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

by Matt Larkin

  Odin sighed, then nodded. “All the remaining Vanir.”

  The jarl watched him expectantly. They all did.

  “The apples will be dealt with once Jarl Hoenir has returned.”

  A few of the others protested, but not loudly. They knew what Odin had done. Some whispered he had turned to the unmanly arts of vӧlvur, yet, none would dare challenge him now. Not after knowing he had thrown down the gods themselves. Odin had become a deity to the Aesir and, soon enough, to all of Midgard. A year ago, that thought had not tasted so bitter.

  Or maybe the problem was, this was Freyja’s place. Her scent lingered in the air, her voice echoing in the halls. Sessrumnir would always be hers.

  Odin rose abruptly and strode from the hall. The jarls followed, of course. He stood on the plateau, looking out over the island and to the other isles beyond. The Vanir had made this the center of their world. But it was their world, their realm. And if the Aesir were truly to escape their shadows, they must rise above that.

  There is no escape from shadow … only temporary respite …

  Odin ignored Audr. The easier answer would be to choose the other island, one where fewer Vanir had lived. But then, he could not afford to place his center of power farther from Yggdrasil. That was the source of all power, after all.

  Instead, he turned to Njord’s palace. Freyja’s father had ruled from there for a thousand years. It seemed only fitting.

  “Tear down the Vanr halls.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the crash of the waterfalls. “All save this one.” This one was Freyja’s. He would allow none to come here, but he could not bring himself to destroy it either. “There, on the slopes of the great mountain, we will construct a new city. The city of Asgard. Send word to all the people. Nothing is to remain of the ancient halls save their foundations. We must build new, build afresh.”

  The jarls left to do as Odin had commanded, though shock clearly colored their faces. To raze the houses of their gods was no doubt hard for them. But they needed to forget the Vanir. They needed to make this land their own. And from here, they would reclaim Midgard from the Niflungar and the mists. And maybe, just maybe, they could stop Ragnarok.

  Odin had found no sign of Valhalla in the Astral Realm. Svanhit’s ring remained a weight, a reminder that the valkyrie had planned to take him to yet another war.

  If there was no Valhalla out there, he would build it here. A place of light and hope, for the world to look toward.

  As the end loomed ever nearer.

  63

  Skadi’s father—or Gudrun’s?—yet reigned over Castle Niflung and thus much of Reidgotaland. Beneficent sentiment born from one of Skadi’s lives meant she could not see herself striking out against the Raven Lord, and thus she found herself considering carving her kingdom out of Hunaland. Her apprentice was bearing the child of one Hunalander king already, was she not?

  Gudrun blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the nigh total darkness permeating Grimhild’s chamber. The failed queen. Gudrun’s … mother? It had become so hard to differentiate between herself and the memories of the other women, though Skadi controlled her body. The goddess’s mere presence in her flesh had already begun to restore its strength. Gudrun dared to hope time might begin to fix the fractures in her mind as well.

  Grimhild sat up at her entrance, her breath ragged. The casting had taken so much out of her, after all.

  Skadi snickered. “I used your own flesh to conceive a son, and now you’ve managed to get him killed as well. And still, after such weakness, you had the temerity to call upon me.”

  Grimhild lowered her feet to the floor and rose, still trying to seem the elegant queen, still hoping to cast some veil of authority, even in her last moments. “I knew of no other way to save my daughter. I do not expect you to understand human sentiment, spirit, nor the bond between mother and daughter.”

  Is that a jest? Bond? Bond!

  Skadi chuckled and shook her head, running a finger along Grimhild’s jaw. “I do not think your daughter shares your opinion on your connection.”

  “I only ever tried to make her strong.”

  “Hmmm. Then you did well. She was strong enough to claim your—my—grimoire, after all.”

  Grimhild sputtered.

  Oh yes. That look of abject betrayal can only be engendered by the actions of one’s own kin. I must have worn that look oh so many times. To see it here, reflected in this twisted mirror of my own face, grants meaning to the agonies I endured at her hands.

  Skadi laughed again. “I do not know what is more pathetic, Grimhild. That you allowed yourself to believe your daughter cared for you, or, perhaps worse yet, that you convinced yourself your actions toward her were born of aught resembling love. And I have become an expert on love subverted by the insurmountable boundaries of urd.”

  “What do you want?” Grimhild demanded, stepping back.

  Skadi snared the queen’s wrists and jerked her to a stop. She summoned cold from the depths of Niflheim, and it coalesced downward in a cascade, like a waterfall that crackled to the floor, forming twin stalagmites of ice. Grimhild shrieked in pain and obvious horror, though it was naught compared to what would soon befall her. Her icy restraints had bound both her hands. Still, the queen might have escaped in any of several ways, had Skadi not already warded the door to this chamber with symbols from the book, researched lifetimes ago.

  “I … I saved your life, Gudrun.” Grimhild sounded nigh to weeping now.

  So she did.

  Skadi shrugged. “And because of that, we will not kill you.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  Now Skadi allowed Gudrun herself to smile. After all, the goddess appreciated revenge long coming. “Exorcise every last spirit you have bound to you, and sear wards into your flesh that will prevent you from binding more. Denied power from the Otherworlds, you will be mortal, subject to the ravages of time you so fear. You will watch the passing of years as that which you value you most—your beauty—withers before your eyes. All you laid claim to and more will become mine.”

  Grimhild’s already sallow flesh turned ashen. “No. No, you cannot … You cannot do this …”

  “But I can, Mother. You have taught me oh so very well.”

  Part IV

  Year 1, Age of the Aesir

  Eighth Moon, Winter

  64

  Volsung’s castle was old—at least by the standards of modern men. Compared to the halls Odin’s men had been destroying in Vanaheim, this place was almost new. Four, five hundred years maybe. Volsung owed his birth, and thus his allegiance, to the sorceress queen Grimhild. Though Odin could not blame the king for upholding his oath, neither could he forgive him for attacking the Aesir. Had Volsung’s army not driven Odin’s people to desperation, maybe Frigg would have allowed Odin longer in Vanaheim, and thus granted him a chance to have ended things without so much blood.

  That, of course, was not urd. Blood had always been the answer. Blood for blood, ages upon ages, until the first wounds were forgotten, but debts never forgiven. It had been Volsung’s fate to follow Grimhild, and now this, too, would be his fate.

  Glamoured as a simple wanderer—not hard, given his already grandfatherly appearance—Odin stared down at the castle. Pelting rain had driven all the locals inside the castle this evening. More fitting, so all could witness this.

  Loki placed a hand on Odin’s shoulder. “Is this truly what you want, brother?”

  “It is justice. And you did not have to come.”

  Loki grunted. “You may wander the world often enough, shunning the company of men. But do not think yourself truly alone.”

  That drew a snort. “You spoke truth back then, when you said prescience was a complex burden. How much of all this did you foresee?”

  “I always speak the truth, as best I am able.”

  Half truths, oft as not. Just as now, when Odin’s foreign brother had avoided the question at hand. Still, Odin knew better than t
o press the man. Loki would reveal his secrets when and if he pleased, and not a moment before. Like a damned vӧlva. Like the Norns. Like … like Odin himself had become.

  “I see the end of time,” Odin said after a moment. “A battle to annihilate the world.”

  “It’s not the first time.”

  No. The world, the time of men, had ended before. Certainly with Naresh’s battle with Hel and many times before that as well, though those memories had already begun to blur in Odin’s mind. The sum of so many lives was perhaps too much to hold all at once. Maybe that was why souls forgot their prior lives on rebirth. Or maybe the Tree of Life simply wanted to give them clean slates. But not for Odin, not for his soul. Be it urd or his own twisted need to dive into conflict, to confront chaos—either way, he always found himself at the center of a maelstrom. Nor would he truly have it any other way. To stand on the outside and watch the world die, doing naught to forestall the decline … No. He could not, had never, would never make that choice. And perhaps there never was a choice. Perhaps that was the true meaning of urd.

  Odin shook himself. “You know all that transpired back then, before the mists.”

  “No man knows all that transpires in the world.”

  No, perhaps not. But Loki had been there, Odin was certain, though he could not quite place him. Loki’s soul must have inhabited someone Odin had known back then. Not that it truly mattered. The distant, buried past had lessons for him, but he could not change it. Not any more than he could change what happened to Freyja and Idunn. Or what would happen here. It had played out in his visions as it would now play out in the world.

  And still, all before him was not yet clear. He saw more than other men—saw his past. But the future, that remained a haze of images. Ragnarok was coming, yes, a war to end all wars. But beyond that … the how, the why, and what he ought to do about it …

  “Can the end ever be avoided?” he asked Loki.

  For a long time his friend stared at the castle. “I don’t think that’s the right question.” He didn’t look at Odin when he spoke.

  And that meant what, exactly? That the question was perhaps, should the end be averted? His last battle with Hel had destroyed the world, ended a time of man. But, had he not fought it, the result would have been worse. Maybe that was what Loki meant. Or maybe the enigmatic foreigner didn’t have all the answers either.

  “I need more knowledge. I need to understand the future better, to see whether Ragnarok can be averted or … or at least won. I thought the Well of Urd would answer all my questions. But the answers it granted raised more doubts.”

  Loki shrugged. “That’s how the Sight works, Odin. The Well of Urd showed you the past, and you learned much from it. Maybe, somewhere out there, you can find clarity on the future.”

  A necessity, though one Odin did not relish. “I saw my hands, wrapped around your neck.” And since then, he had wrestled with whether to speak of it, directly. He had come to rely on Loki, to trust him more than his real brothers. And now … what could such a revelation mean?

  Loki looked up at the sky. The stars had probably begun to peek out, but there was no spying them through the snowstorm. The man must stare at naught. Maybe it was the only answer he could give Odin.

  After a long pause, Odin clapped Loki on the shoulder. “I refuse to believe everything I saw is inevitable. We are brothers, you and I, bound together until the world dies. This I know in my gut. I’m going down there now.” A sudden insight told him Loki would not be here when he returned.

  And as the man turned to face him, Odin could see they both knew it. The two of them were both burdened by the Sight, and perhaps destined to always wonder just how much the other man saw of the past and future. By the gods—if true gods there ever were—how Odin missed the days when he could look to vӧlvur or even to Loki for all the answers. Somewhere along the way, he had found knowledge, become the keeper of secrets, and learned enough to know … no one had all the answers.

  He clasped Loki’s arm, then trod down to the castle below. It was a long walk, long enough for him to think. He glamoured Gungnir to appear as a simple walking stick. It would not do for Volsung to identify him, not this day.

  Great double doors barred the keep against the cold. Odin rapped his stick hard against them until a man cracked the door open and peered at him.

  “What do you want, old man?”

  “Shelter from the cold.”

  The steward looked him up and down, probably assessing any danger he might pose. And who would think a lone old man a danger to a keep full of warriors?

  “I come bearing a gift for the lord’s family.”

  “Right. Best come inside then, and be quick about it.” The steward ushered him in, then guided him down the hall, one arm under Odin’s for support. “Everyone is at the feast already.”

  “The feast?”

  “The queen birthed twins this night.”

  “A joyous day.” Of course, Odin had known. It was why he had chosen this day.

  The steward led him into the hall where a crowd clustered around their king who stood beneath a mighty tree, one twisted and gnarled with age, and yet, still bearing some tenacious leaves. The tree had become a symbol of the royal family of this petty kingdom.

  The king held the baby aloft. “Behold, Sigmund and Sieglinde! My firstborn children!”

  Odin quirked a smile. Children born to Volsung, themselves burdened by a dark urd, though Odin could see only bits of it. Enough to know the role he must take in the boy’s future, and an apt way to punish Volsung for his crimes against the Aesir.

  One by one, the king’s thegns and ladies offered gifts in celebration of the birth. When the last gift was given, Odin walked forward, into the torchlight. Slowly, he unwrapped Gramr. Those nearest him gasped as the glittering blade reflected the fires, as light spilled over the runes.

  “I too have a gift, King. A great sword forged by the dvergar and empowered with ancient lore. This gift is only for the most worthy among your clan.” Odin stalked closer, allowing all to see the runeblade as he approached the tree.

  All eyes on him, Odin spun and drove the sword into the tree with the full force of his supernatural strength. It sank over a foot into the bark, quivering in place when he released it. “He who draws this sword from the trunk shall have it as a gift, and never carry a finer blade than this one.”

  With that, he turned and slipped through the crowd. While the men shouted, watching the sword, Odin called upon Audr’s power to step into the Penumbra, vanishing from their sight. The initial shock past, Volsung shouted for men to retrieve “the old man.” It was far too late for that, of course, and none found him.

  Finally, Volsung turned to Gramr. Soon, the Niflungar’s allies would fall prey to the fell urd tied to the sword. But not yet. Volsung tugged on the blade again and again, never managing to budge it. Even had his strength been enough, Odin had ensorcelled the blade, ensuring it would not be freed until the time was right. Now, other thegns took their turns, each trying and failing to retrieve the vile thing.

  No, not yet. Only the king’s firstborn son could draw that blade. And then, Gramr might be made both to serve Odin’s justice on Volsung’s bloodline, and to prepare one step for Ragnarok. One step only, and there had to be so many.

  Odin slipped from the castle, out into the night. Loki, of course, had drifted away, perhaps back to his woman in Vanaheim. But the man had confirmed a truth Odin already knew. The answer, the way to win the final battle, it was out there. Hidden somewhere in Midgard.

  And Odin was going to find it.

  Epilogue

  As Loki had foreseen, Odin had taken Vanaheim and, along the way, begun to uncover the truth about his past and his future, both of which held horrors most men could not imagine, much less endure. Odin knew more, now, than he had in most past incarnations, and that knowledge would grow like a seed planted, sprawling in all directions as the man uncovered more truth than he might have wished. An
d because he had cast his own soulmate out of the Mortal Realm, Odin would face those challenges alone, or at least would feel himself so.

  Loki walked along the paths of Vanaheim, as he had done back when these islands had other names. The World Tree kept these lands vibrant, filled with plants and flowers, always beautiful and always so poorly suited for men, who remained ever tempted by the powers here.

  The flames had warned Loki of what might transpire, yet even had he been here, he could not have done aught to change Freyja’s fate. Besides which, the hard truth remained: Odin needed to be distanced from the Vanir, especially Idunn, if he was truly to come into his own and be the man they needed to face the end times. Or face them again, rather, as the cycle of creation and destruction had begun to seem endless, with each apocalyptic battle serving but to delay the inevitable spread of chaos.

  And Odin knew the pain of that loss more keenly now, having recovered some trace of his memories of past lives. He had lost his love again and again, in lifetime after lifetime, and now, though they both had attained immortality, still they remained separated. In a way, his story was not so very different from Loki’s own.

  Sigyn swam in a lake nestled in the valley here, obviously luxuriating in waters warmer than any she had ever known. How many times had Loki lost her? Death—or merciless fate—claimed her over and over, stole his soulmate from his side. Sometimes, in darker moments, he caught himself wondering if the Norns orchestrated those long separations to keep him centered and fixated upon the task before him. As if he might ever forget the sprawling darkness lurking at the edge of reality and hungry to consume all creation. His was the longest of games, a match played over eternity, where even a being such as Hel became but a single piece, however powerful. Sometimes, he envied the dead, if only because they eventually forgot all they had suffered.