by Matt Larkin
The Ragnarok Era Omnibus Two
Books 4-6
Matt Larkin
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Contents
Maps
The High Seat of Asgard
Prologue
Part I
Part II
Epilogue
Author’s Ramblings
The Well of Mimir
Prologue
Part I
Part II
Part III
Epilogue
Author’s Ramblings
The Radiance of Alfheim
Prologue
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Epilogue
Author’s Ramblings
The Saga Continues …
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The High Seat of Asgard
Prologue
Year 22, Age of the Aesir
Those who watched such things might have said that the Aesir had rekindled the flame of the Lofdar. That they had become a second bulwark against the ever-encroaching mists and thus, a fragile hope in the final age of a dying world. Loki had given them that flame, as he had done for the Lofdar and for others even before them. And indeed, in two decades, the Aesir had become the new gods of the North Realms. Petty gods though, and none too quick to face the true threats plaguing Midgard.
And their king, as ever, proved both less and more than Loki could have ever hoped. Like a wildfire, he raged out of all control, consuming the world in his passions and leaving Loki the same fragile hope as all others—that when all was done, perhaps the mist too would have burned away in the conflagration.
“I do not require your presence here,” Odin said. “Why do you not return to your wife?”
Loki, crouched atop a boulder and staring into the mist of a ravine, craned his neck around to take in his blood brother. He did not need to ask why the king failed to act on his own advice. Odin, for his part, looked away in acknowledgment of Loki’s unspoken point. Or dismissal of it, perhaps, for in truth, they faced different realities.
Sigyn did wait for Loki back in Asgard, no doubt wondering where he had wandered now in his endless pursuit of Odin. She knew, of course, that Loki worked to guide the king ever toward a destiny that might, if he played his moves well enough, allow a semblance of victory however temporary. Odin’s true love, though, had been cast out of Midgard entirely and by his own hand no less. Loki’s blood brother no doubt felt affection for his wife, perhaps even trust, but Freyja would always hold his heart, and—as Sigyn did with Loki—even a piece of his soul. The pain of separation Loki knew all too well.
Odin did not speak of such things oft, however. He grunted instead, waving his hand southward. “We may have to move against them one day.”
“You are not prepared for such foes.”
The Miklagardian Empire spread across the better part of the South Realms, forcing men to their religion by sword point, to say naught of ensuring a steady stream of tribute flowed into the city of Miklagard. Indeed, someday Odin might need to confront them if only for the threat of the spread of their faith—and the perverse truth behind their doctrine of life beyond death—represented to the spread of his own. Beyond the Sudurberks, they called the lands Outer Miklagard, for it was far from their center of power and the labyrinthine politics that accompanied it.
Odin stroked his graying beard. “Perhaps not yet. We will be … soon enough.”
Loki sighed and rose from the boulder. “I told you I would help you see this through. My promise binds me, even if I do not wholly approve of your machinations.” With a last shake of his head, he strode toward the tunnel entrance below them.
Not content with the barely controllable weapon that fire represented, Loki’s blood brother now courted another power, as if unwilling or unable to imagine there might be aught worse than mist.
Odin snorted and fell into step beside Loki. “You are one to talk of machinations.” He fell silent a moment as they entered the dark tunnel, treading ever toward their treacherous ally. Given the choice, Loki would have suggested another path, and yet, every glimpse of the future seemed to dry up more choices, leaving but the bitter urd he saw before them. Odin no doubt felt the same. “The Volsung line,” Odin said after a moment, “will allow me to recover the ring and finally bring down the Niflungar dynasty, all in one stroke. Whatever the cost to them, the end result will prove worth it. You cannot tell me you have not made decisions in your long life—moves on the tafl board, rather—that sacrifice the happiness of a few for the longterm good of the whole.”
Loki grunted, acknowledging the hit. He had wrought a great deal of chaos and death in his time, all in pursuit of an endgame Odin did not yet—could not—understand.
Neither spoke while they trod through the tunnel, the only light coming from Loki’s flickering torch, and that at half the illumination one would expect. At least one who had never trod here before. The clang of a hammer on anvil announced their host long before the fires of his forge came into view.
In another age, the dvergar had constructed a deep forge here—massive underground chambers capable of generating flames that blazed hotter than any known to man. In such places, they crafted their great works, their terrible artifacts that cast a fell urd upon all who came into contact with them. The crippled, ashen-skinned man working the forge was no dverg, however, but the far more sinister svartalf. Volund glanced at them with his gleaming eyes and his wicked half smile. Left with but his own withered soul, the smith now seemed intent to claim those of others. Loki ought not have ever brought Odin here, but having found no choice then, he remained with no choice now—if he allowed his blood brother to face such an adversary alone, Odin might fall even farther into darkness.
The smith set aside the blade he was working on and hobbled over to a shelf against the wall.
“Is it done?” Odin asked.
“Indeed, as I said it would be. As you well know, Ás King, or you would not have come.”
Indeed, they had both foreseen the weapon’s completion. It had drawn them here across frozen mountains and long miles, beckoning and irresistible.
Volund held up a short-hafted hammer with an overlarge head. “I give you Mjölnir.”
“A hammer?” Odin snorted. “I asked you to craft the greatest weapon on Midgard, and you make a tool for building houses?”
The smith grumbled and shook his head. “You are a fool, Ás, if you cannot see the potential. I have improved on the design of Miklagardian war hammers, rendered it strong enough to break jotunn bones, even through armor. And should you yet have the vigor to wield it in your decrepit body, it will fulfill all your requests.”
Odin took the proffered weapon, examining it and testing its heft as Loki watched. “It is not for me.”
Loki, in all his interminable years, had never seen quite such a weapon. No, but he had seen a great many terrible works, and this hammer rivaled any of them. The dark smith had demanded vast quantities of orichalcum, and Odin had delivered it unto him without question.
“I wonder,” Odin said, “did you refuse to
make a sword or axe simply as one more means of proving your mastery of your craft—the man who could make even a hammer a mighty weapon.” Odin blew out a long breath and looked around the forge.
Loki frowned. Odin was no doubt correct there. Volund had already forged a runeblade to rival those crafted by the dvergar as prizes for the Old Kingdoms. Now, he had crafted something … else.
Volund spread his hands. “Your goods are delivered, and thus, I have fulfilled my bargain.”
“And you shall have what I promised you.”
Loki clenched his jaw, saying naught—for the bargain was struck and naught was left to be said. Odin might think himself unlikely to ever have to fulfill his part of it. But Loki had witnessed more years than Odin could imagine, and such things oft came about in ways unexpected.
“I have another task for you,” Odin said.
The svartalf cackled, then hobbled his way over to a chair where he collapsed. “I cannot tell you how delighted I will be … I fair salivate on imagining what you will ask … and what I might claim in return.”
Odin unshouldered his satchel and drew from it a scroll. The king had taken that from Sessrumnir, then marked it with his own notes. Long years spent delving into the nature of the Sight had deepened his understanding of it, even if it remained yet imperfect. They spoke of it, from time to time, on the rare occasions Loki’s brother still trusted him with aught. Odin still allowed himself to believe that, were he to crystalize the Sight, the added clarity might allow him to save the future.
Loki pressed his palms together, forcing himself to stillness. He had oft seen men destroy themselves and knew all too well naught he might say or do would alter the course of events here.
Volund unfurled the scroll on his table, snickering as his eyes darted over the sketches, the notes, the inscriptions. “There is one thing I like about you,” he said at last. “You come to me with ever greater challenges, intent to see my fame spread across all realms. Were I to craft such a visionary object for you, I would need a great deal of orichalcum.”
Odin shrugged. “However much you require.”
“Why, all of it, of course. Your oath … that every scrap of orichalcum in Asgard will come to me.”
“Odin …” Loki warned. Sometimes, even knowing he could not alter the future, he found himself helpless but to try.
Odin ignored him, as had become his wont. “I will counter your offer—if I grant what you ask, you must then agree to craft at least one more work from it for me.”
“And what further craft would a king require?”
“I have not yet decided.”
Volund shrugged. “Provided the two requests combined require less than half the total orichalcum you provide, I agree to your request.” With that, he drew a knife and slit his palm, coating it in dark blood.
Odin took the knife and cut his own palm, swearing a blood oath. Loki grimaced.
“So now,” Volund said. “That covers my price, but still I would need souls to infuse into the … throne. Very strong souls, not petty criminals sacrificed for your ends.”
Loki strode over. “Odin, what he asks is barbaric. I beseech you not to—”
“You will have your souls, smith,” Odin said. “As many souls as required and very strong ones. After all, I already have the means to deliver them to you.”
“And one more thing I require, in the end.”
Odin leaned forward on his spear. “Name it.”
“What you want requires insight to pierce time. Such a thing might be best achieved with old blood, saturated with power.”
Now the king spread his hand in silent question.
“They call it the Ordrerir, this goblet that houses the blood of an ancient power. Kvasir, they name him.”
Loki flinched. There were few things Volund could have asked for that might prove more difficult to obtain.
Odin was watching him now. “You know this thing?”
Loki nodded.
“Then you will have it, smith.” With that, Odin grunted and turned from the forge. Loki sighed. In a war with mist, Odin chose to ally himself with darkness.
The smith locked his eyes on Loki’s, as if guessing what he thought. “Nine more years,” Volund shouted after Odin. “Then I require the blood.”
Odin flinched, though his prescient insights must have suspected it would take as long.
Loki scowled at Volund, then strode out after Odin.
“It does not matter,” the king said as Loki drew up close. “The intervening years will give me time to solidify my plans for Sigmund and the other Volsungs. I’ve waited more than twenty winters to rejoin Freyja. I will manage a few more—no matter how long it takes. And with her by my side, we will find a way to win Ragnarok.”
Loki kept silent, for how could he reproach the king? To win such battles, he had himself done worse already. And perhaps, in truth, he remained yet in the midst of still darker machinations.
Part I
Year 31, Age of the Aesir
Winter
1
The frozen lakes of Sviarland seemed to stretch out forever, the light of a nearly full moon reflecting off the blanket of mist enshrouding them. It was neither a place nor a time for men, but Odin waited here, on the shore.
He oft visited this land—all the North Realms, really—going by many names. There were rare times when it served his purposes to reveal his true identity to mortals. More oft, however, he found it wise to call himself by some alias or other. Thrithi or Thuth. Atrith or, as now, Vofuth. He adopted guises as the mood struck him, and men, thinking him most oft a simple, aged wanderer, showed him the truth of themselves. A simple glamour disguised Gungnir as a walking staff and cast Odin as a hermit. Few noticed a haggard vagrant wandering among them, catching bits of wisdom on the wind.
Few, though some did. Some sought him out, almost as if guided by some nascent hint of the Sight, somehow aware he might know things they could not. Thus did he maintain his dwelling in the forest there. Odin turned from the lake and trod back into the wood. The Sight told him the ones he sought now came to him. Of course they did, for he had manipulated them into it, set them on a path that would lead back here.
Like a true hermit, Odin took shelter in one of the countless ruins scattered over the North Realms. This one had been built by the Siklingar, one of the Old Kingdoms, more than a thousand winters back. All that remained now, eight centuries after its fall, was the foundation of a tower. Stone blocks as high as Odin’s chest jutted from the snow, enclosing a ring near the lake. On one side, enough wall still stood to offer a hint of shelter. Once, perhaps, this place had been important. Maybe it watched over a border. Maybe it had guarded against enemies like the Niflungar. Now, it was home to naught but ghosts and, on occasion, Odin. In the midst of this, he had kindled a small fire, and he now sat with his back to it, preserving his night vision.
The descendants of the Siklingar had spread here in southern Sviarland and too, crossed the sea to Hunaland. Ironic, in truth, that both sides of the conflict he now stirred hailed from the same forgotten kingdom. Not that either of them would ever know it. The children of Sigarr slaughtered one another in bloody feuds that served no one, save perhaps Odin himself. A wise man learned to make use of fools.
Some time after Odin had settled down, the varulf pair loped up to the fortress, each in wolf form, one larger than the other. Odin eyed them from his assumed shelter, waiting until they drew nigh and arched their backs in pain to shed their animal guises. Once again in the shape of men, the pair drew close to the fire. The one had thirty winters; the other half that.
The older man settled into a crouch, staring at Odin, while the younger skirted the edge of the ruins, as if searching for hidden foes. Perhaps, as a varulf, he sensed the dead, pressing against the Veil and watching them. These old ruins were thick with ghosts, but varulfur could do naught to interact with them.
“You return,” Odin said after a moment.
Sigmund, th
e older of the men, shrugged. “We found ourselves wandering this way and thought you might again share the fire, old man.”
Odin shifted, turning toward the flame, and beckoned Sigmund to join him. The younger—Fitela—would no doubt skulk about for some time before he settled. “You come here oft enough, it seems. You hunt the woods for game and men, run like wolves, and stalk from cave to ruin. It must be a very contented life you lead.”
Sigmund scowled. “I am trapped by an ill urd, hermit. You cannot imagine the weight I bear.”
Odin tried not to chortle at that. Indeed, how could Odin—bearing the weight of all Midgard on his shoulders—begin to imagine the burdens of a fallen prince? To say naught of the fact that Odin had helped orchestrate at least some of those burdens upon Sigmund’s shoulders when he had driven Gramr into Volsung’s tree. “If you find your circumstances loathsome, why have you done naught to change them?”
Now the prince spat. “You would have me march to Valhalla for no purpose but to see it. Siggeir Wolfsblood has an army of men, a pack of varulfur, and alliances with at least two others of the Seven Kings. I have myself, my nephew, and—on occasion—the questionable advice of an old man living in the woods.”
As if summoned, Fitela now stalked closer to his uncle, crouching down just outside the firelight. Odin had not predicted the boy’s existence, nor could he decide whether it would serve his ends or not. Thus, it seemed prudent to keep his focus on Sigmund and let the boy attend to himself, at least for now.
