by Matt Larkin
Starkad shook his head. “Too risky. I see but one option before us. We wait until well after dark, then scale the walls once no one is out and about to see us. Hervor and I pulled off something similar to kill the king of Njarar.”
Oh, Odin’s stones. Not more climbing. “We nigh died in Njarar. One of our men did fall to his death in the process.”
“He was a drunk,” Starkad snapped at her. “And your complaints hardly help our situation.”
Hervor clapped her mouth shut. Was that how it was going to be now?
Fine. If he wanted to climb, she would fucking climb.
And afterward, they’d be having a godsdamned talk.
4
Four Moons Ago
S o little remained of the home Hervor had once known. Grandfather had but a few servants left, and a single pair of warriors. Perhaps Hrethel thought himself generous to allow the fallen jarl even that much, but Hervor could hardly forgive the slight. Nor had Grandfather recovered from his mistreatment at Hrethel’s hands.
Wrapped in a blanket, the old man wheezed on his chair—one could hardly call it a throne with no jarldom left—then set to coughing. A fit of it seized him and he shook, trembling, before finally hacking up a glob of phlegm onto the floor. She didn’t much want to believe the thickness had him, but the signs seemed clear enough.
Hervor flinched, trying to cover her reaction. She stood before him in his ruined hall, alone for the moment. The fields and towns had been taken by Hrethel, and this empty compound now served as a pitiful reminder of a past she’d disdained .
Until it was gone.
Gunther was dead. The other thegns, too, save a few who’d taken up with new lords now.
Some maybe Hrethel had driven away. Others had turned up dead in Deeppine, torn to pieces. Grandfather had blamed bandits. Hervor knew better. The Arrow’s Point would never be done with her. One by one, he hunted and destroyed everyone she’d ever known.
Probably only left this hall in peace because he knew her grandfather was dying a slow, awful death.
“I just …” Grandfather wheezed. “Just want … what’s best for you.”
Hervor frowned. Not long ago she’d have sneered at that. Would’ve chafed at the reins she’d have accused him of placing on her. Petulant bitch that she was. “I know that.”
She should’ve known it before he was dying. Should’ve done a lot of things, maybe. He’d always been the one extending his hand, trying to let the past lie. And she’d wasted uncounted winters being too much the fool to see it.
Grandfather cleared his throat. “An offer came for your hand.”
Hervor shook her head. Grandfather may have wanted the best for her, but she wasn’t interested in marrying any man save perhaps Starkad, and he had made clear he’d not wed her nor anyone else.
“Just … listen. This Höfund is a prince, son of a foreign king.”
Höfund? Odin’s stones. Höfund was a king’s son all right—the bastard son of a godsdamned jotunn king in Utgard. He was a friend, true. Shit, once she’d even lain with him and Starkad both together. But marry him, leave Starkad? No. Never. “Even if I fancied him, I am bound to Starkad. ”
Grandfather snorted, coughed, and shook his head. “Eightarms hasn’t given you … aught but grief. Nor will he. What future do you … see with him?”
Her only future, really. She’d made her choices and given her oaths and she wasn’t the kind to walk away from either. Starkad had spent the better part of a year convalescing here, once he’d been strong enough to leave Gylfi’s hall.
Väinämöinen had been long gone by the time Hervor had returned from Kvenland and found Starkad a wreck of his former self. Her lover was blind in one eye and half blind in the other. Weakened, walking like both his legs were broken. Grimacing like every breath was pain. Best the song-crafter had been gone—elsewise, Hervor might’ve gutted him for his part in all that.
And with no völva and hardly a servant, Hervor had done her best to ease Starkad back to health. Maybe she’d gotten nigh to that, but there was no going back to what he’d been. Same as Hervor, really. She wouldn’t ever have full use of her right arm. Some things you had to come to terms with.
Finally, she shrugged again. “I made my decision long ago.”
“Hervor … you are the last of our line. If you …” He broke into another fit of coughing, but she could well guess what he’d intended to say. If she didn’t bear an heir, their family ended with her. It wasn’t like the thought had never crossed her mind. She just didn’t have a half decent answer for it.
One of the inner doors creaked open, and Toril poked her head in.
“What is it?” Hervor snapped at the servant .
“There’s men outside, Jarl. Say they’ve come to call on Eightarms.” Grandfather wasn’t jarl of aught more than a ruin, but Toril just kept up with the title all the same. The woman was some few winters older than Hervor and had always been around. Served Jarl Bjalmar her whole life. Now, it seemed she couldn’t accept things had changed.
Then again, neither could Hervor. “What men?”
“Aun of Upsal, he says he is. Got a pair of warriors with him, too.”
Aun was an Yngling, the former king of Upsal. Didn’t reign long, though, before his enemies showed up and took the throne right out from under him. Maybe because he was a craven and a weakling. Still, he’d sheltered her and Starkad a few winters back, so she could hardly turn him away now. A woman had to remember her debts. “Where’s Starkad?”
Toril fidgeted. “Out in the yard, flailing away.” As usual.
Hervor glanced at Grandfather, but he’d already fallen asleep, head slumped to one side. “Fine. Bring them into the courtyard. And then stoke the braziers in here, make sure Grandfather is warm enough.”
Winter had already settled in. The old man couldn’t afford to fall too cold.
She made her way out of the hall and into the yard. Hrethel’s forces had breached and burned much of the outer wall. When Hervor had gotten back, she’d helped them patch it herself. The shoddy work wouldn’t have kept raiders out, but it served well enough to hold back the worst of the mist and wolves and such.
Starkad spun and twisted out there, whipping both swords around with almost his old speed, if not quite his old surety of foot. Hervor approached, careful not to draw too nigh on his blind side. Sneaking up on him was like to get her killed.
“Starkad.”
Panting, he turned to her, and let his swords droop.
“Aun is here.”
Even as she spoke, Toril opened the main gate for Aun and his two men, if you could call them that. One of them was young enough he probably just barely qualified. Hervor squinted at him. Actually, that looked like one of Aun’s sons, if she wasn’t mistaken. Grown a bit since last she’d laid eyes on him.
Starkad sheathed his blades and walked to meet Aun, slow and steady, maybe trying to conceal how winded he was.
“Starkad Eightarms,” Aun said. “King Gylfi said I’d find you here, but I almost didn’t dare to hope. You’ve all but disappeared of late.”
Starkad scratched his beard. “King Aun.”
Hervor rolled her eyes. At this point, Aun was even less a king than her grandfather was a jarl.
The king hesitated, as if expecting someone to say more. To invite him in for a meal, perhaps. It would’ve been the custom, but Hervor had next to naught to offer him, and if he couldn’t well see that by looking around, he was twice the fool.
“Ah,” Aun said after a moment. “So, I suppose I best come to the reason I’m here.”
Seemed wise. Hervor barely managed not to say it aloud though.
“Well,” the former king said. “You’ve no doubt heard about Ole the Strong out of Reidgotaland. He’s a cousin to King Hrothgar and fancies himself a prince. So he set about trying to make his own kingdom … ”
“And wound up taking yours,” Hervor finished. She had no patience for a man who couldn’t even admit his
own weakness. Or cowardice, really, since he’d fled at the first sign of the battle going against his men, from what she’d heard.
“He did, in fact. And I’ve come to hire you to deal with him.”
Starkad spat. “Murder him, you mean. Thing is, I know Ole. I fought beside him some years back. And now you’d have me hunt and kill him.”
Aun fidgeted. “Yes, well, you know me, as well, and I’ve offered hospitality and shelter to you and yours in the past.”
“And we’ll pay you well,” one of the other men said. “Not just silver, but gold. A lot of gold.”
“Who is this?” Starkad asked.
Aun glanced at the other man. “Lennius of Sjaelland.”
Another Reidgotalander? A rival of Ole’s, perhaps. And that meant Aun was dragging Starkad into a feud between princes of another country. Not an ideal place to be.
“Starkad …” Hervor said.
He stiffened slightly, but didn’t look at her. Of course he didn’t. Because he damn well knew what she’d say. “How much gold?”
“Your weight in it,” Lennius said.
Hervor blew out a breath. That much gold … well, it could turn around even their flagging fortunes. Still, she’d spent years trying to eradicate the Ynglings. She might have called her vengeance sated, but urd truly had a wicked sense of humor to see her now trying to put one back on his throne.
“I’ll do it,” Starkad said.
Hervor wanted to be able to smile at the thought of so much gold. Wanted to, but then, was Starkad really ready for this? Or was he doing this as much to prove to himself he still could?
Much as she needed the wealth, none of this sat well with Hervor.
5
“ W e cannot well climb in daylight,” Starkad said, “so we’ll scout the area until then. Best to be as familiar as possible with these streets and alleys in case aught goes wrong.”
Hervor rolled her eyes. Naught had ever gone wrong with any of Starkad’s mist-mad plans, had it? No, unless you counted a few dead allies here and there. No, but still, they’d climb the damn tower, murder a lord of the city, and get out without the slightest trouble.
“Small groups,” the man said. “Avoid attracting notice as much as possible. Hervor, you go with Win.”
“I go with my prince,” Tveggi said, standing not a foot away from Win. Damn bodyguard probably helped Win piss most days, too.
Starkad shrugged. “Fine. Scout the northeast side, close to the river. If we have to flee the city, we want the way to the harbor clear.” He turned to the others. “Höfund and Vebiorg, scout the northwestern regions. We shouldn’t need to retreat there, but best to be certain. Baruch and Fjolvor will take the southeast, along the river. That’s our likely route back to our apartment, if all goes as planned. Stonekicker and I will take the southwest.”
Hervor folded her arms and glared at Starkad. Wanted to go with the younger shieldmaiden, did he? Or just wanted to avoid the fight he had to know was coming. Either way, the bastard had to know he was making it all worse on himself. “Come on,” she snapped at Win, trudging off before even waiting to see if he followed.
Great ships sailed the river, a half dozen of them in sight. Maybe more out in the mist, too. They were bigger than Northern longships, bulkier. Slower, probably, though she’d guess any outfitted for war could hold a troll-sized crew of warriors.
She’d seen more than a few Miklagardian soldiers passing along the streets on the way toward the tower. Men clad in heavier armor than aught she’d seen elsewhere. Like warped metal plates layered on top of one another, covering their chest and abdomen in a godsdamned turtle shell. Wonder they could move in all that. And since it left their legs exposed while still slowing them, it didn’t seem the most practical.
Others had mail, though. More sensible protection as far as she was concerned. Made her miss her own. Starkad had insisted they leave their armor in the apartment for fear of attracting too much notice. Might’ve been right about it, but still, she misliked being in foreign lands with naught between her flesh and a blade but her clothes.
They’d seen a fair number of these patrols both days. Made her worry on their chances.
“It’s a strange thing,” Win said, watching the ships himself. “Walking in the midst of enemies I’ve fought most of my life. I would never question the will of the Aesir, but still, I cannot say I much like coming here.”
“The Aesir?” Hervor asked. “What have they got to do with this?”
“The gods guide the urd of men and women. It is only through their will we find ourselves drawn to these far shores.”
Hervor snorted, earning herself a glare from both Win and Tveggi. Finally she shook her head. “Come on.”
They skirted the river, passing close to the tower itself. Standing below it, its sheer scale left her feeling like a mouse. It had to be fifty feet across, maybe more, all made from tightly locked gray stones. The thing ended in a slight dome, with a spike rising up out of it like it meant to pierce the clouds. Only the upper regions nigh to the dome had windows, though below those a ring of arrow slots dotted the surface. Hard to judge the height, but she’d guess at least a hundred feet.
She grunted. “How in Hel’s frozen underworld does he expect us to climb this?”
Win flinched. “Do not mention the name of the dark goddess.”
That drew a snort from her. “You’re worse than Starkad. Afraid she’ll hear you?”
The prince frowned. “You’ve known him long, yes? Starkad Eightarms?”
“Ugh. Seven winters, I suppose.”
“And yet, you two have still not wed?”
Hervor glowered. “Focus on the damn tower. We need a way in.” She pushed on, continuing to make a circuit of it.
Win followed, mercifully silent. The sun was already dipping low on the horizon, and night would settle in within the hour. And still she had no guess as to how they’d climb this. The surface wasn’t totally smooth, but she didn’t fancy her chances of trying to climb up without any solid foot or handholds.
Win pointed to the windows. “We could try throwing a grapple into a window.”
Hervor grunted, having to crane her neck to even see that high. “Not even Höfund could throw that far. Not straight up.”
“What about from an adjacent rooftop?”
Huh. Maybe. That would substantially close the gap, assuming they could find the right roof. The tallest of the buildings rose maybe forty feet up themselves. Maybe the half-jotunn could do it. Whether he could do it quietly enough, Odin alone knew. “It’s the best I can think of.”
“Trust in Odin to guide us.”
“Sure.” Odin hadn’t done all that much for her, so far as Hervor knew, but Win didn’t seem to want to hear that.
“My prince,” Tveggi said.
“Yes?”
“Have you noticed how few people are about here?”
Hervor turned, looked. Indeed, where the streets had seemed crowded an hour ago, now they were almost empty. Most of those she did see were scrambling into the nearby buildings, throwing shutters, slamming doors.
She frowned. “You’d think a place that manages to keep out the mist would remain more lively at night.”
“One would think,” Win agreed. “But who can say overmuch about their customs.”
Tveggi was turning about, slowly scanning each alley like he expected a troll to come rampaging down one any moment.
Hervor clapped the old man on his arm .
He flinched, hand going for the sword over his shoulder for a bare instant. Didn’t meet her gaze, though. Embarrassed by his reaction, maybe. “Best we find the others before it gets full dark.”
True enough. Hervor cast a last look at the massive tower. She was not looking forward to this.
As it turned out, Starkad agreed with Win’s plan to scale an adjacent building. The rougher stonework and occasional windowsill made doing so easier than climbing the tower would’ve been.
Nevert
heless, Hervor grunted, panting, as she pulled herself up over the lip of the roof. It was flat—praise Odin—and she scrambled up onto her knees. Missing a finger on her right hand … And that shoulder had never recovered from a wound years ago. All of it made climbing one of her least favorite activities.
The others pulled themselves up as well. Nine men and women, crouching on a rooftop in the middle of Miklagard itself. Up here, she had a better view of the city. A whole string of rooftops of differing heights ran for miles, it seemed, breaking up only because of the river and the Black Sea.
Some of the roofs were angled. Some had plate-like shingles. Some stretched along great distances, a hundred feet or more. Many had a slight blue tinge, more ominous in the night.
Speaking of which, the mist had thickened a bit during the evening. It flowed around the buildings, rising a few feet off the ground in swirling clouds .
“Place seems worser and worser,” Höfund mumbled. “Kinda makes me miss Jotunheim.”
She wouldn’t go that far. “Can you get the grapple up there, on the balcony around the dome?”
Höfund gnawed on his lip, staring up at it. “Reckon I can. Ain’t had overmuch practice on that sort of thing, though.”
Afrid snorted. “Where’d you learn our language? From a deaf child?”
The big man looked at her. Hervor couldn’t say whether he was offended, but she gave serious consideration to punching Afrid. “Well,” Höfund said. “Me, I mostly learned it from Father. Figure he got it from a handful of human slaves like yourself. Them what he didn’t eat or rape to death, that is.”
Afrid opened her mouth, her slight grin rapidly disappearing when no one laughed. Probably wondering if Höfund was serious. Slowly, horrifyingly, realizing he was.
A slight smirk crept upon Hervor’s face.
“Make your best shot,” Starkad said. He looked around, probably scanning the streets for anyone who might see if someone stood on the roof. “Do it now.”