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

by Matt Larkin

  And he was no child, but a man, great and strong. And dying.

  “We never stopped Ragnarok …” Thor said. “I tried …”

  Odin ran faster than he had ever run, tripping over flaming corpses and crushing skulls beneath his feet. His fingers reached Thor’s. The moment they did so, his son broke apart, just as Frigg had.

  “No!”

  Odin stumbled, wailing. No! It was madness, some nightmare. He buried his head in his hands. He didn’t want to see this. Not this.

  “Only fires burn pure.” The Norn’s voice broke through the trembling ground, reverberating against Odin’s skull.

  First the burning child ignites a pyre you cannot staunch.

  The first Norns had said that to him. Answering some question he had not even asked.

  Odin looked up, but neither the Norns nor the burning field remained. Instead, he knelt in another place. Perhaps somewhere in Vanaheim, for ten thousand types of flowers grew about him. He was in a forest, one lush and pulsing with life. Moss covered every root, vines and creepers wrapped around each tree. The sound of streams running nearby mingled with calls of birds and the chirping of insects. Soft sunlight suffused everything.

  What was he seeing now? Another future? An alternative to the burning horror he had seen a moment ago?

  What was Ragnarok?

  Odin tried to rise, but his feet and knees had become as roots themselves, planted in the ground. Leaves sprouted from his ribs as he looked at them, the sensation tingling rather than painful. He tried to speak, but his throat hardened and turned to bark, uttering a mere grunt.

  “Is this the future you seek?”

  The feminine voice came from behind him, but he could not turn to it. It rang hollow, fill with a chill that reminded him of his brief encounter with the Odling ghost. Mist seeped out around him, blanketing the ground, which froze as the vapors came. Odin’s roots shriveled and cracked in the cold, sending bolts of agony shooting through his entire body.

  Snow crunched under the footsteps of the woman approaching. So slowly, he could barely breathe for anticipation, she drifted before him. The woman—or at least the female—was deathly pale. She wore a hooded cloak and naught else, but no hint of eroticism exuded from her. One side of her face was rotted away like dead flesh, putrefied, and in some places even revealing her skull. Where her lips had worn away, sharpened teeth, like fangs showed. The rot continued down the same side of her entire body—one breast was missing, her ribcage and blackened organs showing where it ought to have been. Writhing white hair framed her face, hanging in loose clumps on her rotten side.

  The urge to retch seized Odin, but his bark throat would not allow it. And he knew this thing. Knew it in the depths of his soul. Her mists had seeped into Midgard nigh unto five thousand years ago. Her touch had poisoned mankind and given rise to trolls. Her presence released the draugar and other foulness that had no right to walk upon Midgard. She was Hel.

  And Hel smiled at him. “I know you. I know you of old, Odin Borrson.”

  Her voice, as it hissed through her missing lips, felt like ravens clawed at his eardrums.

  “Is this your promise to mankind … Destroyer? Burning or freezing. Either way, you offer only death. And I am death.”

  And that was Ragnarok. The end of time. The war that would end the world. In seeing the past, he saw the future. The past Naresh had averted was merely delayed. Ragnarok was still lurching closer with every passing year.

  This being, this vile goddess had sent Ymir after Borr. She had begun all of Odin’s pains. His chest shook, but even in his fear, his wooden form could not look away. Could not even close his eyes as she reached an icy hand toward his cheek. Her touch burned and froze at once, siphoning off his warmth and hope and his soul. She was right. Against this ancient power, there was no victory.

  The goddess of the mists, the Queen of Death.

  She was absolute. Hel. There is none greater. Those were the words of the Niflungar. And now, looking upon her horrid magnificence, faltering beneath her dire gaze, he could no longer deny their truth. Hel. There was none greater. His struggles against the mists were pointless vanity, the self-indulgent quest of a would-be god daring to stand against a true deity.

  Despite the apple, Odin was just a man. A man could never stand against such a power.

  “You’re wrong. A man did stand against her.”

  Though mist still engulfed him, something about his vision had changed. A warm hand wrapped around his own—and through her pulse he felt his own. His heart beat again. His body was flesh. And the woman who now helped him up was not the rotting deity existing between life and death. She was young, vibrant. Lithe, with dark skin and darker hair that reminded him of Idunn. Or Eostre.

  This woman turned, looking out over a strange, foreign temple around them. Through the mists, he saw Hel again, this time in a different body. Possessing a human. And battling a man who moved with precision and speed unlike anything Odin had dreamed of. His eyes glowed like sunlight.

  Eostre’s mother had named her after the dawn … because her father had worshipped the sun. Her father, who had died to banish to Hel from Midgard.

  Hel. Or Rangda. Nirrti. Milu. Kalma. Anput. She had so many names, this darkness that had haunted mankind from the dawn of time.

  But a man had stood against her. And won. Perhaps no ultimate victory was possible, but Idunn’s grandfather had thwarted Hel’s attempts to bring all Midgard into her domain. A man who would not give in, would not back down, had stood against this goddess and found at least some victory.

  And Odin would do the same.

  Suddenly he was back in the root chamber, Freyja pulling him to his feet. His cheeks were wet with tears, his throat raw as though he’d been screaming. The Vanr woman pulled him away from the well and guided him back out the path they had come. Odin did not look back at the Norns, nor even at Lytir as they passed him. They must all know more than they spoke, but he could not have handled any more answers for now. Lytir had been right—he hadn’t liked what the well showed him. Hadn’t liked it, but maybe he had needed it.

  35

  Most of the Aesir had piled into the longships already. Frigg had ordered every man old as ten winters to the oars. Much of their possessions still lay sprawled around the camps. The ships might carry every last Ás across the bay to Vanaheim, but not with supplies. The queen had promised some might return for such things later, but first, she said, they had to escape Volsung’s army.

  And she had agreed—reluctantly—to send nine berserkir and as many varulfur to the Straits with Roland, to fight for the Valls. Hermod had agreed to lead the warriors on behalf of the Godwulfs. The queen had even promised more warriors in five moons. The terms Tyr presented had clearly left her seething, but she had accepted. The Valls had upheld their end, after all.

  Roland had departed without a farewell. Perhaps the Vall had heard of Tyr’s shame. How he slew his own people.

  And damn it, Tyr had almost liked the South Realmer.

  The queen insisted they must be away from here at once. Though the Hunalander ships had sailed away, they might return. Gudrun and Grimhild did not seem like to give up, not ever. If Vanaheim were truly beyond their reach, it might represent the only place on all of Midgard the Aesir could find lasting respite. Assuming, of course, Odin managed to sway or subdue the Vanir themselves.

  Most of the Aesir had boarded. Not Zisa or her sons, though. The eldest, Starkad, spied Tyr watching them and spat. Given he had slain the boy’s father, Tyr could not blame him his rage, impotent though it was. Sigyn was right. Gramr had become a weight on his soul. Even now, his fingers twitched, feeling the sick desire to draw the runeblade and lay waste to Starkad. A man like to remain a foe to the end of his days. Bah. Just a few winters past childhood.

  Lacking any better idea, he beat his hand against the sheathed blade, trying to still the urge to murder. Almost, it seemed he should have let Guthorm reclaim this blade. Almost. For this
foulest of magic he would cut down every last Niflungar. Cut their very hearts from their chests. Cut their blasphemous tongues from their heads! Once the Aesir were secure, he could go alone. Sneak into Castle Niflung. There, he’d bring justice in the form of dverg-wrought steel and put an end to such soul-draining magic. Naught but ill had ever come from pursuit of the so-called Art.

  Perhaps true justice demanded he slay every witch, sorceress, and profane follower of the dark arts on Midgard. Even … even vӧlvur? Vӧlvur like Frigg? Or enchantresses like Idunn? No. Hel, if only the Vanr woman were here now. She knew how to speak, to calm him. To save his soul. And their last words together had been less than kind.

  “Idunn,” he mumbled, “forgive me.” He had been a fool with her. Perhaps, when all the strife were done, he might entice her to leave her husband. He’d sworn once to never be a party to such foul deeds. And yet now, he could think of little else. Perhaps that too, was the work of the Niflungar. A poison in his mind leading him to break his oaths and violate his own principles.

  Hel, but that was him deluding himself. He could blame neither Grimhild nor Gramr for his lust.

  Maybe true justice would have been had Frigg hanged him, as Zisa had demanded. His ex-wife watched him now, glaring. A fiery hate filled her eyes. Sigyn had once claimed part of the woman must still care for him, had felt pride in his prowess. At least until he had shamed her sons and slaughtered her husband like a boar.

  And still she watched him. He jerked his head toward the ships. Zisa rolled her eyes and purposefully turned away.

  Damn it. Damn her.

  Left no other choice, Try strode over to their midst. Starkad raised a spear at him. A vain, if honorable attempt to protect his mother. Zisa pointedly kept her eyes focused on the bow she was stringing, pretending not to see him at all.

  “Get on the damned ships.”

  “I’ll not sail anywhere with you, murderer.”

  “And the boys?”

  Now she did look up, ice in her gaze. “My family stays together.”

  “To die?” Tyr pointed to the north. “Will you wait here for the Hunalanders to return? Or maybe you’d rather try the woods?” He indicated the southern copse. “Prefer your luck with varulfur? I slew one not so far from here. Where there is one wolf, a pack cannot be far behind.”

  “I do not fear any—” Starkad protested.

  “Silence, boy.”

  “I am a man, armed!” He stalked closer, his spearpoint a mere handspan from Tyr’s chest.

  Tyr snatched the haft and yanked it from the shocked boy’s hands, then tossed it aside. “All of you get on the ships, now! The queen has given orders. Obey. Or I will knock these dolts senseless. Throw them over my shoulder and let them wake halfway across the sea.”

  Zisa rose. Spat at his feet. “Do you delight in such bluster now?”

  No. He hoped not. If he did, he’d blame Gramr for that, too. Instead, he grabbed her shoulder. “I am saving your life and the lives of your children. You may thank me once you manage to dig your head out of your arse. Between now and then, do as your queen bids.”

  Starkad growled and rushed him, intent to tackle him. Tyr caught him by the collar, drawing the apple’s power. Hefted the boy into the air with one hand. Starkad grasped Tyr’s wrist with both hands, beating ineffectively at it. The other boy, Vikar, his eyes widened. When Tyr looked at him with a shake of his head, he obviously gave over any plan of joining his brother’s assault.

  Now, Tyr turned back to Zisa and raised an eyebrow.

  She jerked her arm free of his grasp and leaned in close to his ear, whispering so not even her boys could hear. “That may well be your son you so shame.”

  Tyr released Starkad and lurched like he had been punched in the gut.

  “Come,” Zisa said to her sons. “We board the ships.”

  Tyr stood there, mouth agape, unable to form a coherent thought. It wasn’t even possible. Not … Gods, no. Starkad was maybe fifteen winters. And Zisa had left him sixteen winters back. Could it even …?

  The boys grabbed a handful of supplies, then took off after their mother, toward the fleet.

  A weight settled on Tyr’s chest, and he had to run his fingers over Gramr’s smooth hilt for strength. Why had she never told him?

  Fuck. Answer was obvious. Bedvig. She wanted Bedvig to believe the boy his own to secure her position. And now Bedvig was dead, she was telling the truth.

  A terrible thought soured his stomach. Or she was lying now, trying to keep Tyr from harming her boy. But … But Tyr was out of favor among the Aesir. If word spread Starkad was his son, the boy would be shamed beyond anything Tyr could have actually done to him.

  She wouldn’t lie about that.

  By the time he found them again, though, they had already boarded a Skaldun ship.

  Tyr stared at it. Considered boarding. They might have tried to stop him. Now wasn’t the time for a fight.

  One day soon, though, he would need to know the truth.

  The ships made way in the early morning. The wind was not with them, so they passed by strength of arm alone. Tyr took up oars on Frigg’s own ship. Let the heavy work free his mind from burdens of deeper thought. The rhythm could numb the mind as well as the shoulders. He purposefully tried to avoid calling upon the apple’s power to grant him strength or endurance. Neither would have helped the ship—oarsmen had to work in unison—and he welcomed exhaustion.

  Heave.

  Little surprise that Zisa had taken up on another ship. Of course she had chosen the finest Skaldun vessel, after all. She wouldn’t want to face Tyr now, not after her admission. But her position among the Skalduns was tenuous. A fool could see that. The tribe would not tolerate her acting as leader for long. He could only imagine Frigg had delayed so far because of her distraction over Odin. And, indeed, far too much time had passed with no word from their king. Whether Frigg made the right decision to sail now, it seemed the only decision.

  Heave.

  Dense callouses born of years of warfare covered his hands. The rough oars didn’t hurt him, though after a few hours at sea, some of the young men probably already had blisters. Men like Zisa’s sons. They were brave enough, Tyr had to grant. He had shamed their father, and they had rushed in to avenge his honor. Tyr could have asked for no better from a son. And if Starkad was his son? Hel, Zisa had been furious as a shaved boar when Tyr beat Starkad. Even more so than even when he’d fought her husband. He’d thought it motherly affection. Fuck. Might have been more. The knowledge he was the boy’s father.

  Heave.

  Had Bedvig earned his death? Or had Gramr led Tyr to commit murder that day? Hel, but he hated having to doubt his own actions. Borr had once told him to trust his gut, make a decision, and live with it. Regret and self-doubt could kill a warrior. It was thanks to Borr that Tyr had been able to leave his violent, mad childhood behind. One more debt he could never repay. One of many.

  Heave.

  “Island ahead!” a man called from the bow.

  Island? Unless he had lost track of time, they should not have reached Vanaheim yet. Not for a fair time still, in fact. He glanced over his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse.

  Unable to leave the oar, he had no clear view. At least not until it drew closer perhaps half an hour later.

  There indeed, a mossy hill rose from the waves. Large enough a small party could have made camp there for days. Not large enough, however, for so many Aesir to find anything useful.

  “It is not Vanaheim,” Frigg said. “Continue onward.”

  By now, the wind had shifted, and the crew began to unfurl the sails. Every oarsman—even Tyr, truth be told—welcomed the respite, however brief it might prove. He used the chance to move to the gunwale and look out over the island. Green. Like Vanaheim must look. Whole islands of green.

  What a dream that would prove. And if he saw Idunn, he would love to take in her homeland together. To apologize for his brutish rejection. Were he honest, part of him ha
d never believed in this vision Odin and Idunn had promised. This land of greenery could not be real. It was something born of legend, of dream, of desperation. And yet, now, to see this small island as a promise of things to come …

  Tyr looked closer. Wasn’t it farther away a moment ago? Shouldn’t they have put more distance between themselves and this rock by now?

  A few men began mumbling something similar. Now, Tyr locked his eyes on the shore. Definitely coming closer.

  “Frigg!” he shouted.

  From the stern, she looked to him, then followed his gaze. For a moment, she watched, as if uncertain what she was supposed to see. Then she clutched the gunwale.

  “Back to the oars! Everyone, oars! Away from it!”

  The lump in his throat did not stop him from racing back to his seat. Now he did draw his power, washing away fatigue and pulling hard on the oar.

  “Get back to your spot!” he snapped at one man who dawdled, staring the at the moving island. Tyr followed the man’s gaze. The island had vanished now.

  A good sign? Or a very bad one?

  The ship lurched to one side as a wave flung it off course.

  An enormous shadow rose beneath a trio of other longships. Tyr’s stomach lurched.

  A moment.

  And then that shadow exploded into light, its form shrouded by the mist. Hidden such that Tyr could not be certain. It was like an underwater mountain had risen from the depths and flew free for the briefest of heartbeats.

  And then it slapped back down with a cacophony like thunder. The nearest ships splintered and crunched under its weight, sucked below the sea in a single moment of wordless horror. The wall of water surged at Tyr’s ship with the speed and inevitability of divine wrath.

  He stopped pulling the oar, unable to do aught save stare in awe at the force of nature washing toward them.