The Mists of Niflheim (The Ragnarok Era Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and Gudrun turned slowly, to look at the being that had risen behind her.

  A woman, her skin like ice, long platinum-blonde hair wafting around her like a cloak. The woman wore a plain white dress, that in tatters. The snow maiden’s hand suddenly appeared on Gudrun’s cheek, chilling her.

  “Gudrun.” Her voice was sickly sweet, almost childlike.

  And the sound of it sent shards of ice coursing through Gudrun’s veins. And the Mist spirit knew her. Probably the same one she had used to carry her will through the mists. How many spirits had Gudrun enslaved to her will? How many would gladly rend her soul to shreds for it?

  “Is it worse?” the vaettr asked. “Seeing it coming?”

  “Get back, Mist spirit. I serve the goddess.”

  “Fear not, little sorceress … she can have what’s left of you.”

  “I …” Gudrun couldn’t swallow over the lump in her throat. She drew frost along her own hand, calling upon Snegurka’s power to manifest it.

  The Mist spirit laughed at her. “You would chill me, human?”

  The air around Gudrun turned ice cold, and she toppled to the ground, gasping, unable to breathe. She tried to crawl away, but the cold drained her strength until she couldn’t even move.

  And then the cold broke in an instant. Gudrun dared to look up. Irpa stood behind the Mist spirit, her hand plunged into its back. The wraith yanked her hand free, pulling out the spirit’s icy heart. The spirit before Gudrun crumpled to the ground and began to dissipate. Irpa bit into the heart, sucking at the Mist spirit’s soul.

  Gudrun shut her eyes against the horror, then shook herself and rose.

  “I … found … him,” Irpa whispered. The wraith beckoned, giving no further glance or comment to the spirit she had just devoured.

  Bile scorched Gudrun’s throat. What fell creatures these were, feeding on each other’s souls, killing and torturing without thought or conscience. What ancient hatreds drove them? The Niflungar sorcerers pretended to know the secrets of the Otherworlds, but to stand here was to know the truth—they had barely scratched the surface.

  Part of her longed to delve the deeper mysteries, while that faltering part of her that remained human knew such knowledge would prove her undoing.

  Gudrun had started down a path from which she could not escape.

  39

  No Aesir had ever called Valland home. Not before Odin’s march across Midgard. As such, Tyr had no knowledge of who might have built the ruin down by the half-frozen river. More of the Old Kingdoms, maybe. Its single tower had crumbled such that Tyr could only assume the snow mounds nearby housed the fallen stonework. Despite the tower’s state, the wall stood nearly intact. At least where he could see. Certainly offering some shelter from the cold.

  Of greater import, a thin plume of smoke rose from somewhere within. Smoke meant fire, and fire meant humankind. Few beings of mist welcomed flame. After three days in the wilds, any sign of civilization was a boon. Yesterday he’d stumbled upon some roots to eat, but since then he’d had naught. Tyr was a good hunter, true. But with no bow or snares, catching aught seemed unlikely.

  He had lost count of how many times he had cursed himself for a fool for not searching for the coast. The coast would have led to villages. Local Vallander places might have welcomed a warrior. He could have worked for food. Maybe even had a warm place to sleep. In his wrath, however, he had fled through the forests, headed inland.

  Blind luck or the sheer kindness of some vaettir of this land had let him find this refuge. But now, weakness slowed his legs even as he made his way down toward the river. Too long without food. Even the apple would not keep him from starving to death. Snow crunched under his feet as he gracelessly stumbled onward. The ruin’s wall stood twice his height, the entire complex no larger than a jarl’s great hall. A small fort to guard against rival tribes. Probably one risen after the Old Kingdoms. Few such nations lasted long—the long trek across Midgard had brought them past dozens of them. Faded into memory, if even that much remained. Idunn knew of many, spoke of how their petty kings fell to trolls or bickering among their own kin. Some kingdoms had so weakened each other with their wars they could not stand against marauding packs of varulfur. These had grown more numerous in recent years, Idunn claimed. Other towns, entire kingdoms had vanished into the mist. Even the Vanr woman didn’t know what had happened to their people.

  Such events grew in frequency down through the centuries, ever increasing Idunn’s sorrow for the fate of mankind. The Aesir had only ever known the harsh realities of Fimbulvinter. But through Idunn, they had learned mankind’s numbers had begun to dwindle. She said that, back when the mists first came, most of mankind, most of the world perished. Some few persisted and rebuilt, humanity’s numbers allowed to grow once the Vanir had driven out the jotunnar. But the Vanir had left the world. Grown tired of struggling against the mists. And since then, mankind’s descent into oblivion had resumed. The saga spoke of the end of time, of the return of chaos.

  And Tyr knew of chaos. Hymir had introduced him to it from his earliest memories. Chaos burned. It froze. It ruined all it touched.

  Tyr grunted. Frey! When did he become given to such musings? His time with Idunn had driven him to introspections he had neither desire nor wit to undertake. Leave mulling over the future and the fate of the world to Odin or Loki or even Sigyn. Tyr was the sword guarding against that chaos, he and Gramr standing together. And Frigg—though he could not truly blame her decision—would regret casting aside such a great pair as Tyr and the sword. At least she would not abandon him.

  A fell wind chilled his ears and eyes before the gate. Growing out his beard more might help. Usually he kept it short enough no foe could grab on, but the added warmth might count for more than such things on most days. The ash wood gate hung half off one hinge, blocking the interior against large creatures, though something like a snow fox could have easily slipped beneath it. Maybe he ought to knock here, but the gesture seemed pointless given that such a door would not keep out a determined foe.

  He grasped it and pulled. Frost had crusted over the entire frame, freezing it to the hinges and holding it place. As Tyr strained, cracks spread along the ice. Finally, the door snapped free, flapping on its one remaining hinge. Tyr slipped inside.

  Most of the roof remained, keeping the inner fort cast in shadow. From that darkness, something stirred, skittering away from his approach. Gramr leapt to his hand of her own accord. She was always eager to protect him. The one woman who would never betray him.

  “I know you lurk there,” he warned. “Do not make me chase you through the darkness.”

  Again, something moved, shifting around in the deep shadows before him.

  Tyr edged around the sound. A warrior could not well fight a foe he could not see. Nor, for that matter, a foe without form. The thought raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “If you are living, show yourself,” he said. “And if dead and you wish me gone, speak the word, and I will leave you to your slumber.” Maybe such vaettir could be bargained with. Maybe not. But Tyr didn’t see that he had aught to lose.

  Though he heard naught, the setting sun reflected off twin eyes that had drawn closer. Those eyes watched him a long moment as he held Gramr out before him. She would protect him. She was all he had.

  Finally, the figure crawled forward to reveal itself—a waif of a girl. Probably not yet twenty winters, clad in a ragged blue dress, its hems soaked as though she’d gone running through the snow or wading in the river. Her golden hair hung around her face in messy clumps. Spent so long in the wilds she had forgotten to care for it.

  Tyr lowered Gramr and relaxed his shoulder. “Forgive me, girl. I mean you no harm.”

  “You made a lot of noise.”

  He glanced back at the door, then nodded. “It was stuck.” Girl must have come and gone by crawling under the gap, but Tyr would never have fit through so small an opening. “You have a fire her
e? Food?”

  “I have fish.” She rose, looking around and peering out through the door. “You shouldn’t have made so much noise.”

  Tyr frowned. “Who are you, girl?”

  “You should not have done it. It will have heard that.”

  That did not sound auspicious. “What will have heard?”

  Girl hugged herself and stepped into the light. Stood under a crack in the roof, staring up at the sky. “The sun will set soon. It comes out beneath the moon.”

  Tyr strode toward the girl and grasped her arm with his free hand. “Tell me what you fear.”

  “I … I don’t know. I hide when it roams.”

  Scowling, he cast a look outside. Damn. Hadn’t meant to expose the girl to danger. He returned to the door and shoved it back in place. Making more noise in the process, though perhaps it was too late for that.

  He turned to the girl. “Show me your fire.”

  She nodded and scampered off, running in the direction of the river. He had to run to keep up. Twice she disappeared around corners, forcing him to search her out. Finally, he spied her waiting in a doorway. She darted through when he approached. The wall on this side had crumbled more fully. Aught approaching from the water’s edge could easily climb over mounds no more than a foot tall. It made the door a rather pointless worry against anyone who circled the fort. A room adjacent to one such gap housed a kiln issuing a thin stream of smoke from a cooking fire above which hung an iron cauldron. The smell of roasting fish set Tyr’s stomach grumbling.

  “May I?”

  The girl hesitated, but looked to clay bowls nearby. “It could be here soon. We have to hide.”

  Tyr shook his head. “Whatever stalks you, we will kill it for you.”

  “We?”

  “Gramr and I. First, though …” He grabbed the bowl and scooped out a helping of the stew. A few roots and herbs graced it, and perhaps algae. None of that mattered. The fish was succulent and hot and tasted like it ought to be served on the tables of Valhalla. Tyr scarfed the meal down so quickly his stomach rumbled in protest.

  He belched, trying to ignore the ache in his gut. He needed his strength after all. Maybe he even ought to have another serving. “Tell me your name, girl.”

  “Flosshilde.” She stared at her knees as she spoke.

  Tyr scooped more stew into his bowl.

  A long, cruel howl erupted. He glanced out to the river. The sun had just set.

  Fresh snow caked the riverbanks, spreading out onto the frozen waters. Gramr held low out before him, Tyr stalked forward. The moon was bright but only half full, and with the cloud cover, it provided little illumination. A wise man would have stoked the fire and holed up inside that ruin, waited for dawn. Tyr had always had more courage than wisdom. Flosshilde was in danger because Tyr had drawn the attention of this beast lurking in the night. Through his carelessness, she might become a victim. That he would not allow. Gramr agreed. A powerful need to kill something thrummed through this gut and left an anxious tingling in his arms.

  Indeed, even the river seemed to shift and spin before him in his lust for the kill.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered to her. “You will feast on twisted flesh tonight.”

  As he crept forward, he kept his eyes near the ground, searching for any sign of tracks. There was naught. Naught save the snows that must have filled in any indication of his prey.

  More howls rang out in the night. Wolf pack must hunt these lands. Could that be what she feared? Wolves, even dire wolves, they didn’t usually close in on a fire. She’d be safe. Except … Varulf might slip into the ruin in his absence, though.

  Flosshilde could be in danger.

  Tyr growled. Back to the same choice—wait in the ruins or take the hunt outside. He did not care much for waiting for an enemy to ambush him. But perhaps he might have more luck near the fort.

  Footprints in the snow before the tower. Large footprints, but human. No wolves. Varulfur would have kept to beast form under moon like this. Something else. Something the wolves had reacted to.

  Had to keep low, now. Something would be hunting him, too.

  Gramr sung to him, her voice a faraway aria of glory before the eyes of the gods. A battle in darkness with a fell beast, one worthy of such songs.

  “You’re not worthy of songs,” Zisa said.

  Tyr shook his head. His wife ought not be here. She stood, hands on hips, scowling at him. He didn’t need her now. He had Gramr. She was his, and he was hers. Zisa meant less than naught. He waved the sword at her, and she vanished.

  Fool woman should run back to the tribes.

  Tyr’s stomach clenched. Why should he miss Zisa? The bitch had betrayed him. Spread her legs for the first man who might have elevated her position. Gods, were all women formed of spite and ambition? No, not Gramr, of course. He hadn’t meant that. No need for her to get her hackles up too. No, of course not. Gramr he could believe in, always. She would never turn from him, never betray him with another man. Not like the others.

  “I trust you,” he whispered.

  He rolled over, wiping blood and vomit from his mouth. How had he fallen to the snow?

  “Fool,” Zisa said, and kicked him in the gut.

  Her blow was strong, too strong, and he spewed up all he had eaten. Finally, gasping for air, he rolled over. Gramr … Where was she? He had dropped her! He pushed himself to his knees. What had he done?

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  Out in the darkness, moonlight gleamed off a pair of eyes. A figure crouched in the snow, but it rose. Sharp, angular features. Corded muscles covered in coarse hair. And half again as tall as Tyr. A jotunn. A jotunn here, in the heart of Midgard, well over a thousand miles from the fabled Midgard Wall.

  Man-eaters, spawn of chaos. This one bore the horns of a reindeer and the eyes of a wolf. Gone more savage than most.

  Tyr locked eyes with the monstrous being. Gramr must lie buried in the snow now, but she had to be close. He hadn’t moved much from the edge of the ruin.

  Unless Zisa had stolen her. The jealous bitch could have done aught to spite him, to trap him alone forever. Tyr began to shift his weight to his legs with agonizing slowness. Had to have his hands free.

  The jotunn hefted a club that looked like he’d ripped a large branch off an ash tree. Flexed its arm. Jotunnar liked men to be afraid.

  But Tyr was not afraid. “I’m will send your soul down to Hel that she might feast upon it.”

  The jotunn chuckled, patting its club upon one hand. Then it lurched forward with surprising speed. A great sweep of that club almost took Tyr’s head off. He rolled under the attack and came up, flinging all his strength against the jotunn’s waist. Apple made him strong. Maybe not strong as a jotunn, but strong enough he drove the monster back several steps. Off balance.

  Tyr jerked free a dagger from around his neck. Jammed it into the jotunn’s side.

  Creature bellowed. Caught him with a backhand that hefted him off his feet and sent him tumbling end over end. Tyr crashed down in the snow, and the world kept rolling. Eyes wouldn’t focus. Ears ringing.

  Had to focus. Apple would let him block out pain, too. Just had to remember how.

  He rolled over, stumbling to his feet—nigh fell face forward. But the jotunn faltered. Shocked Tyr lived at all? The jotunn yanked the dagger free of its ribs, tossed it aside.

  “Your flesh will … heal … mine …”

  Jotunnar ate their strongest foes, thought to take their power like that. Probably could take a lot from Tyr. But Tyr wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Gramr. If only he had the sword. He could feel her begging him not to leave her. He couldn’t leave her. Never, not her. Not her. No, no, no. He would not leave her. He dove at the spot he felt her presence. Dug through the snow, flinging it about until something sharp sliced his fingers.

  There!

  The snows had turned to crimson slush with all his lost blood. No matter. He dug through the mess to claim hi
s woman.

  “I won’t leave you. I won’t leave you.”

  A heartbeat later the jotunn surged forward, swinging the club. Tyr jerked Gramr up again. Impact nigh sent her tumbling from his hands. Numbed his arms. But the runeblade sliced right through the club. One end of it flew off and smacked against a tree.

  Jotunn stared at his broken weapon, mouth open.

  His arm still shaking, Tyr thrust Gramr up into the beast’s gut. Hot blood gushed out over him. Fed his woman. She’d grown so hungry.

  Jotunn trembled. Even his limbs would go numb from Gramr’s icy embrace. Monster reached for him. Tyr jerked Gramr upward, slicing flesh until it snared on a rib. Then he yanked it free, and the jotunn fell to his knees.

  “No one separates us.”

  Another swing cut the jotunn’s head from its shoulders.

  40

  Irpa led her around another mountain and into a valley. There, Odin fought with a group of shades. Ghosts of a long-past battle, eager for another soul to feed off of, desperate to sustain their own existence just a little longer. Despite their phantom arms and armor and superior numbers, Odin beat the trio into the ground. He stomped on one ghost’s helm, dissipating its form beneath him. The others fled at her approach.

  And Odin … a tattered shroud extended from him as well, evidence of a wraith taking over his soul. How had he bound a ghost on his own, and why would he start with a wraith?

  “Odin!”

  He spun toward her, face a mask of confusion. As she drew near, she pulled up short. His astral form had aged just as his physical body had, giving the appearance of a man more than twice his actual age.

  “Odin? I’ve come to bring you home.”

  Other ghosts had gathered, but none dared approach them now, no doubt driven back by the wraith hovering behind Gudrun.