Gods of the Ragnarok Era Omnibus 2: Books 4-6

by Matt Larkin

  “I … I have a foreboding of misery for us all, Father,” Sieglinde said. His sister wrung her hands before her abdomen, looking from Father to Mother and back again. Was she still in pain? Sigmund ought to ram Gramr right up Wolfsblood’s arse and see if he would walk straight. “I do not wish to go with him. We have made a mistake—please, dissolve this marriage contract and free me. I beg you.”

  Father glanced at Mother, who nodded. He, however, shook his head, his face growing dark. “You cannot say such things, daughter. Breaking the contract would shame both us and him and surely make an enemy of Skane. We cannot afford such a foe now while we work to unite Hunaland. We must hold this contract.”

  Sigmund narrowed his eyes. Father, for all his glory, never quite seemed to understand his own daughter. Sigmund was never certain whether her so-called forebodings were more than her own fancy or not, but neither could he stand to see his sister so distressed.

  “Think of your child,” Mother said. “You cannot understand what it is for a woman to be forced to—”

  “I am thinking of all my people and all my children! We cannot become known as false in our dealings with other kings! Not without a just cause. If Sieglinde did not wish to marry, she should have spoken so before the wedding.”

  Sigmund rose. It was not his place to speak, but if he did naught now, he would regret it almost as much as Sieglinde. “Father. She was trying to honor you and your wishes, as ever.”

  The king sighed. “And now she must continue to do so. No other course lays before us.”

  At that, Sigmund’s twin bowed. Always willing to submit, to do well by her family. Sigmund’s mouth tasted bitter. He’d have spit right in the hall, would it not have dishonored his father. Even so, he was tempted.

  Wolfsblood stood aboard his longship, Sigmund’s sister behind him.

  Arms folded across his chest, Sigmund watched as the man bid them all farewell. It sat ill with him, but Father did speak the truth. For Sieglinde to back out of the marriage now would almost certainly lead to war, or worse, to Wolfsblood siding with their enemies against them.

  “Well then, we leave with the tide,” Wolfsblood said. “But King Volsung, you and your kin must come to call upon us soon, before the summer is out. Say in three moons?”

  Father cocked his head. “Come to Sviarland?”

  “We would love to,” Sigmund said. After all, it would ensure he could check in on Sieglinde. If that bastard was not treating her better by then, maybe war would be called for.

  Father raised an eyebrow at Sigmund’s presumption, but he did nod. “Very well, King Siggeir. Expect us in three moons.”

  “I will look for you.” With that, the man turned away and began to order his men to cast off the lines.

  Sigmund continued to watch. It would be a long three moons, waiting and wondering how his sister fared in the foreign land. A long three moons indeed.

  11

  The wars in Sviarland never ended, and, though Thor refused to get directly involved in them, following Gylfi’s death, things could only grow darker here. Almost, Sif wanted to beg him to avenge Gylfi, though she knew what he’d say.

  “I’ve had a thought,” the prince said, poking at a fire. They all sat beyond Svarflami’s town, a half-day’s trek toward the sea behind them.

  “Very impressive,” Itreksjod said. “I shall inform the skalds so that they may record this day in the tales.”

  Sif decided it best to keep her eyes on the flames.

  Thor scowled at Itreksjod a moment. The man always knew just how far he could push the prince—or at least, almost always. Thor’s fist had explained to the man’s jaw when he’d gone beyond that point, once or twice. “Suppose we push into Miklagard and lay siege to Kaunos? Stories claim the South Realmers rebuilt it twice as strong as in years past. Imagine the plunder hidden behind thick walls.”

  Sif looked up now. “What have we to gain from killing mortals or stealing their treasures?”

  Thor shrugged. “What have we to lose?”

  “You appointed yourself the guardian of mankind,” Sif said. “Will you now turn on them?”

  “Guardian of those who follow us …” Thor said, though without a hint of his usual zeal behind his words.

  “We could find glory,” Meili said. “Miklagard is no ally to us, though perhaps there is more glory against Serkland.”

  Hildolf scratched his head. “Why?”

  No one bothered to explain to the man that they were actually at war with Serkland.

  “You’re just bored,” Freki said to Thor. “But boredom is like to be fleeting under the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?” Sif asked.

  The varulf jerked his head toward the shadows beyond the campfire, from which issued a dry chuckle that sent every member of the Thunderers—save Geri and Freki—leaping to their feet and snatching up weapons.

  A figure drifted in, an old man leaning heavily on a spear, his face concealed by his wide-brimmed hat. But Sif knew that silhouette and fell to one knee before the king, planting her sword back into the dirt.

  Odin patted Freki on the shoulder and waved the rest of them to resume their seats. He settled down before their fire, dropping a heavy satchel beside him.

  “Father?” Thor said. “I did not think to find you here.”

  With that hat, Sif still couldn’t see aught of the king’s face, making it impossible to read him, though his shoulders looked stooped and weary. “Be that as it may, I looked to find you here and was not disappointed.”

  “Oh.” Thor scratched his beard. “You bring word from Asgard? From mother?”

  “I bring word from Bjarmaland. There a greater winter spreads, crusting over the realm and locking it in a fell embrace.”

  “We heard tale,” Freki said, “of a winter witch here in Sviarland, though we have not yet found sign of her. We were discussing heading east instead.”

  Odin grumbled something under his breath, then shook his head. “We have greater concerns than witches at present, Freki. The winter follows on the heels of the frost jotunnar. Have you not noticed where once they seemed tales of fancy, now their numbers in Midgard increase? Much of Bjarmaland has already fallen under their sway, swept up by one self-proclaimed jotunn king or another. Men become their slaves, or worse, their food.”

  Thor slapped his knee. “That sounds a worthy challenge, indeed. But you had previously warned us not to cross beyond Aujum or Kvenland. Now you would have us hunt down the jotunnar plaguing the very edge of Midgard?”

  Odin lifted his head enough to fix Thor with a level gaze that set the big man squirming in silence. After several moments of this, Odin lowered his head once again. “Did you ever stop to wonder why so many of these devourers have now appeared in Midgard? Did any of you, as you flit about hunting monsters, ever question where they had come from?”

  From Utgard, of course, though Sif found herself disinclined to speak up in Odin’s presence. Something Otherworldly pervaded around him—this was the closest she had been to the king since he’d had her sent to Gylfi—something that had grown stronger over the years.

  Thor shrugged. “Why should we care where trolls or jotunnar or other spawn of chaos hail from? I send them all screaming down to Hel.”

  “They come from Hel,” Hildolf added.

  Freki snorted. “They don’t come from her. Thor means we send them to her.”

  “The Midgard Wall,” Geri said, ignoring them.

  “Indeed,” Odin said, “and I’m glad to see at least one of my children places some value on wisdom. The wall is breached, possibly in several places. The works of the ancient Vanir slowly come undone, either by the passage of time, or by the influence of another force. And we lack both the Art and the willingness to pay the price to reconstruct what the Mad Vanr made.”

  “Mad Vanr?” Sif mouthed to Geri. The varulf girl just shook her head.

  “So?” Thor asked.

  “So we must find an alternative means
of repairing the wall. But as the wall is massive beyond measure, so too it needs a craftsman of substantial stature to work on it.”

  “I’m big,” Hildolf added. “More than six feet tall.”

  “With the cunning to match,” Itreksjod added.

  “You mean a jotunn,” Sif said, then clamped her mouth shut, realizing she had just addressed the king. The last time he’d paid her any mind, she’d been a tiny girl. And yet he had taken some interest in her urd. What would he make of her now? Would he recognize her?

  “Yes,” Odin said. “Among their number, not all are hostile to us—most are driven by mere ambition, greed, or lust. And some of those can be bargained with, offered something in exchange for work. One famed for his craft, Vörnir, you might find and convince to repair the wall.”

  Well damn, but there was no holding silent on that. “You would have us trust this Vörnir with our lives and the fate of all mankind? Surely no jotunn is worthy of such faith.”

  Thor huffed. “My name is known to these jotunnar by now, as is the name of Mjölnir. Even Vörnir will know better than to cross me, and, if he does, I’ll enjoy smiting him.”

  And … fuck. Sif sighed and shook her head.

  Odin raised a finger. “Careful of pride, boy. It carries with it a hefty price over time.”

  Thor grunted, clearly uninterested. Sif had to hope Odin’s point would not come to him in pain, in the future.

  “Go to Vörnir’s court in Bjarmaland. Bargain with him and get him to repair the wall however you must. Gold, silver, slaves—whatever he requires, Asgard will deliver. Succeed in this, son, and all Midgard will be safer for it.”

  “Fail and we will be a little less safe,” Itreksjod said, earning glares from Odin and Thor both. The man shrunk down to about half his size under their ire, averting his gaze.

  Thor cleared his throat, then patted Mjölnir by his side. “I will not fail, Father.”

  Sif wished she shared his confidence.

  12

  How long had it been since Odin had last walked on Asgard? Five years, at the least. Or was it six? He shook his head as he walked the streets. Always it changed, growing, expanding. His people constantly stripped more and more of the historic, natural beauty of Vanaheim away—as he had ordered them to do in his grief. The thought drew a sigh from him, though he knew such things to be trivial in the long view. All that mattered was the mission.

  Thor and his Thunderers would serve well enough to achieve the first half, but Odin needed more information to truly undertake the latter portion. Always, always seeking more knowledge—it seemed his true urd.

  In a grove, children played at soldier, dashing about and beating each other with wooden swords and blunted spears. A large boy cracked another on the skull, drawing a wince from Odin. In some other lifetime, he and his brothers had trained thus. If he was clever, the younger boy would learn a lesson from this. All pain could be a lesson … which might soon make Odin very wise indeed.

  The more sacrifices he made, the more he learned. Urd was cruel, after all.

  He needed look no further than the hall atop the mountain in order to believe that. There waited the man whom Odin had loved as a brother—once. Whom, in time, he would strangle, if the future could not be changed.

  Loki liked the high places and thus had built his home on a precipice overlooking the sea. It was modest by the new standards of the Aesir. No towering edifices nor space to feast hundreds the way the other leaders favored. No, Loki and Sigyn had taken a small dwelling—with a few architectural flourishes that reminded Odin of swans decorating the roof—and lived plainly. Perhaps they understood something the other Aesir, still reveling in their new opulence, did not.

  It was a long climb to the top, especially with his sore back. His joints did not hurt so much on Asgard as they did out in Midgard. Perhaps the energy of Yggdrasil invigorated him, for he did not think his heart so much lighter here.

  Outside the house itself, Loki knelt beside a stone-rimmed fire pit, chopping vegetables. He tossed bits of carrot and cabbage into a smoldering cauldron from which wafted the most savory aroma Odin had caught in long years.

  “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  Loki shrugged. “I have lived a long time. Time enough to learn many skills.”

  “How long, exactly?”

  Loki had moved on to peeling some garlic. “I stopped tracking.” He tossed a few cloves in the pot. “Nor did you come here to ask me about that.” Now Loki finally looked up at him, over his shoulder. And his eyes pled with Odin, begging him to find a way to repair the shattered trust between them.

  But how could such things ever be righted? Or was that not the real reason Odin had come up this mountain? For certain, he sought answers, but … No. Knowing what he knew now, he could not ever fully trust Loki again. And yet, if the man wished to be reconciled, maybe he would help. “I need to know about the blood of Kvasir. You always have insight into such things.”

  Loki sighed. “Sigyn will return this evening, and I promised her a fine stew. The best stews simmer all day, of course. It takes time for the meat to absorb all the flavor from the spices and vegetables.” He beckoned for Odin to sit on the ground beside him. “I don’t imagine she would object were you to join us for the night meal.”

  Odin frowned. Sigyn might not openly object, but somehow he doubted she would be pleased. They valued their privacy, after all—choosing to make their home away from all others. In any event, Loki had avoided the subject entirely. Still, Odin knelt beside his blood brother. “I cannot stay, as you well know.”

  Loki nodded and moved to stir the cauldron.

  Odin stroked his beard, waiting, but still Loki did not speak. So he would not relent. Damn it. “You brought me to Volund in an attempt to prove your loyalty, did you not?”

  “You ask questions for which you know the answer all too well. Indeed, you of all people ought to know the burdens of prescience, and the weight the future demands of us.”

  “I do. The future requires all we have and more and maybe our descendants alone know whether the results we achieve absolve us of what we do in its name. You have done much, I know. So why half measures now, brother? Tell me of the blood of Kvasir. Or if you do not, I will go from here and find what I seek elsewhere, and we will both know you refused me when I sought your aid.”

  Loki turned again, then rose and stretched. “I am not refusing to aid you, brother. Sometimes the help we need most is not what we think we want.”

  Odin groaned and pushed himself up as well. “I did not come here so you could decide what I need.”

  Loki closed his eyes a moment, before fixing Odin with his gaze. “We who have tasted the fruit of Yggdrasil are not the only immortal beings wandering Midgard. Kvasir was one name for such a being, blessed or cursed with eternal life, if you could call it that. Now his disciples in Miklagard use the blood to sustain their own perverted existence in a world where life has grown very short for most. These are the rulers of the Miklagardian Empire—the Patriarchs and their god emperor.”

  That drew a grumble from Odin. So Volund wanted him to steal the source of immortality from other gods. Odin could barely imagine his wrath if these Miklagardians came to Asgard to steal the apples of Yggdrasil. So what then would they do when he came to their city to do the same? And still, he had started down this path, and he would see it through.

  “Where do they keep it?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  Odin nodded. “Fine. Thank you.”

  And with that, he started off, back down the mountain.

  Atop a neighboring peak stood Valaskjalf, the hall Odin shared with Frigg and the center of Asgard government. Here, Odin rested in his throne. In the morning, he’d go to Sessrumnir to search for any further details he could find on the Miklagardian immortals. Now, however, the court buzzed with his presence. For hours he had entertained petitions and requests, gifts, and amusements all brought before him.

 
At last, he raised a hand to forestall any further distractions. “That is all for today.” He rose from his seat, and Frigg rose after him, following him into chambers behind the thrones.

  Gold plating decked the rafters, ensuring any who came here knew well the glory of its owners. Frigg’s tastes formed such a stark contrast to that of her sister and Loki that, coming from there, Odin could not help but frown at the ostentation he might have otherwise thought beautiful.

  Odin lowered himself in a chair. “Wine!”

  The Aesir had learned to follow the Vanir craft and, though naught they produced rivaled the Vanir brews, they got better every year.

  A young woman scampered over, handed him a drinking horn, and filled it with a pitcher. The woman had auburn hair and legs barely concealed by her slit skirt. The way she winked at Odin left little doubt she would make herself available if he but hinted at such a desire. Considering his wife now sat across from him, he did not.

  “Thank you, Sjöfn,” Frigg said, when the woman had filled her horn as well.

  Odin downed the horn in a great gulp, then tossed it aside, relishing as Frigg cringed when it clattered against the wall. Of course, he had no reason to enjoy her discomfort. None of his cruel urd was her doing … and yet, he could not look upon her without guilt trying to devour his soul. Without a reminder that she was not, would never be, the woman he wanted. Even if she should have been.

  She sipped her wine with too much grace before speaking. “You were gone long this time.” She did not complain, exactly. Nor chide him for not learning his lesson after all that happened before because of his long absences. She did not have to. “The discontent among the tribes seems to grow worse with each passing year.”

  “There are no tribes anymore.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Perhaps not officially. But saying a tradition is broken does not make it so, husband. Many among our people do not love you.”

  Odin glowered. He did not need their love. Only obedience. In the end, they might well hate him. But if he could stop Ragnarok, they would owe him their very world. “More wine!”