Days of Bloody Thrones (Runeblade Saga Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  “Honorless dog!” Grandfather shouted. And he shoved Starkad.

  The man flailed, then plummeted backward over into the falls.

  “Starkad!” Hervor shrieked. She rushed to the window, but he was gone.

  The stairs! The stairs must lead down there. She’d search the crowd until … a chill wind washed over her, prickled her bare flesh. She was … naked?

  Shit.

  She couldn’t rush out into the crowd without clothes. Where the fuck had her clothes gone?

  She turned about, but the shop was empty. Except for boots. Boots watching her with their lidless, watery eyes.

  A scream caught in her throat. The boots were after her.

  Panting, hardly able to run straight, she stumbled down the stairs. They opened out into a dense marsh … like the Fyris Wood. A deep night had settled over it, and she could make out less than five feet ahead of her.

  “Starkad!”

  Her bare feet squelched in the mud beneath her.

  Crickets chirped. Unseen frogs croaked.

  Hervor pushed on. Tree roots writhed and twisted like serpents.

  The bog bubbled, like pools of viscous shadows, seeping darkness into the world. So black she feared to look inside. It would devour her.

  Her heart was pounding against her ribs so hard it was going to burst through them. Hervor ran, trying to scream. Unable to get it past the lump in her throat.

  In the path ahead, a tree split down the middle with a sound like flesh rending.

  A heavy heartbeat.

  Thump thump.

  From within this tree erupted red light the color of inflamed skin. Something bubbled out of the rift like pus, taking the shape of a woman. Naked, lithe. Her flesh black and gray, bark-like. Her eyes glowing green with Otherworldly light.

  Hervor collapsed onto the path. Serpentine roots lashed out at her, wrapped around her ankles. She shrieked.

  The roots jerked her forward, dragged her closer to the emerging woman.

  Hervor clawed at the ground. Her fingers dug into the mud but found no purchase, only drawing deep rivets along the path.

  The creature—ash-wife?—stepped out of the tree and strode toward her, licking her lips.

  Shrieking, Hervor swung at the ash-wife. Tried. But her right arm wouldn’t work. It hung limp at her side. The ash-wife grabbed Hervor by both biceps and hefted her up. Shoved her back against the rent tree. Vines lurched out of it and wrapped around Hervor’s wrists. Pulled them tight.

  Sucked her arms into the pus-filled opening.

  Hot and damp and awful.

  Squishing.

  Squelching.

  The ash-wife leaned in close to Hervor’s face. An overlong, bulbous tongue lolled out, and the vaettr licked Hervor’s face. The slurping tongue lanced over Hervor’s body, between her breasts. Down. Between her legs.

  Hervor writhed, spat at the vile creature. “Get off me!”

  “Do you know what we miss?” The creature’s voice was lush, full like the moon, like the wild. Almost seeming ready to burst. “Do you know why so many bargains are sealed thus?”

  Odin preserve her … “Sealed … how?”

  “Oh. You know.”

  Another tree rent across the path, this one cracking like thunder. From it stepped a … man. If you could call the wood creature that. Male. Clearly, given his erect cock.

  Hervor grimaced. “Fuck you! Get away from me.”

  “It is your … dream.” The ash-wife’s tongue slurped all over Hervor’s exposed flesh as the male stalked closer.

  Well, Hel. If it was just a dream … “Then fucking do it!” Hervor bellowed at him. “You think you have what it takes? You think that pathetic excuse for a cock can get the job done? Well then just—”

  The creature surged forward and grabbed her hips. His fingers became like roots. They dug through her flesh, burrowed into her gut. Through the haze of pain, she barely even noticed his other intrusion.

  And then the ash-wife bit Hervor’s broken clavicle. Her teeth bored into Hervor like dozens of maggots. Sucked the blood and life and very soul from Hervor.

  And Hervor screamed and screamed and screamed.

  “HERVOR!” Gylfi was shaking her.

  Hervor lurched forward. Her fist caught the king in the jaw and sent him sprawling. “Fuck you! Fuck you, old man.”

  Gylfi rolled over, rubbing his face. “It was … a dream. Whatever you saw, it wasn’t real.”

  Her heart was still trying to beat right out of her chest. “It felt godsdamned real.”

  He rose, shook himself. “Don’t most dreams?”

  She looked down at herself. Still naked but only from the waist up. And she was sitting. Her arm and shoulder still hurt like Hel, but she could move them. For that matter, breathing had gone from agony to merely painful.

  Grunting with the effort, she too rose. It had worked?

  She snatched up her shirt, but when she tried to don it, her right shoulder still wouldn’t bend all the way. Trying left her gasping with pain, almost brought her to her knees.

  “Your healing has been accelerated, aided beyond what nature might have allowed. Nevertheless, I hope you did not expect a full recovery.”

  Hervor grimaced, then jerked her tunic on as best she could. Finally, after catching her breath, she turned on him. “I did not expect to be violated by … by whatever the fuck that was!”

  “The draught I gave you is known to cause horrific hallucinations. A necessary side effect of the process.”

  She hesitated. “So … none of what I saw was real? You’re saying all of that came out of my own head?” If so, she was even more disturbed than Grandfather had ever thought.

  Gylfi clucked his tongue then shook his head. “Most people … prefer to believe so. I have … always tried to tell myself the same after such traumas.”

  So the king … had also experienced the … violations? Two possibilities—either the draught pulled the most horrific tortures she could imagine from her own mind … or actual vaettir tormented her in her dreams. Gylfi said vaettir hated mankind. Hervor wasn’t quite certain whether to be more afraid that beings of such malevolence watched her from just beyond the world she could see … or that her own mind could produce such depredations.

  Gylfi had said everyone involved paid a price for calling upon sorcery. Hervor had paid … Gylfi must have. Maybe even Starkad.

  Starkad …

  Whatever he’d offered Gylfi, he’d done it for Hervor’s benefit. So then …

  Only one thing left to do.

  She had to push hard, try to catch him before he reached his newest destination.

  15

  G ylfi’s court had long been the center of Sviarland, at least as far as Ecgtheow was concerned. Some claimed the Yngling dynasty at Upsal was the strongest family … or had been. Some moons back, Jorund and his brother Eikkr had fled here, fled from their own cousin Ochilaik who had claimed the throne. And plunged the whole damned kingdom into war to do it.

  In weakening Upsal, Ochilaik had given Dalar its chance to seize control of all Sviarland. King Gylfi, however, had not seen things that way. The aging king had returned some few days back with word that now Ochilaik was dead and King Haki of Ostergotland had seized Upsal. And worse still, Gylfi had made an oath of friendship with him.

  The old king had lost any taste for war, Ecgtheow supposed. The man reclined on his throne now, drenched in shadow and watching the drinking and cavorting of his men. Armed with the runeblade—Naegling, Gylfi called it—Ecgtheow might damned well have led the king’s forces to countless victories. Instead, he sat at home and watched the king wither away.

  Ecgtheow threw back the drinking horn, then passed the empty thing to a slave, finally tromping over to the throne.

  Jorund eyed him as he passed, clearly bitter over all that had befallen his dynasty. Ecgtheow had limited sympathy. The man had lacked the stones to fight his cousin and so had fled like a craven. His urd was his own making. />
  And now, of course, Upsal was no longer even in the hands of the Ynglings. Jorund’s whole dynasty had fallen.

  “My king,” Ecgtheow said. No one drew too close to Gylfi’s throne. The king was long rumored to have touched the unmanly arts of the Otherworlds. And, combined with his volatile temper, well … not even Ecgtheow would have considered showing the merest hint of disrespect. Odin alone knew what fell powers Gylfi might call upon if sufficiently irked. “The journey seems to have agreed with you.”

  The king looked up at him, half his face still shrouded and thus hard to read. “Meaning?”

  Ecgtheow fought the urge to squirm. “You seem … enlivened with fresh vigor. Perhaps we ought to consider all of us going out for raids in the summer. Or even …”

  “Conquest?” The king scoffed. “I have no interest in conquest of Sviarland while our colony in Holmgard is faltering. While other lands have yet to embrace the light of the Aesir. If I were to turn my eyes elsewhere, perhaps it would be to Kvenland. Perhaps even a harder push into Bjarmaland.”

  Ecgtheow ran his tongue over his teeth. “Dalar has no easy access to either land, my king. The other kingdoms of Sviarland block our way. If Jamtla or Upsal were to fall under our sway, though, perhaps your plans could …”

  The king’s glower stilled his words. “I have pledged friendship to King Haki.”

  Indeed. More was the pity. Ecgtheow was not going to win this debate. No one changed Gylfi’s mind when he set about something. No one save maybe Odin himself or Gylfi’s former ward, Sif. But no man knew what Odin said to Gylfi, and Sif had gone back to her real family some few years ago. It left a stubborn king who did not heed his thegns, nor even his daughter or grandson.

  With a grudging nod, Ecgtheow slunk away and found a table away from the throne. Boredom must kill as many men as the mist. And Ecgtheow was godsdamned bored while Gylfi wasted this opportunity to enrich the fortunes of Dalar.

  “My lord,” Olof Sharpsighted said as Ecgtheow passed. “Long years I have served you.”

  “Indeed.”

  Ecgtheow sunk down before Jorund but looked at the other thegn.

  “I find myself now eager to increase my fortunes,” Olof said.

  Gylfi ran a thumb over his bushy brow, saying naught else.

  “The dynasty of Nidud has fallen, and Njarar has no king. With your blessing … I would take my chances there. And should I succeed, my lord … you know you’d have my eternal gratitude.”

  The king leaned forward just a hair, fixing Olof with a long gaze Ecgtheow knew firsthand to be most discomfiting. No man could long endure it without squirming. Olof, for his part, did well enough.

  “You may go,” Gylfi said at last. “Take your war band, and try your fortunes … and may Odin walk at your side.”

  What? Ecgtheow balked and sputtered. So … Gylfi refused to make war himself, but he’d offer his blessing to another man who wanted to? Why? Why would he … ?

  Jorund leaned forward and drummed his fingers upon the table, drawing Ecgtheow’s eye. “I know what you must be asking yourself.”

  “And?”

  Jorund shrugged. “The answer is obvious, my friend. The king wants allies in positions of power, but he does not want to risk his own kingdom over this.”

  Ecgtheow scoffed. But … was Jorund right? Did Gylfi actually want those loyal to him to claim the varied thrones of Sviarland? So. The king would not act himself nor risk bringing the wrath of the Ynglings down upon Dalar … because a war between the two kingdoms threatened to destroy both. Threatened to weaken all of Sviarland.

  Finally, he shook his head. “It matters naught. I have but a small war band loyal to me, and Olof has already claimed the only kingless kingdom in Sviarland.”

  Jorund glanced about him. “We could always arrange to make another land kingless, you and I. You carry a runeblade, do you not? Your fame as a warrior precedes you, Tiny. I would welcome you into my service, should you be so willing.”

  And if Ecgtheow helped Jorund reclaim the throne of Upsal, a man with every reason to be grateful to Gylfi and Dalar would rule the most powerful kingdom in Sviarland. And two kings would find themselves indebted to Ecgtheow himself.

  So … walk away now. Or walk into the fire and get all he’d hoped to claim. Fame and glory for himself and security for Dalar. Not a hard choice.

  And Jorund must have read it on his face. He indicated the man next to him, a warrior, though from the creases around his brow, he must have had ten winters on Jorund or Ecgtheow. “This is Hrethel, one of the few jarls who remained loyal to me when my cousin betrayed us. He and his people fled Upsal at my side.”

  Hrethel clasped Ecgtheow’s arm with a firm grip. “We’ve been building our forces these past moons. Sending for allies, hiring what mercenaries we can afford. With your help, we might be ready to march on Upsal in a few days.”

  “Now?”

  Jorund nodded. “We catch them just before the brunt of winter, and they’ll never expect it. Haki thinks himself secure, may not even realize my brother and I yet live. Our spies tell me his champions have set about raiding, hoping to claim some last plunder before winter sets in. Even his brother has gone south, to Skane, intent over some bitch he met there.”

  Ecgtheow grunted. “And where is your brother now?”

  “Eikkr is with our forces in the woods,” Hrethel said. “But he can be ready to move as soon as we are.”

  Ecgtheow pressed his palm into the table. This was it. This was his chance at true glory and the riches that would come with it. “And what will your friendship be worth … should you claim the throne?”

  “As much wealth as you can desire,” Jorund said.

  Hrethel nodded at him. “Trust us, brother. I will grant you a swath of land by the sea. Fields that can grow crops, space to fish. A fine place to raise your family.”

  “I am not yet married.”

  Hrethel shrugged. “Not difficult for a wealthy, landed man to find a bride.”

  Ecgtheow glanced at Gylfi. The king of Dalar had never offered him aught so tempting. Well, maybe putting Jorund on the throne served Gylfi, maybe it didn’t. But it sure seemed a chance Ecgtheow could not pass up.

  And so he nodded.

  16

  Evening had drawn nigh, but still Hervor pushed on. Traveling in the dark carried so many risks, not least among them losing Starkad’s trail. But it was the only way she’d ever overtake him.

  She passed north, beyond Dalar and into Jamtla. She had raided these lands by sea, once, but never travelled by sled before. Not this far north. The chill deepened with each passing day. How far did Starkad intend to trek? Already he had veered off into the mountains, towering peaks that dwarfed the crags farther south. Did he intend to press farther, into Lappmarken? Beyond?

  And then, even as darkness settled around her, the light of a campfire broke through the mist.

  Starkad sat there, staring at her as she drew nigh. His face masked in shadow, scraggly hair hanging loose.

  Hervor pulled the sled to a stop, untied the dogs so they could hunt, and then slumped down by the fire.

  “You should not have followed me.”

  So still a bastard. That was all right. “You asked Gylfi to … to …”

  “To use the Art to give you back your life. Not so you could throw it away up in these mountains or the deeper places I must go below them.”

  Hervor sniffed, her gaze settling on the hare he had roasting over the flame. The thick scent of it made her mouth water.

  Starkad glanced over at it. “I’m certain it is ready by now.” He pulled the spit away, then dumped the steaming flesh onto a clay bowl. “Help yourself.”

  Hervor snatched it up. The heat singed her fingers, forced her to drop the meat. She sucked on her thumb a moment, then sliced at the hare with her eating knife, letting steam out. “I heard a story once … that Odin himself used the … the Art on you. Extended your life.”

  Starkad grunted. “Heard th
at story too.”

  “Do you have any idea what I went through when … when Gylfi …”

  “Dreams? Hallucinations?” Starkad yanked off a leg from the rabbit, blew on it, then took a bite. “Some people claim it’s not even real. Just all brought about by herbs and poultices and foul smoke.” Bits of grease dribbled down his chin and beard as he spoke. “Some of us know better. I’ve heard only a handful of true practitioners of the Art yet walk the world. True sorcerers I mean, not völvur meddling with their brews and weeds and shit. The Niflung sorcerers of Samsey. The witch-queens of Pohjola. A few wandering wizards scattered amidst the lands. So rare, the Art almost seems mere fancy to most folk. But you and I …” He paused to bite off another hunk of meat. “We’ve seen things most men couldn’t dream up in their worst nightmares.”

  “Niflungar … draugar …”

  Starkad spit out a bone. “Naught good ever came from the Art, I think. Except maybe that you’re up and walking again.”

  Hervor too tore off some meat and chewed it while trying to pick her next words. “I know what I went through for that. Whether born of drugs or vaettir, I’d call that nigh to the worst experience I’ve ever …” She shook her head.

  Starkad nodded, obviously needing no elaboration. So he had been through something like that. Maybe Gylfi was right—maybe it was better to assume it wasn’t real.

  “I know what I went through,” she repeated. “But I do not know what you bartered to achieve this—” she indicated her still sore right arm.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Hervor … let it be.”

  “No. Tell me what you gave Gylfi.”

  “Hervor …”

  “Tell me, godsdamn it! You did this for me—I have a right to know!”

  Starkad poked at the rabbit but did not break off any more. “Skofnung.”

  “What?”

  “The runeblade lost in Glaesisvellir. I swore to retrieve it and see it handed to Gylfi.”

  Now Hervor balked. Giving up the last runeblade to Tiny had driven Starkad into fits by all she could tell. And he’d willingly bartered away another one. Because of her. All the more reason she had to help him get it. He’d made an oath for her … and honor demanded she aid him in upholding it.