by Matt Larkin
He made his way forward. In the southern reaches of the town rose a great hall, blanketed in snow save for the tips of its spires. A hall fit for a lord or a prince, finer than most kings of these days could dream of.
So.
If the prince had come here, had brought Skofnung, this hall seemed the most likely resting place for the runeblade. After allowing another pair of ghosts to pass, Starkad snuck forward, low to the ground, until he reached the front doors. These iron gates stood ajar, allowing him plenty of room to slip inside. Instead of doing so, he crept up behind one and peered in.
In the dark hall within, another pair of ghost warriors stood at attention, enshrouded in blue flame. Bound to eternally watch this place? He looked upon the damned.
And if he went in here, they could not help but notice him.
Starkad slipped backward, then followed the side of the hall. The foundations were built of thick stones, well-cut and well-set. Up higher, though, the builders had used smaller rocks. Set between those rocks, eight or ten feet in the air, wooden lattices crisscrossed over windows almost as tall as he was. How had the wood not rotted away? Perhaps it was simply another aspect of the curse trapping the ghosts in their endless repetition of their final days.
After glancing around to ensure no one would spot him, Starkad scrambled up the wall and caught hold of one of the smaller stones. It didn’t give him much purchase, but he pulled himself up enough to grab another with his other hand. Again, and then he could get a hand onto the windowsill. Grunting, he pulled himself upward until he half-stood, pressed up against the window.
No sign of a way to open it.
Damn it.
He eased Tyrfing free of its sheath. The runeblade flickered with pale light, seeming almost aflame itself. Despite the awkward angle, he slid into the lattice. The blade cut through the wood like it was made of straw. He drew the blade around the edge of the window, carving out the entire lattice. Finally, he tossed the whole thing out into the snow.
It landed with a crunch of powder that made him cringe.
None of the ghosts were looking at him, though.
The hall was filled with unlit braziers and supported by mighty stone columns. Starkad looked around, seeking sign of the runeblade.
His heart had begun to pound so hard it was echoing into his head. Stifling a groan, he slipped through the window and dropped down inside the hall. He landed in a crouch and rose slowly, Tyrfing still gleaming in his hand.
Damn, but his head was throbbing.
Thump thump.
What was that …?
He took a few steps more, but the pounding only intensified.
Thump thump.
Oh.
THUMP THUMP!
Oh, damn it. Hervor had said the blade bore a fell curse. She only ever drew it when faced with a foe. Which meant …
THUMP THUMP!
It meant … he had to engage the ghosts.
Well then.
Starkad made his way back toward the front doors, approaching from behind the guards. He had not gone far when one turned to him, its gaze no doubt drawn by the pale flames flickering off of the runeblade.
So much for surprise. Starkad raced forward, blade raised. The ghost lurched around, bringing his own sword up to parry. Starkad reversed his momentum at the last instant, and the ghost moved his blade to block a blow that never fell. Instead, Starkad jerked the blade in the other direction and cleaved through the ghost’s knee.
At once, the shade flickered and vanished.
The other was on him now. Starkad ducked its attack and scrambled backward to give himself room. The ghost moved with precision and speed, more skilled and more focused than Starkad found in most warriors of the North Realms. No unbridled fury, no trying to overcome him with pure savagery. Just relentless, efficient moves like the paladins of Valland.
But then, Starkad had fought them, too.
He feinted left and spun around, catching the ghost across what should have been its face with Tyrfing. It flickered out.
Huh. At least the pounding had stopped. So Tyrfing demanded it be used against a foe, demanded it strike something. It did not seem to care whether that foe was living or dead.
Good to know—given those ghosts would probably be back in a few moments. Starkad pressed on, trotting down through the great hall.
A handful of skeletons lay scattered here and there, warriors left where they had fallen. How odd. Why would the people here have left their dead unburnt or unburied?
At the back of the hall, collapsed before the throne, rested another skeleton, this one clad in gilded armor. Only half a skull filled out its golden coif, though. By the skeleton’s side lay a rosy-gold blade engraved with runes. Starkad rushed forward to it. Here, finally. He’d found it—Skofnung. This blade he had promised to Gylfi in exchange for saving Hervor. That oath had weighed upon Starkad’s soul for far too long already.
He sheathed Tyrfing, then snatched up the other blade. It too filled him with a profound sensation of power, of strength surging through his limbs. Yes, the dvergar had wrought fine works in these blades. Fine, fell works steeped in the power of the Otherworlds. Perhaps that made the runeblades a blight against the natural order of Midgard. But too, they were the greatest treasures known to man.
And this place had become a tomb to a prince of the Old Kingdoms.
Now just rotting bones.
Starkad turned to leave.
And then he felt the heat rising behind him. He spun, backing away at once.
A figure drifted out of the shadows, passing right through the throne. This warrior was like the others, its body missing beneath its gilded mail coif, a faceless void. But different, too, radiating more darkness and engulfed in crackling flame. Not the ethereal blue fires that had lit the others, but a burning white inferno.
The entity shrieked in rage, the sound like knives through Starkad’s brain. The lattice windows throughout the hall exploded into flame. Every brazier flared to sudden life, burning hotter and brighter than any ought to have allowed.
Starkad continued to back away, Skofnung held out before him. In a few heartbeats, thick black smoke had filled the hall. It choked the air and sent him into a coughing fit.
And drifting through this smoke, the flaming shade drew closer.
“What in the … gates of Hel?” Starkad barely managed to get the words out through his fits of coughing.
He had to duck lower to try to get fresh air.
The prince’s ghost continued toward him, smoke billowing about it, keeping it half concealed. A blade of gleaming white flame shot out of its hand, forming into a sword as long as Starkad was tall.
The fire ghost surged forward with another shriek. Its blade hissed through the air.
Starkad dropped to the ground to roll under it, then scrambled backward, trying to reach the entrance.
He couldn’t see a godsdamned thing in here. Couldn’t breathe … through all the damned smoke …
A rush of heat was his only warning, and he threw himself to the side as the ghost dashed past him, swinging that flaming brand again. The blade sheared into a support column and cut through it like butter, leaving behind molten stone dripping down from where it had passed.
Flames had sprung up among the rafters.
Starkad ran for the doorway.
The ghost spoke something, some foul words in a foreign tongue. The doors shuddered and slammed inward, sealing Starkad inside.
He skidded to a stop, then spun around.
Not leaving him much of a choice, was it?
The flame ghost launched itself forward again, this time swinging low. Its speed was uncanny—but Starkad was still the faster. He had to be. He leapt over the molten sword and swung with Skofnung. The runeblade struck the ghost in the chest and sheared through golden mail.
Starkad landed in a crouch.
This ghost flickered as the others had, bellowing in fresh rage, but did not vanish.
Damn.
Not good.
He drew Tyrfing with his other hand. Getting so hard to breathe.
The flame ghost spun around, coming at him with an overhand chop. Starkad sidestepped it, and the blade tore out a mighty chunk of the ground, scouring the stone and throwing up chunks of molten rock. A bit of it struck Starkad’s arm, and he bellowed in pain as it scorched his flesh.
He barely maintained his grip on Tyrfing.
Gasping and coughing, he had no choice but to back further into the hall. There had to be a back way out of here. There had to …
The prince rushed at him again, this time swinging his blade in a wicked arc.
Starkad rolled to the side, ducked behind a column, and scrambled to his feet. Wasting no time, he ran toward the back of the hall. People must have … brought in food … somewhere …
Latticework separated the main hall from back rooms. This too was already aflame. Rather than searching for a door, Starkad leapt forward into the flaming wood. Splinters and ash crashed around him, tore his skin and clogged his throat.
He landed facedown on the stone floor beyond.
An instant later, the ghost passed through the wooden wall. It burnt away to cinders at the prince’s touch, though the ghost did not appear to smash through it.
For the space of a heartbeat, the prince had not seen him. Starkad used the moment to thrust both runeblades up into the prince’s gut. The shade flickered, shrieking, and vanished.
Starkad fell forward, landing on his elbows.
He wanted to topple over. Lay there gasping. But … no air …
He crawled along the floor. The smoke had grown so thick he couldn’t see aught. Wildly, he batted around with Skofnung until the blade struck a wall. This gave way, revealing moonlight beyond. Starkad pressed up against the wall and crawled along its base.
They had to have a back entrance. They had to …
His blade clanked against something. A hinge? Starkad felt around, caught the edge of a door, and flung it wide.
The snows just outside the burning hall had turned to mush. Starkad crawled into the muck, as far as he could manage, then collapsed, coughing and panting.
Snow crunched before him. Someone closing in. Someone … he could barely lift his head.
Hervor.
24
Around the back of the great hall, Starkad lay in a heap, making futile attempts to crawl away. With a last look around to check for ghosts, Hervor plodded over to him, grabbed him under his arms, and dragged him.
Bastard was heavy as a bull.
After dragging him several feet away, she raced back to claim the two runeblades. Tyrfing—praise Odin—and the other one as well. He’d really done it.
“There’s …” Starkad broke into a fit of coughing.
“Come on,” Hervor said. “We should get the fuck out of this valley.”
“There’s a … a wraith, I think … but on fire.”
Wait, what? Hervor faltered, staring open-mouthed at her companion. A flaming wraith? Was he jesting with her? If so, she had no mood for it. Ilona’s visions had savaged her body and mind, and the things the witch had done, had seen, they turned Hervor’s stomach.
She’d felt it.
Every pain Ilona had endured. Every agony. And every time she’d lain with Prince Seskef, it had been Hervor’s body.
She prayed to Odin, Thor, and Frigg that leaving this damned valley would put a stop to the visions. Hervor had enough fucked up memories of her own to deal with without being subjected to Ilona’s wretched life.
And now Starkad said there was a flame wraith.
“The … prince … I think …” he mumbled.
“Prince Seskef.”
Starkad pushed himself up. “What?”
“The prince who came here with Ilona was Prince Seskef of the Skjöldungar.”
“If he’s like the other ghosts, I’ve probably only driven him off for a few moments.”
Hervor took Tyrfing’s baldric off Starkad, sheathed the blade, and slung it over her shoulder. “If that’s so, it’s all the more reason to get out of here. The sun should be up soon. Will the ghost pursue us in daylight?”
Coughing, Starkad stood, swayed in place, and then shook his head. “I don’t know. A normal ghost, I would think not. This flaming abomination … who can say? I know of naught like that in any tale I’ve heard.”
Hervor drew his arm around her shoulder and helped him back around the edge of the hall. Inside that building, something shrieked so foully Hervor could not suppress the shudder that seized her.
“It’s him,” Starkad said.
“Move!” Hervor shoved him toward the outer wall surrounding the hall.
Then, without warning, a sudden lightness fell over the valley. One moment the sun was down, and the next, only mist obscured their vision, and less than before as it quickly thinned in sunlight.
Hervor breathed a sigh of relief, cast a look back at the hall, and then redoubled her steps.
Please Odin, let there be no more ghosts. Please let them cower before the light of the sun.
Indeed, they saw no ghosts as they wound their way through the empty town. “I think we got lucky,” she mumbled.
“Perhaps.”
“And too, I’m glad Godmund was not so much like his father.”
“His father?”
“Gothmundr was …” A vile blight upon Utgard. Ilona’s memories of him felt too fresh, too raw, and sent a surge of bile scorching Hervor’s throat. “Starkad. How will we get back across Jotunheim in the middle of winter?”
“One thing at a time.” He eased his arm off from her shoulders and began to walk on his own. He yet looked pale, weaker, but he was regaining his strength quickly. Maybe the runeblade in his hand had something to do with it.
“Even if Seskef cannot pursue us in daylight, he may yet seek us after we leave the valley. He does not seem the type to be easily put off.”
Starkad paused, cast a glance back at the hall. Even as Hervor looked on, the flames winked out as if they had never existed. The hall had not crumbled, had not fallen. “How much do you know about this prince, anyway?”
Hervor spit the bitter taste from her mouth. “His people were in Reidgotaland, I think. They were betrayed by the Niflungar and driven out, sought aid from others called the Lofdar—Ilona’s people. Denied that, they came here. Lost a lot of people along the way.”
Lost to beast and weather and … treachery. Some dead by Ilona’s own hand.
Did that make the bitch pyromancer more like Hervor? More similar than she wanted to dwell on?
“Ilona called herself a … something. An old name for a witch, and then a pyromancer. Said she saw visions in the flames and could control them.”
Starkad pushed on, toward the cliff they’d climbed down to reach this cursed valley. “How did the prince come to be … whatever that was?”
She thought on that a moment. “I don’t know. I didn’t see what …”
A fresh heat built behind her eyes. Hervor stumbled, fell to one knee and pressed her palms into her eye sockets. “Ahh. No, damn it! Not now …”
“Hervor!”
She waved him away, unable to forestall the images as they began to bombard her mind.
Because she knew this place from long ago. From before it was … like this.
25
No mortal kingdom could compare to Glaesisvellir. Its glittering plains of snow stretched on and on. For a fortnight, they followed the directions Gothmundr had given them. Seskef never faltered, driven as if by a fey compulsion Ilona could neither grasp nor control. The prince slept little and came to her tent less often than he had.
Another fortnight, now almost an entire moon they pressed on, until the land began to rise and fall once again, tundra giving way to foothills. More mountains may have lain in the distance, but Ilona could make naught out through the mist.
Finished with his macabre feast, the jotunn king had told them of a valley in the far south of his doma
in. One which was sheltered from the direst of the winter storms, where crops might be grown in summer. Hel’s breath seemed to have settled over Jotunheim even more direly than it had in Midgard, and Ilona could not imagine this place ever saw aught resembling summer. But the king had promised them, and now Seskef seemed to see naught else before them.
It was not the prince, but his son, Bedwigius, who tromped through the snow to her side now, as she stared into the mist and tried to catch her breath. How desperately she wanted to burn this vapor away. To let loose the vaettr within … The paltry torch in her hand was so small a thing, offering not nigh to enough comfort against cold or mist.
“How much farther, witch?” Bediwigius demanded.
Ilona favored him with a glare that might have shriveled up a full-grown man and sent him shrinking away in search of the strongest mead around.
The boy only folded his arms over his chest and returned her stare. “You know, Felman taught me the better part of all I know of the arts of war. He was the bravest of us, the champion of the Skjöldungar.”
“No one could ever dispute his bravery.” Her words came out raspy thanks to her shortness of breath. She hated that. It always made her sound weak before men she needed to dominate. Men and this damned boy who thought to talk to her like an equal. She was a seidkon and a pyromancer. Her displeasure ought to have sent the boy to his knees, begging forgiveness.
“No.” Bediwigius shrugged. “No one would. But he’s dead.” Thanks to her. The boy didn’t say it, of course, but his meaning was plain enough.
“Then let us hope his sacrifice bought us something worthwhile. Perhaps you ought to scout ahead and see if you cannot find this sheltered valley before we fall to deathchill.”
The boy grimaced, shook his head, and tromped off.
When he was well out of earshot, Ilona let loose a sigh of pent-up frustration. Had she made a mistake, leaving the Lofdar to accompany Seskef out here? She had asked herself the question oft as of late. True, Loge had threatened to strip her of her power and status. Had she remained in Kvenland, under his gaze, she might have lost everything. But she could have gone elsewhere. She’d thrown her lot in with Seskef, thinking she could help him rebuild all he had lost—and gain her own kingdom at his side.