Gods of the Ragnarok Era Omnibus 3: Books 7-9

by Matt Larkin

  The firstborn daughter of your loins shall belong to me, body and soul.

  And what had Volund given him for it? Mjölnir, a weapon that Odin had dared hope would let him win Ragnarok.

  He’d wept for Hnoss, the daughter he’d never even known.

  Later—years later—Freyja had come to call on him again. He dared to imagine a touch less spite in her voice, when he told her all he’d done for seventy years had been in an effort to reach her. But even if the fire of her rage cooled, it left behind an icy ache that refused to kindle into warmth.

  Nor did he deserve her warmth.

  Sometimes, when years passed between her visits, he still considered ending it all and found himself wondering if urd would let him. After all, he’d seen a future beyond this place. So he could not die here. Probably.

  Again the sun became a blistering pain in the sky. Odin shifted his hat to shield his eye. The thing had become threadbare. Freyja had replaced it several times already, but she always waited until the hat was falling to pieces. The rest, they rarely came anymore.

  In the first days, others had called upon him. Idunn visited several times, seeming torn between ire and sympathy. Bragi came once, composing mocking verses of Odin’s downfall, while Odin wondered how he’d come to Alfheim.

  Ullr, a man Odin had never known but remembered worshipping, who seemed content mainly to stare at him saying almost naught.

  Frey came and beat him. Odin didn’t bother fighting back. What good would it have done? Indeed, when his self-loathing became unbearable, he’d revisited that beating in his mind, allowing himself to suffer each blow a hundred times over as if that might enhance his penance.

  What a terrible fool he’d been. Bargaining away his daughter, though he’d never expected to sire one. He’d thought himself willing to pay any price to get back here. Well, now he had. He’d lost his own child to whatever depredations Volund visited upon her. Odin tried not to imagine what the svartalf would do to his daughter, but sometimes he could not help it. The very thought of him touching her tied Odin’s guts in knots.

  But his rage remained impotent.

  After so long, did she yet live? Perhaps not. Perhaps, without an apple of Yggdrasil, she’d perished long ago, even if the svartalf had not slain her. He found himself sometimes hoping for such an urd for her, an end to her suffering.

  Odin’s own suffering, that wouldn’t end. Not until Fenrir’s jaws closed on him. For years he’d sought to avoid that urd, but now he almost thought he deserved it. Wished for it, even.

  But he still had work to do before that. Whatever his crimes and failings, without him, Midgard would die when Ragnarok arrived. That, he could not allow. Not while breath remained in his body.

  Oh, Baldr might stop it. Not alone, though.

  The curtain parted once more. It seemed early for a meal, but then, he had a hard time keeping track anymore. This time, though, it wasn’t one of the soldiers bringing him a bowl of soup, but rather Idunn who stepped through, a wan smile on her face.

  Wait, was she really here, or was this a vision of the past? She’d come through just like that already, hadn’t she? Odin shook his head, then rubbed his temples. In desperation to hear another voice—the guards didn’t talk to him—he oft replayed old or forthcoming conversations in his mind. He was pretty certain he’d liked this one.

  “This is the story about the queen’s banquet, right? The one where that pterosaur came in through the skylight?”

  Idunn cocked her head, her smile failing. “That was … centuries ago, Odin.”

  Oh. Damn. He massaged his temples more. “So which one is this …? Shit, I can’t remember. You were wearing a blue dress that time when you brought the tafl board. And your dress is red now, and I don’t see any tafl board. What about the time … No. Can’t be that one …”

  Idunn knelt beside him and crinkled her nose. “I’m sorry it’s been so long since I … since either of us came. Frey forbade Freyja from coming herself anymore. He was worried that she was starting to … Hmmm. Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. She just wished she could have come herself, but she isn’t able right now. I’ll let her explain herself once she gets the chance.”

  “Oh! It’s that time.” Odin rose unsteadily and brushed off his trousers. They looked even worse than his hat. “Sorry, it’s started to run together and I cannot make north from south anymore.”

  “Odin, I’m here to help you escape.”

  He nodded. “Yes, of course, I know. We should hurry, then.”

  “You know …?”

  “You and Freyja decided that it’s been close to a thousand years they’ve held me here. For us, I mean. For us, in the Spirit Realm. Not in Midgard. The elliptical orbit of the spheres creates disproportional skews in time, further magnifying the dilation of the Astral Realm in ways not easily calculable. But I’ve had so much time to ponder it that I surmise a passage of at least three hundred years, probably with an additional decade or three. Only, I didn’t know now was now until right now, so thank you for that.”

  Idunn raised a hand to her gaping mouth, whimpering. “What have we done to you? I … I should have stopped this, but I’m not in favor with the queen’s court … I don’t even go to the isles anymore. Certainly, I’d not dare address Dellingr himself. I …”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Odin cleared his throat. Then stared at his hands. They were trembling. Probably not a good sign. He wasn’t certain he remembered that. Idunn continued working her mouth in an obviously vain attempt to comfort him. Clearly, she needed to say it. If she didn’t say it, he couldn’t remember her saying it. And then where would he be? Paradox, of course. “The deleterious effects of prolonged isolation …” he prompted.

  “How did you know I was going to say that?”

  He waved a hand, impatient for her to continue. Funny, he’d always done that. Even in his first memory of these events, he clearly remembered having to always get her to say it, and she always asked how he’d known. Another paradox, yes, but not an irredeemable one, so long as she said it.

  “The deleterious effects of prolonged isolation seem to have proved worse than we feared. They thought you’d be one of us by now, too, and that hasn’t quite happened. Freyja posited that the wraith inside you—while driven into torpor by Alfheim’s sun—prevented the transmogrification that the Vanir underwent.”

  “Good.” Odin nodded, clapping her on the arm. “Good, I’m glad we got that out of the way. Who even knows what would have happened if you hadn’t said that. Maybe the very timeline would have snapped in half, though I suspect the Norns enforce certain safeguards to minimize the damage, even assuming the initial problem of self-referential prescience could be overcome. I’ve … I’ve had a lot of time to think, Idunn.”

  Idunn blew out a long breath and looked around as if she expected guards to burst through and arrest her on the spot.

  “Don’t worry, they don’t find us here.”

  Somehow, she failed to smile in relief. She never did. “I’ve been trying to memorize all the patrols and watch positions.”

  Odin waved it away. “I already know which way we need to go. I just need you to open the barrier.”

  Face suddenly stern, Idunn grabbed him with an arm around his waist and another around his neck. All at once, his vantage shifted. They were in the sky, way above the barrier, and falling fast. Wind stripped his hat away and stole his brief scream. Then his stomach lurched once more, and they were on the ground outside the tower.

  A city spread out around them, a series of exotic spires and megalithic structures, all connected by stone bridges in the sky. Gimlé, they called it. Most of the city was built from marble, pearl, or a yellow stone Odin couldn’t identify. It was a wonder, every time he looked on this.

  “Get up,” Idunn said, jerking him to his feet and ushering him hurriedly toward the rainforest. Her skin had lost some of its glimmer.

  Because she’d used up some of her stored sunlight to carry them above
the barrier and down to the ground. The Sun Stride, they called it. Yes, Odin remembered that.

  Hand around his wrist, Idunn took off at a run toward the forest. She darted past a stepped pyramid with stairs ascending it. Odin grabbed her and dragged her to a halt an instant before a pair of guards passed by in a circuit.

  The two liosalfar had long, thin-bladed swords and golden breastplates atop glittering mail. Odin wouldn’t want to have to fight such foes.

  When he was sure they’d gone around another bend, he dragged Idunn onward. They raced into the wood, scraping their shins and forearms on the dense foliage. The undergrowth was so thick here it all but drew their progress to a halt, and Odin had to force his way past grasping vines and over roots as thick as his torso.

  A rainbow of flowers sprouted all around him, adding a touch of beauty that he had no time to savor. Idunn had placed herself in grave danger to save him, that much he knew. The pounding of blood after so long made his head hurt, but it did leave it a little easier to focus on the present.

  After about ten feet, the undergrowth drastically dropped off, allowing them to pick up their pace once more.

  Idunn panted. “Even if no one saw me Stride into the sky, they’ll figure it out, eventually.” The hem of her dress caught on a thorny root and she yanked it away, tearing a chunk from it.

  Odin paused to pluck the loose fabric from the root. It probably didn’t matter. One way or another, soldiers would find them. He didn’t remember much more of what would happen, if he’d ever seen it in the first place, but he remembered that. Still, he tucked the fabric into his belt and followed on after Idunn.

  They’d try their best to elude their pursuers.

  And then they’d fail.

  5

  When they reached the trade route south of the Fyrisvellir, Baldr and Asa broke away, leaving Hödr, Gevarus, and Nanna to follow the other branch east toward Agnafit. The town was a bustling port and, despite their progress, news of Ingjald’s treachery had already reached here. The stories floated on the wind, came to Hödr’s keen ears at every turn.

  Rumors abounded that Ingjald’s armies were already on the march, moving on Dalar or perhaps even on Njarar, though Hödr had seen no sign of it when they passed through there. Perhaps the traitor king’s levies marched mere days behind him. An army could not move as swiftly as a few lone travelers, after all.

  As they drew nigh to the harbor, a chill wind swept in from across the Gandvik Sea.

  “Damn winter seems inclined to last forever,” the king complained.

  From the feel of the port, men here feared the same. No one wanted to risk the winter storms in a crossing, but how long could trade and traffic be delayed? Fishermen already ventured farther and farther out, desperate for food when the local fjords had begun to show signs of depletion.

  All such worries and more bombarded Hödr’s senses, collectively amounting to a sense of foreboding. Men feared the gods were angry with them, wondering when the Aesir would appease Aegir the Benthic and his wife, Rán. Hödr half wondered if it would ease their worries to learn an Ás walked among them. Perhaps it would only worsen those fears, once the people realized he couldn’t actually do a damn thing about the weather, the lack of fish, or even Ingjald’s wild aggressions.

  Especially not while Baldr unofficially supported the latter situation.

  Gevarus strode down a pier to inquire about anyone heading to Bjarmaland, leaving Nanna behind with Hödr.

  She rubbed her arms and blew out a breath. “The air is nervous here. Can you feel it?”

  Hödr almost laughed at that. Sometimes other people surprised him. More oft than not, he thought of normal people as the blind ones, unable to perceive auras or garner the overall mood or intention of a crowd the way he effortlessly did. Sometimes, though, those normal people caught him off guard. Like Nanna.

  “They’ve heard what’s happened at Fyris Hall. Compounded with the lengthy winter, they’re afraid, even if they cannot say exactly the extent of why. It’s very likely that Ingjald will have control of this port within a few moons, but most won’t want to leave their homes, even if they were willing to risk the winter storms.”

  Nanna chuckled. “You’re a warm fire on a crisp night, aren’t you?”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Oh, that was a jest. I like talking to you, predictions of doom notwithstanding. You’re … earnest.”

  Hödr hardly knew what to say to that.

  “Oh. Father looks upset.”

  Considering no one had agreed to make the crossing, that wasn’t surprising. He almost wanted to tell her he could hear such conversations a hundred feet away or more. But would she fear him then? Think him fell and dangerous?

  “No one’s heading east until winter breaks,” Gevarus snapped as he returned. “Which means I have to call on the local jarl’s hospitality to put us up until that finally happens.”

  “Jarl Eindride,” Baldr said. “He’s a decent enough man, well known for his hospitality. I don’t think you’ve aught to worry on as far as that goes.”

  “Perhaps not, but I’d just as soon have gotten myself and my daughter away from Sviarland before Ingjald’s levies arrive. Still, I can’t thank you enough for helping us.”

  Hödr clasped his arm when the man offered it, then cocked his head. “Eindride’s hall is this way.”

  He led them through the streets, preferring less crowded alleyways to the main breezeways where too many people gathered all in one place. In truth, Hödr would have just as soon avoided anywhere thick with people, but Gevarus was right about him and Nanna needing a place to stay.

  Eindride’s hall lay across a wooden bridge on a small island, and was—according to the way Hödr had heard it described—by far the most impressive sight in Agnafit. It was a recent construction, only built by the jarl’s father a few decades back. Hödr had made several visits in the past few years, and the guards recognized him at once, welcoming them inside. The jarl himself was young, raucous, and slightly rotund, always ready to shout for platters of fresh fish whenever any Ás came calling.

  He beckoned Hödr and the others to sit at his table in the great hall, slumping down in his chair with a huff. “You’ll uh … you’ll have to forgive me, but the fishermen’s hauls have proved less bountiful than usual for the time of year.”

  Hödr waved that away. It was hardly the king’s fault about the cold.

  “I’m just grateful for the fire pit,” Nanna said.

  “What’s mine is yours.” Eindride clapped his hands to summon a slave. “Bring out the mead.”

  Hödr had to assume that had begun to run low, as well, but the jarl was aught but stingy in distributing the drinking horns. Even if the mead itself had been thinned with water.

  When they’d eaten—meager portions, but still welcome after their time on the road—the jarl cleared his throat. “What can you tell me about what happened in Upsal?”

  “Treachery,” Gevarus said before Hödr could think of a more diplomatic way to put it. Chances were, if Eindride stood against Ingjald, he’d die, along with a great many of his men. Unless another king united the rest of the land against Upsal, Hödr saw no way Ingjald could fail to conquer Sviarland.

  More to the point, Baldr had made it clear he wanted that to happen. Hödr had no right to interfere with his prince’s plans, however much he misliked them. He sighed softly, though no one seemed to notice as Gevarus and Eindride had fallen into intense political debate. The jarl refused to believe Ingjald would make war until winter broke, while Gevarus assured him otherwise.

  Nanna was staring at Hödr, he realized. Waiting for his opinion? Or perhaps hoping he would interject, would tell them Asgard would never let a man who betrayed his own guests and violated all laws of hospitality go unpunished. How Hödr wished he could say that, but Asgard had grown desperate, and Baldr had clearly judged that building bulwarks against the Deathless outweighed concerns of honor.

  A small sacrifice, he m
ight have called it. Mother had told him once that Asgard was built on such sacrifices. Bits and pieces of tradition whittled away, honor fraying under the ceaseless abrasion of necessity. The actions taken to maintain the dynasty must therefore eventually undermine it. But if those actions truly had been necessary, then did that not mean the decline of all great civilizations became inevitable?

  Or perhaps that was Father’s melancholy toward the workings of urd at play behind Mother’s assessment.

  Some claimed things went awry when Odin vanished. Others said it was why he’d left and that, if the Aesir could be restored to greatness, the king might one day return. Hödr had doubts as to that.

  Nanna leaned in close to him. “Will you not speak out against Ingjald?”

  Hödr grimaced. “It’s not Asgard’s policy to interfere in such internal struggles.” A half-truth, perhaps. Queen Frigg discouraged the Aesir from getting involved. Except when it benefited Asgard. Like by checking the advance of Miklagard or Serkland.

  “So the gods will not punish him?”

  “They won’t. If you want to see him punished, that’s a duty that falls upon the heads of every man and woman in Sviarland.” Baldr would’ve been vexed to hear him speak thus. He’d all but encouraged her to mount a resistance.

  Nanna’s hand fell on his. “If the people here did rise against him, would you help us?”

  Damn Baldr for allowing this to come to pass. Worse, what if Hödr’s cousin was right? What if Ingjald’s supremacy was needful to thwart the Deathless faith? “I am to see you safely back to Gardariki. Our laws bind my actions. I cannot fight for Sviarland until the prohibition against doing so is lifted.”

  “Your cousin wants to see Ingjald win.” She said it like a statement, almost as if Baldr had clearly stated it. Or perhaps Baldr was transparent enough.

  “I fear you’re right.” He shouldn’t have said that, either. What was it about her that had him crossing boundaries? No one in Asgard would ever forget the crimes he’d committed while under Eldr’s thrall. Hödr had long known his only chance of remaining accepted at all was to tread with care at all times. To prove himself a model soldier, his loyalty beyond reproach.