by Matt Larkin
Hervor lurched forward. Her fist caught the king in the jaw and sent him sprawling. “Fuck you! Fuck you, old man.”
Gylfi rolled over, rubbing his face. “It was … a dream. Whatever you saw, it wasn’t real.”
Her heart was still trying to beat right out of her chest. “It felt godsdamned real.”
He rose, shook himself. “Don’t most dreams?”
She looked down at herself. Still naked but only from the waist up. And she was sitting. Her arm and shoulder still hurt like Hel, but she could move them. For that matter, breathing had gone from agony to merely painful.
Grunting with the effort, she too rose. It had worked?
She snatched up her shirt, but when she tried to don it, her right shoulder still wouldn’t bend all the way. Trying left her gasping with pain, almost brought her to her knees.
“Your healing has been accelerated, aided beyond what nature might have allowed. Nevertheless, I hope you did not expect a full recovery.”
Hervor grimaced, then jerked her tunic on as best she could. Finally, after catching her breath, she turned on him. “I did not expect to be violated by … by whatever the fuck that was!”
“The draught I gave you is known to cause horrific hallucinations. A necessary side effect of the process.”
She hesitated. “So … none of what I saw was real? You’re saying all of that came out of my own head?” If so, she was even more disturbed than Grandfather had ever thought.
Gylfi clucked his tongue then shook his head. “Most people … prefer to believe so. I have … always tried to tell myself the same after such traumas.”
So the king … had also experienced the … violations? Two possibilities—either the draught pulled the most horrific tortures she could imagine from her own mind … or actual vaettir tormented her in her dreams. Gylfi said vaettir hated mankind. Hervor wasn’t quite certain whether to be more afraid that beings of such malevolence watched her from just beyond the world she could see … or that her own mind could produce such depredations.
Gylfi had said everyone involved paid a price for calling upon sorcery. Hervor had paid … Gylfi must have. Maybe even Starkad.
Starkad …
Whatever he’d offered Gylfi, he’d done it for Hervor’s benefit. So then …
Only one thing left to do.
She had to push hard, try to catch him before he reached his newest destination.
15
Gylfi’s court had long been the center of Sviarland, at least as far as Ecgtheow was concerned. Some claimed the Yngling dynasty at Upsal was the strongest family … or had been. Some moons back, Jorund and his brother Eikkr had fled here, fled from their own cousin Ochilaik who had claimed the throne. And plunged the whole damned kingdom into war to do it.
In weakening Upsal, Ochilaik had given Dalar its chance to seize control of all Sviarland. King Gylfi, however, had not seen things that way. The aging king had returned some few days back with word that now Ochilaik was dead and King Haki of Ostergotland had seized Upsal. And worse still, Gylfi had made an oath of friendship with him.
The old king had lost any taste for war, Ecgtheow supposed. The man reclined on his throne now, drenched in shadow and watching the drinking and cavorting of his men. Armed with the runeblade—Naegling, Gylfi called it—Ecgtheow might damned well have led the king’s forces to countless victories. Instead, he sat at home and watched the king wither away.
Ecgtheow threw back the drinking horn, then passed the empty thing to a slave, finally tromping over to the throne.
Jorund eyed him as he passed, clearly bitter over all that had befallen his dynasty. Ecgtheow had limited sympathy. The man had lacked the stones to fight his cousin and so had fled like a craven. His urd was his own making.
And now, of course, Upsal was no longer even in the hands of the Ynglings. Jorund’s whole dynasty had fallen.
“My king,” Ecgtheow said. No one drew too close to Gylfi’s throne. The king was long rumored to have touched the unmanly arts of the Otherworlds. And, combined with his volatile temper, well … not even Ecgtheow would have considered showing the merest hint of disrespect. Odin alone knew what fell powers Gylfi might call upon if sufficiently irked. “The journey seems to have agreed with you.”
The king looked up at him, half his face still shrouded and thus hard to read. “Meaning?”
Ecgtheow fought the urge to squirm. “You seem … enlivened with fresh vigor. Perhaps we ought to consider all of us going out for raids in the summer. Or even …”
“Conquest?” The king scoffed. “I have no interest in conquest of Sviarland while our colony in Holmgard is faltering. While other lands have yet to embrace the light of the Aesir. If I were to turn my eyes elsewhere, perhaps it would be to Kvenland. Perhaps even a harder push into Bjarmaland.”
Ecgtheow ran his tongue over his teeth. “Dalar has no easy access to either land, my king. The other kingdoms of Sviarland block our way. If Jamtla or Upsal were to fall under our sway, though, perhaps your plans could …”
The king’s glower stilled his words. “I have pledged friendship to King Haki.”
Indeed. More was the pity. Ecgtheow was not going to win this debate. No one changed Gylfi’s mind when he set about something. No one save maybe Odin himself or Gylfi’s former ward, Sif. But no man knew what Odin said to Gylfi, and Sif had gone back to her real family some few years ago. It left a stubborn king who did not heed his thegns, nor even his daughter or grandson.
With a grudging nod, Ecgtheow slunk away and found a table away from the throne. Boredom must kill as many men as the mist. And Ecgtheow was godsdamned bored while Gylfi wasted this opportunity to enrich the fortunes of Dalar.
“My lord,” Olof Sharpsighted said as Ecgtheow passed. “Long years I have served you.”
“Indeed.”
Ecgtheow sunk down before Jorund but looked at the other thegn.
“I find myself now eager to increase my fortunes,” Olof said.
Gylfi ran a thumb over his bushy brow, saying naught else.
“The dynasty of Nidud has fallen, and Njarar has no king. With your blessing … I would take my chances there. And should I succeed, my lord … you know you’d have my eternal gratitude.”
The king leaned forward just a hair, fixing Olof with a long gaze Ecgtheow knew firsthand to be most discomfiting. No man could long endure it without squirming. Olof, for his part, did well enough.
“You may go,” Gylfi said at last. “Take your war band, and try your fortunes … and may Odin walk at your side.”
What? Ecgtheow balked and sputtered. So … Gylfi refused to make war himself, but he’d offer his blessing to another man who wanted to? Why? Why would he … ?
Jorund leaned forward and drummed his fingers upon the table, drawing Ecgtheow’s eye. “I know what you must be asking yourself.”
“And?”
Jorund shrugged. “The answer is obvious, my friend. The king wants allies in positions of power, but he does not want to risk his own kingdom over this.”
Ecgtheow scoffed. But … was Jorund right? Did Gylfi actually want those loyal to him to claim the varied thrones of Sviarland? So. The king would not act himself nor risk bringing the wrath of the Ynglings down upon Dalar … because a war between the two kingdoms threatened to destroy both. Threatened to weaken all of Sviarland.
Finally, he shook his head. “It matters naught. I have but a small war band loyal to me, and Olof has already claimed the only kingless kingdom in Sviarland.”
Jorund glanced about him. “We could always arrange to make another land kingless, you and I. You carry a runeblade, do you not? Your fame as a warrior precedes you, Tiny. I would welcome you into my service, should you be so willing.”
And if Ecgtheow helped Jorund reclaim the throne of Upsal, a man with every reason to be grateful to Gylfi and Dalar would rule the most powerful kingdom in Sviarland. And two kings would find themselves indebted to Ecgtheow himself.
So …
walk away now. Or walk into the fire and get all he’d hoped to claim. Fame and glory for himself and security for Dalar. Not a hard choice.
And Jorund must have read it on his face. He indicated the man next to him, a warrior, though from the creases around his brow, he must have had ten winters on Jorund or Ecgtheow. “This is Hrethel, one of the few jarls who remained loyal to me when my cousin betrayed us. He and his people fled Upsal at my side.”
Hrethel clasped Ecgtheow’s arm with a firm grip. “We’ve been building our forces these past moons. Sending for allies, hiring what mercenaries we can afford. With your help, we might be ready to march on Upsal in a few days.”
“Now?”
Jorund nodded. “We catch them just before the brunt of winter, and they’ll never expect it. Haki thinks himself secure, may not even realize my brother and I yet live. Our spies tell me his champions have set about raiding, hoping to claim some last plunder before winter sets in. Even his brother has gone south, to Skane, intent over some bitch he met there.”
Ecgtheow grunted. “And where is your brother now?”
“Eikkr is with our forces in the woods,” Hrethel said. “But he can be ready to move as soon as we are.”
Ecgtheow pressed his palm into the table. This was it. This was his chance at true glory and the riches that would come with it. “And what will your friendship be worth … should you claim the throne?”
“As much wealth as you can desire,” Jorund said.
Hrethel nodded at him. “Trust us, brother. I will grant you a swath of land by the sea. Fields that can grow crops, space to fish. A fine place to raise your family.”
“I am not yet married.”
Hrethel shrugged. “Not difficult for a wealthy, landed man to find a bride.”
Ecgtheow glanced at Gylfi. The king of Dalar had never offered him aught so tempting. Well, maybe putting Jorund on the throne served Gylfi, maybe it didn’t. But it sure seemed a chance Ecgtheow could not pass up.
And so he nodded.
16
Evening had drawn nigh, but still Hervor pushed on. Traveling in the dark carried so many risks, not least among them losing Starkad’s trail. But it was the only way she’d ever overtake him.
She passed north, beyond Dalar and into Jamtla. She had raided these lands by sea, once, but never travelled by sled before. Not this far north. The chill deepened with each passing day. How far did Starkad intend to trek? Already he had veered off into the mountains, towering peaks that dwarfed the crags farther south. Did he intend to press farther, into Lappmarken? Beyond?
And then, even as darkness settled around her, the light of a campfire broke through the mist.
Starkad sat there, staring at her as she drew nigh. His face masked in shadow, scraggly hair hanging loose.
Hervor pulled the sled to a stop, untied the dogs so they could hunt, and then slumped down by the fire.
“You should not have followed me.”
So still a bastard. That was all right. “You asked Gylfi to … to …”
“To use the Art to give you back your life. Not so you could throw it away up in these mountains or the deeper places I must go below them.”
Hervor sniffed, her gaze settling on the hare he had roasting over the flame. The thick scent of it made her mouth water.
Starkad glanced over at it. “I’m certain it is ready by now.” He pulled the spit away, then dumped the steaming flesh onto a clay bowl. “Help yourself.”
Hervor snatched it up. The heat singed her fingers, forced her to drop the meat. She sucked on her thumb a moment, then sliced at the hare with her eating knife, letting steam out. “I heard a story once … that Odin himself used the … the Art on you. Extended your life.”
Starkad grunted. “Heard that story too.”
“Do you have any idea what I went through when … when Gylfi …”
“Dreams? Hallucinations?” Starkad yanked off a leg from the rabbit, blew on it, then took a bite. “Some people claim it’s not even real. Just all brought about by herbs and poultices and foul smoke.” Bits of grease dribbled down his chin and beard as he spoke. “Some of us know better. I’ve heard only a handful of true practitioners of the Art yet walk the world. True sorcerers I mean, not völvur meddling with their brews and weeds and shit. The Niflung sorcerers of Samsey. The witch-queens of Pohjola. A few wandering wizards scattered amidst the lands. So rare, the Art almost seems mere fancy to most folk. But you and I …” He paused to bite off another hunk of meat. “We’ve seen things most men couldn’t dream up in their worst nightmares.”
“Niflungar … draugar …”
Starkad spit out a bone. “Naught good ever came from the Art, I think. Except maybe that you’re up and walking again.”
Hervor too tore off some meat and chewed it while trying to pick her next words. “I know what I went through for that. Whether born of drugs or vaettir, I’d call that nigh to the worst experience I’ve ever …” She shook her head.
Starkad nodded, obviously needing no elaboration. So he had been through something like that. Maybe Gylfi was right—maybe it was better to assume it wasn’t real.
“I know what I went through,” she repeated. “But I do not know what you bartered to achieve this—” she indicated her still sore right arm.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Hervor … let it be.”
“No. Tell me what you gave Gylfi.”
“Hervor …”
“Tell me, godsdamn it! You did this for me—I have a right to know!”
Starkad poked at the rabbit but did not break off any more. “Skofnung.”
“What?”
“The runeblade lost in Glaesisvellir. I swore to retrieve it and see it handed to Gylfi.”
Now Hervor balked. Giving up the last runeblade to Tiny had driven Starkad into fits by all she could tell. And he’d willingly bartered away another one. Because of her. All the more reason she had to help him get it. He’d made an oath for her … and honor demanded she aid him in upholding it.
“I’m coming with you.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“And I’m getting my fair share of the treasure. You were right … we got shit from Thule. So now I’ll make my fortune off Glaesisvellir, and we both go home wealthy.”
“You should return to your king … or better yet, to your family.”
Hervor tried to cross her arms over her chest, but her right one ached from the motion. She grunted.
“Oh,” Starkad said. “You cannot even fight, can you?”
She spat out into the darkness, then glared at him. “You damn well know I can. You can fight with both hands. I’ll learn too.”
“I learned that from a man who lost his sword hand—but it took a long time to master.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I’m a better student than you were.”
He snorted at that. “Maybe. Eat the hare.” He also tore off a bit more.
“Do you even know where we are bound?” Hervor asked.
Starkad grunted, then dug through his satchel. He pulled out a dried animal skin, marked with charcoal drawings. A map, hastily drawn, and yet with surprising eye for detail.
Hervor leaned in closer. A particular mountain, a slope of it indicated on the hide.
Starkad tapped a finger on the map. “I believe we are here.” He indicated a mountain in the distance. “And that would make the upper slope there our destination.”
Through the mist and darkness, Hervor could not make out a slope or much of aught else. Starkad clearly saw better than she did … or was so driven by his obsessions he thought he did. She licked the rabbit grease off her fingers, then washed it down with a skin of water. “You said you expect to find a dverg ruin, yes? But we draw nigh to Nidavellir where we might find actual godsdamned dvergar. What is it you seek down there that is worth such a risk?”
He hesitated, then he shook his head. “Whatever we find … follow my lead.
”
Her breath came heavy as she ascended the slope. The path was steep, slick with ice, and treacherous, even with crampons fitted on her feet. Once again, traveling with Starkad, she found herself climbing a frozen mountain. She snorted at the thought, the sound muffled by the scarf wrapped around her face, and then stolen by the frozen wind that kept howling over her.
That wind carried a light crop of snow with it, further obscuring vision and making the going even more tiring. Her right arm ached so she had taken to using a walking stick with the left. A chill sweat had built up under her clothes, and her mail felt frozen to her leathers.
None of that hardship bothered her so much as Starkad refusing to explain what he hoped to claim here. Why hold back? Why now? From all she had seen, he became this closed-lipped only when confronted about his mysterious past. Never willing to confirm or deny the supposed connections between himself and Tyr or Odin.
So did this dverg ruin somehow relate to that?
“Hervor!” Starkad called out from up ahead. “I found it!” The man stood a dozen feet above her, looking at the mountainside, though she could not follow his gaze from this angle.
At least they might soon be out of the wind and snow. She climbed farther, half pulling herself with the walking stick, before cresting a slight rise. Beyond that, the slope turned inward, into the mountain. A stone-pillared doorway framed a too-perfect tunnel descending into utter darkness beyond. Icicles descended from the top of the doorway like fangs from a serpent, and rime crusted everything, obscuring runes carved into the blocks forming the sides of the entrance.
Starkad yanked the scarf from his own face and stepped up to the threshold, spilling torchlight into the tunnel. “Before the rise of the Old Kingdoms, dvergar dug thousands of miles of tunnels across Midgard. Beyond even, some claim, into Utgard, perhaps even breaching into their own realm of Nidafjoll.”
Hervor pressed up close to him. The flickering light only served to enhance the too-thick shadows inside. She couldn’t make much out beyond about ten feet, if that. The path angled down almost as steeply as the slope outside had risen.
