The Apples of Idunn
Page 1
The Apples of Idunn
Matt Larkin
Contents
Free novel
Maps
Dramatis Personae
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part 2
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Part 3
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Part 4
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Part 5
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Keep Reading
The Mists of Niflheim
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Author’s Ramblings
About the Author
THE APPLES OF IDUNN
The Ragnarok Era Book 1
MATT LARKIN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2017 Matt Larkin.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Clark Chamberlain and Fred Roth
Published by Incandescent Phoenix Books
mattlarkinbooks.com
For Juhi. For believing.
If you liked The Apples of Idunn, you’ll love the prequel. See the dawn of the Njarar War and the tragic adventures of Agilaz and Volund.
Click the link to claim your free copy and continue the adventure:
http://www.mattlarkinbooks.com/join-the-readers-group-ragnarok-era/
Thanks for reading,
Matt Larkin
For high resolution maps, be sure to check out http://www.mattlarkinbooks.com/ragnarok-era-atlas/.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Aesir
Wodan Tribe
Odin: Jarl of the Wodanar
Vili: Odin’s brother; a berserk
Ve: Odin’s youngest brother; a skald
Tyr: Odin’s champion and most important thegn
Heidr: The vӧlva of the Wodanar
Freki: Varulf boy adopted by Odin; twin of Geri
Geri: Varulf girl adopted by Odin; twin of Freki
Athra Tribe
Annar: Jarl of the Athra, Odin’s cousin on his mother’s side
Eir: Vӧlva to the Athra
Geir: Thegn of Annar
Bjar Tribe
Moda: Jarl of the Bjar
Didung Tribe
Lodur: Jarl of the Diduni and friendly rival of Odin’s since childhood
Friallaf Tribe
Steinar: Jarl of the Friallafs
Godwulf Tribe
Alci: Jarl of the Godwulfs
Hoenir: A thegn to Jarl Alci
Syn: Hoenir’s daughter; engaged to Hermod
Hasding Tribe
Hadding: Jarl of the Hasdingi
Frigg: Daughter of Fjorgyn and Hadding; a vӧlva
Fulla: Frigg’s maid
Sigyn: Frigg’s half sister
Agilaz: Sigyn’s foster father. A master hunter and archer.
Olrun: Sigyn’s foster mother. A former shieldmaiden.
Hermod: Agilaz and Olrun’s son
Itrmann Tribe
Arnbjorn: Jarl of the Itrmanni
Skaldun Tribe
Bedvig: Jarl of the Skalduns, now married to Zisa, for which Tyr hates him
Zisa: Tyr’s ex-wife; a huntress and shieldmaiden
Niflungar
An ancient people descended from Naefil, a son of Halfdan the Old. Naefil made a pact with Hel, the goddess of Niflheim, and his descendants are called the Children of the Mist. They are largely sorcerers. In ages past, they were defeated by the Lofdar and driven to the edges of Midgard.
Gjuki: The Raven Lord, King of the Niflungar
Grimhild: Queen of the Niflungar and High Priestess of Hel
Gudrun: A sorceress and princess of the Niflungar
Gunnar: Gudrun’s youngest brother
Guthorm: Grimhild’s son and Gudrun’s half brother; a Niflung prince and assassin
Hogne: Gudrun’s middle brother (younger than Gudrun)
Vanir
The people of Vanaheim, long worshipped as gods by the Aesir. Originally human, many have become immortal thanks to the apples of Yggdrasil. Because there are not enough apples to go around, some remain mortal. Though King Njord holds the final authority, the Vanir also have an aristocracy called the Aethelings.
Bragi: God of poetry, husband to Idunn; patron of the Bragnings, a now fallen people
Eostre: Goddess of the dawn and mother of Idunn
Frey: God of fertility, sunshine, and war; when wielding the flaming sword, Laevateinn, nearly unstoppable in battle
Freyja: Goddess of love, sex, and magic; twin sister of Frey
Gefjon: Goddess of plenty, beholden to Lady Sunna
Gullveig: An alchemist
Idunn: The fabled goddess of spring, who gave the spear Gungnir to the Wodanar in generations past
Lytir: Keeper of Yggdrasil and speaker for the Norns
Mani: God of the moon
Mundilfari: Former king of Vanaheim who abdicated the throne and then vanished
Nerthus: Goddess of fertility and wife of Njord
Njord: God of the sea, King of the Vanir. Father of Frey and Freyja.
Sunna: Goddess of the sun, daughter of Mundilfari
Ullr: God of archery
Others
Aegir: A sea giant and husband of Rán
Hel: Goddess of Niflheim, queen of the dead, and the most feared being in the cosmos
Hymir: A jotunn who raised Tyr
Irpa: A wraith bound in service to Gudrun
Loki: A foreigner who agrees to guide Odin to Ymir
Nott: Primal goddess of night; feared by the Aesir, rather than worshipped
Rán: Mermaid queen of the sea; wife of Aegir
Sleipnir: Odin’s eight-legged horse
Ymir: A jotunn Loki claims murdered Borr and everyone in Unterhagen
Prologue
Fire is life.
That aphorism had spread through the North Realms as thoroughly as the mists themselves. Fire could hold those freezing mists at bay. But all fires dwindled, and still the cold remained, hungry, waiting to devour man and beast.
And Loki was left alone to tend the flame. Fate bound him, hurled him ever forward toward a destiny of anguish and despair with only the barest ember of hope remaining. Hop
e for a better future than this dying world. The hope that for once, if he kindled the flame high enough, it might endure and offer a lasting bulwark against the cold and the dark. Likely, it was a delusion he clung to like a man wandering in a blizzard, convinced shelter lay just beyond the next pass.
A figure drifted in on the mist and sat across the bonfire from Loki. Few among the realms of man still remembered Loki’s guest. Those who did called him the Mad Vanr. The sorcerer king who had walked away from his throne after looking too long and too deep into the dark and losing himself there.
Loki could empathize with such a failing. Long ago, pyromancers had stared into flames such as these, seeking answers from the perilous future. Few remained with such talents, and those few, like Loki, felt the burden ever more keenly for it.
The Vanr cleared his throat as he warmed his hands before the fire. “I passed beyond the edge of the Midgard Wall some moons back.” Mundilfari, his people had called him, in ages past when he sat upon the throne of Vanaheim. This wretched figure had once been the sorcerer who protected Midgard against the chaos and darkness—for which he lost his humanity and spiraled into depravity, falling ever deeper into the dark between realms. “I passed into Utgard freely. There are cracks in the wall, fissures that widen with age.”
Loki poked the fire with a stick. “Nothing lasts forever.” The Vanir—most of all Mundilfari himself—had raised a mighty wall out of the mountains, a barrier to encircle most of Midgard, separate it from the lands of the jotunnar. That very act, calling upon such forbidden depths of the Art, might have been the point that sent this Vanr plummeting toward the abyss of madness. Now, uncounted centuries later, the sorcerer had fought his way back from the edge. But to use his Art once again, he’d risk falling deeper than ever and, like as not, find himself becoming a vessel for some horror of the Otherworlds.
So he had visited Utgard, perhaps needed to see for himself how the world had changed beyond the wall. In Utgard, chaos reigned. The very nature of chaos ensured all boundaries designed to occlude it would eventually succumb to entropy.
“Maybe the jotunnar will soon pass through the wall.”
Loki shook his head. “Some of them already have.”
Mundilfari groaned and let his head fall into his palms. “All that I have done, all I wrought for Midgard is failing.”
Every such salvation represented a temporary reprieve from fate. The Vanr may have bought mankind time, but that time had dwindled with each passing winter, just as the flames dwindled. “Nothing lasts forever,” Loki repeated.
Mundilfari stared up at the night sky as if some answer might lurk there, among stars hidden by clouds and mist. “I hear whispers from Vanaheim. A wind sweeps through my mind and claims that some few precious, perilous treasures have vanished from the islands. When is gold worth more than gold?”
“Idunn has taken some of the apples with her.”
Mundilfari might have gone mad, but the wind in his mind spoke some truths. The flames had told Loki much the same tale.
“What will she do?”
Loki crooked the hint of a smile.
“Fine. What will you do, fire-bringer?”
The flames danced, writhing as if in response to the Vanr’s question. Loki rose. “As ever, I will do whatever the future demands of me. I have to keep the flame alive.”
Fire is life.
Part I
Year 117, Age of Vingethor
Fourth Moon, Winter
1
Flames from the pyre leapt high into the night, banishing mist and preserving the living, even as they consumed the dead, as they devoured flesh and dreams and hopes.
Father.
Odin stood at the forefront of the gathered crowd, staring into the flames, unwilling to look at the mass of people who had come to bid farewell to Borr, the great jarl. All the nearest Ás tribes had come. The jarls decked in their fine embroidered furs and golden arm rings, their thegns clad in fine mail, and even vӧlvur—witches learned in secrets forever denied to men. All had come to pay silent respect to the greatest Aesir in living memory. The world was lesser now. The flames were a failing defense against the ever encroaching cold. One day, all fires would burn down to cinders. One day, the world would die.
One day soon, most like.
Odin’s two brothers looked to him now, looked to see what he, the eldest, would do, what he would say. He had already spoken in their father’s honor, his voice almost breaking. But his brothers, the rest of the Wodan tribe, and even the other tribes’ jarls all waited for more of his words. As if some speech, some feeble gesture or deficient sentiment, might preserve the tenuous peace Father had struggled to hold between the tribes. All words would fall short, so Odin had none to offer.
How disappointed they would be to learn the son could not match the father. Would not, if he could. Father’s dreams of a united people smoldered and turned to ash around his broken body. Someone had betrayed him, murdered him. Tyr, his champion, had found his body rent asunder and crushed almost beyond recognition. A body left out in the mist might rise as a draug, damned to wander Midgard somewhere between life and death. Not Father. Too little remained of the man for that. His head, torn from his shoulders, had lain far from his body.
And yet, his murderers had not claimed his spear, Gungnir. That had remained lodged in a tree trunk. The sacred weapon of the jarls of the Wodanar, granted to them by the Vanr Idunn during the Great March. It fell now into Odin’s keeping. When he held it, he felt both strong and unworthy, filled with righteous wrath and the implacable need to avenge this wrong. By Frey’s flaming sword and the spear of his father, he would do so! Odin would slaughter any and all who had so dishonored Borr and he would leave their carcasses to the anguish of mist.
Odin had borne Father’s head back himself, in trembling hands, unwilling to accept a litter for it, no matter how heavy it grew over the miles. Head and body both burned now, on a mighty pyre just outside the town wall.
Fists clenched at his side, Odin stood motionless until that pyre had dwindled down to embers. The others had left, he knew, drifted away one by one, leaving him alone with the cinders. Only ravens perched upon the trees accompanied him in his grief. In the town, his brothers threw a feast in Father’s name. Odin had no mood to feast. Not this night.
Footfalls crunched on the snow behind him. A hand fell on his shoulder. Jaw tight, Odin turned to see Tyr there. A powerful man with long dark hair and a trim beard, Tyr was taller than Odin—and Odin was a large man. Tyr bore the scars of a hundred battles, more perhaps. But he hadn’t been at his jarl’s side in the end. Odin fixed him with a glower and did not speak. Naught remained to say.
“Valkyries have taken him to Valhalla by now,” Tyr said. “Borr feasts with the Vanir.”
Odin shrugged the man’s hand off his shoulder and turned once more to the pyre. If only he could believe Tyr. But surely his father’s spirit did not rest easy, not while his murder stood unavenged. Thousands of ghosts dwelt in the mists, lingering just beyond firelight, wandering in eternal torment. Father would not rise as a draug, for such things inhabited their own corpses. But some other kind of ghost … perhaps. A fevered specter or wraith, watching as his son did naught to end his suffering.
But then, whom could he take revenge against?
No one in the village of Unterhagen had survived to tell the tale. When Father did not return from some secret meeting, Tyr had tracked him to the village. Odin followed with a small war band. The slaughter and savagery they found in Unterhagen suggested trolls—except trolls didn’t usually kill the women, preferring to claim them as wives. Men, women, children—all lay dead, battered and beaten, their corpses spread across the village.
Odin had walked there in agonized torpor, fearing what he’d find. Unterhagen lay in a small valley, only nine homes cluttered in a wooded valley a few days from Eskgard. A snowstorm had swept in and blanketed the massacre, forcing Odin and Tyr and the others to dig through the snow to even f
ind many of the corpses.
And they had found them. No corpse could be left to rot, for fear of the draugar. So they had dug through the snow until at last they had found a severed head. Father.
They burned the bodies of the freemen and slaves in three large pyres. But Borr was noble, of the line of Loridi, and thus deserved a funeral fit for such venerated blood. And so they brought what pieces of him they could find and waited. Waited while the other tribes braved the winter storms to come and pay last respects to the greatest of the Aesir.
“You must speak to your guests,” Tyr said.
Odin scoffed. He had questioned all he could, trying to learn who his father had gone to meet. Searching for an answer, searching for the path to vengeance. No one had those answers. Not the vӧlvur, whose useless visions told him less than naught. Not the jarls nor their thegns. No one.
“You do not well remember the Njarar War—”
“Of course I don’t fucking remember it. It was twenty winters back, I was four.”
Tyr scowled at his interruption. “You may not remember it. I do. By the end, more than half the Aesir tribes, the better part of all Aujum … it was drowning in blood. If not for Borr, Njord knows what would have become of this land. Your father ended the war. Brought peace between us.”
Relatively speaking. The Aesir tribes still raided against one another, from time to time. Father did—had done—his best to direct their aggression back north, into Sviarland. Njarar was one of numerous petty kingdoms there. Father had spoken more than once of turning from raids to conquest, of bringing the northern kingdoms under Aesir control. He might have done it, too. But still, not all the Aesir cared overmuch for Father’s attempts to unite them. Some claimed the man thought he was Vingethor himself, thinking to be king. No one had stood as king since then, not in the five generations since the Great March out of Bjarmaland. Maybe no one would ever be king again. None of it mattered. Not compared to the weight on Odin’s shoulders. His first duty was to his father’s honor. Blood called out for blood, and he would bathe all Aujum in it to avenge Father.