When we do pull into town, I’m momentarily distracted from the ache of worry. It seems Leavenworth has fashioned itself into a Bavarian village, complete with gingerbread trim on all the downtown buildings, cobblestones, dark wood balconies against whitewashed storefronts, and a handful of hotels and restaurants with names like Baron Haus and Die Ritterhof Motor Inn. Despite the cold mountain air and the fact that most of the trees haven’t even begun to show signs of budding, tourists are plentiful. We drive past a pub with a large hammer of Thor hanging over the door, and in a small manicured park there’s a gazebo sheltering a statue of his wife, Sif Longhair. It doesn’t surprise me that the Giant-Killer is so popular here. Mount Rainier, only two hundred kilometers southwest, has long been a trouble spot because of the goblins who enjoy the heat from the volcanoes and use the natural gases and steam to power their forges. My father used to tell me that it’s well known among berserk bands that the worst place to do battle is a volcano. Luta Bearsdottir, the only lady berserker of our century, died at the foot of Sanctus Elens, years before I was born. That was in the last elf uprising, when the volcano burst with the anger and power of battle, and they say Luta was skewered on a giant’s spear when heat and sulfur leached away her ability to frenzy.
“There’s a nice spot,” Vider says in a tight voice, drawing my attention back to the town. We’re passing another park, this one well covered with trees and perched on a rise that drops away toward a river.
I say to Astrid, “Why don’t you pull into that lot up there, and we’ll walk back around to the park.”
She doesn’t respond. I assume she’s only concentrating on the traffic, on the pedestrians who seem more than willing to step into the street without the aid of crosswalks. But instead of signaling to turn into the lot I indicated, Astrid lets the Spark shoot past, heading out of the city and straight into the mountains.
“Astrid.”
Baldur leans up, too. “Astrid.”
Nothing. She stares ahead and her expression is relaxed. Her hands are now loose on the wheel.
I touch her arm and she blinks, but nothing else changes. “Astrid,” I say more sharply.
She frowns. “I know where to go.”
“How?” Vider whispers. Her head is just by mine, because she’s slid up to the edge of the back bench to grip my seat.
“I’ve seen this place, almost.”
“Almost?” I ask.
Astrid looks at me. Her sepia eyes are full of dreams. “Last night.”
I wait. We all wait as she steers us around a curve. “Every time I shut my eyes since the barn, I see them. Apples. And it isn’t like before, when I would dream of the orchard and thousands of apples stretching out. Of the Rainbow Bridge made of apple blossoms.” Astrid shakes her head. “This—this is closer.”
I don’t want to hear how this ends. I don’t want her to know where we are, to be called by this orchard. Even if it’s the only way to find it, it’s also evidence that her fate—all our fates—will end there.
“They’re surrounding me,” she says, barely audible over the engine. “I’m in the center of a wilderness of apple trees. Not well tended and manicured, but ancient trees with twisting branches and heavy old apples. The entire ground is littered with them.” Her hands twist around the steering wheel, creaking against the leather. “I can’t get out. I don’t know where you are, any of you, but you’re far away from me. I’m trapped and surrounded by them.”
Fear is a chip of ice cutting at my throat.
“Dreams,” Baldur says, “are sometimes all we have.”
We’re silent and still as Astrid drives us between two mountains.
There’s a solid rock wall to the right of the Spark, and silver-capped rapids just off the left shoulder. I can’t be sure, but it seems too rocky and cold here for apples to be plentiful. Then again, these are apples originally from Old Asgard, a world of harsher climes. Astrid hasn’t said anything for fifteen minutes as she weaves the car along the highway. I think of what she described, of a choking apple orchard and piles of dead fruit. I want to reach my foot over and hit the brake. Stop all of this from happening, as dread forms a thick shell around me.
“There will be a turnoff soon,” she says quietly.
We curve long, and I hear the rush of the rapids, and Astrid says, “There.”
She points ahead, to the right, but all I see is the steep slope of the mountain. The trees are not thick enough to be hiding a road.
“There’s nothing there,” Vider says.
But despite our being alone on the highway, Astrid flips on the turn signal. The heavy clicking fills the car.
“There’s nothing there!” Vider says again, digging her fingers into Astrid’s shoulder.
“Yes,” she says. “There is.”
My entire body clenches and I feel the burn of frenzy under my heart. Baldur takes Vider’s hand.
The Spark slows. I do not close my eyes. Astrid turns the steering wheel and the bright orange nose of our car is three feet from the side of the mountain when the mountain vanishes.
One moment there is a gray-and-brown wall of stone, the next we are driving down a narrow dirt road. So narrow, in fact, that pine needles scratch the roof and Baldur rushes to roll up his window. There’s nothing to see ahead but more trees.
Vider crows in delight. I allow a smile of relief until I notice that Astrid is so pale there are freckles I’ve never seen before standing out under her eyes. Her breathing is shallow and elf-kisses travel up and down her arms.
“Astrid,” I say gently, circling her wrist with my hand, “slow down. I can drive.”
“No,” she whispers. “We’re almost there.”
Silence reigns again as Astrid drives down the sun-washed road. Somewhere ahead is the orchard. And before it the berserkers’ camp. Soon I will stand on ground where my father walked; soon I may meet men to whom my father was sworn.
And for the first time in my life, berserking and my father are the least of my worries.
The frenzy presses dull spikes against my heart.
From behind Astrid, Baldur reaches up to touch her neck. He grasps one of Vider’s braids in his other hand. She in turn hangs her fingers on my shoulder. I put my hand on Astrid’s thigh.
We’ve united ourselves.
I take a long, slow breath, as if I would draw energy up from the strong earth; only now I draw balance from my friends.
There’s an old nursery prayer: May the ties that bind us be strong; may our journey together last through the end of all. I repeat it to myself, again and again, as we drive toward this end.
The road ends abruptly when the ground cuts away, revealing a resplendent valley so bright with gathered sun I blink and lift a hand to shield my eyes.
Astrid stops the car, and we all leave the Spark to walk to the edge of the cliff.
As in a painting of Old Asgard, everything here is saturated with color, glistening as though each surface is covered in sequins. There’s a wild green field within the bowl of cliffs, a waterfall spilling sky into three streams that flow across the valley. Nine buildings gleam white and gray on the far side of the meadow, and three holmgang rings are cut into the grass before them. High overhead, tall pennants snap in the wind. Most are white with the stylized bear of Odin and a harsh black spear that mirrors the one on my face.
But one pennant rises higher than the others: a white triangle with a broad golden apple shining like its own sun.
Astrid shudders and leans back against me. Her hands come up and find mine. She is hot and trembling.
For just beyond the buildings, where the surrounding cliffs break open into a passageway farther up the mountain, there’s a hundred-foot iron fence, and beyond it a million apple trees.
Where we stand, leafless winter trees wait like gray ghosts between the dark evergreens, but there in the orchard, it’s already summer.
“There’s a path,” Vider says, skipping forward on the loose gravel. The path cuts dow
n the cliff face, just wide enough to be considered a road.
I collect my father’s sword from the trunk, strap it to my back, and rejoin the others. Baldur gazes longingly at the weapon. But I will keep him safe until we deliver him into the arms of Idun; he doesn’t need a sword.
“Come on!” Vider drags at us with her voice, hopping farther down the path.
Astrid follows her, and Baldur and I take up positions behind Astrid, one of us at either shoulder. It strikes me as strange, because we’re here for Baldur; he should be the one at point.
The path is steep, and loose rocks and dirt make it unstable. As we follow the narrow switchbacks, I wish I still had my spear. There’s no sign of a lookout, and I don’t think this way is often used. The berserkers must travel to and from the valley by other means. I pause halfway down and stare out toward the base. The buildings are clustered around a long feast hall with a pair of double doors so bright they reflect the sun. One other building is large and hangar-like, and perhaps hides a heliplane. On the wind I smell burning fat and smoke, and as I near the base of the cliff I hear the low of a cow.
But there’s no sign of people.
I catch up, and at the bottom of the cliff we move into the dry, crackling grass. The fields are wild here in the valley. Wind blows through, shaking the evergreens along the mountainsides, bending them in waves.
“There’s no one here,” Vider says, falling back to walk with us. And she’s right: there is all of this beauty, but it waits empty.
We’re a solid line, walking abreast beside one of the thin creeks. As we approach the base, there are more signs of civilization: satellite dishes anchored to several roofs, all aimed in the same direction; electric lights; an ATV parked beside the barracks; a fitness center with attached indoor pool where overhead fans slowly twirl. For this berserk band, no expense has been spared.
At the center of the ring of buildings, we pause and stand before the doors of the feasting hall. They’re iron and wood, carved with teeth and claws, and inlaid with glass circles colored like apples and blood.
But there’s no one here.
Where are Idun’s Bears? Is this how they protect the orchard?
The four of us spread out. I listen as hard as I can, but hear only the sound of my boots on the courtyard stones and Astrid’s low humming. I recognize the melody, but not the song.
Vider goes to one of the flagpoles and grips it. She kicks off her shoes, and Baldur gives her a boost. We tilt our heads and watch her climb until she is higher than the roofs, the bear-and-spear pennant whipping just over her hair.
“They’re waiting by the orchard gate,” she calls down to us, pointing beyond the feast hall.
Astrid says quietly, “They’re expecting us.” She glances at me with trepidation pinching the corners of her eyes. I think of her apple nightmares, and all her apple dreams. Part of her has known for years that we were coming.
As Vider slides down the pole, Baldur says, “They’ll know what we need.” He catches her and sets her on her feet. And then he strides away, heading where Vider pointed.
I go after him immediately, staying at his right shoulder. We come around the feast hall and the yard spreads out before us. A hundred steps ahead is the black iron gate to the orchard, and standing between us and the fence are nine warriors.
My breath jerks. Even Baldur pauses.
The men range in age from young and golden to hoary with years. Each one carries a black spear and wears the uniform of a berserk band: black pants, and sleeveless black shirt belted at the waist and open at the neck to reveal an iron collar. The berserkers require no metal armor. Even naked they’re powerful. Their tattoos split their cheeks in two, and many have more ink decorating their forearms. Only one, a young man with red-gold braids, smiles welcome. The rest glower, focused not on Baldur or Astrid or Vider, but on me.
They will be my future, if I can’t ask Odin to take away my power: to be marked with a band, to commit with them. I fiercely resist the urge to draw my father’s sword, and the berserker in the center, with steel-gray braids snaking under his chin and the silver embroidery of a captain, says, “Son of Styrr. We did not know it would be you.”
The whisper then goes through their line: “Sleipnir’s Tooth.”
It’s the name of the sheathed sword slung over my back.
I try to quell the shaking that begins in my ribs and grows to fill all my body. These are Idun’s Bears, and they serve her. They serve the gods and by extension Baldur, too. No matter what they think of my father and no matter what they think of my uncollared neck, of my sword, they will continue to serve the interests of Idun.
Stepping in front of Baldur, I say, “I am Soren Bearskin, and I have come to deliver my lord to Idun’s orchard.”
Astrid and Vider press close, and Baldur lifts his face. The sun shines its final rays of golden light before dropping behind the mountains, and he glows.
The captain answers me, “I am Alwulf, son of Robert, and so is your lord delivered.” His mouth stretches into a smile, and I begin to relax, to believe they will stand aside and allow the gate to open.
Until he cries, “Hail, Hangatyr!”
I don’t know why he would call on Odin then, but all the surrounding berserkers echo his words. Their shout vibrates in my chest, their battle-rage calling to mine with a welcome I’ve never felt before. It distracts me for a moment too long, and Alwulf has raised and loosed his spear before I understand.
By then it’s too late, and the wicked shaft pierces Baldur’s heart.
NINETEEN
BALDUR, GOD OF light, falls back with a single cry.
I leap over him, roaring all my shock, and charge for the captain.
For the first time in my life, I reach intentionally for the rage, and I tear it open.
I explode like my own sun.
But these are berserkers, too, and they’re prepared. They grab at me, too many of them. Faces everywhere, black collars and hard hands. I scream and throw myself away from them, but cold liquid splashes over my mouth, and the scent—the scent invades me, transforming my muscles into gelatin.
I fall with a single cry.
There is Astrid, body bowed across our god’s, blood smearing her dress and painting her neck. She reaches out to me, gripping Baldur’s shirt in her other hand, as if she could pull us all together.
It’s the last thing I see.
TWENTY
THERE’S A UNIVERSE of time between closing my eyes and opening them.
I lie on a thin mattress in the corner of a barracks room that’s been reinforced as a brig. The door’s made of iron, with a small slot at the bottom for food and a barred window at eye level. Fluorescent light glares through, displaying the metal lattice that covers the whitewashed walls. The fortifications don’t mean a full and strong berserker could be held captive here if he wanted free, but breaking out would cause a lot of noise, and the rest of the band would have plenty of warning.
There’s a single window high up in the wall, and beyond it I see only stars.
For one long moment I allow myself the luxury of stillness. My chest feels hollow, as if not only has my frenzy been stripped away, but my lungs and heart and stomach and liver as well.
Baldur.
I clench my jaw and close my eyes. Two tears fall down my temples, scalding my skin.
Everything we thought was wrong. Baldur is dead. Baldur the Beautiful is dead.
I’d rather it was me, and I know Astrid will be thinking the same.
Again I see him fall. Again I see the black spear shaft rising out of his chest like a monument.
The world will never be the same.
I shake all over and know, the way I know that the moon will rise, that I will kill Alwuf Robertson, the man who murdered Baldur. My frenzy will consume him; I will bury Sleipnir’s Tooth in his heart.
It occurs to me suddenly that just because I am alive doesn’t mean Astrid and Vider are, too.
I’m on
my feet so fast the ground tips over, and I crash back to the mattress with a yell.
Dizziness swarms my head and I take long breaths. The spinning is akin to my frenzy, only distant, buzzing about my ears and stealing my balance. This is the result of their drugs, not grief. I know grief, and it is a chasm.
Gripping the sides of the mattress, I sit up slowly this time.
And then I stand, because I have to. I plod to the door on heavy feet. My body wavers and I slam into iron lattice, catching myself with my palms.
“Son of Styrr?”
The voice is not one I know, but he speaks in the old wolf tongue berserkers teach their sons. It’s only a memory to me, but it echoes with my dad’s voice.
A moment later a face appears at the barred window. Youngish, twenty maybe, with dark green eyes and braids that hold red even in the poor lighting.
The one who smiled.
“Tell me where Astrid and Vider are!” I roar at him in Anglish. I’ll not share the little I know of the berserk language with him, or any of them.
The berserker jumps back, his hands up. He’s weaponless, and no longer in uniform; instead he wears a half-buttoned Western shirt and jeans.
“Tell me where your captain is, so that I may take his blood for justice.”
“Peace!” he says, his hands out. There is no smile now.
I slam my fist into the door. Pain slices up my wrist as my knuckles break open and blood smears. “Not until you answer me!”
“The girls are unharmed. One is in the orchard, the other I don’t know where.”
I curl one hand around the metal bar and lean back with all my weight.
“I don’t know!” he insists.
The door creaks and I shudder with it. It doesn’t break. Yet.
“Stop!”
“Let me out. Take me to your captain. Now.”
The berserker slips closer. “I can’t. But I will tell him what you say.”
“Tell him he is not a man at heart.”
His eyes widen. The fluorescent lights glare back at me from inside them. “It was no unjust murder, but in the line of our duty. Holmgang is too much blood price!”