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

by Matt Larkin

  Ve could take it.

  He’d had an apple, too.

  Odin pounded his fist again and again into Ve’s ribs until they cracked. An uppercut to the troll’s jaw sent his brother stumbling backward, head colliding with the wall.

  Dazed himself, Odin backed away, then wrapped a hand around Gungnir. The dragon’s power filled him, fueling his own, blending until he could no longer see the difference. The pinned troll wrapped a hand around Odin’s leg. He yanked the spear free and slammed it into the last troll’s head, then whipped it around in front of him, pointing it at Ve.

  Ve watched him, gleaming eyes locked on Gungnir. The troll was wounded, stunned. Odin could close the distance and finish this. They both knew it.

  Tyr and the others would be here, ready to clear this burrow and end the threat. And they would hunt down and kill Ve, never knowing who he was.

  “I’m so sorry, brother,” Odin said. “I swear I will return the amulet and restore you. I’ll force that ghost to break this curse.” He glanced back at the women he’d come to rescue, then turned back to Ve. “Run!”

  Ve needed no further prompting. He took off, lumbering down a side tunnel.

  Odin slipped to his knees. The power he’d drawn seemed to flee the moment his heart began to slow. With it gone, the renewed agony of his wounds hit him like a fresh torrent. He fell over, dimly aware of the women shouting.

  His vision blurred.

  51

  The twisted Jarnvid lay before them. No horses inside. Even the hounds wouldn’t venture there. Dogs were wiser than men in such things.

  Hermod rose from where he knelt. “He passed this way, maybe an hour ago.”

  “You have your father’s gift at woodcraft.”

  The young man scoffed. “I’m fair certain that’s the only eight-legged horse in the area.” He switched his torch to his left hand so he could draw a sword. “No woodsman enters the Jarnvid. At least not until now.”

  Vili strode forward, axe in hand. “Wish the fucking sun would set.”

  Tyr spat. “No. You don’t. Trolls won’t come out in sunlight.” He drew his sword. This would be bloody. But his lord—his king—had ridden in there alone. Tyr would not leave the son of Borr to face this by himself. He ought to have seen what was happening to Ve. Had he remained, maybe he could have stopped this from happening. Maybe not.

  Tyr lit his own torch off Hermod’s. He edged his way into the thorny wood. Had to be careful. Trees here could shred a man right through his mail. Vili pushed past him. Berserk tore a gash open on his side but didn’t slow.

  “Odin!” Vili bellowed. “Where the fuck are you, brother?”

  Tyr cringed.

  “This way,” Hermod said, pointing off to Vili’s left. “Deeper inside.”

  Vili raced off blindly, axe clanging against the iron-like trees. After a dozen strides, he paused, looked around. Huffed while Hermod caught up and pointed in a new direction.

  “Vili,” Tyr said. “Guard our backs.”

  The berserk grunted. “Soon as the fucking sun sets …”

  And that would be in mere moments.

  They pressed on, even as darkness spread over the wood. Fast as if someone had shuttered a window. And then only torchlight remained. In the dark and the mist, a man couldn’t see five feet.

  “Stay close,” Tyr commanded.

  Vili had already doused his torch. He fell to his knees, groaning and roaring as he shifted. He tore off his clothes as the bear burst forth.

  A louder bellow rang out from off to the left. A moment later, a massive form lumbered through the trees. It crashed into one of Tyr’s men. Impact flung the man’s body into a tree. Impaled him on a thorn bigger than Tyr’s arm.

  Tyr roared at the beast. Troll turned to meet his charge but not fast enough. Tyr leapt into the air, clanging his sword against its skull. The troll recoiled, stumbling backward, before slamming its claw atop the spot where Tyr had stood. Tyr rolled forward between its legs. Drew a knife in the same motion. He slammed the knife into the back of the troll’s knee. It pitched forward.

  Tyr mounted its back. Grabbed his sword. Jerked it free. He rained blows on the troll’s neck. Blade clanged against rocky protrusions and skin tougher than armor. But a few blows bit. Geysers of black ichor spurted out of those wounds, drenching Tyr.

  A bear collided with the troll. Tyr tumbled off backward, dropping his torch. Bear bore the troll down, clawing out its face. Its guts.

  Another troll came crashing through the wood an instant later. Tyr snatched up his sword and raced in. Dodged to the side. Troll’s hand slapped a tree, cracked it. Tyr’s blade hit it in the abdomen. Blade snapped in half. Arm numb with the impact, Tyr stared a heartbeat at his broken sword. Damn. Not good.

  The troll seized him by the tunic and hefted him off the ground. Tyr beat at its wrist with the hilt. Troll roared in his face. His stomach lurched. He dropped his weapon and clutched the troll’s arm. Just before it tried to fling him free into a thorn.

  Tyr’s brain rattled around in his skull as the troll shook him about. The troll slammed him against a tree. Knocked all wind from his lungs. His arms lost their strength, and the troll flung him on the ground. Bellowed at him.

  Tyr tried to roll over, to grab a weapon, torch, something. To catch a breath.

  Troll was going to smash him, maybe step on him.

  Hermod hewed at the back of the beast’s knee with his sword. Troll wailed, spun on him. The young man thrust the torch in the monster’s face. That sent the troll reeling backward.

  Tyr scrambled to his feet, grabbed his fallen sword hilt, and raced to Hermod’s side.

  By now, Vili had risen from the other one. Swaying, bloody snout. Still charged right in to the next troll. The bear shoved the troll backward, driving a thorn through its shoulder.

  The trolls’ own twisted wood could hurt them.

  Tyr drew all the supernatural strength he could. Everything the apple had given him. And he slammed his shoulder into the troll’s gut as it tried to pull off the thorn. The troll shook the tree. Half the wood seemed to tremble with it.

  Then Vili’s claws began to rend its neck. Black blood sprayed everywhere.

  Tyr retrieved his torch. As he let his strength go, pain flooded back in. His back felt like a giant welt. He was lucky the troll hadn’t snapped his spine.

  “Can you continue?” Hermod asked.

  “You saved my life.”

  He shrugged. “You probably saved mine too. Sleipnir went this way.”

  Odin lay unconscious in a troll burrow.

  Sleipnir had waited outside, leaving no doubt where his master had gone. Fool son of Borr had waded in there alone. It was like storming the gates of Hel, going into a troll’s lair.

  And within, so many dead trolls. Odin had single-handedly slain twice as many trolls as the three of them together had taken.

  The women had fled their cage but still huddled together. Weeping. Trembling. Nigh broken by the violence and horror.

  “Get them out of here,” Tyr said to Hermod. “Stick close to Vili.”

  He knelt by Odin’s side. Tyr’s place was here, until he could wake his king.

  52

  Odin’s head felt apt to burst as Tyr shook him awake.

  “My lord!”

  Odin grunted, then rolled over to spit out a mouthful of blood. “What happened?”

  A fool’s question, as Tyr’s gaze clearly stated.

  Odin pushed himself up, fresh shots of pain scourging every part of his body. The trolls would have pulverized a mortal man. As it was, even the apple had barely allowed him to survive the beating that … Ve … that Odin’s own brother had dealt him.

  And how much time had he lost?

  “You must wait for your wounds to heal,” Tyr said.

  Odin pushed the warrior away, grunting with the effort of it. He’d wasted too much time already. He’d meant to ride all night to reach the Odling castle, but his time lost to the trolls and unc
onsciousness would cut deep into that period.

  “I must be gone,” he said. “See the women safely back to Halfhaugr.”

  Night was in full swing before Odin rode from the Jarnvid. Ve had lost himself to that monster, and Odin would do whatever it took to restore him. His injuries meant naught compared to that. Sleipnir ran like the wind as if he understood the urgency too well. Singasteinn had become a hot weight against Odin’s chest. He needed this to be done. He needed to be free of ghosts and curses and the mist.

  The weight of it all threatened to suffocate him, an avalanche of urd, crushing him and leaving a poor imitation of a man in his place.

  Odin had made an oath to Idunn to become king, and in so doing, had accepted responsibility for all the Aesir. The throne was one more burden, but one he had agreed to shoulder. He had to give them a better world. He would not allow anyone to suffer Ve’s fate again.

  A sharp hiss filled the air to his left a heartbeat before the mist slammed into Sleipnir like a solid wall. The horse tried to bank but was knocked through the air end over end. Odin, bareback, tumbled off and hit the ground hard.

  “Sleipnir!” he gasped.

  His mighty steed hit the hill, tumbled end over end, and lay still.

  “Sleipnir!”

  “The horse cannot save you this time, traitor,” a voice called from the mists.

  Odin pushed himself up, searching for where Gungnir had fallen. It had landed some distance away, down the slope of a hill. “Who are you?”

  Mist clung to the man as he trod through it, revealing himself at first in silhouette, then in truth. Guthorm. Gudrun’s brother, Hel’s assassin—Grimhild’s favorite.

  Odin edged toward his spear, not taking his eyes off this newcomer. He struggled to claim the power within, that strength that let him lock out pain. A rustling sounded behind him. Someone moving through the mists. Many someones.

  “You have betrayed my father, Little King. You’ve turned away from the Lady Hel and spurned the gifts that were offered to you. And you have shamed my sister! And that we will not abide.” With agonizing slowness a sword crept from his scabbard. The mist seemed to chill around it, as though it radiated cold. Runes decorated the length of a woven steel blade. A runeblade. The stuff of legend. Guthorm held the sword before his face, as if saluting Odin. “This was forged by the dvergar. No finer blade graces Midgard. Retrieve your weapon, Odin. Die like a warrior.”

  Odin swallowed. He desperately wanted to check if Sleipnir lived, but Guthorm would give him no such chance. Instead, he resumed edging toward his fallen spear. He’d practiced gazing into the Penumbra with Gudrun. Gjuki had said that once the door was open, he would always know it was there. Well, now Odin needed to know. He needed to see the sorcerers creeping through the mist, seeking to surround him.

  His eyes glazed over, and an instant of dizziness swept him before he righted himself. It grew easier each time he embraced the Sight. The shadows in the mist leapt into clarity. Many were wandering ghosts, trapped on Midgard long past their time, but Guthorm did have a half-dozen warriors with him. A hunting party seeking their prey.

  Odin knelt and retrieved Gungnir. As he clasped it, its power merged with his own, making it easier to hold onto his strength.

  “Are you quite certain you want to do this?” Odin asked. He leveled the spear before him, as if inviting Guthorm in.

  The man stalked closer, sword before him. “Oh, yes.”

  Before Guthorm could reach him, Odin spun, slashing out the throat of one of the not-so-hidden sorcerers in the mist. Blood gushed from the wound, and the falling corpse appeared clearly. He reversed his momentum and jutted out the butt of his spear, breaking the nose of another man. The sorcerers scattered, suddenly realizing how vulnerable they were. Odin hurled Gungnir like a bolt of lightning. It crashed through a man’s chest and exploded out the other side, piercing into a boulder beyond. The dragon was thirsty for blood this day.

  Guthorm roared, charging him. But Odin wasn’t finished, nor did he intend to face the prince with other sorcerers at his back. He dove into a roll, slipping under Guthorm’s furious swing. The strength the apples gave him made him fast. He easily chased down another man and slammed into him, the impact sending the poor bastard rolling along the ground.

  Odin sprang forward, snatched Gungnir, and spun around to meet the Niflung prince. He raised his spear to parry the prince’s downward chop. Sparks sheared off Gungnir at the impact. The runes on that sword glowed. Odin had never seen another weapon of ancient power besides Gungnir. This sword was extraordinary, seeped in eldritch energy and hungry for blood. Again and again he parried Guthorm’s onslaught. This man was a master to rival Tyr.

  Odin fell back, quickly losing ground. Left, right, and again he jabbed, trying to drive the prince backward, to gain maneuvering room. But Guthorm forced their bodies ever closer, gave him no chance to use the spear’s superior reach.

  The prince swung low and, when Odin tried to parry, suddenly altered the direction of his swing. The feint earned him a gash along Odin’s left arm. A hot burning lit up and down his fingers, almost immediately replaced by a sudden chill as his arm began to numb. Was it the power of that sword? Odin tried to fall back again, a maneuver that only earned him a shallow cut across his thigh. That too began to go numb.

  He was going to lose.

  The realization of the inevitable hit him like a blow to the gut. Guthorm was simply a better warrior. The prince would slay Odin. His corpse would rot and his soul would writhe under the lash of Hel.

  Odin gave over trying to attack, focusing instead on keeping the prince at bay. He’d lost all track of the two remaining Niflungar. Perhaps they had fled, or perhaps they knew their prince could handle this battle.

  His damned leg threatened to give way with each step. It was too numb. But feeling had begun to return to his arm. His body, his own immortality would heal the wounds, even those caused by the runeblade.

  Guthorm launched another onslaught, a series of cuts and thrusts Odin narrowly avoided. The prince panted, nigh snarling with rage. He mustn’t have expected Odin to last this long—because a normal man never would have.

  Odin might not have Guthorm’s skill or speed, but he had the strength and stamina to outlast the trollfucker. The thought must have shown on his face, because Guthorm, now streaming sweat, snarled again and began another series of attacks. This one Odin recognized. Guthorm had that speed because he had probably practiced a handful of forms ten thousand times.

  Odin made no attempt to attack. He gave ground freely to the prince’s foray, his leg already regaining its strength. The prince’s chest heaved, but still Odin let him come on, making no retaliation. Guthorm tried another series he’d already used, this time his attacks a little slower, his feints more predictable. Knowing exactly where the blow would land, Odin twisted aside, letting a sword stroke graze his arm rather than trying to parry it. At the same time he thrust forward, driving Gungnir through the Niflung prince’s chest.

  The prince looked down at the spear impaling him as if in shock, eyes wide as his blood gushed from his ruptured chest. Odin glanced around, spying the remaining sorcerers lingering on the edges of the battlefield. These Niflungar were not used to men seeing them, much less slaying them. They had transcended mortality but still feared it. That was their weakness.

  “Go back to your king!” Odin shouted at them. “Tell them a new king rules mankind! Tell them a new god rises!”

  That was what he had set himself up to become. Only then could he do what he must to save this world. To save mankind, he must rule them all. Gudrun had been right about that.

  With a last look of disgust, Odin cast Guthorm down into the snow, pausing only to claim the runeblade, then trod over to check on Sleipnir. The horse neighed at his touch, gingerly trying to climb to his feet. By the way Sleipnir favored two of his legs, they must be broken. The horse was lucky he had so many to spare.

  But Odin certainly couldn’t ride Slei
pnir, not now.

  “Can you make it safely away?” he asked.

  Sleipnir snorted. As usual.

  Odin nodded. Then he had a hard run ahead of him. He dashed up the hill and ran on toward the old castle.

  Step after merciless step he ran, until even his superhuman stamina waned. Until his chest burned and broken ribs ached even through the mask of power he’d used to block the pain. Breathless, he climbed the steps before that castle. He’d made it. Moons of struggle, and he’d at last save Ve. Before he reached the top, the sun crested over the mist, warming his skin. He had made it only just in time.

  And then the warming became a burning, a searing, like his arms and chest were aflame. Steam rose from beneath his cloak. Odin screamed in horror and pain, hurling his garments away. His cloak, tunic, and gloves—all he tossed aside, revealing the singed skin beneath, still smoldering with wisps of smoke. The acrid, sickeningly sweet smell of his own burnt flesh filled his nostrils, and Odin vomited.

  When he looked down, he saw the burns were not random. They encircled his arms and chest in a ring of runes. From the pain, he could only guess they covered his back as well. Covered all of his chest but the spot where the Singasteinn hung.

  Weak with exhaustion and agony, he crawled on his knees up to the entryway. Then he flung the amulet into the castle. An echo rang through the empty hall as it clattered across the frozen floor.

  “Ghost! I have returned your amulet!”

  No answer came.

  “Odling!”

  Odin panted.

  No.

  No, he had done it. He’d had one more day. Surely she could not have begrudged him the first rays of dawn on the solstice itself. Mere moments … He looked again at the runes marking his skin. What did they mean? The old languages, the old words were said to have power. Vӧlvur knew such things, but Odin did not.