“The Einheriar are there,” said the silent god, “to win the day at Ragnarök.”
“Of course,” said Othin. He glared at Rig with his one eye. Rig was crafty, skilled with words beyond any of his other sons. Sometimes wondered if Rig might not be a son. Certainly Rig had cuckolded many husbands, made many men bring up cuckoos. Could he do the same to gods?
“And the purpose of Ragnarök is to destroy evil and make the world anew? To repair the great maim that we and it suffered when Balder died? When the Accursed One did his greatest evil, and became for us the Chained One.”
The other gods stiffened a little. The name of Balder was no longer spoken among them, or not in Othin’s hearing. It was ill to stir old wounds.
Rig went on, his voice cool and ironic, as always. “But are we sure that Ragnarök will be a victory? No. That is why Othin strengthens always his army in Valhalla. If it is a victory, are we sure that there will be a better world on the other side? No. For there are prophecies to say that all of us—or all of you—will perish on that day. You, Thor, from the poison of Iörmungand the World-Serpent. You, Heimdall, facing your brother Loki. For me I have heard no prophecy. But Othin All-father—it is said that for him the jaws of Fenris-Wolf lie ever in wait.
“So why are we so eager to run to Ragnarök? Why has none of us asked himself: what if the world could be made anew without the destruction?”
Othin’s fingers tightened on the shaft of his spear, and the knuckles showed white.
“One last question. We know that we tried to have Balder return from the dead, and Othin sent his hero Hermoth to try to bring him back. It failed. Yet there are stories that men have been released from Hel, though not by us.”
“Christian stories,” growled Thor.
“Even they may bring some hope. I know All-father shares that hope. Those who were there, they may remember. When Balder lay on his pyre, and we prepared to light it, to push it out onto the Shoreless Sea to send him down to Hel, then at that last moment Othin All-father bent and whispered words in Balder’s ear. Words none heard, not even you, Heimdall. What did Othin whisper in dead Balder’s ear?
“It comes to me that I know. May I speak those words, All-father?”
“If you have thought them, Heimdall has heard them now. Two may keep a secret, but not once it is known to three. Speak, then. What did I whisper in my dead son’s ear?”
“You whispered: ‘Would that some god would send you back to me, my son.’ ”
After a long silence, Othin spoke again. “It is true. I confessed my own weakness then, as I have never done before or since.”
“Confess it again. Let this play itself out without your intervention. Let my son have his chance. Let me see if I can use him to bring about a better world without the fire of Ragnarök. To cure the maim of Balder dead.”
Othin stared once more at the crawling fleets below. “Very well,” he said in the end. “But I will find recruits still for my Einheriar. Soon my daughters will be busy, the Valkyriar, Choosers of the Slain.”
Rig made no answer, his thoughts veiled even from Heimdall.
The battle council Shef called on the deck of the Fearnought looked as if the battle had already taken place. Cwicca, there as captain of the catapult squads, had an arm splinted and bandaged. Thorvin’s face was still covered in bruises, one eye swollen shut and just beginning to work its way open. Shef himself looked white, propped up with cushions in a chair: the gashes on his arm and leg had received more than a hundred stitches from Hund, and according to the leech what blood he had left at the end of the duel would barely have filled a wine-glass.
Others looked more warlike. At the foot of the long table Shef had commissioned sat Olaf Elf-of-Geirstath, newly and respectfully called by his Norwegian subjects, “the Victorious.” Flanking him was Brand, who had made his way south at the end of the winter to buy a new Walrus. Looking at him, Shef thought the troll blood more and more obvious. His eyebrows beetled out like ledges over a cliff, his hands and knuckles seemed even too large for the rest of him. Guthmund sat next to him, newly named on Shef’s authority jarl of Sodermanland, in succession to the dead Kjallak. The other Swedish jarls had taken the designation better on learning that the new jarl was indeed a countryman and even a kinsman. They had also listened with deep interest to Guthmund’s emphatic opinions on the potential wealth to be gained in the new king’s service.