Days of Bloody Thrones (Runeblade Saga Book 2)

by Matt Larkin

  She was in danger.

  She was going to … to die.

  And he had let her walk into this.

  One more death on his conscience. One more of his victims. Not of action, this time, but of inaction. Another woman he’d failed.

  Grunting, he tried to push himself up. His stomach twisted itself in knots, and he heaved. Tried to wretch out all he’d drunk. Bile scorched his throat but the viscous fluid would not flow upward. It had seized his guts like a leech, latched on and lurching about inside him.

  Had Wudga been wrong?

  Or … had he … betrayed Starkad?

  At the thought, the tiny flicker of light shifted, revealed the man, who had snatched up the skin of eitr. Wudga shook his head and clucked his tongue in dismay. And flashed a toothy smile.

  Oh, the darkness did not encroach upon Wudga as it did on Starkad, as it had upon Hervor. No, it bent around Volund’s son, as it had bent around Volund himself.

  It became him, and he it.

  Wudga had betrayed him … though perhaps not in the way Starkad had first thought.

  The eitr may have awakened the Sight in him … but Wudga intended most of it for some other purpose.

  Not that it mattered.

  Naught mattered. Hervor was going to die.

  And Starkad could not even stand.

  22

  Twenty-Two Years Ago

  A day became many days with Ogn and then a fortnight. Until Starkad dared to dream of making her his wife. But she, who hid from dvergar for fear of slavery and lived with next to naught … what had he to offer her?

  And so he had set out to raiding, earning nigh to as much wealth as he had once enjoyed at Vikar’s side.

  And after long moons, he returned.

  No plume of smoke rose from her cabin, though.

  Starkad crept closer. The door lay open …

  “Ogn?” He turned about. Had the dvergar come for her after all? Had he left her alone only to fall to the slavery she so feared? “Ogn!”

  Inside the cabin, everything seemed in its place. No sign of struggle. No fight … her axe still lay on a shelf by the door. Had they caught her by surprise?

  “Damn it,” he mumbled. “Damn it. Ogn.”

  If those dvergar had taken her … fuck. But he’d burn down the halls of Nidavellir if he had to. He would get her back, no matter what.

  And he had learned the woodsman’s arts with Hermod himself, son of the great Agilaz. Trying to stay calm—you needed focus to track—he returned outside and glanced up at the sky.

  Afternoon. A few hours of daylight before the sun set. Nights were longer this far north, especially in winter. It meant he didn’t have much time.

  He skirted about the edge of the cabin, watchful for any sign of … there. A pair of tracks. One light, slender—Ogn clearly. And the other deep and large, a man who must be over seven feet tall. Surely no dverg, then. So what in the gates of Hel … ?

  A troll?

  But would not a troll have carried her off over its shoulder? And smashed everything in the cabin while it was at it?

  So a giant of a man had convinced her to come along, forced her, no doubt. Perhaps, knowing she could not win, she had not fought. Perhaps she dared to dream Starkad might return for her and keep his promise, wed her, and give her a better life.

  Well, he would.

  Trotting as fast as he could while following the trail, he raced from the valley.

  He was coming for his woman. Ogn was the light he sought, the hope of his redemption. He needed her.

  And he would not abandon her when she needed him.

  THE TRAIL LED up to a mountain peak. Starkad pushed as hard as he could, but still the sun dipped below the horizon and a bitter wind whipped the snows and mist about his face. There was no tracking aught in such conditions.

  Reluctantly, he pulled up short and hunted for an overhang or rock pile from which to take shelter. He found naught. And wandering in the dark was like to get him killed. One misplaced foot and he’d plummet off the side of the mountain and straight into some gorge.

  Damn it.

  Left with no other choice, he wrapped cloak and blanket both about his shoulders and settled down into the snows. He’d never get a fire going, so he’d have to rely on torches to keep the mist—and the worst of the cold—at bay.

  It would be a long night.

  THE FIRST RAYS of dawn broke through the mist, searing Starkad awake.

  The dreams had been worse this night, though he’d once thought them better when Ogn was nigh. Perhaps he had lost her trail. Perhaps his mind punished him for losing her.

  Muscles aching, he rose. His back cracked, his neck creaked. A thick layer of rime had crusted over his blankets and broke away as he stood.

  Starkad sucked down a bitter, painful breath of the chilled air.

  The torch must have burned out as he slept. Lucky mist-madness or deathchill hadn’t taken him. He groaned, dug out another torch, and fumbled to light it with frozen fingers. The flint tumbled out of his numb grasp.

  “Damn it.”

  He snatched up the thing and struck the steel a few more times before managing a spark to light the torch. The oil-soaked rag flared to life a moment later. Starkad sniffed and rubbed his face. His cheeks burned with the cold, even beneath his beard.

  Caught out overnight on a slope of Nidavellir, most men would have died. Well, Starkad was not most men. And he was going to get his woman back.

  The wind and snows had half-buried the tracks. Now, he had to move more slowly. Deliberately. He couldn’t lose the tracks … nor could he afford to lose the daylight.

  Another night like the last did not much appeal, assuming he managed to live through it again at all.

  A long time he wandered the mountain, twice having to double back to find the tracks.

  Around the edge of the next slope, a frozen waterfall plummeted into a gorge. Beautiful and glittering through the mist. Beyond it, barely visible beneath the layers of snow and the thick covering of mist, rose a rugged fortress. A dverg outpost?

  Torch in hand, Starkad made his way past the falls and down to the fortress. It was blocky, as he imagined dverg design must be, but large. Rimmed by a parapet that had crumbled at one corner. Ice crusted over the better part of it, running down the parapet and beyond, halfway to where the snowdrift buried the foundations. The whole thing had been carved from blocks larger on a side than Starkad was tall.

  Well, damn. This place seemed like something drawn from Niflheim, not a dverg ruin at all. To the side, only half visible from here, it seemed a portcullis sealed the main entrance.

  As he drew nigh, the gate creaked, drawn up into the recesses of the fortress.

  Well then.

  Starkad planted the torch in the snow and drew both swords. And waited.

  A man trod around the corner … only it was not a man. It stood over seven feet tall, with sharp, angular features. Rugged muscles. And too much scraggly hair. Was that … a jotunn?

  Starkad balked, struggling not to back away. Tyr claimed to have fought one of these legendary creatures, but still, Starkad had doubted him. They were supposed to be banished beyond the Midgard Wall, into Jotunheim. And here, now, one strode toward him.

  “What … do you wish here, little man?” The jotunn spoke in accented Northern, its voice like rocks grating on one another.

  “Where is Ogn?”

  The jotunn glanced back at the fortress.

  And there she was, standing upon the parapets, watching. This thing’s prisoner …

  Well, Hel could have the jotunn, then.

  “Jotunn. I challenge you to a holmgang for the woman.”

  “Starkad!” Ogn shouted from above. “Do not do this! Hergrimr will kill you!”

  Oh, but it was already done. And he was not leaving here without her.

  The jotunn slowly shook his head. “Human … you are a fool.”

  “And you are a craven!” Starkad spat back.


  Now the jotunn snarled. “Then I accept. And we shall fight at the falls below, at dusk.”

  Starkad nodded.

  Let it be done.

  23

  A small party had the best chance of sneaking into Sigar’s fortress, killing him, and escaping undetected. Not so unlike what they’d done in Njarar. Save that, back then, Hervor had had Starkad beside her. Well, now she had Folke and Kare, champions of Haki like herself. Plus a pair of shieldmaidens she trusted, Gyda and Inkeri.

  She’d even revealed her true gender to them all. It was too hard to conceal it now, over the long trek. Especially with one arm only half working.

  Folke had looked at her with dumb shock on his face.

  Kare had asked her to lay with him.

  And the shieldmaidens … they were harder to read, at first. Later though, on the road, Gyda had said she wished she’d tried it, hiding her sex. Hervor didn’t much know what to tell the woman.

  And now here they were in the marshlands of Skane, the five of them, all sneaking about. It was almost like her days as a bandit with Red-Eye’s Boys, save that these men and women had a hint more honor. Or they’d have called it that … they’d only raze and pillage and rape the villages their king called enemy. But to the villagers, Hervor imagined it all seemed about the same, bandit or raider.

  And she had reason not to dwell on any of it.

  Sigar was an imbecile to have executed Hagbard, no matter what the man had done. Whatever befell the people here, the blame for it lay at their jarl’s feet. So then.

  “So all those days we were raiding,” Folke said. “Back then, right?”

  Hervor glanced at him. “Yes?”

  “And when we sacked Upsal and killed Ochilaik … you were a woman then too?”

  Hervor faltered in her steps, exchanged a look of bewilderment with Gyda. “Yes, Folke. More-or-less have been a woman since birth.”

  Gyda snickered. “Usually how it works, my friend.”

  They pushed lightly through the woods, drawing ever closer to the fortress. Beyond the wood’s edge, the fortress came into view. The jarl didn’t have his warriors patrolling, but he did have a few watching the town, protecting it from raiders or aught else. And his fortress, well, of course, that had a watch up on the wooden palisade surrounding it.

  “So you … you never had a cock.”

  Now Gyda sputtered with laughter.

  When she could finally keep a straight face, Hervor looked to Folke. “As it happens, I’ve had several. I just didn’t keep any of them.”

  He balked. “W-why not?”

  “Their owners were attached to them.”

  Now all the others snickered, and Inkeri slapped Folke on the back of the head. “Looking to fasten the name Rockhead, are you?”

  “Folke Rockhead,” Hervor said. “I like it.”

  “Folke Rockhead,” Kare repeated. “The man who needed it explained that women don’t have cocks.”

  Hervor raised a hand to quiet them. “Fall back to that clearing we saw a bit ago. I don’t want your mockery to alert the men up there.”

  “How do you plan to get inside?” Gyda asked.

  “We wait for nightfall.”

  She had until then to come up with a plan.

  MUCH AS HERVOR had despised climbing up to Otwin’s castle in the dark, the strategy had worked in Njarar and she saw no reason it could not work now. If they could find a section of the fortress not well patrolled, they might grapple over the side, climb the wall, and be inside before anyone knew they had come.

  If all went well.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, she rose. Best get this done.

  “We don’t know just how many men Sigar has in there with him,” she said. “So don’t be seen until we have no choice. Kill those you must, but keep it quiet.”

  Easy advice to give. Harder to follow.

  All her practice at fighting left-handed had gotten her back up to the level of a boy handling a real sword for the first time. If Sigar was protected by children, she’d stand a chance. So long as there weren’t too many of the little bastards.

  “Who should lead the assault?” Gyda asked.

  Odin’s balls. That ought to have fallen to Hervor. Easy. She’d earned it a dozen times over. But now … now she’d only get them all discovered. Then killed. Dying like a fool was not like to impress the Aesir, now was it?

  “Kare will lead.” The man was slightly less brawny than Folke, perhaps, but he had at least half a brain. That counted for more on this kind of mission.

  Kare nodded grimly, then turned to go.

  A wolf’s howl welcomed in the rising moon. Another answered it. And another. A chorus of howls that just did not stop.

  “What in the gates of Hel?” Gyda said.

  “Sounds like wolves,” Folke offered.

  A lot of wolves, very close. Closer than they ought to have drawn to a group of humans. She exchanged a look with Gyda.

  “There’s tales,” the shieldmaiden said. “Stories of varulfur in the woods of Skane.”

  “Varulfur?” Kare said. “This close to a village?”

  So then. Press the attack and risk being harried by wolves—of one kind or another—while trying to sneak or draw them off? Only one choice really made sense.

  “Weapons.” Hervor reached to pull Tyrfing off her shoulder then stumbled as a spasm wracked her neck and arm. Couldn’t get her arm that high. All that practicing wielding the blade left-handed, but she’d slung it over the wrong shoulder out of habit. A habit she’d have to break.

  Besides, she ought to know better than to draw until a foe was in sight. The blade had taught her that lesson long ago.

  “Move,” she snapped. “Move back, deeper into the wood—we cannot risk discovery. Quickly!”

  Kare led the way, darting amongst the trees so skillfully Hervor had trouble even tracking him. The others fell in behind him, pushing hard.

  Her ankle snared on the snow-buried root. Twisted. Sent her colliding into a tree trunk.

  A dusting of snow poured down overtop her. Gyda grabbed her elbow and yanked her around the tree. It had rapidly grown dark, and they’d had no torches out. Had planned to sneak up to the fortress.

  Fucking mist was everywhere. Couldn’t see a damned thing.

  A heavy form tromped through snow in the darkness behind her. Underbrush rustled off to her left.

  Hervor pushed Gyda forward, then chased after her.

  Where was it? Something was definitely after them.

  Snarls and snaps rang out from all sides.

  Folke pulled up short, mighty sword grasped with both hands. “Go!” he bellowed. “There’s rocks up ahead. High ground. Get up the—”

  A mass of black fur and snarls flew through the air and collided with Folke. The pair of them vanished into the mist.

  “Rockhead!” Gyda screamed.

  Hervor now did jerk Tyrfing free. Its fiery light reflected off the mist and stung her eyes, not increasing her vision by much. “Come to me and die!”

  Another flying form slammed into Gyda just to Hervor’s side. The wolf bore the shieldmaiden down and crashed into the snow, throwing up a dusting of it. Gyda shrieked and wrestled with the beast as Hervor raced over.

  Bellowing her rage, Hervor thrust Tyrfing into the wolf’s hide. The blade bit deep, split flesh with ease. The wolf yelped, spun with startling agility and launched itself at Hervor. Its weight yanked her blade from her hand and sent her tumbling backward.

  The creature landed atop her. Huge. Heavy as a fucking troll.

  Its eyes gleamed with fell light. Its jaws snapped at her face. Hervor screamed, pushed away at it with her good arm. Tried to raise her right arm to hold it back. A haze of pain blurred her vision, even through the rush of battle rage that had seized her.

  Hot saliva dripped into her eyes as the varulf snapped and snapped.

  Another weight slammed down atop it. In the darkness, Hervor couldn’t see shit. Blood squirted
out of the varulf. It leapt off her, flinging Gyda to the ground. The shieldmaiden pitched over to her side, hand clutched around Tyrfing’s hilt.

  The varulf stalked around them. Gaze darting back and forth between its prey and the mist. Great gouges marred the beast. Wounds that would have slain man or wolf … removing any doubt that this creature was a fell mergence of both.

  But then, Tyrfing would claim even this monster. It just didn’t know the poison had already seeped inside it.

  Beside Hervor, Gyda gasped and spurted. She turned to the shieldmaiden. The woman gurgled up blood and fell to her knees. The wolf had torn open a ragged wound between Gyda’s shoulder and neck. Fangs had sunk into her chest, her arm. Blood was gushing from these wounds.

  Fuck.

  When Hervor looked back, the wolf had vanished into the mist.

  Gods damn it!

  She raced over to Gyda’s side and flung the shieldmaiden’s arm around her good shoulder. It meant holding Tyrfing with her right hand—which meant she couldn’t raise it above the height of her chest. But it was that or abandon the woman.

  Who was already fucking dead, from wounds like that.

  More screams rang out in the night.

  “Kare!” Hervor bellowed.

  “Over here,” the voice answered after a moment.

  She followed the sound of it, racing in the dark. Tyrfing’s faint light was all she had to keep her from colliding with a tree or tripping over another godsdamned root. Her ankle still pained her from the first. Made carrying Gyda even more difficult.

  “Come on, woman,” Hervor muttered. “Come on.”

  No answer.

  And the sudden stink of shit.

  Gyda’s foot snared on something, and she did naught to aid Hervor in carrying her. They both tumbled to the ground.

  No.

  No …

  Hervor rolled the other woman over. Her eyes stared up, empty. The blood had stopped pumping from her numerous wounds.

  “I …” Hervor panted. “I’m sorry.” She scrambled up. Had to keep moving.

  Had to get back to Kare and hope he’d managed that high ground. Otherwise, none of them would last the night.