The Apples of Idunn Page 4

  The barest hint of a smile quirked on Loki’s face. “Would you not rather speak of the true purpose of your visit to Halfhaugr? Do the empires of the South Realms hold true interest for you now?”

  Odin shrugged. “No. I want to know about Unterhagen. So unless Miklagarders were the ones to massacre the village … Do you know of it?”

  “I know it. I walked there the day after it fell.”

  Before even Tyr or Odin.

  Tyr leaned forward across the table now, staring at the foreigner. “Then how do we know you were not with the raiders who wrought this havoc?”

  “You saw the ruins, did you not? And do you believe it the work of men? Men are indeed capable of the vilest of deeds, of terrible savagery, but there are forces of chaos in the wild possessed of far greater strength than men.”

  “You mean trolls,” Tyr said, the warrior’s disgust obvious in his voice. Odin had seen a troll only once in his life and had been fortunate enough not to have to fight it. The creatures were ungodly strong, and worse, had hides like solid rock.

  No doubt trolls could have done it, but still … “They killed the women, too. Trolls claim human women as wives.”

  Loki nodded. “Then it seems something other than trolls must have wrought the chaos. So then, what else could there be? When you think upon the wild, upon the lands beyond the realm of men, what comes to mind?”

  Odin folded his arms. The foreigner was playing some kind of game with him, one he did not much appreciate. “Speak plainly, man. If you know what else besides trolls might have …” Beyond the realm of men. Beyond the … He shook his head. “No. If you are having a jest with me, I warn you I have no mood for it.”

  “Before the snows buried the tracks, one could see footprints too large for a man.”

  Tyr groaned. “You think a fucking jotunn did this?”

  The jottunar were supposed to live beyond the Midgard Wall, banished into the outer realm of Utgard by the Vanir. Supposed to, but then, he and Tyr knew of at least one on this side. Odin glanced at Tyr, who shook his head.

  “Hymir dwells very far from here, in Bjarmaland,” Tyr said. “I do not think he could have come here without someone learning of it.” Bjarmaland lay far to the east, nigh unto where the boundary of the Midgard Wall supposedly lay, encircling the realm of men and warding it against the greatest forces of chaos. The Aesir had lived there, generations back, before King Vingethor had brought them here in the Great March. And Tyr was right: if the jotunn had left his kingdom in Bjarmaland, surely stories would have spread.

  Loki stared at Tyr now. “There is another who has crossed the Wall. Older and more powerful than his descendant Hymir. One called Ymir.”

  The thegn scoffed. “I say this man is a liar, Odin. He could not possibly know the things of which he speaks. Even if he went to Unterhagen, even if he saw the tracks. You think tracks told him the name of their owner? If he speaks truth at all, it could only be because he serves the fucking jotunn.”

  Odin bit back his response. Tyr would know about serving a jotunn. In service to Hymir, Tyr had raped and murdered, plundered and razed his way through half of Aujum. Until Father had stopped him. But Father had asked him never to speak of that.

  Loki did not immediately answer, as a slave girl came and offered them a fresh drinking horn. Odin took it, took a long swig of the mead, then passed it to Tyr.

  As the girl left, Loki smiled, just a little. “Anger is apt to cloud perception, and ignorance to narrow the possibilities you can conceive of. So burdened, a man blinds himself quite easily. Forgets, perhaps, one might take independent pieces of information and from them cobble together a clearer whole.”

  Tyr drained the horn without offering a single sip to Loki, then belched before turning to Odin. “This man seeks to lure you with honeyed words. Like a skald. I cannot say what he wants, and for that alone, I say we leave him be. Go back. Talk to Idunn, give weight to her words.”

  At that Loki’s smile slipped and he frowned. He did not speak, however, instead fixing Odin with that intense gaze of his.

  Odin stared back a moment before answering. “Where do I find this Ymir?”

  “In the peaks of the Sudurberks, not so very far from Unterhagen.”

  “My lord,” Tyr said. “You cannot consider this. Even if he speaks truth, the Sudurberks cover half of Midgard. How will you search such a massive area?”

  “I can track Ymir,” Loki said.

  Odin nodded. Yes. Finally, progress. Father would know peace.

  “You cannot fight a jotunn,” Tyr said. “They are larger and stronger than men. Than even trolls. It is mist-madness taking you.”

  Odin slammed his fist on the table, drawing every eye in the feast hall. “Tyr! I tire of your complaints. If you are so enamored with the woman claiming to be Idunn, go back to her. And tell my brothers to meet me at Unterhagen. We will hunt down our father’s murderer.”

  Tyr rose, mouth agape, stammering for a moment. “M-my lord? My place is by your—”

  “Go!” Odin snapped. “Go and send for my brothers.”

  Tyr rolled his shoulders, then cracked his neck. His hand toyed with the arm ring Father had given him as a symbol of his loyalty. Loyalty that ought now to bind him to Odin’s commands. “As you wish.”

  The foreigner watched as Tyr stormed out of the hall, then turned back to Odin. “Your warrior wishes to do right by you.”

  Odin grunted. He knew that, and he sure as Hel didn’t need some foreigner to tell him. “Right now, all I care about is Father. This jotunn took him from me, and for that I will send his soul screaming down to Hel. Anyone not helping with that is just in the way.”

  “Oh, I will help you, Odin. Count on that.”

  6

  Many 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

  Fool 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 fate were so kind as to ask us our wishes, perhaps he would live a peaceful life. But tha
t seems unlikely to me.”

  “You know a man’s urd?”

  She laughed. “I’m not one of the Norns, Tyr. I don’t weave fates, 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.”