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

by Matt Larkin

Tyr eased his sword free from his sheath, held it low off the ground. Soon. Very soon.

  He’d strapped his shield to his arm. Always had to do that first. Couldn’t well grab it once the fighting started.

  Serklanders came, trampling the grass beneath them. Ground trembled under the heavy footfalls of the eldjotunn in their midst. Unlike frost jotunnar, the fire jotunn had skin like ash. Air around it seemed to shimmer. Mist fled from it as though its flesh were aflame. It bore resting on its shoulder an axe the size of a man. Thing could’ve cleaved a mammoth.

  The other Serks had deep wheatish skins and curved swords or spears and shields. They bore gilded lamellar armor. Most not holding shields carried torches.

  Tyr’s hand tingled. His palm itched. Even the missing one. Very soon now … The scent of violence tingled his nose. Could feel it coming. A whisper in the air.

  The Serklander unit had no distinct marching order. They milled about as they liked, some talking to one another in their strange tongue.

  Best time Tyr could judge for it was when the middle of the line was dead center.

  He raised his sword.

  Men behind him rose. Couldn’t make out those on the far hill. Not through the mist.

  A series of twangs as the archers loosed. Already reading another volley.

  Tyr launched himself forward, trusting the others to follow. Had to take the Sons before they could react.

  Men were screaming down there. The hail of arrows had dropped three of the Sons already. Others had shafts poking from their thighs or arms. Scratches here or there. Many arrows had missed, and others had clattered off lamellar, angles all wrong.

  Jotunn bellowed, his roar like an erupting volcano. He charged up Tyr’s hill, straight for the archers.

  Tyr pivoted. Tried to intercept, but the jotunn raced past him before he could cut him off. Beast caught a mounted knight mid charge. Cleaved right through the horse’s forelegs. Rider and mount flew in the air, a bloody screaming mess.

  Now Tyr was running uphill. Couldn’t match those long jotunn legs. Couldn’t stop it …

  He’d have to trust Thythkil to handle the jotunn. Others of the Sons were closing in on Tyr.

  The first man swiped with his curved sword. Tyr parried a blow that could’ve taken his head off. Dodged another. Twisted around. Man tried to use the torch as a second weapon, weaving an arc of flame.

  Tyr batted that aside with his shield. Jerked his sword up to parry the deadly blade. He twisted into a riposte, but the Serk had already drawn back. Managed to parry.

  So fast.

  Tyr pulled harder on the apple’s granted power, adding strength and speed to his muscles. Roaring, he chopped overhead. Man parried, but it hardly mattered. Tyr slammed his shield into the Serk. The impact sent him flying back. Tyr leapt forward. Reversed his sword grip. Drove it straight down into the Serk’s exposed throat.

  A gout of blood shot up at him.

  Gurgling, the Serk flailed. Still trying to attack with a clumsy swing of his sword. Tyr slapped it with his shield. Jerked his sword free. Slammed it down again. More spurts of blood. He twisted the blade to be sure. Let him shrug that off.

  A roar atop the hill.

  Tyr glanced up. Thythkil flew through the air at the eldjotunn, intent to thrust a spear in his eye.

  The eldjotunn moved fast. His axe cleaved straight through the flying varulf, top to bottom. Almost immediately, he set about, tearing into Ás warriors.

  Troll shit! Tyr charged at the jotunn but only made a few steps before another of the Sons cut him off. This one armed with spear and shield. A charging thrust. Tyr sidestepped, felt the rush of wind next to his face.

  Whipped his sword around. Serk caught it on his shield before Tyr could get much momentum. And then that spear drove Tyr back again, out of range.

  Another swordsman flanked around behind him.

  In the pass, Reolus and his knights fought like mad. Dropped almost as quickly. There, a spear through Norbert’s eye. Across from him, Reolus took a wound to the ribs.

  They were being slaughtered.

  Tyr dashed sideways, trying to twist, to keep the swordsman in view. Man’s face was a burnt up mess. Wicked smirk twisted the edge of his mouth.

  All right then. If Tyr was gonna die, he’d make these Serks pay dearly for it. Let no man say Tyr had fallen easy.

  Grasping all he could of the apple’s power, Tyr charged the spearman, roaring. The man fell back under his furious assault. Blocked blows on his shield, tried to parry others. Other one had to be closing in, but Tyr couldn’t get an opening.

  Another battle cry. Another man closing in on his flank.

  All Tyr could do was bellow forth his defiance and fight on.

  But the last man charged into the burned man. Metal clanged upon metal. Furious grunting. Had Reolus or another knight come to his aid?

  Tyr shoved the spearman back with his shield just to get a look.

  But it wasn’t a knight who’d saved him. A tall man, with unkempt blond hair and beard. Fighting with two swords.

  Starkad …?

  Tyr gaped, so stunned he lost track of the spearman. For a heartbeat. Long enough a blade whooshed at his jaw. Tyr twisted. Spear’s point still cleaved his chin like a lance of fire.

  Fighting through the pain, he knocked the spear upward with his shield and raced in. Rammed his sword into the man’s gut. Weapon was no runeblade and didn’t punch through the lamellar. It did send his foe’s breath out in a huff. Enough for Tyr to slam the edge of his shield into the man’s face. It clanked off his helm and sent the Serk to the ground.

  More bloody work to dispatch a man who didn’t take to being killed. Tyr was atop him, pummeling with his sword hilt. His efforts left the Serk dazed long enough to reverse his sword grip and drive it through the man’s eye.

  Grunting, Tyr jerked his blade free to take in Starkad. Caught in a furious melee with the swordsman.

  “I owe you,” Starkad spat at him.

  Tyr’s son knew the Serk? Knew one of the Sons of Muspel?

  But the Serk matched his speed and overmatched his strength. He twisted under one of Starkad’s blades, caught the other on the hilt of his own. Shoved, sending Starkad stumbling away.

  The Serk glanced around. Caught sight of Tyr charging in.

  And raced back down to his men.

  And there were a lot more of them left.

  The Sons of Muspel regrouped, fleeing the way they’d come.

  Tyr sucked down a breath. Ought to pursue, but that looked like there were still a dozen of them left.

  And Starkad didn’t go after him. Instead, he turned to Tyr.

  “Retreat!” Tyr shouted. “Fall back!”

  Obeainn and Thythkil had fallen, Tyr’s best hopes against the Sons of Muspel. He’d been intent to berate Reolus for refusing to attack at night and give his shifters and edge. But Reolus himself was barely on his feet from his wound. And he’d lost even more men than Tyr. Norbert and Arnoul among them.

  In all, thirteen dead among their forces. To claim only seven of the Sons. And the eldjotunn—though wounded—remained.

  All in all, a fucking rout.

  The sun had set, and Starkad had taken to sitting on the edge of camp. Beyond the pitiful light of their tiny fire.

  Tyr stalked over. How to even begin with him? It’d been decades. Odin had told him his son yet lived, but Tyr knew little else. Save that he’d been in Miklagard a while back.

  Finally, face to face, all the things he’d wanted to say vanished from his mind. For lack of words, he grunted.

  Starkad cocked his head to the side and returned the grunt.

  “I … uh.” Tyr swallowed. “I hadn’t thought to find you here.”

  Starkad snorted. “I didn’t come for you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His son sneered at him. “Maybe I like lost causes.” Starkad had walked away from this war when he was still young. Now—through whatever means Odin
had used to extend his life—he remained hale so many years later. And still angry.

  As if what had happened had been Tyr’s fault. “You knew that Serk warrior.”

  “Eh. We’ve met. He’s no doubt the leader here. Scyld. Possessed bastard.”

  “That where the Sons get their strength?”

  Starkad nodded. “The caliphs bind Fire vaettr to their elite.”

  Tyr groaned. “We have to stop them from getting to Karjuba.”

  “They almost killed you all when you had the element of surprise. You go after them again, you’re dead.”

  Tyr frowned. “Said you liked lost causes.”

  “Maybe. Still best we fall back for now.”

  Unfortunately, Tyr saw no other option.

  23

  Sorcerers were rare and few admitted to practicing the Art, which made finding one difficult at best. Sigyn’s search had led across the North Realms and into Sviarland. She intended to search the seven petty kingdoms here, yes, but most likely this was a preamble to searching Kvenland, a land infamous for more than one practitioner of the Art. Men told tale of wandering wizards in that northern land, though separating fact from fancy oft proved an exercise in frustration.

  Beyond the wizards, of course, there lay the fabled—or perhaps infamous—land of Pohjola, where the witch-queens dwelt. She’d not expect to find the man there, but aught was possible.

  In any event, rumors persisted of strange hermits in Sviarland, as well, and she needed to determine for certain whether Mundilfari dwelt in this land before moving on. According to Loki, the king had devoted a great deal of attention to Sviarland, from establishing his rapport with Gylfi, to more subtle manipulations. The king must still have spies in this land, forcing Sigyn to tread with extra care. The locals spoke of a forgotten castle in the marshlands, a legendary place favored by those touched by the Otherworldly.

  Sigyn trod with practiced care, avoiding spots in the marsh where one might easily sink into the murk. It took little enough effort, especially with her enhanced senses, so she instead focused on the smells—scents of swamp gas, decay, and putrescence. Beneath all that, though, lay a whiff of iron on the wind, which, like as not, meant a dwelling of men nearby.

  She wended her way between trees to find a broken tower showing no sign of human occupation. No flame, no campsite. No voices.

  Despite this, soft, almost imperceptible footfalls echoed within. Sigyn paused, unshouldered her bow, then nocked an arrow. Such places might have attracted strange—mad—hermits like Mundilfari, but they also appealed to bandits and other outlaws. One couldn’t be too careful.

  However, the figure who stepped out was no man at all, but rather a red haired woman clad in gilded mail. She bore a sword at her side, rather than over her shoulder, though no shield.

  “Who are you?” Sigyn demanded.

  The woman quirked a sad smile. “Hildr.”

  “Daughter of …”

  The woman laughed, shaking her head and advancing on Sigyn at a slow pace. “No one you’d have heard of.”

  “That’s far enough.” Sigyn raised her bow a little higher to drive the woman back.

  As if mad, the woman slowly pulled her sword out. “Not nigh to far enough, I’m afraid.”

  “Has the mist addled your wits? I’ll put an arrow between your eyes long before you get close enough to use a blade. Stay back.”

  “I can’t.” She almost seemed sad when she said it. “My master commands you return to Asgard.”

  Odin sent her. A shieldmaiden working for him?

  The woman dashed forward with astounding speed.

  Sigyn loosed.

  Hildr’s blade connected with the arrow in midair, knocking it aside.

  Sigyn fell back, snatching the hood of her swan cloak to raise it. Her attacker caught the edge of it and yanked, pulling her from her feet. The clasp of her cloak broke off as the woman tore the fabric from her. Sigyn tumbled down into the mud, rolled over, and pulled a knife.

  Her attacker caught her wrist before she could strike. A single twist sent the blade tumbling from her grasp. The other woman drew her fist back, moving with uncanny speed. On instinct Sigyn drew her pneuma to enhance her own toughness. She tried to block the blow, but it caught her square on the cheek and sent her toppling down again. The force of it damn nigh knocked the pneuma out of her grasp. Had that happened, the pain might have sent her spiraling into unconsciousness.

  Instead, Sigyn shook the blow off and scrambled to get away.

  The woman grabbed the front of her dress and flung her sideways into a tree trunk. She cracked her head so hard her vision dimmed. For a heartbeat she couldn’t even feel the pain. And then that hit her like a wave slamming her against the shore. She was on her hands and knees, unable to rise.

  Sigyn groaned, trying not to retch. She flooded pneuma through her body, dulling the aches and clearing her head. It was enough to let her regain her feet.

  “That cloak is actually derived from powers much like our own,” the woman said.

  “You’re a …” Sigyn gasped, trying to catch her breath. “A swan maiden?”

  Hildr shook her head. “A valkyrie.”

  Sigyn gaped at her. That was different. “Odin sent you to watch me?” As she spoke, she edged back toward her fallen cloak.

  Hildr stepped between Sigyn and the garment. “Your king recalled me from my other post because of you. He expected you to try something like this.”

  “Did he, now?”

  Hildr clearly wouldn’t let her get to the cloak. Instead, Sigyn backed away, toward where footing within the marsh became increasingly precarious. With her enhanced senses, she could move without even checking where she walked.

  She trod upon a log, backward, edging away from the valkyrie. “You should know I’m not coming with you.”

  “I’ve been instructed not to kill or maim you.” Hildr continued to advance. “That doesn’t mean I won’t beat you senseless and carry you away by force. The choice is yours.”

  Sigyn forced a smile, continuing to back away slowly. “Choice is an interesting thing. If I’m compelled to make a choice by instincts, by a primal bond with my child, is it still my choice? We would not hold someone responsible for taking an action if someone else compelled them to do so. The other person is a force external to my consciousness and thus outside the realm of my control. But maternal instinct arises regardless of my intentions and is thus external to my consciousness as well. Should a choice generated from within result in more culpability? And if not …” She tested the log’s extent with the back of her foot. Nowhere left to go. “Is it a choice at all?”

  Hildr frowned, continuing to advance. “I don’t know. I just know a valkyrie’s oath deprives me of any choice.”

  “Then I’m truly sorry for you.”

  The valkyrie’s frown only deepened. Then all at once the ground gave way beneath her. She splashed through the quicksand, the surface loosing solidity due to her weight. The valkyrie flailed, each gyration driving her deeper and casting silt up over Sigyn’s dress.

  Balancing on the log, Sigyn wound her way around the mired valkyrie, then hopped onto dry land beside it. “Cease your struggles and you won’t sink.” She continued backing away until she’d reclaimed the cloak.

  By the time she returned, Hildr had sprouted wings from her back. She’d already given over attempting to heft herself out by beating them, though.

  Sigyn looked sadly at the woman. “I suppose being a valkyrie and having wings, you’d not learn overmuch about woodcraft, would you? Patches of this stuff crop up across Sviarland and other marsh areas. You can actually escape if you work your way slowly to shore. If you stay calm, these things can be avoided.”

  Hildr glanced around spastically, hands shaking. And then she paused. Shut her eyes. Her form began to grow translucent.

  Sigyn nocked another arrow. Damn it. The valkyrie wouldn’t stop. She’d said she had no choice. And neither did Sigyn.

 
She loosed.

  The arrow punched through the valkyrie’s eye. The woman jerked, suddenly becoming fully corporeal. Sigyn shook her head. She might not be able to see the Otherworlds, but she no longer doubted they existed. Her experiences had forced away her illusions, her innocence. Realities she could not feel or touch lay just on the other side of human perception, and within lurked hostile beings eager to prey upon mankind.

  Maybe passing through that Veil would have let the valkyrie escape. If so, Hildr would have come after Sigyn again, or perhaps reported to Odin. Either way, she couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Meaning she’d just murdered a woman.

  “Damn it.” She shook her head again. Damn Odin for bringing her to this.

  And how the fuck had he gained mastery over valkyries? The question might have fascinated her on another day.

  Not this day though.

  This day, she needed to find the Mad Vanr. She had to do whatever it took to save her son. He was her own flesh and blood. Loki should have been here to help her. But then again, he ought to have been there for the birth, too. Lost in his own pain, he had failed her.

  But Sigyn would not fail Hödr. Not again.

  24

  Eighteen Years ago

  No matter how many times Sigyn pushed her pneuma into her son, Hödr remained blind. Loki had not returned. Perhaps this was what he had seen in the flames all those moons ago, when he fled Asgard and left her alone to face heartbreak and the despondency that followed.

  Sigyn paced around the library while Eir sat, struggling with one of the Vanr books.

  Finally convinced not to expose Hödr, Fulla had agreed to watch over the babe while Sigyn was here, and had thus moved into one of the numerous chambers. They’d both be resting now, no doubt.

  The sad irony was, Eir had come here seeking knowledge of Vanr healing Art. Could she have found it, maybe it might have provided some help to Hödr. But, as much talent as Eir had for medicine, Sigyn could have taught a toad to read with more alacrity than the vӧlva had managed.

  “Keep working on this,” she said.