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

by Matt Larkin

  Gasping in pain, Sigmund crawled to Eylimi. The king stank of shit seeping out from his bowels, mingled with the blood and intestines. His father-in-law was not dead yet, but a fool could see no hope remained to him.

  “I’m sorry …” Sigmund’s tongue was heavy in his mouth. Words slurred.

  So many dead.

  He struggled to his feet. The least he could do was make Lyngi pay for this. Pay in blood.

  Vision blurred and uncertain which way he trod, Sigmund stumbled through the mist, dimly aware some of Eylimi’s warriors had followed him. Eager to avenge their king, no doubt. Well, Sigmund would grant them that much.

  He had to. He owed Eylimi. But without Gramr … how had the runeblade shattered? She was a gift from Odin. And if he had lost her … had he not then lost Odin’s favor as well? Had the god forsaken Sigmund?

  How was a man to live on, knowing he’d once been loved and favored by an Ás and had lost that grace?

  Sigmund stumbled into another melee, unable to even tell one side from the other. At least until some few men broke off and charged him. The first he cut down. The second, he drove back. Unable to use his shield arm, he dodged a blow from a third.

  A fourth man rushed in, shield-first, and collided with Sigmund’s chest. The impact sent him flying backward, crashing into the muck. Someone leaped on him, swinging a battleaxe meant to cleave his skull.

  Sigmund caught the man in the gut with both legs and kicked, sending the attacker sprawling away. He rolled to the side, cleaving his sword into another man’s shin. A third crashed down atop him, hacking away with an axe.

  Blow after blow landing on Sigmund’s mail, cracking ribs beneath, crushing his guts. Unable to get his sword around, Sigmund dropped it, then lunged forward, catching the man with a hand around his throat. If only night would fall.

  If only he could unleash the wolf.

  Sigmund squeezed until his attacker fell still.

  Then he collapsed back into the mud.

  He needed to get up. He had to keep fighting. He could do this … Just find Lyngi and cleave his head from his shoulders.

  Just keep going …

  But the world had gone dim.

  61

  Night fell upon the Myrkvidr. In the darkness, the forest grew so very black Odin could scarce make out the two women crouched at the edge of the hollow. A small cave hid them, in case any should come looking for them, though neither did.

  Hjordis and her slave Vada both looked to Odin, probably unable to see more than shadows around him.

  “Why did you help us, Gripir?” Hjordis asked.

  On Odin’s advice, the Queen of Rijnland had fled along with Vada, carrying the greater portion of all the gold and jewels Sigmund had owned. Odin had warned them the battle had turned against her husband and the castle would no longer offer safety.

  Of course, Lyngi had seized that castle and ransacked it searching for Hjordis and even more so, the golden treasures. The Baian king’s men had slaughtered Hjordis’s remaining guards, claimed her slaves, raped her women and taken the livestock. All the things one expected from a conqueror, really. Odin could have predicted that without prescient visions.

  Rather than answer, Odin pulled a torch from his satchel, then struck flint to steel until the oil caught flame. Through the flicker of torchlight, he could clearly see the fear etched on the women’s faces. They probably were not sure even why they had trusted him.

  Groaning with the effort of rising, Odin made his way to Vada. “Take this.” She grabbed the torch with some obvious reluctance. “Queen Hjordis, your husband yet lives, but he has suffered a terrible wound. If you go to the battlefield now, you can meet with him.”

  Hjordis blanched, then swallowed hard, shaking her head. “Sigmund is … no. You cannot know such things. This is a trick.”

  “Go to the battlefield.”

  Glowering only a moment, Hjordis took off at an unsteady gait, forcing Vada to chase after her.

  Odin too followed, albeit at a great distance, and glamoured to further conceal himself.

  He followed the women out onto the site of the massacre. The field had turned into muddy slush, dirt mingling with blood and piss and voided bowels to create an overpowering stench. Buzzing insects zipped among a sea of corpses, broken spears, and discarded weapons.

  A handful of looters pried mail from rigid corpses or searched bodies for aught else of value. A great many more of these people would return here, come morning. For now, most of the army remained occupied with their plunder of Sigmund’s home.

  It had taken a great deal of speed to reach Hjordis in time. Once Odin had broken Gramr and detained Brynhild, he’d known it would be only a matter of time before Sigmund fell under the onslaught.

  With the Volsung king lost, Lyngi’s forces would have quickly overcome the remains of the Volsung army. So many pieces had to align for this. Indeed, Odin had to trust that Altvir had done her duty with Prince Alf in Reidgotaland.

  Hjordis picked her own way among the fallen, shouting for her husband.

  Eventually, a pained, raspy voice answered.

  The queen rushed to her fallen husband’s side, wailing, heedless of the filth that caked her dress as she knelt beside him. “We have to get you to a völva.”

  Leaning on his walking stick, Odin frowned, shaking his head. He felt Altvir’s presence when she drew nigh, and embraced the Sight to reveal the valkyrie.

  She stared at Odin, disapproval plain on her face. Unlike the younger Brynhild, though, Altvir seemed wise enough not to castigate her master, whatever her thoughts on the matter.

  “It’s too late …” Sigmund said. “Gramr is broken, in any event. A gift from Odin … and the god no longer wishes me to wield her. Such can only mean my time has come. I fought … so many battles while it pleased him.”

  Hjordis pressed her face against Sigmund’s chest, weeping muffling her voice. “I’d lack for naught were you to rise and avenge my father.” She sniffled. “Avenge this loss.”

  “I … can’t. Our son must do … as I did … and avenge his father. Up on the hill … the shards of Gramr fell. Take them and guard them well. One day, a boy may become a man and come to … claim them. With that, I’m content. I … want to see my father and brothers once more.”

  Odin flinched. Sigmund would not rejoin his fallen kin. Volsung and the others had died decades ago and passed unto whatever urd had claimed their souls. Naught Odin could have done would change that.

  Hjordis wrapped her hands around Sigmund’s and lay on his chest. Vada knelt beside her mistress then, head on her back. The three of them stayed like that long, until Sigmund’s breath had fled. Until the hour grew late.

  Odin nodded at Altvir, then trod himself up the hill, to claim the shards of Gramr. The broken runeblade had been one of the greatest works the dvergar had ever wrought. Strange paths the future took, rushing ever toward its inevitable end. Before, Odin had never imagined the sword would break, much less that he would be the one to do it.

  He wrapped the shards in a cloak, folded over, then hurried back down the hill. “My queen. I bring you the pieces of Gramr, as Sigmund wished.”

  Hjordis looked up, red-eyed in the already dimming torchlight.

  “You must hurry, now.” He handed the bundle to Vada. “Go to the north shore, where men from Reidgotaland will be sailing past. Go with them and find safety from Lyngi. Win the favor of Prince Alf and he shall be kind to you and your unborn son.”

  To the woman’s credit, she rose and rubbed the tears from her eyes. Then nodded. “Thank you. I don’t know how or why you’ve helped us, but … thank you. On behalf of myself and my fallen husband.”

  Odin barely suppressed another flinch. Would Sigmund thank Odin for all he had wrought? Well, it did not matter. Odin did not do what he did in order to receive thanks. He did it because no other choices lay before him.

  Hjordis turned to Vada. “Exchange clothes with me and wear my jewelry. I’d rather not be
discovered for who I am by the prince.”

  Odin concealed his smirk. Hjordis’s precautions were wisdom, after a fashion. Even so, they’d prove both unnecessary and pointless.

  The queen looked to him. “I’ll always consider you a brother for what you’ve done.”

  Odin nodded, then turned his back so the women could change.

  When they had, he followed them to the shore, where already Prince Alf’s men had disembarked to examine the aftermath of this battle. Altvir had done her part well. Another valkyrie would have a little more prodding to carry out, of course. Odin had already recalled Skögul from Andalus. She’d need to make sure Alf would learn the truth about Hjordis, marry her, and raise her son as his own.

  He was a good man—at least as good as men could be in such times. He’d ask for the treasures of Volsung, and Hjordis would lead him to the hollow. Then they’d sail away to safety and Sigmund’s son could be born free from Lyngi’s grasp. Indeed, Lyngi would think all the Volsungs dead, the same mistake once made by Siggeir Wolfsblood.

  Time always seemed to move in these circles.

  Odin watched as the Reidgotalander king and his men met the two women, too far out of earshot to catch their words, though it didn’t matter. Odin already knew these events. He’d seen them play out many times in his mind.

  Satisfied, Odin returned to the battlefield and embraced the Sight.

  Dawn was not far off, and looters would be out in force. That hardly mattered, as Odin would be gone soon.

  He walked to where Altvir stood, a dozen ghosts standing around her, split into two groups. The greatest of the fallen in this battle, divided on both sides of the conflict. Were Odin not spread so thin, he’d have arranged additional valkyries to claim more of the mighty.

  On one side, Sigmund stood, his form misty and slightly etheric, but hail, showing no sign of his bitter wounds. Altvir had spared him that. The man watched Odin now, able to see him clearly once Odin had embraced the Sight. Sigmund stood there, shaking his head, seeming at a loss whether to believe Odin had truly betrayed him.

  “You were Vofuth … way back then. You helped us overthrow Wolfsblood.” He straightened and bowed his head. “My lord, Odin. And I never knew.”

  Odin favored him with a sad smile. “Yes, old friend. You did well, all the bitter years of your life. Now your burdens are lifted. For a time … Tell me, Sigmund, would you like to see your son Fitela again? He’s waiting for you in Valhalla. The valkyrie will take you there. She’ll take you all.”

  “You’ll not come?”

  “I will, soon enough. First, I have one more thing to attend to.”

  Brynhild marched before Odin, casting hateful glances over her shoulder at him. Of course, he’d known she’d betray him. And he’d known he would cast her down, strip her of her powers and her ring. Leave her a mortal woman. He could have bound her hands as well, but she knew better than to try to attack him or try to run.

  So, huffing slightly with the exertion, she climbed up the slopes of Mount Hindarfjall. “Why not just kill me?” she snapped at him.

  Odin plodded along, feeling the ache in his knees and lower back, and relying more heavily on his walking stick because of it. How was he to answer such a question? Some fragment of the truth, perhaps, little though it would avail Brynhild?

  When she dawdled, he prodded her back with his stick. “Even when disobedience is expected, still it demands an appropriate response. Aught less would be to treat you as but a child.”

  Brynhild sneered over her shoulder. “You mean you want to keep the other valkyries in line. Whatever you do to me will serve as a reminder of the price of trying to master our own lives.”

  There was that, as well, and if such an answer satisfied Brynhild, such she could keep. It would not serve Odin’s ends to try to explain the future to the woman, nor to expound upon the needs of urd or the way it must unfold, even would she have believed him. More like, she would have thought him mist-mad. Perhaps he was, laying plans that would take nigh two decades to come to fruition. Nevertheless, what he’d seen would unfold if he could get all the pieces in the right places.

  Atop the mountain they reached a ruined keep, with shields lining its ramparts. A Sikling fortress, later claimed by Volsung’s ancestors. A place of great import, now long forgotten. Men forgot almost all things, in time.

  The former valkyrie paused, and Odin shoved her forward, toward the keep’s entrance.

  The woman’s shoulders tensed, but she did stride inward, coming to rest in a great hall.

  The Siklings had carved a mighty table from stone here. Once, heroes and warriors had dined with kings in this place. Goblets raised in boastful salutes to those who had passed and those who yet lived. Their shadows played across Odin’s vision, almost like ghosts. Memories of men and women gone a thousand years and now but echoes for those few like Odin, who saw what others could not.

  Oh, if only Odin could have claimed their souls for his einherjar and added their ranks to Valhalla. What an army that would have made.

  The woman turned now, arms spread as if to demand what the point of coming to this empty place had been.

  “You will marry a man who will come to you.”

  Brynhild spat on the floor a mere foot in front of Odin. “I swear, I shall marry no man! None, save a man with no fear. Even you have fears, old Ás. I’ve seen it.”

  Oh, Odin had so very many fears. The jaws of a wolf, closing upon his throat. Tearing it out. His own death, horrifying. His son dying alone … calling out to his father. A world aflame.

  Yes, Odin knew fear.

  Some men thought fear came from the uncertainty of the future. Odin rather found the opposite.

  “You have forsaken your oath of service,” Odin said. “And oathbreakers are damned to feed the dark dragon with their corpses. As you tried to interfere in my choice of victors, so shall you never again enjoy the sweet mead of victory, woman.”

  Odin withdrew a small thorn from his pouch, keeping it tucked in the palm of his hand where Brynhild could not see it.

  “Why bring me here?” Brynhild demanded once more.

  Odin shook his head. Then he lunged at the woman, caught her arm and pricked her neck with the thorn. “Because here you will lie in deathless slumber for eternity. Choked by your own mail and drowning in nightmares of your dark deeds and the darker urd lying before you.”

  Brynhild fell back a few steps, hand to her neck, eyes wide. She pulled away her hand, gaping at the blood welling there. Surely, she knew he’d told her the truth. Part of it.

  The woman stumbled and Odin surged forward to catch her. He swept her up in his arms, then carried her to the stone table. There he laid her out prone. Brynhild blinked over and over, moaning, obviously trying to fight the sleeping spell.

  Odin preferred to avoid the use of sorcery when possible. But some situations demanded it.

  Such was urd.

  Brynhild’s eyes shut.

  Odin straightened her arms and legs by her sides, then left, and turned back to take in the keep on the mountain slope.

  In the time of the Old Kingdoms, sorcerer-kings had carved runes into these walls. Cleverly concealed, unless you knew where to look for them. Brynhild would have, had she been in her right mind.

  The runes called to vaettir which had now long laid dormant. Waiting for someone to waken them once more.

  Odin chanted, invoking those vaettir, drawing them close to the Veil. Long he chanted in that ancient language, until, at last, a ring of white fire sprang up around the entire castle. A barrier to ensure Brynhild’s sleep went undisturbed. A moat no man would dare cross.

  None, save the one to come.

  Epilogue

  All the long walk from the shore to their hall, Sigyn held his hand, and Hödr’s too. It was well, of course, since Loki might have blundered over the side of the cliff otherwise. No matter how oft he caught himself in this daze, staring at his hands, he couldn’t seem to shake it.

&
nbsp; For era after era he’d borne the weight of flame inside his breast. A bulwark against the darkness and the mists, even as it burned him. Even as it seared him to his soul he’d held on so very tightly.

  Most of his life, really. Ages other men could not have dreamed of, stretching back almost to the beginning of it all. And now Surtr was gone. Worse than gone—free, and no doubt wrathful at his millennia of imprisonment.

  At their house, Sigyn eased Hödr into a bed shelf the boy hadn’t occupied in years. Loki watched them, his precious family, caught in their own pain. And yet the both of them somehow relieved. Grateful it was over? But it was only beginning. They’d freed Hödr from this torment, but his life would surely find yet more anguish.

  No one would forget the things he’d done.

  Only when Hödr rested comfortably did Sigyn again take Loki’s arm and lead him out back. He let her guide him to the cliff’s edge and sit there, watching the ocean. As if looking on water would offer him respite from flame.

  A worry had niggled at him since then, a fear that, in looking into fire, he might find even fewer answers than before. Would that offer some relief? Would it lessen his burdens? No. The darkness remained in either event. The merciless procession of the future toward a doom the others had not yet imagined.

  Loki had the Sight even before he’d stolen the flame. He’d have it still, even if it did prove weakened. It would only make things harder.

  “You’re frightened,” Sigyn said finally.

  Lost in his musings, he’d almost forgotten her burdens. She’d feel responsible for both Hödr’s suffering and Loki’s own doubts. The lines of her face confirmed as much. Had she heeded his warning back then, had she chosen not to pursue the Art, things might have played out differently. But recriminations served little purpose to either the accuser or the accused.

  Besides, the future was what it was. The web of urd had little room for divergence from the path of its strands. Knowing the darkness lurked ahead didn’t mean he could stop it. Nor could Sigyn have.