by Matt Larkin
Starkad nodded.
The Axe dropped the barrel at his feet. “Should I remind Quicktongue?”
“Do that.”
The Axe grunted, then trotted off to berate Quicktongue. Like as not, it would do little good. But if the Axe wanted to try …
“Master?” Afzal asked.
Starkad grabbed the barrel from the young man. “Give me that.” He carried it back to the village center and deposited it by the locals, Afzal shadowing behind him. “Fill it with water,” Starkad said to a villager.
“Have you been here before, Master?” Afzal asked.
Starkad shook his head. “I had always planned to, it is famed, but until now …” Well, there had been no reason to come. Naught lay out here save the edge of the world and perhaps the tail of Jormangandr, or so skalds claimed. But Odin knew otherwise.
Afzal cleared his throat. “We will stay here tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will arrange a place with some locals for us.”
“You’re a good friend.”
“Yes, Master. You deserve a full night’s sleep for once.”
Starkad snorted. He wasn’t certain he’d had a full night’s sleep in years. Not since Ogn.
No, before that. Not since Vikar died.
Or maybe he could lay his troubles at the feet of the Aesir, of Odin, of Tyr.
Or, more like than not, he ought to most blame himself.
“Afzal,” Starkad called after the Serklander.
“Yes, Master?”
“Stop calling me that.” Starkad scratched his beard. “You … look to your own rest. Tomorrow we sail beyond the edge of this world, and even I know not what we shall find.”
Afzal blanched.
Funny, Starkad had meant the words to garner excitement. It was easy to forget few other men saw things his way.
Part II
Fourth Moon
Year 27, Age of the Aesir
10
They were too long at sea, too long in the bitter cold, and now on the cusp of winter. Starkad was certain their course remained true. The islanders had called them mist-mad for sailing farther north.
To the north, they said, lay only the endless sea enclosed by the tail of Jormungandr, the great world serpent. But Gylfi had said Odin told him otherwise, that the Ás king had blessed this voyage.
Starkad’s trust in Odin had limits. Severe limits. Word of his so-called miracles had spread across the North Realms in the past few decades. Where the Vanir had taken no hand in the world of men, Odin wandered—in disguise, true—but he walked among men. He offered advice, sometimes even wove sorceries to aid men in their endeavors.
The Aesir had brought strong harvests, even cured the sick. Odin’s son Thor had slain trolls to preserve towns. Most of the crew believed with their whole hearts in the new gods.
But then, they had not been there at the beginning.
As a boy, Starkad had marched with Odin across Midgard, had seen him cast down the Vanir and claim godhood. Whether true or not, the man was indeed a mighty king. Besides, Starkad owed the Ás.
Whether he liked it or not.
But the ocean went on and on. And the days grew very short—a few hours of light and then darkness would fall again, as it had now. Those iridescent lights had filled the sky again, like great clouds of color. One saw such things at the northernmost reaches of Nidavellir. When wandering Kvenland, Starkad had heard those lights were born from molten flame, beaten on anvils by the dvergar.
Some of the crew claimed it was a sign from Thor or Odin, guiding their passage. Telling them to remain true to their course. Of course, those lights had existed long before Thor was born.
“Such a wonder,” Afzal murmured behind Starkad.
Starkad nodded. “The further reaches of the world hold many.”
“And are they enough to replace the comforts you always leave behind?”
Starkad snorted. The Serklander thought far too oft of marriage and children, as if it were the very purpose of life. And yet, Afzal refused to leave Starkad’s side and claim such things for himself, saying he must repay the debt he owed.
“Look! Look!” Ivar shouted before Starkad could form an answer.
On the horizon, rising out of the mist. Great peaks of ice, mountains.
Half the crew leapt up, straining their eyes to gaze land at long last. To see hope.
Or the beginning of their true mission.
Out here, even the mist was not so thick. Those lights in the sky seemed the palest blue fires, dancing as the ship neared the frozen shore. They dared not run aground, nor did anyone seem eager to leap into the freezing sea. So they dragged the rowboat forward and ferried over to the shore in small groups.
Orvar insisted on being in the first group, and Starkad went with him.
“And still no sun,” Afzal complained from the back of the boat.
Starkad heaved at the oars without responding. The others, Tiny, Ivar, and Hervard, all stared transfixed at the island.
They wondered what dangers and glories they’d find on Thule. As did he. One more tale to add to his own legend. And when it was done … he’d be off to the next and the next again.
Such was Starkad’s urd.
The rowboat scraped ice. A half dozen seals barked and scrambled away at their approach, diving into the freezing waters.
Orvar tested the ice with one foot before putting his full weight on the sheet. He nodded at the others.
“Tiny,” Orvar said. “Take the boat back, and ferry the others. Trade off until everyone is ashore.”
Orvar himself strode forward, taking the lead.
The island was large enough a man could not easily judge its full extent. At its heart rose towering mountains, with the hint of evergreens in the valleys. Very little other foliage seemed apparent, and snow and ice covered the greater portion of all Starkad could see.
“How the fuck are we supposed to build a camp without wood to burn?” Ivar complained.
It was a good question, if an obvious one. Ivar had earned the name “the Loud” for obvious questions, among other things.
“We’ll have to fell one of those trees,” Orvar said as he started off toward one of those evergreens.
“You want to haul wood from all the way—”
“I want to have fire, Loud. And you’re coming with me.”
“Travel to the ends of Midgard so I can be a fucking lumberjack.” Ivar patted the axe at his side. “It’s for chopping necks you know.”
Orvar shrugged, and they started off.
“Help set the camp,” Starkad told Afzal, then started after Orvar and Ivar.
They all walked in silence for a short time. Ivar seemed awestruck by the ice-covered landscape and unexplored peaks. “Remind you of any place?” Orvar asked.
“Yeah. The north of Nidavellir and the cock-beetling dvergar mountains.”
“Mmm hmmm. Not sure that’s a coincidence, either.”
“Wait, what?” Ivar stumbled. “Are you saying there’s cock-beetling dvergar on this island? It was supposed to be uninhabited! Uninhabited means no cock-stomping dvergar!”
Starkad snorted at the comment, though it lacked any real humor. Orvar and Ivar had both come from Nidavellir, under the ever-present yoke of dvergar masters. But while Orvar had been the son of a great man, Ivar had been a common raider in service to the dvergar. He’d raided and pillaged across the North Realms until one such expedition in Sviarland went bad and left the rest of his crew dead. And then he’d turned bandit on his own, right up until Yngvi had asked Orvar to put an end to him. Instead of killing his countryman, Orvar had recruited him. Ivar was loud. Ivar was an imbecile. Ivar was also very good at cleaving things in half with his axe, a pursuit he seemed to like quite well.
Starkad had a measure of respect for him. A small measure but a measure.
“I see a beetle-cocked dvergar, I’m gonna chop it in half!”
Orvar grunted, waving his torch
to dispel the mist. “The dvergar or his cock?”
Ivar grunted, then worked his tongue over his teeth. “Both of ‘em.”
That drew a snort from Orvar and an actual laugh from Starkad.
After a chuckle, Starkad shook his head. “I don’t think dvergar still live here.”
Ivar glanced back at him. “Then what, man? Can we claim their gold? Gods above. If I could bring my girl dverg gold …”
Orvar should never have brought it up. He may have shared kinship with Ivar, but then men did still call him Ivar the Loud for a reason. Best not tell the man aught they didn’t want everyone from here to Miklagard knowing.
Starkad frowned. “All I can say is, Odin didn’t send us to this island looking for farmland. There is something here, something of value, and we will take it.”
“I like taking things.” Another reason Ivar was an ideal raider.
11
Hervor pounded a tent stake into the frozen ground, grunting and panting with the effort of it.
Nearby, Bragi Bluefoot was humming while tying off ropes. The skald rarely fell silent. It seemed if he had naught to say, he’d fill the air with songs or poems. Failing that, he sometimes made clucking noises with his tongue.
Hervor paused a moment, wiped her brow, and caught her breath. She looked to Bragi. “You don’t like the quiet?”
“Hmm? Oh!” Bragi chuckled. “Oh, not so much I suppose. In the woods, time things get all quiet is like to be when a predator is about, stalking you.”
“Huh.” Hervor slammed the stake down with a mallet again. “And you think humming is like to make the wolves vanish, then?”
“It’s its own kind of magic, now.”
“What magic?”
Bragi chuckled. “Self-delusion.”
Hervor smiled. Despite herself, it was hard not to smile on occasion at the skald’s foolery. She hoped her vengeance would allow her to spare the man.
On the long voyage, she’d been careful. Asking questions but not too often. Naught that would give away who she was or her true purpose on this quest.
Bragi had proved the most useful, of course. His love of talk meant he needed very little prompting to carry on, telling tales of not only his own adventures but the rest of the crew. Most everyone on this expedition had fastened a name to themselves, and that meant they all had tales.
Murdering bastards, every one of them.
Like Hervor herself.
Orvar and Starkad were the most famed, of course, wanderers and mercenaries who had—according to Bragi—travelled the whole of the North Realms and beyond. But the others had their own stories, too.
The way the skald told it, the Axe had fought in more wars than any man alive. He’d hired out with Healfdene in the final conquests of Reidgotaland. He’d fought for Siggeir Wolfsblood in border struggles against Ostergotland, and again, when the king sacked Rijnland. Hel, there was even tale of him raiding Kvenland in a failed attempt to claim some beautiful wife from the frozen wastes there.
Of Tiny, Bragi knew less, but still, the man had fought great battles on behalf of Gylfi. By now, the Dalar King had all but ceased his wars, but not so many years ago, he’d roamed far and wide, spreading faith in the Aesir by word or sword point. Apparently, Tiny had been a thegn to him even back then, if a young one, and had put to the sword more than one village that refused to turn from the Vanir. Hervor remembered tale of a few such holdouts being razed when she was a small girl. She remembered thinking when she was grown, she’d do such work as well, striking down those who refused to honor Odin’s name.
Ivar the Loud had run as a bandit in a crew not unlike one Hervor had once joined, and Hel alone knew how much blood lay on his hands. But for a few miles difference in territory, Hervor might have worked at his side.
And of Rolf Quicktongue, the tales were as black as pitch, though he would have cast himself as a hero in every single one.
In the end, Hervor was pretty certain she knew who Arrow’s Point was.
A crowded ship had offered her no chance to strike down the man without detection. But this island was vast, and they planned to explore it all in search of plunder and a good place to plant a settlement. During such times, men spread out far.
An opportunity would come and sooner rather than later.
When it did, Hervor would be ready.
As would Tyrfing.
12
Two Years Ago
Bow-in-hand, Hervor crept through the woods. Summer had broken, and that meant trade, with merchants trying to travel between towns in Ostergotland. Merchants tended to be overburdened with goods, silver, and food. All things her little band could use.
Beside her, Red-Eye moved with the grace of a boar. The so-called King of Deeppine lacked subtlety, lacked finesse, and wasn’t half so stealthy as a bandit leader ought to be. On the other hand, he was good with a bow, great with an axe, and roughly the size of a snow bear. It did tend to intimidate men.
Not Hervor. She was pretty certain she could beat him if she had to. Size counted. Speed counted more. And she was fast with a sword. Her grandfather’s thegn had trained her as a shieldmaiden.
She motioned for Red-Eye to hold in place. The bandit king scowled at her and looked ready to spit. She turned away and slunk forward, toward the path. Deeppine covered so much of Ostergotland you couldn’t really cross the realm without passing through it. And that meant taking one of two paths. Those heading to Jarl Bjalmar’s lands took this one.
Men’s voices rang out from down the path. Coming this way. And not quiet about it. These folk either hadn’t heard of Red-Eye’s Boys, or they were just fools. Red-Eye knew what he was about. He was the one who had insisted she disguise herself as a man. She could fight as well as any man—better than most—he’d granted that. But merchants tended to be more afraid of young men than they were of girls of seventeen winters. So he’d told her to wear a helm, bind her breasts tight under her mail, and keep up the illusion.
And he’d been right. More merchants surrendered without a struggle when facing an armed man than an armed woman. Men were fools, after all.
Hervor signaled back to the chief. He, in turn, let fly an arrow into the depths of the woods. A signal. Ahead, the Boys would be converging, blocking the trail.
One of the merchants had started singing. She and Red-Eye exchanged open-mouthed stares. “Fucking imbeciles,” he mouthed.
She nodded.
Yes. The long trail was lonely, boring. Still. Even if you didn’t believe in trolls or other such things, attracting undue attention like that invited trouble. Most like, these were foreigners, maybe from Skane or one of the other kingdoms in Sviarland. Anyone native to Ostergotland would know better. They’d have to know better.
A pair of well-laden carts drawn by mules appeared around the bend, each protected by a pair of guards walking beside it. The singer was the driver of the first cart, who kept casting glances at the bundle-wrapped woman sitting in the back. Trying to impress his wife. How adorable.
The singing stopped when one of the guards fell, Red-Eye’s arrow in his neck.
Hervor loosed as well, her own shot catching the opposite guard in the chest. Their prey was shouting, the remaining guards drawing weapons.
The Boys let out a whoop and rushed forward. Six of them, and she and Red-Eye made eight. Eight on two guards, plus the cart drivers and merchants. Good odds. And good fun. She slung the bow and drew her sword, making her way forward.
One of the guards had already fallen, but the other was holding his own against three of the Boys. Trained, experienced. Maybe even a former raider or soldier. No wasted movement. An efficiency that made a man seem faster, able to face more than one foe at a time.
He should have surrendered though. One of the merchants already had. Red-Eye had taught her something else too. If a man fights, you kill him. If not, you let him go. It encourages others not to fight.
Then again, she liked the fighting.
As she closed
in, the blanket covering the back wagon fell away. Two more men jumped out, these armored in full chain. One rushed against the remaining Boys. The other glanced around a mere moment before settling on her.
His eyes locked on hers.
Gunther.
Hervor fell short as he closed in. Her former trainer moved in with deliberate confidence, sword and shield in hand. And she had left her shield behind a tree. She dared not take her eyes off him to check. Instead, she fell back a few steps at a time, keeping her sword in front.
“What in Hel’s frozen arse is this, Gunther?”
“You never did learn to guard your tongue, girl.”
She spit at his feet. He grimaced but did not slow.
She could make a break for it. Maybe lose him in the woods. Or at least make it to her shield.
Bellowing, Red-Eye charged forward at Gunther. The aging thegn pivoted, shield catching the King of Deeppine’s descending axe even as his sword swung low. It slashed into Red-Eye’s unarmored knees, and the bandit king toppled over.
Hervor used the chance to rush Gunther. He twisted around but couldn’t get his shield back into position. Her sword scraped off his mail, tearing a gash in his side. With a groan, he fell back. She pushed her advantage, slashing again. This time he caught the blow on the edge of his shield. Splinters of it flew loose. The impact jarred her for an instant.
Enough time for Gunther to fall back into a proper stance. “You can still surrender now. Come with me, and answer for what you’ve done.”
“You’re outnumbered.”
Gunther shook his head but did not bother to look at the rest of the Boys. “Not for long.”
She did look. Those guards were Gunther’s men, and they’d already downed four of the Boys. Not even counting Red-Eye, who was stumbling, trying to rise. He’d probably never walk right again. Red-Eye was an evil bastard, but he’d been good to her and had given her a place among the Boys. Damn Gunther.