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

by Matt Larkin

  Wait … what? He’d had this conversation before. Everything was … blurred. His ears kept ringing. Was this a memory? If it was a memory, why was he conscious of it?

  Hel sent Ymir to test Odin. To see if he was the Destroyer.

  “What did he say?” Loki asked.

  “I couldn’t understand his language.” Odin could feel his mouth moving, as if of its own accord. A thousand questions flitted at the end of his tongue, all the myriad things he’d have wanted to ask Loki, but none of them quite took form. “Something about Hel, I think.”

  Loki frowned, just a little. “Perhaps he merely threatened to send Borr to her.”

  How hard had the Norns beaten him? He was reliving memories now? He could use the Sight to dive back into the memories, yes, but this felt different. Like he was really there. Like if he just … pushed a little harder … he might change something.

  Not this.

  This wasn’t what he needed to change. This was … his first warning about Hel?

  Dreams. He had already glimpsed something out of time, long out.

  Waves bombarded his consciousness, threatening to pull him under and drown him in their tide. It was like a profound undertow had caught him and yanked him far out, into a stormy sea, where time roiled around him in a maelstrom. And it was pulling him down … Down, so deep …

  All breath fled his lungs.

  The tidal currents threatened to rip him to pieces.

  As he turned back to his people, Loki strode up to him. Odin clasped his blood brother’s arm. “I suppose I owe this birth to you, in a way.”

  Loki smiled, shook his head.

  That smile. Oh! Damn, but Odin had loved Loki like his own brother back then. Over his own brothers, maybe. He … he couldn’t even well remember Ve or Vili anymore. They had died badly. A few of his so many regrets.

  “I wish that I …” Odin heard himself saying, “well, of course he’s far too young for an apple, anyway.”

  Loki nodded. “Undoubtedly. But, my friend, if it would ease your mind …” Loki produced a golden apple from a pouch on his belt. “I might have saved one more for just this occasion.”

  No. No. No!

  Thor’s birth?

  Loki had an apple to spare because he’d not needed the one Odin had to offer. Loki had already been immortal, even back then. Long, long before then. He’d buried a daughter in some distant past … Wait … had that started the cycle of eschatons? Hel’s death?

  He needed to ask Loki now … needed to know how to overcome the Norns.

  Odin took the apple, his hand almost seeming to shake. A hollow opened in his chest. No words seemed worthy of such a boon. “Brother, I … You did this for me?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  No, no, no. This wasn’t important. Odin had to ask his questions. He had to know … wait. This was the moment, wasn’t it? The one he should have seen, should have understood.

  “But if you had an apple to spare,” Odin asked, “why did you not give it to Hadding?”

  “It would not have saved him. A man cannot change his fate.”

  Oh.

  Oh, fuck.

  Loki had told him, back then, before they ever set out for Vanaheim. Was his blood brother trying to warn him? Trying to warn about what would happen?

  A man cannot change his fate.

  Odin grunted. He’d been thinking about that, about fate, even back then. He hadn’t wanted to believe it.

  Instead, he turned from Loki … wanted to believe his choices mattered.

  Or did they matter? Everything had become so muddled before him.

  Vili raised a drinking horn in salute, before downing the whole thing in one swig, earning him raucous laughter and cheers from those about him. Odin nodded at him, then passed among the rest of the hall, accepting the well-wishes and embraces of men and women from nine tribes.

  Idunn moved in and out of the light of braziers, eyes watching him like a weight on his soul. She …

  Idunn. He’d lost Idunn to the shadows. If he could break free from urd, maybe he could find his way back to her. He had to destroy the web of urd, whether Loki believed it possible or no.

  Idunn … she was going to show him something important.

  After making sure his guests had all seen him, Odin followed Idunn down the hall and down stairs. The Vanr goddess led him to the room Frigg used to brew her potions and salves and stood there, staring at the wall.

  The brazier down here cast the room in heavy shadows that tightened around his throat like a noose. Long ago, someone had worked the Art in these depths, and the foulness of it still tainted these stones.

  Odin was about to ask what she did here. But something was … odd. Those runes on the wall. He couldn’t read them, but they … looked much like some of the runes now wrapped around his chest and arms. After pulling away his tunic, he looked down. Yes, some of the same verses marked his body.

  Couldn’t read the runes … back then.

  But he could now.

  Ragnarok …

  Brother would fight brother …

  Sisters’ sons would break the bonds of kinship …

  The world falters …

  Axe time, sword time, broken shields, wind time, wolf time …

  The Destroyer wakes …

  The dvergar had foretold Odin’s coming. Coming, in this lifetime, this incarnation.

  From the mists, Naresh walked toward him. As he drew near, vertigo swallowed Odin, and the whole chamber began to spin. He wanted to retch, though he knew his stomach was empty; regardless, Chandi still held him pinned. More figures drifted out of the shadows, a dozen men. A hundred. A thousand hidden forms advancing as Naresh advanced, converging on him.

  Him. Him …

  Each one jerked away his shirt to reveal a glyph over his heart. A rune. The same rune as Chandi had touched on Odin’s chest. Each subtly different, and yet, always the same lines, the same arcs. Only the flourishes changed. Names and memories and lifetimes changing. But something deeper, the underlying soul remaining ever intact. Always, always fighting against the encroaching urd, against the inevitable return of utter chaos.

  Souls. Souls of a thousand men. A thousand lifetimes.

  Odin’s lifetimes.

  But Idunn hadn’t known this. No, that wasn’t what she was trying to tell him. She didn’t know … or she didn’t understand the Wheel of Life, even if her grandmother had. Because … because Eostre had not believed in reincarnation.

  Souls born into a life. And in death, returned to the Tree of Life. To be born again, time after time. Given the chance to set right the most terrible wrongs in all the realms. To stand against the encroaching chaos.

  Odin was on his knees, tearing at his hair, his cheeks, his chest. His flesh burned. A thousand lifetimes of memories cascaded through his mind, beating away his senses and his self and binding him to a cycle of destruction stretching back more millennia than even the Vanir had ever imagined.

  He was—had been—Naresh. And Matsya and Herakles and Suiren and so, so many more. And he had defeated Hel. Had won victory for mankind, defeated chaos, even if the cost was the annihilation of an era. The end of one era birthed the dawn of the next.

  He’d been all these men, always struggling. Always fighting. Willing to do aught it took to stave off the final descent of darkness.

  Struggling against Hel.

  He’d never really understood.

  Borr held his newborn son in one arm, the other hand gently rubbing Bestla’s forehead. “What shall we name him?”

  Bestla laughed weakly. “You’re so convinced you can make a better world for him? He’s a sign of it, then. Call him Odin—the prophet.”

  Oh.

  Oh, fuck.

  His retrocognitive memory of his father. He’d forgotten this. They named him a prophet.

  Odin. Odin … the oracle.

  Why had they named him that?

  Borr chuckled to himself, staring at his beautiful new
son. Odin. Little Odin, prophet of the world Borr would build in his honor. In Buri’s honor. “Look,” Borr said. “I think he likes the name.”

  “Of course he does,” Bestla said. “I have a hint of the Sight.”

  Because she’d known.

  His mother had known, all along, on some level, that Odin would have a gift for the Sight. A latent gift, for so long, yes, but it would bloom into something no one else in the world had.

  Was that … was that what made him the Destroyer?

  If he was in the past, why couldn’t he change his choices? Go back. Let him go back, to those days, misspent in rage against Loki, and instead, beg for the answers.

  If only he could make it back and change things.

  Odin’s head pounded so hard it felt as though his brain might burst his skull and ooze out the cracks. He lay on the ground, in a damp cavern, illuminated by a single brazier.

  He pushed himself up to find he lay beside the Well of Urd, in an empty chamber. Empty, save for a black swan and a white one swimming about the well. Roots of Yggdrasil dangled down from above.

  With a groan, he struggled to his feet. Where was Gungnir? Shouldn’t it have lain on the floor nearby? Had the Norns taken it when they’d fled?

  And what … what had those visions meant? He rubbed his brow, though it did little to relieve the ache. He’d seen the past, things four hundred years ago. Memories of his first steps along the road that had brought him here.

  Had the Norns shown him the visions to prove something to him?

  None of this made any sense. If they had given him the visions … why did they allow him to use those visions to harm them? They’d sent the dís to stop him, but failed, because he turned the visions against her. Turned to them … when before he’d refrained from looking at the future.

  Had they sacrificed their pawn merely to ensure Odin would turn back to the Sight?

  He’d failed to kill the Norns, but they hadn’t killed him.

  Grunting, he stumbled toward the back of the chamber, seeking out his spear. Instead, he found someone rushing down the path into the chamber. An aging man, with streaks of gray in his black hair. A man …

  Odin knew him.

  “Who are you? How dare you defile the Norns’ sanctum?” The man bore a staff, which he thumped on the ground with each threatening step he took toward Odin. “Did you look upon the well? Did you find what you sought, interloper?”

  Where had Odin seen this man before? Where had …

  Oh. Lytir. The Voice of Urd, the keeper of the Norns’ well. Before Odin had sacrificed the man to fuel his spell.

  But this … this wasn’t a memory. Lytir was speaking to him, though the man clearly did not know him.

  Lytir shook his head in obvious chagrin. “I ought to kill you. Cast you into the abyss and let none even realize you’d come here. But, unfortunately for us both, such a transgression must be brought before the queen.”

  Queen? Hadn’t Lytir served Njord? And before that, Mundilfari?

  The man roughly grabbed Odin’s shoulder and guided him back up the spiraling path, the hollow inside Yggdrasil. It was … smaller than Odin had remembered. As if the tree was slightly younger, slightly stronger.

  Damn, but his head would not stop throbbing, and trying to make sense of any of this was certainly not helping. First, it was like his mind was flitting about at random through his memories, and now, he found himself in a world before he had any business remembering.

  Had he landed in a past life? Was something else going on?

  Lytir roughly escorted him across the great bridge, and beyond, all the way to a glittering hall that Odin had ordered his people to tear down, long ago.

  Definitely the past. He felt like himself, but why wouldn’t he?

  Lytir took him inside the hall, and into a throne room, though one decorated far differently than Odin remembered. Black drapes covered the mighty windows, deepening the shadows, such that the two braziers provided the better part of the light in here.

  Upon the throne sat a woman, dark haired and slender, in a black dress. Dozens of piercings marred her face, intermingled with tattoos that looked like perverse Supernal supplications to powers Odin did not wish to dwell on.

  As he drew closer, he realized two figures stood behind the throne, flanking either side of it. Figures with no skin, leaving raw, bloody muscle and sinew exposed.

  Odin gagged, wanting to retch. He’d heard … heard of Mundilfari’s perverse punishment. The Living Flayed Ones. Perhaps the darkest use of the Art ever practiced on Vanaheim.

  Lytir knelt some distance from the throne, pulling Odin down beside him. “Queen Irpa. I found a trespasser within the Chamber of the Well.”

  Irpa—had Odin heard that name before?—leaned forward, grinning, biting her lower lip while drumming her fingers on her knees. “Ooooo. Hehehe. Ahhh.” Her grin widened. “Did he taste an apple without permission?” She glanced to either side with obvious glee. “I’ll gladly add to my collection.”

  “I do not believe so, Your Majesty.”

  Odin kept his mouth shut. Of course, he had tasted an apple, at least in his future life.

  Irpa grumbled, then clapped her hands. “Oh, well! Maybe force him to eat one! Then he’ll have stolen it!”

  “My queen, I do not think—” Lytir began.

  “And why should we waste an apple on a thief, hmmm, little Nornslave?” Nornslave. Lytir …? “No reason at all!” Irpa leapt to her feet, screaming the last words. “No, no! No reason to spare a thief! Just have him taken to Mundilfari! And tell him, this time I want the skin myself!” She sunk back into the chair, giggling. “My blankets are getting old.”

  Odin couldn’t help but gaping at the queen … the queen of Vanaheim. Who was completely, and utterly mad. Consumed by the Art.

  Lytir grunted, whether in discontent or simply in relief at not receiving punishment himself, Odin wasn’t sure. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The Voice of Urd rose, pulling Odin to his feet in the process, and then guided him from the queen’s throne room.

  “She’s lost herself,” Odin said.

  “Silence!”

  “The Art has consumed her.”

  Lytir hesitated a moment before replying. “Not as thoroughly as it will soon devour you, old man.”

  Perhaps. But at long last, Odin would meet Mundilfari, the famed Mad Vanr.

  31

  Asgard was overrun with jotunnar. Yggdrasil was lost, and the Bilröst, which Hermod had hoped to use to reach Alfheim, had vanished. He’d searched the area, but found no trace of his wife, nor any other living Aesir.

  It had left him with no choice but to walk between the worlds under his own power, passing through the shadows of the Penumbra and hunting a way in to the World of Sun.

  On that threshold, Keuthos’s voice grew dim, until, as Hermod stepped out into the blinding radiance, the Mistwraith seemed to vanish entirely. If Hermod had not known better, he might have judged the ghost actually driven out of him. But Keuthos had warned him the Sun here would drive him into torpor, the very reason neither himself nor any snow maiden could come here to break a seal.

  Rainforest covered much of Alfheim, and Hermod knew precious little of the geography here. The Elder God of Sun, Dellingr, ruled from the city of Gimlé, and Keuthos claimed that south of there lay the Spire of Magec, beyond which he’d find wetlands where the seal was buried.

  No one accosted Hermod in the dense, damp forests of Alfheim. Most of the Vanir had returned to Midgard across the Bilröst and even a good number of the liosalfar—the original ones—had come through, as well. So long as he stayed clear of the city or the islands, perhaps he could manage to cross this world in relative peace.

  Well, not counting the bird-lizard things Freyja called dinosaurs, or the feathered serpent that claimed the wetlands which Keuthos had warned him about. The wraith could offer no counsel—or grating commentary—nor any guidance. The sun never set, so Hermod supposed that, so
long as it remained directly behind him, he must be traveling south. More or less.

  Damp earth squelched lightly under his boots. He’d seen no dinosaurs, though he’d found tracks, impressions in the mud made by creatures as big as mammoths. Or larger in some cases. Having seen those, he continued forward at a slow, cautious pace, careful to make no noise. He’d rubbed mud against his neck to disguise his scent. Between his precautions and his keen senses, he dared to hope he might avoid a confrontation with any animals, giant or otherwise.

  He had seen a spattering of frogs, snakes, smaller lizards, birds, and hairy, tree-climbing mammals. Maybe, if one of the Vanr were with him, they could tell him what to call the chittering animals. Didn’t really matter, he supposed.

  He trod on, crossing a shallow creek, until he came to a slight clearing, within which rose a tower formed from arch-banded paths rising up it in a spiral, all overgrown with flowers and greenery. The Spire of Magec, he had to assume.

  For a time, he stared at the tower. Within it, luminous figures moved about. He couldn’t make out their conversations—they probably spoke in Supernal in any event—but he could hear their voices, carried on the wind.

  “You’re an Ás.”

  Hermod stiffened at the sudden, feminine voice behind him. One of those glowing vaettir had managed to sneak up on him? He turned, slowly, to take in the speaker.

  She was clad in a loose, leaf-covered tunic with open sides, and, more strangely, a cap adorned with antlers like a reindeer. She didn’t look threatening, though she had a spear in hand.

  “Who are you?”

  “Given that you are the intruder in this land, I believe I’m entitled to ask first.”

  He grimaced. He had not come here to bandy words, but nor would getting into an altercation with the locals help his quest. “I’m Hermod. A … disciple of Odin’s.”

  “Hmmm. You were one of the wounded, treated in Gimlé. My daughter saw you there. Oh, hmm. I’m Beiwe.”