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

by Matt Larkin

  Zisa moved to retrieve the blade.

  “Stop!” Odin shouted at her. “Do not touch that sword.”

  Instead, he knelt beside and wrapped it in cloth. Powerful as it was, he could not afford to let the Aesir wield any such instrument. Not if it could cause them to turn on their own.

  A bear burst into the glade a moment later, then sniffed around as if confused.

  “Vili,” Odin said, “Tyr is bewitched. We must fall back to the others, regroup.”

  The bear grunted in assent, then spun to the woods behind Odin. Odin rose, turning. A shirtless, long-haired man strode out. He wore naught but torn trousers, not even boots, though the undergrowth did not seem to bother him. The man paused some few fathoms away, flashing a sharp-toothed grin at Odin.

  Odin sighed and brandished Gungnir. “Begone, Vanr, before I send you to Hel. You have wandered into a fight you cannot win.”

  The man sneered, then continued forward. The Aesir with Zisa rushed at him, spears lunging. The man dodged to the side, caught one spear and snapped it in half like kindling. He snared the ogling Ás by the throat and flung him into a tree with one hand. The sound of it breaking echoed through the glade like a gong. Only after a moment did Odin realize it was not the tree that had broken, but the Ás’s spine.

  Vili roared and charged forward. In the time it took to close the distance, the Vanr had leapt on the second Ás, pinned him to the ground and ripped out his throat with his bare hands. Vili reared up on his hind legs and swiped at the Vanr. The man ducked under the claws, caught one of Vili’s forelegs, and slapped his other hand on it. Vili’s leg—his arm—snapped forward, bending the wrong way as the bone jutted out. The Vanr ducked under the broken arm and slammed his fist into the bear’s jaw. The blow dislocated it with a sickening crack and sent the bear rolling end over end.

  “Fuck me …” Zisa said, her hands fumbling with an arrow.

  “Aesir to me!” Odin shouted. Spear out ahead, he advanced on the man. This man had the strength of a jotunn and the speed of … of naught Odin had ever dreamed of. “Who are you? Did Frey send you for me?”

  The man chuckled, eyes dark and spread his arms, as if to welcome Odin’s attack. “I am no Vanr, little man. I am the first of the varulfur. A Lord of the Moon. I am Fenrir. Come to send you to Hel. And before dawn, I will feast on your heart and rape your woman until her breath gives out.”

  He said the last while looking at Zisa. Odin was about to deny she was his. Zisa, however, had a better response, planting an arrow in the werewolf’s chest. The varulf barely slowed, even as he yanked the bloody thing from his body and tossed it aside without a glance.

  The werewolf leapt, his form changing midair with a swiftness Odin had seen from no shifter before. At once, the creature had become something halfway between man and animal, face elongated and jutting fangs, arms ending in claws. Odin thrust Gungnir. Fenrir batted it aside as he landed, swiping claws across Odin’s face. Pain like fire exploded in front of him, sent him stumbling away. Odin grasped for his power, trying to block the pain. Claws racked his back, and Gungnir was yanked from his grasp. The next thing he knew, he was flying through the air. A hard impact drove wind from his lungs.

  He opened his eyes—blood stinging them—to see Tyr trying to bear the werewolf down. Fenrir slashed claws across the thegn’s back, rending so great a chunk of flesh Odin felt bile scorch his throat at the sight. Fenrir flung Tyr off him even as more and more of the Aesir poured into the clearing. The werewolf leapt among them, biting and clawing. His jaws ripped out throats, almost severing heads from bodies. Some few blows landed upon the beast, but barely seemed to slow it.

  Other varulfur charged in, Vili’s men in wolf form. Fenrir spun on them, halting their movement with a gaze. For an agonizing instant, as Odin stumbled to his feet, the werewolf held his weaker brethren with his stare and they whimpered. Then Fenrir jerked his head at the Aesir. The other varulfur snarled, suddenly laying into their own former allies. Men and women fell screaming.

  Axe-time, sword-time, come the sundered shields, wind-time, wolf-time. Never shall men each other spare.

  The Norns’ words were a slithering poison in his mind. A sickening reminder of the urd before him.

  Odin roared, finally blocking the pain as berserkir did. Injuries did not matter. Pain was immaterial. There was only will, the choice to continue even when one’s own body would not wish it. That, after all, was much of what Freyja had taught them. Sorcery often came down to a contest of will—not unlike battle.

  He charged forward, beckoning all Aesir follow him. They could not outrun such a foe, which left only one recourse. Win or die. Fenrir howled at the sky, then took in the advancing army of Aesir, their numbers ever growing.

  His eyes met Odin’s. This was it. He would charge, and one of them would reach the Gates of Hel this night.

  But Fenrir instead leapt on a tree trunk. His claws rent the bark as he scrambled upward, flinging himself into the canopy. Since when did varulfur climb trees? A horrid gurgle sounded from above, and a Vanr corpse plummeted from above, torso separated from his legs.

  A shieldmaiden nearby retched. Odin wished he could afford to do the same.

  So. Fenrir did not serve the Vanir. That left only one plausible explanation. The Niflungar already had sent someone here. An assassin in the form of a werewolf, one happy to slaughter Aesir and Vanir alike. And clearly bent on destroying Odin. Grimhild might not dare walk these shores herself, but she had sent this shifter, this Moon Lord, to do her bidding. And they had little means to kill such a vaettr.

  Odin glowered, then knelt by Vili. His brother had resumed human form, his arm still broken at a sickening angle. Odin jerked the bone back into place. His brother groaned but did not wake.

  44

  In the late afternoon, she had spied the fleet of ships threading through the mists, heading ever north. They had not clung as close to the coast as she might have suspected, almost as though Gudrun feared some among the Aesir might try to follow. But then, of course she feared it. She had taken Odin’s blood brother and, if Gudrun did not know Odin had gone to Vanaheim, she would have expected him to come chasing after Loki.

  Given Sigyn’s current mood, the Niflung princess would have been better off had the king come for her instead. Her damned thigh pained her, even in this form. How could she feel pain in muscles she didn’t currently have?

  For too long she had soared far overhead, not daring let the men on the ship spot her. Or, more particularly, not daring let Gudrun see her. The Niflung could see farther through mist than an ordinary human, of that Sigyn had no doubt. The princess also knew of Sigyn’s power of transformation. If she spied a swan trailing her, she might turn her vaettir on Sigyn once again. Being strangled midair and falling from the sky, was not an experience she was keen to repeat.

  The Hunalanders had a great many ships, and, given she had to stay out of sight, it took Sigyn much of the afternoon to spot Loki. The vile princess had stripped him to the waist and bound him to the mast with a thin chain. Sigyn would have thought he could break free from such bindings, but he didn’t even strain.

  So.

  She had found him. Now what was she supposed to do? This ship, clearly Volsung’s own, was thick with warriors and even Gudrun herself. Spying the princess made Sigyn’s heart clench and her thigh throb in fresh waves of agony.

  Perhaps under cover of darkness, she might slip aboard.

  That meant several more hours of painful flight, but she saw no alternative.

  In the darkness, Sigyn alighted on the water, keeping her swan form. She drifted among the ships unnoticed until she neared the hull of the king’s vessel. Similar to the Ás design, these ships rode low in the water—low enough she could not help be spotted should she draw near any of the oarsmen. Unlike the Ás ships, though, these vessels featured a slightly raised rear deck, one large enough to contain supplies inside. An efficient design for those needing to sail far, and one she’d have
to remember if she managed to get out of this situation. Atop that deck, a pair of large torches burned. The flames were certainly not for the benefit of the Niflungar, so a clear concession to their mere human servants.

  As the night drew on, many of the oarsmen took to sleeping on their benches. From what Sigyn had seen, they had eaten little, but had drunk plenty of mead. Perhaps that got them through the nights. Either way, the ships’ progress had slowed, and they now operated purely under sail power. Finally, when enough of the men had nodded off, she dared swim closer, following along the hull toward the vessel’s center.

  She had come all this way. She could not let fear stop her. Not now.

  By Mundilfari’s fire she had imagined herself descending with righteous wrath upon Gudrun and all her fell servants. But here, facing the sorceress, she had no choice but to accept the truth. Sigyn was no match for Gudrun’s power, at least not in an open confrontation. She could, however, defeat the sorceress in a match of tafl—that Sigyn was certain of.

  As she pulled back her cloak—resuming human form—she grabbed the side with one hand. No immediate shouts went up, so she peered over the rail. An oversized man slumbered before her, reeking of sweat and slightly sour mead.

  Though the man obstructed her view, he also helped conceal her from any of his comrades who might not have slept. Beyond him, Gudrun sat facing Loki, her back to Sigyn.

  “You have survived many ages, Loge. You must know a great deal of forgotten lore. So tell me … How do I read this?”

  “Get that foul tome away from me.”

  “Hmm,” Gudrun said. “You do know it. But can you read the words? Understand the spells?”

  “If I could do such a thing, I surely would not share such justifiably forbidden knowledge with even those I trusted the most. Why then, would I ever consider helping a servant of Mist?”

  “Would you rather Grimhild recover this?”

  “Your pretenses of noble intention ring hollow, princess. I know who you are and whom you serve, and I know her of old. I would not arm a priestess of Hel with any weapon, not the barest, brittle stick nor a tiny rock. Your mistress claims rulership of Niflheim, but she is not the only dire power to lurk in the mist, nor even yet the foulest being beyond the Veil.”

  Gudrun sighed. “You know a great many secrets, priest. Share them with me, and I might intervene on your behalf. If we reach Castle Niflung, you must know Grimhild will wring every last drop of knowledge out of your tortured soul.”

  Sigyn scowled, shifting her weight to the side, beyond the sleeping man. Slowly, looking all around, she slipped over the side. To her ears, the splashing she made sounded cacophonous, but Gudrun didn’t look at her.

  Perhaps because Loki raised his voice, ever so slightly. “Your mother is wretched, but I have withstood torments from those greater than she. You do not frighten me, little girl.” He must have seen her, though he kept his eyes locked on the Niflung princess.

  Gudrun rose stiffly.

  Sigyn crept closer, pulling her knife. The princess should die for what she’d done to her. But … but Gudrun had not killed Sigyn and had not caused any overt harm to Loki. On the other hand, Sigyn owed her, and she need not kill the Niflung princess to punish her. Everything was a move on the tafl board.

  “What do you hope to gain through these petty taunts?” The woman was practically shouting now, and a few men nearby stirred, grumbling.

  “The one thing that matters. Time.”

  “Wha—”

  Sigyn rose, slapped a hand over Gudrun’s mouth, and used the other to ram her dagger through the back of the woman’s thigh. The princess thrashed in her arms, flailing in agony Sigyn knew all too well. She released her grip on the dagger and, drawing on supernatural strength, banged her hand on Gudrun’s head. The princess toppled forward, her struggles going limp and weak.

  Letting the woman slump to the ground, she finally met Loki’s eyes. So clear, so blue, and flush with pride and gratitude. A look she would not soon forget. Not soon, not ever. Sigyn knelt by his side and unwound the chain.

  The moment he pulled an arm free, Loki shoved her to the side. An instant later, a blond-haired man thrust a blade in the space Sigyn had just vacated. She hit the rail and collided with a large drunk, who startled awake.

  The man attacking her—or now Loki—spun. Except it wasn’t a man. His rotted flesh revealed a draug. Loki whipped the chain forward, catching the undead thing in the face. The blow knocked his head back, but he immediately surged forward.

  Loki used the opportunity to punch the man tangled with Sigyn in the face. Blood splattered her as the Hunalander’s head cracked backward. The draug caught Loki by the shoulder and flung him toward the stern. He crashed through two benches, sending himself and the men resting on them onto a great heap.

  By this point, the entire crew had begun to rouse, grasping weapons and shouting in the chaos. The longship was not designed to allow such fighting. Sigyn shoved a man over the edge to free up space.

  Loki had dropped the chain, the only weapon at hand, so Sigyn snatched it up.

  The draug slashed Loki across the chest, a deep, though not mortal wound—they still wanted him alive. Sigyn cringed at the spurt of blood that erupted from the slash. Loki, too, flinched, giving his assailant time to continue the assault. The draug swung the pommel now, slapping it against Loki’s skull.

  Her man, who’d been trying to rise, slipped back to the deck.

  Sigyn lunged forward, shrieking, and wrapped the chain around the draug’s neck. Only after the fact, after he dropped the sword and grasped the chain with both hands, pulling it away from himself, did she consider what she intended do from here. A little late for that.

  With no other plan, she clung on with all her strength. The draug ought to have been able to toss her aside like a bunny, but he actually seemed to struggle with the chain. Sigyn pulled upon her pneuma to enhance her strength, driving the draug to its knees.

  While the creature fought her, other men rose, trying to grab Loki. Her love reacted with startling swiftness, twisting a man’s arm behind his back. A shove sent him colliding into a comrade, both of them pitching over the side of the ship. While the Hunalanders reeled in surprise over this, Loki reached toward one of the torches on the raised stern.

  Fire sputtered, then streamed toward him, wrapping itself around his arm. It slithered in a serpentine coil, twisting around him and spreading over his shoulders. Then it leapt to life in both hands. Men fell back screaming.

  The draug heaved, spinning Sigyn around and flinging her to the deck. The moment the chain unbound him, he seemed invigorated and surged toward Loki. In turn, Sigyn’s lover swung his arm in an arc. Fire leapt out if it like a whip—one that sent the draug pulling up short and stumbling backward from the flaming lash. Loki turned, swinging both arms like that, creating flame tendrils that ignited the sails, and, to her horror, the clothes of several sailors nearby. The burning men leapt over the sides, screaming, their flesh reeking.

  “Was there more to your plan?” Loki continued to spin, whipping the fire in all directions to keep foes at bay. Using even more of the Art of Fire that seemed to eat away at him from the inside out. Flames raced over the ship, spreading faster than she could keep track of.

  “We have only one swan cloak …” Sigyn crouched low, at his feet, trying not to get licked by the flame whips.

  His blood had streamed down his chest and welled over his abdomen, soaking his navel. He would live, but if he kept up the spinning, he’d probably pass out. Her mind reeled, searching for any solution.

  They had to get off this ship. “We swim.”

  Loki whipped a man across the face, melting flesh. “We’re five miles offshore.”

  Sigyn snatched up the chain. It had some kind of power, that was obvious. It had bound Loki and even held the draug for a time, and she could not well leave such a useful tool behind. She crawled to the rail. “We cannot fight this entire ship full of men.” With that,
she rolled over the side and back into the water. Immediately, she dove under, praying Loki would follow. She wrapped the chain in a loop and strung it through her belt, then swam forward.

  The water vibrated behind her an instant later, alerting her to his presence. Underwater, she could somehow sense everything. Like the water touching her skin told her where the ships were, where Loki was, even the presence of fish nearby.

  She swam deep, cutting under the longship. And he followed—she didn’t have to look to know that. Did her ability to feel the motion of the water like this result from her enhanced senses? Touch maybe? On the far side of the ship she swam for the surface, burst upward and gasping for air.

  Loki rose beside her a moment later, also panting. “Use the cloak, fly away.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “Fly! I will swim as long as I can. If my strength gives out, we’ll have to switch.” Without waiting for any further answer, he dove underwater again.

  Shouts rang out, not only in the ship they had left, but in the others as well. Men searching for them in the night. Damn it.

  He had not really left her a choice. Sigyn donned the cloak and took flight, careful not to pass close to any other vessel. It would be a long way to shore.

  45

  Hljod’s hands were soft, careful as she applied the poultice to Gudrun’s leg. It still fucking hurt, washing over her in agony that blurred her vision. Gudrun clenched her teeth to avoid screaming. The rocking of the damned boat made her stomach turn, and she kept vomiting up every draught Hljod had given her. Nor, in such situations, could Gudrun work alchemy or sorcery to aid herself. Not on a ship like this, and not so weakened.

  The crew had managed to put out the flames, but the sail was ruined and the ship damaged.