Gods of the Ragnarok Era Omnibus 3: Books 7-9

by Matt Larkin

  Well.

  It was a fair trek from here to Yggdrasil, especially with the floods and snowstorms. Still, Narfi would go for the Tree, if he wasn’t already there. The greatest power in all the world came from Yggdrasil, even before Father had built the damn rainbow bridge.

  Narfi would go for it.

  And Thor would be there to … uh … what was that word? Annihilate! Thor would annihilate him, his army, and anyone else on hand. By the time he was done, he’d have fed Mjölnir enough jotunn souls to bring the lightning back.

  Actually, that was a damn fine plan. Then he could use the hammer at full power to knock down Thrymheim itself. Send those towers and walls crumbling. The jotunnar wanted to murder children? Well, fuck it. Thor would feed their children’s souls to Mjölnir, too. Let it shit out baby lightning bolts.

  They had earned the utter end of their existence.

  A felled tree trunk floated by, not three feet from where Thor stood waist high in waters. It was like fording a river just to reach Yggdrasil. If he recalled right, a small river had once run through this valley, tumbling down from the mountains above in gentle falls.

  Well, now the river encompassed fields that had once grown wheat, as well as an apple orchard. Many trees still stuck out of the new lagoon, but Thor didn’t imagine they’d last unless the flooding retreated soon. The saltwater would have to kill them, wouldn’t it?

  Eh. Thor was no farmer, but he’d heard saltwater killed stuff.

  Except for fish. And whales.

  Oh, and uh, the kraken.

  Well, Thor had never seen the kraken, but maybe once he’d killed all the jotunnar, he could feed that thing to Mjölnir, too. It had to have a strong soul, assuming he could find the damn creature.

  Ahead, a scaly-legged sea jotunn trudged amid the dying apple trees.

  Well. Thor hadn’t specifically come hunting these bastards, but if he was going to wipe out all jotunnar, no reason to let such an opportunity pass him by. Besides, the hammer was probably hungry.

  He eased Mjölnir free from the loop on his belt. Just holding it dimmed the pain in his still healing ribs and sent a rush of power seeping through his arm, pumping through him like a second pulse.

  In truth, he couldn’t say whether him or the hammer liked killing jotunnar more. Either way, they were in complete agreement on it being a good thing.

  Thor sloshed toward his foe. Paused. No real way he could sneak up on the scaly bastard like this.

  Eh. Well, whatever.

  “You there!” he bellowed. “Cockless fish-fucker! Get over here so I can smite you!”

  The sea jotunn turned abruptly toward him, looking suitably vexed. They hated when you called them ‘cockless.’

  Another sea jotunn rose abruptly from underwater, this one female, and standing not more than twenty feet away.

  “Oh.” Huh. That made two of them. “Guess you really are cockless, huh?”

  The jotunn didn’t respond save to surge at him, snarling and brandishing a trident in her slightly webbed hands.

  The other came racing through the lagoon as well, moving much faster than he ought to have been able to. Like the waters didn’t even impede him. Bastard.

  Thor whipped Mjölnir up to block a jab from the trident. The point scraped along the metal of his hammer, snapped up, and gouged Thor’s left shoulder. Growling, he lunged in.

  Only the water slowed his steps, and the female had plenty of time to fall back, bringing her trident to bear once more.

  Shit. That hadn’t gone well.

  The male closed in now, a few breaths away.

  The female thrust her trident again. This time, Thor deflected on his hammer and surged forward, not at her, but to grab her weapon’s shaft. The jotunn grunted in surprise, and Thor jerked the haft up into her gaping mouth. The female stumbled backward and pitched onto her arse, hand to her face.

  Just before the male reached him, Thor flung Mjölnir at his head. The hammer cracked into the jotunn’s face, splattering bone, brains, and bloody mess as the creature toppled over backward.

  Growling, Thor reversed the trident, then jabbed the prongs into the female’s throat when she tried to rise.

  Mother.

  They had murdered his mother.

  Still snarling, Thor hefted the shaft up, lifting the jotunn female into the air. He planted the butt into the silt below the water, leaving her as a warning to the rest of them.

  A sign. He was coming for them. He was coming for them all.

  21

  His legs had gone numb. They had moved beyond the aching, beyond the bitter, all-consuming cold, to the point where sheer will alone kept him going. Well, will … and desperate fury at the terrible urd that had befallen his daughter. Part of Hermod had not wanted even to leave the gates of Hel and head back into the desolate wastes of Niflheim, but if Sif was to have any chance of escaping that dire fortress, Hel must have her sacrifices.

  So, on foot, he trudged on and on. Rime had frozen his face wrap to his cloak. The snows tugged at his senseless feet. And while no blizzard further impeded his progress—perhaps Hel actually wanted him to succeed—still the mist allowed him to see no more than five or ten feet ahead of him. Oh, he could make out mountain peaks, here and there, but not much else.

  Even an Ás immortal ought to have died under these conditions. Ought to have, yes, but Hermod refused. He would not die, could not, until Sif and Baldr were freed from their damnation.

  Not this way …

  What? Keuthos’s voice in his mind—silent for so long—caught him off guard and he stumbled to one knee, catching himself on his hands. The deathchill kept trying to claim him. He’d be lucky if he didn’t lose any fingers or toes to frostbite. He’d be lucky to live at all.

  There are ice caves …

  Yes. That was where he was heading back to.

  Others … Closer …

  Fine.

  He allowed the wraith to guide him, not the way he’d come, but to the southwest. It took him into a valley, and from there, Keuthos offered but sporadic directions. When Hermod at last found the caves the wraith had mentioned, he stumbled inside, made it a few dozen feet, and then collapsed onto the cold surface.

  His lungs burned. His body was giving out, no matter what his will demanded. The fingers on his left hand refused to open from the clawed fist they had curled into.

  And Keuthos could not offer warmth, he supposed.

  I am … a Mistwraith …

  What, like those things that served Hel? Like Melinöe?

  Once …

  What did that mean? It ought to mean something, but he couldn’t make his mind work. Groaning, he managed to pull his knees up to his chest.

  Teeth were chattering … a good sign … it meant his body hadn’t given up. Yet.

  So … cold.

  Tingling woke him. Like tiny bolts of lightning surging through his extremities. He found himself wrapped in a foul-smelling fur that might have come from a snow bear, laying in a room carved from a block of ice.

  With a groan, he managed to sit up, keeping the fur tight around his shoulders. It may have stank like a dead hound, but it was the only source of warmth he had. His hands shook as he tried to make his way to his pack. A few torches remained, if he could get a fire lit, maybe he could save his fingers.

  He dug through his now meager supplies to find one of his last torches.

  “Don’t.” The voice was whispery, and somehow sensual and terrifying at once.

  Hermod spun to see a woman—or a female, at least—standing at the doorway. She wore a slitted, low-cut, ice-blue dress that concealed very little. Mist wafted off her dark hair in etheric clouds, with more emanating from her fingers, her breath, and even her dress, as if vapors somehow composed the fabric. Her eyes had a faint opalescence, and her skin was pale, almost pure white.

  And Dainsleif rested against the wall beside her.

  “You’re a snow maiden.”

  She chuckled lightly, bil
lowing forth fresh puffs of frost and mist. “If you prefer that term. Lampades, snow maidens, yuki-onna, bean sí … whatever you wish to call us.”

  “The native vaettir of Niflheim.”

  The snow maiden shrugged. “When the cosmos were young, my kind served the Elder Goddess of Mist. But our numbers were few, back then, and have only grown in the ages since … Hel, as you call her, came to power. Now, most of us serve the new Queen of Mist.”

  “Most?”

  Some remain loyal to the first …

  “You’re rebels?” Stifling a groan, he managed his feet. “What do you wish of me?”

  Had Keuthos known they were here when he brought Hermod to these caves?

  Yes …

  So the Mistwraith wanted him to meet these snow maidens.

  The snow maiden followed his gaze to where his runeblade lay resting against the wall, then smirked and stepped aside. “Take it. If you wish. If you are well enough to heft it, you are well enough to walk.”

  Keeping his gaze locked on the snow maiden, Hermod edged around her and grabbed the runeblade, then slung it over his shoulder. Maybe he should draw it, but if they’d wanted to harm him, they could have done much worse than give him shelter and a blanket. In fact, Hermod rather thought he’d hold on to this fur draping for the moment.

  “Who are you?”

  “Khione, a disciple of Achlys.”

  Hermod sniffed. His nose still burned. “That’s the original Goddess of Mist?”

  The snow maiden nodded. “Keuthonymus can answer your questions best. Walk, if you are able, and see the truth.”

  What the …? She knew Keuthos was inside him.

  She knows … It took us a long time to plan this …

  Keuthos was working with the rebels. He was a Mistwraith, like Melinöe, but not in service to Hel?

  Finding it hard to fathom these things—this knowledge should have come to Odin—Hermod followed Khione.

  I failed my goddess … swayed by the call of another … I helped her forge the seals … Helped her siphon Achlys’s power … I ought not to have … But madness claimed me …

  Madness? Did Keuthos mean he had lusted after Hel? The wretched, rotting queen of death?

  Before … she was beautiful … intoxicating in her intensity … Voracious in her pursuit of ever greater knowledge … Hardly the first sorceress … but perhaps the greatest in history … And how was a sorcerer like I to deny her …?

  It was hard to tell, given that the wraith’s voice always sounded hateful and hollow, but now, Hermod fancied a profound sense of self-loathing had seeped into the vaettr’s words.

  Fool … Do you believe … any wraith, who are beings of undying hatred, might exempt themselves from their vehement disdain … For ourselves, we reserve the deepest of all enmity …

  Khione led him through more ice caves, oft with small holes in the roof allowing beams of starlight in. They came to a grouping of a dozen other snow maidens. Actually, some few of them were male, so the term maiden hardly applied.

  A mortal appellation … perhaps spawned because … both Achlys and Hel … were most apt to elevate their female worshipers …

  So primarily female, but some males. What else had Khione called her kind? Lampades? The word tasted odd, clearly not from the North tongue.

  Older …

  Well, whatever. It hardly mattered. Each of the lampades watched them, seeming almost expectant. Yes, these sorry rebels wanted something from him. Hermod’s meeting with Keuthos had been no accident. The Mistwraith had waited for him in the Astral Realm, waited for the chance to make his offer to escort Hermod to Niflheim.

  Because these followers of Achlys thought he might somehow aid their mission against Hel?

  Well, that was not like to happen.

  Do not judge so swiftly …

  No. No, Hermod had a deal with Hel.

  She will betray you …

  He faltered a moment, then continued after Khione. Keuthos himself had claimed not even Hel could break an oath.

  Perhaps not, but you will still regret dealing with her …

  Not if it meant he got Sif back.

  Fool! You cannot trust the Queen of Mist …

  He snorted at that, drawing a glance from Khione. No, he didn’t trust Hel. Nor Khione, nor Keuthos. Vaettir lied. That, alone, he knew with utter certainty. The only time they didn’t lie was in a pact, such as the one he’d made with Hel. Let the queen have her sacrifices and feast on a few more souls. From what he’d seen beyond her gates, a handful of souls would make no difference in her endless banquet.

  These rebels had not a fraction of her numbers. Hel had ruled Niflheim for era after era. It was hardly Hermod’s errand to help anyone overthrow her. Besides which, how was he to believe Achlys would prove any better a mistress of the damned than Hel.

  In his mind, Keuthos growled, confirming his suspicions. The vaettir could scheme and plot against each other all they wished. Hermod had no desire to get involved in such things.

  “Just see me out of this place,” he said.

  Khione paused, turning to him. “We saved you.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  She shook her head. “We saved you,” she repeated. “And all I ask in return is for you to come and see and listen. Do that, and I will show you the way out from here.”

  He misliked the thought of forming another bargain with a vaettr, but this one seemed harmless enough. And Khione spoke at least one truth—they had saved him from the bitter cold of Niflheim.

  Agree to her terms … and I’ll show you a faster way back …

  He grimaced. Well, the sooner he got out of this frozen nightmare, the better. “Fine. Take me to Achlys.”

  Khione led him deeper and deeper into the ice caves, until he could see rock behind the ice, though he could not judge how thick the coating over it was. Clearly, though, they had moved beneath the mountains into a true cave where the ice had somehow continued to spread over the walls.

  Below them stretched numerous chasms, some spanned by narrow ice bridges, with ten-feet long icicles dangling from them. Rime coated everything, as if a blast of the bitterest cold had swept over the cavern.

  And ever deeper they pushed, until he found himself descending a steep slope into a cloud of chilling mist that numbed his legs on contact. A place as cold as Hvergelmir itself.

  We are not so very far from there … Beneath it, the worlds align and the dark dragon feasts on corpses …

  Naströnd. The shore of corpses where Nidhogg dwelt. Hermod shuddered at the thought. Naught Odin had ever mentioned compared to the horror of the dark dragon. Something whose malevolence dwarfed even that a wraith could manage.

  You wanted a shortcut … We shall take the very one your king used … some centuries back …

  Oh. Odin had said he’d climbed up Yggdrasil’s roots to escape Naströnd, when he’d hung himself from the World Tree, back before he banished the Vanir. And now it came back to that. Hermod seemed ever following in his mentor’s footsteps.

  The thought of it, though, of passing in that most terrible of places … it had his hands trembling, and not from the cold. He could not do this …

  Another bridge of ice spanned a drop into darkness, descending slowly to a landing Hermod could not make out but assumed must lurk there, for Khione plodded gracefully across the bridge. Surely they had not brought him this far to shove him into a pit.

  Not well pleased, Hermod pressed onward after the snow maiden.

  A clammy sweat had built up between his shoulder blades. One that had him shivering.

  As if sensing his discomfort, the snow maiden raised her hand, and a blue-green flame sprang up from it. It cast light, but no heat, nor did it drive back the mists. Still, it was better than the almost total darkness that kept creeping in around him. None of the locals seemed much inclined to let him have real flame, either.

  Flame is an enemy of mist …

  And in the World of Mist, no one
seemed to embrace their enemies.

  This was madness. Mist was also the enemy of life. And here Hermod was, plodding along, one slow, agonizing step at a time, toward … something ancient beyond words. Something that had existed perhaps from the dawn of time.

  Existed in hatred.

  At last, they reached the bottom, a cavern that—by the echoes, at least—seemed massive. A billowing cloud of mist swirled about his feet, somehow seeming to pull him along in its wake. It carried him about a circular path, ever toward its center, until at last he came to stand in the eye of the storm, Khione beside him, though the snow maiden fell to her knees and bowed her head.

  Within the heart of that eye—which stretched for some hundred feet, he’d guess—a cloaked figure rested upon her knees, arms out to her sides. In the heart of swirling mist, a being of mist.

  Hermod’s heart hammered within his breast, and all instinct told him to turn, to flee from this place at once and never, ever look back. The hairs on his arms stood on end, and his face tingled. Some inexorable pull tugged at him, forcing his steps forward. Though he could see naught unusual about the woman, save her concealed face and pale shroud, he could not help feel a sense of overpowering wrongness to the figure before him.

  She was … tiny.

  She is not … The aspect is a guise … A form designed to keep from overwhelming your fragile mind …

  If so, it barely managed the feat. For his breath tried to freeze in his throat. His heart wanted to seize up. His blood to cease to flow.

  And yes, he could feel it. That this thing before him was far more than she seemed. As if her presence seemed to warp reality around it.

  The pull carried him up to within a dozen feet of the entity, who finally lifted her face. Her visage was deathly pale, sunken in like a draug’s, and yet holding a hint of youth. Or perhaps timelessness. As if, had she wished it, she might pass for beautiful.

  Or terrible enough that you would tear out your eyes for having beheld her majesty …

  “There’re no chains,” he managed, his voice sounded a weak croak in his own ears. “Naught holds you here.”