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

by Matt Larkin

  Gudrun moaned, shivering with fever, and clasped Hljod’s hand.

  “I did it,” the girl whispered. “I brewed the mixture you said, drank it before he took me.”

  Gudrun’s mind reeled, and she could not quite find the meaning in the girl’s words.

  “I think I’m with child now.”

  Oh. So that was it. Well, it would serve to bind Volsung to Hljod for certain. And Hljod had sworn herself to Gudrun. So perhaps this trip would not be a total waste. Hel, she should have killed Sigyn when she had the chance. But then, the bitch could have killed Gudrun too, back in the ice cave, and did not, so perhaps that made them even.

  She reached out a hand for Hljod, pressed it against her abdomen. In her fevered state, it was hard to be sure. But she thought … “A boy.”

  Hljod trembled. “So it’s true. I am pregnant.”

  Gudrun nodded. Well, then. The girl had made her choice, and Gudrun could not begrudge her that. The life of a queen was apt to be better than that of a sorceress, regardless.

  You are dying …

  Was that Irpa or Snegurka? In her growing delirium, it became hard to even tell.

  You bleed out …

  Thunder peeled above, followed by an icy rain falling on her face. Gudrun swore. She shut her eyes.

  “Congratulations, Hljod,” she mumbled.

  The girl’s hands stroked her face. “You’re going to recover.”

  No. Soon you will be … one of us …

  Gudrun didn’t open her eyes. She was lucky they had managed to staunch the bleeding at all. Volsung himself had seared the wound closed with a fucking brand, never mind how Gudrun felt about fire. Would she live? Maybe. But like this, she did not favor her odds.

  And if the spirit within spoke true, Gudrun was like to become a wraith herself.

  Even that terror seemed far away.

  She shut her eyes.

  Hands hefting her shook her from sleep, and she opened her eyes, then almost shrieked at the fell light behind her brother’s own orbs. He stank of rot and burnt flesh, stench enough she turned to the side and vomited out the little bit of water she’d drunk.

  “You cannot recover like this,” Guthorm said, his voice almost unintelligible with his ruined jaw and aspirated chest.

  Gudrun groaned and looked around. Her brother was lowering her into a small boat. He must have commandeered it from the fleet.

  Soon …

  “Hunaland.”

  “You will not make it … Mother has commanded I bring you to her …”

  Grimhild.

  Grimhild could save her. Or damn her.

  Damn her.

  Damn her.

  All are damned …

  And if the queen bothered to look inside Gudrun’s satchel and saw the stolen grimoire …

  Gudrun shut her eyes again.

  If that happened … she would no doubt envy Guthorm’s fate.

  46

  The fires would alert the Vanir to every camp the Aesir made, but Odin could not discourage his people from their habits. After a lifetime fearing the vaettir out in the mists, none would pass a night without fire. And indeed, Fenrir and the varulfur now under his sway—brothers and sisters to the Aesir—were out there. Word had spread of the godlike werewolf and all he had taken from them. Of Odin’s failure to overcome this threat.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Tyr said for the third time as he sat, shivering, by one of those fires.

  Odin waved the comment away. He sat, staring at Gramr, letting the Sight wash over him and using all Freyja had taught him until he was fair certain. The dvergar had cursed the runeblades when they forged them, playing upon the natural tendencies of the souls bound therein to wreak havoc upon the world. Even now, Tyr looked upon it with hungry eyes until Odin stared him down. But something more had befallen the blade now, and the obvious answer seemed to be that the Niflungar had amplified the curse. Great as the weapon was, it had become a terrible liability. Maybe he should cast it into the sea and be done with it. For now, though, he had more pressing matters at hand.

  “I cannot return this blade to you. Its effects are … stronger than I anticipated. But I will give you the chance to redeem yourself, Tyr. One last chance, as my father before me granted to you.”

  Tyr nodded. His eyes were thick with gratitude he seemed unable to voice. Nor did he need to. Odin knew well the value of any chance at redemption.

  Jarl Hoenir tromped over and slunk down before Odin. “Best count we’ve lost some two thousand people since the fighting began. Our numbers grow few, King.”

  Indeed. They had no way to measure the dead Vanir, but Odin suspected far fewer than two thousand had fallen. On occasion, stories had spread of single warriors slaying dozens of Aesir. Those would be the Vanir who had tasted the fruit of Yggdrasil and become like himself, like Tyr, like Vili.

  Odin nodded at Hoenir in acknowledgment. “I have not come this far to fail, jarl.”

  Easy words. In truth, they were losing this war. Maybe it had been lost long ago, a dark urd to bring the Aesir to their end. Before the Niflungar ended the world itself. The weight of destiny had crashed upon Odin like a falling mountain, and he had nowhere left to turn. The avalanche of urd continued.

  “Still no sign of Loki?”

  “He never made the voyage across the sea,” Tyr said. “I don’t see how he could be here now.”

  Oh, but Tyr did not know Odin’s blood brother. Not the way Odin did. When times were darkest, when Odin faced defeat, Loki seemed to know. Odin too could now feel when those he cared for needed him. Loki would know his desperation, would come to him. But then, Odin could not afford to wait. Another few days and nights like this one, and the Aesir would be a memory.

  Besides which … if his vision of Loki were true, one day they would try to kill one another. No. No, Odin would not believe that. His blood brother was his most trusted ally.

  “How are we to guard against the wolf?” Hoenir asked.

  A question Odin had wrestled with in the hours since they made camp. The answer, though it vexed him, was obvious. They could not guard against Fenrir. Not while fighting a war against the Vanir. But if they took Vanaheim, they might then turn all their resources to finding a way to destroy the Moon spirit. And when that was done, Odin would ensure Grimhild paid dearly for what she had unleashed.

  “We have to break the Vanir all at once. That means taking their most sacred place, Yggdrasil, from where they guard these isles. A single bridge allows access to the World Tree. We take that, and neither varulfur nor Vanir can approach us unaware.”

  Hoenir rubbed his beard. “Will it not then be among their best defended holds?”

  It would. Which meant the Aesir would have to draw out the greatest portion of the Vanir warriors to create an opening. And therein lay the terrible danger, and a price they would all pay in blood.

  “I will take the Wodanar with me, all our warriors, shieldmaidens, hunters. The rest are to follow Frigg and make a stand on the beaches. Draw the Vanir away, fight them in the open if you are able. Begin constructing fortifications, force them to attack you. Tyr, you will come with me.” Odin wished he could say he merely wanted the thegn by his side, but after tonight, he could not afford to trust the man with the others. “Vili, if he is recovered enough, will have to guard Frigg.”

  Tyr scowled, but kept his peace. Odin could not imagine the shame the warrior must feel. Another jarl might have demanded Tyr’s death for raising a sword against his lord. But Odin understood the power of fell sorcery far too well. It would haunt Tyr for the rest of his days, but the man would have to endure. The Aesir needed their champion. And Tyr would earn back that position, Odin had no doubt. Valor, his friend had never lacked.

  “This plan is reckless,” Hoenir said.

  “It is desperate. There is a difference.”

  “And if the wolf and the Vanir both converge on you, Odin? You will have neither the brunt of your army nor your brother the berserk to g
uard your back.”

  Hoenir spoke the truth. But Odin had no sure plays left, only a desperate gambit. “Do everything you can to draw the Vanir to you. The fate of our people depends on it.”

  Odin stared into the flame. He did not see victory there. He saw only Freyja’s eyes, accusing him, even as he plotted the death of her father. And somewhere, out in Vanaheim, there was Idunn too. She had started all this and now no longer stood by his side. All his guides had abandoned him.

  And the morn would force him alone to decide the fate of two peoples.

  In the fire, he saw the world burning.

  47

  Gudrun’s eyes fluttered open. Everything looked hazy. She lay upon an altar, in the midst of a stone room, dark save for a circle of candles around the periphery.

  Almost across the Veil.

  Her eyes shut again for a moment. Breathing seemed to take all her energy.

  So much blood loss.

  She groaned.

  A soft hand brushed her cheek.

  When she looked again, Grimhild stared down at her eyes, a brief moment, before resuming her work. Her once-beautiful flesh bore terrible burns. The queen was tracing something on Gudrun’s forehead, something warm and wet—blood, perhaps. She tried to sit but her body refused to respond. All the strength had left her. Snegurka spoke the truth: very soon, Gudrun’s soul would leave her body for the last time. If only such an event would lead to respite, she might have welcomed it.

  “Wh-what?” Gudrun managed to say.

  “Until I recover the grimoire, my options become limited, daughter.” She had not found it. Hel be praised. “I am limited, of course, by the glyphs I can remember. There are a few that, no matter how many years pass, I am never like to forget.” Grimhild sighed then, and shook her head.

  When the queen moved away, Gudrun started. Other women were chained in this room … seven of them. Bound and gagged, but struggling in terror, eyes wide at seeing the summoning circle Grimhild was arranging. Trying to save her daughter. And she had not found the book. Ironically, if the queen had recovered it, she might have had a safer option to save Gudrun than whatever profane ritual she now attempted. Hel was not one for healing, but a determined sorcerer could accomplish many things.

  Glyphs decorated the walls, floor, and even the ceiling, many traced in blood, no doubt from the very sacrifices bound around the room.

  “In the early days of this era of Mist, before the Vanir built the Midgard Wall, the jotunnar roamed all the world. There were many great kings among them, most of whom paid homage to Hel in her glory.”

  Gudrun groaned and shut her eyes again. She had no need of a history lesson while she teetered on the edge of death. Then again, Grimhild seemed to speaking almost to herself.

  “Among these kings, one had a daughter, half human, cunning, beautiful as a winter storm and equally treacherous. And when the Vanir killed her father, she forestalled total war with them by marrying a prince among them, Njord.”

  Gudrun struggled to look over at one of the women—a girl really, maybe thirteen winters. She opened her mouth to tell Grimhild to spare that one, but naught more than a groan escaped her. A groan and a whimper.

  Oh. Seven souls … to save your body …

  Grimhild shuddered. “This princess was a queen of winter back then. But her truce with the Vanir did not last. She fell, into Niflheim and the service of the great queen. And the fallen queen waited to once again bring the wrath of winter storms upon those who had defied her.” Grimhild cleared her throat. “I have tried to teach you strength and wisdom, that you might not be forced to repeat my mistakes, Gudrun. You see, in my youth, I called upon Skadi, thinking to take back the world for the Niflungar. But she was older and stronger than I could handle, and it was your father, in truth, who cast her out of me. Hmmm.”

  She was the one. The sorceress who got herself possessed and killed her own family, running through Niflung lands on an icy rampage.

  Grimhild brushed Gudrun’s cheek again. “The worst irony is, in the end, I must turn to her again and repeat my own mistake to save you. Powerful enough spirits can sustain a human host for long, long years. And without the grimoire, no other option remains to me.”

  Oh, Hel. Grimhild was going to call Skadi into Gudrun’s body. She opened her mouth in the hopes of raising some objection, though she still could not speak. Her body convulsed, wracked by chills.

  And Grimhild passed among the sacrifices, chanting and slitting their wrists.

  The chanting intensified until it began to reverberate in Gudrun’s head like a gong beat inside an ice canyon, threatening to crack her skull. On and on it went; the worst of it was the anticipation, the utter helplessness of knowing what was coming. Moaning, she managed to roll over onto her side. Maybe even death would be preferable to—

  Her heart clenched. Her lungs closed up. A weight had settled upon her chest. It bore her back onto the altar. Cold. It was cold as Hel herself. Gudrun shut her eyes, not wanting to see. Something like fingers grazed over her closed lids, cheeks, and ears.

  Not real.

  And then it began to slither inside her, like tiny worms, forcing their way into every orifice of her body. She convulsed, bucking against the awful feeling. Icy cold awfulness slid in through her ear canals, her mouth, her nostrils, her trench. The thing crawled up her arse and pushed its way into her eyes. She opened her mouth to scream, but only managed to gurgle, choking on the oily spirit.

  Not real!

  Its invasion denied her the ability to weep or even cry out. All she could do was thrash. She reached for Irpa, but even the wraith had retreated from the presence filling Gudrun up. The worms dug deeper and deeper inside her, coiling around her heart until she’d have sworn it had frozen solid and ceased to beat. They bored into her brain.

  It wasn’t real … but it felt real.

  And then, after a lifetime of agony, she could breathe.

  Except, it wasn’t her controlling her breath, nor finally managing to rise from the altar.

  The dark goddess of winter stood, looking down upon the sorceress queen who had dared conjure her not once, but twice. And she smiled.

  48

  The dense forests gave way to the chasm surrounding Yggdrasil. Odin and his warriors lurked on the outskirts beyond the bridge. A bridge now crowded with dozens of Vanr warriors. Too much to hope his tribe might have passed unnoticed through the woods of Vanaheim.

  “That must be their king,” Tyr said, indicating a long-bearded man in the center of the crowd. The man carried a gilded trident that glittered in the early morning sunlight. He had dyed his beard green, enhancing his Otherworldly look enough that Aesir nearby mumbled about being struck down by the gods.

  It was far too late to fret over such things now. Odin might have preferred to make such an attack at night, at least had he not lost most of his varulfur to Fenrir. Instead, they had lost the element of surprise. Njord—Tyr was right, it had to be him—looked in his direction. No. The time for stealth and trickery had passed. Now they were left with only a single, clear objective. Take and hold the bridge. If they failed, the Aesir would all die upon these shores. And Odin would be taken by valkyries before he let that transpire.

  So. If trickery could not be relied on, the next best course might be sheer brazenness. Njord, all the Vanir, they were thick and swollen with pride. Idunn had claimed as much, and the set of Njord’s shoulders confirmed it.

  A hand held behind him to forestall the others, Odin strode forward clear of the tree line. The Vanr warriors leveled spears at his approach, but Odin did not slow until he reached the very cusp of the great bridge. There he planted Gungnir in the ground, a silent challenge.

  Njord stared him down long moments. At last, the ancient Vanr walked forward, his men parting to allow his passage. He came to stand but a few feet from Odin. He was larger—both taller and broader—than Odin.

  And Odin did not care for looking up at other kings. Everything rested on his steer
ing this course. “King Njord of the Vanir.”

  “Odin.” The man spoke with a sneer. “Petty lord of the Aesir. You dare tread upon the most sacred grounds in all the worlds? For this crime you risk a fate worse than death. Tell me—why should I not cast you bodily into Niflheim to be torn apart by the hounds of Hel?”

  Could he do such a thing? Yggdrasil did bind the Mortal Realm to the Otherworlds, after all. Freyja had banished the First Ones to Alfheim. Perhaps, with the tree’s power, Njord could actually send someone to Niflheim. To think on such a thing would leave most men, Odin included, quivering, seeking protection from a vӧlva. So he could not afford to think on it.

  He had not come here to answer for his mistakes, but to demand answers. He turned his eyes on each of the Vanir warriors in the front ranks, one after another, before returning his gaze to Njord. “There is great beauty in Vanaheim and in its people. For the sake of your children”—for Freyja—“I offer you the chance to answer the charges we, the people of Midgard, bring against you.”

  “Charges?” Njord laughed, a hollow sound, his face contorted as though he could not believe what he was hearing. “You? A mortal would come here to accuse gods?”

  “I have tasted the fruits of Yggdrasil.” At that the Vanr crowd broke into a cacophony of curses, angry shouts, and open-mouthed astonishment. “I am no more mortal than you, Njord. And I ask you again—will you answer the charges, or do you fear to face the consequences of your own actions?”

  The king ground his teeth, obviously cognizant of the trap Odin had him in. If he refused to listen to Odin’s claims, he would look weak not only in front of the Aesir, but in front of the Vanir as well. Finally he sneered, slammed the butt of his trident in the ground, and spread his other hand. “Speak, Ás. Lay your petty claims at my feet.”

  Odin nodded. This was, after all, why he had come—a just cause, a reason to loathe the Vanir in their weakness and cowardice. And if, by showing these soldiers that weakness, he could cause them to doubt themselves, this day might be won with far less bloodshed.