by Matt Larkin
“Everyone up,” Starkad snapped. “Move.”
How the fuck had they found them so quickly? What was going on in this city?
Baruch beckoned everyone onward, waving as the crew piled out of the apartment one by one. “This way. There’s a grate to the sewers down the alley.”
“What are sewers?” Hervor asked.
“You don’t want to know,” Baruch said. “Just move.” He led them scrambling down the next alley. Vebiorg dashed past him. “Wait!” he called. The man paused at a metal grate in the middle of the ground. Knelt and grabbed it, clearly straining to heft it up.
Höfund grabbed hold of it, yanked it up, then wrinkled his nose. “Smells like rank shit down there.”
“Accurate enough,” Baruch said. “Jump in.”
“Sure,” said Afrid. “But how about you tell us your real plan.”
Baruch shook his head and slid down the circular hole, landing below with a slight splash.
Hervor glanced at Starkad.
“Do it,” he snapped. “All of you.”
Afrid grimaced. “No, really. I think it’s probably filthy down there. I’d like to request a new option.”
Hervor slid down onto her arse and let her legs dangle. “Your other option is getting eaten.” Then she dropped down into the dark tunnel beneath.
She landed in muck up to her ankles. The stench almost bowled her over.
Baruch was ahead, had already lit a torch. The tunnel itself was arched, with holes in the upper reaches every so often, from which dribbled more streams of filth.
Odin’s stones. What possessed men to build this?
“The rain washes some of it down,” Baruch said, as if she had actually asked. “Keeps the city above from drowning in its own waste. Nicer homes have pits that drop directly in here.”
“Pits?”
“Holes where people can shit down.”
He was serious, wasn’t he?
Behind her, she heard the others dropping down into these sewers.
“Keep moving,” Starkad said. “With luck, they won’t know we’ve come down here. It’ll be hard for them to track us.”
Hervor shook her head. Mist-madness had brought her here. And now, all she wanted was a way out.
8
Three Moons Ago
The Yngling hall in Upsal sat on the edge of the Fyris Wood, uncomfortably close to marshland, really. Still, that same supposedly haunted forest had covered their approach. Her and Starkad and Lennius. Not Aun, of course. The Yngling lacked the stones to even come and watch the holmgang, much less fight it himself.
And now here they were, back in the hall of Hervor’s former enemies.
Ole was a big man, sprawled over the throne like he couldn’t be bothered to act royal. Maybe in his youth he’d been fit, but by now he’d earned a gut that bespoke too much mead. Still had arms that looked fit to snap a tree trunk in half, though.
The king had welcomed them warm enough, even offered them food from his table and mead to drink. Kind of made Starkad’s purpose here sit even less well with Hervor. She sat at the table beside Lennius while Starkad bantered with the king he’d come here to murder.
All of it a sham.
“You’ve done well for yourself,” Starkad said. “Urd favors you of late.”
Ole chuckled. “Urd is a fickle bitch, as you well know. One day she’s got her mouth around your cock, and the next you know, you're the one on your knees.”
Hervor snorted at that. Poor bastard had no idea how right he was.
Starkad scratched at his beard. “Unfortunately, that’s why I’m here.”
Ole slapped a meaty palm on his armrest. “So! Urd been mistreating you, my friend?” The king inclined his head to where Lennius sat. “Not keeping the best of company, I see, though. Does make a man wonder at your purpose here.”
Now Hervor’s lover shrugged. “I rather think it makes the purpose obvious enough.”
“Argh. Maybe it does, at that. But then, who’s to say I shouldn’t just have my men cut his head off and be done with it?”
Oh. That wasn’t good. Because if Ole was going to have Lennius killed, it seemed more like than not he might try the same with her and Starkad. Hervor shifted just a little, making sure Tyrfing was in easy reach.
Starkad cast a wary glance at her and offered the barest shake of his head. Man knew what she was thinking. “You start murdering your guests, you’re like to find yourself with fewer friends and more enemies.”
The king scoffed. “Can’t say that sounds much different than where I’m seeing myself now, friends turning against me.”
“The difference is, I’m offering you a fair fight. One on one—a holmgang. The old way. You win, you keep your honor and everyone knows you bested Aun’s champion.”
Now Ole snorted. “And if I lose, I’m fucking dead. Can’t say as that’s overly tempting.”
“You lose and maybe you see Valhalla. We both know you’ve got the stones to make it a good fight, one way or the other. But if you back down from the challenge …”
“You’re a right bastard, Eightarms. Trying to put me in a position like that.”
Starkad nodded. “You’re probably right. But did you really think you could come and take away a man’s kingdom without it costing you aught? Especially if you were fool enough to let that king escape.”
“You think I didn’t try? Little shit-eater crawled behind Gylfi’s skirts. Would you’ve had me march on Dalar too now? Couldn’t have done. Not when that sorcerer was alive, leastwise.”
Wait, what?
Starkad faltered. “Gylfi?”
Ole chuckled. “Oh, you didn’t hear that already? Word came this very day he was murdered down in Skane, torn down by varulfur. Hardly clear what’s happened, but some are blaming Siggeir Wolfsblood.” Now the man lurched to his feet, his throne groaning as he did so. Standing, he was even more impressive. Practically a snow bear. “See, nobody makes war in winter. So for now, Aun is safe in Dalar, stewing in his own piss and trembling like a fucking trench. Come summer, maybe I’ll take your advice and finish what I’ve started.”
“Gylfi … is truly dead?”
The big man shrugged, his gut jiggling with the motion. “Seems even sorcerers can’t stave off death forever. It comes to us all, Eightarms. But you’ve the truth of it … I can’t rightly refuse your challenge without looking a craven before my own men. And we both know I’m no craven.”
“We do indeed.”
“Tomorrow, then. Not dawn. I wouldn’t wake that early for Odin his godsdamned self. But in the morn, by the wood. And Eightarms? I’ll see you get the funeral you deserve. A proper pyre and all that. Some of us remember old friendships. You faithless wretch.”
Hervor stood on the edge of the holmgang circle. Most times, men preferred to do this the old way, on an island. Here, though, everyone was so eager to see it done, they’d just formed a ring of torches stuck in the snow, maybe fifteen feet across.
A tight space, truth be told.
Especially considering Ole the Strong seemed to take up half the damn circle himself with his bulk. The man beat an oversized axe against his shield, that too, larger than average.
Starkad circled around him, swords in hand, a wolf stalking a mammoth. Usually, Hervor would have counted that a stupid fucking wolf. Still, Starkad was light on his feet, limber next to Ole’s plodding tromp. Starkad clanked his swords together in acknowledgement.
Ole roared, rumbling forward like an avalanche. Not fast. Not at first, but his momentum built with each passing foot.
Starkad leapt to the side and Ole plowed into a pair of men standing on the circle’s edge. Sent them both sprawling in the snow.
Maybe Starkad could’ve lunged in and ended it right there, but he waited, allowed Ole to turn about and face him again. Too much honor to Hervor’s mind. Or maybe he hesitated over an old friendship. Either way, it stood to cost him.
Ole lunged forward, swinging that axe in great
arcs.
There was no parrying an attack like that. Starkad twisted out of the way, unable to close the distance. When Ole swung again, Starkad spun around, whipping his sword toward Ole’s massive gut.
The big man moved faster than he had any right to and jerked his shield forward. The wooden circle caught Starkad’s sword, kept going, and slammed into his chest. The blow lifted Hervor’s lover bodily off his feet and flung him backward before he landed in the snow, gasping.
A heartbeat later and Ole was chopping down with that axe.
Hervor sucked in a sharp breath. Starkad rolled to the side, kicked his foot out, and caught Ole in the knee. The move stunned the larger man and he faltered, one leg giving out under him. Starkad rolled over backward and scrambled away.
Suddenly aware her hand was on Tyrfing’s hilt, Hervor released it. She couldn’t interfere. No one could. A holmgang was a sacred duel. Didn’t always have to be to the death, but this one was. It was the whole purpose of Starkad coming here.
The pair of them danced about. Or Starkad danced, narrowly avoiding vicious blow after vicious blow. Ole didn’t seem concerned with skill or grace so much as raw power. And he had a lot of it. He ignored a half dozen scratches Starkad scored on his face, arms, and legs. Just kept blundering forward, getting more and more wild.
Now he was fuming, spittle flying from his mouth as his axe cleaved the air, whistling.
Before that mara had ravaged him, Starkad would’ve ended this long ago. Now, Hervor wasn’t so sure it was hesitation slowing him. Pain and fatigue, maybe. Plus not being able to see so well. This had been a stupid plan. Odin’s stones, it was stupid. She should’ve killed Aun herself for even suggesting this.
Ole whipped his axe up in a rising arc. Starkad leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding being split from groin to skull. One of his blades came around and sliced into the side of Ole’s throat. The blundering oaf staggered. He raised his axe-wielding hand to his neck then stared at the blood on his knuckles. More of it dribbled out of his mouth.
Starkad twisted around behind him, whipping his other blade around to cut out Ole’s hamstring. The oaf roared in pain and pitched over into the snow.
Panting himself, Starkad stalked up behind him. Flipped his grip around on one of his swords. And drove it straight down through the back of the man’s neck.
The whole crowd had fallen silent. Staring at Starkad in disbelief.
Hervor shut her own half-open mouth.
Starkad looked to her, then limped away from the bloody circle, one hand to his side.
Hervor caught his arm as he drew nigh and led him toward the wood. Maybe nobody would’ve dared interfere with the holmgang. It didn’t mean none of those bastards Ole had brought from Reidgotaland wouldn’t murder them in their sleep in revenge.
It was best the three of them were fast away from Upsal, at least until Aun managed to come back with no few warriors loyal to his dynasty.
“You’re lucky to be alive you stupid fuck,” she whispered to Starkad.
“I love you too.”
“Don’t change the godsdamned subject. Do you even care about Aun? I mean, really?”
“No.”
“No, of course you don’t.” She spat. “No, someone just has to mention silver or gold and your cock is hard, isn’t it? How many fortunes do you need to gain and lose, Starkad? When will it be enough?”
He shrugged off her shoulder. “Enough? I don’t know. I can’t …”
Can’t walk away. His godsdamned curse. And it had almost cost her him. Again.
“It’s for you, anyway,” he said.
“What?”
“The gold. You can use it to rebuild your home.”
She scoffed. “It would help. Wouldn’t have meant troll shit if you’d died, though. Besides, you think Hrethel will ever let Grandfather hold a title again? Some things can’t be fixed.”
Starkad groaned. “Gylfi.”
“What?”
“There’ll be a funeral.”
Stood to reason. The oldest, most famed king in all Sviarland, maybe all the North Realms. There’d be a mighty funeral, probably held off as long as possible, just to give people from all the kingdoms time to attend. “You didn’t even like him.”
“Like him?” Starkad shook his head. “It was more complicated than that.”
Everything always was with Starkad. Never a simple answer. Always another secret.
“I have to be there.”
Fair enough. At the moment, Dalar was probably a far safer place for them than Upsal, anyway.
9
Starkad could not shake the sense of someone powerful pursuing them. An intuition, really, but since Wudga had awakened the Sight in him, he had to try to trust those instincts. Could their foes have realized they went into the sewers? Maybe they’d have checked the alley, seen that opened grate.
But these interconnecting tunnels were as much a maze as the city above, if not more so. And surely no one could track them through the waters down here. Even varulfur ought not to be able to follow their scents through this overpowering reek.
Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling. That nameless dread roiling around in his gut. The sensation of continuous peril coming for him. For … Hervor. And the others, too, now his responsibility.
He trudged forward, through the muck, to catch up to Baruch.
Odin’s cryptic warnings had not prepared him for this. Maybe they should have, but the Ás either didn’t know what they’d face here, or had chosen not to reveal it plainly. Who even knew what motivated Odin anymore? Manipulative bastard.
“I need to know what we’re up against,” he said to Baruch, keeping his voice low. Vebiorg would hear, no doubt. Damn varulfur had the ears of the wolves after all. But no sense in further terrifying the others until he had to. “You may have left this city as a child, but even at that age, you had to have known something was amiss here at night.”
Baruch glanced back at the others. His torch cast his face in shadows, but still, Starkad could make out a clear grimace. “I remember … hiding at night. It was just what we did. No one ever said why, but even orphans didn’t go out after sunset. We’d squat anywhere we could, huddled together, waiting for dawn.”
“I need more than that. What are those things?”
“I … People tell ghost stories at night. In case we weren’t frightened enough already. I remember a few. One tale, about the restless dead, they rise from the grave. They, uh … sustain themselves on the living.”
“Draugar.”
“Um …” Baruch kept looking back over his shoulder like he expected the creatures to sneak up on him if he even said it. “Maybe I thought so. I mean, draugar sometimes eat the flesh of the living, right? But these things, they could make you think they were human, at least some of them did. The story … it was a long time ago. But it said, sometimes those who went out at night, you’d find their bodies, pale and cold, like something sucked the life out of them. That lord … Fjolvor, he …”
“I know.”
“You think if I knew … If I had any idea what would …” Baruch shivered, looked ready to retch.
Tanna had paused in pursuing them to bite Fjolvor, who would’ve died anyway. Bite her and seem to be drinking the blood of her wound.
Given the choice, Starkad would’ve left Baruch to grieve in peace. He didn’t have that option, though. Not while Tanna and his minions were pursuing the rest of them.
“So the creatures in your stories?” Starkad asked.
“Vampires. That’s what they were called.”
“How do we kill them?”
“I don’t know. I was a godsdamned child, Eightarms. I haven’t thought of those stories in decades. And now my wife is dead.”
Starkad grabbed him by his left arm and jerked him to a stop. “I sympathize. I do. Truly. But we will all be dead if we cannot figure out how to fight back against these foes.”
“How do you kill a draug?” Baruch asked.
By now the others had caught up, were watching the conversation.
“You can burn it with fire. Or cut its head off.”
Afrid snorted. “Hardly makes them special. You encounter aught that setting it on fire and cutting its head off won’t kill? If so, that’s a place I want to visit even less than this one.”
Hervor groaned. “Cutting the head off something that godsdamned fast wouldn’t be easy.”
No, it wouldn’t. But they were going to have to try. “Keep moving.” He turned and pressed on.
The tunnel led into a domed chamber, with the center of it at a higher elevation, out of the muck. The crew all climbed up onto this, Afrid mumbling under her breath while kicking her boots like she could shake the filth off them. Or like she wouldn’t have to hop back in it to leave here. Five other tunnels exited this circular chamber, all but one of them low enough the muck flowed through them as well.
More interesting, though, the walls of the chamber were decorated with thousands upon thousands of multicolored stones. Layers of grime covered them, especially nigh to the water, but they seemed to be depicting a picture.
Instead of joining the others on the platform, Starkad grabbed a torch and walked closer to the wall. It was hard to tell where the picture began, but it seemed to be showing another city, one with spiked spires beneath a dark night sky.
In this city, numerous factions seemed to be held at uneasy peace. Factions of vampires?
Ancient bloodlines …
It was almost a voice in his head. A memory of a dream, maybe. A warning Odin had tried to give him in his sleep, and one he’d forgotten.
This looked like twelve of these factions. Twelve bloodlines.
Waiting for the changing of the world …
These creatures were ancient, from long before the Old Kingdoms. Before the mists, even, maybe. Naught like the city Starkad saw here existed on Midgard, at least not so far as he’d seen. In Utgard, perhaps, but maybe whatever this was had instead fallen into ruin long ago. Become naught but dust.