by Matt Larkin
“Get off of me!” he bellowed.
The shadow giant stalked closer. It loomed over his head. Starkad lurched away, but one of the swords lanced down like a bolt of lightning. It drove through his shoulder and pinned him to the floor. The darkness clouded his eyes. The shadow blade ripped through him, crushing his body and soul with icy tendrils of agony. It suffused his flesh. It feasted on his mind.
Rathwith was in there.
In Starkad’s skull, beating on his brain. Beating it down in submission.
Your form will be mine.
Starkad opened his mouth to protest. His tongue failed him. Ashes seemed to coat his throat. Twisting and crunching, like dead flesh choking him. And yet, squirming inside him. Seeking a way to claim him. His heart seized up, threatened to give out.
Not like this.
Your body … your skills … they will unleash a new era of the dark. The shadows spread …
Couldn’t breathe. Blackness clouded his eyes.
Hervor. Hervor could help him if she … if she …
The shadow monster twisted that blade in his shoulder, sending waves of torment crashing over him.
She cannot help you … I will feast upon her soul for days on end, until naught remains but a shriveled husk …
He tried to scream. Managed a faint moan. Turned his head, ever so slightly.
Hervor fell beneath her shadow’s onslaught, slipped to the floor. The shadow twisted its blade in a masterful move, and Tyrfing clattered from her hand. Its light dimmed, slowly winking out. To leave them all in darkness.
Starkad had failed.
The shadow monster impaling him shuddered. Then it melted into a sudden pool of oily darkness and was gone.
Starkad sucked down an agonizing breath.
In Tyrfing’s last, fading light, he managed to roll over.
Wudga stood above Rathwith, having driven Mimung through the back of the prince’s neck. A twist of Wudga’s runeblade popped the svartalf’s head from his shoulders.
And darkness settled in.
33
T otal blackness had fallen upon the chamber. It left Hervor with naught to focus on save the moans of the wounded, the dying. The putrid stench of shit and urine and blood and other foulness she could not even identify, mixing with the rot of a decaying dragon.
Gasping, she dragged herself through the filth, daring to hope that … what? That’d she’d find a torch cast aside somewhere in the massive cavern. That, despite it like as not being coated with filth and her unable to see, she’d light it.
Her fingers brushed over cold metal. Engraved.
Tyrfing’s pommel.
Odin be praised! Hervor yanked herself over to the blade and grabbed it. Pale light began to radiate first from the runes, then the blade, seeming impossibly bright after the absolute darkness she’d just endured.
She rolled over.
Ecgtheow was nearby, clutching a wound on his neck. Other, less threatening gashes marred his face and arms. He’d have a great many scars from this day … assuming losing all that blood did not yet kill him.
Indeed, Hervor brushed a hand over her own face. Scratches marred her cheek and another along her brow.
Starkad lay on his back, hand pressed over a wound in his shoulder. How he was even still awake after that … if she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he had the constitution of an Ás.
And there was Wudga, cleaning Mimung. Volund had forged that new runeblade, the first new one in ages. And now, Volund’s own son had used it to kill the svartalf prince. And maybe Volund himself? Could Wudga have slain his own father?
Groaning, she sat up.
“Where’s Volund?” Starkad asked before Hervor had the chance.
Wudga stared at him a moment. His eyes darted to Mimung. What the fuck was he thinking now? Might he yet betray them? A moment ago, she’d have thought his loyalty assured, having turned on Rathwith, having slain him. But now … ?
Finally, Wudga shook his head. “Vanished into the darkness. Such is his way.”
And just how hard had Wudga truly pursued his father? Well, if he’d let the man escape, Hervor could not entirely blame him for it. No one wanted to slay his or her own kin. It was an abomination before the eyes of gods and men. Unnatural.
“Starkad?” she asked. “Can you walk?”
He kept sucking down these long, slow breaths, like each was agony. They no doubt were. After Geigad had wounded her in the Fyris Wood, part of Hervor had wished for death with every passing hour. Would Starkad now suffer the same? A pair of cripples who ought to have died in battle?
“Give me a moment,” Starkad finally said.
“I wonder if valkyries saw all that,” Ecgtheow mumbled.
Wudga trudged over to where Starkad lay and offered him a hand. The other man finally took it, and Wudga pulled him up, even as Hervor struggled to gain her own feet.
“He was …” Starkad shuddered in such obvious pain that Hervor wanted to go to him. To ease it in some way, though naught she could offer would do so. “I felt him … deep in my head. I could feel him, crushing me from the inside. Had you taken but a moment more, maybe he’d have had me. Had you not killed him …”
“Killed him?” Wudga snorted. “One does not kill a vaettr, Starkad. You ought to know this. I merely destroyed his host and forced his essence back into Svartalfheim. But Rathwith will endure … and I doubt he will soon forgive any of us for this slight. Nor forget his designs upon you. If he already felt you giving in … he is like to come for you again. I do not envy you that.”
Hervor shuddered at Wudga’s words.
THE WALK to the surface seemed longer, especially with all of them so wounded. It gave Hervor far too much time to dwell on what Wudga had said. If you could not kill a vaettr, if they were truly immortal, then how could you ever hope to win?
The answer she kept coming back to was so vexing that, at one point, she’d had to stop and vomit out what little she had in her stomach.
However, vexing, the answer was simple.
Mankind could not defeat vaettir.
They had eternity to work with. And thus undying, sooner or later, they would win. It seemed inevitable—and most were barely aware of the Otherworlds.
Hervor did not expect her dreams to be more pleasant in the nights to come.
THEY SPENT a fortnight recovering in a nearby town.
Starkad should have died from his wounds, but he grew stronger and stronger. It made it hard to deny the truth of Rathwith’s words, that something of the Otherworlds had touched Starkad. Made him fell in addition to granting him longer life. And Hervor could not decide whether to envy or pity him for that.
She still didn’t have the answer when Hrethel arrived there, accompanied by a small force.
“Whatever you did,” the jarl said, “it seems to have worked.”
Starkad said naught, didn’t rise from where he sat beneath an elm, glowering, as he did most often these days.
Hervor, however, nodded. “So Jorund can be defeated?”
“I don’t know. But he seems less bold, and rumor circulates he sustained a wound in the assault on Dalar.”
Ecgtheow clapped Hrethel on the shoulder. “If he can be wounded, he can die.”
Once, Hervor had believed that. Rathwith had her doubt it now.
Hrethel cleared his throat, nodded at Ecgtheow. “Still. He has a large army, and the other kingdoms have suffered many losses of late. And at least a few of these draugar yet serve him.” Hrethel turned to a man beside him. “This is Gylaug, son of Gudlög. He brought several ships with him from Nidavellir. They await us, ready to take us to Upsal.”
Gylaug nodded, eyes filled with hatred Hervor knew all too well. Jorund had murdered his father, and he planned vengeance. She could hardly blame him.
But if Orvar-Oddr still worked alongside Jorund … “What of those draugar?”
Now, Starkad did rise, at last stalking to her side. “I will deal with Jorund mysel
f. You and Ecgtheow bear the runeblades, and you must break the draugar or at least hold them back.”
Gylaug sneered. “I must be there to see my father avenged. I must strike his slayer with my own hand.”
“You and I then,” Starkad said. “Wudga?”
Volund’s son had shown himself rarely in their days resting, but he now stepped out from behind the tree, looking grim as ever.
“Will you fight with us?” Starkad asked.
Wudga shrugged, then ran fingers along Mimung’s hilt. “I will see this done. And then I think I shall seek my fortune far from the shores of Sviarland. I have spent too long here already.”
“So be it,” Starkad said. “Are we all agreed?”
Hrethel nodded. “We must slay Jorund before he burns down all of Sviarland.”
“We owe the bastard,” Ecgtheow said. “He deceived and betrayed us … I have to right that.”
And Hervor’s oath demanded she finish the Yngling dynasty, even had Jorund not murdered Haki. And he had. Starkad was looking at her though. Waiting for an answer. “You know where I stand.”
Starkad nodded. “Then we make for the sea. And we end this.”
34
T he draug’s fist slammed into Hervor’s mail and sent her toppling over backward, breath blasting out of her chest. Whole damned room spun.
Her head collided with the floor inside the Upsal hall. Here, in the very center of the power of her foes, on the eve of victory, she was going to die.
Groaning, she tried to rise.
Every fucking muscle in her body felt like it had been pummeled by a snow bear.
The draug fixed her with its Otherworldly gaze. And did not advance.
Hervor shook herself, sucking down painful breaths. Why wasn’t it …
It had paused halfway across the room … refusing to pass through a beam of sunlight that streamed in from a window. Starkad had been right about them remaining indoors during the daylight. Even on Thule, the draugar had vanished for the few hours the sun had risen.
Why? Did it harm them?
With another grunt of effort, she regained her feet, Tyrfing in hand. “Afraid?”
The draug hissed at her. Maybe it understood Northern, maybe not. Didn’t really matter.
Throughout the hall, the sounds of battle rang out. Outside, iron clashed on iron, and men shouted, died. Starkad had insisted they attack at dawn, said it would give them the advantage. While Hrethel fought the mortal army and Starkad hunted Jorund, Hervor and Ecgtheow had to scour the hall for draugar. Of course, neither Starkad nor Ecgtheow had any idea just which draug she feared the most.
The one she’d made herself.
A flourish of Tyrfing taunted the draug. Still, it did not cross the beam of light. Snarling at her. Growling and hissing some foulness one might expect beyond the gates of Hel.
The sunlight protected her … but the draug barred the way into the rest of the hall. And Starkad had trusted Hervor to deal with this threat so he could focus on Jorund. Besides … she had to find and kill Orvar before Starkad could see his old friend. Before that undead bastard could tell Starkad what she’d done.
Grimacing, she stalked forward to the edge of the light. She dipped Tyrfing into the sunbeam, twisted, until the light reflected on the draug’s face. The creature hissed and fell back several steps. Hervor took the opportunity to lunge forward, shrieking and swinging for all she was worth. Tyrfing bit into the draug’s gut and sent it shuddering backward.
She whipped the blade back around, severed its weapon arm. Then she roared and impaled the recoiling monster. Tyrfing bit through its mail and rotten flesh with ease. The draug bellowed, caught her with its remaining hand, and hefted her body off the ground. It opened its putrid maw, exposing yellow teeth. The canines almost like fangs, dripping with steaming foulness. The draug pulled her closer and closer to his jaws.
Odin’s balls! It was going to bite her face off. Hervor squirmed, unable to break its grip. She jerked on Tyrfing, and the blade tore free, taking a chunk of armor and skin and bone with it.
The draug buckled, letting her sink back to the ground. Roaring, she swung again, this time burying the blade into the draug’s skull.
The sword wedged into bone, crunched it. As she tore it away this time, black goo oozed out from the draug’s split head. And it dropped.
By Thor’s cock, she hated these fucks. Panting, she collapsed against the wall. Too much to hope she’d have left all this behind on Thule. And now, no one but herself to blame. Orvar had brought these abominations to her homeland because of her.
So all she could do was find him and kill him again.
Sucking down another breath, she pushed off the wall and stalked back into the main feast hall. Dozens of men were engaged here, and at least three draugar, each slaughtering its way through the rapidly falling ranks of Hrethel’s men. And there, Ecgtheow, driving back one of the draugar.
Hervor ought to join him. Together they could fight these off … but then they’d find Orvar together too.
No. Damn it, she had to kill that bastard, and she’d have to leave Ecgtheow on his own to do it.
She pushed on, toward the back of the hall. Jorund and Starkad were like to be back there, but maybe Orvar too, in service or partnership with the svartalf-possessed king. In truth, she cared little what their relationship or arrangement was. She needed them both dead, and she needed it done before the sun set this day.
This hall was larger than Haki’s had been, with several side halls leading to private rooms no doubt assigned to members of the king’s family, his housecarls, his guests. So she’d have to search every single one until she found—
A hand shot out of the shadows and snared her ankle in an iron grip. It tugged, sending her slamming face first into the ground. And then it heaved. Hervor spun through the air, everything blurring. She crashed through the wall and tumbled end over end into the adjacent chamber.
White light filled her vision.
Lungs not working.
Everything spinning.
She landed on her good shoulder. Had she broken her left arm now?
Spots danced before her eyes as she rolled over.
A man stalked the shadows, stepped out. Faint gleam in his eyes. The draug chuckled, the sound like knives slowly carving up her brain. Hervor managed to get a breath … and promptly coughed up a wad of blood and phlegm. She’d … bitten her tongue.
Orvar.
He stood over her, vile fangs bared. Tyrfing, clutched in one hand, dragging behind him.
“Ugh,” she groaned. No. Not like this.
Hervor dragged herself away from the advancing draug. As if there was somewhere to go. As if a solid wall did not trap her in this building.
“Vengeance …” The word bubbled out of Orvar’s mouth, bloated and hissing.
Hervor whimpered, pulled herself up, lances of agony shooting through both arms at her effort. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Panic clutched at her chest. She had to get calm … but staring into the face of such hatred stole all wit from her.
“It is all … the damned can see. Not so unlike you … perhaps you are one of us … and did not yet know it …”
Vengeance. It had brought her here. And damn her for her oath. But she’d sworn it, and she would not break it. Would not. Could not. Not even if it killed her.
Teeth grit against the agony of it, Hervor managed her feet. Spit out more blood. “I will … fucking … kill you … again.”
Orvar chuckled. And then he tossed Tyrfing at her feet. The golden-hilted blade skidded along the ground a moment before coming to rest a hair away from her. The draug fixed her with its fiery gaze as he pulled his own blade from over his shoulder. “Come to me then …”
Still choking on the pain, Hervor knelt and snatched up Tyrfing. Its power flowed into her and almost, she imagined the suffering of her body diminished, dimmed the pain from all-consuming to mere mind-numbing. Blowing out a breath through clenched teeth, she
raised Tyrfing before her foe.
Orvar edged closer.
Once, she had almost considered sparing the man. After hearing his tale, she might have … were it not for her oath. Now though, no trace of humanity lingered in this rotten husk. It was an abomination born of the mist and consumed with hatred of life … of her, most of all.
And she had to kill him now. Everything depended on it. Hervor lunged forward, hewing with Tyrfing at Orvar’s throat.
The draug batted her blade aside like she was a child. He caught her right arm, then spun her around and slammed her against the wall. Orvar yanked on her arm, pulled it up behind her back until it felt like it would snap off. The old wound in her neck and shoulder exploded in fresh agony, and Hervor whimpered.
Orvar crushed her face against the wall. Pushed her chest into it so hard she struggled to breathe. Sputtered, trying to form words.
He just bent her arm farther, and she screamed.
She heard his blade clatter to the ground. What was he … did he intend to …? Could a draug even …?
She did not have long to dwell on his intent. Orvar grabbed the little finger of her right hand and bent it backward slowly.
Hervor’s screams intensified.
The bone snapped with a sickening crunch, and flames of agony surged through her.
And the torture did not stop. The draug leaned in closer … bent low, along the small of her back. Cold, sharp teeth brushed over her broken finger.
“Wha …?” she whimpered.
The jagged teeth snapped down. They ripped through her flesh and crunched the bone.
She wailed in horror and blinding pain as her digit snapped off.
Orvar released her, and she slumped to her knees, clutching her hand and moaning.
“You …” Blood dribbled down his chin as he crunched her finger with his teeth. “You … have made me … to suffer unending torment … and eternal damnation. I can … but return the favor.”