The Apples of Idunn Read online

  Odin leveled Gungnir, shared a glance with Loki, and proceeded down the hall. Whatever lived here, vaettir or not, his brothers needed this place, and it was his job to get them what they needed. He’d protect Ve by whatever means necessary.

  Leave! The voice seemed to come from all around them. Still a whisper, but one laced with fury.

  “Who are you?” Odin called, continuing down the hall. “What do you want?”

  No answer came.

  “A wraith,” Odin whispered, praying he was wrong. Some claimed wraiths were the most dangerous of all the vaettir. They were shades of the dead bent on the destruction of life, stripped of all that once made them men. There was no fighting a wraith, not really. With neither body to slay nor blood to spill, such a ghost could not be killed. If they were lucky, maybe it would fear Gungnir.

  If not, they might as well take their chances with the snowstorm.

  A look at Loki told Odin the man would continue on. Odin nodded at his new brother, who drew something from beneath his furs. A crude iron dagger. Loki said naught in answer to Odin’s raised eyebrow.

  At the end of the hall an archway led onto a landing of the great tower. Stairs ringed the outside, rising up to the other levels.

  Odin blew out a hard breath and clenched his grip around Gungnir. This was the way. The only way. His heart pounded so hard he could barely hear anything else. Just keep going forward.

  He’d stepped one foot on the stairs when another chill passed over him. He spun around to see a woman standing in the archway they’d just passed through. She looked naught like any wraith he’d imagined, though the ends of the black cloak she wore faded away into wisps of nothingness. Her face seemed almost solid, and, though pained, not vile. She had green eyes and long blonde hair that blew about, though no wind reached in here. By her side stood a white wolf, also translucent. A ghost hound.

  “Be gone, spirit!” Odin shouted.

  “You dare … command me leave my home … mortal?”

  Loki raised his torch out in front of him and the dagger to his side but made no move to advance on this spirit.

  “Your home?” Odin asked. “Then who are you, lady?”

  “I am … I was … the queen here, long ago.”

  “My lady, please. We need shelter from the cold.”

  The ghost’s form flickered then vanished.

  Her voice whispered in Odin’s ear. There is none.

  He and Loki both spun about so fast they nearly tripped over themselves, stumbling backward. The ghost stood behind them, her wolf with teeth bared, stalking closer. She flickered again, appearing beside Loki, her hand on his head. His torch and dagger both slipped from his grip, and he fell to his knees. In an instant his skin turned blue as deathchill.

  Odin swung Gungnir at her, and she vanished again. He spun as she appeared some distance behind him. The wolf stalked around, circling behind. He couldn’t keep them both in view.

  Loki groaned, crawling away with the torch in hand.

  “Please!” Odin said. “We beg your hospitality.”

  The ghost’s body shimmered, as if fading out of the world, before popping back up even closer. “The last time I sheltered travelers they turned on me. Killed my people, left me this cursed existence. It is not a mistake I am apt to repeat. Least of all to those who come saturated in the mists.”

  What? What did she … Ve? “My brother? You know what’s happening to him?”

  The ghost flickered in and out of existence. “What always happens to mortal men who breathe too deeply the mists of Niflheim.”

  The wolf snarled and lunged.

  Odin rolled to the side, whipping Gungnir forward. The ghost wolf snapped its jaws around the shaft and pinned Odin to the ground. The thing had weight like a real animal, though its breath was cold rather than hot, inches from his face. Odin pushed against the animal, unable to dislodge it.

  “Please! We are not your enemies!”

  She drifted to his side and pressed her hand to his cheek. Even as she did so, the wolf released Gungnir. Odin’s own grip on the spear went limp, and it clattered to the floor. As it fell, a sudden weariness and chill set in on him. Sleep. He needed to sleep.

  “Please what, mortal?”

  “S-save my brother from the mist.”

  Loki lurched forward, waving the torch. The ghost and wolf both recoiled long before he touched either, the wolf snarling. He bent to retrieve the dagger.

  “Why?” She drew the word out so long it seemed to writhe in his ears.

  “I’d grant any request if it might save my brother.”

  “Odin—” Loki began.

  Odin silenced him with a glare. “I will avenge whatever wrong was done to you, spirit. But save Ve from this dark urd.”

  The ghost flickered again, appearing just before Odin’s face. She drew a finger along the line of his jaw. Her touch was like the mists—icy and maddening, hungry to consume body and mind and soul. “On your oath …”

  “I … I swear it.”

  “Swear on your blood to return that which was stolen, the Singasteinn.” She touched a hand to her breast, then shook her head. “Return my amulet to me before the solstice.”

  “I swear! Where do I find this amulet?

  She drew back, and warmth slowly returned to his limbs, though cold still gripped his heart. “Taken … taken by the Niflungar.”

  Not an Ás tribe. But whoever they were, he’d find them if it meant sparing his own people. The solstice, during the sixth moon, was less than three moons from now. Still it ought to prove ample time to track down whatever people these were. He crawled over to his spear. “I swear, by my own blood.” He drew his hand along the blade of Gungnir, opening his palm. “I swear to return this Singasteinn to you in three moons. And you must save Ve.”

  The ghost drifted closer still, close enough to place an icy kiss on his lips. A chill settled deep within him, clenching around his heart. He hadn’t realized he’d shut his eyes, but when he opened them, the woman and wolf were gone.

  Fail to bring it within three moons, and your oath is broken. All you build will turn to ash, your children shall die, and your dreams shall burn.

  Odin shook his head from the voice echoing within it. One look at Loki showed the man had heard naught.

  Three moons.

  Three moons to save Ve, to undo his mistake. Even when he returned to the fire, Odin couldn’t get that icy chill out of his heart.

  15

  The crumbling tower might have once watched over the Jarnvid. Now, no one maintained it. No one watched the wood from its ramparts. If the Godwulfs had been half the protectors they claimed to be, they’d have garrisoned this place for the good of all Aujum. Instead, Tyr had found it abandoned, nigh the southern border of Athra lands.

  Occupying it, lighting a brazier atop the tower—an almost direct challenge to varulfur looking to expand their territory. Here, men pushed back, claiming what might have otherwise belonged to the wolves. Annar had set four archers atop the tower. They all hunkered down now, hidden and trusting the smoke to mask their scents.

  Two nights already they had passed like this. Surely the Godwulfs could not anticipate the trap? Savage beasts were cunning, yes. But driven by instinct and fury.

  Annar and a few of his men dwelt in the lower floors of the tower. In daylight, they worked to begin restoring the foundations as if they intended to stay here long.

  Tyr and Geir, however, and three of Geir’s men, lingered in a dug-out snow drift. Skin caked with mud to mask their scents. Hidden, so the wolves would think their numbers few. Plan had sounded better before spending two freezing nights huddled in the snow.

  “Some of the mist is getting inside,” Geir complained again.

  “A torch would give us away.” Tyr had told him that enough times it ought to have sunk in by now. Yes, mist-madness. They all feared it. But if they didn’t kill these varulfur, naught else would matter.

  Grumbling, Geir stuck his hands und
er his armpits. “If our stones freeze rock solid, we’re not like to care about werewolves either.”

  “Too late,” one of the men complained, and the others snickered.

  The sun was dipping low. A third night. If the wolves didn’t come tonight, they’d have to rethink their plan. They had announced their presence already, and if the varulfur didn’t take the bait, they had wasted their efforts.

  Sometime later, a howl rang out through the woods.

  Another followed, and another.

  Tyr held up a hand to forestall any of the men from speaking. Varulfur had great ears. Like real wolves. Stronger than men, track you by scent, hear you breathing. Best hunters in Midgard. But Tyr didn’t like being hunted.

  A large black wolf loped toward the tower. It meant others lurked in the woods, waiting. Watching to see if men saw their scout.

  Tyr kept his hand up. Not yet.

  The wolf nudged open the main door. It didn’t latch, and they had left it unbarred on purpose. A moment later, shouts rang out. Growls. Screams.

  Not yet.

  Geir tried to rise behind him, and Tyr shoved him back down.

  The varulfur would not send one wolf after them. Never just one.

  And then five more oversized wolves came charging from the woods, rushing for the tower. Geir pushed past Tyr and charged out, bellowing a war cry. At the sound, two of the wolves broke off and circled him.

  “Up! Go!” Tyr shouted at the others.

  He scrambled out of the snowdrift.

  “For Athra!” Geir shouted, swinging an axe wildly at the wolves. One jumped back out of the way. The other leapt forward, bearing him down. Teeth closed on his throat and yanked. Tore it out, showering steaming gore on the snow.

  An arrow caught that one. It yelped. Tried to fall back. Tyr charged it, slashing. The wolf ducked, moving with uncanny speed. Dodged again and leapt for Tyr. He whipped his sword back into place, and the wolf impaled itself. The impact sent Tyr toppling over backward, heavy canine form landing atop him.

  The other wolf snapped at him, but Geir’s warriors tore into it with axes and spears. Its jaws closed around a man’s knee and ripped it out. Bastard fell wailing.

  The corpse atop Tyr had become a man. Heavy, too. Tyr shoved him off, jerked his sword free. Archers had felled another wolf outside the tower, but more screams echoed within. Tyr raced over there.

  A wolf charged him as he hit the threshold. He didn’t have time for a proper swing, but he twisted his blade enough to shear off part of the wolf’s ear. The beast fell, whimpering. Tyr kicked it, twice. Then raised his blade to run it through.

  “No, wait,” Annar said. The jarl was favoring one arm, blood seeping out between the chain links of his shirt. “A prisoner.”

  “You want to try to hold a varulf prisoner?”

  The whole tower had become a slaughter house. Blood coated every wall, every surface. Half of Annar’s men lay dead or dying, many missing their throats. One poor bastard was clutching his guts, uselessly trying to pile them back into his torn-open belly.

  “Prisoners have uses. Especially those cowed by a solid defeat.”

  Several of these dead must have come from the varulfur.

  Tyr groaned. Annar had a point. He kicked the downed varulf again. Hard.

  The tower had a basement, one lined with rotting barrels. Contents long since turned to dust. Rat shit covered half the floor. Rusted manacles on one wall served their purpose though. Not ideal. A varulf might be able to break bonds. If he did, Tyr would run him through. The sun had forced the man back into human form, and they had bound him in that awful place.

  Two archers stood, arrows nocked and readied, and before them, a spearman. And Tyr, sword in hand. Given half an excuse, he’d have run through this shapeshifting trollfucker.

  He kicked him in the gut, drawing him into sudden alertness. A low growl from deep inside the beast.

  “Tell us your master’s plans, wolf,” Annar said.

  The varulf sneered. “My master?”

  Tyr grabbed him by the hair and hefted him to his feet. “We know you serve the Godwulfs. Do not waste our time denying it.”

  “The Godwulfs, yes. But Jarl Alci?” The varulf spat on the floor, dangerously close to Tyr’s boot.

  Tyr raised his eyes slowly from the thick phlegm to the half-man before him. “Do not lie to me.”

  “On my honor.”

  Tyr scoffed. “Honor? What honor, varulf?”

  The man strained against his chains. Rust showered down from them, where links ground together. The varulf leaned his face as close to Tyr as his bonds allowed. “I serve my tribe. You have no idea what it’s like to have this thing inside you. Driving you to kill. Worse. So you can go fuck a troll. But you can’t judge me.”

  Annar advanced now, wending his way through spearmen and archers. “What do you want from us?”

  “Me? Not a damned thing. Alci, though, he wants it all. Your lands, your tribute. Probably your life, if you’re the jarl.”

  Annar folded his arms over his chest. “You have a name, varulf?”

  “I do. Hallr. Hallr Stonecrusher.”

  Annar looked to Tyr. “How’d you fasten a name like that?”

  “Bit off another varulf’s stones when he challenged me over a mate.” The varulf smirked. “Listen. You don’t have to kill me. You want the raids to stop? I could do that. If I were jarl.”

  Tyr groaned. So being a murderous beast was not enough. This varulf wanted to betray his own lord. No greater breach of honor seemed possible. They ought to send the men back to Alci with word of his treachery. Let the jarl exact what justice he would.

  Or … Or maybe Tyr ought to just finish things here and now. Keeping a varulf in their midst was asking for Annar to lose more good men like Geir. He pushed the edge of his sword against Hallr’s neck. “Is there any reason I ought not leave you to rot in this tower?”

  “Tyr.” Annar’s arm on his wrist. “He may have his uses.”

  Tyr spat in disgust but lowered his blade.

  “Tell me,” Annar said. “Why all this? Only because of Borr’s death? Was that all that held Alci back?”

  Hallr chuckled. “Made it easier, maybe. No, this was already simmering. You think Alci takes it well, his weak and dying brother holding Halfhaugr? The greatest fortress in Aujum? So when the messengers of Otwin came to us, he leapt at the offer.”

  “What are you talking about?” Annar demanded. “Who’s Otwin?”

  “King of Njarar, come at last to collect on the debt Hadding owed his father. And when Hadding refused him, he armed Alci with blades and armor of the finest make. Rumor says Volund himself forged them in the war. Otwin wants his due, and he wants his vengeance. But I care not a troll’s fuck for either, and even less about the Athra. And if you are so keen to save yourselves, help me take the throne from him.”

  “Why would anyone follow you?” Tyr asked.

  “I’m a distant cousin to the jarl and a respected warrior in our tribe.”

  Tyr shook his head. “Not here, you’re not. You’re a traitor, betraying your oath and your kin alike. Annar, hang this man and be done with it.”

  Annar rubbed his beard a moment. Then shook his head. “Not yet. I need to know how far Odin will support us.”

  Tyr glowered. Odin didn’t even know Tyr had come. He could offer no promises on the man coming to support his cousin, much as Odin did value family. Still, Tyr was going to have to tell him now, especially with Alci moving in on Halfhaugr. Besides which, he needed to see Idunn. Maybe the goddess could see a way through this mire of intrigue and betrayal. Tyr surely could not.

  “I’ll leave for Eskgard as soon as I’ve gathered supplies. Annar, heed me. Do not let this man out of your sight while I am away. You cannot trust him.”

  The jarl nodded. “We’ll bring him back to Breivik. Chains stay on. Fare well, Tyr.”

  And swiftly, Tyr hoped.

  16

  The depths of Halfhaugr, o
f the fortress itself, delved deep into the ground, dug—legend claimed—by dvergar. According to skalds, the twisted vaettir once held many lands beyond Nidavellir but had long since withdrawn from the affairs of men. In tales, they had built this place and marked it with ancient runes now known to only the vӧlvur. Some, not even they understood. Sigyn didn’t doubt the dvergar existed as such; she doubted more whether they truly were vaettir, spirits from an Otherworld, or rather, simply an old people now nigh unto extinct and long departed from these lands.

  Frigg worked in one of those deep rooms, denying access to any of her father’s men but welcoming Sigyn. As if Sigyn would ever feel welcome anywhere in Halfhaugr. Her half sister ground up some rancid paste on a table while a cauldron bubbled with fulvous smoke Sigyn avoided drawing too close to.

  “Is that going to save him?” They both knew the signs in their father, of the thickness saturating his lungs, and he was not like to live out the winter.

  Frigg sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “What do the runes say?” The ancient markings decorated this room, as they did the outer fortress, but here, the dvergar had grouped their writings close together, recording a tale now forgotten by men. Perhaps that had led Frigg to choose this place to work her witchcraft. It ought to break Sigyn’s heart, watching her own father die. But a heart can only be broken so many times before a woman stops noticing an extra crack or two. Sigyn ran her fingers along the runes, tracing the patterns. “What does this one mean?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that. It is forbidden.” Desperation and frustration mingled in her voice.

  “I might be able to help.”

  “You are not a vӧlva.” They’d had this conversation before, of course. Too many times. Sigyn would keep asking until Frigg’s desperation outweighed any concern for pointless traditions of secrecy.

  The vӧlvur jealously guarded all their secrets, runes included. Since she had first come to the fortress two winters ago, Sigyn had resolved to unravel the threads, solve this puzzle. And at the moment, she’d do aught to keep her mind off of Hermod. Off the danger he faced. As if any puzzle, no matter how elaborate, could make her forget.