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

by Matt Larkin

  The plateau Agnar had spoken of lay in the far northern reaches, amidst mountains at least as treacherous as those Odin had passed just beyond the Midgard Wall. Climbing up to it had left him panting, breath frosting the air, even in the falling snow.

  In winter, this place must have been nigh to impassible.

  A storm rumbled overhead. Thunder had greeted their arrival, growing stronger with every step they drew closer, as if the storm were drawn to the mountain at the summit.

  Beyond the edge of the plateau rose a wall of ice ten times the height of a man and Odin could not begin to guess how thick. Inverted icicles rose from atop it, each no doubt bigger than he was.

  Geri stood beside Odin, blanching at the sight. “Think they were inspired by the Midgard Wall?”

  Perhaps that had been exactly what had happened.

  Either way, the wall surrounded the mountain, upon which rested a city of ice, rising up in slow spirals along the slope. From his perspective on the ground, Odin could make out at least four distinct terraces. Above those, barely visible through the cloud cover, a gargantuan palace stood.

  A flash of lightning cast it in stark silhouette: from a thick base rose twisting spires like branches of a rotting tree, scraping the sky.

  “I rather mislike this place,” Geri said.

  Perhaps. But one had to admire the wonders the old powers had wrought in the world. Naught that modern men built compared to the glories of the Old Kingdoms. And even those mighty halls paled before the constructions of the dvergar, the jotunnar, or the Vanir. The further back one looked, the more the modern world seemed but a shadow of what had been.

  Or just another sign of a world in its final days.

  Rather than answer, Odin trudged along behind Freki until they came at last to the open archway. While no gate barred the way, a metal giant as tall as the wall itself stood in ominous watch on either side of the entrance.

  Odin stood there, neck aching from craning to look so high up, staring at the horrifying statues. Thick layers of ice and frost coated each, so the details remained muted. But both clutched swords at least thirty feet long, jammed in the snow in obvious threat. Their metal flesh looked like plates of iron wrapped around them, as if in armor, including helms.

  “I don’t think Thrym likes visitors,” Geri said.

  No, and Odin had sent Hrist in there a fortnight ago, to scout ahead. Traveling in the Penumbra—and flying—she could cover ground much more quickly than even the varulfur twins.

  Her brother glanced back at her. “He just wants to impress his guests. Consider all the wonders of construction Father had built on Asgard.”

  Odin grimaced. “If you two wolves are quite finished, I do not think the sight before us warrants jesting. Inside we may face foes more powerful and more numerous than any we have yet come up against. Control your tongues.”

  With that, Odin trod forward, into that great arch.

  The city within had some few guards, and those watched their entrance with more curiosity than any sense of hostility. Hardly much surprise, though, as Odin saw numerous humans milling about the city. They carried hunks of bloody meat upon their backs. They trudged along, dragging carts behind them laden with soiled furs. They stitched and sewed and worked forges.

  Slaves …

  The humans here, conquered by the jotunnar, had become slaves. And, more like than not, they also served to sate the various hungers of their masters.

  “We need food and shelter,” Freki said. “Let me about it. I can meet you back on the lower terrace once I have something.”

  “What makes you think anyone will board us?” Geri asked.

  “Agnar said jotunnar journey across all of Jotunheim to come to this place, right? They must find shelter somewhere.”

  Odin nodded in agreement. “Good. And find Hrist. She’ll know more about where we need to look.”

  With a nod, Freki took off, trotting down the street.

  “There are too many smells here,” Geri complained, watching as her brother disappeared around a corner.

  Odin wrinkled his own nose. Come to think of it, the gutters smelled like shit and half-rotted meat. The cold only kept things fresh but so long. How much worse then must this all seem to a varulf nose? “Come.” He guided her away from the main aisle, narrowly avoiding a jotunn tromping down the street.

  If Odin were to judge based on this terrace, several thousand of these creatures must live in this city. That meant—assuming Thrym held their loyalty—this king commanded an army fit to crush almost any force on Midgard. Even the Aesir could not hope to stand against such vast numbers of jotunnar.

  So long as they kept out of the way, though, none of the locals seemed to pay them much heed.

  “Something strikes me,” Geri said. “You told us the stories about Aujum.”

  Odin grunted in acknowledgment while following her to a butcher shop. These people’s diet seemed to consist almost entirely of meat. Through a bloodstained window Odin spied a skinned reindeer, half a snow bear, and some carcass he couldn’t identify. The place reeked twice as foul as the rest of the street.

  Blood dribbled down tiny canals carved into the floor, into gaps in the wall. Gutters along the side of the street carried the waste along the edge of the terrace, probably spiraling down most of the city.

  “What is that thing?” Odin asked.

  Geri grunted in disgust. “Meat stripped off a man’s leg.”

  Odin could only grimace. “Sorry, what were you saying about Aujum?”

  Inside, the shopkeeper began hacking the leg into chunks, then using his cleaver to slide those chunks into barrels. Odin’s stomach lurched.

  Geri pointedly looked away from the butcher shop. “Vingethor led the tribes. Then they all broke up for lack of a king strong enough. So the Aesir fought among themselves in squabbles and so forth around a century.”

  “Yes.” Odin did not like where this seemed to be heading.

  “So … we know the jotunnar fight among themselves. All these petty kings and small kingdoms chopping up this barren land or pressing through the wall into Midgard.”

  “Yes.”

  Geri shrugged. “What would happen if a man like you came among to them? A true king to unite them all.”

  Odin flinched. Could this Thrym be that king? Was that the beginning of Ragnarok? “What do you do when you have more foes than you can keep in view at once?”

  The varulf frowned. “Retreat. Come back with more numbers or else find new hunting grounds.”

  “And if you have nowhere left to retreat?”

  Now Geri’s frown grew deeper. “Try to bring as many down with you as possible. Save the rest of the pack.”

  Odin nodded. His pack was all mankind. And he had to find a way to save them.

  Freki led them to a hall on the lower terrace, one intended for the slaves of visiting jotunnar. Though a jotunn owned the hall, he let his human slave run the place. That man, a balding graybeard with too much flab in his stomach, traded them room and board for iron clasps and a dagger.

  Metal, it seemed, was even more precious here than in Midgard. Some few jotunn kings controlled most of the mines here, and guarded them jealously. That disquiet boded well as far as Odin’s hope of avoiding any alliance between jotunn kings went.

  Odin, Freki, Geri, and Hrist sat in a room that would have been comfortable for one. The twins didn’t seem to mind curling up on the floor by the fire, and the valkyrie never complained about much. Still, Odin found it cramped.

  “I’ve spent some time learning about this kingdom,” Hrist said. At the moment, she sat cross-legged in front of the fire, rubbing her hands together. “They call it Thrymheim.”

  Geri snorted. “The king named it after himself?”

  “Yes. A long time ago King Thiazi ruled this place. He was poised to unite the jotunnar and rise against the Vanir. Apparently that didn’t end well, because they killed him, and one of the princes married his daughter, Skadi.”
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  “The Winter Queen,” Geri said, looking ready to spit into the flame.

  Hrist nodded. “Later, she died too. But—according to what some claim, now she’s back, and wooing an alliance with Thrym. The two of them together would pose a significant threat.”

  Odin clenched his fists at his side, forcing himself to silence. Skadi—in possession of Gudrun—had eluded him some years ago. He ought to have killed her then, but ever since, she’d been beyond his reach. Perhaps because she’d fled here, to Jotunheim, where Odin’s powers were more limited.

  “She’s been winning allies all over Jotunheim,” Hrist continued. “It’s all anyone here has talked of since I arrived.”

  Odin glowered. “We cannot do aught about Skadi at present.” Yet another foe he had to defer dealing with. “We four are no match for Thrym’s army should we attack a guest in his hall. We must focus on the task at hand and find a way to reach Vafthrudnir.”

  Hrist nodded. “The sorcerer jotunn keeps his own hall, around the far side of the mountain. We’d have to climb to the fourth terrace, then take the East Gate. From there, it’s a perilous trek. Storms rage all the time up there, the footing is poor, and ravines split the path.”

  Odin waved that away. Temporal obstacles meant little. “We leave in the morn. Rest well, my friends.”

  As Hrist had predicted, the route to Vafthrudnir’s hall meant taking a narrow, winding path that ran along around the far side of the mountain. Blessed with eternally youthful bodies, the others managed the steep hike with little more than a slight panting. Odin found the trek served only to exacerbate the pains in his back and knees.

  Surrender your soul and let slide the frailties of flesh …

  As usual, the wraith was full of sympathy for Odin’s plight.

  Up ahead, the path cracked like someone had split it with a giant hammer. A section dropped down a good six or seven feet while the next bit rose up ten feet beyond that.

  Wings burst from Hrist’s back. A single beat sent a gust of wind washing over Odin, causing him to stumble backward and shield his face. When he withdrew his arm, the valkyrie already rested upon the far side, wings withdrawn.

  Freki had hopped down into the recession. “Come, Father. I’ll boost you up.”

  This was what Odin’s urd had come to. Being hoisted up like a child by his own children. Would Loki see amusement in this? Would other Aesir mock Odin?

  Grumbling under his breath, he dropped down to the lower level and landed in a crouch that failed to stop a fresh twinge of pain from shooting through his knees and running straight to his spine. Odin grimaced, rose, and ambled over to Freki, who knelt.

  Almost, he wanted to mumble an apology for it. Keeping such thoughts to himself, he climbed on Freki’s shoulders. The varulf stood as though Odin weighed naught more than a babe, raising him high enough to grab the ledge. A slight burst of pneuma gave Odin the strength to heave himself up.

  He turned to offer Freki a hand.

  Instead, the varulf made a vertical leap all on his own, caught the ledge, and scooted over it. Showing off? Or perhaps not even considering the implication. They thought him frail.

  Strange thought, really. Odin had gained powers beyond the ken of most Aesir, and yet so many thought that, if he suffered aches and used a walking stick, he could not summon strength when needed. Much like his disguises as a vagabond, in truth.

  Geri also made the leap and pulled herself up.

  Around the mountain’s curve they came to carved stairs. Massive ones, too large for a human to comfortably climb. Odin found mounting each step forced him to yank his leg high enough to send little jolts through his hips. And those stairs just seemed to go on and on.

  “I’ll meet you at the top,” Hrist said, sprouting her wings once more.

  Odin glared at the valkyrie.

  Atop the stairs, on a slight plateau, Vafthrudnir had built his hall right into the mountainside in the manner of dvergar. Columns engraved with spirals supported a stone entryway that jutted out of the mountain like a nose. Above that rose a higher tier of roofing with a balcony beneath it.

  Surprising elegance for jotunn construction.

  Do you know all about them? Valravn asked in his mind.

  No. Odin knew more than most völvur, but that amounted to very little in the end.

  The wind howled behind them, buffeting Odin’s cloak and stinging every bit of exposed skin.

  Twin braziers sat just within the entryway, reduced to embers now, but still offering enough warmth that everyone quickly piled around them.

  Those fires barely cast enough light to see within the hall. Odin warmed his hands a moment before trudging inward. He paused after a few steps and turned back. “Hrist, conceal yourself.”

  The valkyrie stepped backward, into shadow, her form blurring and receding as she passed into the Penumbra.

  “Fucking eerie,” Freki mumbled.

  Ignoring his son, Odin pushed inward. The entryway ran a dozen feet or so before opening up into passages running perpendicular to it. On instinct, Odin chose the left path and made his way around. This led past several closed doors and up to another damn staircase.

  Prescient insights demanded he continue this path, so Odin once again climbed, huffing by the time he reached a landing.

  There, upon a large chair that might have served as a throne, sat an ancient, bearded jotunn. His skin was pale blue, almost the color of his white hair. His ox-like horns had broken off, leaving only stubs. He sat facing the edge of a balcony, heedless of either the wind’s howl or its icy bite. Indeed, a layer of rime coated his legs and arms. But for the slow rise and fall of his chest, Odin would’ve thought him dead.

  A very slight motion of the jotunn’s head indicated another, less ornate chair across from him.

  Odin raised his hand to keep the varulf twins from entering the landing, then settled down into the seat, not bothering to conceal his sigh of relief. Just getting off his feet brought a simple pleasure, enough he too could almost ignore the bitter weather this far out.

  Ice had built up over the balcony, yet somehow had not piled high enough to close this place off. Perhaps the jotunn controlled the storms somehow. Another crash of thunder outside jolted Odin from his musings.

  “Hail, Vafthrudnir. I’ve traveled a long way to see you. Tales say you are wise, jotunn. Truth, or exaggeration?”

  The jotunn groaned, leaning forward and flexing his arms, causing a shower of ice crystals to break off them. “Who dares such impudence in my own hall? You ask of wisdom yet show none.”

  Odin opened his mouth prepared to offer the name Grimnir again. But if word had somehow reached here from Geirrod’s court, he wouldn’t want to give away his true identity. “Gagnrad. And I come here, thirsty, seeking hospitality. And I find only an old man who barely bestirs himself when guests arrive.” It was a game, of course. Baiting the jotunn, challenging him ever so subtly.

  Vafthrudnir cracked his neck from side to side. “Impudence,” he repeated. “You wish drink, but dare to question my knowledge? Prove your wisdom and you’ll have what you seek. Fail to impress, and none of you shall depart this hall.”

  A game, and one Loki had taught Odin, much as he had despised it at the time. Perhaps he should have been grateful his blood brother had done so much to prepare him for it. “Then speak, jotunn. I am the one come here looking for hospitality. It hardly seems fair that I should begin the conversation.”

  A hint of a smile creased the jotunn’s face, creating a wave of wrinkles up to his eyes. “Then tell me, Gagnrad, what steed do mankind believe draws the morning for them?”

  An old völva legend, told to children. “Skinfaxi, the shinning one who drags in the dawn.” Odin had listened while Frigg told such tales to Thor. Back then, the varulfur twins had sat in wings with Odin, neither quite welcomed nor quite cast out by the queen. “His mane is aflame.”

  The jotunn grunted in acknowledgment. “And tell me, Gagnrad, which steed then brings
dusk to the lands of men?”

  Damn. Maybe he hadn’t paid that much attention to the old legends. Was it the same one? Did the jotunn try to trick him? No. No, Skinfaxi brought the sunlight. And Nott had her own horse … “Hrimfaxi. Frosty mist falls from his hooves.”

  Some many stories Odin had heard, buried and forgotten. A childhood that seemed so long ago. And worse, he’d missed so very much of his children’s days. He’d not been there to hear so many of their stories. Much as he wanted to tell himself he’d rectify it, he knew it for a lie. Urd did not allow him to be a good father. Not even a good man. He barely dared hope he’d make a good king.

  “And tell me, Gagnrad, what river separates the lands of the jotunn from the world of men?”

  “The Ifing.” That much, at least, he could thank Hrist for.

  Vafthrudnir leaned forward more, a gleam coming into his eyes. “Tell me then, Gagnrad, where did the last flame of the Lofdar dwindle?”

  What? That was beyond the lore of any völva.

  Vigridr … our final battle …

  “Vigridr,” Odin said. The moment it left his mouth, a sick fear clenched his gut. Audr lied. All the time. All vaettir did.

  But the jotunn sorcerer settled back into his chair, seeming content. “So you do have a hint of wisdom. Very well, ask your questions, guest.”

  Odin might go straight to the point, but then he risked giving overmuch away. No, he had to play Vafthrudnir’s game a bit first. And that meant testing the jotunn’s wisdom in much the same manner as the jotunn had tested his. “From where, Vafthrudnir, came the sun and moon?”

  Now the jotunn grimaced. “Sunna and Mani, whom your kind called the goddess and god of the sun and moon, were the children of Mundilfari.” By the look on his face, he’d known the Mad Vanr himself, or at least suffered defeat by him.

  And it remained a sore spot.

  Regardless, he had not quite answered Odin’s question, but close enough. “Who rules the day and night?”

  “In the World of Sun, Alfheim, dwells Dellingr, the Dayspring. His blinding gaze falls upon all. In the World of Dark, Svartalfheim, dwells Nott, the Queen of Night.”