Days of Bloody Thrones (Runeblade Saga Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  Starkad had thought his prize lost forever. But if he could not have an apple … to have all Odin had promised … was it possible? Long life and wealth and glory?

  “What must I do?”

  One of the men threw back his hood to reveal Tyr’s face. “Honor.” The man’s eye sockets were empty pools of blackness.

  Another stood, this time revealing Starkad’s mother’s face, her eyes too missing. “Sacrifice.”

  A final figure strode toward him. This one dropped his cowl to reveal Vikar’s face. “Blood. Of the one who cost you everything.”

  “YOU MUST COMPLETE THE SACRIFICE,” Starkad said, as he and Vikar stood watching the dawn. “But let it be a mere gesture to placate the gods we defied.”

  Vikar turned away from the sun to look at Starkad. “How so?”

  “A simple noose of calf intestines tied to a mere twig. Let the völva perform the ritual, you pretend to die … and then we might all sail from here.”

  His half-brother clapped him on the arm. “I hope you are right, though I find myself doubting we can so easily appease Odin.”

  Nevertheless, Vikar rowed them ashore himself. Starkad, two thegns, and the völva, all dour. While aboard the ship, the men watched the king going to his mock death. Even knowing it not real, they feared. They feared the wrath of Odin for the deceit, perhaps, or feared more to lose the beloved ruler who had led them to victory after victory.

  Ashore, Starkad was the first out of the boat. “I must find a calf or goat or something else. We need the intestines for the … sacrifice.”

  Vikar nodded. “Do not take long, brother.”

  Starkad flinched at the word. Brother? Half-brother, and though he’d loved Vikar dearly … surely his brother knew what had to happen. Urd had been declared … Odin must be appeased. Vikar himself had said so, had accepted his role in it. He’d been planning to go willingly before Starkad had talked him down yesterday.

  And now …

  That dream ran through Starkad’s mind, over and over. Ceaseless and undeniable.

  The rope was waiting, where the dreams had said it would be. When Starkad hefted it up, it became slick and slippery—a calf’s intestine. As Odin had promised.

  Vikar knew. He must know. He had accepted this.

  One way or another, Odin would have his due … and this way, Starkad might claim all he’d forsaken in order to join Vikar these past years. He might …

  Be damned.

  He blew out a long breath. This had to happen.

  It had to.

  Odin was offering him something close to immortality. Offering the next best thing to the prize Starkad had been denied because of Vikar. Been denied, so Starkad’s little brother could become a king.

  As Starkad returned to camp, he found Vikar standing atop a rotting stump. A tiny branch overhung this, flimsy and leafless in the winter.

  Starkad flung the intestines at the feet of a thegn, who then tied it over the branch. With a glance at Starkad—and he nodded, damn him!—Vikar tied a noose and set it round his neck.

  “Vikar …” Starkad started to say.

  His brother stepped off the stump. And it crumbled to dust beneath him. The flimsy branch thickened, twisting and growing, shooting out like a spear. And the calf’s guts became a rope. The noose jerked tight around Vikar’s throat.

  His eyes latched onto Starkad’s.

  Had he known?

  Had he known and gone anyway?

  The men stood in shock as their glorious leader died. As their dreams of a united Nidavellir died with him.

  And then came the shouts of kinslayer. Of betrayal. Of murder.

  The blood sacrifice Odin had demanded.

  Vikar’s thegns drew their blades, cursing Starkad.

  And as Starkad killed the two thegns, he knew—Odin had called for their deaths as well.

  14

  Every breath brought fresh pain. Agony that lanced through her lungs. It cut through her throat. It sent tiny bolts of lightning coursing up and down her arm, her shoulder, her side. It hurt so much she wanted to close her eyes and cease to breathe.

  Trying not to breathe hurt even more.

  Hervor hated life.

  But she sure as Hel did not want to die.

  She lay in a closed room, lit only by a tiny fire pit. Someone had bandaged her wounds with a foul-smelling poultice. Perhaps it lessened the pain. If so, she could not imagine how it might have felt without the rank stuff.

  Word had come that Haki had killed Ochilaik. Had hunted down the Yngling king’s sons. Had proclaimed himself king of Upsal. So … the Yngling dynasty had fallen. Was her oath … truly fulfilled? After three years of blood and sacrifice and betrayal and lies … had she succeeded?

  Perhaps at the cost of her own life. Her whole body seemed ready to give out. How was she even yet still alive? She’d seen men die of lesser wounds. Bleeding inside, choking on their own blood.

  That ought to have been her urd.

  But here she was, still alive in her unending agony. A surprise.

  She lay there a long time. Alone. She had to piss but dared not try to sit up on her own.

  Finally, she called out for help.

  Here she was … mighty warrior. Famed and feared and wielding a runeblade. Begging a servant to help her use the godsdamned chamber pot.

  After such wounds … no. She might never be a warrior again.

  Hel, maybe she’d never even be able to do as Grandfather had wished and bear children.

  Assuming she lived long enough to even return to Ostergotland.

  It was neither servant nor slave who came in, though, but King Haki himself. And she wasn’t going to ask him to help her piss. “My king.”

  He sat down beside her, watching as he did so. Careful not to disturb her. He offered her a skin of mead. “Slowly. Just a sip, now.”

  Hervor took it with her left hand and did take a very small swig. That hurt too. Almost choked her. Coughing, she handed it back. “T-thanks.”

  “You were right, Hervor. We won because of Starkad. I’m indebted to you. What would you ask of me?”

  “I … uh … I suppose give the reward to my grandfather.” And what would he do with it? Hoard it a few years until he died as well. Was he right, back when he’d pled with her to stay, to rule, to carry on their family line? The men of Bolmso were all dead, her father’s line destroyed. And now her mother’s line would end too. All of Hervor’s kin, gone forever.

  Wiped from Midgard.

  “He will be my friend as long he lives.”

  Oh. Even Haki realized Grandfather had not so much time left.

  “I’m going to die?”

  “Huh.” Haki rubbed his forehead. “You were fortunate, I suppose. King Gylfi was visiting the new king of Upsal when we arrived. As a gesture of goodwill, the king prepared this poultice for you, and our völva wrapped your wounds.”

  She feigned a smile. The worse wounds lay inside, and they both knew it.

  Haki nodded. “Gylfi did some strange, unmanly things to keep you alive. He says with luck you might pull through. I suppose it means I must maintain peace with Dalar, after he showed such kindness to my thegn.”

  Well then. Living, even in pain and unable to wield a sword … it was better than death. It was better than waking up at the gates of Hel. She supposed.

  But Haki didn’t leave.

  “There’s something else?”

  “Hmm. You called Starkad Eightarms your friend. Apparently he quite thought so, as well. He asked Gylfi to use his Art to help you.”

  “Use magic?” A pit opened in her stomach. All she had ever seen of the Art was dark and foul and born of Niflheim and Hel. The power it represented corrupted and destroyed. It had, if she understood, cursed Starkad. And yet he was willing to invoke it?

  “Gylfi is a sorcerer of some repute. He claims he could call upon vaettir that might aid you … but it would cost him.”

  “W-what did he ask for?” What could the so
rcerer ask for that would so throw Haki into doubt?

  “I do not know. That was between Starkad and the king of Dalar.” Haki shook his head.

  She had heard sorcerers dealt in souls and life itself, in things irreplaceable. That their prices defied imagination.

  Hervor had trouble swallowing. “So …?”

  “Gylfi says the moon will be full in two nights. That’s when he intends to work his Art. They will take you … into the woods. Neither does Gylfi wish to practice his ways here, nor would we have it in our town.”

  “And I’ll be able to fight again?”

  Haki turned to her now, brows drawn so tight his forehead had more creases than she’d ever seen in it. “I don’t know, Hervor. I have no idea what will happen. Save that he intends something dark … and your friend is willing to pay a hefty price to get this done. I pray to Odin this course is wise.”

  IN THE EVENING, Starkad came to her. He sat on the bed where Haki had sat, the look on his face again unreadable. What exactly went on in that head of his, anyway? Hervor could rarely tell.

  She waited for him to speak.

  After a moment, he sighed. “I should have been faster.”

  “Huh?”

  “On the battlefield. Maybe you would not have been hurt if I had dispatched my foes more quickly.”

  “Oh.” Hervor grunted. “So you mean you’re an idiot.”

  “What?”

  She wanted to cuff him on the head. Of course, she could barely fucking move. “Were you the only warrior in those woods? The only person fighting for our cause? I do not ask for you to defend me! I am … I was …”

  Useless …

  Starkad nodded. Rose. Paced about the room looking like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “So. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  What?

  But Haki had said Starkad had bargained with Gylfi to try the Art upon Hervor. So what was he about now?

  She frowned, saying naught. Surely there was more to this.

  “There is something I require before I can go to Glaesisvellir … and I must have that runeblade. Volund assured me I would find it among many other treasures lost somewhere in the kingdom of Godmund.”

  Now Hervor grimaced. What was this? He bargained for her to be restored—which sounded impossible—but he planned to leave before seeing it through? What the fuck was wrong with him?

  Moreover, if he felt so compelled to go after this blade, he ought to ask her to come with him. After all, Hervor had been the one to claim the runeblade of Thule.

  Starkad stared at her face a moment, then nodded. “Rest, shieldmaiden. Perhaps we shall meet again on my return.”

  And then the bastard just left.

  Hervor lay there, mouth agape, trying to fathom what had just happened.

  AS HAKI HAD SAID, men came to carry Hervor out into the Fyris Woods. Every step of the way had sent fresh jolts of pain shooting up and down her arm, her neck, her chest. It grew so bad, she shut her eyes, tried to block out all thought.

  The mist was thick this evening, though, and she could almost feel the dead. Men had burned the corpses, of course. Everyone feared draugar. But the ghosts of the battle seemed to linger, watching, hateful of the living who betrayed them.

  Or maybe she was just delirious with pain.

  At Gylfi’s instructions, the men laid her upon a mossy clump beneath a withered tree, deep in the wood. Then they fled, their faces pale and fearful as maids. Not from the dark, probably. Maybe not even from the ghosts that surely haunted this place.

  Gylfi himself was weathered, his hair and beard long and gray, great creases marring his eyes. The old king seemed just a little like her grandfather, in his way, though he did have a greater air of power about him. An air of … mystery, perhaps? Of something ever so slightly off about him.

  He puttered about, inspecting all the local trees. Eventually, he opened a large bladder that stank of blood. The thing was nigh to as big as her head … and it was filled with blood. Human blood? Shit. What vileness was he about?

  Hervor cleared her throat. “I … will be able to fight again, after this?”

  Gylfi grunted, dipped two fingers in the blood, and drew a rune upon a tree. Finally, he turned back to her. “Perhaps. Evoking vaettir is … imprecise. They may heed my call, and if they do, they may do as I have asked. Or they may do aught else they wish here. No being of the Otherworlds has our best interest at heart.” He resumed painting the odd runes. “In truth … I think they hate us, the living. They torment us in the worst ways they can think up.”

  “Then why do it?”

  Again he paused. “What? Sorcery?” A long sigh escaped him, like he could barely stand the answer himself. “Oh, child … because once you have looked into the darkness … it never lets you go back. So we struggle to control it, failing as oft as not.”

  Hervor shuddered at his words, even that movement hurting all the more. After a moment, Gylfi stuck a pair of torches on either side of her body. They offered but scant warmth, but they did serve to keep the mist at bay—a small blessing.

  He worked a while more, painting trees and rocks with symbols that meant naught to Hervor. Was it all show or did these things accomplish some end? The old man moved about slowly, clearly pained for his efforts.

  Finally, Gylfi came and sat beside her, groaning as his back audibly popped.

  Hervor wanted to look him in the eye but couldn’t turn her head.

  Gylfi clucked his tongue and stretched. “The problem with asking vaettir for aid—or even compelling it from them—they tend to extract a hefty price from … everyone.”

  “Everyone?”

  “The one calling upon them. The one receiving their ministrations. The one who requested it. Sometimes those nearest to those people. These beings are steeped in cruelty and capriciousness beyond the ken of mankind. And they lie. Always.” He breathed out a long breath. “You know, shieldmaiden, you remind me of a ward I raised not so very long ago. Brave and strong, a warrior. I, uh … well, it makes what I must ask of you more uncomfortable.”

  Oh, she did not much like the sound of that. “Speak, old man.”

  “I must remove your shirt, Hervor, and paint the runes upon your injuries.”

  Uh huh. Lecherous old fuck. Did his sorcery really require that, or was it an excuse to ogle her tits? Not that it mattered, she supposed. In her current state, she could not have stopped him from doing aught he wished to her.

  Of course, as he began to peel off her tunic, the way he had to twist her arm felt like getting kicked by a troll. It sent tears welling in her eyes. All Hervor could do was grit her teeth and try not to sob at the agony. Finally he let her lay back, half naked, vision blurred with the haze of pain.

  She drew in deep breaths, those too feeling like they would tear her insides apart.

  Gylfi cut away her bandages, gentle at that, at least. Then he pulled the bladder over, then began tracing blood over her clavicle, shoulder, arm, and ribs. Even his light touch hurt, and the blood had grown cold and clammy. His fingers brushed the edge of her right breast as he worked, but he seemed so intent on his designs as to hardly notice.

  Maybe he’d spoken the truth about taking no pleasure in this. Small comfort though that offered.

  “I have a tonic that will put you to sleep.”

  “Sleep?”

  “It primes your mind and body to receive the ministrations of vaettir. And …” Gylfi glanced around. “Most would prefer not to see direct influence from the other side of the Veil. It cannot be unseen. It is … unlikely you will enjoy the dreams, though.”

  Oh, wonderful. Hervor glowered at the old man. “Just do it.”

  He produced a ceramic vial from his satchel, uncorked it, and tilted it up to her lips. The stuff stank like horse piss. Tasted worse. Oily and slick.

  Hervor coughed, sputtering.

  She felt naught at first, save perhaps a slight dizziness.

  And then she shut her eyes.

 
IT WAS the most crowded market Hervor had ever seen. Streets clogged with strangers. Dark-skinned foreigners and locals alike, all buying, selling, shoving. Hawking wares.

  All with black eyes.

  All watching her.

  “Come on, now,” Starkad said. “We have to find the building they’re keeping your grandfather in.” The man disappeared into the crowd, wading through it like a river.

  “W-wait,” Hervor mumbled. Her mouth was thick, not working the way it ought to. So many people all looking at her.

  Angry. Hostile. They hated her. Thousands of them, all staring. Blaming her for every ill of the world.

  Why? What had she done?

  “Starkad!”

  The sun dipped below the horizon, the moon rising at the same instant. Clouds swirled overhead, crackling with thunder and unshed lightning.

  A howling wind.

  “Starkad!”

  There, he disappeared through a doorway. A shop? A cobbler? Why would Grandfather be held in a boot shop?

  Rough hands shoved her, held her back from the doorway. Groped her. Pushed her down into the dust. Heavy feet trod on her hands.

  Her arm felt like it was on fire. Her whole shoulder, her lungs, were burning.

  Screaming, she crawled forward, batting aside the faceless crowd. They formed up in a ring around her, staring down. Hissing like snakes.

  Hervor managed her feet and stumbled through the doorway, falling up the stairs. Why were there stairs in a cobbler’s shop? She pitched forward, landing on the shop floor. Starkad was there, haggling with Grandfather over a pair of boots. Arguing bitterly, shouting insults.

  Starkad stood with his back to a massive window, floor to ceiling. Beyond that crashed a waterfall, stretching high into the night and disappearing into mist below. It roared in a cacophony that drowned out the sounds of the market below. It beckoned her … to once again be sucked into oblivion.

  “What the …?” Hervor mumbled as she drew nigh.