by Matt Larkin
Starkad shrugged. “Fine. Scout the northeast side, close to the river. If we have to flee the city, we want the way to the harbor clear.” He turned to the others. “Höfund and Vebiorg, scout the northwestern regions. We shouldn’t need to retreat there, but best to be certain. Baruch and Fjolvor will take the southeast, along the river. That’s our likely route back to our apartment, if all goes as planned. Stonekicker and I will take the southwest.”
Hervor folded her arms and glared at Starkad. Wanted to go with the younger shieldmaiden, did he? Or just wanted to avoid the fight he had to know was coming. Either way, the bastard had to know he was making it all worse on himself. “Come on,” she snapped at Win, trudging off before even waiting to see if he followed.
Great ships sailed the river, a half dozen of them in sight. Maybe more out in the mist, too. They were bigger than Northern longships, bulkier. Slower, probably, though she’d guess any outfitted for war could hold a troll-sized crew of warriors.
She’d seen more than a few Miklagardian soldiers passing along the streets on the way toward the tower. Men clad in heavier armor than aught she’d seen elsewhere. Like warped metal plates layered on top of one another, covering their chest and abdomen in a godsdamned turtle shell. Wonder they could move in all that. And since it left their legs exposed while still slowing them, it didn’t seem the most practical.
Others had mail, though. More sensible protection as far as she was concerned. Made her miss her own. Starkad had insisted they leave their armor in the apartment for fear of attracting too much notice. Might’ve been right about it, but still, she misliked being in foreign lands with naught between her flesh and a blade but her clothes.
They’d seen a fair number of these patrols both days. Made her worry on their chances.
“It’s a strange thing,” Win said, watching the ships himself. “Walking in the midst of enemies I’ve fought most of my life. I would never question the will of the Aesir, but still, I cannot say I much like coming here.”
“The Aesir?” Hervor asked. “What have they got to do with this?”
“The gods guide the urd of men and women. It is only through their will we find ourselves drawn to these far shores.”
Hervor snorted, earning herself a glare from both Win and Tveggi. Finally she shook her head. “Come on.”
They skirted the river, passing close to the tower itself. Standing below it, its sheer scale left her feeling like a mouse. It had to be fifty feet across, maybe more, all made from tightly locked gray stones. The thing ended in a slight dome, with a spike rising up out of it like it meant to pierce the clouds. Only the upper regions nigh to the dome had windows, though below those a ring of arrow slots dotted the surface. Hard to judge the height, but she’d guess at least a hundred feet.
She grunted. “How in Hel’s frozen underworld does he expect us to climb this?”
Win flinched. “Do not mention the name of the dark goddess.”
That drew a snort from her. “You’re worse than Starkad. Afraid she’ll hear you?”
The prince frowned. “You’ve known him long, yes? Starkad Eightarms?”
“Ugh. Seven winters, I suppose.”
“And yet, you two have still not wed?”
Hervor glowered. “Focus on the damn tower. We need a way in.” She pushed on, continuing to make a circuit of it.
Win followed, mercifully silent. The sun was already dipping low on the horizon, and night would settle in within the hour. And still she had no guess as to how they’d climb this. The surface wasn’t totally smooth, but she didn’t fancy her chances of trying to climb up without any solid foot or handholds.
Win pointed to the windows. “We could try throwing a grapple into a window.”
Hervor grunted, having to crane her neck to even see that high. “Not even Höfund could throw that far. Not straight up.”
“What about from an adjacent rooftop?”
Huh. Maybe. That would substantially close the gap, assuming they could find the right roof. The tallest of the buildings rose maybe forty feet up themselves. Maybe the half-jotunn could do it. Whether he could do it quietly enough, Odin alone knew. “It’s the best I can think of.”
“Trust in Odin to guide us.”
“Sure.” Odin hadn’t done all that much for her, so far as Hervor knew, but Win didn’t seem to want to hear that.
“My prince,” Tveggi said.
“Yes?”
“Have you noticed how few people are about here?”
Hervor turned, looked. Indeed, where the streets had seemed crowded an hour ago, now they were almost empty. Most of those she did see were scrambling into the nearby buildings, throwing shutters, slamming doors.
She frowned. “You’d think a place that manages to keep out the mist would remain more lively at night.”
“One would think,” Win agreed. “But who can say overmuch about their customs.”
Tveggi was turning about, slowly scanning each alley like he expected a troll to come rampaging down one any moment.
Hervor clapped the old man on his arm.
He flinched, hand going for the sword over his shoulder for a bare instant. Didn’t meet her gaze, though. Embarrassed by his reaction, maybe. “Best we find the others before it gets full dark.”
True enough. Hervor cast a last look at the massive tower. She was not looking forward to this.
As it turned out, Starkad agreed with Win’s plan to scale an adjacent building. The rougher stonework and occasional windowsill made doing so easier than climbing the tower would’ve been.
Nevertheless, Hervor grunted, panting, as she pulled herself up over the lip of the roof. It was flat—praise Odin—and she scrambled up onto her knees. Missing a finger on her right hand … And that shoulder had never recovered from a wound years ago. All of it made climbing one of her least favorite activities.
The others pulled themselves up as well. Nine men and women, crouching on a rooftop in the middle of Miklagard itself. Up here, she had a better view of the city. A whole string of rooftops of differing heights ran for miles, it seemed, breaking up only because of the river and the Black Sea.
Some of the roofs were angled. Some had plate-like shingles. Some stretched along great distances, a hundred feet or more. Many had a slight blue tinge, more ominous in the night.
Speaking of which, the mist had thickened a bit during the evening. It flowed around the buildings, rising a few feet off the ground in swirling clouds.
“Place seems worser and worser,” Höfund mumbled. “Kinda makes me miss Jotunheim.”
She wouldn’t go that far. “Can you get the grapple up there, on the balcony around the dome?”
Höfund gnawed on his lip, staring up at it. “Reckon I can. Ain’t had overmuch practice on that sort of thing, though.”
Afrid snorted. “Where’d you learn our language? From a deaf child?”
The big man looked at her. Hervor couldn’t say whether he was offended, but she gave serious consideration to punching Afrid. “Well,” Höfund said. “Me, I mostly learned it from Father. Figure he got it from a handful of human slaves like yourself. Them what he didn’t eat or rape to death, that is.”
Afrid opened her mouth, her slight grin rapidly disappearing when no one laughed. Probably wondering if Höfund was serious. Slowly, horrifyingly, realizing he was.
A slight smirk crept upon Hervor’s face.
“Make your best shot,” Starkad said. He looked around, probably scanning the streets for anyone who might see if someone stood on the roof. “Do it now.”
“Right then.” Höfund rose up, hefted the grapple and began to swing it round in a circle. Faster, until its whoosh whistled through the air. Until its passing ruffled Hervor’s hair. Then he strode forward a step and flung the grapple.
The metal prongs clanked against the side of the balcony, then fell down to clatter on the cobblestone street. Hervor flinched. That had been graceless.
Höfund crouched down among
the others, all now pressing themselves even lower against the roof. “Uh. Sorry ’bout that. Could’ve gone better, I reckon.”
Starkad scrambled to the edge of the roof, grabbed the rope, and began drawing up the grapple with remarkably little noise. Then he turned, looked about. “No sign of patrols anywhere. Like they don’t even watch the streets at night.”
Vebiorg sniffed. “Something is amiss in this place.”
“No doubt,” Starkad said, then turned to Höfund. “Try again.”
The big man rose up again, twirling once more. Another heave. Once more, it smacked against the tower and plummeted to the street.
“Odin’s godsdamned stones,” Hervor mumbled.
“W-what did you say?” Win sputtered. “How can you … how dare you invoke the name of the—”
“Give me the damn thing,” Vebiorg snapped, snatching the grapple line from Höfund. “Oaf.”
Hervor flinched at the varulf’s tone, but she wasn’t entirely wrong.
“Right then,” Höfund said, slumping down on his arse and gnawing at his lip once more.
Vebiorg twirled the grapple, then flung it. It clanked over the lip of the balcony and she jerked it into place. The varulf smirked. “Who’s first?”
“I am,” Starkad said. “Secure the line.”
The varulf looked around the empty roof. “To what?”
“Swing to the tower,” Fjolvor offered.
Starkad shook his head. “No one else would be able to follow. The line won’t reach down to the street.”
Höfund stood now. “Reckon I could hold it steady enough while you climb. Long as you’re going one at a time, leastwise.”
Meaning the half-jotunn would be left behind on the rooftop. There were few people Hervor would rather have at her side if they ran into guards up there, but she had no better suggestion. She clapped him on the back and he nodded at her. Then he took the line from Vebiorg, wrapped it around his meaty forearm, and pulled it taut, with his feet braced against the lip of the roof.
Starkad eased himself onto that lip, grabbed the line with both hands, and then wrapped his legs around it too. Hand over hand, he pulled himself along. He made progress quickly, though a sheen of sweat had risen on Höfund’s brow before Starkad reached the balcony.
“I’ll go next,” Hervor said. She shouldn’t have let Starkad go first. The man could barely see anymore.
She climbed onto the lip and repeated Starkad’s tactic, edging her way up along the rope. Halfway through, her hands were burning. Cold sweat tickled down her neck. Pulling herself along with naught but the strength of her arms left her panting. And wondering if all the others could even pull this off.
The skin on her palms chafed from the rope. Come on. She could do this. She’d made harder climbs before. On several godsdamned occasions, in fact.
Grunting with the effort, she reached the balcony. The question was, how was she supposed to reach around behind herself and hold it? Awkward maneuver, even were she not dangling eighty feet above a cobbled road. If she fell from here, they’d be hard pressed to gather enough of her for a proper pyre.
“Hervor,” Starkad whispered. “Take my hand.”
There he was, arm outstretched over the rail. Hervor twisted around as best she could and lunged for his arm with her left hand. The motion jostled the line despite Höfund’s obvious efforts. Her fingers brushed over Starkad’s palm. Missed. Before she could even curse, his hand had wrapped around her wrist. She had to turn a bit to grasp his hand.
“Ready?” he asked.
Odin’s stones. This was not going to be pleasant. Naught to do but get it over with, though. She released the line and lunged at the wall. Her half-useless right hand caught the rail. For a heartbeat.
Then she slipped, pitched over the side.
Starkad grunted, yanked forward. Her movement jerked to a sudden stop, slamming her hip against the side of the tower and threatening to tear her shoulder right out of its socket. Hervor clenched her teeth and stifled her gasp of pain.
“Get … up …” Starkad had both hands on her arm now.
Sucking in rapid breaths, she twisted around and caught his other arm with her right hand. Like that, she managed to edge her feet against the tower wall. He pulled slowly, letting her walk up the side several paces, until her foot brushed the bottom of the balcony. Then he heaved her up over the rail.
She collapsed on top of him and they both fell, panting. How in Hel’s frozen underworld had he managed to get over that himself? Two working hands, she had to guess.
Starkad eased her off him, rose, and beckoned the others. Vebiorg made the climb faster and with more grace than either of them had. The varulf twisted around, grabbed the edge, and heaved herself up like it was naught at all.
It left Hervor shaking her head.
Vebiorg winked at her. Of course the varulf had seen Hervor’s blunder earlier.
Tveggi followed, then Win. Then Afrid, and finally Baruch and Fjolvor.
Across the gap, she saw Höfund slump down. Exhausted, no doubt, and he’d have to support them all once again on the way back down.
Once everyone was up top, Starkad began to circle around the balcony. Hervor chased close on his heels. Shortly, they came to an archway that led inside, through the thick outer wall and onto a landing. From this, a stairwell circled downward, leading deeper into the tower.
Tanna’s office was in the upper reaches, so probably only one or two flights down from here. With a bit of luck, they’d be in and out of this place quick.
Starkad nodded at her, then started for the stairs.
Hervor grabbed his arm and leaned in close. “Let Vebiorg go first,” she whispered. He glowered. “You can’t see out of one eye. We need someone watching for guards who’ll spot them before they see us. You know it’s true.”
Grumbling under his breath, he motioned the varulf forward, but started off right after her. That was fine. He could still fight, but Hervor wasn’t about to let him get himself killed over his pride.
She crept on after him.
The stairwell wrapped around, with a let off at a small landing. Starkad and Vebiorg had paused before reaching it, staring at something. Peering over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of a pair of guards down there.
Couldn’t clearly make out what they had on them. Polerarms, maybe, though probably not at the ready.
Her crew would need to move fast, to silence those men before they could raise a shout. Starkad looked to Vebiorg. The two of them seemed to be thinking the same thing. He motioned for Hervor to fall back a step.
She did so. It was a tiny landing, and too many people would just get in the way.
He eased his swords free, then nodded at Vebiorg. The woman took off with the speed of a real wolf. Starkad chased after her.
A quick yelp of surprise escaped one of the guards. The sound cut off soundly, muffled.
Hervor stepped down the stairs to find Vebiorg had slapped a hand over each guard’s mouth and then driven their heads into the wall. An instant later, Starkad cut their throats. The two men collapsed, gurgling.
Well, that pretty well solved that. Hervor scrambled down to the landing, then motioned the others behind her to follow. There was only one door here, though the stairs continued down. But the two guards had flanked the door, so something good had to be beyond. Tanna’s bedchamber if they were lucky.
Things were going well enough for now.
Vebiorg looked at everyone, then tried the door. The handle clicked, but wouldn’t open.
“It’s locked,” Baruch whispered.
Oh. Well, that had seemed too easy, hadn’t it?
Fjolvor set to searching the guards while Baruch knelt and examined a tiny hole in the door.
“I might be able to pick it,” Baruch said, drawing a metal pin from inside his shirt.
“Won’t it be barred from the other side, then?” Afrid asked.
“Not how they do it here,” Baruch mumbled without lookin
g away from the hole. He was fiddling with it, taking far too long. Every moment they wasted with this increased the chance someone would come along and find eight intruders and two dead guards.
She glanced at Starkad who was twitching one of his swords ever so slightly from side to side. Nervous? Him?
Vebiorg sniffed, staring at the stairs. “Whole tower reeks of blood. Lot of people died in here.”
“And I don’t want to be among them,” Afrid said. “Would it be too much trouble to do this faster, Miklagardian?”
“Not helping,” Baruch mumbled. A faint click sounded inside the door. “There.” He rose and eased open the door.
What lay beyond was no bedchamber.
Instead, a half dozen chests of gleaming gold and silver coins glittered around the room, catching the firelight from the brazier out here. Piles of gems on a low table sparkled. Jewel-encrusted sword sheaths hung on a rack on the wall. All of it a hoard of wealth unlike aught Hervor had ever beheld nor even dreamed of.
Afrid blew out a whistle and pushed her way inside, immediately grabbing handfuls of the gems.
It broke Hervor out of her daze, and she joined the younger shieldmaiden. This might not have been why they’d come, but with so much wealth, Hervor could easily reverse Grandfather’s fortunes. Could buy an army and ensure he gained a jarldom somewhere, if not the one he’d once held.
“We have little time for this,” Win said. “We came here to accomplish a mission, not rob Lord Tanna.”
Starkad was shoving silver coins in a pouch too. “We’re not all princes here.”
The others joined in, jamming whatever they could carry into bags and pouches and inside shirts. Even Tveggi had snatched one of the jeweled swords from the rack.
A Miklagardian shout went up out on the landing.
Hervor spun, hand on Tyrfing. A group of guards was flooding into the treasure room.
6
Starkad tore through the guards, whipping his blades around in rapid arcs. He twisted around, cut a man’s throat and parried the halberd thrust of another. Behind him, the others were fighting too, but he couldn’t keep track of them. He could barely mind himself now. Always had to keep turning to ensure no one could come up on his blind side.
