Days of Broken Oaths

by Matt Larkin

  Days of Broken Oaths

  Matt Larkin

  Prologue

  A deep melancholy had settled upon Holmgard’s people. It filled the air as Odin passed among them, disguised as an old man leaning upon a walking stick—hardly an affection, in truth, weary as he was. Despite the mist and the cold and the threat of war, in most towns, children played, craftsmen hawked their wares, and men and shieldmaidens boasted, wrestled, and drank.

  Here, though, the stillness had settled upon the town like a weight, a stone pressing upon Odin’s chest that made his steps feel heavy and slow as he approached Rollaugr’s hall. Soon, Odin’s throne would be complete and he would need tend to a great many tasks. This one, he had let fester long enough, like a rotting wound in his side.

  For decades he had ignored the Miklagardians, thought them of even less consequence to his plans than the Serklanders. But they had begun to spread, and, more troubling were the revelations he’d uncovered about the source of their power. He needed something they had and, more, he needed to check their expansion so he could afford to focus his attention elsewhere .

  The solution might well cost Odin several pieces he rather valued, but then, a piece one was unwilling to sacrifice had its utility greatly diminished. If his designs succeeded, though, he might well weaken the Miklagardians while managing to bring the last runeblade back to the North Realms in the process. A hefty chance, considering his visions were yet imperfect, and what he did foresee hinted at a dark urd for all involved.

  But then, his visions had always hinted at a dark urd for poor Starkad.

  And Odin had no more time in which to let caution guide his decisions.

  The king’s men showed Odin into Rollaugr’s hall, the once glorious abode of Sigrlami, now seeming nigh to empty of thegns and warriors. The king himself did not sit upon his throne, but rather paced before the tables where some few gathered warriors sat. One, a woman, seemed a varulf, if Odin’s instincts did not deceive him.

  Among the Aesir, varulfur and berserkir had once held places of importance, but in Sviarland, and thus Holmgard, the creatures were rare, and oft considered more monster than human.

  Also at the table sat a big man, large enough he might well have had jotunn blood. Rollaugr had collected allies almost as odd as Odin’s own.

  Rollaugr looked up at him, a frown creasing his brows, though it faded slightly in his moment of recognition. “Atrith? By Odin’s spear, old man, you return after a great many winters. I had thought you gone forever.”

  Odin quirked a smile, always amused to hear others swear in his name, oft to his face, considering he so rarely revealed his true identity. “Not just yet.”

  Rollaugr waved in acknowledgement. “Perhaps I ought to have known. You come only when the hour grows dark. And I cannot imagine it growing much darker than this.” He looked to one of the men sitting on the benches. “Some of my advisors even suggest we ought to withdraw from these lands entirely, return to the homes of our ancestors in Sviarland. I might consider it, though word of Gylfi’s death means I cannot imagine we are like to find peace there either.”

  Odin frowned. If the Holmgarders abandoned this foothold in Bjarmaland, either the Miklagardians or the jotunnar would claim the whole region within a few years. Then the winner would no doubt be pressing in on Kvenland and Sviarland, neither of which Odin could afford to lose as yet. “If you run from your foes now, men will call you craven, and you shall find no shelter in Sviarland. Least of all in this time of chaos when the kings war amongst themselves.”

  The varulf sniffed the air, eyeing Odin oddly. The problem with her kind was that his glamour didn’t really disguise his scent. Fortunately, as far as he knew, this particular varulf had never seen him as Odin or anyone else other than Atrith. Maybe she’d catch a hint he was more than he appeared, but she was not like to be able to uncover the truth. Finally, she growled. “We need to press the offensive, sack Kaunos.”

  Rollaugr cast a withering gaze her way. “Even if such a foolhardy plan succeeded, it would cost us the better part of the warriors we yet have. Shall we send an invitation to Hymir or other jotunn lords? Ask them if they’d like to rule our land?”

  Odin banged his walking stick on the floor, drawing all eyes. “Perhaps, my king, the solution lies not in more men, but in fewer.”

  “I do not follow you, old friend. ”

  “A small crew, sent not merely to Kaunos, but to Miklagard itself when summer breaks.”

  Now Rollaugr scoffed. “And do what? Sue for peace?”

  The varulf woman rose. “Kill Tanna …”

  Odin nodded. “Kill the lord who troubles you and thus send a message to the remaining Patriarchs. Tales say Tanna wields one of the lost runeblades of the Old Kingdoms. Defeat him despite this, claim the blade, and even Miklagard will be forced to take pause at Holmgard’s power.”

  Rollaugr frowned at the varulf. “Your boldness will get you killed, Vebiorg. Whom am I to send upon such a mission?”

  Odin opened his mouth to suggest Starkad—for he had few other pieces free at the moment, and Starkad was rather good at killing.

  Before he could speak, the big man beat him to it. “Reckon Starkad Eightarms and Hervor Witchslayer could pull that off. I seen them do worse and live through it.”

  Interesting. So this big man had met Starkad. It was almost too perfect. Now, Odin need not even nudge Rollaugr in the right direction.

  Rollaugr grunted. “And you believe they’d come if you asked them?”

  “Reckon they would. Best I leave for Sviarland right quick though. They ain’t always easy to find.”

  Ah. Well, a small nudge then. “I imagine I know where to find Eightarms,” Odin said. “And yes, best you hurry. Summer is not so very far off now.”

  Rollaugr nodded at the big man, who rose and headed off. The king moved to Odin’s side, put an arm around his shoulders, and guided him away from the others. Out of earshot of any save perhaps that varulf. “If this plan fails, Tanna will come after us harder than ever. We will pay a price in blood and our kingdom will fall.”

  If the plan failed, Midgard would lose more than one small, dying kingdom on the edge of Bjarmaland. They’d be one step closer to losing Ragnarok.

  But if they did naught, that future seemed certain.

  Some gambits were worth risking losing a piece.

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  Part I

  Eleventh Moon

  Year 31, Age of the Aesir

  1

  T he Black Sea wasn’t black—not exactly—but the waters were dark, and with the mist, more ominous than Hervor would’ve liked. Aught at all could’ve lurked beneath this sea. Serpents or worse, maybe. Hard to dismiss any of it as fancy anymore.

  Not after what she’d seen in Pohjola.

  Their foreign ship cut through the waters, a fair wind carrying them ever closer to Miklagard. The city loomed in the distance, barely visible through the vapors.

  Squinting, Hervor could pick out domed spires and great arches and other strange constructions like naught she’d ever laid eyes on. And the closer they drew, the more intimidating those sights became. Like the South Realmers had built a city on a scale none since the Old Kingdoms had dared, if even them. Those outer walls rose up twenty, thirty feet easily, and Odin alone knew how thick.

  Starkad’s hand fell on her shoulder. “This place is little li
ke aught you’ve known before.”

  Of that she had no doubt. Coming here might’ve been a mistake, but Starkad would not pass up this runeblade. Maybe even the last runeblade, he’d confided, though Hervor had no idea how he knew that. Either way, even if Rollaugr hadn’t offered such a fortune to do this, Starkad would’ve come. And that meant Hervor would’ve come too.

  In her absence, though, who knew what vileness Orvar-Oddr would wreak upon Sviarland? Upon those she cared for. The draug had tormented her without end. Coming here meant leaving him free to do so for any number of moons more. But she couldn’t tell Starkad that. Couldn’t tell anyone, save maybe Höfund, who stood gaping dumbly at the approaching port.

  “It’s magnificent,” the half-jotunn mumbled. “Ain’t never imagined so many people all clustered up tight like that. Gotta wonder how they keep from tripping over each other.”

  She frowned and cast a glance back at the rest of Starkad’s crew. Afrid Stonekicker stood a few feet from her, not even trying to hide her gaping at the approaching sight. Vebiorg was scowling like they sailed toward the gates of Hel itself. Who even knew what the others were thinking?

  The ship itself was out of Kaunos, and her people were posing as merchants come to sell furs, with the captain and his sailors none the wiser as to their true purpose. Starkad and his men had loaded up crates of wolf pelts and snow bear skins all hunted from around Bjarmaland. A good enough plan to get in the city—assuming the port inspectors didn’t take objection to the numerous weapons they bore.

  Baruch assured them those inspectors would turn a blind eye to just about aught, provided Starkad handed over some silver coins.

  Sure enough, as their ship docked at a pier, some official in black robes came bustling over, flanked by a pair of bodyguards. He strode on board the moment the crew had put down the gangplank. Immediately, he began spewing forth a stream of unintelligible foreign words. Was there a singular South Realmer tongue like Northern? Or did Miklagard and Valland have different languages?

  She hadn’t bothered to ask and it seemed pointless to pose the question now.

  The official and the ship’s captain exchanged words briefly, then the captain beckoned to Starkad. Hervor’s lover tossed the official a jingling pouch. The official drew the strings to peer inside, nodded, and motioned for his guards to inspect the crates.

  The two men popped one open, dug around in the wolf pelts. Muttered something to their employer. And just like that, they all turned and left. Didn’t bother even checking the other crates, much less having a look at the passengers. Starkad’s crew had swords over their shoulders, axes hanging from their belts … Afrid had a damn spear in her hand.

  Nigh as Hervor could tell, all these Miklagardians cared about was their damn silver.

  “It makes the city run,” Baruch said, as if reading her mind.

  “You mean the whole place runs on greed.”

  The Miklagardian shrugged. “Word is you used to be a pirate, Witchslayer.”

  She flashed him a half grin. “Point taken.”

  The captain’s crew set to unloading their own cargo, while Starkad ordered Höfund and Tveggi and the others to haul up the three crates. Maybe he actually intended to sell them and turn a profit, maybe he just thought they’d need the cover again later. Either way, the eight of them bid the captain farewell and trod out into the city .

  Even in the harbor, it reeked. Ports always stank of brine and seaweed and refuse and such. But this one was too thick with humanity. Clusters of earthen buildings clumped together, practically on top of one another, some strung with colorful banners, other stained by the salty air. And every one of the narrow alleys between them was filled with gutters clogged with shit and stale piss and other unidentified filth.

  Baruch turned about after the first alley, looked around as if confused.

  “Lose the city?” Afrid asked. “I could probably point it out to you.”

  Indeed, the towering wall could be seen from pretty much anywhere.

  Baruch scowled at the young shieldmaiden. “Unless you can walk through walls, I thought you might want to go in the gate.” He pointed off down another street. “Which is that way.”

  “You sure?” the young shieldmaiden prodded. “We could give you a bit to think it over.”

  “I was a child when last I was here, younger than you, if slightly more mature.”

  Hervor quirked a smile and shook her head.

  “The crates are fucking heavy,” Tveggi complained.

  “It’s this way,” Baruch repeated. He led them through a winding circuit, eventually opening out into a main walkway crowded with people bustling in and out of a great archway at least fifteen feet tall.

  Hervor had been wrong before. Those walls were closer to forty feet high. And from the space within—lined with guards holding halberds—more than ten feet thick. The gates stood open, but double wooden portcullises hung above both sides. Starkad had been right when he said no army was taking this city by force.

  Hervor swallowed at the sight.

  Starkad though, he just strode right up to the gate, forcing everyone to follow. As usual, really.

  Baruch exchanged a couple of words with a guard, passed him something—more coins?—and then waved everyone on. “Welcome to Miklagard.”

  The main gate let out onto an even more crowded street. All the buildings in here were the color of dirt, save for the towering spires and palaces in the distance. Those put to shame the halls of the mightiest kings of the North Realms. Hel, it was hard to imagine Asgard itself being bigger.

  And this city just kept going on and on.

  They passed into a market clogged with vendors hawking clothes, fruits, incense, spices, and Odin alone knew what else. Men with skin so dark it seemed almost black. Men with pale skin like her own. And the greater part of them with the deeper skin tones like Baruch. Merchants from all over Midgard, it seemed.

  “Fuck me,” Afrid mumbled. “Didn’t know this many people lived in all Midgard.”

  All this splendor, but something was missing. Hervor couldn’t quite say what, but something for sure. Vebiorg was turning about too, nose wrinkled like she’d caught some foulness in the air. Exotic scents and strange meats cooking overwhelmed the stench of human waste in the market, but maybe Vebiorg’s nose was more sensitive, given her nature.

  “Torches,” Hervor blurted, suddenly realizing what was missing. There were hardly any torch poles and no obvious braziers. “How are they keeping the mists back without torches? ”

  “The walls are high,” Win offered. The prince didn’t seem entirely convinced by his own suggestion though. Nor should he … the port hadn’t been over-saturated with mists either.

  Hervor frowned. Something was unnatural about Miklagard, even if she could not quite say what.

  “Win,” Starkad said. “Take Baruch and find some place we can sleep. Somewhere we won’t attract attention, where we can work, plan. Hervor, you and Vebiorg see about getting us some food.”

  “We don’t speak the language,” Vebiorg objected.

  Starkad handed her another pouch of silver. “Fair universal communication.” He looked to the others. “The rest of you, scout the market in small groups. Get a feel for it. We’re going to need to know our way around. If you find those who speak our tongue, you can ask a few questions about Tanna, but be discreet. We don’t want him to know we’re coming.”

  “I stay with my prince,” Tveggi said.

  Starkad shrugged and motioned them on.

  Hervor frowned. Vebiorg had already started off toward a vendor selling roasted meat on a stick. She trotted off after the varulf woman. “Do you even know what that is?”

  Vebiorg sniffed, cocked her head to the side. “Rat.”

  Hervor blanched, not bothering to hide her disgust.

  The varulf grinned at her. “It’s hot and it’s fresh. I don’t think you can ask for too much more in this strange land.”

  That only reinforced
Hervor’s doubts about whether they should have even come here. No matter how she tried, she could not shake the unease that had settled upon her the moment she’d walked through those gates.

  2

  B aruch had found them an apartment in the maze-like warrens behind the market. It was just one room and would’ve been cramped for a family of four or five. With nine grown people, they were practically jammed up against the walls like it was a fucking tomb, especially with those crates taking up one corner.

  Starkad misliked this whole city, but these confines most of all. He could’ve sat by the window, except that let in the stench of human waste lining the narrow alleys around the building.

  Here, close to the fire pit, at least the smoke cut down on the reek. Besides, Vebiorg had kept her head hanging out the window almost constantly. Starkad preferred giving her space. As much space as possible.

  Hervor had her back pressed up against his and he could almost feel the vibrations of her teeth grinding. No need to even ask how she felt about Miklagard.

  Afrid groaned, scrunched up in a corner. “Why in the frozen wastes of Niflheim would people choose to live like this? It’s like jamming yourself into a beehive. ”

  “You prefer the mists?” Baruch asked, though from his face he didn’t seem sure of the answer himself. He sniffed. “People don’t talk about the emperor much. Nobody’s ever even seen him as far as I know. But there’s tales—whispered, mind, when there aren’t too many to overhear—they say he keeps out the mists himself.”

  “Troll shit,” Afrid said. “No man holds back the mists.”

  “Don’t know that he is a man. Here, people figure he’s … like a god. Like the Aesir, maybe.”

  “Do not compare these foreigners to the Aesir,” Win snapped.