by Matt Larkin
And what mattered most? People. The people he had left and the memories of those who had gone before.
All of them, born up together in a beautiful mess of dreams and pain and hope. And blood.
Blood binding him back to his ancestors and down into his children. Forever.
59
If Gudrun had not returned to Castle Niflung, Grimhild would have sent Mist spirits to find her, sooner or later. And Gudrun needed time, the chance to peruse the grimoire in privacy. Given her mother’s injuries fighting Odin, it hadn’t been hard to sneak back to the Ás fortress and retrieve the tome.
Locked in her tower room, Gudrun stared at the mysterious pages once again. Of course, her efforts were as fruitless as always. The book was written in more than one hand, as she had suspected. The problem, however, was that many of the languages were so foreign she couldn’t even begin to guess what the symbols meant. Some looked like the runic script of the Old Kingdoms, but others, especially the older writings, featured characters unlike aught she’d known. Diagrams depicted spirit glyphs, those she could recognize. But without understanding the notes surrounding those glyphs, she’d have no way to know what spirit a glyph might call upon, nor how to perfect the spells tied to it.
With a sigh of frustration, she slammed the book closed. All this effort, and for what? A tome she couldn’t read. Grimhild’s secrets were still denied to her. Though, watching Odin beat the woman to a pulp had granted Gudrun some small satisfaction—satisfaction she’d been damned sure to keep off her face when she returned and saw Grimhild still bearing the remnants of two black eyes and a broken nose. Healing was not one of the stronger gifts of the Niflungar, after all. Hel took life—she didn’t restore it. Grimhild could accelerate her healing by calling upon power from a spirit bound to her, but that became a spiral down toward possession.
Hljod, whom Gudrun had been teaching to read primers, jumped as Gudrun slammed the book. Gudrun waved the girl off. “All is well. How go your studies?”
“It’s … hard.”
Gudrun smiled at that. Hljod had wanted power, the power to never be afraid again. Not of trolls or man. Sorcery was a step in that direction, though even Gudrun had things she still feared. Most of all, sorcery itself, she supposed, but she would teach the girl all she could, spare her whatever horrors she might.
A rapid pounding on her door sent Gudrun’s heart racing before she could answer the girl. There was no way Grimhild could know she had the book. How could she? How had she found out? Vaettir? Would they search even here? It was impossible. Get a grip, Gudrun. Coincidence. It had to be coincidence.
She stuffed the book behind a pillow and scrambled to open the door.
Her mother stood there, glaring.
Hel, she knew. Gudrun started to glance at the book. Was a corner sticking out behind that pillow? What was she doing? Looking right at the indication of her guilt?
“You took so long I thought you might have another man up here,” Grimhild said. Then looked pointedly at Hljod.
“I’m teaching my apprentice to read.”
Grimhild rolled her eyes. “Come along.” At that she spun and began descending the stairs from the tower.
Gudrun motioned for Hljod to wait in the room and followed her mother out. The farther they got, the more Gudrun’s heart calmed. If Grimhild had even suspected Gudrun had the book, her fury would have been immediately apparent. Whatever the queen wanted now, it did not relate to that book.
Grimhild led her toward the dungeons, through long cells to the Pit—a hole in the dungeons, one some claimed had no bottom. Prisoners who sufficiently offended the Niflungar were cast down into that abyss, to fall, some claimed forever.
What was the point, really? Why not just kill the poor bastards with a sword? Oh, but then, she knew the point. It was the fear—fear of the unknown, fear of the darkness, of the drop, probably worked better as a motivator than fear of something so mundane as a sword.
As now, when iron chains suspended Sigyn over the pit. Grimhild had stripped the Ás woman naked and had draugar torture her for days on end, though, as far as Gudrun could tell, the queen had no questions for the girl. She had believed Gudrun’s lie that Sigyn had given the book to Frigg, and for it, Grimhild wanted not answers, but revenge. Given time and creativity, even this torment was like to pale before what final end the queen wrought upon Sigyn, unless Gudrun managed to convince her otherwise. Dead, Sigyn offered less way to control Loge and his Ás pets.
Rivulets of blood still ran down the girl’s body, occasionally dropping into the abyss. A gag silenced her, though she stared at both Gudrun and Grimhild with loathing. But then, a sorceress was used to being hated by most of those she dealt with, human or otherwise. Still, given how quickly this girl healed, any but the most recent injuries would have sealed themselves.
“What are we doing here?” Gudrun asked. “Are you still torturing this wretch?”
Grimhild frowned, then touched a wall. No markings separated it from the rest of the corridor, but as Grimhild touched it, the wall slid backward, dust tumbling from cracks that must not have opened in years.
The queen took a lantern from the dungeon wall, then descended yet another staircase. Deeper and deeper they climbed until Gudrun thought they must be as far below ground as the castle’s towers stretched above it.
“Ever wonder what lies beneath the Pit?” Grimhild asked as the stairs finally ended at an iron-banded door. She took a key from a ring at her belt and unlocked it.
Gudrun frowned and followed her mother. Below the Pit … Yes, she had wondered and assumed all that lay down here was bodies. Bodies splattered after falling hundreds of feet into a darkened cavern.
The hall wound around a bend and led to yet another iron door, this one a grate, though Gudrun could see naught in the darkness beyond it.
“The Pit,” Grimhild said, “is the real dungeon.”
“There are more prisoners down here?” Had some survived this fall? It sounded impossible—but then, so had Odin leaping out an eighth-story window and walking away.
“There is one.”
Grimhild unlocked the gate and slid it into the wall, then entered a massive cavern beyond. Gudrun hadn’t been able to see this because it was simply too large for the light to fill. The place seemed roughly circular, with an outer ledge surrounding yet another pit. Once again, Gudrun could not see the bottom of it. As Grimhild approached the gap, a bridge of stone grew out of the floor beneath her, forming an archway to an island far distant.
What in Hel’s name did Grimhild keep down here that needed such security? Reluctantly, Gudrun followed Grimhild. Fear of what Grimhild would do if she disobeyed outweighed fear of whatever waited beyond, but only just.
The lantern light cast flickering shadows over the stone floor as Grimhild walked forward.
Something moved ahead, with the sound of iron dragging on stone.
Chains, Gudrun realized as she drew nearer: chains of a man with both arms bound to opposite ends of the platform, although both with enough slack he could rise and even walk toward them. In the darkness, she could not make out his features, though she could see he was naked.
“Why keep this man here?”
“Some tools are too valuable to discard, even if they are hard to control. And it is not a man, daughter. This is the first and greatest of the varulfur, progenitor and ultimate ancestor of their bloodline in Midgard. A foe so implacable even the Vanir feared him. This is Fenrir.”
Grimhild pulled a tattered shirt from beneath her cloak. A shirt that had once belonged to Odin when he had stayed in this place so long ago. She tossed the shirt at Fenrir’s feet. “Come, wolf. Smell your prey.”
Epilogue
Long had Loki flown in swan form, heading ever back into the far north, back toward Reidgotaland, and toward the island of Samsey the Niflungar called home. He had not thought to return to this place any time soon, but now he had no choice. Odin would be looking for him, Loki knew, and
would face hard choices and dangers without his guidance, but Loki could not turn back.
His visions had failed him once, allowing the Niflungar to capture Sigyn and manage to carry her so far off. The had borne her through dark troll tunnels where he could not easily follow in person nor in vision. But now they had reached open ground in their homeland.
He saw them.
The Sight would not fail him again.
Pyromancy, as all divination, could focus the Sight and reveal other times and other places. As now, the visions danced in the bonfire, unfolding images beneath Castle Niflung. Loki knew all too well what monstrosity they kept down there and what havoc the first varulf might wreak upon Midgard. Such things were concerns for another time, carefully hidden away until he could take steps to deal with them.
Some things, however, could not be borne.
The fire surged with his anger, leaping high into the night sky even as Grimhild led her foul daughter into the Pit, as the fires revealed Sigyn suspended there, bloody, frightened, and alone. Deep down, she had thought herself safe, thought Loki could never allow harm to befall her, and, in that confidence, had overstepped her abilities. It only made things worse that through her sacrifice she had, in effect, saved Odin and thus all of the Aesir, all of those for whom Loki himself had taken responsibility.
And now she shivered. And a tear dripped down her cheek as the Niflung queen and princess disappeared into darkness.
Loki roared into the night, unable to contain his rage. And from that unquenchable fury the bonfire expanded, doubled in size, and swept outward in a ring of fire that obliterated mist and darkness.
As Loki himself would soon do.
Gudrun had taken from him the one thing Loki could not live without. And in so doing, the Niflungar had sown the seeds of an inferno that would rise to annihilate all who stood in its way, until at last, the Children of Mist trembled before the rising conflagration.
The flames would soon spread, and, as with the end of all things, naught but ash would remain.
Author’s Ramblings
Anyone writing historical fiction has to find a balance between historical accuracy and accessibility to modern readers. Writing historical fantasy, this becomes equally true. For example, in earlier versions of the books, I used the measurements “handspans” and “fathoms” instead of feet. Those measurements would have been more historically accurate to Norse cultures, so I wanted to use them. The problem was, a reader then had to figure out first, how big a handspan is, and then convert that into feet or meters for it to have any inherent meaning. This extra level of detail actually detracted from the fictional dream by forcing most people to stop and think about things they shouldn’t have had to think about.
You also have to carefully balance the use of modern diction—again for accessibility—and period accuracy. Consider: while the word “fuck” has a long history in English, the common usage as an adjective (“fucking huge”) is very modern. On the other hand, this usage produces a visceral reaction in modern readers that could never be generated by any substitute. Any attempt to generate this same feeling with another word has to be so close in use and sound (“frakking cylons!”) that everyone knows exactly what you mean and you should have just fucking said it … or forces you substitute in an in-world made up profanity with no emotion attached to it. So you kind of take the stance that the characters are not exactly speaking English anyway, and focus on conveying meaning and emotion, while trying to avoid anachronisms as much as possible.
Adapting mythology comes with its own issues. The original stories don’t always fit well within the constraints of any realistic tale, much less the framework of dark fantasy I use throughout my Eschaton stories. A story in which Thor causes the tides by drinking half the ocean stretches verisimilitude way beyond the breaking point.
These very limitations can, in fact, spark creativity. They can force me to reinterpret (or offer simple nods to) the original stories that, I hope, offer additional entertainment to those familiar with the source material (but never require that familiarity).
In Loki we see a prototypical trickster god (and possibly a fire god) with strong parallels to certain deities in other cultures. In later Norse mythology his role changed and become more and more demonized, possibly because of influence from contact with Christians. In The Ragnarok Era, I treat Loki as a much more morally ambiguous figure (which I think is true to early Norse sources), and almost as an anti-hero. He is, as in traditional myth, Odin’s blood brother—but in his machinations we can see the seeds of mistrust that will one day grow between them.
In The Mists of Niflheim we reach the middle of the beginning as Odin attempts his march toward Vanaheim. As I mentioned in The Apples of Idunn, this original premise came from the Prose Edda. This book also shows a bit more of the early Volsung Saga which will play out more over time.
Once again, special thanks to my family, and to Brenda, Clark, and Fred, all of who’s input was invaluable in crafting this book. Also, thanks to Clarissa for an awesome reimagined cover.
Thank you for reading,
Matt
P.S. Now that you’ve read The Mists of Niflheim I would really appreciate it if you’d leave a review! Reviews help new readers find my work, so they’re very helpful. Thank you in advance for helping me build and grow my author career!
Follow me on BookBub:
https://www.bookbub.com/authors/matt-larkin
The Shores of Vanaheim
Prologue
Nigh unto five thousand years before, Loki—under another alias—had borne witness to the spreading of these mists as they escaped from Niflheim. The same mists now saturated all of this world, enshrouding Castle Niflung and Hel’s so-called children, as if it might hide them away from the wrath of fire coming for them. In the flames, back in those bygone days, he had seen the mists coming and done all he could, prompting the Destroyer to stop Hel—yet another of her aliases—from consuming the Mortal Realm. And the Destroyer had succeeded, after a fashion, at least in banishing the dead queen and closing the breach to Niflheim. And he died, as ever, leaving Loki to watch alone as the mists ravaged civilization and ushered in an ice age.
The Niflungar awaited the return of their goddess, deluding themselves into thinking her reign would be the stuff of glory rather than the very incarnation of nightmares. In their scheming, though, they had taken Sigyn from him, for which crime he had tracked them across half of Midgard. He had warned Sigyn that he did not wish to reveal himself to his enemies and thus allow them the chance to factor his presence into their machinations. He did not wish them to know of him, but that did not mean he would not do so when forced to it.
He rose from where he crouched atop a rock and stalked closer to the castle hidden in the mist. He did not bear a torch now, trusting in an apple consumed in a distant era to ward him against the deleterious effects of those vapors. He would need flame, without doubt, but the Niflungar—still human despite their efforts to the contrary—would stoke a few fires by which to see, and those tiny blazes would serve his needs.
Some few of the sorcerers may have noted his passing, but they could not imagine any foe would come among them, much less alone, nor yet guess who dared enter their stronghold.
Given the utmost care, he might have passed through much of this hold without drawing notice, and that, without doubt, held temptation. After ages of moving only in the shadows, he had grown loath to act so brazenly as he now planned, but the rescue was not enough. Loki had to make certain Queen Grimhild understood the dire consequences of trying to use Sigyn against him. The sorceress thought to control him by holding his love hostage. But fire was a living thing—never easily contained, always seeking freedom. Much like the burning spirit now squirming beneath his flesh, so eager to manifest and claim another piece of him. And today, he must feed the fire.
Thus he strode toward the dungeons, making no further attempt to disguise his presence or passage. A single soldier straightened
, attempting to bar his way with a halberd.
“Who are you?”
Loki did not answer. Instead, he lunged around the halberd, caught its haft, and chopped the side of his hand into the soldier’s neck. The man dropped in a heap, unconscious or dead. As he fell, his armor scraped against the stone wall. It might draw others, but then, that too would serve Loki’s purpose here.
He descended the stairs into darkness broken by torches set along the winding wall. Loki pulled one from its sconce and continued down to a landing that opened into a large, high-ceiling room lined with cells on both sides. Grimhild stood at the center of the room, surrounded by guards. Beyond them, Sigyn hung suspended over a pit, naked, her body marred by scars of torture. His love had her jaw set, as if trying not to scream, though her eyes widened as he drew nigh. The Niflung queen had released a large adder along the chains, and it had begun to slither along Sigyn’s arm, worming its way toward her exposed neck.
Loki glared at Grimhild. The woman still bore some bruising from her fight with Odin, but that was naught compared to what Loki would do to her now. A few other torches lined the walls here. Loki was apt to need them, too.
“I give you one chance to release her.” The words tasted foul, and he barely managed them through the seething rage threatening to explode out from him in all directions. Seven men protected the Niflung queen, the largest of which stood a head taller than any of the others and bore an axe too big for most men to lift.
Grimhild scoffed. “And are you truly Loge, patron of the Lofdar, returned to the world of the living?”
“I am.”
“Then allow me to repay the indignities visited upon us in times past.” Ice crystalized along her fingers, and mist began to surround her.