by Matt Larkin
With trembling, bloody hands, Starkad tried to clear his vision. He lay … in a barrow … as the old men once built. The dead were piled high around him, the corpses of the betrayed and the betrayers alike.
All rotting together in never-ending anguish and grief and blood.
A single flickering torch sconce lit the room, its flame weak, hardly enough to banish the thick shadows engulfing the place.
And those shadows spoke.
“Long life.”
“Victory in battle.”
“Wealth.”
The shadows danced about him, cackling and hissing and writhing in perverse pleasure at his horror.
Starkad’s chest seized up. A biting pain tore through him.
A heart attack.
And he deserved no less.
He tore at his shirt, and it turned to dust, as did his trousers. All his clothes, his possessions, blew away on a wind that stank of rot and decay and old, old death. And still the shadows danced, the torchlight growing ever dimmer.
Tendrils of the darkness crept toward him. Screaming, Starkad swung his bloody fists at them, but his hands struck naught. The pain in his chest grew crushing. Drove him to his knees. Ribbons of shadows slithered ever closer.
They crawled up his skin like vipers, edging ever closer to his face. Cold, dead. The shadows penetrated the holes in his ears, filling his head with pressure. He squirmed and tossed about, to no avail. The vile tendrils wormed their way into his nostrils. Up his arse. Into his eyes.
His whole body spasmed in helpless agony as darkness saturated his twisted heart.
Or maybe … the darkness had always been there. Waiting to come out.
And at that thought, the shadows were gone.
Starkad collapsed onto his hands, panting, able to breathe for the first time in centuries. For he must …
“Embrace the darkness you have welcomed inside.” The voice came from the shadows. Out of them strode Vikar, still clad in black robes. “You beckoned the dark into your heart, traded the light for years more of your life. Now, but one thing remains to you.”
Again, Starkad’s heart tried to climb up into his throat as he opened his mouth.
Vikar snatched Starkad by the hair, hefted him off the ground. His other hand darted down Starkad’s throat, becoming viscous as the shadow tendrils had been. Horrible pressure felt like it would rip Starkad apart from the inside.
A crushing grip settled around his heart.
And Vikar jerked his hand out. In his palm rested Starkad’s beating, blackened heart. “You have but … to reap your rewards.” And he outstretched his hand toward Starkad. The heart sat there, oozing blood and pumping. Beckoning.
Unable to control his own hands, Starkad reached for it. Took it.
Warm. Pulsating. Strong and sinewy and wet.
He lifted it to his mouth.
“Do it,” Vikar said.
Because he had embraced this path.
Because he had betrayed his own brother for power.
And Starkad bit down. His fang-like teeth tore through the thick muscle of his heart. Bitter copper filled his mouth.
And Vikar watched, eyes gleaming with crimson light.
Until Starkad ate every last bite.
And the torch finally flickered out, leaving him in total darkness.
And again and again, the dreams came. Reminding him of the price he had paid for his prolonged life. Had Odin known when he offered such a bargain?
He wanted to blame the Ás king. But lying alone, fearing to sleep, Starkad knew: he had no one to blame but himself.
Alone, Starkad wandered the mountains of Nidavellir, heading ever north. Into the wilds. For betraying his lord, for slaying his own brother, men would hunt him, wherever word spread of his crime. And Starkad was left with but one choice—keep fleeing … and keep killing.
If he walked long enough, perhaps he might encounter the dvergar who ruled these lands. But thus far, Starkad had seen little sign of humans and no sign of dvergar. He’d heard the entrances to their dark halls oft lay atop mountain peaks, forcing humans to make treacherous climbs to offer tribute. An affectation or a deliberate cruelty, perhaps. In either case, he seemed safe so long as he kept to the valleys.
He passed into another such valley, seeded with evergreens and drenched in snows almost as heavy as the mountains flanking it. Here though, a thin plume of smoke rose about the mist. Starkad’s supplies had dwindled to almost naught. He could hunt for food and clothing, but oil and rags for torches were other matters …
Fire, most oft, meant humans, and he had not seen another human in long days.
And so he followed the smoke to a small cabin by a frozen stream.
For a time, he knelt behind a tree, watching. Just as he was about to approach, the door opened, and a woman emerged from the cabin. She was lithe, tiny even, with golden hair that seemed to reflect the afternoon sunlight.
Starkad snorted. Maybe he just hadn’t seen a woman in overlong.
She trod over to the frozen river and knelt upon the ice, then began hacking away with an axe. Intent to catch some fish?
Well, maybe she’d let him help with that. Starkad made his way down toward her, taking care to move slowly and make just a bit of noise so as not to seem intent to sneak up on her.
The woman spun, revealing startlingly blue eyes that—for a bare instant—seemed themselves lit with sunlight as well. She leaped up, axe held out before her, and watched him approach.
“I mean no harm,” he said, raising his empty hands in warding. “I am alone and … hungry. I would very much like to share your fire.”
The woman held the axe like a tool rather than a weapon. No shieldmaiden, here, but neither did she seem overly frightened of him. Wary, perhaps. Finally, she nodded. “I’m Ogn.”
“Starkad Eight … Just Starkad.”
She nodded, then glanced back at the river. “I was going to catch some fish for tonight.” Her voice was light, almost musical, and instantly disarming.
He took that as an invitation to approach and drew up to the water’s edge. “I can help with that.”
“Be about it, then, Starkad.”
They took the night meal of boiled fish, and Starkad thought it the best he’d eaten in moons or more. And they talked long.
She spoke but a little of herself, saying she lived out here alone to avoid being taken by dvergar as a slave. Starkad could see why she’d fear it … dvergar took women, especially those of such ethereal beauty. No one ever saw such slaves again. Some even claimed the dvergar ate them once they were finished using them for their perverse ends. Other tales told they planted their seed in women’s bellies not so unlike trolls, and perhaps, like trolls, the birthing killed the hapless victims.
If Ogn knew aught of that, she did not say so.
Indeed, somehow, she convinced Starkad to speak of his own past, which had never been his wont before. But as the hour passed midnight, he told her how he’d come to Agder. And how Vikar had died. And he told her of the shadows haunting his dreams.
Maybe, he wanted anyone to confess his crimes to.
Maybe, he thought saying it aloud would somehow lessen the burden on his wretched heart.
And maybe it did.
Ogn had no mead or ale, but she offered him a skin of water, and he took it. “I don’t know what your dreams mean, Starkad. Not for certain … but I have heard tales. Perhaps this Odin drew power from Svartalfheim.”
The very name sent shivers upon Starkad and made his hair stand on end. “Svartalfheim …”
“The World of Dark. The shadows you described might have been mere fancy of your own fevered mind …”
“Or perhaps svartalfar?” Starkad had heard but few tales of the dark alfar, none of them pleasant.
Ogn sipped her water, then murmured something under her breath. “We should sleep.”
“I … have no wish to sleep.” Ever again.
“But you must. I will kindle the fire high
as I can … and will be here, close at hand. Should you cry out, I will wake you.”
Except, in his nightmares, he could neither speak nor scream.
And still, what choice did he have? Sleep would come for him, sooner or later.
It always did.
Part III
Fifth Moon
Year 28, Age of the Aesir
19
The long walk back to Upsal gave Hervor more time to practice fighting with her left hand. Time enough to learn … she’d sooner have managed to wrestle a troll than master this. Oh, Starkad taught her well, true enough, but a lifetime of practice with her right hand could not be simply transferred.
It was worse than starting over, even. Her every swing seemed off-balance. Clumsy.
And as for Starkad … well, he lived, and that was a blessing. But he lacked the vigor she’d come to expect in him. After a day of walking and an evening of training, he’d collapse. Pale and sickly. Hardly the invincible man she’d known. Whatever this eitr was, his contact with it had drained him.
They came at last to Haki’s hall where the thegns welcomed them back with grim expressions and shakes of their heads.
Hervor found Haki outside the hall, thrashing one of his men with the blunt of his sword. The poor sod had dropped his own axe and was lying in the muddy snow, unable to rise or fend off the beating.
“What was his crime?” Starkad asked one of the thegns.
“Naught at all. The king wished to fight and demanded Bjarke oblige. The king won.” The thegn shrugged.
Oh. Hervor could not remember ever seeing Haki in such a foul mood. For a bare instant, she considered slipping off inside, unnoticed. She could grab the drinking horn, maybe find something left over from the day meal. But then again … “My king?”
Haki spat, then spun on her. “Hervard!” He tossed his sword aside, heaved a few deep breaths. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“Seeking … treasure, my king.”
Haki spit again, then wiped sweat from his face. “So was Hagbard. And now he’s fucking dead.”
“Your brother?”
“Of course my godsdamned brother! You think I’d be so vexed over some other Hagbard? And now half my damned champions are off on their own, seeking treasure. I’ve a mind to sail to Skane myself and raze the whole fucking kingdom for this!”
Starkad grabbed her elbow. “I must seek out Wudga and prepare the eitr.”
Oh, not now. “Please wait a bit. Allow me to deal with this … situation.”
“Hervor … I am … compelled to press on.”
“Just wait.” She looked back to Haki who now seemed half inclined to challenge another of his men. “My king. Might we speak alone?”
Haki grumbled something under his breath, then dunked his head into a barrel of water. He popped up an instant later, shivering and shaking his soaked hair about, splashing those nearby. Including Hervor. She backed away, saying naught. Finally, the king stormed off toward his hall, and Hervor followed.
The man grumbled every step of the way until at last settling down into his throne and fixing her with his glare.
“How did this happen?” Hervor asked.
“I do not have all the details, but the men say he was visiting the lands of Jarl Sigar.”
“Sigar … isn’t he nephew to King Wolfsblood?”
“Same. Sigar has this daughter, Signe. Named after Wolfsblood’s Hunalander wife, I think. Hagbard has fancied her a time now, and she had promised herself to him. So after we took the throne, he went to claim her. But some Hunalander challenged him for her hand. Hagbard killed him, his men, even one of Sigar’s sons. And he thought the bitch loved him, thought himself safe. Our people told him not to go, so they claim. But he went to meet with Sigar, seek the man’s forgiveness, pay the weregild and the bride price all at once.”
Hervor groaned. It had obviously not gone according to Hagbard’s plan.
“Bastard had him hanged.”
Well, fuck. That sounded like war was the only answer. Unless … “Supposing I convince Starkad and some of the others to accompany me. We kill Sigar and avenge Hagbard.”
“Bah. What of Wolfsblood, then?”
“We don’t even know if the king knew of or approved of his nephew’s actions.”
“Blood calls out for blood.”
Oh, Hervor knew that all too well. Better than most. “If you leave Upsal now, so soon after conquest, you risk losing your kingdom behind you. Besides, it is winter. Our ships are like to founder, and an army marched so far would be known long before it arrived.”
“But you will succeed?”
“Starkad killed King Otwin not so long ago. Broke into his fortress and murdered him in the night. Let us go, and we’ll see Sigar hanged from his own fortress. Then when summer comes …”
“When summer comes, I’ll fucking destroy all of Skane.” Haki slammed his fist on the throne’s armrest. “I’ll hang that entire family. It’ll be glorious, Hervor. Do you know the man betrayed and slaughtered the Volsungs of Hunaland? Think of the tales skalds will tell of the man who destroys that line.”
She had heard as much, though it had happened many years back. With a nod, she fingered Tyrfing’s hilt. “I will avenge Hagbard in your name, my king.”
“I cannot say I well like leaving the task to someone else.”
“This is why you have thegns and champions. You must rule your kingdoms or else risk losing them.”
He waved her away, and she wandered the hall until someone was able to point her to Starkad. The man had already found the drink, settled into the nigh to empty feast hall beside a brazier.
Starkad looked to her as she approached but did not rise. “Word is, Wudga went to Dalar.”
“To Gylfi’s court?”
“Mmm. I’ll have to go there in the morn. If you are still set on gaining some of the treasures of Glaesisvellir for yourself, you ought to accompany me.”
She almost smiled at that. Finally, he seemed ready to acknowledge needing her help.
Shame she could not oblige. With a frustrated sigh, she slunk down on the bench beside him, then snatched the horn away and took a long swig. “Can’t. I swore to avenge Hagbard on Sigar of Skane.”
Starkad snorted. “You can barely fight anymore. You’re not avenging anyone, woman.”
“Yes.” She sniffed. “That’s why I told Haki you’d come with me.”
“You fucking what?”
“I have to do this before I go hunting a runeblade, Starkad.”
He glowered. “Well, I sure as the gates of Hel don’t have to.”
“Without you, I’m like to meet my end in Skane.”
“Then you ought not to have offered!”
Hervor frowned. Despite his bluster, he wasn’t going to actually let her go without him … was he? Was it possible she had misjudged him? In trying to talk down Haki, she had volunteered Starkad without actually checking with him. And she seriously doubted she could do this without him.
“Look I … Starkad. I’m asking you now for your help. Not for money, but for … friendship.”
He jerked the horn out of her hand, spilling mead all down her tunic. Hervor lurched backward at being so drenched. “You had no right.”
“I saved you from that dragon.”
“And I’ve saved your life more than once, I rather recall. Are we to track who owes who the most, now?”
He had a point. Damn him for it. She glowered at the man, then drummed her fingers on the table. “Do what you wish, Starkad. I go to Skane because my oath to Haki demands it.” She rose and stomped away.
“Hervard!” Starkad shouted as she reached the door.
She paused, not turning back to him.
“I will look for you when I return from Dalar.”
With a last shake of her head, she stormed out.
Damn him.
20
Naegling made short work of Ecgtheow’s foes. The battlefield was littered with them, de
ad, or soon to be, dealt wounds that no armor protected against. The ancient runeblade gleamed in the failing daylight.
As Hrethel had predicted, King Haki had not expected an attack, least of all one coming from the marsh.
Jorund’s loyal forces had stormed right up to Haki’s wall, practically atop it before their foes even knew they were on them.
Now, the gates lay breached, most of Haki’s thegns dead. Eikkr and his mercenaries had seen to that while Ecgtheow dealt with Haki’s men outside the walls.
“Onward,” Hrethel roared, pointing his sword at the open way before them.
He need not ask Ecgtheow twice. Naegling over his head, Ecgtheow charged forward, roaring for all he was worth.
“Remember, the king is mine,” Jorund shouted from behind them.
Seemed unlikely to Ecgtheow. Eikkr was the stronger of the two brothers. Jorund would just get himself killed against a brutal warrior like Haki. Besides, if Eikkr didn’t slay Haki, that was why Ecgtheow was here.
An axeman bleeding from a gaping wound above his brow barred Ecgtheow’s way. Brave boy.
Ecgtheow grasped Naegling with both hands and brought the runeblade down in a mighty stroke. The warrior raised his axe to parry. Might have worked against a normal sword. Not Naegling, sharp and strong like no work of mankind. It sheared through the axe blade, the haft, and the wielder in a single stroke.
A quick shove sent the corpse out of his way, and then he was pressing on, through the gate.
Townsfolk ran screaming.
The whole place had descended into wild melees. To his left, a pair of men were dragging a woman into a stable by her hair. To the right, two shieldmaidens fought one another. And beyond, fires had sprung up here and there, workshops and houses ablaze, the flames lighting the town. Clogging it with thick smoke.
Ecgtheow cut down a woman who charged him, then Hrethel was at his side.
“Where is the king?”
Ecgtheow shrugged and spat. “Fled like a craven?”
Hrethel shook his head. “I think you do not know Haki … there!” Again pointing with his sword.
