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

by Matt Larkin

  The queen’s unnatural longevity must derive from feasting on the souls of her victims, much as a vaettr fed upon its host or even upon other entities from beyond the Mortal Realm. The secret to that would lie in the grimoire, but Gudrun had never been able to lay a hand on the tome. It never went far from the queen and, as far as Gudrun knew, not even her father was allowed to touch it. Only the queen’s vile servants could—the Bone Guard, Grimhild’s former enemies in life, damned to eternal servitude in death and acting as a reminder of the fate of any who dared stand against the queen.

  As now, when Grimhild had taken the Bone Guard and ridden for Sviarland, intent to secure her puppets there. Grimhild had sworn not to repeat the mistakes of her predecessors to the throne—as if it were her bloodline and not Father’s directly descended from Naefil. But so long had the vicious queen ruled the Niflungar, perhaps even Father had become one of her innumerable puppets. The queen had built an army of pawns spread across the face of Midgard, moving only a few pieces at a time, ever waiting for an endgame that would ensure that, when the Niflungar returned, no one would be able to stand against them.

  Their waking had come slowly at first, but now they moved with greater surety. And the Vanir did naught. They no longer watched Midgard, nor cared for the fates of man.

  Maybe that was why her father had tasked her to seduce and train Odin. To create another pawn, a would-be king among one of the numerous barbarian peoples left in Midgard. Not that the task was odious. He was handsome and an apt lover. Moreover, his body surged with vital energy that coursed into Gudrun every time he climaxed. She felt stronger, vibrant, her own life force fortified by Odin’s. Given enough of such power, she might even one day challenge the queen.

  All things in time.

  Wool cloak slung tight around her shoulders, Gudrun slipped from her room. Father would be in his study. Such intuitions were inherent blessings of the Sight. Oh, she was not given much for prescient dreams or visions of the past, as some blessed with the Sight were. But instincts, intuitions, those she excelled at. That and communing with spirits. Ghosts flittered at the edge of her vision even now, though she ignored them. To acknowledge their existence was to invite their ire or pleas, and Gudrun had time for neither.

  Instead, she stalked the halls, making her way down to her father’s study in the basements deep under the castle—though not half so deep as the Pit. A circle of candles lit the room. All servants of Hel disdained fire, but not even the royal Niflungar could read in the dark. As always, countless musty tomes and scrolls cluttered the shelves ringing the chamber, and a bowl of water sat on the table.

  Not for drinking. Water had numerous other uses—it was liminal, fluid both literally and spiritually, and thus served as an excellent medium for focusing the Art. Her father didn’t look at the bowl now, though. He watched her, head cocked to the side as he listened to whatever secrets the raven on his shoulder whispered in his ear. The ravens proved more effective spies than the spirits Gudrun or even Grimhild had to use for gathering information. Less costly now, though Father had hinted he had once paid a great price for such servants.

  All sorcery came with a price. You drew power from the Otherworlds, and the Otherworld took back from you tenfold. The mere thought wakened spirits writhing beneath her skin, clamoring at the back of her mind, always eager to take from her. They would take her body, mind, and soul, given the chance. Such was the fate of all sorcerers who lived long enough.

  “Your mother will return within the moon.”

  Gudrun leaned over the table, demanding her father meet her gaze. “The Ás is somewhat more than human, is he not?”

  Father looked to his raven as if the damned bird would answer the question, then finally raised an eyebrow at Gudrun. The one thing he had always demanded from his daughter was intelligence. Unlike Grimhild, who demanded everything, oft as not, more than could be borne.

  “What are his secrets?”

  “Are you not equipped to pry such things loose from him?”

  Gudrun scowled at him. Obviously she could get the man to tell her all he knew. “I doubt the Ás has any inclination of Grimhild’s purpose for him.” The queen wanted Gudrun to make him a pawn, because in her mind, Gudrun was her pawn. All pieces in the grand game she played. A tafl board on a scope encompassing all Midgard. Maybe even beyond.

  “Your mother has her instructions from Hel herself—there is none greater.”

  “There is none greater.” Why would Hel want Odin?

  Her father stroked the raven’s head and leaned back in his chair. “A Vanr came to him. Brought him a gift.”

  A Vanr. From time to time, a few of those self-proclaimed gods still wandered the world, but most had not left Vanaheim in a thousand years. Any gift they brought would be laced with double-edged purpose, and … in Hel’s name … Odin’s vital energy. Every time he climaxed inside her it was like standing under a waterfall. Because he was infused with the energy of life. “An apple of Yggdrasil?”

  Given such power, no wonder Gudrun felt so invigorated. And had Grimhild been here, no doubt the queen would have seduced Odin herself. Perhaps she still intended to. That thought left an unexpected sourness in Gudrun’s stomach. She was not going to share the man with anyone, much less the queen. If Grimhild thought to claim this pawn for herself, she was in for a shock. Gudrun had lost so much because of the woman.

  She was not going to surrender Odin.

  He was hers.

  38

  Odin shot awake, gasping for air as though he’d been drowning. The winds were chilly against his bare skin. A glance around told him the previous night had been no dream. Gudrun lay sprawled naked across the bed, a glorious goddess. Splinters of the dresser littered the floor. They had smashed it when … Gods, how many times had he taken this woman? The bed, the wall, against the window …

  Her voice seemed to coil inside his mind, as though demanding he come and ravish her sleeping form once again, and already his body began to rise to the challenge. Only a slight hesitation held him back. Wasn’t there some other woman in his life? He tried to picture another face, but none came to mind.

  Some force pulled him closer to Gudrun, her scent growing heady with the nearness, until he could not stop himself. And why should he? She giggled and jerked awake as he buried his face between her breasts. He felt his kisses grow so fevered he thought he would faint, then flung her legs apart so he could enter her. Any sense of time fled him.

  When next he looked out the window, the sun had set again. He stared out over the mist and the icy castle beneath him. In the moonlight it felt even more removed from the world of men.

  An uneasiness settled over him, like something he was forgetting tingling the edge of his mind.

  “This place is steeped in sorcery,” he said when Gudrun put a hand on his shoulder. “Like something time forgot.”

  “Not entirely inaccurate,” she said. “What do you know of sorcery? Of the worlds beyond Midgard?”

  Not enough, that he could say for certain. When he turned to her she was fully dressed, as was he, though he didn’t remember dressing. A fog seemed to have settled over his mind. Hunger, perhaps.

  “I could use something to eat,” he mumbled.

  Gudrun pressed a goblet into his hands. Odin drank the burning liquid once again, then sank back onto the bed. At the edge of his vision, those shadows had drawn up again, trying to creep into the room through cracks in reality.

  “There are ghosts in here.”

  “Shades are everywhere, Odin.” She held out a hand and pulled him back to his feet.

  He was so tired. He wanted only to feast, to fuck, to sleep. What had he been doing before this that had left him so exhausted? The thought seemed to flit through his fingers.

  Instead he followed her out among the halls. Other Niflungar greeted him by name, nodded at them. He knew them, he realized. He’d spoken to some over the night meal, met others out in the courtyard. He knew them, but most of their n
ames escaped his grasp.

  The little one, no more than ten winters, that was Gudrun’s brother Gunnar. Always running about with a sword, training, testing himself. Hadn’t he asked to spar with Odin once? Yes, yes. But Odin had refused him.

  “Gunnar wants to become a master, like his big brother,” Gudrun said idly.

  “Big brother?”

  “Guthorm. He’s away with … our mother. Not one of Father’s heirs, so he avoids Castle Niflung most times. Come.” She led him further down halls that blurred before, obscuring thought and time as in a dream. All of life had become a dream. “You have awakened to the Sight, Odin, and with it, you see and feel things others cannot. You see past the Veil into the other side, the shadow of this world where ghosts and spirits dwell when they watch us. We call this shadow the Penumbra. Beyond it lies the Spirit Realm, where the Otherworlds orbit us.”

  “So I … I’ll always see these shadows now?”

  “You’ll always know they are there. The Sight has other uses—those strong in it can pierce the veil of time, forward, backward, gazing upon the strands and fetters of urd. Your vӧlvur, the strongest of them, possess the barest hint of such a blessing. Any sorcerer likewise must gain at least some level of Sight, for sorcery is the power of the Otherworlds.”

  “So seid.”

  She paused. “A name for harnessing the energy suffusing your body and the world around you. Through force of will and expenditure of that life energy, you can change the world around you by calling upon spirits. That is the essence of sorcery.”

  Gudrun led Odin farther into the castle, to a wall that folded in upon itself at her approach, revealing an opening. It led to a long hall, and he followed her down it, eyes latched onto her arse. Would anyone dare speak against them if he took his lover right here in this secret passage?

  No.

  None would dare challenge Odin. Lord of the Aesir. Prince of the Niflungar.

  He grabbed both of her arse cheeks and pushed her against the wall.

  She chuckled as he lifted the back of her dress. “I have something to show you.”

  “Show me,” he demanded.

  Instead, she spun around in his arms and pushed him backward. “Say you love me.”

  “I … I … love you.”

  At that she kissed him, then pulled away far too soon. “Midgard is but one of many worlds, Odin. A small, weak world compared to those beyond. Tell me of Niflheim.”

  They’d had this conversation before, hadn’t they? The words came to his mouth as if by rote, and he knew them. “The World of Mist, of cold. The world of the dead, ruled by Queen Hel. There is none greater. From Niflheim comes the power of sorcery, the power to unmake the realms of man.”

  “Yes.” She smiled. At that she grabbed his hand and pulled him forward until they paused before an iron-banded door. Inside, a man shrieked in pain. The sound ran through Odin like a wash of icy water, the mist in his mind clearing a moment. And then Gudrun’s lips were on his again, her breath mingling with his, returning the peace.

  “How many Otherworlds, Odin?” she asked, a breathless pant against his cheek.

  “Nine worlds in the Spirit Realm. Nine worlds as there are Nine Spheres of Creation …” He was forgetting something important. There was something he was meant to do. “Nine worlds that are not places but …”

  “But more like states of consciousness,” she prompted.

  “Consciousnesses, shaping reality. Shaping our world, every world. The Otherworlds and the …”

  “The Penumbra—a layer of the Astral Realm.” She pursed her lips. “Hmmm.” She then opened the door, revealing a scene of horror beyond.

  An obsidian altar marked with strange runes rested at the head of the room. Gjuki, the Raven Lord, stood before it, ravens on each shoulder. But it was the naked man strung above the altar who held Odin’s eyes. Blood dribbled down numerous cuts along his abdomen, the blood stains all but invisible on the black stone beneath.

  “What is this?”

  “Sorcery,” she said. “Sorcery is the most dramatic form of the Art. Sorcery calls forth the power of spirits, enjoining them or bending them to our will. And what greater spirit could there be than almighty Hel?”

  “There is none greater,” Odin said.

  “Yes. So now is your chance to practice it. Kill him—offer his soul and body to Hel and complete the ritual.”

  Odin’s stomach lurched at the thought. Even as his hand drifted toward the victim.

  Bile scorched his throat. Something was wrong. Who was this man? He shook himself. Sorcery called up power from vaettir out of Niflheim. It ate away at body and soul, by its nature and by its cost. Why would he want to harm this innocent man? No, no this was wrong. Odin opened his mouth, trying to find words to explain to his love she had taken a wrong course.

  Gjuki slapped the altar. “He is not ready.”

  Gudrun spun Odin around and kissed him again. She drew him from the room by his hand. “He will be,” she called over her shoulder.

  Odin followed as she led him back toward their bedchamber. Fear threatened to drown his lust until he found himself disgusted by the reaction of his own body, unable to stop himself from rising again at her call.

  39

  Shouting from beyond the smithy. Angry cries, grunts of effort. Damn it.

  Tyr raced around the building. Three of Hadding’s men surrounded Vili, fists raised. Another lay in the snow. Blood pouring from his broken nose and split lip. Damned berserk.

  “What in Njord’s name is this!” he demanded.

  One of Hadding’s people leapt on Vili’s back, wrapped an arm around his neck. Vili lunged backward, slamming the man into a post of the smithy. Force of it cracked the post—damn nigh split it in half.

  Another man stepped in, swinging.

  The crack of his fist against Vili’s jaw.

  The berserk turned to face his attacker. Grinning. Fucking grinning.

  Bears don’t look fast. But they can be. Berserkir too. Vili had the man by the throat, hefted off the ground before anyone else had moved. The Hasding man’s eyes bulged. He clawed uselessly at Vili’s grip.

  Tyr wasn’t a berserk, but the apple made him strong. He seized Vili’s wrist and shoulder and shoved the man. Borr’s son released his victim. Spun on Tyr.

  “Enough!”

  Vili glowered.

  “These are our hosts.”

  “Poor fucking hosts.” Vili spat. “We’re not fucking wanted here. Let’s be gone, and Hel take these trollfuckers.”

  Would that they could. Odin had ordered them to remain here, hold Halfhaugr. Even against its own ruler.

  Angry shouts agreeing they ought to leave. At this rate, the whole town would rise against them.

  Tyr scowled at the gathering crowd. “Everyone calm down. Go back to your work.”

  They didn’t.

  More of the town arrived with each passing moment. Watching, simmering. Ready to boil over.

  Tyr’s hand drifted toward the sword on his back. Not the way it ought to go.

  Vili grinning again. Fucking imbecile. Cracking his knuckles.

  Wodan warriors had begun to form a crowd on the other side. A few had drawn blades, axes. Blood would run these streets.

  And then the Hasding crowd began to part. Making way for someone.

  A woman, bearing sword and shield. Tyr had seen her a few times in the past moon. Olrun, wife to one of Hadding’s thegns. A shieldmaiden, and clearly one these people respected a great deal.

  Olrun planted her sword in the ground—mushy snow and mud now. Looked from Tyr to Vili and back, barely acknowledging the rest of the crowd. “Jarl Hadding has grown displeased with this alliance.”

  Because Odin had fucking betrayed him. Denied him the damned apple and then run off.

  Olrun locked his gaze. Understanding. Warning. “The jarl believes it is time for the Wodan tribe to return to Eskgard or wherever else suits you.” Shouts of agreement from the crowd. Anger was
rising fast, but they deferred to her.

  Vili spat.

  Tyr cracked his neck, barely stopping himself from scowling at the man. Fool berserk wanted a war. “It suits us to remain here. Until our jarl returns.”

  Some of Hadding’s people began to beat weapons against their shields. Odin’s warriors immediately started doing the same.

  Damn it.

  “I’ll fight you,” Tyr said.

  “What?”

  Some of the Wodanar laughed. Tyr ignored them. “A duel. I win, we stay. You win, we go.”

  Olrun glanced at her people, and at the Wodanar. Glowered. Yes, she was aging. Past her prime. And he’d given her an unworthy challenge, damn him. She had no chance, and they both knew it. So why had he said such a thing? Hel, this scheming for Odin’s throne was wearing him down. It was the kind of thing he’d have said long ago, as champion to Hymir. As a jotunn’s bloody sword arm.

  The shieldmaiden sighed. Wrapped her hand around the sword. Now he’d have to fight her. Not to the death. He’d try to spare her, best he could. Hel take him for this.

  The girl, Sigyn, raced to Olrun’s side. Put her hand on her shoulder. Whispered in her ear.

  Too late for warnings. Too late. Blood boiled in both crowds. Boiling blood led to blood staining the snows.

  Olrun said something back. The women argued a moment. Then the shieldmaiden looked to her people. “All of you, disperse. Hadding’s daughter commands it!”

  At her sharp tone, the warriors faltered. Angry murmurs about a bastard child. About mist-madness or alf possession.

  Tyr looked to his own people. “In Odin’s name.” He pointed away. “Get gone. We will not strike the first blow against our hosts.”

  Vili grumbled. Looked apt to challenge him. Instead, the berserk spun, walked over one of the men he had felled as he left. Ground the poor bastard into the snow.

  As both crowds began to disperse, Sigyn strode forward and grabbed Tyr’s arm. Dragged him away from the smithy and toward another house. Same house where Olrun stood out front.