The Mists of Niflheim (The Ragnarok Era Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  Odin snarled at her like a varulf and fell into a fighting crouch.

  “Odin?”

  Mere hours in the Penumbra had nigh to broken Gudrun, and Odin had lingered here for days. Combined with the ravages wrought unto his body, had his mind been shattered? Or worse still, had that wraith overtaken him?

  “Please, my love,” she said.

  Odin’s eyes widened, like he couldn’t quite believe what he saw. Gudrun approached slowly, pausing after each halting step, hand outstretched. At last, when he did not back away, she took his hand in her own.

  “Let me take you home.”

  He did not resist as she pulled him along behind her, though he walked like a man in a daze, or perhaps one not sure if he was dreaming. It was well—she didn’t have the energy left to explain all that had gone on, nor to explain this place to him. She needed time to think, and now that he was back safe with her, they should have it. Perhaps in a few days, once they were rested, they could return to Castle Niflung. Gudrun did miss her old room, and the pleasant days they had passed there.

  Odin walked in silence so long that when he spoke, Gudrun jumped at the sound. “Am I so different?” he asked, as they climbed the stairs to her chamber in the ruin, or to the Penumbra version of it.

  Gudrun shook her head. “It looks good on you. You might be able to disguise it with a glamour …” But doing so would mean drawing upon that wraith’s energy.

  “Gudrun, I—”

  “Shh.” She placed a finger on his lips and led him back into her room here. She guided him by the hand to his body and pressed him against it. “I can guide you back. Focus on our world—it’s right there, just out of reach, Odin. You’re just on the other side of the window you’ve so often looked through.”

  His form grew hazy as his consciousness slipped back to the other side.

  “Your … oath …” Irpa said.

  Gudrun settled back against her body. “I promise. First thing when I return.” Even if she wanted to break her oath, she knew better. Violate a blood oath, and things would punish you for it. Many spirits in Hel’s world lived for such opportunities.

  Slipping back into her own form was like falling in a dream: a volatile, bile-inducing disturbance to her inner balance, and a sudden jolt awake. She sat upright, and Hljod immediately rushed from Odin’s side—who now had also sat up—to throw her arms around Gudrun.

  “Oh, thank the gods!”

  Gudrun patted the girl on the shoulder, then rose, stretching her back. She needed to speak to Odin, but first and foremost, she had an oath to keep.

  Odin collapsed back upon the bed.

  “Rest, my love.” Gudrun had a promise to keep, much as it pained her. “Watch him,” she told Hljod.

  She wobbled as she rose, drained from her own journey through the Astral Realm.

  Outside her room, a pair of guards waited, standing vigil over her as Father had no doubt commanded. These men sought only to do their duties, and she would repay them with agony beyond the scope of human measuring, and yet, how could she not? She had made a blood oath to a wraith already writhing and crawling beneath her skin, seeking to take control of her.

  “Come with me,” she commanded. It wouldn’t do to let Hljod hear them, or see what would happen. Instead, she led them down the stairs into an abandoned smithy.

  “Princess?” one them asked as she shut the door.

  “I’m very sorry about this.” And she let Irpa out. The wraith seized each man’s throat with Gudrun’s hands, hands that became swirling shadows. Both men immediately fell to their knees, eyes wide, mouths agape, gagging, trying to scream when no sound would escape them.

  Gudrun’s mouth opened of its own accord, and vapor seeped from her victims into it as the wraith sucked out their souls.

  Their flesh withered and desiccated before her eyes, turning sallow. A stench of decay filled the smithy. Both men trembled, flailing weakly at her arms. Fragments of their lives flashed in her mind for the instant before Irpa consumed them. One had a daughter he loved. The other had hoped to marry soon. All they were or ever could have been fell away, granting strength to the monstrous shade within her.

  When naught more remained of those men, Irpa released them. Their cracked, ancient looking corpses crashed down to the floor.

  And Irpa’s hands—Gudrun’s hands—wrapped around her own neck. Gudrun wailed at the wraith, flung her will against it. The wraith beat her down, driving her into a dungeon within her own mind. It rose, using her body.

  And it laughed.

  No.

  This was not the deal.

  Gudrun threw all she was at Irpa, burned through every last bit of life force she could without dying. It gave her enough strength to clasp the talisman bracelet she wore upon her arm, to draw upon its power to fortify her will. So much she drew that the gold lost its luster and crumbled to dust.

  And Irpa at last retreated to the recesses of her mind.

  Soon, now … Soon you will seek power again … No one resists the temptation forever …

  Gudrun slumped to the floor, trying not to look at the corpses of the men she had betrayed.

  Walking back up those steps took nigh to all she had. The energy she had spent in her contest with Irpa would recover, but until it did, she could barely move, much less call upon any of her powers. And the talisman … Losing that would cost her. It had been the one place she could turn when vying wills against shades and spirits, and without it, any use of the Art might be her last. The Singasteinn might have served longer, maybe forever, had Odin not taken it from her.

  Still, she had saved Odin, and things would be better now. At last he would join her, and Grimhild would be forced to acknowledge the truth—Gudrun had won. Then, perhaps, Odin would tell her what he had done with her amulet.

  “Stop!” Hljod shrieked from behind the door.

  A moment later, it crashed open, and Odin rushed out of it. He raced down several stairs before pausing in front of her. “Thank you for … Thank you for coming for me, Gudrun. I don’t know why you did.”

  Gudrun faltered and had to lean against the wall to remain standing. What was he saying? “I did it because I love you.” Talking hurt, it took so much out of her.

  “Maybe you do, and I’m sorry for that. But naught has changed, Gudrun.”

  She sputtered, unable to believe what she was hearing. “Do you have any idea what I just went through to find you? Have you ever imagined anyone would care enough to cross realms to reach you? I broke the laws of reality to bring you back to my side, and you say it changes naught?”

  He reached for her, as if to wipe away the blood she knew had crusted on her face. She slapped his hand away, or tried, but lacking the strength to do so, the gesture lost its impact.

  “I am sorry. I am so sorry, Gudrun. I wish … in another lifetime I would … I have a wife. I have a son. My people need me. My father, his legacy.” Odin continued shaking his head, backing away from her.

  Gudrun took a shaky step toward him, then her legs gave out beneath her, and she sank to the floor. She reached for him, willing him to take her hand. He did so, and kissed it.

  Then he stepped past her.

  He kicked in a door behind which her father had stored his spear. How did he know where to find it? The Sight?

  He emerged a moment later. Guards came rushing up the stairs—only a three now, as she had just murdered the others. Odin tore through them like a whirlwind, his age apparently not slowing him.

  Gudrun had no strength to rise, but she knew he would escape.

  He had betrayed her. After all she had done, all she had sacrificed, still he rejected her.

  Not even enough of her humanity remained for her to weep over it.

  But somewhere, deep inside, the wraith’s hatred kindled.

  41

  Slumped against the wall beside the kiln, Gramr resting on his thighs, Tyr watched as Flosshilde bound his head. She had torn the still-wet hem of her dress for a band
age. Gesture left him nigh to speechless with gratitude. Girl worked in silence save for the occasional grunt. Her ministrations complete, she leaned back and shifted to examine the bindings.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No,” he lied. Jotunn had probably cracked his skull. Lots of blood. Lucky his brains didn’t spill out. But at least the creature hadn’t harmed Gramr.

  “I … can’t believe you killed it.”

  Tyr grunted. A jotunn, out here. First Hymir, then Ymir, now this one. Jotunnar were supposed to be cast out of Midgard. Now they seemed keen to return. And somehow this one had bemused his mind with false visions of Zisa. She could not have been here, not tonight. No, his wife—ex-wife—was among the tribes. They’d abandoned him to the cold and the mist. He had Gramr and now Flosshilde.

  “Did this place belong to your people?”

  “No, no. People say it was built by the Bragnings, but it’s been empty for a long time.”

  “Where did they go?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe the ruined fort didn’t provide enough shelter for a large group. It was a safe enough place for one person to hide in.” Flosshilde held her hands before her, as if uncertain what she wanted to say next. She said naught, however, instead, grasping the edge of her dress and slowly raising it to expose her thighs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You saved me …”

  Tyr swallowed, his pulse pounding hard. Despite his injuries, his body began to respond, rising. A flush built at his neck and spread quickly. Flosshilde was pretty, young. So willing. And he … he longed for a woman’s touch. But … Idunn … or Zisa? Gods help him. He didn’t even know what he wanted.

  Flosshilde was atop him now, pulling at his trousers with one hand, shifting Gramr away from him with the other.

  Tyr shoved her away. The girl pitched backward with a yelp. Her mouth hung open. Might have pushed her harder than he’d meant to. He snatched Gramr up. She was the only woman he needed. But Flosshilde looked genuinely hurt, and not just from her arse colliding with the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I can’t, I can’t. It’s not right.”

  The girl rose, backing away with a strange look on her face. “Are you married? And so loyal to your wife … That’s admirable.”

  Married. Not anymore. It was complicated. More complicated than he had any desire to discuss with this girl.

  He leaned back against the wall. “Just need to rest.” His wound would heal best while he slept.

  Flosshilde sighed, then shrugged and slipped out of the room. He’d offended her. Obviously.

  No, wisdom had never been his greatest strength.

  He dreamed of Flosshilde. She walked along the riverbank, now completely unclad, her golden hair no longer looking clumped but glorious. As glorious as her perfect arse, her too perfect breasts. And he went to her, uncertain why he had ever resisted.

  Her wet lips tasted of salt and moonlight. She drew him down, pulling him onto the ice. Its chill stung his bare knees. He had no memory of doffing his trousers, but he too was naked. Unable to contain himself, he was inside her now, relishing her warmth. The ice cracked beneath her. Her hair was streaming out in the current.

  With fervent kisses, she drew him closer and closer.

  Cold. He was so cold.

  He opened his eyes. He was under the river. Flosshilde had her arms around him, kissing him, biting his lip. Blood filled the water—his blood. He struggled against her, flailed. Suddenly he was no longer inside her, and her legs had become rough, cold. A fish tail, a single beat of which flung them both against the riverbed.

  She spun over him, driving him down into the silt. It stung his eyes. Couldn’t see! Everything blurred.

  Her mouth seemed filled with razor-like teeth. Flosshilde pushed him down, choking him. He grabbed her arms, trying to keep those jaws from closing over his face. Trying to break her inhumanely strong grip.

  His limbs ached, growing numb. His lungs wanted to explode. Water filled his mouth and nostrils.

  Gramr. Oh gods, where was she? He had left her on the shore. This was his punishment for such infidelity. To die, drown and be forgotten.

  So Flosshilde could claim Gramr and give her to some other man. No!

  Righteous anger granted him the barest moment of clarity, and in it, he seized his power. He pried her arms away then pinned them to her side. She thrashed within his grasp. Tyr wrapped an arm around her throat then kicked off the silt, flinging them both upward.

  His head and shoulders burst through the surface for an instant, before a beat of her tail sent them both colliding with the ice. It tore through Tyr’s shoulders and filled the river with fresh blood. Girl thrashed in his grasp. Drove them back underwater.

  Tyr slammed his fist down atop her skull. And then she fell still. He swam upward, pulling her after him. Once again, he crested the surface, panting, gasping for breath. Flosshilde hung limp in his arm. Had he killed her?

  Ice crunched and broke away as he tried to climb on it. He slipped back under the river, only to come up again, sputtering. With no other choice, he broke through the ice, driving himself toward shore. Finally, it grew so thick it bore his weight. With one arm he heaved himself out of the river, dragging Flosshilde out behind him.

  Her tail remained, making her heavy and awkward. He wanted to collapse. To lie there, shivering. But he needed warmth, needed shelter. He got to his knees, panting. A man who had not eaten an apple of Yggdrasil would have died of deathchill already. Or drowned, more likely.

  Flosshilde’s chest rose and fell slowly. Tyr groaned. Maybe he would have been better off to just kill her. But she might have answers. With thumb and forefinger, he pried her jaws open. Hel. Two rows of shark-like fangs lined her mouth. A mouth that had grown unnaturally wide.

  Finally, he hefted her in his arms, her tail flopping around limply as he rose and made his way back toward the kiln. His feet had grown numb, and he stumbled with every step. It ought to have hurt more. When it didn’t hurt, that was a bad sign.

  Chill night air stung his bare skin, feeling like a flame with every breeze. He toppled forward over the breach in the wall. He dropped the mermaid on the floor, taking no heed of how hard she fell. Rising, Tyr grabbed Flosshilde by the arm. Dragged her toward the kiln.

  Its stinging warmth was almost too much after the chill outside, but Tyr forced himself closer. Not too close. You have to warm yourself gradually after exposure to deathchill. Too much heat too quickly could make things worse.

  Only after warming himself a moment did he look around. Gramr still lay here, abandoned, as was Flosshilde’s dress. Tyr crawled over to his sword and stroked it gently.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  He glanced back at the foul temptress who had led him to betray his woman. She would pay for that.

  With his dagger, he cut her dress into strips, then used those to bind her arms behind her back. Finally, he shoved her up against the wall.

  No sign of his own clothes. That meant he must have discarded them outside.

  With a last glance at Flosshilde, he headed for the breach. When she woke, he would greet her clad, armed, and ready to punish all she had done.

  The woman stirred sometime later, well before dawn. As she did, her tail gave way to legs once again. Despite himself, Tyr felt himself rise at the sight of her spread legs and the heavenly trench between them. To avoid temptation, he flung the remains of her dress over her.

  Then he leaned close and grabbed her by the hair, knocking her head against the wall with just enough force to startle her. Didn’t want her falling unconscious again, after all.

  “I had a lot of time to think while you were away,” he said. “The stew had some foul potion in it, yes? Something to make me take leave of my senses?”

  The girl groaned, blinked. Her eyes widened in what seemed genuine fear.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Uh … hallucinogenic algae, yes.”


  “And in my delirium, you thought the jotunn would find me easy prey.”

  “I had to.” Her voice was barely a squeak.

  “Had to?” Tyr scoffed. “Who, exactly, forced you to try to murder a stranger who happened by?”

  The girl looked away, or tried, though he still had a grip on her hair.

  Tyr growled and pulled, lifting her slightly up off the ground by her hair. She shrieked. “Answer me.”

  “The queen!”

  Queen? The mermaid queen. “Queen Rán ordered you to kill humans? Or Aesir, specifically?”

  Flosshilde swallowed, eyes darting one way or another, as if seeking some escape. But her hands were bound, and the river was far. “Not Rán. Grimhild.”

  “The Niflungar sent you after us?”

  “A backup plan. I was …”

  “Supposed to kill me and steal Gramr. Of course you were.” He thrashed her against the wall, drawing another yelp from her. “So is that how a mermaid comes this far up a river?”

  “I’m a nixie—a river mermaid. We don’t serve Rán. But still, I had no choice. The sorceress compels obedience from spirits.”

  Tyr frowned. Spirits … vaettir. So Grimhild had used her sorcery to summon, or at least dominate, this nixie. And if the Niflungar queen had sent vaettir after him like this, she must know he had left the Aesir. She wanted to reclaim Gramr, take her from him.

  But if she knew so much of his whereabouts, she was watching the tribes. Watching and, like as not, planning to strike them again soon. Probably sent the trolls, too.

  And now his people had lost their greatest defender.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Flosshilde said. The way she trembled might have been for show, might have been another trick. Her fear seemed genuine, but he could never be certain. Either way, she deserved death.

  He released her hair and let her slump down, then leaned close to her face.

  “Please! I don’t want to die.”

  Tyr nodded and rose. He ran his thumb over Gramr’s bone hilt. Yes, she wanted the girl’s blood. She needed blood. She demanded it.