by Matt Larkin
“We’ve seen other places more like Niflheim than this, you and I.”
She grimaced. “Yngvi and Alf are dead.”
“So I heard.” It grieved him, a little, though the brothers had been but a shadow of the greatness of their fathers, Alrik and Eirik. In any event, he owed them no special loyalty save at times when they hired him.
“Alf’s son Ochilaik has turned on his cousins and claimed the throne. Haki thinks to take it for himself and from there, perhaps to claim rulership over all Sviarland.”
Starkad scoffed at that. “I rather think Gylfi might have something to say on the matter.” Other kings might prove a threat to Haki—Siggeir Wolfsblood, perhaps—but no one could deny the influence the sorcerer King Gylfi wielded as the voice of Odin. Gylfi was the most feared king in Sviarland and with good reason.
“Gylfi grows ancient. In any event, that matters naught. First, Haki turns his sights on Upsal.”
Now Starkad shook his head and leaned against the rail. “You’d have me act against the grandson of Alrik? I was … fond of the man.” In younger days. Starkad had barely been a man back then, and already he had lost much. Alrik had given him a purpose, at least until he and Eirik had slain one another. He might not have owed the Ynglings loyalty—but he still didn’t see himself killing Alrik’s own blood without a damned good reason.
“Ochilaik is not his grandfather. Besides, Haki will pay you.”
“No.”
Hervor moved closer, until he could feel her breath on his face. “Twice your weight in silver.”
The mere sound of it stirred something in his gut. So much wealth … it would not satisfy him. He knew that. And yet … Hel, he wanted it. Always more. Starkad worked his jaw a moment. “So much?”
“Haki has grown wealthy … and has no hesitation to share his good fortune with his allies.”
Damn it.
Damn, but Alrik and Eirik were long dead. Like the past.
Like so many people Starkad had known … his mother, his—the man he once believed his father. Vikar. Bragi. Even Orvar-Oddr. So many friends lost. Naught truly lasted. “I’ll do it. First though, I must fulfill my current employment.”
Hervor grumbled something under her breath. “Which is?”
“To kill a king.”
Hervor now looked up to the fortress in the mountains, though with night fallen, Starkad could no longer make out its outline. The woman glowered a bare moment, then tapped the golden hilt of her runeblade. “Well, then. Let us be about it.”
3
A freezing wind swept over the mountain and blasted Hervor in the face, prickling her exposed skin and chilling her even beneath her layers of armor. Yes, this place seemed not so very unlike the horrors they had experienced in Thule. As with then, they moved in the night, ascending a steep path and barely able to see their own godsdamned feet.
This path ran up the side of the mountains toward Otwin’s fortress, but the walkway was narrow enough every one of them preferred to move single file. Actually, Hervor would much have preferred not to have come at all, certainly not now.
She hated moving at night.
It was mist-madness at its finest.
At best, you’d slip and break your damned ankle. At worst … Hervor paused a moment to peer over the precipice a mere foot to her left. Naught but mist and a fall into darkness.
One such fall had been more than enough for her lifetime.
Already, ice crusted the sharp rocks along the slope, as if unable to wait for the proper onset of winter. It made everything slicker, more treacherous.
Starkad led the way, followed by his employer, this Wudga, a man who seemed too fell himself. He’d already probably spent too long out in the mists. Wudga had three men with him, mercenaries, two of which he’d allowed to carry torches. No more, claiming the lights might reveal them, even through the mist.
True enough, but it hardly mattered if they died upon these slopes.
Starkad coughed and turned back to their small party. “If we continue this way, we’ll reach the main gate.”
“They’ll shoot us down before we’re halfway up,” Wudga said.
Starkad nodded, then patted the jagged rock face that flanked the path. “We are but six men …” He glanced at Hervor. “Six warriors against a small army. So the clearest path to victory seems to enter from the rear of the castle, the unguarded side from which our foes imagine no enemy might approach.”
“Wait,” Hervor said. “You want to climb the fucking cliff?”
“Unless you can fly like a valkyrie, I see no alternative.”
Hervor spat into the mist. “Every time I go anywhere with you …” She flung her pack down on the rocks, then began digging through it for the damned crampons. Last time, she wound up with these climbing spikes tearing up her back, thanks to Bragi Bluefoot. Poor old bastard. She hoped Odin had taken the skald in at Valhalla. “Doing this in darkness will get us all killed.”
Starkad grunted, then kicked at the ice with his own crampon. Without further answer, he heaved himself upward, ascending with almost frightening speed. Damn but he was strong.
Wudga followed while one of his mercenaries grumbled about having to hold a torch while climbing.
Hervor sympathized. “Go ahead and put it out, then. I mean the mist will eat our memories and feast on our souls, but your life will be easier for an hour or so.” So she sympathized a little.
With that, she kicked the rock face herself, scraping until her foot found purchase, then hefting herself upward. The ice-crusted rocks were slick. Kept trying to slip out from under her fingers. Ten feet up and her fingers felt like they’d be falling off from frostbite.
Hel damn Starkad to the wastes of Niflheim for this.
Fifty feet or so up, a rock broke away under her weight and plummeted down below.
Hervor threw herself against the cliff. Her foot skidded, her crampons threatening to pull free from their purchase.
From below, one of the mercenaries sputtered curses about the falling rock.
Panting, Hervor cast a glance up above. She couldn’t see five feet, damn it. All the light was below her.
“Starkad!”
A fell wind whipped against her.
“What?” the call came a moment later.
“We cannot see!”
Again a pause.
“I can’t exactly light a fucking torch while clinging to the cliff!” And the voice came from even farther above than before.
Well, fuck him too.
Grunting with the effort, Hervor pulled herself up again. And again. Just keep going.
Her arms ached from the effort. The cold seared her lungs with each painful breath. But she could do this.
Thule had been worse than this. This she could manage. At least there were no draugar here to—
A shriek rang from below, and the torchlight disappeared into the mist.
“Medard!” one of the mercenaries below her shouted. “Med!”
Fuck.
Hervor blinked, desperately trying to adjust her eyes to the now deeper darkness that had engulfed them. At least there had been light below them before. Now, thanks to poor dead Medard, she could not make out aught.
“Hervor!” Starkad shouted from far above. “I found a ledge. Wait and I’ll light a torch!”
Wait, he said. What other godsdamned choice did she have? Climb blindly? Odin’s stones.
Pressed up against the frozen rocks, every heartbeat seemed to stretch on forever. She had to get her breathing under control. Panic would kill you faster than aught else.
Hervor clinched her teeth. Blinked again. Once more. A hint of moonlight pierced the mist, almost unnoticeable until you found yourself with no other light.
A tiny flicker of flame sprung to life above her. Hard to judge the distance … thirty feet up? Hervor blinked again, focusing on the cliff, not the light. Staring at it would make her night vision worse. Just pull up. One hand above the next.
; Now her foot. Climb. Find her footing.
Climb.
And breathe. Steady breaths.
The remaining pair of mercenaries were still cursing below, but Hervor tried not to listen. Couldn’t afford distractions. A shadow loomed above her. The overhang of a ledge. After pulling herself up as close as possible, Hervor had to lean back, slapping the edge of the overhang with one hand. There was no way she’d be able to pull herself up at this angle, was there?
No, she’d have to come at this from the side and then—
An iron grip wrapped around her wrist and yanked her upward. Starkad caught her in his arms an instant later, then pulled her up to the ledge. The whole space was narrow, not more than five feet on a side, but it dipped back into the cliff a few feet too. A hint of shelter against the bitter, merciless wind.
The torch lay on the ground. Hervor scrambled over too it, holding her freezing fingers so close to the flame they stung. Starkad eased her away by the shoulder, then snatched up the torch and leaned over the ledge with it, shining light for those climbing below.
Well, she could hardly complain about that. She fucking wanted to, but she couldn’t rightly do so.
Instead, she crawled over as close to the wall as she could get. Wudga crouched there, not looking half so cold or miserable as she felt. Nor even over-bothered by the darkness or mist. What kind of man didn’t fear the night? But then, she’d answered that already. A mist-mad man feared naught. Was that what had happened to Wudga?
“You stare at me.”
Hervor jerked at his words. She fished around for an appropriate response, but naught came to mind.
“You think me odd, perhaps. A touch of something … Otherworldly?”
Oh Hel. Was that what was wrong with this man?
She barely stilled the urge to grasp Tyrfing’s hilt. Yes, she had seen those who had touched the Otherworlds. The Niflungar sorcerers who had once pursued her for the runeblade she stole from their island. The likes of which she hoped never to lay eyes upon again. “You’re a sorcerer.”
Wudga snorted, then spat off into the mist. “Hardly. How many true sorcerers do you think walk Midgard? How many have you ever seen?”
Two, and that was two too many. Whatever they dealt in, it was foulness and unnatural, power seeming drawn from Hel herself.
Starkad heaved another man up on the ledge. This mercenary—panting and shivering—crawled over to where Hervor and Wudga crouched. With shaking fingers, he pulled a skin from his belt and drank deeply. Hervor shook her head.
Fool.
“There’s more climbing ahead.”
He gasped, breaking away from his drink a mere moment. “I’m freezing my fucking stones off, boy.” And he took another long swig.
Hervor sneered at him. Let him drink himself stupid, then. Mead might make him warm for a moment, but it would also make him apt to slip on his climb. She just needed to make certain he was below her, not above.
Starkad helped the last of their party atop the ledge—now too crowded—then stalked over and snatched the mead skin away from the other mercenary. “Don’t talk to Hervard that way.”
Hervor snorted. “Like I need you to stand up for me.”
Starkad tossed the skin to Wudga, who stuffed it in his pack. “Well, I didn’t hear you standing up for yourself.”
Because Hervor was just as happy to let the man who spoke thus get himself killed. A response she bit back. “This is your fool plan, Starkad. Already a man is dead.”
“I did not hear you offer a better option.”
Hervor chortled at that. “I offered you a fortune to fight for King Haki. That seemed a much better plan.”
“And perhaps an oath already given means naught to you, but—”
She rose. “I know the value of an oath.” More than he could ever imagine.
For her oath, she had murdered his friend, Orvar-Oddr. For her oath, she would yet destroy the Yngling dynasty, those Starkad had once served. She would break no oaths.
Nor could she ask Starkad to do so. That was why she had come up this damned mountain. So it was time to get this task done with.
A king still needed killing.
4
Otwin’s castle lay high atop these mountains. Like his father, the king of Njarar, must have thought himself unassailable, hidden away in this dverg outpost. He was mistaken, of course. Any fortress could be breached, if a man had the courage, cunning, and speed to pull it off.
Starkad crested the top of the cliff, pausing on his knees to catch his breath. From here, the ground actually descended to the top of the castle. High windows looked up from the sloping roof, letting in the moonlight to whatever hall lay below. Smoke wafted out of those openings, no doubt from braziers below. The feast hall?
Towers flanked that part of the roof, probably guarded by archers, but they would be looking down at the path, not back into the mountains. Naturally, they’d assume the sheer cliff protected approach from any other side. A fair guess.
Most nights.
Wudga trudged over to join Starkad where he knelt. “I can almost taste the king’s blood.”
“Such talk makes you sound like a draug.”
Wudga shrugged, then glanced back at the cliff face where Hervor was just rolled up over the top. “I need you to hold off Otwin’s warriors … but the king himself is mine. I alone must finish what my father began nigh to five decades ago. I will bring an end to this entire cursed bloodline.”
Starkad rose, with a grim nod. He did not bother to point out that, as the son of Otwin’s sister, Wudga himself continued the bloodline. Perhaps he considered Volund’s blood so much the stronger as to render his other half moot. Starkad could empathize with a man who tried to deny his own parentage.
Panting, Hervor stumbled over to them. “Fuck you both … for this plan …”
Wudga looked the shieldmaiden up and down a moment like he actually considered laying with her.
It went on long enough Starkad scowled. “Come. The other two approach.”
As Hervor had predicted, Reinhard looked a bit worse for his drink, chest heaving and face flush. Not that Ewald looked so very much better off. Nor any of them, Starkad supposed.
He glanced up at the sky. The night had drawn on, and dawn lay but a few hours away. They needed to do this before anyone in that castle began to wake. That meant they had no time to rest here.
With a nod at the others, Starkad took off down the steep incline. His feet skidded on the snow, and he did not fight it. His momentum carried him toward the castle’s sloping roof as though he wore skis. As he drew nigh, a problem became apparent. There was a drop between the mountainside and the castle roof of a dozen feet. Deep in winter, the snows might have piled over and eliminated the issue.
Now, Starkad could not halt his momentum. Instead, at the edge, he jumped.
For an agonizing heartbeat, he flew through the air. Then he hit the stone roof, landed with a roll, and took a heavy impact on his shoulder. His swords clattered against the ice-crusted stonework. Starkad skidded along it, rolling back toward the mountain before he finally managed to catch himself. Less graceful and far more noisy than he might have hoped.
Through a wooden roof, they’d surely have heard him, but dverg-wrought stone … perhaps not.
Wudga landed on the roof an instant later, before Starkad had even managed his feet. Hervor and the other two came up right behind the man. Reinhard failed to jump at all, and instead pitched off and slammed hard into the roof. The man lay very still.
Hel take that imbecile. Starkad stalked over and prodded him.
Dead, his neck broken.
Damned drunkard. Now they were down two men, and they hadn’t even engaged the enemy. Wudga’s plans had not accounted for foolery on the part of his own mercenaries … could they still pull this off?
Grumbling, Starkad left the body where it lay and crept over to one of those high windows. Hervor joined him, and they peered down. The windows did indeed
overlook a feast hall, and though the room stood empty, the drop had to be twenty feet down. Why did the dvergar feel the need to build things so damned big? They themselves were shriveled wrecks of men’s bodies.
Nor was there any obvious spot on which to secure a rope up here.
Hervor pointed through the window to iron-plated rafters that supported the feast hall. “We could reach those through the other window,” she whispered. “But we’d have no means of retreat if …”
“If things turn against us?” He shrugged. He had not come here to retreat. He crept over to the window she had indicated. She was right. They could make the jump down to the rafters and then from there to the floor, hopefully without breaking any bones.
Starkad rubbed his hands together and waited until the others had drawn up behind him.
Ewald scoffed at the sight. “You’re fucking jesting with me.”
“So stay up here until summer, then,” Wudga said.
Starkad smirked. Right. They didn’t really have much choice at this point.
The window was not so very tall, forcing him to make an awkward, crouching jump. The one time the dvergar did not build large—probably wanted to minimize the risk of sunlight. Starkad leapt forward, fell, and slammed hard into the rafter. His momentum pitched him forward, and he slipped, falling again. He wrapped both hands around the beam as he fell, catching himself. There, he hung, one hand on each side of the rafter.
Not much chance of pulling himself back up. So naught to do except drop. He looked down. A dozen feet. Or more. It wouldn’t kill him, but that did not look enjoyable. But then again, he wanted adventure.
He wanted to know his limits. And surpass them.
Exhaling, Starkad released the beam and fell. He landed in a crouch, hoping to lessen the impact. It still stung his ankles, and a grunt escaped him. Slowly, he rose, drawing both swords as he did so. Above him, Hervor dropped onto the rafter, not repeating his mistake.