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

by Matt Larkin

  An adulteress, much like Tyr’s own former wife? One who couldn’t even be bothered to leave her own husband.

  “No, Tyr, please listen,” Idunn stammered.

  Gods, but he’d always been too blind when it came to women.

  “Look, put that thing down, Tyr.” Idunn was eying Gramr. Jealous bitch. “We’ve lain together before.”

  His hand was shaking.

  Punish her.

  No. Gramr was wrong. He wouldn’t hurt Idunn, not ever. “You speak openly of your shame, woman.”

  “What shame? Because we slept together? It doesn’t have to be an issue. It was only natural, especially in light of the apple.”

  Tyr growled and shoved Gramr back under the furs lest he be tempted to use her. Tyr didn’t have so much left of the honor Borr had instilled in him. He’d bled it dry in Aujum to make Odin king and lost more still fighting the Niflungar and their dark servants. Had to keep what he could.

  “Oh, come on now. I know you enjoyed it. You can’t tell me you wouldn’t want to do that again.”

  He spun on her. “It will not happen again, Idunn.”

  She held up placating hands. “You don’t owe the woman anything, Tyr. Zisa is not your wife any longer.”

  Tyr scowled. “I may not be married any longer, but you are.”

  “Well, that’s my problem, isn’t it?”

  He threw up his hands. “You are a wanton enchantress!”

  An anger he had never seen now darkened her eyes. “Are either of those words meant as insults? Certainly, I am an enchantress, though if I enchanted you it was with no more than a smile and a shake of my arse. And wanton? Are you so naive? You, who have eaten the golden apples of Yggdrasil and become a god—you cling to your mortal preconceptions of morality and the world around you. But you are no longer mortal, Tyr. In the face of unfolding centuries, one begins to understand how truly petty it is to deny yourself what your heart and body crave over some misplaced sense of propriety. That very propriety is but a limitation invented by mortals as means for men to assure themselves of paternity of their own children.”

  “You call me petty, woman? You disdain your own people for having lost touch with their humanity. Yet you are quick to cast aside human values when they don’t suit you.” He clenched his fist so tightly, his fingers hurt. That pain was a welcome distraction from her words.

  “Do you have any idea what this is like for me? You think it’s easy for me to betray my own kind, help bring about their downfall? No! You never stopped to wonder what I was going through, that maybe I just wanted a little comfort. I haven’t cast aside human values—I was trying to make a human connection! I disdain my people, as you say, because they abandoned humanity out in the cold. Not because they got over base customs designed to control them.”

  Tyr recoiled. Never had he seen such anger in the woman. He had hurt her far more than he had intended to. He wanted to object, to tell her that the Vanir had left humanity in the cold because they had left behind human honor. But Idunn was the last person he wanted to fight with. And she was right about one thing. He had not considered she might have turned to him for reasons beyond wanton lust, or even love. That she was feeling lost, alone, and a traitor to all she had been raised to. He opened his mouth to try to voice some apology, but she cut him off.

  “No. No, I’ve heard enough for one day, Tyr. I came to your people to save you, and the majority of the Aesir treat me with distrust. Sometimes I think Odin is the only one among you with vision. And one day, your lack of foresight will wind up costing you all. I pray I did not make a mistake in bringing the Aesir here.” Before he could form any response, she spun and rushed away, out of his tent.

  Tyr stared after her. Part of him wanting to chase her, part of him rooted to his spot. He shook his head. He had wronged her, wronged the woman they were all counting on to deliver them victory. An inauspicious way to begin the final leg of their journey to Vanaheim.

  6

  Grimhild’s varulfur had not found them, and, given the long days of walking, Sigyn had had plenty of time to practice what Loki had spoken of. Ever since she’d eaten the apple, she’d had greater endurance and an ability to heal from injuries much more quickly. Now, though, she seemed able to direct such abilities if she concentrated hard enough. She could block out the pain in her feet or the fatigue from her legs, even ignore the chafing of the damned wool tunic.

  Of course, ignoring a problem did not mean it didn’t exist. Her body could heal more quickly, but it did still suffer injuries, and at the end of the first night she’d found the sores on her feet cracked and bleeding. By morning, they had almost healed—might have done so, had she not proceeded to further abuse her feet all that day.

  Somewhere in Hunaland, they reached a river running through the Myrkvidr, and this they followed for quite some time until now, towards twilight, they stumbled upon a village. No wall protected the village itself, though each of the dozen houses had their own spiked fence that might have served to bar wild animals, but would have done naught at all against varulfur or human foes.

  Sigyn tapped a finger against her lip while gazing into the village. A village meant women, and women would have clothes much better suited for her, though, of course, they had very little with which to barter. Had she her bow, she might have brought down game, but as it was they had eaten naught but berries and roots, and had to count themselves lucky for that.

  Loki placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Do you not wish to enter?”

  “Hmm. Oh, I do. Something here seems amiss, though.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  Loki grunted, then pushed forward.

  Sigyn followed him toward the village square, and, as they drew closer, the problem became obvious. She had heard few people ahead because almost no one was about. Indeed, they saw only an old woman sitting by a cook fire, and a few children, each no more than four winters old.

  She glanced back at Loki, whose own face gave naught away, though she’d have sworn some foreboding lurked in his eyes. Sigyn approached the old woman who looked up sharply. Even the children all faltered, staring at her no doubt disheveled appearance.

  “Where is everyone?” She had meant to ask about shelter, food, and clothes, but the question had slipped out before she could think better of it.

  The old woman glanced at the wood beyond the village. “Working.”

  “Now?” Sigyn tried not to scoff. “It’s almost sunset. Who would …” She choked on her words. What if this were no human village at all? Who worked at night? Vaettir. Spirits in possession of the bodies of men or women, perhaps, even a whole settlement. Once, Sigyn had disdained Frigg’s beliefs in the beings of the Otherworlds. Now, unfortunately, she knew better. Rán herself had threatened to have Sigyn possessed by a mermaid. So what else might lurk here, in this village?

  The old woman stared down at her cooking pot, suddenly consumed with it.

  Loki remained as unreadable as ever, though he stared off north, where the old woman’s gaze had looked for a moment.

  All Sigyn had to do was ask for a set of clothes and be away from here before the others got back. That was it. She didn’t need to stay here, risk … whatever these people were caught up in.

  She did not consciously strain her ears, but still the scream reached her, carried on the breeze wafting in from the north. A woman’s scream of terror, followed by sobs, begging to be released. Loki didn’t react. Maybe he hadn’t heard it, but now that she had, could she truly ignore such a thing?

  Damn.

  Damn, but no. She had to do something.

  “Sigyn …” Loki said.

  She shook her head and took off in a dash toward the north. She paused to snatch up a lantern hanging from a post nearby. It smelled of whale oil. These villagers must trade with whalers, which meant the river must run to the sea. While welcome news, it did not help her current situation much.

  Dozens of tracks ma
rred the ground leading back into the forest. Even now, at dusk, she could follow such an obvious trail. She pushed on, swift as she dared, until she came to slight clearing where it seemed nigh unto the whole village had gathered. Only one of them bore a torch, and that a young man of no more than twelve winters. Despite the lack of flame, the mists had not congregated here and, indeed, seemed to recede away from the clearing, barely permeating it.

  All the village turned to her, most of all a naked girl tied to a tree with a hemp rope. The poor girl—no more than fifteen winters old—had pissed herself in terror and chafed her wrists until they bled trying to escape the bonds.

  What the fuck was this? A human sacrifice? Well, Sigyn had the stage now.

  “What crime is this girl accused of?”

  “It’s no concern of yours,” an old man said. The others looked to him, meaning he was the village chief or elder and no doubt the one responsible for this twisted spectacle.

  Behind her, she heard Loki moving in the shadows, though human ears would not have caught his passage. He’d support whatever she chose to do. Sometimes, the most brazen move is the best, not because one had the strength to back it up, but simply because it could catch others unprepared and drive them to defend when they ought to mount a counteroffensive.

  “On behalf of King Odin, god among men, I command you to release the girl immediately.”

  The villagers looked at each other, clearly bewildered, while the elder stammered, and Sigyn pushed onward, toward the prisoner. Chances were, people in this remote village would never have even heard of Odin. Nevertheless, now they’d be asking themselves if they should have heard of this god-king. Sigyn’s finger’s twitched, seeking the comfort of a bow she no longer had.

  “We cannot … cannot deny the lady her due,” the elder said.

  The lady? Were they sacrificing this girl to Hel? Or some other fell goddess?

  Sigyn stared at the man, doing her best to match Frigg’s most regal gaze. A few more steps and she’d reach the girl. Since she didn’t have a knife, she’d have to untie the damned rope, which meant she needed to buy as much time as possible.

  “You do not understand … she cannot be denied.”

  “Nor can King Odin. Odin, lord of the Aesir! Slayer of jotunnar and dragons, he who brought low trolls and sorcerers.” Sigyn grasped the rope and began fumbling with the ties with one hand, while keeping her eyes on the crowd. “Odin the mighty, who crossed back from the realm of the dead!”

  Huh. Actually, it did sound rather impressive, when she considered all he had done. The damned knot didn’t want to give. It was going to take both hands.

  “Odin who … took to bed nine valkyries and sated them all!” So she was making that part up. Men loved to hear about legendary—if ludicrous—sexual prowess. Maybe they imagined themselves in such a place. “Odin, who—”

  A tremendous crack resounded through the clearing as a nearby ash tree split halfway down the middle. Everyone cringed—including Sigyn—and, at the same moment, a nude woman began to wrest herself from the midst of the tree. Her skin was like bark, at least at first, but the further she pulled out of the tree, the more human-like it became, even if it retained an unnatural color. A pale, luminous green light lingered in her eyes.

  The villagers fell to their knees, praising their askafroa—an ash wife.

  They worshipped a fucking ash wife.

  And the ash wife stepped out of the tree, one slender foot treading upon the ground, then another. Those glowing green eyes fixed first on her intended sacrifice and then on Sigyn, who faltered in her attempts to free the girl.

  Well, damn.

  Sigyn did the only thing she could think of. She flung the lantern at the ash wife.

  It fell short, broke upon the ground, and still had the intended effect as the whale oil ignited a sudden conflagration. The ash wife shrieked and fell back several steps, hands raised to ward against the flames.

  With the vaettr distracted, Sigyn redoubled her efforts on the ropes. At last the knot gave way. The girl jerked free and took off running. She had gone but a few steps when a vine dropped down from the canopy and surged toward her.

  Sigyn shoved the girl, knocking her away from the vine, and then dropped to the ground an instant before it tried to snare her. By the time she rose, the ash wife had vanished off to Freyja knew where. Sigyn grabbed the girl, jerked her to her feet, and ran back toward the village.

  They passed out of the clearing, and, as they did so, Loki stepped forward, sweeping his arm in an arc. The flames responded, rising into a wall that would impede any pursuit from the villagers. The ash wife, though, would prove a greater threat.

  They had to get away from the trees, and, in the Myrkvidr, that meant the river. They had to reach the river.

  7

  For two days, more and more men and shieldmaidens had arrived at the castle. Jarls and thegns from a dozen tribes loyal to King Volsung answered his levy. Many of these were men his father had won after taking this castle, but no few of the warriors had joined Volsung himself. The king had a taste for battle and seemed so apt to reap glory that Gudrun had to wonder if Grimhild had granted him some supernatural blessing. Maybe that was why she had chosen him now. The queen was always planning ahead, a trait Gudrun would have to learn from her soon enough.

  Like their king, many of these Hunalanders were eager to take revenge on the Aesir. Ironic—Gudrun would have thought them reluctant after being so crushed. But these men valued pride and honor more than life itself, and, in truth, why not? After all, their lives were always short.

  Indeed, from the swiftness with which the warriors converged, Volsung must have already summoned some of them. Meaning, most likely, Grimhild had ordered Guthorm to tell the king the same thing Gudrun had. Why then send Gudrun at all? A test, perhaps, or a message to either Gudrun, Volsung, or both. Grimhild had schemed and plotted for centuries, building her power, preparing for the day when the Niflungar would retake Midgard. Gudrun could not hope to uncover all those schemes at once. The best she could do was make certain she had enough plays of her own to be the one who came out on top. In the end, Hel would reward the one who best served her.

  Most of the warriors arrived in longships now gathered in the harbor, though the people made camp around the castle. So many ships.

  Gudrun stood on the battlements, watching them all. An army of sails. It would be a terrible army, one the Aesir—after such losses as they had already suffered—could not well prepare for. Gudrun almost pitied them. Save for Loge. The fire priest was too dangerous; Gudrun had seen it with her own eyes.

  Rumors had circulated the castle of a few men and women gone missing out in the camps. Deserters, most claimed, cowards afraid to fight the savage Aesir once again. Some perhaps were at that, but Gudrun suspected Fenrir had picked off others to sate his unnatural hungers. A spirit as old as that was godlike in both power and appetite and all the more inimical to humanity. It had even less place on Midgard than other beings from beyond the Veil. When this was all over, when Gudrun was queen of the Niflungar, she would find some way to banish that creature. Grimhild was beyond a fool to think she could control so primal a beast.

  Below, in the courtyard, Volsung emerged, followed by Hljod. The two chatted lightly—too far away for Gudrun to make out their words—but the obvious, growing familiarity concerned her. True, the savage descendants of the Siklings did tend to choose mates quickly. Their lives were short, so they often decided on things like love seemingly on a whim. Still, she had to wonder if Volsung’s interest in her apprentice had as much to do with laying a hold on the Niflungar as it did with lust. Ironic, given she’d considered sending Hljod to do the same to him. And why should Gudrun be surprised to find a young, headstrong girl smitten by a king, and at an age when most of her people would be married off and bearing a child or three?

  The girl looked up at her, and Gudrun took the opportunity to beckon her over. Hljod stared at her as if she might consider re
fusing the summons, then she turned to Volsung, said something, and headed for the stairs.

  Gudrun awaited Hljod’s approach, keeping her eyes on the gathering army. Hel, but Grimhild had changed things with Guthorm. Had she raised him before losing the grimoire? Had Guthorm been out there, in the world, still doing his mother’s bidding even in death? She could ask him, of course, but he might be under orders to report her questions back to Grimhild.

  If Gudrun was to take the crown, she needed plays of her own. She needed allies more loyal to her than to Grimhild. And Hljod could do that but … but Gudrun would not order it. Never. She would never force the girl to it.

  “What are you even looking at up here? It’s cold as Hel.”

  Gudrun didn’t turn at Hljod’s approach, but she did cringe at her words. “Do not invoke the lady’s name so flippantly, girl.”

  “Ah. Sorry. There’s none greater.”

  “Hmmm.” Gudrun let her eyes relax, embracing the Sight to look into the Penumbra. Slowly, she turned around, making certain no spirits lurked nearby. Ghosts and other fouler things played about the castle, more in the camp, but none close, none watching her. Gudrun blinked, allowing her eyes to return to the Mortal Realm. Now she did turn to look at her apprentice. “Are you sleeping with Volsung?”

  “What? No! I mean … no. I’m not.” She fidgeted, tugging at her dress. “We haven’t done anything.”

  “It’s not a criticism if you were, Hljod. I’ve already shown you how to make brews to make sure nothing unwanted takes root in your womb. But if you were to do so, if something did take root …”

  Hljod’s mouth hung open, but her eyes were smiling. “Are you asking me to carry his bastard?”

  “No. I will not ask it.” Gudrun leaned back on the battlement wall and folded her arms. “If, however, you so choose, it might be fortuitous. He might even claim you as a wife.”