by Matt Larkin
She sucked another painful breath down and turned to glare up at him. “F-fuck … you.”
“Oh … is that what you … want from me?”
Her fingers closed around Tyrfing’s hilt again. She didn’t bother trying to still the tears as she rose. Suffering beyond all limits had stolen any chance of composure.
The draug just cackled again. “Yes … come again … and again … and each time I shall steal … a piece more …”
Hervor bellowed. And she thrust Tyrfing through the wooden wall. The blade easily tore through the planks. Hervor jerked it downward, then slammed her arm into it, splintering it. Casting rays of sunlight into the room.
Orvar hissed, backed away.
Hervor threw herself at the wall. Crashed through it and fell into snows outside the hall.
Her breath fled once again, for an instant. A mere moment to catch it, and she was pulling herself along the ground, dragging her broken body through the snows.
And then a chill hand closed on her ankle once again.
What?
She turned back. Orvar stepped through the breach, batting away wood with his free hand.
“Y-you can’t …” she mumbled.
“Can’t? Oh … the sunlight steals the unearthly strength … yes … but to deal with you, Hervor. The strength … of a man … is more than enough.”
No.
No.
No!
She beat helplessly at his grip around her ankle.
Orvar jerked her around and began to drag her away from the Yngling hall. Snow slushed under her back. She flailed, unable to slow him in the least.
He pulled her through the burning gates in the wall. Warriors on both sides fought nearby, but none paid them much mind that Hervor could tell. All struggling to save their own lives.
The draug drew her into the Fyris Woods, and soon the snows gave way to icy bog waters. Hervor kicked at his wrist, but Orvar felt no pain. Or perhaps felt naught but pain now, and a few blows made no difference.
At last he dropped her, and she sunk in the marsh, the filth halfway up to her chin.
“I told you … I will not kill you until you … beg for it … until all you love … has fallen …”
Orvar lurched forward. His clammy hand wrapped around her chin. He pushed and dunked Hervor’s head into the bog.
Her battered lungs protested. They burned. And just when they would have exploded …
He yanked her above the water again.
Gasping and panting, filth streaming into her mouth. Vile, dead waters and leeches and Odin knew what—
He shoved her back under again.
Hervor beat ineffectively at Orvar’s arm.
Again and again.
Again the muck.
Her struggles became weaker. Only the next breath mattered. Only air …
Orvar jerked her up out of the muck. “Cursed daylight … saps the strength, you know …” He slammed his fist into her gut.
Hervor heaved, retching up all she’d eaten and a good deal of marsh water. The draug let her fall, and she splashed down again. And lay there.
Unable to move.
After a moment, Orvar leaned in close, his putrid clammy flesh pressing hers down into the muck. “I just want you to know … this is only the beginning. My vengeance … will last long …”
And then he rose and slipped out between the trees.
Hervor shut her eyes and moaned.
35
I nterrogating one of Jorund’s men at swordpoint had led Starkad to a mine, abandoned long ago, but reopened now by the new king. And why not … a man possessed by a svartalf would need a place to while away the daylight hours.
Gylaug walked beside him, holding his torch high, though its light hardly managed to fill this ancient tunnel. Spider webs clogged many of the passages, making their route obvious enough. Deeper into the darkness where their foe hid. Or waited, perhaps.
Blades in hand, Starkad pressed on. Time mattered much here, and he needed this to be done before sunset. Still, Jorund might lay in ambush anywhere, and none of them could afford for Starkad to grow reckless. Or more reckless than usual, anyway.
The mine pushed deep underground, every step growing more oppressive. More … enticing. Despite his better judgment, Starkad’s blood raced at the thrill of it.
“This is mist-madness,” Gylaug mumbled.
Well … such words applied to most of Starkad’s life. Had so for a great many years. Thus, what answer could he give the pirate?
They followed the tunnel until it leveled out, and down here, bog water had filtered through. Another tunnel to his left was flooded with foul muck, and even here, Starkad’s boots sloshed through it, ankle deep.
Gylaug groaned.
Starkad might have too, though for another reason. Hard to keep quiet when trudging through this. Any chance of stealth was probably lost. And with the muck came the stench of old earth and stagnant waters. They worked through this dankness, the smell growing stronger with every step.
The barest incline, and the muck gave away to actual mud, now squelching beneath his feet. The tunnel opened out into a small chamber where once dvergar or others must have found a deposit, for they had hollowed out a little dome here, supported it with now-rotting boards, one of which had cracked and fallen into two pieces that now stuck up in the mud. Beyond these, Jorund sat in a throne with armrests carved from human skulls.
Starkad had to hand it to the svartalfar. They knew how to make an impression. Even in this foul place—especially in it—the throne cast its occupant as an Otherworldly power, steeped in death and decay, unfathomable to the living. Shadows welled around the throne like a pool of bubbling tar, hissing at their approach.
Jorund rose, hands pressing down on each skull. “At last you come to me.”
“Your master is gone from Midgard.”
“Indeed. I suppose I ought to thank you for that. Perhaps even grant you a merciful death. But … sadly … I have no single drop of mercy in me.”
Starkad advanced. “When I’m done, you’ll have not a drop of blood left in you.”
Jorund smirked, then raised his hands. The shadows around him rose as he did so, the bubbling tar too rose up in tendrils, like a dozen serpents.
If only Hervor would have let him borrow her damned runeblade. It might have proved rather useful, in times like this.
Starkad roared and charged in at Jorund. The svartalf crossed his arms over his chest, and shadow serpents launched themselves at Starkad. He beat them away with his blades, but they forced him to draw his charge up short. Each tendril melted as he struck it, always replaced by another and another rising up out of the darkness. They hissed at him, baring serpent-like fangs and darting in at him from every angle, until he had no choice but to fall back.
Did such shadows carry venom? No way to know, and he could not afford to take the chance they did.
Gylaug joined him at his side, waving his torch—which proved twice as effective as his seax or either of Starkad’s swords. The shadow serpents recoiled before the flame even touched them, driven back.
Beyond the shadows, Jorund sneered at them. Every flick of his wrists only intensified the writhing darkness, sending fresh tendrils growing out of them.
“Fall back!” Starkad shouted at Gylaug. “Light more torches while I hold these things back. Light all the torches!”
The pirate did fall back at once.
Roaring, Starkad chopped down serpent after serpent. They grew faster than even he could cut them, though, and he’d be overwhelmed in mere moments.
“Starkad!” Gylaug bellowed.
A bare glance at him.
The pirate waved a torch up and down.
Starkad tossed aside his borrowed sword, and Gylaug flung the torch. This Starkad caught and swung in one motion, driving serpents back. The shadows lurched away, finally letting him reclaim ground.
“Another torch!”
Gylaug raced forward, bearin
g two more torches, then pressed one at Starkad. After dropping Vikar’s sword, Starkad grabbed a second torch from the man. A man could not wield a torch like a sword, exactly, but perhaps like a club. And Starkad had trained with just about every conceivable weapon in his time in Andalus.
Flaming clubs in hand, he twisted, batting serpents aside and turning them to smoke.
Gylaug joined him, the pirate also bearing two torches, and now, snuffing out serpents before they could even finish forming.
Jorund snarled from the darkness, and the torchlight dimmed … dimmed but did not wink out. Jorund did not have Rathwith’s strength or ability to snuff out flame. The svartalf drew his own blade, giving over any attempt to raise more tendrils.
And Starkad had left his swords back in the mud.
No time to go back for them. Instead, he leapt forward, swinging both torches across his chest. The reckless move sent Jorund stumbling away, and Starkad mounted the throne beside him.
Jorund’s sword hissed as it parted the air, slashing in at Starkad.
Starkad leapt off the chair and over Jorund. The svartalf’s blade cleaved through the armrest and sundered the chair, then came back around to fend off Starkad with uncanny speed.
The fastest man was the only one who mattered.
And right now, without a sword, that was not Starkad.
His torches didn’t have the reach or speed of a blade.
Jorund’s slashes came with relentless precision. Starkad batted one away. The svartalf smashed his blade through the torch, knocking it from Starkad’s hand.
Leaping backward, Starkad whirled the other torch. He edged around, back to where he’d cast aside Vikar’s sword.
And Jorund stepped right into the gap. The svartalf knew exactly what Starkad was about, and his vicious, darting blade moved too fast to make a roll for it.
A torch soared end over end and smacked into Jorund’s head. The svartalf screamed as his hair caught flame, batting at it with one hand. He dove into the nearest muck pool, rolled around, trying to smother the blaze.
So intent on Starkad, he’d forgotten the pirate.
Starkad raced over, snatched up Vikar’s sword, and spun around on Jorund.
Already, Gylaug had jumped down into the muck, sunk in it up to his knees. Screaming, he cleaved at Jorund with his seax. Black blood gushed from a wound he dealt to Jorund’s chest.
And then Jorund wrapped a hand around Gylaug’s throat and hefted him off his feet. Squeezing.
Starkad charged.
Jorund flung the pirate at him. Unable to help the man, Starkad dove into a roll, and Gylaug collided with the mine wall behind him.
Maybe dead.
Starkad had no time to check.
Jorund had strength and speed born of the Otherworlds. Starkad had to be faster. He darted in, slashed at Jorund’s head. The svartalf parried, off balance but hardly broken. Jorund turned it into a riposte, and Starkad had to parry.
They fell into the dance, back and forth. Muck and mud sloshed about their feet. Both were grunting, heaving.
Jorund lurched forward, tried to snare Starkad with his free hand. Given his superior strength, if he managed that, Starkad was fucked.
Barely twisting out of the way—damned mud sucking at his heels didn’t help his mobility—Starkad swung Vikar’s sword again. He was too close to use it properly.
Jorund’s fist caught him on the side of the head. The blow actually managed to lift him out of the mud, sending him sprawling onto the floor.
Everything spun around him, and Starkad wanted to wretch.
Jorund tromped over toward him, then hesitated. Looked at something. “The traitor …”
Grunting, Starkad lifted his head.
Wudga was there, Mimung in hand, blood streaming from the blade. The man sniffed. “My father forged this sword beneath Njarar … forced to it by the cruel King Nidud. Forced into the darkness … and never able to again set foot into the light. That would have been my urd if not for this man.”
“So instead you will die …”
Wudga shook his head. “Mimung stole the soul of Nidud’s own smith to complete its work. Father forged this to avenge the wrongs done to him … and you have done a great many wrongs, Skafinn.”
Skafinn? The svartalf possessing Jorund, maybe.
Starkad pushed himself up.
“You chose a mortal urd,” Skafinn said. “And now you cannot hope to overcome one such as I, blessed with power of the dark, and trained in the sword from ages before your birth.”
Wudga sighed. “Perhaps not.” He flung Mimung at Starkad’s feet.
Skafinn jolted at the thrown weapon, as if he’d first thought Wudga had intended it as a missile.
Starkad snatched up Mimung in his other hand. Its power surged through him. No mortal-wrought blade could equal this one … and Wudga had trusted Starkad with it.
With a roar, Starkad charged at Skafinn, leading with Vikar’s sword. This, the svartalf parried. And Starkad drove Mimung through one of the creature’s lungs.
The svartalf’s sword toppled out of his fingers as he stared down at the blade embedded in his chest.
Wudga stalked up behind Skafinn and kicked him in the back of the knee, driving the svartalf to the ground. “Every so often, even a mortal is born with a gift.”
A gift … was that what Starkad had? The gift of blood? Of murder?
Well, if that was his gift … perhaps he had but to use it well.
He jerked Mimung free from Skafinn’s chest … then drove it right through the svartalf’s heart.
The creature shuddered and fell limp.
A groan echoed from Gylaug, across the mine. Wudga tromped over to help the pirate up, who soon shook the other man off.
“So,” Gylaug said. “I would ask … that you hang his body from the hall of Upsal. It must stand as a testament that my father … is avenged.”
So much wrought in the name of vengeance. Here, Starkad barely knew this pirate, and he’d come from far Nidavellir for it. Hervor had fought Jorund to avenge Haki. On and on.
But then, that was only justice.
And if Starkad had a gift, perhaps it was for helping others find their justice. For the justice that Vikar had never found.
Starkad handed Mimung back to Wudga, then looked to Gylaug. “Do with Jorund’s body as you wish … you have earned that right.”
36
Slurp!
The muck squelched as hands tugged Hervor out of it.
With a pained groan, she opened one eye. Ecgtheow had a hand on each of her wrists, pulling her out of the bog.
With a grunt, he released her on dry land—or at least muddy snow. Blood and gore crusted over his mail and had dried in his hair, along his face.
Ecgtheow looked her over, then shook his head and spit. “Lucky I found you, shieldmaiden.”
Hervor just groaned. Naught about this day felt lucky.
Orvar was … still out there.
“So,” Ecgtheow said. “We won. Starkad killed Jorund, and Gylaug hung the bastard over there.” The big man pointed off toward the stonewall that surrounded the town.
She should have rejoiced at hearing they’d defeated their foe … should have. If Orvar had not beaten and tortured her within a hairsbreadth of dying. If he had not promised to slowly crush all she cared about in this world.
If he hadn’t bitten off her godsdamned finger!
Odin’s flaming balls, her hand hurt now that she thought of it.
“Can’t walk, huh?” Ecgtheow said. “True but you look like Hel herself shat you out her arse. All right, then.” He knelt, hands surprisingly gentle as he slipped them under her neck and waist.
After such a fight, Ecgtheow must have struggled with exhaustion, but he hefted her up like she weighed no more than a child and began to trudge back to the town.
Hervor had never felt so weak, so useless.
Ecgtheow walked halfway there, paused, cracked his neck. Took a few deep breat
hs. And pressed on. Carried her all the way to the still-smoldering gates.
“I … can walk from here.”
“Sure?”
“Hmmm.”
With a grunt, Ecgtheow set her down.
Her legs threatened to give out beneath her. Hervor caught herself on his shoulder, then Ecgtheow slipped his arm around her waist for support. Better than being carried, she supposed.
Like that, she half-walked, half-limped all the way to the Yngling hall. What had once been the Yngling hall. Who knew who would claim it now. In truth, Hervor no longer cared. Orvar had been right … her vengeance had wrought more blood than she could have begun to imagine. Her careless oath to bring down the slayers of her kin, her oath on Tyrfing. It had brought her here.
And where would Orvar strike next? Her grandfather? Her own town? Or … Starkad? Ecgtheow? Her few friends …
Had the draug even driven Jorund to slaughter Haki? Was the king’s death on her?
Ecgtheow helped her inside the hall and eased her into a chair that might have once belonged to a queen or thegn.
Such musings were pointless. She was where she was. All she could do was try to find a way forward.
Another shieldmaiden brought her the drinking horn, and she took a swig, then choked as the mead burned her tongue and scorched her throat. She waved away the horn. For the moment, Orvar had robbed her even of the simple pleasures of getting drunk.
Ecgtheow put a hand on her shoulder. “I must speak with Hrethel now, see what he’d have me do next.”
Huh. Ecgtheow meant he needed to find out whether Hrethel intended to claim the throne of Upsal for himself. After all, at least two of the petty kingdoms were kingless at the moment, but that was not like to last through the winter.
Someone always slipped into the void.
And Hervor didn’t really give a fuck who that was. Her oath was well and truly fulfilled … so where did that leave her?
Bitter, broken, and alone?
Starkad brushed through the crowd to come stand before her, looked her up and down. He clucked his tongue at what he saw, though he himself looked ragged and worn to the bone.