjuki.

The Raven Lord met him at the ruined gate, black cloak billowing behind him as though the wind were twice its actual intensity. From beneath that cloak, Gjuki produced a sword. A runeblade, in fact, the etchings perfect and terrible. The man hefted the sword in salute. “Dainsleif, taken from Prince Alf when the Bragnings fell long ago.”

Odin grunted, then raised his own sword. “I send you to Hel with a message for her. Tell her, one day, I will come for her as well. One day, no matter whose daughter she is, I will end her.”

“You still remain a fool, Ás. Do you truly think the Queen of the Mists can die?”

We are all dead …

“I know she can.”

Gjuki’s mouth dropped open, as if stunned by the certainty in Odin’s voice. In another lifetime, Odin had once almost liked this man. Almost thought they could be friends, allies. But Gjuki followed Hel. And in truth, Mankind would be better off without any sorcerers. “I had high hopes for you once, Odin.”

Odin shook his head, sadly. “You had arrogance then, as you have now—for a single moment more.”

Behind the Raven Lord, lurking in the ruins, Grimhild stared at him.

Odin pointed his sword at the Niflung Queen. “You are next. Watch your inevitable end close in around you, sorceress. And know you have wrought your own urd.” He turned back to Gjuki. “Come. Let us have done with one another at last.”

Gjuki snarled, then lunged forward, his form blurring as he did so. Shadows leapt off his cloak, streaming around him like a river, grasping and hungry to consume Odin. The sudden assault drove Odin back, and he barely got his sword up to parry Gjuki’s runeblade. Again and again, the Raven Lord cut and thrust and lunged, driving Odin ever backward. Shadows wrapped around Odin’s limbs like Ethereal serpents, slowing his movements. One tugged his sword arm out of place, and the runeblade sheered through Odin’s mail and into his chest.

Unlike the bite of Gramr, this one burned like acid, drawing a shriek of pain from Odin. He fell back again, one hand clutched to the searing wound.

“No man lives through the caustic venom of this blade.”

Odin grit his teeth against the rapidly spreading pain. Tongues of fire pulsed through his veins with every beat of his heart. “Not. Just. A man.”

He focused his pneuma on his blood, his heart, heating it. Burning away the venom. The pain doubled, tripled until Odin was screaming from it. And then it faded. He gasped, trying to catch his breath.

Gjuki faltered a moment, shaking his head. “How many times can you manage that, I wonder? Or perhaps I will simply strike your head from your shoulders. Very few foes live through that, Ás.”

Growling, Odin tossed his hat aside, then swept his sweat-stained hair from his face. Then he himself lunged forward, a feint left, a low thrust. A riposte. Pulling all the power he could from the apple, he drove Gjuki back in a relentless assault. Faster, stronger.

His memories of other lifetimes had faltered, but pieces of it, of the skill he wielded as a hundred different warriors, they came to him. A short slash rolled into a thrust when Gjuki tried to parry. Odin’s blade snaked in, opening a gouge along the Raven Lord’s side. He lurched backward, and Odin stepped in to drive home the blade.

And then dozens of ravens dove at Odin’s face, clawing and shrieking and fluttering about his head.

“Gak!” He beat at them with his sword and free hand. Bird claws scratched the back of his hand, his forearm, his chest, his face. The sword tumbled from his grasp as he flailed, snarling at the creatures. Damn things kept trying to tear out his eyes.

Odin caught one bird in a fist and crushed it.

Another pecked a chunk out of his ear. Odin bellowed in pain, slapping down another bird and another.

Take them …

Take the birds? How?

Vaettr …

Of course. To control the ravens, Gjuki must have bonded some vaettr, not unlike the great spirit bear Odin had met in Kvenland. So then … Arm shielding his eyes, Odin spoke Supernal words, cajoling and commanding the spirit. Binding a vaettr from within another sounded impossible, but then, Odin had managed impossible deeds many times before.

“What are you doing?” Gjuki demanded. Without waiting for an answer, he raced forward, swinging that runeblade.

Odin dodged, batted a bird aside, and dodged again. This time, he caught Gjuki’s wrist with one hand and slammed his forehead into the Niflung’s nose. The stunned king toppled over. Maybe Odin could have killed him right there, but … But Audr was right. Those ravens might prove useful, especially since Gjuki had gone to the trouble of summoning a spirit raven.

Wrapping his other hand around Gjuki’s throat, Odin leaned in. And he squeezed, continuing to chant. It wasn’t the words that really mattered though. Everything was a contest of wills. His will against Gjuki’s and against the raven spirit’s, too. He pressed his mind against Gjuki’s, clawing at it, pounding, beating it into submission. It was like assaulting an iron-banded door. The Raven Lord had spent long centuries honing his will.

But then again, he had also taught Odin a great deal about suffering. About despair. “I have seen the end of your line. All the Niflungar will be dead within the next generation. As you breathe your last, know that your kingdom and your people will soon join you in Niflheim. Until finally I destroy even the gates of Hel.” He pushed harder. The man flailed, unable to match Odin’s strength and no doubt becoming delirious from lack of air. “You will die. Grimhild will die. Gudrun will be dead. Hogne will die. Gunnar will die. All dead and … forgotten …”

And there it was—a crack in the iron door. A moment of doubt, of weakness, when the will faltered along with the body. And Odin slipped inside.

There, in a place that was no place, a giant raven had alighted upon an even larger tree. Watching him.

Odin reached out a hand to it. “Join me.”

The raven cocked his head.

“For the better part of a thousand years, you have been a slave to the Raven Lord. Join me—as a partner. I know what you need.” For it was what all vaettir wished. To feast on the souls of mortals. “Aid me, and I will deliver you all the souls you desire.”

The raven turned its head. As it did so, it split in two, then each took flight. One settled on his left shoulder, then the other on his right. His ears popped, and his lungs closed as the vaettr lurched free of Gjuki and into Odin. It stole Odin’s breath and sent him toppling over backward, clutching his chest, clawing at his throat in a desperate attempt for air.

It settled inside, the new vaettr. Valravn.

Gjuki rose, moaning, hand to his throat. “What have you done …” His voice was raspy as a draug’s. And he himself as nigh to death as one of them.

Odin at last managed to fill his lungs, sucking down precious air. As he stood, a raven had settled on his shoulder. “I will take everything from you …”

The former Raven Lord screamed in apoplexy and shadows exploded out of him. Umbral chains suddenly became solid, wrapping around Odin’s legs and holding him in place. One managed to snare his wrist, jerking it down. Gjuki’s eyes turned black as he fed his pneuma to whatever foul vaettr allowed him this feat.

Audr!

The shadows cross the Veil …

Meaning not even the wraith could break free of them.

A shadowy tendril shot out and snared up Dainsleif from where Gjuki had dropped it. The runeblade lurched through the air and into the Niflung’s hand. “I will cut you limb from limb until I reclaim what you have stolen. The ravens are mine!”

The ravens. Odin bent his mind toward Valravn, beseeching his aid. The raven on Odin’s shoulder cawed. But it was the other, his partner, that dove for Gjuki. And the Niflung king did not react fast enough. A single swift peck tore one of Gjuki’s black eyes from its socket, drawing out a sickening mess behind it. The king fell, screaming, hands clutching his face.

The shadows lost any substance, and Odin pushed through them. He snatched up Dainsleif from where it had fallen. And he drove it through Gjuki’s heart. “Remember my message for Hel.”

An image jumped into his mind of Grimhild fleeing, her cursed grimoire tucked under her arm. The sight came from the sky, as a raven watched the scampering sorceress. As if she might somehow outrun the sight of a raven.

“I promised you souls,” Odin said. “Let us start with her.”

He strode after the queen, relishing it as she tripped over roots, stumbling and awkward, consumed by terror. Her foot sunk in a mud pit. She ran like lamed deer fleeing dogs, casting more and more panicked glances over her shoulder. Odin did not run, but he used his pneuma to give him speed, and he strode with a determined pace. Let her exhaust herself. Her stamina would give out hours before his would.

Sword in hand, he stepped around trees, over roots, and pursued deeper into the bog.

“You wish to die in the middle of nowhere, that I can oblige,” he called after her.

With his mind, he sent the two ravens after her. They cawed about, clawing and flapping, until she dropped her precious tome in the mud, continuing to flee.

Odin stooped to claim the book.

A prescient insight warned him of danger an instant before a wave of ice erupted from the ground, massive spikes of it jutting out beneath him. Odin flung himself to the side as sharpened ice blades rose up all around him. He tried to stand, then had to duck again as an icicle the size of a spear crashed into the space he had occupied. It exploded into a tree, shredding bark and wood and turning the trunk to kindling.

Odin rose again, turning on Skadi. Naught of Gudrun remained now—white haired and looking for all the World like the very incarnation of winter.

One arm hung limp and bloody at her side, and yet, coated in rime and icy fury, she looked as much a goddess as Hel herself. “Your son has cost me a great deal.”

“Not as much as I’m about to cost you.”

Skadi shrieked, the sound like something borne of Niflheim and enough to make Odin cringe, shielding his ears. She thrust a hand forward, flinging shards of ice at him. He twisted out of the way, but several caught him, shearing through muscles in his arm. It lost all feeling, and the runeblade spilled out of his grasp and pitched into the bog.

The snow maiden had already called upon some other foulness of the Art of Mist, conjuring a spiked sphere of ice around her hand. This she flung at him. Odin dove into the muck himself. The sphere exploded as it contacted a tree, the impact sending Odin sprawling end over end.

His ears rung, his sight blurred. He tried to sit. The explosion had devastated the bog, shredding through every tree within twenty feet and opening a new clearing.

Her good hand supporting herself on her knee, Skadi stood panting.

Odin rose again, then felt weak. He looked down. A shard of ice the size of a sword stuck from his chest on the right side. He toppled over sideways.

“Why don’t you …” Skadi panted. “… Deliver your own message … to Hel.” The snow maiden stalked closer.

Odin watched her approach, laying on his side. He fidgeted around in the mud, tugging at the icicle, but it was wedged so tightly inside his shoulder he couldn’t … couldn’t do …

Everything had turned blurry and white.

Death comes …

Flames swirled in the air overhead. They danced around in a spinning disc that expanded and expanded again. The fire washed over the bog like the lights of the northern winters. It ought to have made a sound, but Odin heard not a thing.

Ice crashed into those fires. And the flames came back again, scorching all around him.

Ash and mist mingled and joined him in the darkness.

And then there was a voice. “I am here, brother. She has fled.”

Odin let himself fall into the void.

65

A strange stench seeped from beneath the bandages wrapped around her thigh. Not rot, praise the Tree, but whatever herbal poultice someone had applied. It seemed to ease the pain, so Sif could not complain overmuch. She lay abed in a small house, perhaps in the same town outside which they had fought. So had they won?

She tried to sit up, but weakness drove her back down, and she collapsed onto the bed with a huff.

“Hello?” she called out. “Anyone?”

A moment later, the door opened, and Thor stepped inside, standing at the threshold and staring at her. “You’re awake,” he said after several long heartbeats.

Obviously. Sif bit back any remark and just nodded.

“I was … worried.”

“Hmm. Geri treated my leg?”

“No.” Thor finally walked forward and looked down at the bed. Sif shifted enough to let him sit on the end of it. “Father attended you himself,” Thor said after he settled down. “He said the herbs and whatever draught he brewed would speed your recovery. Stuff stank like a troll’s crotch.”

How closely had he smelled troll crotch? She wanted to ask it. To laugh with him and joke and still be friends. To let things go back to how they had been. But they couldn’t. They never could, not knowing what she knew now. What he had known all along.

Then again, when did life ever give you exactly what you wanted?

“I’m still leaving. I cannot do this anymore.”

Thor frowned. He reached a hand toward her shoulder, then shook his head and rose, scrambling for the door like a man expecting the house to catch fire. He paused there, cast a single glance back at her, then slipped outside.

Gone.

As she would be as soon as her leg healed.

Sif didn’t own much, really. It took no more than moments to jam it all in a satchel. Procuring supplies took a bit longer, but the townsfolk were more than happy to trade for her silver. Most of the coins she carried were Miklagardian, picked up during her time in Bjarmaland. The locals didn’t care much over the stamping, she assumed, but then again, silver was silver. People tended to like it in every land she’d ever visited.

And after nine years with the Thunderers, she must have seen damn nigh to half the lands in Midgard. Certainly most of the North Realms and a handful of places in the South Realms too. So many adventures. Laughter … yes. And blood. And death. So many of the others were gone now, and she still wasn’t certain what they had really accomplished. Did killing a few jotunnar and trolls truly make the whole of Mankind better off?

Sif tied a skin of mead to her belt. Who knew how long before she’d get more of the stuff?

Maybe no one was better off. Certainly not Meili or Hildolf or Itreksjod. Not Sif, either.

So then. Back to Asgard, she supposed.

She opened the door. And there was Thor, leaning against the frame, head down like he was in pain.

His fiery red hair hung about his face, tangled in his beard, obscured his eyes when he finally looked up. “I don’t want you to go.”

Sif set her jaw. What in the gates of Hel did he expect her to say to that? Now?

Thor grunted. “After all we have been through, can you not allow me to at least come in and discuss this?”

That was … fair. Not that aught more remained to discuss, but she supposed she owed him the chance. With a sigh, she stepped out of the way and allowed him into the house.

He shut the door behind him, stalked over to the opposite wall, and stared out the window.

Sif rolled her eyes. “I want to use the daylight to get as far as possible. By tomorrow I hope to reach the sea.”

Thor spun around. “My life would not be the same without you.”

She bit her lip and spread her hands. None of their lives would be the same any more. “Everything changes,” she said, finally. “We cannot be what we were in any event. Too many of us are dead now. Besides, you’ll be fine. Everywhere you go, you’ve got women throwing themselves into your bed. Fuck, Thor. You’ve got damned jotunnar warming your bed.”

He groaned. “I’m sorry if I offended you with … Everyone was affected by Vörnir’s hall.”

“It’s not just that, and you know it. You only care for other women.”

He snorted. “I lay with them because I do not care about them.”

What the fuck? “I … I don’t even know what to say to that.” She dropped her satchel on the floor. “What do you even want me to say to such a claim?”

“No, no, no.” He held up a placating hand. “Damn it. I am abhorrent at … explaining … things. I, uh …” He slapped a fist against the wall, cracking the wood and causing her to cringe. “Right. It’s easy to sleep with someone you care naught for—you risk naught. Just pleasure and release and no worries about the heart. I don’t know if you can understand what I’m trying to say …”

Sif flinched, unable to quite drive the image of her night with Freki from her mind. For that matter, she had taken a few lovers over the years. And maybe none of them had meant aught to her, either. Just a way to ease the pain. But Thor … no. No way she’d believe that of him. “None of that matters. Where you put your cock is your business, My Prince. We both know why I cannot remain by your side. I allowed myself, in my foolishness, to feel what I should not have.”

Thor scratched his head and groaned. “Why shouldn’t you?”

“Because you are the prince.” Don’t get involved with princes. Obviously.

“So? I can have … feelings too.”

Sif leaned against the wall. By the Tree, she did not want to have this conversation. “You don’t. I’m a sister to you.”

“That … that’s just what we call women who fight beside us. Brothers and sisters-in-arms. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to …”

“What?”

“It was just that I did care about you. A lot. I remember you, as a child, you know. So brave, always wanting to fight with us. You asked me once, challenged me really, to see who could throw an axe farther. You remember?” She remembered. “And then you came back all grown up and beautiful, and I just …” He shrugged. “Didn’t know how to … It’s just fucking different if you want more than one night from someone!”

“Why?” What was he saying?

“I don’t know!”

Sif glanced down at her satchel. She could grab it and run. Avoid all this. Her face was flushed, her heart so fast. After so many years he could not be saying what it sounded like he was saying. Could he? “How do I know you’re not just saying all this to keep me in the Thunderers?”

“Have I lied to you? Ever done aught to make you mistrust my honor?”

No. She shook her head. He never had.

“Every time I take a woman, that’s it. I rarely even see her again. I didn’t want that to become us … if you left.”

Sif snorted. Geri would have asked if that meant he’d left a string of unsatisfied women in his wake. Somehow, Sif doubted that was the case. But if she let this happen …

Act on your feelings or kill them, Sigyn had said. And … and … Fuck it.

Sif rushed him, leapt up into his arms, and threw her legs around his waist, planting kisses on his face. All hesitation slipped from him in an instant. A moment later, she was on her back as he tore away her clothes. Fabric ripped, but it didn’t matter.

He pushed inside her, and she drew her nails down his back.

“Hurt me,” she said, trying not to weep.

Thor pushed himself up to look into her eyes. “Never.”

66

The very same traders who had brought Hunalander ale for the feast now agreed to ferry Sigmund and Fitela back across the Morimarusa. Back to Hunaland and the ancestral hall of Volsung in Rijnland, where, he prayed, Barnstokkr yet stood awaiting his return. Sigmund’s long-delayed vengeance for Father had cost him precious time, and any number of foes or former allies might have moved against his lands in his absence.

But that kingdom was his birthright, left to him by his father, and Sigmund would freeze before the gates of Hel before he gave it up.

“You seem lost in perilous thought,” Fitela said, joining him in the bow.

Sigmund nodded without taking his eyes from the sea. The mist was always thick over the waters, and you could not make out much beyond a few feet. It made sailing treacherous work, especially nigh to any rocky coasts. Still, the sea connected the North Realms and one could not avoid it. They were all connected as never before, now, slowly being united through the faith of the new gods. Unlike their Vanr predecessors, the Aesir came to Midgard and fought its evils. Sigmund had seen that with his own eyes.

One day, perhaps, the Aesir might ask something of him—and he would do all in his power to deliver that to them. Until then, he had to concern himself with the affairs of this world.

“I was thinking about … your mother.”

Sigmund’s son stiffened. “I spent my whole life planning revenge on that man. And with it finally done … I find myself lost in the mist. Unable to see another goal clearly enough to focus on it.”

Sigmund tapped his fingers on the gunwale. “All those summers ago, I came across this sea to join my sister and celebrate her union.” Or to make certain she was happy in that union. “And now, long delayed, I at last return to a home not knowing what waits for me there save this—it is mine, Fitela. It is all mine. Father intended to claim not only our kingdom in Hunaland but to unite the whole of the land under his rule. I swear this—I shall fulfill his dream.”

“Bold dreams. From overthrowing one king to forcing many to bend their knee before you. A man who dreams too boldly might overreach himself.”

“I am favored by Odin. I wield the runeblade Gramr. I am a fucking varulf. I do not think there are many in this world who can stop me now. But I do see the mist that blinds you … and I ask you to look past it. Turn your plots in another direction now, son. The Volsungs must win back the hearts and swords of the people of Hunaland.”

Fitela grunted. “I have been thinking on your … blessings. You are so convinced that Gramr is a precious gift, given to you by the gods. But it also seems to me the beginning of your dark urd spawned from that sword. I felt its power yes, and I understand well the jealousy it engendered in Wolfsblood.”

Sigmund scowled and shook his head. “You speak of what you cannot understand. Petty men will always be jealous of something, and most of all of great things. Odin meant Gramr for me that I might do grand deeds with her. Do not dare besmirch that honor!”

At his outburst, a few sailors looked up from their oars and in his direction. Sigmund turned away so that he would not have to look upon their faces.

Finally, Fitela slapped the gunwale and walked away, leaving Sigmund alone.

Before, Sigmund had thought the boy’s temperament a curse from his father. Now that he knew the truth … it was a curse from his father. The both of them had the zeal of true warriors, even if they went about it differently.

And between the two of them, they would slaughter every last bastard that dared oppose him. Whether through silver or iron, through words or through blood, Sigmund would be king of Hunaland. The kind of king of whom legends spoke.

An impulse took him, and he drew Gramr, slicing his palm with her. The icy numbness set in, but he ignored it, painting his blood along the runes of the blade. “In my own blood and upon this sword, I swear my oath. I will be a king like no other, such that skalds will sing of me and my line for a thousand years. I swear it, Father.”

A heavy wind cropped up, speeding their passage.

67

All kings had to do things they might have rather not. For the good of the kingdom, sometimes one had to make decisions that tasted of bile. To ensure the continuance of one’s reign—and that must often become a king’s first duty, for failing it, none else mattered—a king might find his hand forced. Mercy was not always an option for a ruler.

And how much more the burden then, if one was king not only of a kingdom, but of all this world?

It was arrogance, of course, to name himself such a king. Arrogance and necessity were all Odin had to have any chance of sparing the World from the ravages he had foreseen.

He trod among the path into the valley, passing through the elm groves that surrounded Lodur’s hall. It was calm and beautiful.

“Is there no other way?” Freki asked behind him. “Must we act against him?”

Odin glanced at his son. “You know their crimes.”

Freki grunted. Odin had sent Geri to watch and ensure none of the traitors tried to escape the valley. Freki, he called to his side. He had considered bringing Thor and Sif, but Thor favored Lodur and should not be forced to witness his downfall while Odin could spare it.

When the hall finally came into view, Odin sighed. Truly, sometimes a king had fewer choices than anyone else. He had to enact this reckoning or risk chaos and disloyalty spreading in Asgard. Neither his reign nor the World could afford to take such a risk.

And so he nodded at Freki.

The varulf threw open the doors to Lodur’s hall, striding in a few paces before Odin. Once again, Odin found himself missing Gungnir and the strength—and rage—it gave him. These things were easier when enraged. Now, he just felt cold, leaning on naught but a true walking stick.

Lodur and Sjöfn both sat at a table, playing tafl. A single glance told Odin the girl had lost that game a good many moves back, even if she did not yet realize it. Then again, she never did seem that cunning. Had she been, maybe it would not have come to this.

The former jarl—Odin’s former friend—rose at his entrance. “My king?”

Odin motioned to Freki, who strode toward Lodur and grabbed his arm.

“Lodur, on charge of inciting treason I arrest you,” Odin said.

“What in the gates of—”

At a nod from Odin, Freki slammed a fist into the man’s gut, doubling him over and shutting him up.

Sjöfn was backing away now.

“And you, girl, are guilty of the greatest crime one of our people can commit. In betraying your heritage, you are no longer Ás.”

“I … I don’t know what you’re …”

Odin stalked closer. The weight of duty could suffocate a king. He cracked her across the face with his staff, and she dropped like a stone.

Lodur would spend years, maybe centuries, locked in a small cell in the back of Valaskjalf. It was a burden, keeping him, but he would serve as a reminder to anyone else who might contemplate treason. A warning, that Odin could and would visit eternal punishment on those who defied him.

Annar, much as it pained Odin, would have to be stripped of his position. While allowing himself to be seduced didn’t exactly make Odin’s cousin guilty of treason, it also did not leave him fit to guard the Tree.

Sjöfn, though, was the one who had broken the greatest law among the Aesir. She had stolen an apple, eaten it without permission. According to Sigyn, the Vanir punished such crimes using terrible curses of the Art that flayed flesh from bone and yet denied the victim death.

Odin would not turn to the Art if it could be avoided, nor could he decide whether the punishment he had in mind was actually more merciful.

Hand wrapped around the girl’s elbow, he guided her deep below the mountains of Asgard. Through ancient rocky tunnels lit only by the flicker of his fading torch.

She sniffled, though her tears—and her protestations had stopped. “Where are you taking me?” Her voice shook. And small wonder, for these tunnels were saturated with ancient darkness even before Odin had put them to their current use.

Odin didn’t answer her. The tunnel opened out into a cavern filled with an underground lake. At the lake shore, four guards stood, watching his approach. Few Aesir knew of this place, and thus the burden and honor of watching over it fell to but a select few, chosen by Frigg and oft vetted by Tyr.

“Prepare the raft,” Odin said.

Two of the guards, moving in silence, untied a wooden raft from the shore and stepped aboard. Odin guided Sjöfn onto it as well. Then they shoved off and set out across the lake. Torchlight did not reach far there. Beyond sight lay a barren, rocky island. There, an orichalcum chain ran through a massive rock at the island’s heart.

“Immortality is not always a blessing,” Odin said as they drew closer to the island. “There are those who cannot die, and thus they can but suffer for eternity. And for the crime of stealing eternal life—from taking that gift away from someone else more worthy—I am forced to punish you with eternal damnation.”

A vile howl echoed out over the water, setting the hair on Odin’s neck on end.

“What the fuck is out there?” Sjöfn wailed. “A varulf?”

“The ultimate varulf. You have used your sex as a weapon to betray all Aesir. I fear you will have long to regret that choice.”

“Y-you can’t! You cannot do this!”

The raft creaked up on the island. Odin dragged the girl, now shrieking and trying to pull free—though she clearly had not learned to channel her pneuma to gain superhuman strength—forward, into the dark.

Gleaming eyes reflected torchlight, as the creature chained to the rock stalked forward, stretching the limits of his chains.

“Fenrir,” Odin said. “I have brought you a companion to ease your eternal imprisonment.”

“No, no, no!” Sjöfn had begun to weep again.

Odin grimaced, feeling apt to retch at his own cruelty. He flung the girl at Fenrir, who caught her, saying naught. If Sjöfn was very lucky, he would not keep her alive too long.

But then, Odin had never expected her to be lucky.

Odin’s great hall Valaskjalf stood upon one of the highest peaks of Asgard, roofed in silver and glittering in the sunlight. Here, Odin and Frigg’s thrones sat as, even now, she held court after their reunion. From Valaskjalf rose a silver spire nine years in the making, and atop this, Odin had placed his new throne, his High Seat, and forbidden any other save Frigg to set foot in the tower.

From atop the spire, he could see out over all Asgard, looking down on the cerulean sea, or even to the ring of mist enshrouding the two isles. These things he could see from the tower’s low balustrade. But sitting on the High Seat, he would see more. He would see everything.

And now that the moment had come, he found himself hesitating. So many years spent in preparation for this. At last—and at a great cost—he had the means to scour all the World for the answers he sought. He had but to begin.

The orichalcum chair too glittered in the light, radiating power and peril from the wolf-eye rubies to the dragon fang ornaments. All waiting for the ruler of Midgard to sit upon his throne. Odin blew out a long, slow breath. And what would he see now, when all might finally be revealed? With this throne, he might focus his Sight on what he needed most to see, obviating the need to spend days sifting through cryptic visions.

So then … let it begin.

Odin settled into the throne, leaned back, and shut his eyes.

Far from here, across the Middle Sea, the caliphs of Serkland kindled new flames and gathered for a great push across the Straits. Odin watched as they plotted and schemed, building their fleets and marshaling for war. Even those mighty sorcerers did not seem to notice him watching them now, as they might have had he projected there through the Penumbra. They did not know what he knew, nor could they hope to match him any longer.

For decades, the Serkland Caliphate had pressed deeper and deeper in Andalus, stripping away at the Vall Empire, the temporary allies of the Aesir.

Lest Serkland become a threat, Odin would need to set plans into motion to cripple their fleet and prevent a full-scale invasion. But as always, a good plan might solve more than one dilemma …

The Miklagardian Empire swelled, even as it rotted from the corruption within, and the terrible secrets held by the Patriarchs and their ancient emperor. Much as they proved implacable foes to the Aesir in the days of old, greater still was the Miklagardian struggle against Serkland. Always, they teetered on the edge of war, and their impenetrable city had weathered many sieges down through the ages.

Given to hubris and acrimony, the Patriarchs harbored undying resentment toward the caliphs. Now, they probably hated Odin even more. One day they would come for him. Before that happened, he would weaken their empire. He would find a way to break their hold on the South Realms and destroy even their corrupt immortality.

A single spark, carefully ignited, might drive them to make an ill-conceived counter-invasion across the Middle Sea and begin a war with Serkland. There, the two empires would weaken and thwart each other for years to come while Odin’s grip tightened around the rest of Midgard.

And Midgard was failing. The breaches in the Midgard Wall grew more numerous, and the natives of Bjarmaland had all but fallen to the jotunnar. Self-proclaimed jotunn kings now built their own Realms in Bjarmaland, slowly spreading outward into Aujum—which itself, abandoned by the Aesir—now seemed a wilderness roamed by trolls and varulfur.

Battles between jotunnar and trolls, both spawn of chaos, well served Odin’s interests. Having the jotunnar press north into Kvenland and bring down that ancient land did not. He would need to take steps to ensure the jotunnar remained contained for the moment.

And what better agent than Thor, who, with Mjölnir, had already struck fear into the hearts of those devourers? Thor would need to recruit new Thunderers and to make certain the jotunnar could not press farther into Midgard.

Merely thinking of his son sent Odin’s vision swirling to reveal Thor, hips pumping furiously as he plowed the girl Odin had fostered with Gylfi. Sif screamed, clawing at Thor’s back. Odin blinked the image away. He had no interest in seeing such things.

What Odin truly sought did not even lie in Midgard but beyond the Veil. It parted before him, unfurling, the dead Realm of the Penumbra. His vision soared over the endless horde of the fallen, shades flitting in and out of darkness, losing themselves slowly or fading into the Roil.

The dead outnumbered the living and, one way or another, he’d find a way to make use of them.

We are all dead …

Yes. And all the living and the dead would serve if needs be, all to ensure victory in Ragnarok. But before that … Odin pushed Audr from his mind and concentrated on Freyja.

His mind plummeted through the Penumbra and into the Roil. From there, he stared up into the perilous sky of the Spirit Realm. Ancient sorcerers speculated some paths might lead there, but Odin had found none. And yet, if he could not tread there, still he might see …

Orbiting above like stars, the Spirit Worlds shimmered and shined. One of them would be Alfheim.

He had to reach it. This was the ultimate reason the High Seat existed. To focus the Sight into acuity beyond what any prophet might ever achieve, to harness it so that he might …

Dimly, he felt blood trickling down his ears. He was forcing so much of himself into the Seat to achieve this. But no matter how much it took, he had to see her. Just to look upon her face once again might give him the strength to find a way to cross that gap.

His heartbeat grew irregular, painful even, as a chill spread from his chest into his limbs. But he would not give up. Just a little more …

Searing light filled his eyes, burned them, until he thought himself blinded by the radiance. Blinking, gasping with it, at last images flitted across his vision. Lush greenery like the forests of Asgard, giving way to glittering streams that reflected the burning sky of an eternal dawn.

She was here. She had to be here.

Someone surfaced from beneath the river. A woman with long blonde hair that itself seemed to radiate light, almost coruscating with it. She flung her head back, throwing the water off. And for that bare instant, he saw her, naked and beautiful and … changed.

Freyja.

Suffused with the sunlight of the place he had sent her.

Odin reached a hand toward her. Please, forgive him … Please let her forgive him for what he had to do … To defeat the mists of Hel he had …

Profound vertigo seized him and sent him tumbling through a shifting miasma of images and locations, plummeting out of the Spirit Realm and back into the Roil. And then to Midgard.

Here on Midgard, the disciples of Hel worked to bring about her eternal dominion. Here, Odin’s foes toiled, unaware he now watched their secrets unfold.

So then, his course seemed obvious. Odin needed to bridge the gap to Alfheim, true, but before that, he would set in motion the steps to secure Midgard.

Because now, with the High Seat at his disposal, there was nowhere left his enemies could hide.

Epilogue

Sigyn sat behind their hall when Loki returned, arms wrapped around her knees, trembling with emotions she could probably not even name. She would have heard him coming, of course, and his presence no doubt made it harder at first.

“You knew.” She did not look up at him as she spoke. “You knew, but you were so busy trying to steer Odin’s urd you paid no mind to ours!”

Steer, of course, was the generous view in which she no doubt accredited his role, not yet understanding he was more slave than master, bound to the merciless procession of history. Some had called him a Fatespinner, but Loki was trapped by the Wheel of Fate as much or more than any other, compelled to watch as civilization after civilization turned to ash. Because the alternative was so much worse.

And Odin needed guidance in any event. With the ravens and High Seat, his mind now reached further than ever before. All of Midgard expanded before him. Before long, Utgard and even the Otherworlds would fall under his eye. And in his ever-expanding reach, he might well stretch beyond his own limits and imperil all Mankind.

Loki settled down beside her. “Had I remained here, naught I could have done would have changed the boy’s situation. I am not a god, Sigyn. Seeing glimpses of the future does not allow me to change it.”

“Then why do aught at all? If you are so very powerless, why bother trying?”

He tried not to recoil from the spite in her voice. In more pain than she could deal with, she was lashing out at anyone close. Even knowing that, it still stung. “That is a discussion for another time, I think. For now, should we not talk of our son?”

“Hödr. His name is Hödr.”

“A good name.”

“A good son! And I swear to you, I will find a way to save him.”

Loki patted her knee. “What makes you think he needs saving?”

She slapped his hand away and stood, hands on her hips. “Our son is blind. I will not allow him to live an unfulfilled life!”

“And you believe blindness would deny him meaning in his life? All lives are different, Sigyn. All are fraught with difficulties of one kind or another. No man or woman experiences quite the same tribulations, but we do all face them.”

“Spare me the philosophical musings! If you know of no way to help him, then I will find one.”

Loki sighed, letting his head fall into his hands. “Be careful that desperation does not lead you down perilous roads. You cannot help your child by risking yourself. Believe me, I know the pain of seeing your progeny suffer—and I know the parent’s anguish always exceeds that of the child. I have seen too many men and women fall into darkness because of it.”

“You are not a mother.”

“Perhaps not.” He rose, slowly. “But if you mean to imply that, having never been a mother, I cannot fully understand a mother’s anguish, then, you must also accept that you have never been a father.”

She spread her hands. “And where does that leave us?”

“Together, of course, that we might try to bridge the gap.” He reached a hand out toward her, but she didn’t take it.

“You want to share our pain together?” Sigyn shook her head slowly, glaring. “You have yet refused to unveil the barest hint of your past or your real intentions for the future. How am I to expect you to commiserate with me when you hide so much of yourself?”

Loki flinched. There was truth to her words, guided by pain though they were. And perhaps he could no longer delay giving her something, some hint, as she called it, even if he could never tell her the full truth. A tremble built in his chest at the thought of it, and he stilled himself against the wall.

“I … You are right. So, then … there is something you need to know now. Something … about Hel.”

The Cycle Continues …

Next Book: Odin has seen a terrible future: Ragnarok. What must he do to prevent it? The only way forward he can see is to clarify the visions. And that means venturing beyond the Midgard Wall.

The Well of Mimir: books2read.com/mlwell

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About the Author

Matt Larkin writes retellings of mythology as dark, gritty fantasy. His passions of myths, philosophy, and history inform his series. He strives to combine gut-wrenching action with thought-provoking ideas and culturally resonant stories.

Matt’s mythic fantasy takes place in the Eschaton Cycle universe, a world—as the name implies—of cyclical apocalypses. Each series can be read alone in any order, but they weave together to form a greater tapestry.

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Author’s Note

The High Seat of Asgard opens the middle trilogy in the whole Ragnarok Era saga. This trilogy focuses on—among other things—the Volsung Saga. The nature of Sigmund’s story, being spread out over so many years, created several challenges. This actually proved to be one of the most difficult books I’ve ever written—certainly the most difficult I took all the way to publication. While the overall story remained intact through all the various iterations, I went through numerous structural revisions trying to figure out the most logical way to present events and still follow the basic story structure found in the other books.

In the end, what I wound up with was using flashbacks, told out of chronological order (kind of like Lost), even though they occur in order for any given character. For example, Odin’s flashbacks mostly occur before those of Sigmund or Sif.

Speaking of Sif, an early decision I struggled with was whether Sif or Thor made the best point of view character for that part of the story. My initial intent was to use Thor. Everyone knows Thor, right? Thanks to Marvel, the character is hugely popular (hell, I also enjoy the movies a lot, though I’ve tried to make the character here closer to his mythic inspirations). That was actually part of the reason I decided not to use him, but only part.

When I was looking at the tale I wanted to weave, Sif’s side of it just seemed more complex, more pained, and thus, more interesting. This is not to say Thor won’t ever get his side told—he might in later books. But Sif proved the character with the more interesting arc for this book.

Regardless, Sif, in Norse mythology, is actually a fairly minor character. The only substantial story about her is one in which Loki shaves her head as a prank and then—to placate Thor—gets magical golden hair for her from a dwarf. In adapting this little story, I obviously changed it to better fit the nature of the characters in this tale and to try to make it feel more realistic, as I’ve done throughout my adaptation of mythology.

On the same note, in the original myth, the otter that Loki kills (sometimes named Otr) is not the same dwarf as Andvari. Loki is forced to give away the ring to Otr’s family right after stealing it from Andvari. It simply made so much more sense narratively, for this to be a single event here. Having a plethora of dwarves was likely to add nothing but confusion to an already complex tale.

And complexity was a big concern here, enough that I wound up not using Tyr as a point of view character in this book, and saving most of Sigyn’s chapters for the next book. Both were hard choices, especially with Sigyn, who seems to be a fan favorite (and a personal one).

Lastly, most of the Volsung Saga material here was taken from the traditional Norse version; however, I did draw some inspiration from Wagner’s adaptations. After all, he did a masterful job of reconciling some otherwise inconsistent aspects of the stories and character motivations.

So special thanks to my family to all their support. Also to Clark for helping me repeatedly work through these structural issues, and to my cover designer for another awesome one.

Thank you for reading,

Matt

For Juhi. You can never know how much your continued support means.