Stormbringer: Book 2 of the Wyrd

Eleven

Ásgarðr was a total movie set.

Nanna had escorted Sigmund through the corridors of her hall, smiling patiently whenever his attention got caught on the carvings in the woodwork or the tapestries on the walls. Wolves and ravens featured prominently in the art, as well as stylized figured of men with spears, and winged beasts Sigmund realized were most likely jötunn. A whole history and culture of a whole . . . Well. Alien wasn't quite the right word, but Sigmund couldn't think of a better one, either. Because the æsir were definitely humanish, and Vikingish, but it was the ish that was fascinating. Sigmund was a geek. He loved video games and shitty fantasy novels with half-dressed women on the covers. He lived for the ish, and now, suddenly, here he was. Soaking in it.

Awesome.

It was while he'd been distracted by a particularly intricate shield that Nanna had asked, "Will there be others, do you think?"

"Huh?"

Sigmund, who was such a loser, hadn't been paying attention so hadn't quite managed to catch the meaning from the Godstongue. So Nanna repeated her question, gentle and patient and kind, and Sigmund said, "Oh . . . You mean, like, other æsir? Getting reincarnated or whatever?"

"Yes."

"Um . . ." Jesus. "I . . . I don't know, really." That was safe, right? Especially when Sigmund managed to bite his tongue before I sure hope not snuck out.

One tiny crease had appeared in Nanna's otherwise flawless brow, but Sigmund hadn't been sure if it was concern or worry or disbelief or maybe just flatulence, so he hadn't asked. Instead, he'd allowed himself to be taken through a set of heavy wooden doors, through an antechamber filled with flowers, and then through another set of doors and into a room. This room had more tapestries, and furs, and an ornately carved screen and a basket of golden apples Sigmund thought he probably shouldn't eat.

"You may stay here as long as you wish," Nanna had said. "I'm sure your journey has been long. Rest. A servant will fetch you for the evening meal."

"Oh. Right. Cool. Thanks." Sigmund, god of losers.

Nanna had just smiled, turning to leave, before laying a hand on Sigmund's elbow and saying, "It is good to have you back."

Then she'd gone before Sigmund could figure out how the hell he was expected to reply to that.

He'd decided not to worry about it, instead scoping out the room, running his hands over surfaces and peering under the covers of the bed. This was a legit-for-serious Viking godcastle. A lifetime of video games told Sigmund to expect to find mad loot somewhere, which led him to opening chests and baskets, and finding whole piles of jewelry and dresses before realizing he was in a room designed for an ásynja.

Well . . . Nanna was nice. And she tried. He decided not to take it personally. Especially when he found the bathroom.

There was water. Running water. Hot running water that smelled slightly sulfurous, so maybe it was coming from a hot spring somewhere? That was kind of cool.

Sigmund was considering using the facilities when he heard a knock, and a small voice called out something in Old Norse.

"One sec!" Sigmund called in response. When he opened the door, two young boys were there, holding a huge trunk between them. Through a complicated series of interpretive mimes, Sigmund realized they wanted to swap their trunk for the one currently in the room. Which turned out to be an awesome plan, when Sigmund opened up his new possession to find it full of clothes. Men's clothes. Like pants and tunics and stuff.