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

by Matt Larkin

  All you build will turn to ash, your children shall die, and your dreams shall burn.

  “Damn you!” he shouted at the empty castle. His voice echoed through the halls.

  He stormed upstairs and beat down every door, searched every corner. No sign remained of the ghost. She held him to her curse, and he had failed her, even if only by a moment. And this … this meant …

  He’d thought her curse was what was happening to Ve. He’d thought that had been the price, the warning. But it was never that. The awful urd his brother faced had naught to do with the ghost, did it? It was merely the price of a spurned and neglected brother left too long in a cursed world.

  Odin had failed. He’d failed his brother and thus failed his father. Whether this ghost could have ever healed him or not, Odin had failed Ve. He had failed up on that mountain, way back, when his pride put vengeance for the dead before the safety of the living.

  Now Ve’s own body had betrayed him and made him a monster. A thing. And Ve had taken the apple … he would be as a god among the trolls. A king among their kind as much as Odin was among men. The realization settled on Odin with overwhelming certainty. Frigg said vӧlvur just knew some things, and he now he had a fraction of her power. He just knew, with a prescient certainty born of the Sight.

  At last, at the threshold to the castle, he stared down at the golden amulet. All of this for a piece of jewelry. For greed. For pride.

  He slipped to his knees. The avalanche of urd had finally buried him and left him in the abyss of despair, powerless and broken.

  Urd. Vast and terrible as the cosmos.

  Urd, that stole all worth having and left behind ash.

  Or perhaps, to blame fate was but one more way to try to evade his culpability for all that had passed. Odin’s failings, his anger and his hubris, they had ravaged his brother as much as the mist. And rather than face it, he had deluded himself, or allowed a ghost to delude him, even knowing that vaettir lied. That they hated the living.

  And at long last, Odin could return their enmity.

  No blow could strike the ghost who had so betrayed him, nor had rage yet availed him of any benefit. His anger had cost him everything he cared for.

  Odin rose, trembling, and let the Singasteinn fall to the floor, heedless of the echoes its clattering made.

  So then, let this be the last of his anger. The final act, to count himself and Ve avenged against Odlingar and Niflungar alike, in the only manner he was ever like to achieve.

  Roaring, he drove Gungnir’s point through the Singasteinn. The amulet shattered beneath the dragon spear’s blade, shards of it skittering along the frozen floor. A wail erupted around him, not in the Mortal Realm, but just beyond the Veil, audible only because of his gift. Whether the parting anguish of the spirit at last freed from the amulet, or the grief of the ghost denied its treasure, it mattered naught.

  Odin did not look back. Naught remained for him in the castle. Naught, in fact, had ever waited for him here.

  He was left only with an oath to take a throne he had never wanted. And a final obligation to protect what remained of the Aesir, from now until his last breath.

  Part V

  Year 118, Age of Vingethor

  Second Moon, Summer

  53

  The summer solstice had come and gone, bringing a new year. Eight moons of work. And now, nine tribes had gathered in Halfhaugr. Odin had called the Althing, and every tribe had come. He and Tyr and Idunn had passed among each tribe. Fighting. Bargaining. Killing.

  They had gone too far to turn back. Tyr had gone too far. No matter how many battles he had to fight, he would see this through. And now they had.

  “Will they choose him?” Idunn asked. The Vanr goddess stood behind him, peering at the circle of jarls.

  Tyr didn’t answer her. Really, it was not for them to speak now.

  Now came the time for the jarls to speak.

  Hoenir stepped forward, into the circle, the aging man taking in each of the jarls now. “We stand here, the heirs of Loridi. In his honor we hold the Althing.” He looked at some of the other jarls. Arnbjorn, the jarl of the Itrmanni had proved especially difficult. “Some of you have objected to this Althing. Loridi said we were to hold it but once every nine summers. And this was not that summer. So then, I ask you brothers, why are we here?” He did not pause long enough for anyone to answer. “Because times of change require us to change as well. More than a hundred winters back, Vingethor called the Althing. And that was also not the ninth summer. Yet he called it, and our ancestors answered. Because times had grown harsh, because we needed a new way. As we need again now.”

  Hoenir pointed at Odin. “Our ancestors named Vingethor king that he might lead them into better lands. Now the time has come to once again call forth a king who will lead us.”

  “Lead us where?” the jarl of the Itrmanni demanded.

  “Wherever the fuck he wants,” Vili said. Odin had named Vili the new jarl of the Hasdingi. Frigg did not seem over pleased at it. But Vili was a son of Borr, too. Odin had to honor his kin.

  Hoenir scowled at the fool berserk, as did Odin. A son of Borr, yes. Without any measure of his father’s cunning.

  “To lead us into a future where we stand united,” Odin said. Hoenir fell back into his place, allowing Odin to stand in the middle. “United against our common enemies. I say to you, our enemies are the enemies of all mankind. The mist, the ever-encroaching chill. No longer will we watch our numbers fall with each passing winter. Moreover, raiding together, we can challenge the rulers of any other land. They will tremble before our strength, and we, all the Aesir, shall know fame across Midgard. Fame, and wealth beyond measure.”

  Several men whooped at that.

  “I would be your king and give you this future.” He raised a hand for a silence. “Name me.”

  “I name you King Odin,” Hoenir said.

  “I name you the fucking King of the Aesir,” Vili said.

  “I expected more formality on such an occasion,” Idunn mumbled. So had Tyr.

  Annar stepped forward. Odin’s cousin had stayed here in Halfhaugr over a moon, helping him prepare. “King Odin.”

  Jarl Steinar of the Friallaf tribe stepped forward. “King Steinar.”

  Everyone fell silent.

  Odin turned slowly to face the jarl. “You wish to be named?”

  Steinar spat on the floor. “Men say you’re a living god. That you’ve killed jotunnar, trolls, and all manner of vaettir. I shit on your tales, and I piss on your fame. I say you’re a man and a liar. Where were you when we sacked Kaunos and gutted the Miklagarders? Was your spear beside mine? Did you break the shield wall? Or were you too busy fighting—or fucking—a troll?”

  Gasping filled the hall.

  Odin worked his jaw. Tyr strode forward, hand on his sword hilt. But Odin held out his hand. Good then. Some things a man had to do himself. Especially a leader.

  With a long sigh, Odin drew the sword from his shoulder. Frigg’s family sword. Strong, well wrought. Some said forged by Volund himself during the Njarar War. Blade worthy of a king.

  “Your words leave no space for compromise, Jarl Steinar.”

  The jarl drew his own sword. Advanced on Odin, who stood very still, sword pointed at Steinar.

  The Friallaf jarl lunged forward, batted away Odin’s sword. Or tried. Odin moved much faster. Twisted the blades out of the way and caught Steinar by the throat. With one hand, he hauled the man off his feet. Then he drove his sword through the jarl’s belly. Odin flung the man onto the ground. Steinar’s skull cracked on the stone. He lay still, blood streaming from head and gut.

  After that, no more jarls challenged Odin.

  Odin took the throne. A throne that had once belonged to Hadding. His daughter Frigg now sat in a throne beside Odin, her belly thick with child. A procession of vӧlvur entered, bearing a golden crown worked with the likeness of Yggdrasil.

  “By the Tree,” Idunn said. “Beautiful.”


  The eldest vӧlva placed the crown on Odin’s head. The hall erupted in cheers. A people bursting in joy. In hope.

  Idunn spoke, but Tyr couldn’t make out her words. Her hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to her. Her smile was warm, yet almost … afraid.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “You did it. Odin is King of the Aesir.”

  “You do not look as well pleased as you might.”

  She laughed. Another, almost true smile. “I am quite pleased.”

  “Will you … remain among us still?” It was the question he had feared to ask all these past moons. Under the apple’s effect, he had lain with her. Now he desperately wanted to hold her again. But how does a man ask a goddess to stay by his side?

  Before she could answer, Frigg gasped. Clutched her belly. Screamed in pain.

  Her maid, Fulla, rushed forward to her side. “The babe is coming! Make way, make way!”

  54

  A peal of thunder rang out over the night. Odin stood upon the ramparts atop Halfhaugr, crown on his brow. Below, his wife wailed in labor. But some places remained forbidden to men, even to kings. So he watched the night over Aujum, heedless of wind or rain.

  Aujum. His realm now, all of it, as all the Aesir bent before him. He’d kept his oath to Idunn, though it had not bought him the one prize he had truly sought. Ve was gone, lost forever because of Odin’s failings. Neither he nor his father had sought a crown, and now, with it done, part of him wanted to cast it out into the night. But more than his oath to Idunn held him now. He had made an oath to himself, to make a better world for the Aesir.

  This storm had raged long, all through the labor, as if wakened by the pain of his wife. If she knew of Odin’s disloyalty to their marriage bed, she did not speak of it. Nor comment when he woke in the night, flush with dreams of a sorceress who held a piece of his heart he could never recover. He leaned against the ancient dvergar stone and sighed. He had made enemies of Niflungar, and they would come for him. He’d need to prepare Aujum against them.

  “Holy lords of Vanaheim, it’s wetter than the sea up here,” a woman said behind him.

  Odin turned. Frigg’s maid stood on the threshold, under the fortress eave, peering out at him and blinking into the night.

  “The babe is born?” he asked.

  “Oh! Indeed, and right well he was. More than healthy and good as new.” Fulla’s fiery red hair blew in the wind. She trembled a little as Odin approached. She’d always trembled a little, ever since her time with the trolls. He’d feared to ask how they had used her. It was not his place, in any event, though more than once he had found her weeping in Frigg’s arms. And still, she did not give up, did not give in to despair.

  Even a simple maid had something to teach him.

  Odin could not afford to surrender to this melancholy, this miasma suffocating him. He was a father himself now. That alone ought to have left him elated and calling for unending mead. Ought to. If he could forget for one moment that neither his father nor brother could ever share his joy.

  He patted her on the shoulder and hurried inside, half running down the stairs to the ground floor. Frigg had refused to move into her father’s old room, so they stayed in her own chamber. Odin paused there a moment before easing the door open.

  Sigyn stood inside, a babe cradled in her arms. A tuft of red hair crowned a head peeking out of a bundle of blankets.

  “M-may I?” Odin asked.

  His sister-in-law smiled as she handed him the bundle.

  Odin took his son gingerly. Bright eyes, so like Odin’s own father’s. Looking back at him. Odin sucked in a breath that stung his lungs. Father was here, he knew he was. “Uh … What shall we call him, wife? Have you given it thought?”

  Frigg nodded. “I have given it much consideration. His name shall be Thor.”

  Thunderer.

  A crash of lightning rang outside.

  How appropriate.

  “Rest a bit,” he said to Frigg. Tradition demanded he show off the boy.

  He carried little Thor out into the great hall where jarls and thegns and warriors of nine tribes gathered now, feasting and toasting their new king. Not an honor he had sought, but one he had claimed, nonetheless, and could not now shirk. Not now, not ever. Let them drink deep of the mead and take what joy they might—these people had earned it ten times over. They had bought it with blood.

  Odin raised the baby high. “Behold Thor! Son of Odin! Prince of the Aesir!”

  The cheer that rose through the hall overshadowed even the continuing rumbles of thunder. Would Father be proud now, to see Odin on a throne of the tribes? He had wanted an end to the internecine wars. Odin would give him that lasting peace, in Borr’s name. Thor could become a symbol of his grandfather’s dream.

  The varulf twins crawled about on the floor around the throne, as Fulla chased them around. His other children, and he had to do right by them as well, by all his people.

  Odin nodded to Fulla, who came and took Thor from him.

  As he turned back to his people, Loki strode up to him. Odin clasped his blood brother’s arm. “I suppose I owe this birth to you, in a way.”

  Loki smiled, shook his head.

  “I wish that I … well, of course he’s far too young for an apple, anyway.”

  Loki nodded. “Undoubtedly. But, my friend, if it would ease your mind …” Loki produced a golden apple from a pouch on his belt. “I might have saved one more for just this occasion.”

  Odin took the apple, his hand almost seeming to shake. A hollow opened in his chest. No words seemed worthy of such a boon. “Brother, I … You did this for me?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “But if you had an apple to spare,” Odin asked, “why did you not give it to Hadding?”

  “It would not have saved him. A man cannot change his fate.”

  Odin grunted. He had mused over and over on that very topic. Perhaps Loki blamed fate, but Odin could not. Still, it was always hard to know his brother’s thoughts. This brother, at least. Vili raised a drinking horn in salute, before downing the whole thing in one swig, earning him raucous laughter and cheers from those about him. Odin nodded at him, then passed among the rest of the hall, accepting the well-wishes and embraces of men and women from nine tribes.

  Nine tribes, bent to his will, united under his rule, as Idunn had bid. And the Vanr woman herself? She moved in and out of the light of braziers, eyes watching him like a weight on his soul.

  Once satisfied all here had seen him, Odin drifted away, followed Idunn down the hall and down stairs. The Vanr goddess led him to the room Frigg used to brew her potions and salves and stood there, staring at the wall.

  The brazier down here cast the room in heavy shadows that tightened around his throat like a noose. Long ago, someone had worked the Art in these depths, and the foulness of it still tainted these stones.

  Odin was about to ask what she did here. But something was … odd. Those runes on the wall. He couldn’t read them, but they … looked much like some of the runes now wrapped around his chest and arms. After pulling away his tunic, he looked down. Yes, some of the same verses marked his body.

  His stomach lurched. His palms had gone clammy. He did not want to ask the question he knew he must. “What is this?”

  “Five thousand years ago, the Vanir were a tribe much like the Aesir. Not quite so primitive, but similar.”

  Primitive?

  “This was before I was born, of course. My grandmother came to them, after the breach to Niflheim released the mists and their chill. She thought she could lead them to a better future. So she led them across the world and to the island we now call Vanaheim. She was looking for something—the Tree of Life. Her people had called it Djambo Barros, but to the Vanir it was called Yggdrasil.

  “Imagine a tree stretching up to the heavens, with roots reaching far down into the earth. And imagine it had golden fruits. The tree itself held the mists and the chill at bay, giving my people—i
ncluding my mother, who was nigh grown by then—a shelter from the Hel-cursed place the world had become. And when they ate the fruits, it changed them. It made them immortal and gave them insights, along with powers much like you yourself have begun to develop.

  “My mother ate the fruit, and I was given one when I was old enough, too. By that time, we already knew the apples didn’t grow quickly. There would never be enough for everyone in the world or even all of our own people. My grandmother, she never took one. I guess … I guess she missed my grandfather and didn’t want to face eternity alone.”

  Idunn hugged herself, and Odin couldn’t stop himself from taking her hand. The goddess knew more of loneliness and despair than even Odin. Facing long centuries as she had, he would no doubt endure the same heartache. And if he survived as long as Idunn, would his hope have finally withered, or would he become what she was now? Lost and alone and clinging to one last, desperate dream of redemption?

  “It was a long time ago,” she said, but shut her eyes for a moment. “When she was old—very old—she called for me and told me all the stories of her life. Wonderful stories of the world before the ice and the mist, a world I’d never known. She spoke of beautiful islands so hot you had to rest in the middle of the day, of waters so warm and clear that swimming was a pleasure … And she told me she feared she might have made a mistake in bringing the Vanir to Yggdrasil. She’d wanted to save mankind, not elevate a single tribe to godhood. And the Vanir jealously guarded the tree and its fruit, denying other tribes the warmth of the lands of spring.

  “I don’t know. Maybe if they had tried harder, they could have found a way to banish the mists. But they didn’t. They cast themselves as gods. And they fought the chaos, yes, but eventually they cut themselves off from the rest of the world and let it languish. Our king, the king before Njord, he walked away from his throne and vanished, and the rest of us, we just withdrew. And for a long time, I watched. I watched with the eyes my grandmother had opened, as Vanr society became so isolated from the rest of Midgard we might as well have lived on another world.