by Matt Larkin
She’d done what she had to do. The Arrow’s Point had needed to die. Her mistake wasn’t murdering him—it was forgetting to torch his corpse. Had she done that, she wouldn’t be mired in this troll shit now.
The wind seemed almost to respond to her mood, howling more fiercely. Biting at her cheeks, even through the protection of her furs.
Maybe some of this was her fault. Maybe. Somehow, though, she kept finding herself pushing beyond the bounds of Midgard. And that always seemed to come back to Starkad. So maybe that was part of his curse. He’d warned her she’d get caught up in it.
She didn’t know what to think anymore. All she could say for certain was, she was cold as Hel’s arse. And she wasn’t going to stop, no matter what. A witch needed killing, and she’d see it done.
The clouds broke overhead, flinging fresh flurries of snow. Sharp bits of ice smacked her exposed brow like bee stings. Hail? Troll shit. She threw up her arm to shield her face as best she could.
From behind, Latham shouted, cursing the sky, the gods, and apparently his ex-wife or former lover.
16
The farther they travelled north, the hillier the land became. Ecgtheow supposed they’d be breaking into full-blown mountains before much longer. He couldn’t say the thought of climbing mountains in the cold, dark land much appealed, but the land hadn’t asked his opinion.
The tree cover was lighter here in Pohjola than down in Kalevala—scattered pines and evergreens and so forth—enough to obscure the view of the sky but not enough to slow their progress overmuch. Between the woods and the dark and the mist, though, he was only half sure they were even still headed the right way. Pakkanen didn’t seem to have much doubt, though, just pushing on like he was guided by some fey instinct Ecgtheow didn’t care to know much about.
Still, probably for the best they had him. Ecgtheow would not have wanted to find himself wandering around lost in a place like this.
“I swear on my left foot,” Latham said, “this land grows darker with every passing hour. At this rate, I won’t be able to see my cock when I piss this evening.”
Kustaa grunted.
Ecgtheow waved the torch about in a vain attempt to dispel the mist. Up here, the stuff seemed almost thick enough to choke on. “Might be best you keep a bit more silent. Don’t suppose we want anyone knowing we’re coming.”
Up ahead, Hervor snorted. “Latham won’t even keep silent when he’s dead.”
And she’d know about the dead talking, wouldn’t she? Ecgtheow bit back the urge to snap at her. Their little group had enough mistrust between them as it was, without him spitting in the pot.
“All of you, quiet,” Gylaug snapped from somewhere off to the side. The pirate didn’t have a torch, so Ecgtheow couldn’t make him out.
“Now captain,” Latham said, “best if you keep the requests reasonable. You know—”
“Quiet! Listen.”
Ecgtheow froze in mid-stride, then settled his foot down in the snow, slow as he could. Still crunched underfoot, sounding louder than ever. Always went like that when you tried to go for stealth. He craned his neck to the side, intent. Didn’t hear much but the crackle of flame, the breathing of the others—some still hidden by the mist. More snow crunching as someone turned about.
The wind whistling through the trees. He’d almost managed to forget about that by now. Rough sound, easy to set a man on edge, have him jumping at shadows. Places like this, they made everyone …
Was that a voice?
No. Just some frog croaking, sound carried by the wind. Hardly aught he needed to worry over. Except … there it was again. Bunch of frogs croaking. Irregular sounds, almost like they were talking to each other. Come to think on it, what in Hel’s frozen underworld were frogs doing up here in the icy wastes of Pohjola?
“What is that?” Hervor asked. “Is there someone there?”
“Everybody form up tight,” Gylaug said. “We don’t want to get separated in the mist.”
Sure as Hel didn’t. Ecgtheow worked his way toward the pirate’s voice. “Gylaug?”
“Here.”
Ecgtheow followed the sound a moment, then headed for a light nearby. Hervor held a torch, standing beside the pirate. Latham and Kustaa were there, each with torches as well. Pakkanen didn’t carry one, instead turning about slowly, peering into the darkness.
At this point, Ecgtheow couldn’t rightly say if it was day or night. They just walked a good number of hours, then they slept. Then they walked some more.
The croaking on the wind had grown more frequent, if still faint. Almost couldn’t catch it.
“Where’s Wudga?” Hervor said.
Damn Otherworldly bastard. Ecgtheow swept his torch around again, but caught no sight of the man. Nor was he like to. Wudga hardly ever carried a damn torch. Man was probably sucking down mist, slowly going mad and losing whatever passed for his wretched soul … while they stood around with their arses in their hands looking for him.
“We need to keep moving.” Pakkanen’s voice was a bare whisper now.
Gylaug spat, then pulled a torch and lit it off Kustaa’s. “Everybody stay tight on me.” The pirate resumed his advance, slightly in the lead, waving his torch back and forth.
“Can’t say I much like being stalked,” Latham said.
Kustaa grunted.
“Right you are. Arse-wrangling butter snorters ought to come out and face us like men.”
Ecgtheow faltered a step, trying to figure out what Latham had even said.
“They are not men …” Pakkanen’s voice seemed far away despite him walking not five feet from Ecgtheow.
“Right you are,” Latham said. “They’re no men. Cravens is what they are. Cowardly little cockless rats afraid to come out and show themselves. Well, I fear naught, you piss-guzzlers! You hear me? Your croaking is naught to me but the buzzing of a fly.” Latham hefted his bow in the air. “A fly about to be skewered!”
Something rustled in a tree to Ecgtheow’s side.
He spun, hand on the hilt of his sword. Latham may have been a buffoon, but he was right on one count—this had gone on long enough. Ecgtheow pulled the blade and held it out, torch to one side and sword to the other.
He took a step toward where the rustle had come from. The branches shook, but he saw naught else. “Something up in the trees.”
All at once, chaos exploded.
Branches all around shook and trembled, croaks filled the air, and shadows scampered everywhere. Blurred forms scrambled up tree trunks and over the snow.
Behind him, one of the men shouted. Ecgtheow couldn’t rightly say who, as he bellowed his own war cry and charged the damn tree.
Someone screamed ahead.
Ecgtheow swept the torch up, hit naught, and spun around as he felt a rush of air pass just behind him. A hint of a shadowy form darted around him then seemed to vanish from sight even as it flew back toward the tree.
“What the fuck?” He swung his sword and it lodged into the tree, sending a jolt up his arm.
The shadow leapt over him.
An arrow thudded into the tree a foot from his head.
“Damn it,” Latham said before Ecgtheow could even object to him shooting so close. “They’re too fucking quick!”
Ecgtheow spun, yanked at the sword, but it was stuck fast. His torchlight washed over the shadowy creature for a bare instant, enough to catch sight of a hunched-over form, misshapen and twisted. Hardly a clear view though, and then it shimmered like water and was gone again.
A sharp pain lanced through his left leg as claws tore into it. Screaming, he stumbled to one knee, banging that against a root.
He tried to rise, and a form leapt off the tree and collided with him. The impact bore him down onto his back, wedging him into the snows. The torch landed beside him. Whatever it was, it was smaller than him but at least as strong. Ecgtheow wrestled with the creature, tried to throw it off.
Didn’t weigh overmuch, but it was fast as a wolf an
d tough as one in the bargain. They tumbled end over end and the thing came up on top. Vicious claws lanced down and tore through his cheek, scraped over his teeth, and ripped open his gums.
He gurgled, choking on blood as he tried to scream at the pain of it. The thing leaned in, baring pointed teeth nigh as long as his fingers. It had bulging eyes, frog-like, and warty skin, almost yellow. Slick, slimy, except in protruding ridges.
It pushed an oversized hand down on his face, covering his eyes. Its palm was almost big enough to wrap around his whole head, and its clawed fingers dug into the base of his skull. Ecgtheow flailed, tried to throw it off him again.
Fangs sunk into his shoulder, tore through his mail. Burned like acid as the creature gnawed and ripped out flesh.
A war cry above.
Ichor sprayed over him and the slimy creature collapsed atop him, fangs still embedded in his arm. Ecgtheow bellowed in the awful pain of it, but managed to dislodge the beast and throw it off.
Latham was there, a battle-axe lodged in the creature. The pirate jerked the blade free, then offered Ecgtheow a hand. Ecgtheow took it, then winced through a haze of pain as Latham yanked him to his feet.
“No shooting these arse-wranglers …” He glanced around. “Move!” The pirate shoved him forward. “Run!”
Ecgtheow stumbled, almost fell. Shit. Troll shit! He faltered, then turned back and grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands. Fresh pain shot through his shoulder as he yanked the blade free of the trunk. He slumped against the tree for a heartbeat. Two.
Then transferred his sword to his left hand—right was nigh to useless at the moment. He trotted off in the direction of flickers of torchlight.
Croaking sounding from all around them.
Closing in from all angles of the forest.
Latham grabbed him by the back of his mail and shoved him faster. “Not a place we want to be, my friend!”
Ecgtheow stumbled, barely able to keep his feet. His leg tried to give under him. Blood dribbled down his arm and trickled from his fingers into the snow. It oozed from his rent cheek and soaked the front of his mail. His breath hissed chill out of the hole in his face.
Latham grabbed his left arm to steady him, then guided him on.
Pirate was right. Pain didn’t matter. They had to get clear of these things.
17
High above, an owl hooted, flying in front of the oversized moon. Starkad shook his head. The bird had circled for an hour, it seemed to him, as he made his way through the endless woodlands. Whatever it sought, it clearly had not found it.
As he’d walked—long now—he’d heard the growls of more varulfur. They did not approach him. Perhaps they knew what he’d done to the others of their kind with his new runeblade. He could not quite say whether not having to slay more of their kind relieved or disappointed him.
The tree cover grew lighter still, eventually giving way entirely to a sandy beach broken by light overgrowth and tall grasses. And beyond, beneath that giant moon, the sea crashed upon the shore.
Starkad paused, staring out over the ocean. Nowhere left to go, now. He could follow the shoreline, of course, maybe find a human village. A vain hope, though, given it truly seemed he’d wandered into the Otherworlds. He was almost certain he was dead, though he could not fathom how through the haze of his memories.
Walking here, his thoughts had drifted oft to Hervor. It was a blessing she wasn’t here, though he missed her. At least that meant she must yet live. That, he could be grateful for, if little else.
In the distance, a rocky precipice rose up by the sea, and beyond that, cliffs. No reason to believe there was aught there, but then, no reason to stay here either.
With a shrug and a sigh, Starkad started for the rocks. As he drew nigh, the barks of seals filled the night air, a chorus of them. Maybe he could catch and cook one … though for some odd reason he was not much hungry. It felt years since he’d eaten, but his body craved naught. Did the dead not require food?
Perhaps not.
On the nearby shore, a trio of seals flopped out of the sea. One barked at him.
Starkad grimaced. Curse him for a fool. If he was in the world of varulfur … he was in the World of Moon. The world also of finfolk.
He reached for his sword over his shoulder.
At once, the seals charged forward, hopping at odd gaits. Their forms shifted, tails splitting into awkward legs and fins becoming hand-like. They failed to become quite human in form, though, remaining some vile cross between seal and man.
Starkad jerked the runeblade free, twisted, and cut down the nearest of the seals. More of them were emerging from the sea. He should’ve known. Should’ve prepared for this … somehow his head wasn’t working right in this realm.
More of the seals surrounded him. He killed again and again. Already, eight of them lay cleaved into pieces around him.
One of the creatures plowed bodily into him. Its toothy maw snapped down on his hamstring and he screamed at the pain as it gnawed. Its weight sent him toppling to the sand. He tried to bring up the sword, but another of the creatures jumped atop him. That one’s teeth sunk into his side.
Another bit down on his ankle. Starkad roared with the pain of it, but the seals weighed too much. There were too many of them. The one that had him by the ankle dragged him through the sand. He flailed, leaving a canal a foot deep. His fingers dug rivets into the beach, doing naught to forestall the seal’s intent.
Starkad kicked it in the face, and its head jerked back. Its mouth didn’t open, so its teeth ripped at his tendons.
Hands of extraordinary strength seized him by the shoulders and pushed, driving him closer to the sea. A rushing wave washed up over him, covering him to the waist. Saltwater stung the wounds the seals had given him.
Another jerk on his ankle, and he was pulled all the way under. The sea burned his eye. Water shot up his nose and scorched his sinuses. Hands wrapped around his gut—far stronger than any human—and squeezed. What little air was in his lungs exploded outward, and he sucked down great mouthfuls of water.
They pulled him deeper and deeper. Drowning him like prey.
His body convulsed, rebelling at the waters filling him. He thrashed, desperate to reach the surface. But the finfolk just kept dragging him farther underwater. Hundreds of feet. Beyond any hope of ever seeing life-giving air again.
Surrender.
Finally, maybe he would have respite.
His vision dimmed as death seized him. The convulsions slowed.
Time slowed.
Even the horror of it began to fade.
And then it jolted back into stark relief, as if someone had infused air into him once more. And he was drowning all over again. Bubbles flew from his mouth though he shouldn’t have had breath left. Water crushed him anew.
Fresh convulsions. Fresh terror.
Over and over they drowned him. Each time, he swore he’d not fear it. Not again. Swore he wouldn’t care.
Lied to himself.
His lungs filled back up so the waters could torment him once more. But the sea swept down, washed away from him, and left him kneeling on rocks. Starkad retched up great heaving gulps of seawater. Retched, until his stomach clenched and locked him in dry heaves. Until he collapsed down on the rock and lay still.
Barely able to moan.
Something shook his shoulder. Starkad groaned, refusing to open his eye, refusing to accept further torment from the Otherworlds. He had had enough. He’d …
Despite himself, he pushed off his hands and met the gaze of the man accosting him.
Afzal Ibn-Hakim.
Another trick. A foul one. Starkad lunged forward and wrapped his hands around the imposter’s neck. His weight bore the other man down and he squeezed, his bellow of rage more of a hissing wheeze. He threw all his fury into it.
A seal barked, flopping toward him.
Starkad released the other man, lunged at a nearby rock, and hefted it up, finally looking about
his surroundings. A cave … an undersea cave with a pocket of trapped air. A seal wiggling over slick rocks, barking at him with obvious anger.
And Afzal, gasping, choking, rubbing his throat. The man waved the seal off and the creature paused. “Naliajuk …” Afzal rasped.
The seal snapped at Starkad, but did not advance further.
“You are not real,” Starkad’s own voice sounded as scratchy as Afzal’s.
Afzal rose to sit, one hand still on his throat. “I am dreaming … as are you.”
“D-dreaming?” Starkad shook his head. “No. I have been wandering, trapped, for … years. Everything is so fuzzy. I can’t remember details, but …”
“You cannot remember …” Afzal coughed. “Because it is a dream … brother. Time … has less meaning.”
“It’s not real?” All of this torment had been a dream? That sounded impossible. Why could he not wake? No … he was dead. And Afzal was a new deception.
“It’s real enough.” Afzal coughed again. “Your mind and soul are here. A weaker man would’ve perished already. Something is dragging you from one spirit world to the next.”
Starkad rubbed his face. His head was so damn full of mist. It sounded possible. It also sounded like one more nightmarish torment devised to tempt him with false hope. Like that runeblade he’d had … some time ago. When was that?
“Listen to me, brother. I don’t have much time. You drifted into Naliajuk’s world and she helped me reach you here. We followed you to the World of Water that your people called Noatun. But we cannot remain here.”
“Noatun?”
“Mer and other powers would come for us here. They’ll come for you, as well.”
“Can you …” Starkad swallowed. No more false hope. No more torture. “Can you help me?”
He shook his head. “She doesn’t have the power to break the hold on whatever traps you in the Spirit Realm. But we can try to guide you out of this world. Maybe if you can push through the remaining worlds …”
