The Shores of Vanaheim (The Ragnarok Era Book 3)

by Matt Larkin

  “Sleipnir?”

  “Hildisvini chased him off to the north, toward the shore. Not far, I hope.”

  A hope Odin shared. The sea was cold, and he could hardly swim across it.

  13

  The many Hunalander ships had dropped anchor just off the northern shore of Andalus. Though Gudrun had called the South Realmers weak, that was an overstatement. From what she knew of these lands, several large empires vied for control here. And while an individual South Realmer might well have been soft compared to hardened North Realmers, still they had numbers and, oft as not, superior gear.

  But Volsung’s men had no interest in conquering Andalus, though they plundered every village they passed as they trekked through hills and woods, ever southward to the Middle Sea and the Ás camp.

  Volsung rode beside her now, high on a stolen horse, light glinting off his gilded helm and dragon-decorated armor. They cut quite the figure, and, indeed, had done well enough against peasants with no one to defend them. The Aesir, however, would present a very different challenge, and Gudrun needed to ensure this time would end differently than the last.

  The king cleared his throat, having caught her staring. “What vexes you, sorceress?”

  “We lose too much time with these pointless forays, waiting for your men to plunder lands that will still be here on our return.”

  Volsung grunted, then swept his arm back to encompass the disordered mass of troops making its way through the valley. “Even were all these men my personal levy, I could not well command them to abandon any hope of building their own hordes.”

  “I do not ask you to make them abandon such hopes, merely defer them.”

  “Fear not. My scouts tell me we can begin harrying the Aesir this very afternoon. You will have your blood, soon enough.”

  If they reached the Aesir before the ship left, blood would flow, without doubt. She was left to hope no small amount of that blood would belong to Odin’s precious people. As Hljod tightened her grasp around Volsung, he became a more useful weapon in Gudrun’s armory, but only so long as he lived. Unlike Grimhild, Gudrun had limited use for the dead. It was a weakness she might need to soon rectify.

  All are dead …

  And maybe Irpa could help her understand just enough of the grimoire to begin raising her own draugar, revenants loyal not to Grimhild, but to a new queen.

  Embrace the dead …

  Perhaps, very soon.

  Volsung had led one of the forays himself and, if he lived, would no doubt return within the hour. The Hunalanders had some few berserkir and varulfur among them, true, but most men would not fight once twilight drew nigh, justifiably fearing the mists.

  They might have attempted a single massive assault against the Ás camp, true, but Gudrun did not know where Odin or Loge or Tyr stood. She had thus counseled Volsung to test their defenses with multiple simultaneous raids, depriving the Aesir of supplies and breaking their morale. It posed a risk, of course, that their enemies might try to flee, taking to their ships.

  The Hunaland fleet was still sailing around Andalus in case that happened, but Gudrun had no easy way to contact them. Time did not favor her, at least not until everything was in position, but caution seemed the better play thus far.

  Hljod paced around the clearing where they had camped, casting sidelong glances toward the south as if she might somehow see what unfolded in that battlefield. Without doubt the girl had grown fond of the Hunalander king, drinking in attentions Gudrun prayed to Hel were truly meant for Hljod, and not borne solely of Volsung’s desire to gain some hold over the Niflungar. Gudrun ground her teeth, watching her apprentice and not knowing what to say. Were she to voice any doubt as to the sincerity of Volsung’s intentions, she would only hurt Hljod and, like as not, distance herself from a girl Gudrun had started to think of as a little sister. No, whatever truth lay behind Volsung’s actions, Gudrun needed to make certain Hljod knew how to keep a man and, in time, bend him to her will.

  A subtle potion, perhaps, a draught mixed in the man’s ale, and then he would become more pliant: whatever his existing attraction to Hljod would be amplified. Unfortunately, while the forest could provide copious herbs and roots needed for such a tincture, this camp hardly contained the ideal instruments for the working of alchemy. Gudrun did not fancy brewing potions in a cooking cauldron like some common witch, but she saw no alternative.

  With a sigh, she approached her apprentice and stroked the girl’s hair.

  Hljod leaned against her shoulder and shook her head. “Should have been back already.”

  “Soon enough.”

  “The fucking Sight tell you that?”

  Gudrun’s use of the Sight was primarily focused on gazing across the Veil to contact vaettir, though certainly she managed dreams of prophetic import on occasion, as well as uncanny insights. And though she could not actively peer across distances to spy upon the battle—not without calling upon Snegurka to do so for her—it was oft best for a sorceress to appear to withhold knowledge, rather than seem ignorant. That being the case, she nodded absently. Let Hljod take it as she would.

  If she could have used the Sight as such, it might have told her where her brother or even that damned varulf had wandered off to. In daylight, neither of them would strike, but soon, the sun would set. She supposed that meant the Aesir’s night would be even more difficult than their day.

  Gudrun sighed and rubbed her arms. The time had come to create her own pawns to counter those of Grimhild. “I told you how to quicken your womb to ensure his seed takes.”

  Hljod nodded. “I take the tonic every night.”

  Good. Gudrun placed a hand over the girl’s abdomen. Insights, yes, they came to her sometimes. “Make sure he takes you tonight.”

  Hljod snickered, obviously looking forward to evening.

  So too did Gudrun, though for other reasons. When darkness fell and she was alone in her tent, Gudrun would call upon Irpa and see if she could not begin to uncover the secrets of giving rise to a draug. After all, one way or another, Volsung would have arranged plenty of corpses for her to choose from. One needed stronger pieces as well as pawns, to control the board. Gudrun would soon have both.

  14

  Sleipnir had returned to where Odin and Idunn struggled in the waves, and Odin, once again, felt a gratitude and kinship toward the eight-legged horse that stretched beyond words. He and Idunn sat upon the mighty beast’s back, shivering despite their immortality. Even the power granted them by the apples of Yggdrasil could not cut through the chill of their soaked clothes. Idunn’s teeth chattered as she leaned back against him.

  “How much further?” he whispered.

  “Not so much. I hope.”

  Gods, Odin hoped so, too. He didn’t think either of them could actually die of deathchill, but putting that to the test did not sound like aught he wanted to try.

  “I think I need to sleep a little,” she mumbled.

  “No, you don’t.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Idunn. Idunn!” Odin shook her with enough force he heard her teeth bang together. She groaned. Damn it. He hadn’t meant to be so rough, but she could not sleep now. Not like this. Maybe she would be fine, but vӧlvur always said if you let someone in the throes of deathchill fall asleep, they were not like to wake again. That was not a chance he could take with Idunn.

  Strange, to think himself so dependent on her. No, not dependent—though he supposed his quest did depend on her. But after so many moons of her walking beside him, she had become more than the outsider she once was. A friend, perhaps one of the few who could begin to understand the changes wrought in him or the burdens he bore. Underneath her constant chatter and the cheerful facade she wore, Idunn knew the weight of urd. The terrible blessing and curse of those destined to shape the world. Maybe it did not matter whether urd represented a choice he made or a choice made for him. Either way, the burden remained the same.

  Just as with Idunn. She had spent
millennia trying to guide events, to change things for the better, and now, as they finally stood upon that threshold, by Odin’s ancestors, Idunn would be here to see her efforts rewarded.

  “Sometimes I hate you,” she mumbled.

  “Then dwell on that if you must, but do so awake and alert. Tell me—are there more guardians of Vanaheim I ought to be aware of?”

  “Ugh.” She shivered again. “There are guardians around Yggdrasil itself. I don’t think anyone truly understands the tree’s full nature. And by now, Hildisvini has probably reported our presence to his master Bragi.”

  “God of poetry?” And the fucking boar could talk? Or perhaps it relayed its warnings in some other manner.

  Idunn chuckled. “Sure. He fancies himself quite the poet.”

  She fell silent, but stirred just enough to assure him she did not sleep, so he let her rest. Bragi. That was also the name she had given her husband, the patron god of the Bragnings—one more fallen people now. But if Bragi was a son of Halfdan the Old, he must have been adopted into the ranks of the Vanir. Strange thought that, the idea of other men before Odin joining the gods.

  Others, perhaps, had also tried to change the world, to save it. If so, they had tried and failed. Perhaps that was the source of the bitterness Idunn seemed to feel toward her husband. Perhaps their love had withered as their hopes for the future died a slow death. Or, worse, given the scope of thousands of years, maybe all love wilted until only memories remained.

  Finally, the mists began to thin, the air to warm. A wind cleaner than any he had ever felt tickled Odin’s skin. The sky above was the palest blue he had ever seen, and clear almost beyond imagining. He rode out of the mist bank as if passing through a wall, and suddenly the sun warmed his face, so bright it stung his eyes and he had to squint.

  He gasped. In his whole life he had never seen such radiance, such brilliant light. Hand raised at his brow, he turned toward the island ahead. It rose from the sea in waves of greenery, hills that built upon themselves, so overflowing with foliage it seemed like some dream of Alfheim. And rising from a valley at the center of the island, he saw the boughs and canopy of a tree stretching the height of a mountain. Its branches brushed the sky and shaded half the island.

  Odin swallowed, unable to finds words or even thoughts to truly define the majesty of what he saw. Yggdrasil—the World Tree. If Idunn were correct, this tree was the source of life on Midgard. Its fruit had given rise to immortals. Its power held back the mist and allowed these two islands to flourish while the rest of the world slowly suffocated beneath the weight of Niflheim. An emotion he could not name shook him, tightening his chest.

  As they drew nigh to the shore, his eyes darted to castles dotting the slopes of the numerous mountains rising around the tree. Though not so different in shape from the ruins scattered across Midgard, these castles were whole, and yet, engulfed by foliage themselves. Covered in vines, flowers sprouting from every crack and cranny, so much that, at glance, one could almost miss the structures beneath them as they blended with the slopes.

  So enraptured with the sights, Odin missed their approach to shore, realizing it only as Sleipnir’s hoofs landed on sand. Idunn wiggled in his arms until he released her. She immediately leapt from the horse and fell to her knees on the beach. Odin followed. The sand was hot! How could ground be warm? He had never heard of such a miracle. Even the air was hot here.

  He turned to Idunn to ask, only to find her yanking off her dress. Odin stared, open mouthed, appreciating the perfect curve of her arse, and, as she turned to face him, her breasts and the tangled bush around her trench. The rich color of her skin was so exotic, he could barely control his sudden desire for her.

  “Wha …?” he mumbled, clenching his fists at his side to keep from rushing at her.

  “You’ll warm much faster out of those wet clothes.”

  That was plain truth, everyone knew. But men and women did not generally warm themselves together unless they intended … to warm themselves together.

  Idunn snorted at his hesitation, and lay upon the beach, face turned to the sun. Yes, she had the right of it. He needed rest and warmth badly. Averting his eyes, he doffed his tunic, then his boots and trousers and lay down beside her, staring up at the sky. The light still stung, but he was growing used to it. So impossibly warm, it was like being carried away to Valhalla. This land was paradise, suffused with warmth and life and vibrant joy. Of course the Vanir had never wanted to leave. How easy it must have been to turn their backs on the Hel-cursed lands of Midgard. Gods, before now he had never even considered facing such temptation himself.

  At last the heavy weight of his eyes forced him to close them, though even through his lids he could still see the image of the sun. This was what he had fought for. What so many had died to reach. A safe, eternal home for all the Aesir.

  Some time later, he jolted awake to see a man stomping in his direction. The stranger—one of the Vanir, of course—wore a sleeveless tunic and had long red hair tied at the nape of his neck. He wore a long beard, but did not look the least bit aged.

  Odin rose, pulling on his trousers just before the Vanr reached him.

  “How dare you!” the man shouted.

  “What—”

  The Vanr’s fist slammed into Odin’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. From the tree line, a boar squealed. Hildisvini. His momentary distraction allowed the Vanr to land another blow, this one to his temple. It sent Odin sprawling to the sand.

  “Bragi stop!” Idunn cried.

  “I find my wife naked with another man!” He kicked Odin in the ribs, actually lifting him off the beach and sending him tumbling.

  All the air blew out of Odin’s lungs, and his vision blurred.

  “You think I’m going to let him get away with this!”

  “Damn it, Bragi! We both know you plow anything with tits. And besides, I …”

  The Vanr was on him, swinging again as Odin rose to his knees, gasping. This time, Odin caught the man’s arm on his own. He surged strength to his limbs and roared, hefting the Vanr up over his head. With a grunt, Odin flung Bragi down onto the sand. Odin spat blood, then backed away. The god of poetry was attacking him. That was something worthy of song. And a lot of mead.

  “Your body is strong,” Odin said, “but countless lifetimes of luxury have weathered away any warrior instinct in you.” How long since he fought a real battle? Centuries?

  Bragi rose, snarling, and rushed him.

  Odin sidestepped, caught the man by the back of the neck, and slammed his fist right in the poetry god’s face. Cartilage shattered beneath his blow.

  Bragi fell to his knees moaning, blood spurting from between fingers clenched over his face.

  Odin took a step toward him, but Idunn jumped in between them—still naked—and pushed him back with a firm hand on his chest.

  “Stop it. Both of you. By the Tree, Bragi! I never slept with Odin—our clothes got wet. And no, I actually don’t care whether you believe me. It’s not like I don’t know about you and Nehalennia. And Sunna. And—”

  “Your mother will hear of this,” Bragi said, his voice distorted by the broken nose and his hand clamped over it. The poetry god struggled to his feet and backed away.

  Odin’s instincts urged him not let a potential enemy walk away. But he had come here with the hope, however small, of reasoning with the Vanir. If he killed one now—Idunn’s husband, no less—his chances of peace would die forever. Fists clenched at his side, he watched Bragi slink away, up a path running through the hills.

  “He’s going to be a problem.”

  Idunn sighed. “Maybe. But he’s my problem, Odin. All right?” She shook herself. “We’re near Gefjon’s hall. I’m sure she’ll offer us something to eat and a place to sleep.”

  Gefjon. That was the goddess of plenty. Those Aesir who tried their hand at tilling fields—a difficult task given the nigh ever-present snows—prayed to her. It seemed every step of this journey would bring him
face to face with beings his people had worshipped, with gods his instincts all but demanded he kneel before. The sudden reality of that left him dizzy, and he slumped back down to the sand.

  There was no turning back. He had made an oath. But was it the oath that bound him here, or something deeper? Was Loki right about urd? Either way, Odin’s stomach danced like a storm raged within.

  15

  Hills and forests covered much of the Andalus countryside. Gave Volsung’s men lots of places to hide. Small raiding parties picked off Ás hunters and gatherers. Sniped men working on the beaches. The shore was hard to guard.

  So Tyr had taken eight warriors with him and gone hunting those raiders. A small group could move with stealth. Catch the trollfuckers with their cocks dangling free. As now, with evening drawing nigh, and them thinking fighting was done for the day.

  Volsung’s raiders had taken a hill topped with a mighty elm. Already they’d set about making camp—laying fires, rolling out furs. Soon they’d have sentries. Not soon enough.

  Tyr pulled Gramr from her sheath and shared a look with his own people. Two shieldmaidens and six men, Hermod among them. All of them well proven.

  Without a word, he pushed forward, slinking closer. Quiet—silent as death. Until the last moment. Then, just when they might’ve noticed, he charged up the hill. Drawing power from the apple, he could run faster than a normal man. Not as fast as a varulf, but fast enough. Fast enough the first man only looked up an instant before Gramr sheared through his face. The runeblade cleaved through skull and brain like water. And Tyr was already advancing on the next man.

  Startled imbecile had been stringing a bow and kept fucking trying. Gramr tore out his throat and splattered his blood over his fellows even as they rose.