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

by Matt Larkin

  “Then why should the web need a guardian at all? If it stretches in all directions and is thus self-reinforcing, existing already in spite of aught anyone might ever try to do, why should the Norns need a slave to maintain it?”

  Prometheus leaned forward. “Why do you think?”

  “Because … because some few beings must possess truly free will, or at least some semblance thereof.” Odin rubbed his face. “But I’m seeing less now. I tried blocking the Sight, before, and now …”

  “You draw closer to the end. No oracle can see past his own death.”

  Odin sighed. “Why choose me at all?”

  “I needed a soul, not only with the strength of will to overcome the odds I had to lay before him, but with a greater insight into the nature of reality. At the most basic level, this would manifest as an extraordinary capacity for psychic perception—the Sight. Properly harnessed, this might lead to shifts in the timeline subtle enough to avoid—”

  The tide crashed over Odin’s mind as if a gale had swept over their little boat. Its currents seized his consciousness and dragged him into an undertow that tore him in dozens of directions all at once.

  He needed to know. He needed to focus. Loki had said if he could maintain focus on an objective … that this was his own mind jerking him along nodes in the timeline …

  The roar of time’s ocean swallowed all other sound.

  It was still bright, when Odin once more opened his eye. Even hotter than it had been on the sea beyond Prometheus’s island, only now, he sat upon a beach.

  His stomach churned. He barely fought down the urge to retch.

  Madness. This was all madness.

  Loki or Prometheus or whoever the bastard was, he claimed it wasn’t really the Norns doing this to Odin. But … But all of this had already set into the timeline before …

  There was the piece that his mind kept refusing to accept. Like a blister he couldn’t help picking at. All of time already existed. Loki had implied that Odin might manage to create small changes—a glimmer of hope, or a pleasant self-delusion—but nevertheless, he had, apparently, always traveled back in time and met Loki in a distant era. Doing so must have even helped steer the man on the course that had led Odin here in the first place.

  And here was …

  Odin rose, and shambled along the beach a few steps. Not so far away, a trio of dhows—Serk ships?—sailed around the coast. Had he stumbled into Serkland? Why would his Sight bring him to the fire-worshippers’ shores in Utgard? Because he’d just been with the original Firebringer? Because …

  He faltered, kicking up sand as he turned about. Behind him, mountainous slopes rose, and rising above the ridge, that looked like the boughs of an immense tree. Of … Yggdrasil.

  He’d come back to Asgard? And there were Serks here?

  A nameless apprehension settled upon his mind, and, despite himself, he almost wished Audr or Valravn would offer him some insight into his present circumstances. But neither vaettr much relished the harsh sunlight now above him, nor did either of them seem to know much about his uncontrolled movements through time. Almost, he could swear a hint of fear lurked in their perverse minds.

  Wary, Odin moved to the mountain rather than following the coast, and began a slow, painful climb amid the underbrush, trusting to greenery to keep him concealed. On the slopes, he made his way around, until he could look down upon a bustling port. One that certainly did not exist on Asgard in his time. Here, a veritable fleet of dhows came and went, and while people of varying origins occupied the harbor, the predominant look was that of the dark haired, deep-skinned Serklanders.

  Assuming they even called themselves that in this time.

  Careful to avoid detection, Odin continued along the mountain, until he came up to the edge of a cliff. A great, sandy-colored city decorated the plateau, a mix of graceful arches and elegant domes and stronger, crenellated walls. From his perch, Odin could look down into the city and see it just as abustle as the harbor had been, thick with far too many people, plying a multitude of wares in a great bazaar.

  Giant, blazing braziers sat atop many of the towers both along the wall and within the city itself, so he’d wager these Serks still venerated flame. And … shit.

  Down there, amid the bazaar, he spotted a simmering eldjotunn. His stature, his appearance—as though he might spontaneously burst into flame—it left no doubt.

  Odin slid down, onto his arse, and blew out a long, slow breath. How many times had this island changed hands?

  If they were here, they controlled Yggdrasil. They had become the new immortals in this era, whether it was past or future.

  Asgard had once been ruled by Serks. Had once … or one day would be.

  2

  Ages had passed since Freyja had last bothered throwing runes. Somehow, in Alfheim, such petty divinations had seemed to matter less and less, as if, removed from the Mortal Realm, she had begun to lose her natural apprehension for the future. Now, with Od gone and wars raging out of control over all the lands, all she had was apprehension.

  She’d carved them into bone and now jiggled the pieces in one hand while Sunna and Nehalennia looked on, equally pensive, silent, even as they watched her. Sunna still held her gut, no doubt in agony from her bowels slowly knitting themselves back together. Neither of them should be here.

  Freyja ought never to have told them she planned this, but their desperation had become palpable, as much or more so than any of the Aesir, and they had looked to her, as they had done in the days when she replaced Mundilfari as the preeminent worker of the Art on Vanaheim.

  How very strange to think that, long ago, jotunnar had taught Svarthofda this, and she had taught Mundilfari, and he Freyja. That, even now, out there in the dying lands of the North Realms, the last völvur, heirs of those Freyja had taught, must be casting the runes just the same. Desperately praying for a sign, for guidance. For hope.

  Now, they sat in Freyja’s chamber in Idavollir, where perhaps jotunnar had once sat also musing on their end, and they watched her.

  With a practiced flick of the wrist—it had been ages, yes, but some things one did not forget—she flung the runes out before her. Nehalennia leaned in, examining them. Freyja had taught her the basics of this ages ago, in fact. Across from her friend, Freyja too leaned forward, peering at the patterns created by the fall of bones.

  “Well?” Sunna asked. “What do they tell you of the future?”

  Nehalennia mumbled something under her breath. “I don’t understand this pattern at all. Did you … did you make a mistake?”

  Freyja frowned, gaze still locked on the runes. The damnable runes that tingled her mind, touching her Sight. Offering flickers of their own kind of forewarnings. Not prescience, not as Odin experienced, but as close as most practitioners of seid could get. And she had not made a mistake.

  They were all going to die.

  It was a death knell for the entire world, in fact. When the others had left her chamber, Freyja had cast the runes again, to be sure.

  Odin had been right all along, of course.

  Ragnarok was here, and few, if any, would survive this battle. But how was Freyja to tell that to the gathered throng of Aesir, Vanir, and liosalfar? Oh, the latter might take the news with unaffected apathy. To them, the death of a host meant a temporary loss of pneuma and being forced back into the Spirit Realm. Not without dangers, of course, and not pleasant, but hardly the same as what it meant to natives of the Mortal Realm.

  They sat around the great table once more, after servants had cleaned the blood from Loki’s rampage.

  Even before that, though, there had been blood. Nigh to a score of men and women had taken their own lives, having thought—she could only assume—that defeat was inevitable. The last, a fisherwoman, had slain her ten winter-old daughter first, then herself.

  No one had known what to say when they burned the bodies.

  Now, Thor sat at the head of the table, but Odin’s son didn’t deign
to speak much. His broken nose had begun to heal, but combined with his missing front teeth, his voice wheezed and whistled and clearly annoyed the man to no end. Indeed, Odin’s son had suffered grievous injuries on Vanaheim, as well, having lost a good chunk of one foot, had a finger ripped off, and been nigh hacked to pieces by Loki’s son Narfi.

  None of those physical injuries seemed to weigh half so much upon him as the loss of his mother and of his father’s disappearance. The poor man. Thor would not have won accolades for his intellect—some claimed the problem arose from an old head injury—and he had lost his good looks thanks to Loki and his son, but still, he had courage, Freyja had to grant him that. Courage other men could not have dreamed of.

  For the better part of an hour, the gathered throng had argued one way or another about what to do. Eostre, for her part, had insisted the only chance at salvation now lay at the hands of the Sons of Muspel, while Tyr—who seemed more the true leader of the Ás faction than Thor—steadfastly refused to ally himself with his erstwhile enemies.

  Sunna had suggested they reclaim Vanaheim, relink the bridge, and evacuate all who survived to Alfheim. To which Freyja’s brother had pointed out that doing so would mean leaving the bridge active and returning control of the Bilröst to the jotunnar. Odin alone knew what he had done to stabilize it, and Frey could not keep it open if he removed the ring.

  “Odin will return,” Freyja finally said, still looking at Thor. The prince nodded at her. “Until such time as that, we have to try to hold out. He … he’ll know what to do.” Freyja prayed he would, at least. His plan, whatever it was, he had claimed might serve to free them from the perilous future he had imagined.

  Frey cleared his throat. “We cannot wait.” When she cast a withering look his way, he raised a hand. “Whatever ill will passed between Odin and me, it has naught to do with what I’m saying now. If we are to have any hope of holding this world against Hel, we cannot afford to wait. We do not know where she is or what her plan is, but clearly we need that information. Moreover, some mortals will remain loyal to us, but at the moment, they have no idea where we are or how they should hold out. We need to have spies sent out among all the North Realms, to learn the situation.”

  Magni snorted. “To say naught of the continuing advance of the Deathless legions.”

  Gefjon groaned. “I hardly think they much matter, compared to the threat of Hel herself. Surely the Queen of Mist represents the single greatest power in this world.”

  Freyja pursed her lips. “Gefjon is correct about the threat Hel presents us, but it hardly renders a massive army led by ancient vampires irrelevant.”

  “What about the invasion of Serks?” Magni asked. “Hermod was convinced that on Muspelheim—”

  “Fucking Serks,” Thrúd snapped. “Hermod is dead and none of us can reach Muspelheim, even if we wanted to.”

  “But the Serks—” her brother began again.

  Thrúd slapped her hand on the table. “They are not our allies!”

  Indeed, the Aesir had spent the better part of the last four centuries either at war with Serkland, or in a very uneasy truce with them. Nevertheless, Eostre and the Sons had come to their rescue on Vanaheim. The Serks called her Al-Uzza and revered Eostre as … well, as something. A wisewoman, perhaps. Freyja remained unclear on the details of what had gone on in the south.

  Frey stood. “If it came to it, I could use Andvaranaut to reach Muspelheim. The fact remains, though, we don’t know where this seal Hermod wanted to break lies, nor if doing so would even serve our ends.”

  “Aught that weakens Hel aids us,” Magni protested.

  Eostre spoke now, for the first time in a good while. “Through arrogance, ignorance, or urd, Hel has returned to our world. I never much wanted to credit my parents’ tales of … Well. I think we must at least try to consider how we might learn the location of that seal. If there is any means of weakening Hel, we must take it.”

  “I don’t see how we’d do that,” Sunna objected. “Even if Sessrumnir had that sort of knowledge, it’s lost now.”

  “Oh, there’s a way,” Nehalennia said. “Though Freyja told us never to attempt it.”

  Freyja stared at her friend a moment. Then a pit began to open in her stomach as she realized what the other woman meant. “No.”

  Nehalennia’s tight grimace offered no pity. “Can you imagine any circumstance more dire than this one?”

  “No,” Freyja snapped. “Mundilfari forbade necromancy on Vanaheim, and for good reason. Irpa almost brought down our entire civilization by plying the dead for answers. It drove her mad and I will not call up shades.”

  Mani chuckled, drawing every eye. “What? Oh … Well. Heh. Far be it for me to question Father’s wisdom, never minding all of you kept calling him the Mad Vanr. But uh … You’re saying Irpa almost brought down Vanaheim? Because, last time I saw Vanaheim, it was on fire. We have already lost everything, Princess.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Freyja said. She wasn’t the princess of aught anymore. Her father’s kingdom had fallen an age ago, and Freyja held no such lofty title in Alfheim. “And you’re a fool if you truly think piercing the Veil like that cannot make things any worse for us. But let’s imagine, for a moment, I could call up Hermod’s soul, and he could explain to us where to find the seal on Muspelheim. Do you truly believe that my brother could safely reach that world, destroy the seal, and escape? What little we know of the World of Fire implies the world is on fire.”

  A few chuckles.

  “Someone,” Thor wheezed, “thought Hermod could do it.”

  Thrúd shook her head. “Someone, Father, who wouldn’t have given a mouse shit for Hermod’s safety.”

  “All of this is moot,” Freyja said, “because I’m not doing it, and I wouldn’t advise any of you to even consider trying it.”

  And now a few grumbles. They didn’t understand. Oh, everyone knew they were supposed to fear the Art. They knew it, and most people felt it. Still, they failed to truly realize what bringing a shade across the Veil thus would mean. What else it might open their world to, even if Freyja succeeded. No. There had to be other options.

  “So, then,” Frey said after a moment. “We come back to needing to gather our allies. I will take a small force up into Reidgotaland. We’ve already lost Hunaland and we cannot afford to lose Reidgotaland, or we’ll be cut off from Sviarland, as well.”

  “I’m going,” Thor said. The man kept trying to talk without revealing his missing teeth. Which only further muffled his voice. “I’ll leave Magni in charge of the defense here.”

  “Well and good,” Frey said. “Still, we should send people direct to Sviarland. Saule, I want you to lead that band.”

  Freyja frowned. Saule was her friend, yes, but she had little care for human life. “Thrúd should go with her. We need someone familiar with the political landscape of this age.” Thrúd offered a grudging nod. “Myself, I’ll stay here and await Odin’s return. When he makes it back, who knows how much time we’ll have to mount a defense.”

  “I’m going too,” Tyr said.

  Maybe he meant to protect Thrúd, maybe he thought himself best suited to deal with the petty kings of Sviarland. Either way, it meant both of their supposed war leaders were leaving, and even Thor.

  They placed their trust in Magni. Freyja hoped he was up to the task.

  3

  The barbed chains dug into Idunn’s wrists and ankles as she hung suspended in midair. Much as Volund had promised, the sensation had somehow transformed from pure pain into a nameless ecstasy, much like all the other tortures the svartalf had inflicted upon her. Behind her, he furiously pumped his hips, slapping against her arse as he pounded into her, and she couldn’t stop herself from squealing.

  Just like all the other beautiful torments in this place.

  What a loathsome creature she had become, to so enjoy this. To have begged him for it, even after his seed had already quickened in her womb. Now, an equally naked svartalf gi
rl traced a razor blade along Idunn’s abdomen, licking at her trickle of blood while her master slammed into her.

  She rocked and thrashed against her chains as her body gave in to the climax. The pain made that more powerful too.

  As he finished as well, Volund dug the claws of his glove into Idunn’s arse cheek, drawing forth another squeal.

  Yes, she truly was Ivaldi’s daughter. How deliciously wretched she’d become. His dark blood ran through her veins.

  And when she bore Volund’s heir—her own nephew, no less—that heir would become a new great power on Svartalfheim.

  It ought not to have brought her pride. It ought to have horrified her. And yet, panting, she could not find it within herself to regret any of this.

  Idunn had ordered a mirror brought to her chambers—Volund no longer confined her to a cell—and now, stripped naked, she stood before it, examining her body in the candlelight. Her skin tone had shifted, subtly, but it was there. It had begun to take on the ashen, almost gray hues of a svartalf, like her father, losing the golden wheat tones from her mother. Her hair had turned from dark brown to black, even as Volund had told her, so many moons ago.

  Idly, she pinched a few strands between her thumb and forefinger and lifted them up before her face.

  People had always called her beautiful, and, though she’d liked to think herself above vanity, in truth, it had pleased her. Her transformation had not really stolen aught from her, but still, the change was … what? Discomfiting?

  Discomfiting, when it ought to have horrified her.

  Clucking her tongue, she sat on the bed shelf and tugged on her leather trousers. Her belly had not yet begun to bulge, but it soon would, and she’d need looser garments. No one in this world wore gowns, exactly, though she’d seen pregnant females clad in long tunics and naught else, so she supposed she could …