Gods of the Ragnarok Era Omnibus 2: Books 4-6

by Matt Larkin

  How much indeed?

  Kill. Slaughter. Devour.

  The wolf inside him crawled for the surface, demanding he act. Too long he had lingered, waiting always for the perfect moment. That moment had never come.

  In a skald’s tale, he’d have marched up to the front gate, bellowed a challenge, and the two of them would have fought out a holmgang at dawn. They’d have battled for hours, perhaps, in such a telling. And Sigmund would have emerged bloody and victorious and filled with the honor of his ancestors.

  None of that had happened.

  Father’s honor had cost himself, Mother, and all Sigmund’s brothers their lives. Because the man had refused to back down, even when Sieglinde warned them of the trap. And now, here was Sieglinde’s son, warning Sigmund about his course. Showing him another path.

  “My vengeance is worth … everything.”

  Fitela nodded. “Then we have but to find a way into the castle under cover of darkness. Let us sneak into the fortress, bypass the berserkir, and kill Wolfsblood. Surely you will get your glorious battles when that is done, and at least we will have succeeded in avenging grandfather.”

  And still.

  “You know we are like to die,” Sigmund said. “Even should we succeed in bringing down Wolfsblood, those berserkir will no doubt come after us.”

  Fitela nodded. “Maybe they will, maybe not. Perhaps, with their employer dead, they will hold their contracts fulfilled.”

  “Berserkir.” Such people did not walk away from battle. Fitela’s face said he knew that plain enough. Sigmund shook his head. “Whether we die or no, I am proud of you, nephew.”

  Fitela faltered, as if unaccustomed to any praise. “I … thank you.”

  Sigmund nodded. So be it. They would find a way to sneak inside the fortress and bring down Wolfsblood. And if naught else, Sigmund and Fitela might at least find honor in their deaths.

  He had spent long years alone in the wilderness because of Wolfsblood. One way or another, it was all coming to an end now.

  38

  Fifteen Years Ago

  Each moon, Sigmund had to venture farther from his cave to hunt, fearing to bring down too much game in one place. This afternoon, he stalked a deer that, if he caught her, might feed him for a great many days. These hunts had made him a fine archer, though still only a decent tracker. Perhaps he had not prayed to the proper god or goddess.

  In any event, he crept along the forest floor until he reached the lake. There, the deer had stooped to drink. Sigmund nocked an arrow. Sieglinde had brought him a few fine ones, but this one was crude and tipped with stone. Seemed best to save his good arrows for killing men when the time came. Shoot a deer and fail to bring it down, it ran away. Shoot a man and fail to fell him, and he might shoot back. And either way, you couldn’t always reclaim an arrow. They broke, got lost.

  He paused.

  A woman emerging from the lake scared off the deer. It bolted away, darting between trees too quickly to let him draw a bead. Besides, the woman was the more interesting view, as she drew on her dress. Her skin was very fair, her hair blonde and beautiful. And Sigmund had been alone a great many moons.

  He slung his bow over his shoulder and approached slowly so as not to startle her.

  The woman spun at his approach, opened her mouth, then shut it again.

  “I mean you no harm.”

  She worked her mouth a moment. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “It will grow dark soon, and you are far from shelter.”

  She swallowed and licked her lips. “Can you not … offer me shelter for the night?”

  Oh the thought of it sped his pulse and made his palms clammy. “We’ll need to make haste then. We don’t want to be caught out alone in the mists, especially at night.”

  The woman paused to pull on boots, then fell in beside him.

  “You have not even asked my name,” he said after a moment.

  “Oh, I …”

  “But I’d love to know yours, my lady.”

  “Uh … Gudrun.”

  “Well, Gudrun, I am Sigmund, but I would ask you to share my name with no one, for I value my privacy.”

  “Oh. No one will know of this.”

  They walked a long way back to his cave.

  He climbed down into it, then helped her down as well. The woman seemed not the least afraid of it, which was odd, but then so too was it odd for a woman to wander the woods alone. She had courage, for certain, but somehow he doubted he needed to fear her betrayal after he had offered her hospitality.

  He rekindled the small fire he kept by the entrance, then beckoned her to sit before it.

  “I’m sorry I have no table here.” He offered her the roots and berries he’d gathered, and the last of the squirrel he had brought down the day before. “But what I have is all yours.”

  The woman but nibbled at the food, glancing often at him as if nervous. And he knew why.

  “It is true what you think,” he said. “I would like us to share one bed. But I would not force such a thing on you. That is not my nature.”

  She swallowed heavily and blinked, as if having a hard time even finding words. Shit, he was a fool. He’d meant to assuage her nervousness, not enhance it. Finally she licked her lips and nodded. “I will share your bed, Sigmund …”

  He froze, not certain he had heard that correctly. Had she said …

  Gudrun let her dress fall from her shoulders, exposing perfect breasts. Then she crawled over to the blankets Sieglinde had brought for him.

  And so he joined her.

  She did not leave the next morning, nor the next.

  For three nights she remained by his side, and each night they made love. It was almost enough to make him forget his vow against Wolfsblood. Almost, though in the night, he saw visions of a wolf devouring his brothers before him. He saw life leave his father’s eyes. And he saw a cruel king laughing at his misfortune and fucking his sister.

  He slept in fits until finally settling into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  And when he awakened on the third day, Gudrun had gone.

  Sigmund was alone again.

  39

  Asgard’s spires glittered, scraping the sky like trees of metal and polished rock. Some of these palaces were Sigyn’s own design—researched from Vanr archives—and walking among them, seeing them realized, lifted her heart in days when it might have otherwise felt heavy.

  The baby kicked again. He was an active one and, moreover, she found herself nauseated all the damn time. Fulla—self-proclaimed expert—told her that should only happen in the mornings and only in the first few moons. When Sigyn protested it had continued well past that, Fulla had explained Sigyn must be confused.

  “Sure as sure, you’re just thinking you’re feeling all vomit-like,” the woman had said a few days ago.

  Frigg walked beside Sigyn now, which naturally meant guards went ahead and behind. Her sister had offered some more practical advice on the pregnancy—which herbs to take to ease the symptoms and so forth. These days though, Frigg spent most of her time ruling Asgard and directing the Aesir. Odin, of course, being the ideal king and husband, showed up once a decade or so to issue some cryptic orders before vanishing again. In an odd way, Frigg’s husband had become more like Sigyn’s own.

  Who was also not fucking here when he was needed.

  “Our parting was less amiable than I would have liked,” Sigyn finally said.

  “Who? Loki?” Frigg murmured something before glancing at her and shaking her head. “Sigyn, you do realize I have barely seen my husband in the past twenty years. Not that I don’t sympathize with your plight, but I still envy you.”

  Sigyn folded her arms, found she couldn’t well walk like that, and let them fall to her side. She barely bit back her spite. She knew pregnancy made a woman emotional—given to hysterics if Fulla was to be believed, though Sigyn had little faith in the maid’s so-called folk wisdom. Still, it took an effort of will to hold back snarky
comments every other word. When she wasn’t about to burst into tears.

  And the man wasn’t even here to see her suffer through what he’d done to her.

  “I did not ask you to walk to discuss our husbands,” Frigg said.

  “What then?”

  Frigg glanced over her shoulder. Checking to make certain the guards were not close enough to overhear? “You are the only one who has made the slightest headway in understanding Vanr writings.”

  Sigyn nodded. Her sister had been the one to grant her special permission to access Sessrumnir, Freyja’s old palace and school for the Art. From it, Sigyn had learned much of what she knew of architecture, among other subjects. Hel, even Odin had come to her for help some moons back.

  “And I warned you never to delve into the Art.”

  Sigyn quirked a smile. Oh, this was precious. Her sister, the vӧlva, jealous guardian of all arcane knowledge, needed Sigyn’s help on that very subject.

  Frigg frowned, obviously not pleased Sigyn had already guessed the subject. “Sister, we stand on a precipice of conflict on many fronts. Our forces aid Valland against Serkland where we know sorcerers make pacts with fire vaettir. Worse still, are the Niflung sorcerers. And then the jotunnar, who seem ever to increase in number. All of these foes possess power and knowledge we lack.”

  Sigyn shrugged. “True enough. But what happened to all those lectures about how the Art could steal my soul and my mind and gobble up my kidneys when I’m not looking?”

  “Sigyn! Do not make a mockery of this. Incautious use of the Art can cost you more than you can begin to imagine.”

  “But?”

  “You can be infuriating, you know that?”

  Sigyn laughed. “You mean because you need me.”

  Now Frigg sighed and shook her head. “Work with Eir. I don’t have time to research such things myself. Eir is intent to learn whatever she can of Vanr healing as a means to counter our foes.”

  Eir had been the tribe vӧlva to the Athra, but Sigyn had had few dealings with the woman. Still, researching a new subject might serve to distract her from her aching back and roiling stomach. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  Even as many times as Sigyn had come to Sessrumnir—and, in truth, she spent many nights here, studying long hours—the golden palace never failed to impress. The Vanir had used the Art to achieve an impossible continuous flow of water, including curtains of it that streamed upward.

  Eir was there when she arrived, staring at the marvel with the same rapture that had overtaken Sigyn in her first visit. Few of the Aesir had seen this place, given that Odin had forbidden access. Frigg cared less and less what her husband willed and so had now granted Eir permission as well.

  The woman was aging, with streaks of gray in her hair and creases earned by many winters of hard work. “It’s astounding,” the vӧlva said. “I have never seen aught like this.”

  Sigyn leaned against a wall to take some of the pressure off. Climbing up here in her condition had proved exhausting and had taken nigh to the whole damn day.

  Eir at once rushed and placed a hand on Sigyn’s belly, then her ear to it. “Are you well enough? I had forgotten you were so far along. Perhaps we should wait.”

  “No.” Sigyn groaned and waddled over toward the stairs. Upstairs, in the library, there were chairs she could sit on. Just a little farther. “I’d rather not have wasted the trip here.”

  Eir chased after her, then slipped Sigyn’s arm around her shoulders, helping her up the stairs. Once there, she pulled out a chair. Sigyn sank down into it with another groan. It was only a temporary reprieve from the pain and pressure, of course. Sitting would hurt too, soon enough.

  “I’m truly grateful you’ve agreed to aid me in this,” Eir said. “I do not even know where to begin.”

  “So this was your idea, not Frigg’s.”

  “Uh … well …”

  Sigyn nodded. “I get it. You’re not a warrior so there are few ways a woman in your position might prove herself worthy of an apple.”

  Eir frowned and leaned forward over the table. “True enough. It does not mean I do not truly wish to help our people however I can.”

  “Then the first task is to help you learn to read the Vanr script. It’s much more involved than simple runes, but at least those give you a foundation. So … just grab any two or three books. It doesn’t matter where we start.”

  Eir rose to do so, and Sigyn shut her eyes.

  All too soon the vӧlva returned, laden with a half dozen books. Maybe she couldn’t count. Wouldn’t that be an auspicious start to this endeavor? Sigyn selected one at random and opened it.

  The author had written a short introduction to the subject matter. Sigyn skimmed it but paused at the signature: Mundilfari. The Mad Vanr, who had once been king. Thanks to him, she had been able to rescue Loki from Gudrun.

  “What is it?” Eir asked.

  “An introduction to the theory of pneuma,” Sigyn said. “Which I suppose is the best possible place for us to start.”

  “Pneuma?”

  “It’s what the Vanir called a person’s life force, which, I’m told, must be harnessed to practice seid.”

  Or to make use of the superhuman gifts an apple might bestow. Odd, that Eir had chosen this book. It was almost enough to make Sigyn believe in urd.

  She turned the book so the other woman could see and pointed to the first word.

  Odder still, that Sigyn would now instruct another in the secret mysteries of Vanr philosophy, in the lessons once taught to her by Loki.

  The baby kicked again.

  Sigyn smiled. Some things changed for the better.

  40

  Where once had stood a walled town in southern Kvenland, now lay only rumble. A few moons back, Sif and the others had passed through this place, taken shelter with the locals, and shared their food. Now, the bodies of those same men and women lay strewn about the streets, tossed like dolls atop the buildings, or ripped to pieces and left to rot. The whole place stank of shit and blood and death, smells and sights all sending her stomach into heaves as she passed among the ruins, searching for signs of any survivor. They were not like to find one, of course. They had not found any in the last town, nor the one before it.

  The former lord’s hall had burned down—most likely an overturned brazier, as the frost jotunnar didn’t use fire—and Freki crouched beside it, examining something among the ash and mud. The whole of it looked like naught more than gray mush to Sif, but Freki could find hidden truths almost anywhere.

  “Well?” Thor demanded. The prince took the rampaging jotunnar to heart, blaming himself—as he maybe should. They had earned the wrath of these beings when they betrayed Vörnir.

  The varulf rose. “Three of them came in, smashed through the wall, and began destroying everything and everyone in sight. Some few of the townsfolk fled into the wilds, most in different directions. I can follow one of the trails …”

  But depending on how much time had passed, even if the jotunnar had not hunted down the survivors, the common people had little hope of holding out long in the wilds. Sif blew out a breath of frustration.

  “No,” Thor said after a moment. “I want to know where the jotunnar who did this went. First we put an end to them, then we can offer more succor to their victims. Else wise, they’ll continue their raids and rampage while we pick up the pieces.” He wasn’t wrong. “Can you follow the jotunn tracks?”

  Freki cocked his head, staring at Thor like the prince was an imbecile. “Yes,” he said. “I can follow the trail of a trio of giant marauding savages.”

  Thor waved for him to do so, and Freki took off, loping away to the west.

  Sif exchanged a glance with Geri, then they all followed after.

  The jotunnar’s trail led through open plains stretching on and on. The snows had melted, save in scattered drifts, but only the hardiest of tangled trees dotted the landscape. For two days, they pursued their prey, pushing hard since their foes cou
ld cover ground more quickly.

  The trail turned north then, leading up to a lake and another shattered town, this one even larger than the last. Buildings had toppled, others burned down, and still others stood with half their walls torn away, skeletons of the shelter they once represented.

  Sword in one hand and torch in another, Sif eased her way through a new breach in the town wall. Geri and Freki each took off in opposite directions, sniffing out survivors. With any luck they had arrived in time to save someone this time. Always appearing in the aftermath of …

  Sif faltered, almost tripping over a body lying in the mud. A little girl, no more than seven winters, her hair splayed, limbs twisted the wrong way. The sight of it hit Sif like a blow and drove her to her knees. Knowing what she’d find and still unable to stop herself, she turned the girl over. Her ashen face was a mask of pain and terror.

  And something clenched around Sif’s gut, leaving her convulsing. She wanted to weep, but the tears wouldn’t come. So instead she screamed at the sky. “Fucking jotunnar!”

  “Sif,” Itreksjod said, “not the best rallying cry, I’m afraid. What are you—”

  The adjacent house exploded as a jotunn stood from within, shattering the roof and sending thatch and beam splinters flying in all directions. It reached over ten feet high, towering above them and bellowing for an instant that froze her.

  Itreksjod moved faster, racing forward to land an axe blow on the jotunn’s side.

  Its shriek of pain and rage shocked Sif into motion, and rising, she charged forward, sword swinging. The jotunn swiped a club at Itreksjod. Her friend leapt backward, falling, but avoiding the blow. Sif raced into the gap, her blade sheering along the jotunn’s wrist and forearm. She’d meant to sever the limb but instead only drew a long deep gouge into it. It served however—the jotunn’s club fell from his hand as he bellowed again, clutching his arm.