Runeblade Saga Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  And but a few hours later, Gylaug’s ship made port at a small town in Kalevala. To Ecgtheow’s eyes, it looked not much unlike a seaside town in Sviarland. At least until they drew up close, and he caught a glimpse of the people.

  Mostly blond-haired, and clad in bright reds and blues, vibrant shades that looked like they were arrayed for a festival instead of work. And still, these people set about helping tie off the ship.

  They spoke the North tongue with a strange accent, seeming to overemphasize the vowels and draw out their words a bit too long. Still far better than South Realmers, he supposed.

  When they were tied off, Gylaug shouted to some of the crew to trade for supplies. “Brandt is in charge while I’m away. I come back, the ship best still be where I left it. Kustaa, Latham, you’re with us.”

  The two men he’d called out joined him at the gangplank and followed him down onto the docks. Hervor chased after him and Ecgtheow followed, glaring at her back. Leading them all into the gates of Hel, no doubt about that.

  Still, he owed Starkad. That meant taking any help he could get to save the man.

  At the edge of the town proper, Hervor pulled up short, staring at a man sitting on a crate, just under the eave of a warehouse. Though he looked familiar, Ecgtheow couldn’t place him.

  “Wudga?” Hervor asked.

  Oh. Volund’s son. Hel’s tits.

  Ecgtheow had dared to hope he’d seen the last of Wudga. The svartalf’s bastard had nigh gotten them all killed, and even in the end he couldn’t say for certain whose side the man was on.

  Wudga slid off the crate with the grace of a dancer and quirked one of those annoying smiles men had when they thought they knew more than you did. “You asked for me.”

  Right. Too much to hope Hervor would’ve thought better of asking this one for help. Far as Ecgtheow could tell, she just had Gylfi send for anyone she’d ever met. Knowing Hervor, half the people she contacted were probably keen to kill her.

  Come to think of it, how did Wudga know they’d be here? In this particular port? Had Gylfi been able to tell them that? None of this sat overwell with Ecgtheow.

  Hervor approached Wudga, clasped his arm in her own. Just like they were old friends. Like they had not been at each other’s throats a year ago. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Maybe I owe it to Eightarms. As it is, there’s someone you need to meet.” Wudga beckoned and led their small crew into the town.

  11

  In truth, Hervor was loath to trust Volund’s son. The man was capricious, unpredictable. And she had more than half a notion he had let Volund go. No surprise really. After all, who could truly strike down their own father?

  Still, she had to believe Wudga would come to Starkad’s aid in such circumstances. They had been friends a long time, long before what happened with Jorund and the svartalfar. Finding herself in the throes of such desperation, she had to turn to any who might help. And thus, having no alternative, she had related their mission here, struggling to talk, much less to do so without letting on how much pain she was in.

  Wudga nodded. “I’d gathered much along these lines from Gylfi. Hence, I procured the help of one better suited to navigate to Pohjola.”

  “A woodsman?”

  Wudga chuckled. “A shaman. Like a male völva, more or less. Pohjola is a land closer to the Otherworlds than our own. A place of darkness, where reality is tenuous and not all is as it seems. The only hope of crossing it will come from one versed in Otherworldly lore.”

  Odin’s stones. Everything she heard about this place made her mislike it all the more.

  She cleared her throat, even that causing a fresh twinge of pain. “I met a man from here, back in Dalar. The one who sent me here on this mist-mad quest. As he hails from your own kingdom, what can you tell me of Väinämöinen?”

  Wudga cast her the briefest of glances, a hint of a smile upon his face. “What can I tell you? Little but what you must have already garnered. The man is a vagrant, a wanderer. Always seeking.”

  “Seeking what?”

  “Even had I the answer to that, I doubt you would much like to hear it. The pursuits of those steeped in the Art are best left be.”

  Hervor frowned. It wasn’t quite the answer she was looking for. In fact, she wasn’t sure it was quite an answer at all. “And how did you find yourself in Kvenland?”

  “My father was kin to the king, a relation I called upon to win myself a comfortable abode here. I don’t always linger in this town, but it suits me from time to time.”

  Indeed, he led her to a hall that would’ve suited most jarls. The place was surrounded by a hefty stone wall with a decorated wooden gate Wudga threw wide. The man stepped inside then beckoned her and the others to follow. He led them up to the house proper, and inside.

  A sizable fire pit kept the place plenty warm, comfortable enough that Hervor shrugged off her fur cloak. Though well furnished, the house had almost no decorations and showed scant signs of anyone living there.

  Save for the man sitting before the fire. His cheeks and brow bore tattoos not so very unlike those she had seen on the sorcerer with Orvar. The dark circles under his eyes looked almost too deep, as if shadows had pooled there. And the eyes themselves … They stared at her as if they could see straight down into her soul. All her crimes laid bare.

  Hervor cleared her throat, averted her eyes. Shamans and sorcerers. Hel take the lot of them.

  “Hervor,” Wudga said. “May I present Pakkanen.”

  The shaman did not rise, though from the corner of her eye, Hervor caught him incline his head. “The shieldmaiden who would dare to trek across Pohjola.”

  Now she did stare a challenge at the shaman. Yes, she would go through Pohjola. She would go wherever the fuck she had to in order to save Starkad. “Are you here to help or not?”

  “Indeed. You will need more than swords to cross the lands in the north.” Now the man did stand. He drifted around the house, pausing before each member of the small crew Hervor had assembled.

  Gylaug met his gaze for a moment before looking away. Kustaa and Latham didn’t even manage that much. Ecgtheow squirmed under the man’s relentless observation, but at least held his own.

  Finally, the shaman came back around to her. “I will serve as your guide in the dark lands. You must remain vigilant. You must heed my words. One misstep, and none of us will return from this.”

  Hervor nodded grimly. No choice remained in the matter. Starkad could afford no delay.

  12

  For an age, Starkad hung, suspended by molten chains. Until the prince must have tired of the game. For a pit opened beneath him, billowing smoke rising up out of it. The chains grew slack, dropping him into the smoky hole.

  He landed on his knees, and his arms dropped limp to his sides, scorched and useless. It felt like they’d been pulled out of their sockets. Like they ought to simply fall off.

  The chains melted away.

  Dark silhouettes stalked through the shadows. More of the smaller Fire vaettir. More tormentors. But Starkad had no strength left with which to suffer. No hope. And without hope, it became hard to even care about the torment.

  One of the creatures strode forward, a smoldering iron in its hand. It jerked the rod forward and branded it against Starkad’s chest—his clothes had long since turned to ash. The brand seared his flesh. He was screaming. The sickly-sweet stench of his own cooking skin wafted into his nostrils.

  He bucked, flailed, and tried to crawl away.

  He’d been wrong. The fresh agony was enough to motivate him.

  Another of the creatures drove a second brand into his arse cheek. Starkad jerked away, shrieking.

  Hideous laughter echoed through the cavernous hole.

  How long must this go on? Until the end of time?

  A raven cawed in the distance. The Fire vaettir jerked around, suddenly silenced. All but one disappeared back into the smoke. The last stood, turning about slowly, as if seeking the source of the
cry.

  Another caw.

  Starkad froze. The vaettr was looking away. Seeking the bird.

  Hope was its own torture.

  But then … even a small chance at freedom was one a prisoner had to take. Stifling his groans, Starkad stumbled out into the smoke. He blundered his way, unable to see much even from his remaining eye. Ash clogged his sinuses and choked him.

  His shoulder bumped into a rock wall, sending a fresh jolt of pain into the swollen joint. Trying to keep silent, he followed the wall until it opened up into a tunnel.

  Anywhere was better than here … Starkad stumbled forward, fast as he could, his aching legs not even managing a brisk walk. Had to get faster. Had to move …

  The ground gave way beneath him. He dropped into an angled shaft, banged his head against the roof, and shot downward, tumbling end over end. His shoulder slapped hard on the slope. His bare arse earned a dozen fresh cuts. The whole world spun and pitched and heaved.

  And then he was free falling through a half-lit cave. He crashed down into a pool of water, hard, sunk ten feet and hit the bottom. The cool waters stung his open wounds but offered a brief respite from the searing burns. He scrambled upward, burst through the surface, and sucked in a clean breath.

  Coughing and sputtering, he swam toward the edge of the pool. His hands slapped against rock and barely managed to pull himself up. To roll over. He lay in a shallow cavern, sunlight piercing in from a wide opening beyond the pool, stinging his eye after so long in the dark.

  Finally freed of the tortures, the pains and loss washed over him anew. Every surface of his skin was a scorched ruin. Lances of fire shot through his empty eye socket. His arms and legs felt mangled beyond all repair.

  The light … the open sky.

  Despite the pain, Starkad managed to pulled himself along the side of the pool toward the cavern’s exit. Had to get out …

  It wasn’t a pool. It was a natural spring, slightly bubbling from somewhere deep underground. A glittering stream flowed out of the cavern and down a slope. Starkad had to blink against the brightness outside.

  Thick forest grew up in all directions, verdant and almost overpowering. The sunlight shone down through gaps in the thickest canopy he’d ever seen. Not even Vanaheim—Asgard—boasted so dense and varied plant life.

  Grunting, he pulled himself alongside the stream’s bank, then collapsed there, letting the waters brush up against his cheek, one arm dangling into the stream. It cooled his aching fingers.

  Thought seemed to flee from him, offering a reprieve from the anguish that had plagued him for so long he could remember naught else.

  He lay there, faint and barely conscious, and grateful for it.

  Until the sunlight piercing the canopy turned fiery orange. Within moments, it dimmed completely, and the forest grew drenched in heavy shadows. The branches above actually seemed to stretch, to tangle with each other, obscuring the hints of starlight that might have otherwise offered faint illumination to the forest floor.

  Only the stream glittered with slight reflected light.

  Starkad pushed himself up on his hands and knees. Stared at the branches overhead. They didn’t just seem to be stretching … they were fucking growing. Edging ever tighter. Now he struggled to his feet.

  Vines stretched from one tree to the next, forming veritable walls around him. Roots tangled and crept slowly over the opening to the cave he’d come from, denying any attempt to return. All around him, branches and leaves and creepers closed in like a net.

  “Shit.”

  Grunting in pain once again, he waded into the stream—the only place half clear of greenery. The waters rose up almost to his waist, made walking an exercise in frustration.

  Roots burst from the land beside the stream. A wall of them grew across the waters themselves, creating an impassible barrier that grew denser and more tangled with each moment.

  Starkad cursed under his breath and changed direction, stumbling out of the waters and onto the bank. Only a narrow opening in the underbrush remained, but he could see no other way forward. He shambled for it, twisted his ankle and stumbled into a tree.

  Vines wrapped around the trunk broke away and crept toward his wrists.

  With a cry, he fell back, caught himself and dashed on into the rapidly closing opening. More vines lurched down from the canopy, grasping at him. Starkad dodged to the side, fleeing, almost blind in the dark wood.

  He dared a glance behind him. The forest had closed in, trapped him here. No way left but forward. He blundered ahead, ducking a low hanging branch that seemed to reach for him, and dashed around a pair of writhing trees.

  “Get the fuck away from me.” His foot caught on another root and he tumbled to the ground.

  A tree trunk before him rent in half, oozing discolored sap like pus from a wound. Something pushed against the sap, a face. A female form stepping out, lithe and naked. An ash-wife, her skin gray and almost bark-like.

  He struggled to his feet as the creature sauntered toward him, every move accentuated, sensual. Starkad tried to back away, but a cradle of roots and vines rose up behind him and caught him.

  The ash-wife reached him and pushed him down by his shoulders. She leaned in, her hair tickling his face. Her warm lips on his. Her tongue pushed into his mouth, its surface slightly rough, its taste heady and rich. Her hands cupped around his cock, massaged it until he was hard as a log. Didn’t take long.

  And then she was atop him, drawing him inside her. Warm and wet and throbbing, if a little coarse. All other thought fled from him. Dimly, he noticed flowers blooming all around them, an explosion of life. None of that mattered in the least though. All that mattered was the fervor with which the ash-wife pumped her hips. Her hands tangled in his hair. Her tongue licked along his jaw.

  Her teeth nibbled on his ear.

  She bit down. Hard.

  Starkad grunted, gasped, and tried to shove her off. Her bark arms were like iron, holding him down. Her teeth snapped through his earlobe and tore a piece out of it. Hot blood streamed down his neck as he screamed. Her fingers dug into his shoulders like nails into wood. Still she was pumping and grinding, even as his cock tried to wilt from the horrific pain.

  Vines from his seat grew up around his elbows and jerked him down. Tightened until they cut off his circulation. More of them crawled all over him. He thrashed, trying to pull free, but was held fast.

  Another vine slithered its way up the side of his throat. It pushed over his face. He turned his head aside, trying to break free. The ash-wife grabbed his chin and forced him back, squeezed his jaw until she forced a crack open. The vine kept edging closer. Its tip forced itself between his teeth, wedging into the gap where one was missing.

  It started crawling down his throat. Its rough surface ripped at his insides, edging deeper and deeper, cutting off his screams.

  Another vine writhed beneath him. It wriggled its way between his arse cheeks and then began to climb up his arse. Starkad thrashed, writhed, bucked. Tried to wail at the gruesome violation. The vines just kept crawling deeper inside him, like they intended to meet in the middle.

  Roots dragged him deeper into their grasp until only his face remained exposed.

  He knew tears ran from his eyes. He had no care left for shame.

  No care for aught, save a desperate, futile prayer.

  To die.

  13

  The straps cut into Ecgtheow’s shoulders as he dragged the hunk of bear meat behind him. More like than not, Kustaa was enjoying pulling the other half of the beast almost as much as Ecgtheow was this one.

  Hard to say for certain, though, given Kustaa rarely spoke two words, and never in the same sentence. The man’s face was a mishmash of scars that made him look like he’d dived head-first into a briar patch. A man with that many scars was either a poor fighter, or a vicious one. Given Kustaa seemed more than alive and had arms the size of a mammoth’s legs, Ecgtheow figured the pirate fell into the latter category.
>
  The two of them lagged behind the rest of the crew, heaving and huffing, pulling everyone’s night meal along. Wudga had downed the bear—man was always wandering off on his own, but oft came back with a fresh kill—and claimed it only right someone else ought to do the hard work of hauling the carcass. And Kustaa and Ecgtheow were the biggest and strongest, Ecgtheow had to admit.

  Didn’t make pulling the meat over miles of woodland and roots and hills and such any more appealing.

  Forests of evergreens covered the north reaches of Kalevala. Ecgtheow supposed they’d be making way into Pohjola soon enough, not that he expected any clear-marked boundaries. Just that, despite the summer, already they’d felt the bitter winds out of the north. Even caught a few flurries of snow last night. Could hardly call that a good omen, snow in summer.

  No, he didn’t suppose this journey was going to end well. Time was, he’d have welcomed the adventure. Thule had more than half cleared him of that way of thinking. Dealing with svartalfar and draugar and so forth back in Sviarland had put paid to what little remained of the notion.

  Skalds might make some damn fine poems over those who slew creatures from the Otherworlds. Well and good, he supposed, except that those same creatures wound up doing most of the slaying from what he’d seen.

  “There’s a clearing up ahead,” Pakkanen called out. “We should break here for the night.” Better words Ecgtheow had never heard, nor was like to again, he supposed. “We may reach Pohjola tomorrow.” See—and there was some worse words just waiting for him.

  “Guess we can finally put these damn things down,” he said to Kustaa.

  The scarred pirate looked in his direction. Grunted like a dog. And kept on pulling.

  Pretty much his response to everything.

  Wudga stepped out from behind a tree, giving Ecgtheow a start. Maybe the man had chosen to remain human instead of going into the dark like his father—Ecgtheow had heard Starkad talk like that. Still, something remained more than a bit unnatural about Wudga. He made no noise when he walked. Like a fucking vaettr, creeping around in the night. Just wasn’t right.