THE APPLE(CONTINUE)

6 SIGYN M any winters, Sigyn and her foster family stayed in Vestborg, the hunting fort Hadding had long ago granted to Agilaz, but Sigyn’s foster family also owned a house here at Halfhaugr. They had remained here all winter. Much as Sigyn welcomed the chance to spend more time with Frigg, she abhorred the true reason they had wintered in Halfhaugr. And, as usual, her opinion counted about as much as single snowflakes did in a blizzard. Torch in one hand, she swung open the house gate. Their house hound, Shortsnout, rushed over and licked her hand with the enthusiasm and affection a woman found only in a dog. She patted the animal and whispered to him, before ushering him back toward the house. Her foster brother, Hermod, stood in the barn, feeding Snow Rabbit. Agilaz had won the mare from a man who had enough mead to think he could outshoot the master archer, and ever since, Hermod had treated the horse as a member of the family. “You come back late. We already took night meal.” Sigyn shrugged. “Frigg has a guest.” Hermod had nigh unto six winters on her. Whereas Agilaz had taught Sigyn basic woodcraft and archery, he had taught his son all he knew, shaping him into a master hunter and a talented warrior. Sigyn had once asked Olrun to train her as a shieldmaiden, but her foster mother had refused, claiming a woman with Sigyn’s mind and lineage could do more off the battlefield than on it. Lineage. A bloodline that damned her every which way she turned, leaving her with no place in the halls of the nobility, nor quite one outside those halls. Just important enough to warrant respect, meaning men whispered about her only when they thought she couldn’t hear. Odd one, that Sigyn. Always flitting from one craft to the next. Never settling like a proper lady. She knew she was beautiful—that wasn’t the issue. She had long, blonde hair even Frigg envied, though her sister wouldn’t admit that. Breasts, hips—all in the proportions any man should have wanted. She hated to believe her father had the right of it, but in truth, hiding her intelligence had become a matter of course, at least outside her family. She tapped a finger to her lip, waiting to see if Hermod would say more, but he just nodded and went back to caring for the damned horse. He never scorned her the way others did, but then, he didn’t exactly see her either. And soon, he’d never get the chance. Sighing, she turned to head inside and almost crashed into Olrun. The blonde woman might have passed for Sigyn’s real mother—they shared similar enough features, save Olrun’s much more pronounced muscles, taut from years of swinging a sword. The woman put a hand on the back of Sigyn’s neck and pulled her into an embrace. If her foster family didn’t exactly know what to do with her, at least they always welcomed her. The moment Sigyn broke away, Olrun pulled her inside. Agilaz sat inside, by the fire pit, the ever-solemn expression on his face. He nodded at Sigyn, and then, at some look from his wife, rose and headed outside without a word. Not a good sign. Shortsnout hopped up and followed his master outside, leaving Sigyn alone with Olrun. After dousing her torch, Sigyn sat, helping herself to what remained of a snow fox. No matter how hard winter grew, her foster father always managed to bring home something to eat. Unlike many in Halfhaugr, Sigyn rarely had to live with hunger. Olrun slumped down across from her. Her foster parents were not nigh as old as her real father, but still, time had worn on them. Olrun did not speak of her past much, so Sigyn could only guess at her age. She had fought as a shieldmaiden in the Njarar War, and that had started twenty winters back, so Olrun must be fast approaching forty winters herself. Old enough she probably expected grandchildren soon. And now she’d finally get them. “We need every tie we can get to the Godwulfs,” Olrun said. Sigyn stuffed more fox in her face so she wouldn’t have to answer. Olrun was more perceptive than her son, it seemed. The woman had a secret Sigyn had never quite uncovered, and not for lack of trying. She had thought, once, to trick Hermod into revealing the truth, but he had only claimed his mother had once been a valkyrie, having a jest at Sigyn’s expense. “If the engagement fails, Hadding’s brother will have one more reason to stake his claim to this place.” Sigyn nodded, doing her utmost to seem in total accord with whatever Olrun said. Hadding’s brother Alci was jarl of the Godwulfs, but as a blood relative to Hadding, he did have a claim on Hadding’s lands. Especially with his brother’s health faltering and Father having no male heir. Hermod’s marriage to a Godwulf noble’s daughter would help ease the growing tensions between the tribes, or so Jarl Hadding had convinced himself. After all, the son of his most trusted thegn? Hermod was the best Hadding could offer—since Frigg was a vӧlva and Sigyn was apparently worthless. She swallowed a greasy bite. Don’t say it. She should not speak, not now. “If Alci wants Halfhaugr, you really think marrying Hermod to someone not even directly related to him will stop him?” And she said it. Olrun scowled. Yes, Sigyn should have kept her damned mouth shut. “It will help.” Sure it would. Sigyn tossed a bone in the fire pit. “Well, then, I want to help too. I’ll ride with Agilaz and Hermod to meet the Godwulfs.” Olrun shook her head and sighed. “Sigyn. No good can come from your going, and I fear a great deal of misfortune might follow from it.” “Njord knows when or if we’ll see Hermod again. I will go to bid my brother farewell.” Olrun scooted closer until her face rested nigh unto Sigyn’s, and when she spoke, she did so in a whisper. “As long as you do so as a sister only. Do not confuse my son.” Sigyn sighed and nodded. She would not confuse anyone. No one save, perhaps, herself. 7 TYR F ool son of Borr. Placing his trust in some foreign wanderer instead of the goddess in their midst. Tyr knew better. You had to trust the gods. They were all that stood between man and chaos. The Realms of Utgard pushed against Midgard. Tyr had seen it, been part of it, before Borr. Before a jarl had saved him from the darkness, from the cold. He had seen more than his fill of both. Men were animals, until someone taught them honor. Tyr had been worse than any berserk or varulf. Ve knelt nearby, stuffing his satchel with supplies for their fool endeavor. Tyr should go with them. He’d sworn to Borr to protect his sons. And if they went alone … Blame Loki for this fuckery. You couldn’t trust a man with a silver tongue. “You know of the jotunnar, thegn,” Ve said. “You’ve seen them.” Tyr grunted. “One.” “How is a man to face such a threat?” A man was like to shit himself and die screaming. Boy probably didn’t need to hear that. “Try to catch him unawares. Strike fast. Strike hard. They have strength many times that of a man. Don’t think to block its blows on your shield. All you’ll get is a broken arm and broken shield.” The young skald shook his head, not quite hiding his fear. A brave Man fought other Men. A fool fought jotunnar. “The tales we’ll have about this one.” Yes. Skalds might call it The Fall of the Sons of Borr. Njord watch over the fool brothers. Tyr spat in the snow and walked away. Odin had forbidden him to come. Had chosen that damned foreigner. Taken any choice out of Tyr’s hands. At least, he had no choice about the jotunn. Still, the goddess remained in Eskgard. Odin had granted her a house here. Jarl did one thing right. Tyr trod through the town, feet crunching well-packed snow. A pair of hunters drove a dog sled past him, hauling in a reindeer carcass. Good catch. They’d feed half the town with that. The best was always a mammoth, of course. But bringing one down oft cost lives, good Men. They’d lost two last moon trying for a big mammoth. Beast escaped too. After that, Tyr had helped bring down another for Borr’s funeral himself. He shook his head. Idunn had said Mankind was dying. All he’d seen, he could almost believe it. Even if jotunnar and other forces of Utgard did not threaten Midgard, still, he’d believe it. You had to trust a goddess when she spoke. At her house, he paused. How did you approach a goddess? He didn’t know protocol from troll shit when it came to gods and goddesses. Treat her like a jarl? Without a better plan, he rapped his fist on the door. “Enter.” He did. Idunn sat in front of the fire pit. Three children rested nearby, looking at him like an intruder. She winked. “Come to hear to my stories too? A good tale transcends generations while knitting them closer together. It’s an art, Tyr.” “Skald’s work.” He shook his head. “I would speak with you. Alone.” “Hmmm. And as always, the children suffer. All right, go on then. I’ll continue the tale after the night meal. The best stories are told after dark anyway.” The children groaned. One, a girl of five or six winters, cast him a baleful glare as they left. Tyr shut the door behind them. “Your fame has spread through Aujum. Borr’s great thegn. Men speak as though you have no equal with a blade in all the North Realms.” “Huh. Not sure about that.” He sat down in front of her. Most men didn’t know what a bastard he’d been before he met Borr. The jarl had held that secret close, to protect Tyr. Save him from well-earned revenge. “You told Odin to become a king.” “Oh, yes. For certain that must be the first step. He’ll need the Aesir behind him, united against greater threats.” “What threats? Jotunnar?” Idunn shrugged. “There are certainly ones who mean Mankind ill, yes.” Tyr grunted. What he knew of them, they didn’t necessarily mean man ill. Not exactly. They were just happy to prey on Men. Take whatever they had, devour or enslave them. Fell creatures, too at home in the mist. “And you came here just to ask me if I meant what I said? That I wanted Odin to become king?” “Uh, no. I wanted to know how we do it.” Idunn warmed her hands by the fire. “Yes. He does not seem well set on the idea, does he? One would expect a man to seize the opportunity for such fame, and yet he cast it aside, unable to accept the urd. Or perhaps unwilling to shoulder the responsibility that accompanies such glory. If only urd were so kind as to ask us our wishes, perhaps he would live a peaceful life. But that seems unlikely to me.” “You know a man’s urd?” She laughed. “I’m not one of the Norns, Tyr. I don’t weave urds, but I can guess, read the signs. Sometimes a man chooses glory. Sometimes it is thrust upon him by necessity or by those around him.” “Huh.” Borr’s legacy was about to crumble in Odin’s uncaring hands. While Odin was off chasing a jotunn, the tribes simmered in discontent. Come summer and the melting of snows, war was like to tear them apart. Unless someone held them together, as Borr had wished. “You think we can force it on him? Force him to accept the responsibility of kingship? Save the peace?” “Were you so inclined to try, what would you do, Tyr? How would you secure a throne for Odin? Hypothetically speaking.” Tyr groaned. He cracked his neck. She was asking him? What did he know of kingship or politics? Tyr was a warrior, a killer. Better than he had been, yes, but still … Men feared him for his blade, not his skill at tafl. “All I know is defending and attacking.” “And how many winters did you pass at Borr’s side, watching as he held the tribes together, one carefully woven knot at a time? Did you see naught of the ties he tried to forge?” He had been there, most of the time. True enough. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Such things made his head throb. “The Athra tribe in the north. Borr’s wife came from them. Odin’s cousin Annar rules the tribe. But he didn’t come to the funeral. Strange, that.” Idunn grinned. “A potential ally. Family is complicated, Tyr. It’s important to know where they stand.” He grunted. If Odin wasn’t going to choose to save his father’s work, Tyr would do it for him. That seemed to be what the goddess wanted of him. You had to try to understand the gods when you could. “I’ll go, talk to Annar. Maybe he might support Odin at the Althing.” Idunn nodded. “Be careful, then.” Tyr was always careful. Kept you alive longer, at least on a good day. 8 ODIN Sitting, waiting in Unterhagen—Odin knew he tortured himself even coming here—he could not look away. Could not stop staring at the ruined, snow-covered village. Could not quite still the voice somewhere in his mind that expected his father to step around a mound of snow, walk over, and embrace him. Ask why he was fretting. Father did not come. Not in the flesh, at any rate. Perhaps his ghost watched Odin now, waiting, as Odin did, his back to the fire Loki had built. The lamentations of so many murdered ghosts filled the air here. Not something he could hear—unless it were the howling wind—but he could feel it. Like the hunger of a man who hadn’t eaten in days. The foreigner spoke little, seemed to understand Odin’s desire for solitude. If that was what he truly wished. Like the dead, he dwelt in isolated misery, unable to find solace in others. Because, like the dead, no living man could understand his anguish. Or so he was apt to think in bouts of melancholy that served no one. “Do your parents still live?” Odin asked, without looking back at the man. The foreigner did not immediately answer, but Odin could hear him poking at the fire. “All my family, and all I have loved, are gone now, lost in the march of years.” “I seem to have opened an old wound.” Odin watched the snowdrifts. He had been wrong. Loki clearly did know suffering. And still no one came. Father would never again walk by his side. Odin kept telling himself that, but his mind refused to accept it. Such a great man could not be snuffed out in an instant like a flame doused. It should have been … different. “Some wounds never quite heal,” Loki said. “They scab over, perhaps, and we become so accustomed to the pain we may forget it’s there. And the reminder of it does not cause the pain, just forces us to acknowledge it once more.” Odin grunted, then did turn back to face him. Loki was staring into the fire like a man looking into the eyes of his mistress. “You understand pain.” “Those who do not have not lived overlong in this world.” “And do you find your answer in the flames?” Loki shrugged. “Fire is life.” Odin grunted. So he knew. “Yet I find myself weary of life, drawn ever to think on the fallen.” Loki shook his head. “There is a darkness pervading the Realm of the living, I grant, but do not mistake the Realms beyond as cleaner or clearer, Odin, for they are Realms of lies. Like memories twisted in the back of your mind, the dead lie.” He pointed off in the distance. “Your brothers approach.” IN THE MORNING, they had set out south, toward the Sudurberks. Ve, the youngest of the three brothers, constantly yammered on with Loki. The foreigner did not quite engage Ve in his contests of poetry, though certainly he spoke with the authority of a skald, if not the grandeur. Not exactly. “All who travel far are said to see much,” Ve said. “Surely then, a wanderer such as yourself might enthrall us with tales of Miklagard or even Serkland. Speak, then, of wonders that we might know the glories of your wanderings.” Vili grumbled under his breath, as he so often did when their youngest brother got into his moods. “Man claims to have seen Miklagard, and you believe him? Fools, both of you.” Loki glanced at Odin, the hint of a wry smile on his face. “If I had seen Miklagard or Serkland or Nidavellir or even beyond, would it bear relevance to the task at hand? Or do you seek to distract yourself from the fears that prey upon you, from the threat you march toward?” “You calling me a craven?” Vili demanded. “I don’t believe I did.” Vili grumbled again, and moved needlessly close to Loki, probably trying to intimidate him with his size. As a berserk, Vili was always torn in two—part of him human, part of him driven by a savage animal spirit. He looked the part, standing a full head taller than Odin. If it bothered Loki, he gave no indication. “What my brother wants to know,” Ve said, “is how you can know so much about the jotunnar? About this one in particular, one of whom we have heard no songs nor stories.” “Oh?” Loki asked. He walked across the snow with ease, not even relying on snowshoes. “Have you not heard the tales of Aurgelmir, the lord of the rime jotunnar? It seems a significant lapse in the education of any skald.” Vili spat. “What the fuck is Aurgelmir?” Ve chuckled nervously. “Father of the frost jotunnar, at least according to some tales. Maybe a progenitor of their whole line. So you’re saying this Ymir is Aurgelmir?” Ve scrambled a little closer to Odin, who rolled his eyes. “Bah!” Their berserk brother spat again. “The foreigner makes you into a fool, little brother. Look at you, quivering at the thought of such a thing. You truly believe the father of all frost jotunnar exists, lives still, and came out to smash a small village on the edge of Aujum? Next you’ll tell me you believe that troll shit about men and women coming from different trees.” Ve chuckled. “My brother, a poet you are not, in word nor soul. You doubt every tale right up until you find yourself enmeshed in it, then scream and chop and hew until the tale submits to your liking.” The berserk spat again, grumbling under his breath as they walked. His mumbles persisted until nigh unto sunset, while Ve continued to pry against Loki’s wits. Odin found himself only half listening. His youngest brother had a clever tongue, but he seemed to have finally found a man he could not outsmart. Odin cared very little for these duels of wits, even before. Before such things became utter pettiness in the face of all-consuming loss and the need to avenge that loss upon the whole World. As evening drew nigh, Loki directed them toward a ruined tower in the foothills beneath the Sudurberks. Though built from stone two feet thick, a breach twice the size of a man tore through the wall, allowing a thick drift of snow to pile up inside. The tower’s peak had fallen, its rubble no doubt buried in the snows that blanketed the hill. “Men must take what shelter they can,” Ve said, “but vaettir are drawn to such places. Njord knows what kind of fell being might dwell within, and we brought no hounds to sniff them out.” Torch out before him, Loki kept pushing on toward the tower. “A long time ago, even before Njord was king of the Vanir, they built towers like these to watch the mountains.” Ve snorted. “Naught happened before Njord was king. Any skald could tell you that. Your illusion of wisdom falters, foreigner.” Odin glanced from Loki to his brother, then pushed on toward the breach in the tower wall. Who to believe? Certainly vӧlvur seemed to agree with Ve, that one ought to avoid ruins when possible. Remnants of the Old Kingdoms dotted all of the North Realms, places once glorious, built to ward against the mist or each other. Now, though, trolls, draugar, and other vaettir lurked in such places, hiding from sunlight and venturing out at night. So vӧlvur said. But then again, when facing a winter storm, sometimes a man had to take whatever shelter he could. “So you think the Vanir themselves built this tower?” Odin asked. Loki brought his torch close to the outer wall, then began to chip at ice crusted upon the stone. A large chunk of it fell free, and Loki brushed aside what remained with his forearm. The walls bore some kind of runes, but such symbols meant naught to Odin, nor to any man. Only vӧlvur learnt such arts. And how had Loki known to find one there? “Before the rise of the Old Kingdoms, the Vanir waged unending wars against the jotunnar. Many of their foes dwelt in these mountains, so the Vanir built towers to watch for them, guard against them. Sometimes they succeeded, and sometimes the walls could not withstand the violence of such manifestations of chaos.” Loki swept his torch around to indicate the breach in the wall. “The storm will get worse, and we ought to save our strength for the journey through the mountains.” Odin grunted, then climbed over the snow pile to reach the inside of the tower. A spiraling stair led to the upper regions, but he already knew those had collapsed. Still, the ceiling here remained intact, and a wide fire pit lay in the tower’s center. He nodded. Loki was right. This place was the best respite they were like to find before nightfall. “Vili,” Odin said. “Go find whatever wood you can. We need to get a blaze going before the sun sets.” Sparse trees—evergreens, mostly—covered these foothills, though none survived higher up in the mountains. This might prove their last chance to make fresh torches or rest safe by a fire. “Ve, sweep the tower and make sure we truly are alone.” Besides vaettir, one always had to worry about cave hyenas, bears, and other predators. They all liked such places. Loki drifted around the edge of this central room, inspecting shelves that lined the walls. Some of those shelves held what must be parchment. Men in the South Realms used such things. Bits of it crumbled as Loki touched it, and Odin scoffed. And that was why vӧlvur carved their runes into stone and wood. Lasted longer. The foreigner paid no attention, lifting a piece the size of his hand up close toward his face. Wait … could he read the markings upon it? That sounded most unmanly of him. Odin folded his arms. Indeed, if Loki spoke the truth and the Vanir had built this place, how did the foreigner know that? How could he guess what had happened before the Old Kingdoms? The most learned skalds Odin had ever known had a few tales, stories of the Vanir from the old times, but Loki spoke with more authority than that. Was his guide a skald himself? And one who could read? Odin’s brothers had distrusted Loki the moment they met him, as had Tyr. But Tyr was filled with suspicion and doubt, Vili never liked anyone, and Ve probably saw Loki as a threat to his own status as a skald. Still. He knew—or claimed to know—more than any man ought. Such a man might well bring disaster among them by fumbling into eldritch lore not meant for man or even for Mankind. Such was the man with whom Odin had entrusted his chance at vengeance. 9 TYR T he crunch of his snowshoes rang out louder than Tyr would have liked. Especially with evening drawing nigh. Still no shelter. Just the woods. On and on. Not the Jarnvid. He’d have known if he’d wandered into the twisted forest of the trolls. But woods covered much of Aujum. The Athra lived in towns in the north, by the Gandvik Sea. Whalers. Had to pass through all these woods to reach them. Woods, and lands held by the Godwulfs. The only other way would have taken him through Skaldun lands, and Tyr would not go there. Not until he must. Njord grant him a ruin, a cave, something. Somewhere he could kindle a flame against the encroaching night. He’d never get a blaze going in this snow. The crunch of ice sounded off, and he froze in place. Had that come from behind him? Tyr spun, hand on his sword hilt. Naught back there but trees. Those, too, could house vaettir, watching. Angry at the trespass of a man in silent woods. Ash wives demanded sacrifices, and the only blood Tyr had was his own. Fuck. Traveling alone. Fool plan. Maybe he ought to have convinced Vili or Ve to come. Vili, especially. The berserk had good ears, a strong nose. Not like a varulf, but still. Better than Tyr. The sun would set in moments. He couldn’t keep wandering all night. In the dark he’d become too easy prey for the denizens here. Sighing, he stuck his torch in the snow, wedged it tight. He lit two more, placing each around the spot he’d chosen in a triangle. Then he began gathering pine leaves, branches, aught that might have a chance of burning. He had to try. All those he flung into a pile, then wedged a fourth torch in their midst, low enough for the flames to touch the tinder. By now, the sun had set, leaving him in almost total darkness save the torchlight. A howl broke through the night, seeming to come from all around him. The howl might have been a wolf. But just one made no sense. Wolves were pack hunters. Even the largest ones, dire wolves, always stuck together. A lone wolf meant something fell, rabid, or possessed by the mists. Or a lone varulf, somehow cast out of his pack. A varulf meant a foe with human-like intelligence and supernatural cunning. It would stalk him. Tyr dropped into a crouch by one of the torches and slid his sword free. Wait here. Let the wolf come to him. Normal wolf, even a dire wolf, it might not approach the flame. Varulf, though, it would make him prey. Maybe even come back with more of its kind. Hunt, or be hunted. He wrapped his palm around the torch haft. Carry that, and the varulf would see him coming a mile away. Without it, Tyr couldn’t see five feet. Mist, tree cover, they didn’t let much moonlight in. His grip tightened around his sword hilt. Make a choice. The obvious choice. The one Hymir would have had him choose. Risk it all, and win. The jotunn was a monster, an eater of man. And a survivor. Tyr groaned. No choice, really. He released the torch and stalked forward, staying low to the ground as he passed from tree to tree. Beyond the light of his torches, he paused. Fresh paw prints in the snow, definitely canine, and large. Large enough to be dire wolf or varulf. And it had passed close. Just outside the circle of his flame. Another growl. As he rose, Tyr’s eyes met those of a wolf, not a few feet away. Watching him from the mists. Tyr froze in place, caught in its gaze. He dared not look away and invite the beast to charge. The wolf growled, baring teeth far too long. Hot saliva dripped from the wolf’s mouth, casting up steam as it hit the snows. “Easy,” Tyr said, keeping his voice barely audible. The wolf advanced a step, its snarl deepening. The sudden shift of its weight was the only warning. It flung itself forward, faster than a wolf ought to be able. Tyr tumbled backward as it collided with him. Barely managed to fling his arm up in its path. The wolf bit down, fangs rending his chain armor like cloth. It tore through flesh as it bore him down. Tyr screamed in pain, a flash of red. His sword fell from his grasp. Too strong.