by Matt Larkin
And the jotunn swung and swung, chest heaving with the effort of it. Despite the speed with which he could swing that monstrous sword, Hergrimr’s recoveries were slow. And getting slower.
Another strike slammed down into the snow.
Starkad dodged to the side, darted in, and whipped his own blade around. It tore a shallow gash along Hergrimr’s shin and sent the jotunn stumbling forward. Starkad pressed his edge and slashed along the jotunn’s face, drawing a long, wicked gash there.
As Hergrimr roared, Starkad rolled off to the side, diving out of the way of another mighty cleave of that sword. Again, the jotunn charged in. Now blind with rage, with frustration. Clearly not used to facing a foe that could so evade his every move.
The fastest man was the only one who mattered.
Not even jotunn strength made up for it.
Starkad twisted away from another blow. Hergrimr overextended, and Starkad countered, Vikar’s sword biting into the jotunn’s elbow. That mighty sword tumbled down into the snow. The jotunn stared dumbly at his blood, gushing out over the snows.
Let him gape. It gave Starkad the chance to close inside the monster’s reach. He whipped one blade around, opening Hergrimr’s throat and rammed the other through the jotunn’s gut.
The monster fell back, then pitched over, clutching its one good hand to its neck. Blood oozed out between those fingers. And the jotunn slumped down into the snow.
Panting himself, Starkad let his swords drop and bent over, hands on his knees. The cold stung his lungs. A single blow from that thing would have ended him, and all Odin’s dark ritual would have meant naught.
Damn.
Snow crunched nearby, barely audible over his own gasping breath. Still, he looked up to see Ogn, ashen-faced, shaking her head.
“What have you done?”
“I … saved you.” He panted. He needed some water. He needed to sit down. “Now we can be wed.”
“I was not yours to save …” She knelt by the fallen jotunn and stroked his face with one hand.
What the fuck?
“Ogn?”
“Damn you, Starkad Eightarms. Damn you forever …”
Now he truly saw her. Thick with child. So thick she must have conceived not long after he’d left … if not before.
“W-what? I just fought for you …”
Ogn rose, her fingers clasped around the hilt of Vikar’s sword. “I didn’t ask to be saved! You … bastard … you …” She shook her head. “It was your brother’s sword, yes? The one you betrayed? Slaughtered? Everywhere you go, you bring death …”
Starkad straightened, slowly, hands up in warding. She stood between him and the other sword. No. No, he needed no blade, for she would never harm him.
“He was a good man …” Tears had welled in her eyes. “We were, our child was …”
“H-he kidnapped you!”
She frowned. “It … might have started like that … but you. You did not bother to ask … you just came and brought death. As you always do. You bought your life with darkness. So may darkness take you, Starkad.” She panted, as if barely able to hold back the weeping.
“I … I love you, Ogn. Please, we can talk about this.” He took a halting step toward her.
She hefted the sword, clearly not accustomed to it, but armed, nonetheless. “May darkness hold you, always. I damn you to it … to never find peace. To always wander, never satisfied, never able to hold the wealth you claim.”
“Ogn! Do not speak such things.” Starkad edged toward her. He just had to wrest the sword away, then they could talk. She was disturbed, but surely they could work this out.
“May all your days be drenched in blood and bereft of joy.”
He flinched at her use of Vikar’s words from his nightmare.
“Death shall follow in your wake all your life, Starkad. And your crimes will overshadow even your fame.”
Every word fell upon him like a blow. They swelled around his heart and crushed it, surely as the pressure he felt in his nightmares. They brought him to his knees.
And he crawled, begging for forgiveness. But as in the dreams, no words came.
Ogn backed away. And she turned Vikar’s sword backward, toward her own breast.
Starkad opened his mouth. Tried to shout her name. The words choked him, refused to escape his throat.
With a last, hateful glare at him, Ogn flung herself down. Her weight, light though it was, proved more than enough. The sword punched through her gut and out her back.
And finally, the scream broke from Starkad’s throat.
It echoed off the mountains. It sent snows tumbling down from the peak.
Anguish, despair, and insurmountable guilt mingled in his cry. But no one answered.
Part IV
Sixth Moon
Year 28, Age of the Aesir
27
Beneath a sheen of blood, Tyrfing gleamed in Hervor’s left hand. She’d cut down men, and it had been the hardest battle of her life. Every movement was an unnatural struggle fighting like this. Her instincts defied her judgment. And she earned cuts and gouges aplenty across her face, her arms, and her legs.
But then again, she’d slain five of Jorund’s men.
They fought not ten miles from Grandfather’s lands now. No doubt his own soldiers fought nearby, as well.
They’d turned these hills into a charnel ground. The snows melted beneath hot blood and steaming guts and hundreds of dying men. And still, the brunt of Jorund’s army came on, even as the sun dipped lower and lower. Like they didn’t plan to take respite at night?
And why not, if Ecgtheow was right. If the draugar served Jorund, the moment the last rays of sunlight winked out, the dead would become her greatest foes. Enemies against which she could not possibly win now, given her useless arm.
She’d thought vengeance complete against the Ynglings. And here, against all odds, against all reason, another Yngling had reclaimed the throne of Upsal. And did Hervor’s ancestors now writhe in the Otherworld, cursing her and holding her oath unfulfilled?
Gasping, she snared a blade against her shield. Twisted away as her foe swung again and again.
Jarl Hrethel’s shield slammed into Hervor’s attacker and drove the bastard backward. Her foe slipped in the muck and toppled onto his arse. Hervor lunged forward, running Tyrfing right through the man’s mail, his chest, and out his back.
Another one down.
On they fought, she and Hrethel and the jarl’s men. Atop the hill, Kare had slaughtered enough foes to put Hervor to shame. Once, she might have been his match. Once. Now she was just grateful he was on her side.
And Starkad … well, he had stormed through Jorund’s troops like a whirlwind, leaving a wake of severed limbs and corpses as he passed, ever hunting the king. No doubt intent to put an end to this all.
Not so long ago, Hervor would have demanded that honor for herself. Would have thought only she could complete her vengeance against the Ynglings. But it might take moons more for her shoulder to finish healing … if it ever did.
“Behind you!” Hrethel shouted.
Hervor spun, caught another blow on her shield, and engaged yet another soldier of the bastard Ynglings. Their army seemed never to end.
She cut this man down as well, then limped over to where one of Hrethel’s men had fallen. Dead, an axe in his sternum.
Finally, the enemy line seemed to break. Jorund’s men fell back, giving Hervor a desperately needed respite. She slipped to her knees, panting. And as she wiped the blood and gore and sweat from her face, the sun set.
With it, her heart clenched. Not this again. Not this … terror. This horror she’d thought she’d left far behind on Thule.
A sudden, uncontrollable panic settled over her. It squeezed her heart and closed her throat, suffocating her with the knowledge of what had to come next.
Not again …
Hervor watched, as a figure stalked about the hill. Coated in black mail that reflected no
light and beneath it, a shroud pulled tight around his face. Kare turned on this approaching apparition.
Grunting, Hervor hefted Tyrfing to join them. But from the flanks came a shambling man, dragging a lamed leg behind it, along with an axe big enough to fell a tree in a single swipe. And those gleaming … Hel-cursed … red eyes.
She whimpered, then hoped no one had heard it. Not this again …
Tyrfing up before her, Hervor advanced on the draug. For there was naught else she could do save fight or run.
And she wasn’t about to run.
Hrethel’s blade bit down into the draug’s back.
The creature faltered in its attack on Hervor. Gazed down at the sword point sticking out of its chest. And then it shrieked, the sound mind-grating, like winds escaping from the gates of Hel. It surged at her.
The jarl yanked on his blade, pulled it off balance.
Gave Hervor the chance she needed.
“Die, trollfucker!” She rammed Tyrfing through its face.
And finally, it fell still.
Four of their men had died to bring this thing down.
Hervor jerked her blade free, then turned back to the hill.
Kare was still engaged with the shrouded figure and clearly overmatched. It rained blow after relentless blow upon him, until finally his sword flew from his hands. Jorund’s champion tried to back away, but his foe cleaved a broadsword through his skull.
Through the mist and darkness, Hervor could not see it as Kare’s body fell.
And now the rage was on her, and terror had fled. Chest heaving with fury, she raced up the hill. Kare. Another of Haki’s champions. A man she’d fought side by side with for long moons.
Cut down by this … Walking Kraken.
Well, she would test his invincibility on Tyrfing.
With a battle cry, she charged in, swung as fast as she could. Her left-handed attacks might have been clumsy, a little off-balance. But then, she had but to scratch the bastard and he’d be dining with Hel.
The Walking Kraken spun on her, his movements swift and yet slightly stiff. Almost pained-seeming.
Hrethel came up the slope behind her, three of his men alongside him.
Hervor nodded at them. “We’ll take this bastard together.”
After offering a grim nod in return, Hrethel moved to flank their foe, his men breaking off to either side. No one was taking chances after what they’d heard. What they’d seen him do to Kare.
The champion’s body lay sunken into the snow as Hervor passed, wishing she could spare the time to say some words for him. Soon. Once the Walking Kraken was done walking.
The man lurched into sudden movement. Swung at Hervor. Drove her back.
He twisted his attack almost immediately. A feint—one that let him cleave into one of Hrethel’s men. The broadsword slammed against the man’s helm, scraped down, and tore into his chin. The poor bastard toppled over, screaming and clutching his split face.
Snarling, Hervor struck.
Her foe moved too fast, twisted out of the way of her clumsy attack, and spun around to engage another of Hrethel’s men. This one he caught by the arm and yanked, sent the man tumbling down the hill. And then he was back around, fending off attacks from Hrethel and the remaining man.
Well, they’d give Hervor the chance to end him. She kept Tyrfing low to the ground as she edged forward. Circling. Waiting for the chance …
Kraken’s broadsword clanged down on Hrethel’s shield. Same time, he jerked his elbow back into the other man’s face. The thegn’s nose exploded in blood, and he pitched over backward, tumbled end over end, and rolled down the hill.
Hervor raced in, made a tight swing at Kraken’s legs.
He jumped over her attack, his knee colliding with her sternum. The force of it sent her stumbling backward. Gasping for air.
Felt like getting kicked by a horse, straight in the chest.
Odin’s balls, this man was strong.
Hrethel did not waste the opportunity, though.
Roaring, the jarl embedded his own sword deep into the man’s back. The Kraken jerked from the impact. Then he spun and caught Hrethel on the side of his helm with one hand. The impact rang out like a gong. Hrethel spun round twice and dropped like a stone to the hillside. Rolled through the snow, down the slope.
The Kraken grasped the blade in his back with one hand, fingers not even seeming to feel the blade as they closed around the edge. A single jerk tore it free, and he tossed it aside.
Hel. That was what Hervor was afraid of. If Jorund had draugar in his army, it only made sense his champion would be one, too.
One of the men Kraken had knocked down was struggling to rise. Never make it back up here in time.
It fell on her, then.
And she was going to fucking die.
Hervor spit, then charged. The draug batted her sword aside with his own, stepped inside, and caught her left shoulder with his free hand. All one swift motion.
He pulled her backward, then slammed the pommel of his broadsword into her chest.
All the wind exploded from her lungs. Brilliant white light clouded her vision, and her legs gave out beneath her.
Couldn’t … breathe …
“I’m … going … to make you suffer …” The raspy voice echoed in her ringing head. Hard to make sense of it.
Couldn’t breathe …
The draug dropped her.
It stepped back. Waiting. Until, gasping and choking, she finally managed to look up at it.
And it slowly pulled back the hood, revealing those fell, gleaming red eyes. That rotting face …
The face she knew.
Orvar-Oddr. The Arrow’s Point.
The Walking Kraken was … invincible … because he was Arrow’s Point … back from the dead.
Hervor tried to speak. To protest. To deny it. All she managed was a choking cough and spitting up blood. She pitched forward, heaving as more blood dribbled out of her mouth.
The foul creature knelt beside her. “I’m not going … to kill you … until all you love … has crumbled … to dust … until you beg … for death.”
Hervor sucked down a painful breath. Patted around for Tyrfing. Where was it? Where was her sword!
“And then … you shall join me … in eternal torment.”
Shouts, war cries rang out from beyond the hill. More men coming to aid her.
Too late.
Orvar’s foot snapped up into her face.
White light exploded before her eyes. And then darkness.
28
Through the blood and chaos of the battle, Starkad pushed on. He’d lost track of how many of Jorund’s men he’d slain. Draugar, those he counted. Three of them, and each more difficult than the last.
Only Ecgtheow by his side—wielding that runeblade—only he had managed to finally slay the deathless, vile abominations. Starkad could not begin to fathom how Jorund had harnessed such dark powers. Sorcery? The only ones Starkad knew of who could control draugar were the Niflungar.
Those sorcerers were the nightmares of his childhood, and ancient inviolable power, woken by Odin. Driven to mad rage. If not for the Niflungar, maybe Mother would have yet lived. Maybe Vikar … maybe he and Starkad would not have left the Aesir … maybe …
Starkad shook his head to clear it.
Battle fatigue was driving him into delirium. Focus. Be fast—faster than the draugar. He had to find Jorund and end this.
With one blade, he swept an axe away. The other, he slapped against his foe, the flat of the blade clanging against the man’s helm. The stunned warrior fell to his knees, and Starkad kicked his weapon away.
“Where is your king?” Starkad demanded.
His only answer was a groan. He drove a sword down through the man’s exposed neck. A hot spray of blood squirted over him.
“Ecgtheow!”
The man was at his side a moment later, drenched in blood. Chest heaving.
Starkad was almost g
lad for the darkness. Glad he could not see how close to giving in to exhaustion his ally must be. “I cannot find Jorund in this.”
Ecgtheow leaned over, hands on his knees, and shook his head. “Only draugar … benefit from fighting … at night.”
Well, them and varulfur and aught else spawned from the Otherworlds. Many such powers preferred the cover of night, if not outright weakened by the sun’s rays. Starkad paused for a moment. Beings like … svartalfar.
Was it possible?
A flicker of insight, a waking dream. A vision in his mind, pulling him forward through the valley. Forward. Bent toward an urd he could not deny, perhaps not so unlike the very power that made men call Odin a god.
Blades flashing, Starkad battled his way past more men, another draug. He drove this one down, hacked off its legs. Left it for Ecgtheow to finish.
There was darkness.
Deeper than the night, deeper than total blackness. For it was the living dark. The same power that had corrupted Starkad’s life and damned him to his cursed existence. The same power … that Volund had embraced, decades ago, in the deep forge of Njarar.
The power … his son had called upon.
And there, at the heart of the next valley, surrounded by the swirling shadows, Wudga stood. Ecgtheow approached behind Starkad, bearing a torch that ought to have extended twice the light it did. It ought to have let Starkad see clearly the foes before him. But even the light feared what dwelt in this valley.
If Starkad turned back as his heart urged him, the darkness here would spread and spread. Like any other vaettir, svartalfar meant humanity ill and would search for a foothold into Midgard to wreak havoc upon it. Now, it seemed, Wudga had given them such an opportunity.
“What did you use the eitr for?” Starkad shouted at the man he had once trusted.
Wudga strode forward, the blade in his hand gleaming with faint light, runes radiant. Yes, his skin, his hair, all had become like his father’s. Like a svartalf.
“What was it for?” Starkad repeated.