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

by Matt Larkin

  Odin kicked the horse forward toward a bridge crossing the stream. Halfway across he paused. No soldiers guarded the gates ahead, which stood open but hardly inviting. No men walked the crumbling battlements above, though an unkindness of ravens watched his approach. Where were the Niflungar themselves? Had they fled this place?

  The mists congregated into an almost solid mass at the castle’s threshold, cutting off any vision of what might lie beyond. The mists were born from Niflheim, all men knew that. They carried the whispers of the dead and gave rise to the draugar. But never had Odin heard of them forming a wall like that. A fell sorcery lay about this place, as if Hel herself lurked within.

  A fool he’d been to come here, and twice a fool for agreeing to the ghost’s quest in the first place. He’d leapt at any chance to save his brother, never considering she might send him on such a perilous errand. Never considering her curse might cost him more than he was willing to pay. No, that was foolishness. Any price was worth it to save his brother.

  Almost of their own accord, his fingers drifted to stroke the runes carved along Gungnir. At last his fist tightened around the shaft, and he climbed from Sleipnir’s back, drawing strength from the dragon spear. Now he had no choice—now Ve depended on him. And he would be his brother’s salvation. He would fulfill his oath to that ghost, and she would halt Ve’s … transformation. Whatever darkness lay beyond, he had tasted the fruit of Yggdrasil. He had slain a jotunn. He, a man become god, would fear no sorcery.

  “I am Odin!” he bellowed into the mist.

  Above, ravens cawed in answer.

  Odin pushed forward until his fingers brushed the cloud. It had no more substance than any other vapor, but frost iced his hand as he drew it back. “I am a lord of the Aesir! I come for audience with the lord of the Niflungar.”

  His voice echoed off the high cliffs and the castle walls, disappearing too soon, as if swallowed by the mists. And then the fog in the threshold parted, forming a vague corridor into the courtyard.

  Odin swallowed. Despite his bravado, such a display did not reassure him. There was no turning back.

  Which meant the only way was forward.

  He pressed inward, and the path ahead turned. If he strayed from it even a few feet he’d find himself in a wall of blinding mist. He would probably wind up walking right into an icy well for his trouble—assuming it could do no worse. He glanced behind. The mists had enclosed the way he’d come—even now they continued to fold back to their original shape, driving him forward. A simple gesture to show where the power here lay? Or a deliberate course to force him into a trap.

  Either way, he had no real choice.

  Gungnir leveled before him, he pressed onward, watching each step, training his ears for any sign of his surroundings. He’d sworn he heard whispers coming from the mists themselves. But he could make out no words. It was not a language he knew—or perhaps it was several he didn’t, a cacophony of souls bemoaning their fate. A shadow passed through the mists to his side.

  He spun, spear brandished toward the sight. But it was gone, vanished so quickly he could have imagined it. Or perhaps the Niflungar enjoyed playing with his mind. But then there was the other possibility. The glimpse of visions he’d inherited from his union with Frigg seemed to show him the Otherworlds that lay beyond the eyes of men. Could it be, then, that he saw not illusions planted in his mind by others, but a reality they would have tried to conceal from him?

  In either case, Odin had had enough of these games. He knelt, snow crunching beneath his knees, and shut his eyes. Fear had never been his problem. Heidr would be like to have said lack of fear was his problem. She would have been wrong, of course. Odin felt fear the same as other men. But he knew it for what it was—a challenge to separate the weak from the strong. The weak would back down, broken by their own nature, while the strong rose above themselves. His brothers needed Odin. All of the Aesir needed him. So he let the fear go.

  A vӧlva could train for years to harness her gifts. Odin didn’t have years right now. But if he could see beyond this world … He waited until his heart had slowed, slow as a man sitting before a fire with his friends. Then he opened his eyes, careful to keep them relaxed. He needn’t fear the mists. He needn’t even see them.

  Slowly, the world around him dimmed, fading into a haze, and with it, the mists. They became transparent, revealing the shadows moving within. Some were shades, drifting on the currents of the mists, seeming as lost as he had been not a moment before. Ghosts trapped in this place. Odin could do naught for them. But other shadows, they moved with intent, their shapes more defined, like his own.

  One paused right beside him, bending over to inspect Odin’s kneeling form. Odin rose and looked straight into the shadow’s eyes. The figure froze, then glanced side to side and even behind itself.

  Wondering what Odin was looking at—they had no idea Odin could see them. These sorcerers were too clever for their own good.

  At last, through the parting mists, Odin spied the main gate and strode purposefully toward it. The whispers around him intensified as he ignored the winding path the sorcerers had set for him through the mists. Frost gathered on his sleeves and cloak. To a mortal, breathing in such thick vapors could be hazardous. Odin was no mere mortal. He was, he suspected, naught like what these sorcerers would expect.

  He flung open the doors to the keep.

  Shadowy forms jumped at his entrance, a woman dropping a platter with a shriek. She ran, dashing toward a spiraling staircase. Other shadows moved about the hall, edging around him. These must be the Niflungar—men and women of this realm. Odin shut his eyes again, willing away the otherworldly sight. When he opened his eyes, still the world seemed hazy, colorless and out of focus. He could tell the mists had not seeped inside, but he couldn’t get his eyes to return to normal.

  “Hope that’s not permanent,” he mumbled, before pressing his eyes closed again. Again he shook himself, the world cast in shadows. A sudden weight settled on his chest. Had he been too hasty in turning to this Otherworldly sight? He could not well save his brother if his vision were so obscured.

  A raven cawed behind him then soared right over his shoulder, so close a beat of its wings brushed his cheek. The shadows of men and women in the hall parted for the bird as though accustomed to it, making way for its flight. The animal alighted on the shoulder of a man who stood at the end of the hall. He turned to the bird for a moment before drifting toward Odin, wisps of shadowy matter seeming to trail behind him. The figure’s eyes gleamed, the only distinct feature in a maddening blur of shadows that seemed to bleed off into the background. The man had more substance than the true ghosts, but less than the common servants that fled at his approach.

  Odin planted the butt of his spear in the ground and stood firm. He would offer no threat, but nor would he grant honors to a man who treated his guests to mazes and mysteries. A proper king would introduce himself, not hide behind the mists.

  When the man at last neared, he paused and spoke. “It is not permanent, Odin of the Aesir.” His voice was thick, as though he were tasting the words for the first time, his accent strange and unplaceable. “Of course, once you open the door, it is never truly shut. You may choose not to look through to the Otherworlds, but you will always know more waits just beyond your sight.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Gjuki, King of the Niflungar, High Priest of Niflheim, known to some as the Raven Lord.”

  “Can’t imagine how you got that nickname.”

  “You are yet nascent in your powers, young lord, but not without potential.”

  “What potential?”

  “The potential for greatness, of course. The chance to take this world and make it our own. The power to shape our own destinies and those of the common folk beneath us. And I have watched you, Odin. I know your heart longs for that power. You will be content only when the world kneels at your feet. And I can give that to you. Come.” With that, Gjuki turned and start
ed down the hall.

  Odin’s grip on Gungnir tightened. When the world knelt at his feet? Odin had no such lofty dreams. Idunn had forced kingship upon him, and he would claim it, if only to save Ve. He could not, however, deny Gjuki’s majesty. Still Odin was not accustomed to being summoned like a slave. Being called to an audience with the coward Hadding had been bad enough.

  Gjuki did not wait for him, however, disappearing around the corner. With a grunt Odin started after the Niflung king, more disturbed by his words than he’d have liked. The man spoke of kingship like tyranny, just as Loki had warned. Was that the power Odin sought? And could he accept such a gift, should it come from these sorcerers?

  These people seemed to hold control over the mists. Men and women alike, clearly wielding seid. They were more than just vӧlvur. They were true sorcerers as Loki had said. Ones who had delved into the powers of Niflheim more deeply than any should, and yet … and yet they showed no fear. Men like Gjuki could rule the world if they so choose. Or rather, Odin could, had he such powers. And Gjuki offered them freely?

  The king led him through a great hall lined with thousands of candles. Another raven came to alight on the king’s right shoulder, while the one perched on his left took flight. Scouting ahead? Did this sorcerer truly speak to the birds? The so-called Raven Lord had as many as secrets as Loki. The man spoke of the Otherworlds as if he knew them. Vӧlvur told tales of those worlds, but they spoke in whispers, hinting at realms unknowable to mortals. But Odin was no longer mortal, and, he suspected, neither was Gjuki—if the man had ever been human.

  At the end of the great hall, Gjuki paused. An altar stood on a raised dais. Runic carvings covered the top and sides of the altar, their meanings hidden from Odin. Gjuki spoke without turning to face him. “The winds carry word of you far, young lord. A mortal man who slew Ymir. No mean feat, even for one of us.” He held up a hand, and the archway beyond the altar trembled. Dust jetted from cracks in the wall, stinging Odin’s eyes. Then the stones sank into the floor, revealing another hall beyond.

  Odin swallowed. How powerful were these sorcerers? Could they match the magic of the Vanir?

  “Come,” Gjuki said again. “I will show you to your chambers.”

  “My chambers?”

  “My ravens have watched you for some time now. More than long enough to prepare for your arrival.”

  If this man thought to keep him prisoner, he would find himself sorely mistaken. Odin followed, eyes darting down every side passage. All the people of the keep watched him as he passed, though none seemed intent on threatening him. But then, they were mere shadows to him. It was hard to tell which ones were alive and which were shades trapped in this fell place, much less judge their intent.

  Odin followed Gjuki up seemingly endless flights of stairs. Odin’s superhuman stamina let him take all those flights without becoming winded, but then, neither did Gjuki breath heavily. The stairs wound around in a spiral, carrying him up a tower until at last they reached the highest landing. The king strode toward an iron-banded door on one side, but Odin drifted over to the window. Below ran the stream he’d seen before, jutting around rocks in a violent torrent before pitching over the cliff. Now that he could see through the mist he could make out where it hit the Morimarusa far below.

  “Beautiful, is it not?” Gjuki said. “There are so many things we can teach you.”

  Odin turned from the window, trying to look the Raven Lord in the eye. But the man remained a shadowy form, his facial features blurred. “What do you want from me?”

  “The only thing that matters. Power.”

  Odin chuckled. These sorcerers wanted his power? What could he teach them? He shook his head and took a step toward Gjuki. He had come here for the Singasteinn, and he aimed to take it, whatever power it might hold. The Raven Lord was alone now. If the king didn’t have the amulet on him, he’d at least know where it was. Whatever these people might teach him, Odin had given his oath to the Odling ghost. He would live and die by that oath. And that would fix everything. It had to.

  Before Odin could even ask, Gjuki opened the door, revealing the lush chamber beyond. A four-post bed dominated the center of the semicircular room. A dresser, wash basin, side rooms—this was no prison tower. It was a chamber for an honored guest. A woman stood by the window but turned when the door opened.

  “My daughter is quite an adept at the Sight. She can help you regain your normal vision. When you have rested, we will speak of the future.” He turned to the woman. “Odin forced part of his mind into the Penumbra and—unless I am mistaken—has yet to be able to shut out the visions that now haunt him.”

  The woman snorted and stalked toward Odin. Transfixed, Odin watched her then jumped at the sound of the door shutting behind him. This king trusted Odin with his daughter. Moments ago Odin had intended to overpower Gjuki and take the amulet by force. His neck heated. These people might have deserved better than he’d intended to give them. They did not seem so bad.

  The woman pulled off gloves and tossed them aside, then placed her shockingly warm hands on Odin’s cheeks. She stood nearly as tall as he did. She leaned in closer, so close he could feel her breath on his face. Still, her eyes were naught but shadows. “Let it go,” she whispered. “The mortal world has much to offer.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Gudrun.” She pressed a goblet into his hands. “Drink, my lord. Find yourself.”

  A draught of mead to relax away the Sight? Odin would gladly take it. He downed the liquid fast, gasping as it burned his throat.

  Gudrun pulled him to her and pressed her lips against his, ignoring his half-hearted protests. She was soft, unhardened by the bitter chill. Odin started to pull away. However he and Frigg had parted, Odin was a married man. He should … She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and drew him closer. All thought fled his mind as Gudrun massaged his lips. He shut his eyes, lost in the sensation.

  Gudrun shoved him. Odin stumbled backward, falling onto the plush bed. The world shot back into focus as he opened his eyes. After so long gazing at shadows, the colors seemed almost too vibrant, and he blinked at the sight. Gudrun was dressed in an embroidered blue dress and a cloak lined with thick fur. Long blonde hair flowed over her shoulders, escaping past a large golden headband wrought with intricate patterns. And around her neck hung an amulet of gold that seemed to shimmer with its own faint light.

  “Yes,” she said. “The Singasteinn. I know what she wants of you. But I can give you so much more. I can break the curse that vaettr placed on your soul. I can give you everything.”

  Odin tried to speak, but a lump formed in his throat. Dimly, he realized he had dropped Gungnir when she kissed him.

  Gudrun released the clasp on her cloak and it fell away. With two fingers she pulled at the laces of her bodice, exposing her breasts. Her nipples stood erect in the chill air, bright pink against her pale skin.

  “I’m a married man,” Odin stammered.

  “Married to a vӧlva? You hold yourself tied to a woman whose powers are as a child’s compared to mine, and you dare to imagine she might give you a shadow of what I can offer?” Gudrun’s voice dropped, becoming huskier, almost hypnotic. It seemed to echo in his mind until he could hear naught else. “She cannot satisfy your lusts as I can. You hunger for flesh, for knowledge, for power … I offer all the secrets of the universe.” The Niflung princess straddled him on the bed, forcing him backward.

  Odin’s arms trembled. This was wrong. Part of him insisted it was, but that part could barely be heard over the all-consuming volume of her voice. She issued commands with the authority of a true queen. A fire built in his loins, ready to devour him alive unless he sated it.

  “Take what you want,” Gudrun whispered in his ear. “Take it all. Forever.”

  Odin grabbed her shoulders so tightly she cried out, and he rolled atop the princess. Some other thought had been in his mind. Something on the tip of his tongue—he couldn’t remember. The fire kept building
until he roared like a beast. He snatched two sides of her bodice and ripped the dress in half.

  The gods had made her for him. And he could not deny them.

  37

  Castle Niflung lay on the fringes of Midgard, wedged on an island separating the Morimarusa from the Gandvik Sea. This island, Samsey, had become their hidden sanctum, where the greater part of the Niflungar had slept away the ages. Gudrun’s grandparents had built it some eight hundred years ago, after the Niflungar were driven out of the mainland by the now-fallen kingdom of the Lofdar. It had long since served as the last refuge of the greatest descendants of Halfdan the Old. If Gudrun’s parents—Gjuki and Grimhild—had not lived through these events themselves, they must have at least firsthand accounts of it from their parents. And that meant they themselves had survived for many centuries.

  They had used the Art to sustain their mortal forms long beyond the time allotted to mankind, using secret knowledge denied to her, at least thus far. At just past twenty-five winters, she had aged about as much as she cared to. Grimhild could have passed for her—slightly—older sister. The queen’s most treasured spells were housed in a grimoire said to be written by the hand of Hel herself—there was none greater. Hel, Queen of Niflheim and Mistress of the Art. And through those spells, Grimhild had somehow maintained her youth down through the centuries.

  In her bed, the Ás man stirred, rolling over before collapsing on his stomach like a sea lion on a rock. Gudrun smirked to herself. The love potion had worked more than well enough to enthrall him. His will was weak enough she might have even drawn him to her bed without need of alchemical assistance, but her father had insisted she leave naught to chance. Insisted, most like, through Grimhild’s orders. Though her father was the king of all the Niflungar, Grimhild was Hel’s high priestess and claimed to hear the voice of the goddess in her dreams. Anyone who questioned that claim seemed to disappear, probably into the Pit, Grimhild’s nigh-bottomless dungeon beneath the castle.