The High Seat of Asgard (The Ragnarok Era Book 4)

by Matt Larkin

  Gold plating decked the rafters, ensuring any who came here knew well the glory of its owners. Frigg’s tastes formed such a stark contrast to that of her sister and Loki that, coming from there, Odin could not help but frown at the ostentation he might have otherwise thought beautiful.

  Odin lowered himself in a chair. “Wine!”

  The Aesir had learned to follow the Vanir craft and, though naught they produced rivaled the Vanir brews, they got better every year.

  A young woman scampered over, handed him a drinking horn, and filled it with a pitcher. The woman had auburn hair and legs barely concealed by her slit skirt. The way she winked at Odin left little doubt she would make herself available if he but hinted at such a desire. Considering his wife now sat across from him, he did not.

  “Thank you, Sjöfn,” Frigg said, when the woman had filled her horn as well.

  Odin downed the horn in a great gulp, then tossed it aside, relishing as Frigg cringed when it clattered against the wall. Of course, he had no reason to enjoy her discomfort. None of his cruel urd was her doing … and yet, he could not look upon her without guilt trying to devour his soul. Without a reminder that she was not, would never be, the woman he wanted. Even if she should have been.

  She sipped her wine with too much grace before speaking. “You were gone long this time.” She did not complain, exactly. Nor chide him for not learning his lesson after all that happened before because of his long absences. She did not have to. “The discontent among the tribes seems to grow worse with each passing year.”

  “There are no tribes anymore.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Perhaps not officially. But saying a tradition is broken does not make it so, husband. Many among our people do not love you.”

  Odin glowered. He did not need their love. Only obedience. In the end, they might well hate him. But if he could stop Ragnarok, they would owe him their very world. “More wine!”

  Sjöfn rushed back and bent over to snatch up his horn, giving him an extended and no-doubt deliberate view of her arse. She returned then, refilled the horn, and drifted back into the shadows.

  “Now that you are returned, you will have a great deal of work to do here,” Frigg said. “Relationships must be mended, trust repaired. The jarls—”

  He raised a hand to object.

  “The former jarls,” she said, “still form the pillars of our society. You need them, husband.”

  “Coddle them if you must. I am not staying in any event.”

  “You … you jest. You cannot plan to leave again so soon.”

  Odin shrugged. “I must.”

  Frigg drummed her fingers on the armrests. “You cannot simply ignore the problems in your kingdom, Odin. If you do not address the growing discontent here, you may one day return to your people no longer your people.”

  Odin stuck out the horn, and Sjöfn appeared as if from nowhere to fill it. This handmaid he liked. “I do not ignore my kingdom. My kingdom is all of Midgard, and I am needed elsewhere. The Vanir failed mankind by hiding here, absorbed in their own society. I will not repeat their mistakes.”

  “Instead you make all new ones.”

  Odin glared at her as he downed the wine once again.

  13

  Eighteen Years Ago

  Where once had stretched an endless paradise of green, now rose spires and halls, taller than aught the Aesir had ever built before. Somehow, in the long years Odin had spent away, Vanaheim had become Asgard in truth. Before many such halls rang out the sound of metal on metal and shouting and struggles as men and women trained, ever hoping to prove themselves worthy of the fleeting few apples.

  Odin mumbled under his breath, plodding up the long path toward Sessrumnir, using Gungnir as a walking stick. True, he should have returned first to his own hall, laid his eyes upon his wife and his children. But Freyja’s hall called him, always, as if it might somehow lead him back into her presence. As if she was not gone now for over a decade.

  Yggdrasil beckoned too, reminding him of a time—however brief—when he had known peace, contentment. When he and Freyja had made love inside a hollow within the great tree, and he had almost forgotten the terrible mission that had brought him to Vanaheim. Now Freyja was gone and Idunn too.

  It always came back to those damned apples.

  He paused to stretch his back. The apples gave him stamina, yes, and stopped him from aging further, but they did not obviate every symptom of his advanced age, nor restore his youth.

  There is no going back …

  Audr was correct, of course. There was only forward. And everyone wanted an apple of Yggdrasil. With Idunn gone, Odin had placed his cousin Annar in her position, trusting him to ensure no one approached the tree. Who deserved an apple … let Frigg muse on such questions.

  The wraith offered far less commentary here in Asgard than out in the mists of Midgard. The sunlight drove it into a torpor, and this was the first it had spoken since Odin had returned. Odd to think how accustomed he had become to its voice in his mind.

  With a sigh, Odin pushed on up the slope. He did not get far, however, before shuffling feet behind him drew his attention. A boy raced toward him, his shock of red hair the clearest sign of his identity—for Odin had not laid eyes upon his son in some time.

  “Father!” the boy shouted from forty or fifty feet below.

  Odin stood rigid, steeling himself against the imminent reunion.

  Your own kin …

  Bah! Odin loved Thor down to his very soul. His son, however, served as one more reminder that Odin’s heart did not lay with the boy’s mother. That, and a reminder that Odin had failed as a father, again and again, if for no other reason than his continued absences. Neither Thor nor Frigg could begin to fathom the burdens Odin bore, weighted down by his cryptic visions of a dire future. No one could, save perhaps Loki.

  “Father!” Thor shouted again and threw his arms around Odin.

  Odin embraced him back, knowing himself a fraud as he did so.

  Thor drew away after but an instant, favoring him with as stern a gaze as a boy of—what thirteen winters?—could manage. Actually, thirteen winters meant Thor had already passed the age of manhood. And Hel take Odin for missing the day.

  “You have been gone too long, Father.”

  “I know.”

  “And do you also know what has happened in your absence?”

  Odin leaned on Gungnir, saying naught. He knew some of what transpired, as it came to him blurred hints from the Sight, but he could not guess what Thor meant in specific.

  “Well?” Thor demanded. “Do you know your wife is no longer your wife?”

  Odin reeled. “Frigg has divorced me?” He had not seen that coming, though perhaps he ought to have.

  “No. Your brother has claimed her as his own, saying you had been gone five winters.”

  Odin stared slack-jawed at his son, not quite able to wrap his mind around what the boy was saying. Vili had stolen Frigg? For certain, the berserk had long lusted after his wife. Had she returned the feeling, Odin would not have much cared if they took comfort in one another. It was not like he had remained loyal to his wife … ever. But to openly contest Odin’s claim on the queen was much like contesting his claim on the throne of Asgard and thus Midgard. That thought drew a snort from him. He had not even wanted the throne until Idunn forced it upon him. But now he needed it, if he was to have any chance of guiding humanity through Ragnarok.

  “Is this amusing to you?” Thor bellowed.

  “Not in the least. Trust that I will handle it.”

  “Handle it! Slaves claim your brother took your wife on her own throne! Had I not heard of your return so soon after learning this I would have—”

  “You will do naught, Thor! Go back to the hall, and await my return.”

  Thor stood there a moment, fists clenched at his side—a mirror of the man Odin had once been, always rushing away for vengeance and honor. “It is true what they say then—you have lost yo
ur courage, and you care naught for your own wife.”

  Odin glowered at his son. There was a time he’d have struck the boy for such words. Now he had only ice inside. Over time, it seemed to matter less and less what others thought of him. “Go home.”

  Thor spat, then stormed off back down the mountain.

  With a sigh, Odin slumped down on a rock and shook his head. His own brother had betrayed him. Could such a betrayal be forgiven? Vili had few enough brains—it would surprise no one to learn he thought with his cock. Still, Odin had lost one brother already. Vili and Ve were part of the legacy of Odin’s parents, and with them gone, he had to protect that legacy.

  And yet, if Thor spoke the truth, Vili had forced himself upon Frigg, both sexually and as a husband. That, Odin could not let stand. If it proved true … damn him. What options would lie before Odin? He would not have his brother slain. So what then? Banished to the frontier, perhaps? Sent to fight against Serkland? Groaning, he pushed his palms against his eyes. Even banishment seemed a small punishment for Vili’s crime.

  So then, he would have to take Frigg’s counsel and heed her wishes—aught short of Vili’s execution. Castration perhaps? Such things happened, in these kinds of cases. Stupid, Hel-cursed berserk. Why, why did he not think before he acted?

  Damn it!

  Odin sighed.

  Well then. There was no sense delaying the inevitable. Odin rose, his back creaking as he did so.

  Damn Vili.

  “You are a bastard!” Thor shouted at Vili as Odin entered the hall.

  The berserk chuckled where he reclined on the throne. “That’s your own grandparents you speak of, boy.”

  Thor lunged forward, drawing an axe from beneath his cloak as he did so.

  “Thor!” Odin shouted. Too late.

  Vili moved with stunning speed for a man of his size. He caught Thor by the wrist and throat and drove him to the floor.

  Odin raced forward. “Release him!”

  Vili didn’t even look up. His bulk obscured any view of Thor, but the boy must be choking, dying.

  “Brother!”

  His son. His son. His son.

  Odin flipped Gungnir around and hurled it.

  Even as it left his fingers his heart clenched. His stomach lurched. He tried to grab it out of midair as if such a thing could be possible. The dragon spear soared with unnatural speed, punched through Vili’s back, and pinned him to the throne.

  Odin faltered. A dream. A nightmare. He had not meant to …

  Choking and gasping, Thor rose from the floor, to turn and stare blank-faced at Odin. Almost as ashen as Odin himself must have looked.

  A tumult rose in the hall, jarls and thegns shouting. Cries going up of murder and kinslaying and of the lost king returning mad. Odin could not focus on their words.

  “I told you I had that handled …” he said to Thor, or tried, though he felt he was choking on his own words.

  The boy stood there, shaking, as if uncertain what to do next. As if dreaming.

  Gungnir, the legacy of his father, had slain Ve. And it had slain Vili. Maybe that was Odin’s legacy—death.

  All is death …

  Odin wanted to retch but could not show such weakness before his people. Their eyes bored into him, watching and judging him. And now he must find Frigg.

  He grabbed Thor by the back of his neck and dragged him away from the main hall.

  14

  Year 31, Age of the Aesir

  Naught could be allowed to interfere with Sigmund’s vengeance. He would go to Wolfsblood’s hall and call out the king, force him to fight and die for his crimes. If Olof Sharpsighted remained true to his word—and Sigmund thought he would, given his reputation—Wolfsblood’s main force would be occupied come summer. Before that happened, all else needed to be in place.

  Because Wolfsblood had other allies. Forces lurking in the marsh, hidden from sight, even as Sigmund and Fitela had become expert at hiding from them. And should this varulfur pack somehow catch wind of their master’s distress and come to his aid, Sigmund’s battle might turn against him. That left but a single recourse—before summer arrived, the remaining varulfur must die.

  Thus did he follow their trail, sniffing after them, beyond the marsh and into the solid ground of the wood. They roamed far, true, and Fitela had already caught a straggler separated from his brethren. The man had lived long enough to reveal the size of his pack—a mere six wolves remained. Six varulfur left in these woods, and Sigmund would be ready.

  Hunt. Stalk. Kill.

  The woods were not large enough for two packs.

  The trail led down a steep hill and into a valley. Within that valley lay a cave where their prey no doubt slept away the daylight hours. Sigmund crouched above it, unable to make out much in the darkness within. The cave itself descended steeply into another hillside. Large rocks piled around the edge meant only one man at a time could slip inside. More importantly, it meant they could only escape one at a time as well.

  And that led to an idea.

  It was late evening the next day when Fitela returned, laden with a wine cask. Soon, the wolves would wake. Perhaps waiting another day would be prudent at this point, but every night they lingered so close to the wolves’ den increased their chance of discovery. Besides, Sigmund was tired of waiting. The wolf did not like waiting.

  The last time he’d fought any of Wolfsblood’s pack he tried to offer them a fair fight. Instead, they stalked him in darkness, using stealth and trickery.

  So this time he would not offer a fair fight.

  Crouched low to the ground, the cask tucked awkwardly in his arms, he snuck close to the entrance. The steep slope would serve well for this. Sigmund glance at Fitela, and the boy nodded. So, here it was. His heart was pounding. So loud varulf hearing might actually catch it, or at least it felt that way. Do it. Do it!

  Hunt. Kill.

  The wolf inside felt ready to burst from beneath his skin at the thought of it.

  Sigmund popped open the cask and tipped it over, sending wine pouring down into the cave. Oil would have worked better, but wine would do. He rose and backed away.

  Then Fitela tossed a torch into the wine.

  Flames lit up along the path, spreading wildly down into the cave and lighting it like some perverse vision of Muspelheim. All ash and flame and horror.

  Sigmund drew his sword while Fitela nocked an arrow to his bow.

  The howls erupted an instant later. Wails of pain and fury and terror. A singed, naked man came stumbling out, flailing as he tried to climb free of the conflagration. Fitela’s arrow caught him dead between the eyes. The man pitched backward, knocking over another trying to escape.

  A third man crawled over their burning bodies, coughing and slapping at flames ignited in his hair. Sigmund swung. The man tried to fall back but too slowly. The sword opened him from groin to shoulder, spilling his intestines over the ground. Not even a varulf would heal from that. Sigmund kicked the dying man, sending him sprawling back into the flames—and his pack.

  Even as he did so, a naked woman leapt over all of them and collided with him. She slammed Sigmund onto the ground, and his sword clattered from his grasp. One of Fitela’s arrows sprouted from her shoulder. She batted it away, snapping off most of the shaft without slowing. Blows rained down on Sigmund’s face as the woman snarled and growled.

  Again and again she punched him with blows powerful enough to leave his whole world blurry. Her fist cracked his nose. Everything went red.

  She hefted him up by his throat. Lifted him off the ground with one hand, staring murderous daggers at him.

  Breathless, Sigmund caught what remained of the arrow shaft in her shoulder, and he twisted as he yanked it loose.

  Now she howled in pain and dropped him. Gasping, barely able to see, Sigmund thrust the arrowhead up into her belly. The woman doubled over in pain. Another arrow flew over her shoulder. Sigmund couldn’t see who Fitela was shooting at.

  D
idn’t matter right now. He had to trust his nephew.

  Still fighting for breath, he snatched up his fallen sword and rose swiping it across the woman’s face. The blade shattered skull and splattered brain and left her dead before she hit the ground.

  Sigmund blinked, rubbing blood from his eyes with his forearm. Someone was crawling from the blaze, skin black as char, cracked, and bleeding. Hair all burnt away.

  The half-dead varulf reached a hand toward Sigmund. The gesture seemed so weak he couldn’t be sure if it was meant as a plea for mercy or an accusation. The former, probably. His response would have been the same in either case. With an overhead chop, he cleaved down into the man’s skull.

  “Are you injured?” Fitela asked, as Sigmund backed away from the carnage.

  He shook himself. A broken nose at least. Maybe a broken jaw. Given his varulf nature, those would heal in a day. Two at the most.

  He opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it as blinding pain sent him wobbling. Yes. Definitely broken. Instead, he just shook his head, just a little. Breathing hurt too, between his nose and his mouth both being so damaged. And he wouldn’t be eating aught in the next day—which actually might slow his healing, gods damn it.

  They waited until the fires had died out, and then Fitela went to check. “Six corpses,” he said on his return. “So we are done here?”

  Yes.

  Now they had only to wait for summer, and all would be settled. Sixteen years of suffering would finally be avenged.

  15

  Sixteen Years Ago

  Three moons had passed more swiftly than Sigmund had expected, in large part thanks to the raids they made against other kingdoms in Hunaland. Gramr proved an even greater boon than stories would have claimed. Without her, Sigmund had already been a master warrior able to engage several men at once. With the runeblade, he had no equal. She cut foes like the tide crashing against rocks, unstoppable as any force of nature.