The Shores of Vanaheim (The Ragnarok Era Book 3)

by Matt Larkin

Odin nodded at Hoenir in acknowledgment. “I have not come this far to fail, jarl.”

  Easy words. In truth, they were losing this war. Maybe it had been lost long ago, a dark urd to bring the Aesir to their end. Before the Niflungar ended the world itself. The weight of destiny had crashed upon Odin like a falling mountain, and he had nowhere left to turn. The avalanche of fate continued.

  “Still no sign of Loki?”

  “He never made the voyage across the sea,” Tyr said. “I don’t see how he could be here now.”

  Oh, but Tyr did not know Odin’s blood brother. Not the way Odin did. When times were darkest, when Odin faced defeat, Loki seemed to know. Odin too could now feel when those he cared for needed him. Loki would know his desperation, would come to him. But then, Odin could not afford to wait. Another few days and nights like this one, and the Aesir would be a memory.

  Besides which … if his vision of Loki were true, one day they would try to kill one another. No. No, Odin would not believe that. His blood brother was his most trusted ally.

  “How are we to guard against the wolf?” Hoenir asked.

  A question Odin had wrestled with in the hours since they made camp. The answer, though it vexed him, was obvious. They could not guard against Fenrir. Not while fighting a war against the Vanir. But if they took Vanaheim, they might then turn all their resources to finding a way to destroy the Moon spirit. And when that was done, Odin would ensure Grimhild paid dearly for what she had unleashed.

  “We have to break the Vanir all at once. That means taking their most sacred place, Yggdrasil, from where they guard these isles. A single bridge allows access to the World Tree. We take that, and neither varulfur nor Vanir can approach us unaware.”

  Hoenir rubbed his beard. “Will it not then be among their best defended holds?”

  It would. Which meant the Aesir would have to draw out the greatest portion of the Vanir warriors to create an opening. And therein lay the terrible danger, and a price they would all pay in blood.

  “I will take the Wodanar with me, all our warriors, shieldmaidens, hunters. The rest are to follow Frigg and make a stand on the beaches. Draw the Vanir away, fight them in the open if you are able. Begin constructing fortifications, force them to attack you. Tyr, you will come with me.” Odin wished he could say he merely wanted the thegn by his side, but after tonight, he could not afford to trust the man with the others. “Vili, if he is recovered enough, will have to guard Frigg.”

  Tyr scowled, but kept his peace. Odin could not imagine the shame the warrior must feel. Another jarl might have demanded Tyr’s death for raising a sword against his lord. But Odin understood the power of fell sorcery far too well. It would haunt Tyr for the rest of his days, but the man would have to endure. The Aesir needed their champion. And Tyr would earn back that position, Odin had no doubt. Valor, his friend had never lacked.

  “This plan is reckless,” Hoenir said.

  “It is desperate. There is a difference.”

  “And if the wolf and the Vanir both converge on you, Odin? You will have neither the brunt of your army nor your brother the berserk to guard your back.”

  Hoenir spoke the truth. But Odin had no sure plays left, only a desperate gambit. “Do everything you can to draw the Vanir to you. The fate of our people depends on it.”

  Odin stared into the flame. He did not see victory there. He saw only Freyja’s eyes, accusing him, even as he plotted the death of her father. And somewhere, out in Vanaheim, there was Idunn too. She had started all this and now no longer stood by his side. All his guides had abandoned him.

  And the morn would force him alone to decide the fate of two peoples.

  In the fire, he saw the world burning.

  47

  Gudrun’s eyes fluttered open. Everything looked hazy. She lay upon an altar, in the midst of a stone room, dark save for a circle of candles around the periphery.

  Almost across the Veil …

  Her eyes shut again for a moment. Breathing seemed to take all her energy.

  So much blood loss …

  She groaned.

  A soft hand brushed her cheek.

  When she looked again, Grimhild stared down at her eyes, a brief moment, before resuming her work. Her once-beautiful flesh bore terrible burns. The queen was tracing something on Gudrun’s forehead, something warm and wet—blood, perhaps. She tried to sit but her body refused to respond. All the strength had left her. Snegurka spoke the truth: very soon, Gudrun’s soul would leave her body for the last time. If only such an event would lead to respite, she might have welcomed it.

  “Wh-what?” Gudrun managed to say.

  “Until I recover the grimoire, my options become limited, daughter.” She had not found it. Hel be praised. “I am limited, of course, by the glyphs I can remember. There are a few that, no matter how many years pass, I am never like to forget.” Grimhild sighed then, and shook her head.

  When the queen moved away, Gudrun started. Other women were chained in this room … seven of them. Bound and gagged, but struggling in terror, eyes wide at seeing the summoning circle Grimhild was arranging. Trying to save her daughter. And she had not found the book. Ironically, if the queen had recovered it, she might have had a safer option to save Gudrun than whatever profane ritual she now attempted. Hel was not one for healing, but a determined sorcerer could accomplish many things.

  Glyphs decorated the walls, floor, and even the ceiling, many traced in blood, no doubt from the very sacrifices bound around the room.

  “In the early days of this era of Mist, before the Vanir built the Midgard Wall, the jotunnar roamed all the world. There were many great kings among them, most of whom paid homage to Hel in her glory.”

  Gudrun groaned and shut her eyes again. She had no need of a history lesson while she teetered on the edge of death. Then again, Grimhild seemed to speaking almost to herself.

  “Among these kings, one had a daughter, half human, cunning, beautiful as a winter storm and equally treacherous. And when the Vanir killed her father, she forestalled total war with them by marrying a prince among them, Njord.”

  Gudrun struggled to look over at one of the women—a girl really, maybe thirteen winters. She opened her mouth to tell Grimhild to spare that one, but naught more than a groan escaped her. A groan and a whimper.

  Oh. Seven souls … to save your body …

  Grimhild shuddered. “This princess was a queen of winter back then. But her truce with the Vanir did not last. She fell, into Niflheim and the service of the great queen. And the fallen queen waited to once again bring the wrath of winter storms upon those who had defied her.” Grimhild cleared her throat. “I have tried to teach you strength and wisdom, that you might not be forced to repeat my mistakes, Gudrun. You see, in my youth, I called upon Skadi, thinking to take back the world for the Niflungar. But she was older and stronger than I could handle, and it was your father, in truth, who cast her out of me. Hmmm.”

  She was the one. The sorceress who got herself possessed and killed her own family, running through Niflung lands on an icy rampage.

  Grimhild brushed Gudrun’s cheek again. “The worst irony is, in the end, I must turn to her again and repeat my own mistake to save you. Powerful enough spirits can sustain a human host for long, long years. And without the grimoire, no other option remains to me.”

  Oh, Hel. Grimhild was going to call Skadi into Gudrun’s body. She opened her mouth in the hopes of raising some objection, though she still could not speak. Her body convulsed, wracked by chills.

  And Grimhild passed among the sacrifices, chanting and slitting their wrists.

  The chanting intensified until it began to reverberate in Gudrun’s head like a gong beat inside an ice canyon, threatening to crack her skull. On and on it went; the worst of it was the anticipation, the utter helplessness of knowing what was coming. Moaning, she managed to roll over onto her side. Maybe even death would be preferable to—

  Her heart clenched. Her lungs closed up
. A weight had settled upon her chest. It bore her back onto the altar. Cold. It was cold as Hel herself. Gudrun shut her eyes, not wanting to see. Something like fingers grazed over her closed lids, cheeks, and ears.

  Not real.

  And then it began to slither inside her, like tiny worms, forcing their way into every orifice of her body. She convulsed, bucking against the awful feeling. Icy cold awfulness slid in through her ear canals, her mouth, her nostrils, her trench. The thing crawled up her arse and pushed its way into her eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, but only managed to gurgle, choking on the oily spirit.

  Not real!

  Its invasion denied her the ability to weep or even cry out. All she could do was thrash. She reached for Irpa, but even the wraith had retreated from the presence filling Gudrun up. The worms dug deeper and deeper inside her, coiling around her heart until she’d have sworn it had frozen solid and ceased to beat. They bored into her brain.

  It wasn’t real … but it felt real.

  And then, after a lifetime of agony, she could breathe.

  Except, it wasn’t her controlling her breath, nor finally managing to rise from the altar.

  The dark goddess of winter stood, looking down upon the sorceress queen who had dared conjure her not once, but twice. And she smiled.

  48

  The dense forests gave way to the chasm surrounding Yggdrasil. Odin and his warriors lurked on the outskirts beyond the bridge. A bridge now crowded with dozens of Vanr warriors. Too much to hope his tribe might have passed unnoticed through the woods of Vanaheim.

  “That must be their king,” Tyr said, indicating a long-bearded man in the center of the crowd. The man carried a gilded trident that glittered in the early morning sunlight. He had dyed his beard green, enhancing his Otherworldly look enough that Aesir nearby mumbled about being struck down by the gods.

  It was far too late to fret over such things now. Odin might have preferred to make such an attack at night, at least had he not lost most of his varulfur to Fenrir. Instead, they had lost the element of surprise. Njord—Tyr was right, it had to be him—looked in his direction. No. The time for stealth and trickery had passed. Now they were left with only a single, clear objective. Take and hold the bridge. If they failed, the Aesir would all die upon these shores. And Odin would be taken by valkyries before he let that transpire.

  So. If trickery could not be relied on, the next best course might be sheer brazenness. Njord, all the Vanir, they were thick and swollen with pride. Idunn had claimed as much, and the set of Njord’s shoulders confirmed it.

  A hand held behind him to forestall the others, Odin strode forward clear of the tree line. The Vanr warriors leveled spears at his approach, but Odin did not slow until he reached the very cusp of the great bridge. There he planted Gungnir in the ground, a silent challenge.

  Njord stared him down long moments. At last, the ancient Vanr walked forward, his men parting to allow his passage. He came to stand but a few feet from Odin. He was larger—both taller and broader—than Odin.

  And Odin did not care for looking up at other kings. Everything rested on his steering this course. “King Njord of the Vanir.”

  “Odin.” The man spoke with a sneer. “Petty lord of the Aesir. You dare tread upon the most sacred grounds in all the worlds? For this crime you risk a fate worse than death. Tell me—why should I not cast you bodily into Niflheim to be torn apart by the hounds of Hel?”

  Could he do such a thing? Yggdrasil did bind the Mortal Realm to the Otherworlds, after all. Freyja had banished the First Ones to Alfheim. Perhaps, with the tree’s power, Njord could actually send someone to Niflheim. To think on such a thing would leave most men, Odin included, quivering, seeking protection from a vӧlva. So he could not afford to think on it.

  He had not come here to answer for his mistakes, but to demand answers. He turned his eyes on each of the Vanir warriors in the front ranks, one after another, before returning his gaze to Njord. “There is great beauty in Vanaheim and in its people. For the sake of your children”—for Freyja—“I offer you the chance to answer the charges we, the people of Midgard, bring against you.”

  “Charges?” Njord laughed, a hollow sound, his face contorted as though he could not believe what he was hearing. “You? A mortal would come here to accuse gods?”

  “I have tasted the fruits of Yggdrasil.” At that the Vanr crowd broke into a cacophony of curses, angry shouts, and open-mouthed astonishment. “I am no more mortal than you, Njord. And I ask you again—will you answer the charges, or do you fear to face the consequences of your own actions?”

  The king ground his teeth, obviously cognizant of the trap Odin had him in. If he refused to listen to Odin’s claims, he would look weak not only in front of the Aesir, but in front of the Vanir as well. Finally he sneered, slammed the butt of his trident in the ground, and spread his other hand. “Speak, Ás. Lay your petty claims at my feet.”

  Odin nodded. This was, after all, why he had come—a just cause, a reason to loathe the Vanir in their weakness and cowardice. And if, by showing these soldiers that weakness, he could cause them to doubt themselves, this day might be won with far less bloodshed.

  He cleared his throat, once more taking in all the Vanr soldiers gathered here. “The people of Midgard charge you with negligence in the duties of any lord. In claiming Vanaheim for yourself, in claiming godhood, you made an implicit pact, as any lord does to his subjects—a pact of mutual benefit. For in the service men and thegns pay a lord, they are to be rewarded with protection and just rule. But you have turned your backs on mankind while they freeze in the mists of Hel, while the disciples of the dark goddess creep out across Midgard.”

  Njord’s eyes narrowed. “If you claim to be a subject of mine, then you are the one breaking all oaths in coming here, arms drawn.”

  “We come here seeking redress for your crimes, Njord, and those of all the Vanir. This land was given to you not for your own use, but as a place from which you might better the world.”

  “You speak of things long gone, ages past, long before your great-grandfather walked the world. Why should we care what was intended by some few mortals thousands of years ago?”

  That was not a response he had expected. The Vanir largely seemed to respect Chandi and the First Ones, those who had come before. To deny them, deny their will, sounded rather like blasphemy to Odin’s ears. “Do you hold so little respect for your ancestors? In your own immortal life, have you forgotten those who came before?”

  “I forget naught, Ás.”

  “Then if you deny these charges, deny you have failed mankind, come and find your satisfaction. Let us have our holmgang right here, this very morn. Else, step down and surrender the throne to one who will do better.”

  Njord stiffened. And the trap was closed. If the Vanr king refused to fight Odin, both armies would look upon him as a coward. Njord saw it too, for he looked back over his people, then clasped his trident with both hands. “So be it. I will not send your body to Hel—merely your prideful soul. It ought to sate her for a time.”

  Odin took Gungnir in both hands as well, leveling it at Njord.

  Njord leapt into action, swinging the butt of his trident at Odin’s temple. Odin jerked Gungnir up to block, and the two fell into a dance. Swing and thrust, parry and sidestep. Odin drew upon his power to increase his speed and strength, but Njord matched him. The ancient king had had millennia to master his own blessings. Millennia to train, to practice.

  Njord thrust for Odin’s gut. Odin twisted to the side and slammed his elbow into Njord’s face. The Vanr king stumbled backward, one hand on his bloodied face. Njord had also known centuries of peace instead of Odin’s lifetime of war. Training was good practice. Fending off draugar bent on dragging you to Niflheim was better.

  The Vanr lunged forward, thrusting down at Odin’s feet. Odin leapt backward and the trident struck the stone bridge. It did not stop, however. Winds spiraled around the trident in a vortex that quick
ly expanded into a cyclone ten feet wide. Those winds tugged at Odin’s clothes and tore his feet from underneath him, flinging him sideways and pushing him along the bridge until he struck the rail. That was a mere foot high, and Odin nearly toppled over it. He slammed Gungnir into the ground as an anchor. Winds ripped at his beard and sent his hat spiraling off into the chasm.

  Nearby Aesir and Vanir alike fell back from the force of the cyclone. Odin drew upon his strength, pulling himself to his feet. Teeth clenched against the winds, he freed Gungnir and advanced one agonizing step at a time.

  The Vanr king grimaced and finally jerked his trident free, ceasing the assault. The sudden absence of wind caused Odin to pitch forward several steps. He recovered his balance only the instant Njord swung again, a vicious overhead chop that ought to have split his skull. Odin fell to his knees and used both hands to block the swing.

  Njord glared down at him. “What a fool you were to think to challenge me like this, Ás.”

  Odin roared and shoved upward, pushing Njord away. A fool? Perhaps. But he could not turn back now. Maybe he never could have. Urd had swept him toward this course from the moment Idunn had walked into his hall. Before that, perhaps. For even back then Hel had sent Ymir to murder his father, to draw out Odin. The Norns knew, they had foreseen everything. And maybe, possessing the Well of Urd, Odin might finally understand, too.

  One man stood between him and such revelations. Odin charged forward, launching attacks as fast he could. Njord blocked again and again, falling back slowly, as Odin drove him toward the bridge’s edge. The Vanr king stumbled, then jerked the trident up. Winds began to swirl around it. Odin leapt forward into it, letting the cyclone buffet him, letting the trident rend his back. He shoulder-slammed Njord, sending the king tumbling to the ground and rolling closer and closer to the edge.

  “Yield, and I will spare your life,” Odin said, breath coming in pants.

  Njord looked up at him, blood streaming down his face, eyes filled with such loathing Odin faltered. The king thrust the trident, but from too far away. A monstrous crash split the sky even as a bolt of lightning rent the clouds. Odin tried to move, but had hardly even turned his head when the bolt struck the bridge at his feet.