Gods of the Ragnarok Era Omnibus 1: Books 1-3

by Matt Larkin

  “Agilaz Farshot.” The Godwulf man beckoned them inward with a wave. “Jarl Alci bids you join him for the night meal.”

  “How did they know we’d be here today?” Sigyn whispered into Hermod’s ear.

  “Scouts have followed us for hours,” he whispered back. The Godwulf had turned to stare at them. “And he can probably hear us.”

  Varulf hearing was that good? A fine blessing, though she’d not have wanted the savagery that accompanied it.

  The guard pointed toward the largest hall, and Agilaz started off that way. Hermod helped her off the horse, then climbed down himself and began to lead the animal after his father.

  “I want you to keep her,” Hermod said when they neared the jarl’s hall.

  “What?”

  “Snow Rabbit. I won’t have so much time to ride or hunt now, I think. She deserves someone who can give her the attention she needs. So when you go from here, take her with you.”

  Her mind raced through a dozen responses, none of which seemed sufficient rejoinder to Hermod bestowing upon her his most prized possession. “Thank you.” Brilliant. With such ingenious lines, she need not worry about outsmarting a potential husband. Freyja! Why wouldn’t her tongue work properly when she actually needed it? It certainly got her in enough trouble when she ought to have stayed silent.

  He handed the reins to a slave who had already taken Agilaz’s horse. Hand on her shoulder, Hermod guided her toward the hall. Inside, thick smoke clogged the air, wafting among the rafters and choking her. None of the raucous men and women seemed bothered, all noisily boasting, feasting, drinking. Some of them wore almost no clothing, despite the chill creeping into the hall. A woman, shieldmaiden perhaps, sat on a bench, topless, paying not the slightest attention to a man sucking on her breast as she downed great swigs from a drinking horn. Two men wearing not a stitch took turns punching each other in the face while others laughed and shouted encouragement.

  Even through the smoke, the Godwulf hall stank of wolves.

  The bare-chested jarl lounged upon his throne, one leg thrown over an armrest, his long hair flowing like a red river over his shoulders. Maybe Hadding had looked thus twenty or twenty-five winters ago, though she found it hard to imagine him with the sheer pompous, self-assuredness of his brother. Still, they shared enough in common, the set of their eyes, that calculating look in them, that she would have known him even had he not sat upon the throne.

  Alci had seen them, though he gave only the slightest inclination of his head to Agilaz and none at all to her or Hermod.

  Another man rose, his own brown hair streaked with gray, and beckoned them over. “Come. I am Hoenir, thegn to Jarl Alci.” And father of the woman now intent on stealing Hermod away. Agilaz and Hermod sat on the bench where Hoenir indicated, and Sigyn squeezed in between them, rather than find herself wedged against any of the abhorrent warriors at the table. Hoenir pointed to a blonde woman across from him. A vicious scar ran down from her forehead, split the bridge of her nose, and reached the edge of her cheek. The woman had arms thick as a young man’s. “This is my daughter, Syn.”

  A shieldmaiden. Hermod was marrying a fucking shieldmaiden. Of course he was. Olrun had been a shieldmaiden, won glory for herself and her family, so why would her son want any ordinary woman?

  The woman licked grease from her fingers and stared at Hermod with greedy little eyes but offered not a single gesture or token of respect. A barely controlled bitch who ought to be kept with the elkhounds. Sigyn forced a pleasant smile to her face and nodded at the scarred shieldmaiden. Not a varulf, or she wouldn’t have such a pronounced scar. She’d have to thank Freyja for small blessings.

  Agilaz exchanged pleasantries with Hoenir and his men, introducing Hermod all around and even Sigyn, though she found herself with little to say to any of these people. How many of them were varulfur? It didn’t matter, she supposed. Even could they ever have turned back, that time had passed, and they were trapped here. Whether these men and women were varulfur did not matter, not when dozens, maybe hundreds, in this tribe clearly were. They had walked into the den of wolves, and one of them would not walk out.

  Hoenir gave the three of them a room in his own modest house. After long hours of drinking that left Sigyn warm and swaying, they had retired there. She had almost let one of the warriors lead her away and ease her pain and frustration, if only for a moment. But she was not quite that drunk, nor would she let herself be. Not here.

  Her foster brother had collapsed on the floor and now lay snoring in front of the brazier, their hound curled upon against his side. Agilaz, however, watched her, expression grave.

  Fine. So he wanted to talk. She could talk. Maybe not as well as usual, but why should she fucking care anymore? She spread her hands, welcoming in whatever carefully placed shot he had planned for her.

  Agilaz, however, never spoke quickly, never rushed. He believed in having a plan and sticking to it, and he had told her as much. Repeatedly. “I spoke to Olrun before we left. She believed you should not have come here.”

  “Yes, I guess she does. None of us should have. What good do you think sacrificing your son will bring the Hasdingi?”

  Agilaz looked to where Hermod lay, then shook his head. “I am not sacrificing him. Olrun and I chose to make our lives in Aujum, with your father, because I judged Hadding a good man.”

  Did he now? “A man who would have exposed his own daughter.”

  Her foster father frowned. “Hadding made many mistakes, but such is life. He trusted King Nidud of Njarar, borrowed gold and finely wrought weapons to fight his enemies.”

  Sigyn shrugged. She knew of the Njarar War, of how it had torn the tribes apart. Two and a half summers of murder and revenge, war and discord, that engulfed half of Aujum before it ended.

  “Nidud’s son Otwin has called in those debts, Sigyn, called for payment Hadding doesn’t have. And so, our enemies multiply, while our friends dwindle. We need Hadding’s brother turned to our cause lest the Sviarlander king march against us. If word reaches the king of renewed love between the brothers, he would be like to turn his eyes elsewhere.”

  So it was not only the other Ás tribes her father feared, but foreign kings as well. And because of that fear, he’d make any bargain, cling to any hope, no matter how ephemeral. Just as Frigg, in her own desperation, sought to call upon Jarl Odin for aid, so had her father sent Agilaz to befriend Jarl Alci. The trouble was, neither of the jarls had overmuch reason to offer loyalty. That Hermod was not betrothed to a varulf girl came as a welcome relief on one hand, but on the other, it meant Alci had given up the daughter of one of the least of his thegns. She rubbed her eyes.

  “If you are wrong, if Alci turns on us, who do you think the first to fall will be now?”

  Agilaz sighed and looked again at his sleeping son. Did Hermod even realize the danger he had placed himself in? “Get some sleep, Sigyn. We’ll have to leave in the morn.”

  Oh, but she did not think sleep would come easy this night.

  11

  The mountain had no name. Not among any of the Ás tribes, not that Odin knew. The vӧlvur said that to name a thing was to evoke it, and none would dare evoke the soul of such a behemoth. Least of all as they tried to scale it.

  The slope they climbed disappeared into the night sky, the peak still a mile or more above them. None of his tribe had attempted aught like this. Such wild places housed vaettir, trolls, and Njord knew what else. Ahead, his brothers trudged upward, their steps not nearly as certain as those of their guide. Snow crunched under their feet, snow that reached gods-alone-knew how deep. On these mountains, maybe it had never melted.

  “Just how big is this jotunn?” Vili asked. Vili was the only one smiling during this whole endeavor. Men said berserkir knew no fear. Perhaps he simply had the brains of a bear as well as the courage of one.

  Loki paused, crouched atop a boulder like a bobcat ready to pounce. The pelts he wore only enhanced the image. He turned slowly to look at
Odin’s brother. “Six times the size of a man. This one is, at least. As they grow older and feast upon the flesh of men, they can grow larger. And Ymir is ancient.”

  And they were hunting it. This would be a long night.

  Vili grunted, then looked pointedly at Ve. “Which man? Some men are larger than others. Ve’s barely the size of a dverg.”

  In truth, Ve stood some perhaps five and a half feet tall, and his thick muscles, braided beard, and battle scars would hardly let anyone mistake him for tiny. As usual, Ve simply glowered at Vili. The burgeoning skald would have his revenge over campfires, Odin had no doubt.

  “That’s enough,” Odin said at last, pushing past the rest of the group. This jotunn would be nigh. And soon it would know the bite of his spear. He ran his fingers over Gungnir’s runes. Power seeped into him whenever he held the weapon. The power to rule his tribe. The power to destroy his enemies. “We’re here to avenge Father, not bicker like lovesick maids. Shut your mouths or go home.”

  “Not large enough,” Loki whispered as Vili passed him.

  Odin smirked. None of the others could see his face anyway. With the damnable snow flurries, they probably couldn’t have seen it even had he been facing them. It was as if Hel herself had stirred the winds of Niflheim to thwart his quest.

  His torch sputtered in his hand. The firelight would give away their position before they were halfway up the damned mountain. Four little specks, advancing closer on Ymir, announcing their intent. “We have to douse the flames.”

  Everyone paused, turned to him.

  “Brother, are you already mist-mad?” Ve asked. “Skalds and vӧlvur alike agree, fire banishes darkness, mist, and cold. It is the first and last gift of man, one to never be squandered.”

  “If Ymir sees us coming, we lose our one advantage.” Odin scowled, staring up at the peak, barely visible through the snow. The storm was growing worse. “I will not allow Father to go unavenged over some vӧlva’s tale of the mist. A man doesn’t go mad in one night.”

  Loki drew up close to him now, shaking his head. “Your brother speaks truth. Fire is life, and it was given to mankind at great cost to the giver. It is our only ally out here. And as a frost jotunn, Ymir abhors the flames. If you cast it aside, you lose a shield and sword both.”

  “I will not be denied!” Odin snapped. “Not over some petty fear of the wild. What happens if he sees us coming a mile away? The jotunn can hurl boulders down upon us.”

  Loki sighed. “Or worse. These snows may well respond to his beckoning. Jotunnar can reach into the Otherworlds for the power to change the Mortal Realm. No easy choices lay before you, nor are any like to lie in your future, Odin.”

  Odin waved the foreigner’s nonsense away. “Douse the fucking flames. Now.” He drove his torch into the snow then grasped Gungnir with both hands. Odin’s spear, handed down through countless generations, bore an engraved dragon coiling around the shaft. But it was the blade, an undulating point like a flame, that truly made the weapon a thing of the gods. Etched on one side of the blade, another faint dragon swiveled, not worn away despite the immeasurable age of the spear. His father claimed the blade had been forged with a dragon’s soul, in the time before time. Now it would be forged anew, drunk on the blood of the frost jotunn Ymir.

  Odin kissed its blade. “Gods above and below, grant us victory.” Four men against a jotunn. And before this night was done, it would know fear. He pressed on, pushing out ahead of his brothers.

  One by one, torches hissed out in the snow behind him.

  The flurries pounded them with the ferocity of a blizzard. Perhaps Loki spoke truth, and Ymir had some fell sorcery with which to turn the mountain against them. Or perhaps it was a mere winter storm. Either way, Odin couldn’t see far.

  Arm shielding his face, he grunted, driving against the blinding snows. The slope had turned steep, and even using Gungnir as a walking stick, his progress had slowed nigh unto a crawl. He glanced back. Vili growled, pushing on, but Ve was actually having to use his hands to pull himself forward. And where had Loki gotten off to? In the darkness, the damned foreigner had disappeared. Slipped away like a craven? It didn’t matter. The foreigner had brought the brothers far enough.

  Odin pushed on, but not five steps farther, his foot slipped on the ice-slickened rocks. The ground gave way, snow skidding down past him. Odin twisted while trying to shout a warning to his brothers. The movement cost him what remained of his balance, and he plummeted down the slope.

  Rime-covered rocks tore through his fur trousers, ripping gashes in his shins. The ice scored a long gouge into his thigh, searing him like a burn. His pack tore free and plummeted back down the slope. His fingers grasped the edge of a rock, but they were too numb. His grip faltered. In an instant, Loki leapt onto the rock and snatched Odin’s arm.

  The foreign guide yanked Odin back onto the platform, then slapped him on the shoulder. “Not an auspicious way to begin the hunt.”

  Odin glanced back at his younger brothers. The snow he’d disturbed could well have started an avalanche, but they’d come off easy, buried only up to their calves. He’d hear worse of it over the fire, no doubt.

  As soon as Loki released Odin, Odin slipped down onto his arse. Hot blood streamed out over his trousers and stained the ice platform. He prodded at the wound on his leg. “Fuck.”

  The wind howled at him, like something calling out from Niflheim. Odin crawled to the edge, peered out over that platform. Through dark and blinding snow, he couldn’t see aught below. Hel would have had him if not for Loki. As it was, Hel had his pack. His extra torches, his food.

  Vertigo seized him, and he backed away, suddenly overcome by the magnitude of what lay before them. Odin coughed, choked. They stood moments away from a clash fit for one of Ve’s tales. He had no time to let dread or the pain of his wounds weigh him down.

  Ve scrambled down toward the platform where Odin had fallen, snow skidding beneath his feet. “Are you injured, brother?”

  “No. I covered my trousers in red war paint.”

  The skald knelt to examine Odin’s wound, shaking his head. “You cannot go on.”

  “Like Hel,” Odin said, then spat into the night. “Father’s murderer is out there, and every heartbeat he lives is an insult.”

  Ve shrugged. “Better to live with an insult than die of hubris.”

  Odin shoved him away. “Father named you a man nigh ten winters back, and still you think like a boy.” He forced himself up, unsteady as he felt.

  A hand on his shoulder pushed him back down. Loki. “Whether you intend to go forward or back, I must bind the wound. You cannot walk like this. You’d bleed out over the mountain.”

  “Man really is a fucking vӧlva,” Vili grumbled.

  Loki set to tying Odin’s leg with bandages and foul-smelling herbs from his back. He paid Vili no mind, which only further enraged the berserk.

  “Not got a damned thing to say for yourself? You admit to unmanliness? Maybe you’d rather have a boy than a girl?”

  “Just shut up, Vili,” Ve snapped. “We don’t have a vӧlva here. If Loki can save Odin’s leg, let the man try.”

  “Not a fucking man at all. Probably got a trench instead of a cock.”

  “I have to stitch this,” Loki said, still ignoring the berserk.

  Odin gritted his teeth and nodded. The foreigner knew what he was about, treating Odin’s wound quickly, with as few stitches as possible. Would have been better if he’d had some mead. Would have been better if this had not happened. Fuck.

  “It strikes me our guide must have seen a great many battles,” Ve said.

  Loki paused for the barest instant. “More than you can imagine.” He bit off the stitch, then wrapped another bandage around Odin’s leg.

  “This stranger has brought this upon us,” Vili grumbled. “The storm, the foul urd, all of it. He acts like a woman, speaks like a vӧlva, and invites the wrath of vaettir. Doesn’t know his fucking place.”

  Loki
met Odin’s gaze and offered no answer to Vili, which only further set the berserk to grumbling.

  When Loki had finished, Odin stood, wobbling for just a moment. Gungnir gave him strength. Its power filled him, dulled the pain. With it, he could best any foe.

  “We must turn back,” Ve said. “The storm is getting worse, half our food is gone, and that injury will slow you.”

  Odin sneered. “Then go back, coward. My father was murdered by that fucking jotunn.” He thumped a finger on Ve’s chest. “He came down off the mountain and killed him and everyone else in Unterhagen.” He thumped Ve again. “I will not allow Father’s ghost to writhe in torment one more night. I will not!” He shoved the boy for emphasis. “If you will not fight, I will do it alone. But there is no turning back. Not for me.”

  Vili cuffed Ve on the back of the head and started to climb again.

  Odin followed after him. No turning back. Never.

  12

  The Gandvik formed the northern border of Aujum. The Athra tribe occupied a half dozen small towns there. Fishing, whaling, hunting seals. Sometimes, they crossed the sea to Sviarland for trade. Or to raid. Borr had said all the Ás tribes once lived on the Black Sea as the Athra now did on the Gandvik. Closest to the ways of their ancestors, perhaps.

  The largest town, Breivik, served as the jarl’s home and had done so for over a generation. Tyr had come here oft enough with Borr. Once, before she died, Bestla had come here to visit her parents. A stone wall, crumbling but still thick, surrounded the town on all but the sea side. Tyr had not reached the gate when a man skied out to meet him.

  Big man, thick, bristly mustache. A warrior for certain. Didn’t go for a weapon, but archers stood up on those walls.

  “Who comes here?”

  “Tyr. Thegn of the Wodanar.”

  The man grunted. “Your name is known, champion of Borr. I am Geir, thegn to Jarl Annar.”