by Matt Larkin
The skald had a point. It would prove difficult, especially for an old man like him. But Starkad had no alternative to offer. “The choice is yours, Bluefoot. All of you. Take your chances against an army of draugar—out in the open where they can surround you—or balance on the rocks and find another way out of Nordri.” He rubbed his face. He was chilled, starving, his eyes wanting to close on their own. The others probably fared even worse. “We can’t stay here. If we fight, maybe valkyries will carry our souls to Valhalla.” Starkad had his doubts such a place even existed. He preferred fights with a chance of victory. “Or try the river and at least a hope of life.”
“I’m for trying the rocks,” Tiny said. “Let the dead alone to rot.”
Afzal nodded at the big man’s words.
It was decided then. And they all looked to him. Hardly a surprise. Starkad glanced up at the nearby buildings and the bridges that connected them. No patrols. Now or never then.
He scrambled to the river’s edge and leapt out to the nearest rock, three feet from shore. As Bragi predicted, his foot slipped on the slick surface, and his knee slammed down onto the ice. That hit jolted him like a bolt of tiny lightning. He managed to throw his arms around the rock’s point. His effort kept him from plunging into the river, save for one foot. Stifling a groan, he scrambled properly onto the rock and rubbed his knee. They were looking at him, of course.
He nodded to them in reassurance. “It’s easy.”
The next rock was a bit closer but angled away from him. And he’d have to make a standing jump. Swinging his arms back and forth, he built some momentum. Then he jumped forward. He landed on the surface, and his feet skidded along it, nigh to tossing him into the river once again. Arms wide he caught himself, flailed, then immediately jumped to the next surface before he could fall. This one was bigger, sticking up like a swollen knuckle. He wrapped his arms around it, turned to the others, and beckoned them on.
Afzal came next, making that first jump with a bit more grace than Starkad had. Of course, he’d seen the danger and could prepare for it. Obviously. Starkad held up a hand to stall him there.
He hadn’t been able to stand on the next platform, and neither would Afzal. Which meant Starkad needed to be clear of this one. Unfortunately, Bragi held their torch on the backside of the river. Starkad could barely make out the next rock, much less be certain of his footing. He had convinced them to try this way, though, so he had to see it through.
He leapt once again. This time he landed on a low rock, fell to his knees, and skidded forward. He scrambled to his feet. There, the far side of the river—maybe six feet out. Making a standing jump as far as he was tall didn’t seem practical. That meant he’d need to run on this icy platform. Marginally less suicidal than taking on an army of draugar.
Marginally.
Grunts behind him told him Afzal was already making the next jumps.
So.
Time to do this.
Starkad backed up to the edge of the rock. Deep breaths. Always had to keep one eye on where you wanted to land and one on the ground before you. Good. He could do this. He’d made farther jumps than this.
Three running strides forward and he flew through the air, cleared the gap with room to spare. He landed in a roll, banging himself up on solid ice. That would leave a bruise.
But this led to another ice cave. From what he knew of dvergar, they always had another way out of their homes. They’d never let themselves get trapped or pinned. So multiple ice caves must have led down to Nordri.
Afzal made the last jump, falling just short. His feet pitched into the water.
Starkad lunged at him, caught his wrists, and jerked him ashore. “We’ll warm ourselves by a fire soon.”
The Serklander nodded and clapped Starkad on the arm in thanks.
Tiny was making his way closer, and Bragi too, bearing their light.
A twang sounded, barely audible over the rushing river. Bragi, standing on the first rock, jerked. Then he pitched forward, an arrow jutting from his back. He seemed to fall with agonizing slowness. Starkad’s mouth opened to shout in a warning that came far too late or in denial.
The skald fell into the river.
His torch went out, leaving them in darkness.
Absolute darkness, save the pinpoints of red light across the river. Tiny, glowing eyes. More and more of them.
“Thor’s thundering cock!” Tiny bellowed, standing on some rock in the middle of the river.
Starkad dropped to his knees, fishing blindly through his satchel for another torch. “Get down, Tiny! Low! They can still see you!”
Where was it? Where was the damn—there! He pulled the torch and then his flint and steel. Clank.
A spark.
No flame.
Spark. Spark.
“Fucking do something!” Tiny shouted.
“Be quiet,” Afzal snapped. The Serklander’s voice came from low to the ground. Smart man, staying down. Not so smart staying nigh to where Starkad tried to light a torch though.
Spark.
Twang.
The sound of a shaft hitting ice.
“Troll shit!” Tiny shouted. “I have to jump.”
Spark.
“Not in the dark, you imbecile!” Starkad shouted at him.
Spark.
Twang.
“Gah!”
A spark caught on the oil-soaked rag around the torch. Flames sprang up.
“Stay down,” Starkad said to Afzal, while himself rising and moving away from the Serklander. Standing, he gave Tiny more light. And made himself a better target. Maybe he should have taken the time to wear that gilded dverg chain.
An arrow whooshed by him.
Tiny leapt and leapt again, landing on the shore beside Afzal. Blood was trailing down his arm. The Serklander grabbed him and jerked him up.
Twang.
Starkad jumped back an instant before an arrow struck where he had stood. He raced for the ice tunnel, not bothering to order the others to follow. They would follow. They all wanted out of here. So had Bragi Bluefoot. The man had fastened his name by plunging into frozen waters. And now he had ended the same way.
Poor bastard.
Another shot clattered against ice behind them, but they were out of range. Still, the draugar knew where they had gone. Sooner or later, they’d find a way across. Starkad ran on and on, pushing past exhaustion and fatigue.
He could do naught for Bragi. Just one more friend dead, one more ally he’d failed to protect.
Giant slabs of ice narrowed the cave, forcing them to squeeze through one at a time. No worked ice, this. The dvergar must have simply taken advantage of the terrain they’d found.
Past the ice slabs, Starkad climbed steeply upward until light beckoned ahead.
Real light. Not the flicker of a dying torch refracted off ice facets.
Lungs burning, Starkad pushed onward. A little more. Just a little farther.
The cave opened out not far from the shore. In daylight. The mist had thinned, revealing a glimmer of the sun, and a dusting snowfall. Starkad stumbled several more paces before collapsing in the snow. The others did the same.
He glanced back at the cave. Daylight would buy them time. A little time. But they didn’t know how long since the sun had risen, and it would last at most maybe four hours. Probably less.
A thin strip of land led to a mountain rising up out of the sea. Steep, which probably meant treacherous, narrow passes. In narrow passes, numbers amounted to a lot less, and he could hold his ground against a great many foes.
“Get up!” he struggled to follow his own advice. “Get up, make for the mountain.”
“Master,” Afzal complained. “Please. A little rest.”
“We cannot afford it.”
The Serklander groaned but did rise, stumbling in the process. “Then let us make for the ship.”
Starkad glanced at the shore. Based on the sun, it ran east to west, and their ship lay south. They might
follow the coast to the ship, but it could take days. “We wouldn’t make it. They’d be all over us long before we got there.”
Tiny pushed himself up and started walking toward the mountain.
“What hope is up there?” Afzal said.
At that, Tiny glanced back at him. “Don’t you get it, boy? The mountain is the only hope we have left. The hope for a glorious last stand. This is the last time you’ll see the sun. Tomorrow, you’ll be dining at the table of Hel or else in Valhalla, feasting and fucking valkyries if you’re lucky and brave. I am for the latter urd.”
Afzal looked to Starkad as if hoping he would contradict the big man. But he couldn’t. Tiny had the truth of it. Moreover, Starkad doubted Valhalla existed. Hel, though, everyone knew she was real. And she was sending her vile servants after all of them.
44
The finfolk had dragged them back to the center of the village and once again bound them to the whalebone arch. No one had stripped Hervor this time at least. Instead, they all stood round in a circle, staring at her and Arrow’s Point. The murderous bastard sat five feet away from her.
Close enough she could have strangled him were her hands not bound.
Kiviuq paced around them, hands behind his back. Every so often, he cast a glance her way, eyes lit with something beyond fury. A mix of anger and confusion, perhaps, as if the man could not quite understand why she had betrayed him.
Simple people.
Naliajuk was another story, though. She quivered with visible rage while one of her people spoke softly to her. The female pointedly avoided looking at Hervor. Maybe shamed that the offering she’d brought her brother had acted thus? Well, they had tortured her, so they deserved what they got.
The night wind stung her cheeks, and she had to fight to keep her teeth from chattering. To allow that would make her look weak. She couldn’t afford to look weak.
“Your petty foolishness cost us everything,” Orvar said to her.
“Had you not murdered my kin, none of this would have happened. Even had you deigned to offer them proper pyres and set their souls at ease, we might not have come to this. So spare me your accusations.”
“You have no idea what went on back then.” He strained against his bonds like he intended to come closer to her. “Men fight, they kill, they die. I fought for my family, and yours were hardly the innocent victims you seem to imply.”
Naliajuk stormed over, cutting off Hervor’s reply. “You. Bad.”
Hervor couldn’t stop herself from chuckling at that. “Yes. I am a bad woman. He is a bad man. And your whole tribe is made up of evil seals.”
“You. You kill. Lie. Mmmm.” She worked her fingers and gnawed her lip. “Make … bad. Front of god.”
Orvar sighed. “I’m sorry we profaned your ceremony. You left us no choice. We must return to our people.”
“No. No go. No free. Now you fish.”
Hervor raised an eyebrow. “Our punishment is fishing?”
“No. You fish.” She clanked her teeth together.
Oh. Oh, Odin’s spear. “You’re going to eat us like fish?”
Naliajuk knelt beside her and thumped Hervor’s forehead with her finger. “Bad. Woman bad. Punish.” The finfolk grabbed her ankle and lifted it toward her mouth, then gnashed her teeth in front of it. “Bottom.” She again tapped Hervor’s forehead. “Top.”
Hervor shuddered at the mental image. It sounded like they intended to eat her alive, from the toes up. “You can’t be serious. That’s horrific. If you want to kill us, do so and be done with it.”
Naliajuk shook her head. Her eyes almost—almost—seemed to hold pity. “Bad. Front of god. Bad woman. Bad man. Punish.”
Hervor jerked forward, pulling against her bonds until her face was a breath away from Naliajuk’s. “This man destroyed my family.”
“You. Father?”
“No! Odin’s spear, no!”
“Lie?”
“Naliajuk, please. Listen to me!”
The wereseal slapped her. The sting of it, the strength of the blow, sent Hervor toppling back down on her arse.
Naliajuk shook her head and rose as Hervor struggled back to her knees. Damn. Not a single moment of this trip had gone as planned. Niflungar, draugar … and now it would end with her eaten alive by wereseals. She worked her jaw where Naliajuk had hit her.
A new man came running into the village, shouting something in his own nonsensical language. Kiviuq and Naliajuk both turned to him, then strode to where he stood, panting. They traded words. Pointing. Angry shouts. Gestures she assumed were rude. More arguing.
“You should have talked to me,” Orvar said.
Hervor ignored him, keeping her focus on Naliajuk, who stood shaking her head as if to deny what this new man was saying.
“This was not the time for your vengeance. Even your father knew to make a proper challenge. I shouldn’t be surprised though, I guess. He too cheated in the end.”
“Lies!”
“Do you really think anyone agreed to a duel involving twelve berserkir against two mortals? I wasn’t even supposed to be involved—”
“And you should have stayed out of it. If I have to come back as a draug myself, I will have my vengeance.”
He snorted. “You won’t come back as a draug after they eat your fucking body.”
Naliajuk spun on them and stalked back over, her jaw working as if she could not quite believe what the other man had told her. She looked back and forth between Hervor and Orvar, gnawed her lip, and shook her head. “You. Your people. Bad. Wake dead.”
“What are you talking about?” Orvar asked.
But Hervor knew. “The draugar.”
“Draugar. Draugar bad. Draug prince. Much bad.”
Draug prince? That was new. “Are you saying the others woke up some prince? A leader among the draugar?”
“Dead. Going. All island, going. Hunting. You people. Bad.”
The finfolk did not care much for the draugar it seemed. Feared them, even. Rightly so, she supposed. “Will you fight them?”
“Fight. No fight.” She shook her head. “Maybe leave.”
“Leave?” Orvar asked. “You plan to abandon Thule? This prince is so bad you will give up your homes?”
Naliajuk sighed and rubbed her arms, looking far more like a woman than a beast. A frightened woman who knew she was losing everything. Hervor knew that feeling all too well.
Orvar cleared his throat. “What if I kill this draug prince?”
“You?”
“Yes. I have fought many dangers in my life. Release me, and I swear upon my bow and my sword, I’ll destroy this draug or die trying. You plan to kill me anyway. You have naught to lose.”
For a moment, the wereseal stood there, running her tongue over her teeth. Then she spoke to her brother in their own language. He shouted angrily. Others joined in.
After a few moments of this, Naliajuk grunted and turned back to him. “You. You oath.”
“You have my oath as a warrior. I will slay the draug prince.”
She nodded and cut him free with a bone knife.
Orvar rubbed his wrists, looked at Hervor, and shook his head.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait! You can’t leave me here. I’ll go too. Naliajuk, I can fight the draugar too. I’ve already killed many of them.”
Orvar scoffed. “You’re fucking joking. You just tried to murder me while I was unarmed and helping you escape.”
“Naliajuk!”
The wereseal looked back and forth between Orvar and Hervor. Confused.
“Come on now,” she said.
Naliajuk looked to Orvar.
No. No, not good. She couldn’t let him decide her fate. Thor’s thundering cock, no. “Orvar?” Hervor said. “Orvar! I swear. I swear on my sword, on Tyrfing! On Tyrfing, I swear to bury our quarrel until we have dealt with this prince.”
He folded his arms and looked around the camp. At the finfolk all waiting to eat her alive. He shook his
head and sighed.
“An oath on your weapon was enough,” Hervor said. “You know an oath on mine is too. Who would dare violate an oath on a runeblade?”
The man sighed again, then looked to Naliajuk. “I will take her. Every sword will help.”
The finfolk moved to her side and cut her free. “You. I take. I take you to others. They run.”
Starkad and the rest of the party. Hervor nodded.
With a sudden motion, Naliajuk grabbed her by the coat. “You. Fail. Draugar do bad. You. Worse than we.”
Worse than being eaten alive? Hervor did not want to imagine any such thing. “We won’t fail.”
The finfolk sat Orvar and Hervor in the same boat, Kiviuq paddling them around the shore. Toward a draug prince. Hervor did not wish to dwell on it, and yet now, thanks to another oath, she had to kill the draug before she could finish Orvar.
“You think you know everything,” Orvar said without warning. “You think you understand what happened on that island … most like before you were even born.”
“Why should I believe aught you have to say for yourself?”
“I told you. I came back to my ship to find my crew, my people, slaughtered by your kin. By that very sword you now carry, cursed vile thing it is. I should have recognized it sooner … should have looked more closely at such a blade, much as I hated the sight of any dverg-wrought weapon. Angantyr bore that, the worst of the berserkir, looking much like a fiend of the mist himself. Glowing and flaming and drenched in blood.”
45
We were desperate, you know, and nigh to mad with grief over the loss of our people. And in that state, we watched the berserkir stalking closer to our hiding place.
“Odin preserve us,” Hjalmar mumbled. “What is that sword?”
I spat. “A runeblade. Arngrim is said to wield Tyrfing. The jarl must have gifted it to his son.”
Hjalmar groaned. “This was not Angantyr’s fight at all. It was to be between myself and Hjorvard.”