by Matt Larkin
Damn smoke obscured everything worse than mist. Ecgtheow had to squint to peer through it. Haki was engaged with Eikkr, blocking blows on his shield as Jorund’s brother launched one furious attack after another.
Shit.
Ecgtheow charged forward. A flaming house collapsed before him, spilling smoldering timbers in front of his path, forcing him to skid to a stop.
Hrethel drew up beside him. “Jorund said Haki was his.”
“Jorund doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. I aim to see him on a throne, not a pyre.”
The jarl considered that a bare instant before nodding.
The pair of them ducked into an alley to bypass the burning wreckage. Around the next corner, Ecgtheow blundered to a stop again.
Before him, Eikkr had fallen to his knees, a great seeping wound carved out of his chest.
No man lived from such a blow.
“Haki!” Ecgtheow bellowed.
The Ostergotland king kicked Eikkr in the chest, sending him toppling into the mud before turning to look upon Ecgtheow.
Well then …
“Protect Jorund,” he said to Hrethel.
The jarl nodded.
Ecgtheow would handle the killing this day. He tromped over toward Haki, the other king meeting him halfway, staring up at him with fury in his eyes.
“Haki Seamaster,” Ecgtheow said. “I consider this an honor.”
“And you are?”
“Ecgtheow the Tiny.”
Haki sneered. “One of those from that voyage to Thule.”
So the king had heard of him. That was good. Good to know his fame had spread even to Ostergotland.
With a nod, Ecgtheow closed in. And then the king was on him, banging away with his sword. Ecgtheow blocked three blows with his shield, then shoved the king backward with it. His counterstroke might well have ended it right there had Haki not leapt back. Eyeing Naegling warily. He’d seen the gleam, seen the runes. Seemed to know what it meant.
“Another of the fell things, eh?” Haki hesitated a bare instant. Then he roared and charged forward with such ferocity Ecgtheow took a step back.
Man had killed Eikkr. He wasn’t to be underestimated, then.
Ecgtheow blocked again and again, letting the king spend his fury. Around them, men screamed and died. A town burned. Ecgtheow had to keep his focus locked on his savage opponent. One misstep would prove his end.
The blows that rained down on his shield had begun to numb his arm.
But then, Haki’s chest was heaving. Had to be nigh to breaking. The king swept his sword down again. This time, Ecgtheow raised his shield but jerked it away at the last moment, twisting his body out of the blade’s path. Haki overextended, and Ecgtheow slashed him across the gut.
A shallow cut. Wouldn’t have even pierced the mail … had Ecgtheow carried a normal blade.
Haki fell back, glanced down at his stomach. Blood was oozing out from a gap in the mail. The king let a hand fall to his abdomen.
“You’re dead now,” Ecgtheow said.
Haki spit. Glared. “So it appears.” He backed away a few steps, some hidden battle warring across his face. The grimace of pain, then. The wound must be spreading, festering. “I’ve a request then …”
Ecgtheow shrugged. “Depends what it is, I suppose.”
“Let the pyre be set upon one of my longships. I … am a man of the sea.”
And he wished to die out there. Ecgtheow could well see that.
Footfalls came up behind Ecgtheow, and he spun, Naegling raised. Hrethel and Jorund.
“I will grant your request, King Haki,” Jorund said. “You slew my traitorous cousin, after all.”
Haki nodded. And he sunk to his knees, clutching his guts.
The sun had set now, and great bonfires lined the shores. Jorund’s whole host had come up to Upsal, taken the town. Now men from both sides came to watch the grand funeral of the great sea king. No more fighting this day.
No, Haki had earned respect from all men of the North Realms, Ecgtheow supposed.
The king was nigh to dead when they laid him on the ship and shoved it off, into the sea. Jorund’s men had laden that ship with kindling.
Now, as it drifted out, Ecgtheow held a piece of flaming tar-wood, standing in the lapping, freezing waves.
It fell to him, for he’d been the one to slay King Haki. He flung it, and it spun end over end through the darkness and landed atop the kindling. A good throw.
For a while, he watched the flames spread. They ignited the pyre upon which Haki laid—Ecgtheow could have sworn a mighty groan escaped the king, though no screams of agony. He would not have suffered long in any event. The flames leapt up and spread to the sails.
The burning vessel drifted farther and farther away, slowly vanishing into the mist.
Behind him, a skald had begun to recite an ode to the fallen sea king, calling him beloved of Rán. Maybe he was, though the mermaid goddess hadn’t saved him in the end. Still, he’d died brave. Maybe Odin awaited him in Valhalla.
Ecgtheow trod up to stand by Jarl Hrethel, who offered him a nod. The man was with his wife Gull and his daughter, a pretty young girl, maybe fourteen winters.
“Well then,” Hrethel said, staring at the spot where the ship had disappeared. “I promised you land and wealth should we win this. Thanks to you, we have.”
Ecgtheow nodded, too watching the funeral, half listening to the skald’s words. Bitter and glorious and as expected—now talking of valkyries. “He fought well.”
“As did you. My lands are south of here, nigh to the border of Njarar. Any number of islands nearby you can have your pick of.”
“Islands? You promised me fields.”
“Yes. Many of them have fields for growing crops. But if you find no island to your liking, we can come to another arrangement.”
Ecgtheow nodded again. As long as Hrethel upheld his promise, he supposed it would do. “Your daughter …”
“Ylva?”
“Is she a woman yet?”
The girl scoffed. “I surely am. And I can speak for myself!”
Ecgtheow chuckled. The girl had fire. He liked that.
Hrethel grunted. “You are a bold one, Tiny.”
Now Ecgtheow turned to look at the jarl. A jarl’s daughter was the best match he could ever dream of. In fact, many jarls might cut his throat for such dreams. Not Hrethel, though, Ecgtheow suspected. “You advised me to find a bride. What say you, Ylva? Would you marry a thegn and own an island with me? Perhaps even more than one …”
Gull sputtered as if shocked at his presumption, but then, Ecgtheow knew his own worth. He’d made Jorund a king, and if Hrethel did not consent, well, he might seek recompense from Jorund himself.
“Well, Ylva?” Hrethel asked.
His would-be bride snorted. “I suppose he’ll do.” A mischievous wink.
Yes, Ecgtheow rather liked her.
21
Only rarely had Starkad set foot in Dalar. In truth, he knew it for obstinance, refusing to work with Odin’s voice in Sviarland, to even walk King Gylfi’s halls. Still, part of Starkad blamed Odin for all that had transpired. Part of him needed to, as if he himself did not have enough guilt to weigh down three lifetimes.
Despite his reluctance, Gylfi’s men welcomed him into the king’s hall. The king himself sat graciously upon his shadowed throne in the great hall.
“Starkad Eightarms.” Though his voice was warm, if Gylfi smiled, Starkad could not make it out beneath the veil shadows around the king’s face. “I did not think to see you again so soon. Did you meet your friend? Did you already bring me the price?”
Starkad grimaced. Hardly. And that delayed oath rankled at him, niggled his mind every step. “Before I can, I require something from one I hear is in your court for the winter. The man Wudga. Is he here?”
Gylfi chuckled at some private joke, as if he knew more of Wudga than other men. As if he knew more of all things than other men.
&nbs
p; Maybe he did.
“I gave Volund’s son his own house, outside the town, in the foothills to the west. Call upon him if you must, though I think he fancies his solitude. He rarely comes to the court.”
Starkad nodded, then turned to go.
“Starkad,” the king said. “Do you know what befell Upsal in your absence? My sources tell me of war.”
He shrugged. Haki seemed always engaged in one war or another. First with the Ynglings, now with Skane. None of it was Starkad’s problem, and his oath to Haki was already fulfilled—and repaid well. “I care naught for Haki’s schemes or woes.” All that mattered was getting that runeblade for Gylfi and fulfilling his oath.
“May Odin speed your steps, then.”
With a snort, Starkad left the hall. He trekked perhaps half an hour up into the foothills until he spied a small cabin there. A wall surrounded it, snow-covered stone five feet high. Out here wasn’t quite the wilds but close enough for a man to worry over wolves and other beasts. The worse things, the things that came with the mist … well, the wall wasn’t half high enough to keep those out.
Starkad slipped through the gate and into the yard beyond. The small field beside the house might have grown some hardier crops in summer. Now, only a few signs of planting broke through the snows. Wudga had shuttered all the windows in the house, everything closed up so tight it seemed as if not even a breeze might slip in, though a slight plume of smoke wafted out of the chimney.
Around the front, Starkad rapped on the door. It swung inward, unlocked.
In the back of the room, Wudga sat on the floor, legs folded beneath him, almost engulfed in darkness that the smoldering fire in the hearth failed to illuminate. Even the line of sunlight from the open door didn’t do much to drive out the shadows here.
“What are you doing here, lingering in the dark?”
“Shut the door.” The man’s hair now seemed as jet black as his father’s, his skin the color of ash.
Starkad reluctantly closed the door, then strode over to stand before Wudga. He yanked the skin of eitr from his belt and held it out before the man. “I brought it.”
Wudga clucked his tongue, then stood, snatching the skin from Starkad’s grasp. “And you shall have what I promised. Go … take the cauldron from the hearth and dump its contents outside. I have another use for it at the moment.”
Fine. Starkad made his way to the small fire. Inside the cauldron simmered the last dregs of a stew—deer by the smell of it. Rather than dump it, Starkad ladled it into a nearby bowl and then stalked over to a corner to eat.
As he did so, Wudga began to rummage through the house, gathering up other ingredients. If Starkad had not known better, he’d have sworn the man intended to start up another stew. No, but Wudga must now brew something darker and no doubt much less tasty if he was to fulfill his promise to Starkad.
The man soon slit his palm, squeezing drops of blood into the cauldron.
Starkad grimaced. He expected him to drink blood?
A good swig of the eitr followed, then powders Starkad dared to hope were spices. Perhaps Wudga wanted to make the taste palatable. Perhaps, though unlikely.
This seemed like to take a while, though, so Starkad shut his eyes.
He started awake, to find Wudga standing over him.
Starkad’s fists were clenched. Vikar again. Always visiting him when he slept.
Wudga knelt beside him, offering him a drinking horn that sloshed with a dark liquid. Almost black, in fact.
With a groan, Starkad took the proffered horn. The stuff inside smelled of summer rains and dead men all mixed up together. A combination that turned his gut.
“Drink.”
Eh. How badly did he truly desire this runeblade?
A nice thought, of course, but Starkad knew the truth. Even if he could have abandoned the prize for himself—and he knew he never would have—he could not break his oath to Gylfi. The man had saved Hervor, and Starkad had given his word. And if this was the only way …
He threw back the horn and drank. The fluid tasted worse than it smelled, so bitter he almost gagged. And thick, much thicker than water, like runny mucus. Choking, coughing, Starkad sputtered, spit some of it out.
“Drink it all.”
The room had begun to sway like a ship at sea. Those shadows playing about. Singing. Hissing. Whispering.
Starkad had seen this sort of thing before.
“Drink it, Starkad. Your course is set. Falter now and I cannot say what would befall you …”
Again, he threw back the horn. Downed the rest of the vile concoction.
Let it fall from his hand and clatter to the floor.
His stomach heaved. It clenched and writhed until he pitched over sideways, clutching his gut and moaning.
And still the shadows danced.
They played for him, singing a chorus of darkness. Of madness claiming the minds of men and turning them away from their illusions of control, of light, of hope.
In the end, only chaos remained.
And all lights faded.
Starkad crawled through the pitch black, and voices laughed at him. Their sounds were alien, inhuman cackles that sent every hair on his body standing on end. His brain rejected the cacophony as impossible.
Beyond the world lay the fathomless dark.
And worse still, that darkness was not … quite … empty.
It watched him. Waited for him.
Odin had let it into Starkad’s heart, and it knew him now. Knew him well, and demanded his obedience. Demanded he slowly damn himself, one great crime after another.
In the pale flicker of light, he saw Hervor running through deep woods, those too drenched in heavy shadows. She fled, panting, casting fevered glances over her shoulder as something chased her.
Her terror beat against his skull until his head seemed apt to burst. Whatever pursued her was gaining, growing closer and closer.
She was in danger.
She was going to … to die.
And he had let her walk into this.
One more death on his conscience. One more of his victims. Not of action, this time, but of inaction. Another woman he’d failed.
Grunting, he tried to push himself up. His stomach twisted itself in knots, and he heaved. Tried to wretch out all he’d drunk. Bile scorched his throat but the viscous fluid would not flow upward. It had seized his guts like a leech, latched on and lurching about inside him.
Had Wudga been wrong?
Or … had he … betrayed Starkad?
At the thought, the tiny flicker of light shifted, revealed the man, who had snatched up the skin of eitr. Wudga shook his head and clucked his tongue in dismay. And flashed a toothy smile.
Oh, the darkness did not encroach upon Wudga as it did on Starkad, as it had upon Hervor. No, it bent around Volund’s son, as it had bent around Volund himself.
It became him, and he it.
Wudga had betrayed him … though perhaps not in the way Starkad had first thought.
The eitr may have awakened the Sight in him … but Wudga intended most of it for some other purpose.
Not that it mattered.
Naught mattered. Hervor was going to die.
And Starkad could not even stand.
22
Twenty-Two Years Ago
A day became many days with Ogn and then a fortnight. Until Starkad dared to dream of making her his wife. But she, who hid from dvergar for fear of slavery and lived with next to naught … what had he to offer her?
And so he had set out to raiding, earning nigh to as much wealth as he had once enjoyed at Vikar’s side.
And after long moons, he returned.
No plume of smoke rose from her cabin, though.
Starkad crept closer. The door lay open …
“Ogn?” He turned about. Had the dvergar come for her after all? Had he left her alone only to fall to the slavery she so feared? “Ogn!”
Inside the cabin, everything seemed in its pl
ace. No sign of struggle. No fight … her axe still lay on a shelf by the door. Had they caught her by surprise?
“Damn it,” he mumbled. “Damn it. Ogn.”
If those dvergar had taken her … fuck. But he’d burn down the halls of Nidavellir if he had to. He would get her back, no matter what.
And he had learned the woodsman’s arts with Hermod himself, son of the great Agilaz. Trying to stay calm—you needed focus to track—he returned outside and glanced up at the sky.
Afternoon. A few hours of daylight before the sun set. Nights were longer this far north, especially in winter. It meant he didn’t have much time.
He skirted about the edge of the cabin, watchful for any sign of … there. A pair of tracks. One light, slender—Ogn clearly. And the other deep and large, a man who must be over seven feet tall. Surely no dverg, then. So what in the gates of Hel … ?
A troll?
But would not a troll have carried her off over its shoulder? And smashed everything in the cabin while it was at it?
So a giant of a man had convinced her to come along, forced her, no doubt. Perhaps, knowing she could not win, she had not fought. Perhaps she dared to dream Starkad might return for her and keep his promise, wed her, and give her a better life.
Well, he would.
Trotting as fast as he could while following the trail, he raced from the valley.
He was coming for his woman. Ogn was the light he sought, the hope of his redemption. He needed her.
And he would not abandon her when she needed him.
The trail led up to a mountain peak. Starkad pushed as hard as he could, but still the sun dipped below the horizon and a bitter wind whipped the snows and mist about his face. There was no tracking aught in such conditions.
Reluctantly, he pulled up short and hunted for an overhang or rock pile from which to take shelter. He found naught. And wandering in the dark was like to get him killed. One misplaced foot and he’d plummet off the side of the mountain and straight into some gorge.
