Runeblade Saga Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  “I have sought you long,” Odin said, approaching the song-crafter’s side before settling down beside him. “You are sometimes not so easy to find.”

  “When two wanderers pass each other by and chance to meet or chance to miss, do you see the hand of urd or but the winds of luck?” He spoke almost in rhythm as well, as though making up words to a song even while conversing. From another, Odin would have misliked it as an affectation bordering on hubris. From Väinämöinen, though, his voice was nigh to hypnotic, so crystal clear and lilting, one was tempted to close one’s eyes and become lost in the words.

  “I have thought oft of the last time we spoke.” Odin shook his head. “In my haste, my … desperation to find a way to reach Alfheim, I paid but little heed to aught else around me. Overlooking, perhaps, the gift you were given, and the aid such song-craft might offer in the coming struggle.”

  “And the vagrant returns from long wanderings, seeking that which he vainly left behind, as if all things were not altered by the passing of time. But we cannot go back to the places we have known and call them the same. The very effort of it promises bitter disappointment.”

  Odin cleared his throat. “Because the places change?” Väinämöinen stared at him in that wry, infuriating way Odin had come to associate with Loki.

  “Because we change.”

  Odin sighed. “Be that as it may, I have not come here to bandy riddles, wizard. I seek knowledge of your song-craft. Teach me of the galdr, and I will offer you riches beyond the dreams of other men.”

  “And in so offering you imagine all men seek naught but wealth. A song then, a lesson to be well heeded, for it shall not be soon repeated.”

  Odin stared at the lake. Väinämöinen seemed a difficult tutor, but then all his instructors in the Art had been. Perhaps that bespoke the difficulty of imparting the subject itself, or, perhaps, the way that subject altered the minds of those who dared delve into it.

  Beside him, the other man began to sing, his voice high and clear, echoing off the pristine hills and rolling over the waters. He sang of the birth of life, emerging from the sky and the sea. He sang of the dying of ages, and the rising of tides to swallow the ungrateful land. He sang of an era inundated by an unending ocean.

  The more he sang, the deeper Odin felt himself falling into a meditative trance. If he could but isolate the source of Väinämöinen’s power, if he could understand the verses, he might … might …

  Waters rose around Odin’s feet and pooled about his arse, chilly, nigh to freezing. He felt their icy touch, but couldn’t make himself care enough to pull away from the song.

  And Väinämöinen sang of a world drowned for its crimes and washed clean to begin anew. A hope, perhaps, that through strife the darkness might itself be held back.

  The waters had risen to Odin’s neck and held him fast like quicksand. They pulled him out into the lake and under, deep into icy submersion.

  “Forgive me, King of the Aesir. But you too have your crimes which must be washed clean. If a single hand falls upon every piece, if all the world becomes a tafl board controlled by one, then, would another player wish to join the match, he would need pry free a pawn from the one’s greedy grasp. And in the end, even the greedy player might appreciate that a game is most interesting with skilled opponents.”

  The lake wrapped around Odin and drew him down, into the sludge at its base. Some dim part of his mind expected to drown, but he found the thought hardly scared him.

  Peace was his at long last.

  Part I

  Twelfth Moon

  Year 29, Age of the Aesir

  Eight Moons After Days of Frozen Hearts

  1

  Despite being well into summer, a chill breeze swept over the plains, prickling Hervor’s skin and billowing her hair. Very soon they would reach Holmgard. Already they’d seen small outlying villages claimed by the faltering kingdom.

  Hervor had almost finished packing up the campsite, and still Starkad slumbered. The man had never been one to sleep soundly, but these days Hervor would swear to Odin that things had grown worse. Starkad moaned, thrashed from side to side on his bedroll, fitful.

  All right, then, that was about enough of that.

  Hervor knelt beside him, grabbed his shoulder and shook. “Come on now. Höfund will be back any moment.”

  Starkad jerked awake. Before Hervor could even open her mouth, his hand was around her throat. He heaved her backward, his grip strong as a bear’s. It was just an instant, and then his eyes widened and he released her.

  “I …”

  Odin’s stones. Hervor backed away, rubbed her throat. Glowered at Starkad.

  “Hervor, I … You caught me by surprise.”

  “It’s getting worse.”

  Starkad said naught. Instead, the man climbed to his feet, then wandered off away from the campsite, no doubt to take a piss.

  Hervor grumbled under her breath. The past fortnight had been about as much fun as storming the gates of Hel. Whatever had gotten into Starkad, he had clamped down about it, tighter than a troll’s arse.

  He was keeping things from her again. Despite their oaths to one another, the promises they had made in Godmund’s hall, he held back now, as he had done in the past. Every step they drew closer together, he always took one away from her as well. Was that his curse?

  Or was he just a colossal arse?

  And Hel take her, she still couldn’t tell him everything either. Some things must remain buried if they were to have a chance at happiness together.

  The man returned a moment later, face wet from the nearby stream. He shook himself, then set about helping pack without another word.

  Fine. Whatever.

  Hervor left the campfire going just in case Höfund managed to catch aught worth eating. The half jotunn had a knack for hunting down game in even the most inhospitable of climes.

  Hervor watched Starkad’s back as he worked, as he bustled about as if she hadn’t done most everything before he woke. How could things have turned out like this? Of course, she couldn’t tell him everything, but he didn’t know that. So he ought to have told her what so vexed him of late.

  Whatever beset him, it was her burden to bear as well, so long as they remained together. As they had sworn they would.

  She opened her mouth, not even sure what she wanted to say. It didn’t matter anyway. Before she could form words, Höfund came tromping down the hill toward their campsite.

  The man bore a skinned snow rabbit in one hand, a massive grin on his face. After settling by the fire, he drove the carcass onto a spit and shoved it over the flames, his smile starting to fade as he took in her and Starkad.

  Even when Höfund had cooked the rabbit, even when they had eaten, no one said aught. Until Höfund as well fell glum and melancholy.

  They had left Höfund’s father’s keep at the break of summer. Had passed through the frozen wastes of Jotunheim, and into the seemingly endless wilds of Bjarmaland. And now, finally, after long moons of travel, Holmgard drew into view.

  As towns went, it wasn’t overmuch to look at. Small, and seeming to dwindle rather than grow as the years passed by. Gylfi’s colony here was clearly faltering. Another generation, perhaps, and it would fall to the encroaching lands of the jotunn kings. Maybe Hervor’s paternal grandfather was to blame, or maybe urd. Breaches in the Midgard Wall allowed the chaos of Jotunheim to seep back into the world of men.

  That chaos preyed upon the men of Bjarmaland first. Crushed their kingdoms and took their sons and daughters as slaves.

  Long travels across Midgard and beyond left Hervor with one inescapable conclusion: the world was doomed. The forces of chaos closed in on all sides. The mists brought the merciless dead in to crush the living. Jotunnar breached the wall, claimed more and more lands as their own. And vaettir lurked on the outskirts, preying on the bodies and souls of hapless men and women.

  All that remained to Hervor now was to get what she could from life, and hope tha
t the final end came long after her time had passed.

  Starkad thrived on these adventures, craved them, maybe even needed them. But to Hervor’s mind, knowledge of what lay just beyond the lands of man did more harm than good.

  Wudga had opened Starkad’s mind to the Otherworlds with that Eitr and—though Starkad never said much of it—he’d mentioned he had some semblance of the Sight. What that meant … well, she remained yet uncertain, save that uncanny insights now seemed to guide her lover at times. And that the dreams grew ever worse.

  Looking into the Otherworlds … Damn. Small wonder Starkad had so many fucking nightmares. For all Hervor could tell, those realms were made of terror.

  Höfund gaped at the wall surrounding Holmgard. “Didn’t know humans could build that big.”

  Hervor scoffed and shook her head.

  Starkad answered before she could. “Naught special here. Even among modern men, this is but a small settlement. The ruins built by the Old Kingdoms put such constructions to shame. If you come with us, back to Sviarland, you’ll see far grander designs, if oft in ruin.”

  Höfund worked his jaw a moment, then shook his head. “Reckon I ought to have a look around human lands what’s nigh to the Midgard Wall first. Don’t know as I’m ever going back to Father’s lands, but just the same. Best to know what lies close at hand.”

  What did that mean? Was Höfund actually considering reporting back to his father about the state of Holmgard? Of all Bjarmaland? Would Godmund bring his jotunnar here, for conquest?

  In Bjarmaland, they had passed numerous petty kingdoms controlled by jotunn lords. Urd aside, Hervor would hate to see that befall Holmgard. Besides, Godmund had seemed content with his lands in Utgard.

  Either way, though, Hervor needed to return to Sviarland. More than a year had passed since she had last seen her homeland, since she had spoken to her grandfather. He would no doubt be wondering if she yet lived.

  The gate guards let them through the wall though they cast a wary eye upon Höfund. No surprise there, given the half jotunn towered over the tallest of men. Easily seven feet tall. The guards knew Starkad, and no one who knew him tried to bar his way.

  Beyond the gates she and Starkad bid Höfund farewell. Godmund’s son had been an interesting traveling companion, maybe even a friend. Part of Hervor was sorry to see him go. But they’d had this conversation before. Höfund insisted on seeing all of the world of men, one kingdom at a time, and she and Starkad had business that would not wait.

  Starkad led her toward the waterfront where Hervor heard the shouts of men loading and unloading ships, preparing to voyage across the Gandvik Sea to trade with her homeland. In the heart of summer, trade was up, but it would not last long. And they needed to be on one of those ships.

  “I’m going to try to find passage to Upsal,” Starkad said.

  Hervor grimaced. Thrice damned Upsal was the last kingdom in Sviarland she much wanted to visit. “What about Ostergotland?”

  Starkad shook his head. “I gave my oath to Gylfi. I must hand over the runeblade without any further delay. We lingered too long in Jotunheim as it is. Upsal puts us closer to Dalar.”

  It also put them in the kingdom of the godsdamned Ynglings, even if Hervor had declared her vengeance against them sated. But she could hardly tell Starkad the reason for her dislike of Upsal. And, though she mislike him, King Aun had sheltered them last year, offering naught but gracious hospitality.

  Hervor sighed. It seemed she wasn’t going home quite yet after all.

  2

  In Upsal, Ale of Reidgotaland had ousted King Aun. It ought not to have surprised Starkad. Aun had been little warlike from all Starkad had seen, and he’d heard the man had suffered defeats from even old Healfdene, Hrothgar’s father, years back, when he was but a mere jarl. Still, Aun was wise and had offered friendship to Starkad. Under other circumstances, Starkad might have sought the man out from exile and tried to help him. Maybe when his business with Gylfi was at last complete, he could yet do so.

  From Upsal, they pushed hard for Dalar and for Gylfi’s hall. Starkad misliked having an unfulfilled oath, especially to a man like Gylfi. Sorcerers touched the Otherworlds and, in so doing, made themselves something other than human.

  No doubt many would have thought much the same of Starkad himself, had they known of the dark Art Odin had called upon to make him what he was today. But then again, maybe that put Starkad in a unique position to truly understand the depths of the horrors sorcery invited. He had touched that darkness himself, had felt its clammy grasp around his throat, and had no desire to feel it once more.

  And yet, ever since Wudga had awakened the latent Sight within Starkad, he could never quite shut out the Otherworlds. Visions and dreams melded with uncanny insights and fey intuitions, and the occasional prodding from Odin. Of course, the nightmares had grown even more real in the past moon or so, leaving Starkad to wonder if the sorcerer-king was offering him a subtle reminder of his oath.

  No … Starkad did not fancy owing a debt to Gylfi.

  The sight of the sorcerer-king’s hall thus brought with it the edge of relief. The knowledge that at least one burden might soon be lifted.

  One of Gylfi’s thegns welcomed them into the hall and bade them sit and eat whilst the king entertained a foreign dignitary. The thegn led Starkad and Hervor to a long table. Soon a slave brought out venison and carrots and fresh berries—better than they had eaten since leaving Godmund’s keep in Jotunheim.

  Gylfi himself sat on his throne, shrouded in shadows and barely visible, as ever seemed his wont. Perhaps the darkness suited those who delved into the Art, but Starkad would not have put it past Gylfi to have cultivated such a reputation with care and intention. Half a sorcerer’s power probably came from the mystery and awe they surrounded themselves with and the terror they evoked in other men.

  The guest the thegn had mentioned stood before the throne, arrayed in traveling clothes rather than the pompous finery Starkad would have expected from a so-called dignitary. The man had to have been pushing forty winters based on the hints of gray in his otherwise blond hair.

  “Where’s he from?” Hervor asked a shieldmaiden across from her.

  “Kvenland.”

  “Come to talk peace or trade?”

  “Peace, he claims. Says his people want us to halt any further raids into Kvenland.”

  Hervor grunted. “And has Gylfi been raiding there?”

  The shieldmaiden snorted. “Gylfi doesn’t order many raids these days.”

  Discounting sending the expedition to Thule, of course. The cursed island had taken a great many lives. Men Starkad had called friends. Still, it had given him Hervor.

  “So,” Hervor said. “The Kvenlanders want Gylfi to influence the other kings of Sviarland, then. Interesting tactic.”

  Starkad focused on the dignitary, but it was hard to catch his words to Gylfi over the commotion in the hall, what with men boasting and drinking, and some pair of warriors wrestling on the far side the room.

  “Word comes to us you are quite the singer,” Gylfi said. “Will you grace us with some music?”

  The dignitary swept an elegant bow and turned about, taking in the whole hall. He caught the eye of many, seeming to will them to silence. One by one, the men fell still, save for the wrestling match.

  When the man at last began to sing, Starkad started. His voice was crisp and clean and somehow brought to mind the image of mountain winds sweeping down over the plains and rustling leaves and grass.

  Starkad shuddered, more moved than the cared to admit.

  When the Kvenlander sang, time seemed to fold backward, as if this man too had a hint of the Otherworlds about him.

  The singer praised the Old Kingdoms and lamented their fall, but too, blamed them for their arrogance. In trying to bulwark the realms of men against the chaos beyond, they tempted fate by calling upon the very powers they feared.

  And the result was known to all.

  And in the
twilight

  Even the Lofdar’s flame did dwindle

  And sacred works came undone

  What was wrought faltered

  And save but ash remained naught

  Yes … The Old Kingdoms destroyed one another, leaving behind naught but ruins and legends. That and a legacy of horrors spread across the world, waiting and deathless.

  As the song finished, men and women, thegns and housecarls and warriors and slaves—all stared in shocked awe at the Kvenlander, as if bespelled, their voices stolen away.

  “Astonishing talent,” Gylfi said at last. “You have a gift, song-crafter. Please, I bid you remain with us a moon or so, share your stories and your songs and partake of my hospitality. I will send messages to my fellow kings and pass on your overtures of peace.”

  The man bowed again and offered up a crooked smile, as if he’d well known what result his song would have. Then he took a seat at another table and began to drink as though he were any other guest of the hall.

  Starkad shook himself, then rose and trod forward to meet Gylfi. The king beckoned him forward until he stood but a few feet from the throne.

  “You were long away, Eightarms,” Gylfi said, his voice seeming raspy after the soaring notes the Kvenlander had hit.

  “In Jotunheim.”

  Gylfi frowned and leaned forward into the light, ever so slightly. “I would much like to hear tale of your exploits there.” Meaning information on potential threats beyond the Midgard Wall, no doubt. Starkad could little trust Gylfi—besides delving the Art, he was a pawn of Odin—and yet, he had to believe him a lesser threat than the jotunnar.