by Matt Larkin
Flames.
Fire vaettir.
“Starkad!” Hervor shrieked. “Lure him here!” She stepped forward, in front of the altar, Tyrfing up to bear. “Join me! Trust me!”
Gasping, Starkad scrambled along the floor to her side. He’d dropped both his swords in the chaos, but he didn’t pause to grab either. “G-give me Tyrfing …”
She ignored that. “Get ready. One more—”
Ilona appeared again, face a mask of rage as she closed in.
The flame wraith streaked toward them so fast his form seemed a blur. His glowing brand trailed behind him, showering sparks in its wake.
Hervor waited a bare instant and then shoved Starkad to one side, pushing off him to throw herself in the opposite direction. She hit the floor even as Seskef swept that massive brand down on the spot they had occupied.
His smoldering weapon struck the bones and ignited them, sheared through the altar, and carved out a chunk of the floor.
Ilona’s ghost burst into flames, her wail echoing through the tunnel. Seskef faltered. His flaming brand crumbled into ashes and blew away as if a breeze swept through the tube.
The bones ought to have made a tiny fire, but the flames rose higher and higher, becoming a bonfire so bright Hervor had to look away. Other wails joined Ilona’s, all the ghosts shrieking in Otherworldly torment.
Hervor scrambled away from the ever-growing flame where the altar had once stood. The blaze separated her from Starkad. Was he hurt? Had he made it?
There. He was crawling along the floor, making his way back to Skofnung.
All at once, the bonfire dwindled down to embers, leaving them in nigh to total darkness once again.
No flaming wraith. No sign of Ilona. Even their torch was out.
“Starkad?” Her voice almost broke. She sounded like some pathetic wretch. Under the circumstances, he probably wouldn’t even notice.
“I live.”
So … she had done it. She had broken the curse by sacrificing Ilona to her own godsdamned ritual. The ground beneath Hervor felt warm. Given the recent blaze, she hadn’t noticed it at first. But this was … heat. Like she’d felt here in the past.
A torch crackled to life down the tunnel, and she looked up sharply. That wasn’t Starkad holding it.
Starkad rose then, blade in hand. “Scyld.”
The burned man held a torch in one hand, his eyes smoldering with flames within. His smirk was … twisted. Something vile lurked behind those eyes, she knew it did. And with Ilona’s memories, Hervor could too easily guess what.
“Bedwigius,” she said, rising, Tyrfing still in hand.
The man chuckled. “Oh … A dead name for a dead man. Scyld will do.”
Hervor drew up beside Starkad, who glanced back and forth between her and the man before them. “I killed Ilona.”
“A rather long time ago, yes. And I came to the boy, back then. But a part of me was trapped in the same warped agony as these wretched souls. It left me fractured, unable to take full control of the host. And so she had to die again …”
“Host?” Starkad said. “You’ve possessed the boy.”
Scyld chuckled, the sound thick and unsettling. “Not the brightest ember, you, but you get there eventually. He fought me, over the years, the boy, his own mind failing him, but still not ready to surrender. So I needed one who would break the curse and end the cycle, free the better part of myself. And in the end, the witch got all she desired.” He spread his hands as if to indicate himself.
Hervor found it hard to swallow. “An immortal warrior possessed by a Fire vaettr. Not quite how she imagined it.”
“Mortal minds are petty, weak things.”
“Immortal?” Starkad asked. “We’ll see.” He advanced, Skofnung out before him.
“Wait,” Hervor said, or tried—Starkad lunged forward.
Scyld moved faster. Maybe it was Starkad’s fatigue. Maybe the Fire vaettr was just that damned fast. Either way, he caught Starkad’s wrist and twisted, sending Starkad stumbling to his knees. Scyld placed a hand on Starkad’s chest and pushed. The force of it lifted Hervor’s friend off the ground and hurtled him through the air.
Starkad flew several feet before slamming back down to the ground.
Odin’s stones.
Hervor snarled at Scyld, who raised a warning finger. Given what she’d just seen, he’d easily do the same to her. She’d be a fool to try it.
She tried it anyway.
Hervor launched herself forward, whipping Tyrfing in an upward arc that ought to have split Scyld from hip to shoulder. He danced out of the way so fast she barely saw the move. Then he was behind her, a hand on each of her shoulders.
He pushed down with such force she collapsed, slamming her knees into the rock. A jolt of pain shot through her legs at the impact. Blew out all other thought.
Scyld was behind her, hands still on her shoulders. He leaned in close to her ear. His breath was so hot it felt like it scorched her face. “In the end, you have done me a favor, and thus I return it … and spare what is left of your pathetic lives. Perhaps you may yet live long enough to see the end.”
She couldn’t swallow. His fingers were hot irons, boring into her shoulders. Locking her in place more effectively than any manacle. “The end … of what?”
“Man.”
He released her and backed away, then slipped out into the night.
She gasped at the pain in her arms. Only a moment, though. She scrambled over to where Starkad had fallen. He struggled to sit up, rubbing his wrist.
Hervor took his hand in her own, massaging it. “What in the gates of Hel just happened?”
“I think we … just freed something we ought not to have.”
“Freed what? Have you seen aught like that before?”
Starkad shifted to look into her eyes, his face drawn tight, though not, it seemed, only from pain. “Once. A long time ago, I fought with … I was with Vallanders fighting against the Serklanders. We came upon such a warrior, and he tore through our ranks like a killing wind. Stronger, faster than … any mortal.”
“How did you live through that?”
Starkad opened his mouth, then snapped it shut and shook his head.
No. No, not this time. Not after everything they’d been through. “Tell me. Please.”
“Tyr.”
Hervor sputtered. “T-the god of war? You know the Ás god of war?”
Starkad chuckled, then snorted. “I have met him.”
“Is … is it true he trained you?”
He hesitated again, clenched his jaw. Hervor reached out and placed both her hands along the sides of his cheeks.
Finally, Starkad nodded.
Odin’s stones. Oh. Damn. “Have you met Odin as well?”
Again the hesitation. The too-obvious desire to clamp his mouth shut, to say naught at all. “Yes.”
Ten thousand questions surged through her mind. But maybe she had pushed him far enough this day. Maybe it was enough, for now. Besides, they had lingered in this valley too long already. “Shall we go?”
Starkad rose, pulling her to her feet as well. “First, let us see if aught of value remains here. Treasures of the Old Kingdoms might go a long way back home.”
She smiled at that.
36
Rather than pass through Skane, Ecgtheow had taken a boat from the western shores of Ostergotland to the island of Sjaelland, where Hrothgar’s court lay. On the cusp of winter, the storms had already begun, and the passage proved a rough one. More so for the churning in Ecgtheow’s gut than the churning in the sea.
Knowing he most like went to his own death didn’t make for pleasant travel, he supposed.
Such was urd.
Hrothgar had a hall so great he’d named the place, called it Heorot. Long and tall, and located not so very far from the northern fjords of Sjaelland, the hall could have comfortably feasted a small army of warriors. It was among the finest Ecgtheow had ever seen.
And
why not? Hrothgar’s father Healfdene had managed to make himself king of almost all of Reidgotaland. With such a glorious domain, a king needed a glorious hall. It was only fitting.
Unlike in Helm’s lands, no one seemed to expect Ecgtheow’s coming here, nor know of him. A pair of Hrothgar’s men met him halfway up the path from the fjord to the hall, demanding to know his business.
“I’m Ecgtheow the Tiny, here from …” Well, he wasn’t really from the court of Hrethel anymore. Wasn’t really from much of anywhere, he supposed. “Here from Ostergotland to see the king and queen on an urgent matter.”
One of the men shrugged at the other, then beckoned him to follow. They led him the rest of the way to Heorot, Ecgtheow’s stomach lurching with every step. Best not to think overmuch on what tortures Wealthow might dream up for him. He’d face it all if it meant sparing Ylva and his child. Face it with as much courage as he could muster and maybe, just maybe, he’d get to see Valhalla.
Great oaken double doors to the hall already lay thrown wide and welcoming, and his escort guided him inside the smoky hall. They passed a good many long tables lined with benches, most empty at this hour in the mid-afternoon. A dozen braziers kept the hall warm, even given the brisk wind outside. Mighty latticed windows sat in the upper reaches near the rafters, letting out a good portion of the smoke, letting in a crisscross of sunbeams too.
A king could be proud of such a place, no mistake. Ecgtheow would never see finer, he supposed.
The king and his queen both reclined in their thrones, waiting, as his escort announced him. Everyone at ease, welcoming a guest. Shame how fast that was like to change when he explained the reason for his visit. Great shame.
Hrothgar favored him with a slight smile and beckoned him forward. When Ecgtheow had come closer, the king nodded. “So then, tell us news of Ostergotland. Rumors fly that the peace has broken once again.”
Thanks to Ecgtheow, in no small measure. “It has, my king. I … uh … Well, your majesty …”
Yes, Ecgtheow was troll shit. That’s just what he was. Come all this way to confess his crime and try to make peace, and now he was hesitating. Well then. Best be to it before he embarrassed himself any further.
“There is a long tale of what’s happened, painful to tell, but I have no choice, really. You see, Jarl Bjalmar betrayed the peace, and so we razed his lands and took him prisoner.”
Hrothgar leaned back in his throne. “Reasonable response. But tale of that has already reached these isles.”
“Well, yes. And then, you see, Helm Wulfingson sent his nephew, one … Headolaf.”
The queen smiled at the mention of her nephew. She looked vital still, vibrant, though she must have seen a good many winters already.
Once, Ecgtheow’s father had told him the only thing worse than doing a crime is trying to hide it. A proper man admits to his failings and takes his punishment openly before men and gods. That’s what his father said, and Ecgtheow supposed it must be true.
“Headolaf … A fit of rage took me, I cannot say quite why. But I murdered him in Hrethel’s very hall, without any kind of permission from the king.”
The queen gasped and the king scowled, all hint of friendliness banished in an instant.
Best if he just plowed ahead and got the full story out before someone came along and slapped more manacles on him. “So I came to Helm to offer weregild. He set a price he knew I couldn’t pay and bade me—if I wanted peace, that is—bade me come here and confess to you and the queen. Helm said I was to press your majesties for peace, and if I could convince you …”
“Enough!” the queen snapped. She leaned forward so far in her throne Ecgtheow thought her like to leap up and strangle him herself. That’d be a fitting end to him, he supposed. Throttled by a woman, and him probably unwilling to defend himself. “You …” She sneered, then hissed like a damn serpent. Pretty much the response he expected.
Hrothgar patted her hand, but she snatched it away. The king looked at Ecgtheow. “I admire your bravery coming to these shores with such a message.”
“Bravery!” Wealthow spat. “Bravery! It is brazenness! It is unendurable gall! He mocks us in our own hall! My brother has sent him here that we might show him proper recompense for his crimes.” She hissed again. “Hang him from an old oak. No! No, gut him and leave him alive for ravens to feast on his intestines!”
Ecgtheow flinched at that image. Not much left to say in his defense, he supposed. “If that is truly your wish, I submit to your judgment.”
Wealthow growled unintelligibly, then shook her head. “What is that punishment in skalds’ tales? The bird … the blood eagle!”
“No.” Hrothgar spoke the word quietly, but with the utter firmness of a king broking no disagreement.
“No? No? He slew my sister’s son. He admits the crime!”
Hrothgar nodded, not taking his eyes of Ecgtheow. “He did admit the crime. A criminal would have fled. But this man came first to the lord of the man he slew, then walked, without hesitation, into the hall of kin to the slain, all to try to make recompense.”
Without hesitation was a stretch. Ecgtheow had considered turning back about a score of times. Shit, a score of times today alone. He could have fled anywhere and been unknown. Become a raider or pirate here in Reidgotaland. Gone further, to Hunaland, and found work as a mercenary. But then the war would go on … and Ylva and their child might damn well pay for his crimes.
Not even a pile of troll shit could allow that to happen. Just couldn’t be, no matter his own fears.
“So you will allow him to escape punishment?” the queen demanded.
“I daresay coming here is the bravest thing I have ever seen.”
She scoffed. “I loved Headolaf as though he were my own son. You would have me shelter his murderer?”
“I would have you send to your brother and urge him to end the feud, and with it the war. Before you lose any more members of your family. I, myself, shall pay whatever weregild Helm demands for Headolaf’s murder.”
Ecgtheow’s heart caught in his throat. To hear such words spoken on his behalf left him woozy. Like stumbling through some mead-induced dream. What sort of king was so generous with his wealth? A great man, for certain. Ecgtheow swallowed, trying to find words to express his gratitude, but none came. All he could do was toss Hrothgar’s own words around in his head.
Was it possible he might yet live through this? Was there a chance?
Queen Wealthow seemed less certain, her face a mask, her posture stiff as she looked from Ecgtheow to her husband and back. “Far be it for me to speak out against my husband’s will in his own kingdom.”
“Then it is settled,” Hrothgar said, and slapped his armrests. “I will not see a man of such courage meet an unworthy end. A warrior like this must die on the battlefield.”
Hel’s icy crotch. Had that just happened? Had the king truly spared him? “I … uh … My king. I pledge my eternal friendship to you for this. My line shall forever be indebted to yours. If ever you need aught, but send the word and I shall come. I … I shall come.”
Hrothgar chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, I would expect no less. So, wife, will you send to your brother my offer and request to end the war?”
The queen sat very still, gaze locked dead ahead, seeming not to even see Ecgtheow anymore. “I will.” Barely a whisper.
Oh, Ecgtheow was not like to earn her forgiveness.
One unexpected and favorable twist of urd was already more than he could have dreamed of.
“So,” the king said. “Ecgtheow the Tiny. You will stay in my hall for the winter, until such time as word comes back from Helm. If all goes well, perhaps you may return to Sviarland in summer.”
That would mean missing the birth of his child. Ecgtheow frowned, or started to, and caught himself. He was in no position to refuse Hrothgar aught the king requested. Shit, if Hrothgar asked him to go conquer another kingdom for him, and to do so while blindfolded, Ecgtheow would be
obliged to try.
So he just nodded.
Hrothgar had his men take Ecgtheow to a small house in the town, half a mile or so from Heorot, closer to the fjord. They left him there. No guards. ’Course, he imagined the men would spread word about his presence in the town. Plenty of warriors would be keeping their eyes on him, he supposed. Only fitting.
And here he was, stuck in Reidgotaland through the winter. Unable to see through a war he had practically started all by himself. Unable to do aught save sit here and wait, pray Helm accepted Hrothgar’s offer. And if he did, Ecgtheow would spend the rest of his life trying to pay back the Reidgotalander king.
Pride and a lust for glory.
Look what they had wrought.
Had Ecgtheow just stayed a thegn to Gylfi, maybe none of this would’ve happened.
Or, Hel, maybe it would have. Hrethel would’ve still wanted the throne of Ostergotland. Bjalmar would’ve still betrayed them. Not that it made one bit of sense. Why would the jarl attack a foe with many times his strength, especially after his own allies had made peace? Why would he?
Troll shit was what it was. All troll shit.
Ecgtheow settled down on the floor of that house and stared out the doorway at the small town, watched the fjords.
Huh.
Orvar-Oddr had disappeared right about the time Ecgtheow was banished. But that draug, he wanted vengeance on Hervor. Wanted it bad. Revenge, it was all that drove draugar. So maybe he’d have still set upon Hervor’s grandfather, regardless of if Ecgtheow had been there. Maybe he would have …
Maybe …
Oh. “Fuck.”
Maybe he’d have even started a war. Tricked Bjalmar into attacking? The draug did vanish for fortnights at a time, or longer. Or maybe … maybe just even made it look like Bjalmar had been the one to attack.
Gunther had called Ecgtheow and his men faithless. Had acted like they had been the ones to break the peace.
“Fuck!”
A few townsfolk looked in on his house at his outburst.
“Troll shit!” Ecgtheow climbed to his feet and stumbled out to the fjord. “Fucking troll shitter, Orvar! You bastard!” He roared out over the water.
