Days of Endless Night

by Matt Larkin

  33

  A great many men and shieldmaidens had gathered to watch the holmgang, a veritable army on both sides on the island. Some, I had brought with me from my crew in Nidavellir. Many more though had come to watch Yngvi’s champion Hjalmar fight.

  I remember, pacing around the man, panting and exhausted. It felt we’d been battling for days. Who could say? I had lost any track of time. Nor did my foe look any more steady on his own feet. Neither of us had given ground despite the countless blows we each had struck.

  I spit out a mouthful of blood. By Frey’s flaming sword, I wasn’t even certain what blow earned me that coppery taste. Staring down Hjalmar, I tossed aside my battered shield. Another blow would have shattered it anyway, as had been the past two.

  Hjalmar grinned and flung his own shield aside. “Maybe we ought have tested wits instead of brawn.”

  “I would find it hard to match insults with a troll’s wife.”

  Hjalmar flexed his arms. Probably as sore as my own. “You mean to say you do not speak to your own woman?”

  Several of the onlookers laughed at that.

  I tried not to smile. “I most often whisper my tales in the ears of your lady while we lay in tangled furs.”

  “Alas, champion of Nidavellir, I am not married. Perhaps a man from dverg lands has mistaken my goat for a woman?”

  “More likely I mistook your mother for a goat and sent a slave to draw her milk.”

  Hjalmar chuckled and wiped blood from his brow. He looked to the sun, which now that I checked, had already settled low on the horizon. Maybe too late to leave this island and reach the mainland before nightfall. After meeting my gaze, Hjalmar drove his sword point first into the ground. “Champion.”

  I did the same, grateful for any chance to let go of the weight. My arm felt apt to fall from my shoulder. I nodded at my foe, slowly working my sword arm. “You wish to yield?”

  Hjalmar laughed. “Odin’s spear, man! I would acknowledge you as an equal. Come, why should we meet death at each other’s hands?”

  I rubbed my face. Hel, perhaps this Sviarlander was right. And it seemed these people had accepted the Aesir as gods. I had heard rumors of such people, stories they had overthrown the Vanir even. Hard to credit such tales, at least back then. Now I know, of course.

  “Come, Arrow’s Point,” Hjalmar said. “Feast with us.”

  I looked to my men. Several of them nodded. Well enough. “Come then.”

  We returned to our camps.

  None among us wanted to cross even a short stretch of the sea at night. Not given the choice. So the two crews joined together and built great bonfires to hold back the mist. My gut growled in anticipation of the roasting fish.

  Hjalmar stalked over to his fire, hair dripping wet, and sunk down beside me. “I suppose I ought to be honored my fame has reached so far north.”

  I shrugged. “A king’s housecarl who had fought a draug and won, protecting his new king. Yes, men speak of that even in far Nidavellir.”

  Hjalmar blew out a breath. “Not a story I tell sober.”

  “It’s fortunate my men have brought ale then.” I motioned to his people, who dragged a cask of it over to the fire, then brought mugs to each of them. I scooped a mugful for Hjalmar and offered it to the Sviarlander.

  The man downed it all in one swig, belched, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Then he cracked his neck and stared at me. “You want to know so badly?”

  I spread my hands. Few men fought draugar and walked away. The wakeful dead could not easily be sent back to their graves. I had slain one, once, at the cost of the lives of three of my men.

  Hjalmar cleared his throat. “Last summer, around the solstice. King Alrik and his brother Eirik set out riding. No man knows what they quarreled over, but they killed each other. And they lay in the snows, unburied and unburnt.”

  And I knew what that meant. “The mist …”

  Hjalmar dipped his mug in for more mead. “Yes. The mist raised them. I don’t know what happened to the king, but his brother Eirik was taken by a fell rage, and he came after the sons of Alrik. Our champion Starkad was away, searching for the king.” He shook his head, then drained his mug again, before blowing out a long breath. “It came in the night. Got through the walls—I don’t know how. The main fire pit dwindled to cinders.”

  I almost choked on my mead. No one let the main fires of a house go out. And that a creature of the mist like a draug could exert such influence …

  Hjalmar nodded at me as I coughed. “Yes. Hard to believe, is it not? But it did. Alrik has two sons, Yngvi and Alf. By chance, it came for Yngvi, who I had called upon that very night. The new king is already a man grown, and together we drove the creature into the hearth. I’d swear its shrieks came from the mouth of Hel herself.” The man unlaced his tunic to reveal a series of long scars running at an angle along his chest. Five of them. “Eirik did that with his fingers.”

  “You took a wound to save your king. I would call your fame well-earned.” I clapped the Sviarlander on the shoulder. “And if it pleases you, I would say we should leave this island not as foes but as brothers. For it seems I have finally met my match.”

  Hjalmar stared at me a time. Then he drew a knife and sliced open his palm. I took the blade and repeated the gesture. Then we clasped hands.

  “Brothers,” Hjalmar said.

  “Brothers.”

  34

  Orvar’s voice trailed off, clearly pained. And he mumbled something under his breath. Then he rolled onto his side. “We best also get some sleep. No sense in opening old wounds.”

  Hervor nodded affably until he closed his eyes. Old wounds? Those wounds had never closed. And now she must open all new wounds, as vengeance demanded.

  And before she could do that, she needed to escape and reclaim Tyrfing.

  She waited until Orvar too seemed settled, crept past the sleeping finfolk. The moment she put some distance between them, Hervor ran. Dashed out over the ice field, ducked behind the nearest rock pile, and then scrambled from that to another.

  Why could there not be a damn forest when she truly needed one? These shores seemed naught but tundra, though rocks and hills at least gave her some spots to hide. Naught as suitable as trees though. Trees she knew.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she made for the nearest hill. Not over it, she would stand out too much, but around it, into the valley it created with another hill. She had to keep moving. Her people were south, and if she could somehow reach them—find them again—she’d be safe.

  She almost laughed. Her people. Odin’s spear!

  That party worked for the Ynglings, her enemies. Starkad might have saved her life—twice—but he’d also beaten her bloody. She owed him for the latter, but maybe she’d call it even. Still, he’d probably protect her from these Hel-cursed finfolk. Maybe even help her escape Thule.

  The island did not suit mankind.

  Something whooshed behind her, and she turned.

  Before she had finished moving, cords flew through the air, caught around her legs, and sent her toppling over. Large bone weights slammed against her shins.

  The finfolk woman was running toward her. Hervor rolled over and tugged at the cords. They were some kind of sinew strands, tough and wrapped around her legs so many times she’d spend far too long unwinding them.

  She yanked, pulled, tried to free her leg.

  The finfolk woman grabbed her tunic. Hervor beat at her with her fists. That earned her a blow to the side of the head. She reeled and pitched over into the snow. The finfolk woman yanked her head up and punched her across the jaw. The blow left Hervor dazed, unable to even surrender.

  She wanted to surrender. It was enough. Enough.

  The other woman hit her again.

  Hervor lay back in the snow and groaned, then the finfolk woman slumped back on her arse.

  After a moment, she cuffed Hervor on the side of the head, this time not hard enough to do real harm, though it stung. �
��You. Trouble.”

  Hervor chuckled, choked on her own blood, and spit it out. “My mother would agree.” She chortled. Gods, the woman had called her an evil, spiteful child. She supposed she was. Maybe not so much had changed.

  “No man. Woman.”

  “Wait, what?” Hervor mulled it over a moment. “You’re irked because I’m not a man?”

  The finfolk woman thumped her own chest with one finger. “Naliajuk. Naliajuk take you. Husband.” She roughly grabbed Hervor’s groin and shook it. Not a sensation Hervor enjoyed. “No husband.”

  “Nope. No husband down there.”

  “All human men. Get you.”

  “Hervor.”

  The finfolk woman glared at her. “Hervor. Now give. Kiviuq.”

  One of the males. Starkad had said finfolk abducted men and women for spouses. So this Naliajuk had fished her from the river, thinking to claim a husband. And when she had removed her armor to treat the wounds, she’d gotten an unpleasant surprise. And so decided to give her prisoner to this Kiviuq.

  “So you don’t want me, huh?” Hervor laughed again. Just as bad as Starkad—no love for women. Not that Hervor intended to marry a fucking seal of any gender.

  “No man.”

  “Right. So you’ll give me to Kiviuq. Why, what do you care? Who is he to you?”

  “Mmmm.” Naliajuk looked around and gnawed on her lip, then cupped both hands around her womb.

  “Your … lover?”

  The finfolk woman cuffed her again. “Mmmm. Kiviuq. Naliajuk.” She pointed to her womb.

  “Your son.”

  Now she rolled her eyes. Again she pointed to her womb. “One. Woman. One.”

  “One woman? Same woman? Born of the same woman? Your brother?”

  “Br-brother.” Naliajuk nodded now.

  Possible she meant they were twins, but it didn’t really matter. For whatever reason, Naliajuk had not handed Hervor over to her brother just yet. Maybe there was some ritual for it since she had been the one to capture Hervor.

  Hervor rubbed the blood from her face with the back of her hand. Several painful bruises had already started to form. Naliajuk had given her quite the beating. “Why don’t you just leave us alone? I don’t want to be anyone’s wife.”

  Least of all a man who seemed more animal than human.

  “Mmmm. Human. Fresh human.”

  “Yes. I’m human. But why don’t you marry your own kind?”

  Naliajuk gnawed her lip again, then shook her head. “Human. Best. Take human, win … respect.”

  Respect. She probably meant having a human bride would bring her brother honor. Hervor shook her head. She wished she could explain to the woman there was no honor in abducting a wife. Then again, even humans had been known to do so.

  Humans were willing to do a great many things for lust or profit. And she was no innocent to think her wishes should mean much to this animal.

  Naliajuk yanked Hervor up by her arms and roughly dragged her back to the camp, not bothering to untangle her feet. The motion sent fresh jolts of agony through Hervor’s wounds, but the finfolk woman ignored any of Hervor’s grunts of pain. Finally, Naliajuk deposited Hervor back in the same spot. This time, she wound a cord around Hervor’s hands, binding them together.

  A man did the same with Orvar, who fixed Hervor with a level stare through the whole process.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” he asked when the finfolk pulled away again. “Did it not cross your mind to coordinate an escape attempt?”

  If he only knew what she planned to do to him when she escaped. Hervor worked her swollen jaw. “You were too busy resting. I saw a chance to go for … help. And I took it.”

  Orvar sneered. “From now on, girl, you listen to me and follow my lead.”

  “Why? What good have you wrought on this island, Arrow’s Point?”

  Now he sat up straighter. “You will heed my words because King Yngvi funded this expedition, and the king appointed me to lead it.”

  “Just how long have you had your mouth around his cock, anyway?”

  Now Orvar’s sneer turned into an outright glare. “Watch your Hel-cursed mouth, shieldmaiden. The pain you endured in that beating is naught compared to what lies before us if we fail to work together.”

  Perhaps he might have a point at that. Hervor could avenge no one while bound by finfolk, nor was she keen to marry this Kiviuq and bear his … pups.

  So.

  Once again her temper had endangered her goals. She bit her tongue, as if that might help suppress the boiling rage in her gut. “So …you’re right. I was … rash. We bide our time, then.”

  “Yes.”

  Now his guard was up with her. His own anger inflamed. And her chance at both escape and revenge dwindled while that blaze lingered.

  “Fine then. Tell me about this Hjalmar.”

  “What?”

  “If we are to pass hours like this, at least let us not be bored.”

  Orvar worked his jaw as if weighing that, then shrugged. “You are a strange one, Hervor.”

  “I have been called worse.”

  “As have we all, I suppose. Hjalmar … Hjalmar was a housecarl to king Yngvi, as I said. So when we proclaimed ourselves brothers, he brought me to Upsal and presented me at court. Yngvi embraced me and bade me join them all for a feast, while his brother, Alf, watched, reserved. I did not … much know what to make of either.

  “Yngvi and Alf shared their kingship, determined not to turn on one another as their father and uncle had done. I thought it a strange choice, one fated to invite bickering amongst them. And yet nigh to two decades have passed since, and they remain loyal to one another thus far.”

  “And Hjalmar?”

  “Oh … that feast marked the dawn of good times, when I would become something other than the Arrow’s Point. Good times, of course, never last.”

  35

  The kings sat me at their own table, availing me of their hospitality. I knew, even then, they hoped to enlist me in their raids and wars. Nor was I opposed to some mercenary work, here and there.

  “So,” Yngvi said between bites of mutton, “Arrow’s Point. You’ve led a great many raids in your time. I have a mind to do so as well. I would like it if you would join me.”

  I glanced at my new blood brother, but Hjalmar was staring at the young princess. What was her name? Yngvi had mentioned it, but I had taken little note. There were a great many women there, shieldmaidens too, each more into the fullness of womanhood.

  I cleared my throat. “Where do you think to raid? West to Kvenland?”

  Alf snorted. “My brother is convinced Odin wants him to claim islands in the Morimarusa for our people.”

  “Odin?” I looked now to the other king. “This Ás usurper?”

  Alf opened his mouth, but Yngvi answered. “The Aesir are the new gods. They have taken Vanaheim and named it Asgard. Our neighbor, King Gylfi of Dalar, spoke with Odin, King of Asgard.”

  Well, that was new. “These Aesir visit men?” Stories told that the Vanir had not walked upon Midgard in uncounted generations. A man could send prayers to Njord or Frey or Ullr, and maybe they would answer. But the Vanir did not show themselves. And now a new race of gods had supplanted them. Some might call it just, I supposed. If gods were not above justice. And if I believed it all.

  “So Gylfi claims,” Alf said. “Father thought him a liar, intent to promote his own importance.”

  Hjalmar was whispering something to the princess now, and she was smiling. Neither seemed to be paying attention to the conversation. At the time, I thought it well for him. Would that I had known what would come of those whispers.

  I did not. I cared more for the words of the kings.

  Yngvi motioned to a slave for more ale. “Gylfi rode through here, two moons past. Told of his encounter with the High One, the one he said could only have been Odin. Rumor claims Gylfi learned some of the Art from a wandering wizard.”

  “Which is all t
he more reason to doubt him,” Alf said.

  “I agree it is unmanly,” Yngvi admitted. “But still. If anyone could recognize a god when he saw one, would that not be a sorcerer?”

  Time would tell. I had made no judgments about gods, nor did I see this as the time. I slapped a hand on the table, and Hjalmar started, looking at me. “I have indeed raided into Reidgotaland before. If you would go there, King Yngvi, then I will come with you and my blood brother. Most of the kings there are not strong.”

  Alf rolled his eyes. “Starkad has warned against this. He says sorcerers dwell there and Odin sends us to our deaths.”

  “Starkad is young,” Hjalmar said. “What does he know of the world?”

  “Young yes,” Alf said. “But well travelled and the finest swordsman I have ever seen.”

  I had met Starkad some few winters back, in the court of Harald of Agder, back in Nidavellir. Fierce warrior, but as Hjalmar said, still young at the time.

  Yngvi shrugged. “If you do not wish to go, then stay here and run the kingdom, brother. And Starkad—if he returns, if he ever finds our father’s … well, if he returns, he can ensure you remain safe here.”

  Alf scowled at the insult. Yes. Shared kingship did not seem over wise to me.

  The feast ran fell into the night, and even after, King Yngvi and others sat long at the drinking table. Alf excused himself, as did Hjalmar.

  I followed my blood brother. The man stumbled a little, half drunk, perhaps. He wandered outside to piss, and I gave him a moment, warming myself by a brazier.

  Hjalmar returned, blinking against the firelight. “Is the room not to your liking, brother?”

  “It is quite comfortable. I was more concerned with things here not being to your liking.”

  Hjalmar groaned. “I’ve had a bit to drink. Perhaps we could save the verbal bouts for tomorrow.”

  I rubbed my hands together. The mist had grown very thick this night, seeming to encircle the brazier but never quite encroaching into the fire’s warmth. Like it was hungry for our souls. “I’m not having sport with you. I do see the way you look at that princess, though. And she is what, thirteen, fourteen winters?”