by Matt Larkin
Splashing through the pool, shrieking in pain and horror, she scrambled as far from the flames as she could. That meant away from the exit.
Because Orvar was right. He didn’t need to kill her. The growing smoke and endless flames would do that. And she had no way out, even if she could get past the draug.
His cackles reached her even over the sound of her own agonized screaming.
32
Clouds of black smoke filled the room and obscured Starkad’s vision, bringing back sickening memories of his visions of Muspelheim. The smoke here was rising toward the high ceiling, but the longer the fires raged, the more of it came toward ground level. And those fires showed no signs of slowing.
Lines of it divided him from Orvar as well as from the pool where Hervor was shrieking. He could get to neither of them. After the way the oil from the fire had clung to Hervor’s hand, he dare not try to dash through it either.
The draug just kept laughing, twirling his sword in front of the exit as the whole room blazed around him.
Starkad spun, taking in every possible option. Flames had sectioned off the room, though, and he saw no way past unless he could fly.
Fly …
Arete had walked on walls. And Starkad had clung to the ceiling for an instant when fighting Tanna. Sections of the walls were aflame too, but it seemed Orvar had been even more haphazard in coating the walls with the liquid fire than he had on the floor.
Starkad raced to the nearest wall and put a foot on it. Naught happened. Damn it. He needed an edge. Something to get him past this. He needed to be on the fucking wall. All of a sudden, he felt the world around him lurch, as if down suddenly became the vertical surface. He stumbled up, his other foot no longer having purchase on the ground.
Orvar had stopped laughing. The draug stared at him, fangs bared.
Starkad raced up the wall, arm raised against the thickening smoke. He couldn’t see much. It took him a moment to remember he didn’t actually need to breathe, though. He charged through the darkness, then shifted onto the ceiling and raced in the general direction he’d seen Orvar.
As far as he knew, no part of the ceiling was actually on fire. If it was, he was in for an unfortunate surprise. Trying to stay as silent as possible under the circumstances, he ran until he was fair certain Orvar was beneath him.
Then he leapt straight up toward the ground and imagined it as down. He spun around in midair and landed in a crouch a few feet in front of Orvar.
The draug scrambled back, sword raised and shaking his head. “Well … I suppose as long as Hervor and I are dead, it matters less if you survive.”
“I didn’t want to kill you.”
“You and I are both already dead.” Orvar sneered. “Nor does peace lie before either of us when our bodies perish. We are ghosts now, and losing our corpses is but losing our hosts so that we must wander, lost and damned through the shadows. Eternal torment is our legacy.”
Starkad grimaced, shook his head. “Why? Why did you have to bring us to this?”
“Ask that bitch you spent so many years fucking.” Orvar lunged at him, maybe even faster than he’d been in life.
Not fast enough. Starkad batted the draug’s sword away with Mistilteinn. He could’ve probably run Orvar through then and there. But his blade wouldn’t quite move. Damn it.
Damn Orvar. Damn Hervor. Damn fucking Odin for bringing Starkad to this life.
Damn … urd itself.
He roared, slashing at Orvar’s head. The draug ducked, his kick sending Starkad stumbling back, close enough that flames singed his arse.
Orvar grinned. “Oh. That is wonderful. You cannot do it. You cannot bring yourself to kill me. And that being the case, I’m going to kill you. The sheer, beautiful irony of it is … delicious. I will savor your death almost as much as hers.”
“No.” Starkad brought Mistilteinn up once more, waving it before him. “No. You are going to end here. This cannot go on. Not after all you have wrought.”
The draug came in swinging low, forcing Starkad into an awkward parry. Orvar spun around, whipping his sword toward Starkad’s neck.
In a single motion, Starkad ducked, lunged forward, and thrust Mistilteinn up. The runeblade bit through Orvar’s heart and punched out his back, stealing all strength from the draug’s intended blow. His sword clattered uselessly from his hand and he stared down at the runeblade embedded in his chest. The draug grunted, teeth bared.
Strange to think the creature’s heart did not even beat, and yet, somehow, this sword through it had affected Orvar the same as if he’d been alive. Starkad’s old friend wrapped a hand around Mistilteinn’s blade, heedless of how it cut his palm.
He stared at Starkad. And slowly, the red gleam went out of his eyes.
So it was done.
He ought to have felt more. Despite the raging flames all around him, Starkad just felt cold. He’d killed one more person he’d claimed to love. In life, those murders had haunted him, chasing him down through the years. Literally, in Ogn’s case, but the others real, just the same. This one, though, it only felt … hollow.
Urd had brought him here and left him with no choices at all. He jerked Mistilteinn free from his friend’s rotten, disfigured corpse. The real Orvar-Oddr had died years ago in Thule. As long as Starkad kept telling himself that, maybe Orvar would never become another shade haunting his dreams.
Hervor’s groans of pain tore through Starkad’s reverie. The shieldmaiden had crawled from the pool, Tyrfing clutched in her right hand. The other hand had become a charred, blackened mess. Deep, blistering burns oozing blood had spread up her arm, her neck, and onto her cheek, marring her exotic beauty.
A wall of fire separated them, but she was staring at him now, arm clutched tight to her chest, face a mask of pain. Staring at him, as if begging him for something.
But Starkad had naught left. Naught for Hervor, naught even for himself. Maybe it would be better if he just stayed here and burned, alongside Hervor and Orvar-Oddr’s corpse. Let everything vanish in the flames, just as the tormented draug had intended. A fitting end to a sick tale and a wretched life lived too long.
Except Starkad had been willing to take Arete’s offer for another moment of life. For immortality so long denied him. And having sacrificed so very much along the way for it, he could hardly cast it aside.
Hervor had not moved, was still watching his face. Maybe knowing he was going to leave her here to burn. It was the urd she had wrought for herself, well-earned.
Hel, Hervor herself must know that. She didn’t plead, didn’t make a sound save her grunts of pain. Even if she got out of here, she might well die of burns like that.
Let her burn … Let her become one more ghost in the long stream of those he’d left behind.
Fitting.
Starkad turned, made his way to the wall and climbed up it. He would leave all Miklagard behind. Arete might try to stop him, might even come looking for him. The vampire woman seemed to think she had some claim on him for having made him immortal. Starkad felt otherwise.
He walked up the wall, back into the smoke clogging the ceiling. Hervor disappeared from his view as did almost all else.
Leaving her to burn was justice … was maybe even the right thing to do. But then, neither of those things had truly driven most of Starkad’s actions thus far. Much as he loathed her for all she’d done, he could not deny the memories of their years together.
“I love you.” Her voice was almost a whisper, like maybe she thought he was already gone and now was saying what she no longer dared speak to his face.
Indeed, had she had the temerity to make such a brazen claim, Starkad might well have struck her down. But hearing now, knowing it wasn’t even meant for his ears, it felt like a lance through his own lifeless heart.
Hel take her.
He dropped down from the ceiling and landed behind her.
She was on her knees, coughing, choking on the smoke. Tyrfing clutched in her right ha
nd, almost like she’d considered turning it on herself. Maybe a better end than burning in the flames.
With a grimace, Starkad sheathed Mistilteinn.
Hervor slowly turned toward him, mouth agape, but—wisely—saying naught.
Starkad hefted her up and threw her over his shoulder, then worked his way back to a section of the wall free of flames. He probably couldn’t shift her center of gravity to the wall, but he had the strength to hold her despite that. He stepped up on the wall and started upward. No clear path to the hookah room.
“Hold your breath and close your eyes.”
He raced up into the billowing smoke that covered the ceiling, having no alternative. She wouldn’t last long up here. Starkad stepped onto the ceiling, then ran in the direction of the hookah lounge. At the far wall, he dropped down.
The room before him was engulfed in a blaze worse than the harem, and the ceiling was lower, that aflame as well. But it was the oil that presented the biggest threat. That was what wouldn’t go out. So if he could pass through the room without actually getting the oil on either of them …
It would hurt. It would hurt a lot.
“Take a deep breath,” he told her, then shifted her into his arms, cradled like a babe but held slightly higher, just below his chin. Above most of the flames.
He saw no other way.
Starkad spat. Then he took off at a dead run, not even bothering trying to avoid the flames. His feet squelched in the oil—more like jelly, actually—so it no doubt covered his boots. The conflagration ignited his trousers and seared his legs.
He passed through the room in an instant though, toppled to the ground, and rolled, Hervor tumbling from his arms and slamming against the stairs. Growling at the pain, Starkad jerked off his boots and flung them aside, then tore off the ends of his trousers and patted out what flames he could. His legs were charred black as bad as Hervor’s arm.
Snarling, he lay back, unable to even think of walking.
“Starkad,” Hervor said, crawling over to him. “You saved me …”
He looked at her, teeth grit through the agony, though she must have felt even worse.
She reached for his arm. “I can help you up the stairs. We have to get out of here.”
Starkad shoved her away. “Go.”
“No! I won’t leave without you.”
A fresh grunt of pain escaped him. He turned to stare dead into her eyes. “I will not have your hands upon my flesh, you lying, murderous wretch. I am done with you, forever.” She flinched at each word, her mouth hanging open. “I have no wish to ever look upon your face again. And believe me when I tell you, you do not wish to see me again. Take what remains of your life … and be gone. Before hunger takes me.”
Starkad couldn’t remember ever seeing tears in Hervor’s eyes before. Maybe now, as she knelt there, silently working her jaw … maybe it was just the smoke and the pain watering her eyes. She reached a trembling hand toward him, then let it fall.
Finally, she rose, grasped Tyrfing, and disappeared up the stairs.
Starkad waited until he was certain she was gone.
And then he wailed as despair closed in around his woeful soul.
33
Given all that had happened, Hervor had dared not delay until daylight to be free of Miklagard. Even without the threat of vampires prowling the streets, she could not have stomached the city another moment.
So she and Höfund had stolen a tiny sailing vessel and set out, skirting the coast west of the city. Like this, she could not have said how long it would take to reach Holmgard. Nor did she really care.
It was hard to care much about aught anymore.
A lump of solid ice had grown inside her heart, and it was spreading, seeping into her gut. Filling up her lungs and choking out her breath. Stealing her ability to speak or even to think.
Despite the burns covering her arm and neck and up her face, she was freezing.
She guided the ship, hardly noticing the pain in her left hand, though she could only steer with her right hand now. She hardly even heard Höfund as he spoke. Naught he could’ve said much mattered, anyway.
It was over.
Everything was over.
She’d … avenged her father and uncles back on Thule. It had been blood calling out for blood. Justice, as her kin deserved. Vengeance …
All that had motivated Orvar-Oddr ever since. The Arrow’s Point had nigh drowned in his need for vengeance. He’d stalked around Midgard, slaughtered Odin alone knew how many people along the way.
Cost her … cost her …
The ice in her chest just kept growing. By the time they reached Holmgard, maybe she’d have frozen solid. It would’ve been fitting if she never returned. In Miklagard, she’d lived her greatest fear. Starkad had learned everything.
It had destroyed them.
That last look upon his face had made the truth unavoidably clear.
“You’re looking pale.”
Hervor glanced at Höfund, still only half-seeing the big man. That ice just kept crushing her. Slow and cold and inevitable. Just like Orvar’s revenge. She’d killed him now. And he’d still fucking won. “I’m all right.”
“Sure?”
Hervor didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to lie, and she sure as Odin’s stones didn’t have the strength to tell him the truth. Chills wracked her.
She didn’t have the strength for much of aught.
The ice had stolen away her strength and left a numbness in its place. Left a part of her to wish the draug had killed her.
She’d killed him a second time.
And she’d still lost.
Finally, she could stop looking over her shoulder. Only now there was naught ahead of her worth looking at.
An eerie silence had settled over her grandfather’s hall, a stillness that Hervor misliked even before she rapped on the doors. Waited.
No one answered.
Hervor glanced over her shoulder at Höfund.
“Sure you’ve got the right place?”
Hervor rolled her eyes. Was he truly asking if she’d forgotten which lands had belonged to her family? She shouldered a door only to find it didn’t budge. Barred from the inside. Since when did Grandfather bar the damn doors?
Her left hand was still wrapped in reeking bandages a völva had applied. Saved her life, maybe. She’d probably never use that hand again, though.
“Open up!” she demanded, rapping hard once more. “Open up! This is my godsdamned home!”
“Lady Hervor?” a voice called from within, muffled by the thick oak separating them, but clearly female.
“Yes! Is that you, Toril? Let me in, damn it! Night is settling in.”
Groaning sounded behind the door, along with wood scraping, then clattering to the floor. Poor girl could probably barely lift the plank needed to seal the double doors. To spare the servant the effort, Hervor shoved the doors open herself.
Toril scampered away like trolls were stomping through instead of Hervor, the servant’s face ashen, wan. “S-sorry, I … times have been hard of late. Too many men poking around looking for …” The woman was staring at Hervor’s face, no doubt afraid to ask about the burns running along her neck and up her cheek, or the bandaged lump of a hand Hervor held to her chest. Not that Hervor would’ve answered, anyway.
“What happened here?” Hervor demanded. “Where’s Grandfather?”
Toril hesitated, removing any remaining doubt. “Thickness finally took him, not a moon after you left.”
And that ice just kept growing inside her chest. Hervor groaned, leaned against the wall. Höfund put a hand on her shoulder and she shrugged it off. She hadn’t been there when Mother died. Hadn’t even seen her fall ill. Now Grandfather was gone too, and she hadn’t been here because she’d gone chasing after wealth in Miklagard. Chasing after Starkad.
Like a fool. Because she ought to have known it wouldn’t end well. Naught had ever really ended well for her.
The gods are watching, little girl. They watch while you fumble around in the dark.
A völva had said that to her, back before she went to Samsey. Before she took Tyrfing from Angantyr’s barrow. Before everything turned to troll shit. The witch had claimed Hervor was too stubborn to listen to wisdom freely given.
Teeth grit, Hervor stood there, chuckling, not caring as Toril and Höfund stared at her like she’d gone mist-mad. Because of course she had. She’d gone mist-mad long, long ago. Maybe when she left Grandfather’s care and took up with Red-Eye’s Boys. Certainly after that, when she’d sworn vengeance upon Orvar-Oddr for crimes committed before she was born against men she’d never even known.
Pride? Arrogance. Hubris. Sheer, rank stupidity.
She’d taken the sword from the barrow, despite the ghost’s warnings.
You tread swiftly toward your own doom. You walk in darkness.
Odin’s thrice-damned stones … Her father had known her oath would lead her to despair. He’d known. He’d fucking told her.
Tyrfing will be the ruin of all your family.
“Agh!” Hervor pressed her palms into her eyes, even that sending fresh pain through her left hand. “Agh!”
“Hervor!” Höfund had her shoulders, was shaking her.
Teeth clenched and bared, she stared at him, knowing she must look mad and not giving a troll’s rocky arse about it. “I did it. I upheld my oath! I upheld my oath!” She slapped the big man’s arm. “I fulfilled it! So why? Why!” Why hadn’t she listened? Why hadn’t she stopped for even a moment …
But then, her oath had brought her to Starkad in the first place. Brought them together, given them a chance. A fool’s chance, an illusion born on mist and carried across the night to draw men to their doom. Hope was a will-o'-the-wisp, and she’d willingly chased it into a bog.
Maybe she deserved all she’d gotten from it.
“Hervor?”
She rolled her eyes, then finally stared at him. Grandfather was gone. All her family was gone. And the last thing he’d asked her …
