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

by Matt Larkin

  Too afraid to push an advantage when presented with one.

  And so they died. Tyr cut down man after man, hesitating only for an instant on a spearwoman. But she carried arms into battle and would have slain Aesir given the chance. And so he hewed her legs out from under her.

  In the distance, at the forest’s edge a man shouted something and pointed at Tyr. As if in answer, a hawk twice the size of a man dove for him. Tyr fell back, raising his shield. Talons punched through the wood and shredded it, yanking the ruined thing right off his arm.

  “Hel,” he mumbled as the hawk soared back up, circling round again. He glanced at the man controlling it—one of the Vanr lords no doubt. And one fearing to wade into battle himself. Tyr grabbed his stones and spat in the coward’s direction.

  He couldn’t hear the man’s response, but the Vanr was clearly shouting something. And still not joining the fucking battle. The hawk shrieked as it dove again. Tyr twisted to the side, lowering himself. Not fast enough. The hawk raked his back, reopening the wounds Fenrir had given him. Wounds that had still not fully healed.

  Tyr blocked out the pain, turning with the bird, and drove his sword upward. It lacked Gramr’s rage or power. But still it punched through the hawk’s abdomen. The bird crashed into the bridge with a squawk. It crunched its wing, and slid to a stop, flopping around. Sword held in both hands, Tyr hacked into its neck, slicing its head more than half off. The bird convulsed and lay still.

  Once again, he spit in the direction of the bird’s former owner. The craven raged, but still did not approach. So Tyr set upon more of the Vanir—and they broke, running from him.

  A dark chuckle escaped him.

  As he turned, he spied Frey, now facing him. So the Vanr did not like it when his tactics were turned against him. Flaming sword grasped in both hands, Frey advanced.

  Tyr pointed his own blade behind Frey. The Vanr glanced back to see dozens of Aesir charging him. That was the difference between the Vanir and Aesir. The Vanir were afraid of death, and having somewhere to flee, they fled.

  The Aesir had nowhere to run. And lacking other options, they spit in the face of death and charged right in. Maybe that was part of why Odin chose this place for a final stand.

  Frey turned, weighing the option of facing so many. Tyr advanced slowly, sword held low, ready.

  The Vanr sneered at him, then vanished. Tyr spun. The man had appeared at the end of the bridge, by the same craven, and was trying to drive some order into the chaotic retreat of his men.

  Tyr shook his head. The man would be back, perhaps with more forces, perhaps with fresh tricks. Though the bridge was drenched in blood and viscera, this was far from over.

  52

  Putrid wind rushed past Odin as he plummeted ever downward, falling. Falling for what seemed an eon, through darkness and acrid mist, past stone and the rotting roots of Yggdrasil. All time ceased meaning, and he slept, or at least he dreamt, visions of the sky falling from above, of all the cosmos crashing down and sucked into chaos—a spiraling abyss of anarchy and entropy.

  For days he fell.

  Until, waking from his dream, he found himself enmeshed in a nightmare. Cold, putrefying bodies surrounded him. Corpses piled waist high, impeding him from moving at all. The stench was so thick it clung to his throat and stung his eyes and nose. He retched over and over, until nothing remained in his stomach. And, unable to move far from his spot, remained mired in his own vomit.

  Even embracing the Sight, all was darkness, as if even in the Astral Realm, no light could reach here. Or rather, he was already in the depths of the Roil and beyond the astral lights. At last, he drew his feet free and pushed on. Pulse pounding, he waded blindly through the sea of the rotting dead. His hands brushed over some foul stickiness he preferred not to dwell on.

  Coldness saturated the air and stung his cheeks. His stones seemed apt to freeze off in this muck.

  His mad, desperate grab for knowledge had somehow landed him in a twisted world, probably somewhere on the edge of Niflheim. Freyja had speculated there were boundaries between worlds of the Spirit Realm, liminal places where chaos might seep in through the cracks and feast upon the tendrils of reality. Perhaps this was one such place, a hall of corpses, damned to rot away forever.

  And Odin had cast himself into this place between places, this pit of the damned. Perhaps he would remain trapped here in darkness until he starved. Or, were he already dead, until he went mad. Was that not what happened to wraiths and the like, after all?

  After a fashion … Delve so deep not even a wraith will follow … And we are ever alone …

  What did that mean?

  A ripple passed beneath the surface of corpses, driving one up against his leg. Odin fell to a dead stop, looking around as if there were aught to see. Was it possible something else lived down here? Maybe someone could help him, could allow him to leave this dire world. Then again, he had no reason to believe anything in such a place a potential ally.

  A shiver wracked him. He clenched his fists and shut his eyes, trying to slow his breath. If he let fear take him now, it would consume him. Then he surely would remain trapped here for an eternity of madness.

  Odin opened his eyes.

  Keep moving. It was the only choice.

  He pressed forward again.

  Something heavy brushed his leg with such force he pitched forward. He caught himself on his hands, the remains of some form crunching and squishing beneath his fingers.

  “Fuck.” Odin wrung his hands, trying to fling the goop off them. It clung to his fingers, stuck under his nails. Groaning, he wiped his hands on his soiled tunic in a futile attempt be free of whatever—whoever—he had crushed. It was useless. His clothes were are as disgusting as the rest of him.

  His clothes …

  If he had come here without a body, why did he have clothes? When one projected into the Astral Realm, one created—or perhaps inhabited, Freyja wasn’t clear—an astral body. One usually identical to the one left behind. The mind’s own self-image perpetuated into the Otherworlds. So then … could he not project aught he associated with his body? He reached for his satchel, and it was there.

  Bread and mead on top, though thought of eating amongst such a stench sent his stomach clenching again. But he had torches, flint and steel, things no Ás ever went anywhere without. It was, after all, one of the earliest lessons a child learned. To venture far from fire was to invite the vaettir into your body and soul.

  Some already lurk within …

  Odin jerked free a torch and fumbled with the metal and stone, trying to create a spark. It took a dozen tries before the rag around the torch caught. A moment later, light flickered around, revealing a cavern. The torchlight could not reach the ceiling, though it did reveal hints of stalactites up there. No. Not stalactites—those were the roots of Yggdrasil, breaking down into the cavern. Some dug down, even into the mess Odin had identified as innumerable corpses.

  Half the bodies seemed to stare at him with milky white eyes he felt certain cursed the breach in the darkness. Not far away, Gungnir’s haft stuck out of the mire. Of course. He’d had it when he … died? Projected? Perhaps his self-image was tied to it, or perhaps its nature allowed it to pass between realms. Either way, it was the first welcome sight here, and he waded toward it. As soon as his hand touched the haft, a rush of courage, of strength, filled him.

  As he yanked it free, the corpse sea shifted again. Something was moving down here. Something lived. There could be no further doubt. An acidic hiss behind him preceded a truly acrid smell. Odin spun. From somewhere above, acid fell, scorching bodies. Acid or … venom? The foul liquid only seemed to accelerate the purification of corpses here.

  Odin backed away, spear held out before him. He had seen acid like that in frozen ruins beneath the Sudurberks. A linnorm’s blood and venom had scorched him there. And this was no place to try to slay another dragon. He’d been lucky to overcome the first one. He spun, forcing his way to the op
posite side as quickly as he dared, while ever glancing behind himself. Indeed, the corpses moved more often now, ripples passing as something massive moved amongst them.

  A vile crunching sound echoed from behind him. Bones and flesh were pulverized and slurped down in a torrent that seemed to go on and on. Gods above and below, the beast—whatever it was—must have just eaten a dozen dead men.

  The torch didn’t reach far enough, he couldn’t fucking see. “Where are you?” he whispered.

  As if in answer, the corpse sea rippled again, this time from three different locations. Like waves passing under it. Odin backed away from the waves until he struck something frayed and fibrous. He glanced over his shoulder. A root of Yggdrasil … except it looked like … like something had gnawed on it. It was thicker around than the breadth of his arms, but it was marred by great gouges and scorched by acid. The serpent was eating at the World Tree, the Tree of Life. What unspeakable madness would prompt it to do such a thing? If the tree died … would not all the worlds collapse? All life end?

  Maybe that was the true beginning of Ragnarok.

  Odin leveled Gungnir once again. Further, deeper into the cavern, the roots formed a maze, cutting through rock walls. Odin continued toward it, trying to find any solid purchase, any location he could climb out from the filth and face … whatever moved through the darkness, sucking down corpses and feasting on the source of life itself.

  Behind him, something hissed, the sibilance reverberating through the cavern until it seemed to come from all directions. Odin’s heart leapt into his throat, and he had to clench his jaws to keep from screaming. Of all the horrors he had witnessed in his life, nothing compared to the nightmare he now waded through. And he was nigh to certain now—not one serpent lurked here, but many. They circled around the massive cavern, perhaps hunting for him. Or worse, maybe they knew exactly where he stood and took pleasure in drawing this out. After all, they seemed trapped here for eternity, ever growing larger from their profane feast.

  What a fool he had been. Lytir warned him it was blasphemous, that no Vanr would have ever made such sacrifice. Even the Norns had warned him. Knowledge had a price. Oh, and he paid it now. His arms trembled. He paid it, knowing that even if he somehow escaped this place, it would still be here. Deep beneath the Mortal Realm, utter vileness laired, slowly eating away at creation. These monstrosities were destroying all the worlds and life itself, and naught could ever reach them nor stop them. The roots seemed to keep them imprisoned down here, but even that was sacrifice. For as the monsters gnawed upon the roots, they weakened the tree holding creation together. And one day, both their prison and the worlds would come crashing down.

  This he knew with the absolute certainty of the Sight. His sojourn between life and death had been a success, granting him understanding of the visions that forever lay before him. Visions of destruction. Because one day, the world would end. One day, chaos would reclaim the cosmos.

  Darkness is the truth … The world is chaos …

  “I know what you are,” he said, still not daring raise his voice.

  In answer, the slurping sound resumed, and this time, the sea of the dead surged toward it in a wave that sucked Odin’s feet out from under him. Corpses poured forward, their momentum yanking him along. He was sucked under, unable to breathe beneath the putrescence. Odin spun, rammed Gungnir into the stone floor and clung on. Bodies pelted him as they streamed past, but eventually the wave abated enough he could get his head above the charnel. Gasping for air, he turned toward the awful slurping and crunching sound.

  His torch had fallen atop the bodies, and some of them caught alight. Flames spread through the cavern, but the creature paid them little heed. Torchlight flickered off serpentine eyes as big as Odin was. A massive horn rose from the creature’s snout. And its fangs—twin rows of them—were like swords. Blades dripping acid venom that liquefied all it touched. Clutching Gungnir for some pale hope, he could make out little else save eyes and horn and fangs. But a maw that size looked fit to swallow a family of snow bears in one bite. The serpent creature must reach nigh to a thousand feet. Other eyes, smaller, also reflecting the torchlight. The linnorm minions of this true monstrosity. Was it Jörmungandr, king of serpents? Or had Odin somehow stumbled into the lair—or prison—of something even more vile?

  He screamed now, desperation and panic warring in his throat until he could not tell one from the other. Before this monstrosity, he wanted to weep as a child. Instead, he forced himself up, yanking Gungnir free. For once, the dragon spear felt small, powerless to confront such a foe. Even … even it seemed drawn to it. Of course. The spear’s power came from a dragon’s soul, and this thing must be a king, even a god among their kind.

  The flames continued to spread, licking the roots of the tree. In case the serpent’s fangs were not enough, now Odin was going to burn the World Tree to the ground. The great king dragon watched him, not passing through the fire.

  This was a foe so far beyond his ken he could not even think how to fight it. It was something primeval, trapped here when the World Tree was first grown. This he knew. Even as its name came unbidden to his mind.

  “Nidhogg.”

  And if it were freed, the world would die.

  Odin backed away, toward the root maze. Flames lit the darkness, offering a shadowy path. Odin climbed atop the corpses, running, stumbling as bodies broke down beneath his heels. There was no fighting. There was only the pale, faint hope of escape. He dashed for the roots, heedless of the muck and ichor that drenched him, filling his nostrils and seeping into every orifice. He pitched forward, caught himself on a fibrous root, and slipped behind it into the maze.

  A rumble passed through the cavern behind him. The serpent raged at his escape. Or perhaps merely laughed at his attempt to flee inevitability, to seek refuge in a dying world. Odin stumbled to a stop as a massive coil barred his way. It stood at least a dozen feet high, maybe more. Black and brown scales reflected the light of the fire behind.

  Above the coil—which was shifting slowly, as the serpent wended its way through the hollows—more roots hung down. A path out, perhaps. And to reach it …

  He had only one option. Odin grabbed the serpent and tried to climb. Its scales were slick, coated with the decaying flesh of the dead it crawled through. He slipped back down. The serpent twisted, its coils moving faster. It knew what he was doing.

  No.

  No. He was not going to die here. Not like this.

  Maybe it was too late to worry about angering Nidhogg. Odin drew in a deep breath and rammed Gungnir into the scales. The whole beast thrashed, and a terrible, ear-splitting roar echoed through the cavern behind him, followed by enraged hissing. Odin grabbed the spear and hefted himself upward, the creature’s acidic blood scorching his flesh. He bit back a scream and continued his climb, daring a single glance behind himself.

  Smaller serpents, these sixty feet or less—still enormous by normal standards—surged into the cavern where their king was wounded. They lashed at Odin’s feet as he yanked himself upward. There had to be ten, twenty snakes down there, each large enough to swallow him whole.

  He summoned all the strength of his power and leapt upward, grabbing the root with one hand. With the other, he yanked Gungnir free. He could not afford to lose the dragon spear. He flung it upward, piercing the root, then used both hands to climb himself. Coiling death hissed at him from below.

  Higher and higher he climbed, grime-slicked hands slipping again and again. Finally he reached a part of the root that ran horizontal and pulled himself up onto it. Panting, he lay there a moment. Only a moment. Those serpents might find a way to climb up here and punish the human with the temerity to strike their god.

  Then he pushed on, slipping into a gap between two roots. This led into a near vertical tunnel crisscrossed by a tangle of roots and vines hanging from them. A long, long climb. Part of him felt he had already fallen for a day, or days. How long to climb back out? But it was the only
way left before him.

  53

  Idunn passed among the wounded, offering water, poultices, and kind words. Despite the mistrustful stares many of Tyr’s people leveled at her. Her people had inflicted those wounds. Her friends inflicted those losses. Tyr could understand his men’s frustrations. And yet, the Aesir were the invaders here. For all Odin’s protestations of justice or even fate, Tyr’s people had started this war.

  No. Not only his people. Tyr himself. He had brought the witch woman to Frigg. Blamed her for murders committed by Fenrir. Perhaps that was what the varulf intended, leaving a trail to her stump house. Or perhaps it was merely the witch’s ill urd. Idunn had called her Gullveig. Not one of the Vanir that Wodanar worshipped, but still an immortal. And one the other Vanir had been more than willing to go to war over. War for the spear Frigg had thrown in Odin’s name in her desperate attempt to hold the Aesir together.

  And did she now do so? Odin had sent her and all the others away, keeping only the Wodan tribe to guard this place. Their numbers grew few, yet surely the Vanir also attacked Frigg and the other tribes. Frigg had Vili there, and the berserk was a mighty warrior even in the days before he’d eaten an apple of Yggdrasil. But he was still one man. And for that matter, not a man Tyr trusted with Frigg. Surely Odin had known. He saw so very many things. And yet he had trusted his brother, in blindness or desperation.

  They had not seen Fenrir, either. Maybe the varulf lord stalked the Aesir on the beaches as they tried to build walls to guard against the Vanir. There were too many unknowns. Too many dangers on these shores. Oh, but the skalds must love it. Frigg had carried the Aesir away from Andalus to escape their ever-growing number of foes. And here they had found all new ones.