by Matt Larkin
Hervor wrung her aching hand. A slave who didn’t know his own place had no business judging her for stepping out of hers.
“We should have expected no better from you,” one of the others mumbled.
Hervor spun on that man. “What did you just say?”
Now this man stood, defiant, glaring at her. Red-Eye had told her once, the best way to get cooperation was to let someone know how far you’d go right from the start. He almost always killed someone before making his first threat. Hervor wasn’t going to kill anyone.
Not quite. She grabbed the speaker by the scruff of his neck and pulled his face close. “You have a death wish, slave?”
The man refused to look away. “The jarl forbids us to speak of it, Hervor. It shames him for you to know. You, who disdain us slaves. When your own mother lay with the basest of our kind.”
“How dare you?” She could barely form the words.
“Oh, Lady Svafa had the ache real bad between those thighs of hers.” The other slave gasped, mumbling for the speaker to quiet.
Hervor squeezed his neck closer. Drew the man in until she could smell his fetid breath on her face.
“You liked it in the woods with bandits, did you? No surprise. Mama couldn’t get a jarl’s son to take her so she ordered her slaves to it, I hear. One by one, until she was good and finished. Fuck, but Odin alone knows whose you are, girl.”
Hervor slammed her forehead into his nose. Cartilage cracked, and blood splattered his face. He screamed for an instant before she head-butted him again. She rained blows upon his ribs and gut until she was gasping for breath. Then and only then did she let the slave drop. He fell in a bloody pulp.
His fellows, even the one she’d banged up before, rushed over to help him.
Her hands were trembling. Knuckles split open, blood dripping between the fingers. Shaking like a child.
She stumbled as she tried to walk away. Why would a slave tell such a lie?
No. No, her father had been a visiting noble who had died raiding. Her mother never talked of him, but she’d said she could not speak of her sorrows. That was all.
The slave lied.
He’d lied.
15
Swords in hand, Starkad plodded through the mist, with Afzal a few steps behind him. The Serklander wielded a curved sword that had belonged to his father. Shamshirs, the Serklanders called them. Afzal could hold his own, but Starkad wasn’t about to send him wandering out in the mist by himself. Not with whatever had done that to the bodies.
“Ghuls …” Afzal mumbled.
Starkad turned, slowly, counting the tiny flames of other torches moving through the mist. Afzal held their only torch since Starkad could not well wield two swords and carry one. “What are ghuls?”
“Like draugar, I suppose. But they eat the dead.”
Another glance at Hakon, his arm gnawed off. “More like the work of varulfur.” Not that he thought varulfur still lived on this island. Hel, maybe Afzal was right. Maybe these ghuls of his did lurk in the mist.
“Stay close.”
A fell gleam lit the night ahead, but not one of any torch. Starkad pushed forward, past Tiny, who was inspecting another body. The big man shook his head at Starkad’s approach. No idea what hunted them.
The strange light had vanished, but a torch ahead called him on in that direction.
Hervard knelt beside a body hacked to pieces. Afzal moved closer, holding the torch out before them.
Rolf Quicktongue.
The two men had been at each other from the first day of this voyage. Small wonder, as Hervard had first beaten Rolf bloody, and then—probably worse in Rolf’s mind—poked holes in Rolf’s tales of self-styled heroism.
“What have you done?” Starkad tried to keep from shouting.
Already, other torches were heading this way. Bragi stepped out of the mist and stared at the corpse, shaking his head.
“What have you done?” Starkad repeated.
Hervard rose, challenge in his eyes. “Something came upon me in the mist, attacked me. I didn’t know it was Rolf—I defended myself.” He turned about, looking at each of the gathering party. “As would any of you!”
Starkad lowered his swords but did not sheath them. “You murdered a member of the crew.”
Hervard spit. “It was not murder; it was an accident. And I’ll pay weregild to his kin.”
Orvar cleared his throat. “Everyone draw in, close to the bonfire. No man by himself. Now!”
The murderer glared at Starkad before moving toward the flame as Orvar had commanded. Starkad lingered, though he sheathed his swords and ushered Afzal back toward the fire.
“Well?” Orvar asked. “You believe Hervard?”
Starkad glanced down at Rolf’s body. Hervard had hacked the man repeatedly and impaled him. “Rolf may well have crept up on him. Maybe meant to murder Hervard, I don’t know. Quicktongue was treacherous as a snake and about as pleasant as a troll’s arse. But still.”
“Still—how does a man accidentally strike another so many times?”
“Yes. And I’d have sworn I saw a strange gleam from this direction.”
Orvar’s face grew even darker, if that were possible. “I thought I saw the same. We have bigger problems before us, though. Something lives on this island, something that ought not to be here.”
“Stumbling around in the night is not like to get us far.”
Orvar shook his head. “It’s all night here, Starkad.”
Indeed.
By the bonfire, Afzal had lit his smoking pipe. He burned those rank herbs, sucked them down through a tube. All of it inherited from his father, Hakim. The man had come as a trade emissary all the way from Serkland. His mission might have had more success had raiders not set upon him. When Starkad found Afzal, the boy was the last survivor, a child desperately clutching his father’s dead hand.
When they had finally left the scene, Afzal Ibn Hakim had taken the few of his father’s possessions the raiders had left behind. A sword and a smoking pipe. Some foreign herbs, the boy claimed, let his father pierce the veil between worlds.
Not certain why, Starkad had helped Afzal get revenge on those raiders.
“Times like these call for drink, not cocking smoke,” Ivar said, staring at Afzal.
The Serklander ignored him, continued puffing away, and stared off into the mist as though he saw something there. Perhaps he had. Starkad could never be certain.
There was a story—spreading among vӧlvur and skalds now—a story that Odin had hung himself from the World Tree. Sacrificed himself to gain wisdom from beyond this world. To see into the secret realms. Some vӧlvur had tried to repeat this miracle. They were dead now. Afzal’s way seemed more effective.
The young man blew out a long, shuddering breath as Starkad slunk down beside him. Starkad focused on Hervard. The man sat by himself, unsurprisingly shunned by the others. He’d always been a loner, but after tonight, who would trust him? Once the immediate threat—be it ghuls, draugar, varulfur, or some other vaettir—was dealt with, he would need to see to Hervard. Rolf got what was coming to him, but … they could not have men in their small party murdering one another. Their numbers were too few for petty rivalries to end in blood.
Starkad spit on the snow. This island was cold as Niflheim, and the wind had begun to howl, grating on his mind. Still, he did not wish to leave. Not before they saw all Thule had to offer, uncovered its secrets and plundered its treasures. The so-called colony would not last the whole winter, he had no doubt. But long enough to explore the island and find Nordri. That much, they would manage.
“What do you see?” he asked Afzal.
The Serklander sniffed, coughed, and rubbed his eyes. “Shadows.”
“We all see shadows. Night has a death grip around this land, squeezing it dry. There must be more than that.”
Afzal coughed again and wrapped his arms around himself. “Shadows stalking us, converging on us from all sides. This place is
accursed, abandoned by all goodly folk and by the gods themselves. You want to know what I see, Starkad?” Afzal turned to the bonfire. “I see a day when all warmth fades and all fires dwindle. And I see it growing cold for us, ever colder. And shadows are circling us, looking for a way in.”
Starkad groaned. They definitely needed more mead.
16
The sun had risen, bright in the sky. It reflected off the ice and drove back the mist, nigh to blinding Hervor as she looked across the frozen island. The sheer size of this place was striking. They would indeed need a full winter to explore the whole of it, especially with but a few hours of daylight at a time. And as they drew closer to the winter solstice, the daylight would grow ever shorter.
But then, Hervor had not actually come here to explore some forgotten island. She needed to draw Arrow’s Point off alone and face him down. The unfortunate incident last night with Rolf would make the others suspicious of her, especially if she killed another of their group. She would need to make certain they could never trace his death back to her. That meant waiting for exactly the right moment.
Orvar-Oddr beckoned all the crew together now and held up his arms. “We all know something is hunting us in the night. We also know nights are far too long and will be upon us again in a few scant hours. We are left with but two choices. We return to the ship and sail for home as cowards and failures …”
“Like a beetle-cocking troll’s arse we will!” Ivar shouted.
“Or else we become the hunters. We use those few hours of daylight to find what stalks us and end them.”
“You did not really think that a choice?” the Axe said.
A few of the men laughed. Hervor folded her arms.
“Fine,” Orvar said. “We still have to watch the boat. Starkad and I will go, take the Axe, Bluefoot, Tiny, and Loud with us and scout the way.”
Hervor stepped forward. “I didn’t come here to be left behind.”
“No one did,” Starkad said. He looked back at the crew, worked his jaw, then spit. “Fine though, Hervard. You seem far too eager with your sword. I’d rather have you where I can keep an eye on you.”
“Master?” the Serklander said.
Starkad waved a dismissive hand. “Of course you’re coming, Afzal. The rest of you, gather as much wood as you can in the daylight then build a perimeter of fire. And for the gods’ sakes, let naught damage our ship. None of us want to spend the rest of our lives on this frozen, Hel-cursed island.”
With that, they set out, climbing the icy slopes. Like the others, Hervor had fitted crampons to her feet, making the climb easier. Not easy, though. Everything not snow and ice was rock, rising at dramatic angles that oft had her using her hands to balance herself, even climbing directly with them.
Starkad led the way, pushing them ever deeper, toward the heart of the island. Maybe he was following tracks, maybe he was just assuming their foe must lie beyond the shores of Thule. Either way, he paused only rarely, glancing around before adjusting their course.
The old man, Bragi Bluefoot, was lagging behind, last in their party. Orvar-Oddr was a fool to bring him along at all, much less on their attempt to hunt for whatever fell creature had attacked them. The man wanted a skald along to sing their praises when all was said and done. But that would not happen if the skald dropped dead on some nameless mountain.
The man uttered yet another grunt as he tried to pull himself over an icicle-crusted ridge. Fuck it all. Hervor turned back and knelt on the ridge, offering the old man a hand. He took it, pulling himself up, then lying on his back panting.
“Don’t worry … just enjoying the scenery. The gods make wonders you know.”
“Starkad is pushing too hard,” Hervor said.
Bragi chuckled. “Starkad always pushes hard. It’s his nature … his curse, you might say.”
“His curse?” Hervor helped Bragi back to his feet. “We don’t want to fall too far behind.”
“That’s damned true.” The old man stared at the ice face above them. They’d have to climb almost straight up or else lose time searching for a way around. Lose time and they’d not find the others again before nightfall. Already, the sun seemed to be waning.
“We can’t get caught out in the open like this,” she said.
Bragi winked. “You don’t say?” He hefted himself upward, digging his crampons into the ice, then climbing with surprising grace. Not quite a useless old man after all.
Hervor followed after him, not looking straight up as he kept sending showers of ice down on her. “So what is Starkad’s curse, then?”
“Oh, the tales about that one. He doesn’t talk about himself overmuch, makes it hard to say what’s true and what’s not. Tales say he’s killed more men than any save maybe the Aesir themselves.”
Hervor frowned. Yes … the slaughter of many men. Brothers, fathers … more blood on his hands than most could imagine.
Bragi panted. “There’s a story though, tale was, he killed a jotunn.”
“Troll shit.” Stories claimed Odin had slain a jotunn. Gods might do so. Mortals did not.
“That’s the story anyway. And with his dying breath, the jotunn cursed Starkad with eternal wanderlust.” Bragi grunted, pulling himself upward more, panting. “Some also say there was more to it … that … well, that he would always hurt those dearest to him. Not sure on that one.”
“Well, you’re his friend. Has he hurt you?”
“Not yet. I—fuck!” Ice shrieked, cracked, and fell, sending Bragi crashing down atop her. She tried to catch him, but he raced past her. One of his crampons caught in her mail. The spikes punched through the armor and dug into her back before his weight ripped them free.
Hervor screamed, clutching the side of the mountain for all she was worth. Bragi had wrapped his arms around her waist. His weight was bearing them both down, threatening to send them tumbling below. They’d like as not shatter bones on the ice.
She glanced down at the old man. Her blood was smeared over his face. “Do not let go, you old fool.”
If she moved even a foot, they’d fall. Nor could she support them both forever. Slowly, muscles aching, she slid her arm over a wide rock. She needed a proper grip. Odin’s stones, the wound in her back was on fire. She ought to just let the clumsy trollfucker fall. Except he seemed like a decent man.
Panting, getting so hard to hold on.
“You have to climb up my back. Can you grab my shoulder?”
Bragi shifted, his bloody face pressed into the small of her back. With one arm, he tightened his grip around her waist; and with the other, he grabbed a fistful of her blood-soaked mail. That he used to heave himself upward to her shoulder. From there, he reached for the rock himself. His crampons scratched her arse, and she had to grit her teeth to keep from screaming.
“You fall down, Bluefoot?” Tiny shouted from above. Hervor glanced up as the big man tossed a rope down to the skald.
Bragi grabbed the rope. “You wouldn’t think you’d miss a few toes so very much.”
She was going to kill them both.
Bragi climbed the rope enough to get above her, then Tiny hauled him up. Hervor lay against the cliff side, panting, trying not to think about the pain. The bleeding, the cold.
The fucking pain.
Finally, she pushed away and began to haul herself upward as well. Hand over hand. Crampons dug into the fucking ice and not someone else’s back and arse. Imagine that. What a way to use climbing tools. And who the fuck tried climbing with crampons if he was missing toes?
At the top, she rolled over. They were standing atop one of the lower mountains. Across a valley pitched an enormously tall waterfall. Though thin, it fell so far and with such force, it had not frozen over, at least not this early in winter. The water pitched into a lake far below them.
She rose to her knees and stared at it, breathless, and not just from the climb. Never had she seen a sight like this. The land stretched out beyond the waterfall in an endless plateau
, shrouded by mist, as was the valley. But it was deep, wide, and within it, beyond the rocks, grew a small wood.
“It’ll be dark very soon,” Orvar-Oddr said.
Starkad nodded. “We cannot stay here. The valley beneath the fall will offer shelter and fresh firewood.”
“So.” Bragi cleared his throat. “What you mean to say is, you want us to now climb back down. In the dark. Into the mist. And the dark.”
Starkad offered no answer, save to start walking in that direction.
Hervor stifled a groan. Killed a jotunn had he? Well, that was fucking amazing. And now he was king of Midgard. And telling her to march on, to climb on, never mind the holes in her back.
The worst of it was, he was right. There was no shelter up on the mountain, not from the howling wind, not from the icy chill it brought. And not from any foes who might be hunting them come sunset.
Bragi suddenly grabbed her and pulled her to her feet. “We have to get a fire going before full dark sets in. And that means we’d best do as he says. Can you walk?”
Hervor sneered. “Just don’t fall on me again, old man.”
“Eh. Well, I’ll just go first this time.” And he did.
17
Two Years Ago
Jarl Bjalmar had no vӧlva of his own, and so a simple healer, a woman from the town, treated the slave Hervor had beaten. For three days, the man had lain abed, and the healer could not say whether he would live or die. Hervor had peeked in on him twice, each time greeted by the disdainful stares of the healer and the other slaves who had come to visit their friend.
Three moons she had spent among Red-Eye’s Boys, and with them she had killed many men. Not like this, though. Not someone she had seen every day, even if she did not know his name. She had not intended to cripple him. She didn’t know what she’d intended. His words had enraged her beyond all withstanding. And she was within her rights to kill a slave for speaking to her thus—for any reason at all, she supposed, though it would mean she’d owe her grandfather the man’s worth in silver.
