The Shores of Vanaheim (The Ragnarok Era Book 3)

by Matt Larkin

  “Vanadis!” Freyja tried to rush forward, but Tyr caught her wrist.

  “Do you know,” Fenrir said, “every shifter traces their bloodline back to a single progenitor? All the varulfur you trust to guard you in the night … are my children. Do you see them by your side now?”

  Tyr turned to one of Zisa’s men. “Run for the others. Bring Vili and any reinforcements you can.”

  The man did so, dashing through the woods.

  Fenrir chuckled, dropped the lion corpse. Held his head back and howled. Sound ought to have issued from no human throat. Dozens of howls answered from the woods all around. And then, after the briefest of silences, a single gut-wrenching scream from the direction the scout had run.

  “My children are hungry.” Fenrir shrugged, stalking closer.

  “I will send your soul screaming to Hel!” Freyja shouted at him.

  The varulf laughed, shaking his head. Not impressed with Vanr Art.

  Behind him, Tyr felt some of the other Aesir start to fall back. They were terrified. The same weakness that had crippled the Vanir now held back the Aesir. Perhaps they did not fear death, but they feared this primal, feral wolf.

  Tyr could not afford to let that fear take hold of them. He strode forward to meet the nightmare.

  Fenrir grinned. “Small consolation—once Odin is dead, I will be free. And what I do to that Niflung witch will be worse than anything I do to your people.”

  “You will do naught save rot in this forest.”

  Tyr drove forward, a single sweep of his blade that might have hewn the beast’s head from his neck. Fenrir bent backward under the blade and caught Tyr’s shirt in his hand. He continued his momentum, flinging Tyr through the air. Tyr slammed into a tree with so much force the trunk cracked. So dazed, Tyr almost didn’t feel the ground hit him an instant later.

  Fuck, but that hurt. He tried to grab the apple’s power, drown the pain. Head was too foggy. Everything seemed so distant. Something grabbed him, and a sudden, severe warmth coursed through him, pounding like his own pulse. It rippled through his muscles and seared together cracked bones. He rolled over to see Freyja, dripping sweat, fall back on her arse. The Vanr was panting, her eyes locked behind Tyr.

  He stumbled to his feet. How long had he been dazed? A few heartbeats?

  At least five men were dead, their bodies splayed around the wood. Idunn leaned against a tree. Vines had shot out from it, binding Fenrir—who was now half man, half wolf. The varulf grasped a vine with a clawed hand and yanked it free. Those claws slashed right through the next vine.

  Another shot from the tree and wrapped around his throat. It pulled him off the ground. Immediately, he reached around and shredded that one too.

  “Hold him!” Zisa shrieked.

  Idunn fell to her knees, trembling, and sent another vine shooting out at Fenrir. It wrapped around his ankle and slowed him. Zisa had planted three arrows in his chest, but none seemed to even slow the wolf.

  Hel take Fenrir. Tyr rushed forward and slammed into the varulf’s back. The werewolf pitched forward a foot, and vines yanked the werewolf up again. As his head flew back, Zisa loosed. Her arrow caught the beast in one eye. Fenrir howled, straining against the vines.

  Tyr dove for his sword. He caught it in a roll and surged upward, driving the blade through Fenrir’s heart. The varulf convulsed, still straining despite the arrow embedded in his skull and the sword run halfway through him.

  “Oh, for Hel’s sake,” Tyr said. “Just fucking die!”

  He turned. Three Ás spearmen remained. He waved them closer. After glancing at one another, they edged forward. Each impaled the werewolf with their spears. He thrashed with each wound, and still yanked at the vine with one hand.

  Without warning, Sigyn came limping from around some trees, dragging a chain behind her. Girl looked like she’d just escaped the gates of Hel. Couldn’t afford to dwell on her now, though.

  Fenrir gasped. Finally fell still. Tyr spat on the corpse as it slowly reverted to human form. Idunn fell forward, barely catching herself on her hands.

  Sigyn grabbed the Vanr’s shoulders before throwing a chain at Tyr’s feet. “Loki thought you’d need that and said it could bind any supernatural creatures.”

  “Thank you. I think we have it—”

  A brutal snarl sounded behind him. Tyr turned. One of the Ás spearmen flexed, muscles bulging and eyes gleaming as only a varulfur’s could. He ripped away his shirt.

  What was … The man moved with unnatural speed, closing the distance to Zisa in an instant. Before Tyr could even move, he had his arm wrapped around her neck and drove her to her knees.

  “Do you think the progenitor of all varulfur could die?” The voice was changing with each word, already growing into the throaty growl of Fenrir.

  Not possible. Tyr’s sword faltered. Before his very eyes, the man’s form was changing. Muscle tone, size, even his hair color. Becoming the same as he had been.

  “I am forever,” Fenrir said.

  All at once, his hands became claws and his form became that of a wolf. Even as he changed, he jerked his hands apart, tearing Zisa’s throat out in the process.

  “No!” Tyr screamed.

  Starkad’s mother’s body fell limp, her head hanging on by a few shreds of flesh.

  Lungs wouldn’t work. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do …

  Fenrir cracked his neck and licked a long tongue over his claws. Drinking her blood.

  With a bellow of mindless rage, Tyr surged forward. His sword bit into the werewolf’s flesh, scoring a wound that seemed to be healing even as he inflicted another. And another. Fenrir snapped at him with those bloody jaws, driving Tyr back. Claws tore through his thigh and sent him stumbling down.

  “Tyr!” Idunn shouted.

  Another spearman lunged at Fenrir. The werewolf caught the haft and flipped the man end over end to slam him down on the ground. Seeing his broken companion, the final Ás spearman faltered. Looked to Tyr. Like he could do something. Even if Tyr killed him again, Fenrir would just take another host. And another.

  “The chain, damn you!” This time it was Freyja shouting.

  Tyr’s hand brushed the thin chain Sigyn had brought. It could bind anything. It seemed too small for such a feat. But Loki was given to trickery. He grasped the chain in his left hand, rising, sword held out in front in the other.

  “If you cannot die … I will see you suffer until the end of time.”

  The werewolf snarled at him, then leapt forward like an arrow launched from a bow. Tyr whipped his sword in an arc, spinning as he did so. The blade sliced through the edge of the beast’s nose, smearing Tyr with blood. He twisted around behind the werewolf, taking a claw to the back in the process. And he flung the chain around, dropping his sword and catching it.

  With all his strength drawn, he pulled on that chain. The varulf caught it in one clawed hand, stopping it from closing around his neck. The creature lunged then, his jaws closing on Tyr’s right arm. Those fangs tore through armor and flesh and bone with the most agonizing pain Tyr had ever imagined. A single jerk of the werewolf’s head ripped Tyr’s hand off at the wrist.

  Torment. Mountains of it, far beyond what the apple could suppress.

  And somehow, everything slowed. Naught else mattered save his prey. Save this monster from outside of time. This fiend who had torn Zisa to pieces and killed Hel alone knew how many others. Time slowed. One end of the chain flapped free, his severed hand still clutched around it.

  And then Sigyn was there, clasping the other end of the chain. Sigyn pulled it tight, far stronger than he’d have thought she could.

  The chain closed around Fenrir’s neck. All strength seemed to drain from the wolf. Sigyn handed Tyr the chain, and he clasped both ends in his remaining hand. Tyr roared, yanking the chain tight enough he could flip the varulf over his shoulder and slam him into the ground.

  Fenrir had already returned to human form as he hit. Tyr drove a knee into his back, th
en wound the chain twice more around the creature’s neck. More than anything, he wanted to strangle this monster. To watch the life drain out of it. But then Fenrir would win. Again. And Tyr had promised him suffering until the end of time.

  Tyr yanked him up by the neck and flung him against a tree. Idunn grabbed the ends of the chain and wound it round the trunk, binding the wolf. Tyr stumbled to his knees and pitched forward. The whole damned world was spinning. He glanced at his sword hand. Gone. And losing a lot of blood. It seemed he would join his ancestors. Maybe see Zisa again in Valhalla. Tell her he had done all he could to avenge her.

  She was there, stroking his face. He wasn’t certain he wanted her touch, but she was there.

  “Shh, don’t talk.”

  Idunn?

  A fresh warmth slammed into Tyr, life and energy and searing, blinding pain. He shut his eyes against it.

  “Where are you going?” Idunn’s voice.

  Tyr wanted to open his eyes but couldn’t. Sleep beckoned.

  “To find Odin. Maybe we can still have peace. They … the Niflungar sent that to our shores. Maybe he was right all along.”

  “You’re too weak.”

  Tyr tried to tell them to go to the boats. No one seemed to hear him.

  “I’ll live. Tend to him. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen such courage.”

  “Freyja? Thank you for saving his life.”

  “There are too many dead already.”

  No. Go to the boats. Go to Andalus. Odin commanded it.

  Odin commanded …

  Someone stroked his cheek. “Shh. Rest now. You did your part.”

  60

  The last rune carved on the floor, Odin rose, turning to take in the chamber inside Yggdrasil. Sounds of war and death and pain rang just outside, but he had long since managed to block out all distractions. Hundreds of runes marred the once pristine shrine delving into the World Tree. In his work, he had uncovered those glyphs Freyja and Njord had so deftly hidden. He had known where to find them, of course. Blending them into his own spell was natural, for all he intended was what they had done, magnified, expanded beyond horizons they ever dreamed possible.

  Odin had walked the forbidden halls between life and death. Possibility was something he could not help but view differently now. Given the infinite complexity of the cosmos, one found infinite possibility—compressed into a singular inevitability. Urd. Loki had been right all along. He always seemed to be.

  And maybe even the man’s death at Odin’s hands would prove urd.

  A choice of damnations …

  No. Odin had no choice at all.

  Lytir, bound in chains of orichalcum in the corner, had long since given over raging at Odin for his blasphemies. The priest had no doubt screamed himself hoarse. From the way his eyes flitted about, looking at things beyond the present chamber, Odin had suspected the priest had at least some idea what he intended.

  “For what it is worth, I am sorry,” Odin said.

  Lytir chuckled, then sputtered in coughing. “One does not … apologize for violating the most sacred tenets of belief. Nor for murder.”

  Odin spread his hands. “As you wish. I offer no further apologies, priest. You and your kind brought this upon yourselves. Your arrogance and your cowardice have forced the need to take drastic actions. For nigh unto five thousand years you lived in the light and warmth of the World Tree, while the rest of us dwindled in the cold darkness beyond these shores. Because you refused to fight the war in ages past, now a more terrible war is coming. A battle between chaos and the last vestiges of order on Midgard. A war that may spell the end of the cosmos. I asked your people to fight beside me in Ragnarok, this end war, but they refused. This leaves me but one choice. And it is not murder—it is sacrifice.”

  “You plan to sacrifice me to work a killing curse upon the rest of the Vanir.”

  Odin paused. Perhaps that would have been the kinder path, the more just path, returning the souls of the Vanir to the tree they so loved, and thus allowing that they might be born again into future generations. But he could not bring himself to slaughter an entire people. That left only one other solution, the same answer the Vanir themselves had chosen when faced with those they could not control nor bring themselves to kill.

  “No, priest. Some will die, for I need the energy of your lives to breach the Veil. You among them, First One. And, as Freyja has done, I will have to draw energy from Yggdrasil. That, I regret. I hope, in your next life, you find peace. I strive to give you a world where that might be possible. In vain, perhaps, but I will not surrender to the forces of chaos.”

  “Breach the Veil … By the Tree. Odin, you cannot mean …”

  Odin shook his head and hefted the priest with one hand, slinging the man over his shoulder. Like that he trod out to the bridge, where the Aesir yet battled the Vanir, even in the predawn darkness. Arrows rained down on warriors on the far side, but Vili had arrived and was holding the line with ferocity.

  At the shrine’s threshold, eight more Vanr prisoners lay bound in chains. The Aesir had not had orichalcum enough for so many prisoners, but these men had eaten no apples. Indeed, this was no doubt the closest they had ever been to Yggdrasil. Now, they sat in front of it, some trembling in fear, others staring at him in defiance. As leaves fell and lives ended.

  It was almost time. He had to do this at sunrise. Carving the final glyphs would take too long. Odin sighed, then drew a dagger and slit his palm. In blood, he began to paint the glyphs on the bridge, and on the foreheads of each of his sacrifices.

  “I do this so the rest of your people can survive,” he said to one who resisted. Still the man squirmed under Odin’s grasp. Damn. Odin backhanded him into unconsciousness. His words were small comfort, he knew. But he had naught else to offer. His course was set.

  As he worked, he began to incant, evoking the names of vaettir, hundreds of them. His voice rose, beginning to echo through the chasm. He looked to the sky. Any moment now, dawn would break through the clouds. And then … then he would have a few instants only to complete the spell. Static built in the air, set his hair and beard frizzing.

  “Lord of sunlight, master of radiance, I invoke thee. Surya, I call upon you now with all your servants to split the skies.”

  Audr recoiled within him at the invocation of the sun god’s old name.

  The canopy above trembled, followed by a quake that set the whole bridge shaking. Odin continued chanting, speaking in the forgotten language—if language it even was—of creation. The sounds, vibrations of order holding reality together, resonated, echoing.

  Runes began to sizzle, and the air rippled then popped, like bubbles rising from a bog. Odin grabbed one sacrifice by the hair and slit his throat, never letting his chant falter. The runes on his skin burned. He had neither the strength nor the will to look into the Astral Realm, to see the innumerable entities he had called here. If he lost control now, if he gave in to fear, he might create a breach nigh to as terrible as the one Hel had ripped open five thousand years ago.

  He killed another sacrifice, and another. With each life that expired, the heat and pressure in the air built and the quakes intensified. At the far end of the bridge, the fighting had faltered as warriors on both sides fled the bridge and fell to their knees at the sight of the shimmering nightmare before them. Another sacrifice fell at his feet.

  “Stop!” someone screamed from behind him. “Cease this!”

  Odin turned. Frey had appeared there, behind the lines. The bare-chested warrior held his mighty sword Laevateinn, blade crackling with flame. The sunburst tattoo on his back reached his arms, glittering, revealing a power Odin at last understood. For as Naresh, he too had once held that power: the Sun Stride, the ability to appear anywhere, to move at inhuman speeds.

  That sword …

  Audr’s runeblade, before the wraith had lost it. Ironic, that Odin would now have to cut down one wielder of the blade, while himself hosting another.

  “You
cannot interrupt me now,” Odin said, then resuming chanting. His rune circle was complex, probably magnitudes more complex than any sorcery the Vanir had attempted in their tenure here. Or at least, any Vanir save the First Ones, the very ones banished for their own hubris. Perhaps they had tried such things as he now tried on their descendants. Another irony not lost on him.

  Frey roared at him and vanished.

  Odin spun while falling to one knee and swinging his fist backward. It connected with Frey’s abdomen as the man appeared behind him, swinging that blade. The Vanr blew out a sudden breath and stumbled backward. Odin shook his head, continuing to chant. Frey was a fool. If he succeeded in killing Odin now, the spirits pushing against the Veil would rupture it. Vanaheim would become a feeding ground for hungry vaettir eager for souls to feast upon and bodies to inhabit.

  In his rage, perhaps the Vanr did not consider it. Perhaps he did not care. The man lunged forward, swinging again and again. Odin twisted out of the way and glanced to where he had left Gungnir lying on the ground, twenty feet away. He rolled under a blow, then twisted as a sudden prescient insight warned him. Frey appeared over him, hacking away at the spot Odin would have occupied. Flames licked his flesh, scorching it. Continuing his movement, Frey spun, swinging at Odin.

  This time, Odin caught Frey’s arm by the shoulder, twisted, and flipped the Vanr, using the man’s own momentum to hurl him at the bridge. Frey hit hard, the sword skittering away. Its flames flickered out. The man groaned.

  Odin ran to the next sacrifice and cut his throat as well.

  “What was that?” Frey asked, pulling himself to his feet.

  Odin glanced at him, then moved in on Lytir. “Silat.” The fighting arts of a distant age. Frey bore the mark of the sun god, but his people had forgotten much.

  The priest watched him with defiant eyes. The last, the final sacrifice. The quakes had grown stronger, spread even to the nearby mountains, where tiny avalanches began crashing into this valley.

  Frey appeared between Odin and Lytir, swinging his fist. Odin blocked it on his arm, caught the man’s wrist, and spun him around. In one movement he broke Frey’s arm and let the screaming Vanr fall.