Days of Endless Night

by Matt Larkin

  “And now it is twelve on two, and the twelve are barely human. Come, brother. Let us slip off into the forest. There must be some other way off this island.”

  My blood brother glanced back at the woods behind us, then at the ship we had arrived on. “My brothers in arms are murdered in the night. Even could I walk away from that, we have never fled from our foes. Let us not start now. We will be Odin’s guests in Valhalla tonight.”

  I blew out a long breath and shook my head. Hjalmar spoke truth, I supposed, little though I liked it. We had fought many battles before and never ran from any foe. If I was to die, I would do so with honor. Not that I intended to die. I rose then, drawing my sword. “I have no wish to meet this Odin. At least not yet. So, our only choice is to kill all twelve of these berserkir.”

  Hjalmar too rose, drawing his sword. “What do you think? Will you take Angantyr and Tyrfing? Or try your luck with the other eleven?”

  I shook my head. A man with a runeblade or overwhelming odds … but I could see why Hjalmar would split us thus. Angantyr was not only most famed, but that sword would give him a fell strength. Still, I had a shirt woven by alfar. Maybe it could turn even a runeblade. “I’ll fight Angantyr. Your armor won’t stop Tyrfing.”

  Hjalmar’s eyes were locked on that glowing blade, as if seduced by a woman in firelight. “No, brother. You have never taken precedence over me in any battle. You think to take the glory for yourself today? Angantyr is mine. I will kill the berserk for Ingibjorg and then none may say I did not win her.”

  I opened my mouth to object, but Hjalmar charged forward, racing for Angantyr with a battle cry.

  And I had no choice.

  I raced after him, sword and torch high. “They fight alone!” I shouted at the other berserkir. “And let the strongest and bravest among them win.”

  Hjorvard looked first to Hjalmar, who now parried and danced with Angantyr, then to me. The berserk flashed his teeth, then strode forward.

  This was it then. I tossed the torch to the beach and slung my shield off my back. I barely had it in hand when Hjorvard reached me, screaming in a mindless rage. The berserk’s sword cracked off my shield. The impact rang through my arm and left my shoulder stinging. Hel, the man was strong!

  Already Hjorvard had reeled back for another strike. I stepped aside, dodging again and again.

  Rather than try to block those mighty blows, I dodged them, batting them aside with my shield only when necessary. On the third blow, my shield cracked. Trollfucker had inhuman might and stamina. I wasn’t going to outlast him. Hjorvard fought with more ferocity than skill though, always on the offense, unrelenting.

  Just how good was my alfar-woven shirt, I wondered? It had turned blades before. I dropped my shield low, granting the berserk an opening. As expected, the man leapt, intent to chop me in half. I allowed the blow to connect, swinging with my own attack rather than trying to defend myself. The attack slammed into my abdomen and hurled me from my feet for a bare instant before I struck the beach. My gut felt like it had been kicked by a mule, and I gasped, struggling to turn over.

  Finally, I rose to my knees.

  Hjorvard had fallen, a great gash along his neck.

  I rose, hand to my stomach as the other brothers roared in amazement. Had the man hit me anywhere else, he might have broken ribs. The next brother bellowed at me, slathering and wild as a cave hyena. And still, it seemed they had enough honor to face me one at time.

  This next brother leapt forward, swinging his axe in great swathes that could have cleft a man’s skull in one blow. I danced to the side, swept my shield upward, and hewed low at the same instant. My sword bit through the second brother’s kneecap. Even a berserk could not stand without those. I leapt on him, slamming the rim of my shield down onto his throat. Bone crunched under the blow.

  I had not even risen when the next bellowing brother crashed into me. I raised my shield, and the man collided with it. The force of it shattered the shield and sent me tumbling end over end through the sand. I rolled over on the beach even as the man raced forward, sword raised.

  Unable to think, I flung sand in the man’s face. The berserk stumbled a moment, giving me time to rise and swing my own sword. I opened the man’s gut with one blow, then rolled away. The dying berserk flailed wildly, intent to chop me down even as his intestines spilled out over the beach. The stink of blood mixed with shit hit me as I stumbled away.

  Another brother was racing in on me now. As blind and enraged as all the others. I slipped a dagger from my belt with my free hand. As the brother neared, reeling back for a killing blow with his axe, I surged forward under his arms and drove the knife into his belly. The berserk barely slowed. A meaty fist slammed into my face and sent me tumbling away. I lost my grip on both my sword and the knife.

  I did not dare stop for them, though. Instead, I rolled through the sand without even looking. Dust flew a heartbeat later as that axe crashed into the spot I’d lain. The dying berserk swung again and again, forcing me to give ground and scramble away.

  But the man was slowing. Gasping for breath, I managed to gain my feet, then raced over to snatch up my sword. Even as another brother raced for me …

  46

  As Starkad had hoped, they had found a narrow pass on the mountain slopes. There they had felled a tree and built a bonfire. He had considered forbidding it. The flames would announce their location. But then, the draugar would find them sooner or later in any case. Better that he and the others should get warm and face their end with strength.

  Darkness had settled in once again, save for the winter lights in the sky. Starkad warmed his hands by the fire. He’d have thought their foes would be upon them already. But still they had not come.

  Afzal was smoking the last of his herbs and blowing out great puffs of the strange-smelling stuff. The Serklander had relaxed once he began to sample his foreign poisons. He always did so. And perhaps those herbs truly did open his mind, allowing him uncanny insight. Always so hard to be certain.

  “What do you see?” Starkad asked him.

  Afzal let out a long breath before answering in a raspy voice. “Shadows stirring, beneath the ground.”

  Tiny snorted. “I salute your wisdom, boy. A blind babe could have guessed that much. Perhaps next you will tell me we will face snow? And ice, maybe?”

  Starkad glared at him, waving him to silence. “What else, Afzal?”

  The Serklander rubbed his eyebrow with his index finger. “Men are searching for us, wandering the mists.”

  “Men? Or draugar?”

  “The Arrow’s Point …”

  Tiny straightened at that. “Orvar lives? Where is he?”

  “He lives … I think. But not for long. None of us have long left. The mist is closing in, coiling around us like a serpent.”

  Pleasant image. Starkad pulled Vikar’s sword and set at it with the whetstone. A man had to keep his weapons in order. Even in times like these. Especially in times like these. His sword and Vikar’s sword—they were all he had of an old life. If he died here on Thule, that life and all they had been would be lost, forgotten.

  Still, Afzal claimed none of them had much time left, and Starkad could not argue with such a prophecy. Sooner or later, the draugar would come for them.

  That they had not yet done so perhaps meant they too could not cross the river. So they would come from another exit, travel the long way around. But they would come. Starkad had woken that vile king, and he could not imagine such a being would suffer living humans in his domain.

  “What do you see of the draug king?” he asked Afzal.

  Afzal shut his eyes and breathed deeply. “Old ones … forgotten. Heirs of fallen glory wake for vengeance.”

  “The fuck does that mean?” Tiny demanded. “How about something useful.”

  Starkad stared into the flames. “I think it means he was a prince of one of the Old Kingdoms. Each of them bore a runeblade. If so, he’s waited here for centuries.”

>   “So … he bears a runeblade.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Such a prize …” Tiny said. “Such a prize would well please Gylfi.”

  Starkad scowled now. He had come here for such prizes, even had he not known specifically he sought the blade. But treasures … “What claim do you have to this, big man?”

  “As much claim as any, and I have asked for naught else thus far in Gylfi’s name.”

  Starkad spat. “I lead this party now.”

  Tiny shrugged. “Because we lost Orvar? Such matters naught. All are equal on a raid, and Gylfi holds as much stake here as Yngvi. They’ve had oaths on the matter.”

  Starkad sneered. “It matters naught, in any event. Had we not lost Hervor and her runeblade maybe we … well, that no longer matters. I suppose like any other draug, the prince will burn. Cut his legs out from under him, chop off his head, and set him alight.”

  “You going to do all that?”

  Starkad shrugged. “You seek to claim the damned blade. I thought you were offering.”

  “If I have to.”

  Starkad chuckled. “You’re a brave man, Tiny. You know … I don’t think I even know your real name.”

  The big man spat and shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “Very soon now, we will fight a glorious battle side by side. And then we will die. I ought to at least know what to call my brothers in arms in such a battle.”

  Tiny grunted. “Well, it’s Ecgtheow. But everyone calls me Tiny anyway.”

  Starkad offered his hand. “I’m honored to fight by your side, Ecgtheow.”

  The big man clasped his arm. “No, I am honored. Men call you a god of war.”

  Starkad shrugged. They said the same thing about Tyr, and he did not care to be tied back to that bastard.

  “If we can kill this prince …” Tiny said.

  Starkad waved it away. Whatever point the big man made, he was not willing to cede such a prize. Not after all it had cost.

  Finally, Tiny cleared his throat. “We have a choice before us. We can stay here and wait for them, allowing our strength to wane from hunger. Or we can skirt the shore as your slave suggests.”

  “Afzal is not my slave.”

  “The point remains. You expected them to be upon us long before now. We have gained what rest we can already. Waiting longer means we grow weaker. On the shore, we might find some food—fish, game, something.”

  Starkad sighed. Tiny was right. He had come up this mountain to die. If they left, they surrendered the most favorable location he’d found to face an army of draugar. If they remained though, they’d still lose. Not so unlike being back by the geysers. They’d gained a measure of safety in exchange for any hope of survival.

  But they didn’t want to vote on the matter. They wanted him to decide, to save them. Even Afzal was watching him now, eyes clouded with his poison, yet still aware enough. Intent, awaiting the word of his master. And not wanting to die.

  Fair enough. Starkad had never been one to stay long in a single place. “We’ve rested. If Orvar is alive, is looking for us, he’d probably head toward the ship. So will we. We follow the coast and make as good time as we can while hunting for food. None of us want to die hungry.”

  “I don’t want to die at all,” Afzal said.

  “Everyone dies, eventually.” He clapped the Serklander on the shoulder. “But maybe … maybe we can at least make it off this island.”

  Afzal sighed and rose. And then he hurled his pipe off the side of the mountain.

  “What was that?” Starkad asked.

  The boy rubbed his eyebrow again. “You’re wrong about one thing, Master. I won’t make it off this island. Of that I’m certain.”

  More prophecy at the end of a pipe. Starkad gripped him by the back of his head and drew Afzal close to his face. “Listen to me. Your fate is in your own hands. Make the most of it.”

  When the boy nodded, Starkad released him and set off, back down the mountain.

  47

  The only sound came from the water lapping on the shore and gentle rhythm of Kiviuq paddling. Naliajuk sat beside her brother in the boat, staring at Orvar and Hervor. He had insisted she sit in front of him, where he could keep an eye on her.

  She had sworn an oath and on Tyrfing no less.

  She would not break it.

  According to Orvar’s story, Angantyr had been a worse murderer than even Hervor. Did it matter? He was still her father. Besides which, how was she to believe a word the man said? Maybe Orvar would not have embellished the tale before knowing her identity … but now? How could he not skew the telling to cast himself as a victim.

  As innocent.

  No one was innocent, after all.

  Not Orvar. Not Hervor. And probably not the sons of Arngrim. Maybe they had been raping, pillaging, monsters. So had Red-Eyes’ Boys. And they’d been Hervor’s people.

  She kept twisting around on her seat, wary least he should plunge a knife in her back. Would his oath bind him, as well, or was he faithless?

  “There’s not many of us left,” she said.

  “Us? You think you’re one of us now?”

  If he told the others she’d attacked him like that, maybe any one of them might kill her for it. Even old Bragi Bluefoot might do her in for such treachery and name it the will of the gods. And Hervor liked Bragi.

  She grimaced, not willing to acknowledge Orvar’s point. “The Axe fell when we first woke the draugar. And I saw Ivar get stabbed just before I got separated from the party.”

  “And you murdered Rolf yourself.”

  She groaned. “That was an accident … look, Starkad must be leading them now.”

  “Obviously. There’s no finer warrior in the North Realms.”

  “He hates women.”

  Orvar shrugged. “I’m starting to see why.”

  She clamped her mouth shut at that.

  An explosion of water ruptured the silence once more, an instant before a massive form breached the surface several dozen feet away from the boat. Sleek black-and-white skin. The orca hung in the air for a breath before crashing back down and disappearing beneath the sea.

  Naliajuk had clutched both sides of the boat, eyes wide, jaw trembling. Frozen in terror.

  Kiviuq stared at the spot where the orca had vanished, muttering about Aningan.

  The finfolk feared the orca. Maybe they hunted them, too. But the part of them that were seals, they felt a primal calling back to their nature. Their instincts, their heritage.

  Like Hervor. Driven by primal rage.

  So then, had she judged Orvar without knowing the man?

  No.

  No, whatever twisted words he spoke, it did not change that his hand had nigh to ended her entire line.

  “So tell me then,” she said. “Tell me how you killed the last of my kin.”

  “Hervor … you know how it ended. And I already told you how it began. We did not start this fight …”

  “Yes. Justify yourself. Tell me.”

  “What good will come of the rest of this story—”

  “Say it!”

  Naliajuk and Kiviuq looked over at her outburst.

  Hervor ignored them. “I want to hear you say how my father died. Leave naught out, Arrow’s Point. Tell me the truth—all of it. Tell me how you murdered him.”

  Orvar let his head slip into his hand. “You … arrogant, fool child. I have something better for you. I will tell you how Angantyr murdered my brother.”

  48

  I had slain all but one of your uncles, and as the last circled me, I tossed aside the broken hilt of my sword. Rage wafted off the berserk so thick I could have almost seen it. But the man did not charge in. Perhaps the sight of ten of his brothers dead and dying on the beach instilled the barest hint of self-control in him. Though bleeding from a dozen wounds, I must have seemed tempting prey.

  I knelt to pick up the axe of one of the dead berserkir.

  My lungs felt aflame, every breath
agony. I wanted to pitch forward and lay in the sand and sleep, to rest for days. Whatever happened next, skalds would sing of this battle. I had slain ten men in single combat, one by one without a moment of rest. Not just ten men. Ten berserkir. This day, my deeds here, men would remember it.

  I allowed myself to believe that. To believe it a good thing.

  To think that maybe even Odin watched now. Maybe valkyries were circling, awaiting my fall.

  The last berserk spit, then stalked forward, sword before him. Didn’t fling himself wildly. He had learned something from the deaths of his brothers. At long last, they faced a foe where sheer ferocity was not enough. And still, the man wanted to charge. To let rage take him. That much was apparent in his face.

  I beckoned him with the axe. “Come now. Do you not wish to rejoin your brothers in Valhalla? Do you not share their courage?” The berserk stiffened. That had hit something. “Perhaps you were the youngest … never quite their equal. Not worthy to sit at their table among the honored dead? Do not feel bad. You can still go home and embrace your mother, boy.”

  I had not even finished speaking when the man charged at me, shrieking like an animal. I didn’t have the stamina to fight him. I had almost naught left.

  Naught save a trick I’d already used. One hopefully the berserk was too mad to prepare for. As the man swung, I too attacked, making no effort at defense. The berserk’s blade swept up over my alfar shirt, scraping on it as though it were armor, before shrieking loose and drawing a cleft from my chin—you can still see the scar.

  Of course, my axe buried in the berserk’s skull.

  I stumbled away, fell over, and lay in the sand.

  I don’t know how much time passed. Less than an hour, probably. The sun had risen but not high. I pushed myself and crawled forward.

  Angantyr and Hjalmar both lay nearby.

  My … brother … my blood brother was …

  I rose, stumbled over to where Hjalmar lay. The man looked to me, alive, but his eyes had grown weak. His helm was cleft down the middle, a vicious wound over his face. Even his chain had been rent. Tyrfing had cut clean through the mail like it were cloth.