Gods of the Ragnarok Era Omnibus 1: Books 1-3 Page 7

  “I need to see him.”

  Geir nodded and beckoned Tyr to follow. The man shed his skis once within the town wall. Tyr unstrapped his own snowshoes and left them by the gate.

  “You’re wounded,” Geir said.

  “Varulf attack.”

  “Many of those of late. Not so many men walking away from them, though.”

  Tyr grunted. Varulfur were men possessed by vaettir. They died harder than other men, but they died still.

  Geir led him past the shore where men were cutting blubber from a seal corpse. Bloody, foul-smelling mess, but it would give them oil. Make for a safer winter than most tribes had.

  “Ever hit finfolk?”

  “Wereseals?” Geir grunted. “Those are real?”

  Tyr shrugged. Far as he knew.

  Geir shook his head. “Not in the Gandvik. Fishermen, whalers, they claim serpents live in the deeps. Few swear to have seen one. Most don’t believe though. Who escapes a serpent, right?”

  Tyr nodded. Even jotunnar feared dragons. Such monstrosities were best left well alone.

  Annar occupied an old hall, one built of stone. Thanks to braziers spaced every ten feet or so on each side, the hall didn’t seem oppressive. A balcony rimmed the main hall. Windows up there were shuttered now, but Tyr had seen them open in summer. At the moment, a cluster of women stood up there. Staring as he trod down the hall.

  The jarl, son of Bestla’s sister, did not sit on a throne but rather paced about his hall. Every time he reached the right side, he’d spin and fling a knife at a shield hanging from a pillar. Men stood about Annar, offering the occasional bit of insight. Enough to tell the Athra did not fare well.

  “My lord,” Geir said. “Tyr of the Wodanar.”

  Annar paused midthrow, looked to Tyr. Then he turned back to finish hurling his knife. It clattered off the shield and landed on the floor. Annar swung his fist in obvious frustration. Only then did he turn to meet Tyr. He strode over, clapped him on the shoulder, and guided him away from the main hall, into a back room.

  The jarl frowned at Tyr’s arm. “Eir!” he bellowed down the hall.

  A moment later, a middle-aged woman shuffled in, took one look at Tyr, and then fled.

  Annar beckoned Tyr to sit on a bench. “Gone to get her healing supplies. Best vӧlva in Aujum, men say, though she denies it. Varulf?”

  “Your vӧlva?”

  “Frey’s flaming sword, no! Varulf did that to your arm, I’m asking.”

  “Huh. Yes. A few days back from here.”

  Annar clucked his tongue. “And you’re still standing. Impressive, warrior. Always winning so much fame.”

  “How did you know about the varulf?”

  The jarl sat in a chair across from Tyr. “Hairy bastards are everywhere now. Encroaching on our lands.”

  “Godwulfs?”

  Annar spread his hands. “One or two stray wolves, even a pack, I might think them wild. Gone to the mist. No, this is deliberate, a challenge. As soon as Borr died, they began pushing their borders. We can’t fight them at night when they become wolves, of course. And in day, they’re armed with the finest weapons, with mail that can turn even a strong spear.”

  “Huh. I saw a huntress with a woven iron sword.”

  “You killed her, I hope?”

  Tyr scowled and stared into the nearest brazier. Annar said naught else. The vӧlva, Eir, returned. She began unwinding the crude bandages Tyr had wrapped around his arm. After a moment, she hissed at the mangled mess.

  “Can’t see how you warded off rot, save the luck of Vanaheim. Someone there loves you.”

  The Vanr … Idunn. Could her power have helped him in his quest? He shook the thought away. The goddess was helping, but not like that.

  “About Borr …”

  Annar sighed and pressed his palms against his eyes. “I know it, man. I would have come to his funeral given any such chance. Only, with the wolves pressing in on us … Safe passage to Wodan lands would be hard to find. Worse, I’d leave my people without their jarl. Is that why you’re here? Odin is angry? Of course he is. Please explain to him, I had no choice, and I meant Borr no disrespect.”

  Eir smeared some foul-smelling paste on Tyr’s wounds. For an instant it stung like fire, then gave way to a welcome warmth.

  Tyr watched Annar.

  The jarl shifted, obviously uncomfortable under the scrutiny. “We’ve lost a lot of men, hunters, fighters. Fishermen even, if they tried to bring a catch ashore too late in the day or too far from the town. Surely Odin will understand.”

  Even the goddess Idunn herself seemed hard-pressed to predict Odin’s actions or reactions. Offered the chance at immortality and kingship, the fool had scorned her. Favored the foreigner. But Odin would be king. Would fulfill Borr’s legacy if Tyr had to carry him to his throne kicking and screaming.

  And to be king, he needed his cousin. Needed Annar to owe him a great debt.

  “I can help you,” Tyr said. “If we hunt down one or two of these raiding parties, the Godwulfs may decide to look for weaker prey. Turn their eyes away from the Athra.”

  With luck, maybe they’d go after the Skaldun.

  “You’d fight by our side?”

  Tyr grunted. “With your blessing, I will lead your warriors to victory. But you, Annar, you will owe Odin and the Wodanar for this.”

  Despite the slight hesitation in his eyes, Annar nodded.

  Good.

  Kill a few varulfur, and one tribe might already support Odin at the Althing. Now there just remained the problem of slaying well-armed men with superhuman strength and durability. Small problem.

  13

  Every step sent a lance of pain through his wounded shins and his thigh. Pain was good. Pain meant he had life. It meant he hadn’t gone numb from the cold. It meant there was still time. He could not feel his face. Even his thick fur cloak provided scant protection against the scathing chill of this storm. Ice stung his eyes.

  The path had leveled some. He dug Gungnir’s butt into the ground, heaving himself forward. Just keep going. Father was counting on him. Father.

  Father.

  Was he watching?

  The ground rumbled beneath him, nigh costing him his balance. One hand on the spear and the other on an ice-coated boulder, he steadied himself.

  The mountain trembled again, as though it wasn’t finished with its little earthquake. It went still. Then it trembled again. A dusting of snow skittered off a rock precipice above, almost blending with the flurries. Stillness. Then another quake.

  The four men exchanged glances. Loki pointed to a pass just beyond the next rise.

  Ymir was here. Finally.

  Valkyries could very well have their souls before sunrise. If so, Odin sure as Hel was not going to be the only one dying on this mountain.

  Father. Watch.

  He scrambled toward the precipice wall.

  Vili and Ve didn’t need to be told what Odin planned. They made for the pass, Vili casting aside his furs even as he ran.

  More snow fell from the overhang, the barrage of hoar now constant, making Odin’s climb nigh blind. Gripping Gungnir, he felt for handholds with his free hand. Aught that could support his weight. He had to get to higher ground. He would look this jotunn in the eye before he cut it down to size.

  And his brothers—Odin spared them a glance. Vili’s back arched. He dropped to all fours, roaring in pain and perhaps joy at the change. His muscles rippled beneath his skin, shifting, tearing at stomach-rending angles. Tufts of brown fur sprouted from him as he released the bear spirit inside him. Had the giant ever seen a berserk? If not, he was in for a nasty surprise.

  A peak of the mountain moved, just beyond the edge of the pass. Not a peak … a horn, at least five feet long. A horn of granite. Odin’s handholds vibrated as Ymir rose above the pass. The jotunn turned, as if slowly taking in Odin’s brothers. Clinging frost fled its mouth, like the mists of Niflheim that engulfed the world. Its skin was tinted the icy bl
ue of a man in the throes of deathchill.

  Vili, a full bear now, roared and charged the monster. Ve hung back, but only for a moment, before raising his battle-axe and rushing after his brother. And Loki … nowhere to be found. Fair enough—their guide had agreed only to help them find the one responsible for Father’s death. It fell to the brothers to avenge Father.

  Odin yanked himself onto the plateau, then scrubbed frost from his eyes. He’d have sworn the jotunn sneered. He hefted something—a boulder. Or a hammer with a head the size of a boulder. Vili charged right in.

  “Hel’s frozen tits,” Odin mumbled.

  Ymir twisted, surprisingly fast for a being of its size. An underhand swing of its hammer slammed into Vili with a sickening crack. The bear flew through the air at least twenty feet before smashing into the mountain slope. The jotunn’s laughter echoed off the mountain peaks, reverberating across what seemed the whole of Midgard.

  Ve screamed wildly, hewing his battle-axe into the jotunn’s leg. From Ymir’s reaction, or lack thereof, Odin suspected his brother wasn’t even cutting through the iron shin guards.

  Fucking jotunn was going to splatter his brothers without breaking a sweat. Odin backed to the edge of the plateau. Even with a running start, he’d never make that jump. The jotunn was simply too far. And a few more heartbeats and Ve wouldn’t be around to distract it. Odin reversed his grip on Gungnir. A good throw. A throw the skalds would tell stories of.

  The jotunn swooped down and snatched Ve in one hand. Odin’s little brother froze, caught in a fist bigger than he was. His face turned red. The jotunn was squeezing the life out of him. Crushing his bones to pulp.

  Now or never. Odin took off running. His feet skidded on the ice. The pain in his legs threatened to tear them out from under him. Didn’t matter. Just momentum. Just a moment. He flung Gungnir with all his might. The spear soared faster than it should have, faster and farther than any throw a man could make. The missile shrieked through the air, and Ymir turned at the sound. Too late. Gungnir shot right through the jotunn’s eye.

  The behemoth bellowed, releasing Ve, who plummeted to the icy slope below. Vili might survive such a fall, but Ve was only human, like Odin himself. His little brother. A pit opened in Odin’s stomach, and time slowed as Ve fell. As Odin watched, powerless.

  From the shadows beneath the plateau, Loki jumped forward and caught Ve in his arms, rolling as he hit the ground.

  Odin’s breath caught. He’d thought their guide had fled.

  Ymir stumbled, pitching forward, headfirst toward the plateau. Odin had sworn an oath in Father’s name. All three brothers had. Time to make good.

  Odin drew a deep breath. Set his jaw. And he ran.

  He leapt from the plateau onto the jotunn’s shoulder, then caught the haft of his spear. His own weight yanked it from the bastard’s eye. Ymir howled, clutching his face, then fell to his knees. The movement shook Odin free, and his boots slipped on the jotunn’s blood-slickened armor. He fell fifteen feet and landed in a snow drift. White filled his vision as his weight flung him deep into the drift.

  Could have been worse, he supposed. Could have been rocks down there.

  Odin kicked the snow, doing little but burying himself further. It’d take him forever to dig his way out of this.

  Ymir screamed again, this time the wail of a tortured beast needing to be put out of its misery. Odin clawed his way upward, snow giving way grudgingly, if at all. He was missing the damned battle. Some jarl he was.

  And then a hand appeared before his face.

  He accepted the proffered grip, and Loki pulled him out of the drift. Ve had hamstrung Ymir and was now hacking at the jotunn’s elbow. Loki pointed at Gungnir, which was sticking from the snow several feet away. Blood and gore streaked down it, a crimson stain spreading across the once pure snow.

  Yes. Time to finish this.

  Odin’s legs nearly gave out beneath him as he trod toward his ancestral weapon.

  He yanked the spear free, cracking blood that had already frozen to the ice. Ymir turned his one remaining eye toward Odin as he stalked over, pace steady, if slow for his own wounds. In that eye, Odin could see the beast knew the truth. And he was scared.

  As he should be.

  “Father!” Odin bellowed, his voice echoing off the mountain. He thrust the spear through Ymir’s forehead.

  Part II

  Fourth Moon

  14

  Arm raised against the blinding snow, Odin pushed forward. Ice crystals stung his forehead, ears, and any other exposed flesh they could find. The storm had not abated with Ymir’s death. In truth, the blizzard had worsened, as if rejecting the frost jotunn’s demise—or feasting upon his soul and growing fat on it.

  Odin couldn’t see a damned thing. He wasn’t even sure they still headed in the right direction.

  “We need shelter!” Vili shouted.

  “Loki!” he shouted. “Where is that damned tower?”

  For a moment there was no answer, then the foreigner emerged from the snow ahead, crystal blue eyes like burning lights. “We came down a different slope. It’s too far.”

  Odin grimaced. Every attempt at relighting the torches had proved futile. There had to be something. His leg had gone numb. Perhaps only Gungnir’s power kept him upright. “Find us shelter, any shelter!”

  Loki glanced off to the north, silent a moment, then shook his head. “There is naught to be found.” Was that hesitation in his voice?

  “What is it?”

  Loki straightened his shoulders, then stood with his hands behind his back, as if resigned. “A castle from the Old Kingdoms. We could reach it soon … But naught human lives there now.”

  Vaettir? “What is it? Trolls? Draugar?”

  “I cannot say for certain, now. Long ago it belonged to a kingdom called the Odlingar.”

  How could Loki know such a thing? Truth was, it didn’t matter. In this snowstorm, they’d all be dead in an hour. “Just take us there.”

  Loki took in each of the small party before turning back to Odin. Then he spun on his heel and changed course.

  Odin’s brothers both looked to him a moment, before chasing after Loki.

  Fuck all. Odin dug Gungnir’s butt into the ground and pulled himself forward, one painful step after another.

  Ymir was dead.

  Father was avenged. He had done it. He had brought Father peace.

  When their goal at last came into view, Odin’s face had gone numb and his arms stiff. Through the curtain of snow, he could just make out the structure atop a hill. It was a castle, and more complete than any he’d ever seen. Arches supported wings of the castle, which spread out over the valley, off the hilltop. A giant spire connected by a skybridge might have granted a view for miles over the mist, if not for the damned blinding snow. Finely carved frescos spoke of another age. And ice crystals covered every speck of the place.

  “Hel’s frozen tits,” he mumbled. This had not been what he’d expected. These Odlingar built places fit for gods. And if they were gone, surely somewhat else must now lurk here. But here they were, and it was their only choice.

  Loki glanced at him and must have read the decision on his face, for the foreigner took off toward the castle. The grade up the hill was steep, and every step over the ice threatened to steal Odin’s balance. Behind, his brothers followed. Odin spared a glance at Ve, who trudged on with a vacant stare. Half frozen to death, with Vili’s occasional shove keeping him going.

  Odin pressed forward. Farther up, steps had been carved into the hill, those also crusted in ice and slippery. Odin used the butt of Gungnir as a walking stick, following close behind Loki. His leg didn’t hurt so much—now it almost wouldn’t respond.

  “Have you been here before?” The storm seemed to swallow his words.

  Still, Loki answered. “No.” He pointed at the main gateway—massive double doors over an arch.

  Odin trudged up to it, grateful for even the hint of shelter the shadow of the
wall provided. He rapped on the door with his spear, but no answer came. All right then. Odin pushed his shoulder against the door, but ice held it fast.

  Odin took Gungnir in both hands and thrust it forward. It splintered the ice, sending a spider web of cracks across it, and kept going, punching through the door underneath. Odin tried to yank the spear free, but it held fast. Instead, he worked it ’round and ’round, cracking more ice. At last he beckoned for Vili to join him. As one, they slammed into the doors. The ice shattered, and the doors flew inward, Gungnir clattering to the floor beneath.

  “Everyone inside,” he called and reclaimed his spear.

  Thick shadows swelled over a gargantuan interior caked with ice. With the doors open, snow quickly began to pile up in the entryway. They needed a fire—fast.

  Ice crusted over every window, tinting what little light reached inside blue-white. Tapestries hung from the wall, even these caked with hoar. An upper balcony ringed the hall, and several archways led onward. Gods knew how long it would take to explore such a place.

  While the others pushed the doors half closed to guard against the storm, Odin yanked tapestries down and shook the ice free of them. Moments later, Loki joined him. When the fabric was dry enough, they kindled a fire.

  Odin crouched nearby, warming his hands. The fire should keep the cold and the gods-damned mist away. His leg had started to throb. Odin slapped his fist against it. Had to keep the blood flowing.

  “Let me see,” Loki said. The foreigner pulled away the bandages while Vili set about tending the fire and heating what little meat they had. A slab of frozen mammoth, and with Odin’s supplies gone, they’d have to share.

  “This fire won’t last long. Not with just a tapestry to burn. Ve, get some more.”

  His brother stared at him blankly.

  “Now!” Odin snapped.

  The young man jerked, then rose and drifted off toward the wall.

  “Luck favors you,” Loki said. “Another hour in the cold and you might have lost the leg. But you’ll recover.”