by Matt Larkin
Hervor groaned, then rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. Tyrfing lay a few feet from her, discarded. Starkad lurched over to where she lay, then offered her a hand.
After a brief moment, she took it, and he pulled her up. She paused, then reached for Tyrfing, but stopped short. Her face a mask of confusion. “I did not kill anyone …”
Tyrfing’s curse.
“If I pick it up now …”
Starkad scratched his beard. “I have no idea. I don’t know what happened. Did we break the curse? Are we free?” He glanced back to the altar. Skofnung was still stuck down in it, though the crack no longer broke the altar’s surface. It was as if the sword had slid smoothly into a slot in the top. “What the …”
Voices rang out from the entrance to the tunnel.
As Hervor scrambled to her feet, a dozen men raced in, their armor clinking as they ran. Torchlight glinted off their spears and blades and axes, and the men formed up, surrounding Starkad and Hervor. Living men, thick with sweat and staring at them with hostile gazes. One of them shouted at him in what sounded like Old Northern.
The Old Tongue?
Were these the ghosts? Somehow alive again? Their armor looked the same … in fact, one bearing a sword looked like one of the very shades Starkad had fought already.
Their words were barely comprehensible, especially with several of them all shouting to each other and at Starkad and Hervor at the same time. Behind them, some of the men beckoned with weapons, ordering them to march out of the tunnel. That meaning, at least, was completely clear.
Hervor moved to snatch up Tyrfing, but one of the men grabbed it before she could.
“You son of a troll!” she roared. “Return my family’s legacy before—”
“Hervor!” Starkad snapped. “Best go along until the situation favors us.”
Now she turned her glare on him. But at least, prodded by a spear, she did walk.
The men led them outside the tunnel the depression before the cave.
The sun above glinted brightly, but that was not the oddest thing. An almost oppressive heat filled the valley, and all the snows had melted, leaving behind green trees and bushes and a town filled with men and women and children, all bustling about.
“What in Hel’s icy crotch?” Hervor managed.
“Hel!” One of the men shouted. That prompted a fresh bout of arguments among their captors, lines that went by far too quickly for Starkad to make out their meaning.
In any event, they gave him little time to dwell on it.
The crowd parted as a woman sashayed toward them. She was all grace and sensuality, with a walk he instantly recognized even before he saw her face.
Ilona.
Alive.
Part IV
The Last Days of the Old Kingdoms
30
One of their captors presented Tyrfing to Ilona, and the witch leaned over the runeblade, inspecting it without actually touching any part of it.
“Siklingar,” she said, among other words Starkad did not catch. “Tyrfing.”
The Siklingar were one of the Old Kingdoms. So the witch recognized the runeblade … and knew it as the legacy of the Siklingar? That was more than Starkad had known of Hervor’s sword.
Now Ilona turned to look in his eyes. Her gaze held so much lascivious promise Starkad found himself fighting not to squirm under it. A woman who looked at a man like that … well, she usually only had one thing on her mind. Under that gaze, a man was like to soon only have one thing on his mind, too.
And yet, her expression did not change much when she turned her gaze on Hervor.
“Give me back my sword, you bitch!” Hervor snapped.
Ilona cocked her head to the side, offering a slight smile Starkad took for bemusement. Clearly she was having as much trouble understanding Hervor’s words as Starkad was with their language.
“Release us,” Starkad said in what he was sure was awful Old Northern. The Old Tongue had changed so much as it became the modern dialects … And Starkad was no skald to study ancient poetry.
Ilona frowned, ever so slightly, then turned to him. “You are … warriors of the Niflungar.” She spoke slowly. He could not understand every word, but her meaning seemed clear enough. One did not mistake the name Niflungar.
“No.”
“Spies.”
“No! We are …” Shit, how would he even explain this? These people should have been dead eight hundred years before he was born.
So what could have happened? Had breaking the curse brought them to life again? Or … Starkad glanced around at the much changed valley.
“This place looks like it did in my visions,” Hervor said, clearly following his gaze.
“Who do you serve?” Ilona demanded. “Are you of the line of Sigarr?”
Sigarr … founder of the Siklingar, wasn’t he? And if these people were Skjöldungar, did that make them allies or enemies? He didn’t have half an idea on that. Where was a skald when you needed one?
Either way, it seemed clear Ilona did not know the Old Kingdoms were long dead. Lost to the mists of time, like this valley.
The valley …
Had been trapped in some kind of repeating loop, playing out their final days over and over. And had breaking the curse brought them all to life again? How? How could that which was dead become alive?
“Siklingar? Or Niflungar?”
“Neither.”
Now she frowned and gestured to one of the men at Starkad’s side.
The man swung at his gut, intent to double him over. Starkad moved faster. He caught the man’s forearm, spun him around, and drove him to the ground, his own arm wrapped around his attacker’s neck.
Hervor took the opportunity to headbutt the man holding Tyrfing. In his shock, she snatched up the sword and opened his throat in a single move.
Damn it. Starkad hadn’t meant to start killing these people.
Alive again …
Like the whole town, back to how it had been in Hervor’s visions.
Well, no choice now. Starkad flung his prisoner to the ground and jerked free his blades. “Run!” he shouted at Hervor.
She needed no encouragement. At once, she set about her, and Tyrfing struck down another man. Starkad spun, whipping his blades in rapidly changing arcs. Most men fell back under his onslaught, but one was too slow and took a sword slash to the face. The poor bastard fell screaming, clutching his ruined nose and cleft jaw.
“Go!” he yelled again when Hervor hesitated, caught in a melee with two men. Starkad fought his way to her, hacked one man at the back of the leg, and sent him toppling over. Hervor scrambled out of the lava tube and up the slope into the town.
More warriors were racing in now. Starkad dashed for the main path out of the tube, but was met by a half dozen more men. Even more than that behind him. Not even he wanted to face off against almost a score of warriors.
And then Hervor was there, lopping the head clean off a man in his way. Starkad pushed through to join Hervor on the street.
“Think we can leave the valley now?” she asked, as they dashed down the street together.
“I’m not certain we should.”
Hervor groaned, then raced off to the tree line around the town. Starkad followed, but those Skjöldungar warriors were right on their heels.
He spun, swinging both swords behind him. His nearest attacker managed to stop one blade with his shield. The other cleaved into his gut and sent him reeling, sputtering blood. Starkad kicked the dying man into his allies, then turned to run again.
Hervor had already disappeared into the wood. Starkad scrambled after her, dashing around trees left and right. It was like to prove a futile attempt to lose their pursuit, but what else was he to do? The two of them could not fight every warrior in this village.
And where the fuck was Hervor? She’d just vanished.
He ducked around another tree, breath coming in gasps. He leapt over underbrush. Something snared
his ankle and jerked him down into the dust. He spun around, even as Hervor pulled him into a bush. It grew out of a slight overhang of a hill that created a tiny alcove.
Starkad would never have even noticed this place.
An instant later, a pair of warriors leapt over the same underbrush and kept running in the direction he’d been heading. More followed every couple of breaths.
The alcove was tiny, and he and Hervor were pressed up against each other so tight neither of them could have moved. If a single warrior heard or spotted them … Starkad struggled to still his breathing.
Hervor’s hand tightened around his wrist.
The warriors kept running past, dashing among the trees in pursuit.
Their voices grew farther away.
“How did you even find this place?” Starkad finally whispered to Hervor.
She sniffed. “I spent time as a bandit. Learned to find every hiding place in Deeppine. Every wood is different, but … you get good at finding this kind of place in a hurry.”
A bandit? Huh. “Sounds like a tale worth hearing. Someday.”
“Maybe. Maybe someday.” Her own voice was low, barely audible. “What did you mean we shouldn’t leave, anyway? You mean you still want to go back for Skofnung? We might get trapped again.”
“Have you noticed it’s summer here?”
“Yeah. A relief.”
“This morning we were on the cusp of winter. Now it’s summer.”
“You’re saying … we lost time?”
“I’m saying …” Damn, but he couldn’t believe he was even going to say this. “I’m saying it seems like we somehow … we went back.”
“Back?”
“Back to before the Old Kingdoms died out. Back to when these Skjöldungar were alive, back when they first came here.”
She snorted. “What, eight hundred years ago? That sort of thing is for skalds trying to entertain drunkards and children. It does not happen, Otherworldly magic or no.”
“I’d have agreed with you … but for all we’ve seen here.”
“Ilona.”
“She’s alive, Hervor. They’re all alive—save the ones we just killed to escape. It’s summer. The valley is warm again, like in your visions, not frozen.”
She squeezed his wrist again, her breath becoming a little irregular. He knew how she felt. It sounded like mist-madness … but here they were. “If … you’re right. If what you say is true—and it does look exactly like it did in Ilona’s memories—if it’s all true, then how do we get back to our own time?”
“The witch must be planning a sacrifice. We already know that.”
“Yeah.” Hervor released his arm and twisted around to look at his face, having to wriggle against him to do so. The closeness was almost comforting, despite the situation. Telling her that would only make things harder on both of them, though. She nodded. “So if we stop the ritual before the curse takes place, maybe we can escape.”
He tried to shrug but had no room to move. “I dare to hope so, though I cannot say aught with certainty, Hervor. This is completely uncharted territory we tread in. I have never heard of anyone experiencing aught like this before.”
She snorted again. “Understatement. Wish Odin could see us now.”
Huh. Interesting thought. The old bastard had guided—manipulated—Starkad’s steps for decades. But now here he was, centuries before Odin was even born. So that meant he was free of the Ás’s grasp, at least for the moment. And if Starkad were to stay in the past, could he then lead his own life?
On the other hand, Odin had given Starkad a gift—the gift of glory and long life—along with his curse. Besides, all that he and Hervor knew lay in another time. And what little Starkad did know of this age was far from pleasant. Endless war had destroyed every civilization in the North Realms. The Old Kingdoms had annihilated one another, oft calling upon fell Arts to do so. It was a poor place for him and a worse one for Hervor.
He’d come here to claim Skofnung and grant it to Gylfi on account of what the sorcerer king had done for Hervor. All that meant naught if he couldn’t help Hervor get home safe to enjoy the life Gylfi had returned to her.
“Starkad?” Hervor asked.
“Huh? Sorry.” He shook himself, then crawled out from the alcove. “If my guess is true, Ilona will try her sacrifice after sundown.”
Hervor crawled out after him, grimacing. “Always at night.”
He shrugged. “That’s just when people use the Art. I don’t know the reason, nor truly care. It’ll be dark soon.”
“In my vision, Seskef intended to aid in the ritual, maybe even lead it. They … hadn’t decided for certain, I guess.”
Starkad scrubbed his beard. “Then we kill them both before they enact their curse. Kill them, and dare to hope that alone enough to get us home.”
Hervor nodded grimly.
As they drew nigh to the lava tube, already a procession of men and women headed that way. Many of the warriors were no doubt still searching the woods for Starkad and Hervor, but several others guarded this march. Indeed, it looked so like the ghostly version they had seen, Starkad had no doubt the ritual lay at hand.
And they were already almost too late.
Hervor grumbled something under her breath, and Starkad rose from where they crouched, blades in hand.
“So,” he said. “We may not have time to try the stealthiest approach on this. Whatever happens, you must find the witch and kill her before she can complete her sorcery.”
Hervor nodded, sliding Tyrfing free of its sheath as she did so. The shieldmaiden cast a final look at him, then slunk off, flanking the tube.
Now all that remained was for Starkad to buy her the time she needed to get this done. Buying time with blood, that he could manage. Years of practice had made him an expert, in fact.
Bellowing a war cry, he charged forward. At once, the procession broke apart. Men and women scattered, several running off, others lurching backward in panic. There were a score or so of people, but not all had weapons. Still, he had to assume all these people mattered to Ilona’s ritual. And given that ritual seemed to trap Starkad and Hervor in the valley, he could not allow himself to pity men and women eight hundred years dead.
His blades flashed, cutting down the two nearest marchers. Starkad shoved the body of a dying man into his companions, tripping up a warrior trying to intercept him. Another warrior raced in on him, leading with a mighty swing of an oversized axe.
Starkad twisted out of the weapon’s path and slashed one sword along the man’s back. He didn’t have time to see if his victim fell. Already more and more people surrounded him. Starkad cut through them like a whirlwind. Blood splattered all over his face and clothes, stung his eyes, obscured his vision.
From behind, a man shoved a woman aside.
The figure who strode forward was tall and proud, decked in gilded chain and bearing a rosy gold blade carved with gleaming runes. The runeblade reflected the light of the setting sun, flashing in Starkad’s eyes. And Seskef himself advanced, his expression as grim and merciless as Starkad’s own must have been.
Where was Hervor? He had to hope she’d gotten past these people in all the confusion. Against so many foes, especially against the Skjöldung prince, Starkad couldn’t say how long he could hold out.
He whipped his swords around and pointed them both at his foe.
And Seskef roared at him, racing forward.
31
Hervor had to hand it to Starkad. When he wanted to create chaos, he created some fucking chaos. People were screaming in pain and terror, fleeing in all directions. Every warrior in the whole damned town seemed to be focusing on Hervor’s … friend. Was he more than that?
Maybe.
And he was like to get himself killed this way.
She hesitated at the lip of the lava tube. If she left him on his own, Odin alone knew what might befall Starkad. But he’d done all this just so she could get in there, kill Ilona and end this mist-
madness. Joining Starkad might mean this was all for naught.
Grimacing, she leapt over the lip and landed down in the tube. Her boots slid along the slick stone for several feet before she managed to come to a stop.
Almost immediately, a single guard at the tunnel entrance shouted, racing toward her with spear and shield.
Hervor hefted Tyrfing in her left hand. She missed having a shield, but she had to carry the damned torch. This she flung at the warrior as he drew nigh. The man beat the flaming projectile aside with his shield, but he faltered for a bare instant, out of position. Hervor surged inward, swinging Tyrfing at his spear.
The runeblade sheared through the wooden haft like it was made of straw.
As the warrior stared dumbfounded at his broken weapon, Hervor turned her blade over and thrust. The man reacted at the last instant, bringing his shield up to block. Tyrfing punched through that as well, splitting it with a crack. As she jerked her blade free, the shield split in half. Her foe gaped at her.
Hervor shrieked and came in swinging low and tight. The man tried to jump out of the way. Not fast enough, though. Not nigh to fast enough. Tyrfing opened his thigh and he fell over, clutching the wound and moaning. Hervor cleaved his head in and raced onward.
She ran into the tunnel, not bothering to stop for her fallen torch. This place was lit by sconces in any event.
Given the clamor of battle outside, the strange chanting echoing off the tunnel wall sounded faint. Just as well. The mere sound of whatever that bitch was saying to the vaettir made her skin crawl. The words didn’t belong on a human tongue. They didn’t belong in the mortal world at all.
Ilona spun on her with a fell glare but backed away from the altar, pausing only to snatch up a torch. The witch bore a bone knife in one hand.
A young man was bound there, beside Skofnung still stuck in the altar. The sacrifice. The boy on the altar … she knew him from Ilona’s memories. That was Bedwigius, Seskef’s own son. The witch intended to sacrifice the prince’s own blood.
