by Matt Larkin
Now … Well, being queen of an empty, frozen plain did not quite appeal.
They pressed on until, as evening drew nigh, a scout returned, shambling toward Seskef like he’d pitch over any moment. Ilona hurried closer to catch his report.
“ … The slope keeps the worst of the snows off … ground is hot, even … don’t understand …”
“What are you saying?” Seskef demanded, once again fiddling with his precious arm ring.
“Gothmundr spoke true. The valley seems protected … kindly vaettir or something else. You must see it, my prince.”
Kindly vaettir? Ilona almost laughed. That vaettir might lock out the worst of the cold and protect a valley, that she could believe. That they welcomed humans … well. If vaettir dwelt in the valley, they too could be propitiated with sacrifices of one kind or another. Such was necessary to ensure the survival of these people.
Seskef barely gave the scout time to drink water and catch his breath before demanding the man show them the way.
Night had already fallen when they reached the place. The hills around it were so steep Ilona had to use her hands to steady herself on the way up. Atop the hill, she joined Seskef, who stared down into the valley. The hillside fell away in nigh to a sheer drop, ringing the valley. She couldn’t see the far side through the mist and darkness, but if it was similar, perhaps the place was more crater than valley.
Mist wafted up out of it, further obscuring her view.
“This is it?” Seskef asked. “I don’t see what … wait. Is that water down there in the center? Unfrozen?”
A crater … a caldera? Ilona sucked in a sudden breath. “That’s not mist … it’s steam.” The Fire vaettr within her stirred, drawn to the flames beneath the land. “The valley is heated from underground.”
Seskef nodded slowly. “Flame spirits.”
Perhaps, though, either way, it suited her purposes for the people to think that. After all, she, the pyromancer, was the expert on flame. “Very likely. If they have kept this place safe for so long, they may require … that we honor them if we wish to partake of their bounty.”
The prince grunted, and she looked to his face. His anger had settled over him like a cloak. The deaths of his wife and of Felman had not sat well with him, nor the loss of his kingdom. He would not require so very much prodding to become hers.
All she had to offer him was the one thing he desired most.
Vengeance, upon those he blamed for all his losses. The Niflungar first, of course, though Ilona suspected Seskef would seek recompense from all the heirs of Halfdan. Those who betrayed him, and those who refused to shelter the Skjöldungar.
“Your people need time to recover,” Ilona said. “This place offers them that.”
“I want more than recovery.” Seskef pointed at the steam rising over the caldera. “I want power. There are Fire vaettir there? Like the one you command? I too wish to touch the flame and ravage my enemies with it.”
“Y-you …” He wanted her to make him a pyromancer? Well. Damn. She wasn’t even halfway certain she could manage the ritual by herself.
He grabbed her by the arms and spun her around. “Do not think I fail to see you, witch. I see your heart … your lust for power.” He leaned in close to her face, until his breath warmed her cheek. “Give me what I need, and I shall satisfy your every lust. Give me the powers I seek, and you shall sit beside me as we retake our lands in Midgard. But we must have the power of the Lofdar. We must hold flame in our hands.”
Ilona forced the slight tremble of her lip to stillness. “I will give you what you seek. I will give you the power of the Otherworlds.”
Seskef kissed her then, roughly, his tongue scraping over hers. Finally, he broke away. “So, let us then take shelter in our new home.”
“Shelter.” She nodded. “And the first steps … of our ascension.”
26
No matter how many times Ecgtheow ran it over in his mind, it never made the slightest bit of sense. He could remember the rage that had taken him when he set upon Jarl Bjalmar’s men. The same rage that had driven him to murder Headolaf. He could remember the feeling, just not the why of it. Why in the gates of Hel had he felt so consumed?
The only answer he could come back to was a simple, unpleasant truth. He was a pile of troll shit. He was a murdering bastard who’d done naught but wrong with his life. He’d raided and pillaged for Gylfi, sure enough, and earned renown, but that hadn’t been enough for him. Being a thegn, fastening a name, it hadn’t been nigh to enough.
And now here he was, wandering the path through the woods of Ostergotland, heading toward the Wulfing lands so he could try to plead with them. Try to pretend he wasn’t that bastard who had gutted one of their sons, purely on account of him not liking the words the man spoke.
Yes, Ecgtheow was a man of honor. Honor worth less than the hair on a troll’s arse.
How many fights had he been in? Hel, he wasn’t sure he could even count them all anymore. Lot of blood, lot of dead men. Maybe a lot of them didn’t have to die, but he’d killed them anyway, all to make a name for himself.
Well and good, but … why Headolaf? And why the fuck had he mutilated and shamed that other thegn, Gunther? What need for that? Odin called men to fight with courage, to die with courage. Far as Ecgtheow knew, the Ás never asked men to massacre nor then to desecrate the dead.
And a man who does like that and can’t say why … well, now he was back to the pile of troll shit, and naught more to say about it.
Ecgtheow spit on the side of the road.
Damn it.
If his father was watching from Valhalla, the man was probably ready to disown Ecgtheow by now.
Only thing for it was to go to Helm and admit his crime, try to pay whatever weregild the man would name and make recompense. That was what a brave man would do. Never mind that he had looked back—more than once—and given many a thought to running off in some other direction. A man could choose outlawry … except, in the eyes of his ancestors, that would mean Ecgtheow was hardly a man anymore.
So, then. On to face Headolaf’s kin and what judgment they’d levy on him.
It was a damn long walk, this.
It was late in the afternoon when they set upon him.
A dozen men, all come up quiet as woodland natives, on him before he knew it.
Ecgtheow didn’t fight them.
Not when a man smashed him in the face with a shield. And sure as shit not after, when there wasn’t much fight left in him.
They clapped iron manacles around his wrists, tore off his shirt, and pelted him with mud and dung. Slapped the backs of his thighs with clubs hard enough he felt sure his bones would snap in two.
Then they demanded he fucking walk.
’Course, at that point, he’d have called it more of a shamble than a walk. Which was probably the point, Ecgtheow supposed. They marched him dirty, bloody, and stumbling through the town. On past a great crowd that had already gathered, a throng of men and women all hungering for blood.
Clearly, word of his deed had already reached them.
How? Had Hrethel sent a rider to admit the crime ahead of time?
Didn’t matter the least now, Ecgtheow supposed. It was what it was, and for all that, he was maybe better off having them know. If he’d come and had to be the one to deliver the news of Headolaf’s murder himself, he might have faced even more hostile odds. What was worse? Facing the kin when the shock was fresh, or when they’d had time to stew over the murder a bit?
Huh. Neither sounded too appealing.
They drove Ecgtheow down on his knees in the midst of the circle. Helm was there, watching him with cold eyes, fingers twitching at his side. The man stalked over and walked a full circuit around Ecgtheow, came all the way back around, and stopped in front of him.
Then his fist descended.
It cracked into Ecgtheow’s jaw and filled his vision with white light. The force of it sent him crashing down into the dust.
Leaning on one arm, Ecgtheow knelt there, blinking, trying to shake the blurriness from his eyes.
Finally, he looked up at Helm.
The jarl shook his head, still pacing in front of Ecgtheow, not three feet away. “You have some serious stones, coming here. I’ve half a mind to cut them off and hang them from my walls.”
Ugh. The mental image of that made Ecgtheow squirm. Good to know what a fine start he’d made with the jarl. “I have come to admit my crime and offer what recompense you demand.”
“Recompense!” Helm looked about the circle a bare instant. Then he spun back and punched Ecgtheow again, fist cracking him right on the nose.
This time, Ecgtheow did fall over backward. The pain of it blinded him, and he clutched his nose, tears welling in his eyes. Fuck! Slowly, he crawled back up to his knees, trying to blink away the tears blurring his vision. Blood dribbled out over his lips and dripped from his chin, but he made no effort to staunch the flow.
“I’ve no excuse for my crimes, save that some madness took me.” His voice came out all wheezy from his broken nose. Might have been funny, circumstances being different. “Still, I’d see this buried before it becomes a blood feud.”
Helm sneered and leaned down level with Ecgtheow’s face. He roughly jerked his fingers under Ecgtheow’s chin and then pulled his hand away, held his fingers before his face, displaying the crimson staining them. “Already a lot of blood, wouldn’t you say?”
“Not a reason to go looking for more.”
“Maybe just yours. I hear you rent one of Bjalmar’s thegns limb from limb.” He turned about to his men. “Does that sound a fitting punishment for such crimes?”
A few shouts of agreement.
“Wait.” The word sounded so weak, pathetic even, wheezing out of him. He was a sorry little shit now, wasn’t he? “Wait. I cannot take back the madness that gripped me … but I would not see this whole country drowned in war. Name a weregild, please.”
“And what will you pay for my dead nephew? Have you some hidden hoard?” Helm scoffed, shook his head. “Fine. Pay me Headolaf’s weight in silver.”
Ugh. A big man like Headolaf, that’d be more than a bit of silver. More than even most jarls could have easily come up with, much less agreed to.
Ecgtheow didn’t bother to answer. If the man was set on executing him, then that was his urd. Ecgtheow sure as Hel’s tits wasn’t going to sit here on his knees and beg for his life. He’d brought enough shame to his ancestors as it was. Least he could do now was die like a man.
Helm paced around, mumbling something to himself. Finally, he turned back to Ecgtheow. The jarl reached down and grabbed him by the back of his head and hefted him painfully to his feet, held his face close to his own.
“Headolaf’s mother was my sister. But she and her husband died when he was young. He came into our other sister’s care and she raised him like her own … at least until she married off to ensure peace with the Reidgotalanders.”
What was he on about now? What did Reidgotaland have to do with aught? Ecgtheow stared hard at the jarl, blood still seeping out of his broken nose.
“I admit … Your courage in coming here astounds me. I am almost inclined to believe your claims of temporary madness. So, if you are so very brave, go then to see my sister. Tell her how you murdered her nephew, her beloved Headolaf. And convince her that we ought to make peace. Do this, and I will end this blood feud and this war. If you speak truth and the Aesir favor you, perhaps you will succeed.”
Ecgtheow wanted to groan. The jarl was sending him from a ring of enraged Wulfings hungry for his blood to … a would-be mother deprived of her child? He’d almost be more inclined to face the judgment from Helm. He’d expect more mercy that way.
But then, he’d come here to make amends, so he couldn’t rightly shirk from the way Helm demanded recompense. “Who is your sister?”
“Her name is Wealthow and she is Queen of Reidgotaland.”
Oh. King Hrothgar’s wife. Well … fuck.
“Get her blessing and I will spare you and Hrethel both. Fail … and I will take my vengeance out on your lord even if I must destroy this land in the process. I swear it, thegn. I will call upon my brother-in-law in Reidgotaland, I will call upon the jarls who served Gauti and those who joined Haki. I will take loans from wealthy Siggeir Wolfsblood to hire mercenaries of great and ill repute. And I will bury Hrethel, no matter the cost to Sviarland. That is my oath to you, murderer.”
Ecgtheow straightened to his full height. So if he did not go and throw himself upon the mercy of the queen, Hrethel might fall. And if King Hrethel fell, it meant his family was like to follow him to the grave. Including Ylva and Ecgtheow’s unborn child. That he would never allow.
Never.
There were just some things a man couldn’t bear to lose. His wife, his children. Up until now he might have counted honor on that list. But fuck it all.
“Suppose I go to Hrothgar’s court and they have me killed?”
Helm folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “Then I suppose I will hear of it. If you die well, I will hold your oath fulfilled, and then Hrethel and I can talk of peace once more. But whether you expect life or death, I would urge you to go with haste. Sjaelland is many days away, and much can happen before you reach it, and before word comes back to me.”
Not much of a choice, Ecgtheow supposed.
Not much of a choice at all.
27
“Can you walk?”
Hervor shook her head to clear the vision away.
“Can you walk?” Starkad repeated.
She grunted, pushing herself up. “How long?”
“A while.”
They both sat just outside the town, in easy sight of the buildings. Starkad must have dragged her out here and decided that was far enough … for a little while. Once the sun set, the ghosts would return. The flame wraith and his warriors, be they also wraiths or Hel knew what.
Hervor coughed, cleared her throat. Ilona’s memories were growing more intense. The witch had lost herself in this place, and in Seskef. And now, witch, prince, and everyone else who had come here was dead, trapped forever in their restless procession.
No place for the living.
She rose with Starkad’s help, and they made their way toward the cliff. The mist grew thicker as they walked, until she couldn’t make much out. Hervor flailed around and grabbed Starkad’s hand, and they pressed on.
“The torch should be driving back more of this stuff,” he said.
Huh. Hervor hadn’t thought of it, but true enough, he held a torch, and still the mist swirled about them, refusing to be parted.
“Wasn’t the cliff closer than this?” she asked after a moment.
She could have sworn they’d only had to trek a short distance to reach the town the first time.
Starkad drew her to a stop, swept the torch around in a circle. The vapors blocked her view of his face, of aught really, save the faint gleam of his torch. The sputter of flame and the slow breaths he took were all she could hear.
“I think …” he said. “I think the town is that way. So if we walk in the opposite direction …”
Hervor tightened her grip on his hand then pulled him along. She was beyond ready to leave this place behind. Now she had two lifetimes’ worth of memories in which to loathe the valley.
On and on they pressed, but still the ground did not slope upwards.
“We’ve passed this tree before,” Starkad said.
Hervor drew closer to him until she could see the withered pine he had a hand against. “So we’re going in circles?”
“Something is leading us in circles.”
“What? You’re saying the prince is …”
Starkad pulled her around to look in her face, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe not the prince. Maybe when that ghost touched you she … infected you.”
Hervor recoiled at his words and brushed his hands off her. “You mean I can’t leave?
Is that what you’re trying to say?” Odin’s fucking stones … “Fine then. You go. Don’t let me hold you back. Go!”
He held up his hands in warding. “Calm down. You’re letting this place get to you. I’m not leaving you behind. Something has tied us here, trapped us inside the same curse as the ghosts.”
Her pulse was pounding in her ears almost as if she’d drawn Tyrfing without a clear foe. Infected her? Ilona had infected her? Had the witch ghost done so on purpose? Hervor pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her gagging.
Starkad grabbed her arm again and held her still. “Listen to me, Hervor. We must stay calm. We can find a way out of this—”
“Can we? Have you escaped any other curses laid upon you?”
Now Starkad scowled and released her. “Whatever they intended to do with the ritual we saw, it must have taken a lot of power. The princes of the Old Kingdoms were rumored to be sorcerers, so maybe Seskef worked with Ilona to do this. Either way, if we find the source of this power, perhaps we can disrupt it and escape. But none of that will happen if you panic.”
“I don’t fucking panic! I don’t ever fucking panic.”
“Good. Don’t start now.” He turned away, swept the torch about, then began to wander.
Leaving her no choice but to follow or find herself lost without flame. Bastard.
She trailed close behind him, unwilling to let him out of her sight in the mist. After a short walk, the vapors thinned a bit, revealing the town before them, as if they had barely even left.
Starkad turned to her, brows creased and shaking his head. “The key to all of this may lie in Ilona’s memories.”
Hervor spat. “You want me to try to have a vision? On purpose? You got troll shit between your ears?”
“We have to use our daylight wisely. We don’t know what they did or why, so we can’t begin to guess how to undo it.”
