Days of Endless Night (Runeblade Saga Book 1)

by Matt Larkin

  At last he backed away, looked to Naliajuk. The woman approached, and knelt in the snow beside Hervor. With one hand, she lifted Hervor’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze.

  “You. Marry. Kiviuq. Give babe.”

  Hervor stared at Naliajuk. Did the other woman feel aught for her suffering? No. Why should she? This was normal to her. Had Hervor felt aught when Red-Eye’s Boys had raped or tortured those they’d come across? Maybe. You learned to block it out, to stop thinking of the other person as a person.

  It didn’t take long.

  By the second or third time, it became habit.

  How much easier then, for these creatures that were not even human?

  And they would beat her down, eventually. Sooner or later, everyone broke. She was strong, defiant. But no one lasted forever. She should just give in, agree. Would wedding the bastard really be any worse than this? She’d slept with men she didn’t like before. Sometimes opportunity, need, or sheer lust mattered more than love or desire.

  Everyone broke sooner or later. But Hervor had always figured herself to be one who’d go later. Much fucking later.

  “Why don’t you marry him?” she said. “Give your brother a few pups. Make us all happy.”

  Naliajuk shook her head and released Hervor’s chin. She backed away.

  And then the ice balls began again.

  Hervor groaned in agony. She wanted to weep at the pain, at the frustration, at the utter hopelessness of this place. But she would not. She would not break in front of these animals. Not now, not for as long as she could manage.

  The cold wind had scourged Hervor more effectively than any lash. By the time they released her from the sinew bands, she could not walk, could barely move her arms enough to cover herself. Deathchill was taking her. The thought seemed idle, far away.

  To embrace the end seemed the easiest way forward. The only remaining option.

  Naliajuk carried her to a bonfire in the midst of the village and there dropped her on the ground.

  Hervor lay unmoving, unable to even stir. Or care. She had failed in her quest for vengeance and would now sink into the realm of spirits, trapped forever. It ought to have horrified her, but she could not bring herself to form an emotion, any emotion.

  Her flesh stung as the fire began to infuse its warmth back into her. With surprising gentleness, Naliajuk bound her hands to a post carved from another whalebone. As if she could rise. As if she could run.

  There was no escape from Hel. And her breath had blanketed Thule.

  The finfolk would not let her die. The fire eased just enough warmth into Hervor’s limbs to keep her alive.

  “You’re awake.”

  Not by choice. Hervor groaned. Someone had wrapped one of those fur coats around her while she slept. Naliajuk, probably. Misplaced concern or simple refusal to let her prisoner escape, even into death?

  She cracked open her eyes. Orvar-Oddr was bound to another whalebone post nearby, leaning with his back against it. A fur coat on him too. Did her face look half so bruised and beaten as his? By the feel of it, it must.

  Hervor shivered, forcing herself not to whimper with the pain of it. She would not let this man see her weakness. She had no fucking weakness, damn it!

  “I should not have come to this place …”

  No shit. No one belonged on this island. Not in a long, long time.

  “I guess I was running from my past … I felt like I failed the Ynglings in letting Hjalmar die for letting Yngvi’s daughter … what nonsense. Hjalmar brought it all on himself, in a way. He knew what he was about. And still, I let Yngvi call me back, call in old loyalties. As if it might make up for what they’d lost.”

  Gods above, the man was rambling like deathchill was setting in. Ironic, that the cold would ultimately deny Hervor her vengeance.

  So keep him talking, keep him coherent. Wait for her moment. Every single fucking one of the Ynglings needed to pay, yes, but if she brought down Arrow’s Point, maybe it would grant Father some measure of peace.

  “What do you mean, Hjalmar brought it on himself?”

  “He … we did as Yngvi had wished and raided into Reidgotaland. Moons of blood and slaughter. And after, things turned against us. They always do.”

  38

  That summer had been kind, at least to me. We had made three raids into Reidgotaland, even established a settlement on one island. The last, in particular, had pleased Yngvi who planned to inspect it now that summer was returning again. We’d heard little from the settlement over the winter, small surprise. No one wanted to sail the Morimarusa with the risk of storms. To do such and test the patience of Rán was to invite the sea to cast her net over you.

  Leading those raids had won me renown and booty both, enough so I’d even taken a wife among Yngvi’s people, Eira, the daughter of one of his jarls. She was young and like to give me many children, I had thought.

  With the breaking of winter, I’d returned to Yngvi and Alf’s halls by the River Fyris. Already, those halls were thick with the kings’ gathered people, all eager to know when they could next raid.

  Hjalmar sat among those men, casting frequent glances over at Ingibjorg who sat beside her father. She seemed to be offering discreet smiles to the housecarl whenever her father was occupied in conversation or drink—which was often. The couple had clearly not yet received Yngvi’s blessings.

  Shame that. Had Yngvi relented sooner … well. He did not.

  And I strode over to my friend Hjalmar and clapped him on the shoulder. “So glum, brother? The winter moons have passed! You ought to leave your mood with them.”

  Hjalmar grunted in acknowledgment, then beckoned me sit. I did, and slaves brought mead out for me, followed by a steaming hunk of mammoth flesh. The hunts had been kind to some, it seemed. Mammoths are dangerous prey, but they do well to feed a large host.

  The thegns were debating where they ought to strike next, as if the choice were theirs and not up to Yngvi and Alf.

  “We ought to have taken Samsey already,” Sveinn said. “It’s central, decent-sized, inhabited only by a few fishing villages. Would have made a better spot for the colony.”

  Another scoffed. “You ever seen Starkad Eightarms fight, man? If he says a place isn’t for men, I’d take his word at it.”

  I had been one to argue for taking Samsey as well. It looked prime for it, with a small population. Yngvi, however, still trusted the word of his father’s champion Starkad, who claimed sorcerers laired on that island. Men best left undisturbed.

  And if true … well, a wise man wants naught to do with sorcerers. Mad men, every one of them, and their hearts blacker than a troll’s.

  A slave approached and whispered something in Hjalmar’s ear. My blood brother rose and accompanied the man away.

  “It’s a big enough island,” Sveinn said. The thegn was young, but I had seen him fight. A brave one. “You really think a few sorcerers lay claim to all of it? Arrow’s Point! You’ve raided all over the North Realms—you ever see a sorcerer? Ever had one rise up to stop a single raid?”

  I shook my head. “Vӧlvur here and there, but they don’t get involved. They don’t work their seid on raiders, we don’t cut off their fucking heads. It works out for everyone.”

  The thegns laughed. No, I didn’t know much of true sorcerers. But magic was real. I had no doubt. My arrows told me that much. Those arrows had real power. I wanted no fight with anyone who wielded such Otherworldly ability. It was possible for a man to be too brave.

  Oh. Yes, and I had challenged Starkad to a duel, to first blood.

  Gods. I’d wanted to see who was truly the best. Starkad had bested me before men had even finished placing their bets. The man fought like a god of war, one to make Frey himself envious. Or Tyr, this new Ás war god. Some claimed the god had but one hand and could still best any foe, mortal or otherwise. Starkad had two hands, but was so fast he’d earned the name Eightarms.

  I’ve never seen aught like it, before or since
.

  Hjalmar returned to the center of the hall a moment later, guests behind him. “My king, may I announce the twelve sons of Arngrim, Jarl of Bolmso.” He spoke with a loud voice that rang through the feast hall. He did not quite hide the look of disdain on his face.

  And like that, our high times ended.

  “Who is this Arngrim?” I asked Sveinn.

  “A jarl in Ostergotland. Rumor has it he’s a berserk and so are his sons.”

  I scowled. A berserk as a jarl. That was new.

  “There’s more, though. Some say he killed Gylfi’s son-in-law out in Holmgard, took the man’s daughter as a wife by force.”

  “Gylfi’s granddaughter?”

  “No, different mother, from before.”

  Still, bold to strike against one tied to Gylfi.

  King Yngvi rose to greet the newcomers. King Alf remained in his seat.

  There were twelve of the men, each clad in a bearskin, each bearing arms that looked well worn. Blood splatters still caked furs of more than one of those berserkir.

  Hjalmar stepped aside but did not return to his seat beside me. The housecarl seemed to mistrust these brothers even more than Sveinn did. I had to stifle the urge to touch my sword hilt. Aught that so discomfited Hjalmar sent my blood racing with ease.

  Starkad was there too, sitting on the far side of the table, his two blades on his back. If trouble started, the young man would be ready, I knew, and I pitied the man who drew a blade on him.

  When Yngvi had retaken his seat, one of the sons of Arngrim strode forward from the others. “Thank you for your welcome, King Yngvi. I have travelled far to reach your table. I am Hjorvard of Bolmso.”

  “On what errand?” Alf asked.

  “Because word of your daughter’s beauty has spread through every kingdom in Sviarland. And thus, I made my vow before the sight of the new gods that I should make Princess Ingibjorg my wife. I will marry her and no other.”

  Yngvi looked to his daughter first, then to his brother. Alf whispered something in his ear.

  “Would he consent to this?” I asked Sveinn.

  “The brothers are well known for their prowess. I doubt the king wants them as enemies.”

  Hjorvard cleared his throat while Yngvi listened to whatever Alf advised. “Come now, my king. Tell me swiftly the result of my errand.”

  I glanced to Hjalmar, who by now was gnashing his jaw. My blood brother looked to me, and I nodded back. My friend had to speak now, before it was too late.

  With a return nod, Hjalmar strode forward again. “Lord king!” Yngvi turned to him. “Since I came to you, I have won great battles in your honor. I alone stood beside you against the draug. I have served well and brought you riches on many raids. Please, my king. Grant my request, and honor me with your daughter. You know my heart has always been set on her.” Hjalmar pointed at the berserkir. “These men are famed, yes. But famed for their wickedness. They plunder the weak, rape everywhere they go, even in your own realm. You cannot give Ingibjorg to a man such as this!”

  At his words, the berserk brothers hurled back several angry shouts. Some reached for swords, axes. Yngvi and Alf’s warriors responded in kind, rising from the table.

  Yngvi sat a long time, staring first at Hjalmar, then at Hjorvard, and at last at his brother. He turned back to the center where the brothers and Hjalmar stood. “You are both great men. Hjalmar is correct—he has done me honor and served my family well. Hjorvard’s fame and noble lineage have also reached us and I … I could not refuse either alliance.”

  “My king?” Hjalmar asked.

  Yngvi held up his hand. “No. In such a case, it is only fair to let Ingibjorg herself choose.”

  The princess’s eyes widened, and her mouth worked wordlessly. Poor girl had probably never been asked to speak before such an assembly before. Women rarely were.

  I guess you’d know.

  Finally, Ingibjorg rose from her seat. Looking at Hjalmar. A very good sign. “You are very fair, Father. And I would rather have the man I know to be good, than one of whom I know only tales … many evil. I choose Hjalmar as my husband.”

  The gathered sons of Arngrim looked at one another. I could have sworn I felt their outrage, and several more put hands upon weapons.

  Before any drew, Starkad stepped between the brothers and the kings.

  Hjorvard looked to the champion, then to Hjalmar. The berserk spat. “I do not accept this man as my equal. I challenge you to face me in combat, Hjalmar. Face me in holmgang or be cursed by all you meet as an outcast. If you dare marry before meeting my challenge, you will be despised by all, and my father shall consider it an act of treachery against Bolmso.”

  Hjalmar stormed forward. “Naught will hold me back, berserk. But as the challenged party, I will name the time of our holmgang. Nine days from now, at dawn.”

  Good. He would not allow the berserk to fight in moonlight.

  Hjorvard glowered. “Then I will name the place. The island of Samsey, where your people fear to tread. Do not think we have not heard how you sail around it, avoiding it as cowards. Come there, meet us if you have the souls of men.”

  Starkad opened his mouth, looking like he might object.

  “I will be waiting for you,” Hjalmar said. “Ready to cleave your head from your shoulders.”

  Hjorvard spat again, a gesture repeated by each of his eleven brothers in turn. With that, the sons of Arngrim stormed out of the hall. Evening was already upon them, but berserkir do not fear the mists as other men do.

  Perhaps they were already mist-mad.

  When the doors had slammed shut, Starkad spun on Hjalmar. “Fool! Samsey falls under the domain of the Niflungar! Why do you think I counseled avoiding the place? Now you will go and risk their wrath, and for what?”

  “For Ingibjorg!”

  “You could have fought for her hand on any island.”

  I rose now, joining the others in the center. “I find it hard to trust these berserkir, and their choice of a dueling island worries me.”

  Yngvi shook his head. “Perhaps so, but the time and place is set. Hjalmar cannot back down now.”

  “Then I will take a crew with me,” I said. “And we will make certain this is no trap and that these brothers intend to fight with honor.”

  “I will have no more part of this,” Starkad snapped. He pushed past me, muttering about what men did for women. The man seemed young to be so jaded.

  I did not yet know him as well as I do now.

  I watched the champion go, thinking him a fool, then strode over to my blood brother. “Come. Let us eat, and make plans. First for your battle, then for your wedding.”

  Hjalmar nodded.

  39

  And so the duel had been set.

  Except it wasn’t a duel, for twelve men had died instead of one.

  Hervor might have asked more, but Kiviuq came and dragged Orvar back to the whalebone arch, and finfolk beat and cut and mocked him.

  Hervor watched, flinching at the worst of the blows. The man rarely cried out, and she had to give him credit for courage. And almost, she could understand him following his blood brother to Samsey.

  Had it not ended with the death of her family.

  Blood demanded blood.

  And Tyrfing must have … vengeance.

  Eventually, the finfolk returned Orvar to her side and flung him down.

  He struggled to rise until they bound him to a stake once again.

  Hervor shook her head. “Odin’s spear, man. Why didn’t you just marry the damned seal already? Close your eyes, stick your cock in, and pretend it’s a woman.”

  Orvar coughed, spat blood, and cast a weary glare her way. “And why haven’t you, girl? As if you can’t get on your hands and knees and take it. Or maybe for the same damn reason. You don’t want to be forced into a marriage, much less agree to spend the rest of your life here. Give the marriage vow and that’s an oath, yes?” He scoffed, then shook his head. “And it would be a woman
, anyway.”

  “Oh?”

  “Of course it would. Shifters are humans possessed by Moon spirits.”

  Some few lived among men, true. But Hervor found such an idea hard to credit—that shifters might themselves be a kind of victim. Forced to live under the thrall of some vaettr. “Maybe you’re just worried that, if you gave it to her good enough, she’d start barking like a seal.”

  He grumbled something under his breath. “You have a lot of anger in you, shieldmaiden.”

  “I think we’ve both got plenty enough to be angry about.” She tugged on the sinews. They stretched but did not come close to breaking.

  “Indeed. But slinging your petty insults won’t get us out of this situation.”

  “No? And what would? Do you have a fucking army hidden away in your arsehole? Maybe you’re owed a favor from Odin himself? At this point, I would settle for a damned knife. But you’ve got naught but troll shit. If you did, you’d have freed yourself already.”

  Orvar shifted against the post, groaning in plain discomfort. “I have you.”

  Not likely.

  “I was thinking while they beat me. If we work together, we might be able to slip away, steal one of those boats.”

  What a lovely thought. “How?”

  “We’d have to put them off their guard. Here, in the middle of the village, everything is against us. But if we agreed to wed them—”

  “Like Hel.”

  “Hear me out. We agree to wed them. One of the ones who understood some Northern told me they have a sacred place, like a temple, where the weddings are held. Maybe we’d have more chance to break free from there than from here.”

  She spat. “Or maybe we’d find ourselves being fucked by wereseals. You may be that desperate for some release, but I’m not.”