The Mists of Niflheim (The Ragnarok Era Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  Odin didn’t resist as Gudrun drew his face back to her and poured a slow trickle of water over his lips. He almost choked on the sudden moisture.

  “You’re lucky it was my father who found you.”

  Odin snorted. “Yes. I feel very lucky at this moment, Gudrun.”

  “It would have been worse if Grimhild had found you.”

  The sorceress queen of the Niflungar. “And you think she could do worse than Gjuki.”

  “She can do worse. Much worse.” Gudrun climbed onto the altar and straddled him. She poured water over her hands, the excess dribbling onto his chest, then wiped her palms over his cheeks.

  Odin couldn’t bring himself to speak as she cleaned the blood off his face and shoulders. No more than he could bring himself to hate Gudrun. It was just the lingering effects of her potion. He didn’t have real feelings for this woman. Did he? He couldn’t. She worshipped Hel. She was a princess of these corrupt sorcerers. The enemy. He should hate her. He should have killed them all.

  Gudrun planted a gentle kiss on each of his eyes. “My king, please listen to me. There are much easier, much more enjoyable ways to the same end. Things will be better if you choose of your own will, and before Grimhild returns.”

  “You call your mother by her name.”

  “She gave birth to me. Since then, she’s lost the right to the title mother.”

  Odin frowned and shut his eyes. Of all the horrors he’d seen and heard, that one should not bother him so. His own mother had died giving birth to Ve—the brother Odin had failed—but what Odin remembered of her was a warm embrace, an easy smile, a quick laugh. She had loved his father, and she had loved her children. Odin could only picture her face when he thought of her laugh. Except he’d seen her in his visions … He could almost hold on to his parents … They were gone, and now Thor would know the same emptiness. Odin’s son would never know his father.

  “I don’t want to talk of Grimhild.”

  Odin opened his eyes, glowering at the woman atop him, then had to look away. He was drunk on her beauty, and the warmth of her eyes threatened to swallow him. “Let me go, Gudrun. Release me from these chains.”

  “I-I can’t do that. But I can help you.” She turned his face back to hers again and leaned in, then planted another kiss on his lips. He tried to look away again, but her eyes trapped him. Again and again she kissed his face, her hands tracing down his abdomen and over his hips.

  Odin wanted to tell her to stop as she unfastened his trousers, desperately tried to, but his voice wouldn’t work. It caught in his throat and wouldn’t let go. This was wrong. He was wrong. What kind of man would let this sorceress seduce him again?

  But his body responded to her every touch, to her delectable warmth as she pulled him inside her. Her gentle motion drove all other thoughts from his mind, until he strained against his chains in an attempt to wrap her in his arms.

  And when she shuddered her release, it drove him to his. Vital energy slammed against his soul, settling in his mind. Bits of her power lodged itself inside him, as part of him, too, passed into her. A cascade of confusing images flooded across his vision. A woman in a bone mask, the feared queen of the Niflungar. She spoke to Gudrun through the mists, as Gudrun spied on the Aesir. And Gudrun hated the woman—an icy loathing that would have made Hel herself proud.

  It all flashed over him in an instant, most of it making no sense. Gudrun’s sorcerous nature meant she shared so much of herself. As Odin no doubt shared pieces of his own soul with each woman he took. With Gudrun.

  And the one thing that burned clear through the haze of pain and confusion, through the blurred memories of the woman atop him, was that she did love him. In spite of all that had passed, in spite of what she’d done to him, she had true feelings for him.

  And that only made it worse. It meant that, one day, even if Gjuki failed to turn him, Gudrun would succeed.

  27

  At nightfall, Tyr would go out to face the trolls. Try to fight them off the wall until one more dawn. Then a few hours’ sleep so he could repeat it all again the next day. Days of it, and every warrior seemed nigh to breaking. Exhaustion touched even him, even after the apple. The others would have it worse.

  They had missed any chance to escape. All knew it. Now, in the great hall, they debated only who to blame. Eight jarls and the queen, plus their gathered thegns and vӧlvur.

  And more and more, those thegns and the weaker jarls, they looked to Arnbjorn instead of Frigg.

  “We must flee from here at the next break of day,” Arnbjorn said. “We cannot hold this place forever.”

  Still trying to return to Aujum, the fool. Tyr ran his fingers over Gramr’s bone hilt.

  Frigg rose from her throne, regal. Looking each jarl in the eyes. “We would not make it more than a few miles from here, and then find ourselves facing trolls in the open, once again. Besides which, I will not abandon Idavollir while Odin remains missing.”

  “Odin is dead,” Kory said.

  Several jarls and thegns murmured agreement.

  Tyr glowered, tightening his grip on Gramr. Bastards. All of them. Especially Arnbjorn and his son.

  “Loki thinks otherwise,” Frigg said, “and has gone to find him.”

  Arnbjorn scoffed. “Forgive me, my queen, but you place your trust in the foreigner? Besides which, how does he, how could he know that which he claims?”

  Much as he hated agreeing with Arnbjorn, Tyr found it hard to argue with that.

  Frigg fixed him with a level gaze. “He is the blood brother of your king. He says he would know if Odin had fallen.”

  “And still you’d have us trust him?”

  “I would have you trust me, Jarl Arnbjorn. Indeed, as your queen, I rather insist upon your trust.”

  More murmurs. Silent accusations that, had they fled sooner, they might not now be in such dire times. As if the tribes could agree on the color of troll shit.

  Arnbjorn looked around at his fellow jarls, shared an overlong look with Bedvig. Bastards. Trollfuckers. Gramr would have their blood one day. “My lady—”

  “Queen,” Frigg said.

  “My queen, the Althing chose Odin. And if he has fallen, we must hold another to determine who should speak for us.”

  Implying the role would not fall to Frigg in Odin’s absence. “What makes you so certain he has fallen?” Tyr demanded. “Did you see it happen? You speak oft enough of the event, jarl. Perhaps you aided in his fall?”

  That settled many of those in the hall, all now looking to Arnbjorn.

  Tyr had all but accused him of treason—which was true enough, if not likely for actually moving against Odin. Arnbjorn’s honor would demand he meet such a challenge, or send a champion to do so. Either way, Tyr would kill one of them, and the Itrmanni tribe would lose honor.

  Arnbjorn nodded solemnly. “Indeed, Tyr. We all did.”

  What? Had he just admitted to betraying his king? Tyr shook himself. This must be some trick.

  “We all aided in Odin’s fall, for none of us did aught to save our king, who, in his valor, challenged trolls alone. Not a man among us stood beside him in the end. Not even his own champion walked by his side.”

  Tyr recoiled, unable to quite form a response. No. He had not been by Odin’s side, though not by choice. And Arnbjorn had turned Tyr’s challenge into a rebuke against everyone. Who could question his loyalty now? Trollfucker.

  “There may be truth in that,” Annar said. “But the gods gave Odin uncommon valor, and we could not have easily followed where he went. Either way, we do not even know what peoples live in these lands. Our best course may be to send a few scouts, men who could pass unnoticed by the trolls.”

  “And if we find such locals?” Bedvig demanded. “What then, jarl? Should we beg their assistance against the trolls?”

  “Beg? I beg of no one. It does not mean—”

  “If people dwell in these lands, we ought to raid them for supplies.” A rumble of agreement ran thro
ugh the great hall. Men agreeing with Bedvig of all people. The mead had run dry. It made men fools. Already they had begun to ration their food, but that too would dwindle soon enough.

  Several jarls began shouting at the same time, some arguing for raids, for retreat, even for advancing without Odin. Continuing this mist-mad march on Vanaheim without their leader. Frigg tried to speak twice, but men talked right over her. Over their queen, Odin’s wife.

  “Enough!” Tyr bellowed. He looked to Frigg.

  She nodded at him, then turned to each jarl. “We will send a few scouts. Whatever course we decide on, it still behooves to us to know our surroundings. But we will also remain here, in Idavollir, until Loki returns with Odin. Such is the command of your queen.” With that, she strode out of the hall, effectively denying them any further chance to argue with her.

  Not, however, stopping them from bickering among themselves.

  Torchlight reflected off Idunn’s eyes and hair as she sat crouched in the corner of Tyr’s room. She’d taken to sitting there, claimed the spot as her own, as they so often passed the evenings here. In the hour or so before twilight, they could take the night meal together. He no longer ate with the others. So often, anger gripped him there.

  Here, perhaps he could pretend he was not down to some thirty berserkir and varulfur to guard against the trolls. The shapeshifters were his greatest asset against the rocky monsters, and the trolls seemed to know it. Every night Tyr lost at least one of his shifters. The trolls tore them to pieces, or a few just vanished into the mists, which worried him more than the deaths. Were they being deserted by their allies? When the march had begun, there had been nigh unto six score of the shifters. If so many had fallen because of his and Odin’s decisions, could he blame them for leaving?

  “You’re stroking the sword again,” Idunn said.

  Tyr looked down to realize he indeed had begun running his fingers over Gramr’s hilt.

  “Do I need to make any phallic references, or does the action speak for itself?”

  Tyr groaned and pushed the sword aside.

  Idunn rose and came to sit beside him, pulling the runeblade away. Sent it skittering across the floor, to the far side of the room.

  Tyr had to restrain himself from chasing after it, unable to take his eyes away from the sword.

  “You need it.”

  “I-I have to have it. I have to protect my people, only the sword can—”

  “Hmm. I understand, of course. I knew what Gungnir was when I gave it to Odin’s ancestors too. Weapons like that, they’re made from the essence of living beings. Freyja calls it soul forging, though she refuses to practice such aspects of the Art. A soul is literally bound into the weapon—I think it’s the only place these magical weapons really come from. The spear, or its point rather, belonged to a friend of my grandmother. A dragon-souled blade. She called it cursed, gave it up, despite the dangers of the world around her, because she thought it her best chance at a peaceful life. Later, my people had that blade affixed as a spear point. It proved very effective, even against the jotunnar.”

  Tyr shook himself. The jarl of Wodanar had long held Gungnir as a symbol of the tribe. He had given little thought to it. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I care about you. Because you cling to Gramr like a woman.”

  Tyr supposed that was better than her claiming he was stroking his own phallus. Besides, Gramr was his woman. Wasn’t she? Nor did he truly wish to spend their last few moments this evening talking of weapons or war.

  “Idunn, I … These times mean a great deal to me. The chance for us to talk and …”

  “I love talking, Tyr. You have no idea how lonely it gets sometimes. Try not talking to anyone for a year or so and see. Or, I mean, don’t do that, because it makes anyone miserable.”

  He grunted, eyes locked on hers. Her beauty was truly entrancing. Often, she told stories handed down to her from her grandmother. Stories of far-off places, of lands of sunshine and warm waters. As he imagined Vanaheim itself must be. If they ever reached it.

  “You did not hear him tonight …”

  “Who, Arnbjorn? Why are you so concerned with this jarl, anyway? I thought it was Bedvig you hated.”

  The mere mention of the name filled him a fresh desire to go reclaim Gramr. Idunn’s hand on his arm restrained him. “I do. But Arnbjorn may be more dangerous. He wouldn’t rise to my challenge … I don’t know. Maybe Hermod and I …”

  “You want to assassinate him, the way you did with Alci.”

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “This is not you, Tyr.”

  “Are you not the one who drove us to act against Alci?”

  The Vanr chewed her lip a moment. “An altogether different situation—Alci had to fall to secure Odin’s throne, and moving against him, from within his own tribe no less, it also stopped him from pillaging the other tribes. Here you plan to kill a man because you dislike him or disagree with him. But he has not actually betrayed Odin, as yet.”

  “So I should wait until he has the chance to actually move against us?”

  Idunn shrugged. “If not, you give up any pretense of justice. If you begin to execute men for what they might do in the future, you darken Odin’s reign with a shroud of tyranny. Even were that not unfair to your king, still we could not afford such a course now. We have already reached Valland. If we can just push on to the south, we could reach the Middle Sea. From there we have a shot at Vanaheim.”

  Tyranny. Probably some truth lay in her claims, much as it shamed him. Before, he’d have gone to Borr with such moral questions. You could trust Borr to take the right path. Or even Odin—Tyr could trust him to … win. Here, neither victory nor morality seemed clear.

  And as he contemplated murder, he shamed both Borr and his son.

  And still he could not quite set aside his desire for blood.

  28

  Gudrun’s father always liked to sit in the dark, the walls of his private chamber lined with candles whose light barely reached his face. The candles were a nod to what remained of their humanity. Fire might be an enemy of Mist, but even the Children of the Mist needed light by which to see and read. Her father probably liked the tension between the two, the darkness and the shadows broken by hints of light.

  Before the Niflungar were driven from these lands, this Hunalander fortress had belonged to them. Had her father been here back then, so many centuries ago? No one had come here in a great many winters. Lost in the mountains, the men had forgotten this place. Men, but not her father.

  Countless ravens perched up in the rafters, watching Gudrun as she sat before her father.

  He glanced at her, then turned back to the decaying tome in front of him. If it had been her, she’d have lit a few more candles. Straining her eyes to make out faded glyphs was not her idea of an enjoyable evening.

  “What troubles you, daughter?” he asked at last. Unlike Grimhild, her father never tried to conceal his spell tomes from her. He had once told her she alone could decide what knowledge she was ready for, as she alone would pay the price for it. Ironically, that had proved a more effective deterrent to keep her from delving through his secrets than any threat would have.

  Gudrun opened her mouth, shut it, opened it again, then sighed. A hundred times she’d run this conversation over in her mind, and now she couldn’t get a damned word out. “Father,” she began, then sighed again.

  “I have never known you to stumble for words, Gudrun.”

  “Is what you’re doing to Odin really necessary?” she blurted. True, the steps he took were naught compared to what Grimhild would do to break the man. She’d done worse to her own daughter, so Gudrun didn’t want to imagine what the woman would do to an enemy. She couldn’t cross Grimhild, but there had to be some way to help Odin. Seeing him on that altar ripped her heart out.

  Her father’s face remained impassive, but he arched a brow—which invariably meant she had uttered some folly. “Y
ou’d rather we wait until your mother arrives? I imagine she will be here very soon.”

  “I don’t want Grimhild anywhere near him!” The queen’s methods probably would have been more effective, but all the more destructive to his soul—assuming she didn’t simply kill him. “I can still turn him myself. These tortures weaken him, make him less useful.”

  Her father shook his head. “You tried that already.”

  That wasn’t fair. She’d done as he commanded, using her potions and spells to enchant Odin. This time it was real. She had so much she could teach the man, and he had so much power within. With her brother gone, she was heir to the Niflungar kingdom. What finer husband could she hope for than the immortal warrior? He was her perfect match, her destiny.

  “I have a connection to him,” she said.

  “That may be true, but we underestimated him once before, and it cost us Guthorm. Your brother died because you and I failed to properly contain that man. And if he is not contained before your mother returns from the east, that is a failure she will exact terrible payment for—out of him and …”

  Out of Gudrun, more than likely. “You could always stand up to her.”

  “She is the chosen of Hel, daughter. Do not forget that.”

  Gudrun never forgot. Through the blessings of Hel, Grimhild had destroyed the Odling kingdom and left their queen as the ghost who had cursed Odin. Another irony, since her curse might actually make it easier for the Niflungar to sway him.

  The things her mother would do to Odin would make her father’s techniques pale in comparison. Nevertheless, what her father was doing to Odin set her stomach roiling. He didn’t deserve such tortures. If they broke him at all, they would do so by leaving him an empty shell, one ripe for possession by a spirit. And then, he wouldn’t really be Odin anymore at all. The thought of that opened a hole in Gudrun’s stomach as deep as the bottomless pit beneath Castle Niflung. She felt like vomiting.

  “Does torture so vex you?”