by Matt Larkin
Volund shrugged. “Eightarms lives.”
“Barely.”
“Strength is forged through suffering. Perhaps you should thank me. Perhaps even request I continue … the tortures the dvergar wrought onto me make Starkad’s pains seem pale and hardly worth mentioning.”
Odin glowered. “You did not do this for his benefit. Indeed, I find myself … suspecting all that happened was a scheme to weaken Prince Rathwith. Cast out of this world, the vaettr must now find his hold on the courts of Svartalfheim precarious. Perhaps thus giving more maneuvering room to his sister’s bastard son.”
Volund flashed a toothy grin. “I have no idea what you mean, King of the Aesir.”
Odin nodded. “Or perhaps you thought you could win regardless of the outcome. If Rathwith claimed all Sviarland as his domain, he’d have you to thank for it, and your fortunes must rise with his. If he failed … well then, someone else would have the chance to step up and claim what he’d lost.”
“Huh. That sounds like an excellent plan. I wish I’d thought of it.”
Odin surged strength into his limbs, lunged forward. Grabbed the anvil with one hand and flung it, spinning, crashing over the floor.
Volund fell back a step, hammer raised as if the tool might stand a mere instant against Gungnir. Against Odin’s wrath.
But Odin paused. Blew out a long breath. He still needed Volund to finish his works. Without this treacherous alf, all the worlds might fall before Hel. “There is a flaw in your schemes, my friend. If Rathwith had succeeded in possessing Starkad, you might not have come out so far ahead as you seem to think. You would have found me rather … displeased.”
“But. He did. Not.”
Odin shook his head and took several steps backward. Without Volund, he might never see Freyja again. Even the whole world might fall in Ragnarok. And still, he was tempted to strike him down, here and now.
“This is your last warning to stay away from Starkad, Volund. I need the other runeblades back in play, and I need Starkad to get them.”
Volund snorted. “Peace, Ás. I have no further interest in your pawn. And I rather think he will now move on to Glaesisvellir seeking Skofnung. That is what you wanted, is it not?”
“Of course he will go to Glaesisvellir.” Odin turned from the smith.
Wherever rumors of a runeblade lurked, Starkad would go. Of course he would … he had no choice.
Such was the urd Odin had set upon him.
A fate pulled from darkness, years ago.
Author’s Ramblings
The Ynglings are the most famous of the Swedish dynasties, maybe of all the Scandinavian dynasties. Snorri wrote substantially about them in his Heimskringla (basically a chronicle of stories about the Norse kings, the first section of which is the Yngling Saga). For my work, I condensed some of these stories a bit to ensure they could unfold in a manner conducive to the structure of a novel.
Nevertheless, a small chunk of the stories of the Ynglings forms the foundations of the political aspects of this book. Hervor’s role in the events mythologically is small, merely intersecting with them through the Tyrfing Cycle, but I saw no reason not to maintain her as the central character here.
Starkad, naturally, does appear frequently through these tales, showing up at decisive battles over several generations. As far as his background story, I derived that mainly from the Gautreks Saga and the Hervarar Saga (i.e., The Saga of King Heidrik, the same tale from which Hervor comes).
Within my work, we see the earliest foundations of Starkad’s background begin in The Mists of Niflheim (The Ragnarok Era, book 2) and continue into The Shores of Vanaheim (book 3). Starkad’s first flashbacks in this book take place a few years after Shores ends.
Obviously, Days of Bloody Thrones also serves as a rough sequel or continuation of Volund’s tale, which I began in Darkness Forged. Volund gets his revenge in Darkness Forged but lets Otwin live for decades more, mainly because of the son he impregnated Bodvild with (Wudga). We get the impression Volund may have been subtly encouraging Wudga down this path for a while, but it all comes to a head when Volund sends Wudga to hire his old friend Starkad.
I think this book has a similar tone to Darkness Forged, in that it’s even darker than Days of Endless Night. This darkness was necessary for the tale, but it did prove emotionally challenging to write. There is a great deal of anger and hatred going on in the world, both as people relate to one another, and as they relate to the Otherworlds (the supernatural). In order to be meaningful, this hatred has to manifest in inhumane and even inhuman ways, with the ghost world doing the most awful things imaginable to people.
The Ragnarok Era series itself sometimes flirted with horror aspects, and the nature of the Runeblade Saga brings these books closer to being true horror/fantasy in addition to sword and sorcery adventures. This combination is dear to my heart—I find it compelling, with a strong precedent in works like Conan and Elric—so I hope it provided an enjoyable read.
Finally, I want to extend a big thanks to my developmental editor, Clark, for helping me work through the complex outline and structure for this series. Thanks to my family for their support, and to my copyeditor and cover designer for helping me create a polished final product.
Thank you for reading,
Matt
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Days of Frozen Hearts
Prologue
Atop a rocky knoll, a small fire crackled, holding back the mist. Odin’s knees creaked as he climbed that hill, most of his weight upon Gungnir’s butt. For the midst of summer, the night was brisk, though the cold mattered less to Odin these days than it had in times past.
Loki waited for him here, in the southern ranges of Sviarland, where Odin so oft found himself these days. Oh, Odin wandered all of Midgard, of course. But in Sviarland the chaos of war seemed almost as eternal as the battles waged against Serkland in the far south. And here, thanks to Gylfi, nigh to all the people worshipped the Aesir as gods. The faith had spread far beyond Sviarland, but this land had become a crux, a focal point for events that would decide the fate of mankind. It meant Odin had to lend his hand more oft here, had to ensure events proceeded in a way he could use them.
His blood brother did not turn around at Odin’s approach, though Loki no doubt knew Odin was here. He always seemed to know.
“What do you see in those flames?” Odin asked, settling down across the campfire from the other man.
Loki sat with his legs folded beneath him, hands on his knees. The flames reflected off his crystal blue eyes, dancing in the night. Loki’s faint half-smile might well have been a grimace for all Odin could tell. Despite the many years he’d spent in the man’s company, Loki remained hard to read.
That should have come as no surprise, really. Though he looked decades younger than Odin, Loki was the elder. Much, much older than any Ás. Older even than any of the Vanir had been.
“I see chaos and death,” Loki said at last.
“Mmmm. So naught much changes, really. Chaos and death are all we ever expect from the future. Naught I have achieved thus far has averted Ragnarok.”
Loki offered no answer, other than a deepening of the set of his mouth. As if any answer pained him to so much as think, much less to say.
Well enough, in any event. Odin had other things on his mind this night. “I find long walks give one much time to muse on the past and future.”
Still no answer, but then, that hadn’t been a question.
Odin cleared his throat. “These days, I walk a great deal.”
“And have you learned much from it?”
“I’d like to think so. Though I find I am left with a
puzzle, a mystery I cannot unravel.”
“Only one?”
Odin grunted in acknowledgment. No matter how far he wandered, how much he learned, his knowledge remained a blade of grass in the vast plains of the unknown. Still. One could but continue to try. “You taught the Lofdar pyromancy—the Art of Fire.”
“Some would draw a subtle distinction between the two.”
Odin waved that away. “Faced with the Children of the Mist, you armed my ancestors. Created the first pyromancers. Is that not so?”
Loki hesitated a moment before nodding.
“And now the Aesir are faced off against those same foes, and yet you do not, have never, introduced a single one of us to your Art.”
Loki sighed, rubbing his palms against his knees. “That was another time. Another age. And I cannot say, even now, in hindsight, whether I acted as I ought to have. Sorcery was more common back then. It is best we leave the mistakes of the past dead and buried.”
“Would that I could. Remnants of the Old Kingdoms wake once more into the world of men. I contend with sorcerers.”
“There are fewer of them, lesser in power than they were in those days. And either way, I cannot risk repeating my mistakes. I notice you raise the subject of where the pyromancers came from, yet do not bother to ask where they all went.”
Odin paused. The Old Kingdoms had died out, the Lofdar among them. But true, he had not quite considered what had happened to the pyromancers specifically. “So, then, where did they go?”
Loki rose, shaking his head. “When you find the answer to that question, you’ll know why I no longer bind man and flame together.”
Odin too stood, less gracefully, perhaps. “One way or another, I must claim the legacy of the Old Kingdoms. I must have all the weapons possible to face this final battle.”
“The runeblades? Seek them if you must. Just remember, like the Art of Fire, such relics wrought from the Art can burn both foe and wielder.”
Odin grunted. As long as his enemies burned first, naught else mattered.
Part I
Tenth Moon
Year 28, Age of the Aesir
Four Moons After Days of Bloody Thrones
1
After passing the winter here, the Yngling hall at Upsal had almost started to feel like home. Strange thought, given that Hervor had sworn an oath to bring down the Ynglings at any cost. And here she was, sipping mead and leaning back against the table, cheering the spectacle with the rest of them.
Benches had been pushed aside in the center of the hall, making way for the contestants. Ecgtheow the Tiny had both arms locked around Starkad, bearing him down to the ground. It looked like the big man was finally going to pin his opponent. Despite all Starkad’s speed, Ecgtheow was larger and stronger than … well, almost anyone.
Ecgtheow grunted, driving Starkad down. Starkad tilted over backward. As he did so, he twisted around so fast Hervor barely followed. Suddenly Ecgtheow was in midair, flipping over Starkad’s shoulder. Hervor’s mouth fell open the instant before the big man hit the dusty ground. A horrendous oomph escaped Ecgtheow and the man lay dazed.
Huh. Hervor had trained at wrestling since she was seven winters old. By the time she was nine, she could beat boys her age, a few even older than her. She still couldn’t have pulled off what Starkad just had. The man never ceased to amaze.
King Aun raised his drinking horn. “Eightarms!” The others echoed his cheer throughout the hall. Everyone was in good spirits, what with summer now underway. Summer meant time for crops and safer fishing and, of course, raids. Well … except Aun refused to send his people raiding. The new Yngling king claimed Upsal had lost enough men in the wars.
Man was a craven, no doubt. These Ynglings were like weeds. Yngvi and Alf were dead. Alf’s son Ochilaik was dead. Yngvi’s sons Jorund and Eikkr were dead. Hervor had helped most of them to the grave. And now here was Aun, some cousin to the slain who popped up in the western reaches of Upsal, almost into Dalar.
Man had come to claim the throne when there was no one left alive to challenge him.
Maybe Hervor ought to have killed him too, but … She’d already held her oath fulfilled.
So much blood.
Yngvi’s man had slain Hervor’s father, but she’d killed the murderer and the king’s son both. What more could Father expect from her? Was she to scour every snowy mound and bog in Sviarland to make sure not a single Yngling pest survived?
No, she had seen enough of war in any event. War had cost her friends, family, even her own body … her right arm might never again be as strong as it had been. She’d spent the past moons trying to heal, trying to train to fight left-handed.
And by Odin’s stones, that was an ordeal.
Besides, she’d given her new oath to Starkad, promised to help the man recover a runeblade from Jotunheim. Odin preserve her against such folly.
Starkad helped Ecgtheow rise, and the two plodded over to join Hervor on the benches. Each took a turn with the drinking horn. A long turn, in fact.
Finally, Starkad wiped his mouth on his sleeve and tossed the empty horn on the table. “So, then. What brings you to Upsal? Should you not be seeing to that wife of yours?”
That drew a wry grin from the big man. “Oh, she’s been well seen to. Thick in the belly already, you know, and no complaints, far as that goes.”
“And so you left her alone, and with child?” Hervor asked. “How courteous.”
“She’s not alone. You said it yourself, she’s with the child.”
Starkad snickered and Hervor frowned. Naught amusing about the situation she could see.
Ecgtheow groaned and rolled his eyes. “You were more entertaining as a man, I think. Ylva is with her parents. Actually, that’s why I’ve come. See now, the throne of Ostergotland lies vacant since the death of Haki. Don’t suppose it’s like to stay that way overlong, though.”
Starkad leaned on the table, frowning. “Still no one has risen up?”
Ecgtheow snorted. “More mead, wench!” he shouted at one of the slaves. “As yet, no one has held the throne. Men have tried though, and more than a few. Haki made himself king by force of arms and force of character.”
“All kings are so made,” Starkad said. “It is only their heirs who think themselves entitled to aught simply for being born.”
Hervor took the horn when the slave brought it, sipped it, then handed it on to Ecgtheow. “I heard the tales of Haki. He was fearless back then. That’s why I joined him.” One of the reasons.
“True enough. Haki, he earned his fame, no mistake.” Ecgtheow paused to take another swig. “But. Now he’s dead, his brother’s dead, and his sons lack the strength to hold the throne. And now, more than one man had risen, blood of old Gauti and all that.”
Gauti was well-famed, though Hervor had little memory of him. She’d grown up on stories of how Haki had overthrown the old king. Tossed him off his own walls, down into the sea, where the man had broken on rocks. Haki claimed he’d ended the man’s whole dynasty.
But Ecgtheow was no doubt right, plenty of men yet lived from Gauti’s line. And women. Through her mother’s side, Hervor would have been a distant relation herself, though she had no ambition to try to become queen of aught.
“Then shouldn’t you be in Ostergotland where the action is?” she asked.
“True enough, and so I should. And you two, as well. Hervor, if you convince Jarl Bjalmar to join with Hrethel, we’ll have the strength to take the throne without overmuch bloodshed. And Starkad … the jarl will pay you a horde of riches and more to fight for him.”
“I can’t,” Starkad said before Hervor could answer. “I have a prior commitment to Gylfi. You of all people know one does not keep him waiting longer than necessary.”
Ecgtheow grunted. “Fair enough. And you, Hervor? Will you speak with your grandfather?”
She sighed, then shook her head. “I go with Starkad and we plan to leave in but a few days for Holmgard.”
“Bjarmaland! What in the gates of Hel do you want with that awful place? Have you not seen enough of far-flung lands?”
Indeed, she truly had. But her oath to Starkad bound her. “What claim does Hrethel even have to Ostergotland? He was a jarl under Jorund, was he not?”
“A position he inherited from his father-in-law, Swerting. But he was born a man of Ostergotland, and kin to Gauti, same as the other claimants.”
And now Hrethel thought being a jarl under Aun not enough for him? Well, for all that, Hrethel seemed a good enough man. Maybe he’d make a good king. Still, it meant joining in more wars, and surely Sviarland had seen enough of war this past year. Under other circumstances, Hervor might well have asked Grandfather to side with Hrethel.
Of course, Grandfather would do as he damned well pleased. He took counsel only from Gunther, if even him.
Hervor hated to see this matter settled without her … And she had no business being in Holmgard, especially given what her other grandfather had done there. But she’d never break her oath, least of all to Starkad.
Never.
So where did that leave her?
Fucked, more or less. Having to trust Tiny to handle things here. And the big man would put his own fame and glory high above concerns like sparing the kingdom another war. He always put his own fortunes first, same as Hervor, same as anyone with half a mind.
Hervor shook her head. “Just … just remember. Grandfather sheltered us all when things turned against us with Jorund. Take care to recall that friendship.”
Ecgtheow nodded. “I never forget such things.”
“Go with care, my friend,” Starkad said, and clasped Ecgtheow’s arm.
Hervor repeated the gesture.
Ecgtheow smiled as he stood. “May Odin watch over you both.”
