Runeblade Saga Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  That she was worthy of naught at all.

  “Your pack all died when you were young,” Hervor said to Vebiorg, her voice sounding dry in her ears. “If you knew who killed them, you’d have avenged them, yes?”

  The varulf woman nodded, walking alongside Hervor while casting furtive glances to either side as they stalked the alleys. “Of course.”

  Win had taken charge and insisted they needed to make it off the streets. Going back to the apartment was too great a risk, considering Afrid knew of it. They could not wander the streets at night any longer than they must, though, so the prince was hunting for any place they could take shelter.

  Accord to Win, Hervor seemed in no shape to finish the mission and slay Tanna. So they’d retreat, rest until sunrise, and then break into his palace and rescue Höfund. Somehow, the prince still believed they’d kill the Patriarch and steal Mistilteinn. And then escape to the harbor.

  All Hervor wanted now was to kill the Arrow’s Point. But she’d fight alongside Vebiorg and Win. She’d fight with them, maybe die with them. Really, they were all she had left. And maybe her best chance to overcome either vampires or a draug.

  “Why ask such a thing?” the varulf asked a moment later.

  Oh. Vengeance. Beautiful. Horrible. Dark. Bloody.

  Hervor couldn’t even swallow. “Orvar-Oddr helped murder my father and all his brothers. And I found that out and I came after him. And I infiltrated his crew, bided my time, and killed him when the opportunity presented itself.”

  Vebiorg grunted. “So you murdered him instead of challenging him to a holmgang and doing it the right way.”

  “I couldn’t have won that way.”

  “Then you didn’t deserve to kill him, did you?”

  Hervor flinched. “Wolves don’t catch their foes out by surprise?”

  The varulf shrugged. “I’m not the one looking for justification for my crimes.”

  “I don’t have to justify myself to anyone!”

  “Then stop trying. Your mistake cost you and it cost all of us.” Vebiorg sniffed. “Then again, we’ve all made our share of mistakes.” She shrugged. “It’s life.”

  “This one,” Win said, pointing to a soaring building where the dome had cracked and a great chunk of it had fallen inside. The tip remained, probably forty feet in the air, while the surrounding structure covered at least a hundred feet on the long sides. Maybe it had once been a temple of some kind, but Hervor knew less than naught about Miklagardian religion, assuming the locals even had one.

  To reach the structure, they’d have to cross a wide open street, though. A faint mist drifted over a cobblestone road maybe twenty feet across. They could dash from the alley, reach the intersection to the main street, and be close to the building in the space of a few heartbeats. But those heartbeats would be time they spent exposed to anyone watching.

  Still, part of the wall had cracked, too, exposing a window maybe eight feet up. One big enough for them to fit through and drop inside, finding shelter from the night. Their best chance, probably.

  Rest a little, wait for daylight.

  Just make it across the street first.

  “Ready?” Win asked.

  Vebiorg sniffed, glanced both ways, and took off at a dash Hervor would have been hard-pressed to match on a godsdamned horse. She raced after the varulf, but the other woman had leapt up and caught the windowsill before Hervor was even into the temple’s yard.

  She and Win reached the building, panting, and Vebiorg extended a hand down to them, one of her legs resting inside the building, one out. Hervor took her hand and the varulf jerked her up to the sill beside her. Then Hervor dropped down inside.

  In here, the architecture seemed even more imposing than the outside had. Great marble columns supported a roof, several of these cracked where sections of that roof had collapsed into piles of rubble blocking a central walkway to the back of the temple. The dome lay over a circular mosaic in the floor, but the fallen pieces from above had shattered whatever design had once lain below. Some of those stones now littering the floor were bigger than Hervor was.

  She couldn’t imagine what it took to build something like this. A place maybe even beyond the knowledge of the Old Kingdoms. It almost seemed as if gods themselves had raised up the temple in some age long past. How and why the Miklagardians had allowed it to fall into such disrepair, she had no idea.

  Win and Vebiorg had also dropped down to the ground, and the two of them slunk to the back of the temple, into a semi-circular alcove where the floor was slightly raised. They both lay down there, clearly as tired as Hervor felt.

  They had the right of it. And part of Hervor wanted to lay down right beside them.

  Wanted to hold on to them and believe she could call them friends. But how could they trust her, knowing what they knew? No, they tolerated her because they needed her. Naught else.

  So best to keep her distance, give them space.

  After strolling the temple a bit, Hervor slumped down by the mosaic. Through the hole in the roof, she could see the stars.

  She didn’t sleep. For a long time she watched the night sky. Then she watched the others as they slept. She stared at Tyrfing’s golden hilt. Maybe she should have heeded her father’s ghost and left it buried in the barrow.

  Maybe she should have done a great many things different.

  Rather pointless to muse on that now, though.

  All that remained now was to finish what she’d started. The skalds would’ve liked that.

  She’d started out to kill the Arrow’s Point, and now she’d be doing the same—

  A shadow blocked out the moonlight and Hervor looked up to see a man dropping down from the dome above. She scooted a foot away an instant before Orvar-Oddr crashed down in the middle of the mosaic. His impact further crunched the stones, sending dust and debris flying as he landed in a crouch, then lifted his red, gleaming eyes to her. Snarling, teeth bared.

  Hervor scrambled away, jerked Tyrfing free, and just managed to get her own feet as Orvar rose. Behind him, Vebiorg and Win had leapt up as well.

  Orvar chuckled, the sound an assault on Hervor’s brain. The hideous, tormented mirth of the damned. “And now the last one you care for is dead. By your own hand no less. I could not have wrought my vengeance more perfectly. Only one thing yet remains. I will feast upon your black, withered heart and send what remains of your soul screaming down to Hel. Then your torture shall truly begin.” The draug pulled a broadsword from over his shoulder and spun as Win and Vebiorg raced forward.

  The varulf reached him first, already changed into a wolf. The draug twisted out of the way of her lunge and the wolf flew by him. Unwilling to give up the edge that granted, Hervor darted in, swinging Tyrfing in a tight arc.

  Orvar parried that, turned, knocked aside Win’s thrusting sword, and then danced back around to keep them both ahead of him. He was fast. Faster than a man now, it seemed. Maybe not as fast as both her and Win at the same time, though.

  She glanced at the prince, he nodded, and together they charged in.

  Vebiorg snarled, perhaps blocked from her attack angle. Hervor couldn’t well look at her. She swung high as Win went low. Orvar parried Tyrfing, let Win’s broadsword cleave into his thigh, and twisted around behind the prince. He caught Win’s arm, spun him between himself and Hervor, turning the prince around backward in one move. Then he thrust his sword up through Win’s armpit.

  A sickening scrape of metal over bone and then Orvar jerked the blade free and flung Win’s corpse at Hervor. She tried to step out of the way but Win’s arms tangled in hers and she fell to the ground.

  Vebiorg leapt over the pair of them, snapping and snarling in unconcealed rage.

  Hervor shoved Win’s corpse off herself, scrambled to her feet, and came about to see Vebiorg rip a chunk of putrefying flesh out of Orvar’s calf. The wound ought to have dropped him. Strands of muscle and sinew were hanging loose, dragging on the floor behind him. He was shrieking i
n pain, the sound even more mind-rending than his laughter. Made Hervor want to clutch her ears and duck and pray to the Aesir for safety from the damned.

  But Odin wasn’t here and, so far as Hervor could tell, hadn’t done troll shit about Orvar-Oddr thus far. The Ás didn’t seem like to start now.

  Bellowing her own war cry that only half drowned out the hideous shrieking in her skull, Hervor charged in, swiping again and again. Tyrfing managed to sneak past Orvar’s defenses and rend the mail on his arm, but even that only stoked the draug’s fury.

  He caught her next blow on his broadsword, slid the blade up until he was matching strength with her. Which was no contest, but she couldn’t let go or he’d drive his blade through her face. Instead, he shoved her backward, actually lifting her off her feet.

  Hervor managed to land on one knee, sucking in her breath at the pain from knocking her other one on the stone floor.

  Vebiorg lunged in, flying for his throat. The draug’s backhand caught her across the muzzle and sent her careening to the floor.

  Hervor rose, panting.

  Orvar bent over and snared up a rock the size of Hervor’s torso.

  Oh, Odin’s lumpy stones.

  The draug flung the stone and Hervor dove to the floor. The projectile swooshed over her head, ruffling her hair in its passage. She launched herself upward, swinging Tyrfing as she did so, following an arc that ought to have cut his cock off and split him up to his neck.

  The draug flung himself forward before her arc got full momentum, slammed into her chest, and knocked the wind from her. Tyrfing toppled from her grasp as a haze of white filled her vision. She hit the ground hard. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear.

  Couldn’t breathe.

  She gasped, trying to fill her lungs.

  “… is fitting, don’t you think?” What the fuck was the draug saying now? His hollow, grating voice tore at her mind.

  Hervor managed to lift her head off the rock. The bastard was holding Tyrfing himself now, pale blue flames dancing along the blade. “Your father died wielding this against Hjalmar, though he killed his foe as well. I rather think this blade wounded them both. And now it will kill his daughter, who could not let the past lay buried.”

  With another snarl, Vebiorg flew at him and her jaw closed down on his left forearm, the one holding Tyrfing. The blade clattered from his hand as well. She must’ve had nigh to his strength, because she yanked him to the ground as well.

  Hervor lunged at Tyrfing, caught its hilt, and then thrust at Orvar-Oddr. The draug whipped the wolf around and Hervor barely managed to pull her attack short and avoid impaling the varulf. Instead, Vebiorg slammed into Hervor and sent the both of them toppling over.

  Limping and lilting from side to side, Orvar tromped over, caught Vebiorg by the scruff of her neck, and flung her two dozen feet. The varulf collided with a column in mid-air, cracked it, and crashed hard into the floor.

  Orvar growled at Hervor, dark liquid dribbling down his chin. “Just you and I, as it should be.”

  Hervor managed her feet, holding Tyrfing up between her and the draug. “I will end you. Whatever it fucking takes. I’m going to cut you down. You took … everything from me!”

  The draug just bared his teeth once more, visage dark and Otherworldly.

  Hervor didn’t give a fuck anymore. She was tired of being scared. Shrieking, Tyrfing grasped in both hands, she charged in. The pale flames along the blade flared higher, mirroring her rage.

  She cleaved straight down onto Orvar. He twisted out of the way of that, so Hervor feinted left, reversed her swing, and cut back at him. The runeblade bit deep into his gut and the draug stumbled back, snarling.

  Not letting up, Hervor lunged in again. Her arms burned with fatigue, muscles flimsy as water. She let fury make up for her failing strength, slicing back and forth, an endless stream of attacks.

  Orvar parried, dodged, knocked her blade aside. She just kept coming on, snarling like the mindless horror he had become. Tyrfing flashed up and ripped through his left elbow, leaving his forearm dangling by strands of rotting flesh.

  Almost the same instant, his sword slammed into her abdomen. Her mail kept it from cleaving her in half. Barely. The blow heaved her off her feet. Dug mail links into her flesh even through her leather pads. Sent vomit spewing out of her even as she flew backward and crashed down to the floor.

  Insides crushed … couldn’t … move.

  Hervor gasped, gurgled on vomit. Struggled to suck down a breath.

  Another snarl, and Vebiorg flew into Orvar once more. The draug’s sword flew free as the varulf barreled him over. They were on the floor too, Orvar struggling to hold the wolf back from his throat with one remaining arm. Had his forearm against her neck, pressing her back, barely keeping snapping fangs from tearing out his face.

  Fuck.

  Hervor had to get over there. Had to help Vebiorg before the draug could recover.

  Groaning, she managed to roll over to her side. Started to crawl for Tyrfing. Please, Odin. Give her just a little more strength. Moments more to end this. Just one more chance …

  Vebiorg yelped, snarled in pain.

  Grunting, Hervor cast a look over her shoulder. The varulf had arched her back, twitching as her form shifted. Audible pops as bones changed shape, the woman thrashing in obvious pain.

  Sunlight just peeking through the hole in the roof.

  Oh, Odin’s stones. Vebiorg …

  Frantic, Hervor crawled faster, pulled herself to Tyrfing. Closed her hand around its hilt. The pain in her gut dimmed ever so slightly as the runeblade’s rage seeped into her. Rapid breaths, trying to steady herself, pull herself to her knees.

  Vebiorg was naked, resting on hands and knees in the circle of sunlight. Snarling, Orvar stalked around its perimeter. The draug couldn’t get to the varulf without moving into the light and losing all his powers.

  Hervor’s gut dropped when she realized he wasn’t circling Vebiorg, he was moving around the light’s perimeter, toward Hervor.

  “Run!” Vebiorg shouted at her.

  Oh, godsdamn it! Not like this. Hervor stumbled to her feet, blundered toward the rotting double doors that closed in the temple.

  A hideous growl behind her as Orvar surged forward, stride uneven given his rent leg, but still faster than her. Odin’s stones!

  She had to move. Had to … faster!

  She reached the doors. Could feel him a few feet behind. Hervor swiped Tyrfing, the runeblade tearing through the rotting wood like it was barely there. She flung her weight at the door and crashed through, heedless of dozens of splinters piercing her arms, her legs, her face.

  Beyond, she hit stone steps, toppled down them, banging her head, her shoulders, her hips. Impact after impact jarred her before she pitched down into the cobblestone street.

  Gasping at the innumerable aches, she rolled over. No one out on the streets yet. Not so close to dawn. People here waited, maybe not even sure why they feared the night so very much, but sure something was out in it.

  Through the ruptured door, a pair of red eyes gleamed inside the darkened temple. A roar erupted from there, vile, a shriek of defiant rage torn straight from the gates of Hel.

  Teeth grit, Hervor rose, Tyrfing wobbly in her hands but raised before her.

  The hatred wafting off Orvar-Oddr was almost enough to choke her, even from twenty feet away.

  But he wasn’t following.

  Grunting in too many agonies to keep track of, Hervor stumbled down the street, casting repeated glances at those red eyes.

  They watched her every step.

  By the time she drew nigh to the harbor, the streets were thick with people, many staring at her as she limped and plodded her way past them. The rise of people had left her with no choice but to sheath Tyrfing.

  Besides, she was fair certain Orvar-Oddr would not pursue her in daylight, much less in public. A draug would send most people screaming in terror, but someone would surely come to destroy the cre
ature if he proved so bold. Hel, if Hervor could speak the language, she’d be half-tempted to find a Miklagardian soldier and report the draug in that temple.

  No, that was pointless musing. She didn’t speak the language, didn’t know the name of the place, and Orvar was like to have found some shadow to crawl into, anyway.

  But … Hervor faltered. Vebiorg.

  Damn it. She had to pray the varulf would make it out on her own. As far as she knew, varulfur still maintained some of their strength even in daylight. Shit, maybe Vebiorg could even kill Orvar-Oddr.

  Either way, Hervor had given every last drop of rage, skill, and effort she could manage. And she’d still failed. The Arrow’s Point had bested her, even with Win and Vebiorg beside her. The draug was unstoppable.

  Hervor had to get the fuck out of Miklagard.

  At the city gate, she had to hold up, as the guards slowly waved people through in small groups. People coming in from the harbor, those going out. All got a cursory inspection. Maybe they’d stop her considering her obvious wounds. Maybe not.

  Either way, the throng gathered there meant waiting around for her chance. She had plenty of silver plundered from Tanna’s vault. She could use that to take a boat. At this point, it mattered little where it was bound. Miklagard seemed perched on the edge of the gates of Hel, so most anywhere would be an improvement.

  Pausing, even for the brief moment, only made the pains worse. More obvious. She ought to be lying abed for a fortnight. If there was a ship bound for Bjarmaland, could she even make the trek back to Holmgard?

  She leaned on a building wedged against the city wall. Barely stifled her groans and pants, and that only because she didn’t want the crowd staring at her. If she fled to Bjarmaland, Orvar-Oddr would follow. His hatred was as undying as his body. He’d stolen Starkad from her—the man fucking that vampire bitch made that clear enough.

  The draug would hunt her every last day of her life, however long or short that proved. She was so godsdamned tired of being afraid. Of looking for red eyes in every shadow. Of waiting to see who would be found dead next. She drew in a sharp breath.