Runeblade Saga Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  I followed. The waters were freezing, colder than any lake, even in summer. I could not quite stifle my gasp.

  “That’ll wake you up,” Hjalmar said.

  I snorted, best I could with my stones freezing off. We waded over to the beach.

  Gods, the mist was so thick I could barely see five feet out. I pulled another torch from my belt, then lit it off Hjalmar’s. Best we both carried one in a place like this.

  “I doubt that Hjorvard’s ever been here.”

  I grunted in agreement. Not even a berserk would have chosen this place, had he known. At least I would think not. Berserkir were half vaettr themselves, but still. This place looked like some vision of Niflheim.

  Hjalmar set out, waving the torch in front of him. I followed a few steps behind, constantly checking our flanks. I could not well use my bow while holding a torch. If we came upon aught out here, we’d need swords, and we’d have very little warning. It was tempting to draw immediately, but we might have been there hours, and even that slight deadening of my arm from fatigue could slow me, cost me my life.

  “I do not care for this place,” I said.

  “Look,” Hjalmar pointed at hills barely visible through the mist. “Is that ice? Has it not melted?”

  No it hadn’t, not even in summer. Indeed, an unnatural chill had settled over this island, like winter had loosened its grip but refused to depart entirely, even for a few moons.

  We walked a long time, the ground beginning to slope upward. As it did so, the ice grew more prevalent and our steps became more difficult, slower. I hadn’t packed crampons or aught else for climbing on ice. Hadn’t thought to need it in summer.

  “Eightarms said this place is claimed by sorcerers,” Hjalmar said.

  Yes. And some of the other warriors had disdained him for it. Men like Sveinn, brave enough, but now remaining on the ship. Leaving Hjalmar and I to explore this place.

  We turned aside from the icy slopes.

  If the berserk brothers had laid any trap, it would not be up in the hills or frozen mountains. And any dangers lurking there were best left alone, unwoken.

  In truth, though, it was not the dangers of the island that undid us, but those of the berserkir.

  For we did not betray them.

  They betrayed us.

  A thick forest covered the lower shores of Samsey, and we searched it several hours without sign of life save for a few ravens here and there. If there were ravens, there must be food for them, but I saw no game.

  Dawn had drawn nigh as we returned from the forest back toward the ship.

  “Are you prepared?” I asked. “You had no sleep in the night.”

  Hjalmar snorted. “Could you sleep the night before you were to duel a berserk?”

  Not a chance—not even a duel against a man. A man’s blood boiled too hot on such nights, and there was no cooling it for sleep.

  A great howling rang over the island as the sun began to rise. Many voices raised in a battle cry that seemed more bestial than human. I exchanged a glance with Hjalmar, then we both knelt in the forest. That sound had come from the ship.

  We crept forward until we could see the edge of the shore. Screaming men leapt over the gunwale and waded ashore, many of them. All had swords and axes drawn, visible because one of them shone like a ray of sunlight. That one illuminated the face of the eldest of the berserk brothers, Angantyr.

  No one moved on Hjalmar’s ship. The brothers had slaughtered every last warrior and sailor, then come ashore, laughing, panting, and coated in blood.

  All our men, our friends, allies.

  All dead.

  And us, alone against the twelve berserkir hunting us.

  38

  The tunnel opened into a great cavern where the roof vanished into shadow and countless pits dropped into chasms far below. There, nestled between stalagmites and crevices, rose blocky stone buildings, each probably home to a family of dvergar.

  Starkad crouched at the threshold, looking for a way in.

  Battlements crested not only the houses, but towers spread through the city. Arching bridges connected these rooftops and towers, creating a lattice-way of paths from which archers could rain death down on would-be attackers.

  A river encircled half the city, one sent into tumultuous rapids by numerous rocks spread around it. This left few approaches to the dvergar save for the tunnel he’d just come from.

  None of those defenses seemed to have saved Nordri.

  No dvergar walked the streets. No, but neither were those shadowed paths empty. Numerous pairs of glowing red eyes lurked in darkness, patrolled ancient byways, or stood watch atop those towers.

  Starkad knelt at the tunnel’s exit, not quite certain where to go.

  At the city’s heart rose a circular palace, each tier slightly smaller than the one below, creating the appearance of steps. Atop that palace stood a statue of a dverg. If he could see it from here, it must have stood thirty feet tall or more.

  The palace would hold the great dverg vaults, for certain, yes. But how to reach it? If they brought torches into the city, the watchful draugar would spot them with ease. The mist had not seeped this deep underground, so they could breathe without fire’s blessing. They could not, however, see in the dark. Not like a draug or dverg could.

  “Ideas?” he whispered to Bragi.

  The skald rubbed his beard. “Make an offering to Odin, and pray for aid.”

  “Useful ideas?”

  The rubbing continued. “Keep just one torch, low to the ground, and stay hunched over it. If we stick to the lower paths, maybe they won’t be able to spot the light.”

  Tiny extinguished his torch and drew his sword. “We do that, we walk among the thickest of them.”

  “We can’t fight them all,” Starkad said. “And we’ve come too far to go home empty handed.” Moreover, on Nordri’s very threshold, he would not be denied. He would look on the fallen wonder of the once-great kingdom. “Afzal, keep your torch as Bragi has said. Bluefoot, you stick close to him and help shield the light. Tiny and I will go first, blades ready. Don’t fall too far behind, and don’t get too close either.”

  Starkad drew his own blades, then traded glances with Tiny. The big man nodded grimly. They might not all walk out of here, and they both knew it. But anyone who did make it … dverg gold would change his life forever.

  In a crouch, he crept forward, a few feet ahead of Tiny. He trusted his own stealth more than that of the giant back there. Tiny was useful once they were already discovered. And useful if he wanted to be discovered. Otherwise, less than ideal. For that matter, they were lucky Ivar the Loud wasn’t with them. The man would have no doubt announced their whole party to the draugar.

  Starkad grimaced. No. They weren’t lucky he was dead. He’d been a nasty arse with a foul mouth, but no worse than the rest of them for all that.

  He pushed into an alley and crept along until it connected with a main street.

  Scuffling footsteps sounded from that main byway. Blades hovering a hair off the ground, Starkad slipped forward more. Just another step. A draug shambled by, dragging a maul behind it—a hammer big enough to crush a troll’s skull. Or to turn a man into a bloody puddle.

  Starkad waited for the draug to pass, then rose, dead silent. He fell into step behind the draug, timing his footsteps to its shuffle to disguise their sound. When he drew close enough, he slashed with both swords. The draug’s head flew clean off. It twisted, writhing. The hammer flew into the air, kicking up dust as the creature spun with it. Starkad dropped to his knees and let maul soar over his head. The draug’s clumsy attack had spun it around so he was behind it again.

  Starkad thrust both swords up, each punching through a lung—or where a lung would have been if they had not rotted away.

  The draug wiggled soundlessly on the blades, unable to shriek out fury or warning without a head.

  Tiny stepped up and lopped off each of its arms, then Starkad flung it down, off his blades.
It landed on the hard stone and flopped around there.

  “How do we kill it?” Tiny asked.

  The severed hands had begun to crawl toward them, using fingers like climbing picks. Ever closer, as though it would strangle them itself. Afzal jerked a hand to his mouth, muttering in his Serklander language.

  “Only fire would do it for sure,” Starkad said. “And we cannot afford to get their attention with that. Move, steer wide of it.”

  They pushed on through the city, pausing several times to let groups of one, two, once even three draugar pass. The creatures seemed wakeful, tireless, though not overly alert. They must not yet know humans tread among them. If they learned of it, their numbers would let them box in Starkad and his party. One misstep, one premature turn, and they would face an army of the dead keen for their blood. The thought of it sent his pulse racing. These moments were what he lived for.

  Darting from one alley to the next, they came to face the grand spire palace. The heart of Nordri, the former home of a dverg prince. Like all vaettir, the dvergar were invaders, corrupting Midgard. No doubt mankind would have fared better had all vaettir left them in peace. But they had come here, so he might as well claim what he could of their spoils.

  A pair of draugar stood on either side of the massive archway leading inside the spire. The doorway was so tall a man three times his height could have walked through without stooping, and each side of the arch was worked into an intricate design, like a dragon coiling around the whole entrance. No doors, just the two guards. And a wide-open space of two dozen feet between the alley and the draugar.

  Starkad was fast on his feet. Very fast. But probably not so fast he could close the distance to the two draugar and kill them both before either one raised the alarm. And then he’d have draugar climbing over one another trying to reach him and his people.

  They were so close.

  Afzal tapped him on the shoulder, then pointed up at the spire palace. Each tier above the first had a balcony where the inhabitant could walk the walls. A balcony meant an entrance. The problem was the lowest balcony was probably twenty feet up, and those dvergar-worked walls would be smooth as silk. No climbing them.

  He looked back at Afzal, who now pantomimed pushing up with his palms. Lift someone to the ledge. Huh.

  Starkad beckoned the party back down the alley, and around, so they could approach the palace from the rear. With no sign of approaching patrols, they ran for the palace wall.

  “Tiny’s the biggest,” Afzal whispered. “He can lift you.”

  “What’s the boy on about?”

  Starkad glanced around. If they were doing this, they needed to do it fast. “Brace yourself against the wall, then lift me onto your shoulders. Then I’ll lift Afzal until he can reach the ledge. Afzal, you scramble up there and lower a rope down.”

  “Did you eat troll shit for the day meal? You think I’m lifting the both of you?”

  “Now!” Starkad spat through gritted teeth. “Before they see us all.”

  Grumbling, Tiny did brace, then set his hands, fingers locked together. Starkad sheathed his swords and used the step to climb atop Tiny’s broad shoulders. The man grunted and growled as Starkad set his feet and turned.

  “Hurry up, you troll lover,” Tiny said to Afzal.

  The Serklander next stepped into Tiny’s laced fingers. Tiny vaulted him up to where he could step into Starkad’s. Tiny gasped, grunting at the weight as Afzal climbed onto Starkad’s shoulders. From there, the boy leaned back just a little. Starkad grabbed his ankles, trying to steady him.

  “I’ve got it,” the Serklander said. “Help me.”

  Starkad pushed up on his ankles, and suddenly the weight lessened. He glanced up. Afzal had himself supported under his arms. An instant later, he rolled over the lip of the balcony.

  “How about you get off of me, you oaf,” Tiny said.

  Starkad did jump down, even as Afzal threw a rope over the edge. He looked up. “Are you braced against the side?”

  “Yes.” The boy’s whisper came out in a hiss that might have been fatigue or fear. Probably both.

  Starkad grabbed the rope and began to climb up, hand over hand. It took longer than he’d have liked. He was tired, he supposed. He reached the lip and rolled over. Then he took the rope from Afzal. “Tiny, get up here. Bragi, take cover in the shadows.”

  “No way,” the skald snapped. “I’m getting my share.”

  “Fine. Tiny comes up first.”

  Tiny began to climb. Even with his feet braced against the balcony’s edge, the weight of it threatened to rip the rope from Starkad’s hands. Behind him, Afzal grabbed the end to lend support, slightly easing the burden.

  Once Tiny was up, pulling up Bragi proved an easy enough task.

  “We still have to watch ourselves,” Starkad said. “Find the riches, take what you can, and get out. And keep your voices down.”

  With that, he pushed forward, following the wall until it led to an opening. The outer balcony was mirrored by an inner balcony looking down on a landing in the first floor. A winding staircase led up to this balcony and onto the floor above.

  A human king would have hidden his greatest riches in the tower. But the dvergar were creatures of earth, stone. Maybe they would go down. Starkad peered over the side. In the center of the room sat a pair of low thrones on a raised dais. This was a great hall. A single draug reclined against the back of one of those thrones. Guarding something?

  Starkad pointed the creature out, then stalked over to the stairs. The others followed close behind. He crept down, moving a few steps at a time, then checking to see no draugar had moved. Not those guarding the front door nearby, nor the one behind the thrones. He motioned for the others to remain on the stairs, then continued down.

  He descended a few steps, then paused. Checked.

  His racing heart sent his pulse pounding in his ears. Starkad had not felt this alive in a long time. Perhaps Thule was cursed, perhaps the mists had come from here. Either way, it proved the most extreme reaches of Midgard. And that meant only the greatest men in history could survive it.

  He wanted to be one of those men.

  He would be one.

  He edged forward. Ever forward.

  The draug lived—so to speak. Starkad had seen the gleam of its eyes from up on the balcony. So it was at least wakeful, watching. Perhaps watching either side of the dais for sign of an enemy approach. The sides, yes. But above?

  Starkad slipped onto the front of the dais, then—careful to make no sound—onto the stone chair of the fallen dvergar king. He climbed onto the back of that chair and peered down at the draug. It didn’t move. Watching for foes from the wrong direction. Starkad would almost have felt sorry for it … were it not an abomination of the natural order of life.

  Sword in hand, he leapt off the throne and plunged his blade straight down into the draug as he fell. The clang of metal on metal rang out as his weapon scored armor. Starkad jerked his sword free, tearing out ribs and flesh in the process. Then he cleaved into the draug’s skull to be certain it lay still. As with the others, it continued to writhe. Dead already, it could not die, save in flame. But headless and impaled, it posed a bit less of a threat.

  Starkad looked to the main entrance. No draugar came rushing for him. They hadn’t heard his little scuffle. He supposed he was due a little luck, after all.

  He motioned to the others to join him, then knelt before the area the draug had guarded.

  He ran his fingers along the stone. The seam was so fine you couldn’t even see it, but he felt it. A block that did not quite belong with the mold of the rest of the floor. He pushed on the slab. It didn’t move.

  There had to be some way to open this.

  “Check the thrones,” he whispered when Afzal neared.

  The boy did so, running his hand over one throne while Bragi examined the other.

  “What is it?” Tiny asked.

  “The vault, I think.”

  “Yo
u think? After what we just went through—”

  “It’s my first lost dverg city. Now stop whining and help.”

  Tiny grunted, then began pushing and prying on the floor. “Gold so close I can taste it. And here this big fucking rock is in the way.”

  “Try tasting the rock,” Bragi offered.

  “Is this …?” Afzal began. A slight click came from the throne he inspected.

  Without further warning, stone began to grate on stone. Tiny scrambled off the slab as it began to slide into a hidden alcove beneath the floor. This opened up a pit with a short staircase leading to the base of it. The roof here was smaller than a man’s height. Even Afzal would have to stoop to walk here.

  Starkad leapt down into the pit. His feet skidded on something. “Afzal. Torch.”

  The boy tossed the flame into the pit. Immediately, the whole tunnel began to glitter. Gold and silver coins ran the length of the space. In their midst sat gem-encrusted goblets, dverg-wrought blades, gilded chain fit for a king. There were emeralds and rubies and lapis lazuli and opals. Enough gems to buy a kingdom.

  “Thor’s thundering cock,” Tiny said when he looked down.

  “We have reached the Otherworld,” Afzal said.

  Bragi snorted and jumped down into the now crowded tunnel. “Nope, boy. Just the best of this one.”

  Starkad pressed on, back into the tunnel, to examine the gilded mail. From what he knew of dverg work, they made naught without practical use, so he had to assume—appearances aside—the armor would turn a blow. Maybe as well as Orvar’s famed magic shirt. He lifted the chain to inspect it, admiring the way the light glittered off it. Not the most practical for stealth, perhaps. But certainly elegant.

  Coins and gemstones clattered as he tugged the mail free of them. As they did, they exposed a hand. Taut flesh failed to fully cover the skeletal fingers beneath it. That hand flexed.

  Another draug here, in the vault.

  “Back!” Starkad barked.

  The others grumbled, then saw what he saw and ceased filling their satchels with plunder.