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

by Matt Larkin

  Freyja’s hand went to her mouth in a futile attempt to stifle her gasp.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “Hnoss … what have they done to you?”

  Her daughter was clad head-to-toe in black leather designed to accentuate her lithe form. The girl spread her arms and cackled, sounding all too much like Volund for Freyja’s liking. “They helped me learn what lay within me all along.”

  “No …” Freyja knew her eyes glistened with tears but she couldn’t stop them. She was shaking her head. She’d always feared what Volund had done to her daughter, but … Even in her worst nightmares she had not imagined … “No. How?”

  “Oh, come now, Mother. How long did it take for the light of Alfheim to saturate the Vanir and make them almost indistinguishable from the other liosalfar? A hundred years? Less? How long have I dwelt in shadow? Far, far longer than that.”

  Freyja wanted to rise, to go to her. To draw her close into her embrace and never let her go. Save, she didn’t trust her own legs not to give out beneath her. “You were born on Alfheim. You were destined for …”

  “Destined?” Hnoss chortled, shaking her head. “What do you truly know of urd, Mother? Its chains are wrapped around your throat, and you do not even see them. You think my destiny could have been changed? This,”—she spread her arms once more as if to indicate all of Svartalfheim—“has always been what lay before me. The bargain was made when I was young, yes, but its genesis rose earlier still. Father sold me for a hammer, but even his actions are predicated upon threads of the web stretching back to the very beginning. Not that such abrogates his culpability, but it casts his actions in a different hue, does it not?”

  “What are you talking about?” She sounded half mad. Maybe she was. Maybe Volund’s torture of her had gone on so very long that she … she couldn’t even … Freyja’s tears finally broke free from her eyes and she choked on her sobs. This wasn’t real. It was a nightmare.

  Had to be … a nightmare …

  Hnoss stalked over to her side and knelt in front of her. “Do you grieve for me … or for yourself, as you pity what you feel was taken from you? Believe me when I say, neither amounts to aught. I don’t need pity and you don’t deserve it. In the darkness of this place, I found my eyes opened wider. I have seen things, Mother.”

  What did that mean? Did she have her father’s gift with the Sight?

  Hnoss stroked her cheek, roughly, then snickered and rose abruptly. She disappeared back out the maw-like door, leaving Freyja alone.

  26

  In the harbor outside of Agnafit, Hödr listened to the crackle of Baldr’s burning ships, a trio of smoldering wrecks soon to be claimed by Rán. The prince had thought to meet him in battle on the water, but, despite his cleverness, had seen the danger too late.

  Gelderus and his men had launched flaming arrows in a hail that—the Kvenlander assured him—must look like the fury of Muspelheim raining down upon Midgard. What men loyal to Baldr survived would have taken shelter in the town.

  Now would come the harder, bloodier work. The work he’d gone to Kvenland and claimed Mistilteinn for. The runeblade hung over his shoulder, thrumming with the knowledge it would soon kill. It had a fell power inside it, Hödr had no doubt. Maybe all the runeblades did, forged by dvergar in another age.

  Gelderus clapped him on the shoulder. “Battle’s already half won, you ask me. Men’ll be looking for plunder.”

  Hödr hadn’t worn his blindfold now. Sometimes, the effect of his eyeless gaze had its own benefit. He turned to face Gelderus, so the king would feel that power. “No pillaging. Not unless the townsfolk themselves rise against us.”

  The man’s aura shifted a little. Vexed. Maybe intent to argue, maybe to disobey. Whatever Hödr said, some of Gelderus’s men would rape and plunder Agnafit. War bands didn’t sail through winter storms and cross to foreign lands without personal benefit.

  Still, it sat ill with him. Eindride’s people deserved more.

  But so few ever seemed to get what they deserved.

  Gelderus’s warriors leapt from his ships, screaming and shouting and flinging torches at the shacks and shanties by the docks. Most places didn’t catch quickly, not with the wood sodden from unending snows. But by the time Hödr set foot on the pier, billowing smoke clogged the air and set him to coughing.

  He hadn’t wanted this.

  Shrieking warriors raced past him.

  Arrows flew from the sides of buildings, some finding their marks with wet thwacks. Most of the townsfolk seemed to have either fled, or joined Baldr’s defense. And why not? Who wouldn’t join the Prince of Asgard when he called for a levy?

  Runeblade in hand, Hödr stalked through the town.

  The crush of a wild melee proceeded him. The reek of blood and shit created a noxious wave that hit him like a physical force, mingling with the cries of pain and rage and lust that bombarded him from all angles.

  War never suited him, no matter if it sometimes became needful. Baldr had brought this upon himself, and Hödr would not surrender Nanna. He’d make the prince see reason, even if it meant bringing him down.

  Unfortunately, being unable to use a shield anymore put Hödr at a distinct disadvantage against a foe as well-trained as Baldr. The prince was a master warrior, without doubt, and maybe even Mistilteinn wouldn’t prove enough. That thought had niggled all the way here, in the long hours on the ship. A fear that he might still lose.

  But battle was no place for self-doubt. Mother had taught him that. Told him to push everything else away and focus only on a needle-thin point. A singular objective, while the rest of the world vanished.

  A man came roaring, charging out from an alley, axe raised.

  Hödr drew his pneuma to increase his reflexes, then whipped Mistilteinn up at an arc. The runeblade sliced through the man’s fingers and the axe haft like he’d swung at a blade of grass. The warrior stumbled, stupefied and gaping at his half-severed hand. A breath like that. Almost enough for him to start screaming when the pain hit.

  Before he could, Hödr thrust the runeblade up, punching through his chest as though he didn’t even wear the gambeson padding it. Hödr jerked the blade free and his foe dropped at once, pitching over and lying facedown.

  Sparing him no more thought, Hödr trotted off after Gelderus.

  Corpses littered the street. It was hard to make them out, save by the smell of blood, and that was everywhere. Men’s guts squelched under his feet and made the going slick and unsteady. Auras faded when men died, and, of course, the dead made no sounds. So he couldn’t really tell one man from another.

  Were the bodies Gelderus’s men, or Baldr’s? A mix of both, probably, now rendered indistinguishable.

  What was the point in this? Why couldn’t Baldr have just let Hödr have one thing for himself? The prince was a troll’s cock, that’s why. He thought his own shit was made of gold. Thought the whole world his kingdom. And why shouldn’t he think that, when his mother had groomed him thus?

  Glowering, Hödr trotted through an alley and onto the main street.

  The fighting was thicker here. Chaos. Too many sounds. Metal on wood. On metal. On flesh. Screams. Gasps. Groans. The stench of death, and, everywhere, an aura of pain, fear.

  Among them, though, Baldr’s aura stood out, so strong, his pneuma enhanced by the apple of Yggdrasil. The prince was engaged with … that was Gelderus.

  Laevateinn crackled in Baldr’s hand, flames leaping up and down the blade.

  Trollshit!

  Hödr raced between different bouts of melee, desperate to reach the pair. So many men and shieldmaidens here. He couldn’t—

  His foot slipped on something. Entrails, maybe. Either way, his leg twisted and his knee crunched down in mushy snow. Grunting, he struggled back to his feet. “Baldr!”

  The prince didn’t look at him. Probably didn’t even hear over the chaos. His flaming runeblade crashed down on Gelderus’s shield and the king screamed, his protection shattering as he w
ent to his knees.

  “Baldr!” Hödr shouted at him. “This is between you and me!”

  Now the prince did look at him. “Then you should have kept it that way, cousin!”

  Sensing the blow, Gelderus raised his sword to block. Laevateinn shattered his blade and cleaved through Gelderus’s brow. His flesh sizzled and melted with a sickening stench, making Hödr almost glad he couldn’t see the ravage of the man’s face. He knew all too well the pain of such burns.

  Baldr kicked his body away and stalked toward Hödr. “You still fail to grasp this, don’t you? I am the Prince of Asgard! By sending these men against me you compound your treason. You damn them to die, and to rot in the house of Hel!”

  “You had no need to kill him!”

  “Of course I did. Are you a fool? How well shall a prince who spares traitors and murderers fare? How long shall his reign be?”

  Oh, Baldr’s reign would come to an end. “I’m going to send you to Hel. Then, at least Gelderus will have some company.”

  “He has company already. Half your men are dead, cousin. And I spared you once, despite my better judgment. You have now proved my very point in coming here. I’ll not repeat my error.”

  Hödr raised Mistilteinn and pointed it at Baldr. “Nine runeblades, cousin. But this one, alone, deals wounds to immortals as though they were mere men. This one cares naught that you’ve tasted the fruit of Yggdrasil.”

  A hint of doubt flickered through Baldr’s aura, though only a hint. “Then I’m sure Mother will be grateful when I turn it over to her keeping. It surely doesn’t belong in the hands of a traitor. Father worked rather hard to ensure he could control all the remaining runeblades.”

  The prince bore a shield on his arm, giving him an advantage. Though, assuming Mistilteinn would destroy his protection as easily as Laevateinn had smashed Gelderus’s shield, maybe it didn’t matter overmuch. Perhaps Baldr had the same thought, for he tossed it aside and came in, flaming runeblade swaying one way and the next, like a sinuous serpent.

  As he drew nigh, Hödr could feel the crackle of its heat. As hot as the flames Eldr had wielded.

  “Don’t like fire?” Baldr said. “Shame about that.”

  “I’m used to it.”

  “Lie to yourself if you wish. But your destiny has always been to burn. Urd closes in around your throat.” With that, Baldr launched himself forward, his blows fierce and lightning-swift, but controlled. Even angry, the prince had discipline paired with his speed and strength.

  Hödr fell back, parrying. The flames licked at him when he let the prince get too close. The immense heat of that sword had the both of them sweating. Hödr could smell it on Baldr, under his mail and furs.

  With a snarl, Hödr beat down another attack, then jerked his own runeblade back up, intent to sever Baldr’s head. The prince yanked his flaming sword up too quick, though, and Mistilteinn managed only to slice into Baldr’s chin.

  Even that blow sent the prince stumbling backward, touching a hand to his wound.

  “Mar your perfect looks?” Hödr asked. “I wonder, can the apple heal wounds dealt by Mistilteinn, or will you always bear the scar of this battle?”

  Baldr roared at him, breaking into savage slashes that had Hödr falling back once more. Some of the prince’s precision gave way to his furious assault. His rage had him. It clouded his aura and made him vulnerable.

  Fearsome, yes. But leaving openings in his defense. Assuming Hödr could exploit them without getting cleaved in two or immolated.

  Baldr’s swings had become wider, heavier blows that numbed Hödr’s arms when he parried.

  But …

  Roaring, the prince made an overhanded chop that might have felled a troll. Hödr lunged inside it, whipping Mistilteinn across Baldr’s torso. Not a solid wound, but still the blade sheared through mail, padding, and flesh, stealing all strength from Baldr’s attack and sending him stumbling away.

  Gasping.

  “How does it feel, being mortal?” Hödr asked.

  Baldr backed away then, hand to his side, blood no doubt oozing between his fingers.

  Hödr advanced after him. “No more taunts, my prince? No talk of treason or such nonsense?”

  At once, several of the other men broke in, blocking Hödr’s path to Baldr. No.

  “Hiding beyond your minions?” Hödr shouted at him. “Running like a fucking craven!”

  He could not see the prince’s expression, but his aura filled with such rage, Hödr expected Baldr to come charging back in to finish this. Instead, the prince took off at a shambling run, hand still to his side.

  So be it.

  Four men on him, but one of Gelderus’s crew trotted over and helped draw off two of his foes.

  Hödr tore into his opponents with a fury, knowing it was too late. He’d never catch Baldr now. But the prince had lost.

  He’d truly lost.

  Mistilteinn took a man’s leg off at the knee and sent him tumbling into the slush. Fear tinged the other man’s aura. But not for long. Hödr’s furious attacks drove him backward, until one punched through his defenses and cleaved his skull in half. Brains and blood splattered and plopped down to the ground around him.

  Hödr paused just long enough to run through the other fallen man. Then he flicked the gore from Mistilteinn with a twist of his wrist.

  It was over.

  He had to get to Nanna.

  He found her—and Gevarus—still in the old farmhold outside of Agnafit.

  The woman looked sharply to him as he approached. “We saw smoke coming from the town.”

  “Yes.” He wished he could say Baldr was the aggressor, but he’d ordered the first strike. Needfully, though.

  “What happened?”

  “I won. I drove the prince off. With luck, straight back to Asgard.”

  “Will he return?”

  That had run through his mind, on his trek up to the farm. Baldr’s pride might lead him either way—to come back to avenge the loss, or to retreat from it and pretend it had never happened. He might well consider it better to let Hödr have the victory and thus let Nanna live out a mortal life.

  A thought that suddenly lanced through Hödr’s heart. She would grow old and die unless she got an apple of Yggdrasil. And Frigg would dine beyond the gates of Hel before she’d give Hödr an apple for Nanna.

  No, this mortal life was all they had. And he’d not waste it.

  “We should wed as soon as possible. Then … I think we must make for Gardariki. It’s falling beyond the reach of Asgard, so we may be safe there.”

  The king’s aura filled with doubt, but still he nodded. “We’ll make the arrangements on the next auspicious day, then. You’re right. We cannot remain here.”

  Hödr took Nanna’s hand and kissed it.

  Finally, they could be together.

  27

  The armies of Saevarstadir had sailed upriver in great longships that reminded Hermod more of spiked linnorms than of crafts. Either way, they had sailed into the Onyx Lagoon on which Amsvartnir sat.

  Hipparch Elga commanded the assault, and it was on her ship that Hermod and Freyja now sat, staring into the darkness beyond. Across an expanse of water, Amsvartnir lay, a perverse honeycomb city where Prince Fjalar had imprisoned Odin and Idunn. Hermod had to rescue his king, at any cost.

  That knowledge reigned in his temper, albeit barely.

  “There are a great many things you neglected to tell me,” he said, not looking at Freyja.

  “You mean about Idunn?”

  “That’s one, yes.” It would have been nice to know she was the child of this Ivaldi, and thus, primed to become one of the svartalfar. “Among other things, knowing how little time she had might have altered our course. Besides that, though, you failed to inform me that you had a daughter, much less that Volund held her prisoner.”

  “I don’t think …” The liosalf’s voice sounded surprisingly close to breaking. “I don’t think she’s still a prisoner. More li
ke his … concubine.” Well that was disturbing. “And she’s not only my daughter, but your precious king’s, as well.”

  Now he did look at her, gaped at her, in fact. “Hnoss is Odin’s daughter?”

  “I was pregnant with her when Odin cast the Vanir into Alfheim. She was conceived on Midgard but … born in the World of Sun.” Her voice indicated she held more back, besides, but she fell silent.

  Maybe it wasn’t his place to press. Even if it was the king’s own child in question. “Shall we …” He glanced back at Elga, but the svartalf and her crew seemed preoccupied with readying the assault. “Liberate someone else, then?”

  Freyja’s look was so forlorn, the urge to offer her an embrace of comfort seized him, though he restrained himself. He scarcely knew this woman, if she was Odin’s lover. Maybe, especially if she was the king’s lover. “I’m not sure we can. I’m still working it over in my mind.”

  “Then let me advise you to stay focused on the task at hand, at least until we’ve secured Odin and Idunn. From the sound of it, we need to get them both out of Svartalfheim with all possible haste.”

  “Yes.”

  With a grunt, he rose, and drifted to the gunwale so he could stare at their objective. Tiny flickers of light on the horizon drew his gaze. Torches on the wall of Amsvartnir, no doubt.

  And before those flickers, other, even smaller glimmers out over the water.

  “They’ve launched their armada,” Elga stated. “Archers!”

  At her command, a row of svartalf archers stood, and on the stern castle, two other female warriors lined up great flat bows they called ballistas. Hermod couldn’t see how that bow was going to fling so thick and heavy an arrow as they’d mounted onto it, but Elga had assured him the devices worked.

  He eased Dainsleif free. It would start very soon.

  Already, the lead ships were picking up speed, perhaps intending to ram the defenders. Any moment, now, and the arrows would begin to—