by Matt Larkin
Hervor … you are the last of our line. If you …
If she did not bear a child, both lines of her family ended with her. All her oaths of vengeance meant less than naught. Maybe Angantyr’s ghost rested now, but his kin were gone, save her.
And Grandfather had asked her to marry Höfund. Son of a king, if a foreign one. Grandfather hadn’t known what manner of king Godmund was, but maybe that mattered little now. Maybe naught mattered overmuch anymore.
She could not force either a smile or a frown to her face. Couldn’t find the strength to break through the ice for even one more breath. “Before he died, Grandfather bid me accept your offer for my hand. If you still wish it …”
Höfund nodded, cracking a grin wide enough for the both of them. “Can’t say aught would make me happier. Reckon I’ll use some of this plundered silver in the town, work up a proper celebration.”
For his sake, Hervor faked a smile. He deserved so much more, but that was all she had left to offer. A pathetic smile, and a heart of ice.
In the morning, the townsfolk would gather for the wedding. Hervor had no kin to gather, and Höfund’s lay far beyond Midgard, so instead he’d invited people neither of them knew nor cared for.
Hervor walked in the hills outside Grandfather’s estate, alone. Höfund had asked to come with her, of course, worried over her heading out into the mist at night. But she’d taken a torch and Tyrfing and refused any company. Some things had to be done alone. Maybe, in the end, everything that mattered was done alone.
A fell wind whipped the mist into swirls that seemed wicked, as if watching her. Though it prickled her skin, still she could not bring herself to fear. Not anymore. She should have, perhaps, but after all she’d been through, the night held no more terror. Or Hervor had no capacity left to feel it.
She plodded out through Deeppine, down paths she’d walked back with Red-Eye’s Boys long years before. They were all dead now. All the bandits. All of Grandfather’s men who had hunted and killed the gang, for that matter. Everyone was gone.
When she was with them, just a girl really, they had come to rocks by the river, where awful whispers filtered up through gaps between the stones. A hole that led down to the gates of Hel, Red-Eye had said. They’d all warned her to stay clear of there, especially at night. Said ghosts clawed their way out to feast on the souls of the unwary.
Once, when a man had turned on him, betrayed him, Red-Eye had broken the traitor’s legs and cast him down that hateful hole. That was what happened to traitors and oathbreakers, he’d said. Cast down toward Hel’s domain, to be feasted upon by the dark dragon.
Hervor climbed up along the rocks until she could stare down into the darkness of that hole. The torchlight failed to illuminate the bottom though it reflected off numerous boulders lining the way down.
Almost as if aware of her intent, Tyrfing began to sing in her mind. A whisper, a cry for blood and glory, as if she could claim all she would ever desire with its pale flame in hand. But all Hervor desired was forever denied to her.
Soon, the sun would rise, and she’d don a dress and marry Höfund. Bear him a child or several, continue the line. Give over the life of a shieldmaiden which had brought Hervor naught but misery, really. Mother had wanted her to live as a lady, and Hervor had scorned her. Had embraced blood and violence as both means and end.
Fool that she’d always been.
No more, though. She would wed Höfund and force herself to bury thoughts of Starkad Eightarms deep in this hole, to be considered rarely, if ever.
Tyrfing will be the ruin of all your family.
She chuckled, shaking her head. Arngrim had murdered Sigrlami and taken this blade. With it, her father Angantyr had wrought chaos and death—most of all his own, leading to Arngrim’s suicide. And Angantyr had warned her. Told her exactly what would happen.
Oh, but they could be glorious together. They could reclaim all she had lost. Build their own kingdom … Fuck, were those thoughts even her own? And if not, how many of her thoughts over the years had come from the cursed blade? Had it stoked her need for vengeance, forced her hand?
Or was blaming the sword merely a cowardly way to shift responsibility from herself? Of course, she already knew the answer to that.
Eyes closed, Hervor unslung the runeblade from her shoulder, held the sheathed weapon in her left hand. It was a part of her now. Like one of her own limbs. To let it go was impossible.
Impossible … A well of despair and madness …
But Hervor had given in to madness some time ago.
Tyrfing will be the ruin of all your family.
And she had not listened. Not when her father had tried to tell her. Not then, not until she could share his wretched agony.
“Let it be done …” She swallowed, unable to get the lump in her throat down. No. No! She couldn’t do this. She needed to put the strap back on her shoulder. To keep Tyrfing close. It was hers. Only for her … “Goodbye my love.”
Choking, Hervor forced her fingers open, one by one, each more painful and difficult than the last. Until Tyrfing slipped from her hands.
The runeblade fell into the hole, clattered off stone, bounced, and vanished, into the darkness.
Epilogue
Too many battles had taken their toll upon Odin. His immortal body would heal, yes, but between the loss of vitality he’d suffered fighting in Miklagard and the injuries the Niflungar had inflicted upon him, he found riding Sleipnir sent painful jolts through his body.
The eight-legged horse could cover great distances very quickly, even running over the sea. At least when Odin could tolerate the jarring of such speeds. Now, he found himself preferring a gentler pace.
His visions indicated Starkad had or at least would come to Ostergotland. Slightly out of the way for Odin’s return to Asgard—and he did have pressing business there—but he needed to see to the man. Had he known just how dangerous those vampires were before setting things in motion … No. The truth was, Odin would still have sent Starkad to retrieve the runeblade, even realizing the danger.
He had no choice. Odin himself could not be in all places at once, nor overcome all foes. He had to use pieces like Starkad if he was to arrange events the way he must in order to win Ragnarok. That weight loomed over Odin’s head, ever present, like a dangling sword that followed him no matter which way he turned.
He rode up along the banks of a river until finally coming to an ash tree. Starkad sat beneath it, back pressed up against it, the hood of his cloak up despite the warm weather. Most vampires avoided the sun, but it seemed Starkad felt confident enough in his mortal abilities to care little. Maybe he even welcomed the challenge.
The runeblade lay across Starkad’s knees—sheathed—where he ran his fingertips over the hilt. “I thought you would come.” The man finally looked up at Odin.
Odin dismounted, hiding his grimace of pain. Starkad knew well enough the true nature of the Aesir and the source of Odin’s immortality. Still, it didn’t do to show weakness to others—not while appearing as his true self.
“You’re really here, in the flesh, aren’t you?” Starkad asked. “No dreams, no shadowy, cryptic warnings. No subtle manipulations of my sleeping mind that so oft leave me to believe your schemes are my very own plans. No, you are truly here.” Starkad rose, grasping the runeblade’s scabbard with one hand. “In the daylight, I cannot hear your heartbeat. But I think you are quite real now.”
Odin leaned on his walking stick while Sleipnir wandered off to drink from the river. “I am here, my son.”
Starkad snorted. “You are even less a father to me than he was.”
All Odin could do was shake his head. “Perhaps I deserve your scorn, perhaps not. Either way, I have taken it upon myself to serve as the guardian of all Midgard and all humanity. I rather think that makes me a father to all. Regardless, I did not force you down any of the dark roads you have trod. You may recall I warned you long ago against walking away from the Aesir. Your hu
bris has guided your every step.”
Starkad bared his teeth. In the bright light, his fangs had receded, unnoticeable unless one was looking for them. “You dare speak to me of hubris, old man? Do you know what has happened to me?”
Odin sighed and shook his head once more. He was too weary for this. “I know enough.”
“Oh, that I do not doubt. You foresaw all of this, did you not? Perhaps you even planned it from the very beginning. Did you know Hervor would murder my friend? That he would haunt us, destroy us? Did you?”
“Dear Starkad … you too have the Sight, even if not so strong as mine. Do your instincts predict every outcome with perfect accuracy, years in advance?”
Starkad sneered at him. “I notice you do not answer the question.”
Cleverer than he had once been. Time had taught him harsh lessons, it seemed, forced him to grow. Much as it had Odin himself. “You have the only answer I am able to offer you. And you’ve done well, despite the setbacks you suffered. You helped bring all the runeblades back to the North Realms.”
“You used me.”
“As you well knew. Your gift had a price.”
Now the other man spat at Odin’s feet. “I no longer have need of the extra years you’ve granted me. My death is eternal, as, it seems, is my time upon Midgard.”
“Unlikely. Naught lasts forever, as Loki has oft reminded me. Either way, if you wish to be freed from me, just walk away. Only leave the sword.”
Starkad chuckled darkly, then slowly slid Mistilteinn from its sheath. A very faint purple light glinted off its runes. “This sword? This blade which can kill even an immortal?” The man pointed the blade at Odin’s chest. “Tell me, old man, why should I not kill you for what you have wrought of me? Your hand guided every dark step, every sickening twist of urd that has tormented me until naught remained of the man I was.”
Odin took a step back, unable to say with certainty whether Starkad’s claims of this runeblade’s power held true or not. Each runeblade had its unique, terrible gift. Perhaps any of them might have slain him with enough blows, but Starkad seemed convinced this could do it as though Odin were a mortal man. “The man you were? The man who betrayed his brother?”
“You tricked me!”
“If that were true, you would have struck me down already.”
Starkad advanced on him, forcing Odin back until his heels brushed the waters of the river. “I am sore tempted.”
Armed with such a blade—if it possessed the power Starkad claimed—the man might just pull it off. Especially considering Odin didn’t have Gungnir and was already wounded and exhausted. Still, in daylight, the outcome would’ve been far from certain. Odin could probably have struck Starkad down and taken the sword.
Neither such a risk nor destroying Starkad actually much served Odin’s interest, though. The man had returned the runeblade to the North Realms and was not like to take it far from here. As long as all the runeblades remained in play here, Odin could control them in the end, ensure they wound up where they needed to be come Ragnarok. And indeed, the transformation in Starkad might even serve Odin’s ends. It might have created an even more useful weapon for the final battle.
So Odin held up his hands for peace.
Starkad glared, the debate raging over his face. Then he finally backed away, lowering the runeblade’s point into the sand. “Be gone from my sight, Ás. I am no longer your pawn.”
Without taking his eyes off Starkad or the fell runeblade, Odin edged along the river to where Sleipnir pranced around. Still watching the vampire, Odin mounted his horse, grunting at the fresh jolt of pain that induced. Then he inclined his hat at Starkad, ever so slightly, turned Sleipnir, and rode out over the river.
Let the man have his momentary victory. After all, Starkad had won it at great price to himself. It had cost him all he had ever loved and even his own life. Odin hardly envied him the pain of it. But then again, Starkad could not imagine the things Odin himself had lost in pursuit of his ends. Such seemed the inevitable price of greatness.
Odin cast a final look back over his shoulder, but Starkad had disappeared off into the trees. He would seek his solitude in the days to come. Some wounds did not heal, of course, but Starkad would no doubt lurk in shadows, hoping for reprieve even as anger and grief festered.
He would, perhaps, think that his transformation might abrogate the curse that had so plagued him.
He would be wrong, of course.
Time would draw him from his solitude and reignite his inevitable wanderlust and need to press human limits. Wars would call him, and Mistilteinn would claim lives again and again.
It all served Odin’s aims.
In the meantime, he had a great deal of other pawns that needed to be guided around the board. The game was far from over.
Author’s Ramblings
Astute readers will note that this book takes place immediately after The High Seat of Asgard, with the flashbacks actually occurring during that book. Which is to say, this volume actually brings us up to present in the main Ragnarok Era series.
As is my habit, I had this entire series outlined before I even began the first book. As the story developed, in refining the outline and in early drafts, some things changed. Aspects of the tale got expanded, split, or rearranged. One thing that never changed, though, was the ending.
It was inevitable, from the moment Hervor decided to murder Orvar-Oddr, that she would come to a bad end. Her life of violence and murder and amoralism could only end one way. So I knew she would have a terrible fallout with Starkad from the beginning. And naturally, as anyone familiar with the myth knows, she and Höfund would marry and bear a son much more famous than either of them.
So yes, this is the end of the series, at least in its present arc. If time allows and the demand is there, I could continue it later in the timeline. Hervor’s son Heidrik has his own share of dark adventures that I would very much enjoy retelling some day.
Also worth noting is that in Starkad’s original myth, he gets his jaw cut off by a different shieldmaiden in a different battle (Vebiorg, in fact). However, the story demanded it unequivocally be Hervor. How could it be anyone else?
Special thanks to my wife, to my cover designer, to my editor, to Lisa, and to everyone in the Skalds’ Tribe for supporting me in this project.
Thank you for reading,
Matt
P.S. Reviews are super important, especially to small presses like mine. Without reviews, small presses cannot get ads. It takes only a single line or two to make that difference. So if you liked this, please leave a review where you bought it!
Want to talk about the book? I’d love to hear from you. You can reach me at: [email protected]
The Saga Continues …
Dear Reader,
Thanks for reading!
Hervor’s saga is ended.
But the Ragnarok Era has far more tales to tell.
Though now worshipped as a god, Odin was once a man.
A man desperate to avenge his father’s murder.
But when a goddess offers him immortality he has to ask ...
What if the price is higher than he can pay?
Don’t miss the epic tie-in to the Runeblade Saga, Gods of the Ragnarok Era.
Get it now.
The Runeblade Saga is done for now, but Odin’s story continues in The Apples of Idunn:
https://books2read.com/applesofidunnbook
Thanks,
Matt
Runeblade Saga: Omnibus
MATT LARKIN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, businesses, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2018 MATT LARKIN
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Published by Incandescent Phoenix Books
mattlarkinbooks.com
Matt Larkin, Runeblade Saga Omnibus
