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

by Matt Larkin

  In the distance, the massive, grotesque ship threaded through the mists and drew up as close to the shore as it could without running aground. Though Loki could not see the draugar leaping over the sides and into the sea, he knew they had already begun to do so. A swarm of the hideous ghosts, trapped in their own rotting flesh, and caring naught about the icy chill of the waters, nor needing to breathe.

  Loki had given over any attempt to conceal himself from Hel’s gaze, and so, no doubt, she would detect him in the mist, sooner or later.

  His daughter.

  Taken from him so very long ago. Damned, for her pursuit of the Art, to an existence of eternal torment and fathomless hatred as a wraith. Except, poor Hekate had thought to challenge fate, and had thus arranged another end for herself, enlisting the aid of other sorcerers. He ought to have seen her plan more clearly back then, but Loki had been caught in the tides of history himself, and torn by the grief of the things he’d lost and would lose.

  Perhaps it didn’t matter, as the Norns were not like to have allowed him to change aught, regardless. Time existed, predicated upon itself, in an endless weave. A knotted tapestry. Immutable, or so very close to it.

  Was that why he’d come here? Because he’d seen it in the flames, and given in, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy? Or had the flames shown him the desires that already lay within his breast, the need, having lost all else, to look upon whatever remained of his love, taken from him so many times?

  Hands behind his back, he stood motionless as the draugar lurched from the sea, ice-cold waters dripping down over their rusting armor. They surrounded him but did not advance.

  For she had sensed him now, surely.

  There, walking on the sea—or rather, on ice sheets forming beneath her feet as she made her way to him—Hel came to him. Hel … Hekate. And Sigyn. His precious, beloved Sigyn.

  Both the women he loved more than aught else in the world.

  When Sigyn was torn from him, in the intervening ages of separation between them, Loki would delve into his memories, run them through his mind over and over until they had become embedded in his very being. And still, still, somehow he would almost forget how keen her edge ever was. The wit, the cunning, the incessant curiosity that proved her most endearing, most damning of traits.

  That, and the hope.

  Hekate had wanted to torture him by taking Sigyn, he knew, though Loki had to imagine his daughter also wanted the connection to her mother. That some part of her, some deep part she probably could not admit even to herself, craved the one she’d lost. Hekate might come to the Mortal Realm, might look upon her father, but her mother … her mother always bore a different face.

  And Hekate perhaps failed to see the depths of the soul within, of the mind born of that soul, of its … grace.

  She chuckled, as she walked unto the beach, shaking her head ever so slightly. It was Sigyn, but half of her had rotted away, leaving exposed muscle and bone, and it took all of Loki’s will to hold himself to stillness at seeing his beloved so destroyed by their own daughter. Hekate had not done that to Sigyn willfully. Surely she had not … and that ought to have offered Loki some semblance of comfort.

  Hel paced all the way up to him, then circled around him once, before coming to stop a few feet from his face. Already, Hel’s presence in Sigyn had begun to stretch her form, growing taller. Not so much longer and she’d be eye level with Loki himself. “Have you come to surrender at long last, Father?”

  A ring of draugar surrounded them, their armor creaking as they shifted and shambled, ill at ease. Again, little surprise, given their own eternal torment. They reeked of brine and decay.

  Loki kept his gaze focused on Sigyn’s eyes. One was gone now, just a hollow pit with a fell red light inside, and the other gleamed red as well, no longer looking like his wife. But she was in there. Deep inside, looking back. He could almost feel Sigyn pleading with him, begging for release he could not offer her. How could he, when the only possible release from this torment would be to free her soul?

  Her body was dead, but it was Hel’s presence that kept Sigyn here, looking at him. And the thought of her being torn from him once more, of having to wait ages again before he could look into her soul and know his own soul mate, that thought crushed Loki. It swallowed him whole and left him falling into the depths of despondency.

  “Do you want my surrender?” he finally managed to answer.

  Hel cocked her head from one side to the other, before a slow smile spread along the one side of her face with flesh. “Oh. Oh, Father. After so very long … you’ve come to stand by my side, haven’t you? You’ve come to watch me win.” She chuckled, a hollow, distorted sound that would’ve made most men flinch.

  But Loki had heard that empty laughter before. Too many times. She was, after all, still his child. He could not abide her actions, perhaps, but nor could he deny the bond that drew him back to her, as well. Such a bond defied any attempt to fully sever it.

  He and Sigyn had given birth to her, and no matter how far astray she’d gone, he could not completely forsake her. Forcing the bitter frown from his expression, he stroked her cheek, heedless of putrefaction of her flesh, or where it peeled away to reveal bone beneath it.

  “I should have done better by you,” he said.

  Hel laughed. A single, short breath, really, that, for once, did not carry the tones of icy rage and despair that had so pervaded her voice for millennia. A solitary note, a hint of a music, that might have belonged to his lost child. A shadow of a little girl, playing by the sea, while her father struggled to hold together the fabric of history. And he, in his obsession, had perhaps missed moments he ought to have cherished.

  As if suddenly aware of his reverie, as if repulsed by the realization of what it implied, Hel jerked roughly away, her hint of a smile replaced by a sneer. “I’m going to crush this world into dust, Father. Come, I’ll let you watch.”

  9

  The Penumbra was a world of flowing shadows, cast in shades of gray and midnight blue, and surrounded by the Roil. That latter layer of the Astral Realm kept trying to tug at Hermod’s soul, to pull him down toward whatever final end should have awaited him in death.

  Having fought against the pull, he now drifted along through this netherworld, this cold, distorted reflection of the Mortal Realm. But not listlessly, nor out of rage, as seemed to be the only two options available to most shades.

  Now, Hermod trod with purpose.

  The seas of the Mortal Realm had no substance here, though their presence did further deepen the darkness that saturated the Astral Realm. Now, Hermod trod along what should have been the seafloor, deeper than he’d have ever imagined, and wary of crevasses and the surprisingly alien landscape down here. Above him, around him, passed countless faint shadows cast by sea life on the far side of the Veil.

  Given he could no longer take a boat, walking beneath the waves seemed his only way to reach Valhalla. More than once, he’d questioned whether he’d gone mad to attempt such a crossing. Especially having seen this desolate, strange place that almost reminded him of the Roil.

  He’d passed enormous coral reefs that seemed half in this realm, half in the Mortal Realm. He’d come down an incredibly steep drop-off some distance beyond the land, one that had taken hours to scale—could a ghost break bones from a fall?—and had tested his resolve.

  And now, deeper than any living man could dream of reaching, he walked in a direction he dared to hope would carry him back to Asgard.

  In the distance, a shadow from the Mortal Realm seemed brighter than any others Hermod had seen. Bright and very, very large.

  Hermod slipped into a crouch and gazed at the thing swimming around above. If he could make it out thus, had the creature embraced the Sight? Could it see him? It was too far away to get an accurate estimate of just how long it was, but over a hundred feet, without doubt. Sinuous, serpentine. A sea serpent?

  The last thing Hermod needed was some kind of dragon pas
sing through the Veil and hunting him. If it did he’d have nowhere to …

  Wait. He was already dead. For certain, he had seen very few other shades since entering the sea—most flitted about the land, lamenting their deaths—but either way, why would a dragon care about a ghost? It shouldn’t.

  Still, he found it hard to make his legs straighten, hard to rise and continue his trek forward. Ever, the serpent drew his gaze, so much he twice stumbled over dips in the seafloor. Even knowing the creature shouldn’t concern itself with him, how was a man to ignore a monster effectively flying above him?

  “Fuck me,” he mumbled.

  Finally, the serpent drifted so far away he could no longer make out its shape, and Hermod continued to push on.

  It had been a mistake, he realized while sitting in profound isolation, somewhere far from the edge of land. With no sun and no landmarks, he could not begin to guess if he was headed in the right direction. He could have been wandering in circles for hours or days or … how much time had passed, for that matter?

  With no cycle of night or day, no need for food or rest, how could he measure it?

  Had Loki slain him a moon ago? Or longer? Much longer?

  Complete despair settled over his chest and threatened to crush him. Part of it was the nature of this realm. Hermod knew that. The Lethe stole memories and the Astral Realm itself infused a soul with a despondency so powerful it could wither away essence. Some souls got drawn back into the World Tree, into the Wheel of Life, while others … who knew, really?

  In his ennui, he could feel the Roil’s pull once again trying to claim him, to drag him deeper into the Astral Realm. Why should he not let it claim him? Why continue to fight it? So he could wander for all eternity in the empty spaces between the land? So he could entertain a vain hope of reaching Valhalla and calling up the einherjar as Odin had intended?

  It was hopeless.

  Odin was gone.

  Hermod was dead. And surely, in death, the bounds of his duty had been reached. Surely, having been murdered, he could count himself absolved of his responsibilities to continue this fight. Let the world attend to itself.

  If Hermod found Heimdall’s bridge, took it, would it lead him to the peace of oblivion? Odin claimed they would all be born again, and indeed, had been born many times before. But Hermod didn’t remember any other lives. So … if he returned to the Wheel of Life, he might be allowed to then forget the horrors of this life.

  Even as he stared at his hands, they began to bleed. Not blood, but rather … their very substance seemed to drift off into invisible currents, as if he became mist, blown away by the wind. The first steps of oblivion would prove a mercy. His chance to escape the madness of his quest.

  “You failed.” The whisper carried across the shadows of this realm, hateful and sibilant, and, though it now sounded outside his head, all too familiar.

  Hermod lurched to his feet, his disintegration abated for the moment. “Keuthos?”

  A chilling mist wafted along the seafloor, trailing in from the distance. A cloud that must reach out thirty or forty feet. Hermod could make out naught in the middle of that freezing cloud, but its presence left no doubt the Mistwraith had come for him.

  “What do you want, Keuthos?” Hermod’s death had forcibly shunted the Mistwraith from his body, and Hermod had dared to hope that meant he’d be free of the vile ghost.

  “I’ve been tracking you a long time. I scarcely believed it, when the trail led into the ocean. I’d not have thought even you so mad as to attempt this. Would try to pass directly into the World of Water? Is that your aim?”

  Hermod tried to chuckle, but found the ennui that had seized him seemed to steal even his ability to laugh. Still … Odin had taught him that in the Astral Realm, one’s body was essentially a projection of self-image. Before moving bodily into the Penumbra, he had trained Hermod to manifest aught he’d associated with himself—gear, armor, arms. And Hermod, in turn, had taught the einherjar to manifest weapons as well.

  A moment of concentration, and Dainsleif appeared in his hand. Oh, it wasn’t the real runeblade, for it lacked the infusion of damned souls to imbue it with terrible power. It was, rather, simply a blade as strong and sharp as Hermod’s own will.

  Keuthos’s hateful cackle seemed to reverberate through its mist. It formed up, a shrouded, armor-plated figure, half seen through the cloud of mist, bearing an axe large enough to have chopped a snow bear in half. “You wish to fight me?”

  “I’ve no wish to do so at all.”

  “I will hack your pathetic form to shreds and feast on the dregs of your soul.”

  Hermod hefted Dainsleif up before himself. “What would you have me do, wraith? I am dead. I cannot complete the mission you wish, and death absolves one of all oaths.”

  “Not all oaths.”

  Did Keuthos think Hermod could somehow still reach Muspelheim and destroy the seal? Was that even possible? He’d lost his ability to project across the Veil … but he was not infused with Mist like Keuthos, so perhaps he could enter the World of Fire without being consumed by it. If he could find the way there.

  Still, Valhalla seemed the far more pressing of goals. If he could find some way, any way to reach it. If he …

  “Can you lead me back to Asgard?”

  “The islands … You truly believe you are in a position to make requests of me?”

  “If you want me to—”

  A shadow dropped out of the sky, a winged form diving to land in a crouch before Hermod, sleek, and clad in gilded armor Hermod now knew was fashioned after that of the liosalfar. A valkyrie, dark-haired.

  She lifted her gaze to him. Gondul.

  She bore a gleaming spear and a shield and raised both in warding toward Keuthos, drawing a hiss from the wraith.

  How was she here? Why? Hermod had a dozen questions, but under the circumstances … He moved up to her side, facing down Keuthos. “Leave us. I will attend to your mission if and when circumstances allow it. First, I have other matters that call me.”

  Again, that sibilant hiss in answer. But the mist cloud did begin to drift away, Keuthos’s shadowy figure melted back into it. The creature’s wrath seemed to saturate the very air, so thick it made Hermod’s arms tremble even after the mist had faded from view.

  He spun on Gondul. “How did you … No. Why did you come to help me?” Surely she knew he no longer bore Draupnir, could no longer compel her.

  Gondul quirked the oddest of smiles. Sad, almost. “Our power came from Odin, with the ring as a conduit. Without it, yes, we might defy him. Skögul has fled to pursue her own ends, and I alone remain from our lodge.”

  “Not really an answer.”

  “Your mother was our sister. You knew that.”

  Hermod nodded. Odin had claimed two lodges of valkyries with Draupnir, though Gondul’s lodge had almost all fallen now. Only herself and Skögul remained, and now Skögul had abandoned him.

  Hermod ought to have cared more about such things, but the numbness had settled into his breast and refused to release his grip. An apathy about all things, one he fought so hard against. Struggling, to keep his purpose true, to reach Valhalla. To fulfill Odin’s wish and bring the einherjar into battle against the forces of Hel.

  Hel, whom Hermod had released from Niflheim in his mad rage.

  Gondul moved to his side and ran her fingers lightly over his beard, shaking her head. “I’m sorry it happened like that. Once I knew … of course I would not abandon you, of all men, Hermod. Never you. If anyone deserved to reach Valhalla and dine in peace, it is you.”

  “Y-you’d take me there?” Could it be so easy? To reach his destination simply for the asking of it? After such struggle, after such a long trek through darkness, he could have made it any time, had he but found Gondul sooner?

  He wanted to weep with joy, but even that seemed too much effort. How very empty he had become now. Almost ready to let himself get sucked down into the Roil.

  Gondul held
out her arm to him. “I’ll take you. I’ll take you to Valhalla and you will finally be able to rest.”

  Rest …

  Rest. No. Fuck, how he wished he could, but no … Hermod could not rest. There were yet a few things that required his attending to.

  He clasped Gondul’s arm, and she drew him into her embrace. A powerful beat of her wings carried them aloft.

  10

  Temporal currents thrashed at the edges of Odin’s consciousness, fraying it, or, perhaps, expanding it in all directions. As if, were he able to completely let go, his mind might traverse every thread of the web of urd, might nestle into every node of time and, for a bare instant, understand the totality of the cosmos.

  That way lay madness, of course.

  The human mind, expanded though his might be, could never hope to process the infinite. Were he to give in to such impulses, the price must surely be his sanity, and Odin was not certain he’d want to know what shell of a man would remain where he had once stood.

  And so he fought the current, struggled, not only to keep his breath and remain grounded, but to ford the tides of the sea of time and make his way back to the one node that most needed him.

  Conceptions of the present had become relative things, yes, but still, surely the place in the timeline which he had fled must hold some special import. The place, the time, and the soul of the one he so needed, at the moment when she most needed him.

  Curled in a ball, struggling to catch a breath, he opened his eye and saw rime-coated stone beneath himself. Howling winds—no, not mere winds, but gales—tugged at his clothes, and sent him tumbling over sideways. The force was such that he actually skidded along the ground, even as he looked up into the night, blinking.