The Mists of Niflheim (The Ragnarok Era Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  She sighted again at that lead draug, this time aiming for his face. A bone helmet made the shot tricky, but if she could get an arrow into his chin, that might slow the thing down. She loosed.

  And the draug moved with inhuman speed, his sword knocking the arrow out of midair.

  “Son of a troll,” Sigyn mumbled. That was different.

  The undead creature looked right at her and began advancing on her position.

  If she kept this up, sooner or later, one of those things would see her. Sigyn flew to another tree, this one closer.

  “Protect us,” Grimhild commanded the remaining undead. The creature fell into a close posture in front of the two sorceresses, sword ready. If it was as fast as the other one, it’d be able to stop any arrow she directed at them.

  So she wouldn’t shoot at them.

  Sigyn flew around behind the Niflungar camp, close. So close they’d probably have spotted her if they turned, even as she crouched behind a tree. But they were so fixated on where she’d been, they didn’t even look.

  Not daring to breathe, Sigyn sighted along a shaft, aiming for a tree branch above the Niflungar camp. One laden with snow. She had to hit it just right, at the weakest spot. They’d hear the twang of her bow as soon as she loosed. One mistake and she was dead. But she wasn’t going to make a mistake. She knew the spot.

  Sigyn loosed. Her arrow thunked into the branch. It wobbled for an instant, before the shaking caused it to crack. A pile of snow dumped upon the trio. Gudrun shrieked and covered her head, clearly more shocked than aught else.

  Sigyn took off at a dead run. The draug spun on her, immediately shaking off the snow. Sigyn fired a clumsy shot as she ran. The undead creature batted it away, but Sigyn didn’t care. She released her bow, dropped into a slide, and wrapped her arm around the book.

  Then she yanked up her swan hood and the book melted into her swan form.

  The draug’s sword sank into the spot where a moment before her human body had been. Sigyn took flight, swooping just over the sorceresses’ heads. Predictably, the draug pulled back its next swing rather than risk hitting its mistresses.

  Sigyn made as steep a climb as she was able, darting between branches and treetops.

  “Hel will have you!” Grimhild shouted after her. “I will feast on your soul, you petty, foolish girl!”

  55

  Despite the heavy fighting beyond the walls, Tyr had not left Odin’s side. With the gate breached, the Aesir were forced to head outside the castle. To meet the draugar in a desperate attempt to hold them off until dawn. Tyr ought to be out there with them. Out to feed Gramr the vile creatures.

  But as the king lay chilled to the bone, like to die, Tyr could not pull himself away. “I’m so sorry, my lord.”

  Frigg too, had not stirred, save to try different remedies. Now she set another runestone by Odin’s bedside. “To ward against evil magic.”

  Odin did not answer either of them. Just turned over and gazed at Tyr with blank eyes.

  “I promised your father I’d protect you and your brothers. Now Ve …” Tyr grunted. Odin wouldn’t want the reminder. “And Vili … I damned nigh killed him myself.” Not without cause. “And you—I know not how to fight such a foe.”

  “Grimhild …” It was the first Odin had spoken since he fell. Indeed, the barest hint of color had returned to his flesh. Had the king’s superhuman constitution allowed him to fight through this? Or had Frigg’s runes worked so swiftly?

  “My king?”

  Frigg too dropped to her knees by his side. Grasped his hand.

  “S-sorcery. Kill Grimhild …”

  The Niflung queen. Tyr did not want to leave here. But his king had given him a command. A target.

  A feast for Gramr.

  Tyr rose. “As you command, my king. Consider the sorceress dead already.”

  Odin gave no further answer, staring instead at his wife.

  The sorceress queen did not present herself as a target. So instead, Tyr had cleaved and hewed his way through a legion of the dead. He had lost count of how many draugar had fallen to Gramr. Many dozens, at the least. He had to call on the apple’s power just to keep standing.

  To keep rushing forward.

  Cut a draug’s legs out from under it. Cleave through the falling thing’s skull.

  On and on.

  And then, a draug in a bone helm stood before him. Its blade dripped with fresh blood. A wake of Ás corpses behind it.

  “Champion …” the thing rasped. Its voice sounded hollow, echoing through Tyr’s head. “Join us …”

  Tyr advanced, Gramr high. “I’m not ready to join the ranks of the dead.”

  “Nor were we,” the draug said, circling Tyr. “No vote was tallied. Still we are … bound.”

  “Then allow me to end your suffering.”

  “There is no … end … Eternity is the punishment … for failure.”

  Tyr advanced toward this undead. “Difference is, I’m not going to fail.”

  He attacked, and the thing fell back, giving ground freely, though never allowing Tyr even a small gap to take advantage of.

  The bone draug launched a series of attacks so fast Tyr could barely keep up. Blow after blow he parried on Gramr, but one slipped through. Tore a gash along his cheek. He tried to counter, but the draug kicked him in the chest. The force felt apt to cave in his ribs. Sent him stumbling over backward.

  “I too … was once a great man,” the draug said. “Prince Álf … they called me. Even kings … fall to her sorcery.”

  Tyr gasped, tried to suck breath through bruised lungs. Gramr gave him strength. “You want me to fail. To excuse your own failure. I have Gramr.”

  Álf chuckled, the sound so vile it felt like rats gnawing on Tyr’s skin. “I too once bore a runeblade. Dainsleif, the great blade … relic of the Bragnings. Still I fell … Even as the Niflung blade will turn upon you …”

  Tyr glanced at Gramr. “Maybe you were simply weak.”

  Álf snarled at him and flew into another bout of lightning fast attacks. If he’d wanted to stop the draug from playing with him, it seemed he’d succeeded. Every effort was directed to parrying the unending assault Álf threw at him. Never had Tyr faced a foe so fast, so precise. In death, the draug had had centuries to perfect his sword craft. Or else he had lost none of what he’d learned in life.

  The draug’s blade sheared off Tyr’s mail, scraped his knee and drove him to the ground. The reverse stroke should have ended him, but Gramr jerked back into place faster than he’d have thought possible. She had not betrayed him yet.

  The draug’s blade caught on Gramr, and Tyr surged forward, winding and binding the two blades together rather than let Álf break away. Round and round he went, until the runeblade bit into the edge of the other sword. Tyr jerked away. With Álf’s strength, he failed to tear the sword from the draug’s hand. He did, however, shear a shard right out of the other blade’s edge.

  Immediately he lunged in, swinging overhead. Forced Álf to parry. The weakened sword snapped under Gramr’s power. Álf hissed, flung the useless broken hilt at Tyr. It happened so fast the pommel caught him in the face. Sent him stumbling backward.

  And then Álf tackled him. They both tumbled down into the snow. Tyr lost his grip on Gramr.

  She wailed in his mind, enraged. The draug’s claw-like fingers strove toward Tyr’s eyes. He caught Álf’s wrist, but the draug had constant strength, nigh as much as Tyr could call upon. He patted the ground, reaching for Gramr. Beyond his grasp.

  Álf’s other hand collided with Tyr’s cheek. Twice more he beat him, then managed to snare Tyr’s mail. Álf rose, pulling Tyr up off his feet, and hurled him. Tyr tumbled end over end before hitting the ground again. Rolled over.

  Whole damned world was spinning. Empty stomach heaving.

  He barely managed his feet again as the draug closed the distance in three mighty strides. Álf leapt in the air. Tyr tried to dodge, as though the draug meant to slam its fis
ts down on him. It landed beside him, however. Swept Gramr up in its hand.

  No.

  No, he couldn’t use her against him.

  He could not do such a thing.

  It was impossible.

  Álf spun then, swinging the sword to deflect an arrow flying at him out of nowhere. Tyr used the moment to shoulder-slam the draug. Álf flew several feet through the air but did not drop the sword. Damned thing didn’t feel pain. Snarling, the draug came up swinging again. This time an arrow caught it in the back.

  He turned to look for his attacker.

  Zisa was there, nocking another arrow.

  Tyr’s fist connected with what remained of Álf’s jaw, knocking the bone helm clean off. The head beneath was half rotted, revealing bits of skull and gleaming red eyes. Tyr swung again, but Gramr bit through the mail on his upper arm and sliced into his biceps. Everything from his shoulder down went numb, and his blow lost all power.

  Not his other hand, though. Álf turned to deflect another arrow. And Tyr caught his sword wrist. Zisa’s arrow smacked the draug between the eyes. It staggered backward, losing its grip on Gramr. Tyr caught the runeblade in his left hand and drove it clean through the draug’s torso.

  The monster fell now.

  Zisa stalked over and she stomped on his skull.

  She looked to him. And not quite with hatred.

  Beyond her, Odin stood, leaning on Gungnir. Tyr had not slain Grimhild, but somehow the king had broken free of her sorcery.

  Maybe Álf was right. Maybe Gramr would betray him in the end, maybe Tyr could never be free of her. But for now, she was a blessing.

  Tyr jerked the runeblade free of the draug’s corpse.

  56

  Gudrun could not have fled away from Grimhild’s fury fast enough. The Ás bitch had sent the queen of all bitches into an apoplexy certain to end in misery that would have made the torment of the Bone Guard pale in comparison. In her wrath—and with her curse interrupted—Grimhild had sent her entire army of draugar to slaughter the Aesir, giving over any attempt at strategy.

  Nor had she seemed to care when Gudrun departed to see to the battle, or so Gudrun had claimed. Grimhild would do aught to get that book back. And why not? If it truly carried all the secrets of Niflheim, its power was perhaps unmatched in Midgard. Enough to unseat Grimhild as queen, that was certain, and perhaps enough to send the woman somewhere from which there would be no return?

  Gudrun almost had to laugh. The woman had made a fool of Grimhild, and for that alone she almost wanted to thank the wench. The action would cost the Ás dearly, of course, but for the moment, it meant Grimhild was not thinking clearly. So intent on revenge she could not see the enemy right before her. Nor did Grimhild bother to consider the actual woman who had stolen the book, instead focusing on the horrors she would wrack upon her.

  The girl belonged to Loge—she’d seen them together in the ice cave—so she would undoubtedly seek him out. And she, unbelievably, had the cloak of a swan maiden, gifts usually reserved for servants of the vaettir. All Gudrun had to do was scry the mists for a swan flying in the battle—no real bird would ever head into such horrors.

  Searching out the swan had required her to call upon Snegurka once again. Her glyph burned on her thigh, a constant reminder of the cost of sorcery. As if feeling Snegurka eating away at her was not reminder enough. The Mist spirit strained against her will, beating at her mind in an attempt to assert control over her body and thus, attain free rein in the Mortal Realm. Gudrun swayed in place, trying to keep the vaettr under control. Sometimes, the price was worth it—sometimes, any price was worth victory—at least if it meant she could overcome Grimhild.

  The mists before her parted as the spirit revealed the swan’s position. As expected, the girl flew about the chaos, probably searching for her lover. Gudrun almost felt sorrow to deny her that reunion.

  “Bring her to the ground,” she commanded the Mist spirit.

  The fool girl had flown low, back into the mists, probably in her desperate hunt for Loge. Grimhild couldn’t understand love, and thus had failed to see how clear this girl’s course had been. But Gudrun understood, had braved the Penumbra for Odin, and she knew a person would do aught to reach those they loved. Or thought they loved—for Odin was not worthy of her, and his betrayal would cost the Aesir. Gudrun would make certain of that.

  Through her Sight, Gudrun watched the spirit thicken the mist around the swan until it choked, crashing to the ground. Gudrun continued forward, eyes locked on the ephemeral image the spirit revealed to her. This woman jerked her hood off, clutching at her throat, desperate for the air Snegurka had stolen from her lungs.

  And with the Aesir spread thin, engaging the draugar army, no one even noticed one more body on the ground. Well, no one but Gudrun. She approached the girl and waved off the Mist spirit choking her.

  “Try to fly away again and you’ve breathed your last.”

  The girl gasped, sucking in lungfuls of oh-so-precious air. Yes. Gudrun knew the feeling. Grimhild had thought it important for her to experience that suffering firsthand, to understand the utter powerlessness one felt without air. You couldn’t think, couldn’t act, couldn’t do aught. Naught else mattered but getting one more breath. Yet another lesson she’d one day have to thank the queen for.

  Gudrun knelt beside the Ás woman and yanked the cloak off her shoulders before pulling the tome from her limp arms. “You are a clever one, I grant. Drawing off Álf and the other draugar, even dunking dear Grimhild in snow. That might have been more amusing if you hadn’t done the same to me.” She slipped the tome into her satchel. There would be time for that later. The important thing now was making sure none of Grimhild’s spies knew she had the book, and that meant keeping it from sight and using her own spirits to cover her tracks.

  The girl continued coughing, trying to catch her breath.

  She slipped a knife from her belt and held it to the Ás’s throat. “Tell me, wench. Just who are you to think to match wits against the Niflungar?”

  “Sigyn,” the girl said, between coughs. Coughs she seemed to be trying to still, considering the blade so close to her.

  “And do you even know who we are? Do you realize your hubris in acting against us?”

  “Gods, listen to you.” She coughed once more. “Managing to accuse me of hubris while guilty of it yourself in the same breath. Do you practice that arrogance, princess?”

  Gudrun frowned. The girl knew who she was. This Sigyn clearly belonged to Loge, but Gudrun didn’t much like that the man knew so much of her, either.

  “Yes, I know who you are, Gudrun. And, yes, I know who the Niflungar are. Men—and women—who think they’re gods. In truth, you are but one more fallen kingdom, just like all the other heirs of Halfdan. Except you just don’t seem to know when your time has passed. The Old Kingdoms are dead as your draugar, and like them, you are too stubborn to remain in the grave.”

  Gudrun’s frown deepened. The Ás woman had read the thoughts right off her face. Too clever indeed. And Loge had clearly told this wench far more of the Niflungar than she had expected. Had he told all the Aesir, or just his woman?

  “Clever,” Gudrun repeated aloud. “But not clever enough to keep your mouth shut when you ought. You play at courage, but I can see the fear in your eyes.” Gudrun was an expert in fear, of that, her mother had made damned certain. “So tell me, frightened little girl … Why shouldn’t I just slit your throat and be done with it?”

  In truth, she was grateful to Sigyn for her actions. By separating Grimhild from her tome, Sigyn had dealt a blow Gudrun never could have. Embarrassing the queen was an added bonus. Under other circumstances, she might have even liked this Ás wench.

  Sigyn pressed back against the tree, a futile attempt to put more space between herself and the knife. “Well, I could have shot you—twice, in fact. Once in the ice cave and once when I stole the book.”

  Mercy? Gudrun hadn’t even thought of it, but no arrows had
targeted her. And back then, in the ruins, Gudrun had been too frightened of Loge to even consider his woman, but reflecting, she had had a bow then, hadn’t she? “That just proves you are once again not half so clever as you think yourself.” Gudrun shook her head. Sigyn knew far more about her and her people than someone outside their ranks ought. Maybe she was innocent, maybe Sigyn wasn’t a killer. Circumstances of birth, however unfortunate, had made her an enemy.

  Sigyn smirked. This bitch was reading her face again, and Gudrun didn’t like that. “If you think yourself so much cleverer, princess, consider this. I am Loge’s woman, as you well suspect. If you harm me, he will hunt you to the ends of Midgard and beyond. He and his blood brother, Odin—yes, your precious Odin—will come for you. Do you want that? Is that risk worth what small satisfaction you’d draw from spilling my blood? On the other hand, if you spare me, you win favor from both men.”

  Gudrun sighed. Put that way, the wench was probably right. Sigyn knew too much, but no doubt less than Loge himself. Odin’s blood brother … Hel, did Odin even know the truth about his ally? She shook her head. A question for another time. Killing this woman carried with it plenty of risk and little possible gain, and yet, Loge and Odin had both made themselves her enemies already. Sigyn had not personally done aught to earn her wrath, and Gudrun didn’t believe in killing without purpose.

  But neither did she much care for this girl’s cocky grin. The bitch thought she could read her, princess of the Niflungar. Manipulate her? There would be a price for that.

  She leaned closer to the Ás woman. “I won’t kill you.”

  “What?”

  Gudrun sank her dagger into Sigyn’s thigh.

  Her shrieks of pain made Gudrun’s hair stand on end. The girl fell over, clutching the wound and wailing. Gudrun hadn’t ever wanted to hear another woman cry out like that again. She’d seen too much of it, felt too much of it herself. This was her mother—Grimhild! Grimhild was getting inside Gudrun, shaping her in her own image. And Gudrun would not have it. She would be a queen of the Niflungar, but not like Grimhild. Never like that.