by Matt Larkin
She tossed it aside and slashed downward with Tyrfing. The draug parried on his blade, stopping her momentum dead. And before her eyes, it began to grow, the blade expanding with it. It grew to tower over Hervor, pushing its runeblade against hers with one hand. Its strength drove her back, caused her feet to skid along the floor.
More than twice her height. Eyes lit with the glow of Hel.
Hervor grunted under the strain and slipped to one knee.
A bow twanged behind her. Orvar’s arrow slammed into the draug’s helm. The creature stumbled backward, hissing, shrieking mind-rending sounds.
Hervor scrambled away from it, but it lunged forward, caught her with its free hand, and raised her up off the ground.
It hadn’t died. He’d shot it with a magic arrow and still it walked. Still it—
The draug flung Hervor at Orvar. She slammed into his chest, and they both collapsed to floor, skidding along it. His bow careened away. All the wind blew out of her lungs, and her head struck the stone floor.
The room spun, darkened.
She groaned, trying to rise but not quite able.
Panting, Hervor stumbled to her feet and ambled back toward the prince, Tyrfing out before her. Ears were ringing. Vision blurry.
“Fuck you …” she mumbled.
She hacked at the creature. It parried her with ease using that giant sword, gave her no opening to reach its body.
The draug looked past her then. At Orvar. Then it jumped over Hervor and landed between the man and his bow.
Trollfucker. Orvar stared dumbly at the fiend.
Damn it.
Finally, Orvar pulled his own sword, moving like a man dazed. An ordinary iron blade, naught but human strength behind it.
They were doomed.
He bellowed a war cry and charged the draug.
It leaned down, roaring at him, exposing fangs and the hellish abyss of its maw. The ground shook as it raced forward to meet him. Sword high.
Orvar dove forward, rolling between its legs. Its blade scored the ground where he had stood, shearing through stone and sending up a cascade of rubble.
Hervor faltered an instant. Orvar was damned fast with a sword, too. She raced to his bow and snatched it up off the ground. “Orvar!”
He glanced her way, and she flung the bow through the air. It spun, and he dropped his sword to catch it. The man rolled over and scrambled to his feet, even as the draug prince turned.
Hervor raced past him hewing into the prince’s leg. That got its attention. Its leg gave out, and it fell to one knee, wailing that soul-twisting shriek of its. Hervor had to dive away from its own counter with that runeblade.
Orvar half ran, half crawled to put distance between himself and the prince. Bows were not nigh as fast as swords, after all.
Hervor had to let the man get some space to nock an arrow … but an ordinary arrow would do naught when the bastard’s magic arrows had failed. So now what?
“Prince trollfucker!” Orvar shouted at it.
Hervor and the draug both glanced at the madman. So the dead thing had understood the Northern tongue?
“I’m going to ram that runeblade right up your arse, trollfucker!” Orvar shouted.
The prince raced forward, half limping, half jumping. Its sword scraped along the floor for an instant before surging into the air. The prince whirled it around in a wide arc.
The draug was about to steal Hervor’s vengeance away from her.
Hervor ran at the prince at an angle, leapt onto the throne and stepped on the back of it. Then she flung herself onto the prince’s back as he passed her.
The prince spun, flailed. Hervor shrieked, cleaving Tyrfing down on its skull. The runeblade cleaved through the helm and tore into the skull. The helm fell away in pieces, but the prince did not fall. The flailing draug sent Hervor flying through the air before slamming into the ground.
The impact blew the wind out of her lungs and sent darkness clambering in at the edges of her vision. She gasped, trying to rise. Trying to even get a breath.
Tyrfing had skittered away from her.
She tried to push herself up. Her arms gave out, and she collapsed back to the floor.
The ground trembled as the monstrous draug ambled toward her.
The draug bellowed at Hervor as she tried to rise. Black ichor spewed from its mouth. It cursed her in the Old Tongue. Hervor did not need to understand the words to feel the wrath of Hel behind them.
“Prince trollfucker,” Orvar shouted again.
The draug turned toward him. Roared.
He had reclaimed the black arrow from the fallen helm.
He loosed.
Orvar’s arrow struck the draug on the bridge of what remained of its nose. The shaft punched through the unarmored skull and exploded out the other side, spraying ichor. The draug stood, trembling for an instant, before pitching over backward. It fell with a tremendous crash that shook the throne room.
Orvar panted. “Go back to Hel.”
Gasping, Hervor forced herself to her feet and stalked to the prince. Then she slammed Tyrfing into its chest.
Had to be certain.
“We make a good team,” Orvar said, clutching his sides as he walked toward her. “Let us bury the past, yes?”
Still struggling to breathe, she jerked Tyrfing free and cast a glance between the dead draug and Orvar. Then at Tyrfing. Its light shone beneath the black ichor now coating it. She blew out a long breath.
So her oath was fulfilled.
One of them.
Orvar had saved her life at least twice in here. But her oath …
An oath could not be broken. Vengeance, declared, must be sated.
And so she lunged at Orvar.
The man tried to step back, to twist aside. The runeblade punched through even his alfar shirt with ease. It scraped along his ribs and exploded out of his back.
He looked down at it. At her. He tried to speak, but only blood gurgled out of his mouth.
“I held my oath …” Hervor said. “I … forestalled vengeance. Now the prince is dead. And I offer you the same mercy you offered my father.” She struggled to even keep her voice from breaking. “Burn in eternal torment, Arrow’s Point.”
She yanked the blade free, and he fell to his knees without her supporting him.
And then he pitched forward and died.
Her oath was fulfilled.
Hervor sheathed Tyrfing and stared at Orvar’s corpse. “My father and uncles are avenged.” She spat on him. “Rot in the embrace of Hel.”
She knelt beside the other runeblade. When it had left the prince’s grasp, it returned to the size of a normal blade. Her hand hesitated over the hilt. Tyrfing was her family’s legacy, and still. Still it had brought about death, suffering, woe—as her father’s ghost had warned.
What curse would hold this runeblade? It didn’t matter, she supposed. They had promised it to Tiny, and he could have it, for good or ill.
She snatched it up and headed out of the throne room.
Beyond, draugar corpses littered the foyer. Still more of the fiends swarmed in. Starkad whirled from one to the next with uncanny speed and ferocity. But his chest heaved. The man could not have much left in him.
And they had no way out of this palace.
But the draugar all served their prince, and he was dead. Did they know that?
She ducked back into the throne room. Pieces of the shattered crown lay strewn about the floor. She grabbed the largest chunk, the one displaying the great ruby. With this, she rushed out among the growing horde.
“The prince is dead!” she shouted. And she flung the crown among the draugar.
The undead creatures paused, many turning to stare at the crown.
An opportunity, if a brief one. She ran for the door.
Tiny met her halfway. “Where is Orvar?”
“He helped bring down the prince but fell to his injuries.” She thrust the prince’s runeblade at the big man. “Take it.
We have no time.”
Tiny grunted, looked to Starkad. “Best be off, Eightarms!”
Several of the draugar lunged at the crown. They fell to fighting amongst each other in an explosion of chaos and hellish shrieks. Starkad shoved past them to join her and Tiny at the door. Afzal was already there, struggling to find a way out, but more and more of the undead tried to jam themselves into the doorway.
Tiny bellowed, charging into their midst runeblade first. The mass gave way before his flashing blade. Hervor drew Tyrfing off her shoulder and joined him, cutting her way free. Starkad and Afzal would follow as best they could. She had to trust in that.
The draugar shouted at each other in their forgotten language, more now trying for the crown than any of their human prey. Still, other draugar—perhaps unaware of the prize—continued to move in on them. Hervor raced back toward the river, cutting down three different draugar as she did so.
The occasional shout behind her was the only indication the others followed.
An arrow whooshed past her head. Reflex twisted her around to look. It had hit a draug archer in the chest, caused it to drop its bow. She turned back and ran. Kiviuq, her would-be husband, held a bow, nocking another arrow.
Her arm felt like lead, her chest like ice.
Just a little farther.
A draug leapt from the shadows at her. She tried to turn, to bring Tyrfing to bear. Not fast enough.
The undead creature bore her down, the sword slipping from her grasp. Ice-cold fingers closed around her throat. She grabbed its wrist but could not pull the creature off her.
Its grip closed. Breath refused to pass into her lungs.
Her vision began to dim at the edges. She slapped at the thing, but her strength already ebbed. The weak blows didn’t even faze the creature. Its glowing eyes bored into her mind.
Like it knew. Her crimes, her murders. Betrayals.
Even now, she had betrayed Orvar-Oddr. Honored only the letter of her oath.
And she deserved to be dragged down to Hel by this creature.
The draug burst into flames and fell back off her. Afzal thrust his torch into its face again, then slashed it with his curved sword. It fell, shrieking.
Gasping. Pain. Trying to breathe. Air wheezed through her bruised throat.
Someone was dragging her to her feet. Shoving her toward the boat. Kiviuq?
She tried to speak, not even certain what she wanted to say. It didn’t matter since her words came out a garbled mess. Naliajuk grabbed her from her brother, guided her into one of the boats. Afzal jumped in a moment later, and Naliajuk kicked the boat off.
Leaning on the rail, she could make out Tiny and Starkad fighting their way toward where Kiviuq stood at the other boat. The sudden twisting of the boat made her slip down, and she clutched on both rails for support. The boat smacked against ice, throwing a shower of it down on her.
“Starkad!” Afzal shouted. “We cannot leave him.”
“No. No leave.” Naliajuk glanced back. “Kiviuq bring.”
Not that they could have stopped if they wanted to. The rapids had them now, yanked them forward. Draugar arrows clattered against the ice walls as the boat whipped around a corner. Out of their line of shot.
Water splashed over the side, drenching her. So cold. Couldn’t breathe.
Murderer.
She clenched her eyes shut. She’d always been a murderer. Ever since she’d run with Red-Eye’s Boys.
Now she was something better. She had avenged a wrong. The first vengeance.
She had slain mighty Arrow’s Point.
And no one knew.
No one save her father, who maybe now, could at last find respite from his pain.
49
The river let out from the ice cave and cast them under a sky lit by the blue-green lights once more. As the rapids passed, their rate slowed, and finally, so did Starkad’s raging heart. He slumped down in the boat. The most profound fatigue of his life had settled over him, left his limbs feeling like unresponsive water. Keeping track of time on Thule had become impossible, but certainly he’d had little sleep in many days. An entire moon, maybe.
And they had done it. Orvar—rest his wandering soul—had slain a prince of the Old Kingdoms. Starkad would not have minded that glory for himself, but holding off a draugar army would win him his share, he supposed.
Even Tyr ought to be impressed with such a feat. And maybe Starkad had found his limits after all.
Had Hervor taken a few moments more in coming, he’d have given out. He could not now swing his swords against the meekest of foes.
He had seen Thule, had walked in Nordri, and now lived to tell of it. Whatever else Odin may have wanted from this island, Starkad was done with it. Thule had cost them all more than they had counted on. Maybe the Aesir had known what they would find and failed to warn them. Probably, in fact.
So he shut his eyes, let the rhythm of the paddles soothe him.
The boat jerked as it ran aground, waking him. Starkad opened his eyes to see numerous finfolk gathered on the shore, all watching the two boats. Kiviuq climbed out of their boat and joined his sister, who stood nearby. Some of the finfolk held bows, some knives, some those cord weapons. None had raised them threateningly, but neither did their eyes speak of friendship.
He groaned. So that was how it was. Sitting up hurt. Having to fight off an army of wereseals would hurt more.
Rubbing her throat, Hervor approached Naliajuk and nodded at the other woman.
“You. Prince you killed.”
Hervor nodded again.
Starkad stumbled over to where the two women stood, leaving Tiny and Afzal behind. “We upheld Orvar’s bargain. He paid for it with his life.”
Naliajuk gnawed her lip. “You. Mmmm. Good you. Prince dead.”
Encouraging. Starkad stretched his neck. “So? Take us to our ship, and we’ll leave Thule to you.”
“Island. Mmmm. Mmmm. Danger, still.”
“They’ll choose another prince.” Hervor’s voice sounded raspy.
He almost pitied her. But Hel, she had brought her woes on herself, lying to join this expedition. And … and she had helped save them all. Were she not there, had she not brought the crown, they’d have all died in Nordri.
Maybe she was worth more than he had given her credit for.
Maybe.
Starkad shrugged. “Yes, a new prince. Probably not so strong as the last. We have his sword. Either way, we upheld our deal.”
Naliajuk looked to her brother, then at the other finfolk. “Deal. You deal. Good. Fix prince.” Now she pointed at Hervor. “Still. Still first thing. Wedding.”
Hervor snorted or tried to. Sounded strained. “I am not marrying. Not anyone.”
Naliajuk frowned and worked her mouth. “Human. Human marry. One human. Least.”
“Go to Hel,” Tiny said. “None of us are staying here.” The big man drew the stolen runeblade.
Starkad frowned at it. That should have been his. With Orvar dead … Starkad grit his jaw. The treasures of Thule were his to claim. Tiny—Ecgtheow—had insisted on claiming what did not belong to him.
“No!” Naliajuk stomped her foot and took several threatening steps toward Tiny.
The big man threatened her with the runeblade, but Hervor stepped between the pair.
“They don’t like it if you invoke that name,” she said.
Tiny cocked his head. “And I don’t like being told to marry a fucking seal. So we beat the draugar. We can cut our way through these bastards too. Let the dead claim Thule.”
“We are in no shape to fight again,” Afzal said. “Much less against such odds.”
Starkad found himself forced to agree, though he let his hands drift toward his sword hilts. If it was the end, he would go down fighting. The finfolk would pay very dearly for this treachery. That, at least, he could promise them. Kiviuq met his gaze now. The wereseal’s hand went to the bone knife at his belt.
“Wait, wait!”
Afzal said. “Master … I will stay.”
Starkad spun on the Serklander. “No you won’t. You don’t have to do this.”
“I promised to repay my debt to you.”
“Troll shit. Where I go, you go. Remember?” It had been that way for years now. Afzal was his constant companion. Whatever dire adventure he found himself on, the Serklander was there to hold the torch, offer wisdom, and occasionally talk him out of his worst ideas.
“I could never have repaid my debt with a blade. But this will save your life, Master. I would have Naliajuk … if she wishes me.”
The finfolk woman looked to Hervor, then to Starkad.
“Don’t do this,” Starkad protested.
Afzal smiled. “You know it is the way. You call it urd.”
“Fuck fate. Come back to Sviarland. We have some treasure from Nordri, gold, Afzal. You want a woman, we’ll find you a real one.”
“You,” Naliajuk said. “You insult?”
“No,” Hervor said before he could respond. “He doesn’t mean it.”
The finfolk woman gnawed her lip. Looked to Afzal. “You. You choose me?”
Afzal nodded.
“Mmmm.” Naliajuk looked at Hervor, then frowned. “Oath. Weapon oath.”
Afzal hesitated a bare moment. “I swear upon my father’s sword.”
The shifter nodded then and pointed to the boat. “You. We take you ship.”
Starkad ground his teeth. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Afzal Ibn Hakim. As a boy, he’d lost everything. Dragged to the North Realms by his father only to have the man slain. Starkad had never asked him to follow as a servant, but he had. He always had.
He could not be gone now.
He felt numb as he settled back into the boat. Afzal nodded at him again. This was what he wanted, his choice, his sacrifice. His honor. And Starkad had no right to steal it from him.
And yet.
A long time ago, Starkad had lost his little brother. And then, somehow, without seeking it, he had found another. And now that brother was being taken from him as well.
On a bench before him, Tiny sheathed the runeblade.