by Matt Larkin
Hervor doubled over, right hand on her knee, the other holding her runeblade limp. She looked up after a moment. “How did you find me?” she asked the giant. “How did you …”
Höfund spat some blood. He’d taken a slash to the face somewhere back there. “Been chasing you since I got your message all begging for help. Ain’t been easy, neither. Come to this place and here I’m thinking I’d done wandered back into Jotunheim.” Jotunheim? Hel’s tits. The man was from there? Was he part jotunn? “Reckon you’re damn lucky those villagers in Kalevala knew where you was headed.”
Wudga frowned, glanced back in the direction of the dale. “We cannot linger here. The hiidet will pursue us, even in daylight. The sun doesn’t shine bright enough here to drive them underground. Once night falls again, they’ll attack in force.”
Pretty much what Ecgtheow had expected. Which meant, he supposed he still might be having that heroic last stand in a few hours.
23
Starkad jerked awake, suddenly aware of grass pressed hard against his face. He’d … been having a nightmare. An awful vision of … something. He felt weak, dizzy. Couldn’t see well out of one eye and not at all out of the other.
“Gods,” he mumbled.
A wind howled overhead, tangling his hair and tugging at his clothes. Must’ve been what woke him. He sat in a grassy meadow that stretched off in all directions, though rolling hills prevented him from seeing too far.
The tops of those hills were barren, weather-beaten, no doubt, and stripped of aught save rocks. Around them, though, a few trees dotted the countryside. No mist. No snows. Where the fuck was he?
He pushed himself to his feet, then swayed, unsteady and more than a bit woozy. Maybe he needed something to eat. A wash … and a whole barrel of mead.
Still swaying, he stumbled off toward one of the hills. He should be able to get a better lay of the land from atop it. The wind just kept roaring around him, almost enough to push him over. It would be worse up there by the rocks, but it still seemed his best shot at orienting himself.
As he drew nigh, though, the sound of rushing water reached him even over the unending gale. Water might mean fish, maybe people. It definitely meant a place to get a drink and clean himself up. He followed the sound around the base of the hill, and further to a stream. The waters flowed faster and faster as he followed them.
Until they ended in a giant waterfall that pitched off into open air. Starkad gaped. He stood on land, but that land seemed to be soaring through the sky. A sky that went on forever, save for other floating islands drifting around in it.
Dozens of falls pitched water from the islands endlessly, many pouring into rumbling storms beneath. Far below him—impossible to judge distance like this—a spiraling storm seemed to stretch for miles. A tempest big enough to swallow entire kingdoms.
Vertigo seized him as he looked down, sent the world spinning. Starkad backed away from the edge, pitched over backwards, and landed on his arse.
He was in the sky.
He was in the fucking sky.
And below him was only more sky. And above him. Just open air … in all directions. The land a tiny afterthought, and himself an insect upon it.
“What the …?” He couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t think. The scope of the world he found himself in defied his mind’s grasp. “I …”
A flood of nightmare visions flashed before his eyes. An instant of drowning and burning and tortures without end, all compressed into a moment. Starkad gasped, pressed his palms to his face, and crawled along the ground.
Another cascade of images rushed through his mind, nonsensical and horrifying.
Where was he? Why was this happening?
He … Ogn?
You must find whatever spirit holds your soul here and confront it.
Afzal? How was the Serklander here?
An eagle cried above, circling over him. Eagle … why the bird?
Confront it.
A spirit—a vaettr was tormenting him. And Afzal wanted him to confront it, to overcome it. Where was Ogn? Could she help him?
Again, the eagle’s cry tore him from his musings. Starkad stared at the bird, which banked low, then soared off, back around the hill.
As good a direction as any—and far better than walking straight off the edge of the island. Starkad heaved himself up and trotted after the bird, eager to be as far from that vertigo-inspiring ledge as possible.
The eagle flew on, beyond the hills and over another meadow. Starkad panted, fatigued from chasing after it. Much more so than he ought to have been. His legs ached with a fire. His lungs burned. And he still couldn’t quite see properly, like everything was viewed through a faint haze, a piece of glass that wasn’t completely clean.
Still trying to catch his breath, he pushed on into the meadow. A black-haired woman was there, holding the hand of a child, maybe five winters behind him. The woman turned, smiled at him.
“Starkad!” Hervor said. “There you are! We’ve been waiting all day, you know. Go on, Vikar, embrace your father.”
The child scampered toward him. “Father!” The boy threw his arms around Starkad’s legs and nigh bowled him over.
Awkwardly, Starkad patted him on the back of his head. His … son? Of course. His son with Hervor: Vikar. A smile cracked his face, and he knelt, properly embracing the boy. “I had some things to take care of. But I’m here now. Here for both of you.”
Hervor smiled again, rolled her eyes and chuckled. “Can’t really stay vexed at you when you talk thus, now can I?”
“I’d hope not.” He was laughing himself. Gods, when was the last time he was this happy? He couldn’t even remember. Shit, he had a hard time remembering aught before this moment. Maybe because none of it mattered. Right now, he had all he’d ever need.
“Are we gonna make a bonfire tonight?” Vikar asked. “Are we gonna roast rabbits?”
Starkad nodded. “Of course we are. I just … just have to catch them.”
Oh … wait. He shouldn’t go. He shouldn’t leave …
He turned from the pair of them and started for the nearby woods. “Let me check the snares. I’ll be back in an hour at the most.”
“Best be,” Hervor said, “or I’m coming looking for you.”
No. No, he should stay here. Why was he walking away? That wasn’t what he wanted to do.
“Starkad?”
He turned back.
A bird the size of a man screeched overhead, its enormous shadow looming over Hervor. The creature swooped down on Hervor. Only it wasn’t a bird, though it had bird-like wings and talons. It had the head and breasts of a woman, twisted in a mask of grotesque rage. Its talons latched onto Vikar’s shoulders, punching through flesh and spraying blood on Hervor.
The shieldmaiden bellowed and punched at the monster but had no weapons.
Nor did Starkad, though he was already running at the creature screaming. Vikar wailed, the bloodcurdling shriek of a child in agony.
A single beat of the creature’s massive wings carried it aloft, high over Starkad’s head. “No! Wait!”
The creature cast him a single, hate-filled glance, then swooped high over him, in the direction he’d come from. Starkad scrambled after it at a dead run, desperately chasing after its receding form. No matter how hard he pushed himself, still the flying monster easily outdistanced him.
It disappeared behind a hill, and Starkad bellowed, blundering on after it. Vikar! Vikar! His son!
Perhaps then, live the lives of three men … and find victory. But not peace. Never peace … never hope, never to sire children.
The words came unbidden to his mind, a memory almost lost. Almost buried.
No. It wasn’t real. He refused to accept it. Roaring in rage, Starkad pushed harder, racing after the flying monster.
Never to sire children …
Lies! That was not his life. His life was there, in the sky, bleeding out in the talons of the monster.
The flying cre
ature turned about, flapping around over the open sky. Taunting him.
Starkad staggered to a halt at the very edge of the island, teeth grit and panting, chest heaving. He roared defiance at the monster holding his son. Roared until his throat was raw. Until his roar became a pitiful, wailing sob.
“Give him back!”
Vikar turned his face toward Starkad with agonizing slowness. His cheeks had turned to ash. His flesh began rapidly corroding away.
“Vikar!”
Never to sire children …
A heavy gust swept over the monster. Starkad’s son’s body exploded into dust and billowed away in long, soul-crushing spirals, carried out over the eternal sky.
All coherent thought broke inside Starkad’s mind. A terrible emptiness settled in.
Naught remained for him now. All had been taken by the dark.
He stared into the swirling tempest below. Naught but emptiness remained.
And he stepped off the island’s edge.
Faster and faster he fell, until wind threatened to rip his clothes clean off his body. Until he passed into the storm below. A gale caught him and hurled him around in spiraling arcs. The winds battered him. Their roar deafened him.
Hail and ice particles stung his face. Lightning coursed before him, giving him a brief scent of burnt air, until the gale flung him far from that spot.
The elements beat and pummeled him, tore him to pieces.
But he cared naught. Let the wind carry him where it would.
24
From Ajatar’s dale, they had pressed on. Hours more, until Hervor had finally let everyone stop. The crew had fallen into a fitful sleep, barely able to manage anyone on watch. A few hours of that, and they had to be on the move again. Couldn’t afford to let the hiidet catch up. Besides, Starkad couldn’t afford any delay.
And for days it went on like that, sleeping a few scant hours here and there. Until she felt she was walking in a dream. Like all of this had become some extended nightmare. Her eyes burned. Her feet were blistered and weeping blood inside her boots. Her wounds sapped what little strength might have otherwise remained to her.
Hardly anyone spoke at all. Fatigue tightened its grip around all of them. Even Wudga—who sometimes seemed more than human—appeared to have grown clumsy in his steps. As if each movement took a momentous effort of will. Hervor knew the feeling all too well.
The shaman trudged along beside her now.
“How much farther?” she rasped.
He paused, looked up at the sky. A hint of stars peeked out behind a small gap in the rumbling storm clouds. “Not far now. We’re nigh to the edge of Loude, Loviatar’s kingdom. Once we cross through, we’ll face the workings of her Art.”
Odin’s stones. In case they hadn’t faced enough hardships with the hiidet. Hervor shook her head. “Then let’s get it over with.”
A few more hours they walked, and the mist ahead of her seemed to thicken, almost refusing to part before her torch. Hervor pressed forward, felt like the very air pushed back against her. Her ears popped and her head fogged up.
She turned to ask Pakkanen if he’d felt it—the shaman had vanished into the mist.
Hervor spun. No sign of anyone else. “Höfund?” She backed up. “Wudga? Ecgtheow?”
Oh, troll shit.
She twisted around again, waving the torch. Couldn’t even say which way she was going anymore. It was like she’d blundered into another world. Loude, no doubt.
And then the mist broke away before her, parted and thinned clearer than she’d seen since coming into Pohjola. Beyond it lay a village, a few dozen huts by the look of it. The sky had turned pale green. The land beneath her seemed to twist and writhe like it was in pain. Thorns twice her size sprouted from the ground, bent around in crooked shapes that almost looked like men.
Hervor put a hand on Tyrfing’s hilt. “Höfund!”
Moaning sounded from behind her and she spun. A hint of a face seemed to press against the air as if from the undersize of a sheet. Many such faces, wailing on the wind. Pushing into the world and then vanishing without any sign they’d been there.
“Odin’s stones …”
Pulse pounding, Hervor advanced into the village, torch out before her. Hurt to hold it in her right hand, but she needed to keep her left free to draw Tyrfing. Odin alone knew what was going on in this place.
She stepped around a hut and faltered, gaping at the massive husk of a tree. She’d been so focused on the twisted village before, she’d barely noticed it towering above her, higher than any king’s hall. Or maybe it hadn’t been there a moment ago. Dozens of corpses hung from its branches, upside down.
The bodies swayed ever so slightly in the breeze. Turned, slowly. As they came around, their hollow eye sockets seemed to stare at her. Accuse her. Because they knew. All her crimes—the murders, the lies, the betrayals.
They knew them all.
And they called her to join them in the boughs. To take her rightful place alongside them, beyond the gates of Hel.
Hervor’s feet started forward of their own accord. She knew where she belonged. There was no denying it. Urd had caught up with her at last.
The sky grew darker with each step she took.
Blue lightning cracked through the air.
Her feet kept plodding forward toward the tree of death. The dead called her. They welcomed her into their ranks.
Her heartbeat sounded in her ears like a drum. A drum whose rhythm had begun to slow. The time between each beat grew longer. Longer. Until soon, it would cease all together.
And still she walked forward.
The shadows coalesced before the tree. Seemed to form into a man, though not one of flesh. A cluster of twisted branches jutted from his back as he strode from the tree, arcing around him like the limbs of a spider. A mask of wood obscured his face and chitinous armor encased his legs, leaving bare only a scarred chest and abdomen from which more clawing branches jutted.
The manifested shadow growled at her in some foreign tongue, the guttural words reverberating inside her skull. As if on command, her legs gave out, and she fell to her knees. The torch slipped from her grasp. Her arms spread wide. Welcoming the end.
From behind itself, the tree warrior pulled a branch. The rod extended to become a sword, nigh as tall as she was, held in both of its hands as it stalked forward. The ground trembled in its wake. Its words beat down against her brain. Sapped all that remained of her will.
The end beckoned.
A roar sounded behind her. Distant. Far away. Meaningless next to the deafening cacophony of death’s words.
For it was death that trod toward her, charging now. Sword raised.
Hervor tilted her head back, exposed her neck. Drew her final breath.
The sword descended.
Another blade halted its descent, the clang of metal on metal shattered the chorus in her mind and sent Hervor pitching over backward, suddenly in control of herself once more. Ecgtheow jumped over her prone form, swinging his blade down at the tree creature.
It parried. Hissed, its branches shuddering like snakes about to strike. Hervor jerked Tyrfing free of its sheath and thrust upward, through the creature’s exposed abdomen.
The monster faltered, its blade falling limp to one side.
With a roar, Ecgtheow chopped into its neck. Black blood exploded out of the creature. Even as its corpse fell, though, it crumbled into ash and burnt up before Hervor’s eyes.
Ecgtheow heaved, panting, shaking his head. “What the fuck?”
Hervor had no idea. She climbed to her feet, edging away from him. “Where are the others?”
“Can’t rightly say. I was alone until I spotted you.”
She swallowed. “Some kind of illusion … Maybe they’re here, we just all wandered in a daze.”
“Right, well, you’re welcome. Not that you overmuch deserve the saving. Just that I suppose Starkad’s best chance is with you alive.”
A resounding end
orsement if she ever heard one. Ecgtheow clearly wasn’t going to let this go, was he? The Arrow’s Point had gotten to him, got him all turned around against her. And now he wasn’t listening to aught she said on the matter. But if he kept bringing this up, sooner or later it would get back to Starkad.
And that she could not allow. No matter if she owed Ecgtheow … no matter what, she couldn’t let Starkad find out what she’d done to his friend Orvar. And that meant Ecgtheow couldn’t make it back to tell him.
The thought soured her stomach. He’d just saved her life. But then again, he’d made it clear he’d turn on her as soon as Loviatar was dead. Which made him a fool—if he intended to betray her, he ought to have done without the warning.
“We have to find the others,” she said.
“Indeed.” He spat, and stalked away, forcing her to follow or risk being left alone again. That thought did not much appeal.
Beyond the tree, a sea of spikes rose up in the middle of the village. Thorns like the ones she’d seen before, except these had impaled corpses. Flayed corpses, their blood oozing down the giant spikes. A few of the dead sputtered, coughed, flailed, as if somehow yet alive against all rational possibility.
It wasn’t real.
Hervor shut her eyes tight, shook her head.
Maybe none of this was real. Please, Odin, let none of it be real.
She opened her eyes, but the thorns and the moaning corpses lingered.
“Why is the sky green?” Ecgtheow asked.
As if that was the biggest fucking question about this hideous land. But indeed, even the vestiges of mist that wafted in had taken on a luminous green tinge. The very earth seemed to pulsate with every step she took.
The world itself wanted to reject this reality almost as much as Hervor did.
“Just keep moving,” she mumbled. Given the damage to her voice, he probably couldn’t have made out her words.
Nevertheless, he did press forward, following around a winding path between the impaled corpses.