Runeblade Saga Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  Now bearing only Vikar’s sword, Starkad struggled to keep up. To parry, to dodge. Wudga swung overhead at Vikar’s blade, seeming intent to destroy it as well. Starkad lurched out of the way, then toppled backward onto his arse.

  “Submit willingly,” Wudga said. “They would approve of a host with your skills.”

  Starkad blanched. Was that what these svartalfar wanted here? Hosts to possess? Was that what had happened to Jorund?

  But not Wudga … Wudga had always had it in his blood. He wasn’t possessed. He was making a choice to become what his father before him had become. To welcome in the powers of the dark.

  And Wudga seemed inclined to give Starkad a moment to ponder his so-called offer. As if any sane man might even consider allowing a vaettr to possess his body.

  Starkad scrambled to his feet and held Vikar’s sword out before him. “I’m going to kill Jorund. And if I judge the situation well … I’d be doing him a favor. Even passing through the gates of Hel might not be worse than the urd he has taken upon himself.”

  Wudga sneered, the expression made all the more unnerving by the writhing shadows coating his face like oil.

  “You, though,” Starkad said. “You, Wudga, might still avoid that end.”

  The man scoffed, though he’d failed to fill it with as much disdain as Starkad might have expected. More … resignation.

  “I am my father’s son.”

  Starkad circled him. “I believed that. Once … I thought myself Bedvig’s son, and I hated Tyr for his death. Then I thought myself Tyr’s son … but he turned his back on me. And I realized … we are who we choose to be.”

  “Oh. So you chose the life of murder and betrayal, the slaughter of those close to you? The endless wandering under the weight of your fell urd, Starkad? Oh yes, the shadows know you well, Eightarms. For few men have so much blood on their hands in all of Midgard.”

  Starkad wanted to deny that. Wanted to call himself a victim … but even were it true, it would undermine the very argument he’d hoped to make with Wudga. Besides. Wudga spoke too much truth to ignore. “No, you’re right … I did bring my urd upon myself. I walked into darkness, as you have. And still, I struggle against it. As you could, if you but chose to.”

  “To what end? The prince has his sights set upon Midgard now, and Sviarland offers the perfect staging ground.”

  Prince? A svartalf prince? “The prince is … inside Jorund?” Starkad let Vikar’s sword drop a hair.

  Wudga snickered then, shaking his head. “You still don’t understand, Starkad. I told you … they have use for a strong host. One with the strength to take this world and hold it until the end of time.”

  Starkad’s legs felt weak. His stomach lurched at the words. This svartalf prince … wanted him. How did they know of him at all? Had Volund told him? Or … no. He wouldn’t have needed to. Starkad had spent years building his reputation as the most famed mercenary in the North Realms. And he already courted the darkness … Odin had introduced him to it, long ago.

  “Was it … was it even chance you hired me to help you kill Otwin?”

  “Of course not. Why do you think Father suggested I call upon you? They have known you all these years, watched you.”

  “Your father has embraced the darkness … but he was born on this world. So I rather think it means he can die. As he will, should he come before me again. As for you, Wudga …”

  The man shook his head. “Part of me wishes you were right, Starkad. But … no. There is no stopping Rathwith now. And when Mimung has tasted your blood and you lie dying … I imagine you will accept most any bargain to preserve your wretched life. And you will serve the prince.”

  Now Starkad shook his head. He almost pitied Wudga. The fool had been caught in the web of beings more powerful and ancient than he could understand. Perhaps it was too late to save him. Perhaps the best Starkad could offer was death while some glimmer of humanity yet remained to Wudga.

  He raised his blade again.

  Scowling, Starkad’s foe charged back in.

  Starkad fell into the defensive. Dodging. Parrying. The occasional riposte.

  He would truly have to kill Wudga …

  Another man he’d thought a friend. Another murder. Another step into the darkness.

  Just. Like. Wudga.

  Starkad let his guard drop a little. Wudga seized the chance, swinging at Vikar’s sword, clearly intent to sunder it as he had Starkad’s own heirloom. Starkad jerked his sword away at an angle, caught Mimung on the cross guard, and twisted. Round and round he spun the blades, winding and binding, until Wudga’s face creased in consternation. The svartalf clearly had not expected the wild move. Too reckless. Just how Starkad liked it.

  With a heave, Starkad jerked both swords away. Mimung flew from Wudga’s hand and dunked into a snowdrift.

  This was it.

  He could end Wudga here, now.

  And still the svartalf prince and Jorund would continue their conquest of Sviarland.

  Starkad tossed his own sword aside. Wudga eyed him a moment. Starkad feinted one way, then swung at Wudga’s jaw with an uppercut. The blow slammed hard into the man, sending him tumbling to the ground. Starkad dropped down on him, knees first.

  Then he rained blow after blow upon Wudga’s face and chest and head.

  Until the man lay still.

  29

  Twenty-Two Years Ago

  Vikar had been right, of course. As had Ogn.

  All hope had left Starkad.

  Moons he wandered, crossing the land on foot, caring naught which way he went, or even if he travelled in circles. He passed out of Nidavellir and into Sviarland.

  Sometimes, he passed through a village, a town. Sometimes they let him claim supplies without argument.

  Sometimes they resisted. It ended poorly for them.

  He fought, and he murdered, taking what he needed to survive.

  Ogn had been his redemption. But she had fallen for her captor during Starkad’s long absence and … and was this all born of the curse Odin’s blessing had brought with it? The dark fate Vikar had promised?

  But then, as Ogn had said, he felt compelled to keep walking. He could not long abide any place, nor find peace among any of the villages or kingdoms he passed through. Her words haunted his every step.

  As did death.

  His dreams too, she invaded, on the rare occasion when Vikar did not torment him. On those times, it became Ogn’s turn. And her suicide played out over and over, in innumerable variations. All coming to the same end—that precious light flickering out of her beautiful blue eyes.

  The two people he’d thought he loved best in the world, both dead because of him.

  Sometimes, he mulled over the idea of taking his own life. He might cast himself from a cliff into the sea. Or cut out his own gut with Vikar’s sword—that would be justice. And yet, if he did so … if he ended his suffering after betraying his own brother to ensure his long life … would that not be further betrayal? If he had any honor left, it compelled him now to live.

  To continue the cursed existence he had wrought for himself and live out the curses his loved ones had placed upon his soul. That was his punishment. And he would not shirk it.

  So he walked, until he wore holes in the soles of his boots. Then he stole more boots and kept walking.

  In long stretches alone, he was left with no companion save his own beleaguered mind. And left to wonder … Ogn had known much of the workings of the Otherworlds. Had spoken of her fears that svartalfar had touched Starkad. Could that be … was it possible she knew it because the others, the liosalfar, had touched her as well?

  Skalds called those beings radiant and glorious, as had Ogn been. Maybe that hint of the Otherworldly was the source of her ethereal beauty and of the power behind her curse. Or maybe his mind tricked him, struggling to make sense of the ravages left of his life.

  After long wanderings, he came to Upsal.

  The kings there, brothers, A
lrik and Eirik, welcomed him into their hall. Word of his crimes had spread yes but word of his glorious battles as well. Alrik had beckoned Starkad to sit on his right hand, offering him mead and hearty stew and song.

  And the shieldmaidens and the slave women, they looked at him, wanton and willing.

  And Starkad stared into the drinking horn.

  He made a mistake with Ogn. Thought with his heart and his cock and placed all his hopes in her. But she had betrayed him as surely as he had Vikar. Women were fickle, not to be trusted. And Starkad had no need of them.

  Just the mead. Drunk enough, and he’d not dream. Surely even he deserved that slight respite, on occasion.

  A man settled across the table from him, then offered him a fresh horn. This man, his long, sandy brown hair tied at his neck, had a slightly fell edge about him. A power, an urd Starkad could not understand but could feel.

  Starkad snatched the horn from him. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Wudga Volundson. And I’ve heard a great many tales of your fame, Eightarms.”

  Volundson? As in … the dark smith? Starkad snorted. Why not? Darkness seeped into every corner of Midgard. “What do you want?”

  Wudga shrugged. “A good tale to pass the winter evenings? Perhaps friendship, even.”

  That drew a chuckle. “Can’t say aught has ended well for my friends thus far.”

  Again, that relaxed shrug. “Perhaps this time will be different.”

  King Alrik banged a hand on the table, drawing every eye. “I have an inclination to raid into Kvenland soon. And tales of your many victories for Agder have become nigh to legend, Eightarms. Would you consent to become a captain among our party?”

  Starkad slurped his mead and exchanged another glance with this Wudga.

  So this is what his life was to be now. Odin had promised him great wealth. And Ogn had promised it would never be enough.

  All those raids on behalf of Vikar, and what did it now earn him? Naught at all.

  But then, the only question on his lips … “How much is my share?”

  For she was right.

  Starkad could not hold back, could not stop from venturing forth to claim treasures he knew he would not be able to keep.

  Such was his urd.

  After all, he could not stay here long. He could not stay anywhere long.

  30

  Those touched by the Otherworlds carried fell powers mankind could not explain nor understand. Starkad had heard such powers could be suppressed with orichalcum chains. Having no such bindings, he’d been forced to rely on iron manacles to hold Wudga.

  Now, they had all retreated to the hall of Hervor’s grandfather, Jarl Bjalmar, who’d seemed aught but pleased to see Starkad. Still, finding his own forces beleaguered by Jorund’s war bands, the jarl had agreed to take them in. Those of them who’d remained.

  With the draugar at his side, Jorund had slaughtered half of Hrethel’s army and routed the rest of them.

  Hrethel had found Hervor unconscious, Jorund’s champion gone. And so Ecgtheow and Hrethel and Inkeri all sat against the wall, watching, while a half-competent healer stitched a wound on Hervor’s head outside.

  While Starkad paced in front of Wudga where he lay, chained to the wall and stripped to the waist.

  In the end, they were going to lose. If naught changed, Jorund would claim the thrones of Dalar and Ostergotland before winter was out. The king had bypassed Njarar only because he saw it as no threat—word had come that Olof Sharpsighted had claimed the vacated throne and more power to him. Surrounded on all sides, Olof would have no choice but to surrender and submit to Jorund.

  And then, come summer … well, the possessed king would surely move on Skane or Jamtla, if not both at once. Between his own army, the draugar, and whatever fell power the svartalf possessing him granted, Jorund seemed invincible.

  None of it should have been Starkad’s problem, though. He could have gone on to Holmgard, headed for Glaesisvellir and claimed the damned runeblade like he’d planned. Except, he’d promised Hervor. And now they sheltered with her grandfather in lands the man would lose … along with his life, no doubt.

  Unless Starkad found a way to break Jorund’s power.

  He sighed. So.

  Yanking a water skin from his belt, he popped the cork. Then he upended the contents over Wudga’s head. The man sputtered awake, spitting and snarling.

  At once, Ecgtheow and the others were on their feet, weapons in hand.

  “I still don’t see why we don’t just kill this fucker,” Ecgtheow mumbled.

  Starkad leaned down across from his chained friend. “You thought no one could defeat their own nature or reject the darkness. But I beat you … and I spared you. That ought to tell you something. Perhaps you yet have a choice, Wudga. When I leave here, I must leave you to make it.”

  Anger and doubt warred over Wudga’s face. A rush of emotions … but no unnatural shadows. Not yet.

  The door opened, and Hervor slipped inside, nodded at Starkad, and shook her head at Wudga.

  Starkad turned back to the man.

  “Tell me how to defeat Jorund, my friend.”

  Wudga sneered, though the expression looked hollow, lacking confidence.

  Starkad leaned in and grabbed the man’s forearm. “You do have a choice. You always did. Even Volund had a choice—and he made the wrong one. I would know, Wudga—I have made my fair share of poor choices. Fuck, all men do, I guess.”

  “Women, too,” Hervor mumbled from behind him.

  Wudga swallowed hard. “There’s no redemption.”

  Starkad shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe the best you can do is make better choices going forward. Learn to live with the blood you’ve shed. I don’t know, Wudga. But see … if there is redemption, this would be a small measure of yours. I know you must have tricked Jorund into letting a svartalf possess him. But how has he achieved such victories so quickly? Is it the draugar? Did the svartalf prince grant those?”

  “They came from Thule.”

  Thule? Damn it. So the horrors Starkad and the others had woken had found a way off the island. This, then, fell upon them.

  Wudga shifted, groaning and working his swollen jaw. “Jorund is a pawn. Prince Rathwith controls him, and the draugar as well, though those came here following their own king.”

  Hervor groaned. Starkad could hardly blame her. Still, it should not surprise him that another draug had taken up the crown of the draug prince she and Orvar had slain.

  Starkad frowned. “But Jorund is the face of this army. If I kill him …”

  “You cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I used the eitr you acquired to bathe his flesh in a brew that makes it impervious to harm.”

  Now Starkad groaned. “How did you even know how to …” Well, that answer seemed obvious enough. Rathwith, a svartalf prince, must be privy to all manner of forgotten lore. “If such a technique exists, why not treat all of the army with it?”

  “Because calling on the Art is draining, even for vaettir. Rathwith must maintain the power of it, and even that requires him to sustain himself on a constant banquet of souls. Fortunately, Jorund has fed him well, and the king and the prince both grow stronger with each life Jorund claims.”

  Now Hervor stalked closer and knelt beside them. “Surely not even this eitr can protect against Tyrfing.”

  Wudga glowered, shook his head. “No blade can harm him. Not even your precious runeblades, forged by the dvergar who, ancient in your eyes, are maggots before the likes of the svartalfar.”

  Hervor snatched up Wudga’s chains and yanked him toward her face. “So you mean to say Jorund is unstoppable? I refuse to believe that.”

  “Believe what you will.”

  No. It would not end like this. Starkad eased Hervor’s hands off of Wudga. “Rathwith is maintaining Jorund’s invincibility, yes? So the prince must be in possession of a host here, on Midgard.”

  “Yes.”

 
“One not so protected by the eitr.”

  “Oh, but he is awash in it. Flush with the power of creation and the fuel of hundreds of devoured souls.”

  Starkad leaned back. “Awash in eitr … you mean … in the same pool that you sent me to.”

  “You slew the guardian of the eitr.”

  Oh godsdamn it all. Wudga had tricked him from the beginning … tricked him into slaying the dragon and opening the way for Rathwith to reach the eitr well. “So Rathwith bathes in the eitr and channels power to the svartalf possessing Jorund. But if Rathwith’s host were slain …”

  Now Wudga chuckled without the least apparent humor. “You may bear two runeblades, but you cannot overcome Prince Rathwith or his guardians, my friend. Submit to him. He will shed his rotten host and take your body and through you, rule all of Sviarland. You’ll be free to do with Jorund as it pleases you.”

  “Two runeblades …” Starkad glanced at the others. “Tyrfing and Naegling … and Mimung.”

  Wudga groaned. “So you’d take the very prize you fought to win me?”

  “No. No, you’re going to wield it. If you want to escape the urd that lies before you … confront it. Fight it and slay it with that very sword. Wudga, take my word for it … better to die fighting your terrors than live forever haunted by them in unending sleepless nights.”

  Ecgtheow cleared his throat. “Starkad. You and I and Hervor have faced our share of horrors, but this Rathwith sounds a good deal worse than even a draug prince.”

  “You cannot even begin to imagine,” Wudga said. “Mortal man cannot hope to overcome a being of such ancient an inexorable malice. Rathwith has watched the passing of eons and more changings of the world than you can conceive of. We go to our deaths and, perhaps, worse. He will feast on our very souls. Oblivion will be our fate—if we are lucky.”

  Ecgtheow coughed. “Right. Sounds encouraging. Are we certain no other option lies before us?”

  Starkad stood. “I see none, though I surely cannot force any of you to come down this road.”