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

by Matt Larkin

  Despite it all, despite the awful scars. Despite the horrors she’d endured.

  The bitter rage of it all choked Sif.

  She trudged through the town, wrinkling her nose at the stench. Even before the siege, enclosed places like this suffocated in their own foulness. But now … now it was like drowning in a sea of filth. Flies buzzed everywhere.

  The people didn’t bother with separate pyres anymore. Instead, every night there’d be a pile of corpses to burn. Sometimes two.

  She found Starkad Eightarms in the small house he’d claimed. The man refused to sleep in the barracks where his father stayed. Just as well. Tyr had let Thrúd get hurt when she was supposed to be under his care. Sif had no desire to see that troll’s arse. There was only so many times you could slap a man before it lost its satisfaction.

  Starkad stared hard at her when she entered. At night, he leapt over the wall. Snuck out among the Serks and killed a few. Probably didn’t do much good, but he never got caught. The how and why of it, he never said.

  Sif shut the door behind herself. Starkad always kept the windows shuttered too. She turned around and pressed up against the wall, setting her hips for him. They never talked about it.

  She felt it, as he strode silently over. He unlaced her trousers with practiced ease and was inside her in a moment. And then she was grunting in time with his thrusts.

  Hard. He used her hard. That was the agreement.

  A moment of relief.

  And then she’d lace up her trousers and leave. Not a word between them.

  Because none of it meant shit.

  Her daughter looked up when Sif entered the room. She’d been staring at a metal hand mirror, but hid it behind her back as Sif came in. How in the gates of Hel had the girl gotten hold of that? No one ought to have provided it …

  Tyr had given Thrúd a private chamber in the fort—small consolation—and she spent most of her time here. Sometimes she still went out and practiced with weapons. Sif tried to encourage her whenever she could.

  But Thrúd had good reason to want to hide away.

  Vicious scars marred her face where Hödr had branded her. A handprint, permanently burned around her mouth. The skin had melted and warped, becoming a wrinkled mess. Thrúd had told Sif that her Great Aunt Sigyn had saved her life. Given that Sigyn’s obscene child had done this, that admission was all that kept Sif from throttling her aunt.

  The woman—wisely—seemed to avoid Sif whenever possible.

  Had Thor been here or learned of Thrúd’s fate, he’d like have killed Sigyn and Hödr both. Maybe he still would, should they live through the siege. Unlikely as that now seemed.

  Sif sat down beside the girl and patted her on the knee. “It doesn’t matter so much as you think.”

  Thrúd rolled her eyes. “I heard a story that Father almost killed Great Uncle Loki for cutting your hair.” Actually, Sigyn had done that. And Sif had probably deserved it. “Hair grows back. I can’t even close my godsdamned lips.”

  It was true. They had burnt away, leaving a permanent gap exposing her teeth. A twisted one, that made it seem like she forever sneered.

  Sif rubbed Thrúd’s knee. “There is more to life than your looks, Thrúd.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like … family.”

  Now she snorted. “Father betrayed you with another woman. And now you’ve got some secret lover, too.” Sif opened her mouth to object and Thrúd leveled a gaze filled with such scorn she gave over the idea. “And Hödr was basically my cousin.”

  Hearing that from her daughter, fourteen winters old … it was a lance of ice through Sif’s chest. It stole her breath. Blasted the thoughts from mind, save for a wordless, soundless anguish. Desperately, she worked her mouth trying to find something, aught at all, that she could say. “So live for … vengeance.”

  “What?”

  “Ram a spear right up that bastard’s arse and don’t stop until the point scrapes his teeth.”

  Thrúd stared at her a moment. Then she chuckled. Shook her head. “Show me how.”

  Sif met her daughter’s gaze. And she nodded.

  Sif passed among the soldiers in the lower level of the fortress. Evening had settled in and all had given over training for boasting and gossiping. So much less boisterous than they’d been a few moons back. Back then, they’d still had some wine left. Now, even the water was running low. Now, they’d seen so many of their own drop dead from illness or dehydration.

  Slow, horrible deaths. And those who lived knew the same urd lay before them.

  Or they could open the gates and make a hopeless final charge against their foes. At least then, maybe some of them might make it to Valhalla.

  It was madness, the waiting. King Lotar seemed to hope his brother’s army would ride in to break the siege. But Prince Bernard’s army was either not coming, or mired in their own battles against the rest of the Serklander forces.

  Sif stared at the downtrodden soldiers. In truth, it was less gossip than griping. Bickering. These men were nigh to broken.

  How long would it last before riots broke out? Another fortnight? A moon if they were lucky?

  No. No, she wasn’t going to sit here and wait to die.

  Shaking her head, Sif started up the stairs for Lotar’s chambers, her words a jumble in her mind. They had her and Tyr, plus Hermod, and they’d all had apples of Yggdrasil. Three Ás immortal warriors. Hel, even Sigyn was rumored to be a masterful archer. Starkad Eightarms was … well, not quite an Ás immortal so far as Sif knew. But clearly something more than a normal man, still.

  They faced superior numbers of the enemy, true. The greater concern seemed to be these Sons of Muspel which she’d heard were a match for an Ás immortal, hard as that was to credit. So they just needed to make certain where and how many …

  Lotar’s door guard was asleep at his post. That sort of thing could get a man whipped. Of course, he probably hadn’t had a proper meal in a moon. No, she didn’t need to report him. Everyone was wrung out like linens. Worn thin. Seeing one of their own beaten for it wouldn’t do the soldiers’ morale any favors.

  Instead, she slipped past the guard and into the king’s study.

  Lotar himself was also asleep, slumped over his desk, papers splayed this way and that. Not even the king was getting proper nutrition. His was like to be a short reign.

  She should go. Just turn around and let him sleep and take this up in the morning.

  Hand on the door, she paused. Was she just putting off the difficulty of this conversation? Would she lose her nerve come daybreak?

  With a sigh, Sif drifted over to Lotar’s desk. Then faltered. Blood had seeped into his papers.

  “What the …?” She lifted his head.

  His eyes were open, glazed over. Blood dribbling from his mouth.

  “Oh. Oh, fuck.” An assassin? How had he gotten into the fortress? The guards. She had to get the—

  A hand slapped over her mouth.

  A blow struck her in the side. Heavy. Stealing her breath. Burning pain lanced through her an instant later. Sif yanked against the arm, but even with the apple’s power, her assailant was as strong as her.

  She clapped a hand to her side. Hot blood seeped through her fingers. Gushing out.

  She’d been stabbed.

  The room swayed. An iron grip held her in place.

  Sif jerked her elbow back into her assailant. Her foe let out an oomph and stumbled backward.

  Sif turned and tried to cry out. Blood gurgled up from her mouth, choking her scream. A cloaked figure dashed into her, bearing her to the ground. Her head slammed the floor.

  A haze of white filled her vision.

  Another punch in the ribs. Followed by more pain. A hand slapped over her mouth again.

  Her vision came half into focus. Her enormously strong foe lay atop her.

  Beyond the hood of her cloak, blonde hair fell in loose strands. A glimpse of her eyes.

  Sigyn?

 
Sif had lost her grip on the apple’s power. Losing too much blood.

  She felt it, as the blade opened her throat. Couldn’t get air in through Sigyn’s hand. Couldn’t breathe.

  Her own blood welled inside her throat. Choking on it. Convulsing.

  Everything fading. Even the pain.

  52

  In the back of an alley, surrounded by putrid filth and chittering rats, Sigyn wept, arms wrapped around herself. She wept even as the rats crawled over her skin. Even as they sniffed her with their itchy whiskers.

  Sobbed, until all her tears had run dry. Then she convulsed in silent anguish, unable to arrest her tremors.

  She ought to have killed herself. It would’ve spared everyone a great deal of grief. She ought to plunge the same dagger that had slain Sif into her own heart.

  But then, Hödr would be lost.

  And was his life worth Sif and Lotar’s?

  It had to be. She was his mother.

  And because Sif had walked in on her, Sigyn had murdered her own niece.

  For that, she would writhe in eternal torment in the pit of Nidhogg. A kinslayer. Murderer.

  In the wake of Lotar’s murder, Tyr had taken command. He’d begun a search for the assassin, his men combing the city seeking a Serklander. Of course, they’d not find one. Sigyn watched them, going house-to-house now.

  Did they see her looking at them? Could they hear the pounding of her heart? Surely guilt was writ plainly upon her face. Yet they passed her by with barely a glance.

  Maybe it was worse. Getting away with it.

  And in the end, they gave over the search, claiming the assassin must have slipped over the wall.

  Which was true, in a way.

  The swan cloak made sneaking out of the fort possible, if never easy. Twice, archers had shot at Sigyn, no doubt seeking to stave off starvation for even a day. Already, they’d begun slaughtering their horses. Any not fit to ride into battle, they’d roasted.

  Sigyn almost wished the archers had succeeded. A fitting end to her treachery. Instead, she snuck out of the fort every so often, transferred her reports to one of Scyld’s men. And he promised her Hödr would remain safe.

  And then he’d ordered her to murder Lotar.

  Maybe he expected it to break the Valls’ spirit. Maybe he expected it to make them open the gates and lead a suicidal charge. Either way, he’d told her to choose between her son’s life and that of a foreign king. Hardly a choice at all, much as she despaired over it.

  Sigyn sat blessedly alone in the tiny house she’d claimed. Sadly, Peregot had a great number of empty houses these days, even with the refugees. Whole families died of pox, and no one wanted to take up where they had stayed. Mundilfari had claimed one such home, prompting Sigyn to take one too.

  As much to stay clear of the Mad Vanr, who now followed her far too oft for her liking. Sometimes, out of nowhere, he’d ask if she’d mind him sticking his cock in her. In public, he’d ask, as if it were something one did in the market. Not that she’d consent to ever lay with the delusional Vanr.

  No, she’d claimed a place he didn’t know of and whiled her days away in there. Slowly choking on her own wretchedness. Suffocating from toxins born within her breast.

  Yes, her house lay across from the gates of Hel. The Queen of Mist—her husband’s daughter—stared at her. Waited to claim her stepmother.

  And when Sigyn could stand it no longer, she’d go to the fort, to Tyr. And gather more intelligence to share with Scyld’s spy. Because it all had to mean something. If Sigyn were to stop now, to refuse … then Sif would have died for naught.

  The door to her new home opened, slowly, as if in nervousness.

  And Loki slipped inside, shutting the door behind himself.

  Sigyn blinked. She was hallucinating now. Her guilt or despair had driven her mind to collapse and conjure up shades of her own desires.

  “Sigyn.”

  “Are you real?” Her breath caught as he nodded. He couldn’t be here. He was gone … for so long. He and Odin had disappeared in their quest for Mimir’s well. She’d begun to fear she’d lost him too. “I …” She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t get enough air.

  She sucked in great lungfuls but it wasn’t enough. She was suffocating.

  Lying on the floor.

  Loki’s warm hand fell on her shoulder, rubbing. “I’m here now. I’m here.”

  The tide broke in her, and she wept, curled in a ball. Sobbed on and on as he held her in his arms. An eternity, it seemed.

  “I … I …” She couldn’t think. The haze of despondency had left her in a fugue from which she’d never expected to pull free. “I …”

  “Yes, Sigyn.”

  “I … murdered …”

  Silence. A pause. Then he squeezed her shoulder again. “I saw. I just don’t know why.”

  He knew. Of course he knew. The flames told him things. So many things.

  Panting, Sigyn pulled away to look into his crystal blue eyes. “They have Hödr.”

  “Who does?”

  “The Sons of Muspel. They told me to do as they bid if I wished to see him again. The spy, he … he said I must kill Lotar. And uh … Sif came in before I could escape. I didn’t know what to do! I j-just acted. I had to protect my son and I …”

  Loki leaned forward and grabbed her shoulders. Hard. Squeezed, until she met his gaze once more. “Whatever you did is done. You must live with it. Bury the guilt as best you can.”

  “I should confess …”

  “No!” Loki shook her. “Sigyn … I can’t lose you. Not again.”

  Again … Such a muddle. Her mind wasn’t working right.

  “Listen to me,” Loki said. “Maybe you did as you had to, maybe not. Either way, it’s done. You can’t change it. Sometimes we make impossible choices. Sometimes … a bad choice forestalls an even worse possibility. Urd is cruel.” He shook his head.

  “Aquiene is lost. They’ll take Peregot soon, I think.”

  Loki stared hard at her a moment. “Arrange another meeting with this spy.”

  “To what end?”

  He fell silent a moment, even shut his eyes. They twitched as if he was in pain. “With everything you sacrificed to save Hödr … we must get him back. Let’s find our son.”

  53

  Hjordis, daughter of Eylimi, alone could be a match for Sigmund. This thought echoed in his mind over and over, as it had for a moon. It resounded in his dreams. It filled his waking hours. As it had every day on the road to Styria.

  Long enough had passed since Borghild had died, and Sigmund would not spend the rest of his long life alone. It was not fit for a king to live thus. No, he needed a queen.

  He could not say exactly how or when the idea had settled upon him, but once it had, he could not shake it. It consumed him.

  Tale had reached him of Hjordis’s beauty, said to rival even great Freyja, the fallen Vanr goddess. Surely the great king of Hunaland must have such a beauty for himself. Surely.

  And so he came to Eylimi’s hall, along with his retinue of men and shieldmaidens, leaving Hamund to rule over Rijnland in his absence.

  Eylimi, having gotten word of their coming, received them in grand fashion. After all, he remained one of the last true supporters of Sigmund’s crumbling kingdom.

  Menzlin had withdrawn from the empire, even risking war. Garth had died in grief at his daughter’s bloody slaughter in the Myrkvidr, and Hildebrand had declared Rijnland their foes. Sigmund had fought several bloody skirmishes with Menzlin before Baia too withdrew and entered into an alliance with Menzlin, under their newly declared king, Lyngi, son of Hunding. A son who had managed to escape Helgi’s slaughter of his line.

  Two men with much reason to hate the Volsungs.

  War would not rage in the winter, but by next summer, Sigmund expected more than mere battles to divide the kingdoms of Hunaland. Everything was falling apart.

  King Eylimi fed him plate after plate of steaming bear flesh and leeks, keeping i
t all washed down with a steady flow of drink.

  “Do you know why I’ve come?” Sigmund asked when he had eaten all he could stand and more.

  “I can think of a few possible reasons,” Eylimi replied.

  His daughter milled about behind him, ordering around the slaves who catered to the guests. Her flower had truly blossomed, with luscious golden hair and a healthy curve to her form. Even looking at her had Sigmund’s cock straining against his trousers.

  “Your daughter is of marrying age,” Sigmund said.

  The girl flushed and turned away, obviously pretending not to hear.

  Eylimi nodded. “Yes, and I’ve received a number of offers for her hand. Jarls loyal to me and their sons. Even a Vall noble if you can believe that. And of course, kings …”

  As if introduced, another man across the table rose. A young man, but a scar across his chin spoke of battles.

  “This is King Lyngi of Baia,” Eylimi said.

  Here? Now? Sigmund’s first instinct was to leap the table and slay the traitor king with his bare hands. Doing so would violate all rules of hospitality, though, and Sigmund could never act so dishonorably, even if it would not have cost him his very kingdom. And it would have.

  Instead, Sigmund offered Lyngi a nod of moderate respect—the most he could manage. “King.”

  “King Sigmund,” Lyngi said, voice tight. If only Helgi had managed to slaughter the last of Hunding’s brood …

  Ironic. Siggeir Wolfsblood had made the same mistake in allowing Sigmund to escape, and it had brought down his line. Would such a dark urd now befall the Volsungs? No. Sigmund would not allow Lyngi to become the undoing of his kin.

  Eylimi cleared his throat. “You see my difficulty, here. With so many great offers come to me, I must disappoint someone. Disappointing a foreign noble means little, of course.” A few chuckles. “And my jarls are used to disappointment, I’d think.” A couple of groans accompanied by some nods. “Kings, though, have been known to take disappointment badly.”