Days of Endless Night

by Matt Larkin

  The berserk was dead; Hjalmar’s sword had cut half his face off. And Hjalmar … more than a dozen wounds oozed blood.

  Gasping, I pressed the wounds. Hard. Blood oozed through my fingers. It did not slow. I could not tear my alfar shirt but … I yanked off Angantyr’s armor, then his tunic, and tore it in straps. Each, I bound against Hjalmar. The blood just kept oozing. It was slowing but not thanks to my efforts.

  My blood brother fumbled with his ruined helm.

  I helped him, easing the thing off. “Brother. I cannot staunch the bleeding. I fear you have seen the end of your days.”

  “Ugn. No, I can’t see … except maybe my father. He is drinking at Valhalla. And valkyries …”

  Death visions had taken the man. Or perhaps a valkyrie truly did come for his soul. I saw naught. “I’m sorry, brother.”

  “My arm ring … for Ingibjorg. Do not let her wonder …”

  I grimaced, then slipped the red-gold ring from my brother’s wrist. Yngvi’s father Alrik had given him that on achieving manhood. And he was right. Ingibjorg would know it, know what it meant.

  “There is a raven … his meal on my blood …”

  Hjalmar’s breath left him.

  Trembling, I shut my brother’s eyes.

  And then I …

  I was mad with grief …

  Samsey was thick with barrows of the Old Kingdoms, from days when men entombed their dead rather than freed them on pyres. I did not know or care why the old men did such things. I did know why my people burned bodies though. While the body lingered, so too might the soul, unable to escape Midgard. Bound to waste away the ages in half sleep, locked in eternal damnation.

  A fitting fate for the berserk brothers who had wrought countless evil deeds in their lives. Not least among them the slaughter of Hjalmar and all his crew on a day sanctioned for a duel. These men had violated law and custom and did not deserve to feast in Valhalla. They deserved to linger in torment for their crimes.

  So I thought then, so bereaved.

  And so I laid them in one such barrow. The torch gave the only light in that thick, suffocating place of shadow and death. Fitting. On ancient slabs, I laid them beside their cursed weapons. Let them comfort each other down through the ages. Or not. Samsey was a place of nightmare, an island best left lost in time.

  And Tyrfing … fell power coursed through me as I held it. I could take this sword and with it become the most famed warrior in all the North Realms. I could become a king and raise up such an army I might challenge any nation of men, perhaps even the dvergar of Nidavellir.

  And more like than not, meet such an accursed fate as these berserkir. Like all the works of the dvergar, the blade cut in more than one way. It did not belong in the world of men. The runeblades were works of ancient evil, driven by curses to destroy all who crossed their paths.

  And so I laid it upon the slab. The sword seemed to glimmer with hidden flame, begging me not to abandon it. It wanted to go, to be free. To kill, murder, and sow discord across the land. It wanted to work its evil.

  And I sealed them in that barrow.

  I would keep my promise and return to Ingibjorg, give her Hjalmar’s blessing. And give them all the warning that Starkad had been right.

  And no living man ought to ever again tread upon Samsey’s shores.

  And that done, I walked away from Sviarland. Walked away from even being Arrow’s Point.

  I fled my grief …

  49

  Oh.

  But he had left out the part where he laid a curse upon the brothers. Nor had he simply lain Tyrfing beside Hervor’s father’s corpse. No, Orvar had lain the blade beneath the man, and bid him burn forever upon his once-trusted weapon.

  And too, he had hoped to deny Tyrfing the world. To never again let it taste the blood of men.

  Even from across the boat, the sword called to Hervor. Its anger mirrored her own.

  She could lunge across the boat, grab the blade, and cut down the man.

  But her oath …

  All of this, Hervor had done for an oath.

  So she would wait.

  But there was no forgiveness.

  On the shore, three men worked their way along the coast, heading south. One bore a torch, allowing Hervor to spot the group soon, though not as quickly as Naliajuk. She had already told her brother, who steered the boat toward them, intent on intercepting them. The party on the shore must have seen them too, for they also drew up short and pulled weapons.

  A man with two swords. A welcome sight in this case.

  “Starkad!” Orvar shouted through the mist.

  “Orvar?”

  The three men approached the boat as it banked on the frozen beach. Alongside Starkad walked his servant as well as Tiny. That was it. Where was everyone else? All dead?

  Bragi?

  Hervor glowered. Poor old bastard. Never should have come here. None of them should have.

  Kiviuq pulled a bone knife as soon as he dropped the paddles, and Naliajuk jumped ashore, knife in one hand, cord weapon in the other. Despite their oaths, perhaps the finfolk did not trust them. Certainly not with such numbers.

  “You don’t look so surprised to see me,” Orvar said to Starkad.

  The shaggy man cocked his head at his servant before sheathing his blades. “This one knows things.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Starkad looked to Hervor now. “I thought you both dead. I searched for you in the gorge.”

  Hervor grunted. “Long and hard, I’m sure.”

  Tiny clapped Orvar on the shoulder while eyeing the finfolk.

  “New friends,” Orvar said.

  Friends—a severe stretch of the term. “We have an understanding. It seems you people went and woke the dead.”

  Starkad nodded. “Quite a lot of them. Including one with strange powers. A prince of one of the Old Kingdoms, I think. He bears a runeblade.”

  Hervor grimaced at that. Another runeblade. An equal to Tyrfing? This did not bode well.

  Orvar grunted. “The finfolk know of him, know him as a prince, so I gather you’re correct. And I … made an oath to slay him.”

  “You what?” Tiny said.

  “I swore to bring down the draug prince in exchange for my freedom.” The man looked to Hervor. Would he betray her now? Tell them of her treachery and thus order her death? The thought seemed to cross his mind. “And hers as well. She has also sworn to kill the prince.”

  Starkad folded his arms across his chest. “And you came to us thinking we’d want in on the glory?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “We barely got out of Nordri the first time,” Tiny said. “Still. I want that blade.”

  Orvar spread his hands. “Either way, we gave our oaths, and those oaths bind us. You can help us or not.”

  Starkad looked to his Serkland servant, who shook his head. “It will end in death,” the foreigner said.

  Orvar scoffed at that. “Life always ends in death, boy. But you people went and woke up something better left alone. So set aside my oath and forget about the treasures of Nordri. Consider—under direction of a singular power—the draugar may not be the mindless forces of death we know. Imagine what would happen if such an army marched on any of our homes.”

  Starkad spat. “We have no reason to believe they could get off this island.”

  “The finfolk have boats,” Hervor said.

  “Besides,” Orvar said. “Sooner or later others will come here, trying to claim what we did. And the draugar will kill them and take their ships.”

  Starkad waved it away. “You don’t know that. That’s pure speculation. You want to scare us into thinking we have no choice but to fight this monstrosity. But you don’t need such tactics, Orvar. I welcome the challenge. If we do this, we can return home as legends. And now, with you two back, we actually have weapons that can hope to slay the fiend.”

  Orvar nodded. “You’re talking about my arrows. But I have only one left.”r />
  “And the runeblade.”

  He frowned. “I’d consider the runeblade a last resort.”

  Hervor glared at him—how dare he speak ill of Tyrfing—then turned to Starkad. “Tyrfing has never failed me.”

  “Didn’t save you from being thrown off a cliff.”

  Orvar rubbed his face and looked over the group. “You lot get me close enough, keep the others off of my back. And I’ll put my last arrow through the prince’s skull.”

  “I will go,” Starkad said. “Afzal?”

  The Serklander sighed and hung his head. “I go where you go, Master.”

  Orvar looked to Tiny.

  The big man shrugged. “We do this … I want the prince’s runeblade.”

  Starkad groaned and shook his head.

  “Such things come with a hefty price,” Orvar said.

  “Yes, perhaps. They also bring honor and fame to a man and his line.”

  Orvar looked over at Hervor. “The dvergar did not forge the runeblades for the good of mankind. They do naught for the good of men.”

  She spat in the snow, offering no answer.

  Starkad folded his arms. “In any event, it’s decided. We’ll make for the city again. It will take us long to trek back to the main entrance.”

  At that, Naliajuk stepped forward. “No. No main. Take river.” She pointed to the boats.

  Starkad sneered at her and pointedly looked past her at Orvar. “You trust this shifter? Those rapids could break a man in half. We already lost Bragi on that river.”

  So that was what had happened to the poor bastard. Shame.

  Hervor glanced at Naliajuk. “I trust her enough. She wants the prince gone, Starkad. The finfolk stand to lose Thule completely otherwise.” Maybe they deserved to die for their barbaric actions. But if so, so too did Hervor.

  So too did they all.

  Starkad groaned, but nodded, and started for the boats. Eager to be done with it, Hervor supposed. Although Starkad always seemed reckless, fey, and rushing toward his dark destiny, whatever it might be.

  Orvar grabbed Hervor’s arm as she passed. “Listen. Your father, your brothers were led astray. Maybe by the very sword you carry. It probably brought the ruin on your house in the first place. It makes a man—or woman—hunger for blood. I can see by your eyes you know it’s true. But still we need it. If I fail, you have to use Tyrfing to slay the prince.”

  “I have never broken an oath,” she said. “I don’t intend to start now.”

  She jerked her arm free and headed for the boat.

  She had two oaths to uphold on this island.

  50

  Icy waters splashed over the lip of the boats as Naliajuk and Kiviuq threaded between rocks. The rapids ran through ice caves lit only by the flicker of Afzal and Tiny’s torches, one in each boat. Perhaps the shifters could see, but to Starkad, the rocks rushed by faster than he could pick them out. Wind whipped his hair out behind him, tugged on his soaked clothes, stung his face. And he loved it.

  His curse had made him a madman, but he loved it.

  The boat almost careened into the ice wall, despite Kiviuq’s frantic attempts to turn it.

  Afzal shouted something in his own language. All their years together and Starkad had never managed to pick up more than a few words of that strange tongue. Starkad glanced at the Serklander, who had turned ashen-faced.

  Starkad grinned and looked forward again. Yes. He’d gone mad.

  Round the bend, and the dvergar huts began to draw nigh, rising up from the ground like square hills. One hand on the boat’s edge, Starkad reached for his sword. The draugar would see the torches.

  Fire is life.

  They might catch the dead by surprise, coming in this way. But that advantage would not last. They had to move fast—very fast. The fastest man was the only one who counted. As the bank neared, Starkad leaped from the boat onto it, landed in a crouch, and took off toward the nearest building.

  With the light behind him, he could not see much, but Afzal would follow. He always followed. The others too, though the finfolk planned to watch the boats.

  A pair of draugar rose up from the rooftops, bows raised. Not good. Starkad increased his pace, readied his sword.

  Twang.

  He whipped his sword forward, and it hit the arrow midair, knocking it aside. Damn. He couldn’t believe that worked.

  He rushed forward. An instant later, one of those cord weapons flew over his head and crashed into a draug. The dead man pitched forward off the roof, tangled in the finfolk projectile. Starkad leapt on the fallen draug, swinging his sword and twisting. His blade sheared through the creature’s skull, and it collapsed.

  Firelight raced closer toward him, illuminating the alley. The other draug still stood on the rooftops and would shoot down his companions. Starkad glanced around the alley. The buildings were close together and not too high.

  Maybe …

  Starkad ran at one building, kicked off it, and caught the lip of the other building under his armpits. As he pulled himself atop the building, the draug turned to him.

  Met his gaze with those gleaming eyes.

  It knew it didn’t have time to nock an arrow, so it tossed the bow aside and pulled a knife. Starkad thrust his sword up as he gained his feet, using the draug’s own momentum to impale itself. With a twist, he flung the creature down off the roof. Tiny charged into the alley and set to chopping the creature to pieces with his broadsword.

  With the torches below him, he couldn’t make out much. But glowing red eyes were converging on their location. Many pairs of eyes. He drew his other sword. They’d get swarmed. Unless he could find a choke point. Like the palace itself. Only one way in, and they’d have to face him a few at a time.

  He jumped off the roof and landed in the alley. “Orvar! You and the shieldmaiden make for the palace.” He pointed with his sword. “You’re the only ones that might down their leader. The rest of us will hold them at the entrance. Afzal, follow!”

  Not waiting for an answer, he rushed through the city, cutting down three draugar as he went. One stood before the palace gate. Ugly bastard with its face half rotted off, exposing bone. Starkad charged him, one sword high, one low. The draug held its shield out before itself, spear raised high. Starkad leapt to the side at the last moment, causing the draug to thrust uselessly in the space he had just occupied. He chopped down with one sword, knocking the spear wide, while scoring a hit on the thing’s legs with the other. The draug wobbled, and Starkad kicked its shield, sending it toppling to the ground.

  An instant later, Tiny was on it, cleaving into the fallen creature.

  Orvar raced to his side, bow readied. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Go and make us legends.” Starkad turned, both swords readied.

  Hervor charged in first, followed by Orvar.

  Starkad looked over to Afzal and Tiny and nodded at them. One by one, they retreated into the palace foyer.

  The big man tossed his torch to the ground so he could pull his shield. Afzal stood there, breath shaky, torch in one hand, curved sword in the other. “Stay to the left side of the gate,” Starkad said to him. “They can only make it through a few at a time. We have to keep them from overwhelming us.”

  “We will die this day,” Afzal said.

  Tiny grunted. “Die bravely, then. Maybe Odin will take even a Serklander like you.”

  “Tiny,” Starkad said. “Take the right side. I’ll hold the center.”

  The big man shrugged and took up position. “The dead do not tire, but even a man like you has limits.”

  Starkad smiled, flexed his wrists. “I’ve been searching for those.”

  The first draug surged through the door, sword high over its head.

  Starkad whipped both his swords forward, hewing through the creature’s abdomen and halting its momentum. It fell forward, and he stepped around it, hacking at its back. No time to see if it were truly dead. Another draug came in, charging with a spear. S
tarkad knocked it aside with one blade and hacked into the thing’s face with the other.

  Afzal slashed at the creature’s hamstring with his shamshir, and it fell forward.

  Starkad left the Serklander to finish that one, facing the next.

  A draug with a slight limp in one leg, hefting a mighty axe. Torn and battered flesh had lost much of its color, but as the draug met his gaze, he knew it. The Axe.

  “No …” Tiny said.

  “Fucking mist,” Starkad said.

  He moved in on his former companion. The way it stared at him, with hatred even beyond that of other draugar. It knew him. Some part of the Axe remained, corrupted by the mist and consumed with rage. Like all draugar, he wanted revenge against every living thing.

  “Stop,” Tiny said. “I will face him.”

  The Axe sneered and turned toward Tiny, shield high. The big man faced him the same, his jaw trembling, shaking his head.

  More draugar raced into the gate. Starkad surged forward to meet them. No time for caution. No time for tactics. All that mattered now was speed. Just move faster. So fast they could not keep up. He parried, twisted, thrust, hacked. Parry, riposte, parry. Slash. Instinct raging to give ground, but he could not.

  Could not afford it.

  Four of them, five. Keep them tied up here, buy Orvar time. Everything would fall to Orvar, in the end. If the draug prince died, maybe the rest would panic. Or maybe they would all share the Axe’s twisted fate.

  Vile urd.

  Starkad grunted and roared in defiance.

  Parry, parry, parry.

  Slash. He lopped off the head of one draug.

  Afzal used every chance Starkad bought him, too. The Serklander severed arms, legs, necks. Starkad forced every draug’s attention to remain on him. One or two tried to turn away for a moment, face Afzal. Those fools found Starkad’s blades cutting them down from behind.

  The bodies had begun to pile up. Nowhere to move, to turn. Now they had to fall back. The draugar scrambled over their own fallen to engage him.