Days of Bloody Thrones

by Matt Larkin

  But a pleased father-in-law … that too boded well.

  Ecgtheow had to blink in the afternoon light, reflecting off the mist. The day was bright, and someone claimed Sunna was smiling on the wedding, though Gylfi’s people had told men to stop invoking the Vanir for years now.

  Way Ecgtheow saw it, better to have too many gods than not enough. Aesir, Vanir—new gods, old—let them all be pleased.

  Shame his own father couldn’t have been here for this, though. Valkyries had come for him long winters ago … but at least Hrethel was there, nodding his approval, his wife looking more solemn by his side.

  The crowd parted as an elderly woman made her way toward the hillock, blue and red paint marking her face, hair tied in wild braids. She leaned heavily on a walking stick during the climb, a wand perhaps … Ecgtheow heard the witches used wands in their Art or pretended to.

  The völva’s face was almost as grim as Gull’s. Perhaps the woman had actually cared about Haki who had ruled here so recently. Still, a völva had to serve the lord of a kingdom, whoever he may be. Now, it was Jorund.

  He flinched when the witch pointed that stick at him.

  Slowly, she turned to Ylva, pointed it at her too.

  Now the bride squirmed, looking almost as uncomfortable as Ecgtheow felt.

  Then the old völva banged the wand on the ground thrice and began to speak in old verse, accented in ways his distant ancestors might have spoken. Then again, who knew how men spoke during the Old Kingdoms? No one lived to say it.

  It went on for long enough he found himself fighting to hold still. Just had to focus on the girl’s face, all grins and nervousness.

  “In the name of the goddess Frigg, do you accept this woman?”

  “Yes.” His voice sounded scratchy in his own ears.

  “And you, Ylva, in Frigg’s name, will you have this man as your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  The völva slammed her wand onto the ground again. “Then bring forth the sacrifice!”

  One of Hrethel’s men led a goat toward the völva by a rope around its neck, the animal placid and having no idea what urd now lay before it. The beast was healthy, large enough to make up the better part of tonight’s feast. It had formed a large part of the bride price he’d paid to Hrethel, after all, so he’d bought the best he’d found in all Upsal.

  The völva laid a bowl beneath the goat and looked to Ecgtheow. He grabbed the animal by the horns to hold it in place. At once, it began to thrash and struggle. It may not have known what was coming, but it did not like being so manhandled. With a swift and well-practiced motion, the völva drew a knife across the animal’s throat.

  In a few heartbeats, all fight went out of the goat, and it sank to its knees, slowly bleeding out while the völva invoked Frigg and other goddesses of fertility. Through her mumbling, it was hard to say, but Ecgtheow would have sworn she mentioned the name Freyja under her breath, another of the cast-down Vanir. Some ways died hard, and the witch was old enough to remember, to have worshipped the Vanir half her life.

  When the goat grew still, the völva dipped two fingers into the bowl of blood and traced a thin line of it along Ecgtheow’s forehead. Then she repeated the gesture on Ylva. The witch then flicked droplets of blood over the nearest guests, blessing them all with Frigg’s bounty.

  “Now the sword,” the völva said.

  With a grunt, he produced Naegling and offered it to Ylva. “This blade is for our firstborn son to bear. No finer blade graces the face of Midgard.”

  Without taking her eyes from his face, Ylva belted the sword about her waist. Symbolic, of course. She’d return it to him until their son was old enough to need it.

  Next, they traded rings and made their vows.

  All so glorious.

  Ecgtheow dared to hope Frigg truly did watch this and Odin too and Freyja for that matter. Maybe one of them would ensure him a happy marriage and many children.

  Naught else mattered more, after all.

  In the days following the wedding feast, some of the guests had departed, but Jorund had welcomed a great many of his jarls, thegns, and their war bands to remain. And too, those of Haki’s own former people who would swear oaths of loyalty, he took into his service and welcomed to his table.

  No man passed on free food and mead, Ecgtheow supposed.

  In the new king’s hall, Ylva sat with her father, speaking softly, while Ecgtheow milled about and eyed the other warriors. Not a fortnight ago, some of these men had been enemies. Now, Jorund insisted they all become one kingdom.

  Ecgtheow would do as the king commanded, of course … and being now tied to Hrethel, Jorund was maybe more his king than Gylfi. Strange thought, that.

  Either way, it was hard not to mistrust those who had tried to kill you. Ecgtheow would just as soon be off to the island Hrethel had promised to him and Ylva. As soon as winter broke, they’d be planting the fields in the hopes of a good crop before the summer passed.

  Besides, if he hadn’t already planted a son in Ylva, he aimed to keep trying.

  The thought brought a grin to his face.

  As Ecgtheow claimed the drinking horn from a housecarl, Jorund rose from his throne in the back of the room.

  The king himself, they saw less and less of in the past days. He came out in the evening for the feasts but sat alone on his throne, shadowed and reclusive, much as Gylfi had been. But Gylfi was old and perhaps even a sorcerer and had his excuses for his unmanly and unsociable behavior. Jorund … seemed a different man than he had been a moon ago.

  Now, slowly, everyone turned to see what he’d say. Last he’d spoken at all had been his order to welcome those of Haki’s people who’d swear to him. So what now?

  The king stalked forward, eerily silent, and paused several feet before one of the great braziers lighting the feast hall. “My fellows.” His voice did not boom, nor sound shouted, and yet it seemed to echo from every corner of the room. “We have victory now—Upsal is ours.”

  A cheer went up, men raising drinking horns, toasting their victory, as if they had not done that oft enough in the past days.

  “Such a force as ours has not been assembled in countless winters.”

  Another cheer, and Ecgtheow had to join in. After all, not long ago, men would have called Haki unassailable. They truly did have a fine army here.

  “So then,” Jorund said when the shouting had died down. “Why must we stop here? Haki spoke of a united Sviarland, but the glorified pirate had neither the wit nor the stones to achieve this. We, my fellows, have both.”

  Now, fewer men cheered. Others murmured in confusion. Ecgtheow folded his arms across his chest. What was Jorund on about now? Ecgtheow had once dreamed of uniting the land under Gylfi … was that Jorund’s plan?

  “Ostergotland has no king, and thus, that must be our first target.”

  Oh. Well, that posed a difficulty. If Jorund claimed Upsal and Ostergotland, it left Olof Sharpsighted’s new claimed kingdom of Njarar surrounded by Jorund’s lands. How long before Jorund decided to claim Njarar as well, at the expense of Gylfi’s former thegn? The king of Dalar would not like that overmuch, Ecgtheow felt certain.

  “Now is the time to strike,” Jorund said, “before anyone can suspect it. Men do not make war in winter, they say. The nights are too long, too cold. The seas treacherous … but we can strike by land and sea, for we fear naught. And only one kingdom truly stands in the way of uniting all Sviarland.”

  Ecgtheow groaned. Fuck.

  “Old King Gylfi of Dalar has had his day. And now, we will go to him and ask him to swear his loyalty to our new realm.”

  Slowly, Ecgtheow shook his head. It didn’t seem urd was like to let him plant a damned thing in the near future. And his island would have to wait … maybe for quite some time.

  25

  With the silver Haki had paid him, Starkad had purchased the fastest dogs he could and pushed them so hard one had died on the third day. Such brutality chafed him. The
animals deserved better.

  Still, he’d had no choice but to stop, buy more dogs, and press on.

  And in stopping, he’d heard the news spreading from Upsal. Haki murdered by the sons of Yngvi, this Jorund now on the throne. No king of Upsal seemed to reign long these days. All war and blood … and Starkad had no idea how to feel about any of it.

  He’d been loyal to Jorund’s grandfather, true, but that was long winters past.

  And the only thing Starkad could think on these days was the danger he’d seen Hervor in. And so he pushed the dogs harder.

  Until at last he came to a village in the domain of Jarl Sigar.

  It was small, surrounded by a wall that might keep out wolves and bears, but would not stand overlong against a determined force of men. Inside the village, one of the jarl’s thegns had set up an equally unimpressive hall but one into which he welcomed guests.

  A good place to start asking after Hervor. She must have stopped somewhere for supplies. She must still be alive.

  She must …

  “Starkad?” Her voice.

  He spun to find her there. Fresh scratches on her face, bandages on her arm. By her stood another of Haki’s champions, the man Kare, and with them, a shieldmaiden who looked even more beaten down than Hervor herself.

  The urge to throw his arms about her took him, but he beat it down. After the way they’d parted …

  “I, uh … I am glad you live.”

  She nodded, then waved for him to follow her to a table. “The jarl’s men are generous enough … when we offered them silver trinkets as presents.”

  And presumably did not reveal the purpose of their trek to Skane.

  “So you did not try to …”

  She shook her head, then spoke of an attack by varulfur. Starkad grimaced at her tale. Was that what his … vision … had revealed? She was lucky to be alive at all. Not all of the party were that lucky. Folke had been a good man. A moron, but an honest one. Brave.

  Starkad rubbed his head. Had he been here, had he gone with her when she asked … was it part of his curse to always fail those around him? Or was that an excuse?

  “Now you’re here,” Hervor said, “maybe we can finish this.”

  “I’d wager those varulfur serve Jarl Sigar.”

  The wounded shieldmaiden groaned.

  Hervor just snorted. “You think a man commands those beasts?”

  Why not? The Ás tribes had used varulfur and berserkir, both. Especially the Godwulf tribe. For certain the shifters proved dangerous, hard to control. They also provided unmatched ferocity in battle and unrivaled ability as scouts and trackers.

  Starkad sighed. “If you truly wish it, we can pursue Hagbard’s vengeance. But there is something else you should know before making that decision.”

  “What is it?”

  “You remember the sons of Yngvi, whom Ochilaik warred with and finally drove away?”

  She shrugged, then winced, obviously still pained by her numerous wounds. Perhaps her shoulder would always pain her, despite the bargain Starkad had made with Gylfi. “Cravens who abandoned their kingdom. What of them?”

  “As soon as you were away from Upsal, these sons, Jorund and Eikkr, attacked. Haki is dead, and Jorund sits on the throne of Upsal.”

  Hervor’s face grew darker and darker with each word he spoke, until, finally, she gave a slight shake of her head. “He … murdered my king.”

  “So the tales tell it.”

  Kare slapped the table. “Then we must avenge King Haki without delay.”

  “What of Sigar?” Hervor asked.

  Kare shrugged. “For all we know, the man betrayed Hagbard to draw Haki’s champions from his side. Either way, that vengeance may be left for Hagbard’s own sons if need be. The longer we let Jorund sit on that throne, the more he’ll consolidate his power. Come summer it may be too late to avenge Haki.”

  The other shieldmaiden cleared her throat. “I am … in no shape to fight any war.”

  Nor did Hervor seem to be, from what Starkad could see.

  He scratched his beard. “If I asked you to let all this go … even asked you to come with me to Glaesisvellir …”

  “Fuck Glaesisvellir, Starkad. I beg you now, as your friend. Please help me avenge Haki. I … cannot pay you much, but aught I have—save Tyrfing—it is yours.”

  Damn it.

  He’d known that was coming.

  And the last time he’d refused her, she’d tromped off on her own and come within a hair’s breadth from rotting in the marsh.

  So really, he had no choice.

  This was why a man should not become too close to others. Especially not to women.

  They rode from Skane and into Ostergotland, and there the paths grew thick with refugees. Whole families trudging through the snows, bearing their bundled-up lives upon their backs.

  There, a girl not more than five winters, bent almost double under the weight of a pack. Behind her, a grandmother heaving, trying to manage a bundle of wood. And in the front, the mother, panting but still standing, no doubt bearing the heaviest burden of all.

  No sign of a husband, of a father to the girl.

  And Starkad had seen dozens of families like them.

  “Where are you bound?” he asked the woman.

  “Skane. Hoping Siggeir Wolfsblood will take pity on us.”

  Starkad scratched his beard. Siggeir Wolfsblood was known for having about as much pity as a troll. Starkad could give the woman a bit of wealth, but that would only prove an excuse for her neighbors to murder her. If not them, then the men she turned to for help.

  “What’s happened?” Hervor asked.

  “King Jorund has invaded Ostergotland. Maybe Dalar, too, if rumors be true.”

  Hel.

  So much for waiting for summer. Instead of gathering his forces and securing his throne … Jorund seemed to think he could simply kill every rival in Sviarland. But then, Ostergotland had just lost its king, as well. Jorund’s plan seemed not so unlike Vikar’s own, long winters back.

  Starkad shook his head. “Pass straight through Skane and, if you can, take a boat on to Sjaelland. Healfdene’s son Hrothgar rules Reidgotaland now and is far more like to offer succor than Siggeir Wolfsblood. Seek him out.”

  The woman nodded, clearly doubtful about her chances of making it across even a narrow stretch of the Gandvik Sea in winter. As doubtful, perhaps, as Starkad was.

  “You know this Hrothgar?” Hervor asked when the family had moved on.

  “Barely. He’s a shadow of the king Healfdene was, but a good man, or so it seemed to me.” Probably a better man than Starkad.

  They pressed on until they came to another party on the road, this one not refugees but a small war band.

  Starkad guided Hervor and the others off the road to let the war band pass—two dozen men here, no more. Except the big man leading them … that was Tiny—Ecgtheow.

  The man looked in Starkad’s direction, then called for a halt. He said something to a warrior beside him, then the pair of them trudged over.

  “Tiny?” Hervor said.

  He nodded at her, face solemn as a rock. “Hervor. Starkad. It’s good we found you.”

  Starkad’s fingers twitched. “Were you looking for us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s your companion?”

  “Starkad Eightarms, I present Jarl Hrethel of Upsal. My father-in-law.”

  The man’s hair was streaked with gray, his scars speaking of more than one battle behind him. The jarl nodded.

  “I congratulate you on your marriage, Ecgtheow.” Starkad turned to the other man. “Hrethel … one of the jarls who swore for Jorund, isn’t it?”

  Beside him, Starkad felt Hervor reach for her blade.

  “I did.”

  “And you are looking for us …” Starkad’s own hands edged closer to his swords. He truly did not want to fight Ecgtheow, but if the man had cast his lot in with Jorund …

  Ecgtheow’s gaze loc
ked on Starkad’s hands. “We may have all made poor choices in the past. I aim to set right what can be set right … and avenge what cannot.”

  At the obvious tension, Hrethel’s men had begun to draw nigh, hands on weapons. The anticipation of violence had already grown thick in the air, heady and apt to make men act without thought. Starkad knew it all so well.

  “Meaning, what?” Hervor demanded. “I thought you a thegn to Gylfi.”

  “So I was,” Ecgtheow said. “I do not know now even if he would take me back … I came into Jorund’s service and Hrethel’s. But Jorund has changed much in very little time.”

  Starkad glanced at Kare and Inkeri, who too had hands on weapons and had begun to flank Ecgtheow. “Changed how?”

  Hrethel twitched, then spat. “Grown dark … and overbold. He threatens to turn even upon Gylfi, the king who so openly sheltered him.”

  Given the sorcery Gylfi wielded, Starkad wasn’t sure he favored Jorund in such a conflict.

  “It’s worse than that,” Ecgtheow said. “He’s got draugar fighting for him, at least two dozen of them.”

  Hervor scoffed. “Draugar? You’re shitting me, Tiny.”

  “The three of us know draugar only too well, shieldmaiden. That and he has a new champion, a man some claim cannot be slain, cannot be defeated.”

  “Who?” Starkad demanded.

  “They’re calling him the Walking Kraken. Calling him invincible.”

  Starkad shook his head. “No one is invincible.”

  And Starkad had slain foes men might have thought such about.

  26

  Twenty-Two Years Ago

  Hergrimr had allowed Starkad to place torches around their battleground and that light now reflected off the frozen falls, as Starkad danced around his foe. The jotunn carried a sword as long as Starkad was tall, with a blade wider than his thigh. A single swipe of that would have sheared through mail and flesh and bone. Would have chopped Starkad right in half.

  Would have cut down a fucking tree.

  And so Starkad leapt out of reach once again. He dodged. Feinted. Rolled under Hergrimr’s mighty swings.