by Matt Larkin
“A vast oversimplification of political structures more ancient and more complicated than you might begin to fathom, mortal.”
Maybe it was Hervor’s imagination, but it seemed Arete cast an almost concealed glance between Starkad and Nikolaos. Something hidden, even from her lord?
“Suppose we could do it,” Starkad said. “What would you offer us?”
“Your lives and freedom.”
Hervor groaned. “Just let us leave. Coming here was a mistake.”
Arete snorted at that. “I can see what he sees in you, shieldmaiden. You have utterly mastered the blisteringly obvious.”
Hervor glared at the female vampire but had little energy to do aught more.
“Last time we faced Tanna, things went amiss,” Starkad said. Kind of understating it, wasn’t he? “What can you offer us to ensure our success?”
“A hidden route into his palace.”
“His tower?”
Nikolaos waved that away. “You think he owns but one dwelling in the whole of the city? No. You are more like to catch him unawares if you strike in a different location. Even now, he has his agents hunting you. Had they found you before mine stumbled upon you, you would be having this conversation with him. Tanna might be less amenable to your mission than myself. Considerably so.”
No. No. No. “This is mist-madness,” she whispered to Starkad. “We’ve lost enough. Let us flee this place.”
Nikolaos quirked an eyebrow as if he’d heard that. “What will it be, then?”
Starkad blew out a long breath. “We agree to your terms.”
The vampire lord uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I will have an oath on your blood that you will not leave this city until the deed is done.”
“So be it,” Starkad said.
Arete drew close to him then snatched his wrist. He grimaced as she bit down.
Starkad held up his arm, allowing blood to dribble down it to the floor. “I give you my oath on my own blood, I will not leave Miklagard until I have slain Lord Tanna.”
Nikolaos chuckled. “Wonderful. Let us begin.”
14
Two Moons Ago
No one could much deny hard times had fallen on Holmgard. Worse even than when last Hervor had come through, some two years back. The population seemed shrunken, less than before. Maybe too many had died, maybe they’d begun to abandon this colony, come back to Sviarland.
Word of Gylfi’s death would’ve reached them by now, maybe made things worse. The sorcerer king had ordered this colony founded. After his son-in-law died, Rollaugr’s father had come to power and the kingdom had flourished—more or less. But now, so many houses stood empty. Boats left in disrepair. Some buildings had logs missing from them, like people had just claimed them for firewood.
Despite it all, Rollaugr received them warmly, offering up a table of fresh perch and mead—if the latter seemed a bit watery to Hervor’s taste. The king himself sat across the table from them, barely touching his own food so intent was he on watching Starkad.
Höfund tore into his plate with his usual relish, slobbering like a wolf with a fresh kill. She’d mostly gotten used to it, anyway. Still, she’d avoided letting him catch her alone on the voyage here. It wasn’t hard—longships didn’t offer overmuch in the way of privacy. Even Höfund seemed wise enough not to mention his proposal for her hand in front of the crew.
Hervor took another swig of the disappointing mead before passing it to a green-eyed shieldmaiden beside her.
A slave whispered something in the king’s ear and he nodded, offered some answer Hervor couldn’t catch. Rollaugr looked apt to burst from his request, but tradition dictated he offer guests food before business, and he was clearly a man of tradition.
“Is it true you bear a runeblade, shieldmaiden?” he asked.
Damn. Did he know it for the very blade once held by this same kingdom? Hervor struggled to keep her face neutral. “I do.”
“I might very much like to see it. Perhaps when you have eaten.”
She stared at her fish.
Starkad grunted and shoved his plate away. “I for one have had my fill. Tell me, king, why did you send Höfund for us?”
Before Rollaugr could answer, another man strode into the hall. A young man, with travel-worn clothes and armor bearing the scuffs of battle. The king rose and embraced the young man, who returned the gesture. It was a moment before either of them looked back to Starkad. When Rollaugr did, he outstretched a hand toward the other man. “My son, Win, just returned from the front lines.”
“Front lines?” Hervor asked. “Are you at war?” Numerous petty jotunn kings had carved up most of Bjarmaland between them, but, so far as she knew, none had yet invaded Holmgard. If they had, she didn’t see how the kingdom would yet be standing at all.
“At war, yes,” Win said. “Soldiers of Miklagard strike out further and further with each passing summer. We had to hold our outposts in the south until we were certain they’d retired for the winter. When the snows melt …” Win looked to his father. “We cannot hold out another season.”
Miklagard? The great South Realmer empire was the stuff of legend as far as Hervor knew.
“They push out from Kaunos?” Starkad asked.
“Yes, but that’s only a staging ground for these godless barbarians. The real threat comes from the city of Miklagard itself. So removed they think themselves untouchable.”
Rollaugr cleared his throat. “We rather hope you can prove them wrong.”
Starkad grunted. “You mean to mount an attack on the city of Miklagard itself? That bespeaks mist-madness, king, if you’ll forgive my bluntness. Even could we muster all the warriors of Sviarland, I doubt we could take and hold that city.”
Win sat at the table beside his father. “We need neither sack nor hold Miklagard. With Odin’s blessing, we need merely strike a blow against them such that they realize we are not helpless prey. Let them set their ambitions elsewhere and leave us in peace.”
Hervor frowned. “What possible blow do you imagine will dissuade them?”
Win glanced her way and quirked a smile, though no hint of mirth reached his eyes. “We know their empire is governed by leaders they call Patriarchs. One of these, Lord Tanna, is responsible for Kaunos and the incursions made through there.”
“You aim to murder him,” Starkad said, voice so flat Hervor couldn’t guess whether he approved or not.
“I aim to bring the wrath of the Aesir down them,” Win said. “Reports claim Tanna holds a sword of the North Realms. One of dire strength, engraved with strange markings the Miklagardians do not understand.”
Starkad leaned forward. “A runeblade?”
Odin’s stones. If there was any chance of not doing this, it was gone now. Hervor rubbed her temples. Starkad would never pass up the chance to claim his own runeblade.
“It stands to reason,” Rollaugr said. “We want you to infiltrate Miklagard and kill Tanna. Then we hope his replacement is more timid.”
Starkad rubbed his palms together and glanced at Hervor. She could shake her head. Could try to talk him out of this—it was clearly mist-madness. The Holmgarders weren’t trying to hire him to fight a battle or hold off any enemy. They were sending him well beyond known lands into Odin alone knew what. But Starkad would never back down. Never could, maybe. So what point in her arguing with him over it?
Instead, Hervor put her hands on the table. “We’d need a hefty payment for this. Three times Starkad’s weight in gold. Plus we keep the runeblade.”
Win blanched, looked to his father.
The king closed his eyes, groaned. “So be it.”
Starkad clapped Hervor on the shoulder. “Good, then. I’ll need to put together my own crew.”
“You can choose who you like,” Win said. “But I’m going. And Tveggi goes where I go.” Win inclined his head to an aging warrior lingering by the entrance. A thegn? A bodyguard?
Starkad frowned. “This is hardly going to be
safe, prince. Perhaps you had best remain here where—”
“I am no craven. With Odin’s blessing, we will find glory. And if I fall, valkyries will carry me to Valhalla.”
Sounded a small comfort to Hervor, but Win seemed so sincere she had to bite her tongue.
“Well,” Höfund said, “reckon I’m going too. Can’t rightly let aught happen to the pair of you nor the prince neither.”
“I’ll go too,” the shieldmaiden beside Hervor said.
Hervor had almost forgotten her in the rush of events. “Who are you?”
“Vebiorg.”
Hervor looked to Starkad, who frowned. “Hervor and I will meet with any willing to go in the morn. We need keep our numbers small if we hope to pass ourselves off as mere travelers. Just enough warriors that we can handle opposition when we face it.”
Rollaugr cleared his throat. “It’s decided then.” He turned to a slave. “Arrange chambers for our guests.” Now he looked back to her. “I am still interested to look upon the runeblade.”
Hervor grimaced. There really was naught to do save tell the truth. “These blades have a will of their own. It is unwise to draw them unless you intend to use them.”
Rollaugr pursed his lips. Did he recognize her description of Tyrfing’s curse? Did he know of that specific runeblade? He shrugged then, and shook his head. “Pity. Well then, perhaps some more mead before we retire?”
Hervor could go for that indeed.
Part II
Eleventh Moon
Year 31, Age of the Aesir
15
The tunnels beneath the city seemed to stretch on endlessly. Parts of them criss-crossed the sewers, but other regions—such as those corridors Arete now led Starkad and his crew through—remained mostly dry, if still grimy.
Nikolaos had vanished into the darkness, but the female vampire had stuck by Starkad’s side, guiding them to Nikolaos’s palace. The sun would be up any moment, she had explained, and the vampires preferred not to go out in daylight, much like draugar.
He had a crude bandage wrapped around his wrist where she’d bit him, holding a torch with his other hand.
“You fear the light?” he asked.
“I … fear naught … mortal.”
“You hesitate.”
“And you,” she whispered, her voice so low the others behind probably couldn’t catch it—save Vebiorg. “You are not quite mortal, are you?”
He tried to stifle his surprise at her words, but there was no denying his pulse quickened at hearing them. Odin had extended his life. When Arete had bitten him—back when she was interrogating him—she’d reacted strangely, as if shocked by the taste. Maybe whatever Odin had done had changed him more than Starkad realized. He was fortified. If not so much as he would’ve been with an apple of Yggdrasil, still heartier than an ordinary man.
“I’ve had a long, complex life,” he finally answered.
“Oh? Most of my kind can say the same.” She led him around another bend, beyond which lay stone steps rising up. She climbed them with uncanny grace, seeming almost to glide to the top, where she inserted a key into a trapdoor in the ceiling. After turning it, she threw the hatch open, and continued up.
Starkad followed her up into a cellar that, compared to the tunnels below, was shockingly clean and free of dust and grime. As he stood, he noticed a circle painted around the trapdoor in what looked like semi-fresh blood. Around its perimeter, runes ran. Sorcery? He grimaced.
“A ward against intruders,” Arete answered his unspoken question.
The others joined him up in the cellar, each looking around. Höfund examined the circle with obvious distaste, and Hervor blanched when she noticed it.
Arete led them out of the cellar and into a corridor, this one flanked by a half dozen guards.
So. The vampires used the tunnels to get around in daylight. Knowing this, Nikolaos used special protections to ward the potential weak point in his palace. Just what did those wards do?
Beyond the corridor, they went up yet more steps, into corridors painted white and decorated with golden trim. Tapestries and paintings lined the walls, even before the passage opened up into a wide hall with a high ceiling. An upper level looked down on this hall, supported by columns engraved to look like nude men and women in the throes of various acts of passion.
The sheer decadence of the palace, from the marble columns to the lush tapestries to the gold trim on the rails—all of it—fair reeked of hubris. As if Nikolaos needed to flaunt his god-like wealth despite the squalor and filth so much of the city lived in. Pompous, consciously so, in fact.
And there were no windows.
“You will wish to rest from your travels and … ordeals,” Arete said. “We will not strike in daylight, in any event.”
“Wouldn’t Tanna be weaker then?”
“Yes. But he will also be in hiding and not even we know where to seek him out. No, unfortunately, you must draw out the Patriarch before you can engage him. In the meantime, I’ll show you each to your chambers.”
The others settled in, Arete led Starkad to a room on the upper levels. “You’re their leader.”
“Yes.”
“So was it your idea to come here, so far from your own lands?”
He shrugged. He’d been farther than this from the North Realms. Much farther, if he counted the sojourn Ogn had taken his soul on through the Otherworlds. “I was hired for it.”
“Oh. A mercenary.” She opened the door to a room decorated with half again more luxury than he needed. A plush bed, a dresser the color of olives. A wash basin of solid bronze. A man-sized cupboard for who knew what.
“Mercenary. Wanderer. Whatever you want to call me.”
Arete shut the door with the both of them inside.
Starkad turned to her. She was running her tongue over her teeth, lingering it over those fangs. Hard to deny it sent his pulse quickening, which no doubt was her intent.
“What do you want?”
She edged closer. Close enough he could feel just a hint of warmth to her. Strange, draugar were cold as the grave. Why wasn’t she? “I can feel your heartbeat. Thrumming … throbbing …” She craned her neck on the last word, a hairsbreadth from his cheek. Meaning he couldn’t even see her because of his dead eye.
The thought of Hervor in the next room sent him falling back several steps. “Didn’t you suggest I rest?”
“By all means … use the bed.” She flicked her tongue out over her lower lip.
He frowned. Doubly so at the mental image of taking her that leapt unbidden to his mind. “I’m bound to Hervor.”
Arete snickered. “If that’s the life you want. Bound to a single human woman when we both know something more than that lies deep in your blood. Something dark and succulent and powerful, waiting to come out. Do you truly wish to spend the rest of your days wandering Midgard?”
“I … That’s my curse.” Why was he even telling her this?
“Is that what you tell yourself? A half-truth to hide from the bitter reality that, as yet, you have found naught in this world capable of satisfying you.” She traced a finger down her jawline, and over one breast. Pursed her lips. “Nor will you, among the world of ordinary men. Ordinary … women. How would someone blessed with such gifts as I taste in you be sated with the cold blandness found out there?”
He was already shaking his head. No. It wasn’t true. He wandered because he was cursed to do so. He couldn’t have contentment. Couldn’t have a place in the world to himself. That was the price of his long life and extraordinary constitution. And that was all there was to it.
What Arete suggested … that somewhere … that here might offer him something he’d been missing … No. He refused to accept that. He wandered because that was his urd, decided the moment he’d killed Vikar, if not before.
Made certain when he’d failed Ogn.
“You should go,” he said.
Arete frowned, ever so slightly. “Consider this. I have w
alked over much of this world. When I was young, I remember refugees fleeing the collapse of what you call the Old Kingdoms. They came through our lands, burning and pillaging, taking who and what they desired. They burned my home and killed my family, and I wandered, too. Whoring myself to survive. Until I came here. On the streets I might’ve died, had not Nikolaos found me. And brought me a new life.” She shook her head. “I was not so very different from you, long centuries ago.”
“You’re saying you’re eight hundred winters old?”
She snickered, gliding to the door. “Maybe I’m twenty-five winters. Maybe I’ll be twenty-five winters old from now until the end of time.” She had a hand on the handle. “The point is, my wanderings ended here. Yours could as well, should you so desire it.”
Without another word, she slipped out of the room and left him alone.
16
Hervor was leaning on the rail, looking down on the grand hall below, when that vampire bitch slipped out of Starkad’s room. Arete caught her looking and smiled smugly.
Odin’s treacherous stones, no. No, that wasn’t going to happen. Hervor pushed off the rail and stormed over to the bitch. “What in Hel’s icy trench are you about now?”
Arete smiled, the expression not reaching her cold eyes. “You speak to me as if you think I am like you. Somehow, you dare to forget that, on a whim, I could put my little finger through your windpipe before you knew I was moving.”
Hervor couldn’t help but grimace at that mental image. Over her shoulder, Tyrfing begged her to draw it. To let the pale flames engulf this undead abomination. From what she’d seen on Thule, one cut didn’t poison a draug like it did a man. But the blade managed to kill draugar as if they were men. So if she hacked out Arete’s bowels, would the vampire bleed out?
“Do not test me,” the vampire warned. Reading her face?
Hervor forced a confident smirk to her face. “I was going to say the same.”