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

by Matt Larkin

  Gudrun was already shaking her head. “No, no … I’ve already been through too much. You don’t know what they’ve done to me.”

  Brynhild’s gut began churning. Gudrun’s dream—assuming it did portend the future—seemed to confirm her worst fears. That all of their lives would be wrapped up in a maelstrom of suffering that would unravel them both. “You touched the Otherworlds … and they touched you back.”

  “How petty it seems when you phrase it thus. I have lost so much already.” Gudrun suddenly reached out and grabbed Brynhild’s hand. Instinct at the unexpected motion had Brynhild’s other hand already clenched into a fist before she realized Gudrun was imploring her. “How do we avert this?” the Niflung asked. “How do we stop the portent from coming about?”

  “I … I don’t know that we can.” Brynhild didn’t claim to be an expert in the web of urd. Could such a destiny be changed?

  “We have to try.” Gudrun was shaking her head. “I don’t want to see any more … just … no more. Send someone to meet with us. Let there be peace, Brynhild. I would choose to be your friend rather than your enemy. I’m so … tired of fighting.”

  The woman’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Brynhild couldn’t believe she could fake such earnestness.

  On impulse, she drew the other princess into an embrace. “If the Niflungar truly want peace, then we have to try, don’t we?” She nodded, even as Gudrun held her. The woman was actually trembling, actually frightened. What frightened a sorceress? “I will send someone to Samsey to strike up negotiations. If both sides want peace, how can we not achieve it?”

  Gudrun pulled away, smiling, though still sniffling in the process. “I’m glad I came to you.”

  Brynhild stroked Gudrun’s hair. “You’re not what I expected.”

  Gudrun chuckled at that. “A few lifetimes of regret can have that effect, I guess.”

  Brynhild nodded. “All right. All right. Now, please, enjoy the feast, or Heimir will surely taken offense.”

  At last, the Niflung princess waved over a slave and took a plate of cod. She and Brynhild shared a horn of ale, then played tafl. Despite herself, Brynhild truly wanted to like Gudrun.

  To believe the woman actually meant well.

  “You told me,” Brynhild said to Sigurd, “that Alf and Hjalprek had wanted you to visit the Niflungar and try to make peace with them.”

  Sigurd nodded. He’d returned a fortnight after Gudrun had departed. Already, the snows had begun, and a winter storm rumbled outside. The wind’s howl reached inside the fortress, threatening bitter cold in the moons ahead. “They’re not far from breaking, truth be told. Hjalprek doesn’t want to surrender his pride, but he’d rather lose that than his kingdom. Somehow they hope my name and reputation will let them keep both. I’m honor bound to try, at some point.”

  Brynhild sat in front of an oil lamp, warming her hands by its flame, with Sigurd across from her, lounging on his side. Brynhild studied the lines of his face. Naught came without risk, but still, she hated to send him for this. “Gunnar’s sister called upon me while you were away. She too wants to talk of peace—is desperate for it, in fact.”

  “Why should the Niflungar be desperate?”

  “I don’t think they are, just their princess.”

  Sigurd grunted. “So you’d have me try, as well. Of course, I must. Come summer, I’ll sail for their lands.”

  “I don’t think it can wait that long. I got the impression that if we do not salve the tensions soon, come summer Samsey will make war.” Or at least those dreams gave that impression. Assuming Gudrun spoke the truth of them. Brynhild rubbed her knees. “Still, I don’t want you to go, least of all now.”

  Sigurd grimaced. “Right. Travel in winter is difficult enough. But it’s not far to Samsey, I can do it if I must.”

  Brynhild could only groan at that. “I’m sure you can. I mean to say … I’m with child, Sigurd.”

  He sat up abruptly, gaping at her. “Truly?”

  Now she let her hand fall to her belly. “I’m fair certain, yes.” As a valkyrie, she once had moderate control over such things and could avoid or allow conception as it suited her. And it never had before.

  “Then it has to be me. We cannot risk you traveling in winter, not if it would place the babe at peril.”

  “I know.”

  He scooted around the side of the lamp and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave as soon as this storm breaks, and I’ll be back within a moon or so.”

  “Be wary, Sigurd. These people are treacherous. Gudrun might be the only one among them I’d even consider trusting.”

  Her husband nodded. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  “And Sigurd? Whatever else happens, you come back alive.”

  25

  Castle Niflung rose from the mountain slopes on Samsey like claws scraping out of the mist, grasping to hold the sky. All Sigurd saw of this place bespoke a land thick with ghosts and caught out of time. An apt thought, no doubt, given that the folk of Reidgotaland feared the Niflungar as an ancient people they may have wished were lost to the mists of time. Even Regin—especially Regin—had cautioned him to remain ever wary of the descendants of Halfdan the Old.

  The Niflungar were one of the original bearers of a runeblade, of Gramr, in fact, and they were famed as sorcerers and worshipers of Hel. Savvy ones, though, who had nigh swept over all Reidgotaland before Healfdene united the land under his rule. Some claimed the Niflungar resisted even the Aesir.

  The death of Gjuki some decades ago had broken the better part of Niflung strength, but still, they remained a dark shadow hovering over the Morimarusa and Gandvik, and Regin claimed no one knew the full extent of their influence. They trafficked with the Otherworlds and thus knew secrets beyond the ken of mankind. But then, Sigurd knew far more than any man ought to, as well.

  The mists danced about his feet as he climbed the rocky slope toward that hidden castle. Its tower must have reached eighty feet up, an architectural wonder ending in a spear-like point. While Sigurd wasn’t given to fear such things, still, this place left him feeling small, and weak. Not given to fear, no, but he could understand why men would be.

  In the mist, shadows seemed to move like hints of men, almost invisible but following his progress toward the open gate. An escort? An illusion? Either way, it was probably intended to intimidate him, so Sigurd kept his face plain and his gaze locked on the gate. Let them think he cared naught for their trickery.

  A raven cawed, having alighted on the wall. “Beware treachery.”

  Sigurd nodded at the bird.

  Frost tickled his skin as he passed onward, forming crystals on his clothes and in his short beard.

  He passed through the gate unimpeded, but in the hall beyond, a dark-haired man met him with a full retinue of warriors. The man bore a crown of gold, a glittering pendant, and silver rings. At his side he had belted a silver-hilted sword.

  “King Gunnar?” Sigurd said, nodding at the man.

  The king returned the gesture without expression. “King Sigurd. We’ve been long expecting you. Come, be welcome in the lands of the Niflungar and trust all of your desires shall be fulfilled in this blessed place.”

  Expecting him? Sigurd wasn’t certain he much liked to hear that. Still, the king seemed more than gracious and hardly the vile aggressor others painted him as.

  “My thanks,” Sigurd said.

  The Niflung king led him up a spiraling staircase. “We do not have guests so very often here, so you’ll forgive the staff for gawking.”

  Indeed, servants eyed him with obvious nervousness as he crested the top of the stairs. As if Sigurd did not find large groups of people awkward enough to begin with. “It’s of no worry.”

  “May I be honest with you?” Gunnar asked, glancing at Sigurd as he led him toward a pair of double doors beyond the landing.

  “Please.”

  “My sister had a foretelling of your arrival. She has a gift with t
he Sight, you see, and it plagues her dreams sometimes.”

  Sigurd grunted. “Your sister Gudrun? She came to call upon Heimir in Hlymdalir not so very long ago.”

  “Because of the dreams, yes.” Gunnar waved his hand, and servants flung open the doors revealing a great hall set with stone tables. Between the tables, engraved columns supported a vaulted ceiling, all of it speaking of opulence that still paled before the jewel-encrusted thrones in the back of the room.

  In one of these thrones sat a beautiful blonde woman with piercing eyes. Gunnar’s sister?

  “I give you my mother, Queen Grimhild.”

  Mother? The woman didn’t look half old enough to be mother to a grown man. Had her sorcery forestalled aging? It must have. The way she looked at Sigurd made his skin crawl with a sense of guilt, as if he’d been caught up to some mischief as a child.

  The woman inclined her head, never releasing Sigurd from her discomfiting gaze.

  “Word came of your arrival at the shore,” Gunnar said, “so I’ve already had the servants preparing a feast in your honor. I doubt it’s ready, however, so please, come and sit, and drink with us.”

  Gunnar beckoned him to a table where already several others sat, among them a man decked with silver rings himself that, save for his lighter hair, might have been a twin to Gunnar. “My brother, Hogne.”

  Sigurd took the offered seat across from Hogne, giving a nod to the man. The prince raised his silver flagon in Sigurd’s direction.

  No sooner had he seated himself than a servant appeared—a girl of perhaps ten winters—bearing two flagons to match the one Hogne had. One she handed to King Gunnar and the other to Sigurd. It was filled with rich amber ale, and Sigurd took a long swig before setting it upon the table.

  “Your hospitality is most gracious,” he said.

  “Not what you expected?” Hogne asked with a grin.

  “Uh … no, in truth. Most of Reidgotaland thinks unkindly of you and your intentions. I come here as a representative of Cimbria and Laaland, both, in the hopes we might avoid conflict with your people.”

  Gunnar rubbed his short beard then groaned slightly. “I understand, King Sigurd. I want you to know that I truly do. In fact, I’m glad it was you that has come. Your exploits have already become legend in the North Realms. Slaying Fafnir, claiming a throne. I daresay you surpass even your famous father. And you care for the lands of your foster family and of your wife, Lady Brynhild.”

  Sigurd sipped his flagon, not certain what to say. He had far more experience making peace with Gramr than with words. “Deeply.”

  “I’m going to ask something of you,” Gunnar said. “Something I hope will not be a burden. Remain here on Samsey with us a while, a moon perhaps. Go riding and hunting in the woods with my brother and I. Tour the villages and let me show you some of our other fortresses.”

  “Not an onerous request, but I have to ask—to what end?”

  “Because, you see us as villains, your vision clouded by the perspective of those who told you to fear us. And indeed, perhaps there is truth to that, for we know things the rest of mankind has long forgotten. Therein lies the perspective you must consider. Our perspective. For centuries we waited, idle, while the world around us decayed from the glories of the Old Kingdoms. Every land in the North Realms was splintered and divided among petty kings. But still, we waited, gave them their chance to hold Midgard together.

  “And what did they do with that chance? Slaughter each other and continue to descend into further depths of ignorance. How could we not see such so-called kings as aught more than children needing guidance and a firm hand? Tale tells it that you yourself were trained by a dverg, yes? Did you gain your strength by being coddled? Did you find the courage and prowess needed to lay low a linnorm by being left to grow as your whims decided? Or, as I find more likely, did the wretched creature beat you into submission like iron ore until you became stronger than steel?”

  Sigurd sighed. “What you say is true … Regin did not foster me with … generosity.”

  “Perhaps you sell him short,” Hogne said. “Surely you owe the creature for making you into who you are.”

  Sigurd wanted to spit but who knew how these people would react? “A debt I repaid in full.”

  Gunnar chuckled as if he somehow knew of Regin’s urd.

  Sigurd rubbed his forehead. “I agree to your request. I will stay, I will ride with you, I will hear your words. For a moon. Then I return to Brynhild and I’ll give her your answer, whether it be peace or war. For all our sakes, I hope I give her an answer of peace.”

  Gunnar nodded, smiling ever so slightly.

  A feast of seven kinds of fish was served, and none of the Niflungar raised any talk of politics again, rather speaking of glories of fallen kingdoms and tales of great warriors from days long ago. And Sigurd couldn’t help but like them.

  During the feast, Gunnar’s sister Gudrun appeared and she was very much her mother’s daughter, with golden hair and beautiful blue eyes. She ate little, though she drank many flagons of ale. After the first two, she grew cheerful, laughing and carrying on like one of her brothers.

  Sigurd found himself easily caught in the merriment.

  Only when they gave him chambers to rest in, when he lay abed, did he stop and feel lost. For if he could not convince Gunnar to give up his ambitions to rule Reidgotaland, Sigurd would have no choice but to fight these people he liked. No choice but to kill them.

  26

  Drenched in mist and built from rocky soil, Castle Niflung had no gardens, a fact that Gudrun had oft lamented. Still, the cliffs by the sea had their own unique beauty, and along those she walked with Sigurd. The Hunalander king had asked to tour Samsey, and Gunnar had promised to take him around the island on the morn. In the meantime, Gudrun had shown him the castle, and now, beyond that, the mountain upon which it was built.

  The man spoke of his travels, of how he’d slain the linnorm Fafnir, a dverg somehow transmogrified into a dragon. Gudrun did not think that possible unless the creature had long born some magical artifact that had somehow warped him. And if that were so, surely Sigurd must have taken that artifact after slaying the beast.

  He spoke a little, too, of how the dverg Regin had fostered him, harshly. Though he did not let slip any details, Gudrun knew all too well the cruelty of vaettir. Dvergar, in particular, had a reputation for wanting others to share their eternal suffering. From the gaps in his tale, Gudrun could guess what shame, pain, and rage the creature had inflicted upon the man. Somehow, he still seemed to somewhat grieve Regin’s murder, though she imagined he’d have welcomed it had someone else slain the bastard.

  “You know he’s not dead, right?” she said. Would that be a comfort or a burden? “Vaettir don’t die just because you kill their mortal host. They just get weakened and sent back to the Spirit Realm.”

  “I suspected something of the sort, from things he said in passing, but no, I did not know it for certain.”

  Gudrun nodded and paused at the cliff’s edge. Out here, you could hear the lapping of the waves, far below, though the mist prevented her from seeing the waters. “You should not be troubled for sending one of those bastards back where it belongs.”

  “Perhaps not.” He shrugged. “I mean, I am not. I’m not, truly.”

  Gudrun watched him from the corner of her eye. He too was staring out over the mist, perhaps searching for the sea.

  “Brynhild spoke highly of you,” he said. “She hoped I’d be able to come to an accord with your people, but your brother seems more inclined to try to convince me of your right to rule all Midgard.”

  Gudrun chuckled. “Well, Gunnar is … earnest. He believes he does have that right, and more than that, I think he truly wants you to believe it too. He was always like that, so very certain of himself. Not all of us have that luxury, but I guess that’s why mother chose him as the new king after father … after he passed.”

  Sigurd nodded. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you an
d I appreciate your honesty. I will travel with Gunnar as I agreed, and I’ll give him the chance to convince me.” His wry grin told her that her brother had about as much chance of that as a snow maiden had in taking over Muspelheim.

  And that thought somehow pained her. Part of her wanted Gunnar to succeed in winning over the Hunalander king. As if his approval somehow validated everything she’d been through. As if knowing the Niflungar had the right and duty to take command of Midgard would have made her suffering worthwhile.

  With the sun setting, she guided him back inside.

  Gudrun sat alone in her chamber, sipping Grimhild’s draught mixed with ale and staring out her window at the moon. Would she dream tonight? What would the visions show her? Most oft, they brought pain, yes, but that did not mean she could turn away from them. They had foretold Sigurd’s coming a fortnight before his arrival.

  In her dream he had looked much as he did in life, and they had laughed and talked all through the night. He’d made love to her and it had seemed so real she’d woken up drenched in sweat and so aroused she’d called in a slave to sate her.

  And then he had arrived and she felt her heart lurch. Was she a fool maid to pine over a man she’d seen only in a dream? Or had the dream itself created her reality such that she now so craved his touch? So many times she’d verged on tracing her fingers along his arm, offering him a sign of her willingness to take him to her bed.

  Except he kept mentioning Hel-damned Brynhild. Yes, Gudrun had liked her, true, but she’d had no idea the woman’s husband would leave her feeling so overwrought.

  Her door slipped open and she leapt up, half expecting Sigurd to have come to fulfill her unspoken desires. Instead, her mother strode in, leaving Gudrun to slump back down on the windowsill.