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

by Matt Larkin

The man’s other hand shot up and closed around Narfi’s throat, though, and squeezed with strength what would’ve made a jotunn jealous. Narfi’s vision blurred. Couldn’t draw a breath. Thor kept pulling him closer.

  Then he slammed his brow into Narfi’s nose. The sick sound of cartilage crunching filled Narfi’s head. Couldn’t focus. Not without air. Everything began to dim. The haze of death, like Hel’s mists.

  Flailing, Narfi caught hold of his axe heft, still wedged in the Ás’s other arm. Grabbed and heaved.

  Thor bellowed in pain and dropped Narfi, who slumped down to his knees, gasping. Breathing felt like lances of fire. Each breath a blessed agony. Glorious, searing air.

  Thor dropped to one knee, closing his hand around Mjölnir. Narfi hadn’t even seen him drop the hammer, what with being unable to breathe and so forth.

  Rubbing his throat, Narfi scrambled back several feet. Maybe toying with the man weren’t his best idea.

  Gasping down his painful breaths, he hefted the axe even as Thor rose, snarling. Raising a hammer with an arm what shouldn’t have worked at all. How could the man tolerate such pain? Such profound injuries? Was it the hammer itself? If so, all Narfi had to do was hack off the prince’s hand, and things would shift well back in his favor.

  Thor half lunged, half fell forward, swinging that hammer. Narfi sidestepped. Or tried to, but moved sluggish, his body not answering the way it ought to. The hammer clipped his arm. Even that glancing blow spun him around and sent him stumbling to the ground.

  Frantic, he scrambled away from Thor. An instant later, the hammer shattered stones in a tremendous explosion that flung up a cloud of debris.

  Grunting, Narfi managed his feet. His heel brushed against the low rail at the bridge’s edge, giving him nowhere else to retreat. He had to reckon that meant he needed to switch tactics and take to attacking.

  Not surprisingly, Thor’s rise was clumsy, off-balance. It gave Narfi the chance to lunge in, an axe-blow aimed at the man’s head.

  The Ás swept that hammer up, deflecting. A shard of Narfi’s axe snapped off, hurtling out into the void. Snarling, Narfi swept what remained of his weapon down. The point of it jabbed into Thor’s shoulder, scraping over the man’s collarbone.

  Thor roared in obvious agony, but still didn’t fall.

  What in the gates of Hel would it take to fell this bastard? Teeth grit, Narfi twisted the axe blade, grinding it against Thor’s bone. The Ás’s other fist snapped up and caught Narfi in the chest. The blow knocked his wind out, and he stumbled back, losing his grip on the axe haft. Gasping.

  Sternum felt crushed. Couldn’t … breathe …

  Slobbering like a bear, Thor yanked Narfi’s axe free of his shoulder and tossed it aside.

  Narfi managed to catch a breath. This was impossible. How was the man still standing? Not even an Ás immortal ought to have … Narfi’s heel tapped against the rail again, and he glanced back. A tangle of roots grew out over the abyss below, descending into darkness and running who knew how deep.

  Thor switched Mjölnir to his off hand.

  Narfi had to reckon this was it. Except, he weren’t the kind to give up and die. Not when Hödr still needed avenging.

  Shit.

  Another glance at his foe, then Narfi leapt the rail.

  For a breathless instant, he fell, twenty feet, maybe, then landed on a curving root. The impact shot fresh pains through his whole body, and he twisted, swayed. Almost fell.

  Above, on the bridge, Thor railed in wrath.

  Probably just angry enough to try jumping down here, too, even when he hadn’t any way back up.

  Desperate, Narfi peered over the edge of the root. Another crossed under it, so far down he almost couldn’t see it. Way down.

  Well, he seemed bound for his sister’s hall either way. Narfi rolled off the root and fell once more, the rush of air tugging at his clothes for the bare instant before that root slapped him in the face like a damn fist.

  Everything swayed, going dark.

  Maybe he’d have passed out, if it weren’t for Thor’s mad howling way above, echoing through this void.

  Groaning, Narfi pushed himself up. Just enough to spit out a gob of blood.

  Up ahead, this root seemed to twist into a nest of others. But it had to burrow through earth somewhere. These roots, they spanned the whole world. That meant if he crawled along one long enough, maybe he could reach the chasm’s side, even find a way to climb out.

  Just had to survive, he reckoned.

  Live. A little longer, then rejoin his forces, rearm himself. Maybe not fight Thor by himself.

  Either way, Asgard had fallen.

  Groaning with pain and effort, Narfi pulled himself along the length of the root. Its fibrous surface tore at his skin, caught his clothes, and ripped fresh tears in them.

  So tired …

  No. Couldn’t let himself sleep. Not yet.

  It was a varulf, in wolf form, running over snowy woods, faster than aught else Narfi could’ve imagined. Faster, and him running with it, wind whipping over him.

  And then the varulf finding Odin, that Ás bastard what started all this, and what spawned Thor in the first place.

  A pain in his chest told him the truth. Narfi wouldn’t be the one to kill Odin.

  But the varulf would. Would sink his teeth in the man’s throat and end the reign of Asgard for good and all.

  If he’d seen the future, it meant it couldn’t change. Visions, they weren’t always clear, no, but they didn’t lie, neither.

  This varulf, Fenrir, he was the key.

  The roots bent and wrapped around one another, having forced Narfi to drop down twice more, before finally digging into the side of the chasm. Given the overhang, he didn’t much see himself climbing out.

  No, but gaps in the wall created a tunnel. Maybe it went nowhere. Maybe it was just a burrow for rabbits or something. But … maybe it led out.

  Yggdrasil’s roots connected all over. This world, the Otherworlds. Anywhere might give him a chance to survive.

  Somewhere, far below the island, Odin had bound Fenrir not far from where he’d bound Father. So if the tunnel led beneath the island, that was where Narfi needed to go.

  And he’d find the varulf.

  Because there was yet a few more Aesir what needed killing.

  27

  The tips of Yggdrasil’s roots had bored through the glacial wall of the ice caves, and now burrowed down a hole where thick mist had coalesced, preventing Hermod from glimpsing even a hint of what lay below. It was a chasm of unknown depths, drowning in a maze of roots and poison mists.

  “You want me to jump down that?” Hermod demanded.

  Yes …

  Khione had led him up to the tunnel, refusing to go further once it began to descend, claiming such places were not for her. Unless Hermod missed his guess, such places were not fit for anyone, much less someone who was, for all intents and purposes, still mortal.

  “I can’t see aught.”

  There is naught to see, regardless … It is a transitory space between realms … one that will lead to the depths of the Roil or, perhaps, even to what lays beyond … And in that dark place … all realms become conjoined …

  Sorcerers, Odin had told him, tended to think of the Mortal Realm as the center of the cosmos, around which stretched fathomless darkness. But reality, such as Hermod witnessed it, seemed to defy easy classification, refusing to fit into any clear model.

  At the precipice he paused, watching his breath frost the air. Utter madness. He’d be like to break his neck, jumping into such a void. “You believe Naströnd lies below?”

  Were you to bore down … far beneath the frozen shelf to the east … you might find the World of Water … what you call Noatun … Or beyond these ice caves, in shadows deep beyond measure … there lies spaces that abut Svartalfheim …

  Meaning what? That the different spirit worlds not only overlaid one another, but existed adjacently at the same time?
/>   When things align … just so …

  Except, Keuthos’s answer sidestepped his original question, even if it implied that Nidhogg’s foul abode did lay down this abyss.

  I told you not to use that word …

  What, abyss? “Why not?”

  But, once again, the wraith offered no answer.

  “Well, fuck me,” Hermod said after a moment more. He pulled his last torch from his satchel, jammed it into his belt, and drew in another breath.

  He didn’t expect to enjoy this. He stepped off the edge.

  His stomach dropped out from under him as wind rushed over his body, tugging at his clothes. For an instant. Then his feet hit hard on a slick, inclined surface—he couldn’t see a damn thing down here—and skidded forward. He slipped, slamming his arse on that surface, and continued to slide down, faster and faster, not daring to grab aught for fear of wrenching his still aching shoulder. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest.

  A horrible rush of speed swept over him, pulling him so quickly he’d surely slam into a wall and turn his bones to goo. And then the surface disappeared from under him and he was falling once more.

  Flailing.

  Screaming, though the wind stripped his voice away.

  His hip banged against something—a root?—the impact drawing a shriek from him, even as it spun him around. He twirled around in the air, unable to control his angle. Nor brace for an impact when he hardly knew—

  Bloated flesh smacked into him with the force of Thor’s hammer. The bodies gave way an instant later, plunging him into a mire of filth. Flailing, flinging reeking muck in all directions, he managed to keep from going under. Caught his breath. And then retched so violently his knees gave up, and he plunged neck-deep into the corpse sea. That only worsened the stench. He slapped around, trying to steady himself on something, but corpses came apart under his blows, failing to offer the least bit of support.

  Something large and sinuous brushed across his spine. At once, Hermod froze in place.

  Oh, fuck.

  Nidhogg’s brood of serpents. Odin had never gone into much detail, save to mention nigh limitless numbers of these things dwelt in the corpse sea.

  Shit. Fuck. Oh …

  Calm yourself …

  He couldn’t fucking see! His torch was wet, coated in Hel wouldn’t even know what, and he was in the middle of a place so horrible it terrified even Odin.

  I can see …

  The corpses sloshed, disturbed by the passage of something immense beyond measure. Far away, by the sound of it, but probably able to close the distance with horrifying speed should it detect him.

  Oh, Hel. Oh, fuck. His stomach clenched and his heart felt apt to wilt away in the most profound terror imaginable. Part of him almost wanted to weep.

  It knows you have entered Naströnd …

  Shit. This had to be the most mist-mad thing he’d done thus far. And maybe the last he’d ever do, under the circumstances. Someone please help him …

  Calm … yourself … Turn slowly to your right … Good … Take care to disturb the waters as little as possible … Move forward … slowly … Do not give in to the temptation to flee … You are covered in decay …

  Wonderful. Hermod knew that much.

  It works to your advantage … masks your scent and body heat … While you move slowly … Nidhogg might not be able to spot you …

  Wait, might not? What the fuck was—

  Calm yourself … do not allow your elevated heart rate to draw its eye …

  Oh. So all he had to do was slosh through a sea of corpses, surrounded by enormous serpents, without moving the waters, or getting nervous. Never mind that, even if he did all that, the dark dragon might still discover him and devour him, body and soul.

  I am not … in the habit … of coddling self-pitying mortals …

  Hermod wasn’t in the habit of visiting Hel or wading through Naströnd. He was pretty certain his ordeal was the more trying of the two.

  Behind him, something sizzled, and with the sound came the acrid stench of rapidly eroding bodies. Had the dragon sprayed them with some kind of acid to make them easier to digest?

  Keep moving …

  That, Keuthos need not remind him of. Hermod had no desire to linger here for a moment. Certainly not for eternity.

  “My son …” A faint whisper, almost imperceptible.

  Do not speak!

  Was that … Mother?

  “Do not linger …”

  Oh. No, please no. How could Mother be here? Now, tears had built in his eyes, to think his mother endured this abominable torment. She had broken her oath. In order to stay with him and Father, mother had broken her oath.

  A sick crunch of bones turning to mush—and slurped down with flesh—resounded through the cavern.

  Just ahead … A little more … Control your breathing …

  His hand brushed over something fibrous. A frayed root. A root of the World Tree, except it was damaged. What could harm Yggdrasil? What would harm the World Tree?

  The dragon gnaws upon the roots to curtail its fury … It imagines itself breaking free …

  So it was eating the fucking World Tree? What would even happen if the Tree died? Would all the worlds collapse?

  Keuthos said naught. Either it didn’t know the answer, or the wraith considered that information too terrible to share. Perhaps worrying it might further set his pulse pounding or some such fear.

  Which it probably would.

  His mother. He had to save her.

  Focus … You cannot save the damned … The frayed roots offer you, alone, egress …

  No. No, he couldn’t leave her.

  Remember your daughter …

  Sif. Damn it. Damn it!

  Climb the root. Right. Hermod eased himself to a standing position, then gripped the root in both hands. With agonizing slowness, he pulled himself up, out of the muck. Despite his best effort, he could not quite prevent the slurp of muck as he yanked himself free.

  His heart lurched and he froze, dangling just above the putrefying corpses until his arms burned. Though he could see naught, he swore he could hear serpents swimming around, a hair below his feet. His arms began to burn. Any sudden move and one of those things might sense his presence and lunge at him.

  He’d need to use his pneuma just to—

  No …

  What?

  Flush your body with pneuma and they may … sense … it …

  Oh, damn it.

  For a few heartbeats more, he hung suspended like that. Then he reached up, caught another bit of frayed root, and pulled himself upward. Hand over hand, until he could wrap his legs around the root and take some of the pressure off his arms.

  Chill sweat beaded on his face as he made his slow, silent way up the root. A painful process, with slivers of stray fiber oft scraping his face or scratching his hands as he felt around for something to grasp onto.

  He paused, and cast a final glance into the darkness, though there was naught to see. Was Mother really down there? Was this the price she’d paid to return to his life? A few decades with him and eternity in the corpse sea?

  Whether truth or manifestation of your fears … you cannot change aught that exists here, either way …

  Damn it. With no other choice, Hermod resumed his painful climb.

  Finally, he reached a place where the root branched, and pulled his legs up and over that branch, giving himself some support. Up here, the fraying had stopped, leaving the World Tree mercifully whole. Hermod let his head fall against the side of the root, willing his breathing to slow. His hands felt worn raw, slick enough they were probably bleeding, in fact.

  If he continued up this way, if he could find the Penumbra, he could pass through and enter the Mortal Realm once more. From there, he had but to find the sacrifices for Hel, and she would release Sif and Baldr.

  Forget them … Destroy the seals and free Achlys …

  No. Not until he had his daughter back.r />
  Vile … ignorant … wretched …

  The wraith’s anger bubbled inside him like a seething cauldron of tar, scorching his mind. Hermod suspected only Keuthos’s oath not to try to possess him held the wraith at bay.

  For a time, he held still there, forcing the mistwraith’s mental assault to subside. When Keuthos finally gave it over, Hermod resumed his climb.

  How long had he moved among the roots? Hour after hour, it seemed, until he’d had no choice but to call upon his pneuma to enhance his stamina and bury the pain in his hands. Now, he knew for certain they bled. Keuthos had made no further objection to Hermod using his pneuma thus—after all, they had left Nidhogg behind long ago.

  Now, he’d found himself navigating a maze of roots in total darkness, and Keuthos—spiteful—had refused to offer any further guidance.

  Hermod could have sworn the texture of the air changed. A subtle shift in the darkness, as if the shadows became less substantial. Enough, he could feel the Veil. He pushed through that, teetering on the roots as he fought with the sensation of falling, and the momentary loss of breath. Once he’d steadied himself, he drew the torch, and set to wiping the filth from it.

  He had to wedge his shoulder against the fibrous surface to get leverage, and even so, managing to spark off the flint took him painfully long. When that torch finally caught, its sputtering flame seemed blinding after so long in total darkness.

  Keuthos hissed in his mind.

  The torch cast shifting shadows all about him, partially illuminating a knotted cluster of roots that bent and twisted around each other, pierced earth and rock walls, and stretched off in all directions. The maze extended far below him and, so far as he could tell, equally far above him. Endless.

  Climbing one-handed because of the torch, he eased his way upward until the roots led to a tunnel. A cave, perhaps, and though it looked low enough he’d have to crouch, at least he could rest. On hands and knees, Hermod crawled forward until he reached the tunnel, then collapsed against one wall of it, panting.

  He wedged the torch between the root and the stone floor, and released his pneuma to rest.