Days of Bloody Thrones (Runeblade Saga Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  Panting, Hervor stumbled over to them. “Fuck you both … for this plan …”

  Wudga looked the shieldmaiden up and down a moment like he actually considered laying with her.

  It went on long enough Starkad scowled. “Come. The other two approach.”

  As Hervor had predicted, Reinhard looked a bit worse for his drink, chest heaving and face flush. Not that Ewald looked so very much better off. Nor any of them, Starkad supposed.

  He glanced up at the sky. The night had drawn on, and dawn lay but a few hours away. They needed to do this before anyone in that castle began to wake. That meant they had no time to rest here.

  With a nod at the others, Starkad took off down the steep incline. His feet skidded on the snow, and he did not fight it. His momentum carried him toward the castle’s sloping roof as though he wore skis. As he drew nigh, a problem became apparent. There was a drop between the mountainside and the castle roof of a dozen feet. Deep in winter, the snows might have piled over and eliminated the issue.

  Now, Starkad could not halt his momentum. Instead, at the edge, he jumped.

  For an agonizing heartbeat, he flew through the air. Then he hit the stone roof, landed with a roll, and took a heavy impact on his shoulder. His swords clattered against the ice-crusted stonework. Starkad skidded along it, rolling back toward the mountain before he finally managed to catch himself. Less graceful and far more noisy than he might have hoped.

  Through a wooden roof, they’d surely have heard him, but dverg-wrought stone … perhaps not.

  Wudga landed on the roof an instant later, before Starkad had even managed his feet. Hervor and the other two came up right behind the man. Reinhard failed to jump at all, and instead pitched off and slammed hard into the roof. The man lay very still.

  Hel take that imbecile. Starkad stalked over and prodded him.

  Dead, his neck broken.

  Damned drunkard. Now they were down two men, and they hadn’t even engaged the enemy. Wudga’s plans had not accounted for foolery on the part of his own mercenaries … could they still pull this off?

  Grumbling, Starkad left the body where it lay and crept over to one of those high windows. Hervor joined him, and they peered down. The windows did indeed overlook a feast hall, and though the room stood empty, the drop had to be twenty feet down. Why did the dvergar feel the need to build things so damned big? They themselves were shriveled wrecks of men’s bodies.

  Nor was there any obvious spot on which to secure a rope up here.

  Hervor pointed through the window to iron-plated rafters that supported the feast hall. “We could reach those through the other window,” she whispered. “But we’d have no means of retreat if …”

  “If things turn against us?” He shrugged. He had not come here to retreat. He crept over to the window she had indicated. She was right. They could make the jump down to the rafters and then from there to the floor, hopefully without breaking any bones.

  Starkad rubbed his hands together and waited until the others had drawn up behind him.

  Ewald scoffed at the sight. “You’re fucking jesting with me.”

  “So stay up here until summer, then,” Wudga said.

  Starkad smirked. Right. They didn’t really have much choice at this point.

  The window was not so very tall, forcing him to make an awkward, crouching jump. The one time the dvergar did not build large—probably wanted to minimize the risk of sunlight. Starkad leapt forward, fell, and slammed hard into the rafter. His momentum pitched him forward, and he slipped, falling again. He wrapped both hands around the beam as he fell, catching himself. There, he hung, one hand on each side of the rafter.

  Not much chance of pulling himself back up. So naught to do except drop. He looked down. A dozen feet. Or more. It wouldn’t kill him, but that did not look enjoyable. But then again, he wanted adventure.

  He wanted to know his limits. And surpass them.

  Exhaling, Starkad released the beam and fell. He landed in a crouch, hoping to lessen the impact. It still stung his ankles, and a grunt escaped him. Slowly, he rose, drawing both swords as he did so. Above him, Hervor dropped onto the rafter, not repeating his mistake.

  A glance around. No one coming.

  “Wait,” he whispered up at her. He placed his swords upon a table, then held out his arms. No sense in her hurting herself as well.

  Hervor frowned, as if uncertain.

  “Jump!” he snapped as quietly as he could.

  With a grunt, she did. Starkad caught her, but her weight bore them both down. She landed atop him, lay there for a bare instant, then scrambled off him. Before Starkad had even risen, Wudga leapt down beside them.

  Starkad got up and held out his arms for Ewald. The man scowled, shaking his head.

  “You have nowhere else to go,” Starkad said.

  Grumbling, Ewald dropped off the beam. Starkad caught him too, this time better braced, and managed to keep his feet.

  Wudga stalked closer to the main gate that seemed to lead into the great hall. Starkad retrieved his blades, then crept up beside his employer. In the other room, four groggy guards leaned against the wall, muttering to one another. A number of passages led out of that hall.

  “Which way?” Starkad whispered.

  Wudga pointed to one. “The king’s chambers lie through there.”

  Starkad wanted to ask how the man knew with such certainty, but this was neither the time nor place for such questions.

  “You and Ewald take the guards,” Wudga said. “Block that passage against reinforcements.” He drew his own sword. “I’ll take the shieldmaiden in case any other guards protect the king.”

  Starkad glanced at Hervor, who nodded. She did bear the runeblade … and of course, holding off the army in a corridor was a task only Starkad could do. So why did he hesitate to send Hervor alone with Wudga?

  No, better not to dwell on doubts. Better to charge out there, slay his foes, and be done with it. He exchanged a nod with Ewald, then raced forward, swords bared.

  A disbelieving shout went up while he was still twenty feet from the guards. They fumbled with halberds, slowed by fatigue or drink or both. By the time he’d reached them, they had leveled the weapons. A gray-haired man thrust at him. Starkad beat the shaft away with one sword, then stepped inside the man’s reach so he could knock aside the halberd of another foe.

  A third man rushed off to engage Ewald.

  Perfect.

  Gray-Hair tried to grab him. Starkad jerked a pommel up into the man’s jaw, staggering him. Poor bastard stumbled backward even as Starkad thrust the same sword forward, impaling the other halberdier. A third man came in swinging hard.

  Starkad jumped backward, out of reach, and the halberd bit into the shoulder of the guard he’d already impaled. He couldn’t miss this chance … Starkad lunged forward, swinging both blades in a whirl. The guard jerked his halberd up, managed to block one blade on the haft and fall back out of range of the other. Again and again, he parried Starkad’s furious blows.

  The guard was fast.

  Starkad was faster.

  He scraped a sword along the halberd shaft, drawing it down. Drawing the man’s attention. A quick swipe of his other sword sheared through the guard’s cheek and collided with his helm. A blow like that didn’t need power to seriously distract and slow a man. Starkad spun, cutting out the guard’s throat with his other blade.

  Gray-Hair had risen, blood streaming down from a busted nose and the guard of his helm bent out of position. He charged forward, thrusting the halberd. Starkad twisted out of the way and cut him down too.

  Ewald had felled his guard too, though it had earned him a wicked cut running from his jowls, over his neck, and into a shoulder. The mercenary was coughing, spitting blood.

  “Move!” Starkad shouted, no longer bothering with stealth.

  Hervor and Wudga had already vanished down the corridor. And it fell to him and Ewald to guard that passage as long as needed.


  5

  A shout echoed down the corridor as Hervor chased after Wudga. The guards might not have known what was about, but they knew trouble had landed in their midst. Just not how much.

  Starkad’s employer dashed around a corner and up a flight of stairs.

  The man knew exactly where he was going. Had he been here before? How else would he know this castle’s layout?

  At a landing atop the stairs, a pair of guards blocked the way, here favoring broadswords instead of halberds. Wudga paused, glancing from one to the next and waving his axe around in slow circles.

  Footfalls resounded on the stairs below them. Either some men had gotten past Starkad—unlikely as that sounded—or a few had come from the adjoining corridors. Didn’t matter. They had little time.

  Tyrfing in hand, Hervor turned back to the stairs even as a new pair of warriors crested onto the landing. “Do what you came to do!” she shouted at Wudga.

  The first of her attackers lunged in, making wild sweeps with that blade. Clearly intent to cleave her in half. Thinking her smaller, weaker. Hervor stepped into a swing, parried, and riposted. Tyrfing darted inside the man’s guard and tore through his mail like he wore naught but cloth. The warrior fell back, blank stupidity on his face.

  Dumb shit didn’t know he was already dead.

  Wound would fester and eat away at him like poison. Tyrfing always stilled at least one heart.

  The other man advanced with more measured paces, tried to circle her. Not happening. Hervor feinted to his left, then jerked Tyrfing back, low. Her runeblade sheared through the man’s knee and sent him tumbling to the ground, screaming in agony she could barely imagine.

  “What the …” the first warrior said, gaze locked on Tyrfing.

  Hervor raised it up, turning the flat of the blade so he could see the runes engraved along it, now filling with blood from her victims. He paled further, and that was all the chance she needed. Hervor charged him, and—in his shock—he failed to raise his own blade. Tyrfing punched through his jaw and out the back of his skull. Her victim’s blood sprayed her. Stung her eyes. Got in her mouth.

  Hervor spit and jerked the blade free.

  The whole landing stank with death and guts. Coppery taste was in her mouth.

  She turned.

  Wudga’s axe was embedded in one man’s skull. He wrestled with the other, shoved him against the wall. They were grunting, each fumbling. Wudga wriggled one hand ever upward, toward the man’s face. Finally, he got leverage and dug his fingers into the poor bastard’s nostrils. The guard shrieked and writhed. It gave Wudga the chance to pull a knife. And then the blade was in the guard’s gut.

  Again and again Wudga punched the blade into his slowing victim. Finally, panting, he let the man fall, smearing a bloodstain on the back wall as the body slipped down.

  Another man came tromping down the hall, this one clad in polished mail and a silvery crown. Bearing a blade that seemed to reflect the light from the sconces all wrong. Runes flickering.

  Wudga stumbled away from the man he’d killed. “Otwin.” He planted a foot on his first victim’s chest, then heaved his axe free. The crunch of skull and brains that lurched out with the blade turned Hervor’s stomach, despite her long years of violence. “I have come for my father’s legacy.” Wudga pointed that axe at the runeblade. “Hand over Mimung, and I will grant a swift death.”

  The aged king of Njarar sneered, advancing on them.

  Hervor backed off to the side, flanking their foe. Just how powerful was this Mimung? It was not one of the original nine runeblades, true, but men claimed Volund was the greatest smith in Midgard. So was it a match for Tyrfing?

  Wudga roared at the man, all animal fury and sounding much like a snow bear. He lunged forward with tight, powerful swings of that axe. Otwin fell back before Wudga. The king was old now. Getting slow. Wudga should have this in hand. If it was his vengeance, his family’s vengeance, then Hervor ought to let him attend to it himself. It was what she’d have wanted if—

  The king twisted in a tight riposte. Mimung sheared through Wudga’s axe right on the blade, scored it down so far a huge chunk of it snapped right off. A twist of the sword sent the ruined weapon flying from Wudga’s hand. Skittering along the stone floor.

  Oh. Fuck.

  Hervor raced forward, shoving Starkad’s employer out of the way even as Otwin tried to skewer him with a thrust. If Mimung worked aught like Tyrfing, Wudga could not afford so much as a scratch from it. Hervor jerked Tyrfing up to parry. The impact echoed through the landing, and Otwin stumbled back, face slack. Not believing any weapon had stood up to his own? How many years had he wielded that thing?

  Indeed, for that matter, should not this man have been past sixty winters? Approaching seventy? Few lived so long, much less still able to fight. Was that the sword affecting him? Hervor shook such musings from her mind as Otwin advanced again. Not the time.

  The king cut, thrust, and attacked again and again. His breath came heavy, yes, but he had the speed of a man half his age. It was all Hervor could do to parry or dodge every blow. This man had clearly spent years upon years practicing with only this blade and had learned its weight so perfectly. She twisted Tyrfing, tried to riposte. Otwin moved faster, turned Mimung inside and jerked it down.

  The runeblade cut through Hervor’s mail and gouged her arm.

  She faltered, fell back a step and stared at the wound.

  No.

  No!

  It … it didn’t feel like poison. But then again, did a man struck by Tyrfing know himself damned?

  She darted her gaze between the wound and the man who had dealt it. Fuck. And fuck him. If she was going to die, she’d take this bastard with her.

  Wudga used the opportunity to charge in, now bearing a sword claimed from a dead guard. He swung with all the same fury he’d had with the axe. Strong. Fast. But not enough control. Not quite proper training.

  Still. A smart warrior took every advantage.

  Hervor raced in while Otwin engaged Wudga. She didn’t swing for the king though but for his sword. Tyrfing clanged against Mimung once again, knocking it out of place as the king tried to parry Wudga’s blade. The stolen sword crashed against the king’s helm, sending the man staggering to his knees, the sound of it nigh to deafening, even to Hervor’s ears.

  Shrieking, she swept Tyrfing in a low arc. Her runeblade severed Otwin’s forearm, and he crashed to the ground, his screams barely audible over the ringing in her ears.

  Hand on her shoulder, Wudga shoved her away.

  Hervor spat. Worked her jaw to clear her head. Let the man have his vengeance. It was one thing she understood only too well.

  Wudga hefted Otwin up by his neck with one hand. “At long last, Father’s vengeance is complete. And your father’s cruelty repaid in full.” Now he brought his other hand up, closed it around the king’s throat, and shoved him against the wall.

  The king beat against Wudga’s arms.

  He might as well have tried to wrestle a mammoth. Wudga’s muscles bulged as he squeezed. The king’s futile efforts grew slower.

  And finally, Wudga dropped the body on the floor.

  HERVOR CLENCHED her jaw as Starkad stitched the wound on her arm. Other than the fatigue of battle and the slight wooziness of blood loss, she didn’t feel ill.

  “So it’s not poisoned?”

  Starkad glanced at her face for the barest instant. They sat together in the king’s chamber while Ewald and Wudga looted the castle. No more guards challenged them. Maybe it was that Wudga now bore Mimung and claimed descent from Princess Bodvild—and was he then truly the son of the dark smith Volund? Or maybe it was that Starkad had killed a score of men single-handedly. Or maybe no one felt overmuch loyalty to a dead man who clearly would not pay them any longer.

  Regardless, those Njararan warriors who had not fled had joined in the looting.

  Finally, Starkad shook his head. “I have heard no tales of such, and many stories do speak
of the fell, cursed blade wielded by the king of Njarar. You’ll live.” He rose then, mumbling something under his breath.

  Hervor prodded the wound on her arm. Not poisoned maybe, but it hurt like Hel herself had spit on it. “I … I really thought I was going to die.”

  “Well, you fucking could have! I never should have agreed to bring you along.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Starkad waved a dismissive hand in her direction. “It means naught, Hervor. Not a damned thing.”

  She lurched to her feet. Then she shoved him. “No. No, you say what you fucking want to say. We might have all died this night. So tell me, great Starkad, what is it you need to say? Huh? Is this about me being a woman again?”

  His face faltered a moment.

  Oh. It was about that shit again. “Fuck you, Starkad.”

  He opened his mouth, then shut it, shaking his head.

  “No you don’t!” She shoved him again, pushed him hard enough he stumbled against the wall. “You don’t get to walk away. I fought by your side on Thule, and I fought by your side tonight. I have earned your godsdamned respect a half dozen times over!”

  “I … suppose you have.”

  “Damn right. We were glorious tonight. Odin himself must have watched our victory.”

  The man winced. He fucking winced.

  “What is it with you?” She got right up in his face. She was damned tired of this. “Are you afraid of women? Why? Does your cock not work right? Got a little limp wad of shame stuck between your legs?”

  Now he pushed her back so hard she stumbled and fell on her arse. “It works fine.”

  “Prove it!” The words left her mouth before she realized she even intended to say them. Huh. So that was said. Her pulse was pounding through her neck, pumping so hard her whole body felt like it would tremble apart. She knew blood still plastered her face, her hair. Not exactly some beautiful princess. But whatever. She’d fucking said it. No backing down now. “Fucking prove it!”

  Starkad’s hands twitched, his face an unreadable mix of emotions.