Runeblade Saga Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  “You’re forgetting something,” Hrethel said. “While we fight this Rathwith, Jorund only strengthens his hold on Sviarland. You may go off hunting, but someone has to remain to delay his advance.”

  “In a fight you cannot possibly win?” Ecgtheow said. “I would not see my father-in-law meet Odin quite so soon.”

  Starkad barely managed to bite his tongue. Somehow, he doubted Odin arranged Valhalla for anyone. If Valhalla even existed. If aught besides the gates of Hel possibly awaited those fallen in battle.

  Hrethel shook his head. “Jorund and Eikkr spent a great deal of time pillaging along the coasts of Nidavellir before their father’s death. They made more than one enemy back then, even killed King Gudlög. Perhaps I can enlist some who would welcome any chance for vengeance.”

  From what Starkad remembered, Gudlög had been more pirate than king, but he supposed any ally was a boon at this point. He rose. “Hervor, go with him. Help him find Gudlög’s people.”

  She scoffed. “I’ll do no such thing. You need Tyrfing, and the sword does not leave my sight.”

  “You can barely fight.”

  “I am recovering—”

  “You’ll die!” And that Starkad could not allow. Not again. Not again.

  “If you plan to take Wudga with you, you need someone to keep an eye on him.” The pair of them had locked gazes. “Someone to run him through if he betrays you again.”

  Starkad waited, hoping Wudga would protest that he’d not do any such thing. But Volund’s son said naught, just stared daggers at Hervor. Finally, Starkad shook his head. “No man would question your bravery, Hervor. But you cannot—”

  “No, Starkad. You cannot tell me where I can and cannot go. Jorund has slain my king, and he … well, I have sworn to see him dead. And if I must go through Prince Rathwith, then so be it. I am coming with you.”

  Stubborn fool of a woman.

  One he could not stand to lose.

  31

  Hervor’s torch sputtered as they wandered back down these dark tunnels. She had not thought to return here, nor did the descent hold less fear the second time. No, this time, they knew what to find in the old dverg ruin, and it would be worse even than the dragon they’d slain before. This time, the dark prince awaited them.

  All too soon, they returned to the black pit and the spiral path descending into the darkness. Ecgtheow came up beside her, peering down into the abyss, while Wudga shied away from the pair of them … or from their torches. Inkeri hung yet farther back, clutching her own torch like it might preserve her from this nightmare. Ought to have left her behind. The shieldmaiden was brave enough, without doubt, but few—men or women—could handle places like this without breaking.

  Hervor wasn’t sure she herself could.

  And Starkad … well, naught seemed to frighten him. Already, he had begun his descent along that path. Forcing Hervor to follow. She had insisted on coming along, after all.

  “Going down there, I take it,” Ecgtheow said.

  Hervor did not bother answering the pointless question, instead slowly making her way after Starkad.

  Somehow, the torches seemed even less effective at driving back the darkness this day than they had on her first visit to this cursed ruin. Somehow … and she knew how, much as every instinct in her gut wanted to deny it was even possible. Oh, she had seen awful things on Thule and now here in Sviarland, and still … the human mind did not want to believe it might share the world with such abominations.

  At the path’s end, Starkad had drawn up short, staring out into the chamber they’d descended around.

  Another man lay enwrapped in the coils of the dead dragon, half submersed in the pool, flesh the color of old ash, and hair black as pitch. His squinting eyes reflected the torchlight, gleaming an unearthly yellow. Black fluid dribbled out of his mouth and over his chin.

  So transfixed was she at the sight, only when another person groaned did she see it—naked men and women, chained along the boundary of the pool. Numerous cuts marred their flesh, and blood dribbled slowly to mix in with the water. Hervor stifled a gasp as more of the horror came into focus. Strange runes painted in blood spread out in a ring around the prisoners, a perverse circle she could not have imagined in her worst nightmares. To even gaze upon those symbols set her mind squirming in protest, and they seemed to move as she looked at them.

  And now, amidst shifting shadows, other forms moved. Two, maybe three of these svartalfar.

  “Eikkr?” Ecgtheow said. Hervor had not even realized he’d drawn up behind her.

  As he did, as they all did, the torches dimmed further, lengthening the shadows until Hervor could almost pretend the profane ritual did not exist. And yet some visions could not be unseen.

  The being enmeshed with the dragon corpse chuckled, the sound reverberating through the chambers, as if the darkness itself cast its echoes. “The body is … a vessel.”

  Starkad took a step off the path, now armed with a sword granted by Hrethel as well as one of the ones he’d carried before. “I’m going to kill you now.”

  Again, that fell chuckle that might have unnerved Hel herself. “Boy, I have watched you since the paltry and self-important king of the Aesir called upon us on your behalf. I have watched you slaughter and bleed this world dry and waited … and here, I thought I would send my servants to claim you. But instead, you deliver yourself to me freely. And soon, I shall shed this rotting carcass and claim that which I invested in back then.”

  “My son,” another of the shadows said. From that direction, limped out another svartalf. Despite his obviously lame leg, he moved with a grace and vitality that shamed Rathwith’s sickly looking form. “You seem to have grown confused, but at least you brought your subject back here at last.”

  Wudga strode forward, Mimung in hand, a not-quite-concealed tremble shaking the blade as he drew up beside Starkad.

  Hervor reached for Tyrfing. If Wudga betrayed them now …

  “I made another choice, Father.”

  “Urd is not about choices, my son … I fear you must learn that one day or another.”

  “Enough banter,” Rathwith said. “Submit to me now, Starkad, and I will grant your companions a swift death and even allow their souls to pass from this realm without molestation. You cannot hope for a more generous offer. For I have spent eons steeping in the lightless realms, absorbing the mysteries of the dark, until I have become one with shadow. Deny me, and through those shadows, I shall rip the secrets from your minds and the light from your bodies, leaving naught but hollowness fit to serve the dark.”

  Starkad took another step forward. “I cannot escape the dark. Perhaps I never could … but though damned, I still shall not bend to your will, wretch.”

  Rathwith cackled wheezily. He was feeding so much of his energy to Jorund that maybe … if they struck fast …

  The svartalf prince clenched his fists.

  Every torch they carried winked out.

  Leaving them in total darkness.

  32

  Oh fuck.

  Starkad faltered, unable to make out aught in the chamber. Just sounds. The soft pad of boots on stone, the shifting of leather and mail. The moaning of the victims from Rathwith’s ritual.

  And then pale light flared up into the cavern. In Hervor’s hand, Tyrfing cast its fell gleam through the chamber.

  A svartalf not a foot from Starkad hissed at the sudden flare of light.

  Wasting no time, Starkad spun, a swipe of his sword taking the vaettr’s head from his shoulders.

  Volund shambled away from him, and Wudga stepped up, driving his father further into the darkness. The man had hardly earned Starkad’s trust … but under such circumstances, Starkad had little choice.

  Hervor drew up beside Starkad while Ecgtheow and Inkeri began to flank Rathwith, clearly not the least bit intent to close in on that poison pool.

  Starkad, however, had survived those toxins before. And he’d do it again if needs be. “I don’
t think you can leave the pool, can you? Does the eitr sustain that corpse you’ve possessed? Or would stepping away merely break Jorund’s invincibility? In either case … the Yngling king will not endure long once I send your screaming soul back into the darkness of the Otherworld.”

  Rathwith sneered. “You were not listening at all, boy. I told you … I dwelt long in darkness, until all its secrets unfolded before me.” The svartalf prince heaved like a man about to retch. And then, indeed, his whole body seemed to vomit at once, expelling from it a shadow. An umbral duplicate of the svartalf, armed with a sword of darkness. Only a hint of Rathwith’s features persisted in this entity. The shadow copy walked upon the pool’s surface and strode out to meet Starkad.

  “I’ll deal with this thing,” Starkad said. “Hervor, kill the prince.”

  “Gladly.”

  But the shadow before Starkad writhed and then ruptured, split into a copy of itself that broke away and moved in on Hervor. While Rathwith vomited out another of the shadowy likenesses of himself.

  Well. Fuck.

  Bellowing a war cry, Starkad charged at the nearest of the creatures. It jerked its blade up, and Starkad’s own clanged upon it, ringing out like he’d struck actual iron. Indeed, this creature moved almost like a being of flesh and blood, despite its features seeming fluid and concealed. Roaring, Starkad launched attack after attack, driving the shadow creature backward.

  And still, it was fast, skilled with that blade, as if possessed of Rathwith’s immeasurable years of practice. Other shadow effigies had engaged Hervor, Ecgtheow, and Inkeri, while Wudga had disappeared into the darkness in pursuit of Volund.

  And how many more of these creatures could Rathwith create? An army?

  No.

  If he could do that, he’d not have needed a mortal army. Indeed, the svartalf convulsed and grew even more ashen as Starkad’s allies fought against the shadows. So even this ancient creature had its limits. And Starkad was going to find them.

  He rained blows upon the shadow until, at last, he managed to knock down the sword with one of his own. Vikar’s sword lanced up and opened the creature’s throat. It fell back a few steps. Shuddered. And then came at Starkad again.

  No blood.

  It moved like flesh … but it was not flesh.

  Now Starkad dropped backward. No flesh … it could not die? It was hardly Starkad’s wont to pray … but now …

  Not that Odin could even hear prayers.

  Roaring, Starkad advanced back in. The shadow had grown yet faster, more aggressive. That fell blade darted out again and again, until it gashed Starkad’s arm. An icy chill shot up his limb and filled his neck, seeming to choke him. Every breath became pained.

  “Fucking die!” Starkad continued to fall back, letting the creature press its attack.

  Then he twisted out of the way and swung down with his good arm. His newly granted blade sheared through the shadow’s arm at the elbow. The shadow’s sword vanished into nothingness its severed arm going with it. With its other arm, it lurched for Starkad’s throat. Starkad lopped that one off too.

  Even as it came on, its first arm grew back out of the darkness, followed by a new blade. A replacement for its second arm.

  “They call you Eightarms …” The sound hissed from the shadow, but it was Rathwith’s voice.

  And now, another pair of arms jutted from his foe and another sword to match. And again and again, until the shadow creature truly had eight arms and four blades.

  Starkad spared the barest glance at the real Rathwith, unreachable beyond the monstrosity that now barred Starkad’s way. The svartalf prince convulsed. Black cracks now split his flesh, weeping some foul oil—perhaps more of the eitr itself. But the shadow before Starkad had risen up, well over seven feet tall. Blades of darkness cleft the air, forcing him into an endless series of dodges, parries. Lacking the slightest chance to counter.

  If only he could … creating these things was weakening Rathwith. So if Starkad could cut it down enough times …

  But then, he’d likely get himself lopped in half before Rathwith gave out. Nor could Starkad keep his own speed up forever. Not like this.

  Across from him, Inkeri shrieked. The effigy she fought had hacked its blade across her guts. Now, it stooped, snatched her up, and carried her to the pool of eitr.

  “No!” Starkad pushed forward, tried to get to her. His efforts only earned him a gash along his face. Seeping cold and darkness leeched his strength.

  The effigy dropped Inkeri into the pool. Rathwith shuddered with obvious pleasure, a hint of vigor coming back into his failing form.

  The monstrous shadow engaging Starkad swung even faster now, and Starkad scrambled away. His foot slipped in some muck, and he caught himself on the wall. Nowhere left to go.

  Hervor bellowed and drove Tyrfing point first through the chest of the shadow facing her. The creature shuddered. It rent apart and dissolved like smoke. And the abomination closing in on Starkad faltered. Slowed ever so slightly.

  Starkad rolled away, getting space between himself and that thing.

  Rathwith had focused most of his energy upon Starkad, knew him for the best fighter. And had not taken into account the runeblades Hervor and Ecgtheow wielded.

  The shadow that had slain Inkeri now closed in on Hervor.

  “Give me Tyrfing!” Starkad shouted at her.

  “I will not!” The shieldmaiden raced forward, engaging the next shadow.

  Damn it. “I can end this!”

  Hervor offered no answer, and the next instant, the eight-armed shadow was back on Starkad, forcing him onto the defensive once again.

  Even with Tyrfing, Hervor’s wounds kept her from fighting as she once had. This wasn’t going to work. Not like this.

  Starkad dared to steal a glance at Ecgtheow, but the shadow he faced had begun to fight more defensively, clearly wary of the runeblade.

  As the monstrosity closed in again, Starkad rolled past it. If he could make it to Rathwith … the shadow’s blades flashed, and Starkad had to throw himself to the floor. He landed in blood or muck and slid along until he collided with one of the chained victims, tangled himself in her limbs. She wailed, beating at him—driven mad by her suffering.

  “Get off of me!” he bellowed.

  The shadow giant stalked closer. It loomed over his head. Starkad lurched away, but one of the swords lanced down like a bolt of lightning. It drove through his shoulder and pinned him to the floor. The darkness clouded his eyes. The shadow blade ripped through him, crushing his body and soul with icy tendrils of agony. It suffused his flesh. It feasted on his mind.

  Rathwith was in there.

  In Starkad’s skull, beating on his brain. Beating it down in submission.

  Your form will be mine.

  Starkad opened his mouth to protest. His tongue failed him. Ashes seemed to coat his throat. Twisting and crunching, like dead flesh choking him. And yet, squirming inside him. Seeking a way to claim him. His heart seized up, threatened to give out.

  Not like this.

  Your body … your skills … they will unleash a new era of the dark. The shadows spread …

  Couldn’t breathe. Blackness clouded his eyes.

  Hervor. Hervor could help him if she … if she …

  The shadow monster twisted that blade in his shoulder, sending waves of torment crashing over him.

  She cannot help you … I will feast upon her soul for days on end, until naught remains but a shriveled husk …

  He tried to scream. Managed a faint moan. Turned his head, ever so slightly.

  Hervor fell beneath her shadow’s onslaught, slipped to the floor. The shadow twisted its blade in a masterful move, and Tyrfing clattered from her hand. Its light dimmed, slowly winking out. To leave them all in darkness.

  Starkad had failed.

  The shadow monster impaling him shuddered. Then it melted into a sudden pool of oily darkness and was gone.

  Starkad sucked down an agonizing breat
h.

  In Tyrfing’s last, fading light, he managed to roll over.

  Wudga stood above Rathwith, having driven Mimung through the back of the prince’s neck. A twist of Wudga’s runeblade popped the svartalf’s head from his shoulders.

  And darkness settled in.

  33

  Total blackness had fallen upon the chamber. It left Hervor with naught to focus on save the moans of the wounded, the dying. The putrid stench of shit and urine and blood and other foulness she could not even identify, mixing with the rot of a decaying dragon.

  Gasping, she dragged herself through the filth, daring to hope that … what? That’d she’d find a torch cast aside somewhere in the massive cavern. That, despite it like as not being coated with filth and her unable to see, she’d light it.

  Her fingers brushed over cold metal. Engraved.

  Tyrfing’s pommel.

  Odin be praised! Hervor yanked herself over to the blade and grabbed it. Pale light began to radiate first from the runes, then the blade, seeming impossibly bright after the absolute darkness she’d just endured.

  She rolled over.

  Ecgtheow was nearby, clutching a wound on his neck. Other, less threatening gashes marred his face and arms. He’d have a great many scars from this day … assuming losing all that blood did not yet kill him.

  Indeed, Hervor brushed a hand over her own face. Scratches marred her cheek and another along her brow.

  Starkad lay on his back, hand pressed over a wound in his shoulder. How he was even still awake after that … if she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he had the constitution of an Ás.

  And there was Wudga, cleaning Mimung. Volund had forged that new runeblade, the first new one in ages. And now, Volund’s own son had used it to kill the svartalf prince. And maybe Volund himself? Could Wudga have slain his own father?

  Groaning, she sat up.

  “Where’s Volund?” Starkad asked before Hervor had the chance.

  Wudga stared at him a moment. His eyes darted to Mimung. What the fuck was he thinking now? Might he yet betray them? A moment ago, she’d have thought his loyalty assured, having turned on Rathwith, having slain him. But now … ?