Days of Endless Night (Runeblade Saga Book 1)

by Matt Larkin

  Starkad released him, then spit into the bog. “You are free to leave any time you wish. I have not asked for your service.”

  “You have it, nonetheless.”

  Starkad smiled, just a little. Careful not to look too closely at the wisps himself, he pushed onward. The Serklander had not left his side in … was it nine winters now? Not since Starkad had saved him when the foreigner was but a boy. It was good to have someone to talk to, anyway.

  The Yngling hall lay by the river. Though built by modern men, it had stone foundations dating back at least to the time of the Old Kingdoms. Maybe even before. Maybe Frey himself had truly helped build the place, as the Ynglings claimed.

  A stone wall protected each house in the town, the great hall included. Those gates were thrown wide, though with evening drawing nigh, they would no doubt soon shut. Now though, the Ynglings welcomed warriors from far abroad into their hall. Shouting and raucous laughter rang from inside. Starkad nodded at the guards at the door.

  “Who the fuck needs two swords?” one whispered to the other as he passed.

  Starkad stiffened. This oaf did not even know who he was. Did not know why he wore a sword on either shoulder. His fingers twitched idly.

  “Not worth it,” Afzal whispered in his ear.

  “Dolt,” the other guard said. “That’s Starkad Eightarms.”

  The first guard uttered a satisfying hiss of surprise and perhaps self-admonishment. Enough so that Starkad need not personally introduce himself. He continued on instead.

  He waded among the throng, accepting the drinking horn as it was passed to him. He took a long swig of it. The Ynglings still had the best mead; he’d give them that. He handed it off to some shieldmaiden without looking at her. She was not worth his time.

  Women never were.

  She tried to talk to him, but he ignored her and pushed onward.

  “Orvar!”

  Orvar was a tall man, well muscled though at an age most men never reached. Not that Starkad was one to talk. Still, Orvar showed his age more than Starkad. Most men would have thought Starkad not much more than twenty winters, despite his thick beard and scraggly hair. In truth, he was less than a decade shy of Orvar, who had to be pushing fifty winters now.

  They had fought together many times, most often on the same side, though Starkad had once crossed swords with the man at the other’s behest. It had been a short contest, though Orvar remained among the finest Starkad had ever faced. Still, the fastest man was the only one who mattered.

  And Starkad was very, very fast with a blade.

  “Odin’s spear, man,” Orvar said. “Time does not seem to touch you at all. If I didn’t know better I’d think you one of the Aesir!”

  Starkad barely stopped himself from spitting. “I am not one of them.” The man had embraced the new gods and would not take kindly to any insult to them. “I was not certain to find you here. Not after—”

  Orvar held up a hand. “Let’s not speak of her.”

  “They are always more trouble than they are worth.”

  His friend snorted. “Not sure I agree on that one. At any rate, how goes it with you? I heard you made for the Midgard Wall.”

  “I wanted to see it for myself.”

  “And did you?”

  Starkad grunted in assent. Stories claimed the Vanr sorcerer Mundilfari had raised the wall to enclose Midgard, protect it from the forces of Utgard. On occasion, a jotunn or such creature made it past, but the worst of them remained outside the realms of men. Of course, it also cut mankind off from the fabled treasures of Utgard. A trade, he supposed.

  Orvar had seen the far side of the wall, had claimed there were breaches. One day, Starkad would find those and see Jotunheim for himself.

  Orvar looked now to Afzal, who was trying to wrangle water from the slaves, much to everyone’s chagrin. “Is that the same Serkland boy from before? He still follows you?”

  He shrugged. “Yngvi is here?”

  “Alf as well, yes, and the sons of both brothers too. Everyone gathers for this.” Orvar beckoned to a seat on the benches.

  Indeed, both brothers sat side by side on thrones. As their own father—Alrik—had shared kingship with his brother, so too they had divided the kingdom between them. Most like they hoped to avoid hostilities within the family—more than enough hardship had plagued the Ynglings already. Starkad could not see how fracturing the kingdom would end well, though. Whose sons would inherit? Or would the kingdom be yet further divided?

  Starkad had served the two kings’ father for a winter or so before tragedy had struck. Alrik and Eirik had killed one another, a fate Yngvi and Alf wanted to avoid. Time would tell.

  All men had their own curses to face.

  Slaves brought out great hunks of reindeer as well as roasted carrots and chard. A feast worthy of great kings, certainly. And kings who wanted something. Starkad dug in, pausing only to direct Afzal to a seat nearby. The Serklander did not drink ale or mead—despite the insult of continuously refusing the drinking horn. It was one habit Starkad had never managed to break him of. Shame, too. Instead of getting drunk, the foreigner preferred to smoke his strange herbs. Starkad had tried them once and found his stomach roiling like a stormy sea. Never again.

  Orvar pointed to another table. Starkad almost choked on his mead. Old Bragi Bluefoot. The skald had to have had a decade still on Orvar, and here he was still, boasting like a young man and slinging insults at warriors half his age. Some things never changed.

  “Friends!” King Yngvi shouted, as he stood and strode forward. The hall did not exactly grow still, but the noise fell to the point Starkad could at least hear their host. “Friends, welcome! The solstice approaches, and we will soon greet a new year.”

  Men shouted, raising their mugs or drinking horns or even reindeer bones in salute.

  Yngvi lifted his hands for quiet. “And this solstice I have word from our friend King Gylfi.”

  Starkad snorted. Friend was probably a stretch. None of the kings of Sviarland much trusted one another and for good reason. Borders shifted often, and little wars soon grew into bitter feuds. Sviarland had been a divisive and war-torn realm since the fall of the Old Kingdoms, and that was not like to change.

  Still, Gylfi was a decent king, well respected. He’d ruled the lands of Dalar a long time. A sorcerer, though, and thus a man Starkad avoided.

  “King Gylfi has had a vision sent by Odin.”

  And that was part of the reason he’d ruled so long. Odin had a penchant for reaching out in dreams to a chosen few, Gylfi among them. As was Starkad, much to his chagrin.

  “The great Ás king has commanded his people in Sviarland to go forth and claim the world, to spread across all the lands and bring his name and cause to all peoples.” This was not news. After overthrowing the Vanir, Odin had revealed himself to Gylfi, claiming godhood and ordering the Sviarlanders to spread his fame. It would never have been enough for the Ás king. If every land in Midgard turned to his worship, the Aesir would no doubt next try to convert the fucking jotunnar themselves.

  “Odin has revealed the location of a land lost long ago, an island we thought but a myth. The lost island of Thule.”

  Now Starkad sat straighter. Gylfi often claimed to have visions sent by Odin, but the aged king probably invented half those visions to enhance his own fame in association with the god’s. But if he had the location of a lost land, maybe Odin truly had spoken to him. Naught good ever came from Odin’s mouth, but then, lost lands meant treasures of the Old Kingdoms. Wealth beyond measure for men in these times. And new places, new challenges. Places not seen by men in centuries. Such places held a call of their own, more powerful than the command of even an Ás king.

  Starkad’s fingers fair itched with the thought of it.

  “And so my brother and I,” Yngvi said, “we have agreed to partner with Gylfi for an expedition. We seek a crew of the bravest, strongest men in the North Realms. Ones who will seek out Thule and tame it such t
hat a colony might be established there. And to do this, the crew must be able to pass the winter on the island.”

  A great many of the men exchanged glances. Summer raids were common enough, but Yngvi proposed something else entirely. An expedition not to steal from Kvenlanders but to tame a land gone wild. What dangers, what fell challenges might lurk on an island not walked by men in ages? What glory to those first men who took that land.

  “To this end, I have called back my old friend, Orvar-Oddr!”

  Starkad’s friend stood now, spread his arms, and looked at all the gathered warriors. He’d known. The trollfucker had known why they were here and not told Starkad. Indeed, Orvar now spared him the merest glance.

  Starkad slammed his fist on the table and stood. “No such expedition will leave without me!”

  Afzal groaned, then stood. Starkad nodded at him.

  One by one, others stood as well. There, Rolf Quicktongue. At another table, the man everyone called the Axe. And old Bragi Bluefoot too, claiming they would need a skald to take note of their deeds and turn them to song.

  And what a journey this would be, what a tale. They would find this lost island, plunder its ancient riches, and win this new realm for the Sviarlanders.

  And Odin could sit and scheme in Asgard until the end of time for all Starkad cared.

  4

  The mist had grown thicker than it ought to, almost enough that it seemed to slow Hervor’s boat, as though the water created a little too much drag. Already the wind had died and forced her to take to oars. Now, approaching Sjaelland with sweat streaming down her face and back, every stroke felt like pulling against snow instead of water.

  Hervor grunted with the effort. She’d wanted to skirt the coast until she found a town where she could buy food, maybe find some straw to sleep on. But at this point, she’d take land anyway she could have it.

  Hel’s frozen underworld. When would dawn break? It was too long coming.

  Even her calloused left hand felt raw from the oars. And the right one, the burns … best not to even consider that. Felt like she’d worn it down to the bone.

  Heaving, she gave over as soon as the waters seemed shallow. Three dozen feet offshore but she’d fucking swim if she had to. This boat was faulty somehow; it had to be. She dropped the oars and leapt over the side. The water was cold, even in summer, and deeper than she’d thought. It rushed over her head and tugged at her mail. Hervor surged upward, sucked down a breath, and swam under the surface until her feet scraped sand. Finally, she waded toward shore.

  This night—every night since she’d gone to Samsey—had not gone to her liking. When she found her traitorous crewmen she’d—

  A sudden undercurrent swept her feet out from beneath her. She pitched forward into the water. It yanked her back, pulling her toward the depths. Her fingers pulled through sand underwater, then caught on a rock. She couldn’t see a damn thing. Felt like some eel had wrapped itself around her legs and was tugging on them. With her right hand, she swatted at them.

  Naught there. Just water.

  Already her lungs wanted to burst. What was it? Where was it?

  She was not going to drown twenty feet offshore. Her grip on the rock began to slip. With her free hand, she grabbed Tyrfing’s hilt. She had to twist around to free the sword. Once it leapt from its sheath a radiant light exploded from it, illuminating the depths. Fish darted away from the sudden brightness reflecting in all directions. Naught at all had held her. And it had let go.

  She stood, gasping, panting. Barely able to keep her feet while she sucked down precious air. Was this the sword’s curse? That nature and urd itself should turn against her? No. No! She refused to believe that.

  Still coughing, trying to breathe, Hervor stumbled toward shore.

  Shivers had built deep in her chest by the time she fell to the beach. Her hand remained clasped around Tyrfing, at least. Its glow had dimmed. She rolled over onto her back. The mist had thickened across the shore. And her torches were now sopping wet. Dawn could not come soon enough. This night seemed crafted by Hel herself.

  And her head was pounding.

  Hervor froze. The mist was actually swirling, moving around her in what seemed a maelstrom. Odin’s balls. Nature had turned on her. She rolled over and rose to her knees, holding the sword out before her.

  It wasn’t just her head pounding. Her heart seemed to beat in her temples.

  Thump thump.

  She jerked her head from side to side. Water flew free. She’d lost her helm underwater, hadn’t noticed before.

  Thump thump.

  This was not nature. Not at all. “Who’s there?”

  No one answered. The mist continued to thicken, until she could not see a foot through it. And that maelstrom was closing in on her. She swung with Tyrfing but met only vapor.

  Thump thump.

  “Show yourself!”

  Something unseen slammed into her back and threw her from her feet. She tumbled end over end, tearing her cheeks along the sand. Luck alone let her maintain her grasp on her sword. The world was spinning, reeling out of control. She rose and swung the sword wildly. The effort cost her balance, and she pitched over sideways.

  Thump thump thump thump.

  The heartbeat suffused the mist, echoing in her head like a gong threatening to beat her brains out of her skull. From the inside. She couldn’t hear aught else. Couldn’t see past the growing pain, the beating that deadened all other senses.

  She pushed herself to her knees. “What are you!”

  “Old death … rising …” The whisper came from all around her, somehow breaking through the sound of the heartbeat, if barely.

  “Face me!”

  THUMP THUMP!

  Another unseen force rammed her shoulder and sent her crashing onto her back again. She kept her hold on Tyrfing and slashed through the mist again. It parted around the glowing sword but reformed almost immediately.

  Hervor screamed. Her vision had taken on a red tint. Like blood. The mist had become blood, swirling, coursing. No—pulsing. With each beat of the heart.

  THUMP THUMP THUMP!

  Pounding toward the sword. It would have blood. It would take life. It must have life. It must have life.

  And if there was no foe to bleed then …

  Hervor stared at her hands. She had begun to turn the sword backward, twist its point to her own chest. What was she doing?

  No.

  Stop.

  “Don’t …” her mouth wasn’t working right.

  THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP!

  No. No, no, no. What was she doing? This could not end like this. Just drop the damn sword. Let it go. Her hand would not open, would not obey.

  She had turned the blade fully around, pressed the point just over her heart. The pounding must be stilled. It must be stilled. It must drink, feast, and bring the silence. She had to end it. End it.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a man’s face in the mist, watching her open-mouthed. As shocked at her actions as she was. A vaettr? A sorcerer?

  The pounding heart was coming from him, too. The moment she focused on him, her muscles responded. In one motion, she reversed the sword and lunged upward. The blade bit through the man’s chest even easier than it had cleaved through the wooden door. At once, the pounding stopped, and her vision returned to normal.

  The man—and he was flesh and blood, no spirit—looked down at the blade, then at her. And then he fell. The swirling mist parted, eased.

  Hervor jerked the blade free and stared at it. The pounding in her head had abated, though her own pulse was racing. She tossed Tyrfing aside with a stifled scream.

  It landed in the sand and lay still. Blood seeped from the blade, staining the beach. She had almost killed herself with that. She had intended to run it through her own heart. She had …

  She slunk to her knees, hand to her mouth. The sorcerer’s blood had coated her hand, her arm. She stared at her hand not quite certain what she w
as seeing. The bandage yes, some of the blood her own. Some the dried blood of a fisherman. Some that of a sorcerer. Her hand ached from the burns but not so bad as it had been a few days ago. And she had almost impaled herself using that hand. That was less than ideal.

  The sorcerer had bewitched her, tried to get her to send her own soul to Hel.

  Except … he’d looked shocked at her actions. Shocked enough to reveal himself. So no sorcery of his had possessed her. That meant …

  What had her father’s ghost said of Tyrfing?

  That it sought blood.

  That once freed, the bloodlust could not be denied. Hervor stared at the sword, lying still on the sand. Its glow had faded now, and it seemed like any other bloody, discarded weapon. The hunger was its own, as was the pounding heartbeat when she held it. Once drawn, the runeblade would not be sheathed again until it had stilled a heartbeat.

  Hervor crawled to the evil blade. Her father was right. It was cursed. But then, she had a great many heartbeats she needed to still.

  So … urd must have intended Tyrfing for her hand, after all.

  5

  The smoke of a half dozen braziers clogged the Upsal hall, flavoring the mead and lending the whole place an air of lethargy. Starkad wished he could enjoy it, but even his relaxed pose—leaning back in a chair, legs splayed—it was a ruse. A front to conceal the nervous energy almost bubbling to the surface in him. What was it about the thought of treasure and death? Why did he feel so damned drawn to it?

  Much as Starkad wanted to blame Odin or Tyr or the other Aesir, maybe it had always been inside him. This wanderlust … this need to claim … fucking everything.

  Afzal sat in the shadows beside him, puffing on that Serklander pipe, eyes glazed over from those herbs he liked. The Serklander leaned forward, bleary eyed as a drunk and yet, somehow he tended to remain insightful while in such moods.

  “What is it?” Starkad demanded.

  “You have that look again.”

  With a snort, Starkad waved that away. Such was his curse, and Afzal knew it well enough.