by Matt Larkin
“Thought you were more of those wolves for a moment there,” Ecgtheow said.
Damn pack had been trailing them the last two miles, at least. Always just out of sight, save for a few glimpses here and there. A few barks, growls. The godsdamned howling.
Wudga shook his head. “These are not the leanest moons. Wolves won’t draw over nigh to people unless mad or starving. Had we come this way in the depths of winter … Well, we might get a closer look at the beasts.”
Right. “I’ve seen more than enough for now, just the same.” Besides, in winter, they’d have had dogsleds. Instead of using himself like a damn pack mule.
The clearing, as it turned out, housed the crumbling foundations of what must have once been a watchtower. At its highest part, it now stood no more than a head higher than Ecgtheow himself, so he couldn’t judge well how tall it had reached when in use. Broken stones from the tower were scattered around the clearing, some half-embedded in the ground.
Gylaug and Hervor had already started pitching tents while Latham was kindling a much welcome fire.
Ecgtheow dragged the meat over to where the other pirate crouched, shrugged off the straps, and collapsed on the dirt. Cold and hard, true, but just getting off his feet was welcome at the moment. To Ecgtheow’s surprise—and delight—Latham had turned out to be more than a decent cook, preparing their meals every night, whenever someone managed to down game.
He was also a better conversationalist than his friend Kustaa. Better by far, Ecgtheow had to admit. He’d carry on enough for the both of them, talking about how he ought to have been a skald and would’ve been, if he hadn’t been so damn good a shot with the bow. From what Ecgtheow had seen, it was only half a boast.
Ecgtheow stretched out his aching legs. “Bear meat tonight, huh?”
“Right you are. And more than a few nights after.” Latham tapped the side of his face as if that had been some private joke. “Can’t say I’ve had overmuch chance to cook bear before, but don’t you worry. I know a trick or two to make sure any meat comes out succulent enough. Isn’t that right, Kustaa!”
Kustaa grunted.
Latham pointed at him. “Right you are. I know my meats.”
“I’d make jest of that,” Hervor rasped from inside a tent. “Except it just seems too obvious.”
Ecgtheow cast a wary glance her way. She’d mostly avoided him on their trek through Kalevala, and he didn’t much mind it. Circumstances being what they were, he needed her. Didn’t mean he had to like her and sure as Hel’s tits didn’t mean he’d trust her.
Pakkanen shuffled over and sat beside Ecgtheow, warming his hands by the fire. “In times long ago, this place was built by the Old Kingdoms to watch over the border of Pohjola. Even back then, they knew it for a fell place where men best not tread. Things will grow more perilous from here on out.”
“The Old Kingdoms?” Hervor asked, coming over to join them. “You mean by the Lofdar.”
Pakkanen cocked his head to the side. “Yes. How did you know?”
Damn good question. Hervor just shook her head, keeping yet more secrets to herself.
Pakkanen shrugged, then folded his legs beneath him, hands resting on his knees. He shut his eyes then, swaying gently back and forth.
“Whoa now,” Latham said. “We don’t need any of that witchery and black magic going on. I’m cooking here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Pakkanen kept his eyes shut. “Yes. You are cooking bear. Therefore we must give thanks to the great bear spirit, and pay our respects for his gift of one of his children.”
“Eh …” Latham wiggled a little. “You’re gonna thank someone for letting us eat his children? If that’s how you do it around here. Have to be honest though, a man comes to me and thanks me for letting him eat my son, I’d put an arrow in his eye.”
“You have a son?” Hervor asked.
“Got two sons and a daughter, as it were. Least, those are the ones I know of, if you follow me.”
Hervor snorted. “No. The complexity of your innuendos eludes me.”
Latham pointed at her. “Right you are, then. Call it three children, strong and healthy, Odin be praised.”
Odin be praised, indeed. The way Ecgtheow saw it, they were like to need the blessing of the gods before long.
“Where’s Wudga?” Gylaug asked after a moment, scratching at his brow.
Wudga. Damn bastard had no doubt slunk off into the wilds again, and with the sun already dipping low. It just wasn’t natural, a man so comfortable with the night. Fire is life. Stick by the fire. That’s what men were meant to do. And Wudga didn’t get scared enough. Always popping in and out of the group like he was just as at home in the wilds as he would be in the town.
“Are we sure we can trust him?” Gylaug asked.
Ecgtheow glanced at Hervor. “Hard to be sure who to trust, really. A man can’t know what goes on in another’s head, can he?”
Latham pointed at him. “That is a fact. We’ve been fooled before, haven’t we Kustaa?”
Kustaa spit into the fire.
Hervor glared back at Ecgtheow. That woman was going to get some or all of these people killed, Ecgtheow supposed. He owed it to his wife and son to make sure he wasn’t among the dead.
A task almost as difficult as their mission here.
14
The sound of something pecking on the wood around him woke Starkad. He knew he lay enmeshed in a cocoon of roots and vines. Perhaps he’d remained trapped here an age, his soul slowly rotting away. But the sound and the vibration had woken him. Forced him back to painful, hideous consciousness.
Forced him to re-acknowledge his own damnation.
If he was dead, he could see why the fallen would hate the living. Would hate all that existed. Most of all themselves.
And still, some pathetic, masochistic part of himself wanted to survive.
Desperately, he clawed at the surrounding roots. The pecking continued, rattling inside a skull that roots had long ago rent asunder. He tore at the vines until his cracked fingers caught hold of a root. He grasped it and yanked, finally pulling it free. His hands met dirt.
And kept clawing, forcing his way to freedom.
The roots split and broke apart, and he tumbled out of their fibrous ruins to land on soft dirt. Vines jerked out of his throat and arse and ears, all pulling free with painful rips that shredded his insides from top to bottom.
He lay there, blood and tree sap oozing from nigh to every orifice in his body. Finally, he drew in a breath. The air felt like a hundred knives tearing through his savaged throat. It burned his lungs and set him to a fit of coughing, until he retched, heaving up leaves and dirt and clumps of moss.
And then he collapsed, unable to even open his eyes. Maybe he slept another age—he could not say.
When he opened his eyes, he still lay in a forest, albeit not nigh to so dense as before. The canopy was light, exposing a larger, closer moon than any he’d seen before. It looked so nigh to the land a bird could have flown to it. So large it dominated the sky, blocking out most view of the sky.
A grunting wail escaped him as he pulled himself to his knees. Body ravaged. Why could he not die? Odin … please … forgive him for all … just spare him this.
Starkad could stand no more.
But no Ás answered his prayer. Starkad, more than any other, knew the truth. The Aesir and Vanir had never been gods. They didn’t answer prayers. They didn’t even fucking hear them. The only real god he knew of was Hel herself, and she had no mercy.
And without mercy, without the peace of oblivion, all that was left was to keep going. A shallow gasp escaped him as he gained his feet.
He caught himself against a tree trunk. Rested there a moment. And then pushed on.
He didn’t know where he was going. Maybe it didn’t even matter. He just had to keep moving. Just hope to find something … somewhere he could finally rest.
A howl ripped through the forest. Another answered, and an
other.
Wolves. Shit.
He glanced up at the enormous, perilous moon. Oh … well fuck. Varulfur? Starkad hated varulfur.
Grunting, he shambled deeper into the wood.
More howls sang out, a whole chorus of them, closing in around him from all sides.
And him without blades or armor or even a pair of godsdamned pants. Keep moving. Faster—just had to stay ahead of them until he could find a place to hide.
He broke into a shuffling trot, heedless of the pain of tromping barefoot through the wood or the noise he made. No man outran a varulf. Not in the long term. But if he could find shelter …
The howls sounded again, closer. Followed by growls off in the woods to his left.
Godsdamn it. He turned, heading right, sprinting as best he was able, though each breath felt apt to tear his throat and lungs apart.
Starkad blundered into a clearing and stumbled onto a cluster of people. A naked, dark-haired man, set off against Tyr and … Mother.
Mauled corpses everywhere. Growls and snaps from the woods. Screams as men and women were torn apart.
The varulf—Fenrir—had Mother by the throat.
“No!” Starkad shrieked. He raced forward to stop it, but his limbs had shrunk. He was a mere boy, a helpless child. “No!”
He raced for her.
As he closed in, Fenrir’s hands became claws, his face shifting, becoming lupine. He jerked his hands apart, claws ripping through Mother’s throat. They shredded flesh like scythes through grain. Blood exploded out of Mother’s throat and drenched Starkad’s face.
He stumbled, wailed, and fell to his knees.
No … No … No …
Not again.
Not again.
Growls echoed from the woods all around. Trembling, Starkad turned to the shadows. So many sets of yellow eyes, staring hatred at him. Stalking closer.
Tyr was gone.
Fenrir was gone.
But a half dozen of Fenrir’s children yet remained. Snarling at him.
The sharp cry of a storm petrel jolted him. He turned, tearing his gaze from the wolves closing in. The bird rested nearby, sitting upon the pommel of a sword stuck in the ground. Its pommel was shaped like a raven’s head. Its blade bore runes like Tyrfing or Skofnung.
With a desperate cry of rage, Starkad lunged for the blade. Caught it in one hand.
This wasn’t right. He hadn’t been so young back then. He’d passed fifteen winters. And hadn’t even been there when Mother …
Starkad jerked the blade from the dirt and spun on the circling wolves. He was no child, but a man. He was not naked, but fully clad and armored in mail. And he was beaten … but far from broken.
A wolf charged him.
Starkad bellowed and raced to meet it. His blade flashed, tore through the wolf’s muzzle and split its skull in a single swipe. Another of the pack leapt at him. Starkad whipped the runeblade around and decapitated the wolf.
More of them closed in. It became hard to keep them all in view, especially with no peripheral vision in his left eye. That left only overpowering them with sheer fury. He roared at them, blade flashing in the moonlight, every move tearing varulfur to pieces. Again and again he spun, whipping the blade in tight arcs of death. The varulf corpses piled up.
A dozen dead.
Starkad roared challenge at the woods. More and more wolves poured from it, and he raced to meet them all. His blade punched clean through an open maw and tore out the top of a wolf’s skull as he jerked it free. Spun it down through the ribs of another and severed its spine. He whipped it around, cut through more and more of the pack. His fury lent him speed and endurance like he’d never known.
And then the pack broke, scampering off into the woods, yelping and fleeing like cravens.
Starkad pointed the blood-drenched runeblade at the moon and bellowed defiance at the varulfur.
Finally, deprived of foes, his strength fled. His arms dropped limp to his sides, and he struggled, panting for breath.
His legs still ached. His flesh was sore and seared. His throat and arse felt scraped raw. He was still blind in one eye.
And as he turned, his mother’s mutilated corpse still lay among the dead wolves.
Starkad shut his eyes, trying to block out the sight. When he opened them, the horror yet remained. No reprieve, even if the sword had saved him from being torn apart.
But had the wolves caught him, slain him, would he then have had peace? He stared at the raven-pommel and the bird’s lifeless eyes stared back. Was this faint hope but one more torture? Did the Otherworlds taunt him by dangling a thread before him just when he lay on the precipice of utter despair?
Shaking his head, he stalked from the clearing, trying not to look upon Mother’s still form.
Maybe he was not broken.
But he could not hide from the truth—one day soon, he would be.
15
Sometimes, in the long stretches as they trekked through the uninhabited wilderness of Kalevala, Hervor imagined what Starkad must see in the nightmares the mara inflicted upon him. Perhaps he saw a sky not unlike the one that now loomed above.
Thunder rumbled within roiling dark clouds that stretched out as far to the north as she could see. They cast Pohjola—for she had no doubt they had reached its threshold—into a shroud of perpetual gloom. A place for nightmares, without doubt. Despite the summer, ahead the land was covered in unmelted snows, trapped in cold and darkness.
As if she stared into the world of Hel herself. And strode boldly within.
A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, so bright it stung her eyes. Left white flashes on her periphery for a moment.
Hervor tightened her cloak around her shoulders. A fell wind howled down from the north.
Pakkanen pointed at something beyond her sight. “The North Star lies ahead, across many miles of this.”
“How can you even tell? It’s daylight—to say naught of that thundering mass obscuring the sky.”
“I can tell.”
Well. That cleared things right up. It was why he was here, she supposed. She sniffed. “Fine. Lead the way. Best not waste a moment.”
Gylaug pulled up beside her and addressed Pakkanen. “So word tells it, Kvenlander, the women in this land have beauty what would make the alfar themselves weep for it.”
Latham chuckled. “Sounds like something I’d fancy a look at. Maybe a long look at several. Give them a look at my weeping alfar, too.”
Hervor rolled her eyes. “Are you sure the only reason you’re not a skald is your archery skills? Because your way with words oft leaves me speechless.”
Latham pointed at her. “Right you are. Need help with that, we can just step around behind that tree and get it done quick as you like. I can’t help but imagine we’d both feel better about life afterward, and that’s a fact.”
Hervor spit.
Pakkanen stared expressionlessly at Latham until the mercenary found somewhere else to look. “Many have come to these lands seeking brides. Men wiser, stronger, and faster than any of you. Few made it back, and none quite unchanged. Take these kingdoms in jest, and they will make their warnings out of your tale.”
Gylaug slapped Latham on the back. “Never know when to stop talking, do you?”
Latham shrugged. “It’s a gift.”
Hervor trod out onto the snows crunching under her feet. They didn’t seem deep here, but from the looks of it, the snows would only increase as they pushed onward. The pain in her ribs and jaw was less these days, though she could have done with a moon or so of rest. Not like to get that any time soon though.
Ecgtheow trotted up beside her while the others trailed behind.
Hervor cast him a bitter glance. Once, she’d actually liked Tiny. Now … Maybe he’d never understand why she had to do what she did. Once or twice, on the road, she’d tried to explain, but he wasn’t hearing it. “What do you want?”
“To remind you why we’re here, lest the pir
ates’ misplaced merriment distract you.”
She scoffed. “We’re here for Starkad. You think I am one to be distracted from my purpose?”
“We’re here because you murdered a man and he’s still enacting a slow, cold revenge. Don’t suppose I even want to know what he’ll come up with next. Don’t much suppose you’ll be the only one to suffer for it, either. Kind of makes a man wonder, though, if it would all stop once you died.”
Odin’s godsdamned stones, was she sick of his judgments. “Go fuck a troll,” she snapped, just quiet enough no one behind ought to have caught wind. “You’re here for the same reason I am—to help Starkad. And you, my friend—you were right there helping Jorund try to take over Sviarland as I recall. You manage that with no blood on your hands?”
Ecgtheow cast a glance back at the others. “True enough. We’re all murderers and worse, every one of us. Three pirates I wouldn’t otherwise trust to paint a hall. A shaman who’s no doubt mist-mad from poking around in the Otherworlds. And Wudga … Well, we both know who he was serving not so very long ago.”
“Then stop judging me and start helping.”
Ecgtheow spat out into the mist, then waved a torch to displace it as they pressed on. “Not a one of us can pretend to be clean, I’ll grant you. Don’t suppose any of us can even claim to be good people. But—far as I know—you’re the only here who stabbed a member of her own crew in the back. Takes a special kind of betrayal to motivate a man to rise from the grave to avenge it, I imagine.”
Oh, Hel take him. “I did what I had to do to avenge my kin. If you cannot understand that, that’s your godsdamned problem.”
The man grunted, shook his head and fell back with the others.
Hervor pressed on further ahead, torch out in front of herself. No, her little crew might not have had overmuch love for one another. But Ecgtheow wasn’t exactly doing much to make things better, either. He was a strong fighter, an asset in this place—if he could get his priorities straight. If she could somehow make him focus on Starkad and not on her.
