by Matt Larkin
“Oh, now you’ll take the cocking drinking horn,” Ivar said. “You Serkland men seem a lot like little girls to me. Can’t hold your mead, won’t taste the ale. A sip or two might put some hair on your stones, boy.”
“It seems to me,” Hervard said, where he sat wrapped in a blanket, “you have cocks on your tongue a great deal, Ivar.”
Starkad spit water laughing.
Ivar scowled. “Yeah, well what the troll cock … what’s a ghul anyway? I hear you’re all saying that’s what’s preying on us.”
Afzal shook his head. “Unclean spirits. But I don’t know if that’s what we face. Could be though. Where I come from, the caliphs banish the mists from the cities by binding spirits of flame. We call them jinn. But some men—sorcerers—use ghuls to prey on their enemies. Tales to scare children, maybe.”
Ivar’s eyes widened at that. “Thor’s thundering cock! Your own rulers are wizards, it sounds to me.”
Afzal stared into the flame and did not answer.
Bragi, who Starkad would have expected to jump at the chance to hear of lands so far off, was watching Afzal but said naught. When the skald fell silent, trouble was amiss. That was one thing Starkad could count on.
“What is it, Bragi?” Starkad asked.
The old skald looked to him, then shook his head.
Starkad scowled, then cocked his head off toward one of the fires Tiny and the Axe had finished building. He rose and waited for Bragi to do the same and follow him. The skald did, amidst hard looks from the others, especially Hervard. They might not like secret talks, but Starkad and Orvar had agreed to be careful not to reveal too much. The men were on edge enough already.
“Speak, old man,” Starkad said when they reached the perimeter fire.
“We should not have come here, I think.”
Starkad groaned and cracked his neck. “Bit late to think of that now. And I doubt that’s what so troubles you, so out with it.”
Bragi sighed, rubbed his arms. “We’ve seen a lot, you and I.”
Starkad shrugged. “Wars and raids and more than one vaettr, yes. What are you on about?”
The skald warmed his hands by the fire. “All men have secrets, Starkad. You should know.”
So that’s what he meant. Bragi had been around long enough to have heard tales about Starkad, stories he had shared with few men besides Afzal. The old man almost certainly knew about Vikar, the self-made king, slain by his own brother. The worst of Starkad’s crimes, though neither the first nor the last of them.
Starkad too warmed his fingers. This place was cold as Niflheim. But it was wondrous, too, strange and unknown. How could a man deny the call of such a place? To uncover its secrets, unearth its long buried treasures. He did not know why the dvergar had left this island, but he would find out. He would have it all, until Thule had no hidden places left. And then he would move on. Such had become his way. Maybe one day he would even travel to Serkland, beyond the Midgard Wall. Afzal did not ask to go home, seemed almost as wary of his homeland as men like Ivar were. And yet … what strangeness must lie there, in a land where men ruled spirits of flame?
“I do not ask you to share all your secrets,” he said at last. “But if something threatens us, I need to know it.”
“Eh. Threatens? No, I think not. But sooner or later you’d learn of it, and I’m worried what would happen if it came at the wrong time.”
Starkad spread his hands, awaiting some explanation.
Bragi sighed. “Hervard—well, it seems he is not a he.”
“What?”
“She has been concealing herself from us. Damned well too. I’m not one to miss noticing a woman often.”
Starkad knew his mouth hung open, but he couldn’t quite think of a worthy response. Ivar would have. Something involving trolls and cocks, no doubt. And Bragi was right—if Hervard, or whatever her name was—was a woman, she had hidden it well. She had lied to them for moons.
No surprise. All women lied. They had treachery woven into their very souls.
Starkad ran his fingers over the hilts of his swords.
“She is not Ogn,” Bragi said.
The warning in the skald’s voice grated on his nerves. It did not matter. They were all the same.
Starkad stormed back toward the main bonfire, even as Tiny and the Axe were heading that way.
“Starkad, wait,” Bragi called after him.
He did not.
Hervard rose as he drew nigh to her and held up her hands in warding. He grabbed her by the tunic and yanked her to her feet. She tried to bat his hands away. He knocked hers aside. She pushed at him, and he punched her in the gut. She doubled over, and he grabbed her chest. Definitely a breast.
Starkad flung her to the ground. “You lying bitch.”
She grimaced, groaning in pain. Blood had seeped through the back of her tunic. She rose, fists balled.
“No more lies, woman. Who are you?”
“Woman!” Ivar shouted.
Several of the others had risen, too.
The woman spat at his feet. “I’m Hervor. What of it?”
Starkad toyed with the idea of hitting her again. “Besides the obvious? You lied to us all about who you were.”
“Because you men think with your fucking cocks! To say naught of your kind oft not placing enough trust in shieldmaidens.”
“Hard to trust liars.”
Her hand went to the golden sword hilt on her shoulder. Fingers closed around it. Her eyes shone with murder.
“You want to see who’s faster with a blade?”
“Starkad!” Bragi grabbed his shoulder. “Whoever she is, she saved my life on the cliff.”
Hervor charged forward then, swinging not with her sword but with her fist. Starkad shoved Bragi aside, blocked her punch on one arm. With the other, he landed a hook on her ribs. She buckled under it. He snapped his other fist into her gut, and as she doubled over again, slammed an uppercut into her chin.
The woman pitched back and landed in the snow.
“Not fast enough,” Starkad said.
Bragi had grabbed him again and was pulling him away. This time, the Axe helped. The two men pulled him aside until he shrugged them off.
“Having a trench instead of a cock isn’t a crime,” the Axe said. “We’ve fought with maidens on a shield wall.”
Starkad spit, then pushed away from them. He paused only to grab a burning branch from a perimeter fire, then stalked away from the camp. He didn’t need them, not right now. Could they seriously be taking her side after so many moons of deception? Hervor was right—they were thinking with their cocks. The only woman on the whole damned island and maybe they both wanted to bed her. Well, let them. Let them fuck her all damned night if they wanted. It was the only use for a woman.
He didn’t need her, and he didn’t need them.
No, he had trusted a woman once. He had loved Ogn, had fought a fucking jotunn for her. And she had betrayed him, fallen for the monster instead of the man. Such was the way of women, traitors, and unworthy of faith. And her ghost would haunt him for all his nights.
Even now it lurked somewhere out of sight. Waiting for him to shut his eyes so she could wrap her fingers around his heart and squeeze. Ogn was his mara, but Hervor wasn’t going to be one. Her death would not be on his head; it would be on her own. There would never be another Ogn.
Never.
20
Hand to her bloody lip, Hervor climbed down toward the river. She ought to have drawn Tyrfing and fought Starkad. She was so close. It wanted to taste his blood. But if she drew it … it would have to taste someone’s blood. And Starkad Eightarms did not lose a sword fight. With his fists alone, he’d thrashed her before she knew what had happened.
What then? She was good, but she’d be a fool to think herself a match for Starkad under any circumstances. Or Orvar-Oddr, if he expected a fight. The two of them were like legends.
Right now, though, Orvar was alone, hunting seals in the
mist. Alone on an island where they knew some vaettr or beast stalked them. It was the best chance she was like to get, and she would not waste it. No, and she knew enough of stalking silently to creep up on him. He would not see her coming. She’d run him through, dump his body in the river, and sneak back to camp. No one would know what she’d done—they’d think the beast had taken him.
Even if Starkad had more blood on his hands, Orvar-Oddr was the Arrow’s Point. Of that, she had little doubt remaining. He had murdered her family in service to the Ynglings.
And he would not be the last to die for that crime.
Hervor had paused in camp only to grab her mail. No sense in facing Arrow’s Point without her armor, damaged though it may be.
Starkad would still be a problem. She could run him through while he slept, but the others would kill her. He was a bastard, a son of a troll. But she would have to find a way to keep him from turning on her. By Odin’s spear, what was his problem with her?
So she had pretended to be a man. It was only sense to do so.
She braced herself on a rock as she descended. Her ribs felt like she’d been kicked by a donkey. Naught seemed broken though, Frigg be praised.
Damn Starkad.
The barks of seals echoed out even over the roar of the waterfall. They sounded near. Strange that Orvar had not felled one and returned yet. Or maybe he had. The creatures were no doubt heavy. What a way for the great Orvar Arrow-Oddr to die—a sword through his back while dragging a seal carcass up a slope. Shame no one would know or tell that tale. It would prove a fitting end for the slayer of her kin.
She struggled to contain her grunts of pain. He’d never hear her coming, not over the water and seals. Still, best to keep silent. Stick to the shadows. She had not brought a torch, of course. It was dangerous to wander in the mists without one, very dangerous. Even if she didn’t go mist-mad, vaettir could creep up on her.
But without flame, she could also creep up on a man.
Advancing in a half crouch, she scurried from one rock pile to the next, right up to the river’s edge. She ought to have seen Orvar’s own flame by now. Even if he had left it somewhere, it should have been visible.
Why wasn’t—
On the ice near the river, the man’s bow and quiver lay. What in Hel’s frozen underworld? She near leapt to her feet, hand on Tyrfing’s hilt, barely suppressing the urge to draw it. Not until she was certain.
That lesson she had learned with Rolf.
Orvar must be here now, waiting for her. He had seen her coming. Must have.
She turned in place, slowly, not releasing her grip on the sword. Where was he?
There.
A man stood a dozen feet away, on the riverbank. Hervor advanced.
The man was not Orvar.
In fact, he was naked. How had he not caught the deathchill like that? As she drew nigh, several other naked men and women came into view. One among them, a woman, had Orvar slung over her shoulder like a fresh kill. Was he dead already?
No. He stirred, ever so slightly.
Hervor froze in place. These people had not seen her yet. And they were taking Arrow’s Point. If they killed him, was her vengeance satisfied?
No.
No, she had promised her father’s ghost she would kill the man. She had sworn an oath on Tyrfing. He must die by her hand.
Were these strange, naked people the ghuls Afzal had spoken of? It did not matter. She’d have to kill them to get to Arrow’s Point. She had taken only a single step forward when her foe’s captors began to walk into the river.
Hervor almost tripped. They just stepped into the current and dove under, dragging her prey with them. The cold might not affect them, but it would surely kill Orvar before long.
“Oh damn it.” She started to run, fighting through the pain in her ribs and back. Damn it!
The man’s captors moved quickly in the water, vanishing into the mist over the river in a few breaths. It was so thick down here and growing thicker, almost like wading through water.
“Stop!” she shouted. “To arms!”
Her voice might echo, might carry to the camp above. Might not, too.
Grunting, she ran on, racing along the riverbank. She had to catch them and fast. Or her chance at vengeance would be lost forever.
Struggling, panting Hervor ran. Firelight appeared ahead, and she stumbled toward it, then fell short when the torchbearer turned on her.
Starkad.
He glared at her. “There was someone in the river.”
“They took Orvar.” Her lungs hurt. She was sucking down great gasps of mist, too. She drew closer to the protection of his torch.
Starkad grimaced. “Water vaettir, most like. Nixies, maybe. We have to find them. What are you doing down here?”
“I … needed to treat my injuries. Wanted to be alone.”
“Then stay here if you wish. I’m going to find Orvar.” He spun and began to run down the riverbank.
With her injuries, it took all she had to even keep him in sight. She needed a torch, flame, light. Gods, she needed some damned rest.
Someone else was climbing down the slope, bearing another torch.
“Get down here!” she shouted. “Hurry—”
Solid mist hit her with enough force to lift her off her feet and fling her onto the ice. She landed hard and skidded toward the river’s edge. Her mail sheared through the ice. The impact sent fresh jolts through her injured back, and she struggled to breathe, to even see straight.
“What?” she managed to groan.
“Little girl …” The voice seemed to whisper from the mist, coming from all around her. “You have trespassed against an ancient power.”
Hervor rolled over and rose to her knees. Everything hurt now. But she had heard mist whisper such things before. “Another sorcerer?” She slung Tyrfing off her shoulder but did not draw it. Still in the scabbard, she pushed the point against the ground and used it to steady herself. “How many of you people do I have to kill?”
A shadowed form coalesced out of the mist, taking on the shape of a man with ashen hair. He bore a blade in his hand, which he pointed at her. “I do not know how you bested one of us, but if you think to face a Niflung blade master, then come. I shall send you swiftly to Hel. There is none greater.”
Hervor groaned. She had no idea what he was talking about, except that he seemed to actually worship Hel like some mist-mad abomination. That being the case, he wasn’t like to allow her a respite to recover from her injuries.
She rose, swaying slightly on her feet. And she drew Tyrfing. It gleamed like a ray of sunlight, reflecting off the mist and casting the river in ethereal colors like a dream.
Or a nightmare born beyond the gates of Hel.
“Hervor!” Afzal shouted from the slope.
“Fool child,” the sorcerer said. “You truly bear that blade. It was not wrought for you, not for any of your childlike people. And bearing such a treasure you tread here, upon these ancient shores. You have no idea what evils lay buried beneath Thule. My killing you is a mercy.” The sorcerer glanced at Afzal who was running toward them, then turned back to her. “You are strong to have taken the sword and favored to have slain a Niflung. Kill the foreigner and give the sword to me. I will spare you, take you away from this cursed island.”
Hervor grit her teeth. She was in no shape to fight this monster. But she sure as Hel was not going to kill Afzal, not like this. Besides, Arrow’s Point was still out there. Waiting to die on Tyrfing’s edge. In answer, she advanced slowly, struggling to remain on her feet.
The sorcerer chuckled and shook his head. “You shall find no peace, even in death.”
Torch in one hand, curved sword in the other, Afzal bellowed and rushed the sorcerer. Hervor pushed forward as fast as she could, but the Serklander reached the Niflung first. The sorcerer spun, hand trailing mist like a whip. It wrapped around Afzal’s legs and swept them out from under him, sending him tumbling to the ground.
>
The Niflung leaned in to impale Afzal, but Hervor lunged forward and knocked his sword aside.
As Afzal struggled to rise, the Niflung spun, sweeping his sword in tight arcs that drove her backward. The sorcerer twisted, struck at Afzal, who barely got his sword up to block.
The Niflung moved just fast enough to keep her crewmate from being able to attain his feet. Afzal gave over trying and swept his sword at the sorcerer’s legs. The sorcerer responded by whipping mist around into a disk that froze like ice and blocked the attack, even as he struck at Hervor with his blade.
She parried on Tyrfing, falling back.
At full strength, she could have fought him, maybe.
He didn’t try to block Tyrfing with the mist. Maybe his magic could not turn a runeblade. It had pinned Afzal though.
“Use the torch!” she shouted at him.
Afzal did, swinging the flame. It dispersed the mist shield, forcing the sorcerer back a step. Hervor pressed forward, hewing with Tyrfing with all the strength she had. Her enemy fell back farther, finally allowing Afzal to rise.
It was a brief respite. A wave of the Niflung’s hand sent a wall of mist surging at them. Hervor cleaved at it, and it broke apart before Tyrfing. Afzal, however, hurtled backward. His torch skittered along the ice before falling into the river.
The sorcerer laughed. “You should have taken my offer when I made it. But I offer you one more time, little girl. Kill the boy and give me the sword.”
“Go to Hel.”
The man shrugged and advanced on her. “The only thing your companions will find of you is your head. I will leave it for them.”
Lacking a retort, Hervor settled for a glare.
Beyond the sorcerer, a torch burned through mist. He jerked his head in that direction, as if drawn by the burning vapors. Then the Niflung turned back to Hervor with a sneer. “Just one more of your friends who will die for you, girl.”
That torch touched the ground, and a line of flame erupted, surging out in an arc that ran all the way to the river. Mist recoiled and leapt away, almost seeming to shriek in pain. The flame illuminated Starkad, who was drawing his second sword and advancing.