The Shores of Vanaheim (The Ragnarok Era Book 3)

by Matt Larkin

  And why not? He rested within the birthplace of all life on Midgard, within the very Tree of Life, binding souls and worlds together.

  In some distant age, a man and a woman had loved each other dearly, drawn together. Eostre’s parents.

  Freyja stroked his cheek, her touch like the warmth of the sun, saving him from the mists of Niflheim, pulling him out of the dark and restoring him, body and soul. And as the thought came to him, all distance between them vanished without any conscious decision. She lay under him, and he was kissing her soft, warm lips. Wiggling beneath him, she pulled away her tunic. Her skin was incredibly fair, like cream, and Odin wanted to drink it all in. He planted kisses over her breasts and neck and abdomen, barely aware that she had helped him out of his own shirt.

  All that mattered was one more kiss. Was finally, finally being reunited with his … his soul mate. She had been waiting for him for five thousand years. His arrival on Vanaheim had been urd all along, all to bring them together.

  Like a fool he had run from destiny, tried to deny it. But urd had bound him from the day he was born.

  Tears welled in her eyes as he entered her. Naught in his entire life had felt this right, this complete. He wanted to be deeper, deeper inside, to fuse their souls. Vibrant energy seeped up through the roots of Yggdrasil, coursing through them, driving them ever closer together and granting seeming endless stamina.

  Somehow, in this place, he had found absolute bliss. With a prescient surety he knew the Vanr couples must petition for permission to come here, just for this. For an absolute togetherness, a merging of more than bodies. A joining of pneuma, of souls. And through that same prescient insight he knew something else …

  “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, too … my Od …”

  How could it be love so quickly, with a woman he’d known only a few days? But the Sight did not lie. Not about this. And the ancient Vanr had been right—here, soul mates could not deny each other. Here, the self-denials and social customs meant naught. There was only life, and life demanded be heard. If a soul had been split in two, it would do anything to be reunited.

  At last they both found release, and through it, his body hummed, her pneuma pouring into him. Revealing a lifetime of empty lovers, of lost friends, of searching for meaning. No, not a lifetime. Freyja had spent more than a hundred lifetimes. Her experiences and insights and power slammed into Odin in a torrent of near incomprehensible sensations.

  She clung to him a long time afterward, her breathing slowly returning to normal. She had seemed asleep on his chest, but she spoke after the comfortable silence had dragged on. “You saw your own father’s memories of yourself.”

  “Yes.” So without doubt bits of his own seid had passed into her in an exchange. And, maybe, in time, she might make sense of his memories and powers. He no longer cared. If she were to learn his purpose here … Well, he was no longer certain of that purpose. Freyja was his reason for coming to Vanaheim; he just hadn’t known it.

  He did not need to dwell on such things. Not when she began kissing him once again. Rousing him for more. In this place, he suspected they could have continued all through the night. And he intended to.

  37

  Tyr sat on the beach, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. There was no mist. There was no mist, not anywhere on these islands nor out for whole miles at sea.

  Of the nigh unto a hundred longships that set out from Valland, fewer than half reached Vanaheim. Thanks to Flosshilde and her sisters, over a thousand Aesir seemed to have been rescued from those that sank. That meant … probably three or four thousand more had drowned, a feast for the minions of Rán. They would literally eat those they wished, while others would serve as hosts for more sea mer.

  Flosshilde had delivered that news matter-of-factly, a chilling reminder she’d have done the same to Tyr and probably anyone else she met alone in the wilds. He had spared her life, though, and for that one kindness, she had had repaid him a thousandfold. That kindness done, the nixie had disappeared back into the sea.

  Probably they wished to be far away before Rán’s followers learned what they had done. When he freed Flosshilde, he’d told her she’d have to pay for her crimes when next he saw her. Now he snorted. This had not been what he meant. Had Rán sent her monstrous whale after the Aesir because of her husband’s alliance with the Vanir? Or because Loki and Sigyn had so offended him? If the latter, irony of it was, those two were not even among the Aesir these days.

  Groaning with effort, he rose. Evening would not be so far off, and they had few supplies and many wounded, exhausted, frightened people. Perhaps here no dangers would haunt the night—though he could not say for certain. Either way, they needed a camp before darkness fell.

  Nor could they hope to cross the bay once again and retrieve their remaining supplies. The monster whale remained.

  For good or ill, the Aesir were now trapped on Vanaheim.

  Everywhere Tyr walked, men and women and children lay bedraggled in the sand, moaning in the sweltering heat. Some few were gathering corpses. Those who had washed ashore. So many of the Aesir would never even see the lands they had crossed the world to find.

  His first thought was to see to the Skaldun fleet. Some of their ships had gone down, but not, ancestors be praised, the ship Zisa and her sons had boarded.

  Now, Tyr stuck close to the queen. Frigg drifted among the frightened, the wounded. A few she healed, though it clearly took much out of her. Others, she placated with a comforting word. Tyr followed a few feet behind, ever watching her.

  Bedraggled and dripping seawater, Jarl Arnbjorn stormed toward the queen. Tyr’s hand was wrapped around Gramr before he knew what he was doing. Yet he somehow managed to keep from drawing her. Not yet.

  “He’s dead!” The jarl spat at Frigg’s feet. “My son is dead!”

  Fuck. His ship had made it to shore—crashed upon it, in fact. The young man must have been lost in the attack.

  Hurried steps carried Tyr toward the pair.

  “You brought this on us, you and Odin both!” Arnbjorn shook his fist in her direction.

  Gramr leapt into Tyr’s hand as he stepped between them. Frigg’s own hand pulled his arm back down. The queen had not enough fear for her own good. Like her husband.

  “You question Odin’s authority?”

  “I question yours!”

  Tyr’s fingers tightened around the hilt until it hurt. Frigg’s grip on his wrist grew stiff. A warning.

  “I speak for Odin.”

  “He is not here, and the decision to take everyone across the sea was yours alone, queen.”

  Frigg drew a deep breath, then guided Tyr to the side with one hand. “I do not have to explain my decisions to you, jarl.”

  Arnbjorn sneered. “You do and you will. I demand a Thing to hold you to account for these deaths.” He swept his hand out over the beach, as if to place all the burden of the dead upon their queen.

  “You demand?” Tyr spat at the jarl’s feet. “Perhaps I should champion the queen right now!”

  “No.” Frigg spoke softly, but her words silenced both Tyr and Arnbjorn. “No. The jarl has requested a formal meeting. So be it. Grieve your losses and sleep on it. In the morn the council of jarls will meet. And I suggest you choose your words with care, Arnbjorn. Odin will return, and he will know who has been loyal and who has not.”

  Arnbjorn shook his head like she was a child. “If the king returns at all, he will learn you disobeyed his command and brought us here. And we paid for it with blood.” He held up a finger. “In the morn, the jarls will vote to have you step down. This I promise you.”

  38

  The air around Odin rippled as if a pebble had been cast into still water. Those ripples washed over him, and though he felt naught, before his eyes his skin changed. His aged flesh was replaced with the body of a young man, one unmarred by runes.

  Freyja’s hands slid over his back in slow caresses that made it hard to conc
entrate on her instructions. It had, after all, taken days of practice. Days lurking in the World Tree as a second home. One more right than any he had ever felt.

  “I’m cured?”

  Freyja chuckled, then jabbed him in the ribs.

  Startled, he dropped his concentration. Instantly, another ripple passed over him, returning his flesh to its normal appearance.

  “Glamour is only an illusion, not a real change. The most powerful wielders can use it to appear as someone else, even become invisible. It is not actual shapeshifting, though. It is a Manifest Art most spirits can perform. Even a wraith.”

  I grant you power.

  Odin tried not to acknowledge Audr, though the wraith had more easily allowed him access to these blessings. He grunted, and turned to fold Freyja’s hands in his own. “You are an astounding teacher.”

  She smiled. “The sex helps.”

  “What?”

  “I’m literally passing bits of myself into you. Meaning I only clarify truths your soul has already absorbed.”

  Odin nodded. “Well, then I’m ready for another lesson.”

  The days had run together. Odin knew he and Freyja had spent several days in Yggdrasil, making love and speaking of dreams, and of the blessings the apples had given them. She was training him to use a hint of Audr’s power to glamour himself. And she was right—every time she climaxed in his arms, his understanding of her powers grew as much as any verbal lesson could grant.

  Eventually, though, they agreed they had to return to Sessrumnir. Before that, he wanted to speak with Idunn.

  “I’ll meet you back at the hall,” Freyja said, then kissed him on the cheek.

  Odin smiled, more fully than he ever remembered smiling. With small effort, he summoned the glamour he’d been practicing, disguising himself as he had looked in days not so long past: a man in his prime, with long blond hair and a clean shave. Maybe he couldn’t go back, but within Yggdrasil, energy flowed into him with such ease he could maintain the illusion with half a thought.

  “Take care, my love.”

  He climbed up through the Tree toward where he knew Idunn’s chamber must lie. Freyja had told him the other Vanr woman had returned some days back. Somehow, Odin had never been able to quite make the climb to reach her. Other things had always seemed more important. But Idunn had been the one to bring him to Vanaheim, after all.

  The Vanr spun when he entered her chamber, her red dress sparkling, though her eyes were narrowed. “Finally decided to come up for air?”

  Odin shrugged. Discretion was not only impossible in a place like this, it had suddenly begun to seem pointless. Why deny what came naturally? Why pretend that he and Freyja did not love one another, or did not enjoy the same pleasures of the flesh as everyone else? Such pretensions were beneath him now. “I finally see what you meant, about human standards melting away over the course of time.”

  “I was speaking of centuries. Though certainly we have tarried here longer than I planned.”

  “Oh?”

  “Do you even know how long you’ve been in Vanaheim?”

  He shrugged. He had lost track.

  “We’re approaching a moon here, Odin.”

  He grunted. That was longer than he had thought. He might have guessed they had spent maybe three days in Yggdrasil. Now it seemed more like to have been more like ten or twelve. Already, his body and soul called out for Freyja, urged him to chase after her.

  Idunn sighed and waved it away. “Clearly your time has been well spent at any rate. You’ve mastered the glamour.”

  “Hmm. That’s how you turned yourself invisible when the varulfur attacked, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Now, have you learned what you wanted to know on Vanaheim? Your people are waiting.”

  His people. Shit, the Aesir were probably at each other’s throats by now. They waited for him to return, to bring them a plan of attack. Except, he no longer wanted to attack. “This land is beautiful, wonderful.”

  Idunn folded her arms. “Of course it is. That’s what this has always been about.”

  “I mean … I like you. And your mother, Eostre, Gefjon. And Freyja, gods, Idunn, I love her.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Do you know how many men have thought they … Never mind that. The Aesir are vulnerable out there. Your people are in danger. Do you think I want to see my people hurt? You think you like these people you just met? We’re talking about my friends, my mother, my husband. My lovers. We’re plotting to take their home from them. But we’re doing this, doing all of it, because you swore you could make the world a better place for all of humanity. That was what my grandmother wanted.”

  Odin looked away. It was the truth. He had sworn his oath, and he could not break that. “I saw her, Idunn. In the Well of Urd, I saw your grandmother and your grandfather, too. I saw them fighting Hel. She is after me.” He rubbed his face. “I cannot say why. And still, she plans to take this world. I saw … ice or flame. Ice or flame take the world. There was spring, a land of warmth and light like Vanaheim. And it fell. A war is coming, a war unlike anyone alive has ever seen.”

  “Only you can make sense of those visions, Odin. But know this. Ten thousand of your people died getting here. They did not give their lives so you could spend the rest of eternity plowing Freyja. I know the effect this land is having on you. Believe me, I know. I’ve felt it, I watched it happen to the Vanir. Who ever wants to leave paradise? But I will not let my grandmother’s legacy be only this place while the rest of Midgard fades to nothing. I will not! Now keep your oath.”

  Odin backed away from her raised voice. If Lytir or anyone else in this hall heard her speak like that, they would both face great danger. Finally, he sighed. “I will speak to Freyja. Lay the seeds of …” Of rebellion … Of betraying her own father. Or, if he were truly lucky, of forcing Njord into an alliance with the Aesir.

  As he left Yggdrasil, walking the long bridge back toward the rest of Vanaheim, Odin’s chest ached. His soul ached.

  But Idunn was right. Moreover, the well had shown him. Hel was not finished with Midgard. And until her mists were cast from the world, she remained the greatest threat in creation. To save his world, Odin might have to sacrifice this one.

  39

  Sigyn’s whole body ached from so long a flight. For nigh unto three days, she had flown over the land and sea and back again. Some of Volsung’s men had retreated through the woods, others in swift ships, and Sigyn knew not which route Gudrun had taken with Loki, forcing her to scout both. All to no avail.

  Night had fallen again, the mist thickened, and her wings seemed apt to tear from their joints. Even her growing mastery of the pneuma had its limits, and her body could be pushed but so far before it cracked beneath the strain of it. She had seen scattered camps of men as she flew, none bearing sign of Loki. In his absence, an empty hollow had opened in her gut. When he needed her most, she had not been by his side, had failed him.

  Another campfire passed below her, this one tended by a lone figure. Not a war party, for there would be a much larger fire, and many people about. No, a single man roasting rabbit, by the smell of it, and alone, as few would willingly travel.

  Sigyn alighted on the ground some distance away. Wisdom urged her to seek shelter and her own solitude, warning that a man might find a lone woman a great temptation in the wild. Wisdom said this, but sometimes one had to answer the call of hunger and fatigue. She resumed human form and crept closer, until she could get a look at the man.

  He had exotic skin, even darker than Idunn’s, and black hair. He had shaved all but the top of his head, leaving that shorn short, like a hedge. The man looked up at her approach, though she had made little sound. After staring a moment, he beckoned her over.

  “Are you lost?”

  Sigyn slunk closer, finally settling down across the fire from him. “No.”

  “Hungry.”

  “Yes.” Gods above and below, yes.

  He motioned to the rabbit roasting on
a spit. He didn’t need to offer twice. She snatched it up, tore a hunk off its haunches, and bit down, heedless of it searing her tongue. Hot grease burned her mouth and scorched her throat. She didn’t slow down, though.

  “Takes a great deal out of you.”

  What did?”

  “Traveling alone,” he said. “I always travel alone. Mostly.”

  The man was odd. Older than her, though she had a hard time guessing his exact age—forty winters, perhaps. A hint of gray speckled his otherwise black beard. Certainly he had come from far off, though where …

  Sigyn paused mid chew. “You’re speaking the Northern tongue.” Not very graceful, talking with her mouth full of rabbit, grease dribbling down her chin. But how had he known she would speak that language, here, well into the South Realms?

  “It seemed easiest for you.”

  Sigyn chewed, swallowed, and slowly drew her knife, ostensibly to pick meat from between her teeth. “You know who I am?”

  “By reputation perhaps, insomuch as anyone can know another. Indeed, if one can even know oneself.”

  “You talk rather like another man I know. Who are you?”

  “You mean Loki? Oh! No, no.” He waved his hands. “I’m not Loki. I mean, you mean I sound like Loki, in that I’ve lost myself in pointless musings.”

  Sigyn held very still. If he so much as made a move toward her, she’d have her cloak back up and be taking flight in an instant. The stranger knew too much and talked like a mist-mad vagrant. Either way, sleeping by his fire now seemed impossible. “How do you know that name?”

  “Oh … oh! I knew him of old.” The man waved it away. “Old for me, for my kind even. Perhaps not for him. That truth I never quite puzzled out in all the encounters we shared down through the centuries.” He stared into the fire and spoke as if more to himself than her. “I was—maybe I still am—Mundilfari. I was. Some time ago, in another age.”