Runeblade Saga Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

As they approached, spires peeked through the mist. Numerous towers, all sharp angles and spiked buttresses and rugged architecture, like someone had tried to build mountains and trees out of mighty stone blocks. “What in Hel’s frozen crotch?”

  “I’d not mention her name out here,” Starkad said without looking back at her.

  Hervor flinched at the reprimand. Did Starkad think the dark goddess actually closer to them in Utgard? And why not? They had trod beyond Midgard itself.

  A spiked wall four times her height ringed the town. Many of those spires she’d seen at a distance were actually outgrowths of the wall. Beyond, what looked like a lord’s hall, itself also featuring four surrounding towers, and then a slightly taller one in the center. Rime crusted over every bit of the stonework, glittering and fell. Starkad was right—she imagined the gates of Hel might look little different.

  But these town gates stood ajar—themselves also wrought from stone and carved with intricate designs depicting monstrous faces. The centerpiece of each might have been a varg.

  Atop the walls, archers watched their approach, but none called out to bar their passage, nor did the guards at the gates block them, though they held spears at the ready. Odd weapons, with points carved from stone. Not enough iron in these lands?

  Hervor leaned in close to Starkad as they walked past the guards. “I thought there would be …”

  “Jotunnar?” he whispered back. He cocked his head to one side and she turned to look.

  A man watched them, only he was taller than a man, maybe almost eight feet tall. His features were too sharp, too angular. Thick hair covered his skin, too much, like the thing had a beast for an ancestor. Perhaps not so far from the truth.

  Hervor’s heart clenched in her chest. Threatened to stop beating.

  Jotunn.

  Odin’s thrice-damned stones.

  Jotunn.

  They ate men, talk said. They were the spawn of chaos, banished beyond the Midgard Wall in times lost to history. The creature strode toward them now, great strides she couldn’t have made by jumping. It bore a spear—one seeming big enough to skewer a bear—but did not threaten them with it.

  Instead, it came to a stop a few feet away. It rumbled something at them, but the words made no sense, a sharp guttural language.

  “We seek your king,” Starkad said in Northern.

  The jotunn grunted, nodded his head. “King …” He pointed at the lord’s hall toward the center of town. “Walk …”

  His pronunciation was odd, closer to what little Hervor knew of Old Northern—and she’d scorned her tutors back then. She supposed they were lucky the jotunnar could understand their words at all.

  The creature led them to the lord’s hall and inside, into a massive stone chamber upheld by great curving arches that met at central pillars spaced throughout. No obvious sign of the king himself …

  They walked forward, around the pillars, and then Starkad turned about slowly. Hervor did the same. Twenty-five feet above them, a balcony rimmed the entrance to the hall. Upon this sat a jotunn king on a mighty throne. The king had a thick white beard that hung halfway down his chest, and white braided hair to match, framing his face like a mane. His eyes almost wolf-like, his skin tinged faintly blue.

  Slowly, he lifted himself up from his throne and strode to the edge of the balcony, leaning on the rail and staring down at them. Only then did it become clear just how fucking huge this creature was. He could have crushed her skull in one hand. Eleven feet tall? Bigger?

  Hervor couldn’t swallow.

  “King Godmund, I presume,” Starkad said.

  The king smiled, baring teeth that seemed overlong and sharp like wolf fangs. “They say you slew one of my vargar.” His voice was heavy as an avalanche, his accent strange, and again, flavored with the sounds of Old Northern.

  Starkad shrugged. “Your varg roamed far indeed, and thought to devour us like prey.”

  The king chuckled, the sound rumbling through the hall. “Are you not?”

  “Were we prey, the varg would be sated and we’d be dead, instead of the other way around.”

  Hervor worked her jaw. Every instinct told her to grab Tyrfing, but that was like to arouse the anger of this ancient, massive lord. Not that she overmuch liked listening to Starkad banter with such a being.

  Godmund drummed his fingers upon the rail. “Do you have names, humans?”

  “I am Starkad Eightarms. This is Hervard.”

  Huh. Next to his name, that sounded rather plain. She’d need to fasten a name to herself sooner or later.

  “And what is your purpose in my lands, Starkad Eightarms?”

  “I am seeking something, brought here long ago from Midgard. Something of the Old Kingdoms.”

  Godmund snorted. “So you call them, I have heard. Not so very old to us. Back in the days of my father.”

  The creature’s father had been alive when the Old Kingdoms fell? Eight hundred years ago? Odin’s stones. What had Starkad dragged them into now?

  Starkad cast a glance about the hall. “We do not come here as enemies.”

  “No, but you come through the wall. This is my land, and unlike many of my brethren, I have not intruded into your middle world. Yet you dare come into the outer world.”

  Starkad shrugged. “You may find me quite daring. Either way, we might part in friendship, my king. If it suits you.”

  Now Godmund straightened, and—thankfully—nodded. “So be it. Stay with us a few nights. Let neither man nor jotunn call my hospitality lacking.” With that, he waved a hand, and a pair of humans approached them.

  The humans—slaves?—guided her and Starkad to chambers in one of the spires. Inside, they provided her with a water basin to wash, a mirror, and a fur-covered shelf for a bed. Comfortable enough, though chilly, given the open window. A tiny brazier burned in the corner, perhaps a concession to human needs against the cold and the mist.

  Hervor dropped her gear in the room, then trod over to Starkad’s chamber and slipped inside without bothering to knock. He had doffed his shirt and was scrubbing himself with water from the basin and a woolen rag.

  “I cannot say I much love this place.”

  He snorted, not looking up from his task. “Would you prefer we sleep another night in the wilds?”

  “Not in the least. But something feels off about this kingdom. About these halls. A darkness creeps in, not unlike a barrow.”

  “Hervor …” He glanced at her now. “Shut the door.”

  She did so, then turned back to him.

  “The jotunnar may be able to help us find what we’re looking for. These creatures are not necessarily evil—if such a word even has meaning. But they are wild, savage, from a world not like our own, and thus we call them incarnations of chaos.”

  “Some look more human than others.”

  Starkad set the rag down and turned to face her. “The tales say … those who feast on the flesh of men can extend their life, their power. But it changes them, makes them grow larger and more bestial.”

  “You mean Godmund does eat people?” That was fucking wonderful. And he’d invited them to dine with him. She already hated Glaesisvellir.

  “He must have at some point. But he did not have us seized immediately, so perhaps he has changed. Either way, most of the other jotunnar I saw here did not seem so altered. I take it, then, if he does devour human flesh, he reserves that right to himself.”

  Hervor blew out a breath and sank down on Starkad’s bed. “Have you considered our return journey?”

  “Not without the runeblade, Hervor.”

  “If we left now, we might reach the port in Holmgard before winter settles in. The summer grows short already.”

  “I did not come all this way to turn back without the prize.”

  She rubbed her face. No, and neither had she. But traveling across this frozen wasteland in summer had been a nightmare. To chance it in winter …

  “If you wish to clean up, do so. We cannot affor
d to antagonize our host by not appearing at the night meal.”

  She wanted to groan. Starkad was probably right, but then, had he listened to her, they’d have never come here. She could now only pray they did not end up regretting it any more than she already did.

  Slaves brought Hervor to the night meal. A feast of mammoth was spread out over two tables, each easily thirty feet in length. The slaves led her to the one where King Godmund sat, along with Starkad. A few other jotunnar, and many humans. So … even in a jotunn kingdom, the humans seemed to vastly outnumber the jotunnar. Why? Did they not breed enough?

  Or did they wind up killing one another and keeping their own population low? Didn’t seem to be a tactful way to ask that question.

  A thick-bodied man sat across from her, easily seven feet tall. A shock of pale blond hair hung down to his shoulders, strung in a dozen braids. He nodded at her, flashing a too-wide grin.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “Höfund Gudmundson.”

  “You’re the prince? But you’re … human?”

  He chuckled, snatched up a hunk of mammoth flesh, and bit into it, shoulders still bobbing with mirth. He sucked down juice and spoke without finishing chewing. “Half, I suppose. Mother was human.”

  Hervor almost flinched at the bits of grease dribbling down his chin as he spoke. But then again, everyone else ate the same way here. Human manners did not seem overmuch a concern in this land. They ate like wild animals.

  “Scared, boy?”

  All the lands of Hel would melt before she’d admit to that. She glanced at Starkad, who was engaged in conversation with the king, already inquiring about his lost treasure.

  Hervor looked back to Höfund, then tore her own hunk of meat from where it lay in the center of the table. “I don’t fear many things, prince.”

  He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “No surprise there. Young men are oft fools. Out here, little man, very few things not worth a bit of fear.” He pointed to a jotunn woman at the other table. She was nigh to as large as Godmund, and equally feral-looking. “See her? That’s Hyrrokin, visiting from Thrymheim. Rode here on a varg that took down the mammoth you’re eating. Wolf tore the beast to bits, all by its lonesome. Animal is mean as the fires of Muspelheim are hot.”

  Now he pointed off in another direction. “Up north, gets so cold your spit’ll freeze afore it hits the ground. Caught out alone in winter, even a half-jotunn like me might catch the deathchill. Maybe you think it’s better in the south?” He turned, waving a hand. “Whole dead kingdoms, whole countries there that up and died when the mists came. Thousands of draugar, just waiting for someone to wake them, rile up their anger again.” He shrugged. “Push on, then. Where it’s not so cold. Where the southern empires call upon the vile flames of Muspelheim and the eldjotunnar to burn away the world. Take my advice, boy. Go back to Midgard. Shit, one day, one day I hope to see it myself. Maybe find me a better home than this.”

  Höfund was right, she supposed. Utgard sounded like a realm of nightmares torn between primordial forces of chaos. Then again, Midgard was drowning in blood. Everywhere she looked, she saw only her dark past and an even grimmer future.

  None of it left her with overmuch appetite.

  10

  King Hrethel hadn’t wanted to claim the towns of any of the other jarls in Ostergotland. Ecgtheow supposed Hrethel thought the jarls like to be more favorable toward him if he didn’t steal their homes. Instead, the king insisted on raising up a town on the shores of Lake Vättern, not far from where Ecgtheow had fought Headolaf.

  Actually, Ecgtheow supposed, in Hrethel’s mind, the spot was probably where he’d become king. He walked along the lakeshore now, inspecting the growing town. Had to be almost two hundred people living here now, and more showing up every few days.

  In the past moons, tents had grown into shanties and then full houses, all while Hrethel was having his great hall raised. The man had some fool idea he needed to outshine the halls of the Ynglings in Upsal, and so he insisted on large foundations. With men needing to see to their own shelters first, the hall was taking rather long in building.

  Ecgtheow wouldn’t much have cared, save that Hrethel had sent for his wife and for Ylva and all their people. Now that he had a kingdom of his own, he didn’t plan to hold on to his jarldom in Upsal. Made sense, Ecgtheow supposed. It wasn’t like Hrethel could well defend both of them, especially with Njarar wedged right in the middle there.

  ’Course, it also meant Ecgtheow lost his islands and his hall. He wrestled with the idea of asking that Yngling king, Aun, for Hrethel’s old title. Being a jarl himself would have been a fair step up … But Ylva wanted to stay close to her family, and in Ostergotland, their child would have more chance to one day sit the throne himself.

  Besides, Orvar-Oddr—man showed up some nights with long stretches in between—advised sticking close to Hrethel for now. Sound advice, Ecgtheow had to admit. The king owed Ecgtheow his kingship, and Ecgtheow had a mind to make certain no one forgot. As yet, though, Hrethel had not decided to bestow more lands on him.

  That would have to change soon.

  The hour was growing late now, and Ecgtheow supposed the slaves would have the night meal almost ready. Still, he liked walking. Not so much of summer left, and he meant to enjoy it while he could.

  Near the outskirts of the town, a man came riding toward him at a swift trot, enough that his horse looked half ragged. Poor animal was huffing and heaving when the rider pulled it to a stop. The man didn’t look so very much better off, covered in a sheen of sweat and panting himself.

  Ecgtheow caught the horse’s muzzle and led it to the lake to drink.

  The rider paced beside him, still trying to catch his breath. “Lord … they set upon our people in the east, by the sea.”

  “Who did?”

  “Jarl Bjalmar’s men, and more. Too many for just him, though we … we saw no other standards.” He shook himself. “They came at us with longships. Hit the village and razed it.”

  Ecgtheow groaned. Well, that was some ripe troll shit. And here Hrethel had thought he’d subdued the whole kingdom without having to fight a war. It seemed Jarl Bjalmar didn’t feel overly bound by Jarl Helm’s oath of fealty to Hrethel.

  Ecgtheow shook his head, then spat. Troll shit. “Suppose the king best hear about this.”

  Hrethel, as was to be expected, did not take the news well. The king sat on his throne inside his half-covered hall, hands clutching the armrests like he intended to squeeze the life right out of them. Ecgtheow half expected the wood to crunch under the man’s fingers.

  “They betray us,” the king said at last.

  Hrethel had sent the newsbearer away to rest. That left Ecgtheow and the king’s sons here, plus his wife and daughter, and a few other thegns. The king’s most trusted circle all here now, all wondering over what to do about this pile of troll shit.

  Especially Ecgtheow. Jarl Bjalmar had sheltered him once, had helped them all. Seemed like a good man. Having his people raid Hrethel’s seaside towns tarnished that image a bit, true enough, but still. Still, he was Hervor’s grandfather, and the shieldmaiden had fought beside Ecgtheow in some of the toughest battles he’d ever faced.

  He’d have liked to have called her a friend.

  Though, he supposed, a friend might’ve stayed when he asked and helped to prevent her grandfather from going to war against Ecgtheow’s father-in-law. All these politics always turned his stomach.

  He preferred a clear-cut battle. Your foes straight ahead of you. Of course, after Thule and that mess with Jorund, Ecgtheow supposed he’d seen about enough of battle for one lifetime. So maybe he’d have preferred to avoid the war all together. Thus, more fucking politics.

  “We have no choice but to strike back,” Herebeald said. “He has openly defied our authority. If we don’t make an example of him, we risk the other jarls getting ideas.”

  Hrethel shook his head. Maybe thinking the same as his
son. Then again, maybe remembering how Bjalmar had been his ally just a few moons back. Ecgtheow wouldn’t have wished that choice on anyone.

  “Bjalmar betrays us,” the king repeated.

  Like that was the only fucking thing to say about all this. Shit. Maybe it was.

  “Maybe …” Ecgtheow said. “Maybe we ought to send an emissary, try to get him to relent. If need be … another damned holmgang.”

  “After he’s already murdered people loyal to us?” Herebeald said. “You cannot be serious. Now is the time to strike. There is naught left to discuss.”

  Hrethel rose, face stern as a rock. “My son is correct. Bjalmar had his chance to cooperate. Now, all his lands and titles are forfeit.”

  Ecgtheow grunted. That was not like to please Hervor. Sure, she had her chance to avert this, but still … He didn’t much like having to fight her kin. Nor take her birthright away. That sort of thing tended to rile up even the most even-tempered of men—and Hervor was aught but even-tempered.

  The king looked to him. “Forget your previous allegiances, my son. They were built on water. You are tied to us now by blood.”

  “Suppose I am.”

  Hrethel nodded. “And we must plan how we are to strike back.”

  “They’ll be expecting it,” Haethcyn said. “So we have to hit so hard and so fast their guile won’t matter.”

  Ecgtheow grunted again, shaking his head. Damn it. Damn Bjalmar for forcing this upon him. Damn Hervor for not being here to prevent this. Hel take the whole damned family. Ecgtheow looked back at Hrethel. “Think I need a bit of air first. I’m more inclined to the leading of raids than the planning of them in any event.”

  The king favored him with a long, heavy look. Ylva too stared at him—her belly now beautifully thick—with undisguised worry.

  Ecgtheow offered his wife a nod. “You’ve naught to fret over. I’ll be back within an hour. Just got to clear my head, spend a bit of time alone.”

  Obviously reluctant, still she nodded. She was getting good at telling what he needed. One more reason to be glad of her. He ducked out of the hall and wandered away from the town, following the lakeside a long way.