by Matt Larkin
Damn it.
Left with no other choice, he wrapped cloak and blanket both about his shoulders and settled down into the snows. He’d never get a fire going, so he’d have to rely on torches to keep the mist—and the worst of the cold—at bay.
It would be a long night.
The first rays of dawn broke through the mist, searing Starkad awake.
The dreams had been worse this night, though he’d once thought them better when Ogn was nigh. Perhaps he had lost her trail. Perhaps his mind punished him for losing her.
Muscles aching, he rose. His back cracked, his neck creaked. A thick layer of rime had crusted over his blankets and broke away as he stood.
Starkad sucked down a bitter, painful breath of the chilled air.
The torch must have burned out as he slept. Lucky mist-madness or deathchill hadn’t taken him. He groaned, dug out another torch, and fumbled to light it with frozen fingers. The flint tumbled out of his numb grasp.
“Damn it.”
He snatched up the thing and struck the steel a few more times before managing a spark to light the torch. The oil-soaked rag flared to life a moment later. Starkad sniffed and rubbed his face. His cheeks burned with the cold, even beneath his beard.
Caught out overnight on a slope of Nidavellir, most men would have died. Well, Starkad was not most men. And he was going to get his woman back.
The wind and snows had half-buried the tracks. Now, he had to move more slowly. Deliberately. He couldn’t lose the tracks … nor could he afford to lose the daylight.
Another night like the last did not much appeal, assuming he managed to live through it again at all.
A long time he wandered the mountain, twice having to double back to find the tracks.
Around the edge of the next slope, a frozen waterfall plummeted into a gorge. Beautiful and glittering through the mist. Beyond it, barely visible beneath the layers of snow and the thick covering of mist, rose a rugged fortress. A dverg outpost?
Torch in hand, Starkad made his way past the falls and down to the fortress. It was blocky, as he imagined dverg design must be, but large. Rimmed by a parapet that had crumbled at one corner. Ice crusted over the better part of it, running down the parapet and beyond, halfway to where the snowdrift buried the foundations. The whole thing had been carved from blocks larger on a side than Starkad was tall.
Well, damn. This place seemed like something drawn from Niflheim, not a dverg ruin at all. To the side, only half visible from here, it seemed a portcullis sealed the main entrance.
As he drew nigh, the gate creaked, drawn up into the recesses of the fortress.
Well then.
Starkad planted the torch in the snow and drew both swords. And waited.
A man trod around the corner … only it was not a man. It stood over seven feet tall, with sharp, angular features. Rugged muscles. And too much scraggly hair. Was that … a jotunn?
Starkad balked, struggling not to back away. Tyr claimed to have fought one of these legendary creatures, but still, Starkad had doubted him. They were supposed to be banished beyond the Midgard Wall, into Jotunheim. And here, now, one strode toward him.
“What … do you wish here, little man?” The jotunn spoke in accented Northern, its voice like rocks grating on one another.
“Where is Ogn?”
The jotunn glanced back at the fortress.
And there she was, standing upon the parapets, watching. This thing’s prisoner …
Well, Hel could have the jotunn, then.
“Jotunn. I challenge you to a holmgang for the woman.”
“Starkad!” Ogn shouted from above. “Do not do this! Hergrimr will kill you!”
Oh, but it was already done. And he was not leaving here without her.
The jotunn slowly shook his head. “Human … you are a fool.”
“And you are a craven!” Starkad spat back.
Now the jotunn snarled. “Then I accept. And we shall fight at the falls below, at dusk.”
Starkad nodded.
Let it be done.
23
A small party had the best chance of sneaking into Sigar’s fortress, killing him, and escaping undetected. Not so unlike what they’d done in Njarar. Save that, back then, Hervor had had Starkad beside her. Well, now she had Folke and Kare, champions of Haki like herself. Plus a pair of shieldmaidens she trusted, Gyda and Inkeri.
She’d even revealed her true gender to them all. It was too hard to conceal it now, over the long trek. Especially with one arm only half working.
Folke had looked at her with dumb shock on his face.
Kare had asked her to lay with him.
And the shieldmaidens … they were harder to read, at first. Later though, on the road, Gyda had said she wished she’d tried it, hiding her sex. Hervor didn’t much know what to tell the woman.
And now here they were in the marshlands of Skane, the five of them, all sneaking about. It was almost like her days as a bandit with Red-Eye’s Boys, save that these men and women had a hint more honor. Or they’d have called it that … they’d only raze and pillage and rape the villages their king called enemy. But to the villagers, Hervor imagined it all seemed about the same, bandit or raider.
And she had reason not to dwell on any of it.
Sigar was an imbecile to have executed Hagbard, no matter what the man had done. Whatever befell the people here, the blame for it lay at their jarl’s feet. So then.
“So all those days we were raiding,” Folke said. “Back then, right?”
Hervor glanced at him. “Yes?”
“And when we sacked Upsal and killed Ochilaik … you were a woman then too?”
Hervor faltered in her steps, exchanged a look of bewilderment with Gyda. “Yes, Folke. More-or-less have been a woman since birth.”
Gyda snickered. “Usually how it works, my friend.”
They pushed lightly through the woods, drawing ever closer to the fortress. Beyond the wood’s edge, the fortress came into view. The jarl didn’t have his warriors patrolling, but he did have a few watching the town, protecting it from raiders or aught else. And his fortress, well, of course, that had a watch up on the wooden palisade surrounding it.
“So you … you never had a cock.”
Now Gyda sputtered with laughter.
When she could finally keep a straight face, Hervor looked to Folke. “As it happens, I’ve had several. I just didn’t keep any of them.”
He balked. “W-why not?”
“Their owners were attached to them.”
Now all the others snickered, and Inkeri slapped Folke on the back of the head. “Looking to fasten the name Rockhead, are you?”
“Folke Rockhead,” Hervor said. “I like it.”
“Folke Rockhead,” Kare repeated. “The man who needed it explained that women don’t have cocks.”
Hervor raised a hand to quiet them. “Fall back to that clearing we saw a bit ago. I don’t want your mockery to alert the men up there.”
“How do you plan to get inside?” Gyda asked.
“We wait for nightfall.”
She had until then to come up with a plan.
Much as Hervor had despised climbing up to Otwin’s castle in the dark, the strategy had worked in Njarar and she saw no reason it could not work now. If they could find a section of the fortress not well patrolled, they might grapple over the side, climb the wall, and be inside before anyone knew they had come.
If all went well.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, she rose. Best get this done.
“We don’t know just how many men Sigar has in there with him,” she said. “So don’t be seen until we have no choice. Kill those you must, but keep it quiet.”
Easy advice to give. Harder to follow.
All her practice at fighting left-handed had gotten her back up to the level of a boy handling a real sword for the first time. If Sigar was protected by children, she’d stand a chance. So long as there weren’t too many of the littl
e bastards.
“Who should lead the assault?” Gyda asked.
Odin’s stones. That ought to have fallen to Hervor. Easy. She’d earned it a dozen times over. But now … now she’d only get them all discovered. Then killed. Dying like a fool was not like to impress the Aesir, now was it?
“Kare will lead.” The man was slightly less brawny than Folke, perhaps, but he had at least half a brain. That counted for more on this kind of mission.
Kare nodded grimly, then turned to go.
A wolf’s howl welcomed in the rising moon. Another answered it. And another. A chorus of howls that just did not stop.
“What in the gates of Hel?” Gyda said.
“Sounds like wolves,” Folke offered.
A lot of wolves, very close. Closer than they ought to have drawn to a group of humans. She exchanged a look with Gyda.
“There’s tales,” the shieldmaiden said. “Stories of varulfur in the woods of Skane.”
“Varulfur?” Kare said. “This close to a village?”
So then. Press the attack and risk being harried by wolves—of one kind or another—while trying to sneak or draw them off? Only one choice really made sense.
“Weapons.” Hervor reached to pull Tyrfing off her shoulder then stumbled as a spasm wracked her neck and arm. Couldn’t get her arm that high. All that practicing wielding the blade left-handed, but she’d slung it over the wrong shoulder out of habit. A habit she’d have to break.
Besides, she ought to know better than to draw until a foe was in sight. The blade had taught her that lesson long ago.
“Move,” she snapped. “Move back, deeper into the wood—we cannot risk discovery. Quickly!”
Kare led the way, darting amongst the trees so skillfully Hervor had trouble even tracking him. The others fell in behind him, pushing hard.
Her ankle snared on the snow-buried root. Twisted. Sent her colliding into a tree trunk.
A dusting of snow poured down overtop her. Gyda grabbed her elbow and yanked her around the tree. It had rapidly grown dark, and they’d had no torches out. Had planned to sneak up to the fortress.
Fucking mist was everywhere. Couldn’t see a damned thing.
A heavy form tromped through snow in the darkness behind her. Underbrush rustled off to her left.
Hervor pushed Gyda forward, then chased after her.
Where was it? Something was definitely after them.
Snarls and snaps rang out from all sides.
Folke pulled up short, mighty sword grasped with both hands. “Go!” he bellowed. “There’s rocks up ahead. High ground. Get up the—”
A mass of black fur and snarls flew through the air and collided with Folke. The pair of them vanished into the mist.
“Rockhead!” Gyda screamed.
Hervor now did jerk Tyrfing free. Its fiery light reflected off the mist and stung her eyes, not increasing her vision by much. “Come to me and die!”
Another flying form slammed into Gyda just to Hervor’s side. The wolf bore the shieldmaiden down and crashed into the snow, throwing up a dusting of it. Gyda shrieked and wrestled with the beast as Hervor raced over.
Bellowing her rage, Hervor thrust Tyrfing into the wolf’s hide. The blade bit deep, split flesh with ease. The wolf yelped, spun with startling agility and launched itself at Hervor. Its weight yanked her blade from her hand and sent her tumbling backward.
The creature landed atop her. Huge. Heavy as a fucking troll.
Its eyes gleamed with fell light. Its jaws snapped at her face. Hervor screamed, pushed away at it with her good arm. Tried to raise her right arm to hold it back. A haze of pain blurred her vision, even through the rush of battle rage that had seized her.
Hot saliva dripped into her eyes as the varulf snapped and snapped.
Another weight slammed down atop it. In the darkness, Hervor couldn’t see shit. Blood squirted out of the varulf. It leapt off her, flinging Gyda to the ground. The shieldmaiden pitched over to her side, hand clutched around Tyrfing’s hilt.
The varulf stalked around them. Gaze darting back and forth between its prey and the mist. Great gouges marred the beast. Wounds that would have slain man or wolf … removing any doubt that this creature was a fell mergence of both.
But then, Tyrfing would claim even this monster. It just didn’t know the poison had already seeped inside it.
Beside Hervor, Gyda gasped and spurted. She turned to the shieldmaiden. The woman gurgled up blood and fell to her knees. The wolf had torn open a ragged wound between Gyda’s shoulder and neck. Fangs had sunk into her chest, her arm. Blood was gushing from these wounds.
Fuck.
When Hervor looked back, the wolf had vanished into the mist.
Gods damn it!
She raced over to Gyda’s side and flung the shieldmaiden’s arm around her good shoulder. It meant holding Tyrfing with her right hand—which meant she couldn’t raise it above the height of her chest. But it was that or abandon the woman.
Who was already fucking dead, from wounds like that.
More screams rang out in the night.
“Kare!” Hervor bellowed.
“Over here,” the voice answered after a moment.
She followed the sound of it, racing in the dark. Tyrfing’s faint light was all she had to keep her from colliding with a tree or tripping over another godsdamned root. Her ankle still pained her from the first. Made carrying Gyda even more difficult.
“Come on, woman,” Hervor muttered. “Come on.”
No answer.
And the sudden stink of shit.
Gyda’s foot snared on something, and she did naught to aid Hervor in carrying her. They both tumbled to the ground.
No.
No …
Hervor rolled the other woman over. Her eyes stared up, empty. The blood had stopped pumping from her numerous wounds.
“I …” Hervor panted. “I’m sorry.” She scrambled up. Had to keep moving.
Had to get back to Kare and hope he’d managed that high ground. Otherwise, none of them would last the night.
24
Ylva wore a crown of flowers in her hair, looking fresh as summer dew, like a creature stepped out of Alfheim. Even were she not the daughter of a jarl and thus a mighty step forward for Ecgtheow, he’d have been pleased by the match. Such a woman was like to give him strong sons and daughters, enough to make a good life for himself.
She stood on a rise just before the woodlands, above the gathered crowd, winking mischievously at him as he drew nigh. Indeed, she seemed well pleased enough with the match. Ecgtheow had always said get yourself a happy wife, or you were like to find more peace beyond the gates of Hel.
Ecgtheow returned her smile as he joined her atop that hillock. He’d already traded the bride price for the dowry, and Hrethel seemed well enough pleased, though Ecgtheow could never have made it an even trade with a jarl.
But a pleased father-in-law … that too boded well.
Ecgtheow had to blink in the afternoon light, reflecting off the mist. The day was bright, and someone claimed Sunna was smiling on the wedding, though Gylfi’s people had told men to stop invoking the Vanir for years now.
Way Ecgtheow saw it, better to have too many gods than not enough. Aesir, Vanir—new gods, old—let them all be pleased.
Shame his own father couldn’t have been here for this, though. Valkyries had come for him long winters ago … but at least Hrethel was there, nodding his approval, his wife looking more solemn by his side.
The crowd parted as an elderly woman made her way toward the hillock, blue and red paint marking her face, hair tied in wild braids. She leaned heavily on a walking stick during the climb, a wand perhaps … Ecgtheow heard the witches used wands in their Art or pretended to.
The völva’s face was almost as grim as Gull’s. Perhaps the woman had actually cared about Haki who had ruled here so recently. Still, a völva had to serve the lord of a kingdom, whoever he may be. Now, it was Jorund.
&
nbsp; He flinched when the witch pointed that stick at him.
Slowly, she turned to Ylva, pointed it at her too.
Now the bride squirmed, looking almost as uncomfortable as Ecgtheow felt.
Then the old völva banged the wand on the ground thrice and began to speak in old verse, accented in ways his distant ancestors might have spoken. Then again, who knew how men spoke during the Old Kingdoms? No one lived to say it.
It went on for long enough he found himself fighting to hold still. Just had to focus on the girl’s face, all grins and nervousness.
“In the name of the goddess Frigg, do you accept this woman?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded scratchy in his own ears.
“And you, Ylva, in Frigg’s name, will you have this man as your husband?”
“Yes.”
The völva slammed her wand onto the ground again. “Then bring forth the sacrifice!”
One of Hrethel’s men led a goat toward the völva by a rope around its neck, the animal placid and having no idea what urd now lay before it. The beast was healthy, large enough to make up the better part of tonight’s feast. It had formed a large part of the bride price he’d paid to Hrethel, after all, so he’d bought the best he’d found in all Upsal.
The völva laid a bowl beneath the goat and looked to Ecgtheow. He grabbed the animal by the horns to hold it in place. At once, it began to thrash and struggle. It may not have known what was coming, but it did not like being so manhandled. With a swift and well-practiced motion, the völva drew a knife across the animal’s throat.
In a few heartbeats, all fight went out of the goat, and it sank to its knees, slowly bleeding out while the völva invoked Frigg and other goddesses of fertility. Through her mumbling, it was hard to say, but Ecgtheow would have sworn she mentioned the name Freyja under her breath, another of the cast-down Vanir. Some ways died hard, and the witch was old enough to remember, to have worshipped the Vanir half her life.
When the goat grew still, the völva dipped two fingers into the bowl of blood and traced a thin line of it along Ecgtheow’s forehead. Then she repeated the gesture on Ylva. The witch then flicked droplets of blood over the nearest guests, blessing them all with Frigg’s bounty.