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

by Matt Larkin

  His breath came in rapid, irregular pants. He pressed his palms together. Steady. He could do this. Hel commanded it. He must become like the Niflungar. He would gain their power, and then he might lead them in battle, help them reclaim their rightful place as rulers of …

  The door crashed open, and a man strode in. He bore a sword at his side, though he placed no hand on it. With a single glance, he took in everything.

  Gudrun rose. “This is an evocation chamber, brother. You know better than to barge in like that.”

  “No incanting—you had not started.”

  The princess frowned. “I take it Grimhild has returned.”

  “Mother will see you. Both of you.”

  She looked to Odin, working her jaw with some unknown emotion. Brother. Her elder brother, then, Guthorm. The man’s resemblance to Gudrun was undeniable. Blond hair just like hers was bound at the nape of his neck, and they had the same pale blue eyes.

  Gudrun avoided speaking of her mother. She feared the woman. So what now, would Queen Grimhild want of Odin?

  They met the queen in a throne room Odin had not realized Castle Niflung even had. Two thrones sat in the back of a long, mist-shrouded hall, though Gjuki’s sat empty. Grimhild, however, looked like part of hers. It shimmered, like black ice, multispined spikes jutting from the back of it. The armrests looked like onyx, carved in the shape of skulls, and the queen herself wore a skull mask—though too large to be a human skull. A troll’s, perhaps.

  Guthorm stood off to the side, but otherwise, the queen had no guards. A woman possessed of extreme confidence, at least within her own castle.

  Gudrun, on the other hand, stood rigid at Odin’s side, so stiff she seemed apt to shatter. Her only movement the slow grinding of her teeth. He meant to pat her on the shoulder, reassure her, but somehow found himself not quite able to move while Grimhild silently inspected him.

  After a prolonged pause, the queen leaned forward, hands on the armrests. Those skulls had ruby eyes, gleaming. “Has he become one of us?”

  “He … would have. We were in the process of evocation when you returned.”

  “Long as you’ve had, and that is all you have achieved?” Grimhild cocked her head ever so slightly. “A disappointment, I’m afraid.”

  Gudrun managed to grow even stiffer in posture.

  “You speak harshly to your own kin,” Odin said.

  “Odin,” Gudrun whispered through gritted teeth.

  The queen rose, looking at him now. As she stood, she pulled off the mask, revealing a smooth face beneath. She looked but a few winters older than her daughter, a woman in her prime and so radiant in beauty he could not look away from her eyes.

  She drifted toward him as if floating on the mist, at once motions of fluid grace and immeasurable sensuality that caused a sudden swelling in his trousers. He knew he stood there, eyes and mouth wide, but he could not move. Not as she drifted ever closer. Not as she stroked a finger along the line of his jaw.

  “You will love me.” Her voice sounded off, echoing against his skull in low, pulsing tones.

  “I … I …”

  His hands shook. He loved Gudrun, not this woman.

  “You will love me and serve me until the end of your days. And beyond …” It came out as a whisper that rang inside his head with the force of a peal of thunder. Of a lightning strike.

  Odin gasped, struggling to breathe. He loved her, the beautiful queen. He loved … Gudrun … his princess who he …

  He shook himself. “I … I …”

  Married? Was he not married already? To Gudrun?

  No. No he had married someone else.

  He groaned, backed away, clutching his head. So many voices ringing out, pounding against his temples. Laying claim to him.

  Love me.

  Serve me.

  Love me.

  Serve me.

  Love me.

  “Your Art is interfering with the brew I gave him.”

  “Fool child. Were your sway half so strong as you think, you would have had naught to fear.”

  Odin had fallen to his knees. Where was he? Who was speaking? He needed to rise, to do … something. What had he come here to do?

  “My own Art has done well enough thus far. Odin is mine. Must you truly claim everything?”

  “Daughter. You—”

  “Please. Let me do this. Let me have this one damned thing for myself.”

  Silence lingered a moment. Odin struggled to rise, to shake himself free.

  “I must ride for Hunaland very soon. Dear Volsung needs my attention. When I return, you had best have swayed him fully. Fail in this, and you will regret it, daughter. You will force me to take more than one barbarian man from you.”

  Odin staggered to his feet. “M-my wife …?”

  Gudrun seized his cheeks and kissed him hard, with such hot passion all thought fled from his mind. “Come,” she said at last. “You must be thirsty. Let us have some mead.”

  Mead. Yes. He needed mead to clear his head.

  Part IV

  Sixth Moon

  43

  Gudrun lay in their bed, asleep and naked beside Odin. He stroked her hair.

  Was this love? This was what he’d been missing with his wife. Odin shook himself. Wife? Where had that thought come from? He wasn’t married.

  He was meant for Gudrun alone. He should marry her. This very day he’d ask her father for her hand. The Raven Lord was powerful, a true king. Except … except … Hadn’t there been something wrong with him?

  He’d being praying … to Hel—there was none greater.

  A sourness rose in his stomach. He needed mead. He reached for the goblet that always sat by their bed. It felt cold to his touch, chilled. He wanted to drink.

  But somehow, the thought of that burning liquid just made his stomach turn again.

  He shook his head and rose, trying to make no sound as he pulled on his trousers.

  Hel—there was none greater—there was something about her. Something he needed to remember. She was queen of the underworld. She’d brought the mists of Niflheim. She’d given their power to the Niflungar, allies of Odin’s people. And the mists …

  Hel, none greater, had brought them … five thousand years ago … Idunn’s grandparents had fought her. Why would they fight Hel? The woman, Idunn, haunted his vision. Beautiful, with exotic, rich skin. Was she not an ally to his people? She’d given him Gungnir, the spear that had rested in the corner of his room for … moons. How long had he been here?

  Odin shook himself, then turned back to Gudrun. She’d taught him so many things. Secrets of the universe, though he had trouble focusing on them. He could see into the Penumbra now, he had the Sight.

  Something was wrong.

  He’d come here to find the Singasteinn … because he’d promised the ghost. The ghost who had cursed Odin, who had … Ve! Son of a troll-fucking whore! Odin spun, his fists clenching at his side, taking in the woman in his bed.

  No. Not his bed. His wife lay alone in his bed. This was the sorceress’s room.

  And it wasn’t love. It was sorcery. Gudrun had literally enchanted him. She must have. He’d heard vӧlva could do such things. And the mead … a love potion?

  The conniving bitch had seduced him with flesh and foul Art drawn from Hel.

  But … her words were clearly the truth. She could give him everything. The Niflungar and the Aesir together might well rule Midgard. Was that what Gjuki intended? Was that reason enough for him to throw his daughter in Odin’s path? The sorcerer might have sought more than this frozen kingdom at the edge of Midgard. And Odin could give it to him—together, they could take everything, conquer all the North Realms and beyond.

  Odin shook his head again. Whatever they intended mattered naught. They’d bewitched him, used him. Perhaps Gudrun could break the curse the ghost had placed on Odin, but that was not enough. Because Odin would live for eternity knowing he had broken his oath and sacrificed his honor. And Ve, god
s! Ve! Odin would save his brother himself, without relying on such people. How easily he forgot Heidr’s lessons. Gudrun’s help would have had a price, too. Everything did.

  He’d almost let himself fall for her. And for what? An enchantress who had worked her Art on him. A people who worshipped Hel herself. Hel—there was none … No! Gods above and below, Hel had done this to the world. She was a queen of nightmares, an enemy to mankind. His enemy!

  He clutched his head. The sorceress’s seid beat at his temples, demanding he return to her bed. To deny it felt like ripping his own skin off. Odin had to be gone from this place before his mind fell under Gudrun’s spells again.

  He donned his tunic and stood over Gudrun. She still wore the Singasteinn as well as her golden headband. And to look on her there, barely stirring in the depths of some dream … was it more than lust? He could spend eternity by this woman’s side. His heart sped at that thought. He could do it, but for the price of his honor. And his brother’s soul. Or maybe it was her magic, still working at his mind, trying to draw him back. He barely stifled his groan.

  Maybe the apple had given him resistance to her powers. Maybe any mortal would have been helpless in her thrall. Or maybe even the brief respite from her potion had been enough to clear his thoughts. But fuck, did he want this woman. And for that, he loathed her almost as much as he hated himself.

  Odin clenched his teeth. He had to return that amulet. Not much time remained, of that he was certain. The Odling ghost would lay her curse upon him if he did not move from here.

  Gingerly he unclasped the amulet from Gudrun’s neck, careful not to wake her. Despite himself, he planted a light kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

  Odin hated this bitch. And loved her.

  Perhaps he’d never untangle the truth of his heart, the truth of whether his feelings were real or the results of her power … Every moment he stayed increased the temptation to crawl back into that bed. He knelt to retrieve his spear—for moons he’d let his ancestral weapon lie on the floor, as if it were naught but common iron. What shame he’d brought to it. And to his father—perhaps one of the shades looking on Odin—languishing in despair at the failure of his son.

  Shaking his head, Odin slipped out of the room. Back on the landing, he slid the door closed and backed into a man waiting there.

  “My lord?” the man asked. “Was there something you needed?”

  “I, uh … just some food. I’m famished.” If the man had been waiting in the hall, he’d no doubt heard all that had gone on the night before—all the nights before—and couldn’t help but believe that.

  The Niflung, a man dressed finely and armed with a short sword at his side, nodded at first. Then his eyes drifted to the amulet clutched in Odin’s left hand. “Very good, my lord. I’ll just check with her ladyship to see what I should arrange.”

  “She’s sleeping. You don’t want to wake her.”

  The man took a step toward the door. “I’m afraid I—”

  Odin slammed his fist into the man’s gut. Before the servant could even double over, Odin grabbed him and wrapped his hand around the poor bastard’s mouth and nose. The servant flailed, clawing at Odin’s arm with his nails. Odin just tightened his grip, drawing the man down to the floor. A few heartbeats and those struggles lessened until the man slumped into unconsciousness.

  Odin shook his head.

  Fuck.

  There would be more servants down there. Guards, sorcerers … and Gjuki. Odin would never make it past all of them if they were intent on stopping him. And if they tried, he’d be forced to kill them. Maybe a lot of them. These people didn’t deserve his slaughter. Despite the seduction and sorcery, they had done naught to physically harm him. He could not repay their hospitality with violence any more than he could remain and break his oath to the ghost or abandon his brother.

  “Odin?” Gudrun called from behind the door.

  He could go back in there. Stay.

  And lose himself forever.

  And gods, would he have wanted that. Part of him still did.

  Instead he turned to the window. Eight stories down and then icy rapids. But he was immortal. Maybe he could survive such a fall. And it might be the only way to avoid killing these people. Odin started for the window when Gudrun’s door opened.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Stop.” Her voice dropped in pitch. “Stop!”

  It echoed in his mind. He should listen to her. Remain. Be the man she needed … He flung himself out the window before he could think more. Icy wind stripped away whatever words Gudrun shouted after him. The air tugged at his clothes and stole his breath. And then he plunged into the river.

  A shock like a bolt of lightning shot through his body. All thought fled, and he barely held on to the amulet and his spear. The current slammed him against a rock. Breath exploded from his lungs, and his vision blurred.

  Don’t let go.

  Do not let go.

  He could lose neither Gungnir nor the Singasteinn.

  Another rock slapped him in the shoulder.

  Then he was falling again. He sucked in another lungful of air as he pitched over the waterfall, finding himself with just enough time to realize it was a fuck of a lot taller than he’d thought.

  The Morimarusa slammed into him like solid rock.

  He sank beneath the waves, mind swirling and unable to focus. His legs were surely broken, though it should have hurt more. The cold was too much. He was going to drown.

  The thought cut through his rapidly numbing mind and body.

  His immortality would mean naught when he was drawn beneath the sea, caught in the net of Rán. Perhaps he would rise as a draug, hatred fueling him with a desire to consume those he once loved.

  His legs wouldn’t work. He swam toward the shore, his strokes clumsy and growing slower. For a moment he managed to get his head above water, sucking in a single breath before he sank again. This was how it would end …

  Something bit his shoulder, jerked him toward the land.

  A rough tongue grazed over his eyes. Odin gagged, sputtering up water. Sleipnir stood above him, scuffing the icy ground with his hooves.

  The horse had pulled him from the sea? That was impossible. No horse could do such a thing.

  But Sleipnir was so much more than just a horse. Where had the horse been? Hiding from the Niflungar?

  He tried to speak, to offer thanks, but his throat only rasped. Sleipnir knelt beside him, insisting he mount.

  Yes. They’d be coming for him.

  In the sky above, a raven circled once before flying back toward the castle.

  Gjuki’s little spies.

  A gasp of pain escaped him as he pulled himself onto Sleipnir’s back. His legs were broken. He was certain now. And that should have hurt more than this. His body trembled. Could an immortal die of deathchill? If so, he surely would. He’d seen the toughest warriors in the world brought low by the cold, especially when wet. They would lose fingers, toes—lose their lives.

  Sleipnir took off, running across the sea the moment Odin had managed to mount. Odin slipped the amulet around his neck and tucked Gungnir across his lap. He needed sleep. He needed to rest.

  Rest.

  Except a man dying of the cold had to stay awake. Odin bit his tongue, trying to focus his thoughts and remain alert. Sleipnir’s ride across the sea had become a dream. He’d lost any sense of time, but whenever he looked up, he saw a raven above. Following.

  Gjuki would know. The Niflung king would know Odin’s every move.

  A sickness welled in the pit of his stomach. Gods, he had made a terrible enemy, hadn’t he? In trying to hold to his honor, he’d no doubt deeply offended Gjuki’s.

  Mists swelled up before Sleipnir, taking the shape of a serpentine head. A dragon. Sleipnir jerked violently to the side, changing directions to avoid the apparition. Seawater splashed up under his hooves, further soaking Odin.

  Fire.

  Fire would keep the m
ists away and let Odin warm himself. If he wasn’t dead yet, he should heal. The apple had made him that way, at least. He suspected he’d recover from aught that didn’t kill him. The thought left him both slightly comforted, as Sleipnir sped toward the shore, and unsettled.

  A wall of mist seemed to harden before them, cutting off passage to the shore. Sleipnir leapt into the sky, soaring over the wall and kept running. He was fast, maybe faster than the damned ravens. But the speed only served to further chill Odin to the bone.

  “Fire,” he mumbled to the horse.

  While it was unlikely the animal could start a fire, if he could understand Odin’s need for it, maybe he could find a place.

  Sleipnir snorted and galloped toward the village they’d passed through on the way here. The people there, even if they couldn’t understand him, would surely see a man in need and offer hospitality. But they scattered like the wind as Sleipnir approached. One man rushed inside a house, slamming the door.

  A monstrous horse might have some disadvantages, too.

  “Please,” Odin croaked. “Fire.”

  No one answered.

  Sleipnir trotted up to a hut with a smoking chimney. Odin grunted. The horse was right, as usual. He needed warmth to survive, and if it frightened these people, they would have to live with that. Sleipnir kicked the door. When no one opened it, the horse kicked it again, this time hard enough to make the frame shudder.

  Odin climbed off the horse, then slumped to the ground. A fresh agony shot through his legs the moment he put pressure on them. Maybe that was a good sign.

  “Please. Help me.” The words meant naught. If the people inside heard his tone, though, it might move them.

  At last a man opened the door and stared down at him. The foreigner had blond hair past his shoulders, a thick beard, and a long mustache. He looked upon Odin’s bedraggled form with a hint of wary sympathy in his eyes.

  Odin pantomimed rubbing his hands together and warming them on a fire.