Days of Endless Night

by Matt Larkin

  “You do not owe me aught. Do as you wish, boy.”

  “I go where you go, Master.”

  Starkad spat in the snow. If the Serklander thought he could shame Starkad into giving up, he was sadly mistaken. “So be it. And you two?”

  Tiny shrugged. “If I go away laden with gold, at least something useful will have come from this trek. I don’t relish returning to Dalar like a whipped dog, tail between my legs. I just want to make certain we do return.”

  Bragi waved his hand to encompass the three of them. “Fools, every last one of you. But, yes, I will come with you, if only to ensure future generations learn of your foolishness. I expect to name the tale, ‘Starkad’s Folly.’”

  “Skald,” Starkad said. “I find you less amusing once the mead has run dry.”

  “Then perhaps we should be hunting mead instead of gold.”

  Starkad snorted. He looked to the sky. Hard to orient himself in this place, but he thought north would be that way, beyond more mountains. “Let’s move.”

  30

  Hervor’s throat hurt. She must have sucked down a great deal of water. Groaning, she opened her eyes. Her whole body was sore, but it was not the well of misery it ought to have proved. Instead, her injuries had faded to dull aches. Even the wounds on her arm and her shoulder had scabbed over, though they stank of seaweed. She lay on her back under an outcropping of ice. In the gorge?

  Nearby, a half dozen people sat in a huddle, each swathed in great bundles of fur, including lined hoods. They spoke in soft tones, their tongue strange, unrelated to Northern at all.

  Her armor was gone, and she had lost all her weapons in the fight with the draugar. Not a good situation to wage battle in.

  She sat, trying not to grunt with the effort. Still, one of them looked at her. A woman, maybe her own age. The shifter had hair black as onyx and eyes near the same. Stranger still, her skin was dark, even deeper in tone than that of the Serklander. Triangular tattoos marked her forehead. For a long time, the woman stared at Hervor. It was impossible to read those dark eyes, but her mouth was very stern.

  These finfolk had saved her from the river, treated her wounds. Why?

  “What do you want from me?”

  They all looked to her now. One spoke in their strange tongue and received an answer from the nearest man. They argued—or it sounded like argument. The second man had Tyrfing in his lap.

  Hervor rose, glaring at him. “Return my sword.”

  The man stood too, looked at her, then followed her gaze to the blade he held by its scabbard. He held it up, shook his head roughly, and then slipped the strap over his shoulder.

  Hervor stormed toward him. “Listen you trollfucking son of a—”

  The woman leapt up and closed the distance between them in an instant. With one hand, she grabbed Hervor’s hair; with the other, she raised a bone knife to her throat. “No.” Her accent sounded thick, confused.

  “You speak Northern?”

  “No,” the woman said with a glower. “No. Blade. No.”

  Hervor grabbed the woman’s wrist and twisted. Tried to. The shifter jerked on her hair so hard Hervor fell over backward and banged her arse on the ice.

  “No blade. No troll. No.”

  The man with her sword said something in their own language, then the woman released Hervor’s hair. She sheathed the knife, then leaned close to Hervor’s face. She offered a hand.

  Hervor stared at the outstretched arm. This shifter didn’t seem intent on eating her or killing her, though she was a far cry from friendly. Still, it was better than being gnawed on by seal teeth. Hervor took the woman’s hand, then the shifter yanked her to her feet with such force it hurt her shoulder.

  “No troll. Troll. Troll rock. Walk.”

  Hervor jerked her arm away from the finfolk woman. “Yes, I can walk. I have no fucking idea what the rest of what you said means. But know this—that sword is mine. My legacy, my family heirloom. That oaf can’t keep it.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed in apparent confusion, and she shook her head. Hervor had probably spoken too fast for her. Which was fine. She didn’t really care if the finfolk understood her. After a moment, the shifter grunted, grabbed her shoulder, and pushed her forward out of the overhang.

  They walked a long time, long enough to be certain they’d already carried her out of the gorge. The finfolk carried no torches, didn’t seem to fear the mist, or breathing it in.

  “Fire.”

  “No. Fire. No.”

  So they didn’t care if it drove her mist-mad. Maybe they didn’t even realize the danger. Hervor waved her hands through the vapor. “This is poison to me.” One of the other males was carrying her travel sack. It would have a torch. She pointed at it.

  The woman spoke in her own language, and the male trotted over, handed her the bag.

  Hervor pointed again. “Fire.” She made a show of breathing deeply. “Fire.” She shook her head. “No mist.”

  The woman banged her teeth together in a gesture that could have meant aught at all. Then she fished through the bag and tossed Hervor a torch.

  Hervor stared at it, then at the woman. “Flint and steel?” She pantomimed striking the two together.

  The finfolk woman rolled her eyes, then dug through the bag some more. Eventually, she grunted and just shoved the whole bag at Hervor. They waited long enough for her to light a torch. At least she would not go mad now. A small comfort.

  They passed over hills until the sea came into view. On the ice by the shore rested two long, narrow boats. More like pointed, hollowed-out tree trunks than a rowboat. Animal skins were stretched over the hulls. Maybe even sealskin, to keep out leaks.

  “Cousin of yours?”

  The woman looked back and forth between the boat and Hervor, as if trying to sort out her meaning. “Insult?”

  Hervor snorted. Yes, that about covered it.

  The shifter smacked her on the side of the head. The blow came so fast Hervor hadn’t even braced for it. It dropped her flat, left her world spinning, eyes out of focus.

  “Insult. No.” The shifter might have been shaking her head. Hard to tell with everything spinning.

  Hervor groaned, staring up at those strange lights in the sky. So the finfolk did not care to be insulted. No verbal sparring with them, then. She rubbed the side of her head, and her hand came away smeared in warm blood. Bitch was strong. Not as strong as a draug but stronger than a man.

  “In boat. Get in.”

  Right. Hervor rose, swayed, steadied herself. The finfolk male with her sword boarded one of the other boats, along with two other males. In that boat lay a body: Orvar-Oddr, the Arrow’s Point.

  His chest rose and fell in slow breaths.

  Son of a troll! Hervor took a step toward that boat before the shifter woman grabbed her and pointed to the other one again.

  There wasn’t much point in fighting them. Not now. She had no weapons, not even her damned knife. And they were each stronger than her. With a sigh, she sat on one of the planks that served as seats, glare locked on Orvar’s body. “Where are you taking me?”

  “You. Kiviuq.” The woman sat across from her while other finfolk took up the oars and shoved the boat into the sea.

  “I’m Hervor. I don’t know what Kiviuq means.”

  The woman pointed to the other boat.

  Hervor shrugged and rubbed her head.

  None of this made sense.

  Only one thing she could say for certain. A man on that other boat needed killing.

  31

  They had walked a long time, the others following Starkad, resting on occasion, especially when the sun came up. Those few hours seemed very far between, and only then did they find solace. As the sun set, the night crept in, and with it, whispers and the unshakable feeling of being watched. Vaettir must have inhabited every rock, lake, and mountain on this island. Long away from the influence of man, Thule had grown wild.

  But the dvergar had once tamed it and
then abandoned it. Their wealth was the stuff of legends. As would be anyone who possessed such treasure. Yes, of course, men already told tales of Starkad Eightarms across half the North Realms. But one could always become more famous, more known. Look at Odin. A man who had made himself a god—in the eyes of so many now, he had always been a god. For they could not imagine a mortal rising so high.

  Their group had taken to following an icy river back toward its source. Ever, Starkad scanned the banks for the bodies of Orvar or Hervor and ever he saw naught. Nor did he expect to.

  The river ran from somewhere up in the mountains ahead, cutting a swatch through valleys. Perhaps it eventually emptied into the sea. That was where corpses would have been washed away, if not taken by the finfolk. Either the others had not considered they walked in the wrong direction to search for their companions, or they too realized the futility of it.

  His gut wrenched at the thought of leaving them behind, in the mist. But. Be it his curse or his own damned nature, Starkad could not make his feet steer away from Nordri. He had to see it.

  Mountains such as these appealed to the dvergar. Perhaps they reminded them of their own world. Though, if the dvergar were homesick, why did they come to Midgard at all? Why not leave the Mortal Realm in peace? Perhaps the motives of all vaettir were unfathomable. Following the river into the mountains was more like to lead to Nordri. It was hard to be certain either way, of course.

  The old skald coughed. “When we get back to Sviarland, I’m going to be a whole moon resting by the fire. I’ll have some pretty maid bring me the drinking horn all night long, never let it fall empty.”

  “Huh,” Tiny said. “You let the maid serve you. I’ll serve her. You know? With my big—”

  “Yes, Tiny,” Bragi said. “We get it. Are you certain there’s not some other reason everyone calls you Tiny?”

  “Just because I’m the smallest of my clan. No other reason at all. Troll arse.”

  Starkad held up a hand to silence them, then pointed to the mountains. In the valley ahead, the river disappeared underground. That meant a cave. And alongside an underground river seemed a good place for a dverg city. Even they must need fresh water to drink. At least Starkad assumed they did. Ivar and Orvar both probably knew more of the creatures, but they were gone now.

  Ashes.

  Starkad pushed forward, the others following behind, silent now. The river did indeed run into a cave—one carved out of ice. A shelf of rock ran alongside it, covered in snow at the outside, then mere rock farther in. His torchlight refracted off the frozen ceiling, casting light far down the tunnel.

  Deep. Very deep. And very quiet.

  Starkad looked at the others. Thus far, it had only been an idea. A man had to pick a direction and start walking. Now though, it became real. “This location seems right for Nordri. A tunnel like this one—maybe this very tunnel—must lead to the city. If we push on, maybe we’ll reach it today.”

  “But?” Afzal asked.

  “But we didn’t find Hervor or Orvar’s bodies,” Bragi answered for Starkad. “Could be a chance they yet live. If we go underground, they’d never find us.”

  “Then what are we doing here?” Afzal demanded. “Should we not be searching the waterways?”

  Starkad grimaced. Probably they should be. But it wasn’t that simple, not really. He had looked for the pair, and no sign of either. And there might never be one.

  Either way, it had to be the crew’s choice and a real choice. Starkad pointed down into the ice cave. “Bragi’s right. We should have found the bodies of our people. But we didn’t. We don’t know if they live at all, though it seems unlikely. If they do, we don’t know where they are. We lost the finfolk trail a long time ago and who knows if we could ever find it again. So. We have to decide whether to leave the treasure we think we found behind to go hunting the full island for those who may be corpses.”

  “You cannot weigh a man’s life with gold,” Afzal said.

  Bragi sighed. “Boy, all men’s lives are weighed in gold and silver. A warrior wins glory and riches by raiding, fighting, and killing. Kings claim and hold power by the slaughter of their enemies, by sending their own people to die. And men go gladly into battle if they think it might make them rich. Wealth is the only defense we have against the world and its ravages.”

  Afzal shook his head. “You try to justify your greed with fancy words.”

  “I don’t need to justify a desire for wealth. Life does that on its own.”

  Tiny stepped around Starkad, inspecting the ice walls. “Stunning. The dvergar made these caves?”

  Starkad shrugged. “Maybe they’re natural, maybe they’re made. Does that matter?”

  “No.” The big man shrugged, then pointed down the tunnel. “Orvar-Oddr came here, led his own damned mission to find this place. So Ivar and everyone else who’s gone to Valhalla or down to Hel, they did so to find this fucking city. And now you want to turn around and go looking for him? I don’t think so. For all we know, Orvar already made it back to the ship. If not, he’s probably dead. Hervor too. Either way, let us get what we fucking came for!”

  His voice echoed down the long tunnel, ringing out again and again, far louder than Starkad would have liked. He waved him to silence with an angry jerk of his hand. Hel alone knew what might lurk down there. The last thing any of them needed was to announce their presence.

  “So. I think we know Tiny’s vote. And Bragi?”

  “I’m forced to agree. Find Nordri, claim what we can, and get off this cursed island. Too many of us are dead already. Going after Orvar only invites more losses.”

  “Afzal?”

  The Serklander worked his jaw, then scratched his head. “I go where you go, Master.” The words seemed laced with acid. The young man didn’t want to go to Nordri nor leave Orvar-Oddr and Hervor. Maybe that made him more of a hero than the rest of them.

  Either way, Tiny and Bragi’s arguments made a great deal of sense. Starkad could not and should not overrule them. They had come to Thule for Nordri. It was more than that, though. He had to see this city where men had not walked in long ages. He had to know and witness it for himself.

  Maybe that was part of his curse.

  And maybe that curse extended to all those around him.

  32

  They paddled until the sun rose, then drove the boats onto the bank. They had followed the coast all the way, and Hervor could not be certain, but they seemed to be in a fjord. Based on the sun, probably on the northern side of this island. Odin alone knew how far away from where they had first landed.

  Hervor couldn’t even guess how much time had passed since she’d fallen into the gorge. She’d been unconscious for a while. Long enough for them to treat her injuries. Even those on her back. Which, now that she thought of it, meant they must have removed her shirt.

  A warrior couldn’t afford too much modesty. Still, it made her wonder what else the animal men might have done with her while she lay senseless. She scowled at the thought.

  The woman directed her to follow, while the men pulled the boats away from the fjord. Hervor did so, until the woman indicated a spot by some rocks. Then she lay down against those rocks.

  Daylight must have meant time for a nap. And if what she knew of shifters was true, it also meant they could not shapeshift. The sun locked them in human form. Which probably meant this was her best chance.

  As she sat, watching the shifters, the men led Orvar to where Hervor sat and threw him down beside her. He collided with the rock, a satisfying oomph escaping him as he hit. Slowly, the man sat, shook himself, and looked at Hervor.

  “You’re here too,” he said. No hint of ire, no indication he realized she had been the one to shove him over the falls.

  Hervor bit back her response. If he didn’t know she planned to kill him, she might more easily gain another chance. She glanced at the shifters as they settled down to rest. Soon, they might sleep, and she could escape. Until then, perhaps the best wa
y was to put Orvar at ease as well.

  She turned back to him, feigning a hint of warmth. “A draug sent me tumbling over the falls.”

  “Me as well.”

  Hervor grunted. “So … are not you the one they call Arrow’s Point?”

  Orvar groaned. “I have not used that name in many years. Not since I gave over pirating and the like … but I was. A long time ago, yes.”

  “And how does the legendary Arrow’s Point find himself overcome by seals?”

  Now the man grimaced and looked to her, then the sky. “Hard to sleep when it’s so blasted bright above, yes? You’d think now would be the best time to move.”

  “Not for shifters.”

  “No, more’s the pity.”

  Hervor too sat up against the rock. The man had already grown comfortable with her. So let him talk. Let him damn himself one step more. Soon, he’d reach the gates of Hel. “Bragi said your father gave you magic arrows.”

  “Black arrows, true, forged by dvergar in the depths of Nidavellir, I think. Vile, toxic things, apt to kill any they pierce. Many a dverg-wrought craft works like that. Twisted bastards revel in death.”

  Dverg-crafts, Hervor knew only too well. Not so very far away, a finfolk man held Tyrfing, her legacy. If she could claim that, she could strike down Orvar and the finfolk both. “There were nine arrows?”

  “No, six. I always managed to reclaim them before … before this place. My grandfather stole them from a king in Kvenland, long ago. My father gave them to me, then, when I left my homeland. I went raiding and pillaging and adventuring across all the North Realms. So many adventures. So many lost friends. And those arrows fastened that name on me, Arrow’s Point. None withstood them.”

  “Was that how you killed the sons of Arngrim in that … famed battle?”

  He blew out a long breath. “Not a tale I like to dwell on, girl. But I suppose we all have ghosts behind us. After all those years of murder and plunder, I came upon a great champion in Sviarland. And so, of course, wanting to know who was the stronger of us, I challenged him to a holmgang …”