by Matt Larkin
13
It was far later in the day than Starkad would have liked to have made a start. Thanks to Hervor, they had no choice.
“You ought not to have killed the man,” he finally said.
Hervor spat. “You’d have done no less.”
“Maybe.” Probably. Starkad had a great deal of blood on his hands, after all. More than most people could imagine. Blood of those he’d loved. So what was the blood of strangers compared to that?
Scyld trailed on behind them, mumbling under his breath about darkness and flame and a long fall or some other such nonsense. His prattle grew more wearisome with each passing hour. Starkad ought to have left him behind. Or maybe he ought to just kill the poor, ruined bastard and be done with it.
They walked on, past sunset, and still he saw no real shelter out here. The small copse of evergreens was the closest he’d seen to any break in the tundra, and maybe the only choice still open to them. Marching across Jotunheim in the dark was simply not an option.
Instead, they drew up, and Hervor set to making a fire while Starkad raised the tents. By the time he’d finished, she had a small blaze going. Enough to keep out the mist and hold back the cold, which was growing worse by the hour.
Scyld sat in front of that fire, staring at it like a man transfixed.
Starkad trudged over to join Hervor, then paused partway. The snows beneath that tree seemed darker than they ought to.
Hervor was now heating up what little meat remained of their stores, paying him no mind. It was better that way, in any event. Everything between them was always too muddled.
Starkad trod over to the spot he’d seen. It was hard to make out, with the fire behind him … but … the snows were stained crimson. What the fuck? Had an animal died here?
With his fingertips, he brushed away the first layer of snow. It was sticky, the blood fresh. He scraped more away with his palm. The crimson stain sank deep, half a foot down or more. Now he was dragging snow away in great scoops, flinging it aside.
What was this?
What was going on here?
His fingers brushed something bulbous and fleshy.
A … face?
Gasping, Starkad flung more snow away. A human body lay there, face exposed, preserved by the cold. And Starkad knew her. Ogn.
She opened her eyes, revealing empty sockets. Judging him.
“Fuck!” He stumbled onto his arse, then scrambled backward. Impossible.
Another nightmare. Impossible, Ogn had died long ago and far from here.
A nightmare … except he was awake.
Hervor was at his side, one hand on Tyrfing’s hilt, the other holding a burning brand as a torch. “What is it?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know, couldn’t have put it into words if he did. What in Hel’s icy crotch had that been?
Slowly, he pulled himself forward again. Hervor joined him, and he looked into the hole he’d dug. Within lay a misshapen tree root. The recess might have looked somewhat like a face … if one wasn’t looking closely.
“What is it?” Hervor said. “What’s wrong with you?”
He had no idea.
Unless … unless his nightmares had begun to seep into his waking life.
“Falling in the … dark …” Scyld sang.
“I do not much care for all the secrets you keep,” Hervor said when they’d finished eating the night meal.
Starkad snorted. “Coming from a woman who disguised herself as a man and uses a false name more oft than not, such a complaint carries little weight.”
She shrugged. “I had thought we …”
“Thought we what, Hervor?”
She shook her head. “Naught. Naught that matters.” She coughed, then sniffed. “Do you even know where to find this valley?”
He glanced at Scyld. The madman probably couldn’t have found his own arse. “I have the general directions from Godmund. And …” Well, what harm, really, in her knowing of the arm ring? He dug it from his satchel and handed it to her. “This was taken from the hoard gathered by one of the Old Kingdoms, whichever one fled here. Scyld brought this from the valley and now claims it wants to go home.”
Whether at hearing his name or at the arm ring itself, Scyld perked up. Stared hard at Starkad, then scrambled away and hid behind a tree. “Burning … burning in the dark.”
Hervor shook her head in Scyld’s direction, then looked the serpentine arm ring over slowly before handing it back. “So you’re counting on a piece of jewelry taken from an imbecile to guide us there? Cursed jewelry, I might add, assuming Scyld has any portion of his wits left. Which I doubt.”
Scyld surely had gone mist-mad, though certainly something terrible had befallen him to leave him in such a state. Maybe his condition was how any who had their madness unchecked would wind up. At that thought, Starkad stoked the fire. Best keep the mist away as much as possible.
He glanced at Hervor, but she was lying on her side staring at the tree Scyld hid behind. “Cursed or no …” Starkad said, “it is the only lead I have. I must trust it and my instincts to guide us. Had you not acted as you did, I could have sent you back to Godmund’s castle.”
“Sent me? Fuck you, Starkad! You don’t fucking send me anywhere. I came here to help you!”
He grimaced. “I did not ask for your help.”
“Because I’m a woman? Is that it?”
“Because I need no help! Not from any man nor woman.”
Now she was looking at him, glaring at him. “You think naught scares you, but I think you are scared all the time. Afraid of trusting anyone because of whatever darkness lies behind you. That’s what really bothers you, right? That you and I … that we started to become …”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Become what?”
“Become naught. Not a damned thing.” She rolled over on her other side, looking away from him.
With a groan, he did the same. What the fuck was he supposed to say to her?
Yes, so maybe Hervor wasn’t Ogn. But the longer she insisted on sticking by his side, the more likely she was to share Ogn’s urd.
Starkad’s curse would not give him peace.
His was a path of blood and war and death.
And anyone who walked beside him would find naught but those rewards waiting for them.
He never should have let Hervor come along for this. Never.
14
In the southern reaches of Glaesisvellir, the plains began to give way to hillocks and greater numbers of trees. Those few hardy enough to survive this unending snow. Hervor’s breath crystallized before her with every painful step she took.
Actually, she had left painful behind a while back. Now, her legs and feet felt more numb than aught else. Starkad pushed on ahead, hardly ever slowing and only on rare occasions even sparing her a glance. He spoke less and less these days.
And Hervor … well, she was choking on her own words.
Almost every godsdamned night she considered telling him the truth about Orvar-Oddr. The draug was still out there, waiting to make her suffer. Plotting a long revenge. Odin alone knew what the creature would do.
And Hervor couldn’t tell Starkad. Couldn’t tell anyone.
Her oath had forced her hand … forced her to murder the man. Hadn’t it?
With her legs only half responding to her will, Starkad had drawn far enough ahead she could barely make him out through the mist and the flurries of snows obscuring the way. She wanted to call out to him … but what would she even say?
It meant Scyld was her only companion, and him ambling along beside her, mumbling on, occasionally singing tunelessly. How he was even still alive after such a trek, she had no fucking idea.
Maybe Starkad was right. Maybe Hervor never should have come here, never should have joined him on his mist-mad quest to recover these cursed blades.
She shifted Tyrfing uncomfortably on her shoulder. One runeblade was enough for her.
Maybe if she just—<
br />
Snow crunched behind her. Hervor spun, hand on Tyrfing’s hilt. She squinted into the mist, searching for a sign of aught there.
Naught.
She waved the torch about, dissipating the vapor a bit. No one she could see.
“Starkad?”
No answer.
Scyld was humming.
“Shut up!”
The madman fell silent. The only sound now the howl of wind.
Damn isolation out here. Playing tricks on her mind. She’d have sworn someone followed them, but … but maybe mist-madness was taking her.
Pleasant thought.
She spun back around and tromped off after Starkad, shoving Scyld with one hand to start him walking again. He immediately began to mumble once more.
A chill wind swept over her, stirred her cloak. And she’d have sworn someone was back there. She spun again. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”
“Hervor?” Starkad called out from far ahead.
And still no sign of aught in the mist.
She was losing her grip on the real world. Maybe that was the problem. They’d gone well past the real world now. Utgard seemed to exist in some liminal state, halfway to the Otherworlds.
“I’m back here!” she shouted.
A moment later, his torchlight shone ahead, silhouetting him through the flurry. Hervor trudged over to him.
Starkad glanced past her. “What is it?”
“I thought I heard something, but …”
He took a few steps in that direction, waving his own torch about, then shook his head. “We need to move more quickly.” At that, he turned and set out once again.
Hervor glared at his back for a bare instant. Not long enough to let him out of her sight. Not nearly. And then she was off after him.
The day seemed to stretch too long—she’d never have thought herself feeling that—and by the time evening drew nigh, she was ready to collapse.
Starkad pointed to a hill. “We might take shelter below there. It ought to cut down on the wind.”
“Fine. Anywhere, just—”
A faint cry echoed over the hills. The sound of a woman sobbing?
Hervor turned about, still not able to make out much. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes.” Starkad pushed forward, more slowly now, hand on the hilt of a sword.
The sobs continued, growing louder as they approached the hillside. In its shadow rested a tiny hut. Someone lived out here? The place looked too small for any jotunn, but no plumes of smoke rose from the dwelling … no fire. Without fire … naught human could still be alive inside.
And yet, again, that weeping from within, like a woman in mourning.
“Darkness …” Scyld sang. “Calls us … Home …”
Hervor exchanged a glance with Starkad. Then the man moved in, toward the hut.
Oh, damn it. Did he really have to? What possible good was going to come from going down there?
Hervor put a hand to Tyrfing’s hilt. This did not bode well. This whole fucking land was one long nightmare of the kind you only got after eating spoiled fish.
“Who’s there?” Starkad called out at the threshold.
At once, the crying ceased.
Hervor hesitated. The hut had no windows, just a wooden door, and that half fallen off its hinges. She wanted to speak, to tell Starkad to leave this place. She could barely form the words.
Starkad pushed the door open to reveal an undecorated single room within. A tiny fire pit in the center. A bed shelf where the straw had rotted away. A couple of dishes, clay pots. A thick layer of dust covered everything.
No one had been in here in years.
Hervor tried to swallow. “We … we are chasing a ghost.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“So it appears.” Starkad backed away from the hut, ushered her away with one hand while holding up his torch in warding toward the hut. “Behind us there is another hill. We will pitch our tents there.”
Hervor had no objection to getting as far away from this hut as possible. In fact, her feet no longer even seemed to be bothering her.
As they walked toward their new campsite, still she could not shake the sensation of being watched. Being followed. A lump built in her throat and would not go. Her heart raced, pulse pounding in her ears.
Maybe something was watching … from the Otherworlds. Unseen, but aware of her. Aware of them.
“We need to gather wood for a fire,” Starkad said once he picked a spot.
He was looking at her. Odin’s balls. He meant for her to go and get it … alone? And here she was, trembling like a maid.
“The dark has already settled in …”
Starkad grunted. “Then you set the tents. I’ll get the wood. But we must have fire, Hervor. You know this.”
“Fire is life …” Scyld whispered to no one in particular.
Grimacing, she nodded, and set to pitching the tents.
Starkad disappeared off into the darkness.
The moment he was out of sight, her every instinct pled with her to call him back. As if the mere presence of another living being—Scyld barely qualified—might discourage whatever fell presence watched them here.
She looked for him, but saw naught. In the mist, a shadow passed by the corner of her eye. Before she knew it, her hand was on Tyrfing’s hilt. She’d had a long time to practice not drawing the runeblade until a foe was in sight. Its curse necessitated no less. But still, its light would have helped …
Turning about slowly, she peered into the darkness. Naught out there, but then, she could not see more than a few feet. Darkness, mist, snow … this place was ruled by Hel, she had no doubt.
Odin’s damned balls.
Focus. She had to focus on the task at hand.
She unfurled the tent rolls and then began driving a stake into the snows. The wind tore at the sheets, threatened to yank them right out of her hands. It had begun to howl like some fell beast.
“Go to Hel,” she whispered to the darkness, not certain whether she was cursing the weather, the ghosts, or the world in general. All of them, maybe.
The wind began to whisper about her now, incomprehensible words. The dead watching?
“I faced down the ghosts of my ancestors,” she mumbled. As if that might impress whatever vaettir lurked in this place. “I do not fear you.” Could they taste her lies?
Snow crunched nearby, and she leapt to her feet, waving the torch.
“Whoa,” Starkad said. “Just me.” He dropped a bundle of sticks at his feet.
Desperate to control her breath—to not let him see the sheen of cold sweat on her face—Hervor turned away and set back to working on the tents.
Behind her, Starkad began to kindle the fire. “I think we draw nigh to our destination.”
“Because of the ghosts.”
“Scyld said this arm ring wanted to return to its hoard. If it bears a curse, maybe the effects of that grow stronger as we come closer.”
“What?” Hervor paused and looked back at him. He had his back to her, sparking the flame. “You mean we’re seeing things because of the fucking ring?”
“Just a guess.”
“Well, then get rid of it!”
Starkad snorted. “I still need this to find the right valley.”
Assuming they didn’t wind up just as mist-mad as Scyld before that.
15
They must’ve known how bad they’d be outnumbered. Must’ve had an idea before they raided the first seaside town. They did it anyway.
And here Ecgtheow was, leading men—five men for every one Bjalmar had with him—on bloody revenge. Oh, and there was a lot of blood. Blood and guts, strewn across the village, turning all of it to muddy slush.
At his side, Haethcyn flung a torch into another building, third one they’d lit, but already half of Bjalmar’s town was aflame. Before that, they’d razed the fields. Herebeald was sacking villages along the coast. Hrethel said if he was going to make an example of Bjalmar
, he was going to make sure no one forgot.
Ruthless is what it was. Ruthless in a way only a man who feels betrayed can stoop to. Good men pushed too far might make the worst kind of enemy, Ecgtheow supposed.
Across the bloody street, a woman screamed for help inside a building. Not likely help was coming to her, though. Whatever warrior was having his way with her, the best she could hope for was being manacled and sold as a slave. Otherwise, she’d be one more corpse.
There were a lot of corpses this day. And the day had been long. Already the sun was dipping below the horizon. No man wanted to continue the fight at night, but Bjalmar’s walls were just past this town.
Ecgtheow supposed they’d have to breach them now. Let it all be ended sooner rather than later. They all knew how it had to end, after all.
More of Bjalmar’s warriors—thought they’d got them all, but more kept cropping up—came charging around the corner, these bearing swords and proper armor. The last lot hadn’t had that much, just clubs and wooden stakes and whatever they’d found at hand. Those had died real quick.
This group though, they moved together, had clearly trained together. Haethcyn took a force of five men and charged out to meet them.
Orvar slipped up by Ecgtheow’s side, come from Odin alone knew what shadow to whisper in his ear. More harsh truths, Ecgtheow supposed. No matter how tired he got of hearing them.
“That one …” the draug said, pointing to an older man among Bjalmar’s warriors. He’s the champion, Gunther Blueshield. Once a master warrior … Still Bjalmar’s most trusted … And you … must slay him.”
“I …”
“Destroy him.”
Oh, and Ecgtheow could see it in his mind. Him cutting down the aging champion, Naegling glistening with blood. Body hung as a warning to all not to question the rightful king. He could see it … He shook his head. Awful visions he wouldn’t have wished upon anyone.
“Destroy … him. Cut him … to shreds.”
“I …” It did seem the fitting thing to do. Sounded like … justice. Bjalmar had started this fight, no doubt using Gunther or men like him on his own raids. No one was innocent, anyway. An old warrior was just one who was better at killing than those around him. A hot anger began to rise up from Ecgtheow’s gut, settling in his chest, scorching his lungs. “I … probably ought to … destroy him.”