Runeblade Saga Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  The song-crafter’s eyes glazed over and it took a moment before the man even seemed to come around again. When he did, when he focused on Odin, his visage revealed a satisfying hint of fear.

  “Your first mistake,” Odin said, then paused to catch his breath. “Your first mistake was using your Art against me. The second mistake was not killing me when you had the chance.” Odin squeezed a little harder. Väinämöinen had wrapped his hands around Odin’s wrist, tugging on it. He might as well have been trying to bend iron with his bare hands. “I wonder, friend. Do you think I am like to make that same mistake? To let you live after so accosting me? Or perhaps I ought to simply tear your tongue from your mouth and leave you forever mourning the loss.”

  Väinämöinen raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  Maybe Odin ought to crush his throat, here and now. If he let the man speak again, he risked another galdr ensnaring him. Still, Väinämöinen needed to sing to use his Art, so far as Odin could tell.

  So Odin squeezed his grip until he felt Väinämöinen’s neck begin to buckle. “Not good for your voice, I imagine. Consider that, before you utter one single note, song-crafter.”

  Eyes wide, Väinämöinen waved his hands in acknowledgment.

  Odin released him, and the Kvenlander fell to his knees, gasping for air and seized by a fit of coughing. Odin’s sympathies were limited.

  Väinämöinen sucked in several breaths, coughing after each no doubt painful inhalation.

  Odin knelt down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. Then squeezed until the song-crafter yelped. “There is terrible beauty in your Art. Power, unlike aught that I have known before. But I find … when face-to-face with a known enemy … there is something to be said for having the strength of a snow bear. And the rage of one.”

  The song-crafter coughed, nodded, still raising a hand. “I am …” He sucked in another breath. “Not your enemy.”

  “Surely you cannot claim to be my friend.”

  “Sometimes it is needful to take actions even friends mislike.”

  Odin shrugged. “Maybe that’s why not all friendships last.”

  “Perhaps … but an alliance … of mutual benefit.”

  “Oh.” Odin sniffed. “But you stole from me a rather precious commodity. You took … time. Time neither I nor the world could afford for me to sit idle. In truth, I know not even how long you held me enthralled.”

  “But a few moons.”

  Odin groaned. As in more than one moon. And here he had dared hope it less than that. Maybe he ought to count himself lucky the song-crafter had not held him bound for several winters.

  “You came to me seeking galdr,” Väinämöinen said. “I can yet give you that which you seek. Songs to protect against arrows or swords or storms. Songs to ward you against fire or water. Against ice or cold …”

  Odin grimaced. Such secrets would be worth a great deal. But then … “I offered you riches for your knowledge and you attacked me.”

  “Yes, but I do not crave silver from your hoard, nor lands you would dole out. A price was offered, and a price was taken.”

  The price … “My absence was your price. You wanted to do something you knew I would interfere with. What have you done, song-crafter? What have you wrought?”

  Väinämöinen grinned now, so cocksure Odin considered cracking him across the jaw. A few lost teeth might serve as a reminder of who he was dealing with. “Naught which permanently impedes any of your machinations. You must decide … whether your lost pride and your inconvenience are worth surrendering the chance at greater power. Faced with such a choice, where will you turn? How much is revenge worth?”

  A question Odin had asked himself before now. No answer ever seemed sufficient. But Odin had already sacrificed far more than pride to secure his ultimate ends. No price truly seemed too high to pay when weighed against the very survival of mankind. Now, he leaned in close to Väinämöinen’s face. “Teach me your songs. Show me the secrets, and I may yet count you among my allies. Believe me, song-crafter—you do not wish to be counted among my enemies.”

  Once again, the song-crafter smiled.

  Author’s Ramblings

  The word “nightmare” comes from the old word “mare” (or “mara” in Norse and Old German). A mare was a night spirit or demon that visited frightening dreams on people. There are numerous other words for similar entities—alps or hags or kikimora. In fact, something along those lines exists in most folklores and mythologies for the simple reason that nightmares and sleep paralysis (also believed to be caused by maras) are found the world over.

  Often, these creatures carry perverse sexual connotations and may be tied erotic dreams. That is, a mara is similar to or the same as a succubus or incubus. In modern fantasy, those sex demons have become erotic or comical in their renderings, but traditionally they were truly feared phenomenon believed to essentially rape their victims. A succubus would steal the seed of a man, pass it on to an incubus, who would then use it to impregnate a woman. The child of such a perverse union then became a cambion (a demon child in human form).

  In Days of Endless Night, Starkad calls Ogn his mara, thinking she haunts him, but not realizing he had literally created a vengeful ghost waiting to get back at him. It seemed inevitable then, that he would eventually have to face the consequences of his mistakes. This led me to question what form, exactly, those nightmares would need to take and how they would be distinct.

  Fairly early on, I settled on Ogn dragging Starkad along a nightmare tour of the Spirit Realm. By having him pass through different worlds, I hoped to make each dream sequence feel unique, while still retaining the essential horror and confusion of an endless nightmare.

  I have always taken the tact that the supernatural here (in my Eschaton Cycle works like this one) is something to be dreaded. I think the danger of some fantasy is in making the supernatural fantastical in the truest sense of the word. I mean, that can be entertaining. It can be fun.

  But you also risk losing the essence of how our ancestors actually felt about trolls or jotunnar or ghosts. Or mara. The thing is, these creatures were genuinely dreaded. People believed repeated visits from a succubus or mara would drain the victim’s life away.

  The world was a harsh place with large parts of it unknown and unknowable. And then you tack onto that the invisible realms of supernatural creatures. They weren’t cuddly. They weren’t things people went out and slayed. Or had tea with.

  Actually that brings me to the hiidet (i.e. kobolds, i.e. goblins). Hopefully those came off in a light different than typical fantasy.

  As always, when writing these things, to tell the truth about them, it becomes necessary for me to take it to places that make me uncomfortable. It made writing this volume a particular challenge, in much the same way Days of Bloody Thrones had been.

  Days of Fading Dreams also features characters and settings from the Finnish epic Kalevala, such as Väinämöinen. I believe I mentioned in earlier works that the Ragnarok Era draws primary inspiration from Norse and Finnish sources. Most of the series thus far has focused on Norse sources, so it was exciting and refreshing for me to be able to finally give some hint of the things going on in Kvenland.

  Väinämöinen himself is very similar to Odin, enough so that the two myths almost certainly influenced one another. Enough, even, that I had to give consideration to whether they would actually be the same person in my works. I do that, sometimes, merging characters or similar concepts to create a single, richer portrayal of the subject. In this case, though, I felt the interaction between the two would prove interesting enough to justify them being different people.

  As always, I hope you liked the book.

  Big thanks to Juhi and Regina for help and support, and to my cover designer.

  Thank you for reading,

  Matt

  P.S. Reviews are super important, especially to small presses like mine. Without reviews, small presses cannot get ads. It takes only a si
ngle line or two to make that difference. So if you liked this, please leave a review where you bought it!

  Want to talk about the book? I’d love to hear from you. You can reach me at: matt@mattlarkinbooks.com

  Days of Broken Oaths

  Prologue

  A deep melancholy had settled upon Holmgard’s people. It filled the air as Odin passed among them, disguised as an old man leaning upon a walking stick—hardly an affection, in truth, weary as he was. Despite the mist and the cold and the threat of war, in most towns, children played, craftsmen hawked their wares, and men and shieldmaidens boasted, wrestled, and drank.

  Here, though, the stillness had settled upon the town like a weight, a stone pressing upon Odin’s chest that made his steps feel heavy and slow as he approached Rollaugr’s hall. Soon, Odin’s throne would be complete and he would need tend to a great many tasks. This one, he had let fester long enough, like a rotting wound in his side.

  For decades he had ignored the Miklagardians, thought them of even less consequence to his plans than the Serklanders. But they had begun to spread, and, more troubling were the revelations he’d uncovered about the source of their power. He needed something they had and, more, he needed to check their expansion so he could afford to focus his attention elsewhere.

  The solution might well cost Odin several pieces he rather valued, but then, a piece one was unwilling to sacrifice had its utility greatly diminished. If his designs succeeded, though, he might well weaken the Miklagardians while managing to bring the last runeblade back to the North Realms in the process. A hefty chance, considering his visions were yet imperfect, and what he did foresee hinted at a dark urd for all involved.

  But then, his visions had always hinted at a dark urd for poor Starkad.

  And Odin had no more time in which to let caution guide his decisions.

  The king’s men showed Odin into Rollaugr’s hall, the once glorious abode of Sigrlami, now seeming nigh to empty of thegns and warriors. The king himself did not sit upon his throne, but rather paced before the tables where some few gathered warriors sat. One, a woman, seemed a varulf, if Odin’s instincts did not deceive him.

  Among the Aesir, varulfur and berserkir had once held places of importance, but in Sviarland, and thus Holmgard, the creatures were rare, and oft considered more monster than human.

  Also at the table sat a big man, large enough he might well have had jotunn blood. Rollaugr had collected allies almost as odd as Odin’s own.

  Rollaugr looked up at him, a frown creasing his brows, though it faded slightly in his moment of recognition. “Atrith? By Odin’s spear, old man, you return after a great many winters. I had thought you gone forever.”

  Odin quirked a smile, always amused to hear others swear in his name, oft to his face, considering he so rarely revealed his true identity. “Not just yet.”

  Rollaugr waved in acknowledgement. “Perhaps I ought to have known. You come only when the hour grows dark. And I cannot imagine it growing much darker than this.” He looked to one of the men sitting on the benches. “Some of my advisors even suggest we ought to withdraw from these lands entirely, return to the homes of our ancestors in Sviarland. I might consider it, though word of Gylfi’s death means I cannot imagine we are like to find peace there either.”

  Odin frowned. If the Holmgarders abandoned this foothold in Bjarmaland, either the Miklagardians or the jotunnar would claim the whole region within a few years. Then the winner would no doubt be pressing in on Kvenland and Sviarland, neither of which Odin could afford to lose as yet. “If you run from your foes now, men will call you craven, and you shall find no shelter in Sviarland. Least of all in this time of chaos when the kings war amongst themselves.”

  The varulf sniffed the air, eyeing Odin oddly. The problem with her kind was that his glamour didn’t really disguise his scent. Fortunately, as far as he knew, this particular varulf had never seen him as Odin or anyone else other than Atrith. Maybe she’d catch a hint he was more than he appeared, but she was not like to be able to uncover the truth. Finally, she growled. “We need to press the offensive, sack Kaunos.”

  Rollaugr cast a withering gaze her way. “Even if such a foolhardy plan succeeded, it would cost us the better part of the warriors we yet have. Shall we send an invitation to Hymir or other jotunn lords? Ask them if they’d like to rule our land?”

  Odin banged his walking stick on the floor, drawing all eyes. “Perhaps, my king, the solution lies not in more men, but in fewer.”

  “I do not follow you, old friend.”

  “A small crew, sent not merely to Kaunos, but to Miklagard itself when summer breaks.”

  Now Rollaugr scoffed. “And do what? Sue for peace?”

  The varulf woman rose. “Kill Tanna …”

  Odin nodded. “Kill the lord who troubles you and thus send a message to the remaining Patriarchs. Tales say Tanna wields one of the lost runeblades of the Old Kingdoms. Defeat him despite this, claim the blade, and even Miklagard will be forced to take pause at Holmgard’s power.”

  Rollaugr frowned at the varulf. “Your boldness will get you killed, Vebiorg. Whom am I to send upon such a mission?”

  Odin opened his mouth to suggest Starkad—for he had few other pieces free at the moment, and Starkad was rather good at killing.

  Before he could speak, the big man beat him to it. “Reckon Starkad Eightarms and Hervor Witchslayer could pull that off. I seen them do worse and live through it.”

  Interesting. So this big man had met Starkad. It was almost too perfect. Now, Odin need not even nudge Rollaugr in the right direction.

  Rollaugr grunted. “And you believe they’d come if you asked them?”

  “Reckon they would. Best I leave for Sviarland right quick though. They ain’t always easy to find.”

  Ah. Well, a small nudge then. “I imagine I know where to find Eightarms,” Odin said. “And yes, best you hurry. Summer is not so very far off now.”

  Rollaugr nodded at the big man, who rose and headed off. The king moved to Odin’s side, put an arm around his shoulders, and guided him away from the others. Out of earshot of any save perhaps that varulf. “If this plan fails, Tanna will come after us harder than ever. We will pay a price in blood and our kingdom will fall.”

  If the plan failed, Midgard would lose more than one small, dying kingdom on the edge of Bjarmaland. They’d be one step closer to losing Ragnarok.

  But if they did naught, that future seemed certain.

  Some gambits were worth risking losing a piece.

  Part I

  Eleventh Moon

  Year 31, Age of the Aesir

  1

  The Black Sea wasn’t black—not exactly—but the waters were dark, and with the mist, more ominous than Hervor would’ve liked. Aught at all could’ve lurked beneath this sea. Serpents or worse, maybe. Hard to dismiss any of it as fancy anymore.

  Not after what she’d seen in Pohjola.

  Their foreign ship cut through the waters, a fair wind carrying them ever closer to Miklagard. The city loomed in the distance, barely visible through the vapors.

  Squinting, Hervor could pick out domed spires and great arches and other strange constructions like naught she’d ever laid eyes on. And the closer they drew, the more intimidating those sights became. Like the South Realmers had built a city on a scale none since the Old Kingdoms had dared, if even them. Those outer walls rose up twenty, thirty feet easily, and Odin alone knew how thick.

  Starkad’s hand fell on her shoulder. “This place is little like aught you’ve known before.”

  Of that she had no doubt. Coming here might’ve been a mistake, but Starkad would not pass up this runeblade. Maybe even the last runeblade, he’d confided, though Hervor had no idea how he knew that. Either way, even if Rollaugr hadn’t offered such a fortune to do this, Starkad would’ve come. And that meant Hervor would’ve come too.

  In her absence, though, who knew what vileness Orvar-Oddr would wreak upon Sviarland? Upon thos
e she cared for. The draug had tormented her without end. Coming here meant leaving him free to do so for any number of moons more. But she couldn’t tell Starkad that. Couldn’t tell anyone, save maybe Höfund, who stood gaping dumbly at the approaching port.

  “It’s magnificent,” the half-jotunn mumbled. “Ain’t never imagined so many people all clustered up tight like that. Gotta wonder how they keep from tripping over each other.”

  She frowned and cast a glance back at the rest of Starkad’s crew. Afrid Stonekicker stood a few feet from her, not even trying to hide her gaping at the approaching sight. Vebiorg was scowling like they sailed toward the gates of Hel itself. Who even knew what the others were thinking?

  The ship itself was out of Kaunos, and her people were posing as merchants come to sell furs, with the captain and his sailors none the wiser as to their true purpose. Starkad and his men had loaded up crates of wolf pelts and snow bear skins all hunted from around Bjarmaland. A good enough plan to get in the city—assuming the port inspectors didn’t take objection to the numerous weapons they bore.

  Baruch assured them those inspectors would turn a blind eye to just about aught, provided Starkad handed over some silver coins.

  Sure enough, as their ship docked at a pier, some official in black robes came bustling over, flanked by a pair of bodyguards. He strode on board the moment the crew had put down the gangplank. Immediately, he began spewing forth a stream of unintelligible foreign words. Was there a singular South Realmer tongue like Northern? Or did Miklagard and Valland have different languages?

  She hadn’t bothered to ask and it seemed pointless to pose the question now.