Blood of the Isir Omnibus

by Erik Henry Vick

  Kuhntul smiled at me with a gentle expression in her eyes. “He is, but so are you.”

  “That makes no sense, Kuhntul.”

  She laughed. “And yet, it is the truth. You are Alfuhthr, the Father of All, and my sword is yours.” She bowed her head, and when she looked up, there were tears in her eyes.

  “Now, wait just a minute. I know my Norse mythology, and I know who the Father of All is. Are you saying I’m Odin?”

  She smiled wide, and glossy mahogany wings sprang from her shoulders. She picked me up without apparent effort, and her great wings beat the air. Carrying me as if I weighed nothing, she ascended into the sky.

  I looked down to see Keri and Fretyi running in tight circles and barking. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Not where, Roonateer. When.” She flew toward Iktrasitl, and the varkr puppies followed our progress from the ground.

  I craned my neck to see her face, and serenity and confidence glowed there like the radiance of the sun.

  We flew to the top of Iktrasitl, and Tindur cried a greeting. Kuhntul continued straight up, high above the top of the towering World Tree. She came to hover next to a proo that floated in midair.

  “Hank,” she said in my ear. “You are the one I serve, the one I helped create. You are Roonateer.”

  Before I could speak, she took us through her proo and into a version of the Conflux that seemed different somehow. After a moment, I realized there was no damage to the forest, no brutal scar of ash and destroyed trees, but that wasn’t all. There was something else I couldn’t put my finger on.

  “What are you doing, Kuhntul?” I asked, alarm tickling the back of my mind.

  “Now, Roonateer, you must remember this. You must say your name is Owsakrimmr, and you must say no more than that regarding your identity.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Do you remember what Owsakrimmr said to you when you hung in the dreamslice reflection of the World Tree?”

  I looked down at the tree and the surrounding land. Is that what’s different? Is this the dreamslice reflection of Iktrasitl?

  “Do you? Do you remember the sound of Owsakrimmr’s voice?”

  “I don’t think I will ever forget.”

  “That is good. You will need to play the other part this time.”

  “This time? What are we doing here, Kuhntul?”

  In answer, she sank down next to the Tree, slowing as she descended. “Ah, there it is.” She drifted closer to the tree. “I’m not sure how close we are to your first visit in the timeflow but don’t worry, I am sure we are here in advance of your other self.”

  “You’re not making much sense.”

  She chuckled and held me out at arm’s length. “This will do nicely, I think.”

  Something took hold of me from behind and pulled me from Kuhntul’s grasp with a gentleness that reminded me of a mother holding her newborn child. “What’s happening?”

  “You must play your part, Roonateer. Remember what I said, about giving Owsakrimmr as your name, and about the words that were spoken to you on your first few visits here. Much depends on your performance.”

  “My addend,” I murmured, shaking my head. I swallowed, my throat clicking with dryness. “This is freaking me out, Kuhntul.”

  “I will be here, though I, too, have a part to play. Do not draw the attention of the Nornir. Try not to draw any attention. Your earlier-self will be here soon. And afterwards, we have a dead frost giant to visit.”

  The familiar sound of Ratatoskr scrambling down Iktrasitl’s trunk erupted from below us. “Who is that? Who is mucking about up there?”

  “Relax, Ratatoskr,” I said in a voice filled with gravel, craning my neck to see him. I remembered all those times the little red squirrel had asked me if I was going to attack him with a spear. “Don’t give me any trouble or I’ll have to poke you with a spear.”

  “No reason to be rude!” snapped Ratatoskr.

  I chuckled and turned my gaze back to Kuhntul, but she was gone. Ratatoskr scrambled by me and left me alone, hanging in Iktrasitl, waiting for myself to appear.

  I hope you have enjoyed the Blood of the Isir story. Wild Hunt is the last book published (but there will be more at some future point). If you’d like to read something else I’ve written and enjoy horror and supernatural suspense, please check out The Bloodletter Saga (or The Bloodletter Collections if you prefer read books in lengths similar to the novels in this omnibus).

  If you’ve enjoyed this novel, please consider joining my Readers Group by visiting https://ehv4.us/join. Or follow me on BookBub by visiting my profile page there: https://ehv4.us/bbub.

  For my complete bibliography, please visit https://ehv4.us/bib.

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  WILD HUNT

  Table of Contents

  Cover PAGE

  Title PAGE

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Author’s Note

  Written on completion of Errant Gods:

  I have always been an avid reader. In fact, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t reading a book. I wore out books by my favorite authors, reading them until the pages fell out, and then bought another copy.

  When I was disabled by my Personal Monster™ I turned to fiction for solace, although in ebook form (and now, I can read them as much as I want, and the pages do not fall out). It was a bleak and dark time for me—I was lonely. I was depressed.

  I felt…useless.

  I needed to do something that mattered to me, and I wanted to do something that mattered to others as well. People have a hard time understanding chronic illness, and I can’t say I blame them—I have one that I can’t understand at all. It’s a so called “invisible disability.” When you see someone with a wheelchair or a prosthetic, you immediately recognize what’s wrong and can imagine the limitations that person faces. Imagining what goes on when someone is disabled by a chronic illness is much harder. You can’t see the pain, the exhaustion, the isolation, the mental toll.

  I began writing this novel out of desperation. As I said, I needed to do something, and I needed to
keep my mind working. I also wanted to provide a peek into the life my Personal Monster™ allowed me. I decided to write about a guy with rheumatoid arthritis, to describe the pain, the darkness, the hopelessness.

  Years before, I’d written as a hobby, but always with the idea of publishing “at some point.” Supergirl (the real one) encouraged me to write again (and as usual, she was right. And super). In the face of my illness, I knew it would be hard. There are stretches of time in which I can’t do much more than watch the clock—waiting for the next time I can take pain meds. I knew I’d spend weeks or even months NOT working on this novel, and that’s A Very Bad Thing for a writer. The story evaporates. Characters change into potted plants. I also knew I could never meet a traditional publishing deadline.

  I didn’t care. I wanted to try anyway, and in the beginning, the novel suffered because of my illness. Then, I read about “next notes” in Bag of Bones by Stephen King, and it was like being struck by lightning. Suddenly, I knew how to overcome the problems of not working on a schedule. The simple act of leaving a next note for myself at the end of a writing session allowed me to develop the ideas that were bouncing around in my head, and the simple story of a guy chasing a serial killer grew beyond its bounds.

  The first draft of this novel was over 215,000 words (about 900 8.5 x 11 pages, double spaced). By contrast, the version you just read is 159,000 words—what I cut is long enough to be considered a novel on its own. Part of that was because I like to talk. A lot. Part of it was because of the way the book developed (around page 300 of the original draft, the story became something new, and suddenly there were a bunch of Norse gods running around casting lightning bolts and such). But also, part of it was because I’d started with the idea of telling everyone what it was like to be disabled by RA. I wanted to explain how stupid some laws and policies of insurance companies are. That’s a bad idea. I’ve always said that when you want to get up on your soap box and right wrongs with your fiction, you should go write an essay and get all that out of your system, so you can get back to writing a story. Plus, a lot of what I wrote in the beginning was just plain bad.

  After I cut the bad, reworked the mediocre, and finished the novel, I think I still painted a picture of what it’s like to battle a Personal Monster™ on a daily basis, and I think I did it without too much preaching. I also had a lot of fun running around the universe with Hank. I hope you did, too.

  Written on the completion of Rooms of Ruin

  The ending of Hank’s stories always come as a surprise. Scratch that—the endings of all my novel-length works seem to surprise me. That may sound like so much crazy nonsense, but it is absolute truth. When I wrote fiction two and three decades ago, I worked from an outline (or at least a narrative structure) and always knew where I was in the story and how much was yet to come. I don’t write that way any longer, and I have to say the new way I write is much, much more fun.

  How do I write, you ask? I start with only a broad idea for the book. For instance, I started this book knowing that Hank and company had to end up inside the Rooms of Ruin and that Haymtatlr would be there to “help” them. That’s it.

  As I prepare to write a novel, I begin talking to myself—in the shower, while I’m driving, while I’m walking, wherever, really. I start telling myself the story. Those beginnings don’t always make it into the book—they have to be good enough that I will jot down a note or two, and I have an entire digital notebook dedicated to random book ideas, beginnings, names, titles, etc. to contain them. Equipped with the best of the beginnings and a general idea of what has to happen, I sit down and let the story take over.

  Glancing back at my notebook entries for this novel, I see: the first line from Chapter Four (it was too good to abandon, even though the story wanted to start another way), a one-paragraph description of John’s imprisonment in Helhaym and the scene Hank dreams about, and this, which was the first idea I had for the book:

  Big army guarding RoR at Pilrust. “Can’t fight through that,” says Hank. “Not a chance,” says Mothi. Meuhlnir scoffs, “A little group like that?”

  It didn’t happen quite that way, as you no doubt already know, but I had no idea that ravens were going to play such an important role. Yeah, that’s dishonest…the truth is, I hadn’t even thought of the ravens yet.

  I’m starting the third book in the Blood of the Isir series tomorrow, and while it will be the last book from the series for a bit, it will not be the last book, I promise. I already have the beginning and the title for book four, so by my twisted logic, that book is already ninety percent done. Additionally, Hank whispered in my ear the other day, and his story goes much farther than the events I’ve already planned.

  I can’t wait.

  Written on completion of Wild Hunt:

  Hello there! Have a seat and relax a little. I’m feeling relaxed as I write this, as I’ve just finished putting together the image for the chapters and realized that I’m pretty much done with this novel. Sure, it’s still out with a few alpha readers, then goes to the editor, then the proofer, and there’s a chance at all of those stages that I may turn this into a book about petunias, but those chances are slim.

  You see, I like how this novel ends, and to be honest, have known the outline of the end since somewhere about one third of the way through writing Rooms of Ruin. My excitement about the ending has had me bouncing in my chair for months and months, and now, it’s finally (for all intents and purposes) finished and ready for you to read.

  That’s a pretty heady feeling, I must tell you. I’ve led a pretty eclectic and diverse life, and in all the careers I’ve had, nothing quite matches this feeling. Yes, there is some apprehension—will you like where Hank’s story has taken him? Will you like the bombs I dropped on you in the last chapter? I hope the answer to those questions is “yes,” because I love where the story took me during the writing of it.

  Will there be more? As I have said in various places online and in the Author’s Note of Rooms of Ruin, Hank’s story does not, cannot, end here. I know the title and the beginning few scenes of book four, several ideas for novellas to hang off the side of the series like Christmas tree ornaments, and an entry in my digital notebook of ideas that I have named “Big Story ARC.” Yes, there’s more. A lot more.

  It’s strange to me, to be honest. When I wrote science fiction, I had a hard time getting to 70,000 words (which was, at the time, the minimum length for a science fiction novel) but now, 150,000 words seems easy. It might be the affinity I have for Hank’s character, or the easy way all the characters write themselves, or the way the story just rolls out of me most of the time.

  Having said that, Hank needs a vacation. I devoted most of 2018 to Hank’s story and have other things I have to write before I come back to Hank. That’s good news, really, as it will give my unconscious mind enough time to come up with new, crazier places for Hank to go. I can tell you one thing: now that the secret about Hank is out, the challenges that will face the Isir will require more help from the others and more development of their abilities. It’s probably time for Veethar, Pratyi, Freya, Yowrnsaxa, and Sig to come up toward the front of the pack. Oh, and don’t forget Keri and Fretyi… I’m going to stop right here before I start writing book four and blow all my plans right out of the water!

  I’m often asked how I deal with writer’s block, and I always quip that I “block it out,” but that answer is nothing but artifice. I don’t have writer’s block anymore. I have the opposite problem—too many ideas, too many books in my head clamoring to get out. I’ve spent a great deal of time in the past few months trying to figure out how I can squeeze more words into the time my Personal Monster™ allows me to work, and, I’ve hit on a few ideas that seem to work in the limited time I’ve tried them.

  I hope to increase the number of books I can produce in a year—though some will be shorter than my standard 650-750 pages. I have a goal or two for 2019, and if I can keep my Personal Monster™ distracted for long
enough, I hope to bring you many more books to read than I was able to produce in 2018—including a sequel to Demon King, a book where Lily from The Devil makes another appearance, a book about a serial killer in a small town, a post-apocalyptic yarn (but it’s so big in my head, I don’t know how long it will take to get it written), and maybe even a little book that may be called The Sons of Ivalti.

  Then again, since Mr. Story wears the pants in this literary family, all of that may change. Either way, 2019 is going to be a wild ride, and I hope you stick with me.

  I guess that’s all for now. As always, I’d love to hear from you either in email or on social media, so please don’t hesitate to drop me a note.

  See you in the funny papers!

  And now, for something completely different…

  So far, writing Hank’s story has been a blast to write, with interspersed periods of frustration and the desire to find a sharp, pointy stick with which to commune with my Personal Monster™. Years in the making, there were times when I almost gave up, times when I thought it was horrible, times when I had so much fun writing it I thought it might never end.

  And it may not.

  That’s not a promise, but there are already ideas floating around in this maelstrom I call a mind. I do know there are more than the original three books I thought there were. And based on the reaction of many of my reader’s, that’s probably a Good Thing™.

  About the Author

  Erik Henry Vick is an author who happens to be disabled by an autoimmune disease (also known as his Personal Monster™). He writes to hang on to the few remaining shreds of his sanity. His current favorite genres to write are dark fantasy and horror.

  He lives in Western New York with his wife, Supergirl; their son; a Rottweiler named after a god of thunder; and two extremely psychotic cats. He fights his Personal Monster™ daily with humor, pain medicine, and funny T-shirts.

  Erik has a B.A. in Psychology, an M.S.C.S., and a Ph.D. in Artificial Intelligence. He has worked as a criminal investigator for a state agency, a college professor, a C.T.O. for an international software company, and a video game developer.