Runeblade Saga Omnibus

by Matt Larkin

  Starkad had made a blood oath to Nikolaos. Maybe he’d had no choice. Either way, she couldn’t see how they could possibly trust these monstrous things. A vampire had slaughtered Fjolvor and Tveggi like they were pigs. These creatures fed off people. They were every bit as loathsome as the worst vaettir.

  That they could pass for human almost made them more abhorrent. Like, once she knew of their nature, she couldn’t help but notice a subtle wrongness about Arete. Though Hervor could not point to any one thing, just looking at the creature filled her with unease.

  “Hmm. You think you have claim on him. You think you, a mere mortal woman, can hold on to a man whose blood is suffused with dark power. But you fool yourself and—for now—you fool him. But these delusions cannot last nor end well. You build your imagined future on spider strands of lies that must inevitably snap beneath their own weight.”

  Hervor glared at her. “I do have claim on him. Our oaths bind us together.”

  “Mortal oaths are but fragile things. Given time, they all break.”

  “Not ours.” She could barely stop her twitching fingers from reaching for Tyrfing. Oh, how she wanted to end this bitch.

  “We shall see.” Arete brushed past Hervor then.

  As the vampire passed, Hervor reached up for the runeblade. One chance. Draw and strike in a single swift movement. She might just be fast enough …

  And then Arete was too far away, sauntering along the balcony without bothering to cast another glance behind her. As if Hervor was beneath further notice.

  Hervor ground her teeth.

  Below, on the lower level, footfalls echoed off the marble floor. Hervor returned to the balcony to see Höfund down there, gaping at the columns.

  Maybe Hervor ought to check in on Starkad. Find out what Arete had really said to him. But … part of her feared to even hear it. Everything with him was so hard these days.

  That they loved each other ought to have been enough.

  Maybe … Maybe when this was done, they could finally settle down. Maybe he could get a handle on his curse, take control. She had to believe that. For now, perhaps giving him time was the best thing. Or the easiest, at least.

  So she tromped down a winding staircase to the lower floor.

  Höfund looked up at her approach. “Reminds me a bit of jotunn kingdoms.”

  The decor didn’t look aught like Godmund’s palace to her. “How so?”

  Höfund folded his arms. “Bit overmuch, all this. Wealth gathered from all around the domain. Some of it tribute, some of it stolen, taken by force and what have you.” He wandered over to a tapestry depicting a battle in which both sides sat mounted on numerous horses. “Different in the specifics, ’course. I mean to say, just similar in being too … too …”

  “Pompous?”

  “Reckon so, assuming that word means what I reckon it means.”

  Hervor nodded. “Why serve Rollaugr, Höfund? You could’ve gone anywhere, done aught you wished in Midgard? Why take up with a doomed king in a faltering kingdom?”

  “Huh. Can’t say as I looked at it much from that direction. More like I saw a half-decent man—decent as the world lets a man be, leastwise—and saw him hard-pressed by my own kin. And I reckoned maybe I could do somewhat about that and make my fortune all at one go.”

  Make his fortune. She shook her head and sighed. She’d spent a good many years trying to do the same. Leading raids, playing pirate. Never amounted to overmuch, really. Sure, she’d taken her share of plunder, but it never lasted long. There was always more on the horizon. At least until Thule …

  Or until after that. Until she and Starkad had gotten all twined up in each other. And by then, she was so sick of the life … of seeing everyone around her die awful deaths. Almost hard to imagine the kind of woman she’d been before. A murderous bitch who killed for the sport of it, who took whatever she wanted. Who hardly noticed when her crew raped or slaughtered along the way.

  But even if she wanted to leave it behind, even if this job somehow did give her the wealth to buy back her grandfather’s fortunes, still something remained to keep her from peace. Something that had followed her into this very godsdamned city.

  Hervor glanced around the hall to make sure no one was about. Not behind the columns, not on the balcony. A couple of slaves passed by overhead, not dawdling in the least nor even looking in her direction. “There’s something I need your help with.”

  The big man blew out a heaving breath. “Reckon I’d help with just about aught. Ain’t got that many friends and I aim to keep those I have.”

  Well, she couldn’t help but smile at that. Maybe she should be honest with him, first. Tell him she’d never marry him. But breaking all his hopes was like to send him into melancholy. Besides interfering with her request, that might well get the half-jotunn killed given what Starkad had agreed to. Tonight, they’d be fighting a godsdamned vampire lord, after all.

  No, she couldn’t tell him that. Not now, not here. “I, uh … I killed a man.”

  Höfund shrugged. “Ain’t we all?”

  “This one deserved it.” She looked around again. “He did, but still I wish I hadn’t done it. Because he was known to … some of the others. They wouldn’t take it well and I don’t want them to know it.”

  Höfund sniffed. “I ain’t a fool, me. You can come out and say it's Eightarms you’re fretting over.”

  “Right. The thing is … this man, he … He came back.”

  Now Höfund screwed up his face in an expression that might’ve set his enemies shitting their trousers. “You didn’t burn the corpse? A boy barely off his mother’s teat knows you don’t leave a body in the mist.”

  She flinched. Yes, she should’ve known. “I was a little preoccupied with an army of draugar trying to kill me and my crew.”

  “Sure. And now that army’s got one more in their number, that it?”

  “That’s the gist. He’s been harrying my steps ever since. Hurting those I care about. I tried to fight him but …”

  The half-jotunn shook his head. “Right then. Reckon I’ve done my share of damn fool deeds now and again, so I can’t hardly hold that against you. So you’re wanting my help sending the draug back to the grave, permanent this time. And wanting it without anyone else finding out the lout even exists.”

  “Pretty much.”

  Höfund shrugged. “Well, like I said. I’d help with just about aught you needed, Hervor. When we make it back to the North Realms, once this is done, I’ll help you hunt the draug.”

  “Uh … he’s here.”

  “Huh. Makes things a bit more troublesome, don’t it?”

  Hervor nodded.

  He let a meaty hand fall on her shoulder. “I see any draugar, I’ll chop ’em clean in half. Work for you?”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a good friend.”

  “Huh. Reckon so.”

  17

  Two Moons Ago

  A throng of warriors, men and women both, had gathered in Rollaugr’s hall. The king himself was not here, though, and Win sat on his throne instead, seeming fair lost in thought. Tveggi stood beside him, glowering at the crowd as if any one of them might suddenly lunge at the prince.

  They’d granted Hervor a chair before the throne. One for Starkad too, but he instead paced about the hall, inciting the warriors about the glory of the mission and the chance for plunder. Like as not, a good many of those who went might die. Maybe they’d all die. Then there wouldn’t be the least bit of plunder, nor anyone to tell the truth of their stories.

  A morbid thought, true, but the more Hervor heard of Win’s tales of Miklagard, the more she misliked the whole damn plan. Starkad intended to sail into port posing as merchants and their guards. The Miklagardian walls were said to be massive, so the port was the only approach, really.

  The locals would search the ship, of course. Meaning their crew had to bring cargo actually worth selling. Unfortunately, no one here seemed to know much of any real
details about the city or its people. They’d be going in half-blind, nigh as she could tell. Didn’t bode well. None of this did.

  Still, she’d promised to help Höfund, and she wouldn’t break that promise. And if they managed to pull through, maybe she could get a promise out of him, too. Maybe he’d judge her when she told him about Orvar. Maybe he wouldn’t want to wed her anymore—hardly a loss there. But if he could help her put an end to the draug without Starkad finding out, it’d be worth it.

  “All Starkad Eightarms has said is true,” Win said, rising. “Ahead of us we may find glory fit to sate even an Ás. Though too, you must be prepared to gaze into the very gates of Hel before you see Valhalla.” He strode down beside Starkad. “Many of you have fought the Miklagardians. What lies ahead of us will not be like what you faced before. And still I ask you to stride forward, ready to meet the Aesir if that is your urd.”

  Hervor frowned. She’d almost met an Ás at Gylfi’s funeral. And Starkad didn’t seem overfond of the man. The more she saw of the world, the less sense it all made. Maybe all that mattered was carving out a piece for yourself. She’d do so, and damn the cost.

  Vebiorg shoved her way through the crowd almost as soon as Win finished speaking. “You know you need me.”

  Win stiffened. Didn’t like the shieldmaiden? Maybe he’d fucked her once or something. Either way, the woman seemed bold enough and had the build of someone used to swinging that axe hanging from her belt.

  Hervor rose from her seat and joined the others. “What makes you better than the rest?”

  Vebiorg cast a sneering glance back at the gathered throng of warriors. Those closest to her actually backed away a few steps. “I’m stronger, tougher, and faster than any man here.”

  Huh. Bold claim. But then, Hervor liked bold. “Does she speak true?”

  Win glanced at Hervor. “Vebiorg is … a varulf.”

  Oh, Odin’s stones. Varulfur in Skane had torn through Hervor’s crew there like they were sheep. She still had godsdamned nightmares about that night from time to time. It was all she could do to keep her face even.

  Starkad managed even less. “We don’t need varulfur.”

  “She does speak true,” Win said. Hervor had almost forgotten her original question.

  While she didn’t fancy having a varulf around, someone that strong, that fast … on their side. It could prove a boon. “How does a varulf come into the service of the king of Holmgard?”

  “Long story,” Vebiorg said. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day. Your best odds of success are with me, and you all know it. I can hunt. I can track. And I can kill Miklagardians better than anyone else.”

  Starkad took a step toward her. “Not better than anyone.”

  “She’s in,” Hervor said before Starkad could dismiss her. Varulfur might be the stuff skalds threw in tales to scare people, true, but their mission seemed dire enough without turning away those with superhuman abilities.

  A light rumble ran through the gathered throng, and someone else came shoving her way forward. A girl, maybe seventeen winters on her, though she had a scar across her cheek and her mail looked well-worn. “You can’t take her and not me!”

  Now Starkad actually rolled his eyes.

  “Leave the children at home,” another man said. He had dark hair and deeper skin, almost as deep as Afzal had. “If you’re going up against Miklagard, you need someone familiar with it. I grew up on those city streets.”

  A Miklagardian?

  “If that’s so,” Starkad said, “how are we to trust you?”

  The man smirked. “I never got aught from those streets save beatings and runny shits. Eventually I was shipped off to Kaunos and got caught in a raid. King Rollaugr took me—maybe the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  A woman had grabbed his arm and was trying to pull him back into the crowd. The Miklagardian pulled her forward instead. “I’m sure my wife will want to come too.”

  The woman, another shieldmaiden maybe, grimaced before offering a wan smile.

  A well-muscled man stepped forward. “Bunch of former slaves are hardly enough when things turn to troll shit. You need someone who can crack some skulls.”

  Hervor had to admit, the man looked like someone who could do just that, and probably enjoyed himself in the process.

  “Fine,” Starkad said to him. “You as well. That should be enough.”

  “Wait,” the young girl objected. “You haven’t even seen what I can do.”

  The big man scoffed.

  Then the girl kicked him in his stones. An instant later her fist cracked him on the ear. Hervor wouldn’t have thought a little thing like her could fell an oaf like that. But he just toppled over, one hand to his groin, the other to his no-doubt-ringing ear.

  “Yeah, you’re in,” Hervor said.

  Starkad turned on her, mouth open. Maybe he was going to object to her choosing the girl over the oaf. She silently dared him to say as much. But Starkad just shrugged.

  “What’s your name?” Hervor asked.

  “Afrid. Afrid the … uh … Well, I haven’t fastened a name yet, but don’t think I won’t!”

  Hervor quirked a smile. Had she herself been like that a few winters back? “Afrid Stonekicker.” A few chuckles from the crowd. “Welcome to the crew.”

  Maybe none of this was quite what Hervor had imagined when she’d agreed to come with Höfund. Maybe, but here they were, sitting in Rollaugr’s hall, while Höfund and Baruch—the Miklagardian—gathered supplies to leave in the morn.

  Four dogsleds, Starkad had said, two people to a sled. They’d have to go as far as they could toward Kaunos and get a ship there to carry them across the Black Sea. A long voyage, and not one she expected to go smoothly.

  “This is it, right?” she said.

  Starkad was fiddling with a brazier, but he looked up at her. “Huh?”

  “I mean, we do this job, get rich. Use the gold to rebuild Grandfather’s lands, or maybe buy a title from another king. Something. But no more of this afterward.”

  Starkad groaned. “You know … that’s not how it works with me. I cannot make any such promise, Hervor. No matter my intent, the wanderlust always comes back. Nor can I long seem to hold wealth.”

  “You don’t have to. I will.”

  “You know who I am. I never made the least secret of it.”

  “Well, you can still try to change. Grandfather has been asking me to stop the wanderings, to—”

  Starkad stood up abruptly, turned his back on her and stormed from the hall.

  Odin’s godsdamned stones. What would it take?

  “Waiting for him to wed you?” Fjolvor asked.

  Hervor started. She hadn’t even realized Baruch’s wife was in here. “It’s more complicated than that with us.”

  Fjolvor shrugged. “I married a freed Miklagardian slave. I get complicated.”

  “You don’t even really want to go, do you?”

  The other woman offered a fake smile. “Sometimes people do things they don’t want to in order to help the ones they love.”

  Didn’t Hervor know it.

  18

  Much like draugar, vampires lost many of their superhuman abilities in sunlight. Fortunately for Orvar, they countered this weakness by constructing a network of tunnels under Miklagard. Mostly, only vampire cast-offs lived down in the so-called undercity. Those fallen out of favor with the Patriarchs, perhaps scurrying to try any tactic to redeem themselves.

  Then, though, there remained some few human enclaves who operated with the sufferance of their vampire overlords by paying tribute in gold and perhaps, in blood. As with this faltering hovel of shanties clustered around a wide chamber beneath the markets. These people were thieves and beggars so wretched they could not even lurk in the alleys above ground.

  Perhaps they didn’t know what lurked down here. Perhaps they thought anywhere out of the open was better than being on the streets at night. A man with a pock-marked face wormed his way agai
nst the back wall, as if he might escape from the confines Orvar had trapped him in.

  Vengeance. Vengeance. Vengeance.

  “I will ask you one more time,” Orvar said, leaning close enough for the man to smell the rot coming off him, even over the stench of these tunnels. “Where do I find the foreigners?”

  “Don’t know shit, I told you.”

  “Ugh.” Orvar seized him by the throat with one hand, hefted him off the ground, and slammed him into the wall.

  The ugly man hung motionless for a moment, dazed, no doubt. Then began to wriggle in Orvar’s grasp as if he might be able to break it. In truth, the withered and underfed beggar couldn’t have gotten free even had Orvar been out in cursed daylight with merely the human strength of his own muscles. Here, in the darkness, the man might as well have been trying to push over a mammoth with his bare hands.

  Orvar tightened his grasp, ever so slightly. Enough to bruise the man’s throat without actually crushing his windpipe. Beggars and other undesirables knew a lot. That hardly mattered if they couldn’t speak.

  When he judged the man sufficiently cowed, he released him. The beggar slumped to the ground in a heap, gasping, choking, maybe even sobbing. Hard to be sure what the disgusting mix of guttural noises amounted to. Orvar had no sympathy for the fool’s pain. The living could not imagine the eternal agony of the damned. An endless torture abated in only the slightest by visiting suffering on those around them.

  Vengeance. Vengeance. Vengeance.

  “Tell me where to find the foreigners. North Realmers who came on a ship two days back, out of Kaunos. You either know where they are, know who does, or are useless to me. It would be unfortunate for us both if the third option is all we are left with.”

  The man gasped again. “Verniamin …”

  “What?”

  “Verniamin. He sells information from the bath house on Merchant’s Street.”

  Orvar barred his teeth. “If I have to come back here, I will eat your foot and leave you to hobble through this filth. Assuming you survive.”