Michael Jan Friedman - The Seekers and the Sword

Aye, my lords—nine worlds. Nine realms that the

Aesir trod, some of them friendly, some brooding and

some that held death for them.

First, there was Asaheim, where Odin ruled from his

high seat in Asgard by the sea- This was where the Aesir

lived, honing their swords for conquest.

Next there was Alfheim—the elfworld, the ancient,

where trees grew tall and green and fair. There walked

the golden-haired lyos, proud lords of the forests and the

searoads.

1 Jotunheim was the blighted home of the hrimthursar,

the giants, where no man could endure the eternal cold.

Here were fortresses of stone, indistinguishable from the

windy crags and the storm-gutted hollows.

Vanaheim was a fair land with broad meadows, gently

rolling hills and laughing rivers. The Vanir held sway

here in their halls of white stone, reaping a generous

harvest.

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

Midgard you know—with its greed and its lust, its

bravery and its openhandedness, its cruelty and its devo-

tion. Here too the Aesir walked, in search of men willing

to fight their wars.

Niflheim was a place apart, all but unknown- Odin

named it a world of fog and misery, decay and corrup-

tion, where the lights in the sky had died long-ago.

Svartheim was where the dark elves lived, a honey-

comb of tunnels, where they mined for gold and for

silver. But it was iron they forged into weapons for the

Aesir.

Utgard, it is said, was set spinning in the void by Odin

himself. Here, he mixed mortal men and elves and giants

in a cauldron of war for his pleasure.

And finally there was Nidavellir—where nothing

might live, for the mountains here never stopped vomit-

ing lava over the black and tortured terrain. The sky was

a roiling fury of smoke and ash and fire.

The Aesir ranged far and wide across these nine

worlds, my lords, for Odin had built the gates—the

nether-paths from world to world—for conquest and for

adventure, for the gathering of wisdom and the spread-

ing of his empire.

But always the Aesir returned to their city by the

sea, for Asgard's splendor cannot bear description....

Sin Skolding

Hiesey, A.D. 439

II

The sun was on his face, drawing his skin tight over his

ageless skull. The wind lifted his hair and ruffled his beard.

He closed his eyes and, for a moment at least, he dreamed.

Once, men had burned pieces of sheep and wild boar on

his altar. They had labored to cut his name into the

runestones that they erected in their burial grounds. They

had collected the scraps of coarse leather left over when

they made their foot coverings, and kept them safe—for it

and was said that out of such bits and pieces his boots had

been made.

And without those boots, the legends said, he could not

have split the wolf Fenrir's jaw.

Men had held him high, as if he were a god. Him and his

kinsmen, the Aesir, who had plucked the sturdiest fighters

from men's midst—then bid them wage an eerie war

against hulking hrimthursar, in a land where the sun

brought no warmth, and there was no wind that did not

MICHAEL JAN PRIEDMAN

sear the skin. They fought gladly, men did, for they

thought that they were in Heaven.

But what did the Aesir hold high? Only Asgard,

He opened his eyes, slowly.

And it was Asgard that rose beneath him now like so

many fountains of stone, achingly graceful in their ascent,

glistening like molten silver in the soft light of the early

spring sun. The water that girded the city on two sides was

alive with whitecaps and deep blue, like the sky when the

air is clear and the day is nearly spent. Mountains stood

guard on her north side, shrugging off waterfalls, and only

in the west was she undefended—open to a wide plain

called Idavollr.

The wind that filled his nostrils was redolent with mem-

ories. It was the smell of freedom, of pride, of power. It

was the taste of his youth, spent among Asgard's towers

and in the shade of Asgard's woods.

He felt strangely at peace. Even though Odin stalked

below—perhaps had already gathered hidden forces and

lay in wait for his enemies. Even though there was a rising

wave of discontent among his own armies now. Even

though the dissonance of war still rang in his ears, and

there would be more wars to come before he could lay

down his sword—even with all this laid out before him like

a wild and unfinished tapestry, a feeling of calm still

washed over him when he looked down on Asgard,

Vidar felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Vidar?" It was Eric's voice, tentative.

"Aye," he said, and a moment passed in which there was

only silence. Then the one called Eric spoke again.

"Vidar, the Asgardians... they're saying that they

won't follow you...."

But Vidar was weary, so weary, and he did not hear the

rest. "Do you know," he asked, "how many hearthfires I've

gazed into and seen Asgard in the heat of the coals?" An

eagle glided up from its eyrie among the peaks and

wheeled on the upper airs. "As she was before the thursar

The Seekers and the Sword

tore down her towers and spilled blood in her streets—and

took torches to the ruins."

For a moment, a scene rose unbidden behind his open

eyes—charred spider-things that once were children, rub-

ble and dust and red flames that flickered like wolves'

tongues- A river dyed red, pools filled with blood, A ghost-

city, unpeopled and dead, empty but for the carrion birds

that sprouted on corpses like death's black blossoms. Then

he blinked it away, with some difficulty, and gazed again

on Asgard as she was.

Proud, sturdy towers reared up against the hard, crys-

talline heavens, connected one to the other by great, sky-

spanning bridges. The sun glinted on the green symmetry

of her gardens.

"And Vali has resurrected Asgard as I would not have

thought possible," he said, forgetting to whom he spoke.

Vidar stared at her black stone walls, as high as those Loki

had built before Loki tore them down again. "The bastard.

From here, she looks exactly as I remembered her."

"Vidar—listen to me," said Eric. "Please." There was

an undercurrent of urgency in hrs voice, though Vidar did

not hear it, "They're talking about deserting...."

"So familar," said Vidar. "I can even see the tower that

was built to resemble Vidi—my home, my hall—where I

would be lord today if I'd stayed to help rebuild her." He

shook his head slowly in the caress of the wind. "Damn. I

wonder who's living there now?"

Eric gripped his shoulder more tightly, shaking him, but

to no avail. He was mesmerized by Asgard, it seemed.

"But it does not matter now," Vidar whispered. "It's

someone else's hall. Aye," he breathed, "someone else's."

He licked his lips, watching the seas churn around Asgard,

and reflected as if through a haze on the circuitous path

that had brought him back to this place.

It had begun in Woodstock, where he sculpted metal and

wood and stone, and sold his work to bankers' wives. There

MICHAEL JAN PREEDMAN

was some peace in that, a peace he'd traveled long and

hard to find.

Sometimes, while he wrested form from stubborn form-

lessness, he could forget the bloody work his hands had

done. Sometimes, in those moments of creation, he could

forget all the destruction. •.

And as far as he'd known, Asgard had forgotten him as

well.

Then came the discontent, the numbness. He blamed it

on his breakup with Alissa, but knew that it was something

else—something that called to him out of the gray past,

reminding him that he had not always been a sculptor.

And on the heels of that numbness, the call from

Modi—Thor's son. The need that brought Vidar to

Utgard, a world Odin had created for his amusement. The

threat of Ygg, who was bent on tearing Utgard in two—

and who could say that Midgard-Earth was not next on his

agenda?

But when Vidar came face to face with Ygg, he discov-

ered that the destroyer was Odin himself. Odin, who had

been seen to perish in the last battle with the hrimthursar.

And he was mad, scarred horribly in both body and soul,

so that he only wanted to crush ail he had made.

Vali, lord of Asgard now and Vidar*s half brother, man-

aged to strangle Odin's uprising. But when Vali's armies

overran his father's stronghold—a city of thursar priests-

Odin was gone. He had passed through a hidden gate from

world to world.

They had followed—Vidar and Vali and Hoenir, their

uncle, along with the armies of Asaheim and Utgard—but

their forces had been divided. The gate had sent them to

two different worlds. Vali and Modi and half their troops

were missing when Vidar and Hoenir found themselves in

this cavern overlooking Asgard.

Which way had Odin gone? Hoenir had found the mask

that Odin wore as Ygg—here, in the cave. And if Odin had

The Seekers and the Sword

come this way, he must have had some cache of power

here, ready to be claimed by him alone.

Asgard looked peaceful from this perch in the moun-

tains. But who within its walls might have long ago sworn

allegiance to Odin—the Lord of the Ravens, who built

Asgard in the first, slow strokes of time?

Indeed, who lived down there now? The descendants of

those Vidar had known and abandoned to live in Midgard.

Descendants twenty times removed from his brothers and

their sons. Strange faces, for whom Vidar the Jawbreaker

must be a name tinged with cowardice. Vali would have

done little to make Asgard see him any other way.

"Vidar?" Again that voice. "Answer me, damn it!"

cried Eric, and Vidar smiled grimly as his eyes focused on

the boy's face, half in sunlight and half in gray cave-

shadow. Ah, yes, Eric. Even in this strange, pleasant haze,

Vidar saw how Eric had changed since they'd first met in

Skatalund, when Vidar was unaware that Eric was

Skatalund's prince. He'd been through war and magic,

captivity and wonder, and he'd grown older beneath the

crack of those whips. It was no wide-eyed stripling that

now commanded an army of men, in place of his father,

who'd been wounded in the taking of the priests' fortress-

Eric looked like a youth until one looked closely. Then

his eyes showed his true age.

What was the expression on his face? He looked

angry—but why? No matter. It was nothing.

The harsh scrape of boot-leather against stone made

Vidar turn then. He looked up at the face of Hoenir, his

uncle. Hoenir seemed to glare at him, too. "That's the

trouble with you healers," he said. "You're like drunkards.

Indulge too much and you get stupid—like sheep."

"What's the matter with him?" asked Eric.

"He's spent himself, that's all," said Hoenir, and spat,

"He has withdrawn. Inside his own head, he sees clearly.

But you won't be able talk to him for a while—unless I try

something I haven't done in a long time."

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"What's that?" asked Eric.

"Stand aside," said Hoenir. The boy stood and took a

step backward.

Hoenir grabbed Vidar by the front of his woolen tunic

and brought him to his feet. Vidar stood reluctantly, but

did not show any signs of understanding. His face was as

blank as that of a newborn.

"I hope you forgive me for this," said Hoenir. "After all,

you're bigger than I am." Then he brought his fist back

and drove it into Vidar's jaw. The blow sent Vidar sprawl-

ing into the shadowy recesses of the cavern.

For a moment, he lay there, moving his head experimen-

' tally. Then he propped himself up on his elbows and peered

at the pair that stood over him-

"Hi, guys," he said. "I guess I overdid it, huh?"

"Praise Vali that you've come to," said Eric, coming

over to extend his hand. With an effort, he pulled Vidar to

his feet. "There is grumbling among the Asgardians,

Vidar- They say that they're home—and until Vali comes

back to tell them otherwise, they're staying here."

"Aye," added Hoenir. "And neither one of us is in much

of a position to command their respect. You're a deserter

from way back, and my philandering is legend even in

Asgard."

Vidar felt his jaw. He was still more than a little weary

after doling out his vitality in so many small doses, to heal

those who had broken limbs or suffered worse injuries in

their fall through the gate. For it was a vertical passage

through which Odin had escaped, and it had been inevita-

ble that there would be some poor landings on the other

side. Fortunately, the only fatalities had been the horses

who had come up lame, and had to be put to death in the

deepest parts of the cavern.

But he had heard the complaints even as he had admin-

istered to the injured. The Asgardian troops wanted no

part of him, with Vali gone. And with Asgard in sight, it

would be difficult to keep them up here much longer.

The Seekers and the Sword

But if the Asgardians suddenly poured out of the hills,

they might find a ravening maw instead of their beloved

city, and its teeth the spears of Odin's followers. How deep

might Odin's influence extend, how high? How many in

Asgard might have been swayed by the tales of mighty

Odin, and inspired by his sudden reappearance among

them? How many dissatisfied enough with Vali's reign to

seek an alternative?

"Did you find the Aesirman you spoke of?" asked Hoe-

nir. "And explain the situation to him?"

"Yes," said Vidar. "He agreed to do as I asked, although

he thought I was jesting, at first, when I told him who Ygg

was. He said it would not be easy."

, Hoenir shrugged. "He doesn't know how convincing you

can be. Jawbreaker." He paused for a moment, smiling.

"I'm just sorry that I can't come with you. But there are a

few black marks on my name in Asgard, and this would be

an awkward time for an accounting."

Vidar found himself listening for hidden motives in his

uncle's words- There was always the game, the war oT

suspicions. Perhaps the strangest part of becoming reac-

quainted with his family's penchant for dissembling and

intrigue, Vidar mused, was the realization that he himself

could be mistrusted.

But in this case, there was more to it than that. Vidar

remembered what Odin had boasted of in the fortress of

the thursar priests—that Hoenir had begun to lean his way

in the struggle. He'd said the same of Magni, Modi's

brother. Were Odin's boasts rooted in truth? Or were they

deceptions intended to shed doubt on Hoenir's loyalty, and

Magni's—to drive a wedge between his enemies?

But in Hoenir's case, this much was certain—he was

Odin's brother. Odin's blood. His pedigree alone made him

someone not to be trusted. In the end, Hoenir was aligned

with no one but himself.

"Remember," said Vidar. "If I'm not back by morning,

something went wrong."

10 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"I'll remember,'* said Hoenir. "I hope that I can.keep

the natives quiet that long." Then he turned and merged

with the darkness inside the cavern.

"I don't trust him," said Eric, when Hoenir had gone,

"You're learning," said Vidar, "even as I am." He

brushed some dust from the black, woven breeches he'd

been given back in Skatalund, "But now I've got to find

Ullir again."

Eric nodded. "But we don't know which of the chieftains

may be in league with Odin, do we? What if Ullir's father

has thrown in with him?"

"I think that Ullir would have suspected as much, if it

were a possibility."

"And UHir?" asked Eric. "Can you trust Aim?"

Vidar turned toward Asgard and listened to the far-off

surf breaking on the rocks. He sighed. "Sometimes," he

said, "you've just got to take your chances."

HI

The descent from the mountains through the foothills

took the rest of the day. and they found the road to Asgard

in the thin light of early evening. Ullir had said little to

him, since they were concentrating on keeping themselves

hidden from the watchers on Asgard's wall, and not on

pleasantries. Even when they reached the narrow stone

highway, they had to conceal themselves in the woods

alongside it, until there was a gap in the string of travelers

and they could join them without suspicion. Then they

pulled their hoods up, lest Ullir be recognized.

There were wagons filled with grain and driven by old,

straw-haired farmers, who seemed to bear only the slight-

est resemblance to the Aesir of Vidar's youth. Mostly, they

looked like mortals, the descendants of those earthly war-

riors who had survived Ragnarok and taken to the lands

around Asgard. Such as these did not live in the city itself,

Ullir told him—that was only for those who still traced

their lineage to Odin's sons.

II

12 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

There were youths on horseback, led by a dark-eyed

master-at-arms. He glanced fiercely at any one of them

who diverged from their tight military formation. These,

Ullir explained, were the sons of the outlying lords, sent to

Asgard to learn the craft of war and the textures of

politics. Not all the highborn chose to live in the city, hut

they, too, swore their allegiance to Asgard.

There were straight-backed lyos, who traveled alone or

in pairs. Gentle traders with satchels full of precious stones

and silver or ionely figures who kept their secrets to them-

selves. The elves were not uncommon in Asaheim, accord-

ing to Ullir. As in Vidar's time, commerce and diplomacy

had tied the Aesir and the lyos together—and besides,

Vali's nephew Magni ruled the elfworld.

But those whom Vidar found the most interesting were

the slaves—otherworlders whose homes Va!i had invaded

in his need for conquests to match Odin's. These were the

prisoners he had brought back in fetters, or the tribute he

had exacted for suffering their world's surrender. This was

how he had kept Asgard strong—or so he'd told Vidar in

Skatalund. By finding new foes to beat down, by directing

Asaheim's energies toward victory after victory after glori-

ous victory.

Slaves were the side effects of those conquests. Most of

them belonged to a tall, lean-muscled race, with skin as

black as obsidian. They were hairless but for a strange

white plume that began at the crowns of their heads and

ran down to the napes of their necks. Their hides were

sleek in the dying light, their eyes as dark as the rest of

them. They wore only ragged loincloths, said Ullir,

because that was all Vali would permit them. No dagger

could be concealed if there were not a place in which to

conceal it—but the black ones shivered as if even the

slightest breeze were like ice against their skin.

"Muspellar," Ullir whispered, when there was no one

around them to overhear. "They have proven stronger than

Vali had thought. The raids and counterraids were still

The Seekers and the Sword 13

going on when Vali decided to direct the majority of our

troops into Utgard. The gate that leads into Muspelheim is

closely guarded now, or was when I left. In fact, all the

gates were guarded, by Vali's own order. Even the gate to

Alfheim, because some of our enemies might find a way to

Asaheim through the elfworld."

"And those?" asked Vidar, gesturing casually toward

the next-largest group of slaves. These were more powerful

looking than the muspellar, with short, stocky bodies, long,

muscular arms and skin that looked as if it had been boiled

in scalding water. Their hair and beards were thick and

dark, their eyes bloodred slits above broad cheekbones.

"Gag'ngrim'r," said Ullir. "They would not give up

their world to Vali, so he destroyed them. Utterly. Those

few who survived he brought back to work in the mines,

like the other slaves- Soon the mountains will be hollow,

and Vali will have to find other work for them."

Vidar looked at him. "These are all that are left?" '

"These," said Ullir, "and their brothers enslaved else-

where in Asaheim. But I am told that on their own world,

they were numerous once,"

Vidar bit his lip. Other, smaller clots of slaves went by

them, spurred forward by Aesir and Vanir guardsmen that

kept their hands on the pommels of their swords to show

their intent. One race looked almost human but for the

yellow-green scales that covered breasts, backs and shoul-

ders; another resembled the thursar, but they were

smaller, and they had four arms instead of two.

The slave march had almost passed them entirely when

one of the scaly beings faltered and fell. At once, a

Vanirman was upon him, his arm raised to strike. The

slave got to one knee, but no more.

"Get up, you scaly bastard," the guard said.

Vidar's hands balled into fists, but he restrained himself.

At his side, Ullir whispered, "Easy, my lord. There's too

much at stake."

14 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

The guard's arm fell, and his pommel thudded into the

slave's skull. He felt again, and this time he did not rise.

Another guard came over. "Is he dead now, Laerad?"

The first guard bent over him. "No, I think not. Let's get

a pole over here, and his brothers can bear him the rest of

the way to Asgard."

"Aye," said the second guard, and left to fetch a pole.

Vidar felt his molars grinding together, and he relaxed

his jaw only through concentration. He breathed deeply

once as they walked by the fallen salve, and exhaled

savagely when he saw the blood.

The guard glanced at them as they passed, but said

nothing. It must have been a commonplace occurrence in

Vali's Asgard, as it had been in Odin's.

But Vali's aggression had created a new web of worlds—

new gates, new enemies—which Odin could use to his

advantage. If he were to give the muspeilar a new direction

from which to attack Asgard—for no one was as adept at

making gates as Odin—how much more dangerous these

enemies might become.

In a way, it was better that Odin had returned to

Asgard, where his counterstroke, when it came, would be

bold and brazen. He was much more of a threat roaming

from world to world, setting off powder kegs as he'd done

in Utgard.

As dusk fell and the sun set the sea ablaze in the east,

Asgard's towers gleamed fiery red in a soft, violet sky. The

two-hundred-foot-tall iron gates stood open, giving Vidar a

glimpse of glory within.

As they had planned it, he and Ullir reached the city

after the day had yielded to night, and the moon risen over

the sea. In the dark, there would be less chance of their

being discovered. If Asgard were Odin's now, op the sur-

face or under it, their lives depended on their anonymity.

When they came near the gates and the armed sentinels,

both Ullir and Vidar pulled their hoods lower over their

faces. There was no one that could identify Vidar—only

The Seekers and the Sword

15

their long-ago forebears knew him. Yet he bore a family

resemblance to Vali, and anyone who had a good look at

his face might put two and two together.

They fell into line with others who had been on the road,

for the gates were not open so wide that more than two

could walk abreast through them. As they passed the

sentinel, he leaned toward them to get a better look at their

faces. But Vidar thought that they were home free until

the watchman grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Wait—you two," he said.

Vidar turned to look at him. "Aye?"

The sentinel—a red-bearded Vanirman—peered at

Vidar's shadowed countenance. "You're an Aesirman," he

said finally.

"Yes, my lord."

"Then don't go around all bundled up like an elf. The

way you wear your hood, I thought you were one of

them—although I should've known better when I saw the

size of you. Where are you from?"

"The north," said Vidar, "beyond the mountains. My

father owns a farm back therer"

"What are you doing in Asgard, lad?" The watchman

was just being friendly now—or so it seemed.

"Visiting a kinsman," said Vidar.

"Well," said the Vanirman, "be careful to stay away

from the elf-gate while you're here."

"Why's that?" Vidar asked.

Michael Jan Friedman - The Seekers and the Sword

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