Days of Broken Oaths

by Matt Larkin

  He walked up the wall, back into the smoke clogging the ceiling. Hervor disappeared from his view as did almost all else.

  Leaving her to burn was justice … was maybe even the right thing to do. But then, neither of those things had truly driven most of Starkad’s actions thus far. Much as he loathed her for all she’d done, he could not deny the memories of their years together.

  “I love you.” Her voice was almost a whisper, like maybe she thought he was already gone and now was saying what she no longer dared speak to his face.

  Indeed, had she had the temerity to make such a brazen claim, Starkad might well have struck her down. But hearing now, knowing it wasn’t even meant for his ears, it felt like a lance through his own lifeless heart.

  Hel take her .

  He dropped down from the ceiling and landed behind her.

  She was on her knees, coughing, choking on the smoke. Tyrfing clutched in her right hand, almost like she’d considered turning it on herself. Maybe a better end than burning in the flames.

  With a grimace, Starkad sheathed Mistilteinn.

  Hervor slowly turned toward him, mouth agape, but—wisely—saying naught.

  Starkad hefted her up and threw her over his shoulder, then worked his way back to a section of the wall free of flames. He probably couldn’t shift her center of gravity to the wall, but he had the strength to hold her despite that. He stepped up on the wall and started upward. No clear path to the hookah room.

  “Hold your breath and close your eyes.”

  He raced up into the billowing smoke that covered the ceiling, having no alternative. She wouldn’t last long up here. Starkad stepped onto the ceiling, then ran in the direction of the hookah lounge. At the far wall, he dropped down.

  The room before him was engulfed in a blaze worse than the harem, and the ceiling was lower, that aflame as well. But it was the oil that presented the biggest threat. That was what wouldn’t go out. So if he could pass through the room without actually getting the oil on either of them …

  It would hurt. It would hurt a lot.

  “Take a deep breath,” he told her, then shifted her into his arms, cradled like a babe but held slightly higher, just below his chin. Above most of the flames.

  He saw no other way.

  Starkad spat. Then he took off at a dead run, not even bothering trying to avoid the flames. His feet squelched in the oil—more like jelly, actually—so it no doubt covered his boots. The conflagration ignited his trousers and seared his legs.

  He passed through the room in an instant though, toppled to the ground, and rolled, Hervor tumbling from his arms and slamming against the stairs. Growling at the pain, Starkad jerked off his boots and flung them aside, then tore off the ends of his trousers and patted out what flames he could. His legs were charred black as bad as Hervor’s arm.

  Snarling, he lay back, unable to even think of walking.

  “Starkad,” Hervor said, crawling over to him. “You saved me …”

  He looked at her, teeth grit through the agony, though she must have felt even worse.

  She reached for his arm. “I can help you up the stairs. We have to get out of here.”

  Starkad shoved her away. “Go.”

  “No! I won’t leave without you.”

  A fresh grunt of pain escaped him. He turned to stare dead into her eyes. “I will not have your hands upon my flesh, you lying, murderous wretch. I am done with you, forever.” She flinched at each word, her mouth hanging open. “I have no wish to ever look upon your face again. And believe me when I tell you, you do not wish to see me again. Take what remains of your life … and be gone. Before hunger takes me.”

  Starkad couldn’t remember ever seeing tears in Hervor’s eyes before. Maybe now, as she knelt there, silently working her jaw … maybe it was just the smoke and the pain watering her eyes. She reached a trembling hand toward him, then let it fall .

  Finally, she rose, grasped Tyrfing, and disappeared up the stairs.

  Starkad waited until he was certain she was gone.

  And then he wailed as despair closed in around his woeful soul.

  33

  G iven all that had happened, Hervor had dared not delay until daylight to be free of Miklagard. Even without the threat of vampires prowling the streets, she could not have stomached the city another moment.

  So she and Höfund had stolen a tiny sailing vessel and set out, skirting the coast west of the city. Like this, she could not have said how long it would take to reach Holmgard. Nor did she really care.

  It was hard to care much about aught anymore.

  A lump of solid ice had grown inside her heart, and it was spreading, seeping into her gut. Filling up her lungs and choking out her breath. Stealing her ability to speak or even to think.

  Despite the burns covering her arm and neck and up her face, she was freezing.

  She guided the ship, hardly noticing the pain in her left hand, though she could only steer with her right hand now. She hardly even heard Höfund as he spoke. Naught he could’ve said much mattered, anyway .

  It was over.

  Everything was over.

  She’d … avenged her father and uncles back on Thule. It had been blood calling out for blood. Justice, as her kin deserved. Vengeance …

  All that had motivated Orvar-Oddr ever since. The Arrow’s Point had nigh drowned in his need for vengeance. He’d stalked around Midgard, slaughtered Odin alone knew how many people along the way.

  Cost her … cost her …

  The ice in her chest just kept growing. By the time they reached Holmgard, maybe she’d have frozen solid. It would’ve been fitting if she never returned. In Miklagard, she’d lived her greatest fear. Starkad had learned everything.

  It had destroyed them.

  That last look upon his face had made the truth unavoidably clear.

  “You’re looking pale.”

  Hervor glanced at Höfund, still only half-seeing the big man. That ice just kept crushing her. Slow and cold and inevitable. Just like Orvar’s revenge. She’d killed him now. And he’d still fucking won. “I’m all right.”

  “Sure?”

  Hervor didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to lie, and she sure as Odin’s stones didn’t have the strength to tell him the truth. Chills wracked her.

  She didn’t have the strength for much of aught.

  The ice had stolen away her strength and left a numbness in its place. Left a part of her to wish the draug had killed her.

  She’d killed him a second time .

  And she’d still lost.

  Finally, she could stop looking over her shoulder. Only now there was naught ahead of her worth looking at.

  An eerie silence had settled over her grandfather’s hall, a stillness that Hervor misliked even before she rapped on the doors. Waited.

  No one answered.

  Hervor glanced over her shoulder at Höfund.

  “Sure you’ve got the right place?”

  Hervor rolled her eyes. Was he truly asking if she’d forgotten which lands had belonged to her family? She shouldered a door only to find it didn’t budge. Barred from the inside. Since when did Grandfather bar the damn doors?

  Her left hand was still wrapped in reeking bandages a völva had applied. Saved her life, maybe. She’d probably never use that hand again, though.

  “Open up!” she demanded, rapping hard once more. “Open up! This is my godsdamned home!”

  “Lady Hervor?” a voice called from within, muffled by the thick oak separating them, but clearly female.

  “Yes! Is that you, Toril? Let me in, damn it! Night is settling in.”

  Groaning sounded behind the door, along with wood scraping, then clattering to the floor. Poor girl could probably barely lift the plank needed to seal the double doors. To spare the servant the effort, Hervor shoved the doors open herself.

  Toril scampered away like trolls were stomping through instead of Hervor, the servant’s face ashen, wan. “
S-sorry, I … times have been hard of late. Too many men poking around looking for …” The woman was staring at Hervor’s face, no doubt afraid to ask about the burns running along her neck and up her cheek, or the bandaged lump of a hand Hervor held to her chest. Not that Hervor would’ve answered, anyway.

  “What happened here?” Hervor demanded. “Where’s Grandfather?”

  Toril hesitated, removing any remaining doubt. “Thickness finally took him, not a moon after you left.”

  And that ice just kept growing inside her chest. Hervor groaned, leaned against the wall. Höfund put a hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off. She hadn’t been there when Mother died. Hadn’t even seen her fall ill. Now Grandfather was gone too, and she hadn’t been here because she’d gone chasing after wealth in Miklagard. Chasing after Starkad.

  Like a fool. Because she ought to have known it wouldn’t end well. Naught had ever really ended well for her.

  The gods are watching, little girl. They watch while you fumble around in the dark.

  A völva had said that to her, back before she went to Samsey. Before she took Tyrfing from Angantyr’s barrow. Before everything turned to troll shit. The witch had claimed Hervor was too stubborn to listen to wisdom freely given.

  Teeth grit, Hervor stood there, chuckling, not caring as Toril and Höfund stared at her like she’d gone mist-mad. Because of course she had. She’d gone mist-mad long, long ago. Maybe when she left Grandfather’s care and took up with Red-Eye’s Boys. Certainly after that, when she’d sworn vengeance upon Orvar-Oddr for crimes committed before she was born against men she’d never even known.

  Pride? Arrogance. Hubris. Sheer, rank stupidity.

  She’d taken the sword from the barrow, despite the ghost’s warnings.

  You tread swiftly toward your own doom. You walk in darkness.

  Odin’s thrice-damned stones … Her father had known her oath would lead her to despair. He’d known. He’d fucking told her.

  Tyrfing will be the ruin of all your family.

  “Agh!” Hervor pressed her palms into her eyes, even that sending fresh pain through her left hand. “Agh!”

  “Hervor!” Höfund had her shoulders, was shaking her.

  Teeth clenched and bared, she stared at him, knowing she must look mad and not giving a troll’s rocky arse about it. “I did it. I upheld my oath! I upheld my oath!” She slapped the big man’s arm. “I fulfilled it! So why? Why!” Why hadn’t she listened? Why hadn’t she stopped for even a moment …

  But then, her oath had brought her to Starkad in the first place. Brought them together, given them a chance. A fool’s chance, an illusion born on mist and carried across the night to draw men to their doom. Hope was a will-o'-the-wisp, and she’d willingly chased it into a bog.

  Maybe she deserved all she’d gotten from it.

  “Hervor?”

  She rolled her eyes, then finally stared at him. Grandfather was gone. All her family was gone. And the last thing he’d asked her …

  Hervor … you are the last of our line. If you …

  If she did not bear a child, both lines of her family ended with her. All her oaths of vengeance meant less than naught. Maybe Angantyr’s ghost rested now, but his kin were gone, save her.

  And Grandfather had asked her to marry Höfund. Son of a king, if a foreign one. Grandfather hadn’t known what manner of king Godmund was, but maybe that mattered little now. Maybe naught mattered overmuch anymore.

  She could not force either a smile or a frown to her face. Couldn’t find the strength to break through the ice for even one more breath. “Before he died, Grandfather bid me accept your offer for my hand. If you still wish it …”

  Höfund nodded, cracking a grin wide enough for the both of them. “Can’t say aught would make me happier. Reckon I’ll use some of this plundered silver in the town, work up a proper celebration.”

  For his sake, Hervor faked a smile. He deserved so much more, but that was all she had left to offer. A pathetic smile, and a heart of ice.

  In the morning, the townsfolk would gather for the wedding. Hervor had no kin to gather, and Höfund’s lay far beyond Midgard, so instead he’d invited people neither of them knew nor cared for.

  Hervor walked in the hills outside Grandfather’s estate, alone. Höfund had asked to come with her, of course, worried over her heading out into the mist at night. But she’d taken a torch and Tyrfing and refused any company. Some things had to be done alone. Maybe, in the end, everything that mattered was done alone.

  A fell wind whipped the mist into swirls that seemed wicked, as if watching her. Though it prickled her skin, still she could not bring herself to fear. Not anymore. She should have, perhaps, but after all she’d been through, the night held no more terror. Or Hervor had no capacity left to feel it.

  She plodded out through Deeppine, down paths she’d walked back with Red-Eye’s Boys long years before. They were all dead now. All the bandits. All of Grandfather’s men who had hunted and killed the gang, for that matter. Everyone was gone.

  When she was with them, just a girl really, they had come to rocks by the river, where awful whispers filtered up through gaps between the stones. A hole that led down to the gates of Hel, Red-Eye had said. They’d all warned her to stay clear of there, especially at night. Said ghosts clawed their way out to feast on the souls of the unwary.

  Once, when a man had turned on him, betrayed him, Red-Eye had broken the traitor’s legs and cast him down that hateful hole. That was what happened to traitors and oathbreakers, he’d said. Cast down toward Hel’s domain, to be feasted upon by the dark dragon.

  Hervor climbed up along the rocks until she could stare down into the darkness of that hole. The torchlight failed to illuminate the bottom though it reflected off numerous boulders lining the way down.

  Almost as if aware of her intent, Tyrfing began to sing in her mind. A whisper, a cry for blood and glory, as if she could claim all she would ever desire with its pale flame in hand. But all Hervor desired was forever denied to her.

  Soon, the sun would rise, and she’d don a dress and marry Höfund. Bear him a child or several, continue the line. Give over the life of a shieldmaiden which had brought Hervor naught but misery, really. Mother had wanted her to live as a lady, and Hervor had scorned her. Had embraced blood and violence as both means and end .

  Fool that she’d always been.

  No more, though. She would wed Höfund and force herself to bury thoughts of Starkad Eightarms deep in this hole, to be considered rarely, if ever.

  Tyrfing will be the ruin of all your family.

  She chuckled, shaking her head. Arngrim had murdered Sigrlami and taken this blade. With it, her father Angantyr had wrought chaos and death—most of all his own, leading to Arngrim’s suicide. And Angantyr had warned her. Told her exactly what would happen.

  Oh, but they could be glorious together. They could reclaim all she had lost. Build their own kingdom … Fuck, were those thoughts even her own? And if not, how many of her thoughts over the years had come from the cursed blade? Had it stoked her need for vengeance, forced her hand?

  Or was blaming the sword merely a cowardly way to shift responsibility from herself? Of course, she already knew the answer to that.

  Eyes closed, Hervor unslung the runeblade from her shoulder, held the sheathed weapon in her left hand. It was a part of her now. Like one of her own limbs. To let it go was impossible.

  Impossible … A well of despair and madness …

  But Hervor had given in to madness some time ago.

  Tyrfing will be the ruin of all your family.

  And she had not listened. Not when her father had tried to tell her. Not then, not until she could share his wretched agony.

  “Let it be done …” She swallowed, unable to get the lump in her throat down. No. No! She couldn’t do this. She needed to put the strap back on her shoulder. To keep Tyrfing close. It was hers . Only for her … “Goodbye my love. ”

  Choki
ng, Hervor forced her fingers open, one by one, each more painful and difficult than the last. Until Tyrfing slipped from her hands.

  The runeblade fell into the hole, clattered off stone, bounced, and vanished, into the darkness.

  Epilogue

  T oo many battles had taken their toll upon Odin. His immortal body would heal, yes, but between the loss of vitality he’d suffered fighting in Miklagard and the injuries the Niflungar had inflicted upon him, he found riding Sleipnir sent painful jolts through his body.

  The eight-legged horse could cover great distances very quickly, even running over the sea. At least when Odin could tolerate the jarring of such speeds. Now, he found himself preferring a gentler pace.

  His visions indicated Starkad had or at least would come to Ostergotland. Slightly out of the way for Odin’s return to Asgard—and he did have pressing business there—but he needed to see to the man. Had he known just how dangerous those vampires were before setting things in motion … No. The truth was, Odin would still have sent Starkad to retrieve the runeblade, even realizing the danger.

  He had no choice. Odin himself could not be in all places at once, nor overcome all foes. He had to use pieces like Starkad if he was to arrange events the way he must in order to win Ragnarok. That weight loomed over Odin’s head, ever present, like a dangling sword that followed him no matter which way he turned.

  He rode up along the banks of a river until finally coming to an ash tree. Starkad sat beneath it, back pressed up against it, the hood of his cloak up despite the warm weather. Most vampires avoided the sun, but it seemed Starkad felt confident enough in his mortal abilities to care little. Maybe he even welcomed the challenge.

  The runeblade lay across Starkad’s knees—sheathed—where he ran his fingertips over the hilt. “I thought you would come.” The man finally looked up at Odin.

  Odin dismounted, hiding his grimace of pain. Starkad knew well enough the true nature of the Aesir and the source of Odin’s immortality. Still, it didn’t do to show weakness to others—not while appearing as his true self.