Runeblade Saga Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  In the darkness, shadows moved. With the clarity of dream, she knew them for the ghosts of her kin. The twelve sons of Arngrim, whom she had promised vengeance. She had sworn an oath upon the sword in her hand, and now, those ghosts watched her. Growing inpatient, unable to escape their torment while her vow remained unfulfilled.

  They did not speak and yet, Hervor knew—they understood her promise.

  If she failed, if she died without revenging them, their fate would become hers. A wandering shade haunted by her failure and unable to ever fully cut ties with Midgard.

  She woke with a start, sitting up before she had time to realize how much her body protested. The pains sleep had dulled slammed back into her. Her wounded back, her swollen ribs, and now numerous cuts from draugar blades. Her throat was raw, parched. Funny though, this place no longer seemed to reek of sulfur. She supposed she had just gotten used to it.

  “You wake,” Starkad said.

  She turned to find him sitting, watching her.

  “Ugh.” She stretched. “What do you want?”

  “I …” He shook his head. “You brought some of this down on us.”

  She snorted. “I did not force any man to come here, nor seed this island with shifters and draugar. You’re simply an arse who’s scared of women.”

  “I fear naught, shieldmaiden.”

  Then he was a fool, too. Plenty on Thule seemed worthy of fear.

  With a grunt, Starkad rose and cracked his neck. “I will speak to everyone. Come. Get up.”

  Wonderful. Standing hurt even more than sitting, but she followed Starkad to where the others had gathered. Bragi and Ivar sat, the latter half curled over the wound in his gut. She could slump down again and join them. Her aching legs begged her to do it.

  But then, she couldn’t trust herself to be able to rise again after that.

  She did not think she’d ever been so tired in her life.

  Orvar, their supposed leader, was now looking to Starkad as if he might have the answers.

  Starkad paced around, pausing to pat Afzal on the shoulder. Finally, he turned to look at everyone. “This is a place of fire. And it seems the draugar will not pursue us here. I don’t know whether we are safe from the finfolk—perhaps so. Maybe they don’t even know where we are. It does not matter.” He turned, sweeping his arm out to indicate the cracked, barren landscape. “It matters naught, because we have no food. No water. There is naught here to sustain us, even if we wanted to remain. Nor can we go back the way we came. The draugar likely lie in wait there. And the dead have no end of patience.”

  “We can travel up, through the mountains,” Tiny said. He stood with his arms folded over his massive chest. “Avoid the canyons and they might not find us.”

  Starkad nodded. “Perhaps. Maybe we could make it back to the ship.”

  Ivar coughed. “Assuming those cock-thumping finfolk aren’t waiting for us there.”

  “What do they even want of us?” Tiny asked. “Do they eat men?”

  Bragi clucked his tongue. “Tales say the finfolk take men to be husbands to their women, and women as wives.” At that he grinned at Hervor.

  She scowled at him. There was not a damned thing amusing here, least of all shifters abducting men or women for forced marriages.

  “Wait …” Ivar said. “You think they wanted Orvar to … fuck a seal?”

  Well. Maybe there was something slightly amusing.

  Orvar spat and glared at Ivar. “Keep it up, Loud. Maybe you can fuck one of my arrows.”

  Starkad cast a glance at Orvar. “I think we must discuss this land.”

  Orvar groaned, then nodded. “Look here all … I … have an idea where the draugar came from. In the days of the Old Kingdoms, maybe even before that, the dvergar had four great cities in the four corners of the world. This island, Thule, was home to the northernmost city, Nordri. And those draugar must have been their human warriors or else warriors sent against them by one of the Old Kingdoms.” Orvar pointed toward the heart of the island. “Either way, their city was lost, abandoned. And filled with a dverg hoard. Gold, silver, gems—more wealth than we could carry.”

  Hervor worked her tongue over her teeth.

  Dverg gold for the taking …

  No wonder Yngvi and Gylfi had partnered on this expedition. If Orvar spoke the truth, this Nordri could make everyone here wealthy enough to claim a jarldom. At the least. And dvergar crafted things too, objects imbued with power. Tyrfing was forged by the great smith Dvalin.

  What other wonders might his brethren have made and left behind here?

  Of course, with such wealth, the Ynglings would become that much more difficult foes to destroy. Well, first thing came first. She still had to deal with Arrow’s Point. Even were she willing to break her vow, she did not relish the thought of spending eternity as a restless ghost in punishment for the transgression.

  “Dverg gold …” Ivar said. “It tends to cost more than it buys. Steal from them and they may curse you.”

  Starkad shook his head. “No dvergar live here now. Thule is dead, long dead and nigh to lost to the ages.”

  That Niflung had called this place vile and had warned they would all be dragged down to Hel. He had known about the draugar. How many more of the creatures might dwell here?

  “We come back with that gold, and men will be telling our tales for a hundred years or more,” Bragi said.

  “I like taking stuff,” Ivar said.

  “We don’t know what might lurk in this Nordri either,” Hervor said. “Maybe the finfolk have gone there … maybe more draugar live there.” Still, if they went to the city, it might offer the chance to fulfill her vow. And if they managed to plunder some gold on the way back, she’d make certain to get her share. She could worry about stopping the Ynglings from getting theirs later. It was a long way back to Upsal.

  Afzal sighed and rubbed his eyes. “You really think the seven of us can face down an unknown number of vaettir? Forgive me, Master, but our last fight with these finfolk cost the Axe. And that was against four of them, not expecting us.”

  Ivar spat. “We weren’t exactly expecting naked people to turn into seals and try to bite our faces off.”

  “Look,” Starkad said. “We don’t know where the finfolk are. I do have a general idea where to find the city. We can continue north, out of these lava fields, and search for the city. Either way, we have to press on.”

  Ivar groaned as he rose. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Hervor shook her head. More walking, more searching. More wandering in the night.

  24

  Three Moons Ago

  A few moons of raiding and piracy had earned her a small share of booty and a loyal enough crew. Sure, she’d had to kill their former captain for the position. But few men wanted to follow a leader with no head, so she’d given them an easy choice.

  They had stopped at a town on Sjaelland to resupply before setting out for Samsey. As the largest island of the Morimarusa, Sjaelland was home to numerous seaside towns, each within the domain of one jarl or another, all paying homage to Hrothgar. The island was fertile and thus immensely valuable. Legend claimed the Vanr Gefjon had dug up the whole island and sown it, though the Vanir were all gone now.

  Those prosperous towns had provided a large sum of plunder, though of course not from the domain she visited now.

  “I don’t like it,” Viggo said. “Men say the island is haunted. No one goes there.”

  On raids, all men were equal or so the thought went. In practice, the crew was hers, and Viggo was the most respected of the rest. He’d earned a reputation for once cleaving a man from skull to sternum—exaggerated, perhaps, though he was a big man. They walked together through the town while the rest of the crew was out trading for ale, bread, and the like. Or looking for slave girls to bend over when their masters were not around.

  “It will be a short stop,” Hervor promised. She shifted the sack she carried over her shoulder. Its contents ha
d soaked through the canvas and began dripping blood on the ground. More than one townsman gave her a wary look.

  “And a wasted one.”

  Hervor ran her tongue over her teeth. She couldn’t exactly refuse to tell the crew where they were meant to sail. On the other hand, Viggo’s reluctance to go to Samsey was problematic. They passed by a smithy, and the warrior paused to examine an axe most men would have needed two hands to wield. Sacrificing a shield would never be worth it, but a man Viggo’s size could do more, manage more. He had his uses.

  “How does an island become haunted?” she asked.

  He pricked his thumb on the tip of the axe. “Too many men die without any proper sending, no pyre. No vӧlva.”

  “Which means?”

  Viggo offered a bronze arm ring to the smith, who nodded. The warrior slung the axe over his shoulder—it was too large to sit on his hip, even had he not two other axes there already. “Means … they come back as ghosts, draugar, whatever.”

  He had his uses but was not the smartest man on her crew. It didn’t matter. She didn’t recruit for brains. “It means people lived there once. People lived there and left behind all they had when they died. Ruins means treasures, and stories of hauntings mean not many men go after that treasure. Silver, maybe even gold.”

  Viggo grunted now, eyes lit with the glimmer of interest. And she did hope to find plunder there, though most importantly her father’s sword. Anyone who wielded a runeblade would find him or herself the subjects of a skald’s tales. Those were the ones who did great and terrible deeds, who shaped history and found lasting fame. And with such a sword, she could begin to avenge her father.

  The trouble was, she didn’t even know for certain where on the island to look. And if Viggo was any indication of the rest of the crew, they wouldn’t want to spend long there.

  Fortunately, this town was famed for its vӧlva. Word said she heard the voices of the gods, dreamed the past and future. Such a woman held promise for Hervor’s errand. The sack was not heavy, but it felt awkward, especially trying not to let it stain her clothes.

  “Go back to the ship. Make sure everyone is ready to leave at dawn.”

  Viggo shrugged and trotted off.

  Hervor wandered the town, asking for directions until she found the vӧlva’s house. Animal skulls adorned the fence around that house. A deer, a wolf. The big one must belong to a cave lion. Other skulls she couldn’t even be certain about. A rabbit, maybe. She swung open the gate and approached the house. The door stood open, so she ducked inside.

  The place stank of burning weeds and strange herbs. The witch had no furniture, just benches built into the walls, half of which were laden with mushrooms, animal skins, or pots filled with Odin alone knew what. The fire in the pit had burned low, casting the room in such deep shadow it took a moment to spot the old woman.

  She sat on one of those benches, gnawing on a branch. Only a few teeth remained in her mouth, and those were oddly pointed, like a wolf’s. Her eyes were glazed over, milky white. She spat a piece of bark out as Hervor approached.

  “Seer.”

  The woman slurped, sucking down black goop that had dribbled over her lip.

  Hervor knelt before the woman. “Men say you know many things.”

  “Men say many things. Rarely are all true.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “No one can help one intent to destroy herself.”

  Hervor frowned. “I’m trying to restore the legacy of my blood.”

  “A legacy of blood, yes.” The witch didn’t look at her, so much as at the space behind her. She giggled a little, then continued to gnaw on the stick.

  “Tell me about Samsey.”

  The seer snorted, coughed, and spat. The thick phlegm landed less than a foot from where Hervor knelt.

  Hervor frowned, then opened the sack and drew the heart out of it. She tossed the cold, bloody thing at the vӧlva’s feet. “I hear you collect hearts.”

  “Ehh.” She sniffed, then snatched the thing up. Squeezed it. “Ehh. Not beating.”

  “Of course it’s not fucking beating!”

  The vӧlva licked the heart. “Mmm. Stag, a strong one.”

  “Did you expect a human heart?”

  She licked her lips. “Ehh. That’s the best, of course. Deep lives, deep souls, lots of light. So much darkness.” She giggled.

  Hervor leaned forward barely able to stop herself from clutching the old witch by the shoulders and shaking her. “Where does my father lie?”

  “In burning torment, in freezing lament. In cold ground as was the wont of fallen lands, wakeful and grim.”

  Cold ground. “He was buried?”

  “But not forgotten. Left behind, yet lingering. Layers upon layers of warped agony.”

  Buried in a grave, perhaps. But she had said something about fallen lands. Maybe she meant the Old Kingdoms. They entombed their dead in barrows. “Where on the island do I find these barrows?”

  “So many questions you ask, and none the right ones.” She giggled again. “If you ask the right questions, you won’t even need the answers.”

  Hervor threw up her hands. “Fine. What is the right question?”

  “At last! You inquire after wisdom. Good, good.” She sniffed the heart again, before setting it down in her lap. “Won’t save you, though. Too stubborn to listen to wisdom when freely given … and you’d think to bargain for it? Hehehe. The gods are watching, little girl. They watch while you fumble around in the dark.”

  “The gods can keep their riddles. I only ask upon which shore I should make land. I gave you the filthy heart, now tell me, witch!”

  The vӧlva shook her head, uttering a chittering sound like a rabid squirrel. Then she licked her lips. “Like a child you stumble, until the children you will anger. They too are wakeful, now. Wakeful, mindful, wrathful. Go then, shieldmaiden, make land upon the southern shores. And if you so dare, wake the dead and embrace the urd laid before you.”

  The south. A place to start at last and worth the effort of hunting down the deer. If perhaps not quite worth the irritation of dealing with this crone.

  “One last question, I will answer. If a good one you ask.”

  Hervor stood. “I have no more questions for you, witch.”

  “More’s the pity then. The answer might have offered you solace when the night grows long.”

  Hervor sneered and turned away but looked back before she exited. “The answer would have been one more riddle trying to warn me about something that would only make sense once it had become too late. Such solace does good for no one. I will have my vengeance, and I will make my own fate.”

  The vӧlva favored her with a wide, toothy grin. And then she laughed. That laughter continued to ring out of the house as Hervor fled back to the street.

  It followed her all the way back to her ship.

  25

  The crashing of water heralded their approach to the great gorge long before it came into sight. They came upon it from a frozen plateau, her crampons digging into the icy shelf as the sound drew nigh.

  Across the gorge, steep, icy cliffs dropped down to a series of shelves, each pouring more and more waters into a gorge that split the island in half, running farther than Hervor could see in the mist. Vapors wafted out of that gorge like the forging of the world between fire and ice at the beginning of time. Maybe it was here, where the world began, caught between Niflheim and Muspelheim.

  Everything but the falls themselves had frozen, and even amid them, ice crusted over rocks in great mounds that looked to have been built over winter after icy winter.

  The others looked as bemused as her, staring into the abyss. Starkad, who had somehow become their leader, stood motionless, as if transfixed by the Otherworldly beauty and horror of the vista. Hervor could not blame him. Bragi mumbled lines in verse, as if trying to find words to capture the experience. Afzal had cupped his hands in what she could only assume was prayer. Tiny was supporting Ivar, who had
turned sallow, probably burning with fever.

  Orvar stood at the gorge’s edge, staring down into the abyss. One good shove …

  “I’m going to build my palace up here,” Ivar said, though his words sounded half garbled. “Live like … an Ás. Claim the whole damned island. Ivarsland. That’s what I’m going to call it.”

  “I think this place is already claimed,” Tiny said. “By Hel.”

  “Hel can suck my—”

  “Weapons,” Starkad said.

  “Weapons?” Ivar said. “I don’t usually call it—”

  Starkad drew his blades and pointed one in the direction they had come from, over the plateau.

  Hervor stared into the mist, seeing naught.

  At first.

  Then the shapes emerged, clambering over rocks, advancing toward them. The dead came from the mist, a few at first. Then more and more—more than she could easily count.

  “Dead cocks trying to steal my palace,” Ivar said while unshouldering his bow.

  “How many of those magic arrows you have left?” Starkad asked Orvar.

  “Uh, one.”

  “Then shoot the first one,” Starkad said. “After that, those with bows try to put arrows in their eyes. Maybe we can blind them.”

  Ivar chuckled. “He thinks I’m Arrow’s Point to make a shot like that.”

  Hervor’s fingers brushed over Tyrfing’s golden hilt. It was humming, calling her.

  Eyes lit with hellish gleams appeared, drawing nearer.

  “Can we run?” she asked.

  “Dawn is long off,” Starkad answered. “We’ll not make it. Not all of us.”

  Tiny slapped her on the back. “Let’s see the runeblade one more time, eh?”

  Yes. Tonight, Tyrfing would feast not on the living but on the dead. She jerked it free of its sheath. It had grown warm, angry. Like her.