The Shores of Vanaheim (The Ragnarok Era Book 3)

by Matt Larkin

  Every other voice fell silent, staring at her. Tyr glanced at Frigg, whose mouth trembled as she looked at the hand that had thrown the spear.

  An immortal might live through the wound Frigg had inflicted. Painfully, but perhaps. Still too late for doubts, though.

  He yanked Gramr free and held it high. “The queen condemns you to death, witch!”

  A tide broke at once, and many Aesir rushed forward. A spear pierced the witch, and another and another. A chaos of blood and death as men unleashed their fear and rage on this enemy.

  Tyr wanted to go to Frigg, to ask why she had decided so suddenly. But the crowd permitted no such questioning. Was it … holding Gungnir? Dragon spear bring out her wrath, too? Even Frigg? If so, if Frigg could not control herself with such a weapon, what hope had Tyr?

  “Are we certain this woman is our murderer?” Zisa asked.

  Tyr looked to her. She was frowning. “She is now. Make certain they burn the body.”

  Perhaps, beyond the reach of mists, they need not fear the woman rising as a draug. But he had no desire to take such a chance.

  41

  Once again, Odin sat in the void room. Freyja insisted the quiet and dark here, the lack of outside stimulus, helped one focus on the Art. As if she herself were not the greatest distraction he could imagine. As if he did not spend every moment thinking of carrying her off to his bed and planting kisses over every last bit of her flesh.

  When he wasn’t thinking of how to broach the impending struggle that must arise between the Aesir and her father.

  Freyja was looking at a book in candlelight. “One form of sorcery we have not discussed, one which Vanir sometimes use to gain insights, is channeling. Channeling is somewhat like voluntary possession. We actually invite a spirit into ourselves in order to allow it to speak through us, so that others might question it.”

  Foolish …

  It sounded like the wraith was paying more attention to her than Odin was. “Freyja …”

  “Obviously, this carries with it severe risks. We simply hope it will leave once we are finished. And even then, we cannot be certain whether a channeled spirit speaks truth or—”

  “Freyja.”

  Finally she looked up from the book, creases marring her brow. She knew. She knew something was amiss. Whether through the Sight or mere intuition, she had realized their small paradise could not last, just as he had. And seeing that knowledge buried behind her eyes, seeing her try to bull through it, focus on anything else, only made his task more painful.

  “Od?”

  “Do you … did you ever meet Idunn’s grandmother?”

  Freyja sighed, then shook her head. “Lady Chandi died some years before I was born.”

  “Do you know what she told Idunn?”

  A startling fatigue settled over Freyja’s youthful face, a look that soured Odin’s stomach and left him fighting the urge to squirm in his seat. Hel, but if he could speak of anything but this he would, would change the topic, find some way to carry them both back to the warmth and companionship and love … never had he so truly loved. “She claimed she had made a mistake,” Freyja said, drawing the words out. “That the Vanir were failing the rest of mankind. And yes, Idunn spent a long time trying to convince the others to do something about it.”

  “And she brought us Gungnir.”

  “The spear forged from Chandi’s friend’s dragon-souled sword. I know this.” She sounded so far away. The way she looked at something beyond Odin—she had embraced the Sight, and was no doubt already seeing where this would go. She must be.

  “But it wasn’t enough. Mankind is dying out. The mists of Niflheim do not belong on Midgard.”

  “Od …”

  “And Idunn tasked me to find a way to cast them out.”

  Freyja was already shaking her head, her eyes now back in focus. “Od, please. Don’t you think we tried? The mists cannot be banished.”

  “They can. And I will do so, at any cost. Life on Midgard depends on it. While the Vanir hide here in their little paradise, the Niflungar are seizing control of the rest of the world in the name of Hel. How many winters will pass before they control everything but Vanaheim? And when they do, they will find some way to bring their queen back here, to our world.”

  “No. It’s impossible. Naresh—”

  “He died. He died to destroy her mortal host and cast her back into the Spirit Realm. But what have you been talking about all morning? That a spirit is a being of ether and, lacking form in our reality, cannot be destroyed here. Only banished. Hel survived. And sooner or later—”

  “No!” Freyja snapped. “You’re wrong. That’s done, Odin. The world is the way it is. Why can you not just accept that?”

  Odin let his forehead drop into his hands. Why indeed? Perhaps he would have lived a happier life. Certainly, he could have lived nigh unto forever here by Freyja’s side. Save for the oath he had made to restore the world. That, and his children awaiting his return. Even … damn. Frigg. How was he to explain to his wife that he had found his soul mate in another, that he had married only for political reasons and … and he was a cur? But one who could not deny his heart.

  Freyja rose, scowling as he looked up. “I’m not going to listen to you besmirch my people. I agreed to teach you the Art so you could counter the Niflungar. I’m already helping you. Do not push your luck, Ás!”

  Odin reached a hand for her, but she jerked away and stormed out of the room.

  A shudder ripped through his chest. Damn it.

  Odin chased Freyja to the lounge above, a wide, high-ceilinged room with windows twenty feet tall letting the morning sun pour in. That light cast Freyja’s brother in angry silhouette, as he stood before a window, hands on his hips. Shadows masked his face, but his posture was that of a man ready for a fight. Ready for a war.

  “What are you doing here?” Freyja asked him, drawing up short just before her brother.

  Frey’s face turned to Odin, however. Light sprang up in his eyes, a blinding glow like that of the sun behind him. “The Aesir walk these shores.”

  Odin stifled his surprise, instead walking toward Frey. What in Hel’s frozen underworld were they thinking, coming here? He had told them to await his return. He was going to throttle whoever led this invasion without his blessing. “My people come here seeking aid in their direst hour.” The half truths tasted so foul Odin wanted to spit, to scream.

  “Aid? Do you often beseech aid with murder?”

  Oh, Hel. What had they done?

  Freyja shot looks back and forth between her brother and Odin. “What are you saying?”

  “Gullvieg is dead, set upon and slain by the Aesir.”

  “No …” Freyja’s eyes pled with him, begged him to deny it. But how could he? Odin knew naught of this, nor would he put it past the bickering jarls to execute any who crossed their paths.

  And Gullveig? The woman was half mad, but harmless. Kind, and quick to laugh even when no one else understood the jest. She’d taught a damned bird to curse, for fuck’s sake.

  Frey gave him no chance to answer. “You came here under false pretenses, tasted our hospitality, and betrayed us. Was that your ploy, Ás? To keep us distracted so your people could slip in unnoticed? To distract my sister so she would not turn her power on them?”

  “No, I—”

  Frey vanished, instantly reappearing next to Odin. The Vanr moved with inhuman speed, grabbing Odin by the neck and hefting him off his feet with one hand. The pressure cut off all air, left Odin gasping in vain as his vision blurred at the edges. He beat at the Vanr’s arm with his own, but Frey was too strong.

  A red haze settled over his eyes, clearing only to reveal Yggdrasil. The World Tree stretched up into the heavens and down, down into the worlds below. And Odin was falling, plummeting along its seeming endless length. He crashed through darkness, through mist, through fire. Until he was not falling, but flying, soaring over the world, over all the worlds. For every root was a tunnel,
boring from Midgard into the worlds of the Spirit Realm. The icy mists and barren snow fields home to shades of the fallen—he was bound for Niflheim. And why not—why should he not join the dishonored dead? He had broken oaths, failed his family, and finally failed all the Aesir, failed Midgard itself.

  “Stop it!” Words, so very far away.

  There, through the mists, she was coming for him. Drifting every closer. Hel. Hel had come to claim his soul. And he would serve her forever as a draug, neither living nor quite dead, locked in eternal torment as recompense for his failures. Behold, the urd of all who defy the great Hel.

  No Valhalla. No peace. No reunion with his father or his ancestors. Eostre was right. Damnation or naught at all.

  “Od!” that faraway voice … a woman. Freyja?

  Odin turned toward it, and he was falling upward, soaring away from the mists even as the specter below screeched for him to return. Instead, he flew along the trunk of Yggdrasil, past knots and branches and a million leaves, each bearing the name of another soul. Greenery in an endless parade. And then he walked not among those great branches, but among those of a thousand thousand trees. Each sprouting flowers in every color imaginable and, indeed, some he had not dreamed of. Glittering sunlight left the canopy sparkling, and the sound of music and laughter rang from below.

  Alfheim—World of Sun. A world Hel could not touch, could never enter.

  Hope. Maybe hope still remained.

  Freyja.

  Odin shook himself. He lay on a warm stone floor, gasping, trying to suck breath through a bruised windpipe. Everything was so blurry, the room spinning. He pushed himself to his knees, but got no further before hands seized his tunic and yanked him to his feet. His knees wobbled, Frey’s strength all that kept him standing.

  “I will send them your head, King of the Aesir.”

  And if that happened, if Odin failed, not only would Hel consume him … she would take all of Midgard. The Niflungar would see to it, fools that they were. Odin summoned his own strength. The flood of power to his muscles dimmed his pain and allowed him to stand on his own. With a growl, he shoved Frey backward.

  The Vanr stumbled a step, shock crossing his face. The next instant, he was back on Odin, swinging with a left hook. Odin blocked it, and returned one in kind, catching the Vanr in the ribs. The man fell with a tremendous expulsion of breath, clutching his side. Odin’s own potency alone probably saved him from broken ribs, but Odin had no doubt Frey had at least bruised something.

  Odin advanced on the Vanr, who was already rising. He grabbed Frey—or tried, for the man vanished again. An arm wrapped around Odin’s throat, once again cutting off his air. Blows rained against his kidney. Pain exploded along Odin’s whole body and all his strength left him. Agony, like bolts of lightning, coursed through his organs.

  “Stop!” Freyja was yanking at her brother’s arm.

  Odin could barely see.

  Frey flung him against the wall. Odin slammed into the edge of the windowsill and collapsed to the floor. He tried to lift his head, but nothing would move. Sound and light both faded away.

  Soft comfort surrounded him. Even without opening his eyes, he knew he lay in Freyja’s bed. That was his paradise, his own little Valhalla where he might pretend what had happened was a nightmare. If he didn’t open his eyes, if he just lay here, it would not be real. Frey would not have tried to kill him, the Aesir would be far from the islands. And he might live in peace, in bliss. In a dream.

  Trying to pretend Ragnarok did not lurch closer with every passing breath.

  Odin opened his eyes to see Freyja there, sitting on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. She turned to him as he rose. Already, his injuries had begun to fade, agonies turning to aches, though still an army of bruises covered his body. He was shirtless, his ribs bound with warm white bandages. Perhaps it was not merely the apple—maybe Freyja had worked healing sorcery on him.

  “Tell me the truth,” she said.

  “Freyja, I—”

  “No! Tell me the whole truth, now, Od. Or by the Tree, I will hand you over to my father.”

  Odin grimaced. Her fiery tone felt like an arrow lodged in his gut. He’d have given anything to tell her what she wanted to hear. But those words would not come.

  “I have to save my people. I have to save Midgard.”

  “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

  Odin sighed, trembling more from the pain in his soul than in his body. “Teaching me sorcery is a start, yes, but that alone is not going save mankind. We need what you have, the blessings the Vanir have kept for themselves for the last five thousand years.”

  “What? The apples? There aren’t enough to save all humanity—we don’t even have enough for all the Vanir.”

  Odin forced himself out from the blanket and crawled to her side, took her hand. “It’s not just the apples. From here a king could wage war against the mist and its foul children. From here we could take back our world.”

  She yanked her hand away. “There is already a king in Vanaheim.” Her voice was so soft, but harsh.

  “Your father must step down. He had his chance and used it selfishly, to hide himself and let the rest of the world suffer. I will do better than that.”

  Freyja stood, back stiff. “You cannot be serious. You think to supplant a king who has ruled for nigh unto a thousand years? My father will kill you for such a suggestion.”

  Oh, how he wished he could back down, back away from her anger. Offer aught to placate her. But that was not his urd, had never been an option. “It is not a suggestion, Freyja. Njord has failed this world.” Odin’s voice felt hoarse, and not just from having it almost crushed by her brother. “He has failed utterly, and one way or another, I will have his throne. Not because I desire it, nor because I mean your family ill. But because I have no choice. I made my oath: I will save Midgard, no matter the cost.”

  “No matter the cost? The arrogance of your oath is astounding, Odin. There will come a day when you regret such words.”

  That he did not doubt. Heidr had accused him of arrogance, and she and so many others had paid the price for it. His pride had cost the lives of many Aesir. His quest had cost even more. Had he remained with his people, roaming Aujum maybe many of those people would still be alive. Maybe they would even have lived full lives. But then, perhaps not. Vaettir would have preyed upon them, or they would have become troll food or troll-wives. Even had they not, Grimhild and her brood were once again on the move, and so few remained who could oppose her.

  “Were it not for the Lofdar, Midgard would have fallen to the Niflungar ages ago. You know it to be true. The Aesir are among the last remnants of the Lofdar. I will reunite the shattered Old Kingdoms and lead them against the Children of the Mist. But to do that, I need Vanaheim. You can join me, my love. With the Vanir by my side, we can win back our world. Or do naught, wait here as the last free peoples fall. Wait, for the armies of the Niflungar to come to these isles and take them from you.”

  “They have no power on these shores.”

  Odin rose to look down in her eyes. “You cannot truly believe they will never find a way through. Sooner or later, they will bring Hel back. Do you think you can stand against her power?”

  Freyja squeezed her eyes shut, turning her back on him. Odin put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.

  “Freyja …”

  “You’ve chosen your side, Od. And started a war. So go. Go to your side and wage your war. And pray I don’t see you on the battlefield …” Her voice broke at the last words.

  More than anything in his life, Odin wanted to take her in his arms and foreswear all other oaths. To kneel before her, beg forgiveness, and let the wounds be healed. But every word he had told her now had been the truth. Midgard was dying. Odin had seen Hel, seen the World of Mist, and seen how close Midgard had grown to it.

  Ragnarok was the dying of the world of men. And if Odin alone saw it coming, Odin alone would have to stop it.r />
  “I love you,” he whispered.

  Her shoulders slumped. She offered no other answer.

  It was a long climb down from Sessrumnir.

  Part III

  Twelfth Moon

  42

  The morn had revealed the bloody remains of two more sentries strewn across thirty feet of the forest. Their replacements had gone looking for them, only to find the horrid sight. Now, once more, Tyr found himself examining carnage with Zisa at his side.

  She said nothing as she stooped over a man’s leg, ripped off at the knee. The glance she cast at him spoke volumes. Blood had stained all the nearby leaves. Men were dead, and in the most brutal way imaginable. They had killed the witch already. So either she had allies continuing her ill deeds, or something else had done this all along. The latter, more like than not.

  Zisa spat and rose, following a trail of gore. The woman—veteran of gods knew how many battles—looked apt to retch. Couldn’t blame her. Murder was common. No hunter wandered the wilds without finding the occasional corpse, feasted on by all manner of fell beast. Such was the nature of the life outside town walls. But never had he seen a predator so rend a man. Even trolls had less savagery, were more inclined to consume their victims.

  “Look.” Zisa had stooped over a patch of mud between two leafy plants growing on the forest floor.

  As she pulled those leaves aside, he saw.

  Wolf’s paw print. Large one. Fucking varulfur. Here. He’d thought this land beyond Grimhild’s reach. Apparently she’d sent more of her servants after them. Werewolves could be savage. Not like this, though. It would take a sizable pack, one gone full feral, to wreak this kind of damage on men.

  Even so. Some of those wounds looked more like someone had ripped men limb from limb, rather than biting them. How could varulfur, even a whole pack, manage that? The wary look in Zisa’s eyes seemed only one step away from terror. Must have reached the same conclusion he had.