by Matt Larkin
“A prince. But you rule a kingdom?”
Seskef fidgeted with his arm ring, that serpentine symbol of his house he so loved. “The title of prince is traditional among the heirs of Halfdan.”
Gothmundr chuckled as if all human politics were folly.
Ilona still hoped to be a queen. Restraining herself from using the Art of Fire on the long trek had proved difficult, almost physically painful. But there was more than one road to power, and she needed to see Seskef rise.
So she stepped up beside the prince. “Perhaps, my king, you would deign to grant us a small territory within your realm. The Skjöldungar would happily pay homage to you, and no ally proves more loyal than one offered aid in his most desperate times. You have naught to lose from us.”
Gothmundr leaned over the rail, peering so closely at Ilona she felt herself squirm. Finally, the jotunn sneered, exposing fang-like teeth. “I smell it in you, bitch. That foul thing from the World of Fire.”
He could tell she’d bound a Fire vaettr? How was that even possible? How did he …? No. That was a question for another time. Jotunnar were not men, were already touched by the Otherworlds. The how and why she could address later. For now …
“I have bound it, true enough. I am a seidkon—a witch.”
The jotunn king rumbled, then snorted. “Perhaps one day, witch, I will tell you how the first human sorceress learned the Art.”
From the lascivious look on his face, she could guess. In the end, almost all magic tied back to sex. It tied back to life. A witch, a sorceress, she learned to use it, any way she could.
“And if I allowed you to instruct me in such a lesson, would you then grant Prince Seskef his own domain within your realm?”
Now Gothmundr burst out laughing, the grating sound echoing off his mighty stone hall. The chuckles continued for long moments before he caught his breath, scraping a clawed hand over his face.
“What is going on?” Seskef snapped at her.
Finally, Gothmundr snorted again. His lip curled up into a sneer. Wait … he couldn’t actually be serious? Was it even physically possible?
Ilona opened her mouth, searching for words to withdraw her hasty gambit.
The king spoke first. “My, my, little witch. You are audacious! But if I desired you so badly, I would simply take you right here on the floor. Your precious prince would do naught but watch.” He snickered again. “No, it is a different kind of flesh I find myself craving. You would willingly give up that which so many men have no doubt enjoyed before … but what of a more permanent sacrifice?”
Oh. Oh … Gothmundr wanted her to choose someone for him to devour. A man of power, no doubt … if she offered a sacrifice the king thought unworthy, the jotunnar might well turn on them, maybe feast on all of them. Ilona looked to Seskef, who raised his brow in bemusement.
The best sacrifice would be a man of royal blood, but Ilona needed Seskef. And if she suggested his son … well, the prince would not soon part with Bedwigius. So …
Felman stood beside his prince, hand on the hilt of his blade, gaze darting this way and that, as if not sure where the greatest threat came from. Poor bastard. So brave. So loyal. So … useful.
Her own gaze locked upon Seskef’s thegn, Ilona finally spoke. “King Gothmundr demands a sacrifice in his honor that he might grant us the lands we seek as refuge.”
The thegn stiffened. His eyes met hers. He knew now. Finally, the man nodded grimly, unshouldered the strap of his sword and let the weapon clatter to the floor. Then he strode forward, arms spread. “For the honor of my prince, I offer myself as sacrifice to the ancient powers.”
“Felman!” Seskef snapped. “What are you doing?”
Ilona raced to the prince’s side and grabbed his elbow. “This must happen,” she whispered.
Seskef jerked his arm free of her. “Felman, we will find another way.”
The thegn raised his arms, not looking back. “I go to meet my ancestors proudly.”
The jotunn king bared fang-like teeth and heaved himself forward, sailing over the rail and landing in a crouch that sent a tremble through the whole hall. He rose smoothly, then wrapped a meaty hand around Felman’s neck, hefting the thegn like a doll.
To Felman’s immeasurable credit, he did not struggle in that grasp. Ilona could not say she’d have done the same.
Gothmundr grabbed the thegn’s wrist and bent his arm around. Slowly, he raised Felman’s hand to his mouth.
“What mist-madness …” Seskef murmured. His hand again went to the hilt of Skofnung.
Ilona grabbed him as tightly as she could, though she’d never physically overpower him. “This will buy you your new kingdom. Through blood and sacrifice, you might yet avenge yourself upon your foes.”
A scream ripped out of Felman as Gothmundr bit down on his hand. Ilona had to look away, unable to bear the sight of blood oozing from the mess. Between screams, the sound of crunching bone and torn flesh filled her ears.
Damn her for asking such a sacrifice.
Painfully long it went on, until the screams stopped. Ilona stood there, eyes averted, trying not to retch. But Seskef, at her side—he never looked away. Not once did she see him tear his gaze from the sacrifice his man had made on his behalf.
22
King Hrethel’s hall was finished, finally, and just in time for winter. It stood with two levels, wooden at the top and a stronger stone foundation below that. At the center lay the great hall, which stood open all the way to the rafters. Here, Hrethel held court, feasted his warriors—generously—and allowed his subjects to come and lay their claims before him.
Ecgtheow had not come to lay any claims. Hrethel still owed him lands in this new realm to replace those left behind in Upsal, but Ecgtheow supposed it made sense to wait until after Ylva bore their child. After all, here in Vättern Hall, as they called it, they had nursemaids and wet nurses and ladies to help Ylva with every step she’d face. Völvur, too.
So here he waited, leaning against a rail on the second level overlooking the great hall below. Winter was drawing nigh, the place already bustling with warriors and tradesmen, plus other nobles eager to win the new king’s favor. Everyone wanted to stay in his good graces after what had befallen Bjalmar.
Poor bastard of a former jarl was locked in one of the lower rooms, chained to the wall and still wearing naught but those same trousers he’d had over a moon ago. Last Ecgtheow had seen, the things had holes worn in them.
Ylva was down in the hall too, enjoying a shank of reindeer from the looks of it. Ecgtheow had a mind to join her, though sometimes he just liked watching her when she was happy. Eating reindeer and drinking mead made most folk happy, he supposed.
A shadow drifted over beside him, and Orvar joined him at the rail, still cloaked, though by now Ecgtheow could just feel it was him. Besides, now he knew about it, he fancied a faint odor of decay wafted off the man … or draug, rather.
Ecgtheow turned to him a little, still keeping one eye on Ylva. “I don’t suppose Bjalmar’s defeat and shame would sufficiently salve your need for vengeance.”
“I must have the one who killed me.”
“Ah, you know, she’s well and gone from here, off on some mist-mad errand beyond the Midgard Wall.”
“Yes …”
He chuckled. “And not like to return, I suppose. Maybe you ought to count your vengeance fulfilled and go back to … wherever it is draugar go when their purpose is well and done.”
A slight growl rumbled beneath the cloak.
Enough to make Ecgtheow back away. Clearly, antagonizing a draug was not wise. “I mean no offense, Orvar. Just that naught remains for you here.”
“She will come back. So here I wait, that she might look upon the ruin wrought on her line. I wish to see the look upon her face when she realizes all she has loved has become ashes and dust.”
Huh. “Well, that sounds … like a lofty goal. If you’ll excuse me, I—”
Orvar’s hand shot ou
t and wrapped around Ecgtheow’s wrist. The man’s grip was cold as ice and hard as iron, and he yanked Ecgtheow around to stare into the darkness beneath his cloak. Into his gleaming red eyes. “Your foe approaches … Your foe … who broke the faith … Who must pay for his crimes.”
That same hideous, seething anger built in Ecgtheow’s gut once again. It seeped up like steam seeking release, finding it only in his eyes and ears, and these became flush and heated. His heart beat so rapidly he’d have expected those in the hall below to hear it.
He turned, unable to control the clenching and unclenching of his fists as he stalked toward the stairs.
Blood.
A man had come in. Bright red hair and beard, big burly shoulders. Headolaf.
Blood calls for blood.
He was speaking to Hrethel like he had a right to even stand before the king.
“My uncle would be willing to pay a great sum in ransom for Jarl Bjalmar’s release.”
Hrethel slapped his armrest. “Bjalmar is jarl of naught but rats and rat shit. He broke the truce and attacked our people.”
Making his way down the stairs, Ecgtheow clenched his fists so hard they bled. How dare Headolaf ask for such a thing?
Blood.
“Some tales claim you attacked first, my king.”
“Who dares speak such lies!” Hrethel lurched forward off his throne. “Who dares accuse the King of Ostergotland of lying?”
A redheaded bear monster. Oh, Ecgtheow ought to have killed him back then when they fought. Ought to have broken his neck. Smothered that massive head in the mammoth skin and run him through.
He had not had a sword then.
But he fucking had one now.
Seething, panting, Ecgtheow edged closer to the emissary. Hrethel had the right of it … how dare Headolaf come here and make such claims, such demands? He had a death wish. Well, Ecgtheow would grant it.
He unsheathed Naegling.
Only now did Hrethel even seem to notice him. As did several others, courtiers and thegns backing away in alarm.
“Ecgtheow, what are you—” the king began.
Headolaf turned back to face him. Or started to.
With a roar, Ecgtheow cleaved right into Headolaf’s chest, buried his blade in so deep the tip burst out the bear’s back. A single swift jerk freed the blade and tore a good chunk of the man’s chest out with it.
Ecgtheow hefted the blade high and roared in triumph.
That roar slowly died in his throat, as every face in the hall stood gaping at him. As that anger melted away as quickly as it had come over him, leaving him with naught but cursed mist in his head again. Why had he … what was he doing?
Slowly, he let Naegling fall to his side, its point scraping along the floor. “I … killed him.”
“You started another fucking war!” Hrethel bellowed. “That was Helm Wulfingson’s own nephew! You think—even were I so inclined to indulge such behavior in my own damn hall—that the jarl will accept weregild for this?” He pointed an accusing finger at the corpse lying at Ecgtheow’s feet.
Indeed, it was a bloody mess that made Ecgtheow gag to look upon it. He’d done that? He … remembered doing it. Remembered hating the man. But why? Not much sense in hating a man come to offer money for ransom. Not much at all, really.
“Ecgtheow the Tiny,” Hrethel said, “you leave no choice, much though it grieves me. I must cast you from my house …”
“No!” Ylva shrieked, and began to waddle to her father as fast as her legs would allow. “No!”
Hrethel grimaced and pointedly looked away. “Herebeald, restrain your sister.” Then he turned back on Ecgtheow. “You break my heart to force such a crossroads upon us, son-in-law. But there is no place for you here. Not so long as we war with the Wulfings. Every man we lose in this struggle is lost because of you.”
“Father,” Haethcyn said. “The only reason we didn’t have to fight them before was because of Ecgtheow’s courage and prowess … surely …”
The king held up a hand. “I have not forgotten. That is the very reason I banish him rather than hand him over to Helm in chains. If he can pay the weregild himself and make peace with the Wulfings, he can return.”
Ecgtheow stood, staring at the pair of them, mouth agape. Fuck. What had he done? Why had he done this? None of it made the smallest bit of sense. “I …”
“Take your blade and take your armor and be gone.”
The runeblade. Ecgtheow glanced at Naegling in his hand, blood still streaming off it, settling into the grooves of the runes. His son’s legacy. “I … will not carry Naegling from here. It shall remain with Ylva, to be given to my son when he comes of age. And I swear, I shall not return unless I can set this all to right.”
“Ecgtheow!” Ylva shrieked, caught in her brother’s arms but struggling to get to him.
With heavy steps, he made his way to them and handed the runeblade to Herebeald, who took it and released Ylva. She threw her arms around his waist, and he held her close a long time.
Finally, he pushed her away and put a hand on her belly. “I’m going to give you a legacy to be proud of. Both of you.”
“That’s enough,” Hrethel said, though his voice had gone soft, lacking any emphasis of command.
Ecgtheow nodded. Yes, he supposed it was enough. He couldn’t rightly say what had made him act thus, but one way or another, he’d find a way to make amends to the Wulfings. At least enough to ensure no blood feud arose from this.
As he trod into the night, a dark, almost Otherworldly chuckle echoed from the shadows. But no matter where he looked, Ecgtheow could see no sign of its source.
Perhaps the armies of Hel herself laughed at his misfortune.
But he’d silence them. Eventually.
23
Starkad crept forward, sneaking through the town streets. More of the ghost warriors passed by, and he hid from each. Tyrfing seemed able to dispatch them, but every such victory was temporary. The ones he’d felled already were out again, hunting for him more intently than ever.
If this settlement was indeed the ruin of an Old Kingdom—as seemed nigh to certain now—a prince or other member of the royal lines must have led them. The witch would have acted on his orders, most likely, with whatever vile ritual she was enacting in that lava tube. As to her aim, he could only guess.
The Niflungar had betrayed the other Old Kingdoms and driven them to the brink of annihilation. Perhaps some of them turned to the Art in order to try to save themselves. If so, they’d paid a hefty price for it. This valley might have been safe from the Niflungar, but it was a dire safety that looked a lot like eternal damnation to Starkad.
He pitied these souls, though he could do naught for them.
They had made their own urd and now were bound by it. Not so very unlike himself. And so he must find the runeblade.
Whatever that witch had done to Hervor, it seemed best to get her far from this place without further delay.
He made his way forward. In the southern reaches of the town rose a great hall, blanketed in snow save for the tips of its spires. A hall fit for a lord or a prince, finer than most kings of these days could dream of.
So.
If the prince had come here, had brought Skofnung, this hall seemed the most likely resting place for the runeblade. After allowing another pair of ghosts to pass, Starkad snuck forward, low to the ground, until he reached the front doors. These iron gates stood ajar, allowing him plenty of room to slip inside. Instead of doing so, he crept up behind one and peered in.
In the dark hall within, another pair of ghost warriors stood at attention, enshrouded in blue flame. Bound to eternally watch this place? He looked upon the damned.
And if he went in here, they could not help but notice him.
Starkad slipped backward, then followed the side of the hall. The foundations were built of thick stones, well-cut and well-set. Up higher, though, the builders had used smaller rocks. Set between those rocks, eight or t
en feet in the air, wooden lattices crisscrossed over windows almost as tall as he was. How had the wood not rotted away? Perhaps it was simply another aspect of the curse trapping the ghosts in their endless repetition of their final days.
After glancing around to ensure no one would spot him, Starkad scrambled up the wall and caught hold of one of the smaller stones. It didn’t give him much purchase, but he pulled himself up enough to grab another with his other hand. Again, and then he could get a hand onto the windowsill. Grunting, he pulled himself upward until he half-stood, pressed up against the window.
No sign of a way to open it.
Damn it.
He eased Tyrfing free of its sheath. The runeblade flickered with pale light, seeming almost aflame itself. Despite the awkward angle, he slid into the lattice. The blade cut through the wood like it was made of straw. He drew the blade around the edge of the window, carving out the entire lattice. Finally, he tossed the whole thing out into the snow.
It landed with a crunch of powder that made him cringe.
None of the ghosts were looking at him, though.
The hall was filled with unlit braziers and supported by mighty stone columns. Starkad looked around, seeking sign of the runeblade.
His heart had begun to pound so hard it was echoing into his head. Stifling a groan, he slipped through the window and dropped down inside the hall. He landed in a crouch and rose slowly, Tyrfing still gleaming in his hand.
Damn, but his head was throbbing.
Thump thump.
What was that …?
He took a few steps more, but the pounding only intensified.
Thump thump.
Oh.
THUMP THUMP!
Oh, damn it. Hervor had said the blade bore a fell curse. She only ever drew it when faced with a foe. Which meant …
THUMP THUMP!
It meant … he had to engage the ghosts.
Well then.
Starkad made his way back toward the front doors, approaching from behind the guards. He had not gone far when one turned to him, its gaze no doubt drawn by the pale flames flickering off of the runeblade.