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

by Matt Larkin

  57

  Arrows rained down over Peregot. Most fell short. A few unlucky warriors caught one. Hit in the face or torso, most of them, half concealed by the palisade wall. Tyr stood up there anyway. Beside his archers.

  Bertulf had command of them. But Tyr had to see.

  Couldn’t say why the Serks had decided to close in now. Had to come from Lotar and Sif getting murdered. But the connection—Tyr couldn’t figure it. He grimaced as another volley showered down on them.

  Serks were losing twice as many men. Maybe three times as many. Soldiers in the fort had elevation, cover. But the Serks could afford the losses. Still, made no sense them attacking now. Another fortnight and his people would’ve broken, most like.

  Tyr had sent Hermod to call on aid from Queen Frigg. Whatever she sent was like to be too late though. Had the Serks known Hermod got past their lines? Even Tyr didn’t know how he did that. So how could they? Unless they’d caught him.

  Dire thought.

  Aquiene was doomed. Valland soon after, no doubt.

  Maybe Sigmund of Hunaland could stop them at the Rijn. Elsewise, the Serks would just keep coming until they took all Midgard. No one really had the strength to stop them once they broke through here.

  Bastards could’ve taken the town if they wanted. They were just draining away his archers to save their infantry. Wouldn’t be long though. A few days more, at most. Then they’d charge.

  A bloody fight, and any who didn’t swear to their Fire God would die.

  Tyr spit in disgust, then trod down the wooden stairs off the wall. He needed to see Starkad. They were all like to die soon, and things needed saying.

  Didn’t get far though. Sigyn of all people was tromping over his way, beckoning him.

  With a frown, Tyr directed her inside an abandoned tannery. Place stank of stale piss despite being disused. Owner must’ve abandoned it when the arrows started flying.

  Sigyn crinkled her nose. “How does it look out there?”

  Tyr grunted. “Like someone threw wide the gates of Hel. Open and welcoming. Seen at least five eldjotunnar out in their ranks.”

  Sigyn frowned, shaking her head. “They’ll have a caliph among them.”

  “Fucking sorcerers.” He shook his head. Then paused. How would she know that? Woman was twice over too clever, true enough. But still. How?

  She didn’t give him much chance to ask, though. “We can’t hold out until reinforcements get here, can we?”

  “No.” He cracked his neck. Always hurt the worst right before the violence started. So stiff. “Truth is, I’m not sure the Queen could send enough to stop this. Lot of our warriors were already in Valland. Or off across Midgard, trying to prove themselves. Not like we have a standing army just waiting.”

  “If we take the caliph, we might be able to end this.”

  A caliph commanded the Serks, no doubt. Still didn’t answer how she knew for certain one was outside Peregot. “Can’t see much way to arrange that. Wouldn’t know him if I saw him and couldn’t get to him, regardless.”

  Sigyn winced, looking like he’d spit on her boots. “It’s Hödr.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I told you … he’s possessed by a Fire vaettr.”

  Tyr groaned. “Never said how that happened.”

  “I-it … that … doesn’t matter.” She shook her head. “The important thing is, I’ve got Mundilfari here with me.” Tyr had heard rumor some Vanr First One was in the town. Seemed like nonsense. “He can exorcise the vaettr. We save Hödr and deprive them of their leader.”

  Tyr snorted. “Got an army between you and him. Unless he can fly.”

  Sigyn grimaced. “I need you … I need you to draw them into open conflict.”

  “Didn’t notice the arrows flying everywhere? We’re in open conflict. Not like to last too much longer.”

  “Open the gates and charge them.”

  Woman didn’t seem to have a clue how war worked. “Walls are the only advantage we have. As long as our archers hold them, Serks risk awful losses to charge. It’s why they waited this long.”

  “We’ll lose anyway. Your archers are dropping a few at a time. If you charge, they’ll be in chaos. It’ll give us the chance to slip behind their ranks.”

  “Fucking mist-madness. Lose Peregot in a matter of hours.”

  She cringed. “I know.”

  “But you want your son. More than all these lives, right?” He shook his head in disgust.

  “If you take away their caliph, they lose their ability to advance, at least for a time. Long enough for you to coordinate a defense and choose a more advantageous battleground. You said yourself—you’ll lose the city anyway in a few days more.”

  Tyr groaned. Woman talked too much like her husband. All cold reasons for every action. But he nodded.

  Tyr didn’t see much of Starkad. Boy sometimes came on the walls at night. Stared at the Serks like he thought of charging them all by himself.

  Once before, Tyr had tried coming to the man’s house. Learned quick enough he wasn’t wanted.

  Still, found himself banging on the door that afternoon.

  When it opened, his son squinted against the sunlight. Hardly even bright through the mist, and Starkad was blinking like they were on Asgard.

  “Wouldn’t bother you as much if you didn’t spend all day in the dark.”

  Starkad sneered at him, but stepped aside. Let him in. And shut the door the moment he passed. “What do you want?”

  “Sigyn told me her son leads the invasion. A caliph, now.”

  Starkad just kept glaring, eyes narrowed.

  “We’re going to have to charge them.”

  “Now?”

  “City is lost either way.” Sigyn had that much right. “Woman thinks she can get Hödr. Take their leader. Like to get herself killed though. Needs someone good with a blade to watch over her.”

  Boy snorted. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  Tyr nodded. Always so damn hard. “Son …” He reached for Starkad’s shoulder.

  The man slapped his hand away. “Being on the same side does not make us family.”

  Maybe naught ever would again. And Tyr was no good with words. Never had been. All he could offer his son was a nod. “Don’t die.”

  Tyr turned. Paused at the door. The boy could say something. Aught at all …

  But he didn’t. And Tyr left.

  58

  To lose oneself in the currents, to look forward or backward until the now vanished entirely, therein lay the peril of the Sight. The more powerful one’s Sight became, the greater that peril. Odin, with his abilities augmented by the Well of Mimir, oft found himself lost in a trance, barely aware of the happenings around himself.

  He needed to return to the High Seat, to look across the world and take in events happening at this moment. And still his visions drew him ever into far flung times.

  Upon Sleipnir’s back, he let his mind drift, trusting the horse to guide the way back to Hunaland, as they sped along.

  A young man sat in the shelter of a ruined keep, huddled close with his arm around Brynhild, the both of them unclad. He traced a lazy finger along her collarbone, watching where she pointed rather the results of his attentions. The woman taught him runes and secret words mortal man was little meant to know, even as Odin watched her betrayal.

  Even as he knew where it must inevitably lead.

  That boy, Sigurd, he had such potential. Such a grand and terrible urd before him. The delirious raptures of love and victory that preceded a yet more woeful end.

  From the shadows of the Penumbra, Odin saw their ill-fated tryst, watched the lessons and the lovemaking. In the intermingling of their flesh, how could he not see himself and his days with Freyja?

  But found himself forced to extinguish the last of his pity. For neither urd nor history afforded the least mercy to their victims. And Odin was as bound to those forces as any other.

  Perhaps more so.

  And
thus, though Sigurd bore that which Odin so needed—and truly tempted him to strike the both of them down—Odin forestalled his hand.

  Let them have their moment. For a moment was all anyone could ever have.

  From across the fire, Odin stared hard at the young man. Lost in his own thoughts, much as in the boy’s questions.

  “You know my fate, Uncle,” Sigurd said. “Yet you won’t tell me.”

  “Because it will not become easier for the knowing.”

  “Still, I would have it told to me.”

  Odin grimaced. He’d known the words would come. He’d seen it in visions long ago. The conversation playing out over and over in his mind. Was it happening now? Was he watching it or living it? Or perhaps for an oracle, no such distinction yet remained.

  Finally, Odin nodded. The boy wouldn’t be dissuaded. He never had been in all the times they’d played out these events. “It begins as these tales so oft do … with avenging your father …”

  Sigurd came to him as he sat on the edge of a forest, staring at the currents of a river. He could so easily lose himself in their flow. How pleasant to imagine the procession of time would carry ever onward like the river’s currents, rather than face the reality that urd warped everything and time became not a river, but a tide, washing back on itself.

  “Who are you old man?” the boy asked.

  Almost, he could forget the answer to that question as well. He was everyone. He was no one. A thousand lives blended in the tide until he could no longer be sure where one ended and the next began. Was he the men he’d be? Was he the ones who had gone?

  And had this happened yet? How was he to order his visions, if order even mattered?

  “Are you well, old man?”

  Odin. He had been or would be—Odin. At least for a while longer. “You go to choose a horse for yourself, yes?”

  The young man raised a brow. “How can you know that? Did Regin send you?”

  In a strange way, perhaps. In that way in which all urd moved through the tangled web.

  “You want to know the best horse?” Odin smiled, not quite aware of the source of his own amusement. “Let me tell you of Sleipnir …”

  “You summoned me,” Brynhild said. The valkyrie had stepped out of the Penumbra beside Odin, as he’d known she would. Nevertheless, her appearance jerked him from his prescient memories, lurching him through time and leaving him momentarily dazed.

  They stood upon a hill overlooking Sigmund’s camp. The Volsung king’s cluster of tents dotted the edge of the forest, visible mostly from the bonfires between every two or three tents. The mist was thick this night, especially for summer, but the fires held it at bay.

  The old Volsung king was badly outnumbered by his foes. Odin sympathized. How often men conspired with one another to bring down those in positions of great power, as if the conspirators themselves had the wit or the will to do what the glorious had done.

  Such plots had nigh brought down Odin’s reign on Asgard and had left him with fewer allies than he’d once believed he could rely on. And now, similar, weaker men banded together to bring down a champion.

  Odin turned to Brynhild, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The past few winters had weighed more heavily on him, even though he no longer aged.

  Your soul ages … falling into decrepitude and decay … until you can justify aught you wish … I would know …

  “You’ve done well,” he said to Brynhild. The poor woman who could not begin to imagine her own dark urd. “Hjordis is with child. And you’ve protected Sigmund just enough these past years. Ensured he did not meet an untimely end.”

  Brynhild nodded, clearly not expecting a compliment and uncertain how to respond.

  “You have done well,” Odin repeated. The words seemed to speak themselves. Fortunate, as he’d feared he’d have otherwise choked on them. “But now this task is at an end.”

  The valkyrie pulled off her helm—spilling her braids down her back—and tucked it under one arm. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you are not to further interfere with Sigmund. His urd is his own to decide.”

  Was it, though? Given that Odin had already foreseen that fate, that he knew what would happen even if some details remained hazy, did that fate already exist? And if it existed, was it still Sigmund’s decision at all?

  “What the fuck are you on about, old man?” Brynhild demanded. “I’ve not just spent the better part of two years watching over the man to see him die pointlessly now. His enemies have an overpowering force out there.”

  “Sigmund is an overpowering opponent.”

  “He’s a varulf, yes, but that doesn’t make him invincible. Fitela’s death proves—”

  Odin waved his hand. “You are to leave now. Do naught save claim the most valiant slain on both sides and bring them to Valhalla. Make no effort to spare the lives of anyone on this battlefield.”

  The valkyrie glared. Then she jammed her helm back on her head. Then she vanished into the shadows of the Penumbra.

  Sigmund had played an invaluable role. But that role had run its course.

  Sometimes, even the words came to him in the visions. The things others would say. The answers Odin must give them.

  All of it, shadow play.

  59

  Screaming echoed outside. Clanging of metal. Cries of pain. All of it assaulted Sigyn’s enhanced senses as a maelstrom of anguish and suffering. At a woman’s wail, Sigyn winced.

  With Mundilfari, Loki, and Starkad, she sat alone in the fortress dining hall. Others—everyone who hadn’t gone out for the fighting—had locked themselves in the chambers or in barracks or larders, as if anywhere might prove safe.

  The truth was, sending Tyr out there had been a ruse. The chances of them sneaking past the tumult of the battle, finding Hödr, and getting hold of him long enough to exorcise a vaettr approached naught.

  Their soldiers would lose. And Hödr would come here to claim the fort himself. Just when he thought they’d won, she’d save him.

  There was no redemption there. But she’d have her son back.

  Starkad had claimed it was better to wait for nightfall. Which was when it had hit her. He always preferred to move or fight after dark. Watching him close, she wasn’t certain how she’d missed it before.

  The lack of regular breathing. The lack of sweat. And when she focused her senses, she still heard no heartbeat.

  Because Starkad was dead.

  He didn’t seem to rot as draugar so oft did, but he must share their aversion to sunlight. It stole the powers of the dead. And so he’d prefer to fight at night or inside, where no light from the sun could reach him.

  As here, in the dining hall.

  A meaningful glance with Loki had confirmed he’d realized the same conclusion. But he hadn’t spoken of it, either. It made no difference, maybe, so long as the man was on their side. Tyr didn’t know—Sigyn was fair certain of that.

  Mundilfari milled about the dining hall, mumbling to himself, and occasionally painting runes on the walls or the floor. He’d bemoaned not being able to reach the ceiling.

  Starkad kept to himself, sitting in a corner, eerily still. One more sign she couldn’t believe she’d missed when she first met him.

  Loki’s hand fell upon hers and curled around her fingers in a gentle squeeze. A small comfort before a terrible end. Only at his touch did she realize—she’d been trembling.

  A tremendous crack resounded through the fort—the sound of the barricade breaking. The cries of battle had begun to dim outside, replaced by the screams of slaughter and rape throughout the town. Sigyn forced herself not to listen, instead, rising to her feet and unshouldering her bow.

  It was time. He was coming.

  Loki and Starkad had flipped one of the great tables on its side already. Sigyn took up position behind this, for cover. Mundilfari sat down beside her, still talking to shadows, while the other two men drew blades and flanked the entryway. Starkad bore a runeblade, Si
gyn suddenly realized. A faint, almost imperceptible light seeped from the grooves carved along its length.

  She prayed it would be enough.

  Moments later, Serklander soldiers came bursting through the door.

  Starkad tore into them with unrivaled speed and fury, his blades reflecting the light from the brazier in the instant before blood coated them.

  Loki grabbed a soldier and bodily hurled him aside even while he hacked at the legs of another.

  Despite the two men’s ferocity, the Serklanders surged into the hall faster than either could cut them down. In the space of a few heartbeats, Sigyn lost sight of her allies in the melee. She loosed an arrow at the first Serklander to break away.

  The shaft took him in the mouth.

  Already she was nocking another. Draw. Loose.

  She had to trust her instincts and her enhanced senses to guide her shots true. She had no time to take aim with care. Another shot, and another.

  And then they were too close. Surging over the table.

  Sigyn dropped her bow and jerked a knife from her belt the instant before a swordsman closed in on her. Drawing her pneuma made her fast and strong. It didn’t make her an expert in combat. She dodged away as he swiped.

  How was she to close in against his superior reach? All she could do was keep leaping backward. Relying on pneuma-enhanced reflexes to dodge his swipes. After the fifth one, his swings seemed to slow ever so slightly. Fatigue in his arm. If she could keep this up, she could—

  His next swipe came too fast, tearing into her thigh and sending her tumbling to the ground. She lay prone before the pain even hit. And it hit hard. As if his blade had been aflame. The agony of it screamed in her head drowning out all other thought.

  The Serklander raised his blade high, intent to cleave her head in twain.