by Matt Larkin
“Name it. I will bring you silver or gold or aught else you desire, King. Give her back her life.”
“Oh.” Gylfi chuckled. “Even if my rituals work … I cannot say she will be all she was. But regardless, I know what it is you seek in distant lands.”
Starkad froze. No. Not that.
“And you will swear your oath to me … that the next runeblade you retrieve shall fall into my keeping.”
No. No! “Ecgtheow already brought you the runeblade of Thule!”
Gylfi shrugged. “And for the moment, it serves me to let him hold it. Though I might add, it was merely lost in Thule, not forged there.”
“I don’t care! The runeblade is mine, old man!” Starkad’s hands started to rise to his swords. He forced his fists to close. To drop down. Gylfi was not his enemy. “It is mine.”
“If you truly wish me to work the Art on your behalf, you must be willing to sacrifice aught you hold dear. And even then … I offer no guarantees.”
Starkad spit into a snow pile. This was not … he could not …
He had to have it.
He fucking had to have it.
Damn it. And Hel damn Odin, if the Ás had truly made Starkad into this.
He wanted to give Gylfi his oath. He wanted to … but his mouth would not work. It refused, even for Hervor, it refused to let him give up such wealth. “I …”
“You must say the words.”
And take a blade through his own gut in the process. No viler torture could befall him.
“I …” The words wouldn’t fucking come. No matter how hard he tried. He could not surrender such a treasure. Not again.
Gylfi nodded. “I rather thought not, Starkad. Hundreds of men and women died this day. We could not save them all … and what makes one more deserving than another? You and I … we have greater purposes, uses to which the Ás king holds for us.”
And fuck Odin, too.
“I … swear it! I swear the blade is yours. Save her!”
The king raised his bushy eyebrows. Finally, he nodded. “You surprise me. So be it, Starkad. I will do as best I can … and we shall pay a price for it, all of us. I hope your … friend … is worth it.”
She was … though Starkad did not relish her suffering under the Art. As he had himself, so long ago …
13
Twenty-Two Years Ago
The dead were piled up in Herthiof’s hall. Blood drenched the floor, the tables, the walls. Blood and guts and shit all mixed together to fill the place with a stench that almost overpowered Starkad. He limped through the carnage, favoring his left leg after a lucky bastard had slashed his thigh.
“King Harald is avenged,” Vikar said.
Starkad snorted. Yes, he imagined so. Herthiof was dead, as was one of his sons and many of his thegns. Some thirty men had died this night, not counting the seven Vikar had lost.
The rest of the men had set about looting, pillaging, some moving on to the village. Outside, screams rang out, as men burned and murdered and raped their way through Herthiof’s villagers.
Vikar wiped his mouth. “You hear them shouting about trolls and vaettir?”
Starkad nodded. A surprise attack at night would do that to men, make them think something out of the mist was coming for them. Very little amusing about that though. “So … back to Agder.”
Vikar turned about, still seeming to revel in the destruction. It had been a glorious battle, Starkad had to admit. A challenge worthy of song. The aftermath, though …
A man behind them coughed, choking on his own blood. One of their own warriors, though Starkad didn’t even know his name.
“Starkad,” Vikar said after a moment. “Herthiof was king of Hordaland.”
“And?”
“And also of Hardanger.”
Huh. Starkad had not known that. Another petty kingdom already fallen to their now dead foe. He shrugged. “So there will be lands ripe for plunder for a few moons, yes.”
“Plunder … or conquest. I have taken Herthiof’s kingdom—why should I not add it to my own, as he intended to do to Agder?”
Starkad groaned, then wiped sweat from his brow. “How far do you intend to reach, little brother?”
“All of southern Nidavellir, perhaps. Think of it … Healfdene has united most of Reidgotaland. Why should I not accomplish the same here?”
“To prove to Odin and Tyr that they were wrong about you?” As if it might undo their long banishment. As if the apples would not still be denied to the both of them because Vikar could not follow orders.
“I don’t have to prove troll shit to them! I will build my own empire here in the frozen north.”
“The dvergar—”
Vikar scoffed and waved that away. “Will get more tribute than ever before and find themselves well sated.”
Starkad nodded. Well, there never was any swaying his brother once he’d set his mind. “If you do this … Herthiof’s brother will surely come to claim what he believes his due.”
“And will you fight for me, Starkad?”
Starkad snorted. “Did you really have to ask?”
The wars went on and on.
And they won, more oft than not. Starkad did as Vikar asked, championed him time and again. They fought Geirthiof, brother of Herthiof, and Starkad slew him. They claimed Telemark and the uplands. They fought Herthiof’s son Fridthjof and Starkad’s handpicked crew defeated him as well, forced him to surrender all his lands.
And the moons passed, as the south of Nidavellir fell into Vikar’s hands.
Some, like the pirate King Gudlög, bowed willingly and offered tribute. Others Starkad put to the sword.
It suited Starkad well enough, he supposed. For as Vikar’s fame spread, Starkad’s spread faster. Men said he was so fast with a blade it was like fighting four different men. And thus, he fastened the name Eightarms.
All of it, Vikar took as his due.
And after so long, finally, they sailed home. Exhausted and on the cusp of a winter that seemed poised to be more brutal than any Starkad remembered.
And then the winds had broken.
And for nigh to a moon, they had found themselves becalmed and with too few men left alive to man the oars.
Starkad leaned over the gunwale, staring out into the mist. Beyond, the mountains of Nidavellir rose high. Beneath those, the dvergar dwelt. And they had heard of Vikar’s many conquests and had demanded higher and higher tributes. But to them, Vikar offered no argument. What they asked, he paid.
No man wanted to cross the vaettir.
Bones clattered upon the deck once again, as the völva made another throw. They had brought the woman to assure their victories. To help them foresee the will of the gods—and these people largely took to worshipping the Aesir, whose own fame spread like wildfire. Starkad did not bother to correct them. They would not have listened.
Finally, he stalked over to the völva. “Tell me, witch. When will the winds return?”
The woman looked up with haunted eyes. “There are … unbelievers amongst the army.”
Starkad barely contained his chuckle. Unbelievers, yes, and he was one of them. How would this woman react to hear that Starkad himself was born among the Aesir, that none of them had been gods before they took Vanaheim? That Odin’s power came … from a piece of a fruit?
A fruit—golden treasure more valuable any dug from beneath Midgard. Starkad dreamed of them, sometimes, the apples.
“You’re saying the Aesir stole our winds because not all of us believe in them?”
She shrugged. “That I cannot say. But they will not help us unless we make a sacrifice in their honor.”
By now, several other crewmen had gathered, Vikar included. The king scowled at his wise woman, until Starkad half expected him to sacrifice her, though no man would ever dare harm a völva. “Odin is doing this to us, then?”
A warrior groaned, and several others muttered.
“Well,” Vikar said. “We cannot well march the
army home by land through these mountains. Least of all with winter approaching.”
“We must try the land,” Starkad said. “We cannot winter here.”
“No. We both know Odin is a right bastard. If he wants something from us, he’ll have it, or we’ll suffer twice over until we grant it.”
Starkad folded his arms. He’d never told Vikar that Odin had pled with him to abandon his brother. He had, however, mentioned the king’s request that they go to Gylfi. A request neither of them had honored.
“Besides,” Vikar said after a moment. “Storms could crop up any day now. We don’t make it home soon, we may not make it home at all. So … how are we to decide it?”
“By lots,” the völva said. “Each man will draw a rune, and I will hold one duplicate.”
Starkad groaned. “You will leave our lives to chance?”
Vikar shook his head. “No, brother. I must leave them to urd.”
Vikar must have thought himself doing right by his kingdom. Maybe he even wanted to placate Odin.
Chance, urd, or Odin’s machinations—it was Vikar who drew the cursed rune.
So … had the völva known? Had Odin? Or worse yet, had the king of the Aesir created this situation to punish Starkad?
“So be it, then,” Vikar said. Starkad’s brother was staring out at the sea. “We must make land on those shores. The völva says I must hang, as Odin once hung himself.”
The tale of Odin hanging from Yggdrasil and returning from the dead sounded like fancy to Starkad, though Tyr swore it was all true. In any event, Vikar would not return from such an experience.
“Hold off on this mist-madness,” Starkad pled. “Await the morning, at least. One more night … then, if there is no wind … then …”
Vikar gripped the gunwale. “Suppose another man had drawn the unlucky lot, brother? Would I not then demand he face his urd? Can I ask less of my people than I will give myself?”
“You are not just one of the men. You are king. Your queen awaits you, thick with child. Do you not wish to see her again?”
Vikar spat into the sea. “Of course I do. But if I look upon her again, I must do so without shame.”
“Wait. Just until the morn. I beseech you.”
And at last, Vikar nodded.
The oars rowed themselves, ferrying the tiny boat through the mist, carrying Starkad and Tyr. No moon graced the night and but few stars pierced the darkness. Tyr’s face was shrouded, only the hint of his beard, his chin visible. But Starkad knew him.
“Where are we bound?” Starkad asked.
“To the Thing.” Tyr spread his hands … wasn’t there something wrong with his right hand? It looked fine now.
“Am I to be judged?”
“We are all of us, always to be judged.”
“By …”
“… By the living and the dead. Always by the dead.” Tyr’s voice sounded off, scratchy and coarser even than usual.
On and on the boat drifted, propelled by unseen hands. And then it scraped up on ice, banked upon a small island in the midst of the empty sea.
Starkad rose.
Tyr was gone … had not the man been with him?
Swallowing—for he could not deny the compulsion to walk forward—he left the boat and climbed the shore.
Upon a hill sat eleven chairs, a twelfth set amongst and above them. In each chair sat a shrouded figure, hands lit with etheric blue flame. Faces concealed.
“Where am I?” Starkad asked, finding his feet had carried him to the circle’s center.
“Perhaps you gaze upon the thrones of fate.” The speaker was in the high chair, and Starkad knew that voice.
“Odin?”
Another sitter spoke, this time to Starkad’s left. “So concerned with Odin … and yet you think to defy the will of Asgard?”
The ground trembled beneath Starkad’s feet. Rocks tumbled down the hill. A crack rent the land separating him from Odin, sent Starkad stumbling back onto his arse.
This crack spread, bubbling darkness seeping from it. And swirling until it became a maelstrom of chaos and shadow. Wind tugged at Starkad’s clothes, his boots, his … soul. Pulled them closer and closer, with each passing moment.
“What …?”
“Perhaps then,” Odin said, “to defy the thrones of fate you might dive into the abyss of the Roil.”
“What abyss? What the fuck is the Roil? Release me!”
Odin stood now, strode to the very edge of the maelstrom, though its winds ruffled his clothing not at all. “It is the darkness beyond the dark, waiting to devour body, mind, and soul. It waits, hungry. Eternal.”
“You’re not real! This is not real!”
All the figures had stood now. Their eyes gleamed in the darkness, luminous green, angry. Judging.
Odin shook his head, his face still concealed. “Reality is more tenuous than you might imagine. And while I fight to preserve our fragile world, you deny me … but I am not given to wanton cruelty … and might, beseeched by a father, be convinced to bestow upon the son a gift.” Odin pressed his hand down into the maelstrom, and the shadows rent apart. They turned to dust and drifted up into the sky, vanishing into the blackness above.
“F-father? You mean Tyr?”
“You are forever denied the apple you so desired … and yet, I cannot ignore the pleas he makes in my ear. Let you live, keep your youth, and grace this dying world as we do.”
After several breaths to steady himself, Starkad rose. He’d be damned before he met Odin or anyone else lying on his arse on the ground. Even if this was a dream.
“You will grant me an apple?”
“It is too late for that. But I can yet offer you three lifetimes of man. I can call upon the darkness and grant to you years beyond the reckoning of men. And too, you will find great wealth, carry mighty weapons, and be ever victorious in battle. And you will … be my sword in the world of men.”
Starkad had thought his prize lost forever. But if he could not have an apple … to have all Odin had promised … was it possible? Long life and wealth and glory?
“What must I do?”
One of the men threw back his hood to reveal Tyr’s face. “Honor.” The man’s eye sockets were empty pools of blackness.
Another stood, this time revealing Starkad’s mother’s face, her eyes too missing. “Sacrifice.”
A final figure strode toward him. This one dropped his cowl to reveal Vikar’s face. “Blood. Of the one who cost you everything.”
“You must complete the sacrifice,” Starkad said, as he and Vikar stood watching the dawn. “But let it be a mere gesture to placate the gods we defied.”
Vikar turned away from the sun to look at Starkad. “How so?”
“A simple noose of calf intestines tied to a mere twig. Let the völva perform the ritual, you pretend to die … and then we might all sail from here.”
His half-brother clapped him on the arm. “I hope you are right, though I find myself doubting we can so easily appease Odin.”
Nevertheless, Vikar rowed them ashore himself. Starkad, two thegns, and the völva, all dour. While aboard the ship, the men watched the king going to his mock death. Even knowing it not real, they feared. They feared the wrath of Odin for the deceit, perhaps, or feared more to lose the beloved ruler who had led them to victory after victory.
Ashore, Starkad was the first out of the boat. “I must find a calf or goat or something else. We need the intestines for the … sacrifice.”
Vikar nodded. “Do not take long, brother.”
Starkad flinched at the word. Brother? Half-brother, and though he’d loved Vikar dearly … surely his brother knew what had to happen. Urd had been declared … Odin must be appeased. Vikar himself had said so, had accepted his role in it. He’d been planning to go willingly before Starkad had talked him down yesterday.
And now …
That dream ran through Starkad’s mind, over and over. Ceaseless and undeniable.
The rope w
as waiting, where the dreams had said it would be. When Starkad hefted it up, it became slick and slippery—a calf’s intestine. As Odin had promised.
Vikar knew. He must know. He had accepted this.
One way or another, Odin would have his due … and this way, Starkad might claim all he’d forsaken in order to join Vikar these past years. He might …
Be damned.
He blew out a long breath. This had to happen.
It had to.
Odin was offering him something close to immortality. Offering the next best thing to the prize Starkad had been denied because of Vikar. Been denied, so Starkad’s little brother could become a king.
As Starkad returned to camp, he found Vikar standing atop a rotting stump. A tiny branch overhung this, flimsy and leafless in the winter.
Starkad flung the intestines at the feet of a thegn, who then tied it over the branch. With a glance at Starkad—and he nodded, damn him!—Vikar tied a noose and set it round his neck.
“Vikar …” Starkad started to say.
His brother stepped off the stump. And it crumbled to dust beneath him. The flimsy branch thickened, twisting and growing, shooting out like a spear. And the calf’s guts became a rope. The noose jerked tight around Vikar’s throat.
His eyes latched onto Starkad’s.
Had he known?
Had he known and gone anyway?
The men stood in shock as their glorious leader died. As their dreams of a united Nidavellir died with him.
And then came the shouts of kinslayer. Of betrayal. Of murder.
The blood sacrifice Odin had demanded.
Vikar’s thegns drew their blades, cursing Starkad.
And as Starkad killed the two thegns, he knew—Odin had called for their deaths as well.
14
Every breath brought fresh pain. Agony that lanced through her lungs. It cut through her throat. It sent tiny bolts of lightning coursing up and down her arm, her shoulder, her side. It hurt so much she wanted to close her eyes and cease to breathe.