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

by Matt Larkin

  Not giving Tyr another look, Thor slunk forward, down the slope. In the valley below, at least three score jotunnar had camped at the close side of the bridge, with more on the surface itself, lobbing occasional arrows in the direction of the tree.

  From what Thor could make out, the defenders had set up barrels and debris for extra cover, with a shield wall behind that. Archers of their own returned sporadic arrows, but the jotunnar remained out of range.

  Judging by the corpses littering the space in between, Narfi’s warriors had made a few pushes toward the tree already.

  “Long time back,” Tyr said.

  “What?”

  “Was on the other side, defending the tree. Frey trying to reclaim it. Back when you were still sucking on a teat.”

  Thor glanced at him. “I still suck on teats.” Every chance he got.

  “Got no chance against that many jotunnar. Maybe we kill four, five of them. Maybe not even that many before they swarm us.”

  No. Thor refused to accept it. He was killing Narfi. In fact … that looked like the trollfucker there in the midst of his warriors. If he was here, he had to be planning an offensive soon. Even if Thor wanted to go back to Thrudvangar and seek reinforcements, he had no time. If they lost the tree, they lost—

  One of the jotunnar reared his head back and screeched like a fucking hawk. The jotunn—a big one, and less pale than frost jotunnar—spread his arms, dropping his loin cloth. Then he began to sprout feathers. A shifter? A jotunn shifter?

  From his hiding spot, Thor couldn’t hear the nasty pop of bone and muscle, but he could see it happen, as the jotunn’s form became that of a giant eagle. A beat of his wings sent the creature aloft, hurling a whirlwind beneath it—one powerful enough to send his fellows tumbling away. Screeching again, the eagle flew up, high above the defenders, circling the tree. Arrows flew at the eagle, but it was too high and too fast, even for such a large target.

  Tyr grunted.

  The eagle banked around again, turning in midair. A buffet of its wings sent a gale down on the defenders that hurled aside their barricades and broke their shield wall as though they were children’s toys scattered with a savage kick.

  “Shit,” Thor said. “You have to bring down the eagle.”

  Tyr grunted again. To his credit, the thegn didn’t balk at the order, though Thor didn’t a clue how he’d manage it.

  The point was, the defenders were about to break, but right now, the eagle had both sides distracted. Growling, Thor hefted Mjölnir and charged forward, down the slope, the angle adding to his momentum. He’d be an avalanche on those bastards. But damn, did he miss the hammer’s thunder.

  Surging forward, he jumped up and cracked Mjölnir against the back of a jotunn’s skull. Fucker dropped like a stone, never having even begun to turn. The next one did, though, as Thor landed. Roaring, he slammed Mjölnir into the back of its knee before it could get around to him. Bone exploded out from flesh in a shower of blue blood. An overhanded swing between its shoulder blades felled the creature.

  “Narfi!” Thor roared. “I’m coming for you, you murderous goat trench!”

  The next jotunn had spun on him, but was still bringing his weapon to bear. Not fast enough. Mjölnir’s upswing caught the jotunn right in the stones, hard enough to lift the bastard into the air and send him flying backward.

  Oh, how the hammer sang with pure joy at—

  A jotunn club slapped into Thor and sent him colliding into the midst of a dozen more jotunnar. Groaning—the apple only half blocked that much pain—he rose to one knee and waved Mjölnir wildly in front of himself. Not good.

  Not good at all.

  The closest jotunn moved in, intent to skewer him with a spear. Out of nowhere, Frey stood before the jotunn, swinging a broadsword. The blade slammed into the jotunn’s side but wedged into the bearskin hide the jotunn wore.

  Damn. Man should have had that runeblade.

  Thor gained his feet just in time to block another thrust from a jotunn. A spear caught him in the shoulder, punched through his mail, and sent him stumbling to the ground, dropping the hammer.

  Desperate, Thor lunged at Mjölnir, caught its haft, and tried to raise it. The jotunn that held the spear twisted, sending a spiral of pain wracking through Thor, bloody spots dimming his vision.

  Someone grabbed his ankle, then everything shifted without warning. The sudden change in orientation had Thor’s stomach heaving, but he lay on the ground among the scattered defenders.

  The jotunn who’d pinned him was there too, turning about in obvious disorientation. Frey pulled a knife and rammed it into the jotunn’s gut, yanked it free, and, grabbed the creature’s beard to yank its head down. A vicious slash cut out the jotunn’s throat before it could even find its bearings.

  A shieldmaiden—Syn!—grabbed the spear in Thor’s shoulder, braced her foot on his arm, and jerked it free. “Sorry, my prince.”

  Thor groaned, and rolled over to look at the battle.

  Down the bridge, at least two dozen liosalfar had engaged the jotunnar. Flashes of light, glowing bodies, and men and women appearing and disappearing, all while moving at superhuman speed. Utter madness.

  But the liosalfar only had so much sunlight. And when that ran out …

  24

  Dead Aesir lay strewn over the bridge. Corpses intermingled with dead jotunnar. And fallen liosalfar. Bloody mess that Tyr had to slog through. Mistilteinn fair sang in his hand, as he closed in on the defenders.

  Blade had tasted blood of a half dozen jotunnar this day. And it knew more was on the way.

  That eagle still soared above. Hurling wind like javelins. Here and there, it swooped down and snatched up men in its talons. Flung them into the abyss around Yggdrasil.

  Tyr had a shield strapped to his arm. Didn’t like fighting thus. Couldn’t drop it if he had to. But at the moment, he kept it raised. Poised to deflect spear thrusts that might’ve skewered him.

  As now, when a jotunn spun on him, jabbed with a trident. He batted aside the blow. Stepped inside and swept Mistilteinn up in an arc that severed the jotunn’s leg at the knees. Runeblades didn’t care about thick hides or even armor, much less flesh and bone. Cleaved through aught as if it wasn’t even there.

  His foe toppled over, wailing, maybe not even realizing he was dead already.

  Tyr didn’t bother running him through. Didn’t have time. Instead he pushed on, the quickest trot he could manage amid the chaotic melee.

  The liosalfar had saved him. If not for their sudden, tumultuous attack disrupting the jotunn lines, Tyr would’ve never survived this.

  Still might not.

  He didn’t have a clue how he ought to fell a bird circling above.

  Ullr? Wasn’t he here? Aesir used to worship that Vanr as the god of archery. Ought to mean he could handle a bow as well as Hermod. Tyr hoped.

  Tyr hacked and hewed his way closer, then, past the jotunn line, broke into a run.

  The blond bearded Vanr kept nocking arrows, but never got much of a chance to loose before one gale or another sent him toppling over. Almost over the side of the bridge, in fact.

  Shit.

  Tyr pumped the apple’s power into his legs. Pneuma, Hermod called that. Odd word. The moment he reached the far side of the bridge, a fresh whirlwind hefted him off his feet. Flung him bodily against the trunk. The impact dazed him. He crashed back down onto the bridge with an oomph. Mistilteinn skittered along the stonework, out of his grasp.

  Couldn’t catch his breath. Everything hurt.

  His senses had gone wild. Whole bridge seemed to spin. Still, he pulled himself forward toward the runeblade. Couldn’t afford to lose—

  His fingers snared the hilt an instant before another gale sent him tumbling end over to end, back into the tree’s interior.

  Gasping, Tyr wedged the runeblade into the ground and used it to gain his feet. How the fuck did Thor expect him to fight a storm jotunn of such power? In his days with Hymir, this sort o
f thing was a legend. Seemed a bit too real now.

  A glowing liosalf—Malakbel, was it?—stumbled toward him, a grimace on his face. “I’ve no weapons that can fell such an enormous creature.”

  Tyr snorted. “Can’t get to it anyway.”

  Outside, men shrieked. Others tumbled over the side into the waiting chasm. One damn storm jotunn was destroying their whole army.

  Screeching, the eagle dove, swooped against the bridge. Snatched up Ullr with its beak. That maw snapped closed around the Vanr’s torso.

  Fuck.

  A brief scream. Then legs came splattering down on the bridge in an explosion of gore that had even Tyr wincing.

  They couldn’t fight this. They were all going to die.

  “I can get to it,” the liosalf beside him said, panting slightly. “But only to annoy the bird.”

  Tyr spun on him. Liosalfar popped in and out of wherever they wanted. “You can get me to it?”

  Malakbel nodded.

  All right then. Tyr unstrapped the shield and tossed it aside. Wouldn’t do much good in midair anyway. Then he hefted Mistilteinn. Cracked his neck. This was going to hurt. Right up until it killed him, more like than not.

  But they couldn’t lose the tree. Odin’s bridge device was whirring right behind them. Needed a gambit. Even a bad one.

  “Let’s do this,” he said.

  The alf had a hand on his shoulder. Guided him out to the threshold. Maybe he needed to see that eagle jotunn.

  “Ready?” the liosalf asked.

  Tyr grunted.

  Everything shifted. Wind shot over Tyr in a cascade that threatened to strip him from his feet and hurtle him into the void. He stood on the eagle’s back, between wings the size of houses.

  Didn’t know how high he was.

  Didn’t matter.

  Roaring, he reversed his grip on Mistilteinn and drove it straight down into the jotunn’s back. The runeblade tore trough feathers, flesh, and bones with ease. So much ease, Tyr lost his footing and slid backward. The sword rent flesh, not hardly slowing his descent as he slipped toward the eagle’s tail feathers.

  The creature bucked wildly. Shrieked.

  Pitched over sideways and whirled upside down. Tyr fell free, screaming himself, as he tumbled through the air. The wind stole his screams and his breath, both.

  Then—still plummeting—an arm wrapped around his waist.

  Everything shifted again. He appeared above the bridge, still falling just as fast, but now at an angle. The stone rushed up to meet him. Slapped him like a hammer. Sent him skittering along the surface like a stone skipped over a lake.

  His view whirled round and round, blow after blow knocking him senseless.

  Darkness swallowed him before he even came to a stop.

  25

  Mjölnir slammed into a wood jotunn with force enough Thor heard the creature’s spine snap. The blur of liosalfar amid the jotunnar had begun to slow. Already, several of them had lost their glow. When that happened, the jotunnar oft felled them in the space of heartbeats. As broken corpses, they looked no different than men.

  Actually, they probably were men once more, vaettir having fled the dead bodies.

  “Narfi!” Thor roared. “Get over here and face me like a man! You want vengeance, boy? I killed your brother!”

  A cluster of melees separated them, but Thor still saw it when Narfi drove his axe into a liosalf’s skull.

  Bastard was quick. Strong. And seemed to know how to pick his fights whenever liosalfar ran out of sunlight.

  He caught another one by the throat and drove his head straight down into the stone lip warding the edge of the bridge, leaving a stain of bloody brains.

  Thor cracked Mjölnir against another frost jotunn’s temple.

  As he turned back, Narfi’s axe buried itself in an alf’s belly. The half-jotunn didn’t jerk his axe free so much as bodily fling his victim off.

  “I’m gonna hew you limb from limb!” Narfi shouted at him. “Gonna hack your men into bits. And I’m gonna laugh til I piss, when my sister claims your soul, oaf.”

  Thor shoved a stumbling jotunn out of his way. “You want to see Hel? I can arrange a personal meeting for you!”

  And then Narfi closed in on him. Thor swung Mjölnir, a blow that would cave in the bastard’s chest.

  Narfi sidestepped, jerked the haft of his axe into Thor’s still bruised ribs. That drew on oomph and had Thor stumbling back. Narfi’s knee caught him in the chest and sent him sprawling.

  A heartbeat later, that axe descended for Thor’s head. He barely got Mjölnir up for a clumsy block. The axe blade scraped along the hammer. Narfi lunged forward, grabbed Thor’s hair, and heaved.

  The motion sent him flying, feeling like his hair was ripped out by the roots. He tumbled end over end, hit the rail, and barely caught its lip as he pitched over the side.

  Fuck! Thor’s legs dangled over an abyss he didn’t even know how deep.

  Surging strength to his arms, he flung himself upward, back onto the bridge and—

  Narfi’s axe slammed into his side. The mail and gambeson beneath took the worst of it, but the blow still sent him reeling, tumbling back to the ground. Gasping. Felt like his ribs had broken anew.

  He tried to rise. Narfi’s boot caught him in the gut and flung him into the air.

  Only to crash back down a heartbeat later, knocked breathless.

  Unable to even groan for the pain of it.

  Fuck a walrus, the man was strong!

  “Reckon I’ll take my time with you,” Narfi said. “You didn’t give Hödr no clean death, so you ain’t gonna have one neither.”

  Shit. Where was Mjölnir? His hammer … It lay behind Narfi. May as well have been a mile away from him at this point.

  Thor staggered to his feet, desperately clinging to the apple’s power to blunt the pain.

  Narfi lunged in with that axe. Thor swung with a haymaker, but Narfi ducked under it. The axe slammed down into Thor’s left foot.

  It took an instant for the pain to hit him.

  And then he bellowed in agony, stumbling backward. Without any of his toes. A fair chunk of his boot lingered in a bloody mess. Fuck! Fucking fuck!

  Thor reeled. Narfi’s knee snapped up into his stones, the blow hefting him off his feet and sending him tumbling to the ground.

  Snarling, Narfi placed his foot on Thor’s right wrist. Then grabbed his little finger. And yanked with such force Thor could only shriek in pain and terror. The bones snapped apart. His skin tore free.

  Narfi released his foot, allowed Thor to see his blood-dripping finger now sitting in Narfi’s palm. The half-jotunn grinned a moment, before popping it into his mouth and beginning to crunch on it.

  “Gonna eat you alive!” Narfi slurred even as he chewed.

  Thor screamed in horror.

  Everything was dimming. Too much blood loss.

  Sorry … Mother … He’d tried …

  Mother.

  She was there, flitting about, between the jotunnar. Head hovering over her form, torn to shreds. A ghost?

  Shit. Maybe he was seeing things. So much blood …

  “Mother …” he moaned.

  “Shame I couldn’t kill her myself,” Narfi said, bits of Thor’s flesh dangling from his lips, blood dribbling into his beard. “Reckon she suffered plenty, though. I’ll settle for you.”

  Frey appeared beside Thor, kneeling at his side. Pressing Mjölnir into Thor’s bloody hand.

  The hammer’s energy rushed into him like a flood of strength, driving down pain to some distant thought for another time. Because that was its greatest power. More than thunder or cracking skulls. To make a man feel no pain. Only rage.

  And Thor had a lot of fucking rage.

  Teeth grit, he stumbled to his feet. His balance was off without toes. It made each step a staggering, awkward move, but Thor didn’t fucking care.

  He didn’t know where Frey had gone, though he heard the clang of metal behind him. If
the Vanr kept the rest of the jotunnar occupied, Thor would attend to Narfi. He owed him that personally.

  He owed him vengeance.

  He owed him terror.

  He owed him agony.

  26

  Narfi balked, falling back a step. He sure hadn’t reckoned on Thor being able to mount a defense. Much less rise and seem intent to attack. Fury was painted all over the man’s red-bearded face.

  Well and good. Narfi knew plenty about wrath.

  He hefted his axe. “Which part you want I should eat next? Gotta favorite?”

  Even the small taste of Thor’s flesh—flush with pneuma—it flowed through him. Gave him strength and speed. Made him so much more than a man. Yes, devouring the Aesir would make Narfi a god.

  A fool, though. That’s what he’d been to deny himself man-flesh for so many years.

  Oh, how he’d worked at being a good son. Good ally to Asgard. They’d forgiven him for what he’d done under Skadi. Mostly forgiven, maybe. But he’d promised himself he’d be worthy of their trust.

  Only, they broke that themselves. Frigg. Thor. All the others, when they’d betrayed Hödr and Mother and Father. And now Asgard was a smoldering ruin. Weren’t but one hall left standing, so far as Narfi knew. And that one probably lay besieged this very hour.

  “My people are burning your house, if you was wondering on that. Not that you’ll be around long enough for grieving.”

  Thor didn’t answer, except for a snarl. A lunge with that vicious hammer.

  Narfi fell back a step. Let the bastard exhaust himself if he wanted. Wouldn’t last more than a few moments with those wounds. No man could, not even after an apple.

  So he let Thor come on, making those wild swings like a buffoon. Fool couldn’t have managed a strategy if you gave him one.

  No, Thor just kept on advancing, swinging away. Clumsy and oafish.

  Narfi stepped in, swinging his axe at Thor. The blade crunched through mail and bit into the man’s upper arm. Thor’s hammer fell limp at his side, but he didn’t release his grip.