Days of Bloody Thrones

by Matt Larkin

  “Do it!” she half shouted, half moaned at him. “Prove to me … that you …”

  He pinned her arms down and almost snarled at her. Her chest was heaving. Her whole body arched and convulsed without further thought on her part. And Starkad gasped, finally slumping down to lay atop her.

  Panting, Hervor rolled him off from her.

  She lay very still.

  It had been amazing.

  And she had no idea how to feel about that.

  6

  Even with the sun up, the Njarar castle felt chill, almost hostile. Like some noxious force from the Otherworlds brushed against this place. Perhaps that was not so very far from the truth. The dvergar had wrought this place, and Starkad had always heard of their cruelty. Matched, perhaps, by old Nidud and his heir.

  And by Volund and his heir?

  So then, had these halls seen such darkness that they had become stained with it, saturated with suffering and hatred that would not die? Starkad walked alongside Wudga, and the man took in this place. Many of the former soldiers of Otwin had sworn themselves to Wudga—when he had promised them riches drawn from the king’s hoard. Others began looting themselves, convinced they could get away with it.

  Or perhaps the treasures here were as cursed as the runeblades themselves, as all else wrought by dvergar.

  And if dark deeds could indeed infect a place like a rot that would never heal, then it must eventually be the fate of all Midgard to drown in such darkness. For everywhere Starkad had ever wandered, he’d found war and murder and worse things.

  He pressed his palms against his eyes.

  “Something vexes you?” Wudga asked. The man seemed changed, almost pale … exhaustion from the battle?

  Starkad shook his head. A great many things, perhaps, but none he truly wished to discuss, least of all with this man. Fucking Hervor was like to prove a mistake. He’d left her, asleep on the king’s bed, and come to wander these halls as if he might for even a moment forget what he’d just done. How much he’d fucking enjoyed it.

  Had he wanted to do that with her already? Had he been fooling himself?

  And, damn it, how had she made him so introspective this day? His musings on the rotting of Midgard were even more pointless than worrying over the nature of his relationship with that woman. It all amounted to naught.

  Starkad cleared his throat. “I simply find myself pondering where to go next.”

  “Have you not pledged your services to the woman?” Wudga snickered. “Actually, it sounded like you already served her well, but perhaps not the service you promised her.”

  Right. Of course half the castle would have heard that. Neither Hervor nor himself had made much effort at subtlety or quiet. And even thinking about it, he felt himself start to rise again. Maybe he ought to see her and … oh. Hel. Where did he let his mind wander now?

  Wudga led him down a staircase that descended deep into the mountain. A hidden treasure vault?

  The man glanced back at Starkad. “The dvergar called such places deep forges. Here, Nidud imprisoned my father in darkness and forced him to craft all manner of wonders.”

  Or horrors, depending on one’s perspective. And now even Wudga carried a runeblade. The very treasure Starkad so fervently sought lay slung over the back of a man not five feet away. A simple shove off the staircase and Wudga would plummet into darkness. Starkad grit his teeth against such unworthy thoughts. Except … this mission would have failed without him. Was he not owed his due?

  But Wudga had promised him silver and appeared intent to pay that. He had always said the runeblade was his own prize. Starkad clenched his fists at his side lest they try to draw his blades on their own. He could not trust himself. Not since the curse. Maybe not even before that …

  Much as he wanted to blame all his crimes, all his failings upon the Otherworldly … something rotten lay within Starkad’s breast. Always had.

  They descended deep beneath the ground, the fragile flicker of Wudga’s torch disappearing into the vast recesses of the cavern that spread out around them. Eventually, the stairs deposited them on a landing that led to a stone bridge spanning an ill-looking lake. Starkad frowned, staring at the too-still waters.

  Wudga’s torch dimmed as though he hooded a lantern, and Starkad jerked up, hand on his sword hilt.

  “Peace,” Wudga said. “He is coming.”

  “Who is—”

  A slight shuffle answered him, as a man limped closer. He remained just out of the radius of the torchlight, as if he feared it. Or rather it failed to cast illumination onto him, as if the light feared him. Like living shadows, and the hints of gray skin and jet-black hair. A fell creature whose presence set Starkad’s soul stirring, demanding he flee this place and retreat into daylight. The shadows seemed to whisper in some forgotten, hissing tongue, filled with loathing of all life.

  “You have done well, my son.”

  Yes. For this was Volund himself. The dark smith whose vengeance upon Nidud had become legend. Vengeance, which Wudga had finally completed for his father.

  Wudga dropped to one knee, unslung Mimung, and offered it to Volund with both hands.

  The smith chuckled, the sound of it like nails churning Starkad’s brain. “That is for you to bear and earn your fame as you see best. It will serve you well.”

  Wudga rose, shouldering the blade in a single motion. “Yes, Father.”

  Volund looked past his son. At Starkad. His gaze made Starkad’s skin crawl. “And you. Champion of Odin, off collecting the lost runeblades.”

  “I’m not …” Not what? Hunting the runeblades? Was he not just thinking how badly he needed one? But he didn’t do it for Odin. At least … Starkad hoped he wasn’t doing it all for Odin. He could no longer trust his own mind, his own heart. His own dreams. Was he so naive as to think Odin did not use him? The Ás used all men.

  “Are you not, then?” The shadows seemed to fold among themselves such that Starkad imagined Volund shrugging. “Perhaps then you do not wish to hear of the lost treasures of Glaesisvellir? Of the runeblade Skofnung? Or the others …”

  The very words were like a blow to the gut. An irresistible, unstoppable urge that seized his chest and took control of his throat. Spoke his words for him. “There is a runeblade in Glaesisvellir?”

  “Oh … yes … lost, long ago, when the Old Kingdoms fell. And fell so deeply. Taken there, and perhaps, even beyond.”

  Starkad took a step toward the darkness that was Volund and yet saw the man—the creature—no more clearly than before. “Where is Glaesisvellir?”

  “Why … beyond the Midgard Wall, of course.”

  Starkad stared dumbly into the darkness. In … Utgard? Starkad liked to push all limits, but he had not yet ventured beyond the wall. “I … you’re working with Odin.”

  The darkness merely chuckled at that, once again seeming to tear through Starkad’s mind.

  And then the presence slowly abated, the torch returning to its full illumination, scant though it was.

  “So,” Wudga said. “You will venture to Jotunheim?”

  “I have no choice. If that is where the runeblade lies, there I go.”

  Wudga nodded. “I will see you well stocked with silver and provisions for such a trek.”

  At that he inclined his head. Such was only his due, after all. Before he could set out for Jotunheim, though, he had made an oath to Hervor. He would not break it, whatever mistakes might have gone between them.

  “So,” Wudga said. “I have heard of tales of Glaesisvellir, stories carried on the wind about the land and its famed King Godmund.”

  “A jotunn?”

  “Indeed.”

  Starkad grimaced. His dealings with jotunnar had been ill, thus far.

  “Though the king is not the darkest tale spreading out from Glaesisvellir.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Whispers … that the Veil grows thin. That the worlds bleed together and all you think you know means less than naught.�
�

  The Veil … that was what völvur called the barrier separating Midgard from whatever lay beyond. “Thin? Thinner than this place?”

  Wudga chuckled, the sound marginally less unnerving than it had been coming from his father. Indeed, Wudga seemed a great deal like his father these days. “Oh. Yes. Much … or so the tales say.” The man smirked. “You cannot find the place, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Will you wander the frozen wastes for all eternity? Without the Sight, you cannot hope to navigate the vast wilds beyond the wall.”

  And how did Wudga know so much of what went on beyond the Midgard Wall? Had he learned this from his father? “So tell me where to go.”

  “Does Odin not haunt your dreams, warrior? Have you not asked yourself why he can reach you? Perhaps you have a latent gift for the Sight and require but the means to harness it.”

  Oh.

  Intriguing … and horrifying, in its own right. Was Starkad to be like those fell seers and völvur, driven apart from mankind but unearthly visions? But then, Starkad was already quite apart from most of society. “How?”

  “There is a fluid, lingering in toxic pools, still enduring from when this world was young. A poison, perhaps, but one some claim gave rise to life.”

  What the fuck was he on about now? Starkad leaned back against the wall. His patience with Volund and his son was starting to wear thin. “Speak plainly.”

  “This … fluid, the eitr, flows through the veins of linnorms.”

  “Even if I knew where to find a dragon, I have little inclination to fight one.” Though the glory of such … no. It was mist-madness. No man survived contact with such ancient beasts. Not even Starkad.

  “You need not. One might also find some fleeting streams of eitr in the deep places. As might be found not so far from here, in caverns once home to dvergar. I can tell you where … if you are willing to delve deeply.”

  Another dverg treasure hoard? Oh, Starkad would delve deep indeed for such wonders, to say naught of this eitr.

  “But you say it is poison?”

  “Yes … I can brew it into a draught that may serve your purpose … but aught worth doing has risks, yes?”

  Oh, indeed. And Starkad would take such risks gladly.

  So then, let them make haste to fulfill his oath to Hervor. And when that was done, Starkad had darker treks to begin. For Wudga must surely speak the truth … Odin’s interest in Starkad had come from long winters back.

  And that meant, like Wudga, Starkad might well have a touch of the Otherworldly about him …

  7

  Twenty-Three Years Ago

  Two winters since Tyr had brought Starkad and Vikar along to Andalus, to fight against the Serklanders, and Starkad had won his share of glory in a half dozen battles in that time. The foreign empire did not oft try its luck at the crossing of late, and that left a lot of long days, longer nights. Boredom.

  Lots of time to train.

  Starkad grinned at Ganelon as the paladin panted, pacing around him.

  They’d all called Starkad mist-mad for trying to wield two full-sized swords at once. Oh, but Tyr had insisted both brothers learn to fight left-handed—the man had taught himself to do so after losing his right hand to the beast that had killed their mother. They had done so, sure enough. And then Starkad had thought, if he could fight with either hand … why not both?

  Tyr had thrashed him the first time they had sparred like that. Roland had done so, too. All the paladins he’d challenged. Even Vikar. And the men laughed.

  No one was laughing now.

  He’d fought three men at once, and all now sat on their arses, nursing welts and scrapes and bruised pride.

  Ganelon, too, his chest heaved, gaze locked on Starkad’s slowly twirling blades.

  Every day, every night of their interminable exile here, Starkad had practiced swinging these.

  Tyr had not been fast enough to stop Fenrir from tearing out Mother’s throat. But Starkad was getting faster. And the fastest man was the only one who mattered.

  Ganelon charged in again, a mighty swing. It was probably fast, but it seemed lethargic to Starkad, every movement exaggerated and projected ahead of time. With one blade, Starkad knocked aside Ganelon’s sword. The other, he slapped against the paladin’s gut, doubling him over. An instant later, he brought the first blade round, slapped the flat against Ganelon’s arse, and sent him sprawling.

  “Boy moves like lightning,” Ganelon grumbled to no one in particular, as far as Starkad could tell.

  Starkad chuckled, thrust his swords into the sand, and offered the man a hand up. In truth, when he’d first arrived, Ganelon had been the one to help Starkad learn advanced techniques with the blade. Roland’s paladins—as he called them—proved some of the greatest fighters in the South Realms. Many of the Aesir dismissed that as irrelevant, thought their southern allies weak and small.

  Starkad saw something more in them, though. Lacking North Realmer brawn, they made up for it with speed and precision. The fastest man was the only one who mattered. And so Starkad had trained under Tyr, learning to fight left-handed. He’d trained with Ganelon and mastered efficiency of motion. He’d practiced archery with Astolfo, and he’d pushed himself on long-distance runs and tracking with Hermod.

  In the end, there would be no one faster, no one better. And Starkad would ensure what happened to Mother … did not ever again happen to those he loved.

  That was his oath to himself.

  Starkad motioned for his next contender to wait while he snatched up a skin of water and drank deep. He eyed the others waiting, so many men all eager to challenge him. Shieldmaidens, too, and he’d fought some few of them. Managed to get no few of them to tumble into his bed afterward as well.

  Yes, Starkad rather liked women.

  Shame these southerners didn’t seem to bring their women along to battle. Starkad would not have minded having the chance to stick it in a soft southern woman and see if there was a difference.

  A commotion began in the south of the camp. Shouting, a crowd gathering. Were the Serks trying the Straits again? No … no sound of weapons beating on shields, no drums of war.

  Starkad glanced at Ganelon who scowled, then together they made their way over to the gathered crowd.

  In the midst of the throng, Tyr stood across from Roland, his clipped, angry words not quite carrying over the grumbling of the crowd. Roland seemed even more engaged. The Vallander commander spent a great deal of time with Starkad’s … father. Acknowledging that left a bitter taste in Starkad’s mouth. Tyr had killed the man Starkad had called father. But the man had then sworn an oath that he was Starkad’s—though not Vikar’s—true sire. And Mother had loved him first, Starkad knew that much.

  Behind Roland, Starkad saw him. Vikar, beaten. Chained.

  What the fuck was this?

  Starkad pushed men aside to get to his brother. Punched a man who tried to bar his way and sent another sprawling with a heavy shove. “Explain this!”

  Tyr and Roland both turned to him now. Tyr’s face worn, maybe even resigned. Roland’s eyes lit with a fury Starkad did not remember seeing in him before.

  “Your brother disobeyed my orders,” the Vallander said.

  “I killed the godsdamned enemy!” Vikar shouted, then spat. “Is that not why we are here?”

  Tyr stepped around Roland to cuff Vikar. “Be silent, boy.”

  Starkad’s fingers itched to thrash them both. “You beat and chained him … for killing Serks?” It was hard to keep his voice level, to keep from shouting. To keep from killing.

  “No,” Roland said. “He was apprehended for disobeying my orders—and endangering his fighting brothers in so doing. Men died rescuing him from an ill-advised charge against an enemy already in retreat.”

  “You were going to let them escape to come at us again—”

  Tyr cuffed him a second time.

  Starkad’s hand closed around his sword hilt, not even realiz
ing he had reached for it. “Release. My. Brother.”

  “Starkad,” Tyr snapped. “I am handling this. Find somewhere else to be.”

  “Release Vikar, now.”

  Roland took a step forward, his glare almost enough to make Starkad falter. Almost. “Son. You seem to forget which of us gives the orders in this camp. I command our forces. And now I’m commanding you to listen to your father and walk away.”

  Starkad spat. He drew his sword … he tried.

  Ganelon’s fist caught him in the gut. It blew all the wind from Starkad’s lungs. Before he could even rise, rough hands seized him, jerked him up, and stole his blades from their scabbards.

  Florismart, another paladin, stalked over.

  “Starkad!” Tyr bellowed.

  Florismart’s fist connected with Starkad’s jaw. His world spun, his legs losing all strength.

  Everything went hazy.

  Starkad tossed aside the rags he’d used to staunch the blood from his nose. He sat in Tyr’s tent, still slightly dazed. Vikar was there—unchained, finally—and Tyr himself. Hanging his head. Defeated. The so-called champion of the Aesir, the legendary warrior, looking broken. Useless.

  A slave came in bearing mead, which Tyr drank, then motioned to be taken to Vikar. Finally, Starkad got his turn.

  “So?” he asked, wiping his mouth after drinking deeply.

  “A Vallander who so disobeyed his commander would find himself strung up,” Tyr said. “Nor can I well ignore Vikar’s actions. In pursuit of his own glory, he endangered our oath-sworn allies. But I can’t see him hung either.”

  Starkad nodded. “Then where do we go?”

  “There is only one punishment befitting his crimes, an Ás punishment. He must go where the wind takes him, welcome no longer in Valland … nor Asgard.”

  “Banished?” Vikar blurted. “You cannot be fucking serious. All I did was kill some Hel-cursed Serklanders!”