The Mists of Niflheim (The Ragnarok Era Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  Gudrun sighed. “There must be a better way to turn him.”

  Her father looked back at his book. “Then try it. I have never denied you an opportunity to test your limits.”

  Maybe not, but Grimhild had made her pay for pushing those limits. And her father offered no promise to cease torturing Odin. Gudrun rose and slipped out of the room, then slumped against the wall.

  “Are you all right?” Hljod asked. The girl had waited outside, no doubt shifting nervously in the dark and chilly hall. And, indeed, she wrapped her arms around herself despite the fur cloak Gudrun had given her.

  “Yes,” she said. “I will be fine.” Gudrun took Hljod’s arm and led her away, back down the stairs from the tower her father had claimed here.

  “So?” the girl demanded. “Is he going to help you?”

  “No.”

  “Your parents are charming people, aren’t they?”

  Gudrun glowered. “I only have one parent. And he’s … complex.”

  Hljod snickered, then laughed loudly, the sound echoing through the halls. “Complex? Gudrun, what about your life is not complex? You’ve got a man chained up in the dungeons—a man you fucked, if I’m not wrong—who is being tortured by your father. Your mother is like the goddess of thunder cunts, and you’re in love with a man who probably hates you.”

  Gudrun couldn’t quite suppress her snort, but she shook her head. “Keep talking like that, and someone will hear you and have your tongue out, girl. Do you remember the potions I showed you this morning? Go to my chambers and bring them down to the dungeons.”

  “Wait, me?” Her voice came out as a bare squeak. The girl was all bravado one moment and timidity the next. It was to be expected, Gudrun supposed.

  She allowed herself a smile. Under other circumstances, a girl Hljod’s age could be inducted into the mysteries by letting her lie with one of the male sorcerers. But given what Hljod had suffered at the hands of the Troll King, Gudrun wouldn’t send her for that until she was ready, and Hel alone knew how long that might take.

  Nevertheless, with a mouth like Hljod’s, the girl deserved a little shock now and then. “You can trust me, Hljod. You have naught to fear in this place. You are under my protection.”

  “You’re afraid of your mother.” From the way Hljod’s eyes widened, the girl regretted the words the moment she said them.

  As well she should. Gudrun forfeited any attempt to hide her irritation. There were lines, after all. “Go and bring me the potions, Hljod. Now.”

  Her new protégé scampered off to do as Gudrun bid.

  Gudrun trod back down to the dungeon alone. Odin was no longer bound to the altar, but chained to the wall. He squinted as she opened the door. Her father had put out the candles, leaving Odin in darkness. A minor torment, compared to the others. Servants had allowed him to use the chamber pot and had cleaned him up after his ordeal.

  “What now?” he demanded. “Here to fuck me or flay me?”

  Gudrun knelt before him, hiding her disgust at the grime and filth that covered the dungeon floor. “Neither, my love. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You have.”

  Gudrun recoiled from the venom in his words. Had she not just made love to him a day before? “I’m sorry.” The words just slipped out. Grimhild had told her a princess of the Niflungar apologized to no one. “How long has he kept you in the dark?”

  Odin snorted. “Has your father forgotten I too have the Sight? There’s starlight in the Penumbra, enough to sustain me. Or is that part of his plan? Force me to look there, to see the ghosts that flit about this place? Are they meant to be a vision of my own future? I do see them, Gudrun. The vaettir, waiting in the wings, so eager to slip inside me if my guard should drop.”

  “He’ll put you back on the altar at midnight,” she said. “Please, Odin. If you choose me of your own free will, I can stop all this. He’s desperate to bring you to our side before Grimhild returns.”

  “Even your father fears your mother, then?”

  “He’s trying to save you, for my sake.”

  “Save me?” Odin spat at her. “Save me! If you want to save me, take off the fucking chains! Release me, Gudrun, and I will spare you. I will …” He shook his head, and his voice softened. “Please, Gudrun. You have to know this is wrong. However much Hel has corrupted your heart and soul, surely there is some humanity left in there.”

  Corrupted her heart? Was that what he thought of her? Her stomach burned with an empty fire, and she rose and backed away. Her heart wasn’t corrupted. She and her people had made their choices, that was all. They had done what was necessary to survive the Fimbulvinter and the chaos that it brought with it.

  “I am a descendant of Halfdan the Old!” she said, thumping a finger against her own breast. “I am a princess of the Niflungar, greatest of the kingdoms born of Halfdan. My people built an empire while the Aesir hid in caves! We built the castles and monuments spread across Midgard. Do not speak to me as though you understand our ancient lineage.”

  “And where is this empire?” Odin spoke through gritted teeth, his anger still driving her backward, making it hard to hold on to her own. “If Hel is so great a patron, why did your people fall?”

  The fire-worshipping Lofdar and their priest, Loge. Gudrun shook her head. She wasn’t about to admit that to him. Even among the Niflungar, no one liked to speak of the fall of the old kingdom.

  Hel, this man was difficult. But if he wanted to open old wounds, she could do the same. “Do you know why Ymir came down off that mountain and slew your father?” Gudrun asked.

  “What?” Odin now jerked forward, straining against his chains. “What do you mean why? What are you saying?”

  Gudrun shook her head. She hadn’t wanted to reveal it, had been a fool to even let that slip out, but maybe the truth alone would get through his thick skull. “Hel sent him.”

  “What the fuck? Why would Hel send a jotunn? What did she want with my father?”

  Gudrun blew out a slow breath. This had been a mistake. She should never have mentioned this. All it would do was inflame Odin’s rage. But he’d never stop without an answer now. “It … was never about Borr, Odin. It was about you. She wanted to make certain you were who she thought you were.”

  Odin’s mouth hung agape, his eyes begging her to admit it was a lie. “You took my father from me as … a test?” For a moment, she thought he might actually weep. “A test?” His voice sounded so frail.

  “She hates you, Odin.”

  “Why?”

  Gudrun shook her head. “I don’t know. But she will have you serve her, or she will destroy you. She will take everything from you.”

  Odin launched himself forward, straining against the chains. “You took my father! You took my father!”

  Gudrun fell back, nearly tripping over her own feet.

  “Who is that?” Odin demanded before she could even recover. “Now you’ve brought another whore to tempt me?”

  She followed his gaze to see Hljod trembling in the doorway. Gudrun snatched a ceramic vial from the girl’s hand, then stalked back over to Odin who still strained against the manacles. “Take this. Or don’t; it’s your choice. It will ease your pain and protect you from the ravages of the spirits when Father begins again.” She leaned closer. “And do not ever call Hljod a whore again, Odin.”

  “Nice to see you care about something.”

  “I care about you! You stupid, arrogant man. I didn’t take your father away from you—I didn’t even know who you were back then. You think my soul is corrupt, but you don’t want to see what my parents will do to yours. Think about that before you slap my hand away again.”

  29

  Iron rent with an ear-shattering cry. From atop the battlements, Tyr could barely make out what was happening below. One of the trolls was directing the others at the gate. Ve. Had to be. And he was coordinating trolls. Not a threat a man usually had to worry over.

  Bunches of them had gathered at t
he main gate. From the sound, they were actually bending the iron.

  Damn it.

  “Shoot them! Shoot the ones at the gate!” he ordered.

  “They have no clear shot up here,” Olrun said. “And more are scaling the walls. We cannot—”

  Tyr didn’t bother listening to the rest of her objection. Gramr in hand, he dashed down the stairs, leaping several at time until he could jump to the ground floor.

  More shrieking iron.

  And then trolls crashed through the ranks of men at the gate. A troll grabbed a man, wedged its fingers in his mouth. One hand up, one low, and the troll tore the man’s jaw off in a shower of gore. The bastard laughed, a sound like grinding boulders.

  A backhand swing sent another warrior colliding with the gate. The man impaled himself on one of the now bent iron spikes. More trolls kept pushing their way inside.

  Screaming a war cry, Tyr charged forward. Gramr cleaved through a troll’s arm, severing it at the elbow. Black ichor splattered over the gathered men and women. They rained ineffective blows on rocky troll hides. Another troll caught a spear in its hand, snapped it in half.

  Tyr slashed his runeblade through the monster’s throat.

  Some of the breachers had pushed inward. Past the warriors. Toward the civilians.

  “Hold the gate!” Tyr bellowed. “Let no more inside.” He knew better, knew they could do little without him. But the civilians inside would die in droves.

  He raced after the trolls, following the sound of screams.

  He darted down a hallway strewn with bodies. Men and women’s guts and blood splattered the walls, even the twelve-foot-high ceiling. Gore was so thick his foot slipped. Banged his knee on the stone floor. Tyr raised a hand to his mouth to keep from gagging. Whole corridor stank of blood and shit. Had to be a score of dead in here. Arms and legs ripped right out of their sockets. Skulls splattered on walls. On the floor in front of him rested a head with its nose bitten off.

  Further down, a troll had bit through a man’s crotch, severing the legs.

  Tyr rose. “Gramr …”

  She felt his anger. Or he felt hers.

  These foul creatures of Mist had come into a place of men, a place far too thick with people.

  More screams rang out from ahead. He raced on, fast as he could without falling. A troll had blundered right through an ash wood door without bothering to open it. More bodies. A shieldmaiden swung a sword at him. Troll ignored it. Caught her by the legs and drove her to the ground. It yanked apart her legs with such force Tyr heard bones break. Shieldmaiden screamed.

  So did Tyr, charging. Troll didn’t turn in the chaos. Didn’t even look before Gramr bored through the back of his neck while he tore at the shieldmaiden’s trousers. Tyr jerked the blade free, half severing the head. Body felt atop the shieldmaiden. It took all of Tyr’s now significant might to pull the beast off her. One look told him she might never walk again.

  He shook his head in sorrow.

  But too many others needed his help for him to remain here. He kicked the woman’s sword over to a boy—maybe ten winters old. The oldest and largest person still standing in this room. “Defend these people as best you can!”

  In the next room, a pair of trolls feasted on the dead. No living men or women here. Tyr raced in and leapt at one. It tried to stand. Gramr slid through its heart before it gained its feet. Tyr rolled off it, twisted around and came up even as the second troll stumbled to its feet. Still holding a man’s half-eaten foot in one hand.

  Tyr scrubbed black ichor from his face, trying to clear his eyes.

  The troll seemed to at last realize how much blood of his kind drenched Tyr. It tossed aside the foot and loped forward, swinging its great arms. Tyr surged forward at the last instant, a swipe of Gramr tearing long gouges into each of the troll’s forearms. It shrieked, as if somehow still surprised a blade could hurt it. Tyr pressed his advantage and swung low, opening the troll’s guts. Oily, serpent-like intestines spilled out over the floor. The troll stared down at that in sheer shock.

  For the barest instant, Tyr considered leaving it to die slowly. But it could do more damage between now and then. He swung up, cleaving through the skull.

  A great many more trolls might still lurk inside. And every instant he delayed, more Aesir died.

  “The gate must be repaired,” Hoenir said. “We must reinforce it before nightfall.”

  Indeed, the rising sun had spared them further casualties, but Tyr could not begin to guess how many had died last night. And if they could not fix the gate, tonight would be worse.

  “You want to waste time on such tasks,” Jarl Jat said, “then you do it. I am taking my people and leaving this cursed place with as much daylight as we can. I aim to be miles away before they come seeking us again.”

  They all stood before the mangled gate now, taking in the newly risen sun, and the carnage it cast to light. Tyr had almost gotten used to the stench of corpses. No one had had time to burn the dead yet, but it had to become a priority.

  “You cannot leave,” Annar said. “We are stronger together.”

  Jarl Moda spat. “As last night clearly attested. Was your tribe not in charge of holding the damned gate, Annar?”

  “You think you might have done better?”

  “I know the Bjars would have done better.”

  Arnbjorn scoffed. “They could hardly have done any worse.”

  “All of you, silence,” Frigg commanded. “We must work together. Hoenir is right, we have to repair the gate as best we can. Tribe Bjar can begin digging a trench in front—”

  “We’re not digging a damned thing,” Moda said. “I’ll say this much for Jarl Jat, he has the right idea. If we break apart and each go in different directions, they cannot pursue us all.”

  “So instead they pick off a few tribes at a time?” Hoenir asked. “Don’t be a fool, boy.”

  “Please,” Frigg insisted. “We have no time for this. Hoenir, send your varulfur out to patrol. Moda, get your people digging now.”

  “I’m not going to—”

  Vili’s roar cut him off. The berserk hefted the jarl of the Bjars off his feet and drove him against the broken gate with one hand. “Dig the fucking trench before I shove a spear up yours.” With that, he pitched the man through the breach.

  Tyr cringed. As if Moda had not wanted to leave before.

  He moved to Frigg’s side, hand on Gramr’s hilt.

  She waved him back. “Once the trench is dug, line it with oil. We’ll use flame as a barrier to hold the trolls back.”

  “We’ll burn through half our oil in one night,” Arnbjorn said. “Then what do we burn against the mists?”

  “Use the troll corpses,” Lodur said. Odin’s childhood friend had rarely joined in any of the arguments. Hard to judge his mind most of the time. “Coat them with just a little oil to get a blaze going. Should prove doubly effective in driving back their kin.”

  “Do it,” Frigg said. “Jarl Lodur, have your men help Moda.”

  “Maybe Lodur should be king,” Bedvig mumbled.

  Gramr growled at that. Begged Tyr to draw her. Idunn had counseled him otherwise but … Idunn. He had not even checked to make certain she was unharmed.

  Damn it.

  Tyr rushed away from the jarls.

  He found Idunn tending to the wounded and mercifully uninjured herself. Blood soaked her arms up to the elbows as she rose from a man with his guts exposed. He’d not see sunset, no matter what she did.

  “I feared for your safety,” Tyr said.

  Idunn murmured something under her breath, then shook her head. “Our defense does not go well.”

  “To say the least.”

  He moved closer so none of the wounded would hear him. “I no longer know what to do. The jarls question Frigg at every turn. I could strike them down, but …”

  “But you don’t want to be a murderer.”

  Oh, he already was, whether he wished so or not.

  K
ill them all.

  He would not.

  Coward. Weakling.

  Could Gramr truly speak to him? No, it was just fatigue that made him hear her voice so clearly. Ever since Idunn had told him someone’s soul had been forged into the blade. That didn’t mean it actually had a mind.

  Craven.

  No!

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “I wish I knew, Tyr.”

  “You are a Vanr!” Several others looked at them at his harsh outburst.

  “I am a woman made immortal, but I’m neither warrior nor general, Tyr. I looked to Odin for both roles, and now he is lost to us—at least at present. I am as adrift as the rest of you. But you, at least, are a warrior. Men will follow your command if you but take up the mantle of leadership.”

  Tyr groaned. Gods, Zisa had said something similar so many winters ago. He could not. Not then, not now. He was no leader of men. But Arnbjorn was … and he was going to lead them away from Odin’s wife. If Idunn could offer him no other course, then maybe the only course was Gramr’s.

  Tonight, the trolls would come again. If they breached, there would be chaos, melee. And in such chaos, a man could fall, even to a friendly blade.

  With Arnbjorn dead, the other jarls would have to look to Frigg for guidance. They’d have to.

  30

  Sigyn loved flying. The air currents washing over her, lifting her skyward, the sun warming her feathers. Every breath an exhilaration. Soaring above the mists was like a living dream. Like making love and being carried away to new worlds.

  On and on they flew, and though exhaustion slowed the beat of her wings and strained her shoulders, she didn’t want to stop. She didn’t ever want to stop. And yet, Loki descended toward the mountaintop. Its peak was covered in snow, but it still rose above the mists. From up here the world was pure. Sigyn settled on the mountain beside him and removed her cloak’s hood as he pulled off his. She tossed her pack aside. In truth, she hadn’t expected it to take so long to find their king.

  The moment she retook her human form the cold set her shivering. Loki wrapped her in an embrace and pulled her down with him. From the rapid rise and fall of his chest, even he was drained from the long flight over the Sudurberks. They sank down in the snow, and it began to soak through her dress. Damn, but sometimes she wished for leather trousers like the men favored.