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

by Matt Larkin

  A ship of bone and nails cut through misty seas, its bow riding great waves. An army of gleaming red eyes filled its hull. Drawing toward the world of men.

  A shift, a bloody field.

  Fenrir.

  The varulf lord flying through the air, lunging at Odin. His jaws closing around Odin’s throat. Squeezing the life from Odin’s frail body. Tearing out neck and spine in one feral movement. A fleeting glimpse of his own headless body as he died.

  A crack split through Yggdrasil. A tremble that shook boughs and branches and sent a hundred thousand leaves drifting away into the void. The dead numbering beyond all counting.

  Fires raged over the plains. Men and horses turned to ash. Whole cities burned away to cinders that blew upon a scorching wind. From amidst the infernos, a shadow loomed. The march of fire jotunnar, the earth itself trembling before their fury.

  “We never stopped Ragnarok …” Thor said. “I tried …” Odin’s son lay dying, bloody, pale.

  Beyond him stretched the corpse of a vast sea monster, one reaching out beyond the horizon. A dragon beyond all others.

  And there, torn to pieces, lay Tyr.

  All you build will turn to ash, your children shall die, and your dreams shall burn.

  The Odling ghost’s words were never a curse, but a prophecy. A portent of Ragnarok to come.

  When all time becomes one, the passage of it becomes meaningless. Odin thus could not say whether he lay on the well’s edge for an hour, a day, or a lifetime.

  The overwhelming surge of visions that bombarded him now stole all semblance of humanity from his grasp. Vague prescient instincts clarified into horrifying visions of the future. Dead dragons … dead jotunnar … dead men … dead gods.

  Dead children.

  The wrath of Hel in its ceaseless fury became a crystalline mirror, a foretelling of the breaking of all chains. All, save the chains of urd itself. The one master not even gods could defy.

  Loki had called prescience the most complex of all burdens. How much the pyromancer knew, how much he’d foreseen, perhaps no longer mattered. What mattered was the terrible, final realization of how utterly true his words had been.

  No burden could compare to the weight of knowing the future and finding oneself bound to it, unable to deviate from a course no matter how vile it seemed.

  Now, saddled with that burden, Odin knew what he must do. Embrace urd.

  And embrace the profound self-loathing it demanded.

  Part III

  Year 51, Age of the Aesir

  Summer

  (One and a half years later)

  49

  Just after dusk, Gudrun crawled along the upper side of the tree bridge, hardly daring to breathe for fear her captors would spot her. A cluster of the wood jotunnar milled about below, grunting in their guttural language. She caught bits and pieces of it, remnants from her time possessed by Skadi.

  The frost jotunn herself had left, gone back to Thrymheim intent to press her alliance. Those below, they prepared for war. Skadi seemed as if she meant to lead them against another jotunn tribe, though Gudrun couldn’t tell who.

  It hardly mattered. What mattered was, they remained distracted.

  They’ll come for you, Snegurka said in her mind.

  She wants it … Irpa said. She likes their wooden rods jammed deep inside …

  Gudrun ground her teeth, trying to block out the vaettir’s inane babble.

  How many can she handle at once …

  She sucked a breath in, then grimaced at the sound. They kept crawling around in her mind. Slithering through her insides like eels. Slurping, lurching, squeezing.

  Use the Art …

  Oh! Use it and fall prey to them. They were so close now. Even a little more use of their power and she risked losing herself, becoming a vessel to one of these things.

  You will be …

  No!

  No. She would never, never let that happen again.

  No. No. No. No. No.

  No one resists forever … to have power and not use it in the depths of desperation …

  She’ll fail.

  She’s always failed …

  Barely managing not to moan, she pressed her palms against her temples. Fuck them. They could both rot in the wastes of Niflheim.

  We all rot …

  Gudrun blinked. Shook herself, then pressed lower atop the wooden bridge. A little further. The rough bark scraped her palms raw. It scratched her knees and face. Minor annoyances, incomparable to the torments Skadi had encouraged these jotunnar to inflict on her. The snow maiden’s cruelty knew no bounds.

  There are no bounds to cruelty.

  Compassion is the lie we tell ourselves … to avoid the truth … the world owes us naught but suffering …

  Gudrun ground her teeth. Just a little farther.

  She edged her way along the top a few more feet, then dared to peer over the side. More wood jotunnar walking right below her. All scurrying about, making ready with bows and spears.

  A little ahead, and below her, an opening separated the wooden sinews—a crude window to allow light in. Come on. She could do this.

  They’ll catch you …

  They’ll break your legs again.

  Shove their coarse, bark-like cocks up your trench …

  That’s what she wants.

  She wants punishment …

  Hel, she wanted to scream at the voices. Naught seemed able to shut them up. Trembling, she edged forward a little farther. The window lay below her. She reached a hand toward it. Couldn’t quite reach the—

  Her grip slipped. She pitched sideways, scraping her face over the bark. She whimpered in pain but caught herself on the lip of the opening. The sudden stop yanked on her shoulders and she dangled there, one foot in open air, the other kicking at the side of the bridge. Struggling to find purchase.

  Finally, she wedged her toes into a crevice, giving herself a little footing.

  Panting, she glanced down. None of jotunnar below had looked up at her. She was dangling maybe thirty feet over them. Above her lay the window. Now that she looked at it … she wasn’t quite sure she could fit through it.

  A fool …

  Always a foolish child. Lost in the mist.

  Floundering in the darkness …

  No. She wasn’t giving up now. She wedged her shoulder through, then tried to fit her head. Her skull caught on the bark. Almost. But not quite.

  She should have known.

  Just jump … maybe break your neck …

  Groaning with the pain, Gudrun kept pushing her head through. Fibers ripped open her chin and tore into the back of her skull. It caught her hair and yanked it out by the roots. Blood dribbled over her face, stung her eyes. All she could do was keep her teeth gritted to stop from crying out in pain.

  And then her head popped through the opening. She couldn’t see a damned thing though. Her body blocked the light source. Just keep wiggling and she’d squeeze through, eventually.

  Just keep …

  A loud hiss greeted her, dangerously close to her face.

  What in the gates of Hel?

  Oh, she is lost now …

  Some vile serpent here lurks.

  Go back, little girl …

  Gudrun choked on her own scream. More hissing. So close. They warned her to go back. But there was no going back. She’d never get her head out again. She had to move forward. Even if whatever made that sound killed her. Hel. Oh, Hel.

  Holding her breath, she wriggled through the opening. As her hips dropped through, she fell, pitched forward weightless for a heartbeat. Then smacked face-first into a wooden floor.

  The impact filled her eyes with white and left her dazed.

  It took her a moment before she could even roll over. She was lucky she hadn’t broken her neck like that. Gudrun blinked. The moonlight streamed in from the window, offering pale shadows. Above her, Loki stood bound hand and foot, staring at her. And a serpent was chained above him, hissing a
nd spitting venom.

  Acid scorch marks trailed all over Loki’s chest and back and abdomen, in some cases exposing muscle beneath. A handful of rivulets had burned their way down his face. Part of his cheek looked so thin she half expected to be able to see through it in better light.

  “By the goddess …”

  Impossible as it seemed, Loki’s expression actually darkened. “What are you doing here?”

  “I … I’m going to rescue you. And you’re going to help me escape Jotunheim.”

  Loki shuddered, coughed. “How are you going to get me out of this? Wood has grown over my hands and feet.”

  Gudrun grimaced, then drew a stone dagger from beneath her dress. Stealing that had proved challenging. It was sized for a jotunn, meaning for her it was almost as large as a small sword. She’d hoped to break whatever fetters bound Loki. Perhaps she could have chipped through the wood eventually, but that was like to take all night. Unless she could weaken it first.

  She glanced up at the writhing serpent. “Its venom is acidic.”

  “Extremely.”

  That suggested a plan. An insane plan that was like to get her bitten and writhing in pain, dying here.

  Loki stared hard at her. “It doesn’t have much room to move because of its own bonds. But it can react very quickly.”

  Gudrun rose, stepping around behind the serpent’s head. Hel preserve her. With a grunt, she drove the knife up into its skull, puncturing just beneath the jaw. Hot blood sprayed over her face and she whimpered, falling backward until she hit the wall.

  Pressed against the wood, she drew in panicky breaths. The creature hissed, thrashing against its bonds, caught in violent death throes.

  Gudrun wiped her face on the hem of her dress, then stared at the dying beast.

  When all its thrashing finally abated, she stalked forward.

  It only pretends death …

  It lures you in.

  Can you see its fangs lodged in your neck …?

  As if her heart wasn’t about to beat out of her chest already. Grimacing, she grasped the dagger’s hilt. Jerked it free. A fresh stream of blood dribbled out. When the monster didn’t react in the least, she moved to loosen its bindings. Then grabbed the corpse—still warm—and pulled.

  The thing barely moved. What in the name of Hel did this creature weigh?

  She heaved until she could twist the head around to the wood that had grown up around Loki’s hands.

  Sometimes, back in Castle Niflung, they’d worked with vipers to gain their venom for poisons and brews. Never a pleasant task, but Gudrun suspected this one would be similar enough in nature. She pushed just right, until venom dripped on the wood.

  Loki grunted as the acid sizzled.

  It wouldn’t be fast, but once his hands were free, he could help loose his own feet.

  And then, she could not leave Jotunheim behind fast enough.

  50

  Winter had passed and again summer was on the wane when Odin returned to Midgard. His trek had seemed endless, especially given the immediacy of his visions and his inability to act upon them.

  An ever-expanding knowledge of the future ought to have buried doubts in its ceaseless march. Instead, that wisdom had only served to breed more apprehensions within Odin’s breast. It had answered questions with more questions. It had forced upon him bitter revelations he had not sought while yet denying him his ultimate pursuits.

  On the northern shores of Hunaland, outside the Myrkvidr, Odin stood atop a ruined tower. Much of the ceiling had fallen away, but an outer rim against the parapet remained. He leaned against that parapet, staring out over the kingdom of Rijnland.

  Brynhild stood beside him, arms folded across her chest, a slight frown on her face. He’d insisted she stand to his right so he could see her. “Dead?”

  Odin had searched for Hrist in both the Mortal Realm and the Penumbra. He’d found naught but her ring and counted himself lucky at that. The valkyrie had served him well and had surely deserved better than urd had given her. But then, a great many men and women would deserve better than urd dealt them.

  Maybe even Odin himself.

  He worked a calloused hand at his throat. When he shut his eye, he could still feel Fenrir’s jaws closing about his neck. Ripping his throat to shreds. Could feel it as he choked on his own blood.

  He blew out a long breath. “I could not find her. I found … wraiths.”

  Brynhild groaned. She was younger than many of the other valkyries. Bold, rash. She’d betray him, one day.

  Sigrún already had. Odin had come back from the farthest reaches of Utgard to find she’d married Sigmund’s son Helgi without bothering to ask her master’s permission. Even younger than Brynhild, Sigrún had followed her heart, much like Olrun before her.

  Odin could have allowed her to live out a decade or so with Helgi, but it set a bad precedent. And so he’d arranged for her death and reclaimed her ring.

  “First Sigrún and now Hrist,” Brynhild complained.

  The other way around, actually, but it hardly mattered. Nor had he told her of Svanhit’s death. Odin was down three valkyries. He could find more, of course. All it really took was a strong woman, a shieldmaiden, who wanted to extend her life beyond mortal bounds. Anyone willing to wear the ring and pay the price could have wings and a glorious future.

  For a little while.

  All futures were transitory, like all hopes.

  Odin’s now rarified visions had forced him to acknowledge that unpleasant truth. A great many unpleasant truths, in fact. About himself. About his role.

  Someone, in some distant era, had dubbed him Destroyer. It ought not to have surprised Odin that, time and again, he would live up to the name.

  “You have Sigmund’s ear,” Odin said.

  “I whisper to him as he sleeps.”

  “Get him to treat with King Eylimi of Styria. Convince him he must marry Eylimi’s young daughter.”

  Brynhild frowned. “Didn’t Eylimi’s daughter die long ago?”

  “He has another, only sixteen winters old.”

  Now the valkyrie turned on him directly. “And you’d have this girl—a princess—marry a man old enough to be her grandfather? Perhaps it ought not to surprise me a man such as you holds no care for a girl’s free will.”

  The more Odin’s visions revealed, the more he began to question whether anyone truly possessed free will. Or were they all puppets of urd, trapped in roles demanded by what had gone before in an endless procession, enslaved by the past and future alike? “You forget yourself, valkyrie. Do not repeat Sigrún’s mistake.”

  Brynhild glared at him, hands clenched in fists, one edging closer and closer to the hilt of her sword. But she wouldn’t draw it. Her betrayal would come, but not yet. She had more left to do first.

  “You had no need to visit vengeance upon her, either. And now you’ve let Fitela die, as well. Your wild passions drive you to make senseless choices.”

  Odin sighed and turned back to the landscape spreading out before him. Midgard, frozen and poisoned and dying though it was, had its own beauty. It was the world mankind had, and all Odin’s steps had to ensure they kept it. “Fitela no longer mattered.” Not that he’d been the one to order Sigrún off his watch. “And your sister made the dire error of thinking herself free to turn from her oath as the mood took her. The rings bind you in my service, and mine alone.”

  Even without looking, he could feel Brynhild’s glare boring in the back of his head. “I had dared to hope that you—a human—might prove a better lord than the one we had before this. I had not yet begun to fear your cruelty might exceed even his.”

  “My desperation exceeds all others. See that Sigmund marries Eylimi’s daughter Hjordis.”

  The long trek back to Midgard had given Odin uncounted hours to delve into visions of bitter futures. So many revelations. So many half-understood truths now clarified.

  He’d thought Sigmund would be the one to return Andvari’s Gift
to him. Odin had placed all his hopes into the man.

  But it had never been Sigmund who would gain the ring and destroy the Niflungar.

  It would be his yet unborn son.

  51

  A platform surrounded the inside of the palisade around Peregot, with archers rimming it. Grimacing, Sif stared out at the gathered Serklander army. Just out of bow range. They stood in blocky formations, dozens of blocks. Hundreds upon hundreds of men, with their big round shields, spears. Some mounted cavalry.

  They had swept through Aquiene like a wildfire, crushing what forces the Vall King had left to guard it. By the time he’d returned, half his land was lost. Part of the Serkland army would break off from time to time. Probably conquering or raiding other villages. Maybe engaging whatever Vall forces remained free.

  And Sif had come here, fleeing Asgard, to find this cause as hopeless as the one she’d left behind.

  A jotunn bitch whelping Thor’s son. A betrayal that left a rock in Sif’s stomach. A stone that would not pass. Instead it bounced around her gut, turning her insides to a bloody pulp. Crushing her heart with every move she made.

  He’d pled with her to stay. And yet he’d claimed the bastard child as his own.

  And Sif had fled, to find her daughter. To find her half dead. Broken by abuses no woman ought to suffer. Maybe Sif should have taken her and fled. But it was too late now. Maybe it had always been too late.

  The Serklanders might have razed Peregot if they so desired. Instead, they cut off all access to food. To water. Supplies dwindled. People got sick.

  Men lay in alleys, groaning in agony as pustules wept foul fluid all over their bodies. Others shit themselves to death. And the Serks just waited, letting them suffer.

  With a last disgusted look, Sif trod down the stairs off the platform.

  They’d come sooner or later. They’d come and they’d slaughter everyone who refused to bow down to their Fire God. Such they’d done in Andalus, and already in towns and villages throughout Aquiene. Sif didn’t plan to convert. Thrúd was all she had left to live for, and the girl wanted to fight.