by Matt Larkin
The beat of a hammer rang out through the workshop, echoing off ancient tunnels abandoned long ago. And now reclaimed by a being Odin could not quite understand. One could never fully trust an ally—if the term even applied—whom one did not understand. But still, no one else on Midgard could do what Volund did. His craftwork had become legend through the North Realms.
The man who forged a new runeblade, works once thought lost to history and even then, the sole province of the dvergar. A useful ally … or a terrible liability.
The hammer crashed down on the anvil again, then stopped.
Volund could not have possibly heard Odin’s silent approach into the forge, but he paused. Turned ever so slowly, exposing his ashen skin, his jet black hair. Fixing his unearthly gaze upon Odin even as his lip curled into that infuriating sneer.
“You know it will yet be some time before the next works are ready.” The svartalf’s voice was at once thick and etheric, as Otherworldly as the shadows that danced about him and his places, dimming Odin’s torchlight and leaving the forge in near darkness.
Odin did not bother to answer the smith in any event. They both knew what Volund had promised him and how long it would take. The great and terrible crafts took years, and Odin had grudgingly learned patience. “You have proved very effective in arming my son, smith … and still I failed to give proper consideration to yours.”
Volund might have asked to which son Odin referred. But then, from the way he shook his head, limping over to a chair and sinking down into it, he knew well of whom Odin spoke.
Finally, settled down, Volund cleared his throat. “You did not come here to speak of Thor.”
“Not this day, no.”
“And Eightarms is no son of yours … so what care you what use my son makes of him?”
Odin shrugged. “Starkad is not my son, true enough, but he is my … emissary.”
Volund chuckled, the sound mind grating, thick, and viscous in the air. “Does he know this? You send him to seek the lost runeblades of the Old Kingdoms … Oh, yes, King of the Aesir. Did you think I would not take an interest in the greatest works of my former masters? In the very creations that inspired my own? If you intend to use Eightarms to claim those blades … how are you to object if I wish to use him to reclaim my own creation?”
Odin leaned on Gungnir and fixed Volund with a level gaze. “Some years ago …” Odin stared off into the flames of the forge, these too, seeming dim considering the heat of the blaze. “Some years ago, I called upon dark powers with which you are all too familiar on behalf of that boy. And I made him what he is, and thus, I made him mine.”
Again, that horrid chuckle. “And men call me cruel. So, the very act with which you claim to have aided the man yet ensured he became your instrument. Driven endlessly to wander and seek out your prizes for you. I nearly wonder that you have not yet sent him to claim the other relics you require.”
Yes, the blessing Odin had given Starkad all but ensured the man would continue to undertake his reckless quests. It did make him perfect for Odin’s uses. And yes, Odin had suspected the end result when he’d called upon the Art. None of this was worth denying.
Instead, Odin paced around the forge, banging Gungnir’s butt loudly on the ground with each step. “So be it, Volund,” he said, at last, turning to see the smith still slouching in the chair. “I will not interfere with your plans for your son. I shall even allow him to call upon Starkad. But you …” Odin pointed a finger at him. “Tread with care, svartalf. I claim that man in no uncertain terms, and I will not take kindly if you drive him on any path that interferes with my own intentions for him.”
Another infuriating laugh. “You believe you alone are the master of urd, that you alone have the right to manipulate the actions of pawns on the board? Your own so-called friend Loki surely puts us both to shame with his machinations. You cannot play the game and demand no one else play it either.”
Odin glowered at the smith. Part of him almost thought it might be better to strike Volund down, no matter how useful his crafts proved. But Odin needed him, needed his works, if he was to win Ragnarok. Needed Volund just as he needed Starkad and the damned runeblades.
“Do as you wish with your own pawns, your son included. But if you try to remove one of mine from the board before his time, our next conversation may prove unpleasant for us both.”
“Oh …” Volund rose, groaning ever so slightly with the effort. “And I do so enjoy these visits.”
Grumbling, Odin slammed Gungnir on the floor one more time for good measure, then spun and stalked out of the workshop.
He had a great deal of work to do, and it seemed Volund would force him to watch his every move.
Because Volund was wrong about one thing … Starkad was more valuable than any mere pawn. He was a piece Odin could not sacrifice until the time was right.
Part I
Third Moon
Year 28, Age of the Aesir
One Year After Days of Endless Night
1
Blood had crusted within the runes running along the length of the blade. It had drank deep, many a time, earning Hervor great renown, though more oft than not as Hervard, newest thegn to King Haki of Ostergotland.
She knelt by a stream, working the grime from the grooves with a fingernail. Always careful not to touch the blade’s edge. One cut would kill like poison. Hervor had claimed her share of lives from mere nicks.
Her own blood trickled down beside her eye, and she had to wipe it away with the back of her hand. A hairsbreadth closer and that big fuck with the axe would have split her skull. As it was, he’d ruined her helm.
Over the course of the summer, Haki’s fleet had raided throughout the Morimarusa, preying on Reidgotaland and islands nigh to Nidavellir. No man stood long against the runeblade Hervor bore. Tyrfing always claimed a life when drawn. Such was its curse.
With a sniff, Hervor rose from the stream, then wiped the blade dry. The runeblade would never rust and needed no sharpening, but still she thought it best to treat it with respect. It was, after all, her father’s legacy. She saw to it first. Tonight, she’d deal with the gash above her brow.
Bodies littered the shore downstream. The men had resisted. Fools. After seeing their men cut to pieces, the women and children had surrendered. They now knelt in the bloody muck that had become the village grounds.
King Haki himself tromped amongst them, inspecting his new slaves. Raiding into Njarar had been bold, like to start a war even. But then, King Otwin’s best days were long behind him now, and few would want to challenge Haki’s might. He was collecting champions from among the North Realms, and Hervor was more than proud to count herself among them.
“Hervard,” Haki said as she drew nigh. The king knew the truth about her sex, of course. Her grandfather was a jarl under Haki, after all, and she had gone to Haki’s service with his blessing. Still, he let her have her disguise. Men were more like to fear the man wielding the runeblade than the shieldmaiden. Men were morons, of course. “Folke caught a wandering skald among these people.”
“In this little village?”
“Fled from Upsal.”
Hervor frowned. The Yngling kingdom … yes. A year in service to Haki had won her fame, wealth, a hoard to bury for her next life. It had not yet, however, brought her much closer to vengeance upon the Ynglings. Kings Yngvi and Alf—the whole fucking dynasty, in fact—had yet to pay for the death of her family. Oh, but they would. As Haki amassed champions, Hervor gathered allies, men who would follow her into battle.
Not that Haki needed to know aught of her plans. He was a means to an end. She shrugged, trying to seem unconcerned. “Why would a skald flee the court—”
“Of the most powerful kingdom in Sviarland?” Haki finished. “Because those fool brothers have gone and killed each other, just like their parents.” He chuckled. “Fought over Yngvi’s wife, the skald says.”
Now Hervor faltered, her mouth hanging open. That was not h
ow she’d expected this to go. “Wha …” She shut her mouth. Well, fuck. She couldn’t have vengeance on two dead kings.
Haki chuckled again, then moved on to inspect a slave woman, turning her chin this way and that. “This is why brothers ought to have different kingdoms. Some things are best not shared.” He pinched the slave woman’s cheek. “At least until one is done with them.”
Did the king think to get a rise out of Hervor? If so, he would be disappointed. So Yngvi and Alf were dead now … her oath was to bring down the Yngling dynasty. “Who has claimed the throne?”
“The skald didn’t know. The craven fled the kingdom when the brothers’ followers set to fighting one another. Here he thought Njarar to be safer.” Haki grinned. “There’s no safe in the North Realms.”
No, and Haki was fast becoming the most infamous raider throughout. Only Dalar and Upsal truly matched his power, and Upsal was vulnerable.
“Both Yngling kings had sons, yes?” Hervor said, following the king as he headed back toward their ship.
“So I’ve heard. Probably killing one another now.”
“And while they do so, Upsal is weak.” Under Yngvi and Alf, some called Upsal the strongest of the kingdoms of Sviarland. But now …
“We think alike, Hervard. Now’s the time for a raid, even late as the summer grows. We can sail around Njarar and strike hard.”
“No.”
The king had been about to jump in a boat to row back to the longship. Now he stopped, then turned back to her. “No?”
“No, I was not thinking of a raid. I was thinking of conquest.”
Haki’s brother Hagbard lounged over the throne in Haki’s hall when Hervor and the king entered. The king scoffed at his brother but did not chide him. Perhaps Haki was right—without shared kingship, they lacked the rivalry that had brought down Yngvi and Alf.
“The scouts you requested returned not an hour ago,” Hagbard said. “They confirm what the craven skald has told you.”
That very skald—Knut—stood in the hall now. Haki had forced the man to wear a woman’s dress whenever he recited poetry, which Hagbard demanded almost nightly. Folke, one of Haki’s other champions, heckled the skald while flinging bits of grease at the fool. The oaf would tire of the game soon enough, Hervor supposed, and then the skald was like to wind up dead. Cravens deserved no better.
Haki settled into a chair at the head of the largest table. “The kings of Upsal are dead.”
“Indeed. And Ochilaik has now claimed the throne. The young sons of Yngvi have fled Upsal.”
Hervor sat to the king’s right, nodding at the other thegns as she joined them. Kare returned her nod, but Folke was too caught up with tormenting Knut. Hervor looked to Haki. “Then we ought to find it a simple matter to strike now, before he has time to consolidate his power.”
“Ah, that.” Hagbard shrugged. “Too late. He’s already hired not only Geigad but also Svipdag of Lappmarken to guard his new throne. To say naught of the other mercenaries.”
“Fuck,” Haki mumbled.
Kare snarled and spit while Folke groaned.
“It seems we are back to mere raids then,” Hagbard said.
“No,” Hervor said. Not now. Not when she’d been so close to annihilating the whole damned dynasty. “No, we can still do this.”
The king scowled. “Bring some mead!” He took a long swig of the drinking horn the moment a slave brought it, then tossed it aside. “Great as our champions may be, Hervard, few men are more famous at arms than Svipdag. Even if we took the throne, the cost in lives would make it hard to hold.”
She leaned forward, pressing on the table. She was not going to let it end like this. “Few men are so famed, true. But I know of one even more famed.”
Hagbard snorted. “Would you have us hire Tyr himself?”
“Starkad Eightarms.”
At that, everyone at the table looked to her. Even Folke broke his taunts and stared open-mouthed at her.
Finally, Haki spoke. “The man has fought for the Ynglings oft over the years.”
She shook her head. “His loyalty is to silver, same as any mercenary. And he knows me; we fought together. We were … friends.” Was that a stretch? Perhaps. They had saved each other’s lives, though, and that counted a great deal. At least she thought it did.
Haki rubbed his beard. “Silver we have aplenty after so many raids. If he will join and lead my champions, I’d gladly pay him his weight in it.”
“Let me offer him more. Twice his weight, even.” Starkad was worth it. Hervor had never seen a man faster with a blade.
Haki looked to Hagbard, who shrugged. “So be it,” the king said. “Go and find Starkad, and carry our offer to him. And do so swiftly.”
2
As winter drew closer, the mountains of Njarar became more and more inhospitable. In such perilous heights rose the castle of King Otwin, son of the long-dead Nidud, famed for his cruelty. In the town below the mountains, Starkad stood on a bridge, staring up at those mountains, torch held out to his side. Below him plunged a waterfall that might soon freeze over.
Before the rise of the Old Kingdoms, dvergar built that fortress. Decades ago, Nidud had claimed the place and the riches within and built up his petty kingdom with it. Ominous and dark, the fortress rose above the mist, a fell peak atop the mountains. Climbing such slopes, assaulting the hold, would prove a challenge even for the likes of the Aesir.
But then, Starkad could never shy away from a challenge.
Wudga sauntered up beside Starkad and leaned against the bridge rail. “If we are to do this, we ought to do so before winter settles in.”
Starkad shrugged. “As long as you are paying, we can go where you wish, when you wish.” He turned away from the rail to look at the man now beside him. Wudga had eyes so dark they seemed nigh to black. His hair was dark brown, but in the twilight, even that seemed black. He looked a man in his mid-twenties, but Starkad had known him decades ago, and Wudga had changed almost as little as Starkad himself. At least outwardly. “I have to ask though—and it matters naught, I’d aid you either way—but are your claims mere pretense to take the throne?”
Wudga scowled, a look so dark Starkad could almost have sworn it hastened the fall of night. “I do not seek the throne, nor care much for the fate of Njarar.”
“But you said you were the son of Princess Bodvild, yes? Otwin’s own nephew?”
“You have a long memory.” Wudga sniffed. “My father sends me to complete his vengeance and claim his legacy. Naught else here concerns me overmuch.”
His father. According to Wudga, he was the son of Volund himself. The legendary dark smith who had wrought vengeance upon Nidud beyond the pale of what men could imagine. Moreover, Volund had crafted a new runeblade, the only such not made by the dvergar.
And here Starkad was, about to let another of the damned things go. Let Wudga claim it, as he had let Ecgtheow do so. That loss haunted Starkad’s dreams. It sent him skittering awake as though a serpent nested down with him. He ought to have claimed the runeblade of Thule for himself instead of letting Gylfi’s thegn take it. The mistake had tormented Starkad nigh to every night since.
And he was about to repeat it.
He swallowed. Sometimes he wondered, did his dreams of finding another runeblade come from his own cursed nature, or did Odin so prompt him? In the end, it mattered little. In either case, he could not long deny his need. And yet, Wudga had hired him solely to help him claim his legacy. Starkad could not well betray such trust, nor so old a friendship.
He had … so few friends left.
With a grunt, Starkad spat over the rail into the mist above the falls. “Unless you plan to raise an army, we must rely on stealth to assassinate Otwin.”
“Indeed. I see no alternative but to—”
The bridge creaked as another crossed onto it, obscured by the mist. Starkad jerked his torch out in front of him to dispel the vapors. Night was already settling in, and most townsfolk sho
uld have locked themselves in their homes by now, justly fearing the mists.
The man striding toward them was no native, though, but a warrior, clad in chain and bearing a sword over his shoulder. One of Otwin’s soldiers. No surprise, given their proximity to the king’s castle.
Starkad reached for one of the swords on his back. Wudga too had a hand on his blade.
The approaching warrior removed his—her—helmet.
Starkad faltered. “Hervor?”
“You know her?” Wudga asked.
Starkad nodded, not quite certain what to say. He might ask what the woman was doing here. He supposed.
Hervor beat him to it. “I’ve been searching for you the better part of a moon.”
“Why?”
She glanced around, then drew very nigh to his side. “I have work for you.”
Now he snorted and shook his head. “Even did I not have a prior engagement, you could not afford me.”
“King Haki can.” She looked to Wudga. “You trust this man?”
Starkad shrugged. “Wudga, I will join you in the lodge soon. Give us a moment.”
The other man frowned and with it, the shadows seemed to grow deeper. Damned unnerving, that, and aught Starkad had remembered about him long winters back. Finally, Wudga nodded, then strode back the way Hervor had come.
“It’s good to see you,” she said.
Starkad nodded. Still uncertain what to say. What did she mean by that, anyway? A man could never trust a woman. Ogn had taught him that and taught him so well he was never like to forget.
Though … Hervor had fought by his side and fought damned well. So … maybe he could trust her a little. At least in battle. “I … what is this about King Haki?”
“Haki of Ostergotland.”
“I know who he is. I mean, what work does he offer?”
Hervor looked around again, looking over the edge of the falls. Did it remind her of going over those falls in Thule? Did she fear that? “This place looks not unlike the realm of Hel.”