Days of Endless Night (Runeblade Saga Book 1)

by Matt Larkin

  My brother warmed his own hands over the fire, eyes wistful. “Ingibjorg. She’s Yngvi’s daughter, yes fourteen winters now. Well past marrying age, but her father holds out. He wants a better match for her than a simple housecarl.”

  “Even one who saved his life?”

  “Even so.”

  Hard to say whether that made Yngvi a bad king or a great one. Politics were everything. And true, a princess was far above a housecarl, nor could Hjalmar likely afford sufficient bride price. The latter problem, though, might be solved with these raids.

  “Yngvi plans to sail to the Reidgotaland islands soon. You want to win the princess’s hand? Impress him. Win glory, win spoils, and show him how much he has to gain.”

  “You think the king would agree then?” Hjalmar murmured something unintelligible before looking at me again. “She would marry me if he’d allow it. She’s said as much.”

  I was never going home again. Never could I look upon the lands of my birth, for fear of a fool prophecy. This place though, it felt right. And Hjalmar was a good man, my blood brother. I sniffed. “Brother, I swear to you. Fight with glory, with valor. I will help you win the hand of Ingibjorg, no matter how long it takes.”

  Hjalmar clasped my arm, then embraced me.

  Those were the good days, however brief.

  36

  The ice caves delved deeper and deeper, through glaciers and into the mountains. Ice gave way to rock, natural at first, and then clearly worked stone. They wandered long before coming to stairs carved from the rock. These stairs descended for over an hour, until Bragi had begun to complain about his old, aching legs.

  “Be silent,” Starkad said. One wall had dropped away, leaving a fall into unknown depths. On the other wall though, dvergar had carved a long, sprawling mural depicting Hel knew what. He held the torch closer, just out to his side, until the skald decided to come have a look as well.

  Starkad kept glancing at the carvings as he descended. They showed two great armies of mighty beings, gods perhaps, as they seemed to have mastered various winged beasts, serpents, even varulfur. And between them stood the twisted and misshapen dvergar, forging weapons, even wading into battle. The deeper they went, the more the dvergar fell in battle, their broken corpses decorating fields, until, at the end, they seemed to cower before a shining sun. A massive crack split the sun down the middle, as though someone had intentionally defaced it.

  “What does this mean?” Starkad asked.

  “Oh now I can talk?” Bragi asked. The skald snorted. “Legend says the sun is anathema to dvergar, turns them to stone even.”

  “And the rest of it?” Afzal asked.

  Bragi shrugged. “Maybe they were fighting the Vanir or the alfar or some other divine beings from ancient times. I can’t imagine it depicts aught human.”

  Starkad stifled the urge to correct the skald. The Vanir had once been human, after all. Even the glorious alfar, when they walked on Midgard, did so by possessing human hosts.

  Either way, the mural depicted something akin to humans, even if they had left part of their humanity behind. His time among the Aesir had taught him such things. But the Sviarlanders didn’t need to know it and, of greater import, they certainly did not need to know how he knew such things. He had walked away from those self-appointed gods and never looked back. Bad enough men seemed to have figured out he studied swordplay under Tyr.

  No, his companions didn’t need to know the truth.

  Tiny spit over the edge of the stairs then chuckled as his phlegm vanished into the darkness.

  Starkad cuffed him on the back of the head. “If you’re not interested in dverg history, fair enough. But do not draw attention to us. The dvergar have gone from here, yes. That does not mean naught might lurk here. We have already seen vaettir aplenty on this island.”

  The big man glared at him, sneered, then began to descend the stairs again. Starkad looked to Bragi and Afzal, who now both stared at him. He cocked his head after Tiny, then started back down the stairs.

  Later, the mural depicted mist billowing out of an island. On and on it went, until it seemed to engulf all Midgard. Was that island Thule? Did the dvergar mean to imply this place was where the mists first escaped Niflheim and entered the Mortal Realm? Starkad ran his fingers over the mural. The island in the mural seemed different than he thought of Thule, but who could say. It wasn’t like they’d carved an actual map.

  “The beginning of the Fimbulvinter,” Bragi said.

  Starkad grunted.

  “It’s true then,” Afzal said. “There really was a time before the mists.”

  Such things were an obsession for Odin. Small surprise he had sent men to this island, though why he had not come himself, Starkad could only guess. Contending with the Niflungar, perhaps. The would-be god had his fingers stirring a great many pots.

  Starkad swept his torch away from the mural and descended after Tiny. All this history tasted bitter, just served as a reminder of the slowly suffocating world. He would not be drawn into Odin’s wars or quests. He’d left such things far behind.

  All Starkad wanted now was to see this world, every hidden depth of it.

  The stairs ended in the middle of a great landing that spread out farther than the torchlight in both directions. The dvergar had worked the floor smooth, though they left numerous stalagmites in place. Decorations, maybe.

  Afzal reached the bottom and paced around a bit. “Which way, Master?”

  Starkad turned about, torch high over his head for maximum effect. No clear indication but better to pick a way than seem indecisive before the men.

  Without a word, he started walking in one direction. This landing was wide as any great hall. Wider, like a yard perhaps. But underground, something must bound the sides of it. He altered his course at an angle of his original one, until at last a rock wall came into view. All he had to do was follow the walls, and he’d find an exit from this chamber.

  He continued along that way rather long before coming to an opening, the depths of which retreated away from his torchlight. Starkad stepped into it. Light reflected off a solid surface several dozen feet away. An alcove? It stank of rot, mold, and dust.

  And then dust shifted. It wafted up from the floor as though a wind swept through the underground chamber, impossible as that sounded. Firelight glinted off metal. Starkad leapt backward, away from the alcove as pinpoints of red glare opened. He collided with Tiny, shoved the big man back, and flung his torch at the rising draug.

  It shrieked at the flames, a sound of torment, of damnation. Flames leapt over the creature, engulfing its rotting clothes as it stumbled forward.

  Starkad drew his blades, and the others did the same. The draug swung a giant, rusting axe. Starkad leapt to the side and rammed Vikar’s sword into the draug’s face while lopping off one of its arms with his own blade.

  The fiend fell backward but did not lose its grip on the axe. Blinded, it swung the weapon wildly with one hand. The axe collided with the wall, casting out a shower of sparks. Tiny roared and hewed into it with his broadsword. Once, twice, and it toppled to the ground.

  A moan echoed through the great chamber. Followed by another. And another. On and on, the tormented, hellish cries rang out. Draugar waking, stumbling back to life—or at least into motion.

  Starkad sheathed Vikar’s sword and snatched up his torch from where it had fallen. “I think we know what happened to the city of Nordri.”

  37

  Just off the shore, an arching rock rose from a shelf of ice, looking like some bent-over jotunn. Or giant troll. Naliajuk had said Troll Rock. This then was where they’d planned to take Hervor. They banked their boats right up against the ice shelf, then leapt out on it. The males dragged those boats up onto the ice, while Naliajuk grabbed Hervor by the elbow and pulled her toward the shore.

  A village neared, though not one with houses exactly. It seemed the finfolk lived in domes of ice a short walk from the sea. Little huts, really, though
Hervor couldn’t guess how they built them. Maybe the ice here never melted. Even summer could not break the grip of this freeze.

  The breath of Hel had blown over Thule, and the finfolk had either welcomed it or made the best of it.

  The finfolk woman led her past several of the ice houses, toward the center of the village. An arch of bones rose there—whale ribs by the size of them. What the fuck?

  Naliajuk yanked her away from the bone arch, pulling her along until they reached one of the ice huts, while her brother pulled Orvar away.

  That finfolk man Kiviuq, the very animal they wanted her to marry, had now claimed Tyrfing. The shifter probably had no idea of the value, power, and dire nature of that blade. He had not yet drawn it, but if he did … well. There would be murder in this village tonight. It was a twisted justice, one fit for a thief who had claimed her legacy. That still did not answer how to go from that justice upon the finfolk, to her revenge against Arrow’s Point.

  Hervor had to stoop to enter the hut Naliajuk shoved her toward. The interior was lined with fur from a snow bear. Quite the hunter, whoever had brought one of those down. She couldn’t stand upright, but the fur was soft, so that didn’t matter. The interior was surprisingly warm, comfortable even, at least compared to the frigid wind outside.

  The finfolk woman crawled over to where she sat, then continued to move around her, like a wolf circling prey. She looked innocent, young. But seals were predators and dangerous ones at that. A hunter who forgot that wound up like the Axe.

  Inside the hut lay several figures carved from walrus ivory. Had Naliajuk made these? Hervor reached to pick one up.

  Without warning, Naliajuk grabbed Hervor’s hips, patted them. Checking her bones?

  Hervor dropped the carving and clenched her fists. She might be able to overpower Naliajuk if she caught the finfolk woman off guard. But running through the village she was not like to make it far. Better to tolerate the strange inspection. She’d get her chance later.

  Then the finfolk woman grabbed her breasts, squeezed. Hervor stiffened. Yes, that was too much. She shoved Naliajuk off her. “Listen you fish-brained beast. No one touches me like that without my permission.”

  Naliajuk gnawed her lip a moment. “You. Baby.”

  “So I’m a baby because I don’t want to be groped? By another woman, no less?”

  Naliajuk patted her own womb. “You. Baby?”

  “Do I have babies? No.” She shook her head. “Gods, no.” Imagine her a mother. Not a pleasant thought for her or the unfortunate babe.

  Now the finfolk woman frowned. “No baby.”

  “No.”

  “Broken?”

  Hervor sneered. “No. I’m not fucking broken. I just don’t want a Hel-cursed baby!”

  Naliajuk jerked back, raising her hands in signs of defense, almost like claws. She arched her back like she was about to shift into a seal. “No Hel. No speak. No.”

  Well, that was interesting. The shifter didn’t like anyone invoking the name of Hel. Of course, vӧlvur and old men said the same, but she didn’t know many warriors who didn’t curse in Hel’s name. The queen of Niflheim was the fear, the real power behind the mist. She was death—the worst kind of death.

  Hervor raised her own hands in surrender. “I understand. Don’t say her name.”

  Naliajuk nodded.

  “You want to know if I can have a baby?”

  Again, that simple nod.

  If she said no, would they release her? More likely, finding her a poor wife, they’d eat her. “I assume so. If I wanted to. And I don’t. No baby. No husband. Give me back my sword and that other man. Let us go. We don’t want to marry you. We don’t want to fight you.”

  Words she’d never said to anyone in her life. She always loved a good fight. But the shifters were not men, and facing them in combat was a foolish risk. Besides, they outnumbered the remaining crew.

  Naliajuk crawled for the door, then looked over her shoulder and pointed at the furs Hervor sat on. “You. Stay. No leave.” With that, the finfolk woman left her alone in the ice house.

  When she was certain the woman had left, Hervor crawled to the edge to peer outside. No guard, though plenty of the fur-wrapped finfolk wandered around in the village. Naliajuk was there too, talking to Kiviuq, and others.

  They had bound Orvar to the bone arch with strands of sinew and torn his shirt away from him. He stood there, shivering, as finfolk pelted him with balls of ice. Hit him in the chest, back, face.

  Oh. That was delicious. Here, at the end of the world—the slayer of her kin. Bound, broken. His cheeks pale with impending frostbite, maybe even deathchill. The mighty Arrow’s Point rendered limp and impotent and well primed for her blade. If she had her damned runeblade. Tyrfing’s absence was a raw, gnawing hollow in her gut.

  There was nowhere to run. Not now. She needed a plan. And she needed the rest.

  She crawled back into the center of the hut, wrapped the fur over her, and curled up to sleep.

  Someone grabbed her by the shoulder. Hervor jerked awake, twisted around, and snatched the man’s wrists. Kiviuq. He broke her grip with ease, then grabbed her arms. She stared daggers at him. Right. She would marry this animal when the fields of Hel melted.

  The finfolk man gnashed his teeth at her.

  She tried to pull back, but he was too strong.

  After an overlong pause, he shoved her toward the doorway.

  Outside, several of the other finfolk stood around the whalebone arch. Orvar knelt nearby, arms wrapped around himself, his skin tinged blue. Had he given in and agreed to wed one of these creatures?

  Kiviuq followed behind her, seized her by the shoulders, and shoved her over to his sister. Naliajuk caught her arms and leaned close to her face.

  “Now you. Marry?”

  “Go fuck a troll.”

  “Troll. No troll. Marry human. Give baby.”

  “Go. To. Hel!”

  Naliajuk flinched, looked around. Some of the others made signs of warding. Naliajuk flung her to the ground.

  The impact stunned her. Only for an instant, but then two finfolk were on her, each yanking her up by one arm. They pulled her arms apart until her shoulders felt ready to pop out. Like that they lifted her off her feet and carried her—kicking and flailing and spitting at the trollfuckers—to the bone arch. Each tied one of those sinew bands around her wrist, then released her.

  Hervor stared up at the woman. “Why do this to us?”

  Naliajuk pointed at Orvar. “Man. No wife. Say no. No.”

  Huh. “So he has to agree to marry the finfolk woman?”

  “Marry. No hit. Husband, no hit.”

  Huh.

  One finfolk pulled a bone knife.

  Hervor spit in his face. “Do your worst. I’ve been cut before, fish rat.”

  The finfolk glared, then snatched her tunic and began to saw at the laces.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. She strained against the sinews binding her. “Get off of me!”

  The fabric didn’t give way near as easily under the knife as the laces had. Blade was probably better suited for piercing. But her shirt did cut. He ripped it off her, leaving her shivering in her linen undershirt. This he pinched between two fingers, inspecting it as if surprised to see another layer down there. Shifters probably never wore undergarments. Just more clothing to remove when they wanted to shift.

  Finally, the finfolk began to saw through the linen as well.

  “I will kill you one day for this.” Hervor glared at him. She’d skin this fucking animal for his pelt.

  When the male had finished his work, he leaned in an examined her exposed breasts, though only for a moment. He nodded in apparent approval—wasn’t that wonderful—and backed away.

  She stood there, shivering and unable to cover herself for either warmth or modesty.

  Neither of which mattered as soon as the first ice ball hit. It struck between her shoulder blades and stung lik
e she’d been hit with a weapon. It knocked the air from her lungs and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream in pain. Before she could even catch her breath, another ball hit. This one striking her ribs. The villagers were each gathering up balls of ice, mashing snow around them with both hands. One by one, they hurled ball after ball at her.

  Except for Naliajuk and Kiviuq. The brother and sister both stood side by side, arms folded in near identical poses. Watching their people torture her but not taking part.

  “Why not?” she spat at them. Why shouldn’t they join in? Was there some rule against beating your intended wife? Wouldn’t that be the quaintest law—you could have your wife beaten. Just couldn’t do it yourself.

  The beating continued for some time.

  She tried to look up, watch those iridescent lights in the sky. But after each blow, she found herself instinctively trying to curl into a ball. To protect her face. None of the ice balls struck her there. Maybe they knew they might crack her skull like that.

  And then the pelting stopped.

  Hervor coughed, moaned, looked up. She had long since fallen to her knees, supported as much by the sinews pulling at her arms as aught.

  One of the villagers approached her with a bowl, carved from bone and lined with animal skin. Water in the bowl. They didn’t want her to die of thirst, at least. She raised her head more as he neared, trying to sip from it. The finfolk held the bowl just out of reach.

  Hervor groaned. She’d have to arrange some special revenge for this one. He was fucking taunting her. Her!

  The man suddenly heaved his arms forward. Ice cold water splashed over her. The shock of it left her gasping.

  “I will … die … like this.” Could barely speak through her chattering teeth.

  The finfolk man tossed the bowl aside. Then he punched her in the face. Her head jerked back under the force, only the sinews keeping her from falling over. Pain blinded her. That and he’d hit her over one eye. She tried to blink it away, but that eye wasn’t working. A sharp slap on the other cheek jerked her back to alertness. The male slapped her again and again and again. Until her cheek felt on fire.