Days of Bloody Thrones (Runeblade Saga Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  The king … the king was dead.

  The thought did not quite want to settle into Starkad’s mind.

  Grimacing, sobering fast, he engaged another murderer.

  AT VIKAR’S SIDE, Starkad watched the burning longship vanish into the mist. Alvilda was clutching Vikar’s arm, weeping without a sound.

  “Those were Herthiof’s men,” Starkad said.

  Vikar grunted.

  Herthiof was just another petty king in Nidavellir, one more subject to the dvergar and no true enemy to Harald. Save that Harald had rejected Herthiof’s son’s proposal for Alvilda’s hand. Maybe they had hoped to avenge wounded pride.

  Perhaps though, Herthiof had set his sights on Agder and thought if Vikar was dead, he might claim the kingdom after Harald passed. Either way, only one course now lay open to Vikar.

  Herthiof had slain the king, Vikar’s father-in-law.

  Naught less than total vengeance would do.

  And that meant war. True war, the likes of which Starkad had not seen since they’d left Andalus.

  In war, a man lost those he cared for.

  Starkad was tired of losing friends and allies.

  12

  T hey had found Gylfi waiting in Ochilaik’s hall. The sorcerer king was Odin’s puppet, perhaps, but he was also wise, having lived years beyond that which was normally allotted to a man. And no king in Sviarland, no man, wanted Odin’s voice as an enemy. Not even Starkad.

  Much as Starkad had spurned Odin’s order to serve Gylfi—and later learned Odin sent another ward to the king to earn Gylfi’s loyalty—still he respected the man.

  And so he had requested the king speak to him alone, and they had walked in the Fyris Woods, as Haki’s men set about throwing corpses onto pyres lest the dead rise this night.

  “We are much alike, you and I,” the king said as they drew out of earshot from those engaged in such grisly work.

  “Are we?”

  “We have become instruments of a greater power. I accept my urd, but you resent yours … from time to time.”

  Starkad groaned. “So you know what Odin did to me.”

  “What he did for you?”

  That drew a chuckle. “Even now, I cannot say for certain whether he granted me blessing or curse.”

  “Such is the nature of the Art. If it works any benefit, it accompanies with an even greater price.”

  “It is … the Art of which I wish to speak.”

  The aging king paused then and took to staring at Starkad from beneath the boughs of a withered ash tree. “It is not a path I advise to any man or woman. Once you look into the infinite blackness, you cannot unsee what is revealed. Nor worse yet, it will not unsee you.”

  “You mistake me. I do not seek tutelage in the Art.” Though the ability to harness the Sight … no. Before Starkad could even consider that, before he could go seeking the eitr, he must attend to the more pressing matter.

  It should not have been his problem. It should not have … happened.

  But he had failed her.

  And whatever it took to make that right … well, he would do aught to assure her survival now.

  “My friend suffered dire injuries in this battle. The völva cannot say if she will even live, much less that she will be whole again.”

  Now Gylfi groaned, the sound eventually becoming a mirthless chuckle. The old sorcerer leaned against a tree and slowly turned to look at Starkad. “You have no idea what it is you ask … I am no god to deal out life and death on a whim.”

  Starkad glanced up at the setting sun. Even having such a conversation set his nerves on edge, much less having it in the failing light. It was not talk for men in darkness. Not talk for men at all.

  “Can you help her or not?”

  “Perhaps.” Gylfi pushed off the tree, then spread his hands. “Life might sometimes be stolen from one to give to another … but there is always a price beyond that. A price to her, to me, to you …”

  “What price to me?”

  “The vaettir will take what they will.” The king shrugged. “But if you would have me risk mind, body, and soul to call upon them, I too must demand a hefty price.”

  “Name it. I will bring you silver or gold or aught else you desire, King. Give her back her life.”

  “Oh.” Gylfi chuckled. “Even if my rituals work … I cannot say she will be all she was. But regardless, I know what it is you seek in distant lands.”

  Starkad froze. No. Not that.

  “And you will swear your oath to me … that the next runeblade you retrieve shall fall into my keeping.”

  No. No! “Ecgtheow already brought you the runeblade of Thule!”

  Gylfi shrugged. “And for the moment, it serves me to let him hold it. Though I might add, it was merely lost in Thule, not forged there.”

  “I don’t care! The runeblade is mine, old man!” Starkad’s hands started to rise to his swords. He forced his fists to close. To drop down. Gylfi was not his enemy. “It is mine.”

  “If you truly wish me to work the Art on your behalf, you must be willing to sacrifice aught you hold dear. And even then … I offer no guarantees.”

  Starkad spit into a snow pile. This was not … he could not …

  He had to have it.

  He fucking had to have it.

  Damn it. And Hel damn Odin, if the Ás had truly made Starkad into this.

  He wanted to give Gylfi his oath. He wanted to … but his mouth would not work. It refused, even for Hervor, it refused to let him give up such wealth. “I …”

  “You must say the words.”

  And take a blade through his own gut in the process. No viler torture could befall him.

  “I …” The words wouldn’t fucking come. No matter how hard he tried. He could not surrender such a treasure. Not again.

  Gylfi nodded. “I rather thought not, Starkad. Hundreds of men and women died this day. We could not save them all … and what makes one more deserving than another? You and I … we have greater purposes, uses to which the Ás king holds for us.”

  And fuck Odin, too.

  “I … swear it! I swear the blade is yours. Save her!”

  The king raised his bushy eyebrows. Finally, he nodded. “You surprise me. So be it, Starkad. I will do as best I can … and we shall pay a price for it, all of us. I hope your … friend … is worth it.”

  She was … though Starkad did not relish her suffering under the Art. As he had himself, so long ago …

  13

  Twenty-Two Years Ago

  T he dead were piled up in Herthiof’s hall. Blood drenched the floor, the tables, the walls. Blood and guts and shit all mixed together to fill the place with a stench that almost overpowered Starkad. He limped through the carnage, favoring his left leg after a lucky bastard had slashed his thigh.

  “King Harald is avenged,” Vikar said.

  Starkad snorted. Yes, he imagined so. Herthiof was dead, as was one of his sons and many of his thegns. Some thirty men had died this night, not counting the seven Vikar had lost.

  The rest of the men had set about looting, pillaging, some moving on to the village. Outside, screams rang out, as men burned and murdered and raped their way through Herthiof’s villagers.

  Vikar wiped his mouth. “You hear them shouting about trolls and vaettir?”

  Starkad nodded. A surprise attack at night would do that to men, make them think something out of the mist was coming for them. Very little amusing about that though. “So … back to Agder.”

  Vikar turned about, still seeming to revel in the destruction. It had been a glorious battle, Starkad had to admit. A challenge worthy of song. The aftermath, though …

  A man behind them coughed, choking on his own blood. One of their own warriors, though Starkad didn’t even know his name.

  “Starkad,” Vikar said after a moment. “Herthiof was king of Hordaland.”

  “And?”

  “And also of Hardanger.”

  Huh. Starkad had not kno
wn that. Another petty kingdom already fallen to their now dead foe. He shrugged. “So there will be lands ripe for plunder for a few moons, yes.”

  “Plunder … or conquest. I have taken Herthiof’s kingdom—why should I not add it to my own, as he intended to do to Agder?”

  Starkad groaned, then wiped sweat from his brow. “How far do you intend to reach, little brother?”

  “All of southern Nidavellir, perhaps. Think of it … Healfdene has united most of Reidgotaland. Why should I not accomplish the same here?”

  “To prove to Odin and Tyr that they were wrong about you?” As if it might undo their long banishment. As if the apples would not still be denied to the both of them because Vikar could not follow orders.

  “I don’t have to prove troll shit to them! I will build my own empire here in the frozen north.”

  “The dvergar—”

  Vikar scoffed and waved that away. “Will get more tribute than ever before and find themselves well sated.”

  Starkad nodded. Well, there never was any swaying his brother once he’d set his mind. “If you do this … Herthiof’s brother will surely come to claim what he believes his due.”

  “And will you fight for me, Starkad?”

  Starkad snorted. “Did you really have to ask?”

  THE WARS WENT on and on.

  And they won, more oft than not. Starkad did as Vikar asked, championed him time and again. They fought Geirthiof, brother of Herthiof, and Starkad slew him. They claimed Telemark and the uplands. They fought Herthiof’s son Fridthjof and Starkad’s handpicked crew defeated him as well, forced him to surrender all his lands.

  And the moons passed, as the south of Nidavellir fell into Vikar’s hands.

  Some, like the pirate King Gudlög, bowed willingly and offered tribute. Others Starkad put to the sword.

  It suited Starkad well enough, he supposed. For as Vikar’s fame spread, Starkad’s spread faster. Men said he was so fast with a blade it was like fighting four different men. And thus, he fastened the name Eightarms.

  All of it, Vikar took as his due.

  And after so long, finally, they sailed home. Exhausted and on the cusp of a winter that seemed poised to be more brutal than any Starkad remembered.

  And then the winds had broken.

  And for nigh to a moon, they had found themselves becalmed and with too few men left alive to man the oars.

  Starkad leaned over the gunwale, staring out into the mist. Beyond, the mountains of Nidavellir rose high. Beneath those, the dvergar dwelt. And they had heard of Vikar’s many conquests and had demanded higher and higher tributes. But to them, Vikar offered no argument. What they asked, he paid.

  No man wanted to cross the vaettir.

  Bones clattered upon the deck once again, as the völva made another throw. They had brought the woman to assure their victories. To help them foresee the will of the gods—and these people largely took to worshipping the Aesir, whose own fame spread like wildfire. Starkad did not bother to correct them. They would not have listened.

  Finally, he stalked over to the völva. “Tell me, witch. When will the winds return?”

  The woman looked up with haunted eyes. “There are … unbelievers amongst the army.”

  Starkad barely contained his chuckle. Unbelievers, yes, and he was one of them. How would this woman react to hear that Starkad himself was born among the Aesir, that none of them had been gods before they took Vanaheim? That Odin’s power came … from a piece of a fruit?

  A fruit—golden treasure more valuable any dug from beneath Midgard. Starkad dreamed of them, sometimes, the apples.

  “You’re saying the Aesir stole our winds because not all of us believe in them?”

  She shrugged. “That I cannot say. But they will not help us unless we make a sacrifice in their honor.”

  By now, several other crewmen had gathered, Vikar included. The king scowled at his wise woman, until Starkad half expected him to sacrifice her, though no man would ever dare harm a völva. “Odin is doing this to us, then?”

  A warrior groaned, and several others muttered.

  “Well,” Vikar said. “We cannot well march the army home by land through these mountains. Least of all with winter approaching.”

  “We must try the land,” Starkad said. “We cannot winter here.”

  “No. We both know Odin is a right bastard. If he wants something from us, he’ll have it, or we’ll suffer twice over until we grant it.”

  Starkad folded his arms. He’d never told Vikar that Odin had pled with him to abandon his brother. He had, however, mentioned the king’s request that they go to Gylfi. A request neither of them had honored.

  “Besides,” Vikar said after a moment. “Storms could crop up any day now. We don’t make it home soon, we may not make it home at all. So … how are we to decide it?”

  “By lots,” the völva said. “Each man will draw a rune, and I will hold one duplicate.”

  Starkad groaned. “You will leave our lives to chance?”

  Vikar shook his head. “No, brother. I must leave them to urd.”

  VIKAR MUST HAVE THOUGHT himself doing right by his kingdom. Maybe he even wanted to placate Odin.

  Chance, urd, or Odin’s machinations—it was Vikar who drew the cursed rune.

  So … had the völva known? Had Odin? Or worse yet, had the king of the Aesir created this situation to punish Starkad?

  “So be it, then,” Vikar said. Starkad’s brother was staring out at the sea. “We must make land on those shores. The völva says I must hang, as Odin once hung himself.”

  The tale of Odin hanging from Yggdrasil and returning from the dead sounded like fancy to Starkad, though Tyr swore it was all true. In any event, Vikar would not return from such an experience.

  “Hold off on this mist-madness,” Starkad pled. “Await the morning, at least. One more night … then, if there is no wind … then …”

  Vikar gripped the gunwale. “Suppose another man had drawn the unlucky lot, brother? Would I not then demand he face his urd? Can I ask less of my people than I will give myself?”

  “You are not just one of the men. You are king. Your queen awaits you, thick with child. Do you not wish to see her again?”

  Vikar spat into the sea. “Of course I do. But if I look upon her again, I must do so without shame.”

  “Wait. Just until the morn. I beseech you.”

  And at last, Vikar nodded.

  THE OARS ROWED THEMSELVES, ferrying the tiny boat through the mist, carrying Starkad and Tyr. No moon graced the night and but few stars pierced the darkness. Tyr’s face was shrouded, only the hint of his beard, his chin visible. But Starkad knew him.

  “Where are we bound?” Starkad asked.

  “To the Thing.” Tyr spread his hands … wasn’t there something wrong with his right hand? It looked fine now.

  “Am I to be judged?”

  “We are all of us, always to be judged.”

  “By …”

  “… By the living and the dead. Always by the dead.” Tyr’s voice sounded off, scratchy and coarser even than usual.

  On and on the boat drifted, propelled by unseen hands. And then it scraped up on ice, banked upon a small island in the midst of the empty sea.

  Starkad rose.

  Tyr was gone … had not the man been with him?

  Swallowing—for he could not deny the compulsion to walk forward—he left the boat and climbed the shore.

  Upon a hill sat eleven chairs, a twelfth set amongst and above them. In each chair sat a shrouded figure, hands lit with etheric blue flame. Faces concealed.

  “Where am I?” Starkad asked, finding his feet had carried him to the circle’s center.

  “Perhaps you gaze upon the thrones of fate.” The speaker was in the high chair, and Starkad knew that voice.

  “Odin?”

  Another sitter spoke, this time to Starkad’s left. “So concerned with Odin … and yet you think to defy the will of Asgard?”

/>   The ground trembled beneath Starkad’s feet. Rocks tumbled down the hill. A crack rent the land separating him from Odin, sent Starkad stumbling back onto his arse.

  This crack spread, bubbling darkness seeping from it. And swirling until it became a maelstrom of chaos and shadow. Wind tugged at Starkad’s clothes, his boots, his … soul. Pulled them closer and closer, with each passing moment.

  “What …?”

  “Perhaps then,” Odin said, “to defy the thrones of fate you might dive into the abyss of the Roil.”

  “What abyss? What the fuck is the Roil? Release me!”

  Odin stood now, strode to the very edge of the maelstrom, though its winds ruffled his clothing not at all. “It is the darkness beyond the dark, waiting to devour body, mind, and soul. It waits, hungry. Eternal.”

  “You’re not real! This is not real!”

  All the figures had stood now. Their eyes gleamed in the darkness, luminous green, angry. Judging.

  Odin shook his head, his face still concealed. “Reality is more tenuous than you might imagine. And while I fight to preserve our fragile world, you deny me … but I am not given to wanton cruelty … and might, beseeched by a father, be convinced to bestow upon the son a gift.” Odin pressed his hand down into the maelstrom, and the shadows rent apart. They turned to dust and drifted up into the sky, vanishing into the blackness above.

  “F-father? You mean Tyr?”

  “You are forever denied the apple you so desired … and yet, I cannot ignore the pleas he makes in my ear. Let you live, keep your youth, and grace this dying world as we do.”

  After several breaths to steady himself, Starkad rose. He’d be damned before he met Odin or anyone else lying on his arse on the ground. Even if this was a dream.

  “You will grant me an apple?”

  “It is too late for that. But I can yet offer you three lifetimes of man. I can call upon the darkness and grant to you years beyond the reckoning of men. And too, you will find great wealth, carry mighty weapons, and be ever victorious in battle. And you will … be my sword in the world of men.”