by Matt Larkin
And it was looking at him, reaching a hand out toward him. “The blood of Kvasir holds you bound. Come back to us …”
Her words bent, distorted as if underwater. His head felt full of wool, thick and wobbly.
But she was there, hand waiting for him to take it.
Starkad lunged forward and wrapped his hand around her wrist. Hers closed on his. Solid as aught.
And she jerked him up, off the ground and toward her. She wrapped her arms around him, kissed him, blood dribbling over his lips. Her blood or his, he couldn’t say.
An uncontrolled shudder built in his gut and spread out until his entire body was convulsing, held in place only by her arms.
Blinding white light flashed in front of his eyes, then darkness.
25
Blessed daylight had already cracked through the sky when Hervor climbed the ladder, pushed aside the grate, and managed to crawl up into an alley. She surely reeked of shit and sweat and Odin knew what else. Hardly seemed to matter. Grunting with exhaustion, she crawled over to the side of a building and huddled down against it, squinting in the sunlight.
Fuck … Starkad … he was dead. She murdered her lover. She pressed her palms into her eyes. Hel take Orvar-Oddr. He’d … finally done it. He’d destroyed everything she cared for. He’d fucking taken it all!
She choked on the lump in her throat, struggled to swallow, then coughed. Breathing seemed nigh to impossible. Hel … Why hadn’t he just killed her? He should’ve killed her.
Maybe he still would. If she just laid here, sooner or later he’d track her down. Would he come out into the light of day? Maybe. He’d done it before. Even without his Otherworldly powers, Orvar could still best her, especially in her current state and her having naught but a knife to defend herself with.
Why had she done it? Why?
Odin’s stones, maybe she ought to just wait here and let Orvar end her. She was so godsdamned tired of … everything. All of it was troll shit.
And still, still she couldn’t sit here and wait to die.
Teeth grit against the pain and fatigue and sheer brain-searing despondency, she forced herself up, stumbled out into the market, and then glared at the passersby who made faces at her stench. They could all rot behind the gates of Hel and she’d care naught.
Why fight the inevitable end? She had naught left to live for, did she?
She pushed her way through the crowd—most gave her a wide berth before she reached them anyway—heading in a random direction. She hardly much cared where she ended up, so long as it was away from the Arrow’s Point. And Tanna. And fucking Nikolaos.
Everything was troll shit.
But she just wasn’t the giving up type. She’d lived well enough before meeting Starkad Eightarms.
Except she couldn’t quite remember what that felt like anymore. Couldn’t remember that life as more than a dream. And now she was in a nightmare. Orvar-Oddr had haunted her for so long. Finally got his vengeance. So maybe now he’d be looking to end her.
Hervor stumbled into another alley, found some empty barrels, and collapsed down behind them. She needed to rest. To think. To figure out where to go from here. She just …
The fucking draug had taken everything from her. The last thing, the least … she could do, would be to put him out of his godsdamned misery. That was it, then.
She was going to kill the Arrow’s Point one more time.
Or die trying.
Either way, this had to end.
The hand on her shoulder jolted Hervor awake and she reached for a knife. An iron grip caught her wrist and held it still. She thrashed a moment before she recognized Vebiorg, crouched over her. Behind the varulf, Win was standing, glancing this way and that down the alley.
The sun had dipped low. How long had she slept? Her stomach growled as Vebiorg helped her up.
“What do you want?” Hervor asked.
The varulf shrugged. “We thought you’d want to know. The vampire bitch took Starkad. Mentioned … changing him.”
“He’s alive?” That was … impossible. No human could survive Tyrfing’s poison. But Vebiorg seemed every bit in earnest.
“Not for long.” Win said from the alley entrance. “If the vampire has her way, he’ll be one of them. Maybe already is, I don’t know. All I could do was get the sword and get out of there. If Vebiorg hadn’t found me, I’d probably still be wandering in the damned tunnels.”
The sword … He had Tyrfing slung over his shoulder.
Hervor glared at the hateful thing. Even looking at it made her heart long to hold it once more. Seeing it hanging over another’s shoulder was an icy spear through her gut. Reason enough to cut his bowels out. Or run far from here.
What had her father said in his barrow, so long ago? She’d ignored his warnings about the sword’s curse. He’d said it would bring her woe, but she’d taken no heed. Probably Angantyr could not have even imagined how true his warning would prove.
She climbed to her feet. “Give me the runeblade. It is my family’s legacy.” Their curse.
“Ah,” Win said. “Is it now? A legacy stolen from my father’s predecessor, entrusted by Gylfi to protect Holmgard.”
“I’m not certain that sword protects aught. Either way, though, it is bound to me and I will have it. I’m going to kill Orvar-Oddr with it once more and put an end to this.”
Win unshouldered the blade, holding it by the sheath. “And if I refuse? Suppose I decide to carry this back to my kingdom and return it to the task it was meant for?”
Hervor shook her head and snickered. “Meant for? It was crafted by the dvergar as a means to earn favor with the Old Kingdoms while subverting them at the same time. The runeblades are cursed, Win, all of them. Trust me when I say you do not want it.”
The prince looked at the sheathed sword. “I am not certain you deserve any measure of trust, shieldmaiden. But our mission here remains unchanged and Vebiorg convinced me that, whatever crimes lay in your past, with Eightarms taken, you may prove our best chance at victory.”
Victory against Tanna seemed a fool’s dream at this point. She’d settle for avenging herself on Orvar-Oddr. If she lived through that, maybe she’d just leave Miklagard. Her oaths to Starkad were already broken. Next to that, her oaths to Rollaugr meant very little. She reached out a hand for the blade, and Win finally handed it over.
“What of Starkad?” Vebiorg asked.
Funny, it always came back to that question for Hervor. For Starkad she’d gone to Glaesisvellir. For Starkad, she’d chanced the wastes of Pohjola. And for Starkad she had come here, thinking to find human foes, and instead encountering monsters more terrible than aught she had ever faced.
Her oath was broken … but still it bound her. “I cannot abandon him while there is yet breath left in his body.”
Vebiorg growled. “If the vampire bitch succeeds, maybe he won’t have breath left at all.”
“Then we have to reach him before that happens. We know where Nikolaos’s palace lies.”
Win glanced out into the alley. “The sun is already setting. The vampires will be at full strength now.”
Hervor nodded. “Maybe, but we cannot delay any longer.” Not if they were to have any chance of recovering Starkad.
“These creatures were our only allies in the city,” Win said. “If we turn on them …”
Hervor shook her head. “If they are allies, they will not bar our reunion with Starkad.” She did not need to say what would happen if they were enemies.
26
The sudden return of awareness struck him like a bolt of lightning. Starkad lurched upward, drew a reflexive breath that he didn’t feel fill up his lungs, and looked around. He sat upon the same stone slab Arete had brought him to.
Runes were painted in blood in a circle around the stone, with a ring of candles beyond those. Arete herself lay on another slab, her eyes closed.
The pain in his jaw had faded to a dull ache, though his mouth felt bloated. As h
is tongue brushed over his teeth, he knew why. His upper canines had grown sharp as spear points, and a hint elongated maybe. He grunted, unable to make sense of the strange flurry of sensations flooding over his senses.
Countless aches remained from all the injuries he’d suffered, but none of them bothered him overmuch. His whole body trembled, though, feeling weak. His vision was still a bit hazy. And … He shut his right eye and all went dark.
Damn it.
He’d dared to hope whatever Arete had done to him might restore his vision, but his left eye was still dead and his right remained clouded over.
When he opened his eye again, Arete had sat up and strode to the door. She shouted something in Miklagardian outside, then shut the door and came to Starkad’s side.
“I know you have questions. Night has fallen and that is our time. Before aught else, you must feed and regain your strength. I took every last drop of your blood. A necessary part of the spell, I’m afraid.”
He tried to rise, but his legs gave out, and Arete caught him in her arms.
“Shhh. Just wait.”
Out in the hall, he could hear the sound of a heart beating. Growing closer.
He tried to lunge toward the noise, not even sure why he was doing it, but Arete held him in place, her arms iron bands.
A moment later, the door opened and a hand shoved a girl into the room. She stumbled, fell to her knees, and looked up at him through a tangle of hair covering her face. She wore naught but a thin robe, and her hands were chained behind her back. A slave. A prisoner.
“There now,” Arete said. “Eat her.”
Eat … a person … The thought buzzed in his head, awful and inescapable, demanding his utmost devotion. It thrummed through his chest. He knelt beside her, not even sure how he’d gotten there or when he’d left Arete’s arms. But his hands were snared up in the girl’s robe. With a savage jerk he tore it open, exposing her pale breasts.
Like Hervor’s, albeit without the scar she now bore.
Starkad lunged forward, bore the girl to the ground and bit into one of her breasts. She shrieked, but he barely heard her. Hot blood streamed down his throat, sweeter than mead and more sating than venison. Except that he needed more and more. He tore himself free of her breast—her thrashing had already become faint—and then sank his fangs into her neck, sucking so hard his throat hurt.
Slurping noisily, devouring her whole. Her blood, her life force seeped into him, like tasting her very soul. Beautiful and lonely and frightened, all drawn deep inside him, replenishing him. Warmth spread into his limbs, his fingertips. His toes. A pulse pounded through him, though he knew his heart did not beat.
“He’s going to need another,” Arete said behind him.
Starkad didn’t look at her, couldn’t tear himself away from the girl. Her breath had almost given out. Her hopes, dreams, fears … all slipping away. The blood he drew from her had become a trickle when he craved a fountain of it.
And as if in answer, more heartbeats sounded out in the hall.
Another vampire—no heartbeat—flung a second girl into the room, then shut the door once more. Starkad dropped the first, then launched himself onto the next. He grasped her neck, hesitated. Her smell was luxurious. Sweet and heady. Uncertain even what he meant to do, he pulled her robe up past her hips. She wore naught below them.
A feral urge seized him and he leaned low, licked his tongue over the girl’s trench. She shuddered, moaned. Before he knew he’d planned it, he sunk his teeth into her thigh. Her moan turned into a gasp of pain, a whimper. Starkad grabbed her hips and hefted her up so he could rise into a sitting position.
He drank and drank, until her whimpers grew faint.
“Are you not sated? I can give you what else you crave …”
Starkad dropped the girl and she lay on the stone floor, shivering. Ignoring her, he spun toward Arete.
The vampire leaned against the stone slab, staring at him with mischievous eyes and a faint smile. “The blood pounding now, coursing to every part of your body. Alive with fresh sensations and craving every pleasure of the flesh. You cannot eat, save for blood, but you can yet enjoy other temptations denied to many of the dead. We are blessed by the gift of—”
Starkad lunged at her, seeming almost to fly off the ground, and tackled her back onto the slab. Arete chuckled as Starkad ripped her golden dress down the middle. He lathered his tongue over her breasts and she drew her nails down along his back. From the warmth that dribbled down there, she must’ve drawn blood.
He didn’t fucking care.
Wished he could hold it back, draw this out. But he couldn’t stand it. He tore the rest of her dress until he got to the bush of black hair between her legs. She snapped the ties to his trousers with ease and yanked them down, as if he’d need the help or encouragement. He buried himself inside her, pumping away with more fervor and power than he’d ever felt.
Grinding, until the stone creaked beneath her. Until they were both screaming in release.
Then she traced a lazy hand along the back of his neck. “Finish your meal, then we can do this again. It’s always best just after feeding. Things grow cold if you go too long without fresh blood, then everything ceases to function as you might wish.”
He turned, looked at the wretched, half-naked girl trying to crawl to the door. He’d already murdered one person today. He wouldn’t take another life. Not another …
Except he was already on top of her, fangs piercing her throat.
27
To Hervor’s great surprise, Nikolaos’s slaves admitted her and the others to the palace and even agreed to escort them to where Starkad was resting. While not having to fight them was a relief, their reaction did not bode well. Her gut roiled at the thought of why they would not bar her from seeing Starkad. Especially given what Win claimed to have overheard Arete say.
And Hervor could think of but one reason they would not stop her.
Because it was too late.
And Starkad was …
No. No, she would not allow herself to think that. No.
Because if Arete had slain him and turned him into some kind of deathless abomination like the other vampires … it would be Hervor’s fault. Hers was the blade that had mortally wounded Starkad. Hers were the crimes and lies that had led to that fight in the first place. And much as she wanted to lay all the blame at the feet of the Arrow’s Point, her churning stomach would not allow that much self-delusion.
“Calm yourself,” Vebiorg whispered by her side.
“I am …” It was hard to swallow. Hard to even make the words come out. “I am left with the awful realization that maybe a life of blood and murder can only end one way. The same way it was lived.”
Vebiorg snorted. “A child ought to know as much. Have you so deluded yourself to believe that there is no price to be paid for the things we do?” The varulf shook her head. “There is only one way a bad life ends—badly.”
Hervor clenched her jaw and said naught. How could she argue with such words?
Win grabbed her wrist. “Keep your head clear. There is a time and place for macabre rumination, but never while in peril. If it comforts you, consider: a violent life is like to end in violence. But a great many peaceful lives end in violence, too. Such is the weave of urd and the will of the Aesir. We have but our parts to play in a greater tapestry.”
She tried to take comfort in Win’s words, but his fatalism seemed a bitter draught at best.
The slave led them down some stairs and through darkened halls. The rooms lining the halls might well have been cells to hold prisoners for all she knew. But if they held Starkad prisoner, why freely walk her and the others down here? Did they lay an ambush at the end of this path?
At a bend, the slave paused and inclined his head, speaking in broken Northern. “Please use left door.”
Hervor didn’t bother to further acknowledge the man, just hurried down the hall. The sound of grunting reached her before she got to the
room. Was he hurt? Still dying from his wound? Or was the bitch trying to turn him even now?
Breaking into a trot, Hervor raced to the door, flung it open, and darted inside.
Starkad and Arete were there, both naked, and he had her shoved up against the wall, pounding into her trench with impressive fervor.
Starkad cast a glance her way, bared his teeth. Fangs. And kept right on fucking Arete. She squealed, laughed, her legs locked behind Starkad’s back. The bitch moaned louder than necessary, clearly for Hervor’s benefit.
Hervor backed up, hit the doorframe, and fumbled, unsure whether her hand was reaching to cover her mouth or go for her sword.
Beside her, Win groaned in disgust and fled the room, while Vebiorg stared with apparent interest.
“Starkad …” Hervor whimpered. “Starkad …”
Odin’s … why wasn’t he stopping? He just kept pumping into the vampire, on and on.
That roil in Hervor’s stomach had grown to an icy hand, squeezing her heart and taking her breath away. Choking her. Killing her with its slow, inevitable pressure.
“You made oathbreakers of us both,” Starkad said, not looking at her.
Strange he wasn’t even out of breath. Stranger, she had trouble wrapping her mind around his words. They were there. She’d heard them. But it just didn’t seem clear.
He was saying … saying …
He just kept staring at Arete’s face.
Vebiorg grabbed Hervor’s arm and pulled her away, out of the hall and after Win who stood waiting for them by the slave, studiously staring at his feet.
They knew. They knew what Starkad was saying. Win hadn’t even heard it, and he’d known.
He wasn’t the fool Hervor was.
Anyone could see it. Starkad was saying he was done with Hervor. That she wasn’t even worthy of the effort of killing for her mistakes.