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

by Matt Larkin

  “The Penumbra.”

  Gudrun nodded. “Odin’s soul is adrift in the Astral Realm, prey to the inhabitants that dwell in the aether.”

  “Shades?”

  “Hmm. Shades and other … older things. Things that were already ancient before the mists came to our world.”

  “L-like Hel?”

  Gudrun laughed at that, and shook her head. “I seriously doubt Lady Hel herself is gallivanting around the Penumbra looking for amusement.” She clucked her tongue at the ridiculous thought. But there were dangers out there. Vaettir had their own worlds out in the Spirit Realm, but many could pass into the Astral Realm. Beings so far beyond Odin’s understanding as to be gods in his eyes—gods all too eager to feed off a wandering soul and leave Odin an empty husk.

  “You’re going to call him back?”

  “I’ve tried that. He’s too far gone to hear me from … wherever he has wandered. I have to go after him.” It was the only way to save her love, the only way to bring him back to her. Then, finally, he would have to see what he meant to her, and seeing that, would acknowledge where he belonged.

  Hljod looked around the room for a moment before frowning and turning back to Gudrun. “That sounds like a royally stupid idea.”

  Gudrun chuckled again. Indeed, the plan was one born of desperation more than wit. With the Sight, she could look into the Penumbra to see and speak with spirits and shades there. Doing so opened oneself to their attentions, and often, their ire. What Gudrun planned was something deeper … to project her own consciousness into the Astral Realm. Spirits lacked substance in the Mortal Realm—it was why they could only interact on Earth by possessing a mortal host. Astral projection would change the rules. The spirits would be as real to her as any being on the Mortal Realm.

  “So this is sorcery.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re going to teach me? That doesn’t sound nearly as useful as learning to do that ice thing you do with your fingers.”

  Gudrun paused. Ice thing? She sighed. “You mean the Art of Mist. We call such things Manifest Arts because it’s literally manifesting a spirit inside me—one of two I previously bound using sorcery.”

  “Um … I have no idea what all that means.”

  Gudrun blew out a breath. For all the girl’s brave face, she was just a girl. Alone and afraid, having suffered so much. So much that was too much the same. Gudrun shook herself. She’d promised not to push Hljod away, nor to let her be alone, but now was not the time for a lesson.

  “Ask me another time,” she said. “I have to concentrate.”

  “Have you ever done this before?”

  “No.” Not successfully. “I’m going to need you to be very quiet, Hljod. You can watch, but whatever happens, do not distract me.” Gudrun sat on the floor in the middle of the chamber and folded her legs beneath her. Her heart was pounding. Not a good sign. The spirits would sense her fear, be drawn to it like sharks to blood, and like a wounded animal, they’d tear her to pieces—or take her. She risked that every time she evoked a spirit or used her Manifest Arts, and yet, no other recourse lay open to her. “Hljod … if I … if I wake up, and it doesn’t seem like me, you need to leave. Find my father and tell him what’s happened, but do not stay and check on me.”

  The girl’s face paled, but she nodded.

  Gudrun shut her eyes. Astral projection was beyond her ability with the Sight—meaning Odin had surpassed her in at least some aspect—so for this, she needed the aid of a vaettr who could help pull her through the Veil. Neither the journey, nor the vaettr she had to call would prove pleasant. She could have turned to the Mist spirit, Snegurka, but a wraith had a more inherent connection to the Astral Realm.

  “Irpa,” she called. “Irpa, I need you.”

  She opened her eyes, now embracing the Sight. Even after so many years, seeing the wraith appear sent shivers down Gudrun’s spine. Irpa drifted in and out of shadows, the darkness clinging to her and wafting off in a haze at the same time. Wraiths were shades of the dead, twisted beyond all recognition by their rage and warped by eons spent wandering the spaces between life and death. The wraith’s glyph on Gudrun’s arm warmed as the shade drew nigh.

  Gudrun reached a hand toward the wraith, trying to hide her hesitation and knowing, deep down, Irpa saw it. She was not fool enough to think this thing she had bound was her friend or even her ally. Grimhild had forced Gudrun to bind a wraith, and one day she’d pay a price for such temerity. “I need to cross over.”

  Then die …

  Gudrun was grateful Hljod couldn’t hear the vile whisper that was Irpa’s voice. Gudrun pressed her will into the wraith, the glyph on her arm going from warm to hot to actually burning her. A trickle of blood ran down her nose and over her mouth. Gudrun gritted her teeth. If she backed down, Irpa might be strong enough to overtake her body.

  The wraith appeared beside her, pressing a shadowy hand against Gudrun’s temple.

  A tendril began to worm its way through her mind. A worm of rage, one that hated her, hated all life with unfathomable wrath. Uncontrollable shudders racked her body as she strained against the wraith’s implacable will. It was feeding off her pain, her anger, her fear, and inevitably soaking up the contents of her mind, while growing ever stronger within her.

  You pretend to hate her … your mother … but you liked it. You liked having those big strong guards inside you, you whore …

  “Irpa!” Gudrun spat through her clenched teeth.

  Hljod jerked at the sound, then fretted about with a cloth, clearly uncertain whether to come and clean up her mistress. Gudrun waved her away, trying to divert as little of her own attention as possible.

  Don’t worry, whore … When I get inside you … I’ll fill you up good. And I’ll call them in … every soldier in the army … I’ll fuck their brains out with your … trench … your arse … your mouth …

  “You serve me!”

  The pressure in her mind eased, Irpa’s grip releasing her. And yet … her hands shook. Within the perspective of her Sight, her form had become tattered, as if her arms and legs had given way to Irpa’s shroud. Ice built in her heart even as it slowed, even as her breath came in ragged pants of exhaustion and fear. The wraith had taken too much of her this time, and its hatred pervaded her consciousness such that the barest glimpse of Hljod made her want to snuff out the girl’s pale existence. And, oh, Irpa had such power within her—through the wraith, Gudrun could reach over and draw out the child’s life force, feast on her soul and grow strong.

  And much as she told herself it was Irpa’s desires speaking, Hel, it felt like her own. Sputtering, Gudrun wiped the blood from her face. “I need to cross over.”

  The wraith now took her extended hand without argument. Either way, her touch chilled Gudrun to the core, though it felt like no more than a breeze brushing her fingertips. At least at first.

  With each passing heartbeat, though, the grip solidified, clenched around Gudrun’s fingers until she thought they would break. She’d taken every precaution to protect herself from Irpa—the wraith could not physically harm Gudrun while she remained bound to her, and yet, she could do worse. Gudrun was losing herself, one gesture of the Art at a time.

  A tightness built in her chest, like Irpa was yanking her heart out. Gudrun’s eyes glazed over, and she fell—she felt herself falling, though she remained on solid ground. The starlight of the Penumbra snapped into sudden clarity—not the haze through which she could look through the Veil, but a barrage of brilliant colors. The Mortal Realm now seemed a mere shadow. Hljod, still crouched on the floor, was like a ghost herself—ethereal, cast in silhouette, and radiating a very faint silvery light.

  Irpa, meanwhile, had snapped into startlingly clear relief. Though her features remained obscured by the shroud that rustled gently, despite the lack of wind, that shroud was no longer a blended haze with the world around her. And Gudrun would be a fool to think being able to clearly see the wraith made her less dangerous
.

  She stumbled, fell to her knees, and gasped, staring at her hands. Here, in this place—this state of consciousness—the changes wrought in her soul were laid bare. The hints of the wraith—the tattered shroud, the skeletal, claw-like hands—those features she had perceived with the Sight here took on gut-wrenching verity. Irpa, despite standing before her, was also inside her and had nigh to clawed her way to the surface.

  “Soon you will be mine …” Her voice still sounded as a fell whisper and yet now came from both outside Gudrun and within her.

  Gudrun shut her eyes, as if she could shut out the fear.

  37

  This place—if place was even the right word—was something else, not quite the Penumbra nor the Roil. The sky here resembled the nebulous sky of the Penumbra, but there was no sight of the real world. Naught but this damnable bridge going on and on.

  And much like the bridge’s color seemed impossible to pinpoint, its destination, if there was one, seemed to shift before Odin’s eyes. Heimdall had told him—more or less—that following the bridge this way would lead him back to Midgard. Could the guardian have lied to him?

  To occupy his mind, Odin dove again and again into Borr’s memories. So many of those memories were gone now—he had to hold fast to those he could still claim. He saw himself tugging at his father’s big red beard, felt his father laughing at his actions. Watching his own first step with a father’s pride. And every time his mind slipped back into his own body—or his spirit body—the rush of endless melancholy deepened. So many things he’d not even remembered, not savored, not understood. Time lost with people gone forever now.

  But each time it was easier and easier to slip away. Maybe the Astral Realm itself made the visions more accessible.

  Something drew Odin’s eyes skyward—a shadow in the ever-present night of this place, like the flickering of stars. Odin’s fingers itched to hold Gungnir. Alone, weaponless, he felt surprisingly naked.

  In the sky, red lightning crackled along the shimmering aquamarine clouds. His eyes scanned upward, searching for the shadow and finding naught. How many vaettir dwelt here? Beyond this realm lay the Spirit Realm, home of the greater vaettir.

  A winged form surged out of the cloud cover, diving toward the bridge in front of him. The figure, a woman, landed in a crouch, her impact sending a shudder through the bridge. Feathered wings, deep brown in color, stretched out from her back an enormous distance. Her hair was an almost luminous blonde, her armor elaborately engraved gold with wing-like protrusions extending from her shoulder plates and vambraces. The armor left her thighs bare, covered only by a slitted skirt. Full freedom of movement to allow the battle maiden to fight or fly with complete agility.

  The valkyrie carried a spear, a faint energy pulsating off its blade. She rose slowly, arching her back and spreading her wings in a gesture no doubt intended to impress. Successfully so, in fact.

  Odin wanted to speak, but no words came from his open mouth. Not long ago he’d wondered why no valkyries came to take him to his ancestors. He supposed he ought to have been more careful what he wished for.

  “Odin Borrson,” the woman said. “You are traveling in the wrong direction.”

  Odin swallowed, uncertain if he dared approach such a being. The vaettr radiated equal parts sensuality and terrible violence. “I-I have to get back to Midgard.”

  The woman shook her head, once. “Your soul is strong. The soul of a warrior, exuding power—of which we have more need than the Mortal Realm.”

  She wanted to recruit him. Recruit him for what? He’d thought valkyries would take souls to be with their ancestors in Valhalla. But she wanted him for some kind of battle. Perhaps even death was no reprieve from war.

  “I am not dead.”

  The valkyrie cocked her head to the side, staring intently at him. “Nigh enough to bring you to this place, to let it seep into your soul and alter your body. I am sent to retrieve you.” She advanced toward him, hand outstretched. A blue energy began to waft off her fingertips.

  It would be so easy to go along with her. To leave behind the troubles of the mortal world. To leave his people behind. To reunite with his father and mother … To abandon his family on Midgard? Leave Ve to his fate? Forget about Thor? No, not so easy. Impossible.

  “My purpose is in Midgard.” The words tasted of acid in his mouth. He had but to take this valkyrie’s hand, and he might see once again the people he’d lost. And in doing so, he would have failed his father. Odin fell back, raising his hands to fend off the warrior woman.

  A sly smile spread over her face. She slipped into a fighting crouch, grasping her spear with both hands. “It has been long since a man challenged me. Come. Give me sport, mortal.”

  The battle maiden wanted him to fight. Odin stretched and clenched his fists. He hated to disappoint a woman.

  Bellowing a battle cry, Odin charged forward, fist raised.

  A single beat of her wings flung the valkyrie forward. She whipped the butt of her spear upward with her momentum, her speed impossible. The shaft collided with Odin’s chest and sent him sprawling to the ground, tumbling end over end. Even when he stopped rolling, the valkyrie’s momentum, the wind of her wings, left Odin skidding backward. He tried to arrest his movement, but the bridge was slick and without handholds. By the time he slowed, his head hung off the edge, hair dangling over the void.

  “Fuck me,” he mumbled.

  The valkyrie laughed, her voice high and clear. “Had enough already? I expected a man like you to have more stamina than that.”

  Odin rolled away from the edge and pushed himself back to his feet. “This is just foreplay.” He spread his stance. Charging her had been a fool’s maneuver. If the valkyrie wanted him, let her come and get him.

  The woman surged forward, a beat of her wings carrying her across the twenty feet between them. Odin sidestepped her violent downward thrust and grabbed her spear. He flooded strength into his limbs, embracing his powers and forcing her downward. With his superior size and strength, he’d bring her to her knees.

  The valkyrie roared in effort, flipped her spear around, taking Odin with it, then slammed him onto the ground. Stunned from the impact, he couldn’t begin to dodge when she kicked him. The force of it lifted him off the ground and sent him tumbling away, toward the opposite side of the bridge.

  Odin skidded. Sputtered and gasped.

  Gods above, she was strong.

  Blood trickled down his lips as he struggled to his feet. Before he’d even regained them, she leapt forward again, thrusting the spear down at him. With those wings, she could cover distance at maddening speeds. Rather than try to get away, Odin flung himself straight up at her, coming in under the reach of her spear.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and shoved her onto the ground, then stomped on one of her wings. The valkyrie shrieked in pain, flailing at him with her spear. Let her try to fly with a broken wing.

  Rather than keep trying to dodge that spear, Odin rolled away to the side.

  “Foreplay is done, valkyrie. Let me pass, or things will go ill.”

  The valkyrie reclaimed her feet, stripping off her helm and tossing it aside. Ash blonde hair sprawled free, hanging down almost to her waist. “My name is Svanhit. And it is not that easy, mortal.”

  “Who says I’m mortal?” Odin charged in again.

  Svanhit leveled her spear against him. Her rapid thrusts brought his charge up short, but he caught her spear by the shaft and yanked her forward. Wrestling her for the spear would like as not end with him on his arse again. So he simply released it and smacked his fist into her jaw. He didn’t enjoy beating a woman, but she was at least as strong as him and determined to keep him from his family. And if he gave her any reprieve …

  Odin smashed his fist into her face again. And again. Blood splattered out of her mouth and she tumbled to the ground. She raised an arm to ward him off. Odin snatched it and twisted, thinking to break it. It wouldn’t bend. He drew upon every
drop of his supernatural strength.

  Svanhit screamed, but still he didn’t feel bones snap. What was she made of? Svanhit slammed her other palm into Odin’s chest, sending him stumbling backward, gasping for air. She beat her wings, but with one broken, they carried her only a few feet before she collapsed to the bridge.

  Odin bent to retrieve her fallen spear and advanced on the valkyrie.

  “I don’t want to kill you, Svanhit.”

  She held up a hand. “Enough. Never has any man provided such a challenge. You have earned the right to choose your own path.”

  Odin nodded, then wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand. If that was what it took to win a valkyrie’s respect, he was glad only one had come for him. He tossed the spear at her feet.

  “Help me get back to Midgard.”

  Svanhit chuckled. “I cannot take you anywhere with a broken wing. Besides which, I will answer for releasing you—but not to you, Odin Borrson.” She bent to retrieve her spear. “And there may come a day when you wish you had taken my hand and left your world behind.”

  “Not this day.” If she wasn’t going to help him, then he had no further use for the valkyrie. Except … “I have seen many things beyond my realm, things I would rather not have. I spare you now, valkyrie. There may come a day I seek recompense.”

  Svanhit rose, looking ill. Slowly, she tugged a ring from her finger. “I am bound by ancient laws, Odin Borrson. As I am at your mercy … I am bound to grant your wish.” She offered him the ring. “I will find you, when you come seeking your recompense.”

  He looked down at the bauble. Its crafter had wrought the likeness of a swan, twisted around itself, from some rosy gold. Svanhit shivered, as though parting with it cost her more than he could know. Perhaps this ring bound her to her lord even as arm ring bound an Ás to his.

  He nodded, then resumed his trek down the bridge, his steps now pained and slower than before. He tried to keep his head high, proud, little able to afford any sign of weakness. Despite the valkyrie’s words, he did trust her.